A Tramp Abroad

  CHAPTER XXXVIII

  [I Conquer the Gorner Grat]

  We went into camp on that wild spot to which that ram had brought us.The men were greatly fatigued. Their conviction that we were lost wasforgotten in the cheer of a good supper, and before the reaction had achance to set in, I loaded them up with paregoric and put them to bed.

  Next morning I was considering in my mind our desperate situation andtrying to think of a remedy, when Harris came to me with a Baedekermap which showed conclusively that the mountain we were on was still inSwitzerland--yes, every part of it was in Switzerland. So we were notlost, after all. This was an immense relief; it lifted the weight of twosuch mountains from my breast. I immediately had the news disseminatedand the map was exhibited. The effect was wonderful. As soon as the mensaw with their own eyes that they knew where they were, and that itwas only the summit that was lost and not themselves, they cheered upinstantly and said with one accord, let the summit take care of itself.

  Our distresses being at an end, I now determined to rest the men in campand give the scientific department of the Expedition a chance. First,I made a barometric observation, to get our altitude, but I could notperceive that there was any result. I knew, by my scientific reading,that either thermometers or barometers ought to be boiled, to make themaccurate; I did not know which it was, so I boiled them both. There wasstill no result; so I examined these instruments and discovered thatthey possessed radical blemishes: the barometer had no hand but thebrass pointer and the ball of the thermometer was stuffed with tin-foil.I might have boiled those things to rags, and never found out anything.

  I hunted up another barometer; it was new and perfect. I boiled it halfan hour in a pot of bean soup which the cooks were making. The resultwas unexpected: the instrument was not affecting at all, but there wassuch a strong barometer taste to the soup that the head cook, who wasa most conscientious person, changed its name in the bill of fare.The dish was so greatly liked by all, that I ordered the cook to havebarometer soup every day.

  It was believed that the barometer might eventually be injured, but Idid not care for that. I had demonstrated to my satisfaction that itcould not tell how high a mountain was, therefore I had no real use forit. Changes in the weather I could take care of without it; I did notwish to know when the weather was going to be good, what I wanted toknow was when it was going to be bad, and this I could find out fromHarris's corns. Harris had had his corns tested and regulated at thegovernment observatory in Heidelberg, and one could depend upon themwith confidence. So I transferred the new barometer to the cookingdepartment, to be used for the official mess. It was found that even apretty fair article of soup could be made from the defective barometer;so I allowed that one to be transferred to the subordinate mess.

  I next boiled the thermometer, and got a most excellent result; themercury went up to about 200 degrees Fahrenheit. In the opinion of theother scientists of the Expedition, this seemed to indicate that we hadattained the extraordinary altitude of two hundred thousand feet abovesea-level. Science places the line of eternal snow at about ten thousandfeet above sea-level. There was no snow where we were, consequentlyit was proven that the eternal snow-line ceases somewhere above theten-thousand-foot level and does not begin any more. This was aninteresting fact, and one which had not been observed by any observerbefore. It was as valuable as interesting, too, since it would open upthe deserted summits of the highest Alps to population and agriculture.It was a proud thing to be where we were, yet it caused us a pangto reflect that but for that ram we might just as well have been twohundred thousand feet higher.

  The success of my last experiment induced me to try an experiment withmy photographic apparatus. I got it out, and boiled one of my cameras,but the thing was a failure; it made the wood swell up and burst, and Icould not see that the lenses were any better than they were before.

  I now concluded to boil a guide. It might improve him, it could notimpair his usefulness. But I was not allowed to proceed. Guides haveno feeling for science, and this one would not consent to be madeuncomfortable in its interest.

