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Scrambles Amongst the Alps in the Years 1860-69

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Title: Scrambles Amongst the Alps in the Years 1860-69

Author: Edward Whymper


        
Release date: October 29, 2012 [eBook #41234]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SCRAMBLES AMONGST THE ALPS IN THE YEARS 1860-69 ***

Scrambles Amongst the Alps
In the years 1860-69

By Edward Whymper

[Illustration]

London
J. Murray
1871

Toil and pleasure, in their natures opposite, are yet linked together
in a kind of necessary connection.—LIVY.


Contents

 PREFACE

 CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTORY
 CHAPTER II. THE ASCENT OF MONT PELVOUX.
 CHAPTER III. THE MONT CENIS—THE FELL RAILWAY
 CHAPTER IV. MY FIRST SCRAMBLE ON THE MATTERHORN
 CHAPTER V. RENEWED ATTEMPTS TO ASCEND THE MATTERHORN
 CHAPTER VI. THE VAL TOURNANCHE—THE BREUILJOCH—ZERMATT—ASCENT OF THE
             GRAND TOURNALIN
 CHAPTER VII. OUR SIXTH ATTEMPT TO ASCEND THE MATTERHORN
 CHAPTER VIII. FROM ST. MICHEL TO LA BÉRARDE ON THE MONT CENIS ROAD, BY
               THE COL DES AIGUILLES, D’ARVE, COL DE MARTIGNARE AND THE
               BRÈCHE DE LA MEIJE
 CHAPTER IX. THE ASCENT OF THE POINTE DES ÉCRINS
 CHAPTER X. FROM VAL LOUISE TO LA BÉRARDE BY THE COL DE PILATTE
 CHAPTER XI. PASSAGE OF THE COL DE TRIOLET, AND ASCENTS OF MONT DOLENT,
             AIGUILLE DE TRÉLATÊTE AND AIGUILLE D’ARGENTIÈRE
 CHAPTER XII. THE MOMING PASS—ZERMATT
 CHAPTER XIII. THE ASCENT OF THE GRAND CORNIER
 CHAPTER XIV. THE ASCENT OF THE DENT BLANCHE
 CHAPTER XV. LOST ON THE COL D’HÉRENS—MY SEVENTH ATTEMPT TO ASCEND THE
             MATTERHORN
 CHAPTER XVI. VALLEY OF AOSTA, AND ASCENT OF THE GRANDES JORASSES
 CHAPTER XVII. THE COL DOLENT
 CHAPTER XVIII. ASCENT OF THE AIGUILLE VERTE
 CHAPTER XIX. THE COL DE TALÈFRE
 CHAPTER XX. ASCENT OF THE RUINETTE—THE MATTERHORN
 CHAPTER XXI. THE ASCENT OF THE MATTERHORN
 CHAPTER XXII. DESCENT OF THE MATTERHORN

 APPENDIX

List of Illustrations

Full Page Illustrations

 1. FOG-BOW SEEN FROM THE MATTERHORN ON JULY 14, 1885
 2. MONT PELVOUX AND THE ALÉFROIDE, FROM NEAR MONT DAUPHIN
 3. THE MONT CENIS ROAD AND THE FELL RAILWAY NEAR THE SUMMIT OF THE
    PASS, ON THE ITALIAN SIDE
 4. THE MATTERHORN FROM NEAR THE SUMMIT OF THE THEODULE PASS
 5. “THE CHIMNEY”
 6. “IN ATTEMPTING TO PASS THE CORNER I SLIPPED AND FELL”
 7. A CANNONADE ON THE MATTERHORN (1862)
 8. THE CRAGS OF THE MATTERHORN, DURING THE STORM, MIDNIGHT, AUGUST
    10, 1863
 9. DESCENDING THE WESTERN ARÊTE OF THE POINTE DES ÉCRINS
 10. “WE SAW A TOE—IT SEEMED TO BELONG TO MOORE—WE SAW REYNAULD A
     FLYING BODY.”
 11. THE SUMMIT OF THE MOMING PASS IN 1861
 12. THE CLUB-ROOM OF ZERMATT IN 1864
 13. THE BERGSCHRUND ON THE DENT BLANCHE IN 1865
 14. THE MATTERHORN FROM THE RIFFELBERG
 15. THE GRANDES JORASSES AND THE DOIRE TORRENT, VAL FERRET (D’ITALIE)
 16. THE SUMMIT OF THE COL DOLENT
 17. PINNACLES NEAR SACHAS IN THE VALLEY OF THE DURANCE, FORMED FROM AN
     OLD MORAINE


In the Text

 Beachy Head
 The Devil of Notre Dame
 Mules
 A Curé in Difficulties
 Which is the Brute?
 At the St. Bernard
 “Garibaldi!”
 Briançon
 Mont Pelvoux from above La Bessée
 In the Val d’Alefred
 The Grand Pelvoux de Val Louise
 Buttresses of Mont Pelvoux
 Portrait of R.J.S. Macdonald
 Outline to Show Route up Mont Pelvoux
 The Blanket Bag
 Natural Pillar near Molines
 Crossing Mont Cenis
 The Little Postilion
 The Centre Rail on a Curve
 Section of the Fell Railway
 The Covered Ways of the Fell Railway
 The Centre Rail Break
 The Matterhorn from the north-east
 Portrait of J.J. Bennen
 Portrait of Jean-Antoine Carrel
 The Col du Lion: Looking towards the Tête du Lion
 Diagram to show manner of fastening Tent-poles
 Alpine Tent
 Climbing Claw
 Rope and Ring
 At Breil (Giomein)
 The Matterhorn from Breil
 “But what is this?”
 An Arch of the Aqueduct in the Val Tournanche
 Water-worn Rocks in the Gorge below the Gorner Glacier
 Striations produced by Glacier action
 “Carrel lowered me down”
 Portrait of Monsieur Favre
 Crossing the Channel
 Portrait of Michel-Auguste Croz
 The Aiguilles d’Arve from above Chalets of Rieu Blanc
 Portrait of Melchior Anderegg
 Map of the Brèche de la Meije, etc.
 The Vallon des Etançons
 Map of the Central Dauphiné Alps
 The Pointe des Ecrins from the Col du Galibier
 Outline to show Route up Pointe des Ecrins
 Fragment from the Summit of the Pointe des Ecrins
 A Night with Croz
 A Snow Couloir
 Portraits of Mr. Reilly on a wet day
 Our Camp on Mont Suc
 Ice-Avalanche on the Moming Pass
 Part of the Southern Ridge of the Grand Cornier
 Part of the Northern Ridge of the Grand Cornier
 Portrait of Leslie Stephen
 Portrait of T.S. Kennedy
 Diagrams to show Dip of Strata on the Matterhorn
 My Tent-bearer—The Hunchback
 The Bouquetin
 A Crétin of Aosta
 My Ice-axe
 Kennedy Ice-axe
 Crampon
 Portrait of Christian Almer
 On the Mer de Glace
 Ice-Pinnacles on the Mer de Glace
 Western Side of the Col de Talèfre
 Glissading
 The Wrong Way to use a Rope on Glacier
 The Right Way to use a Rope on Glacier
 “Croz! Croz!! Come here”
 The Summit of the Matterhorn
 The Actual Summit of the Matterhorn in 1865
 Rope broken on the Matterhorn
 Portrait of Monsieur Seiler
 Manilla Rope broken on the Matterhorn
 The “Second” Rope broken on the Matterhorn
 The End




PREFACE.


In the year 1860, shortly before leaving England for a long Continental
tour, a certain eminent London publisher requested me to make for him
some sketches of the great Alpine peaks. At this time I had only a
literary acquaintance with mountaineering, and had even not seen—much
less set foot upon—a mountain. Amongst the peaks which were upon my
list was Mont Pelvoux, in Dauphine. The sketches that were required of
it were to celebrate the triumph of some Englishmen who intended to
make its ascent. They came—they saw—but they did not conquer. By a mere
chance I fell in with a very agreeable Frenchman who accompanied this
party, and was pressed by him to return to the assault. In 1861 we did
so, with my friend Macdonald, and we conquered. This was the origin of
my scrambles amongst the Alps.

The ascent of Mont Pelvoux (including the disagreeables) was a very
delightful scramble. The mountain air did _not_ act as an emetic; the
sky did _not_ look black instead of blue; nor did I feel tempted to
throw myself over precipices. I hastened to enlarge my experience, and
went to the Matterhorn. I was urged toward Mont Pelvoux by those
mysterious impulses which cause men to peer into the unknown. Not only
was this mountain reputed to be the highest in France, and on that
account was worthy of attention, but it was the dominating point of a
most picturesque district of the highest interest, which, to this day,
remains almost unexplored. The Matterhorn attracted me simply by its
grandeur. It was considered to be the most thoroughly inaccessible of
all mountains, even by those who ought to have known better. Stimulated
to make fresh exertions by one repulse after another, I returned, year
after year, as I had opportunity, more and more determined to find a
way up it, or to _prove_ it to be really inaccessible.

A considerable portion of this volume is occupied by the history of
these attacks on the Matterhorn, and the other excursions that are
described have all some connection, more or less remote, with that
mountain or with Mont Pelvoux. All are new excursions (that is,
excursions made for the first time), unless the contrary is pointed
out. Some have been passed over very briefly, and entire ascents or
descents have been disposed of in a single line. If they had been
worked out at full length, three volumes instead of one would have been
required. Generally speaking, the salient points alone have been dwelt
upon, and the rest has been left to the imagination. This treatment has
saved the reader from much useless repetition.

In endeavoring to make the book of some use to those who may wish to go
mountain-scrambling, whether in the Alps or elsewhere, undue
prominence, perhaps, has been given to our mistakes and failures; and
it will doubtless be pointed out that our practice must have been bad
if the principles which are laid down are sound, or that the principles
must be unsound if the practice was good. It is maintained in an early
chapter that the positive, or unavoidable, dangers of mountaineering
are very small, yet from subsequent pages it can be shown that very
considerable risks were run. The reason is obvious—we were not
immaculate. Our blunders are not held up to be admired or to be
imitated, but to be avoided.

These scrambles amongst the Alps were holiday excursions, and as such
they should be judged. They are spoken of as sport, and nothing more.
The pleasure that they gave me cannot, I fear, be transferred to
others. The ablest pens have failed, and must always fail, to give a
true idea of the grandeur of the Alps. The most minute descriptions of
the greatest writers do nothing more than convey impressions that are
entirely erroneous—the reader conjures up visions, it may be
magnificent ones, but they are infinitely inferior to the reality. I
have dealt sparingly in descriptions, and have employed illustrations
freely, in the hope that the pencil may perhaps succeed where the pen
must inevitably have failed.

The preparation of the illustrations has occupied a large part of my
time during the last six years. With the exception of the views upon
pp. 21, 23 and 33, the whole of the illustrations have been engraved
expressly for the book, and, unless it is otherwise specified, all are
from my own sketches. About fifty have been drawn on the wood by Mr.
James Mahoney, and I am much indebted to that artist for the care and
fidelity with which he has followed my slight memoranda, and for the
spirit that he has put into his admirable designs. Most of his drawings
will be identified by his monogram. Twenty of the remainder are the
work of Mr. Cyrus Johnston, and out of these I would draw especial
attention to the view of the Matterhorn facing p. 36, the striated rock
upon p. 63, and the bits from the Mer de Glace upon pp. 138, 139. The
illustrations have been introduced as illustrations, and very rarely
for ornamental purposes. We have subordinated everything in them to
accuracy, and it is only fair to the artists who have honored me by
their assistance to say that many of their designs would have ranked
higher as works of art if they had been subjected to fewer
restrictions.

[Illustration: BEACHY HEAD]




CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTORY.


On the 23d of July, 1860, I started for my first tour in the Alps. As
we steamed out into the Channel, Beachy Head came into view, and
recalled a scramble of many years ago. With the impudence of ignorance,
my brother and I, schoolboys both, had tried to scale that great chalk
cliff. Not the head itself—where sea-birds circle, and where the flints
are ranged so orderly in parallel lines—but at a place more to the
east, where the pinnacle called the Devil’s Chimney had fallen down.
Since that time we have been often in dangers of different kinds, but
never have we more nearly broken our necks than upon that occasion.

In Paris I made two ascents. The first to the seventh floor of a house
in the Quartier Latin—to an artist friend, who was engaged, at the
moment of my entry, in combat with a little Jew. He hurled him with
great good-will and with considerable force into some of his crockery,
and then recommended me to go up the towers of Notre Dame. Half an hour
later I stood on the parapet of the great west front, by the side of
the leering fiend which for centuries has looked down upon the great
city. It looked over the Hôtel Dieu to a small and commonplace
building, around which there was always a moving crowd. To that
building I descended. It was filled with chattering women and eager
children, who were struggling to get a good sight of three corpses
which were exposed to view. It was the Morgue. I quitted the place
disgusted, and overheard two women discussing the spectacle. One of
them concluded with, “But that it is droll;” the other answered
approvingly, “But that it is droll;” and the Devil of Notre Dame,
looking down upon them, seemed to say, “Yes, your climax, the
cancan—your end, not uncommonly, that building: it is droll, but that
it is droll.”

[Illustration]

I passed on to Switzerland; saw the sunlight lingering on the giants of
the Oberland; heard the echoes from the cow horns in the Lauterbrunnen
valley and the avalanches rattling off the Jungfrau; and then crossed
the Gemmi into the Valais, resting for a time by the beautiful
Oeschinen See, and getting a forcible illustration of glacier-motion in
a neighboring valley—the Gasteren Thal. The upper end of this valley is
crowned by the Tschingel glacier, which, as it descends, passes over an
abrupt cliff that is in the centre of its course. On each side the
continuity of the glacier is maintained, but in the centre it is cleft
in twain by the cliff. Lower down it is consolidated again. I scrambled
on to this lower portion, advanced toward the cliff, and then stopped
to admire the contrast of the brilliant pinnacles of ice with the blue
sky. Without a warning, a huge slice of the glacier broke away and fell
over the cliff on to the lower portion with a thundering crash.
Fragments rolled beyond me, although, fortunately, not in my direction.
I fled, and did not stop until off the glacier, but before it was
quitted learned another lesson in glacial matters: the terminal
moraine, which seemed to be a solid mound, broke away underneath me,
and showed that it was only a superficial covering resting on a slope
of glassy ice.

[Illustration]

On the steep path over the Gemmi there were opportunities for observing
the manners and customs of the Swiss mule. It is not perhaps in revenge
for generations of ill-treatment that the mule grinds one’s legs
against fences and stone walls, and pretends to stumble in awkward
places, particularly when coming round corners and on the brinks of
precipices; but their evil habit of walking on the outside edges of
paths (even in the most unguarded positions) is one that is distinctly
the result of association with man. The transport of wood from the
mountains into the valleys occupies most of the mules during a
considerable portion of the year: the fagots into which the wood is
made up project some distance on each side, and it is said that they
walk intuitively to the outside of paths having rocks on the other side
to avoid the collisions which would otherwise occur. When they carry
tourists they behave in a similar manner; and no doubt when the good
time for mules arrives, and they no longer carry burdens, they will
still continue, by natural selection, to do the same. This habit
frequently gives rise to scenes: two mules meet—each wishes to pass on
the outside, and neither will give way. It requires considerable
persuasion, through the medium of the tail, before such difficulties
are arranged.

I visited the baths of Leuk, and saw the queer assemblage of men, women
and children, attired in bathing-gowns, chatting, drinking and playing
at chess in the water. The company did not seem to be perfectly sure
whether it was decorous in such a situation and in such attire for
elderly men to chase young females from one corner to another, but it
was unanimous in howling at the advent of a stranger who remained
covered, and literally yelled when I departed without exhibiting my
sketch.

I trudged up the Rhone valley, and turned aside at Visp to go up the
Visp Thal, where one would expect to see greater traces of glacial
action, if a glacier formerly filled it, as one is said to have done.

I was bound for the valley of Saas, and my work took me high up the
Alps on either side, far beyond the limit of trees and the tracks of
tourists. The view from the slopes of the Wiessmies, on the eastern
side of the valley, five or six thousand feet above the village of
Saas, is perhaps the finest of its kind in the Alps. The full height of
the three-peaked Mischabel (the highest mountain in Switzerland) is
seen at one glance—eleven thousand feet of dense forests, green alps,
pinnacles of rock and glittering glaciers. The peaks seemed to me then
to be hopelessly inaccessible from this direction.

[Illustration]

I descended the valley to the village of Stalden, and then went up the
Visp Thal to Zermatt, and stopped there several days. Numerous traces
of the formidable earthquake-shocks of five years before still
remained, particularly at St. Nicholas, where the inhabitants had been
terrified beyond measure at the destruction of their churches and
houses. At this place, as well as at Visp, a large part of the
population was obliged to live under canvas for several months. It is
remarkable that there was hardly a life lost on this occasion, although
there were about fifty shocks, some of which were very severe.

At Zermatt I wandered in many directions, but the weather was bad and
my work was much retarded. One day, after spending a long time in
attempts to sketch near the Hörnli, and in futile endeavors to seize
the forms of the peaks as they for a few seconds peered out from above
the dense banks of woolly clouds, I determined not to return to Zermatt
by the usual path, but to cross the Görner glacier to the Riffel hotel.
After a rapid scramble over the polished rocks and snow-beds which
skirt the base of the Théodule glacier, and wading through some of the
streams which flow from it, at that time much swollen by the late
rains, the first difficulty was arrived at, in the shape of a precipice
about three hundred feet high. It seemed that there would be no
difficulty in crossing the glacier if the cliff could be descended, but
higher up and lower down the ice appeared, to my inexperienced eyes, to
be impassable for a single person. The general contour of the cliff was
nearly perpendicular, but it was a good deal broken up, and there was
little difficulty in descending by zigzagging from one mass to another.
At length there was a long slab, nearly smooth, fixed at an angle of
about forty degrees between two wall-sided pieces of rock: nothing,
except the glacier, could be seen below. It was a very awkward place,
but being doubtful if return were possible, as I had been dropping from
one ledge to another, I passed at length by lying across the slab,
putting the shoulder stiffly against one side and the feet against the
other, and gradually wriggling down, by first moving the legs and then
the back. When the bottom of the slab was gained a friendly crack was
seen, into which the point of the bâton could be stuck, and I dropped
down to the next piece. It took a long time coming down that little bit
of cliff, and for a few seconds it was satisfactory to see the ice
close at hand. In another moment a second difficulty presented itself.
The glacier swept round an angle of the cliff, and as the ice was not
of the nature of treacle or thin putty, it kept away from the little
bay on the edge of which I stood. We were not widely separated, but the
edge of the ice was higher than the opposite edge of rock, and worse,
the rock was covered with loose earth and stones which had fallen from
above. All along the side of the cliff, as far as could be seen in both
directions, the ice did not touch it, but there was this marginal
crevasse, seven feet wide and of unknown depth.

All this was seen at a glance, and almost at once I concluded that I
could not jump the crevasse, and began to try along the cliff lower
down, but without success, for the ice rose higher and higher, until at
last farther progress was stopped by the cliffs becoming perfectly
smooth. With an axe it would have been possible to cut up the side of
the ice—without one, I saw there was no alternative but to return and
face the jump.

It was getting toward evening, and the solemn stillness of the High
Alps was broken only by the sound of rushing water or of falling rocks.
If the jump should be successful, well: if not, I fell into that
horrible chasm, to be frozen in, or drowned in that gurgling, rushing
water. Everything depended on that jump. Again I asked myself, “Can it
be done?” It _must_ be. So, finding my stick was useless, I threw it
and the sketch-book to the ice, and first retreating as far as
possible, ran forward with all my might, took the leap, barely reached
the other side, and fell awkwardly on my knees. Almost at the same
moment a shower of stones fell on the spot from which I had jumped.

The glacier was crossed without further trouble, but the Riffel, which
was then a very small building, was crammed with tourists, and could
not take me in. As the way down was unknown to me, some of the people
obligingly suggested getting a man at the châlets, otherwise the path
would be certainly lost in the forest. On arriving at the châlets no
man could be found, and the lights of Zermatt, shining through the
trees, seemed to say, “Never mind a guide, but come along down: we’ll
show you the way;” so off I went through the forest, going straight
toward them. The path was lost in a moment, and was never recovered: I
was tripped up by pine roots, I tumbled over rhododendron bushes, I
fell over rocks. The night was pitch-dark, and after a time the lights
of Zermatt became obscure or went out altogether. By a series of slides
or falls, or evolutions more or less disagreeable, the descent through
the forest was at length accomplished, but torrents of a formidable
character had still to be passed before one could arrive at Zermatt. I
felt my way about for hours, almost hopelessly, by an exhaustive
process at last discovering a bridge, and about midnight, covered with
dirt and scratches, re-entered the inn which I had quitted in the
morning.

