[illustration: the mer de glace showing the cleft station at trélaporte, les echelets, the tacul, the périades and the grande jorasse.] the glaciers of the alps. being a narrative of excursions and ascents, an account of the origin and phenomena of glaciers, and an exposition of the physical principles to which they are related. by john tyndall, f.r.s. with illustrations. _new edition._ longmans, green, and co. london, new york, and bombay. . _all rights reserved_ to michael faraday, this book is affectionately inscribed. . preface. in the following work i have not attempted to mix narrative and science, believing that the mind once interested in the one, cannot with satisfaction pass abruptly to the other. the book is therefore divided into two parts: the first chiefly narrative, and the second chiefly scientific. in part i. i have sought to convey some notion of the life of an alpine explorer, and of the means by which his knowledge is acquired. in part ii. an attempt is made to classify such knowledge, and to refer the observed phenomena to their physical causes. the second part of the work is written with a desire to interest intelligent persons who may not possess any special scientific culture. for their sakes i have dwelt more fully on principles than i should have done in presence of a purely scientific audience. the brief sketch of the nature of light and heat, with which part ii. is commenced, will not, i trust, prove uninteresting to the reader for whom it is more especially designed. should any obscurity exist as to the meaning of the terms structure, dirt-bands, regelation, interference, and others, which occur in part i., it will entirely disappear in the perusal of part ii. two ascents of mont blanc and two of monte rosa are recorded; but the aspects of nature, and other circumstances which attracted my attention, were so different in the respective cases, that repetition was scarcely possible. the numerous interesting articles on glaciers which have been published during the last eighteen months, and the various lively discussions to which the subject has given birth, have induced me to make myself better acquainted than i had previously been with the historic aspect of the question. in some important cases i have stated, with the utmost possible brevity, the results of my reading, and thus, i trust, contributed to the formation of a just estimate of men whose labours in this field were long anterior to my own. j. t. _royal institution, june, ._ prefatory note. "glaciers of the alps" was published nearly six and thirty years ago, and has been long out of print, its teaching in a condensed form having been embodied in the little book called "forms of water." the two books are, however, distinct in character; each appears to me to supplement the other; and as the older work is still frequently asked for, i have, at the suggestion of my husband's publishers, consented to the present reprint, which may be followed later on by a reprint of "hours of exercise." before reproducing a book written so long ago, i sought to assure myself that it contained nothing touching the views of others which my husband might have wished at the present time to alter or omit. with this object i asked lord kelvin to be good enough to read over for me the pages which deal with the history of the subject and with discussions in which he himself took an active part. in kind response he writes:--"... after carefully going through all the passages relating to those old differences i could not advise the omission of any of them from the reprint. there were, no doubt, some keen differences of opinion and judgement among us, and other friends now gone from us, but i think the statements on controversial points in this beautiful and interesting book of your husband's are all thoroughly courteous and considerate of feelings, and have been felt to be so by those whose views were contested or criticised in them." the current spelling of swiss names has changed considerably since "glaciers of the alps" was written, but, except in the very few cases where an obvious oversight called for correction, the text has been left unaltered. only the index has been made somewhat fuller than it was. l. c. t. _january, ._ contents. part i. page .--introductory. visit to penrhyn; the cleavage of slate rocks; sedgwick's theory--its difficulties; sharpe's observations; sorby's experiments; lecture at the royal institution; glacier lamination; arrangement of an expedition to switzerland .--expedition of : the oberland. valley of lauterbrunnen; pliability of rocks; the wengern alp; the jungfrau and silberhorn; ice avalanches; glaciers formed from them; scene from the little scheideck; the lower grindelwald glacier; the heisse platte--its avalanches; ice minarets and blocks; echoes of the wetterhorn; analogy with the reflection of light from angular mirrors; the reichenbach cascade; handeck fall; the grimsel; the unteraar glacier; hut of m. dollfuss; hôtel des neufchâtelois; the rhone glacier from the mayenwand; expedition up the glacier; coloured rings round the sun; crevasses of the _névé_; extraordinary meteorological phenomenon; spirit of the brocken .--the tyrol. kaunserthal and the gebatsch alp; senner or cheesemakers; gebatsch glacier; a night in a cowshed; passage to lantaufer; a chamois on the rocks; my guide; the atmospheric snow-line; passage of the stelvio; colour of fresh snow; bormio; the pass recrossed by night; aspect of the mountains; meran to unserfrau; passage of the hochjoch to fend; singular hailstorm; wild glacier region; hidden crevasses; first paper presented to the royal society .--expedition of : the lake of geneva. blueness of the water; the head of the lake; appearance of the rhone; subsidence of particles; mirage .--chamouni and the montanvert. arrival; coloured shadows on the snow; source of the arveiron; fall of the vault; "sunrise in the valley of chamouni;" scratched rocks; quarters at the montanvert .--the mer de glace. not a _sea_ but a _river_ of ice; wave-forms on its surface; their explanation; structure and strata; glacier tables; first view of the dirt bands; influence of illumination in rendering them visible; the eye incapable of detecting differences between intense lights . measurements commenced; the "cleft station" at trélaporte; regelation of snow granules; two chamois; view of the mer de glace and its tributaries; _séracs_ of the col du géant; sliding and viscous theories; rending of the ice; striæ on its surface; white ice-seams . alone upon the glacier; lakes and rivulets; parallel between glacier and geological disturbance; splendid rainbow; aspect of the glacier at the base of the séracs; visit to the chief guide at chamouni; liberties granted .--the jardin. glacier du talèfre; jardin divides the névé; blue veins near the summit; surrounding scene; moraines and avalanches; cascade du talèfre; dangers on approaching it from above . lightning and rain; spherical hailstones; an evening among the crevasses; dangerous leap; ice-practice; preparations for an ascent of mont blanc .--first ascent of mont blanc ( ). across the mountain to the glacier des bossons; its crevasses; ladder left behind; consequent difficulties; the grands mulets; twinkling and change of colour of the stars; moonlight on the mountains; start with one guide; difficulties among the crevasses; the petit plateau; séracs of the dôme du goûter; bad condition of snow; the grand plateau; coloured spectra round the sun; the lost guides; the route missed; dangerous ice-slope; guide exhausted; cutting steps; cheerless prospect; the corridor; the mur de la côte; the petits mulets; food and drink disappear; physiological experiences on the calotte; summit attained; the clouds and mountains; experiment on sound; colour of the snow; the descent; a solitary prisoner; second night at the grands mulets; inflammation of eyes; a blind man among the crevasses; descent to chamouni; thunder on mont blanc . life at the montanvert; glacier "blower;" cascade of the talèfre; difficulties in setting out lines; departure from the montanvert; my hosts; prospect from the glacier des bois; edouard simond .--expedition of . origin and aim of the expedition; laminated structure of the ice .--passage of the strahleck. unpromising weather; appearance of the glacier and of the adjacent mountains; transverse protuberances; dirt bands; structure; a slip on a snow slope; the finsteraarhorn; the schreckhorn; extraordinary atmospheric effects; summit of the strahleck; grand amphitheatre; mutations of the clouds; descent of the rocks; a bergschrund; fog in the valley; descent to the grimsel . ancient glaciers in the valley of hasli; rounded, polished, and striated rocks; level of the ancient ice; groovings on the grimsel pass; glacier of the rhone; descent of the rhone valley; the Æggischhorn; cloud iridescences; the aletsch glacier; the märjelen see; icebergs; tributaries of the aletsch; grand glacier-region; crevasses; a chamois deceived .--ascent of the finsteraarhorn. character of my guide; iridescent cloud; evening on the faulberg; the jungfrau and her neighbours; a mountain cave; the jungfrau before dawn; contemplated visit; the grünhorn lücke; magnificent corridor; sunrise; névé of the viesch glacier; halt at the base of the finsteraarhorn; spurs and couloirs of the mountain; pyramidal crest; scene of agassiz's observations; a hard climb; discipline of such an ascent; boiling point; registering thermometer, its fate; daring utterance; descent by glissades; the viesch glacier; hidden crevasses; a brave and competent guide . subsequent days at the Æggischhorn; afloat on the icebergs; bedding and structure; ancient moraines of the aletsch; scratched rocks; passage of the mountains to the end of the glacier; a wild gorge; arrival at zermatt; the riffelberg .--first ascent of monte rosa. the ascent new to myself and my guide; directions; ulrich lauener; ominous clouds; passage of the görner glacier; roches moutonnées; avalanche from the twins; gradual advance of clouds; bridged chasms; scene from a cliff; apparent atmospheric struggle; sound of the snow; dangerous edge; overhanging cornice; staff driven through it; increased obscurity; rocky crest; loss of pocket-book; summit attained; boiling point; fall of snow; exquisite forms of the snow crystals; a shower of frozen blossoms; the descent; mode of attachment; startling avalanche; blue light emitted from the fissures of the fresh snow; stifling heat; return to the riffel . the rothe kumm; pleasant companions; difficult descent; temperatures of rock, air, and grass; singular cavern in the ice; structure and stratification .--the görner grat and the riffelhorn; magnetic phenomena. formation and dissipation of clouds; scene from the görner grat; magnetism of the rocks; the compass and sun at variance; ascent of the riffelhorn; magnetic effects; places of most intense action; scratched and polished rocks; exfoliation of crust produced by the sliding of ancient glaciers; magnetic polarity; consequent points; bearings from the riffelhorn; action on a distant needle . fog on the riffelberg; its dissipation; sunset from the görner grat; cloud-wreaths on the matterhorn; streamers of flame; grand interference phenomenon; investigation of structure; the görnerhorn glacier; western glacier of monte rosa; the schwarze, trifti, and théodule glaciers; welding of the tributaries to parallel strips; temptation .--second ascent of monte rosa ( ). a light scrip; my guide lent; a substitute; a party on the mountain; across the glacier and up the rocks; the guide expostulates; among the crevasses; the guide halts; left alone; beauty of the mountain; splendid effects of diffraction; cheer from the summit; on the kamm; climbers meet; among the rocks; alone on the summit; the axe slips; the prospect; the descent; serious accident; a word on climbing alone . the furgge glacier; thunder and lightning; the weissthor given up; excursion by stalden to saas; herr imseng; the mattmark see and hotel; ascent of a boulder; snow-storm; cold quarters; the monte moro; the allalein glacier; a noble vault; structure and dirt-bands; stormy weather; avalanches at saas; the fée glacier; frozen dust on the mischabelhörner; snow, vapour, and cloud; curious effect on the hearing; "a terrible hole;" singular group; a song from 'the robbers' . need of observations on alpine temperature; balmat's intention; aid from the royal society; difficulties at chamouni in ; the intendant memorialised; his response; the séracs revisited; crevasses and crumples; bad weather; thermometers placed at the jardin; avalanches of the talèfre; wondrous sky .--second ascent of mont blanc ( ). shadows of the aiguilles; silver trees at sunrise; m. necker's letter; birds as sparks and stars against the sky; crevasse bridged; ladder rejected; a hunt for a _pont_; crevasses crossed; magnificent sunset; illuminated clouds; storm on the grands mulets; a comet discovered; start by starlight; the petit plateau a reservoir for avalanches; balmat's warning; the grand plateau at dawn; blue of the ice; balmat in danger; clouds upon the calotte; the summit; wind and snow-dust; balmat frostbitten; halt on the calotte; descent to chamouni; good conduct of porters . hostility of chief guide; procès verbal; the british association; application to the sardinian authorities; president's letter; royal society; testimonial to balmat .--winter expedition to the mer de glace, . first defeat and fresh attempt; geneva to chamouni; deep snow; desolation; slow progress; a horse in the snow; a struggle; chamouni on christmas night; mountains hidden; climb to the montanvert; snow on the pines; débris of avalanches; breaking of snow; atmospheric changes; the mountains concealed and revealed; colour of the snow; the montanvert in winter; footprints in the snow; wonderful frost figures; crystal curtain; the mer de glace in winter; the first night; "a rose of dawn;" crimson banners of the aiguilles; the stakes fixed; a hurricane on the glacier; the second night; wild snow-storm; a man in a crevasse; calm; magnificent snow crystals; sound through the falling snow; swift descent; source of the arveiron; crystal cave; appearance of water; westward from the vault; majestic scene; farewell part ii. .--light and heat. what is light?--notion of the ancients; requires time to pass through space; römer, bradley, fizeau; emission theory supported by newton, opposed by huyghens; the wave theory established by young and fresnel; theory explained; nature of sound; of music; of pitch; nature of light; of colour; two sounds may produce silence; two rays of light may produce darkness; two rays of heat may produce cold; length and number of waves of light; liquid waves; interference; diffraction; colours of thin plates; applications of the foregoing to cloud iridescences, luminous trees, twinkling of stars, the spirit of the brocken, &c. .--radiant heat. the sun emits a multitude of non-luminous rays; rays of heat differ from rays of light as one colour differs from another; the same ray may produce the sensations of light and heat .--qualities of heat. heat a kind of motion; system of exchanges; luminous and obscure heat; absorption by gases; gases may be transparent to light, but opaque to heat; heat selected from luminous sources; the atmosphere acts the part of a ratchet-wheel; possible heat of a distant planet; causes of cold in the upper strata of the earth's atmosphere .--origin of glaciers. application of principles; the snow-line; its meaning; waters piled annually in a solid form on the summits of the hills; the glaciers furnish the chief means of escape; superior and inferior snow-line . whiteness of snow; whiteness of ice; round air-bubbles; melting and freezing; conversion of snow into ice by pressure .--colour of water and ice. waves of ether not entangled; they are separated in the prism; they are differently absorbed; colour due to this; water and ice blue; water and ice opaque to radiant heat; long waves shivered on the molecules; experiment; grotto of capri; the laugs of iceland .--colours of the sky. newton's idea; goethe's theory; clausius and brücke; suspended particles; singular effect on a painting explained by goethe; light separated without absorption; reflected and transmitted light; blueness of milk and juices; the sun through london smoke; experiments; blue of the eye; colours of steam; the lake of geneva .--the moraines. glacier loaded along its edges by the ruins of the mountains; lateral moraines; medial moraines; their number _one_ less than the number of tributaries; moraines of the mer de glace; successive shrinkings; glacier tables explained; 'dip' of stones upon the glacier enables us to draw the meridian line; type 'table;' sand cones; moraines engulfed and disgorged; transparency of ice under the moraines .--glacier motion,--preliminary. névé and glacier; first measurements; hugi and agassiz; escher's defeat on the aletsch; piles fixed across the aar glacier by agassiz in ; professor forbes invited by m. agassiz; forbes's first observations on the mer de glace in ; motion of agassiz's piles measured by m. wild; centre of the glacier moves quickest; state of the question .--motion of the mer de glace. the theodolite; mode of measurement; first line; centre point not the quickest; second line; former result confirmed; law of motion sought; the glacier moves through a sinuous valley; effect of flexure; western half of glacier moves quickest; point of maximum motion crosses axis; eastern half moves quickest; locus of point of maximum motion; new law; motion of the géant; motion of the léchaud; squeezing of the tributaries through the neck of the valley at trélaporte; the léchaud a driblet .--ice wall at the tacul,--velocities of top and bottom. first attempt by mr. hirst; second attempt, stakes fixed at top, bottom, and centre; dense fog; the stakes lost; process repeated; velocities determined .--winter motion of the mer de glace. first line, above the montanvert; second line, below the montanvert; ratio of winter to summer motion .--cause of glacier motion,--de saussure's theory. first attempt at a theory by scheuchzer in ; charpentier's theory, or the theory of dilatation; agassiz's theory; altmann and grüner; theory of de saussure, or the sliding theory; in part true; strained interpretation of this theory .--rendu's theory. character of rendu; his essay entitled 'théorie des glaciers de la savoie;' extracts from the essay; he ascribes "circulation" to natural forces; classifies glaciers; assigns the cause of the conversion of snow into ice; notices veined structure; "time and affinity;" notices regelation; diminution of _glaciers réservoirs_; remarkable passage; announces swifter motion of centre; north british review; discrepancies explained by rendu; liquid motion ascribed to glacier; all the phenomena of a river reproduced upon the mer de glace; ratio of side and central velocities; errors removed . anticipations of rendu confirmed by agassiz and forbes; analogies with liquid motion established by forbes; his measurements in ; measurements in and ; measurements of agassiz and wild in , , , and ; agassiz notices the "migration" of the point of swiftest motion; true meaning of this observation; summary of contributions on this part of the question .--forbes's theory. discussions as to its meaning; facts and principles; definition of theory; some experiments on the mer de glace to test the viscosity of the ice .--the crevasses. caused by the motion; ice sculpture; fantastic figures; beauty of the crevasses of the highest glaciers; birth of a crevasse; mechanical origin; line of greatest strain; marginal crevasses; transverse crevasses; longitudinal crevasses; bergschrunds; influence of flexure; why the convex sides of glaciers are most crevassed . further considerations on viscosity; numerical test; formation of crevasses opposed to viscosity .--heat and work. connexion of natural forces; equivalence of heat and work; heat produced by mechanical action; heat consumed in producing work; chemical attractions; attraction of gravitation; amount of heat which would be produced by the stoppage of the earth in its orbit; amount produced by the falling of the earth into the sun; shifting of atoms; heat consumed in molecular work; specific heat; latent heat; 'friability' of ice near its melting point; rotten ice and softened wax . papers presented to the royal society by professor forbes in ; capillary hypothesis of glacier motion; hypothesis examined .--thomson's theory. statement of theory; influence of pressure on the melting point of ice; difficulties of theory; calculation of requisite pressure; actual pressure insufficient .--pressure theory. pressure and tension; possible experiments; ice may be moulded into vases and statuettes or coiled into knots; this no proof of viscosity; actual experiments; a sphere of ice moulded to a lens; a lens moulded to a cylinder; a lump of ice moulded to a cup; straight bars of ice bent; ice thus moulded incapable of being sensibly stretched; when tension is substituted for pressure, analogy with viscous body breaks down .--regelation. faraday's first experiments; freezing together of pieces of ice at °; freezing in hot water; faraday's recent experiments; regelation not due to pressure nor to capillary attraction; it takes place in vacuo; fracture and regelation; no viscidity discovered .--crystallization and internal liquefaction. how crystals are 'nursed;' snow-crystals; crystal stars formed in water; arrangement of atoms of lake ice; dissection of ice by a sunbeam; liquid flowers formed in ice; associated vacuous spots; curious sounds; their explanation; cohesion of water when free from air; liquid snaps like a broken spring; ebullition converted into explosion; noise of crepitation; water-cells in glacier ice; vacuous spots mistaken for bubbles; not flattened by pressure; experiments; cause of regelation .--the moulins. their character; depth of moulin on grindelwald glacier; explanation the grand moulin of the mer de glace; motion of moulins .--dirt-bands of the mer de glace. their discovery by professor forbes; view of bands from a point near the flégère; bands as seen from les charmoz; skew surface of glacier; aspect of bands from the cleft station; origin of bands; tendency to become straight; differences between observers .--veined structure of glaciers. general appearance; grooves upon the glacier; first observations; description by m. guyot; observations of professor forbes; structure and stratification; subject examined; marginal structure; transverse structure; longitudinal structure; experimental illustrations; the structure complementary to the crevasses; glaciers of the oberland, valais, and savoy examined with reference to this question .--the veined structure and differential motion. marginal structure oblique to sides; drag towards the centre; difficulties of theory which ascribes the structure to differential sliding; it persists _across_ the lines of maximum sliding .--the ripple theory of the veined structure. ripples in water supposed to correspond to glacier structure; analysis of theory; observation of the mm. weber; water dropping from an oar; stream cleft by an obstacle; two divergent lines of ripple; single line produced by lateral obstacle; direction of ripples compounded of river's motion and wave motion; structure and ripples due to different causes; their positions also different .--the veined structure and pressure. supposed case of pressed prism of glass; experiments of nature; quartz-pebbles flattened and indented; pressure would produce lamination; tangential action .--the veined structure and the liquefaction of ice by pressure. influence of pressure on melting and boiling points; some substances swell, others shrink in melting; effects of pressure different on the two classes of bodies; theoretic anticipation by mr. james thomson; melting point of ice lowered by pressure; internal liquefaction of a prism of solid ice by pressure; liquefaction in layers; application to the veined structure .--white ice-seams of the glacier du géant. aspect of seams; they sweep across the glacier concentric with structure; structure at the base of the talèfre cascade; crumples; scaling off by pressure; origin of seams of white ice . glacier du géant in a state of longitudinal compression; measurements which prove that its hinder parts are advancing upon those in front; shortening of its undulations; squeezing of white ice-seams; development of veined structure summary appendix index illustrations. the mer de glace.--showing the cleft station at trélaporte, the echelets, the tacul, the périades, and the grand jorasse. _frontispiece_ fig. page . ice minaret . diagram of an angular reflector , . boats' sails inverted by atmospheric refraction . wave-like forms on the mer de glace . glacier table . tributaries of the mer de glace . magnetic boulder of the riffelhorn , , , . luminous trees projected against the sky at sunrise , . snow on the pines , . snow crystals . chasing produced by waves . diagram explanatory of interference . interference spectra, produced by diffraction _to face_ . moraines of the mer de glace " . typical section of a glacier table . locus of the point of maximum motion . inclinations of ice cascade of the glacier des bois . inclinations of mer de glace above l'angle . fantastic mass of ice . diagram explanatory of the mechanical origin of crevasses . diagram showing the line of greatest strain a, b. section and plan of a portion of the lower grindelwald glacier . diagram illustrating the crevassing of convex sides of glacier . diagram illustrating test of viscosity , , , . moulds used in experiments with ice - . liquid flowers in lake ice . dirt-bands of the mer de glace, as seen from a point near the flégère _to face_ . ditto, as seen from les charmoz " . ditto, as seen from the cleft station, trélaporte " . plan of dirt-bands taken from johnson's 'physical atlas' . veined structure on the walls of crevasses . figure explanatory of the marginal structure . plan of part of ice-fall, and of glacier below it (glacier of the rhone) . section of ditto . figure explanatory of longitudinal structure . structure and bedding on the great aletsch glacier , . structure and stratification on the furgge glacier . diagram illustrating differential motion , . diagrams explanatory of the formation of ripples , , . appearance of a prism of ice partially liquefied by pressure. , . figures illustrative of compression and liquefaction of ice. , . sections of white ice-seams , . variations in the dip of the veined structure , . section of three glacier crumples . wall of a crevasse, with incipient crumpling . plan of a stream on the glacier du géant . plan of a seam of white ice on ditto part i. chiefly narrative. ages are your days, ye grand expressors of the present tense and types of permanence; firm ensigns of the fatal being amid these coward shapes of joy and grief that will not bide the seeing. hither we bring our insect miseries to the rocks, and the whole flight with pestering wing vanish and end their murmuring, vanish beside these dedicated blocks. emerson glaciers of the alps. introductory. ( .) in the autumn of i attended the meeting of the british association at liverpool; and, after it was over, availed myself of my position to make an excursion into north wales. guided by a friend who knew the country, i became acquainted with its chief beauties, and concluded the expedition by a visit to bangor and the neighbouring slate quarries of penrhyn. from my boyhood i had been accustomed to handle slates; had seen them used as roofing materials, and had worked the usual amount of arithmetic upon them at school; but now, as i saw the rocks blasted, the broken masses removed to the sheds surrounding the quarry, and there cloven into thin plates, a new interest was excited, and i could not help asking after the cause of this extraordinary property of cleavage. it sufficed to strike the point of an iron instrument into the edge of a plate of rock to cause the mass to yield and open, as wood opens in advance of a wedge driven into it. i walked round the quarry and observed that the planes of cleavage were everywhere parallel; the rock was capable of being split in one direction only, and this direction remained perfectly constant throughout the entire quarry. [sidenote: cleavage of slate rocks.] i was puzzled, and, on expressing my perplexity to my companion, he suggested that the cleavage was nothing more than the layers in which the rock had been originally deposited, and which, by some subsequent disturbance, had been set on end, like the strata of the sandstone rocks and chalk cliffs of alum bay. but though i was too ignorant to combat this notion successfully, it by no means satisfied me. i did not know that at the time of my visit this very question of slaty cleavage was exciting the greatest attention among english geologists, and i quitted the place with that feeling of intellectual discontent which, however unpleasant it may be for a time, is very useful as a stimulant, and perhaps as necessary to the true appreciation of knowledge as a healthy appetite is to the enjoyment of food. on inquiry i found that the subject had been treated by three english writers, professor sedgwick, mr. daniel sharpe, and mr. sorby. from professor sedgwick i learned that cleavage and stratification were things totally distinct from each other; that in many cases the strata could be observed with the cleavage passing through them at a high angle; and that this was the case throughout vast areas in north wales and cumberland. i read the lucid and important memoir of this eminent geologist with great interest: it placed the data of the problem before me, as far as they were then known, and i found myself, to some extent at least, in a condition to appreciate the value of a theoretic explanation. everybody has heard of the force of gravitation, and of that of cohesion; but there is a more subtle play of forces exerted by the molecules of bodies upon each other when these molecules possess sufficient freedom of action. in virtue of such forces, the ultimate particles of matter are enabled to build themselves up into those wondrous edifices which we call crystals. a diamond is a crystal self-erected from atoms of carbon; an amethyst is a crystal built up from particles of silica; iceland spar is a crystal built by particles of carbonate of lime. by artificial means we can allow the particles of bodies the free play necessary to their crystallization. thus a solution of saltpetre exposed to slow evaporation produces crystals of saltpetre; alum crystals of great size and beauty may be obtained in a similar manner; and in the formation of a bit of common sugar-candy there are agencies at play, the contemplation of which, as mere objects of thought, is sufficient to make the wisest philosopher bow down in wonder, and confess himself a child. [sidenote: crystallization theory.] the particles of certain crystalline bodies are found to arrange themselves in layers, like courses of atomic masonry, and along these layers such crystals may be easily cloven into the thinnest laminæ. some crystals possess _one_ such direction in which they may be cloven, some several; some, on the other hand, may be split with different facility in different directions. rock salt may be cloven with equal facility in three directions at right angles to each other; that is, it may be split into cubes; calcspar may be cloven in three directions oblique to each other; that is, into rhomboids. heavy spar may also be cloven in three directions, but one cleavage is much more perfect, or more _eminent_ as it is sometimes called, than the rest. mica is a crystal which cleaves very readily in one direction, and it is sufficiently tough to furnish films of extreme tenuity: finally, any boy, with sufficient skill, who tries a good crystal of sugar-candy in various directions with the blade of his penknife, will find that it possesses one direction in particular, along which, if the blade of the knife be placed and struck, the crystal will split into plates possessing clean and shining surfaces of cleavage. [sidenote: polar forces.] professor sedgwick was intimately acquainted with all these facts, and a great many more, when he investigated the cleavage of slate rocks; and seeing no other explanation open to him, he ascribed to slaty cleavage a crystalline origin. he supposed that the particles of slate rock were acted on, after their deposition, by "polar forces," which so arranged them as to produce the cleavage. according to this theory, therefore, honister crag and the cliffs of penrhyn are to be regarded as portions of enormous crystals; a length of time commensurate with the vastness of the supposed action being assumed to have elapsed between the deposition of the rock and its final crystallization. when, however, we look closely into this bold and beautiful hypothesis, we find that the only analogy which exists between the physical structure of slate rocks and of crystals is this single one of cleavage. such a coincidence might fairly give rise to the conjecture that both were due to a common cause; but there is great difficulty in accepting this as a theoretic truth. when we examine the structure of a slate rock, we find that the substance is composed of the débris of former rocks; that it was once a fine mud, composed of particles of _sensible magnitude_. is it meant that these particles, each taken as a whole, were re-arranged after deposition? if so, the force which effected such an arrangement must be wholly different from that of crystallization, for the latter is essentially _molecular_. what is this force? nature, as far as we know, furnishes none competent, under the conditions, to produce the effect. is it meant that the molecules composing these sensible particles have re-arranged themselves? we find no evidence of such an action in the individual fragments: the mica is still mica, and possesses all the properties of mica; and so of the other ingredients of which the rock is composed. independent of this, that an aggregate of heterogeneous mineral fragments should, without any assignable external cause, so shift its molecules as to produce a plane of cleavage common to them all, is, in my opinion, an assumption too heavy for any theory to bear. nevertheless, the paper of professor sedgwick invested the subject of slaty cleavage with an interest not to be forgotten, and proved the stimulus to further inquiry. the structure of slate rocks was more closely examined; the fossils which they contained were subjected to rigid scrutiny, and their shapes compared with those of the same species taken from other rocks. thus proceeding, the late mr. daniel sharpe found that the fossils contained in slate rocks are distorted in shape, being uniformly flattened out in the direction of the planes of cleavage. here, then, was a fact of capital importance,--the shells became the indicators of an action to which the mass containing them had been subjected; they demonstrated the operation of pressure acting at right angles to the planes of cleavage. [sidenote: mechanical theory.] the more the subject was investigated, the more clearly were the evidences of pressure made out. subsequent to mr. sharpe, mr. sorby entered upon this field of inquiry. with great skill and patience he prepared sections of slate rock, which he submitted to microscopic examination, and his observations showed that the evidences of pressure could be plainly traced, even in his minute specimens. the subject has been since ably followed up by professors haughton, harkness, and others; but to the two gentlemen first mentioned we are, i think, indebted for the prime facts on which rests the _mechanical theory_ of slaty cleavage.[a] [sidenote: lecture at the royal institution.] the observations just referred to showed the co-existence of the two phenomena, but they did not prove that pressure and cleavage stood to each other in the relation of cause and effect. "can the pressure produce the cleavage?" was still an open question, and it was one which mere reasoning, unaided by experiment, was incompetent to answer. sharpe despaired of an experimental solution, regarding our means as inadequate, and our time on earth too short to produce the result. mr. sorby was more hopeful. submitting mixtures of gypsum and oxide of iron scales to pressure, he found that the scales set themselves approximately at right angles to the direction in which the pressure was applied. the position of the scales resembled that of the plates of mica which his researches had disclosed to him in slate rock, and he inferred that the presence of such plates, and of flat or elongated fragments generally, lying all in the same general direction, was the cause of slaty cleavage. at the meeting of the british association at glasgow, in , i had the pleasure of seeing some of mr. sorby's specimens, and, though the cleavage they exhibited was very rough, still, the tendency to yield at right angles to the direction in which the pressure had been applied, appeared sufficiently manifest. at the time now referred to i was engaged, and had been for a long time previously, in examining the effects of pressure upon the magnetic force, and, as far back as , i had noticed that some of the bodies which i had subjected to pressure exhibited a cleavage of surpassing beauty and delicacy. the bearing of such facts upon the present question now forcibly occurred to me. i followed up the observations; visited slate yards and quarries, observed the exfoliation of rails, the fibres of iron, the structure of tiles, pottery, and cheese, and had several practical lessons in the manufacture of puff-paste and other laminated confectionery. my observations, i thought, pointed to a theory of slaty cleavage different from any previously given, and which, moreover, referred a great number of apparently unrelated phenomena to a common cause. on the th of june, , i made them the subject of a friday evening's discourse at the royal institution.[b] [sidenote: origin of researches.] such are the circumstances, apparently remote enough, under which my connexion with glaciers originated. my friend professor huxley was present at the lecture referred to: he was well acquainted with the work of professor forbes, entitled 'travels in the alps,' and he surmised that the question of slaty cleavage, in its new aspect, might have some bearing upon the laminated structure of glacier-ice discussed in the work referred to. he therefore urged me to read the 'travels,' which i did with care, and the book made the same impression upon me that it had produced upon my friend. we were both going to switzerland that year, and it required but a slight modification of our plans to arrange a joint excursion over some of the glaciers of the oberland, and thus afford ourselves the means of observing together the veined structure of the ice. had the results of this arrangement been revealed to me beforehand, i should have paused before entering upon an investigation which required of me so long a renunciation of my old and more favourite pursuits. but no man knows when he commences the examination of a physical problem into what new and complicated mental alliances it may lead him. no fragment of nature can be studied alone; each part is related to every other part; and hence it is, that, following up the links of law which connect phenomena, the physical investigator often finds himself led far beyond the scope of his original intentions, the danger in this respect augmenting in direct proportion to the wish of the inquirer to render his knowledge solid and complete. [sidenote: a boy's book.] when the idea of writing this book first occurred to me, it was not my intention to confine myself to the glaciers alone, but to make the work a vehicle for the familiar explanation of such general physical phenomena as had come under my notice. nor did i intend to address it to a cultured man of science, but to a youth of average intelligence, and furnished with the education which england now offers to the young. i wished indeed to make it a boy's class-book, which should reveal the mode of life, as well as the scientific objects, of an explorer of the alps. the incidents of the past year have caused me to deviate, in some degree, from this intention, but its traces will be sufficiently manifest; and this reference to it will, i trust, excuse an occasional liberty of style and simplicity of treatment which would be out of place if intended for a reader of riper years. footnotes: [a] mr. sorby has drawn my attention to an able and interesting paper by m. bauer, in karsten's 'archiv' for ; in which it is announced that cleavage is a tension of the mass _produced by pressure_. the author refers to the experiments of mr. hopkins as bearing upon the question. [b] see appendix. [sidenote: the oberland. .] expedition of . the oberland. ( .) on the th of august, , i received my alpenstock from the hands of dr. hooker, in the garden of the pension ober, at interlaken. it bore my name, not marked, however, by the vulgar brands of the country, but by the solar beams which had been converged upon it by the pocket lens of my friend. i was the companion of mr. huxley, and our first aim was to cross the wengern alp. light and shadow enriched the crags and green slopes as we advanced up the valley of lauterbrunnen, and each occupied himself with that which most interested him. my companion examined the drift, i the cleavage, while both of us looked with interest at the contortions of the strata to our left, and at the shadowy, unsubstantial aspect of the pines, gleaming through the sunhaze to our right. [sidenote: folded rocks. .] what was the physical condition of the rock when it was thus bent and folded like a pliant mass? was it necessarily softer than it is at present? i do not think so. the shock which would crush a railway carriage, if communicated to it at once, is harmless when distributed over the interval necessary for the pushing in of the buffer. by suddenly stopping a cock from which water flows you may burst the conveyance pipe, while a slow turning of the cock keeps all safe. might not a solid rock by ages of pressure be folded as above? it is a physical axiom that no body is perfectly hard, none perfectly soft, none perfectly elastic. the hardest body subjected to pressure yields, however little, and the same body when the pressure is removed cannot return to its original form. if it did not yield in the slightest degree it would be perfectly hard; if it could completely return to its original shape it would be perfectly elastic. let a pound weight be placed upon a cube of granite; the cube is flattened, though in an infinitesimal degree. let the weight be removed, the cube _remains_ a little flattened; it cannot quite return to its primitive condition. let us call the cube thus flattened no. . starting with no. as a new mass, let the pound weight be laid upon it; the mass yields, and on removing the weight it cannot return to the dimensions of no. ; we have a more flattened mass, no. . proceeding in this manner, it is manifest that by a repetition of the process we should produce a series of masses, each succeeding one more flattened than the former. this appears to be a necessary consequence of the physical axiom referred to above. now if, instead of removing and replacing the weight in the manner supposed, we cause it to rest continuously upon the cube, the flattening, which above was intermittent, will be continuous; no matter how hard the cube may be, there will be a gradual yielding of its mass under the pressure. apply this to squeezed rocks--to those, for example, which form the base of an obelisk like the matterhorn; that this base must yield, seems a certain consequence of the physical constitution of matter: the conclusion seems inevitable that the mountain is sinking by its own weight. let two points be fixed, one near the summit, the other near the base of the obelisk; next year these points will have approached each other. whether the amount of approach in a human lifetime be measureable we know not; but it seems certain that ages would leave their impress upon the mass, and render visible to the eye an action which at present is appreciable by the imagination only. [sidenote: the jungfrau and silberhorn. .] we halted on the night of the th at the jungfrau hotel, and next morning we saw the beams of the rising sun fall upon the peaked snow of the silberhorn. slowly and solemnly the pure white cone appeared to rise higher and higher into the sunlight, being afterwards mottled with gold and gloom, as clouds drifted between it and the sun. i descended alone towards the base of the mountain, making my way through a rugged gorge, the sides of which were strewn with pine-trees, splintered, broken across, and torn up by the roots. i finally reached the end of a glacier, formed by the snow and shattered ice which fall from the shoulders of the jungfrau. the view from this place had a savage magnificence such as i had not previously beheld, and it was not without some slight feeling of awe that i clambered up the end of the glacier. it was the first i had actually stood upon. the loneliness of the place was very impressive, the silence being only broken by fitful gusts of wind, or by the weird rattle of the débris which fell at intervals from the melting ice. [sidenote: avalanches. .] once i noticed what appeared to be the sudden and enormous augmentation of the waters of a cascade, but the sound soon informed me that the increase was due to an avalanche which had chosen the track of the cascade for its rush. soon afterwards my eyes were fixed upon a white slope some thousands of feet above me; i saw the ice give way, and, after a sensible interval, the thunder of another avalanche reached me. a kind of zigzag channel had been worn on the side of the mountain, and through this the avalanche rushed, hidden at intervals, and anon shooting forth, and leaping like a cataract down the precipices. the sound was sometimes continuous, but sometimes broken into rounded explosions which seemed to assert a passionate predominance over the general level of the roar. these avalanches, when they first give way, usually consist of enormous blocks of ice, which are more and more shattered as they descend. partly to the echoes of the first crash, but mainly, i think, to the shock of the harder masses which preserve their cohesion, the explosions which occur during the descent of the avalanche are to be ascribed. much of the ice is crushed to powder; and thus, when an avalanche pours cataract-like over a ledge, the heavier masses, being less influenced by the atmospheric resistance, shoot forward like descending rockets, leaving the lighter powder in trains behind them. such is the material of which a class of the smaller glaciers in the alps is composed. they are the products of avalanches, the crushed ice being recompacted into a solid mass, which exhibits on a smaller scale most of the characteristics of the large glaciers. after three hours' absence i reascended to the hotel, breakfasted, and afterwards returned with mr. huxley to the glacier. while we were engaged upon it the weather suddenly changed; lightning flashed about the summits of the jungfrau, and thunder "leaped" among her crags. heavy rain fell, but it cleared up afterwards with magical speed, and we returned to our hotel. heedless of the forebodings of many prophets of evil weather we set out for grindelwald. the scene from the summit of the little scheideck was exceedingly grand. the upper air exhibited a commotion which we did not experience; clouds were wildly driven against the flanks of the eiger, the jungfrau thundered behind, while in front of us a magnificent rainbow, fixing one of its arms in the valley of grindelwald, and, throwing the other right over the crown of the wetterhorn, clasped the mountain in its embrace. through jagged apertures in the clouds floods of golden light were poured down the sides of the mountain. on the slopes were innumerable chalets, glistening in the sunbeams, herds browsing peacefully and shaking their mellow bells; while the blackness of the pine-trees, crowded into woods, or scattered in pleasant clusters over alp and valley, contrasted forcibly with the lively green of the fields. [sidenote: the heisse platte. .] at grindelwald, on the th, we engaged a strong and competent guide, named christian kaufmann, and proceeded to the lower glacier. after a steep ascent, we gained a point from which we could look down upon the frozen mass. at first the ice presented an appearance of utter confusion, but we soon reached a position where the mechanical conditions of the glacier revealed themselves, and where we might learn, had we not known it before, that confusion is merely the unknown intermixture of laws, and becomes order and beauty when we rise to their comprehension. we reached the so-called eismeer--ice sea. in front of us was the range of the viescherhörner, and a vast snow slope, from which one branch of the glacier was fed. near the base of this _névé_, and surrounded on all sides by ice, lay a brown rock, to which our attention was directed as a place noted for avalanches; on this rock snow or ice never rests, and it is hence called the _heisse platte_--the hot plate. at the base of the rock, and far below it, the glacier was covered with clean crushed ice, which had fallen from a crown of frozen cliffs encircling the brow of the rock. one obelisk in particular signalised itself from all others by its exceeding grace and beauty. its general surface was dazzling white, but from its clefts and fissures issued a delicate blue light, which deepened in hue from the edges inwards. it stood upon a pedestal of its own substance, and seemed as accurately fixed as if rule and plummet had been employed in its erection. fig. represents this beautiful minaret of ice. [sidenote: ice minaret. .] [illustration: fig. . ice minaret.] while we were in sight of the heisse platte, a dozen avalanches rushed downwards from its summit. in most cases we were informed of the descent of an avalanche by the sound, but sometimes the white mass was seen gliding down the rock, and scattering its _smoke_ in the air, long before the sound reached us. it is difficult to reconcile the insignificant appearance presented by avalanches, when seen from a distance, with the volume of sound which they generate; but on this day we saw sufficient to account for the noise. one block of solid ice which we found below the heisse platte measured feet inches in length, feet inches in height, and feet inches in depth. a second mass was feet long, feet high, and feet wide. it contained therefore cubic feet of ice, which had been cast to a distance of nearly yards down the glacier. the shock of such hard and ponderous projectiles against rocks and ice, reinforced by the echoes from the surrounding mountains, will appear sufficient to account for the peals by which their descent is accompanied. [sidenote: echoes of the wetterhorn. .] a second day, in company with dr. hooker, completed the examination of this glacier in ; after which i parted from my friends, mr. huxley intending to rejoin me at the grimsel. on the morning of the th of august i strapped on my knapsack and ascended the green slopes from grindelwald towards the great scheideck. before reaching the summit i frequently heard the wonderful echoes of the wetterhorn. some travellers were in advance of me, and to amuse them an alpine horn was blown. the direct sound was cut off from me by a hill, but the echoes talked down to me from the mountain walls. the sonorous waves arrived after one, two, three, and more reflections, diminishing gradually in intensity, but increasing in softness, as if in its wanderings from crag to crag the sound had undergone a kind of sifting process, leaving all its grossness behind, and returning in delightful flute notes to the ear. let us investigate this point a little. if two looking-glasses be placed perfectly parallel to each other, with a lighted candle between them, an infinite series of images of the candle will be seen at both sides, the images diminishing in brightness the further they recede. but if the looking-glasses, instead of being parallel, enclose an angle, a limited number of images only will be seen. the smaller the angle which the reflectors make with each other, or, in other words, the nearer they approach parallelism, the greater will be the number of images observed. to find the number of images the following is the rule:--divide , or the number of degrees in a circle, by the number of degrees in the angle enclosed by the two mirrors, the quotient will be _one more_ than the number of images; or, counting the object itself, the quotient is always equal to the number of images plus the object. in fig. i have given the number and position of the images produced by two mirrors placed at an angle of °. a b and b c mark the edges of the mirrors, and represents the candle, which, for the sake of simplicity, i have placed midway between them. fix one point of a pair of compasses at b, and with the distance b sweep a circle:--_all the images will be ranged upon the circumference of this circle_. the number of images found by the foregoing rule is , and their positions are marked in the figure by the numbers , , , &c. [illustration: fig. . diagram of an angular reflector.] [sidenote: echoes explained. .] suppose the _ear_ to occupy the place of the eye, and that _a sounding body_ occupies the place of the luminous one, we should then have just as many _echoes_ as we had _images_ in the former case. these echoes would diminish in loudness just as the images of the candle diminish in brightness. at each reflection a portion both of sound and light is lost; hence the oftener light is reflected the dimmer it becomes, and the oftener sound is reflected the fainter it is. now the cliffs of the wetterhorn are so many rough angular reflectors of the sound: some of them send it back directly to the listener, and we have a first echo; some of them send it on to others from which it is again reflected, forming a second echo. thus, by repeated reflection, successive echoes are sent to the ear, until, at length, they become so faint as to be inaudible. the sound, as it diminishes in intensity, appears to come from greater and greater distances, as if it were receding into the mountain solitudes; the final echoes being inexpressibly soft and pure. [sidenote: reichenbach and handeck. .] after crossing the scheideck i descended to meyringen, visiting the reichenbach waterfall on my way. a peculiarity of the descending water here is, that it is broken up in one of the basins into nodular masses, each of which in falling leaves the light foaming mass which surrounds it as a train in the air behind; the effect exactly resembles that of the avalanches of the jungfrau, in which the more solid blocks of ice shoot forward in advance of the lighter débris, which is held back by the friction of the air. next day i ascended the valley of hasli, and observed upon the rocks and mountains the action of ancient glaciers which once filled the valley to the height of more than a thousand feet above its present level. i paused, of course, at the waterfall of handeck, and stood for a time upon the wooden bridge which spans the river at its top. the aar comes gambolling down to the bridge from its parent glacier, takes one short jump upon a projecting ledge, boils up into foam, and then leaps into a chasm, from the bottom of which its roar ascends through the gloom. a rivulet named the aarlenbach joins the aar from the left in the very jaws of the chasm: falling, at first, upon a projection at some depth below the edge, and, rebounding from this, it darts at the aar, and both plunge together like a pair of fighting demons to the bottom of the gorge. the foam of the aarlenbach is white, that of the aar is yellow, and this enables the observer to trace the passage of the one cataract _through_ the other. as i stood upon the bridge the sun shone brightly upon the spray and foam; my shadow was oblique to the river, and hence a symmetrical rainbow could not be formed in the spray, but one half of a lovely bow, with its base in the chasm, leaned over against the opposite rocks, the colours advancing and retreating as the spray shifted its position. i had been watching the water intently for some time, when a little swiss boy, who stood beside me, observed, in his trenchant german, "there plunge stones ever downwards." the stones were palpable enough, carried down by the cataract, and sometimes completely breaking loose from it, but i did not see them until my attention was withdrawn from the water. [sidenote: hut of m. dollfuss. .] on my arrival at the grimsel i found mr. huxley already there, and, after a few minutes' conversation, we decided to spend a night in a hut built by m. dollfuss in , beside the unteraar glacier, about feet above the hospice. we hoped thus to be able to examine the glacier to its origin on the following day. two days' food and some blankets were sent up from the hospice, and, accompanied by our guide, we proceeded to the glacier. [sidenote: hÔtel des neufchÂtelois. .] having climbed a great terminal moraine, and tramped for a considerable time amid loose shingle and boulders, we came upon the ice. the finest specimens of "tables" which i have ever seen are to be found upon this glacier--huge masses of clean granite poised on pedestals of ice. here are also "dirt-cones" of the largest size, and numerous shafts, the forsaken passages of ancient "moulins," some filled with water, others simply with deep blue light. i reserve the description and explanation of both cones and moulins for another place. the surfaces of some of the small pools were sprinkled lightly over with snow, which the water underneath was unable to melt; a coating of snow granules was thus formed, flexible as chain armour, but so close that the air could not escape through it. some bubbles which had risen through the water had lifted the coating here and there into little rounded domes, which, by gentle pressure, could be shifted hither and thither, and several of them collected into one. we reached the hut, the floor of which appeared to be of the original mountain slab; there was a space for cooking walled off from the sleeping-room, half of which was raised above the floor, and contained a quantity of old hay. the number mètres, the height, i suppose, of the place above the sea, was painted on the door, behind which were also the names of several well-known observers--agassiz, forbes, desor, dollfuss, ramsay, and others--cut in the wood. a loft contained a number of instruments for boring, a surveyor's chain, ropes, and other matters. after dinner i made my way alone towards the junction of the finsteraar and lauteraar glaciers, which unite at the abschwung to form the trunk stream of the unteraar glacier. upon the great central moraine which runs between the branches were perched enormous masses of rock, and, under the overhanging ledge of one of these, m. agassiz had his _hôtel des neufchâtelois_. the rock is still there, bearing traces of names now nearly obliterated by the weather, while the fragments around also bear inscriptions. there in the wilderness, in the gray light of evening, these blurred and faded evidences of human activity wore an aspect of sadness. it was a temple of science now in ruins, and i a solitary pilgrim to the desecrated blocks. as the day declined, rain began to fall, and i turned my face towards my new home; where in due time we betook ourselves to our hay, and waited hopefully for the morning. but our hopes were doomed to disappointment. a vast quantity of snow fell during the night, and, when we arose, we found the glacier covered, and the air thick with the descending flakes. we waited, hoping that it might clear up, but noon arrived and passed without improvement; our fire-wood was exhausted, the weather intensely cold, and, according to the men's opinion, hopelessly bad; they opposed the idea of ascending further, and we had therefore no alternative but to pack up and move downwards. what was snow at the higher elevations changed to rain lower down, and drenched us completely before we reached the grimsel. but though thus partially foiled in our design, this visit taught us much regarding the structure and general phenomena of the glacier. [sidenote: the rhone glacier. .] the morning of the th was clear and calm: we rose with the sun, refreshed and strong, and crossed the grimsel pass at an early hour. the view from the summit of the pass was lovely in the extreme; the sky a deep blue, the surrounding summits all enamelled with the newly-fallen snow, which gleamed with dazzling whiteness in the sunlight. it was sunday, and the scene was itself a sabbath, with no sound to disturb its perfect rest. in a lake which we passed the mountains were mirrored without distortion, for there was no motion of the air to ruffle its surface. from the summit of the mayenwand we looked down upon the rhone glacier, and a noble object it seemed,--i hardly know a finer of its kind in the alps. forcing itself through the narrow gorge which holds the ice cascade in its jaws, and where it is greatly riven and dislocated, it spreads out in the valley below in such a manner as clearly to reveal to the mind's eye the nature of the forces to which it is subjected. longfellow's figure is quite correct; the glacier resembles a vast gauntlet, of which the gorge represents the wrist; while the lower glacier, cleft by its fissures into finger-like ridges, is typified by the hand. furnishing ourselves with provisions at the adjacent inn, we devoted some hours to the examination of the lower portion of the glacier. the dirt upon its surface was arranged in grooves as fine as if produced by the passage of a rake, while the laminated structure of the deeper ice always corresponded to the superficial grooving. we found several shafts, some empty, some filled with water. at one place our attention was attracted by a singular noise, evidently produced by the forcing of air and water through passages in the body of the glacier; the sound rose and fell for several minutes, like a kind of intermittent snore, reminding one of hugi's hypothesis that the glacier was alive. [sidenote: rings around the sun. .] we afterwards climbed to a point from which the whole glacier was visible to us from its origin to its end. adjacent to us rose the mighty mass of the finsteraarhorn, the monarch of the oberland. the galenstock was also at hand, while round about the _névé_ of the glacier a mountain wall projected its jagged outline against the sky. at a distance was the grand cone of the weisshorn, then, and i believe still, unscaled;[a] further to the left the magnificent peaks of the mischabel; while between them, in savage isolation, stood the obelisk of the matterhorn. near us was the chain of the furca, all covered with shining snow, while overhead the dark blue of the firmament so influenced the general scene as to inspire a sentiment of wonder approaching to awe. we descended to the glacier, and proceeded towards its source. as we advanced an unusual light fell upon the mountains, and looking upwards we saw a series of coloured rings, drawn like a vivid circular rainbow quite round the sun. between the orb and us spread a thin veil of cloud on which the circles were painted; the western side of the veil soon melted away, and with it the colours, but the eastern half remained a quarter of an hour longer, and then in its turn disappeared. the crevasses became more frequent and dangerous as we ascended. they were usually furnished with overhanging eaves of snow, from which long icicles depended, and to tread on which might be fatal. we were near the source of the glacier, but the time necessary to reach it was nevertheless indefinite, so great was the entanglement of fissures. we followed one huge chasm for some hundreds of yards, hoping to cross it; but after half an hour's fruitless effort we found ourselves baffled and forced to retrace our steps. [sidenote: spirit of the brocken. .] the sun was sloping to the west, and we thought it wise to return; so down the glacier we went, mingling our footsteps with the tracks of chamois, while the frightened marmots piped incessantly from the rocks. we reached the land once more, and halted for a time to look upon the scene within view. the marvellous blueness of the sky in the earlier part of the day indicated that the air was charged, almost to saturation, with transparent aqueous vapour. as the sun sank the shadow of the finsteraarhorn was cast through the adjacent atmosphere, which, thus deprived of the direct rays, curdled up into visible fog. the condensed vapour moved slowly along the flanks of the mountain, and poured itself cataract-like into the valley of the rhone. here it met the sun again, which reduced it once more to the invisible state. thus, though there was an incessant supply from the generator behind, the fog made no progress; as in the case of the moving glacier, the end of the cloud-river remained stationary where consumption was equal to supply. proceeding along the mountain to the furca, we found the valley at the further side of the pass also filled with fog, which rose, like a wall, high above the region of actual shadow. once on turning a corner an exclamation of surprise burst simultaneously from my companion and myself. before each of us and against the wall of fog, stood a spectral image of a man, of colossal dimensions; dark as a whole, but bounded by a coloured outline. we stretched forth our arms; the spectres did the same. we raised our alpenstocks; the spectres also flourished their bâtons. all our actions were imitated by these fringed and gigantic shades. we had, in fact, _the spirit of the brocken_ before us in perfection. at the time here referred to i had had but little experience of alpine phenomena. i had been through the oberland in , but was then too ignorant to learn much from my excursion. hence the novelty of this day's experience may have rendered it impressive: still even now i think there was an intrinsic grandeur in its phenomena which entitles the day to rank with the most remarkable that i have spent among the alps. at the furca, to my great regret, the joint ramblings of my friend and myself ended; i parted from him on the mountain side, and watched him descending, till the gray of evening finally hid him from my view. footnotes: [a] the weisshorn was first scaled, by tyndall, in .--l. c. t. [sidenote: the tyrol. .] the tyrol. ( .) my subsequent destination was vienna; but i wished to associate with my journey thither a visit to some of the glaciers of the tyrol. at landeck, on the th of august, i learned that the nearest glacier was that adjacent to the gebatsch alp, at the head of the kaunserthal; and on the following morning i was on my way towards this valley. i sought to obtain a guide at kaltebrunnen, but failed; and afterwards walked to the little hamlet of feuchten, where i put up at a very lonely inn. my host, i believe, had never seen an englishman, but he had heard of such, and remarked to me in his patois with emphasis, "_die engländer sind die kühnsten leute in dieser welt._" through his mediation i secured a chamois-hunter, named johann auer, to be my guide, and next morning i started with this man up the valley. the sun, as we ascended, smote the earth and us with great power; high mountains flanked us on either side, while in front of us, closing the view, was the mass of the weisskugel, covered with snow. at three o'clock we came in sight of the glacier, and soon afterwards i made the acquaintance of the _senner_ or cheesemakers of the gebatsch alp. [sidenote: the gebatsch alp. .] the chief of these was a fine tall fellow, with free, frank countenance, which, however, had a dash of the mountain wildness in it. his feet were bare, he wore breeches, and fragments of stockings partially covered his legs, leaving a black zone between the upper rim of the sock and the breeches. his feet and face were of the same swarthy hue; still he was handsome, and in a measure pleasant to look upon. he asked me what he could cook for me, and i requested some bread and milk; the former was a month old, the latter was fresh and delicious, and on these i fared sumptuously. i went to the glacier afterwards with my guide, and remained upon the ice until twilight, when we returned, guided by no path, but passing amid crags grasped by the gnarled roots of the pine, through green dells, and over bilberry knolls of exquisite colouring. my guide kept in advance of me singing a tyrolese melody, and his song and the surrounding scene revived and realised all the impressions of my boyhood regarding the tyrol. milking was over when we returned to the chalet, which now contained four men exclusive of myself and my guide. a fire of pine logs was made upon a platform of stone, elevated three feet above the floor; there was no chimney, as the smoke found ample vent through the holes and fissures in the sides and roof. the men were all intensely sunburnt, the legitimate brown deepening into black with beard and dirt. the chief senner prepared supper, breaking eggs into a dish, and using his black fingers to empty the shell when the albumen was refractory. a fine erect figure he was as he stood in the glowing light of the fire. all the men were smoking, and now and then a brand was taken from the fire to light a renewed pipe, and a ruddy glare flung thereby over the wild countenance of the smoker. in one corner of the chalet, and raised high above the ground, was a large bed, covered with clothes of the most dubious black-brown hue; at one end was a little water-wheel turned by a brook, which communicated motion to a churndash which made the butter. the beams and rafters were covered with cheeses, drying in the warm smoke. the senner, at my request, showed me his storeroom, and explained to me the process of making cheese, its interest to me consisting in its bearing upon the question of slaty cleavage. three gigantic masses of butter were in the room, and i amused my host by calling them butter-glaciers. soon afterwards a bit of cotton was stuck in a lump of grease, which was placed in a lantern, and the wick ignited; the chamois-hunter took it, and led the way to our resting-place, i having previously declined a good-natured invitation to sleep in the big black bed already referred to. [sidenote: an alpine chalet. .] there was a cowhouse near the chalet, and above it, raised on pillars of pine, and approached by a ladder, was a loft, which contained a quantity of dry hay: this my guide shook to soften the lumps, and erected an eminence for my head. i lay down, drawing my plaid over me, but auer affirmed that this would not be a sufficient protection against the cold; he therefore piled hay upon me to the shoulders, and proposed covering up my head also. this, however, i declined, though the biting coldness of the air, which sometimes blew in upon us, afterwards proved to me the wisdom of the suggestion. having set me right, my chamois-hunter prepared a place for himself, and soon his heavy breathing informed me that he was in a state of bliss which i could only envy. one by one the stars crossed the apertures in the roof. once the pleiades hung above me like a cluster of gems; i tried to admire them, but there was no fervour in my admiration. sometimes i dozed, but always as this was about to deepen into positive sleep it was rudely broken by the clamour of a group of pigs which occupied the ground-floor of our dwelling. the object of each individual of the group was to secure for himself the maximum amount of heat, and hence the outside members were incessantly trying to become inside ones. it was the struggle of radical and conservative among the pachyderms, the politics being determined by the accident of position. [sidenote: the gebatsch glacier. .] i rose at five o'clock on the st of september, and after a breakfast of black bread and milk ascended the glacier as far as practicable. we once quitted it, crossed a promontory, and descended upon one of its branches, which was flanked by some fine old moraines. we here came upon a group of seven marmots, which with yells of terror scattered themselves among the rocks. the points of the glacier beyond my reach i examined through a telescope; along the faces of the sections the lines of stratification were clearly shown; and in many places where the mass showed manifest signs of lateral pressure, i thought i could observe the cleavage passing though the strata. the point, however, was too important to rest upon an observation made from such a distance, and i therefore abstained from mentioning it subsequently. i examined the fissures and the veining, and noticed how the latter became most perfect in places where the pressure was greatest. the effect of _oblique_ pressure was also finely shown: at one place the thrust of the descending glacier was opposed by the resistance offered by the side of the valley, the direction of the force being oblique to the side; the consequence was a structure nearly parallel to the valley, and consequently oblique to the thrust which i believe to be its cause. [sidenote: a chamois on the rocks. .] after five hours' examination we returned to our chalet, where we refreshed ourselves, put our things in order, and faced a nameless "joch," or pass; our aim being to cross the mountains into the valley of lantaufer, and reach graun that evening. after a rough ascent over the alp we came to the dead crag, where the weather had broken up the mountains into ruinous heaps of rock and shingle. we reached the end of a glacier, the ice of which was covered by sloppy snow, and at some distance up it came upon an islet of stones and débris, where we paused to rest ourselves. my guide, as usual, ranged over the summits with his telescope, and at length exclaimed, "i see a chamois." the creature stood upon a cliff some hundreds of yards to our left, and seemed to watch our movements. it was a most graceful animal, and its life and beauty stood out in forcible antithesis to the surrounding savagery and death. on the steep slopes of the glacier i was assisted by the hand of my guide. in fact, on this day i deemed places dangerous, and dreaded them as such, which subsequent practice enabled me to regard with perfect indifference; so much does what we call courage depend upon habit, or on the fact of knowing that we have really nothing to fear. doubtless there are times when a climber has to make up his mind for very unpleasant possibilities, and even gather calmness from the contemplation of the worst; but in most cases i should say that his courage is derived from the latent feeling that the chances of safety are immensely in his favour. [sidenote: passage of a joch. .] after a tough struggle we reached the narrow row of crags which form the crest of the pass, and looked into the world of mountain and cloud on the other side. the scene was one of stern grandeur--the misty lights and deep cloud-glooms being so disposed as to augment the impression of vastness which the scene conveyed. the breeze at the summit was exceedingly keen, but it gave our muscles tone, and we sprang swiftly downward through the yielding débris which here overlies the mountain, and in which we sometimes sank to the knees. lower down we came once more upon the ice. the glacier had at one place melted away from its bounding cliff, which rose vertically to our right, while a wall of ice or feet high was on our left. between the two was a narrow passage, the floor of which was snow, which i knew to be hollow beneath: my companion, however, was in advance of me, and he being the heavier man, where he trod i followed without hesitation. on turning an angle of the rock i noticed an expression of concern upon his countenance, and he muttered audibly, "i did not expect this." the snow-floor had, in fact, given way, and exposed to view a clear green lake, one boundary of which was a sheer precipice of rock, and the other the aforesaid wall of ice; the latter, however, curved a little at its base, so as to form a short steep slope which overhung the water. my guide first tried the slope alone; biting the ice with his shoe-nails, and holding on by the spike of his bâton, he reached the other side. he then returned, and, divesting myself of all superfluous clothes, as a preparation for the plunge which i fully expected, i also passed in safety. probably the consciousness that i had water to fall into instead of pure space, enabled me to get across without anxiety or mischance; but had i, like my guide, been unable to swim, my feelings would have been far different. this accomplished, we went swiftly down the valley, and the more i saw of my guide the more i liked him. he might, if he wished, have made his day's journey shorter by stopping before he reached graun, but he would not do so. every word he said to me regarding distances was true, and there was not the slightest desire shown to magnify his own labour. i learnt by mere accident that the day's work had cut up his feet, but his cheerfulness and energy did not bate a jot till he had landed me in the black eagle at graun. next morning he came to my room, and said that he felt sufficiently refreshed to return home. i paid him what i owed him, when he took my hand, and, silently bending down his head, kissed it; then, standing erect, he stretched forth his right hand, which i grasped firmly in mine, and bade him farewell; and thus i parted from johann auer, my brave and truthful chamois-hunter. on the following day i met dr. frankland in the finstermuntz pass, and that night we bivouacked together at mals. heavy rain fell throughout the night, but it came from a region high above that of liquidity. it was first snow, which, as it descended through the warmer strata of the atmosphere, was reduced to water. overhead, in the air, might be traced a surface, below which the precipitate was liquid, above which it was solid; and this surface, intersecting the mountains which surround mals, marked upon them a beautifully-defined _snow-line_, below which the pines were dark and the pastures green, but above which pines and pastures and crags were covered with the freshly-fallen snow. [sidenote: the stelvio. .] [sidenote: colour of fresh snow. .] on the nd of september we crossed the stelvio. the brown cone of the well-known madatschspitze was clear, but the higher summits were clouded, and the fragments of sunshine which reached the lower world wandered like gleams of fluorescent light over the glaciers. near the snow-line the partial melting of the snow had rendered it coarsely granular, but as we ascended it became finer, and the light emitted from its cracks and cavities a pure and deep blue. when a staff was driven into the snow low down the mountain, the colour of the light in the orifice was scarcely sensibly blue, but higher up this increased in a wonderful degree, and at the summit the effect was marvellous. i struck my staff into the snow, and turned it round and round; the surrounding snow cracked repeatedly, and flashes of blue light issued from the fissures. the fragments of snow that adhered to the staff were, by contrast, of a beautiful pink yellow, so that, on moving the staff with such fragments attached to it up and down, it was difficult to resist the impression that a pink flame was ascending and descending in the hole. as we went down the other side of the pass, the effect became more and more feeble, until, near the snow-line, it almost wholly disappeared. we remained that night at the baths of bormio, but the following afternoon being fine we wished to avail ourselves of the fair weather to witness the scene from the summit of the pass. twilight came on before we reached santa maria, but a gorgeous orange overspread the western horizon, from which we hoped to derive sufficient light. it was a little too late when we reached the top, but still the scene was magnificent. a multitude of mountains raised their crowns towards heaven, while above all rose the snow-white cone of the ortler. far into the valley the giant stretched his granite limbs, until they were hid from us by darkness. as this deepened, the heavens became more and more crowded with stars, which blazed like gems over the heads of the mountains. at times the silence was perfect, unbroken save by the crackling of the frozen snow beneath our own feet; while at other times a breeze would swoop down upon us, keen and hostile, scattering the snow from the roofs of the wooden galleries in frozen powder over us. long after night had set in, a ghastly gleam rested upon the summit of the ortler, while the peaks in front deepened to a dusky neutral tint, the more distant ones being lost in gloom. we descended at a swift pace to trafoi, which we reached before p.m. [sidenote: singular hailstorm. .] meran was our next resting-place, whence we turned through the schnalzerthal to unserfrau, and thence over the hochjoch to fend. from a religious procession we took a guide, who, though partly intoxicated, did his duty well. before reaching the summit of the pass we were assailed by a violent hailstorm, each hailstone being a frozen cone with a rounded end. had not their motion through the air something to do with the shape of these hailstones? the theory of meteorites now generally accepted is that they are small planetary bodies drawn to the earth by gravity, and brought to incandescence by friction against the earth's atmosphere. such a body moving through the atmosphere must have condensed hot air in front of it, and rarefied cool air behind it; and the same is true to a small extent of a hailstone. this distribution of temperature must, i imagine, have some influence on the shape of the stone. possibly also the stratified appearance of some hailstones may be connected with this action.[a] [sidenote: the hochjoch and fend. .] the hail ceased and the heights above us cleared as we ascended. at the top of the pass we found ourselves on the verge of a great _névé_, which lay between two ranges of summits, sloping down to the base of each range from a high and rounded centre: a wilder glacier scene i have scarcely witnessed. wishing to obtain a more perfect view of the region, i diverged from the track followed by dr. frankland and the guide, and climbed a ridge of snow about half a mile to the right of them. a glorious expanse was before me, stretching itself in vast undulations, and heaping itself here and there into mountainous cones, white and pure, with the deep blue heaven behind them. here i had my first experience of hidden crevasses, and to my extreme astonishment once found myself in the jaws of a fissure of whose existence i had not the slightest notice. such accidents have often occurred to me since, but the impression made by the first is likely to remain the strongest. it was dark when we reached the wretched wirthshaus at fend, where, badly fed, badly lodged, and disturbed by the noise of innumerable rats, we spent the night. thus ended my brief glacier expedition of ; and on the observations then made, and on subsequent experiments, was founded a paper presented to the royal society by mr. huxley and myself.[b] footnotes: [a] i take the following account of a grander storm of the above character from hooker's 'himalayan journals,' vol. ii. p. . "on the th (march, ) we had a change in the weather: a violent storm from the south-west occurred at noon, with hail of a strange form, the stones being sections of hollow spheres, half an inch across and upwards, formed of cones with truncated apices and convex bases: these cones were aggregated together with their bases outwards. the large masses were followed by a shower of the separate conical pieces, and that by heavy rain. on the mountains this storm was most severe: the stones lay at darjeeling for seven days, congealed into masses of ice several feet long and a foot thick in sheltered places: at purneah, fifty miles south, stones one and two inches across fell, probably as whole spheres." [b] 'phil. trans.' , pp. - .--l. c. t. [sidenote: the lake of geneva. .] expedition of . the lake of geneva. ( .) the time occupied in the observations of embraced about five whole days; and though these days were laborious and instructive, still so short a time proved to be wholly incommensurate with the claims of so wide a problem. during the subsequent experimental treatment of the subject, i had often occasion to feel the incompleteness of my knowledge, and hence arose the desire to make a second expedition to the alps, for the purpose of expanding, fortifying, or, if necessary, correcting first impressions. on thursday, the th of july, , i found myself upon the lake of geneva, proceeding towards vevey. i had long wished to see the waters of this renowned inland sea, the colour of which is perhaps more interesting to the man of science than to the poets who have sung about it. long ago its depth of blue excited attention, but no systematic examination of the subject has, so far as i know, been attempted. it may be that the lake simply exhibits the colour of pure water. ice is blue, and it is reasonable to suppose that the liquid obtained from the fusion of ice is of the same colour; but still the question presses--"is the blue of the lake of geneva to be entirely accounted for in this way?" the attempts which have been made to explain it otherwise show that at least a doubt exists as to the sufficiency of the above explanation. [sidenote: blueness of the water. .] it is only in its deeper portions that the colour of the lake is properly seen. where the bottom comes into view the pure effect of the water is disturbed; but where the water is deep the colour is deep: between rolle and nyon for example, the blue is superb. where the blue was deepest, however, it gave me the impression of turbidity rather than of deep transparency. at the upper portion of the lake the water through which the steamer passed was of a blue green. wishing to see the place where the rhone enters the lake, i walked on the morning of the th from villeneuve to novelle, and thence through the woods to the river side. proceeding along an embankment, raised to defend the adjacent land from the incursions of the river, an hour brought me to the place where it empties itself into the lake. the contrast between the two waters was very great: the river was almost white with the finely divided matter which it held in suspension; while the lake at some distance was of a deep ultramarine. the lake in fact forms a reservoir where the particles held in suspension by the river have time to subside, and its waters to become pure. the subsidence of course takes place most copiously at the head of the lake; and here the deposit continues to form new land, adding year by year to the thousands of acres which it has already left behind it, and invading more and more the space occupied by the water. innumerable plates of mica spangled the fine sand which the river brought down, and these, mixing with the water, and flashing like minute mirrors as the sun's rays fell upon them, gave the otherwise muddy stream a silvery appearance. had i an opportunity i would make the following experiments:-- (_a_.) compare the colour of the light transmitted by a column of the lake water fifteen feet long with that transmitted by a second column, of the same length, derived from the melting of freshly fallen mountain snow. (_b_.) compare in the same manner the colour of the ordinary water of the lake with that of the same water after careful distillation. (_c_.) strictly examine whether the light transmitted by the ordinary water contains an excess of red over that transmitted by the distilled water: this latter point, as will be seen farther on, is one of peculiar interest. the length is fixed at fifteen feet, because i have found this length extremely efficient in similar experiments. [illustration: fig. , . boats' sails inverted by atmospheric refraction.] [sidenote: atmospheric refraction. .] on returning to the pier at villeneuve, a peculiar flickering motion was manifest upon the surface of the distant portions of the lake, and i soon noticed that the coast line was inverted by atmospheric refraction. it required a long distance to produce the effect: no trace of it was seen about the castle of chillon, but at vevey and beyond it, the whole coast was clearly inverted; and the houses on the margin of the lake were also imaged to a certain height. two boats at a considerable distance presented the appearance sketched in figs. and ; the hull of each, except a small portion at the end, was invisible, but the sails seemed lifted up high in the air, with their inverted images below; as the boats drew nearer the hulls appeared inverted, the apparent height of the vessel above the surface of the lake being thereby nearly doubled, while the sails and higher objects, in these cases, were almost completely cut away. when viewed through a telescope the sensible horizon of the lake presented a billowy tumultuous appearance, fragments being incessantly detached from it and suspended in the air. [sidenote: mirage. .] the explanation of this effect is the same as that of the mirage of the desert, which may be found in almost any book on physics, and which so tantalized the french soldiers in egypt. they often mistook this aërial inversion for the reflection from a lake, and on trial found hot and sterile sand at the place where they expected refreshing waters. the effect was shown by monge, one of the learned men who accompanied the expedition, to be due to the total reflection of very oblique rays at the upper surface of the layer of rarefied air which was nearest to the heated earth. a sandy plain, in the early part of the day, is peculiarly favourable for the production of such effects; and on the extensive flat strand which stretches between mont st. michel and the coast adjacent to avranches in normandy, i have noticed mont tombeline reflected as if glass instead of sand surrounded it and formed its mirror. [sidenote: chamouni and the montanvert. .] chamouni and the montanvert. ( .) on the evening of the th of july i reached chamouni; the weather was not quite clear, but it was promising; white cumuli had floated round mont blanc during the day, but these diminished more and more, and the light of the setting sun was of that lingering rosy hue which bodes good weather. two parallel beams of a purple tinge were drawn by the shadows of the adjacent peaks, straight across the glacier des bossons, and the glacier des pèlerins was also steeped for a time in the same purple light. once when the surrounding red illumination was strong, the shadows of the grands mulets falling upon the adjacent snow appeared of a vivid green. this green belonged to the class of _subjective_ colours, or colours produced by contrast, about which a volume might be written. the eye received the impression of green, but the colour was not external to the eye. place a red wafer on white paper, and look at it intently, it will be surrounded in a little time by a green fringe: move the wafer bodily away, and the entire space which it occupied upon the paper will appear green. a body may have its proper colour entirely masked in this way. let a red wafer be attached to a piece of red glass, and from a moderately illuminated position let the sky be regarded through the glass; the wafer will appear of a vivid green. if a strong beam of light be sent through a red glass and caused to fall upon a screen, which at the same time is moderately illuminated by a separate source of white light, an opaque body placed in the path of the beam will cast a green shadow upon the screen which may be seen by several hundred persons at once. if a blue glass be used, the shadow will be yellow, which is the complementary colour to blue. [sidenote: coloured shadows. .] when we suddenly pass from open sunlight to a moderately illuminated room, it appears dark at first, but after a little time the eye regains the power of seeing objects distinctly. thus one effect of light upon the eye is to render it less sensitive, and light of any particular colour falling upon the eye blunts its appreciation of that colour. let us apply this to the shadow upon the screen. this shadow is moderately illuminated by a jet of white light; but the space surrounding it is red, the effect of which upon the eye is to blind it in some degree to the perception of red. hence, when the feeble white light of the shadow reaches the eye, the red component of this light is, as it were, abstracted from it, and the eye sees the residual colour, which is green. a similar explanation applies to the shadows of the grands mulets. on the th of july i was joined by my friend mr. thomas hirst, and on the th we examined together the end of the mer de glace. in former times the whole volume of the arveiron escaped from beneath the ice at the end of the glacier, forming a fine arch at its place of issue. this year a fraction only of the water thus found egress; the greater portion of it escaping laterally from the glacier at the summit of the rocks called _les mottets_, down which it tumbled in a fine cascade. the vault at the end of the glacier was nevertheless respectable, and rather tempting to a traveller in search of information regarding the structure of the ice. perhaps, however, nature meant to give me a friendly warning at the outset, for, while speculating as to the wisdom of entering the cavern, it suddenly gave way, and, with a crash which rivalled thunder, the roof strewed itself in ruins upon the floor. [sidenote: sunrise at chamouni. .] many years ago i had read with delight coleridge's poem entitled 'sunrise in the valley of chamouni,' and to witness in all perfection the scene described by the poet, i waited at chamouni a day longer than was otherwise necessary. on the morning of wednesday, the th of july, i rose before the sun; mont blanc and his wondrous staff of aiguilles were without a cloud; eastward the sky was of a pale orange which gradually shaded off to a kind of rosy violet, and this again blended by imperceptible degrees with the deep zenithal blue. the morning star was still shining to the right, and the moon also turned a pale face towards the rising day. the valley was full of music; from the adjacent woods issued a gush of song, while the sound of the arve formed a suitable bass to the shriller melody of the birds. the mountain rose for a time cold and grand, with no apparent stain upon his snows. suddenly the sunbeams struck his crown and converted it into a boss of gold. for some time it remained the only gilded summit in view, holding communion with the dawn while all the others waited in silence. these, in the order of their heights, came afterwards, relaxing, as the sunbeams struck each in succession, into a blush and smile. [sidenote: glacier des bois. .] on the same day we had our luggage transported to the montanvert, while we clambered along the lateral moraine of the glacier to the chapeau. the rocks alongside the glacier were beautifully scratched and polished, and i paid particular attention to them, for the purpose of furnishing myself with a key to ancient glacier action. the scene to my right was one of the most wonderful i had ever witnessed. along the entire slope of the glacier des bois, the ice was cleft and riven into the most striking and fantastic forms. it had not yet suffered much from the wasting influence of the summer weather, but its towers and minarets sprang from the general mass with clean chiselled outlines. some stood erect, others leaned, while the white débris, strewn here and there over the glacier, showed where the wintry edifices had fallen, breaking themselves to pieces, and grinding the masses on which they fell to powder. some of them gave way during our inspection of the place, and shook the valley with the reverberated noise of their fall. i endeavoured to get near them, but failed; the chasms at the margin of the glacier were too dangerous, and the stones resting upon the heights too loosely poised to render persistence in the attempt excusable. we subsequently crossed the glacier to the montanvert, and i formally took up my position there. the rooms of the hotel were separated from each other by wooden partitions merely, and thus the noise of early risers in one room was plainly heard in the next. for the sake of quiet, therefore, i had my bed placed in the _château_ next door,--a little octagonal building erected by some kind and sentimental frenchman, and dedicated "_à la nature_." my host at first demurred, thinking the place not "_propre_," but i insisted, and he acquiesced. true the stone floor was dark with moisture, and on the walls a glistening was here and there observable, which suggested rheumatism, and other penalties, but i had had no experience of rheumatism, and trusted to the strength which mountain air and exercise were sure to give me, for power to resist its attacks. moreover, to dispel some of the humidity, it was agreed that a large pine fire should be made there on necessary occasions. [sidenote: quarters at the montanvert. .] though singularly favoured on the whole, still our residence at the montanvert was sufficiently long to give us specimens of all kinds of weather; and thus my château derived an interest from the mutations of external nature. sometimes no breath disturbed the perfect serenity of the night, and the moon, set in a black-blue sky, turned a face of almost supernatural brightness to the mountains, while in her absence the thick-strewn stars alone flashed and twinkled through the transparent air. sometimes dull dank fog choked the valley, and heavy rain plashed upon the stones outside. on two or three occasions we were favoured by a thunderstorm, every peal of which broke into a hundred echoes, while the seams of lightning which ran through the heavens produced a wonderful intermittence of gloom and glare. and as i sat within, musing on the experiences of the day, with my pine logs crackling, and the ruddy fire-light gleaming over the walls, and lending animation to the visages sketched upon them with charcoal by the guides, i felt that my position was in every way worthy of a student of nature. the mer de glace. ( .) [sidenote: a river of ice. .] the name "mer de glace" has doubtless led many who have never seen this glacier to a totally erroneous conception of its character. misled probably by this term, a distinguished writer, for example, defines a glacier to be a sheet of ice spread out upon the slope of a mountain; whereas the mer de glace is indeed a _river_, and not a _sea_ of ice. but certain forms upon its surface, often noticed and described, and which i saw for the first time from the window of our hotel on the morning of the th of july, suggest at once the origin of the name. the glacier here has the appearance of a sea which, after it had been tossed by a storm, had suddenly stiffened into rest. the ridges upon its surface accurately resemble waves in shape, and this singular appearance is produced in the following way:-- some distance above the montanvert--opposite to the echelets--the glacier, in passing down an incline, is rent by deep fissures, between each two of which a ridge of ice intervenes. at first the edges of these ridges are sharp and angular, but they are soon sculptured off by the action of the sun. the bearing of the mer de glace being approximately north and south, the sun at mid-day shines down the glacier, or rather very obliquely across it; and the consequence is, that the fronts of the ridges, which look downward, remain in shadow all the day, while the backs of the ridges, which look up the glacier, meet the direct stroke of the solar rays. the ridges thus acted upon have their hindmost angles wasted off and converted into slopes which represent the _back_ of a wave, while the opposite sides of the ridges, which are protected from the sun, preserve their steepness, and represent the _front_ of the wave. fig. will render my meaning at once plain. [sidenote: frozen waves. .] [illustration: fig. . wave-like forms on the mer de glace.] the dotted lines are intended to represent three of the ridges into which the glacier is divided, with their interposed fissures; the dots representing the boundaries of the ridges when the glacier is first broken. the parallel shading lines represent the direction of the sun's rays, which, falling obliquely upon the ridges, waste away the right-hand corners, and finally produce wave-like forms. we spent a day or two in making the general acquaintance of the glacier. on the th we ascended till we came to the rim of the talèfre basin, from which we had a good view of the glacier system of the region. the laminated structure of the ice was a point which particularly interested me; and as i saw the exposed sections of the _névé_, counted the lines of stratification, and compared these with the lines upon the ends of the secondary glaciers, i felt the absolute necessity either of connecting the veined _structure_ with the _strata_ by a continuous chain of observations, or of proving by ocular evidence that they were totally distinct from each other. i was well acquainted with the literature of the subject, but nothing that i had read was sufficient to prove what i required. strictly speaking, nothing that had been written upon the subject rose above the domain of _opinion_, while i felt that without absolute _demonstration_ the question would never be set at rest. [illustration: fig. . glacier table.] [sidenote: glacier tables. .] on this day we saw some fine glacier tables; flat masses of rock, raised high upon columns of ice: fig. is a sketch of one of the finest of them. some of them fell from their pedestals while we were near them, and the clean ice-surfaces which they left behind sparkled with minute stars as the small bubbles of air ruptured the film of water by which they were overspread. i also noticed that "petit bruit de crépitation," to which m. agassiz alludes, and which he refers to the rupture of the ice by the expansion of the air-bubbles contained within it. when i first read agassiz's account of it, i thought it might be produced by the rupture of the minute air-bubbles which incessantly escape from the glacier. this, doubtless, produces an effect, but there is something in the character of the sound to be referred, i think, to a less obvious cause, which i shall notice further on. [sidenote: first sight of the dirt-bands. .] at six p.m. this day i reached the montanvert; and the same evening, wrapping my plaid around me, i wandered up towards charmoz, and from its heights observed, as they had been observed fifteen years previously by professor forbes, the _dirt-bands_ of the mer de glace. they were different from any i had previously seen, and i felt a strong desire to trace them to their origin. content, however, with the performance of the day, and feeling healthily tired by it, i lay down upon the bilberry bushes and fell asleep. it was dark when i awoke, and i experienced some difficulty and risk in getting down from the petty eminence referred to. the illumination of the glacier, as remarked by professor forbes, has great influence upon the appearance of the bands; they are best seen in a subdued light, and i think for the following reasons:-- the dirt-bands are seen simply because they send less light to the eye than the cleaner portions of the glacier which lie between them; two surfaces, differently illuminated, are presented to the eye, and it is found that this difference is more observable when the light is that of evening than when it is that of noon. it is only within certain limits that the eye is able to perceive differences of intensity in different lights; beyond a certain intensity, if i may use the expression, light ceases to be light, and becomes mere pain. the naked eye can detect no difference in brightness between the electric light and the lime light, although, when we come to strict measurement, the former may possess many times the intensity of the latter. it follows from this that we might reduce the ordinary electric light to a fraction of its intensity, without any perceptible change of brightness to the naked eye which looks at it. but if we reduce the lime light in the same proportion the effect would be very different. this light lies much nearer to the limit at which the eye can appreciate differences of brightness, and its reduction might bring it quite within this limit, and make it sensibly dimmer than before. hence we see that when two sources of intense light are presented to the eye, by reducing both the lights in the same proportion, the _difference_ between them may become more perceptible. [sidenote: bands seen best by twilight. .] now the dirt-bands and the spaces between them resemble, in some measure, the two lights above mentioned. by the full glare of noon both are so strongly illuminated that the difference which the eye perceives is very small; as the evening advances the light of both is lowered in the same proportion, but the differential effect upon the eye is thereby augmented, and the bands are consequently more clearly seen. ( .) on friday, the th of july, we commenced our measurements. through the kindness of sir roderick murchison, i found myself in the possession of an excellent five-inch theodolite, an instrument with the use of which both my friend hirst and myself were perfectly familiar. we worked in concert for a few days to familiarize our assistant with the mode of proceeding, but afterwards it was my custom to simply determine the position where a measurement was to be made, and to leave the execution of it entirely to mr. hirst and our guide. on the th of july i made a long excursion up the glacier, examining the moraines, the crevasses, the structure, the moulins, and the disintegration of the surface. i was accompanied by a boy named edouard balmat,[a] and found him so good an iceman that i was induced to take him with me on the following day also. [sidenote: the cleft station. .] looking upwards from the montanvert to the left of the aiguille de charmoz, a singular gap is observed in the rocky mountain wall, in the centre of which stands a detached column of granite. both cleft and pillar are shown in the frontispiece, to the right. the eminence to the left of this gap is signalised by professor forbes as one of the best stations from which to view the mer de glace, and this point, which i shall refer to hereafter as the _cleft station_, it was now my desire to attain. from the montanvert side a steep gully leads to the cleft; up this couloir we proposed to try the ascent. at a considerable height above the mer de glace, and closely hugging the base of the aiguille de charmoz, is the small glacier de tendue, shown in the frontispiece, and from which a steep slope stretches down to the mer de glace. this tendue is the most _talkative_ glacier i have ever known; the clatter of the small stones which fall from it is incessant. huge masses of granite also frequently fall upon the glacier from the cliffs above it, and, being slowly borne downwards by the moving ice, are at length seen toppling above the terminal face of the glacier. the ice which supports them being gradually melted, they are at length undermined, and sent bounding down the slope with peal and rattle, according as the masses among which they move are large or small. the space beneath the glacier is cumbered with blocks thus sent down; some of them of enormous size. [sidenote: rough ascent. .] the danger arising from this intermittent cannonade, though in reality small, has caused the guides to swerve from the path which formerly led across the slope to the promontory of trélaporte. i say "small," because, even should a rock choose the precise moment at which a traveller is passing to leap down, the boulders at hand are so large and so capable of bearing a shock that the least presence of mind would be sufficient to place him in safety. but presence of mind is not to be calculated on under such circumstances, and hence the guides were right to abandon the path. reaching the mouth of our gully after a rough ascent, we took to the snow, instead of climbing the adjacent rocks. it was moist and soft, in fact in a condition altogether favourable for the "regelation" of its granules. as the foot pressed upon it the particles became cemented together. a portion of the pressure was transmitted laterally, which produced attachments beyond the boundary of the foot; thus as the latter sank, it pressed upon a surface which became continually wider and more rigid, and at length sufficiently strong to bear the entire weight of the body; the pressed snow formed in fact a virtual _camel's foot_, which soon placed a limit to the sinking. it is this same principle of regelation which enables men to cross snow bridges in safety. by gentle cautious pressure the loose granules of the substance are cemented into a continuous mass, all sudden shocks which might cause the frozen surfaces to snap asunder being avoided. in this way an arch of snow fifteen or twenty inches in thickness may be rendered so firm that a man will cross it, although it may span a chasm one hundred feet in depth. as we ascended, the incline became very steep, and once or twice we diverged from the snow to the adjacent rocks; these were disintegrated, and the slightest disturbance was sufficient to bring them down; some fell, and from one of them i found it a little difficult to escape; for it grazed my leg, inflicting a slight wound as it passed. just before reaching the cleft at which we aimed, the snow for a short distance was exceedingly steep, but we surmounted it; and i sat for a time beside the granite pillar, pleased to find that i could permit my legs to dangle over a precipice without prejudice to my head. [sidenote: chamois on the mountains. .] while we remained here a chamois made its appearance upon the rocks above us. deeming itself too near, it climbed higher, and then turned round to watch us. it was soon joined by a second, and the two formed a very pretty picture: their attitudes frequently changed, but they were always graceful; with head erect and horns curved back, a light limb thrown forward upon a ledge of rock, looking towards us with wild and earnest gaze, each seemed a type of freedom and agility. turning now to the left, we attacked the granite tower, from which we purposed to scan the glacier, and were soon upon its top. my companion was greatly pleased--he was "très-content" to have reached the place--he felt assured that many old guides would have retreated from that ugly gully, with its shifting shingle and débris, and his elation reached its climax in the declaration that, if i resolved to ascend mont blanc without a guide, he was willing to accompany me. [sidenote: scene from the station. .] from the position which we had attained, the prospect was exceedingly fine, both of the glaciers and of the mountains. beside us was the aiguille de charmoz, piercing with its spikes of granite the clear air. to my mind it is one of the finest of the aiguilles, noble in mass, with its summits singularly cleft and splintered. in some atmospheric colourings it has the exact appearance of a mountain of cast copper, and the manner in which some of its highest pinnacles are bent, suggesting the idea of ductility, gives strength to the illusion that the mass is metallic. at the opposite side of the glacier was the aiguille verte, with a cloud poised upon its point: it has long been the ambition of climbers to scale this peak, and on this day it was attempted by a young french count with a long retinue of guides. he had not fair play, for before we quitted our position we heard the rumble of thunder upon the mountain, which indicated the presence of a foe more terrible than the avalanches themselves. higher to the right, and also at the opposite side of the glacier, rose the aiguille du moine; and beyond was the basin of the talèfre, the ice cascade issuing from which appeared, from our position, like the foam of a waterfall. then came the aiguille de léchaud, the petite jorasse, the grande jorasse, and the mont tacul; all of which form a cradle for the glacier de léchaud. mont mallet, the périades, and the aiguille noire, came next, and then the singular obelisk of the aiguille du géant, from which a serrated edge of cliff descends to the summit of the "col." [sidenote: sÉracs of the col du gÉant. .] over the slopes of the col du géant was spread a coverlet of shining snow, at some places apparently as smooth as polished marble, at others broken so as to form precipices, on the pale blue faces of which the horizontal lines of bedding were beautifully drawn. as the eye approaches the line which stretches from the rognon to the aiguille noire, the repose of the _névé_ becomes more and more disturbed. vast chasms are formed, which however are still merely indicative of the trouble in advance. if the glacier were lifted off we should probably see that the line just referred to would lie along the summit of a steep gorge; over this summit the glacier is pushed, and has its back periodically broken, thus forming vast transverse ridges which follow each other in succession down the slope. at the summit these ridges are often cleft by fissures transverse to them, thus forming detached towers of ice of the most picturesque and imposing character.[b] these towers often fall; and while some are caught upon the platforms of the cascade, others struggle with the slow energy of a behemoth through the débris which opposes them, reach the edges of the precipices which rise in succession along the fall, leap over, and, amid ice-smoke and thunder-peals, fight their way downwards. [sidenote: glacier motion. .] a great number of secondary glaciers were in sight hanging on the steep slopes of the mountains, and from them streams sped downwards, falling over the rocks, and filling the valley with a low rich music. in front of me, for example, was the glacier du moine, and i could not help feeling as i looked at it, that the arguments drawn from the deportment of such glaciers against the "sliding theory," and which are still repeated in works upon the alps, militate just as strongly against the "viscous theory." "how," demands the antagonist of the sliding theory, "can a secondary glacier exist upon so steep a slope? why does it not slide down as an avalanche?" "but how," the person addressed may retort, "can a mass which you assume to be viscous exist under similar conditions? if it be viscous, what prevents it from rolling down?" the sliding theory assumes the lubrication of the bed of the glacier, but on this cold height the quantity melted is too small to lubricate the bed, and hence the slow motion of these glaciers. thus a sliding-theory man might reason, and, if the external deportment of secondary glaciers were to decide the question, de saussure might perhaps have the best of the argument. and with regard to the current idea, originated by m. de charpentier, and adopted by professor forbes, that if a glacier slides it must slide as an avalanche, it may be simply retorted that, in part, _it does so_; but if it be asserted that an _accelerated motion_ is the necessary motion of an avalanche, the statement needs qualification. an avalanche on passing through a rough couloir soon attains a uniform velocity--its motion being accelerated only up to the point when the sum of the resistances acting upon it is equal to the force drawing it downwards. these resistances are furnished by the numberless asperities which the mass encounters, and which incessantly check its descent, and render an accumulation of motion impossible. the motion of a man walking down stairs may be on the whole uniform, but it is really made up of an aggregate of small motions, each of which is accelerated; and it is easy to conceive how a glacier moving over an uneven bed, when released from one opposing obstacle will be checked by another, and its motion thus rendered sensibly uniform. [sidenote: moraines. .] [sidenote: tributaries of the mer de glace. .] [illustration: fig. . tributaries of the mer de glace.] from the aiguille du géant and les périades a glacier descended, which was separated by the promontory of la noire from the glacier proceeding from the col du géant. a small moraine was formed between them, which is marked _a_ upon the diagram, fig. . the great mass of the glacier descending from the col du géant came next, and this was bounded on the side nearest to trélaporte by a small moraine _b_, the origin of which i could not see, its upper portion being shut out by a mountain promontory. between the moraine _b_ and the actual side of the valley was another little glacier, derived from some of the lateral tributaries. it was, however, between the moraines _a_ and _b_ that the great mass of the glacier du géant really lay. at the promontory of the tacul the lateral moraines of the glacier des périades and of the glacier de léchaud united to form the medial moraine _c_ of the mer de glace. carrying the eye across the léchaud, we had the moraine _d_ formed by the union of the lateral moraines of the léchaud and talèfre; further to the left was the moraine _e_, which came from the jardin, and beyond it was the second lateral moraine of the talèfre. the mer de glace is formed by the confluence of the whole of the glaciers here named; being forced at trélaporte through a passage, the width of which appears considerably less than that of the single tributary, the glacier du géant. in the ice near trélaporte the blue veins of the glacier are beautifully shown; but they vary in distinctness according to the manner in which they are looked at. when regarded obliquely their colour is not so pronounced as when the vision plunges deeply into them. the weathered ice of the surface near trélaporte could be cloven with great facility; i could with ease obtain plates of it a quarter of an inch thick, and possessing two square feet of surface. on the th of july i followed the veins several times from side to side across the géant portion of the mer de glace; starting from one side, and walking along the veins, my route was directed obliquely downwards towards the axis of the tributary. at the axis i was forced to turn, in order to keep along the veins, and now ascended along a line which formed nearly the same angle with the axis at the other side. thus the veins led me as it were along the two sides of a triangle, the vertex of which was near the centre of the glacier. the vertex was, however, in reality rounded off, and the figure rather resembled a hyperbola, which tended to coincidence with its asymptotes. this observation corroborates those of professor forbes with regard to the position of the veins, and, like him, i found that at the centre the veining, whose normal direction would be transverse to the glacier, was contorted and confused. [sidenote: wasting of ice. .] near the side of the glacier du géant, above the promontory of trélaporte, the ice is rent in a remarkable manner. looking upwards from the lower portions of the glacier, a series of vertical walls, rising apparently one above the other, face the observer. i clambered up among these singular terraces, and now recognise, both from my sketch and memory, that their peculiar forms are due to the same action as that which has given their shape to the "billows" of the mer de glace. a series of profound crevasses is first formed. the glacier du géant deviates ° from the meridian line, and hence the sun shines nearly down it during the middle portion of each day. the backs of the ridges between the crevasses are thus rounded off, one boundary of each fissure is destroyed, or at least becomes a mere steep declivity, while the other boundary being shaded from the sun preserves its verticality; and thus a very curious series of precipices is formed. through all this dislocation, the little moraine on which i have placed the letter _b_ in the sketch maintains its right to existence, and under it the laminated structure of this portion of the glacier appears to reach its most perfect development. the moraine was generally a mere dirt track, but one or two immense blocks of granite were perched upon it. i examined the ice underneath one of these, being desirous of seeing whether the pressure resulting from its enormous weight would produce a veining, but the result was not satisfactory. veins were certainly to be seen in directions different from the normal ones, but whether they were due to the bending of the latter, or were directly owing to the pressure of the block, i could not say. the sides of a stream which had cut a deep gorge in the clean ice of the glacier du géant afforded a fine opportunity of observing the structure. it was very remarkable--highly significant indeed in a theoretic point of view. two long and remarkably deep blue veins traversed the bottom of the stream, and bending upwards at a place where the rivulet curved, drew themselves like a pair of parallel lines upon the clean white ice. but the general structure was of a totally different character; it did not consist of long bars, but approximated to the lenticular form, and was, moreover, of a washy paleness, which scarcely exceeded in depth of colouring the whitish ice around. [sidenote: grooves on the surface. .] to the investigator of the structure nothing can be finer than the appearance of the glacier from one of the ice terraces cut in the glacier du géant by its passage round trélaporte. as far as the vision extended the dirt upon the surface of the ice was arranged in striæ. these striæ were not always straight lines, nor were they unbroken curves. within slight limits the various parts into which a glacier is cut up by its crevasses enjoy a kind of independent motion. the grooves, for example, on two ridges which have been separated by a small fissure, may one day have their striæ perfect continuations of each other, but in a short time this identity of direction may be destroyed by a difference of motion between the ridges. thus it is that the grooves upon the surface above trélaporte are bent hither and thither, a crack or seam always marking the point where their continuity is ruptured. this bending occurs, however, within limits sufficiently small to enable the striæ to preserve the same general direction. [sidenote: seams of white ice. .] my attention had often been attracted this day by projecting masses of what at first appeared to be pure white snow, rising in seams above the general surface of the glacier. on examination, however, i found them to be compact ice, filled with innumerable air-cells, and so resistant as to maintain itself in some places at a height of four feet above the general level. when amongst the ridges they appeared discontinuous and confused, being scattered apparently at random over the glacier; but when viewed from a sufficient distance, the detached parts showed themselves to belong to a system of white seams which swept quite across the glacier du géant, in a direction concentric with the structure. unable to account for these singular seams, i climbed up among the tributary glaciers on the rognon side of the glacier du géant, and remained there until the sun sank behind the neighbouring peaks, and the fading light warned me that it was time to return. footnotes: [a] "le petit balmat" my host always called him. [b] to such towers the name _séracs_ is applied. in the chalets of savoy, after the richer curd has been precipitated by rennet, a stronger acid is used to throw down what remains; an inferior kind of cheese called _sérac_ is thus formed, the shape and colour of which have suggested the application of the term to the cubical masses of ice. ( .) early on the following day i was again upon the ice. i first confined myself to the right side of the glacier du géant, and found that the veins of white ice which i had noticed on the previous day were exclusively confined to this glacier, or to the space between the moraines _a_ and _b_ (fig. ), bending up so that the moraine _a_ between the glacier du géant and the glacier des périades was tangent to them. at a good distance up the glacier i encountered a considerable stream rushing across it almost from side to side. i followed the rivulet, examining the sections which it exposed. at a certain point three other streams united, and formed at their place of confluence a small green lake. from this a rivulet rushed, which was joined by the stream whose track i had pursued, and at this place of junction a second green lake was formed, from which flowed a stream equal in volume to the sum of all the tributaries. it entered a crevasse, and took the bottom of the fissure for its bed. standing at the entrance of the chasm, a low muffled thunder resounding through the valley attracted my attention. i followed the crevasse, which deepened and narrowed, and, by the blue light of the ice, could see the stream gambolling along its bottom, and flashing as it jumped over the ledges which it encountered in its way. the fissure at length came to an end: placing a foot on each side of it, and withholding the stronger light from my eyes, i looked down between its shining walls, and saw the stream plunge into a shaft which carried it to the bottom of the glacier. slowly, and in zigzag fashion, as the crevasses demanded, i continued to ascend, sometimes climbing vast humps of ice from which good views of the surrounding glacier were obtained; sometimes hidden in the hollows between the humps, in which also green glacier tarns were often formed, very lonely and very beautiful. [sidenote: a lake set free. .] while standing beside one of these, and watching the moving clouds which it faithfully mirrored, i heard the sound of what appeared to be a descending avalanche, but the time of its continuance surprised me. looking through my opera-glass in the direction of the sound, i saw issuing from the end of a secondary glacier on the tacul side a torrent of what appeared to me to be stones and mud. i could see the stones and finer débris jumping down the declivities, and shaping themselves into singular cascades. the noise continued for a quarter of an hour, after which the torrent rapidly diminished, until, at length, the ordinary little stream due to the melting of the glacier alone remained. a subglacial lake had burst its boundary, and carried along with it in its rush downwards the débris which it met with in its course. [sidenote: impressive scene. .] in some places i found the crevasses difficult, the ice being split in a very singular manner. vast plates of it not more than a foot in thickness were sometimes detached from the sides of the crevasses, and stood alone. i was now approaching the base of the _séracs_, and the glacier around me still retained a portion of the turbulence of the cascade. i halted at times amid the ruin and confusion, and examined with my glass the cascade itself. it was a wild and wonderful scene, suggesting throes of spasmodic energy, though, in reality, all its dislocation had been _slowly_ and _gradually_ produced. true, the stratified blocks which here and there cumbered the terraces suggested _débacles_, but these were local and partial, and did not affect the general question. there is scarcely a case of geological disturbance which could not be matched with its analogue upon the glaciers,--contortions, faults, fissures, joints, and dislocations,--but in the case of the ice we can prove the effects to be due to slowly-acting causes; how reasonable is it then to ascribe to the operation of similar causes, which have had an incomparably longer time to work, many geological effects which at first sight might suggest sudden convulsion! wandering slowly upwards, successive points of attraction drawing me almost unconsciously on, i found myself as the day was declining deep in the entanglements of the ice. a shower commenced, and a splendid rainbow threw an oblique arch across the glacier. i was quite alone; the scene was exceedingly impressive, and the possibility of difficulties on which i had not calculated intervening between me and the lower glacier, gave a tinge of anxiety to my position. i turned towards home; crossed some bosses of ice and rounded others; i followed the tracks of streams which were very irregular on this portion of the glacier, bending hither and thither, rushing through deep-cut channels, falling in cascades and expanding here and there to deep green lakes; they often plunged into the depths of the ice, flowed under it with hollow gurgle, and reappeared at some distant point. i threaded my way cautiously amid systems of crevasses, scattering with my axe, to secure a footing, the rotten ice of the sharper crests, which fell with a ringing sound into the chasms at either side. strange subglacial noises were sometimes heard, as if caverns existed underneath, into which blocks of ice fell at intervals, transmitting the shock of their fall with a dull boom to the surface of the glacier. by the steady surmounting of difficulties one after another, i at length placed them all behind me, and afterwards hastened swiftly along the glacier to my mountain home. [sidenote: chamouni rules. .] on the th incessant rain confined us to indoor work; on the st we determined the velocity with which the glacier is forced through the entrance of the trunk valley at trélaporte, and also the motion of the grand moulin. we also determined both the velocity and the width of the glacier du géant. the st of august was spent by me at the cascade of the talèfre, examining the structure, crumpling, and scaling off of the ice. finding that the rules at chamouni put an unpleasant limit to my demands on my guide simond, i visited the guide chef on the nd of august, and explained to him the object of my expedition, pointing out the inconvenience which a rigid application of the rules made for tourists would impose upon me. he had then the good sense to acknowledge the reasonableness of my remarks, and to grant me the liberty i requested. the rd of august was employed in determining the velocity and width of the glacier de léchaud, and in observations on the lamination of the glacier. [sidenote: the jardin. .] the jardin. ( .) [sidenote: a reservoir of ice. .] on the th of august, with a view of commencing a series of observations on the inclinations of the mer de glace and its tributaries, we had our theodolite transported to the _jardin_, which, as is well known, lies like an island in the middle of the glacier du talèfre. we reached the place by the usual route, and found some tourists reposing on the soft green sward which covers the lower portion, and to which, and the flowers which spangle it, the place owes its name. towards the summit of the jardin, a rock jutted forward, apparently the very apex of the place, or at least hiding by its prominence everything that might exist behind it; leaving our guide with the instrument, we aimed at this, and soon left the grass and flowers behind us. stepping amid broken fragments of rock, along slopes of granite, with fat felspar crystals which gave the boots a hold, and crossing at intervals patches of snow, which continued still to challenge the summer heat, i at length found myself upon the peak referred to; and, although it was not the highest, the unimpeded view which it commanded induced me to get astride it. the jardin was completely encircled by the ice of the glacier, and this was held in a mountain basin, which was bounded all round by a grand and cliffy rim. the outline of the dark brown crags--a deeply serrated and irregular line--was forcibly drawn against the blue heaven, and still more strongly against some white and fleecy clouds which lay here and there behind it; while detached spears and pillars of rock, sculptured by frost and lightning, stood like a kind of defaced statuary along the ridge. all round the basin the snow reared itself like a buttress against the precipitous cliffs, being streaked and fluted by the descent of blocks from the summits. this mighty tub is the collector of one of the tributaries of the mer de glace. according to professor forbes, its greatest diameter is yards, and out of it the half-formed ice is squeezed through a precipitous gorge about yards wide, forming there the ice cascade of the talèfre. bounded on one side by the grande jorasse, and on the other by mont mallet, the principal tributary of the glacier de léchaud lay white and pure upon the mountain slope. round further to the right we had the vast plateau whence the glacier du géant is fed, fenced on the left by the aiguille du géant and the aiguille noire, and on the right by the monts maudits and mont blanc. the scene was a truly majestic one. the mighty aiguilles piercing the sea of air, the soft white clouds floating here and there behind them; the shining snow with its striped faults and precipices; the deep blue firmament overhead; the peals of avalanches and the sound of water;--all conspired to render the scene glorious, and our enjoyment of it deep. a voice from above hailed me as i moved from my perch; it was my friend, who had found a lodgment upon the edge of a rock which was quite detached from the jardin, being the first to lift its head in opposition to the descending _névé_. making a détour round a steep concave slope of the glacier, i reached the flat summit of the rock. the end of a ridge of ice abutted against it, which was split and bent by the pressure so as to form a kind of arch. i cut steps in the ice, and ascended until i got beneath the azure roof. innumerable little rills of pellucid water descended from it. some came straight down, clear for a time, and apparently motionless, rapidly tapering at first, and more slowly afterwards, until, at the point of maximum contraction, they resolved themselves into strings of liquid pearls which pattered against the ice floor underneath. others again, owing to the directions of the little streamlets of which they were constituted, formed spiral figures of great beauty: one liquid vein wound itself round another, forming a spiral protuberance, and owing to the centrifugal motion thus imparted, the vein, at its place of rupture, scattered itself laterally in little liquid spherules.[a] even at this great elevation the structure of the ice was fairly developed, not with the sharpness to be observed lower down, but still perfectly decided. blue bands crossed the ridge of ice to which i have referred, at right angles to the direction of the pressure. [sidenote: moraines of the talÈfre. .] i descended, and found my friend beneath an overhanging rock. immediately afterwards a peal like that of thunder shook the air, and right in front of us an avalanche darted down the brown cliffs, then along a steep slope of snow which reared itself against the mountain wall, carrying with it the débris of the rocks over which it passed, until it finally lay a mass of sullied rubbish at the base of the incline: the whole surface of the talèfre is thus soiled. another peal was heard immediately afterwards, but the avalanche which caused it was hidden from us by a rocky promontory. from this same promontory the greater portion of the medial moraine which descends the cascade of the talèfre is derived, forming at first a gracefully winding curve, and afterwards stretching straight to the summit of the fall. in the chasms of the cascade its boulders are engulfed, but the lost moraine is restored below the fall, as if disgorged by the ice which had swallowed it. from the extremity of the jardin itself a mere driblet of a moraine proceeds, running parallel to the former, and like it disappearing at the summit of the cascade. [sidenote: among the crevasses. .] we afterwards descended towards the cascade, but long before this is attained the most experienced iceman would find himself in difficulty. transverse crevasses are formed, which follow each other so speedily as to leave between them mere narrow ridges of ice, along which we moved cautiously, jumping the adjacent fissures, or getting round them, as the case demanded. as we approached the jaws of the gorge, the ridges dwindled to mere plates and wedges, which being bent and broken by the lateral pressure, added to the confusion, and warned us not to advance. the position was in some measure an exciting one. our guide had never been here before; we were far from the beaten track, and the riven glacier wore an aspect of treacherous hostility. as at the base of the _séracs_, a subterranean noise sometimes announced the falling of ice-blocks into hollows underneath, the existence of which the resonant concussion of the fallen mass alone revealed. there was thus a dash of awe mingled with our thoughts; a stirring up of the feelings which troubled the coolness of the intellect. we finally swerved to the right, and by a process the reverse of straightforward reached the couvercle. nightfall found us at the threshold of our hotel. footnotes: [a] the recent hydraulic researches of professor magnus furnish some beautiful illustrations of this action. ( .) [sidenote: round hailstones. .] [sidenote: a dangerous leap. .] on the th we were engaged for some time in an important measurement at the tacul. we afterwards ascended towards the _séracs_, and determined the inclinations of the glacier du géant downwards. dense cloud-masses gathered round the points of the aiguilles, and the thunder bellowed at intervals from the summit of mont blanc. as we descended the mer de glace the valley in front of us was filled with a cloud of pitchy darkness. suddenly from side to side this field of gloom was riven by a bar of lightning of intolerable splendour; it was followed by a peal of commensurate grandeur, the echoes of which leaped from cliff to cliff long after the first sound had died away. the discharge seemed to unlock the clouds above us, for they showered their liquid spheres down upon us with a momentum like that of swan-shot: all the way home we were battered by this pellet-like rain. on the th the rain continued with scarcely any pause; on the th i was engaged all day upon the glacier du géant; on the morning of the th heavy hail had fallen there, the stones being perfect spheres; the rounded rain-drops had solidified during their descent without sensible change of form. when this hail was squeezed together, it exactly resembled a mass of oolitic limestone which i had picked up in near blankenburg in the hartz. mr. hirst and myself were engaged together this day taking the inclinations: he struck his theodolite at the angle, and went home accompanied by simond, and the evening being extremely serene, i pursued my way down the centre of the glacier towards the echelets. the crevasses as i advanced became more deep and frequent, the ridges of ice between them becoming gradually narrower. they were very fine, their downward faces being clear cut, perfectly vertical, and in many cases beautifully veined. vast plates of ice moreover often stood out midway between the walls of the chasms, as if cloven from the glacier and afterwards set on edge. the place was certainly one calculated to test the skill and nerve of an iceman; and as the day drooped, and the shadow in the valley deepened, a feeling approaching to awe took possession of me. my route was an exaggerated zigzag; right and left amid the chasms wherever a hope of progress opened; and here i made the experience which i have often repeated since, and laid to heart as regards intellectual work also, that enormous difficulties may be overcome when they are attacked in earnest. sometimes i found myself so hedged in by fissures that escape seemed absolutely impossible; but close and resolute examination so often revealed a means of exit, that i felt in all its force the brave verity of the remark of mirabeau, that the word "impossible" is a mere blockhead of a word. it finally became necessary to reach the shore, but i found this a work of extreme difficulty. at length, however, it became pretty evident that, if i could cross a certain crevasse, my retreat would be secured. the width of the fissure seemed to be fairly within jumping distance, and if i could have calculated on a safe purchase for my foot i should have thought little of the spring; but the ice on the edge from which i was to leap was loose and insecure, and hence a kind of nervous thrill shot through me as i made the bound. the opposite side was fairly reached, but an involuntary tremor shook me all over after i felt myself secure. i reached the edge of the glacier without further serious difficulty, and soon after found myself steeped in the creature comforts of our hotel. on monday, august th, i had the great pleasure of being joined by my friend huxley; and though the weather was very unpromising, we started together up the glacier, he being desirous to learn something of its general features, and, if possible, to reach the jardin. we reached the couvercle, and squeezed ourselves through the egralets; but here the rain whizzed past us, and dense fog settled upon the cascade of the talèfre, obscuring all its parts. we met mr. galton, the african traveller, returning from an attempt upon the jardin; and learning that his guides had lost their way in the fog, we deemed it prudent to return. the foregoing brief notes will have informed the reader that at the period of mr. huxley's arrival i was not without due training upon the ice; i may also remark, that on the th of july i reached the summit of the col du géant, accompanied by the boy balmat, and returned to the montanvert on the same day. my health was perfect, and incessant practice had taught me the art of dealing with the difficulties of the ice. from the time of my arrival at the montanvert the thought of ascending mont blanc, and thus expanding my knowledge of the glaciers, had often occurred to me, and i think i was justified in feeling that the discipline which both my friend hirst and myself had undergone ought to enable us to accomplish the journey in a much more modest way than ordinary. i thought a single guide sufficient for this purpose, and i was strengthened in this opinion by the fact that simond, who was a man of the strictest prudence, and who at first declared four guides to be necessary, had lowered his demand first to two, and was now evidently willing to try the ascent with us alone. [sidenote: preparations for a climb. .] on mentioning the thing to mr. huxley he at once resolved to accompany us. on the th of august the weather was exceedingly fine, though the snow which had fallen during the previous days lay thick upon the glacier. at noon we were all together at the tacul, and the subject of attempting mont blanc was mooted and discussed. my opinion was that it would be better to wait until the fresh snow which loaded the mountain had disappeared; but the weather was so exquisite that my friends thought it best to take advantage of it. we accordingly entered into an agreement with our guide, and immediately descended to make preparations for commencing the expedition on the following morning. first ascent of mont blanc, . ( .) [sidenote: scene from the charmoz. .] on wednesday, the th of august, we rose early, after a very brief rest on my part. simond had proposed to go down to chamouni, and commence the ascent in the usual way, but we preferred crossing the mountains from the montanvert, straight to the glacier des bossons. at eight o'clock we started, accompanied by two porters who were to carry our provisions to the grands mulets. slowly and silently we climbed the hill-side towards charmoz. we soon passed the limits of grass and rhododendrons, and reached the slabs of gneiss which overspread the summit of the ridge, lying one upon the other like coin upon the table of a money-changer. from the highest-point i turned to have a last look at the mer de glace; and through a pair of very dark spectacles i could see with perfect distinctness the looped dirt-bands of the glacier, which to the naked eye are scarcely discernible except by twilight. flanking our track to the left rose a series of mighty aiguilles--the aiguille de charmoz, with its bent and rifted pinnacles; the aiguille du grépon, the aiguille de blaitière, the aiguille du midi, all piercing the heavens with their sharp pyramidal summits. far in front of us rose the grand snow-cone of the dôme du goûter, while, through a forest of dark pines which gathered like a cloud at the foot of the mountain, gleamed the white minarets of the glacier des bossons. below us lay the valley of chamouni, beyond which were the brévent and the chain of the aiguilles rouges; behind us was the granite obelisk of the aiguille du dru, while close at hand science found a corporeal form in a pyramid of stones used as a trigonometrical station by professor forbes. sound is known to travel better up hill than down, because the pulses transmitted from a denser medium to a rarer, suffer less loss of intensity than when the transmission is in the opposite direction; and now the mellow voice of the arve came swinging upwards from the heavier air of the valley to the lighter air of the hills in rich deep cadences. [sidenote: passage to the pierre À l'echelle. .] the way for a time was excessively rough, our route being overspread with the fragments of peaks which had once reared themselves to our left, but which frost and lightning had shaken to pieces, and poured in granite avalanches down the mountain. we were sometimes among huge angular boulders, and sometimes amid lighter shingle, which gave way at every step, thus forcing us to shift our footing incessantly. escaping from these, we crossed the succession of secondary glaciers which lie at the feet of the aiguilles, and having secured firewood found ourselves after some hours of hard work at the pierre à l'echelle. here we were furnished with leggings of coarse woollen cloth to keep out the snow; they were tied under the knees and quite tightly again over the insteps, so that the legs were effectually protected. we had some refreshment, possessed ourselves of the ladder, and entered upon the glacier. [sidenote: ladder left behind. .] [sidenote: difficult crevasses. .] the ice was excessively fissured: we crossed crevasses and crept round slippery ridges, cutting steps in the ice wherever climbing was necessary. this rendered our progress very slow. once, with the intention of lending a helping hand, i stepped forward upon a block of granite which happened to be poised like a rocking stone upon the ice, though i did not know it; it treacherously turned under me; i fell, but my hands were in instant requisition, and i escaped with a bruise, from which, however, the blood oozed angrily. we found the ladder necessary in crossing some of the chasms, the iron spikes at its end being firmly driven into the ice at one side, while the other end rested on the opposite side of the fissure. the middle portion of the glacier was not difficult. mounds of ice rose beside us right and left, which were sometimes split into high towers and gaunt-looking pyramids, while the space between was unbroken. twenty minutes' walking brought us again to a fissured portion of the glacier, and here our porter left the ladder on the ice behind him. for some time i was not aware of this, but we were soon fronted by a chasm to pass which we were in consequence compelled to make a long and dangerous circuit amid crests of crumbling ice. this accomplished, we hoped that no repetition of the process would occur, but we speedily came to a second fissure, where it was necessary to step from a projecting end of ice to a mass of soft snow which overhung the opposite side. simond could reach this snow with his long-handled axe; he beat it down to give it rigidity, but it was exceedingly tender, and as he worked at it he continued to express his fears that it would not bear us. i was the lightest of the party, and therefore tested the passage, first; being partially lifted by simond on the end of his axe, i crossed the fissure, obtained some anchorage at the other side, and helped the others over. we afterwards ascended until another chasm, deeper and wider than any we had hitherto encountered, arrested us. we walked alongside of it in search of a snow bridge, which we at length found, but the keystone of the arch had unfortunately given way, leaving projecting eaves of snow at both sides, between which we could look into the gulf, till the gloom of its deeper portions cut the vision short. both sides of the crevasse were sounded, but no sure footing was obtained; the snow was beaten and carefully trodden down as near to the edge as possible, but it finally broke away from the foot and fell into the chasm. one of our porters was short-legged and a bad iceman; the other was a daring fellow, and he now threw the knapsack from his shoulders, came to the edge of the crevasse, looked into it, but drew back again. after a pause he repeated the act, testing the snow with his feet and staff. i looked at the man as he stood beside the chasm manifestly undecided as to whether he should take the step upon which his life would hang, and thought it advisable to put a stop to such perilous play. i accordingly interposed, the man withdrew from the crevasse, and he and simond descended to fetch the ladder. while they were away huxley sat down upon the ice, with an expression of fatigue stamped upon his countenance: the spirit and the muscles were evidently at war, and the resolute will mixed itself strangely with the sense of peril and feeling of exhaustion. he had been only two days with us, and, though his strength is great, he had had no opportunity of hardening himself by previous exercise upon the ice for the task which he had undertaken. the ladder now arrived, and we crossed the crevasse. i was intentionally the last of the party, huxley being immediately in front of me. the determination of the man disguised his real condition from everybody but myself, but i saw that the exhausting journey over the boulders and débris had been too much for his london limbs. converting my waterproof haversack into a cushion, i made him sit down upon it at intervals, and by thus breaking the steep ascent into short stages we reached the cabin of the grands mulets together. here i spread a rug on the boards, and placing my bag for a pillow, he lay down, and after an hour's profound sleep he rose refreshed and well; but still he thought it wise not to attempt the ascent farther. our porters left us: a bâton was stretched across the room over the stove, and our wet socks and leggings were thrown across it to dry; our boots were placed around the fire, and we set about preparing our evening meal. a pan was placed upon the fire, and filled with snow, which in due time melted and boiled; i ground some chocolate and placed it in the pan, and afterwards ladled the beverage into the vessels we possessed, which consisted of two earthen dishes and the metal cases of our brandy flasks. after supper simond went out to inspect the glacier, and was observed by huxley, as twilight fell, in a state of deep contemplation beside a crevasse. [sidenote: star twinkling. .] gradually the stars appeared, but as yet no moon. before lying down we went out to look at the firmament, and noticed, what i suppose has been observed to some extent by everybody, that the stars near the horizon twinkled busily, while those near the zenith shone with a steady light. one large star in particular excited our admiration; it flashed intensely, and changed colour incessantly, sometimes blushing like a ruby, and again gleaming like an emerald. a determinate colour would sometimes remain constant for a sensible time, but usually the flashes followed each other in very quick succession. three planks were now placed across the room near the stove, and upon these, with their rugs folded round them, huxley and hirst stretched themselves, while i nestled on the boards at the most distant end of the room. we rose at eleven o'clock, renewed the fire and warmed ourselves, after which we lay down again. i at length observed a patch of pale light upon the wooden wall of the cabin, which had entered through a hole in the end of the edifice, and rising found that it was past one o'clock. the cloudless moon was shining over the wastes of snow, and the scene outside was at once wild, grand, and beautiful. [sidenote: start from the grands mulets. .] breakfast was soon prepared, though not without difficulty; we had no candles, they had been forgotten; but i fortunately possessed a box of wax matches, of which huxley took charge, patiently igniting them in succession, and thus giving us a tolerably continuous light. we had some tea, which had been made at the montanvert, and carried to the grands mulets in a bottle. my memory of that tea is not pleasant; it had been left a whole night in contact with its leaves, and smacked strongly of tannin. the snow-water, moreover, with which we diluted it was not pure, but left a black residuum at the bottom of the dishes in which the beverage was served. the few provisions deemed necessary being placed in simond's knapsack, at twenty minutes past two o'clock we scrambled down the rocks, leaving huxley behind us. the snow was hardened by the night's frost, and we were cheered by the hope of being able to accomplish the ascent with comparatively little labour. we were environed by an atmosphere of perfect purity; the larger stars hung like gems above us, and the moon, about half full, shone with wondrous radiance in the dark firmament. one star in particular, which lay eastward from the moon, suddenly made its appearance above one of the aiguilles, and burned there with unspeakable splendour. we turned once towards the mulets, and saw huxley's form projected against the sky as he stood upon a pinnacle of rock; he gave us a last wave of the hand and descended, while we receded from him into the solitudes. the evening previous our guide had examined the glacier for some distance, his progress having been arrested by a crevasse. beside this we soon halted: it was spanned at one place by a bridge of snow, which was of too light a structure to permit of simond's testing it alone; we therefore paused while our guide uncoiled a rope and tied us all together. the moment was to me a peculiarly solemn one. our little party seemed so lonely and so small amid the silence and the vastness of the surrounding scene. we were about to try our strength under unknown conditions, and as the various possibilities of the enterprise crowded on the imagination, a sense of responsibility for a moment oppressed me. but as i looked aloft and saw the glory of the heavens, my heart lightened, and i remarked cheerily to hirst that nature seemed to smile upon our work. "yes," he replied, in a calm and earnest voice, "and, god willing, we shall accomplish it." [sidenote: a wrong turn. .] a pale light now overspread the eastern sky, which increased, as we ascended, to a daffodil tinge; this afterwards heightened to orange, deepening at one extremity into red, and fading at the other into a pure ethereal hue to which it would be difficult to assign a special name. higher up the sky was violet, and this changed by insensible degrees into the darkling blue of the zenith, which had to thank the light of moon and stars alone for its existence. we wound steadily for a time through valleys of ice, climbed white and slippery slopes, crossed a number of crevasses, and after some time found ourselves beside a chasm of great depth and width, which extended right and left as far as we could see. we turned to the left, and marched along its edge in search of a _pont_; but matters became gradually worse: other crevasses joined on to the first one, and the further we proceeded the more riven and dislocated the ice became. at length we reached a place where further advance was impossible. simond in his difficulty complained of the want of light, and wished us to wait for the advancing day; i, on the contrary, thought that we had light enough and ought to make use of it. here the thought occurred to me that simond, having been only once before to the top of the mountain, might not be quite clear about the route; the glacier, however, changes within certain limits from year to year, so that a general knowledge was all that could be expected, and we trusted to our own muscles to make good any mistake in the way of guidance. we now turned and retraced our steps along the edges of chasms where the ice was disintegrated and insecure, and succeeded at length in finding a bridge which bore us across the crevasse. this error caused us the loss of an hour, and after walking for this time we could cast a stone from the point we had attained to the place whence we had been compelled to return. [sidenote: sÉracs of the dÔme du goÛter. .] our way now lay along the face of a steep incline of snow, which was cut by the fissure we had just passed, in a direction parallel to our route. on the heights to our right, loose ice-crags seemed to totter, and we passed two tracks over which the frozen blocks had rushed some short time previously. we were glad to get out of the range of these terrible projectiles, and still more so to escape the vicinity of that ugly crevasse. to be killed in the open air would be a luxury, compared with having the life squeezed out of one in the horrible gloom of these chasms. the blush of the coming day became more and more intense; still the sun himself did not appear, being hidden from us by the peaks of the aiguille du midi, which were drawn clear and sharp against the brightening sky. right under this aiguille were heaps of snow smoothly rounded and constituting a portion of the sources whence the glacier du géant is fed; these, as the day advanced, bloomed with a rosy light. we reached the petit plateau, which we found covered with the remains of ice avalanches; above us upon the crest of the mountain rose three mighty bastions, divided from each other by deep vertical rents, with clean smooth walls, across which the lines of annual bedding were drawn like courses of masonry. from these, which incessantly renew themselves, and from the loose and broken ice-crags near them, the boulders amid which we now threaded our way had been discharged. when they fall their descent must be sublime. [sidenote: the lost guides. .] the snow had been gradually getting deeper, and the ascent more wearisome, but superadded to this at the petit plateau was the uncertainty of the footing between the blocks of ice. in many places the space was merely covered by a thin crust, which, when trod upon, instantly yielded, and we sank with a shock sometimes to the hips. our way next lay up a steep incline to the grand plateau, the depth and tenderness of the snow augmenting as we ascended. we had not yet seen the sun, but, as we attained the brow which forms the entrance to the grand plateau, he hung his disk upon a spike of rock to our left, and, surrounded by a glory of interference spectra of the most gorgeous colours, blazed down upon us. on the grand plateau we halted and had our frugal refreshment. at some distance to our left was the crevasse into which dr. hamel's three guides were precipitated by an avalanche in ; they are still entombed in the ice, and some future explorer may perhaps see them disgorged lower down, fresh and undecayed. they can hardly reach the surface until they pass the snow-line of the glacier, for above this line the quantity of snow that annually falls being in excess of the quantity melted, the tendency would be to make the ice-covering above them thicker. but it is also possible that the waste of the ice underneath may have brought the bodies to the bed of the glacier, where their very bones may have been ground to mud by an agency which the hardest rocks cannot withstand. [sidenote: the guide tired. .] [sidenote: a perilous slope. .] as the sun poured his light upon the plateau the little snow-facets sparkled brilliantly, sometimes with a pure white light, and at others with prismatic colours. contrasted with the white spaces above and around us were the dark mountains on the opposite side of the valley of chamouni, around which fantastic masses of cloud were beginning to build themselves. mont buet, with its cone of snow, looked small, and the brévent altogether mean; the limestone bastions of the fys, however, still presented a front of gloom and grandeur. we traversed the grand plateau, and at length reached the base of an extremely steep incline which stretched upwards towards the corridor. here, as if produced by a fault, consequent upon the sinking of the ice in front, rose a vertical precipice, from the coping of which vast stalactites of ice depended. previous to reaching this place i had noticed a haggard expression upon the countenance of our guide, which was now intensified by the prospect of the ascent before him. hitherto he had always been in front, which was certainly the most fatiguing position. i felt that i must now take the lead, so i spoke cheerily to the man and placed him behind me. marking a number of points upon the slope as resting places, i went swiftly from one to the other. the surface of the snow had been partially melted by the sun and then refrozen, thus forming a superficial crust, which bore the weight up to a certain point, and then suddenly gave way, permitting the leg to sink to above the knee. the shock consequent on this, and the subsequent effort necessary to extricate the leg, were extremely fatiguing. my motion was complained of as too quick, and my tracks as imperfect; i moderated the former, and, to render my footholes broad and sure, i stamped upon the frozen crust, and twisted my legs in the soft mass underneath,--a terribly exhausting process. i thus led the way to the base of the rochers rouges, up to which the fault already referred to had prolonged itself as a crevasse, which was roofed at one place by a most dangerous-looking snow-bridge. simond came to the front; i drew his attention to the state of the snow, and proposed climbing the rochers rouges; but, with a promptness unusual with him, he replied that this was impossible; the bridge was our only means of passing, and we must try it. we grasped our ropes, and dug our feet firmly into the snow to check the man's descent if the _pont_ gave way, but to our astonishment it bore him, and bore us safely after him. the slope which we had now to ascend had the snow swept from its surface, and was therefore firm ice. it was most dangerously steep, and, its termination being the fretted coping of the precipice to which i have referred, if we slid downwards we should shoot over this and be dashed to pieces upon the ice below.[a] simond, who had come to the front to cross the crevasse, was now engaged in cutting steps, which he made deep and large, so that they might serve us on our return. but the listless strokes of his axe proclaimed his exhaustion; so i took the implement out of his hands, and changed places with him. step after step was hewn, but the top of the corridor appeared ever to recede from us. hirst was behind unoccupied, and could thus turn his thoughts to the peril of our position: he _felt_ the angle on which we hung, and saw the edge of the precipice, to which less than a quarter of a minute's slide would carry us, and for the first time during the journey he grew giddy. a cigar which he lighted for the purpose tranquilized him. [sidenote: will and muscle. .] i hewed sixty steps upon this slope, and each step had cost a minute, by hirst's watch. the mur de la côte was still before us, and on this the guide-books informed us two or three hundred steps were sometimes found necessary. if sixty steps cost an hour, what would be the cost of two hundred? the question was disheartening in the extreme, for the time at which we had calculated on reaching the summit was already passed, while the chief difficulties remained unconquered. having hewn our way along the harder ice we reached snow. i again resorted to stamping to secure a footing, and while thus engaged became, for the first time, aware of the drain of force to which i was subjecting myself. the thought of being absolutely exhausted had never occurred to me, and from first to last i had taken no care to husband my strength. i always calculated that the _will_ would serve me even should the muscles fail, but i now found that mechanical laws rule man in the long run; that no effort of will, no power of spirit, can draw beyond a certain limit upon muscular force. the soul, it is true, can stir the body to action, but its function is to excite and apply force, and not to create it. while stamping forward through the frozen crust i was compelled to pause at short intervals; then would set out again apparently fresh, to find, however, in a few minutes that my strength was gone, and that i required to rest once more. in this way i gained the summit of the corridor, when hirst came to the front, and i felt some relief in stepping slowly after him, making use of the holes into which his feet had sunk. he thus led the way to the base of the mur de la côte, the thought of which had so long cast a gloom upon us; here we left our rope behind us, and while pausing i asked simond whether he did not feel a desire to go to the summit--"_bien sûr_," was his reply, "_mais!_" our guide's mind was so constituted that the "_mais_" seemed essential to its peace. i stretched my hand towards him, and said, "simond, we must do it." one thing alone i felt could defeat us: the usual time of the ascent had been more than doubled, the day was already far spent, and if the ascent would throw our subsequent descent into night it could not be contemplated. [sidenote: a doze on the calotte. .] we now faced the mur, which was by no means so bad as we had expected. driving the iron claws of our boots into the scars made by the axe, and the spikes of our bâtons into the slope above our feet, we ascended steadily until the summit was attained, and the top of the mountain rose clearly above us. we congratulated ourselves upon this; but simond, probably fearing that our joy might become too full, remarked, "_mais le sommet est encore bien loin!_" it was, alas! too true. the snow became soft again, and our weary limbs sank in it as before. our guide went on in front, audibly muttering his doubts as to our ability to reach the top, and at length he threw himself upon the snow, and exclaimed, "_il faut y renoncer!_" hirst now undertook the task of rekindling the guide's enthusiasm, after which simond rose, exclaiming, "_ah! comme ça me fait mal aux genoux_," and went forward. two rocks break through the snow between the summit of the mur and the top of the mountain; the first is called the petits mulets, and the highest the derniers rochers. at the former of these we paused to rest, and finished our scanty store of wine and provisions. we had not a bit of bread nor a drop of wine left; our brandy flasks were also nearly exhausted, and thus we had to contemplate the journey to the summit, and the subsequent descent to the grands mulets, without the slightest prospect of physical refreshment. the almost total loss of two nights' sleep, with two days' toil superadded, made me long for a few minutes' doze, so i stretched myself upon a composite couch of snow and granite, and immediately fell asleep. my friend, however, soon aroused me. "you quite frighten me," he said; "i have listened for some minutes, and have not heard you breathe once." i had, in reality, been taking deep draughts of the mountain air, but so silently as not to be heard. i now filled our empty wine-bottle with snow and placed it in the sunshine, that we might have a little water on our return. we then rose; it was half-past two o'clock; we had been upwards of twelve hours climbing, and i calculated that, whether we reached the summit or not, we could at all events work _towards_ it for another hour. to the sense of fatigue previously experienced, a new phenomenon was now added--the beating of the heart. we were incessantly pulled up by this, which sometimes became so intense as to suggest danger. i counted the number of paces which we were able to accomplish without resting, and found that at the end of every twenty, sometimes at the end of fifteen, we were compelled to pause. at each pause my heart throbbed audibly, as i leaned upon my staff, and the subsidence of this action was always the signal for further advance. my breathing was quick, but light and unimpeded. i endeavoured to ascertain whether the hip-joint, on account of the diminished atmospheric pressure, became loosened, so as to throw the weight of the leg upon the surrounding ligaments, but could not be certain about it. i also sought a little aid and encouragement from philosophy, endeavouring to remember what great things had been done by the accumulation of small quantities, and i urged upon myself that the present was a case in point, and that the summation of distances twenty paces each must finally place us at the top. still the question of time left the matter long in doubt, and until we had passed the derniers rochers we worked on with the stern indifference of men who were doing their duty, and did not look to consequences. here, however, a gleam of hope began to brighten our souls; the summit became visibly nearer, simond showed more alacrity; at length success became certain, and at half-past three p.m. my friend and i clasped hands upon the top. [sidenote: the summit attained. .] the summit of the mountain is an elongated ridge, which has been compared to the back of an ass. it was perfectly manifest that we were dominant over all other mountains; as far as the eye could range mont blanc had no competitor. the summits which had looked down upon us in the morning were now far beneath us. the dôme du goûter, which had held its threatening _séracs_ above us so long, was now at our feet. the aiguille du midi, mont blanc du tacul, and the monts maudits, the talèfre with its surrounding peaks, the grand jorasse, mont mallet, and the aiguille du géant, with our own familiar glaciers, were all below us. and as our eye ranged over the broad shoulders of the mountain, over ice hills and valleys, plateaux and far-stretching slopes of snow, the conception of its magnitude grew upon us, and impressed us more and more. [sidenote: clouds from the summit. .] the clouds were very grand--grander indeed than anything i had ever before seen. some of them seemed to hold thunder in their breasts, they were so dense and dark; others, with their faces turned sunward, shone with the dazzling whiteness of the mountain snow; while others again built themselves into forms resembling gigantic elm trees, loaded with foliage. towards the horizon the luxury of colour added itself to the magnificent alternations of light and shade. clear spaces of amber and ethereal green embraced the red and purple cumuli, and seemed to form the cradle in which they swung. closer at hand squally mists, suddenly engendered, were driven hither and thither by local winds; while the clouds at a distance lay "like angels sleeping on the wing," with scarcely visible motion. mingling with the clouds, and sometimes rising above them, were the highest mountain heads, and as our eyes wandered from peak to peak, onwards to the remote horizon, space itself seemed more vast from the manner in which the objects which it held were distributed. [sidenote: intensity of sound. .] i wished to repeat the remarkable experiment of de saussure upon sound, and for this purpose had requested simond to bring a pistol from chamouni; but in the multitude of his cares he forgot it, and in lieu of it my host at the montanvert had placed in two tin tubes, of the same size and shape, the same amount of gunpowder, securely closing the tubes afterwards, and furnishing each of them with a small lateral aperture. we now planted one of them upon the snow, and bringing a strip of amadou into communication with the touchhole, ignited its most distant end: it failed; we tried again, and were successful, the explosion tearing asunder the little case which contained the powder. the sound was certainly not so great as i should have expected from an equal quantity of powder at the sea level.[b] the snow upon the summit was indurated, but of an exceedingly fine grain, and the beautiful effect already referred to as noticed upon the stelvio was strikingly manifest. the hole made by driving the bâton into the snow was filled with a delicate blue light; and, by management, its complementary pinky yellow could also be produced. even the iron spike at the end of the bâton made a hole sufficiently deep to exhibit the blue colour, which certainly depends on the size and arrangement of the snow crystals. the firmament above us was without a cloud, and of a darkness almost equal to that which surrounded the moon at a.m. still, though the sun was shining, a breeze, whose tooth had been sharpened by its passage over the snow-fields, searched us through and through. the day was also waning, and, urged by the warnings of our ever prudent guide, we at length began the descent. [sidenote: an unexpected glissade. .] gravity was now in our favour, but gravity could not entirely spare our wearied limbs, and where we sank in the snow we found our downward progress very trying. i suffered from thirst, but after we had divided the liquefied snow at the petits mulets amongst us we had nothing to drink. i crammed the clean snow into my mouth, but the process of melting was slow and tantalizing to a parched throat, while the chill was painful to the teeth. we marched along the corridor, and crossed cautiously the perilous slope on which we had cut steps in the morning, breathing more freely after we had cleared the ice-precipice before described. along the base of this precipice we now wound, diverging from our morning's track, in order to get surer footing in the snow; it was like flour, and while descending to the grand plateau we sometimes sank in it nearly to the waist. when i endeavoured to squeeze it, so as to fill my flask, it at first refused to cling together, behaving like so much salt; the heat of the hand, however, soon rendered it a little moist, and capable of being pressed into compact masses. the sun met us here with extraordinary power; the heat relaxed my muscles, but when fairly immersed in the shadow of the dôme du goûter, the coolness restored my strength, which augmented as the evening advanced. simond insisted on the necessity of haste, to save us from the perils of darkness. "_on peut périr_" was his repeated admonition, and he was quite right. we reached the region of _ponts_, more weary, but, in compensation, more callous, than we had been in the morning, and moved over the soft snow of the bridges as if we had been walking upon eggs. the valley of chamouni was filled with brown-red clouds, which crept towards us up the mountain; the air around and above us was, however, clear, and the chastened light told us that day was departing. once as we hung upon a steep slope, where the snow was exceedingly soft, hirst omitted to make his footing sure; the soft mass gave way, and he fell, uttering a startled shout as he went down the declivity. i was attached to him, and, fixing my feet suddenly in the snow, endeavoured to check his fall, but i seemed a mere feather in opposition to the force with which he descended.