Well, I waked up this morning, and the first thought was, "Here I am
in the valley of Chamouni, right under the shadow of Mont Blanc, that
I have studied about in childhood and found on the atlas." I sprang
up, and ran to the window, to see if it was really there where I left
it last night. Yes, true enough, there it was! right over our heads,
as it were, blocking up our very existence; filling our minds with its
presence; that colossal pyramid of dazzling snow! Its lower parts
concealed by the roofs, only the three rounded domes of the summit cut
their forms with icy distinctness on the intense blue of the sky!
On the evening before I had taken my last look at about nine o'clock,
and had mentally resolved to go out before daybreak and repeat
Coleridge's celebrated hymn; but I advise any one who has any such
liturgic designs to execute them over night, for after a day of
climbing one acquires an aptitude for sleep that interferes with early
rising. When I left last evening its countenance was "filled with rosy
light," and they tell us, that hours before it is daylight in the
valley this mountain top breaks into brightness, like that pillar of
fire which enlightened the darkness of the Israelites.
I rejoice every hour that I am among these scenes in my familiarity
with the language of the Bible. In it alone can I find vocabulary and
images to express what this world of wonders excites. Mechanically I
repeat to myself, "The everlasting mountains were scattered; the
perpetual hills did bow; his ways are everlasting." But as straws,
chips, and seaweed play in a thousand fantastic figures on the face of
the ocean, sometimes even concealing the solemn depths beneath, so the
prose of daily existence mixes itself up with the solemn poetry of
life, here as elsewhere.
You must have a breakfast, and then you cannot rush out and up Mont
Blanc _ad libitum_; you must go up in the regular appointed way,
with mule and guides. This matter of guides is perfectly systematized
here; for, the mountains being the great overpowering fact of life, it
follows that all that enterprise and talent which in other places
develop themselves in various forms, here take the single channel of
climbing mountains. In America, if a man is a genius he strikes out a
new way of cleaning cotton; but in Chamouni, if he is a genius he
finds a new way of going up Mont Blanc.
As a sailor knows every timber, rope, and spar of his ship, and seems
to identify his existence with her, so these guides their mountains.
The mountains are their calendar, their book, their newspaper, their
cabinet, herbarium, barometer, their education, and their livelihood.
In fine, behold us about eight o'clock, C., S., W., little G., and
self, in all the bustle of fitting out in the front of our hotel. Two
guides, Balmat and Alexandre, lead two mules, long-eared, slow-footed,
considerate brutes, who have borne a thousand ladies over a thousand
pokerish places, and are ready to bear a thousand more. Equipped with
low-backed saddles, they stand, their noses down, their eyes
contemplatively closed, their whole appearance impressing one with an
air of practical talent and reliableness. Your mule is evidently safe
and stupid as any conservative of any country; you may be sure that no
erratic fires, no new influx of ideas will ever lead him to desert the
good old paths, and tumble you down precipices. The harness they wear
is so exceedingly ancient, and has such a dilapidated appearance, as
if held together only by the merest accident, that I could not but
express a little alarm on mounting.
"Those girths--won't they break?"
"O, no, no, mademoiselle!" said the guides. In fact, they seem so
delighted with their arrangements, that I swallow my doubts in
silence. A third mule being added for the joint use of the gentlemen,
and all being equipped with iron-pointed poles, off we start in high
spirits.
A glorious day; air clear as crystal, sky with as fixed a blue as if
it could not think a cloud; guides congratulate us, "_Qu'il fait
très beau!_" We pass the lanes of the village, our heads almost on
a level with the flat stone-laden roofs; our mules, with their long
rolling pace, like the waves of the sea, give to their riders a
facetious wag of the body that is quite striking. Now the village is
passed, and see, a road banded with green ribands of turf. S.'s mule
and guide pass on, and head the party. G. rides another mule. C. and
W. leap along trying their alpenstocks; stopping once in a while to
admire the glaciers, as their brilliant forms appear through the
pines.