Others besides tourists got into difficulties. A day or two afterward,
when on the way to my old station near the Hörnli, I met a stout curé
who had essayed to cross the Théodule pass. His strength or his wind
had failed, and he was being carried down, a helpless bundle and a
ridiculous spectacle, on the back of a lanky guide, while the peasants
stood by with folded hands, their reverence for the Church almost
overcome by their sense of the ludicrous.

I descended the valley, diverging from the path at Randa to mount the
slopes of the Dom (the highest of the Mischabelhorner), in order to see
the Weisshorn face to face. The latter mountain is the noblest in
Switzerland, and from this direction it looks especially magnificent.
On its north there is a large snowy plateau that feeds the glacier of
which a portion is seen from Randa, and which on more than one occasion
has destroyed that village. From the direction of the Dom—that is,
immediately opposite—this Bies glacier seems to descend nearly
vertically: it does not do so, although it is very steep. Its size is
much less than formerly, and the lower portion, now divided into three
tails, clings in a strange, weird-like manner to the cliffs, to which
it seems scarcely possible that it can remain attached.

Unwillingly I parted from the sight of this glorious mountain, and went
down to Visp. A party of English tourists had passed up the valley a
short time before with a mule. The party numbered nine—eight women and
a governess. The mule carried their luggage, and was ridden by each in
turn. The peasants—themselves not unaccustomed to overload their
beasts—were struck with astonishment at the unwonted sight, and made
comments, more free than welcome to English ears, on the nonchalance
with which young miss sat, calm and collected, on the miserable beast,
while it was struggling under her weight combined with that of the
luggage. The story was often repeated; and it tends to sustain some of
the hard things which have been said of late about young ladies from
the ages of twelve or fourteen to eighteen.

[Illustration]

Arriving once more in the Rhone valley, I proceeded to Viesch, and from
thence ascended the Æggischhorn, on which unpleasant eminence I lost my
way in a fog, and my temper shortly afterward. Then, after crossing the
Grimsel in a severe thunderstorm, I passed on to Brienz, Interlachen
and Berne, and thence to Fribourg and Morat, Neuchâtel, Martigny and
the St. Bernard. The massive walls of the convent were a welcome sight
as I waded through the snow-beds near the summit of the pass, and
pleasant also was the courteous salutation of the brother who bade me
enter. He wondered at the weight of my knapsack, and I at the hardness
of their bread. The saying that the monks make the toast in the winter
that they give to tourists in the following season is not founded on
truth: the winter is their most busy time of the year. But it _is_ true
they have exercised so much hospitality that at times they have not
possessed the means to furnish the fuel for heating their chapel in the
winter.

[Illustration]

Instead of descending to Aosta, I turned aside into the Val Pelline, in
order to obtain views of the Dent d’Erin. The night had come on before
Biona was gained, and I had to knock long and loud upon the door of the
curé’s house before it was opened. An old woman with querulous voice
and with a large goître answered the summons, and demanded rather
sharply what was wanted, but became pacific, almost good-natured, when
a five-franc piece was held in her face and she heard that lodging and
supper were requested in exchange.

My directions asserted that a passage existed from Prerayen, at the
head of this valley, to Breuil, in the Val Tournanche, and the old
woman, now convinced of my respectability, busied herself to find a
guide. Presently she introduced a native picturesquely attired in
high-peaked hat, braided jacket, scarlet waistcoat and indigo
pantaloons, who agreed to take me to the village of Val Tournanche. We
set off early on the next morning, and got to the summit of the pass
without difficulty. It gave me my first experience of considerable
slopes of hard, steep snow, and, like all beginners, I endeavored to
prop myself up with my stick, and kept it _outside_, instead of holding
it between myself and the slope, and leaning upon it, as should have
been done. The man enlightened me, but he had, properly, a very small
opinion of his employer, and it is probably on that account that, a few
minutes after we had passed the summit, he said he would not go any
farther and would return to Biona. All argument was useless: he stood
still, and to everything that was said answered nothing but that he
would go back. Being rather nervous about descending some long
snow-slopes which still intervened between us and the head of the
valley, I offered more pay, and he went on a little way. Presently
there were some cliffs, down which we had to scramble. He called to me
to stop, then shouted that he would go back, and beckoned to me to come
up. On the contrary, I waited for him to come down, but instead of
doing so, in a second or two he turned round, clambered deliberately up
the cliff and vanished. I supposed it was only a ruse to extort offers
of more money, and waited for half an hour, but he did not appear
again. This was rather embarrassing, for he carried off my knapsack.
The choice of action lay between chasing him and going on to Breuil,
risking the loss of my knapsack. I chose the latter course, and got to
Breuil the same evening. The landlord of the inn, suspicious of a
person entirely innocent of luggage, was doubtful if he could admit me,
and eventually thrust me into a kind of loft, which was already
occupied by guides and by hay. In later years we became good friends,
and he did not hesitate to give credit and even to advance considerable
sums.

My sketches from Breuil were made under difficulties: my materials had
been carried off, nothing better than fine sugar-paper could be
obtained, and the pencils seemed to contain more silica than plumbago.
However, they _were_ made, and the pass was again crossed, this time
alone. By the following evening the old woman of Biona again produced
the faithless guide. The knapsack was recovered after the lapse of
several hours, and then I poured forth all the terms of abuse and
reproach of which I was master. The man smiled when called a liar, and
shrugged his shoulders when referred to as a thief, but drew his knife
when spoken of as a pig.

The following night was spent at Cormayeur, and the day after I crossed
the Col Ferrex to Orsières, and on the next the Tête Noir to Chamounix.
The Emperor Napoleon arrived the same day, and access to the Mer de
Glace was refused to tourists; but, by scrambling along the Plan des
Aiguilles, I managed to outwit the guards, and to arrive at the
Montanvert as the imperial party was leaving, failing to get to the
Jardin the same afternoon, but very nearly succeeding in breaking a leg
by dislodging great rocks on the moraine of the glacier.

From Chamounix I went to Geneva, and thence by the Mont Cenis to Turin
and to the Vaudois valleys. A long and weary day had ended when Paesana
was reached. The inn was full, and I was tired and about to go to bed
when some village stragglers entered and began to sing. They sang to
Garibaldi! The tenor, a ragged fellow, whose clothes were not worth a
shilling, took the lead with wonderful expression and feeling. The
others kept their places and sang in admirable time. For hours I sat
enchanted, and long after I retired the sound of their melody could be
heard, relieved at times by the treble of the girl who belonged to the
inn.

[Illustration: GARIBALDI!]

The next morning I passed the little lakes which are the sources of the
Po, on my way into France. The weather was stormy, and misinterpreting
the patois of some natives—who in reality pointed out the right way—I
missed the track, and found myself under the cliffs of Monte Viso. A
gap that was occasionally seen in the ridge connecting it with the
mountains to the east tempted me up, and after a battle with a
snow-slope of excessive steepness, I reached the summit. The scene was
extraordinary, and, in my experience, unique. To the north there was
not a particle of mist, and the violent wind coming from that direction
blew one back staggering. But on the side of Italy the valleys were
completely filled with dense masses of cloud to a certain level; and
there—where they felt the influence of the wind—they were cut off as
level as the top of a table, the ridges appearing above them.

I raced down to Abries, and went on through the gorge of the Guil to
Mont Dauphin. The next day found me at La Bessée, at the junction of
the Val Louise with the valley of the Durance, in full view of Mont
Pelvoux; and by chance I walked into a cabaret where a Frenchman was
breakfasting who a few days before had made an unsuccessful attempt to
ascend that mountain with three Englishmen and the guide Michel Croz of
Chamounix—a right good fellow, by name Jean Reynaud.

The same night I slept at Briançon, intending to take the courier on
the following day to Grenoble, but all places had been secured several
days beforehand, so I set out at two P.M. on the next, day for a
seventy-mile walk. The weather was again bad, and on the summit of the
Col de Lautaret I was forced to seek shelter in the wretched little
hospice. It was filled with workmen who were employed on the road, and
with noxious vapors which proceeded from them. The inclemency of the
weather was preferable to the inhospitality of the interior. Outside,
it was disagreeable, but grand—inside, it was disagreeable and mean.
The walk was continued under a deluge of rain, and I felt the way down,
so intense was the darkness, to the village of La Grave, where the
people of the inn detained me forcibly. It was perhaps fortunate that
they did so, for during that night blocks of rock fell at several
places from the cliffs on to the road with such force that they made
large holes in the macadam, which looked as if there had been
explosions of gunpowder. I resumed the walk at half-past five next
morning, and proceeded, under steady rain, through Bourg d’Oysans to
Grenoble, arriving at the latter place soon after seven P. M., having
accomplished the entire distance from Briançon in about eighteen hours
of actual walking. This was the end of the Alpine portion of my tour of
1860, on which I was introduced to the great peaks, and acquired the
passion for mountain-scrambling the development of which is described
in the following chapters.

[Illustration: BRIANÇON]




CHAPTER II.
THE ASCENT OF MONT PELVOUX.


The district of which Mont Pelvoux and the neighboring summits are the
culminating points is, both historically and topographically, one of
the most interesting in the Alps. As the nursery and the home of the
Vaudois, it has claims to permanent attention: the names of Waldo and
of Neff will be remembered when men more famous in their time are
forgotten, and the memory of the heroic courage and the simple piety of
their disciples will endure as long as history lasts.

This district contains the highest summits in France, and some of its
finest scenery. It has not perhaps the beauties of Switzerland, but has
charms of its own: its cliffs, its torrents and its gorges are
unsurpassed, its deep and savage valleys present pictures of grandeur,
and even sublimity, and it is second to none in the boldness of its
mountain forms.

The district includes a mass of valleys which vie with each other in
singularity of character and dissimilarity of climate. Some the rays of
the sun can never reach, they are so deep and narrow. In others the
very antipodes may be found, the temperature more like that of the
plains of Italy than of alpine France. This great range of climate has
a marked effect on the flora of these valleys: sterility reigns in
some, stones take the place of trees, débris and mud replace plants and
flowers: in others, in the space of a few miles, one passes vines,
apple, pear and cherry trees, the birch, alder, walnut, ash, larch and
pine alternating with fields of rye, barley, oats, beans and potatoes.

The valleys are for the most part short and erratic. They are not,
apparently, arranged on any definite plan: they are not disposed, as is
frequently the case elsewhere, either at right angles to, or parallel
with, the highest summits, but they wander hither and thither, taking
one direction for a few miles, then doubling back, and then perhaps
resuming their original course. Thus long perspectives are rarely to be
seen, and it is difficult to form a general idea of the disposition of
the peaks.

The highest summits are arranged almost in a horse-shoe form. The
highest of all, which occupies a central position, is the Pointe des
Écrins; the second in height, the Meije, is on the north; and the Mont
Pelvoux, which gives its name to the entire block, stands almost
detached by itself on the outside.

At the beginning of July, 1861, I despatched to Reynaud from Havre
blankets (which were taxed as “prohibited fabrics”), rope, and other
things desirable for the excursion, and set out on the tour of France,
but four weeks later, at Nimes, found myself completely collapsed by
the heat, then 94° Fahr. in the shade, so I took a night train at once
to Grenoble.

I lost my way in the streets of this picturesque but noisome town, and
having but a half hour left in which to get a dinner and take a place
in the diligence, was not well pleased to hear that an Englishman
wished to see me. It turned out to be my friend Macdonald, who confided
to me that he was going to try to ascend a mountain called Pelvoux in
the course of ten days, but on hearing of my intentions agreed to join
us at La Bessée on the 3d of August. In a few moments more I was
perched in the banquette _en route_ for Bourg d’Oysans, in a miserable
vehicle which took nearly eight hours to accomplish less than thirty
miles.

At five on a lovely morning I shouldered my knapsack and started for
Briançon. Gauzy mists clung to the mountains, but melted away when
touched by the sun, and disappeared by jerks (in the manner of views
when focused in a magic lantern), revealing the wonderfully bent and
folded strata in the limestone cliffs behind the town. Then I entered
the Combe de Malval, and heard the Romanche eating its way through that
wonderful gorge, and passed on to Le Dauphin, where the first glacier
came into view, tailing over the mountain-side on the right. From this
place until the summit of the Col de Lautaret was passed, every gap in
the mountains showed a glittering glacier or a soaring peak: the finest
view was at La Grave, where the Meije rises by a series of tremendous
precipices eight thousand feet above the road. The finest distant view
of the pass is seen after crossing the col, near Monetier. A mountain,
commonly supposed to be Monte Viso, appears at the end of the vista,
shooting into the sky: in the middle distance, but still ten miles off,
is Briançon with its interminable forts, and in the foreground, leading
down to the Guisane and rising high up the neighboring slopes, are
fertile fields, studded with villages and church-spires. The next day I
walked over from Briançon to La Bessée, to my worthy friend Jean
Reynaud, the surveyor of roads of his district.

[Illustration: MONT PELVOUX FROM ABOVE BESSÉE]

All the peaks of Mont Pelvoux are well seen from La Bessée—the highest
point as well as that upon which the French engineers erected their
cairn in 1828. Neither Reynaud nor any one else knew this. The natives
knew only that the engineers had ascended one peak, and had seen from
that a still higher point, which they called the Pointe des Arcines or
des Écrins. They could not say whether this latter could be seen from
La Bessée, nor could they tell the peak upon which the cairn had been
erected. We were under the impression that the highest point was
concealed by the peaks we saw, and would be gained by passing over
them. They knew nothing of the ascent of Monsieur Puiseux, and they
confidently asserted that the highest point of Mont Pelvoux had not
been attained by any one: it was this point we wished to reach.

Nothing prevented our starting at once but the absence of Macdonald and
the want of a bâton. Reynaud suggested a visit to the postmaster, who
possessed a bâton of local celebrity. Down we went to the bureau, but
it was closed: we hallooed through the slits, but no answer. At last
the postmaster was discovered endeavoring (with very fair success) to
make himself intoxicated. He was just able to ejaculate, “France! ’tis
the first nation in the world!”—a phrase used by a Frenchman when in
the state in which a Briton begins to shout, “We won’t go home till
morning,” national glory being uppermost in the thoughts of one, and
home in those of the other. The bâton was produced: it was a branch of
a young oak, about five feet long, gnarled and twisted in several
directions. “Sir,” said the postmaster, as he presented it, “France!
’tis the first—the first nation in the world, by its—” He stuck.
“Bâtons,” I suggested. “Yes, yes, sir: by its bâtons, by its—its—” and
here he could not get on at all. As I looked at this young limb, I
thought of my own; but Reynaud, who knew everything about everybody in
the village, said there was not a better one; so off we went with it,
leaving the official staggering in the road, and muttering, “France!
’tis the first nation in the world!”

The 3d of August came, but Macdonald did not appear, so we started for
the Val Louise, our party consisting of Reynaud, myself and a porter,
Jean Casimir Giraud, nicknamed “Little Nails,” the shoemaker of the
place. An hour and a half’s smart walking took us to La Ville de Val
Louise, our hearts gladdened by the glorious peaks of Pelvoux shining
out without a cloud around them. I renewed acquaintance with the mayor
of La Ville. His aspect was original and his manners were gracious, but
the odor which proceeded from him was dreadful. The same may be said of
most of the inhabitants of these valleys.

Reynaud kindly undertook to look after the commissariat, and I found to
my annoyance, when we were about to leave, that I had given tacit
consent to a small wine-cask being carried with us, which was a great
nuisance from the commencement. It was excessively awkward to handle:
one man tried to carry it, and then another, and at last it was slung
from one of our bâtons, and was carried by two, which gave our party
the appearance of a mechanical diagram to illustrate the uses of
levers.

At La Ville the Val Louise splits into two branches—the Val
d’Entraigues on the left, and the Vallon d’Alefred (or Ailefroide) the
right: our route was the latter, and we moved steadily forward to the
village of La Pisse, where Pierre Sémiond lived, who was reputed to
know more about the Pelvoux than any other man. He looked an honest
fellow, but unfortunately he was ill and could not come. He recommended
his brother, an aged creature, whose furrowed and wrinkled face hardly
seemed to announce the man we wanted; but, having no choice, we engaged
him and again set forth.

[Illustration: IN THE VAL D’ALEFRED]

Walnut and a great variety of other trees gave shadow to our path and
fresh vigor to our limbs, while below, in a sublime gorge, thundered
the torrent, whose waters took their rise from the snows we hoped to
tread on the morrow.

The mountain could not be seen at La Ville, owing to a high intervening
ridge: we were now moving along the foot of this to get to the châlets
of Alefred—or, as they are sometimes called, Aléfroide—where the
mountain actually commences. From this direction the subordinate but
more proximate peaks appear considerably higher than the loftier ones
behind, and sometimes conceal them. But the whole height of the peak,
which in these valleys goes under the name of the “Grand Pelvoux,” is
seen at one place from its summit to its base—six or seven thousand
feet of nearly perpendicular cliffs.

The châlets of Alefred are a cluster of miserable wooden huts at the
foot of the Grand Pelvoux, and are close to the junction of the streams
which descend from the glacier de Sapenière (or du Selé) on the left,
and the glaciers Blanc and Noir on the right. We rested a minute to
purchase some butter and milk, and Sémiond picked up a
disreputable-looking lad to assist in carrying, pushing and otherwise
moving the wine-cask.

[Illustration: THE GRAND PELVOUX DE VAL LOUISE]

Our route now turned sharply to the left, and all were glad that the
day was drawing to a close, so that we had the shadows from the
mountains. A more frightful and desolate valley it is scarcely possible
to imagine: it contains miles of boulders, débris, stones, sand and
mud—few trees, and they placed so high as to be almost out of sight.
Not a soul inhabits it: no birds are in the air, no fish in the waters:
the mountain is too steep for the chamois, its slopes too inhospitable
for the marmot, the whole too repulsive for the eagle. Not a living
thing did we see in this sterile and savage valley during four days,
except some few poor goats which had been driven there against their
will.

We rested a little at a small spring, and then hastened onward till we
nearly arrived at the foot of the Sapenière glacier, when Sémiond said
we must turn to the right, up the slopes. This we did, and clambered
for half an hour through scattered pines and fallen boulders. Then
evening began to close in rapidly, and it was time to look for a
resting-place. There was no difficulty in getting one, for all around
it was a chaotic assemblage of rocks. We selected the under side of
one, which was more than fifty feet long by twenty high, cleared it of
rubbish, and then collected wood for a fire.

That camp-fire is a pleasant reminiscence. The wine-cask had got
through all its troubles: it was tapped, and the Frenchmen seemed to
derive some consolation from its execrable contents. Reynaud chanted
scraps of French songs, and each contributed his share of joke, story
or verse. The weather was perfect, and our prospects for the morrow
were good. My companions’ joy culminated when a packet of red fire was
thrown into the flames. It hissed and bubbled for a moment or two, and
then broke out into a grand flare. The effect of the momentary light
was magnificent: all around the mountains were illuminated for a
second, and then relapsed into their solemn gloom. One by one our party
dropped off to sleep, and at last I got into my blanket-bag. It was
hardly necessary, for although we were at a height of at least seven
thousand feet, the minimum temperature was above 40° Fahrenheit.

We roused at three, but did not start till half-past four. Giraud had
been engaged as far as this rock only, but as he wished to go on, we
allowed him to accompany us. We mounted the slopes, and quickly got
above the trees, then had a couple of hours’ clambering over bits of
precipitous rock and banks of _débris_, and at a quarter to seven got
to a narrow glacier—Clos de l’Homme—which streamed out of the plateau
on the summit, and nearly reached the glacier de Sapenière. We worked
as much as possible to the right, in hope that we should not have to
cross it, but were continually driven back, and at last we found that
it was necessary to do so. Old Sémiond had a strong objection to the
ice, and made explorations on his own account to endeavor to avoid it;
but Reynaud and I preferred to cross it, and Giraud stuck to us. It was
narrow—in fact, one could throw a stone across it—and was easily
mounted on the side, but in the centre swelled into a steep dome, up
which we were obliged to cut. Giraud stepped forward and said he should
like to try his hand, and having got hold of the axe, would not give it
up; and here, as well as afterward when it was necessary to cross the
gullies filled with hard snow which abound on the higher part of the
mountain, he did all the work, and did it admirably.

Old Sémiond of course came after us when we got across. We then
zigzagged up some snow-slopes, and shortly afterward commenced to
ascend the interminable array of buttresses which are the great
peculiarity of the Pelvoux. They were very steep in many places, but on
the whole afforded a good hold, and no climbing should be called
difficult which does that. Gullies abounded among them, sometimes of
great length and depth. _They_ were frequently rotten, and would have
been difficult for a single man to pass. The uppermost men were
continually abused for dislodging rocks and for harpooning those below
with their bâtons. However, without these incidents the climbing would
have been dull: they helped to break the monotony.

