THE STORY OF THE MATTERHORN
The history of mountaineering contains nothing more dramatic than the
epic of the Matterhorn. There is no mountain which appeals so readily
to the imagination. Its unique form has drawn poetic rhapsodies from
the most prosaic. “Men,” says Mr. Whymper, “who ordinarily spoke or
wrote like rational beings when they came under its power seemed to
quit their senses, and ranted, and rhapsodied, losing for a time
all common forms of speech. Even the sober De Saussure was moved to
enthusiasm.”
If the Matterhorn could thus inspire men before the most famous siege
in Alpine history had clothed its cliffs in romance, how much more
must it move those for whom the final tragedy has become historical?
The first view of the Matterhorn, and the moment when the last step
is taken on to the final crest, are two moments which the mountaineer
never forgets. Those who knew the old Zermat are unpleasantly fond of
reminding us that the railway train and the monster hôtels have robbed
Zermat of its charm; while the fixed ropes and sardine tins--[Those
dear old sardine tins! Our Alpine writers would run short of satire
if they could not invoke their aid]--have finally humiliated the
unvanquished Titan. It may be so; but it is easy enough to recover
the old atmosphere. You have only to visit Zermat in winter when the
train is not running. A long trudge up twenty miles of shadowed, frosty
valley, a little bluff near Randa, and the Matterhorn soars once more
into a stainless sky. There are no clouds, and probably not another
stranger in the valley. The hôtels are closed, the sardine tins are
buried, and the Matterhorn renews like the immortals an undying youth.
The great mountain remained unconquered mainly because it inspired
in the hearts of the bravest guides a despairing belief in its
inaccessibility. “There seemed,” writes Mr. Whymper, “to be a cordon
drawn round it up to which one might go, but no further. Within that
line gins and efreets were supposed to exist--the wandering Jew and the
spirits of the damned. The superstitious natives in the surrounding
valleys (many of whom firmly believed it to be not only the highest
mountain in the Alps, but in the world) spoke of a ruined city on the
summit wherein the spirits dwelt; and if you laughed they gravely
shook their heads, told you to look yourself to see the castle and
walls, and warned one against a rash approach, lest the infuriated
demons from their impregnable heights might hurl down vengeance for
one’s derision.”
[Illustration: I.--THE MATTERHORN FROM THE NORTH-EAST (ZERMAT).
The left-hand ridge in the Furgg Grat and the shoulder (F.S.) is the
Furgg shoulder from which Mummery traversed across to the Swiss face on
his attempt on the Furgg Grat.
The central ridge is the North-east ridge. N.E. is the point where
the climb begins. S is the Swiss shoulder, A the Swiss summit, B the
Italian summit. The route of the first ascent is marked. Nowadays it is
usual to keep closer to the ridge in the early part of the climb and to
climb from the shoulder S to the summit A. Fixed ropes hang throughout
this section. T is the group of rocky teeth on the Zmutt ridge.]
Those who have a sense for the dramatic unities will feel that, for
once in a way, Life lived up to the conventions of Art, and that even
a great dramatist could scarcely have bettered the materials afforded
by the history of the Matterhorn. As the story unfolds itself one can
scarcely help attributing some fatal personality to the inanimate
cliffs. In the Italian valley of Breuil, the Becca, as the Matterhorn
used to be called, was for centuries the embodiment of supernatural
terror. Mothers would frighten their children by threats that the wild
man of the Becca would carry them away. And if the children asked how
the Matterhorn was born, they would reply that in bygone years there
dwelt a giant in Aosta named Gargantua, who was once seized with a
longing for the country beyond the range of peaks that divide Italy
from Switzerland. Now, in those far off times, the mountains of the
great barrier formed one uniform ridge instead of (as now) a series of
peaks. The giant strode over this range with one step. As he stood with
one foot in Switzerland and the other in Italy, the surrounding rocks
fell away, and the pyramid of cliffs caught between his legs alone
remained. And thus was the Matterhorn formed. There were many such
legends; the reader may find them in Whymper and Guido Rey. They were
enough to daunt all but the boldest.
[Illustration: II.--MATTERHORN FROM THE NORTH.
The left-hand ridge is the North-east ridge. The points N.E., S, A, B,
and T are the same as the corresponding points in I. The North-east
ridge, which appears extremely steep, in I., is here seen in profile.]
The drama of the Matterhorn opens appropriately enough with the three
men who first showed a contempt for the superstitions that surrounded
the Becca. The story of that first attempt is told in Guido Rey’s
excellent monograph on the Matterhorn, a monograph which has been
translated by Mr. Eaton into English as spirited as the original
Italian. This opening bout with the Becca took place in 1858. Three
natives of Breuil, the little Italian valley at the foot of the
Matterhorn, met before dawn at the châlet of Avouil. Of these, Jean
Jacques Carrel was in command. He was a mighty hunter, and a fine
mountaineer. The second, Jean Antoine Carrel, “il Bersaglier,” was
destined to play a leading part in the conflict that was to close seven
years later. Jean Antoine was something more than a great guide. He
was a ragged, independent mountaineer, difficult to control, a great
leader, but a poor follower. He was an old soldier, and had fought at
Novara. The third of these young climbers was Aimé Gorret, a young boy
of twenty destined for the Church. His solitary rambles among the hills
had filled him with a passionate worship of the Matterhorn.
