The niece to the moralist
But this was not all; there was one other member of the party, who may be described, as in the old-fashioned list of the “Dramatis Personæ,” as “niece to the moralist.” Somehow or another, she seemed to lead everything; instinctively all gave way to her wishes, and even the chief organiser looked to her for confirmation of his opinions before enunciating them with decision. Bright, impulsive, wilful, she led the moralist, subjectively speaking, whither she would, and he had no chance at all. “She ought not to have come at all on such an expedition,” he said, looking at the light, fragile form ahead; “but you know you can’t persuade a butterfly to take systematic exercise, and everything seems to give her so much pleasure;” and here the moralist looked rather wistful, and somehow the artificiality seemed to fade away from him for the moment. “Such of us,” he resumed, “as stay long enough in this world cease to have much hopefulness; and when that quality shows up too strong in the young, such as that child yonder, somehow I don’t think they often——” Here he paused abruptly, and, selecting a meat lozenge from a store in his tin box, put it into his mouth and apparently swallowed it at once; at any rate, he gulped down something. It must be allowed that the moralist had done his best to prevent his charge from accompanying the party. [pg 273]She had been reminded of what learned doctors had said, that she was not to exert herself; that certain persons, vaguely alluded to, would be very angry, and so forth. The moralist had been talked down in two minutes. He might as well have pointed out to the little budding leaflets the unwisdom of mistaking warm days in March for commencing summer; and, finally, he had surrendered at discretion, fencing himself in with some stipulations as to warm cloaks, “this once only,” and the like, which he knew would not be attended to. So she came, and her eager brightness shed a radiance over the most commonplace objects, and infected the most prosaic of the party, even a young lady of varied accomplishments, who distinguished herself later on. After all, if the flame burned a little more brightly at the expense of a limited stock of fuel, was there anything to regret? Tone down such brightness as hers was, and you have but an uncut diamond, or a plant that may possibly last a little longer because its blossom, its fruit, and with them its beauties, have been cut off to preserve the dull stem to the utmost. Check the natural characteristics and outflow of such natures, and you force them to the contemplation of what is painful and gloomy. You bring them back fully to this world, and it is their greatest privilege to be but half in it, and to have eyes blind to the seamy side. The Alpine rose-glow owes its fascination to the fact that [pg 274]we know it will soon fade. So is it with these natures. They are to be envied. We may hold it truth with him who sings, “Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.” But the parallel is not strictly true: the brightness will not fade, but will be there to the end, and the streak of sadness running through it all gives the fascination. So the wit that approaches nearest to pathos touches us most deeply, and is one of the rarest of intellectual talents. With what a thrill of mixed, but yet pleasurable, sensation do we recall the timely jest of a lost friend. But all this has nothing to do with a holiday expedition in the Alps. Still, it must be remembered, we were on a sentimental journey in the mountains.
Before long the chief organiser, seizing an opportunity when most of the stragglers were within earshot, announced at the top of his voice that luncheon would be served on certain flat rocks. This had the immediate effect of uniting our scattered forces. The first to arrive (the moralist was slow of foot) were some gallant members of the high mountaineering fraternity, who throughout the day evinced astounding activity, and an unwonted desire to carry burdens on their backs. Secretly they were burning with an ambition to display their prowess on some “mauvais pas,” or glissade, an ambition rewarded later on in a somewhat remarkable manner. The rock was spread, the moralist selected a comfortable place, and, stimu[pg 275]lated by the appearance of the viands, favoured us with certain extracts.
A discourse on gourmets
“There are many,” he observed, holding a large piece of pie to his mouth and eyeing it to select an appropriate place for the next bite, “who hold that the sense of taste is not one to which we should much minister. I do not hold with such;” and here he found the right spot, and for a minute or two the thread of his discourse was broken off. “The painter blends colours to please the sense of sight; the musician studies harmonies of sound to please the ear; each appeals to but one of our imperfect senses, and yet we think much of them for so doing; we compliment them, and give them the appellation of artists. Now the worthy person who dexterously compounded this article, of which, alas! I hold now but little in my hand, appeals not to a single but to a twofold sense; he ministers alike to taste and to smell, and I must own, after a toilsome walk, with commendable results. He is an artist in the highest sense of the word; his merits, to my thinking, are but inadequately recognised in this world. I am convinced that they will be more so in another. The gourmet’s paradise shall provide for him a cherubic state of existence; then shall he have all the pleasure that the palate can afford without any ill-omened presage of subsequent discomfort; for, thrice happy that he will be, digestion will be an anatomical [pg 276]impossibility.” It may be remarked parenthetically that the possession of a gigantic brain had not obviated, in the case of the moralist, the deleterious effects of sour wine. But the moralist was not, as yet, much of a cherub.