[Illustration: BUTTRESSES OF MONT PELVOUX]

We went up chimneys and gullies by the hour together, and always seemed
to be coming to something, although we never got to it. The outline
sketch will help to explain the situation. We stood at the foot of a
great buttress—perhaps about two hundred feet high—and looked up. It
did not go to a point as in the diagram, because we could not see the
top, although we felt convinced that behind the fringe of pinnacles we
did see there was a top, and that it was the edge of the plateau we so
much desired to attain. Up we mounted, and reached the pinnacles; but,
lo! another set was seen, and another, and yet more, till we reached
the top, and found it was only a buttress, and that we had to descend
forty or fifty feet before we could commence to mount again. When this
operation had been performed a few dozen times it began to be
wearisome, especially as we were in the dark as to our whereabouts.
Sémiond, however, encouraged us, and said he knew we were on the right
route; so away we went once more.

It was now nearly mid-day, and we seemed no nearer the summit of the
Pelvoux than when we started. At last we all joined together and held a
council. “Sémiond, old friend, do you know where we are now?” “Oh yes,
perfectly, to a yard and a half.” “Well, then, how much are we below
this plateau?” He affirmed we were not half an hour from the edge of
the snow. “Very good: let us proceed.” Half an hour passed, and then
another, but we were still in the same state: pinnacles, buttresses and
gullies were in profusion, but the plateau was not in sight. So we
called him again—for he had been staring about latterly as if in
doubt—and repeated the question, “How far below are we now?” Well, he
thought it might be half an hour more. “But you said that just now: are
you sure we are going right?” Yes, he believe, we were. Believed!—that
would not do. “Are you sure we are going right for the Pic des
Arcines?” “Pic dei Arcines!” he ejaculated in astonishment, as if he
had heard the words for the first time—“Pic des Arcines! No, but for
the pyramid, the celebrated pyramid he had helped the great Capitaine
Durand,” etc.

Here was a fix. We had been talking about it to him for a whole day,
and now he confessed he knew nothing about it. I turned to Reynaud, who
seemed thunderstruck: “What do you suggest?” He shrugged his shoulders.
“Well,” we said, after explaining our minds pretty freely to Sémiond,
“the sooner we turn back the better, for we have no wish to see your
pyramid.”

We halted for an hour, and then commenced the descent. It took us
nearly seven hours to come down to our rock, but I paid no heed to the
distance, and do not remember anything about it. When we got down we
made a discovery which affected us as much as the footprint in the sand
did Robinson Crusoe: a blue silk veil lay by our fireside. There was
but one solution—Macdonald had arrived, but where was he? We soon
packed our baggage, and tramped in the dusk, through the stony desert,
to Alefred, where we arrived about half-past nine. “Where is the
Englishman?” was the first question. He was gone to sleep at La Ville.
We passed that night in a hay-loft, and in the morning, after settling
with Sémiond, we posted down to catch Macdonald. We had already
determined on the plan of operation, which was to get him to join us,
return, and be independent of all guides, simply taking the best man we
could get as a porter. I set my heart on Giraud—a good fellow, with no
pretence, although in every respect up to the work. But we were
disappointed: he was obliged to go to Briançon.

The walk soon became exciting. The natives inquired the result of our
expedition, and common civility obliged us to stop. But I was afraid of
losing my man, for it was said he would wait only till ten o’clock, and
that time was near at hand. At last I dashed over the bridge—time from
Alefred an hour and a quarter—but a cantonnier stopped me, saying that
the Englishman had just started for La Bessée. I rushed after him,
turned angle after angle of the road, but could not see him: at last,
as I came round a corner, he was also just turning another, going very
fast. I shouted, and luckily he heard me. We returned, reprovisioned
ourselves at La Ville, and the same evening saw us passing our first
rock, en route for another. I have said we determined to take no guide,
but on passing La Pisse old Sémiond turned out and offered his
services. He went well, in spite of his years and disregard of truth.
“Why not take him?” said my friend. So we offered him a fifth of his
previous pay, and in a few seconds he closed with the offer, but this
time came in an inferior position—we were to lead, he to follow. Our
second follower was a youth of twenty-seven years, who was not all that
could be desired. He drank Reynaud’s wine, smoked our cigars, and
quietly secreted the provisions when we were nearly starving. Discovery
of his proceedings did not at all disconcert him, and he finished up by
getting several items added to our bill at La Ville, which, not a
little to his disgust, we disallowed.

This night we fixed our camp high above the tree-line, and indulged
ourselves in the healthy employment of carrying our fuel up to it. The
present rock was not so comfortable as the first, and before we could
settle down we were obliged to turn out a large mass which was in the
way. It was very obstinate, but moved at length—slowly and gently at
first, then faster and faster, at last taking great jumps in the air,
striking a stream of fire at every touch, which shone out brightly as
it entered the gloomy valley below; and long after it was out of sight
we heard it bounding downward, and then settle with a subdued crash on
the glacier beneath. As we turned back from this curious sight, Reynaud
asked if we had ever seen a torrent on fire, and told us that in the
spring the Durance, swollen by the melting of the snow, sometimes
brings down so many rocks that where it passes through a narrow gorge
at La Bessée no water whatever is seen, but only boulders rolling over
and over, grinding each other into powder, and striking so many sparks
that the stream looks as if it were on fire.

We had another merry evening, with nothing to mar it: the weather was
perfect, and we lay backward in luxurious repose, looking at the sky
spangled with its ten thousand brilliant lights.

The ranges stood
Transfigured in the silver flood.
Their snows were flashing cold and keen,
Dead white, save where some sharp ravine
Took shadow, or the sombre green
Of hemlocks turned to pitchy black,
Against the whiteness at their back.[1]

 [1] J.G. Whittier, “Snow-Bound.”

[Illustration: R. J. S. MACDONALD]

Macdonald related his experiences over the café noir. He had traveled
day and night for several days in order to join us, but had failed to
find our first bivouac, and had encamped a few hundred yards from us
under another rock, higher up the mountain. The next morning he
discerned us going along a ridge at a great height above him, and as it
was useless to endeavor to overtake us, he lay down and watched with a
heavy heart until we had turned the corner of a buttress and vanished
out of sight.

Nothing but the heavy breathing of our already sound—asleep comrades
broke the solemn stillness of the night. It was a silence to be felt.
Nothing! Hark! what is that dull booming sound above us? Is that
nothing? There it is again, plainer: on it comes, nearer, clearer: ’tis
a crag escaped from the heights above. What a fearful crash! We jump to
our feet. Down it comes with awful fury: what power can withstand its
violence? Dancing leaping, flying, dashing against others, roaring as
it descends. Ah, it has passed! No: there it is again, and we hold our
breath as, with resistless force and explosions like artillery, it
darts past, with an avalanche of shattered fragments trailing in its
rear. ’Tis gone, and we breathe more freely as we hear the finale on
the glacier below.

We retired at last, but I was too excited to sleep. At a quarter-past
four every man once more shouldered his pack and started. This time we
agreed to keep more to the right, to see if it were not possible to get
to the plateau without losing any time by crossing the glacier. To
describe our route would be to repeat what has been said before. We
mounted steadily for an hour and a half, sometimes walking, but more
frequently climbing, and then found, after all, that it was necessary
to cross the glacier. The part on which we struck came down a very
steep slope, and was much crevassed. The word crevassed hardly
expresses its appearance: it was a mass of formidable séracs. We found,
however, more difficulty in getting on than across it, but, thanks to
the rope, it was passed somehow: then the interminable buttresses began
again. Hour after hour we proceeded upward, frequently at fault and
obliged to descend. The ridge behind us had sunk long ago, and we
looked over it and all others till our eyes rested on the majestic
Viso. Hour after hour passed, and monotony was the order of the day:
when twelve o’clock came we lunched, and contemplated the scene with
satisfaction: all the summits in sight, with the single exception of
the Viso, had given in, and we looked over an immense expanse—a perfect
sea of peaks and snow-fields. Still the pinnacles rose above us, and
opinions were freely uttered that we should see no summit of Pelvoux
that day. Old Sémiond had become a perfect bore to all: whenever one
rested for a moment to look about, he would say, with a complacent
chuckle, “Don’t be afraid—follow me.” We came at last to a very bad
piece, rotten and steep, and no hold. Here Reynaud and Macdonald
confessed to being tired, and talked of going to sleep. A way was
discovered out of the difficulty: then some one called out, “Look at
the Viso!” and we saw that we almost looked over it. We worked away
with redoubled energy, and at length caught sight of the head of the
glacier as it streamed out of the plateau. This gave us fresh hopes: we
were not deceived, and with a simultaneous shout we greeted the
appearance of our long wished-for snows. A large crevasse separated us
from them, but a bridge was found: we tied ourselves in line and moved
safely over it. Directly we got across there arose before us a fine
snow-capped peak. Old Sémiond cried, “The pyramid! I see the pyramid!”
“Where, Sémiond, where?” “There, on the top of that peak.”

[Illustration: MONT PELVOUX]

There, sure enough, was the cairn he had helped to erect more than
thirty years before. But where was the Pic des Arcines which we were to
see? It was nowhere visible, but only a great expanse of snow, bordered
by three lower peaks. Somewhat sadly we moved toward the pyramid,
sighing that there was no other to conquer, but hardly had we gone two
hundred paces before there rose a superb white cone on the left, which
had been hidden before by a slope of snow. We shouted, “The Pic des
Arcines!” and inquired of Sémiond if he knew whether that peak had been
ascended. As for him, he knew nothing except that the peak before us
was called the Pyramid, from the cairn he had, etc., etc., and that it
had been ascended since. “All right, then: face about;” and we
immediately turned at right angles for the cone, the porter making
faint struggles for his beloved pyramid. Our progress was stopped in
the sixth of a mile by the edge of the ridge connecting the two peaks,
and we perceived that it curled over in a lovely volute. We
involuntarily retreated. Sémiond, who was last in the line, took the
opportunity to untie himself, and refused to come on, said we were
running dangerous risks, and talked vaguely of crevasses. We tied him
up again and proceeded. The snow was very soft: we were always
knee-deep, and sometimes floundered in up to the waist, but a
simultaneous jerk before and behind always released one. By this time
we had arrived at the foot of the final peak. The left-hand ridge
seemed easier than that upon which we stood, so we curved round to get
to it. Some rocks peeped out one hundred and fifty feet below the
summit, and up these we crawled, leaving our porter behind, as he said
he was afraid. I could not resist the temptation, as we went off, to
turn round and beckon him onward, saying, “Don’t be afraid—follow me,”
but he did not answer to the appeal, and never went to the top. The
rocks led to a short ridge of ice—our plateau on one side, and a nearly
vertical precipice on the other. Macdonald cut up it, and at a quarter
to two we stood shaking hands on the loftiest summit of the conquered
Pelvoux!

[Illustration: MONT PELVOUX AND THE ALÉFROIDE, FROM NEAR MONT
DAUPHIN, IN THE VALLEY OF THE DURANCE.]

The day still continued everything that could be desired, and far and
near countless peaks burst into sight, without a cloud to hide them.
The mighty Mont Blanc, full seventy miles away, first caught our eyes,
and then, still farther off, the Monte Rosa group; while, rolling away
to the east, one unknown range after another succeeded in unveiled
splendor, fainter and fainter in tone, but still perfectly defined,
till at last the eye was unable to distinguish sky from mountain, and
they died away in the far-off horizon. Monte Viso rose up grandly, but
it was less than forty miles away, and we looked over it to a hazy mass
we knew must be the plains of Piedmont. Southward, a blue mist seemed
to indicate the existence of the distant Mediterranean: to the west we
looked over to the mountains of Auvergne. Such was the panorama, a view
extending in nearly every direction for more than a hundred miles. It
was with some difficulty we wrenched our eyes from the more distant
objects to contemplate the nearer ones. Mont Dauphin was very
conspicuous, but La Bessée was not readily perceived. Besides these,
not a human habitation could be seen: all was rock, snow or ice; and
large as we knew were the snow-fields of Dauphine, we were surprised to
find that they very far surpassed our most ardent imagination. Nearly
in a line between us and the Viso, immediately to the south of Chateau
Queyras, was a splendid group of mountains of great height. More to the
south an unknown peak seemed still higher, while close to us we were
astonished to discover that there was a mountain which appeared even
higher than that on which we stood. At least this was my opinion:
Macdonald thought it not so high, and Reynaud insisted that its height
was much about the same as our own.

This mountain was distant a couple of miles or so, and was separated
from us by a tremendous abyss, the bottom of which we could not see. On
the other side rose this mighty wall-sided peak, too steep for snow,
black as night, with sharp ridges and pointed summit. We were in
complete ignorance of its whereabouts, for none of us had been on the
other side: we imagined that La Bérarde was in the abyss at our feet,
but it was in reality beyond the other mountain.

We left the summit at last, and descended to the rocks and to our
porter, where I boiled some water, obtained by melting snow. After we
had fed and smoked our cigars (lighted without difficulty from a common
match), we found it was ten minutes past three, and high time to be
off. We dashed, waded and tumbled for twenty-five minutes through the
snow, and then began the long descent of the rocks. It was nearly four
o’clock, and as it would be dark at eight, it was evident that there
was no time to be lost, and we pushed on to the utmost. Nothing
remarkable occurred going down. We kept rather closer to the glacier,
and crossed at the same point as in the morning. Getting _off_ it was
like getting _on_ it—rather awkward. Old Sémiond had got over, so had
Reynaud: Macdonald came next, but as he made a long stretch to get on
to a higher mass, he slipped, and would have been in the bowels of a
crevasse in a moment had he not been tied.

It was nearly dark by the time we had crossed, but still I hoped that
we should be able to pass the night at our rock. Macdonald was not so
sanguine, and he was right; for at last we found ourselves quite at
fault, and wandered helplessly up and down for an hour, while Reynaud
and the porter indulged in a little mutual abuse. The dreary fact that,
as we could not get down, we must stay where we were, was now quite
apparent.

We were at least ten thousand five hundred feet high, and if it
commenced to rain or snow, as the gathering clouds and rising wind
seemed to threaten, we might be in a sore plight. We were hungry,
having eaten little since three A. M., and a torrent we heard close at
hand, but could not discover, aggravated our thirst. Sémiond endeavored
to get some water from it, but although he succeeded in doing so, he
was wholly unable to return, and we had to solace him by shouting at
intervals through the night.

A more detestable locality for a night out of doors it is difficult to
imagine. There was no shelter of any kind, it was perfectly exposed to
the chilly wind which began to rise, and it was too steep to promenade.
Loose, rubbly stones covered the ground, and had to be removed before
we could sit with any comfort. This was an advantage, although we
hardly thought so at the time, as it gave us some employment, and after
an hour’s active exercise of that interesting kind I obtained a small
strip, about nine feet long, on which it was possible to walk. Reynaud
was furious at first, and soundly abused the porter, whose opinion as
to the route down had been followed, rather than that of our friend,
and at last settled down to a deep dramatic despair, and wrung his
hands with frantic gesture, as he exclaimed, “Oh, malheur, malheur! Oh
misérables!”

Thunder commenced to growl and lightning to play among the peaks above,
and the wind, which had brought the temperature down to nearly
freezing-point, began to chill us to the bones. We examined our
resources. They were six and half cigars, two boxes of vesuvians,
one-third of a pint of brandy-and-water, and half a pint of spirits of
wine—rather scant fare for three fellows who had to get through seven
hours before daylight. The spirit-lamp was lighted, and the remaining
spirits of wine, the brandy and some snow were heated by it. It made a
strong liquor, but we only wished for more of it. When that was over,
Macdonald endeavored to dry his socks by the lamp, and then the three
lay down under my plaid to pretend to sleep. Reynaud’s woes were
aggravated by toothache: Macdonald somehow managed to close his eyes.

The longest night must end, and ours did at last. We got down to our
rock in an hour and a quarter, and found the lad not a little surprised
at our absence. He said he had made a gigantic fire to light us down,
and shouted with all his might: we neither saw the fire nor heard his
shouts. He said we looked a ghastly crew, and no wonder: it was our
fourth night out.

We feasted at our cave, and performed some very necessary ablutions.
The persons of the natives are infested by certain agile creatures,
whose rapidity of motion is only equaled by their numbers and voracity.
It is dangerous to approach too near them, and one has to study the
wind, so as to get on their weather side: in spite of all such
precautions my unfortunate companion and myself were now being rapidly
devoured alive. We only expected a temporary lull of our tortures, for
the interiors of the inns are like the exteriors of the natives,
swarming with this species of animated creation.

It is said that once, when these tormentors were filled with an
unanimous desire, an unsuspecting traveler was dragged bodily from his
bed! This needs confirmation. One word more, and I have done with this
vile subject. We returned from our ablutions, and found the Frenchmen
engaged in conversation. “Ah!” said old Sémiond, “as to fleas, I don’t
pretend to be different to any one else—_I have them._” This time he
certainly spoke the truth.

We got down to La Ville in good time, and luxuriated there for several
days: we played many games of bowls with the natives, and were
invariably beaten by them. At last it was necessary to part: I walked
southward to the Viso, and Macdonald went to Briançon.

After parting from my agreeable companions, I walked by the gorge of
the Guil to Abries, and made the acquaintance at that place of an
ex-harbormaster of Marseilles—a genial man, who spoke English well.
Besides the ex-harbormaster and some fine trout in the neighboring
streams, there was little to invite a stay at Abries. The
inn—L’Éitoile, chez Richard—is a place to be avoided. Richard, it may
be observed, possessed the instincts of a robber. At a later date, when
forced to seek shelter in his house, he desired to see my passport, and
catching sight of the words John Russell, he entered that name instead
of my own in a report to the gendarmerie, uttering an exclamation of
joyful surprise at the same time. I foolishly allowed the mistake to
pass, and had to pay dearly for it, for he made out a lordly bill,
against which all protest was unavailing.

I quitted the abominations of Abries to seek a quiet bundle of hay at
Le Chalp, a village some miles nearer to the Viso. On approaching the
place the odor of sanctity became distinctly perceptible; and on
turning a corner the cause was manifested: there was the priest of the
place, surrounded by some of his flock. I advanced humbly, hat in hand,
but almost before a word could be said, he broke out with, “Who are
you? What are you? What do you want?” I endeavored to explain.

“You are a deserter—I know you are a deserter: go away, you can’t stay
here: go to Le Monta, down there—I won’t have you here;” and he
literally drove me away. The explanation of his strange behavior was
that Piedmontese soldiers who were tired of the service had not
unfrequently crossed the Col de la Traversette into the valley, and
trouble had arisen from harboring them. However, I did not know this at
the time, and was not a little indignant that I, who was marching to
the attack, should be taken for a deserter.

So I walked away, and shortly afterward, as it was getting dark,
encamped in a lovely hole—a cavity or kind of basin in the earth, with
a stream on one side, a rock to windward and some broken pine branches
close at hand. Nothing could be more perfect—rock, hole, wood and
water. After making a roaring fire, I nestled in my blanket-bag (an
ordinary blanket sewn up, double round the legs, with a piece of
elastic ribbon round the open end) and slept, but not for long. I was
troubled with dreams of the Inquisition: the tortures were being
applied, priests were forcing fleas down my nostrils and into my eyes,
and with red-hot pincers were taking out bits of flesh, and then
cutting off my ears and tickling the soles of my feet. This was too
much: I yelled a great yell, and awoke to find myself covered with
innumerable crawling bodies: they were ants. I had camped by an
ant-hill, and, after making its inhabitants mad with the fire, had
coolly lain down in their midst.

The night was fine, and as I settled down in more comfortable quarters,
a brilliant meteor sailed across full 60° of the cloudless sky, leaving
a trail of light behind which lasted for several seconds. It was the
herald of a splendid spectacle. Stars fell by hundreds, and, not dimmed
by intervening vapors, they sparkled with greater brightness than
Sirius in our damp climate.

[Illustration: THE BLANKET BAG]

The next morning, after walking up the valley to examine the Viso, I
returned to Abries, and engaged a man from a neighboring hamlet for
whom the ex-harbormaster had sent—an inveterate smoker, and thirsty in
proportion, whose pipe never left his mouth except to allow him to
drink. We returned up the valley together, and slept in the hut of a
shepherd whose yearly wage was almost as small as that of the herdsman
spoken of in Hyperion by Longfellow; and the next morning, in his
company, proceeded to the summit of the pass which I had crossed in
1860; but we were baffled in our attempt to get near the mountain. A
deep notch with precipitous cliffs cut us off from it: the snow-slope,
too, which existed in the preceding year on the Piedmontese side of the
pass, was now wanting, and we were unable to descend the rocks which
lay beneath. A fortnight afterward the mountain was ascended for the
first time by Messrs. Mathews and Jacomb, with the two Crozes of
Chamounix. Their attempt was made from the southern side, and the
ascent, which was formerly considered a thing totally impossible, has
become one of the most common and favorite excursions of the district.

We returned crest-fallen to Abries. The shepherd, whose boots were very
much out of repair, slipped upon the steep snow-slopes and performed
wonderful but alarming gyrations, which took him to the bottom of the
valley more quickly than he could otherwise have descended. He was not
much hurt, and was made happy by a few needles and a little thread to
repair his abraded garments: the other man, however, considered it
willful waste to give him brandy to rub in his cuts, when it could be
disposed of in a more ordinary and pleasant manner.

