CHAPTER II. THE ASCENT OF MONT PELVOUX.
CHAPTER III. THE MONT CENIS—THE FELL RAILWAY
CHAPTER IV. MY FIRST SCRAMBLE ON THE MATTERHORN
CHAPTER V. RENEWED ATTEMPTS TO ASCEND THE MATTERHORN
CHAPTER VI. THE VAL TOURNANCHE—THE BREUILJOCH—ZERMATT—ASCENT OF THE
GRAND TOURNALIN
CHAPTER VII. OUR SIXTH ATTEMPT TO ASCEND THE MATTERHORN
CHAPTER VIII. FROM ST. MICHEL TO LA BÉRARDE ON THE MONT CENIS ROAD, BY
THE COL DES AIGUILLES, D’ARVE, COL DE MARTIGNARE AND THE
BRÈCHE DE LA MEIJE
CHAPTER IX. THE ASCENT OF THE POINTE DES ÉCRINS
CHAPTER X. FROM VAL LOUISE TO LA BÉRARDE BY THE COL DE PILATTE
CHAPTER XI. PASSAGE OF THE COL DE TRIOLET, AND ASCENTS OF MONT DOLENT,
AIGUILLE DE TRÉLATÊTE AND AIGUILLE D’ARGENTIÈRE
CHAPTER XII. THE MOMING PASS—ZERMATT
CHAPTER XIII. THE ASCENT OF THE GRAND CORNIER
CHAPTER XIV. THE ASCENT OF THE DENT BLANCHE
CHAPTER XV. LOST ON THE COL D’HÉRENS—MY SEVENTH ATTEMPT TO ASCEND THE
MATTERHORN
CHAPTER XVI. VALLEY OF AOSTA, AND ASCENT OF THE GRANDES JORASSES
CHAPTER XVII. THE COL DOLENT
CHAPTER XVIII. ASCENT OF THE AIGUILLE VERTE
CHAPTER XIX. THE COL DE TALÈFRE
CHAPTER XX. ASCENT OF THE RUINETTE—THE MATTERHORN
CHAPTER XXI. THE ASCENT OF THE MATTERHORN
CHAPTER XXII. DESCENT OF THE MATTERHORN
APPENDIX
List of Illustrations
Full Page Illustrations
1. FOG-BOW SEEN FROM THE MATTERHORN ON JULY 14, 1885
2. MONT PELVOUX AND THE ALÉFROIDE, FROM NEAR MONT DAUPHIN
3. THE MONT CENIS ROAD AND THE FELL RAILWAY NEAR THE SUMMIT OF THE
PASS, ON THE ITALIAN SIDE
4. THE MATTERHORN FROM NEAR THE SUMMIT OF THE THEODULE PASS
5. “THE CHIMNEY”
6. “IN ATTEMPTING TO PASS THE CORNER I SLIPPED AND FELL”
7. A CANNONADE ON THE MATTERHORN (1862)
8. THE CRAGS OF THE MATTERHORN, DURING THE STORM, MIDNIGHT, AUGUST
10, 1863
9. DESCENDING THE WESTERN ARÊTE OF THE POINTE DES ÉCRINS
10. “WE SAW A TOE—IT SEEMED TO BELONG TO MOORE—WE SAW REYNAULD A
FLYING BODY.”
11. THE SUMMIT OF THE MOMING PASS IN 1861
12. THE CLUB-ROOM OF ZERMATT IN 1864
13. THE BERGSCHRUND ON THE DENT BLANCHE IN 1865
14. THE MATTERHORN FROM THE RIFFELBERG
15. THE GRANDES JORASSES AND THE DOIRE TORRENT, VAL FERRET (D’ITALIE)
16. THE SUMMIT OF THE COL DOLENT
17. PINNACLES NEAR SACHAS IN THE VALLEY OF THE DURANCE, FORMED FROM AN
OLD MORAINE
In the Text
Beachy Head
The Devil of Notre Dame
Mules
A Curé in Difficulties
Which is the Brute?
At the St. Bernard
“Garibaldi!”
