THE MATTERHORN--A BEGINNER’S IMPRESSIONS
By AGNES ISOBEL INGLE FINCH
The throngs who swarm on the Matterhorn day after day in the summer,
the airy contempt with which some climbers dismiss it as a climbing
proposition, the fact that a clumsy novice like myself has actually
passed over it--these things do nothing to detract from the wonderment
with which I shall always regard the ascent of the most famous mountain
in Europe. I have watched it in its moods of calm and storm, sunshine
and cloud, and, with eyes glued to the telescope, have seen the
braves who callously went to sleep last night in the Schönbühl hut
without the slightest apparent tremor of excitement or expectancy at
what they were about to attempt in the course of the next few hours,
creeping down the slopes in the broad daylight, stepping fearfully
forward, slowly gaining each painful inch. I have looked upon it in
the soft morning light from the dark pines behind the Riffelalp, as
something not of earth, but as it were suspended in the air, splendidly
detached from the lowly haunts of men. And always it seemed to me,
aloof--almost aggressively aloof--and although I knew that it was part
of the ambitious first year’s programme that had been drawn up for me,
I could never imagine myself scaling its precipitous slopes. There
was one point upon which I had made myself perfectly explicit. I was
not going to climb the Matterhorn unless I could do so with zest and
enjoyment. If one respects a mountain, one ought to approach it with
a joyful mind. I was not going to be pulled up the steep pitches till
the cruel rope bruised my waist so that I dared hardly move myself
for days afterwards--a sacrifice that the Matterhorn had apparently
frequently demanded of its votaries. I had myself suffered in likewise
on a defiant little overhang on the Riffelhorn and found the experience
of acting as a sack of potatoes irritating to the temper, painful to
the flesh and thoroughly demoralising. Altogether, when I reviewed my
general conduct on the Riffelhorn, I had little hope for success in the
greater venture.
Nevertheless, on an afternoon in August, 1923, I found myself at the
Hörnli, where begins the climb of the Matterhorn by the Swiss ridge.
The evening meal provided a certain amount of esoteric amusement. Our
table was shared by two stalwart Americans who, regarding us through
immense tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles, rushed into a diatribe on
the guideless climber who was evidently the root of all Alpine evils.
Their ideas upon this abnormal specimen of humankind were almost as
profuse as they were fantastic, and their faith in the word “guide”--it
could only have been in the word, for they confessed to being unable
to discriminate between good, bad or indifferent members of the
fraternity--touching to the point of tears. The new light shed upon
my companion, who was, of course, every inch an outlaw, was rather
upsetting, and I began to be very glad indeed of the justifying
presence of Padrun.
Padrun was admirable. He had recognised my husband at Lausanne station
and introduced himself as a guide from the Engadine. No; he had never
climbed round Zermatt, but he would be honoured to accompany us as
porter and to be third man on the rope where madame was middle. He
hoped to learn and one day become a first-class guide. This no mean
ambition and his diffidence regarding his own merits won us at once,
and it was straightway arranged that he should join us later in
Zermatt. He was young and strong, frank of countenance and speech,
good to look upon and always willing. Extremely intelligent and deeply
interested in all mountain lore, his general knowledge of the world of
nature as well as of men was amazing, and the keenness which he brought
to his everyday actions made him the most agreeable of companions. He
spoke English, French, Italian, German, Swiss-German and Romanche--all
well and freely, so that from the linguistic view point alone he was
invaluable to us on our journeyings. But perhaps best of all he was a
very perfect “maid.” At the close of a long, tiring day Padrun would
cheerfully minister to our creature comforts. Without a flicker of
annoyance, he would scour out cooking utensils that ought to have
been left clean; dig round for ice and snow to fill the pan for tea;
light the fire and lay the table, seemingly oblivious to the lack of
civilised amenities; and turn down the rough blanket or mangy-looking
sheepskin with all the _sangfroid_ and care with which Célestine would
have turned down the cool, fine linen and soft, fleecy blankets in
the perfect flat. This seeming disregard of discomfort was merely the
outcome of a common sense philosophy, to which, however, I do not think
I can attribute Padrun’s invariable success in securing a bed for me,
even when a surplus of climbers was already in the hut. That was more a
case of ability to seize the opportunity.