[c] i fell, and went down after him; and we carried quite an avalanche of snow along with us, in which we were almost completely hidden at the bottom of the slope. all further dangers, however, were soon past, and we went at a headlong speed to the base of the grands mulets; the sound of our bâtons against the rocks calling huxley forth. a position more desolate than his had been can hardly be imagined. for seventeen hours he had been there. he had expected us at two o'clock in the afternoon; the hours came and passed, and till seven in the evening he had looked for us. "to the end of my life," he said, "i shall never forget the sound of those bâtons." it was his turn now to nurse me, which he did, repaying my previous care of him with high interest. we were all soon stretched, and, in spite of cold and hard boards, i slept at intervals; but the night, on the whole, was a weary one, and we rose next morning with muscles more tired than when we lay down. [sidenote: blind amid the crevasses. .] _friday, th august._--hirst was almost blind this morning; and our guide's eyes were also greatly inflamed. we gathered our things together, and bade the grands mulets farewell. it had frozen hard during the night, and this, on the steeper slopes, rendered the footing very insecure. simond, moreover, appeared to be a little bewildered, and i sometimes preceded him in cutting the steps, while hirst moved among the crevasses like a blind man; one of us keeping near him, so that he might feel for the actual places where our feet had rested, and place his own in the same position. it cost us three hours to cross from the grands mulets to the pierre a l'echelle, where we discarded our leggings, had a mouthful of food, and a brief rest. once upon the safe earth simond's powers seemed to be restored, and he led us swiftly downwards to the little auberge beside the cascade du tard, where we had some excellent lemonade, equally choice cognac, fresh strawberries and cream. how sweet they were, and how beautiful we thought the peasant girl who served them! our guide kept a little hotel, at which we halted, and found it clean and comfortable. we were, in fact, totally unfit to go elsewhere. my coat was torn, holes were kicked through my boots, and i was altogether ragged and shabby. a warm bath before dinner refreshed all mightily. dense clouds now lowered upon mont blanc, and we had not been an hour at chamouni when the breaking up of the weather was announced by a thunder-peal. we had accomplished our journey just in time. footnotes: [a] those acquainted with the mountain will at once recognise the grave error here committed. in fact on starting from the grands mulets we had crossed the glacier too far, and throughout were much too close to the dôme du goûter. [b] i fired the second case in a field in hampshire, and, as far as my memory enabled me to make the comparison, found its sound considerably _denser_, if i may use the expression. in i had a pistol fired at the summit of mont blanc: its sound was sensibly feebler and _shorter_ than in the valley; it resembled somewhat the discharge of a cork from a champagne bottle, though much louder, but it could not be at all compared to the sound of a common cracker. [c] i believe that i could stop him now ( ). ( .) [sidenote: happy evenings. .] after our return we spent every available hour upon the ice, working at questions which shall be treated under their proper heads, each day's work being wound up by an evening of perfect enjoyment. roast mutton and fried potatoes were our incessant fare, for which, after a little longing for a change at first, we contracted a final and permanent love. as the year advanced, moreover, and the grass sprouted with augmented vigour on the slopes of the montanvert, the mutton, as predicted by our host, became more tender and juicy. we had also some capital sallenches beer, cold as the glacier water, but effervescent as champagne. such were our food and drink. after dinner we gathered round the pine-fire, and i can hardly think it possible for three men to be more happy than we then were. it was not the goodness of the conversation, nor any high intellectual element, which gave the charm to our gatherings; the gladness grew naturally out of our own perfect health, and out of the circumstances of our position. every fibre seemed a repository of latent joy, which the slightest stimulus sufficed to bring into conscious action. [sidenote: a glacier "blower." .] on the th i penetrated with simond through thick gloom to the tacul; on the th we set stakes at the same place: on the same day, while crossing the medial moraine of the talèfre, a little below the cascade, a singular noise attracted my attention; it seemed at first as if a snake were hissing about my feet. on changing my position the sound suddenly ceased, but it soon recommenced. there was some snow upon the glacier, which i removed, and placed my ear close to the ice, but it was difficult to fix on the precise spot from which the sound issued. i cut away the disintegrated portion of the surface, and at length discovered a minute crack, from which a stream of air issued, which i could feel as a cold blast against my hand. while cutting away the surface further, i stopped the little "blower." a marmot screamed near me, and while i paused to look at the creature scampering up the crags, the sound commenced again, changing its note variously--hissing like a snake, singing like a kettle, and sometimes chirruping intermittently like a bird. on passing my fingers to and fro over the crack, i obtained a succession of audible puffs; the current was sufficiently strong to blow away the corner of a gauze veil held over the fissure. still the crack was not wide enough to permit of the entrance of my finger nail; and to issue with such force from so minute a rent the air must have been under considerable pressure. the origin of the blower was in all probability the following:--when the ice is recompacted after having descended a cascade, it is next to certain that chambers of air will be here and there enclosed, which, being powerfully squeezed afterwards, will issue in the manner described whenever a crack in the ice furnishes it with a means of escape. in my experiments on flowing mud, for example, the air entrapped in the mass while descending from the sluice into the trough, bursts in bubbles from the surface at a short distance downwards. [sidenote: a difficult line. .] i afterwards examined the talèfre cascade from summit to base, with reference to the structure, until at the close of the day thickening clouds warned me off. i went down the glacier at a trot, guided by the boulders capped with little cairns which marked the route. the track which i had pursued for the last five weeks amid the crevasses near l'angle was this day barely passable. the glacier had changed, my work was drawing to a close, and, as i looked at the objects which had now become so familiar to me, i felt that, though not viscous, the ice did not lack the quality of "adhesiveness," and i felt a little sad at the thought of bidding it so soon farewell. at some distance below the montanvert the mer de glace is riven from side to side by transverse crevasses: these fissures indicate that the glacier where they occur is in a state of longitudinal strain which produces transverse fracture. i wished to ascertain the amount of stretching which the glacier here demanded, and which the ice was not able to give; and for this purpose desired to compare the velocity of a line set out across the fissured portion with that of a second line staked out across the ice before it had become thus fissured. a previous inspection of the glacier through the telescope of our theodolite induced us to fix on a place which, though much riven, still did not exclude the hope of our being able to reach the other side. each of us was, as usual, armed with his own axe; and carrying with us suitable stakes, my guide and myself entered upon this portion of the glacier on the morning of the th of august. [sidenote: "nous nous trouverons perdus!" .] i was surprised on entering to find some veins of white ice, which from their position and aspect appeared to be derived from the glacier du géant; but to these i shall subsequently refer. our work was extremely difficult; we penetrated to some distance along one line, but were finally forced back, and compelled to try another. right and left of us were profound fissures, and once a cone of ice forty feet high leaned quite over our track. in front of us was a second leaning mass borne by a mere stalk, and so topheavy that one wondered why the slight pedestal on which it rested did not suddenly crack across. we worked slowly forwards, and soon found ourselves in the shadow of the topheavy mass above referred to; and from which i escaped with a wounded hand, caused by over-haste. simond surmounted the next ridge and exclaimed, "_nous nous trouverons perdus!_" i reached his side, and on looking round the place saw that there was no footing for man. the glacier here, as shown in the frontispiece, was cut up into thin wedges, separated from each other by profound chasms, and the wedges were so broken across as to render creeping along their edges quite impossible. thus brought to a stand, i fixed a stake at the point where we were forced to halt, and retreated along edges of detestable granular ice, which fell in showers into the crevasses when struck by the axe. at one place an exceedingly deep fissure was at our left, which was joined, at a sharp angle, by another at our right, and we were compelled to cross at the place of intersection: to do this we had to trust ourselves to a projecting knob of that vile rotten ice which i had learned to fear since my experience of it on the col du géant. we finally escaped, and set out our line at another place, where the glacier, though badly cut, was not impassable. [sidenote: farewell to the montanvert. .] on the th we made a series of final measurements at the tacul, and determined the motion of two lines which we had set out the previous day. on the st we quitted the montanvert; i had been there from the th of july, and the longer i remained the better i liked the establishment and the people connected with it. it was then managed by joseph tairraz and jules charlet, both of whom showed us every attention. in and i had occasion to revisit the establishment, which was then managed by jules and his brother, and found in it the same good qualities. during my winter expedition of i also found the same readiness to assist me in every possible way; honest jules expressing his willingness to ascend through the snow to the auberge if i thought his presence would in any degree contribute to my comfort. we crossed the glacier, and descended by the chapeau to the cascade des bois, the inclination of which and of the lower portion of the glacier we then determined. the day was magnificent. looking upwards, the aiguilles de charmoz and du dru rose right and left like sentinels of the valley, while in front of us the ice descended the steep, a bewildering mass of crags and chasms. at the other side was the pine-clad slope of the montanvert. further on the aiguille du midi threw its granite pyramid between us and mont blanc; on the dôme du goûter the _séracs_ of the mountain were to be seen, while issuing as if from a cleft in the mountain side the glacier des bossons thrust through the black pines its snowy tongue. below us was the beautiful valley of chamouni itself, through which the arve and arveiron rushed like enlivening spirits. we finally examined a grand old moraine produced by a mer de glace of other ages, when the ice quite crossed the valley of chamouni and abutted against the opposite mountain-wall. [sidenote: edouard simond. .] simond had proved himself a very valuable assistant; he was intelligent and perfectly trustworthy; and though the peculiar nature of my work sometimes caused me to attempt things against which his prudence protested, he lacked neither strength nor courage. on reaching chamouni and adding up our accounts, i found that i had not sufficient cash to pay him; money was waiting for me at the post-office in geneva, and thither it was arranged that my friend hirst should proceed next morning, while i was to await the arrival of the money at chamouni. my guide heard of this arrangement, and divined its cause: he came to me, and in the most affectionate manner begged of me to accept from him the loan of francs. though i did not need the loan, the mode in which it was offered to me augmented the kindly feelings which i had long entertained towards simond, and i may add that my intercourse with him since has served only to confirm my first estimate of his worthiness. expedition of . ( .) [sidenote: doubts regarding structure. .] i had confined myself during the summer of to the mer de glace and its tributaries, desirous to make my knowledge accurate rather than extensive. i had made the acquaintance of all accessible parts of the glacier, and spared no pains to master both the details and the meaning of the laminated structure of the ice, but i found no fact upon which i could take my stand and say to an advocate of an opposing theory, "this is unassailable." in experimental science we have usually the power of changing the conditions at pleasure; if nature does not reply to a question we throw it into another form; a combining of conditions is, in fact, the essence of experiment. to meet the requirements of the present question, i could not twist the same glacier into various shapes, and throw it into different states of strain and pressure; but i might, by visiting many glaciers, find all needful conditions fulfilled in detail, and by observing these i hoped to confer upon the subject the character and precision of a true experimental inquiry. the summer of was accordingly devoted to this purpose, when i had the good fortune to be accompanied by professor ramsay, the author of some extremely interesting papers upon ancient glaciers. taking zürich, schaffhausen, and lucerne in our way, we crossed the brünig on the nd of july, and met my guide, christian lauener, at meyringen. on the rd we visited the glacier of rosenlaui, and the glacier of the schwartzwald, and reached grindelwald in the evening of the same day. my expedition with mr. huxley had taught me that the lower grindelwald glacier was extremely instructive, and i was anxious to see many parts of it once more; this i did, in company with ramsay, and we also spent a day upon the upper glacier, after which our path lay over the strahleck to the glaciers of the aar and of the rhone. passage of the strahleck. ( .) [sidenote: a gloomy prospect. .] on monday, the th of july, we were called at a.m., and found the weather very unpromising, but the two mornings which preceded it had also been threatening without any evil result. there was, it is true, something more than usually hostile in the aspect of the clouds which sailed sullenly from the west, and smeared the air and mountains as if with the dirty smoke of a manufacturing town. we despatched our coffee, went down to the bottom of the grindelwald valley, up the opposite slope, and were soon amid the gloom of the pines which partially cover it. on emerging from these, a watery gleam on the mottled head of the eiger was the only evidence of direct sunlight in that direction. to our left was the wetterhorn surrounded by wild and disorderly clouds, through the fissures of which the morning light glared strangely. for a time the heisse platte was seen, a dark brown patch amid the ghastly blue which overspread the surrounding slopes of snow. the clouds once rolled up, and revealed for a moment the summits of the viescherhörner; but they immediately settled down again, and hid the mountains from top to base. soon afterwards they drew themselves partially aside, and a patch of blue over the strahleck gave us hope and pleasure. as we ascended, the prospect in front of us grew better, but that behind us--and the wind came from behind--grew worse. slowly and stealthily the dense neutral-tint masses crept along the sides of the mountains, and seemed to dog us like spies; while over the glacier hung a thin veil of fog, through which gleamed the white minarets of the ice. [sidenote: ice cascade and protuberances. .] [sidenote: dirt-bands of the strahleck branch. .] when we first spoke of crossing the strahleck, lauener said it would be necessary to take two guides at least; but after a day's performance on the ice he thought we might manage very well by taking, in addition to himself, the herd of the alp, over the more difficult part of the pass. he had further experience of us on the second day, and now, as we approached the herd's hut, i was amused to hear him say that he thought any assistance beside his own unnecessary. relying upon ourselves, therefore, we continued our route, and were soon upon the glacier, which had been rendered smooth and slippery through the removal of its disintegrated surface by the warm air. crossing the strahleck branch of the glacier to its left side, we climbed the rocks to the grass and flowers which clothe the slopes above them. our way sometimes lay over these, sometimes along the beds of streams, across turbulent brooks, and once around the face of a cliff, which afforded us about an inch of ledge to stand upon, and some protruding splinters to lay hold of by the hands. having reached a promontory which commanded a fine view of the glacier, and of the ice cascade by which it was fed, i halted, to check the observations already made from the side of the opposite mountain. here, as there, cliffy ridges were seen crossing the cascade of the glacier, with interposed spaces of dirt and débris--the former being toned down, and the latter squeezed towards the base of the fall, until finally the ridges swept across the glacier, in gentle swellings, from side to side; while the valleys between them, holding the principal share of the superficial impurity, formed the cradles of the so-called dirt-bands. these swept concentric with the protuberances across the glacier, and remained upon its surface even after the swellings had disappeared. the swifter flow of the centre of the glacier tends of course incessantly to lengthen the loops of the bands, and to thrust the summits of the curves which they form more and more in advance of their lateral portions. the depressions between the protuberances appeared to be furrowed by minor wrinkles, as if the ice of the depressions had yielded more than that of the protuberances. this, i think, is extremely probable, though it has never yet been proved. three stakes, placed, one on the summit, another on the frontal slope, and another at the base of a protuberance, would, i think, move with unequal velocities. they would, i think, show that, upon the large and general motion of the glacier, smaller motions are superposed, as minor oscillations are known to cover parasitically the large ones of a vibrating string. possibly, also, the dirt-bands may owe something to the squeezing of impurities out of the glacier to its surface in the intervals between the swellings. from our present position we could also see the swellings on the viescherhörner branch of the glacier, in the valleys between which coarse shingle and débris were collected, which would form dirt-bands if they could. on neither branch, however, do the bands attain the definition and beauty which they possess upon the mer de glace. after an instructive lesson we faced our task once more, passing amid crags and boulders, and over steep moraines, from which the stones rolled down upon the slightest disturbance. while crossing a slope of snow with an inclination of °, my footing gave way, i fell, but turned promptly on my face, dug my staff deeply into the snow, and arrested the motion before i had slid a dozen yards. ramsay was behind me, speculating whether he should be able to pass the same point without slipping; before he reached it, however, the snow yielded, he fell, and slid swiftly downwards. lauener, whose attention had been aroused by my fall, chanced to be looking round when ramsay's footing yielded. with the velocity of a projectile he threw himself upon my companion, seized him, and brought him to rest before he had reached the bottom of the slope. the act made a very favourable impression upon me, it was so prompt and instinctive. an eagle could not swoop upon its prey with more directness of aim and swiftness of execution. [sidenote: ice cliffs through the fog. .] while this went on the clouds were playing hide and seek with the mountains. the ice-crags and pinnacles to our left, looming through the haze, seemed of gigantic proportions, reminding one of the hades of byron's 'cain.' "how sunless and how vast are these dim realms!" we climbed for some time along the moraine which flanks the cascade, and on reaching the level of the brow lauener paused, cast off his knapsack, and declared for breakfast. while engaged with it the dense clouds which had crammed the gorge and obscured the mountains, all melted away, and a scene of indescribable magnificence was revealed. overhead the sky suddenly deepened to dark blue, and against it the finsteraarhorn projected his dark and mighty mass. brown spurs jutted from the mountain, and between them were precipitous snow-slopes, fluted by the descent of rocks and avalanches, and broken into ice-precipices lower down. right in front of us, and from its proximity more gigantic to the eye, was the schreckhorn, while from couloirs and mountain-slopes the matter of glaciers yet to be was poured into the vast basin on the rim of which we now stood. [sidenote: mutations of the clouds. .] this it was next our object to cross; our way lying in part through deep snow-slush, the scene changing perpetually from blue heaven to gray haze which massed itself at intervals in dense clouds about the mountains. after crossing the basin our way lay partly over slopes of snow, partly over loose shingle, and at one place along the edge of a formidable precipice of rock. we sat down sometimes to rest, and during these pauses, though they were very brief, the scene had time to go through several of its protean mutations. at one moment all would be perfectly serene, no cloud in the transparent air to tell us that any portion of it was in motion, while the blue heaven threw its flattened arch over the magnificent amphitheatre. then in an instant, from some local cauldron, the vapour would boil up suddenly, eddying wildly in the air, which a moment before seemed so still, and enveloping the entire scene. thus the space enclosed by the finsteraarhorn, the viescherhörner, and the schreckhorn, would at one moment be filled with fog to the mountain heads, every trace of which a few minutes sufficed to sweep away, leaving the unstained blue of heaven behind it, and the mountains showing sharp and jagged outlines in the glassy air. one might be almost led to imagine that the vapour molecules endured a strain similar to that of water cooled below its freezing point, or heated beyond its boiling point; and that, on the strain being relieved by the sudden yielding of the opposing force, the particles rushed together, and thus filled in an instant the clear atmosphere with aqueous precipitation. i had no idea that the strahleck was so fine a pass. whether it is the quality of my mind to take in the glory of the present so intensely as to make me forgetful of the glory of the past, i know not, but it appeared to me that i had never seen anything finer than the scene from the summit. the amphitheatre formed by the mountains seemed to me of exceeding magnificence; nor do i think that my feeling was subjective merely; for the simple magnitude of the masses which built up the spectacle would be sufficient to declare its grandeur. looking down towards the glacier of the aar, a scene of wild beauty and desolation presented itself. not a trace of vegetation could be seen along the whole range of the bounding mountains; glaciers streamed from their shoulders into the valley beneath, where they welded themselves to form the finsteraar affluent of the unteraar glacier. [sidenote: descent of the crags. .] after a brief pause, lauener again strapped on his knapsack, and tempered both will and muscles by the remark, that our worst piece of work was now before us. from the place where we sat, the mountain fell precipitously for several hundred feet; and down the weathered crags, and over the loose shingle which encumbered their ledges, our route now lay. lauener was in front, cool and collected, lending at times a hand to ramsay, and a word of encouragement to both of us, while i brought up the rear. i found my full haversack so inconvenient that i once or twice thought of sending it down the crags in advance of me, but lauener assured me that it would be utterly destroyed before reaching the bottom. my complaint against it was, that at critical places it sometimes came between me and the face of the cliff, pushing me away from the latter so as to throw my centre of gravity almost beyond the base intended to support it. we came at length upon a snow-slope, which had for a time an inclination of °; then once more to the rocks; again to the snow, which was both steep and deep. our bâtons were at least six feet long: we drove them into the snow to secure an anchorage, but they sank to their very ends, and we merely retained a length of them sufficient for a grasp. this slope was intersected by a so-called bergschrund, the lower portion of the slope being torn away from its upper portion so as to form a crevasse that extended quite round the head of the valley. we reached its upper edge; the chasm was partially filled with snow, which brought its edges so near that we cleared it by a jump. the rest of the slope was descended by a _glissade_. each sat down upon the snow, and the motion, once commenced, swiftly augmented to the rate of an avalanche, and brought us pleasantly to the bottom. [sidenote: through gloom to the grimsel. .] as we looked from the heights, we could see that the valley through which our route lay was filled with gray fog: into this we soon plunged, and through it we made our way towards the abschwung. the inclination of the glacier was our only guide, for we could see nothing. reaching the confluence of the finsteraar and lauteraar branches, we went downwards with long swinging strides, close alongside the medial moraine of the trunk glacier. the glory of the morning had its check in the dull gloom of the evening. across streams, amid dirt-cones and glacier-tables, and over the long reach of shingle which covers the end of the glacier, we plodded doggedly, and reached the grimsel at p.m., the journey having cost a little more than hours. ( .) [sidenote: ancient glacier action. .] we made the grimsel our station for a day, which was spent in examining the evidences of ancient glacier action in the valley of hasli. near the hospice, but at the opposite side of the aar, rises a mountain-wall of hard granite, on which the flutings and groovings are magnificently preserved. after a little practice the eye can trace with the utmost precision the line which marks the level of the ancient ice: above this the crags are sharp and rugged; while below it the mighty grinder has rubbed off the pinnacles of the rocks and worn their edges away. the height to which this action extends must be nearly two thousand feet above the bed of the present valley. it is also easy to see the depth to which the river has worked its channel into the ancient rocks. in some cases the road from guttanen to the grimsel lay right over the polished rocks, asperities being supplied by the chisel of man in order to prevent travellers from slipping on their slopes. here and there also huge protuberant crags were rounded into domes almost as perfect as if chiselled by art. to both my companion and myself this walk was full of instruction and delight. on the th of july we crossed the grimsel pass, and traced the scratchings to the very top of it. ramsay remarked that their direction changed high up the pass, as if a tributary from the summit had produced them, while lower down they merged into the general direction of the glacier which had filled the principal valley. from the summit of the mayenwand we had a clear view of the glacier of the rhone; and to see the lower portion of this glacier to advantage no better position can be chosen. the dislocation of its cascade, the spreading out of the ice below, its system of radial crevasses, and the transverse sweep of its structural groovings, may all be seen. a few hours afterwards we were among the wild chasms at the brow of the ice-fall, where we worked our way to the centre of the ice, but were unable to attain the opposite side. having examined the glacier both above and below the cascade, we went down the valley to viesch, and ascended thence, on the th of july, to the hôtel jungfrau on the slopes of the Æggischhorn. on the following day we climbed to the summit of the mountain, and from a sheltered nook enjoyed the glorious prospect which it commands. the wind was strong, and fleecy clouds flew over the heavens; some of which, as they formed and dispersed themselves about the flanks of the aletschhorn, showed extraordinary iridescences. [sidenote: the mÄrjelen see. .] the sunbeams called us early on the morning of the st of august. no cloud rested on the opposite range of the valais mountains, but on looking towards the Æggischhorn we found a cap upon its crest; we looked again--the cap had disappeared and a serene heaven stretched overhead. as we breasted the alp the moon was still in the sky, paling more and more before the advancing day; a single hawk swung in the atmosphere above us; clear streams babbled from the hills, the louder sounds reposing on a base of music; while groups of cows with tinkling bells browsed upon the green alp. here and there the grass was dispossessed, and the flanks of the mountain were covered by the blocks which had been cast down from the summit. on reaching the plateau at the base of the final pyramid, we rounded the mountain to the right and came over the lonely and beautiful märjelen see. no doubt the hollow which this lake fills had been scooped out in former ages by a branch of the aletsch glacier; but long ago the blue ice gave place to blue water. the glacier bounds it at one side by a vertical wall of ice sixty feet in height: this is incessantly undermined, a roof of crystal being formed over the water, till at length the projecting mass, becoming too heavy for its own rigidity, breaks and tumbles into the lake. here, attacked by sun and air, its blue surface is rendered dazzlingly white, and several icebergs of this kind now floated in the sunlight; the water was of a glassy smoothness, and in its blue depths each ice mass doubled itself by reflection.[a] [sidenote: the aletsch glacier. .] the aletsch is the grandest glacier in the alps: over it we now stood, while the bounding mountains poured vast feeders into the noble stream. the jungfrau was in front of us without a cloud, and apparently so near that i proposed to my guide to try it without further preparation. he was enthusiastic at first, but caution afterwards got the better of his courage. at some distance up the glacier the snow-line was distinctly drawn, and from its edge upwards the mighty shoulders of the hills were heavy laden with the still powdery material of the glacier. amid blocks and débris we descended to the ice: the portion of it which bounded the lake had been sapped, and a space of a foot existed between ice and water: numerous chasms were formed here, the mass being thus broken, preparatory to being sent adrift upon the lake. we crossed the glacier to its centre, and looking down it the grand peaks of the mischabel, the noble cone of the weisshorn, and the dark and stern obelisk of the matterhorn, formed a splendid picture. looking upwards, a series of most singularly contorted dirt-bands revealed themselves upon the surface of the ice. i sought to trace them to their origin, but was frustrated by the snow which overspread the upper portion of the glacier. along this we marched for three hours, and came at length to the junction of the four tributary valleys which pour their frozen streams into the great trunk valley. the glory of the day, and that joy of heart which perfect health confers, may have contributed to produce the impression, but i thought i had never seen anything to rival in magnificence the region in the heart of which we now found ourselves. we climbed the mountain on the right-hand side of the glacier, where, seated amid the riven and weather-worn crags, we fed our souls for hours on the transcendent beauty of the scene. [sidenote: a chamois deceived. .] we afterwards redescended to the glacier, which at this place was intersected by large transverse crevasses, many of which were apparently filled with snow, while over others a thin and treacherous roof was thrown. in some cases the roof had broken away, and revealed rows of icicles of great length and transparency pendent from the edges. we at length turned our faces homewards, and looking down the glacier i saw at a great distance something moving on the ice. i first thought it was a man, though it seemed strange that a man should be there alone. on drawing my guide's attention to it he at once pronounced it to be a chamois, and i with my telescope immediately verified his statement. the creature bounded up the glacier at intervals, and sometimes the vigour of its spring showed that it had projected itself over a crevasse. it approached us sometimes at full gallop: then would stop, look toward us, pipe loudly, and commence its race once more. it evidently made the reciprocal mistake to my own, imagining us to be of its own kith and kin. we sat down upon the ice the better to conceal our forms, and to its whistle our guide whistled in reply. a joyous rush was the creature's first response to the signal; but it afterwards began to doubt, and its pauses became more frequent. its form at times was extremely graceful, the head erect in the air, its apparent uprightness being augmented by the curvature which threw its horns back. i watched the animal through my glass until i could see the glistening of its eyes; but soon afterwards it made a final pause, assured itself of its error, and flew with the speed of the wind to its refuge in the mountains. footnotes: [a] a painting of this exquisite lake has been recently executed by mr. george barnard. ascent of the finsteraarhorn, . ( .) [sidenote: my guide. .] since my arrival at the hotel on the th of july i had once or twice spoken about ascending the finsteraarhorn, and on the nd of august my host advised me to avail myself of the promising weather. a guide, named bennen, was attached to the hotel, a remarkable-looking man, between and years old, of middle stature, but very strongly built. his countenance was frank and firm, while a light of good-nature at times twinkled in his eye. altogether the man gave me the impression of physical strength, combined with decision of character. the proprietor had spoken to me many times of the strength and courage of this man, winding up his praises of him by the assurance that if i were killed in bennen's company there would be two lives lost, for that the guide would assuredly sacrifice himself in the effort to save his _herr_. he was called, and i asked him whether he would accompany me alone to the top of the finsteraarhorn. to this he at first objected, urging the possibility of his having to render me assistance, and the great amount of labour which this might entail upon him; but this was overruled by my engaging to follow where he led, without asking him to render me any help whatever. he then agreed to make the trial, stipulating, however, that he should not have much to carry to the cave of the faulberg, where we were to spend the night. to this i cordially agreed, and sent on blankets, provisions, wood, and hay, by two porters. [sidenote: iridescent cloud. .] my desire, in part, was to make a series of observations at the summit of the mountain, while a similar series was made by professor ramsay in the valley of the rhone, near viesch, with a view to ascertaining the permeability of the lower strata of the atmosphere to the radiant heat of the sun. during the forenoon of the nd i occupied myself with my instruments, and made the proper arrangements with ramsay. i tested a mountain-thermometer which mr. casella had kindly lent me, and found the boiling point of water on the dining-room table of the hotel to be . ° fahrenheit. at about three o'clock in the afternoon we quitted the hotel, and proceeded leisurely with our two guides up the slope of the Æggischhorn. we once caught a sight of the topmost pinnacle of the finsteraarhorn; beside it was the rothhorn, and near this again the oberaarhorn, with the viescher glacier streaming from its shoulders. on the opposite side we could see, over an oblique buttress of the mountain on which we stood, the snowy summit of the weisshorn; to the left of this was the ever grim and lonely matterhorn; and farther to the left, with its numerous snow-cones, each with its attendant shadow, rose the mighty mischabel. we descended, and crossed the stream which flows from the märjelen see, into which a large mass of the glacier had recently fallen, and was now afloat as an iceberg. we passed along the margin of the lake, and at the junction of water and ice i bade ramsay good-bye. at the commencement of our journey upon the ice, whenever we crossed a crevasse, i noticed bennen watching me; his vigilance, however, soon diminished, whence i gathered that he finally concluded that i was able to take care of myself. clouds hovered in the atmosphere throughout the whole time of our ascent; one smoky-looking mass marred the glory of the sunset, but at some distance was another which exhibited colours almost as rich and varied as those of the solar spectrum. i took the glorious banner thus unfurled as a sign of hope, to check the despondency which its gloomy neighbour was calculated to produce. [sidenote: evening near the jungfrau. .] two hours' walking brought us near our place of rest; the porters had already reached it, and were now returning. we deviated to the right, and, having crossed some ice-ravines, reached the lateral moraine of the glacier, and picked our way between it and the adjacent mountain-wall. we then reached a kind of amphitheatre, crossed it, and climbing the opposite slope, came to a triple grotto formed by clefts in the mountain. in one of these a pine-fire was soon blazing briskly, and casting its red light upon the surrounding objects, though but half dispelling the gloom from the deeper portions of the cell. i left the grotto, and climbed the rocks above it to look at the heavens. the sun had quitted our firmament, but still tinted the clouds with red and purple; while one peak of snow in particular glowed like fire, so vivid was its illumination. during our journey upwards the jungfrau never once showed her head, but, as if in ill temper, had wrapped her vapoury veil around her. she now looked more good-humoured, but still she did not quite remove her hood; though all the other summits, without a trace of cloud to mask their beautiful forms, pointed heavenward. the calmness was perfect; no sound of living creature, no whisper of a breeze, no gurgle of water, no rustle of débris, to break the deep and solemn silence. surely, if beauty be an object of worship, those glorious mountains, with rounded shoulders of the purest white--snow-crested and star-gemmed--were well calculated to excite sentiments of adoration. [sidenote: the cave of the faulberg. .] i returned to the grotto, where supper was prepared and waiting for me. the boiling point of water, at the level of the "kitchen" floor, i found to be ° fahr. nothing could be more picturesque than the aspect of the cave before we went to rest. the fire was gleaming ruddily. i sat upon a stone bench beside it, while bennen was in front with the red light glimmering fitfully over him. my boiling-water apparatus, which had just been used, was in the foreground; and telescopes, opera-glasses, haversacks, wine-keg, bottles, and mattocks, lay confusedly around. the heavens continued to grow clearer, the thin clouds, which had partially overspread the sky, melting gradually away. the grotto was comfortable; the hay sufficient materially to modify the hardness of the rock, and my position at least sheltered and warm. one possibility remained that might prevent me from sleeping--the snoring of my companion; he assured me, however, that he did not snore, and we lay down side by side. the good fellow took care that i should not be chilled; he gave me the best place, by far the best part of the clothes, and may have suffered himself in consequence; but, happily for him, he was soon oblivious of this. physiologists, i believe, have discovered that it is chiefly during sleep that the muscles are repaired; and ere long the sound i dreaded announced to me at once the repair of bennen's muscles and the doom of my own. the hollow cave resounded to the deep-drawn snore. i once or twice stirred the sleeper, breaking thereby the continuity of the phenomenon; but it instantly pieced itself together again, and went on as before. i had not the heart to wake him, for i knew that upon him would devolve the chief labour of the coming day. at half-past one he rose and prepared coffee, and at two o'clock i was engaged upon the beverage. we afterwards packed up our provisions and instruments. bennen bore the former, i the latter, and at three o'clock we set out. [sidenote: "shall we try the jungfrau?" .] we first descended a steep slope to the glacier, along which we walked for a time. a spur of the faulberg jutted out between us and the ice-laden valley through which we must pass; this we crossed in order to shorten our way and to avoid crevasses. loose shingle and boulders overlaid the mountain; and here and there walls of rock opposed our progress, and rendered the route far from agreeable. we then descended to the grünhorn tributary, which joins the trunk glacier at nearly a right angle, being terminated by a saddle which stretches across from mountain to mountain, with a curvature as graceful and as perfect as if drawn by the instrument of a mathematician. the unclouded moon was shining, and the jungfrau was before us so pure and beautiful, that the thought of visiting the "maiden" without further preparation occurred to me. i turned to bennen, and said, "shall we try the jungfrau?" i think he liked the idea well enough, though he cautiously avoided incurring any responsibility. "if you desire it, i am ready," was his reply. he had never made the ascent, and nobody knew anything of the state of the snow this year; but lauener had examined it through a telescope on the previous day, and pronounced it dangerous. in every ascent of the mountain hitherto made, ladders had been found indispensable, but we had none. i questioned bennen as to what he thought of the probabilities, and tried to extract some direct encouragement from him; but he said that the decision rested altogether with myself, and it was his business to endeavour to carry out that decision. "we will attempt it, then," i said, and for some time we actually walked towards the jungfrau. a gray cloud drew itself across her summit, and clung there. i asked myself why i deviated from my original intention? the finsteraarhorn was higher, and therefore better suited for the contemplated observations. i could in no wise justify the change, and finally expressed my scruples. a moment's further conversation caused us to "right about," and front the saddle of the grünhorn. [sidenote: magnificent scene. .] the dawn advanced. the eastern sky became illuminated and warm, and high in the air across the ridge in front of us stretched a tongue of cloud like a red flame, and equally fervid in its hue. looking across the trunk glacier, a valley which is terminated by the lötsch saddle was seen in a straight line with our route, and i often turned to look along this magnificent corridor. the mightiest mountains in the oberland form its sides; still, the impression which it makes is not that of vastness or sublimity, but of loveliness not to be described. the sun had not yet smitten the snows of the bounding mountains, but the saddle carved out a segment of the heavens which formed a background of unspeakable beauty. over the rim of the saddle the sky was deep orange, passing upwards through amber, yellow, and vague ethereal green to the ordinary firmamental blue. right above the snow-curve purple clouds hung perfectly motionless, giving depth to the spaces between them. there was something saintly in the scene. anything more exquisite i had never beheld. we marched upwards over the smooth crisp snow to the crest of the saddle, and here i turned to take a last look along that grand corridor, and at that wonderful "daffodil sky." the sun's rays had already smitten the snows of the aletschhorn; the radiance seemed to infuse a principle of life and activity into the mountains and glaciers, but still that holy light shone forth, and those motionless clouds floated beyond, reminding one of that eastern religion whose essence is the repression of all action and the substitution for it of immortal calm. the finsteraarhorn now fronted us; but clouds turbaned the head of the giant, and hid it from our view. the wind, however, being north, inspired us with a strong hope that they would melt as the day advanced. i have hardly seen a finer ice-field than that which now lay before us. considering the _névé_ which supplies it, it appeared to me that the viescher glacier ought to discharge as much ice as the aletsch; but this is an error due to the extent of _névé_ which is here at once visible: since a glance at the map of this portion of the oberland shows at once the great superiority of the mountain treasury from which the aletsch glacier draws support. still, the ice-field before us was a most noble one. the surrounding mountains were of imposing magnitude, and loaded to their summits with snow. down the sides of some of them the half-consolidated mass fell in a state of wild fracture and confusion. in some cases the riven masses were twisted and overturned, the ledges bent, and the detached blocks piled one upon another in heaps; while in other cases the smooth white mass descended from crown to base without a wrinkle. the valley now below us was gorged by the frozen material thus incessantly poured into it. we crossed it, and reached the base of the finsteraarhorn, ascended the mountain a little way, and at six o'clock paused to lighten our burdens and to refresh ourselves. [sidenote: the mountain assailed. .] the north wind had freshened, we were in the shade, and the cold was very keen. placing a bottle of tea and a small quantity of provisions in the knapsack, and a few figs and dried prunes in our pockets, we commenced the ascent. the finsteraarhorn sends down a number of cliffy buttresses, separated from each other by wide couloirs filled with ice and snow. we ascended one of these buttresses for a time, treading cautiously among the spiky rocks; afterwards we went along the snow at the edge of the spine, and then fairly parted company with the rock, abandoning ourselves to the _névé_ of the couloir. the latter was steep, and the snow was so firm that steps had to be cut in it. once i paused upon a little ledge, which gave me a slight footing, and took the inclination. the slope formed an angle of ° with the horizon; and across it, at a little distance below me, a gloomy fissure opened its jaws. the sun now cleared the summits which had before cut off his rays, and burst upon us with great power, compelling us to resort to our veils and dark spectacles. two years before, bennen had been nearly blinded by inflammation brought on by the glare from the snow, and he now took unusual care in protecting his eyes. the rocks looking more practicable, we again made towards them, and clambered among them till a vertical precipice, which proved impossible of ascent, fronted us. bennen scanned the obstacle closely as we slowly approached it, and finally descended to the snow, which wound at a steep angle round its base: on this the footing appeared to me to be singularly insecure, but i marched without hesitation or anxiety in the footsteps of my guide. [sidenote: the crest of rocks. .] we ascended the rocks once more, continued along them for some time, and then deviated to the couloir on our left. this snow-slope is much dislocated at its lower portion, and above its precipices and crevasses our route now lay. the snow was smooth, and sufficiently firm and steep to render the cutting of steps necessary. bennen took the lead: to make each step he swung his mattock once, and his hindmost foot rose exactly at the moment the mattock descended; there was thus a kind of rhythm in his motion, the raising of the foot keeping time to the swing of the implement. in this manner we proceeded till we reached the base of the rocky pyramid which caps the mountain. [sidenote: the summit gained. .] one side of the pyramid had been sliced off, thus dropping down almost a sheer precipice for some thousands of feet to the finsteraar glacier. a wall of rock, about or feet high, runs along the edge of the mountain, and this sheltered us from the north wind, which surged with the sound of waves against the tremendous barrier at the other side. "our hardest work is now before us," said my guide. our way lay up the steep and splintered rocks, among which we sought out the spikes which were closely enough wedged to bear our weight. each had to trust to himself, and i fulfilled to the letter my engagement with bennen to ask no help. my boiling-water apparatus and telescope were on my back, much to my annoyance, as the former was heavy, and sometimes swung awkwardly round as i twisted myself among the cliffs. bennen offered to take it, but he had his own share to carry, and i was resolved to bear mine. sometimes the rocks alternated with spaces of ice and snow, which we were at intervals compelled to cross; sometimes, when the slope was pure ice and very steep, we were compelled to retreat to the highest cliffs. the wall to which i have referred had given way in some places, and through the gaps thus formed the wind rushed with a loud, wild, wailing sound. through these spaces i could see the entire field of agassiz's observations; the junction of the lauteraar and finsteraar glaciers at the abschwung, the medial moraine between them, on which stood the hôtel des neufchâtelois, and the pavilion built by m. dollfuss, in which huxley and myself had found shelter two years before. bennen was evidently anxious to reach the summit, and recommended all observations to be postponed until after our success had been assured. i agreed to this, and kept close at his heels. strong as he was, he sometimes paused, laid his head upon his mattock, and panted like a chased deer. he complained of fearful thirst, and to quench it we had only my bottle of tea: this we shared loyally, my guide praising its virtues, as well he might. still the summit loomed above us; still the angry swell of the north wind, beating against the torn battlements of the mountain, made wild music. upward, however, we strained; and at last, on gaining the crest of a rock, bennen exclaimed, in a jubilant voice, "_die höchste spitze!_"--the highest point. in a moment i was at his side, and saw the summit within a few paces of us. a minute or two placed us upon the topmost-pinnacle, with the blue dome of heaven above us, and a world of mountains, clouds, and glaciers beneath. a notion is entertained by many of the guides that if you go to sleep at the summit of any of the highest mountains, you will "sleep the sleep that knows no waking." [sidenote: thermometer placed. .] bennen did not appear to entertain this superstition; and before starting in the morning, i had stipulated for ten minutes' sleep on reaching the summit, as part compensation for the loss of the night's rest. my first act, after casting a glance over the glorious scene beneath us, was to take advantage of this agreement; so i lay down and had five minutes' sleep, from which i rose refreshed and brisk. the sun at first beat down upon us with intense force, and i exposed my thermometers; but thin veils of vapour soon drew themselves before the sun, and denser mists spread over the valley of the rhone, thus destroying all possibility of concert between ramsay and myself. i turned therefore to my boiling-water apparatus, filled it with snow, melted the first charge, put more in, and boiled it; ascertaining the boiling point to be ° fahrenheit. on a sheltered ledge, about two or three yards south of the highest point, i placed a minimum-thermometer, in the hope that it would enable us in future years to record the lowest winter temperatures at the summit of the mountain.[a] [sidenote: scene from the summit. .] it is difficult to convey any just impression of the scene from the summit of the finsteraarhorn: one might, it is true, arrange the visible mountains in a list, stating their heights and distances, and leaving the imagination to furnish them with peaks and pinnacles, to build the precipices, polish the snow, rend the glaciers, and cap the highest summits with appropriate clouds. but if imagination did its best in this way, it would hardly exceed the reality, and would certainly omit many details which contribute to the grandeur of the scene itself. the various shapes of the mountains, some grand, some beautiful, bathed in yellow sunshine, or lying black and riven under the frown of impervious cumuli; the pure white peaks, cornices, bosses, and amphitheatres; the blue ice rifts, the stratified snow-precipices, the glaciers issuing from the hollows of the eternal hills, and stretching like frozen serpents through the sinuous valleys; the lower cloud field--itself an empire of vaporous hills--shining with dazzling whiteness, while here and there grim summits, brown by nature, and black by contrast, pierce through it like volcanic islands through a shining sea,--add to this the consciousness of one's position which clings to one _unconsciously_, that undercurrent of emotion which surrounds the question of one's personal safety, at a height of more than , feet above the sea, and which is increased by the weird strange sound of the wind surging with the full deep boom of the distant sea against the precipice behind, or rising to higher cadences as it forces itself through the crannies of the weatherworn rocks,--all conspire to render the scene from the finsteraarhorn worthy of the monarch of the bernese alps. [sidenote: "have no fear." .] [sidenote: discipline. .] my guide at length warned me that we must be moving; repeating the warning more impressively before i attended to it. we packed up, and as we stood beside each other ready to march he asked me whether we should tie ourselves together, at the same time expressing his belief that it was unnecessary. up to this time we had been separate, and the thought of attaching ourselves had not occurred to me till he mentioned it. i thought it, however, prudent to accept the suggestion, and so we united our destinies by a strong rope. "now," said bennen, "have no fear; no matter how you throw yourself, i will hold you." afterwards, on another perilous summit, i repeated this saying of bennen's to a strong and active guide, but his observation was that it was a hardy untruth, for that in many places bennen could not have held me. nevertheless a daring word strengthens the heart, and, though i felt no trace of that sentiment which bennen exhorted me to banish, and was determined, as far as in me lay, to give him no opportunity of trying his strength in saving me, i liked the fearless utterance of the man, and sprang cheerily after him. our descent was rapid, apparently reckless, amid loose spikes, boulders, and vertical prisms of rock, where a false step would assuredly have been attended with broken bones; but the consciousness of certainty in our movements never forsook us, and proved a source of keen enjoyment. the senses were all awake, the eye clear, the heart strong, the limbs steady, yet flexible, with power of recovery in store, and ready for instant action should the footing give way. such is the discipline which a perilous ascent imposes. [sidenote: descent by glissades. .] we finally quitted the crest of rocks, and got fairly upon the snow once more. we first went downwards at a long swinging trot. the sun having melted the crust which we were compelled to cut through in the morning, the leg at each plunge sank deeply into the snow; but this sinking was partly in the direction of the slope of the mountain, and hence assisted our progress. sometimes the crust was hard enough to enable us to glide upon it for long distances while standing erect; but the end of these _glissades_ was always a plunge and tumble in the deeper snow. once upon a steep hard slope bennen's footing gave way; he fell, and went down rapidly, pulling me after him. i fell also, but turning quickly, drove the spike of my hatchet into the ice, got good anchorage, and held both fast; my success assuring me that i had improved as a mountaineer since my ascent of mont blanc. we tumbled so often in the soft snow, and our clothes and boots were so full of it, that we thought we might as well try the sitting posture in gliding down. we did so, and descended with extraordinary velocity, being checked at intervals by a bodily immersion in the softer and deeper snow. i was usually in front of bennen, shooting down with the speed of an arrow and feeling the check of the rope when the rapidity of my motion exceeded my guide's estimate of what was safe. sometimes i was behind him, and darted at intervals with the swiftness of an avalanche right upon him; sometimes in the same transverse line with him, with the full length of the rope between us; and here i found its check unpleasant, as it tended to make me roll over. my feet were usually in the air, and it was only necessary to turn them right or left, like the helm of a boat, to change the direction of motion and avoid a difficulty, while a vigorous dig of leg and hatchet into the snow was sufficient to check the motion and bring us to rest. swiftly, yet cautiously, we glided into the region of crevasses, where we at last rose, quite wet, and resumed our walking, until we reached the point where we had left our wine in the morning, and where i squeezed the water from my wet clothes, and partially dried them in the sun. [sidenote: the viesch glacier. .] we had left some things at the cave of the faulberg, and it was bennen's first intention to return that way and take them home with him. finding, however, that we could traverse the viescher glacier almost to the Æggischhorn, i made this our highway homewards. at the place where we entered it, and for an hour or two afterwards, the glacier was cut by fissures, for the most part covered with snow. we had packed up our rope, and bennen admonished me to tread in his steps. three or four times he half disappeared in the concealed fissures, but by clutching the snow he rescued himself and went on as swiftly as before. once my leg sank, and the ring of icicles some fifty feet below told me that i was in the jaws of a crevasse; my guide turned sharply--it was the only time that i had seen concern on his countenance:-- "_gott's donner! sie haben meine tritte nicht gefolgt._" "_doch!_" was my only reply, and we went on. he scarcely tried the snow that he crossed, as from its form and colour he could in most cases judge of its condition. for a long time we kept at the left-hand side of the glacier, avoiding the fissures which were now permanently open. we came upon the tracks of a herd of chamois, which had clambered from the glacier up the sides of the oberaarhorn, and afterwards crossed the glacier to the right-hand side, my guide being perfect master of the ground. his eyes went in advance of his steps, and his judgment was formed before his legs moved. the glacier was deeply fissured, but there was no swerving, no retreating, no turning back to seek more practicable routes; each stride told, and every stroke of the axe was a profitable investment of labour. we left the glacier for a time, and proceeded along the mountain side, till we came near the end of the trift glacier, where we let ourselves down an awkward face of rock along the track of a little cascade, and came upon the glacier once more. here again i had occasion to admire the knowledge and promptness of my guide. the glacier, as is well known, is greatly dislocated, and has once or twice proved a prison to guides and travellers, but bennen led me through the confusion without a pause. we were sometimes in the middle of the glacier, sometimes on the moraine, and sometimes on the side of the flanking mountain. towards the end of the day we crossed what seemed to be the consolidated remains of a great avalanche; on this my foot slipped, there was a crevasse at hand, and a sudden effort was necessary to save me from falling into it. in making this effort the spike of my axe turned uppermost, and the palm of my hand came down upon it, thus receiving a very ugly wound. we were soon upon the green alp, having bidden a last farewell to the ice. another hour's hard walking brought us to our hotel. no one seeing us crossing the alp would have supposed that we had laid such a day's work behind us; the proximity of home gave vigour to our strides, and our progress was much more speedy than it had been on starting in the morning. i was affectionately welcomed by ramsay, had a warm bath, dined, went to bed, where i lay fast locked in sleep for eight hours, and rose next morning as fresh and vigorous as if i had never scaled the finsteraarhorn. footnotes: [a] the following note describes the single observation made with this thermometer. mr. b. informs me that on finding the instrument bennen swung it in triumph round his head. i fear, therefore, that the observation gives us no certain information regarding the minimum winter-temperature. "st. nicholas, , aug. . "sir,--on tuesday last (the rd inst.) a party, consisting of messrs. b., h., r. l., and myself, succeeded in reaching the summit of the finsteraarhorn under the guidance of bennen and melchior anderegg. we made it an especial object to observe and reset the minimum-thermometer which you left there last year. on reaching the summit, before i had time to stop him, bennen produced the instrument, and it is just possible that in moving it he may have altered the position of the index. however, as he held the instrument horizontally, and did not, as far as i saw, give it any sensible jerk, i have great confidence that the index remained unmoved. "the reading of the index was - ° cent. "a portion of the spirit extending over about - / ° (and standing tween ° and - / °) was separated from the rest, but there appeared to be no data for determining when the separation had taken place. as it appeared desirable to unite the two portions of spirit before again setting the index to record the cold of another winter, we endeavoured to effect this by heating the bulb, but unfortunately, just as we were expecting to see them coalesce, the bulb burst, and i have now to express my great regret that my clumsiness or ignorance of the proper mode of setting the instrument in order should have interfered with the continuance of observations of so much interest. the remains of the instrument, together with a note of the accident, i have left in the charge of wellig, the landlord of the hotel on the Æggischhorn. "we reached the summit about . a.m. and remained there till noon; the reading of a pocket thermometer in the shade was ° f. "should there be any further details connected with our ascent on which you would like to have information, i shall be happy to supply them to the best of my recollection. meanwhile, with a farther apology for my clumsiness, i beg to subscribe myself yours respectfully, "h." "professor tyndall." ( .) [sidenote: a rotating iceberg. .] on the th of august there was a long fight between mist and sunshine, each triumphing by turns, till at length the orb gained the victory and cleansed the mountains from every trace of fog. we descended to the märjelen see, and, wishing to try the floating power of its icebergs, at a place where masses sufficiently large approached near to the shore, i put aside a portion of my clothes, and retaining my boots stepped upon the floating ice. it bore me for a time, and i hoped eventually to be able to paddle myself over the water. on swerving a little, however, from the position in which i first stood, the mass turned over and let me into the lake. i tried a second one, which served me in the same manner; the water was too cold to continue the attempt, and there was also some risk of being unpleasantly ground between the opposing surfaces of the masses of ice. a very large iceberg which had been detached some short time previously from the glacier lay floating at some distance from us. suddenly a sound like that of a waterfall drew our attention towards it. we saw it roll over with the utmost deliberation, while the water which it carried along with it rushed in cataracts down its sides. its previous surface was white, its present one was of a lovely blue, the submerged crystal having now come to the air. the summerset of this iceberg produced a commotion all over the lake; the floating masses at its edge clashed together, and a mellow glucking sound, due to the lapping of the undulations against the frozen masses, continued long afterwards. we subsequently spent several hours upon the glacier; and on this day i noticed for the first time a contemporaneous exhibition of _bedding_ and _structure_ to which i shall refer at another place. we passed finally to the left bank of the glacier, at some distance below the base of the Æggischhorn, and traced its old moraines at intervals along the flanks of the bounding mountain. at the summit of the ridge we found several fine old _roches moutonnées_, on some of which the scratchings of a glacier long departed were well preserved; and from the direction of the scratchings it might be inferred that the ice moved down the mountain towards the valley of the rhone. a plunge into a lonely mountain lake ended the day's excursion. [sidenote: end of the aletsch glacier. .] on the th of august we quitted this noble station. sending our guide on to viesch to take a conveyance and proceed with our luggage down the valley, ramsay and myself crossed the mountains obliquely, desiring to trace the glacier to its termination. we had no path, but it was hardly possible to go astray. we crossed spurs, climbed and descended pleasant mounds, sometimes with the soft grass under our feet, and sometimes knee-deep in rhododendrons. it took us several hours to reach the end of the glacier, and we then looked down upon it merely. it lay couched like a reptile in a wild gorge, as if it had split the mountain by its frozen snout. we afterwards descended to mörill, where we met our guide and driver; thence down the valley to visp; and the following evening saw us lodged at the monte rosa hotel in zermatt. the boiling point of water on the table of the _salle à manger_, i found to be . ° fahr. [sidenote: meadows invaded by ice. .] on the following morning i proceeded without my friend to the görner glacier. as is well known, the end of this glacier has been steadily advancing for several years, and when i saw it, the meadow in front of it was partly shrivelled up by its irresistible advance. i was informed by my host that within the last sixty years forty-four chalets had been overturned by the glacier, the ground on which they stood being occupied by the ice; at present there are others for which a similar fate seems imminent. in thus advancing the glacier merely takes up ground which belonged to it in former ages, for the rounded rocks which rise out of the adjacent meadow show that it once passed over them. i had arranged to meet ramsay this morning on the road to the riffelberg. the meeting took place, but i then learned that a minute or two after my departure he had received intelligence of the death of a near relative. thus was our joint expedition terminated, for he resolved to return at once to england. at my solicitation he accompanied me to the riffel hotel. we had planned an ascent of monte rosa together, but the arrangement thus broke down, and i was consequently thrown upon my own resources. lauener had never made the ascent, but he nevertheless felt confident that we should accomplish it together. first ascent of monte rosa, . ( .) [sidenote: the riffelberg. .] [sidenote: sounds on the glacier. .] on monday, the th of august, we reached the riffel, and, by good fortune, on the evening of the same day, my guide's brother, the well-known ulrich lauener, also arrived at the hotel on his return from monte rosa. from him we obtained all the information possible respecting the ascent, and he kindly agreed to accompany us a little way the next morning, to put us on the right track. at three a.m. the door of my bedroom opened, and christian lauener announced to me that the weather was sufficiently good to justify an attempt. the stars were shining overhead; but ulrich afterwards drew our attention to some heavy clouds which clung to the mountains on the other side of the valley of the visp; remarking that the weather _might_ continue fair throughout the day, but that these clouds were ominous. at four o'clock we were on our way, by which time a gray stratus cloud had drawn itself across the neck of the matterhorn, and soon afterwards another of the same nature encircled his waist. we proceeded past the riffelhorn to the ridge above the görner glacier, from which monte rosa was visible from top to bottom, and where an animated conversation in swiss patois commenced. ulrich described the slopes, passes, and precipices, which were to guide us; and christian demanded explanations, until he was finally able to declare to me that his knowledge was sufficient. we then bade ulrich good-bye, and went forward. all was clear about monte rosa, and the yellow morning light shone brightly upon its uppermost snows. beside the queen of the alps was the huge mass of the lyskamm, with a saddle stretching from the one to the other; next to the lyskamm came two white rounded mounds, smooth and pure, the twins castor and pollux, and further to the right again the broad brown flank of the breithorn. behind us mont cervin gathered the clouds more thickly round him, until finally his grand obelisk was totally hidden. we went along the mountain-side for a time, and then descended to the glacier. the surface was hard frozen, and the ice crunched loudly under our feet. there was a hollowness and volume in the sound which require explanation; and this, i think, is furnished by the remarks of sir john herschel on those hollow sounds at the solfaterra, near naples, from which travellers have inferred the existence of cavities within the mountain. at the place where these sounds are heard the earth is friable, and, when struck, the concussion is reinforced and lengthened by the partial echoes from the surfaces of the fragments. the conditions for a similar effect exist upon the glacier, for the ice is disintegrated to a certain depth, and from the innumerable places of rupture little reverberations are sent, which give a length and hollowness to the sound produced by the crushing of the fragments on the surface. we looked to the sky at intervals, and once a meteor slid across it, leaving a train of sparks behind. the blue firmament, from which the stars shone down so brightly when we rose, was more and more invaded by clouds, which advanced upon us from our rear, while before us the solemn heights of monte rosa were bathed in rich yellow sunlight. as the day advanced the radiance crept down towards the valleys; but still those stealthy clouds advanced like a besieging army, taking deliberate possession of the summits, one after the other, while gray skirmishers moved through the air above us. the play of light and shadow upon monte rosa was at times beautiful, bars of gloom and zones of glory shifting and alternating from top to bottom of the mountain. [sidenote: advance of the clouds. .] at five o'clock a gray cloud alighted on the shoulder of the lyskamm, which had hitherto been warmed by the lovely yellow light. soon afterwards we reached the foot of monte rosa, and passed from the glacier to a slope of rocks, whose rounded forms and furrowed surfaces showed that the ice of former ages had moved over them; the granite was now coated with lichens, and between the bosses where mould could rest were patches of tender moss. as we ascended, a peal to the right announced the descent of an avalanche from the twins; it came heralded by clouds of ice-dust, which resembled the sphered masses of condensed vapour which issue from a locomotive. a gentle snow-slope brought us to the base of a precipice of brown rocks, round which we wound; the snow was in excellent order, and the chasms were so firmly bridged by the frozen mass that no caution was necessary in crossing them. surmounting a weathered cliff to our left, we paused upon the summit to look upon the scene around us. the snow gliding insensibly from the mountains, or discharged in avalanches from the precipices which it overhung, filled the higher valleys with pure white glaciers, which were rifted and broken here and there, exposing chasms and precipices from which gleamed the delicate blue of the half-formed ice. sometimes, however, the _névés_ spread over wide spaces without a rupture or wrinkle to break the smoothness of the superficial snow. the sky was now for the most part overcast, but through the residual blue spaces the sun at intervals poured light over the rounded bosses of the mountain. [sidenote: monte rosa capped. .] at half-past seven o'clock we reached another precipice of rock, to the left of which our route lay, and here lauener proposed to have some refreshment; after which we went on again. the clouds spread more and more, leaving at length mere specks and patches of blue between them. passing some high peaks, formed by the dislocation of the ice, we came to a place where the _névé_ was rent by crevasses, on the walls of which the stratification due to successive snow-falls was shown with great beauty and definition. between two of these fissures our way now lay: the wall of one of them was hollowed out longitudinally midway down, thus forming a roof above and a ledge below, and from roof to ledge stretched a railing of cylindrical icicles, as if intended to bolt them together. a cloud now for the first time touched the summit of monte rosa, and sought to cling to it, but in a minute it dispersed in shattered fragments, as if dashed to pieces for its presumption. the mountain remained for a time clear and triumphant, but the triumph was short-lived: like suitors that will not be repelled, the dusky vapours came; repulse after repulse took place, and the sunlight gushed down upon the heights, but it was manifest that the clouds gained ground in the conflict. until about a quarter past nine o'clock our work was mere child's play, a pleasant morning stroll along the flanks of the mountain; but steeper slopes now rose above us, which called for more energy, and more care in the fixing of the feet. looked at from below, some of these slopes appeared precipitous; but we were too well acquainted with the effect of fore-shortening to let this daunt us. at each step we dug our bâtons into the deep snow. when first driven in, the bâtons[a] _dipped_ from us, but were brought, as we walked forward, to the vertical, and finally beyond it at the other side. the snow was thus forced aside, a rubbing of the staff against it, and of the snow-particles against each other, being the consequence. we had thus perpetual rupture and regelation; while the little sounds consequent upon rupture, reinforced by the partial echoes from the surfaces of the granules, were blended together to a note resembling the lowing of cows. hitherto i had paused at intervals to make notes, or to take an angle; but these operations now ceased, not from want of time, but from pure dislike; for when the eye has to act the part of a sentinel who feels that at any moment the enemy may be upon him; when the body must be balanced with precision, and legs and arms, besides performing actual labour, must be kept in readiness for possible contingencies; above all, when you feel that your safety depends upon yourself alone, and that, if your footing gives way, there is no strong arm behind ready to be thrown between you and destruction; under such circumstances the relish for writing ceases, and you are willing to hand over your impressions to the safe keeping of memory. [sidenote: the "comb" of the mountain. .] [sidenote: ascent along a cornice. .] from the vast boss which constitutes the lower portion of monte rosa cliffy edges run upwards to the summit. were the snow removed from these we should, i doubt not, see them as toothed or serrated crags, justifying the term "_kamm_," or "comb," applied to such edges by the germans. our way now lay along such a kamm, the cliffs of which had, however, caught the snow, and been completely covered by it, forming an edge like the ridge of a house-roof, which sloped steeply upwards. on the lyskamm side of the edge there was no footing, and, if a human body fell over here, it would probably pass through a vertical space of some thousands of feet, falling or rolling, before coming to rest. on the other side the snow-slope was less steep, but excessively perilous-looking, and intersected by precipices of ice. dense clouds now enveloped us, and made our position far uglier than if it had been fairly illuminated. the valley below us was one vast cauldron, filled with precipitated vapour, which came seething at times up the sides of the mountain. sometimes this fog would partially clear away, and the light would gleam upwards from the dislocated glaciers. my guide continually admonished me to make my footing sure, and to fix at each step my staff firmly in the consolidated snow. at one place, for a short steep ascent, the slope became hard ice, and our position a very ticklish one. we hewed our steps as we moved upwards, but were soon glad to deviate from the ice to a position scarcely less awkward. the wind had so acted upon the snow as to fold it over the edge of the kamm, thus causing it to form a kind of cornice, which overhung the precipice on the lyskamm side of the mountain. this cornice now bore our weight: its snow had become somewhat firm, but it was yielding enough to permit the feet to sink in it a little way, and thus secure us at least against the danger of slipping. here also at each step we drove our bâtons firmly into the snow, availing ourselves of whatever help they could render. once, while thus securing my anchorage, the handle of my hatchet went right through the cornice on which we stood, and, on withdrawing it, i could see through the aperture into the cloud-crammed gulf below. we continued ascending until we reached a rock protruding from the snow, and here we halted for a few minutes. lauener looked upwards through the fog. "according to all description," he observed, "this ought to be the last kamm of the mountain; but in this obscurity we can see nothing." snow began to fall, and we recommenced our journey, quitting the rocks and climbing again along the edge. another hour brought us to a crest of cliffs, at which, to our comfort, the kamm appeared to cease, and other climbing qualities were demanded of us. [sidenote: "die hÖchste spitze." .] on the lyskamm side, as i have said, rescue would be out of the question, should the climber go over the edge. on the other side of the edge rescue seemed possible, though the slope, as stated already, was most dangerously steep. i now asked lauener what he would have done, supposing my footing to have failed on the latter slope. he did not seem to like the question, but said that he should have considered well for a moment and then have sprung after me; but he exhorted me to drive all such thoughts away. i laughed at him, and this did more to set his mind at rest than any formal profession of courage could have done. we were now among rocks: we climbed cliffs and descended them, and advanced sometimes with our feet on narrow ledges, holding tightly on to other ledges by our fingers; sometimes, cautiously balanced, we moved along edges of rock with precipices on both sides. once, in getting round a crag, lauener shook a book from his pocket; it was arrested by a rock about sixty or eighty feet below us. he wished to regain it, but i offered to supply its place, if he thought the descent too dangerous. he said he would make the trial, and parted from me. i thought it useless to remain idle. a cleft was before me, through which i must pass; so, pressing my knees and back against its opposite sides, i gradually worked myself to the top. i descended the other face of the rock, and then, through a second ragged fissure, to the summit of another pinnacle. the highest point of the mountain was now at hand, separated from me merely by a short saddle, carved by weathering out of the crest of the mountain. i could hear lauener clattering after me, through the rocks behind. i dropped down upon the saddle, crossed it, climbed the opposite cliff, and "_die höchste spitze_" of monte rosa was won. [sidenote: gloom on the summit. .] lauener joined me immediately, and we mutually congratulated each other on the success of the ascent. the residue of the bread and meat was produced, and a bottle of tea was also appealed to. mixed with a little cognac, lauener declared that he had never tasted anything like it. snow fell thickly at intervals, and the obscurity was very great; occasionally this would lighten and permit the sun to shed a ghastly dilute light upon us through the gleaming vapour. i put my boiling-water apparatus in order, and fixed it in a corner behind a ledge; the shelter was, however, insufficient, so i placed my hat above the vessel. the boiling point was . ° fahr., the ledge on which the instrument stood being feet below the highest point of the mountain. the ascent from the riffel hotel occupied us about seven hours, nearly two of which were spent upon the kamm and crest. neither of us felt in the least degree fatigued; i, indeed, felt so fresh, that had another monte rosa been planted on the first, i should have continued the climb without hesitation, and with strong hopes of reaching the top. i experienced no trace of mountain sickness, lassitude, shortness of breath, heart-beat, or headache; nevertheless the summit of monte rosa is , feet high, being less than feet lower than mont blanc. it is, i think, perfectly certain, that the rarefaction of the air at this height is not sufficient of itself to produce the symptoms referred to; physical exertion must be superadded. [sidenote: "frozen flowers." .] after a few fitful efforts to dispel the gloom, the sun resigned the dominion to the dense fog and the descending snow, which now prevented our seeing more than or paces in any direction. the temperature of the crags at the summit, which had been shone upon by the unclouded sun during the earlier portion of the day, was ° fahr.; hence the snow melted instantly wherever it came in contact with the rock. but some of it fell upon my felt hat, which had been placed to shelter the boiling-water apparatus, and this presented the most remarkable and beautiful appearance. the fall of snow was in fact a shower of frozen flowers. all of them were six-leaved; some of the leaves threw out lateral ribs like ferns, some were rounded, others arrowy and serrated, some were close, others reticulated, but there was no deviation from the six-leaved type. nature seemed determined to make us some compensation for the loss of all prospect, and thus showered down upon us those lovely blossoms of the frost; and had a spirit of the mountain inquired my choice, the view, or the frozen flowers, i should have hesitated before giving up that exquisite vegetation. it was wonderful to think of, as well as beautiful to behold. let us imagine the eye gifted with a microscopic power sufficient to enable it to see the molecules which composed these starry crystals; to observe the solid nucleus formed and floating in the air; to see it drawing towards it its allied atoms, and these arranging themselves as if they moved to music, and ended by rendering that music concrete. surely such an exhibition of power, such an apparent demonstration of a resident intelligence in what we are accustomed to call "brute matter," would appear perfectly miraculous. and yet the reality would, if we could see it, transcend the fancy. if the houses of parliament were built up by the forces resident in their own bricks and lithologic blocks, and without the aid of hodman or mason, there would be nothing intrinsically more wonderful in the process than in the molecular architecture which delighted us upon the summit of monte rosa. [sidenote: startling avalanche. .] twice or thrice had my guide warned me that we must think of descending, for the snow continued to fall heavily, and the loss of our track would be attended with imminent peril. we therefore packed up, and clambered downward among the crags of the summit. we soon left these behind us, and as we stood once more upon the kamm, looking into the gloom beneath, an avalanche let loose from the side of an adjacent mountain shook the air with its thunder. we could not see it, could form no estimate of its distance, could only hear its roar, which coming to us through the darkness, had an undefinable element of horror in it. lauener remarked, "i never hear those things without a shudder; the memory of my brother comes back to me at the same time." his brother, who was the best climber in the oberland, had been literally broken to fragments by an avalanche on the slopes of the jungfrau. we had been separate coming up, each having trusted to himself, but the descent was more perilous, because it is more difficult to fix the heel of the boot than the toe securely in the ice. lauener was furnished with a rope, which he now tied round my waist, and forming a noose at the other end, he slipped it over his arm. this to me was a new mode of attachment. hitherto my guides in dangerous places had tied the ropes round _their_ waists also. simond had done it on mont blanc, and bennen on the finsteraarhorn, proving thus their willingness to share my fate whatever that might be. but here lauener had the power of sending me adrift at any moment, should his own life be imperilled. i told him that his mode of attachment was new to me, but he assured me that it would give him more power in case of accident. i did not see this at the time; but neither did i insist on his attaching himself in the usual way. it could neither be called anger nor pride, but a warm flush ran through me as i remarked, that i should take good care not to test his power of holding me. i believe i wronged my guide by the supposition that he made the arrangement with reference to his own safety, for all i saw of him afterwards proved that he would at any time have risked his life to save mine. the flush however did me good, by displacing every trace of anxiety, and the rope, i confess, was also a source of some comfort to me. we descended the kamm, i going first. "secure your footing before you move," was my guide's constant exhortation, "and make your staff firm at each step." we were sometimes quite close upon the rim of the kamm on the lyskamm side, and we also followed the depressions which marked our track along the cornice. this i now tried intentionally, and drove the handle of my axe through it once or twice. at two places in descending we were upon the solid ice, and these were some of the steepest portions of the kamm. they were undoubtedly perilous, and the utmost caution was necessary in fixing the staff and securing the footing. these however once past, we felt that the chief danger was over. we reached the termination of the edge, and although the snow continued to fall heavily, and obscure everything, we knew that our progress afterwards was secure. there was pleasure in this feeling; it was an agreeable variation of that grim mental tension to which i had been previously wound up, but which in itself was by no means disagreeable. [sidenote: splendid blue of the snow. .] [sidenote: stifling heat. .] i have already noticed the colour of the fresh snow upon the summit of the stelvio pass. since i observed it there it has been my custom to pay some attention to this point at all great elevations. this morning, as i ascended monte rosa, i often examined the holes made in the snow by our bâtons, but the light which issued from them was scarcely perceptibly blue. now, however, a deep layer of fresh snow overspread the mountain, and the effect was magnificent. along the kamm i was continually surprised and delighted by the blue gleams which issued from the broken or perforated stratum of new snow; each hole made by the staff was filled with a light as pure, and nearly as deep, as that of the unclouded firmament. when we reached the bottom of the kamm, lauener came to the front, and tramped before me. as his feet rose out of the snow, and shook the latter off in fragments, sudden and wonderful gleams of blue light flashed from them. doubtless the blue of the sky has much to do with mountain colouring, but in the present instance not only was there no blue sky, but the air was so thick with fog and descending snow-flakes, that we could not see twenty yards in advance of us. a thick fog, which wrapped the mountain quite closely, now added its gloom to the obscurity caused by the falling snow. before we reached the base of the mountain the fog became thin, and the sun shone through it. there was not a breath of air stirring, and, though we stood ankle-deep in snow, the heat surpassed anything of the kind i had ever felt: it was the dead suffocating warmth of the interior of an oven, which encompassed us on all sides, and from which there seemed no escape. our own motion through the air, however, cooled us considerably. we found the snow-bridges softer than in the morning, and consequently needing more caution; but we encountered no real difficulty among them. indeed it is amusing to observe the indifference with which a snow-roof is often broken through, and a traveller immersed to the waist in the jaws of a fissure. the effort at recovery is instantaneous; half instinctively hands and knees are driven into the snow, and rescue is immediate. fair glacier work was now before us; after which we reached the opposite mountain-slope, which we ascended, and then went down the flank of the riffelberg to our hotel. the excursion occupied us eleven and a half hours. footnotes: [a] my staff was always the handle of an axe an inch or two longer than an ordinary walking-stick. ( .) on the afternoon of the th i made an attempt alone to ascend the riffelhorn, and attained a considerable height; but i attacked it from the wrong side, and the fading light forced me to retreat. i found some agreeable people at the hotel on my return. one clergyman especially, with a clear complexion, good digestion, and bad lungs--of free, hearty, and genial manner--made himself extremely pleasant to us all. he appeared to bubble over with enjoyment, and with him and others on the morning of the th i walked to the görner grat, as it lay on the way to my work. we had a glorious prospect from the summit: indeed the assemblage of mountains, snow, and ice, here within view is perhaps without a rival in the world.[a] i shouldered my axe, and saying "good-bye" moved away from my companions. "are you going?" exclaimed the clergyman. "give me one grasp of your hand before we part." this was the signal for a grasp all round; and the hearty human kindness which thus showed itself contributed that day to make my work pleasant to me. [sidenote: a difficult descent. .] we proceeded along the ridge of the rothe kumme to a point which commanded a fine view of the glacier. the ice had been over these heights in ages past, for, although lichens covered the surfaces of the old rocks, they did not disguise the grooves and scratchings. the surface of the glacier was now about a thousand feet below us, and this it was our desire to attain. to reach it we had to descend a succession of precipices, which in general were weathered and rugged, but here and there, where the rock was durable, were fluted and grooved. once or twice indeed we had nothing to cling to but the little ridges thus formed. we had to squeeze ourselves through narrow fissures, and often to get round overhanging ledges, where our main trust was in our feet, but where these had only ledges an inch or so in width to rest upon. these cases were to me the most unpleasant of all, for they compelled the arms to take a position which, if the footing gave way, would necessitate a _wrench_, for which i entertain considerable abhorrence. we came at length to a gorge by which the mountain is rent from top to bottom, and into which we endeavoured to descend. we worked along its rim for a time, but found its smooth faces too deep. we retreated; lauener struck into another track, and while he tested it i sat down near some grass tufts, which flourished on one of the ledges, and found the temperature to be as follows:-- temperature of rock ° c. of air an inch above the rock of air a foot from rock of grass the first of these numbers does not fairly represent the temperature of the rock, as the thermometer could be in contact with it only at one side at a time. it was differences such as these between grass and stone, producing a mixed atmosphere of different densities, that weakened the sound of the falls of the orinoco, as observed and explained by humboldt. [sidenote: singular ice-cave. .] by a process of "trial and error" we at length reached the ice, after two hours had been spent in the effort to disentangle ourselves from the crags. the glacier is forcibly thrust at this place against the projecting base of the mountain, and the structure of the ice correspondingly developed. crevasses also intersect the ice, and the blue veins cross them at right angles. i ascended the glacier to a region where the ice was compressed and greatly contorted, and thought that in some cases i could see the veins crossing the lines of stratification. once my guide drew my attention to what he called "_ein sonderbares loch_." on one of the slopes an archway was formed which appeared to lead into the body of the glacier. we entered it, and explored the cavern to its end. the walls were of transparent blue ice, singularly free from air-bubbles; but where the roof of the cavern was thin enough to allow the sun to shine feebly through it, the transmitted light was of a pink colour. my guide expressed himself surprised at "_den röthlichen schein_." at one place a plate of ice had been placed like a ceiling across the cavern; but owing to lateral squeezing it had been broken so as to form a v. i found some air-bubbles in this ice, and in all cases they were associated with blebs of water. a portion of the "ceiling," indeed, was very full of bubbles, and was at some places reduced, by internal liquefaction, to a mere skeleton of ice, with water-cells between its walls. [sidenote: structure and strata. .] high up the glacier (towards the old weissthor) the horizontal stratification is everywhere beautifully shown. i drew my guide's attention to it, and he made the remark that the perfection of the lower ice was due to the pressure of the layers above it. "the snow by degrees compressed itself to glacier." as we approached one of the tributaries on the monte rosa side, where great pressure came into play, the stratification appeared to yield and the true structure to cross it at those places where it had yielded most. as the place of greatest pressure was approached, the bedding disappeared more and more, and a clear vertical structure was finally revealed. footnotes: [a] in mr. e. w. cooke made a pencil-sketch of this splendid panorama, which is the best and truest that i have yet seen. the gÖrner grat and the riffelhorn. magnetic phenomena. ( .) at an early hour on saturday, the th of august, i heard the servant exclaim, "_das wetter ist wunderschön!_" which good news caused me to spring from my bed and prepare to meet the morn. the range of summits at the opposite side of the valley of st. nicholas was at first quite clear, but as the sun ascended light cumuli formed round them, increasing in density up to a certain point; below these clouds the air of the valley was transparent; above them the air of heaven was still more so; and thus they swung midway between heaven and earth, ranging themselves in a level line along the necks of the mountains. [sidenote: generation of clouds. .] it might be supposed that the presence of the sun heating the air would tend to keep it more transparent, by increasing its capacity to dissolve all visible cloud; and this indeed is the true action of the sun. but it is not the only action. his rays, as he climbed the eastern heaven, shot more and more deeply into the valley of st. nicholas, the moisture of which rose as invisible vapour, remaining unseen as long as the air possessed sufficient warmth to keep it in the vaporous state. high up, however, the cold crags which had lost their heat by radiation the night before, acted like condensers upon the ascending vapour, and caused it to curdle into visible fog. the current, however, continued ascensional, and the clouds were slowly lifted above the tallest peaks, where they arranged themselves in fantastic forms, shifting and changing shape as they gradually melted away. one peak stood like a field-officer with his cap raised above his head, others sent straggling cloud-balloons upwards; but on watching these outliers they were gradually seen to disappear. at first they shone like snow in the sunlight, but as they became more attenuated they changed colour, passing through a dull red to a dusky purple hue, until finally they left no trace of their existence. [sidenote: the rocks warmed. .] [sidenote: scene from the gÖrner grat. .] as the day advanced, warming the rocks, the clouds wholly disappeared, and a hyaline air formed the setting of both glaciers and mountains. i climbed to the görner grat to obtain a general view of the surrounding scene. looking towards the origin of the görner glacier the view was bounded by a wide col, upon which stood two lovely rounded eminences enamelled with snow of perfect purity. they shone like burnished silver in the sunlight, as if their surfaces had been melted and recongealed to frosted mirrors from which the rays were flung. to the right of these were the bounding crags of monte rosa, and then the body of the mountain itself, with its crest of crag and coat of snows. to the right of monte rosa, and almost rivalling it in height, was the vast mass of the lyskamm, a rough and craggy mountain, to whose ledges clings the snow which cannot grasp its steeper walls, sometimes leaning over them in impending precipices, which often break, and send wild avalanches into the space below. between the lyskamm and monte rosa lies a large wide valley into which both mountains pour their snows, forming there the western glacier of monte rosa[a]--a noble ice stream, which from its magnitude and permanence deserves to impose its name upon the trunk glacier. it extends downwards from the col which unites the two mountains; riven and broken at some places, but at others stretching white and pure down to its snow-line, where the true glacier emerges from the _névé_. from the rounded shoulders of the twin castor a glacier descends, at first white and shining, then suddenly broken into faults, fissures, and precipices, which are afterwards repaired, and the glacier joins that of monte rosa before the junction of the latter with the trunk stream. next came a boss of rock, with a secondary glacier clinging to it as if plastered over it, and after it the schwarze glacier, bounded on one side by the breithorn, and on the other by the twin pollux. this glacier is of considerable magnitude. over its upper portion rise the twin eminences, pure and white; then follows a smooth and undulating space, after passing which the _névé_ is torn up into a collection of peaks and chasms; these, however, are mended lower down, and the glacier moves smoothly and calmly to meet its brothers in the main valley. next comes the trifti glacier,[b] embraced on all sides by the rocky arms of the breithorn; its mass is not very great, but it descends in a graceful sweep, and exhibits towards its extremity a succession of beautiful bands. afterwards we have the glacier of the petit mont cervin and those of st. théodule, which latter are the last that empty their frozen cargoes into the valley of the görner. all the glaciers here mentioned are welded together to a common trunk which squeezes itself through the narrow defile at the base of the riffelhorn. soon afterwards the moraines become confused, the glacier drops steeply to its termination, and ploughs up the meadows in front of it with its irresistible share. in a line with the riffelhorn, and rising over the latter so high as to make it almost vanish by comparison, was the titan obelisk of the matterhorn, from the base of which the furgge glacier struggles downwards. on the other side are the zmutt glacier, the schönbühl, and the hochwang, from the dent blanche; the gabelhorn and trift glaciers, from the summits which bear those names. then come the glaciers of the weisshorn. describing a curve still farther to the right we alight on the peaks of the mischabel, dark and craggy precipices from this side, though from the Æggischhorn they appear as cones of snow. sweeping by the alphubel, the allaleinhorn, the rympfischorn, and strahlhorn--all of them majestic--we reach the pass of the weissthor, and the cima di jazzi. this completes the glorious circuit within the observer's view. [sidenote: compass at fault. .] i placed my compass upon a piece of rock to find the bearing of the görner glacier, and was startled at seeing the sun and it at direct variance. what the sun declared to be north, the needle affirmed to be south. i at first supposed that the maker had placed the s where the n ought to be, and _vice versâ_. on shifting my position, however, the needle shifted also, and i saw immediately that the effect was due to the rock of the grat. sometimes one end of the needle _dipped_ forcibly, at other places it whirled suddenly round, indicating an entire change of polarity. the rock was evidently to be regarded as an assemblage of magnets, or as a single magnet full of "consequent points." a distance of transport not exceeding an inch was, in some cases, sufficient to reverse the position of the needle. i held the needle between the two sides of a long fissure a foot wide. the needle set _along_ the fissure at some places, while at others it set _across_ it. sometimes a little jutting knob would attract the north end of the needle, while a closely adjacent little knob would forcibly repel it, and attract the south end. one extremity of a ledge three feet long was north magnetic, the other end was south magnetic, while a neutral point existed midway between the two, the ledge having therefore the exact polar arrangement of an ordinary bar-magnet. at the highest point of the rock the action appeared to be most intense, but i also found an energetic polarity in a mass at some distance below the summit. [sidenote: magnetism of rocks. .] remembering that professor forbes had noticed some peculiar magnetic effect upon the riffelhorn, i resolved to ascend it. descending from the grat we mounted the rocks which form the base of the horn; these are soft and soapy from the quantity of mica which they contain; the higher rocks of the horn are, however, very dense and hard. the ascent is a pleasant bit of mountain practice. we climbed the walls of rock, and wound round the ledges, seeking the assailable points. i tried the magnetic condition of the rocks as we ascended, and found it in general feeble. in other respects the riffelhorn is a most remarkable mass. the ice of the görner glacier of former ages, which rose hundreds, perhaps thousands of feet above its present level, encountered the horn in its descent, and was split by the latter, a diversion of the ice along the sides of the peak being the consequence. portions of the vertical walls of the horn are polished by this action as if they had come from the hands of a lapidary, and the scratchings are as sharp and definite as if drawn by points of steel. i never saw scratchings so perfectly preserved: the finest lines are as clear as the deepest, a consequence of the great density and durability of the rock. the latter evidently contains a good deal of iron, and its surface near the summit is of the rich brown red due to the peroxide of the metal. when we fairly got among the precipices we left our hatchets behind us, trusting subsequently to our hands and feet alone. squeezing, creeping, clinging, and climbing, in due time we found ourselves upon the summit of the horn. [sidenote: ascent of the riffelhorn. .] a pile of stones had been erected near the point where we gained the top. i examined the stones of this pile, and found them strongly polar. the surrounding rocks also showed a violent action, the needle oscillating quickly, and sometimes twirling swiftly round upon a slight change of position. the fragments of rock scattered about were also polar. long ledges showed north magnetism for a considerable length, and again for an equal length south magnetism. two parallel masses separated from each other by a fissure, showed the same magnetic distribution. while i was engaged at one end of the horn, lauener wandered to the other, on which stood two or three _hommes de pierres_. he was about disturbing some of the stones, when a yell from me surprised him. in fact, the thought had occurred to me that the magnetism of the horn had been developed by lightning striking upon it, and my desire was to examine those points which were most exposed to the discharge of the atmospheric electricity; hence my shout to my guide to let the stones alone. i worked towards the other end of the horn, examining the rocks in my way. two weathered prominences, which seemed very likely recipients of the lightning, acted violently upon the needle. i sometimes descended a little way, and found that among the rocks below the summit the action was greatly enfeebled. on reaching another very prominent point, i found its extremity all north polar, but at a little distance was a cluster of consequent points, among which the transport of a few inches was sufficient to turn the needle round and round. [sidenote: magnetism of the horn. .] the piles of stone at the zermatt end of the horn did not seem so strongly polar as the pile at the other end, which was higher; still a strong polar action was manifested at many points of the surrounding rocks. having completed the examination of the summit, i descended the horn, and examined its magnetic condition as i went along. it seemed to me that the jutting prominences always exhibited the strongest action. i do not indeed remember any case in which a strong action did not exhibit itself at the ends of the terraces which constitute the horn. in all cases, however, the rock acted as a number of magnets huddled confusedly together, and not as if its entire mass was endowed with magnetism of one kind. [illustration: fig. . magnetic boulder of the riffelhorn.] on the evening of the same day i examined the lower spur of the riffelhorn. amid its fissures and gullies one feels as if wandering through the ruins of a vast castle or fortification; the precipices are so like walls, and the scratching and polishing so like what might be done by the hands of man. i found evidences of strong polar action in some of the rocks low down. in the same continuous mass the action would sometimes exhibit itself over an area of small extent, while the remainder of the rock showed no appreciable action. some of the boulders cast down from the summit exhibited a strong and varied polarity. fig. is a sketch of one of these; the barbed end of each arrow represents the north end of the needle, which assumed the various positions shown in the figure. midway down the spur i lighted upon a transverse wall of rock, which formed in earlier ages the boundary of a lateral outlet of the görner glacier. it was red and hard, weathered rough at some places, and polished smooth at others. the lines were drawn finely upon it, but its outer surface appeared to be peeling off like a crust; the polished layer rested upon the rock like a kind of enamel. the action of the glacier appeared to resemble that of the break of a locomotive upon rails, both being cases of exfoliation brought about by pressure and friction. this wall measured twenty-eight yards across, and one end of it, for a distance of ten or twelve yards, was all north polar; the other end for a similar distance was south polar, but there was a pair of consequent points at its centre. [sidenote: the magnetic force. .] to meet the case of my young readers, i will here say a few words about the magnetic force. the common magnetic needle points nearly north and south; and if a bit of iron be brought near to either end of the needle, they will mutually attract each other. a piece of lead will not show this effect, nor will copper, gold, nor silver. iron, in fact, is a magnetic metal, which the others are not. it is to be particularly observed, that the bit of iron attracts _both ends_ of the needle when it is presented to them in succession; and if a common steel sewing needle be substituted for the iron it will be seen that it also has the power of attracting both ends of the magnetic needle. but if the needle be rubbed once or twice along one end of a magnet, it will be found that one of its ends will afterwards _repel_ a certain end of the magnetic needle and attract the other. by rubbing the needle on the magnet, we thus develop both attraction and repulsion, and this double action of the magnetic force is called its _polarity_; thus the steel which was at first simply _magnetic_, is now magnetic and _polar_. it is the aim of persons making magnets, that each magnet should have but _two_ poles, at its two ends; it is, however, easy to develop in the same piece of steel several pairs or poles; and if the magnetization be irregular, this is sometimes done when we wish to avoid it. these irregular poles are called _consequent points_. now i want my young reader to understand that it is not only because the rocks of the görner grat and riffelhorn contain iron, that they exhibit the action which i have described. they are not only magnetic, as common iron is, but, like the magnetized steel needle, they are magnetic and polar. and these poles are irregularly distributed like the "consequent points" to which i have referred, and this is the reason why i have used the term. [sidenote: bearings from the riffelhorn. .] professor forbes, as i have already stated, was the first to notice the effect of the riffelhorn upon the magnetic needle, but he seems to have supposed that the entire mass of the mountain exercised "a local attraction" upon the needle; (upon which end he does not say). to enable future observers to allow for this attraction, he took the bearing of several of the surrounding mountains from the riffelhorn; but it is very probable that had he changed his position a few inches, and perfectly certain had he changed it a few yards, he would have found a set of bearings totally different from those which he has recorded. the close proximity and irregular distribution of its consequent points would prevent the riffelhorn from exerting any appreciable influence on _a distant needle_, as in this case the local poles would effectually neutralize each other. footnotes: [a] now called, in the federal map, the 'grenz glacier.'--l. c. t. [b] i take this name from studer's map. sometimes, however, i have called it the "breithorn glacier." ( .) [sidenote: mont cervin as cloud-maker. .] on the morning of the th the riffelberg was swathed in a dense fog, through which heavy rain showered incessantly. towards one o'clock the continuity of the gray mass was broken, and sky-gleams of the deepest blue were seen through its apertures; these would close up again, and others open elsewhere, as if the fog were fighting for existence with the sun behind it. the sun, however, triumphed, the mountains came more and more into view, and finally the entire air was swept clear. i went up to the görner grat in the afternoon, and examined more closely the magnetism of its rocks; here, as on the riffelhorn, i found it most pronounced at the jutting prominences of the grat. can it be that the superior exposure is more favourable to the formation of the magnetic oxide of iron? i secured a number of fragments, which i still possess, and which act forcibly upon a magnetic needle. the sun was near the western horizon, and i remained alone upon the grat to see his last beams illuminate the mountains, which, with one exception, were without a trace of cloud. this exception was the matterhorn, the appearance of which was extremely instructive. the obelisk appeared to be divided in two halves by a vertical line drawn from its summit half way down, to the windward of which we had the bare cliffs of the mountain; and to the left of it a cloud which appeared to cling tenaciously to the rocks. in reality, however, there was no clinging; the condensed vapour incessantly got away, but it was ever renewed, and thus a river of cloud had been sent from the mountain over the valley of aosta. the wind in fact blew lightly up the valley of st. nicholas charged with moisture, and when the air that held it rubbed against the cold cone of the matterhorn the vapour was chilled and precipitated in his lee. the summit seemed to smoke sometimes like a burning mountain; for immediately after its generation, the fog was drawn away in long filaments by the wind. as the sun sank lower the ruddiness of his light augmented, until these filaments resembled streamers of flame. the sun sank deeper, the light was gradually withdrawn, and where it had entirely vanished it left the mountain like a desolate old man whose "hoary hair stream'd like a meteor in the troubled air." for a moment after the sun had disappeared the scene was amazingly grand. the distant west was ruddy, copious gray smoke-wreaths were wafted from the mountains, while high overhead, in an atmospheric region which seemed perfectly motionless, floated a broad thin cloud, dyed with the richest iridescences. the colours were of the same character as those which i had seen upon the aletschhorn, being due to interference, and in point of splendour and variety far exceeded anything ever produced by the mere coloured light of the setting sun. [sidenote: cells in the ice. .] on the th i was early upon the glacier. it had frozen hard during the night, and the partially liberated streams flowed, in many cases, over their own ice. i took some clear plates from under the water, and found in them numerous liquid cells, each associated with an air-bubble or a vacuous spot. the most common shape of the cells was a regular hexagon, but there were all forms between the perfect hexagon and the perfect circle. many cells had also crimped borders, intimating that their primitive form was that of a flower with six leaves. a plate taken from ice which was defended from the sunbeams by the shadow of a rock had no such cells; so that those that i observed were probably due to solar radiation. my first aim was to examine the structure of the görnerhorn glacier,[a] which descends the breast of monte rosa until it is abruptly cut off by the great western glacier of the mountain.[b] between them is a moraine which is at once terminal as regards the former, and lateral as regards the latter. the ice is veined vertically along the moraine, the direction of the structure being parallel to the latter. i ascended the glacier, and found, as i retreated from the place where the thrust was most violent, that the structure became more feeble. from the glacier i passed to the rocks called "_auf der platte_," so as to obtain a general view of its terminal portion. the gradual perfecting of the structure as the region of pressure was approached was very manifest: the ice at the end seemed to wrinkle up in obedience to the pressure, the structural furrows, from being scarcely visible, became more and more decided, and the lamination underneath correspondingly pronounced, until it finally attained a state of great perfection. [sidenote: structure of the ice. .] i now quitted the rocks and walked straight across the western glacier of monte rosa to its centre, where i found the structure scarcely visible. i next faced the görner grat, and walked down the glacier towards the moraine which divides it from the görner glacier. the mechanical conditions of the ice here are quite evident; each step brought me to a place of greater pressure, and also to a place of more highly developed structure, until finally near to the moraine itself, and running parallel to it, a magnificent lamination was developed. here the superficial groovings could be traced to great distances, and beside the moraine were boulders poised on pedestals of ice through which the blue veins ran. at some places the ice had been weathered into laminæ not more than a line in thickness. i now recrossed the monte rosa glacier to its junction with the schwartze glacier, which descends between the twins and breithorn. the structure of the monte rosa glacier is here far less pronounced than at the other side, and the pressure which it endures is also manifestly less; the structure of the schwartze glacier is fairly developed, being here parallel to its moraine. the cliffs of the breithorn are much exposed to weathering action, and boulders are copiously showered down upon the adjacent ice. between the schwartze glacier and the glacier which descends from the breast of the breithorn itself these blocks ride upon a spine of ice, and form a moraine of grand proportions. from it a fine view of the glacier is attainable, and the gradual development of its structure as the region of maximum pressure is approached is very plain. a number of gracefully curved undulations sweep across the breithorn glacier, which are squeezed more closely together as the moraine is approached. all the glaciers that descend from the flanking mountains of the görner valley are suddenly turned aside where they meet the great trunk stream, and are reduced by the pressure to narrow stripes of ice separated from each other by parallel moraines. [sidenote: tributaries explored. .] i ascended the breithorn glacier to the base of an ice-fall, on one side of which i found large crumples produced by the pressure, the veined structure being developed at right angles to the direction of the latter. no such structure was visible above this place. the crumples were cut by fissures, perpendicular to which the blue veins ran. i now quitted the glacier, and clambered up the adjacent alp, from which a fine view of the general surface was attainable. as in the case of the görnerhorn glacier, the gradual perfecting of the structure was very manifest; the dirt, which first irregularly scattered over the surface, gradually assumed a striated appearance, and became more and more decided as the moraine was approached. descending from the alp, i endeavoured to measure some of the undulations; proceeding afterwards to the junction of the breithorn glacier with that of st. théodule. the end of the latter appears to be crumpled by its thrust against the former, and the moraine between them, instead of being raised, runs along a hollow which is flanked by the crumples on either side. the breithorn glacier became more and more attenuated, until finally it actually vanished under its own moraines. on the sides of the crevasses, by which the théodule glacier is here intersected, i thought i could plainly see two systems of veins cutting each other at an angle of fifteen or twenty degrees. reaching the görner glacier, at a place where its dislocation was very great, i proceeded down it past the riffelhorn, to a point where it seemed possible to scale the opposite mountain wall. here i crossed the glacier, treading with the utmost caution along the combs of ice, and winding through the entanglement of crevasses until the spur of the riffelhorn was reached; this i climbed to its summit, and afterwards crossed the green alp to our hotel. [sidenote: temptation. .] the foregoing good day's work was rewarded by a sound sleep at night. the tourists were called in succession next morning, but after each call i instantly subsided into deep slumber, and thus healthily spaced out the interval of darkness. day at length dawned and gradually brightened. i looked at my watch and found it twenty minutes to six. my guide had been lent to a party of gentlemen who had started at three o'clock for the summit of monte rosa, and he had left with me a porter who undertook to conduct me to one of the adjacent glaciers. but as i looked from my window the unspeakable beauty of the morning filled me with a longing to see the world from the top of monte rosa. i was in exceedingly good condition--could i not reach the summit alone? trained and indurated as i had been, i felt that the thing was possible; at all events i could try, without attempting anything which was not clearly within my power. footnotes: [a] now called, in the federal map, the "monte rosa glacier." görnerhorn is an old local name for the central mass of monte rosa.--l. c. t. [b] _see_ p. , footnote. second ascent of monte rosa, . ( .) [sidenote: a light scrip. .] whether my exercise be mental or bodily, i am always most vigorous when cool. during my student life in germany, the friends who visited me always complained of the low temperature of my room, and here among the alps it was no uncommon thing for me to wander over the glaciers from morning till evening in my shirt-sleeves. my object now was to go as light as possible, and hence i left my coat and neckcloth behind me, trusting to the sun and my own motion to make good the calorific waste. after breakfast i poured what remained of my tea into a small glass bottle, an ordinary demi-bouteille, in fact; the waiter then provided me with a ham sandwich, and, with my scrip thus frugally furnished, i thought the heights of monte rosa might be won. i had neither brandy nor wine, but i knew the immense amount of mechanical force represented by four ounces of bread and ham, and i therefore feared no failure from lack of nutriment. indeed, i am inclined to think that both guides and travellers often impair their vigour and render themselves cowardly and apathetic by the incessant "refreshing" which they deem it necessary to indulge in on such occasions. [sidenote: the guide expostulates. .] [sidenote: the guide halts. .] the guide whom lauener intended for me was at the door; i passed him and desired him to follow me. this he at first refused to do, as he did not recognise me in my shirt-sleeves; but his companions set him right, and he ran after me. i transferred my scrip to his shoulders, and led the way upward. once or twice he insinuated that that was not the way to the schwarze-see, and was probably perplexed by my inattention. from the summit of the ridge which bounds the görner glacier the whole grand panorama revealed itself, and on the higher slopes of monte rosa--so high, indeed, as to put all hope of overtaking them, or even coming near them, out of the question--a row of black dots revealed the company which had started at three o'clock from the hotel. they had made remarkably good use of their time, and i was afterwards informed that the cause of this was the intense cold, which compelled them to keep up the proper supply of heat by increased exertion. i descended swiftly to the glacier, and made for the base of monte rosa, my guide following at some distance behind me. one of the streams, produced by superficial melting, had cut for itself a deep wide channel in the ice; it was not too wide for a spring, and with the aid of a run i cleared it and went on. some minutes afterwards i could hear the voice of my companion exclaiming, in a tone of expostulation, "no, no, i won't follow you there." he however made a circuit, and crossed the stream; i waited for him at the place where the monte rosa glacier joins the rock, "_auf der platte_," and helped him down the ice-slope. at the summit of these rocks i again waited for him. he approached me with some excitement of manner, and said that it now appeared plain to him that i intended to ascend monte rosa, but that he would not go with me. i asked him to accompany me to the summit of the next cliff, which he agreed to do; and i found him of some service to me. he discovered the faint traces of the party in advance, and, from his greater experience, could keep them better in view than i could. we lost them, however, near the base of the cliff at which we aimed, and i went on, choosing as nearly as i could remember the route followed by lauener and myself a week previously, while my guide took another route, seeking for the traces. the glacier here is crevassed, and i was among the fissures some distance in advance of my companion. fear was manifestly getting the better of him, and he finally stood still, exclaiming, "no man can pass there." at the same moment i discovered the trace, and drew his attention to it; he approached me submissively, said that i was quite right, and declared his willingness to go on. we climbed the cliff, and discovered the trace in the snow above it. here i transferred the scrip and telescope to my own shoulders, and gave my companion a cheque for five francs. he returned, and i went on alone. the sun and heaven were glorious, but the cold was nevertheless intense, for it had frozen bitterly the night before. the mountain seemed more noble and lovely than when i had last ascended it; and as i climbed the slopes, crossed the shining cols, and rounded the vast snow-bosses of the mountain, the sense of being alone lent a new interest to the glorious scene. i followed the track of those who preceded me, which was that pursued by lauener and myself a week previously. once i deviated from it to obtain a glimpse of italy over the saddle which stretches from monte rosa to the lyskamm. deep below me was the valley, with its huge and dislocated _névé_, and the slope on which i hung was just sufficiently steep to keep the attention aroused without creating anxiety. i prefer such a slope to one on which the thought of danger cannot be entertained. i become more weary upon a dead level, or in walking up such a valley as that which stretches between visp and zermatt, than on a steep mountain side. the sense of weariness is often no index to the expenditure of muscular force: the muscles may be charged with force, and, if the nervous excitant be feeble, the strength lies dormant, and we are tired without exertion. but the thought of peril keeps the mind awake, and spurs the muscles into action; they move with alacrity and freedom, and the time passes swiftly and pleasantly. [sidenote: left alone. .] occupied with my own thoughts as i ascended, i sometimes unconsciously went too quickly, and felt the effects of the exertion. i then slackened my pace, allowing each limb an instant of repose as i drew it out of the snow, and found that in this way walking became rest. this is an illustration of the principle which runs throughout nature--to accomplish physical changes, _time_ is necessary. different positions of the limb require different molecular arrangements; and to pass from one to the other requires time. by lifting the leg slowly and allowing it to fall forward by its own gravity, a man may get on steadily for several hours, while a very slight addition to this pace may speedily exhaust him. of course the normal pace differs in different persons, but in all the power of endurance may be vastly augmented by the prudent outlay of muscular force. the sun had long shone down upon me with intense fervour, but i now noticed a strange modification of the light upon the slopes of snow. i looked upwards, and saw a most gorgeous exhibition of interference-colours. a light veil of clouds had drawn itself between me and the sun, and this was flooded with the most brilliant dyes. orange, red, green, blue--all the hues produced by diffraction were exhibited in the utmost splendour. there seemed a tendency to form circular zones of colour round the sun, but the clouds were not sufficiently uniform to permit of this, and they were consequently broken into spaces, each steeped with the colour due to the condition of the cloud at the place. three times during my ascent similar veils drew themselves across the sun, and at each passage the splendid phenomena were renewed. as i reached the middle of the mountain an avalanche was let loose from the sides of the lyskamm; the thunder drew my eyes to the place; i saw the ice move, but it was only the tail of the avalanche; still the volume of sound told me that it was a huge one. suddenly the front of it appeared from behind a projecting rock, hurling its ice-masses with fury into the valley, and tossing its rounded clouds of ice-dust high into the atmosphere. a wild long-drawn sound, multiplied by echoes, now descended from the heights above me. it struck me at first as a note of lamentation, and i thought that possibly one of the party which was now near the summit had gone over the precipice. on listening more attentively i found that the sound shaped itself into an english "hurrah!" i was evidently nearing the party, and on looking upwards i could see them, but still at an immense height above me. the summit still rose before them, and i therefore thought the cheer premature. a precipice of ice was now in front of me, around which i wound to the right, and in a few minutes found myself fairly at the bottom of the kamm. [sidenote: giddiness on the kamm. .] [sidenote: scrip left behind. .] i paused here for a moment, and reflected on the work before me. my head was clear, my muscles in perfect condition, and i felt just sufficient fear to render me careful. i faced the kamm, and went up slowly but surely, and soon heard the cheer which announced the arrival of the party at the summit of the mountain. it was a wild, weird, intermittent sound, swelling or falling as the echoes reinforced or enfeebled it. in getting through the rocks which protrude from the snow at the base of the last spur of the mountain, i once had occasion to stoop my head, and, on suddenly raising it, my eyes swam as they rested on the unbroken slope of snow at my left. the sensation was akin to giddiness, but i believe it was chiefly due to the absence of any object upon the snow upon which i could converge the axes of my eyes. up to this point i had eaten nothing. i now unloosed my scrip, and had two mouthfuls of sandwich and nearly the whole of the tea that remained. i found here that my load, light as it was, impeded me. when fine balancing is necessary, the presence of a very light load, to which one is unaccustomed, may introduce an element of danger, and for this reason i here left the residue of my tea and sandwich behind me. a long, long edge was now in front of me, sloping steeply upwards. as i commenced the ascent of this, the foremost of those whose cheer had reached me from the summit some time previously, appeared upon the top of the edge, and the whole party was seen immediately afterwards dangling on the kamm. we mutually approached each other. peter bohren, a well-known oberland guide, came first, and after him came the gentleman in his immediate charge. then came other guides with other gentlemen, and last of all my guide, lauener, with his strong right arm round the youngest of the party. we met where a rock protruded through the snow. the cold smote my naked throat bitterly, so to protect it i borrowed a handkerchief from lauener, bade my new acquaintances good bye, and proceeded upwards. i was soon at the place where the snow-ridge joins the rocks which constitute the crest of the mountain; through these my way lay, every step i took augmenting my distance from all life, and increasing my sense of solitude. i went up and down the cliffs as before, round ledges, through fissures, along edges of rock, over the last deep and rugged indentation, and up the rocks at its opposite side, to the summit. [sidenote: alone on the summit. .] [sidenote: the axe slips. .] a world of clouds and mountains lay beneath me. switzerland, with its pomp of summits, was clear and grand; italy was also grand, but more than half obscured. dark cumulus and dark crag vied in savagery, while at other places white snows and white clouds held equal rivalry. the scooped valleys of monte rosa itself were magnificent, all gleaming in the bright sunlight--tossed and torn at intervals, and sending from their rents and walls the magical blue of the ice. ponderous _névés_ lay upon the mountains, apparently motionless, but suggesting motion--sluggish, but indicating irresistible dynamic energy, which moved them slowly to their doom in the warmer valleys below. i thought of my position: it was the first time that a man had stood alone upon that wild peak, and were the imagination let loose amid the surrounding agencies, and permitted to dwell upon the perils which separated the climber from his kind, i dare say curious feelings might have been engendered. but i was prompt to quell all thoughts which might lessen my strength, or interfere with the calm application of it. once indeed an accident made me shudder. while taking the cork from a bottle which is deposited on the top, and which contains the names of those who have ascended the mountain, my axe slipped out of my hand, and slid some thirty feet away from me. the thought of losing it made my flesh creep, for without it descent would be utterly impossible. i regained it, and looked upon it with an affection which might be bestowed upon a living thing, for it was literally my staff of life under the circumstances. one look more over the cloud-capped mountains of italy, and i then turned my back upon them, and commenced the descent. the brown crags seemed to look at me with a kind of friendly recognition, and, with a surer and firmer feeling than i possessed on ascending, i swung myself from crag to crag and from ledge to ledge with a velocity which surprised myself. i reached the summit of the kamm, and saw the party which i had passed an hour and a half before, emerging from one of the hollows of the mountain; they had escaped from the edge which now lay between them and me. the thought of the possible loss of my axe at the summit was here forcibly revived, for without it i dared not take a single step. my first care was to anchor it firmly in the snow, so as to enable it to bear at times nearly the whole weight of my body. in some places, however, the anchor had but a loose hold; the "cornice" to which i have already referred became granular, and the handle of the axe went through it up to the head, still, however, remaining loose. some amount of trust had thus to be withdrawn from the staff and placed in the limbs. a curious mixture of carelessness and anxiety sometimes fills the mind on such occasions. i often caught myself humming a verse of a frivolous song, but this was mechanical, and the substratum of a man's feelings under such circumstances is real earnestness. the precipice to my left was a continual preacher of caution, and the slope to my right was hardly less impressive. i looked down the former but rarely, and sometimes descended for a considerable time without looking beyond my own footsteps. the power of a thought was illustrated on one of these occasions. i had descended with extreme slowness and caution for some time, when looking over the edge of the cornice i saw a row of pointed rocks at some distance below me. these i felt must receive me if i slipped over, and i thought how before reaching them i might so break my fall as to arrive at them unkilled. this thought enabled me to double my speed, and as long as the spiky barrier ran parallel to my track i held my staff in one hand, and contented myself with a slight pressure upon it. i came at length to a place where the edge was solid ice, which rose to the level of the cornice, the latter appearing as if merely stuck against it. a groove ran between the ice and snow, and along this groove i marched until the cornice became unsafe, and i had to betake myself to the ice. the place was really perilous, but, encouraging myself by the reflection that it would not last long, i carefully and deliberately hewed steps, causing them to dip a little inward, so as to afford a purchase for the heel of my boot, never forsaking one till the next was ready, and never wielding my hatchet until my balance was secured. i was soon at the bottom of the kamm, fairly out of danger, and full of glad vigour i bore swiftly down upon the party in advance of me. it was an easy task to me to fuse myself amongst them as if i had been an old acquaintance, and we joyfully slid, galloped, and rolled together down the residue of the mountain. [sidenote: accident on the kamm. .] the only exception was the young gentleman in lauener's care. a day or two previously he had, i believe, injured himself in crossing the gemmi, and long before he reached the summit of monte rosa his knee swelled, and he walked with great difficulty. but he persisted in ascending, and lauener, seeing his great courage, thought it a pity to leave him behind. i have stated that a portion of the kamm was solid ice. on descending this, mr. f.'s footing gave way, and he slipped forward. lauener was forced to accompany him, for the place was too steep and slippery to permit of their motion being checked. both were on the point of going over the lyskamm side of the mountain, where they would have indubitably been dashed to pieces. "there was no escape there," said lauener, in describing the incident to me subsequently, "but i saw a possible rescue at the other side, so i sprang to the right, forcibly swinging my companion round; but in doing so, the bâton tripped me up; we both fell, and rolled rapidly over each other down the incline. i knew that some precipices were in advance of us, over which we should have gone, so, releasing myself from my companion, i threw myself in front of him, stopped myself with my axe, and thus placed a barrier before him." after some vain efforts at sliding down the slopes on a bâton, in which practice i was fairly beaten by some of my new friends, i attached myself to the invalid, and walked with him and lauener homewards. had i gone forward with the foremost of the party, i should have completed the expedition to the summit and back in a little better than nine hours. [sidenote: danger of climbing alone. .] i think it right to say one earnest word in connexion with this ascent; and the more so as i believe a notion is growing prevalent that half what is said and written about the dangers of the alps is mere humbug. no doubt exaggeration is not rare, but i would emphatically warn my readers against acting upon the supposition that it is general. the dangers of mont blanc, monte rosa, and other mountains, are real, and, if not properly provided against, may be terrible. i have been much accustomed to be alone upon the glaciers, but sometimes, even when a guide was in front of me, i have felt an extreme longing to have a second one behind me. less than two good ones i think an arduous climber ought not to have; and if climbing without guides were to become habitual, deplorable consequences would assuredly sooner or later ensue. ( .) the th of august i spent upon the furgge glacier at the base of mont cervin, and what it taught me shall be stated in another place. the evening of this day was signalised by the pleasant acquaintances which it gave me. it was my intention to cross the weissthor on the morning of the th, but thunder, lightning, and heavy rain opposed the project, and with two friends i descended, amid pitiless rain, to zermatt. next day i walked by way of stalden to saas, where i made the acquaintance of herr imseng, the curé, and on the st ascended to the distel alp. near to this place the allalein glacier pushes its huge terminus right across the valley and dams up the streams descending from the mountains higher up, thus giving birth to a dismal lake. at one end of this stands the mattmark hotel, which was to be my headquarters for a few days. [sidenote: ascent of a boulder. .] i reached the place in good company. near to the hotel are two magnificent boulders of green serpentine, which have been lodged there by one of the lateral glaciers; and two of the ladies desiring to ascend one of these rocks, a friend and myself helped them to the top. the thing was accomplished in a very spirited way. indeed the general contrast, in regard to energy, between the maidens of the british isles and those of the continent and of america is extraordinary. surely those who talk of this country being in its old age overlook the physical vigour of its sons and daughters. they are strong, but from a combination of the greatest forces we may obtain a small resultant, because the forces may act in opposite directions and partly neutralize each other. herein, in fact, lies britain's weakness; it is strength ill-directed; and is indicative rather of the perversity of young blood than of the precision of mature years. [sidenote: dismal quarters. .] immediately after this achievement i was forsaken by my friends, and remained the only visitor in the hotel. a dense gray cloud gradually filled the entire atmosphere, from which the rain at length began to gush in torrents. the scene from the windows of the hotel was of the most dismal character; the rain also came through the roof, and dripped from the ceiling to the floor. i endeavoured to make a fire, but the air would not let the smoke of the pine-logs ascend, and the biting of the hydrocarbons was excruciating to the eyes. on the whole, the cold was preferable to the smoke. during the night the rain changed to snow, and on the morning of the nd all the mountains were thickly covered. the gray delta through which a river of many arms ran into the mattmark see was hidden; against some of the windows of the _salle à manger_ the snow was also piled, obscuring more than half their light. i had sent my guide to visp, and two women and myself were the only occupants of the place. it was extremely desolate--i felt, moreover, the chill of monte rosa in my throat, and the conditions were not favourable to the cure of a cold. on the rd the allalein glacier was unfit for work; i therefore ascended to the summit of the monte moro, and found the valaisian side of the pass in clear sunshine, while impenetrable fog met us on the italian side. i examined the colour of the freshly fallen snow; it was not an ordinary blue, and was even more transparent than the blue of the firmament. when the snow was broken the light flashed forth; when the staff was dug into the snow and withdrawn, the blue gleam appeared; when the staff lay in a hole, although there might be a sufficient space all round it, the coloured light refused to show itself. my cough kept me awake on the night of the rd, and my cold was worse next day. i went upon the allalein glacier, but found myself by no means so sure a climber as usual. the best guides find that their powers vary; they are not equally competent on all days. i have heard a celebrated chamouni guide assert that a man's _morale_ is different on different days. the morale in my case had a physical basis, and it probably has so in all. the allalein glacier, as i have said, crosses the valley and abuts against the opposite mountain; here it is forced to turn aside, and in consequence of the thrust and bending it is crumpled and crevassed. the wall of the mattmark see is a fine glacier section: looked at from a distance, the ridges and fissures appear arranged like a fan. the structure of the crumpled ice varies from the vertical to the horizontal, and the ridges are sometimes split _along_ the planes of structure. the aspect of this portion of the glacier from some of the adjacent heights is exceedingly interesting. [sidenote: the vault of the allalein. .] on the morning of the th i had two hours' clambering over the mountains before breakfast, and traced the action of ancient glaciers to a great height. the valley of saas in this respect rivals that of hasli; the flutings and polishings being on the grandest scale. after breakfast i went to the end of the allalein glacier, where the saas visp river rushes from it: the vault was exceedingly fine, being composed of concentric arches of clear blue ice. i spent several hours here examining the intimate structure of the ice, and found the vacuum disks which i shall describe at another place, of the greatest service to me. as at rosenlaui and elsewhere, they here taught me that the glacier was composed of an aggregate of small fragments, each of which had a definite plane of crystallization. where the ice was partially weathered the surfaces of division between the fragments could be traced through the coherent mass, but on crossing these surfaces the direction of the vacuum disks changed, indicating a similar change of the planes of crystallization. the blue veins of the glacier went through its component fragments irrespective of these planes. sometimes the vacuum disks were parallel to the veins, sometimes across them, sometimes oblique to them. several fine masses of ice had fallen from the arch upon its floor, and these were disintegrated to the core. a kick, or a stroke of an axe, sufficed to shake masses almost a cubic yard in size into fragments varying not much on either side of a cubic inch. the veining was finely preserved on the concentric arches of the vault, and some of them apparently exhibited its abolition, or at least confusion, and fresh development by new conditions of pressure. the river being deep and turbulent this day, to reach its opposite side i had to climb the glacier and cross over the crown of its highest arch; this enabled me to get quite in front of the vault, to enter it, and closely inspect those portions where the structure appeared to change. i afterwards ascended the steep moraine which lies between the allalein and the smaller glacier to the left of it; passing to the latter at intervals to examine its structure. i was at length stopped by the dislocated ice; and from the heights i could count a system of seven dirt-bands, formed by the undulations on the surface of the glacier. on my return to the hotel i found there a number of well-known alpine men who intended to cross the adler pass on the following day. herr imseng was there: he came to me full of enthusiasm, and asked me whether i would join him in an ascent of the dom: we might immediately attack it; and he felt sure that we should succeed. the dom is the highest of the mischabel peaks, and is one of the grandest of the alps. i agreed to join the curé, and with this understanding we parted for the night. [sidenote: avalanche at saas. .] thursday, th august.--a wild stormy morning after a wild and rainy night: the adler pass being impassable, the mountaineers returned, and imseng informed me that the dom must be abandoned. he gave me the statistics of an avalanche which had fallen in the valley some years before. within the memory of man saas had never been touched by an avalanche, but a tradition existed that such a catastrophe had once occurred. on the th of march, , at eight o'clock in the morning, the curé was in his room; when he heard the cracking of pine-branches, and inferred from the sound that an avalanche was descending upon the village. it dashed in the windows of his house and filled his rooms with snow; the sound it produced being sufficient to mask the crashing of the timbers of an adjacent house. three persons were killed. on the rd of april, , heavy snow fell at saas; the curé waited until it had attained a depth of four feet, and then retreated to fée. that night an avalanche descended, and in the line of its rush was a house in which five or six and twenty people had collected for safety: nineteen of them were killed. the curé afterwards showed me the site of the house, and the direction of the avalanche. it passed through a pine wood; and on expressing my surprise that the trees did not arrest it, he replied that the snow was "quite like dust," and rushed among the trees like so much water. to return from fée to saas on the day following he found it necessary to carry two planks. kneeling upon one of them, he pushed the other forward, and transferred his weight to it, drawing the other after him and repeating the same act. the snow was like flour, and would not otherwise bear his weight. seeing no prospect of fine weather, i descended to saas on the afternoon of the th. i was the only guest at the hotel; but during the evening i was gratified by the unexpected arrival of my friend hirst, who was on his way over the monte moro to italy. [sidenote: the fÉe glacier. .] [sidenote: snow, vapour and cloud. .] for the last five days it had been a struggle between the north wind and the south, each edging the other by turns out of its atmospheric bed, and producing copious precipitation; but now the conflict was decided--the north had prevailed, and an almost unclouded heaven overspread the alps. the few white fleecy masses that remained were good indications of the swift march of the wind in the upper air. my friend and i resolved to have at least one day's excursion together, and we chose for it the glacier of the fée. ascending the mountain by a well-beaten path, we passed a number of "calvaries" filled with tattered saints and virgins, and soon came upon the rim of a flattened bowl quite clasped by the mountains. in its centre was the little hamlet of fée, round which were fresh green pastures, and beyond it the perpetual ice and snow. it was exceedingly picturesque--a scene of human beauty and industry where savagery alone was to be expected. the basin had been scooped by glaciers, and as we paused at its entrance the rounded and fluted rocks were beneath our feet. the alphubel and the mischabel raised their crowns to heaven in front of us; the newly fallen snow clung where it could to the precipitous crags of the mischabel, but on the summits it was the sport of the wind. sometimes it was borne straight upwards in long vertical striæ; sometimes the fibrous columns swayed to the right, sometimes to the left; sometimes the motion on one of the summits would quite subside; anon the white peak would appear suddenly to shake itself to dust, which it yielded freely to the wind. i could see the wafted snow gradually melt away, and again curdle up into true white cloud by precipitation; this in its turn would be pulled asunder like carded wool, and reduced a second time to transparent vapour. in the middle of the ice of the fée stands a green alp, not unlike the jardin; up this we climbed, halting at intervals upon its grassy knolls to inspect the glacier. i aimed at those places where on à priori grounds i should have thought the production of the veined structure most likely, and reached at length the base of a wall of rock from the edge of which long spears of ice depended. here my friend halted, while lauener and myself climbed the precipice, and ascended to the summit of the alp. the snow was deep at many places, and our immersions in unseen holes very frequent. from the peak of the fée alp a most glorious view is obtained; in point of grandeur it will bear comparison with any in the alps, and its seclusion gives it an inexpressible charm. we remained for half an hour upon the warm rock, and then descended. it was our habit to jump from the higher ledges into the deep snow below them, in which we wallowed as if it were flour; but on one of these occasions i lighted on a stone, and the shock produced a curious effect upon my hearing. i appeared suddenly to lose the power of appreciating deep sounds, while the shriller ones were comparatively unimpaired. after i rejoined my friend it required attention on my part to hear him when he spoke to me. this continued until i approached the end of the glacier, when suddenly the babblement of streams, and a world of sounds to which i had been before quite deaf burst in upon me. the deafness was probably due to a strain of the tympanum, such as we can produce artificially, and thus quench low sounds, while shrill ones are scarcely affected. [sidenote: "a terrible hole." .] i was anxious to quit saas early next morning, but the curé expressed so strong a wish to show us what he called a _schauderhaftes loch_--a terrible hole--which he had himself discovered, that i consented to accompany him. we were joined by his assistant and the priest of fée. the stream from the fée glacier has cut a deep channel through the rocks, and along the right-hand bank of the stream we ascended. it was very rough with fallen crags and fallen pines amid which we once or twice lost our way. at length we came to an aperture just sufficient to let a man's body through, and were informed by our conductor that our route lay along the little tunnel: he lay down upon his stomach and squeezed himself through it like a marmot. i followed him; a second tunnel, in which, however, we could stand upright, led into a spacious cavern, formed by the falling together of immense slabs of rock which abutted against each other so as to form a roof. it was the very type of a robber den; and when i remarked this, it was at once proposed to sing a verse from schiller's play. the young priest had a powerful voice--he led and we all chimed in. [sidenote: song of the robbers. .] "ein frohes leben führen wir, ein leben voller wonne. der wald ist unser nachtquartier, bei sturm und wind hanthieren wir, der mond ist unsre sonne." herr imseng wore his black coat; the others had taken theirs off, but they wore their clerical hats, black breeches and stockings. we formed a singular group in a singular place, and the echoed voices mingled strangely with the gusts of the wind and the rush of the river. soon afterwards i parted from my friend, and descended the valley to visp, where i also parted with my guide. he had been with me from the nd of july to the th of august, and did his duty entirely to my satisfaction. he is an excellent iceman, and is well acquainted both with the glaciers of the oberland and of the valais. he is strong and good-humoured, and were i to make another expedition of the kind i don't think that i should take any guide in the oberland in preference to christian lauener. ( .) [sidenote: climbers and science. .] it is a singular fact that as yet we know absolutely nothing of the winter temperature of any one of the high alpine summits. no doubt it is a sufficient justification of our alpine men, as regards their climbing, _that they like it_. this plain reason is enough; and no man who ever ascended that "bad eminence" primrose hill, or climbed to hampstead heath for the sake of a freer horizon, can consistently ask a better. as regards physical science, however, the contributions of our mountaineers have as yet been _nil_, and hence, when we hear of the scientific value of their doings, it is simply amusing to the climbers themselves. i do not fear that i shall offend them in the least by my frankness in stating this. their pleasure is that of overcoming acknowledged difficulties, and of witnessing natural grandeur. but i would venture to urge that our alpine men will not find their pleasure lessened by embracing a scientific object in their doings. they have the strength, the intelligence, and let them add to these the accuracy which physical science now demands, and they may contribute work of enduring value. mr. casella will gladly teach them the use of his minimum-thermometers; and i trust that the next seven years will not pass without making us acquainted with the winter temperature of every mountain of note in switzerland.[a] i had thought of this subject since i first read the conjectures of de saussure on the temperature of mont blanc; but in i met auguste balmat at the jardin, and there learned from him that he entertained the idea of placing a self-registering thermometer at the summit of the mountain. balmat was personally a stranger to me at the time, but professor forbes's writings had inspired me with a respect for him, which this unprompted idea of his augmented. he had procured a thermometer, the graduation of which, however, he feared was not low enough. as an encouragement to balmat, and with the view of making his laudable intentions known, i communicated them to the royal society, and obtained from the council a small grant of money to purchase thermometers and to assist in the expenses of an ascent. i had now the thermometers in my possession; and having completed my work at zermatt and saas, my next desire was to reach chamouni and place the instruments on the top of mont blanc. i accordingly descended the valley of the rhone to martigny, crossed the tête noire, and arrived at chamouni on the th of august, . [sidenote: difficulties at chamouni. .] balmat was engaged at this time as the guide of mr. alfred wills, who, however, kindly offered to place him at my disposal; and also expressed a desire to accompany me himself and assist me in my observations. i gladly accepted a proposal which gave me for companion so determined a climber and so estimable a man. but chamouni was rife with difficulties. in the guide chef had the good sense to give me considerable liberty of action. now his mood was entirely changed: he had been "molested" for giving me so much freedom. i wished to have a boy to carry a small instrument for me up the mer de glace--he would not allow it; i must take a guide. if i ascended mont blanc he declared that i must take four guides; that, in short, i must in all respects conform to the rules made for ordinary tourists. i endeavoured to explain to him the advantages which chamouni had derived from the labours of men of science; it was such men who had discovered it when it was unknown, and it was by their writings that the attention of the general public had been called towards it. it was a bad recompense, i urged, to treat a man of science as he was treating me. this was urged in vain; he shrugged his shoulders, was very sorry, but the thing could not be changed. i then requested to know his superior, that i might apply to him; he informed me that there were a president and commission of guides at chamouni, who were the proper persons to decide the question, and he proposed to call them together on the st of august, at seven p.m., on condition that i was to be present to state my own case. to this i agreed. i spent that day quite alone upon the mer de glace, and climbed amid a heavy snow-storm to the cleft station over trélaporte. when i reached the montanvert i was wet and weary, and would have spent the night there were it not for my engagement with the guide chef. i descended amid the rain, and at the appointed hour went to his bureau. he met me with a polite sympathetic shrug; explained to me that he had spoken to the commission, but that it could not assemble _pour une chose comma ça_; that the rules were fixed, and i must abide by them. "well," i responded, "you think you have done your duty; it is now my turn to perform mine. if no other means are available i will have this transaction communicated to the sardinian government, and i don't think that it will ratify what you have done." the guide chef evidently did not believe a word of it. previous to taking any further step i thought it right to see the president of the commission of guides, who was also syndic of the commune. i called upon him on the morning of the st of september, and, assuming that he knew all about the transaction, spoke to him accordingly. he listened to me for a time, but did not seem to understand me, which i ascribed partly to my defective french pronunciation. i expressed a hope that he did comprehend me; he said he understood my words very well, but did not know their purport. in fact he had not heard a single word about me or my request. he stated with some indignation that, so far from its being a subject on which the commission could not assemble, it was one which it was their especial duty to take into consideration. our conference ended with the arrangement that i was to write him an official letter stating the case, which he was to forward to the intendant of the province of faucigny resident at bonneville. all this was done. [sidenote: the intendant memorialised. .] i subsequently memorialised the intendant himself; and balmat visited him to secure his permission to accompany me. i have to record, that from first to last the intendant gave me his sympathy and support. he could not alter laws, but he deprecated a "judaical" interpretation of them. his final letter to myself was as follows:-- [sidenote: the intendant's response. .] "intendance royale de la province de faucigny, "bonneville, septembre, . "monsieur,-- "j'apprends avec une véritable peine les difficultés que vous rencontrez de la part de m. le guide chef pour l'effectuation de votre périlleuse entreprise scientifique, mais je dois vous dire aussi avec regret que ces difficultés résident dans un règlement fait en vue de la sécurité des voyageurs, quel que puisse être le but de leurs excursions. "désireux néanmoins de vous être utile, notamment en la circonstance, j'invite aujourd'hui même m. le guide chef à avoir égard à votre projet, à faire en sa faveur une exception au règlement ci-devant eu, tant qu'il n'y aura aucun danger pour votre sûreté et celle des personnes qui vous accompagneront, et enfin de se prêter dans les limites de ses moyens et attributions pour l'heureux succès de l'expédition, dont les conséquences et résultats n'intéressent pas seulement la science, mais encore la vallée de chamounix en particulier. "agréez, monsieur, "l'assurance de ma consideration très-distinguée. "pour l'intendant en congé, "le secrétaire, "delÉglise." while waiting for this permission i employed myself in various ways. on the nd of september i ascended the brévent, from which mont blanc is seen to great advantage. from chamouni its vast slopes are so foreshortened that one gets a very imperfect idea of the extent to be traversed to reach the summit. what, however, struck me most on the brévent was the changed relation of the aiguille du dru and the aiguille verte. from montanvert the former appears a most imposing mass, while the peak of the latter appears rather dwarfed behind it; but from the brévent the aiguille du dru is a mere pinnacle stuck in the breast of the grander pyramid of the aiguille verte. [sidenote: the "sÉracs" revisited. .] on the th i rose early, and, strapping on my telescope, ascended to the montanvert, where i engaged a youth to accompany me up the glacier. the heavens were clear and beautiful:--blue over the aiguille du dru, blue over the jorasse and mont mallet, deep blue over the pinnacles of charmoz, and the same splendid tint stretched grandly over the col du géant and its aiguille. no trace of condensation appeared till towards eleven o'clock, when a little black balloon of cloud swung itself over the aiguilles rouges. at one o'clock there were two large masses and a little one between them; while higher up a white veil, almost too thin to be visible, spread over a part of the heavens. at the zenith, however, and south, north, and west, the blue seemed to deepen as the day advanced. i visited the ice-wall at the tacul, which seemed lower than it was last year; the cascade of le géant appeared also far less imposing. only in the early part of summer do we see the ice in its true grandeur: its edges and surfaces are then sharp and clear, but afterwards its nobler masses shrink under the influence of sun and air. the _séracs_ now appeared wasted and dirty, and not the sharp angular ice-castles which rose so grandly when i first saw them. thirteen men had crossed the col du géant on the day previous, and left an ample trace behind them. this i followed nearly to the summit of the fall. the condition of the glacier was totally different from that of the opposite side on the previous year. the ice was riven, burrowed, and honeycombed, but the track amid all was easy: a vigorous english maiden might have ascended the fall without much difficulty. my object now was to examine the structure of the fall; but the ice was not in a good condition for such an examination: it was too much broken. still a definite structure was in many places to be traced, and some of them apparently showed structure and bedding at a high angle to each other, but i could not be certain of it. i paused at every commanding point of view and examined the ice through my opera-glass; but the result was inconclusive. i observed that the terraces which compose the fall do not front the middle of the glacier, but turn their foreheads rather towards its eastern side, and the consequence is that the protuberances lower down, which are the remains of these terraces, are highest at the same side. standing at the base of the aiguille noire, and looking downwards where the glacier des périades pushes itself against the géant, a series of fine crumples is formed on the former, cut across by crevasses, on the walls of which a forward and backward dipping of the blue veins is exhibited. huge crumples are also formed by the glacier du géant, which are well seen from a point nearly opposite the lowest lateral moraine of the glacier des périades. in some cases the upper portions of the crumples had scaled off so as to form arches of ice--a consequence doubtless of the pressure. [sidenote: thermometer at the jardin. .] the beauty of some alpine skies is treacherous; in fact the deepest blue often indicates an atmosphere charged almost to saturation with aqueous vapour. this was the case on the present occasion. soon after reaching chamouni in the evening, rain commenced and continued with scarcely any intermission until the afternoon of the th. i had given up all hopes of being able to ascend mont blanc; and hence resolved to place the thermometers in some more accessible position. on the th accordingly, accompanied by mr. wills, balmat, and some other friends, i ascended to the summit of the jardin, where we placed two thermometers: one in the ice, at a depth of three feet below the surface; another on a ledge of the highest rock.