Briançon
Mont Pelvoux from above La Bessée
In the Val d’Alefred
The Grand Pelvoux de Val Louise
Buttresses of Mont Pelvoux
Portrait of R.J.S. Macdonald
Outline to Show Route up Mont Pelvoux
The Blanket Bag
Natural Pillar near Molines
Crossing Mont Cenis
The Little Postilion
The Centre Rail on a Curve
Section of the Fell Railway
The Covered Ways of the Fell Railway
The Centre Rail Break
The Matterhorn from the north-east
Portrait of J.J. Bennen
Portrait of Jean-Antoine Carrel
The Col du Lion: Looking towards the Tête du Lion
Diagram to show manner of fastening Tent-poles
Alpine Tent
Climbing Claw
Rope and Ring
At Breil (Giomein)
The Matterhorn from Breil
“But what is this?”
An Arch of the Aqueduct in the Val Tournanche
Water-worn Rocks in the Gorge below the Gorner Glacier
Striations produced by Glacier action
“Carrel lowered me down”
Portrait of Monsieur Favre
Crossing the Channel
Portrait of Michel-Auguste Croz
The Aiguilles d’Arve from above Chalets of Rieu Blanc
Portrait of Melchior Anderegg
Map of the Brèche de la Meije, etc.
The Vallon des Etançons
Map of the Central Dauphiné Alps
The Pointe des Ecrins from the Col du Galibier
Outline to show Route up Pointe des Ecrins
Fragment from the Summit of the Pointe des Ecrins
A Night with Croz
A Snow Couloir
Portraits of Mr. Reilly on a wet day
Our Camp on Mont Suc
Ice-Avalanche on the Moming Pass
Part of the Southern Ridge of the Grand Cornier
Part of the Northern Ridge of the Grand Cornier
Portrait of Leslie Stephen
Portrait of T.S. Kennedy
Diagrams to show Dip of Strata on the Matterhorn
My Tent-bearer—The Hunchback
The Bouquetin
A Crétin of Aosta
My Ice-axe
Kennedy Ice-axe
Crampon
Portrait of Christian Almer
On the Mer de Glace
Ice-Pinnacles on the Mer de Glace
Western Side of the Col de Talèfre
Glissading
The Wrong Way to use a Rope on Glacier
The Right Way to use a Rope on Glacier
“Croz! Croz!! Come here”
The Summit of the Matterhorn
The Actual Summit of the Matterhorn in 1865
Rope broken on the Matterhorn
Portrait of Monsieur Seiler
Manilla Rope broken on the Matterhorn
The “Second” Rope broken on the Matterhorn
The End
PREFACE.
In the year 1860, shortly before leaving England for a long Continental
tour, a certain eminent London publisher requested me to make for him
some sketches of the great Alpine peaks. At this time I had only a
literary acquaintance with mountaineering, and had even not seen—much
less set foot upon—a mountain. Amongst the peaks which were upon my
list was Mont Pelvoux, in Dauphine. The sketches that were required of
it were to celebrate the triumph of some Englishmen who intended to
make its ascent. They came—they saw—but they did not conquer. By a mere
chance I fell in with a very agreeable Frenchman who accompanied this
party, and was pressed by him to return to the assault. In 1861 we did
so, with my friend Macdonald, and we conquered. This was the origin of
my scrambles amongst the Alps.
The ascent of Mont Pelvoux (including the disagreeables) was a very
delightful scramble. The mountain air did _not_ act as an emetic; the
sky did _not_ look black instead of blue; nor did I feel tempted to
throw myself over precipices. I hastened to enlarge my experience, and
went to the Matterhorn. I was urged toward Mont Pelvoux by those
mysterious impulses which cause men to peer into the unknown. Not only
was this mountain reputed to be the highest in France, and on that
account was worthy of attention, but it was the dominating point of a
most picturesque district of the highest interest, which, to this day,
remains almost unexplored. The Matterhorn attracted me simply by its
grandeur. It was considered to be the most thoroughly inaccessible of
all mountains, even by those who ought to have known better. Stimulated
to make fresh exertions by one repulse after another, I returned, year
after year, as I had opportunity, more and more determined to find a
way up it, or to _prove_ it to be really inaccessible.