[Illustration: _The Swiss ridge of the Matterhorn from the Matterhorn
hut._
_The dotted line indicates the route._
1. _Site of old Matterhorn hut._
2. _Solvay hut._
3. _The Shoulder._
_Facing page 166._
]
We turned in early. But the presumptuous nature of what I was about to
attempt kept me wakeful; so that at one o’clock I was glad to hear the
voices of my husband and Padrun in low conversation outside as they
made their preparations for our high adventure. I was soon beside
them, ready to move off. The night was beautifully clear, blue-black,
for there was no moon; and the silence was so deep that it almost
made one ache. We roped. My husband, as leading man, carried the only
lantern we possessed. It proved to be a sorry affair, for we had just
passed along the short level ridge to the foot of the obelisk, which
in the darkness looked ten times as large as usual, when the candle
dropped out. We recovered and re-lighted it, and pursued our scrambling
course upwards. The way was easy; countless feet had trodden out what
was almost a path leading along the ridge, or a little below it either
to right or left. Soon the other parties began to follow, and twinkling
lights showed all about the base of the Matterhorn, making it look like
a gigantic Christmas-tree. Holds were always ready where wanted. I soon
began to lose all consciousness of effort, my body felt light as the
cool night air; and feet and hands, as if instinctively, sought and
found hold. We mounted higher and higher--right out of ourselves, so to
speak. There was none of the straining and panting that I had thought
must mark my climbing attempts. Here and there, as we seemed to wind
our way in and out amongst the rocky towers of the ridge, I was aware
of the tingling depth of precipice or chasm, and once I made a false
step and dipped my right foot over into nothingness.
Presently the last of our stock of candles had fallen out of the
rickety lantern, and we went forward in the darkness, lighted by the
occasional flash of an electric torch. This proved troublesome, and was
retarding our progress so much that we were moved to borrow a lantern
from a party of three Swiss boys who, like us, were bound for the
Italian hut.
Thenceforward we climbed comfortably and without haste, until at 3.30
a.m. we arrived at the ruins of the old Matterhorn hut which, built in
1867, two years after the first ill-fated ascent, had afforded welcome
shelter to many of the early conquerors of the great mountain. Situated
in an exposed position on a small ledge at the foot of a great vertical
bluff, it is not surprising that its present state is one of roofless
demolition. We rested here in the gloom for five minutes, then moved
off once more.
The next step was to be the Solvay Refuge. This information was
emphatically impressed upon me; it meant, in reality, that I was
forbidden to linger and watch the dawn come up and chase the night from
sky and hill. In due course we reached the place that is now known as
Moseley’s slab. The historic interest of the Matterhorn is enhanced
beyond that of all other mountains by the fact that so many of its
different features bear the names of the men associated with them;
a story seems to hang to every stone. At the slab, a steep, smooth
pitch where hands and feet and additional effort are all required,
the lantern was extinguished; and I saw that the rock around me and
at my feet was losing its bluish-black tint. But I dared not divert
my attention from the work in hand. To gain the first foothold on the
slab, I had to have a little leverage from below and a pull from above;
my limbs and climbing experience were alike too short to enable me to
reach it unaided. With the exception of this and one other occasion on
the ascent, I managed by myself, if the second person on a rope can
ever truly be said to do so. My previous reading of Alpine literature
had led me to conclude that, in any mountaineering venture, the man
to whom admiration is due is he who is first on the ascent and last
in the descent. On him falls the real work and responsibility; the
others are merely backers-up, adequate or inadequate as the case may
be. While the party is on the move, the leader must never relax even
for a fraction of a second. He must never slip, must always be sure of
himself and never lose his presence of mind. He brings the others up to
him or lets them down while he holds them securely from above. When,
therefore, I remark that I “managed by myself” I mean that, well nursed
from above on a strong leading string, I contrived to lift my feet into
the holds that were obligingly waiting for them. I had also learnt on
the way up to support and trust myself to my arms alone, and swing
myself up on them. An improvement this on my Riffelhorn behaviour. I
could not then bring myself to believe that I could hang on my arms
without their breaking or being pulled out of their sockets. What had
actually occurred, of course, was that I had discovered the use and
strength of fingers.
