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