Without proper provisions or gear, these three light-hearted knights
set forth gaily on their quest. They mistook the way; and, reaching
a spot that pleased them, they wasted hours in hurling rocks down a
cliff--a fascinating pursuit. When they reached the point now known as
the Tête du Lion (12,215 feet) they contemplated the Matterhorn which
rose definitely beyond an intervening gap. They looked at their great
foe with quiet assurance. The Becca would not run away. Nobody else was
likely to try a throw with the local giant. One day they would come
back and settle the issue. There was no immediate hurry.
In 1860 a daring attempt was made by Messrs. Alfred, Charles, and
Sanbach Parker of Liverpool. These bold climbers dispensed with guides,
and had the wisdom to attack the east face that rises above Zermat. All
the other early explorers attacked the Italian ridge; and, as will be
seen, the first serious assault on the eastern face succeeded. Lack of
time prevented the Parkers from reaching a greater height than 12,000
feet; nor were they more successful in the following year, but they had
made a gallant attempt, for which they deserve credit. In 1860 another
party had assailed the mountain from Italy, and reached a height of
about 13,000 feet. The party consisted of Vaughan Hawkins and Prof.
Tyndall, whom he had invited to join the party, with the guides J. J.
Carrel and Bennen.
In 1861 Edward Whymper, who had opened his Alpine career in the
previous year, returned to the Alps determined to conquer two virgin
summits of the Alps, the Matterhorn and the Weishorn. On arriving at
Chatillon, he learned that the Weishorn had been climbed by Tyndall,
and that Tyndall was at Breuil intending to add the Matterhorn to his
conquests. Whymper determined to anticipate him. He arrived at Breuil
on August 28, with an Oberland guide, and inquired for the best man
in the valley. The knowing ones with a voice recommended Jean Antoine
Carrel, a member of the first party to set foot on the Matterhorn. “We
sought, of course, for Carrel, and found him a well-made, resolute
looking fellow, with a certain defiant air which was rather taking.
Yes, he would go. Twenty francs a day, whatever the result, was his
price. I assented. But I must take his comrade. As he said this, an
evil countenance came forth out of the darkness, and proclaimed itself
the comrade. I demurred, and negotiations were broken off.”
At Breuil, they tried to get another man to accompany them but without
success. The men they approached either would not go or asked a
prohibitive price. “This, it may be said once and for all, was the
reason why so many futile attempts were made on the Matterhorn. One
guide after another was brought up to the mountain and patted on the
back, but all declined the business. The men who went had no heart
in the matter, and took the first opportunity to turn back. For they
were, with the exception of the man to whom reference will be made [J.
A. Carrel] universally impressed with the belief that the summit was
entirely inaccessible.”
Whymper and his guide bivouacked in a cowshed; and as night approached
they saw J. A. Carrel and his companion stealing up the hillside.
Whymper asked them if they had repented, and would join his party.
They replied that they had contemplated an independent assault. “Oh,
then, it is not necessary to have more than three.” “Not for us.” “I
admired their pluck and had a strong inclination to engage the pair,
but finally decided against it. The companion turned out to be J. J.
Carrel. Both were bold mountaineers; but Jean Antoine was incomparably
the better of the two, and was the finest rock climber I have ever
seen. He was the only man who persistently refused to accept defeat,
and who continued to believe, in spite of all discouragements, that the
great mountain was not inaccessible, and that it could be ascended
from the side of his native valley.”
Carrel was something more than a great guide. He remained a soldier
long after he had laid down his sword. He was, above all, an Italian,
determined to climb the Matterhorn by the great Italian ridge, to climb
it for the honour of Italy, and for the honour of his native valley.
The two great moments of his life were those in which he heard the
shouts of victory at Colle di Santiarno, and the cries of triumph on
the summit of the Italian ridge. Whymper, and later Tyndall, found him
an awkward man to deal with. He had the rough, undisciplined nature
of the mountain he loved. He looked on the Matterhorn as a kind of
preserve, and was determined that he and no other should lead on the
final and successful ascent. Whymper’s first attempt failed owing
to the poor qualities of his guide; and the Carrels were not more
successful.
During the three years that followed, Whymper made no less than six
attempts to climb the Matterhorn. On one occasion he climbed alone
and unaided higher than any of his predecessors. Without guides or
companions, he reached a height of 13,500 feet. There is little to be
said for solitary climbing, but this feat stands out as one of the
boldest achievements of the period. The critics of solitary scrambling
need, however, look no further than its sequel for their moral. In
attempting to negotiate a corner on the Tête du Lion, Whymper slipped
and fell. He shot down an ice slope, slid and bounded through a
vertical height of about 200 feet, and was eventually thrown against
the side of a gully where it narrowed. Another ten feet would have
taken him in one terrific bound of 800 feet on to the glacier below.
