The cleverness of our horses bewildered me, one false step would have thrown us headlong into the gap. We could ride no further and had to dismount at the foot of the glacier where we took a special glacier guide to take us up, and sent our horses to wait for us on the highway. Here the snow mountains rose close on us. Green pasturages had disappeared and all appearance of summer gradually faded into a perfect winter; the snow began to fall in masses, all presented a Lapland scene, nothing but snow and ice. The guide after having provided us with alpenstocks and blue spectacles, made us pass through a damp cavern the soil of which was mouldy with dew and drippings from the roof.
Two shrivelled old women, wrapped up in shawls, with lilac cheeks and noses, were singing Tyrolese songs, with tremulous voices, in that grotto, accompanying themselves on the cithern, blowing their purple fingers in the intervals. When we came out of the cavern we saw a group of working-men occupied in sawing enormous blocks of ice which they dropped down the mountain on rails. Now we began to climb to the Glacier which was no childish play. The guide after pinning up my skirt led the way. We advanced very slowly, climbing higher and higher, pricking the sharp ends of our alpenstocks into the ice, running the risk of tumbling down into the deep ravines and leaving no trace behind. We had masses of snow to climb over and large abysses to leap over; soon greater difficulties awaited us. We had to climb a staircase simply propped up by a snow block; there was no path at all now, only crevices and precipices—it was chaos in short. The guide who had a sure foot, chopped steps with his ice-axe in the ice, and we were hoisted by him from a foothold to a foothold. He exclaimed at the courage I showed and said I was a capital hill-climber and called me “Sehr Brav.” In the distance we heard the crash of a downfall of snow. Half-way up we sat down and took a brief rest, our backs against a rock and our heels dangling over a bottomless abyss. The guide insisted upon my swallowing a drop of brandy from a tumbler slung by a strap over his shoulder.
It was worth while to overcome all these difficulties to attain the “Mer de Glace” a fairy-like icy-kingdom. I was amazed by the vast and lonely beauty of these interminable uplands of ice; we were well repaid for our climb by this scenery of wildest beauty. On our way back we left the road and descended by the rough track to the lower route leading to the Hotel Eiger by a short cut, where we expected to find our saddle-horses, but when we had gained the road they were nowhere to be seen and we had to walk the entire remaining distance to the Hotel Eiger with the sun right over our heads. We got to the hotel red-faced, breathless and foot-sore. Our tempers suffered as well as our legs and we were so displeased with the manager for having given us such careless guides, that we wouldn’t take any refreshment at the hotel and hastened back to Interlaken. On arriving there we had dinner brought into our room and then went straight to bed. It was an unspeakable comfort to stretch my weary limbs between the cool sheets.
CHAPTER XXVII
MONTREUX
On the next afternoon we started for Montreux intending to remain there about three days. We put up at the Hôtel du Cygne. Our windows opened on Lake Leman bordered by high snow-clad mountains, which lay like a mirror before us. Far away, the jagged summit of La Dent du Midi revealed itself in a dazzling and lovely garb; on the opposite side of the wide lake appeared the shores of France.
The next morning we rode to Chillon where we visited the mediæval castle, historically old and famous. The Château de Chillon stands on a small island which is reached by a bridge. An old guardian produced a large bunch of keys and took us all over the castle, down a labyrinth of mysterious echoing passages with many hidden nooks. It is a place full of thrilling historical associations; to hear the guide talk of the massacres that took place here, made my blood run cold. Down steep, winding steps we followed our guide into the secret chambers where the victims were kept. He brought us into a dungeon where Bonnivard, the famous “Prisoner of Chillon,” endured his weary captivity, chained up to a post three hundred years ago. It has tall columns carved apparently from the rock, inscribed all over with a thousand names beginning with Byron and Victor Hugo. The torture-chamber was also shown to us, where the prisoners, after hideous martyrdom on the bed of tortures, were sentenced to death. We saw the huge stone upon which the victims condemned to death spent their last night. After long tortures to some of them it was announced that they were free, and believing that they were going into liberty, they joyfully descended the three steps which led into a deep pit and fell down upon sharp-pointed daggers. A shiver ran through me when I passed the open square where the gibbet stood, and saw the windows from which the corpses of the executed were thrown right down into the lake. Now we were entering the apartments of the duchesses which opened on the lake, whereat those of their husbands looked into the courtyard. As it appears in olden times also the first place was given to the ladies. Then pushing open a heavy oak door we entered a great vaulted hall paved with stone quarries and adorned with figures of knights in armour, with a monumental granite fire-place at one end. We went out of the gloomy castle as fast as we could, and were glad to be back at peaceful and modern Montreux.
