RENEWED ATTEMPTS TO ASCEND THE MATTERHORN.
The year 1862 was still young, and the Matterhorn, clad in its wintry
garb, bore but little resemblance to the Matterhorn of the summer, when
a new force came to do battle with the mountain from another direction.
Mr. T. S. Kennedy of Leeds conceived the extraordinary idea that the
peak might prove less impracticable in January than in June, and
arrived at Zermatt in the former month to put his conception to the
test. With stout Peter Perm and sturdy Peter Taugwalder he slept in the
little chapel at the Schwarzensee, and on the next morning, like the
Messrs. Parker, followed the ridge between the peak called Hörnli and
the great mountain. But they found that snow in winter obeyed the
ordinary laws, and that the wind and frost were not less unkind than in
summer. “The wind whirled up the snow and spiculæ of ice into our faces
like needles, and flat pieces of ice a foot in diameter, carried up
from the glacier below, went flying past. Still no one seemed to like
to be the first to give in, till a gust fiercer than usual forced us to
shelter for a time behind a rock. Immediately it was tacitly understood
that our expedition must now end. but we determined to leave some
memento of our visit, and, after descending a considerable distance, we
found a suitable place with loose stones of which to build a cairn. In
half an hour a tower six feet high was erected, a bottle, with the
date, was placed inside, and we retreated as rapidly as possible.” This
cairn was placed at the spot marked upon Dufour’s Map of Switzerland
10,820 feet (3298 metres), and the highest point attained by Mr.
Kennedy was not, I imagine, more than two or three hundred feet above
it.
Shortly after this, Professor Tyndall gave, in his little
tract—_Mountaineering_ in 1861—an account of the reason why he had left
Breuil in August, 1861, without doing anything. It seems that he sent
his guide Bennen to reconnoitre, and that the latter made the following
report to his employer: “Herr, I have examined the mountain carefully,
and find it more difficult and dangerous than I had imagined. There is
no place upon it where we could well pass the night. We might do so on
yonder col upon the snow, but there we should be almost frozen to
death, and totally unfit for the work of the next day. On the rocks
there is no ledge or cranny which could give us proper harborage; and
starting from Breuil, it is certainly impossible to reach the summit in
a single day.” “I was entirely taken aback,” says Tyndall, “by this
report. I felt like a man whose grip had given way, and who was
dropping through the air…” Bennen was evidently dead against any
attempt upon the mountain. “We can, at all events, reach the lower of
the two summits,” I remarked. “Even that is difficult,” he replied;
“but when you have reached it, what then? The peak has neither name nor
fame.”[9]
[9] _Mountaineering in_ 1861, pp. 86-7. Tyndall and Bennen were
mistaken in supposing that the mountain has two summits; it has only
one. They seem to have been deceived by the appearance of that part of
the south-west ridge which is called “the shoulder” (l’épaule), as
seen from Breil. Viewed from that place, its southern end has
certainly, through foreshortening, the semblance of a peak; but when
one regards it from the Col Theodule, or from any place in the same
direction, the delusion is at once apparent.
I was more surprised than discouraged by this report by Bennen.
One-half of his assertions I knew to be wrong. The col to which he
referred was the Col du Lion, upon which he had passed a night less
than a week after he had spoken so authoritatively; and I had seen a
place not far below the “Chimney”—a place about five hundred feet above
the col—where it seemed possible to construct a sleeping-place.
Bennen’s opinions seem to have undergone a complete change. In 1860 he
is described as having been enthusiastic to make an attempt—in 1861 he
was dead against one. Nothing dismayed by this, my friend Mr. Reginald
Macdonald, our companion on the Pelvoux—to whom so much of our success
had been due—agreed to join me in a renewed assault from the south; and
although we failed to secure Melchior Anderegg and some other notable
guides, we obtained two men of repute—namely, Johann zum Taugwald and
Johann Kronig of Zermatt. We met at that place early in July, but
stormy weather prevented us even from crossing to the other side of the
chain for some time. We crossed the Col Théodule on the 5th, but the
weather was thoroughly unsettled: it was raining in the valleys and
snowing upon the mountains. Shortly before we gained the summit we were
made extremely uncomfortable by hearing mysterious rushing sounds,
which sometimes seemed as if a sudden gust of wind was sweeping along
the snow, and at others almost like the swishing of a long whip; yet
the snow exhibited no signs of motion and the air was perfectly calm.
The dense, black storm-clouds made us momentarily expect that our
bodies might be used as lightning-conductors, and we were well
satisfied to get under shelter of the inn at Breuil without having
submitted to any such experience.
We had need of a porter, and by the advice of our landlord descended to
the châlets of Breuil in search of one Luc Meynet. We found his house,
a mean abode, encumbered with cheese-making apparatus, and tenanted
only by some bright-eyed children; but as they said that Uncle Luc
would soon be home, we waited at the door of the little châlet and
watched for him. At last a speck was seen coming round the corner of
the patch of pines below Breuil, and then the children clapped their
hands, dropped their toys and ran eagerly forward to meet him. We saw
an ungainly, wobbling figure stoop down and catch up the little ones,
kiss them on each cheek, and put them into the empty panniers on each
side of the mule, and then heard it come on caroling, as if this was
not a world of woe; and yet the face of little Luc Meynet, the
hunchback of Breuil, bore traces of trouble and sorrow, and there was
more than a touch of sadness in his voice when he said that he must
look after his brother’s children. All his difficulties were, however,
at length overcome, and he agreed to join us to carry the tent.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: ALPINE TENT]
In the past winter I had turned my attention to tents, and that which
we had brought with us was the result of experiments to devise one
which should be sufficiently portable to be taken over the most
difficult ground, and which should combine lightness with stability.
