AN OLD FRIEND WITH A NEW FACE
Chamouni again—The hotel _clientèle_—A youthful hero—The
inevitable English family—A scientific gentleman—A dream of the
future—The hereafter of the Alps and of Alpine literature—A
condensed mountain ascent—Wanted, a programme—A double “Brocken”—A
hill-side phenomenon and a familiar character—A strong
argument—Halting doubts and fears—A digression on mountaineering
accidents—“From gay to grave, from lively to severe”—The storm
breaks—A battle with the elements—Beating the air—The ridge
carried by assault—What next, and next?—A topographical problem
and a cool proposal—The descent down the Vallée Blanche—The old
Montanvert hotel—The Montanvert path and its frequenters.
It was the summer of 18— and our old quarters at Couttet’s hotel knew us
once more. As we drove into the village of Chamouni we turned our heads
carelessly around to note the various new hotels that might have arisen
since our last visit. Observing that they were four or five in number, we
rightly conjectured that we should find all the hotel keepers complaining
bitterly of the hard times and the want of custom. Also we wondered in how
many ways it was possible to build a house without any particular system
of drainage, a deficiency which was at that time becoming very marked in
Chamouni, but has since, I believe, been improved. Yet the place itself
had not altered essentially. New buildings of imposing exterior and little
else do not materially alter a place that leads a life like that of modern
Chamouni. The population, which throughout the summer appears to pass its
time in the streets with its hands in its pockets, was still amusing
itself in the same way. The tone of the village was just the same as we
had always known it, and even M. Couttet himself had not succeeded in
imparting any marine flavour by building an odd little lighthouse with an
iron flag on the top which the architect had ingeniously represented as
streaming permanently in a direction indicating a wind favourable for fine
weather. We knew that we should find the same denizens in the hotel; and
they were there.
(M62)
There was a very young man with a very parti-coloured face from exposure
on the glaciers, who had recently completed the thousand-and-first ascent
of Mont Blanc and was perpetually posing gracefully against the door-post
or in a lattice-work summer-house a few steps from the hotel, gazing
towards the mountain and rather eagerly joining in any conversation
relating to the perils of the ascent. There were three or four young
ladies of various periods of life who gazed at him with admiration and
enquired at intervals if he wasn’t very tired; to which the young man
replied carelessly that he was not, and inwardly thought that the
discomfort of sunburn and the consequent desquamation was on the whole
cheaply bought, the while he wished the expedition had not cost so much
and that so many others had not thought of making the same ascent. And
then there came a lithe, active lady walker who had been up Mont Blanc and
a great many other mountains too, and paid no more attention to the
guides’ stereotyped compliments than a suspicious dog does to those of a
nervous visitor: so the young man’s nose was put out of joint and he would
have laughed scornfully at the fickleness of hero worship had not the skin
of his face been in danger of cracking, and he wished his shirt collar had
not been starched and thumped by the village washerwoman into the form of
a circular linen saw.
(M63)
Then there was an excitable Englishman of impulsive habits, with a large
family who were perpetually playing a game of follow-my-leader with their
parent, and who were under orders to weigh anchor on the following morning
at five o’clock for the Montanvert and the Mauvais Pas. The boys were
stoking up for the occasion with raw apples, and the girls were occupied,
when not pursuing their restless father, in preparing a puggaree for his
hat. There was a gentleman who affected the curious untidiness of raiment
not unfrequently noticed among Sunday frequenters of the Thames, and who
sought to establish a mountaineering reputation by constantly gazing at
the peaks around in a knowing manner and wearing a flannel shirt of an
obtrusive pattern destitute of any collar. There were guides about, who
were on the point of being paid for their services and who were
exceedingly polite and obsequious; others whose “tour” had just passed,
were, proportionately, less deferential. There was an elderly lady whose
whole soul appeared bent on a little stocking from which she never parted,
and who turned the knitting needles to more account for toilet and other
small purposes than I could have conceived to be possible. There were two
or three mountaineers who appeared anxious only to avoid everyone’s gaze
and who might be seen in byways and odd corners talking to bronzed guides
who looked like business. Finally, there was a gentleman of statistical
and scientific tendencies, much given to making quietly astonishing
statements of astronomical facts and gently smiling as he rolled over his
tongue and enjoyed the flavour of the vast numbers with which it was his
pleasure to deal. He absolutely revelled and wallowed in figures.
Buttonholed in a corner and compelled to listen with deferential
attention, I secretly writhed as he crushed me slowly with the mere weight
of his numerals. He shared with others of his frame of mind the
peculiarity of always keeping something in hand and skilfully working up
to a climax. Such and such a star was so many millions of miles off. We
opened our eyes to the proper degree of width and observed, “Bless me!”
or, “You don’t say so?” Instantly he would rejoin, “Ah, but that’s nothing
to so and so,” and then favoured us with a still more immeasurable
distance. We expressed a slightly greater degree of intelligent amazement.
Thereupon he nodded his head, gently inclined it a little to one side, and
smiled softly. It gave him such evident pleasure to have a listener that I
attended with due reverence to his enthusiastic computations; knowing my
man, I felt sure that he was keeping back a real staggerer to finish up
with, and was prepared to assume varying degrees of surprise up to the
moment when it should come. Unfortunately I misjudged its advent, and
feeling that I had somewhat lost in his estimation by evincing undue
astonishment at a comparatively small array of figures, I sought to turn
the conversation by requesting to know how long he thought it might be
before the great rock peaks around us would have crumbled away to their
bases. The calculation was too trivial and the number of millions of
generations too small to interest him much, but he vouchsafed an
approximate estimate.
