I have already spoken of the disappointing nature of purely panoramic views. That seen from Mont Blanc itself is notoriously unsatisfactory. When you are upon that summit you look down upon all the rest of Europe. There is nothing to look up to; all is below; there is no one point for the eye to rest upon. The man who is there is somewhat in the position of one who has attained all that he desires,—he has nothing to aspire to; his position must needs be unsatisfactory. Upon the summit of the Verte there is not this objection. You see valleys, villages, fields; [pg 252]you see mountains interminable rolling away, lakes resting in their hollows; you hear the tinkling of the sheep-bells as it rises through the clear mountain air, and the roar of the avalanches as they descend to the valleys: but above all there is the great white dome, with its shining crest high above; with its sparkling glaciers that descend between buttresses which support them: with its brilliant snows, purer and yet purer the farther they are removed from this unclean world.[197]
Even upon this mountain-top it was impossible to forget the world, for some vile wretch came to the Jardin and made hideous sounds by blowing through a horn. Whilst we were denouncing him a change came over the weather; cumulous clouds gathered in all directions, and we started off in hot haste. Snow began to fall heavily before we were off the summit-rocks, our track was obscured and frequently lost, and everything became so sloppy and slippery that the descent took as long as the ascent. The schrund was recrossed at 3.15 P.M., and thence we raced down to the Couvercle, intending to have a carouse there; but as we rounded our rock a howl broke simultaneously from all three of us, for the porter had taken down the tent, and was in the act of moving off with it. “Stop, there! what are you doing?” He observed that he had thought we were killed, or at least lost, and was going to Chamounix to communicate his ideas to the guide chef. “Unfasten the tent, and get out the food.” Instead of doing so the porter fumbled in his pockets. “Get out the food,” we roared, losing all patience. “Here it is,” said our worthy friend, producing a dirty piece of bread about as big as a halfpenny roll. We three looked solemnly at the fluff-covered morsel. It was past a joke,—he had devoured everything. Mutton, loaves, cheese, wine, eggs, sausages—all was gone—past recovery. It was idle to grumble, and useless to wait. We were light, and could move quickly,—the porter was laden [pg 253]inside and out. We went our hardest,—he had to shuffle and trot. He streamed with perspiration; the mutton and cheese oozed out in big drops,—he larded the glacier. We had our revenge, and dried our clothes at the same time, but when we arrived at the Montanvert the porter was as wet as we had been upon our arrival at the Couvercle. We halted at the inn to get a little food, and at a quarter past eight re-entered Chamounix, amidst firing of cannon and other demonstrations of satisfaction on the part of the hotel-keepers.
One would have thought that the ascent of this mountain, which had been frequently assailed before without success, would have afforded some gratification to a population whose chief support is derived from tourists, and that the prospect of the perennial flow of francs which might be expected to result from it would have stifled the jealousy consequent on the success of foreigners.[198]
It was not so. Chamounix stood on its rights. A stranger had ignored the “regulations,” had imported two foreign guides, and, furthermore, he had added injury to that insult—he had not taken a single Chamounix guide. Chamounix would be revenged! It would bully the foreign guides; it would tell them they had lied,—that they had not made the ascent! Where were their proofs? Where was the flag upon the summit?
Poor Almer and Biener were accordingly chivied from pillar to post, from one inn to another, and at length complained to me. Peter Perrn, the Zermatt guide, said on the night that we returned that this was to happen, but the story seemed too absurd to be true. I now bade my men go out again, and followed them myself to see the sport. Chamounix was greatly excited. The bureau of the guide chef was thronged with clamouring men. Their ringleader—one Zacharie Cachat—a well-known guide, of no particular merit, but not a bad fellow, was haranguing the [pg 254]multitude. He met with more than his match. My friend Kennedy, who was on the spot, heard of the disturbance and rushed into the fray, confronted the burly guide, and thrust back his absurdities into his teeth.
There were the materials for a very pretty riot; but they manage these things better in France than we do, and the gensdarmes—three strong—came down and dispersed the crowd. The guides quailed before the cocked hats, and retired to cabarets to take little glasses of absinthe and other liquors more or less injurious to the human frame. Under the influence of these stimulants, they conceived an idea which combined revenge with profit. “You have ascended the Aiguille Verte, you say. We say we don’t believe it. We say, do it again! Take three of us with you, and we will bet you two thousand francs to one thousand, that you won’t make the ascent!”
This proposition was formally notified to me, but I declined it, with thanks, and recommended Kennedy to go in and win. I accepted, however, a hundred franc share in the bet, and calculated upon getting two hundred per cent on my investment. Alas! how vain are human expectations! Zacharie Cachat was put into confinement, and although Kennedy actually ascended the Aiguille a week later, with two Chamounix guides and Peter Perrn, the bet came to nothing.[199]
The weather arranged itself just as this storm in a teapot blew over, and we left at once for the Montanvert, in order to show the Chamouniards the easiest way over the chain of Mont Blanc, in return for the civilities which we had received from them during the past three days.