A considerable portion of this volume is occupied by the history of
these attacks on the Matterhorn, and the other excursions that are
described have all some connection, more or less remote, with that
mountain or with Mont Pelvoux. All are new excursions (that is,
excursions made for the first time), unless the contrary is pointed
out. Some have been passed over very briefly, and entire ascents or
descents have been disposed of in a single line. If they had been
worked out at full length, three volumes instead of one would have been
required. Generally speaking, the salient points alone have been dwelt
upon, and the rest has been left to the imagination. This treatment has
saved the reader from much useless repetition.
In endeavoring to make the book of some use to those who may wish to go
mountain-scrambling, whether in the Alps or elsewhere, undue
prominence, perhaps, has been given to our mistakes and failures; and
it will doubtless be pointed out that our practice must have been bad
if the principles which are laid down are sound, or that the principles
must be unsound if the practice was good. It is maintained in an early
chapter that the positive, or unavoidable, dangers of mountaineering
are very small, yet from subsequent pages it can be shown that very
considerable risks were run. The reason is obvious—we were not
immaculate. Our blunders are not held up to be admired or to be
imitated, but to be avoided.
These scrambles amongst the Alps were holiday excursions, and as such
they should be judged. They are spoken of as sport, and nothing more.
The pleasure that they gave me cannot, I fear, be transferred to
others. The ablest pens have failed, and must always fail, to give a
true idea of the grandeur of the Alps. The most minute descriptions of
the greatest writers do nothing more than convey impressions that are
entirely erroneous—the reader conjures up visions, it may be
magnificent ones, but they are infinitely inferior to the reality. I
have dealt sparingly in descriptions, and have employed illustrations
freely, in the hope that the pencil may perhaps succeed where the pen
must inevitably have failed.
The preparation of the illustrations has occupied a large part of my
time during the last six years. With the exception of the views upon
pp. 21, 23 and 33, the whole of the illustrations have been engraved
expressly for the book, and, unless it is otherwise specified, all are
from my own sketches. About fifty have been drawn on the wood by Mr.
James Mahoney, and I am much indebted to that artist for the care and
fidelity with which he has followed my slight memoranda, and for the
spirit that he has put into his admirable designs. Most of his drawings
will be identified by his monogram. Twenty of the remainder are the
work of Mr. Cyrus Johnston, and out of these I would draw especial
attention to the view of the Matterhorn facing p. 36, the striated rock
upon p. 63, and the bits from the Mer de Glace upon pp. 138, 139. The
illustrations have been introduced as illustrations, and very rarely
for ornamental purposes. We have subordinated everything in them to
accuracy, and it is only fair to the artists who have honored me by
their assistance to say that many of their designs would have ranked
higher as works of art if they had been subjected to fewer
restrictions.
[Illustration: BEACHY HEAD]
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTORY.
On the 23d of July, 1860, I started for my first tour in the Alps. As
we steamed out into the Channel, Beachy Head came into view, and
recalled a scramble of many years ago. With the impudence of ignorance,
my brother and I, schoolboys both, had tried to scale that great chalk
cliff. Not the head itself—where sea-birds circle, and where the flints
are ranged so orderly in parallel lines—but at a place more to the
east, where the pinnacle called the Devil’s Chimney had fallen down.
Since that time we have been often in dangers of different kinds, but
never have we more nearly broken our necks than upon that occasion.
In Paris I made two ascents. The first to the seventh floor of a house
in the Quartier Latin—to an artist friend, who was engaged, at the
moment of my entry, in combat with a little Jew. He hurled him with
great good-will and with considerable force into some of his crockery,
and then recommended me to go up the towers of Notre Dame. Half an hour
later I stood on the parapet of the great west front, by the side of
the leering fiend which for centuries has looked down upon the great
city. It looked over the Hôtel Dieu to a small and commonplace
building, around which there was always a moving crowd. To that
building I descended. It was filled with chattering women and eager
children, who were struggling to get a good sight of three corpses
which were exposed to view. It was the Morgue. I quitted the place
disgusted, and overheard two women discussing the spectacle. One of
them concluded with, “But that it is droll;” the other answered
approvingly, “But that it is droll;” and the Devil of Notre Dame,
looking down upon them, seemed to say, “Yes, your climax, the
cancan—your end, not uncommonly, that building: it is droll, but that
it is droll.”