At about half-past five we reached the Solvay hut. To describe sunrise
on the mountains is a task that must be left to the brush or pen of
the artist. The ordinary mortal must be content to worship before a
sight than which “earth has not anything to show more fair.” Every
mountain-top was on fire, and I chafed at the thought that had we left
earlier, or had I been quicker, we might now have been on the summit
of the Matterhorn knowing what it was to be bathed in the clear,
transparent, rosy glow that, deepening, crept all too swiftly downwards
and disappeared. Half an hour was spent in the refuge, resting and
eating a frugal breakfast; the real banqueting ground was to be the
summit. Just as several others parties were arriving, we resumed our
climb. The ridge proved rather unstable, and great care had to be
taken not to loosen stones. Keeping close together and all moving at
once, we presently reached the Shoulder. Here begin the fixed ropes
which render the climb too easy to the expert but are so useful and
comforting to the tyro. Then came a short stretch of extremely sharp
ridge with an appalling precipice falling away on the right. We were
now moving one at a time, and as I waited while the leader went out the
full length of the rope to find good, firm standing ground, it seemed
to me that I simply could not face the teeth in front, to say nothing
of the giddy drop. However, a party was following close behind us, and
in that party was one of my own sex.
Now to betray “cold feet” in the presence of another woman is out of
the question. So I swallowed hard, sailed in with an affectation of
nonchalance and conquered. Indeed, I believe that the main cause of my
unwonted display of prowess, or rather the absence of my wonted display
of clumsiness, throughout the ascent of the Swiss ridge was the thought
that the girl behind might be watching. It is true that I once looked
back, and found that she was completely occupied with her own doings.
She seemed even more raw at the game than myself. But that was no
guarantee that she wouldn’t find time to criticise.
Just below the last gentle slope leading to the Swiss summit is a
rather exposed bulge. There was no rope, though I have been told
that there is usually one at this spot. I was too short to reach
the handholds and pull myself up so that I could use my knee, and,
disappointing though it was, I was forced to accept Padrun’s proffered
shoulder as a foothold. Thenceforward to the top was a mere walk. The
Swiss summit being too small to meet with our requirements, we took
a quick, dizzy peep over the top into a new country and crossed over
to the Italian summit. Here we found the three Swiss boys who were
to follow us on the descent. We returned their lantern with many
thanks, and seated ourselves on a fairly commodious platform lower down.
[Illustration: _The Swiss summit of the Matterhorn from the Italian
summit._
_The metal cross in the foreground was erected by a party of
enthusiastic Italian mountaineers headed by a priest._
_The summit of Mont Blanc in 1911._
_The partially snowed-up hut seen in the photograph is now completely
submerged._
_A contrast in mountain tops._
_Facing page 170._
]
It was about a quarter to eight; we had been over six hours _en route_,
having taken our time and extracted as much enjoyment out of the climb
as was possible. And now we were to reap at least one of the advantages
of guideless climbing. Our time was our own; there was nobody to hurry
us off to the summit after a cursory glance round at the view. I felt
moved to pity for the girl who had agonised her way up behind me when
I saw her ruthlessly bundled off the top after five minutes’ breathing
space. I prepared to settle myself comfortably for the next hour and,
acting on the assumption that I might never again visit the summit of
the Matterhorn, proceeded to indulge in a process of cramming, mental
and physical. My husband found a comfortable seat for me, which Padrun
padded with knapsacks and coats. They then produced the wherewithal
to appease my voracious appetite. I am not of those who, when above a
certain altitude, lose all desire for food and perfunctorily nibble at
an inadequate morsel of chocolate, nor yet of those who forget physical
needs in the intensity of their emotional delight. Like the Persian,
my paradise is one which caters for the body as well as the soul,
especially after six hours’ scrambling. I clamour for bread, lots of
it, and the thicker the better, and a generous helping of cheese. I was
given what I craved and a thermos of tea, and therewith settled down to
a profound enjoyment of my position and surroundings.
