A SENTIMENTAL ALPINE JOURNEY
Long “waits” and entr’actes—The Mont Buet as an unknown
mountain—We hire carriages—A digression on a stationary vehicle—A
straggling start—The incomplete moralist—The niece to the
moralist—A discourse on gourmets—An artistic interlude—We become
thoughtful, and reach the height of sentiment and the top of the
Mont Buet—Some other members of the party—The mountaineers
perform—How glissading ambition did o’erleap itself—A vision on
the summit—The moralist leaves us for a while—Entertainment at the
Bérard Chalet—View of the Aiguille Verte—The end of the journey.
A fair critic—in the matter of sex—discussing a recently published work
with the author, remarked that it was the most charming book she had ever
read. “I was told it would not interest me,” she remarked most seriously
to him, “but really I found it delightful: there are such lovely wide
margins to the pages, you know.” On much the same principle a highly
intelligent lady, noted for her theatrical discrimination, once remarked
that she liked those theatres best which afforded the longest entr’actes.
So in the Alps we felt from time to time the necessity, between the more
stirring episodes resulting from higher mountaineering, to interpose minor
expeditions, on which no less care and thought was often lavished to make
them worthy of pursuit. These were our entr’actes. Of such expeditions it
is customary to say that they are the most enjoyable of any undertaken.
Without going so far as this, it may be conceded that they have a pleasure
of their own, and it is at least no more difficult to discover a novel
form of sub-Alpine expedition than to vary the details of a big climb. One
of these episodes, undertaken while we were barred from the higher
mountains by a fall of snow, consisted in a night attack on the Mont Buet.
(M125)
Now the Mont Buet, although it lies close to the regular highway to
Chamouni from the Rhone valley, is a peak but rarely even seen of the
ordinary tourist; and, considering the numbers of our countrymen that
flock to the village whence they imagine that they see the summit of Mont
Blanc, the English folk who make the ascent are strangely few. Yet the
walk is not a laborious one; not more fatiguing, for example, than the
tramp from Martigny to Chamouni over the Col de Balme on a hot day.
Fashion in the mountains is very conservative, and probably it is too late
in the day now to hope that this mountain will ever gain all the
reputation it deserves, for, though comparatively unknown, its praises
have been by no means left unsung. Possibly the lowness of the guides’
tariff for the peak may have something to do with the matter, and may
serve to explain why it is so much left out in the cold; for this is a
very potent agent in determining the attractiveness of special localities.
How many go to Chamouni, and never wander along one of the most beautiful
sylvan paths in the Alps, that leads to the Glacier des Bossons through
the woods, where the view, as the spectator suddenly finds himself
confronted with the huge stream of pure glacier, topped by a most
magnificent ice-fall, and backed by the crags of the Aiguille du Midi,
compares by no means unfavourably with the more frequently photographed
panorama from the Montanvert. Ask a dozen persons at haphazard who are
staying at Chamouni where the Mont Buet is, and ten out of the number will
be unable to answer you. But the pictures hung on the line are not
invariably the best in an exhibition; and the Mont Buet is a masterpiece,
so to speak, “skied.”