[Illustration]
I passed on to Switzerland; saw the sunlight lingering on the giants of
the Oberland; heard the echoes from the cow horns in the Lauterbrunnen
valley and the avalanches rattling off the Jungfrau; and then crossed
the Gemmi into the Valais, resting for a time by the beautiful
Oeschinen See, and getting a forcible illustration of glacier-motion in
a neighboring valley—the Gasteren Thal. The upper end of this valley is
crowned by the Tschingel glacier, which, as it descends, passes over an
abrupt cliff that is in the centre of its course. On each side the
continuity of the glacier is maintained, but in the centre it is cleft
in twain by the cliff. Lower down it is consolidated again. I scrambled
on to this lower portion, advanced toward the cliff, and then stopped
to admire the contrast of the brilliant pinnacles of ice with the blue
sky. Without a warning, a huge slice of the glacier broke away and fell
over the cliff on to the lower portion with a thundering crash.
Fragments rolled beyond me, although, fortunately, not in my direction.
I fled, and did not stop until off the glacier, but before it was
quitted learned another lesson in glacial matters: the terminal
moraine, which seemed to be a solid mound, broke away underneath me,
and showed that it was only a superficial covering resting on a slope
of glassy ice.
[Illustration]
On the steep path over the Gemmi there were opportunities for observing
the manners and customs of the Swiss mule. It is not perhaps in revenge
for generations of ill-treatment that the mule grinds one’s legs
against fences and stone walls, and pretends to stumble in awkward
places, particularly when coming round corners and on the brinks of
precipices; but their evil habit of walking on the outside edges of
paths (even in the most unguarded positions) is one that is distinctly
the result of association with man. The transport of wood from the
mountains into the valleys occupies most of the mules during a
considerable portion of the year: the fagots into which the wood is
made up project some distance on each side, and it is said that they
walk intuitively to the outside of paths having rocks on the other side
to avoid the collisions which would otherwise occur. When they carry
tourists they behave in a similar manner; and no doubt when the good
time for mules arrives, and they no longer carry burdens, they will
still continue, by natural selection, to do the same. This habit
frequently gives rise to scenes: two mules meet—each wishes to pass on
the outside, and neither will give way. It requires considerable
persuasion, through the medium of the tail, before such difficulties
are arranged.
I visited the baths of Leuk, and saw the queer assemblage of men, women
and children, attired in bathing-gowns, chatting, drinking and playing
at chess in the water. The company did not seem to be perfectly sure
whether it was decorous in such a situation and in such attire for
elderly men to chase young females from one corner to another, but it
was unanimous in howling at the advent of a stranger who remained
covered, and literally yelled when I departed without exhibiting my
sketch.
I trudged up the Rhone valley, and turned aside at Visp to go up the
Visp Thal, where one would expect to see greater traces of glacial
action, if a glacier formerly filled it, as one is said to have done.
I was bound for the valley of Saas, and my work took me high up the
Alps on either side, far beyond the limit of trees and the tracks of
tourists. The view from the slopes of the Wiessmies, on the eastern
side of the valley, five or six thousand feet above the village of
Saas, is perhaps the finest of its kind in the Alps. The full height of
the three-peaked Mischabel (the highest mountain in Switzerland) is
seen at one glance—eleven thousand feet of dense forests, green alps,
pinnacles of rock and glittering glaciers. The peaks seemed to me then
to be hopelessly inaccessible from this direction.
[Illustration]
I descended the valley to the village of Stalden, and then went up the
Visp Thal to Zermatt, and stopped there several days. Numerous traces
of the formidable earthquake-shocks of five years before still
remained, particularly at St. Nicholas, where the inhabitants had been
terrified beyond measure at the destruction of their churches and
houses. At this place, as well as at Visp, a large part of the
population was obliged to live under canvas for several months. It is
remarkable that there was hardly a life lost on this occasion, although
there were about fifty shocks, some of which were very severe.
At Zermatt I wandered in many directions, but the weather was bad and
my work was much retarded. One day, after spending a long time in
attempts to sketch near the Hörnli, and in futile endeavors to seize
the forms of the peaks as they for a few seconds peered out from above
the dense banks of woolly clouds, I determined not to return to Zermatt
by the usual path, but to cross the Görner glacier to the Riffel hotel.