Here a discussion commences as to where we are going. We had agreed
among ourselves that we would visit the Mer de Glâce. We fully meant
to go there, and had so told the guide on starting; but it appears he
had other views for us. There is a regular way of seeing things,
orthodox and appointed; and to get sight of any thing in the wrong way
would be as bad as to get well without a scientific physician, or any
other irregular piece of proceeding.
It appeared from the representations of the guide that to visit Mer de
Glâce before we had seen La Flégère, would no more answer than for
Jacob to marry Rachel before he had married Leah. Determined not to
yield, as we were, we somehow found ourselves vanquished by our
guide's arguments, and soberly going off his way instead of ours,
doing exactly what we had resolved not to do. However, the point being
yielded we proceeded merrily.
As we had some way, however, to trot along the valley before we came
to the ascending place, I improved the opportunity to cultivate a
little the acquaintance of my guide. He was a tall, spare man, with
black eyes, black hair, and features expressive of shrewdness, energy,
and determination. Either from paralysis, or some other cause, he was
subject to a spasmodic twitching of the features, producing very much
the effect that heat lightning does in the summer sky--it seemed to
flash over his face and be gone in a wink; at first this looked to me
very odd, but so much do our ideas depend on association, that after I
had known him for some time, I really thought that I liked him better
with, than I should without it. It seemed to give originality to the
expression of his face; he was such a good, fatherly man, and took
such excellent care of me and the mule, and showed so much
intelligence and dignity in his conversation, that I could do no less
than like him, heat lightning and all.
This valley of Chamouni, through which we are winding now, is every
where as flat as a parlor floor. These valleys in the Alps seem to
have this peculiarity--they are not hollows, bending downward in the
middle, and imperceptibly sloping upward into the mountains, but they
lie perfectly flat. The mountains rise up around them like walls
almost perpendicularly.
"_Voilà!_" says my guide, pointing to the left, to a great, bare
ravine, "down there came an avalanche, and knocked down those houses
and killed several people."
"Ah!" said I; "but don't avalanches generally come in the same places
every year?"
"Generally, they do."
"Why do people build houses in the way of them?" said I.
"Ah! this was an unusual avalanche, this one here."
"Do the avalanches ever bring rocks with them?"
"No, not often; nothing but snow."
"There!" says my guide, pointing to an object about as big as a
good-sized fly, on the side of a distant mountain, "there's the
_auberge_, on La Flégère, where we are going."
"Up there?" say I, looking up apprehensively, and querying in my mind
how my estimable friend the mule is ever to get up there with me on
his back.
"O yes," says my guide, cheerily, "and the road is up through that
ravine."
The ravine is a charming specimen of a road to be sure, but no
matter--on we go.
"There," says a guide, "those black rocks in the middle of that
glacier on Mont Blanc are the Grands Mulets, where travellers sleep
going up Mont Blanc."
We wind now among the pine tree still we come almost under the Mer de
Glâce. A most fairy-like cascade falls down from under its pillars of
ice over the dark rocks,--a cloud of feathery foam,--and then streams
into the valley below.
"_Voilà, L'Arveiron!_" says the guide.
"O, is that the Arveiron?" say I; "happy to make the acquaintance."
But now we cross the Arve into a grove of pines, and direct our way to
the ascent. We begin to thread a zigzag path on the sides of the
mountain.
As mules are most determined followers of precedent, every one keeps
his nose close by the heels of his predecessor. The delicate point,
therefore, of the whole operation is keeping the first mule straight.