(M126)
Our party that summer at Chamouni was a large one, for we had stayed a
long time in the hotel, and knew, as the phrase goes, a great many to
speak to—quite a different thing to answering for them. We conceived the
plan of so timing our modest expedition as to arrive on the summit of the
Mont Buet about sunset. It was agreed by some members of the party that it
would be “such fun, you know,” to come down in the dark. The inference to
be gathered from this is that the party was not exclusively composed of
the male sex. Two of us, reputed to be good at a bargain, were deputed to
charter carriages to convey the members of the expedition up to
Argentière, where the ascent commenced. The carriages of Chamouni, though
no doubt practical and well suited to the mountain roads, were not found
to be of uniform excellence. Availing ourselves of a proper introduction,
we made the temporary acquaintance of an individual interested officially
in vehicular traffic, who possessed that remarkable insight into character
noticeable in all who are concerned with horses, and knew exactly what we
wanted without any preliminary explanation on our part. “Voilà votre
affaire,” he said, and indicated a machine that would have been out of
date when the first _char-à-banc_ was constructed. We inquired if the
somewhat unsavoury load (it had, apparently, been in recent requisition
for farming purposes) which the cart contained might be removed, and he
said there was no objection to this. “See,” said the proprietor, “the
seats have backs.” “But they tip up,” we remonstrated. “That is nothing,”
rejoined the proprietor; “they can be tied down: the carriage is good, and
has gone many miles. However, Monsieur is evidently particular; he shall
be satisfied. Behold!” and the proprietor threw open the creaking door of
a shed, and revealed to our gaze a pretentious landau with faded linings
and wheels which did not seem to be circular. This “machine,” he assured
us, it would be hard to equal for locomotive purposes. Two strange beasts
were connected to it, chiefly, as it seemed, by bits of string. One of the
animals was supported on two very puffy hind legs and two very tremulous
fore-legs, and seemed perpetually on the point of going down on its knees
to supplicate that it might be allowed to go no further. Its companion was
a horse of the most gloomy nature, that no amount of chastisement could
stir from a despondent and pensive frame of mind. Both these treasures had
a capacity for detecting an upward incline that was marvellously acute.
Then there was a structure like a magnified perambulator, of which one
wheel was afflicted with a chronic propensity for squeaking, while the
other described a curious serpentine track as it rolled along. Not being,
however, in any particular hurry, we decided to avail ourselves of such
assistance as these vehicles might afford, and did, as a matter of fact,
ultimately reach our destination, if not in, at least with them.
(M127)
From Argentière we followed the familiar track of the Tête Noire for some
little distance, and then bore away to the left up the valley leading
towards the Bérard Chalet. The party, which had kept well together for the
first few minutes after parting with the carriages, were soon straggling
off in every direction, and the chief organiser of the expedition,
desperately anxious lest some should go astray and be no more found, ran
to and fro from one little group to another, and got into a highly
excitable frame of mind, like a busily minded little dog when first taken
out for a walk. Chief among the more erratic members was an elderly person
who had, unwisely, been asked to join the party for no very definite
reason, but because some one had said that it would be obviously
incomplete without him. The old gentleman had no previous experience of
mountain walks, but had very complete theories on the subject. He had made
great preparations for his day’s climb, had carefully dieted himself the
day previously, and was not a little proud of his equipment and attire. He
was furnished with a spiked umbrella, a green tin box, and a particularly
thin pair of boots; for he wished to prove the accuracy of a theory that
man, being descended from the apes, might properly use his feet as
prehensile members, and he held that this additional aid would prove
valuable on rocks. It was currently reported, notwithstanding his
loquacity, that he was a very wise person, and indeed he dropped hints
himself, which he was much annoyed if we did not take, on the subject of a
projected literary work. We were given to understand that the publishers
were all hankering after the same, and he had a manner in conversation of
tentatively quoting passages and watching eagerly for the effects. He was
known to us as the incomplete moralist, and proved to be a very didactic
person.
(M128)
But this was not all; there was one other member of the party, who may be
described, as in the old-fashioned list of the “Dramatis Personæ,” as
“niece to the moralist.” Somehow or another, she seemed to lead
everything; instinctively all gave way to her wishes, and even the chief
organiser looked to her for confirmation of his opinions before
enunciating them with decision. Bright, impulsive, wilful, she led the
moralist, subjectively speaking, whither she would, and he had no chance
at all. “She ought not to have come at all on such an expedition,” he
said, looking at the light, fragile form ahead; “but you know you can’t
persuade a butterfly to take systematic exercise, and everything seems to
give her so much pleasure;” and here the moralist looked rather wistful,
and somehow the artificiality seemed to fade away from him for the moment.