After a rapid scramble over the polished rocks and snow-beds which
skirt the base of the Théodule glacier, and wading through some of the
streams which flow from it, at that time much swollen by the late
rains, the first difficulty was arrived at, in the shape of a precipice
about three hundred feet high. It seemed that there would be no
difficulty in crossing the glacier if the cliff could be descended, but
higher up and lower down the ice appeared, to my inexperienced eyes, to
be impassable for a single person. The general contour of the cliff was
nearly perpendicular, but it was a good deal broken up, and there was
little difficulty in descending by zigzagging from one mass to another.
At length there was a long slab, nearly smooth, fixed at an angle of
about forty degrees between two wall-sided pieces of rock: nothing,
except the glacier, could be seen below. It was a very awkward place,
but being doubtful if return were possible, as I had been dropping from
one ledge to another, I passed at length by lying across the slab,
putting the shoulder stiffly against one side and the feet against the
other, and gradually wriggling down, by first moving the legs and then
the back. When the bottom of the slab was gained a friendly crack was
seen, into which the point of the bâton could be stuck, and I dropped
down to the next piece. It took a long time coming down that little bit
of cliff, and for a few seconds it was satisfactory to see the ice
close at hand. In another moment a second difficulty presented itself.
The glacier swept round an angle of the cliff, and as the ice was not
of the nature of treacle or thin putty, it kept away from the little
bay on the edge of which I stood. We were not widely separated, but the
edge of the ice was higher than the opposite edge of rock, and worse,
the rock was covered with loose earth and stones which had fallen from
above. All along the side of the cliff, as far as could be seen in both
directions, the ice did not touch it, but there was this marginal
crevasse, seven feet wide and of unknown depth.
All this was seen at a glance, and almost at once I concluded that I
could not jump the crevasse, and began to try along the cliff lower
down, but without success, for the ice rose higher and higher, until at
last farther progress was stopped by the cliffs becoming perfectly
smooth. With an axe it would have been possible to cut up the side of
the ice—without one, I saw there was no alternative but to return and
face the jump.
It was getting toward evening, and the solemn stillness of the High
Alps was broken only by the sound of rushing water or of falling rocks.
If the jump should be successful, well: if not, I fell into that
horrible chasm, to be frozen in, or drowned in that gurgling, rushing
water. Everything depended on that jump. Again I asked myself, “Can it
be done?” It _must_ be. So, finding my stick was useless, I threw it
and the sketch-book to the ice, and first retreating as far as
possible, ran forward with all my might, took the leap, barely reached
the other side, and fell awkwardly on my knees. Almost at the same
moment a shower of stones fell on the spot from which I had jumped.
The glacier was crossed without further trouble, but the Riffel, which
was then a very small building, was crammed with tourists, and could
not take me in. As the way down was unknown to me, some of the people
obligingly suggested getting a man at the châlets, otherwise the path
would be certainly lost in the forest. On arriving at the châlets no
man could be found, and the lights of Zermatt, shining through the
trees, seemed to say, “Never mind a guide, but come along down: we’ll
show you the way;” so off I went through the forest, going straight
toward them. The path was lost in a moment, and was never recovered: I
was tripped up by pine roots, I tumbled over rhododendron bushes, I
fell over rocks. The night was pitch-dark, and after a time the lights
of Zermatt became obscure or went out altogether. By a series of slides
or falls, or evolutions more or less disagreeable, the descent through
the forest was at length accomplished, but torrents of a formidable
character had still to be passed before one could arrive at Zermatt. I
felt my way about for hours, almost hopelessly, by an exhaustive
process at last discovering a bridge, and about midnight, covered with
dirt and scratches, re-entered the inn which I had quitted in the
morning.
Others besides tourists got into difficulties. A day or two afterward,
when on the way to my old station near the Hörnli, I met a stout curé
who had essayed to cross the Théodule pass. His strength or his wind
had failed, and he was being carried down, a helpless bundle and a
ridiculous spectacle, on the back of a lanky guide, while the peasants
stood by with folded hands, their reverence for the Church almost
overcome by their sense of the ludicrous.
I descended the valley, diverging from the path at Randa to mount the
slopes of the Dom (the highest of the Mischabelhorner), in order to see
the Weisshorn face to face. The latter mountain is the noblest in
Switzerland, and from this direction it looks especially magnificent.