[b] the boiling point of water at this place was . ° fahr. deep snow was upon the talèfre, and the surrounding precipices were also heavily laden. avalanches thundered incessantly from the aiguille verte and the other mountains. scarcely five minutes on an average intervened between every two successive peals; and after the direct shock of each avalanche had died away the air of the basin continued to be shaken by the echoes reflected from its bounding walls. [sidenote: evening red. .] the day was far spent before we had completed our work. all through the weather had been fine, and towards evening augmented to magnificence. as we descended the glacier from the couvercle the sun was just disappearing, and the western heaven glowed with crimson, which crept gradually up the sky until finally it reached the zenith itself. such intensity of colouring is exceedingly rare in the alps; and this fact, together with the known variations in the intensity of the firmamental blue, justify the conclusion that the colouring must, in a great measure, be due to some _variable constituent_ of the atmosphere. if _the air_ were competent to produce these magnificent effects they would be the rule instead of the exception. [sidenote: finished work. .] no sooner had the thermometers been thus disposed of than the weather appeared to undergo a permanent change. on the th it was perfectly fine--not the slightest mist upon mont blanc; on the th this was also the case. balmat still had the old thermometer to which i have already referred; it might not do to show the minimum temperature of the air, but it might show the temperature at a certain depth below the surface. i find in my own case that the finishing of work has a great moral value: work completed is a safe fulcrum for the performance of other work; and even though in the course of our labours experience should show us a better means of accomplishing a given end, it is often far preferable to reach the end, even by defective means, than to swerve from our course. the habits which this conviction had superinduced no doubt influenced me when i decided on placing balmat's thermometer on the summit of mont blanc. footnotes: [a] i find with pleasure that my friend mr. john ball is now exerting himself in this direction. [b] the minimum temperature of the subsequent winter, as shown by this thermometer, was - ° fahr., or ° below the freezing point. the instrument placed in the ice was broken. second ascent of mont blanc, . ( .) [sidenote: shadows of the aiguilles. .] on the th of september, at - / a.m. the sunbeams had already fallen upon the mountain; but though the sky above him, and over the entire range of the aiguilles, was without a cloud, the atmosphere presented an appearance of turbidity resembling that produced by the dust and thin smoke mechanically suspended in a london atmosphere on a dry summer's day. at minutes past we quitted chamouni, bearing with us the good wishes of a portion of its inhabitants. [sidenote: interference-spectra. .] a lady accompanied us on horseback to the point where the path to the grands mulets deviates from that to the plan des aiguilles; here she turned to the left, and we proceeded slowly upwards, through woods of pine, hung with fantastic lichens: escaping from the gloom of these, we emerged upon slopes of bosky underwood, green hazel, and green larch, with the red berries of the mountain-ash shining brightly between them. through the air above us, like gnomons of a vast sundial, the aiguilles cast their fanlike shadows, which moved round as the day advanced. slopes of rhododendrons with withered flowers next succeeded, but the colouring of the bilberry-leaves was scarcely less exquisite than the freshest bloom of the alpine rose. for a long time we were in the cool shadow of the mountain, catching, at intervals, through the twigs in front of us, glimpses of the sun surrounded by coloured spectra. on one occasion a brow rose in front of me; behind it was a lustrous space of heaven, adjacent to the sun, which, however, was hidden behind the brow; against this space the twigs and weeds upon the summit of the brow shone as if they were self-luminous, while some bits of thistle-down floating in the air appeared, where they crossed this portion of the heavens, like fragments of the sun himself. once the orb appeared behind a rounded mass of snow which lay near the summit of the aiguille du midi. looked at with the naked eyes, it seemed to possess a billowy motion, the light darting from it in dazzling curves,--a subjective effect produced by the abnormal action of the intense light upon the eye. as the sun's disk came more into view, its rays however still grazing the summit of the mountain, interference-spectra darted from it on all sides, and surrounded it with a glory of richly-coloured bars. mingling however with the grandeur of nature, we had the anger and obstinacy of man. with a view to subsequent legal proceedings, the guide chef sent a spy after us, who, having satisfied himself of our delinquency, took his unpleasant presence from the splendid scene. strange to say, though the luminous appearance of bodies projected against the sky adjacent to the rising sun is a most striking and beautiful phenomenon, it is hardly ever seen by either guides or travellers; probably because they avoid looking towards a sky the brightness of which is painful to the eyes. in auguste balmat had never seen the effect; and the only written description of it which we possess is one furnished by professor necker, in a letter to sir david brewster, which is so interesting that i do not hesitate to reproduce it here:-- [sidenote: professor necker's letter. .] "i now come to the point," writes m. necker, "which you particularly wished me to describe to you; i mean the luminous appearance of trees, shrubs, and birds, when seen from the foot of a mountain a little before sunrise. the wish i had to see again the phenomenon before attempting to describe it made me detain this letter a few days, till i had a fine day to go to see it at the mont salève; so yesterday i went there, and studied the fact, and in elucidation of it i made a little drawing, of which i give you here a copy: it will, with the explanation and the annexed diagram (fig. ), impart to you, i hope, a correct idea of the phenomenon. you must conceive the observer placed at the foot of a hill interposed between him and the place where the sun is rising, and thus entirely in the shade; the upper margin of the mountain is covered with woods or detached trees and shrubs, which are projected as dark objects on a very bright and clear sky, except at the very place where the sun is just going to rise, for there all the trees and shrubs bordering the margin are entirely,--branches, leaves, stem and all,--of a pure and brilliant white, appearing extremely bright and luminous, although projected on a most brilliant and luminous sky, as that part of it which surrounds the sun always is. all the minutest details, leaves, twigs, &c., are most delicately preserved, and you would fancy you saw these trees and forests made of the purest silver, with all the skill of the most expert workman. the swallows and other birds flying in those particular spots appear like sparks of the most brilliant white. unfortunately, all these details, which add so much to the beauty of this splendid phenomenon, cannot be represented in such small sketches. [illustration: fig. . luminous trees projected against the sky at sunrise.] "neither the hour of the day nor the angle which the object makes with the observer appears to have any effect; for on some occasions i have seen the phenomenon take place at a very early hour in the morning. yesterday it was a.m., when i saw it as represented in fig. . i saw it again on the same day at p.m., at a different place of the same mountain, for which the sun was just setting. at one time the angle of elevation of the lighted white shrubs above the horizon of the spectator was about °, while at another place it was only °. but the extent of the field of illumination is variable, according to the distance at which the spectator is placed from it. when the object behind which the sun is just going to rise, or has just been setting, is very near, no such effect takes place. in the case represented in fig. the distance was about mètres, or english feet, from the spectator in a direct line, the height above his level being mètres, or english feet, and the horizontal line drawn from him to the horizontal projection of these points on the plane of his horizon being mètres, or english feet, as will be seen in the following diagram, fig. . [sidenote: silver trees at sunrise. .] [illustration: fig. . luminous trees projected against the sky at sunrise.] [sidenote: birds as sparks or stars. .] "in this case only small shrubs and the lower half of the stem of a tree are illuminated white, and the horizontal extent of this effect is also comparatively small; while at other places when i was near the edge behind which the sun was going to rise no such effect took place. but on the contrary, when i have witnessed the phenomenon at a greater distance and at a greater height, as i have seen it other times on the same and on other mountains of the alps, large tracts of forests and immense spruce-firs were illuminated white throughout their whole length, as i have attempted to represent in fig. , and the corresponding diagram, fig. . nothing can be finer than these silver-looking spruce-forests. at the same time, though at a distance of more than a thousand mètres, a vast number of large swallows or swifts (_cypselus alpinus_), which inhabit these high rocks, were seen as small brilliant stars or sparks moving rapidly in the air. from these facts it appears to me obvious that the extent of the illuminated spots varies in a direct ratio of their distance; but at the same time that there must be a constant angular space, corresponding probably to the zone, a few minutes of a degree wide, around the sun's disk, which is a limit to the occurrence of the appearance. this would explain how the real extent which it occupies on the earth's surface varies with the relative distance of the spot from the eye of the observer, and accounts also for the phenomenon being never seen in the low country, where i have often looked for it in vain. now that you are acquainted with the circumstances of the fact, i have no doubt you will easily observe it in some part or other of your scotch hills; it may be some long heather or furze will play the part of our alpine forests, and i would advise you to try and place a bee-hive in the required position, and it would perfectly represent our swallows, sparks, and stars." [illustration: fig. . luminous trees projected against the sky at sunrise.] [illustration: fig. . luminous trees projected against the sky at sunrise.] [sidenote: the ladder condemned. .] our porters, with one exception, reached the pierre à l'echelle as soon as ourselves; and here having refreshed themselves, and the due exchange of loads having been made, we advanced upon the glacier, which we crossed, until we came nearly opposite to the base of the grands mulets. the existence of one wide crevasse, which was deemed impassable, had this year introduced the practice of assailing the rocks at their base, and climbing them to the cabin, an operation which balmat wished to avoid. at chamouni, therefore, he had made inquiries regarding the width of the chasm, and acting on his advice i had had a ladder constructed in two pieces, which, united together by iron attachments, was supposed to be of sufficient length to span the fissure. on reaching the latter, the pieces were united, and the ladder thrown across, but the bridge was so frail and shaky at the place of junction, and the chasm so deep, that balmat pronounced the passage impracticable. [sidenote: crossing crevasses. .] the porters were all grouped beside the crevasse when this announcement was made, and, like hounds in search of the scent, the group instantly broke up, seeking in all directions for a means of passage. the talk was incessant and animating; attention was now called in one direction, anon in another, the men meanwhile throwing themselves into the most picturesque groups and attitudes. all eyes at length were directed upon a fissure which was spanned at one point by an arch of snow, certainly under two feet deep at the crown. a stout rope was tied round the waist of one of our porters, and he was sent forward to test the bridge. he approached it cautiously, treading down the snow to give it compactness, and thus make his footing sure as he advanced; bringing regelation into play, he gave the mass the necessary continuity, and crossed in safety. the rope was subsequently stretched over the _pont_, and each of us causing his right hand to slide along it, followed without accident. soon afterwards, however, we met with a second and very formidable crevasse, to cross which we had but half of our ladder, which was applied as follows:--the side of the fissure on which we stood was lower than the opposite one; over the edge of the latter projected a cornice of snow, and a ledge of the same material jutted from the wall of the crevasse, a little below us. the ladder was placed from ledge to cornice, both of its ends being supported by snow. i could hardly believe that so frail a bearing could possibly support a man's weight; but a porter was tied as before, and sent up the ladder, while we followed protected by the rope. we were afterwards tied together, and thus advanced in an orderly line to the grands mulets. [sidenote: gorgeous sunset. .] the cabin was wet and disagreeable, but the sunbeams fell upon the brown rocks outside, and thither mr. wills and myself repaired to watch the changes of the atmosphere. i took possession of the flat summit of a prism of rock, where, lying upon my back, i watched the clouds forming, and melting, and massing themselves together, and tearing themselves like wool asunder in the air above. it was nature's language addressed to the intellect; these clouds were visible symbols which enabled us to understand what was going on in the invisible air. here unseen currents met, possessing different temperatures, mixing their contents both of humidity and motion, producing a mean temperature unable to hold their moisture in a state of vapour. the water-particles, obeying their mutual attractions, closed up, and a visible cloud suddenly shook itself out, where a moment before we had the pure blue of heaven. some of the clouds were wafted by the air towards atmospheric regions already saturated with moisture, and along their frontal borders new cloudlets ever piled themselves, while the hinder portions, invaded by a drier or a warmer air, were dissipated; thus the cloud advanced, with gain in front and loss behind, its permanence depending on the balance between them. the day waned, and the sunbeams began to assume the colouring due to their passage through the horizontal air. the glorious light, ever deepening in colour, was poured bounteously over crags, and snows, and clouds, and suffused with gold and crimson the atmosphere itself. i had never seen anything grander than the sunset on that day. clouds with their central portions densely black, denying all passage to the beams which smote them, floated westward, while the fiery fringes which bordered them were rendered doubly vivid by contrast with the adjacent gloom. the smaller and more attenuated clouds were intensely illuminated throughout. across other inky masses were drawn zigzag bars of radiance which resembled streaks of lightning. the firmament between the clouds faded from a blood-red through orange and daffodil into an exquisite green, which spread like a sea of glory through which those magnificent argosies slowly sailed. some of the clouds were drawn in straight chords across the arch of heaven, these being doubtless the sections of layers of cloud whose horizontal dimensions were hidden from us. the cumuli around and near the sun himself could not be gazed upon, until, as the day declined, they gradually lost their effulgence and became tolerable to the eyes. all was calm--but there was a wildness in the sky like that of anger, which boded evil passions on the part of the atmosphere. the sun at length sank behind the hills, but for some time afterwards carmine clouds swung themselves on high, and cast their ruddy hues upon the mountain snows. duskier and colder waxed the west, colder and sharper the breeze of evening upon the grands mulets, and as twilight deepened towards night, and the stars commenced to twinkle through the chilled air, we retired from the scene. [sidenote: storm on the grands mulets. .] the anticipated storm at length gave notice of its coming. the sea-waves, as observed by aristotle, sometimes reach the shore before the wind which produces them is felt; and here the tempest sent out its precursors, which broke in detached shocks upon the cabin before the real storm arrived. billows of air, in ever quicker succession, rolled over us with a long surging sound, rising and falling as crest succeeded trough and trough succeeded crest. and as the pulses of a vibrating body, when their succession is quick enough, blend to a continuous note, so these fitful gusts linked themselves finally to a storm which made its own wild music among the crags. grandly it swelled, carrying the imagination out of doors, to the clouds and darkness, to the loosened avalanches and whirling snow upon the mountain heads. moored to the rock on two sides, the cabin stood firm, and its manifest security allowed the mind the undisturbed enjoyment of the atmospheric war. we were powerfully shaken, but had no fear of being uprooted; and a certain grandeur of the heart rose responsive to the grandeur of the storm. mounting higher and higher, it at length reached its maximum strength, from which it lowered fitfully, until at length, with a melancholy wail, it bade our rock farewell. a little before half-past one we issued from the cabin. the night being without a moon, we carried three lanterns. the heavens were crowded with stars, among which, however, angry masses of cloud here and there still wandered. the storm, too, had left a rear-guard behind it; and strong gusts rolled down upon us at intervals, at one time, indeed, so violent as to cause balmat to express doubts of our being able to reach the summit. with a thick handkerchief bound around my hat and ears i enjoyed the onset of the wind. once, turning my head to the left, i saw what appeared to me to be a huge mass of stratus cloud, at a great distance, with the stars shining over it. in another instant a precipice of _névé_ loomed upon us; we were close to its base, and along its front the annual layers were separated from each other by broad dark bands. through the gloom it appeared like a cloud, the lines of bedding giving to it the stratus character. [sidenote: a comet discovered. .] immediately before lying down on the previous evening i had opened the little window of the cabin to admit some air. in the sky in front of me shone a curious nodule of misty light with a pale train attached to it. in , on the side of the brocken, i had observed, without previous notice, a comet discovered a few days previously by a former fellow student, and here was another "discovery" of the same kind. i inspected the stranger with my telescope, and assured myself that it was a comet. mr. wills chanced to be outside at the time, and made the same observation independently. as we now advanced up the mountain its ominous light gleamed behind us, while high up in heaven to our left the planet jupiter burned like a lamp of intense brightness. the petit plateau forms a kind of reservoir for the avalanches of the dôme du goûter, and this year the accumulation of frozen débris upon it was enormous. we could see nothing but the ice-blocks on which the light of the lanterns immediately fell; we only knew that they had been discharged from the _séracs_, and that similar masses now rose threatening to our right, and might at any moment leap down upon us. balmat commanded silence, and urged us to move across the plateau with all possible celerity. the warning of our guide, the wild and rakish appearance of the sky, the spent projectiles at our feet, and the comet with its "horrid hair" behind, formed a combination eminently calculated to excite the imagination. [sidenote: dawn on the grand plateau. .] and now the sky began to brighten towards dawn, with that deep and calm beauty which suggests the thought of adoration to the human mind. helped by the contemplation of the brightening east, which seemed to lend lightness to our muscles, we cheerily breasted the steep slope up to the grand plateau. the snow here was deep, and each of our porters took the lead in turn. we paused upon the grand plateau and had breakfast; digging, while we halted, our feet deeply into the snow. thence up to the corridor, by a totally different route from that pursued by mr. hirst and myself the year previously; the slope was steep, but it had not a precipice for its boundary. deep steps were necessary for a time, but when we reached the summit our ascent became more gentle. the eastern sky continued to brighten, and by its illumination the grand plateau and its bounding heights were lovely beyond conception. the snow was of the purest white, and the glacier, as it pushed itself on all sides into the basin, was riven by fissures filled with a coerulean light, which deepened to inky gloom as the vision descended into them. the edges were overhung with fretted cornices, from which depended long clear icicles, tapering from their abutments like spears of crystal. the distant fissures, across which the vision ranged obliquely without descending into them, emitted that magical firmamental shimmer which, contrasted with the pure white of the snow, was inexpressibly lovely. near to us also grand castles of ice reared themselves, some erect, some overturned, with clear cut sides, striped by the courses of the annual snows, while high above the _séracs_ of the plateau rose their still grander brothers of the dôme du goûter. there was a nobility in this glacier scene which i think i have never seen surpassed;--a strength of nature, and yet a tenderness, which at once raised and purified the soul. the gush of the direct sunlight could add nothing to this heavenly beauty; indeed i thought its yellow beams a profanation as they crept down from the humps of the dromedary, and invaded more and more the solemn purity of the realm below. [sidenote: balmat in danger. .] our way lay for a time amid fine fissures with blue walls, until at length we reached the edge of one which elicited other sentiments than those of admiration. it must be crossed. at the opposite side was a high and steep bank of ice which prolonged itself downwards, and ended in a dependent eave of snow which quite overhung the chasm, and reached to within about a yard of our edge of the crevasse. balmat came forward with his axe, and tried to get a footing on the eave: he beat it gently, but the axe went through the snow, forming an aperture through which the darkness of the chasm was rendered visible. our guide was quite free, without rope or any other means of security; he beat down the snow so as to form a kind of stirrup, and upon this he stepped. the stirrup gave way, it was right over the centre of the chasm, but with wonderful tact and coolness he contrived to get sufficient purchase from the yielding mass to toss himself back to the side of the chasm. the rope was now brought forward and tied round the waist of one of the porters; another step was cautiously made in the eave of snow, the man was helped across, and lessened his own weight by means of his hatchet. he gradually got footing on the face of the steep, which he mounted by escaliers; and on reaching a sufficient height he cut two large steps in which his feet might rest securely. here he laid his breast against the sloping wall, and another person was sent forward, who drew himself up by the rope which was attached to the leader. thus we all passed, each of us in turn bearing the strain of his successor upon the rope; it was our last difficulty, and we afterwards slowly plodded through the snow of the corridor towards the base of the mur de la côte. [sidenote: storm on mont blanc. .] [sidenote: thermometer buried. .] climbing zigzag, we soon reached the summit of the mur, and immediately afterwards found ourselves in the midst of cold drifting clouds, which obscured everything. they dissolved for a moment and revealed to us the sunny valley of chamouni; but they soon swept down again and completely enveloped us. upon the calotte, or last slope, i felt no trace of the exhaustion which i had experienced last year, but enjoyed free lungs and a quiet heart. the clouds now whirled wildly round us, and the fine snow, which was caught by the wind and spit bitterly against us, cut off all visible communication between us and the lower world. as we approached the summit the air thickened more and more, and the cold, resulting from the withdrawal of the sunbeams, became intense. we reached the top, however, in good condition, and found the new snow piled up into a sharp _arête_, and the summit of a form quite different from that of the _dos d'un ane_, which it had presented the previous year. leaving balmat to make a hole for the thermometer, i collected a number of bâtons, drove them into the snow, and, drawing my plaid round them, formed a kind of extempore tent to shelter my boiling-water apparatus. the covering was tightly held, but the snow was as fine and dry as dust, and penetrated everywhere: my lamp could not be secured from it, and half a box of matches was consumed in the effort to ignite it. at length it did flame up, and carried on a sputtering combustion. the cold of the snow-filled boiler condensing the vapour from the lamp gradually produced a drop, which, when heavy enough to detach itself from the vessel, fell upon the flame and put it out. it required much patience and the expenditure of many matches to relight it. meanwhile the absence of muscular action caused the cold to affect our men severely. my beard and whiskers were a mass of clotted ice. the bâtons were coated with ice, and even the stem of my thermometer, the bulb of which was in hot water, was covered by a frozen enamel. the clouds whirled, and the little snow granules hit spitefully against the skin wherever it was exposed. the temperature of the air was ° fahr. below the freezing point. i was too intent upon my work to heed the cold much, but i was numbed; one of my fingers had lost sensation, and my right heel was in pain: still i had no thought of forsaking my observation until mr. wills came to me and said that we must return speedily, for balmat's hands were _gelées_. i did not comprehend the full significance of the word; but, looking at the porters, they presented such an aspect of suffering that i feared to detain them longer. they looked like worn old men, their hair and clothing white with snow, and their faces blue, withered, and anxious-looking. the hole being ready, i asked balmat for the magnet to arrange the index of the thermometer: his hands seemed powerless. i struck my tent, deposited the instrument, and, as i watched the covering of it up, some of the party, among whom were mr. wills and balmat, commenced the descent.[a] [sidenote: balmat frostbitten. .] i followed them speedily. midway down the calotte i saw balmat, who was about a hundred yards in advance of me, suddenly pause and thrust his hands into the snow, and commence rubbing them vigorously. the suddenness of the act surprised me, but i had no idea at the time of its real significance: i soon came up to him; he seemed frightened, and continued to beat and rub his hands, plunging them, at quick intervals, into the snow. still i thought the thing would speedily pass away, for i had too much faith in the man's experience to suppose that he would permit himself to be seriously injured. but it did not pass as i hoped it would, and the terrible possibility of his losing his hands presented itself to me. he at length became exhausted by his own efforts, staggered like a drunken man, and fell upon the snow. mr. wills and myself took each a hand, and continued the process of beating and rubbing. i feared that we should injure him by our blows, but he continued to exclaim, "n'ayez pas peur, frappez toujours, frappez fortement!" we did so, until mr. wills became exhausted, and a porter had to take his place. meanwhile balmat pinched and bit his fingers at intervals, to test their condition; but there was no sensation. he was evidently hopeless himself; and, seeing him thus, produced an effect upon me that i had not experienced since my boyhood--my heart swelled, and i could have wept like a child. the idea that i should be in some measure the cause of his losing his hands was horrible to me; schemes for his support rushed through my mind with the usual swiftness of such speculations, but no scheme could restore to him his lost hands. at length returning sensation in one hand announced itself by excruciating pain. "je souffre!" he exclaimed at intervals--words which, from a man of his iron endurance, had a more than ordinary significance. but pain was better than death, and, under the circumstances, a sign of improvement. we resumed our descent, while he continued to rub his hands with snow and brandy, thrusting them at every few paces into the mass through which we marched. at chamouni he had skilful medical advice, by adhering to which he escaped with the loss of six of his nails--his hands were saved. i cannot close this recital without expressing my admiration of the dauntless bearing of our porters, and of the cheerful and efficient manner in which they did their duty throughout the whole expedition. their names are edouard bellin, joseph favret, michel payot, joseph folliguet, and alexandre balmat. footnotes: [a] in august, , i found the temperature of water, boiling in an open vessel at the summit of mont blanc, to be . ° fahr. on that occasion also, though a laborious search was made for the thermometer, it could not be found. ( .) [sidenote: procÈs-verbal. .] the hostility of the chief guide to the expedition was not diminished by the letter of the intendant; and he at once entered a _procès-verbal_ against balmat and his companions on their return to chamouni. i felt that the power thus vested in an unlettered man to arrest the progress of scientific observations was so anomalous, that the enlightened and liberal government of sardinia would never tolerate such a state of things if properly represented to it. the british association met at leeds that year, and to it, as a guardian of science, my thoughts turned. i accordingly laid the case before the association, and obtained its support: a resolution was unanimously passed "that application be made to the sardinian authorities for increased facilities for making scientific observations in the alps." considering the arduous work which balmat had performed in former years in connexion with the glaciers, and especially his zeal in determining, under the direction of professor forbes, their winter motion--for which, as in the case above recorded, he refused all personal remuneration--i thought such services worthy of some recognition on the part of the royal society. i suggested this to the council, and was met by the same cordial spirit of co-operation which i had previously experienced at leeds. a sum of five-and-twenty guineas was at once voted for the purchase of a suitable testimonial; and a committee, consisting of sir roderick murchison, professor forbes, and myself, was appointed to carry the thing out. balmat was consulted, and he chose a photographic apparatus, which, with a suitable inscription, was duly presented to him. [sidenote: british association. .] thus fortified, i drew up an account of what had occurred at chamouni during my last visit, accompanied by a brief statement of the changes which seemed desirable. this was placed in the hands of the president of the british association, to whose prompt and powerful co-operation in this matter every alpine explorer who aspires to higher ground than ordinary is deeply indebted. the following letter assured me that the facility applied for by the british association would be granted by the sardinian government, and that future men of science would find in the alps a less embarrassed field of operations than had fallen to my lot in the summer of . [sidenote: the president's letter. .] " , hertford-street, mayfair, w., "february th, . "my dear sir,-- "having, as i informed you in my last note, communicated with the sardinian minister plenipotentiary the day after receiving your statement relative to the guides at chamouni, i have been favoured by replies from the minister, of the th and th february. in the first the marquis d'azeglio assures me that he will bring the subject before the competent authorities at turin, accompanying the transmission 'd'une récommandation toute spéciale.' in the second letter the marquis informs me that 'the preparation of new regulations for the guides at chamouni had for some time occupied the attention of the minister of the interior, and that these regulations will be in rigorous operation, in all probability, at the commencement of the approaching summer.' the marquis adds that, 'as the regulations will be based upon a principle of much greater liberty, he has every reason to believe that they will satisfy all the desires of travellers in the interests of science.' "with much pleasure at the opportunity of having been in any degree able to bring about the fulfilment of your wishes on the subject, "i remain, my dear sir, "faithfully yours, "richard owen. "pres. brit. association. "prof. tyndall, f.r.s." it ought to be stated that, previous to my arrival at chamouni in , an extremely cogent memorial drawn up by mr. john ball had been presented to the marquis d'azeglio by a deputation from the alpine club. it was probably this memorial which first directed the attention of the sardinian minister of the interior to the subject. winter expedition to the mer de glace, . ( .) having ten days at my disposal last christmas, i was anxious to employ them in making myself acquainted with the winter aspects and phenomena of the mer de glace. on wednesday, the st of december, i accordingly took my place to paris, but on arriving at folkestone found the sea so tempestuous that no boat would venture out. [sidenote: first defeat, and fresh attempt. .] the loss of a single day was more than i could afford, and this failure really involved the loss of two. seeing, therefore, the prospect of any practical success so small, i returned to london, purposing to give the expedition up. on the following day, however, the weather lightened, and i started again, reaching paris on friday morning. on that day it was not possible to proceed beyond macon, where, accordingly, i spent the night, and on the following day reached geneva. much snow had fallen; at paris it still cumbered the streets, and round about macon it lay thick, as if a more than usually heavy cloud had discharged itself on that portion of the country. between macon and roussillon it was lighter, but from the latter station onwards the quantity upon the ground gradually increased. [sidenote: geneva to chamouni. .] on christmas morning, at o'clock, i left geneva by the diligence for sallenches. the dawn was dull, but the sky cleared as the day advanced, and finally a dome of cloudless blue stretched overhead. the mountains were grand; their sunward portions of dazzling whiteness, while the shaded sides, in contrast with the blue sky behind them, presented a ruddy, subjective tint. the brightness of the day reached its maximum towards one o'clock, after which a milkiness slowly stole over the heavens, and increased in density until finally a drowsy turbidity filled the entire air. the distant peaks gradually blended with the white atmosphere above them and lost their definition. the black pine forests on the slopes of the mountains stood out in strong contrast to the snow; and, when looked at through the spaces enclosed by the tree branches at either side of the road, they appeared of a decided indigo-blue. it was only when thus detached by a vista in front that the blue colour was well seen, the air itself between the eye and the distant pines being the seat of the colour. goethe would have regarded it as an excellent illustration of his 'farbenlehre.' we reached sallenches a little after p.m., where i endeavoured to obtain a sledge to continue my journey. a fit one was not to be found, and a carriage was therefore the only resort. we started at five; it was very dark, but the feeble reflex of the snow on each side of the road was preferred by the postilion to the light of lamps. unlike the enviable ostrich, i cannot shut my eyes to danger when it is near: and as the carriage swayed towards the precipitous road side, i could not fold myself up, as it was intended i should, but, quitting the interior and divesting my limbs of every encumbrance, i took my seat beside the driver, and kept myself in readiness for the spring, which in some cases appeared imminent. my companion however was young, strong, and keen-eyed; and though we often had occasion for the exercise of the quality last mentioned, we reached servoz without accident. [sidenote: desolation. .] [sidenote: a horse in the snow. .] here we baited, and our progress afterwards was slow and difficult. the snow on the road was deep and hummocky, and the strain upon the horses very great. having crossed the arve at the pont-pelissier, we both alighted, and i went on in advance. the air was warm, and not a whisper disturbed its perfect repose. there was no moon, and the heavy clouds, which now quite overspread the heavens, cut off even the feeble light of the stars. the sound of the arve, as it rushed through the deep valley to my left, came up to me through crags and trees with a sad murmur. sometimes on passing an obstacle, the sound was entirely cut off, and the consequent silence was solemn in the extreme. it was a churchyard stillness, and the tall black pines, which at intervals cast their superadded gloom upon the road, seemed like the hearse-plumes of a dead world. i reached a wooden hut, where a lame man offers bâtons, minerals, and _eau de vie_, to travellers in summer. it was forsaken, and half buried in the snow. i leaned against the door, and enjoyed for a time the sternness of the surrounding scene. my conveyance was far behind, and the intermittent tinkle of the horses' bells, which augmented instead of diminishing the sense of solitude, informed me of the progress and the pauses of the vehicle. at the summit of the road i halted until my companion reached me; we then both remounted, and proceeded slowly towards les ouches. we passed some houses, the aspect of which was even more dismal than that of nature; their roofs were loaded with snow, and white buttresses were reared against the walls. there was no sound, no light, no voice of joy to indicate that it was the pleasant christmas time. we once met the pioneer of a party of four drunken peasants: he came right against us, and the coachman had to pull up. planting his feet in the snow and propping himself against the leader's shoulder, the bacchanal exhorted the postilion to drive on; the latter took him at his word, and overturned him in the snow. after this we encountered no living thing. the horses seemed seized by a kind of torpor, and leaned listlessly against each other; vainly the postilion endeavoured to rouse them by word and whip; they sometimes essayed to trot down the slopes, but immediately subsided to their former monotonous crawl. as we ascended the valley, the stillness of the air was broken at intervals by wild storm-gusts, sent down against us from mont blanc himself. these chilled me, so i quitted the carriage, and walked on. not far from chamouni, the road, for some distance, had been exposed to the full action of the wind, and the snow had practically erased it. its left wall was completely covered, while a few detached stones, rising here and there above the surface, were the only indications of the presence and direction of the right-hand wall. i could not see the state of the surface, but i learned by other means that the snow had been heaped in oblique ridges across my path. i staggered over four or five of these in succession, sinking knee-deep, and finally found myself immersed to the waist. this made me pause; i thought i must have lost the road, and vainly endeavoured to check myself by the positions of surrounding objects. i turned back and met the carriage: it had stuck in one of the ridges; one horse was down, his hind legs buried to the haunches, his left fore leg plunged to the shoulder in snow, and the right one thrown forward upon the surface. _c'est bien la route?_ demanded my companion. i went back exploring, and assured myself that we were over the road; but i recommended him to release the horses and leave the carriage to its fate. he, however, succeeding in extricating the leader, and while i went on in advance seeking out the firmer portions of the road, he followed, holding his horses by their heads; and half an hour's struggle of this kind brought us to chamouni. [sidenote: chamouni on christmas night. .] it also was a little "city of the dead." there was no living thing in the streets, and neither sound nor light in the houses. the fountain made a melancholy gurgle, one or two loosened window-shutters creaked harshly in the wind, and banged against the objects which limited their oscillations. the hôtel de l'union, so bright and gay in summer, was nailed up and forsaken; and the cross in front of it, stretching its snow-laden arms into the dim air, was the type of desolation. we rang the bell at the hôtel royal, but the bay of a watch-dog resounding through the house was long our only reply. the bell appeared powerless to wake the sleepers, and its sound mingled dismally with that of the wind howling through the deserted passages. the noise of my boot-heel, exerted long on the front door, was at length effective; it was unbarred, and the physical heat of a good stove soon added itself to the warmth of the welcome with which my hostess greeted me. december th.--the snow fell heavily, at frequent intervals, throughout the entire day. dense clouds draped all the mountains, and there was not the least prospect of my being able to see across the mer de glace. i walked out alone in the dim light, and afterwards traversed the streets before going to bed. they were quite forsaken. cold and sullen the arve rolled under its wooden bridge, while the snow fell at intervals with heavy shock from the roofs of the houses, the partial echoes from the surfaces of the granules combining to render the sound loud and hollow. thus were the concerns of this little hamlet changed and fashioned by the obliquity of the earth's axis, the chain of dependence which runs throughout creation, linking the roll of a planet alike with the interests of marmots and of men. [sidenote: ascent of the mountain. .] [sidenote: snow on the pines. .] tuesday, th december.--i rose at six o'clock, having arranged with my men to start at seven, if the weather at all permitted. edouard simond, my old assistant of , and joseph tairraz were the guides of the party; the porters were edouard balmat, joseph simond (fils d'auguste), françois ravanal, and another. they came at the time appointed; it was snowing heavily, and we agreed to wait till eight o'clock and then decide. they returned at eight, and finding them disposed to try the ascent to the montanvert, it was not my place to baulk them. through the valley the work was easy, as the snow had been partially beaten down, but we soon passed the habitable limits, and had to break ground for ourselves. three of my men had tried to reach the montanvert by _la filia_ on the previous thursday, but their experience of the route had been such as to deter them from trying it again. we now chose the ordinary route, breasting the slope until we reached the cluster of chalets, under the projecting eave of one of which the men halted and applied "pattens" to their feet. these consisted of planks about sixteen inches long and ten wide, which were firmly strapped to the feet. my first impression was that they were worse than useless, for though they sank less deeply than the unarmed feet, on being raised they carried with them a larger amount of snow, which, with the leverage of the leg, appeared to necessitate an enormous waste of force. i stated this emphatically, but the men adhered to their pattens, and before i reached the montanvert i had reason to commend their practice as preferable to my theory. i was however guided by the latter, and wore no pattens. the general depth of the snow along the track was over three feet; the footmarks of the men were usually rigid enough to bear my weight, but in many cases i went through the crust which their pressure had produced, and sank suddenly in the mass. the snow became softer as we ascended, and my immersions more frequent, but the work was pure enjoyment, and the scene one of extreme beauty. the previous night's snow had descended through a perfectly still atmosphere, and had loaded all the branches of the pines; the long arms of the trees drooped under the weight, and presented at their extremities the appearance of enormous talons turned downwards. some of the smaller and thicker trees were almost entirely covered, and assumed grotesque and beautiful forms; the upper part of one in particular resembled a huge white parrot with folded wings and drooping head, the slumber of the bird harmonizing with the torpor of surrounding nature. i have given a sketch of it in fig. . [illustration: fig. . snow on the pines.] [sidenote: sound of breaking snow. .] previous to reaching the half-way spring, where the peasant girls offer strawberries to travellers in summer, we crossed two large couloirs filled with the débris of avalanches which had fallen the night before. between these was a ridge forty or fifty yards wide on which the snow was very deep, the slope of the mountain also adding a component to the fair thickness of the snow. my shoulder grazed the top of the embankment to my right as i crossed the ridge, and once or twice i found myself waist deep in a vertical shaft from which it required a considerable effort to escape. suddenly we heard a deep sound resembling the dull report of a distant gun, and at the same moment the snow above us broke across, forming a fissure parallel to our line of march. the layer of snow had been in a state of strain, which our crossing brought to a crisis: it gave way, but having thus relieved itself it did not descend. several times during the ascent the same phenomenon occurred. once, while engaged upon a very steep slope, one of the men cried out to the leader, "_arrêtez!_" immediately in front of the latter the snow had given way, forming a zigzag fissure across the slope. we all paused, expecting to see an avalanche descend. tairraz was in front; he struck the snow with his bâton to loosen it, but seeing it indisposed to descend he advanced cautiously across it, and was followed by the others. i brought up the rear. the steepness of the mountain side at this place, and the absence of any object to which one might cling, would have rendered a descent with the snow in the last degree perilous, and we all felt more at ease when a safe footing was secured at the further side of the incline. at the spring, which showed a little water, the men paused to have a morsel of bread. the wind had changed, the air was clearing, and our hopes brightening. as we ascended the atmosphere went through some extraordinary mutations. clouds at first gathered round the aiguille and dôme du goûter, casting the lower slopes of the mountain into intense gloom. after a little time all this cleared away, and the beams of the sun striking detached pieces of the slopes and summits produced an extraordinary effect. the aiguille and dôme were most singularly illumined, and to the extreme left rose the white conical hump of the dromedary, from which a long streamer of snow-dust was carried southward by the wind. the aiguille du dru, which had been completely mantled during the earlier part of the day, now threw off its cloak of vapour and rose in most solemn majesty before us; half of its granite cone was warmly illuminated, and half in shadow. the wind was high in the upper regions, and, catching the dry snow which rested on the asperities and ledges of the aiguille, shook it out like a vast banner in the air. the changes of the atmosphere, and the grandeur which they by turns revealed and concealed, deprived the ascent of all weariness. we were usually flanked right and left by pines, but once between the fountain and the montanvert we had to cross a wide unsheltered portion of the mountain which was quite covered with the snow of recent avalanches. this was lumpy and far more coherent than the undisturbed snow. we took advantage of this, and climbed zigzag over the avalanches for three-quarters of an hour, thus reaching the opposite pines at a point considerably higher than the path. this, though not the least dangerous, was the least fatiguing part of the ascent. [sidenote: colour of snow. .] i frequently examined the colour of the snow: though fresh, its blue tint was by no means so pronounced as i have seen it on other occasions; still it was beautiful. the colour is, no doubt, due to the optical reverberations which occur within a fissure or cavity formed in the snow. the light is sent from side to side, each time plunging a little way into the mass; and being ejected from it by reflection, it thus undergoes a sifting process, and finally reaches the eye as blue light. the presence of any object which cuts off this cross-fire of the light destroys the colour. i made conical apertures in the snow, in some cases three feet deep, a foot wide at the mouth, and tapering down to the width of my bâton. when the latter was placed along the axis of such a cone, the blue light which had previously filled the cavity disappeared; on the withdrawal of the bâton it was followed by the light, and thus by moving the staff up and down its motions were followed by the alternate appearance and extinction of the light. i have said that the holes made in the snow seemed filled with a blue light, and it certainly appeared as if the air contained in the cavities had itself been coloured, and thereby rendered visible, the vision plunging into it as into a blue medium. another fact is perhaps worth notice: snow rarely lies so smooth as not to present little asperities at its surface; little ridges or hillocks, with little hollows between them. such small hollows resemble, in some degree, the cavities which i made in the snow, and from them, in the present instance, a delicate light was sent to the eye, faintly tinted with the pure blue of the snow-crystals. in comparison with the spots thus illuminated, the little protuberances were gray. the portions most exposed to the light seemed least illuminated, and their defect in this respect made them appear as if a light-brown dust had been strewn over them. [sidenote: the montanvert in winter. .] after five hours and a half of hard work we reached the montanvert. i had often seen it with pleasure. often, having spent the day alone amid the _séracs_ of the col du géant, on turning the promontory of trélaporte on my way home, the sight of the little mansion has gladdened me, and given me vigour to scamper down the glacier, knowing that pleasant faces and wholesome fare were awaiting me. this day, also, the sight of it was most welcome, despite its desolation. the wind had swept round the auberge, and carried away its snow-buttresses, piling the mass thus displaced against the adjacent sheds, to the roofs of which one might step from the surface of the snow. the floor of the little château in which i lodged in was covered with snow, and on it were the fresh footmarks of a little animal--a marmot might have made such marks, had not the marmots been all asleep--what the creature was i do not know. [sidenote: crystal curtain. .] in the application of her own principles, nature often transcends the human imagination; her acts are bolder than our predictions. it is thus with the motion of glaciers; it was thus at the montanvert on the day now referred to. the floors, even where the windows appeared well closed, were covered with a thin layer of fine snow; and some of the mattresses in the bedrooms were coated to the depth of half an inch with this fine powder. given a chink through which the finest dust can pass, dry snow appears competent to make its way through the same fissure. it had also been beaten against the windows, and clung there like a ribbed drapery. in one case an effect so singular was exhibited, that i doubted my eyes when i first saw it. in front of a large pane of glass, and quite detached from it, save at its upper edge, was a festooned curtain formed entirely of minute ice-crystals. it appeared to be as fine as muslin; the ease of its curves and the depth of its folds being such as could not be excelled by the intentional arrangement of ordinary gauze. the frost-figures on some of the window-panes were also of the most extraordinary character: in some cases they extended over large spaces, and presented the appearance which we often observe in london; but on other panes they occurred in detached clusters, or in single flowers, these grouping themselves together to form miniature bouquets of inimitable beauty. i placed my warm hand against a pane which was covered by the crystallization, and melted the frostwork which clung to it. i then withdrew my hand and looked at the film of liquid through a pocket-lens. the glass cooled by contact with the air, and after a time the film commenced to move at one of its edges; atom closed with atom, and the motion ran in living lines through the pellicle, until finally the entire film presented the beauty and delicacy of an organism. the connexion between such objects and what we are accustomed to call the feelings may not be manifest, but it is nevertheless true that, besides appealing to the pure intellect of man, these exquisite productions can also gladden his heart and moisten his eyes. [sidenote: the mer de glace in winter. .] the glacier excited the admiration of us all: not as in summer, shrunk and sullied like a spent reptile, steaming under the influence of the sun; its frozen muscles were compact, strength and beauty were associated in its aspect. at some places it was pure and smooth; at others frozen fins arose from it, high, steep, and sharply crested. down the opposite mountain side arrested streams set themselves erect in successive terraces, the fronts of which were fluted pillars of ice. there was no sound of water; even the nant blanc, which gushes from a spring, and which some describe as permanent throughout the winter, showed no trace of existence. from the montanvert to trélaporte the mer de glace was all in shadow; but the sunbeams pouring down the corridor of the géant ruled a beam of light across the glacier at its upper portion, smote the base of the aiguille du moine, and flooded the mountain with glory to its crest. at the opposite side of the valley was the aiguille du dru, with a banneret of snow streaming from its mighty cone. the grande jorasse, and the range of summits between it and the aiguille du géant, were all in view, and the charmoz raised its precipitous cliffs to the right, and pierced with its splinter-like pinnacles the clear cold air. as the night drew on, the mountains seemed to close in upon us; and on looking out before retiring to rest, a scene so solemn had never before presented itself to my eyes or affected my imagination. [sidenote: the first night. .] my men occupied the afternoon of the day of our arrival in making a preliminary essay upon the glacier while i prepared my instruments. to the person whom i intended to fix my stations, three others were attached by sound ropes of considerable length. hidden crevasses we knew were to be encountered, and we had made due preparation for them. throughout the afternoon the weather remained fine, and at night the stars shone out, but still with a feeble lustre. i could notice a turbidity gathering in the air over the range of the brévent, which seemed disposed to extend itself towards us. at night i placed a chair in the middle of the snow, at some distance from the house, and laid on it a registering thermometer. a bountiful fire of pine logs was made in the _salle à manger_; a mattress was placed with its foot towards the fire, its middle line bisecting the right angle in which the fireplace stood; this being found by experiment to be the position in which the draughts from the door and from the windows most effectually neutralized each other. in this region of calms i lay down, and covering myself with blankets and duvets, listened to the crackling of the logs, and watched their ruddy flicker upon the walls, until i fell asleep. the wind rose during the night, and shook the windows: one pane in particular seemed set in unison to the gusts, and responded to them by a loud and melodious vibration. i rose and wedged it round with _sous_ and penny pieces, and thus quenched its untimely music. december th.--we were up before the dawn. tairraz put my fire in order, and i then rose. the temperature of the room at a distance of eight feet from the fire was two degrees of centigrade below zero; the lowest temperature outside was eleven degrees of centigrade below zero,--not at all an excessive cold. the clouds indeed had, during the night, thrown vast diaphragms across the sky, and thus prevented the escape of the earth's heat into space. while my assistants were preparing breakfast i had time to inspect the glacier and its bounding heights. on looking up the mer de glace, the grande jorasse meets the view, rising in steep outline from the wall of cliffs which terminates the glacier de léchaud. behind this steep ascending ridge, which is shown on the frontispiece, and upon it, a series of clouds had ranged themselves, stretching lightly along the ridge at some places, and at others collecting into ganglia. a string of rosettes was thus formed which were connected together by gauzy filaments. the portion of the heavens behind the ridge was near the domain of the rising sun, and when he cleared the horizon his red light fell upon the clouds, and ignited them to ruddy flames. some of the lighter clouds doubled round the summit of the mountain, and swathed its black crags with a vestment of transparent red. the adjacent sky wore a strange and supernatural air; indeed there was something in the whole scene which baffled analysis, and the words of tennyson rose to my lips as i gazed upon it:-- [sidenote: a "rose of dawn." .] "god made himself an awful rose of dawn." i have spoken several times of the cloud-flag which the wind wafted from the summit of the aiguille du dru. on the present occasion this grand banner reached extraordinary dimensions. it was brindled in some places as if whipped into curds by the wind; but through these continuous streamers were drawn, which were bent into sinuosities resembling a waving flag at a mast-head. all this was now illuminated with the sun's red rays, which also fringed with fire the exposed edges and pinnacles both of the aiguille du dru and the aiguille verte. thus rising out of the shade of the valley the mountains burned like a pair of torches, the flames of which were blown half a mile through the air. soon afterwards the summits of the aiguilles rouges were illuminated, and day declared itself openly among the mountains. [sidenote: the stakes fixed. .] but these red clouds of the morning, magnificent though they were, suggested thoughts which tended to qualify the pleasure which they gave: they did not indicate good weather. sometimes, indeed, they had to fight with denser masses, which often prevailed, swathing the mountains in deep neutral tint, but which, again yielding, left the glory of the sunrise augmented by contrast with their gloom. between eight and nine a.m. we commenced the setting out of our first line, one of whose termini was a point about a hundred yards higher up than the montanvert hotel; a withered pine on the opposite mountain side marking the other terminus. the stakes made use of were four feet long. with the selfsame bâton which i had employed upon the mer de glace in , and which simond had preserved, the worthy fellow now took up the line. at some places the snow was very deep, but its lower portions were sufficiently compact to allow of a stake being firmly fixed in it. at those places where the wind had removed the snow or rendered it thin, the ice was pierced with an auger and the stake driven into it. the greatest caution was of course necessary on the part of the men; they were in the midst of concealed crevasses, and sounding was essential at every step. by degrees they withdrew from me, and approached the eastern boundary of the glacier, where the ice was greatly dislocated, and the labour of wading through the snow enormous. long détours were sometimes necessary to reach a required point; but they were all accomplished, and we at length succeeded in fixing eleven stakes along this line, the most distant of which was within about eighty yards of the opposite side of the glacier. [sidenote: storm on the glacier. .] the men returned, and i consulted them as to the possibility of getting a line across at the _ponts_; but this was judged to be impossible in the time. we thought, however, that a second line might be staked out at some distance below the montanvert. i took the theodolite down the mountain-slope, wading at times breast-deep in snow, and having selected a line, the men tied themselves together as before, and commenced the staking out. the work was slowly but steadily and steadfastly done. the air darkened; angry clouds gathered around the mountains, and at times the glacier was swept by wild squalls. the men were sometimes hidden from me by the clouds of snow which enveloped them, but between those intermittent gusts there were intervals of repose, which enabled us to prosecute our work. this line was more difficult than the first one; the glacier was broken into sharp-edged chasms; the ridges to be climbed were steep, and the snow which filled the depressions profound. the oblique arrangement of the crevasses also magnified the labour by increasing the circuits. i saw the leader of the party often shoulder-deep in snow, treading the soft mass as a swimmer walks in water, and i felt a wish to be at his side to cheer him and to share his toil. each man there, however, knew my willingness to do this if occasion required it, and wrought contented. at length the last stake being fixed, the faces of the men were turned homeward. the evening became wilder, and the storm rose at times to a hurricane. on the more level portions of the glacier the snow lay deep and unsheltered; among its frozen waves and upon its more dislocated portions it had been partially engulfed, and the residue was more or less in shelter. over the former spaces dense clouds of snow rose, whirling in the air and cutting off all view of the glacier. the whole length of the mer de glace was thus divided into clear and cloudy segments, and presented an aspect of wild and wonderful turmoil. a large pine stood near me, with its lowest branch spread out upon the surface of the snow; on this branch i seated myself, and, sheltered by the trunk, waited until i saw my men in safety. the wind caught the branches of the trees, shook down their loads of snow, and tossed it wildly in the air. every mountain gave a quota to the storm. the scene was one of most impressive grandeur, and the moan of the adjacent pines chimed in noble harmony with the picture which addressed the eyes. at length we all found ourselves in safety within doors. the windows shook violently. the tempest was however intermittent throughout, as if at each effort it had exhausted itself, and required time to recover its strength. as i heard its heralding roar in the gullies of the mountains, and its subsequent onset against our habitation, i thought wistfully of my stations, not knowing whether they would be able to retain their positions in the face of such a blast. that night however, as if the storm had sung our lullaby, we all slept profoundly, having arranged to commence our measurements as early as light permitted on the following day. [sidenote: heavy snow. .] thursday, th december.--"snow, heavy snow: it must have descended throughout the entire night; the quantity freshly fallen is so great; the atmosphere at seven o'clock is thick with the descending flakes." at eight o'clock it cleared up a little, and i proceeded to my station, while the men advanced upon the glacier; but i had scarcely fixed my theodolite when the storm recommenced. i had a man to clear away the snow and otherwise assist me; he procured an old door from the hotel, and by rearing it upon its end sheltered the object-glass of the instrument. added to the flakes descending from the clouds was the spitting snow-dust raised by the wind, which for a time so blinded me that i was unable to see the glacier. the measurement of the first stake was very tedious, but practice afterwards enabled me to take advantage of the brief lulls and periods of partial clearness with which the storm was interfused. [sidenote: a man in a crevasse. .] at nine o'clock my telescope happened to be directed upon the men as they struggled through the snow; all evidence of the deep track which they had formed yesterday having been swept away. i saw the leader sink and suddenly disappear. he had stood over a concealed fissure, the roof of which had given way and he had dropped in. i observed a rapid movement on the part of the remaining three men: they grouped themselves beside the fissure, and in a moment the missing man was drawn from between its jaws. his disappearance and reappearance were both extraordinary. we had, as i have stated, provided for contingencies of this kind, and the man's rescue was almost immediate. [sidenote: six-rayed crystals. .] my attendant brought two poles from the hotel which we thrust obliquely into the snow, causing the free ends to cross each other; over these a blanket was thrown, behind which i sheltered myself from the storm as the men proceeded from stake to stake. at . the storm was so thick that i was unable to see the men at the stake which they had reached at the time; the flakes sped wildly in their oblique course across the field of the telescope. some time afterwards the air became quite still, and the snow underwent a wonderful change. frozen flowers similar to those i had observed on monte rosa fell in myriads. for a long time the flakes were wholly composed of these exquisite blossoms entangled together. on the surface of my woollen dress they were soft as down; the snow itself on which they fell seemed covered by a layer of down; while my coat was completely spangled with six-rayed stars. and thus prodigal nature rained down beauty, and had done so here for ages unseen by man. and yet some flatter themselves with the idea that this world was planned with strict reference to human use; that the lilies of the field exist simply to appeal to the sense of the beautiful in man. true, this result is secured, but it is one of a thousand all equally important in the eyes of nature. whence those frozen blossoms? why for æons wasted? the question reminds one of the poet's answer when asked whence was the rhodora:-- "why wert thou there, o rival of the rose? i never thought to ask, i never knew; but in my simple ignorance suppose the selfsame power that brought me there brought you!"[a] i sketched some of the crystals, but, instead of reproducing these sketches, which were rough and hasty, i have annexed two of the forms drawn with so much skill and patience by mr. glaisher. [illustration: fig. . snow crystals.] [illustration: fig. . snow crystals.] we completed the measurement of the first line before eleven o'clock, and i felt great satisfaction in the thought that i possessed something of which the weather could not deprive me. as i closed my note-book and shifted the instrument to the second station, i felt that my expedition was already a success. at a quarter past eleven i had my theodolite again fixed, and ranging the telescope along the line of pickets, i saw them all standing. crossing the ice wilderness, and suggesting the operation of intelligence amid that scene of desolation, their appearance was pleasant to me. just before i commenced, a solitary jay perched upon the summit of an adjacent pine and watched me. the air was still at the time, and the snow fell heavily. the flowers moreover were magnificent, varying from about the twentieth of an inch to two lines in diameter, while, falling through the quiet air, their forms were perfect. adjacent to my theodolite was a stump of pine, from which i had the snow removed, in order to have something to kick my toes against when they became cold; and on the stump was placed a blanket to be used as a screen in case of need. while i remained at the station a layer of snow an inch thick fell upon this blanket, the whole layer being composed of these exquisite flowers. the atmosphere also was filled with them. from the clouds to the earth nature was busy marshalling her atoms, and putting to shame by the beauty of her structures the comparative barbarities of art. [sidenote: sound through the snow-storm. .] my men at length reached the first station, and the measurement commenced. the storm drifted up the valley, thickening all the air as it approached. denser and denser the flakes fell; but still, with care and tact i was able to follow my party to a distance of yards. i had not thought it possible to see so far through so dense a storm. at this distance also my voice could be heard, and my instructions understood; for once, as the man who took up the line stood behind his bâton and prevented its projection against the white snow, i called out to him to stand aside, and he promptly did so. throughout the entire measurement the snow never ceased falling, and some of the illusions which it produced were extremely singular. the distant boundary of the glacier appeared to rise to an extraordinary height, and the men wading through the snow appeared as if climbing up a wall. the labour along this line was still greater than on the former; on the steeper slopes especially the toil was great; for here the effort of the leader to lift his own body added itself to that of cutting his way through the snow. his footing i could see often yielded, and he slid back, checking his recession, however, by still plunging forward; thus, though the limbs were incessantly exerted, it was, for a time, a mere motion of vibration without any sensible translation. at the last stake the men shouted, "_nous avons finis!_" and i distinctly heard them through the falling snow. by this time i was quite covered with the crystals which clung to my wrapper. they also formed a heap upon my theodolite, rising over the spirit-levels and embracing the lower portion of the vertical arc. the work was done; i struck my theodolite and ascended to the hotel; the greatest depth of snow through which i waded reaching, when i stood erect, to within three inches of my breast. [sidenote: swift descent. .] the men returned; dinner was prepared and consumed; the disorder which we had created made good; the rooms were swept, the mattresses replaced, and the shutters fastened, where this was possible. we locked up the house, and with light hearts and lithe limbs commenced the descent. my aim now was to reach the source of the arveiron, to examine the water and inspect the vault. with this view we went straight down the mountain. the inclinations were often extremely steep, and down these we swept with an avalanche-velocity; indeed usually accompanied by an avalanche of our own creation. on one occasion balmat was for a moment overwhelmed by the descending mass: the guides were startled, but he emerged instantly. tairraz followed him, and i followed tairraz, all of us rolling in the snow at the bottom of the slope as if it were so much flour. my practice on the finsteraarhorn rendered me at home here. one of the porters could by no means be induced to try this flying mode of descent. simond carried my theodolite box, tied upon a crotchet on his back; and once, while shooting down a slope, he incautiously allowed a foot to get entangled; his momentum rolled him over and over down the incline, the theodolite emerging periodically from the snow during his successive revolutions. a succession of _glissades_ brought us with amazing celerity to the bottom of the mountain, whence we picked our way amid the covered boulders and over the concealed arms of the stream to the source of the arveiron. the quantity of water issuing from the vault was considerable, and its character that of true glacier water. it was turbid with suspended matter, though not so turbid as in summer; but the difference in force and quantity would, i think, be sufficient to account for the greater summer turbidity. this character of the water could only be due to the grinding motion of the glacier upon its bed; a motion which seems not to be suspended even in the depth of winter. the temperature of the water was the tenth of a degree centigrade above zero; that of the ice was half a degree below zero: this was also the temperature of the air, while that of the snow, which in some places covered the ice-blocks, was a degree and a quarter below zero. [sidenote: vault of the arveiron. .] the entrance to the vault was formed by an arch of ice which had detached itself from the general mass of the glacier behind: between them was a space through which we could look to the sky above. beyond this the cave narrowed, and we found ourselves steeped in the blue light of the ice. the roof of the inner arch was perforated at one place by a shaft about a yard wide, which ran vertically to the surface of the glacier. water had run down the sides of this shaft, and, being re-frozen below, formed a composite pillar of icicles at least twenty feet high and a yard thick, stretching quite from roof to floor. they were all united to a common surface at one side, but at the other they formed a series of flutings of exceeding beauty. this group of columns was bent at its base as if it had yielded to the forward motion of the glacier, or to the weight of the arch overhead. passing over a number of large ice-blocks which partially filled the interior of the vault, we reached its extremity, and here found a sloping passage with a perfect arch of crystal overhead, and leading by a steep gradient to the air above. this singular gallery was about seventy feet long, and was floored with snow. we crept up it, and from the summit descended by a glissade to the frontal portion of the cavern. to me this crystal cave, with the blue light glistening from its walls, presented an aspect of magical beauty. my delight, however, was tame compared with that of my companions. [sidenote: majestic scene. .] looking from the blue arch westwards, the heavens were seen filled by crimson clouds, with fiery outliers reaching up to the zenith. on quitting the vault i turned to have a last look at those noble sentinels of the mer de glace, the aiguille du dru, and the aiguille verte. the glacier below the mountains was in shadow, and its frozen precipices of a deep cold blue. from this, as from a basis, the mountain cones sprang steeply heavenward, meeting half way down the fiery light of the sinking sun. the right-hand slopes and edges of both pyramids burned in this light, while detached protuberant masses also caught the blaze, and mottled the mountains with effulgent spaces. a range of minor peaks ran slanting downwards from the summit of the aiguille verte; some of these were covered with snow, and shone as if illuminated with the deep crimson of a strontian flame. i was absolutely struck dumb by the extraordinary majesty of this scene, and watched it silently till the red light faded from the highest summits. thus ended my winter expedition to the mer de glace. next morning, starting at three o'clock, i was driven by my two guides in an open sledge to sallenches. the rain was pitiless and the road abominable. the distance, i believe, is only six leagues, but it took us five hours to accomplish it. the leading mule was beyond the reach of simond's whip, and proved a mere obstructive; during part of the way it was unloosed, tied to the sledge, and dragged after it. simond afterwards mounted the hindmost beast and brought his whip to bear upon the leader, the jerking he endured for an hour and a half seemed almost sufficient to dislocate his bones. we reached sallenches half an hour late, but the diligence was behind its time by this exact interval. we met it on the pont st. martin, and i transferred myself from the sledge to the interior. this was the morning of the th of december, and on the evening of the st of january i was in london. [sidenote: my assistants. .] i cannot finish this recital without saying one word about my men. their behaviour was admirable throughout. the labour was enormous, but it was manfully and cheerfully done. i know simond well; he is intelligent, truthful, and affectionate, and there is no guide of my acquaintance for whom i have a stronger regard. joseph tairraz is an extremely intelligent and able guide, and on this trying occasion proved himself worthy of my highest praise and commendation. their two companions upon the glacier, edouard balmat (le petit balmat) and joseph simond (fils d'auguste), acquitted themselves admirably; and it also gives me pleasure to bear testimony to the willing and efficient service of françois ravanal, who attended upon me during the observations. footnotes: [a] emerson. part ii. chiefly scientific. aber im stillen gemach entwirft bedeutende zirkel sinnend der weise, beschleicht forschend den schaffenden geist, prüft der stoffe gewalt, der magnete hassen und lieben, folgt durch die lüfte dem klang, folgt durch den aether dem strahl, sucht das vertraute gesetz in des zufalls grausenden wundern, sucht den ruhenden pol in der erscheinungen flucht. schiller. on light and heat. ( .) [sidenote: theories of light.] what is light? the ancients supposed it to be something emitted by the eyes, and for ages no notion was entertained that it required time to pass through space. in the year römer first proved that the light from jupiter's satellites required a certain time to cross the earth's orbit. bradley afterwards found that, owing to the velocity with which the earth flies through space, the rays of the stars are slightly inclined, just as rain-drops which descend vertically appear to meet us when we move swiftly through the shower. in kew gardens there is a sun-dial commemorative of this discovery, which is called the _aberration of light_. knowing the velocity of the earth, and the inclination of the stellar rays, bradley was able to calculate the velocity of light; and his result agrees closely with that of römer. celestial distances were here involved, but a few years ago m. fizeau, by an extremely ingenious contrivance, determined the time required by light to pass over a distance of about yards; and his experiment is quite in accordance with the results of his predecessors. but what is it which thus moves? some, and among the number newton, imagined light to consist of particles darted out from luminous bodies. this is the so-called emission-theory, which was held by some of the greatest men: laplace, for example, accepted it; and m. biot has developed it with a lucidity and power peculiar to himself. it was first opposed by the astronomer huyghens, and afterwards by euler, both of whom supposed light to be a kind of undulatory motion; but they were borne down by their great antagonists, and the emission-theory held its ground until the commencement of the present century, when thomas young, professor of natural philosophy in the royal institution, reversed the scientific creed by placing the theory of undulation on firm foundations. he was followed by a young frenchman of extraordinary genius, who, by the force of his logic and the conclusiveness of his experiments, left the wave-theory without a competitor. the name of this young frenchman was augustin fresnel. since his time some of the ablest minds in europe have been applied to the investigation of this subject; and thus a mastery, almost miraculous, has been attained over the grandest and most subtle of natural phenomena. true knowledge is always fruitful, and a clear conception regarding any one natural agent leads infallibly to better notions regarding others. thus it is that our knowledge of light has corrected and expanded our knowledge of _heat_, while the latter, in its turn, will assuredly lead us to clearer conceptions regarding the other forces of nature. i think it will not be a useless labour if i here endeavour to state, in a simple manner, our present views of light and heat. such knowledge is essential to the explanation of many of the phenomena referred to in the foregoing pages; and even to the full comprehension of the origin of the glaciers themselves. a few remarks on the nature of sound will form a fit introduction. [sidenote: nature of sound.] it is known that sound is conveyed to our organs of hearing by the air: a bell struck in a vacuum emits no sound, and even when the air is thin the sound is enfeebled. hawksbee proved this by the air-pump; de saussure fired a pistol at the top of mont blanc,--i have repeated the experiment myself, and found, with him, that the sound is feebler than at the sea level. sound is not produced by anything projected through the air. the explosion of a gun, for example, is sent forward by a motion of a totally different kind from that which animates the bullet projected from the gun: the latter is a motion of _translation_; the former, one of _vibration_. to use a rough comparison, sound is projected through the air as a push is through a crowd; it is the propagation of a _wave_ or _pulse_, each particle taking up the motion of its neighbour, and delivering it on to the next. these aërial waves enter the external ear, meet a membrane, the so-called tympanic membrane, which is drawn across the passage at a certain place, and break upon it as sea-waves do upon the shore. the membrane is shaken, its tremors are communicated to the auditory nerve, and transmitted by it to the brain, where they produce the impression to which we give the name of sound. [sidenote: cause of music.] in the tumult of a city, pulses of different kinds strike irregularly upon the tympanum, and we call the effect _noise_; but when a succession of impulses reach the ear _at regular intervals_ we feel the effect as _music_. thus, a vibrating string imparts a series of shocks to the air around it, which are transmitted with perfect regularity to the ear, and produce a _musical note_. when we hear the song of a soaring lark we may be sure that the entire atmosphere between us and the bird is filled with pulses, or undulations, or waves, as they are often called, produced by the little songster's organ of voice. this organ is a vibrating instrument, resembling, in principle, the reed of a clarionet. let us suppose that we hear the song of a lark, elevated to a height of feet in the air. before this is possible, the bird must have agitated a sphere of air feet in diameter; that is to say, it must have communicated to , tons of air a motion sufficiently intense to be appreciated by our organs of hearing. [sidenote: cause of pitch.] musical sounds differ in _pitch_: some notes are high and shrill, others low and deep. boys are chosen as choristers to produce the shrill notes; men are chosen to produce the bass notes. now, the sole difference here is, that the boy's organ vibrates _more rapidly_ than the man's--it sends a greater number of impulses per second to the ear. in like manner, a short string emits a higher note than a long one, because it vibrates more quickly. the greater the number of vibrations which any instrument performs in a given time, the higher will be the pitch of the note produced. the reason why the hum of a gnat is shriller than that of a beetle is that the wings of the small insect vibrate more quickly than those of the larger one. we can, with suitable arrangements, make those sonorous vibrations visible to the eye;[a] and we also possess instruments which enable us to tell, with the utmost exactitude, the number of vibrations due to any particular note. by such instruments we learn that a gnat can execute many thousand flaps of its little wings in a second of time. [sidenote: nature of light.] in the study of nature the coarser phenomena, which come under the cognizance of the senses, often suggest to us the finer phenomena which come under the cognizance of the mind; and thus the vibrations which produce sound, and which, as has been stated, can be rendered visible to the eye by proper means, first suggested that _light_ might be due to a somewhat similar action. this is now the universal belief. a luminous body is supposed to have its atoms, or molecules, in a state of intense vibration. the motions of the atoms are supposed to be communicated to a medium suited to their transmission, as air is to the transmission of sound. this medium is called the _luminiferous ether_, and the little billows excited in it speed through it with amazing celerity, enter the pupil of the eye, pass through the humours, and break upon the retina or optic nerve, which is spread out at the back of the eye. hence the tremors they produce are transmitted along the nerve to the brain, where they announce themselves as _light_. the swiftness with which the waves of light are propagated through the ether, is however enormously greater than that with which the waves of sound pass through the air. an aërial wave of sound travels at about the rate of feet in a second: a wave of light leaves , miles behind it in the same time. [sidenote: cause of colour.] thus, then, in the case of sound, we have the sonorous body, the air, and the auditory nerve, concerned in the phenomenon; in the case of light, we have the luminous body, the ether, and the optic nerve. the fundamental analogy of sound and light is thus before us, and it is easily remembered. but we must push the analogy further. we know that the white light which comes to us from the sun is made up of an infinite number of coloured rays. by refraction with a prism we can separate those rays from each other, and arrange them in the series of colours which constitute the solar spectrum. the rainbow is an imperfect or _impure_ spectrum, produced by the drops of falling rain, but by prisms we can unravel the white light into pure red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet. now, this spectrum is to the eye what the gamut is to the ear; each colour represents a note, and _the different colours represent notes of different pitch_. the vibrations which produce the impression of red are _slower_, and the waves which they produce are _longer_, than those to which we owe the sensation of violet; while the vibrations which excite the other colours are intermediate between these two extremes. this, then, is the second grand analogy between light and sound: _colour answers to pitch_. there is therefore truth in the figure when we say that the gentian of the alps sings a shriller note than the wild rhododendron, and that the red glow of the mountains at sunset is of a lower pitch than the blue of the firmament at noon. [sidenote: length of ethereal waves.] these are not fanciful analogies. to the mind of the philosopher these waves of ether are almost as palpable and certain as the waves of the sea, or the ripples on the surface of a lake. the length of the waves, both of sound and light, and the number of shocks which they respectively impart to the ear and eye, have been the subjects of the strictest measurement. let us here go through a simple calculation. it has been found that , waves of red light placed end to end would make up an inch. how many inches are there in , miles? my youngest reader can make the calculation for himself, and find the answer to be , , , inches. it is evident that, if we multiply this number by , , we shall obtain the number of waves of red light in , miles; this number is , , , , . _all these waves enter the eye in one second_; thus the expression "i see red colour," strictly means, "my eye is now in receipt of four hundred and seventy-four millions of millions of impulses per second." to produce the impression of violet light a still greater number of impulses is necessary; the wave-length of violet is the / th part of an inch, and the number of shocks imparted in a second by waves of this length is, in round numbers, six hundred and ninety-nine millions of millions. the other colours of the spectrum, as already stated, rise gradually in pitch from the red to the violet. a very curious analogy between the eye and ear may here be noticed. the range of seeing is different in different persons--some see a longer spectrum than others; that is to say, rays which are obscure to some are luminous to others. dr. wollaston pointed out a similar fact as regards hearing; the range of which differs in different individuals. savart has shown that a good ear can hear a musical note produced by shocks in a second; it can also hear a note produced by , shocks in a second; but there are ears in which the range is much more limited. it is possible indeed to produce a sound which shall be painfully shrill to one person, while it is quite unheard by another. i once crossed a swiss mountain in company with a friend; a donkey was in advance of us, and the dull tramp of the animal was plainly heard by my companion; but to me this sound was almost masked by the shrill chirruping of innumerable insects which thronged the adjacent grass; my friend heard nothing of this, it lay quite beyond his range of hearing. a third and most important analogy between sound and light is now to be noted; and it will be best understood by reference to something more tangible than either. when a stone is thrown into calm water a series of rings spread themselves around the centre of disturbance. if a second stone be thrown in at some distance from the first, the rings emanating from both centres will cross each other, and at those points where the ridge of one wave coincides with the ridge of another the water will be lifted to a greater height. at those points, on the contrary, where the ridge of one wave crosses the furrow of another, we have both obliterated, and the water restored to its ordinary level. where two ridges or two furrows unite, we have a case of _coincidence_; but where a ridge and a furrow unite we have what is called _interference_. it is quite possible to send two systems of waves into the same channel, and to hold back one system a little, so that its ridges shall coincide with the furrows of the other system. the "interference" would be here complete, and the waves thus circumstanced would mutually destroy each other, smooth water being the result. in this way, by the addition of motion to motion, _rest_ may be produced. [sidenote: light added to light makes darkness.] in a precisely similar manner two systems of sonorous waves can be caused to interfere and mutually to destroy each other: thus, by adding sound to sound, _silence_ may be produced. two beams of light also may be caused to interfere and effect their mutual extinction: thus, by adding light to light, we can produce _darkness_. here indeed we have a critical analogy between sound and light--_the_ one, in fact, which compels the most profound thinkers of the present day to assume that light, like sound, is a case of undulatory motion. we see here the vision of the intellect prolonged beyond the boundaries of sense into the region of what might be considered mere imagination. but, unlike other imaginations, we can bring ours to the test of experiment; indeed, so great a mastery have we obtained over these waves, which eye has not seen, nor ear heard, that we can with mathematical certainty cause them to coincide or to interfere, to help each other or to destroy each other, at pleasure. it is perhaps possible to be a little more precise here. let two stones--with a small distance between them--be dropped into water at the same moment; a system of circular waves will be formed round each stone. let the distance from one little crest to the next following one be called _the length of the wave_, and now let us inquire what will take place at a point equally distant from the places where the two stones were dropped in. fixing our attention upon the ridge of the first wave in each case, it is manifest that, as the water propagates both systems with the same velocity, the two foremost ridges will reach the point in question at the same moment; the ridge of one would therefore coincide with the ridge of the other, and the water at this point would be lifted to a height greater than that of either of the previous ridges. [sidenote: coincidence and interference.] again, supposing that by any means we had it in our power to retard one system of waves so as to cause the first ridge of the one to be exactly one wave length behind the first ridge of the other, when they arrive at the point referred to. it is plain that the first ridge of the retarded system now falls in with the second ridge of the unretarded system, and we have another case of coincidence. a little reflection will show the same to be true when one system is retarded any number of _whole wave-lengths_; the first ridge of the retarded system will always, at the point referred to, coincide with a _ridge_ of the unretarded system. but now suppose the one system to be retarded only _half a wave-length_; it is perfectly clear that, in this case the first ridge of the retarded system would fall in with the first _furrow_ of the unretarded system, and instead of coincidence we should have interference. one system, in fact, would tend to make a hollow at the point referred to, the other would tend to make a hill, and thus the two systems would oppose and neutralize each other, so that neither the hollow nor the hill would be produced; the water would maintain its ordinary level. what is here said of a single half-wave-length of retardation, is also true if the retardation amount to any _odd_ number of half-wave-lengths. in all such cases we should have the ridge of the one system falling in with the furrow of the other; a mutual destruction of the waves of both systems being the consequence. the same remarks apply when the point, instead of being equally distant from both stones, is an even or an odd number of semi-undulations farther from the one than from the other. in the former case we should have coincidence, and in the latter case interference, at the point in question. [sidenote: liquid waves.] to the eye of a person who understands these things, nothing can be more interesting than the rippling of water under certain circumstances. by the action of interference its surface is sometimes shivered into the most beautiful mosaic, shifting and trembling as if with a kind of visible music. when the tide advances over a sea-beach on a calm and sunny day, and its tiny ripples enter, at various points, the clear shallow pools which the preceding tide had left behind, the little wavelets run and climb and cross each other, and thus form a lovely _chasing_, which has its counterpart in the lines of light converged by the ripples upon the sand underneath. when waves are skilfully generated in a vessel of mercury, and a strong light reflected from the surface of the metal is received upon a screen, the most beautiful effects may be observed. the shape of the vessel determines, in part, the character of the figures produced; in a circular dish of mercury, for example, a disturbance at the centre propagates itself in circular waves, which after reflection again encircle the centre. if the point of disturbance be a little removed from the centre, the intersections of the direct and reflected waves produce the magnificent chasing shown in the annexed figure ( ), which i have borrowed from the excellent work on waves by the messrs. weber. the luminous figure reflected from such a surface is exceedingly beautiful. when the mercury is lightly struck by a glass point, in a direction concentric with the circumference of the vessel, the lines of light run round the vessel in mazy coils, interlacing and unravelling themselves in the most wonderful manner. if the vessel be square, a splendid mosaic is produced by the crossing of the direct and reflected waves. description, however, can give but a feeble idea of these exquisite effects;-- "thou canst not wave thy staff in the air, or dip thy paddle in the lake, but it carves the brow of beauty there, and the ripples in rhymes the oar forsake." [sidenote: chasing produced by waves.] [illustration: fig. . chasing produced by waves.] [sidenote: effect of retardation.] now, all that we have said regarding the retardation of the waves of water, by a whole undulation and a semi-undulation, is perfectly applicable to the case of light. two luminous points may be placed near to each other so as to resemble the two stones dropped into the water; and when the light of these is properly received upon a screen, or directly upon the retina, we find that at some places the action of the rays upon each other produces darkness, and at others augmented light. the former places are those where the rays emitted from one point are an _odd_ number of semi-undulations in advance of the rays sent from the other; the latter places are those where the difference of path described by the rays is either nothing, or an _even_ number of semi-undulations. supposing _a_ and _b_ (fig. ) to be two such sources of light, and s r a screen on which the light falls; at a point _l_, equally distant from _a_ and _b_, we have _light_; at a point _d_, where _a d_ is half an undulation longer than _b d_, we have darkness; at _l'_, where _a l'_ is a whole wave-length, or two semi-undulations, longer than _b l'_, we again have light; and at a point _d'_, where the difference is three semi-undulations, we have darkness; and thus we obtain a series of bright and dark spaces as we recede laterally from the central point _l_. [illustration: fig. . diagram explanatory of interference.] let a bit of tin foil be closely pasted upon a piece of glass, and the edge of a penknife drawn across the foil so as to produce a slit. looking through this slit at a small and distant light, we find the light spread out in a direction at right angles to the slit, and if the light looked at be _monochromatic_, that is, composed of a single colour, we shall have a series of bright and dark bars corresponding to the points at which the rays from the different points of the slit alternately coincide and interfere upon the retina. by properly drawing a knife across a sheet of letter-paper a suitable slit may also be obtained; and those practised in such things can obtain the effect by looking through their fingers or their eyelashes. [illustration: interference spectra, produced by diffraction. fig. . _to face_ p. .] [sidenote: chromatic effects.] but if the light looked at be white, the light of a candle for example, or of a jet of gas, instead of having a series of bright and dark bars, we have the bars _coloured_. and see how beautifully this harmonizes with what has been already said regarding the different lengths of the waves which produce different colours. looking again at fig. we see that a certain obliquity is necessary to cause one ray to be a whole undulation in advance of the other at the point _l'_; but it is perfectly manifest that the obliquity must depend upon the length of the undulation; a long undulation would require a greater obliquity than a short one; red light, for example, requires a greater obliquity than blue light; so that if the point _l'_ represents the place where the first bar of red light would be at its maximum strength, the maximum for blue would lie a little to the left of _l'_; the different colours are in this way separated from each other, and exhibit themselves as distinct fringes when a distant source of white light is regarded through a narrow slit. by varying the shape of the aperture we alter the form of the chromatic image. a circular aperture, for example, placed in front of a telescope through which a point of white light is regarded, is seen surrounded by a concentric system of coloured rings. if we multiply our slits or apertures the phenomena augment in complexity and splendour. to give some notion of this i have copied from the excellent work of m. schwerd the annexed figure (fig. ) which represents the gorgeous effect observed when a distant point of light is looked at through two gratings with slits of different widths.[b] a bird's feather represents a peculiar system of slits, and the effect observed on properly looking through it is extremely interesting. [sidenote: colours of thin films.] there are many ways by which the retardation necessary to the production of interference is effected. the splendid colours of a soap-bubble are entirely due to interference; the beam falling upon the transparent film is partially reflected at its outer surface, but a portion of it enters the film and is reflected at its _inner_ surface. the latter portion having crossed the film and returned, is retarded, in comparison with the former, and, if the film be of suitable thickness, these two beams will clash and extinguish each other, while another thickness will cause the beams to coincide and illuminate the film with a light of greater intensity. from what has been said it must be manifest that to make two red beams thus coincide a thicker film would be required than would be necessary for two blue or green beams; thus, when the thickness of the bubble is suitable for the development of red, it is not suitable for the development of green, blue, &c.; the consequence is that we have different colours at different parts of the bubble. owing to its compactness and to its being shaded by a covering of débris from the direct heat of the sun, the ice underneath the moraines of glaciers appears sometimes of a pitchy blackness. while cutting such ice with my axe i have often been surprised and delighted by sudden flashes of coloured light which broke like fire from the mass. these flashes were due to internal rupture, by which fissures were produced as thin as the film of a soap-bubble; the colours being due to the interference of the light reflected from the opposite sides of the fissures. if spirit of turpentine, or olive oil, be thrown upon water, it speedily spreads in a thin film over the surface, and the most gorgeous chromatic phenomena may be thus produced. oil of lemons is also peculiarly suited to this experiment. if water be placed in a tea-tray, and light of sufficient intensity be suffered to fall upon it, this light will be reflected from the upper and under surfaces of the film of oil, and the colours thus produced may be received upon a screen, and seen at once by many hundred persons. if the oil of cinnamon be used, fine colours are also obtained, and the breaking up of this film exhibits a most interesting case of molecular action. by using a kind of varnish, instead of oil, mr. delarue has imparted such tenacity to these films that they may be removed from the water on which they rest and preserved for any length of time. by such films the colours of certain beetles, and of the wings of certain insects, may be accurately imitated; and a rook's feather may be made to shine with magnificent iridescences. the colours of tempered metals, and the beautiful metallochrome of nobili are also due to a similar cause. [sidenote: diffraction.] these colours are called the colours of _thin plates_, and are distinguished in treatises on optics from the coloured bars and fringes above referred to, which are produced by _diffraction_, or the bending of the waves round the edge of an object. one result of this bending, which is of interest to us, was obtained by the celebrated thomas young. permitting a beam of sunlight to enter a dark room through an aperture made with a fine needle, and placing in the path of the beam a bit of card one-thirtieth of an inch wide, he found the shadow of this card, or rather the line on which its shadow might be supposed to fall, always _bright_; and he proved the effect to be due to the bending of the waves of ether round the two edges of the card, and their coincidence at the other side. it has, indeed, been shown by m. poisson, that the centre of the shadow of a small circular opaque disk which stands in the way of a beam diverging from a point is exactly as much illuminated as if the disk were absent. the singular effects described by m. necker in the letter quoted at page at once suggest themselves here; and we see how possible it is for the solar rays, in grazing a distant tree, so to bend round it as to produce upon the retina, where shadow might be expected, the impression of a tree of light.[c] another effect of diffraction is especially interesting to us at present. let the seed of lycopodium be scattered over a glass plate, or even like a cloud in the air, and let a distant point of light be regarded through it; the luminous point will appear surrounded by a series of coloured rings, and when the light is intense, like the electric or the drummond light, the effect is exceedingly fine. [sidenote: cloud iridescence, etc., explained.] and now for the application of these experiments. i have already mentioned a series of coloured rings observed around the sun by mr. huxley and myself from the rhone glacier; i have also referred to the cloud iridescences on the aletschhorn; and to the colours observed during my second ascent of monte rosa, the magnificence of which is neither to be rendered by pigments nor described in words. all these splendid phenomena are, i believe, produced by diffraction, the vesicles or spherules of water in the case of the cloud acting the part of the sporules in the case of the lycopodium. the coloured fringe which surrounds the _spirit of the brocken_, and the spectra which i have spoken of as surrounding the sun, are also produced by diffraction. by the interference of their rays in the earth's atmosphere the stars can momentarily quench themselves; and probably to an intermittent action of this kind their twinkling, and the swift chromatic changes already mentioned, are due. does not all this sound more like a fairy tale than the sober conclusions of science? what effort of the imagination could transcend the realities here presented to us? the ancients had their spheral melodies, but have not we ours, which only want a sense sufficiently refined to hear them? immensity is filled with this music; wherever a star sheds its light its notes are heard. our sun, for example, thrills concentric waves through space, and every luminous point that gems our skies is surrounded by a similar system. i have spoken of the rising, climbing and crossing of the tiny ripples of a calm tide upon a smooth strand; but what are they to those intersecting ripples of the "uncontinented deep" by which infinity is engine-turned! crossing solar and stellar distances, they bring us the light of sun and stars; thrilled back from our atmosphere, they give us the blue radiance of the sky; rounding liquid spherules, they clash at the other side, and the survivors of the tumult bear to our vision the wondrous cloud-dyes of monte rosa. footnotes: [a] the vibrations of the air of a room in which a musical instrument is sounded may be made manifest by the way in which fine sand arranges itself upon a thin stretched membrane over which it is strewn; and indeed savart has thus rendered visible the vibrations of the tympanum itself. every trace of sand was swept from a paper drum held in the clock-tower of westminster when the great bell was sounded. another way of showing the propagation of aërial pulses is to insert a small gas jet into a vertical glass tube about a foot in length, in which the flame may be caused to burn tranquilly. on pitching the voice to the note of an open tube a foot long, the little flame quivers, stretches itself, and responds by producing a clear melodious note of the same pitch as that which excited it. the flame will continue its song for hours without intermission. [b] i am not aware whether in his own country, or in any other, a recognition at all commensurate with the value of the performance has followed schwerd's admirable essay entitled 'the phenomena of diffraction deduced from the theory of undulation.' [c] i think, however, that the strong irradiation from the glistening sides of the twigs and branches must also contribute to the result. [sidenote: radiant heat.] ( .) thus, then, we have been led from sound to light, and light now in its turn will lead us to _radiant heat_; for in the order in which they are here mentioned the conviction arose that they are all three different kinds of motion. it has been said that the beams of the sun consist of rays of different colours, but this is not a complete statement of the case. the sun emits a multitude of rays which are perfectly non-luminous; and the same is true, in a still greater degree, of our artificial sources of illumination. measured by the quantity of heat which they produce, per cent. of the rays emanating from a flame of oil are obscure; while out of every of those which emanate from an alcohol flame are of the same description.[a] [sidenote: obscure rays.] in fact, the visible solar spectrum simply embraces an interval of rays of which the eye is formed to take cognizance, but it by no means marks the limits of solar action. beyond the violet end of the spectrum we have obscure rays capable of producing chemical changes, and beyond the red we have rays possessing a high heating power, but incapable of exciting the impression of light. this latter fact was first established by sir william herschel, and it has been amply corroborated since. the belief now universally prevalent is, that the rays of heat differ from the rays of light simply as one colour differs from another. as the waves which produce red are longer than those which produce yellow, so the waves which produce this obscure heat are longer than those which produce red. in fact, it may be shown that the longest waves never reach the retina at all; they are completely absorbed by the humours of the eye. what is true of the sun's obscure rays is also true of calorific rays emanating from any obscure source,--from our own bodies, for example, or from the surface of a vessel containing boiling water. we must, in fact, figure a warm body also as having its particles in a state of vibration. when these motions are communicated from particle to particle of the body the heat is said to be _conducted_; when, on the contrary, the particles transmit their vibrations through the surrounding ether, the heat is said to be _radiant_. this radiant heat, though obscure, exhibits a deportment exactly similar to light. it may be refracted and reflected, and collected in the focus of a mirror or of a suitable lens. the principle of interference also applies to it, so that by adding heat to heat we can produce _cold_. the identity indeed is complete throughout, and, recurring to the analogy of sound, we might define this radiant heat to be light of too low a pitch to be visible. i have thus far spoken of _obscure_ heat only; but the selfsame ray may excite both light and heat. the red rays of the spectrum possess a very high heating power. it was once supposed that the heat of the spectrum was an essence totally distinct from its light; but a profounder knowledge dispels this supposition, and leads us to infer that the selfsame ray, falling upon the nerves of feeling, excites heat, and falling upon the nerves of seeing, excites light. as the same electric current, if sent round a magnetic needle, along a wire, and across a conducting liquid, produces different physical effects, so also the same agent acting upon different organs of the body affects our consciousness differently. footnotes: [a] melloni. ( .) [sidenote: heat a kind of motion.] heat has been defined in the foregoing section as a motion of the molecules or atoms of a body; but though the evidence in favour of this view is at present overwhelming, i do not ask the reader to accept it as a certainty, if he feels sceptically disposed. in this case, i would only ask him to accept it as a symbol. regarded as a mere physical image, a kind of paper-currency of the mind, convertible, in due time, into the gold of truth, the hypothesis will be found exceedingly useful. all known bodies possess more or less of this molecular motion, and all bodies are communicating it to the ether in which they are immersed. ice possesses it. ice before it melts attains a temperature of ° fahr., but the substance in winter often possesses a temperature far below °, so that in rising to ° it is _warmed_. in experimenting with ice i have often had occasion to cool it to ° and more below the freezing point, and to warm it afterwards up to °. if then we stand before a wall of ice, the wall radiates heat to us, and we also radiate heat to it; but the quantity which we radiate being greater than that which the ice radiates, we lose more than we gain, and are consequently chilled. if, on the contrary, we stand before a warm stove, a system of exchanges also takes place; but here the quantity we receive is in excess of the quantity lost, and we are warmed by the difference. in like manner the earth radiates heat by day and by night into space, and against the sun, moon, and stars. by day, however, the quantity received is greater than the quantity lost, and the earth is warmed; by night the conditions are reversed; the earth radiates more heat than is sent to her by the moon and stars, and she is consequently cooled. but here an important point is to be noted:--the earth receives the heat of the sun, moon, and stars, in great part as _luminous_ heat, but she gives it out as _obscure_ heat. i do not now speak of the heat reflected by the earth into space, as the light of the moon is to us; but of the heat which, after it has been absorbed by the earth, and has contributed to warm it, is radiated into space, as if the earth itself were its independent source. thus we may properly say that the heat radiated from the earth is _different in quality_ from that which the earth has received from the sun. [sidenote: qualities of heat.] in one particular especially does this difference of quality show itself; besides being non-luminous, the heat radiated from the earth is more easily intercepted and absorbed by almost all transparent substances. a vast portion of the sun's rays, for example, can pass instantaneously through a thick sheet of water; gunpowder could easily be fired by the heat of the sun's rays converged by passing through a thick water lens; the drops upon leaves in greenhouses often act as lenses, and cause the sun to burn the leaves upon which they rest. but with regard to the rays of heat emanating from an obscure source, they are all absorbed by a layer of water less than the th of an inch in thickness: water is opaque to such rays, and cuts them off almost as effectually as a metallic screen. the same is true of other liquids, and also of many transparent solids. [sidenote: the atmosphere like a ratchet.] assuming the same to be true of gaseous bodies, that they also intercept the obscure rays much more readily than the luminous ones, it would follow that while the sun's rays penetrate our atmosphere with freedom, the change which they undergo in warming the earth deprives them in a measure of this penetrating power. they can reach the earth, but _they cannot get back_; thus the atmosphere acts the part of a ratchet-wheel in mechanics; it allows of motion in one direction, but prevents it in the other. de saussure, fourier, m. pouillet, and mr. hopkins have developed this speculation, and drawn from it consequences of the utmost importance; but it nevertheless rested upon a basis of conjecture. indeed some of the eminent men above-named deemed its truth beyond the possibility of experimental verification. melloni showed that for a distance of or feet the absorption of obscure rays by the atmosphere was absolutely inappreciable. hence, the _total_ absorption being so small as to elude even melloni's delicate tests, it was reasonable to infer that _differences_ of absorption, if such existed at all, must be far beyond the reach of the finest means which we could apply to detect them. [sidenote: differences of absorption by gases.] this exclusion of one of the three states of material aggregation from the region of experiment was, however, by no means satisfactory; for our right to infer, from the deportment of a solid or a liquid towards radiant heat, the deportment of a gas, is by no means evident. in both liquids and solids we have the molecules closely packed, and more or less chained by the force of cohesion; in gases, on the contrary, they are perfectly free, and widely separated. how do we know that the interception of radiant heat by liquids and solids may not be due to an arrangement and comparative rigidity of their parts, which gases do not at all share? the assumption which took no note of such a possibility seemed very insecure, and called for verification. my interest in this question was augmented by the fact, that the assumption referred to lies, as will be seen, at the root of the glacier question. i therefore endeavoured to fill the gap, and to do for gases and vapours what had been already so ably done for liquids and solids by melloni. i tried the methods heretofore pursued, and found them unavailing; oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen, and atmospheric air, examined by such methods, showed no action upon radiant heat. nature was dumb, but the question occurred, "had she been addressed in the proper language?" if the experimentalist is convinced of this, he will rest content even with a negative; but the absence of this conviction is always a source of discomfort, and a stimulus to try again. the principle of the method finally applied is all that can here be referred to; and it, i hope, will be quite intelligible. two beams of heat, from two distinct sources, were allowed to fall upon the same instrument,[a] and to contend there for mastery. when both beams were perfectly equal, they completely neutralized each other's action; but when one of them was in any sensible degree stronger than the other, the predominance of the former was shown by the instrument. it was so arranged that one of the conflicting beams passed through a tube which could be exhausted of air, or filled with any gas; thus varying at pleasure the medium through which it passed. the question then was, supposing the two beams to be equal when the tube was filled with air, will the exhausting of the tube disturb the equality? the answer was affirmative; the instrument at once showed that a greater quantity of heat passed through the vacuum than through the air. the experiment was so arranged that the effect thus produced was very large as measured by the indications of the instrument. but the action of the simple gases, oxygen, hydrogen, and nitrogen, was incomparably less than that produced by some of the compound gases, while these latter again differed widely from each other. vapours exhibited differences of equal magnitude. the experiments indeed proved that gaseous bodies varied among themselves, as to their power of transmitting radiant heat, just as much as liquids and solids. it was in the highest degree interesting to observe how a gas or vapour of perfect transparency, as regards light, acted like an opaque screen upon the heat. to the eye, the gas within the tube might be as invisible as the air itself, while to the radiant heat it behaved like a cloud which it was almost impossible to penetrate. [sidenote: selected heat.] applying the same method, i have found that from the sun, from the electric light, or from the lime-light, a large amount of heat can be selected, which is unaffected not only by air, but by the most energetic gases that experiment has revealed to me; while this same heat, when it has its _quality_ changed by being rendered obscure, is powerfully intercepted. thus the bold and beautiful speculation above referred to has been made an experimental fact; the radiant heat of the sun does certainly pass through the atmosphere to the earth with greater facility than the radiant heat of the earth can escape into space. [sidenote: possible heat of neptune.] it is probable that, were the earth unfurnished with this atmospheric swathing, its conditions of temperature would be such as to render it uninhabitable by man; and it is also probable that a suitable atmosphere enveloping the most distant planet might render it, as regards temperature, perfectly habitable. if the planet neptune, for example, be surrounded by an atmosphere which permits the solar and stellar rays to pass towards the planet, but cuts off the escape of the warmth which they excite, it is easy to see that such an accumulation of heat may at length take place as to render the planet a comfortable habitation for beings constituted like ourselves.[b] but let us not wander too far from our own concerns. where radiant heat is allowed to fall upon an absorbing substance, a certain thickness of the latter is always necessary for the absorption. supposing we place a thin film of glass before a source of heat, a certain percentage of the heat will pass through the glass, and the remainder will be absorbed. let the transmitted portion fall upon a second film similar to the first, a smaller percentage than before will be absorbed. a third plate would absorb still less, a fourth still less; and, after having passed through a sufficient number of layers, the heat would be so _sifted_ that all the rays capable of being absorbed by glass would be abstracted from it. suppose all these films to be placed together so as to form a single thick plate of glass, it is evident that the plate must act upon the heat which falls upon it, in such a manner that the major portion is absorbed _near the surface at which the heat enters_. this has been completely verified by experiment. [sidenote: cold of upper atmosphere.] applying this to the heat radiated from the earth, it is manifest that the greatest quantity of this heat will be absorbed by the lowest atmospheric strata. and here we find ourselves brought, by considerations apparently remote, face to face with the fact upon which the existence of all glaciers depends, namely, the comparative coldness of the upper regions of the atmosphere. the sun's rays can pass in a great measure through these regions without heating them; and the earth's rays, which they might absorb, hardly reach them at all, but are intercepted by the lower portions of the atmosphere.[c] another cause of the greater coldness of the higher atmosphere is the expansion of the denser air of the lower strata when it ascends. the dense air makes room for itself by pushing back the lighter and less elastic air which surrounds it: _it does work_, and, to perform this work, a certain amount of heat must be consumed. it is the consumption of this heat--its absolute annihilation as heat--that chills the expanded air, and to this action a share of the coldness of the higher atmosphere must undoubtedly be ascribed. a third cause of the difference of temperature is the large amount of heat communicated, _by way of contact_, to the air of the earth's surface; and a fourth and final cause is the loss endured by the highest strata through radiation into space. footnotes: [a] the opposite faces of a thermo-electric pile. [b] see a most interesting paper on this subject by mr. hopkins in the cambridge 'transactions,' may, . [c] see m. pouillet's important memoir on solar radiation. taylor's scientific memoirs, vol. iv. p. . origin of glaciers. ( .) [sidenote: the snow-line.] having thus accounted for the greater cold of the higher atmospheric regions, its consequences are next to be considered. one of these is, that clouds formed in the lower portions of the atmosphere, in warm and temperate latitudes, usually discharge themselves upon the earth as rain; while those formed in the higher regions discharge themselves upon the mountains as snow. the snow of the higher atmosphere is often melted to rain in passing through the warmer lower strata: nothing indeed is more common than to pass, in descending a mountain, from snow to rain; and i have already referred to a case of this kind. the appearance of the grassy and pine-clad alps, as seen from the valleys after a wet night, is often strikingly beautiful; the level at which the snow turned to rain being distinctly marked upon the slopes. above this level the mountains are white, while below it they are green. the eye follows this _snow-line_ with ease along the mountains, and when a sufficient extent of country is commanded its regularity is surprising. the term "snow-line," however, which has been here applied to a local and temporary phenomenon, is commonly understood to mean something else. in the case just referred to it marked the place where the supply of solid matter from the upper atmospheric regions, during a single fall, was exactly equal to its consumption; but the term is usually understood to mean the line along which the quantity of snow which falls _annually_ is melted, and no more. below this line each year's snow is completely cleared away by the summer heat; above it a residual layer abides, which gradually augments in thickness from the snow-line upwards. [sidenote: mountains unloaded by glaciers.] here then we have a fresh layer laid on every year; and it is evident that, if this process continued without interruption, every mountain which rises above the snow-line must augment annually in height; the waters of the sea thus piled, in a solid form, upon the summits of the hills, would raise the latter to an indefinite elevation. but, as might be expected, the snow upon steep mountain-sides frequently slips and rolls down in avalanches into warmer regions, where it is reduced to water. a comparatively small quantity of the snow is, however, thus got rid of, and the great agent which nature employs to relieve her overladen mountains is the glaciers. let us here avoid an error which may readily arise out of the foregoing reflections. the principal region of clouds and rain and snow extends only to a limited distance upwards in the atmosphere; the highest regions contain very little moisture, and were our mountains sufficiently lofty to penetrate those regions, the quantity of snow falling upon their summits would be too trifling to resist the direct action of the solar rays. these would annually clear the summits to a certain level, and hence, were our mountains high enough, we should have a superior, as well as an inferior, snow-line; the region of perpetual snow would form a belt, below which, in summer, snowless valleys and plains would extend, and above which snowless summits would rise. ( .) [sidenote: white and blue ice.] at its origin then a glacier is snow--at its lower extremity it is ice. the blue blocks that arch the source of the arveiron were once powdery snow upon the slopes of the col du géant. could our vision penetrate into the body of the glacier, we should find that the change from white to blue essentially consists in the gradual expulsion of the air which was originally entangled in the meshes of the fallen snow. whiteness always results from the intimate and irregular mixture of air and a transparent solid; a crushed diamond would resemble snow; if we pound the most transparent rock-salt into powder we have a substance as white as the whitest culinary salt; and the colourless glass vessel which holds the salt would also, if pounded, give a powder as white as the salt itself. it is a law of light that in passing from one substance to another possessing a different power of refraction, a portion of it is always reflected. hence when light falls upon a transparent solid mixed with air, at each passage of the light from the air to the solid and from the solid to the air a portion of it is reflected; and, in the case of a powder, this reflection occurs so frequently that the passage of the light is practically cut off. thus, from the mixture of two perfectly transparent substances, we obtain an opaque one; from the intimate mixture of air and water we obtain foam; clouds owe their opacity to the same principle; and the condensed steam of a locomotive casts a shadow upon the fields adjacent to the line, because the sunlight is wasted in echoes at the innumerable limiting surfaces of water and air. [sidenote: air-bubbles in ice.] the snow which falls upon high mountain-eminences has often a temperature far below the freezing point of water. such snow is _dry_, and if it always continued so the formation of a glacier from it would be impossible. the first action of the summer's sun is to raise the temperature of the superficial snow to °, and afterwards to melt it. the water thus formed percolates through the colder mass underneath, and this i take to be the first active agency in expelling the air entangled in the snow. but as the liquid trickles over the surfaces of granules colder than itself it is partially deposited in a solid form on these surfaces, thus augmenting the size of the granules, and cementing them together. when the mass thus formed is examined, the air within it is found as _round bubbles_. now it is manifest that the air caught in the irregular interstices of the snow can have no tendency to assume this form so long as the snow remains solid; but the process to which i have referred--the saturation of the lower portions of the snow by the water produced by the melting of the superficial portions--enables the air to form itself into globules, and to give the ice of the _névé_ its peculiar character. thus we see that, though the sun cannot get directly at the deeper portions of the snow, by liquefying the upper layer he charges it with heat, and makes it his messenger to the cold subjacent mass. the frost of the succeeding winter may, i think, or may not, according to circumstances, penetrate through this layer, and solidify the water which it still retains in its interstices. if the winter set in with clear frosty weather, the penetration will probably take place; but if heavy snow occur at the commencement of winter, thus throwing a protective covering over the _névé_, freezing to any great depth may be prevented. mr. huxley's idea seems to be quite within the range of possibility, that water-cells may be transmitted from the origin of the glacier to its end, retaining their contents always liquid. [sidenote: snow pressed to ice.] it was formerly supposed, and is perhaps still supposed by many, that the snow of the mountains is converted into the ice of the glacier by the process of saturation and freezing just indicated. but the frozen layer would not yet resemble glacier ice; it is only at the deeper portions of the _névé_ that we find an approximation to the true ice of the glacier. this brings us to the second great agent in the process of glacification, namely, pressure. the ice of the _névé_ at ° may be squeezed or crushed with extreme facility; and if the force be applied slowly and with caution, the yielding of the mass may be made to resemble the yielding of a plastic body. in the depths of the _névé_, where each portion of the ice is surrounded by a resistant mass, rude crushing is of course out of the question. the layers underneath yield with extreme slowness to the pressure of the mass above them; they are squeezed, but not rudely fractured; and even should rude fracture occur, the ice, as shall subsequently be shown, possesses the power of restoring its own continuity. thus, then, the lower portions of the _névé_ are removed by pressure more and more from the condition of snow, the air-bubbles which give to the _névé_-ice its whiteness are more and more expelled, and this process, continued throughout the entire glacier, finally brings the ice to that state of magnificent transparency which we find at the termination of the glacier of rosenlaui and elsewhere. this is all capable of experimental proof. the messrs. schlagintweit compressed the snow of the _névé_ to compact ice; and i have myself frequently obtained slabs of ice from snow in london. colour of water and ice. ( .) the sun is continually sending forth waves of different lengths, all of which travel with the same velocity through the ether. when these waves enter a prism of glass they are retarded, but in different degrees. the shorter waves suffer the greatest retardation, and in consequence of this are most deflected from their straight course. it is this property which enables us to separate one from the other in the solar spectrum, and this separation proves that the waves are by no means inextricably entangled with each other, but that they travel independently through space. in consequence of this independence, the same body may intercept one system of waves while it allows another to pass: on this quality, indeed, depend all the phenomena of colour. a red glass, for example, is red because it is so constituted that it destroys the shorter waves which produce the other colours, and transmits only the waves which produce red. i may remark, however, that scarcely any glass is of a pure colour; along with the predominant waves, some of the other waves are permitted to pass. the colours of flowers are also very impure; in fact, to get pure colours we must resort to a delicate prismatic analysis of white light. [sidenote: long waves most absorbed.] it has already been stated that a layer of water less than the twentieth of an inch in thickness suffices to stop and destroy all waves of radiant heat emanating from an obscure source. the longer waves of the obscure heat cannot get through water, and i find that all transparent compounds which contain _hydrogen_ are peculiarly hostile to the longer undulations. it is, i think, the presence of this element in the humours of the eye which prevents the extra red rays of the solar spectrum from reaching the retina. it is interesting to observe that while bisulphide of carbon, chloride of phosphorus, and other liquids which contain no hydrogen, permit a large portion of the rays emanating from an iron or copper ball, at a heat below redness, to pass through them with facility, the same thickness of substances equally transparent, but which contain hydrogen, such as ether, alcohol, water, or the vitreous humour of the eye of an ox, completely intercepts these obscure rays. the same is true of solid bodies; a very slight thickness of those which contain hydrogen offers an impassable barrier to all rays emanating from a non-luminous source.[a] but the heat thus intercepted is by no means lost; its _radiant form_ merely is destroyed. its waves are shivered upon the particles of the body, but they impart warmth to it, while the heat which retains its radiant form contributes in no way to the warmth of the body through which it passes. [sidenote: final colour of ice and water blue.] water then absorbs all the extra red rays of the sun, and if the layer be thick enough it invades the red rays themselves. thus the greater the distance the solar beams travel through pure water the more are they deprived of those components which lie at the red end of the spectrum. the consequence is, that the light finally transmitted by the water, and which gives to it its colour, is _blue_. [sidenote: experiment.] i find the following mode of examining the colour of water both satisfactory and convenient:--a tin tube, fifteen feet long and three inches in diameter, has its two ends stopped securely by pieces of colourless plate glass. it is placed in a horizontal position, and pure water is poured into it through a small lateral pipe, until the liquid reaches half way up the glasses at the ends; the tube then holds a semi-cylinder of water and a semi-cylinder of air. a white plate, or a sheet of white paper, well illuminated, is then placed at a little distance from one end of the tube, and is looked at through the tube. two semicircular spaces are then seen, one by the light which has passed through the air, the other by the light which has passed through the water; and their proximity furnishes a means of comparison, which is absolutely necessary in experiments of this kind. it is always found that, while the former semicircle remains white, the latter one is vividly coloured.[b] when the beam from an electric lamp is sent through this tube, and a convex lens is placed at a suitable distance from its most distant end, a magnified image of the coloured and uncoloured semicircles may be projected upon a screen. tested thus, i have sometimes found, after rain, the ordinary pipe-water of the royal institution quite opaque; while, under other circumstances, i have found the water of a clear green. the pump-water of the institution thus examined exhibits a rich sherry colour, while distilled water is blue-green. the blueness of the grotto of capri is due to the fact that the light which enters it has previously traversed a great depth of clear water. according to bunsen's account, the _laugs_, or cisterns of hot water, in iceland must be extremely beautiful. the water contains silica in solution, which, as the walls of the cistern arose, was deposited upon them in fantastic incrustations. these, though white, when looked at through the water appear of a lovely blue, which deepens in tint as the vision plunges deeper into the liquid. [sidenote: ice opaque to radiant heat.] ice is a crystal formed from this blue liquid, the colour of which it retains. ice is the most opaque of transparent solids to radiant heat, as water is the most opaque of liquids. according to melloni, a plate of ice one twenty-fifth of an inch thick, which permits the rays of light to pass without sensible absorption, cuts off per cent. of the rays of heat issuing from a powerful oil lamp, - / per cent. of the rays issuing from incandescent platinum, and the whole of the rays issuing from an obscure source. the above numbers indicate how large a portion of the rays emitted by our artificial sources of light is obscure. when the rays of light pass through a sufficient thickness of ice the longer waves are, as in the case of water, more and more absorbed, and the final colour of the substance is therefore blue. but when the ice is filled with minute air-bubbles, though we should loosely call it _white_, it may exhibit, even in small pieces, a delicate blue tint. this, i think, is due to the frequent interior reflection which takes place at the surfaces of the air-cells; so that the light which reaches the eye from the interior may, in consequence of its having been reflected hither and thither, really have passed through a considerable thickness of ice. the same remark, as we have already seen, applies to the delicate colour of newly fallen snow. footnotes: [a] what is here stated regarding hydrogen is true of all the liquids and solids which have hitherto been examined,--but whether any exceptions occur, future experience must determine. it is only when in combination that it exhibits this impermeability to the obscure rays. [b] in my own experiments i have never yet been able to obtain a pure blue, the nearest approach to it being a blue-green. colours of the sky. ( .) [sidenote: newton's hypothesis.] in treating of the colours of thin plates we found that a certain thickness was necessary to produce blue, while a greater thickness was necessary for red. with that wonderful power of generalization which belonged to him, newton thus applies this apparently remote fact to the blue of the sky:--"the blue of the first order, though very faint and little, may possibly be the colour of some substances, and particularly the azure colour of the skies seems to be of this order. for all vapours, when they begin to condense and coalesce into small parcels, become first of that bigness whereby such an azure is reflected, before they can constitute clouds of other colours. and so, this being the first colour which vapours begin to reflect, it ought to be the colour of the finest and most transparent skies, in which vapours are not arrived at that grossness requisite to reflect other colours, as we find it is by experience." m. clausius has written a most interesting paper, which he endeavours to show that the minute particles of water which are supposed by newton to reflect the light, cannot be little globes entirely composed of water, but bladders or hollow spheres; the vapour must be in what is generally termed the _vesicular_ state. he was followed by m. brücke, whose experiments prove that the suspended particles may be so small that the reasoning of m. clausius may not apply to them. but why need we assume the existence of such particles at all?--why not assume that the colour of the air is blue, and renders the light of the sun blue, after the fashion of a blue glass or a solution of the sulphate of copper? i have already referred to the great variation which the colour of the firmament undergoes in the alps, and have remarked that this seems to indicate that the blue depends upon some variable constituent of the atmosphere. further, we find that the blue light of the sky is _reflected_ light; and there must be something in the atmosphere capable of producing this reflection; but this thing, whatever it is, produces another effect which the blue glass or liquid is unable to produce. these _transmit_ blue light, whereas, when the solar beams have traversed a great length of air, as in the morning or the evening, they are yellow, or orange, or even blood-red, according to the state of the atmosphere:--the transmitted light and the reflected light of the atmosphere are then totally different in colour. [sidenote: goethe's hypothesis.] goethe, in his celebrated 'farbenlehre,' gives a theory of the colour of the sky, and has illustrated it by a series of striking facts. he assumed two principles in the universe--light and darkness--and an intermediate stage of turbidity. when the darkness is seen through a turbid medium on which the light falls, the medium appears blue; when the light itself is viewed through such a medium, it is yellow, or orange, or ruby-red. this he applies to the atmosphere, which sends us blue light, or red, according as the darkness of infinite space, or the bright surface of the sun, is regarded through it. as a theory of colours goethe's work is of no value, but the facts which he has brought forward in illustration of the action of turbid media are in the highest degree interesting. he refers to the blueness of distant mountains, of smoke, of the lower part of the flame of a candle (which if looked at with a white surface behind it completely disappears), of soapy water, and of the precipitates of various resins in water. one of his anecdotes in connexion with this subject is extremely curious and instructive. the portrait of a very dignified theologian having suffered from dirt, it was given to a painter to be cleaned. the clergyman was drawn in a dress of black velvet, over which the painter, in the first place, passed his sponge. to his astonishment the black velvet changed to the colour of blue plush, and completely altered the aspect of its wearer. goethe was informed of the fact; the experiment was repeated in his presence, and he at once solved it by reference to his theory. the varnish of the picture when mixed with the water formed a turbid medium, and the black coat seen through it appeared blue; when the water evaporated the coat resumed its original aspect. [sidenote: suspended particles.] with regard to the real explanation of these effects, it may be shown, that, if a beam of white light be sent through a liquid which contains extremely minute particles in a state of suspension, the short waves are more copiously reflected by such particles than the long ones; blue, for example, is more copiously reflected than red. this may be shown by various fine precipitates, but the best is that of brücke. we know that mastic and various resins are soluble in alcohol, and are precipitated when the solution is poured into water: _eau de cologne_, for example, produces a white precipitate when poured into water. if however this precipitate be sufficiently diluted, it gives the liquid a bluish colour by reflected light. even when the precipitate is very thick and gross, and floats upon the liquid like a kind of curd, its under portions often exhibit a fine blue. to obtain particles of a proper size, brücke recommends gramme of colourless mastic to be dissolved in grammes of alcohol, and dropped into a beaker of water, which is kept in a state of agitation. in this way a blue resembling that of the firmament may be produced. it is best seen when a black cloth is placed behind the glass; but in certain positions this blue liquid appears yellow; and these are the positions when the _transmitted_ light reaches the eye. it is evident that this change of colour must necessarily exist; for the blue being partially withdrawn by more copious reflection, the transmitted light must partake more or less of the character of the complementary colour; though it does not follow that they should be exactly complementary to each other. [sidenote: the sun through london smoke.] when a long tube is filled with clear water, the colour of the liquid, as before stated, shows itself by transmitted light. the effect is very interesting when a solution of mastic is permitted to drop into such a tube, and the fine precipitate to diffuse itself in the water. the blue-green of the liquid is first neutralized, and a yellow colour shows itself; on adding more of the solution the colour passes from yellow to orange, and from orange to blood-red. with a cell an inch and a half in width, containing water, into which the solution of mastic is suffered to drop, the same effect may be obtained. if the light of an electric lamp be caused to form a clear sunlike disk upon a white screen, the gradual change of this light by augmented precipitation into deep glowing red, resembling the colour of the sun when seen through fine london smoke, is exceedingly striking. indeed the smoke acts, in some measure, the part of our finely-suspended matter. [sidenote: morning and evening red.] by such means it is possible to imitate the phenomena of the firmament; we can produce its pure blue, and cause it to vary as in nature. the milkiness which steals over the heavens, and enables us to distinguish one cloudless day from another, can be produced with the greatest ease. the yellow, orange, and red light of the morning and evening can also be obtained: indeed the effects are so strikingly alike as to suggest a common origin--that the colours of the sky are due to minute particles diffused through the atmosphere. these particles are doubtless the condensed vapour of water, and its variation in quality and amount enables us to understand the variability of the firmamental blue, and of the morning and the evening red. professor forbes, moreover, has made the interesting observation that the steam of a locomotive, at a certain stage of its condensation, is blue or red according as it is viewed by reflected or transmitted light. these considerations enable us to account for a number of facts of common occurrence. thin milk, when poured upon a black surface, appears bluish. the milk is colourless; that is, its blueness is not due to _absorption_, but to a _separation_ of the light by the particles suspended in the liquid. the juices of various plants owe their blueness to the same cause; but perhaps the most curious illustration is that presented by a blue eye. here we have no true colouring matter, no proper absorption; but we look through a muddy medium at the black choroid coat within the eye, and the medium appears blue.[a] [sidenote: colour of swiss lakes.] is it not probable that this action of finely-divided matter may have some influence on the colour of some of the swiss lakes--as that of geneva for example? this lake is simply an expansion of the river rhone, which rushes from the end of the rhone glacier, as the arveiron does from the end of the mer de glace. numerous other streams join the rhone right and left during its downward course; and these feeders, being almost wholly derived from glaciers, join the rhone charged with the finer matter which these in their motion have ground from the rocks over which they have passed. but the glaciers must grind the mass beneath them to particles of all sizes, and i cannot help thinking that the finest of them must remain suspended in the lake throughout its entire length. faraday has shown that a precipitate of gold may require months to sink to the bottom of a bottle not more than five inches high, and in all probability it would require _ages_ of calm subsidence to bring _all_ the particles which the lake of geneva contains to its bottom. it seems certainly worthy of examination whether such particles suspended in the water contribute to the production of that magnificent blue which has excited the admiration of all who have seen it under favourable circumstances. footnotes: [a] helmholtz, 'das sehen des menschen.' the moraines. ( .) the surface of the glacier does not long retain the shining whiteness of the snow from which it is derived. it is flanked by mountains which are washed by rain, dislocated by frost, riven by lightning, traversed by avalanches, and swept by storms. the lighter débris is scattered by the winds far and wide over the glacier, sullying the purity of its surface. loose shingle rattles at intervals down the sides of the mountains, and falls upon the ice where it touches the rocks. large rocks are continually let loose, which come jumping from ledge to ledge, the cohesion of some being proof against the shocks which they experience; while others, when they hit the rocks, burst like bomb-shells, and shower their fragments upon the ice. [sidenote: lateral moraines.] thus the glacier is incessantly loaded along its borders with the ruins of the mountains which limit it; and it is evident that the quantity of rock and rubbish thus cast upon the glacier depends upon the character of the adjacent mountains. where the summits are bare and friable, we may expect copious showers; where they are resistant, and particularly where they are protected by a covering of ice and snow, the quantity will be small. as the glacier moves downward, it carries with it the load deposited upon it. long ridges of débris thus flank the glacier, and these ridges are called _lateral moraines_. where two tributary glaciers join to form a trunk-glacier, their adjacent lateral moraines are laid side by side at the place of confluence, thus constituting a ridge which runs along the middle of the trunk-glacier, and which is called a _medial moraine_. the rocks and débris carried down by the glacier are finally deposited at its lower extremity, forming there a _terminal moraine_. [sidenote: medial and terminal moraines.] it need hardly be stated that the number of medial moraines is only limited by the number of branch glaciers. if a glacier have but two branches, it will have only one medial moraine; if it have three branches, it will have two medial moraines; if _n_ branches, it will have _n_- medial moraines. the number of medial moraines, in short, is always _one less_ than the number of branches. a glance at the annexed figure will reveal the manner in which the lateral moraines of the mer de glace unite to form medial ones. (see fig. .) [illustration: moraines of the mer de glace. fig. . _to face p. _.] when a glacier diminishes in size it leaves its lateral moraines stranded on the flanks of the valleys. successive shrinkings may thus occur, and _have_ occurred at intervals of centuries; and a succession of old lateral moraines, such as many glacier-valleys exhibit, is the consequence. the mer de glace, for example, has its old lateral moraines, which run parallel with its present ones. the glacier may also diminish _in length_ at distant intervals; the result being a succession of more or less concentric terminal moraines. in front of the rhone-glacier we have six or seven such moraines, and the mer de glace also possesses a series of them. let us now consider the effect produced by a block of stone upon the surface of a glacier. the ice around it receives the direct rays of the sun, and is acted on by the warm air; it is therefore constantly melting. the stone also receives the solar beams, is warmed, and transmits its heat, by conduction, to the ice beneath it. if the heat thus transmitted to the ice through the stone be less than an equal space of the surrounding ice receives, it is manifest that the ice around the stone will waste more quickly than that beneath it, and the consequence is, that, as the surface sinks, it leaves behind it a pillar of ice, on which the block is elevated. if the stone be wide and flat, it may rise to a considerable height, and in this position it constitutes what is called a glacier-_table_. (see fig. .) [sidenote: glacier tables accounted for.] almost all glaciers present examples of such tables; but no glacier with which i am acquainted exhibits them in greater number and perfection than the unteraar glacier, near the grimsel. vast masses of granite are thus poised aloft on icy pedestals; but a limit is placed to their exaltation by the following circumstance. the sun plays obliquely upon the table all day; its southern extremity receives more heat than its northern, and the consequence is, that it _dips_ towards the south. strictly speaking, the plane of the dip rotates a little during the day, being a little inclined towards the east in the morning, north and south a little after noon, and inclined towards the west in the evening; so that, theoretically speaking, the block is a sun-dial, showing by its position the hour of the day. this rotation is, however, too small to be sensible, and hence _the dip of the stones upon a glacier sufficiently exposed to the sunlight, enables us at any time to draw the meridian line along its surface_. the inclination finally becomes so great that the block slips off its pedestal, and begins to form another, while the one which it originally occupied speedily disappears, under the influence of sun and air. fig. represents a typical section of a glacier-table, the sun's rays being supposed to fall in the direction of the shading lines. [sidenote: type "table."] [illustration: fig. . typical section of a glacier table.] stones of a certain size are always lifted in the way described. a considerable portion of the heat which a large block receives is wasted by radiation, and by communication to the air, so that the quantity which reaches the ice beneath is trifling. such a mass is, of course, a protector of the ice beneath it. but if the stone be small, and dark in colour, it absorbs the heat with avidity, communicates it quickly to the ice with which it is in contact, and consequently sinks in the ice. this is also the case with bits of dirt and the finer fragments of débris; they sink in the glacier. sometimes, however, a pretty thick layer of sand is washed over the ice from the moraines, or from the mountain-sides; and such sand-layers give birth to ice-cones, which grow to peculiarly grand dimensions on the lower aar glacier. i say "grow," but the truth, of course, is, that the surrounding ice wastes, while the portion underneath the sand is so protected that it remains as an eminence behind. at first sight, these sand-covered cones appear huge heaps of dirt, but on examination they are found to be cones of ice, and that the dirt constitutes merely a superficial covering. turn we now to the moraines. protecting, as they do, the ice from waste, they rise, as might be expected, in vast ridges above the general surface of the glacier. in some cases the surrounding mass has been so wasted as to leave the spines of ice which support the moraines forty or fifty feet above the general level of the glacier. i should think the moraines of the mer de glace about the tacul rise to this height. but lower down, in the neighbourhood of the echelets, these high ridges disappear, and nought remains to mark the huge moraine but a strip of dirt, and perhaps a slight longitudinal protuberance on the surface of the glacier. how have the blocks vanished that once loaded the moraines near the tacul? they have been swallowed in the crevasses which intersect the moraines lower down; and if we could examine the ice at the echelets we should find the engulfed rocks in the body of the glacier. [sidenote: moraines engulfed and disgorged.] cases occur, wherein moraines, after having been engulfed, and hidden for a time, are again entirely disgorged by the glacier. two moraines run along the basin of the talèfre, one from the jardin, the other from an adjacent promontory, proceeding parallel to each other towards the summit of the great ice-fall. here the ice is riven, and profound chasms are formed, in which the blocks and shingle of the moraines disappear. throughout the entire ice-fall the only trace of the moraines is a broad dirt-streak, which the eye may follow along the centre of the fall, with perhaps here and there a stone which has managed to rise from its frozen sepulchre. but the ice wastes, and at the base of the fall large masses of stone begin to reappear; these become more numerous as we descend; the smaller débris also appears, and finally, at some distance below the fall, the moraine is completely restored, and begins to exercise its protecting influence; it rises upon its ridge of ice, and dominates as before over the surface of the glacier. [sidenote: transparency of ice under the moraines.] the ice under the moraines and sand-cones is of a different appearance from that of the surrounding glacier, and the principles we have laid down enable us to explain the difference. the sun's rays, striking upon the unprotected surface of the glacier, enter the ice to a considerable depth; and the consequence is, that the ice near the surface of the glacier is always disintegrated, being cut up with minute fissures and cavities, filled with water and air, which, for reasons already assigned, cause the glacier, when it is clean, to appear white and opaque. the ice under the moraines, on the contrary, is usually dark and transparent; i have sometimes seen it as black as pitch, the blackness being a proof of its great transparency, which prevents the reflection of light from its interior. the ice under the moraines cannot be assailed in its depths by the solar heat, because this heat becomes _obscure_ before it reaches the ice, and as such it lacks the power of penetrating the substance. it is also communicated in great part by way of contact instead of by radiation. a thin film at the surface of the moraine-ice engages all the heat that acts upon it, its deeper portions remaining intact and transparent. glacier motion. preliminary. ( .) [sidenote: nÉvÉ and glacier.] though a glacier is really composed of two portions, one above and the other below the snow-line, the term glacier is usually restricted to the latter, while the french term _névé_ is applied to the former. it is manifest that the snow which falls upon the glacier proper can contribute nothing to its growth or permanence; for every summer is not only competent to abolish the accumulations of the foregoing winter, but to do a great deal more. during each summer indeed a considerable quantity of the ice below the snow-line is reduced to water; so that, if the waste were not in some way supplied, it is manifest that in a few years the lower portion of the glacier must entirely disappear. the end of the mer de glace, for example, could never year after year thrust itself into the valley of chamouni, were there not some agency by which its manifest waste is made good. this agency is the motion of the glacier. to those unacquainted with the fact of their motion, but who have stood upon these vast accumulations of ice, and noticed their apparent fixity and rigidity, the assertion that a glacier moves must appear in the highest degree startling and incredible. they would naturally share the doubts of a certain professor of tübingen, who, after a visit to the glaciers of switzerland, went home and wrote a book flatly denying the possibility of their motion. but reflection comes to the aid of sense, and qualifies first impressions. we ask ourselves how is the permanence of the glacier secured? how are the moraines to be accounted for? whence come the blocks which we often find at the terminus of a glacier, and which we know belong to distant mountains? the necessity of motion to produce these results becomes more and more apparent, until at length we resort to actual experiment. we take two fixed points at opposite sides of the glacier, so that a block of stone which rests upon the ice may be in the straight line which unites the points; and we soon find that the block quits the line, and is borne downwards by the glacier. we may well realize the interest of the man who first engaged in this experiment, and the pleasure which he felt on finding that the block moved; for even now, after hundreds of observations on the motion of glaciers have been made, the actual observance of this motion for the first time is always accompanied by a thrill of delight. such pleasure the direct perception of natural truth always imparts. like antæus we touch our mother, and are refreshed by the contact. [sidenote: hugi's measurements.] the fact of glacier-motion has been known for an indefinite time to the inhabitants of the mountains; but the first who made quantitative observations of the motion was hugi. he found that from to his cabin upon the glacier of the aar had moved mètres, or about yards, downwards; in it had moved mètres; and in m. agassiz found it at a distance of , mètres from its first position. this is equivalent in round numbers to an average velocity of mètres a year. in m. agassiz fixed the position of the rock known as the hôtel des neufchâtelois; and on the th of september, , he found that it had moved feet downward. between this date and september, , the rock moved feet, thus accomplishing a distance of feet in two years. but much uncertainty prevailed regarding the motion of the boulders, for they sometimes rolled upon the glacier, and hence it was resolved to use stakes of wood driven into the ice. in the month of july, , m. escher de la linth fixed a system of stakes, every two of which were separated from each other by a distance of mètres, across the great aletsch glacier. a considerable number of other stakes were fixed _along_ the glacier, the longitudinal separation being also mètres. on the th of july the stakes stood at a depth of about three feet in the ice. on the th of august he returned to the glacier. almost all the stakes had fallen, and no trace, even of the holes in which they had been sunk, remained. m. agassiz was equally unsuccessful on the glacier of the aar. it must therefore be borne in mind, that, previous to the introduction of the facile modes of measurement which we now employ, severe labour and frequent disappointment had taught observers the true conditions of success. after his defeat upon the aletsch, m. escher joined mm. agassiz and desor on the aar glacier, where, between the st of august and the th of september, they fixed in concert the positions of a series of blocks upon the ice, with the view of measuring their displacements the following year. [sidenote: agassiz's measurements.] another observation of great importance was also commenced in . warned by previous failures, m. agassiz had iron boring-rods carried up the glacier, with which he pierced the ice at six places to a depth of ten feet, and at each place drove a wooden pile into the ice. these six stations were in the same straight line across the glacier; three of them standing upon the finsteraar and three on the lauteraar tributary. about this time also m. agassiz conceived the idea of having the displacements measured the year following with precise instruments, and also of having constructed, by a professional engineer, a map of the entire glacier, on which all its visible "accidents" should be drawn according to scale. this excellent work was afterwards executed by m. wild, now professor of geodesy and topography in the polytechnic school of zürich, and it is published as a separate atlas in connexion with m. agassiz's 'système glaciaire.' [sidenote: prof. j. d. forbes invited.] m. agassiz is a naturalist, and he appears to have devoted but little attention to the study of physics. at all events, the physical portions of his writings appear to me to be very often defective. it was probably his own consciousness of this deficiency that led him to invoke the advice of arago and others previous to setting out upon his excursions. it was also his desire "to see a philosopher so justly celebrated occupy himself with the subject," which induced him to invite prof. j. d. forbes of edinburgh to be his guest upon the aar glacier in . on the th of august they met at the grimsel hospice, and for three weeks afterwards they were engaged together daily upon the ice, sharing at night the shelter of the same rude roof. it is in reference to this visit that prof. forbes writes thus at page of the 'travels in the alps':--"far from being ready to admit, as my sanguine companions wished me to do in , that the theory of glaciers was complete, and the cause of their motion certain, after patiently hearing all they had to say and reserving my opinion, i drew the conclusion that no theory which i had then heard of could account for the few facts admitted on all hands." in prof. forbes repaired, as early as the state of the snow permitted, to the mer de glace; he worked there, in the first instance, for a week, and afterwards crossed over to courmayeur to witness a solar eclipse. the result of his week's observations was immediately communicated to prof. jameson, then editor of the 'edinburgh new philosophical journal.' [sidenote: centre moves quickest.] in that letter he announces the fact, but gives no details of the measurement, that "the central part of the glacier moves faster than the edges in a very considerable proportion; quite contrary to the opinion generally entertained." he also announced at the same time the continuous hourly advance of the glacier. this letter bears the date, "courmayeur, piedmont, th july," but it was not published until the month of october following. meanwhile m. agassiz, in company with m. wild, returned to complete his experiment upon the glacier of the aar. on the th of july, , the displacements of the six piles which he had planted the year before were determined by means of a theodolite. of the three upon the finsteraar affluent, that nearest the side had moved feet, the next feet, while that nearest to the centre had moved feet. of those on the lauteraar, that nearest the side had moved feet, the next feet, and that nearest the centre feet. these observations were perfectly conclusive as to the quicker motion of the centre: they embrace a year's motion; and the magnitude of the displacements, causing errors of inches, which might seriously affect small displacements, to vanish, justifies us in ranking this experiment with the most satisfactory of the kind that have ever been made. the results were communicated to arago in a letter dated from the glacier of the aar, on the st of august, ; they were laid before the academy of sciences on the th of august, , and are published in the 'comptes rendus' of the same date. the facts, then, so far as i have been able to collect them, are as follows:--m. agassiz commenced his experiment about ten months before professor forbes, and the results of his measurements, with quantities stated, were communicated to the french academy about two months prior to the publication of the letter of professor forbes in the 'edinburgh philosophical journal.' but the latter communication, announcing in general terms the fact of the speedier central motion, was dated from courmayeur twenty-seven days before the date of m. agassiz's letter from the glacier of the aar. [sidenote: state of the question.] the speedier motion of the central portion of a glacier has been justly regarded as one of cardinal importance, and no other observation has been the subject of such frequent reference; but the general impression in england is that m. agassiz had neither part nor lot in the establishment of the above fact; and in no english work with which i am acquainted can i find any reference to the above measurements. relying indeed upon such sources for my information, i remained ignorant of the existence of the paper in the 'comptes rendus' until my attention was directed to it by professor wheatstone. in the next following chapters i shall have to state the results of some of my own measurements, and shall afterwards devote a little time to the consideration of the cause of glacier-motion. in treating a question on which so much has been written, it is of course impossible, as it would be undesirable, to avoid subjecting both my own views and those of others to a critical examination. but in so doing i hope that no expression shall escape me inconsistent with the courtesy which ought to be habitual among philosophers or with the frank recognition of the just claims of my predecessors. motion of the mer de glace. ( .) [sidenote: my first observation.] on tuesday, the th of july, , i made my first observation on the motion of the mer de glace. accompanied by mr. hirst i selected on the steep slope of the glacier des bois a straight pinnacle of ice, the front edge of which was perfectly vertical. in coincidence with this edge i fixed the vertical fibre of the theodolite, and permitted the instrument to stand for three hours. on looking through it at the end of this interval, the cross hairs were found projected against the white side of the pyramid; the whole mass having moved several inches downwards. the instrument here mentioned, which had long been in use among engineers and surveyors, was first applied to measure glacier-motion in ; by prof. forbes on the mer de glace, and by m. agassiz on the glacier of the aar. the portion of the theodolite made use of is easily understood. the instrument is furnished with a telescope capable of turning up and down upon a pivot, without the slightest deviation right or left; and also capable of turning right or left without the slightest deviation up or down. within the telescope two pieces of spider's thread, so fine as to be scarcely visible to the naked eye, are drawn across the tube and across each other. when we look through the telescope we see these fibres, their point of intersection being exactly in the centre of the tube; and the instrument is furnished with screws by means of which this point can be fixed upon any desired object with the utmost precision. [sidenote: mode of measurement.] in setting a straight row of stakes across the glacier, our mode of proceeding was in all cases this:--the theodolite was placed on the mountain-side flanking the glacier, quite clear of the ice; and having determined the direction of a line perpendicular to the axis of the glacier, a well-defined object was sought at the opposite side of the valley as close as possible to this direction; the object being, in some cases, the sharp edge of a cliff; in others, a projecting corner of rock; and, in others, a well-defined mark on the face of the rock. this object and those around it were carefully sketched, so that on returning to the place it could be instantly recognized. on commencing a line the point of intersection of the two spiders' threads within the telescope was first fixed accurately upon the point thus chosen, and an assistant carrying a straight bâton was sent upon the ice. by rough signalling he first stood near the place where the first stake was to be driven in; and the object end of the telescope was then lowered until he came within the field of view. he held his staff upright upon the ice, and, in obedience to signals, moved upwards or downwards until the point of intersection of the spiders-threads exactly hit the bottom of the bâton; a concerted signal was then made, the ice was pierced with an auger to a depth of about sixteen inches, and a stake about two feet long was firmly driven into it. the assistant then advanced for some distance across the glacier; the end of the telescope was now gently raised until he and his upright staff again appeared in the field of view. he then moved as before until the bottom of his staff was struck by the point of intersection, and here a second stake was fixed in the ice. in this way the process was continued until the line of stakes was completed. before quitting the station, a plummet was suspended from a hook directly underneath the centre of the theodolite, and the place where the point touched the ground was distinctly marked. to measure the motion of the line of stakes, we returned to the place a day or two afterwards, and by means of the plummet were able to make the theodolite occupy the exact position which it occupied when the line was set out. the telescope being directed upon the point at the opposite side of the valley, and gradually lowered, it was found that no single stake along the line preserved its first position: they had all shifted downwards. the assistant was sent to the first stake; the point which it had first occupied was again determined, and its present distance from that point accurately measured. the same thing was done in the case of each stake, and thus the displacement of the whole row of stakes was ascertained.[a] the time at which the stake was fixed, and at which its displacement was measured, being carefully noted, a simple calculation determined _the daily motion_ of the stake. [sidenote: the first line.] thus, on the th of july, , we set out our first line across the mer de glace, at some distance below the montanvert; on the day following we measured the progress of the stakes. the observed displacements are set down in the following table:-- first line.--daily motion. no. of stake. inches. west moved - / " - / " - / " ... " - / moved ... " - / " ... " - / " - / east. [sidenote: the centre-point not the quickest.] the theodolite in this case stood on the montanvert side of the valley, and the stakes are numbered from this side. we see that the motion gradually augments from the st stake onward--the st stake being held back by the friction of the ice against the flanking mountain-side. the stakes , , and have no motion attached to them, as an accident rendered the measurement of their displacements uncertain. but one remarkable fact is exhibited by this line; the th stake stood upon the _middle_ of the glacier, and we see that its motion is by no means the quickest; it is exceeded in this respect by the stakes and . the portion of the glacier on which the th stake stood was very much cut up by crevasses, and, while the assistant was boring it with his auger, the ice beneath him was observed, through the telescope, to slide suddenly forward for about inches. the other stakes retained their positions, so that the movement was purely local. deducting the inches thus irregularly obtained, we should have a daily motion of - / inches for stake no. . the place was watched for some time, but the slipping was not repeated; and a second measurement on the succeeding day made the motion of the th stake inches, whilst that of the centre of the glacier was only . here, then, was a fact which needed explanation; but, before attempting this, i resolved, by repeated measurements in the same locality, to place the existence of the fact beyond doubt. we therefore ascended to a point upon the old and now motionless moraine, a little above the montanvert hotel; and choosing, as before, a well-defined object at the opposite side of the valley, we set between it and the theodolite a row of twenty stakes across the glacier. their motions, measured on a subsequent day, and reduced to their daily rate, gave the results set down in the following table:-- second line.--daily motion. no. of stake. inches. west moved - / " - / " - / " - / " " - / " - / " " - / " moved " - / " " - / " - / " - / " - / " - / " ... " - / east. [sidenote: corroborative measurements.] as regards the retardation of the side, we observe here the same fact as that revealed by our first line--the motion gradually augments from the first stake to the last. the stake no. stood upon the dirty portion of the ice, which was derived from the talèfre tributary of the mer de glace, and far beyond the middle of the glacier. these measurements, therefore, corroborate that made lower down, as regards the non-coincidence of the point of swiftest motion with the centre of the glacier. but it will be observed that the measurements do not show any retardation of the ice at the eastern extremity of the line of stakes--the motion goes on augmenting from the first stake to the last. the reason of this is, that in neither of the cases recorded were we able to get the line quite across the glacier; the crevasses and broken ice-ridges, which intercepted the vision, compelled us to halt before we came sufficiently close to the eastern side to make its retardation sensible. but on the th of july my friend hirst sought out an elevated station on the chapeau, or eastern side of the valley, whence he could command a view from side to side over all the humps and inequalities of the ice, the fixed point at the opposite side, upon which the telescope was directed, being the corner of a window of the montanvert hotel. along this line were placed twelve stakes, the daily motions of which were found to be as follows:-- third line.--daily motion. no. of stake. inches. east moved - / " - / " - / " - / " - / " - / moved - / " " " " ... " - / west. the numbering of the stakes along this line commenced from the chapeau-side of the glacier, and the retardation of that side is now manifest enough; the motion gradually augmenting from - / to - / inches. but, comparing the velocity of the two extreme stakes, we find that the retardation of stake is much greater than that of stake . stake , moreover, which moved with the _maximum_ velocity, was not upon the centre of the glacier, but much nearer to the eastern than to the western side. [sidenote: a new peculiarity of glacier motion.] it was thus placed beyond doubt that the point of maximum motion of the mer de glace, at the place referred to, is not the centre of the glacier. but, to make assurance doubly sure, i examined the comparative motion along three other lines, and found in all the same undeviating result. this result is not only unexpected, but is quite at variance with the opinions hitherto held regarding the motion of the mer de glace. the reader knows that the trunk-stream is composed of three great tributaries from the géant, the léchaud, and the talèfre. the glacier du géant fills more than half of the trunk-valley, and the junction between it and its neighbours is plainly marked by the dirt upon the surface of the latter. in fact four medial moraines are crowded together on the eastern side of the glacier, and before reaching the montanvert they have strewn their débris quite over the adjacent ice. a distinct limit is thus formed between the clean glacier du géant and the other dirty tributaries of the trunk-stream. now the eastern side of the mer de glace is observed on the whole to be much more fiercely torn than the western side, and this excessive crevassing has been referred to _the swifter motion of the glacier du géant_. it has been thought that, like a powerful river, this glacier drags its more sluggish neighbours after it, and thus tears them in the manner observed. but the measurement of the foregoing three lines shows that this cannot be the true cause of the crevassing. in each case the stakes which moved quickest _lay upon the dirty portion of the trunk-stream_, far to the east of the line of junction of the glacier du géant, which in fact moved slowest of all. [sidenote: law of motion sought.] the general view of the glacier, and of the shape of the valley which it filled, suggested to me that the analogy with a river might perhaps make itself good beyond the limits hitherto contemplated. the valley was not straight, but sinuous. at the montanvert the convex side of the glacier was turned eastward; at some distance higher up, near the passages called _les ponts_, it was turned westward; and higher up again it was turned once more, for a long stretch, eastward. thus between trélaporte and the ponts we had what is called a point of contrary flexure, and between the ponts and the montanvert a second point of the same kind. [sidenote: conjecture regarding change of flexure.] supposing a river, instead of the glacier, to sweep through this valley; _its_ point of maximum motion would not always remain central, but would deviate towards that side of the valley to which the river turned its convex boundary. indeed the positions of towns along the banks of a navigable river are mainly determined by this circumstance. they are, in most cases, situate on the convex sides of the bends, where the rush of the water prevents silting up. can it be then that the ice exhibits a similar deportment? that the same principle which regulates the distribution of people along the banks of the thames is also acting with silent energy amid the glaciers of the alps? if this be the case, the position of the point of maximum motion ought, of course, to shift with the bending of the glacier. opposite the ponts, for example, the point ought to be on the glacier du géant, and westward of the centre of the trunk-stream; while, higher up, we ought to have another change to the eastern side, in accordance with the change of flexure. on the th of july a line was set out across the glacier, one of its fixed termini being a mark upon the first of the three ponts. the motion of this line, measured on a subsequent day, and reduced to its daily rate, was found to be as follows:-- fourth line.--daily motion. no. of stake. inches. east moved - / " " - / " - / " - / " - / " - / " - / " - / moved " - / " - / " - / " " - / " - / " west. this line, like the third, was set out and numbered from the eastern side of the glacier, the theodolite occupying a position on the heights of the echelets. a moment's inspection of the table reveals a fact different from that observed on the third line; _there_ the most easterly stake moved with more than twice the velocity of the most westerly one; _here_, on the contrary, the most westerly stake moves with more than twice the velocity of the most easterly one. to enable me to compare the motion of the eastern and western halves of the glacier with greater strictness, my able and laborious companion undertook the task of measuring with a surveyor's chain the line just referred to; noting the pickets which had been fixed along the line, and the other remarkable objects which it intersected. the difficulty of thus directing a chain over crevasses and ridges can hardly be appreciated except by those who have tried it. nevertheless, the task was accomplished, and the width of the mer de glace, at this portion of its course, was found to be yards, or almost exactly half a mile. referring to the last table, it will be seen that the two stakes numbered and moved with a common velocity of - / inches per day, and that their motion is swifter than that of any of the others. the point of swiftest motion may be taken midway between them, and this point was found by measurement to lie yards _west_ of the dirt which marked the junction of the glacier du géant with its fellow tributaries: whereas, in the former cases, it lay a considerable distance _east_ of this limit. its distance from the eastern side of the glacier was yards, and from the western side yards, being yards west of the centre of the glacier. [sidenote: conjecture tested.] but the measurements enabled me to take the stakes in pairs, and to compare the velocity of a number of them which stood at certain distances from the eastern side of the valley, with an equal number which stood at the same distances from the western side. by thus arranging the points two by two, i was able to compare the motion of the entire body of the ice at the one side of the central line with that of the ice at the other side. stake stood about as far from the western side of the glacier as stake did from its eastern side; occupied the same relation to ; , to ; , to ; and , to . calling each pair of points which thus stand at equal distances from the opposite sides _corresponding points_, the following little table exhibits their comparative motions:-- numbers and velocities of corresponding points on the fourth line. no. vel. no. vel. no. vel. no. vel. no. vel. west - / - / - / - / east - / - / - / - / - / [sidenote: western half moves quickest.] the table explains itself. we see that while stake , which stands _west_ of the centre, moves inches, stake , which stands an equal distance _east_ of the centre, moves only - / inches. comparing every pair of the other points, we find the same to hold good; the western stake moves in each case faster than the corresponding eastern one. hence, _the entire western half of the mer de glace, at the place crossed by our fourth line, moves more quickly than the eastern half of the glacier_. we next proceeded farther up, and tested the contrary curvature of the glacier, opposite to trélaporte. the station chosen for this purpose was on a grassy platform of the promontory, whence, on the th of july, a row of stakes was fixed at right angles to the axis of the glacier. their motions, measured on the st, gave the following results:-- fifth line.