Its base was just under six feet square, and a section perpendicular to
its length was an equilateral triangle, the sides of which were six
feet long. It was intended to accommodate four persons. It was
supported by four ash poles six feet and a half long and one inch and a
quarter thick, tapering to the top to an inch and an eighth: these were
shod with iron points. The order of proceeding in the construction of
the tent was as follows: Holes were drilled through the poles about
five inches from their tops for the insertion of two wrought-iron
bolts, three inches long and one-quarter of an inch thick. The bolts
were then inserted, and the two pairs of poles were set out (and fixed
up by a cord) to the proper dimensions. The roof was then put on. This
was made of the rough, unbleached calico called forfar, which can be
obtained in six-feet widths, and it was continued round for about two
feet on each side, on to the floor. The width of the material was the
length of the tent, and seams were thus avoided in the roof. The forfar
was sewn round each pole, particular care being taken to avoid wrinkles
and to get the whole perfectly taut. The flooring was next put in and
sewn down to the forfar. This was of the ordinary plaid mackintosh,
about nine feet square, the surplus three feet being continued up the
sides to prevent draughts. It is as well to have two feet of this
surplus on one side, and only one foot on the other, the latter amount
being sufficient for the side occupied by the feet. One end was then
permanently closed by a triangular piece of forfar, which was sewn down
to that which was already fixed. The other end was left open, and had
two triangular flaps that overlapped each other, and which were
fastened up when we were inside by pieces of tape. Lastly, the forfar
was nailed down to the poles to prevent the tent getting out of shape.
The cord which was used for climbing served for the tent: it was passed
over the crossed poles and underneath the ridge of the roof, and the
two ends—one fore and the other aft—were easily secured to pieces of
rock. Such a tent costs about four guineas, and its weight is about
twenty-three pounds; or, if the lightest kind of forfar is used, it
need not exceed twenty pounds.
Sunday, the 6th of July, was showery, and snow fell on the Matterhorn,
but we started on the following morning with our three men, and pursued
my route of the previous year. I was requested to direct the way, as
none save myself had been on the mountain before, but I did not
distinguish myself on this occasion, and led my companions nearly to
the top of the small peak before the mistake was discovered. The party
becoming rebellious, a little exploration was made toward our right,
and we found that we were upon the top of the cliff overlooking the Col
du Lion. The upper part of the small peak is of a very different
character to the lower part: the rocks are not so firm, and they are
usually covered or intermixed with snow and glazed with ice: the angle
too is more severe. While descending a small snow-slope to get on to
the right track, Kronig slipped on a streak of ice and went down at a
fearful pace. Fortunately, he kept on his legs, and by a great effort
succeeded in stopping just before he arrived at some rocks that jutted
through the snow, which would infallibly have knocked him over. When we
rejoined him a few minutes later we found that he was incapable of
standing, much less of moving, with a face corpse-like in hue, and
trembling violently. He remained in this condition for more than an
hour, and the day was consequently far advanced before we arrived at
our camping-place on the col. Profiting by the experience of last year,
we did not pitch the tent actually on the snow, but collected a
quantity of débris from the neighboring ledges, and after constructing
a rough platform of the larger pieces, leveled the whole with the dirt
and mud.
Meynet had proved invaluable as a tent-bearer, for, although his legs
were more picturesque than symmetrical, and although he seemed to be
built, on principle, with no two parts alike, his very deformities
proved of service; and we quickly found he had a spirit of no common
order, and that few peasants are more agreeable companions or better
climbers than little Luc Meynet, the hunchback of Breuil. He now showed
himself not less serviceable as a scavenger, and humbly asked for
gristly pieces of meat rejected by the others, or for suspicious eggs,
and seemed to consider it a peculiar favor, if not a treat, to be
permitted to drink the coffee-grounds. With the greatest contentment he
took the worst place at the door of the tent, and did all the dirty
work which was put upon him by the guides, as gratefully as a dog who
has been well beaten will receive a stroke.
A strong wind sprang up from the east during the night, and in the
morning it was blowing almost a hurricane. The tent behaved nobly, and
we remained under its shelter for several hours after the sun had
risen, uncertain what it was best to do. A lull tempted us to move, but
we had scarcely ascended a hundred feet before the storm burst upon us
with increased fury. Advance or return was alike impossible: the ridge
was denuded of its débris, and we clutched our hardest when we saw
stones as big as a man’s fist blown away horizontally into space. We
dared not attempt to stand upright, and remained stationary on all
fours, glued, as it were, to the rocks. It was intensely cold, for the
blast had swept along the main chain of the Pennine Alps and across the
great snow-fields around Monte Rosa. Our warmth and courage rapidly
evaporated, and at the next lull we retreated to the tent, having to
halt several times in that short distance. Taugwald and Kronig then
declared that they had had enough, and refused to have anything more to
do with the mountain. Meynet also informed us that he would be required
down below for important cheese-making operations on the following day.