On its north there is a large snowy plateau that feeds the glacier of
which a portion is seen from Randa, and which on more than one occasion
has destroyed that village. From the direction of the Dom—that is,
immediately opposite—this Bies glacier seems to descend nearly
vertically: it does not do so, although it is very steep. Its size is
much less than formerly, and the lower portion, now divided into three
tails, clings in a strange, weird-like manner to the cliffs, to which
it seems scarcely possible that it can remain attached.
Unwillingly I parted from the sight of this glorious mountain, and went
down to Visp. A party of English tourists had passed up the valley a
short time before with a mule. The party numbered nine—eight women and
a governess. The mule carried their luggage, and was ridden by each in
turn. The peasants—themselves not unaccustomed to overload their
beasts—were struck with astonishment at the unwonted sight, and made
comments, more free than welcome to English ears, on the nonchalance
with which young miss sat, calm and collected, on the miserable beast,
while it was struggling under her weight combined with that of the
luggage. The story was often repeated; and it tends to sustain some of
the hard things which have been said of late about young ladies from
the ages of twelve or fourteen to eighteen.
[Illustration]
Arriving once more in the Rhone valley, I proceeded to Viesch, and from
thence ascended the Æggischhorn, on which unpleasant eminence I lost my
way in a fog, and my temper shortly afterward. Then, after crossing the
Grimsel in a severe thunderstorm, I passed on to Brienz, Interlachen
and Berne, and thence to Fribourg and Morat, Neuchâtel, Martigny and
the St. Bernard. The massive walls of the convent were a welcome sight
as I waded through the snow-beds near the summit of the pass, and
pleasant also was the courteous salutation of the brother who bade me
enter. He wondered at the weight of my knapsack, and I at the hardness
of their bread. The saying that the monks make the toast in the winter
that they give to tourists in the following season is not founded on
truth: the winter is their most busy time of the year. But it _is_ true
they have exercised so much hospitality that at times they have not
possessed the means to furnish the fuel for heating their chapel in the
winter.
[Illustration]
Instead of descending to Aosta, I turned aside into the Val Pelline, in
order to obtain views of the Dent d’Erin. The night had come on before
Biona was gained, and I had to knock long and loud upon the door of the
curé’s house before it was opened. An old woman with querulous voice
and with a large goître answered the summons, and demanded rather
sharply what was wanted, but became pacific, almost good-natured, when
a five-franc piece was held in her face and she heard that lodging and
supper were requested in exchange.
My directions asserted that a passage existed from Prerayen, at the
head of this valley, to Breuil, in the Val Tournanche, and the old
woman, now convinced of my respectability, busied herself to find a
guide. Presently she introduced a native picturesquely attired in
high-peaked hat, braided jacket, scarlet waistcoat and indigo
pantaloons, who agreed to take me to the village of Val Tournanche. We
set off early on the next morning, and got to the summit of the pass
without difficulty. It gave me my first experience of considerable
slopes of hard, steep snow, and, like all beginners, I endeavored to
prop myself up with my stick, and kept it _outside_, instead of holding
it between myself and the slope, and leaning upon it, as should have
been done. The man enlightened me, but he had, properly, a very small
opinion of his employer, and it is probably on that account that, a few
minutes after we had passed the summit, he said he would not go any
farther and would return to Biona. All argument was useless: he stood
still, and to everything that was said answered nothing but that he
would go back. Being rather nervous about descending some long
snow-slopes which still intervened between us and the head of the
valley, I offered more pay, and he went on a little way. Presently
there were some cliffs, down which we had to scramble. He called to me
to stop, then shouted that he would go back, and beckoned to me to come
up. On the contrary, I waited for him to come down, but instead of
doing so, in a second or two he turned round, clambered deliberately up
the cliff and vanished. I supposed it was only a ruse to extort offers
of more money, and waited for half an hour, but he did not appear
again. This was rather embarrassing, for he carried off my knapsack.
The choice of action lay between chasing him and going on to Breuil,
risking the loss of my knapsack. I chose the latter course, and got to
Breuil the same evening. The landlord of the inn, suspicious of a
person entirely innocent of luggage, was doubtful if he could admit me,
and eventually thrust me into a kind of loft, which was already
occupied by guides and by hay. In later years we became good friends,
and he did not hesitate to give credit and even to advance considerable
sums.