[b]--daily motion. no. of stake. inches. west moved - / " - / " - / " " - / " " - / " - / moved - / " " - / " - / " " - / " east. this line was set out and numbered from the trélaporte side of the valley, and was also measured by mr. hirst, over boulders, ice-ridges, chasms, and moraines. the entire width of the glacier here was found to be yards, or somewhat wider than it is at the ponts. it will also be observed that its motion is somewhat slower. an inspection of the notes of this line showed me that stakes and , and , and , were "corresponding points;" the first of each pair standing as far from the western side, as the second stood from the eastern. in the following table these points and their velocities are arranged exactly as in the case of the fourth line. numbers and velocities of the corresponding points on the fifth line. no. vel. no. vel. no. vel. west - / - / east - / - / [sidenote: eastern half moves quickest.] in each case we find that the stake on the eastern side moves more quickly than the corresponding one upon the western side: so that where the fifth line crosses the glacier _the eastern half of the mer de glace moves more quickly than the western half_. this is the reverse of the result obtained at our fourth line, but it agrees with that obtained on our first three lines, where the curvature of the valley is similar. the analogy between a river and a glacier moving through a sinuous valley is therefore complete. supposing the points of maximum motion to be determined for a great number of lines across the glacier, the line uniting all these points is what mathematicians would call the _locus_ of the point of maximum motion. at trélaporte this line would lie east of the centre; at the ponts it would lie west of the centre; hence, in passing from trélaporte to the ponts, it must cross the axis of the glacier. again, at the montanvert, it would lie east of the centre, and between the ponts and the montanvert the axis of the glacier would be crossed a second time. supposing the dotted line in fig. to represent the middle line of the glacier, then the defined line would represent the locus of the point of maximum motion. _it is a curve more deeply sinuous than the valley itself, and it crosses the axis of the glacier at each point of contrary flexure._ [sidenote: locus of point of swiftest motion.] [illustration: fig. . locus of the point of maximum motion.] to complete our knowledge of the motion of the mer de glace, we afterwards determined the velocity of its two accessible tributaries--the glacier du géant, and the glacier de léchaud. on the th of july, a line of stakes was set out across the former, a little above the tacul, and their motion was subsequently found to be as follows: sixth line.--daily motion. no. of stake. inches. moved " " " " moved - / " - / " " " the width of the glacier at this place we found to be yards, and its maximum velocity, as shown by the foregoing table, inches a day. on the st of august a line was set out across the glacier de léchaud, above its junction with the talèfre: it commenced beneath the block of stone known as the pierre de béranger. the displacements of the stakes, measured on the rd of august, gave the following results:-- seventh line.--daily motion. no. of stake. inches. moved - / " - / " - / " " - / moved - / " - / " - / " " - / the width of the glacier de léchaud at this place was found to be yards; its maximum motion, as shown by the table, being - / inches a day. this is the slowest rate which we observed upon either the mer de glace or its tributaries. the width of the talèfre-branch, as it descends the cascade, or, in other words, before it is influenced by the pressure of the léchaud, was found approximately to be yards. [sidenote: squeezing at trÉlaporte.] the widths of the tributaries were determined for the purpose of ascertaining the amount of lateral compression endured by the ice in its passage through the neck of the valley at trélaporte. adding all together we have-- géant yards. léchaud " talèfre " total yards. these three branches, as shown by the actual measurement of our th line, are forced at trélaporte through a channel yards wide; the width of the trunk stream is a little better than one-third of that of its tributaries, and it passes through this gorge at a velocity of nearly inches a day. [sidenote: the lÉchaud a driblet.] limiting our view to one of the tributaries only, the result is still more impressive. previous to its junction with the talèfre, the glacier de léchaud stretches before the observer as a broad river of ice, measuring yards across: at trélaporte it is squeezed, in a frozen vice, between the talèfre on one side and the géant on the other, to a driblet, measuring yards in width, or about one-tenth of its former transverse dimension. it will of course be understood that it is the _form_ and not the _volume_ of the glacier that is affected to this enormous extent by the pressure. supposing no waste took place, the glacier de léchaud would force precisely the same amount of ice through the "narrows" at trélaporte, in one day, as it sends past the pierre de béranger. at the latter place its velocity is about half of what it is at the former, but its width is more than nine times as great. hence, if no waste took place, its _depth_, at trélaporte, would be at _least_ - / times its depth opposite the pierre de béranger. superficial and subglacial melting greatly modify this result. still i think it extremely probable that observations directed to this end would prove the comparative shallowness of the upper portions of the glacier de léchaud. footnotes: [a] great care is necessary on the part of the man who measures the displacements. the staff ought to be placed along the original line, and the assistant ought to walk along it until the foot of a _perpendicular_ from the stake is attained. when several days' motion is to be measured, this precaution is absolutely necessary; the eye being liable to be grossly deceived in _guessing_ the direction of a perpendicular. [b] the details of the measurement of the fourth and fifth lines are published in the 'philosophical transactions,' vol. cxlix., p. . ice-wall at the tacul. velocities of top and bottom. ( .) as regards the motion of the _surface_ of a glacier, two laws are to be borne in mind: st, that regarding the quicker movement of the centre; nd, that regarding the locus of the point of maximum motion. our next care must be to compare the motion of the surface of a glacier with the motion of those parts which lie near its bed. rendu first surmised that the bottom of the glacier was retarded by friction, and both professor forbes[a] and m. martins[b] have confirmed the conjecture. theirs are the only observations which we possess upon the subject; and i was particularly desirous to instruct myself upon this important head by measurements of my own. [sidenote: first attempt at measurement.] during the summer of the eastern side of the glacier du géant, near the tacul, exposed a nearly vertical precipice of ice, measuring feet from top to bottom. i requested mr. hirst to fix two stakes in the same vertical plane, one at the top of the precipice and one near the bottom. this he did upon the rd of august, and on the th i accompanied him to measure the progress of the stakes. on the summit of the precipice, and running along it, was the lateral moraine of the glacier. the day was warm and the ice liquefying rapidly, so that the boulders and débris, deprived incessantly of their support, came in frequent leaps and rushes down the precipice. into this peril my guide was about to enter, to measure the displacement of the lower stake, while i was to watch, and call out the direction in which he was to run when a stone gave way. but i soon found that the initial motion was no sure index of the final motion. by striking the precipice, the stones were often deflected, and carried wide of their original direction. i therefore stopped the man, and sent him to the summit of the precipice to remove all the more dangerous blocks. this accomplished, he descended, and while i stood beside him, executed the required measurement. from the rd to the th of august the upper stake had moved twelve inches, and the lower one six. unfortunately some uncertainty attached itself to this result, due to the difficulty of fixing the lower stake. the guide's attention had been divided between his work and his safety, and he had to retreat more than a dozen times from the falling boulders and débris. i, on the other hand, was unwilling to accept an observation of such importance with a shade of doubt attached to it. hence arose the desire to measure the motion myself. on the th of august i therefore reascended to the tacul, and fixed a stake at the top of the precipice, and another at the bottom. while sitting on the old moraine looking at the two pickets, the importance of determining the motion of a point midway between the top and bottom forcibly occurred to me, but, on mentioning it to my guide, he promptly pronounced any attempt of the kind absurd. [sidenote: stakes fixed at top, bottom, and centre.] on scanning the place carefully, however, the value of the observation appeared to me to outweigh the amount of danger. i therefore took my axe, placed a stake and an auger against my breast, buttoned my coat upon them, and cut an oblique staircase up the wall of ice, until i reached a height of forty feet from the bottom. here the position of the stake being determined by mr. hirst, who was at the theodolite, i pierced the ice with the auger, drove in the stake, and descended without injury. during the whole operation however my guide growled audibly. on the following morning we commenced the ascent of mont blanc, a narrative of which is given in part i. we calculated on an absence of three days, and estimated that the stakes which had just been fixed would be ready for measurement on our return; but we did not reach chamouni until the afternoon of friday, the th. heavy clouds settled, during our descent, upon the summits behind us, and a thunder-peal from the aiguilles soon heralded a fall of rain, which continued without intermission till the afternoon of the th, when the atmosphere cleared, and showed the mountains clothed to their girdles with snow. the montanvert was thickly covered, and on our way to it we met the servants in charge of the cattle, which had been driven below the snow-line to obtain food. [sidenote: through gloom to the tacul.] on monday morning, the th, a dense fog filled the valley of the mer de glace. i watched it anxiously. the stakes which we had set at the tacul had been often in my thoughts, and i wished to make some effort to save the labour and peril incurred in setting them from being lost. i therefore set out, in one of the clear intervals, accompanied by my friend and simond, determined to measure the motion of the stakes, if possible, or to fix them more firmly, if they still stood. as we passed, however, from l'angle to the glacier, the fog became so dense and blinding that we halted. at my request mr. hirst returned to the montanvert; and simond, leaving the theodolite in the shelter of a rock, accompanied me through the obscurity to the tacul. we found the topmost stake still stuck by its point in the ice; but the two others had disappeared, and we afterwards discovered their fragments in a snow-buttress, which reared itself against the base of the precipice. they had been hit by the falling stones, and crushed to pieces. having thus learned the worst, we descended to the montanvert amid drenching rain. [sidenote: descent of boulders.] on the morning of the th there was no cloud to be seen anywhere, and the sunlight glistened brightly on the surface of the ice. we ascended to the tacul. the spontaneous falling of the stones appeared more frequent this morning than i had ever seen it. the sun shone with unmitigated power upon the ice, producing copious liquefaction. the rustle of falling débris was incessant, and at frequent intervals the boulders leaped down the precipice, and rattled with startling energy amid the rocks at its base. i sent simond to the top to remove the looser stones; he soon appeared, and urged the moraine-shingle in showers down the precipice, upon a bevelled slope of which some blocks long continued to rest. they were out of the reach of the guide's bâton, and he sought to dislodge them by sending other stones down upon them. some of them soon gave way, drawing a train of smaller shingle after them; others required to be hit many times before they yielded, and others refused to be dislodged at all. i then cut my way up the precipice in the manner already described, fixed the stake, and descended as speedily as possible. we afterwards fixed the bottom stake, and on the th the displacements of all three were measured.[c] the spaces passed over by the respective stakes in hours were found to be as follows:-- inches. top stake . middle stake . bottom stake . [sidenote: motion of stakes.] the height of the precipice was . feet, but it sloped off at its upper portion. the height of the middle stake above the ground was feet, and of the bottom one feet. it is therefore proved by these measurements that the bottom of the ice-wall at the tacul moves with less than half the velocity of the top; while the displacement of the intermediate stake shows how the velocity gradually increases from the bottom upwards. footnotes: [a] 'edinb. phil. journ.,' oct. , p. . [b] agassiz, 'système glaciaire,' p. . [c] on this latter occasion my guide volunteered to cut the steps for me up to the pickets; and i permitted him to do so. in fact, he was at least as anxious as myself to see the measurement carried out. winter motion of the mer de glace. ( .) the winter measurements were executed in the manner already described, on the th and th of december, . the theodolite was placed on the mountain's side flanking the glacier, and a well-defined object was chosen at the opposite side of the valley, so that a straight line between this object and the theodolite was approximately perpendicular to the axis of the glacier. fixing the telescope in the first instance with its cross hairs upon the object, its end was lowered until it struck the point upon the glacier at which a stake was to be fixed. thanks to the intelligence of my assistants, after the fixing of the first stake they speedily took up the line at all other points, requiring very little correction to make their positions perfectly accurate. on the day following that on which the stakes were driven in, the theodolite was placed in the same position, and the distances to which the stakes had moved from their original positions were accurately determined. as already stated, the first line crossed the glacier about yards above the montanvert hotel. [sidenote: half of summer motion.] line no. i.--winter motion in twenty-four hours. no. of stake. inches. west - / - / - / - / - / - / - / - / east. [sidenote: the same law in summer and winter.] the maximum here is fifteen and three-quarters inches; the maximum summer motion of the same portion of the glacier is about thirty inches. these measurements also show that in winter, as well as in summer, the side of the glacier opposite to the montanvert moves quicker than that adjacent to it. the stake which moved with the maximum velocity was beyond the moraine of la noire. the second line crossed the glacier about yards below the montanvert. line no. ii.--winter motion in twenty-four hours. no. of stake. inches. - / - / - / - / - / - / - / the maximum here is an inch and three-quarters greater than that of line no. . the summer maximum at this portion of the glacier also exceeds that of the part intersected by line no. . the surface of the glacier between the two lines is in a state of tension which relieves itself by a system of transverse fissures, and thus permits of the quicker advance of the forward portion. my desire, in making these measurements, was, in the first place, to raise the winter observations of the motion to the same degree of accuracy as that already possessed by the summer ones. auguste balmat had already made a series of winter observations on the mer de glace; but they were made in the way employed before the introduction of the theodolite by agassiz and forbes, and shared the unavoidable roughness of such a mode of measurement. they moreover gave us no information as to the motion of the different parts of the glacier along the same transverse line, and this, for reasons which will appear subsequently, was the point of chief interest to me. cause of glacier-motion. de saussure's theory. ( .) perhaps the first attempt at forming a glacier-theory is that of scheuchzer in . he supposed the motion to be caused by the conversion of water into ice within the glacier; the known and almost irresistible expansion which takes place on freezing, furnishing the force which pushed the glacier downward. this idea was illustrated and developed with so much skill by m. de charpentier, that his name has been associated with it; and it is commonly known as the theory of charpentier, or the dilatation-theory. m. agassiz supported this theory for a time, but his own thermometric experiments show us that the body of the glacier is at a temperature of ° fahr.; that consequently there is no interior magazine of cold to freeze the water with which the glacier is supposed to be incessantly saturated. so that these experiments alone, if no other grounds existed, would prove the insufficiency of the theory of dilatation. i may however add, that the arguments most frequently urged against this theory deal with an assumption, which i do not think its author ever intended to make. [sidenote: the glacier slides.] another early surmise was that of altmann and grüner ( ), both of whom conjectured that the glacier slid along its bed. this theory received distinct expression from de saussure in ; and has since been associated with the name of that great alpine traveller, being usually called the 'theory of saussure,' and sometimes the 'sliding theory.' it is briefly stated in these words:-- "almost every glacier reposes upon an inclined bed, and those of any considerable size have beneath them, even in winter, currents of water which flow between the ice and the bed which supports it. it may therefore be understood that these frozen masses, drawn down the slope on which they repose, disengaged by the water from all adhesion to the bottom, sometimes even raised by this water, must glide by little and little, and descend, following the inclinations of the valleys, or of the slopes which they cover. it is this slow but continual sliding of the ice on its inclined base which carries it into the lower valleys."[a] [sidenote: strained interpretation.] de saussure devoted but little time to the subject of glacier-motion; and the absence of completeness in the statement of his views, arising no doubt from this cause, has given subsequent writers occasion to affix what i cannot help thinking a strained interpretation to the sliding theory. it is alleged that he regarded a glacier as a perfectly rigid body; that he considered it to be "a mass of ice of small depth, and considerable but uniform breadth, sliding down a uniform valley, or pouring from a narrow valley into a wider one."[b] the introduction "of the smallest flexibility or plasticity" is moreover emphatically denied to him.[c] it is by no means probable that the great author of the 'voyages' would have subscribed to this "rigid" annotation. his theory, be it remembered, is to some extent _true_: the glacier moves over its bed in the manner supposed, and the rocks of britain bear to this day the traces of these mighty sliders. de saussure probably contented himself with a general statement of what he believed to be the substantial cause of the motion. he visited the jardin, and saw the tributaries of the mer de glace turning round corners, welding themselves together, and afterwards moving through a sinuous trunk-valley; and it is scarcely credible that in the presence of such facts he would have denied all flexibility to the glacier. the statement that he regarded a glacier to be a mass of ice of uniform width, is moreover plainly inconsistent with the following description of the glacier of mont dolent: "its most elevated plateau is a great circus, surrounded by high cliffs of granite, of pyramidal forms; thence the glacier descends through a gorge, in which _it is narrowed_; but after having passed the gorge, it _enlarges again_, spreading out like a fan. thus it has on the whole the form of a sheaf tied in the middle and dilated at its two extremities."[d] [sidenote: glacier of mont dolent.] curiously enough this very glacier, and these very words, are selected by m. rendu as illustrative of the plasticity of glaciers. "nothing," he says, "shows better the extent to which a glacier moulds itself to its locality than the form of the glacier of mont dolent in the valley of ferret;" and he adds, in connexion with the same passage, these remarkable words:--"there is a multitude of facts which would seem to necessitate the belief that the substance of glaciers enjoys a kind of ductility which permits it to mould itself to the locality which it occupies, to grow thin, to swell, and to narrow itself like a soft paste."[e] footnotes: [a] 'voyages,' § . [b] james d. forbes, 'occasional papers on the theory of glaciers,' , p. . [c] "i adhere to the definition as excluding the introduction of the smallest flexibility or plasticity." 'occ. pap.,' p. . [d] 'voyages,' tome ii. p. . [e] in connexion with this brief sketch of the 'sliding theory,' it ought to be stated, that mr. hopkins has proved experimentally, that ice may descend an incline at a sensibly uniform rate, and that the velocity is augmented by increasing the weight. in this remarkable experiment the motion was due to the slow disintegration of the lower surface of the ice. see 'phil. mag.,' , vol. . rendu's theory. ( .) [sidenote: rendu's character.] m. rendu, bishop of annecy, to whose writings i have just referred, died last autumn.[a] he was a man of great repute in his diocese, and we owe to him one of the most remarkable essays upon glaciers that have ever appeared. his knowledge was extensive, his reasoning close and accurate, and his faculty of observation extraordinary. with these were associated that intuitive power, that presentiment concerning things as yet untouched by experiment, which belong only to the higher class of minds. throughout his essay a constant effort after quantitative accuracy reveals itself. he collects observations, makes experiments, and tries to obtain numerical results; always taking care, however, so to state his premises and qualify his conclusions that nobody shall be led to ascribe to his numbers a greater accuracy than they merit. it is impossible to read his work, and not feel that he was a man of essentially truthful mind, and that science missed an ornament when he was appropriated by the church. the essay above referred to is printed in the tenth volume of the memoirs of the royal academy of sciences of savoy, published in , and is entitled, '_théorie des glaciers de la savoie, par m. le chanoine rendu, chevalier du mérite civil et secrétaire perpétuel_.' the paper had been written for nearly two years, and might have remained unprinted, had not another publication on the same subject called it forth. i will place a few of the leading points of this remarkable production before the reader; commencing with a generalization which is highly suggestive of the character of the author's mind. [sidenote: "theorie des glaciers de la savoie."] he reflects on the accumulation of the mountain-snows, each year adding fifty-eight inches of ice to a glacier. this would make mont blanc four hundred feet higher in a century, and four thousand feet higher in a thousand years. "it is evident," he says, "that nothing like this occurs in nature." the escape of the ice then leads him to make some general remarks on what he calls the "law of circulation." "the conserving will of the creator has employed for the permanence of his work the great law of _circulation_, which, strictly examined, is found to reproduce itself in all parts of nature. the waters circulate from the ocean to the air, from the air to the earth, and from the earth to the ocean.... the elements of organic substances circulate, passing from the solid to the liquid or aëriform condition, and thence again to the state of solidity or of organisation. that universal agent which we designate by the names of fire, light, electricity, and magnetism, has probably also a _circulation_ as wide as the universe." the italics here are rendu's own. this was published in , but written, we are informed, nearly two years before. in mr. grove wrote thus:--"light, heat, magnetism, motion, and chemical affinity, are all convertible material affections." more recently helmholtz, speaking of the "circuit" formed by "heat, light, electricity, magnetism, and chemical affinity," writes thus:--"starting from each of these different manifestations of natural forces, we can set every other in action." i quote these passages because they refer to the same agents as those named by m. rendu, and to which he ascribes "_circulation_." can it be doubted that this savoyard priest had a premonition of the conservation of force? i do not want to lay more stress than it deserves upon a conjecture of this kind; but its harmony with an essay remarkable for its originality gives it a significance which, if isolated, it might not possess. [sidenote: glaciers rightly divided.] with regard to the glaciers, rendu commences by dividing them into two kinds, or rather the selfsame glacier into two parts, one of which he calls the "_glacier réservoir_," the other the "_glacier d'écoulement_,"--two terms highly suggestive of the physical relationship of the _névé_ and the glacier proper. he feeds the reservoirs from three sources, the principal one of which is the snow, to which he adds the rain, and the vapours which are condensed upon the heights without passing into the state of either rain or snow. the conversion of the snow into ice he supposes to be effected by four different causes, the most efficacious of which is _pressure_.[b] it is needless to remark that this quite agrees with the views now generally entertained. in page of the volume referred to there is a passage which shows that the "veined structure" of the glacier had not escaped him, though it would seem that he ascribed it to stratification. "when," he writes, "we perceive the profile of a glacier on the walls of a crevasse, we see different layers distinct in colour, but more particularly in density; some seem to have the hardness, as they have the greenish colour, of glass; others preserve the whiteness and porosity of the snow." there is also a very close resemblance between his views of the influence of "time and cohesion" and those of prof. forbes. "we may conclude," he writes, "that _time_, favouring the action of _affinity_, and the pressure of the layers one upon the other, causes the little crystals of which snow is composed to approach each other, bring them into contact, and convert them into ice."[c] regelation also appears to have attracted his notice.[d] "when we fill an ice-house," he writes, "we break the ice into very small fragments; afterwards we wet it with water or degrees above zero (cent.) in temperature; but, notwithstanding this, the whole is converted into a compact mass of ice." he moreover maintains, in almost the same language as prof. forbes,[e] the opinion, that ice has always an inner temperature lower than zero (cent.). he believed this to be a property "inherent to ice." "never," he says, "can a calorific ray pass the first surface of ice to raise the temperature of the interior."[f] [sidenote: observations and hypotheses.] he notices the direction of the glacier as influencing the wasting of its ridges by the sun's heat; ascribing to it the effect to which i have referred in explaining the wave-like forms upon the surface of the mer de glace. his explanation of the moulins, too, though insufficient, assigns a true cause, and is an excellent specimen of physical reasoning. with regard to the diminution of the _glaciers réservoirs_, or, in other words, to the manner in which the ice disappears, notwithstanding the continual additions made to it, we have the following remarkable passage:--"in seeking the cause of the diminution of glaciers, it has occurred to my mind that the ice, notwithstanding its hardness and its rigidity, can only support a given pressure without breaking or being squeezed out. according to this supposition, whenever the pressure exceeds that force, there will be rupture of the ice, and a flow in consequence. let us take, at the summit of mont blanc, a column of ice reposing on a horizontal base. the ice which forms the first layer of that column is compressed by the weight of all the layers above it; but if the solidity of the said first layer can only support a weight equal to , when the weight exceeds this amount there will be rupture and spreading out of the ice of the base. now, something very similar occurs in the immense crust of ice which covers the summits of mont blanc. this crust appears to augment at the upper surface and to diminish by the sides. to assure oneself that the movement is due to the force of pressure, it would be necessary to make a series of experiments upon the solidity of ice, such as have not yet been attempted."[g] i may remark that such experiments substantially verify m. rendu's notion. but it is his observations and reasoning upon the _glaciers d'écoulement_ that chiefly interest us. the passages in his writings where he insists upon the power of the glaciers to mould themselves to their localities, and compares them to a soft paste, to lava at once ductile and liquid, are well known from the frequent and flattering references of professor forbes; but there are others of much greater importance, which have hitherto remained unknown in this country. regarding the motion of the mer de glace, rendu writes as follows:-- [sidenote: measurement of motion.] [sidenote: the sides of the glacier retarded.] "i sought to appreciate the quantity of its motion; but i could only collect rather vague data. i questioned my guides regarding the position of an enormous rock at the edge of the glacier, but still upon the ice, and consequently partaking of its motion. the guides showed me the place where it stood the preceding year, and where it had stood two, three, four, and five years previously; they showed me the place where it would be found in a year, in two years, &c.; _so certain are they of the regularity of the motion_. their reports, however, did not always agree precisely with each other, and their indications of time and distance lack the precision without which we proceed obscurely in the physical sciences. in reducing these different indications to a mean, i found the total advance of the glacier to be about feet a year. during my last journey i obtained more certain data, which i have stated in the preceding chapter. _the enormous difference between the two results arises from the fact that the latter observations were made at the centre of the glacier_, which moves more rapidly, _while the former were made at the side, where the ice_ is retained by the friction against its rocky walls."[h] an opinion, founded on a grave misapprehension which rendu enables us to correct, is now prevalent in this country, not only among the general public, but also among those of the first rank in science. the nature of the mistake will be immediately apparent. at page of the 'travels in the alps' its distinguished author gives a sketch of the state of our knowledge of glacier-motion previous to the commencement of his inquiries. he cites ebel, hugi, agassiz, bakewell, de la beche, shirwell, rendu, and places them in open contradiction to each other. rendu, he says, gives the motion of the mer de glace to be " feet per annum; feet per annum; a foot a day; feet per annum, and feet per annum, or _one-tenth_ of the last!" ... and he adds, "i was not therefore wrong in supposing that the actual progress of a glacier was yet a new problem when i commenced my observations on the mer de glace in ."[i] in the 'north british review' for august, , a writer equally celebrated for the brilliancy of his discoveries and the vigour of his pen, collected the data furnished by the above paragraph into a table, which he introduced to his readers in the following words:--"it is to professor forbes alone that we owe the first and most correct researches respecting the motion of glaciers; and in proof of this, we have only to give the following list of observations which had been previously made. observers. name of glacier. annual rate of motion. ebel chamouni feet ebel grindelwald " hugi aar " agassiz aar " bakewell mer de glace " de la beche mer de glace " shirwell mer de glace " m. rendu mer de glace " saussure's ladder mer de glace " ... such was the state of our knowledge when professor forbes undertook the investigation of the subject." i am persuaded that the writer of this article will be the first to applaud any attempt to remove an error which, advanced on his great authority, must necessarily be widely disseminated. the numbers in the above table certainly differ widely, and it is perhaps natural to conclude that such discordant results can be of no value; but the fact really is that _every one of them may be perfectly correct_. this fact, though overlooked by professor forbes, was clearly seen by rendu, who pointed out with perfect distinctness the sources from which the discrepancies were derived. [sidenote: discrepancies explained.] "it is easy," he says, "to comprehend that it is impossible to obtain a general measure,--that there ought to be one for each particular glacier. the nature of the slope, the number of changes to which it is subjected, the depth of the ice, the width of the couloir, the form of its sides, and a thousand other circumstances, must produce variations in the velocity of the glacier, and these circumstances cannot be everywhere absolutely the same. much more, it is not easy to obtain this velocity for a single glacier, and for this reason. in those portions where the inclination is steep, the layer of ice is thin, and its velocity is great; in those where the slope is almost nothing, the glacier swells and accumulates; the mass in motion being double, triple, &c., the motion is only the half, the third, &c. [sidenote: liquid motion ascribed to glacier.] "but this is not all," adds m. rendu: "_between the mer de glace and a river, there is a resemblance so complete that it is impossible to find in the latter a circumstance which does not exist in the former._ in currents of water the motion is not uniform, neither throughout their width nor throughout their depth; _the friction of the bottom, that of the sides_, the action of obstacles, cause the motion to vary, _and only towards the middle of the surface is this entire...._"[j] in professor forbes appears to have come to the same conclusion as m. rendu; for after it had been proved that the centre of the aar glacier moved quicker than the side in the ratio of fourteen to one, he accepted the result in these words:--"the movement of the centre of the glacier is to that of a point five mètres from the edge as fourteen to one: such is the effect of plasticity!"[k] indeed, if the differences exhibited in the table were a proof of error, the observations of professor forbes himself would fare very ill. the measurements of glacier-motion made with his own hands vary from less than feet a year to feet a year, the minimum being less than _one-twentieth_ of the maximum; and if we include the observations made by balmat, the fidelity of which has been certified by professor forbes, the minimum is only _one-thirty-seventh_ of the maximum. [sidenote: north british review.] there is another point connected with rendu's theory which needs clearing up:--"the idea," writes the eminent reviewer, "that a glacier is a semifluid body is no doubt startling, especially to those who have seen the apparently rigid ice of which it is composed. m. rendu himself shrank from the idea, and did not scruple to say that 'the rigidity of a mass of ice was in direct opposition to it;' and we think that professor forbes himself must have stood aghast when his fancy first associated the notion of imperfect fluidity with the solid or even the fissured ice of the glacier, and when he saw in his mind's eye the glaciers of the alps flowing like a river along their rugged bed. a truth like this was above the comprehension and beyond the sympathy of the age; and it required a moral power of no common intensity to submit it to the ordeal of a shallow philosophy, and the sneers of a presumptuous criticism." these are strong words; but the fact is that, so far from "shrinking" from the idea, rendu affirmed, with a clearness and an emphasis which have not been exceeded since, that all the phenomena of a river were reproduced upon the mer de glace; its deeps, its shallows, its widenings, its narrowings, its rapids, its places of slow motion, and the quicker flow of its centre than of its sides. he did not shrink from accepting a difference between the central and lateral motion amounting to a ratio of ten to one--a ratio so large that professor forbes at one time regarded the acceptance of it as a simple absurdity. in this he was perhaps justified; for his own first observations, which, however valuable, were hasty and incomplete, gave him a maximum ratio of about one and a half to one, while the ratio in some cases was nearly one of _equality_. the observations of agassiz however show that the ratio, instead of being ten to one, may be _infinity_ to one; for the lateral ice may be so held back by a local obstacle that in the course of a year it shall make no sensible advance at all. [sidenote: the ice and the glacier.] from one thing only did m. rendu shrink; and it is _the_ thing regarding which we are still disunited. he shrank from stating the physical quality of the ice in virtue of which a glacier moved like a river. he demands experiments upon snow and ice to elucidate this subject. the very observations which professor forbes regards as proofs are those of which we require the physical explanation. it is not the viscous flow, if you please to call it such, of the glacier as a whole that here concerns us; but it is the quality of the _ice_ in virtue of which this kind of motion is accomplished. professor forbes sees this difference clearly enough: he speaks of "fissured ice" being "flexible" in hand specimens; he compares the glacier to a mixture of ice and sand; and finally, in a more matured paper, falls back for an explanation upon the observations of agassiz regarding the capillaries of the glacier.[l] footnotes: [a] expressions such as "last summer," "last autumn," "recently," will be taken throughout in the sense which they had in the early half of , when this book was first published.--l. c. t. [b] 'memoir,' p. . [c] p. . [d] p. . [e] 'philosophical magazine,' . [f] 'memoir,' p. . [g] page . [h] page . [i] at page of the 'travels' the following passage also occurs:--"i believe that i may safely affirm that not one observation of the rate of motion of a glacier, either on the average or at any particular season of the year, existed when i commenced my experiments in ." [j] 'théorie,' p. . [k] 'occ. pap.,' p. . [l] in all that has been written upon glaciers in this country the above passages from the writings of rendu are unquoted; and many who mingled very warmly in the discussions of the subject were, until quite recently, ignorant of their existence. i was long in this condition myself, for i never supposed that passages which bear so directly upon a point so much discussed, and of such cardinal import, could have been overlooked; or that the task of calling attention to them should devolve upon myself nearly twenty years after their publication. now that they are discovered, i conceive no difference of opinion can exist as to the propriety of placing them in their true position. ( .) the measurements of agassiz and forbes completely verify the anticipations of rendu; but no writer with whom i am acquainted has added anything essential to the bishop's statements as to the identity of glacier and liquid motion. he laid down the conditions of the problem with perfect clearness, and, as regards the distribution of merit, the point to be decided is the relative importance of his idea, and of the measurements which were subsequently made. [sidenote: observations of forbes.] the observations on which professor forbes based the analogy between a glacier and a river are the following:--in he fixed four marks upon the mer de glace a little below the montanvert, the first of which was yards distant from the side of the glacier, while the last was at the centre "or a little beyond it." the relative velocity of these four points was found to be . . . . . the first observations were made upon two of these points, two others being subsequently added. professor forbes also determined the velocity of two points on the glacier du géant, and found the ratio of motion, in the first instance, to be as to . subsequent measurements, however, showed the ratio to be as to , the larger motion belonging to the station nearest to the centre of the glacier. these are the only measurements which i can find in his large work that establish the swifter motion of the centre of the glacier; and in these cases the velocity of the centre is compared with that of _one side_ only. in no instance that i am aware of, either in or subsequent years, did professor forbes extend his measurements quite across a glacier; and as regards completeness in this respect, no observations hitherto made can at all compare with those executed at the instance of agassiz upon the glacier of the aar. in professor forbes made a series of interesting experiments on a portion of the mer de glace near l'angle. he divided a length of feet into equal spaces, and fixed pins at the end of each. his theodolite was placed upon the ice, and in seventeen days he found that the ice feet nearer the centre than the theodolite had moved inches past the latter. these measurements were undertaken for a special object, and completely answered the end for which they were intended. in professor forbes made another important observation. fixing three stakes at the heights of , , and feet above the bed of the glacier, he found that in five days they moved respectively . , . , and . feet. the stake nearest the bed moved most slowly, thus showing that the ice is retarded by friction. this result was subsequently verified by the measurements of m. martins, and by my own. if we add to the above an observation made during a short visit to the aletsch glacier in , which showed its lateral retardation, i believe we have before us the whole of the measurements executed by professor forbes, which show the analogy between the motion of a glacier and that of a viscous body. [sidenote: measurements of agassiz.] illustrative of the same point, we have the elaborate and extensive series of measurements executed by m. wild under the direction of m. agassiz upon the glacier of the aar in , , , and , which exhibit on a grand scale, and in the most conclusive manner, the character of the motion of this glacier; and also show, on close examination, an analogy with fluid motion which neither m. agassiz nor professor forbes suspected. the former philosopher publishes a section in his 'système glaciaire,' entitled 'migrations of the centre;' in which he shows that the middle of the glacier is not always the point of swiftest motion. the detection of this fact demonstrates the attention devoted by m. agassiz to the discussion of his observations, but he gives no clue to the cause of the variation. on inspecting the shape of the valley through which the aar glacier moves, i find that these "migrations" follow the law established in upon the mer de glace, and enunciated at page . to sum up this part of the question:--the _idea_ of semi-fluid motion belongs entirely to rendu; the _proof_ of the quicker central flow belongs in part to rendu, but almost wholly to agassiz and forbes; the proof of the retardation of the bed belongs to forbes alone; while the discovery of the locus of the point of maximum motion belongs, i suppose, to me. forbes's theory. ( .) the formal statement of this theory is given in the following words:--"a glacier is an imperfect fluid, or viscous body, which is urged down slopes of a certain inclination by the mutual pressure of its parts." the consistency of the glacier is illustrated by reference to treacle, honey, and tar, and the theory thus enunciated and exemplified is called the 'viscous theory.' it has been the subject of much discussion, and great differences of opinion are still entertained regarding it. able and sincere men take opposite sides; and the extraordinary number of reviews which have appeared upon the subject during the last two years show the interest which the intellectual public of england take in the question. the chief differences of opinion turn upon the inquiry as to what professor forbes really meant when he propounded the viscous theory; some affirm one thing, some another, and, singularly enough, these differences continue, though the author of the theory has at various times published expositions of his views. [sidenote: "facts and principles."] the differences referred to arise from the circumstances that a sufficient distinction has not been observed between _facts_ and _principles_, and that the viscous theory has assumed various forms since its first promulgation. it has been stated to me that the theory of professor forbes is "the congeries of facts" which he has discovered. but it is quite evident that no recognition, however ample, of these facts would be altogether satisfactory to professor forbes himself. he claims recognition of his _theory_,[a] and no writer with whom i am acquainted makes such frequent use of the term. what then can the viscous theory mean apart from the facts? i interpret it as furnishing the principle from which the facts follow as physical consequences--that the glacier moves as a river because the ice is viscous. in this sense only can professor forbes's views be called a theory; in any other, his experiments are mere illustrations of the facts of glacier motion, which do not carry us a hair's breadth towards their physical cause. [sidenote: viscous theory;--what is it?] what then is the meaning of viscosity or viscidity? i have heard it defined by men of high culture as "gluey tenacity;" and such tenacity they once supposed a glacier to possess. if we dip a spoon into treacle, honey, or tar, we can draw the substance out into filaments, and the same may be done with melted caoutchouc or lava. all these substances are viscous, and all of them have been chosen to illustrate the physical property in virtue of which a glacier moves. viscosity then consists in the power of being drawn out when subjected to a force of tension, the substance, after stretching, being in a state of molecular equilibrium, or, in other words, devoid of that elasticity which would restore it to its original form. this certainly was the idea attached to professor forbes's words by some of his most strenuous supporters, and also by eminent men who have never taken part in any controversy on the subject. mr. darwin, for example, speaks of felspathic rocks being "stretched" while flowing slowly onwards in a pasty condition, in precisely the same manner as professor forbes believes that the ice of moving glaciers is stretched and fissured; and professor forbes himself quotes these words of mr. darwin as illustrative of his theory.[b] the question now before us is,--does a glacier exhibit that power of yielding to a force of tension which would entitle its ice to be regarded as a viscous substance? [sidenote: theory tested.] with a view to the solution of this question mr. hirst took for me the inclinations of the mer de glace and all its tributaries in ; the effect of a change of inclination being always noted. i will select from those measurements a few which bear more specially upon the subject now under consideration, commencing with the glacier des bois, down which the ice moves in that state of wild dislocation already described. the inclination of the glacier above this cascade is ° ', and that of the cascade itself is ° ', the change of inclination being therefore ° '. [illustration: fig. . inclinations of ice cascasde of the glacier des bois.] in fig. i have protracted the inclination of the cascade and of the glacier above it; the line a b representing the former and b c the latter. now a stream of molten lava, of treacle, or tar, would, in virtue of its viscosity, be able to flow over the brow at b without breaking across; but this is not the case with the glacier; it is so smashed and riven in crossing this brow, that, to use the words of professor forbes himself, "it pours into the valley beneath in a cascade of icy fragments." [sidenote: inclinations of the mer de glace.] but this reasoning will appear much stronger when we revert to other slopes upon the mer de glace. for example, its inclination above l'angle is °, and it afterwards descends a slope of ° ', the change of inclination being ° '. if we protract these inclinations to scale, we have the line a b, fig. , representing the steeper slope, and b c that of the glacier above it. one would surely think that a viscous body could cross the brow b without transverse fracture, but this the glacier cannot do, and professor forbes himself pronounces this portion of the mer de glace impassable. indeed it was the profound crevasses here formed which placed me in a difficulty already referred to. higher up again, the glacier is broken on passing from a slope of ° ' to one of °. such observations show how differently constituted a glacier is from a stream of lava in a "pasty condition," or of treacle, honey, tar, or melted caoutchouc, to all which it has been compared. in the next section i shall endeavour to explain the origin of the crevasses, and shall afterwards make a few additional remarks on the alleged viscosity of ice. [illustration: fig. . inclinations of mer de glace above l'angle.] footnotes: [a] "mr. hopkins," writes professor forbes, "has done me the honour, in the memoirs before alluded to, to mention with approbation my observations and experiments on the subject of glaciers. he has been more sparing either in praise or criticism of the theory which i have founded upon them. had mr. hopkins," &c.--_eighth letter_; 'occ. papers,' p. . [b] 'occ. papers,' p. . the crevasses. ( .) [sidenote: crevasses caused by the motion.] having made ourselves acquainted with the motion of the glacier, we are prepared to examine those rents, fissures, chasms, or, as they are most usually called, _crevasses_, by which all glaciers are more or less intersected. they result from the motion of the glacier, and the laws of their formation are deduced immediately from those of the motion. the crevasses are sometimes very deep and numerous, and apparently without law or order in their distribution. they cut the ice into long ridges, and break these ridges transversely into prisms; these prisms gradually waste away, assuming, according to the accidents of their melting, the most fantastic forms. i have seen them like the mutilated statuary of an ancient temple, like the crescent moon, like huge birds with outstretched wings, like the claws of lobsters, and like antlered deer. such fantastic sculpture is often to be found on the ice cascades, where the riven glacier has piled vast blocks on vaster pedestals, and presented them to the wasting action of sun and air. in fig. i have given a sketch of a mass of ice of this character, which stood in on the dislocated slope of the glacier des bois. [sidenote: fantastic ice-masses.] [illustration: fig. . fantastic mass of ice.] it is usual for visitors to the montanvert to descend to the glacier, and to be led by their guides to the edges of the crevasses, where, being firmly held, they look down into them; but those who have only made their acquaintance in this way know but little of their magnitude and beauty in the more disturbed portions of glaciers. as might be expected, they have been the graves of many a mountaineer; and the skeletons found upon the glacier prove that even the chamois itself, with its elastic muscles and admirable sureness of foot, is not always safe among the crevasses. they are grandest in the higher ice-regions, where the snow hangs like a coping over their edges, and the water trickling from these into the gloom forms splendid icicles. the görner glacier, as we ascend it towards the old weissthor, presents many fine examples of such crevasses; the ice being often torn in a most curious and irregular manner. you enter a porch, pillared by icicles, and look into a cavern in the very body of the glacier, encumbered with vast frozen bosses which are fringed all round by dependent icicles. at the peril of your life from slipping, or from the yielding of the stalactites, you may enter these caverns, and find yourself steeped in the blue illumination of the place. their beauty is beyond description; but you cannot deliver yourself up, heart and soul, to its enjoyment. there is a strangeness about the place which repels you, and not without anxiety do you look from your ledge into the darkness below, through which the sound of subglacial water sometimes rises like the tolling of distant bells. you feel that, however the cold splendours of the place might suit a purely spiritual essence, they are not congenial to flesh and blood, and you gladly escape from its magnificence to the sunshine of the world above. [sidenote: birth of a crevasse.] from their numbers it might be inferred that the formation of crevasses is a thing of frequent occurrence and easy to observe; but in reality it is very rarely observed. simond was a man of considerable experience upon the ice, but the first crevasse he ever saw formed was during the setting out of one of our lines, when a narrow rent opened beneath his feet, and propagated itself through the ice with loud cracking for a distance of or yards. crevasses always commence in this way as mere narrow cracks, which open very slowly afterwards. i will here describe the only case of crevasse-forming which has come under my direct observation. on the st of july, , mr. hirst and myself, having completed our day's work, were standing together upon the glacier du géant, when a loud dull sound, like that produced by a heavy blow, seemed to issue from the body of the ice underneath the spot on which we stood. this was succeeded by a series of sharp reports, which were heard sometimes above us, sometimes below us, sometimes apparently close under our feet, the intervals between the louder reports being filled by a low singing noise. we turned hither and thither as the direction of the sounds varied; for the glacier was evidently breaking beneath our feet, though we could discern no trace of rupture. for an hour the sounds continued without our being able to discover their source; this at length revealed itself by a rush of air-bubbles from one of the little pools upon the surface of the glacier, which was intersected by the newly-formed crevasse. we then traced it for some distance up and down, but hardly at any place was it sufficiently wide to permit the blade of my penknife to enter it. m. agassiz has given an animated description of the terror of his guides upon a similar occasion, and there was an element of awe in our own feelings as we heard the evening stillness of the glacier thus disturbed. [sidenote: mechanical origin.] with regard to the mechanical origin of the crevasses the most vague and untenable notions had been entertained until mr. hopkins published his extremely valuable papers. to him, indeed, we are almost wholly indebted for our present knowledge of the subject, my own experiments upon this portion of the glacier-question being for the most part illustrations of the truth of his reasoning. to understand the fissures in their more complex aspects it is necessary that we should commence with their elements. i shall deal with the question in my own way, adhering, however, to the mechanical principles upon which mr. hopkins has based his exposition. [illustration: fig. . diagram explanatory of the mechanical origin of crevasses.] let a b, c d, be the bounding sides of a glacier moving in the direction of the arrow; let _m_, _n_ be two points upon the ice, one, _m_, close to the retarding side of the valley, and the other, _n_, at some distance from it. after a certain time, the point _m_ will have moved downwards to _m'_, but in consequence of the swifter movement of the parts at a distance from the sides, _n_ will have moved in the same time to _n'_. thus the line _m n_, instead of being at right angles to the glacier, takes up the oblique position _m' n'_; but to reach from _m'_ to _n'_ the line _m n_ would have to stretch itself considerably; every other line that we can draw upon the ice parallel to _m' n'_ is in a similar state of tension; or, in other words, the sides of the glacier are acted upon by an oblique pull towards the centre. now, mr. hopkins has shown that the direction in which this oblique pull is strongest encloses an angle of ° with the side of the glacier. [sidenote: line of greatest strain.] [illustration: fig. . diagram showing the line of greatest strain.] what is the consequence of this? let a b, c d, fig. , represent, as before, the sides of the glacier, moving in the direction of the arrow; let the shading lines enclose an angle of ° with the sides. _along_ these lines the marginal ice suffers the greatest strain, and, consequently _across_ these lines and at right angles to them, the ice tends to break and to form _marginal crevasses_. the lines, _o p_, _o p_, mark the direction of these crevasses; they are at right angles to the line of greatest strain, and hence also enclose an angle of ° with the side of the valley, _being obliquely pointed upwards_. [sidenote: marginal and transverse crevasses.] this latter result is noteworthy; it follows from the mechanical data that the swifter motion of the centre tends to produce marginal crevasses which are inclined from the side of the glacier towards its source, and not towards its lower extremity. but when we look down upon a glacier thus crevassed, the first impression is that the sides have been dragged down, and have left the central portions behind them; indeed, it was this very appearance that led m. de charpentier and m. agassiz into the error of supposing that the sides of a glacier moved more quickly than its middle portions; and it was also the delusive aspect of the crevasses which led professor forbes to infer the slower motion of the eastern side of the mer de glace. the retardation of the ice is most evident near the sides; in most cases, the ice for a considerable distance right and left of the central line moves with a sensibly uniform velocity; there is no dragging of the particles asunder by a difference of motion, and, consequently, a compact centre is perfectly compatible with fissured sides. nothing is more common than to see a glacier with its sides deeply cut, and its central portions compact; this, indeed, is always the case where the glacier moves down a bed of uniform inclination. but supposing that the bed is not uniform--that the valley through which the glacier moves changes its inclination abruptly, so as to compel the ice to pass over a brow; the glacier is then circumstanced like a stick which we try to break by holding its two ends and pressing it against the knee. the brow, where the bed changes its inclination, represents the knee in the case of the stick, while the weight of the glacier itself is the force that tends to break it. it breaks; and fissures are formed across the glacier, which are hence called _transverse crevasses_. [sidenote: grindelwald glacier.] no glacier with which i am acquainted illustrates the mechanical laws just developed more clearly and fully than the lower glacier of grindelwald. proceeding along the ordinary track beside the glacier, at about an hour's distance from the village the traveller reaches a point whence a view of the glacier is obtained from the heights above it. the marginal fissures are very cleanly cut, and point nearly in the direction already indicated; the glacier also changes its inclination several times along the distance within the observer's view. on crossing each brow the glacier is broken across, and a series of transverse crevasses is formed, which follow each other down the slope. at the bottom of the slope tension gives place to pressure, the walls of the crevasses are squeezed together, and the chasms closed up. they remain closed along the comparatively level space which stretches between the base of one slope and the brow of the next; but here the glacier is again transversely broken, and continues so until the base of the second slope is reached, where longitudinal pressure instead of longitudinal strain begins to act, and the fissures are closed as before. in fig. a i have given a sketchy section of a portion of the glacier, illustrating the formation of the crevasses at the top of a slope, and their subsequent obliteration at its base. [sidenote: compression and tension.] [illustration: fig. a, b. section and plan of a portion of the lower grindelwald glacier.] another effect is here beautifully shown, namely, the union of the transverse and marginal crevasses to form continuous fissures which stretch quite across the glacier. fig. b will illustrate my meaning, though very imperfectly; it represents a plan of a portion of the lower grindelwald glacier, with both marginal and transverse fissures drawn upon it. i have placed it under the section so that each part of it may show in plan the portion of the glacier which is shown in section immediately above it. it shows how the marginal crevasses remain after the compression of the centre has obliterated the transverse ones; and how the latter join on to the former, so as to form continuous fissures, which sweep across the glacier in vast curves, with their convexities turned upwards. the illusion before referred to is here strengthened; the crevasses turn, so to say, _against_ the direction of motion, instead of forming loops, with their convexities pointing downwards, and thus would impress a person unacquainted with the mechanical data with the idea that the glacier margins moved more quickly than the centre. the figures are intended to convey the idea merely; on the actual slopes of the glacier between twenty and thirty chasms may be counted: also the word "compression" ought to have been limited to the level portions of the sketch. [sidenote: longitudinal crevasses.] besides the two classes of fissures mentioned we often find others, which are neither marginal nor transverse. the terminal portions of many glaciers, for example, are in a state of compression; the snout of the glacier abuts against the ground, and having to bear the thrust of the mass behind it, if it have room to expand laterally, the ice will yield, and _longitudinal crevasses_ will be formed. they are of very common occurrence, but the finest example of the kind is perhaps exhibited by the glacier of the rhone. after escaping from the steep gorge which holds the cascade, this glacier encounters the bottom of a comparatively wide and level valley; the resistance to its forward motion is augmented, while its ability to expand laterally is increased; it has to bear a longitudinal thrust, and it splits at right angles to the pressure [strain?]. a series of fissures is thus formed, the central ones of which are truly longitudinal; but on each side of the central line the crevasses diverge, and exhibit a fan-like arrangement. this disposition of the fissures is beautifully seen from the summit of the mayenwand on the grimsel pass. [illustration: fig. . diagram illustrating the crevassing of convex sides of glacier.] here then we have the elements, so to speak, of glacier-crevassing, and through their separate or combined action the most fantastic cutting up of a glacier may be effected. and see how beautifully these simple principles enable us to account for the remarkable crevassing of the eastern side of the mer de glace. let a b, c d, be the opposite sides of a portion of the glacier, near the montanvert; c d being east, and a b west, the glacier moving in the direction of the arrow; let the points _m n_ represent the extremities of our line of stakes, and let us suppose an elastic string stretched across the glacier from one to the other. we have proved that the point of maximum motion here lies much nearer to the side c d than to a b. let _o_ be this point, and, seizing the string at _o_, let it be drawn in the direction of motion until it assumes the position, _m_, _o'_, _n_. it is quite evident that _o' n_ is in a state greater tension than _o' m_, and the ice at the eastern side of the mer de glace is in a precisely similar mechanical condition. it suffers a greater strain than the ice at the opposite side of the valley, and hence is more fissured and broken. thus we see that the crevassing of the eastern side of the glacier is a simple consequence of the quicker motion of that side, and does not, as hitherto supposed, demonstrate its slower motion. the reason why the eastern side of the glacier, as a whole, is much more fissured than the western side is, that there are two long segments which turn their convex curvature eastward, and only one segment of the glacier which turns its convexity westward. [sidenote: crevassing of convex side.] the lower portion of the rhone glacier sweeps round the side of the valley next the furca, and turns throughout a convex curve to this side: the crevasses here are wide and frequent, while they are almost totally absent at the opposite side of the glacier. the lower grindelwald glacier turns at one place a convex curve towards the eiger, and is much more fissured at that side than at the opposite one; indeed, the fantastic ice-splinters, columns, and minarets, which are so finely exhibited upon this glacier, are mainly due to the deep crevassing of the convex side. numerous other illustrations of the law might, i doubt not, be discovered, and it would be a pleasant and useful occupation to one who takes an interest in the subject, to determine, by strict measurements upon other glaciers, the locus of the point of maximum motion, and to observe the associated mechanical effects. [sidenote: bergschrunds.] the appearance of crevasses is often determined by circumstances more local and limited than those above indicated; a boss of rock, a protuberance on the side of the flanking mountain, anything, in short, which checks the motion of one part of the ice and permits an adjacent portion to be pushed away from it, produces crevasses. some valleys are terminated by a kind of mountain-circus with steep sides, against which the snow rises to a considerable height. as the mass is urged downwards, the lower portion of the snow-slope is often torn away from its higher portion, and a chasm is formed, which usually extends round the head of the valley. to such a crevasse the specific name _bergschrund_ is applied in the bernese alps; i have referred to one of them in the account of the "passage of the strahleck." ( .) the phenomena described and accounted for in the last chapter have a direct bearing upon the question of viscosity. in virtue of the quicker central flow the lateral ice is subject to an oblique strain; but, instead of stretching, it breaks, and marginal crevasses are formed. we also see that a slight curvature in the valley, by throwing an additional strain upon one half of the glacier, produces an augmented crevassing of that side. but it is known that a substance confessedly viscous may be broken by a sudden shock or strain. professor forbes justly observes that sealing-wax at moderate temperatures will mould itself (with time) to the most delicate inequalities of the surface on which it rests, but may at the same time be shivered to atoms by the blow of a hammer. hence, in order to estimate the weight of the objection that a glacier breaks when subjected to strain, we must know the conditions under which the force is applied. the mer de glace has been shown (p. ) to move through the neck of the valley at trélaporte at the rate of twenty inches a day. let the sides of this page represent the boundaries of the glacier at trélaporte, and any one of its lines of print a transverse slice of ice. supposing the line to move down the page as the slice of ice moves down the valley, then the bending of the ice in twenty-four hours, shown on such a scale, would only be sufficient to push forward the centre in advance of the sides by a very small fraction of the width of the line of print. to such an extremely gradual strain the ice is unable to accommodate itself without fracture. [sidenote: numerical test of viscosity.] or, referring to actual numbers:--the stake no. on our th line, page , stood on the lateral moraine of the mer de glace; and between it and no. a distance of feet intervened. let a b, fig. , be the side of the glacier, moving in the direction of the arrow, and let _a b c d_ be a square upon the glacier with a side of feet. the whole square moves with the ice, but the side _b d_ moves quickest; the point _a_ moving inches, while _b_ moves . inches in hours; the differential motion therefore amounts to an inch in five hours. let _a b' d' c_ be the shape of the figure after five hours' motion; then the line _a b_ would be extended to _a b'_ and _c d_ to _c d'_. [illustration: fig. . diagram illustrating test of viscosity.] the extension of _these_ lines does not however express the _maximum_ strain to which the ice is subjected. mr. hopkins has shown that this takes place along the line _a d_; in five hours then this line, if capable of stretching, would be stretched to _a d'_. from the data given every boy who has mastered the th proposition of the first book of euclid can find the length both of _a d_ and _a d'_; the former is . inches, and the latter is . , the difference between them being seven-tenths of an inch. this is the amount of yielding required from the ice in five hours, but it cannot grant this; the glacier breaks, and numerous marginal crevasses are formed. it must not be forgotten that the evidence here adduced merely shows what ice cannot do; what it _can_ do in the way of viscous yielding we do not know: there exists as yet no single experiment on great masses or small to show that ice possesses in any sensible degree that power of being drawn out which seems to be the very essence of viscosity. i have already stated that the crevasses, on their first formation, are exceedingly narrow rents, which widen very slowly. the new crevasse observed by our guide required several days to attain a width of three inches; while that observed by mr. hirst and myself did not widen a single inch in three days. this, i believe, is the general character of the crevasses; they form suddenly and open slowly. both facts are at variance with the idea that ice is viscous; for were this substance capable of stretching at the slow rate at which the fissures widen, there would be no necessity for their formation. [sidenote: stretching of ice not proved.] it cannot be too clearly and emphatically stated that the _proved_ fact of a glacier conforming to the law of semi-fluid motion is a thing totally different from the _alleged_ fact of its being viscous. nobody since its first enunciation disputed the former. i had no doubt of it when i repaired to the glaciers in ; and none of the eminent men who have discussed this question with professor forbes have thrown any doubt upon his measurements. it is the assertion that small pieces of ice are proved to be viscous[a] by the experiments made upon glaciers, and the consequent impression left upon the public mind--that ice possesses the "gluey tenacity" which the term viscous suggests--to which these observations are meant to apply. footnotes: [a] "the viscosity, though it cannot be traced in the parts _if very minute_ nevertheless _exists_ there, as unequivocally proved by experiments on the large scale."--forbes in 'phil. mag.,' vol. x., p. . heat and work. ( .) [sidenote: connexion of natural forces.] great scientific principles, though usually announced by individuals, are often merely the distinct expression of thoughts and convictions which had long been entertained by all advanced investigators. thus the more profound philosophic thinkers had long suspected a certain equivalence and connexion between the various forces of nature; experiment had shown the direct connexion and mutual convertibility of many of them, and the spiritual insight, which, in the case of the true experimenter, always surrounds and often precedes the work of his hands, revealed more or less plainly that natural forces either had a common root, or that they formed a circle, whose links were so connected that by starting from any one of them we could go through the circuit, and arrive at the point from which we set out. for the last eighteen years this subject has occupied the attention of some of the ablest natural philosophers, both in this country and on the continent. the connexion, however, which has most occupied their minds is that between _heat_ and _work_; the absolute numerical equivalence of the two having, i believe, been first announced by a german physician named mayer, and experimentally proved in this country by mr. joule. [sidenote: mechanical equivalent of heat.] a lead bullet may be made hot enough to burn the hand, by striking it with a hammer, or by rubbing it against a board; a clever blacksmith can make a nail red-hot by hammering it; count rumford boiled water by the heat developed in the boring of cannon, and inferred from the experiment that heat was not what it was generally supposed to be, an imponderable fluid, but a kind of motion generated by the friction. now mr. joule's experiments enable us to state the exact amount of heat which a definite expenditure of mechanical force can originate. i say _originate_, not drag from any hiding-place in which it had concealed itself, but actually bring into existence, so that the total amount of heat in the universe is thereby augmented. if a mass of iron fall from a tower feet in height, we can state the precise amount of heat developed by its collision with the earth. supposing all the heat thus generated to be concentrated in the iron itself, its temperature would thereby be raised nearly ° fahr. gravity in this case has expended a certain amount of force in pulling the iron to the earth, and this force is the _mechanical equivalent_ of the heat generated. furthermore, if we had a machine so perfect as to enable us to apply all the heat thus produced to the raising of a weight, we should be able, by it, to lift the mass of iron to the precise point from which it fell. but the heat cannot lift the weight and still continue heat; this is the peculiarity of the modern view of the matter. the heat is consumed, used up, it is no longer heat; but instead of it we have a certain amount of gravitating force stored up, which is ready to act again, and to regenerate the heat when the weight is let loose. in fact, when the falling weight is stopped by the earth, the motion of its mass is converted into a motion of its molecules; when the weight is lifted by heat, molecular motion is converted into ordinary mechanical motion, but for every portion of either of them brought into existence an equivalent portion of the other must be consumed. what is true for masses is also true for atoms. as the earth and the piece of iron mutually attract each other, and produce heat by their collision, so the carbon of a burning candle and the oxygen of the surrounding air mutually attract each other; they rush together, and on collision the arrested motion becomes heat. in the former case we have the conversion of gravity into heat, in the latter the conversion of chemical affinity into heat; but in each case the process consists in the generation of motion by attraction, and the subsequent change of that motion into motion of another kind. mechanically considered, the attraction of the atoms and its results is precisely the same as the attraction of the earth and weight and _its_ results. [sidenote: heat produced if the earth struck the sun.] but what is true for an atom is also true for a planet or a sun. supposing our earth to be brought to rest in her orbit by a sudden shock, we are able to state the exact amount of heat which would be thereby generated. the consequence of the earth's being thus brought to rest would be that it would fall into the sun, and the amount of heat which would be generated by this second collision is also calculable. helmholtz has calculated that in the former case the heat generated would be equal to that produced by the combustion of fourteen earths of solid coal, and in the latter case the amount would be times greater. [sidenote: shifting of atoms.] whenever a weight is lifted by a steam-engine in opposition to the force of gravity an amount of heat is consumed equivalent to the work done; and whenever the molecules of a body are shifted in opposition to their mutual attractions work is also performed, and an equivalent amount of heat is consumed. indeed the amount of work done in the shifting of the molecules of a body by heat, when expressed in ordinary mechanical work, is perfectly enormous. the lifting of a heavy weight to the height of feet may be as nothing compared with the shifting of the atoms of a body by an amount so small that our finest means of measurement hardly enable us to determine it. different bodies give heat different degrees of trouble, if i may use the term, in shifting their atoms and putting them in new places. iron gives more trouble than lead; and water gives far more trouble than either. the heat expended in this molecular work is lost as heat; it does not show itself as temperature. suppose the heat produced by the combustion of an ounce of candle to be concentrated in a pound of iron, a certain portion of that heat would go to perform the molecular work to which i have referred, and the remainder would be expended in raising the temperature of the body; and if the same amount of heat were communicated to a pound of iron and to a pound of lead, the balance in favour of temperature would be greater in the latter case than in the former, because the heat would have less molecular work to do; the lead would become more heated than the iron. to raise a pound of iron a certain number of degrees in temperature would, in fact, require more than three times the absolute quantity of heat which would be required to raise a pound of lead the same number of degrees. conversely, if we place the pound of iron and the pound of lead, heated to the same temperature, into ice, we shall find that the quantity of ice melted by the iron will be more than three times that melted by the lead. in fact, the greater amount of molecular work invested in the iron now comes into play, the atoms again obey their own powerful forces, and an amount of heat corresponding to the energy of these forces is generated. this molecular work is that which has usually been called _specific heat_, or _capacity for heat_. according to the _materialistic_ view of heat, bodies are figured as sponges, and heat as a kind of fluid absorbed by them, different bodies possessing different powers of absorption. according to the _dynamic_ view, as already explained, heat is regarded as a motion, and capacity for heat indicates the quantity of that motion consumed in internal changes. the greatest of these changes occurs when a body passes from one state of aggregation to another, from the solid to the liquid, or from the liquid to the aëriform state; and the quantity of heat required for such changes is often enormous. to convert a pound of ice at ° fahr. into water _at the same temperature_ would require an amount of heat competent, if applied as mechanical force, to lift the same pound of ice to a height of , feet; it would raise a ton of ice nearly feet, or it would lift between and tons to a height of one foot above the earth's surface. to convert a pound of water at ° into a pound of steam at the same temperature would require an amount of heat which would perform nearly seven times the amount of mechanical work just mentioned. [sidenote: heat consumed in molecular work.] this heat is entirely expended in _interior work_,[a] and does nothing towards augmenting the temperature; the water is at the temperature of the ice which produced it, both are °; and the steam is at the temperature of the water which produced it, both are °. the whole of the heat is consumed in producing the change of aggregation; i say "_consumed_," not hidden or "latent" in either the water or the steam, but absolutely non-existent as heat. the molecular forces, however, which the heat has sacrificed itself to overcome are able to reproduce it; the water in freezing and the steam in condensing give out the exact amount of heat which they consumed when the change of aggregation was in the opposite direction. at a temperature of several degrees below its freezing point ice is much harder than at °. i have more than once cooled a sphere of the substance in a bath of solid carbonic acid and ether to a temperature of ° below the freezing point. during the time of cooling the ice crackled audibly from its contraction, and afterwards it quite resisted the edge of a knife; while at ° it may be cut or crushed with extreme facility. the cold sphere was subjected to pressure; it broke with the detonation of a vitreous body, and was taken from the press a white opaque powder; which, on being subsequently raised to ° and again compressed, was converted into a pellucid slab of ice. [sidenote: ice near the melting point.] but before the temperature of ° is quite attained, ice gives evidence of a loosening of its crystalline texture. indeed the unsoundness of ice at and near its melting point has been long known. sir john leslie, for example, states that ice at ° is _friable_; and every skater knows how rotten ice becomes before it thaws. m. person has further shown that the latent heat of ice, that is to say, the quantity of heat necessary for its liquefaction, is not quite expressed by the quantity consumed in reducing ice at ° to the liquid state. the heat begins to be rendered latent, or in other words the change of aggregation commences, a little before the substance reaches °,--a conclusion which is illustrated and confirmed by the deportment of melting ice under pressure. [sidenote: rotten ice and softened wax.] in reference to the above result professor forbes writes as follows:--"i have now to refer to a fact ... established by a french experimenter, m. person, who appears not to have had even remotely in his mind the theory of glaciers, when he announced the following facts, viz.--'that ice does not pass abruptly from the solid to the fluid state; that it begins to _soften_ at a temperature of ° centigrade below its thawing point; that, consequently, between ° ' and ° of fahr. ice is actually passing through various degrees of plasticity within narrower limits, but in the same manner that wax, for example, softens before it melts.'" the "_softening_" here referred to is the "friability," of sir j. leslie, and what i have called a "loosening of the texture." let us suppose the serpentine covered by a sheet of pitch so smooth and hard as to enable a skater to glide over it; and which is afterwards gradually warmed until it begins to bend under his weight, and finally lets him through. a comparison of this deportment with that of a sheet of ice under the same circumstances enables us to decide whether ice "passes through various degrees of plasticity in the same manner as wax softens before it melts." m. person concerned himself solely with the heat absorbed, and no doubt in both wax and ice that heat is expended in "interior work." in the one case, however, the body is so constituted that the absorbed heat is expended in rendering the substance viscous; and the question simply is, whether the heat absorbed by the ice gives its molecules a freedom of play which would entitle it also to be called viscous; whether, in short, "rotten ice" and softened wax present the same physical qualities? footnotes: [a] i borrow this term from professor clausius's excellent papers on the dynamical theory of heat. ( .) there is one other point in connexion with the viscous theory which claims our attention. the announcement of that theory startled scientific men, and for two or three years after its first publication it formed the subject of keen discussion. this finally subsided, and afterwards professor forbes drew up an elaborate paper, which was presented in three parts to the royal society in and , and subsequently published in the 'philosophical transactions.' in the concluding portion of part iii. professor forbes states and answers the question, "how far a glacier is to be regarded as a plastic mass?" in these words:--"were a glacier composed of a solid crystalline cake of ice, fitted or moulded to the mountain bed which it occupies, like a lake tranquilly frozen, it would seem impossible to admit such a flexibility or yielding of parts as should permit any comparison to a fluid or semifluid body, transmitting pressure horizontally, and whose parts might change their mutual positions so that one part should be pushed out whilst another remained behind. but we know, in point of fact, that a glacier is a body very differently constituted. it is clearly proved by the experiments of agassiz and others that the glacier is not a mass of ice, but of ice and water, the latter percolating freely through the crevices of the former to all depths of the glacier; and it is a matter of ocular demonstration that these crevices, though very minute, communicate freely with one another to great distances; the water with which they are filled communicates force also to great distances, and exercises a tremendous hydrostatic pressure to move onwards in the direction in which gravity urges it, the vast porous mass of seemingly rigid ice in which it is as it were bound up." [sidenote: capillary hypothesis.] "now the water in the crevices," continues professor forbes, "does not constitute the glacier, but only the principal vehicle of the force which acts on it, and the slow irresistible energy with which the icy mass moves onwards from hour to hour with a continuous march, bespeaks of itself the presence of a fluid pressure. but if the ice were not in some degree ductile or plastic, this pressure could never produce any the least forward motion of the mass. the pressure in the capillaries of the glacier can only tend to separate one particle from another, and thus produce tensions and compressions _within the body of the glacier itself_, which yields, owing to its slightly ductile nature, in the direction of least resistance, retaining its continuity, or recovering it by reattachment after its parts have suffered a bruise, according to the violence of the action to which it has been exposed." i will not pretend to say that i fully understand this passage, but, taking it and the former one together, i think it is clear that the water which is supposed to gorge the capillaries of the glacier is assumed to be essential to its motion. indeed, an extreme degree of sensitiveness has been ascribed to the glacier as regards the changes of temperature by which the capillaries are affected. in three succeeding days, for example, professor forbes found the diurnal summer motion of a point upon the mer de glace to increase from . to . inches a day; a result which he says he is "persuaded" to be due to the increasing heat of the weather at the time. if, then, the glacier capillaries can be gorged so quickly as this experiment would indicate, it is fair to assume that they are emptied with corresponding speed when the supply is cut away. [sidenote: temperature at chamouni; winter .] the extraordinary coldness of the weather previous to the christmas of is in the recollection of everybody: this lowness of temperature also extended to the mer de glace and its environs. i had last summer left with auguste balmat and the abbé vueillet thermometers with which observations were made daily during the cold weather referred to. i take the following from balmat's register. minimum date. temperature centigrade. december - ° " - " - - / " - " - " - - / " - - / december - - / ° " - - / " - " + " - " - - / " - the temperature at the montanvert during the above period may be assumed as generally some degrees lower, so that for a considerable period, previous to my winter observations, the portion of the mer de glace near the montanvert had been exposed to a very low temperature. i reached the place after the weather had become warm, but during my stay there the maximum temperature did not exceed - - / ° c. considering therefore the long drain to which the glacier had been subjected previous to the th of december, it is not unreasonable to infer that the capillary supply assumed by professor forbes must by that time have been exhausted. notwithstanding this, the motion of the glacier at the montanvert amounted at the end of december to half its maximum summer motion. [sidenote: balmat's measurements.] the observations of balmat which have been published by professor forbes[a] also militate, as far as they go, against the idea of proportionality between the capillary supply and the motion. if the temperatures recorded apply to the mer de glace during the periods of observation, it would follow that from the th of december to the th of april the temperature of the air was constantly under zero centigrade, and hence, during this time, the gorging of the capillaries, which is due to superficial melting, must have ceased. still, throughout this entire period of depletion the motion of the glacier steadily increased from twenty-four inches to thirty-four and a half inches a day. what has been here said of the montanvert, and of the points lower down where balmat's measurements were made, of course applies with greater force to the higher portions of the glacier, which are withdrawn from the operation of superficial melting for a longer period, and which, nevertheless, if i understand professor forbes aright, have their motion _least affected_ in winter. he records, for example, an observation of mr. bakewell's, by which the glacier des bossons is shown to be stationary at its end, while its upper portions are moving at the rate of a foot a day. this surely indicates that, at those places where the glacier is longest cut off from superficial supply, the motion is least reduced, which would be a most strange result if the motion depended, as affirmed, upon the gorging of the capillaries. [sidenote: bakewell's observations.] the perusal of the conclusion of professor forbes's last volume shows me that a thought similar to that expressed above occurred to mr. bakewell also. speaking of a shallow glacier which moved when the alleged temperature was so enormously below the freezing point that professor forbes regards the observation as open to question (in which i agree with him), mr. bakewell asks, "is it possible that infiltrated water can have any action whatever under such circumstances?" the reply of professor forbes contains these words:--"i have nowhere affirmed the presence of liquid water to be a _sine quâ non_ to the plastic motion of glaciers." this statement, i confess, took me by surprise, which was not diminished by further reading. speaking of the influence of temperature on the motion of the mer de glace, professor forbes says, the glacier "took no real start until the frost had given way, and the tumultuous course of the arveiron showed that its veins were again filled with the circulating medium to which the glacier, like the organic frame, owes its moving energy."[b] and again:--"it is this fragility precisely which, yielding to the hydrostatic pressure of the unfrozen water contained in the countless capillaries of the glacier, produces the crushing action which shoves the ice over its neighbour particles."[c] [sidenote: huxley's observations.] after the perusal of the foregoing paragraphs the reader will probably be less interested in the question as to whether the assumed capillaries exist at all in the glacier. according to mr. huxley's observations, they do not.[d] during the summer of he carefully experimented with coloured liquids on the mer de glace and its tributaries, and in no case was he able to discover these fissures in the sound unweathered ice. i have myself seen the red liquid resting in an auger-hole, where it had lain for an hour without diffusing itself in any sensible degree. this cavity intersected both the white ice and the blue veins of the glacier; and mr. huxley, in my presence, cut away the ice until the walls of the cavity became extremely thin, still no trace of liquid passed through them. experiments were also made upon the higher portions of the mer de glace, and also on the glacier du géant, with the same result. thus the very existence of these capillaries is rendered so questionable, that no theory of glacier-motion which invokes their aid could be considered satisfactory. footnotes: [a] 'occ. pap.,' p. . [b] 'phil. trans.,' , p. , and 'occ. pap.,' p. . [c] 'occ. pap.,' p. . [d] 'phil. mag.,' , vol. xiv., p. . thomson's theory. ( .) in the 'transactions' of the royal society of edinburgh for is published a very interesting paper by prof. james thomson of queen's college, belfast, wherein he deduces, as a consequence of a principle announced by the french philosopher carnot, that water, when subjected to pressure, requires a greater cold to freeze it than when the pressure is removed. he inferred that the lowering of the freezing point for every atmosphere of pressure amounted to . of a degree centigrade. this deduction was afterwards submitted to the test of experiment by his distinguished brother prof. wm. thomson, and proved correct. on the fact thus established is founded mr. james thomson's theory of the "plasticity of ice as manifested in glaciers." [sidenote: statement of theory.] the theory is this:--certain portions of the glacier are supposed first to be subjected to pressure. this pressure liquefies the ice, the water thus produced being squeezed through the glacier in the direction in which it can most easily escape. but cold has been evolved by the act of liquefaction, and, when the water has been relieved from the pressure, it freezes in a new position. the pressure being thus abolished at the place where it was first applied, new portions of the ice are subjected to the force; these in their turn liquefy, the water is dispersed as before, and re-frozen in some other place. to the succession of processes here assumed mr. thomson ascribes the changes of form observed in glaciers. this theory was first communicated to the royal society through the author's brother, prof. william thomson, and is printed in the 'proceedings' of the society for may, . it was afterwards communicated to the british association in dublin, in whose 'reports' it is further published; and again it was communicated to the belfast literary and philosophical society, in whose 'proceedings' it also finds a place. on the th of november, , mr. james thomson communicated to the royal society, through his brother, a second paper, in which he again draws attention to his theory. he offers it in substitution for my views as the best argument that he can adduce against them; he also controverts the explanations of regelation propounded by prof. james d. forbes and prof. faraday, believing that his own theory explains all the facts so well as to leave room for no other. [sidenote: difficulties of theory.] but the passage in this paper which demands my chief attention is the following:--"prof. tyndall (writes mr. thomson), in papers and lectures subsequent to the publication of this theory, appears to adopt it to some extent, and to endeavour to make its principles co-operate with the views he had previously founded on mr. faraday's fact of regelation." i may say that mr. thomson's main thought was familiar to me long before his first communication on the plasticity of ice appeared; but it had little influence upon my convictions. were the above passage correct, i should deserve censure for neglecting to express my obligations far more explicitly than i have hitherto done; but i confess that even now i do not understand the essential point of mr. thomson's theory,--that is to say, its application to the phenomena of glacier motion. indeed, it was the obscurity in my mind in connexion with this point, and the hope that time might enable me to seize more clearly upon his meaning, which prevented me from giving that prominence to the theory of mr. thomson which, for aught i know, it may well deserve. i will here briefly state one or two of my difficulties, and shall feel very grateful to have them removed. [sidenote: improbable deduction.] let us fix our attention on a vertical slice of ice transverse to the glacier, and to which the pressure is applied perpendicular to its surfaces. the ice liquefies, and, supposing the means of escape offered to the compressed water to be equal all round, it is plain that there will be as great a tendency to squeeze the water upwards as downwards; for the mere tendency to flow down by its own gravity becomes, in comparison to the forces here acting on the water, a vanishing quantity. but the fact is, that the ice above the slice is more permeable than that below it; for, as we descend a glacier, the ice becomes more compact. hence the greater part of the dispersed water will be refrozen on that side of the slice which is turned towards the origin of the glacier; and the consequence is, that, according to mr. thomson's principle, the glacier ought to move up hill instead of down. i would invite mr. thomson to imagine himself and me together upon the ice, desirous of examining this question in a philosophic spirit; and that we have taken our places beside a stake driven into the ice, and descending with the glacier. we watch the ice surrounding the stake, and find that every speck of dirt upon it retains its position; there is no liquefaction of the ice that bears the dirt, and consequently it rests on the glacier undisturbed. after twelve hours we find the stake fifteen inches distant from its first position: i would ask mr. thomson how did it get there? or let us fix our attention on those six stakes which m. agassiz drove into the glacier of the aar in , and found erect in at some hundreds of feet from their first position:--how did they get there? how, in fine, does the end of a glacier become its end? has it been liquefied and re-frozen? if not, it must have been _pushed_ down by the very forces which mr. thomson invokes to produce his liquefaction. both the liquefaction, as far as it exists, and the motion, are products of the same cause. in short, this theory, as it presents itself to my mind, is so powerless to account for the simplest fact of glacier-motion, that i feel disposed to continue to doubt my own competence to understand it rather than ascribe to mr. thomson an hypothesis apparently so irrelevant to the facts which it professes to explain. another difficulty is the following:--mr. thomson will have seen that i have recorded certain winter measurements made on the mer de glace, and that these measurements show not only that the ice moves at that period of the year, but that it exhibits those characteristics of motion from which its plasticity has been inferred; the velocity of the central portions of the glacier being in round numbers double the velocity of those near the sides. had there been any necessity for it, this ratio might have been augmented by placing the side-stakes closer to the walls of the glacier. considering the extreme coldness of the weather which preceded these measurements, it is a moderate estimate to set down the temperature of the ice in which my stakes were fixed at ° cent. below zero. [sidenote: requisite pressure calculated.] let us now endeavour to estimate the pressure existing at the portion of the glacier where these measurements were made. the height of the montanvert above the sea-level is, according to prof. forbes, feet; that of the col du géant, which is the summit of the principal tributary of the mer de glace, is , feet: deducting the former from the latter, we find the height of the col du géant above the montanvert to be feet. now, according to mr. thomson's theory and his brother's experiments, the melting point of ice is lowered . ° centigrade for every atmosphere of pressure; and one atmosphere being equivalent to the pressure of about thirty-three feet of water, we shall not be over the truth if we take the height of an equivalent column of glacier-ice, of a compactness the mean of those which it exhibits upon the col du géant and at the montanvert respectively, at forty feet. the compactness of glacier ice is, of course, affected by the air-bubbles contained within it. [sidenote: actual pressure insufficient.] if, then, the pressure of forty feet of ice lower the melting point . ° centigrade, it follows that the pressure of a column feet high will lower it nine-tenths of a degree centigrade. supposing, then, the _unimpeded thrust of the whole glacier, from the col du géant downwards_, to be exerted on the ice at the montanvert; or, in other words, supposing the bed of the glacier to be absolutely smooth and every trace of friction abolished, the utmost the pressure thus obtained could perform would be to lower the melting point of the montanvert ice by the quantity above mentioned. taking into account the actual state of things, the friction of the glacier against its sides and bed, the opposition which the three tributaries encounter in the neck of the valley at trélaporte, the resistance encountered in the sinuous valley through which it passes; and finally, bearing in mind the comparatively short length of the glacier, which has to bear the thrust, and oppose the latter by its own friction merely;--i think it will appear evident that the ice at the montanvert cannot possibly have its melting point lowered by pressure more than a small fraction of a degree. the ice in which my stakes were fixed being - ° centigrade, according to mr. thomson's calculation and his brother's experiments, it would require atmospheres of pressure to liquefy it; in other words, it would require the unimpeded pressure of a column of glacier-ice , feet high. did mont blanc rise to two and a half times its present height above the montanvert, and were the latter place connected with the summit of the mountain by a continuous glacier with its bed absolutely smooth, the pressure at the montanvert would be rather under that necessary to liquefy the ice on which my winter observations were made. [sidenote: measurements apply to surface.] if it be urged that, though the temperature near the surface may be several degrees below the freezing point, the great body of the glacier does not share this temperature, but is, in all probability, near to °, my reply is simple. i did not measure the motion of the ice in the body of the glacier; nobody ever did; my measurements refer to the ice at and near the surface, and it is this ice which showed the plastic deportment which the measurements reveal. such, then, are some of the considerations which prevent me from accepting the theory of mr. thomson, and i trust they will acquit me of all desire, to make his theory co-operate with my views. i am, however, far from considering his deduction the less important because of its failing to account for the phenomena of glacier motion. the pressure-theory of glacier-motion. ( .) [sidenote: possible moulding of ice.] broadly considered, two classes of facts are presented to the glacier-observer; the one suggestive of viscosity, and the other of the reverse. the former are seen where _pressure_ comes into play, the latter where _tension_ is operative. by pressure ice can be moulded to any shape, while the same ice snaps sharply asunder if subjected to tension. were the result worth the labour, ice might be moulded into vases or statuettes, bent into spiral bars, and, i doubt not, by the proper application of pressure, a _rope_ of ice might be formed and coiled into a _knot_. but not one of these experiments, though they might be a thousandfold more striking than any ever made upon a glacier, would in the least demonstrate that ice is really a viscous body. [illustration: fig. . moulds used in experiments with ice.] i have here stated what i believe to be feasible. let me now refer to the experiments which have been actually made in illustration of this point. two pieces of seasoned box-wood had corresponding cavities hollowed in them, so that, when one was placed upon the other, a lenticular space was enclosed. a and b, fig. , represent the pieces of box-wood with the cavities in plan: c represents their section when they are placed upon each other. [sidenote: actual moulding of ice.] a _sphere_ of ice rather more than sufficient to fill the lenticular space was placed between the pieces of wood and subjected to the action of a small hydraulic press. the ice was crushed, but the crushed fragments soon reattached themselves, and, in a few seconds, a lens of compact ice was taken from the mould. [illustration: fig. . moulds used in experiments with ice.] this lens was placed in a cylindrical cavity hollowed out in another piece of box-wood, and represented at c, fig. ; and a flat piece of the wood was placed over the lens as a cover, as at d. on subjecting the whole to pressure, the lens broke, as the sphere had done, but the crushed mass soon re-established its continuity, and in less than half a minute a compact cake of ice was taken from the mould. [illustration: fig. . moulds used in experiments with ice.] in the following experiment the ice was subjected to a still severer test:--a hemispherical cavity was formed in one block of box-wood, and upon a second block a hemispherical protuberance was turned, smaller than the cavity, so that, when the latter was placed in the former, a space of a quarter of an inch existed between the two. fig. represents a section of the two pieces of box-wood; the brass pins _a_, _b_, fixed in the slab g h, and entering suitable apertures in the mould i k, being intended to keep the two surfaces concentric. a lump of ice being placed in the cavity, the protuberance was brought down upon it, and the mould subjected to hydraulic pressure: after a short interval the ice was taken from the mould as a smooth compact _cup_, its crushed particles having reunited, and established their continuity. [sidenote: ice moulded to cups and rings.] [illustration: fig. . moulds used in experiments with ice.] to make these results more applicable to the bending of glacier-ice, the following experiments were made:--a block of box-wood, m, fig. , inches long, wide, and deep, had its upper surface slightly curved, and a groove an inch wide, and about an inch deep, worked into it. a corresponding plate was prepared, having its under surface part of a convex cylinder, of the same curvature as the concave surface of the former piece. when the one slab was placed upon the other, they presented the appearance represented in section at n. a straight prism of ice inches long, an inch wide, and a little more than an inch in depth, was placed in the groove; the upper slab was placed upon it, and the whole was subjected to the hydraulic press. the prism broke, but, the quantity of ice being rather more than sufficient to fill the groove, the pressure soon brought the fragments together and re-established the continuity of the ice. after a few seconds it was taken from the mould a bent bar of ice. this bar was afterwards passed through three other moulds of gradually augmenting curvature, and was taken from the last of them a _semi-ring_ of compact ice. the ice, in changing its form from that of one mould to that of another, was in every instance broken and crushed by the pressure; but suppose that instead of three moulds three thousand had been used; or, better still, suppose the curvature of a single mould to change by extremely slow degrees; the ice would then so gradually change its form that no rude rupture would be apparent. practically the ice would behave as a _plastic_ substance; and indeed this plasticity has been contended for by m. agassiz, in opposition to the idea of viscosity. as already stated, the ice, bruised, and flattened, and bent in the above experiments, was incapable of being sensibly stretched; it was plastic to pressure but not to tension. a quantity of water was always squeezed out of the crushed ice in the above experiments, and the bruised fragments were intermixed with this and with air. minute quantities of both remained in the moulded ice, and thus rendered it in some degree turbid. its character, however, as to continuity may be inferred from the fact that the ice-cup, moulded as described, held water without the slightest visible leakage. [sidenote: softness of ice defined.] [sidenote: pressure and tension.] ice at ° may, as already stated, be crushed with extreme facility, and glacier-ice with still more readiness than lake-ice: it may also be scraped with a knife with even greater facility than some kinds of chalk. in comparison with ice at ° below the freezing point, it might be popularly called _soft_. but its softness is not that of paste, or wax, or treacle, or lava, or honey, or tar. it is the softness of calcareous spar in comparison with that of rock-crystal; and although the latter is incomparably harder than the former, i think it will be conceded that the term viscous would be equally inapplicable to both. my object here is clearly to define terms, and not permit physical error to lurk beneath them. how far this ice, with a softness thus defined, when subjected to the gradual pressures exerted in a glacier, is bruised and broken, and how far the motion of its parts may approach to that of a truly viscous body under pressure, i do not know. the critical point here is that the ice changes its form, and preserves its continuity, during its motion, in virtue of _external_ force. it remains continuous whilst it moves, because its particles are kept in juxtaposition by pressure, and when this external prop is removed, and the ice, subjected to tension, has to depend solely upon the mobility of its own particles to preserve its continuity, the analogy with a viscous body instantly breaks down.[a] footnotes: [a] "imagine," writes professor forbes, "a long narrow trough or canal, stopped at both ends and filled to a considerable depth with treacle, honey, tar, or any such viscid fluid. imagine one end of the trough to give way, the bottom still remaining horizontal: if the friction of the fluid against the bottom be greater than the friction against its own particles, the upper strata will roll over the lower ones, and protrude in a convex slope, which will be propagated backwards towards the other or closed end of the trough. had the matter been quite fluid the whole would have run out, and spread itself on a level: as it is, it assumes precisely the conditions which we suppose to exist in a glacier." this is perfectly definite, and my equally definite opinion is that no glacier ever exhibited the mechanical effects implied by this experiment. regelation. ( .) [sidenote: faraday's first experiment.] i was led to the foregoing results by reflecting on an experiment performed by mr. faraday, at a friday evening meeting of the royal institution, on the th of june, , and described in the 'athenæum' and 'literary gazette' for the same month. mr. faraday then showed that when two pieces of ice, with moistened surfaces, were placed in contact, they became cemented together by the freezing of the film of water between them, while, when the ice was below ° fahr., and therefore _dry_, no effect of the kind could be produced. the freezing was also found to take place under water; and indeed it occurs even when the water in which the ice is plunged is as hot as the hand can bear. a generalisation from this interesting fact led me to conclude that a bruised mass of ice, if closely confined, must re-cement itself when its particles are brought into contact by pressure; in fact, the whole of the experiments above recorded immediately suggested themselves to my mind as natural deductions from the principle established by faraday. a rough preliminary experiment assured me that the deductions would stand testing; and the construction of the box-wood moulds was the consequence. we could doubtless mould many solid substances to any extent by suitable pressure, breaking the attachment of their particles, and re-establishing a certain continuity by the mere force of cohesion. with such substances, to which we should never think of applying the term viscous, we might also imitate the changes of form to which glaciers are subject: but, superadded to the mere cohesion which here comes into play, we have, in the case of ice, the actual regelation of the severed surfaces, and consequently a more perfect solid. in the introduction to this book i have referred to the production of slaty cleavage by pressure; and at a future page i hope to show that the lamination of the ice of glaciers is due to the same cause; but, as justly observed by mr. john ball, there is no tendency to cleave in the _sound_ ice of glaciers; in fact, this tendency is obliterated by the perfect regelation of the severed surfaces. [sidenote: recent experiments of faraday.] mr. faraday has recently placed pieces of ice, in water, under the strain of forces tending to pull them apart. when two such pieces touch at a single point they adhere and move together as a rigid piece; but a little lateral force carefully applied breaks up this union with a crackling noise, and a new adhesion occurs which holds the pieces together in opposition to the force which tends to divide them. mr. james thomson had referred regelation to the cold produced by the liquefaction of the pressed ice; but in the above experiment all pressure is not only taken away, but is replaced by tension. mr. thomson also conceives that, when pieces of ice are simply placed together without intentional pressure, the capillary attraction brings the pressure of the atmosphere into play; but mr. faraday finds that regelation takes place _in vacuo_. a true viscidity on the part of ice mr. faraday never has observed, and he considers that his recent experiments support the view originally propounded by himself, namely, that a particle of water on a surface of ice becomes solid when placed between two surfaces, because of the increased influence due to their joint action. crystallization and internal liquefaction. ( .) [sidenote: how crystals are "nursed."] in the introduction to this book i have briefly referred to the force of crystallization. to permit this force to exercise its full influence, it must have free and unimpeded action; a crystal, for instance, to be properly built, ought to be suspended in the middle of the crystallizing solution, so that the little architects can work all round it; or if placed upon the bottom of a vessel, it ought to be frequently turned, so that all its facets may be successively subjected to the building process. in this way crystals can be _nursed_ to an enormous size. but where other forces mingle with that of crystallization, this harmony of action is destroyed; the figures, for example, that we see upon a glass window, on a frosty morning, are due to an action compounded of the pure crystalline force and the cohesion of the liquid to the window-pane. a more regular effect is obtained when the freezing particles are suspended in still air, and here they build themselves into those wonderful figures which dr. scoresby has observed in the polar regions, mr. glaisher at greenwich, and i myself on the summit of monte rosa and elsewhere. not only however in air, but in water also, figures of great beauty are sometimes formed. harrison's excellent machine for the production of artificial ice is, i suppose, now well known; the freezing being effected by carrying brine, which had been cooled by the evaporation of ether, round a series of flat tin vessels containing water. the latter gradually freezes, and, on watching those vessels while the action was proceeding very slowly, i have seen little six-rayed stars of thin ice forming, and rising to the surface of the liquid. i believe the fact was never before observed, but it would be interesting to follow it up, and to develop experimentally this most interesting case of crystallization. [sidenote: dissection of ice by sunbeam.] the surface of a freezing lake presents to the eye of the observer nothing which could lead him to suppose that a similar molecular architecture is going on there. still the particles are undoubtedly related to each other in this way; they are arranged together on this starry type. and not only is this the case at the surface, but the largest blocks of ice which reach us from norway and the wenham lake are wholly built up in this way. we can reveal the internal constitution of these masses by a reverse process to that which formed them; we can send an agent into the interior of a mass of ice which shall take down the atoms which the crystallizing forces had set up. this agent is a solar beam; with which it first occurred to me to make this simple experiment in the autumn of . i placed a large converging lens in the sunbeams passing through a room, and observed the place where the rays were brought to a focus behind the lens; then shading the lens, i placed a clear cube of ice so that the point of convergence of the rays might fall within it. on removing the screen from the lens, a cone of sunlight went through the cube, and along the course of the cone the ice became studded with lustrous spots, evidently formed by the beam, as if minute reflectors had been suddenly established within the mass, from which the light flashed when it met them. on examining the cube afterwards i found that each of these spots was surrounded by a liquid flower of six petals; such flowers were distributed in hundreds through the ice, being usually clear and detached from each other, but sometimes crowded together into liquid bouquets, through which, however, the six-starred element could be plainly traced. at first the edges of the leaves were unbroken curves, but when the flowers expanded under a long-continued action, the edges became serrated. when the ice was held at a suitable angle to the solar beams, these liquid blossoms, with their central spots shining more intensely than burnished silver, presented an exhibition of beauty not easily described. i have given a sketch of their appearance in fig. . [sidenote: liquid flowers in ice.] [illustration: fig. . liquid flowers in lake ice.] i have here to direct attention to an extremely curious fact. on sending the sunbeam through the transparent ice, i often noticed that the appearance of the lustrous spots was accompanied by an audible clink, as if the ice were ruptured inwardly. but there is no ground for assuming such rupture, and on the closest examination no flaw is exhibited by the ice. what then can be the cause of the noise? i believe the following considerations will answer the question:-- water always holds a quantity of air in solution, the diffusion of which through the liquid, as proved by m. donny, has an immense effect in weakening the cohesion of its particles; recent experiments of my own show that this is also the case in an eminent degree with many volatile liquids. m. donny has proved that, if water be thoroughly purged of its air, a long glass tube filled with this liquid may be inverted, while the tenacity with which the water clings to the tube, and with which its particles cling to each other, is so great that it will remain securely suspended, though no external hindrance be offered to its descent. owing to the same cause, water deprived of its air will not boil at ° fahr., and may be raised to a temperature of nearly ° without boiling; but when this occurs the particles break their cohesion suddenly, and ebullition is converted into explosion. now, when ice is formed, every trace of the air which the water contained is squeezed out of it; the particles in crystallizing reject all extraneous matter, so that in ice we have a substance quite free from the air, which is never absent in the case of water; it therefore follows that if we could preserve the water derived from the melting of ice from contact with the atmosphere, we should have a liquid eminently calculated to show the effects described by m. donny. mr. faraday has proved by actual experiment that this is the case. [sidenote: water deprived of air snaps asunder.] let us apply these facts to the explanation of the clink heard in my experiments. on sending a sunbeam through ice, liquid cavities are suddenly formed at various points within the mass, and these cavities are completely cut off from atmospheric contact. but the water formed by the melting ice is less in volume than the ice which produces it; the water of a cavity is not able to fill it, hence a vacuous space must be formed in the cell. i have no doubt that, for a time, the strong cohesion between the walls of the cell and the drop within it augments the volume of the latter a little, so as to compel it to fill the cell; but as the quantity of liquid becomes greater the shrinking force augments, until finally the particles snap asunder like a broken spring. at the same moment a lustrous spot appears, which is a vacuum, and simultaneously with the appearance of this vacuum the clink was always heard. multitudes of such little explosions must be heard upon a glacier when the strong summer sun shines upon it, the aggregate of which must, i think, contribute to produce the "crepitation" noticed by m. agassiz, and to which i have already referred. [sidenote: figures in ice; vacuous spots.] in plate vi. of the atlas which accompanies the 'système glaciaire' of m. agassiz, i notice drawings of figures like those i have described, which he has observed in glacier-ice, and which were doubtless produced by direct solar radiation. i have often myself observed figures of exquisite beauty formed in the ice on the surface of glacier-pools by the morning sun. in some cases the spaces between the leaves of the liquid flowers melt partially away, and leave the central spot surrounded by a crimped border; sometimes these spaces wholly disappear, and the entire space bounded by the lines drawn from point to point of the leaves becomes liquid, thus forming perfect hexagons. the crimped borders exhibit different degrees of serration, from the full leaves themselves to a gentle undulating line, which latter sometimes merges into a perfect circle. in the ice of glaciers, i have seen the internal liquefaction ramify itself like sprigs of myrtle; in the same ice, and particularly towards the extremities of the glacier, disks innumerable are also formed, consisting of flat round liquid spaces, a bright spot being usually associated with each. these spots have been hitherto mistaken for air-bubbles; but both they and the lustrous disks at the centres of the flowers are vacuous. i proved them to be so by plunging the ice containing them into hot water, and watching what occurred when the walls of the cells were dissolved, and a liquid connexion established between them and the atmosphere. in all cases they totally collapsed, and no trace of air rose to the surface of the warm water. no matter in what direction a solar beam is sent through lake-ice, the liquid flowers are all formed parallel to the surface of freezing. the beam may be sent parallel, perpendicular, or oblique to this surface; the flowers are always formed in the same planes. every line perpendicular to the surface of a frozen lake is in fact an axis of symmetry, round which the molecules so arrange themselves, that, when taken down by the delicate fingers of the sunbeam, the six-leaved liquid flowers are the result. in the ice of glaciers we have no definite planes of freezing. it is first snow, which has been disturbed by winds while falling, and whirled and tossed about by the same agency after it has fallen, being often melted, saturated with its own water, and refrozen: it is cast in shattered fragments down cascades, and reconsolidated by pressure at the bottom. in ice so formed and subjected to such mutations, definite planes of freezing are, of course, out of the question. [sidenote: constitution of glacier-ice.] the flat round disks and vacuous spots to which i have referred come here to our aid, and furnish us with an entirely new means of analysing the internal constitution of a glacier. when we examine a mass of glacier-ice which contains these disks, we find them lying in all imaginable planes; not confusedly, however--closer examination shows us that the disks are arranged in groups, the members of each group being parallel to a common plane, but the parallelism ceases when different groups are compared. the effect is exactly what would be observed, supposing ordinary lake-ice to be broken up, shaken together, and the confused fragments regelated to a compact continuous mass. in such a jumble the original planes of freezing would lie in various directions; but no matter how compact or how transparent ice thus constituted might appear, a solar beam would at once reveal its internal constitution by developing the flowers parallel to the planes of freezing of the respective fragments. a sunbeam sent through glacier-ice always reveals the flowers in the planes of the disks, so that the latter alone at once informs us of its crystalline constitution. [sidenote: vacuous cells mistaken for air-cells.] hitherto, as i have said, these disks have been mistaken for bubbles containing air, and their flattening has been ascribed to the pressure to which they have been subjected. m. agassiz thus refers to them:--"the air-bubbles undergo no less curious modifications. in the neighbourhood of the _névé_, where they are most numerous, those which one sees on the surface are all spherical or ovoid, but by degrees they begin to be flattened, and near the end of the glacier there are some that are so flat _that they might be taken for fissures when seen in profile_. the drawing represents a piece of ice detached from the gallery of infiltration. all the bubbles are greatly flattened. but what is most extraordinary is, that, far from being uniform, _the flattening is different in each fragment_; so that the bubbles, according to the face which they offer, appear either very broad or very thin." this description of glacier-ice is correct: it agrees with the statements of all other observers. but there are two assumptions in the description which must henceforth be given up; first, the bubbles seen like fissures in profile are not air-bubbles at all, but vacuous spots, which the very constitution of ice renders a necessary concomitant of its inward melting; secondly, the assumption that the bubbles have been _flattened_ by pressure must be abandoned; for they are found, and may be developed at will, in lake-ice on which no pressure has been exerted. [sidenote: cells of air and water.] but these remarks dispose only of a certain class of cells contained in glacier-ice. besides the liquid disks and vacuous spots, there are innumerable true bubbles entangled in the mass. these have also been observed and described by m. agassiz; and mr. huxley has also given us an accurate account of them. m. agassiz frequently found air and water associated in the same cell. mr. huxley found no exception to the rule: in each case the bubble of air was enclosed in a cell which was also partially filled with water. he supposes that the water may be that of the originally-melted snow which has been carried down from the _névé_ unfrozen. this hypothesis is worthy of a great deal more consideration than i have had time to give to it, and i state it here in the hope that it will be duly examined. my own experience of these associated air and water cells is derived almost exclusively from lake-ice, in which i have often observed them in considerable numbers. in examining whether the liquid contents had ever been frozen or not, i was guided by the following considerations. if the air be that originally entangled in the solid, it will have the ordinary atmospheric density at least; but if it be due to the melting of the walls of the cell, then the water so formed being only eight-ninths of that of the ice which produced it, _the air of the bubble must be rarefied_. i suppose i have made a hundred different experiments upon these bubbles to determine whether the air was rarefied or not, and in every case found it so. ice containing the bubbles was immersed in warm water, and always, when the rigid envelope surrounding a bubble was melted away, the air suddenly collapsed to a fraction of its original dimensions. i think i may safely affirm that, in some cases, the collapse reduced the bubbles to the thousandth part of their original volume. from these experiments i should undoubtedly infer, that in lake-ice at least, the liquid of the cells is produced by the melting of the ice surrounding the bubbles of air. but i have not subjected the bubbles of glacier-ice to the same searching examination. i have tried whether the insertion of a pin would produce the collapse of the bubbles, but it did not appear to do so. i also made a few experiments at rosenlaui, with warm water, but the result was not satisfactory. that ice melts internally at the surfaces of the bubbles is, i think, rendered certain by my experiments, but whether the water-cells of glacier-ice are entirely due to such melting, subsequent observers will no doubt determine. [sidenote: "liquid liberty."] i have found these composite bubbles at all parts of glaciers; in the ice of the moraines, over which a protective covering had been thrown; in the ice of sand-cones, after the removal of the superincumbent débris; also in ice taken from the roofs of caverns formed in the glacier, and which the direct sunlight could hardly by any possibility attain. that ice should liquefy at the surface of a cavity is, i think, in conformity with all we know concerning the physical nature of heat. regarding it as a motion of the particles, it is easy to see that this motion is less restrained at the surface of a cavity than in the solid itself, where the oscillation of each atom is controlled by the particles which surround it; hence _liquid liberty_, if i may use the term, is first attained at the surface. indeed i have proved by experiment that ice may be melted internally by heat which has been conducted through its external portions without melting them. these facts are the exact complements of those of "regelation;" for here, two moist surfaces of ice being brought into close contact, their liquid liberty is destroyed and the surfaces freeze together. the moulins. ( .) [sidenote: moulin of grindelwald glacier.] [sidenote: depth of the shaft.] the first time i had an opportunity of seeing these remarkable glacier-chimneys was in the summer of , upon the lower glacier of grindelwald. mr. huxley was my companion at the time, and on crossing the so-called eismeer we heard a sound resembling the rumble of distant thunder, which proceeded from a perpendicular shaft formed in the ice, and into which a resounding cataract discharged itself. the tube in fact resembled a vast organ-pipe, whose thunder-notes were awakened by the concussion of the falling water, instead of by the gentle flow of a current of air. beside the shaft our guide hewed steps, on which we stood in succession, and looked into the tremendous hole. near the first shaft was a second and smaller one, the significance of which i did not then understand; it was not more than feet deep, but seemed filled with a liquid of exquisite blue, the colour being really due to the magical shimmer from the walls of the moulin, which was quite empty. as far as we could see, the large shaft was vertical, but on dropping a stone into it a shock was soon heard, and after a succession of bumps, which occupied in all seven seconds, we heard the stone no more. the depth of the moulin could not be thus ascertained, but we soon found a second and still larger one which gave us better data. a stone dropped into this descended without interruption for four seconds, when a concussion was heard; and three seconds afterwards the final shock was audible: there was thus but a single interruption in the descent. supposing all the acquired velocity to have been destroyed by the shock, by adding the space passed over by the stone in four and in three seconds respectively, and making allowance for the time required by the sound to ascend from the bottom, we find the depth of the shaft to be about feet. there is, however, no reason to suppose that this measures the depth of the glacier at the place referred to. these shafts are to be found in almost all great glaciers; they are very numerous in the unteraar glacier, numbers of them however being empty. on the mer de glace they are always to be found in the region of trélaporte, one of the shafts there being, _par excellence_, called the grand moulin. many of them also occur on the glacier de léchaud. as truly observed by m. agassiz, these moulins occur only at those parts of the glacier which are not much rent by fissures, for only at such portions can the little rills produced by superficial melting collect to form streams of any magnitude. the valley of unbroken ice formed in the mer de glace near trélaporte is peculiarly favourable for the collection of such streams; we see the little rills commencing, and enlarging by the contributions of others, the trunk-rill pouring its contents into a little stream which stretches out a hundred similar arms over the surface of the glacier. several such streams join, and finally a considerable brook, which receives the superficial drainage of a large area, cuts its way through the ice. [sidenote: moulins explained.] but although this portion of the glacier is free from those long-continued and permanent strains which, having once rent the ice, tend subsequently to widen the rent and produce yawning crevasses, it is not free from local strains sufficient to produce _cracks_ which penetrate the glacier to a great depth. imagine such a crack intersecting such a glacier-rivulet as we have described. the water rushes down it, and soon scoops a funnel large enough to engulf the entire stream. the moulin is thus formed, and, as the ice moves downward, the sides of the crack are squeezed together and regelated, the seam which marks the line of junction being in most cases distinctly visible. but as the motion continues, other portions of the glacier come into the same state of strain as that which produced the first crack; a second one is formed across the stream, the old shaft is forsaken, and a new one is hollowed out, in which for a season the cataract plays the thunderer. i have in some cases counted the forsaken shafts of six old moulins in advance of an active one. not far from the grand moulin of the mer de glace in there was a second empty shaft, which evidently communicated by a subglacial duct with that into which the torrent was precipitated. out of the old orifice issued a strong cold blast, the air being manifestly impelled through the duct by the falling water of the adjacent moulin. these shafts are always found in the same locality; the portion of the mer de glace to which i have referred is never without them. some of the guides affirm that they are motionless; and a statement of prof. forbes has led to the belief that this was also his opinion.[a] m. agassiz, however, observed the motion of some of these shafts upon the glacier of the aar; and when on the spot in , i was anxious to decide the point by accurate measurements with the theodolite. my friend mr. hirst took charge of the instrument, and on the th of july i fixed a single stake beside the grand moulin, in a straight line between a station at trélaporte and a well-defined mark on the rock at the opposite side of the valley. on the st, the displacement of the stake amounted to inches, and on the st of august it had moved - / inches--the moulin, to all appearance, occupying throughout the same position with regard to the stake. to render this certain, moreover we subsequently drove two additional stakes into the ice, thus enclosing the mouth of the shaft in a triangle. on the th of august the displacements were measured and gave the following results:-- total motion. first (old) stake inches. second (new) do. " third " [sidenote: motion of the moulins.] the old stake had been fixed for days, and its daily motion--_which was also that of the moulin_--averaged inches a day. hence the moulins share the general motion of the glacier, and their apparent permanence is not, as has been alleged, a proof of the semi-fluidity of the glacier, but is due to the breaking of the ice as it passes the place of local strain. [sidenote: depth of "grand moulin" sought.] wishing to obtain some estimate as to the depth of the ice, mr. hirst undertook the sounding of some of the moulins upon the glacier de léchaud, making use of a tin vessel filled with lumps of lead and iron as a weight. the cord gave way and he lost his plummet. to measure the depth of the grand moulin, we obtained fresh cord from chamouni, to which we attached a four-pound weight. into a cavity at the bottom of the weight we stuffed a quantity of butter, to indicate the nature of the bottom against which the weight might strike. the weight was dropped into the shaft, and the cord paid out until its slackening informed us that the weight had come to rest; by shaking the string, however, and walking round the edge of the shaft, the weight was liberated, and sank some distance further. the cord partially slackened a second time, but the strain still remaining was sufficient to render it doubtful whether it was the weight or the action of the falling water which produced it. we accordingly paid out the cord to the end, but, on withdrawing it, found that the greater part of it had been coiled and knotted up by the falling water. we uncoiled, and sounded again. at a depth of feet the weight reached a ledge or protuberance of ice, and by shaking and lifting it, it was caused to descend feet more. a depth of feet was the utmost we could attain to. we sounded the old moulin to a depth of feet; while a third little shaft, beside the large one, measured only feet in depth. we could see the water escape from it through a lateral canal at its bottom, and doubtless the water of the grand moulin found a similar exit. there was no trace of dirt upon the butter, which might have indicated that we had reached the bed of the glacier. footnotes: [a] "every year, and year after year, the watercourses follow the same lines of direction--their streams are precipitated into the heart of the glacier by vertical funnels, called 'moulins,' at the very same points."--forbes's fourth letter upon glaciers: 'occ. pap.,' p. . [illustration: dirt-bands of the mer de glace, as seen from a point near the flÉgÈre. fig. . _to face p. ._] dirt-bands of the mer de glace. ( .) [sidenote: dirt-bands from the flegÈre.] these bands were first noticed by prof. forbes on the th of july, , and were described by him in the following words:--"my eye was caught by a very peculiar appearance of the surface of the ice, which i was certain that i now saw for the first time. it consisted of nearly hyperbolic brownish bands on the glacier, the curves pointing downwards, and the two branches mingling indiscriminately with the moraines, presenting an appearance of a succession of waves some hundred feet apart."[a] from no single point of view hitherto attained can all the dirt-bands of the mer de glace be seen at once. to see those on the terminal portion of the glacier, a station ought to be chosen on the opposite range of the brévent, a few hundred yards beyond the croix de la flegère, where we stand exactly in front of the glacier as it issues into the valley of chamouni. the appearance of the bands upon the portion here seen is represented in fig. . it will be seen that the bands are confined to one side of the glacier, and either do not exist, or are obliterated by the débris, upon the other side. the cause of the accumulation of dirt on the right side of the glacier is, that no less than five moraines are crowded together at this side. in the upper portions of the mer de glace these moraines are distinct from each other; but in descending, the successive engulfments and disgorgings of the blocks and dirt have broken up the moraines; and at the place now before us the materials which composed them are strewn confusedly on the right side of the glacier. the portion of the ice on which the dirt-bands appear is derived from the col du géant. they do not quite extend to the end of the glacier, being obliterated by the dislocation of the ice upon the frozen cascade of des bois. [sidenote: dirt-bands from les charmoz.] let us now proceed across the valley of chamouni to the montanvert; where, climbing the adjacent heights to an elevation of six or eight hundred feet above the hotel, we command a view of the mer de glace, from trélaporte almost to the commencement of the glacier des bois. it was from this position that professor forbes first observed the bands. fifteen, sixteen, and seventeen years later i observed them from the same position. the number of bands which professor forbes counted from this position was eighteen, with which my observations agree. the entire series of bands which i observed, with the exception of one or two, must have been the _successors_ of those observed by professor forbes; and my finding the same number after an interval of so many years proves that the bands must be due to some regularly recurrent cause. fig. represents the bands as seen from the heights adjacent to the montanvert. [illustration: dirt-bands of the mer de glace, as seen from les charmoz. fig. . _to face p. ._] i would here direct attention to an analogy between a glacier and a river, which may be observed from the heights above the montanvert, but to which no reference, as far as i know, has hitherto been made. when a river meets the buttress of a bridge, the water rises against it, and, on sweeping round it, forms an elevated ridge, between which and the pier a depression occurs which varies in depth with the force of the current. this effect is shown by the mer de glace on an exaggerated scale. sweeping round trélaporte, the ice pushes itself beyond the promontory in an elevated ridge, from which it drops by a gradual slope to the adjacent wall of the valley, thus forming a depression typified by that already alluded to. a similar effect is observed at the opposite side of the glacier on turning round the echelets; and both combine to form a kind of skew surface. a careful inspection of the frontispiece will detect this peculiarity in the shape of the glacier. [sidenote: from the cleft-station.] from neither of the stations referred to do we obtain any clue to the origin of the dirt-bands. a stiff but pleasant climb will place us in that singular cleft in the cliffy mountain-ridge which is seen to the right of the frontispiece; and from it we easily attain the high platform of rock immediately to the left of it. we stand here high above the promontory of trélaporte, and occupy the finest station from which the mer de glace and its tributaries can be viewed. from this station we trace the dirt-bands over most of the ice that we have already scanned, and have the further advantage of being able to follow them to their very source. this source is the grand ice-cascade which descends in a succession of precipices from the plateau of the col du géant into the valley which the glacier du géant fills. we see from our present point of view that the bands _are confined to the portion of the glacier which has descended the cascade_. fig. represents the bands as seen from the cleft-station above trélaporte. [illustration: dirt-bands of the mer de glace, as seen from the cleft station, trÉlaporte. fig. . _to face p. ._] we are now however at such a height above the glacier and at such a distance from the base of the cascade, that we can form but an imperfect notion of the true contour of the surface. let us therefore descend, and walk up the glacier du géant towards the cascade. at first our road is level, but we gradually find that at certain intervals we have to ascend slopes which follow each other in succession, each being separated from its neighbour by a space of comparatively level ice. the slopes increase in steepness as we ascend; they are steepest, moreover, on the right-hand side of the glacier, where it is bounded by that from the périades, and at length we are unable to climb them without the aid of an axe. soon afterwards the dislocation of the glacier becomes considerable; we are lost in the clefts and depressions of the ice, and are unable to obtain a view sufficiently commanding to subdue these local appearances and convey to us the general aspect. we have at all events satisfied ourselves as to the existence, on the upper portion of the glacier, of a succession of undulations which sweep transversely across it. the term "wrinkles," applied to them by prof. forbes, is highly suggestive of the appearance which they present. [sidenote: snow-bands on the glacier du gÉant.] from the cleft-station bands of snow may also be seen partially crossing the glacier in correspondence with the undulations upon its surface. if the quantity deposited the winter previous be large, and the heat of summer not too great, these bands extend quite across the glacier. they were first observed by professor forbes in . in his fifth letter is given an illustrative diagram, which, though erroneous as regards the position of the veined structure, is quite correct in limiting the snow-bands to the glacier du géant proper. at the place where the three welded tributaries of the mer de glace squeeze themselves through the strait of trélaporte, the bands undergo a considerable modification in shape. near their origin they sweep across the glacier du géant in gentle curves, with their convexities directed downwards; but at trélaporte these curves, the chords of which a short time previous measured a thousand yards in length, have to squeeze themselves through a space of four hundred and ninety-five yards wide; and as might be expected, they are here suddenly sharpened. the apex of each being thrust forward, they take the form of sharp hyperbolas, and preserve this character throughout the entire length of the mer de glace. i would now conduct the reader to a point from which a good general view of the ice cascade of the géant is attainable. from the old moraine near the lake of the tacul we observe the ice, as it descends the fall, to be broken into a succession of precipices. it would appear as if the glacier had its back periodically broken at the summit of the fall, and formed a series of vast chasms separated from each other by cliffy ridges of corresponding size. these, as they approach the bottom of the fall, become more and more toned down by the action of sun and air, and at some distance below the base of the cascade they are subdued so as to form the transverse undulations already described. these undulations are more and more reduced as the glacier descends; and long before the tacul is attained, every sensible trace of them has disappeared. the terraces of the ice-fall are referred to by professor forbes in his thirteenth letter, where he thus describes them:--"the ice-falls succeed one another at regulated intervals, which appear to correspond to the renewal of each summer's activity in those realms of almost perpetual frost, when a swifter motion occasions a more rapid and wholesale projection of the mass over the steep, thus forming curvilinear terraces like vast stairs, which appear afterwards by consolidation to form the remarkable protuberant wrinkles on the surface of the glacier du géant." [sidenote: forbes's explanation.] with regard to the cause of the distribution of the dirt in bands, professor forbes writes thus in his third letter:--"i at length assured myself that it was entirely owing to the structure of the ice, which retains the dirt diffused by avalanches and the weather on those parts which are most porous, whilst the compacter portion is washed clean by the rain, so that those bands are nothing more than visible traces of the direction of the internal icy structure." professor forbes's theory, at that time, was that the glacier is composed throughout of a series of alternate segments of hard and porous ice, in the latter of which the dirt found a lodgment. i do not know whether he now retains his first opinion; but in his fifteenth letter he speaks of accounting for "the less compact structure of the ice beneath the dirt-band." it appears to me that in the above explanation cause has been mistaken for effect. the ice on which the dirt-bands rest certainly appears to be of a spongier character than the cleaner intermediate ice; but instead of this being the cause of the dirt-bands, the latter, i imagine, by their more copious absorption of the sun's rays and the consequent greater disintegration of the ice, are the cause of the apparent porosity. i have not been able to detect any relative porosity in the "internal icy structure," nor am i able to find in the writings of professor forbes a description of the experiments whereby he satisfied himself that this assumed difference exists. [sidenote: transverse undulations.] [sidenote: influence of direction of glacier.] several days of the summer of were devoted by me to the examination of these bands. i then found the bases and the frontal slopes of the undulations to which i have referred covered with a fine brown mud. these slopes were also, in some cases, covered with snow which the great heat of the weather had not been able entirely to remove. at places where the residue of snow was small its surface was exceedingly dirty--so dirty indeed that it appeared as if peat-mould had been strewn over it; its edges particularly were of a black brown. it was perfectly manifest that this snow formed a receptacle for the fine dirt transported by the innumerable little rills which trickled over the glacier. the snow gradually wasted, but it left its sediment behind, and thus each of the snowy bands observed by professor forbes in , contributed to produce an appearance perfectly antithetical to its own. i have said that the frontal slopes of the undulations were thus covered; and it was on these, and not in the depressions, that the snow principally rested. the reason of this is to be found in the _bearing_ of the glacier du géant, which, looking downwards, is about fourteen degrees east of the meridian.[b] hence the frontal slopes of the undulations have a _northern aspect_, and it is this circumstance which, in my opinion, causes the retention of the snow upon them. irrespective of the snow, the mere tendency of the dirt to accumulate at the bases of the undulations would also produce bands, and indeed does so on many glaciers; but the precision and beauty of the dirt-bands of the mer de glace are, i think, to be mainly referred to the interception by the snow of the fine dark mud before referred to on the northern slopes of its undulations. [sidenote: bands do not cross moraines.] were the statements of some writers upon this subject well founded, or were the dirt-bands as drawn upon the map of professor forbes correctly shown, this explanation could not stand a moment. it has been urged that the dirt-bands cannot thus belong to a single tributary of the mer de glace; for if they did, they would be confined to that tributary upon the trunk-glacier; whereas the fact is that they extend quite across the trunk, and intersect the moraines which divide the glacier du géant from its fellow-tributaries. from my first acquaintance with the mer de glace i had reason to believe that this statement was incorrect; but last year i climbed a third time to the cleft-station for the purpose of once more inspecting the bands from this fine position. i was accompanied by dr. frankland and auguste balmat, and i drew the attention of both particularly to this point. neither of them could discern, nor could i, the slightest trace of a dirt-band crossing any one of the moraines. upon the trunk-stream they were just as much confined to the glacier du géant as ever. if the bands even existed east of the moraines, they could not be seen, the dirt on this part of the glacier being sufficient to mask them. the following interesting fact may perhaps have contributed to the production of the error referred to. opposite to trélaporte the eastern arms of the dirt-bands run so obliquely into the moraine of la noire that the latter appears to be a tangent to them. but this moraine runs along the mer de glace, not far from its centre, and consequently the point of contact of each dirt-band with the moraine moves more quickly than the point of contact of the western arm of the same band with the side of the valley. hence there is a tendency to _straighten_ the bands; and at some distance down the glacier the effect of this is seen in the bands abutting against the moraine of la noire at a larger angle than before. the branches thus abutting have, i believe, been ideally prolonged across the moraines. [illustration: fig. . plan of dirt-bands taken from johnson's 'physical atlas.'] on the map published by prof. forbes in the bands are shown crossing the medial moraines of the mer de glace; and they are also thus drawn on the map in johnson's 'physical atlas' published in . the text is also in accordance with the map:--"opposite to the montanvert, and beyond les echelets, the curved loops (dirt-bands) extend _across the entire glacier_. they are single, and therefore _cut_ the medial moraine, though at a very slight angle."--'travels,' p. . the italics here belong to prof. forbes. in order to help future observers to place this point beyond doubt, i annex, in fig. , a portion of the map of the mer de glace taken from the atlas referred to. if it be compared with fig. the difference between prof. forbes and myself will be clearly seen. the portion of the glacier represented in both diagrams may be viewed from the point near the flegère already referred to. [sidenote: annual "rings."] the explanation which i have given involves three considerations:--the transverse breaking of the glacier on the cascade, and the gradual accumulation of the dirt in the hollows between the ridges; the subsequent toning down of the ridges to gentle protuberances which sweep across the glacier; and the collection of the dirt upon the slopes and at the bases of these protuberances. whether the periods of transverse fracture are annual or not--whether the "wrinkles" correspond to a yearly gush--and whether, consequently, the dirt-bands mark the growth of a glacier as the "annual rings" mark the growth of a tree, i do not know. it is a conjecture well worthy of consideration; but it is only a conjecture, which future observation may either ratify or refute. footnotes: [a] 'travels,' page . [b] in the large map of professor forbes the bearing of the valley is nearly sixty degrees west of the meridian; but this is caused by the true north being drawn on the wrong side of the magnetic north; thus making the declination easterly instead of westerly. in the map in johnson's 'physical atlas' this mistake is corrected. the veined structure of glaciers. ( .) [sidenote: general appearance.] the general appearance of the veined structure may be thus briefly described:--the ice of glaciers, especially midway between their mountain-sources and their inferior extremities, is of a whitish hue, caused by the number of small air-bubbles which it contains, and which, no doubt, constitute the residue of the air originally entrapped in the interstices of the snow from which it has been derived. through the general whitish mass, at some places, innumerable parallel veins of clearer ice are drawn, which usually present a beautiful blue colour, and give the ice a laminated appearance. the cause of the blueness is, that the air-bubbles, distributed so plentifully through the general mass, do not exist in the veins, or only in comparatively small numbers. in different glaciers, and in different parts of the same glacier, these veins display various degrees of perfection. on the clean unweathered walls of some crevasses, and in the channels worn in the ice by glacier-streams, they are most distinctly seen, and are often exquisitely beautiful. they are not to be regarded as a partial phenomenon, or as affecting the constitution of glaciers to a small extent merely. a large portion of the ice of some glaciers is thus affected. the greater part, for example, of the mer de glace consists of this laminated ice; and the whole of the glacier of the rhone, from the base of the ice-cascade downwards, is composed of ice of the same description. [sidenote: grooves on the surface of glaciers.] those who have ascended snowdon, or wandered among the hills of cumberland, or even walked in the environs of leeds, blackburn, and other towns in yorkshire and lancashire, where the stratified sandstone of the district is used for building purposes, may have observed the weathered edges of the slate rocks or of the building-stone to be grooved and furrowed. some laminæ of such rocks withstand the action of the atmosphere better than others, and the more resistant ones stand out in ridges after the softer parts between them have been eaten away. an effect exactly similar is observed where the laminated ice of glaciers is exposed to the action of the sun and air. little grooves and ridges are formed upon its surface, the more resistant plates protruding after the softer material between them has been melted away. one consequence of this furrowing is, that the light dirt scattered by the winds over the surface of the glacier is gradually washed into the little grooves, thus forming fine lines resembling those produced by the passage of a rake over a sanded walk. these lines are a valuable index to some of the phenomena of motion. from a position on the ice of the glacier du géant a little higher up than trélaporte a fine view of these superficial groovings is obtained; but the dirt-lines are not always straight. a slight power of independent motion is enjoyed by the separate parts into which a glacier is divided by its crevasses and dislocations, and hence it is, that, at the place alluded to, the dirt-lines are bent hither and thither, though the ruptures of continuity are too small to affect materially the general direction of the structure. on the glacier of the talèfre i found these groovings useful as indicating the character of the forces to which the ice near the summit of the fall is subjected. the ridges between the chasms are in many cases violently bent and twisted, while the adjacent groovings enable us to see the normal position of the mass. [sidenote: guyot's observations.] the veined structure has been observed by different travellers; but it was probably first referred to by sir david brewster, who noticed the veins of the mer de glace on the th of september, . it was also observed by general sabine,[a] by rendu, by agassiz, and no doubt by many others; but the first clear description of it was given by m. guyot, in a communication presented to the geological society of france in . i quote the following passage from this paper:--"i saw under my feet the surface of the entire glacier covered with regular furrows from one to two inches wide, hollowed out in a half snowy mass, and separated by protruding plates of harder and more transparent ice. it was evident that the mass of the glacier here was composed of two sorts of ice, one that of the furrows, snowy and more easily melted; the other that of the plates, more perfect, crystalline, glassy, and resistant; and that the unequal resistance which the two kinds of ice presented to the atmosphere was the cause of the furrows and ridges. after having followed them for several hundreds of yards, i reached a fissure twenty or thirty feet wide, which, as it cut the plates and furrows at right angles, exposed the interior of the glacier to a depth of thirty or forty feet, and gave a beautiful transverse section of the structure. as far as my vision could reach i saw the mass of the glacier composed of layers of snowy ice, each two of which were separated by one of the plates of which i have spoken, the whole forming a regularly laminated mass, which resembled certain calcareous slates." [sidenote: forbes's researches.] previous observers had mistaken the lamination for stratification; but m. guyot not only clearly saw that they were different, but in the comparison which he makes he touches, i believe, on the true cause of the glacier-structure. he did not hazard an explanation of the phenomenon, and i believe his memoir remained unprinted. in the structure was noticed by professor forbes during his visit to m. agassiz on the lower aar glacier, and described in a communication presented by him to the royal society of edinburgh. he subsequently devoted much time to the subject, and his great merit in connexion with it consists in the significance which he ascribed to the phenomenon when he first observed it, and in the fact of his having proved it to be a constitutional feature of glaciers in general. [sidenote: forbes's theory.] the first explanation given of those veins by professor forbes was, that they were small fissures formed in the ice by its motion; that these were filled with the water of the melted ice in summer, which froze in winter so as to form the blue veins. this is the explanation given in his 'travels,' page ; and in a letter published in the 'edinburgh new philosophical journal,' october, , it is re-affirmed in these words:--"with the abundance of blue bands before us in the direction in which the differential motion must take place (in this case sensibly parallel to the sides of the glacier), it is impossible to doubt that these infiltrated crevices (for such they undoubtedly are) have this origin." this theory was examined by mr. huxley and myself in our joint paper; but it has been since alleged that ours was unnecessary labour, prof. forbes himself having in his thirteenth letter renounced the theory, and substituted another in its place. the latter theory differs, so far as i can understand it, from the former in this particular, that the _freezing of the water_ in the fissures is discarded, their sides being now supposed to be united "by the simple effects of time and cohesion."[b] for a statement of the change which his opinions have undergone, i would refer to the prefatory note which precedes the volume of 'occasional papers' recently published by prof. forbes; but it would have diminished my difficulty had the author given, in connexion with his new volume, a more distinct statement of his present views regarding the veined structure. with many of his observations and remarks i should agree; with many others i cannot say whether i agree or not; and there are others still with which i do not think i should agree: but in hardly any case am i certain of his precise views, excepting, indeed, the cardinal one, wherein he and others agree in ascribing to the structure a different origin from stratification. thus circumstanced, my proper course, i think, will be to state what i believe to be the cause of the structure, and leave it to the reader to decide how far our views harmonize; or to what extent either of them is a true interpretation of nature. [sidenote: usual aspect of blue veins.] most of the earlier observers considered the structure to be due to the stratification of the mountain-snows--a view which has received later development at the hands of mr. john ball; and the practical difficulty of distinguishing the undoubted effects of _stratification_ from the phenomena presented by _structure_, entitles this view to the fullest consideration. the blue veins of glaciers are, however, not always, nor even generally, such as we should expect to result from stratification. the latter would furnish us with distinct planes extending parallel to each other for considerable distances through the glacier; but this, though sometimes the case, is by no means the general character of the structure. we observe blue streaks, from a few inches to several feet in length, upon the walls of the same crevasse, and varying from the fraction of an inch to several inches in thickness. in some cases the streaks are definitely bounded, giving rise to an appearance resembling the section of a lens, and hence called the "lenticular structure" by mr. huxley and myself; but more usually they fade away in pale washy streaks through the general mass of the whitish ice. in fig. i have given a representation of the structure as it is very commonly exhibited on the walls of crevasses. its aspect is not that which we should expect from the consolidation of successive beds of mountain snow. [illustration: fig. . veined structure of the walls of crevasses.] further, at the bases of ice-cascades the structural laminæ are usually _vertical_: below the cascade of the talèfre, of the noire, of the strahleck branch of the lower grindelwald glacier, of the rhone, and other ice-falls, this is the case; and it seems extremely difficult to conceive that a mass horizontally stratified at the summit of the fall, should, in its descent, contrive to turn its strata perfectly on end. again, we often find a very feebly-developed structure at the central portions of a glacier, while the lateral portions are very decidedly laminated. this is the case where the inclination of the glacier is nearly uniform throughout; and where no medial moraines occur to complicate the phenomenon. but if the veins mark the bedding, there seems to be no sufficient reason for their appearance at the lateral portions of the glacier, and their absence from the centre. [sidenote: illustrative experiments.] this leads me to the point at which what i consider to be the true cause of the structure may be referred to. the theoretic researches of mr. hopkins have taught us a good deal regarding the pressures and tensions consequent upon glacier-motion. aided by this knowledge, and also by a mode of experiment first introduced by professor forbes, i will now endeavour to explain the significance of the fact referred to in the last paragraph. if a plastic substance, such as mud, flow down a sloping canal, the lateral portions, being held back by friction, will be outstripped by the central ones. when the flow is so regulated that the velocity of a point at the centre shall not vary throughout the entire length of the canal, a coloured circle stamped upon the centre of the mud stream, near its origin, will move along with the mud, and still retain its circular form; for, inasmuch as the velocity of all points along the centre is the same, there can be no elongation of the circle longitudinally or transversely by either strain or pressure. a similar absence of longitudinal pressure may exist in a glacier, and, where it exists throughout, no central structure can, in my opinion, be developed. but let a circle be stamped upon the mud-stream near its side, then, when the mud flows, this circle will be distorted to an oval, with its major axis oblique to the direction of motion; the cause of this is that the portion of the circle farthest from the side of the canal moves more freely than that adjacent to the side. the mechanical effect of the slower lateral motion is to squeeze the circle in one direction, and draw it out in the perpendicular one. [sidenote: marginal structure.] [illustration: fig. . figure explanatory of the marginal structure.] a glance at fig. will render all that i have said intelligible. the three circles are first stamped on the mud in the same transverse line; but after they have moved downwards they will be in the same straight line no longer. the central one will be the foremost; while the lateral ones have their forms changed from circles to ovals. in a glacier of the shape of this canal exactly similar effects are produced. now the shorter axis _m n_ of each oval is a line of squeezing or pressure; the longer axis is a line of strain or tension; and the associated glacier-phenomena are as follows:--across the line _m n_, or perpendicular to the pressure, we have the _veined structure_ developed, while across the line of tension the glacier usually breaks and forms _marginal crevasses_. mr. hopkins has shown that the lines of greatest pressure and of greatest strain are at right angles to each other, and that in valleys of a uniform width they enclose an angle of forty-five degrees with the side of the glacier. to the structure thus formed i have applied the term _marginal structure_. here, then, we see that there are mechanical agencies at work near the side of such a glacier which are absent from the centre, and we have effects developed--i believe _by the pressure_--in the lateral ice, which are not produced in the central. i have used the term "uniform inclination" in connexion with the marginal structure, and my reason for doing so will now appear. in many glaciers the structure, instead of being confined to the margins, sweeps quite across them. this is the case, for example, on the glacier du géant, the structure of which is prolonged into the mer de glace. in passing the strait at trélaporte, however, the curves are squeezed and their apices bruised, so that the structure is thrown into a state of confusion; and thus upon the mer de glace we encounter difficulty in tracing it fairly from side to side. now the key to this transverse structure i believe to be the following: where the inclination of the glacier suddenly changes from a steep slope to a gentler, as at the bases of the "cascades,"--the ice to a certain depth must be thrown into a state of violent longitudinal compression; and along with this we have the resistance which the gentler slope throws athwart the ice descending from the steep one. at such places a structure is developed transverse to the axis of the glacier, and likewise transverse to the pressure. the quicker flow of the centre causes this structure to bend more and more, and after a time it sweeps in vast curves across the entire glacier. [sidenote: structure of grindelwald glacier.] in illustration of this point i will refer, in the first place, to that tributary of the lower glacier of grindelwald which descends from the strahleck. walking up this tributary we come at length to the base of an ice-fall. let the observer here leave the ice, and betake himself to either side of the flanking mountain. on attaining a point which commands a view both of the fall and of the glacier below it, an inspection of the glacier will, i imagine, solve to his satisfaction the case of structure now under consideration. it is indeed a grand experiment which nature here submits to our inspection. the glacier descending from its _névé_ reaches the summit of the cascade, and is broken transversely as it crosses the brow; it afterwards descends the fall in a succession of cliffy ice-ridges with transverse hollows between them. in these latter the broken ice and débris collect, thus partially choking the fissures formed in the first instance. carrying the eye downwards along the fall, we see, as we approach the base, these sharp ridges toned down; and a little below the base they dwindle into rounded protuberances which sweep in curves quite across the glacier. at the base of the fall the structure begins to appear, feebly at first, but becoming gradually more pronounced, until, at a short distance below the base of the fall, the eye can follow the fine superficial groovings from side to side; while at the same time the ice underneath the surface has become laminated in the most beautiful manner. it is difficult to convey by writing the force of the evidence which the actual observation of this natural experiment places before the mind. the ice at the base of the fall, retarded by the gentler inclination of the valley, has to bear the thrust of the descending mass, the sudden change of inclination producing powerful longitudinal compression. the protuberances are squeezed more closely together, the hollows between them appear to wrinkle up in submission to the pressure--in short, the entire aspect of the glacier suggests the powerful operations of the latter force. at the place where _it_ is exerted the veined structure makes its appearance; and being once formed, it moves downwards, and gives a character to other portions of the glacier which had no share in its formation. [sidenote: base of cascade a "structure-mill."] an illustration almost as good, and equally accessible, is furnished by the glacier of the rhone. i have examined the grand cascade of this glacier from both sides; and an ordinary mountaineer will find little difficulty in reaching a point from which the fall and the terminal portion of the glacier are both distinctly visible. here also he will find the cliffy ridges separated from each other by transverse chasms, becoming more and more subdued at the bottom of the fall, and disappearing entirely lower down the glacier. as in the case of the grindelwald glacier the squeezing of the protuberances and of the spaces between them, is quite apparent, and where this squeezing commences the transverse structure makes its appearance. all the ice that forms the lower portion of this glacier has to pass through the _structure-mill_ at the bottom of the fall, and the consequence is that _it is all laminated_. [sidenote: structure of rhone glacier.] [illustration: fig. . plan of part of ice-fall, and of glacier below it (glacier of the rhone).] [illustration: fig. . section of part of ice-fall, and of glacier below it (glacier of the rhone).] [sidenote: transverse structure.] this case of structural development will be better appreciated on reference to figs. and , the former of which is a plan, and the latter a section, of a part of the ice-fall and of the glacier below it; _a b e f_ is the gorge of the fall, _f b_ being the base. the transverse cliffy ice-ridges are shown crossing the cascade, being subdued at the base to protuberances which gradually disappear as they advance downwards. the structure sweeps over the glacier in the direction of the fine curved lines; and i have also endeavoured to show the direction of the radial crevasses, which, in the centre at least, are at right angles to the veins. to the manifestation of structure here considered i have, for the sake of convenient reference, applied the term _transverse structure_. a third exhibition of the structure is now to be noticed. we sometimes find it in the _middle_ of a glacier and running _parallel_ to its length. on the centre of the ice-fall of the talèfre, for example, we have a structure of this kind which preserves itself parallel to the axis of the fall from top to bottom. but we discover its origin higher up. the structure here has been produced at the extremity of the jardin, where the divided ice meets, and not only brings into partial parallelism the veins previously existing along the sides of the jardin, but develops them still further by the mutual pressure of the portions of newly welded ice. where two tributary glaciers unite, this is perhaps without exception the case. underneath the moraine formed by the junction of the talèfre and léchaud the structure is finely developed, and the veins run in the direction of the moraine. the same is true of the ice under the moraine formed by the junction of the léchaud and géant. these afterwards form the great medial moraines of the mer de glace, and hence the structure of the trunk-stream underneath these moraines is parallel to the direction of the glacier. this is also true of the system of moraines formed by the glaciers of monte rosa. it is true in an especial manner of the lower glacier of the aar, whose medial moraine perhaps attains grander proportions than any other in the alps, and underneath which the structure is finely developed. [sidenote: longitudinal structure.] [illustration: fig. . figure explanatory of longitudinal structure.] the manner in which i have illustrated the production of this structure will be understood from fig. . b b are two wooden boxes, communicating by sluice-fronts with two branch canals, which unite to a common trunk at g. they are intended to represent respectively the trunk and tributaries of the unteraar glacier, the part g being the abschwung, where the lauteraar and finsteraar glaciers unite to form the unteraar. the mud is first permitted to flow beneath the two sluices until it has covered the bottom of the trough for some distance, when it is arrested. the end of a glass tube is then dipped into a mixture of rouge and water, and small circles are stamped upon the mud. the two branches are thickly covered with these circles. the sluices being again raised, the mud in the branches moves downwards, carrying with it the circles stamped upon it; and the manner in which these circles are distorted enables us to infer the strains and pressures to which the mud is subjected during its descent. the figure represents approximately what takes place. the side-circles, as might be expected, are squeezed to oblique ovals, but it is at the junction of the branches that the chief effect of pressure is produced. here, by the mutual thrust of the branches, the circles are not only changed to elongated ellipses, but even squeezed to straight lines. in the case of the glacier this is the region at which the structure receives its main development. to this manifestation of the veins i have applied the term _longitudinal structure_. the three main sources of the blue veins are, i think, here noted; but besides these there are many local causes which influence their production. i have seen them well formed where a glacier is opposed by the sudden bend of a valley, or by a local promontory which presents an obstacle sufficient to bring the requisite pressure into play. in the glaciers of the tyrol and of the oberland i have seen examples of this kind; but the three principal sources of the veins are, i think, those stated above. [sidenote: efforts to solve question.] it was long before i cleared my mind of doubt regarding the origin of the lamination. when on the mer de glace in i spared neither risk nor labour to instruct myself regarding it. i explored the talèfre basin, its cascade, and the ice beneath it. several days were spent amid the ice humps and cliffs at the lower portion of the fall. i suppose i traversed the glacier du géant twenty times, and passed eight or ten days amid the confusion of its great cascade. i visited those places where, it had been affirmed, the veins were produced. i endeavoured to satisfy myself of the mutability which had been ascribed to them; but a close examination reduced the value of each particular case so much that i quitted the glacier that year with nothing more than an _opinion_ that the structure and the stratification were two different things. i, however, drew up a statement of the facts observed, with the view of presenting it to the royal society; but i afterwards felt that in thus acting i should merely swell the literature of the subject without adding anything certain. i therefore withheld the paper, and resolved to devote another year to a search among the chief glaciers of the oberland, of the canton valais, and of savoy, for proofs which should relieve my mind of all doubt upon the subject. [sidenote: expedition for this purpose.] accordingly in i visited the glaciers of rosenlaui, schwartzwald, grindelwald, the aar, the rhone, and the aletsch, to the examination of which latter i devoted more than a week. i afterwards went to zermatt, and, taking up my quarters at the riffelberg, devoted eleven days to the examination of the great system of glaciers of monte rosa. i explored the görner glacier up almost to the cima de jazzi; and believed that in it i could trace the structure from portions of the glacier where it vanished, through various stages of perfection, up to its full development. i believe this still; but yet it is nothing but a belief, which the utmost labour that i could bestow did not raise to a certainty. the western glacier of monte rosa, the schwartze glacier, the trifti glacier, the glacier of the little mont cervin, and of st. théodule, were all examined in connexion with the great trunk-stream of the görner, to which they weld themselves; and though the more i pursued the subject the stronger my conviction became that pressure was the cause of the structure, a crucial case was still wanting. in the phenomena of slaty cleavage, it is often, if not usually, found that the true cleavage _cuts_ the planes of stratification--sometimes at a very high angle. had this not been proved by the observations of sedgwick and others, geologists would not have been able to conclude that cleavage and bedding were two different things, and needed wholly different explanations. my aim, throughout the expedition of , was to discover in the ice a parallel case to the above; to find a clear and undoubted instance where the veins and the stratification were simultaneously exhibited, cutting each other at an unmistakable angle. on the th of august, while engaged with professor ramsay upon the great aletsch glacier, not far from its junction with the middle aletsch, i observed what appeared to me to be the lines of bedding running nearly horizontal along the wall of a great crevasse, while cutting them at a large angle was the true veined structure. i drew my friend's attention to the fact, and to him it appeared perfectly conclusive. it is from a sketch made by him at the place that fig. has been taken. [sidenote: case of structure on the aletsch.] [illustration: fig. . structure and bedding on the great aletsch glacier.] this was the only case of the kind which i observed upon the aletsch glacier; and as i afterwards spent day after day upon the monte rosa glaciers, vainly seeking a similar instance, the thought again haunted me that we might have been mistaken upon the aletsch. in this state of mind i remained until the th of august, a day devoted to the examination of the furgge glacier, which lies at the base of the mont cervin. [sidenote: structure of the furgge glacier.] crossing the valley of the görner glacier, and taking a plunge as i passed into the schwarze see, i reached, in good time, the object of my day's excursion. walking up the glacier, i at length found myself opposed by a frozen cascade composed of four high terraces of ice. the highest of these was chiefly composed of ice-cliffs and _séracs_, many of which had fallen, and now stood like rocking-stones upon the edge of the second terrace. the glacier at the base of the cascade was strewn with broken ice, and some blocks two hundred cubic feet in volume had been cast to a considerable distance down the glacier. upon the faces of the terraces the stratification of the _névé_ was most beautifully shown, running in parallel and horizontal lines along the weathered surface. the snow-field above the cascade is a frozen plain, smooth almost as a sheltered lake. the successive snow-falls deposit themselves with great regularity, and at the summit of the cascade the sections of the _névé_ are for the first time exposed. hence their peculiar beauty and definition. [sidenote: ice terrace examined.] indeed the figure of a lake pouring itself over a rocky barrier which curves convexly upwards, thus causing the water to fall down it, not only longitudinally over the vertex of the curve, but laterally over its two arms, will convey a tolerably correct conception of the shape of the fall. towards the centre the ice was powerfully squeezed laterally, the beds were bent, and their continuity often broken by faults. on inspecting the ice from a distance with my opera glass, i thought i saw structural groovings cutting the strata at almost a right angle. had the question been an undisputed one, i should perhaps have felt so sure of this as not to incur the danger of pushing the inquiry further; but, under the circumstances, danger was a secondary point. resigning, therefore, my glass to my guide, who was to watch the tottering blocks overhead, and give me warning should they move, i advanced to the base of the fall, removed with my hatchet the weathered surface of the ice, and found underneath it the true veined structure, cutting, at nearly a right angle, the planes of stratification. the superficial groovings were not uniformly distributed over the fall, but appeared most decided at those places where the ice appeared to have been most squeezed. i examined three or four of these places, and in each case found the true veins nearly vertical, while the bedding was horizontal. having perfectly satisfied myself of these facts, i made a speedy retreat, for the ice-blocks seemed most threatening, and the sunny hour was that at which they fall most frequently. i next tried the ascent of the glacier up a dislocated declivity to the right. the ice was much riven, but still practicable. my way for a time lay amid fissures which exposed magnificent sections, and every step i took added further demonstration to what i had observed below. the strata were perfectly distinct, the structure equally so, and one crossed the other at an angle of seventy or eighty degrees. mr. sorby has adduced a case of the crumpling of a bed of sandstone through which the cleavage passes: here on the glacier i had parallel cases; the beds were bent and crumpled, but the structure ran through the ice in sharp straight lines. this perhaps was the most pleasant day i ever spent upon the glaciers: my mind was relieved of a long brooding doubt, and the intellectual freedom thus obtained added a subjective grandeur to the noble scene before me. climbing the cliffs near the base of the matterhorn, i walked along the rocky spine which extends to the hörnli, and afterwards descended by the valley of zmutt to zermatt. a year after my return to england a remark contained in professor mousson's interesting little work 'die gletscher der jetzzeit' caused me to refer to the atlas of m. agassiz's 'système glaciaire,' from which i learned that this indefatigable observer had figured a case of stratification and structure cutting each other. if, however, i had seen this figure beforehand, it would not have changed my movements; for the case, as sketched, would not have convinced me. i have now no doubt that m. agassiz has preceded me in this observation, and hence my results are to be taken as mere confirmations of his. [sidenote: lamination and stratification.] fig. represents a crumpled portion of the ice with the lines of lamination passing through the strata. fig. represents a case where a fault had occurred, the veins at both sides of the line of dislocation being inclined towards each other. [illustration: fig. . structure and stratification on the furgge glacier.] [illustration: fig. . structure and stratification on the furgge glacier.] [figs. and are from sketches made on the furgge glacier.