(M64)
I let him babble on and fell a-thinking. The peaks were crumbling away bit
by bit no doubt, the glaciers shrinking. At a bound the mind leapt into a
future which, after all, might be not so very unlike a past. The Alps
things of the past! What, I wondered, when the mountains were all levelled
down and smiling valleys occupied the troughs of the glaciers of to-day,
would some future commentators make of the literature so industriously
piled up by the members and followers of the Alpine Club? Imagination ran
riot as in a dream, and I fancied some enthusiast exploring the buried
city of the second Babylon and excavating the ruins of the “finest site in
Europe.” I pictured to myself the surprise in store for him on digging out
the effigies of some of our naval and military heroes, and the mingled
feelings with which he would contemplate the unearthed statue of George
IV. It seemed possible that in that far-off epoch to which my friend’s
calculations had borne me, the Alpine Club itself might have ceased to
exist. Pursuing his explorations in an easterly direction, the excavator
might perchance have lighted on a strange tunnel, almost Arcadian in its
simplicity of design, and marvelled at the curious and cheap idols of wax
and wood which the people of that ancient day had evidently worshipped.
Turning north again, this Schliemann of the future would pass by the ruins
of S. Martin’s Church, eager to light upon the precious archives of the
historic Alpine Club itself. How eagerly he would peruse the lore
contained in the Club library, anxious to decipher the inscriptions and
discover what manner of men they were who lived and climbed when mountains
and glaciers were still to be found on this planet. Human nature would
probably not have changed much, and the successful explorer might even
have been asked to favour a scientific society of the future with the
result of his discoveries, to which in all probability he would have
acceded, with a degree of reluctance not quite sufficient to deter the
secretary of the society from pressing him.
(M65)
An abstract of his description of our sibylline leaves I fancied might run
somewhat in this style:—After commenting on the fact that the maps and
illustrations did not usually correspond in number with the list set forth
in the index of the volumes unearthed, he might proceed thus:—“In pursuit
of their great and glorious object these ancient heroes appear to have
undergone vast personal discomfort. It is difficult therefore to realise
fully why so many engaged in this form of exploration. Instances have been
given by other learned antiquarians who have studied the habits of this
people, of a similar purposeless disregard of comfort, such as the
four-wheeled wooden boxes in which they travelled about, the seats in
their churches, &c. The outset of their expedition was almost invariably
characterised by a display of bad temper, attributed to early rising.
After a varying number of hours of excessive toil the travellers were wont
to arrive at some fearsome chasm spoken of as a ‘bergschrund.’ On this, if
the subject-matter of their narrative was insufficient in quantity, they
were wont to descant and enlarge at length; sometimes, as we judge, in
their descriptions they enlarged the bergschrund itself. They then crossed
it. Immediately after this incident they were in the habit of eating, and
the minute and instructive details commonly given enable us to form a
tolerably accurate opinion as to the nature of the diet with which they
supported their exhausted frames. Next they traversed strange localities
for which there appear to have been no adequately descriptive expressions
in their own language. In fact the difficulty of deciphering these records
is greatly increased by the fact that the writers were versatile
linguists, for they constantly make use of words of a hybrid character.
They were evidently practised meteorologists and took much interest in
this subject, as may be gathered throughout from their writings. At length
they reached summits, of the nature of which we in our time can have but a
feeble conception. So great was their relief at the termination of their
self-imposed but toilsome task, that they habitually burst forth into
language characterised by a wealth of imagery and a fervour of poetic
description which unfortunately conveys but little idea to us in our day
of what they actually saw. In descending they were all commonly within an
ace of meeting with a violent death. The mode in which the danger attacked
them varied within certain restricted limits, but it always occurred and
the escape was always narrow. The peril over, they remarked that they
breathed freely again, and then at once fell to eating. Arrived at a
successful termination of their wearisome labour, they advised others to
do the same. They dealt out unsparing satire to their companions,
unlimited praise to their guides, and unmeasured ridicule to their porter.
They commonly expressed throughout their descriptions grave doubts and
uncertainty as to the issue of the expedition: a curious and noteworthy
fact, for the heading of the accounts always divulged at the outset their
ultimate success. The construction, therefore, of their narratives was in
accordance with a well-recognised model and appeared capable of little
variation. The only other facts that we can glean are that they were
prodigious eaters, were much pestered by some extinct species of insects,
and that they make frequent allusions to a substance termed tobacco. The
constant repetition of these incidents stamps upon their writings the
impress of unexaggerated veracity. Still they were not universally held in
favour, indeed were regarded with disapprobation by some individuals of
their own race. It would seem indeed from internal evidence that, had it
not been for frequent and sharp criticism of their proceedings, their
pastime might never have inveigled so many persons with its seductive
fascination.”
Now at the time at which these prophetic fancies were conjured up we had
just completed an expedition which it seemed might be worthy of attention,
solely on the ground of its very contradictoriness. For the features of
this climb were most opposed to those already mentioned, and in fact
mention of it scarcely seemed admissible in an Alpine narrative. We took
no porter with us to fill the rôle of first low comedy man. We had very
little to eat; our stock of wine ran out through a leaky gourd; our
tobacco was wet and there was no bergschrund, and yet all this happened on
a mountain close to Chamouni.