The night of the 14th of August found me at St. Veran, a village made
famous by Neff, but in no other respect remarkable, saving that it is
supposed to be the highest in Europe. The Protestants _now_ form only a
miserable minority: in 1861 there were said to be one hundred and
twenty of them to seven hundred and eighty Roman Catholics. The poor
inn was kept by one of the former, and it gave the impression of great
poverty. There was no meat, no bread, no butter, no cheese: almost the
only things that could be obtained were eggs. The manners of the
natives were primitive: the woman of the inn, without the least sense
of impropriety, stayed in the room until I was fairly in bed, and her
bill for supper, bed and breakfast amounted to one-and-sevenpence.

In this neighborhood, and indeed all round about the Viso, the chamois
still remain in considerable numbers. They said at St. Veran that six
had been seen from the village on the day I was there, and the
innkeeper declared that he had seen fifty together in the previous
week! I myself saw in this and in the previous season several small
companies round about the Viso. It is perhaps as favorable a district
as any in the Alps for a sportsman who wishes to hunt the chamois, as
the ground over which they wander is by no means of excessive
difficulty.

[Illustration: NATURAL PILLAR NEAR MOLINES (WEATHER ACTION)]

The next day I descended the valley to Ville Vieille, and passed, near
the village of Molines, but on the opposite side of the valley, a
remarkable natural pillar, in form not unlike a champagne bottle, about
seventy feet high, which had been produced by the action of the
weather, and in all probability chiefly by rain. In this case a “block
of euphotide or diallage rock protects a friable limestone:” the
contrast of this dark cap with the white base, and the singularity of
the form, made it a striking object. These natural pillars are among
the most remarkable examples of the potent effects produced by the
long-continued action of quiet-working forces. They are found in
several other places in the Alps, as well as elsewhere.

The village of Ville Vieille boasts of an inn with the sign of the
Elephant, which, in the opinion of local amateurs, is a proof that
Hannibal passed through the gorge of the Guil. I remember the place
because its bread, being only a month old, was unusually soft, and for
the first time during ten days it was possible to eat some without
first of all chopping it into small pieces and soaking it in hot water,
which produced a slimy paste on the outside, but left a hard, untouched
kernel.

The same day I crossed the Col Isoard to Briançon. It was the 15th of
August, and all the world was _en fête;_ sounds of revelry proceeded
from the houses of Servières as I passed over the bridge upon which the
pyrrhic dance is annually performed, and natives in all degrees of
inebriation staggered about the paths. It was late before the lights of
the great fortress came into sight, but unchallenged I passed through
the gates, and once more sought shelter under the roof of the Hôtel de
l’Ours.

[Illustration: CROSSING MONT CENIS (1861)]




CHAPTER III.
THE MONT CENIS—THE FELL RAILWAY


Guide-books say that the pass of the Mont Cenis is dull. It is long,
certainly, but it has a fair proportion of picturesque points, and it
is not easy to see how it can be dull to those who have eyes. In the
days when it was a rude mountain track, crossed by trains of mules, and
when it was better known to smugglers than to tourists, it may have
been dull; but when Napoleon’s road changed the rough path into one of
the finest highways in Europe, mounting in grand curves and by uniform
grades, and rendered the trot possible throughout its entire distance,
the Mont Cenis became one of the most interesting passes in the Alps.
The diligence service which was established was excellent, and there
was little or nothing to be gained by traveling in a more expensive
manner. The horses were changed as rapidly as on the best lines in the
best period of coaching in England, and the diligences themselves were
as comfortable as a “milord” could desire. The most exciting portion of
the route was undoubtedly that between Lanslebourg and Susa. When the
zigzags began teams of mules were hooked on, and the driver and his
helpers marched by their side with long whips, which they handled
skillfully. Passengers dismounted and stretched their legs by cutting
the curves. The pace was slow but steady, and scarcely a halt was made
during the rise of two thousand feet. Crack! crack! went the whips as
the corners of the zigzags were turned. Great commotion among the
mules! They scrambled and went round with a rush, tossing their heads
and making music with their bells. The summit was gained, the mules
were detached and trotted back merrily, while we, with fresh horses,
were dragged at the gallop over the plain to the other side. The little
postilion seated on the leader smacked his whip lustily as he swept
round the corners cut through the rock, and threw his head back as the
echoes returned, expectant of smiles and of future centimes.

[Illustration]

The air was keen and often chilly, but the summit was soon passed, and
one quickly descended to warmth again. Once more there was a change.
The horses, reduced in number to three, or perhaps two, were the
sturdiest and most sure of foot, and they raced down with the precision
of old stagers. Woe to the diligence if they stumbled! So thought the
conductor, who screwed down the brakes as the corners were approached.
The horses, held well in hand, leant inward as the top-heavy vehicle,
so suddenly checked, heeled almost over; but in another moment the
brake was released, and again they swept down, urged onward by the
whip, “hoi” and “ha” of the driver.

All this is changed. The Victor Emmanuel railway superseded a
considerable portion of Napoleon’s road, and the “Fell” railway the
rest, while the great tunnel of the Alps will soon bring about another
change.

The Fell railway, which has been open about eighteen months, is a line
that well deserves attention. Thirty-eight years ago, Mr. Charles
Vignolles, the eminent engineer, and Mr. Ericsson, patented the idea
which is now an accomplished fact on the Mont Cenis. Nothing was done
with it until Mr. Fell, the projector of the railway which bears his
name, took it up, and to him much credit is due for bringing an
admirable principle into operation.

The Fell railway follows the great Cenis road very closely, and
diverges from it only to avoid villages or houses, or, as at the summit
of the pass on the Italian side, to ease the gradients. The line runs
from St. Michel to Susa. The distance between these two places is, as
the crow flies, almost exactly equivalent to the distance from London
to Chatham (30 miles), but by reason of the numerous curves and detours
the length of the line is nearly brought up to the distance of London
from Brighton (47 miles). From St. Michel to the summit of the pass it
rises 4460 feet, or 900 feet more than the highest point of Snowdon is
above the level of the sea; and from the summit of the pass to Susa, a
distance less than that from London to Kew, it descends no less than
5211 feet!

The railway itself is a marvel. For fifteen miles and three-quarters it
has steeper gradients than one in fifteen. In some places it is one in
twelve and a half! A straight piece of railway constructed on such a
gradient seems to go up a steep hill. One in eighty, or even one in a
hundred, produces a very sensible diminution in the pace of a light
train drawn by an ordinary locomotive: how, then, is a train to be
taken up an incline that is six times as steep? It is accomplished by
means of a third rail placed midway between the two ordinary ones, and
elevated above them.[2] The engines are provided with two pairs of
horizontal driving-wheels, as well as with the ordinary coupled
vertical ones, and the power of the machine is thus enormously
increased, the horizontal wheels gripping the centre rail with great
tenacity by being brought together, and being almost incapable of
slipping like the ordinary wheels when on even a moderate gradient.

 [2] This third rail, or, as it is termed, “the centre rail,” is laid
 on all the steep portions of the line, and round all except the
 mildest curves. Thirty miles, in all, of the road have the centre
 rail.

[Illustration: THE CENTRE RAIL ON A CURVE]

The third rail is the ordinary double-headed rail, and is laid
horizontally: it is bolted down to wrought-iron chairs three feet
apart, which are fixed by common coach-screws to a longitudinal sleeper
laid upon the usual transverse ones: the sleepers are attached to each
other by fang-bolts. The dimensions of the different parts will be seen
by reference to the annexed cross section:

[Illustration]

Let us now take a run on the railway, starting from St. Michel. For
some distance from that place the gradients are not of an extraordinary
character, and a good pace is maintained. The first severe piece is
about two miles up, where there is an incline of one in eighteen for
more than half a mile; that is to say, the line rises at one step one
hundred and sixty-four feet. From thence to Modane the gradients are
again moderate (for the Fell railway), and the distance—about ten miles
and a half from St. Michel—is accomplished without difficulty in an
hour. Modane station is 1128 feet above St. Michel, so that on this
_easy_ portion of the line there is an average rise of 110 feet per
mile, which is equal to a gradient of one in forty-eight—an inclination
sufficiently steep to bring an ordinary locomotive very nearly to a
halt.

Just after passing Modane station there is one of the steepest inclines
on the line, and it seems preposterous to suppose that any train could
ascend it. A stoppage of ten minutes is made at Modane, and on leaving
that station the train goes off at the hill with a rush. In a few yards
its pace is reduced, and it comes down and down to about four miles an
hour, which speed is usually maintained until the incline is passed,
without a diminution of the steam-pressure. I say usually, because, if
it should happen that there is not sufficient steam, or should the
driver happen to make a slip, the train would most likely come back to
Modane; for, although the brake-power on the train is much more than
sufficient to prevent it running back, the driver could hardly start
with the brakes on, and the train would inevitably run back if they
were off.

After this incline is passed, the line mounts by comparatively easy
gradients toward Fort Lesseillon: it is then at a great height above
the Arc, and as one winds round the faces of the cliff out of which the
Napoleon road was cut, looking down upon the foaming stream below,
without a suspicion of a parapet between the railway and the edge of
the precipice, one naturally thinks about what would happen if the
engine should leave the rails. The speed, however, that is kept up at
this part is very gentle, and there is probably much less risk of an
accident than there was in the days of diligences.

The next remarkable point on this line is at Termignon. The valley
turns somewhat abruptly to the east, and the course of the railway is
not at first perceived. It makes a great bend to the left, then doubles
back, and rises in a little more than a mile no less than three hundred
and thirty-four feet. This is, perhaps, the most striking piece of the
whole line.

Lanslebourg station, 25½ miles from, and 2220 feet above, St. Michel,
is arrived at in two hours and a quarter from the latter place. The
engines are now changed. Thus far we have been traversing the easy
portion of the route, but here the heavy section begins. From
Lanslebourg the line rises continuously to the summit of the Mont Cenis
pass, and accomplishes an ascent of 2240 feet in six miles and a third
of distance.

It is curious and interesting to watch the ascent of the trains from
Lanslebourg. The puffs of steam are seen rising above the trees,
sometimes going in one direction, and sometimes directly the contrary,
occasionally concealed by the covered ways—for over two miles out of
the six the line is enclosed by planked sides and a corrugated iron
roof, to keep out the snow—and then coming out again into daylight. A
halt for water has to be made about halfway up; but the engines are
able to start again, and to resume their rate of seven miles an hour,
although the gradient is no less than one in fourteen and a half.

The zigzags of the old Cenis road are well known as one of the most
remarkable pieces of road-engineering in the Alps. The railway follows
them, and runs parallel to the road on the outside throughout its
entire distance, with the exception of the turns at the corners, where
it is carried a little farther out, to render the curves less sharp.
Nevertheless, they are sufficiently sharp (135 feet radius), and would
be impracticable without the centre rail.

The run across the top of the pass, from the Summit station to the
Grande Croix station—a distance of about five miles—is soon
accomplished, and then the tremendous descent to Susa is commenced.
This, as seen from the engine, is little less than terrific. A large
part of this section is covered in, and the curves succeed one another
in a manner unknown on any other line. From the outside the line looks
more like a monstrous serpent than a railway. Inside, one can see but a
few yards ahead, the curves are so sharp, and the rails are nearly
invisible. The engine vibrates, oscillates and bounds: it is a matter
of difficulty to hold on. Then, on emerging into the open air, one
looks down some three or four thousand feet of precipice and steep
mountain-side. The next moment the engine turns suddenly to the left,
and driver and stoker have to grip firmly to avoid being left behind;
the next, it turns as suddenly to the right; the next, there is an
accession or diminution of speed from a change in the gradient. An
ordinary engine, moving at fifty miles an hour, with a train behind it,
is not usually very steady, but its motion is a trifle compared with
that of a Fell engine when running down hill.

[Illustration: THE COVERED WAYS ON THE “FELL” RAILWAY (ITALIAN SIDE OF
THE MONT CENIS)]

It may be supposed from this that traveling over the Fell railway is
disagreeable rather than pleasant. It is not so: the train is steady
enough, and the carriages have remarkably little motion. Outside, they
resemble the cars on the Swiss and American lines: they are entered at
the end, and the seats are arranged omnibus-fashion, down the length of
the carriage. Each carriage has a guard and two brakes—an ordinary one
and a centre-rail brake: the handles of these come close together at
the platform on one end, and are easily worked by one man. The
steadiness of the train is chiefly due to these centre-rail brakes. The
flat face A and the corresppnding one on the opposite side are brought
together against the two sides of the centre rail by the shaft B being
turned, and they hold it as in a vice. This greatly diminishes the
up-and-down motion, and renders oscillation almost impossible. The
steadiness of the train is still further maintained by pairs of flanged
guide-wheels under each of the carriages, which, on a straight piece of
line, barely touch the centre rail, but press upon it directly there is
the least deviation toward either side.[3] There is no occasion to use
the other brakes when the centre-rail brakes are on: the wheels of the
carriages are not stopped, but revolve freely, and consequently do not
suffer the deterioration which would otherwise result.

 [3] The carriages are not coupled in the ordinary way, and although
 there are no buffers, properly speaking, and in spite the speed of the
 train being changed incessantly, there is a freedom from the jarring
 which is so common on other lines. The reason is simply that the
 carriages are coupled up tightly.

[Illustration: THE MONT CENIS ROAD AND THE FELL RAILWAY NEAR THE SUMMIT
OF THE PASS, ON THE ITALIAN SIDE.]

The steam is shut off and the brakes are applied a very few minutes
after beginning the descent to Susa. The train might then run down for
the entire distance by its own weight. In practice, it is difficult to
apply the proper amount of retardation: the brakes have frequently to
be whistled off, and sometimes it is necessary to steam down against
them. Theoretically, this ought not of course to occur: it only happens
occasionally, and ordinarily the train goes down with the steam shut
off, and with the centre-rail brakes screwed up moderately. When an
average train—that is, two or three carriages and a luggage-van—is
running down at the maximum speed allowed (fifteen miles an hour), the
brakes can pull it up dead within seventy yards. The pace is properly
kept down to a low point in descending, and doing so, combined with the
knowledge that the brake-power can easily lessen it, will tend to make
the public look favorably on what might otherwise be considered a
dangerous innovation. The engines also are provided with the
centre-rail brake, on a pattern somewhat different from those on the
carriages, and the flat sides which press against the rails are renewed
_every journey._ It is highly desirable that they should be, for a
single run from Lanslebourg to Susa grinds a groove into them about
three-eighths of an inch in depth.

[Illustration: CENTRE RAIL BRAKE]

Driving the trains over the summit section requires the most constant
attention and no small amount of nerve, and the drivers, who are all
English, have well earned their money at the end of their run. Their
opinion of the line was concisely and forcibly expressed to me by one
of them in last August: “Yes, mister, they told us as how the line was
very steep, but they didn’t say that the engine would be on one curve,
when the fourgon was on another, and the carriages was on a third. Them
gradients, too, mister, they says they are one in twelve, but I think
they are one in _ten, at the least_, and they didn’t say as how we was
to come down them in that snakewise fashion. It’s worse than the G. I.
P.[4], mister: there a fellow could jump off, but here, in them covered
ways, there ain’t no place to jump to.”

 [4] The Great Indian Peninsula Railway, the line with the celebrated
 Bhore Ghaut incline, sixteen miles long, on an average gradient of one
 in forty-eight, which is said to have cost £800,000, or about double
 the entire cost of the Mount Cenis Railway, and six times its cost
 mile for mile. The Fell Railway cost £8000 per mile.

[Illustration: THE MATTERHORN FROM NEAR THE SUMMIT OF THE THEODULE
PASS.]




CHAPTER IV.
MY FIRST SCRAMBLE ON THE MATTERHORN.


What power must have been required to shatter and to sweep away the
missing parts of this pyramid; for we do not see it surrounded by heaps
of fragments: one only sees other peaks—themselves rooted to the
ground—whose sides, equally rent, indicate an immense mass of débris,
of which we do not see any trace in the neighborhood. Doubtless this is
that débris which, in the form of pebbles, boulders and sand, fills our
valleys and our plains,—de Saussure.

Two summits amongst those in the Alps which yet remained virgin had
excited my admiration. One of these had been attacked numberless times
by the best mountaineers without success: the ether, surrounded by
traditional inaccessibility, was almost untouched. These mountains were
the Weisshorn and the Matterhorn.

After visiting the great tunnel of the Alps in 1861, I wandered for ten
days in the neighboring valleys, intending presently to attempt the
ascent of these two peaks. Rumors were floating about that the former
had been conquered, and that the latter was shortly to be attacked, and
they were confirmed on my arrival at Chatillon, at the entrance of the
Val Tournanche. My interest in the Weisshorn abated, but it was raised
to the highest pitch on hearing that Professor Tyndall was at Breuil,
and intending to try to crown his first victory by another and a still
greater one.

Up to this time my experience with guides had not been fortunate, and I
was inclined, improperly, to rate them at a low value. They represented
to me pointers-out of paths and great consumers of meat and drink, but
little more; and, with the recollection of Mont Pelvoux, I should have
greatly preferred the company of a couple of my countrymen to any
number of guides. In answer to inquiries at Chatillon, a series of men
came forward whose faces expressed malice, pride, envy, hatred and
roguery of every description, but who seemed to be destitute of all
good qualities. The arrival of two gentlemen with a guide, who they
represented was the embodiment of every virtue and exactly the man for
the Matterhorn, rendered it unnecessary to engage any of the others. My
new guide in _physique_ was a combination of Chang and Anak; and
although in acquiring him I did not obtain exactly what was wanted, his
late employers did exactly what _they_ wanted, for I obtained the
responsibility, without knowledge, of paying his back fare, which must
have been a relief at once to their minds and to their purses.

When walking up toward Breuil, we inquired for another man of all the
knowing ones, and they, with one voice, proclaimed that Jean-Antoine
Carrel, of the village of Val Tournanche, was the cock of his valley.
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 was the result,
was his price. I assented. But I must take his comrade. “Why so?” Oh,
it was absolutely impossible to get along without another man. As he
said this an evil countenance came forth out of the darkness and
proclaimed itself the comrade. I demurred, the negotiations broke off,
and we went up to Breuil. This place will be frequently mentioned in
subsequent chapters, and was in full view of the extraordinary peak the
ascent of which we were about to attempt.

It is unnecessary to enter into a minute description of the Matterhorn
after all that has been written about that famous mountain. My readers
will know that that peak is nearly fifteen thousand feet high, and that
it rises abruptly, by a series of cliffs which may properly be termed
precipices, a clear five thousand feet above the glaciers which
surround its base. They will know, too, that it was the last great
Alpine peak which remained unsealed—less on account of the difficulty
of doing so than from the terror inspired by its invincible appearance.
There seemed to be a _cordon_ drawn around it, up to which one might
go, but no farther. Within that invisible line jins and affreets were
supposed to exist—the Wandering Jew and the spirits of the damned. The
superstitious natives in the surrounding valleys (many of whom still
firmly believe it to be not only the highest mountain in the Alps, but
in the world) spoke of a ruined city on its summit wherein the spirits
dwelt; and if you laughed they gravely shook their heads, told you to
look yourself to see the castles and the walls, and warned one against
a rash approach, lest the infuriate demons from their impregnable
heights might hurl down vengeance for one’s derision. Such were the
traditions of the natives. Stronger minds felt the influence of the
wonderful form, and men who ordinarily spoke or wrote like rational
beings, when they came under its power seemed to quit their senses and
ranted and rhapsodized, losing for a time all common forms of speech.
Even the sober De Saussure was moved to enthusiasm when he saw the
mountain, and, inspired by the spectacle, he anticipated the
speculations of modern geologists in the striking sentences which are
placed at the head of this chapter.

The Matterhorn looks equally imposing from whatever side it is seen: it
never seems commonplace, and in this respect, and in regard to the
impression it makes upon spectators, it stands almost alone amongst
mountains. It has no rivals in the Alps, and but few in the world.

The seven or eight thousand feet which compose the actual peak have
several well-marked ridges and numerous others. The most continuous is
that which leads toward the north-east: the summit is at its higher,
and the little peak called the Hörnli is at its lower, end. Another one
that is well pronounced descends from the summit to the ridge called
the Furgen Grat. The slope of the mountain that is between these two
ridges will be referred to as the eastern face. A third, somewhat less
continuous than the others, descends in a south-westerly direction, and
the portion of the mountain that is seen from Breuil is confined to
that which is comprised between this and the second ridge. This section
is not composed, like that between the first and second ridge, of one
grand face, but it is broken up into a series of huge precipices,
spotted with snow-slopes and streaked with snow-gullies. The other half
of the mountain, facing the Z’Mutt glacier, is not capable of equally
simple definition. There are precipices apparent but not actual; there
are precipices absolutely perpendicular; there are precipices
overhanging; there are glaciers and there are hanging glaciers; there
are glaciers which tumble great _séracs_ over greater cliffs, whose
débris, subsequently consolidated, becomes glacier again; there are
ridges split by the frost, and washed by the rain and melted snow into
towers and spires; while everywhere there are ceaseless sounds of
action, telling that the causes are still in operation which have been
at work since the world began, reducing the mighty mass to atoms and
effecting its degradation.