The first mule in our party, who rejoiced in the name of Rousse, was
selected to head the caravan, perhaps because he had more native
originality than most mules, and was therefore better fitted to lead
than to follow. A troublesome beast was he, from a habit of abstract
meditation which was always liable to come on him in most inconvenient
localities. Every now and then, simply in accordance with his own
sovereign will and pleasure, and without consulting those behind him,
he would stop short and descend into himself in gloomy revery, not
that he seemed to have any thing in particular on his mind,--at least
nothing of the sort escaped his lips,--but the idea would seem to
strike him all of a sudden that he was an ill-used beast, and that
he'd be hanged if he went another step. Now, as his stopping stopped
all the rest, wheresoever they might happen to be, it often occurred
that we were detained in most critical localities, just on the very
verge of some tremendous precipice, or up a rocky stairway. In vain
did the foremost driver admonish him by thumping his nose with a sharp
stick, and tugging and pulling upon the bridle. Rousse was gifted with
one of those long, India rubber necks that can stretch out
indefinitely, so that the utmost pulling and jerking only took his
head along a little farther, but left his heels planted exactly here
they were before, somewhat after this fashion. His eyes, meanwhile,
devoutly closed, with an air of meekness overspreading his visage, he
might have stood as an emblem of conscientious obstinacy.
[Illustration: _of two men trying to force forward a stubborn mule with
a female rider._]
The fact is, that in ascending these mountains there is just enough
danger to make one's nerves a little unsteady; not by any means as
much as on board a rail car at home; still it comes to you in a more
demonstrable form. Here you are, for instance, on a precipice two
thousand feet deep; pine trees, which, when you passed them at the
foot you saw were a hundred feet high, have dwindled to the size of
pins. No barrier of any kind protects the dizzy edge, and your mule is
particularly conscientious to stand on the very verge, no matter how
wide the path may be. Now, under such circumstances, though your guide
assures you that an accident or a person killed is a thing unknown,
you cannot help seeing that if the saddle should turn, or the girths
break, or a bit of the crumbling edge cave away--all which things
appear quite possible--all would be over with you. Yet I suppose we
are no more really dependent upon God's providence in such
circumstances, than in many cases where we think ourselves most
secure. Still the thrill of this sensation is not without its
pleasure, especially with such an image of almighty power and glory
constantly before one's eyes as Mont Blanc. Our own littleness and
helplessness, in view of these vast objects which surround us, give a
strong and pathetic force to the words, "The eternal God is thy
refuge, and underneath thee are the everlasting arms."
I like best these snow-pure glaciers seen through these black pines;
there is something mysterious about them when you thus catch glimpses,
and see not the earthly base on which they rest. I recollect the same
fact in seeing the Cataract of Niagara through trees, where merely the
dizzying fall of water was visible, with its foam, and spray, and
rainbows; it produced an idea of something supernatural.
I forgot to say that at the foot of the mountain a party of girls
started to ascend with us, carrying along bottles of milk and small
saucers full of mountain strawberries. About half way up the ascent we
halted by a spring of water which gushed from the side of the
mountain, and there we found the advantage of these arrangements. The
milk is very nice, almost as rich as cream. I think they told me it
was goat's milk. The strawberries are very small indeed, like our
field strawberries, but not as good. One devours them with great
relish, simply because the keen air of the mountain disposes one to
eat something, and there is nothing better to be had. They were
hearty, rosy-looking girls, cheerful and obliging, wore the flat,
Swiss hat, and carried their knitting work along with them, and knit
whenever they could.
When you asked them the price of their wares they always said, "_Au
plaisir_" i. e., whatever you please; but when we came to offer
them money, we found "_au plaisir_" meant so much at _any
rate_, and as much more as they could get.
There were some children who straggled up with the party, who offered
us flowers and crystals "_au plaisir_" to about the same intent
and purpose. This _cortége_ of people, wanting to sell you
something, accompanies you every where in the Alps. The guides
generally look upon it with complacency, and in a quiet way favor it.
I suppose that the fact was, these were neighbors and acquaintances,
and the mutual understanding was, that they should help each other.
It was about twelve o'clock, when we gained a bare board shanty as
near the top of La Flégère as it is possible to go on mules.