“Such of us,” he resumed, “as stay long enough in this world cease to have
much hopefulness; and when that quality shows up too strong in the young,
such as that child yonder, somehow I don’t think they often——” Here he
paused abruptly, and, selecting a meat lozenge from a store in his tin
box, put it into his mouth and apparently swallowed it at once; at any
rate, he gulped down something. It must be allowed that the moralist had
done his best to prevent his charge from accompanying the party. She had
been reminded of what learned doctors had said, that she was not to exert
herself; that certain persons, vaguely alluded to, would be very angry,
and so forth. The moralist had been talked down in two minutes. He might
as well have pointed out to the little budding leaflets the unwisdom of
mistaking warm days in March for commencing summer; and, finally, he had
surrendered at discretion, fencing himself in with some stipulations as to
warm cloaks, “this once only,” and the like, which he knew would not be
attended to. So she came, and her eager brightness shed a radiance over
the most commonplace objects, and infected the most prosaic of the party,
even a young lady of varied accomplishments, who distinguished herself
later on. After all, if the flame burned a little more brightly at the
expense of a limited stock of fuel, was there anything to regret? Tone
down such brightness as hers was, and you have but an uncut diamond, or a
plant that may possibly last a little longer because its blossom, its
fruit, and with them its beauties, have been cut off to preserve the dull
stem to the utmost. Check the natural characteristics and outflow of such
natures, and you force them to the contemplation of what is painful and
gloomy. You bring them back fully to this world, and it is their greatest
privilege to be but half in it, and to have eyes blind to the seamy side.
The Alpine rose-glow owes its fascination to the fact that we know it will
soon fade. So is it with these natures. They are to be envied. We may hold
it truth with him who sings, “Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of
Cathay.” But the parallel is not strictly true: the brightness will not
fade, but will be there to the end, and the streak of sadness running
through it all gives the fascination. So the wit that approaches nearest
to pathos touches us most deeply, and is one of the rarest of intellectual
talents. With what a thrill of mixed, but yet pleasurable, sensation do we
recall the timely jest of a lost friend. But all this has nothing to do
with a holiday expedition in the Alps. Still, it must be remembered, we
were on a sentimental journey in the mountains.
Before long the chief organiser, seizing an opportunity when most of the
stragglers were within earshot, announced at the top of his voice that
luncheon would be served on certain flat rocks. This had the immediate
effect of uniting our scattered forces. The first to arrive (the moralist
was slow of foot) were some gallant members of the high mountaineering
fraternity, who throughout the day evinced astounding activity, and an
unwonted desire to carry burdens on their backs. Secretly they were
burning with an ambition to display their prowess on some “mauvais pas,”
or glissade, an ambition rewarded later on in a somewhat remarkable
manner. The rock was spread, the moralist selected a comfortable place,
and, stimulated by the appearance of the viands, favoured us with certain
extracts.
(M129)
“There are many,” he observed, holding a large piece of pie to his mouth
and eyeing it to select an appropriate place for the next bite, “who hold
that the sense of taste is not one to which we should much minister. I do
not hold with such;” and here he found the right spot, and for a minute or
two the thread of his discourse was broken off. “The painter blends
colours to please the sense of sight; the musician studies harmonies of
sound to please the ear; each appeals to but one of our imperfect senses,
and yet we think much of them for so doing; we compliment them, and give
them the appellation of artists. Now the worthy person who dexterously
compounded this article, of which, alas! I hold now but little in my hand,
appeals not to a single but to a twofold sense; he ministers alike to
taste and to smell, and I must own, after a toilsome walk, with
commendable results. He is an artist in the highest sense of the word; his
merits, to my thinking, are but inadequately recognised in this world. I
am convinced that they will be more so in another. The gourmet’s paradise
shall provide for him a cherubic state of existence; then shall he have
all the pleasure that the palate can afford without any ill-omened presage
of subsequent discomfort; for, thrice happy that he will be, digestion
will be an anatomical impossibility.” It may be remarked parenthetically
that the possession of a gigantic brain had not obviated, in the case of
the moralist, the deleterious effects of sour wine. But the moralist was
not, as yet, much of a cherub.
As the speaker showed unmistakable signs of continuing his discourse,
which had been chiefly directed at a youth of whom we only knew that he
was some one’s brother, if the opportunity were afforded, a sudden and
general move was made, and the proposal that a short adjournment should
take place previous to resuming our upward journey found instant favour.
The chief organiser was by common consent left to pack up. Straightway the
ladies all produced little sketch-books, and fell very vigorously to
recording their impressions of the scenery around; whilst the moralist,
already somewhat stiff, wandered from one group to the other and favoured
them with his suggestions. The result of half an hour’s work with pencil
and brush was to produce diagrams of certain objects which looked
uncommonly like telegraph poles with cross bars attached, but which were
coloured of a vivid green, and were thus obviously intended for fir trees.