It was therefore needful to return to Breuil, and we arrived there at
2.30 P.M., extremely chagrined at our complete defeat.
Jean-Antoine Carrel, attracted by rumors, had come up to the inn during
our absence, and after some negotiations agreed to accompany us, with
one of his friends named Pession, on the first fine day. We thought
ourselves fortunate, for Carrel clearly considered the mountain a kind
of _preserve_, and regarded our late attempt as an act of _poaching._
The wind blew itself out during the night, and we started again, with
these two men and a porter, at 8 A. M. on the 9th, with unexceptionable
weather. Carrel pleased us by suggesting that we should camp even
higher than before; and we accordingly proceeded, without resting at
the col, until we overtopped the Tête du Lion. Near the foot of the
“Chimney,” a little below the crest of the ridge and on its eastern
side, we found a protected place; and by building up from ledge to
ledge (under the direction of our leader, who was a mason by
profession) we at length constructed a platform of sufficient size and
of considerable solidity. Its height was about twelve thousand five
hundred and fifty feet above the sea; and it exists, I believe, at the
present time. We then pushed on, as the day was very fine, and after a
short hour’s scramble got to the foot of the Great Tower upon the ridge
(that is to say, to Mr. Hawkins’ farthest point), and afterward
returned to our bivouac. We turned out again at 4 A. M., and at 5.15
started upward once more, with fine weather and the thermometer at 28°.
Carrel scrambled up the Chimney, and Macdonald and I after him.
Pession’s turn came, but when he arrived at the top he looked very ill,
declared himself to be thoroughly incapable, and said that he must go
back. We waited some time, but he did not get better, neither could we
learn the nature of his illness. Carrel flatly refused to go on with us
alone. We were helpless. Macdonald, ever the coolest of the cool,
suggested that we should try what we could do without them, but our
better judgment prevailed, and finally we returned together to Breuil.
On the next day my friend started for London.
Three times I had essayed the ascent of this mountain, and on each
occasion had failed ignominiously. I had not advanced a yard beyond my
predecessors. Up to the height of nearly thirteen thousand feet there
were no extraordinary difficulties: the way so far might even become “a
matter of amusement.” Only eighteen hundred feet remained, but they
were as yet untrodden, and might present the most formidable obstacles.
No man could expect to climb them by himself. A morsel of rock only
seven feet high might at any time defeat him if it were perpendicular.
Such a place might be possible to two, or a bagatelle to three men. It
was evident that a party should consist of three men at least. But
where could the other two men be obtained? Carrel was the only man who
exhibited any enthusiasm in the matter, and he in 1861 had absolutely
refused to go unless the party consisted of at least _four_ persons.
Want of men made the difficulty, not the mountain.
The weather became bad again, so I went to Zermatt on the chance of
picking up a man, and remained there during a week of storms. Not one
of the good men, however, could be induced to come, and I returned to
Breuil on the 17th, hoping to combine the skill of Carrel with the
willingness of Meynet on a new attempt by the same route as before; for
the Hönli ridge, which I had examined in the mean time, seemed to be
entirely impracticable. Both men were inclined to go, but their
ordinary occupations prevented them from starting at once.
My tent had been left rolled up at the second platform, and whilst
waiting for the men it occurred to me that it might have been blown
away during the late stormy weather; so I started off on the 18th to
see if this were so or not. The way was by this time familiar, and I
mounted rapidly, astonishing the friendly herdsmen—who nodded
recognition as I flitted past them and the cows—for I was alone,
because no man was available. But more deliberation was necessary when
the pastures were passed and climbing began, for it was needful to mark
each step in case of mist or surprise by night. It is one of the few
things which can be said in favor of mountaineering alone (a practice
which has little besides to commend it) that it awakens a man’s
faculties and makes him observe. When one has no arms to help and no
head to guide him except his own, he must needs take note even of small
things, for he cannot afford to throw away a chance; and so it came to
pass upon my solitary scramble, when above the snow-line and beyond the
ordinary limits of flowering plants, when peering about noting angles
and landmarks, that my eyes fell upon the tiny straggling
plants—oftentimes a single flower on a single stalk—pioneers of
vegetation, atoms of life in a world of desolation, which had found
their way up—who can tell how?—from far below, and were obtaining bare
sustenance from the scanty soil in protected nooks; and it gave a new
interest to the well-known rocks to see what a gallant fight the
survivors made (for many must have perished in the attempt) to ascend
the great mountain. The gentian, as one might have expected, was there,
but it was run close by saxifrages and by _Linaria alpina_, and was
beaten by _Thlaspi rotundifolium;_ which latter plant was the highest I
was able to secure, although it too was overtopped by a little white
flower which I knew not and was unable to reach.
The tent was safe, although snowed up, and I turned to contemplate the
view, which, when seen alone and undisturbed, had all the strength and
charm of complete novelty. The highest peaks of the Pennine chain were
in front—the Breithorn (13,685 feet), the Lyskamm (14,889), and Monte
Rosa (15,217); then turning to the right, the entire block of mountains
which separated the Val Tournanche from the Val d’Ayas was seen at a
glance, with its dominating summit, the Grand Tournalin (11,155).
Behind were the ranges dividing the Val d’Ayas from the valley of
Gressoney, backed by higher summits. More still to the right the eye
wandered down the entire length of the Val Tournanche, and then rested
upon the Graian Alps with their innumerable peaks, and upon the
isolated pyramid of Monte Viso (12,643) in the extreme distance. Next,
still turning to the right, came the mountains intervening between the
Val Tournanche and the Val Barthelemy: Mont Rouss (a round-topped,
snowy summit, which seems so important from Breuil, but which is in
reality only a buttress of the higher mountain, the Château des Dames)
had long ago sunk, and the eye passed over it, scarcely heeding its
existence, to the Becca Salle (or, as it is printed on the map, Bee de
Sale), a miniature Matterhorn, and to other and more important heights.
