THE ROTHHORN (MOMING) FROM ZERMATT
The Alpine dramatis personæ—Mountaineering fact and romance—The
thirst for novelty and its symptoms—The first ascent of the
Moming—Preliminaries are observed—Rock _v._ snow mountains—The
amateur and the guide on rocks and on snow—The programme is made
out—Franz Andermatten—Falling stones in the gully—We smooth away
the difficulties—The psychological effects of reaching mountain
summits—A rock bombardment and a narrow escape—The youthful
tourist and his baggage—Hotel trials—We are interviewed—The
gushers.
The writer of an Alpine narrative labours under more disadvantages than
most literary folk—if authors generally will permit the association, and
allow that those who rush into print with their Alpine experiences have
the smallest claim to be dignified with such a title. One drawback is that
their accounts necessarily suffer from a paucity of characters. A five-act
tragedy supported, to use a theatrical expression, by two walking
gentlemen, one heavy lead and a low comedy “super,” might possibly pall
upon an audience, but in Alpine literature, if I may be permitted to push
the metaphor a little further, not only is this the case but the unhappy
reader finds the characters like “barn stormers” playing now comedy, now
tragedy, and sometimes, it may possibly be added, dramas of romance.
(M15)
Again, in all matters absolutely relating to mountaineering in the Alps,
the narrator feels bound to stick to matters of fact. The drama of romance
must be excluded from his répertoire, or, at any rate, very cautiously
handled. I knew a man once, who on a single occasion went a-fishing in
Norway and caught a salmon. Naturally he was proud of the achievement, and
when in the company of brother sportsmen, would hold up his head, assume a
knowing air, and take part in the conversation, such conversation
relating, of course, to the size of the various fish those present had
caught. Such unswerving and prosaic veracity did my friend possess, that,
though sorely tempted as he must have been on many occasions, for ten
years he never added a single ounce to the weight of his fish. A writer,
an Alpine scribbler at any rate, is perhaps justified if he introduces
incidents into an account of an expedition which may not have happened on
that particular occasion, but which did happen on some other; and surely
he may, without impropriety, romance a little on such part of his work as
is not strictly geographical; for example, he may describe a chalet as
being dirty, when according to the peasant’s standard of cleanliness it
would have been considered spotless, or describe a view as magnificent,
when as a matter of fact he paid no attention to it, but he would be
acting most culpably if he asserted that he got within fifty feet of the
summit, well knowing that he was not fifty feet from the base of the peak,
or if he stated that rocks were impossible, or an ice-fall impracticable,
when the sole reason for his failure consisted in his being possessed with
a strong desire to go back home. Of course a writer can only give his own
impressions, and these are much tempered by increased experience and the
lapse of time, but in taking up old accounts of Alpine work one not
unfrequently finds a good deal of description that requires toning down.
In these sketches I have striven honestly to render all that relates
intimately to the actual mountains as accurate as possible, and would
sooner be considered a dull than an unreliable historian.
It is no easy matter to reproduce almost on the spot an account of a climb
with absolute accuracy, however strong the desire may be to do so.
Besides, a climber does not pursue his pastime with a note book
perpetually open before him. If he does, his mountaineering is more of a
business than he is usually willing to admit. The guide often, the amateur
commonly, fails to recognise exactly from a distance a line of ascent or
descent on rocks, though but just completed. Still more difficult is it to
work out the precise details of a particular route on a map or photograph.
The microscopist knows that the higher powers of his instrument give him
no additional insight into the structure of certain objects, but rather
mislead. Even so may my readers be asked to employ but gymnoscopic
criticism of these sketches.