[Illustration: THE MATTERHORN FROM THE NORTH-EAST]

Most tourists obtain their first view of the mountain either from the
valley of Zermatt or from that of Tournanche. From the former direction
the base of the mountain is seen at its narrowest, and its ridges and
faces seem to be of prodigious steepness. The tourist toils up the
valley, looking frequently for the great sight which is to reward his
pains, without seeing it (for the mountain is first perceived in that
direction about a mile to the north of Zermatt), when all at once, as
he turns a rocky corner of the path, it comes into view, not, however,
where it is expected: the face has to be raised up to look at it—it
seems overhead. Although this is the impression, the fact is that the
summit of the Matterhorn from this point makes an angle with the eye of
less than 16°, while the Dom, from the same place, makes a larger
angle, but is passed by unobserved. So little can dependence be placed
on unaided vision. The view of the mountain from Breuil, in the Val
Tournanche, is not less striking than that on the other side, but
usually it makes less impression, because the spectator grows
accustomed to the sight while coming up or down the valley. From this
direction the mountain is seen to be broken up into a series of
pyramidal, wedge-shaped masses: on the other side it is remarkable for
the large, unbroken extent of cliffs that it presents, and for the
simplicity of its outline. It was natural to suppose that a way would
more readily be found to the summit on a side thus broken up than in
any other direction. The eastern face, fronting Zermatt, seemed one
smooth, impossible cliff from summit to base: the ghastly precipices
which face the Z’Mutt glacier forbade any attempt in that direction.
There remained only the side of Val Tournanche, and it will be found
that nearly all the earliest attempts to ascend the mountain were made
on that side.

The first efforts to ascend the Matterhorn of which I have heard were
made by the guides—or rather by the chasseurs—of Val Tournanche. These
attempts were made in the years 1858-’59, from the direction of Breuil,
and the highest point that was attained was about as far as the place
which is now called the “Chimney” (cheminée), a height of about twelve
thousand six hundred and fifty feet. Those who were concerned in these
expeditions were Jean-Antoine Carrel, Jean Jacques Carrel, Victor
Carrel, the Abbe Gorret and Gabrielle Maquignaz. I have been unable to
obtain any further details about them.

The next attempt was a remarkable one; and of it, too, there is no
published account. It was made by Messrs. Alfred, Charles and Sandbach
Parker, of Liverpool, in July, 1860. These gentlemen, _without guides_,
endeavoured to storm the citadel by attacking the eastern face, that to
which reference was just now made as a smooth, impracticable cliff. Mr.
Sandbach Parker informs me that he and his brothers went along the
ridge between the Hörnli and the peak until they came to the point
where the ascending angle is considerably increased. This place is
marked on Dufour’s map of Switzerland 3298 metres (10,820 feet). They
were then obliged to bear a little to the left to get on to the face of
the mountain, and afterward they turned to the right and ascended about
seven hundred feet farther, keeping as nearly as was practicable to the
crest of the ridge, but occasionally bearing a little to the left; that
is, more on to the face of the mountain. The brothers started from
Zermatt, and did not sleep out. Clouds, a high wind and want of time
were the causes which prevented these daring gentlemen from going
farther. Thus their highest point was under twelve thousand feet.

The third attempt upon the mountain was made toward the end of August,
1860, by Mr. Vaughan Hawkins, from the side of the Val Tournanche. A
vivid account of his expedition has been published by him in _Vacation
Tourists;_ and it has been referred to several times by Professor
Tyndall in the numerous papers he has contributed to Alpine literature.
I will dismiss it, therefore, as briefly as possible.

Mr. Hawkins had inspected the mountain in 1859 with the guide J. J.
Bennen, and he had formed the opinion that the south-west ridge would
lead to the summit. He engaged J. Jacques Carrel, who was concerned in
the first attempts, and, accompanied by Bennen (and by Professor
Tyndall, whom he had invited to take part in the expedition), he
started for the gap between the little and the great peak.

Bennen was a guide who was beginning to be talked about. During the
chief part of his brief career he was in the service of Wellig, the
landlord of the inn on the Æggischhorn, and was hired out by him to
tourists. Although his experience was limited, he had acquired a good
reputation; and his book of certificates, which is lying before me,
shows that he was highly esteemed by his employers. A good-looking man,
with courteous, gentlemanly manners, skillful and bold, he might by
this time have taken a front place amongst guides if he had only been
endowed with more prudence. He perished miserably in the spring of 1864
not far from his home, on a mountain called the Haut de Cry, in the
Valais.

[Illustration: J. J. BENNEN (1862)]

Mr. Hawkins’ party, led by Bennen, climbed the rocks abutting against
the Couloir du Lion on its south side, and attained the Col du Lion,
although not without difficulty. They then followed the south-west
ridge, passed the place at which the earliest explorers had turned back
(the Chimney), and ascended about three hundred feet more. Mr. Hawkins
and J. J. Carrel then stopped, but Bennen and Professor Tyndall mounted
a few feet higher. They retreated, however, in less than half an hour,
finding that there was too little time, and, descending to the col by
the same route as they had followed on the ascent, proceeded thence to
Breuil—down the couloir instead of by the rocks. The point at which Mr.
Hawkins stopped is easily identified from his description. Its height
is 12,992 feet above the sea. I think that Bennen and Tyndall could not
have ascended more than fifty or sixty feet beyond this in the few
minutes they were absent from the others, as they were upon one of the
most difficult parts of the mountain. This party therefore accomplished
an advance of about three hundred and fifty or four hundred feet.

Mr. Hawkins did not, as far as I know, make another attempt; and the
next was made by the Messrs. Parker in July, 1861. They again started
from Zermatt, followed the route they had struck out on the previous
year, and got a little higher than before; but they were defeated by
want of time, left Zermatt shortly afterward on account of bad weather,
and did not again renew their attempts. Mr. Parker says: “In neither
case did we go as high as we could. At the point where we turned we saw
our way for a few hundred feet farther, but beyond that the
difficulties seemed to increase.” I am informed that both attempts
should be considered as excursions undertaken with the view of
ascertaining whether there was any encouragement to make a more
deliberate attack on the north-east side.

My guide and I arrived at Breuil on he 28th of August, 1861, and we
found that Professor Tyndall _had_ been there a day or two before, but
had done nothng. I had seen the mountain from nearly every direction,
and it seemed, even to a novice like myself, far too much for a single
day. I intended to sleep out upon it as high as possible, and to
attempt to reach the summit on the following day. We endeavored to
induce another man to accompany us, but without success. Matthias zum
Taugwald and other well-known guides were there at the time, but they
declined to go on any account. A sturdy old fellow—Peter Taugwalder by
name—said he would go. His price? “Two hundred francs.” “What! whether
we ascend or not?” “Yes—nothing less.” The end of the matter was, that
all the men who were more or less capable showed a strong
disinclination or positively refused to go (their disinclination being
very much in proportion to their capacity), or else asked a prohibitive
price. This, it may be said once for all, was the reason why so many
futile attempts were made upon the Matterhorn. One first-rate 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,[5] for they were,
with the exception of one man—to whom reference will be made
presently—universally impressed with the belief that the summit was
entirely inaccessible.

 [5] The guide Bennen must be excepted.

We resolved to go alone, but, anticipating a cold bivouac, begged the
loan of a couple of blankets from the innkeeper. He refused them,
giving the curious reason that we had bought a bottle of brandy at Val
Tournanche, and had not bought any from him! No brandy, no blankets,
appeared to be his rule. We did not require them that night, as it was
passed in the highest cow-shed in the valley, which is about an hour
nearer to the mountain than is the hotel. The cowherds, worthy fellows
seldom troubled by tourists, hailed our company with delight, and did
their best to make us comfortable, brought out their little stores of
simple food, and, as we sat with them round the great copper pot which
hung over the fire, bade us in husky voice, but with honest intent, to
beware of the perils of the haunted cliffs. When night was coming on we
saw stealing up the hillside the forms of Jean-Antoine Carrel and the
comrade. “Oh ho!” I said, “you have repented?” “Not at all: you deceive
yourself.” “Why, then, have you come here?” “Because we ourselves are
going on the mountain tornorrow.” “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 final ly decided against it.
The comrade turned out to be the J. J. Carrel who had been with Mr.
Hawkins, and was nearly related to the other man.

[Illustration: JEAN-ANTOINE CARREL (1869)]

Both were bold mountaineers, but Jean-Antoine was incomparably the
better man of the two, and he is 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.

The night wore away without any excitement, except from the fleas, a
party of whom executed a spirited fandango on my cheek to the sound of
music produced on the drum of my ear by one of their fellows beating
with a wisp of hay. The two Carrels crept noiselessly out before
daybreak, and went off. We did not leave until nearly seven o’clock,
and followed them leisurely, leaving all our properties in the
cow-shed, sauntered over the gentian-studded slopes which intervene
between the shed and the Glacier du Lion, left cows and their pastures
behind, traversed the stony wastes and arrived at the ice. Old, hard
beds of snow lay on its right bank (our left hand), and we mounted over
them on to the lower portion of the glacier with ease. But as we
ascended crevasses became numerous, and we were at last brought to a
halt by some which were of very large dimensions; and as our cutting
powers were limited, we sought an easier route, and turned naturally to
the lower rocks of the Tête du Lion, which overlook the glacier on its
west. Some good scrambling took us in a short time on to the crest of
the ridge which descends toward the south; and thence up to the level
of the Col du Lion there was a long natural staircase, on which it was
seldom necessary to use the hands. We dubbed the place “The Great
Staircase.” Then the cliffs of the Tête du Lion, which rise above the
couloir, had to be skirted. This part varies considerably in different
seasons, and in 1861 we found it difficult, for the fine steady weather
of that year had reduced the snow-beds abutting against it to a lower
level than usual, and the rocks which were left exposed at the junction
of the snow with the cliffs had few ledges or cracks to which we could
hold. But by half-past ten o’clock we stood on the col, and looked down
upon the magnificent basin out of which the Z’Mutt glacier flows. We
decided to pass the night upon the col, for we were charmed with the
capabilities of the place, although it was one where liberties could
not be taken. On one side a sheer-wall overhung the Tiefenmatten
glacier—on the other, steep, glassy slopes of hard snow descended to
the Glacier du Lion, furrowed by water and by falling stones: on the
north there was the great peak of the Matterhorn,[6] and on the south
the cliffs of the Tête du Lion. Throw a bottle down to the
Tiefenmatten—no sound returns for more than a dozen seconds.

 [6] The engraving is made after a sketch taken from the rocks of the
 Matterhorn, just above the Col.

How fearful
And dizzy ’tis to cast one’s eyes so low!

[Illustration: THE COL DU LION, LOOKING TOWARD THE TÊTE DU LION]

But no harm could come from that side—neither could it from the other.
Nor was it likely that it would from the Tête du Lion, for some jutting
ledges conveniently overhung our proposed resting-place. We waited for
a while, basked in the sunshine, and watched or listened to the
Carrels, who were sometimes seen or heard high above us upon the ridge
leading toward the summit; and, leaving at mid-day, we descended to the
cow-shed, packed up the tent and other properties, and returned to the
col, although heavily laden, before six o’clock. This tent was
constructed on a pattern suggested by Mr. Francis Galton, and it was
not a success. It looked very pretty when set up in London, but it
proved thoroughly useless in the Alps. It was made of light canvas, and
opened like a book: one end was closed permanently and the other with
flaps: it was supported by two alpenstocks, and had the canvas sides
prolonged so as to turn in underneath. Numerous cords were sewn to the
lower edges, to which stones were to be attached, but the main
fastenings were by a cord which passed underneath the ridge and through
iron rings screwed into the tops of the alpenstocks, and were secured
by pegs. The wind, which playfully careered about the surrounding
cliffs, was driven through our gap with the force of a blow-pipe: the
flaps of the tent would not keep down, the pegs would not stay in, and
it exhibited so marked a desire to go to the top of the Dent Blanche
that we thought it prudent to take it down and to sit upon it. When
night came on we wrapped ourselves in it, and made our camp as
comfortable as the circumstances would allow. The silence was
impressive. No living thing was near our solitary bivouac; the Carrels
had turned back and were out of hearing; the stones had ceased to fall
and the trickling water to murmur—

“The music of whose liquid lip
Had been to us companionship,
And in our lonely life had grown
To have an almost human tone.”[7]

 [7] J. G. Whittier.

It was bitterly cold. Water froze hard in a bottle under my head. Not
surprising, as we were actually on snow, and in a position where the
slightest wind was at once felt. For a time we dozed, but about
midnight there came from high aloft a tremendous explosion, followed by
a second of dead quiet. A great mass of rock had split off and was
descending toward us. My guide started up, wrung his hands and
exclaimed, “O my God, we are lost!” We heard it coming, mass after mass
pouring over the precipices, bounding and rebounding from cliff to
cliff, and the great rocks in advance smiting one another. They seemed
to be close, although they were probably distant, but some small
fragments, which dropped upon us at the same time from the ledges just
above, added to the alarm, and my demoralized companion passed the
remainder of the night in a state of shudder, ejaculating “Terrible!”
and other adjectives.

We put ourselves in motion at daybreak, and commenced the ascent of the
south-west ridge. There was no more sauntering with hands in the
pockets—each step had to be earned by downright climbing. But it was
the most pleasant kind of climbing. The rocks were fast and
unencumbered with débris, the cracks were good, although not numerous,
and there was nothing to fear except from one’s self. So we thought, at
least, and shouted to awake echoes from the cliffs. Ah! there is no
response. Not yet: wait a while—everything here is upon a superlative
scale: count a dozen and then the echoes will return from the walls of
the Dent d’Hérens, miles away, in waves of pure and undefiled sound,
soft, musical and sweet. Halt a moment to regard the view! We overlook
the Tête du Lion, and nothing except the Dent d’Hérens, whose summit is
still a thousand feet above us, stands in the way: the ranges of the
Graian Alps, an ocean of mountains, are seen at a glance, governed by
their three great peaks, the Grivola, Grand Paradis and Tour de St.
Pierre. How soft, and yet how sharp, they look in the early morning!
The mid-day mists have not begun to rise—nothing is obscured: even the
pointed Viso, all but a hundred miles away, is perfectly defined.

Turn to the east and watch the sun’s slanting rays coming across the
Monte Rosa snow-fields. Look at the shadowed parts and see how even
they, radiant with reflected light, are more brilliant than man knows
how to depict. See how, even there, the gentle undulations give shadows
within shadows, and how, yet again, where falling stones or ice have
left a track, there are shadows upon shadows, each with a light and a
dark side, with infinite gradations of matchless tenderness. Then note
the sunlight as it steals noiselessly along and reveals countless
unsuspected forms—the delicate ripple-lines which mark the concealed
crevasse, and the waves of drifted snow, producing each minute more
lights and fresh shadows, sparkling on the edges and glittering on the
ends of the icicles, shining on the heights and illuminating the
depths, until all is aglow and the dazzled eye returns for relief to
the sombre crags.

Hardly an hour had passed since we left the col before we arrived at
the “Chimney.” It proved to be the counterpart of the place to which
reference has been before made: a smooth, straight slab of rock was
fixed at a considerable angle between two others equally smooth. My
companion essayed to go up, and after crumpling his long body into many
ridiculous positions, he said that he would not, for he could not do
it. With some little trouble I got up it unassisted, and then my guide
tied himself on to the end of our rope, and I endeavored to pull him
up. But he was so awkward that he did little for himself, and so heavy
that he proved too much for me, and after several attempts he untied
himself and quietly observed that he should go down. I told him he was
a coward, and _he_ mentioned his opinion of me. I requested him to go
to Breuil, and to say that he had left his “monsieur” on the mountain,
and he turned to go, whereupon I had to eat humble pie and ask him to
come back; for although it was not very difficult to go up, and not at
all dangerous with a man standing below, it was quite another thing to
come down, as the lower edge overhung in a provoking manner. The day
was perfect, the sun was pouring down grateful warmth, the wind had
fallen, the way seemed clear, no insuperable obstacle was in sight; but
what could one do alone? I stood on the top, chafing under this
unexpected contretemps, and remained for some time irresolute; but as
it became apparent that the Chimney was swept more frequently than was
necessary (it was a natural channel for falling stones), I turned at
last, descended with the assistance of my companion, and returned with
him to Breuil, where we arrived about mid-day.

The Carrels did not show themselves, but we were told that they had not
got to any great height,[8] and that the “comrade,” who for convenience
had taken off his shoes and tied them round his waist, had managed to
let one of them slip, and had come down with a piece of cord fastened
round his naked foot. Notwithstanding this, they had boldly glissaded
down the Couloir du Lion, J. J. Carrel having his shoeless foot tied up
in a pocket handkerchief.

 [8] I learned afterwards from Jean-Antoine Carrel that they got
 considerably higher than upon their previous attempts, and about 250
 or 300 feet higher than Professore Tyndall in 1860. In 1862 I saw the
 initials of J. A. Carrel cut on the rocks at the place where he and
 his comrade had turned back.

The Matterhorn was not assailed again in 1861. I left Breuil with the
conviction that it was little use for a single tourist to organize an
attack upon it, so great was its influence on the morals of the guides,
and persuaded that it was desirable at least two should go, to back
each other when required; and departed with my guide over the Col
Théodule, longing more than before to make the ascent, and determined
to return—if possible with a companion—to lay siege to the mountain
until one or the other was vanquished.




CHAPTER V.
RENEWED ATTEMPTS TO ASCEND THE MATTERHORN.


The year 1862 was still young, and the Matterhorn, clad in its wintry
garb, bore but little resemblance to the Matterhorn of the summer, when
a new force came to do battle with the mountain from another direction.
Mr. T. S. Kennedy of Leeds conceived the extraordinary idea that the
peak might prove less impracticable in January than in June, and
arrived at Zermatt in the former month to put his conception to the
test. With stout Peter Perm and sturdy Peter Taugwalder he slept in the
little chapel at the Schwarzensee, and on the next morning, like the
Messrs. Parker, followed the ridge between the peak called Hörnli and
the great mountain. But they found that snow in winter obeyed the
ordinary laws, and that the wind and frost were not less unkind than in
summer. “The wind whirled up the snow and spiculæ of ice into our faces
like needles, and flat pieces of ice a foot in diameter, carried up
from the glacier below, went flying past. Still no one seemed to like
to be the first to give in, till a gust fiercer than usual forced us to
shelter for a time behind a rock. Immediately it was tacitly understood
that our expedition must now end. but we determined to leave some
memento of our visit, and, after descending a considerable distance, we
found a suitable place with loose stones of which to build a cairn. In
half an hour a tower six feet high was erected, a bottle, with the
date, was placed inside, and we retreated as rapidly as possible.” This
cairn was placed at the spot marked upon Dufour’s Map of Switzerland
10,820 feet (3298 metres), and the highest point attained by Mr.
Kennedy was not, I imagine, more than two or three hundred feet above
it.

Shortly after this, Professor Tyndall gave, in his little
tract—_Mountaineering_ in 1861—an account of the reason why he had left
Breuil in August, 1861, without doing anything. It seems that he sent
his guide Bennen to reconnoitre, and that the latter made the following
report to his employer: “Herr, I have examined the mountain carefully,
and find it more difficult and dangerous than I had imagined. There is
no place upon it where we could well pass the night. We might do so on
yonder col upon the snow, but there we should be almost frozen to
death, and totally unfit for the work of the next day. On the rocks
there is no ledge or cranny which could give us proper harborage; and
starting from Breuil, it is certainly impossible to reach the summit in
a single day.” “I was entirely taken aback,” says Tyndall, “by this
report. I felt like a man whose grip had given way, and who was
dropping through the air…” Bennen was evidently dead against any
attempt upon the mountain. “We can, at all events, reach the lower of
the two summits,” I remarked. “Even that is difficult,” he replied;
“but when you have reached it, what then? The peak has neither name nor
fame.”[9]

 [9] _Mountaineering in_ 1861, pp. 86-7. Tyndall and Bennen were
 mistaken in supposing that the mountain has two summits; it has only
 one. They seem to have been deceived by the appearance of that part of
 the south-west ridge which is called “the shoulder” (l’épaule), as
 seen from Breil. Viewed from that place, its southern end has
 certainly, through foreshortening, the semblance of a peak; but when
 one regards it from the Col Theodule, or from any place in the same
 direction, the delusion is at once apparent.