The blood was pulsing out of numerous cuts. He plastered up the wounds
in his head with a lump of snow before scrambling up into a place of
safety, where he promptly fainted away. He managed, however, to reach
Breuil without further adventure. Within a week he had returned to the
attack.
He made two further attempts that year which failed for various
reasons; but he had the satisfaction of seeing Tyndall fail when
success seemed assured. Tyndall had brought with him the great Swiss
guide Bennen, and a Valaisian guide named Walter Anton. He engaged
Jean Antoine and Cæsar Carrel. They proposed to attack the mountain
by the Italian ridge. Next morning, somebody ran in to tell Whymper
that a flag had been seen on the summit. This proved a false alarm.
Whymper waited through the long day to greet the party on their return.
“I could not bring myself to leave, but lingered about as a foolish
lover hovers round the object of his affections even after he has been
rejected. The sun had set before the men were discerned coming over the
pastures. There was no spring in their steps--they, too, were defeated.”
Prof. Tyndall told Whymper that he had arrived “within a stone’s-throw
of the summit”--the mountain is 14,800 feet high, 14,600 feet had been
climbed. “He greatly deceived himself,” said Whymper, “for the point
which he reached is no less than 800 feet below the summit. The failure
was due to the fact that the Carrels had been engaged in a subordinate
capacity.” When they were appealed to for their opinion, they replied:
“We are porters, ask your guides.” Carrel always determined that the
Matterhorn should be climbed from Italy, and that the leader of the
climb should be an Italian. Bennen was a Swiss and Carrel had been
engaged as a second guide. Tyndall and Whymper found it necessary to
champion their respective guides, Carrel and Bennen; and a more or less
heated controversy was carried on in the pages of _The Alpine Journal_.
The Matterhorn was left in peace till the next year, but, meanwhile,
a conspiracy for its downfall was hatched in Italy. The story is told
in Guido Rey’s classic book on the Matterhorn, a book which should be
read side by side with Whymper’s _Scrambles_, as it gives the Italian
version of the final stages in which Italy and England fought for
the great prize. In 1863, some leading Italian mountaineers gathered
together at Turin to found an Italian Alpine Club. Amongst these were
two well-known scientists, Felice Giordano and Quintino Sella. They
vowed that, as English climbers had robbed them of Monte Viso, prince
of Piedmontese peaks, Italy should have the honour of conquering the
Matterhorn, and that Italians should climb it from Italy by the Italian
ridge. The task was offered to Giordano, who accepted it.
In 1863 Whymper and Carrel made another attempt on the Matterhorn,
which was foiled by bad weather. In the next year, the mountain was
left alone; but the plot for its downfall began to mature. Giordano and
Sella had met Carrel, and had extracted from him promises of support.
Carrel was, above all, an Italian, and, other things being equal, he
would naturally prefer to lead an Italian, rather than an English,
party to the summit.
And now we come to the closing scenes. In 1865 Whymper returned to the
attack, heartily tired of the Italian ridge. With the great guides
Michel Croz and Christian Almer, Whymper attempted to reach the summit
by a rock couloir that starts from near the Breuiljoch, and terminates
high up on the Furggen arête. This was a mad scheme; and the route they
chose was the most impracticable of all the routes that had ever been
attempted on the Matterhorn. Even to-day, the great couloir has not
been climbed, and the top half of the Furggen ridge has only been once
ascended (or rather outflanked on the Italian side), an expedition of
great danger and difficulty. Foiled in this attempt, Whymper turned
his attention to the Swiss face. The eastern face is a fraud. From
the Riffel and from Zermat, it appears almost perpendicular; but when
seen in profile from the Zmutt glacier it presents a very different
appearance. The average angle of the slope as far as “the shoulder,”
about 13,925 feet, is about thirty degrees. From here to the summit the
angle steepens considerably but is never more than fifty degrees. The
wonder is that Whymper, who had studied the mountain more than once
from the Zmutt glacier, still continued his attempts on the difficult
Italian ridge.
On the 8th of June 1865, Whymper arrived in Breuil, and explained to
Carrel his change of plan. He engaged Carrel, and made plans for his
attack on the Swiss face, promising Carrel that, if that failed, they
should return to the Italian ridge. Jean Antoine told Whymper that he
would not be able to serve him after the 11th, as he was engaged to
travel “with a family of distinction in the valley of Aosta.” Whymper
asked him why he had not told him this before; and he replied that the
engagement had been a long-standing one, but that the actual day had
not been fixed. Whymper was annoyed; but he could find no fault with
the answer, and parted on friendly terms with Carrel. But the family of
distinction was no other than Giordano. “You are going to leave me,”
Whymper had said to Carrel, “to travel with a party of ladies. The work
is not fit for you.” Carrel had smiled; and Whymper had taken the smile
as a recognition of the implied compliment. Carrel smiled because he
knew that the work he had in hand was more fitted for him than for any
other man.