--l. c. t.] footnotes: [a] in reply to a question in connexion with this subject, general sabine has favoured me with the following note:-- "my dear tyndall, "it was in the summer of , at the lower grindelwald glacier, that i first saw, and was greatly impressed and interested by examining and endeavouring to understand (in which i did not succeed), the veined structure of the ice. i do not remember when i mentioned it to forbes, but it must be before , because it is noticed in his book, p. . i had never observed it in the glaciers of spitzbergen or baffin's bay, or in the icebergs of the shores and straits of davis or barrow. i feel the more confident of this, because, when i first saw the veined structure in switzerland, my arctic experience was more fresh in my recollection, and i recollected nothing like it. "_veins_ are indeed not uncommon in icebergs, but they quite resemble veins in rocks, and are formed by water filling fissures and freezing into blue ice, finely contrasted with the white granular substance of the berg. "the ice of the grindelwald glacier (where i examined the veined structure) was broken up into very large masses, which by pressure had been upturned, so that a very poor judgment would be formed of the direction of the veins as they existed in the glacier before it had broken up. "sincerely yours, "edward sabine. "_feb. , _." [b] in a letter to myself, published in the th volume of the 'philosophical magazine,' professor forbes writes as follows:--"in , then, i abandoned no part of the theory of the veined structure, on which as you say so much labour had been expended, except the admission, always yielded with reluctance, and got rid of with satisfaction, that the congelation of water in the crevices of the glacier may extend in winter to a great depth." the veined structure and the differential motion. ( .) [sidenote: differential motion greatest at edges.] i have now to examine briefly the explanation of the structure which refers it to differential motion--to a sliding of the particles of ice past each other, which leaves the traces of its existence in the blue veins. the fact is emphatically dwelt upon by those who hold this view, that the structure is best developed nearest to the sides of the glacier, where the differential motion is greatest. why the differential motion is at its maximum near to the sides is easily understood. let a b, c d, fig. , represent the two sides of a glacier, moving in the direction of the arrow, and let _m a b c n_ be a straight line of stakes set out across the glacier to-day. six months hence this line, by the motion of the ice downwards, will be bent to the form _m a' b' c' n_: this curve will not be circular, it will be flattened in the middle; the points _a_ and _c_, at some distance on each side of the centre _b_, move in fact with nearly the same velocity as the centre itself. not so with the sides:--_a'_ and _c'_ have moved considerably in advance of _m_ and _n_, and hence we say that the difference of motion, or the differential motion, of the particles of ice near to the side is a maximum. [illustration: fig. . diagram illustrating differential motion.] during all this time the points _m a' b' c' n_ have been moving straight down the glacier; and hence it will be understood that the sliding of the parts past each other, or, in other words, the differential motion, _is parallel to the sides of the glacier_. this, indeed, is the only differential motion that experiment has ever established; and consequently, when we find the best blue veins referred to the sides of the glacier because the differential motion is there greatest, we naturally infer that the motion meant is parallel to the sides. [sidenote: structure oblique to sides.] but the fact is, that this motion would not at all account for the blue veins, for they are not parallel to the sides, but _oblique_ to them. this difficulty revealed itself after a time to those who first propounded the theory of differential motion, and caused them to modify their explanation of the structure. differential motion is still assumed to be the cause of the veins, but now a motion is meant oblique to the sides, and it is supposed to be obtained in the following way:--through the quicker motion of the point _c'_ the ice between it and _n_ becomes distended; that is to say, the line _c' n_ is in a state of strain--there is a _drag_, it is said, oblique to the sides of the glacier; and it is therefore in this direction that the particles will be caused to slide past each other. dr. whewell, who advocates this view, thus expounds it. he supposes the case of an alpine valley filled with india-rubber which has been warmed until it has partially melted, or become viscous, and then asks, "what will now be the condition of the mass? the sides and bottom will still be held back by the friction; the middle and upper part will slide forwards, but not freely. this want of freedom in the motion (arising from the viscosity) will produce a drag towards the middle of the valley, where the motion is freest; hence the direction in which the filaments slide past each other will be obliquely directed towards the middle. the sliding will separate the mass according to such lines; and though new attachments will take place, the mass may be expected to retain the results of this separation in the traces of parallel fissures."[a] nothing can be clearer than the image of the process thus placed before the mind's eye. one fact of especial importance is to be borne in mind: the sliding of filaments which is thus supposed to take place oblique to the glacier has never been proved; it is wholly assumed. a moraine, it is admitted, will run parallel to the side of a glacier, or a block will move in the same direction from beginning to end, without being sensibly drawn towards the centre, but still it is supposed that the sliding of parts exists, though of a character so small as to render it insensible to measurement. [sidenote: structure crosses lines of sliding.] my chief difficulty as regards this theory may be expressed in a very few words. if the structure be produced by differential motion, why is the large and _real_ differential motion which experiments have established incompetent to produce it? and how can the veins run, as they are admitted to do, _across the lines of maximum sliding_ from their origin throughout the glacier to its end? that a drag towards the centre of the glacier exists is undeniable, but that in consequence of the drag there is a sliding of filaments in this direction, is quite another thing. i have in another place[b] endeavoured to show experimentally that no such sliding takes place, that the drag on any point towards the centre expresses only half the conditions of the problem; being exactly neutralized by the thrust towards the sides. it has been, moreover, shown by mr. hopkins that the lines of maximum strain and of maximum sliding cannot coincide; indeed, if all the particles be urged by the same force, no matter how strong the pull may be, there will be no tendency of one to slide past the other. footnotes: [a] 'philosophical magazine,' ser. iii., vol. xxvi. [b] 'proceedings of the royal institution,' vol. ii. p. . the ripple-theory of the veined structure. ( .) [sidenote: theory stated.] [sidenote: theory examined.] the assumption of oblique sliding, and the production thereby of the marginal structure, have, however, been fortified by considerations of an ingenious and very interesting kind. "how," i have asked, "can the oblique structure persist across the lines of greatest differential motion throughout the length of the glacier?" but here i am met by another question which at first sight might seem equally unanswerable--"how do ripple-marks on the surface of a flowing river, which are nothing else than lines of differential motion of a low order, cross the river from the sides obliquely, while the direction of greatest differential motion is parallel to the sides?" if i understand aright, this is the main argument of professor forbes in favour of his theory of the oblique marginal structure. it is first introduced in a note at page of his 'travels;' he alludes to it in a letter written the following year; in his paper in the 'philosophical transactions' he develops the theory. he there gives drawings of ripple-marks observed in smooth gutters after rain, and which he finds to be inclined to the course of the stream, exactly as the marginal structure is inclined to the side of the glacier. the explanation also embraces the case of an obstacle placed in the centre of a river. "a case," writes professor forbes, "parallel to the last mentioned, where a fixed obstacle cleaves a descending stream, and leaves its trace in a fan-shaped tail, is well known in several glaciers, as in that at ferpêcle, and the glacier de lys on the south side of monte rosa; particularly the last, where the veined structure follows the law just mentioned." in his twelfth letter he also refers to the ripples "as exactly corresponding to the position of the icy bands." in his letter to dr. whewell, published in the 'occasional papers,' page , he writes as follows:--"the same is remarkably shown in the case of a stream of water, for instance a mill-race. although the movement of the water, as shown by floating bodies, is exceedingly nearly (for small velocities sensibly) parallel to the sides, yet the variation of the speed from the side to the centre of the stream occasions a _ripple_, or molecular discontinuity, which inclines forwards from the sides to the centre of the stream at an angle with the axis depending on the ratio of the central and lateral velocity. the veined structure of the ice corresponds to the ripple of the water, a molecular discontinuity whose measure is not comparable to the actual velocity of the ice; and therefore the general movement of the glacier, as indicated by the moraines, remains sensibly parallel to the sides." this theory opens up to us a series of interesting and novel considerations which i think will repay the reader's attention. if the ripples in the water and the veins in the ice be due to the same mechanical cause, when we develop clearly the origin of the former we are led directly to the explanation of the latter. i shall now endeavour to reduce the ripples to their mechanical elements. the messrs. weber have described in their 'wellenlehre' an effect of wave-motion which it is very easy to obtain. when a boat moves through perfectly smooth water, and the rower raises his oar out of the water, drops trickle from its blade, and each drop where it falls produces a system of concentric rings. the circular waves as they widen become depressed, and, if the drops succeed each other with sufficient speed, the rings cross each other at innumerable points. the effect of this is to blot out more or less completely all the circles, and to leave behind two straight divergent ripple-lines, which are tangents to all the external rings; being in fact formed by the intersections of the latter, as a caustic in optics is formed by the intersection of luminous rays. fig. , which is virtually copied from m. weber, will render this description at once intelligible. the boat is supposed to move in the direction of the arrow, and as it does so the rings which it leaves behind widen, and produce the divergence of the two straight resultant lines of ripple. [sidenote: ripples deduced from rings.] [illustration: fig. . diagram explanatory of the formation of ripples.] the more quickly the drops succeed each other, the more frequent will be the intersections of the rings; but as the speed of succession augments we approach the case of _a continuous vein_ of liquid; and if we suppose the continuity to be perfectly established, the ripples will still be produced with a smooth space between them as before. this experiment may indeed be made with a well-wetted oar, which on its first emergence from the water sends into it a continuous liquid vein. the same effect is produced when we substitute for the stream of liquid a solid rod--a common walking-stick for example. a water-fowl swimming in calm water produces two divergent lines of ripples of a similar kind. we have here supposed the water of the lake to be at rest, and the liquid vein or the solid rod to move through it; but precisely the same effect is produced if we suppose the rod at rest and the liquid in motion. let a post, for example, be fixed in the middle of a flowing river; diverging from that post right and left we shall have lines of ripples exactly as if the liquid were at rest and the post moved through it with the velocity of the river. if the same post be placed close to the bank, so that _one_ of its edges only shall act upon the water, diverging from that edge we shall have a _single_ line of ripples which will cross the river obliquely towards its centre. it is manifest that any other obstacle will produce the same effect as our hypothetical post. in the words of professor forbes, "the slightest prominence of any kind in the wall of such a conduit, a bit of wood or a tuft of grass, is sufficient to produce a well-marked ripple-streak from the side towards the centre." [sidenote: measure of divergence of ripples.] the foregoing considerations show that the divergence of the two lines of ripples from the central post, and of the single line in the case of the lateral post, have their mechanical element, if i may use the term, in the experiment of the messrs. weber. in the case of a swimming duck the connexion between the diverging lines of ripples and the propagation of rings round a disturbed point is often very prettily shown. when the creature swims with vigour the little foot with which it strikes the water often comes sufficiently near to the surface to produce an elevation,--sometimes indeed emerging from the water altogether. round the point thus disturbed rings are immediately propagated, and the widening of those rings is _the exact measure of the divergence of the ripple lines_. the rings never cross the lines;--the lines never retreat from the rings. [sidenote: ripples and veins due to different causes.] if we compare the mechanical actions here traced out with those which take place upon a glacier, i think it will be seen that the analogy between the ripples and the veined structure is entirely superficial. how the structure ascribed to the glacier de lys is to be explained i do not know, for i have never seen it; but it seems impossible that it could be produced, as ripples are, by a fixed obstacle which "cleaves a descending stream." no one surely will affirm that glacier-ice so closely resembles a fluid as to be capable of transmitting undulations, as water propagates rings round a disturbed point. the difficulty of such a supposition would be augmented by taking into account the motion of the _individual liquid particles_ which go to form a ripple; for the messrs. weber have shown that these move in closed curves, describing orbits more or less circular. can it be supposed that the particles of ice execute a motion of this kind? if so, their orbital motions may be easily calculated, being deducible from the motion of the glacier compounded with the inclination of the veins. if so important a result could be established, all glacier theories would vanish in comparison with it. [sidenote: position of ripples not that of structure.] there is another interesting point involved in the passage above quoted. professor forbes considers that the ripple is occasioned by the variation of speed from the side to the centre of the stream, and that its _inclination_ depends on the ratio of the central and lateral velocity. if i am correct in the above analysis, this cannot be the case. the inclination of the ripple depends solely on the ratio of the river's translatory motion to the velocity of its wave-motion. were the lateral and central velocities alike, a momentary disturbance at the side would produce a _straight_ ripple-mark, whose inclination would be compounded of the two elements just mentioned. if the motion of the water vary from side to centre, the velocity of wave-propagation remaining constant, the inclination of the ripple will also vary, that is to say, we shall have a _curved_ ripple instead of a straight one. this, of course, is the case which we find in nature, but the curvature of such ripples is totally different from that of the veined structure. owing to the quicker translatory movement, the ripples, as they approach the centre, tend more to parallelism with the direction of the river; and after having passed the centre, and reached the slower water near the opposite side, their inclination to the axis gradually augments. thus the ripples from the two sides form a pair of symmetric curves, which cross each other at the centre, and possess the form _a o b_, _c o d_, shown in fig. . a similar pair of curves would be produced by the reflection of these. knowing the variation of motion from side to centre, any competent mathematician could find the equation of the ripple-curves; but it would be out of place for me to attempt it here. [illustration: fig. . diagram explanatory of the formation of ripples.] the veined structure and pressure. ( .) if a prism of glass be pressed by a sufficient weight, the particles in the line of pressure will be squeezed more closely together, while those at right angles to this line will be forced further apart. the existence of this state of strain may be demonstrated by the action of such squeezed glass upon polarised light. it gives rise to colours, and it is even possible to infer from the tint the precise amount of pressure to which the glass is subjected. m. wertheim indeed has most ably applied these facts to the construction of a dynamometer, or instrument for measuring pressures, exceeding in accuracy any hitherto devised. when the pressure applied becomes too great for the glass to sustain, it flies to pieces. but let us suppose the sides of the prism defended by an extremely strong jacket, in which the prism rests like a closely-fitting plug, and which yields only when a pressure more than sufficient to crush the glass is applied. let the pressure be gradually augmented until this point is attained; afterwards both the glass and its jacket will shorten and widen; the jacket will yield laterally, being pushed out with extreme slowness by the glass within. [sidenote: possible experiment with glass prism.] now i believe that it would be possible to make this experiment in such a manner that the glass should be _flattened_, partly through rupture, and partly through lateral molecular yielding; the prism would change its form, and yet present a firmly coherent mass when removed from its jacket. i have never made the experiment; nobody has, as far as i know; but experiments of this kind are often made by nature. in the museum of the government school of mines, for example, we have a collection of quartz stones placed there by mr. salter, and which have been subjected to enormous pressure in the neighbourhood of a fault. these rigid pebbles have, in some cases, been squeezed against each other so as to produce mutual flattening and indentation. some of them have yielded along planes passing through them, as if one half had slidden over the other; but the reattachment is very strong. some of the larger stones, moreover, which have endured pressure at a particular point, are fissured radially around this point. in short, the whole collection is a most instructive example of the manner and extent to which one of the most rigid substances in nature can yield on the application of a sufficient force. [sidenote: possible experiment with prism of ice.] let a prism of ice at ° be placed in a similar jacket to that which we have supposed to envelop the glass prism. the ice yields to the pressure with incomparably greater ease than the glass; and if the force be slowly applied, the lateral yielding will far more closely resemble that of a truly plastic body. supposing such a piece of ice to be filled with numerous small air-bubbles, the tendency of the pressure would be to flatten these bubbles, and to squeeze them out of the ice. were the substance perfectly homogeneous, this flattening and expulsion would take place uniformly throughout its entire mass; but i believe there is no such homogeneous substance in nature;--the ice will yield at different places, leaving between them spaces which are comparatively unaffected by the pressure. from the former spaces the air-bubbles will be more effectually expelled; and i have no doubt that the result of such pressure acting upon ice so protected would be to produce a laminated structure somewhat similar to that which it produces in those bodies which exhibit slaty cleavage. [sidenote: lamination produced by pressure.] [sidenote: no sliding of filaments.] i also think it certain that, in this lateral displacement of the particles, these must move past each other. this is an idea which i have long entertained, as the following passage taken from the paper published by mr. huxley and myself will prove:--"three principal causes may operate in producing cleavage: first, the reducing of surfaces of weak cohesion to parallel planes; second, the flattening of minute cavities; and third, the weakening of cohesion by tangential action. the third action is exemplified by the state of the rails near a station where a break is habitually applied to a locomotive. in this case, while the weight of the train presses vertically, its motion tends to cause longitudinal sliding of the particles of the rail. tangential action does not, however, necessarily imply a force of the latter kind. when a solid cylinder an inch in height is squeezed to a vertical cake a quarter of an inch in height, it is impossible, physically speaking, that the particles situated in the same vertical line shall move laterally with the same velocity; but if they do not, the cohesion between them will be weakened or ruptured. the pressure, however, will produce new contact; and if this have a cohesive value equal to that of the old contact, no cleavage from this cause can arise. the relative capacities of different substances for cleavage appear to depend in a great measure upon their different properties in this respect. in butter, for example, the new attachments are equal, or nearly so, to the old, and the cleavage is consequently indistinct; in wax this does not appear to be the case, and hence may arise in a great degree the perfection of its cleavage. the further examination of this subject promises interesting results." i would dwell upon this point the more distinctly as the advocates of differential motion may deem it to be in their favour; but it appears to me that the mechanical conceptions implied in the above passage are totally different from theirs. if they think otherwise, then it seems to me that they should change the expressions which refer the differential motion to a "drag" towards the centre, and the structure to the sliding of "filaments" past each other in consequence of this drag. such filamentary sliding may take place in a truly viscous body, but it does not take place in ice. in one particular the ice resembles the butter referred to in the above quotation; for its new attachments appear to be equal to the old, and this, i think, is to be ascribed to its perfect regelation. as justly pointed out by mr. john ball, the veined ice of a glacier, if unweathered, shows no tendency to cleave; for though the expulsion of the air-bubbles has taken place, the reattachment of the particles is so firm as to abolish all evidence of cleavage. when the ice, on the contrary, is weathered, the plates become detached, and i have often been able to split such ice into thin tablets having an area of two or three square feet. in his thirteenth letter professor forbes throws out a new and possibly a pregnant thought in connexion with the veins. if i understand him aright--and i confess it is usually a matter of extreme difficulty with me to make sure of this--he there refers the veins, not to the expulsion of the air from the ice, but to its redistribution. the pressure produces "_lines of tearing_ in which the air is distributed in the form of regular globules." i do not know what might be made of this idea if it were developed, but at present i do not see how the supposed action could produce the blue bands; and i agree with professor wm. thomson in regarding the explanation as improbable.[a] footnotes: [a] for an extremely ingenious view of the origin of the veined structure, i would refer to a paper by professor thomson, in the 'proceedings of the royal society,' april, . the veined structure and the liquefaction of ice by pressure. ( .) i have already noticed an important fact for which we are indebted to mr. james thomson, and have referred to the original communications on the subject. i shall here place the physical circumstances connected with this fact before my reader in the manner which i deem most likely to interest him. [sidenote: influence of pressure on boiling point.] when a liquid is heated, the attraction of the molecules operates against the action of the heat, which tends to tear them asunder. at a certain point the force of heat triumphs, the cohesion is overcome, and the liquid boils. but supposing we assist the attraction of the molecules by applying an external pressure, the difficulty of tearing them asunder will be increased; more heat will be required for this purpose; and hence we say that the _boiling point_ of the liquid has been _elevated_ by the pressure. [sidenote: influence of pressure on fusing point.] if molten sulphur be poured into a bullet-mould, it will be found on cooling to contract, so as to leave a large hollow space in the middle of each sphere. cast musket-bullets are thus always found to possess a small cavity within them produced by the contraction of the lead. conceive the bullet placed within its mould and the latter heated; to produce fusion it is necessary that the sulphur or the lead should _swell_. here, as in the case of the heated water, the tendency to expand is opposed by the attraction of the molecules; with a certain amount of heat however this attraction is overcome and the solid _melts_. but suppose we assist the molecular attraction by a suitable force applied externally, a greater amount of heat than before will be necessary to tear them asunder; and hence we say that the _fusing point_ has been _elevated_ by the pressure. this fact has been experimentally established by messrs. hopkins and fairbairn, who applied to spermaceti and other substances pressures so great as to raise their points of fusion a considerable number of degrees. let us now consider the case of the metal bismuth. if the molten metal be poured into a bullet-mould it will _expand_ on solidifying. i have myself filled a strong cast-iron bottle with the metal, and found its expansion on cooling sufficiently great to split the bottle from neck to bottom. hence, in order to fuse the bismuth the substance must _contract_; and it is manifest that an external pressure which tends to squeeze the molecules more closely together here _assists_ the heat instead of opposing it. hence, to fuse bismuth under great pressure, a less amount of heat will be required than when the pressure is removed; or, in other words, the fusing point of bismuth is _lowered_ by the pressure. now, in passing from the solid to the liquid state, _ice_, like bismuth, contracts, and if the contraction be promoted by external pressure, as shown by the messrs. thomson, a less amount of heat suffices to liquefy it. [sidenote: experiments.] these remarks will enable us to understand a singular effect first obtained by myself at the close of or in january , noticed at the time in the 'proceedings of the royal society,' and afterwards fully described in a paper presented to the society in december of that year. a cylinder of clear ice two inches high and an inch in diameter was placed between two slabs of box-wood, and subjected to a gradual pressure. i watched the ice in a direction perpendicular to its length, and saw cloudy lines drawing themselves across it. as the pressure continued, these lines augmented in numbers, until finally the prism presented the appearance of a crystal of gypsum whose planes of cleavage had been forced out of optical contact. when looked at obliquely it was found that the lines were merely the sections of flat dim surfaces, which lay like laminæ one over the other throughout the length of the prism. fig. represents the prism as it appeared when looked at in a direction perpendicular to its axis; fig. shows the appearance when viewed obliquely.[a] [illustration: fig. , . appearance of a prism of ice partially liquefied by pressure.] at first sight it might appear as if air had intruded itself between the separated surfaces of the ice, and to test this point i placed a cylinder two inches long and an inch wide upright in a copper vessel which was filled with ice-cold water. the ice cylinder rose about half an inch above the surface of the water. placing the copper vessel on a slab of wood, and a second slab on the top of the cylinder of ice, the latter was subjected to the gradual action of a small hydraulic press. when the hazy surfaces were well developed in the portion of the ice above the water, the cylinder was removed and examined: the planes of rupture extended throughout the entire length of the cylinder, just as if it had been squeezed in air. i subsequently placed the ice in a stout vessel of glass, and squeezed it, as in the last experiment: the surfaces of discontinuity were seen forming _under the liquid_ quite as distinctly as in air. to prove that the surfaces were due to compression and not to any tearing asunder of the mass by tension, the following experiment was made:--a cylindrical piece of ice, one of whose ends, however, was not parallel to the other, was placed between the slabs of wood, and subjected to pressure. fig. shows the disposition of the experiment. the effect upon the ice cylinder was that shown in fig. , the surfaces being developed along that side which had suffered the pressure. on examining the surfaces by a pocket lens they resembled the effect produced upon a smooth cold surface by breathing on it. [illustration: fig. , . figures illustrative of compression and liquefaction of ice.] [sidenote: liquid layers produced by pressure.] the surfaces were always dim; and had the spaces been filled with air, or were they simply vacuous, the reflection of light from them would have been so copious as to render them much more brilliant than they were observed to be. to examine them more particularly i placed a concave mirror so as to throw the diffused daylight from a window full upon the cylinder. on applying the pressure dim spots were sometimes seen forming in the very middle of the ice, and these as they expanded laterally appeared to be in a state of intense motion, which followed closely the edge of each surface as it advanced through the solid ice. once or twice i observed the hazy surfaces pioneered through the mass by dim offshoots, apparently liquid, and constituting a kind of decrystallisation. from the closest examination to which i was able to subject them, the surfaces appeared to me to be due to internal liquefaction; indeed, when the melting point of ice, having already a temperature of °, is lowered by pressure, its excess of heat must instantly be applied to produce this effect. [sidenote: application to the veined structure.] i have already given a drawing (p. ) showing the development of the veined structure at the base of the ice-cascade of the rhone; and if we compare that diagram with fig. a striking similarity at once reveals itself. the ice of the glacier must undoubtedly be liquefied to some extent by the tremendous pressure to which it is here subjected. surfaces of discontinuity will in all probability be formed, which facilitate the escape of the imprisoned air. the small quantity of water produced will be partly imbibed by the adjacent porous ice, and will be refrozen when relieved from the pressure. this action, associated with that ascribed to pressure in the last section, appears to me to furnish a complete physical explanation of the laminated structure of glacier-ice. footnotes: [a] this effect projected upon a screen is a most striking and instructive class experiment. white ice-seams in the glacier du gÉant. ( .) [sidenote: general appearance of white ice-seams.] on the th of july, , while engaged upon the glacier du géant, my attention was often attracted by protuberant ridges of what at first appeared to be pure white snow, but which on examination i found to be compact ice filled with innumerable round air-cells; and which, in virtue of its greater power of resistance to wasting, often rose to a height of three or four feet above the general level of the ice. as i stood amongst these ridges, they appeared detached and without order of arrangement, but looked at from a distance they were seen to sweep across the proper glacier du géant in a direction concentric with its dirt-bands and its veined structure. in some cases the seams were admirable indications of the relative displacement of two adjacent portions of the glacier, which were divided from each other by a crevasse. usually the sections of a seam exposed on the opposite sides of a fissure accurately faced each other, and the direction of the seam on both sides was continuous; but at other places they demonstrated the existence of lateral faults, being shifted asunder laterally through spaces varying from a few inches to six or seven feet. on the following day i was again upon the same glacier, and noticed in many cases the white ice-seams exquisitely honeycombed. the case was illustrative of the great difference between the absorptive power of the ice itself and of the objects which lie upon its surface. deep cylindrical cells were produced by spots of black dirt which had been scattered upon the surface of the white ice, and which sank to a depth of several inches into the mass. i examined several sections of the veins, and in general i found that their deeper portions blended gradually with the ice on either side of them. but higher up the glacier i found that the veins penetrated only to a limited depth, and did not therefore form an integrant portion of the glacier. figs. and show the sections of two of the seams which were exposed on the wall of a crevasse at some distance below the great ice-fall of the glacier du géant. [sidenote: sections of seams.] [illustration: fig. , . sections of white ice-seams.] [illustration: fig. . variations in the dip of the veined structure.] it was at the base of the talèfre cascade that the explanation of these curious seams presented itself to me. in one of my earliest visits to this portion of the glacier i was struck by a singular disposition of the blue veins on the vertical wall of a crevasse. fig. will illustrate what i saw. the veins, within a short distance, dipped _backward_ and _forward_, like the junctions of stones used to turn an arch. in some cases i found this variation of the structure so great as to pass in a short distance from the vertical to the horizontal, as shown in fig. . [sidenote: variations in "dip" of structure.] [illustration: fig. . variations in the dip of the veined structure.] further examination taught me that the glacier here is crumpled in a most singular manner; doubtless by the great pressure to which it is exposed. the following illustration will convey a notion of its aspect: let one hand be laid flat upon a table, palm downwards, and let the fingers be bent until the space between the first joint and the ends of the fingers is vertical; one of the crumples to which i refer will then be represented. the ice seems bent like the fingers, and the crumples of the glacier are cut by crevasses, which are accurately typified by the spaces between the fingers. let the second hand now be placed upon the first, as the latter is upon the table, so that the tops of the bent fingers of the second hand shall rest upon the roots of the first: two crumples would thus be formed; a series of such protuberances, with steep fronts, follow each other from the base of the talèfre cascade for some distance downwards. on saturday the st of august i ascended these rounded terraces in succession, and observed among them an extremely remarkable disposition of the structure. fig. is a section of a series of three of the crumples, on which the shading lines represent the direction of the blue veins. at the base of each protuberance i found a seam of white ice wedged firmly into the glacier, and _each of the seams marked a place of dislocation of the veins_. the white seams thinned off gradually, and finally vanished where the violent crumpling of the ice disappeared. in fig. i have sketched the wall of a crevasse, which represents what may be regarded as the incipient crumpling. the undulating line shows the contour of the surface, and the shading lines the veins. it will be observed that the direction of the veins yields in conformity with the undulation of the surface; and an augmentation of the effect would evidently result in the crumples shown in fig. . the appearance of the white seams at those places where a dislocation occurred was, as far as i could observe, invariable; but in a few instances the seams were observed upon the platforms of the terraces, and also upon their slopes. the width of a seam was very irregular, varying from a few inches at some places to three or four feet at others. [sidenote: crumples of the talÈfre.] [illustration: fig. . section of three glacier crumples.] [illustration: fig. . wall of a crevasse, with incipient crumpling.] [sidenote: moulds of white ice-seams.] on the rd of august i was again at the base of the talèfre cascade, and observed a fact the significance of which had previously escaped me. the rills which ran down the ice-slopes collected at the base of each protuberance into a stream, which, at the time of my visit, had hollowed out for itself a deep channel in the ice. at some places the stream widened, at others its banks of ice approached each other, and rapids were produced; in fact, _the channels of such streams appeared to be the exact moulds of the seams of white ice_. instructed thus far, i ascended the glacier du géant on the th of august, and then observed on the wrinkles of this glacier the same leaning backwards and forwards of the blue veins as i had previously observed upon the talèfre. i also noticed on this day that a seam of white ice would sometimes open out into two branches, which, after remaining for some distance separate, would reunite and thus enclose a little glacier-island. at other places lateral branches were thrown off from the principal seam, thus suggesting the form of a glacier-rivulet which had been fed by tributary branches. on the th of august i hunted the seams still farther up the glacier; and found them at one place descending a steep ice-hill, being crossed by other similar bands, which however were far less white and compact. i followed these new bands to their origin, and found it to be a system of crevasses formed at the summit of the hill, some of which were filled with snow. lower down the crevasses closed, and the snow thus jammed between their walls was converted into white ice. these seams, however, never attained the compactness and prominence of the larger ones which had their origin far higher up. i singled out one of the best of the latter, and traced it through all the dislocation and confusion of the ice, until i found it to terminate in a cavity filled with snow. this was near the base of the _séracs_, and the streams here were abundant. comparing the shapes of some of them with that of the ice-bands lower down the glacier, a striking resemblance was observed. fig. is the plan of a deep-cut channel through which a stream flowed on the day to which i now refer. fig. is the plan of a seam of white ice sketched on the same day, low down upon the glacier. instances of this kind might be multiplied; and the result, i think, renders it certain that the white ice-seams referred to are due to the filling up of the channels of glacier-streams by snow during winter, and the subsequent compression of the mass to ice during the descent of the glacier. i have found such seams at the bases of all cascades that i have visited; and in all cases they appear to be due to the same cause. the depth to which they penetrate the glacier must be profound, or the _ablation_ of the ice must be less than what is generally supposed; for the seams formed so high up on the glacier du géant may be traced low down upon the trunk-stream of the mer de glace.[a] [sidenote: streams and seams.] [illustration: fig. . plan of a stream on the glacier du géant.] [illustration: fig. . plan of a seam of white ice on the glacier du géant.] [sidenote: scaling off by pressure.] these observations on the white ice-seams enable us to add an important supplement to what has been stated regarding the origin of the dirt-bands of the mer de glace; the protuberances at the base of the cascade are due not only to the toning down of the ridges produced by the transverse fracture of the glacier at the summit of the fall, but they undergo modifications by the pressure locally exerted at its base. the state of things represented in fig. is plainly due to the partial pushing of one crumple over that next in advance of it. there seems to be a differential motion of the parts of the glacier in the same longitudinal line; showing that upon the general motion of the glacier smaller local motions are superposed. the occurrence of the seams upon the faces of the slopes seems also to prove that the pressure is competent, in some cases, to cause the bases of the protuberances to swell, so that what was once the base of a crumple may subsequently form a portion of its slope. another interesting fact is also observed where the pressure is violent: the crumples _scale off_, bows of ice being thus formed which usually span the crumples over their most violently compressed portions. i have found this scaling off at the bases of all the cascades which i have visited, and it is plainly due to the pressure exerted at such places upon the ice. footnotes: [a] the more permanent seams may possibly be due to the filling of the profound crevasses of the cascade. ( .) [sidenote: compression of glacier du gÉant.] not only at the base of its great cascade, but throughout the greater part of its length, the glacier du géant is in a state of longitudinal compression. the meaning of this term will be readily understood: let two points, for example, be marked upon the axis of the glacier; if these during its descent were drawn wider apart, it would show that the glacier was in a state of longitudinal strain or tension; if they remained at the same distance apart, it would indicate that neither strain nor pressure was exerted; whereas, if the two points approached each other, which could only be by the quicker motion of the hinder one, the existence of longitudinal compression would be thereby demonstrated. taking "le petit balmat" with me, to carry my theodolite, i ascended the glacier du géant until i came near the place where it is joined by the glacier des périades, and whence i observed a patch of fresh green grass upon the otherwise rocky mountain-side. to this point i climbed, and made it the station for my instrument. choosing a well-defined object at the opposite side of the glacier, i set, on the th of august, in the line between this object and the theodolite, three stakes, one in the centre of the glacier, and the other two at opposite sides of the centre and about yards from it. this done, i descended for a quarter of a mile, when i again climbed the flanking rocks, placing my theodolite in a couloir, down which stones are frequently discharged from the end of a secondary glacier which hangs upon the heights above. here, as before, i fixed three stakes, chiselled a mark upon the granite, so as to enable me to find the place, and regained the ice without accident. a day or two previously we had set out a third line at some distance lower down, and i was thus furnished with a succession of points along the glacier, the relative motions of which would decide whether it was _pressed_ or _stretched_ in the direction of its length. on the th of august mr. huxley joined us; and on the following day we all set out for the glacier du géant, to measure the progress of the stakes which i had fixed there. hirst remained upon the glacier to measure the displacements; i shouldered the theodolite; and huxley was my guide to the mountain-side, sounding in advance of me the treacherous-looking snow over which we had to pass. calling the central stake of the highest line no. , that of the middle line no. , and that of the line nearest the tacul no. , the following are the spaces moved over by these three points in twenty-four hours: inches. distances asunder. no. . } yards. no. . } yards. no. . here we have the fact which the aspect of the glacier suggested. the first stake moves five inches a day more than the second, and the second nearly three inches a day more than the third. as surmised, therefore, the glacier is in a state of longitudinal compression, whereby a portion of it yards in length is shortened at the rate of eight inches a day. [sidenote: structure in white ice-seams.] in accordance with this result, the transverse undulations of the glacier du géant, described in the chapter upon dirt-bands, _shorten_ as they descend. a series of three of them measured along the axis of the glacier on the th of august, , gave the following respective lengths:-- links, links, links, the shortest undulation being the farthest from the origin of the undulations. this glacier then constitutes a vast ice-press, and enables us to test the explanation which refers the veined structure of the ice to pressure. the glacier itself is transversely laminated, as already stated; and in many cases a structure of extreme definition and beauty is developed in the compressed snow, which constitutes the seams of white ice. in i discovered a well-developed lenticular structure in some of these seams. in i again examined them. clearing away the superficial portions with my axe, i found, drawn through the body of the seams, long lines of blue ice of exquisite definition; in fact, i had never seen the structure so delicately exhibited. the seams, moreover, were developed in portions of the white ice which were near the _centre_ of the glacier, and where consequently filamentous sliding was entirely out of the question. [sidenote: partial summary.] partial summary. . glaciers are derived from mountain snow, which has been consolidated to ice by pressure. . that pressure is competent to convert snow into ice has been proved by experiment. . the power of yielding to pressure diminishes as the mass becomes more compact; but it does not cease even when the substance has attained the compactness which would entitle it to be called ice. . when a sufficient depth of snow collects upon the earth's surface, the lower portions are squeezed out by the pressure of the superincumbent mass. if it rests upon a slope it will yield principally in the direction of the slope, and move downwards. . in addition to this, the whole mass slides bodily along its inclined bed, and leaves the traces of its sliding on the rocks over which it passes, grinding off their asperities, and marking them with grooves and scratches in the direction of the motion. . in this way the deposit of consolidated and unconsolidated snow which covers the higher portions of lofty mountains moves slowly down into an adjacent valley, through which it descends as a true glacier, partly by sliding and partly by the yielding of the mass itself. . several valleys thus filled may unite in a single valley, the tributary glaciers welding themselves together to form a trunk-glacier. . both the main valley and its tributaries are often sinuous, and the tributaries must change their direction to form the trunk; the width of the valley often varies. the glacier is forced through narrow gorges, widening after it has passed them; the centre of the glacier moves more quickly than the sides, and the surface more quickly than the bottom; the point of swiftest motion follows the same law as that observed in the flow of rivers, shifting from one side of the centre to the other as the flexure of the valley changes. . these various effects may be reproduced by experiments on small masses of ice. the substance may moreover be moulded into vases and statuettes. straight bars of it may be bent into rings, or even coiled into knots. . ice, capable of being thus moulded, is practically incapable of being stretched. the condition essential to success is that the particles of the ice operated on shall be kept in close contact, so that when old attachments have been severed new ones may be established. . the nearer the ice is to its melting point in temperature, the more easily are the above results obtained; when ice is many degrees below its freezing point it is crushed by pressure to a white powder, and is not capable of being moulded as above. . two pieces of ice at ° fahr., with moist surfaces, when placed in contact freeze together to a rigid mass; this is called regelation. . when the attachments of pressed ice are broken, the continuity of the mass is restored by the regelation of the new contiguous surfaces. regelation also enables two tributary glaciers to weld themselves to form a continuous trunk; thus also the crevasses are mended, and the dislocations of the glacier consequent on descending cascades are repaired. this healing of ruptures extends to the smallest particles of the mass, and it enables us to account for the continued compactness of the ice during the descent of the glacier. . the quality of viscosity is practically absent in glacier-ice. where pressure comes into play the phenomena are suggestive of viscosity, but where tension comes into play the analogy with a viscous body breaks down. when subjected to strain the glacier does not yield by stretching, but by breaking; this is the origin of the crevasses. . the crevasses are produced by the mechanical strains to which the glacier is subjected. they are divided into marginal, transverse, and longitudinal crevasses; the first produced by the oblique strain consequent on the quicker motion of the centre; the second by the passage of the glacier over the summit of an incline; the third by pressure from behind and resistance in front, which causes the mass to split at right angles to the pressure [strain?]. . the moulins are formed by deep cracks intersecting glacier rivulets. the water in descending such cracks scoops out for itself a shaft, sometimes many feet wide, and some hundreds of feet deep, into which the cataract plunges with a sound like thunder. the supply of water is periodically cut off from the moulins by fresh cracks, in which new moulins are formed. . the lateral moraines are formed from the débris which loads the glacier along its edges; the medial moraines are formed on a trunk-glacier by the union of the lateral moraines of its tributaries; the terminal moraines are formed from the débris carried by the glacier to its terminus, and there deposited. the number of medial moraines on a trunk glacier is always one less than the number of tributaries. . when ordinary lake-ice is intersected by a strong sunbeam it liquefies so as to form flower-shaped figures within the mass; each flower consists of six petals with a vacuous space at the centre; the flowers are always formed parallel to the planes of freezing, and depend on the crystallization of the substance. . innumerable liquid disks, with vacuous spots, are also formed by the solar beams in glacier-ice. these empty spaces have been hitherto mistaken for air-bubbles, the flat form of the disks being erroneously regarded as the result of pressure. . these disks are indicators of the intimate constitution of glacier-ice, and they teach us that it is composed of an aggregate of parts with surfaces of crystallization in all possible planes. . there are also innumerable small cells in glacier-ice holding air and water; such cells also occur in lake-ice; and here they are due to the melting of the ice in contact with the bubble of air. experiments are needed on glacier-ice in reference to this point. . at a free surface within or without, ice melts with more ease than in the centre of a compact mass. the motion which we call heat is less controlled at a free surface, and it liberates the molecules from the solid condition sooner than when the atoms are surrounded on all sides by other atoms which impede the molecular motion. regelation is the complementary effect to the above; for here the superficial portions of a mass of ice are made virtually central by the contact of a second mass. . the dirt-bands have their origin in the ice-cascades. the glacier, in passing the brow, is transversely fractured; ridges are formed with hollows between them; these transverse hollows are the principal receptacles of the fine débris scattered over the glacier; and after the ridges have been melted away, the dirt remains in successive stripes upon the glacier. . the ice of many glaciers is laminated, and when weathered may be cloven into thin plates. in the sound ice the lamination manifests itself in blue stripes drawn through the general whitish mass of the glacier; these blue veins representing portions of ice from which the air-bubbles have been more completely expelled. this is the veined structure of the ice. it is divided into marginal, transverse, and longitudinal structure; which may be regarded as complementary to marginal, longitudinal, and transverse crevasses. the latter are produced by tension, the former by pressure, which acts in two different ways: firstly, the pressure acts upon the ice as it has acted upon rocks which exhibit the lamination technically called cleavage; secondly, it produces partial liquefaction of the ice. the liquid spaces thus formed help the escape of the air from the glacier; and the water produced, being refrozen when the pressure is relieved, helps to form the blue veins. appendix. comparative view of the cleavage of crystals and slate-rocks. a lecture delivered at the royal institution, on friday evening the th of june, .[a] when the student of physical science has to investigate the character of any natural force, his first care must be to purify it from the mixture of other forces, and thus study its simple action. if, for example, he wishes to know how a mass of water would shape itself, supposing it to be at liberty to follow the bent of its own molecular forces, he must see that these forces have free and undisturbed exercise. we might perhaps refer him to the dew-drop for a solution of the question; but here we have to do, not only with the action of the molecules of the liquid upon each other, but also with the action of gravity upon the mass, which pulls the drop downwards and elongates it. if he would examine the problem in its purity, he must do as plateau has done, withdraw the liquid mass from the action of gravity, and he would then find the shape of the mass to be perfectly spherical. natural processes come to us in a mixed manner, and to the uninstructed mind are a mass of unintelligible confusion. suppose half-a-dozen of the best musical performers to be placed in the same room, each playing his own instrument to perfection: though each individual instrument might be a well-spring of melody, still the mixture of all would produce mere noise. thus it is with the processes of nature. in nature, mechanical and molecular laws mingle, and create apparent confusion. their mixture constitutes what may be called the _noise_ of natural laws, and it is the vocation of the man of science to resolve this noise into its components, and thus to detect the "music" in which the foundations of nature are laid. the necessity of this detachment of one force from all other forces is nowhere more strikingly exhibited than in the phenomena of crystallization. i have here a solution of sulphate of soda. prolonging the mental vision beyond the boundaries of sense, we see the atoms of that liquid, like squadrons under the eye of an experienced general, arranging themselves into battalions, gathering round a central standard, and forming themselves into solid masses, which after a time assume the visible shape of the crystal which i here hold in my hand. i may, like an ignorant meddler wishing to hasten matters, introduce confusion into this order. i do so by plunging this glass rod into the vessel. the consequent action is not the pure expression of the crystalline forces; the atoms rush together with the confusion of an unorganized mob, and not with the steady accuracy of a disciplined host. here, also, in this mass of bismuth we have an example of this confused crystallization; but in the crucible behind me a slower process is going on: here there is an architect at work "who makes no chips, no din," and who is now building the particles into crystals, similar in shape and structure to those beautiful masses which we see upon the table. by permitting alum to crystallize in this slow way, we obtain these perfect octahedrons; by allowing carbonate of lime to crystallize, nature produces these beautiful rhomboids; when silica crystallizes, we have formed these hexagonal prisms capped at the ends by pyramids; by allowing saltpetre to crystallize, we have these prismatic masses; and when carbon crystallizes, we have the diamond. if we wish to obtain a perfect crystal, we must allow the molecular forces free play: if the crystallizing mass be permitted to rest upon a surface it will be flattened, and to prevent this a small crystal must be so suspended as to be surrounded on all sides by the liquid, or, if it rest upon the surface, it must be turned daily so as to present all its faces in succession to the working builder. in this way the scientific man nurses these children of his intellect, watches over them with a care worthy of imitation, keeps all influences away which might possibly invade the strict morality of crystalline laws, and finally sees them developed into forms of symmetry and beauty which richly reward the care bestowed upon them. in building up crystals, these little atomic bricks often arrange themselves into layers which are perfectly parallel to each other, and which can be separated by mechanical means; this is called the cleavage of the crystal. i have here a crystallized mass which has thus far escaped the abrading and disintegrating forces which, sooner or later, determine the fate of sugar-candy. if i am skilful enough, i shall discover that this crystal of sugar cleaves with peculiar facility in one direction. here, again, i have a mass of rock-salt: i lay my knife upon it, and with a blow cleave it in this direction; but i find on further examining this substance that it cleaves in more directions than one. laying my knife at right angles to its former position, the crystal cleaves again; and, finally placing the knife at right angles to the two former positions, the mass cleaves again. thus rock-salt cleaves in three directions, and the resulting solid is this perfect cube, which may be broken up into any number of smaller cubes. here is a mass of iceland spar, which also cleaves in three directions, not at right angles, but obliquely to each other, the resulting solid being a rhomboid. in each of these cases the mass cleaves with equal facility in all three directions. for the sake of completeness, i may say that many substances cleave with unequal facility in different directions, and the heavy spar i hold in my hand presents an example of this kind of cleavage. turn we now to the consideration of some other phenomena to which the term cleavage may be applied. this piece of beech-wood cleaves with facility parallel to the fibre, and if our experiments were fine enough we should discover that the cleavage is most perfect when the edge of the axe is laid across the rings which mark the growth of the tree. the fibres of the wood lie side by side, and a comparatively small force is sufficient to separate them. if you look at this mass of hay severed from a rick, you will see a sort of cleavage developed in it also; the stalks lie in parallel planes, and only a small force is required to separate them laterally. but we cannot regard the cleavage of the tree as the same in character as the cleavage of the hayrick. in the one case it is the atoms arranging themselves according to organic laws which produce a cleavable structure; in the other case the easy separation in a certain direction is due to the mechanical arrangement of the coarse sensible masses of stalks of hay. in like manner i find that this piece of sandstone cleaves parallel to the planes of bedding. this rock was once a powder, more or less coarse, held in mechanical suspension by water. the powder was composed of two distinct parts, fine grains of sand and small plates of mica. imagine a wide strand covered by a tide which holds such powder in suspension:[b] how will it sink? the rounded grains of sand will reach the bottom first, the mica afterwards, and when the tide recedes we have the little plates shining like spangles upon the surface of the sand. each successive tide brings its charge of mixed powder, deposits its duplex layer day after day, and finally masses of immense thickness are thus piled up, which, by preserving the alternations of sand and mica, tell the tale of their formation. i do not wish you to accept this without proof. take the sand and mica, mix them together in water, and allow them to subside, they will arrange themselves in the manner i have indicated; and by repeating the process you can actually build up a sandstone mass which shall be the exact counterpart of that presented by nature, as i have done in this glass jar. now this structure cleaves with readiness along the planes in which the particles of mica are strewn. here is a mass of such a rock sent to me from halifax: here are other masses from the quarries of over darwen in lancashire. with a hammer and chisel you see i can cleave them into flags; indeed these flags are made use of for roofing purposes in the districts from which the specimens have come, and receive the name of "slate-stone." but you will discern, without a word from me, that this cleavage is not a crystalline cleavage any more than that of a hayrick is. it is not an arrangement produced by molecular forces; indeed it would be just as reasonable to suppose that in this jar of sand and mica the particles arranged themselves into layers by the forces of crystallization, instead of by the simple force of gravity, as to imagine that such a cleavage as this could be the product of crystallization. this, so far as i am aware of, has never been imagined, and it has been agreed among geologists not to call such splitting as this cleavage at all, but to restrict the term to a class of phenomena which i shall now proceed to consider. those who have visited the slate quarries of cumberland and north wales will have witnessed the phenomena to which i refer. we have long drawn our supply of roofing-slates from such quarries; schoolboys ciphered on these slates, they were used for tombstones in churchyards, and for billiard-tables in the metropolis; but not until a comparatively late period did men begin to inquire how their wonderful structure was produced. what is the agency which enables us to split honister crag, or the cliffs of snowdon, into laminæ from crown to base? this question is at the present moment one of the greatest difficulties of geologists, and occupies their attention perhaps more than any other. you may wonder at this. looking into the quarry of penrhyn, you may be disposed to explain the question as i heard it explained two years ago. "these planes of cleavage," said a friend who stood beside me on the quarry's edge, "are the planes of stratification which have been lifted by some convulsion into an almost vertical position." but this was a great mistake, and indeed here lies the grand difficulty of the problem. these planes of cleavage stand in most cases at a high angle to the bedding. thanks to sir roderick murchison, who has kindly permitted me the use of specimens from the museum of practical geology (and here i may be permitted to express my acknowledgments to the distinguished staff of that noble establishment, who, instead of considering me an intruder, have welcomed me as a brother), i am able to place the proof of this before you. here is a mass of slate in which the planes of bedding are distinctly marked; here are the planes of cleavage, and you see that one of them makes a large angle with the other. the cleavage of slates is therefore not a question of stratification, and the problem which we have now to consider is, "by what cause has this cleavage been produced?" in an able and elaborate essay on this subject in , professor sedgwick proposed the theory that cleavage is produced by the action of crystalline or polar forces after the mass has been consolidated. "we may affirm," he says, "that no retreat of the parts, no contraction of dimensions in passing to a solid state can explain such phenomena. they appear to me only resolvable on the supposition that crystalline or polar forces acted upon the whole mass simultaneously in one direction and with adequate force." and again, in another place: "crystalline forces have rearranged whole mountain-masses, producing a beautiful crystalline cleavage, passing alike through all the strata."[c] the utterance of such a man struck deep, as was natural, into the minds of geologists, and at the present day there are few who do not entertain this view either in whole or in part.[d] the magnificence of the theory, indeed, has in some cases caused speculation to run riot, and we have books published, aye and largely sold, on the action of polar forces and geologic magnetism, which rather astonish those who know something about the subject. according to the theory referred to, miles and miles of the districts of north wales and cumberland, comprising huge mountain-masses, are neither more nor less than the parts of a gigantic crystal. these masses of slate were originally fine mud; this mud is composed of the broken and abraded particles of older rocks. it contains silica, alumina, iron, potash, soda, and mica, mixed in sensible masses mechanically together. in the course of ages the mass became consolidated, and the theory before us assumes that afterwards a process of crystallization rearranged the particles and developed in the mass a single plane of crystalline cleavage. with reference to this hypothesis, i will only say that it is a bold stretch of analogies; but still it has done good service: it has drawn attention to the question; right or wrong, a theory thus thoughtfully uttered has its value; it is a dynamic power which operates against intellectual stagnation; and, even by provoking opposition, is eventually of service to the cause of truth. it would, however, have been remarkable, if, among the ranks of geologists themselves, men were not found to seek an explanation of the phenomena in question, which involved a less hardy spring on the part of the speculative faculty than the view to which i have just referred. the first step in an inquiry of this kind is to put oneself into contact with nature, to seek facts. this has been done, and the labours of sharpe (the late president of the geological society, who, to the loss of science and the sorrow of all who knew him, has so suddenly been taken away from us), sorby, and others, have furnished us with a body of evidence which reveals to us certain important physical phenomena, associated with the appearance of slaty cleavage, if they have not produced it. the nature of this evidence we will now proceed to consider. fossil shells are found in these slate-rocks. i have here several specimens of such shells, occupying various positions with regard to the cleavage planes. they are squeezed, distorted, and crushed. in some cases a flattening of the convex shell occurs, in others the valves are pressed by a force which acted in the plane of their junction, but in all cases the distortion is such as leads to the inference that the rock which contains these shells has been subjected to enormous pressure in a direction at right angles to the planes of cleavage; the shells are all flattened and spread out upon these planes. i hold in my hand a fossil trilobite of normal proportions. here is a series of fossils of the same creature which have suffered distortion. some have lain across, some along, and some oblique to the cleavage of the slate in which they are found; in all cases the nature of the distortion is such as required for its production a compressing force acting at right angles to the planes of cleavage. as the creatures lay in the mud in the manner indicated, the jaws of a gigantic vice appear to have closed upon them and squeezed them into the shape you see. as further evidence of the exertion of pressure, let me introduce to your notice a case of contortion which has been adduced by mr. sorby. the bedding of the rock shown in this figure[e] was once horizontal; at a we have a deep layer of mud, and at _m n_ a layer of comparatively unyielding gritty material; below that again, at b, we have another layer of the fine mud of which slates are formed. this mass cleaves along the shading lines of the diagram; but look at the shape of the intermediate bed: it is contorted into a serpentine form, and leads irresistibly to the conclusion that the mass has been pressed together at right angles to the planes of cleavage. this action can be experimentally imitated, and i have here a piece of clay in which this is done and the same result produced on a small scale. the amount of compression, indeed, might be roughly estimated by supposing this contorted bed _m n_ to be stretched out, its length measured and compared with the distance _c d_; we find in this way that the yielding of the mass has been considerable. let me now direct your attention to another proof of pressure. you see the varying colours which indicate the bedding on this mass of slate. the dark portion, as i have stated, is gritty, and composed of comparatively coarse particles, which, owing to their size, shape, and gravity, sink first and constitute the bottom of each layer. gradually from bottom to top the coarseness diminishes, and near the upper surface of each layer we have a mass of comparatively fine clean mud. sometimes this fine mud forms distinct layers in a mass of slate-rock, and it is the mud thus consolidated from which are derived the german razor-stones, so much prized for the sharpening of surgical instruments. i have here an example of such a stone. when a bed is thin, the clean white mud is permitted to rest, as in this case, upon a slab of the coarser slate in contact with it: when the bed is thick, it is cut into slices which are cemented to pieces of ordinary slate, and thus rendered stronger. the mud thus deposited sometimes in layers is, as might be expected, often rolled up into nodular masses, carried forward, and deposited by the rivers from which the slate-mud has subsided. here, indeed, are such nodules enclosed in sandstone. everybody who has ciphered upon a school-slate must remember the whitish-green spots which sometimes dotted the surface of the slate; he will remember how his slate-pencil usually slid over such spots as if they were greasy. now these spots are composed of the finer mud, and they could not, on account of their fineness, _bite_ the pencil like the surrounding gritty portions of the slate. here is a beautiful example of the spots: you observe them on the cleavage surface in broad patches; but if this mass has been compressed at right angles to the planes of cleavage, ought we to expect the same marks when we look at the edge of the slab? the nodules will be flattened by such pressure, and we ought to see evidence of this flattening when we turn the slate edgeways. here it is. the section of a nodule is a sharp ellipse with its major axis parallel to the cleavage. there are other examples of the same nature on the table; i have made excursions to the quarries of wales and cumberland, and to many of the slate-yards of london, but the same fact invariably appears, and thus we elevate a common experience of our boyhood into evidence of the highest significance as regards one of the most important problems of geology. in examining the magnetism of these slates, i was led to infer that these spots would contain a less amount of iron than the surrounding dark slate. the analysis was made for me by mr. hambly in the laboratory of dr. percy at the school of mines. the result which is stated in this table justifies the conclusion to which i have referred. _analysis of slate._ purple slate. two analyses. . percentage of iron . . " " . mean . greenish slate. . percentage of iron . . " " . mean . the quantity of iron in the dark slate immediately adjacent to the greenish spot is, according to these analyses, nearly double of the quantity contained in the spot itself. this is about the proportion which the magnetic experiments suggested. let me now remind you that the facts which i have brought before you are typical facts--each is the representative of a class. we have seen shells crushed, the unhappy trilobites squeezed, beds contorted, nodules of greenish marl flattened; and all these sources of independent testimony point to one and the same conclusion, namely, that slate-rocks have been subjected to enormous pressure in a direction at right angles to the planes of cleavage.[f] in reference to mr. sorby's contorted bed, i have said that by supposing it to be stretched out and its length measured, it would give us an idea of the amount of yielding of the mass above and below the bed. such a measurement, however, would not quite give the amount of yielding; and here i would beg your attention to a point, the significance of which has, so far as i am aware of, hitherto escaped attention. i hold in my hand a specimen of slate, with its bedding marked upon it; the lower portions of each bed are composed of a comparatively coarse gritty material, something like what you may suppose this contorted bed to be composed of. well, i find that the cleavage takes a bend in crossing these gritty portions, and that the tendency of these portions is to cleave more at right angles to the bedding. look to this diagram: when the forces commenced to act, this intermediate bed, which though comparatively unyielding is not entirely so, suffered longitudinal pressure; as it bent, the pressure became gradually more lateral, and the direction of its cleavage is exactly such as you would infer from a force of this kind--it is neither quite across the bed, nor yet in the same direction as the cleavage of the slate above and below it, but intermediate between the two. supposing the cleavage to be at right angles to the pressure, this is the direction which it ought to take across these more unyielding strata. thus we have established the concurrence of the phenomena of cleavage and pressure--that they accompany each other; but the question still remains, is this pressure of itself sufficient to account for the cleavage? a single geologist, as far as i am aware, answers boldly in the affirmative. this geologist is sorby, who has attacked the question in the true spirit of a physical investigator. you remember the cleavage of the flags of halifax and over darwen, which is caused by the interposition of plates of mica between the layers. mr. sorby examines the structure of slate-rock, and finds plates of mica to be a constituent. he asks himself, what will be the effect of pressure upon a mass containing such plates confusedly mixed up in it? it will be, he argues--and he argues rightly--to place the plates with their flat surfaces more or less perpendicular to the direction in which the pressure is exerted. he takes scales of the oxide of iron, mixes them with a fine powder, and, on squeezing the mass, finds that the tendency of the scales is to set themselves at right angles to the line of pressure. now the planes in which these plates arrange themselves will, he contends, be those along which the mass cleaves. i could show you, by tests of a totally different character from those applied by mr. sorby, how true his conclusion is, that the effect of pressure on elongated particles or plates will be such as he describes it. nevertheless, while knowing this fact, and admiring the ability with which mr. sorby has treated this question, i cannot accept his explanation of slate-cleavage. i believe that even if these plates of mica were wholly absent, the cleavage of slate-rocks would be much the same as it is at present. i will not dwell here upon minor facts,--i will not urge that the perfection of the cleavage bears no relation to the quantity of mica present; but i will come at once to a case which to my mind completely upsets the notion that such plates are a necessary element in the production of cleavage. here is a mass of pure white wax: there are no mica particles here; there are no scales of iron, or anything analogous mixed up with the mass. here is the self-same substance submitted to pressure. i would invite the attention of the eminent geologists whom i see before me to the structure of this mass. no slate ever exhibited so clean a cleavage; it splits into laminæ of surpassing tenuity, and proves at a single stroke that pressure is sufficient to produce cleavage, and that this cleavage is independent of the intermixed plates of mica assumed in mr. sorby's theory. i have purposely mixed this wax with elongated particles, and am unable to say at the present moment that the cleavage is sensibly affected by their presence,--if anything, i should say they rather impair its fineness and clearness than promote it. the finer the slate the more perfect will be the resemblance of its cleavage to that of the wax. compare the surface of the wax with the surface of this slate from borrodale in cumberland. you have precisely the same features in both: you see flakes clinging to the surfaces of each, which have been partially torn away by the cleavage of the mass: i entertain the conviction that if any close observer compares these two effects, he will be led to the conclusion that they are the product of a common cause.[g] but you will ask, how, according to my view, does pressure produce this remarkable result? this may be stated in a very few words. nature is everywhere imperfect! the eye is not perfectly achromatic, the colours of the rose and tulip are not pure colours, and the freshest air of our hills has a bit of poison in it. in like manner there is no such thing in nature as a body of perfectly homogeneous structure. i break this clay which seems so intimately mixed, and find that the fracture presents to my eyes innumerable surfaces along which it has given way, and it has yielded along these surfaces because in them the cohesion of the mass is less than elsewhere. i break this marble, and even this wax, and observe the same result: look at the mud at the bottom of a dried pond; look to some of the ungravelled walks in kensington gardens on drying after rain,--they are cracked and split, and other circumstances being equal, they crack and split where the cohesion of the mass is least. take then a mass of partially consolidated mud. assuredly such a mass is divided and subdivided by surfaces along which the cohesion is comparatively small. penetrate the mass, and you will see it composed of numberless irregular nodules bounded by surfaces of weak cohesion. figure to your mind's eye such a mass subjected to pressure,--the mass yields and spreads out in the direction of least resistance;[h] the little nodules become converted into laminæ, separated from each other by surfaces of weak cohesion, and the infallible result will be that such a mass will cleave at right angles to the line in which the pressure is exerted. further, a mass of dried mud is full of cavities and fissures. if you break dried pipe-clay you see them in great numbers, and there are multitudes of them so small that you cannot see them. i have here a piece of glass in which a bubble was enclosed; by the compression of the glass the bubble is flattened, and the sides of the bubble approach each other so closely as to exhibit the colours of thin plates. a similar flattening of the cavities must take place in squeezed mud, and this must materially facilitate the cleavage of the mass in the direction already indicated. although the time at my disposal has not permitted me to develop this thought as far as i could wish, yet for the last twelve months the subject has presented itself to me almost daily under one aspect or another. i have never eaten a biscuit during this period in which an intellectual joy has not been superadded to the more sensual pleasure, for i have remarked in all such cases cleavage developed in the mass by the rolling-pin of the pastrycook or confectioner. i have only to break these cakes, and to look at the fracture, to see the laminated structure of the mass; nay, i have the means of pushing the analogy further: i have here some slate which was subjected to a high temperature during the conflagration of mr. scott russell's premises. i invite you to compare this structure with that of a biscuit; air or vapour within the mass has caused it to swell, and the mechanical structure it reveals is precisely that of a biscuit. i have gone a little into the mysteries of baking while conducting my inquiries on this subject, and have received much instruction from a lady-friend in the manufacture of puff-paste. here is some paste baked in this house under my own superintendence. the cleavage of our hills is accidental cleavage, but this is cleavage with intention. the volition of the pastrycook has entered into the formation of the mass, and it has been his aim to preserve a series of surfaces of structural weakness, along which the dough divides into layers. puff-paste must not be handled too much, for then the continuity of the surfaces is broken; it ought to be rolled on a cold slab, to prevent the butter from melting and diffusing itself through the mass, thus rendering it more homogeneous and less liable to split. this is the whole philosophy of puff-paste; it is a grossly exaggerated case of slaty cleavage. as time passed on, cases multiplied, illustrating the influence of pressure in producing lamination. mr. warren de la rue informs me that he once wished to obtain white-lead in a fine granular state, and to accomplish this he first compressed the mass: the mould was conical, and permitted the mass to spread a little laterally under the pressure. the lamination was as perfect as that of slate, and quite defeated him in his effort to obtain a granular powder. mr. brodie, as you are aware, has recently discovered a new kind of graphite: here is the substance in powder, of exquisite fineness. this powder has the peculiarity of clinging together in little confederacies; it cannot be shaken asunder like lycopodium; and when the mass is squeezed, these groups of particles flatten, and a perfect cleavage is produced. mr. brodie himself has been kind enough to furnish me with specimens for this evening's lecture. i will cleave them before you: you see they split up into plates which are perpendicular to the line in which the pressure was exerted. this testimony is all the more valuable, as the facts were obtained without any reference whatever to the question of cleavage. i have here a mass of that singular substance boghead cannel. this was once a mass of mud, more or less resembling this one, which i have obtained from a bog in lancashire. i feel some hesitation in bringing this substance before you, for, as in other cases, so in regard to boghead cannel, science--not science, let me not libel it, but the quibbling, litigious, money-loving portion of human nature speaking through the mask of science--has so contrived to split hairs as to render the qualities of the substance somewhat mythical. i shall therefore content myself with showing you how it cleaves, and with expressing my conviction that pressure had a great share in the production of this cleavage. the principle which i have enunciated is so simple as to be almost trivial; nevertheless, it embraces not only the cases i have mentioned, but, if time permitted, i think i could show you that it takes a much wider range. when iron is taken from the puddling furnace, it is a more or less spongy mass: it is at a welding heat, and at this temperature is submitted to the process of rolling: bright smooth bars such as this are the result of this rolling. but i have said that the mass is more or less spongy or nodular, and, notwithstanding the high heat, these nodules do not perfectly incorporate with their neighbours: what then? you would say that the process of rolling must draw the nodules into fibres--it does so; and here is a mass acted upon by dilute sulphuric acid, which exhibits in a striking manner this fibrous structure. the experiment was made by my friend dr. percy, without any reference to the question of cleavage. here are other cases of fibrous iron. this fibrous structure is the result of mechanical treatment. break a mass of ordinary iron and you have a granular fracture; beat the mass, you elongate these granules, and finally render the mass fibrous. here are pieces of rails along which the wheels of locomotives have slidden; the granules have yielded and become plates; they exfoliate or come off in leaves. all these effects belong, i believe, to the great class of phenomena of which slaty cleavage forms the most prominent example.[i] thus, ladies and gentlemen, we have reached the termination of our task. i commenced by exhibiting to you some of the phenomena of crystallization. i have placed before you the facts which are found to be associated with the cleavage of slate-rocks. these facts, as finely expressed by helmholtz, are so many telescopes to our spiritual vision, by which we can see backward through the night of antiquity, and discern the forces which have been in operation upon the earth's surface "ere the lion roared, or the eagle soared." from evidence of the most independent and trustworthy character, we come to the conclusion that these slaty masses have been subjected to enormous pressure, and by the sure method of experiment we have shown--and this is the only really new point which has been brought before you--how the pressure is sufficient to produce the cleavage. expanding our field of view, we find the self-same law, whose footsteps we trace amid the crags of wales and cumberland, stretching its ubiquitous fingers into the domain of the pastrycook and ironfounder; nay, a wheel cannot roll over the half-dried mud of our streets without revealing to us more or less of the features of this law. i would say, in conclusion, that the spirit in which this problem has been attacked by geologists indicates the dawning of a new day for their science. the great intellects who have laboured at geology, and who have raised it to its present pitch of grandeur, were compelled to deal with the subject in mass; they had no time to look after details. but the desire for more exact knowledge is increasing; facts are flowing in, which, while they leave untouched the intrinsic wonders of geology, are gradually supplanting by solid truths the uncertain speculations which beset the subject in its infancy. geologists now aim to imitate, as far as possible, the conditions of nature, and to produce her results; they are approaching more and more to the domain of physics; and i trust the day will soon come when we shall interlace our friendly arms across the common boundary of our sciences, and pursue our respective tasks in a spirit of mutual helpfulness, encouragement, and good-will. footnotes: [a] referred to in the introduction. [b] i merely use this as an illustration; the deposition may have really been due to sediment carried down by rivers. but the action must have been periodic, and the powder duplex. [c] 'transactions of the geological society,' ser. ii. vol. iii. p. . [d] in a letter to sir charles lyell, dated from the cape of good hope, february , , sir john herschel writes as follows:--"if rocks have been so heated as to allow of a commencement of crystallization, that is to say, if they have been heated to a point at which the particles can begin to move amongst themselves, or at least on their own axes, some general law must then determine the position in which these particles will rest on cooling. probably that position will have some relation to the direction in which the heat escapes. now when all or a majority of particles of the same nature have a general tendency to one position, that must of course determine a cleavage plane." [e] omitted here. [f] while to my mind the evidence in proof of pressure seems perfectly irresistible, i by no means assert that the manner in which i stated it is incapable of modification. all that i deem important is the fact that pressure has been exerted; and provided this remain firm, the fate of any minor portion of the evidence by which it is here established is of comparatively little moment. [g] i have usually softened the wax by warming it, kneaded it with the fingers, and pressed it between thick plates of glass previously wetted. at the ordinary summer-temperature the wax is soft, and tears rather than cleaves; on this account i cool my compressed specimens in a mixture of pounded ice and salt, and when thus cooled they split beautifully. [h] it is scarcely necessary to say that if the mass were squeezed equally in _all_ directions no laminated structure could be produced; it must have room to yield in a lateral direction. [i] an eminent authority informs me that he believes these surfaces of weak cohesion to be due to the interposition of films of graphite, and not to any tendency of the iron itself to become fibrous: this of course does not in any way militate against the theory which i have ventured to propose. all that the theory requires is surfaces of weak cohesion, however produced, and a change of shape of such surfaces consequent on pressure or rolling. index. Æggischhorn, , . agassiz on glacier motion, , . air-bubbles, , . aletsch glacier, . -- --, bedding and structure observed on, , . aletschhorn, cloud iridescences on, , . allalein glacier, . alpine climbers, suggestions to, . alps, winter temperature of, . altmann's theory of glacier motion, . ancient glaciers, action of, , . arveiron, arch of, , . atmosphere, permeability of, to radiant heat, , - . atmospheric refraction, . avalanche at saas, . --, sound of, explained, , . bakewell, mr., on motion of glacier des bossons, . balmat, auguste, , . bedding, lines of, . bennen, johann joseph, , . bergschrund, , . "blower," glacier, . blue colour of ice, . -- -- -- snow, , , , . -- -- -- water, , , - . blueness of sky, , , - . blue veins, , . boiling-point, influence of pressure on, . -- -- at different altitudes, , , , , , , . bois, glacier des, , , . brévent, ascent of, . brocken, spirit of the, , . bubbles, in ice, , , , . -- in snow, , . capillaries of glacier, - . cave of ice, . cavities in ice, , , . cells in ice, , see bubbles. chamouni, . --, difficulties at, , . -- in winter, , . charmoz, view from, , , . charpentier's theory of glacier motion, . chemical action, rays producing, . chromatic effects, . cleavage, . -- and stratification distinct, , , . -- caused by pressure, , . --, contortions of, , . -- of crystals and slate rocks, lecture on, . -- of glaciers, , , - . -- -- ice, , . -- -- slate, &c., , . "cleft station," the, , . clouds, formation and dissipation of, , , , . --, iridescent, , , , , . -- on mont blanc, . -- on monte rosa, . --, winter, at montanvert, . colour answers to pitch, . colours of sky, . --, subjective, . comet, discovery of, . compass affected by rocks, . crepitation of glaciers, , . crevasses, (_marginal_, ; _transverse_, ; _longitudinal_, ), . --, first opening of, , . crumples in ice, , , . crystallization of ice, . crystals, cleavage of, , . -- of snow, , , . deafness, artificial, . differential motion, . -- --, dr. whewell on, . diffraction, explanation of, . dirt-bands, , , , , , . -- --, maps of, , , . -- --, forbes on, . -- --, source of, , . disks in ice, planes of, , , . dollfuss, m., hut of, , . dôme du goûter, , . donny, m., on cohesion of liquids, . echoes, theory of, . eismeer, the, , . expedition of , oberland and tyrol, - . -- -- , montanvert and mer de glace, - . -- -- , oberland, valais, and monte rosa district, - . -- -- , winter, chamouni, and mer de glace, - . faraday, prof., on regelation, . faulberg, cave of, . fée, glacier of, . fend, . finsteraarhorn, , . --, summit of, . flowers, liquid, in ice, , - , . forbes, prof., comparison of glacier to river, , . -- --, on glacier motion, , , . -- --, on magnetism of rocks, . -- --, on veined structure, . -- --, viscous theory, , , , . freezing, planes of, , , . frost-bites, . frozen flowers, , . furgge glacier, structure crossing strata on, , - . gases, passage of heat through, . géant, col du, , . géant, glacier du, - , , - . --, measurements on, - . --, motion of, , . --, white ice seams of, , . gebatsch alp, . --, glacier of, , . geneva, lake of, , - . glaciers, ancient, action of, , . -- "blower," . --, capillaries of, - . --, crepitation of, , . -- d'écoulement, . -- de léchaud, see léchaud. -- des bois, , , . -- du géant, see géant. -- du talèfre, see talèfre. --, groovings on, , , . --, measurement of, . -- motion, , - , . -- --, earlier theories of, - . -- --, pressure theory of, . --, origin of, - . -- réservoirs, . --, ridges on, , . --, structure of, , , see veined structure. -- tables, , . --, veins of, , , . --, wrinkles on, . goethe's theory of colours, . görner glacier, , . görner grat, , . görnerhorn glacier, , . grand plateau, . grands mulets, , . graun, . grimsel, the, , . grindelwald, lower glacier of, , , , . groovings on glaciers, , , . grüner's theory of glacier motion, . guides of chamouni, rules of, , , . -- lost in crevasse, . guyot, m., on veined structure, . hailstones, conical, . --, spherical, . handeck, waterfall of, . hasli, valley of, , . heat and light, , , . -- -- work, . --, luminous, - . --, mechanical equivalent of, . --, obscure, . --, passage through gases, - . --, radiant, . -- --, permeability of atmosphere to, , - . --, radiated, . --, specific, . heisse platte, the, . hirst, mr., measurements on mer de glace, , , , , , , . hochjoch, . höchste spitze of monte rosa, . hopkins, mr., on crevasses, , . hôtel des neufchâtelois, , , . hugi on glacier motion, . huxley, mr., on glacier capillaries, . -- --, on water-cells, , . hydrogen, effect on rays, . ice, blue colour of, . -- cascades, , , . -- cave, . -- cells, , see bubbles. -- cones, . --, cracking of, , . --, crystallization of, . --, effects of pressure on, , . --, experiments on, . --, friability of, . --, liquefaction of, , . --, liquid flowers in, - , . --, thomson's theory of plasticity of, . --, softening of, . --, structure of, , . --, temperature of, , . --, white, seams of, , , . illumination of trees, &c., at sunrise and sunset, , . interference rings, . -- spectra, , , , . iridescent clouds, , , , , . jardin, the, , . joch, the passage of a, . joule, m., on heat and work, . jungfrau, the, . --, evening near, . laminated structure, , , . léchaud, glacier de, , . -- -- --, motion of, , - . lenticular structure, . light and heat, , , . --, undulation theory of, . linth, m. escher de la, . liquefaction of ice, , . liquid flowers, , - , . magnetic force, . magnetism of rocks, , , . märjelen see, , . mastic, brücke's solution of, . mattmark see, . maximum motion, locus of point of, , . mayenwand, summit of, , , . mayer, on connexion of heat with work, . measurement of glaciers, . mer de glace, - , - , . -- -- --, dirt-bands of the, (seen from charmoz, , ; from cleft station, , ; from the flégère, ). -- -- --, map of, , . -- -- --, motion of, - . -- -- --, winter motion of, , . -- -- --, winter visit to, , - . milk, cause of blueness of, . mirage, . montanvert, , , . -- in winter, . mont blanc, first ascent of, . -- --, second ascent of, . -- --, summit of, , . monte rosa, first ascent of, . -- --, second ascent of, . -- --, summit of, , . -- --, western glacier of, , . -- --, zones of colour, , . moraines, . -- of talèfre, , , , . motion of glaciers, , - , . moulins, , . --, depth of, . --, motion of, . necker, letter from, . neufchâtelois, hôtel des, , , . névé ice, , . oberland, the, visited, - ; - ; . oils, effect of films of, . person, m., on softening of ice, . pistol fired on summit of mont blanc, , , . pitch of musical sounds, . planes of freezing, , , . plasticity of ice, thomson's theory of, . polar forces, . pressure and cleavage, see cleavage. -- and liquefaction of ice, , . -- -- veined structure, ; - , - , , - . --, effects of, on boiling point, . -- -- -- -- ice, , . -- theory of glacier motion, . radiant heat, , . rays, calorific, . --, transmission of, . redness of sunset, . refraction on lake of geneva, . regelation, , . reichenbach fall, . rendu, comparison of glacier to river, . --, measurements of glaciers, . --, notice of regelation, . -- on conversion of snow into ice, . -- on ductility, . -- on law of circulation, . -- on motion of glaciers, . -- on veined structure, . -- theory of glaciers, . rhone at lake of geneva, , . -- glacier, , , , . -- --, chromatic effects, , . ridges on glaciers, , . riffelhorn, the, , - . rings, interference, . -- round sun, , . ripples deduced from rings, . ripple theory, forbes on, . -- -- of veined structure, . -- waves, movement of, . river and glacier, analogies between, - , ; . rocks, magnetism of, , , . saas, avalanche at, . sabine, gen., on veined structure, . sand-cones, . saussure's theory of glacier motion, , . scheuchzer's theory of glacier motion, . seams, white, in ice, , , , . sedgwick, prof., on cleavage, - , , . séracs, , . serpentine, boulders of, . shadows, coloured, . sharpe, on slaty cleavage, , . silberhorn, the, . sky, blueness of, , , . --, colours of, explained, . slate, cleavage of, , . snow, blue colour of, , , . -- crystals, , , . --, dry, . -- line, , . --, perpetual, . --, sound of breaking, . -- storm, sound through, . --, whiteness of, explained, . sorby, mr., on slaty cleavage, , . sound in a vacuum, . --, intensity of, . --, rate of motion of, . spectra, interference, , , , . spectrum, rays of, . stars, twinkling of, , . stelvio, pass of, . storm on grands mulets, . -- -- mer de glace, . strahleck, glacier of, , . --, passage of, , . strata of ice, . stratification of névé, . -- -- slate, , . structure, doubts regarding, , , . -- of ice, , , see veined structure. subjective colours, . summary of glacier theory, . sun, rings round, , . sunrise at chamouni, . -- and sunset, illumination of trees, &c., at, , . sunset, gorgeous, . tables, glacier, , - . tacul, motion of ice-wall at, . talèfre, glacier of, , - , . --, moraines of, , , , . temperature, winter, of alps, . theodolite, use of, . theory of cleavage, . thermometer at jardin, . -- buried on mont blanc, . -- on finsteraarhorn, . thomson, prof., theory of plasticity, . -- -- -- -- regelation, . twinkling of stars, , . tyrol, the, . undulation theory of light, . unteraar, glacier of, , , . vacuum in ice-cavities, , . veined structure, (_marginal_, ; _transverse_, ; _longitudinal_, ), , , . -- --, experiments on, , . -- -- caused by pressure, - , - , , - . -- -- crossing strata, - . -- --, forbes on, . -- --, gen. sabine on, . -- --, m. guyot on, . -- --, ripple theory of, . viesch, glacier of, , . viscosity, , , , , . water absorbs red rays, . --, blue colour of, ; , , . --, rippling waves of, . waves, frozen, , . --, interference of, . -- motion, weber on, , . -- of sound, . wengern alp, . wetterhorn, echoes of, . white ice, seams of, , , , , . whiteness of ice, , , . winter motion of mer de glace, . wrinkles on glacier, . young, thomas, theory of light, . _spottiswoode & co. printers, new-street square, london._ works by john tyndall. fragments of science: a series of detached essays, addresses, and reviews. vols. crown vo. _s._ vol. i.--the constitution of nature--radiation--on radiant heat in relation to the colour and chemical constitution of bodies--new chemical reactions produced by light--on dust and disease--voyage to algeria to observe the eclipse--niagara--the parallel roads of glen roy--alpine sculpture--recent experiments on fog-signals--on the study of physics--on crystalline and slaty cleavage--on paramagnetic and diamagnetic forces--physical basis of solar chemistry--elementary magnetism--on force--contributions to molecular physics--life and letters of faraday--the copley medalist of --the copley medalist of --death by lightning--science and the spirits. vol. ii.--reflections on prayer and natural law--miracles and special providences--on prayer as a form of physical energy--vitality--matter and force--scientific materialism--an address to students--scientific use of the imagination--the belfast address--apology for the belfast address--the rev. james martineau and the belfast address--fermentation, and its bearings on surgery and medicine--spontaneous generation--science and man--professor virchow and evolution--the electric light. new fragments. crown vo. _s._ _d._ contents: the sabbath--goethe's 'farbenlehre'--atoms, molecules and ether waves--count rumford--louis pasteur, his life and labours--the rainbow and its congeners--address delivered at the birkbeck institution on october , --thomas young--life in the alps--about common water--personal recollections of thomas carlyle--on unveiling the statue of thomas carlyle--on the origin, propagation, and prevention of phthisis--old alpine jottings--a morning on alp lusgen. lectures on sound. with frontispiece of fog-syren, and other woodcuts and diagrams in the text. crown vo. _s._ _d._ heat, a mode of motion. with woodcuts and diagrams. crown vo. _s._ lectures on light delivered in the united states in and . with portrait, lithographic plate, and diagrams. crown vo. _s._ essays on the floating matter of the air in relation to putrefaction and infection. with woodcuts. crown vo. _s._ _d._ researches on diamagnetism and magne-crystallic action; including the question of diamagnetic polarity. crown vo. _s._ notes of a course of nine lectures on light, delivered at the royal institution of great britain, . crown vo. _s._ _d._ notes of a course of seven lectures on electrical phenomena and theories, delivered at the royal institution of great britain, . crown vo. _s._ _d._ lessons in electricity at the royal institution, - . with woodcuts and diagrams. crown vo. _s._ _d._ faraday as a discoverer. crown vo. _s._ _d._ london: longmans, green, & co. transcriber's notes. the titles from the list of illustrations were copied to the captions of the figures that otherwise had no caption, for the convenience of the reader. the "sidenotes" in the main body of the text were originally page headers. they have been moved to a place more fitting for the flow, typically to the head of the appropriate paragraph. spelling variants where there was no obviously preferred choice were retained. these include: "cleft-station" and "cleft station," plus variants; "cima di jazzi" and "cima de jazzi;" "fanlike" and "fan-like;" "firewood" and "fire-wood;" "flégère" and "flegère;" "foreshorten(ed)" and "fore-shorten(ing);" "generalisation" and "generalization;" "judgment" and "judgement;" "kumm" and "kumme," which may be the same as "kamm;" "lime light" and "lime-light;" "realize" and "realise(d);" "recognise" and "recognize(d);" "rearranged" and "re-arranged;" "refrozen" and "re-frozen;" "self-same" and "selfsame;" "semifluid" and "semi-fluid;" "sundial" and "sun-dial;" "trift" and "trifti," probably the same glacier; "weatherworn" and "weather-worn." in the latin- encoded text version, the oe-ligature was replaced by the two separate characters, "oe." changed "hockjoch" to "hochjoch" on page xi: "passage of the hochjoch." changed " " to " " on page xvii, as the page number for chapter . changed "icefall" to "ice-fall" on page xxvi: "part of ice-fall." changed "havresack" to "haversack" on page : "my waterproof haversack." changed "afflùent" to "affluent" on page : "finsteraar affluent." changed " °. " to " . °" on page . changed "gulleys" to "gullies" on page : "fissures and gullies." changed "snowstorm" to "snow-storm" in the sidenote from page : "sound through the snow-storm." changed "neutralise" to "neutralize" on page : "oppose and neutralize." moved the semi-colon inside the double quotes on page , around: "corresponding points." changed "thompson's" to "thomson's" in the chapter heading on page : "thomson's theory." changed "last" to "least" in the footnote to page : "at least as anxious." changed "i" to "it" on page : "it was also." "die gletscher der jetzzeit" on page should probably be "die gletscher der jetztzeit," but was not changed. inserted a comma in the index entry for "aletsch glacier:" "-- --, bedding." inserted a comma in the index entry for "dirt-bands:" "-- --, maps of." changed "goutér" to "goûter" in the index entry for "dôme du goûter." changed "hoch-joch" to "hochjoch" in its index entry. inserted second em-dash in the index entry for "mont blanc:" "-- --, second ascent of." inserted a comma in the index entry for "rays:" "--, transmission of." inserted a comma in the index entry for "strahleck:" "--, passage of." rescue dog of the high pass _jim kjelgaard_ author of "swamp cat," etc. _illustrated by_ edward shenton jim kjelgaard has long wanted to tell the story of the gallant dogs who have gone out with the monks of st. bernard hospice to rescue travelers lost in the deep snows of the swiss mountain passes. unable to find the facts, he decided to reconstruct the tale as he feels it might have been. the result is this very moving story of a simple mountain boy and his devoted dog. * * * * * franz halle felt he was worthless because he could not manage book learning, but his schoolmaster and the village pastor knew that the boy had a priceless knowledge all his own. the kindly priest secured work for franz at near-by st. bernard hospice, helping a gentle giant of a man who made it possible for him to keep his beloved alpine mastiff, caesar, although the huge animal refused to earn his keep, even by turning the spit. when the scarcity of food forced caesar's reluctant banishment, franz--who had joined the monks in their daily patrol of the dangerous passes--proved that where even he, with all his rare knowledge of the ways of the blizzards, might fail, a dog could detect a man buried under an avalanche! so franz and his brave helper initiated the rescue work of the st. bernard dogs that was to become famous throughout the world. dodd, mead & company $ . swamp cat _jim kjelgaard_ author of "double challenge," etc. _illustrated by_ edward shenton an outstanding writer about the outdoors gives us two heroes in this fascinating book. one is a young boy who lives alone most happily on the edge of a swamp, earning his living from it. the other is, astonishingly, a black house cat. at least, frosty started off as a city kitten, but by the time he proves his ability to survive the perils of the swamp wilderness and decides to share the boy's cabin with him, he is as much a part of his rugged environment as the deer, the horned owls, and the muskrats. the boy decides to stock the swamp with muskrats, without realizing that there are other enemies besides the predatory swamp creatures in this location where ancient family feuds have been allowed to hang on. there is the very feel of the wild country in all its moods, death-dealing or life-giving, and a wonderful closeness to the sensitive feelings and seesaw development of a boy. edward shenton's pictures are wonderful, as always. dodd, mead & company [illustration: jim kjelgaard] jim kjelgaard was born in new york city. happily enough, he was still in the pre-school age when his father decided to move the family to the pennsylvania mountains. there young jim grew up among some of the best hunting and fishing in the united states. he says: "if i had pursued my scholastic duties as diligently as i did deer, trout, grouse, squirrels, etc., i might have had better report cards!" jim kjelgaard has worked at various jobs--trapper, teamster, guide, surveyor, factory worker and laborer. when he was in the late twenties he decided to become a full-time writer. he has succeeded in his wish. he has published several hundred short stories and articles and quite a few books for young people. his hobbies are hunting, fishing, dogs, and questing for new stories. he tells us: "story hunts have led me from the atlantic to the pacific and from the arctic circle to mexico city. stories, like gold, are where you find them. you may discover one three thousand miles from home or, as in _the spell of the white sturgeon_, right on your own door step." and he adds: "i am married to a very beautiful girl and have a teen-age daughter. both of them order me around in a shameful fashion, but i can still boss the dog! we live in phoenix, arizona." dodd, mead & company rescue dog of the high pass _books by jim kjelgaard_ big red rebel siege forest patrol buckskin brigade chip, the dam builder fire hunter irish red kalak of the ice a nose for trouble snow dog trailing trouble wild trek the explorations of pere marquette the spell of the white sturgeon outlaw red the coming of the mormons cracker barrel trouble shooter the lost wagon lion hound trading jeff and his dog desert dog haunt fox the oklahoma land run double challenge swamp cat the wild horse roundup rescue dog of the high pass rescue dog of the high pass by jim kjelgaard [illustration] _illustrated by edward shenton_ dodd, mead & company, new york, +----------------------------------------------------------+ | transcriber's note: | | | | extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the | | u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed. | | | +----------------------------------------------------------+ © by jim kjelgaard all rights reserved no part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher library of congress catalog card number: - printed in the united states of america by the cornwall press, inc., cornwall, n. y. _to alice bedford_ contents . the school . shame . the greedy villager . night mission . the "maronnier" . father benjamin . the hospice . a free day . the blizzard . the house of the dead . caesar's sentence . jean's story . caesar's feat . the message illustrations _then a dog appeared, a half dozen bounds behind the madly-racing fox_ _from the topmost eminence of little sister, he had viewed a breath-taking array of other peaks_ _caesar stayed just far enough behind to avoid stepping on the tail of either ski_ _he saw franz and caesar.... "hello, fellow travelers!" he called cheerfully. "i am father benjamin."_ _presently the boy understood.... the hospice must be visible from as great a distance as possible_ _suddenly, caesar left franz's side, bounded ahead and seized the priest's habit in his great jaws_ _but it was not until past noon of the following day, during a lull in the storm, that anton did return_ _suddenly franz remembered when caesar had found emil gottschalk buried in the snow_ _the characters and situations in this book are wholly fictional and imaginative: they do not portray and are not intended to portray any actual persons or parties._ rescue dog of the high pass : the school sitting on his assigned portion of the backless wooden school bench, fourteen-year-old franz halle tried earnestly to concentrate on the latin text before him. he read, "_deinde rex perterritus herculi hunc laborem, graviorem, imposuit. augeas_--" very interesting, he thought, and doubtless very important. professor luttman, who taught the school at dornblatt, said so, and professor luttman was both wise and educated. franz himself had heard the village men say that he could discuss the classics, politics, history, higher mathematics, astronomy and the latest method of bloodletting as a cure for the ague, at endless length and most thoroughly. franz tried again. "_deinde rex_--" surely it meant something or professor luttman never would have assigned it. but what? if only it were a squirrel track in the snow, a chamois doe trying to lure an eagle away from its kid, a trout in the cold little stream that foamed past dornblatt, or an uncertain patch of snow that was sure to become an avalanche, it would be simplicity itself. but written words were never simple, not even when they were written in the german that franz could read. franz made one more manful effort. then he gave up and devoted himself to looking through the window on the south side of the school. the mighty birches that had once grown there, and that had been so lovely to see when spring clothed their branches in tightly curled new leaves that looked oddly like baby lambs, or when the wind set trees and leaves to dancing, had been felled for half a furlong down the mountainside. franz smiled wistfully. furlong--furrow long--the distance a team of oxen could pull a plow without tiring. now there was a word he understood perfectly. not that there were any gardens a furlong in length around dornblatt, for not even the strongest oxen could pull a plow through solid rock. some of the villagers had even carried dirt, basket by basket, to cover the rocks and form more garden space. vaguely it occurred to franz that there was something he had been doing or should do, but he had forgotten what it was. he continued to look out of the window. the village spread below him, sturdy log buildings with living quarters for humans on the second floor and stables for the cattle beneath. the villages lined the narrow path that trailed on up the mountain and, eventually, into the mighty alps. here and there was a garden patch, for where there was so little land to cultivate, not even one square foot must be wasted. but most of the gardens were beyond the limits of dornblatt itself. summer pasturage for the village cattle, and the fields where the villagers cut most of their hay, were far above timber line. franz thought again of the birch trees that had been and a twinge of remorse stirred his heart. it was right and just to fell trees, but only when timber was needed for new buildings or wood was required for the village stoves. it was wrong to destroy so many beautiful birches simply because one greedy man had the power to gratify his greed. the land upon which the school was built had belonged to emil gottschalk, the only man in dornblatt who had managed to acquire any wealth. it was a foregone conclusion that a site for the schoolhouse would be bought from emil--and this was the only location that he offered. since practically everybody else in dornblatt was in emil's debt, none had dared protest vehemently even though all knew that the schoolhouse, at the very foot of a steep and almost forestless mountain, was directly in the path of an avalanche and, sooner or later, would be destroyed by one. emil had prepared for that, too. after selling the site for a school to the citizens of dornblatt, he had proceeded to sell them the birches. every man in the village had helped cut and trim the trees, and every horse and ox team had been pressed into service to drag the trimmed trunks to the north side of the school. there the men, including professor luttman, had again fallen to and erected a breastwork that probably would stop anything except a major avalanche. so dornblatt had its school, but at three times the cost in money and labor that would have been necessary had any of a half dozen other sites that were available--and out of the path of avalanches--been selected. franz straightened suddenly and grew tense. a squirrel had emerged from the far side of the clearing where the birches had been and was crossing to the near side. franz's eyes widened, for this promised both stark drama and excitement. squirrels lived among the trees, and almost always they were safe as long as they stayed there. but almost invariably they were doomed when they left their arboreal haunts. obviously not alarmed, for it was not running fast, the squirrel came a quarter of the way into the clearing. franz knitted puzzled brows. latin was a mystery to him, but almost without exception the creatures of the forest were an open book. the squirrel presented a puzzle, for the very fact that it was not running fast proved that it had not been frightened from the forest. it was no baby but an adult, therefore it was acquainted with danger. what had prompted it to risk this foolhardy journey? as unexpectedly as a sudden wind can whirl a spiral of snow into the air, the squirrel's leisurely pace changed to wild flight. franz ceased pondering whys and wherefores and lost himself in watching. from the same side of the clearing where the squirrel had first appeared, a fox emerged from the forest. but rather than choosing a leisurely pace, the fox was running so furiously that it seemed little more than a streak of fur. franz watched with pounding heart as the animal, whose every leap equalled twenty of the short-legged squirrel's frantic lunges, overtook its quarry. there was just one possible end, the fox would catch and kill the squirrel before the latter was able to reach the safety of the trees on the other side of the clearing. then both passed out of franz's field of vision and, crane his neck as he would, he could no longer see the chase. he felt a pang of disappointment. he could find no life in a latin text, but life in its fullest was represented by the fox and squirrel chase. a split second later, to his vast astonishment, he saw the fox streaking back toward that part of the forest from which it had emerged. since no squirrel dangled from its jaws, it was evident that the fox had failed to catch its quarry. then a dog appeared, a half dozen bounds behind the terrified and madly-racing fox. the dog was light tawny in color, with no dark markings. about thirty-two inches high at the shoulder and six feet from tip of its black nose to the end of its tail, it weighed well over a hundred pounds. it was short-haired, square-faced, long-legged, and its tail was curled over its back. lean of paunch, its shoulders were massive and blocky. even had it been standing still, instead of running, its great power and strength would have been evident. [illustration: _then a dog appeared, a half dozen bounds behind the madly-racing fox_] franz smiled. the dog, an alpine mastiff, was his own caesar. three years ago he'd found it, a whimpering puppy, on the refuse heap where emil gottschalk had tossed it to die. inch by inch, he had nursed it back to health. he had learned a little of its history, and its roots went very deep. originating in asia, probably tibet, many thousands of years ago, alpine mastiffs were brought to asia minor by silk merchants. some fell into the hands of the early romans, who used them as war dogs. when the romans crossed the alps, they took a number of these mastiffs with them. some became hurt, or a female might give birth to puppies. these were left behind, simply because the marching columns could not afford to be slowed by them. and so, after thousands of years, the alpine mastiff found in the swiss alps a land very like the tibet of its forefathers. caesar had an almost uncanny ability to adapt himself to the mountains. his huge paws supported him where another dog would have been hopelessly mired. at the height of winter, with franz on skis and caesar trailing alongside or behind, the two went where they willed and always safely. should the snow be soft, caesar plowed his own path with his tremendous shoulders and never experienced the least difficulty. even when all the rest of his body sank out of sight, franz could always tell where he was by looking at the tip of his tail. let the wind blow as it might, and alter the outward appearance of the snow as it would, caesar still knew the safe trails. he had an inborn foreknowledge of impending avalanches and a feeling for unsafe ice. when the brothers karsmin were caught in an avalanche and buried beneath seven feet of snow, caesar found them when all humans failed. franz was satisfied that the dog had heard their hearts beating. for all that, dornblatt had no extra food for dogs. franz never would have been allowed to keep caesar had the animal not proven his worth. when the snow lay too deep for any horse or ox to venture forth, it was caesar who dragged in the firewood. his back could carry as heavy a burden as two strong men were able to bear, so, even though franz was the only human who could handle him, caesar earned his way. professor luttman said, "you will please translate the assignment." franz, whose body was present but whose spirit had flown to help caesar chase the fox, paid no attention. then he was rudely jerked back into the hall of learning. "i am talking to you, franz," professor luttman said. "me? oh! yes, sir," franz stammered. "proceed," professor luttman said. "well--you see, sir--" professor luttman's kindly, studious face was suddenly very weary. "did you even hear me?" he asked. "no, sir," franz admitted. "very well, i'll repeat. translate the assigned lesson." "i--i cannot do it, sir." "why not?" professor luttman asked. "i do not know it, sir," franz confessed. hertha bittner, who was always able to do any lesson perfectly, giggled. her laugh was echoed by the other students. professor luttman looked directly at franz. "i fear," he said sorrowfully, "that your scholarly instincts and abilities leave much to be desired. for two years i have tried earnestly to teach you, and i question whether you have yet mastered the simplest portion of any subject at all. it is my considered opinion that your time will be far more constructively spent if you devote it to helping your father. will you be so good as to go home and tell him what i have said?" "yes, sir." franz left the schoolroom, his cheeks burning. caesar's meeting him at the door lifted none of his shame and embarrassment, but did provide solace. laying his hand on the big mastiff's neck, franz struck directly away from the school. at least, he could take the long way home. : shame franz left by the north door. he began to run at once, with caesar keeping effortless pace beside him. with its base only a few rods from the schoolhouse, the mountain on the north side rose so steeply that the youngsters of dornblatt used it as a practice site for their first lessons in mountain climbing. there were numerous sheer bluffs, and such soil as existed was thickly sprinkled with boulders that varied from the size of a man's head to the size of a dornblatt house. shame was the spur that made franz run, for as he sped between the school and the great log and earth barrier that the men of dornblatt hoped would keep a major avalanche from crushing the school, it seemed to him that every pupil and professor luttman must be looking at him and jeering. he imagined the superior smile on hertha bittner's pretty lips, the scornful curve of willi resnick's mouth, the sardonic contempt that would be reflected in hermann gottschalk's cold eyes, and in his mind he heard professor luttman say, "there goes franz halle, the failure! there goes one too stupid to understand the true value of learning! look upon him, so that you may never be like him!" franz's cheeks flamed and his ears were on fire. he might have chosen not to attend the school and everyone would have understood. but of his own free will he had become a student, and by professor luttman's order he was ignominiously expelled. nobody in dornblatt could ever live such a thing down. then franz and caesar were across the clearing and back in the hardwood forest. franz slowed to a walk, for the great trees that grew all about had always been his friends and they did not forsake him now. they formed a shield that no scornful eyes could penetrate, and as long as he was in the forest, he would know peace. his own practiced eye found a big sycamore that was half-rotted through, and he marked it for future firewood. the sycamore was sure to fall anyway, and in falling it would certainly crush some of the trees around it. but it could be felled in such a fashion that it would hurt nothing, and a healthy young tree would grow in its place. franz stole a moment to wonder at himself. other dornblatt boys and girls, some of whom were much younger than he, had no trouble learning professor luttman's assigned lessons. why should that which was written in books be so hopelessly beyond his grasp while that which was written in the forest and mountains was always so easy to read? he spied a squirrel's nest, a cluster of leaves high in a birch tree, and beneath the same tree he found a crushed and rounded set that meant a hare had crouched there. a jay tilted saucily on a limb and peered at franz and caesar without scolding. jays never shrieked at him, franz thought, as they did at almost everyone else, and he was sure that was because they knew he was their friend. the two friends wandered on, and when they reached a little open space among the trees, franz halted to tilt his head and turn his eyes heavenward. high above him towered a rock-ribbed peak, so tall that even in summer its upper reaches were snowbound. franz stood a moment, contented just to look and grow happier in the looking. unknown to his father, or to anyone else in dornblatt, he had climbed that peak. little sister it was called, to distinguish it from an adjoining peak known as big sister. carrying only his ropes and alpenstock, he was accompanied by the mastiff until blocked by a wall that the dog could not climb and up which franz could not rope him. he had ordered caesar to wait and gone on alone. from the topmost eminence of little sister, he had viewed a breath-taking array of other peaks. but there was infinitely more than just a view. franz had never told even father paul, dornblatt's kindly little parish priest, how, as he stood on the summit of little sister, he had felt very close to heaven--he, simple franz halle who could not even get ahead in school. he had never told anyone and he had no intention of telling. now, as he looked up at little sister, remembering that wonderful feeling, franz became almost wholly at peace. the school seemed very far away, part of a different world. this, and this alone, was real. it seemed to franz that he always heard music, with never a jarring or discordant note, whenever he was in the forest or climbing the mountains. [illustration: _from the topmost eminence of little sister, he had viewed a breath-taking array of other peaks_] presently he reached another downsloping gulley and halted on its near rim to look across. on the far rim was a farm that differed from the houses in dornblatt because quarters for the people, a neat chalet, were separate from the building that housed the stock. it was the home of the widow geiser and had been the best farm anywhere around dornblatt. then, three years ago, jean geiser had gone into the mountains to hunt chamois. he had never returned, and ever since the widow geiser had been hard put to make ends meet. her two sons, aged four and six, were little help and no woman should even try doing all the work that a place such as this demanded. the widow geiser still tried, but it was rumored that she was heavily in debt to emil gottschalk. caesar pricked his ears up and looked at the goat shed. following the dog's gaze, franz saw a brown and white goat, one of the widow's small flock, come from the rear door, squeeze beneath the enclosing pole fence and make its way into a hay meadow. it stalked more like a wild animal than a domestic creature and its obvious destination was the forest. should it get there, it would be almost impossible to capture the animal again. franz turned to his dog. "take her back, caesar." silent as a drifting cloud, for all his size, caesar left franz and set a course that would intercept the fleeing goat. he came in front of the escaping animal. the goat halted and stamped a threatening hoof. franz almost saw caesar grin. the mighty dog could break this silly animal's spine with one chop of his jaws, if he wished to do so, but he was no killer. he advanced on the goat, that tried and failed to break around him. then he began edging it back toward the paddock. when the goat squeezed under the dog leaped over and continued to herd the escapee toward the pen. laughing, franz ran forward and arrived at the goat pen just in time to meet the widow geiser, who came from her chalet. despite the man's work she had been doing, the widow geiser was still attractive enough to furnish a lively subject for discussion among dornblatt's unattached bachelors. if the fact that she was also proprietress of a good farm detracted nothing from her charms, that was natural enough. now she asked, "what's the matter, franz?" "caesar and i were walking in the forest when we saw one of your goats trying to escape. i ordered caesar to drive it back." "thank you, franz. hereafter i must keep that one tethered. she has tried to run away so many times. won't you come in for some bread and milk?" "i thank you, but the hour grows late and i must turn homeward." "the sun is lowering," the widow geiser agreed. "thank you again, franz, and come again." "i shall look forward to it." with caesar padding beside him, franz started down the gulley toward dornblatt and as he did so, his uneasiness mounted. he had delayed meeting his father for as long as possible, and now he admitted to himself that he feared to face him. but the meeting could no longer be postponed. franz made his way through dornblatt to his father's house. caesar, who preferred to remain outside, regardless of the weather, curled up in front of the cattle shed. franz tried to be resolute as he climbed the stairs to the living quarters, but, once at the door, he halted uncertainly. then, taking his courage in both hands, he entered the single room that served the halles as living-dining-bedroom. the ceiling and wall boards were scrubbed until they shone; the floor was of red tile. there was a big fireplace with a wooden chimney and a great, gleaming-white porcelain stove bound by brass rings. spotless pots and pans hung from wooden pegs. a table and seven straight-backed wooden chairs occupied the center of the room. at the far end, where lowered curtains might separate them, were the beds where slept franz's father and mother, his four young sisters and himself. franz's mother sat silently in the chimney corner, and the fact that she was not doing something with her hands was all that was necessary to prove that much was amiss. his four overawed sisters hovered at the far end, near the beds. franz halle the elder met his son. six-feet-two, storm and wind and the mountains that hemmed him in had written their own tales on his wrinkled face. by the same token, the very vigor of the life he'd led had left him straight as a sapling and endowed him with iron muscles. his clear blue eyes, gentle for the most part, now glinted like the sun slanting from glacier ice. he said, "professor luttman came to see me!" "yes, sir," franz answered meekly. his father demanded, "have you nothing else to say?" "i'm sorry," franz answered in a low voice. "once i hoped you would be a farmer," the elder halle said, "so i set you to plowing. i found the plow abandoned and the oxen standing in their yokes while you chased butterflies. then i thought you would be a herdsman, but i found the cattle lowing to be milked while you roamed the forest with your dog. i apprenticed you to a cobbler, and you attached the heels where the soles should have been. i asked a lacemaker to teach you his trade, and in one day you ruined enough material to do away with a week's profit. i decided you must surely be a scholar, and now this!" franz said humbly, "i think i am not meant to be a scholar." "is there anything you are meant to be? the one task you do, and do well, is chop wood with your ax." franz brightened a little. "i like to chop wood." "may a chopper of wood be a future family man of dornblatt, where everyone chops his own?" his father demanded. "think, franz!" "yes, sir," franz said. there was a knock at the door and the elder halle opened it to admit father paul. for all his lack of stature, the little priest somehow took instant command. "i have come to help," he said, "for i, too, have heard." "it is past your help," the elder halle told him sadly. "my only son seems destined to become a nobody." father paul smiled. "despair not, my friend. you'll feel better in the morning. i think the boy has not yet been guided into the way he should go and i have a suggestion. at the very summit of st. bernard pass there is a hospice. it was erected by the revered bernard de menthon, many centuries past, and its sole purpose is to succor distressed travelers who must cross the alps. i think i may very well find a place there for franz." "as a novice of the augustinian order?" the elder halle asked doubtfully. "not quite." father paul smiled again, at franz this time. "novices must clutter their minds with latin and any number of similar subjects. he may be a lay worker, or _maronnier_. would you like that, franz?" "oh, yes!" franz's soaring imagination sped him out of dornblatt to the fabled hospice of st. bernard. "will he go now?" the elder halle asked. "hardly," father paul replied, "for it takes time to arrange such matters. he may very well go next summer. meanwhile, i know you will find some useful occupation for him." franz's father said, "he can cut wood." : the greedy villager franz sank his razor-sharp ax in the raw stump of a new-cut birch and used both hands to close his jacket against an icy wind that whistled down from the heights. he looked up at the cloud-stabbing peak of little sister and smiled. yesterday, the snow line had been exactly even with a pile of tumbled boulders that, according to some of the more imaginative residents of dornblatt, resembled an old man with a pipe in his mouth. today, it was a full fifty yards farther down the mountain. caesar, who never cared how cold it was, sat on his haunches and, disdaining even to curl his tail around his paws, faced the wind without blinking. franz ruffled the big dog's ears with an affectionate hand and caesar beamed his delight. franz spoke to him. "winter soon, caesar, and it is by far the very finest time of all the year. let the children and old people enjoy their spring and summer. winter in the alps is for the strong who can face it, and for them it is wonderful indeed." caesar offered a canine grin, wagged his tail and flattened his ears, as though he understood every word, and franz was by no means certain that he did not. the dog understood almost everything else. franz wrenched his ax from the birch stump, and, dangling it from one hand so that the blade pointed away from his foot, he went on. as his father had said, nobody in dornblatt could hope to live by cutting wood and that alone. every household must have a supply, for wood was the only fuel, but since every able-bodied householder cut his own, it naturally followed that they cared to buy none. franz was still unable to remember when he had enjoyed himself more completely. other men of dornblatt regarded the annual wood cutting as an irksome chore, and life in the forest the loneliest existence imaginable. as long as he could be in the forest, it never occurred to franz that he was alone. there was always caesar, the finest of companions. there were the mice, the hares, the foxes, the various birds, and only yesterday franz had seen thirty-one chamois on their way from the heights, that would soon be blanketed beneath thirty to forty feet of snow, to seek winter pasturage in the lowlands. there had been two magnificent bucks, plus a half a dozen smaller ones, but franz had not mentioned the herd because there were a number of eager chamois hunters in dornblatt. should they learn of the chamois and succeed in overtaking them, they might well slaughter the entire herd. chamois, franz thought, were better alive than dead--and it was not as though there was a lack of food in dornblatt. it had been a good year. as he walked on, franz pondered his expulsion from professor luttman's school. the sting was gone, much of the shame had faded, and there were no regrets whatever. franz knew now that he simply did not belong in school, for his was not the world of books. if, on occasion, he met a former classmate, and the other asked him how he was getting on, he merely smiled and said well enough. franz remained more than a little troubled about professor luttman, though. he was a good and kind man who seldom had any thoughts that did not concern helping his pupils. franz felt that somehow he had failed professor luttman. the heavy ax hung almost lightly from his hand, as though somehow it was a part of his arm. franz had always regarded his ax as a beautiful and wonderful tool. he could strike any tree exactly where he wished, fell it exactly where he wanted it to fall and leave a smoother stump than erich erlich, who owned the finest saw in dornblatt. always choosing one that was rotten, deformed, or that had been partially uprooted by some fierce wind and was sure to topple anyhow, franz had spent his time felling trees. then he had trimmed their branches. with a great bundle of faggots on his own back and a greater one on caesar's, he had hauled them to his father's house. finally, he had cut the trunks into suitable lengths, and such portions as he was unable to carry, he and caesar had dragged in. his father had finally ordered him to stop. wood was piled about the halle house in every place where it was usually stored and many where it was not. there was enough to last the family through this winter and most of next. if any more were brought in, the halles would have to move out. franz had continued to cut wood for those who were either unable to gather their own or who, at the best, would find wood cutting difficult. there was grandpa eissman, once a noted mountaineer, who had conquered many peaks but lost his battle with time. old and stooped, able to walk only with the aid of his cane, grandpa eissman's house would be cold indeed this winter if he and he alone must gather wood to heat it. then there was jean greb, who'd lost his right hand in an accident on little sister. there was also-- franz knew a rising worry as he made his way toward a tree he had marked for cutting. there were not so many unable to gather their own wood that he could keep busy throughout the winter, and what then? wood cutting was the only duty with which his father would trust him. he thought suddenly and wistfully of the hospice of st. bernard. more than eight thousand feet up in the mountains, the hospice must have been snowbound long since. there were few days throughout the entire year when snow did not fall there and, when it was deep enough, the monks and _maronniers_--father paul's strange term for lay workers--must get about on skis. franz felt confident of his ability to keep up with them, for he had learned to ski almost as soon as he'd learned to walk. surely the hospice must be one of the world's finest places, but franz seemed no nearer to going there than he had been last summer. father paul had talked with him about it once more, and franz had broached a very troublesome problem. if he were accepted as a _maronnier_, might caesar go with him? he would see, father paul promised, and he had gone to see. he returned with no positive answer and franz dared not press the issue. surely the great prior of st. bernard hospice had problems far more important than whether to accept so insignificant a person as franz halle as a lay worker. franz reached the tree he had already selected, felled it with clean strokes of his ax and trimmed the branches. cutting them into suitable lengths, he shouldered a bundle, tied another bundle on caesar's strong back and took them to jean greb's house. jean greeted him pleasantly. he was a youngish man with wavy blond hair and clear blue eyes. "it is very kind of you to provide me with wood, franz, when i find it so very difficult to provide my own." "it is my privilege," franz said. "if i did not go out to cut wood, i would have to languish in idleness." jean, who appeared to have some troublesome thought on his mind, seemed not to have heard. "will you come in and have some bread and cheese?" he invited. franz smiled. "gladly. wood cutting works up an appetite." franz dropped his own burden of wood, then relieved caesar of his load. the big mastiff settled himself to wait until his master saw fit to rejoin him. franz greeted jean's pretty young wife and his three tousle-topped children and seated himself opposite jean at the family table. jean's wife placed bread, milk and cheese before them. franz waited for his host to begin the meal and became puzzled when jean merely stared at the far wall. something was indeed troubling him. presently he explained. "i once thought dornblatt the finest place on earth!" he exclaimed bitterly. "but there is a serpent among us!" the puzzled franz said, "i do not understand you." "emil gottschalk!" jean burst out. "the widow geiser is heavily indebted to him and now he says that, if she does not pay the debt in full, and within ten days, he will take her farm and all else that is hers!" "he cannot do such a thing!" the astounded franz cried. "aye, but he can," jean said. "which is more, he will and there is nothing any of us may do except offer asylum to the widow and her sons!" a short time later, franz walked gloomily homeward, his thoughts filled with the pleasant little farm and the attractive young woman who was fighting so valiantly to keep her home. if there was anything anyone could do, somebody would have done it. professor luttman was a very clever man. he would not let emil gottschalk take the widow geiser's farm if there was a way to forestall him. * * * * * a week later, the snow came to dornblatt. it whirled down so thickly that it was impossible to see more than a few yards in any direction, and it left fluffy drifts behind it. eighteen hours later, there was another snow and the people of dornblatt took to their skis. the snowfall was followed by two days of fair weather, then the first great storm of the winter came. it was so fierce that even the men of dornblatt would not venture forth until it subsided. franz was at the evening meal with his family when he heard caesar's challenging roar. footsteps sounded on the stairs. a moment later hermann gottschalk, emil's son and franz's former classmate, stumbled into the room. "father!" he gasped. "he is lost in the storm!" : night mission hermann gottschalk stood a moment, took a faltering step and almost fell. with a mighty effort, he stayed erect and spread his feet wide, the better to brace himself. franz's father leaped from his chair, hurried to the youth, passed a steadying arm around his shoulders and escorted him to the chair he had just vacated. white-faced and trembling, hermann sat limply down and leaned forward to grasp the edge of the table. franz's father nodded toward his mother. "some wine please, lispeth." franz's mother was already at the wine cask. she drew a cup, brought it to the table, and the elder halle held the cup to hermann gottschalk's lips. hermann sipped, gasped mightily, took another sip, and the warming wine did its work. he relaxed his hold on the table and sank back in the chair. "tell us what happened," the elder halle said gently. hermann's voice was a husky whisper. "father and i had to see the widow geiser. it was a fine morning and we expected no trouble as we started out on our skis. the storm was upon us suddenly, and within minutes it was so fierce that we could no longer see where we were going. it was some time before we knew we must have gone beyond the widow geiser's and--" franz's father let him rest a moment and then, "go on," he urged. "we turned back to dornblatt, but again we were unable to see where we were going or guide ourselves by landmarks. father became very tired. he fell, then fell again. finally, he cried, 'i can go no farther! save yourself!' i tried to carry him and could not. i knew i must get help." "what time did you leave your father?" the elder halle asked. "i cannot be certain, but think it might have been an hour before night fell," hermann answered. "i went on, though i could not be sure at any time that i was coming to dornblatt. then i heard a dog bark and guided myself by the sound." franz's father asked, "how long ago was that?" "again i cannot be sure, but i was no great distance from dornblatt. immediately after hearing the dog, i broke a ski. since that made the remaining ski useless, i threw both away and plowed through the snow. it took me much longer to reach the village than it would have had the ski not broken." franz pondered the information. emil and hermann gottschalk could have gone to the widow geiser's only to evict her, and trust emil to wait until after all crops were harvested and stored! but that was in the past. for the present, a man was lost in the storm. franz thought over the affair from every angle. it was probable that hermann and his father had gone a considerable distance past the widow geiser's before they realized they were lost and turned back. on the return trip, they had set a reasonably accurate course. hermann had left his father an estimated hour before nightfall. soon after darkness descended, or approximately within the past forty-five minutes, a barking dog had guided him to dornblatt. however, probably, since leaving his father his rate of travel had been that of an exhausted youngster. he had also broken a ski, which, by his own admission, was responsible for more delay. emil gottschalk, franz decided, was approximately forty-five-minutes' skiing time from dornblatt and the proper direction in which to seek him was toward the widow geiser's. but there were so many other possibilities that entered the picture. just how far beyond the widow geiser's were hermann and his father when they turned back? or were they beyond her place at all? in such a storm, with both lost and neither able to see, it would be comparatively easy to travel up the slope, and, without ever reaching the widow geiser's farm, both hermann and his father might be sincerely convinced that they were far past it. or had they gone down the slope? or-- the elder halle turned to his son. "you know what we must do?" "i know," answered franz. "what route do you intend to follow?" his father asked. "i'll work toward the widow geiser's with caesar," franz told him. "i'll try to retrace the path i think hermann might have followed. if we do not find mr. gottschalk, i'll cast back and forth with caesar and depend on his nose." "a good plan," his father said, "and, since you are the only one who has a dog that might be depended upon to find a lost man, it will be best for you to work as you see fit. i'll rouse the villagers and we'll search the same area, with each man assigned to his own route. take my pistol, for when emil is found, one shot will announce to all that the search is ended and at the same time bring help. i will carry my rifle and signal with it." "loan me some skis!" hermann pleaded. "i would search, too!" "no," franz's father said. "you are near exhaustion and, should you venture out before you've rested, there will be two lost in the storm. stay here and rest in franz's bed." franz stole a glance at his former classmate, who had always seemed such an awful snob but toward whom he could now feel only sympathy. faced with a grave problem, hermann had been courageous enough, and, despite the fact that some villagers would be sure to consider the entire incident a judgment of god because emil gottschalk would have impoverished the widow geiser, franz knew that it was only a judgment of the storm. in dornblatt, few winters ran their course without someone getting lost--and not all were found. franz was glad that his father had said, in hermann's hearing, "when emil is found," and not, "if he is found." franz put on his ski boots and his heavy coat with the hood, and thrust his father's immense, brass-bound, bell-mouthed pistol into his belt. franz halle the elder dressed in a similar fashion, slung the rifle over his shoulder, and the pair left the house together. comfortable in their stable beneath the house, the cattle stamped their hoofs, munched their fodder and never cared how much snow fell. caesar sprang from his snow tunnel, shook himself, and came forward to push his nose into franz's mittened hand. the two halles took their skis from beneath the overhanging ledge, where they were stored when not in use, and harnessed them to ski boots. a ski pole in either hand, the elder halle paused a moment before setting out to rouse the able-bodied men and boys from dornblatt's snow-shrouded houses. he said, "we will come as quickly as possible," and was gone. franz waited another moment. within fifteen minutes, or twenty at the most, all dornblatt would know of the lost man and all who were able would be in the search. but there was something else here, something more sensed than seen or felt. his father had declared that he, franz, was fit only for cutting wood. but it was quite evident now that the elder halle also thought his son a capable man in the mountains. if he did not, he would never let him go off alone on a night such as this. a pride that he had seldom felt--or seldom had reason to feel--swelled within franz. he was no scholar and he was a complete dolt at most skills and crafts. but it was no small thing to be considered an accomplished mountaineer. caesar, who might easily have broken trail, was too sensible to do so when he might follow the trail already broken by franz's skis. he stayed just far enough behind to avoid stepping on the tail of either ski. franz let him remain there for now. emil gottschalk would surely be farther from dornblatt than this. when the time came, and caesar was ordered to go ahead, he'd do it. a minute afterwards, the falling snow hid the village as completely as though it had never been and franz and caesar were alone in the night. the boy remained undisturbed. he had never feared the mountains or the forest and he was not afraid now. he started southward, traveling downslope, for the wind screamed from the north and hermann gottschalk had been guided into dornblatt by a dog's bark. even caesar's thunderous bark would be heard at no great distance against such a wind. but any sound would carry a long way with it. hermann must have come in from the south. just how far south had he been when he heard the dog bark? hermann himself did not know. but when he turned toward the barking dog, in addition to plowing through deep snow, he had been fighting an uphill slope and a powerful wind. without skis, his progress must have been painfully slow. therefore, he could have been no great distance from the village. franz curled the hood of his jacket around his face to keep flying snow out of his eyes. it made little difference as far as visibility was concerned, for, in the stormy night, he could see less than the length of a ski pole anyhow. except for those who were too old or disabled, everybody in dornblatt must use skis or remain housebound from the time the deep snows fell until they melted. most were past masters of ski travel, but franz had an extra touch, an inborn feeling for snow, that set him apart. he was not afraid of becoming lost or of breaking a ski, as hermann gottschalk had, probably when he blundered into a tree trunk. [illustration: _caesar stayed just far enough behind to avoid stepping on the tail of either ski_] when franz thought he had gone far enough south, he turned west, toward the widow geiser's. again he used his mountain lore and knowledge of snow to analyze what might have happened. leaving his father, hermann probably had tried to set a straight course. undoubtedly the powerful wind had made that impossible. while hermann thought he was traveling due east, he had also gone slightly south. franz set a course that would take him slightly north of west. now he must consider emil gottschalk. even though he was lost in the storm, emil, a lifelong resident of dornblatt, was not one to surrender easily, and he would know what to do. even though he was unable to stand, he would crawl to the lee of a boulder or copse of trees and let the snow cover him. his own warm breath would melt a hole and assure a supply of air. even though such a bed was not the most comfortable one might imagine, any man buried beneath snow would never freeze to death. franz made a mental map of all the boulders or copses of trees on the course he was taking that emil might seek. when he thought he was reasonably near the place where emil lay, he began to zigzag uphill or down, depending on which was necessary to reach each of the shelters he had already marked in his own mind. whenever he came to such a place, he watched caesar closely. but at no time did the dog indicate that there was anything worth his interest. franz passed the farthest point where he had calculated he might find emil gottschalk. in all this time, he did not see any of the other searchers, but that was not surprising. the area to be covered was a vast one. also, someone might have passed fairly close in the snow-filled darkness and would not have seen or heard him. he began to worry, but kept on for another half hour, for emil might be farther away than he had thought possible. finally, sure that he had passed the lost man, franz climbed higher up the mountain and turned back toward dornblatt. now he set a course south of east, trying as he did so to determine exactly how far the wind might have veered hermann from a true course. his anxiety mounted when he found nothing. at what franz estimated was two hours past midnight, the snow stopped falling and the stars shone. now there was light, and, even though it was only star-glow, it seemed dazzling when compared with the intense darkness that had been. franz set a new course, back toward the widow geiser's. he was descending into a gulley when caesar stopped trailing and plunged ahead. plowing his own path with powerful shoulders, he went up the gulley to a wind-felled tree that cast a dark shadow. on the tree's near side, caesar began to scrape in the snow. franz knelt to help, removing his mittens and digging with bare hands. he felt cloth, then a ski boot. franz rose and fired the pistol that would bring help from the men of dornblatt. then he resumed a kneeling position and continued to help caesar dig emil gottschalk from his snowy couch. : the "maronnier" no herald robin or budding crocus announced that spring was coming to dornblatt. rather, at first for a few minutes just before and just after high noon and then for increasingly longer periods each day, snow that had sat on the roof tops all winter long melted and set a miniature rain to pattering from the eaves. the snow blanket sagged, the ski trails collapsed, and every down-sloping ditch and gulley foamed with snow water. the chamois climbed from their hidden valleys to their true home among the peaks, birds returned, cattle departed for lofty summer pastures, farmers toiled from dawn to dark--and father paul came to visit the halles. he arrived while the family was at the evening meal, for during this very busy season there was almost no other time when all members of a family might be together. franz's father rose to welcome him. "father paul! do accept my chair and join us!" "no, thank you." father paul waved a hand and smiled. "i have already supped and this fine chair of the alps shall serve me very well." father paul chose a block of wood from the pile beside the stove, upended it, and seated himself. the elder halle took back his chair and resumed his interrupted meal. "i have just returned from martigny, where i visited emil gottschalk," father paul said. "he is greatly improved, and he seems reconciled to the loss of one of his feet." "to lose a foot is a bad thing," the elder halle said seriously. "but it might have been much worse," father paul pointed out. "were it not for franz and caesar, emil would have lost his life, too." "i did nothing," franz murmured. he stared hard at his plate, remembering. both of emil's feet were frozen, and there'd been nothing for it except to take him to the hospital at martigny. he'd been there ever since, and, while franz was glad that he would live rather than die, any credit for saving him belonged properly to caesar. franz had his own vexing problem. finding emil gottschalk had made him a person of no small importance in dornblatt. but why be important when not even his own father would trust him with any task except cutting wood, and everybody in dornblatt had long since had all the wood they could use? even skiing in the forest while caesar followed behind or plowed ahead had not occupied all of franz's time, and the days had become tedious indeed. the once-bright dream of becoming a _maronnier_, or lay worker, at the hospice of st. bernard had faded with the passing of time. if the prior intended to consider him at all, surely he'd have done so before this--and in his own heart franz did not blame the prior. why should the prior of st. bernard want anyone whose sole talents consisted of wood cutting and mountain climbing, when his own village did not even want him? "so you did nothing?" father paul asked. "the remark does you compliment, for modesty in the very young is far more becoming than in the old." he began to tease. "i must say that you are wholly correct. had you stayed home that night, rather than venture forth with caesar, emil would have been rescued anyhow. i haven't the least doubt that caesar would have done it all by himself." franz murmured, "i'm sure he would." "oh, franz, franz," father paul sighed. "would that i could teach you!" "i've tried everything i know," the elder halle said, a bit gruffly. "there simply is nothing more." "you are too harsh," father paul chided him. "i must be harsh," franz's father said. "the boy will shortly be a man. can he take his proper place among the householders of dornblatt if he knows nothing except how to cut wood, run the forests and climb mountains? do not condemn me, father paul. if i did not love the boy, would i care what happens to him? but i repeat, i can think of nothing more." father paul said, "i can." franz's father and mother turned quickly toward him. his four sisters leaned eagerly forward in their chairs and even franz was interested. an unreadable smile played on father paul's lips. "tell us," franz's father pleaded. "very well," father paul agreed. "had there been no news of emil, i'd have had reason to come here, anyway. when i returned from martigny, there was a message waiting--" he stopped for a moment, and franz's father begged, "father paul, please go on!" father paul smiled. "it was a message from the prior of st. bernard hospice. franz has been chosen as a _maronnier_, and he is to report as soon as possible." "no!" franz whooped. his father looked sternly at him. "please, franz! speak quietly or do not speak!" "let the boy shout," father paul reproved him. "there have been so many doors to which he could not find the key. at long last, one has swung wide and beckons him in." franz's puzzled father said, "i do not understand you." father paul explained. "i mean that, from this time on, franz may go forward." "caesar, too?" franz asked breathlessly. "caesar, too," answered father paul. "i promised i'd inquire about your dog, and i kept my promise. you should know, however, that caesar will be expected to pay his way with his work." franz exclaimed happily, "caesar and i like work!" "had i thought otherwise, i never would have recommended you," said father paul. he looked at franz's father and mother. "well?" "it's so far," franz's mother said worriedly, "and so strange." "it is neither as far nor as strange as you think," father paul reassured her. "it is true that the summer is much shorter, the winters much colder and the snow much deeper than you ever know them to be in dornblatt. but, like everyone else who serves at the hospice, franz has been reared in the mountains. i assure you that he will fit in very well." "he may go," the elder halle said. "he--may go," franz's mother quavered. "how--how shall we prepare him for the journey?" "supply him with enough food and clothing for the walk," father paul replied. "since snow may fall in st. bernard pass any day of the year, i suggest that he have at least one heavy coat. after he arrives, the hospice will provide for him." franz's mother said brokenly, "thank you, father paul." : father benjamin swinging the pack on his shoulders with an ease born of long practice, franz turned to look down the slope he had just climbed. bearing a similar pack, caesar turned with him. only the memory of his mother's tears when they exchanged their farewells kept franz from shouting with joy. this was far and away the most fascinating experience of his life. the route, as explained by father paul, had proven absurdly simple. franz must go to bourg and follow the valley of the river drance. after that, he couldn't possibly get lost, for the only path he'd find must take him over st. bernard pass. but the way had proven anything except routine or monotonous to franz. leaving the hardwoods, the forest with which he was most familiar, he had entered, and was still in, a belt of evergreens. he laughed happily. jean greb, who by no means lacked imagination, had once told franz that to see one tree was to see all trees. but that great spruce only a few yards down the path, whose wide-spreading branches allowed room for nothing else, was very like--franz stifled the thought that the greedy spruce might be compared to greedy emil gottschalk, for it ill-befitted anyone to think badly of a human being who was already in enough trouble. but the spindly larch whose summer needles were just beginning to grow back was remarkably like grandpa eissman, with his straggling hair and stubble of beard. the fat scotch pine, that seemed to hold its middle and laugh when the wind shook it, might well be fat and jolly aunt maria reissner. the knobs on the trunk of a young pine reminded franz strongly of knobby-kneed young hertha bittner. franz turned to go on, thinking that jean greb was wrong and that all trees were not alike. they differed as greatly as people. probably every person in the world had his or her counterpart in some tree. a bustling stream snarled across the path, hurried down the slope and, as though either bent on its own destruction or in a desperate hurry to keep its rendezvous with the sea, hurled itself over a two-hundred-foot cliff. foam churned up in the pool where it fell and the sun, shining through it, created a miniature but perfect rainbow. franz stopped for a long while to watch, for in such things he found deep pleasure. then he and caesar leaped the stream and went on. it was noticeably colder than it had been at the lower altitudes and franz recalled grandpa eissman's explanation for alpine temperatures. pointing to a ledge a bit less than three thousand feet up the side of little sister, he had said that, when warm summer reigned in dornblatt, autumn held sway there. since sixty degrees was regarded as summer in dornblatt, and thirty-two degrees, the freezing point, might reasonably be considered autumn, it followed that the temperature dropped approximately one degree for each three hundred feet of altitude. but franz did not feel the cold. this was partly because, sometimes in steep pitches and sometimes in gentle rises, the path he followed went steadily upward. excited anticipation added its own warmth, so that presently he removed his coat and tied it to the pack. in the late afternoon, they emerged from the evergreen forest into the alpine region. this was where the cattle found rich summer pasturage, and where thrifty swiss farmers cut much of their hay. here were stunted pines, juniper, dwarf willows and millions of narcissuses and crocuses in full bloom. high on the side of a rocky crag, franz spied a sprig of edelweiss and was tempted to climb up and pluck it. but the day was wasting fast and the climb up the crag might be more difficult than it appeared. spending the night on the face of the crag would mean a cold camp indeed. it would be wiser to go on to the rest hut. the sun was still an hour high when he reached it, a rock and log hut a little ways from the path. franz opened the door, dropped his pack and removed caesar's. then, with the mastiff padding beside him, he started into the meadow, carrying the small hatchet that was a parting gift from his father. there was wood already in the hut. but it was not only possible but probable that some wayfarer too exhausted to cut his own wood might reach the shelter, and to find fuel at hand would surely save a life. able-bodied travelers were obligated to gather their own. but so many wayfarers had come this way, and so many seekers of fuel had gone out from the hut, that franz had to travel a long distance before finding a tree, a small pine whose withered foliage proved that it was dead, so suitable for firewood. bracing his back against a boulder, the boy pushed the tree over with his foot rather than cut it, for the dried trunk broke easily. he chopped out the remaining splinters with his hatchet and, dragging the tree behind him, started back toward the hut. he was still a considerable distance from it when caesar, who had been pacing beside him, pricked up his ears and trotted forward. the dog looked fixedly in the direction of the structure. coming near, franz saw that he was to have a companion. the newcomer was a tall, blond young man, wearing the garb of an augustinian monk. since he was in the act of divesting himself of the pouch wherein he carried food and other necessities of the road, evidently he had just arrived. he looked up, saw franz and caesar, and his white teeth flashed as he smiled. "hello, fellow travelers!" he called cheerfully. "i am father benjamin." more than a little overawed because he was to share the hut with such distinguished company, franz said, "i am franz halle and this is my dog, caesar. we are pleased to have you with us." father benjamin laughed. "i am sure the pleasure shall be mine. hereafter, i may truthfully say that i shared a hut with caesar. if you'll wait a moment, franz, i will bring my portion of the wood." franz said, "this is enough for two." "so i am to be your guest?" father benjamin asked. "i am indeed honored." he looked keenly at the boy. "aren't you a bit young to travel this path with only a dog as companion?" "i must travel it," franz told him. "i go to the hospice of st. bernard, where i am to become a _maronnier_." "a _maronnier_, eh?" father benjamin asked. "and what inspired you to become such?" "i am too stupid to be anything else," franz answered. father benjamin's laughter rang out, free as summer thunder and warm as a june rain. puzzled, franz could only stare. after a bit, the monk stopped laughing. [illustration: _he saw franz and caesar.... "hello, fellow travelers!" he called cheerfully. "i am father benjamin."