(M66)
“Some vast amount of years ago, ere all my youth had vanished from me,” as
the poet says, at a date therefore which for obvious reasons it is
inexpedient here to mention, I found myself, as already mentioned, at
Chamouni. With me was an old mountain friend and fellow climber, J. Oakley
Maund. We were both burning with desire to add to the list of the many
successful expeditions we had made together, but, as a matter of fact,
were somewhat gravelled for lack of suitable matter. Like a ministry on
the eve of a general election or a gentleman without a sixpenny-piece at a
theatre, we were sorely in need of a programme. The locality was somewhat
unfortunately chosen for those in whom the ancient spirit was not yet
quite extinct and who wanted to do something new. Ever since the days when
Jacques Balmat, Dr. Paccard, and the great De Saussure had donned strange
apparel and shown the way—that is to say, for nearly a hundred
years—people had been climbing mountains in the district, and it was not
to be wondered at if it were hard to find some expedition which nobody
else had thought of, or, worse still, had achieved. We gazed at the map
and made thumb marks all over it. In every conceivable direction ran
little lines indicative of previous explorations. We studied the _carte en
relief_, but without much hope of getting any information of value from
this inaccurate and lumpy absurdity. Mont Blanc, which, according to this
work of plastic art, was modelled out as some eight or ten thousand feet
higher than any other point of the chain, had had all the snow worn off
its summit by much fingering, so that the component pasteboard showed
through. Rivers ran uphill in this map, and lakes were inclined at an
angle; bits of sticking plaister represented towns and villages, and the
whole article was absolutely bristling with little spikes and points like
the old panoramas of London or the docks at Liverpool. Still a
considerable number of people seemed willing enough to pay fifty centimes
for the pleasure of indicating elaborate expeditions on it with their
fore-fingers, and appeared to derive pleasure from gazing on a pasteboard
misrepresentation when they could by looking out of window see the real
thing for nothing. We abandoned the _carte en relief_ and took Jaun and
Kaspar Maurer into our confidence. The only suggestions that they could
make were the Aiguille des Charmoz and the Dent du Géant. The former of
these two peaks we had both tried to ascend in former seasons, without
success. Jaun did not think then that it was possible, and without sharing
his opinion we gave way to it. With regard to the latter mountain we all
thought at the time that an undue amount of what is vaguely termed
“artificial aid” would be necessary to ensure success, an opinion
confirmed by subsequent events, for when Signor Sella achieved the honour
of the first ascent he was only able to accomplish it by somewhat
elaborate engineering appliances. Some bold person of an original turn of
thought suggested of course a variation of some way up Mont Blanc, but the
utter impossibility of discovering the slightest deviation from any
previously ascended route and the utter uselessness of trying to find one
caused a general shout of derision, and the bold person thereupon withdrew
his suggestion and ordered some coffee. Besides, the weather was fine;
every day swarms of tourists could be seen, crawling up the sides of the
monarch of mountains, in numbers as many as the flies on a sugar loaf in a
grocer’s window on a hot day.
One evening we sat in front of Couttet’s hotel staring pensively at the
familiar outline of the row of aiguilles, and wishing we had lived in the
days of Albert Smith, the best friend Chamouni ever had. At any rate, at
that time the natives were unsophisticated and the mountains about were
not all done to death. The valley between us and the chain was filled with
a light haze, not sufficient to conceal the outline of the mountains but
yet enough to blot out their detail and solidity. As the moon rose behind
the chain we saw a strange phenomenon. A silhouette was thrown forwards on
to the curtain of haze and photographed on it with sharp and clear
definition, so that we could recognise, at an immense height, the shadowed
peaks looking almost as massive as the actual mountains. Nor was this all;
a second curtain of mist seemed to be suspended, in a vertical stratum, in
front of the former one, and the shadows were again marked out on this,
infinitely more magnified and less distinct, but still perfectly
recognisable. As a result we were able to see the semblance of three
distinct tiers of mountains one above the other, looking so massive that
we could scarcely realise that they were but transparent ghosts of the
peaks; and the phenomenon, a double “Brocken,” must have lasted for more
than half an hour. However, we desired something more of the nature of the
substance than the shadow, and ultimately came to the conclusion that it
was absolutely necessary for our peace of mind to accomplish something on
the morrow, and as it really mattered but little what that something might
be, provided a good climb was afforded, we must yield to circumstances and
perforce adopt the latter-day necessity of all mountaineers. If we could
not find the right way up some new mountain we could at least take the
wrong way up an old one.
(M67)
So the next morning we walked up to the Pierre Pointue as a preliminary
step—a good many and rather arduous steps—towards the object in view. The
exertion of toiling up the zigzags or the more rarefied atmosphere had a
remarkable effect on one of the party, whose face when we reached the
chalet was found to be wreathed in smiles and wearing an expression of
great intelligence. He had in fact become possessed of an idea. Bubbling
over with self-satisfied chuckles, he suggested that we should ascend the
Aiguille du Midi by the face directly in front of us and then descend on
the other side, thus making a col of the mountain. The idea found favour
instantly, and the intelligent person was so much pleased that he ordered
a bottle of wine, plastered over with a very costly variety of label, and
regretted it. Investigation of the cellar revealed only two casks of wine,
but the “carte” comprised a long list of various vintages. Fired with
enthusiasm and inflated with _limonade gazeuse_, we left the chalet and
strode vigorously up the hill in order to prospect the route and
reconnoitre the rocks. The exertion and the pace soon told upon us, the
sooner that it was a hot, enervating day; the kind of day that makes one
perforce admire the ingenious benevolence of nature in fashioning out on
the grassy slopes rounded inequalities, exactly adapted to those of the
human figure in a seated or recumbent position. The heated air rising from
the ground gave flickering and distorted views of distant objects, like
unto marine phenomena viewed through the cheap panes of a seaside
lodging-house window. The grasshoppers were extraordinarily busy; the bees
droned through the heavy air; the ants, overcome apparently by the
temperature, had given up for the time straining their jaws by their
foolish practice of carrying large parcels about without any definite
object, and had retired to the shady seclusion of their own heaped-up
residences; the turf was most inviting. It now occurred to us that there
was no absolute necessity for the whole party to ascend on the present
occasion, and that perhaps the guides might go up quicker alone. The
details of this suggestion were acceded to on the part of the amateurs of
the party with astonishing alacrity and unanimity. We laid the scheme
before the guides, and they also thought it a very fine one. Thereupon,
with much parade and ceremony, they braced themselves up for great
exertion, borrowed the telescope, remarked that they expected to be back
some time during the night, and started upwards with somewhat over-acted
eagerness. My companion and I disposed ourselves comfortably in the shade,
and resumed an argument which had originally commenced some days
previously. I waxed eloquent on the subject under discussion and with much
success, for such was the force of my logic and the cogency of my
reasoning that I bore down on my opponent, and reduced him in a short time
to absolute silence, from which he did not awake for nearly two hours.
