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.
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.