  In the midst of my scientific work, one of those needless accidentshappened which are always occurring among the ignorant and thoughtless.A porter shot at a chamois and missed it and crippled the Latinist.This was not a serious matter to me, for a Latinist's duties are as wellperformed on crutches as otherwise--but the fact remained that if theLatinist had not happened to be in the way a mule would have got thatload. That would have been quite another matter, for when it comes downto a question of value there is a palpable difference between a Latinistand a mule. I could not depend on having a Latinist in the right placeevery time; so, to make things safe, I ordered that in the future thechamois must not be hunted within limits of the camp with any otherweapon than the forefinger.

  My nerves had hardly grown quiet after this affair when they got anothershake-up--one which utterly unmanned me for a moment: a rumor sweptsuddenly through the camp that one of the barkeepers had fallen over aprecipice!

  However, it turned out that it was only a chaplain. I had laid in anextra force of chaplains, purposely to be prepared for emergencieslike this, but by some unaccountable oversight had come away rathershort-handed in the matter of barkeepers.

  On the following morning we moved on, well refreshed and in goodspirits. I remember this day with peculiar pleasure, because it sawour road restored to us. Yes, we found our road again, and in quite anextraordinary way. We had plodded along some two hours and a half, whenwe came up against a solid mass of rock about twenty feet high. I didnot need to be instructed by a mule this time. I was already beginningto know more than any mule in the Expedition. I at once put in a blastof dynamite, and lifted that rock out of the way. But to my surprise andmortification, I found that there had been a chalet on top of it.

  I picked up such members of the family as fell in my vicinity, andsubordinates of my corps collected the rest. None of these poor peoplewere injured, happily, but they were much annoyed. I explained tothe head chaleteer just how the thing happened, and that I was onlysearching for the road, and would certainly have given him timely noticeif I had known he was up there. I said I had meant no harm, and hopedI had not lowered myself in his estimation by raising him a few rods inthe air. I said many other judicious things, and finally when I offeredto rebuild his chalet, and pay for the breakages, and throw in thecellar, he was mollified and satisfied. He hadn't any cellar at all,before; he would not have as good a view, now, as formerly, but what hehad lost in view he had gained in cellar, by exact measurement. He saidthere wasn't another hole like that in the mountains--and he would havebeen right if the late mule had not tried to eat up the nitroglycerin.

  I put a hundred and sixteen men at work, and they rebuilt the chaletfrom its own debris in fifteen minutes. It was a good deal morepicturesque than it was before, too. The man said we were now on theFeil-Stutz, above the Schwegmatt--information which I was glad to get,since it gave us our position to a degree of particularity which we hadnot been accustomed to for a day or so. We also learned that we werestanding at the foot of the Riffelberg proper, and that the initialchapter of our work was completed.

  We had a fine view, from here, of the energetic Visp, as it makes itsfirst plunge into the world from under a huge arch of solid ice, wornthrough the foot-wall of the great Gorner Glacier; and we could also seethe Furggenbach, which is the outlet of the Furggen Glacier.

  The mule-road to the summit of the Riffelberg passed right in front ofthe chalet, a circumstance which we almost immediately noticed, becausea procession of tourists was filing along it pretty much all the time.

  "Pretty much" may not be elegant English, but it is high time it was.There is no elegant word or phrase which means just what it means.--M.T.

  The chaleteer's business consisted in furnishing refreshments totourists. My blast had interrupted this trade for a few minutes, bybreaking all the bottles on the place; but I gave the man a lot ofwhiskey to sell for Alpine cham
pagne, and a lot of vinegar which wouldanswer for Rhine wine, consequently trade was soon as brisk as ever.

  Leaving the Expedition outside to rest, I quartered myself in thechalet, with Harris, proposing to correct my journals and scientificobservations before continuing the ascent. I had hardly begun my workwhen a tall, slender, vigorous American youth of about twenty-three, whowas on his way down the mountain, entered and came toward me with thatbreezy self-complacency which is the adolescent's idea of the well-bredease of the man of the world. His hair was short and parted accuratelyin the middle, and he had all the look of an American person who wouldbe likely to begin his signature with an initial, and spell his middlename out. He introduced himself, smiling a smirky smile borrowed fromthe courtiers of the stage, extended a fair-skinned talon, and while hegripped my hand in it he bent his body forward three times at thehips, as the stage courtier does, and said in the airiest and mostcondescending and patronizing way--I quite remember his exact language:

  "Very glad to make your acquaintance, 'm sure; very glad indeed, assureyou. I've read all your little efforts and greatly admired them, andwhen I heard you were here, I ..."

