Two years later; two years and two months.
Did you ever notice the marked difference between youth and old
age--aye, and middle age, too--in the matter of reading newspapers?
We--I speak of myself now as the writer--who are in the vanguard of the
march through life, must have our _Times_ or our _Chronicle_, as
regularly as our morning meal. Is it, as some spitefully assert, that we
grow more self-complacent as we pore over the misfortunes or the errors
of our fellows; or is it, that we seek refuge from the cares and
disappointments of our own lot, in a close scrutiny of that of all the
world beside, with the minutiae of which the diligent, prying, gossipping
press so unceasingly plies our curiosity? It is folly, perhaps, to raise
the question, since this is not the place to discuss it; though it were
not far from the truth to attribute much of the pettiness of our race,
in these days, to this habit of abandoning our thoughts and impulses to
the guidance of journalists who trade in them.
I only mean to say that being still youthful at twenty-three, I "cared
for none of these things," As for heeding who was born, or buried, or
married, beyond the circle of one's own intimate connections--I should
as soon have set to work to trace the pedigree of a New Zealander.
Probably, I heard in due time that Mary Verner had become Mrs. Easton.
Certainly I did not learn it from the usual printed record. In short, I
then very seldom read newspapers at all; and this I beg you to bear in
mind. What a shocking ignoramus I should be voted, if I were to say so
of this present time.
That, too, was the season of darkness, ere Albert Smith was the Lecturer
_par excellence_; ere Oxford and Cambridge men, returning from their
"long-vacation" rambles, disputed in the daily papers their respective
prowess in scaling the precipices of Monte Rosa, or discovering new
pathways up Mont Blanc. How changed are we to-day! Save for the
voluminous records of the Crimean war, what Mamelons and Malakoffs would
the pedestrians, Smith and Jones, be now fighting over, in the _Times_!
Nevertheless, though they made less fuss about it, Englishmen were then,
as now, prone to scurrying off to Switzerland in the Autumn--some in the
true cockney spirit--some because they found there the most sublime of
all spectacles, together with the most exhilarating exercise for the
body, and relaxation of mind in its fullest sense. With myself it
amounted to a passion; "Cuthbert's hobby" it was dubbed by
acquaintances, who could eke out delight from Leamington and Cheltenham.
Profiting by the leisure afforded me during successive seasons, I had
become tolerably familiar with the Alps; with what exquisite and
inexhaustible enjoyment I am not going here to trouble you. But August
had come round again. The knapsack was stitched, where it wanted
mending. The Alpenstock was dragged to light, from the lumber-room. The
thick-soled gaiter-boots were freshly studded with hobnails. The
well-worn Swiss map was conned over once more, and a new route, leading
over yet untrodden passes, was set down in the Autumnal programme.
Suddenly I changed my mind--under the influence of an hour's talk with
an enthusiastic mountaineer--who had, during the previous season,
explored the Pyrenees. "You may not find," said he, "quite so much
grandeur; but the valleys are decidedly more picturesque, the foliage
more varied, the very tints of the mountains glowing with warmer
colours." Thereupon, a change of plan and passport. Behold me at
Cauterets in France, instead of at Grindelwald in Switzerland!
Were my object merely to fill a certain number of pages, I might here
descant at length upon the comparative beauties of the Alps and the
Pyrenees--the latter having, at present, the advantage of not being done
to death by tourists. But I will abstain. I will speak only of one day's
adventure; the day whereon, for the third and last time, I found myself
associated with Mary Verner.
Cauterets may be a pleasant place enough to those who bathe in, or
imbibe for medicinal purposes, the mineral waters that have made its
fame. It is finely placed too, pitched in, as it were, into a nook, with
lofty peaks and fringes of fir forests over-topping its somewhat formal
streets. It does not, however, offer much attraction to the connoisseur
in fine scenery. One excursion alone is to be made. Its objects are the
Pont d'Espagne and the Lac de Gaube. The former is a group of pine
trunks bridging a cascade. The latter is a tarn at the foot of the
glaciers of the Vignemale, which, you know, is one of the
mountain-monarchs hereabouts.
Before proceeding further, I may mention that I am enabled to set down
my reminiscences of this particular time and place, by reference to my
rough notes penned on the spot, journal-wise. The little memorandum book
lies under my hand, with its pages written in ink of various tints, as
hotel, or cabaret, or hut furnished the material at the moment. I like
to preserve these records. Such _souvenirs_ are the _bonnes fortunes_ of
those whose travels are ended. You see that I incline to be sentimental
as I draw towards the _denouement_ of my story.