I was more surprised than discouraged by this report by Bennen.
One-half of his assertions I knew to be wrong. The col to which he
referred was the Col du Lion, upon which he had passed a night less
than a week after he had spoken so authoritatively; and I had seen a
place not far below the “Chimney”—a place about five hundred feet above
the col—where it seemed possible to construct a sleeping-place.
Bennen’s opinions seem to have undergone a complete change. In 1860 he
is described as having been enthusiastic to make an attempt—in 1861 he
was dead against one. Nothing dismayed by this, my friend Mr. Reginald
Macdonald, our companion on the Pelvoux—to whom so much of our success
had been due—agreed to join me in a renewed assault from the south; and
although we failed to secure Melchior Anderegg and some other notable
guides, we obtained two men of repute—namely, Johann zum Taugwald and
Johann Kronig of Zermatt. We met at that place early in July, but
stormy weather prevented us even from crossing to the other side of the
chain for some time. We crossed the Col Théodule on the 5th, but the
weather was thoroughly unsettled: it was raining in the valleys and
snowing upon the mountains. Shortly before we gained the summit we were
made extremely uncomfortable by hearing mysterious rushing sounds,
which sometimes seemed as if a sudden gust of wind was sweeping along
the snow, and at others almost like the swishing of a long whip; yet
the snow exhibited no signs of motion and the air was perfectly calm.
The dense, black storm-clouds made us momentarily expect that our
bodies might be used as lightning-conductors, and we were well
satisfied to get under shelter of the inn at Breuil without having
submitted to any such experience.

We had need of a porter, and by the advice of our landlord descended to
the châlets of Breuil in search of one Luc Meynet. We found his house,
a mean abode, encumbered with cheese-making apparatus, and tenanted
only by some bright-eyed children; but as they said that Uncle Luc
would soon be home, we waited at the door of the little châlet and
watched for him. At last a speck was seen coming round the corner of
the patch of pines below Breuil, and then the children clapped their
hands, dropped their toys and ran eagerly forward to meet him. We saw
an ungainly, wobbling figure stoop down and catch up the little ones,
kiss them on each cheek, and put them into the empty panniers on each
side of the mule, and then heard it come on caroling, as if this was
not a world of woe; and yet the face of little Luc Meynet, the
hunchback of Breuil, bore traces of trouble and sorrow, and there was
more than a touch of sadness in his voice when he said that he must
look after his brother’s children. All his difficulties were, however,
at length overcome, and he agreed to join us to carry the tent.

[Illustration]

[Illustration: ALPINE TENT]

In the past winter I had turned my attention to tents, and that which
we had brought with us was the result of experiments to devise one
which should be sufficiently portable to be taken over the most
difficult ground, and which should combine lightness with stability.
Its base was just under six feet square, and a section perpendicular to
its length was an equilateral triangle, the sides of which were six
feet long. It was intended to accommodate four persons. It was
supported by four ash poles six feet and a half long and one inch and a
quarter thick, tapering to the top to an inch and an eighth: these were
shod with iron points. The order of proceeding in the construction of
the tent was as follows: Holes were drilled through the poles about
five inches from their tops for the insertion of two wrought-iron
bolts, three inches long and one-quarter of an inch thick. The bolts
were then inserted, and the two pairs of poles were set out (and fixed
up by a cord) to the proper dimensions. The roof was then put on. This
was made of the rough, unbleached calico called forfar, which can be
obtained in six-feet widths, and it was continued round for about two
feet on each side, on to the floor. The width of the material was the
length of the tent, and seams were thus avoided in the roof. The forfar
was sewn round each pole, particular care being taken to avoid wrinkles
and to get the whole perfectly taut. The flooring was next put in and
sewn down to the forfar. This was of the ordinary plaid mackintosh,
about nine feet square, the surplus three feet being continued up the
sides to prevent draughts. It is as well to have two feet of this
surplus on one side, and only one foot on the other, the latter amount
being sufficient for the side occupied by the feet. One end was then
permanently closed by a triangular piece of forfar, which was sewn down
to that which was already fixed. The other end was left open, and had
two triangular flaps that overlapped each other, and which were
fastened up when we were inside by pieces of tape. Lastly, the forfar
was nailed down to the poles to prevent the tent getting out of shape.
The cord which was used for climbing served for the tent: it was passed
over the crossed poles and underneath the ridge of the roof, and the
two ends—one fore and the other aft—were easily secured to pieces of
rock. Such a tent costs about four guineas, and its weight is about
twenty-three pounds; or, if the lightest kind of forfar is used, it
need not exceed twenty pounds.

Sunday, the 6th of July, was showery, and snow fell on the Matterhorn,
but we started on the following morning with our three men, and pursued
my route of the previous year. I was requested to direct the way, as
none save myself had been on the mountain before, but I did not
distinguish myself on this occasion, and led my companions nearly to
the top of the small peak before the mistake was discovered. The party
becoming rebellious, a little exploration was made toward our right,
and we found that we were upon the top of the cliff overlooking the Col
du Lion. The upper part of the small peak is of a very different
character to the lower part: the rocks are not so firm, and they are
usually covered or intermixed with snow and glazed with ice: the angle
too is more severe. While descending a small snow-slope to get on to
the right track, Kronig slipped on a streak of ice and went down at a
fearful pace. Fortunately, he kept on his legs, and by a great effort
succeeded in stopping just before he arrived at some rocks that jutted
through the snow, which would infallibly have knocked him over. When we
rejoined him a few minutes later we found that he was incapable of
standing, much less of moving, with a face corpse-like in hue, and
trembling violently. He remained in this condition for more than an
hour, and the day was consequently far advanced before we arrived at
our camping-place on the col. Profiting by the experience of last year,
we did not pitch the tent actually on the snow, but collected a
quantity of débris from the neighboring ledges, and after constructing
a rough platform of the larger pieces, leveled the whole with the dirt
and mud.

Meynet had proved invaluable as a tent-bearer, for, although his legs
were more picturesque than symmetrical, and although he seemed to be
built, on principle, with no two parts alike, his very deformities
proved of service; and we quickly found he had a spirit of no common
order, and that few peasants are more agreeable companions or better
climbers than little Luc Meynet, the hunchback of Breuil. He now showed
himself not less serviceable as a scavenger, and humbly asked for
gristly pieces of meat rejected by the others, or for suspicious eggs,
and seemed to consider it a peculiar favor, if not a treat, to be
permitted to drink the coffee-grounds. With the greatest contentment he
took the worst place at the door of the tent, and did all the dirty
work which was put upon him by the guides, as gratefully as a dog who
has been well beaten will receive a stroke.

A strong wind sprang up from the east during the night, and in the
morning it was blowing almost a hurricane. The tent behaved nobly, and
we remained under its shelter for several hours after the sun had
risen, uncertain what it was best to do. A lull tempted us to move, but
we had scarcely ascended a hundred feet before the storm burst upon us
with increased fury. Advance or return was alike impossible: the ridge
was denuded of its débris, and we clutched our hardest when we saw
stones as big as a man’s fist blown away horizontally into space. We
dared not attempt to stand upright, and remained stationary on all
fours, glued, as it were, to the rocks. It was intensely cold, for the
blast had swept along the main chain of the Pennine Alps and across the
great snow-fields around Monte Rosa. Our warmth and courage rapidly
evaporated, and at the next lull we retreated to the tent, having to
halt several times in that short distance. Taugwald and Kronig then
declared that they had had enough, and refused to have anything more to
do with the mountain. Meynet also informed us that he would be required
down below for important cheese-making operations on the following day.
It was therefore needful to return to Breuil, and we arrived there at
2.30 P.M., extremely chagrined at our complete defeat.

Jean-Antoine Carrel, attracted by rumors, had come up to the inn during
our absence, and after some negotiations agreed to accompany us, with
one of his friends named Pession, on the first fine day. We thought
ourselves fortunate, for Carrel clearly considered the mountain a kind
of _preserve_, and regarded our late attempt as an act of _poaching._
The wind blew itself out during the night, and we started again, with
these two men and a porter, at 8 A. M. on the 9th, with unexceptionable
weather. Carrel pleased us by suggesting that we should camp even
higher than before; and we accordingly proceeded, without resting at
the col, until we overtopped the Tête du Lion. Near the foot of the
“Chimney,” a little below the crest of the ridge and on its eastern
side, we found a protected place; and by building up from ledge to
ledge (under the direction of our leader, who was a mason by
profession) we at length constructed a platform of sufficient size and
of considerable solidity. Its height was about twelve thousand five
hundred and fifty feet above the sea; and it exists, I believe, at the
present time. We then pushed on, as the day was very fine, and after a
short hour’s scramble got to the foot of the Great Tower upon the ridge
(that is to say, to Mr. Hawkins’ farthest point), and afterward
returned to our bivouac. We turned out again at 4 A. M., and at 5.15
started upward once more, with fine weather and the thermometer at 28°.
Carrel scrambled up the Chimney, and Macdonald and I after him.
Pession’s turn came, but when he arrived at the top he looked very ill,
declared himself to be thoroughly incapable, and said that he must go
back. We waited some time, but he did not get better, neither could we
learn the nature of his illness. Carrel flatly refused to go on with us
alone. We were helpless. Macdonald, ever the coolest of the cool,
suggested that we should try what we could do without them, but our
better judgment prevailed, and finally we returned together to Breuil.
On the next day my friend started for London.

Three times I had essayed the ascent of this mountain, and on each
occasion had failed ignominiously. I had not advanced a yard beyond my
predecessors. Up to the height of nearly thirteen thousand feet there
were no extraordinary difficulties: the way so far might even become “a
matter of amusement.” Only eighteen hundred feet remained, but they
were as yet untrodden, and might present the most formidable obstacles.
No man could expect to climb them by himself. A morsel of rock only
seven feet high might at any time defeat him if it were perpendicular.
Such a place might be possible to two, or a bagatelle to three men. It
was evident that a party should consist of three men at least. But
where could the other two men be obtained? Carrel was the only man who
exhibited any enthusiasm in the matter, and he in 1861 had absolutely
refused to go unless the party consisted of at least _four_ persons.
Want of men made the difficulty, not the mountain.

The weather became bad again, so I went to Zermatt on the chance of
picking up a man, and remained there during a week of storms. Not one
of the good men, however, could be induced to come, and I returned to
Breuil on the 17th, hoping to combine the skill of Carrel with the
willingness of Meynet on a new attempt by the same route as before; for
the Hönli ridge, which I had examined in the mean time, seemed to be
entirely impracticable. Both men were inclined to go, but their
ordinary occupations prevented them from starting at once.

My tent had been left rolled up at the second platform, and whilst
waiting for the men it occurred to me that it might have been blown
away during the late stormy weather; so I started off on the 18th to
see if this were so or not. The way was by this time familiar, and I
mounted rapidly, astonishing the friendly herdsmen—who nodded
recognition as I flitted past them and the cows—for I was alone,
because no man was available. But more deliberation was necessary when
the pastures were passed and climbing began, for it was needful to mark
each step in case of mist or surprise by night. It is one of the few
things which can be said in favor of mountaineering alone (a practice
which has little besides to commend it) that it awakens a man’s
faculties and makes him observe. When one has no arms to help and no
head to guide him except his own, he must needs take note even of small
things, for he cannot afford to throw away a chance; and so it came to
pass upon my solitary scramble, when above the snow-line and beyond the
ordinary limits of flowering plants, when peering about noting angles
and landmarks, that my eyes fell upon the tiny straggling
plants—oftentimes a single flower on a single stalk—pioneers of
vegetation, atoms of life in a world of desolation, which had found
their way up—who can tell how?—from far below, and were obtaining bare
sustenance from the scanty soil in protected nooks; and it gave a new
interest to the well-known rocks to see what a gallant fight the
survivors made (for many must have perished in the attempt) to ascend
the great mountain. The gentian, as one might have expected, was there,
but it was run close by saxifrages and by _Linaria alpina_, and was
beaten by _Thlaspi rotundifolium;_ which latter plant was the highest I
was able to secure, although it too was overtopped by a little white
flower which I knew not and was unable to reach.

The tent was safe, although snowed up, and I turned to contemplate the
view, which, when seen alone and undisturbed, had all the strength and
charm of complete novelty. The highest peaks of the Pennine chain were
in front—the Breithorn (13,685 feet), the Lyskamm (14,889), and Monte
Rosa (15,217); then turning to the right, the entire block of mountains
which separated the Val Tournanche from the Val d’Ayas was seen at a
glance, with its dominating summit, the Grand Tournalin (11,155).
Behind were the ranges dividing the Val d’Ayas from the valley of
Gressoney, backed by higher summits. More still to the right the eye
wandered down the entire length of the Val Tournanche, and then rested
upon the Graian Alps with their innumerable peaks, and upon the
isolated pyramid of Monte Viso (12,643) in the extreme distance. Next,
still turning to the right, came the mountains intervening between the
Val Tournanche and the Val Barthelemy: Mont Rouss (a round-topped,
snowy summit, which seems so important from Breuil, but which is in
reality only a buttress of the higher mountain, the Château des Dames)
had long ago sunk, and the eye passed over it, scarcely heeding its
existence, to the Becca Salle (or, as it is printed on the map, Bee de
Sale), a miniature Matterhorn, and to other and more important heights.
Then the grand mass of the Dent d’Hérens (13,714) stopped the way—a
noble mountain, encrusted on its northern slopes with enormous hanging
glaciers, which broke away at mid-day in immense slices, and thundered
down on to the Tiefenmatten glacier; and lastly, most splendid of all,
came the Dent Blanche (14,318), soaring above the basin of the great
Z’Muttgletscher. Such a view is hardly to be matched in the Alps, and
_this_ view is very rarely seen, as I saw it, perfectly unclouded.

Time sped away unregarded, and the little birds which had built their
nests on the neighboring cliffs had begun to chirp their evening hymn
before I thought of returning. Half mechanically, I turned to the tent,
unrolled it and set it up: it contained food enough for several days,
and I resolved to stay over the night. I had started from Breuil
without provisions or telling Favre, the innkeeper, who was accustomed
to my erratic ways, where I was going. I returned to the view. The sun
was setting, and its rosy rays, blending with the snowy blue, had
thrown a pale, pure violet far as the eye could see; the valleys were
drowned in a purple gloom, while the summits shone with unnatural
brightness; and as I sat in the door of the tent and watched the
twilight change to darkness, the earth seemed to become less earthly
and almost sublime: the world seemed dead, and I its sole inhabitant.
By and by the moon, as it rose, brought the hills again into sight, and
by a judicious repression of detail rendered the view yet more
magnificent. Something in the south hung like a great glow-worm in the
air: it was too large for a star, and too steady for a meteor, and it
was long before I could realize the incredible fact that it was the
moonlight glittering on the great snow-slope on the north side of Monte
Viso, at a distance, as the crow flies, of ninety-eight miles.
Shivering, at last I entered the tent and made my coffee. The night was
passed comfortably, and the next morning, tempted by the brilliancy of
the weather, I proceeded yet higher in search of another place for a
platform.

[Illustration]

Solitary scrambling over a pretty wide area had shown me that a single
individual is subjected to very many difficulties which do not trouble
a party of two or three men, and that the disadvantages of being alone
are more felt while descending than during the ascent. In order to
neutralize these inconveniences, I had devised two little appliances,
which were now brought into use for the first time. One was a claw, a
kind of grapnel, about five inches long, made of shear steel one-fifth
of an inch thick. This was of use in difficult places where there was
no hold within arm’s length, but where there were cracks or ledges some
distance higher. It could be stuck on the end of the alpenstock and
dropped into such places, or, on extreme occasions, flung up until it
attached itself to something. The edges that laid hold of the rocks
were serrated, which tended to make them catch more readily: the other
end had a ring to which a rope was fastened. It must not be understood
that this was employed for hauling one’s self up by for any great
distance, but that it was used in ascending, at the most, for only a
few yards at a time. In descending, however, it could be prudently used
for a greater distance at a time, as the claws could be planted firmly;
but it was necessary to keep the rope taut and the pull constantly in
the direction of the length of the implement, otherwise it had a
tendency to slip away. The second device was merely a modification of a
dodge practiced by all climbers. It is frequently necessary for a
single man (or for the last man of a party) during a descent to make a
loop in the end of his rope, which he passes over some rocks, and to
come down holding the free end. The loop is then jerked off, and the
process may be repeated. But as it sometimes happens that there are no
rocks at hand which will allow a loose loop to be used, a slipknot has
to be resorted to, and the rope is drawn in tightly. Consequently, it
will occur that it is not possible to jerk the loop off, and the rope
has to be cut and left behind. To prevent this, I had a wrought-iron
ring (two and a quarter inches in diameter and three-eighths of an inch
thick) attached to one end of my rope, and a loop could be made in a
moment by passing the other end of the rope through the ring, which of
course slipped up and held tightly as I descended holding the free end.
A strong piece of cord was also attached to the ring, and on arriving
at the bottom this was pulled: the ring slid back again, and the loop
was whipped off readily. By means of these two simple appliances I was
able to ascend and descend rocks which otherwise would have been
completely impassable. The combined weight of these two things amounted
to less than half a pound.

[Illustration]

The rocks of the south-west ridge are by no means difficult for some
distance above the Col du Lion. This is true of the rocks up to the
level of the Chimney, but they steepen when that is passed, and
remaining smooth and with but few fractures, and still continuing to
dip outward, present some steps of a very uncertain kind, particularly
when they are glazed with ice. At this point (just above the Chimney)
the climber is obliged to follow the southern (or Breuil) side of the
ridge, but in a few feet more one must turn over to the northern (or
Z’Mutt) side, where in most years Nature kindly provides a snow-slope.
When this is surmounted, one can again return to the crest of the
ridge, and follow it by easy rocks to the foot of the Great Tower. This
was the highest point attained by Mr. Hawkins in 1860, and it was also
our highest on the 9th of July.

This Great Tower is one of the most striking features of the ridge. It
stands out like a turret at the angle of a castle. Behind it a
battlemented wall leads upward to the citadel. Seen from the Théodule
pass, it looks only an insignificant pinnacle, but as one approaches it
(on the ridge), so it seems to rise, and when one is at its base it
completely conceals the upper parts of the mountain. I found here a
suitable place for the tent, which, although not so well protected as
the second platform, possessed the advantage of being three hundred
feet higher up; and fascinated by the wildness of the cliffs, and
enticed by the perfection of the weather, I went on to see what was
behind.

The first step was a difficult one: the ridge became diminished to the
least possible width, it was hard to keep one’s balance, and just where
it was narrowest a more than perpendicular mass barred the way. Nothing
fairly within arm’s reach could be laid hold of: it was necessary to
spring up, and then to haul one’s self over the sharp edge by sheer
strength. Progression directly upward was then impossible. Enormous and
appalling precipices plunged down to the Tiefenmatten glacier on the
left, but round the right-hand side it was just possible to go. One
hindrance then succeeded another, and much time was consumed in seeking
the way. I have a vivid recollection of a gully of more than usual
perplexity at the side of the Great Tower, with minute ledges and steep
walls; of the ledges dwindling down, and at last ceasing; of finding
myself, with arms and legs divergent, fixed as if crucified, pressing
against the rock, and feeling each rise and fall of my chest as I
breathed; of screwing my head round to look for a hold, and not seeing
any, and of jumping sideways on to the other side.

Places such as this gully have their charm so long as a man feels that
the difficulties are within his power, but their enchantment vanishes
directly they are too much for him, and when he feels this they are
dangerous to him. The line which separates the difficult from the
dangerous is sometimes a very shadowy, but it is not an imaginary one.
It is a true line, without breadth. It is often easy to pass and very
hard to see. It is sometimes passed unconsciously, and the
consciousness that it has been passed is felt too late; but so long as
a man undertakes that which is well within his power, he is not likely
to pass this line, or consequently to get into any great danger,
although he may meet with considerable difficulty. That which is within
a man’s power varies, of course, according to time, place and
circumstance, but as a rule he can tell pretty well when he is arriving
at the end of his tether; and it seems to me, although it is difficult
to determine for another, even approximately, the limits to which it is
prudent for him to go, that it is tolerably easy to do so for one’s
self. But (according to my opinion) if the doubtful line is crossed
consciously, deliberately, one passes from doing that which is
justifiable to doing that which is unjustifiable, because it is
imprudent.

I expect that any intelligent critic will inquire, “But do you really
mean to assert that dangers in mountaineering arise only from
superlative difficulty, and that the perfect mountaineer does not run
any risks?” I am not prepared to go quite so far as this, although
there is only one risk to which the scrambler on the Higher Alps is
unavoidably subject which does not occur to pedestrians in London’s
streets. This arises from falling rocks, and I shall endeavor in the
course of this work to make the reader understand that it is a
_positive_ danger, and one against which skill, strength and courage
are equally unavailing. It occurs at unexpected times, and may occur in
almost any place. The critic may retort, “Your admission of this one
danger destroys all the rest of the argument.” I agree with him that it
would do so if it were a _grave_ risk to life. But although it is a
real danger, it is not a very serious risk. Not many cases can be
quoted of accidents which have happened through falling stones, and I
do not know an instance of life having been lost in this way in the
High Alps.[10] I suppose, however, few persons will maintain that it is
unjustifiable to do anything, for sport or otherwise, so long as _any_
risk is incurred, else it would be unjustifiable to cross Fleet street
at mid-day. If it were one’s bounden duty to avoid every risk, we
should have to pass our lives indoors. I conceive that the pleasures of
mountaineering outweigh the risks arising from this particular cause,
and that the practice will not be vetoed on its account. Still, I wish
to stamp it as a _positive_ danger, and as one which may imperil the
life of the most perfect mountaineer.