On the 7th, Giordano had written to Sella:
“Let us, then, set out to attack this Devil’s mountain; and let
us see that we succeed, if only Whymper has not been beforehand
with us.” On the 11th, he wrote again: “Dear Quintino, It is high
time for me to send you news from here. I reached Valtournanche
on Saturday at midday. There I found Carrel, who had just returned
from a reconnoitring expedition on the Matterhorn, which had
proved a failure owing to bad weather. Whymper had arrived two or
three days before; as usual, he wished to make the ascent, and had
engaged Carrel, who, not having had my letters, had agreed, but
for a few days only. Fortunately, the weather turned bad, Whymper
was unable to make his fresh attempt; and Carrel left him, and
came with me together with five other picked men who are the best
guides in the valley. We immediately sent off our advance guard
with Carrel at its head. In order not to excite remark, we took the
rope and other materials to Avouil, a hamlet which is very remote
and close to the Matterhorn; and this is to be our lower base.... I
have tried to keep everything secret; but that fellow, whose life
seems to depend on the Matterhorn, is here suspiciously prying into
everything. I have taken all the competent men away from him; and
yet he is so enamoured of the mountain that he may go with others
and make a scene. He is here in this hôtel, and I try to avoid
speaking to him.”
Whymper discovered on the 10th the identity of the “family of
distinction.” He was furious. He considered, with some show of
justification, that he had been “bamboozled and humbugged.”
The Italian party had already started for the Matterhorn, with a large
store of provisions. They were an advance party designed to find and
facilitate the way. They would take their time. Whymper took courage.
On the 11th, a party arrived from Zermat across the Théodule. One of
these proved to be Lord Francis Douglas, who, a few days previously,
had made the second ascent of the Gabelhorn, and the first from Zinal.
Lord Francis was a young and ambitious climber; and he was only too
glad to join Whymper in an attack on the Swiss face of the Matterhorn.
They crossed to Zermat together on the 12th, and there discovered Mr.
Hudson, a great mountaineer, accompanied by the famous guide Michel
Croz, who had arrived at Zermat with the Matterhorn in view. They
agreed to join forces; and Hudson’s friend Hadow was admitted to the
party. Hadow was a young man of nineteen who had just left Harrow.
Whymper seemed doubtful of his ability; but Hudson reassured him by
remarking that Mr. Hadow had done Mont Blanc in less time than most
men. Peter Taugwalder, Lord Francis’s guide, and Peter’s two sons
completed the party. On the 13th of July they left Zermat.
On the 14th of July Giordano wrote a short letter every line of which
is alive with grave triumph. “At 2 p.m. to-day I saw Carrel & Co., on
the top of the Matterhorn.” Poor Giordano! The morrow was to bring a
sad disappointment; and his letter dated the 15th of July contains
a pregnant sentence: “Although every man did his duty, it is a lost
battle, and I am in great grief.”
This is what had happened. Whymper and his companions had left Zermat
on the 13th at half-past five. The day was cloudless. They mounted
leisurely, and arrived at the base of the actual peak about half-past
eleven. Once fairly on the great eastern face, they were astonished to
find that places which looked entirely impracticable from the Riffel
“were so easy that they could run about.” By mid-day they had found
a suitable place for the tent at a height of about 11,000 feet. Croz
and young Peter Taugwalder went on to explore. They returned at about
3 p.m. in a great state of excitement. There was no difficulty. They
could have gone to the top that day and returned.... “Long after dusk,
the cliffs above echoed with our laughter, and with the songs of the
guides, for we were happy that night in camp, and feared no evil.”
Whymper’s story is told with simplicity and restraint. He was too good
a craftsman to spoil a great subject by unnecessary strokes. They
started next day before dawn. They had left Zermat on the 13th, and
they left their camp on a Friday (the superstitious noted these facts
when the whole disastrous story was known). The whole of the great
eastern slope “was now revealed, rising for 3000 feet like a huge
natural staircase. Some parts were more and others were less easy;
but we were not once brought to a halt by any serious impediment....
For the greater part of the way there was no need for the rope, and
sometimes Hudson led, and sometimes myself.” When they arrived at the
snow ridge now known as “The Shoulder,” which is some 500 feet below
the summit, they turned over on to the northern face. This proved
more difficult; but the general angle of the slope was nowhere more
than forty degrees. Hadow’s want of experience began to tell, and
he required a certain amount of assistance. “The solitary difficult
part was of no great extent.... A long stride round a rather awkward
corner brought us to snow once more. The last doubt had vanished. The
Matterhorn was ours. Nothing but 200 feet of easy snow remained to be
surmounted.”
But they were not yet certain that they had not been beaten. The
Italians had left Breuil four days before. All through the climb,
false alarms had been raised of men on the top. The excitement became
intense. “The slope eased off; at length we could be detached; and Croz
and I, dashing away, ran a neck-and-neck race which ended in a dead
heat. At 1.40 p.m. the world was at our feet, and the Matterhorn was
conquered.”
