TIROL AND THE OBERLAND
The story of Monte Rosa has forced us to anticipate the chronological
order of events. We must now turn back, and follow the fortunes of the
men whose names are linked with the great peaks of Tirol[2] and of the
Oberland. Let us recapitulate the most important dates in the history
of mountaineering before the opening of the nineteenth century. Such
dates are 1760, which saw the beginning of serious mountaineering, with
the ascent of the Titlis; 1778, which witnessed Beck’s fine expedition
to the Lysjoch; 1779, the year in which the Velan, and 1786, the year
in which Mont Blanc, were climbed. The last year of the century saw the
conquest of the Gross Glockner, one of the giants of Tirol.
The Glockner has the distinction of being the only great mountain
first climbed by a Bishop. Its conquest was the work of a jovial
ecclesiastic, by name and style Franz Altgraf von Salm-Reifferscheid
Krantheim, Bishop of Gurk, hereinafter termed--quite simply--Salm.
Bishop Salm had no motive but the fun of a climb. He was not a
scientist, and he was not interested in the temperature at which water
boiled above the snow line, provided only that it boiled sufficiently
quickly to provide him with hot drinks and shaving water. He was a
most luxurious climber, and before starting for the Glockner he had a
magnificent hut built to accommodate the party, and a _chef_ conveyed
from the episcopal palace to feed them. They were weather-bound for
three days in these very comfortable quarters; but the _chef_ proved
equal to the demands on his talent. An enthusiastic climber compared
the dinners to those which he had enjoyed when staying with the Bishop
at Gurk. There were eleven amateurs and nineteen guides and porters in
the party. Their first attempt was foiled by bad weather. On August
25, 1799, they reached the summit, erected a cross, and disposed of
several bottles of wine. They then discovered that their triumph was a
trifle premature. The Glockner consists of two summits separated by a
narrow ridge. They had climbed the lower; the real summit was still 112
feet above them. Next year the mistake was rectified; but, though the
Bishop was one of the party, he did not himself reach the highest point
till a few years later.
Four years after the Glockner had been climbed, the giant of Tirol and
the Eastern Alps was overcome. The conquest of the Ortler was due to a
romantic fancy of Archduke John. Just as Charles VII of France deputed
his Chamberlain to climb Mont Aiguille, so the Archduke (who, by the
way, was the son of the Emperor Leopold II, and brother of Francis
II, last of the Holy Roman emperors) deputed Gebhard, a member of his
suite, to climb the Ortler. Gebhard made several attempts without
success. Finally, a chamois hunter of the Passeierthal, by name Joseph
Pichler, introduced himself to Gebhard, and made the ascent from Trafoi
on September 28, 1804. Next year Gebhard himself reached the summit,
and took a reading of the height by a barometer. The result showed
that the Ortler was higher than the Glockner--a discovery which caused
great joy. Its actual height is, as a matter of fact, 12,802 feet. But
the ascent of the Ortler was long in achieving the popularity that it
deserved. Whereas the Glockner was climbed about seventy times before
1860, the Ortler was only climbed twice between Gebhard’s ascent and
the ascent by the Brothers Buxton and Mr. Tuckett, in 1864. Archduke
John, who inspired the first ascent, made an unsuccessful attempt (this
time in person) on the Gross Venediger, another great Tyrolese peak. He
was defeated, and the mountain was not finally vanquished till 1841.
The scene now changes to the Oberland. Nothing much had been
accomplished in the Oberland before the opening years of the nineteenth
century. A few passes, the Petersgrat, Oberaarjoch, Tschingel, and
Gauli, had been crossed; but the only snow peaks whose ascent was
undoubtedly accomplished were the Handgendgletscherhorn (10,806 feet)
and a peak whose identification is difficult. These were climbed in
1788 by a man called Müller, who was engaged in surveying for Weiss.
His map was a very brilliant achievement, considering the date at
which it appeared. The expenses had been defrayed by a rich merchant
of Aarau, Johann Rudolph Meyer, whose sons were destined to play
an important part in Alpine exploration. J. R. Meyer had climbed
the Titlis, and one of his sons made one of the first glacier pass
expeditions in the Oberland, crossing the Tschingel in 1790.
