I knew a man once who was marvellously proud of a certain little cabinet, devoted to the reception of keys, all of which were arranged in a remarkably [pg 238]orderly manner. He was fond of demonstrating the system, which seemed, in truth, highly business-like; but I lost faith one day in his method, on finding that he did not know the locks which the several keys were constructed respectively to open. It is with the mind’s eye as with the bodily eye. We are able only to focus sharply one thing at a time, and the beauty of a given view, from the physiological standpoint, consists in the softened indistinctness of all objects out of the range of absolute focus—a fact of which the early Florentine artists evinced a curious disregard, and which their modern imitators, who, at least in our scientific age, ought to know something of the elementary laws of optics, render themselves somewhat ridiculous by servilely copying. So is it also with the memory. A certain indistinctness of detail often renders the recollection even more pleasing; we may be able only to reproduce from the pigeon-hole, as it were, a rather indistinct, blotted-in impression, but as the artist would be fully justified in working up such a study into a finished picture, so may the writer be allowed also to elaborate from his mental sketch a complete work. Now, in wandering in those numerous districts in the mountains of Switzerland which cannot properly be classed as sub-Alpine, and yet are not lofty enough to warrant their explorer in dignifying his rambles by the term “climbing,” one great charm consists in the fact that, [pg 239]while everything is pleasing, there is no distinct objective point that we are bidden to admire. The critical tendency is a very constant factor in human character, and the chief business the professional critic has to learn consists in finding out how far he may legitimately go, and how he may best say what he is called upon to express. Now even the least critical of our race, the gushing section of humanity, feel irresistibly disposed to cavil at anything they are told they must admire. Perhaps, though, it is not the critical attributes which come out on such occasions in them. Possibly it is but an example of that still more uniformly found characteristic of man and woman, a quality which, in the process of the descent of our species, has been handed down without the least alteration from such lower animals as the mule for instance, and for which, oddly enough, we have no proper term in our language this side of the water, but know it as “cussedness.”
The critical tendency
Most travellers hear with a slight feeling of relief, on arriving at their destination and inquiring what there is to be seen, that there is nothing in particular, and the sub-Alpine walker has this charm perpetually with him. His expedition cannot fail, for it does not aim at any particular object on the attainment of which it depends whether he considers himself successful or not. These sub-Alpine walks and rambles form the background, the setting, the frame, and the surrounding [pg 240]of the more sharply defined and more memorable high expeditions. Perhaps these are but the sentiments of advancing mountaineering age; certainly they may be heard most often from those who have reached that period of life when they no longer pay heed to wrinkles in their trousers, when they are somewhat exacting in the matter of club dinners, and when they object strongly to receiving assistance from younger folk in putting on their overcoats. Howbeit, as we may recall the statement made in the “Delectus,”—
Neque semper arcum
Tendit Apollo,
even so does the mountaineer occasionally relax his muscles, and find pleasure in the Alpine midlands. Moreover, the writer feels that the perpetual breathing of rarefied air may be apt to induce too great a strain on his readers, and recollects that a piano always tuned to concert pitch is not so harmonious an instrument as one occasionally unstrung; so some relief is at times necessary. Contrast, inasmuch as nature provides it on every hand, we may be sure is a thing for which man has an instinctive craving; and to my mind, at least, a picture in which rich colouring is introduced, and where the result of the blending is harmonious, is more satisfactory than the work which appeals by what I believe artists would call “tone.” The principle applies rather widely. We may have [pg 241]observed that young ladies of prepossessing appearance love to be accompanied by dogs of repulsive mien. The costermonger, again, if possessed, as he always is, of a hoarse voice, is not completely equipped unless provided with a boy companion capable of sending forth in alternate measure the shrillest cries which the human larynx is capable of emitting. Thus may the pair better vaunt their wares, compel attention, and attract notice. The same objects, at any rate the latter two, influence an author, and not only in all cases, it would seem, when he is actually engaged in writing. So our expeditions, now to be described, may be looked upon as material for contrast, and may be skipped if thought fit—at any rate by purchasers—without risk of wounding the writer’s feelings.
The “High Level Route”
Some years ago we were travelling over that district of the Alps which to the true lover of mountain scenery can never become hackneyed—that is, the stretch of glacier land between Chamouni and Zermatt, first made known by Messrs. Foster, Jacomb, Winkfield, and others, and known to mountaineers as the “high-level route.” We had reached Monvoisin, then, possibly still, one of the cosiest and most comfortable little inns to be found among the mountains. An immense variety of first-rate glacier passes of moderate difficulty lie between this Val de Bagne and the Arolla valley; the Col de la Serpentine, the Col Gétroz, the [pg 242]Col de Breney, the Col Chermontane, and others, all of high interest and varied scenery, tempt the walker according to his powers. We selected on this occasion the Col du Mont Rouge, having a design on the bold little peak towering just above the Col, and known as the Ruinette. This peak, it may be at once mentioned, was ascended for the first time in 1865 by Mr. Edward Whymper, a mountaineer who has never ceased happily to add to his spoils and trophies since in all parts of the globe, and who, unlike most of the clan, has kept in the front rank from the day he first climbed an Alpine slope.
A prescription for ill-humour
We arrived soaked through, and with deplorably short tempers, at the hotel at Monvoisin. Now tobacco has been vaunted as a palliative to persons in this emotional state. Liquid remedies, described by the vulgar-minded as “a drop of something short,” or, more tersely, “a wet,” have been recommended as tending to induce a healthier state of mind. But there is one specific remedy which never fails, and to this by tacit consent we at once resorted.