The Alps

by Sir William Martin Conway

IN the chequer-boards of most men's lives, the squares they can allot to the joys of mountain travel are coincident with summer seasons. Thus most of us cannot know the snow mountains all the year round, but only in their warm-weather garb. It may be claimed that then they are at their best, but such claims, in the case of Nature, are untenable. Nature is never or always at her best. One star may differ from another star in glory, but not in beauty; for beauty is in the eye that beholds, rather than in the thing that is beheld. A particular effect in nature may be more attractive than another to a particular man, but that is not really a measure of the beauty of the effect, but of the capacity of the man. None of us can discover all beauty; none of us can always behold beauty in everything; but all of us together can find beauty everywhere and always in what Nature makes. He that can oftenest discover beauty, and is most continuously conscious of it, is most richly endowed and most to be envied. How often do we hear people say that in their opinion Niagara, or the view from the Gorner Grat, or Mont Blanc, or some other great sight, is disappointing, that it failed to come up to their expectations, that its reputation is ill-deserved, and so forth. Such persons seem to imagine that their opinions are worth something, and that they, or any one, has a say in the matter; whereas the fact is, that the sights of nature may measure men, but that individual men cannot measure them. If a man thinks little of Niagara, that opinion measures him, but not Niagara. All sights of nature are beautiful. All great natural phenomena are greatly beautiful. That is a fundamental fact. Our business is not to question it, but to see the beauty if and when we can.

The great mountains therefore are not beautiful at one time, or more beautiful at one time than another. They are beautiful always, and all the year round. They may be more comfortable to live or scramble amongst at some seasons, but he that can render his sense of beauty independent of his sense of comfort may be able to grow equally conscious of mountain beauty at all seasons. It is the opportunity that most of us lack, not the power. The fact that the high Alps are beautiful in winter also was not popularly realised till recently. A few men had faith that such would be the case, and they went to see. They brought back lively accounts of the wonders and glories they had beheld, and so incited others to follow in their steps.

The classical first account in English of the high Alps in winter was A. W. Moore's paper in the fourth volume of the Alpine Journal, describing a visit to Grindelwald in December 1866, and the passage of the Strahleck and Finsteraarjoch by full mid-winter moonlight. Mid-winter moonlight is doubtless one of the great glories that the summer traveller misses. So bright was it "that the faintest pencil memoranda were legible with ease." The landscape beneath it is not the monochrome picture most of us associate with moonlight. It is rich with subdued colour, most beautiful to see. The full winter moon in the Alps bears to the summer moon, for brightness, the same relation that the equatorial sun does to the sun of our temperate regions. High planted near the zenith, the winter moon floods mountain and valley with a white light that turns snow to silver and hangs a curtain of velvet on every rock-face.

THE WETTERHORN

Grindelwald Chalets, flower-clad slopes and sunlit trees.

Who that has been to St. Moritz or Davos in winter does not come home with a new conception of what the clearness of the atmosphere can be? The summer air is like poor glass beside the crystal transparency of winter. Perhaps the effect is to bring distances nearer and thus decrease apparent scale—an effect which the whitening of the foundations of the hills tends to increase; but in return, by what delicacy of detail, what crispness of form, what glitter and brilliancy we are repaid. In course of time we learn to read scale truthfully anew.

Another winter glory is the snow drapery of the lower slopes and glaciers below the snow-line. All minor asperities of surface are smoothed away. Flowing lines take the place of broken ones, and large surfaces most delicately modelled predominate. In summer you must climb to the high snow-fields to behold the delicate modelling of which snow is capable on a large scale, but in winter such sights are all around you. To watch the play of sunshine upon them from dawn to dusk, and the even more fascinating appearance they assume under brilliant moonlight, is joy enough for the hungriest eye.

Then there are the frozen cascades by every roadside, glittering clustered columns of ice fit for fairies' palaces. One beholds them at almost every turn, for the veriest trickle of water, so it be persistent, suffices to build them up. Nor must we forget to catalogue amongst the greater glories of Alpine winter the snow-laden forests. One day the trees will be burdened down by loads of snow. Another, every sprig and pine-needle will be frosted over by the most delicate incrustation of tiny ice-crystals—a natural lacework of surpassing fascination. When the early sun first shines upon such a scene, which night has prepared to be a revelation to the day, so magnificent a vision is provided that even the dullest perceive something of its beauty, and for a moment forget the trifles of their life.

Akin to this glorification of the trees by frost are the glittering "snow-flowers," those charming little groups of crystals that form on the ground in suitable spots under the influence of wind-eddies and other vagaries of the air. They are as pretty as they are short-lived, and possess a quality of rareness that makes them additionally precious. If in winter we lose the blueness of the lakes and the greenness of the hills, are we not more than repaid? What in its way can be more fair than the absolute flatness and unspotted purity of a frozen lake-surface covered thickly by new-fallen snow? It is no joy to skaters and curlers indeed, but for those who have eyes and have taught themselves how to see with them, little time is left for the distractions of mere games. The snow-shoe is the true winter implement, and especially the Norwegian ski, which provides the most glorious exercise and makes accessible the most delightful spots. An occasional run down-hill is the by-reward of the skilful, but his main prize is the sights he is privileged to behold. He can enter the heart of forests or ascend large slopes without the toil of sinking into the soft snow, to whose presence they owe the quality of their winter charm. Ski, moreover, grant access with relative comfort to the higher regions, and enable them to be crossed in suitable places at a time when the crevasses of the glaciers are deeply buried or soundly bridged, and when the snowy world sweeps in larger and simpler surfaces away. Some climbers have found pleasure in attaining in winter the summits of high peaks, whence they have beheld great panoramas with a distinctness of distant vision that the summer climber seldom attains. They tell us that the white filling of the valleys and covering of the lower slopes tends to flatten the effect of a mountain scene beheld from above. Whatever the special charm of such expeditions, they cannot be made with frequency. Weather conditions are usually adverse. Short days are a hint to make short expeditions. Thus in winter Nature herself calls attention rather to her own details. She endows with unusual attraction what is near at hand. She sculptures her ornaments on a tiny scale and finishes them with a marvellous elaboration. The wise follow her mood and adapt their eyes to her intentions. The winter months are none too long for them. Indeed they are gone all too soon, and one day, lo! the spring is there and the winter votaries turn and flee.