Chamouni is a small town at the foot of the mountains, surrounded in all
directions by grand scenery, and the river Arve rushing through it, but
our impressions of the place we will give you to-morrow. We find our
hotel full of people from all over the world, and, alas, we see by the
register that some friends from Boston have just left. Why could they
not have stayed one day longer? We rush from table d’hôte into the yard
to see a party dismount from their mules after a day’s excursion in the
mountains, and a tired but jolly crowd they were. ‘This is what you have
got to do to-morrow, so pick out your thoroughbred,’ said F. I scanned
the creatures, but took no stock in them; but mules have a wise look.
_Chamouni, July 10th._--What a day this has been in my calendar, to be
sure! Thanks be to the good Lord that I am alive to-night to tell you
about it. This early morning, before breakfast, we took a stroll about
the town, which is composed greatly of hotels, as this is everybody’s
starting point for the mountain and glacier trips of this part of
Switzerland. There are two or three churches here and some stores, and
groups of small but comfortable-looking homes, but mules
predominate--mules in the streets, mules in every yard, and mules on
every corner; in fact, the principal part of the population is mules and
the principal part of industry mule riding, at least one would so judge
from the general aspect. We met a party of gentlemen coming from Mt.
Blanc, who had made a hazardous journey, and for whom we had heard some
anxiety expressed by their friends at the hotel, but they are safe, and
we imagine the young, rosy-cheeked English maiden will now leave the
telescope, where she has stood for so much of the time since our
arrival, looking anxiously toward the ice-capped giant, hoping to see
‘Albert.’ There is probably much satisfaction to scientists in the
ascent of Mt. Blanc, but to the man ordinary one would not think it
would pay, as the results are often quite serious, even if one does get
through with whole limbs--the skin generally peels from one’s face and
the eyesight is often badly affected.
We stepped into the church for a blessing and back to our hotel, the
D’Angleterre, for breakfast, with an appetite ready to devour anything.
The table is excellent, and such butter! so sweet and fresh, that one
eats an extra roll for the sake of the butter with it. Here we met some
friends from America, who are to join us on our trip to the Mer de
Glace. ‘But I do not wish to ride a mule; can I not be carried in a
chair?’ ‘No, no,’ said the crowd, ‘here they come, mules and guides.’
‘Come now, let us get started; you may have the first choice,’ said F.
‘Six mules and three guides. And is that what you engaged? I must have
the whole attention of one guide.’ I opened conversation thus with the
oldest man, who seemed used to being questioned: ‘Which is the easiest
trotter?’ ‘Not much difference, all easy.’ ‘These saddles look hard,’
said I. ‘The softest in Chamouni.’ I walked around one mule, and he,
eying me, brayed in disapproval, but by this time the rest of the party
had mounted the other five, and I was helped to the saddle of this sixth
one, wondering how my one hundred and thirty pounds avoirdupois looked
at mule-back elevation, not daring yet to think how a back not made of
iron might stand the ordeal. After a good deal of merriment in getting
started, out of the yard we filed, a gay party, two ladies and three
gentlemen, all thinking it delightful but myself. For a while muley was
very demure, and the fearless riders kindly gave to me the most
experienced guide, so we led the string. The zigzag path as we ascended
the mountain, however, grew narrower and steeper, with now a big stone
in the way, and next a slippery hole made by running water, and my beast
gave me terrible shakings as if he would rather ‘go it alone.’ The young
people in the rear were enjoying the scenery, and I could hear their gay
voices and exclamations of delight, but I did not think it such a good
time, for I had to give my entire attention to keeping on my saddle,
such bumps into the air that mule did give me. My guide said he was
young and playful, and there was no danger, which quite reassured me,
notwithstanding he endeavored to whirl about very often, as if he had
been stung, or had hit his crazy bone, or stepped on an electric wire.