_] "i do crave your pardon!" he said. "but it is rare to receive such an honest answer to a well-intended question. nor do i think you are stupid, young franz halle. those who are never say so. surely you are clever in some ways?" "i can cut wood, climb mountains, get about on snow and work with caesar," said franz. father benjamin said gravely, "then you are surely coming to the right place." franz began taking bread, cheese and cakes from his pack. "what does _maronnier_ mean?" he asked. "moor," replied father benjamin. "the moors are a warlike people from a far country. they robbed and stole, and one of the finest places to do so, since many travelers must go through it, was the pass of st. bernard. when our sainted bernard first came this way, he was merely bernard de menthon, a youth not yet in his twenties. he and those with him found the pass held by a group of moorish bandits, whose chief was named marsil. bernard, most devout even then, held his crucifix erect and put the entire band to flight." "with a crucifix alone?" franz asked incredulously. "it is thought by some that the clubs and axes carried by bernard and his party and wielded with telling effect on moorish skulls, helped out," father benjamin admitted, "but we like to believe that his faith and courage are what counted most. bernard went on into italy, where in due time he became archbishop of aosta. travelers through the pass continued to tell of moorish bandits, so bernard returned to rout them." "and did he?" franz asked breathlessly. "he did indeed," answered father benjamin. "but other tales were also coming out of the pass. they were stories of travelers who died in the terrible storms that rage across these heights in winter, and there were a great many such unhappy tales. bernard determined to build a hospice, a shelter for all who needed it, at the very summit of the pass. the moors, led by the same marsil whom bernard had previously defeated, knew they could never prevail against such might. so rather than fight him again, they chose to become christians and join bernard. since they could not be priests, they became lay brothers, or _maronniers_." "it is a wonderful story!" franz gasped. father benjamin said seriously, "one of the most wonderful ever told. this pass has been in use since mankind began to travel. the roman legions used it to invade gaul. hannibal took his army through it to invade italy. countless others have traveled through it, and countless people still do and will. we who are charged with its keeping consider it the finest privilege of all to serve at the hospice of st. bernard." "what is it like?" franz asked. "it is cold, my young friend," replied father benjamin. "there are winter days of fifty below zero. snow in the pass lies forty-five feet deep. the wind blows constantly and fiercely and shifts the snow about so that the entire landscape may change from one day to the next. sometimes there is a complete change in an hour, or even minutes. some might think it the most miserable life imaginable, but we who serve at the hospice know it is the finest!" "how long will you be there?" franz asked. father benjamin told him, "even though only men born to the mountains and skilled in mountain arts are chosen for service at the hospice, and even though our spirits may be strong, the bodies of the strongest cannot endure the trials we must face for more than twelve years. but during those years, and quite apart from ministering to souls, all of us save lives. that is our reward." franz asked, "do you save everyone?" "unfortunately, no," said father benjamin. "many are still lost. but in the more than seven centuries that have passed since bernard de menthon erected the hospice, an army of people who otherwise would have been victims of the snow have lived to return to their loved ones and carry on constructive work." "do travelers use the pass all winter?" franz continued his eager questioning. "indeed they do," father benjamin assured him. "the path is open to the next rest house, where we shall sleep tomorrow night, and travelers may safely make their own way that far. from there on to the hospice, some five miles, is the real danger area. there is another rest house five miles down the south slope. when possible, which is when the weather is not so bad as to make it impossible, one of us visits each rest house every day. such wayfarers as may be there are then guided to the hospice and, of course, on down to the next rest house." franz asked, "what is your greatest difficulty?" "choosing a safe trail," father benjamin declared. "i've spoken of the fierce winds and shifting snows. each time we go down to a rest house, we face an entirely different landscape, where a misstep might well mean death to us and those we guide. but come now, franz, is it not time to stop talking and start supping?" "indeed it is," franz agreed, "and my mother prepared a great store of food. i shall be honored if you will share it." "and i shall be honored to share," said father benjamin. : the hospice the wind that screamed between the high peaks which kept a grim vigil over both sides of st. bernard pass proclaimed itself monarch. man was the trespasser here, the wind said, and let who trespassed look to himself. the only kindness he could expect was a quick and painless death. this was the haunt of the elements. overawed and more than a little afraid, franz tried to speak to father benjamin, who was leading the way. the wind snatched the words from his teeth, whirled them off on its own wings and hurled mocking echoes back into the boy's ears. franz dropped a hand to the massive head of caesar, who was pacing beside him, and found some comfort there. franz thought back over the way they had come. the inn at cantine, where he had passed the night with father benjamin, was not a half hour's travel time behind them, yet it was an entire world away. the inn was still civilization. this was a lost territory. the alpine meadows had given way to rocks and boulders, among which grew only moss and lichens. the wind was right and no man belonged here. franz shuddered. they had skirted chasms where a fall meant death. they had passed beneath rising cliffs whereupon lay boulders so delicately balanced that it was almost as though an incautious breath would set them to rolling, and an avalanche with them. in the shadier places there had been deep snow, and at no point was the permanent snow line more than a few hundred yards above them. with a mighty effort, franz banished his fears and regained his self-control. this was the grand st. bernard pass, one of the easiest of all ways to cross the alps. the altitude was only about eight thousand feet. when franz stood on the summit of little sister he had been almost a mile higher. the old, the crippled and children used this pass regularly. franz told himself that he had been overwhelmed by the reputation of the pass, rather than by any real danger. it went without saying that so many perished here simply because so many came here. the boy fastened his thoughts on practical matters. supplies for the hospice, father benjamin had told him, were brought to cantine on mules and carried from there by monks and _maronniers_. it was not that mules were unable to reach the hospice--sometimes they did--but, at best, it was a highly uncertain undertaking. from about the middle of june until the autumn storms began, the pass was considered safe enough so that rescue work might be halted during that period, but an unexpected blizzard might come any time. thus, though in due course the muleteer probably would be able to get his animals back down, as long as they were marooned at the hospice they'd be consuming valuable and hard-to-gather hay. father benjamin turned and spoke, and franz heard clearly. "we have a fine day for our journey." franz tried to answer, could not, and father benjamin smiled and waved him ahead. the boy grinned sheepishly. he should have remembered that it is almost impossible to speak against such a wind but relatively easy to speak, and be heard, with it. he edged past father benjamin and said, "indeed we have." he was suddenly calm and no longer afraid. this was no foreign land and it was not a place of devils. it was his homeland. it was st. bernard pass, where, of his own free will, he had wanted to become a _maronnier_. he belonged here. father benjamin put his mouth very close to franz's ear and shouted, "do you still think you have chosen well?" franz answered sincerely, "very well." "good!" father benjamin indicated that he wanted to pass and franz let him do so. the monk turned to the icecapped peaks on the right of the pass. "there are rheinquellhorn, zappothorn, fil rosso and pizzo rotondo," he said, then turned to the left. "there we see pizzo della lumbreda, pizzo tambo and pizzo dei piani. they will become your firm friends." franz shouted, "they are already my friends." when father benjamin frowned questioningly, franz smiled to show that he understood and the pair went on. the wind suddenly sang a song instead of snarling threats. lowlanders who understood nothing except a warm sun might flinch from such weather. but, as father benjamin had said, it was indeed a fine day--if one happened to be a mountaineer. presently father benjamin stopped again. "the hospice," he said. franz looked, more than a little astonished. he hadn't had the faintest notion of what he might expect, but certainly it was not the massive, fortresslike structure that, though still a long ways off, seemed as prominent as any of the peaks. presently the boy understood. the hospice must be visible from as great a distance as possible. many an exhausted traveler, coming this far and sure he could go no farther, would find the strength to do so if he could see a refuge. father benjamin pointed out the principal buildings. "the chapel," he said. "the refectory, where meals are eaten and guests entertained, the sleeping quarters, the house of the dead--" franz looked questioningly at him and father benjamin explained. "the mortal remains of many who die in the snows are never claimed. at first they were interred beneath the hospice floor. now, in the event that someone will claim them some time, they go into the house of the dead. some have been there for a hundred years." franz felt a proper awe. a hundred years was a long time to be dead. but to be dead a hundred years in a place such as this, which was shunned by even the cliff and cold-loving edelweiss, must indeed be dreadful! franz consoled himself with the thought that the dead have no feeling. no doubt those who rested in warm valleys and those who waited in this grim house would both awaken when gabriel blew his trumpet. they drew nearer, and franz saw a little lake from which the ice had not yet melted. that was fitting and proper and altogether in keeping. some of these alpine lakes were ice-free for fewer than thirty days out of the whole year. then they came to a stable beneath one of the buildings and franz met his immediate superior. he was big as a mountain and bald as a hammer. his eyes were blue as glacier ice that has been swept clean by the broom of the wind, and at first glance they seemed even colder. his face, for all his size, was strangely massive. perhaps because of his very lack of other hair, his curling mustaches seemed far longer than their eight inches. for all the cold, he wore only a sleeveless leather jacket on his upper body. it hung open, leaving his midriff, chest and biceps bare. rippling muscles furnished more than a hint of great strength. [illustration: _presently the boy understood.... the hospice must be visible from as great a distance as possible_] franz thought at first glance that he was a dedicated man, one who is absolutely devoted to his work, for he treated father benjamin with vast respect. "anton," father benjamin said, "i want you to meet the new _maronnier_, franz halle. franz, this is anton martek. he will instruct you in your duties here." "is good to have you." anton martek extended a hand the size of a small ham. "your dog work? yah?" "oh, yes!" franz said eagerly. "see for yourself that he carries a pack even now!" caesar wagged up to anton martek, who ruffled the dog's ears but continued to look at franz. "packing is not all of work." he scowled. "is he a spit dog, too?" "a what?" franz wrinkled puzzled brows. with a sweeping circle of his right arm, anton offered a near-perfect imitation of a dog walking around and around while the meat on a spit roasted. franz warmed to this huge man. anton's ice was all on the outside. inwardly, he was gentle as the fawn of a chamois. "not yet," franz said. "but i know we can teach him." "yah," said anton. "we teach him." father benjamin laughed. "you two seem to be getting along very well together, so i'll leave you alone." anton said respectfully, "as you will, father," and turned to franz. "come." franz followed him into the stable, that was windowless, except for rectangles of wood hung on wooden hinges that now swung open to admit the sunlight. the place had a familiar smell the boy was unable to define until he remembered that the same odor dominated his mother's kitchen, and that it was the odor of complete cleanliness. "where are the cattle?" he asked. anton replied, "down in the pasture." "down?" "yah. you villagers bring them up. we take them down. there is no pasture here." he led franz to a great pile of hay at one end of the stable and gestured. "you sleep here." franz laid his pack down and relieved caesar of his, not at all displeased. there are, as he knew from experience, sleeping places not nearly as comfortable as a pile of hay. "we get you some more covers soon," anton promised. "but for now there is work. you will clean the stable." "but--" franz looked in bewilderment at the already spotless stable. "it is clean!" "ha!" anton snorted. he stalked to a rafter, ran one huge finger along it, discovered a tiny speck of dust and showed it to franz. "see? you will clean the stable." franz said meekly, "yes, anton." : a free day it had not been easy to coax caesar inside, even into a stable, but franz had succeeded both in getting him in and in persuading the big alpine mastiff to sleep at his feet. now, as the wind screamed through st. bernard pass and the frost cut like a sharp knife, franz grinned to himself. he understood that the three other _maronniers_ at the hospice; the novices, or apprentice priests; the aumonier, who welcomed guests and dispensed charity; the clavandier, who watched over all stores; the sacristan, whose duty it was to take charge of the chapel; the abbe, who watched over the novices; the four canons, whose authority was exceeded only by that of the prior, and even the great prior himself, slept in unheated cells. he was not positive about this because anyone as lowly as he could never be sure about the doings of people as mighty as they. for all he knew, the hospice would collapse if he spoke to any of the canons, and the mountains themselves would tumble if he even looked at the prior. but he thought it was true. if it was, then he, franz halle, the humblest of the humble _maronniers_, had by far the finest sleeping quarters in great st. bernard pass. with fragrant hay as a mattress, plenty of blankets, a dog to keep his feet warm, and the four gentle cows of the hospice to add their warmth to the stable, let the wind scream as it would and the frost crackle as it might. he would never care. caesar shifted his position at franz's feet, to bring his head nearer the boy's right hand. franz took his hand from beneath the blankets to tickle caesar's ears, and a worried frown creased his forehead. besides caesar, he had two firm friends at the hospice, father benjamin and anton martek. the other two _maronniers_ were surly individuals who kept much to themselves. franz did not even know their names. the novices, boys about franz's own age, were much too busy with their own duties to have any time for a mere _maronnier_. naturally it was unthinkable, aside from attending devotions, to intrude on the world of the priests. father benjamin, who came to the stable at regular intervals, had made a real effort to strengthen a friendship that began when he and franz came up the path together. anton martek worried franz, and the dawn to dark work anton demanded had no bearing on it, for the boy did not mind working long hours. but there was caesar, too. the mastiff had worked willingly beside his master while they freighted hay or wood from the lower reaches or carried supplies from the inn at cantine. but winter was fast approaching, and when it came, there would be almost no packing for caesar, and everything that lived at the hospice must necessarily earn its own way. since there was little else, anton and franz had tried their valiant best to make a spit dog of caesar. but the great animal, who did so many things so well, seemed wholly unable to adjust to what he doubtless considered the low comedy of turning a spit. on the first trial, he whirled in his tracks and snatched at and ate the roast he was supposed to be turning. when anton fashioned a harness that made it impossible for him to turn, caesar's nearness to the fire, with its unaccustomed warmth, made him so uncomfortable that he simply lay down and refused to move at all. a longer pole that put him farther away from the fire offended his dignity. rather than pace slowly, so that the meat would turn slowly and roast evenly on all sides, he whirled at such speed that it was a marvel the roast stayed on the spit. weights on his paws, designed to slow him down, aroused his stubbornness. rather than turn the spit at all, he pulled it completely apart and let the roast fall into the fire. shouting threats accomplished nothing. caesar knew his own strength and, providing it was consistent with his dignity, he would work because he loved franz. he would not be bullied. rewards in the shape of meat dangled enticingly before him were haughtily rejected. caesar would not be bribed, either. the stubborn anton had not abandoned hope and was still determined to make a spit dog of caesar, but, in the darkness, franz's worried frown deepened. the mastiff was equally determined that he would not turn the spit, therefore, not even anton could make him do it. an anguished little moan escaped franz. if caesar were declared useless and banished from the mountain, life in st. bernard pass, that had become so very fine, would be so very bleak. a second time franz reached out to ruffle the big mastiff's ears. "try!" he whispered fiercely. "try hard, caesar!" the dog licked his hand. thus comforted, his body cushioned by soft hay, warmed by blankets and caesar, and with the cattle adding their warmth to the stable, franz never heard the wind scream and never thought of the frost. he was awakened by anton martek, who lighted his way into the stable with a glass-shielded candle. caesar rose and wagged his tail to greet this new friend whom he had come to like so well, and franz sat sleepily up in bed. anton hung his candle-lantern on a wooden peg. "it is time to be up," he scoffed good-naturedly. "the day is for working." "it is not day yet," franz protested. anton said, "soon it will be." anton, who was entirely willing to let franz clean the stable as long as he kept it spotless, but who never permitted anyone except himself to handle the cows or their products, began to groom his charges. he always followed the same procedure. after the cows were clean as comb and brush could make them, he would wash their udders with warm water. then he would milk, care for the milk and clean the cows all over again. franz impulsively asked a question that had long tickled his curiosity, but that he had never dared ask before. "why do you stay here, anton?" the huge man turned toward him, comb in one hand and brush in the other, and for a moment his eyes were so terrible that franz shrank before them. the eyes softened the merest trifle. "why do you ask that?" anton asked quietly. "i--i've just wondered, and i--i'm sorry if i offended you," franz stammered. anton said, "you meant well and i will tell you. at one time, i lived in martigny, where i was famous for my strength. there was another man who was neither bad nor good. he was much like the jay that always chatters but seldom says anything worth the listening, and he was given to spasms of rage. i saw him strike a child, a little boy, who should not have been taunting him but was. i told the man that he must never again strike a child. the man struck at me and--" anton's voice trailed off into a husky whisper. he stared for a moment at the far wall of the stable, then continued, "i struck back and--i killed him. i never meant to kill, and i knew i did not, for it is a terrible thing to take the life of a fellow human. but the only others who knew i never intended to kill were the fathers at the hospice. they gave me refuge. they cared for my body as well as my spirit. they restored my faith in god and in man. they made a man from what had been a beast. that is why i am happy to serve them and why i shall never leave this place!" "i understand!" franz exclaimed. "and i don't believe you ever intended to kill either!" "thank you, little franz." anton's rare smile flashed. "now, if you will get your breakfast, i will care for my babies here." caesar at his heels, franz left the stable and made his way to the kitchen. caesar sat down outside the door. paul maurat, the surly _maronnier_ who presided over the kitchen, kept his domain as spotless as anton insisted the stable be kept. certainly, he would never dream of letting a dog invade his kingdom. a tall, string-thin and apparently ageless man, he motioned franz to a chair, served him barley gruel, black bread, cheese, and milk and apparently forgot all about him. franz finished his meal and went outside, where he was rejoined by caesar, and the pair returned to the stable. "back so soon?" anton asked. "would paul not feed you?" "he fed me very well," franz declared, "but i have been thinking." "and what has occupied your thoughts?" anton asked. "a very great man i knew in dornblatt," franz answered. "his name is professor luttman, and he is a teacher, and it is in no way his fault because i am too stupid to grasp what he tried to teach." "not everyone may understand the wisdom that is written in books," anton said. "that i know," agreed franz. "but i cannot escape a feeling that i betrayed professor luttman. i am sure he knows i am just a _maronnier_ at st. bernard hospice. father paul, the village priest who acted on my behalf in order that i might come here, would have told him. i am also sure that, on the day he expelled me from his school, he knew i would always hold a humble station." "he is a wise man?" anton questioned. "very wise," franz replied. "the wise do not have to be told that the world is made up of the humble and the mighty," anton said. "they know that much from their own wisdom. think no more about it." "i cannot help thinking about it," franz said in a troubled voice. "i would like to prove to professor luttman that a _maronnier's_ is a good life. since i cannot, are you ready to have me start cleaning the stable?" "today i clean the stable," anton said. "it is not that you have failed to do it very well, but you have worked hard and long. this shall be a free day for you and caesar." "oh, anton!" "go along now." anton's smile was pleased. caesar at his heels, franz again left the stable. he braced himself against the wind as soon as he was outside and paused to consider. it was fine to have a free day, but in st. bernard pass, exactly what did one do with it? the surrounding peaks invited him. but though the only evidence of foul weather to be lay in an overcast sky, franz had an uneasy premonition that something besides an ordinary storm was in prospect. it would never do to be caught on a mountainside while such a storm raged. just then father benjamin came around a corner of the refectory. "hello, young franz!" "father benjamin!" franz cried happily, then added, "anton has given me the day to spend as i wish." "how very fine!" said father benjamin. "i am on my way to the inn at cantine. it isn't really necessary, since there seems to be little likelihood of snow, but any travelers who await there may feel easier if they have a guide. do you want to come along?" father benjamin, franz and caesar made their way down the rocky path and found four people waiting to cross the mountain. they were an elderly man, his middle-aged daughter, a boy about franz's age and a girl not yet in her teens. father benjamin spoke reassuringly to them. "there is nothing to fear. we will guide you to the hospice, and after you have rested there, you will be guided to the rest house on the opposite slope." as they all started up the slope, franz's uneasiness grew. the wind sang a song of trouble. he comforted himself with the thought that father benjamin was better able than he to judge what might happen. they were halfway between the inn and the hospice when a sudden, blinding blizzard swept down upon them. : the blizzard the girl and the boy drew a little nearer to father benjamin. their faith showed in their eyes, as though nothing ill could befall them while they were under the guardianship of a priest from the hospice. the augustinian, their actions said, might even halt the blizzard by raising his hand and commanding it to stop. but the elderly man, who had spent his life in the mountains and knew the real danger of such storms, cried out in fear. his fright communicated itself to the woman ... and spread from her to the boy and girl, who would not have been afraid at all had they not seen for themselves that their elders were frightened. father benjamin took instant, firm command. "have you never before seen snow fall?" he thundered. "be quiet and act sensibly!" "yes, holy father," the elderly man said humbly. father benjamin turned to franz. "i will guide. you bring up the rear with caesar." franz fought to keep his voice from trembling as he replied, "yes, father benjamin." he let the others pass and fell in behind. he knew that father benjamin wanted him there to keep the little group from straying or straggling, and he was proud to be trusted with such responsibility. at the same time, he was more than a little afraid. the winter snows in dornblatt had been fierce enough; often it was impossible to see the house next to that in which one lived. but the snows of dornblatt had remained within the scope of human understanding, and humans had always been able to cope with the worst of them. this was a wild beast uncaged, a snarling, raging thing that had burst the bonds of control the instant it began. with the blizzard only minutes old, already they were walking in snow that came halfway to the tops of their shoes. though each person stayed as close as possible to the one in front of him, franz could barely make out the form of father benjamin, who was leading the way. he had a sudden, terrifying thought that they were just mites, specks of dust in an inferno of snow. the mad wind would whirl them away as it whirled the snowflakes. when the wind finally lulled and dropped them somewhere in the immensity of the alps, they would still be as nothing, for a human being is small indeed compared with a mountain. resolutely franz put such fears behind him. man's body, and that alone, had never conquered the alps or anything else. man's spirit was the true conqueror, and spirit would see them safely through this blizzard. the thought gave back to him his old serenity and calmness. the girl, walking in front of him, slipped and almost went down. franz caught her elbow and helped her regain her balance. "careful, little sister!" he shouted, to make himself heard above the wind. "the snow is a cold bed!" she turned and gave him a grateful smile, and franz knew that his recovered confidence had imparted itself to her. they hurried to catch up with the others, who had gained a few feet. franz looked questioningly at father benjamin. fortunately, the wind was blowing up the mountain, so that they did not have to fight it. but cross currents and gusty little side eddies blew the snow in every imaginable direction. there was no landmark whatever; even the peaks were hidden. franz, who had been this way many times, knew that he himself hadn't the faintest notion as to whether or not they were on the path. did father benjamin know? again he put the thought behind him. regardless of anything else, father benjamin must _act_ as though he knew. just as he had exploded the travelers' fears with the thunder of his words when the blizzard began, so he must now inspire them with confidence by showing confidence himself. to do otherwise meant panic, and panic meant that all were lost. father benjamin plowed through a knee-deep drift and halted. the others grouped around him. "we will have a short rest." even though the augustinian had to shout, he seemed as serene and unruffled as though he were addressing some of his fellow priests at the hospice. "this is the first snow and we may very well get along without skis. but it is foolish to exhaust ourselves." "_salvezza!_" the old man moaned. "salvation! or shall we find any?" the woman said, but with no great conviction, "this good father will lead us safely to the hospice." "he cannot!" asserted the old man. the young girl said, half-contemptuously, "you have no faith." father benjamin spoke kindly to the frightened old man. "be of good cheer, grandfather, for in a short time we will be at the hospice. after you have rested, go to the chapel and give thanks to our good saint bernard, who founded the hospice so that travelers such as you might live." "i, too, shall give thanks to saint bernard," the girl declared confidently. "and i," the boy echoed. father benjamin turned again to the frightened old man. "can you fear when mere children cannot? let us go." with caesar beside him, franz took his place at the rear. he turned his head constantly from side to side, hoping for a break in the draperies of snow that hid all save that which was immediately before him. if there were such a rift, even for a second, he might see a familiar boulder, cluster of boulders, or mountain peak that would tell him they were on the path. he had a growing fear that they were not, for who could find a path in a storm such as this? the landscape changed beneath his very eyes. a drift that had been was suddenly no longer when the wind blew it into snow dust. a drift that had not been was present when the snow-laden wind wearied of its burden and dropped it. franz placed a hand on caesar's head and found in the massive dog the comfort he never failed to discover there. he and caesar had faced many storms together, though none had been as terrible as this. but, as father benjamin had said, it was just a snowstorm. suddenly, caesar left franz's side, bounded ahead, hurled himself on father benjamin, seized the priest's habit in his great jaws, and pulled him over backwards. for a moment, franz stood petrified, too astonished to even move. the four travelers stared, unable at once to understand what had happened or what they were staring at. franz recovered his wits and ran forward. he knelt beside father benjamin and caesar, who maintained a firm grip on the priest's robe, and shouted, "i'm sorry, father benjamin! i do not know why caesar would do such a terrible thing!" "make him let me go!" father benjamin's voice was stern and indignant. [illustration: _suddenly, caesar left franz's side, bounded ahead and seized the priest's habit in his great jaws_] "let go, caesar!" franz commanded. "let go, i say!" caesar closed his eyes, took a firmer grip and dragged father benjamin six inches backwards through the snow. the angry priest turned to grapple with him. there was a soft hissing, as though a thousand snowflakes had fallen on a hot stove all at the same time. a bridge of snow, upon which father benjamin would have walked had he taken one more forward step, fell in and revealed the yawning chasm across which it had formed. caesar released his grip on father benjamin's habit, sat down beside the priest, and licked his hand with an apologetic tongue. "he knew!" father benjamin gasped. "that is why he pulled me back!" franz said, "caesar always knows the safe trails." "then you should have told us so, little franz," father benjamin said. "i had not wanted to trespass upon your authority," the boy explained. father benjamin said, "when lives are at stake, it is never a question of authority but one of common sense. can caesar guide us safely from here?" franz answered unhesitatingly, "yes." "then let him lead." franz said, "go, caesar." the great mastiff struck off at a thirty-degree angle to the course they had been following. he broke a drift with his massive shoulders. "i am done," the old man wailed piteously. "leave me and go on." father benjamin said, "we will rest." "i am truly spent!" the old man cried. "i cannot walk another step." franz staggered through a drift already broken by caesar and groped with his hands. they found a brick wall. it was the hospice. : the house of the dead franz braced the sole of his shoe against the blade of his shovel, took a big bite of snow and threw it high above his head. even cows, anton martek had told him--or especially cows--might lose their faith if they could never see daylight. how could they see daylight if the windows of their stable were darkened by snow? and how could the snow be removed unless someone shoveled it away? franz thought grimly that, at last, he knew why the handles of the shovels at st. bernard hospice were a full three feet longer than any in dornblatt. caesar, lying on the snow six feet above the boy's head, wagged an amiable tail and grinned a canine grin. franz glared at him. "you might well smile!" he glowered. "you do no work at all! you refuse even to turn the spit!" caesar's tail wagged harder and his jaws parted a bit more. a little worm of worry gnawed at franz's heart. since the deep snows had started, except to go down to the rest house with father benjamin whenever it was the latter's turn to go, the mastiff had been idle. anton had worked patiently and endlessly to make him turn the spit--and he was still working at it. but caesar had discovered a simple ruse that foiled the most cunning scheme anton could devise; he merely lay down, wagged his tail, beamed agreeably and refused to move at all. not even anton cared to drag a hundred-and-fifty-pound dog around and turn the spit with him. franz looked beseechingly up at the big mastiff, who was still lying on the snow and interestedly observing his master. "you should learn to do it!" he begged. "father benjamin already knows that you will not work! soon father martin or father stephen will discover that anton and i have been taking turns revolving the spit for you. they will inform one of the canons, who is sure to tell the prior. then you will be sent away from the hospice, which is entirely right and good and as it should be. the fathers are not men of wealth, who can afford to maintain such a big, lazy loafer as yourself in idleness!" caesar wagged his tail a little harder, as though he were being complimented. franz looked sternly at him, but could not find it in his heart to scold any more. "it will be very right and very just if you are sent away," he said sadly, "but it will leave me so very lonesome. caesar, you _must_ try!" franz turned back to his shoveling, fastening his heart and mind on the one ray of hope that remained to him. since the day of the blizzard, when caesar had brought them safely to the hospice, father benjamin had emphatically declared that any dog able to do such a thing was priceless. but he was not going to be readily accepted. there had been dogs at the hospice since its founding; tradition said that bernard de menthon himself had had one. but tradition said also that it was the work of the priests and _maronniers_ at the hospice to succor travelers. that was why only men born to the mountains and skilled in mountain arts could be accepted for service there. it had been that way for seven hundred years, said father benjamin, and anything that has existed for seven centuries is not lightly discarded. franz should be of good cheer, and while so being, though he needn't dishonestly conceal the fact that caesar was doing no work, he needn't advertise it either. gentle persuasion, according to father benjamin, was far more effective than raging or bullying when it came to breaking a wall of custom that was seven hundred years old. meanwhile, whenever it was father benjamin's turn to go down to either rest house, he would take caesar with him. sooner or later, he would prove the dog's value. franz sighed and dug his shovel blade into the last of the snow. caesar had accompanied father benjamin on every trip. but on every trip father benjamin made, the weather had been so fine that there had been no need for a rescue or any other kind of work. franz threw the last of the snow out of the hole, climbed out himself and at once slipped his feet into the skis that awaited him. the snow at this altitude was hard and granular and not at all similar to the soft stuff that often covered the lower reaches. the hard snow, plus caesar's huge paws, kept him from sinking more than a few inches, and he rose to greet his master with furiously-wagging tail. franz caught up his shovel, smoothed the snow he had thrown out and turned to look about him. the grand st. bernard pass was indeed locked in the grip of winter, with snow piled high about the hospice and drifts lying at intervals. but the day had started out very well, and fathers stephen and martin had gone down to the rest houses on the north and south slopes, in order to bring up any travelers waiting there. franz turned uneasily on his skis. the day was still fine, but there were a few clouds where none had been earlier and an undercurrent that spoke of fury to be. it was a hint that only a born mountaineer could feel at all--but franz resolutely banished his fears. father stephen had had three years of experience at the hospice and father martin seven. they were well able to take care of themselves. franz moved to the stable door, slipped out of his skis and entered. anton martek, sitting on a pile of hay and honing an ax, looked up and grinned. "tomorrow," he prophesied, "you shall have all of it to do over again." "so you sense the storm coming, too?" franz asked. "i sense nothing," anton said serenely, "for to do so is very silly. i live for the moment that is, not the one that will be, and that proves me either a great fool or a very wise man. i do not know which and do not care, but anyone knows that snow may fall at any time now in grand st. bernard pass. therefore, it is evident that you will do your shoveling all over again tomorrow." franz said, "it is very great labor." "it is life at the hospice," returned anton. he patted caesar's massive head. "if you did not like the life, you would not be here. as for this great loafer, it is no wonder he enjoys it, for he has nothing whatever to do." "if the prior finds out," franz said worriedly, "caesar will not be living at the hospice any more." "trust in god and father benjamin," anton advised. "by the time the prior discovers the supposed worthlessness of this mighty eater, caesar's worth will be known." "it should be known by this time," franz pointed out. "father benjamin told of how caesar prevented his falling into the crevasse and then found a safe path. some of the fathers smiled at him, for they said it was no great blizzard, anyhow." "as it was not," anton remarked. franz went on, "some said it was god who saved us." "and do you doubt that it was?" anton asked. "no," franz admitted, "but caesar had something to do with it, too. why cannot he be given due credit?" "you have not learned the lesson of patience," anton told him. "that is not surprising, because no youth has. i tell you everything will be all right." "i hope so," franz said gloomily. "now, since all this thinking has pained me, i will clean the stable." "a worthy endeavor," anton said, "and one well calculated to remove your mind from your own troubles." caesar threw himself down on a pile of hay, pillowed his head on his paws and went to sleep. franz started cleaning the stable. he sighed again. it would be nice if he were wise, like father benjamin or even like anton, for then he would know so many things that otherwise he could never hope to know. since he was stupid and knew nothing except how to work with his hands, he must find contentment in such work. presently he found it and became so absorbed in what he was doing that he was startled by anton's voice, saying, "we must close the shutters, for it is starting to snow." franz looked up to discover that the stable, never bright as long as snow was heaped around the shutter openings, had grown noticeably dimmer. he hurried to help close the shutters. anton lighted his candle lantern and hung it on the peg. with the shutters closed, the scream of the wind died to a soft moaning. caesar rose to pace beside franz, as though in so doing he was somehow standing between his master and the storm. the four gentle cows, never doubting that they would be cared for, munched their hay. in the fitful light of the candle lantern, anton's massive face looked strangely sober. "it will be well for one of us to have his supper and then the other, little franz," he said. "the storm will not grow less, and one of us should be here to reassure the cows if the wind screams too loudly. do you want to go first?" "no, you go," franz urged. "very well." the giant opened the stable door, braced against the wind, slipped into his skis, closed the door and was gone. franz huddled very close to caesar while the four cows stamped and munched. he shuddered, not in fear but with awe. this was what winter in st. bernard pass truly meant. the wind that sounded inside the stable as a doleful moan, was a screaming demon outside. a strong man would have to struggle just to stand against it. twenty minutes later, the stable door opened and anton came back. he carried a bowl and a dish. "i have brought your supper, little franz, for you must remain here," he said. "there is very great trouble. father stephen has only now come into the refectory. he is almost spent. a traveler missing from the rest house has not arrived at the hospice and father stephen has been searching for him." "what now?" franz asked, with some alarm. anton replied, "we all go, little franz. the fathers and the _maronniers_ alike, all search for that traveler until he is found. that is our only reason for being here." "i will eat quickly and be ready at once," franz said. anton smiled gently. "not you, little franz. you stay here." "it was caesar and i who found emil gottschalk!" franz asserted. "we've searched for lost travelers before!" "but never in st. bernard pass during a storm," anton reminded him. "please--" franz began. anton said shortly, "you stay here." anton left and franz looked dejectedly at the closed stable door. he ate his supper and blew the candle out, for candles must not be wasted. a dozen times during the night he awakened, sure that anton had returned. but it was not until past noon of the following day, during a lull in the storm, that anton did return. from the stable door franz watched the giant _maronnier_ and two priests of the hospice. all three were on skis and anton carried a blanket-wrapped object that had the size and shape of a man. it couldn't possibly be a man, for men were not like that. franz watched with staring eyes as the three went to the house of the dead. when they left it, anton no longer carried his burden. [illustration: _but it was not until past noon of the following day, during a lull in the storm, that anton did return_] : caesar's sentence before the storm spent itself, snow lay twelve feet deep in grand st. bernard pass and some of the drifts were three times as deep. every cliff and slope held a huge burden of snow, but it was not a burden willingly accepted. and the danger increased a hundred times over. enough snow to mold an ordinary snowball might be wind-blown and start more, which in turn gathered more. finally, carrying boulders, ice and everything else that lay in its path, an all-destroying avalanche would roar down. such avalanches were a daily occurrence on the peaks about the hospice. franz stood in front of the stable, caesar beside him. he was watching the sun glance from the surrounding peaks. wherever it touched snow or ice, it gave back a reflection so dazzling that to face it for more than a few minutes meant to risk blindness. a million jewels, franz thought, a hundred million jewels, and each one more brilliant than the brightest ornament in any emperor's crown. the hospice itself, with ski trails radiating in every direction, like the spokes of a giant wagon wheel, was banked high with snow. except for the house of the dead, toward which he looked only when he could not avoid doing so, franz thought it the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. anton martek, sitting on a chair beside the stable's open door, fashioning a ski pole, did not look up from his work. a complete craftsman, regardless of whether he was honing an ax, making a ski pole, milking a cow, skiing, or doing anything else, anton believed wholeheartedly that anything worth doing was worth doing well, and it could not be well done unless it received his undivided attention. presently, franz saw a man leave the refectory and ski toward the stable. it was father mark, who smiled when he came near and said, "good afternoon, franz." "and a very good afternoon to you, father mark," franz replied. "have the travelers come up?" "not yet," father mark told him. "but fathers stephen and benjamin have gone down to guide them. on a day such as this, let us hope there will be no trouble." "let us hope so," franz agreed. he felt a pang of sorrow. father benjamin, who always took caesar with him when he went down to the rest house, had not even told franz he was going. but it was not his place, franz reminded himself, to tell the fathers what they should or should not do. if father benjamin had not asked for caesar, it was because he did not want him. anton martek stood up respectfully and said, "good afternoon, father mark." "and to you, anton." father mark noted the half-finished ski pole. "busy as usual, i see. well, they do say satan finds work for idle hands." anton said, "i fear he has found enough for mine." "tut, tut," father mark reproved. "you must not be gloomy on a day so fine. the prior would speak with you." "at once," anton said. he slipped into his skis and departed with father mark. franz stared wistfully after them. he himself had seen the prior, in the chapel or from a distance, but he had never dared even think of speaking with him. on those few occasions when their paths would have crossed, and they could not have avoided speaking, franz had fled as swiftly as possible. winter in st. bernard pass inspired awe, but it was not nearly as awe-inspiring as the prior of st. bernard hospice. franz picked up and inspected the ski pole anton was fashioning, and he tried to fix each detail exactly in his mind. making proper skis or ski poles was more than just a craft. it was a very precise art, and one that franz hoped to master some day. good was not enough. in the alps, who ventured out on skis took his life in his hands and must have perfection. a few minutes later, anton returned alone. he did not look at franz when he said, "the prior would talk with you." "with me?" franz said bewilderedly. "you," anton said. franz protested, "but--i cannot talk with the prior!" "i fear you have no choice, little franz," anton told him. "the prior awaits in the refectory." franz asked fearfully, "what does he want, anton?" "that you must discover for yourself," anton replied. franz pleaded, "go with me, anton!" "yes," anton said quietly, "i will go with you." franz put on his skis and, with caesar trailing, they went to the refectory. the boy's head reeled. his heart fluttered like the wings of a trapped bird. at the entrance to the refectory, he could go no farther. "come, little franz," anton urged gently. "y-yes, anton." franz shivered. dressed in the habit of his order, the prior sat before a pile of logs that smoldered in the huge fireplace. with him, and almost as hard to face, were two of the canons, the clavandier, whose task it was to watch over hospice provisions, and two priests. franz clasped his hands behind him, so nobody could see them shake, and wished mightily that the floor would open up so he could sink through it. "it is time we met, young _maronnier_," the prior said. "i like to know all who share this work with me. but for some reason, we have never spoken." "y-yes, most holy prior," franz stammered. "there is nothing to fear," the prior said. it was a very gentle voice and, when franz took courage to look, he saw also that, though it was weather-scarred and storm-beaten, the prior's was a very gentle face. the boy felt more at ease. "i am not afraid," he said. "that is good," the prior approved. "i wear the prior's habit and you are a _maronnier_, but, for all that, we are equal. i have received excellent reports of your diligence and industry. you are a credit to the hospice." "thank you, most holy prior," franz said. the prior smiled, knowing that he should not be addressed in such a fashion but understanding why he was. he continued, "now that we have finally met, i would that it were for a different reason. i fear that i have sad tidings for you." "for me?" franz's heart began to pound again. "you have a dog," the prior said, "a great dog that, according to our good clavandier, eats a great amount of food. yet, he does no work." franz whispered miserably, "that is true." "believe me, i understand what this dog means to you." the prior was very gentle. "i hope to make you understand what the hospice of st. bernard means to wayfarers. every ounce of food we have here is far more precious than gold. without it, we could neither preserve our own lives nor provide for our guests. it is a harsh order that i must issue, franz, but with the next travelers who are going there, your dog must be returned to your native village of dornblatt." for the moment, franz was stricken speechless. then he spoke wildly. "please!" he begged. "please do not send caesar away, most holy prior! it is true that he will not turn the spit, but he saved father benjamin from the crevasse! he guided all of us safely to the hospice while a blizzard raged!" "that tale i have heard," the prior said, "and your caesar surely deserves all praise. but, as you have surely seen for yourself, we have the welfare of travelers well in hand--" outside, someone shouted. those inside looked questioningly toward the door and one of the priests rushed to open it. looking out, franz saw two men on skis. one was obviously injured. the other was helping to support him. the unhurt man was father benjamin. the other was jean greb, from franz's native dornblatt. : jean's story father mark and anton rushed to their skis and sped out to help the approaching pair. father benjamin surrendered jean greb to the mighty anton, then knelt to undo the harness of jean's skis. as though jean, a big man, weighed no more than a baby, anton martek cradled him in his arms and carried him into the refectory. he laid him tenderly on a pallet that the clavandier and one of the canons had placed in front of the fire. franz hung fearfully in the background while the prior himself, who was skilled in the healing arts, knelt beside the injured man and began to examine him. jean had fought on while there was need for fighting. now that the need no longer existed, unconsciousness came. "i fear that there is no hope for this man's companion," father benjamin said in a low voice. "they were coming from the inn to the hospice when an avalanche rolled down upon them. by a miracle alone, this man was thrown to the top. not even his skis were broken, and when i discovered him, he was trying to find his companion. i thought it best, even though he protested, to bring him here with all possible speed." "it was wise to do so," the prior said quietly. "the snows have claimed many lives. had you let this man continue to search for his friend, his life might have been lost, too." "is jean badly hurt?" franz asked huskily. the prior glanced up quickly. "do you know this man, franz?" "he is jean greb, from my native village of dornblatt," franz answered. "he is a very good friend to my family and myself." "put your heart at ease." the prior's slim fingers ceased exploring jean's body. "there is very great shock, which is not at all extraordinary after one has been the victim of an avalanche. aside from that, your friend seems to have suffered only a broken arm and some broken ribs. it will be less painful for him if we take the proper measures while he still sleeps." anton martek, who had doubtless discovered jean's broken arm while carrying him to the hospice, was suddenly there with splints. father mark brought bandages, and all the rest stood silently near while the prior set and splinted jean's broken arm and bound his ribs. finished, the prior reached for a flask of brandy that the clavandier had brought from his stores. he forced a few drops between jean's lips, waited a moment, then gave the injured man a few more drops. jean's eyelids fluttered. he turned his head to one side and moaned. then he opened his eyes and stared blankly. the prior knelt before him with a small glass of brandy. he cradled jean's head with one arm. "drink," he said. jean sipped slowly, and as he did the color returned to his face and the life to his eyes. he nibbled his own lips. then the shock faded and he returned to the world of rational beings. his eyes found franz, and an agony that was born of no physical pain twisted his face. "we came to see you, franz," he said in a husky whisper, "and i was the guide. alas, i was a very poor guide, for the one who engaged me still lies in the snow!" "it was not your fault," the prior soothed. "no man can foresee an avalanche." franz's heart turned over. for none but the most important of reasons would anyone have set out from dornblatt to visit him in st. bernard pass. were either of his parents or one of his sisters lost in the snow and not found? were they beset by some terrible illness? were--? "i know there was a message," jean continued, "but i was not the one who carried it." "who was the message from?" franz burst out. jean said, "it was from emil gottschalk." "emil gottschalk?" franz asked bewilderedly. "the same," jean said. "it was only two weeks ago that he was able to leave the hospital at martigny and return to dornblatt. he has lost one of his feet, but that seems to make small difference, for he has found his heart. his first act was to send for the widow geiser and say to her that she may discharge her debt to him at her own will and in her own time. that she will be able to do, since she has such a very fine farm and is shortly to marry raul muller. his second act--" jean lapsed into silence while franz's bewilderment grew. of all the people of dornblatt who might have sent him a message, emil gottschalk was farthest from his thoughts. but the former greedy miser of dornblatt must surely have come home a changed man. that he had given the widow geiser time to pay her debts when he might have foreclosed on her farm was evidence enough of that. "his second act," jean went on, "was to compose a message to you. it was a most important message, that must be entrusted only to a most important messenger." "who was the messenger?" franz asked. jean answered, "professor luttman." franz reeled like a bullet-stricken chamois. professor luttman was one of the finest men in dornblatt. he was a great and kind teacher, one who had struggled hard to teach even a stupid franz halle. if he and his knowledge were lost, then all the boys and girls of dornblatt who might learn stood a fine chance of growing up to be ignorant indeed. there would be no one to teach them. jean greb closed his eyes to hide the tears that sprang into them. he said bitterly, "would that it were i, and not professor luttman, who lies beneath the snow!" franz suddenly forgot that the mountains might tumble if he spoke to the prior. he flung himself before the supreme authority of st. bernard hospice. "let us go!" he begged. "let caesar and me go with whoever searches for professor luttman!" the prior said gently, "your spirit is admirable, franz, but this is work for experienced men. you and your dog would merely hinder them." "no!" franz cried. "i can get about on snow! it was caesar who found the very emil gottschalk whose message professor luttman carries, when experienced men failed!" "that is true," jean greb spoke from his pallet. "emil would not be alive today were it not for franz's dog. he was buried so deeply in the snow that men alone never would have found him." "your dog can find men buried beneath the snow?" the prior questioned. "yes!" franz exclaimed. the prior appeared puzzled. "how does he do it?" "i cannot be sure, but i think he hears the heart beat!" franz replied. "let us go! we will hinder no one!" "i speak for franz and caesar," jean greb urged. "i have known both all their lives, and i have never known either to hinder anyone. there are few men in dornblatt who can equal franz's skill on the snow." anton martek said, "i also speak for franz. he calls himself stupid because he is unable to understand that which is written in books. but he knows well the arts of the snow and the mountains." the prior nodded. "then go. you too, anton, and father mark. father benjamin will guide, and may god go with all of you!" : caesar's feat there was a wind, but it was not the roaring blast that so frequently snarled through st. bernard pass and it had not tumbled the snow about enough to cover the ski trail left by father benjamin and jean greb. it was a safe path, for two men had already traveled it in safety. rather than having to choose carefully a slow and uncertain way, the four could now move swiftly. followed only by caesar, who found the going easy on a path packed by so many skis, franz stayed just far enough behind anton martek to avoid running up on the toboggan the giant pulled. father benjamin led the way, followed by father mark. there were ropes and shovels on the toboggan. franz tried to swallow his heart that insisted on beating in his throat, rather than in his chest. an avalanche was as unpredictable as the chatter of a jay. for all his vast experience in the mountains, jean greb had not known this one was coming until it overwhelmed both himself and professor luttman. no one could ever be sure. franz tried to reassure himself by thinking of the three men ahead of him. all were not only men of the mountains in general, but of st. bernard pass in particular. there was no situation that could arise in the pass which they had not met before and with which they would not know how to cope, franz told himself. they were very sure of finding professor luttman. but in his own heart, franz knew how very wrong he could be. an avalanche was a freakish thing. when tons, and millions of tons, of snow thundered down a slope, it was somewhat comparable to a treacherous river. there were currents that surged toward the top and those that bored toward the bottom. even though jean greb had been cast out on top, professor luttman might be lying at the bottom. for all their ability to work miracles, the men of st. bernard hospice would never reach him alive if he were. they would never even find him. franz tried to banish such gloomy forebodings from his mind and might have succeeded had not one thought persisted. if father benjamin believed there was a good chance of finding professor luttman, he would have made jean greb as comfortable as possible and tried to find him. and in the refectory, while jean lay unconscious, father benjamin himself had said that there was no hope. franz thrust a hand behind him and felt a little relieved when caesar came up to sniff it. he was by no means sure that caesar could find professor luttman, but he was positive that they stood a far better chance with the big mastiff than they ever would without him. he tried to picture in his imagination all the places where the avalanche might have occurred--and gasped with dismay when they finally found it! the prevailing west wind funneled through a broad gulley. on the east, the gulley was bounded by a gentle slope. but on the west, the slope rose sheer for almost half its height before giving way to an easy rise. the wind had plastered snow against the steep portion. more snow, either wind-borne or falling, had gathered upon it to a depth of twenty feet or more. it was a much greater burden than the slope should have held. with almost a perpendicular wall, and not a single tree or bush to hold it back, a whisper might set it off and send snow roaring into the gulley. it was a death trap that any experienced mountaineer would recognize at a glance. jean greb, seeing the peril, had chosen to climb above the steep portion on the west slope, rather than veer to the east. it was a choice any mountaineer might have made. but something, possibly the light ski tread of jean greb and professor luttman, had started the snow on the steep wall rolling. this, in turn, had set off an avalanche on the gentle slope and all of it had poured into the gulley. in the center of the gulley, snow lay a hundred feet deep. on the north end, where the cleavage between the snow that had rolled and that which had not rolled was almost as sharp as though some colossus had cut it with a knife, there was a near-perpendicular drop that varied between sixty and ninety feet in height. the tremendous force of the avalanche had packed the snow to icy hardness. father benjamin halted, waved his arm and said, "i found your friend here, franz. he was trying to dig into the snow." franz stared with unbelieving eyes at the faint scars in the immense pile of snow. they could have been made only by a ski pole, but a ski pole was the only tool jean had. franz knew suddenly that father benjamin had been entirely right in bringing jean to the hospice. a hundred men with a hundred shovels could not move that mass of snow in a hundred years. it was better to save the man who could be saved than to let him senselessly risk his life for the man who could not. "you found him here?" anton martek asked. father benjamin answered, "this is where the avalanche cast him up. since he and his companion were traveling very close together, he is sure that his friend cannot be far from this place." anton said, "i know of nothing we may do except dig here." "nor i," said father mark. father benjamin said, "if i had a better idea, i would surely make it known. let us dig, and let us have faith as we do so." the boy seized a shovel and began to dig, along with anton and the two priests. he shook his head in disbelief for, even though he used all his strength, his shovel took only a tiny bite of the hard-packed snow. despite the cold wind that snapped up the gulley like an angry wolf, beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead.... franz thought that an hour might have passed when, while the other three continued to dig, he had to stop and rest. for the first time, it occurred to him to look about for caesar. the big dog was at the north end of the avalanche, peering over the perpendicular wall. he trotted anxiously back and forth, then leaned over to rest his front paws on a ledge. suddenly franz remembered when caesar had found emil gottschalk buried in the snow. anton martek and the two priests remained too busy to notice the boy's departure when he made his way to caesar's side. the great mastiff wagged his tail furiously and stared down the wall of snow. "is he there?" franz whispered. "is he there, caesar?" the dog took three paces forward and three back. he whined, leaned over again to rest his front paws on the ledge, then withdrew to his master's side. franz studied the awful wall that suddenly seemed a thousand feet high, and where a mistake in judgment or a misstep meant possible death and certain injury. [illustration: _suddenly franz remembered when caesar had found emil gottschalk buried in the snow_] but caesar would not stop staring down it, and only three feet below was the ledge where he had rested his paws. franz stepped down, widened the ledge with his shovel and reached behind him to help the dog down. he sought the next ledge that he might dig out with his shovel. they were halfway down the wall when the boy heard a thunderous, "franz! franz! come back!" he recognized father benjamin's voice but he dared not look back, for even a fairy could not have found more standing room on the thin ledge where the boy and his dog stood. franz reached down with his shovel to scoop out the next ledge. after what seemed an eternity, they were at the bottom of the wall. caesar ran forward and began to dig in the snow. scraping beside him, presently franz found the limp arm of a man. cold as the arm was, he could still feel the pulse that beat within it. : the message the fire in the refectory's great fireplace roared. the prior, the canons, the sacristan, and everyone else who lived at the hospice of st. bernard and did not have to be away on some urgent business, were gathered around it. jean greb, who felt well enough to sit up by now, occupied a chair in front of the fire. shaken and thoroughly chilled, but not seriously injured, professor luttman lay on jean's pallet. the prior said, "let us have the dog brought forth. even though he cannot understand it, he should hear the message." all eyes turned to franz, beside whom caesar had been sitting only recently. the boy looked toward the door. caesar, who had accepted the stable but found the refectory much too hot, was waiting just inside the door. his jaws were spread and his tongue lolled. he wagged his tail at franz and whined, obviously an invitation for his master to open the door and let him out into the comfortable snow. "he finds the fire much too hot." the boy spoke with a free tongue from a happy heart. he wondered now why he had ever been overawed by the prior or anyone else at the hospice. beneath their somber habits beat very warm and wonderful hearts. if it were any other way, they would not be here. franz finished, "he wants me to let him out." "a true dog of the high pass," the prior said. "very well, franz. you may let him out." the boy walked to the door, opened it, and caesar trotted out gratefully. he began to roll in the snow. franz returned to his place. the prior said, "all of us know of the miracle, a miracle wrought by a young _maronnier_ and his dog. now we shall hear the message professor luttman carries." "i have imparted the message to you," professor luttman protested. "you are the proper person to tell franz." "not i!" the prior laughed. "i am merely an onlooker here, and i must say that, for once, i thoroughly enjoy the spectator's role. proceed, professor luttman." "very well." the professor turned to franz. "do you know what i really thought the day i expelled you from my school?" "you thought i was too stupid to learn," franz replied. "no such thing!" professor luttman denied. "i thought, 'there goes an alpinist, one who can never discover in my beloved books any of the inspiration that he finds in his beloved mountains. it is truly unjust to keep him in school when he does not belong here.' i thought also that, one day, you would make your mark in the world." "i am just a _maronnier_ at st. bernard hospice," franz protested. "and how grateful i am because you are 'just a _maronnier_,'" professor luttman said. "were you not, i would have died in the snow." "they would have found you," franz insisted. "we would not!" anton martek spoke up. "we would have continued digging where we thought he was. it never occurred to any of us that he might be three hundred feet away and down the wall of snow." "that is true," father benjamin agreed. "very true," said father mark. "so i am alive today because of you and caesar," professor luttman continued. "emil gottschalk lives for the same reason. he wanted to give you--" professor luttman named a greater sum of money than the boy had ever thought existed. "i would not accept his money," franz asserted firmly. professor luttman said, "so i told him, so your father told him, too, but both of us agreed that the hospice of st. bernard might well use it. now the prior and i have talked, and the prior declares that you shall decide how that money may be spent." franz murmured, "i would like enough to keep caesar in food, so that he will not be sent away from the hospice." the prior laughed. "if there was any danger of caesar being sent away--and there isn't the slightest--there is enough money to feed him for the next hundred years and a vast sum besides." [illustration] franz looked appealingly at the prior. "i am not worthy to spend a sum so huge!" "you must," the prior told him. "no one else can." franz turned his troubled eyes to the floor. after a moment, he looked up. "there is only one thing i would do," he said finally. "i would go down into the villages, the mountain villages where people and animals alike must learn the arts of the snow. i would buy more alpine mastiffs, dogs such as caesar, and bring them to the hospice. i am sure you may find someone with sufficient skill to train them properly." "and i am equally sure we already have someone," the prior declared. "his name is franz halle. this is a day of great joy for all of us. think of the lives that would have been lost but will be saved after we have these-- "these dogs of st. bernard." jim kjelgaard was born in new york city. happily enough, he was still in the pre-school age when his father decided to move the family to the pennsylvania mountains. there young jim grew up among some of the best hunting and fishing in the united states. he says: "if i had pursued my scholastic duties as diligently as i did deer, trout, grouse, squirrels, etc., i might have had better report cards!" jim kjelgaard has worked at various jobs--trapper, teamster, guide, surveyor, factory worker and laborer. when he was in his late twenties he decided to become a full-time writer. no sooner decided than done! he has published several hundred short stories and articles and quite a few books for young people and adults. his hobbies are hunting, fishing, dogs and questing for new stories. he tells us: "story hunts have led me from the atlantic to the pacific and from the arctic circle to mexico city. stories, like gold, are where you find them. you may discover one three thousand miles from home or, as in _the spell of the white sturgeon_, (winner of the boys' life--dodd, mead prize competition) right on your own door step." and he adds: "i am married to a very beautiful girl and have a teen-age daughter. both of them order me around in a shameful fashion, but i can still boss the dog! we live in phoenix, arizona." the alps described by w. martin conway painted by a. d. mccormick the alps agents in america the macmillan company fifth avenue, new york [illustration: . haymakers in the val maggia. the loads carried by the women are enormous in size, what they are in weight i don't know; but many of them are larger than those shown in the picture. one load i measured was twice the height of the woman.] the alps described by w. martin conway painted by a. d. mccormick london adam and charles black contents page chapter i the treasures of the snow chapter ii how to see mountains chapter iii how mountains are made chapter iv all sorts and conditions of alps chapter v the moods of the mountains chapter vi mountains all the year round chapter vii types of alpine peaks chapter viii passes chapter ix glaciers chapter x alpine pastures chapter xi the human interest chapter xii volcanoes list of illustrations . haymakers in the val maggia _frontispiece_ facing page . bern from the schänzli . view of the bernese alps from the gurten, near bern . the pier at scherzligen, lake of thun--evening . melchior anderegg . storm coming up over lake of lucerne . looking up valley towards zermatt from near randa . eiger, mönch, and jungfrau from scherzligen, near thun . lucerne and lake from the drei linden . the jungfrau from interlaken . fiescherhorn and lower grindelwald glacier . the castle of chillon . the corpus christi procession to the hofkirche of st. leodegar . cloud-burst over lucerne . at meiringen . storm clouds over the lake of thun . vitznau and lake of lucerne . the falls of tosa, val formazza . looking over lucerne from the drei linden . françois devouassoud . at bignasco . looking down the aletsch glacier from concordia hut . asconia--on lago maggiore . locarno from the banks of the lake . pallanza--evening . the madonna del sasso, locarno . locarno at sunset, and north end of lago maggiore . moonlight in the val formazza from the tosa falls . a mountain path, grindelwald . the aletschhorn . the grosser aletsch-firn from concordia hut . thunderstorm breaking over pallanza . the wetterhorn . märjelen alp . lower glacier and grindelwald church . grindelwald looking towards the wengen alp . rimpfischorn and strahlhorn from the riffelberg . the matterhorn, twilight . weisshorn and matterhorn from fiescheralp . aiguille verte and aiguille du dru from the chamonix valley . boden and gorner . the breithorn from schwarz see . the lyskamm . the road from vitznau to gersau . amsteg in the reussthal . the dent blanche from the riffelberg . the village of soldimo, at the entrance of the val maggia . flüelen at end of lake of uri, south arm of lake of lucerne . furggen glacier icefall . the gletscherhorn from the pavilion, hôtel cathrein, close to concordia hut . the trugberg . pallanza--sunset . kranzberg--rotthalhorn--and jungfrau: sunset . märjelen see and great aletsch glacier . the castle of zähringen-kyburg, thun . chalets and church. riederalp . evening in zermatt . bern from the north-west . looking down the val formazza from tosa . in the val bavona . in the val d'aosta . châtillon, val d'aosta . a corner of the town of altdorf . ponte brolla . in the val d'aosta . in the woods of chamonix . in a garden at locarno . pilatus and lake of lucerne from the slopes of the rigi . montreux, lake of geneva . after the sunset the alps chapter i the treasures of the snow john ruskin, in a fine and famous passage, describes the effect of a first view of the alps upon a young and sensitive mind. he was at schaffhausen with his parents. "we must have spent some time in town-seeing," he writes, "for it was drawing towards sunset when we got up to some sort of garden promenade--west of the town, i believe; and high above the rhine, so as to command the open country across it to the south and west. at which open country of low undulation, far into blue--gazing as at one of our own distances from malvern of worcestershire, or dorking of kent,--suddenly--behold--beyond! there was no thought in any of us for a moment of their being clouds. they were clear as crystal, sharp on the pure horizon sky, and already tinged with rose by the sinking sun. infinitely beyond all that we had ever thought or dreamed,--the seen walls of lost eden could not have been more beautiful to us; not more awful, round heaven, the walls of sacred death. it is not possible to imagine, in any time of the world, a more blessed entrance into life, for a child of such a temperament as mine." many a lad or man has felt a similar awakening when the snowy alps first smote upon his vision, though none has ever so nobly expressed the emotion. it is a feeling not to be forgotten in after life. all who love mountains have begun to love them from some remembered moment. we may have known the hills from infancy, but to know is not necessarily to love. it is the day of awakening that counts. to me the hills were early friends. malvern of worcestershire was my childish delight. i climbed snowdon at the age of seven, and felt the delight that arises from standing high and gazing far. but the mountains as beautiful things to look at came later. well do i remember the year when i was at last going to the alps. a vague feeling of expectation and suspense pervaded the summer term--the unknown was in the future and hovered there as something large and bright. what would the great snow mountains look like? that was the abiding question. one june day i was idly lying prone upon a grassy bank, watching piled masses of cumulous cloud tower in the east with the afternoon sun shining splendidly upon them. could it be that any snow mountains were really as fine as clouds like these? i could not believe it. [illustration : bern from the schÄnzli. the seat of the swiss government. the rathhaus, a modern "old catholic church," in centre of picture. the bernese oberland mountains in heat-haze at top.] at last the day came when the sea was crossed and the long railway journey (how long it seemed!) was accomplished. we approached olten. the oberland ought to have appeared, but only rain fell. we reached bern, and drove up to the little country village of zimmerwald, where my friends were staying; still there was no distant view--nothing but wooded and green hills around, that reminded me of other views, and revealed no such startling novelty as i was awaiting. one day passed and then another. on the third morning the sun rose in a sky perfectly clear. when i looked from my window across the green country, and over the deep-lying lake of thun, i saw them--"suddenly--behold--beyond!" jungfrau, mönch, eiger, and the rest, not yet individuals for me, not for a long time yet, but all together, a great white wall, utterly unlike any dream of them that had visited me before, a new revelation, unimaginable, indescribable, there they stood, and from that moment i also entered into life. returned to my school friends in due season, i thought to tell them of this new and splendid joy that had come to me, but a few attempts cured me of any such endeavour. it was impossible. my words fell upon deaf ears, or rather i had no words. what i said failed to raise a picture in their minds, as what had before been said to me had failed. i have never repeated the attempt; i shall not do so now. the prophet who saw the vision of the almighty could speak only by aid of types and shadows. the great revelations of nature's majesty are not describable. who that had never seen a thunderstorm could learn its majestic quality from description? who can enter into the treasures of the snow by way of words? the glory of a great desert must be seen to be realised. the delicate magnificence of the arctics none can translate into language. we may speak of that we do know, and testify that we have seen, but no one receives our testimony, because words cannot utter the essential facts. [illustration: . view of the bernese alps from the gurten, near bern.] in writing about the alps, therefore, we write and paint primarily to remind those who know; to suggest further visions of a like character to those they possess within themselves. even the greatest master of descriptive writing can only manifest his mastership by knowing what to omit and where to stop. "suddenly--behold--beyond!" that is enough for those who know. for those who do not know, no words can embody and transmit the unfelt emotion. since the first day when i saw the snowy mountains, i have seen them again and again in all parts of the world, and have come to know them from above as well as from below. i have penetrated them in all directions and grown to understand the meaning of their smallest details of couloir, crevasse, ice-fall, cornice, arête, and bergschrund. it has not been all gain. gladly would some of us be able to shed our knowledge of detail, if it were but for a moment, and once again behold the great wall of white as ignorantly as we first beheld it--a thing, vast, majestic, and above all mysterious--unapproachable as the clouds--a region not for men but fairies--the rose-clad tops of the mountains where dance the spirits of the dawn. fairest of all is ever the first vision, not completest. later we know more, we understand more, we may even come to love more, but the first vision of a young man's love is surpassed by no future splendour, and the first glory of a mountain view never comes again. doubtless there may exist some people who, even if they had been smitten by the glory of the mountains in the age of their own most abounding youthful powers of body, would not have been attracted to climb them; yet such folks must be rare. those who first see mountains in the years of their solid maturity naturally escape the attraction. but most young and healthy individuals as naturally desire to climb as they do to swim or to wander. the instinct of man is to believe that joy is somewhere else than where he stands. "dort wo du nicht bist, dort ist das glück." it is not true, but life is not long enough to teach us that it is not--and fortunately, else were half our efforts quenched in the impulse. to see round, over, and beyond--that is the natural desire of all. we want to go everywhere, to behold everything. who would not rush to visit the other side of the moon, were such journey possible? if messrs. cook were to advertise a trip to mars, who would not be of the party? "to see round, over, and beyond"--that is a common human instinct, which accounts for the passion of historical and scientific investigation, for the eagerness of politicians, for the enthusiasm of explorers and excavators, for the inquisitiveness of psychical societies, for the prosperity of fortune-tellers, and for the energy of mountaineers. what! there is a height looking down on me and i cannot attain it? there is a mountain wall around me and i cannot look over it? perish the thought! there is an historical limit behind which i know nothing about the human race? give me a spade, that i may dig out some yet earlier ancestor and discover something about him. there is an unmapped region at the south pole? what is my government made of that it does not send forth an expedition to describe it? [illustration: . the pier at scherzligen, lake of thun--evening. the niesen on the right.] in face of the unknown all men are of one mind. they cannot but endeavour to replace ignorance by knowledge. what is true of the mass is true to some extent of each individual. there exists in the unit the same tendency at all events as in the multitude. each man wants to see what he has not seen, to stand where he has not stood, to learn more than he knows. in the presence of mountains this desire urges him upward. he does not start as a mountaineer intending to climb, and climb. he starts for a single expedition, just to see what high peaks and glaciers are like. the snowy regions beheld from a distance puzzle him. evidently they are not like the places he is familiar with. he will for once go and take a nearer look. he will climb somewhither and get a sight all round. little does he suspect what the outcome of his venture may be. a week ago he was perhaps laughing at the tattered-faced climbers he met, as mad fools, going up to mountain-tops just to come down again and say they had been there. of such folly he at any rate will never be guilty. climbing has no fascinations for him; he is merely going to have a look at the white world, so that he may know what it is that he hears people talking about--their corridors and their couloirs, crevasses, snow-bridges, séracs, and bergschrunds. so he hires a guide and sets forth for the breithorn, perhaps, or some such high and safe-reputed peak. he hits upon a day when the weather turns bad. winds buffet him; rain and snow drench him; he labours through soft snow; he is bewildered by fog. if the sun shines for a few moments, it is only long enough to scorch the skin off his face and ensure him a few days of great discomfort to follow. he has no view from the summit. he returns wearied out to his inn. [illustration: . melchior anderegg. born . a celebrated alpine guide; with the late sir leslie stephen made many first ascents, including the rympfischhorn, alphubel, oberaarhorn. also well known for his wood-carving.] yes!--and thenceforward the alpine fever masters him. he is caught and makes no effort to escape. his keenest desire is to be off once more into those same high regions--once more to feel the ice beneath his feet--once more to scramble up clean crags fresh from nature's sculpturing and undefiled by soil or vegetation. with each new ascent he becomes eager for more. the summers are all too short for his satisfaction. he goes home to read about other people's climbs, to study maps and guide-books, to lay out schemes for future seasons. dauphiny, the graians, the engadine and tirol--he must give a season or seasons to each. thus is the climber fashioned out of an ordinary man. each new votary of the peaks in turn experiences the same sudden conversion, expects to be able to explain his new delight to his lowland friends, and in turn discovers the same impossibility. he learns, as we all have learned, that the delight is not translatable into words; that each must experience it for himself and each must win his own entrance into the secret alone. the most we can do is to awaken the inquisitive sense in another, who beholds the visible evidence of our enjoyment and wonders what its source may be. in that fashion the infection can be spread, and is spread with the extraordinary rapidity that the last half-century has witnessed. what climber does not recall the enthusiasm of his first seasons? the passionate expectation of the coming summer, the painful awaiting for the moment when his foot should once again crunch the ice-corn of the glacier beneath its hob-nailed sole? gradually that enthusiasm passes and is replaced by a settled mood of calmer, but no less intense, satisfaction. but does the æsthetic delight in the beauty of the mountains remain through all these experiences undimmed? not always. in the first view of them it is the beauty of the snowy peaks, of the great white walls, that appeals to the eye. ignorant of the meaning of every detail, the details are almost unseen. it is the whole that is beheld in the glory of its whiteness. the wonder of the silver snow beyond the green and beneath the sky invades the mind of every new spectator. small need be our surprise that unsophisticated, semi-civilised peoples have always believed the snowy regions to be part of the other world--the home of ghosts and fairies, or of demons and dragons. "not more awful, round heaven, the walls of sacred death," says ruskin in the passage above quoted, thereby manifesting how close in its instincts is the sympathy between genius and the purely natural man. almost universal is the feeling aroused by a first sight of a great snowy range that it is unearthly. mystery gathers over it. its shining majesty in full sunlight, its rosy splendours at dawn and eve, its pallid glimmer under the clear moon, its wreathed and ever-changing drapery of cloud, its terrific experiences in storm, all these elements and aspects strike the imagination and appeal broadly to the æsthetic sense. nor are they ever quite forgotten even by the most callous of professional mountaineers. [illustration: . storm coming up over lake of lucerne. sketch made from flüelen.] but with increase of experience on the mountains themselves come knowledge and a whole group of new associations. a man does not climb a mountain without bringing some of it away with him and leaving something of himself upon it. returned to the level and looking back, he does not see his peak as before. every feature of the road he traversed is remembered, and he instinctively tries to fit the features to the view. that velvet slope above the trees is the stony tract up which he toiled before dawn and where he stumbled in the fitful lantern-light. that grey band beside the glacier is the moraine, whose big rocks were unstable beneath his tread. that glacier--how slippery it was before the sun smote it! there are the crevasses that made his track so devious; and there began the snowfield so hard and pleasant under foot in the early hours, so toilsome to wade through as the day advanced. in the upper part of the mountain all the little features, that seemed unimportant from below, take on a new meaning. he finds it hard to identify different points. can that tiny thread of snow be the broad gully up which so many steps had to be cut? he looks at it through a telescope, and the actual traces of his staircase become visible. the mountain judged by the scale of remembered toil grows wonderfully in height. the eye thus trained begins to realise and even to exaggerate the vast scale on which peaks are built. but along with this gain in the truthful sense of scale comes the loss of mystery. the peak which was in heaven is brought down to earth. it was a mere thing of beauty to be adored and wondered at; it has become something to be climbed. its details have grown intelligible and interesting. the mind regards it from a new aspect, begins to analyse its forms and features, and to consider them mainly in their relation to man as a climber. as knowledge grows this attitude of mind develops. each fresh peak ascended teaches something. the nature of the climbing on peaks not yet ascended can to some extent be estimated from below. the inquiry naturally arises, how shall that peak be climbed? which is the way to attack it? the eye traces possible routes and foresees probable difficulties. it rejects or modifies proposed ways. it observes all kinds of structural details. it notes the path of avalanches and the signs of falling stones. it concentrates its attention upon ice-falls and endeavours to thread the maze of their séracs. thus the intelligence replaces the æsthetic sense and the enjoyment of beauty becomes or is liable to become dimmed. the longer a climber gratifies his instincts and pursues his sport, the larger becomes his store of reminiscences and the greater his experience. if he confines his attention to a single range of mountains such as the alps, he is almost always in sight of mountains he has climbed and glaciers he has traversed. each view shows him some route he has once pursued, some glacier basin he has explored, some pass he has crossed. the labyrinth of valleys and the crests of successive ridges do not puzzle him. he knows how they are grouped and whither they lead. beyond those mountains is the zermatt valley; that peak looks down on zinal; that col leads to saas. thus there grows in him the sense of the general shape and arrangement of the country. it is no longer a tangled chaos of heights and depths, but an ordered anatomy, formed by the action of definite and continuous forces. so far as his knowledge extends this orderliness is realised. he has developed a geographical sense. that in its turn poses problems for solution. he notes some corner of his map where a deep-lying valley is intricately fitted in amongst ridges which he has seen from without. he becomes desirous to visit it, so that he may complete the map in his own understanding. when he goes to a new district he cannot but be eager to obtain a geographical grasp of its form and arrangement. the instinct that desires to see round corners and over walls has now new food to grow on. in a fresh district the geographical problem is always fascinating, but in one that has been explored by no mountaineer before, its fascination is overwhelming, especially if the explorer be a surveyor and cartographer, as i can attest. to see the sketch-map of a previously unsurveyed country grow upon the paper is an intense satisfaction. the aspect of every peak gives rise to a twofold problem. can it be climbed, and if so by what route? how should it be depicted on the map? these questions are ever present. the solution of them is the thought of every hour, the first point of interest in every view. as it is with the explorer, so to a less extent is it liable to be with every climber; for all climbers are to some extent explorers, even though they are but exploring previously described and mapped territory. it is new to them, at any rate, and that is the important fact. climbers, when they begin to exhaust a district, move to another in hunger after the unknown. [illustration: . looking up valley towards zermatt from near randa. theodulhorn and furggengrat in distance.] hence, as the seasons go by, it happens that the æsthetic interest, which was at first the climber's main delight, begins to fade. if he be a man of scientific interests it is liable to an even quicker evanescence than if he be not, for problems of geological structure, or of botanical distribution, or of glaciology and the like, are a keen source of intellectual enjoyment. at length, perhaps, the day comes when the loss is felt. there is a gorgeous range of snow mountains with every effect of cloud and sunshine that the eye can desire, displayed about and upon them, yet the climber finds with dismay that his heart is cold. the old glory has vanished from the scene and the old thrill is an unfelt emotion. what is the matter? have his eyes grown dim? has he lost the faculty of delight? is he growing old? whatever the cause, the effect is painful in the extreme. it is one that many of us have felt, especially towards the close of a long and successful climbing season, or extensive journey of exploration. there is but one remedy--to quit the mountains for a while and attend to the common business of life. when winter months have gone by and summer is again at hand, the old enthusiasm is liable to return. sooner or later the true mountain-lover will begin to starve for sight of the snows. when age comes upon him and his limbs grow stiff and his heart enfeebles, the desire to climb may slacken, but the love of mountains will not diminish. rather will it take on again something of its first freshness. then it was purely objective; now it becomes objective once more. the desire to obtain and to possess passes away. we know what it is like to be aloft. we foresee the toil with no less, perhaps with even greater clearness of prevision than we foresee the triumph and the delight. we have learnt the secret of the hills and entered into the treasures of the snow. now we can afford to rest below and gaze aloft. if the mystery of our first views can never return, the glow of multitudinous memories replaces it not unworthily. the peaks have become inaccessible once more. they again belong to another world, the world of the past. the ghosts of our dead friends people them, and the ghosts of our dead selves. when the evening glow floods them at close of day it mingles with the mellow glories of the years that are gone. the old passionate hopes and strivings, the old disappointments and regrets, the old rivalries, and the old triumphs, vaguely mingling in a faint regret, beget in the retired mountaineer an attitude of peace and aloofness. he feels again the incommunicable and indescribable delight that thrilled him at the first; but now, though it is less passionate, less stimulating, less overwhelming than of yore, it is mellower and not a whit less beautiful and true. [illustration: . eiger, mÖnch, and jungfrau, from scherzligen, near thun.] one precious thing beside memory the retired mountaineer possesses, which he who has never climbed must lack: it is knowledge. the keenest mountain-lover who never climbed does not really know the nature of what he is looking at. even ruskin, the most gifted mountain-lover that never climbed, constantly reveals in his writings failures to understand. the true scale of things was never apparent to his eye. like all beginners, at first underestimating, he presently came to overestimate the size of cliffs and ridges. ability to see things truly is a great possession. none but an experienced mountaineer can ever so see mountains. he instinctively recognises the important features and distinguishes them from the unimportant. he is conscious of what is in front and what behind. he does not mistake foreshortened ridges for needle-pointed peaks. a range of mountains is not a wall to him but a deep extending mass. he feels the recesses and the projections. he has a sense of what is round the corner. the deep circuits of the hills are present in his imagination even when unbeheld. he knows their white loneliness. the seen end of a glacier-snout implies to him all the unseen upper course and expanse of its gathering ground. thus every view to him is instinct with implications of the unseen and the beyond. such knowledge well replaces the mystery of his youthful ignorance. if time has taken something away, it has amply repaid the theft. it is not his debtor. he may mingle now with the crowd who never quit the roads, and no external sign shall distinguish him from them, but the actual difference between them is fundamental. for the snows are beyond their ken and belong to the same region as the sky; but they are within his area; they form part of his intellectual estate; they hold his past life upon their crests. where the lowlander looks and wonders, the mountaineer possesses and remembers, nor wonders less for being able to realise the immensity of the mass of beauteous detail that unites to form a mountain landscape. to attain such ripe fruition, however, does not come to every man, nor to any without taking thought. the most callous person will feel some thrill from a first view of a snowy range, but it may soon become a commonplace sight, its beauty soon be unperceived. only by taking thought can this be avoided. unless we can learn from year to year to see more, and more recondite, beauties in nature, we are yearly losing sensitiveness to nature's beauty. there is no standing still in this matter. we must advance or we must go back. a faculty must be used or it will atrophy. it is not enough to go to the mountains in order to grow in their grace. sensitiveness to beauty increases in the man who looks for beauty and greatly desires to find it. pure nature is always and everywhere beautiful to the eye that knows how to see. the perception of the beauty of a thing is, however, not the same as the mere sight of a thing. many may behold a view, and of them all only one may see beauty in it. he does so because he brings with him the innate or trained capacity for seeing that kind of beauty. but how is that capacity to be acquired or emphasised by training? this question might be answered in a volume and even then the answer would be incomplete and would not compel assent from all. we can only afford a single phrase here for the reply--"by taking thought." if, when a sight produces on the spectator the thrill that comes from the recognition of beauty, he will concentrate his attention upon it and remember it (as a youth remembers the beautiful face of a girl he has merely passed in the street), and if he will be on the alert to find it again and yet again, he will assuredly obtain by degrees a completer understanding and a more sensitive recognition of that particular kind of beauty. he will find more sides and aspects of it than he at first suspected. it will lead him on to a larger knowledge and a wider sympathy. his æsthetic capacity will be increased and his powers of delight continuously developed. all this in the case of mountain-beauty will come to him, not merely because he wanders among or upon mountains, but because being there he retains towards them a definite attitude of mind,--an attitude, however, which is not that of the climber, and which mere climbing and exploration do not by themselves encourage. he that looks for structure will find structure; he that studies routes will find routes. to find beauty it is beauty that must be searched for as a prospector searches for gold. more priceless than gold, beauty abundantly rewards those who find her. with that guerdon in mind let the mountaineering reader ask himself, "hast thou entered into the treasures of the snow?" [illustration: . lucerne and lake from the drei linden. pilatus with storm breaking over mountain and town.] chapter ii how to see mountains i have borrowed the title of this chapter from that of an excellent book, recently published, called _how to look at pictures_. the natural man might suppose that such were questions on which there is nothing to say. the picture is before you, and all you have to do is to open your eyes and let the image of it fall on your retina. what can be more simple? yet that is not all, because the eye only sees that which it brings with it the power of seeing. how much more one sees in the face of a friend than in that of a stranger! it is similar with all objects. in order to see aright and to see fully, the power of seeing must be acquired. some learn more easily than others, but all must learn. it is admittedly so with music. the most self-satisfied person cannot refuse to admit that even a short tune is better grasped, better _heard_, on a second hearing than the first time. what is true of a simple tune is more obviously true of a complicated work. the most accomplished musician does not grasp a wagner opera at a first hearing. man is a creature with faculties that need training. he is not born with faculties fully trained by instinct. to perceive beauty in a scene implies a power of selection. there is beauty in every view if you know how to find it, but the eye has to sift it out. open your eyes at random. they are saluted by an infinite multitude of details. you can pass from one to another, but you cannot see them all at once. looking at a tree, you can see a few leaves and twigs surrounded by a green spludge, which experience has taught you is made up of leaves or twigs, but you do not see all the leaves at once; so with blades of grass, flowers in a field, strata edges on a cliff, or crevasses in a glacier. in a broad effect of sunset you cannot be simultaneously conscious of more than a few forms and colours, and, of those you are simultaneously conscious of, one will be more important than the rest--one will give the key-note. nor can you be equally conscious at one moment of forms and colours, or of colours and light and shade. if a view strikes you at all, it strikes you by some effect in it which you perceive, even though you may not be able to state in words what that effect is. it is clear, however, that any effect is the result of selection by the eye. the effect upon the eye would be unchanged if a quantity of details were blotted out, so long as none of those details formed part of the effect. thus if you were attracted by the bright effulgence of a snow slope seen against a clear sky (to take a simple instance), and if your mind were concentrated upon that contrast, you would not notice the sudden obliteration of a crevasse in the slope. that detail would form no part of the effect. as you gaze at any scene you may be continually and rapidly changing the effects you are observing, and that without altering the direction of the eye. such, in fact, is what every view-gazer is always doing. he is searching for a satisfying effect of beauty out of the multitude of possible effects that could be found, such possible effects being always practically infinite in number. ultimately it is probable that some one effect will obtain the mastery within him, an effect that his eye is specially capable of seeing and his mind of comprehending. he passes on his way, and a day afterwards recalls yesterday's view. what rises in his memory is not the whole scene with all its details, but the special effect that ultimately impressed him, the result of a kind of survival of the fittest within him of a multitude of competing effects that he saw or almost saw. [illustration: . the jungfrau from interlaken. first ascended .] take, for example, a very simple instance, the view of the jungfrau from interlaken on a clear day. what most people see is a roughly triangular white mass below a blue sky, and limited on either hand and below by green slopes and foreground. suppose the looker to be a meteorologist whose special study is the atmosphere and its clouds. probably the first thing he will notice will be the quality of the blueness of the sky and the tone of the lower atmosphere between him and the white mountain and green hills. he will, in fact, observe the air-tones, and consciously or unconsciously they will be the key-note of his impression. next comes an east londoner with a toynbee hall party, let us say. what strikes him is the novelty of the white mountain. its whiteness is his main impression, the blue and the green being perceived as mere contrasts to that, and the forms of mountain and hills being unimportant shapes of the colour limits. the size of the mountain may be a subsidiary impression, but it will depend still upon the white colour, the wonder being that so large a natural object should be of snow. anon comes a lover of woods and trees and of the green world. the white mountain for him will merely emphasise and dignify the pine woods and the grassy swards. he will note the draping of the hills by the pine-trees, and the character of the woods. the white peak will have value in the view to him, but only a value subordinate to that of the forest. after him comes a climber, trained, let us say, in the canadian rockies, and now for the first time visiting the classic land of climbers. when, on a clear day, the jungfrau bursts upon his vision, he will give all his eyes to her and her only. he will not observe the greater or lesser blueness of the sky, nor the forms and features of the foreground hills--that is to say, they will not be the first object of his attention, the key-note of the effect he perceives. no! he will notice the form of the snow peak, the modelling of the glacier surface, the striping of the avalanche tracks, the character of the outlining ridges and minor buttresses. he will be subtly conscious of what is snow and what ice, of how and why rocks emerge from the snowy envelope. where the ignorant will conceive the peak to be a great mound of snow, the newly-arrived climber will feel it to be a mass of rock draped in snow and ice, and his attention will be caught and held by that drapery, its forms and foldings. finally there comes an artist, who knows nothing about mountains or forests and cares nothing, but who loves above all else (let us say) colour. what he will see will be some colour effect, some special harmony of tints in sky and snow and forest, some unifying effect that will make white, blue, and green all qualities of a single glory. if he paint the view, that is the effect he will strive to render, and in so doing he will care little about forms and details, little about modellings of glacier drapery and rocky skeleton. the colour-chord will be his aim, and all the power of his vision and the skill of his hand will be concentrated upon that. or perhaps the artist will not come alone but in company with another of different character. this one cares less about colour than form. what will strike him will be the graceful architecture of the view, the delicate outlines, the intricate rareness of surface modelling in the snow, the strongly relieved emphasis of the limiting lines of the framing hills. whether the sky be blue of a special tone and the foreground embellished with every shade and combination of greens will be immaterial to him for the time. he will feast his eyes upon form, and form will be the real subject of whatever representation of the scene he may endeavour to set down. any one can multiply instances for himself and carry further to any extent the analysis of possible simultaneous varieties of effect in a single view. if to that he add the changes of effect that nature makes by variations of the weather, time of day, and season of the year, it will be evident enough how a single scene may be beheld with infinite variety by the eye of man; and the suspicion will arise that all conceptions, all appreciations, may not be equally fine or equally easy to grasp, and that, where one man may see little, another may be able to see an effect of singular beauty. it is the true and proper function of a landscape painter to find effects in views, but it does not follow that the effects he sees are those seen by any man in the street. "i never saw a sunset look like that," said a man to turner when looking at one of his pictures. "no!" was the reply, "but don't you wish you could?" it should be the business of a painter to inspire such envy in those who see his works. if he merely shows us things as we see them for ourselves, he is of little service. at best he does but revive our memories. he should do more. he should stimulate our imaginations to a higher activity, or provide us with something to look for in the future even more than to revive in the past. to return to our two painters of a previous paragraph: if their drawings of the jungfrau were shown to the meteorologist, he might be prompt to observe that the atmospheric effect was not rendered, and that the colour of the sky was incorrect. the toynbee hall excursionist would find the snow lacking in the radiance that had dazzled him. the forest-lover would declare that he could not identify the character of the trees and that the various greens of the foreground were untrue to nature. whilst the climber would regard the colourist's jungfrau as a daub in which all the character of the peak was missed. he would fail to recognise any possible route up its painted image or the signs of the difficulties and dangers of the way. finally, each artist might regard the other's picture as a more or less mistaken effort. yet if all these gentry were animated by a proper spirit they would recognise that their own view was not the only way of seeing the peak, but that any of the others was equally truthful, perhaps equally worthy, nay, that some other effect than those they respectively felt might be superior. each might learn from the drawings another kind of effect to look for, and raising his eyes from the paper to the peak might then and there see the pictured effect for himself, and thenceforward be able to discover the like again in other places. it is difficult to estimate how far the effective sight of any man has been thus educated, either by pictured scenes, or by a word in season from some companion who shared with him this or the other splendid view. each of us starts but poorly equipped; each may discover something for himself and to some extent develop his faculties by his own unaided efforts; but ultimately each, even the most naturally gifted, learns far more from others than he originates. the most efficient teachers of how to look are painters--of how to look at scenery, landscape painters. it is unfortunate that the snowy ranges have not been studied by a larger number of the great landscape artists. turner handled them in their broader aspects and from relatively low and distant points of view; by so doing he greatly helped to spread and deepen a knowledge of mountain beauty. no inconsiderable number of later artists, mostly, however, admittedly of the second rank, have devoted at least a part of their time to mountain-landscape art, some pursuing it to the higher and inner recesses of the snowy region. yet it must be admitted that the great mountain pictures are yet to be painted. stott seemed on the verge of a higher success. segantini almost touched the goal, and would doubtless have come nearer if he had lived longer. such men amongst the dead, and many living artists, whose names i do not venture to set down lest by inadvertent omission i were to be unjust, have earned our thankfulness by the lessons they have taught; yet plenty more remains to be accomplished. the hills have not inspired landscape painters with all the fulness of their charm. [illustration: . fiescherhorn and lower grindelwald glacier] it is often forgotten that mountains and even snowy mountains found their way into pictures at a very early date. even the father of modern landscape painting, hubert van eyck, introduced admirable renderings of lines of snowy peaks into the backgrounds of some of his pictures, as, for instance, in the "three maries at the sepulchre," belonging to sir frederick cook, where the effect of a distant range is beautifully suggested. albrecht dürer again, about a century later, made a series of the carefullest studies of mountain scenes in the neighbourhood of the brenner road, and thenceforward he was fond of introducing excellently-drawn peaks into the backgrounds of his engravings and woodcuts. he possessed a remarkable knowledge of the essential facts of mountain form, so that even a modern mountaineer can learn from his works some of the elements of "how to see." well-drawn mountains are of frequent occurrence in sixteenth century woodcuts and drawings by the prolific masters of sixteenth century south german and venetian schools. the fact is one of many proofs of the vitality of that first modern outburst of mountain enthusiasm which gradually faded as the sixteenth century advanced. it is the commonplace of seventeenth and eighteenth century writers, who chance to refer to mountain scenery, to describe it as of monstrous, horrible, or even hideous character. contemporary artists gave it corresponding expression. we are wrong to assume that their pictures and prints manifest any incapacity to draw, because we do not recognise in them the peaks and landscapes we know. the fact was that those artists gave quite truthful expression to the impression produced upon them by mountain scenery. most alpine lovers have seen prints professing to depict such objects as the grindelwald glaciers and the surrounding heights, and have wondered how any one with the view before him can have so libelled it. but the artist intended no libel. all snowy peaks to him were inaccessible altitudes; in imagination he doubled their steepness. i myself, when a boy, approached the matterhorn with a belief that it was built of precipices. i had always heard it so spoken of. with the thing itself before me i sat down to draw it, and quite unintentionally and unconsciously exaggerated its steepness and sharpness in a way that now seems difficult to account for. if such was the effect of preconception upon a modern lad who had already climbed several relatively high alpine mountains, how easy it must have been for a seventeenth-century artist to be misled, who never thought of climbing at all, and to whose mind the notion of any individual interest attaching to a particular peak was altogether foreign. he merely felt a general awe, or horror, of his surroundings, and in depicting mountain scenery very properly made the rendering of either emotion his chief aim. pictures painted at that time under those influences are not to be regarded as valueless and ridiculous. they are of great value as enabling us to see with our own eyes what mountain scenery actually looked like to the people of those days, and thus to account for the extraordinary language employed by travellers going _the grand tour_ who attempted to describe the scenery through which they passed when crossing the alps. [illustration: . the castle of chillon lake leman lies by chillon's walls: a thousand feet in depth below its massy waters meet and flow. byron. ] i have thus far only spoken of the educative effect of mountain paintings in teaching us how to see mountain scenery, but there are other forms of art equally efficient. as a matter of history, it was the writers, and especially the poets, who induced the intelligent public to change their attitude towards mountains. i do not know who was the initiator of the movement or in what country it was first apparent. rousseau deserves to be remembered in this connection. sir walter scott and byron carried on the work, and were supported by the poets of the lake school. goethe and schiller were widely influential in the same direction. at first it was the vague romanticism of the hills and of the supposed simple life of mountain peasants that attracted sympathetic notice and description. gradually mountains came to be looked at in greater detail and for their own sake. finally, in our own day, ruskin for the first time attempted to analyse mountain beauty, and not only produced in the fourth volume of _modern painters_ a most suggestive and illuminating work, but by the magic of his language and the charm and aptness of his illustrative drawings attracted to it the attention of all that was best in english society. whether what followed was directly due to his initiative, i do not know. the next important step was the publication of mr. edward whymper's _scrambles amongst the alps_, which rapidly attained popularity of the best kind. it is difficult nowadays to put one's self in the place of mountain lovers who met with that book when it first appeared. to us it is still full of freshness and charm, but to them it was far more significant. they compared its illustrations with those in _peaks, passes, and glaciers_, published twelve years before, and they were smitten with admiration. "look at the poor old chromo-lithographs," wrote leslie stephen, "which then professed to represent the mountains, and compare them with mr. whymper's admirable woodcuts. the difference is really remarkable. though some of these old illustrations, copied from photographs, suggest the general outlines with tolerable fidelity, most of them utterly fail to represent a mountain at all to an educated eye.... the old daubs are mere random indications of certain obtrusive features which could not well be overlooked. mr. whymper's woodcuts seem to bring the genuine alps before us in all their marvellous beauty and variety of architecture." ruskin and whymper, in fact, took up mountain-drawing where dürer had left it three hundred and fifty years before. they looked at the mountains themselves with the humility that belongs to men who love the truth, and they taught others so to look. alpine climbing taught men for the first time what mountains actually are. the power so to see them was simultaneously developed, and photography has helped. the question of mountain-photography is a thorny one, but it must be faced. the reader can scarcely deny that if mountains really looked like the ordinary run of commercial photographs of them, they would be ugly or at least unattractive objects. a volume of such photographs would scarcely lead a man, who had never left his home, eagerly to desire a close acquaintance with snowy peaks. that, however, was actually what mr. whymper's woodcuts did. hundreds of readers of his book were thereby led to become mountaineers. wherein does this different efficiency consist? a photograph, in theory, repeats every detail of the view it contains. such details as drop out are either too small or too faint to be visible in the print. a camera does not select. it takes all. in this respect it differs altogether from the human eye. if you look fixedly in a definite direction and regard carefully what it is that you actually see, you will discover it to be a few central details only, and that they are surrounded not merely by vaguely defined objects but by objects duplicated. thus the sight of the eye and the sight of a camera are not alike, either in what is beheld or what is selected. the sense of beauty depends upon what the eye selects. it would seem then that the beauty of a view could not possibly be reproduced by photography, and such was the crude conclusion once held by artists of the capacities of this modern process. photographers, however, have proved that such is not necessarily the case. in the infinite effects, all of them beautiful, that a single landscape is capable of yielding, and yielding simultaneously, most are beyond the reach of photography; but the same is likewise true of any one art-process. pen-and-ink drawing, for example, is as incapable of reproducing colour effects as photography. each art has its own limited area of possible effect. photography, in so far as it is an art, is subject to its own definite and rather narrow limitations. a photographer can choose his subject and determine its exact limitations. as he can deal only with forms and tones, he must choose a subject so arranged by nature that its forms are in themselves beautiful, and its tones a harmonious distribution of light and shade. but light and shade varies with the hour of the day and season of the year, and forms vary with the drift of clouds over the hills, so that the selection of moment becomes for the photographer as important as the choice of point of view, direction, and area of subject. again, by choice of length of exposure and by methods of development, the photographer can alter the quality of light and shade in his negative and the amount of detail he renders. these three factors are entirely under the photographer's control, and in so far as he avails himself of them, not merely to reproduce a view but to reproduce the picturesque effect in a view, he becomes and deserves to be regarded as an artist. [illustration: . the corpus christi procession to the hofkirche of st. leodegar. the principal catholic church of lucerne.] in our own days, as the photograph exhibitions of the alpine club have demonstrated, there are no inconsiderable number of mountain artist-photographers. it has been proved that snow mountains are a specially suitable subject for such art. views in the high regions of ice and rock seldom depend for their chief beauty upon colour. he whose eye is sensitive to colour-effects can, indeed, find such in profusion in the regions of snow, but they are not the effects to which experience shows mountain lovers are as a rule most sensitive. what most of us love in mountains is primarily their form. grand forms are profusely supplied by frost-riven rocks and cloven glaciers. in great snow-fields and slopes, the surface modelling is often of transcendent beauty, and that modelling can be rendered to perfection by photography, if the right moment be chosen. photographers who have known what to look for and what to reject, have perhaps done more even than any other kind of artists in revealing the mountains. but the right moment comes comparatively seldom and has to be seized. a climber may pass for hours through gorgeous scenery, full of subjects for a painter, yet there may not be offered to him one photographable effect. he may expose plate after plate, and carry away with him the most interesting topographical and geographical records, but among them all there will not be a single picture that will render a picturesque effect and be worthy to rank as a work of art. the artist-photographer is a man who can snatch the right moment for the right effect. he must be able to recognise immediately and instinctively, when it comes before his vision, an effect of beauty that can be reproduced. he must see in the complexity of every view what the camera will make of it, knowing for a certainty what it can be made to reflect and what to exclude. in fact he must possess the same qualities as any other kind of landscape artist, the eye that recognises an effect suited to his art and the skill to render that effect in his resulting work of art. such photographers, as i have said, there are and have been. their works have opened the eyes of many a climber to effects of beauty in mountains of which they had before been unconscious. returning to the regions of snow, they have been thus enabled to look for them and to find them. their own sensibility to beauty has thus been enriched and their power of enjoyment correspondingly increased. in consequence of the work of poets, writers, painters, photographers, indeed all kinds of artists, and of the stimulus exerted by them upon mountain travellers of all sorts, men have learned in the last half-century to see mountains far better, more truly, and more beautifully than was possible before. we find in them complexities and refinements of beauty the very existence of which was previously unsuspected. we do not merely wonder at their size or shudder at their savagery. we can do that when the mood is on us, but the mood seldom comes. our forefathers generally looked at them from a distance and thought of them as a whole, seldom doing more than to identify here and there a single individual from the mass. we, on the contrary, have learnt to know them from nearer at hand. we have made friends with them; we can call them all by their names. we know the aspect of each from many points of view, and their features are as familiar to us as were the features of woodside and stream to the mediæval villager. this intimacy with the mountains has taught us that all the snowy ranges of the world are, as it were, of a single race, and that he who knows one knows something about all. the alpine climber, who knows the alps, can be interested in mere description of mountain ascents elsewhere. knowing what alpine peaks look like and how they appear in picture and photograph, he can, by aid of pictures and photographs, attain a tolerably complete idea of the aspect of other mountain ranges. hence the explorers of such ranges, of the caucasus, the himalayas, the peaks of central africa, south america, and new zealand, have been called upon to describe the peaks they have climbed, the valleys and glaciers they have traversed, and the scenery of the regions and ranges they have explored, in a way that would have been unintelligible two generations ago. what we now demand of a mountain explorer is not merely to tell us the adventures of his route, but to explain to us wherein the quality of the mountain scenery differs from that which is familiar nearer home. he must be prepared to answer many questions which would not have been asked till recently. has he been to the himalayas or the andes? we want to know whether those great mountains look their size, and, if so, wherein the effect is manifested of a scale greater than the alps. is he returning from sikhim? we shall ask him to tell us what the great peaks there look like when seen from the beautiful forest below. what are the atmospheric effects peculiar to the region? and, with yet more persistence, what is the quality of mountain form which distinguishes the great peaks there, so that, beheld merely through the medium of photographs, they so impress their individuality upon us? knowing, as we do, the great variety of mountain scenery that can be found in the alps, between the dolomites of tirol at one end and the crags of dauphiny at the other, we expect to be told whether, in the case of the long andes range, corresponding varieties are discoverable, and what and where they are. such questions and multitudes more arise within us. it is much if a traveller can answer a few of them. at best he leaves us hungry. it is this hunger that impels us to travel afar ourselves, if fortune permit. some indeed travel and explore for merely scientific reasons. they desire to add to knowledge and to diminish the area of the unknown. some perhaps believe that they go merely in search of sport. the normal man is more complex. he has these ends in view to a greater or less extent perhaps; but, if he be a normal mountaineer, deep down within him there assuredly resides a true and hearty attachment to mountains and mountain scenery for the sake of their beauty. he may be too dumb to express it or too shy to admit, but we soon discover that the feeling is there, and that it is a dominant fact in his nature. he may not have analysed it. he may never speak of it, never perhaps even state it to himself, yet when we stand beside him on a mountain height, gazing abroad on the undefiled world of snow spread abroad at our feet, we find that we share with him a common feeling and embrace a common joy. after all, it is the beauty of the snows that takes us all back to them, and again back. were that beauty blotted out, how many of us would be climbers? we are like anglers in this respect. we set an aim before us and pursue it with vigour and seem to be wholly intent upon it, but it is the beautiful, natural surroundings of our sport to which it owes its charm. only the artist can make the realisation of that beauty his active aim, and activity is a necessity to most of us, so we employ ourselves actively in the world of beauty, and take her for the exceeding great reward of our seemingly needless and unprofitable toil. [illustration: . cloud-burst over lucerne.] note.--as to the historical question referred to at the foot of page , see coolidge's _swiss travel_, pp. and , and the references there given to a. von haller's _die alpen_ of . chapter iii how mountains are made "old as the hills" is not a comparison that would be considered apt if invented to-day, for we now know that, geologically speaking, the greatest mountain ranges are of recent elevation, and that even low hills are seldom of great antiquity. it was not till men became climbers, and so grew to have an intimate acquaintance with mountains in detail, that a recognition of the rapid degradation which all mountains are suffering was clearly obtained. to look at the matterhorn from below is to behold an apparently everlasting tower, yet its base is strewn with ruins, and its flanks are continuously swept by falling masses of rock. the realisation of this different point of view, which we must presently discuss in more detail, forms a clear mark of division between the attitude towards mountains, of men in the pre-scientific age and to-day. our forefathers naturally regarded the hills as eternal and everlasting. they defined the beginning of things in such phrases as "before the mountains were brought forth." the tops of peaks, actually their newest feature, were hoary-headed to them. this was indeed partly due to their limited idea of the stretch of time into the past. six thousand years, which to us seems but a day, was an eternity to them. of course six thousand years is a brief period in the life of a mountain. judged by such a standard it may be called eternal, and that was the kind of meaning they attached to the word. mountains have grown young as our notions of time past have extended. if we could lengthen our time-span, the interval of time (about one-tenth of a second) of which we are simultaneously conscious, if we could extend it to years instead of a fraction of a second, we should actually see the mountains changing. in a sense that is what we have imaginatively accomplished. pre-scientific man possessed no such power. dwellers in mountain countries beheld the peaks apparently ever the same. each summer, as it stripped away part of the winter accumulation of snow, revealed the same apparently unaltering features. they knew nothing of the movement of glaciers. they regarded snow-mountains as accumulations piled up continuously from the beginning of the world and destined to go on increasing till the end. i remember reading in the comparatively recent book of travel written by an anglo-indian, how he went up some himalayan valley and came to the glacier at the head of it. he attempted to go no further. he conceived himself to have reached the limit of possible advance. he mounted some way up the hillside and looked along towards the head of the valley; all was ice--an accumulation fallen from the cliffs on either hand for thousands of years and some day destined to fill the trough to the brim--such was his notion of the thing he was looking at. changeless, eternal, forbidding, still, silent, and horrible--thus the snowy ranges appeared to the pre-scientific gaze. to us they seem the very reverse. we know them to be ceaselessly changing, of relatively short persistence, the theatre of movements of all kinds both violent and slow--not places of death by any means, but the home of an active, a beneficent, and a formative life--not regions cut off and unrelated to the lowlands and habitable world, but the very parent of such, the laboratory where soil is made, and the head of water collected that distributes it below; the counterbalance of the denuding forces that would level the earth with the ocean; regions beneficent as they are beautiful, and as necessary to the well-being of the habitable world as is the richest and most fertile plain. [illustration: . at meiringen. ridge above the brünig pass in distance.] he that would know mountains and mountain regions aright must know them as the theatre of change, the domain of action. he must not merely look upon peaks as they are, but must conceive of them as they have been and will be. as this kind of knowledge grows and becomes instinctive within him, it will alter his attitude towards alpine panoramas and broaden his grasp of the significance of mountain physiognomy. let us briefly consider the stages of formation and decay of a single group of mountains, not volcanic. if we go back to the very start, we may imagine their future site occupied by a plain. the slow cooling and consequent shrinking of the world involves the wrinkling of its surface, and the position of the wrinkles is determined by a variety of forces, as yet little understood, with which we need not concern ourselves. suffice it to assume that our plain occupies the position of the next coming group of wrinkles. a single range or line of mountains hardly exists in the world outside of the commonplace cartographer's mind. old-fashioned maps used to represent mountains by a kind of caterpillar meandering about on them, and thus gave currency to the notion that mountains are generally arranged along a single line--a notion, by the by, that (in the minds of politicians negotiating boundary treaties) has been prolific in costly disputes and misunderstandings.[ ] mountains generally exist in rows of more or less parallel ranges intricately jointed together, and they do so because, when the wrinkling that caused them began, it did not begin with a single wrinkle, but with a row of wrinkles, such as a soft tablecloth makes on a smooth table when parts of it are moved toward one another. [footnote : witness the argentine and alaska boundary disputes.] thus the first sign of a mountain range will be a series of undulations upon the surface of the supposed plain. these undulations will be roughly parallel to one another. we call the direction of their parallelism the strike of the ranges. from the moment the wrinkling movement begins, a set of forces is put in operation tending to level the wrinkles and fill up the hollows or valleys between them. these are the forces of denudation. people often vaguely speak as though mountains were first elevated to their full height and then only began to be pulled down; but of course the process of mountain sculpture is due to the simultaneous operation of the elevating and destructive forces. every mountain is being pulled down in the very process of its elevation. it grows only because it is elevated faster than the destructive forces avail to level it. for all we yet know, some of the mountain ranges which seem most rapidly disintegrating may, in fact, still be growing. no one has yet divided the mountain ranges of the world into those which have not yet reached and those which have passed their maturity. when that has been done we shall doubtless find some clearly marked difference in aspect between them which now we do not know enough to recognise. the visible difference once discovered, the two groups will raise different kinds of emotion in the man who sees them. he will note the aspect of growth in one set and of decay in the other, and will be correspondingly affected, as we all now are by the young leaves and buds of spring and the fruits and faded foliage of autumn. sad folk will love the fading and sanguine folk the growing hills. there will arise a new subject for poets and a new group of similes for preachers and moralists. in this way also science enlarges the material of art. but we must return to our nascent mountain group, as yet a mere series of parallel wrinklings, higher here, lower there, with lines of depression between them. rain falling will need to drain away, and in doing so will form pools in hollows, and will run along the furrows till it reaches the open country and can turn away. thus the first streams of a nascent group of mountains follow and do not flow across the strike. only the rivulets that actually flow down the slopes will flow in a direction perpendicular to the strike, and will be tributaries to the main lines of drainage that flow along the strike. [illustration: . storm clouds over the lake of thun. looking up the kander thal. the niesen on the right.] the mountains are rising steadily as the millenniums of years pass on. the rain keeps falling on them, and as they grow higher the snows of winter first, and later of all the year, whiten their summits and gradually descend upon their slopes as the summits reach higher and higher aloft. if the rain always fell uniformly over the whole area, and if the ranges were of rock, homogeneous like a great lump of plaster, equally strong in every direction--if such were the case, each range would remain approximately symmetrical on both sides, and the crest of it would lie evenly between its two flanking troughs. but that is never the case. the rain-bringing winds are sure to come more frequently from one side of the mountain area than from the other. the wet quarter will be the east or the west or the south-west, as the case may be, and more moisture will be precipitated and consequently more denudation effected by it on one side of the ridges than on the other, with important sculpturing results as we shall presently observe. we may best regard the rising mountain area as a plateau with a wrinkled top, such a plateau as tibet, for example. as time advances the plateau will present ever loftier walls to the outside world, but the undulations within will not greatly develop by any directly wrinkling process. it is not the wrinkling that splits the plateau up into ranges, but quite other forces. all that the wrinkling does is to give to those forces their first direction. the interior of tibet shows us what, but for these other forces, a great mountain region would be like. it would be traversed from end to end by low and roughly parallel ridges, separated from one another by shallow valleys raised high aloft on the great plateau-pedestal. in the shallow valleys there would lie many lakes, some having no outlets, others drained by slow streams flowing along the strike of the ranges, and fed by driblets from the slopes of the flanking hills. but at the ends and around the periphery of the plateau generally a different condition of things will be found. let us regard the ends first. the slow flowing rivers of the plateau as they reach its extremity will become swift, where they plunge down to the plain. in proportion to their swiftness is the speed with which they cut down their beds into the mass of the plateau-pedestal. if the end of the plateau were a cliff, the rivers would tumble over it in waterfalls, and these would cut their way back and thus dig out cañons in place of the shallow valleys of the original wrinkling. in any case a similar result will be arrived at, and the plateau will be more and more cut down into deep valleys with high ridges between. what were originally small wrinkles above the mean level of the plateau and slight depressions beneath it will be changed by denudation into high mountains and deep valleys, their scale being determined by the amount of general elevation of the plateau above the low-lying country. as the general elevating process goes on, so does the excavation. the deep valleys will be formed first at the edge of the plateau. they will work back into its heart in process of time. the original tibetan plateau is now greatly reduced, and only the remaining middle part of it preserves any resemblance to its primary surface-form. as you go eastward or westward from that central portion you come into ever deepening valleys and ever relatively higher peaks, measured from the neighbouring valley floor. [illustration: . vitznau and lake of lucerne. vitznau is the terminus of the rigi railway. the two promontories on the right and left of the picture are the nasen, ober nase and untere nase.] thus far we have only spoken of the natural development of the strike rivers, those original lines of flow that follow the direction of the ranges. we must now observe how their course is affected by the development of the tributary streams that flow down the slopes of the ridges approximately at right angles to the strike. in the case of the himalayas the rains come from southerly quarters. the damp air-current drifts against and over the plateau from that direction. contact with the elevations against which it drifts causes the rains to fall. as the damp current flows further north it becomes continually dryer, so that less and less rain falls. thus denudation is most energetic on the southern slopes. as the plateau rises its southern edge (to consider that alone for a moment) is most vigorously cut into by the water pouring down that face and forming gullies, which continuously tend to deepen and to cut back into the mass of the plateau. the process has only to go forward long enough, for the most energetic of these side-streams to eat its way back, right through the outermost wrinkle of the plateau, till it taps the first or southernmost of the strike rivers. from that moment the course of the strike river is changed, and instead of flowing away along its original valley, it turns at right angles and flows out through the gully cut by the side-stream, which thus becomes the main river. the next wrinkle is in turn attacked by the side-streams flowing down its south slope and in turn cut through, so that the second strike river becomes thus tributary to the first. and so the process continues. such is the history of the formation of a great river like the indus. it is filled by the robbed waters of countless smaller rivers, one by one drawn within its drainage area by the action of side-streams cutting through intervening ridges. all these rivers and their tributaries go on cutting their way back with ever-increasing vigour as the trunk outlet is lowered by their united volume. this is the process whereby an original plateau is sculptured into a maze of ridges and valleys. the towering heights we behold were never elevated in isolated magnificence. a different thrust did not send up the matterhorn, the weisshorn, and monte rosa, but all the neighbourhood was elevated by one great heaving. to begin with, some lines of elevation were a little higher than others, and they determined the position of principal peaks and ridges; but as the mass was elevated the hollows were engraved by the _burin_ of flowing water. the higher the mass was raised the deeper the hollows were impressed and the wider became their opening, for the self-same forces operate on every slope and continually eat it away and open side-valleys and subsidiary side-valleys into them. these forces operating on both sides of every ridge rapidly pull down its crest and ultimately round it off and reduce it lower and lower continually, so that it is only a question of time for the biggest mountain mass to be lowered to the level of the plains around it. running water is not the only agent that has to be considered. even more energetic agents act in the higher regions of frost. there the snow that is melted by the sun (whose dissolving power is as operative in the regions so-called of perpetual snow as it is below) percolates into the crevices of the rocks and finds out all their weak places. at night this water freezes, and in freezing expands, thus acting like a wedge and splitting the rock it has penetrated. next time the sun shines the pieces thus split off may fall. sooner or later, after repeated operations of the wedge, they must fall, and a new surface of rock will be uncovered to be split and shivered in its turn. the rocks that fall tumble ultimately on to the snow-fields that spread over the high open spaces, where they are taken charge of by the great carrying agents of the heights--the glaciers. the higher a peak is, relatively to its neighbours, the more rapidly will frost attack it, and the more energetic will be the destruction wrought upon it. i have heard it estimated, or perhaps only guessed, that tons of rock fall daily from the upper portion of the matterhorn's rock-pyramid. the great peaks of the himalaya are falling yet more rapidly to pieces. but what in this relation is the action of the glaciers? at one time they were regarded as a great abrading agency. it was thought that the high valleys were fashioned out by them. later it was concluded that their hollowing action was a negligible quantity. the general belief now is that it is not considerable. whatever may be the action of glaciers upon their beds, it is at all events a small matter compared with their action as transporting agents. glaciers are not hoary accumulations of snow, collected in hollow places since the beginning of the world, as our forefathers supposed, but flowing streams of ice, whose rate of movement varies with the slope, the latitude, the mean temperature, and other factors of their situation. the snow that falls at high elevations lies in great masses where it finds lodgment, or falls to such places from the steep rocks which are unable to give it steady support. by these means it falls and drifts together into those great upper reservoirs we call the snow-fields--resplendent areas of purest white, so toilsome to cross when the sun shines hotly upon them, and so incomparably beautiful to look upon. here by melting of the surface, percolation into the body of the snow-field, and freezing there, and by the pressure of the ever-increasing accumulation of snow, the substance is gradually changed into granulated ice, and the ice thus formed slowly moves down-hill. the various neighbouring streams of ice flow and unite together, and thus, reaching lower and lower levels and continually melting, they come to a line where the annual increment of snow is equal in amount to the depth of snow annually melted. this is called the snow-line. still downward flows the mass, and now the amount melted becomes greater than the amount annually received. the thickness of the ice steadily diminishes till at last the total arrival melts and the glacier ends in a so-called snout. [illustration: . the falls of tosa, val formazza. said to be the grandest in the alps, feet high. the tosa falls in three cascades. the first only is shown in the picture.] the great importance of glaciers in mountain formation is the part they play as carrying agents. there is practically no limit to the weight of rock they will bear down with them in their steady uninterrupted flow. whatever falls upon the glacier at any part of its course is carried down by it and ultimately dumped off its sides or end. a stone that falls on the highest rim of the snowfield will presently be covered up by newly-fallen snow and will be carried down at, or close to, the floor of the glacier, where it will either be ground to powder or will not emerge till it is melted out at the end of the glacier's snout. a stone that plunges in a crevasse to the bottom of the glacier will have similar experiences. stones that tumble on to the glacier surface further down will not be so deeply covered by annual accumulations of snow, and will therefore sooner emerge again on to the surface by the melting away of the accumulation above them. stones that fall on to the glacier below the snow-line will not be covered up at all, but will simply be carried down on the surface. the visible collections of stone rubbish carried by a glacier are called its moraines. as the surface of a glacier tends to become convex the moraine-stuff tends to be rolled off towards the sides, where it forms the right and left lateral moraines. where two glaciers flow together and unite, the right lateral moraine of the one and the left of the other will join and be carried down as a medial moraine on the surface of the united glacier. such medial moraines may be observed in considerable numbers flowing down, side by side, on glaciers formed by the union of a number of higher tributaries. first comers to the alps, beholding them from a distance, or seeing them in photographs, sometimes have thought they were cart-ruts, thus showing how false a scale of size their unaccustomed vision applies to mountain views. a given kind of rock subjected to the action of frost and the other disintegrating forces operative at high levels, usually breaks up into debris of a roughly uniform average size. there will, of course, be some large masses and a lot of dust and gravel, but the average lump will be fairly uniform. a climber in a given district comes to know what to expect on a moraine, and he will immediately notice if the average size of the debris is much larger or smaller than usual. thus, when he sees a debris-slope or a moraine from a distance, he is instinctively conscious that its granulated aspect represents great blocks of rock. that gives him a roughly correct scale for the view. the lowlander, who has never been in contact with a moraine, has no such sense, and can imagine that the brown streak he sees a few miles away is, as it looks to be, a mere line of dust. it was through the aspect of the moraines and debris-slopes that i first obtained an approach to a direct visual understanding of the vaster scale of the himalayas than that of the alps. a cliff below the snowy regions, if it does not rise out of the sea, is protected at its base by the debris fallen from it. what tumbles from above piles up below, and keeps the foot of the cliff from being eaten away. but a cliff or slope of rock rising out of a glacier or snow-field is deprived of such protection. all the stones that fall from it are carried away by the ice, so that the surface of the whole cliff keeps on peeling off, and that face of the mountain is gradually planed away. where a great glacier bay reaches into the mountains this action may be very energetic. the whole surrounding cirque is constantly eaten at and continually extends its inner circumference. in some regions this action is more rapid than in others. where, as in the tropics, the heat is great by day and the frost at high altitudes bitter by night, destruction goes quickly forward, and the mountains are vigorously reduced. weak points in the rocky structure are soon found out. the range itself will be penetrated. a pass thus formed tends to be continuously lowered. in the neighbourhood of the greatest altitudes the destruction is of course most vigorous. this is the reason why, in so many places, alike in the himalayas and the andes, cross-cutting rivers find their way through a range by a gorge that passes quite near a culminating peak. the great indus gorge below nanga parbat is the most notable instance i can recall. we have thus, in the briefest possible manner, sketched out how some of the chief sculpturing forces operate to form mountains. i have not attempted to go into detail or to explain the various corrections and modifications that have to be applied to make the simple outline correspond with facts. some valleys are actual depressions formed by the caving in of the earth along a line of weakness. every mountain region contains examples of such hollows. now and again by some complication or intersection of the wrinkling process a small area may be forced up considerably higher than the surrounding elevation and thus the mass provided for an exceptionally high peak. volcanic peaks also remain to be considered, and have been excluded from the foregoing brief survey. in the main, however, the statement is correct that the mountains of a region are produced by the sculpturing into ridges and subsidiary ridges of a great and slowly elevated mass. what begins as a growing plateau, passes through the stage of rocky and snowy ranges, becomes later on an area of undulating country, and if time sufficed would ultimately flatten out once more into a plain. between the first stage and the last the sculpturing operations of nature pass through many phases. in the beginning, when the area has only just begun to rise from the level, those forces operate gently. slopes are slight and streams flow easily down them. when the mountains have been roughly blocked out and the valleys precipitously deepened, the region enters into the dramatic stage of its history. the peaks are at their highest, the valleys at their deepest relatively to the heights. cliffs are boldest, needles sharpest, torrents most voluminous and rapid. now is the time when great mountain-falls most frequently occur. the rocks do not merely crumble away stone by stone, but huge masses are undermined and fall with gigantic crash and violence into the valleys, temporarily damming them across and forming lakes, which presently burst, and pour an incredible volume of water in destructive flood down the narrow and winding valley below. the flood transports and grinds up great quantities of rock and carries the material afar, for hundreds of miles perhaps, before the plain is reached and the mud deposited upon it. in the theatrical stage mud avalanches are likewise common. to produce them there must be a great supply of loose debris on steep rocks at a high level and much rapidly melting snow about them, whose water drains into gullies and unites in larger gullies, all with banks of rotten and crumbling rock. on a suitable day in early summer, when the sky is clear and the sun hot, the stones will fall in such numbers that they will plug some gully and dam back the water. it will collect and burst the dam, and a flow of stones, dust, and water will begin. at other neighbouring spots the same thing will happen, and the elements of the avalanche will flow together, block a larger gully, and presently burst that block also. so it will go on till a great mass of mud, water, and rocks collects somewhere and finally bursts loose in an avalanche which sweeps all before it. such an avalanche i saw from close at hand on th july , in the mountains of nagar. we were walking up the right bank of a great glacier river, and were forced at intervals to cross its tributaries which came rushing down the hillside on our left. approaching the mouth of one of these side gullies we heard a noise like thunder and beheld a vast black wave bulging down it. it passed before we arrived and there was silence for a few minutes. presently the sounds of another were heard aloft, and it soon heaved into view--a terrific sight. the weight of the mud rolled masses of rock down the gully, turning them over and over like so many pebbles. they restrained the muddy torrent and kept it moving slowly with accumulating volume. each big rock in the vanguard of the avalanche weighed many tons; some were about -foot cubes. the stuff behind them filled the gully some feet deep by wide. the thing travelled perhaps at the rate of seven miles an hour. sometimes a bigger rock than usual barred the way till the mud, piling up behind it, swept it on. the avalanche ate into the sides of the gully and carried away huge undermined masses that fell into it. we saw three enormous avalanches of this sort pass down the same gully in rapid succession, and, after we had gone by, others followed. all the neighbouring similar gullies discharged such groups of mud avalanches during that period of the year. they are one of the chief agents used by nature to pull down mountains during this, the dramatic stage of their existence. the roaring torrential river below carries off the mud and receives the boulders in its bed, where they are rolled along and in time ground to powder. mud avalanches are rare now in the alps, and are only caused by some exceptional event, such as the bursting of a glacier lake. once they were common. mountain-falls of any great size are also much rarer in the alps now than they were formerly or than they are in some himalayan regions. alps and andes have passed beyond the culmination of their dramatic stage. the mountains of hunza, nagar, and north kashmir generally, are in the midst of theirs. a mountaineer who has acquired a knowledge of how mountains are made, who has seen in action the forces i have briefly described, who has climbed among mountains in sunshine and storm, in heat and frost, who has spent nights on their cold crests, who knows how and where avalanches of snow, ice, and rock are likely to fall and has a realising sense of their force, their frequency, and their mass: a mountaineer who has attained by long experience a knowledge of the ways and action of glaciers, who can as it were feel their weight and momentum, in whose mind, when he looks at them, they are felt to be moving and vigorous agents, who sees the lines of motion upon them, their swing round corners, their energy in mid course, their feebleness at the snout:--such a man can look abroad over a mountain panorama with an understanding, a sense of the significance of what he beholds, which, far from detracting from its aspect of beauty, adds greatly to it. to him a mountain area is no confused labyrinth of valleys and tangle of ridges, but the orderly and logical expression of a number of forces, and of forces that are still operative. to him what he beholds is not a painting on the wall, finished and done once and for ever, but, as it were, a scene in a play--a scene to which others have led up, and after which others will follow, all linked together and arising one out of another in unavoidable and necessary sequence. he perceives the arrangement of the peaks to be as logical as that of the men in a regiment on parade. each stands in its own proper place, buttressed, and founded upon a broad and sufficient base. its drapery of snow is not a kind of fortuitous whitewashing, splashed on anyhow by the whim of a storm. it is a vital part of the peak to which it adheres, owing all its forms to the modelling of that peak--here lying in deep and almost level snow-fields where broad hollows exist beneath it; there breaking into a mass of towering séracs where it is forced to fall over a step in its bed; there again reuniting in a smoothly surfaced area where the bed is once more relatively smooth; yet again opening a system of crevasses where its substance is torn asunder by unequal rates of flow. [illustration: . looking over lucerne from the drei linden. the towers of the musegg in the middle distance.] to the instructed eye it is not mysterious why one peak should be a tower of rock and the next a dome of snow. all the forms assumed are the result of a few simple causes. they express the past history of the action of natural forces, not difficult of comprehension. be assured that the understanding eye is well rewarded for the power of comprehension it has slowly and perhaps laboriously acquired. such understanding comes not merely by familiarity with mountain regions, and is not to be attained by climbing alone, no matter for how many seasons or with what refinement of gymnastic ability. it comes indeed only to the climber, to the man who makes himself familiar with the fastnesses of the hills by actually going amongst them; but it only comes to him if he avails himself of his opportunities to watch the action of nature's forces when he comes in contact with them. it is not enough merely to see, it is necessary also to look, to examine, to remember, and to love. he that thus acquaints himself with the high places, will learn to know them as they can be known by no other. they will become to him a home, full of reminiscences, full of shared pleasures, full also of problems yet to be solved, and of hopes yet to be fulfilled. to such a mountain-lover weariness of mountains can never come. his climbing days may be ended, for whatever reason; he may cease to expect or even to desire to mount far aloft; but the mountains themselves, whencesoever seen, will remain to him a joy, permanent, indescribable, and of priceless worth, which he at least will hold to be superior to all other emotions aroused within him by the beauties of nature. chapter iv all sorts and conditions of alps relatively few alpine climbers of the present generation know the alps. they know a district or two, perhaps, though even that amount of knowledge is not so common as might be expected. it were truer to say that the normal present-day climber knows a special kind of climbing and only cares to go where that is to be found. the popular kind of climbing to-day is rock-climbing. the new mountaineer is a specialist rock-climber. having once fallen in love with rock-climbing, he devotes himself to it, becomes more and more skilful, hunts out harder and harder climbs, and only cares to go where those are to be had. he has discovered that england is not ill-provided with such scrambles, if you know where to look for them; and he knows. he may be found at easter and whitsuntide in recondite gullies in wales, the lakes, derbyshire, or scotland. in the summer he is to be looked for among the chamonix aiguilles or in the dolomites, or, if at other centres, then on the more difficult rock routes. naturally a small area suffices him. it is not mountains he seeks but climbs. a single peak will afford him several, a small group might even occupy him for a lifetime of scrambling holidays. [illustration: . franÇois devouassoud.] he does not care for easy ways. he hates snow-pounding. a glacier route does not attract him unless it be difficult. hence his knowledge even of his own particular district or districts is likely to be incomplete. he is not drawn to travel far afield. a wanderer by nature he cannot be; nor is the wandering instinct likely to be developed in him. he does not care for all sorts and conditions of alps, but for one sort. only where that kind is to be found is he attracted to go. all present-day mountaineers, of course, are not of this type; but this is the type that present-day mountaineering tends to develop; and of this type the output is considerable. the old generation of climbers--the founders of the alpine club--men who were active in the sixties and seventies, were essentially wanderers. the craft of climbing was less an object of pursuit to them than the exploration of the alps. probably the reason was that they had the alps to explore, and theirs was the pleasure of exploration which we have not. the alps have all been explored before our coming. the old men had not even decent maps of the snowy regions to go by. no one knew what was round most upper corners, or whither passes led, or how you could get by high-level routes from place to place. it was a great delight to solve such problems, and it led climbers to become geographers and to interest themselves in the general structure and topography of the alps. no such problems now remain to be solved. admirable maps exist, solving them all. the game of exploration is played out in central europe. he that would take a hand in it now must wander further afield. yet even now to know the alps would be a life-work for any one. to know them, like the writer of a climbers' guide, is more than a life-work. for the alps cover a much larger area than most people realise. ordinary persons think of the alps and switzerland as almost identical, yet less than a third of the alpine area is in switzerland. by the alps i mean the whole mountain area between the mediterranean and the plains of north italy, france, and northern europe, from where they begin at an arbitrary point of offshoot from the apennines, called the colle di tenda, to where they fade out along a curved line, which may be vaguely described as joining vienna to fiume. they lie therefore in the five countries, italy, france, switzerland, bavaria, and austria. very few people indeed have any considerable general knowledge of the whole of this great area, or indeed even any sense of the size of it and the main features of its chief divisions. i spent one summer in the attempt to traverse round along the curved middle line of it from the col di tenda at one end to the neighbourhood of vienna at the other, and after walking approximately a thousand miles, including zigzags, i only reached the termination of the snowy ridges, but by no means that of the forest-covered eastern outliers. that journey, however, taught me how much there is to know, and enables me to realise how little i have actually learnt of the contents and character of the alps as a whole. this one fact, however, it demonstrated to me: that the several divisions and subdivisions of the alps contain varieties of scenery of the utmost diversity. thus a man who knows only the great ranges of the central alps must still regard himself as ignorant of the alps at large. not only are there all sorts and conditions of peaks, but there are all sorts and conditions of types of scenery, and between these types there is as much divergence as there is between a kentish landscape and a view from the gorner grat. in this chapter i by no means propose to describe all the regions and types of scenery that the alps contain, but only to mention a few of them as specimens of far more numerous other types, which there is no space here to include or of which i am ignorant. a scientific writer would divide these types of scenery according to the geological nature of their upbuilding and substance. for instance, he would broadly contrast the limestone with the slaty-crystalline areas, and show how scenery and structure match. i propose to adopt no such rational method, but to roam at random through the region of old memories, and refer as chance directs to such types of scenery and such local varieties as happen to suggest themselves in turn for description or brief analysis. [illustration: . at bignasco. old bridge over the maggia. shrine at end, looking up val bavona. basodino in background.] literally speaking, "alps" are high pastures where cattle go to graze in summer-time. we here use the name with no such meaning, but to designate the mountains in general. the alps, _par excellence_, to the normal man are the great groups of snowy peaks in the heart of the alpine area. let us in the first place confine our attention to them. in popular estimation these groups are the following, the dauphiny, mont blanc, monte rosa, oberland, and engadine masses. in the second rank come others we will refer to later. _place au géant!