 [10] The contrary is the case in regard to the Lower Alps. Amongst
 others, the case may be mentioned of a lady who (not very long ago)
 had her skull fractured while sitting at the base of the Mer de Glace.

This digression has been caused by an innocent gully which I feared the
reader might think was dangerous. It was an untrodden vestibule, which
led to a scene so wild that even the most sober description of it must
seem an exaggeration. There was a change in the quality of the rock,
and there was a change in the appearance of the ridge. The rocks
(talcose gneiss) below this spot were singularly firm—it was rarely
necessary to test one’s hold: the way led over the living rock, and not
up rent-off fragments. But here all was decay and ruin. The crest of
the ridge was shattered and cleft, and the feet sank in the chips which
had drifted down; while above, huge blocks, hacked and carved by the
hand of time, nodded to the sky, looking like the gravestones of
giants. Out of curiosity I wandered to a notch in the ridge, between
two tottering piles of immense masses which seemed to need but a few
pounds on one or the other side to make them fall, so nicely poised
that they would literally have rocked in the wind, for they were put in
motion by a touch, and based on support so frail that I wondered they
did not collapse before my eyes. In the whole range of my Alpine
experience I have seen nothing more striking than this desolate, ruined
and shattered ridge at the back of the Great Tower. I have seen
stranger shapes—rocks which mimic the human form, with monstrous
leering faces, and isolated pinnacles sharper and greater than any
here—but I have never seen exhibited so impressively the tremendous
effects which may be produced by frost, and by the long-continued
action of forces whose individual effects are imperceptible.

It is needless to say that it is impossible to climb by the crest of
the ridge at this part: still, one is compelled to keep near to it, for
there is no other way. Generally speaking, the angles on the Matterhorn
are too steep to allow the formation of considerable beds of snow, but
here there is a corner which permits it to accumulate, and it is turned
to gratefully, for by its assistance one can ascend four times as
rapidly as upon the rocks.

The Tower was now almost out of sight, and I looked over the central
Pennine Alps to the Grand Combin and to the chain of Mont Blanc. My
neighbor, the Dent d’Hérens, still rose above me, although but
slightly, and the height which had been attained could be measured by
its help. So far, I had no doubts about my capacity to descend that
which had been ascended; but in a short time, on looking ahead, I saw
that the cliffs steepened, and I turned back (without pushing on to
them and getting into inextricable difficulties), exulting in the
thought that they would be passed when we returned together, and that I
had without assistance got nearly to the height of the Dent d’Hérens,
and considerably higher than any one had been before.[11] My exultation
was a little premature.

 [11] A remarkable streak of snow (marked “cravate” in the outline of
 the Matterhorn, as seen from the Theodule) runs across the cliff at
 this part of the mountain. My highest point was somewhat higher than
 the lowest part of this snow, and was consequently nearly 13,500 feet
 above the sea.

[Illustration: THE CHIMNEY. ON THE SOUTH-WEST RIDGE OF THE MATTERHORN.]

About five P. M. I left the tent again, and thought myself as good as
at Breuil. The friendly rope and claw had done good service, and had
smoothed all the difficulties. I lowered myself through the Chimney,
however, by making a fixture of the rope, which I then cut off and left
behind, as there was enough and to spare. My axe had proved a great
nuisance in coming down, and I left it in the tent. It was not attached
to the bâton, but was a separate affair—an old navy boarding-axe. While
cutting up the different snow-beds on the ascent, the bâton trailed
behind fastened to the rope; and when climbing the axe was carried
behind, run through the rope tied round my waist, and was sufficiently
out of the way; but in descending, when coming down face outward (as is
always best where it is possible), the head or the handle of the weapon
caught frequently against the rocks, and several times nearly upset me.
So, out of laziness if you will, it was left in the tent. I paid dearly
for the imprudence.

The Col du Lion was passed, and fifty yards more would have placed me
on the “Great Staircase,” down which one can run. But on arriving at an
angle of the cliffs of the Tête du Lion, while skirting the upper edge
of the snow which abuts against them, I found that the heat of the two
past days had nearly obliterated the steps which had been cut when
coming up. The rocks happened to be impracticable just at this corner,
so nothing could be done except make the steps afresh. The snow was too
hard to beat or tread down, and at the angle it was all but ice: half a
dozen steps only were required, and then the ledges could be followed
again. So I held to the rock with my right hand, and prodded at the
snow with the point of my stick until a good step was made, and then,
leaning round the angle, did the same for the other side. So far well,
but in attempting to pass the corner (to the present moment I cannot
tell how it happened) I slipped and fell.

[Illustration: IN ATTEMPTING TO PASS THE CORNER I SLIPPED AND FELL.]

The slope was steep on which this took place, and descended to the top
of a gully that led down through two subordinate buttresses toward the
Glacier du Lion, which was just seen, a thousand feet below. The gully
narrowed and narrowed until there was a mere thread of snow lying
between two walls of rock, which came to an abrupt termination at the
top of a precipice that intervened between it and the glacier. Imagine
a funnel cut in half through its length, placed at an angle of
forty-five degrees, with its point below and its concave side
uppermost, and you will have a fair idea of the place.

The knapsack brought my head down first, and I pitched into some rocks
about a dozen feet below: they caught something and tumbled me off the
edge, head over heels, into the gully. The bâton was dashed from my
hands, and I whirled downward in a series of bounds, each longer than
the last—now over ice, now into rocks—striking my head four or five
times, each time with increased force. The last bound sent me spinning
through the air, in a leap of fifty or sixty feet, from one side of the
gully to the other, and I struck the rocks, luckily, with the whole of
my left side. They caught my clothes for a moment, and I fell back on
to the snow with motion arrested: my head fortunately came the right
side up, and a few frantic catches brought me to a halt in the neck of
the gully and on the verge of the precipice. Bâton, hat and veil
skimmed by and disappeared, and the crash of the rocks which I had
started, as they fell on to the glacier, told how narrow had been the
escape from utter destruction. As it was, I fell nearly two hundred
feet in seven or eight bounds. Ten feet more would have taken me in one
gigantic leap of eight hundred feet on to the glacier below.

The situation was still sufficiently serious. The rocks could not be
left go for a moment, and the blood was spurting out of more than
twenty cuts. The most serious ones were in the head, and I vainly tried
to close them with one hand while holding on with the other. It was
useless: the blood jerked out in blinding jets at each pulsation. At
last, in a moment of inspiration, I kicked out a big lump of snow and
stuck it as a plaster on my head. The idea was a happy one, and the
flow of blood diminished: then, scrambling up, I got, not a moment too
soon, to a place of safety and fainted away. The sun was setting when
consciousness returned, and it was pitch dark before the Great
Staircase was descended; but by a combination of luck and care the
whole forty-eight hundred feet of descent to Breuil was accomplished
without a slip or once missing the way. I slunk past the cabin of the
cowherds, who were talking and laughing inside, utterly ashamed of the
state to which I had been brought by my imbecility, and entered the inn
stealthily, wishing to escape to my room unnoticed. But Favre met me in
the passage, demanded, “Who is it?” screamed with fright when he got a
light, and aroused the household. Two dozen heads then held solemn
council over mine, with more talk than action. The natives were
unanimous in recommending that hot wine (syn. vinegar), mixed with
salt, should be rubbed into the cuts. I protested, but they insisted.
It was all the doctoring they received. Whether their rapid healing was
to be attributed to that simple remedy or to a good state of health, is
a question: they closed up remarkably soon, and in a few days I was
able to move again.

It was sufficiently dull during this time. I was chiefly occupied in
meditating on the vanity of human wishes, and in watching my clothes
being washed in the tub which was turned by the stream in the front of
the house; and I vowed that if an Englishman should at any time fall
sick in the Val Tournanche, he should not feel so solitary as I did at
this dreary time.[12]

 [12] As it seldom happens that one survives such a fall, it may be
 interesting to record what my sensations were during its occurrence. I
 was perfectly conscious of what was happening, and felt each blow;
 but, like a patient under chloroform, experienced no pain. Each blow
 was, naturally, more severe than that which preceded it, and I
 distinctly remember thinking “Well, if the next is harder still, that
 will be the end!” Like persons who have been rescued from drowning, I
 remember that the recollection of a multitude of things rushed through
 my head, many of them trivialities or absurdities, which had been
 forgotten long before; and, more remarkable, this bounding through
 space did not feel disagreeable. But I think that in no very great
 distance more, consciousness as well as sensation would have been
 lost, and upon that I base my belief, improbable as it seems, that
 death by a fall from a great height is as painless an end as can be
 experienced.
    The battering was very rough, yet no bones were broken. The most
    severe cuts were one of four inches long on the top of the bead,
    and another of three inches on the right temple: this latter bled
    frightfully. There was a formidable-looking cut, of about the same
    size as the last, on the palm of the left hand, and every limb was
    grazed, or cut, more or less seriously. The tips of the ears were
    taken off, and a sharp rock cut a circular bit out of the side of
    the left boot, sock, and ankle, at one stroke. The loss of blood,
    although so great, did not seem to be permanently injurious. The
    only serious effect has been the reduction of a naturally retentive
    memory to a very common-place one; and although my recollections of
    more distant occurrences remain unshaken, the events of that
    particular day would be clean gone but for the few notes which were
    written down before the accident.

[Illustration: AT BREUIL (GIOMEIN)]

The news of the accident brought Jean-Antoine Carrel up to Breuil, and
along with the haughty chasseur came one of his relatives, a strong and
able young fellow named Cæsar. With these two men and Meynet I made
another start on the 23d of July. We got to the tent without any
trouble, and on the following day had ascended beyond the Tower, and
were picking our way cautiously over the loose rocks behind (where my
traces of the week before were well apparent) in lovely weather, when
one of those abominable and almost instantaneous changes occurred to
which the Matterhorn is so liable on its southern side. Mists were
created out of invisible vapors, and in a few minutes snow fell
heavily. We stopped, as this part was of excessive difficulty, and,
unwilling to retreat, remained on the spot several hours, in hopes that
another change would occur; but as it did not, we at length went down
to the base of the Tower, and commenced to make a third platform, at
the height of 12,992 feet above the sea. It still continued to snow,
and we took refuge in the tent. Carrel argued that the weather had
broken up, and that the mountain would become so glazed with ice as to
render any attempt futile; and I, that the change was only temporary,
and that the rocks were too hot to allow ice to form upon them. I
wished to stay until the weather improved, but my leader would not
endure contradiction, grew more positive and insisted that we must go
down. We went down, and when we got below the col his opinion was found
to be wrong: the cloud was confined to the upper three thousand feet,
and outside it there was brilliant weather.

Carrel was not an easy man to manage. He was perfectly aware that he
was the cock of the Val Tournanche, and he commanded the other men as
by right. He was equally conscious that he was indispensable to me, and
took no pains to conceal his knowledge of the fact. If he had been
commanded or if he had been entreated to stop, it would have been all
the same. But, let me repeat, he was the only first-rate climber I
could find who believed that the mountain was not inaccessible. With
him I had hopes, but without him none; so he was allowed to do as he
would. His will on this occasion was almost incomprehensible. He
certainly could not be charged with cowardice, for a bolder man could
hardly be found; nor was he turning away on account of difficulty, for
nothing to which we had yet come seemed to be difficult to _him;_ and
his strong personal desire to make the ascent was evident. There was no
occasion to come down on account of food, for we had taken, to guard
against this very casualty, enough to last for a week; and there was no
danger and little or no discomfort in stopping in the tent. It seemed
to me that he was spinning out the ascent for his own purposes, and
that although he wished very much to be the first man on the top, and
did not object to be accompanied by any one else who had the same wish,
he had no intention of letting one succeed too soon—perhaps to give a
greater appearance of _éclat_ when the thing was accomplished. As he
feared no rival, he may have supposed that the more difficulties he
made the more valuable he would be estimated, though, to do him
justice, he never showed any great hunger for money. His demands were
fair, not excessive; but he always stipulated for so much per day, and
so, under any circumstances, he did not do badly.

Vexed at having my time thus frittered away, I was still well pleased
when he volunteered to start again on the morrow if it was fine. We
were to advance the tent to the foot of the Tower, to fix ropes in the
most difficult parts beyond, and to make a push for the summit on the
following day.

The next morning (Friday, the 25th), when I arose, good little Meynet
was ready and waiting, and he said that the two Carrels had gone off
some time before, and had left word that they intended marmot-hunting,
as the day was favorable for that sport. My holiday had nearly expired,
and these men clearly could not be relied upon; so, as a last resort, I
proposed to the hunchback to accompany me alone, to see if we could not
get higher than before, though of reaching the summit there was little
or no hope. He did not hesitate, and in a few hours we stood—for the
third time together—upon the Col du Lion, but it was the first time
Meynet had seen the view unclouded. The poor little deformed peasant
gazed upon it silently and reverently for a time, and then
unconsciously fell on one knee in an attitude of adoration, and clasped
his hands, exclaiming in ecstasy, “O beautiful mountains!” His actions
were as appropriate as his words were natural, and tears bore witness
to the reality of his emotion.

Our power was too limited to advance the tent, so we slept at the old
station, and, starting very early the next morning, passed the place
where we had turned back on the 24th, and subsequently my highest point
on the 19th. We found the crest of the ridge so treacherous that we
took to the cliffs on the right, although most unwillingly. Little by
little we fought our way up, but at length we were both spread-eagled
on the all-but perpendicular face, unable to advance and barely able to
descend. We returned to the ridge. It was almost equally difficult, and
infinitely more unstable; and at length, after having pushed our
attempts as far as was prudent, I determined to return to Breuil, and
to have a light ladder made to assist us to overcome some of the
steepest parts. I expected, too, that by this time Carrel would have
had enough marmot-hunting, and would deign to accompany us again.

We came down at a great pace, for we were now so familiar with the
mountain and with each other’s wants that we knew immediately when to
give a helping hand and when to let alone. The rocks also were in a
better state than I have ever seen them, being almost entirely free
from glaze of ice. Meynet was always merriest on the difficult parts,
and on the most difficult kept on enunciating the sentiment, “We can
only die once,” which thought seemed to afford him infinite
satisfaction. We arrived at the inn early in the evening, and I found
my projects summarily and unexpectedly knocked on the head.

Professor Tyndall had arrived while we were absent, and he had engaged
both Cæsar and Jean-Antoine Carrel. Bennen was also with him, together
with a powerful and active friend, a Valaisan guide named Anton Walter.
They had a ladder already prepared, provisions were being collected,
and they intended to start on the following morning (Sunday). This new
arrival took me by surprise. Bennen, it will be remembered, refused
point-blank to take Professor Tyndall on the Matterhorn in 1861. “He
was dead against any attempt on the mountain,” says Tyndall. He was now
eager to set out. Professor Tyndall has not explained in what way this
revolution came about in his guide. I was equally astonished at the
faithlessness of Carrel, and attributed it to pique at our having
presumed to do without him. It was useless to compete with the
professor and his four men, who were ready to start in a few hours, so
I waited to see what would come of their attempt.

[Illustration: A CANNONADE ON THE MATTERHORN (1862)]

Everything seemed to favor it, and they set out on a fine morning in
high spirits, leaving me tormented with envy and all uncharitableness.
If they succeeded, they carried off the prize for which I had been so
long struggling; and if they failed, there was no time to make another
attempt, for I was due in a few days more in London. When this came
home clearly to me, I resolved to leave Breuil at once, but when
packing up found that some necessaries had been left behind in the
tent. So I went off about mid-day to recover them, caught the army of
the professor before it reached the col, as they were going very
slowly, left them there (stopping to take food) and went on to the
tent. I was near to it when all at once I heard a noise aloft, and on
looking up perceived a stone of at least a foot cube flying straight at
my head. I ducked and scrambled under the lee side of a friendly rock,
while the stone went by with a loud buzz. It was the advanced guard of
a perfect storm of stones, which descended with infernal clatter down
the very edge of the ridge, leaving a trail of dust behind, with a
strong smell of sulphur that told who had sent them. The men below were
on the look-out, but the stones did not come near them, and breaking
away on one side went down to the glacier.

I waited at the tent to welcome the professor, and when he arrived went
down to Breuil. Early next morning some one ran to me saying that a
flag was seen on the summit of the Matterhorn. It was not so, however,
although I saw that they had passed the place where we had turned back
on the 26th. I had now no doubt of their final success, for they had
got beyond the point which Carrel, not less than myself, had always
considered to be the most questionable place on the whole mountain. Up
to it there was no choice of route—I suppose that at no one point
between it and the col was it possible to diverge a dozen paces to the
right or left—but beyond it it was otherwise, and we had always agreed
in our debates that if it could be passed success was certain.

The accompanying outline from a sketch taken from the door of the inn
at Breuil will help to explain. The letter A indicates the position of
the Great Tower; C, the “cravate” (the strongly-marked streak of snow
referred to in note 11, and which we just failed to arrive at on the
26th); B, the place where we now saw something that looked like a flag.
Behind the point B a nearly level ridge leads up to the foot of the
final peak, which will be understood by a reference to the outline on
page 83, on which the same letters indicate the same places. It was
just now said, we considered that if the point C could be passed,
success was certain. Tyndall was at B very early in the morning, and I
did not doubt that he would reach the summit, although it yet remained
problematical whether he would be able to stand on the very highest
point. The summit was evidently formed of a long ridge, on which there
were two points nearly equally elevated—so equally that one could not
say which was the highest—and between the two there seemed to be a deep
notch, marked D on the outlines, which might defeat one at the very
last moment.

[Illustration]

My knapsack was packed, and I had drunk a parting glass of wine with
Favre, who was jubilant at the success which was to make the fortune of
his inn, but I could not bring myself to leave until the result was
heard, and lingered about, as a foolish lover hovers round the object
of his affections even after he has been contemptuously rejected. The
sun had set before the men were descried coming over the pastures.
There was no spring in their steps: they too were defeated. The Carrels
hid their heads, but the others said, as men will do when they have
been beaten, that the mountain was horrible, impossible, and so
forth.—Professor Tyndall told me they had arrived _within a stone’s
throw of the summit_, and admonished me to have nothing more to do with
the mountain. I understood him to say that he should not try again, and
ran down to the village of Val Tournanche, almost inclined to believe
that the mountain was inaccessible, leaving the tent, ropes and other
matters in the hands of Favre, to be placed at the disposal of any
person who wished to ascend it—more, I am afraid, out of irony than
generosity. There may have been those who believed that the Matterhorn
could be ascended, but anyhow their faith did not bring forth works. No
one tried again in 1862.

[Illustration: “BUT WHAT IS THIS?”]




CHAPTER VI.
THE VAL TOURNANCHE—THE BREUILJOCH—ZERMATT—ASCENT OF THE GRAND
TOURNALIN.


I crossed the Channel on the of July, 1863, embarrassed by the
possession of two ladders, each twelve feet long, which joined together
like those used by firemen, and shut up like parallel rulers. My
luggage was highly suggestive of housebreaking, for, besides these,
there were several coils of rope and numerous tools of suspicious
appearance; and it was reluctantly admitted into France, but it passed
through the custom-house with less trouble than I anticipated, after a
timely expenditure of a few francs.

I am not in love with the douane. It is the purgatory of travelers,
where uncongenial spirits mingle together for a time before they are
separated into rich and poor. The douaniers look upon tourists as their
natural enemies: see how eagerly they pounce upon the portmanteaus! One
of them has discovered something. He has never seen its like before,
and he holds it aloft in the the face of its owner with inquisitorial
insolence: “But _what is_ this?” The explanation is but half
satisfactory “But what is _this?_” says he, laying hold of a little
box. “Powder.” “But that is forbidden to carry of powder on the
railway.” “Bah!” says another and older hand, “pass the effects of
monsieur;” and our countryman—whose cheeks had begun to redden under
the stares of his fellow-travelers—is allowed to depart with his
half-worn tooth-brush, while the discomfited douanier gives a mighty
shrug at the strange habits of those “whose insular position excludes
them from the march of continental ideas.”

My real troubles commenced at Susa. The officials there, more honest
and more obtuse than the Frenchmen, declined at one and the same time
to be bribed or to pass my baggage until a satisfactory account of it
was rendered; and as they refused to believe the true explanation, I
was puzzled what to say, but was presently relieved from the dilemma by
one of the men, who was cleverer than his fellows, suggesting that I
was going to Turin to exhibit in the streets—that I mounted the ladder
and balanced myself on the end of it, then lighted my pipe and put the
point of the baton in its bowl, and caused the baton to gyrate around
my head. The rope was to keep back the spectators, and an Englishman in
my company was the agent. “Monsieur is acrobat, then?” “Yes,
certainly.” “Pass the effects of monsieur the acrobat!”