The moralist, not finding that his remarks were met with much favour by
the artists, selected an ascetic who sat apart from the others, and
delivered his next discourse into his inattentive but uncomplaining ear.
(M130)
“It seems strange to me,” he remarked, “that those who are wholly unable
to depict, even in the most elementary manner, the commonplace objects
around them, are for ever seen in the Alps striving after the most
impossible art problems. If so great a stimulus is needed, a poor result
may be confidently anticipated.” (Here the moralist made a fourth attempt
to light a very curious native cigar.) “If it takes the sight of Nature in
her sublimest phase, as seen in the Alps, to stimulate our friends here to
show their art, why, then they haven’t much of it. A milestone should be
sufficient for the purpose, but it seems that they require a Matterhorn;
and it may be gathered, from what I have heard you and your companions
say, that what is true of Alpine art is true also of Alpine climbing, and
that the _dilettanti_ will never take the trouble to learn how much there
is to learn. Our friends here try to paint a glacier, and have not the
most elementary idea of its anatomy. They represent vast panoramas, and
know nothing of distance; they——” But here the moralist, in the excitement
of his discourse, turned a little white, probably from the depth of his
feelings; and, throwing away his cigar, walked off alone, and was
discovered shortly after perspiring a good deal, and crumpled up in a
somewhat limp and helpless state.
The books were packed up, for the sun was setting low, and the party
wended their way up the steep grass slope till the first great dome of the
Mont Buet came well into sight. Far ahead was the niece, seemingly
unconscious of the effects that the exertion of climbing told on her
slight frame. She was apparently unaware of any companions around, though
watchful eyes and strong hands were always near lest any mischance should
befall. She spoke to no one. Nature absorbed all her faculties as she went
on with cheeks rather flushed, and bright, dilated eyes drinking in every
object and every point of beauty. As an artist in the exercise of his
craft makes the outside world acquainted with beauties ever present to his
eyes, so did the effect on her of the wondrous lights and shades and
colours around call up new thoughts and reveal fresh marvels in the
panorama to others, though well acquainted with such Alpine scenes. The
spell caught one after another, till the whole party, all held by the same
unsuspected fascination, walked silently on, while the majestic splendour
around inspired an awe in the mind that even those most familiar with the
marvels of nature in the mountains had never felt before. The mere
recognition of the fact that the same thought or emotion is passing
simultaneously through the minds of many is in itself so striking, that
the impression so caused will not ever be effaced from the mind. A crowded
hall is waiting for the advent of the orator of the occasion, and there
enters an old man whose name and work were familiar to all. Instantly, and
as if by magic, all present rose to their feet in token of respect. No
word was spoken, no signal given. The matter may seem slight, but the
scene was one that those present will never forget. The most hideous part
of the punishment in the old days to the criminal must have been the
moment when, as he stepped through the last door, the sea of faces below
him upturned simultaneously with a howl of execration. And all these
thoughts were called up by the fact that one consumptive girl was a member
of our mountain party. Well, such was the case, and it made the expedition
different in many ways from any that we had ever undertaken, but not
perhaps the less worthy of remembrance.
(M131)
“It looks a long way off,” observed the moralist, gazing despondently
upwards. “Do you say that the object of our expedition is to climb up to
that eminence yonder? I fear lest some of the weaker members of the party
should fail.” (The moralist was now the penultimate member of the party,
the absolute rear being brought up by one of the guides, who was pushing
him up with the head of his axe. The youth to whom he was in the habit of
addressing his discourses had in a revengeful mood offered similar
assistance; but the youth wore such a saturnine look when he made the
suggestion, that it was declined hastily with thanks.) “I think that if I
took a little wine”—here he took all that was left—“this feeling of
disinclination to move might conceivably pass off, and I could then
encourage some of the others on what is clearly to them an arduous
expedition. Ah me! but these little stones are excessively sharp to the
feet; let us turn off on to the snow. I have heard that it is possible to
walk uphill on such a medium, and yet scarce recognise the fact.” By this
time most of the party were well on to the first summit, and the glories
of the sunset, from a point of view which it would be hard to match in all
the mountains, were beginning to display themselves to the full. The
higher we ascended the more did the eternal mass of white snow on the
other side of the valley develop and tower above us. Two or three of the
more active members were floundering in the deep snow along the ridge
uniting the two summits, and finding it, if the truth be told, no small
matter to keep pace with the niece, who skimmed lightly over the surface.