(M16)
In September 1872 our party reached Zermatt from Chamouni by the
“high-level” route, a series of walks which no amount of familiarity will
ever deprive of their charm, and concerning which more will be found
elsewhere in this work. All Alpine climbers were then burning as fiercely
as they ever did to achieve something new. They had just begun to realise
that the stock of new peaks and passes was not inexhaustible, and that the
supply was wholly inadequate to meet the demand. This feeling showed
itself in various ways. Climbers looked upon each other with something of
suspicion and jealousy, and if any new expedition was being planned by any
one of their number the others would quickly recognise the state of
affairs. If an Alpine man were found secreted in obscure corners
conversing in a low voice with his guides and intent on a study of the
map, or if he returned evasive answers when questioned as to his plans, he
was at once set down as having, probably, a new expedition in mind. As for
the guides, they assumed at once airs of importance, as does a commencing
schoolboy newly arrayed in a tall hat, and exhibited such mystery that
their intentions were unmistakable. Their behaviour, indeed, may have been
partly due to the fact that the natural efforts of their comrades to
extract information was invariably accompanied by somewhat undue
hospitality, and their brotherly feelings were usually expressed in an
acceptably liquid form. As a rule such hospitality did not fail in its
object. Whether due to a certain natural leakiness of mind on the part of
the guides or not, I cannot say, but certainly the information always
oozed out, and the intentions of the party were invariably thoroughly well
known before the expedition actually started to achieve fresh glory. Every
one of the first-rate peaks in the Zermatt district had been ascended,
most of them over and over again, before 1872, but the Rothhorn was still
out of the pale of the Zermatt expeditions. Messrs. Leslie Stephen and F.
Craufurd Grove, who first climbed the peak, ascended it from Zinal, and
descended to the same place. It seemed to us, therefore, that if we could
prove the accessibility of the mountain from Zermatt, we should do
something more than merely climb the peak by a new route. The rocks looked
attractive, and the peak itself lay so immediately above Zermatt that it
seemed possible enough to make the ascent without sleeping out or
consuming any great amount of time.
We went through all the necessary preliminary formalities. We assumed airs
of mystery at times; why, I know not. We inspected distant peaks through
the telescope. At other times we displayed an excess of candour, and
talked effusively about districts remote from that which we intended to
investigate. We climbed up a hill, and surveyed the face of our mountain
through a telescope, thereby wasting a day and acquiring no information
whatever. We pointed out to each other the parts of the mountain which
appeared most difficult, and displayed marvellous differences of opinion
on the subject, owing, as it is usually the case, to the circumstance that
we were commonly, in all probability, talking at the same time about
totally distinct parts of the peak. With the telescope I succeeded in
discovering to my own entire satisfaction a perfectly impracticable route
to the summit. Finally, in order that no single precaution might be
omitted to ensure success, we sent up the guides to reconnoitre—a most
useless proceeding. We had new nails put in our boots, ordered provisions,
uncoiled our rope and coiled it up again quite unnecessarily, gave
directions that we should be called at an unhallowed hour in the morning,
and went to bed under the impression that we should not be object in the
least to turn out at the time arranged.
(M17)
It is on the rock mountains of Switzerland that the acme of enjoyment is
to be found. Not that I wish to disparage the snow-peaks; but if a
comparison be instituted it is to most climbers, at any rate in their
youthful days, infinitely in favour of the rock. Of course it may be
argued that there are comparatively few mountains where the two are not
combined. But a mountaineer classifies peaks roughly as rock or snow,
according to the chief obstacles that each presents. A climber may
encounter serious difficulties in the way of bergschrunds, steep couloirs,
soft snow, and so forth; but if on the same expedition he meets with rocks
which compel him to put forth greater energies and perseverance than the
snow required, he will set the expedition down as a difficult rock climb,
simply, of course, because the idea of difficulty which is most vividly
impressed on his mind is in connection with that portion of his climb, and
_vice versâ_. An undeniable drawback to the snow peaks consists in their
monotony. The long series of steps that have to be cut at times, or the
dreary wading for hours through soft or powdery snow, are not always
forgotten in the pleasure of overcoming the difficulties of a crevasse,
reaching the summit of a peak, or the excitement of a good glissade. It is
the diversity of obstacles that meet the rock climber, the uncertainty as
to what may turn up next, the doubt as to the possibility of finding the
friendly crack or the apposite ledge, that constitute some of the main
charms. Every step is different, every muscle is called into play as the
climber is now flattened against a rough slab, now abnormally stretched
from one hold to another, or folded up like the conventional pictures of
the ibex, and every step can be recalled afterwards with pleasure and
amusement as the mountain is climbed over again in imagination.