These ladders were the source of endless trouble. Let us pass over the
doubts of the guardians of the Hotel d’Europe (Trombetta) whether a
person in the possession of such questionable articles should be
admitted to their very respectable house, and get to Chatillon, at the
entrance of the Val Tournanche. A mule was chartered to carry them, and
as they were too long to sling across its back, they were arranged
lengthways, and one end projected over the animal’s head, while the
other extended beyond its tail. A mule when going up or down hill
always moves with a jerky action, and in consequence of this the
ladders hit my mule severe blows between its ears and its flanks. The
beast, not knowing what strange creature it had on its back, naturally
tossed its head and threw out its legs, and this, of course, only made
the blows that it received more severe. At last it ran away, and would
have perished by rolling down a precipice if the men had not caught
hold of its tail. The end of the matter was, that a man had to follow
the mule, holding the end of the ladders, which obliged him to move his
arms up and down incessantly, and to bow to the hind quarters of the
animal in a way that afforded more amusement to his comrades than it
did to him.

I was once more _en route_ for the Matterhorn, for I had heard in the
spring of 1863 the cause of the failure of Professor Tyndall, and
learned that the case was not so hopeless as it appeared to be at one
time. I found that he arrived as far only as the northern end of “the
shoulder.” Carrel and all the men who had been with me knew of the
existence of the cleft at this point, and of the pinnacle which rose
between it and the final peak, and we had frequently talked about the
best manner of passing the place. On this we disagreed, but we were
both of opinion that when we got to “the shoulder” it would be
necessary to bear gradually to the right or to the left, to avoid
coming to the top of the notch. But Tyndall’s party, after arriving at
“the shoulder,” were led by his guides along the crest of the ridge,
and consequently when they got to its northern end they came to the top
of the notch, instead of the bottom—to the dismay of all but the
Carrels. Dr. Tyndall’s words are: “The ridge was here split by a deep
cleft which separated it from the final precipice, and the case became
more hopeless as we came more near.” The professor adds: “The mountain
is 14,800 feet high, and 14,600 feet had been acomplished.” He greatly
deceived himself: by the barometric measurements of Signer Giordano the
notch is no less than 800 feet below the summit. The guide Walter (Dr.
Tyndall says) said it was impossible to proceed, and the Carrels,
appealed to for their opinion (this is their own account), gave as an
answer, “We are porters—ask your guides.” Bennen, thus left to himself,
“was finally forced to accept defeat.” Tyndall had nevertheless
accomplished an advance of about four hundred feet over one of the most
difficult parts of the mountain.

The Val Tournanche is one of the most charming valleys in the Italian
Alps: it is a paradise to an artist, and if the space at my command
were greater, I would willingly linger over its groves of chestnuts,
its bright trickling rills and its roaring torrents, its upland
unsuspected valleys and its noble cliffs. The path rises steeply from
Chatillon, but it is well shaded, and the heat of the summer sun is
tempered by cool air and spray which comes off the ice-cold streams.
One sees from the path, at several places on the right bank of the
valley, groups of arches which have been built high up against the
faces of the cliffs. Guide-books repeat—on whose authority I know
not—that they are the remains of a Roman aqueduct. They have the Roman
boldness of conception, but the work has not the usual Roman solidity.
The arches have always seemed to me to be the remains of an
_unfinished_ work, and I learn from Jean-Antoine Carrel that there are
other groups of arches, which are not seen from the path, all having
the same appearance. It may be questioned whether those seen near the
village of Antey are Roman. Some of them are semicircular, whilst
others are pointed. Here is one of the latter, which might pass for
fourteenth-century work or later—a two-centred arch, with mean
voussoirs and the masonry in rough courses. These arches are well worth
the attention of an archaeologist, but some difficulty will be found in
approaching them closely.

[Illustration]

We sauntered up the valley, and got to Breuil when all were asleep. A
halo round the moon promised watery weather, and we were not
disappointed, for on the next day (August 1) rain fell heavily, and
when the clouds lifted for a time we saw that new snow lay thickly over
everything higher than nine thousand feet. J. A. Carrel was ready and
waiting (as I had determined to give the bold cragsman another chance);
and he did not need to say that the Matterhorn would be impracticable
for several days after all this new snow, even if the weather were to
arrange itself at once. Our first day together was accordingly spent
upon a neighboring summit, the Cimes Blanches—a degraded mountain well
known for its fine panoramic view. It was little that we saw, for in
every direction except to the south writhing masses of heavy clouds
obscured everything; and to the south our view was intercepted by a
peak higher than the Cimes Blanches, named the Grand Tournalin. But we
got some innocent pleasure out of watching the gambolings of a number
of goats, who became fast friends after we had given them some salt—in
fact, too fast, and caused us no little annoyance when we were
descending. “Carrel,” I said, as a number of stones whizzed by which
they had dislodged, “this must be put a stop to.” “Diable!” he grunted,
“it is very well to talk, but how will you do it?” I said that I would
try; and sitting down poured a little brandy into the hollow of my
hand, and allured the nearest goat with deceitful gestures. It was one
who had gobbled up the paper in which the salt had been carried—an
animal of enterprising character—and it advanced fearlessly and licked
up the brandy. I shall not easily forget its surprise. It stopped short
and coughed, and looked at me as much as to say, “Oh, you cheat!” and
spat and ran away, stopping now and then, to cough and spit again. We
were not troubled any more by those goats.

More snow fell during the night, and our attempt on the Matterhorn was
postponed indefinitely. Carrel and I wandered out again in the
afternoon, and went, first of all, to a favorite spot with tourists
near the end of the Görner glacier (or, properly speaking, the Boden
glacier), to a little verdant flat studded with _Euphrasia
officinalis_, the delight of swarms of bees, who gather there the honey
which afterward appears at the _table d’hôte._

On our right the glacier torrent thundered down the valley through a
gorge with precipitous sides, not easily approached, for the turf at
the top was slippery, and the rocks had everywhere been rounded by the
glacier, which formerly extended far away. This gorge seems to have
been made chiefly by the torrent, and to have been excavated
subsequently to the retreat of the glacier. It seems so, because not
merely upon its walls are there the marks of running water, but even
upon the rounded rocks at the top of its walls, at a height of seventy
or eighty feet above the present level of the torrent, there are some
of those queer concavities which rapid streams alone are known to
produce on rocks.

A little bridge, apparently frail, spans the torrent just above the
entrance to this gorge, and from it one perceives being fashioned in
the rocks below concavities similar to those to which reference has
just been made. The torrent is seen hurrying forward. Not everywhere.
In some places the water strikes projecting angles, and, thrown back by
them, remains almost stationary, eddying round and round: in others,
obstructions fling it up in fountains, which play perpetually on the
_under_ surfaces of overhanging masses; and sometimes do so in such a
way that the water not only works upon the under surfaces, but round
the corner; that is to say, upon the surfaces which are _not_ opposed
to the general direction of the current. In all cases _concavities_ are
being produced. Projecting angles are rounded, it is true, and are more
or less convex, but they are overlooked on account of the prevalence of
concave forms.

[Illustration: WATER-WORN ROCKS IN THE GORGE BELOW THE GÖRNER GLACIER]

Cause and effect help each other here. The inequalities of the torrent
bed and walls cause its eddyings, and the eddies fashion the
concavities. The more profound the latter become, the more disturbance
is caused in the water. The destruction of the rocks proceeds at an
ever-increasing rate, for the larger the amount of surface that is
exposed, the greater are the opportunities for the assaults of heat and
cold.

When water is in the form of glacier it has not the power of making
concavities such as these in rocks, and of working upon surfaces which
are not opposed to the direction of the current. Its nature is changed:
it operates in a different way, and it leaves marks which are readily
distinguished from those produced by torrent action.

[Illustration: STRIATIONS PRODUCED BY GLACIER ACTION (AT GRINDELWALD)]

The prevailing forms which result from glacier action are more or less
_convex._ Ultimately, all angles and almost all curves are obliterated,
and large areas of flat surfaces are produced. This perfection of
abrasion is rarely found except in such localities as have sustained a
grinding much more severe than that which has occurred in the Alps. Not
merely can the operations of extinct glaciers be traced in detail by
means of the bosses of rock popularly termed _roches moutonnées_, but
their effects in the aggregate, on a range of mountains or an entire
country, can be recognized sometimes at a distance of fifteen or twenty
miles, from the incessant repetition of these convex forms.

We finished up the 3d of August with a walk over the Findelen glacier,
and returned to Zermatt at a later hour than we intended, both very
sleepy. This is noteworthy only on account of that which followed. We
had to cross the Col de Valpelline on the next day, and an early start
was desirable. Monsieur Seller, excellent man! knowing this, called us
himself, and when he came to my door I answered, “All right, Seller, I
will get up,” and immediately turned over to the other side, saying to
myself, “First of all, ten minutes’ more sleep.” But Seller waited and
listened, and, suspecting the case, knocked again: “Herr Whymper, have
you got a light?” Without thinking what the consequences might be, I
answered, “No;” and then the worthy man actually forced the lock off
his own door to give me one. By similar and equally friendly and
disinterested acts Monsieur Seller has acquired his enviable
reputation.

At four A.M. we left his Monte Rosa hotel, and were soon pushing our
way through the thickets of gray alder that skirt the path up the
exquisite little valley which leads to the Z’muttgletscher.

Nothing can seem or be more inaccessible than the Matterhorn upon this
side, and even in cold blood one holds his breath when looking at its
stupendous cliffs. There are but few equal to them in size in the Alps,
and there are none which can more truly be termed _precipices._
Greatest of them all is the immense north cliff, that which bends over
toward the Z’muttgletscher. Stones which drop from the top of that
amazing wall fall for about fifteen hundred feet before they touch
anything, and those which roll down from above and bound over it fall
to a much greater depth, and leap wellnigh one thousand feet beyond its
base. This side of the mountain has always seemed sombre, sad,
terrible: it is painfully suggestive of decay, ruin and death; and it
is now, alas! more than terrible by its associations.

“There is no aspect of destruction about the Matterhorn cliffs,” says
Professor Ruskin. Granted—when they are seen from afar. But approach
and sit down by the side of the Z’muttgletscher, and you will hear that
their piecemeal destruction is proceeding ceaselessly, incessantly. You
will _hear_, but probably you will not _see;_ for even when the
descending masses thunder as loudly as heavy guns, and the echoes roll
back from the Ebihorn opposite, they will still be as pin-points
against this grand old face, so vast is its scale.

If you would see the “aspects of destruction,” you must come still
closer and climb its cliffs and ridges, or mount to the plateau of the
Matterhorngletscher, which is cut up and ploughed up by these missiles,
and strewn on the surface with their smaller fragments: the larger
masses, falling with tremendous velocity, plunge into the snow and are
lost to sight.

The Matterhorngletscher, too, sends down _its_ avalanches, as if in
rivalry with the rocks behind. Round the whole of its northern side it
does not terminate in the usual manner by gentle slopes, but comes to a
sudden end at the top of the steep rocks which lie betwixt it and the
Z’muttgletscher; and seldom does an hour pass without a huge slice
breaking away and falling with dreadful uproar on to the slopes below,
where it is re-compacted.

The desolate, outside pines of the Z’mutt forests, stripped of their
bark and blanched by the weather, are a fit foreground to a scene that
can hardly be surpassed in solemn grandeur. It is a subject worthy of
the pencil of a great painter, and one which would tax the powers of
the very greatest.

Higher up the glacier the mountain is less savage in appearance, but it
is not less impracticable; and three hours later, when we arrived at
the island of rock called the Stockje (which marks the end of the
Z’muttgletscher proper, and which separates its higher feeder, the
Stockgletscher, from its lower but greater one, the Tiefenmatten),
Carrel himself, one of the least demonstrative of men, could not
refrain from expressing wonder at the steepness of its faces, and at
the audacity that had prompted us to camp upon the south-west ridge,
the profile of which is seen very well from the Stockje. Carrel then
saw the north and north-west sides of the mountain for the first time,
and was more firmly persuaded than ever that an ascent was possible
_only_ from the direction of Breuil.

Three years afterward, I was traversing the same spot with the guide
Franz Biener, when all at once a puff of wind brought to us a very bad
smell, and on looking about we discovered a dead chamois half-way up
the southern cliffs of the Stockje. We clambered up, and found that it
had been killed by a most uncommon and extraordinary accident. It had
slipped on the upper rocks, had rolled over and over down a slope of
débris without being able to regain its feet, had fallen over a little
patch of rocks that projected through the débris, and had caught the
points of both horns on a tiny ledge not an inch broad. It had just
been able to touch the débris where it led away down from the rocks,
and had pawed and scratched until it could no longer touch. It had
evidently been starved to death, and we found the poor beast almost
swinging in the air, with its head thrown back and tongue protruding,
looking to the sky as if imploring help.

We had no such excitement as this in 1863, and crossed this easy pass
to the châlets of Prerayen in a very leisurely fashion. From the summit
to Prerayen let us descend in one step. The way has been described
before, and those who wish for information about it should consult the
description of Mr. Jacomb, the discoverer of the pass. Nor need we stop
at Prerayen, except to remark that the owner of the châlets (who is
usually taken for a common herdsman) must not be judged by appearances.
He is a man of substance, he has many flocks and herds; and although,
when approached politely, he is courteous, he can (and probably will)
act as the _master_ of Prerayen if his position is _not_ recognized,
and with all the importance of a man who pays taxes to the extent of
five hundred francs per annum to his government.

The hill tops were clouded when we rose from our hay on the 5th of
August. We decided not to continue the tour of our mountain
immediately, and returned over our track of the preceding day to the
highest châlet on the left bank of the valley, with the intention of
attacking the Dent d’Erin on the next morning. We were interested in
this summit, more on account of the excellent view which it commanded
of the southwest ridge and the terminal peak of the Matterhorn than
from any other reason.

The Dent d’Erin had not been ascended at this time, and we had diverged
from our route on the 4th, and had scrambled some distance up the base
of Mont Brulé, to see how far its southwestern slopes were assailable.
We were divided in opinion as to the best way of approaching the peak.
Carrel, true to his habit of sticking to rocks in preference to ice,
counseled ascending by the long buttress of the Tête de Bella Cia
(which descends toward the west, and forms the southern boundary of the
last glacier that falls into the Glacier de Zardesan), and thence
traversing the heads of all the tributaries of the Zardesan to the
western and rocky ridge of the Dent. I, on the other hand, propose to
follow the Glacier de Zardesan itself throughout its entire length, and
from the plateau at its head (where my proposed route would cross
Carrel’s), make directly toward the summit up the snow-covered glacier
slope, instead of by the western ridge. The hunchback, who was
accompanying us on these excursions, declared in favor of Carrel’s
route, and it was accordingly adopted.

The first part of the programme was successfully executed; and at
half-past ten A.M. on the 6th of August we were sitting astride the
western ridge, at a height of about twelve thousand five hundred feet,
looking down upon the Tiefenmatten glacier. To all appearance, another
hour would place us on the summit, but in another hour we found that we
were not destined to succeed. The ridge (like all of the principal
rocky ridges of the great peaks upon which I have stood) had been
completely shattered by frost, and was nothing more than a heap of
piled-up fragments. It was always narrow, and where it was narrowest it
was also the most unstable and the most difficult. On neither side
could we ascend it by keeping a little below its crest—on the side of
the Tiefenmatten because it was too steep, and on both sides because
the dislodgment of a single block would have disturbed the equilibrium
of those which were above. Forced, therefore, to keep to the very crest
of the ridge, and unable to deviate a single step either to the right
or to the left, we were compelled to trust ourselves upon unsteady
masses, which trembled under our tread, which sometimes settled down,
grating in a hollow and ominous manner, and which seemed as if a very
little shake would send the whole roaring down in one awful avalanche.

I followed my leader, who said not a word, and did not rebel until we
came to a place where a block had to be surmounted which lay poised
across the ridge. Carrel could not climb it without assistance, or
advance beyond it until I joined him above; and as he stepped off my
back on to it I felt it quiver and bear down upon me. 1 doubted the
possibility of another man standing upon it without bringing it down.
Then I rebelled. There was no honor to be gained by persevering, or
dishonor in turning from a place which was dangerous on account of its
excessive difficulty. So we returned to Prerayen, for there was too
little time to allow us to reascend by the other route, which was
subsequently shown to be the right way up the mountain.

Four days afterward a party of Englishmen (including my friends W. E.
Hall, Crauford Grove and Reginald Macdonald) arrived in the Valpelline,
and (unaware of our attempt) on the 12th, under the skillful guidance
of Melchior Anderegg, made the first ascent of the Dent d’Erin by the
route which I had proposed. This is the only mountain which I have
essayed to ascend that has not, sooner or later, fallen to me. Our
failure was mortifying, but I am satisfied that we did wisely in
returning, and that if we had persevered by Carrel’s route, another
Alpine accident would have been recorded. I have not heard that another
ascent has been made of the Dent d’Erin.

On the 7th of August we crossed the Va Cornère pass, and had a good
look at the mountain named the Grand Tournalin as we descended the Val
de Chignana. This mountain was seen from so many points, and was so
much higher than any peak in its immediate neighborhood, that it was
bound to give a very fine view; and (as the weather continued
unfavorable for the Matterhorn) I arranged with Carrel to ascend it the
next day, and despatched him direct to the village of Val Tournanche to
make the necessary preparations, whilst I, with Meynet, made a short
cut to Breuil, at the back of Mont Panquero, by a little pass locally
known as the Col de Fenêtre. I rejoined Carrel the same evening at Val
Tournanche, and we started from that place at a little before five
A.M.on the 8th to attack the Tournalin.

Meynet was left behind for that day, and most unwillingly did the
hunchback part from us, and begged hard to be allowed to come. “Pay me
nothing, only let me go with you. I shall want but a little bread and
cheese, and of that I won’t eat much. I would much rather go with you
than carry things down the valley.” Such were his arguments, and I was
really sorry that the rapidity of our movements obliged us to desert
the good little man.

Carrel led over the meadows on the south and east of the bluff upon
which the village of Val Tournanche is built, and then by a zigzag path
through a long and steep forest, making many short cuts, which showed
he had a thorough knowledge of the ground. After we came again into
daylight our route took us up one of those little, concealed lateral
valleys which are so numerous on the slopes bounding the Val
Tournanche.

This valley, the Combe de Ceneil, has a general easterly trend, and
contains but one small cluster of houses (Ceneil). The Tournalin is
situated at the head of the combe, and nearly due east of the village
of Val Tournanche, but from that place no part of the mountain is
visible. After Ceneil is passed it conies into view, rising above a
cirque of cliffs (streaked by several fine waterfalls), at the end of
the combe. To avoid these cliffs the path bends somewhat to the south,
keeping throughout to the left bank of the valley; and at about
thirty-five hundred feet above Val Tournanche, and fifteen hundred feet
above Ceneil, and a mile or so to its east, arrives at the base of some
moraines, which are remarkably large, considering the dimensions of the
glaciers which formed them. The ranges upon the western side of the Val
Tournanche are seen to great advantage from this spot, but here the
path ends and the way steepens.

When we arrived at these moraines we had a choice of two routes—one
continuing to the east over the moraines themselves, the débris above
them, and a large snow-bed still higher up, to a kind of _col_ or
depression to the _south_ of the peak, from whence an easy ridge led
toward the summit; the other, over a shrunken glacier on our north-east
(now, perhaps, not in existence), which led to a well-marked _col_ on
the _north_ of the peak, from whence a less easy ridge rose directly to
the highest point. We followed the first named of these routes, and in
a little more than half an hour stood upon the col, which commanded a
most glorious view of the southern side of Monte Rosa, and of the
ranges to its east and to the east of the Val d’Ayas.

Whilst we were resting at this point a large party of vagrant chamois
arrived on the summit of the mountain from the northern side, some of
whom, by their statuesque position, seemed to appreciate the grand
panorama by which they were surrounded, while others amused themselves,
like two-legged tourists, in rolling stones over the cliffs. The
clatter of these falling fragments made us look up. The chamois were so
numerous that we could not count them, clustered around the summit,
totally unaware of our presence; and they scattered in a panic, as if a
shell had burst amongst them, when saluted by the cries of my excited
comrade, plunging wildly down in several directions, with unfaltering
and unerring bounds, with such speed and with such grace that we were
filled with admiration and respect for their mountaineering abilities.
The ridge that led from the col toward the summit was singularly easy,
although well broken up by frost, and Carrel thought that it would not
be difficult to arrange a path for mules out of the shattered blocks;
but when we arrived on the summit we found ourselves separated from the
very highest point by a cleft which had been concealed up to that time:
its southern side was nearly perpendicular, but it was only fourteen or
fifteen feet deep. Carrel lowered me down, and afterward descended on
to the head of my axe, and subsequently on to my shoulders, with a

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