Gallantry and the desire to keep up their reputation forbade that they
should fall to the rear, or allow the rope to tighten unduly; but their
superior mountaineering experience seemed not a little in danger of being
counterbalanced by their superior weight. All over the rocks on the Sixt
side a thin grey veil of mist seemed to hang, making the cliffs appear
still more vertical than nature had moulded them, and tinting the crags at
the same time with a deep purple colour.
[Illustration: A VISION ON A SUMMIT]
(M132)
In the foreground, looking south, the long jagged line of the Aiguilles
Rouges cut off the view into the Chamouni valley, and threw up still
higher and more into relief the minor peaks of the Mont Blanc chain. We
huddled together on the summit, while there seemed hardly time to turn to
all points of the compass to survey the effects. The emotional members of
the party came out strong, and the young lady of varied accomplishments,
who was adjudged by the others to be of poetic temperament, as she was
fond of alluding rather vaguely to unknown Italian geniuses, burst forth
into ecstasies. However, one or two of us had rather lost faith in her
historical knowledge and her profound acquaintance with mediæval art on
hearing her discourse learnedly to the vacuous youth on Savonarola as an
artist of great repute, and on discovering that in the family circle she
was held in submission by an Italianised English governess—discreetly left
at the hotel. A formidable person, this preceptress, of austere demeanour,
with a dyspeptic habit, highly pomatumed ringlets, and evangelistic
tendencies—a triple combination not infrequently met with. Still, no one
paid any attention to the accomplished young lady, for an object in the
foreground of the great picture riveted the gaze of most of us. The niece
had advanced a few steps from the rest of the party, and stood a little
apart on the summit ridge of the mountain, her slight form brought out in
strong relief against the many-tinted sky. The folds of her dress
fluttered back in the light breeze, and the night wind as it came sighing
over the crest had loosened her veil and tossed it upwards. Mechanically
as she raised her hand to draw it back, the thin arm and hand seemed to
point upwards to something beyond what we could see. Instinctively the
others all drew back a few paces, and closed in together as they watched
the motionless form. The sunset glories were more than we could realise,
but somehow we felt that she was gazing with fixed eyes far, far beyond
these—into a pure and passionless region, beyond the mental grasp of the
profoundest theologian depending on his own acquired knowledge. As we
looked, though she moved no limb, her breath came faster and faster. One
or two of us made a start forwards, but at that moment the last red glow
vanished from the belt of fleecy cloud hanging in mid-sky. Lower down, the
limestone cliffs seemed strangely desolate as the icy hand of night spread
over them. The breeze suddenly dropped and died away. She stamped her foot
on the snow, and with a quick movement of the head seemed to come back
again to the scene around. “Let us go,” she said, half petulantly.
Silently the party arranged themselves in order as we wended our way back
along the ridge. We had seen a sight that lingered in the mind, and that
was not easily to be erased from the memory. As we walked along we
gradually drew closer and closer together, prompted by some feeling that
all seemed to share alike—as if the recollection of what we had just seen
had dazed the mind, and brought us face to face with some influence beyond
our ordinary thoughts, and as if with nearer union we should not feel so
powerless and insignificant. But the glories of that sunset from the Mont
Buet, a scene within the reach of all of very moderate walking ability,
were far beyond the power of any language to describe, and beyond the
province of any discreet writer to attempt. The twilight gathered in fast,
and the snow already felt more crisp under foot. The roll-call was held,
and it was discovered that the only absentees were the moralist and his
propelling companion. At this point two of the skilled mountaineers of the
party recognised their opportunity, and were not slow to seize it.