(M68)
About this time the guides, who in all probability had also been
comfortably asleep within a short distance of us, returned and gave a
favourable report concerning the mountain. Elated by this news, we climbed
a short distance further up, and met there a large party of ephemeral
acquaintances who were taking an afternoon’s pleasure on the hills. After
the manner of people when so engaged, they set forth with great energy and
climbed up a steep little rock tump a few hundred yards distant. Arrived
at the summit, they roared out unintelligible remarks to us, and we did
the same to them till we were hoarse; we waved our hands and hats and they
flourished their handkerchiefs as if they were our dearest friends on
earth, just setting out on an emigrant ship for the Antipodes. The party
then descended; the nearer they came the less friendly and demonstrative
were we, and by the time we met the warmth of affection recently
manifested on both sides had wholly evaporated, and we conversed in
ordinary tones on indifferent topics. Then they set out for another little
hill, and we were moved, apparently by some uncontrollable impulse, to go
through the same idiotic performance. Emotional behaviour of a similar
kind is not infrequently observed in the mountains. We journeyed together
back to the Pierre Pointue, viewing each other with distrust and
suspicion; and when it was found that we had bespoken the beds—if the
exaggerated packing-cases lined with straw bags could be considered
such—we parted on terms the reverse of friendly. So frail are the links
that bind human affections.
(M69)
Standing in front of the hut was a type of character very familiar in
these tourist-frequented districts. His exterior was unpromising; his
beard of a fortnight’s growth, or thereabouts, somewhat fitful withal and
lacking in uniformity of development. A hard hat, with a shining green
veil folded around its battered outline, decorated his head; his raiment
was black and rusty, his legs cased in canvas gaiters fastened with many
little girths and buckles, and in his right hand he grasped a trusty
three-franc pole made of wainy deal, and surmounted at the top by a brown
knob similar to those which come out suddenly when we try to open a chest
of drawers in a cheap lodging. He fidgeted about for a while, asked
questions in a rather loud tone of voice at us, and we felt that it was
his intention to enter into conversation. It was even so. After a while he
sidled up and requested with much diffidence to be informed what we
proposed to climb on the morrow. Now the true mountaineer, however amiable
his disposition, always shrinks up into his shell when such a question is
put to him on the eve of an expedition. My companion indicated by a sweep
of the arm a space of territory extending about from the Mont Buet on the
one side round to the Aiguille de Gouté on the other. Our friend surveyed
from end to end the extensive panorama suggested, then looked seriously at
us and observed that we should probably find it a fine walk. We expressed
gravely the opinion that he was quite right, and then went in to dinner,
while our composite friend expatiated on the project to his companions as
an expedition but little out of the ordinary run, and one that he was
perfectly prepared to undertake himself if so disposed; then he resumed
his contemplation of a rock some ninety feet or so in height jutting out
through the glacier above, which he was under the impression was a lady
descending from Mont Blanc. We did not learn his name, but the individual
may, nevertheless, possibly be recognised. Some points of the argument
were still unsettled when we climbed over the edges of our respective
boxes and vanished into the strawy depths below. The clear moonlight
streamed in through the window and prevented sleep; so I lay in my wooden
box thinking over the recent discussion, but with such a distinct
intention—like little Paul Dombey with Mrs. Pipchin—of fixing my companion
presently, that even that hardy old mountaineer deemed it prudent to
counterfeit slumber.
In the small hours of the morning we got under weigh. For some time we had
been leading a life of sloth in Chamouni, and the delight of finding
ourselves once more on the mountain path, and making for a rock climb,
entirely precluded that fractiousness which, as all readers of Alpine
literature know, ought properly to be described at this period of an
expedition. The path was irregular and demanded some equanimity, for the
stumbling-blocks were innumerable and artfully placed to trip up the
unwary in an aggravating manner. Feeling it unfair that all the work
should be thrown on the guides, I had volunteered, rather magnanimously,
to bear part of the burden, and selected the lantern as my share. By this
means it was not only possible to walk in comfort over a well-lighted
track, but the bearer was enabled also to regulate the pace to a speed
convenient to his own feelings. Before long, however, we reached the lower
snow patches of the Glacier des Pélèrins, and the light was no longer
necessary.