No footsteps could be seen; but the summit of the Matterhorn consists
of a rudely level ridge about 350 feet in length, and the Italians
might have been at the further end. Whymper hastened to the Italian
summit, and again found the snow untrodden. They peered over the ridge,
and far below on the right caught sight of the Italian party. “Up went
my arms and hat. ‘Croz, Croz, come here!’ ‘Where are they, monsieur?’
‘There, don’t you see them, down there.’ ‘Ah, the coquins, they are low
down.’ ‘Croz, we must make those fellows hear us.’ They yelled until
they were hoarse. ‘Croz, we must make them hear us, they shall hear
us.’” Whymper seized a block of rock and hurled it down, and called on
his companion to do the same. They drove their sticks in, and soon a
whole torrent was pouring down. “There was no mistake about it this
time. The Italians turned and fled.”
[Illustration: III.--THE MATTERHORN FROM THE NORTH-WEST.
T and B are the points marked T and B in I. and II. Z Z Z Z is the
Zmutt ridge. B C D E F is the great Italian South-west ridge. B is
the Italian summit. C the point where Tyndall turned back on his last
attempt. D the Italian shoulder now known as “Pic Tyndall.” E the
“cravette.” F the Col du Lion, and G the Tête du Lion. The Italian
route ascends to the Col du Lion on the further side, and then follows
the Italian ridge.]
Croz planted a tent-pole which they had taken with them, though Whymper
protested that it was tempting Providence, and fixed his blouse to
it. A poor flag--but it was seen everywhere. At Breuil--as we have
seen--they cheered the Italian victory. But on the morrow the explorers
returned down-hearted. “The old legends are true--there are spirits on
the top of the Matterhorn. We saw them ourselves--they hurled stones at
us.”
We may allow this dramatic touch to pass unchallenged, though, whatever
Carrel may have said to his friends, he made it quite clear to Giordano
that he had identified the turbulent spirits, for, in the letter from
which we have quoted, Giordano tells his friends that Carrel had seen
Whymper on the summit. It might, perhaps, be worth while to add that
the stones Whymper hurled down the ridge could by no possible chance
have hit Carrel’s party. “Still, I would,” writes Whymper, “that the
leader of that party could have stood with us at that moment, for our
victorious shouts conveyed to him the disappointment of a lifetime. He
was _the_ man of all those who attempted the ascent of the Matterhorn
who most deserved to be first upon its summit. He was the first to
doubt its inaccessibility; and he was the only man who persisted in
believing that its ascent would be accomplished. It was the aim of his
life to make the ascent from the side of Italy, for the honour of his
native valley. For a time, he had the game in his hands; he played it
as he thought best; but he made a false move, and he lost it.”
After an hour on the summit, they prepared to descend. The order of
descent was curious. Croz, as the best man in the party, should have
been placed last. As a matter of history, he led, followed, in this
order, by Hadow, Hudson, Douglas, and Peter Taugwalder. Whymper was
sketching while the party was being arranged. They were waiting for him
to tie on when somebody suggested that the names had not been left in a
bottle. While Whymper put this right, the rest of the party moved on. A
few minutes later Whymper tied on to young Peter, and followed detached
from the others. Later, Douglas asked Whymper to attach himself to old
Taugwalder, as he feared that Taugwalder would not be able to hold his
ground in the event of a slip. About three o’clock in the afternoon,
Michel Croz, who had laid aside his axe, faced the rock, and, in order
to give Hadow greater security, was putting his feet one by one into
their proper position. Croz then turned round to advance another step
when Hadow slipped, fell against Croz, and knocked him over. “I heard
one startled exclamation from Croz, and then saw him and Mr. Hadow
flying downwards; in another moment Hudson was dragged from his steps,
and Lord Francis Douglas immediately after him. All this was the work
of a moment. Immediately we heard Croz’s exclamation, old Peter and
I planted ourselves as firmly as the rocks would permit: the rope
was taut between us, and the jerk came on us both as on one man. We
held: but the rope broke midway between Taugwalder and Lord Francis
Douglas. For a few seconds, we saw our unfortunate companions sliding
downwards on their backs, and spreading out their hands endeavouring
to save themselves. They passed from our sight uninjured, disappeared
one by one, and then fell from precipice to precipice on to the
Matterhorngletscher below, a distance of nearly 4000 feet in height.
From the moment the rope broke, it was impossible to help them.”
For half-an-hour, Whymper and the two Taugwalders remained on the spot
without moving. The two guides cried like children. Whymper was fixed
between the older and younger Taugwalder, and must have heartily
regretted that he left young Peter the responsibility of last man down,
for the young man was paralysed with terror, and refused to move. At
last, he descended, and they stood together. Whymper asked immediately
for the end of the rope that had given way, and noticed with horror
that it was the weakest of the three ropes. It had never been intended
to use it save as a reserve in case much rope had to be left behind to
attach to the rocks.