Then the grand mass of the Dent d’Hérens (13,714) stopped the way—a
noble mountain, encrusted on its northern slopes with enormous hanging
glaciers, which broke away at mid-day in immense slices, and thundered
down on to the Tiefenmatten glacier; and lastly, most splendid of all,
came the Dent Blanche (14,318), soaring above the basin of the great
Z’Muttgletscher. Such a view is hardly to be matched in the Alps, and
_this_ view is very rarely seen, as I saw it, perfectly unclouded.
Time sped away unregarded, and the little birds which had built their
nests on the neighboring cliffs had begun to chirp their evening hymn
before I thought of returning. Half mechanically, I turned to the tent,
unrolled it and set it up: it contained food enough for several days,
and I resolved to stay over the night. I had started from Breuil
without provisions or telling Favre, the innkeeper, who was accustomed
to my erratic ways, where I was going. I returned to the view. The sun
was setting, and its rosy rays, blending with the snowy blue, had
thrown a pale, pure violet far as the eye could see; the valleys were
drowned in a purple gloom, while the summits shone with unnatural
brightness; and as I sat in the door of the tent and watched the
twilight change to darkness, the earth seemed to become less earthly
and almost sublime: the world seemed dead, and I its sole inhabitant.
By and by the moon, as it rose, brought the hills again into sight, and
by a judicious repression of detail rendered the view yet more
magnificent. Something in the south hung like a great glow-worm in the
air: it was too large for a star, and too steady for a meteor, and it
was long before I could realize the incredible fact that it was the
moonlight glittering on the great snow-slope on the north side of Monte
Viso, at a distance, as the crow flies, of ninety-eight miles.
Shivering, at last I entered the tent and made my coffee. The night was
passed comfortably, and the next morning, tempted by the brilliancy of
the weather, I proceeded yet higher in search of another place for a
platform.
[Illustration]
Solitary scrambling over a pretty wide area had shown me that a single
individual is subjected to very many difficulties which do not trouble
a party of two or three men, and that the disadvantages of being alone
are more felt while descending than during the ascent. In order to
neutralize these inconveniences, I had devised two little appliances,
which were now brought into use for the first time. One was a claw, a
kind of grapnel, about five inches long, made of shear steel one-fifth
of an inch thick. This was of use in difficult places where there was
no hold within arm’s length, but where there were cracks or ledges some
distance higher. It could be stuck on the end of the alpenstock and
dropped into such places, or, on extreme occasions, flung up until it
attached itself to something. The edges that laid hold of the rocks
were serrated, which tended to make them catch more readily: the other
end had a ring to which a rope was fastened. It must not be understood
that this was employed for hauling one’s self up by for any great
distance, but that it was used in ascending, at the most, for only a
few yards at a time. In descending, however, it could be prudently used
for a greater distance at a time, as the claws could be planted firmly;
but it was necessary to keep the rope taut and the pull constantly in
the direction of the length of the implement, otherwise it had a
tendency to slip away. The second device was merely a modification of a
dodge practiced by all climbers. It is frequently necessary for a
single man (or for the last man of a party) during a descent to make a
loop in the end of his rope, which he passes over some rocks, and to
come down holding the free end. The loop is then jerked off, and the
process may be repeated. But as it sometimes happens that there are no
rocks at hand which will allow a loose loop to be used, a slipknot has
to be resorted to, and the rope is drawn in tightly. Consequently, it
will occur that it is not possible to jerk the loop off, and the rope
has to be cut and left behind. To prevent this, I had a wrought-iron
ring (two and a quarter inches in diameter and three-eighths of an inch
thick) attached to one end of my rope, and a loop could be made in a
moment by passing the other end of the rope through the ring, which of
course slipped up and held tightly as I descended holding the free end.
A strong piece of cord was also attached to the ring, and on arriving
at the bottom this was pulled: the ring slid back again, and the loop
was whipped off readily. By means of these two simple appliances I was
able to ascend and descend rocks which otherwise would have been
completely impassable. The combined weight of these two things amounted
to less than half a pound.
[Illustration]
The rocks of the south-west ridge are by no means difficult for some
distance above the Col du Lion. This is true of the rocks up to the
level of the Chimney, but they steepen when that is passed, and
remaining smooth and with but few fractures, and still continuing to
dip outward, present some steps of a very uncertain kind, particularly
when they are glazed with ice. At this point (just above the Chimney)
the climber is obliged to follow the southern (or Breuil) side of the
ridge, but in a few feet more one must turn over to the northern (or
Z’Mutt) side, where in most years Nature kindly provides a snow-slope.
When this is surmounted, one can again return to the crest of the
ridge, and follow it by easy rocks to the foot of the Great Tower. This
was the highest point attained by Mr. Hawkins in 1860, and it was also
our highest on the 9th of July.
This Great Tower is one of the most striking features of the ridge. It
stands out like a turret at the angle of a castle. Behind it a
battlemented wall leads upward to the citadel. Seen from the Théodule
pass, it looks only an insignificant pinnacle, but as one approaches it
(on the ridge), so it seems to rise, and when one is at its base it
completely conceals the upper parts of the mountain. I found here a
suitable place for the tent, which, although not so well protected as
the second platform, possessed the advantage of being three hundred
feet higher up; and fascinated by the wildness of the cliffs, and
enticed by the perfection of the weather, I went on to see what was
behind.