(M70)
We made straight across the crisp snow to the base of a promising-looking
rock buttress lying to the right of the snow gully that runs up the side
of the mountain, feeling sure that either by the rocks or the snow a way
up could be found. And now I am painfully conscious of a glaring defect in
this Alpine narrative. A mountain ascent without a bergschrund is as tame
as a steeplechase without a water jump, but candour compels the admission
that no bergschrund was visible. Either we had hit on a spot where the
orthodox chasm was filled up for the time, or else this particular glacier
was an exception to all others previously treated of in mountain
literature. In a few seconds we found ourselves on the rocks, delighted to
exchange the monotonous mode of progression compulsory on snow for the
varied gymnastic exercises demanded on rocks. The sun had risen, the axes
clanked merrily against the stones, the snow was in good condition for
walking, everything seemed favourable, and we gazed down complacently on
the distance already traversed. Above us the mountain was broken up and
easy, and we climbed on rapidly, each in the fashion that seemed best to
him. So good was our progress at first, that we were already far up the
buttress, and could barely see our morning’s tracks in the snow beneath,
when a halt was called for breakfast, and we had time to look around. Now,
however unconventional this expedition may have been in many respects, the
sagacious student of Alpine literature will know that it must be wholly
impossible to omit all reference to the weather. As soon might one expect
two prosaic persons of slight acquaintanceship to abjure the topic at a
chance meeting. The western sky wore a rather ominous look of half
mourning, and heavy grey and black clouds were whirling about and forming
up in close order in a manner suggestive of rising wind. Even at this
stage of the proceedings the thought crossed our minds that the storm
which was evidently brewing might possibly overtake us, and that perhaps
we ought at once to turn back.
(M71)
One thing was evident; that we must decide quickly, whatever we did. We
determined to push on for a while, and with that intent girded ourselves
with the rope and worked our way on to the top of the first buttress. At
this point, further progress directly upwards was impossible, and we were
compelled to cross the gully and make for the rock on the left-hand side.
Considerable care is always necessary in crossing, horizontally, a gully
filled with snow, where the rope is rather a source of danger than of
security. We had to give all our attention to the passage, and when we
reached the rocks opposite, the climbing, though not formidable, was still
sufficiently difficult to occupy all our thoughts for the moment, and we
had but little leisure, and perhaps but little inclination, for
meteorological observations. At the top of the rocks a promising snow
slope, stretching upwards with gentle curves and sweeps, seemed to offer a
fair prospect of rapid progress. Such snow slopes are at all times a
little deceptive. Even when the climber is close to them they look
oftentimes much easier than they immediately after prove to be. From a
distance, say from under the verandah of a comfortable hotel, when the
climber _in posse_ indicates the way he would pursue with the end of his
cigar, they are absurdly easy. So, too, are obstacles in the
hunting-field, such as stiff hedges and uncompromising gates, easy enough
when the Nimrod studies them as he whirls along in an express train.
Subsequently, when immediately associated with a horse, these same
obstacles assume a different guise. Then are the sentiments of the hunter
prone to become modified, and compassion for dumb beasts becomes more
prominent in the thoughtful votary of the chase, till finally it may be
observed that the little wits jump sometimes more than the great ones.
Even so does the mountaineer often discover, on a nearer acquaintance that
the snow incline up which he proposed to stride merrily is inclined at a
highly inconvenient angle. However, at the commencement of our slope we
found the snow in good condition, and advanced quickly for some little
distance, but before we had got very far it was necessary to resort to the
axe, and we had then ample opportunities of looking round. The clouds were
lowering more and more, but as they were swept up by a sou’westerly wind,
the intervening mass of the mountain prevented us from seeing thoroughly
what might be in store for us. The wind, too, was growing stronger every
minute, and my companion, who was still pursuing his argument, and, as it
appeared subsequently, making some rather good points, had to exert
himself considerably in order to make his voice heard.
Presently we halted for a few minutes on some spiky little rocks, and
again looked about. The weather prospects were just in that doubtful state
that prompts every member of the party to ask the others what they think.
Maurer looked exceedingly vacant and made no remark. Jaun put a bit of
snow in his mouth, but declined to give an opinion. We, not to be outdone,
assumed very profound expressions, as if prepared to find ourselves in the
right whatever happened, but, following the example of Lord Burleigh in
the famous tragedy, we said nothing either. At last, some one suggested
that we might go on for a little, and then see. Accordingly we went on for
a little, but then as a matter of fact the mists swept up around us and we
did not see anything at all. It was, no doubt, inconvenient that we were
unable to penetrate with our gaze to the regions above, but still we felt
that there was one slight counterbalancing advantage, for there was
present the haunting consciousness that the gigantic telescope of Chamouni
was pointed in our direction, and at least the enveloping mist ensured
that privacy which is not always accorded to climbers pursuing their
pastime within range of these instruments of science.
(M72)
In the hope that the condition of the upper snow might be good, and
perhaps rather mistaken in the height we had already reached, we made up
our minds to push on, with the view of reaching at any rate the top of the
ridge before the storm broke. Every now and again a rent in the clouds
above, lasting for a few seconds, showed us that the wind was blowing with
great force, as thin clouds of loose snow were swept up and whirled along
the face in curling wreaths. The spectacle might not, at first sight, have
been thought highly diverting: yet as we pointed upwards to the ridge and
watched the racing snow-drifts driving over the slopes we were making for,
we all laughed very heartily. So universal is the tendency to be amused at
the sight of discomfort that it even extends to the contemplation of its
occurring shortly to oneself. In the paulo-post-future the experience is
exhilarating: in the actual present it is less laughter-moving. Laughter
in the presence of events that are, in the true sense of the word,
sensational, comes almost as a reflex action (to borrow an expression from
the physiologists), and the sympathetic distress that follows takes an
appreciable time to develop. I can recall once being a witness with some
others of a ghastly accident by which several people were precipitated,
together with a mass of broken timbers and débris of all sorts, from a
great height. A door was burst open and the ruin met our eyes suddenly. To
this day I can remember sounds of laughter at the first view—hysterical if
you like to call it so, and not mirthful, but still laughter. In a few
seconds the realisation of what had happened came, and then came the
distress and with it expressions of horror, as all worked manfully to help
and rescue the sufferers. The sequence of emotions was perfectly natural,
and only they who have never passed through such an experience would speak
of inhumanity. There is no want of humanity in the matter. The suddenness
of the impression begets the train of emotions, and the brain grasps the
facts but slowly. To take another instance: I have been told by a man
whose quickness and presence of mind were remarkable—a man who as a
schoolboy won a Royal Humane Society’s medal—that on one occasion he
witnessed a friend fall over a staircase from a great height. The accident
was in the highest degree unexpected: and the witness walked leisurely on
as if nothing had happened. But in a few seconds came like a severe blow
the sudden realisation of what had taken place. Thought is not always
quick. We can no more exert our minds to their fullest capacity on a
sudden than we can put forth our utmost physical strength on a sudden.