(M18)
But there is more than this; on rocks the amateur is much less dependent
on his guides and has much more opportunity of exercising his own powers.
It must be admitted that on rocks some amateurs are occasionally wholly
dependent not on, but from their guides, and take no more active share in
locomotion than does a bale of goods in its transit from a ship’s hold to
a warehouse. Too often the amateurs who will not take the trouble to learn
something of the science and art of mountaineering are but an impediment,
an extra burden, as has been often said, to the guides. The guides have to
hack out huge steps for their benefit. The amateurs wholly trust to them
for steering clear of avalanches, rotten snow bridges, and the like. The
amateur’s share in a snow ascent usually consists, in fact, either in
counselling retreat, insisting on progress, indicating impossible lines of
ascent, or in the highly intellectual and arithmetical exercise of
counting the number of steps hewn out to ensure his locomotion in the
proper direction.
Place the unpaid climber, on the other hand, on rocks. Here the
probability is that a slip will entail no unpleasant consequences to
anyone but the slipper. The power of sustaining a sudden strain is so
enormously increased when the hands have a firm grip that the amateur can,
if he please, sprawl and scramble unaided over difficult places with
satisfaction to himself and usually without risk to anyone else; that is,
as soon as he has fully persuaded the guides (no easy task, I admit) that
the process of pulling vehemently at the rope, possibly encircling his
waist in a slip knot, is as detrimental to his equilibrium as it is to his
digestion. Guides, however, as has been hinted, do not acknowledge this
fact in animal mechanics, and their employers frequently experience as an
acute torture that compressing process which, more deliberately applied,
is not regarded by some as hurtful, but rather as a necessary
accompaniment of fashionable attire. When the amateur has succeeded in
overcoming the natural instinct of the guides to pull when there is no
occasion to do so, he becomes a unit in the party, a burden of course, and
a hindrance to some guides, but nothing to what he was on the snow.
Sentiments similar to the above have not unfrequently been set forth in
print: they seldom, if ever, actuate the minds of mountaineers when
actually engaged in their pastime or when describing their exploits to
less skilled persons.
There is great satisfaction, too, in translating one’s self over a given
difficult rock passage without other assistance than that provided by
nature herself, and without surreptitious aid from one’s neighbour in the
shape of steps. Then again, snow mountains are as inconsistent as cheap
aneroids. One day each step costs much labour and toil, and almost the
next perhaps the peak will allow itself to be conquered in one-tenth of
the time. Not that the writer seeks to argue that there is no pleasure to
be derived from snow mountains. It is to climbing _per se_ that these
remarks apply. After all, everyone has his own opinion; but he who has not
tasted the pleasures of a really difficult and successful rock
climb—especially if it be a new one—knows not what the Alps can really do
for his amusement.
(M19)
An expedition of suitable magnitude and difficulty was suggested by the
guides, viz. an ascent of the Rothhorn (or Moming) from the Zermatt side.
Mr. Passingham of Cambridge was at the time staying at the Monte Rosa
Hotel, and it was soon arranged that we should combine our forces. The
guides, on being asked their opinion as to the projected climb, reported
diplomatically that, given fine weather, the ascent would be difficult but
possible. This is the answer that the guides generally do give. We decided
to attempt the whole excursion in a single day, considering that a short
rest in the comparatively luxurious beds provided by M. Seiler was
preferable on the whole to more prolonged repose in a shepherd’s hut; for
the so-called repose means usually a night of misery, and the misery under
these conditions is apt to make a man literally acquainted with strange
bed-fellows. At 2 in the morning we sought for the guides’ room, to
superintend the packing of our provisions. It was not easy to find, but at
last we discovered a dingy little subterranean vault with one small window
tightly jammed up and covered with dust. Of this den there were two
occupants. One was employed silently in eating large blocks of a curious
boiled mess out of a pipkin. The other was smoking a very complicated
pipe, and sitting bolt upright on a bench with half a bottle of _vin
ordinaire_ before him. Why he was carousing thus in the small hours was
not evident. From these signs we judged correctly that the apartment was
devoted to the guides as a dining, smoking, club and recreation room.