My sketches from Breuil were made under difficulties: my materials had
been carried off, nothing better than fine sugar-paper could be
obtained, and the pencils seemed to contain more silica than plumbago.
However, they _were_ made, and the pass was again crossed, this time
alone. By the following evening the old woman of Biona again produced
the faithless guide. The knapsack was recovered after the lapse of
several hours, and then I poured forth all the terms of abuse and
reproach of which I was master. The man smiled when called a liar, and
shrugged his shoulders when referred to as a thief, but drew his knife
when spoken of as a pig.
The following night was spent at Cormayeur, and the day after I crossed
the Col Ferrex to Orsières, and on the next the Tête Noir to Chamounix.
The Emperor Napoleon arrived the same day, and access to the Mer de
Glace was refused to tourists; but, by scrambling along the Plan des
Aiguilles, I managed to outwit the guards, and to arrive at the
Montanvert as the imperial party was leaving, failing to get to the
Jardin the same afternoon, but very nearly succeeding in breaking a leg
by dislodging great rocks on the moraine of the glacier.
From Chamounix I went to Geneva, and thence by the Mont Cenis to Turin
and to the Vaudois valleys. A long and weary day had ended when Paesana
was reached. The inn was full, and I was tired and about to go to bed
when some village stragglers entered and began to sing. They sang to
Garibaldi! The tenor, a ragged fellow, whose clothes were not worth a
shilling, took the lead with wonderful expression and feeling. The
others kept their places and sang in admirable time. For hours I sat
enchanted, and long after I retired the sound of their melody could be
heard, relieved at times by the treble of the girl who belonged to the
inn.
[Illustration: GARIBALDI!]
The next morning I passed the little lakes which are the sources of the
Po, on my way into France. The weather was stormy, and misinterpreting
the patois of some natives—who in reality pointed out the right way—I
missed the track, and found myself under the cliffs of Monte Viso. A
gap that was occasionally seen in the ridge connecting it with the
mountains to the east tempted me up, and after a battle with a
snow-slope of excessive steepness, I reached the summit. The scene was
extraordinary, and, in my experience, unique. To the north there was
not a particle of mist, and the violent wind coming from that direction
blew one back staggering. But on the side of Italy the valleys were
completely filled with dense masses of cloud to a certain level; and
there—where they felt the influence of the wind—they were cut off as
level as the top of a table, the ridges appearing above them.
I raced down to Abries, and went on through the gorge of the Guil to
Mont Dauphin. The next day found me at La Bessée, at the junction of
the Val Louise with the valley of the Durance, in full view of Mont
Pelvoux; and by chance I walked into a cabaret where a Frenchman was
breakfasting who a few days before had made an unsuccessful attempt to
ascend that mountain with three Englishmen and the guide Michel Croz of
Chamounix—a right good fellow, by name Jean Reynaud.
The same night I slept at Briançon, intending to take the courier on
the following day to Grenoble, but all places had been secured several
days beforehand, so I set out at two P.M. on the next, day for a
seventy-mile walk. The weather was again bad, and on the summit of the
Col de Lautaret I was forced to seek shelter in the wretched little
hospice. It was filled with workmen who were employed on the road, and
with noxious vapors which proceeded from them. The inclemency of the
weather was preferable to the inhospitality of the interior. Outside,
it was disagreeable, but grand—inside, it was disagreeable and mean.
The walk was continued under a deluge of rain, and I felt the way down,
so intense was the darkness, to the village of La Grave, where the
people of the inn detained me forcibly. It was perhaps fortunate that
they did so, for during that night blocks of rock fell at several
places from the cliffs on to the road with such force that they made
large holes in the macadam, which looked as if there had been
explosions of gunpowder. I resumed the walk at half-past five next
morning, and proceeded, under steady rain, through Bourg d’Oysans to
Grenoble, arriving at the latter place soon after seven P. M., having
accomplished the entire distance from Briançon in about eighteen hours
of actual walking. This was the end of the Alpine portion of my tour of
1860, on which I was introduced to the great peaks, and acquired the
passion for mountain-scrambling the development of which is described
in the following chapters.
[Illustration: BRIANÇON]