Action when almost instantaneous is independent of the higher mental
faculties, and is but a reflex. The experience of those who have been in
railway accidents will be of the same nature. In climbing up a very steep
or difficult place if a man falls all are prepared more or less for such
an accident. The whole attention is given to guarding against a probable
contingency, and it follows that the mind can instantly realise its
occurrence. And that such is the case I have been unlucky enough to
witness, though most fortunately the fall was attended with no serious
consequences. On the same principle, to take a more trivial example, on
difficult rocks it is the rarest possible accident for a man to sprain his
ankle or knee. The muscles are always prepared for a possible slip and
kept in tension on the alert. On the loose moraine, when walking leisurely
or carelessly, such an accident is a thousand times more likely to occur.
(M73)
Our leader worked away with a will, but the snow got harder at every step.
The growing force of the wind, which in nautical language had increased
from that vague degree known as a capful to the indefinite force of a
stiff breeze, and the increasing steepness of the slope, compelled Jaun to
make the steps larger and larger as we ascended. It soon became evident
that the storm would overtake us long before we could hope to get on to
the ridge, and that we had deliberately walked into something of a trap.
The steps had been cut so far apart that to descend by the same line would
have involved the construction of a fresh staircase, and on actually
turning, we found that what was a stiff breeze behind us was a half gale
when it met our faces. It was certainly easier to go on than to go back;
so we went further and fared much worse. The slope became steeper, the ice
harder, the half gale became a whole gale, and the delay between each step
seemed interminable. Suddenly, as we passed from under the lee of a
projecting slope on our right, a tremendous gust of wind, which seemed to
have waited for a few moments in order to collect its full forces, swept
suddenly down and almost tore us from our foothold. With that a torrent of
hail fell, and for a few moments we had enough to do to hold on where we
stood. Even my companion’s conversation slackened. He had astutely
selected a place in the caravan immediately behind me, and as the gale was
blowing directly on our backs was enabled to fire off his remarks and
arguments without any possibility of response. Anything that I said in
answer was audible only to our leader, who took not the smallest interest
in the discussion. Unfortunately, too, it was difficult to listen with any
attention; for as the gusts came on we were forced to swing all our faces
round like chimney cowls instantly in the same direction. The squalls
became more frequent and more violent, the thunder and lightning played
around merrily, and as the wind howled by we had to throw ourselves flat
against the slope, adopting the undignified attitudes of a deer-stalker
nearing the brow of a Scotch hill—attitudes which bring somewhat unduly
into prominence the inadequate nature of the national costume.
Fortunately, as has been said, we were screened from view; and our poses,
though possibly ungraceful, were at any rate uncriticised. The big
hailstones, falling softly around, filled up the steps as they were made,
and our feet were buried up to the ankles in a moment. In a minute or two
the hurricane passed for the time; then we arose, shook ourselves, smiled
at nothing in particular, and the leader would find time during the
comparative lull to hack out three or four fresh steps. Certain sounds,
not accounted for by the elements, coming up from below, may have been
suggestions or may have been arguments, but they were knocked out of all
intelligible shape before they reached the head of the caravan. Not even
the porter at Lloyd’s or the captain of a merchantman could have made
himself audible in that cyclone. Upwards we went, fighting for each step
and for each yard gained as hard as if we were storming a fortress. Even
while the leader had his axe in the air ready to deliver a fresh blow a
distant roar would betoken another onslaught, and we instantly fell flat
down like tin soldiers struck with the well-directed pea, and disposed
ourselves at a convenient angle of resistance; and so we went on, when we
did go on at all. If the relation is wearisome it is also realistic, for
we found that the actual experience was far from being lively; but all
things must have an end, including even the _feuilleton_ in a Parisian
newspaper or the walk up to the Bel Alp on a hot day, and the termination
came almost unexpectedly.
(M74)
We had got thoroughly tired of perpetually clinging on by the simple force
of adhesion to the storm-swept slope, and felt almost inclined to give up
the struggle against the elements and to go straight on trusting to
chance. Maurer, below, wore the expression of frowning discontent best
seen in amateur tenors singing a tender love ditty. Jaun had remarked
half-a-dozen times that the very next squall would infallibly sweep us all
away, and his cheerful prophetic utterances really seemed on the point of
being fulfilled, when, almost suddenly, the snow seemed to vanish from
under our feet, and we found ourselves on the summit of the ridge; at
least directly above us no more ascent appeared to present. It was
difficult to realise adequately the exact direction in which we were
facing, but I suppose that as the ridge runs about north and south by the
compass, we were facing a little south of east. This was an important
matter to decide, as the mist was gathered thick around and the idea of
descent had to be at once considered now that we had got to a position of
some degree of definiteness. At our feet the snow slope fell away in a
manner so distinct that we were without doubt really on the top of some
portion of the ridge. The difficulty was to estimate how far to our right
the summit of the Aiguille du Midi itself lay. However, we felt with
relief the truth of somebody’s remark that we had at length succeeded in
getting somewhere; so far, no doubt, matters were satisfactory. Howbeit,
our pleasure was somewhat modified by the discovery that the gale blew
with considerably more force on the south-east side than it did on the one
by which we had ascended. We looked towards the south and endeavoured to
gather our wits together to elucidate the geographical problem that
presented. At the foot of the slope must lie the upper basin of the Vallée
Blanche and the Glacier de Tacul; unfortunately there seemed to be a
prodigious storm going on in that basin, and clouds of loose snow were
whirling about in all directions. It was impossible to understand these
winds; one might have thought that Æolus had just stepped out to attend a
committee meeting of the gods, and that all his subordinates were having
high jinks during his absence.