Our staff was already in attendance, and it struck both of us that the
success of the expedition was a foregone conclusion if it depended on the
excellence of our guides—Alexander Burgener, the embodiment of strength,
endurance, and pluck; Ferdinand Imseng, of activity and perseverance,
alone would have sufficed, but we had in addition a tough, weather-beaten,
cheery companion (for he was always a companion as well as a guide), Franz
Andermatten, ever sagacious, ever helpful and ever determined. It would be
hard to find a successor adequately to fill our old friend’s place. It is
impossible to efface his memory from my mind, nor can I ever forget how on
that day he showed all his best qualities and contributed mainly to our
success.(1) The prologue is spoken; let us raise the curtain on the
comedy.
(M20)
The guides had already made their usual preparations for packing up—that
is to say, they had constructed a multiplicity of little paper parcels and
spread them about the room. As to the contents of these little parcels,
they were of course uncertain, and all had to be undone to make sure that
nothing had been omitted. A good deal of time was thus lost, and nothing
much was gained, except that we corrected the error of packing up a
handful of loose lucifers and two tallow dips with the butter and honey in
a glass tumbler. Then the parcels were stowed away in the knapsacks, the
straps of course all rearranged and ultimately replaced by odds and ends
of string. Eventually, at 3 A.M., we started, leaving the two occupants of
the guides’ room still engaged in the same manner as when they first came
under observation, and walked up the narrow valley running due north of
Zermatt and leading towards the Trift Joch and the base of the mountain
for which we were making. Having journeyed for about half an hour, it was
discovered that the telescope had been left behind. Franz instantly
started off to get it; not because it was considered particularly
necessary, but chiefly on the ground that it is not orthodox to go on a
new expedition without a telescope. We stumbled up the narrow winding
path, and close below the moraine called our first halt and waited for
Franz’s return. I selected a cool rock on which to complete the slumber
which had been commenced in bed and continued on a tilted chair in the
guides’ room. After waiting an hour we decided to proceed, as no answer
was returned to our frequent shouts. Presently, however, a distant yell
attracted our attention, and we beheld, to our astonishment, the cheery
face of Franz looking down on us from the top of the moraine. Stimulated
by this apparition, we pushed on with great vigour, clambered up the
moraine, whose extreme want of cohesion necessitated a treadmill style of
progression, and having reached the top passed along it to the snow. Here
we bore first to the right, and then, working round, made straight for a
sharp-topped buttress which juts out at a right angle from the main mass
of the mountain. Arrived at a patch of rocks near the commencement of the
arête, we disencumbered ourselves of superfluous baggage; that is to say,
after the traditional manner of mountaineers, we discarded about
three-fourths of the impedimenta we had so laboriously dragged up to that
point, and of which at no subsequent period of the expedition did we make
the slightest use. Next, we prepared for such rock difficulties as might
present themselves, by buttoning up our coats as tight as was convenient,
and decorated our heads respectively with woollen extinguishers like unto
the covers placed by old maids over cherished teapots.
It is a grand moment that, when the difficulty of an expedition opens out,
when you grasp the axe firmly, settle in to the rope, and brace up the
muscles for the effort of the hour: a moment probably the most pleasurable
of the whole expedition, when the peak towers clear and bright above, when
the climber realises that he is on the point of deciding whether he shall
achieve or fail in achieving a long wished for success, or what it may be
perhaps allowable to call a cutting-out expedition (for even mountain
climbers are prone to small jealousies). The excitement on nearing the
actual summit often rather fades away than increases, and the climber
lounges up the last few steps to the top with the same sort of nonchalance
that a guest invited to drink displays in approaching the bar.
(M21)
Dividing into two parties, we passed rapidly along the snow ridge which
abuts against the east face of the mountain. The cliffs of the Rothhorn
seem almost to overhang on this face, and were from our point of view
magnificent. On the right, too, the precipice is a sheer one, to employ a
not uncommon epithet. Without much difficulty we clambered up the first
part of the face of the mountain, taking a zigzag course towards the large
gully which is distinctly visible from the other side of the valley, and
which terminates above in a deep jagged notch in the ridge not far below
the summit. Gradually the climbing became more difficult, and it was found
necessary to cross the gully backwards and forwards on several occasions.