_ first among all is mont blanc and its satellites, pre-eminent in size, pre-eminent also in dignity. for this group is really one buttressed mountain, and all its minor masses are supports to the central dome, like the semi-domes, vaulted porticoes and abutments of hagia sophia to the uplifted cupola. he who stands on the summit of the great mountain beholds that this is so. his position there is pre-eminent. no other neighbouring height rivals that which he occupies. the highest are many hundred feet below, and they are all obvious supporters and tributaries of mont blanc itself. it is only the yet smaller and remoter elevations that assert a claim to independence. this pre-eminence of the central mass is the key-note of mont blanc scenery. moreover the mountain is not merely pre-eminent in altitude, but in volume and simplicity of form. its upper part is a great white dome, whereas the buttress-peaks are for the most part rocky pinnacles. the contrast between these slender, jagged supports and the reposeful majesty of the calotte is a most picturesque feature and a very rare one, not repeated, so far as i remember, in any other part of the alps. it dominates the scenery of the whole district. no doubt within the district there are views of great beauty and considerable comprehension, where mont blanc forms no part--such, for example, as the montenvers view up the mer de glace--but the characteristic prospects contain mont blanc as their central and most important object. this is specially true of all the views from summits, a quality that distinguishes them from summit-views in other districts. whatever aiguille you stand upon, and whatever may have been the character of the scenery passed through on the way up, the moment you arrive upon the top, mont blanc assumes the predominance and all else takes second rank. the ordinary summit-view, the wide world over, is a panorama, in which the uninterrupted roving of the vision round the whole circuit is the chief charm. from a minor summit in the mont blanc region, the great mountain shuts out a large fraction of the distant panorama and attracts chief attention to itself. of the other conspicuous beauties of this district, its glorious ice scenery, its astonishingly precipitous crags and slender needle-peaks, we shall take occasion to speak hereafter. in this place it is only the dominant note of each locality that calls for brief description. from mont blanc we naturally pass to monte rosa and the matterhorn. the fact that the two peaks call for co-ordinate attention, at once marks the dispersion of interest characteristic of the pennine alps. indeed not two but nearly a dozen mountains in that group are of almost equal importance, each having votaries who prefer it to the rest. the matterhorn, of course, is in its own way pre-eminent, if seen from certain points of view; but, when beheld from other summits around, it does not maintain an appearance of leadership. monte rosa from macugnaga, the dom and täschhorn from saas, the weisshorn from north or east, the dent blanche from the triftjoch, are objects as imposing each in its own way as is the matterhorn from zermatt or the riffelalp. that peak, as we shall hereafter take occasion to observe in more detail, surpasses them, and perhaps all the rock mountains in the world, in grace of outline from certain points of view. it likewise rejoices in a rare prestige, due to its tragic history and its geographical position. but to those who know it from all sides, and know its neighbours also, it is not the unique and dominating mountain of its district that it is popularly supposed to be. the zermatt mountain area is probably best to be differentiated from the other great alpine groups by the almost uniform magnificence and relative equality of its chief peaks. it resembles some splendid venetian oligarchy as contrasted with monarchical mont blanc. the nobles of the pennine court with their satellites present greater variety, a more elaborate organisation, and a more varied historical record. each seems worthy to be chief when beheld from a selected vantage point. seen from elsewhere, each subordinates itself to some other. this is the region of large independent glaciers, of deep recesses, of noble passes from place to place. it is also specially rich in minor points of view about , feet high, and of good sites for hotels some , feet lower, where each possesses a specially fine outlook of its own, which it shares with no other. the dominant note of the district is grandeur; if it lacks anything, it is charm. this, in fact, is a stalwart group, which must be wandered over and inspected from many sides and along many routes. no "centre" reveals it. it is a place for walkers and climbers in the heyday of their vigour. turn we next to the bernese oberland, the queen district, if mont blanc is the king. the oberland has always seemed to me to be the most graceful and romantic of the great alpine masses. the very names of its peaks enshrine the poetry that the peasant-dwellers on their flanks learned from them in days long gone by. the maiden, the monk, the ogre, the peak of terror, and what not. and then how richly they roll off the tongue--finsteraarhorn, lauteraarhorn, blümlisalp, strahleck! no other part of switzerland can rival the oberland for names--certainly not zermatt with its meadow-peak, red-peak, broad-peak, black-peak, white-tooth, and the like feeble designations. easily first for beauty and prestige among oberland mountains is the peerless jungfrau--but you must only see her from the north. thence she is beheld, a most effulgent beauty, fair among the fairest mountain visions upon earth. the elegance of her form, displayed and emphasised by the white samite of her drapery, and beheld from the lake at her foot, abides in the memory of all who are privileged to behold her. only one rival does she possess in the district, and that is not a mountain but a glacier, the great aletsch, greatest of all in the alps, beautiful exceedingly to look down upon, beautiful in its middle course, and fairest of all in the wide expanses of its ample gathering ground. it subordinates to itself all the high surrounding peaks and renders them the mere rim of its cup. to a less degree magnificent, yet far finer than the general run of alpine glaciers, are the other chief ice-rivers of the oberland district, which thus becomes _par excellence_ the home of long glacier-passes, leading through great varieties of mountain scenery, and connecting centres relatively remote. the longest and finest glacier-traverse in the alps is that which leads from the grimsel to the lötschen valley right through the heart of the range. [illustration: . looking down the aletsch glacier from concordia hut. eggishorn peak dark.] dauphiny, compared with the pennines and the oberland, presents to one sensitive to mountain character more contrasts than similarities. for this is an austere region, which gathers itself up together and stands apart, away from natural through routes and the ordinary courses of the human tide. its valleys are deep, sombre, and stony; its alpine pastures meagre; its forests few and thin. its peaks hide themselves behind their own knees. he that would know them must search them out. but they reward the search. it is because of the steepness of their bases that they are so recondite, and that very steepness gives them a dignified character all their own. the meije is their typical representative, a mountain of strangely complex sky-line and irregular shape, that supports its own private glaciers cut-off upon cliffs, and presents the climber with surprises round every corner. few are the regular pyramids, fewer still the domed snow caps in the tangled complexity of this region, where nature has impressed her chisel deeply, and has hewn out the great rock masses with unusual ruggedness. very different is the remote engadine group, remarkable for the high level and broad expanse of the floor of its chief valley, where lake beyond lake reflects the summer sunshine and carries the white curtain of winter on its level frozen surface. a region, this, of fine forests and large expanses of rich grazing grounds, of picturesque torrents and smiling flower-strewn slopes. its snowy group is little more than an appendage of minor importance to the general scenic attractions of the district. two fine mountain cirques, defining the basins of two picturesque glaciers, are its dominant features, and in each cirque one peak shines forth pre-eminent. the scenery of these cirques, however, is not of any special character that calls for mention as distinguishing it from the scenery of the other great alpine groups. the _note_ of the engadine is not sounded there, but rather in the wide, lake-strewn valley itself, where the snow-crests count mainly as the silvery embellishment of its frame. [illustration: . asconia--on lago maggiore.] climbers who have spent a season or two in each of these five groups may think that they know the alps, but they will be greatly mistaken. most of them, indeed, will admit that they cannot afford to neglect the dolomites, and will at least intend to spend a season amongst them. from a scrambling point of view, if they are rock-climbers, they will be well rewarded, for dolomite rock-climbing is a thing apart. dolomite scenery is even more truly unique. less grand than that of the great mountain groups, it has a distinction all its own. there is nothing forbidding about the precipitance of its cliffs and summits. their relative lightness of tint and the warm suffusion of the sun-pervaded atmosphere that so frequently envelops them, makes their elevated parts seem almost to float in the sky. the visible traces of the horizontal bedding of the rocks that compose them render the effect of even their slenderest pinnacles less aspiring than that of the flaked and tilted slaty-crystalline spires of older and more rugged formations. some of the sentiment of italy hangs about the dolomites. the airs that are drifted over them seem steeped in italian colour, even as their names re-echo the music of the italian tongue. the valleys between them soon dip into the level of chestnut and vine ere yet they forsake the mountains. the chalets are pregnant with suggestions of italy, and the inhabitants possess more of italian grace than of swiss ruggedness. it is, however, colour, and especially atmospheric colour, that the mention of the dolomites first calls to the mind of the votaries of those hills and valleys. who that has beheld dawn or sunset on cristallo or rosengarten can forget the glorious display of rosy lights and purple shadows? the mountain forms are sometimes fine, oftener picturesque (as titian knew). they have the rare merit of seeming to group into the happiest of combinations and contrasts as though by exceptional good luck; but the luck is of such frequent recurrence that instead of being an exception it must be counted the rule. in the presence of mont blanc or the matterhorn it is natural to adore. the dolomites men love. such, then, are the six main groups of alps that the ordinary run of tourists know. they include the most majestic scenery, but are far from including all the finest. there yet remain a bewildering multitude of minor groups and areas, each rich in its own charm. such are the maritime alps, the cottians around monte viso, the graians led by grand paradis and grivola, the limestone alps of savoy, the green hills of north switzerland and bavaria, the lepontine alps, the hills of the italian lakes, the tödi, the rhætikon, the adamello, ortler, oetzthal, stubaithal, and zillerthal snowy masses, the hohe tauern, the carnic and julian alps, and various other mountain groups of styria, carinthia, and carniola. how many of us know a tithe of all these? it is impossible here to do more than refer briefly to a few of them. amongst the fairest of them all, the maritimes should assuredly be reckoned, little visited though they be except by italians. their eastern and northern valleys, which alone are known to me, must be counted lovely, even judged by the high standard of loveliness that the italian alpine valleys set. any one of them, transported to the midst of a swiss group of mountains, would be the pearl of the district. what more enchanting resort can be imagined than the baths of valdieri, planted amidst umbrageous copses and beside laughing waters? here all the elements of picturesque landscape group themselves together in the most perfect natural harmony. nowhere in the opening season are the flowers more rich, the hillsides more verdant, the foliage of the trees more varied. nowhere do woods climb slopes in more graceful procession. nowhere are the rocks and lofty snow-peaks set in more fascinating frames of unexpected foreground. it is a valley of endless surprises and delights. moreover, its waters are clear and glancing. they burst from the hillsides, tumble in crystalline brilliance over clifflets, dance through the meadows, and race-along beneath the shadow of beeches and chestnuts. no ogres, we may be sure, lurk in the fastnesses of these hills, but only the most delicate fairies, glittering with dew. and then the views from the peaks--how memorable they are, how unlike those of the central alps! for from these summits you behold always the sea, far stretching, and ever apparently calm. it looks indeed like any other sea, but you know that it is the mediterranean with all africa beyond it, away there in the sunny south. on the other side, far, far off to the north, is the great alpine wall, and at your feet the sea-like lombard plain. those sweeps of flatness on either hand, how they tell in the midst of a mountain view! they bring into it a sense of repose. there nature has finished her work of pulling down, and man can rest upon the fertile soil in peace. sweet indeed is valdieri, but it is no sweeter than its neighbouring glens. he that loves mountains in less savage mood than the great giants are wont to bear, let him fly to the maritimes and he will not be disappointed. [illustration: . locarno from the banks of the lake. madonna del sasso on the slope above.] proceeding northward, the cottians and the tarentaise and graians present loftier peaks and valleys beautiful, though lacking the richness and luxuriance of the maritimes. in fact these groups stand between the pennines and the maritimes alike in position and in character. from the pennines the fertile valleys are so far removed as scarcely to enter into the normal scenery of the region. in the maritimes the chestnut woods are at the very foot of the peaks. they are further away in the cottians, but not absolutely removed from the alpine area. you may sleep near a vineyard one night and yet be on the snows next day. the great glory of the cottians is the fine pyramid of monte viso, which so many climbers in the swiss alps know from afar off. it stands splendidly alone and commands one of the most superb panoramas in the alps, wide ranging as mont blanc's, but seen as from the top of a tower instead of a slowly curving dome with a large white foreground that hides the depth beneath. from the viso the sight plunges down and then flies away and yet away over the lombard plain to peaks so remote as practically to defy identification by unaided skill of recognition. we cannot linger in the west, for our space is limited and more than half of it is spent. flying eastward, then, we come next to the italian valleys of the monte rosa group, to which indeed they belong, though i purposely omitted reference to them when writing of that, for in style of scenery they are widely different and frequented by travellers of another sort. here are mountain centres indeed--breuil, gressoney, alagna, and so forth--whence great climbs may be made. it is not in these centres, however, that the beauty of the valleys culminates, but further down. there are in fact three zones in each valley: the upper, which is purely alpine though lacking the grandeur of the northern slope; the middle, where on either hand are found peaks that just reach the snow level and rise from luxuriantly afforested bases: and the lower, which in summer time is too hot and fly-infested to be an agreeable resort. the middle zone is the region of fine scenery, of beautiful low passes, and of superb points of view, whence the whole pennine range to the north is gloriously beheld. at the lower limit of this zone stands varallo, in the sesia valley, a most beautiful resort for one jaded with the austere scenery of the snow and ice world. here art and nature together claim the traveller's attention. the remarkable lifelike sculptures of the sacro monte and the frescoes of gaudenzio ferrari well deserve their wide repute, whilst the walk over the col della colma to the lake of orta is one of the most charming known to me the wide world over. once i beheld from the crest of the pass a cloudless sunrise on monte rosa, when the rosy glow of the snows was not more beautiful than the rich and rare violets and purples of the lower foreground hills. [illustration: . pallanza--evening. south end of lago maggiore. campanile of the church of st. leonardo, mountains of saas in the background.] by this pass we may well enter the italian lake districts, whose fame is known to all. he would be a niggard indeed who should refuse to reckon as alpine this gem of scenery. many of us regard, and rightly, a drop down into the land of the lakes as a necessary part of a full alpine holiday, the contrast between their luxuriance and high alpine asceticism serving best to display the charms of each. it is indeed the distant prospects of the snowy range that give a finishing touch of utter perfection to the scenery of the lakes, the finest view-point of all for comprehension and perfect composition being, perhaps, the terrace of santa catarina del sasso. the climber, however, will not really learn to know the lakes if he remains, as most do, idly on their shores. here, if anywhere, he should ascend. down below, save for the water, the scenery may be matched all round the italian plain and in many a valley, but up aloft on monte mottarone, monte nudo, monte generoso, and hills of that size, you are in the presence of panoramas nowhere else to be matched. the rigi, the niesen, and their fellows offer corresponding but not equal prospects north of the main range; for though lakes and snows and wide stretches of landscape are visible from them, they lack vision of the lombard plain and the magic opalescence of the italian atmosphere. the mountaineer who has no experience, or if experienced, no joy in the grass-crowned foot-hills that flank the great ranges is no true mountain-lover. for such persons this book is not written. they have their own kinds of pleasure and reward, pleasures which are not low and rewards well worth the winning, but they are not those that i have sought after or can rightly estimate. [illustration: . the madonna del sasso, locarno. a pilgrimage church, picturesquely situated on a wooded rocky cliff high above the town and lago maggiore.] some of the fair qualities of italian lake scenery mingle with the bolder forms of the mountains of ticino, and something of the softness of maggiore's air tempers the fresh breezes falling from ticino snows. here lies the peerless val maggia, whose orchard-bearing floor sweeps up between mile after mile of noble cliffs. here every village church and almost every cottage seems to have been designed and planted for picturesque effect. it is a valley of many gardens, trimly kept, of much emigrant-won prosperity, a home of the vine and the fig-tree, also of trout-streams and other bright-glancing waters. comfortably habitable and home-suggesting is it; a place to fall in love with, which every visitor hopes to see again, and every native promises himself that he will return to for the evening of his days. such as it is, such also are its neighbours. its upper reaches are more splendid than i can suggest. there is a grace in their many waterfalls, a majesty in their great steps and verdant levels, a relative wealth in their vegetation, and a charm about their villages, that must be seen to be understood. even the maritimes can boast no more beautiful valley scenery. the bergamasque alps are, i believe, not dissimilar in character, but i know only the mere outskirts of them. what i have seen does not equal ticino. these carry us by a natural transition to the adamello group, which yields a remarkable long traverse over high-planted snows commanding a stupendous depth and comprehensiveness of outlook, which culminates in the extraordinary panorama visible from the highest point. we are thus brought back again to the dominantly snowy groups, whereof a number remain yet uncharacterised. first among these secondary masses the ortler and its fellows call for mention--a group far better known by our german and italian colleagues than by ourselves. the chief peaks, though built on a smaller scale, have much of the apparent bulk and grandeur of the greater masses of the central alps. their ice-walls and their glacier scenery in general are of the grand type. like the great peaks, too, they are withdrawn from southern luxury. when all is said, however, they remain second-rate, nor can i recall any special note of beauty by which this district is distinguished. the oetzthal, stubaithal, and zillerthal groups, which follow one another to the eastward, are, i think, in better case; though they have lost in charm by the rapid shrinkage of their glaciers since i first knew them almost thirty years ago. the average height of the peaks is small when the large area of glacier they support is considered. formerly the glaciers were much larger. several that i knew have utterly vanished, and the largest are greatly reduced. the snow-fields, however, still retain their wide expanse. in consequence of the smallness of the peaks, a greater number of them exist in a given area than elsewhere in the snowy alpine regions. this makes the foregrounds in the summit views more complex. as the scale does not obtrude itself, the eye magnifies it, and the result is an imposing effect. a similar effect of complexity struck me in spitsbergen, where the peaks are very much smaller still, and group themselves so closely together that they seem to form a spiny tangle at once puzzling to the topographer and pleasing to the lover of mountain varieties. owing to the smallness of scale of the stubai peaks, for instance, you can climb two or three of them in a single day from a high-planted hut, and thus behold in the afternoon a peak you climbed in the morning. such wandering about at high levels is a new and agreeable experience to mountaineers accustomed to the long scrambles that the greater ranges afford. the hohe tauern, which splits into the two groups, dominated respectively by the gross glockner and gross venediger, scarcely calls for other remark, from a scenic point of view, than what was said about the ortler. the panoramas from the two chief peaks are unusually fine, a quality which they share with three or four of the main elevations of the three groups just referred to. the glacier scenery of the northern slope of the venediger and the southern of the glockner group is the finest in tirol, whilst the glockner itself is built on great lines, has the qualities of a true giant, and affords some climbing of a high order. if the reader, however, will consent to descend from these superior considerations to others of a more practical character, his attention may be called to the fact that, in this many-hutted district, facilities are afforded to a climber which he will not often find equalled elsewhere except in one or two minor tirolese groups. so numerous and large are the huts, and so well provided with all the necessaries for life and reasonable comfort, that it is almost superfluous to carry food, or for a party of moderately experienced climbers to require the services of a guide. there are huts where you can breakfast, lunch, dine, and sleep at convenient intervals. if this tends to destroy the charm of solitude, which is one of the greatest that the regions of snow usually afford, it enables even the average climber to wander more freely than he can elsewhere, and less burdened with baggage or the often unsympathetic companionship of a guide. the gain more than compensates most men for the loss, and makes this district specially deserving of the guideless amateur's attention. of regions further east and south i cannot write, knowing only from personal acquaintance the mountains near the semmering pass, and the hills between them and vienna. here the forest scenery is the great charm. the forest-clad hills and deep hidden lakes of the salzkammergut, north tirol, and the bavarian uplands must at least be mentioned. they belong to what we english may describe as the scotland of the alps. no lover of mountains will deny the potent charm of forests, especially in hilly country richly watered. their sombre gloom matches many a human mood. not all scenery is alike grateful to every one, or to any one at all times. it behoves a traveller to know his own mood and to choose a resort that matches it. if he wants solitude, he should not select zermatt or chamonix. if he abounds in energy, he should not look to lakes and mild climates for its satisfaction. if he loves variety, he should not plant himself in the midst of a mainly snow-clad region. one district will suit him best in one year, another in another. that will not delight him equally in maturity which enlists the strongest enthusiasm of his youth. but the variety that is in the alps at large is infinite. there will always be discoverable the right thing for each who cares to search it out. the habit of constantly returning to the same spot may almost be regarded as a vice to be avoided. "to give space for wandering is it that the world was made so wide." assuredly the wanderer has most rewards. the more he knows of other regions, the more is the significance increased of the view which he at any moment beholds, and so much the more capable does his eye become of recognising all sorts and varieties of beauty. but this is only true of one who travels with observant eyes and receptive understanding. it is possible to travel far and wide without ever really seeing anything. such travel is the merest waste of energy. to travel should be to learn; but travelling is only learning when the traveller makes learning his purpose. discrimination is the quality that distinguishes intelligence from brutal greed. it differentiates the _gourmet_ from the _gourmand_. it divides the mountain-lover from the common peak peak-hunter. it is the quality that continues growing longest, whose exercise is never wearisome, whose reward is always increasing. to be able to discriminate between the qualities of different alpine regions and to appreciate all their varied merits is to know the alps. all that it has been possible to do in the present chapter is to indicate in briefest terms some of the characteristic charms of the principal regions, known incompletely to the present writer, and by him but feebly grasped. he ventures to hope that even this sketch, slight and falteringly drawn as it is, may yet serve to suggest to some readers a whole world of delights, which, if they choose, they may immediately enter into and possess. by all means visit the famous centres. a true instinct has marked them out and made them widely known as specially calculated to awaken the imagination of the town-dwelling modern world. but do not regard them as the whole alps; do not start with the assurance that there alone is alpine beauty to be found in highest perfection. for you, perhaps, the highest alpine beauty resides in less well advertised localities. let each seek out for himself that which he can most keenly enjoy. it will be his possession and not another's. let him take it to his soul. but let him also remember that there are other capacities, which he does not possess or has not yet developed, and that for them also the mountains great and small possess powers of satisfaction as rich and manifold as any he has himself experienced. [illustration: . locarno at sunset, and north end of lago maggiore] chapter v the moods of the mountains mountains do not merely vary from district to district, but from time to time. were it not so, how soon should we tire of any single outlook or the neighbourhood of any one centre! they change from hour to hour with the incidence of sunlight, and from day to day with the passing season of the year. they change also, often from moment to moment, with the inconstancy of the weather. in fact they are never twice absolutely the same. in the heyday of our scrambling enthusiasm, we perhaps regarded this variability of the mountains with less satisfaction than it obtains from us later. we should have chosen an unbroken series of long and cloudless days, with the snow all melted from the rocks, and the summit views all complete in cloudless, transparent visibility. yet even then we found a singular joy in snatching an ascent in some brief fine interval between two spells of bad weather. whereas the details of many a featurelessly fine ascent have passed from our minds, which of us does not remember, and recall with a keen delight, climbs accomplished in the teeth of storms, when nature seemed to stand forth as an antagonist whom we wrestled fiercely with, and joyously overcame? we may regard mountain moods from two points of view; as experienced by the climber, and as affecting the aspect of mountain scenery when beheld from a greater or less distance. the circumstances of his sport, though in most cases they restrict the climber to one season of the year, fortunately compel him to be on mountains at almost all hours of the twenty-four. most sports are functions of daylight; the climber must travel by night as frequently as by day. none better than he, unless it be the astronomer, knows the full secrets of midnight beauty. what climber's memory is not stored with priceless recollections of the night and its myriad voices, its noble diapason. by day the eye is supreme; by night the ear. then it is, when marching along upland valleys, that one hears the full chorus of the rushing torrent, now booming close at hand, accompanied by infinite ripplings and splashings of little waves, now fainter and more sibilant but no less musical in the distance. then, too, it is that the breezes sing most sweetly among the trees; then that the glaciers are most melodious, the moulins most tuneful; then, too, on the highest levels, that the ultimate silences are most impressive. the hum of a falling stone, the rattle of a discharge of rocks, the boom of an avalanche, the crack of an opening crevasse, all these sounds should be heard framed in the silence of night, when the sense of hearing is most alert and the imagination most easily stirred. who does not recall the velvety darkness of the sleeping valleys through which he passed near the midnight hour when just setting forth for some long ascent? how that contrasted with and set off the brilliancy of the star-spangled sky, where orion, the alpine climber's heavenly guide, shone over some col or darkly perceptible ridge, and bade him expect the coming of the day. then, as the trees are left behind and the open alp is reached, while night still reigns in her darkest hour, how sweet are the airs, how uplifting the sense of widening space and enlarging sky, how stimulating the wonder of the vaguely felt glaciers and mountain-presences around! oftenest perhaps it is moonlight when the climber starts earliest upon his way; then indeed he beholds glorious scenes and revels in the sight, nor envies his sleeping friends in the valley below. ah! dearly remembered splendours of full moonshine upon the snow! how gladly we retain the images of you in the very treasury of our hearts! yet who shall attempt to draw them forth for another, or write down even a faint suggestion of their beauty for those by whom they have never been beheld? surely at no time are the great snows endowed with more dignity, more of the impressiveness of visible size, more aspect of aloofness, of belonging to another and a nobler world, than when the full moon shines perfectly upon them. and then, too, how the snow-fields glisten over all their wide expanse, yet with a pale effulgence that does not paralyse the eye! what velvet blackness embellishes the shadows! how the rocks are fretted against the snow! how clear are the foregrounds of glacier; how spiritual are the distant peaks; how softly lies the faint light in the deep hollows! surely night, the ancient mother, speaks with a voice which all her children understand. [illustration: . moonlight in the val formazza from the tosa falls.] at such hours and amidst such scenes the mere onlooker oftenest shivers and suffers, so that half the beauty escapes him; but the active mountaineer, keenly awake, with the blood alive within him and a day of hopes ahead, misses no sight that he is capable of seeing, yet dreams, who shall say what visions of beauty that flit before his mind and vanish in swift succession. and then--suddenly--he turns his head and there in the east--always unexpected--is the bed of white that heralds the day. the night is dying. her rich darks and whites grow pallid. each moment a layer of darkness peels off. the sky turns blue before one knows it; the rocks grow brown; there is blue in the crevasses, and green upon the swards--all low-toned yet distinct. faint puffs of warm air come, we know not whence, touch our faces, and are gone. the lantern has been extinguished; we stride out more freely; the day awakens within us also. now is displayed in all its magnificence the daily drama of the dawn. while the mists yet lie cold and grey in the deep valleys, they glow against the eastern horizon, where all the spectrum is slowly uprolled, more and more fiery beneath, as it tends to red, and cut off below by the jagged outline of countless peaks, looking tiny, away off there on the margin of the world. low floating cloudlets turn to molten gold. the horizon flames along all its fretted eastern edge, a narrow band of lambent light, a smokeless crimson fire. the belt of colour grows broader; it swamps and dyes the cloudlets crimson. long pink streamers of soft light strike up from where the sun is presently to appear. the great moment is at hand. all eyes rove around the view. at last some near high peak salutes the day; its summit glowing like a live coal drawn from a furnace. another catches the light and yet another. the glory spreads downwards, turning from pink to gold, and from gold to pure daylight, and then--lo! the sun himself upon the horizon! a point of blinding light, soon changing to the full round orb. the day has come, and the long shadows gather in their skirts and prepare to flee away. now comes the climber's most perfect hour. he shares the strength and promise of the young day. the fresh crisp air seems to lift him from the earth. the sense of the very possibility of fatigue vanishes. he rejoices in his might. he looks forward with confidence to no matter what difficulties may lie ahead. the snow is hard and crisp beneath his feet. the ice-crystals merrily crepitate as they break up, when the bonds of frost are withdrawn. and now the patch of rocks, or other convenient resting place, where breakfast is to be taken, is soon attained. packs are cast off. it is an hour of perfect delight. the heart of the upper regions has been reached. the fair world of snow opens on every side. the valleys and habitable places are all forgotten. the scenery is superb. at such a time and place who would exchange with folks below, be they never so prosperous? it is soon time to be on the way once more. the fulness of the day gradually comes on with all its pains and glories. the sun climbs triumphantly aloft and sheds its burning radiance all around. foreground details vanish in excess of light, but the distances grow more distinct. what is nearer stands out before what is more remote. the eye ranges afar and feasts upon the widening panorama, which about noon, let us hope, suddenly becomes complete, for we are on the top. no daylight is now too brilliant to reveal all the multitudinous effect of what is spread abroad to be beheld. the burning snowfields are below. the mere foreground of our vision is miles away. we look down into sunlit valleys sprinkled with tiny dots of houses and narrow lines of roads. we gaze afar over ridge beyond ridge, it may be to some wide-stretching plain or ultimate crest of remotest ranges. all swims in light, and we triumph in its very exuberance. then follows the afternoon of our descent. we plunge into ever-thickening air as we go down. it is penetrated with the dust and flurry of the day. as the hours advance it sheds an ever mellower tone upon the views. fatigue seems to invade the earth itself as it does our own limbs. we gain the grassy places once more, as the sun begins to lose its towering eminence of place. the rope and all its strenuous suggestions has been discarded, and at length the most toilsome parts of the expedition are over. we can fling ourselves upon the grass by some babbling brook, with the clanging of cattle-bells not far away, and the haunts of men pleasantly adjacent. the peaks we have sought out are not yet very far away. we can still follow the traces of our own footsteps upon their flanks. their spirit is in us. all that we have so recently seen and felt is still present in our minds, as we gaze with newly instructed eyes upon the places we have visited. [illustration: . a mountain path, grindelwald] the last walk remains, down through the gathering trees, through new-mown hay-fields, past little farms clustering on the hillside--down and ever down into the embrace of the narrowing earth, which holds out arms of recognition to us, her children and the special votaries of her shrines. when at length the mellow evening light is warm upon the hillsides, and the rich shadows are creeping down upon it, we reach the village where we are to rest. there, as we sit before some hospitable inn, and gaze yet once again back to the heights whence we have come, the sunset fires are lit upon them when the shades of night already fill the valleys. for a moment the topmost summits facing west glow with the gold and fade to the rose that ushered in the day and now glorify its close. the colour is withdrawn. the warmth fades out of all the view. pallor supervenes, and "layer on layer the night comes on." such are the normal effects and sequences of a fine alpine summer day; but days of that sort are rare. usually what we call "weather" intervenes to break the normal sequence with surprises that should not be unwelcome. i have thus far referred mainly to the drama of the sunshine; but more varied, more fascinating, more adventurous is the drama of the clouds, those mist mountains that come and go, forming ranges loftier than the hills, whiter than the snows, but endowed with the two-fold gifts of inaccessibility and evanescence. them we can neither climb nor map. clouds we have with us everywhere, but it is among mountains that we learn to know them, how they form and fade, mount aloft or drift asunder. the mountain clouds have a plainlier realised individuality than those that pass over cities and plains. their positions and relative altitudes are more easy to fix, their changes more readily perceived. it is not my intention here to analyse at length the characters and forms of clouds from the picturesque point of view. that has been most suggestively and eloquently attempted by ruskin in various chapters of _modern painters_, which every mountain-lover should have read. one correction only of that fine description of mountain-clouds will i venture to make, the point being of some importance. "i believe," wrote ruskin, "the true cumulus is never seen in a great mountain region, at least never associated with hills. it is always broken up and modified by them.... the quiet, thoroughly defined, infinitely divided and modelled pyramid never develops itself. it would be very grand if one ever saw a great mountain peak breaking through the domed shoulders of a true cumulus; but this i have never seen." whether it be true that cumulus cloud is never formed in the alps i cannot say, my own notes not being accessible to me at this moment and my memory at fault; but this i can assert, that, in the heart of the great ranges, himalayas and andes, they frequently and magnificently occur. never shall i forget the piled splendours, the divided and involved intricacies of rounded forms, the stupendous mass of the great towers of white cloud which i have often seen, with their level bases just upon or just above the summits of mountains more than , feet high, and their sharply outlined crests , or even , feet higher. such clouds are only formed in warm uniformly ascending air currents, undisturbed by variable winds. they never form about peaks, but they form beside or above them. often in bolivia have i seen these great towers of mist rise with majestic deliberation behind the long white crest of the cordillera real, till they reduced the snowy peaks to mere pigmies at their feet. then the afternoon wind would take them and bend them over the range like waves about to break. white island masses would sever themselves one by one and, passing the crest of the watershed, would drift away over the high plateau. if cumulus is formed in the alpine region, its base would doubtless there also lie above the level of the snows, and the form of the clouds would not be realised by an observer in the mountain region. from turin or milan, gazing northward, immense masses of cumulus are often seen, but i have never yet been able to discover whether their bases rest on the snows or whether they merely lie above the foothills and lake-district. the clouds that belong to mountains, that arise upon their slopes and crests, and are the vestments they wear in the great ceremonies of nature, these are of another sort. the climber knows them from within and has a very different sense of their meaning from his who merely watches them from afar off. mr. whymper in a well-known passage describes how he spent the best part of two days on the matterhorn, wrestling with a violent storm. on his arrival at zermatt, he learned from the inn-keeper that the weather had been fine but for "that small cloud" on the matterhorn's flank. such is the difference between being in some clouds and seeing them from below. [illustration: . the aletschhorn. clouds gathering at sunset.] climbers, as a rule, begin their ascents by night, in weather which they at least hope will prove fine. in doubtful weather nights are relatively cloudless, unless it be in valleys. not infrequently, indeed, a bed of cloud will lie in a valley when all the upper regions are clear. i well remember once starting from zermatt for an ascent of one of monte rosa's peaks at as black a midnight as can be conceived. not a star shone in the heavy sky. an hour's walking brought us into a thick fog, but we pushed on and up. it lay quite still. just before dawn we rose above it and could almost feel our passing out through its clearly defined upper surface. we looked abroad over its level surface as a leaping fish may be imagined to see around it the surface of a lake. all above was absolutely clear. the day that followed was radiantly fine and the mist lake presently faded away. such views of mountains rising out of a level sea of cloud are always felt to be wonderful. sella's photograph of the caucasus range thus islanded is the best-known example of that kind of view. it is not uncommon in mountain regions. i have described examples of it in spitsbergen and the andes which need not be quoted here. oftener the climber starts beneath the stars. his first attention is paid to their aspect. if they seem unusually bright and twinkling, he augurs ill of his prospects, but holds on, hoping for the best. dark sky-islands indicate the presence of clouds here and there. he trusts that the rising sun may clear them away. in due season the dawn breaks, perhaps in unusual and threatening grandeur, the light pouring along "wreathed avenues" of advancing clouds and illuminating with its rich tints the cloud-banners flying from precipitous peaks. worst of all is it if umbrella clouds seem to float stationary above the tops of rounded snowy summits. then indeed there is little ground left for hope. these cloud-caps, just lifted off the heads of the mountains to which they belong, consist of vapour in rapid movement and always imply a strong wind. the mist condenses to windward of the summit, blows over it, and dissolves to leeward, thus making the cloud-cap appear stationary, though every particle composing it is in rapid motion. similar is the internal composition of a cloud-banner, though the movement of its parts is more easily perceived. oftenest, however, at the hour of dawn there is little wind, and the mists condense lazily, forming, fading, forming again in the most whimsical fashion. or they eddy in hollow places, and reach forth over depressions uncanny arms, which grasp and wither away and return again as though in doubt what to attack. an hour may pass in this weird performance, and then after all the sun may conquer and the misty battalions be swallowed up. but that is unusual. generally, after some preliminary skirmishing, the moment comes when they gather themselves together, as by word of command, and, coming on in united force, swallow up the mountain world. this final onrush is often a most magnificent and solemn sight. the gathering squadrons of the sky grow dark and seem to hold the just departed night in their bosoms. their crests impend. they assume terrific shapes. they acquire an aspect of solidity. they do not so much seem to blot out as to destroy the mountains. their motion suggests a great momentum. at first too they act in almost perfect silence. there is little movement in the oppressively warm air, and yet the clouds boil and surge as though violently agitated. they join together, neighbour to neighbour, and every moment they grow more dense and climb higher. to left and right, one sees them, behind also and before. the moments now are precious. we take a last view of our surroundings, note the direction we should follow, and try to fix details in our memories, for sight will soon be impossible. then the clouds themselves are upon us--a puff of mist first, followed by the dense fog. a crepitating sound arises around us; it is the pattering of hard particles of snow on the ground. presently the flakes grow bigger and fall more softly, feeling clammy on the face. and now probably the wind rises and the temperature is lowered. each member of our party is whitened over; icicles form on hair and moustache, and the very aspect of men is changed to match the wild surroundings. under such circumstances the high regions of snow are more impressive than under any other, but climbers must be well-nourished, in good hard condition, and not too fatigued, or they will not appreciate the scene. no one can really know the high alps who has not been out in a storm at some great elevation. the experience may not be, in fact is not, physically pleasant, but it is morally stimulating in a high degree, and æsthetically grand. now must a climber call up all his reserves of pluck and determination. he may have literally to fight his way down to a place of shelter. there can be no rest, neither can there be any undue haste. the right way must be found and followed. all that can be seen is close at hand and that small circle must serve for guidance. all must keep moving on with grim persistence, hour after hour. stimulants are unavailing and food is probably inaccessible. all depends upon reserve stores of health and vigour, and upon moral courage. to give in is treason. each determines that he for his part will not fail his companions. mutual reliance must be preserved. [illustration: . the grosser aletsch-firn from concordia hut. the lötschenlücke on the extreme left.] at first the disagreeable details are most keenly felt by contrast, but, when an hour has passed and the conflict is well entered upon, they are forgotten. we become accustomed to our surroundings and can, if we will, observe them with a deliberate interest. how the winds tear the mists about! there is no constant blast of air, but a series of eddying rushes, which come and pass like the units of an army. each seems to possess an individuality of its own. each makes its attack and is gone. one smites you in the face; another in the back. some seem not devoid of humour; they sport with the traveller in a grim way. others are filled with rage. others come on as it were reluctantly. the aspect of the foreground rapidly changes. rocks and stones disappear under a thickening blanket of snow. what was a staircase on the way up is found to be a powdery snow-slope in the forced descent. the new snow is soft like a liquid. it flows into the footprints and blots them out. can it be that there are places somewhere where it is warm and dry--places with roofs over them and snug chimney corners and hot things to eat and drink? how strange the idea already seems! we belong to another world and feel as though we had always belonged to it. civilised life is like some dream of a bygone night, and this that we are in is the only reality. it, in its turn, we know, will hereafter seem to have been a dream, but now it is the only fact. here is the world of ice in the making. this is what snow-fields and glaciers come from. unpleasant is it? well perhaps! but it is good to have had such experiences. they develop a man's confidence, employ his powers, and enrich his memory. after all it is the snow regions in their days of storm that i remember best. one tempest that overwhelmed us on the flanks of mount sarmiento in tierra del fuego--how clearly even its details arise upon the lantern-screen of recollection! we were looking back northward over the magellan channels towards the southern extremity of the south american continent, and a storm was pouring down thence upon us. "the darkness in the north was truly appalling. it seemed not merely to cover, but to devour the wintry world. the heavens appeared to be falling in solid masses, so dense were the skirts of snow and hail that the advancing cloud-phalanx trailed beneath it. black islands, leaden waters, pallid snows, and splintered peaks disappeared in a night of tempest, which enveloped us also almost before we had realised that it was at hand. a sudden wind shrieked and whirled around us; hail was flung against our faces, and all the elements raged and rioted together. all landmarks vanished; the snow beneath was no longer distinguishable by the eye from the snow-filled air." sometimes the wind blows with a fury that is almost irresistible. i have this note of such an experience. "the wind struck us like a solid thing, and we had to lean against it or be overthrown. it lulled for an instant, and we advanced a few yards; then it struck us again, and we gripped the mountain and doubted whether we could hold on. a far milder gale than this would suffice to sweep men from a narrow arête. it was not only strong, but freezing. it dissolved the heat out of us so rapidly that we could almost feel ourselves crystallising like so many lot's wives. we stood up to it for a minute or two, then rushed back into shelter and took stock of our extremities. my finger-tips had lost all sensation. it was enough." such raging tumults of the air are not a very common alpine experience, though most climbers have had to encounter them. sometimes the air is still, or only gently in motion, while dense clouds envelop peak and glacier. then a great silence reigns, which yet is not like the silence of night. it seems of a denser, more positive sort. strange sounds punctuate it in times of heavy snow-fall. there are slidings from rocks, dull sunderings of snow-drifts grown too heavy to retain their unstable positions. there are crackings in deep beds of snow, newly formed. small avalanches of snow fall with a cat-like, velvety movement, more of a flowing than a fall. stones plunge with a dim thud into snow-drifts. all these sounds are heard, but the moving objects, though perhaps quite near at hand, remain invisible. we feel ourselves to be in the midst of unseen presences and activities, and instinctively picture them as hostile. in the midst of such a silence the first boom of thunder breaking on the ear sounds solemn indeed. it may be a distant discharge, and the next will be nearer. but often the very cloud that envelops us is the thunderer, and the first clap is quite close at hand. if so, it will not so much boom as rattle, re-echoing from the rocks amongst or near which it strikes. it has not come unforeseen. the air has been electrical for some time. we have felt cobwebs upon our faces. perhaps our ice-axes are hissing, and we may have felt a shock or two from them. with the breaking of the storm comes hail that spatters the rocks and pricks over the snow. the discharges multiply in frequency, and if we are in the heart of the storm we hear them now on one side, now on the other--rattling like the volley-firing of scattered companies. seldom, at high altitudes, are the individual discharges very violent, though being near at hand they sound loud enough. the mountain is exchanging electricity with the clouds over all its surface at a number of suitable points. many climbers have been struck by lightning, but few are known to have been killed, though lightning-stroke may have been the cause of mysterious accidents never accounted for. as a rule there is noise enough to produce a great impression; there is a sense of the power and activity of nature's forces; but there is little absolute danger. very different is the sensation of being in the midst of fine weather clouds, such as are often encountered before sunrise, but dissolve and disappear as the power of the sun increases. i well remember a beautiful experience of the kind upon the rutor. the night had been overcast; when dawn appeared, the mists only seemed to thicken. we reached the summit crest and felt our way over the other side and down. we knew from the map that a great snow-field was sloping away before us in gentle undulations. "we could not see it, nor indeed could we see anything except a small area of flat ripple-surfaced snow, losing itself in all directions in the delicate sparkling mist, through which the circle of the soaring sun now began to be faintly discerned. with compass and map we determined the direction to be followed, and down we went over admirably firm snow. seldom have i been in lovelier surroundings than those afforded by the rippled _névé_ and the glittering mist. the air was soft. a perfect silence reigned. nothing in sight had aspect of solidity; we seemed to be in a world of gossamer and fairy webs. presently there came an indescribable movement and flickering above us, as though our bright chaos were taking form. vague and changeful shapes trembled into view and disappeared. low, flowing light-bands striped the white floor. wisps of mist danced and eddied around. a faint veil was all that remained, and through it we beheld with bewildered delight all the glory of the mont blanc range, from end to end and from base to summit, a vision of bridal beauty. last of all, the veil was withdrawn and utter clearness reigned all around." such sudden and unexpected withdrawals of the cloud curtains, such revelations and surprises are amongst the most transcendently beautiful effects that the mountain-climber is privileged to behold. they amply repay hours of fog, and compensate for days of bad weather. but even if the fog remain, blotting out all distant views, it often provides a setting for near objects, which gives them an emphasis amounting to a revelation. many of my readers must have beheld great sérac towers of ice looming out of mist, and magnified by it into excess of grandeur. never is an ice-fall so imposing as when traversed in not too dense a fog. what a sense of poise between heaven and earth is received when one is in a steep couloir which vanishes into mist above and below. [illustration: . thunderstorm breaking over pallanza. sketch made out of window. dust of the streets swept before it in clouds.] i look back with special pleasure to several days of wandering over a series of snow passes, which had never been traversed before by any member of our party, when we had to feel our way over, through snow-storms and clouds by help only of map and compass. they were easy tirolese passes, which might have proved monotonous in fine weather, but the prevailing conditions made them intensely interesting and even exciting, for the easiest pass may prove difficult if you miss the actual col. how closely we watched the undulations of the glacier, and how keenly we analysed the formation of the rocks. every hint of structure was important. none could be neglected. no step could be taken without thought. an ordinary crevassed glacier required careful negotiation. those occasional rifts in the clouds that made manifest now some isolated point of rock, now some icy wall, now some corniced crest of snow, were a series of framed pictures passed in review. we enjoyed no panoramas, but the mountain detail that was forced upon our close attention was no whit less beautiful. as for the low-level bad weather views, it is seldom that a traveller can bring himself into a mood to regard them sympathetically. we are not seals, and water is not our element. the oncoming of bad weather, beheld from below, is a grievance to the holiday-maker. he may admit that it is accompanied by impressive appearances, but he cannot pretend to appreciate them. it is not till days of rain have followed one another, and disgust has given place to resignation, that he is driven to face the elements and seek for consolation in activity. clouds lie low and rain is pouring from them, but he must sally forth. before long he loses sense of discomfort and finds himself entering into the spirit of the day. the pouring clouds are a low roof over his head; their margins rest on the pines, defining the tops of some and half-burying others. every outline is softened, every form vague. perhaps a glacier snout looms dimly forth, with all the stones upon it glistening with wet. everything is wet and all local colours are enhanced. the grass glistens in every blade; so do the flowers, and the pebbles on the foot-path. how sweetly everything smells. all has been washed clean. there are no dusty bushes. water drips and tinkles everywhere. little springs arise every few yards; runlets fall down every bank. an infinite number of little treble voices unite in the chorus, and can be heard near at hand alone. further off they are lost in the great "whish" that fills the air. surely the clouds must be draining themselves dry! but, no! they form as fast as they fall. one sees them gathering at the edge by the trees. long stretches of mist lie on the hills below the general level, or move slowly along, "reach out an arm and creep from pine to pine." soon he is up amongst them. there it is not so much rain that falls, it is a general dissolution. from such a walk one returns a happier creature. next day, perhaps, the weather will clear. the sun will shine on a glistening world and the clouds will melt away. then we see the low-lying fresh snow shining on the green alps, and all the great rock-peaks glittering aloft in a new-shed glory. the sky is unwontedly clear and so definitely blue; the trees and grass so green; the snow so white. the early morning moments of such a day are precious indeed. diamond rain-drops deck grass and pine-needles. there is radiance upon all the earth and freshness in the air. the discomforts of the past are forgotten. we are rested and eager for movement, and the world summons us forth. nature, after all, knows best, and he is happiest who yields himself, whether in the mountains or elsewhere, to perfect sympathy with her many moods. chapter vi mountains all the year round 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 , 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. [illustration: . 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. [illustration: . mÄrjelen alp. winter snow on ground. foot of eggishorn on left, ridges of strahlhorner on right.] i have only once spent a portion of the spring in an alpine region. it is not a comfortable season, but it has its own beauties as great in their kind as those of summer and winter. now the snow begins to melt, and all the hillsides trickle and run with water. the great silence of winter is past. nature whispers with a thousand tiny voices, and sings aloud along the valleys and gorges. the hillsides emerge brown from their snowy blanket, but the fresh green soon shoots through and early flowers are swift to put forth. the sense of young life is felt among the mountains as in the plains, for the awakening of the vegetable world is everywhere the same. but the mountains possess spring-time splendours of their own, depending upon the dissolution of the snow. spring is the great time for avalanches. they fall indeed all the year round, chiefly at high levels, but it is only in the spring that the great avalanches get adrift. certain great spring avalanches come down with remarkable regularity in particular places, one every year. an avalanche falls at a recognised spot in the neighbourhood of almost every village, which dates from its advent the opening of the spring. any one who has beheld the descent of one of these giants will not forget the experience, nor will it occur to him to compare such an avalanche with the relatively small ones that tumble among the highest _névé_ regions in the summer. these are the veriest snow-balls compared with those vast discharges. a great spring avalanche is no sudden freak of nature, but an inevitable occurrence, slowly engendered. the snow that piles up, flake by flake, during the winter months, on what in summer are the grass slopes below the snow-line, gradually becomes unstable as spring melting advances. the mass loses its cohesion, ceases to bind firmly together, and tends to flow downwards. the conformation of the ground decides how it shall fall. if the slopes upon which it lies are narrow, and lead straight to a suitable resting-ground, or if they are of gentle declivity, it may fall in small masses and early come to rest; for the distance to which it is projected depends upon the momentum of a fall, and the momentum depends upon the volume and the slope. but if the snow lies upon large concave slopes, or upon a cirque, then, when the discharge begins, all the snow within the cirque may flow together, and pouring down the bottom like a fluid, may form a great cataract; then tumbling over cliffs and rushing down hollows and through gorges, it will continue its descent till it reaches a valley bottom, flat enough to hold it. there it will pile up into a great cone or "fan," solidifying as it comes to rest, and strongly bridging over the valley torrent. an avalanche of this kind does not fall in a few moments, but may occupy hours in its discharge. i saw several of them falling, in the first days of may , in the neighbourhood of the simplon road. near bérisal i crossed one which had recently come to rest, traversing the road. by its rugged white surface, broken into great protuberances, its solidity, and its general form, it resembled a small glacier. to climb on to it one had to cut steps, so steep were the sides. higher up i crossed several more such fallen masses, through which gangs of workmen were cutting out the road. towards the top of the pass the snow was tumbling in smaller masses. over a hundred little avalanches crossed the road within a couple of hours. then they stopped. on the italian side similar conditions obtained, but it was not till i reached isella that the greatest fall took place, or rather was taking place, for it had begun before i arrived, and it continued after i had passed. there, a narrow gorge, with vertical cliff-sides facing one another, debouches on the main valley. it leads upwards to a great cirque in the hills, a cirque that is a grass-covered alpine pasture in the summer. the avalanche was pouring out through this gorge and piling itself up upon the main valley-floor. how the mass of it was being renewed from behind i could not see. doubtless all the hill-sides above were shedding their snow, and it was flowing down and crowding into and through the gorge with a continuous flow. as the pressure was relieved below by the outpouring of the avalanche on to the valley floor, more snow came down--snow mixed with slush, and semi-liquid under the great pressure that must have been developed. as the fan was built up, the snow, relieved of strain, hardened into ice-like consistency. it is easy to describe the process that was going forward, but it is not easy to suggest to the reader the grandeur of effect that was produced. the volume of noise was terrific--a noise more massive and continuous than thunder, and no less deep-toned. a low grey cloud roofed in the view and cast over everything a solemn tone. the avalanche, pouring through the massive gateway of the hills and polishing its sides, came forth with an aspect of weight and resistless force that was extraordinarily impressive. yet nature did not seem to be acting violently, though her might was plain to see. she appeared to proceed with deliberation. one looked for an end of the snow-stream to come, but it flowed on and on, pulsating but not failing. the pressures that must be developed were easily conceived; correspondingly evident became the strength of the hills that could sustain them as if they had been but the stroking of a hand. later in the season the traveller often encounters, in deep-lying valleys, the black and shrunken remnants of these mighty avalanches, melted down by summer heats. little idea can they give him of the splendour of their birth and the white curdled beauty of their surface when they first come to rest. in the nature of things they travel far and fall low, well into the tree-belt, and even down to the chestnut-level on the italian side. it is a strange sight to see these vast, new-fallen masses lying in their accustomed beds, but surrounded by trees all freshly verdant with the gifts of spring. yearly each one falls in the same place, falls harmlessly and duly expected. its coming is welcomed. its voice is the triumphant shout of the coming season of summer exuberance and fertility. nature, newly awakened, cries aloud with a great and solemnly joyous cry, and the people dwelling around hear her and arise to their work upon the land. it is not well for a mountain-lover never to have beheld this characteristic awakening, for it is one of the great events of the mountains' year. for the rest, spring in the alps has many of the qualities of spring everywhere else, which need not detain us, for to say that is to say enough. characteristically alpine alone are the passing away of the snow and the phenomena that accompany it. after the avalanches have fallen, steady melting does the rest. each warm day withdraws the winter blanket somewhat and reveals the earth to the sunshine. convex slopes melt sooner than concave, steep slopes sooner than flats or gentle inclines. thus the large uniform winter covering breaks up into islands and stripes of white. gullies are defined against slopes, which previously were lost in them. the detailed anatomy of the hills is manifested more clearly from day to day. it may be claimed that the effect produced is patchy, and so, judged by spring-time photographs, it appears indeed to be. never, for photography, are mountains less suitable than in the spring; by some ill-luck the camera seizes upon and magnifies the patchiness of the receding snow. in actual vision the margin of the snow bears a less piebald aspect. indeed patchiness is not the effect that the eye receives from it. the edge is at once perceived to be melting. the white garb is being withdrawn. that fact is apparent. if one watches the changes from day to day, they will be found most entertaining from the manifestations of form they yield. moreover, the daily alteration of the colouring of the ground from which snow has recently melted is most remarkable. the transition is from brown to green. hence the edge of the snow is margined with brown, and that in turn by green--a kind of iris effect which ascends the hillside as the snow withdraws. finally, spring is the time of spilling waters, of torrents brimful and overflowing, of voluminous cascades, of gurgling brooks everywhere--a time, too, when the waters are bright and crystalline, and when the valleys and lower slopes are as vocal with their song as the upper regions are with the deeper diapason of falling snow. if, amongst all these voices, the winds blow shrilly and the storms not infrequently rage, the effects produced, however uncomfortable they may be to the touch of the comfort-loving body, are essentially harmonious in a grand and glorious fashion. from spring to summer there is no step in alpine regions. it is merely that as the year advances the level of spring rises. at the edge of the ever-retreating snow it is always spring. even in august you have but to climb to find it, but it reigns then over a narrow belt and is not a land-encompassing mood. what turns spring into summer for the eye is not easy to indicate. shall we be far wrong if we say that, in the first instance, it is the flowers? the little venturesome plants of spring, that blossom at the very edge of the withdrawing snow, themselves withdraw when they have smiled upon the world. they are followed by the bright carpet of early summer--the june carpet, which few mountaineers ever behold. it is lovely everywhere--loveliest perhaps in the maritime alps, or along the sunny italian face of the alpine wall. you must see it before the scythes get to work on the first hay crop, and even before the grass is full grown--a sheet of many colours--not, however, a mere chaos of all kinds of blossoms, but something far more orderly than that. for there is generally some predominant plant at a given spot, luxuriantly blossoming at a particular time, and all the rest do but serve to embroider it. here indeed may be a sheet of one kind of blossom, there of another. it is as though some one had passed by and tossed fair persian carpets down in different places, carpets of different design, but all in the same general style. [illustration: . lower glacier and grindelwald church. june , , the valley thickly covered with flowers; for four days heavy clouds hung low over peaks and ridges. only a glimpse such as this to be seen at intervals in the slow swaying fringe of the cloud-curtain.] even at this period greens are predominant, for the flowers are not to be discovered from a distance. and what greens they are--these shrill verdancies of early summer--the despair of artists, the joy of nature's friends! later on they will tone down to a more paintable key, but at first they transcend the powers of paint, having in them something almost of the shine of flame. their coming is sudden. they descend upon the broad bosom of fertile valleys and the wide skirts of gentle slopes, as the daylight descends when the sun grows high. yesterday all was brown; to-day the greens have come, exultant, exuberant, with the star-flowers spangled amongst them. then indeed it is good to be alive. the voice has gone out to the valley--"arise, shine, for thy light has come"--and the valley responds to the call. with july the full summer is there, and the summer crowd at hand. the longest days are passing. the freshness is wearing off from the valleys. now heat, dust, and flies drive men aloft. it is the reception period of the high peaks, when they differentiate themselves plainly from the region below, and alone retain the perfect purity of the winter world. in winter the great mountains stretch themselves visibly down to the valleys. then mont blanc begins at chamonix, the matterhorn at zermatt. but in summer the high peaks seem to be planted aloft on the green world. the matterhorn is reduced to a pyramid standing on the schwarzsee alp. thus in summer, though the actual peaks themselves look larger, they are more removed out of the way. you must mount afar before you come to their apparent foot. you thus acquire the sense of their belonging to a world of their own. in winter snow glories are at your door. in summer you must labour to behold them, and when beheld they are emphasised by contrast with the fertile world you have left. that is why (apart from all questions of comfort and safety) summer climbing is more impressive than winter. it presents more stages, more variety. in winter-time all is winter; but in summer it is summer in the valleys, spring on the alps, and winter above the snow-line; only autumn is not there. autumn, in fact, is the rarest of the seasons. its effects are the most evanescent. that is one of its special charms--that, and the tender sadness that pertains to the passing away of things which have flourished and had their day in glory. october in the alps is a season perhaps more generally delightful in these days than any other period of the year. then the great summer crowd has gone, and there is room in the caravanserais and on the footpaths. the country-folks have leisure for a word with the wayfarer, and the painful sense of over-pressure is gone. in october the alps are almost as they used to be in the sixties--a spacious region where a man may find himself alone, or almost alone, in the face of nature. he cannot now, indeed, heal the scars that the crowd have furrowed upon the face of the earth, nor remove the ugly buildings and defacing embankments that have been raised to dam and form reservoirs or canals for the human flood, but with that exception he can possess the landscape in peace. october, again, is sometimes a month of much fine weather and of skies marvellously clear. if the days are short, they are yet long enough for early risers. evening and morning are brought within the limits of a normal man's possible activity, so that he may enjoy both the splendour of sunrise and sunset without transgressing the daily hours of healthy wakefulness. the october sun does not climb so far aloft as does the royal monarch of the midsummer sky. if the effulgence of day is thus rendered less overpowering, in return the shadows spread wider and retain a richer colouring in their depths. more modelling is visible upon the hillsides and the snow-fields in the bright hours; there are bluer noontide shadows and perhaps even a bluer sky also. [illustration: . grindelwald looking towards the wengen alp. winter snow on the slopes.] all this is true and characteristic of alpine autumn, but the most characteristic feature, there as elsewhere, is the fading of vegetation and the flaming colours that accompany it. not only does the foliage of the trees disclose the change, but the very hillsides blend in harmony with the forests. berries shine bright on small shrubs and even lurk amongst russet or crimson foliage upon the ground. plants of all lowly sorts put on a new bright livery, and thus change the character of the foreground. the bright greens vanish; in their place large slopes grow orange and brown. but it is beneath, at lower levels, that the changes are greatest and the autumnal effects most striking. seek for them in the rhone valley or round the shores of thun. there you will find the woods absolutely golden or crimson according to their kind--a colouring at once so rich and so brilliant as to seem almost incredible even to him who, having seen it once, and believing that he remembers it, beholds it again and finds it so far surpassing the wealth of his memory and expectation. to behold the snowy peaks rising into the clear autumnal sky, far away beyond a foreground such as this, is a sight well worth an effort. would not some of our holiday-makers of the better sort find it pleasant sometimes to change the date of their outing, so as not always to herd with their fellows nor every year to behold nature under a similar illumination? just as spring definitely opens with the great avalanches, so winter opens as definitely with the great snow-falls. one day all is clear and bright. the snow-line has retreated to its very highest level. the hard ice of the glacier is revealed far up from the snout. the maximum number of crevasses are open, and the wide-yawning bergschrunds form moats at the foot of all the final snow slopes that lean against the great faces of the peaks. next morning all is grey and wet and cold. clouds cover everything; winds rage; large snow-flakes in countless millions fill the air and drive across the ground. the drifts pile up and up, and all the ground is covered, white to the very depths of the valleys. for two or three days or longer the storm rages, and when at last the sun bursts forth again and the clouds withdraw their curtains, lo! the visible world is deeply buried in the white winter garment that will not be withdrawn till spring once more arrives. as a rule the first great snow-fall of winter comes thus definitely upon the alpine world. others that follow may be as great or greater in volume, but they only emphasise existing conditions; they do not, as this one does, change the face of nature. thus the annual drama of the mountain world is played in its four acts, year after year, with infinite variety in detail and great uniformity in the large features. we talk of the seasons as definite divisions, but we must remember that their progress and succession is an affair not merely of day following day but of moment following moment. it is the steady progress, the gradual, imperceptible advance, that the close observer of natural beauty loves to watch. to-day is not absolutely like yesterday, and will not absolutely resemble to-morrow even though all three prove faultlessly fine. the superficial observer may note no change, but that is because he is superficial. there is always change, and in change the life of things consists. to know mountains truly, means to recognise the changes which pass over them and happen amongst them. a mountain-lover may be compelled to live in some city of the plains, but, if he could, and in so far as mountains are his chief delight, he would live amongst them, not merely in one season but in all. no man, however, is or can be entirely single-minded. we cannot confine our affections to a single category of natural beauty, nor even to nature alone. we are folk of many interests. even the most enthusiastic lover of mountains is something more, and fails from the ideal. mountains must take their share with other interests in the life of any one who cares for them at all. in so far, however, as they are an interest for any of us, it behoves us to make that interest wide and comprehensive, not restricting it to mountains as mere things to climb, nor to mountains of a particular character or at a particular time of year, but allowing it to embrace mountain scenery as a whole and at all seasons. those of us who can do this, will find that the wider and more varied our experience of and sensitiveness to all varieties of mountain scenery becomes, the more intense will it likewise grow to be at any special moment, and the more keenly will any particular effect of beauty affect our hearts. in mountains, as elsewhere, all seasons of the year are marked by beauties that belong specially to them. each season prepares for that which is to follow, and every day that passes is a transitional step from the one to the other. let me commend my fellows of the mountain brotherhood to bear this fact in mind when they are wandering amongst the hills. if they attend not merely to the spectacle of the moment, but to the changes that are daily wrought out before their eyes, they will find their pleasures enlarged and their capacity for enjoyment increased. they will obtain a greater consequent understanding not merely of the aspects and moods of the mountains, but of what i may call their settled character as manifested by the larger mutations of aspect which they undergo in passing through the vicissitudes of the seasons of the year. [illustration: . rimpfischorn and strahlhorn from the riffelberg] chapter vii types of alpine peaks in a previous chapter reference has been made to the varied types of scenery which belong to different divisions of the alpine chain, and the briefest kind of characterisation of those varieties was attempted. but the alps, and indeed almost all the great snow ranges of the world, possess side by side within a single neighbourhood varieties of peaks sufficiently divergent to be capable of grouping and classification. for example, in the mont blanc group, there are domes of snow, needle-points of rock, arêted pyramids, serrated ridges, peaks twinned together, peaks closely grouped in larger number, and other varieties of mountains. in fact, just as whole districts of mountains possess, each one, an individual character due to their geographical position, their local history of uplift and denudation, the materials of which they are formed, and other such factors, so individual peaks for like reasons possess individual character, and conform more or less evidently to one or another well-marked type. that such is the case will be readily admitted. in common talk, indeed, we are accustomed to attribute fancifully to this mountain masculine ruggedness, to that feminine grace, to another qualities of terror. some mountains attract to themselves a kind of human affection; others repel; yet others bore, or, on the contrary, interest without charming. in the present chapter, therefore, i intend to discuss the characters of mountains, especially of the great alpine peaks, from this point of view, considering so far as space permits the characters and dispositions of all sorts and conditions of alps. it will be perceived at once that the treatment of our subject will entirely depend on the point of view from which we regard it. mountains are not beasts and possess no real characters. it is only we who, with our anthropomorphic tendency, endow them with imaginary qualities belonging actually to ourselves and projected forth from us on to the so-called external world. if mountains are primarily thought of as things to be climbed, we shall characterise them as they react upon the climber. if they are regarded as sights to be beheld, we shall characterise them as they affect our sense of vision. a climber may fancifully figure one mountain as friendly though severe, another as hostile, a third as mean, a fourth as recondite, a fifth as deceitful. climbers, however, though i hope i may number some of them amongst my readers, are not primarily those for whom this book is written. it is aimed more broadly to interest the mountain-lover of whatever age or sex and whatever agility or endurance. i testify here, not so much of what i know, but of what i have seen and found delightful in the seeing, in hopes to revive recollections of pleasure in others and to suggest the possibility of further joys to the mountain traveller. pre-eminent, then, to look at, pre-eminent as a mountain vision, one must, i assert, rank the great domes of snow, such as mont blanc. the two greatest alpine mountains assume that form when beheld from characteristic points of view, sufficiently remote, and, of course, it is the apparent form only that here concerns us. a peak may actually be a blade of rock, snow-whitened, and yet may appear to be a dome, as the lyskamm appears from north and south. it must be ranked amongst domes when so beheld. on these giant masses nature frequently bestows a measurable pre-eminence, for it is not only in the alps that they attain loftiest altitudes among their neighbours. elburz which reigns over the caucasus is a dome, so is chimborazo, so likewise nanga parbat. but even if they were not actually piled higher than their satellites they would look bigger. a notable instance of the great dignity of effect of a snow dome beheld amongst more rugged and precipitous peaks--peaks, moreover, much loftier than the dome--was forced upon my notice in the baltoro region of the mustagh mountains of kashmir. the baltoro glacier, most wonderfully situated of all glaciers in the world, is surrounded by the greatest group of high peaks known to exist. a number of them exceed , feet in altitude, and several are over , feet. moreover, most of these great mountains are of bold outline and precipitous structure. there is no deceit about them. they look their height. some of them are needle-pointed and buttressed by the narrowest rock ridges, set with needle-pointed teeth. it would be imagined that no mountain forms could be more impressive than theirs, as one after another they come within range of the traveller's vision and grow familiar to him during the long days of his creeping advance along their feet. impressive indeed they are, splendid beyond words, majestic surpassingly. it happens, however, that, amongst them all a solitary exception, there stands a single dome of snow, named by me the golden throne. i first beheld it somewhat dramatically, when, after climbing to a high elevation by night, the sun rose behind it, and it was revealed in all its width, flanked on either hand by a long line of jagged and aspiring peaks. they were higher than it--most of them considerably higher, yet beyond all question the dome was the most dignified of them all. it owed something of its dignity and distinction, no doubt, to contrast, to the rarity of its form in that region of splintered aiguilles; but that was not alone the cause. the suavity and continuous curvature of its outline, and the grace of it, as well as its greater breadth and apparent relative volume, made the golden throne absolutely, as well as by contrast, more dignified than its bolder neighbours. had it differed from them only in form it would have prevailed, but it differed more noticeably from them in drapery and colour. whereas they were of naked rock, it was enveloped in a mantle of purest snow, and the broad white mass (especially later when it shone in the advancing daylight) attained a pre-eminence in brightness and purity for which no ruggedness or precipitancy in the others could compensate. it is a far cry to the golden throne, but mont blanc is near at hand, and its aspect is familiar to countless people. none will deny that its reputation is pre-eminent among alps. i claim that that pre-eminence is not solely due to its culminating position in point of size, but that its broad white mass and shining amplitude go a long way towards accounting for it. it would scarcely occur to any one but a climber to depose mont blanc from the first place--mont blanc, the "monarch of mountains," diademed with snow. as in human architecture the dome is the most dignified and impressive form, so also it is in nature. in mont blanc it attains perfection by the noble breadth of its base and adjustment of its buttresses. whencesoever beheld, from north or south, from far or near, it always appears poised aloft in a dignity as impressive as it is reposeful, the white sheen of its spotless snows pure as the bosom of a summer cloud, but unlike that, gifted with an aspect of adamantine permanence. [illustration: . the matterhorn, twilight. "the time may come when the matterhorn shall have passed away, and nothing save a heap of shapeless fragments will mark the spot where the great mountain stood; for, atom by atom, inch by inch, and yard by yard, it yields to forces which nothing can withstand. that time is far distant; and ages hence, generations unborn will gaze upon its awful precipices, and wonder at its unique form. however exalted may be their ideas, and however exaggerated their expectations, none will come to return disappointed!"--whymper. ] next to mont blanc in abiding reputation, the matterhorn takes rank among alps by universal consent. we may regard it as the best example of pyramidal mountains. four-square it stands upon its mighty base, fronting the four cardinal points of the compass, each face divided from its neighbour by a clearly-defined ridge or rock arête. as mont blanc the dome, so the matterhorn in turn displays a form adopted by man for some of his grandest architectural efforts, the pyramids of egypt. if the dome best expresses the idea of soaring aloft, when seen from without, the pyramid best expresses the idea of eternal repose and endurance without end. geologists may tell us that even the matterhorn is a passing phenomenon, that the frosts are daily causing it to disintegrate, and that thousands of tons of rock fall at frequent intervals down its sides. climbers may describe its near aspect as ruinous, and we may know these statements to be true. none the less the mountain beheld as a whole, from even a moderate distance, seems to belie them. it appears to be from everlasting and to everlasting. it incorporates the ideal of permanence. we conceive it as belonging not to an age but to all time. were it mathematically four-square, and its faces true planes of even slope, that would be its chief effect, that and the sense of mass and grandeur inseparable from an object of such visibly huge dimensions. but nature has fashioned it subtly and endowed its faces and ridges with curves most delicate and refined. to its appearance of mass and endurance it adds a grace so exquisite, an uplift so imposing, that these qualities almost take the first place in the impression produced upon the beholder. seen from the north-east it appears to best advantage. towards breuil it shows a more massive front. its recondite western face, only visible from high snow-fields, displays precipices more appalling and a general aspect of more savage grandeur. but with singular good fortune for the unathletic traveller, it manifests its incomparable grace to perfection towards the easily accessible north-east, and , people go there annually to worship at its riffel shrines. they may approach with no more devotional feeling than the average pilgrim manifests at lourdes, but the fact that they go is homage to the reality of the emotion which many have actually felt in that glorious presence. the poetic brain has exhausted itself in efforts to find comparisons with living creatures whereby to describe it. best is ruskin's choice of a rearing horse. traces of the neck clothed with thunder, of the mane-fringed crest with cloud streamers for hair, even of the sharp contrasting angle of the folded fore-leg, can be traced in the natural composition; but it is rather the might and spirit of the thing--its combination of wildness, force, and grace--that give aptness to this fetch of similitude. in writing of the matterhorn one can make an assumption that would be impossible with any other mountain:--that most readers can recall a vision of its form to their minds. let me make that demand upon the present reader. observe then how beautifully the double curve of the left hand or théodule ridge, first convex, then concave, is terminated and contrasted with the sudden jags of the shoulder, and then taken up and continued again convex to the summit. how the right-hand or stockje ridge, convex above, drops with a larger sweep and a more astounding ultimate steepness, to be again interrupted by a lower and more jagged shoulder, and again continued downward by the magnificent white convex curve, which, in its turn drooping into concave, leads the eye away to the broad foundation. no less essential than the outline to the total effect are the two white _névé_ basins that lie below the faces and steepen upwards to ice-slopes leading to crags that have all the appearance of cliffs. the importance to the composition of the third or middle shoulder--_the_ shoulder _par excellence_ of climbers--should also be insisted on, but space does not here admit a lengthier analysis. the reader will find no difficulty in pursuing the investigation for himself. [illustration: . weisshorn and matterhorn from fiescheralp.] the four-sided pyramid, of which we have chosen the matterhorn for type, is a rarer form than the three-sided, perhaps the commonest class of fully developed peak. here again there cannot be a moment's hesitation in the choice of a representative mountain, for of such the weisshorn is beyond question the finest and most famous in the alps. what mountain-lover has not beheld it, towering gracefully and superbly aloft before him as he descended the upper reaches of the rhone valley on some bright august day? westward it opposes a face of rock and is a less gorgeous object to look upon. but its other two faces with their glacial robe are brilliant under all illuminations. what gives it distinction among the multitude of mountains similarly formed is the grace of its slender and long drawn-out ridges. each of these sharp arêtes, beheld from most points of view, drops very steeply from the spear-tipped summit; then gradually levels off to a shoulder, and so leads the eye down to the massive foundation that supports the whole. slenderness above, massive strength below--such is the effective contrast that nature provides. another famous peak, the jungfrau, appears from interlaken almost as graceful as the weisshorn; but its beauty is really of another order, and depends far more upon the brilliancy of the curdled surface of the snow, and its division between ice-falls, rocks, and ice-slopes, than upon the outline of the peak itself or the form of its ridges. for pure grace of pyramidal form the aletschhorn surpasses the jungfrau, but the better-known peak has advantages of position and of grouping to which we shall presently refer. pyramidal peaks lend themselves kindly to embellishment by banners of cloud. often we behold great sheets of white mist waving away from their ridges. the sharp definition and marble-like permanence of the mountain forms an admirable offset to the softness and inconstancy of the cloud, which is not merely ever varying the form of its outlines, but is throughout in constant and often swift motion under the dominion of a furious gale. the sense of violent agitation high aloft thus impressed upon the eye, well associates itself with an idea of rugged resistance proper to high peaks and splintered ridges. the slenderer the pyramid and the sharper its arêtes, so much the better does it serve as flagstaff for a flying cloud. best of all, however, for this purpose are the rock aiguilles, which never seem quite complete, never fully manifest the astonishing boldness of their structure, except when they are in turn concealed and revealed by mists that form and fade and form again--now cutting them off from all visible connection with the earth and almost seeming to lift them into the heavens, now half-hiding them and half-revealing, now as it were smoking away from their summits like steam from a volcano, now offering a white background to their rugged mass, now overshrouding and empurpling them with shadows stolen from the wardrobe of night. they lack the dignity of the broader peaks, these needle rocks, and few of them really deserve (save from a climber's standpoint) to be called peaks at all. generally they are only buttress pinnacles of greater mountain masses. yet a tall and well-planted aiguille always possesses marked individuality of its own, which more than compensates for lack of volume and altitude. by its form it attracts the attention of the eye away from large but less wonder-evoking mountains. thus it makes itself the centre of a view and is remembered when its larger neighbours are forgotten. more than any other kind of peak an aiguille depends for effect upon the character of its foundation and the place where it is planted. the aiguille du géant is, perhaps, the most remarkable monolith shaft in the alps, and has attained no little fame. but its fame is due to the difficulty of scrambling up it. for sheer impressiveness of effect from a distance it cannot enter into serious competition with the aiguille du dru. the actual summit-shaft of the dru is not really remarkable for slenderness. its sides are not the plumb vertical cliffs that the géant can show. but the foundations of the dru carry its lines down, and the supporting masses seem expressly piled together for no other purpose than to lift the slender-seeming peak as far aloft as possible. the dru, moreover, though actually an appanage of the verte, is so situated as to be seen alone and admirably set off by glacier or wooded foregrounds from several easily accessible and convenient positions. instead of standing aloof like the géant, it peers down into the valley and takes an interest in human affairs. it is there to signal the sunset with its flaming beacon, and to glow like a brand from the furnace in the presence of the dawn. the departing traveller turns back to it for a last look, and the returning votary of the alps is impatient to pass the corner beyond which he well knows that it will come into view. it is one of a class, the aiguilles of chamonix, but it possesses a marked individuality of aspect and it transcends all its neighbours and rivals. they may be harder to climb, but it _looks_ as precipitous and inaccessible as any, and, after all, the appearance is the essential element for a lover of the picturesque. there is much more that might be said about aiguilles, their value for contrast with other forms, their essentially subordinate, almost parasitic, character, and so forth, but our space has narrow limits and we must pass on. [illustration: . aiguille verte and aiguille du dru from the chamonix valley. a well-known group, typical of the aiguilles of the mont blanc chain.] we have considered domes and pyramids in special reference to their outline. but they and all sorts of other mountains have faces as well as bounding ridges, and these faces sometimes take the form of tremendous walls. we may therefore devote a moment's attention to mountain walls, or rather to what we may briefly describe as wall-faced mountains. these great walls are not necessarily, nor indeed often, truly precipitous, but the important point about them is that they look precipitous. they are not walls, but the eye is deceived into believing that they are. the alps are rich in noble examples of this type. to name only the most famous: there are the italian fronts of mont blanc and monte rosa, the saas front of the mischabelhörner, and the north face of the jungfrau. if you stand in a suitable position, facing rather than enfilading any of these great walls, their slope seems practically vertical. climbers know that they can all be climbed; their instructed eyes can even trace the routes without difficulty. in so far as that knowledge interferes with the imposing impression which ordinary persons derive from the mere look of the thing, it is a misfortune. yet even the climber can sometimes forget his _métier_, and lose himself in pure contemplation of nature's splendour. it is nowhere easier so to do than in face of these gigantic walls. pre-eminent amongst them is, of course, the macugnaga face of monte rosa. not merely does it excel in unbroken width and continuity of plunge, but its striping by buttress and couloir, its impending masses of sérac, its huge piles of avalanche ruins below, and the frequency of the falls that take place, whose fresh traces are obvious even when they are not beheld in actual descent, all serve to increase the observer's sense of the actual steepness of the face. first beheld from near at hand, the vast size of the thing overwhelms the beholder, and yet this first impression is small compared with the ultimate sense of size which slowly grows within him as he gazes and learns the meaning of the details. his attention will soon be called to the fact that the whole face is ruled with lines. they seem fine, almost like the meshes of a spider's web, but a brief consideration proves that they are the tracks of falling masses--some of avalanches, others of falling stones. they are not fine lines at all, but deep grooves, perhaps ten feet wide and as deep as the height of a man. realise that fact, as the climber does (in so doing he in his turn has the advantage), and you at once magnify, and may even overmagnify, the scale of the view. [illustration: . boden and gorner glaciers. monte rosa from the schwarzsee. the last gleam of the daylight. the foot of the riffelhorn on the left.] it is a commonplace to proclaim the exhaustless prodigality of nature's inventions, which every field of grass sufficiently proves, and yet it always seems to me that these great faces specially exemplify it. how easy, one might imagine, to invent detail for a precipice of ice and rock--but take a blank sheet of paper and try; you will find the task almost hopeless. then turn to any view of monte rosa from macugnaga and observe how it has been done, and how much, indeed how entirely, the effect of the view depends upon the structure and variety of the wall. the classical point whence the face is seen at its best is the pizzo bianco. there is a photograph from it in the eleventh volume of the _alpine journal_. note how essential every detail is to the effect of the whole, and how impossible it would be to invent such a consistent multitude of details. the sky-line is of minor importance; it does not hold the eye. what first attracts it is the great sweeping buttresses that emerge through the snow and carry the attention down by their parallelism. as we look more closely at them we find that they in turn break up into minor groups of parallels, and these again into similar elements; yet with all this general repetition no two details are the same. the aspect of the general structure may be compared to that of a leaf with a number of ribs all obedient to a single law of form. the snow that fills the spaces between the buttresses and overflows them where it can, is no dead covering, but alive like a river. we obtain at first glance, now that we know how to look for it, a sense of its weight and movement. how strange it seems that that movement should not have been observed centuries ago! the flowing of the snow is expressed by all sorts of signs. here it breaks into cliffs and tumbles; there it pours down in a continuous stream interrupted only by crevasses, which indicate its relative speed at adjacent points; there again, on some small ledge or gentler slope, it lags and piles up. but as a rule it is evidently in haste to get down, and the signs of this haste are a measure of the steepness of the slope. high aloft the plunge seems vertical, and one wonders how any snow can adhere to such uncompromising crags. when the mists are drawn across it, or a bed of clouds lies at its foot, filling the macugnaga valley as with a white lake, the wall seems yet more cliff-like. it is only when low sunlight strikes it aslant and makes manifest its modelling that a suggestion is given of the actual angle of the slope leading up from the glacier floor below to the giddy crest. another kind of mountain front, akin to these yet belonging to a class of its own, is the true rock-face. such may have their ledges and gullies picked out with snow, or even (as in the case of the meije) a small glacier caught on a shelf, but snow must not predominate, must not even cover a considerable fraction of their surface. mountains with rock-faces of this kind are, of course, commonest among the secondary groups. thus there are many in canton glarus and thereabouts, yet more among the dolomites and in all the limestone districts. the west face of the weisshorn may perhaps be counted a rock-wall, but, if that is excluded, the grivola is, i think, the biggest example. the blümlisalp and breithorn, altels and the balmhorn, are other examples. if, however, i were to be compelled to select one such peak as type, i should choose pelmo or schlern in the dolomites, and be content, even though some vaster example were quoted against me. for, after all, it is not the actual scale that matters, but the appearance of scale. i have heard it said that the north-east face of the zinal rothhorn is the biggest true cliff in the alps. it may be, but it does not so appear from any ordinary point of view--the rothhorn, in fact, seeming insignificant from almost everywhere. these rock fronts must not be looked at from too far away. unless they subtend a high vertical angle to the vision they produce little effect. but stand beneath them, and what pomp and power they display! you must be near enough to see the details of their structure, and to trace the joints of their masonry, for it is in the recognition of their upbuilding, stone by stone, that their impressiveness consists. that is why a snow-slope drawn down across the edges of their strata is so little to be desired. if by good-luck the successive strata vary somewhat in colour, the cliff will be magnified thereby. to the perception of multiplicity recurrent detail is essential, and that perception involves relative proximity and is helped by familiarity. the oftener you stand beneath such a wall the bigger it appears to grow. it is not a thing that can be painted, still less photographed; for no painter could set down details enough, and the camera will not select the right ones. it is the horizontal details that we want. if the reader will observe how a high tower or other lofty building impresses its scale upon him, he will find it to be by the joints of its masonry, unless indeed he be standing far off and the tower is seen to rise high above the houses of a town whose size is instinctively perceived. here again the accomplished climber who has actually scrambled up the sheer face of such a cliff and so measured it against his own slow progress and his accumulated fatigue, has an advantage over any mere spectator. this advantage is increased by the fact that he will recognise and know the size of many details of ledge and pitch which he has actually handled and surmounted. such personal knowledge is the best of all measuring scales. a traveller who cannot attain it must be content with the lesser insight that can be attained by slow examination. in no case is the full effect to be perceived at once. nature sometimes, as it were, flings herself upon our imaginations and suddenly overpowers us by her excessive grandeur. at other times she seems to say, "it is nothing"; so as to let superficial persons pass by; but just then perhaps we are in the presence of some superlatively great exhibition of her majesty which it requires experience, time, and attention to discover. it should remove any tendency to conceit in those who have travelled far and seen much to remember that, however often they may have beheld and delighted in glorious sights, the best-visioned of them and the most sensitive has missed far more than he has seen. what opportunities he must have had, and how relatively few of them has he utilised! at best he has been but like a traveller in a motor-car, whisking across historic lands, and passing here by an abbey, there through some old town, there again over some historic battle-field, and not suspecting their existence, or not knowing enough to thrill with the rich emotions they would excite in a better-informed mind. it is not the eyes that are lacking, but the knowledge and the time to acquire it. you may scurry along below the cliff of pelmo without a flutter of the heart. but wander half a day beneath it, examine its details, watch the sunlight playing on its ledges, and the shadows in the gullies that cut them, a sense of its grandeur will invade your consciousness, and the memory of that will remain with you till you turn childish with old age and others know that you have lived too long. [illustration: . the breithorn from schwarz see.] whatever the dignity of these great walls, when suitably beheld, the peaks they belong to, if their summit crests are long and flat, are not comparable for individual beauty of form with the snow domes or the ridged pyramids. they have, however, an importance and perform a function of their own in any large mountain panorama of which they form a part. before me as i write there chances to lie donkin's photograph of the view from the new weissthor, looking down the gorner glacier. the pyramid of the matterhorn is on the right; the wall of the breithorn is in the midst; the curdled snow-face of the lyskamm is near at hand on the left. it is not by any means a perfect natural composition, yet it does fix the attention, and a moment's thought shows that it does so by the marked contrast between the forms of the breithorn and the cervin. blot either of them out and the character of the view is changed. i well remember standing, one very clear day, on the summit of a relatively high peak in the icy heart of spitsbergen and surveying a vast panorama. the peaks in it being all actually small (though not appearing so) and the area of the panorama very large, the multitude of peaks in sight was numerically much greater than in any alpine panorama, not excluding even that from mont blanc. in one direction the mountains happened to be all of one character. each was similar in form to its neighbour. some distance further round was another group formed of peaks as various as are the alps. it was at once obvious how much the variety added to the picturesqueness. the same lesson can be learnt from the top of monte viso. look southward and you will behold, ridge behind similar ridge, a remarkable uniformity. face northward and round to the east, the effect is one of infinite variety. such variety, contrast of walled peak with pyramid, of pyramid with dome, here thronged together, there sundered by some wide stretch of lower elevation, entertains and stimulates the observer's mind. sometimes the repetition of a form with only slight change has the value of emphasis, or, as in the case of minor ridges dividing couloirs or side glaciers, it binds the composition together and forms a kind of warp and woof for nature's detailed embroidery. the value of repetition is instinctively felt by most in the case of a pair of peaks, standing side by side and visibly linked together by some high connecting ridge, or apparently linked by what seems to be a ridge but is really produced by foreshortening. they are frequently named "the twins." a notable instance of such a pair is the dom and täschhorn. stand anywhere commanding a view down the zermatt valley, where you can see this pair of peaks defining it on the right, and the weisshorn's delicate and single pyramid opposed to them on the left, and you will at once recognise how much the great pair and the single peak gain by contrast with one another. or climb (i should now say take the train) to the gorner grat and look abroad to the south. how much less effective would be the panorama if the two long walls of the breithorn and lyskamm had a third similar wall between them instead of the coupled domes named castor and pollux. [illustration: . the lyskamm. from the riffelberg. gorner glacier below.] it would be easy to continue this fanciful classification of alps and discussion of types for another fifty pages, but it would serve no useful purpose. long before this the reader has probably been objecting that it is an unscientific and incomplete classification, and that most peaks could be made to enter all the categories if regarded from suitable standpoints. such, in fact, may be the case. my object in thus writing has merely been to suggest cross-routes and byways for the memories, fancies, and future observations of my readers. the mountains for us who love them are the playthings of our fancy. we may do with them what we please. they excite in us the sense of beauty, and we try to tell of the emotions we have felt in their presence. those emotions quickened by them, how we know not, in fact arise in us. we are free to make of them what we please, to give them any kind of play. they are then bound by no scientific laws. a mountain may be a chunk of granite heaved up by i know not what play of forces and carved out by a perfectly orderly denudation; but to me, if i please, it is a maiden, an ogre, a golden throne. i can endow it with a character, and reckon up friends and foes to it amongst its neighbours. or i can call it a fairy palace, and people it with sprites and dancing creatures of gossamer clothed in the dawn. no one can say me nay. now and again, perhaps, i may whisper my dream to a sympathetic friend--but not often. for the most part we keep such heart-frolics of a happy hour in the inaccessible places of their origin. brother climber! we have secrets of our own, you and i--secrets that we never told to one another, even when we stood side by side together on the mountain-top. but there was a thrill within each of us, was there not? and each knew that with the other it was well. chapter viii passes a peak is primarily a thing to be looked at. it was only after the aspect of peaks had smitten the imagination of men that the desire to climb them arose. the climbing impulse is subordinate to the eye's delight. a pass, on the other hand, is a thing to be climbed and looked from, but only in a minor degree to be looked at. it is an experience rather than a sight. few passes indeed are striking objects in a view. the col dolent, the güssfeldtsattel, the col du lion, and a few more are imposing when you approach the foot of their final slopes, but it would be difficult to distinguish between such slopes and a similar mountain face. the fact that the slope leads to a notch or saddle in the sky-line does not give it dignity; that comes to it from its own character as a slope, and would be the same if it led to any other kind of sky-line. passes, therefore, in and for themselves, are not conspicuously striking and beautiful elements in any great mountain panorama, and do not call for discussion by us from that point of view. as experiences, however, they take another rank. i have long been prepared to maintain their general superiority to peaks in that respect. passes generally lead through finer scenery than is commanded from the flank of a peak. a peak climbed rewards you with a panorama which no pass can offer; but, that excepted, the average pass is superior to the average peak for the scenery it reveals, and in the nature of things it must be. in climbing a peak, unless you are going up an arête, you normally have a steep slope rising straight in front of you. a few square yards of rocks or snow fill most of your vision as you look ahead. if you raise your eyes up the slope, you see it in its least impressive form, foreshortened into a mere belt. the real view is behind you, and you must turn round to behold it. that involves standing still and may mean delay. but in traversing a pass you normally ascend the bottom of a glacier valley, and the fine views are ahead and on both hands. the valley is not likely to be so narrow that you are not far enough away from its two sides, or at least one of them, to be able to behold the slope as a whole, from bottom to top, and not unduly foreshortened. of course this general character of pass-routes is subject to infinite variation. the final slope is often steep, and the ascent of it will then be like the ascent of a mountain face; but, broadly speaking, it must be obvious that passes offer better chances for enjoying continuous fine scenery than peaks, and experience proves it. pass-traversing, to me, however, and doubtless to many others, seems to possess more elements of romance than peak-climbing; for this reason--to climb a peak is to make an expedition, but to cross a pass is to travel. in the one case you normally return to the spot whence you set out; in the other you go from the known to the unknown, from the visible to what is beyond. the peak, which is before you when you set out to climb it, is only explained, not revealed, as you ascend; but every pass is a revelation: it takes you over into another region. you leave one area behind and you enter another; you come down amongst new people and into fresh surroundings. you shut out all that was familiar yesterday and open up another world. this is true of all passing over; it is of course especially true when you are making a new pass for the first time. then you have to find the way down as well as the way up, and the interest is sustained to the last moment. it has been my good-fortune to have had opportunities of climbing many new peaks and crossing several new passes--one of them the longest mountain-glacier pass in the world. beyond all question the passes have been more interesting and exciting than the peaks. when you reach the summit of your peak the excitement suddenly ends; on the top of a pass it only culminates. the long pass to which i have above referred took about a fortnight to reach from the highest habitations. we could see the saddle ahead all the time, and we slowly drew nearer to it. the wonder increased as to what we should find on the other side. whither should we be led on? where should we come out? what difficulties might bar our progress? not till the very moment when we topped the ascent and stood upon the col could any of these questions begin to be answered. nor could any of them be fully answered till the week of descent had been actually accomplished. but the first sight over, the first glimpse into the new world, that was worth toiling for--that, and the last long regretful look back down the valley up which we had come, whose details had fastened themselves durably upon our memories. [illustration: . the road from vitznau to gersau. the _obere nase_ corner. pilatus group in the distance.] what the travelling explorer in previously untraversed places feels so keenly is, after all, only a slightly stronger form of the emotion that every pass affords to every climber who traverses it for the first time. he awaits the arrival at the summit for the moment of supreme revelation. he has the same slow development of desire to see over; the same sudden burst of illumination at the top; the same regretful look back; the same pleasurable anticipation of novel experiences awaiting him on the descent. he too leaves one world and comes into another; leaves if it be but the home of a night in exchange for untried quarters. it is this similarity between ordinary alpine climbing and new exploration that gives to the former one of its greatest charms. the fact that a thing is new to us suffices. it is almost, perhaps quite, as good to behold for the first time what we have heard speech of, as to behold what no one has ever beheld before. we shall find friends to converse and share memories with about the one; we are liable to be considered bores if we talk too much about the other. the explorer writes his book and then dwells with his memories alone, but the alpine traveller lays up a store of experiences and reminiscences, the pleasure of which he can share with a goodly number of friends, old and young. passes, like peaks, admit of classification. the first and most beautiful is the long snow pass, the kind of pass which is reached by ascending one long glacier, and from which the descent leads down another long glacier, so that the point of departure is as widely separated as possible from the point of arrival, and the divergence of scenery between the two extremities most pronounced. these may be called the great snow highways. the longest snow highway-pass, and to my thinking one of the finest in the alps, leads right through the heart of the bernese oberland from the lötschen valley at one end to the grimsel at the other. it is really not one pass but a succession of three, for three ridges have to be crossed--which, however, only increases its interest. it leads through snow scenery of superlative pomp and extent, and reveals that scenery in the most fascinating manner, continually opening out and presently again closing up the wildest vistas, and always providing new interests and fresh culminations. bietschhorn, aletschhorn, jungfrau, finsteraarhorn, not to mention other less important peaks, in turn dominate the view, and one glacier after another opens out a vision of remote blue valleys and lower ranges. i am aware that this long traverse does not oppose to the climber the smallest real difficulty from end to end, and that it is what is commonly described as "a mere snow pound." it calls for endurance and that is all. unless the climber counts scenery first among the attractions of the way, he will be well advised to select some other expedition. he who does so count it will agree with me that this is _par excellence_ "the" pass of the central alps. it lacks only one element of charm: it brings the traveller down into the same kind of scenery as that from which he started. a similar remark may be made on the strahleck, which is likewise a glorious snow highway. both passes, it may be observed, are eminently suited for ski experts to traverse in winter, under suitable conditions of weather and equipment. to find the long snow pass in its most romantic form one must look for it in a region where a great mountain range divides districts of strongly contrasted scenic character. there can be no doubt whither we should turn. the great range that gazes southward over italy and northward into switzerland perfectly fulfils the conditions. this culminates along the watershed south of zermatt, which place is therefore indicated as the starting-point at one end. of the long snow passes leading southward from zermatt, the lysjoch undoubtedly takes first place for magnificence of scenery throughout the whole length of its route. gymnastic climbers may ask, why not the sesiajoch? on the north its route coincides with that of the lysjoch, but on the south they diverge, and the easier route lies through finer if less catastrophic scenery. the sesiajoch plunges down a great wall, and the view does not vary for a long time. the lysjoch leads down one of the loveliest glacier valleys in europe and affords endless variety. there is really no comparison between the two. we may therefore select the lysjoch as type of the noblest kind of alpine pass. consider what wealth of interest it supplies to those who traverse it from zermatt at one end to gressoney at the other; for to enjoy a pass properly it should be followed from village to village throughout its full length, and not merely from hut to hut. the modern method of zigzagging across the crest of a chain without descending far below the snow-line, taking one pass one day and another the next, is, i am aware, not without fascinations, to which who has not succumbed? but it is not the best way to enjoy scenery, for it lacks the enforcing emphasis which the exchange of levels yields. it is of the essence of such a pass as the lysjoch that it leads you from the foot of a great glacier, up through its whole length to its head, and then from the head of another glacier down to its foot. it thus traces a definite and natural succession of the features of a glacier. it is like following the course of a river from mouth to source, or passing through the progress of the seasons of a year. from step to step there is a succession of related features, each being another stage of the one before and of the one next to follow. thus there is a growth of interest. what you behold is not a mere succession of unrelated vistas. each foreground in turn implies all that has been passed and all that is yet to come on the upward way. true, convenience generally dictates that you shall not actually enter upon a glacier at its extreme foot, and mount right up it to its head. there is probably better going for part of the way along the bank. but the glacier is commonly close at hand and in full view most of the time, so that you become familiar with it at all points of its course. to ascend it is to advance through stages of increasing glory and purity. first you have its shabby moraine-strewn extremity; then its cleaner surface and open white crevasses. higher up they turn continually bluer and the ice grows still whiter. the glacier widens; the slopes that border it become less grassy. you are leaving the habitable, profitable world behind, and approaching the clean undevelopable lands, which man may visit but where he must not dwell. the naked crags stand forth on either hand, furrowed with snow couloirs, and clothed with white raiment. now you come to the snow-covered surface of the glacier itself. blue-looking pools of water may be seen here and there. the snow becomes purer as you advance. there are no more dust-patches or groups of rocks interrupting the clean surface. higher up, the glacier breaks into bolder forms as it pours down over steeper and more rugged slopes. the séracs tower aloft, fantastic in form and unstable in position. great crevasses marvellously coloured in their depths yawn all about. you wind your way amongst them, creeping over snow-bridges and under impending walls and pinnacles of ice, all decked with sparkling icicles. finally, you emerge on to some gentler-sloping, wide-expanding field of spotless snow, that only a gentle undulation diversifies with the most delicately displayed modelling. all around are steep slopes of snow or ice, cliffs of newly-riven rock, avalanche tracks and heaps of ruin. the details of the high peaks can be distinguished, their overhanging cornices, their furrowed sides. ahead, and not so far away, is now the pass--a broad opening between great heaped-up domes of snow, perhaps with crests of rock cutting through. the slope grows easier. at last the ground is level, and a distant view opens before you as behind. you are on the top. the ascent has been marked, as a morning's work should be, by steady growth of interest. the descent, though it merely reverses the order of events and succession of interests, is not a simple inversion of the experiences of the ascent. it would be if you descended backwards, facing the pass, but such is not the human method of going. you now face downwards, and have before you the blue valley, the distant lower ranges, and perhaps some fragment of the broad lowlands in view, whereas in going up you look at the heights. the valleys promise rest and refreshment to your growing fatigue. the way becomes less laborious as you descend. you leave the snow behind gladly. the first flowers welcome you. and now as you quit the ice and traverse the high meadows the steady increase of fertility is delightful to observe. you enter the tree-level through a fringe of skimpy and wind-beaten scouts. the timber becomes finer as you advance. after all, this fertile earth is the place for man. down you go into a new valley, the torrent hurrying and tumbling beside you. you come to a poor village and then to one more thriving. fruit-trees begin to find place, and then chestnuts. how delightful it is to come down to the chestnut-level! it is then no far cry to the figs and the italian lakes, and all the luxury of north italian nature--its rich atmosphere, its colour, its suave forms, and picturesque surprises. [illustration: . amsteg in the reussthal. on the st. gotthard railway. entrance to the windgelle tunnel above the last house on right of picture.] to cross thus and through such stages from the austere swiss valleys to italian frolic and ease, is to enjoy one of the greatest pleasures. you can do it by going over a peak, but clearly peaks are not natural passage-ways. they do not suggest themselves for traverse, whereas passes do. the whole idea of a peak is a provocation to the climber to get to the top. a pass invites him to come over; it calls from valley to valley. who would ever think of going to a col and then returning in his tracks to the starting-point unless misfortune compelled him? the suggestion is absurd. passes are the natural gateways of the hills--at first the easiest and lowest gaps; next the best gaps that could be found from valley to valley; lastly, any notch between two peaks, even if they are twin-culminating summits of a single mountain. indeed, provided the point of crossing is a notch, so that, when you stand in it, you see a peak rising on either hand of you, you have the feeling that you are going over a pass--that the wall nature has erected in your way has been overcome; and that feeling is the thing. the broad portals of the great mountain highways offer, as i have said, and obviously must offer, scenery of the grandest and most logically consistent type along all the way; but there are passes of other kinds richly endowed with power to please. i would choose next, as a delightful type, the most opposed in character to the broad snow col,--i refer to those range-traversing routes which lead over steep mountain-walls. such on a great scale for the alps are the col du lion, the domjoch, and the col de miage. i think, however, that the classical pass of this kind is the triftjoch. it will at all events perfectly serve as an example of the rest. seeing that, by definition, the final slope of all such passes is a steep wall, that wall, dropping from the watershed, must be at the end of some deep glacial recess. herein lies the distinguishing feature of the way. the lower part of the route will resemble the lower part of any other pass, but ultimately somewhere in the _névé_ region the traveller is led into a deeply embayed cirque. the snow-field may and often does lie almost level at the foot of the wall, perhaps above some final ice-fall which it has been difficult to surmount. these high _névé_ basins that look so lake-like and restful in the heart of the hills are always lovely. imposing precipices rise around them, and in fact feed them with showers of avalanches on active days. but in fine summer weather the avalanches have all fallen. the surrounding walls are like a defensive fortress, towering so high and steeply, and excluding the world and all its vicissitudes and violences. it is only a seeming, for nowhere, in fact, do storms eddy and surge with more violence than in these theatres of the mountains. but seeming is the very substance of beauty, and all the fine-weather aspect of these places is suggestive of peace. the further you advance the more completely are you enclosed. sometimes a bend in the hollow may actually so shut you in, that no glimpse of the lower regions is to be seen in any direction. such isolation is delightful for a while. besides yourselves there is no other trace to be found of the existence of the human race, or of its ever having existed; you might be on the surface of the moon and discover nothing more indifferent to mankind and their motions. a few hours of sunshine will blot out every sign of your passing. this entire cleanness and invulnerability is specially delightful to men who have grown up in crowded cities, where, save sometimes in the sky, the very reverse is the case, and nothing is visible that does not imply the handiwork of man. the final climb is like all wall-climbing, and commands no view unless you can turn round; but so much the more does the last step tell, the step that lifts your eyes above the crest and suddenly displays to you the great vista on the other side. in peak-climbing, the views to right and left rapidly develop and approach as you near the top; it is only in the ascent of these wall-ended passes that the view is kept back to the last, and then suddenly revealed. in the case of the triftjoch, as you climb to it from zermatt, the result is even more than usually impressive; for what bursts upon your vision, right opposite to you, on the far side of a splendid and vast circle of snow-field, is the whole pyramid of the dent blanche, from base to summit, with its finest side turned towards you. for the view thus to burst upon the traveller with overwhelming suddenness, the steepness of the wall of ascent must be continued to the very top. if it rounds off for the last few feet, as sometimes happens, the effect is spoiled. the triftjoch view is one of the best arranged, because the gap you pass through is so narrow, and the distance is beheld as it were in a frame of rocks, which form a foreground. most saddles of the kind are wider. then the view lacks foreground and is no better than part of a mountain-top panorama. the narrow gaps are the ones to look for. they can be found all over the alps, but not usually along the crest of the main ranges. [illustration: . the dent blanche from the riffelberg. july , . the dent blanche and all the other peaks mostly engaged in powdering their heads behind a curtain of cloud. the water in foreground is not a lake, merely a pond of rain-water.] there is, however, a great charm attached to many passes across minor ridges. they enable an expedition to be made, out and back, from a single centre, with variety of scenery all the way--up one side valley and down another. the side valleys often deserve more attention than they get. a climber's natural tendency is to go for the big expeditions--the highest mountains and the greatest passes. it is worth observing that the greater the scale on which mountains are built, the more widely are the main features separated. minor peaks and lower ridges have their different members nearer together. juxtaposition often produces admirable results, and may educate the eye to look for effects on a great scale which have once been observed in little. after all, variety is the great thing,--variety and the emphasis that contrast gives to beauty of different kinds. it is so easy to grow accustomed, so easy to become dull to an effect that is constantly before the eyes. how tired of ourselves, and one of another, we should become, if we were not always growing older! in the mountains, if we would have our sense of their beauty ever fresh, our appreciation of it ever keener and keener, we should alter our point of view: exchanging great for small, arid magnificence for fertile attractiveness, snow for rock, peak for pass, alp for valley. we should beware of specialisation. why climb only aiguilles? why scramble up nothing but rock-faces? there may be breadth or narrowness even in our play. we are likely to manifest in life as a whole the qualities that we show in sport. why not make play react on life? a highway-pass penetrates a range by help of a corridor, a wall-pass leads right over a cliff. these are the two most definitely marked types of col. we might feel ourselves compelled to assign most cols to one type or the other, if we allowed our freedom to be restrained by the bondage of scientific definition. there is, however, a kind of pass which i prefer to capture for a group by itself, though no descriptive name for it occurs to me,--i mean passes like the weissthor or the col du géant, which are approached by regular snow highways on one side, and fall very rapidly on the other. they and their like are always popular, and there are many of them. their chief general characteristic is the contrast that must strike every one between the ascent and the descent, on one side and on the other, and between the views in opposite directions from the col. this side, you look down a glacier valley with a broad white foreground limited by a mountain avenue, along which some great glacier flows, winding away. that side, a cliff plunges from your feet, and such foreground as there may be consists of the nearest mountains before you. thus the near view fixes your attention in one direction, the remote distance in the other. one is essentially a view among mountains, the other an outlook over the wide earth. one impresses by its wildness, the other by its extent. you keep facing about, and, each time you turn, the contrast of scenery enforces the charm of either outlook. obviously the right way to enjoy such a pass to most advantage is to ascend by the gentler slope and to go down the cliff. it is not the easiest way for the climber, who is likely to prefer to mount the cliff and descend the slope. the technically and æsthetically best are here at variance. in ascending by the highway side the fine view is always before you, but if you go up the cliff nothing faces you but a few acres of snow and rock. on the contrary, when you descend the cliff, the uninteresting outlook is at your back and the fine view in front all the way. the crest of some passes of this sort, notably of the weissthor, is a point of vantage for enfilading a great mountain face. usually one looks up or down such faces, or, being actually upon them, can only look a short distance to right or left. but from the crest of a suitable pass you may see the great curtain of ice and rocks edgewise, and the view has an impressiveness of its own. those who have seen niagara, or any wide waterfall of considerable height, will remember how fine it is to stand and look along the edge of it. fronting it, you obtain a sense of its width; below it, you feel its force and volume; but in profile its grace is its leading quality. so is it with a wide mountain-wall. it is not enough to see it from below, or from over against. it must also be looked along. then its surface modelling, its outsets and insets, its ribs and gullies, the meandering as well as the slope of its front become apparent. few great walls of this kind do not grandly curve round. they are most impressive when that curvature is apparent. once thus beheld, a wall takes on a new meaning when seen again from some more common standpoint. it no longer looks flat. its bays and buttresses become perceptible to the trained eye, which is thus better enabled to appreciate the complexities of form and the true architecture of any other mountain-wall afterwards encountered. there remains but one more type of pass that appeals for special mention before our space is exhausted. it is the couloir pass, a col led up to by a narrow snow-or ice-filled gully. the col du mont dolent and the col du lion are the grandest examples of the type, which however is not an uncommon one. for me these passes always possess singular charm. they are really a subdivision of the wall-pass group, but they arouse emotions altogether their own. once in the couloir you are completely isolated, almost as though perched in the air. a wall of rocks close at hand shuts you in on either side. the steep slope rises in front. behind, you look straight away to some far distance with nothing to interrupt the vision. so indeed you do from the face of a wall or cliff, but the effect is greatly enhanced by your enclosure on either hand. the contrast between those near rocks to left and right and the absolute openness behind makes the steep drop of the slope appear much steeper than it is. perhaps you may be compelled to remain for hours in the narrow gully. so much the more striking becomes the view revealed at the top and the sudden sense of being in the open. it has been implied that the couloir has to be ascended, for such is usually the choice, and sometimes the only wise choice; but it is far more delightful to descend one, with the view in front all the way and the valley bottom slowly approaching. never is the depth beneath better appreciated than under such circumstances. [illustration: . the village of soldimo, at the entrance of the val maggia.] i have thus far been referring to passes from the climber's point of view, as leading from one mountain centre to another. truly, however, the whole of a pass is the route through a mountain region from plain to plain. few mountaineers nowadays ever cross a range in that way except by train, and yet it is one of the most delightful experiences. motor-cars will enable us to enjoy such traverses by road, when the swiss have learnt the wisdom of granting free passage across the alps to any kind of vehicle. it is only when a range of mountains is approached from the plain that its mass and geographical value as a dividing wall can be felt. arriving by train among mountains is a very different thing, for you can see nothing from a train unless you are the engine-driver--all revealing views being necessarily ahead. afoot there is usually some definite point, immediately perceptible, where you first come in contact with the slope. you enter the mouth of a valley; the hills reach forth their arms to embrace you, and you consciously enter a new world. beside you is now a riotous river on the one hand and a steepening slope on the other. it is not long before you know that you have begun to ascend. the flatness of the valley's mouth presently changes into a gentle slope. at first the fertility of the plain accompanies you into the hills, but the fields grow smaller, the villages may be cramped for space and forced to adapt themselves to difficult ground, attaining a new picturesqueness in the process. thus for long miles, hour after hour, and, in large mountain regions, day after day, the character of the scenery slowly changes. the mountains grow bigger; vegetation varies with level and aspect; nature grows more austere, and therewith more magnificent. you traverse some vast defile, like the gorge of gondo perhaps, where road and river find passage beneath opposite cliffs, water-worn and of imposing height. you enter secluded basins, where the valley widens to close again; you pass round the margin of lakes that hold the hill-tops, as it were, in their depths. and always the flanking heights grow greater, and their tops, when visible, further and further away. side valleys radiate, leading around romantic corners to invisible fastnesses. the slope of the main valley steepens again. you reach the foot of the forest region, the snouts of glaciers begin to appear, and high aloft the snows look down upon you. now you traverse the last village and approach the foot of the glacier that fills your valley's head. you mount beside it through the tree-belt and out on to the grassy alp, then up that to the region of broken rocks and stones, and so to the margin of the snow. it is only the last stage of your traverse which now arrives, but that last stage is the beginning and end of the mere climber's pass. to you it means much more--it is the crest of the great range that you have been so long penetrating to these its uttermost recesses. the final wall is before you, the great white wall that looked so ethereal, so cloud-like, when first beheld from afar. you toil up it, stand on the crest, and look abroad over the world of mountains. then down to the stones, to the grass, to the trees, the high village, and the valley road. so onward again by the roaring torrent, down the ever more fertile, more luxuriant valley, till you come to the low hills and the wide flat stretches that at last lead you out on to the plain once more. [illustration: . flÜelen at end of lake of uri, south arm of lake of lucerne. the pyramid of the bristenstock in the background. föhn wind blowing.] a long traverse of that kind is a real pass, a whole pass; nothing else is more than a fragment--a choice fragment it may be, but still a part and not the whole. the old mountaineers, such as john ball, used to take their passes in this complete form. so did the old coach-travellers like john ruskin in his early days. now mountaineers scorn to waste time on so lengthy an experience and to remain for so long at low levels. it is not their way. they have continual business aloft. they leave to motorists that kind of expedition. what good-fortune, then, that motor-cars should have been invented in time to provide such possible delights for climbers when their days of activity are done. chapter ix glaciers incidentally, in the course of the preceding chapters, glaciers have been frequently referred to, but they form so prominent a feature in alpine scenery as to demand a chapter alone. for, in fact, it is the glaciers that most of us think about when we turn our minds to the alps. minor ranges have walls of rock as precipitous and grand, gullies as difficult to climb, valleys as beautiful and even as profound as the alps. other european ranges are for a longer or shorter part of the year snow-covered, and often deeply snow-covered, so as to present snow-arêtes, cornices, couloirs, and snow-slopes that might almost have been stolen from the highest regions of so-called eternal snow. the pyrenees, if exception be made of one or two small glaciers of no importance, are practically a range of this sort. they possess fascinations, and great fascinations, but lacking glaciers they lack what every traveller amongst them must feel to be the essential element of greatness. where glaciers exist the mountains are of the grand style. a small spitsbergen peak draped and surrounded by glaciers has a more imposing effect than a great tropical hill, three times as big, which lacks glaciers. snow that vanishes away before it is a year old is generally feeble-looking stuff. it is only snow with a history, snow that has weathered twenty hot summers, that really tells in a view. the first is a mere inert covering of the ground; the second is a mighty and moving agent. in short, the one is dead; the other is alive. a sheet of snow, lying where it fell, is amorphous. it might be twice the size or half the size and any single square yard of it would be the same. but a glacier, the moving accumulation of a score or scores of winter snow-falls, is a unit, and all its parts imply the rest. increase or diminish the area and you must needs change every detail, just as the whole body of a man is modified when he begins to grow stout or to waste away. it is not often that you can see the whole of a glacier in a single view, unless it be a very small glacier. generally you see only a part; but, to one who knows, that part implies the whole. when you see a man's leg you know that there is the rest of him round the corner; from the attitude of what is visible it is often possible to infer much about what is hidden. so, too, is it with a glacier. the more familiar a man is with glacier phenomena, the more certainly can he infer from the known to the unknown. how easy it is with a little practice to tell at a glance whether a bit of white beheld aloft is part of a glacier or merely a bed of winter snow that will presently disappear. the one is modelled by its own motion; the other merely borrows its modelling from the ground on which it lies inertly. the sense of motion, unity, and life--it is when these are instinctively perceived in glaciers that a view of snow-mountains begins to possess its true significance. before it had been discovered that glaciers move, people used to call them frightful, terrible, and so forth. ignorance blinded men's eyes to the beauty that was actually in sight. not knowing how to look, they could not see it. what forests, grass, and flowers are to the lower regions, that glaciers are to the higher--they are the vitalising element. hence the importance to the mountain-lover of learning to know glaciers and familiarising himself with their structure, their ways, and their moods. it is easy enough to declare that every form and movement of a glacier is determined by the action of definite forces--so perhaps are all the ways and doings of men. but we pretend that they are not, and talk of our whims and moods, and may take the same liberty of speech about glaciers. every climber knows that there are glaciers of all sorts and characters, and every mountain traveller knows that they behave differently in different climates and latitudes. in the arctic regions they flow faster and spread more widely. they have a more viscous appearance to the eye. they bulge and swell at the lower end, so that no one would ever have invented the name "snout" for the termination of an arctic ice-stream. moreover they break very readily into crevasses, even upon gentlest inclines in their lower course, whilst high up they seem less ready to form ice-falls than in the alps. glaciers in norway vary from the arctic to the temperate character as you go from north to south. the glaciers of lyngen resemble those of greenland. the glaciers of jotunheim are almost alpine--more than alpine, indeed, in the development of their glorious ice-cascades, but less than arctic in the outreach of their lower extremities. the glaciers of the tropics, again, present peculiarities of their own, due to the fact that the ice evaporates rather than melts. thus their surfaces are dry and almost granitic in aspect. their towering séracs seldom fall. avalanches are much rarer than one would expect. glacier streams are insignificant. thus it is in the bolivian andes and thus also in the regions of kenya and ruwenzori. in the great asiatic mountain territory there are glaciers of many types, corresponding to the great variety of climates. those of sikkim seem to be almost of the tropical character. those of the mustagh are of the temperate sort; and there are many intermediate varieties. [illustration: . furggen glacier icefall. furggjoch at top of picture.] alpine glaciers are of the medium type, lying as they do half-way between the arctic and tropical extremes. they have not the rapid flow of the arctic nor the dry rigidity of the tropical sort. their walls are not silent as in the central andes, nor thundered over by continual avalanches like those of the upper baltoro. they are of medium size also. in a single day almost any of them may be ascended from snout to snow-field, and descended again. to explore their remotest recesses no elaborately equipped expedition is required. yet they are large enough to be imposing, and penetrate deep enough into the heart of the hills to isolate their votaries completely from the world of human habitation. it is to this medium quality that the alps owe much of their charm. this, too, it is that makes them an almost perfect mountain play-ground. were they but a little smaller, how much they would lose that is most precious! were they larger, how many persons that now can afford the cost and the strength to explore them would have to linger at their gates wistfully looking in. in area, too, they are large enough for grandeur and yet small enough for easy access. no part of them is beyond the range of a summer holiday, yet a commanding view of them is as apparently limitless as is the view from the greatest asiatic peaks which, thus far, have been climbed. they are the only range of snow-mountains in the world thus blessed with moderation. it is for this reason that the alpine climber so soon acquires an understanding of glaciers as units. a novice, after a single year's alpine experience, can talk easily and with understanding of all the parts of a glacier. it takes twenty seasons to know them well, but the foundations of knowledge can be laid in one. the modern tendency amongst climbers is to devote their main attention to rock-scrambling; but those who have spent the best years of their life amongst mountains, generally end by giving their hearts to glaciers and the high regions of snow. the best advice that can be given to a young climber is, "learn to know glaciers." they offer the strongest contrast to the ordinary surroundings of life. they present the most varied phenomena. they most readily impress the imagination. they are the vital element, the living inhabitants of the high world. [illustration: . the gletscherhorn from the pavilion, hotel cathrein, close to concordia hut. one of the finest situations for views of the ice-world where no climbing is required.] if elsewhere i have praised the charms of contrast, of passing from low to high, from fertile to barren, let me here exalt another method. who that has tried it will not agree that it is likewise well, sometimes, to hide oneself in the very heart of the upper snows, and there dwell for a while apart from the haunts of men? formerly this was difficult to accomplish, but now, in the alps at any rate, it is easy; for well-found high-level huts are many. such, for instance, is the becher refuge, planted in the midst of the tirolese Übelthal glacier, or the kürsinger hut, on the north slope of the gross venediger. settled in either of these, you are in the midst of the high snowy world. the _névés_ are within a stone's throw, and the final peaks may be gained by a morning's walk. the concordia hut (now hôtel, i believe) is similarly situated; whilst the hut on the top of the signal kuppe of monte rosa is yet more highly elevated. it is easy to spend a day or two in any of these huts, and so to pass before the eyes the whole daily drama as it is played upon the heights. so easy is it, that one wonders why more mountain-lovers do not avail themselves of the opportunity. the drawback, of course, is that such a hut is a centre of human activity. you forsake the hordes of men below, only to join a colony above. solitude in these places is not to be had except in bad weather. there is one way, and one only, by which fully to experience the long emotion of a dweller in the heights: it is to camp out. few, indeed, are they who have tried it in the alps. some have slept in a tent on the mountain-side before a great climb; but they are fewer now than a score of years ago. it is not, however, to such brief lodging i refer; but to a settlement made and victualled for several days. mr. whymper, i believe, is one of the few english climbers who has spent many days together with a tent at high altitudes in the alps, and he has not published any notice of his experiences. it is a thing i have long wished to do, knowing so well the charms of such life in other mountain regions. from a high-planted camp you can climb if you must, but you can also enjoy yourself without climbing. to awake on a fine morning in the midst of the snow-fields and see the coming of day at leisure, with no preparations to be made for immediate departure; then to watch the sun climb aloft and flood the depths of the valleys with its glory; to spend the whole day at leisure in the vicinity of your tent, strolling now to look into some bergschrund, now to scramble on to some neighbouring point of rock, returning at intervals to dine, or read some pleasant book, or to sketch in the shadow of the tent;--that is the way to let the mountain-glory sink in. my climbing days on the heights have left me pleasant memories enough, but the high-level days of idleness have been more delightful, even when they were days of storm and driving snow. [illustration: . the trugberg. looking up the aletsch glacier from corner of märjelen see.] to be in the midst of a storm at a high altitude is a wonderful experience, which all climbers pass through sooner or later; but it is an uncomfortable experience. when you are camping-out high up you can enjoy a storm far more easily. i have sat warmly in my sleeping-bag and looked out for hours through a chink of the tent-door, fascinated to watch the whirling of the snow and to listen to the wild music of the gale. it is not the fine weather alone that is fair. there is a yet grander glory in the storms. what can be more superb than to watch the oncoming of such a visitant, to see the white valleys and dark precipices swallowed up in the night of its embrace, to feel the power of its might and the volume of its onrush, and to see and feel all this with the sense of security such as a limpet may be conceived to feel in the presence of waves breaking upon it? who would not wish to spend a few hours in the eddystone lighthouse in the midst of a december gale? that would surely be worth while; like standing beneath the falls of niagara. equally wonderful is it when the winds are still and a white fog envelops your little camp. then you know what it is like to be alone. above, around, and below all is impalpable whiteness. you might be floating in the air on a bit of snow-carpet for all the eye can tell you to the contrary. never is silence more emphatic, not even in the darkest hour of the night. the ear strains with listening and hears only the pulsations of the heart, till some distant falling stone or rumbling avalanche, some crack of a new-forming crevasse, some slight shifting of a near snow-bed, sends a shiver through the air. and then, perhaps, there is a writhing in the mist and shortly forms emerge. you cannot tell at first whether they are tiny objects near at hand or remote masses. under such circumstances i have mistaken a little fragment of paper drifting along the snow for a polar bear! presently avenues of clearness open up to close again. finally, the mist grows thin and glittering, the sunshine penetrates it, there is a moment of scorching heat, and lo! all is clear, and the great world around is perfectly revealed. [illustration: . pallanza--sunset.] what beauty there is in the great snow-fields that wearied waders through their soft envelope are in no condition to appreciate! for to be seen at their grandest they must be seen in the full glare of mid-daylight, when details are swallowed up in radiant, all-enveloping splendour. every one knows the glory of overpowering sound. for that orchestras are enlarged and choruses increased in number. who that has heard the full-throated music of ten thousand men, singing as one, will forget the majesty of that voluminous sonorance? the thunder of great guns is used, by common consent, to express the salutations of a people. what is true of sound is also true of light. great views are ennobled by the splendour of full sunshine. there is an indescribable charm about desert sunrises and sunsets, but the glory of the desert is greatest at noon when the sunshine seems to swallow up the world and almost to hide it in excess of brightness. as with the deserts so is it with the snow-fields. when the eye can barely suffer to rest on them, they are most impressive. if there be specks of dust upon the snow, they disappear then from vision. with the brightness comes perfect purity, and the very idea of possible contamination vanishes away. reference has been made above to the beauty of linear form presented by many mountains projected against the sky. the great snow-fields have a beauty of surface form, a delicacy and perfection of modelling, far more remarkable. the graceful outline of a rock-peak, such as the matterhorn, is, after all, a conception based upon a fact. the actual outline is a line elaborately jagged, which the eye converts into a continuous curve by purposely neglecting to observe the small indentations. but the curvature of a _névé_ is often apparently perfect. its slight imperfections are too small for the eye to see even when they are looked for. where it curves over, the outline of its edge is as delicate as any line that can be fashioned by the most elaborate artifice. no razor's edge is apparently more true. so also are the surfaces, in the perfection of their rise and fall. not more perfect are the heavings of the last dying swell on a calming tropical ocean. but the swelling of the snows is still, and can be watched from dawn to eve with the incredibly delicate shades upon it that change with the hours yet never grow coarse, only towards the day's end they become blue and bluer, till the pink lights of sunset melt against them before the pallor of night comes on. [illustration: . kranzberg--rotthalhorn--and jungfrau: sunset.] the details of the snow-fields are few, except when the surface is forced to break up by submerged inequalities of the glacier's bed. then _névé_ ice-falls are formed, which are far more majestic than the ice-falls of the middle region (such as that of the col du géant). the high ice-falls are always deeply covered with recent snow, and the broken white mantle upon the tumbled chaos produces mysterious hollows and gives rise to long fringes of glittering icicles not elsewhere in summer to be seen. to gaze into a crevasse in such a situation is to look into a veritable fairy's grotto, where the recesses are bluer and the walls more white than the memory ever avails to recall, and where the icicles seem to be hung for the very purpose of sublime decoration. glimpses of such sights are often granted to the mere climber as he hastily scrambles over a bergschrund by an insecure snow-bridge; but he has no time to stop for half an hour and let his fancy play truant in the depths. to do that, one must be living aloft, with all the day to spend as one pleases, no peak to attain and return from, within short time-limits, and no companions to say "hurry up." perhaps these pages may have the good fortune to inspire some mountain-lover with the wish to camp out aloft. a suggestion may, therefore, not be out of place. let the intending high-level resident choose the situation of his camp with care. it must be out of the way of excursionists, or he will be invaded by continual visitors, who will expect entertainment and will thus deplete his stores and spoil his solitude. it ought not, however, to be difficult of access, or the problem of revictualling will be complicated and expensive. such a camp should consist of two tents--one of them for guides or porters. the traveller's tent should be solid, and should possess a double roof or fly, so that it may be occupied with comfort in the hot hours of the day. it should be so firmly planted that no gale can overthrow it. its furniture should be sufficient for comfort. do not plan to move on from day to day, but settle down for a week or more at one spot, where there are rocks for a tent platform, and short scrambles that can be safely undertaken alone. let the snow-field be near also, a snow-field that can be traversed on _ski_, and do not forget to take the _ski_ with you, nor fear that you will not be able to use them on fairly level ground without previous practice. keep a man with you to fetch water and do the rough cooking, so that all your time may be your own to enjoy to the full a rare opportunity which may not come again. the middle region of the glaciers is the region best known to the votaries of the alps, because it is the most accessible from the popular hotels. this middle region may be defined as limited by the snow-line above and the tree-level below. it is therefore larger towards the end of the season as the snow-line is pushed up by the melting of the winter snows. on the aletsch glacier it roughly corresponds with the stretch between the belalp and the concordia; on the gorner glacier with the corresponding stretch between the riffelhorn and the foot of monte rosa. its characteristic features are the open crevasses and the flowing or standing water on the surface of the ice. this is the place to come to for glacier picnics. it is the paradise of the moderate walker or the superannuated mountaineer. it is a safe region for the experienced to wander over alone, and for the inexperienced to visit with experts. you can start late and be back early. you need not venture forth before the weather has declared its intentions. hence it is the popular glacier belt, and its beauties are best known and most widely appreciated. if it lacks the aloofness and romance of the _névés_, it possesses ample charms of its own. the impressive silence of the heights is here replaced by a chorus of the voices of many waters. the large simplicity and sweeping forms of the snow-fields give way here to a multiplicity of detailed forms that require time to appreciate and understand. every step in this area yields a new wonder, a fresh incident, another surprise. all around is continual change as you go along. there is no end to the features that demand and reward your attention. no wonder that glacier wandering at this level should be so popular an amusement. what is its principal and characteristic charm? undoubtedly the water, and the phenomena to which it gives rise. to begin with, there are the streams, small and great. the little trickles, that creep between the lumps of the uneven surface and deepen the furrow dividing them. they flow and unite together like the veins of a leaf, thus giving rise to larger arteries, and these by their union to yet larger. thus the main drainage torrents are formed, which, on great arctic and himalayan glaciers, become veritable rivers, impossible to be leapt over or forded. the beds of these torrents are blue in colour and like transparent glass in aspect--a lovely contrast with the general surface of the glacier. for that is made white by the innumerable fissures that penetrate its surface, due to the dissolvent effect of the sun's heat, from which the icy water protects the bed of a stream. it is a favourite pastime to sit beside such a torrent and watch the water flow by between its white banks, one in bright sunshine, the other, perhaps, in shadow, with the blue ribbon of transparent ice between them and crystalline water scampering along with an aspect of joy in freedom. but there is a grim fate in store for it not far ahead. it must make haste to laugh in the sunshine while it can, and to display its short-lived clearness. next time we see it, it will be thick and unclean with sediment, and far below in the valleys where men live and work. little, however, does it seem to care as it hurries and dances along, and throws up its little glittering, splashing hands into the air. we follow it downward, and soon hear a musical booming not far away, like the note of a deep organ pipe. it is a _moulin_ or pot-hole, a cylindrical perforation of the glacier into which the torrent leaps, and where it disappears, to flow thenceforward in darkness along the rocky bed of the glacier, till it reappears at the snout into the open valley. even lovelier than the streams are the pools on the surface of a glacier, when they have a clean floor unsoiled by moraine or sandy deposit. these pools are sometimes of large dimensions. they, too, have blue basins with white edges. looked down upon from a distance, they appear like great sapphire eyes gazing at the heavens. seldom, if ever, in the alps are such pools found in the _névé_ region; to behold them there, one must go to arctic glaciers, of which they form one of the chief glories. if the lakes on the gorner glacier do not equal those for purity or perfection of contrast between untainted blue and unsullied white, they are none the less most lovely. sometimes a lake may be found not on but beside a glacier, where the ice forms one bank and the mountain another. such are the märjelen see by the great aletsch, and the little-visited lake at the west foot of monte rosa. on these you may see floating or stranded masses of ice, and perchance find one that has recently turned over, displaying its blue part that was before submerged. [illustration: . mÄrjelen see and great aletsch glacier. winter ice not yet melted on the lake.] now and again, if you look for them, you will find crevasses filled with water, whose depth renders up a yet bluer tone than can elsewhere be met with in the regions of ice. perhaps, at one end the crevasse will be roofed over, and there you may gaze into the deep shadow and find the blue deepen almost to black. if you drop in a stone, you may hear the bubbles come rippling up and the wavelets lapping against the sides. if the roof be thin enough, a hole may be made in it with the ice-axe, and a beam of sunshine admitted which will increase the scale of the harmony in blue. well do i remember one glorious pool of water, roofed over with a dome of ice, through which the sunshine glimmered. at one side was a natural portal, at the other a window. two or three white blocks of ice floated on the water, and its uneven depths were of all tones from sky-blue to black; but that was in spitsbergen, where glacier details are far lovelier than the alps can show. but the middle glacier region, the region of what is fantastically called the "dry glacier," presents other charms than those of water. note, for example, the brilliance of its surface and the peculiarity of its texture. it consists of an infinite multitude of loosely compacted rounded fragments of ice with a little water soaking down between them. if you watch it closely, you will see that the moving water makes a shimmering in the cracks between the ice-fragments. you will also observe that the blue of the solid ice below the skin of fragments appears dimly through the white, and the least tap with an ice-axe to scrape away the surface reveals it clearly. each little fragment of ice has a separate glitter of its own, so that the whole surface sparkles with a frosted radiance. it is not the same at dawn after a cold night, for then there is no water between the fragments, but all is hard and solid. no sooner, however, does the sun shine upon them, than the bonds are released and the ice-crystals begin to break up with a gentle tinkling sound and little flashes of light reflected from tiny wet mirror-surfaces. one can spend hours watching these small phenomena as happily as gazing upon the great mountains themselves. size is a relative term. the biggest mountain in relation to the earth is no greater than is one of these small ice-fragments in relation to a glacier. reduce the scale in imagination and the smallest object may be endowed with grandeur, for all such conceptions are subjective. the open crevasses that are never far away on the dry glacier are full of beauties. it is not easy to tire of peering down into them. sometimes one may be found into which a man armed with an ice-axe may effect a descent. he will not stay there long, for the depths are cold. once i was able not only to descend into a crevasse but to follow it beyond its open part into the very substance of the glacier. it was a weird place, good to see but not good to remain in, and i was glad to return to sunshine very soon. the moraines and scattered stones that are frequently encountered on the dry glacier are more interesting than beautiful. it is well to make the acquaintance of the medial moraines and to scramble over them, first for the wider view that one gets from the top, and next in order to realise their dimensions, always larger than one expects. seen from a distance medial moraines look smaller than they are. the eye must be educated to realise their true dimensions. when that has been accomplished, the great scale of the glacier that carries them can be felt, but not before. there is generally a breeze blowing over a dry glacier, so that when the pleasant luncheon-hour arrives, a sheltered spot must be sought out, one open to the sun and protected against the breeze, with good water near at hand, and stones of convenient dimensions for seats and tables. experienced wanderers will detect such spots far sooner than novices. it is with them as with good camping grounds: they are not easy to identify at a glance, but they are well worth hunting out. so also is it with points suitable for photography. a dry glacier is full of details for a camera, and yet how few good photographs does one see taken at this level among the mountains, unless they be distant views. nowhere are there better foregrounds to be discovered; yet when they are looked for, how hard it is to find them. the composition is generally faulty in the inexperienced amateur's picture. but those who are experienced in the art seem to find suitable foregrounds everywhere. it is the result of much taking thought. generally it happens that the return from a day's glacier wandering leads up the hillside along the margin, so that as we ascend, the area of our adventures spreads itself out below, and the eye can range over the whole of it at once. we look for the place where we lunched, for the broad streams with difficulty crossed, for the large pools we looked down into. they are not often discoverable. what looked so important near at hand has shrunk to an insignificant unidentifiable detail. the river is one of hundreds of the same kind. the pools are innumerable. the moraine stretches along for miles, and one of its mounds seems like another. we thus begin to realise the size of the great icy expanse. our track over it has revealed but little of the multitude of sights there are to see. we have but glanced at a few samples out of countless thousands. were we to return on the morrow we could not retrace our steps, nor find again the objects we saw to-day. for a moment the grand scale of the glacier imposes itself upon us, but before night has gone we shall have forgotten it. only by coming again and yet again does it gradually sink into our understandings and become a part of the habit of thought with which we approach the alps. chapter x alpine pastures it is to be feared that the reader, whose persistence has availed to carry him thus far through the adventure of this book, may bring an accusation against me, on the ground that each form and type of scenery, as in its turn it has come to be discussed, has been described in language of too superlative praise, as though it and it alone were pre-eminent above all other alpine forms and types. let me forthwith confess that the accusation is well founded; for the fact is that, whether the attention be turned upon peaks of rock or domes of snow, upon cliffs or aiguilles, upon snow-fields or ice-falls, upon passes, alps, or valleys, the kind under immediate consideration always seems the finest, the central type and the most beautiful. we quit the valleys for the high snows in search of beauty. from the heights we return to the valleys on the same quest. everywhere we may find it, and to find it is all we need ask; for it is like pure gold, whereof no fragment is intrinsically more precious than another. each new-found nugget seems for the moment best of all. [illustration: . the castle of zÄhringen-kyburg, thun.] beauty is not the prerogative of any zone or level of the mountains more than of any other. it is of different kinds in different regions, but not of different degrees. some kinds may appeal to one man more than other kinds, but these in their turn will be preferred by a man of different disposition, and neither can boast that his taste is superior. youthful vigour may find the keen consciousness of beauty most readily arising after difficulties have been overcome. age may feel its sense of beauty deadened by toil. in neither case is the power of appreciation to be regarded as a test of the quality of the beauty perceived; it is merely an indication of the character of the person perceiving it. the normal alpine climber is more sensitive to the beauty of the high regions than to the beauty of low levels. nor is the fact surprising. he values that which he wins by toil, as is the natural habit of man. yet he will by no means deny that there are beauties of the valleys and the middle regions, though he may freely confess that they appeal to him less powerfully. but even he, lying upon some high pasture or in the borders of a wood on some off-day, when the sun shines brightly and the peaks that he knows and loves look down upon him through a clear atmosphere, will realise consciously enough the fascination of the scene. the beauty of the middle region, however, stands in need of no apology, of no lengthy recommendation, for this is the region which the ordinary traveller most frequents and specially associates with his alpine ramblings. the valleys are the home of the tripper; the alpine pastures, of the tourist; the snows, of the climber. each class perhaps looks down upon the one below, but each is well rewarded and may rest content with what it receives. the grassy region between the belt of forest and the snows is known in switzerland as the alps or high pastures, and it is from these "alps" that the great mountain range of central europe takes its name. an alp is essentially a summer grazing ground. it is the locality of cattle and horses, sheep and goats. a high alpine village without an alp is an exceptional place. the normal village needs an alp for its equipment as much as it needs fields and woodland. the fact that there is an alp for summer grazing enables the grass lands at lower levels to be used as hay-fields; thus a supply of winter feed for the cattle is procured. hay is also cut on some of the lower alps, but that is an exceptional use. the easily accessible alps are grazed by cattle. highest alps whither cattle cannot go, or where frequent precipices surround the beasts with danger, are reserved for sheep and goats. goat-alps are sometimes islands in the midst of glaciers, as, for instance, those at the foot of the breithorn and the twins along the south side of the main gorner glacier. oftenest the alps grazed by sheep and goats are high up in the immediate vicinity of the snow-line, little patches of grass in a wilderness of rocks, or broken up by precipices. some great grassy places at the ordinary cattle-alp level are so isolated by rock-walls that cattle cannot be taken to them with safety. large flocks of sheep will then be found there. such, for example, is the muttenalp above thierfehd in the tödi district, which is grazed by some or sheep. a single shepherd looks after them, and is almost entirely cut off from the lower world throughout the long summer months. the alp in question lies in a hollow of the hills, with terraced slopes rising like an amphitheatre from a grassy hollow, only accessible from below by a giddy path. there would be grass enough here for many cattle if the path could be cheaply improved. nothing in the alps is more lonely and forlorn in aspect than are these high shepherds' huts. they are always wretchedly built. the lads or men that occupy them are the poorest of their village and the worst clad. in an alp where cheese is made there is plenty of work to fill every hour of the day; but a shepherd who lives aloft and does not have to drive his flock back to the village every day, finds time hanging heavily on his hands, and acquires a forlorn expression that matches his attire, his surroundings, and the miserable weather which so often envelops him. those of us who climbed among out-of-the-way parts of the alps in the seventies or earlier often had to take shelter for the night in shepherds' huts, and very uncomfortable they were. but modern climbers hardly know that such refuges exist. one such hut i well remember at the head of the ridnaunthal in tirol. now there are no less than three luxurious climbers' huts built beside or near the glacier further up. the old shepherd's hut has fallen to decay. only a fragment of one of its walls was left when i passed the place recently. modern comforts, however, are not all clear gain. to sleep a night in the old upper agels alp was not a comfortable experience, but it had its recompenses. the rough stone-built cabin was perfectly in harmony of aspect with its surroundings, as a club-hut is not. built out of the stones that lay around, its crannies stuffed with moss, its roof formed of slabs and sods, it seemed a part of the mountain landscape, a natural growth rather than an artificial structure. a philosopher, ignorant of the conditions of life there, might have argued that the hut had been invested with an intentional protective coloration and form. the hut was hard to find, hard even to see when you were looking straight that way. it stood in a gorge upon a sloping grassy shelf, clutching a dark rock-cliff, as though it feared to slide down and tumble over into the roaring torrent. there was another dark cliff over against it, and the gorge curved round, so that you could not see far, either up or down. everywhere the dark rock-cliffs shut it in, and only the minimum of sky was visible overhead, as it were poised on cliffs. there was always a bitter wind blowing when i was there, and always the river roaring, and its spray rising to the door of the hut like a wet cloud. the entry was by a low and narrow door, and there was a tiny window beside it. a little passage or track led from the door down the room to the fire at the far end, where cheese was made of goat's milk. on one side of the passage was a bed of hay, retained by a board. on the other were some shelves fastened against the wall. the door did not fit, and the walls were full of holes through which the wind whistled. it was indeed a wretched shelter; but we slept well enough within it, rolled up in our wraps. the hospitality of the simple peasant was as hearty, his welcome as warm, as his means were exiguous. no one sleeps in these goat-herd huts any more. climbers have provided better accommodation for themselves, but in so doing they have lost that intimate touch with the life of the mountain-dwellers which a former generation learned to enjoy. when now we speak of alps, it is the cattle alps that are generally intended and understood. these cattle alps are of all sizes and descriptions, large and small, relatively high planted or relatively low. some, like moser's alp above randa, belong to an individual and afford grazing only for a few beasts; but most are the property of the commune and are worked co-operatively for the benefit of all the cattle-owners who may wish to send their cows aloft to graze. most alps are divided into two levels, a lower and a higher. the cattle are driven to the lower alp for the beginning and end of the summer season, to the higher for the middle weeks. every such alp must be supplied with the necessary buildings for the accommodation of the herdsmen and cheese-makers, and generally for the cattle also, though in some parts of switzerland the cattle are left out in the open throughout the whole summer season. pigs are usually kept at a cattle alp to consume the refuse of the whey. an old woman once told me that pigs are "the fourth child of milk," the other three being butter, sérac, and cheese. what with the coming and going of the cattle, the pigs, and the herdsmen, the milking at dawn and eve, and the cheese-making that follows, a cattle alp is a very busy place. some are better equipped than others, but in almost all one finds a shake-down on hay, a fire, and good shelter against all possible inclemencies of the weather. the immediate neighbourhood of the huts is liable to be dirty, especially when there are pigs, and at certain seasons there is a plague of flies in the hot hours of sunshine. but, as a rule, these discomforts infest only a very small area, and it is enough to pass beyond that to escape them. now that the throng of climbers is so great near the fashionable centres, cattle alps are unsuited to accommodate them, and club-huts or even hotels have been built for their service. yet even now a climber who quits the beaten track often has an opportunity of spending a night under the conditions which were universal in the days of the alpine explorers. to climb the mountains without associating with the folk whose lives are passed upon their lower slopes is to lose half the pleasure of mountaineering, as i shall attempt to prove in the next chapter. valley-life is not widely different from life in the plains. it is the life on the alps that is characteristic of the mountain-dweller. there the peasant learns sureness of foot. there he grows familiar with the aspect of the high peaks and the glaciers. there, as the years pass by, he becomes differentiated from the man of the plains. no one can really acquire the mountain-spirit who has had no contact with the people of the alps. that spirit does not reside in the club-huts, one of which is already in telephonic communication with a stock exchange--a foretaste of what the future will bring to others. the great charm and recreative power of mountain-wandering arose from the fact that the climber cut himself off from the life of the cities of the plain and exchanged it for the life of the hillside. he came into communication with another set of men, with other habits, other ideals. each year that passes in the alps makes that change less considerable and by so much the less salutary. [illustration: . chalets and church. riederalp.] the crowd of holiday visitors to switzerland tends to settle in the high pasture region more than was the habit thirty years ago. formerly hotels flourished in the valley-bottoms, in villages or close to them. now they are built with ever-increasing frequency upon the alps. the riffel and mürren led the way. such hotels now exist by dozens, and more are built every year. round zermatt there are smaller or larger inns, about feet higher than the village, in many directions. but to live in one of these high hotels is yet to live the normal life of hotel-frequenting man. the scenery is changed, but not the human medium. it is the inevitable consequence of alpine vulgarisation which drives the true lover of nature and of the freedom of simple life further afield. to know what the high pastures are really like, what kind of a foreground they naturally provide for an outlook on the world of mountains, you must not go to the modern triftalp inn or the schwarz see, but rather to such unspoiled places as the alps of veglia or of by, both glorious expanses of wide pasturage, which no crowd as yet has attempted to invade, or is likely to attempt, thanks to their situations, remote from the great tripping highways. there you may obtain simple accommodation for a few fine days, and wander as you please over the undulating meadows, with no sound to break the stillness save the rustling of the breeze, the laughter of the waters, and the musical clang of cow-bells more or less remote. it would be easy to divide the alps into many classes and to discourse of their characters from many points of view, but there are two main kinds of high pastures, differentiated from one another by their situations, which will naturally occur to every lover of mountains. one kind covers the floor and lower slopes of some high-planted valley; the other lies on some open shelf or convex curving mountain-knee. the first sort is recondite; the other displays itself to the world and commands extensive views. the impression they produce is very different. one is wild and gloomy; the other gay and brilliant. one has to be sought; the other summons you from afar. [illustration: . evening in zermatt. the promenade after dinner--a scene more reminiscent of earl's court than the "heart of the alpine world."] the high grassy valleys are not so common as the knees, nor do i at this moment recall one of them that is likely to be known by the general run of my readers, though there are plenty scattered about in all sorts of corners of the alpine range. perhaps the täsch alp will do for type, though compared with many it is relatively open and accessible. there are better examples near the dent du midi, which may be more widely known than i imagine. the ascent to such an alp may lie straight up the valley, first through the forest, afterwards through glades and grassy openings, often of singular loveliness. at last you come to the stunted and scattered outliers of the forest, pathetic trees all crooked and misformed, bending away from the habitual wind and stretching forth angular arms after it as it hurries by. when these are left behind, the open grass-land spreads before and around you, seamed with radiating paths, that start away as with a most definite intention, but soon divide and subdivide, leading in fact nowhither. if it is early in the season and you are ahead of the cattle, the grass may be relatively tall and the flowers countless in number and variety. you will wade not ankle-but knee-deep in them, and the air will be filled with delicious perfume. then indeed it is good to wander at this level. it is essentially the level for wandering. you may go as well in one direction as another. the views are in every direction and from every place. there are no points to ascend, no goals to reach. now it is a fold of the ground, some little hollow with a pool, that attracts the eye; now it is an outcrop of rock; now some gap ahead filled by a snow-peak; now some downward vista of forest or valley. anywhere you may find entertainment. anywhere you may be tempted to sit down and gaze around. [illustration: . bern from the north-west. spire of cathedral against the dimly seen mountains of the bernese oberland.] the higher you go the shorter becomes the grass, but it is all the more succulent. as the season advances the flowers fade. but the alp nevertheless retains its charm. the kind of alp now specially under consideration, the hollow sequestered high pasture, is often round some corner, cut off from distant and especially from downward views. perhaps a portion of a snowy peak can be seen over a shoulder of the surrounding foreground. oftenest even the snows are shut out, and the vision is limited by enclosing slopes or walls of shattered rock, where snow lies late in chinks and crannies. such places have a wild and at first sight a forbidding aspect. but we grow to appreciate them and find delight in them as the novelty wears off. they have the dignity, the solemnity of solitude. such elements of beauty as they possess are simple. they do not overwhelm the imagination by imposing shapes, nor astonish and puzzle it by complexities of colouring. such places are best seen in dull weather when distant views are not to be had, and the eye has to take its pleasure in gazing upon what is near at hand. then the brown rocks emerging from the grass and embroidered with lichens have their chance. in some places, where water habitually trickles over them, they are quite black and glossy. after all, there is variety enough of colour to be found about them, if one takes the trouble to look. moreover, how much entertainment is to be found in the really intricate modelling of the grass-covered surfaces. far different are they from mere low level fields which long ploughing has invested with a continuous curvature like that of a _névé_ basin. the grassy alps possess a complex accidentation of form. they bend and curve with an exhaustless variety. they burst, as it were like a breaking wave, against the rocks that perforate the grass. how many shelves and islands grass covers among the rocks! what picturesque corners it makes! what sheltered nooks! what attractive camping grounds! what charming sites for picnics, aloof from the ways of the crowd! in these remote and solitary places it is charming to while away the hours of an idle day, seeing nothing that has name or fame, following no track, accomplishing no expedition, no walk even that can be identified, yet finding everywhere something to look at, some entertainment for the disencumbered mind. it is, however, the high and open alps, lying on the slopes or laps of the great hills, that are the favourite places with visitors of all sorts. here the variety is so great, the opportunities of enjoyment are so many, the possible beauties so multitudinous, that it is almost impossible to indicate them in a brief space. who that has climbed much, or merely wandered much, through alpine regions has not an exhaustless store of memories of these open, far-commanding alps? what a variety of reminiscences arise when the thoughts are turned towards this belt of the mountains! it forms a stage in the ascent and again in the descent of every peak and pass; and it is the special arena for the "off-day." [illustration: . looking down the val formazza from tosa.] my own keenest enjoyments of the open alps are associated with two examples, not, i fear, very widely known--the fontanella alp above valtournanche, and the alp over which one descends from rutor towards la thuille. both may be described as staged or terraced alps. they lie on a series of shelves, separated from one another by walls or steep descents. for aught i know, they may be dull to ascend; but to descend they are of marvellous beauty. this beauty is greatly enhanced by the waters that fall in cascades from step to step, and lie in pools, or race along over the successive flats. the waters and the meadows form foreground to the loveliest distances. there are undulations and slopes of green in front; green slopes to right and left; and then the sight leaps across a blue valley to the opposite woods and upper hillsides crowned with rocky crests, above which other ridges rise and peaks appear, till far away soars some snowy giant into the serene sky. in the descent we must turn this way and that--now facing a waterfall, now going down some recondite gully, now down some outward-looking slope. and always, presently, comes the flat meadow on a lower shelf, and the call to tarry upon it and look back at the waterfall, or sit beside the torrent, or watch the reflections in a quiet pool. there are several examples of these lovely staged alps in ticino, as you go down from the basodino towards bignasco. wherever you find them they are fascinating. they always seem greener on the flats than any other alp. their picturesqueness has in it an element of the scenic. the arrangement seems to have been made for effect. there is another kind of far-commanding open alp, that all mountaineers must often have enjoyed. it is a long, relatively narrow slope or level of high pasture that lies horizontally between two cliffs or rocky belts. such an alp lies above zermatt to the south-westward, along the foot of the unter gabelhorn, round which it curves, so that as you walk along it your direction gradually changes from about south to west. it begins high up on the flank of the zermatt valley, and it is carried round into the valley of z'mutt, always at the same high level. there is no lovelier walk in that fine neighbourhood than this; for the foreground is always a slope dropping away to an invisible cliff at your feet, so that the eye constantly enjoys a delightful visual leap across the neighbouring valley to the great pyramid of the matterhorn, or the more distant snowy range that ends in monte rosa. [illustration: . in the val bavona. river bed filled by avalanche. basodino in the distance.] the extent and development of the alpine belt vary greatly, not merely in different regions, but in different parts of the same region. on descending some mountains, rocky débris are found to cover a large area of undulating ground, and then the grass slopes plunge steeply to the forest, and are quickly traversed. on others the grass reaches high and undulates slowly down, so that you may be walking over it for hours before you reach the trees. these lazily sloping alps are most charming when rightly used and approached, though to the climber, eager to gain the snowy heights, their extent may seem tedious, especially when they have to be traversed in the dark. there are some magnificent alps along the north side of the rhone valley above sierre. the slopes that support them rise rapidly from the valley with an equal and continuous slant. when those are surmounted there comes a great area of undulating land which begins amongst the trees but soon opens out to the sky and stretches far back towards wildhorn, wildstrubel, and the rest. on these great alps there lie many small lakes, and all the alpine region hereabouts is very diversified, and filled with foregrounds of all characters and kinds of picturesqueness--and then what distant views they have to set off, for across the rhone valley to the southward is all the splendour and extent of the pennine range, with mischabel or weisshorn standing out in front in overpowering magnificence. perhaps we shall be held justified in claiming that the views from the region of the high pastures are their chief charm, rather than the nearer views upon them. certain it is that most of the great peaks are best seen from the alpine level, and that the favourite views of them, the characteristically memorable and popularly best remembered views, are from alps. such is the view of mont blanc from the flégère, of the matterhorn from the riffel alp, of the weisshorn from the täsch alp, of the mischabelhörner from above saas-fée. the spectator stands high enough and not too high; he can be near enough at this level and yet not too near. the mountain still retains its individuality, its existence separate from its neighbours, and yet can be seen as a whole. a little nearer and it begins to disclose the details of its structure, whilst its mass fills a larger area than can be embraced at a glance. a little further away and the mountain is only beheld as one of several, part of a larger mass, a component element of another effect. from the alpine level you look down as well as up. the depth beneath and the height above may be, or appear to be, approximately equal. moreover, the distance to which the sight penetrates, the area over which it ranges, bears some moderate proportion to the size of the mountain-masses included in it. in the view from a high peak, visible distances are so great, the area embraced is so vast, the peaks visible appear to be so countless, that each of them may shrink into individual insignificance. it is the multitude of peaks rather than the mass of any, their abundance rather than the form of any, that causes the overwhelming impression upon the spectator. but in views from the alpine level there is a greater simplicity and a no less effective moderation. the mountains in sight are few, and of them one is sure to be most prominently placed, one will be central if not unique; and that mountain, in the typical view from an alp, will be seen from base to summit, not merely its superstructure of rock and snow, but its wide foundation also, reaching down into the depths of the valley and spreading broadly with all needful amplitude. it is not thus that mountains are beheld from the valleys. as you traverse the whole vispthal from visp to zermatt, you do indeed behold the summits of most of the great flanking peaks from successive points on the valley floor, yet it is only the expert who can recognise them, or tell which white fragment far aloft is the top of a great mountain and which are the mere shoulders of lower buttressing ridges. the knees of the hills hide their breasts and generally also their hoary heads from the view of one who passes along at their feet. if you would behold a great mountain as a whole, it is from the knees or the grassy lap of some other that you must look. foreshortened foundations are then withdrawn; each component part of the whole vast structure takes its proper place and is seen to fulfil its own function. buttresses stand forward and widen out below; high valleys can be traced into the heart of the mass; minor peaks are duly subordinated. the mountain, in fact, can be seen as a whole. it is thus you behold the mischabel from the alp at the base of the weisshorn or the fletschhorn; thus the matterhorn from the riffelalp; thus the jungfrau from mürren. a true instinct has selected and made such points of view famous. [illustration: . in the val d'aosta. the mont blanc group of mountains hidden in clouds.] we have left ourselves little space to discuss the value of the high pastures as an element in the mountain landscape, parts of the scene to be looked at, not positions to gaze from. that their value in this respect also is very great must be obvious enough, for in most mountain views the grassy belt fills the largest part. of course it is not the most impressive. we look at the mountains, or at some mountain, some glacier, waterfall, or cliff, and make it the centre of our observation. as a rule, however, except when we stand in the midst of the snowy world, the mountain that is centrally gazed at does not occupy so large a part of the field of view as is filled by the grassy expanse at its foot. the grassy alp, in fact, generally bears to a mountain the relation that the background does to a madonna in a picture. or we may say that alp and sky are the fabric on which the mountain is embroidered. in many parts of the world the grassy belt is absent from the ranges, and its loss is greatly felt. peaks rising out of slopes of débris and sand have a grandeur of their own, but it is not the normal grandeur of the alps. in some other ranges the tree-level leads at once to rocks and snow. it is the merit of the alps that a broad belt of delicately modelled grass-land almost invariably intervenes between forest and snow. this grassy belt covers the wide substructure of the peaks. above it is the realm of frost, of split rock and jagged forms. but as soon as the grass-level is reached suave outlines and rounded surfaces, broadening as they descend, take the place of the accidented forms above. the value of the contrast will be apparent to all. small and very correct little models of the matterhorn in bronze are sold for letter-weights, in which the culminating pyramid alone is given, planted on a rectangular stone plinth. they are interesting mementoes. but compare one of them with a view of the mountain as seen from the riffelalp, rising above the long bulging grass-covered slopes that descend almost to zermatt, and you will at once realise how important an element in the general impressiveness of the mountain are those lower slopes, and that not merely for their form but for their rich coloration. the green of the alps is the true key-note of swiss colour. to it all the rest are subordinate. by contrast with it, rather than with the remote transparence of the air-submerged rocks, the snows manifest their whiteness and the sky its blue. from season to season of the year it changes its tint, between the shrill green of opening spring and the amber of autumn. it changes likewise from hour to hour beneath the varied slanting of the sunshine. how velvet-dark seems the alpine belt at night when the moon is high! even in the twilight you cannot tell that these slopes are grass-covered, till "under the opening eye-lids of the morn" "the high lawns appear." at first the sunshine lies upon them in patches, like carpets of gold on a rich green floor. the sunlit area increases as the gold itself changes into green, whilst the dominant note of colour rises in the scale. long before mid-day the broad belt attains its unity of effect, and divides the dark forests and deep valleys from the radiant heights. most of us, who delight in mountain scenery, praise this peak or that, this broken glacier, wide-spreading snow-field, or intricacy of splintered ridges, forgetting that it is often the unobtrusive, tenderly modelled alps below, that endow these high eminences with half their charm. the beauty of a scene depends upon the harmony of all its parts. it is well sometimes to fix attention on those that seldom insist upon it for themselves. note to page .