J. R. Meyer’s two sons, Johann Rudolph the second and Hieronymus,
were responsible for some of the finest pioneer work in the story of
mountaineering. In 1811 they made the first crossing of the Beich
pass, the Lötschenlücke, and the first ascent of the Jungfrau. As was
inevitable, their story was disbelieved. To dispel all doubt, another
expedition was undertaken in the following year. On this expedition
the leaders were Rudolph and Gottlieb Meyer, sons of J. R. Meyer the
second (the conqueror of the Jungfrau), and grandsons of J. R. Meyer
the first. The two Meyers separated after crossing the Oberaarjoch.
Gottlieb crossed the Grünhornlücke, and bivouacked near the site of
the present Concordia Inn. Rudolph made his classical attempt on the
Finsteraarhorn, and rejoined Gottlieb. Next day Gottlieb made the
second ascent of the Jungfrau and Rudolph forced the first indisputable
crossing of the Strahlegg pass from the Unteraar glacier to Grindelwald.
To return to Rudolph’s famous attempt on the Finsteraarhorn. Rudolph,
as we have seen, separated from his brother Gottlieb near the
Oberaarjoch. Rudolph, who was only twenty-one at the time, took with
him two Valaisian hunters, by name Alois Volker and Joseph Bortis, a
Melchthal “porter,” Arnold Abbühl, and a Hasle man. Abbühl was not
a porter as we understand the word, but a _knecht_, or servant, of
a small inn. He played the leading part in this climb. The party
bivouacked on the depression known as the Rothhornsattel, and left
it next morning when the sun had already struck the higher summits,
probably about 5 a.m. They descended to the Studerfirn, and shortly
before reaching the Ober Studerjoch started to climb the great eastern
face of the Finsteraarhorn. After six hours, they reached the crest of
the ridge. Meyer could go no further, and remained where he was; while
the guides proceeded and, according to the accounts which have come
down to us, reached the summit.
Captain Farrar has summed up all the available evidence in _The Alpine
Journal_ for August 1913. The first climber who attempted to repeat
the ascent was the well-known scientist Hugi. He was led by the same
Arnold Abbühl, who, as already stated, took a prominent part in Meyer’s
expedition. Abbühl, however, not only failed to identify the highest
peak from the Rothhornsattel, but, on being pressed, admitted that he
had never reached the summit at all. In 1830, Hugi published these
facts and Meyer, indignant at the implied challenge to his veracity,
promised to produce further testimony. But there the matter dropped.
Captain Farrar summarises the situation with convincing thoroughness.
“What was the situation in 1812? We have an enthusiastic ingenuous
youth attempting an ascent the like of which in point of difficulty
had at that time never been, nor was for nearly fifty years after,
attempted. He reaches a point on the arête without any great
difficulty; and there he remains, too tired to proceed. About this
portion of the ascent, there is, save as to the precise point gained,
no question; and it is of this portion alone Meyer is a first-hand
witness. Three of his guides go on, and return to him after many hours
with the statement that they had reached the summit, or that is what he
understands. I shall examine later this point. But is it not perfectly
natural that Meyer should accept their statement, that he should
swallow with avidity their claim to have reached the goal of all his
labours? He had, as I shall show later, no reason to doubt them; and,
doubtless, he remained firm in his belief until Hugi’s book appeared
many years after. At once, he is up in arms at Hugi’s questioning,
as he thinks, his own statements and his guides’ claims. He pens his
reply quoted above, promises to publish his MS. and hopes to produce
testimony in support. Then comes Hugi’s reply, and Meyer realises that
his own personal share in the expedition is not questioned; but he sees
that he may after all have been misled by, or have misunderstood,
his guides, and he is faced with the reported emphatic denial of his
leading guide, who was at that time still living, and could have
been referred to. It may be said that he wrote to Abbühl for the
‘testimony,’ and failed to elicit a satisfactory reply. Thrown into
hopeless doubt, all the stronger because his belief in his guide’s
statement had been firmly implanted in his mind all these nineteen
years, is it to be wondered at that he lets the matter drop? He finds
himself unable to get any testimony, and realises that the publication
of his MS. will not supply any more reliable evidence. One can easily
picture the disenchanted man putting the whole matter aside in sheer
despair of ever arriving at the truth.”