It is rather a discouraging reflection that one should travel three or
four hours to get to such a desolate place as these mountain tops
generally are; nothing but grass, rocks, and snow; a shanty, with a
show case full of minerals, articles of carved wood, and engravings of
the place for sale. In these show cases the Alps are brought to market
as thoroughly as human ingenuity can do the thing. The chamois figures
largely; there are pouches made of chamois skin, walking sticks and
alpenstocks tipped with chamois horn; sometimes an entire skin, horns
and all, hanging disconsolately downward. Then all manner of crystals,
such as are found in the rocks, are served up--agate pins, rings,
seals, bracelets, cups, and snuffboxes--all which are duly urged on
your attention; so, instead of falling into a rapture at the sight of
Mont Blanc, the regular routine for a Yankee is to begin a bargain for
a walking stick or a snuffbox.
There is another curious fact, and that is, that every prospect loses
by being made definite. As long as we only see a thing by glimpses,
and imagine that there is a deal more that we do not see, the mind is
kept in a constant excitement and play; but come to a point where you
can fairly and squarely take in the whole, and there your mind falls
listless. It is the greatest proof to me of the infinite nature of our
minds, that we almost instantly undervalue what we have thoroughly
attained. This sensation afflicted me, for I had been reining in my
enthusiasm for two days, as rather premature, and keeping myself in
reserve for this ultimate display. But now I stood there, no longer
seeing by glimpses, no longer catching rapturous intimations as I
turned angles of rock, or glanced through windows of pine--here it
was, all spread out before me like a map, not a cloud, not a shadow to
soften the outline--there was Mont Blanc, a great alabaster pyramid,
with a glacier running down each side of it; there was the Arve, and
there was the Arveiron, names most magical in song, but now literal
geographic realities.
But in full possession of the whole my mind gave out like a rocket
that will not go off at the critical moment. I remember, once after
finishing a very circumstantial treatise on the nature of heaven,
being oppressed with a similar sensation of satiety,--that which hath
not entered the heart of man to conceive must not be mapped out,--
hence the wisdom of the dim, indefinite imagery of the Scriptures;
they give you no hard outline, no definite limit; occasionally they
part as do the clouds around these mountains, giving you flashes and
gleams of something supernatural and splendid, but never fully
unveiling.
But La Flegerc is doubtless the best point for getting a statistically
accurate idea of how the Alps lie, of any easily accessible to ladies.
This print you may regard more as a chart than as a picture.
Our guide pointed out every feature with praiseworthy accuracy.
Midmost is Mont Blanc; on the right the Glacier de Boisson. Two or
three little black peaks' in it are the sleeping-place for travellers
ascending--the zigzag line shows their path. On the left of the
mountain lies Mer de Glâce, with the Arveiron falling from it. The
Arve crosses the valley below us; the fall is not indicated in this
view. The undulations, which, on near view, are fifty feet high, seem
mere ripples. Its purity is much soiled by the dust and debris which
are constantly blown upon it, making it look in some places more like
mud than ice. Its soiled masses contrast with the dazzling whiteness
of the upper regions, just as human virtue exposed to the wind and
dust of earth, with the spotless purity of Jesus.
[Illustration: _of a long view of mountains with glacial valley in
foreground. What follows is a rough ASCII interpretation_:
1
/\
/\ /\_/ \ 2
/\/\ __ /\/\_ /'\/\/ \__/ \ \_/\
'/\ _/ / / \ 4_ / \_3_
'' / \ | _/ __ __ 5 / \
\, / ___,,__ ____,___/ / \
_ \__--' _/ \ '--' | \____,|
\ /9/ __/ |\ | \ \\ \ |
\/ |/ | \ \ \\ \|
_ | \ | \ \_ 7 \\ \\6
\ \ 8 \__ \ \_ \\ \\
\_ \ \ \===-'--'---->
'-----\=====================\ streams
//
settlement ||
\ \_
> >
trees / /