As the speaker showed unmistakable signs of continuing his discourse, which had been chiefly directed at a youth of whom we only knew that he was some one’s brother, if the opportunity were afforded, a sudden and general move was made, and the proposal that a short adjournment should take place previous to resuming our upward journey found instant favour. The chief organiser was by common consent left to pack up. Straightway the ladies all produced little sketch-books, and fell very vigorously to recording their impressions of the scenery around; whilst the moralist, already somewhat stiff, wandered from one group to the other and favoured them with his suggestions. The result of half an hour’s work with pencil and brush was to produce diagrams of certain objects which looked uncommonly like telegraph poles with cross bars attached, but which were coloured of a vivid green, and were thus obviously intended for fir trees. The moralist, not finding that his remarks were met with much favour by the artists, selected an ascetic who sat apart from the others, and delivered his next discourse into his inattentive but uncomplaining ear.
An artistic interlude
“It seems strange to me,” he remarked, “that those who are wholly unable to depict, even in the most elementary manner, the commonplace objects around them, are for ever seen in the Alps striving after the most impossible art problems. If so great a stimulus is needed, a poor result may be confidently anticipated.” (Here the moralist made a fourth attempt to light a very curious native cigar.) “If it takes the sight of Nature in her sublimest phase, as seen in the Alps, to stimulate our friends here to show their art, why, then they haven’t much of it. A milestone should be sufficient for the purpose, but it seems that they require a Matterhorn; and it may be gathered, from what I have heard you and your companions say, that what is true of Alpine art is true also of Alpine climbing, and that the dilettanti will never take the trouble to learn how much there is to learn. Our friends here try to paint a glacier, and have not the most elementary idea of its anatomy. They represent vast panoramas, and know nothing of distance; they——” But here the moralist, in the excitement of his discourse, turned a little white, probably from the depth of his feelings; and, throwing away his cigar, walked off alone, and was discovered shortly after perspiring a good deal, and crumpled up in a somewhat limp and helpless state.
The books were packed up, for the sun was setting low, and the party wended their way up the steep [pg 278]grass slope till the first great dome of the Mont Buet came well into sight. Far ahead was the niece, seemingly unconscious of the effects that the exertion of climbing told on her slight frame. She was apparently unaware of any companions around, though watchful eyes and strong hands were always near lest any mischance should befall. She spoke to no one. Nature absorbed all her faculties as she went on with cheeks rather flushed, and bright, dilated eyes drinking in every object and every point of beauty. As an artist in the exercise of his craft makes the outside world acquainted with beauties ever present to his eyes, so did the effect on her of the wondrous lights and shades and colours around call up new thoughts and reveal fresh marvels in the panorama to others, though well acquainted with such Alpine scenes. The spell caught one after another, till the whole party, all held by the same unsuspected fascination, walked silently on, while the majestic splendour around inspired an awe in the mind that even those most familiar with the marvels of nature in the mountains had never felt before. The mere recognition of the fact that the same thought or emotion is passing simultaneously through the minds of many is in itself so striking, that the impression so caused will not ever be effaced from the mind. A crowded hall is waiting for the advent of the orator of the occasion, and there enters an old man whose name [pg 279]and work were familiar to all. Instantly, and as if by magic, all present rose to their feet in token of respect. No word was spoken, no signal given. The matter may seem slight, but the scene was one that those present will never forget. The most hideous part of the punishment in the old days to the criminal must have been the moment when, as he stepped through the last door, the sea of faces below him upturned simultaneously with a howl of execration. And all these thoughts were called up by the fact that one consumptive girl was a member of our mountain party. Well, such was the case, and it made the expedition different in many ways from any that we had ever undertaken, but not perhaps the less worthy of remembrance.
We become thoughtful