For more than two hours after the fall, Whymper expected that the
Taugwalders would fall. They were utterly unnerved. At 6 p.m. they
arrived again on the snow shoulder. “We frequently looked, but in vain,
for traces of our unfortunate companions; we bent over the ridge and
cried to them, but no sound returned. Convinced at last that they were
neither within sight nor hearing, we ceased from our useless efforts;
and, too cast down for speech, silently gathered up our things, and the
little effects of those who were lost, preparatory to continuing the
descent.”
As they started down, the Taugwalders raised the problem as to their
payment, Lord Francis being dead. “They filled,” remarks Whymper, “the
cup of bitterness to overflowing, and I tore down the cliff madly and
recklessly in a way that caused them more than once to inquire if I
wished to kill them.” The whole party spent the night on a miserable
ledge. Next day, they descended in safety to Zermat. Seiler met them
at the door of his hôtel. “What is the matter?” “The Taugwalders and I
have returned.” He did not need more, and burst into tears, but lost no
time in needless lamentations, and set to work to rouse the village.
On Sunday morning, Whymper set out with the Rev. Canon M’Cormick to
recover the bodies of his friends. The local curé threatened with
excommunication any guide who neglected Mass in order to attend the
search party. “To several, at least, this was a severe trial. Peter
Perrn declared, with tears in his eyes, that nothing else would have
prevented him joining in the search.” Guides from other valleys joined
the party. At 8.30 they got to the plateau at the top of the glacier.
They found Hudson, Croz and Hadow, but “of Lord Francis Douglas nothing
was seen.”
This accident sent a thrill of horror through the civilised world.
The old file of _The Times_, which is well worth consulting, bears
tribute to the profound sensation which the news of this great tragedy
aroused. Idle rumours of every kind were afloat--with these we shall
deal later. For more than five weeks, not a day passed without some
letter or comment in the columns of the leading English paper. These
letters, for the most part, embodied the profound distrust with which
the new sport was regarded by the bulk of Englishmen. If Lord Francis
Douglas had been killed while galloping after a fox, he would have
been considered to have fallen in action. That he should have fallen
on the day that the Matterhorn fell, that he should have paid the
supreme forfeit for a triumphant hour in Alpine history--such a death
was obviously wholly without its redeeming features. “It was the
blue ribbon of the Alps,” wrote _The Times_, “that poor Lord Francis
Douglas was trying for the other day. If it must be so, at all events
the Alpine Club that has proclaimed this crusade must manage the thing
rather better, or it will soon be voted a nuisance. If the work is to
be done, it must be done well. They must advise youngsters to practise,
and make sure of their strength and endurance.”
For three weeks, Whymper gave no sign. At last, in response to a
dignified appeal from Mr. Justice Wills, then President of the Alpine
Club, he broke silence, and gave to the public a restrained account of
the tragedy. As we have said, malicious rumour had been busy, and in
ignorant quarters there had been rumours of foul play. The Matterhorn
accident first popularised the theory that Alpine ropes existed to
be cut. Till then, the public had supposed that the rope was used
to prevent cowardly climbers deserting their party in an emergency.
But from 1865 onwards, popular authors discovered a new use for the
rope. They divided all Alpine travellers into two classes, those who
cut the rope from below (“Greater love hath no man--a romance of the
mountains”) and those who cut the rope from above (“The Coward--a tale
of the snows”). A casual reader might be pardoned for supposing that
the Swiss did a brisk business in sheath knives. We should be the last
to discourage this enterprising school--their works have afforded much
joy to the climbing fraternity; but we offer them in all humility a few
remarks on the art of rope-cutting by a member of Class II (those who
cut the rope from above).
A knife could only be used with advantage when a snowbridge gives way.
It is easy enough to hold a man who has fallen into a crevasse; but it
is often impossible to pull him out. The whole situation is altered
on a rock face. If a man falls, a sudden jerk may pull the rest of
the party off the face of the mountain. This will almost certainly
happen if the leader or, on a descent, the last man down, falls, unless
the rope is anchored round a knob of rock, in which case--provided
the rope does not break--the leader may escape with a severe shaking,
though a clear fall of more than fifteen feet will usually break the
rope if anchored; and, if not anchored, the party will be dragged off
their holds one by one. Therefore, the leader must not fall. If any
other member of the party falls, he should be held by the man above.
On difficult ground, only one man moves at a time. No man moves until
the man above has secured himself in a position where he can draw in
the rope as the man below advances. If he keeps it reasonably taut,
and is well placed, he should be able to check any slip. A climber who
slips and is held by the rope can immediately get new foothold and
handhold. He is not in a crevasse from which exit is impossible save
at the rope’s end. His slip is checked, and he is swung up against
a rock face. There is no need to drag him up. The rest of the party
have passed over this face, and therefore handholds and footholds can
be found. The man who has slipped will find fresh purchase, and begin
again. In the case of the Matterhorn accident, the angle of the slope
was about forty degrees. There was an abundance of hold, and if the
rope had not parted Croz and Hadow would have been abruptly checked,
and would have immediately secured themselves. Now, if Taugwalder had
cut the rope, as suggested, he must have been little short of an expert
acrobat, and have cut it in about the space of a second and a half
_before the jerk_. If he had waited for the jerk, either he would have
been dragged off, in which case his knife would have come in handy, or
he would have held, in which case it would have been unnecessary.