Secretly they had felt that no suitable occasion had hitherto offered of
displaying their prowess, so they volunteered to perform a glissade for
the amusement and instruction of the others. The ladies clapped their
hands gleefully, and the youth, who did not know how to glissade, looked
sinister. Accordingly the skilful ones made their way to a steep snow
slope, and started off with great speed and dexterity, amidst the admiring
plaudits of the less acrobatically minded members. But the course of their
true descent did not run entirely smooth, for before half the downward
journey was accomplished the foremost member was observed suddenly to
propel himself wildly into the air, performing a remarkable antic—similar
to those known of street Arabs as cart-wheels—and the remainder of the
journey to the foot of the slope was performed with about the grace of a
floating log descending a mountain torrent. Nor was this all; the rearmost
man, apparently also possessed by an identical frenzy, leaped forth into
the air at precisely the same spot and in precisely the same manner. Had
it not been that they were known to be highly skilful and adroit
mountaineers the impression might have gained ground that the
circumstances of this part of the descent were not wholly under their own
control. Ever anxious to investigate the true cause of strange
occurrences, to their credit be it said that when they had collected their
wits and emptied their pockets of snow, they mounted up again to the scene
of the disaster, and discovered the explanation in an entirely imaginary
stone, which had, beyond doubt, tripped them up.
(M133)
Somewhat crestfallen, the energetic pair rejoined the rest of the troupe
and a search was instituted for the moralist. This worthy was discovered,
astonishingly weary of body but surprisingly active of mind, wedged in a
narrow rocky niche, so that he looked like the figure of a little “Joss”
in the carved model of a Japanese temple. It was found necessary to pull
him vigorously by the legs, in order to straighten out those members
sufficiently for him to progress upon them. However, he seemed to have
more to say about the sunset than anybody else, and his description of the
beauties thereof was so glowing and eloquent, that the idea crossed our
minds that possibly some of the descriptions we had read in Alpine
writings of similar scenes might be as authentic as that with which he
favoured us. “A great point in the Alps,” remarked the moralist, after he
had been securely fastened by a rope to a guide for fear we should lose
him again, so that he looked like a dancing bear—“a great point in walking
amongst the Alps is that we learn to use our eyes and look around us. I
have observed that those who perambulate our native flagstones appear
perpetually to be absorbed in the contemplation of what lies at their
feet. Now here, stimulated by the beauties around, man holds, as he should
do, his head erect, and steps out boldly.” At this point a little delay
was occasioned owing to the abrupt disappearance of the speaker through a
crust of snow. Some curious rumblings below our feet seemed to imply that
he had descended to a considerable depth, and was in great personal
discomfort. In the dim light we could scarcely see what had actually
happened, but concluded to pull vigorously at the rope as the best means
of getting our temporarily absent friend out of his difficulties. This we
succeeded in doing, and a strenuous haul on the cord was rewarded by the
sudden appearance of two boots through the snow-crust at our feet—a
phenomenon so unexpected that we relaxed our efforts, with the result that
the boots immediately disappeared again. A second attempt was more
successful; an arm and a leg this time came to the surface simultaneously,
and the moralist was delivered from the snowy recesses broadside on. We
rearranged his raiment, shook the snow out of the creases of his clothes,
tied a bath towel round his head, which, for some obscure reason, he had
brought with him—the towel, not his head—and harnessed him this time
securely between two members of the party. Possibly from the effects of
his misadventure, he remained silent for some time, or his flow of
conversation may have been hindered by the fact that his supporters ran
him violently down steep places whenever he showed symptoms of commencing
a fresh dissertation. It was no easy task to find the little hut in the
darkness, and it was not until after we had blundered about a good deal
that we caught sight of the beacon light, consisting of a very cheap dip
exhibited in the window, as a sign that entertainment for man and beast
might be found within. The moralist, who was always to the fore when the
subject of refreshment was mentioned, discovered a milking-stool, and
drawing it in great triumph to the best place in front of the stove, sat
down on it, with the immediate result that he was precipitated backwards
into the ash-pan. There we left him, as being a suitable place for
repentance.