The first step was a difficult one: the ridge became diminished to the
least possible width, it was hard to keep one’s balance, and just where
it was narrowest a more than perpendicular mass barred the way. Nothing
fairly within arm’s reach could be laid hold of: it was necessary to
spring up, and then to haul one’s self over the sharp edge by sheer
strength. Progression directly upward was then impossible. Enormous and
appalling precipices plunged down to the Tiefenmatten glacier on the
left, but round the right-hand side it was just possible to go. One
hindrance then succeeded another, and much time was consumed in seeking
the way. I have a vivid recollection of a gully of more than usual
perplexity at the side of the Great Tower, with minute ledges and steep
walls; of the ledges dwindling down, and at last ceasing; of finding
myself, with arms and legs divergent, fixed as if crucified, pressing
against the rock, and feeling each rise and fall of my chest as I
breathed; of screwing my head round to look for a hold, and not seeing
any, and of jumping sideways on to the other side.
Places such as this gully have their charm so long as a man feels that
the difficulties are within his power, but their enchantment vanishes
directly they are too much for him, and when he feels this they are
dangerous to him. The line which separates the difficult from the
dangerous is sometimes a very shadowy, but it is not an imaginary one.
It is a true line, without breadth. It is often easy to pass and very
hard to see. It is sometimes passed unconsciously, and the
consciousness that it has been passed is felt too late; but so long as
a man undertakes that which is well within his power, he is not likely
to pass this line, or consequently to get into any great danger,
although he may meet with considerable difficulty. That which is within
a man’s power varies, of course, according to time, place and
circumstance, but as a rule he can tell pretty well when he is arriving
at the end of his tether; and it seems to me, although it is difficult
to determine for another, even approximately, the limits to which it is
prudent for him to go, that it is tolerably easy to do so for one’s
self. But (according to my opinion) if the doubtful line is crossed
consciously, deliberately, one passes from doing that which is
justifiable to doing that which is unjustifiable, because it is
imprudent.
I expect that any intelligent critic will inquire, “But do you really
mean to assert that dangers in mountaineering arise only from
superlative difficulty, and that the perfect mountaineer does not run
any risks?” I am not prepared to go quite so far as this, although
there is only one risk to which the scrambler on the Higher Alps is
unavoidably subject which does not occur to pedestrians in London’s
streets. This arises from falling rocks, and I shall endeavor in the
course of this work to make the reader understand that it is a
_positive_ danger, and one against which skill, strength and courage
are equally unavailing. It occurs at unexpected times, and may occur in
almost any place. The critic may retort, “Your admission of this one
danger destroys all the rest of the argument.” I agree with him that it
would do so if it were a _grave_ risk to life. But although it is a
real danger, it is not a very serious risk. Not many cases can be
quoted of accidents which have happened through falling stones, and I
do not know an instance of life having been lost in this way in the
High Alps.[10] I suppose, however, few persons will maintain that it is
unjustifiable to do anything, for sport or otherwise, so long as _any_
risk is incurred, else it would be unjustifiable to cross Fleet street
at mid-day. If it were one’s bounden duty to avoid every risk, we
should have to pass our lives indoors. I conceive that the pleasures of
mountaineering outweigh the risks arising from this particular cause,
and that the practice will not be vetoed on its account. Still, I wish
to stamp it as a _positive_ danger, and as one which may imperil the
life of the most perfect mountaineer.
[10] The contrary is the case in regard to the Lower Alps. Amongst
others, the case may be mentioned of a lady who (not very long ago)
had her skull fractured while sitting at the base of the Mer de Glace.
This digression has been caused by an innocent gully which I feared the
reader might think was dangerous. It was an untrodden vestibule, which
led to a scene so wild that even the most sober description of it must
seem an exaggeration. There was a change in the quality of the rock,
and there was a change in the appearance of the ridge. The rocks
(talcose gneiss) below this spot were singularly firm—it was rarely
necessary to test one’s hold: the way led over the living rock, and not
up rent-off fragments. But here all was decay and ruin. The crest of
the ridge was shattered and cleft, and the feet sank in the chips which
had drifted down; while above, huge blocks, hacked and carved by the
hand of time, nodded to the sky, looking like the gravestones of
giants. Out of curiosity I wandered to a notch in the ridge, between
two tottering piles of immense masses which seemed to need but a few
pounds on one or the other side to make them fall, so nicely poised
that they would literally have rocked in the wind, for they were put in
motion by a touch, and based on support so frail that I wondered they
did not collapse before my eyes. In the whole range of my Alpine
experience I have seen nothing more striking than this desolate, ruined
and shattered ridge at the back of the Great Tower. I have seen
stranger shapes—rocks which mimic the human form, with monstrous
leering faces, and isolated pinnacles sharper and greater than any
here—but I have never seen exhibited so impressively the tremendous
effects which may be produced by frost, and by the long-continued
action of forces whose individual effects are imperceptible.
It is needless to say that it is impossible to climb by the crest of
the ridge at this part: still, one is compelled to keep near to it, for
there is no other way. Generally speaking, the angles on the Matterhorn
are too steep to allow the formation of considerable beds of snow, but
here there is a corner which permits it to accumulate, and it is turned
to gratefully, for by its assistance one can ascend four times as
rapidly as upon the rocks.
The Tower was now almost out of sight, and I looked over the central
Pennine Alps to the Grand Combin and to the chain of Mont Blanc. My
neighbor, the Dent d’Hérens, still rose above me, although but
slightly, and the height which had been attained could be measured by
its help. So far, I had no doubts about my capacity to descend that
which had been ascended; but in a short time, on looking ahead, I saw
that the cliffs steepened, and I turned back (without pushing on to
them and getting into inextricable difficulties), exulting in the
thought that they would be passed when we returned together, and that I
had without assistance got nearly to the height of the Dent d’Hérens,
and considerably higher than any one had been before.[11] My exultation
was a little premature.