Heavens and earth, how it rains in the Pyrenees! What a young deluge
swept down the steep stone-guttered pavements, on the morning of the
29th of August! Still, I did not choose to devote more than one day to
the neighbourhood of Cauterets; and so, having made, from my window, a
few such profound observations as the one just set down, I ordered a
horse and guide. The polite waiter was astonished, and protested, to the
extent of two or three "_Mais Monsieur!_" The guide thought the storm
would expend itself in twenty-four hours; but on my hinting that the
path would not be difficult to find, without his aid, nor
impracticable, on foot, he subsided, with an air of conviction, into
the accustomed "_Bien, Monsieur!_"
And so we started. I had borrowed one of the long, thick, hooded Spanish
cloaks, commonly used in that region which borders on Spain; and a very
effectual protection it was against the steady down-pouring of the rain.
But what is perfect in this world? A German counterpane, on a summer's
night, is not more oppressive than was this excellent protection from
the wet.
Handing, then, the heavy encumbrance to the guide, I was drenched to the
skin in about two minutes. This was a comfort. It settled the point. I
dislike uncertainty. I could be at my ease, and look about. Remember it
was yet August.
And the Val de Jeret, up which I was riding, was so grandly gloomy; the
state of the weather excluding all but close views! My note-book thus
speaks of it, the writer never dreaming that his impressions would be
told to the readers of a newspaper, with many of whom Niagara and
Montmorenci are familiar sights: "The valley presents a succession of
splendid waterfalls; and, singularly enough, as your route lies upwards,
they increase in size and beauty, from the Mahourat, the first, to the
Pont d'Espagne, the last and most celebrated. The three intervening,
that are dignified with names, are the Cerizet, the Bousse, and the Pas
de l'Ours. Besides these, there are an infinity of smaller falls, the
whole course of the Gave (or torrent) de Marcadaou--along which the path
lies--boiling over broken masses of rock. The eye is charmed by endless
variety, amid perpetual repetition. The deluge of rain, which covered
the lofty rocks on each side of the defile with clouds, had gloriously
swollen the turbulent waters. I know of nothing in natural scenery--thus
the manuscript rather enthusiastically proceeds--that impresses one so
forcibly as a cascade of large dimensions. By large I mean broad, not
lofty. The effect is apt to diminish, with vast height. These, in the
Val de Jeret, I found absolutely bewitching; for is it not a sort of
infatuation, by which we are beguiled into drawing nearer and nearer,
until you almost touch the foaming sheets as they flurry past, and are
yourself driven back, for your pains, half blind and breathless? One
fine waterfall would be enough to digest in a day. During these two or
three hours, I had a very feast of them."
If I extract this somewhat rhapsodical passage, it is to show that my
inward man was not dampened, by the dampening process externally
applied. On the contrary, I am disposed to be jubilant, almost defiant,
in proportion to the fury of the storm; that is to say when no serious
personal inconvenience is caused by stress of weather. In a mountain
region too, above all others, clouds play so great a part in the
combination of fine effects, that I have many times fairly welcomed a
tempestuous spell.
Thus from the Pont d'Espagne I continued my ride an hour or so further,
in order to reach the Lac de Gaube, knowing perfectly well that the
chances were a hundred to one against my getting a glimpse of the
glaciers of the Vignemale, at whose feet this small sheet of water is
imbedded. Small it may well be termed, for it is not quite three miles
in circumference, though the largest lake in the Pyrenees.
On the rocky shore where the rough pathway terminates, stands, or stood
at the period of which I write, a solitary hut. There, during the short
summer season, might be found a family who earned a scanty subsistence,
by catching the lake trout and serving them up to chance travellers; by
rowing, in the solitary punt, any one who cared to paddle about the dark
waters; or by escorting any still more adventurous stranger desirous of
exploring the glaciers above-named, or ascending the lower heights of
the Vignemale.
Stepping up to the door of this cabin, I entered into conversation with
its chief occupant, who probably combined in his own person the various
offices of restaurateur, fisherman, muleteer, guide, and smuggler.
Possibly I libel him in the last respect; but along that frontier of
France and Spain, it is rare to find a mountaineer guiltless of the
contraband trade.
A visitor on such a day was a welcome sight to the poor fellow, who was
eloquent in regrets that _his_ mountain and _his_ glaciers and _his_
other local points of interest were all wrapped in the impenetrable
mist. He seemed, I remember now, to care more about it than I did; for I
had revelled in the exhibition of cascades, and was rather tickled at
the notion of having come up to this lone and savage spot, where nothing
whatever was to be seen.
If a spirit had whispered me, that the moment of my third _rencontre_
was close at hand, I should have smiled incredulously.