  I indicated a chair, and he sat down. This grandee was the grandson ofan American of considerable note in his day, and not wholly forgottenyet--a man who came so near being a great man that he was quitegenerally accounted one while he lived.

  I slowly paced the floor, pondering scientific problems, and heard thisconversation:

  GRANDSON. First visit to Europe?

  HARRIS. Mine? Yes.

  G.S. (With a soft reminiscent sigh suggestive of bygone joys that maybe tasted in their freshness but once.) Ah, I know what it is to you. Afirst visit!--ah, the romance of it! I wish I could feel it again.

  H. Yes, I find it exceeds all my dreams. It is enchantment. I go...

  G.S. (With a dainty gesture of the hand signifying "Spare me your callowenthusiasms, good friend.") Yes, _I_ know, I know; you go to cathedrals,and exclaim; and you drag through league-long picture-galleries andexclaim; and you stand here, and there, and yonder, upon historicground, and continue to exclaim; and you are permeated with your firstcrude conceptions of Art, and are proud and happy. Ah, yes, proud andhappy--that expresses it. Yes-yes, enjoy it--it is right--it is aninnocent revel.

  H. And you? Don't you do these things now?

  G.S. I! Oh, that is _very_ good! My dear sir, when you are as old atraveler as I am, you will not ask such a question as that. _I_ visitthe regulation gallery, moon around the regulation cathedral, do theworn round of the regulation sights, _yet_?--Excuse me!

  H. Well, what _do_ you do, then?

  G.S. Do? I flit--and flit--for I am ever on the wing--but I avoid theherd. Today I am in Paris, tomorrow in Berlin, anon in Rome; but youwould look for me in vain in the galleries of the Louvre or the commonresorts of the gazers in those other capitals. If you would find me, youmust look in the unvisited nooks and corners where others never thinkof going. One day you will find me making myself at home in some obscurepeasant's cabin, another day you will find me in some forgotten castleworshiping some little gem or art which the careless eye has overlookedand which the unexperienced would despise; again you will find me asguest in the inner sanctuaries of palaces while the herd is content toget a hurried glimpse of the unused chambers by feeing a servant.

  H. You are a _guest_ in such places?

  G.S. And a welcoming one.

  H. It is surprising. How does it come?

  G.S. My grandfather's name is a passport to all the courts in Europe. Ihave only to utter that name and every door is open to me. I flit fromcourt to court at my own free will and pleasure, and am always welcome.I am as much at home in the palaces of Europe as you are among yourrelatives. I know every titled person in Europe, I think. I have mypockets full of invitations all the time. I am under promise to go toItaly, where I am to be the guest of a succession of the noblest housesin the land. In Berlin my life is a continued round of gaiety in theimperial palace. It is the same, wherever I go.

  H. It must be very pleasant. But it must make Boston seem a little slowwhen you are at home.

  G.S. Yes, of course it does. But I don't go home much. There's no lifethere--little to feed a man's higher nature. Boston's very narrow, youknow. She doesn't know it, and you couldn't convince her of it--so I saynothing when I'm there: where's the use? Yes, Boston is very narrow, butshe has such a good opinion of herself that she can't see it. A man whohas traveled as much as I have, and seen as much of the world, sees itplain enough, but he can't cure it, you know, so the best is to leave itand seek a sphere which is more in harmony with his tastes and culture.I run across there, once a year, perhaps, when I have nothing importanton hand, but I'm very soon back again. I spend my time in Europe.