Just how much of the pleasure of being on a mountain-top arises from
the view alone, I have so far been unable to gauge. On a clear day, the
eye can see for a hundred miles, perhaps two hundred miles, in every
direction, and the breath catches at the unexpected width and bigness
of nature and the littleness of the man-made dwellings in the far-down
valleys. From above, the actual beauty of the rolling, snow-white
ranges is, I think, less great than from below. I am of opinion that it
is the feeling that one is actually on top of a peak that causes the
pleasure, or rather elation, that grips one; and that with thick mist
blotting out all view the elation would still exist. One is buoyed up,
away from the earth. It is the same indefinite sensation of pleasant
wonderment that one experiences during the not uncommon flying or
“levitation” dream. One is simply off the earth.
We sat in calm enjoyment of the wonderful panorama. The day was quiet,
the breeze was of the gentlest, the sky of the clearest and bluest, and
the sun was bright and warm. At our feet the mountain sloped steeply
down on all sides. Away below, Breuil lay still asleep; and all around,
range upon range of snow and ice-clad peaks stretched to the far
horizon. It must have been on just such a day that Whymper made his
memorable ascent, and human foot first trod the summit of this noblest
of pyramids.
About a quarter to nine, we began to repack in preparation for the
descent, and by nine were ready to embark upon what I regarded as
the most thrilling part of the day’s work. Padrun went first, I, as
before, was middleman, and my husband came last. At a discreet distance
followed the three Swiss boys who betrayed some little amusement at my
audacity. I thought that the Italian ridge of the Matterhorn was one
long succession of vertical, even overhanging precipices, over which
one let oneself down on ropes. Like most people who have never climbed,
I was possessed of various preconceived ideas regarding precipices, the
chief of which was that I would find being on the edge of one so dizzy
an experience, that I would immediately lose my head and tumble over.
A rather more interesting one was that I would want to throw myself
over! I had often when on top of high sea cliffs, watching the waves
splash and whiten against the rocks below, been strangely conscious
of the uncanny lure of depth. Though I had not been unaware of the
presence of appalling steepnesses while ascending the Swiss ridge, I
had neither suffered from vertigo nor evinced the slightest desire to
fling myself into space. I had not had time. My faculties had been
concentrated on what was immediately before and above me, and not on
what was behind and below. Precipices were part and parcel of the
mountain, and to act like a fly on a wall seemed the most natural thing
in the world. It is not to be supposed for one moment that I could walk
along the edge of a house roof and escape disaster!
Padrun went forward, and soon came his shout, “A fixed rope!” He
lowered himself over, out of sight. I waited for his signal. “All
right!” Cautiously I approached the brink and peered over. I must
confess to a shock. Padrun was standing below me, grinning cheerfully
on what seemed a most inadequate platform for one pair of mountain
boots, let alone two. He assured me, however, that there was room and
invited me to “come along.” From the rear came an order to the same
effect. I was greatly troubled. How to lean down on the edge of nothing
and catch hold of the fixed rope was a difficult problem. My feet were
dreadfully far off. But the plunge had to be taken. I suppose I must
have turned face in towards the rock, kneeled down and lowered myself
on my arms until I had slithered far enough over to be able to grasp
the rope--a pleasantly thick one it was! I scraped for footholds and
found them at distressingly long intervals, so that practically all
the time I was hanging on my hands. I had not yet learned to shin down
a rope, sailor fashion, using feet as brakes. I was, of course, held
securely from above on the Alpine rope. My nurse was conscientiousness
itself, but the Alpine rope looked terribly puny, and I was not quite
convinced that, if I released my hold on the fixed rope, the other
could stand my weight. All manner of interesting information as to the
strength and breaking strain of an Alpine rope had been vouchsafed to
me, but I was sceptical. So I clung as if for dear life with my hands.