We have no space to follow Captain Farrar’s arguments. They do not
seem to leave a shadow of doubt. At the same time, Captain Farrar
acquits the party of any deliberate intention to deceive, and admits
that their ascent of the secondary summit of the Finsteraarhorn was a
very fine performance. It is noteworthy that many of the great peaks
have been attempted, and some actually climbed for the first time,
by an unnecessarily difficult route. The Matterhorn was assailed for
years by the difficult Italian arête, before the easy Swiss route was
discovered. The south-east route, which Meyer’s party attempted, still
remains under certain conditions, a difficult rock climb, which may not
unfitly be compared in part with the Italian ridge of the Matterhorn.
The ordinary west ridge presents no real difficulties.
The first complete ascent of the Finsteraarhorn was made on August
10, 1829, by Hugi’s two guides, Jakob Leuthold and Joh. Wahren. Hugi
remained behind, 200 feet below the summit. The Hugisattel still
commemorates a pioneer of this great peak.
So much for the Meyers. They deserve a high place in the history of
exploration. “It has often seemed to me,” writes Captain Farrar, “that
the craft of mountaineering, and even more the art of mountaineering
description, distinctly retrograded for over fifty years after these
great expeditions of the Meyers. It is not until the early ’sixties
that rocks of equal difficulty are again attacked. Even then--witness
Almer’s opinion as to the inaccessibility of the Matterhorn--men had
not yet learned the axiom, which Alexander Burgener was the first,
certainly by practice rather than by explicit enunciation, to lay
down, viz. that the practicability of rocks is only decided by actual
contact. Meyer’s guides had a glimmering of this. It is again not until
the ’sixties that Meyer’s calm yet vivid descriptions of actualities
are surpassed by those brilliant articles of Stephen, of Moore, of
Tuckett, and by Whymper’s great ‘Scrambles’ that are the glory of
English mountaineering.”
But perhaps the greatest name associated with this period is that
of the great scientist, Agassiz. Agassiz is a striking example of
the possibilities of courage and a lively faith. He never had any
money; and yet he invariably lived as if he possessed a comfortable
competence. “I have no time for making money,” is one of his sayings
that have become famous. He was a native of Orbe, a beautiful town in
the Jura. His father was a pastor, and the young Agassiz was intended
for the medical profession. He took the medical degree, but remained
steadfast in his determination to become, as he told his father, “the
first naturalist of his time.” Humboldt and Cuvier soon discovered his
powers; in due time he became a professor at Neuchâtel. He married
on eighty louis a year; but money difficulties never depressed him.
As a boy of twenty, earning the princely sum of fifty pounds a year,
he maintained a secretary in his employment, a luxury which he never
denied himself. Usually he maintained two or three. At Neuchâtel,
his income eventually increased to £125 a year. On this, he kept up
an academy of natural history, a museum, a staff of secretaries and
assistants, a lithographic and printing plant, and a wife. His wife,
by the way, was a German lady; and it is not surprising that her
chief quarrel with life was a lack of money for household expenses.
The naturalist, who had no time for making money, spent what little
he had on the necessities of his existence, such as printing presses
and secretaries, and left the luxuries of the larder to take care of
themselves. His family helped him with loans, “at first,” we are told,
“with pleasure, but afterwards with some reluctance.” Humboldt also
advanced small sums. “I was pleased to remain a debtor to Humboldt,”
writes Agassiz, a sentiment which probably awakens more sympathy in the
heart of the average undergraduate than it did in the bosom of Humboldt.