  H. I see. You map out your plans and ...

  G.S. No, excuse me. I don't map out any plans. I simply follow theinclination of the day. I am limited by no ties, no requirements, Iam not bound in any way. I am too old a traveler to hamper myself withdeliberate purposes. I am simply a traveler--an inveterate traveler--aman of the world, in a word--I can call myself by no other name. I donot say, "I am going here, or I am going there"--I say nothing at all, Ionly act. For instance, next week you may find me the guest of a grandeeof Spain, or you may find me off for Venice, or flitting toward Dresden.I shall probably go to Egypt presently; friends will say to friends,"He is at the Nile cataracts"--and at that very moment they will besurprised to learn that I'm away off yonder in India somewhere. I ama constant surprise to people. They are always saying, "Yes, he wasin Jerusalem when we heard of him last, but goodness knows where he isnow."

  Presently the Grandson rose to leave--discovered he had an appointmentwith some Emperor, perhaps. He did his graces over again: gripped mewith one talon, at arm's-length, pressed his hat against his stomachwith the other, bent his body in the middle three times, murmuring:

  "Pleasure, 'm sure; great pleasure, 'm sure. Wish you much success."

  Then he removed his gracious presence. It is a great and solemn thing tohave a grandfather.

  I have not purposed to misrepresent this boy in any way, for what littleindignation he excited in me soon passed and left nothing behind it butcompassion. One cannot keep up a grudge against a vacuum. I have triedto repeat this lad's very words; if I have failed anywhere I have atleast not failed to reproduce the marrow and meaning of what he said.He and the innocent chatterbox whom I met on the Swiss lake are the mostunique and interesting specimens of Young America I came acrossduring my foreign tramping. I have made honest portraits of them, notcaricatures.

  The Grandson of twenty-three referred to himself five or six times asan "old traveler," and as many as three times (with a serene complacencywhich was maddening) as a "man of the world." There was something verydelicious about his leaving Boston to her "narrowness," unreproved anduninstructed.

  I formed the caravan in marching order, presently, and after riding downthe line to see that it was properly roped together, gave the command toproceed. In a little while the road carried us to open, grassy land. Wewere above the troublesome forest, now, and had an uninterrupted view,straight before us, of our summit--the summit of the Riffelberg.

  We followed the mule-road, a zigzag course, now to the right, now tothe left, but always up, and always crowded and incommoded by going andcoming files of reckless tourists who were never, in a single instance,tied together. I was obliged to exert the utmost care and caution, forin many places the road was not two yards wide, and often the lower sideof it sloped away in slanting precipices eight and even nine feet deep.I had to encourage the men constantly, to keep them from giving way totheir unmanly fears.

  We might have made the summit before night, but for a delay caused bythe loss of an umbrella. I was allowing the umbrella to remain lost, butthe men murmured, and with reason, for in this exposed region we stoodin peculiar need of protection against avalanches; so I went into campand detached a strong party to go after the missing articl
e.

  The difficulties of the next morning were severe, but our couragewas high, for our goal was near. At noon we conquered the lastimpediment--we stood at last upon the summit, and without the loss of asingle man except the mule that ate the glycerin. Our great achievementwas achieved--the possibility of the impossible was demonstrated, andHarris and I walked proudly into the great dining-room of the RiffelbergHotel and stood our alpenstocks up in the corner.

  Yes, I had made the grand ascent; but it was a mistake to do it inevening dress. The plug hats were battered, the swallow-tails werefluttering rags, mud added no grace, the general effect was unpleasantand even disreputable.

  There were about seventy-five tourists at the hotel--mainly ladies andlittle children--and they gave us an admiring welcome which paid us forall our privations and sufferings. The ascent had been made, and thenames and dates now stand recorded on a stone monument there to prove itto all future tourists.