In so crossing we were exposed to some risk from falling stones; that is
to say, some chips and bits of rock on a few occasions went flying by
without any very apparent reason. In those days mountaineers were in the
habit of considering these projectiles as a possible source of risk. A
later generation would pass them by as easily as the stones passed by us,
and it is not now the fashion to consider such a situation as we were in
at all dangerous. It is difficult to see the reason why. Perhaps people’s
heads are harder now than they were then. For the greater part of the time
we kept to the left or south side of the gully, and reaching the notch
looked right down upon the commencement of the Glacier du Durand, a fine
expanse of snowfield, singularly wild-looking and much crevassed. Turning
to the right, we ascended a short distance along the ridge, and then a
halt was called. The guides now proceeded to arrange a length of some
hundred feet of rope on the rocks above to assist in our return. The
process sorely tried our patience, and we were right glad when the signal
was given to go on again. We had now to leave the arête, to descend a
little, and so pass on to the west face of the mountain, and by this face
to ascend and gradually work back to the ridge. No doubt during this part
of the climb we made much the same mistake in judgment as had previously
been made on a memorable ascent of the Matterhorn, and crossed far more on
to the face than was really necessary or advisable. The mountain has since
the time when these lines were originally written passed through the
regular stages of gradual depreciation, and it is more difficult now to
realise that we considered it at the time very difficult. Probably,
however, subsequent travellers have improved considerably on the details
of the route we actually followed; at any rate the ascent is now
considered quite proper for a novice to attempt, at any rate by the novice
himself. We worked ourselves slowly along in the teeth of a biting cold
wind, and without finding the fixed rope necessary to assist our progress.
Reaching the ridge again, the way became distinctly easier, and we felt
now that the peak was at our mercy. Presently, however, we came to a huge
inverted pyramid of rock that tried rather successfully to look like the
summit, and we had some little difficulty in surmounting it. By dint of
strange acrobatic feats and considerable exertion we hoisted our leading
guide on to the top. It was fortunate for him perhaps that the seams of
his garments were not machine-sewn, or he would certainly have rent his
raiment. Finding, however, that the only alternative that offered when he
got to the top of the rock was to get down again on the other side, the
rest of us concluded that on the whole we should prefer to walk round. The
last few yards were perfectly easy, and at 1.30 P.M. we stood on the
summit enjoying a most magnificent view in every direction.
(M22)
It is a somewhat curious phenomenon, but one frequently remarked, that the
mountaineer’s characteristics seem abruptly to change when he reaches the
summit of a peak. The impressionable, excitable person instantly becomes
preternaturally calm and prosaic, while those of lymphatic temperament
have not unfrequently been observed to develop suddenly rather explosive
qualities, and to yell or wave their hats without any very apparent
incitement thereto. Individuals whose detractors hold to be gifted with
poetic attributes have been heard to utter quite commonplace remarks, and
I have even known a phlegmatic companion so far forget himself, under
these modifying circumstances, as to make an excessively bad pun and laugh
very heartily at it himself, quite an unusual occurrence in a wag. Others
find relief for their feelings by punching their companions violently in
the back, or resorting to such horse-play as the area of the summit allows
scope for. Directly, however, the descent commences the climber resumes
his normal nature. The fact is, that in most cases, perhaps, the chief
pleasure of the expedition does not come at the moment when the climber
realises that he is about to undo, as it were, all his work of the day.
There is no real climax of an expedition, and, as has been said, it is
quite artificial to suppose that the enjoyment must culminate on reaching
the top. But still it is considered proper to testify to some unusual
emotional feelings. Some of the most enjoyable climbs that the mountaineer
can recall in after life, are not those in which he has reached any
particular point. Guides consider it becoming to evince in a somewhat
forced way the liveliness of their delight on completing an ascent. But
such joy as they exhibit is usually about as genuine and heartfelt as an
organ-grinder’s grin, or a Lord Mayor’s smile on receiving a guest whom he
does not know and who has merely come to feed at his expense.