F. cries out, ‘Do not be frightened; you will get used to it.’ But when
the creature suddenly jumped from the hand of the guide, a yard or two
down the embankment, with the yawning precipice below, to eat a bunch of
green grass he had spied, almost throwing the guide down, and I keeping
on only by holding on to his neck with both arms for dear life, I
concluded I would not wait to get used to it, and dismounted, feeling
that ‘shanks mare’ was a safer medium of locomotion than a Chamouni
mule. The creature knew well that he had scored a victory, shook his
long ears satisfactorily, winked considerably and wisely, and walked
along contentedly. And so did I. We saw many wild goats and one chamois,
only that was in a little house and for the sight of it we had to pay.
We met a number of pedestrians with their alpine sticks, and I gathered
large bunches of lovely, bright-red flowers, called the mountain rose,
somewhat like our rhododendron.
It took us about three hours to reach the summit where the Mer de Glace,
the great sea of ice, came in sight. The glacier extends for about
twelve miles, and at this spot is about two miles wide, a solid mass of
ice with enormous cracks and crevices, with tall ramparts, turrets, and
towers of ice, all glistening in the sunshine like crystal,
scintillating with gorgeous colors. From the hotel piazza, which hotel,
a new one, stands on the plateau above the gorge, the effect is
dazzlingly grand. At the hotel we were provided with strong alpine
sticks, with socks and shoes, for walking on the ice, and with fresh
guides commenced our journey across. It was difficult getting along
sometimes, but the beauty, strangeness, and fearfulness of it all more
than repaid us for the physical exertion. We were on the ice, with
frozen mountains and spires all about us. Many of the columns and
pinnacles and huge pieces of ice looked like crystal cathedrals and
palaces. In other places it appeared as if huge sea waves had been
instantaneously frozen. A grotto had been naturally formed, into which
four of us stepped. Deep crevasses, hundreds of feet deep, met us, some
narrow enough to leap over, and others we passed over on little ice
bridges our guides made for us. Midway we halted, looking about us, lost
in wonder and amazement, when suddenly we were brought back to everyday
life by a photographer, with his camera, suddenly appearing before us
asking in plain English if we would have our pictures taken. Where the
man came from we did not see, nor where he went we cared not, for we did
not choose to be served up on ice that day. We crossed safely and
recrossed at a different place, where the ice scenery varied as much as
mountain scenery does from various outlooks, and we felt that never in
our lives before had we seen anything so magnificent. As I was ascending
the jagged points of the cliff to step on land, something fluttered like
a feather before my eyes; but I soon saw that it was a butterfly; my
guide caught it for me, and I had, as my trophy, a pure-white butterfly.
My guide, an intelligent fellow, said he occasionally saw gray ones,
but had never before seen a pure-white one there. A few yards from this
sea of ice vegetation flourishes, and almost at its very edge I found a
cluster of little blossoms resembling our ‘forget-me-not,’ only white
instead of blue. They grew very close together, and none others of their
kind were to be seen, and they looked as though they realized that they
had been left out in the cold, far from home, and tried to comfort each
other.
At the hotel we had a poor dinner, for which we paid a big price, but
the magnificent views we here had from the house piazzas made up for it.
Clouds began to thicken and we made hasty preparations for our descent.
I exchanged mules, and the last one proved less frisky, but our going
down the mountain seemed more hazardous than going up. Pretty Miss M.,
of Nashville, Tennessee, with her bright golden hair streaming over her
blue cloth dress, led the van on my former steed, who, apparently
feeling proud of his lighter burden, behaved very well, but we had not
gone far when the rain poured as only it can pour in these mountains.
We were all provided with umbrellas, but I had to use my hands to hold
on to the pommel of my saddle, for my mule’s hind feet were higher than
his front ones, and I preferred getting wet to being dismounted. A boy
had trotted up the mountain with us, and kept near us on our way down,
so I gave him my umbrella, as it was impossible for me to use it, to
protect himself. (More of that umbrella later.) As we neared the valley
it ceased raining, the clouds broke, and for a little while the sun
shone brightly and sank slowly in the west just as we entered our hotel
yard, the young people exclaiming to those who came out to greet us, ‘We
have had a charming time,’ but I, with every article of clothing
thoroughly soaked, and my body feeling as if I had been under a
thrashing machine, parted with mule society most willingly.