Presently I joined Padrun on the little shelf, and, as soon as I had
made myself secure, he went down the next pitch. “All right!” I passed
the word up to my husband, who came down at an amazing speed as I took
in his rope. Then he once more let me down to Padrun. And so it went
on. I meant to count the ropes on the Italian ridge, but failed to
carry out my intention. They seemed innumerable. In time the strain
on my arms began to tell, and the friction was beginning to tear the
skin off my hands, but still I could not be induced to trust to the
climbing rope and permit myself to be lowered over. Finally, however,
came the last straw that broke down the barrier of distrust. Half-way
down one very long rope, my outraged arms struck work. Willy-nilly, I
was hanging on the Alpine rope like a spider on its thread--and behold!
it did not break under my weight. The pitch was safely negotiated, and
almost immediately afterwards we were at the famous ladder of Jordan.
It was a very pretty ladder with strong rope sides and wooden rungs,
but it hung over a great bulge and dangled in space. Padrun held it as
near the wall at the bottom as he could while I descended face towards
the rock. As I approached the nose, the ladder showed a tendency to
swing away from the rock, and when I actually arrived at the tip, the
space between myself and the wall was disagreeably wide. It was the
most thrilling part of the descent so far, but soon over. From the
spacious platform at the foot, I watched carefully, on the look-out
for the correct way to descend Jordan’s ladder, and I saw that when my
husband reached the tip of the nose, that is, the edge of the actual
overhang, he changed his position and came down on the _inside_ of the
ladder.
[Illustration: _Descending the Italian ridge._
“... a pleasantly thick fixed rope.”
_Facing page 174._
]
All the time since passing the first fixed rope, we had been working
more or less down the face of the mountain. Now we turned slightly
to our right and gained the ridge. On the broad shelf that marks the
beginning of Carrel’s corridor, we rested for fully an hour. It had
been our intention to snatch only a short breathing space, but two
parties were coming up towards us, and, as the ground was loose and
unstable, we waited until they approached. The first was a party of
three, whose feet were continually getting entangled in their rope
which lay in coils between each member and dragged loose stones about
in a most disconcerting manner. It was warm and sunny, we had many
hours of daylight at our disposal--for our destination that day was
only the Italian hut--and the world was beautiful to look upon.
About eleven o’clock we again resumed work on the ridge. The ground was
scaly and unpleasant. Thin, flat flakes of stone slipped out underneath
the feet. Keeping close together we soon arrived at the Col Félicité,
so called in honour of the first woman who reached it; but a more
incongruous name, from the point of view of appearance, could not have
been found. A little later we came to a narrow snow bridge connecting
the shingly slope of the Italian face above with the long level ridge
of the Pic Tyndall. Some fifteen inches wide, the bridge falls away
nearly perpendicularly on either side to a tremendous depth. I could
not help thinking that it would have been much more agreeable if the
approach to the bridge had been level and stable instead of sloping and
loose, and the exit had not been blocked by a little vertical tower
some fifteen feet high over which it was necessary to climb. Padrun
sauntered over as calmly as if he were walking on the finest Roman
viaduct, and scaled the wall of the tower at the other end. It looked
a giddy proceeding. I felt sure that I would wobble to one side or
other, and, despite the fact that I would simply dip for a moment into
space and then be hoisted up on the rope, the demoralising effect would
doubtless be calamitous. However, that “there’s nothing either good or
bad but thinking makes it so” is nowhere so true as on the mountains.
The idea of the venture proved one thousandfold more dreadful than
the actuality. I kept my eyes on the turret a few feet away, and was
clambering up before I realised it. Daring greatly, I paused to look
down, just for the good of my own self-respect. The effect was quite
exhilarating.
