"As a writer, Mr Whymper has proved himself equal to his subject. His serious, emphatic style, his concentration on his object, take hold of his readers and make them follow his campaigns with as much interest as if some great stake depended on the result. No one can fail to remark the contrast between the many unsuccessful attacks which preceded the fall of the Matterhorn, and the frequency with which it is now climbed by amateurs, some of whom it would be courtesy to call indifferent climbers. The moral element has, of course, much to do with this. But allowance must also be made for the fact that the Breil ridge, which looks the easiest, is still the most difficult, and in its unbechained state was far the most difficult. The terrible appearance of the Zermatt and Zmutt ridges long deterred climbers, yet both have now yielded to the first serious attack."
These words, taken from a review of Mr Whymper's Ascent of the Matterhorn, occur in vol. ix. on page 441 of The Alpine Journal. They are as true now as on the day when they appeared, but could the writer have known the future history of the great peak, and the appalling vengeance it called down over and over again on "amateurs" and the guides who, themselves unfit, tempted their ignorant charges to go blindly to their deaths, one feels he would have stood aghast at the contemplation of the tragedies to be enacted on the blood-stained precipices of that hoary peak.
THE CONQUEST OF THE MATTERHORN
When one remembers all the facilities for climbing which are found at present in every Alpine centre, the experienced guides who may be had, the comfortable huts which obviate the need for a bivouac out of doors, the knowledge of the art of mountaineering which is available if any desire to acquire it, one marvels more and more at the undaunted persistence displayed by the pioneers of present-day mountaineering in their struggle with the immense difficulties which beset them on every side.
When, in 1861, Mr Whymper made his first attempt on the Matterhorn, the first problem he had to solve was that of obtaining a skilful guide. Michael Croz of Chamonix believed the ascent to be impossible. Bennen thought the same. Jean Antoine Carrel was dictatorial and unreasonable in his demands, though convinced that the summit could be gained. Peter Taugwalder asked 200 francs whether the top was reached or not. "Almer asked, with more point than politeness, 'Why don't you try to go up a mountain which can be ascended?'"
In 1862 Mr Whymper, who had three times during the previous summer tried to get up the mountain, returned to Breuil on the Italian side, and thence made five plucky attempts, sometimes with Carrel, and once alone, to go to the highest point it was possible to reach. On the occasion of his solitary climb, Mr Whymper had set out from Breuil to see if his tent, left on a ledge of the mountain, was still, in spite of recent storms, safely in its place. He found all in good order, and tempted to linger by the lovely weather, time slipped away, and he at last decided to sleep that night in the tent, which contained ample provisions for several days. The next morning Mr Whymper could not resist an attempt to explore the route towards the summit, and eventually he managed to reach a considerable height, much above that attained by any of his predecessors. Exulting in the hope of entire success in the near future, he returned to the tent. "My exultation was a little premature," he writes, and goes on to describe what befell him on the way down. I give the thrilling account of his adventure in his own words:—
"About 5 P.M. I left the tent again, and thought myself as good as at Breuil. The friendly rope and claw had done good service, and had smoothened all the difficulties. I lowered myself through the chimney, however, by making a fixture of the rope, which I then cut off, and left behind, as there was enough and to spare. My axe had proved a great nuisance in coming down, and I left it in the tent. It was not attached to the bâton, but was a separate affair—an old navy boarding-axe. While cutting up the different snow-beds on the ascent, the bâton trailed behind fastened to the rope; and, when climbing, the axe was carried behind, run through the rope tied round my waist, and was sufficiently out of the way; but in descending when coming down face outwards (as is always best where it is possible), the head or the handle of the weapon caught frequently against the rocks, and several times nearly upset me. So, out of laziness if you will, it was left in the tent. I paid dearly for the imprudence.
"The Col du Lion was passed, and fifty yards more would have placed me on the 'Great Staircase,' down which one can run. But, on arriving at an angle of the cliffs of the Tête du Lion, while skirting the upper edge of the snow which abuts against them, I found that the heat of the two past days had nearly obliterated the steps which had been cut when coming up. The rocks happened to be impracticable just at this corner, and it was necessary to make the steps afresh. The snow was too hard to beat or tread down, and at the angle it was all but ice; half a dozen steps only were required, and then the ledges could be followed again. So I held to the rock with my right hand, and prodded at the snow with the point of my stick until a good step was made, and then, leaning round the angle, did the same for the other side. So far well, but in attempting to pass the corner (to the present moment I cannot tell how it happened), I slipped and fell.
"The slope was steep on which this took place, and was at the top of a gully that led down through two subordinate buttresses towards the Glacier du Lion—which was just seen a thousand feet below. The gully narrowed and narrowed, until there was a mere thread of snow lying between two walls of rock, which came to an abrupt termination at the top of a precipice that intervened between it and the glacier. Imagine a funnel cut in half through its length, placed at an angle of 45° with its point below, and its concave side uppermost, and you will have a fair idea of the place.
"The knapsack brought my head down first, and I pitched into some rocks about a dozen feet below; they caught something and tumbled me off the edge, head over heels, into the gully; the bâton was dashed from my hands, and I whirled downwards in a series of bounds, each longer than the last; now over ice, now into rocks; striking my head four or five times, each time with increased force. The last bound sent me spinning through the air, in a leap of 50 or 60 feet, from one side of the gully to the other, and I struck the rocks, luckily, with the whole of my left side. They caught my clothes for a moment, and I fell back on to the snow with motion arrested. My head, fortunately, came the right side up, and a few frantic catches brought me to a halt in the neck of the gully, and on the verge of the precipice. Bâton, hat, and veil skimmed by and disappeared, and the crash of the rocks—which I had started—as they fell on to the glacier, told how narrow had been the escape from utter destruction. As it was, I fell nearly 200 feet in seven or eight bounds. Ten feet more would have taken me in one gigantic leap of 800 feet on to the glacier below.