The next day we went out on donkeys for an excursion up in the mountains. We were up very early, drank our tea in a gulp, and were ready to start by seven o’clock. Our long-eared steeds were already at the gates of the hotel, waiting for us; we mounted them and rode towards the mountain called Les Avants. My donkey’s name was La Grise and Sergy’s bore the valiant name of Garibaldi. Though the guide boasted of his donkeys being bien gentils, nevertheless, they had to be harpooned with a pointed stick all the way to make them advance. We were warned that Garibaldi, being a stallion, must not be allowed to walk behind La Grise, who pressed herself amorously to her companion, and stopped at every moment to clip the grass, stooping so low that many a time I nearly came to tumbling over her head. Still my donkey could be stirred up to a gallop, urged by our guide’s stick; but Garibaldi was not true to his name, being very lazy, and every few steps he would stop short, and the guide had to walk at his side so as to keep him on his legs. Sergy, fearing to remain behind, was tugging at the recalcitrant quadruped, but this stubborn little ass was in one of his sulky moods and absolutely would not gallop. As we strolled along, gigantic flies pricked the poor animals, and La Grise strove to kick them off with her hind leg. One can easily imagine how comfortable I felt in my seat. We took three hours to mount to the summit of the mountain; the road was heavy and the heat overwhelming. We made a halt half-way and sat on the grass under the shelter of a great oak and ate the excellent lunch we had brought with us. A brook ran clear and shallow at our feet. The view from here spread on the whole valley of the Rhone, girt out with snow-capped mountains, Lake Leman, Vevey and Clarence. From where we sat we saw the lake on our left through a frame of foliage, and green mountains on our right where sheep were quietly browsing. During our siesta our donkeys were placidly cropping tufts of grass, whilst Garibaldi, being at war with the flies, slapped my umbrella with his tail all the time. We descended to Montreux by a cross-road, following a steep path in the hollow of the rocks.
Next day we started to Chamonix. On reaching Martigny we had to quit the train which was going to Simplon. The journey from here has to be accomplished in a wretched carriage, over precipitous roads and rough ground. A peasant, wearing a blue blouse, offered his patache to us, a battered, shabby-looking vehicle with a prodigious rattling framework, drawn by two sorry-horses. We jolted in our shaky, springless car, bounding over big uneven stones; the sky was laden with black clouds running before the wind, and soon rain began to fall. Whilst we were crossing a village where a group of women were washing their linen in a pond, one of the women, an acquaintance of our charioteer, offered him her blue cotton umbrella, big enough to protect a whole family from the downpour. The road narrowed and became rougher and rougher, the foot passengers even had to scramble on the rocks to give us passage. We began to climb a path lined with precipices winding and twisting through the mountain-passes, and here we met an old grey-haired curate mounted on a donkey, who called out to us saying that there was not much room for us to pass each other, and, in fact, the road was the worst to be met with in a civilized country. When we arrived at the summit of the ascent, we saw a big wooden crucifix standing against the sky and near it stood a pole with a placard stuck to it saying, that one-horse conveyance only could pass in this place; and so one of our horses had to be taken out and attached behind to the carriage.
Towards evening we arrived at Brientz, an Alpine village buried among the hills, at a few minutes’ distance from the very summit of a huge mountain clad with perpetual snow. As it was getting dark and we had still a long way before getting to Chamonix, our charioteer pulled up his horses at the door of a cosy hostelry where we put up for the night. The inn proved to be old-fashioned and clean. We were shown by the inn-keeper into a clean, white-washed room, where supper was offered to us, consisting of cold chicken and eggs. A robust maiden with blooming country cheeks and rather staring eyes, came in and laid the cloth. Directly after supper, I returned to my room and was already in bed when Sergy brought me a glass of fresh foaming milk. The rain had ceased by this time and we breathed the good scent on the pasture grounds coming through the open window. A stream, tumbling its way busily over the rocks, made a never ceasing music of its own, and a jingle of bells came down from the village church ringing for vespers. The nights are chilly at the height of five thousand feet, and this time we were glad to have eider-downs to keep us warm. There was a great storm in the night; it is well our charioteer advised us to stop here. We were out of bed at break of day to resume our journey. The weather promised to be fine, the sun shone brightly. We saw on the verge of a forest a withered old granny bending under the weight of a bundle of twigs and fallen branches that she was bringing home for fuel. As we drove along, whilst our horses were climbing slowly up a steep hill, we encountered a band of children with knapsacks on their backs, climbing up the hill on their way to school. The girls had quill-pens sticking from under their hoods. Sergy spoke to the children and made them a little examination in geography. Their answers were satisfactory, they pointed out on their maps the place where Russia stands and received some coins in recompense. Soon before our eyes, amongst the glittering peaks of the Alps, rose the majestic “Mont Blanc.” Not long after, Chamonix was reached.