The throngs who swarm on the Matterhorn day after day in the summer, the airy contempt with which some climbers dismiss it as a climbing proposition, the fact that a clumsy novice like myself has actually passed over it—these things do nothing to detract from the wonderment with which I shall always regard the ascent of the most famous mountain in Europe. I have watched it in its moods of calm and storm, sunshine and cloud, and, with eyes glued to the telescope, have seen the braves who callously went to sleep last night in the Schönbühl hut without the slightest apparent tremor of excitement or expectancy at what they were about to attempt in the course of the next few hours, creeping down the slopes in the broad daylight, stepping fearfully forward, slowly gaining each painful inch. I have looked upon it in the soft morning light from the dark pines behind the Riffelalp, as something not of earth, but as it were suspended in the air, splendidly detached from the lowly haunts of men. And always it seemed to me, aloof—almost aggressively aloof—and although I knew that it was part of the ambitious first year’s programme that had been drawn up for me, I could never imagine myself scaling its precipitous slopes. There was one point upon which I had made myself perfectly explicit. I was not going to climb the Matterhorn unless I could do so with zest and enjoyment. If one respects a mountain, one ought to approach it with a joyful mind. I was not going to be pulled up the steep pitches till the cruel rope bruised my waist so that I dared hardly move myself for days afterwards—a sacrifice that the Matterhorn had apparently frequently demanded of its votaries. I had myself suffered in likewise on a defiant little overhang on the Riffelhorn and found the experience of acting as a sack of potatoes irritating to the temper, painful to the flesh and thoroughly demoralising. Altogether, when I reviewed my general conduct on the Riffelhorn, I had little hope for success in the greater venture.
Nevertheless, on an afternoon in August, 1923, I found myself at the Hörnli, where begins the climb of the Matterhorn by the Swiss ridge. The evening meal provided a certain amount of esoteric amusement. Our table was shared by two stalwart Americans who, regarding us through immense tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles, rushed into a diatribe on the guideless climber who was evidently the root of all Alpine evils. Their ideas upon this abnormal specimen of humankind were almost as profuse as they were fantastic, and their faith in the word “guide”—it could only have been in the word, for they confessed to being unable to discriminate between good, bad or indifferent members of the fraternity—touching to the point of tears. The new light shed upon my companion, who was, of course, every inch an outlaw, was rather upsetting, and I began to be very glad indeed of the justifying presence of Padrun.
Padrun was admirable. He had recognised my husband at Lausanne station and introduced himself as a guide from the Engadine. No; he had never climbed round Zermatt, but he would be honoured to accompany us as porter and to be third man on the rope where madame was middle. He hoped to learn and one day become a first-class guide. This no mean ambition and his diffidence regarding his own merits won us at once, and it was straightway arranged that he should join us later in Zermatt. He was young and strong, frank of countenance and speech, good to look upon and always willing. Extremely intelligent and deeply interested in all mountain lore, his general knowledge of the world of nature as well as of men was amazing, and the keenness which he brought to his everyday actions made him the most agreeable of companions. He spoke English, French, Italian, German, Swiss-German and Romanche—all well and freely, so that from the linguistic view point alone he was invaluable to us on our journeyings. But perhaps best of all he was a very perfect “maid.” At the close of a long, tiring day Padrun would cheerfully minister to our creature comforts. Without a flicker of annoyance, he would scour out cooking utensils that ought to have been left clean; dig round for ice and snow to fill the pan for tea; light the fire and lay the table, seemingly oblivious to the lack of civilised amenities; and turn down the rough blanket or mangy-looking sheepskin with all the sangfroid and care with which Célestine would have turned down the cool, fine linen and soft, fleecy blankets in the perfect flat. This seeming disregard of discomfort was merely the outcome of a common sense philosophy, to which, however, I do not think I can attribute Padrun’s invariable success in securing a bed for me, even when a surplus of climbers was already in the hut. That was more a case of ability to seize the opportunity.
The Swiss ridge of the Matterhorn from the Matterhorn hut.
The dotted line indicates the route.
1. Site of old Matterhorn hut.
2. Solvay hut.
3. The Shoulder.
Facing page 166.
We turned in early. But the presumptuous nature of what I was about to attempt kept me wakeful; so that at one o’clock I was glad to hear the voices of my husband and Padrun in low conversation outside as they made their preparations for our high adventure. I was soon beside them, ready to move off. The night was beautifully clear, blue-black, for there was no moon; and the silence was so deep that it almost made one ache. We roped. My husband, as leading man, carried the only lantern we possessed. It proved to be a sorry affair, for we had just passed along the short level ridge to the foot of the obelisk, which in the darkness looked ten times as large as usual, when the candle dropped out. We recovered and re-lighted it, and pursued our scrambling course upwards. The way was easy; countless feet had trodden out what was almost a path leading along the ridge, or a little below it either to right or left. Soon the other parties began to follow, and twinkling lights showed all about the base of the Matterhorn, making it look like a gigantic Christmas-tree. Holds were always ready where wanted. I soon began to lose all consciousness of effort, my body felt light as the cool night air; and feet and hands, as if instinctively, sought and found hold. We mounted higher and higher—right out of ourselves, so to speak. There was none of the straining and panting that I had thought must mark my climbing attempts. Here and there, as we seemed to wind our way in and out amongst the rocky towers of the ridge, I was aware of the tingling depth of precipice or chasm, and once I made a false step and dipped my right foot over into nothingness.