Of our guides let me here say, in case you come this way some time, they
were all careful, polite, and attentive to us, and from mine, although
he could not speak one word of English, I gained considerable
information in regard to Chamouni guides. They are formed into a
society and are employed in rotation, sometimes showing sufficient
gallantry, however, to allow ladies travelling without gentlemen to
choose their guides, if for any reason they have a preference. These
men, before they can be accepted by the club, must be familiar with the
mountains and the glaciers and must be proven to be honest and reliable.
My guide was evidently a man of observation, and told me the guides all
liked Americans, they seemed to enjoy everything so much. ‘The American
ladies look happy; the English ladies are sad,’ he said, probably
meaning that they were not as enthusiastic, for the people of every
country like to have its wonders appreciated. With aching limbs I
retired early, and F. thought manipulation, with a little hot water and
whiskey, might ward off a severe cold, and I submitted to the treatment,
while the others, not a bit used up, went off for an evening’s ramble. I
think they must have been brought up on mules.
_Wednesday, July 11th._--When we went to pay our bill this morning we
found amongst the items charged, ‘eight glasses of whiskey.’ ‘What does
this mean?’ ‘Means that Madame has had eight glasses of whiskey.’ ‘There
is some mistake; the only whiskey we have had was about half a gill, and
probably not that, brought up to me in a wine-glass last night.’ ‘No,
Madame, no mistake; we are very particular.’ ‘Do I look like a woman
that has had eight glasses of whiskey? Take that off my bill, that I may
pay what I owe you,’ said I, and I immediately counted out the amount,
including one gill of whiskey. All of this in French, which I could not
talk fast enough to show him the depth of my anger. F. was getting
alarmed, and whispered, ‘Don’t mind; do pay it.’ ‘No, I will not pay one
sou of it, for we do not owe it,’ and the clerk, seeing that I was
determined, accepted what I gave him and receipted the bill. Now if that
man was honest, he thinks we have defrauded him; if not honest, he will
conclude American ladies are business-like at least.
After this scene we were about ready to jog along, our carriage in the
yard waiting for us, to which I went to deposit some wraps, when my boy
of yesterday made his appearance, and said, ‘I want my pay for carrying
your umbrella.’ I looked at him with the stare of a maniac! ‘Pay! why, I
loaned it to you, to keep you dry.’ I was in no mood to be imposed upon;
but the boy began to cry, so I gave him a penny or two, and wondered
what would be the next demand.
The carriage which was to take us to Martigny was like a buggy with the
top tipped back, and a comfortable seat for us two and a short seat
front of us for our driver. Two good horses and a bright morning. Our
tickets had been purchased for this trip ‘half way by mule,’ but by
losing something, I was enabled to exchange them. No more mule riding
for me! We were told by friends that if others were going over the same
route, by joining forces and hiring a two-seated vehicle, expenses for
all would be much less. We spoke of this at the hotel office the day
before, twice, but were each time assured that there was no one else
going, and consequently our day’s trip was a costly one. At nine A.M. we
bade our friends, who were going on to Geneva, adieu, and saw the last
of Chamouni.
The Swiss are considered an honest people, but they either show great
carelessness or we have several times been cheated. At the Baths of St.
Gervais, upon paying for our dinner, they did not return to us enough
change; we both knew they did not, and yet the man who took the money
declared they did, and as we had not time to contend the case, we let it
go. To be sure, there is some dishonesty everywhere, and some honesty
that is a little hard to understand. The whiskey case might have been of
that class; something like the bills of some American dressmakers, who,
after charging for every possible thing that could be used in making a
dress, modestly put at the end of the long list: ‘Findings, one dollar.’
I have never been able to find out the definition of that word
‘findings.’
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