(M75)
The possibility of actually completing the ascent of the mountain seemed
out of the question, and the hope that we might have crept under the
shelter of the ridge to the final little rock cone of the Aiguille was
literally thrown to the winds. Here again, therefore, this narrative is
highly unconventional, for it is impossible to consult M. Roget’s
“Thesaurus” and indulge with its aid in any grandiloquent description of
the view from the summit, although my account has now reached the stage at
which such word painting ought properly to be inserted. We turned to our
right, the direction in which the peak lay, and walked some little way
along the ridge till we got under shelter of a rock; now we were able once
more to stand upright and, huddled together, took the opportunity which
had been denied to us for some hours to interchange views. All agreed that
the situation was vile; that word, at least, may be taken as the resultant
of the various forcible epithets actually employed. All agreed that the
cold was intense, the prospect doubtful, and the panorama _nil_. There was
but one redeeming feature: extreme discomfort will reveal humour in those
in whom that quality would not be expected _a priori_ to find a
dwelling-place, and to each one of us the spectacle of his three wobegone
companions seemed to afford, if not amusement, at least an inkling of
complacency. Maurer removed the pack from his shoulders, and it was then
perceived that our cup of misery was full, and our sole remaining bottle
of wine completely empty. We had originally started with two, one white
and one red, of an inferior and indigestible quality, but had left the
white wine down below on the snow; we had previously drunk it. The other
bottle had broken against some projecting rock in climbing up, and the
resulting leakage had led to the formation of a very large circular red
patch in the small of Maurer’s back, wherever that anatomical region might
be situated in our squat and sturdy little guide. After muttering together
in patois for a little while the guides seized their axes and suddenly
commenced with great vigour to hack out a large hole in the ice. We fell
to also, and for some few minutes all worked away with the best of good
will; the splinters and little blocks of ice flew around under our blows,
and before long we had excavated a flat basin capable of holding water. At
the least, the exercise had the effect of warming us, and Maurer, who
previously, from the effects of the cold, had been the colour of a
congested alderman in the face, gradually assumed a more healthy hue. We
now inquired what the object might be of preparing this cavern. Thereupon
Jaun gave vent to the ingenious suggestion that we had better remain where
we were and sleep in it. The idea seemed too likely to lead to permanent
repose to be commendable, and we received his proposition, as befitted its
nature, with some coolness, remarking that on the whole we should prefer
to go home. This view led to further conversation; ultimately we descended
a few feet on the south-east side and then made our way along the face of
the slope in a south-westerly direction towards the hut on the Aiguille du
Midi. The snow was soft, and we went on for some distance without
difficulty, till we again reached the ridge on the south-west side of the
Aiguille, having thus passed round the base of the final peak of the
mountain, which consists of a comparatively small rocky cone jutting up
from the main ridge. We were still of course a long way from the hut, but
as in this situation we were much more sheltered, we took the opportunity
to review the state of affairs and to consider our position, which for the
moment, like that of the pocket of a lady’s ball dress, was indeterminate.
What were we to do? As with the diners at “Prix fixe” restaurant, there
were three courses for us: we might go down on one side, we might descend
on the other side, or we might remain where we were. The latter
alternative was as distasteful now as it had been just previously, and it
was negatived decisively. “Very good,” said the guides; “if you won’t stay
here we must go down that way,” and they pointed in a direction westerly
by the compass. My companion and I were opposed to this plan for two
reasons: one that the route would, if it led anywhere in particular, take
us down to the Glacier des Bossons, where we did not want to go, the other
that by reason of the marvellous fury of the hurricane it would have been
altogether impossible to follow at all the line indicated. We were only in
fact able to dart out from under shelter of the rock and peer down into
the misty depths for a few seconds at a time, for the gale took our breath
away as completely as in the “cavern of the winds” at Niagara. To have
climbed down a new and difficult rock cliff in the face of the numbing
cold would have been little short of suicidal.
(M76)
It is Artemus Ward, I think, who describes the ingenious manner in which
Baron Trenck, of prison-breaking fame, escaped on one occasion from
durance vile. For fifteen long years the Baron had lain immured, and had
tried in vain to carry out all the sensational methods of escape ever
suggesting themselves to his fertile brain. At last an idea occurred to
him. He opened the door and walked out. By an intellectual effort of
almost equal brilliancy and originality we solved the difficulty that
beset us: we turned towards the south-east and walked quietly down the
slope for a hundred feet or so. Simplicity of thought is characteristic of
great minds. Why, nevertheless, it had not occurred to us before to escape
by this line I can no more explain than I can give the reason why all the
ladies in a concert-room smile, as one woman, when a singer of their own
sex makes her appearance on the platform, or why itinerant harp players
always wear tall hats. Immediately the complexion of affairs brightened
up. The wind was much less furious than it had been on the ridge, and the
hail was replaced by snow. Jaun now gave it as his opinion that the best
line of descent would consist in crossing round the head of the Vallée
Blanche and the upper slopes of the Glacier du Géant, so as to join the
ordinary route leading from the Col du Géant to the Montanvert. But in the
thick mist it would have been far from easy to hit off the right track,
and we thought it possible to make a short cut to the same end, and to
find a way directly down the Vallée Blanche towards the rocks known as the
Petit Rognon. We had no compass with us, but the direction of the slope
indicated the proper line of descent to follow. In most years it would not
be easy to discover the way through the complicated crevasses of the
ice-fall situated between the “Rognon” and the easterly rocks of the
Aiguille du Midi; but in 18— so much snow had fallen early in the spring
and so little had melted during the summer, that we experienced
comparatively little difficulty in descending almost in a straight line.