To mountaineers, all this, of course, is a truism; and we should not
have laboured the point if we wrote exclusively for mountaineers. Even
so, Peter’s comrades at Zermat (who should have known better) persisted
in believing that he cut the rope. “In regard to this infamous charge,”
writes Whymper, “I say that he could not do so at the moment of the
slip, and that the end of the rope in my possession shows that he
did not do so before.” Whymper, however, adds: “There remains the
suspicious fact that the rope which broke was the thinnest and weakest
one we had. It is suspicious because it is unlikely that the men in
front would have selected an old and weak rope when there was an
abundance of new, and much stronger, rope to spare; and, on the other
hand, because if Taugwalder thought that an accident was likely to
happen, it was to his interest to have the weaker rope placed where it
was.”
One cannot help regretting that Whymper lent weight to an unworthy
suspicion. Taugwalder was examined by a secret Court of Inquiry; and
Whymper prepared a set of questions with a view to helping him to clear
himself. The answers, though promised, were never sent; and Taugwalder
ultimately left the valley for America, returning only to die. Whymper,
in his classic book, suggested the possibility of criminal dealings by
publishing photographs of the three ropes showing that the rope broken
was far the weakest.
Let us review the whole story as Whymper himself tells it. We know
that Whymper crossed the Théodule on the eleventh in a state of anger
and despair. The prize for which he had striven so long seemed to be
sliding from his grasp. Carrel had deserted him just as the true line
of attack had been discovered. Like all mountaineers, he was human.
He gets together the best party he can, and sets out with all haste
determined to win by a head. Hadow, a young man with very little
experience, is taken, and Hadow, the weak link, is destined to turn
triumph into disaster. Let the mountaineer who has never invited a man
unfit for a big climb throw the first stone. And, before he has thrown
it, let him remember the peculiar provocation in Whymper’s case.
All goes well. The Matterhorn is conquered with surprising ease. These
six men achieve the greatest triumph in Alpine history without serious
check. To Whymper, this hour on the summit must have marked the supreme
climax of life, an hour that set its seal on the dogged labours of
past years. Do men in such moments anticipate disaster? Taugwalder
might possibly have failed in a sudden crisis; but is it likely that
he should deliberately prepare for an accident by carefully planned
treachery?
Now read the story as Whymper tells it. The party are just about to
commence the descent. The first five hundred feet would still be
considered as demanding the greatest care. The top five hundred feet of
the Matterhorn, but for the ropes with which the whole mountain is now
festooned, would always be a difficult, if not a dangerous, section.
Croz was the best guide in the party. He should have remained behind
as sheet anchor. Instead of this, he goes first. Whymper falls out of
line, to inscribe the names of the party, ties himself casually on
to young Peter, and then “runs down after the others.” In the final
arrangements, young Peter, who was a young and inexperienced guide,
was given the vital position of last man down. Flushed with triumph,
their minds could find no room for a doubt. Everything had gone through
with miraculous ease. Such luck simply could not turn. It is in
precisely such moments as these that the mountains settle their score.
Mountaineering is a ruthless sport that demands unremitting attention.
In games, a moment’s carelessness may lose a match, or a championship;
but in climbing a mistake may mean death.
As for Taugwalder, one is tempted to acquit him without hesitation; but
there is one curious story about Taugwalder which gives one pause. The
story was told to the present writer by an old member of the Alpine
Club, and the following is an extract from a letter: “I had rather you
said ‘a friend of yours’ without mentioning my name. I had a good many
expeditions with old Peter Taugwalder, including Mont Blanc and Monte
Rosa; and I had rather a tender spot for the somewhat coarse, dirty
old beggar. I should not like my name to appear to help the balance to
incline in the direction of his guilt in that Matterhorn affair. It
was not on the Dent Blanche that he took the rope off; it was coming
down a long steep slope of bare rock from the top of the Tête Blanche
towards Prayagé. I had a couple of men with me who were inexperienced;
and I fancy he must have thought that, if one of them let go, which was
not unlikely, he would be able to choose whether to hold on or let go.
I happened to look up and see what was going on, and I made him tie up
at once. I don’t quite remember whether Whymper tells us how far from
Peter’s fingers the break in the rope occurred. That seems to me one of
the most critical points.”