(M134)
The rest of the party gathered for supper round the festive board, which
was rather uncertain on its legs, and inclined to tip up. Owing to some
miscarriage, the larder of the cabane was not well stocked, and all the
entertainment that could be furnished consisted of one bent-up little
sausage, exceeding black and dry, and a very large teapot. However, there
was plenty of fresh milk provided after a short interval, though the
latter article was not obtained without considerable difficulty, and
remonstrances proceeding from an adjoining shed, probably due to
somnolence on the part of the animal from which the supply was drawn.
Presently a great commotion, as of numerous bodies rolling down a steep
ladder, was heard, and there appeared at the door a large collection of
small shock-headed children, who gaped at us in silent wonder. Anxious to
ascertain the physical effects that might be induced by the consumption of
the sausage, the moralist, who amongst his many talents had apparently a
turn for experimental physiology, cut off a block and placed it in the
open mouth of the eldest of the children. This unexpected favour led to
the boy’s swallowing the morsel whole, and he shortly afterwards retired
with a somewhat pained expression of countenance; the other members of the
family followed shortly after in tears, in consequence of the Italianised
young lady, who possessed a strong fund of human sympathy and a love for
the picturesque, having made an attempt to conciliate their good-will by
patting their respective heads, and asking them their names in a
conjectural _patois_. We were now ready to start again, and demanded of
our hostess what there was to pay. This request led her to go to the foot
of the ladder, which represented a staircase, and call out for the
proprietor. A little black-headed man in response instantly precipitated
himself down the steps, shot into the apartment, and, without any
preliminary calculation, named the exact price. On receiving his money he
scuttled away again like a frightened rabbit, brought the change, jerked
it down on the table, and darted off again to his slumbers. The whole
transaction occupied some five-and-twenty seconds.
Part of the programme consisted in descending back to Argentière by
lantern-light, but the resources of the establishment could only produce
one battered machine, and it was no easy task with this illumination to
keep the members of the party from straying away from the narrow path.
Indeed, several members did part from the rest, curiously enough in pairs;
but before long we left the narrow defile, and as we passed from under the
shelter of the slope on our right, and could see across the Chamouni
valley, we came suddenly in view of the great mass of the Aiguille Verte,
so suddenly, indeed, that it made us start back for the moment; for,
illumined by a grey ghostly light, the mountain seemed at first to hang
right over us. There is, perhaps, no finer view of the Aiguille Verte to
be obtained than from this point; certainly no finer effects of light and
shade than were granted by the conditions under which we saw it, could
have been devised to show the peak off to the best advantage. So long did
we delay to dwell on the fairy-like scene, that the vacuous youth,
accompanied by the young lady of varied accomplishments, caught us up and
joined us quite suddenly, to their exceeding confusion. The youth, without
being invited to do so, explained, blushing violently the while, that they
had lost the path in the darkness, and had only been able to regain the
track by lighting a series of lucifer matches—an entire fiction on his
part, but condoned, as evincing more readiness of wit than we had
previously given him credit for. We heard also that their way had been
barred by a swamp and a mountain stream, which, like gossip, can have had
no particular origin. The young lady, mindful of the absence of her
preceptress and consequently heedless of grammar, described the situation
neatly as being “awfully bogs.”
(M135)
If the expedition had shown us no more than this moonlight effect, the
reward would have been ample. In truth, from first to last the expedition
was one which it would be hard to match for variety of interest in all the
sub-Alpine district. At Argentière we rejoined the carriages, and found
the horses just a little more inclined for exertion than they had been in
the morning; their joy at going home seemed to be tempered by the fact
that they recognised that they would inevitably be called upon to start
from the same point at no very distant period; and that to return home was
but to go back to the starting-point for further laborious excursions. But
their equine tempers seemed thoroughly soured. The Italianised young lady
was taken in charge by her elder sister, who had completed her education,
and knew consequently the hollowness of the world and the folly of younger
sisters’ flirtations, and securely lodged in the landau. The youth, after
an ineffectual attempt to find a place in the same carriage, climbed to
the box seat of the other vehicle, and relieved his feelings by cracking
the driver’s whip with great dexterity; in fact, we discovered that this
was one of his principal accomplishments. Not the least satisfactory part
of the climb, in the estimation of some members of the party, was the fact
that the moralist had lost his note-book during his imprisonment in the
crevasse.