[11] A remarkable streak of snow (marked “cravate” in the outline of
the Matterhorn, as seen from the Theodule) runs across the cliff at
this part of the mountain. My highest point was somewhat higher than
the lowest part of this snow, and was consequently nearly 13,500 feet
above the sea.
[Illustration: THE CHIMNEY. ON THE SOUTH-WEST RIDGE OF THE MATTERHORN.]
About five P. M. I left the tent again, and thought myself as good as
at Breuil. The friendly rope and claw had done good service, and had
smoothed all the difficulties. I lowered myself through the Chimney,
however, by making a fixture of the rope, which I then cut off and left
behind, as there was enough and to spare. My axe had proved a great
nuisance in coming down, and I left it in the tent. It was not attached
to the bâton, but was a separate affair—an old navy boarding-axe. While
cutting up the different snow-beds on the ascent, the bâton trailed
behind fastened to the rope; and when climbing the axe was carried
behind, run through the rope tied round my waist, and was sufficiently
out of the way; but in descending, when coming down face outward (as is
always best where it is possible), the head or the handle of the weapon
caught frequently against the rocks, and several times nearly upset me.
So, out of laziness if you will, it was left in the tent. I paid dearly
for the imprudence.
The Col du Lion was passed, and fifty yards more would have placed me
on the “Great Staircase,” down which one can run. But on arriving at an
angle of the cliffs of the Tête du Lion, while skirting the upper edge
of the snow which abuts against them, I found that the heat of the two
past days had nearly obliterated the steps which had been cut when
coming up. The rocks happened to be impracticable just at this corner,
so nothing could be done except make the steps afresh. The snow was too
hard to beat or tread down, and at the angle it was all but ice: half a
dozen steps only were required, and then the ledges could be followed
again. So I held to the rock with my right hand, and prodded at the
snow with the point of my stick until a good step was made, and then,
leaning round the angle, did the same for the other side. So far well,
but in attempting to pass the corner (to the present moment I cannot
tell how it happened) I slipped and fell.
[Illustration: IN ATTEMPTING TO PASS THE CORNER I SLIPPED AND FELL.]
The slope was steep on which this took place, and descended to the top
of a gully that led down through two subordinate buttresses toward the
Glacier du Lion, which was just seen, a thousand feet below. The gully
narrowed and narrowed until there was a mere thread of snow lying
between two walls of rock, which came to an abrupt termination at the
top of a precipice that intervened between it and the glacier. Imagine
a funnel cut in half through its length, placed at an angle of
forty-five degrees, with its point below and its concave side
uppermost, and you will have a fair idea of the place.
The knapsack brought my head down first, and I pitched into some rocks
about a dozen feet below: they caught something and tumbled me off the
edge, head over heels, into the gully. The bâton was dashed from my
hands, and I whirled downward in a series of bounds, each longer than
the last—now over ice, now into rocks—striking my head four or five
times, each time with increased force. The last bound sent me spinning
through the air, in a leap of fifty or sixty feet, from one side of the
gully to the other, and I struck the rocks, luckily, with the whole of
my left side. They caught my clothes for a moment, and I fell back on
to the snow with motion arrested: my head fortunately came the right
side up, and a few frantic catches brought me to a halt in the neck of
the gully and on the verge of the precipice. Bâton, hat and veil
skimmed by and disappeared, and the crash of the rocks which I had
started, as they fell on to the glacier, told how narrow had been the
escape from utter destruction. As it was, I fell nearly two hundred
feet in seven or eight bounds. Ten feet more would have taken me in one
gigantic leap of eight hundred feet on to the glacier below.
The situation was still sufficiently serious. The rocks could not be
left go for a moment, and the blood was spurting out of more than
twenty cuts. The most serious ones were in the head, and I vainly tried
to close them with one hand while holding on with the other. It was
useless: the blood jerked out in blinding jets at each pulsation. At
last, in a moment of inspiration, I kicked out a big lump of snow and
stuck it as a plaster on my head. The idea was a happy one, and the
flow of blood diminished: then, scrambling up, I got, not a moment too
soon, to a place of safety and fainted away. The sun was setting when
consciousness returned, and it was pitch dark before the Great
Staircase was descended; but by a combination of luck and care the
whole forty-eight hundred feet of descent to Breuil was accomplished
without a slip or once missing the way. I slunk past the cabin of the
cowherds, who were talking and laughing inside, utterly ashamed of the
state to which I had been brought by my imbecility, and entered the inn
stealthily, wishing to escape to my room unnoticed. But Favre met me in
the passage, demanded, “Who is it?” screamed with fright when he got a
light, and aroused the household. Two dozen heads then held solemn
council over mine, with more talk than action. The natives were
unanimous in recommending that hot wine (syn. vinegar), mixed with
salt, should be rubbed into the cuts. I protested, but they insisted.
It was all the doctoring they received. Whether their rapid healing was
to be attributed to that simple remedy or to a good state of health, is
a question: they closed up remarkably soon, and in a few days I was
able to move again.