The wind was too cold to permit of a very long stay on the summit, and
having added a proper number of stones to the cairn, a ceremony as
indispensable as the cutting of a notch in the mainmast when the
traditional fisherman changes his shirt, we descended rapidly to the point
where it was necessary to quit the ridge. Down the first portion of the
steep rock slope we passed with great caution, some of the blocks of stone
being treacherously loose, or only lightly frozen to the face.
(M23)
We had arrived at the most difficult part of the whole climb, and at a
rock passage which at that time we considered was the nastiest we had ever
encountered. The smooth, almost unbroken face of the slope scarcely
afforded any foot-hold, and our security almost entirely depended on the
rope we had laid down in our ascent. Had not the rope been in position we
should have varied our route, and no doubt found a line of descent over
this part much easier than the one we actually made for, even without any
help from the fixed cord. Imseng was far below, working his way back to
the arête, while the rest of the party were holding on or moving but
slowly with faces turned to the mountain. Suddenly I heard a shout from
above; those below glanced up at once: a large flat slab of rock, that had
afforded us good hold in ascending, but proved now to have been only
frozen in to a shallow basin of ice, had been dislodged by the slightest
touch from one of the party above, and was sliding down straight at us. It
seemed an age, though the stone could not have had to fall more than ten
feet or so, before it reached us. Just above me it turned its course
slightly; Franz, who was just below, more in its direct line of descent,
attempted to stop the mass, but it ground his hands against the rock and
swept by straight at Imseng. A yell from us hardly awoke him to the
danger: the slab slid on faster and faster, but just as we expected to see
our guide swept away, the rock gave a bound for the first time, and as,
with a startled expression, he flung himself against the rock face, it
leapt up and, flying by within a few inches of his head, thundered down
below. A moment or two of silence followed, and then a modified cheer from
Imseng, as subdued as that of a “super” welcoming a theatrical king,
announced his safety, and he looked up at us with a serious expression on
his face. Franz’s escape had been a remarkably lucky one, but his hands
were badly cut about and bruised. In fact it was a near thing for all of
us, and the mere recollection will still call up that odd sort of thrill a
man experiences on suddenly recollecting at 11 P.M. that he ought to have
dined out that evening with some very particular people. Had not the rock
turned its course just before it reached Franz, and bounded from the face
of the mountain over Imseng’s head, one or more of the party must
unquestionably have been swept away. The place was rather an exceptional
one, and the rock glided a remarkably long distance without a bound, but
still the incident may serve to show that falling stones are not a wholly
imaginary danger.
(M24)
It would have been difficult, with the elementary knowledge of
mountaineering that I now see we possessed at that day, to have descended
without using the attached rope, and quite out of the question for anyone
possessed of a proper respect for his suit of dittos to have done so. In
this latter respect we had to exercise economical caution: for we had no
very great store at the hotel or many changes of raiment. It is generally
possible to gauge pretty accurately an Alpine traveller’s experience by
the amount of luggage he takes on a tour. Some tourists, following the
advice given in the “Practical Guide Book” (a disconnected work written in
the style of Mr. Jingle’s conversation, but much in favour at one time),
were in the habit of travelling with one suit of clothes and a portable
bath. The latter, though they took it with them, they seldom took more
than once; at the best it was of comparatively little use as an article of
apparel, but imparted an aromatic flavour to anything packed up in its
immediate neighbourhood. In those youthful days we considered, forsooth,
that a little leathern wallet adequately replaced a portmanteau, and in
transporting luggage did not always act on the sound commercial maxim that
you should never do anything for yourself which a paid person might do
equally well for you; consequently a heavy rain shower reduced the
traveller to inactivity, and an oversight on the part of the laundress
entailed consequences that it is not permissible to mention.
Meanwhile our turn had come to move on. A zigzagging crack, which was too
narrow to admit of anything but a most uncomfortable position, afforded
the only hand and foot hold on which we could rely. Our gloveless hands,
clutching at the rope, cooled down slowly to an unpleasant temperature
that rendered it doubtful whether they were attached to the arms or not,
and we began to wish we had gone down the Zinal side of the mountain.