A holiday which Agassiz spent with another great naturalist,
Charpentier, was indirectly responsible for the beginnings of the
glacial theory. Throughout Switzerland, you may find huge boulders
known as erratic blocks. These blocks have a different geological
ancestry from the rocks in the immediate neighbourhood. They did not
grow like mushrooms, and they must therefore have been carried to their
present position by some outside agency. In the eighteenth century,
naturalists solved all these questions by _a priori_ theories, proved
by quotations from the book of Genesis. The Flood was a favourite
solution, and the Flood was, therefore, invoked to solve the riddle of
erratic blocks. By the time that Agassiz had begun his great work, the
Flood was, however, becoming discredited, and its reputed operations
were being driven further afield.
The discovery of the true solution was due, not to a scientist, but
to a simple chamois hunter, named Perrandier. He knew no geology, but
he could draw obvious conclusions from straightforward data without
invoking the Flood. He had seen these blocks on glaciers, and he had
seen them many miles away from glaciers. He made the only possible
deduction--that glaciers must, at some time, have covered the whole
of Switzerland. Perrandier expounded his views to a civil engineer,
by name Venetz. Venetz passed it on to Charpentier, and Charpentier
converted Agassiz. Agassiz made prompt use of the information, so
prompt that Charpentier accused him of stealing his ideas. He read a
paper before the Helvetic Society, in which he announced his conviction
that the earth had once been covered with a sheet of ice that extended
from the North Pole to Central Asia. The scepticism with which this
was met incited Agassiz to search for more evidence in support of his
theory. His best work was done in “The Hôtel des Neuchâtelois.” This
hôtel at first consisted of an overhanging boulder, the entrance of
which was screened by a blanket. The hôtel was built near the Grimsel
on the medial moraine of the lower Aar glacier. To satisfy Mrs.
Agassiz, her husband eventually moved into even more palatial quarters
to wit, a rough cabin covered with canvas. “The outer apartment,”
complains Mrs. Agassiz, a lady hard to please, “boasted a table and one
or two benches; even a couple of chairs were kept as seats of honour
for occasional guests. A shelf against the wall accommodated books,
instruments, coats, etc.; and a plank floor on which to spread their
blankets at night was a good exchange for the frozen surface of the
glacier.” But the picture of this strange _ménage_ would be incomplete
without mention of Agassiz’s companions. “Agassiz and his companions”
is a phrase that meets us at every turn of his history. He needed
companions, partly because he was of a friendly and companionable
nature, partly, no doubt, to vary the monotony of Mrs. Agassiz’s
constant complaints, but mainly because his ambitious schemes were
impossible without assistance. His work involved great expenditure,
which he could only recoup in part from the scanty grants allowed
him by scientific societies, and the patronage of occasional wealthy
amateurs. The first qualification necessary in a “companion” was a
certain indifference as to salary, and the usual arrangement was that
Agassiz should provide board and lodging in the hôtel, and that, if
his assistant were in need of money, Agassiz should provide some if he
had any lying loose at the time. This at least was the substance of
the contract between Agassiz, on the one hand, and Edouard Desor of
Heidelberg University, on the other hand.
Desor is perhaps the most famous of the little band. He was a political
refugee, “without visible means of subsistence.” He was a talented
young gentleman with a keen interest in scientific disputes, and an
eye for what is vulgarly known as personal advertisement. In other
words he shared the very human weakness of enjoying the sight of his
name in honoured print. Another companion was Karl Vogt. Mrs. Agassiz
had two great quarrels with life. The first was a shortage of funds,
and the second was the impropriety of the stories exchanged between
Vogt and Desors. Another companion was a certain Gressly, a gentleman
whose main charm for Agassiz consisted in the fact that, “though he
never had any money, he never wanted any.” He lived with Agassiz in
the winter as secretary. In summer he tramped the Jura in search of
geological data. He never bothered about money, but was always prepared
to exchange some good anecdotes for a night’s lodging. Eventually, he
went mad and ended his days in an asylum. Yet another famous name,
associated with Agassiz, is that of Dollfus-Ausset, an Alsatian of
Mülhausen, who was born in 1797. His great works were two books, the
first entitled _Materials for the Study of Glaciers_, and the second
_Materials for the Dyeing of Stuffs_. On the whole, he seems to have
been more interested in glaciers than in velvet. He made, with Desor,
the first ascent of the Galenstock, and also of the most southern peak
of the Wetterhorn, namely the Rosenhorn (12,110 feet). He built many
observatories on the Aar glacier and the Theodule, and he was usually
known as “Papa Gletscher Dollfus.”