The fog lifted. I could see to a distance of half a dozen yards.
"What's that?"
"If Monsieur will give himself the trouble of walking up to it, he will
see."
It was on a jutting promontory of rock, close at hand. A small enclosure
was railed in. It held what was obviously a monumental tablet, in white
marble, but discoloured by exposure.
"A favourite poodle, perhaps, of the Duchesse de Berri--or one of our
eccentric Englishmen doing honour to a Pyrenean bear!" Such I thought it
might be, as I carelessly lounged up to it, and stooped to read the
inscription.
It was in French and English. I took no copy of the words. But it was
placed there in memory of Mr. and Mrs. Easton, drowned in the lake,
within one month of their marriage, on the 20th of September, 18--! The
facts were simply stated. I wish the record of them had been placed a
little further off from the rendezvous of the thoughtless and
light-hearted.
This was the last of my associations with her. But it would not interest
the reader, to be told with what feelings of surprise and sorrow I thus
learned the close of a career, which bid so fair for happiness and
usefulness. Poor Mary Verner!
Before setting-off on my return to Cauterets, I heard, from the lips of
the man with whom I had been conversing, the sad particulars of this
harrowing event. Never could the common phrase, that speaks of "painful
curiosity," have been more applicable than it was in my case, as I stood
and listened to him. Poor fellow; he had been an eye-witness. He saw my
emotion. "Monsieur knew the young couple?"--thus did he break the thread
of his little narrative, more than once.
I cannot pretend to set down his words. This is the substance of what he
told me.
The season was nearly over. The weather was splendidly fine, but very
cold. Travellers were scarcely expected; when on that brilliant
September morning, up rode the bride and bridegroom. After resting
awhile, they took the single skiff that was there, Mr. Easton offering
to row his wife across the lake, to which she very reluctantly assented.
I recollect the narrator dwelling on this fact.
The shore shelves off very rapidly. The water, in some parts, reaches to
the depth of three or four hundred feet. At all times it is of
marvellous clearness--as I observed myself--and, except during the heats
of summer, so piercingly cold, as to be altogether unbearable to the
swimmer.
My informant helped them into the boat. Mr. Easton was evidently used to
the handling of oars. The tragedy was immediately--perhaps one should
say, ostensibly--caused by those two qualities of the water of the Lac
de Gaube, to which I have just alluded--its clearness and its coldness.
The boat was at some considerable distance from the shore. The boatman
was watching them. Suddenly, Mr. Easton paused in his rowing. He and his
wife looked over the side, as though guessing at the depth. Mr. Easton
then stood up, and plunged one oar downwards into the water, with the
confident action of a man who is certain that he shall touch the bottom.
The transparency had deceived him. His oar met no resistance; and he
himself plunged heavily overboard. Such at least was the impression of
the boatman on land; and he could scarcely be mistaken.
So far as he could see, Mr. Easton did not rise to the surface. The cold
numbed him, and he sunk, not to rise again. The bereaved wife stood
upright for a moment in the boat, gazing on the water that had swallowed
up her husband before her eyes. Then she too was seen to be in it; but
not one of the two or three, who witnessed the fearful sight, could tell
whether she threw herself in, or whether she fell in, senseless. That
secret will never be solved; and what matters it to us, though the
manner of the widowed wife's death was so remarkable, that I cannot
refrain from mentioning it? In talking it over, they agreed that she did
not sink at all. As she fell, the water inflated her dress, and she was
buoyed-up, floating; though there was no sign of life or movement on her
part, observable to the agonized spectators. After a time--I forget
whether it was half an hour, or half a day--the remains of what once was
loved as Mary Verner were wafted tranquilly to the shore. Assistance
also having been procured, Mr. Easton's body was dragged-up from the
bottom of the lake. One grave in a church-yard in Essex now holds the
coffins of the ill-fated pair.
And was there no effort at rescue? Could nothing be done? This idea will
have crossed the reader's mind. It suggested many questions to me, with
which I plied the boatman, who seemed to feel keenly in them the
bitterness of unintended reproach. But his explanation--grievous as it
was--was satisfactory. There was no boat, no raft, no means of reaching
the spot. "Two of us," said he, "plunged up to our necks into the water,
in the irrepressible desire to swim out to them; though we knew that it
was certain death to go beyond our depth. Besides, Monsieur," he added
with touching simplicity, "I can't help fancying that the poor lady was
dead before she fell out of the boat. Monsieur knew her; doesn't he
think that her heart was already broken?"
"God help her, and all of us, my brave friend; I have not the smallest
doubt of it!"