Once on the ridge of the Pic Tyndall, the going was easy. A stretch of
snowy crest provided a welcome change. At the farther end of this I
suddenly felt fatigued. Padrun was encouraging. He indicated a great
tower on the ridge. “The hut is just below,” he said. “It will take
only fifteen minutes.” The result was marvellous; the distance did look
short, and my husband, who must have known well enough how deceived
Padrun was, had apparently not the heart to dispel our fond illusions.
So tired was I, that even my scepticism had vanished, and my memory
failed to remind me that ridges have a habit of magically stretching
as you proceed along them. Their ends, like the tops of mountains,
seem to recede as you advance, and indulge in the playful game until
the very last moment. From the Pic Tyndall to the Italian hut took us
almost exactly one and a half hours. Before arriving at the big tower
we left the ridge and descended by an exceedingly long fixed rope well
down into the face on the left, until we found a ledge that led us
again to the right. The slope, known as the “Linceul,” over which it is
customary to make one’s way by cutting a few steps, was devoid of ice,
and a slight deviation from the normal route was necessary. Up and down
we seemed to go, and once round a little natural balcony that hung out
over space but proved not in the least heady. A handrail in the shape
of a fixed rope was provided. Thence onwards the route was well-marked.
Short, helpful ropes led down chimneys and over slabs to the hut where
we arrived at three o’clock.
The hut is small, and we found it already overcrowded. But going
straight down to Breuil was not to be thought of. The two sleeping
bunks arranged one above the other were full of inmates sleeping off
the effects of their labours: most had walked up from Breuil, and were
to return next day. I made up my mind to sleep either on the floor or
sitting by the table; either course, uncomfortable though it might
be, was more enticing than the questionable comfort and warmth of the
sheep-skins that served as bed-linen. Padrun, the indefatigable, set
about clearing a space on the littered table, prior to preparing a
meal. Finding that there was no water in the hut, he picked up two
buckets and went forth in search of ice; something of a quest on the
Matterhorn during last year’s phenomenally fine summer. Meantime, my
husband proceeded to build a fire in the stove and soon had it alight.
Padrun presently returned with a supply of ice. After removing as much
of the superficial lining of the pans as he could, he filled them with
the ice and put them on to boil. The noise of these activities began to
communicate itself to the other occupants of the room, as also did the
dense smoke from the fire. Blowing their noses, coughing and wiping
tearful eyes, sleepily stretching themselves, they slowly forsook their
couches. I put on my snow-glasses to ward off the attacks of smoke
and, having ensconced myself in a corner near the window, interestedly
watched further happenings.
There is no crowd so amusing as a crowd of Italians. Good-naturedly
they jostled each other, all talking at once. A change this from the
last fifteen hours. Mountaineering is almost as silent as whist!
Scarcely a word is spoken while the game is in progress, save as
command or assurance--or when a player is argumentative or more than
usually clumsy, in which circumstances the leader waxes eloquent
indeed! The spirit of emulation was strong within the inmates of the
hut. I watched thirty of them all trying to regale themselves at
once--from Padrun’s precious water pans! Presently my attention became
riveted to one quarter. A youth stood lolling against the door. Every
few seconds he expectorated in the direction of the fire. Fearful, but
undeniably fascinated, I regarded Padrun’s cooking-pots. That boy had a
beautiful aim. The pots took half an hour to boil, and during all that
time the water remained undefiled.
We had tea seasoned with loads of sugar and lemon. Then we had soup; at
least, that is what they call the concoction in the mountains. A spoon
will stand upright in it. The chief ingredients are macaroni, chunks
of bread and cheese and a tin of beef. A good chef will make his own
little distinctive additions and alterations. The meal over, I went
outside. Interested as I was in our gaily-chattering companions, it was
scarcely fair to keep a seat that another hungry being would welcome.
Besides, the atmosphere within was stifling; the window was closed and
the fire smoking as furiously as ever. Without was the sweet cool
mountain air and the silence of open spaces, broken only by the roaring
of the stone avalanches that made all the south face of the great
mountain alive.
[Illustration: _The Matterhorn from the Dent d’Hérens._
“... it stands utterly alone, ... surely the most wonderful mountain in
the world.”