There we may leave Taugwalder, and the minor issues of this great
tragedy. The broader lessons are summed up by Mr. Whymper in a
memorable passage: “So the traditional inaccessibility of the
Matterhorn was vanquished, and was replaced by legends of a more real
character. Others will essay to scale its proud cliffs, but to none
will it be the mountain that it was to the early explorers. Others may
tread its summit snows, but none will ever know the feelings of those
who first gazed upon its marvellous panorama; and none, I trust, will
ever be compelled to tell of joy turned into grief, and of laughter
into mourning. It proved to be a stubborn foe; it resisted long and
gave many a hard blow; it was defeated at last with an ease that none
could have anticipated, but like a relentless enemy--conquered, but
not crushed--it took a terrible vengeance.”
The last sentence has a peculiar significance. A strange fatality seems
to dog the steps of those who seek untrodden paths to the crest of the
Matterhorn. Disaster does not always follow with the dramatic swiftness
of that which marked the conquest of the eastern face, yet, slowly but
surely, the avenging spirit of the Matterhorn fulfils itself.
On July 16, two days after the catastrophe, J. A. Carrel set out to
crown Whymper’s victory by proving that the Italian ridge was not
unconquerable. He was accompanied by Abbé Gorret, a plucky priest who
had shared with him that first careless attack on the mountain. Bich
and Meynet completed the party. The Abbé and Meynet remained behind not
very far from the top, in order to help Carrel and Bich on the return
at a place where a short descent onto a ledge was liable to cause
difficulty on the descent. This ledge, known as Carrel’s corridor,
is about forty minutes from the summit. It needed a man of Carrel’s
determined courage to follow its winding course. It is now avoided.
The rest of the climb presented no difficulty. Carrel had conquered the
Italian ridge. The ambition of years was half fulfilled, only half, for
the Matterhorn itself had been climbed. One cannot but regret that he
had turned back on the 14th. Whymper’s cries of triumph had spelt for
him the disappointment of a lifetime. Yet a fine rôle was open to him.
Had he gone forward and crowned Whymper’s victory by a triumph unmarred
by disaster; had the Matterhorn defied all assaults for years, and then
yielded on the same day to a party from the Swiss side and Carrel’s
men from Italy, the most dramatic page in Alpine history would have
been complete. Thirty-five years later, the Matterhorn settled the long
outstanding debt, and the man who had first attacked the citadel died
in a snowstorm on the Italian ridge of the mountain which he had been
the first to assail, and the first to conquer.
Carrel was in his sixty-second year when he started out for his last
climb. Bad weather detained the party in the Italian hut, and Signor
Sinigaglia noticed that Carrel was far from well. After two nights
in the hut, the provisions began to run out; and it was decided to
attempt the descent. The rocks were in a terrible condition, and the
storm added to the difficulty. Carrel insisted on leading, though he
was far from well. He knew every yard of his own beloved ridge. If a
man could pilot them through the storm that man was Carrel. Quietly and
methodically, he fought his way downward, yard by yard, undaunted by
the hurricane, husbanding the last ounces of his strength. He would not
allow the other guides to relieve him till the danger was past, and his
responsibilities were over. Then suddenly he collapsed, and in a few
minutes the gallant old warrior fell backwards and died. A cross now
marks the spot where the old soldier died in action.
In life the leading guides of Breuil had often resented Carrel’s
unchallenged supremacy. But death had obliterated the old jealousies.
Years afterwards, a casual climber stopped before Carrel’s cross, and
remarked to the son of Carrel’s great rival, “So that is where Carrel
fell.” “Carrel did not fall,” came the indignant answer, “Carrel died.”
Let us turn from Carrel to the conquerors of another great ridge of the
Matterhorn.
Of others concerned with attacks on the Italian ridge, Tyndall, Bennen,
and J. J. Macquignaz, all came to premature ends. Bennen was killed in
an historic accident on the Haut de Cry, and Macquignaz disappeared
on Mont Blanc. In 1879, two independent parties on the same day made
the first ascent of the great northern ridge of the Matterhorn known
as the Zmutt arête. Mummery and Penhall were the amateurs responsible
for these two independent assaults. “The memory,” writes Mummery, “of
two rollicking parties, comprised of seven men, who on one day in 1879
were climbing on the west face of the Matterhorn passes with ghost-like
admonition before my mind, and bids me remember that, of these seven,
Mr. Penhall was killed on the Wetterhorn, Ferdinand Imseng on the
Macugnaga side of Monte Rosa, and Johan Petrus on the Frersnay Mont
Blanc.” Of the remaining four, Mummery disappeared in the Himalayas in
1895, Louis Zurbrucken was killed, Alexander Burgener perished in an
avalanche near the Bergli hut in 1911. Mr. Baumann and Emil Rey, who
with Petrus followed in Mummery’s footsteps three days later, both came
to untimely ends: Baumann disappeared in South Africa, and Emil Rey was
killed on the Dent de Géant. The sole survivor of these two parties is
the well-known Augustin Gentinetta, one of the ablest of the Zermat
guides. Burgener and Gentinetta guided Mummery on the above-mentioned
climb, while Penhall was accompanied by Louis Zurbrucken. In recent
times, three great mountaineers who climbed this ridge together died
violent deaths within the year. The superstitious should leave the
Zmutt arête alone.