It was sufficiently dull during this time. I was chiefly occupied in
meditating on the vanity of human wishes, and in watching my clothes
being washed in the tub which was turned by the stream in the front of
the house; and I vowed that if an Englishman should at any time fall
sick in the Val Tournanche, he should not feel so solitary as I did at
this dreary time.[12]
[12] As it seldom happens that one survives such a fall, it may be
interesting to record what my sensations were during its occurrence. I
was perfectly conscious of what was happening, and felt each blow;
but, like a patient under chloroform, experienced no pain. Each blow
was, naturally, more severe than that which preceded it, and I
distinctly remember thinking “Well, if the next is harder still, that
will be the end!” Like persons who have been rescued from drowning, I
remember that the recollection of a multitude of things rushed through
my head, many of them trivialities or absurdities, which had been
forgotten long before; and, more remarkable, this bounding through
space did not feel disagreeable. But I think that in no very great
distance more, consciousness as well as sensation would have been
lost, and upon that I base my belief, improbable as it seems, that
death by a fall from a great height is as painless an end as can be
experienced.
The battering was very rough, yet no bones were broken. The most
severe cuts were one of four inches long on the top of the bead,
and another of three inches on the right temple: this latter bled
frightfully. There was a formidable-looking cut, of about the same
size as the last, on the palm of the left hand, and every limb was
grazed, or cut, more or less seriously. The tips of the ears were
taken off, and a sharp rock cut a circular bit out of the side of
the left boot, sock, and ankle, at one stroke. The loss of blood,
although so great, did not seem to be permanently injurious. The
only serious effect has been the reduction of a naturally retentive
memory to a very common-place one; and although my recollections of
more distant occurrences remain unshaken, the events of that
particular day would be clean gone but for the few notes which were
written down before the accident.
[Illustration: AT BREUIL (GIOMEIN)]
The news of the accident brought Jean-Antoine Carrel up to Breuil, and
along with the haughty chasseur came one of his relatives, a strong and
able young fellow named Cæsar. With these two men and Meynet I made
another start on the 23d of July. We got to the tent without any
trouble, and on the following day had ascended beyond the Tower, and
were picking our way cautiously over the loose rocks behind (where my
traces of the week before were well apparent) in lovely weather, when
one of those abominable and almost instantaneous changes occurred to
which the Matterhorn is so liable on its southern side. Mists were
created out of invisible vapors, and in a few minutes snow fell
heavily. We stopped, as this part was of excessive difficulty, and,
unwilling to retreat, remained on the spot several hours, in hopes that
another change would occur; but as it did not, we at length went down
to the base of the Tower, and commenced to make a third platform, at
the height of 12,992 feet above the sea. It still continued to snow,
and we took refuge in the tent. Carrel argued that the weather had
broken up, and that the mountain would become so glazed with ice as to
render any attempt futile; and I, that the change was only temporary,
and that the rocks were too hot to allow ice to form upon them. I
wished to stay until the weather improved, but my leader would not
endure contradiction, grew more positive and insisted that we must go
down. We went down, and when we got below the col his opinion was found
to be wrong: the cloud was confined to the upper three thousand feet,
and outside it there was brilliant weather.
Carrel was not an easy man to manage. He was perfectly aware that he
was the cock of the Val Tournanche, and he commanded the other men as
by right. He was equally conscious that he was indispensable to me, and
took no pains to conceal his knowledge of the fact. If he had been
commanded or if he had been entreated to stop, it would have been all
the same. But, let me repeat, he was the only first-rate climber I
could find who believed that the mountain was not inaccessible. With
him I had hopes, but without him none; so he was allowed to do as he
would. His will on this occasion was almost incomprehensible. He
certainly could not be charged with cowardice, for a bolder man could
hardly be found; nor was he turning away on account of difficulty, for
nothing to which we had yet come seemed to be difficult to _him;_ and
his strong personal desire to make the ascent was evident. There was no
occasion to come down on account of food, for we had taken, to guard
against this very casualty, enough to last for a week; and there was no
danger and little or no discomfort in stopping in the tent. It seemed
to me that he was spinning out the ascent for his own purposes, and
that although he wished very much to be the first man on the top, and
did not object to be accompanied by any one else who had the same wish,
he had no intention of letting one succeed too soon—perhaps to give a
greater appearance of _éclat_ when the thing was accomplished. As he
feared no rival, he may have supposed that the more difficulties he
made the more valuable he would be estimated, though, to do him
justice, he never showed any great hunger for money. His demands were
fair, not excessive; but he always stipulated for so much per day, and
so, under any circumstances, he did not do badly.
Vexed at having my time thus frittered away, I was still well pleased
when he volunteered to start again on the morrow if it was fine. We
were to advance the tent to the foot of the Tower, to fix ropes in the
most difficult parts beyond, and to make a push for the summit on the
following day.
The next morning (Friday, the 25th), when I arose, good little Meynet
was ready and waiting, and he said that the two Carrels had gone off
some time before, and had left word that they intended marmot-hunting,
as the day was favorable for that sport. My holiday had nearly expired,
and these men clearly could not be relied upon; so, as a last resort, I
proposed to the hunchback to accompany me alone, to see if we could not
get higher than before, though of reaching the summit there was little
or no hope. He did not hesitate, and in a few hours we stood—for the
third time together—upon the Col du Lion, but it was the first time
Meynet had seen the view unclouded. The poor little deformed peasant
gazed upon it silently and reverently for a time, and then
unconsciously fell on one knee in an attitude of adoration, and clasped
his hands, exclaiming in ecstasy, “O beautiful mountains!” His actions
were as appropriate as his words were natural, and tears bore witness
to the reality of his emotion.