Such, then, were Agassiz’s companions. Humour and romance are blended
in the picture of the strange little company that gathered every
evening beneath the rough shelter of the hôtel. We see Mrs. Agassiz
bearing with admirable resignation those inconveniences that must have
proved a very real sorrow to her orderly German mind. We see Desor and
Vogt exchanging broad anecdotes to the indignation of the good lady;
and we can figure the abstracted naturalist, utterly indifferent to
his environment, and only occupied with the deductions that may be
drawn from the movement of stakes driven into a glacier. Let me quote
in conclusion a few words from a sympathetic appreciation by the late
William James (_Memories and Studies_)--
“Agassiz was a splendid example of the temperament that looks
forward and not backwards, and never wastes a moment in regrets for
the irrevocable. I had the privilege of admission to his society
during the Thayer expedition to Brazil. I well remember, at night,
as we all swung in our hammocks, in the fairy like moonlight, on
the deck of the steamer that throbbed its way up the Amazon between
the forests guarding the stream on either side, how he turned and
whispered, ‘James, are you awake?’ and continued, ‘I cannot sleep;
I am too happy; I keep thinking of these glorious plans.’...
“Agassiz’s influence on methods of teaching in our community was
prompt and decisive--all the more so that it struck people’s
imagination by its very excess. The good old way of committing
printed abstractions to memory seems never to have received such a
shock as it encountered at his hands. There is probably no public
school teacher who will not tell you how Agassiz used to lock a
student up in a room full of turtle shells or lobster shells or
oyster shells, without a book or word to help him, and not let
him out till he had discovered all the truths which the objects
contained. Some found the truths after weeks and months of lonely
sorrow; others never found them. Those who found them were already
made into naturalists thereby; the failures were blotted from the
book of honour and of life. ‘Go to Nature; take the facts into your
own hands; look and see for yourself’--these were the maxims which
Agassiz preached wherever he went, and their effect on pedagogy was
electric....
“The only man he really loved and had use for was the man who could
bring him facts. To see facts, not to argue or _raisonniren_ was
what life meant for him; and I think he often positively loathed
the ratiocinating type of mind. ‘Mr. Blank, you are totally
uneducated,’ I heard him say once to a student, who had propounded
to him some glittering theoretic generality. And on a similar
occasion, he gave an admonition that must have sunk deep into the
heart of him to whom it was addressed. ‘Mr. X, some people perhaps
now consider you are a bright young man; but when you are fifty
years old, if they ever speak of you then, what they will say will
be this: “That Mr. X--oh yes, I know him; he used to be a very
bright young man.”’ Happy is the conceited youth who at the proper
moment receives such salutary cold-water therapeutics as this, from
one who in other respects is a kind friend.”
So much for Agassiz. It only remains to add that his companions were
responsible for some fine mountaineering. During these years the three
peaks of the Wetterhorn were climbed, and Desor was concerned in two
of these successful expeditions. A far finer expedition was his ascent
of the Lauteraarhorn, by Desor in 1842. This peak is connected with
the Schreckhorn by a difficult ridge, and is a worthy rival to that
well-known summit. There were a few other virgin climbs in this period,
but the great age of Alpine conquest had scarcely begun.
The connecting link between Agassiz and modern mountaineering is
supplied by Gottlieb Studer, who was born in 1804, and died in 1890.
His serious climbing began in 1823, and continued for sixty years. He
made a number of new ascents, and reopened scores of passes, only
known to natives. Most mountaineers know the careful and beautiful
panoramas which are the work of his pencil. He drew no less than seven
hundred of these. His great work, _Ueber Eis und Schnee_, a history
of Swiss climbing, is an invaluable authority to which most of his
successors in this field are indebted.
The careful reader will notice the comparative absence of the English
in the climbs which we have so far described. The coming of the English
deserves a chapter to itself.