However, Imseng wormed himself along the rocks, to which he adhered with
the tenacity of a lizard, and finally reached the end of our rope and a
region of comparative safety. We followed his example slowly, and, having
joined him, seated ourselves on some rocks inappropriately designed for
repose, and finished off the food we had with us. Climbing carefully down
the east face of the mountain, we reached the snow ridge and passed
rapidly along it, our spirits rising exuberantly as we looked back on the
vanquished peak. As usually happens, the guides had entirely forgotten the
place where they had concealed our baggage on the ascent, and in fact had
hidden it so carefully that they had some difficulty in finding it when
they came to the spot. It is curious to note how often the instinct of
guides, so much talked about, is at fault in this matter, and how
systematically they are in the habit of carrying up on the mountains
superfluous articles, hiding them with entirely unnecessary precautions,
and subsequently forgetting the whole transaction.
(M25)
While they searched about for their cache we enjoyed the use of tobacco,
if such an expression be allowable in the case of some curious stuff
purchased in the valley. Still, as the packet in which it was contained
was labelled “Tabak,” we considered it to be such. Being indulgently
disposed, and not being profound botanists, poetic license alone enabled
us to imagine that
“We soared above
Dull earth, in those ambrosial clouds like Jove,
And from our own empyrean height
Looked down upon Zermatt with calm delight.”
(M26)
It may have been so; it gave me a sore throat. Descending rapidly, we
reached the Monte Rosa Hotel at 7 P.M., in an exultant frame of mind, a
ragged condition of attire, and a preposterous state of hunger. The whole
time occupied in the climb was sixteen hours. Of this an hour was wasted
while we were waiting for the telescope, and three-quarters of an hour was
spent in arranging the rope, by the aid of which we descended. Probably in
actual climbing and walking we employed rather under thirteen hours; but
the snow was in excellent order, and we descended on the whole very
rapidly. Our trials were not over for the day, when we reached the hotel.
Two arch young things had prepared an ambuscade and surprised us
successfully at the door of the hotel. Sweetly did they gush. “Oh! where
had we been?” We said we had been up in the mountains, indicating the
general line of locality with retrospective thumb. “Oh! wasn’t it
fearfully dangerous? Weren’t we all tied tightly together?” (as if, on the
principle of union being strength, we had been fastened up and bound like
a bundle of quill pens). “Oh! hadn’t we done something very wonderful?”
The situation was becoming irritating. “Oh! didn’t we have to drag
ourselves up precipices by the chamois horns on the tops of our sticks?”
“No indeed——” “Oh! really, now, that guide there” (a driver with
imperfectly buttoned garments who was sitting on the wall with a vacuous
look) “told us you were _such_ wonderful climbers.” It was becoming
exasperating. “And oh! we wanted to ask you so much, for you know all
about it. _Do_ you think we could walk over the Théodule? Papa” (great
heavens! he must be a nonagenarian) “thinks we should be so foolish to
try. Could you persuade him?” “Well, really——” “Wouldn’t the precipices
make us dreadfully giddy?” “No, no more than you are now.” “Oh! thank you
so much. And you really won’t tell us what awful ascent you have been
making?” It was maddening. “After dinner perhaps?” “Oh! thank you. Oh!
Sustie” (this to each other; they both spoke together: probably the names
were Susie and Tottie), “won’t that be delightful?” By dexterous
manœuvring we escaped these gushing Circes during the evening. Happening
to pass later on by the open door of the little _salon_, the following
remark was overheard: “My dear, the conceit of these climbing objects is
quite dreadful. They do nothing but flourish their nasty sticks and ropes
about: they want the whole place to themselves” (we had been sitting on
wooden chairs in the middle of the high street, near an unsavoury heap of
refuse), “and they talk, talk, talk, my dear, all day and all night about
what they have been doing in the mountains and of their nonsensical
climbs. And what frights they look. I think they are perfectly horrid.”
Can the voice have been that of the gusher?