The Mer de Glâce is exactly opposite to La Flégère, where we were
yesterday, and is reached by the ascent of what is called Montanvert,
or Green Mountain. The path is much worse than the other, and in some
places makes one's nerves twinge, especially that from which C.
projected his avalanche. Just think of his wanting to stop me on the
edge of a little shelf over that frightful chasm, and take away the
guide from the head of my mule to help him get up avalanches!
I warn you, if ever you visit the Alps, that a travelling companion
who has not the slightest idea what fear is will give you many a
commotion. For instance, this Mer de Glâce is traversed every where by
_crevasses_ in the ice, which go to--nobody knows where, down
into the under world--great, gaping, blue-green mouths of Hades; and
C. must needs jump across them, and climb down into them, to the
mingled delight and apprehension of the guide, who, after
conscientiously shouting out a reproof, would say to me, in a lower
tone, "Ah, he's the man to climb Mont Blanc; he would do well for
that!"
The fact is, nothing would suit our guides better, this clear, bright
weather, than to make up a party for the top of Mont Blanc. They look
longingly and lovingly up to its clear, white fields; they show us the
stages and resting-places, and seem really to think that it is a waste
of this beautiful weather not to be putting it to that most sublime
purpose.
Why, then, do not we go up? you say. As to us ladies, it is a thing
that has been done by only two women since the world stood, and those
very different in their _physique_ from any we are likely to
raise in America, unless we mend our manners very much. These two were
a peasant woman of Chamouni, called Marie de Mont Blanc, and
Mademoiselle Henriette d'Angeville, a lady whose acquaintance I made
in Geneva. Then, as to the gentlemen, it is a serious consideration,
in the first place, that the affair costs about one hundred and fifty
dollars apiece, takes two days of time, uses up a week's strength, all
to get an experience of some very disagreeable sensations, which could
not afflict a man in any other case. It is no wonder, then, that
gentlemen look up to the mountain, lay their hands on their pockets,
and say, No.
Our guide, by the way, is the son, or grandson, of the very first man
that ascended Mont Blanc, and of course feels a sort of hereditary
property and pride in it.