_Facing page 178._
]
Dusk fell. Padrun came out and fetched me. Would I like to lie down
and rest? He had obviously seized an opportunity! The idea of the bunk
and the sheep-skins was no longer so repugnant, for I was very weary.
I stepped inside. Padrun had found a place for me in the lower bunk,
and begged me to accept his coat as covering. Sleep was out of the
question. The incessant talk and bustle precluded any idea of such a
thing; but just to stretch out and relax every muscle was sheer luxury
of feeling. About ten o’clock the entire family was abed. The floor
space was all utilised, likewise the little loft where the wood was
stored. I lay all night long in the same position--on my right side,
and so squeezed up against the wall of the hut that I dared not budge
an inch for fear of bumping my nose. The breadth of my “bed” could not
possibly have exceeded nine or ten inches. But I slept.
About half-past two next morning, movements were heard in the bunk
above, and once more the bulk of the inhabitants yawned their way out
of bed. At half-past five no one had left the hut, so that all shared
the excitement that followed. A terrific cracking followed by a mighty
roar was heard. Flying missiles struck the walls and roof of the hut.
Tearing its way down towards the glacier was a huge mass of rock which
must have weighed some fifty tons. The whole of the slab on the lower
side of the first rope immediately above the hut had detached itself
from the parent mass.
When the excitement had died down, the first party began the descent
towards Breuil. Others followed, and by seven o’clock the hut was empty
except for ourselves and a party of two young Swiss boys and their
guides, who had made the ascent of the Zmutt ridge on the previous
day. Both parties agreed to wait until the last Italians were well
out of sight. We would then go down, keeping as close together as was
possible on account of loose stones. We breakfasted and left the hut at
eight. The party of four went first. They descended quickly and soon
outpaced us, so slow was I. As my arms still ached from yesterday’s
exertions, the idea of more fixed ropes was not exactly pleasing. They
were very short, however--all but one, which was sixty feet in length,
but, mercifully for me, knotted. The experts found the knots a bane
and a hindrance to shinning down; but to me they were an unqualified
boon. They prevented my hands from slipping and furnished me with an
occasional rest. Soon we were on the wide, slabby ridge once more, and
descending with as much speed as my presence and the necessary care
would allow. Suddenly my attention was arrested by a loud shout from my
husband, “Falling stones!” Now teaching, common sense, to say nothing
of life in London during the war, all told me that when missiles fall
from above the decorous thing to do is to take cover. But curiosity
proved stronger than common sense or teachings. I sat down and stared,
fascinated by the two immense blocks surrounded by smaller satellites
that came whirring relentlessly down towards us. I saw my husband make
himself as small as possible on the slab. Padrun went down on his knees
and hid his head, ostrich-wise, in a most inadequate hole. His bulky,
nobbly knapsack, bristling with two ice-axes, stuck up in the air--a
fair target for any missile. I was busily engaged calculating what the
effect on Padrun would be of the impact of a boulder upon the spike
of one of the axes, when I heard an agonised warning from my husband,
and at the same time received a jerk on the rope about my waist which
effectively laid me low. The spectacle Padrun presented proved too
much for me, however, and I lay there shaking with laughter, totally
heedless of the danger to which we were undoubtedly exposed. The rocks
passed over us; we were unscathed. Some fifty feet farther down, they
crashed explosively into the ridge and, their number increased a
hundredfold, resumed their mad course. When everything was quiet again
above, we moved off with all speed and presently arrived at a fairly
well-defined track over scree slopes which led on to the Col du Lion.
Thence skirting for some distance round the base of the Tête du Lion,
the path brought us down the so-called Grand Staircase to the green
pasture-lands above Breuil.
Something made us stop simultaneously and look back. Mists concealed
the mountains; but through a little circular rift in the clouds,
immeasurably far above and seemingly overhead, appeared a patch of blue
sky and a dark, irregular dome-like shape. “See where you have stood,”
said my husband proudly. Then only did I realise that what I saw was
the summit of the Matterhorn. Inexpressibly awed, I turned towards the
valley.