During this part of the expedition the good qualities of our guides showed
once more to advantage. Unquestionably while on the ridge they had put
forward suggestions which were rather wild in character, and which were
proved now to be mistaken. The intense cold and the beating of the storm
seemed rather to have paralysed their usually calm judgment, and it is an
odd fact that guides, even when first rate, are oftentimes more affected
by such conditions than are the amateurs whom they conduct. We could no
more, with such experience as we possessed, have led the way aright as our
leader did with unerring sagacity, than an untutored person could write
out a full orchestra score. We could only insist on a given line being
taken if in their judgment it were possible. Once fairly started, we felt
that we must push our plan through, employing the same form of argument as
the man did in support of a bold statement that a certain beaver, closely
pursued by a dog, had climbed up a tree. It was not a question now whether
we could do it, or could not do it; we had to do it. The day was far
spent, there was possibly much difficult work before us, and the exertion
already undergone had been tolerably severe. The temptation was therefore
great rather to scamp the work of finding the best and safest track
through the ice-fall, but our leader displayed as much care and
thoroughness as if he were strolling over snow slopes with a critical
Chamouni guide behind him. A momentary glimpse of the familiar form of the
Aiguille du Géant right in front of us confirmed the judgment that we were
on the right track. In descending the ice-fall we passed to the right of
the Petit Rognon, and at the base of the Séracs halted and thought we
would have something to eat. Maurer produced our stock of provisions,
which consisted of one roll studded with little bits of broken glass and
reduced by the action of wine and water to the consistence of a poultice.
The refection was, therefore, as unsatisfactory as a meal out of a loosely
tied nosebag to a cab horse. And now for another departure from
time-honoured custom. All mountain narratives at this period of the day
make reference to the use of tobacco, the well-earned pipe, and so forth.
But the sleety rain, which for the last hour and a half had replaced the
snow, had soaked everything so thoroughly that an attempt to carry out the
orthodox proceeding did not, like most failures, end in smoke. So we
trudged on again empty and unsolaced.
(M77)
As the shades of night were falling, four dripping and woe-begone
travellers might, to borrow the novelist’s common mode of expression, have
been observed toiling up the steep path towards the old Montanvert
hotel—that is, they might have been observed by anybody who was foolish
enough to be out of doors on such a detestable evening. We entered the
familiar little room, an ingenious compound of a toyshop and a barrack,
and notwithstanding that we were viewed with marked disfavour by the other
guests therein assembled in consequence of our moist and steamy condition,
we seated ourselves and called for refreshment. The atmosphere in the
stuffy den called the salon was a trifle pungent, and having contributed a
little additional dampness to the apartment we set off again. That
familiar old room with its odd collection of curiosities, in which the
fare was on the whole more disproportionate to the price than at any other
institution of a similar kind in the mountains, has ceased to exist long
ago. I fancy that it did not require much pulling down. It is happily
replaced now by one of the best managed and most comfortable mountain
hotels to be found in the Alps, a sure sign of which attraction is to be
found in the fact that it is, at any rate, spoken of with disfavour by the
inhabitants of the village below or by such as do not hold shares. Another
hour’s descent and we passed through the few scattered houses just outside
Chamouni. The attractions on the way down had not diverted us from our
stern purpose of reaching Couttet’s hotel as soon as possible. We had
politely declined the invitation of a perennially knitting young woman to
view a live chamois. The spasmodic smile called up by each approaching
tourist faded from her countenance as we passed by. Four times did we
decline the gentle refreshment of _limonade gazeuse_, once did we sternly
refuse to partake of strawberries, and twice to purchase crystals. It was
dark as we neared the town; it may have been my fancy, but I cannot help
thinking that I perceived our old friend the blind beggar with the
lugubrious expression which he wore when on duty, and with the tall hat
which served the purpose of an alms’-box, and which he did not wear when
on duty, enjoying himself in a very merry manner by the side of a blazing
fire. Notwithstanding that night had fallen there was still a little group
by the bridge round the one-armed telescope man, anxiously crowding to
hear the last news of the two insane Englishmen who had without doubt
perished that day miserably on the rocks of the Midi. A project had
already been started to organise an expedition on the morrow to search for
the bodies; and we might very possibly, if we had cared for the
excitement, have been allowed to join the party.
(M78)
As in a play the most striking situation is by the discreet author
reserved to the conclusion, so in this contradictory chapter the most
glaring deficiency comes now at the end. My readers, if they have
generously followed me so far, will recognise that we not only went on
something of a fool’s errand, incurring considerable difficulty and
perhaps risk in that mission, but that we never got up the mountain at
all. The force of contradictoriness can no further go. Still, it may be
pointed out that we did actually accomplish all that was novel in the
expedition. Once on the ridge, the remaining portion of the climb is, in
fine weather, easy and well known, so the fact that the Aiguille du Midi
can be ascended by this line by any one consumed with an ambition to do
so, is beyond doubt. We were not probably at one point more than twenty
minutes or half an hour from the actual summit. I cannot honestly advise
anybody to follow our tracks; but in all probability, if someone should
desire to do so, he need not, under favourable conditions, contemplate
meeting with any unsurmountable difficulties.
[Illustration: THE AIGUILLE DU DRU
FROM THE SOUTH]