  I boiled a thermometer and took an altitude, with a most curious result:_the summit was not as high as the point on the mountainside where ihad taken the first altitude_. Suspecting that I had made an importantdiscovery, I prepared to verify it. There happened to be a still highersummit (called the Gorner Grat), above the hotel, and notwithstandingthe fact that it overlooks a glacier from a dizzy height, and that theascent is difficult and dangerous, I resolved to venture up there andboil a thermometer. So I sent a strong party, with some borrowed hoes,in charge of two chiefs of service, to dig a stairway in the soil allthe way up, and this I ascended, roped to the guides. This breezy heightwas the summit proper--so I accomplished even more than I had originallypurposed to do. This foolhardy exploit is recorded on another stonemonument.

  I boiled my thermometer, and sure enough, this spot, which purported tobe two thousand feet higher than the locality of the hotel, turned outto be nine thousand feet _lower_. Thus the fact was clearly demonstratedthat, _above a certain point, the higher a point seems to be, the lowerit actually is_. Our ascent itself was a great achievement, but thiscontribution to science was an inconceivably greater matter.

  Cavilers object that water boils at a lower and lower temperature thehigher and higher you go, and hence the apparent anomaly. I answer thatI do not base my theory upon what the boiling water does, but upon whata boiled thermometer says. You can't go behind the thermometer.

  I had a magnificent view of Monte Rosa, and apparently all the rest ofthe Alpine world, from that high place. All the circling horizon waspiled high with a mighty tumult of snowy crests. One might haveimagined he saw before him the tented camps of a beleaguering host ofBrobdingnagians.

  NOTE.--I had the very unusual luck to catch one little momentaryglimpse of the Matterhorn wholly unencumbered by clouds. I leveled myphotographic apparatus at it without the loss of an instant, and shouldhave got an elegant picture if my donkey had not interfered. It wasmy purpose to draw this photograph all by myself for my book, butwas obliged to put the mountain part of it into the hands of theprofessional artist because I found I could not do landscape well.

  But lonely, conspicuous, and superb, rose that wonderful upright wedge,the Matterhorn. Its precipitous sides were powdered over with snow, andthe upper half hidden in thick clouds which now and then dissolved tocobweb films and gave brief glimpses of the imposing tower as through aveil. A little later the Matterhorn took to himself the semblance ofa volcano; he was stripped naked to his apex--around this circledvast wreaths of white cloud which strung slowly out and streamed awayslantwise toward the sun, a twenty-mile stretch of rolling and tumblingvapor, and looking just as if it were pouring out of a crater. Lateragain, one of the mountain's sides was clean and clear, and anotherside densely clothed from base to summit in thick smokelike cloud whichfeathered off and flew around the shaft's sharp edge like the smokearound the corners of a burning building. The Matterhorn is alwaysexperimenting, and always gets up fine effects, too. In the sunset, whenall the lower world is palled in gloom, it points toward heaven out ofthe pervading blackness like a finger of fire. In the sunrise--well,they say it is very fine in the sunrise.

  Authorities agree that there is no such tremendous "layout" of snowyAlpine magnitude, grandeur, and sublimity to be seen from any otheraccessible point as the tourist may see from the summit of theRiffelberg. Therefore, let the tourist rope himself up and go there; forI have shown that with nerve, caution, and judgment, the thing can bedone.

  I wish to add one remark, here--in parentheses, so to speak--suggestedby the word "snowy," which I have just used. We have all seen hills andmountains and levels with snow on them, and so we think we know all theaspects and effects produced by snow. But indeed we do not until we haveseen the Alps. Possibly mass and distance add something--at anyrate, something _is_ added. Among other noticeable things, there is adazzling, intense whiteness about the distant Alpine snow, when the sunis on it, which one recognizes as peculiar, and not familiar to the eye.The snow which one is accustomed to has a tint to it--painters usuallygive it a bluish cast--but there is no perceptible tint to thedistant Alpine snow when it is trying to look its whitest. As to theunimaginable splendor of it when the sun is blazing down on it--well, itsimply _is_ unimaginable.