Our power was too limited to advance the tent, so we slept at the old
station, and, starting very early the next morning, passed the place
where we had turned back on the 24th, and subsequently my highest point
on the 19th. We found the crest of the ridge so treacherous that we
took to the cliffs on the right, although most unwillingly. Little by
little we fought our way up, but at length we were both spread-eagled
on the all-but perpendicular face, unable to advance and barely able to
descend. We returned to the ridge. It was almost equally difficult, and
infinitely more unstable; and at length, after having pushed our
attempts as far as was prudent, I determined to return to Breuil, and
to have a light ladder made to assist us to overcome some of the
steepest parts. I expected, too, that by this time Carrel would have
had enough marmot-hunting, and would deign to accompany us again.
We came down at a great pace, for we were now so familiar with the
mountain and with each other’s wants that we knew immediately when to
give a helping hand and when to let alone. The rocks also were in a
better state than I have ever seen them, being almost entirely free
from glaze of ice. Meynet was always merriest on the difficult parts,
and on the most difficult kept on enunciating the sentiment, “We can
only die once,” which thought seemed to afford him infinite
satisfaction. We arrived at the inn early in the evening, and I found
my projects summarily and unexpectedly knocked on the head.
Professor Tyndall had arrived while we were absent, and he had engaged
both Cæsar and Jean-Antoine Carrel. Bennen was also with him, together
with a powerful and active friend, a Valaisan guide named Anton Walter.
They had a ladder already prepared, provisions were being collected,
and they intended to start on the following morning (Sunday). This new
arrival took me by surprise. Bennen, it will be remembered, refused
point-blank to take Professor Tyndall on the Matterhorn in 1861. “He
was dead against any attempt on the mountain,” says Tyndall. He was now
eager to set out. Professor Tyndall has not explained in what way this
revolution came about in his guide. I was equally astonished at the
faithlessness of Carrel, and attributed it to pique at our having
presumed to do without him. It was useless to compete with the
professor and his four men, who were ready to start in a few hours, so
I waited to see what would come of their attempt.
[Illustration: A CANNONADE ON THE MATTERHORN (1862)]
Everything seemed to favor it, and they set out on a fine morning in
high spirits, leaving me tormented with envy and all uncharitableness.
If they succeeded, they carried off the prize for which I had been so
long struggling; and if they failed, there was no time to make another
attempt, for I was due in a few days more in London. When this came
home clearly to me, I resolved to leave Breuil at once, but when
packing up found that some necessaries had been left behind in the
tent. So I went off about mid-day to recover them, caught the army of
the professor before it reached the col, as they were going very
slowly, left them there (stopping to take food) and went on to the
tent. I was near to it when all at once I heard a noise aloft, and on
looking up perceived a stone of at least a foot cube flying straight at
my head. I ducked and scrambled under the lee side of a friendly rock,
while the stone went by with a loud buzz. It was the advanced guard of
a perfect storm of stones, which descended with infernal clatter down
the very edge of the ridge, leaving a trail of dust behind, with a
strong smell of sulphur that told who had sent them. The men below were
on the look-out, but the stones did not come near them, and breaking
away on one side went down to the glacier.
I waited at the tent to welcome the professor, and when he arrived went
down to Breuil. Early next morning some one ran to me saying that a
flag was seen on the summit of the Matterhorn. It was not so, however,
although I saw that they had passed the place where we had turned back
on the 26th. I had now no doubt of their final success, for they had
got beyond the point which Carrel, not less than myself, had always
considered to be the most questionable place on the whole mountain. Up
to it there was no choice of route—I suppose that at no one point
between it and the col was it possible to diverge a dozen paces to the
right or left—but beyond it it was otherwise, and we had always agreed
in our debates that if it could be passed success was certain.
The accompanying outline from a sketch taken from the door of the inn
at Breuil will help to explain. The letter A indicates the position of
the Great Tower; C, the “cravate” (the strongly-marked streak of snow
referred to in note 11, and which we just failed to arrive at on the
26th); B, the place where we now saw something that looked like a flag.
Behind the point B a nearly level ridge leads up to the foot of the
final peak, which will be understood by a reference to the outline on
page 83, on which the same letters indicate the same places. It was
just now said, we considered that if the point C could be passed,
success was certain. Tyndall was at B very early in the morning, and I
did not doubt that he would reach the summit, although it yet remained
problematical whether he would be able to stand on the very highest
point. The summit was evidently formed of a long ridge, on which there
were two points nearly equally elevated—so equally that one could not
say which was the highest—and between the two there seemed to be a deep
notch, marked D on the outlines, which might defeat one at the very
last moment.
[Illustration]
My knapsack was packed, and I had drunk a parting glass of wine with
Favre, who was jubilant at the success which was to make the fortune of
his inn, but I could not bring myself to leave until the result was
heard, and lingered about, as a foolish lover hovers round the object
of his affections even after he has been contemptuously rejected. The
sun had set before the men were descried coming over the pastures.
There was no spring in their steps: they too were defeated. The Carrels
hid their heads, but the others said, as men will do when they have
been beaten, that the mountain was horrible, impossible, and so
forth.—Professor Tyndall told me they had arrived _within a stone’s
throw of the summit_, and admonished me to have nothing more to do with
the mountain. I understood him to say that he should not try again, and
ran down to the village of Val Tournanche, almost inclined to believe
that the mountain was inaccessible, leaving the tent, ropes and other
matters in the hands of Favre, to be placed at the disposal of any
person who wished to ascend it—more, I am afraid, out of irony than
generosity. There may have been those who believed that the Matterhorn
could be ascended, but anyhow their faith did not bring forth works. No
one tried again in 1862.
[Illustration: “BUT WHAT IS THIS?”]