--mr. coolidge informs me that the muttenalp belongs, not to the thierfehd, but to brigels in the grisons, and is reached over the kisten pass. that is why the path down to the linththal is so bad. chapter xi the human interest it has often occurred to me, when travelling over glaciers and among mountains, seldom or never before visited by men, how much the impression they produce upon a first spectator loses by lacking the human interest. of course some stray huntsman or dumb and forgotten native may have been there before, but if the fact is unknown to us, it is as though he had not existed. when climbing illimani, the great bolivian mountain, the human interest accompanied us up the lower slopes. here were old fields, old irrigation channels, even ancient ruined huts. higher up we still had the memory of former adventurers to keep our hearts warm; but when we had forced the great rock-cliff that guards the peak, and were upon the upper snow-field, we were, so far as we knew, in an unvisited world. there did indeed exist an ancient tradition that once, long long ago, an aymara indian had gone aloft, seeking the abode of the gods, and that having found it, he was taken by the gods to themselves and never returned to his people; but the tale was too slender a thread to form a sensible connection between us and the world of bygone humanity. the climb took us over one high peak, then across a great snow-field and up the highest peak. we revisited and rested on the lower peak in the descent. while there resting, i dropped my hand on the rock beside me, and snatched it away, feeling something soft and clammy, a kind of texture instinctively perceived to be strange at such a place. looking to see what the substance was, i found it to be a fragment of goat-hair rope, such as the indians of the bolivian plateau have used from time immemorial. instantly the old legend was recalled to my remembrance. it was true! the indian had actually been here where i was sitting. here he rested. hence he looked abroad over the country of his birth--probably his last long look on any view in this world; for he never returned, and must presently have lost his life in some hidden crevasse. the thought of that nameless one animated the scene, and enriched the emotions we experienced with a new interest. i thought now of how he had felt with this great prospect spread abroad before him. i wondered whether his gods had appeared to him, whether he had beheld visions and dreamed dreams, and what those visions were like. there beneath him he had perhaps gazed for the last time on his birthplace, and identified the little hut that was his home. did he know that he would never return? did he think about his friends so far below and wonder whether they were looking up towards him? did he promise himself great future fame in his tribe? did he dream that they would identify him with the very gods? for the remainder of our resting-time the whole view was animated by thoughts of this man. it is the best instance i can cite of the value of a human interest in giving sentiment to a mountain scene. the same lesson was taught me by the spitsbergen mountains, amongst which i spent two long summer seasons. the coast of spitsbergen is rich with the tales and traditions of human achievement and suffering. few places have been the scene of tragedies so numerous and so long drawn out. in few have more dramatic adventures occurred and more varied enterprises been undertaken. but the interior of spitsbergen, and especially its mountain ranges, had scarcely been penetrated before. the mountains beyond reach of the shore were unclimbed, with one exception. the landscapes were unknown to man. it was necessary to spend some time in these solitary places to realise how much they lost by this aloofness. no peak possessed name or history. none had ever been the centre of any one's landscape. none had measured mid-day for any toiler, or served as reckoning point for the close of his labour. no villagers had ever imagined those arctic glaciers as the home of any gods or the paradise of any heroes. they had never found their way into ancient tale or legend. they had never been worshipped or sung by man, historic or pre-historic. they were just elemental lumps of the earth, with no more human sentiment attached to them than to any dozen stones you may gather off a heap and make mountains of in your imagination. pick up any fragment of rock you please and place it upon your table. look closely at it and persuade yourself that it is not six inches but , feet high. on that assumption search for routes up it. examine its faces and its ridges, its cracks and its gullies. you will be able to climb about it in a day-dream, to have accidents upon it, to succeed or to fail in various ascents. but who will care to "hear tell" of your proceedings? and yet, apart from geographical and geological considerations, which are in fact historical, any casual mountain is no more interesting in its essence than your stone. there are hundreds of thousands of mountains in the world. what intrinsic interest has one of them more than another, from a climber's point of view, except in two respects, the difficulty of the climb and the human interest? but the difficulty is of no account, for if that is what you want you can find it on scafell, and need not wander to seek it. no! it is above all the human interest that ennobles a peak and makes the ascent of it desirable. it is to climb an elevation that men have seen; to climb a peak that has been named, that has been looked at for centuries by the inhabitants at its base, that travellers have passed by and observed, that has a place in the knowledge and memory of men. if there were a great mountain in full view of london or rome, how much more interesting it would be to climb than some nameless lump in central asia, like k , that was never within view of any abode of men. this was one of the main attractions of the unclimbed alps to early explorers of the high levels. mont blanc was known of old. how many generations of men had looked from thun at the oberland giants and told stories about them. how much the famed devils and dragons added to the fascination of the matterhorn. the alps had looked down upon the march of armies and the flux of peoples for uncounted thousands of years. their solitudes were peopled by the dreams of all the generations that had passed by them or dwelt amongst them. the subliminal consciousness that this was so, counted for much in the strong attraction that drew the pioneers aloft. the pioneers in their turn have richly endowed the alps with a further human interest. why do so many people want to climb the matterhorn? it is not a better climb than the dent blanche. the reason is because of the stronger human interest that the matterhorn evokes. all who have any knowledge of alpine history have read the story of the long siege, the triumphant conquest, and the dramatic tragedies of which the matterhorn has been the scene. it is the fascination of those memories that draws men to the peak, and makes the climbing of it seem so desirable an adventure to so many people. thus also is it, more or less, all over the alps. each peak now has its story. each ascent has been made before and described. wherever we go now we find and recognise the traces of our predecessors. here is an old tent-platform; we know who built it and when. this is the site of such an accident; that crag turned back such a party on such an occasion. the memory of bygone climbers is everywhere. it peoples the solitudes and humanises the waste places. these memories will grow mellower as they deepen into the past. the best stories will become classical, and the scenes of them will be endowed with a prestige far beyond any that now attaches to them. a very dull person looks interesting when beheld down a vista of several centuries. the memory of the first climbers of the great alpine peaks will remain among the mountains to a far-distant future. i daresay my illimani indian was a crack-brained semi-civilised person, but i would sooner see him than a living cabinet minister. i can never think about his peak without recalling him. so is it with the bays of spitsbergen. the whale-fishers were no doubt a coarse lot of quarrelsome seamen, who stank of blubber most disgustingly; and yet if i could call mr. william heley from his grave, and hear how he emptied out the dutchmen on one occasion and they emptied him out on another; if i could get him to show me his huts where they stood, and could hear him yarn about the fishery, how entertaining that would be, and how gladly would i exchange the morning newspaper for such talk. we cannot in fact recall these men, but in fancy we can and do. it is because we possess and exercise this power of fancy that the mountains, which have been in past times the scene of human activity and life, are so much more interesting to wander amongst, except from a purely scientific and adventurous point of view, than those which have not. what is true of bygone individuals is no less true of bygone peoples. valleys that have been long inhabited and the high pastures that have been frequented of old are far more pleasant to visit than valleys that have scarcely beheld the face of man. we were made conscious of this difference in the mustagh mountains of high kashmir. there the secluded fastness of hunza-nagar is the home of an ancient civilisation. the gently sloping floor of the valley is divided into terraced fields, supported by cyclopean walls that might be as old as mycenæ itself. the villages are built upon their own ruins, who can say to how great a foundation depth? the paths are worn deeply into the ground. the raja's castle, dominating his little capital, has a venerable aspect, and if not actually old, incorporates an ancient type. there are little ruins by the roadside and carvings upon the rocks. where-ever you look, the marks of long frequentation are to be traced. moreover, the people themselves bear the imprint of surrounding nature upon them. their action in movement, their way of life, their adaptation to their environment--all imply old habit and deep-rooted tradition. the valley in which they are enclosed is the world to them. its every feature has entered into their habits of thought. the surrounding mountains are a part of their existence, and borrow from man in turn a reflected glow of traditional interest. from this man-impregnated valley we presently passed over the mountains to the valley of braldu, descending upon the highest village. above that poverty-stricken place the traces of man were few. there were faintly marked tracks; there were even a few small ruined huts; but all that these indicated was the occasional passage of hunters or the brief visits of shepherds or gold-washers. once the glacier was reached, the last of these traces was left behind. it was impossible not to feel the contrast between this region and peopled hunza. the scenery was not less, was even more stupendous, but the human interest was lacking. there were few named spots, and hardly a remembered tradition. the scenery to the natives with us was not the home of their fathers, but the elemental earth. it might have been fetched from the other side of the moon, for all they had to tell about it. two recorded parties had preceded us for a certain distance up this valley, and their ghosts alone peopled the solitude, but not a trace had they left upon the surface of the ground discoverable by us. if we had found even the remnants of one of their encampments, it would have animated the surroundings with the memory of man; but we saw none. the lack was a vacuum, an intellectual hunger, continuously felt. [illustration: . chÂtillon, val d'aosta.] few mountain regions in the world, outside of the arctic and antarctic solitudes, are thus denuded of human interest. the mountains of the old world and the new have been inhabited over a large part of their valley-area; but often the inhabitants have been people about whom little is known. it is one of the great charms of the alps that they have long been the home of a fine group of peoples. "your country," i once remarked to a citizen of a south american republic, "ought to be the switzerland of south america." "i will make it so," he replied, "if you will fill it for me with the swiss." throughout the large alpine area various races have dwelt and dwell at the present time. the character of the population changes from valley to valley, and there is no small variety, not merely in dialects, but even in languages. there is a similar variety in habits, in domestic architecture, in costume, and in bearing. much of these differences in the character of the inhabitants we are wont to impute in our thoughts to the mountain districts themselves. when we talk of the charms of the italian alps, are we not thinking of the attractiveness of the people, and the picturesqueness of their abodes and places of worship, as much as of the luxuriance of the valleys, the sparkling of the waters, and the mere beauty of the hills? the spirit of the people seems to infuse itself into our memory of the mountains about them, as much as the character of the mountains has affected the nature and disposition of the people. which, i wonder, borrows most from the other--the lake of lucerne from the old tell legend, or the legends from the landscape of the lake? an essential part of the human interest in the alps grows out of the length of time through which history has concerned herself with them. the history of the alpine valleys has only been written, or begun to be written, in recent years. early visitors to zermatt no doubt were conscious of the deep impress made by man upon the valley landscape, but they could not interpret, as we now can, the meaning of much that they saw. but when the local archives were searched and the traditions written down, when it was realised that the life now being lived by the peasantry was in all essentials the same life that had been lived by their ancestors for hundreds of years, ancestors bearing the same names and owning the same properties that are still borne and owned by their living descendants, what an increase of interest that gave to a place. [illustration: . a corner of the town of altdorf. the traditional scene of william tell's exploits. here gessler ruled and the shooting of the apple took place. a place of patriotic pilgrimage of the youthful swiss.] the old tales about the village deep in tiefenmatten, about the pilgrimage that used to cross the col d'hérens, about the frequented routes over theodul and weissthor--does it not add a new charm to the places themselves to hear them told? who is not interested to remember, when standing on the theodul pass, that roman coins have been found there? climbers have taken fully as much interest in the question of where the old weissthor route lay as in actually climbing the passes. i well remember the keen delight that came to me when i discovered that a pass i had crossed, as i supposed for the first time, between the fillarkuppe and the jägerhorn, was in fact the real old weissthor itself, a well-known mountain-route centuries ago. to rediscover an old track like that is far more delightful than to invent and carry through some entirely new expedition. correspondingly with the future as with the past--to make an expedition for the first time that others will often repeat is a lasting source of pleasure; but to make one that no sane person ever repeats or is likely to repeat is poor fun. i have had many opportunities of making new expeditions in the alps and elsewhere, and have availed myself of a few; but none ever gave me the continuing satisfaction that i derive from the wellenkuppe near zermatt, a mountain that i invented, climbed, and baptized, and that immediately became and has since remained a most popular scramble.[ ] [footnote : its summit had previously been touched by some unrecorded route by lord francis douglas, in an attempt to climb the gabelhorn; but for twenty years no one had thought of the peak, which had no name.] some part of the popularity of the ascent of mont blanc from chamonix is due to the fact that the mountain is the highest in the alps; part is due to the fascinating beauty of the ice and snow scenery passed through; but far the greatest attraction is the long and interesting history of the climb. no one, i suppose, ascends mont blanc without a thought of balmat and de saussure, and at least some dim consciousness of the number of early climbers who mounted by the way he takes, and felt all the strange emotions and high excitements they so naively recorded. what would the tödi be if robbed of the memory of placidus à spescha? even a mont ventoux can attain dignity and importance by association with so great a man as petrarch. it is, however, to the passes rather than to the peaks of the alps that history clings. allusion has been made to the weissthor and the theodul, and many other minor passes similarly recorded might be mentioned; but it is the great passes, the deep depressions in the main range, that are chiefly memorable from the historical standpoint. modern climbers unwisely neglect these great routes, or confine themselves to such as are tunnelled. john ball and his contemporaries made a point of knowing as many main passes as they could. it was their pride to be able to say, not that they had climbed so many peaks, but that they had traversed the alpine chain by so many great passes. old literature is therefore fuller of accounts of the historic passes than are most present-day volumes, which regard them as a subject outworn. to mention the historic passes is to call up the name of hannibal. here is no place to revive that old discussion as to the situation of hannibal's pass. historians have not yet entirely convinced one another on the matter. but if a general certainty had been arrived at, if we could feel perfectly sure that hannibal and his host had actually trod a particular route, it cannot be denied that that route would be well worth following, book in hand, for its historic interest alone. some, perhaps many, of my readers will have traversed the great st. bernard, the summus penninus of antiquity. few who have done so will have been oblivious, as they went, of the many great men in whose steps they were treading. celts, romans, saracens, mediæval warriors, statesmen, saints, bishops, and monks streamed in their day across this col. here passed charles the great and other holy roman emperors, lanfranc too, and the saintly anselm in all the fervour of his young enthusiasm. the reader will forgive me for quoting once again bishop stubbs' translation of the letter of a canterbury monk describing his passage of the pass in february :-- "pardon me for not writing. i have been on the mount of jove; on the one hand looking up to the heavens of the mountains, on the other shuddering at the hell of the valleys, feeling myself so much nearer heaven that i was more sure that my prayer would be heard. 'lord,' i said, 'restore me to my brethren, that i may tell them, that they come not into this place of torment.' place of torment indeed, where the marble pavement of the stony ground is ice alone, and you cannot set your foot safely; where, strange to say, although it is so slippery that you cannot stand, the death (into which there is every facility for a fall) is certain death. i put my hand in my scrip, that i might scratch out a syllable or two to your sincerity--lo, i found my ink-bottle filled with a dry mass of ice; my fingers too refused to write; my beard was stiff with frost, and my breath congealed into a long icicle. i could not write the news i wished." [illustration: . ponte brolla. over the maggia, near its junction with the melezza, looking up the val centavalli.] mr. coolidge, in that store of alpine learning, his book entitled _swiss travel and swiss guide-books_, reminds us that the first known guide-book was written for the crowd of pilgrims crossing this same pass, by no less unlikely a person than the abbot of thingör in iceland, about . there was a building on the pass before the year . a century later the little st. bernard was similarly provided. the simplon was thus equipped before , the st. gotthard before , and the grimsel before . modern swiss travellers may not be aware of these facts in detail, but it is impossible for any intelligent man to frequent the alps and not become conscious of the antiquity of the relation between man and the mountains. sometimes traces of visibly ancient ways are encountered, as on the albrun pass, for instance, or the monte moro. the sight of such a fragment of old paved way instantly carries the mind back into the past, and animates the route as with a ghostly procession. thus, too, i found it in bolivia and chile, where remnants of the old paved inca road, that traversed a large part of the continent from north to south, are often to be met with. the sentimental value of such relics is incalculable. they, as it were, hypnotise the mind and induce a mood in which we see the nature that surrounds us in a new way. they remove from the traveller the sense of isolation, and form a link between him and the countless generations that have gone before. he shares with them the toil of the way, and looks abroad on the scenes that they beheld. still more interesting and rich in a historic sense are the brenner and other passes over the eastern alps, which are known to have been important trade-routes in the age of bronze. over them successive immigrant waves of humanity poured into italy. over them at a later date passed emperors with their armies. no route bears the evidence of its rich historical associations more visibly than the brenner. an aura of antiquity rests upon its villages. its many castles, its ancient churches, its noble village streets, its countless monuments, all tell the same tale. i never can cross the brenner without having albrecht dürer by my side, who four times made the transit, sketch-book in hand, and whose careful and beautiful drawings of some of the views still exist in perfect preservation. [illustration: . in the val d'aosta.] the presence of man, not as a traveller through the alps, but as a long-settled resident there, deriving his subsistence from the soil, is an important scenic factor in yet another respect. the difference in aspect between a well-peopled mountain region and one sparsely or not at all inhabited is more striking to the eye than the inexperienced might be prepared to expect. the amount of landscape modelling that one man can effect in a lifetime is small, but a community of men, working generation after generation for many centuries, can effect much. the trained eye can perceive the effect almost everywhere in the alps; the untrained must learn to look for it. take, for example, such a well-known large grassy area as the slope descending from the matterhorn to the zermatt valley, between the gorner glacier on one side and the zmutt glacier on the other. if man had not laboured for centuries on that slope, it would be ragged with fallen and protruding stones. the grass upon it would be rough and uneven, or entirely replaced by stunted rhododendron, juniper, or the like bushes. now it is all smoothed and tended. the loose stones are gathered into walls, bordering the mule-paths or supporting the lower edges of the fields. earth has been carried on to bare patches. little hay-huts and other farm-buildings are planted about on suitably protected places. the grass is mown to a velvety fineness of texture. irrigation channels are led in all suitable directions, and the glacier dust deposited along their beds has raised long grassy mounds, which in process of time have sometimes grown to a height of two or three feet. more important still, in smoothing off asperities and giving a rounded curvature to the general surface, is the continual deposit of the same dust which this artificially distributed glacier-water lays down all over the meadows. there results a suavity of outline, a delicacy of modelling, and a fine quality of grassy surface, which change the aspect of the whole slope, even when beheld from a great distance, so that it would be impossible to mistake it for a slope correspondingly situated in any uninhabited or uncultivated mountain region in the world. [illustration: . in the woods of chamonix.] what is true of the middle pastures is likewise true of the forests. virgin hill-forests, such as one may see in the southern part of the argentine or chile, are very different in appearance from an alpine wood, whether seen from far or near. man, as we know only too well, has not treated mountain-forests wisely, and he is suffering the consequence to-day. but apart from cases of forest removal and the consequent changes of scenery thereby caused, the alteration in appearance produced by good forest management is very noticeable. alpine woods have a gardened aspect. the mere sight of them is eloquent of the presence and activity of man, who here also has left unmistakable traces of his activity drawn broadly over every alpine landscape. in the regulation of streams and rivers, again, the hand of man makes its long, slowly acting presence felt in the alps. gaze from the riffelhorn down the st. niklausthal, and notice how mainly of human determination are all the minor forms of the valley-floor. it is easy to compare with a photograph of that well-known view one, say, of the bush valley in british columbia, which has been revealed to us by the explorations of professor norman collie and his friends. such a comparison manifests, as no words can, the great effect upon valley scenery on a large scale produced by the activity of man. it is only high aloft, close to and all above the snow-line, that man's energies have not availed to change the landscape. he has built a few huts there, but they are insignificant. he cannot turn a glacier from its course, nor can he dam it back in the event of its pleasing to advance. the great cliffs and débris slopes, the reservoirs of snow, the rivers of ice--these giant phenomena of the heights are beyond his governance, even if any material advantage tempted him to try meddling with them. the most he can do is to blast some small tunnel in ice or rock to control the outflow of a gathering of water, that might otherwise discharge itself with violence and work destruction far below. [illustration: . in a garden at locarno. last gleam of the sunset on the hills above lago maggiore.] it is the great good fortune of the alps, beyond all other snowy ranges, to possess both the region of utterly untamed nature above, and a larger area of humanly modified land below. a normal alpine view includes parts of both regions. looking up from beneath, you have the gardened world for foreground and the wild world for distance. looking down from above the reverse is the case. the contrast is always charming. what more beautiful setting for a snow mountain can be conceived than that which surrounds the jungfrau as beheld from near interlaken? how pleasant it is, when resting at some fine noontide hour on the summit of a lofty peak, to look abroad over the peopled italian plain, or down into some deep valley, dotted with farms and villages, with here and there a white church standing in the midst of châlets. it is only the works of modern man, his huge caravanserais, his railway stations, and his accurately engineered roads, that are wholly hateful--blots on the landscape defiling and degrading it. let us hope that these hideous intruders are not destined to a long existence. it is not likely, much though we may desire it, that in our time the tide of touristdom will abandon the alps. it has come to stay. it will increase rather than diminish. but with the advance of civilisation perhaps its manners and tastes will improve, and it may, at some far distant time, come to demand a kind of housing that will not utterly destroy the very beauty which it blindly travels to seek. chapter xii volcanoes to the purely alpine traveller, volcanoes are not a matter of interest, because there does not exist a single volcano in the alps, nor, so far as i am aware, even the ruins of one. volcanic rocks there may be, but we are not concerned with rocks except in so far as mountains are built out of them. to the mountain-lover, however, in the broad sense--and it is for such i am writing--volcanoes are as interesting as any other definite type of peak, and i therefore propose to devote this chapter to a consideration of them from the picturesque and climbing point of view. for the european traveller there are volcanoes enough, both active and extinct, and that without going to iceland. most people have seen vesuvius. etna and stromboli are frequently passed, and the former is not unfrequently climbed. auvergne is a good place for a holiday. if ordinary tourists knew how well the volcanic eifel repay a visit, they would oftener turn aside to them. teneriffe is on the list of mountains most people hope some day to see. in my own mind, when volcanoes are mentioned, there always rises first the reminiscence of the great mountains in south bolivia and northern chile, with their stately grandeur of scale and grace of outline. every one who has climbed vesuvius has some idea of the nature of volcano climbing. it is by no means the best sort, and the alps as a play-ground are none the worse for lacking it. from a climber's rather than a petrologist's point of view, volcanic rocks are liable to seem both very hard and very brittle. they fracture with an astonishingly sharp edge, which cuts, like a knife, the fingers and clothes of the climber. notwithstanding their apparent hardness, which seems to promise for them an unusual durability, they crack up with great rapidity under the action of frost or of blows, and rapidly subdivide into small angular debris. the smoothness of the fractured surfaces, when fresh, reduces the friction between the fragments much below that normal to the debris of ordinary rocks, so that slopes of volcanic debris are very unstable. the foot sinks into them, almost as into sand, and they cut the boots and gaiters to pieces. to run down such a slope is pleasant enough, but to wade up it is the worst kind of purgatory, provocative too of more sins of language than it can possibly purge in the time. the novice at volcano-climbing approaches his mountain with a light heart. however big it may be, it looks easy, and he promises himself a rapid ascent. the lower slopes of volcanoes are frequently most fertile, so that the first stages of the ascent may be along umbrageous paths or through vineyards and olive gardens. ultimately the naked mountain has to be tackled, and then troubles begin, and they are the same all the world over. all that a volcano produces is toilsome for the foot of man. the slope continuously steepens. the disintegrated lava or the volcanic ash are alike disagreeable. the mountain is sure to be voted a fraud from the climber's point of view. even aconcagua, greatest of all volcanoes, is as rotten as the rest. there is hardly a firm crag on its mighty face. [illustration: . pilatus and lake of lucerne from the slopes of the rigi.] it follows that volcanoes are peaks of an unstable character. they are upstarts by nature, and they are easily pulled down. among mountains they are the most short-lived. in their decay they lack the dignity of a peak of crystalline rock, that fights against disintegration and resists to the last, holding forth to the sky its splintered crags like passionately protesting hands. there is no protest in a volcano. it yields willingly to decay. the debris of its upper rocks flow down its face almost like water. they grind together into dust and are blown away by the winds. the old moraines of aconcagua ultimately turn into sand dunes. yet these mushroom monsters are not without their compensations. when active they enjoy a magnificence of public advertisement that no other kind of peak, even when it is the scene of a particularly ghastly accident, can ever hope to rival. they grow in height, or are blown to perdition, amidst earthquakes and terrific thunders. lightnings flicker about them like the dartings of a serpent's tongue. the storm-clouds that envelop snowy peaks are nothing to the monstrous piles of smoke and darkness that wreathe the brows of an erupting volcano. blasts of fire shoot from them, and for glaciers, their sides are flooded with molten lava. few of us can hope to see such sights in the fulness of their glory. when the mountain is full-grown, and its days of activity are done, for a while it reigns, a figure of perfect grace, a very queen for elegance and beauty of form. who that has ever seen vesuvius can deny this fact. probably no snowy peaks in the world are more absolutely perfect in form than the white-clad giant volcanoes of kamchatka, or, on a smaller scale, the peerless fuji of japan. the outline of the cone, gently rising from the foot, and then steepening in its incomparable logarithmic curve, is the gracefullest that nature produces on a large scale. even the effulgent domes of the greatest cumulous clouds that, on a faultless summer afternoon, soar into the clearest blue sky, are not to be compared with volcanoes at their best. these have the aspect of works of art, made, as it were, expressly to incorporate an idea of beauty. they possess the symmetry of a fine crystal, but at the same time, a grace far beyond what is possible to any crystalline form. and then, how they soar! how their beautiful heads seem almost to float in the blue! how symmetrically the mists gather about their summits! at one time the base will vanish in the bright opacity of the lower air, and the top will be seen in sharp distinctness, like a floating island in the sky. at another, the summit will fade away, and the shadowed base will fill the vision with its purple solidity. and always there hangs about a volcano the memory of its fire-begetting, and the suspicion that all may not yet be over. it is, as it were, an inscribed finger-post, warning us of the molten core within. it is at once a memorial and a monition to those that dwell beneath it. it is the witness of past and the herald of future convulsions; yet, being such, it is itself in form the peacefullest and tenderest in nature. no woman's robe droops more delicately over her bosom than droops the once molten drapery of a volcano. its aspect bears a double and opposed suggestiveness. such are volcanoes in the day of their perfection, before the denuding forces have made inroads on the symmetry of their form. [illustration: . montreux, lake of geneva.] yet even then it is not well to approach them too closely, unless you would have the sense of their beauty supplanted by a different kind of emotion. the nearer you approach a snow-mountain, such as mont blanc, and the more intimately you penetrate its white recesses, and acquaint yourself with its details of crevasse and sérac, the more conscious are you of the perfection of its finish and the loveliness of its details. it is not so with a volcano at any time of its career. when it is newly fashioned and the lava streams are still in movement and smoking upon its sides, and the cinders and ashes of its recent ejection are piled upon it, to approach them is to behold sights more provocative of horror than of admiration. they appal, they create astonishment, but they do not attract. cast your eye over the remarkable series of photographs by dr. tempest anderson, published under the title "volcanic studies," and you will have ample proof of this. consider the icelandic gorges, the outer crater of teneriffe, or the views of recent volcanic energies displayed in st. vincent--the mud-rivers, the sand-strewn valleys; here is enough to interest and more than enough to appal, but the kind of beauty associated with a distant view of a volcano is absent. there is no grace, no charm, none of the sweet feminine outline which makes volcanoes the queens and fair ladies among hills. but when all the dramatic stage of their existence is over, and the fires are out and the earth around has ceased from quaking; when trees have gathered over the lava torrents and rich vegetation has covered up cinders and ash; when the sulphurous vents are become sapphire pools of clear water overshadowed by foliage, and all the ghastly details of tragedy are covered up by the splendid garments of tropical vegetation; then you may approach and ascend if you please, but it will not be as a climber, for the climber is one who seeks the naked places of the earth, and does not wander for choice in grassy dells and tree-embosomed shades. he, however, who should converse about volcanoes and say no more than this, would leave a most false impression upon his hearers, for nature always provides compensations for her sincere and humble lovers, and even in the barest volcano she has not failed. the very rapidity with which they yield to destructive forces leads to results not discoverable in stronger and more resolute peaks. frost, winter, and snow breach their sides with exceeding facility. torrents dig gullies into them. the very winds blow their substance away. hence it comes that a volcano in active process of destruction often provides detailed scenery of astonishing grandeur and boldness. its vertical-walled gullies, its cliffs, its castellated ridges are like none other. there is no aspect of durability about them, no signs of hoary antiquity, none of the dignity that belongs to archæan rocks. they are visibly in rapid decay, yet, for all that and even because of it, they are strangely imposing with a sort of rococo grandeur. if the meije and ushba are romanesque, if the matterhorn, masherbrum, and siniolkum are gothic, we may describe the world's shattered volcanoes as flamboyant. they boast a greater and more unusual variety of forms, a multiplicity of details that bewilders. the spiry exuberance of milan cathedral can be paralleled in the neighbourhood of aconcagua. nowhere are buttresses more emphatic, points of rock in perilous precipitance of decay more plentiful, cliffs more abrupt, the skeleton of the mountains more nakedly displayed. yet better deserving of note is the brilliancy and variety of the colouring by which volcanic rocks are often characterised. the local colouring of alpine rocks is seldom rich. the dolomites indeed have a reputation for the richness of their tints, but it is mainly derived from the sunrise and sunset colouring which they reflect so brilliantly that it almost seems to proceed from them. the general effect of alpine rocks is some variety of grey or brown, the tone of which is deepened by contrast with the snows. except in volcanic districts, it is only in spitsbergen, and at one or two spots in the himalayas, that i have observed the local colouring of the rocks to form a prominent factor in the beauty of a mountain view. there indeed the red and yellow sandstones display their rich tints with great effect, so that the colour, shining over the wide expanses of arctic glacier and snow-field, becomes a main element, and reduces the forms of the peaks to a secondary consideration. yet in spitsbergen this only happens in a relatively small area, within kings bay. in volcanic districts, however, the colouring of the rocks is almost always remarkable. it seems as though nature had emptied her whole palette upon them. hardly any tint, from white to black, is missing. other mountains depend for their colour upon the atmosphere. these are independent of that source. their own colour is predominant. all they ask for is transparent air and bright sunshine to display them. their combination is so unusual, their chord so unlike any to which we are accustomed in ordinary natural surroundings, that they cannot fail to be the chief element in the view. that is why photographs of volcanic scenery convey an impression so different from actual sight. the normal blues, greens, and browns of the temperate habitable regions; the black, greys, and whites of the snowy world; the blue sea, white sand, and red cliffs of a devonian coast: such chords of colour are usual; the eye expects them. even a tropical landscape, except for its occasional blazes of blossom, belongs to the same category. autumnal glories, first of golden harvest, later of iridescent foliage, are an accustomed sight. but all these schemes of colour belong to a wholly different category from that which volcanic rock-masses display. they bring together, combine, and contrast a whole series of unusual tints. their purples are not the purples which we elsewhere know. their greens are not the greens of vegetation. their yellows are not the yellows of a blossoming field or a fading forest. were i to catalogue in a list the colours i have seen in a volcanic panorama, it would little serve, for it is not the names that count but the special significance of each, and that is not capable of brief statement. such a scene as i am recalling astonishes by the multitude and close juxtaposition of an apparently countless number of coloured strata. it looks as though nature had kept changing her mind and staining each successive ejection with a different tint. sometimes there comes a considerable thickness of a certain coloured rock, but above and below it thin strata will succeed of all sorts of colours. if such a series of deposits is intersected by a cliff, its face will be ruled across by a polychrome multitude of bands. oftenest, however, the whole mass will be riven into gullies and weathered into pinnacles of all heights and varieties. or short cliffs and elbows will alternate with slopes of debris. in such cases any sense of order in the succession of colours may be lost. a blue pinnacle will stand before a yellow one, and that beside a red with a green top. in one buttress purple may predominate, in another grey, in a third orange. the effect on slopes of debris is often most peculiar. naturally they derive their tint from that of the rocks above, out of whose fragments they are formed. if those rocks are a mass of a single colour, such will be the tint of the debris slope. but if they be fed by the splintered fragments of two different beds, as for example one red, the other yellow, the slope below will be a kind of orange, varying in tone according to the supply of the two ingredients. sometimes a slope will be, let us say, purple throughout its upper portion till it comes down to a point where white rocks emerge. below them it will be streaked as by splashes of whitewash. in the floor of a valley, where all these ingredients mix together in sandy intimacy, the general tone will be of a light neutral tint, the colour being destroyed by the intimacy of the mixture, the minuteness of the fractures, and the multiplicity of the incidence and reflection of light. where there is snow aloft its melting will enforce the local colour of the rocks or debris over which it flows. similar will be the effect of a spring bursting out of the hillside. these waters will themselves be brilliantly stained, and if they chance to flow over a bed of snow, they will stain it in their turn. i have seen a blood-red area of snow produced in this fashion. the reader may not derive from the foregoing description an idea of any effect produced by the reality save strangeness. one should be a landscape-painter of remarkable skill to convey any other. but the actual effect in nature, when the first shock of strangeness has worn off, is an effect of remarkable beauty. the colours in their great variety and multitude do in fact harmonise and agree together. being fashioned in one work-shop, the work-shop of nature, the self-same that fashions the eyes and intelligences of men and implants in them the idea of beauty as part of nature's law, they do not appear chaotic or inharmonious to the natural man. on the contrary they are bonded together and informed by the sense of a common origin, a common purpose, and a common meaning. when this unity is felt and perceived by the eye, not only do the forms, for all their jagged and splintered multiplicity, harmonise into compositions of remarkable grandeur, but their rich and varied colouring ennobles and distinguishes those forms. views of this kind affect the imagination and impress themselves upon the memory more than most. amongst the many wide vistas or actual panoramas which a mountain-climber of a few years' experience must have seen, he will doubtless freely admit that there are few which he can recall to his memory with any completeness. the first he ever saw overwhelmed him with their intricate elaboration. later on, when he knew better what to look for, his susceptibility to impression was already lessened. the same is likely to be true of valley views. how many of them can we conjure up in any detail? the matterhorn from zermatt, mont blanc from chamonix, and a few other similarly well-known prospects we know by heart; but of how many valley views, that we have only beheld once or during a short interval, can we form a visual image in our minds. my own experience leads me to conclude, though without making any allowance for a possibly large personal equation, that desert views are more memorable than those in which fertility predominates. various views in the naked indus valley are firmly fixed in my mind, though none of them were more than briefly beheld. the same is true of the scenery in the desert volcanic regions with which i am acquainted: the neighbourhood of arequipa in peru, parts of the provinces of oruro and potosi in bolivia, the surroundings of the volcanoes of ascotan in chile, and of aconcagua in the argentine. in all these districts the scenery i beheld remains photographed in my memory with exceptional vividness, not merely its strangeness but its beauty, and the element in the scenery most vividly memorable is the element of colour. in fact both colour and forms are strange to an eye accustomed to look upon the fertile and normally habitable regions of the earth. this is true not merely of the mountains themselves and their constituent parts but of all their surroundings. i have never looked down upon the boiling interior of an active volcano, such as travellers to hawaii are privileged to behold on the top of mauna loa. that must be a sight passing wonderful. nor have i ever beheld an erupting volcano from near at hand. but i have seen enough in the volcanic districts of south america to realise the marvels and fascinations they contain. let me be forgiven for quoting one or two passages from my book on the bolivian andes, which were written when the impressions were fresh, though not a detail of them has yet escaped me. near ollague, on the chile-bolivian frontier, is an active volcano. it was puffing steam in white jets from its top when i passed. all the hills and ground beneath, utterly bare of vegetation, were red or yellow in colour, or of white ashes dotted over with black cinders. proceeding southward for some kilometres, this kind of scenery continued. we wandered in and out among volcanoes, lava-streams, and great level sheets of white saline deposit, like frozen lakes covered with snow. most of the volcanoes were extinct, but some retained the perfection of their form--wide, infinitely graceful cones outlined by a pure unbroken curve against the clear sky. the surface of the hills was often coloured in the most brilliant fashion imaginable. the combinations of the rich colours and strange forms rising beyond, and apparently out of, the large, flat, greyish-white surface of the saline deposits were most beautiful. one white imitation lake was framed in a margin of black volcanic dust and cinders, merging upward into grey sand. white dust-spouts were dancing on its white floor. a riven hill near by revealed streaks of blood-red, chrome yellow, and i know not what other bright colours. presently came the smoking volcano san pedro, with a smaller cone at its foot, from which there stretched to a distance of two or three miles a flow of lava, long cold, but looking as it lies on the sandy desert as though newly poured out. it resembled a glacier with steep sides and snout much crevassed and all covered with black moraine. with this strange product of volcanic convulsion for foreground, the sunburnt and silent desert stretching around, and volcanoes great and small rising behind, san pedro's head smoking over all, i thought i had never beheld a more weird and uncanny scene. yet it was beautiful, beyond all question beautiful to a high degree. if a man could be transported to the surface of the moon, say somewhere near aristarcus or gassendi, such, i imagine, might be the kind of landscape that would salute his eyes. [illustration: . after the sunset. from the schänzli, bern.] over against these mountains there rose on the other side of the valley a polychrome hill, the cerro colorado, covered, they say, with magnetic sand, which leaps into the air and flies about in sheets and masses when a thunderstorm comes near--to the very natural horror of the local indians. at such times, amidst the roar of thunder and the electric flashes, surrounded by a desert shaken by earthquakes and dotted over by cinders, and with this dancing fiend of a hill close at hand, ignorant people may be pardoned for imagining themselves possessed by a horde of rioting devils. not far away is the blood-red cañon of the rio loa, feet deep. i stood at the edge of this profound meandering trench at an hour when the low westering sun struck full on one face of it and a dark shadow fell from the other. with this sanguinary hollow at my feet, i looked across a great flat plain towards countless volcanic hills, many of them perfectly symmetrical in form, shining in the mellow evening light. the sunset is the time to enjoy to the fullest this clean lunar landscape, enriched by the world's fair atmosphere, when the shadows are stealing across the flat and climbing the opposite crimson hills, whence they seem to drive the colour up to the soft still clouds, where it fades away in the purple pomp of oncoming night. is it possible, i wonder, by any words to convey to the reader the least notion of this sort of scenery? picture to yourself a lake the size of zug, or annecy, or orta. it is not a lake for all its flatness and the aspect of its shores, but a flat plain of salt, white as snow. its banks and surroundings are not green, but wide-spreading sand, that stretches away and yet away till it vanishes perhaps into trembling mirage. black spots are dotted all about as though newly scattered from some enormous pepper-pot. they are ashes. you can scarcely believe they are yet cold from the fire, that ejected them, however, ages ago. yellow, crimson, green slopes rise nearer or farther away to form stately cones or ruined lumps of the crude earth. alas! the picture is not paintable by me. beheld, it smites the eye with a single indelible impression. described, it is a mere succession of details and fragments, and there is no verbal lightning-stroke that will avail to smite them for an instant into simultaneous visibility. strictly speaking, what has been written above has no place in an alpine book. yet the interest of the alps to me, or of any range of mountains, lies in the fact that they are a specimen range, that they resemble more or less other ranges from arctics to tropics, that they are examples of one large category of mundane phenomena. to understand the position and character of alpine scenery in the scenery of mountains, we must consider what the alps lack as well as what they possess. every range of mountains, indeed, has its own special and purely local elements of character, but outside of them it likewise possesses many more in common with other ranges. the experienced alpine climber will find himself, if not at home, at all events not far from home in the mountains of spitsbergen, greenland, or the antarctic, in the caucasus, the himalayas, the canadian rockies; even in the snowy cordillera of tropical bolivia, or in the african groups of kenya and ruwenzori. the only kind of mountains, so far as i know, that will be wholly strange to him, and at first sight almost wholly incomprehensible, are the desert volcanoes. it has been for the purpose of bringing this fact clearly before his mind that i have felt myself justified in devoting a brief space to the character of such volcanic scenery. the end _printed by r. & r. clark, limited, edinburgh._ [illustration] black's beautiful books this series of books is chiefly distinguished by its exquisite illustrations in colour. there is no volume that one cannot turn to again and again with renewed interest and 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the publishers,_ adam and charles black_, soho square, london, w., for a detailed prospectus of any volume in this list. the books themselves may be obtained through any bookseller at home or abroad._ published by a. and c. black · soho square · london · w. transcriber's notes: . page scan source: http://www.archive.org/details/hourwillcomeata firgoog . the diphthong oe is represented by [oe]. . vol. i and ii are reprinted here as collection of german authors, vols. and . collection of german authors. vol. . * * * * * the hour will come by w. von hillern. in two volumes. vol. i. "all that time brings, time also sweeps away. therefore have the fathers recorded the deeds of men for their grandchildren." goswin. chronik von marienberg. .. the hour will come a tale of an alpine cloister by wilhelmine von hillern, author of "the vulture maiden (die geier--wally)" etc. from the german by clara bell. in two volumes.--vol. i. _copyright edition_. leipzig bernhard tauchnitz. london: sampson law, marston, searle & rivington. crown buildings, , fleet street. paris: c. reinwald & cie, rue des saints pÈres. _the author reserves the right of dramatizing this tale_. the hour will come. prologue. st. valentine's on the heath. the heath or moorland plateau of mals lies wide--spread, silent, and deserted where the lofty head of the grossortler towers up, and overlooks it in eternal calm. it is five centuries ago--a mere moment in that world of everlasting snows; the keen autumn wind, as at this day, is rushing through the grey halms of the charlock, woodrush and heathgrasses, that have caught a doubtful, golden gleam reflected from the glaciers which are bathed in the glow of the sinking sun; as at this day, the gale packs the driving white clouds together in the still highland valley, as though to rest for the night. they heave and roll noiselessly, spreading a white, misty sheet over the withered heathgrass. the mirror-surface of the moorland tarn lies lead-coloured and dull, wrinkled by the night-breeze, and its icy waters trickle in tiny rills over the bare plain and down to the valley. all is the same as it is to this day! only life is wanting, life warm and busy, which in these days is stirring in the villages and homesteads that dot the plain, and that have brought the dead moorland into tilth and fertility. profound silence reigns over the immeasurable level, throughout its length and breadth no living thing stirs; it is as if this were indeed the neutral space between heaven and hell--a vast, eternal void! only the monotonous murmur of the etsch--that cold artery of the desolate heath--and the roar of the winds that sweep at night across the plateau; these are the eerie voices of this realm of death. woe to the lonely pilgrim who is wandering through the night in this boundless desert, in storm and snow, in impenetrable darkness; he is lost in nothingness, owned by neither heaven nor hell, and the earth knows him not! no ear can hear his cry for help, it is lost in vacancy; the raven and the wolf mark him down, but they tell no one of their mute prey. it is true that pitying love has penetrated even to this wilderness and realm of death, and spreads her arms so far as they may reach; but they are but human arms, weak and inadequate for the great divine mind that animates them. every evening, above the howling of the storm and the roaring of the highland lake, as dusk creeps on, the vesper bell rings softly out like the beat of some metallic heart. then a dull-red, flaring blaze is suddenly seen, which parts into wandering storm-blown flakes of flame that disperse themselves about the moor till they vanish in the mist and darkness. the shepherd and lay-brethren it is, who go forth with torches and biers from the hospice of saint valentine in the moor, which pious faith has erected for the lost traveller here in the wilderness. defying the warring elements, they seek in silent and fearless devotion the strayed, the perishing, and the hungry, and bring them in to the warm hearth of humanity. happy is he whom they find, he is rescued--but the moor is wide, and they are but a forlorn little handful of men, not all-knowing nor all-seeing. the sun went down early in angry red; it grows darker and darker. heavy clouds are packed over the evening sky, the last glimmer of starlight is extinguished, all is as dark as though no light survived in heaven or earth; for a moment even the howling, shrieking winds are silent, which nightly carry on their demon-dance round and across the heath; but from the distance looms a nameless, formless something, a thunder roll is heard, soft at first like the sound of slow, heavy wheels, then nearer and nearer--a terror, invisible, intangible but crushing, shakes the earth to its foundation. slowly it surges on, like a deep groan of rage long controlled only to break out all the more fearfully in raving, annihilating fury. the snow-storm, the first of the year, sweeps down from the grossortler over the bare trembling heath--a mighty, moving mass rolls on before it that breaks incessantly into powder, and is incessantly renewed--as if the winds had torn the eternal mantle of snow from the shoulders of the numberless glaciers, and were flinging it down from the heights. a giant wall reaches from earth to sky; snow, snow everywhere. touched by the icy breath, the shapeless mists over lake and river curdle and turn to snow, the light evening-clouds form compact masses of snow--whirling pillars that bury everything in their wild dance; the very air is turned to snow, there is no tiniest space between sky and earth that is not filled with snow. the whole moor is overwhelmed in it, and is one vast, white bed, where the storm and night may work their wild will. but hark! a cry of distress, from a spot between the two lakes and far, far from the sheltering hospice. it is the cry of a human being that shares that fearful bed with the night and the storm--a woman who lies sunk to the knees under the cold, crushing coverlet of snow, and on her breast a newborn baby-boy, closely clasped in her stiffened arms and wrapped in her cloak. the milk which flows from the young mother's bosom to nourish her infant has frozen above her fluttering heart, and the tears on her closed lashes are turned to ice. there she lies. "poor feeble mother, who has thrust thee out in this night of storm and tumult for your child to be born under the open sky?" thus ask the storm and the wild uproar of the elements; and as if even they had pity for the wretched soul, the wind carries the mother's cry of anguish over her starving infant, bears it on its wings to the scattered party of seeking, rescuing monks. "be quick, make haste before it is too late." and they hear it, these bold wrestlers with death, themselves half-buried in the snow, and they set out, wading, digging, shovelling, till the sweat of their brows runs down on their frozen beards, ever listening without a word, without a sound after that tremulous wind-borne cry. and these storm-proof hearts quake with dread and pity for the hapless wretch to whose help they are hastening; they go forward painfully on their deadly and toilsome way, heeding neither danger nor difficulty, with only one purpose and one aim before their eyes--a struggle for life with death. at last--it is close by--at last they hear a faint cry; even the death-stricken woman hears them approaching, she collects her remaining strength and once more opens her eye-lids, on which the restless whirling snow has already dropped a white shroud; a red gleam meets her sight, she hears the scraping of iron shovels, the burden that weighs on her breast and on her feet gets lighter and lighter--here are light and human voices--a shout of deliverance--of joy. round her opened grave stand the snow-whitened storm-beaten group in a flood of red light from the flaring torches, their eyes shining with the divine light of devoted love which has triumphed over danger and death. and they raise her in their rough hands, they lift her out of her cold tomb, they wrap her and the naked child in warm hair-cloth coats and carry her home under the sheltering roof of holy valentine. "salve, frater florentinus! we bring a precious prize," says one of the brethren triumphantly to the silver-bearded old man who opens the heavy creaking door. "a young mother and a new born boy--snatched from death." "deo gratias!" murmurs the old man in a voice husky from age. "the lord will bless your labours. come in quickly, the wind is blowing the snow in." they step in and the door falls to with a groan. the storm outside snorts and rages and hurls against the door, like some wild beast robbed of its prey, but the door is tight and fast, and within all is quiet and warm; a smoking pine torch is burning in an iron bracket fixed to one of the pillars of the entrance hall, and throws wavering shadows and red lights on the grey stone walls and the black wooden crucifix which spreads out its arms to welcome all who enter. "come, hapless suffering mother, here you may find rest," says the old man compassionately, and he opens a low, iron-plated door at the farther end of the hall, through which the procession passes in silence into a room which is at once the guest-chamber, the kitchen, and the refectory of the pious brotherhood, and the only warm room in the little refuge, whose walls are thicker than its rooms are wide. a vast chimney-place like a roof projects into the half-dark hall, its broad shadow cast on the vaulted roof by the crackling fire that burns beneath it. from the ceiling hangs a small iron oil-lamp covered with cobwebs and giving too dismal and dim a light to illuminate the whole room. over the fire hangs a cauldron in which a warm mess is stewing for the brethren and for any one they may bring with them on their return, half-frozen, from the desert outside; the roughly hewn seats stand round an octagon table, which is immoveably fixed in the middle of the room on strong supports. the only decoration in the whole smoke-blackened hall is a picture of st. valentine, who, himself of gigantic proportions, stands preaching the gospel on the open heath to a crowd of very small devotees; the thick clouds of smoke which, all the winter through, are puffed back from the chimney by the stormy gusts, have blackened this picture also; yet it is the most treasured possession of the brotherhood. it was painted by father columbanus of the monastery at marienberg, and father columbanus was an enlightened and inspired man, to whom the saints were wont to appear in nightly visions that he might depict them. this picture of saint valentine was the last vision that he saw and painted, for he died shortly after; so it is of double value! under the picture hangs a holy-water vessel of terra-cotta. on the heavy, rough-hewn table there are wooden platters in which each man receives his share as it is taken out of the cooking pot, and a wooden spoon lies by each. this is all the furniture of the bare room; but such as it is, to the suffering, storm-lashed woman it is full of unspeakable comfort--a city of refuge from the raging wilderness without. she is silent, but her eye rests with an unearthly glitter on the rough, weather-beaten figures, who carry her at once to the chimney and with clumsy hospitality press her to take a little of the warm mess. then, with a quiet bustle, they make her a couch by the glowing fire; a sack of straw, a pillow filled with white moss, and for coverlet a woolly sheep-skin--this is all the house has to offer, but it is a delicious couch after the fearful bed out on the moor--a couch prepared by careful and kindly human hands. with bashful awkwardness they untie the band of her tangled golden hair, take off her wet outside garment and wrap her in a warm, dry monk's frock, then they lay the frail and trembling form carefully on the bed and put the pale, half dead baby on her arm. the frozen fount of the mother's breast thaws under the warm wrapper, the child finds its natural food, and breathes and lives again. the brethren stand aside in silence, and tears run down their lean cheeks. "may the holy mother of god protect thee--poor young mother!" says the grey-haired brother florentinus, laying a little metal image of the virgin on the suffering woman's breast. "we are unlearned men, unskilled in serving sick ladies and ignorant of what may comfort you in your suffering; but this image is of great virtue and famous for many miracles. it will bestow its grace on you too if your past life has not rendered you unworthy to receive it." the young woman looked him calmly and frankly in the face. "holy brother," said she, "i am miserable and poor, and have not where to lay my head, but in that shelter which heaven provides for the wretched under the sacred convent roof. but i was faithful, reverend brother, faithful and obedient at all times!" she pressed the image long and fervently to her lips, and silently told her sorrows to the all-pitying mother. "most times when a young wife's first-born is brought into the world a loving grandmother bends over her bed and takes thought for everything, and a young father rocks his first-born tenderly on his arms. but i, o mother of grace! am cast off and homeless, and have no one but thee." and as the nourishing fount flows freely for her sucking child, the frozen fountain of her soul thaws too, and overflows from her closed eyelids in hot but restful tears. the heavenly mother bends lovingly and soothingly over her; the worn out woman rests her weary head on the unseen but omnipresent and ever-merciful bosom, and overcome by deadly exhaustion she falls asleep. the brethren slip off their wooden shoes, and walk barefoot on the stone flags so as not to disturb the exhausted woman. she looks to them like a martyr as she lies there--so calm, with the baby that has also gone to sleep looking like a glorified angel. the flickering fire throws changing lights and shadows on her crisply curling hair, making it seem like a crown of thorns; the brethren observe the resemblance, and point to it in silence. old florentinus meanwhile does not forget temporal interests for the sake of eternal ones. he busily steals about the room on tip-toe, and carries the stranger's garments to the fire to dry, and for the first time he sees that there is a richly embroidered border at the hem of the dress, which glitters in the fire-light, and that the tattered shoes are embroidered by a skilful hand; he silently shows these ornaments to the brethren, and they shake their heads in astonishment. then he lifts the cauldron from the fire, and dispenses the steaming contents into the platters with a sign to his companions; they obey the signal with but small alacrity, they are in no mood to eat. noiselessly they draw up to the table, offer up a grace, and take the simple meal of barley and water standing. the thoughtful old man puts by a little of it for the sick woman. then they cross themselves before the picture of st. valentine, and withdraw each to his own cell, carefully closing the clumsy doors behind them. the old man only remains to watch the sick woman, and he seats himself in silence on the stone window-seat at the farther end of the room, telling his beads. the storm still roars round the house in long and violent gusts, but it can do it no mischief, for poor and bare as it is, it is built of strong masonry, a fortress against wind and weather, and the narrow air-openings are so deeply imbedded in the thick walls that no draught can pour in through them; only now and then the wind rushes howling down the chimney, and flings the crackling flames and smoke out into the room, so that the sick woman is startled from her painful slumbers; then all is still again. the child sighs softly in its sleep as if dreaming of future sorrow; the mother's breathing goes on in regular rhythm, and even the old watcher leans his weary head in the niche in the wall, and falls asleep. only the gigantic saint on the wall preaches unweariedly on to his dwarfed heathen in the light of the dying lamp, and the little figures seem to move and dance dreamily in the growing darkness. suddenly a cry of pain broke from the lips of the sick woman; the old man rose and went to the bed-side. she lay there quite changed, almost unconscious, her eyes sunken, her lips blue; the hand of death had passed over her face. she was seized with a violent trembling, and the bed quaked under her. "what is the matter?" asked the brother in alarm. "will you have a little food? it is standing here by the fire--or shall i make you a drink of warming herbs?" and he hastily threw some more wood on to the embers. "good brother," she replied, and her white teeth showed below her upper lip like those of a corpse, "neither food nor drink can help me any more. as it must come, let it come--i am dying; and when i tell you that i walked with my unborn child from görz as far as this, and that the boy was born on the heath where i was all alone and helpless, you cannot wonder at it. hear my confession, and grant me extreme unction." the old man's eyes overflowed with tears. "alas, poor flower, who can so pitilessly have plucked you, and flung you away to wither, and fall to pieces in the winter-storm. and we are so unskilled in all medical knowledge, and must see you die so miserably when we would so willingly rescue you!" "do not weep for me, reverend father," she said calmly; "all is well with me, i am going to rest in the lap of our blessed mother. but my poor child--he loses his mother just as i am finding mine. take charge of him, i beseech you, he has no one in the world--he is wholly forlorn!" "it shall be as you wish," said the old man. "you may rely on that in perfect confidence--you may die in peace on that score." "then take my boy without delay to the venerable abbot conrad of amatia at marienberg. tell him that the outcast wife of swyker of reichenberg sends the child to him as her last bequest, that she dedicated him to the church in a sorrowful hour, and the venerable man will help a poor soul to keep her vow." "in the name of all the saints!" cried the monk. "you, the most noble lady of reichenberg? you, the guardian spirit and good angel of all the country round! married only nine months since, if we were rightly informed? how, tell me, how come you here in this wild spot without one of your friends, cast out like the poorest beggar or like some criminal!" "you say rightly, reverend father," she said quietly, and a gleam of the reviving fire fell like a glory on her pale brow, "i was banished like a criminal, and thrust out to be a prey to the fowls of the air, i and the child, the son of a noble house. and yet i am not guilty of that of which i was accused, although god himself was pleased to bear witness against me." a fresh shivering fit came over her, and shook her as the autumn wind shakes the faded leaves from the trees. "my time is short--i will make a short story," she said in a failing voice. "it is nine months to-day since the noble lord of reichenberg, as you know, married me from the house of ramüss, and soon after we went to görz, the gay court of albert, the count of tyrol and görz.--egno of amatia, the companion of my childhood, went with us. oh! would we had never gone there--i have never had an hour of happiness since! the countess of eppan, a beautiful woman of courtly manners and accomplishments, stole my husband's heart and with it his confidence in me; i had to look on while it happened, helpless and with no one to counsel me, a simple woman, having grown up in a quiet town in the lower engadine--ignorant of the world and of its wickedness. and then--how can i say it--she whispered to my husband that i and egno of amatia--! oh! reverend brother, spare me, spare me--if death had not already frozen my blood with his cold breath i should blush purple with shame!" "i understand you, noble lady," said the old man. "my husband believed the falsehood and--oh! that i should have to say it--disowned his child. he challenged egno of amatia to ordeal by combat. reverend father, the ways of the almighty are inscrutable and wise--why he, who proves the heart and reins, abandoned the innocent, i cannot understand; but it was his holy will--and so it fell out. egno fell, slain by my husband's hand. god himself was witness against me--and so my deluded husband cast me out--me and my child. 'go--bring your child into the world to be meat for the birds and wolves, and if tender hands take pity on it, may it be accursed and they who rescue it also. it is the fruit of sinful love and by sinful love may it perish!' so he spoke and put me out of his house, and in order that the curse may not take effect, worthy father, i dedicated the child to the cloister before it saw the light, for where can it be safer than within convent walls. i was trying to reach st. gertrude's, the convent in the münsterthal--a well-beloved home.--there i thought to have given birth to my child. if it were a girl it was to belong to st. gertrude--if a boy, i would take it to marienberg. my brother is there and the abbot is well known to me, and kindly disposed towards me--he is of the house of amatia and will receive the child, who is an outcast for his relation's sake, and will bring it up to a holy life in the lord, so that it can incur no curse and fall into no sinful love. swear to me that you will report all this to him, faithfully--as i tell it to you--!" "i swear it by this picture of the blessed virgin, who henceforth will be a mother to your son, born in sorrow. you have dedicated him to heaven, and heaven will accept him--because the gift is pure. i promise you in the name of the brethren of marienberg that they will keep and cherish your child so that the curse may not be accomplished." and the old man sprinkled the baby with holy water and laid his withered hand in blessing on his head. the mother suddenly stretched herself out with a wonderful smile of peace. her child was safe now, she could die content. "make haste, give me the last sacraments, i am near my end!" the old man went to wake the brethren--startled, they hurried out of their rooms and gathered round the dying woman's bed. she still breathed, but with difficulty, and speech had failed her; but her lips could still receive the sacred viaticum and smile. all was still as death in the room; the brethren prayed softly, the old man concluded the sacred office and made the sign of the cross. yet three more feeble breaths--and all was over. the old man closed the sightless eyes and gently took the sleeping infant from its dead mother's side. "come, poor little one, there is no home on earth for you--you belong to heaven." he wrapped the boy in a warm lamb-skin and lighted a torch at the sooty lamp. "where are you going, brother florentine? are you going out in this stormy night, and with the tender infant?" asked one of the brethren. "shall we not accompany you!" "no! the child's guardian spirit is with me--i need no human aid. you stay here to pray by the corpse." "wait at least till the morning," said even the rough shepherd, the secular superior of the convent. "a vow will not bear any postponement!" said the old man, and with the new-born child in his arms he quitted the room where its mother's body was lying. the baby was torn from its mother's breast, torn from the source of its life; and as if the unconscious child felt the sorrowful parting it struggled and cried and fought against the bony, masculine arm that carried it. the old man stepped out of the convent; once more the heath received the outcast and homeless infant with wild cries from the storm; the snowfall was over and an icy blast had frozen the endless expanse of snow quite hard. the old monk's steps crunched upon it, and the evanescent crystals sparkled with a million rays where the flare of the torch fell, so that he made his onward way through the darkness, in the midst of a glory of light. he felt as if it were christmas evening, and as if the angel who guided the three kings were leading him too on the way, to conduct the child to his holy companion in the manger--to the child above all children and the city of salvation. the star on the angel's brow threw a soft light in his path, he felt the mighty fanning of his wings on his hoary temples, and he sang joyful praise to the lord in his heart while he marched stoutly forward through that stormy, glorious night of wonders. book i. under a curse. chapter i. high up on the rocks above the village of burgeis stands a watch tower of faith, the monastery of marienberg, with heaven-reaching towers and pinnacles, proudly looking far out and down into the night. torn, and as though weary, the clouds hang about the mountain peaks that surround it, and the snow storm beats its exhausted wings against the mighty walls; it has spent its rage over night and its power is broken. now and again between the parting clouds glimmers the pale crescent of the setting moon; below, in the valley, a cock crows betimes to announce the coming morning, but up in the convent as well as down in the village all are sunk in sleep, no ray of light illumines any one of the numberless rows of windows, with their small round panes set in lead; only in the porter's room on the ground floor a feeble light is burning and keeping watch for the sleeping door-keeper. three blows of the huge iron ring on the back door are suddenly heard. the porter starts up, his lamp has burnt low, warning him that it will soon be morning. he goes out with his clattering bunch of keys in his hand; meanwhile the knocking has been hastily and imperatively repeated. "who is out there at this early hour?" he asks cautiously. "the beginning and the end--an infant and an old man," is the answer. "what am i to understand by that?" "open the door and then you will know." "i must first fetch the superior. at such an unwonted hour i cannot open to any one without his sanction." and he goes back into the house and wakes the superior, who glances with alarm at the hour-glass thinking he has overslept himself. it will soon be the hour of matins. "come out quickly," cried the gatekeeper. "a stranger asks to be admitted--i dared not open the gate without your permission." the superior threw on his frock and cowl and stepped out. "an old man and a child--as he says--" continued the porter, as they crossed the courtyard. "open the gate," said the superior, as the wail of an infant apprised him that the stranger outside had spoken the truth. the porter obeyed and at the door, with the infant on one arm and in his other hand the torch, stood the old monk from st. valentine's. "blessed be the lord christ! brother florentinus! how come you here this wild night--and what have we here for a whimpering visitor?" cried the superior, admitting the old man. "aye, you would never have thought that my stiff old arms would be bringing round such a fragile, wriggling thing.--but take me quickly to the reverend abbot that we may take counsel in the matter--for the child is hungry and needs womanly care." "the bell will soon call to matins," said the superior. "wait here in the court-yard till the first stroke, and then you will be sure that no bad spirit crosses the threshold with you. meanwhile i will go and announce you to his reverence, the abbot." "aye, you are right, brother, the child must enter the convent at a lucky hour, for he must stay in for ever." the superior asked no more--the brethren were accustomed to suppress all curiosity and to accept inexplicable occurrences in silence. he went in and the gate-keeper remained outside with the old man. they stood there expectant, till the first stroke should sound that should scare away the hordes of bad night-spirits. florentinus extinguished his torch, for the light from the porter's window lighted up the narrow court-yard. "to-day is a great festival, and the fathers were making preparations far into the night," said the porter. "you did not think of that?" "i do not know what you mean," said the old man. "to-day is no saint's day?" "this day, a hundred years ago, anno domini , the edifice of this godly house was begun by ulrich of trasp, and a great thanksgiving service is to be performed in honour of the noble founder." "to be sure i might have known it. your house is ten years younger than ours and we too, ten years since, had a thanksgiving to our founder, ulrich primele." "but you must not let our reverend brethren hear you say that our foundation is younger than yours, for they may take it ill in you. you know of course that our holy house was built two hundred years ago at schuls, and was only transferred here because at schuls and at st. stephen we were so often visited by fire and avalanches." "i know, i know," nodded the old man. "i did not mean to cast any reflection on the venerable antiquity of your foundation. god grant it may increase and prosper. it is still a sure bulwark against the decay of all conventual discipline in these days--god save us--the rule of st. benedict is often followed in outward semblance only, but your severity is everywhere famous." "now!" said the guardian, opening the door for the old man. solemnly and with silvery clearness, the bell for matins rang out. inside the convent, all was alive at once. one after another, the windows were lighted up but without noise, as in a magic lantern. brother florentinus stepped into the hall. door after door opened, and the dark figures of the monks slipped out in their soft sandals, and glided noiselessly down to the chapel along the long corridor. the deepest "silentium" reigned in the dusky passages and halls--that sacred silence by which the still dormant soul prepares itself to wake up to prayer. but the crying of the hungry baby disturbed the solemn stillness, and the fathers paused in astonishment, and gathered full of wonder and bewilderment round the screaming child. the guardian called the old man to come into the refectory with the infant, and the brethren went in to matins, shaking their heads over this strange visit. the abbot, a reverend man of near seventy years, was standing in the refectory when florentinus entered. "what is this strange story that our brother, the prior, tells me? you, florentinus, bring us a child--a new-born infant. where, in the name of all the saints, did you pick it up, and what have we to do with the helpless baby?" "most reverend abbot, kindly lend me your attentive ear, and then your questions will be answered. but first of all i beseech your grace to allow that a woman may be fetched out of the village to suckle the child, for it has been starving these three hours." "that cannot be, brother florentinus; a woman in the convent! what are you thinking about? you know very well that our order allows no women but princesses to come within our walls." "your reverence, it _must_ be," said florentine fearlessly; "i promised the babe's dying mother in your name that it should be received this day within the sheltering walls of marienberg, and 'he will help a poor soul to keep her vow,' the dying woman said. he is the child of the noble lady of reichenberg." the abbot clasped his hands. "what--where did you see her?" "we found her at night on the heath, where her child had been born out in the snow. she is now lying in our house at st. valentine's--dead." the abbot grasped his forehead with his hand as if he thought he was dreaming. "the lady of reichenberg, the angel of ramüss! what has happened to her?" "she was repudiated by her husband on account of your relative egno of amatia; he fell in trial by combat. but the wife was innocent nevertheless, the child is swyker of reichenberg's child; but he cast it out to the birds of the air, and loaded it with the heaviest curses. in order that the curses might not take effect, she dedicated it to the cloister." the abbot conrad took the child tenderly in his arms. "yes, poor orphan, you shall find a home here; none on earth are motherless to whom the church opens her sheltering bosom." then he went to the door, and called the superior. "hasten without delay down into the village, and find some good woman who will undertake to care for the infant's bodily needs; the convent will reward her richly. she may live in the lady uta's east turret-chamber; there she will be hidden from the eyes of the brethren; and you may also open the lady uta's chest for her use and the baby's. make the room ready so that it may look comfortable and habitable, and that the woman may not feel as if she were a prisoner." the guardian brother hurried away. "the church must give to each severally that which he needs, why should she let the suckling starve that wants a mother's breast--she, the all-bountiful, the mother of all," he went on, giving the child back to the old man. "in such an unprecedented case it is allowable to make an exception to the rule, to save a soul for the church." "you are great and wise, my lord abbot," cried florentinus with grateful joy, and rocking the child on his arm to quiet it. "it is strange how soon one gets used to a little thing like this. i have quite set my old heart on this little brat, it is so helpless and forsaken!" "it is no longer helpless nor forsaken," said the abbot gravely. "when matins are over, and the child has been properly attended to we will baptise it. meanwhile tell me in detail all that has happened, for it must all be recorded in the chronicles of the monastery, as is fitting." he seated himself in the deep arm-chair at the upper end of the table, supporting himself on the monstrous dragon's heads which formed the arms of the seat. brother florentinus conscientiously narrated the melancholy occurrences of the night. "the body must be fetched and interred in the church," said the abbot, "but without any inscription, for if we are to carry out the dead lady's vows we must efface every trace of her. nay, the boy himself must never learn who his parents were, so that none of his family may dispute our right to him." "you are always wise and choose the right, most reverend abbot," florentinus again declared. they heard a sound of hasty steps on the stone floor of the corridor, and the prior knocked at the highly ornamented door. "come in, in the name of the lord," cried the abbot. the door opened, and a handsome young woman entered, whose fine, tall figure was poorly clad in miserable rags. she remained standing timidly at the door. "here is a woman who will be a mother to the child, if your reverence thinks proper." "what is your name?" "berntrudis." "only think, after the pious waiting maid of the lady uta of trasp, our noble foundress." "she was my great-grandmother's sister." "you come of a good stock, so i hope the fruit too is of a good sort," said the abbot kindly. the woman was modestly silent. "i know you already by sight. you are the wife of the fisherman whose business it is to catch fish in the lake for the convent." "yes." "how old is your child?" "two weeks." "is it a girl or a boy?" "a girl." "and you feel that you can nurse another child as well?" "six, if you like," said the woman smiling, and showing two rows of dazzling white teeth. "good, healthy and strong," said the abbot to the superior; "but," he added in latin, casting a thoughtful glance at the blooming figure before him, "the brethren must not come in her way, you must be answerable for no scandal coming of it." then he said to the wet-nurse, "take the child then, in the name of the lord. the prior here knows where your room is, and will see that your own child is brought to you. you may go at your pleasure into the convent-garden so long as the brethren are at vespers or at their meals, but you must never on any account go outside the convent-walls. you are henceforth under the rules of the order, and must submit to live like a nun. will you?" the woman hesitated a little, but then said, "well--yes; it will not last for ever." the old white-bearded men looked at each other and shook their heads, "oh women--women!" "take her away," said the abbot to the superior, laying the child in her arms. "now do your duty, and the convent will give you a handsome reward." the woman pressed the child compassionately to her bosom and was about to kiss him. but the abbot checked her severely. "you are never to kiss the child--do you hear? under the severest penalties; so that the boy may not be accustomed from his cradle to foolish caresses and wanton tenderness, for they are not seemly for a son and future servant of the church. no woman's lips may ever touch him--not even those of his nurse." the woman looked at the abbot half-surprised and half-indignant. "oh! you poor, poor little child!" she murmured in her rhætian dialect. "but--when no one sees us i _will_ kiss you, all the same," she thought, and followed the superior out of the room. the two old men looked at each other and again they shook their heads. "who would have thought of telling us, brother florentinus, that at the end of our days we should be inspecting a wet-nurse?" said the abbot laughing. "so it is, the unclean stream of life penetrates even the strongest convent walls and fouls the very foot of our sacred altars." "it is the duty of the strong to help the weak," said florentinus simply, "and such a humble labour of love disgraces no one, be he ever so high!" the abbot nodded assent. "now come to the chapel, brother florentinus, else we shall miss the mass." with slow steps they passed along the corridor and into the choir of the darkened church, which was lighted only by the scattered wax-lights of the brethren who were deciphering their manuscript breviaries. a grateful fragrance of pine-wood pervaded the consecrated place and, so far as the scattered tapers allowed, a number of festal garlands were visible, made of pine-branches and red-berried holly twisted round the pillars and carvings by the brethren who, during the night, had thus decorated the chapel for the coming anniversary; and with hearts lifted up in praise the two old men knelt down to perform their deferred devotions. meanwhile the superior had conducted the wet nurse through the spacious building to the eastern tower. a shudder came over her as she felt her way up the narrow spiral stairs, while the pine torch held by the prior--who let her pass on in front of him--threw her gigantic shadow on the steep steps before her, and the solid masonry on each side. it was so damp and cold, so uncannily still, so painfully narrow--she felt as if a weight lay on her breast. "where am i going? how high will this take me?" she begins to get giddy. turning after turning--always one turn more--till she turns round with the stairs, and the stairs with her--she feels as if she were spinning round and round on one spot and yet she gets higher and higher, farther and farther from mother earth on which till this day she has always walked, which hitherto she has tilled with her own hands, in poverty and want, but happy in her labour and free! she climbed wearily up with the child, frequently treading on her gown, for she had never before mounted steps in her life; she had lived in a humble hut under a scanty straw-roof, or in the fields and meadows. she had never thought it possible that men should build such tall high dwellings, and she was seized by a secret terror, a real anguish of fear, lest she should never be able to get down again. the superior spoke to her. "only a few steps more, and it will be done; we shall be at the top directly--in a moment." but the steps seemed to grow before her, and her guide's "directly" was half an eternity to the poor frightened soul. at last she almost hit her head against some wooden beams and rafters; she was under the roof, and before her was a small low door covered with curious iron-work; this was the turret-chamber which she was to inhabit. she stood despondingly in front of the door, but her guide opened it, stooped and went in before her--she too had to stoop in order not to hit her head as she entered the room. however, she was used to low doorways, that did not scare her, and inside the room it was not so inhospitable as on the dark, stone, spiral stairs. a first glimmer of day-light shone in through the lens-shaped panes of the turret window; it was only a narrow opening, high up in a deep niche in the wall, but three stone steps led up to it and a stone seat was built at the top of them so that one could look out at the distance or down into the valley according to fancy. a homely bedstead, brown with age, stood by the wall with a heavy wooden sort of roof, like a little house by itself, and curtains of faded byzantine silk. old and clumsy as it was, to the poor woman who was accustomed to sleep on nothing but straw, it appeared strangely magnificent, and she felt as if some one must be hidden in it--some grand personage, before whom she must bow low and speak softly so as not to disturb the sleeper. puffy-cheeked cherubs were carved on the four bed-posts, just like round balls with wings attached to them. the walls were whitewashed and painted with saints; the little ivory crucifix over the embroidered but faded praying-stool seemed to greet her as a friend, and a cheerful fire crackled in the chimney. it was an ancient and venerable little room and it had an oppressive and solemn smell like that of a reliquary--partly of dried rose-leaves and partly of mould. the prior showed her a large worm-eaten chest full of costly linen; as he opened the heavy lid the dust flew off in a cloud and little spiders scampered away. "look here," he said kindly, "you are in the room which was formerly occupied by the lady uta of trasp, the wife of our blessed founder, when she came here on a visit from st. gertrude's. she had this trunk full of linen clothes brought here for her use and desired that whoever might stop here as a guest should have the benefit of it for their use and comfort. so now you may wrap yourself and the baby in it; it will bring you a blessing, for it was spun by the innocent hands of the lady uta and her maids, and many a fervent prayer has been said over it." berntrudis looked thoughtfully down at the linen garments; it touched her to think that her ancestress, the pious berntrudis, should have helped with her hands to spin the web in which she, so long after, might clothe herself. but she would not waste time in unpacking the treasure, she pitied the hungry child. "go now, brother superior," said she, "while i give the child a drink, and when my husband comes with my little girl, send him up at once." but the prior put on a considering face. "what--" he said, "your husband up to you? that is not feasible; you heard--you are now under convent rule!" the woman started up in horror. "what! my husband may not come to see me! i shall never see him again? then take your child back again. i will not stop. i will go away on the spot." "oh! what a wild fury!" exclaimed the horrified prior, "to fly into such a passion at once; think of the sacred place you are in--would you cause a scandal among our chaste brethren by your foolish worldly affections?" "that is all one to me. only i must see my husband once more, else i shall die of heartache--if i had known it i would never have come--never, never." "think of the high wages--you will be made rich by the gratitude of the convent, your house will be raised, your husband freed most likely, absolved from his bondage to the convent--" "that is all one to me," repeated the woman with increased vehemence. "if i can never see my husband i will not stop--do as you will," and she laid the baby on the bed and was hastening past the prior and out of the room, but he held her back. "in the name of all the saints--stay; will you leave the poor child to starve? there is not another woman in the village who can nurse it and take care of it. can you be so cruel?" the woman burst into tears, and turned to the bed again. "no, you shall not starve, poor little orphan--you cannot help it!" and she seated herself on the edge of the bed, took the child pitifully in her arms and unheedful of the monk clasped it to her breast; the child drank eagerly while her tears ran down upon it. the prior turned away and stood puzzled. he remembered how in his childhood he had never dared to vex his mother while she was nursing his little brother for fear the baby should not thrive, if the milk were turned by her anger. what should he do now to soothe the wet-nurse? "listen to me," he said at last, "i know of another way out of the difficulty for you; i will allow you to see your husband again, outside the convent gate, now and then for half an hour; that i will take upon myself. if that will satisfy you, we are all content--the child, ourselves and you." the woman sighed, but she nodded assent in silence. it was better than nothing, and she felt she could not let the child starve, she could never be happy with her husband again, if she had loaded her conscience with such a dreadful sin for his sake. "are you content with that?" asked the prior again, for he had not seen her nod. the child had drunk till it was full and had gone to sleep; she laid it on the bed, she could not speak, but she went up to the prior and kissed his hands in the midst of her tears. "that is all right then," said he, glad of this happy turn, "i will see whether your husband is already waiting with the child and then you can speak with him at the little gate while we baptise this one. you shall be allowed to do so once every week. and i will get our brother, the carpenter, to carve you out a cradle that you may lay the baby in it, and you will see that you will not want for anything." the monk closed the door behind him and the woman went up to the little loop-hole and pressed her hot brow against the small round panes. in the early dawn she could hardly see the roofs of burgeis deep down in the valley and the scattered huts around it on the declivity and on the opposite side on the mountains freshly covered with snow. hers was down there too, she could distinguish it quite plainly, for her sturdy, industrious husband had built it better and bigger than the others, and had loaded the thatch with heavy stones. the crowing of cocks from far and near came up from the depth below--so homelike! and hers among them--she knew his voice! she pressed her hand over her eyes--it was like a dream that she should be mounted up here in the lonely turret-chamber--so lonely; so high, high up, as if she were in prison.--oh! if it were but a dream, if only she could wake up again in her husband's arms, in her own humble hut; never again would she follow any one who might come to tear her away from her husband's fond heart. how could she have done it--how ever could she have done it. chapter ii. mass was over. the whole brotherhood had assembled in the underground founder's hall, to offer up a special thanksgiving before the effigies of the founders. this hall was the most ancient part of the whole building, and in it a hundred years ago the brethren had performed their devotions until the convent-buildings were complete. bishop adelgott of chur had consecrated it, and remained there still in effigy. since then it had been the custom to perform a thanksgiving-service every year on the founder's day, in honour of the venerable bishop and the noble patrons of the house, whose portraits were preserved there for the safe keeping of the subterranean vault. here also the pious feelings of the brethren had expressed themselves in beautifying care, and had clothed the damp walls down in the earth, where only roots can live, with the fresh green of the tree-tops that wave gaily in the upper air; the bright gleam of wax-tapers in two tall seven-branched candlesticks was reflected from the dark walls, as if the sun-shine, under which the busy convent-bees had gathered their store, had laid hidden in the wax itself, only awaiting its release. the natural incense of aromatic pine-wood filled the heavy underground atmosphere; thick translucent tears of resin hung yellow and sparkling from the freshly broken boughs, like drops of limpid topaz. the portraits of ulrich of trasp and his veiled wife uta looked down with a gentle smile from thick wreaths of heath-plants and rue; and the text, "they only live who die to the world," which proceeded from the mouth of the founder on a golden ribband, shone in the light of the tapers like letters of fire. over these the two shields of ulrich of trasp were displayed as precious relics; the shield of faith with a gold cross on a white field, which was presented to him by his companions in the faith in the holy land, and the shield of his house bearing a rainbow. the thanksgiving was ended; but the abbot detained the brethren for a hasty consultation. the fathers sat silent in a circle, and listened attentively to the abbot's story of the fate of the hapless lady of reichenberg. they are a circle of proud faces that look thoughtfully before them; proud of superhuman victories, proud of the consciousness of belonging to a band of men who by their iron strength of will have upheld the dignity of humanity, and have preserved the thoughts which can govern the world from the ruins of the decayed roman empire, from the horrible subversion of all social order; through the migrations of peoples, and the irruptions of barbarians; have saved them, and given them a sanctuary for the benefit of later and riper generations. only one face accords ill with the quiet scene and its solemn setting; a good-humoured, crafty, smiling, epicurean countenance with fat cheeks and piercing, sharp, glittering eyes under grey, bushy brows. it is brother wyso, the registrar and historian of the monastery; the laughing philosopher who knows everything, and lets everything go its own gait. the world lies below him in a bird's-eye-view--so small, so insignificant--all humanity is to him like an ant-hill, and altogether amusing and comical; how they build, how they fight, how they marry, and at last are buried! he looks on at it all complacently, without love and without aversion, as at a colony of ants or a hive of bees. he never troubles himself with any enquiry as to how it began, and how it will end; he satisfies himself with the knowledge that it is. they dislike him in the cloister for this lukewarmness; then too he is "foul of mouth," and now and then gives utterance to loose speech that scandalises the brethren; for the rule of st. benedict prohibits useless and gay discourse, unless it be to cheer the sick or the sorry; but they cannot accuse him of anything, for his conduct is irreproachable in all important matters, and much may be excused in a man of his learning. he needs must read of many unclean things and evil deeds of men, which are hidden from the other monks. brother wyso is a man of between fifty and sixty years, stout and somewhat short of breath; for although saint benedict forbids the use of meat there are many other excellent gifts of god, and brother wyso is very ready to give his attention to all permitted delicacies. on this occasion he makes a by no means cheerful face, for the abbot has assembled them with fasting stomachs, and has not allowed them their morning-meal after the cold early mass. he pushes his short fat hands with a rueful shiver under the sleeves of his hood, and slaps the back of his left hand with the fingers of his right, casting a side-long glance meanwhile at his neighbour, brother correntian, with a sort of mischievous curiosity as to whether any trace of the weakness of the flesh could be detected on his stony countenance; but he seems not even to perceive this, and his passive face is turned to the abbot with unmoved attention. this brother is the strongest contrast to the smug little monk by whom he is sitting. a noble countenance is his, but furrowed by many a moral struggle, and set to stoniness by an assumed calm; a tall, lean form mortified by hair-cloth, scourging and chastisement; deep-set, dark, reproachful eyes--reproachful of the patience of heaven that never falls on the sinner to smite him; of the light that shines alike on the evil and the good; of rosy cheeks and white arms, such as are often to be met in the village; in short of all that they gaze on, of all that thrives and rejoices or that is cherished or enjoyed. it seems as though it were darker just round him, as though he cast a deeper shadow than the others; and there is a wider space between his seat and those of his neighbours than between any of the rest. on his left hand sits conrad of ramüss, the brother of the deceased lady of reichenberg, a handsome man of about twenty. he has only lately come into the monastery, for he was a secular priest, and an eloquent speaker to the glory of the lord. but his handsome person and the sweetness of his voice served the arch-enemy as weapons to turn against his pious efforts, and to turn all good into evil. there were too many foolish women who sinfully fell in love with him, and thought more of the sweet lips whence flowed the sacred lore than of the teaching itself; more of the servant than of his lord. such scandals vexed conrad's honest zeal. it had too often occurred that ladies in the confessional had made him the confidant of their affection for himself, and had made the chaste blood mount to his cheeks for shame. so he fled from the world, laid these attractive gifts of nature in all humility on the altar of the lord, and hid himself in cloistered solitude. now for a year he has been a monk, and has never quitted his cell but for the services of the church and general refreshment with the brethren. now all is peace in his soul, and though he knows that he is still very far from perfection, he strives towards it cheerfully and hopefully--his duties are his highest happiness, and what are all the joys of earth to him compared with this consciousness? while the grey haired abbot is speaking, his eyes linger with peculiar satisfaction on the high pure brow clustered round with fair curls, which rests thoughtfully on the slender white hand; and old florentinus, standing behind the abbot's throne, is involuntarily reminded of the still, peaceful corpse lying up there at st. valentine's. even in death the likeness is striking, and the tears which spring from the monk's eyes as he hears of his sister's hapless fate, confirm the relationship. but many another grave and noble face is visible among the sombre circle in the light of the low-burning tapers, and with them many dry, hard and angular ones--as the same soil may bear very different fruits. there sits bero, the oldest of the brethren, a modest and enlightened man, but of the severest principles; he has already been privately chosen to be the successor of abbot conrad i. when the old man should be gathered to the holy fathers of the church. there is conrad, surnamed stiero or the bull, to distinguish him from conrad the abbot and conrad of ramüss; a man worthy of his surname,--a bull with a thick neck, and a broad, angular forehead moulded much as the heathen figured that jupiter ammon whom the church overthrew after such a severe and bloody struggle. he is a man of no subtlety, but a strong bulwark of the faith and of the convent. so long as conrad the bull is there, no enemy will venture near, for his fist and his wrathful temper are everywhere known and none would brave them without good cause. there is brother engelbert, the painter, who writes the exquisite illuminated manuscripts, candidus the precentor, porphyrius the sculptor, who chisels out the crosses and tombstones of the deceased brethren, cyriacus, the latin--and many more; josephus, too, the lean brother-carpenter, sits modestly in the background little dreaming that his next task will be to make--an infant's cradle. the abbot finished his melancholy tale and ended with the words, "you see, my brethren, the surges of the wicked world, rolling blindly on, have cast a young life on our sheltering shore. yet, let us not say blindly--no, it is doubtless through some high purpose that this child has been brought to our house on the very anniversary of our founder's day. i have called you all together to take counsel with you as to whether we shall take him in or cast him out on the wild ocean of life?" "take him in! take him in!" the majority of the brethren hastily exclaimed; but the sinister correntian said, "stay." the brethren looked at him in surprise. "if our venerable father, the abbot, wishes to hear our opinion he may perhaps listen to my warning; reverend father, do not do it--my brethren, do not receive this child within your walls." the brethren muttered indignantly to each other, but he went on undisturbed. "it is accursed--it will bring the curse under our roof." "a poor, innocent child!" murmured the circle of monks. "innocent or no it must expiate the sins of its parents, for even the mother is not free from guilt. she revelled in the dazzling levity of worldly joys, she consented so long to the courting attentions of the playmate of her youth that she excited her husband's jealousy, and who knows--if things had gone so far--how much farther--" "be silent!" thundered out a clear full voice. "do not dare to calumniate the dead; her brother still lives to avenge her." conrad of ramüss stood before him with his fist raised and his lips pale and trembling. "i knew that chaste and lofty spirit as well as i know my own--she is dead--she died like a saint, and no stain shall come near her so long as my eyes are open and have tears to weep for her." the scowling monk looked at him with a calm, cold, piercing gaze. "what is this woman to you?" "you have heard--my sister." correntian turned to the abbot with an indescribable gesture of his head. "i ask our venerable father--i ask all the brethren here in conclave--has a benedictine a sister?" "no!" was the slow and soft reply--as if reluctantly spoken--from every man. conrad of ramüss struck himself on the brow, and a bitter, burning tear forced its way from under his drooping lids. one minute of deep agonised silence, one brief struggle, and then the proud young head bowed humbly before the abbot--"punish me, my father--i had indeed forgotten myself." "ask your brother's forgiveness on your knees," said the abbot sadly, "and for not having yet quite torn your heart free from all the earthly ties that hang about it, so that the evil demon of wrath could stir you up against your spiritual brother for the sake of an earthly sister--this you must expiate by a fortnight's nightly penance." the young man kissed the abbot's hand. "i thank you, father, for so mild a punishment." then he knelt down before the offended monk and pressed the hem of his robe to his lips, "forgive me, brother." the inflexible man raised him with the usual formula, "may god forgive you even as i do." the brethren stood round in silence; not a face betrayed what one of them thought, but the culprit sank back on his seat as if exhausted, and cold sweat stood in drops on his forehead. correntian went on, as if nothing had happened. "and so i say the child must expiate the folly of a mother who thought more of her amusements than of god and her solemn and happy position, else would the lord never have visited her with such a judgment. this child was dedicated to the evil one ere yet it was born--it is his prey--we cannot snatch it from him, we shall only incite him to strive with us for its possession." then rose conrad stiero, the broad-browed: "shame upon you, brother correntian! how long have we marienbergers been afraid of the devil? in truth such cowardly counsel ill becomes you who boast of such a stony heart. have we come to such a pass that we shall shut ourselves up in convent walls to pray and stuff in idle piety? do you call that fighting for god when, so soon as we have to rescue a poor soul from the fires of hell, we put our fingers to the tips of our ears like burnt children and cry out, 'oh!--it is hot--we will not touch it!' give me the boy and i will go out with him into the wilderness, if you are afraid to keep him here--and wrestle for him with all hell let loose!" "you use too rough and uncouth a tongue, brother stiero," said the abbot. "but it shall be forgiven you for the sake of your good motive. yes--brother correntian, it seems to me that he is right and that it would be the first time if we now were to shrink like cowards when we have to snatch a soul from hell. how would god's kingdom prosper--of which we are the guardians--if it were not stronger than hell." "aye, it is stronger," replied correntian with eyes raised to heaven, "and it will and must one day triumph; the light must conquer the darkness; but as often as on earth the night swallows up the day, so often will the kingdom of darkness triumph over the kingdom of light till the day of redemption is come--the day when god's patience has an end and he destroys this earth." "and shall we therefore withdraw from the fight like cowards?" asked the abbot again. "nay, never could i think of saying such a thing," said correntian. "but i ask you, what is the price of the struggle? is this wretched child of sin and misfortune, whom the devil already has in his power--is this i say a trophy worth struggling for with those evil spirits that every one would fain keep at a distance from his threshold? besides a single handful may succumb, even if it belong to the victorious side; and so while the church triumphs, churches and cloisters may fall; nay, even this our own convent, for they too are accursed who succour the child! if the blessing of the father can establish the childrens' houses and the curse of the mother overthrow them, will a father's curse be impotent think you? and how can you believe in the efficacy of a blessing, if you do not believe in the power of a curse?" "god is righteous and does not punish the innocent," bero was now heard to say. "and why have we been awakened from the darkness of heathenism to the bright light of the holy spirit, if like the ancients we persist in believing in a blind fate, conjured up by a curse?" "the devil--the devil is the fate of the ancients, and is at all times the same!" cried correntian. "a parent's curse tears a rent in the divine order and in human nature, in which the seed of hell at once strikes root and, like a poisonous fungus, feeds its growth on all around it." "well--" said bero with a bright look. "may be you speak the truth, brother correntian, but if we were not fully capable of extirpating the brood of hell by the power of the holy ghost and pure resolve there would be no such thing as guilt! we should be the helpless sport of satan without any guilt or responsibility, and at the last judgment the lord could not ask us, 'why did ye this or that?'" the abbot and the brethren murmured assent; only wyso and correntian were silent. "i ask you," bero went on, "since god gives us the power to choose our own course of life and whether we will follow the path of virtue or of sin, can we prove incapable of guiding this boy into the way of righteousness if we all gather round him to watch every thought of his brain, every impulse of his heart, every glance, every breath." "and yet it must come." a voice like the breathing of a spirit spoke in the farthest corner of the hall; every eye turned towards the spot. a very small monk was leaning in the deepest shadow against a projecting pillar; his little grey figure was as inconspicuous as that of some little gnome, but his eyes were keen and bright, as if they could pierce the depths with their gaze, and their genial glance shone through the gloomy hall. "what, is it you, brother eusebius?" said the abbot. "it is an event indeed when you quit your turret-cell to assist at the council of the brethren, and the occasion must have seemed to you a serious one for you to open your lips. speak on--what do you mean? who or what must come?" the old man looked at him with a smile. "do you not understand me?" said he, and his eye rested thoughtfully on the excited circle. "there are only two sorts of just rights--the rights of heaven and the rights of man. man's rights are his share of the joys of creation. if he casts them away of his own free impulse for the sake of the rights of heaven he makes the highest effort of which man is capable, and the angels sing hosannas over him. but never ought you to steal them from him--as in the case of this infant--for they are bestowed on him by his maker, and it is him whom you aggrieve. bring the child up, but bring him up free; and leave him to choose, when he is ripe to make the choice. if he is called he will remain faithful, but let it be without compulsion. for if he is not called, better let him withdraw than that he should remain among you against his will, with a divided heart, half attached to the world and half to the church--a tool with a flaw in it that shivers in the hand, and recoils on him who would use it. for the hour will come upon him which none can escape. do you what you will--it must come upon him as it has come upon each of us. you know it well--only those that are called can triumph, and the weak fall in the conflict between pleasure and duty. _divisum est cor eorum, nunc interibunt_--their heart is divided and they perish. and to you it can bring neither glory nor reward; for it depends upon the spirit and not on the number of the servants of our church, and never can an unwilling sacrifice be dear in the sight of the lord." then conrad stiero struck his fist a mighty blow on the arm of his chair. "what spirit, what human right?--'called' or 'not called!' we need strong arms to protect our venerable house, for we have fallen on evil times, and the nobles covet our goods and our authority. it is time to protect them as best we may. shut him in and keep him close, then he will be ours and no one's else." "i know of only one really sure way," said correntian quietly, "and that is to blind the boy." a cry of horror broke from every one. "shame on you, brother correntian! are you a man?" cried bero in wrath. "you see how you start at an empty word! ye feeble ones! do you call the physician cruel who by one swift cut obviates future--nay eternal suffering? if any one had released me from the torment of sight and its myriad temptations while i was still slumbering in the cradle, i would have thanked him as my lifelong benefactor. however, fear nothing; i know well that no shedding of blood beseems us, and it was only an idea, suggested by the truest pity." "you are a great man, correntian, but fearful in your strength," said the abbot, and the brethren agreed with a shudder. but the little gnome leans unmoved and silent against his pillar; he feels no astonishment, no horror--he knows that there are many different growths in the lord's garden; deadly poisonous plants by the side of wholesome and nutritious ones, and that each has its use and purpose. this brother eusebius knows right well, for the hidden properties and relations of things are clear to his penetrating eye. he is the herbalist, the astronomer and the physician of the convent. he watches the still growth of roots and germs in the bosom of the earth as well as the course of the blood in the human body, and that of the stars in the immeasurable firmament, and in all he sees the same ordering, the same great inexorable law against which the creature for ever rebels, and which ever works out its own vengeance. but he says no more at present, for he sees that it would be in vain. but conrad stiero would have no mistake as to his meaning, "i say walls--they are the best security! let heaven and hell fight for him, our walls are thick, and we will not let him go outside them." the little man by the pillar folded his hands. "oh! human wit and human wisdom!" thought he. "allow me to say a few words," said wyso, addressing the whole conclave, "and do not take what i say amiss. you are all dreamers, thrashing empty straw. the small thread of one's patience is easily broken when one has to listen to such idle talk on an empty stomach. what have we to do here with the almighty and the devil? or which of them we may least offend? this is above all things a matter for the law, a trifle which it seems to me that you have all forgotten. if you have a mind to receive the child as a guest, and make a nursery of the old house, well and good, no one can prevent you; it is not forbidden either by canon law or by the rule of st. benedict to give shelter to the homeless so long as they need it. but if you think of receiving the boy into the order--and your solemn talk seems to imply it--one of these days we shall find ourselves laid under ban and interdict, so that not even a thief on the gallows will ask absolution at our hands." an uneasy movement ran through the conclave. "aha! now there is a stir in the ant-hill. but is it not so? do you not remember that in the tenth canon of the council of trent under pope clement iii. the order was forbidden to receive as members children under years of discretion without the express consent of their parents? what? have you any fancy to defy pope and bishop, church-law and interdict for the sake of this infant? i fancy that would be somewhat worse than a compact with the devil." "guard your lips, brother wyso! remember duramnus of predan, who, as a punishment for his scandalous talk, was burdened for ever with a hideous, foul snout," threatened the abbot. "you can never keep yourself from abuse and scoffing; what you say is good, but the way you say it is bad. brother wyso speaks the truth, my brethren," he continued, turning to the monks, who were ashamed of their own ignorance. "it appears that our senses are still clouded by sleep, or we should have thought of the new law. we cling too naturally to old usages, and it is difficult to accustom ourselves to such newfangled ways. however we must submit to them if we would not bring evil consequences on ourselves. it is true that the mother has given the child over into our keeping, but the father's consent is wanting, and so we cannot receive him. i say it with pain, for i would fain have held the vow of a dead woman as sacred. and i am grieved to thrust the child out among the wild waves of life. still, so it must be, and we can but resign him to the mercy of him who clothes the lilies of the field." at this point conrad of ramüss rose modestly. "pardon me, father, if i, though in disgrace, once more take part in your discussion." "speak, my son, only in a more becoming manner," answered the abbot. then the young monk went on, "it is indeed true that we may receive no child without its father's will. but this child has no father. he who is called its father has cast it out and denied it; it is an orphan. who--by the laws of the world--who takes its father's place, brother wyso?" "its next blood-relation on the father's or the mother's side," replied wyso. "well then," continued ramüss, "i myself am its nearest relation, the boy's uncle, his mother's brother; i now am his father, and i dedicate him to the cloister." a shout of joy from the brethren answered him. "amen, my son," said the abbot. "i receive him at your hands, and i hope that we have acted rightly." he turned to the pictures of the tarasps. "give him your blessing, noble and glorified masters, whose memory we this day keep holy." the conclave was over, they all crossed themselves before the pictures, and then went up into the light of day. they hastened to the sacristy to baptise the child, for the solemn tolling of the big bell was already calling the inhabitants of the valley to high-mass. the morning-sun shot its bright beams through the tall arched windows, and scattered the mists and shadows that correntian, the sinister friar, had conjured up. "the light must be victorious!" this was the happy promise with which it filled all hearts. the folding doors sprang open; the prior entered with the child. it was prettily wrapped in the lady uta's white linen, and lay there flooded in a ray of morning sun-shine as if transfigured. and drawn by a strange and tender human emotion the younger monks gathered round the tiny brother that heaven had sent them, and pressed a kiss of welcome on his sweet and innocent lips. and the celestial mother of sorrows smiled down on them from the wall as if she were indeed the mother of them all, and rejoiced to see her elder sons welcoming the new-born child as a brother. no--this is no gift of hell--this heart-winning, sun-lighted child that rouses so pure and harmless a joy in every breast; and the abbot lifts his hands in blessing, and says, "donatus we will call him, my brethren, for he is given to us, and his name shall mean a gift." "yes, yes--he shall be called donatus," cried the monks in delight. "and now swear to me," continued the abbot, "before we proceed to the sacred ceremony--swear to me on the innocent head of this infant--that you will help to preserve him for heaven; that you will watch over the boy at every hour, and protect him from every temptation that may alienate him from us--and above all from that which is the devil's most dangerous weapon, to which many a youth has fallen a victim--from earthly love." the brethren raised their hands in solemn asseveration and, like a pillar of sacred sacrificial incense, the steamy cloud from thirty throats rose to heaven in one united breath, "we swear it!" the brethren gathered round the child like a wall--stronger than those walls of stone of which brother stiero had spoken, and brother correntian towered above the rest like an invincible bulwark. but brother eusebius silently shook his head and said to himself, "and yet it must come." chapter iii. there is an old story of a king of the dwarfs whose wife died in giving birth to the heir to the throne. this king chose a poor woman from the human race to be his son's wet-nurse, and as the woman would not come of her own free will the little dwarf-folk fetched her one night and brought her by force into the underground kingdom of the gnomes. the woman was not to be allowed to return till she had fulfilled her office of nurse to the little dwarf prince, and she lived a year in exile far from her people under the spell of the strange uncanny folks in their realm of ore and earth. she had to surrender all of her human nature, that gave joy to her heart in the fountain of life, by which the child was nourished--mother's milk and mother's love--but otherwise she might never be in any way human and her reward was barren gold. but she persevered, not for the sake of the gold only, but because motherly-love is so good a thing, a thing that grows with rapid increase, throwing out aerial roots that cling blindly to any support that is offered them. as the hen loves her changeling duckling, so the human foster-mother clung to her dwarf foster-child, and so the cloistered wet-nurse loved the child of the church that had been forced upon her although she also felt that she was in a strange realm; in a realm between the grave and heaven, quite other indeed and higher than the kingdom of the dwarfs, but inhabited too by uncanny beings outside and beyond all natural relationships, and having nothing in common with flesh and blood; and that the child to whom she was as a mother belonged to the same strange race. and the more deeply she felt this, the more painfully did her heart cling to the child to whom she had no right; that might never be truly human and that yet was nourished by the milk of a human mother. she knew not what her feeling was--it was a strange pity for the boy, so that she loved him almost better than her own child. her own child had its natural belongings--a mother and a father--but this poor child had no one in the world. the cold and strong church-walls were its home and no human lip might ever touch it, nor its head ever rest on a soft warm human breast. and as if to compensate to it for all future privations she loved and kissed it with double fervour, and cradled it with double tenderness in her bosom. almost seven months had passed since the child was received into the monastery; a long time for the young and ardent wife who, as if it were a sin, could only slip away from time to time and by stealth to meet her husband behind the door where for months together the bitter wind blew the kisses away from their lips. the cloistered nurse was sitting with her nursling at the dim little window in the east turret-room. it was a mild spring evening and death-like stillness reigned all round. deep shadows fell on the bed of lady uta; one star threw its pale rays into the lonely room and they fell and were lost on the silk hangings, which lord ulrich had brought from the gorgeous east on his return from a pilgrimage. high up by the window something whisked by; it was a swallow flying home to the nest she had built at a giddy height on the ridge of the roof. the swallow was no better off indeed up there than berntrudis herself--but she was free. so berntrudis thought, and a deep sigh broke from her breast on which the children lay slumbering. in the corner, in lady uta's chest, she could hear the soft and regular sound of the death-tick, and the white linen hanging in the room--the linen woven by the chaste hands of the penitent berntrudis of old--was stirred by the draught through the room to a ghostly flutter. but the warm living soul that sat by the window, looking longingly out to the distance--where human hearts might beat and not count it a sin--she was thinking neither of death nor of penance, but her pulses throbbed while she wondered how late it was and whether her husband would tap for her to-night at the convent gate? she closed her eyes and threw back her head while her full lips breathed a kiss upon the air--a message of love sent out to meet her looked-for husband. but he came seldom, he had quite run wild during this long separation; he was wandering about unsettled and discontented, she knew it well; and bitter anxiety gnawed at her heart. thus she waits evening after evening till her head-aches, and she throws herself wearily into bed. then the soul of the heart-sick woman is nailed as with iron clamps to two opposite points--the present and the expected moment, and the farther these two points recede from each other the more the poor heart is torn--an invisible rack of which the tension almost cracks her heart-strings. out on the other side in the western wing brother correntian was leaning his hot brow against his window panes and gazing out on the falling night. he had closed the window, for the evening breath of spring wafted up the sweet perfume of half-opened flowers, which soothed his senses--so he flung the window to. he who cannot resist the temptations of satan in small things will never conquer him in great ones! so there he stood in the soft spring evening shut in by walls damp with the chills of winter, and he cast a reproving glance across to the eastern tower where the wet-nurse was housed. he hated this woman, he himself knew not why, but he hated her with a deadly hatred; as often as he met her--when occasionally she went down into the court-yard to fetch water or walked in the little garden with the child--he turned his eyes earthwards with horror and aversion, as if in the poor, sweet, blooming woman he beheld the snake that destroyed paradise. he would have poisoned her with a glance, have torn her up like a root of sin if he could; he had to endure her presence, that he understood; but he could not leave her in peace in his thoughts, his hatred must needs pursue her even into her quiet turret-chamber--it dragged him nightly from his bed and forced him to go to his window, and watch and spy the strong walls that sheltered her, as the foe spies out in his antagonist's harness the joints through which he hopes to give him his death-blow. and he could see through those walls as though the stones were glass--he could always see her and loathe himself for doing so; see her wake in the morning and hold the children to her young and innocent breast--comb her long and waving hair--all--everything--he saw it all, whether he would or not. at this very moment he could see her, as she flung herself on her bed--and the kiss that her unguarded lips breathed into space. but stay! what was that? was it a trick of his senses--the very spirit of his hatred that had taken bodily form and glided across the star-lighted court-yard to the eastern tower? he held his breath--he checked the beating of his heart. a second figure stole along by its side and cautiously knocked at the little turret-door. the first, a sturdy, manly figure in a short tunic such as was worn by serfs, disappeared into the tower; the other--quite unmistakably the gatekeeper--glided back again and returned to the gate-house. it is the fisherman--the nurse's husband. he has bribed the gatekeeper and has stolen in to see his wife. now--now he is up stairs, they are clasped in each other's arms.--oh! shame and disgrace--that this should happen within the sacred precincts of the convent! the monk was shivering as in an ague fit, all the suppressed fire in his blood broke out. loathing, aversion--he knew not what--all the furies of hell were lashing him. he rushed raving down the rows of sleeping brethren. "up--get up--the cloister is defiled, do not suffer such disgrace. up! holy abbot--the nurse up there is receiving stolen visits by night from her husband. is this house to be the abode of love making and shameful doings?" the brethren flung on their cowls in hot haste; the abbot came out in high wrath. "she promised me that she would obey the convent-rules and she is doubly guilty, if she has let in her husband and broken in on the peace of the cloister." "we will soon have him out!" snorted conrad stiero, delighted that for once he should have a chance of fighting again. "are you possessed by the evil one that you come screaming us out of our sleep like this?" said brother wyso, bustling breathlessly up and treading on his untied shoe-strings as he went. "shame on you, brother correntian," whispered he in his ear, "to spoil the poor woman's sport so--that is envy." correntian started as if stabbed by a dagger--he threw a glance of flaming rage at wyso and raised his hand threateningly. but he as quickly let it fall again, his face turned as pale as death, and his old stony calm suddenly overspread his wildly agitated features. "that," said he, "is so base as to be unworthy of reply." "a hypocrite even to yourself!" muttered wyso between his teeth while the abbot signed to the brethren to follow him. then conrad of ramüss came modestly forward. "most reverend abbot, permit that we--i and the younger brethren--remain behind. it seems to me that it is no scene for our eyes." "true, you are right, brother conrad," said the abbot. "accompany me alone, you elder brethren! but come softly, that we may not warn the evil-doers before we visit them with the penalty of sin." so the stern judges went noiselessly across to the eastern tower with a lantern. up in the turret-room, there is whispering, soft laughter and crying, and silent happiness; the wife, taken quite by surprise, is folded in the arms of her husband intoxicated with delight. he has not told her why or how he has come, but the storm of joy in the poor soul that has thirsted so for love is so wild that she can only caress him and kiss him and will neither hear nor know anything, but that he is there--a lovely fulfilment of a spring night's dream. but--voices on the stairs! coming up! a beam of light falls with fearful brightness through the crack of the door. husband and wife start from their blissful dream; there is a loud and threatening knock, "open the door to his reverence the abbot," cried conrad stiero. there could be no delay. "be easy," said the man to his trembling wife, "am i not your plighted husband? what have you to fear?" and he went forward with a determined manner and let in the brethren. "god and the saints preserve us," said the abbot as he went in. "berntrudis--unworthy daughter of your pious ancestress, how dare you carry on such unseemly doings?" "and what is the harm, reverend father," said the fisherman boldly. "if a wife makes love to her husband? i never heard any one call such doings unseemly!" correntian, who was carrying the lamp, lifted it up and let its full light fall on the undaunted speaker's face. it was a handsome, bold, manly countenance, not free from the traces of a wild life. the deep lines on the forehead showed that it was long since a woman's loving hand had smoothed it, his neglected doublet of frieze plainly told of wild wanderings in wind and weather. correntian took it all in at a glance, he understood in that instant as if by inspiration all that the man had suffered, and, instead of pitying him, he longed to thrust a dagger into that broad breast where just now the woman had lain--the eager, loving woman that he scorned and hated. and as if some suspicion, some comprehension of this hostile glance had dawned upon the man's mind he answered with a wrathful flash from his large eyes, and for all at once the humble serf was turned into a raging fiend checked by no sense of bashfulness. "ay, you may look at me, monk," he exclaimed threateningly in his broad rhætian accent, "i am what you have made me. am i not smooth and fine enough for you great lords? you take away the dearest thing a man has--take it away as you did from me, so that he wanders alone about the fields and woods, and then do you think he will care to smarten himself up and streak himself down?" "woe upon you! what are you saying!" cried the abbot. "you break in like a thief on the peace of the convent, you bribe the gatekeeper, you are guilty of such dreadful sin, and then you dare to speak like that?" "i speak like one whose measure is full, and overfull. i have nothing but this woman and you take her away from me--take away a man's married wife and his heart out of his body, to suckle a strange child. what is the child to me that i am to sacrifice all that is dearest to me to him? seven months have i borne it patiently and that is enough. the brat there can do without a wet-nurse now. my own child has shared its food with him long enough--look here what a stunted plant it has grown, while the strange brat has thriven and got strong; my heart ached in my body when i saw the poor little thing again!--i tell you plainly, for i am not clever at lying, i came to steal my wife away, my sacred property. but now i ask you--as you have found me out--give me back my wife and my child. i desire neither reward nor thanks, but i will have back what is my own." "spare your words, we have shown you too much favour in listening to you so long. what if we did take an impure and sinful woman within our sacred cloister walls against all law and usage, do you think we did so without any necessity and simply for our pleasure? the sacred vow of a dead woman which we were bound to honour was the solemn duty which compelled us to such an abominable proceeding. and when we received your wife we hoped that the sanctity of the place and the sacredness of her office would purify her vain heart so that she would not succumb to the temptations of sensual pleasures and base impulses and would cause no scandal to our chaste brethren. this indeed she solemnly vowed, and oh! berntrudis, how badly you have kept your word! alas! that the pure child of the church should be compelled to drink from so impure a vessel. willingly would i spare him this, of that you may both be very sure. still, so it must be, we cannot yet dispense with your services, and if you had remained true to your duty, at the end of your probation we would have rewarded you and raised you up in the sight of god and man. as it is we must force you to do that which you do not do willingly. and you," he continued to the husband, "you who have broken into our house like a weasel into a dove-cot, in contempt of our prohibition under the severest penalties--you may thank us for the mild punishment we impose--you are under a ban not to come within a mile round the convent so long as we need the offices of your wife. you must go up to the moorland lake and catch fish for us there till the winter-storms next sweep down on the heath." a cry of horror from the husband and wife answered this frightful sentence, the gentle abbot had no conception of its cruelty. what could he know--a calm old man whose blood ran so sluggishly in his veins--of the passion and longing and torment of two hearts that have grown into one, when they are torn asunder? only one there present understood it; he who stood silent, his nails dug into his crossed arms--and yet of pity he knew nothing, that unsparing zealot who had no mercy on others because he knew of no mercy on himself. "i am suffering--you may suffer too" was the frightful thought by which, in his self-torment, he released himself from the duty of loving his neighbour. there he stood, the stony man, with an unmoved stare--the chaste and stern correntian. but wyso shook his head and said to the abbot in latin, "go no farther." berntrudis had fallen crying into her husband's arms and hid her face on his broad and labouring breast; but correntian stepped forward with a hasty gesture, "stand apart!" he said with pale lips. "do not offend our eyes by such a sight." the man lifted his sturdy head and the words he had kept between his teeth with so much difficulty broke out, "this is too much! who is to forbid me kissing my wife--who can force me to believe that it is a sin when husband and wife make love to each other? you--you make a sin of it by forbidding it. by what right do you forbid a man and his wife to see each other--by what right do you put asunder those whom god and the church have joined together?" "the church can bind and it can loose," said the abbot wrathfully. "do not call us to account." "why waste so many words?" muttered correntian between his teeth. "he is the convent's bondsman--he and his wife; you can do what you like with him." "you--with your gloomy corpse-face--" cried the infuriated man. "you are my enemy--even if you said nothing i could see it in your face. what have i done to you that you pour gall into the poor serf's little drop of happiness?" "now--come away, we are tired. do you think we are going to spend the whole night arguing with you as to whether or no you will do the abbot's bidding?" conrad stiero now threw in. the veins in the fisherman's forehead were swollen with rage and he raised his fist threateningly. "i am going," he said, "but not without my wife and child," and he put his arm round berntrudis. "let me pass or mischief will come of it!" the abbot drew back terrified, even brother wyso started back, only correntian remained immoveable. stiero set his broad back against the door, but with a heavy lurch of his shoulder the fisherman pushed him almost off his balance, as if lifting a door off its posts. "oho! is that what you mean?" cried the monk, eager to fight, "then you do not know conrad stiero!" and with a mighty blow of his fist on his opponent's forehead he sent the strong man staggering back with a heavy fall on to the floor. "i will teach you to behave yourself, you clown!" said stiero, kneeling on the vanquished man, and he bound his hands with the cord which he took from round his own waist. the woman had sunk on the ground by the side of her husband, and correntian made a movement--only one--as though he would raise and support her; but he started back in horror of himself and left her lying there. stiero desired the man to rise. "you have found out now that we are no women under our cowls, to be frightened by violence. now kneel down, poor wretch, and crave for mercy, for your life is no safer than that of a mad dog." the man, with his hands tied across each other, stood silent in a stupor of despair; he knelt down as stiero bid him, but he did not utter a word, he fixed his sullen gaze on no one, he knew his fate and had lost all hope. "what do you think, my brethren," said the abbot turning to the others, "shall we give him up to the provost to be judged?" "yes!" replied correntian. "then his sentence is pronounced; he has lifted his hand against a priest, his life is forfeited," said the abbot. the woman gave a piercing shriek of anguish and fell at correntian's feet. "pity--mercy!" she sobbed out almost mad with terror, and she clasped his knees with all the strength of despair, for she too felt that her ruin was lowering in those sinister eyes. a scarlet flush lighted up the monk's pale face--as the northern lights flash across a winter midnight-sky--he flung her from him and clung to the bed-post for support. "if you do not have some regard for the nurse you will kill the boy," said a voice suddenly in latin, and father eusebius was seen standing by the unhappy woman as if he had sprung out of the ground. "god be thanked!" muttered brother wyso. "here at length is a reasonable man." eusebius had looked on at the proceedings, silent and unobserved till it was necessary to speak; he raised the trembling woman from the floor, and kindly comforting her he led her to the bed on which she sank down powerless. correntian let go the bed-post he was clasping, as if it had suddenly turned to hot iron. eusebius' gaze, which he could not evade, fell upon him with a strange smile; correntian hated that gaze, and from that moment he remained silent as if spell-bound by the gentle power of those clear eyes. "what do you mean, worthy brother eusebius?" asked the abbot, unskilled in such matters. "he means," interpreted wyso in latin with an impatient yawn, "that the woman's milk will fly to her brain or turn to poison, if you torment her so. brother correntian may fatten the brat with an extract of his doctrines of asceticism, but he will then probably not become a man but an angel at once," he added spitefully. correntian trembled with rage, but the eye he feared still rested upon him and kept him within bounds. meanwhile the abbot had turned to the fisherman. "we will let justice give place to mercy--for the sake of your wife, our child's foster-mother. we stand by our first decision; till we release your wife you are banished as well as the gatekeeper who let you in. henceforth no lay-brother shall guard the convent gate, but our brethren shall have the charge of the little gate-house in turn. hope for nothing more and do not attempt again to penetrate our sanctuary--a second time will be your ruin." he turned to the superior who stood in confusion in the background, for though he was innocent of this intrusion he had good-naturedly permitted meetings outside the convent walls, and so had made the gatekeeper too lax in the performance of his duty. "lead the prisoner up to the moor; there hand him over to the shepherd and our lay-brethren at st. valentine's--they can release him from his bonds. the shepherd will provide him with nourishment and other necessaries and will be answerable to me for his not quitting the moor.--come now, brethren, we will not waste another hour of our deferred night's rest." the brethren followed him in silence. "i am sorry for the poor creatures," said stiero to wyso in an undertone. "it was correntian who stirred up all the mischief. why in the world can he never sleep?" "that he and god alone can tell!" said wyso, shrugging his shoulders. "take leave of your wife," said the prior as the monks disappeared. "i dare not give you any farther respite, for the stern father correntian will assuredly watch us from his window up there." the husband and wife fell into each other's arms in bitter grief, but they suddenly started apart again, for a monk still remained behind--are they not to be allowed to press heart to heart before parting? but the monk who has stayed behind is brother eusebius; his face is radiant with mild dignity and sweet compassion. he signs to them with his slender withered hand that they need have no fear of him, for he has stayed to be a comfort to the miserable wife and not as a spy. "do as your heart bids you," he says. "nature is sacred--woe to those who violate her rights!" all was as still in the room as in a church, and he who had spoken these words stood there in calm grandeur, in divine unselfish peace, and looked on pityingly while the couple held each other in a close embrace and could not bear to tear themselves asunder, till the prior separated them almost by force. a stifled scream from the woman--and the door closed, shutting her husband out for ever. the cloistered nurse was alone with the old monk, the gnome, who lived only between the grave and heaven. she threw herself sobbing at his feet and he whispered words mighty to comfort in her ear, in a tongue as it were from another world that she but half comprehended; but they quelled the wild outbreak of her sorrow and lulled her soul, as if it were rocked by spirit-hands, filling her with strangely melancholy and yet glorious presentiments. dawn was already breaking in the lonely turret-chamber, the bell was ringing for matins. the mother sat pale and weary on the edge of the bed and held her child to her breast. she had taken it in her arms unthinkingly--it had waked before the other child--never remembering that after this night's work the milk might be poison which her frail baby was drinking in eager draughts. father eusebius had left her to attend the early mass. she had not yet slept at all; but now she sank back on the pillow, nature asserted its rights--she fell asleep--while the poison was slowly but fatally coursing through the veins of the infant which, in her slumbers, she still held closely and tenderly to her breast. chapter iv. a scream of anguish rang through the still convent court-yard from the eastern tower; it rang out to the clear spring sky and through the open turret-window, following the glorified infant soul that had taken its flight to heaven up, up into the eternal blue; it startled the brooding swallow from the roof, and fearing some mortal evil she fluttered round her nest; it roused the grey monk in the western tower from the books and writings among which he sat day and night poring over his little desk and imbibing living food for his soul's roots from the dead parchment. he closed his book and rose. meanwhile someone was already knocking at his door. for father eusebius was the sick nurse of the whole convent; whenever any one was ill in the abbey or in the neighbourhood he was sent for. "come quickly, brother eusebius," cried the messenger. "the nurse's baby has died suddenly." brother eusebius was not in the least surprised, he had foreseen it; since that night of terror three days ago the little girl had been ill and had defied his utmost skill. some of the brethren it is true were of opinion that the child was possessed by the devil, because the mother had been snatched from her wicked pleasures, and that it ought to be exorcised; but the wise eusebius knew better--he knew that the feeble infant had drunk its death at its mother's breast. he went up to the little room which was lighted up by the brightest sunshine; the poor woman lay stretched over her child's body, her wild sobs betraying the agony which was rending her heart. the other child lay smiling in his cradle and playing with a wreath of blooming cowslips[ ] that his uncle conrad of ramüss had brought up from the valley where he had been tending a sick man. the poor little corpse had its eyes still open and they were fixed on the unconscious boy as if she had something to say to him which her little silent lips could not utter. but the mother understood--at least she thought she understood--and she gave that look a cruel and terrible meaning; for her it had no other interpretation than this: "you have killed me." eusebius silently laid one hand on the mother's head and the other on the child's, and with a practised touch he closed the dead, fixed eyes. the sobbing mother was pressing her aching head against the cold little breast as if to break through the icy crust laid over it by death, but he raised her head with a firm hand, and without a word pointed to the open window. at that moment a white dove flew through the clear ether, shining like silver in the sunshine--rising higher, growing smaller, as it soared on rapturous wing through immeasurable space; soon seen no more but as a fluttering speck, higher and still higher--till lost in the blue distance. that was the soul of the dead child--so the mother believed--nay knew for certain. she sank on her knees and with folded hands worshipped the miracle that had been accomplished before her mortal eyes. and so once more the wise old man had been able to triumph over death and misery in that hapless soul by an alliance with nature which he alone understood--nature who would utter her divine wisdom to none but him. but the measure was not yet full. out on the moor the lonely outcast husband was rocking in his canoe by the shore of the lake; his nets lay idle at the bottom of the boat and he sat sunk in sullen brooding; it was growing dusk, the lake bubbled and foamed; there was dumb rebellion in its depths--as in the depths of the exile's soul. cold gusts dashed frothy, splashing waves on to the banks which were as bare--up at this height--as if it still were winter, and which were so sodden with the melting snows that they could absorb no more of the superfluous moisture; the dry scrub that grew about the place sighed and rustled softly as the wind swept over it. the fisherman started from his dreaming, unmoored his bark and pushed away from the shore; but hardly had he got a yard from the bank when he heard a voice calling. he stopped and listened; it was a messenger from the monastery to tell him that that morning his little daughter had died. the man let go his oar and hid his face in his hands sobbing aloud like a child. the convent servant called out to him compassionately to "come to shore, to compose himself; that the holy fathers had desired him to promise the afflicted man all kindness, and good wages for the future--" the stricken man rose up in the rage of despair. "spare your words," he shouted across the roaring of the waves as they tossed round the frail canoe. "take yourself off with your hypocritical convent face or i will choke your false throat with your own lying promises. why should i believe you--how have you kept your word to me? you have stolen my wife and murdered my child. i curse you--i curse the day when you enticed my wife and child within your dismal walls, i curse the day when that boy was born who is the cause of all the mischief. be advised while still it is time--kill the child before he does any farther harm--an evil star guides him and he will bring ruin on all who go near him. and now get you gone if you value your life." the convent servant crossed himself in horror and hastened to obey the warning; he was frightened at the infuriated man, standing up in his bark with his fist clenched, with his tangled hair and flaming eyes like a "salwang," one of those most fearful giants, before whom not mortals only, but even the "phantom maidens" fly. and as soon as the messenger had disappeared the unhappy man threw himself on his face again and abandoned himself to his sorrow. the canoe drove over the waves--rudderless as the boatman's soul. he did not heed the spring-storm that blew in deeper and deeper gusts across the lake, nor the waves that ran higher and higher as though nature were dreaming uneasily in her sleep--till suddenly a swift current caught the boat and carried it on with increasing rapidity down the lake. the man started up, and his aroused consciousness made him clutch sharply at the oar, for he perceived with horror through the darkness that he was driving towards the spot where the etsch[ ] rushes out of the lake with a considerable fall. but alas! the oar was gone--it had slipped away, escaping him in his anguish without his being aware of it; the loop of straw which had served to fasten it was hanging broken to the hook. for an instant he was stunned, then he gave an involuntary shout for help--then came the knowledge of the danger, the certainty that he was lost. he went through a brief struggle of vigorous healthy life against the idea of destruction--a short pang of terror of death--and then came the calmness of despair, and a still heroism that none could see but god! the lost man sat with his arms folded in the boat, driven down the stream beyond all hope of rescue, with one last prayer on his lips--a loving prayer for the wife he was leaving behind. far away on the shore he sees the lights of the brethren of st. valentine--they call to him--signal to him--the boat rushes on, in headlong haste, to its fate. there--there are the falls--a thundering roar--the canoe tips up on end--then it shoots over head foremost, turning over twice in its fall, till it lies crushed and smashed among the stones in the bed of the cataract. it is all over--the swollen spring-flood of the etsch carries a mangled corpse and dancing fragments down into the valley on its sportive and roaring waters. "now indeed, poor woman--you have lost all!" father eusebius was sitting in the nurse's little room, which during the last three days had been to her a cell of torment; he held the unconscious woman's head between his hands and rubbed her forehead and temples with strong spirit of lavender; but her mind was wandering far away in the twilight of oblivion and must return to a consciousness of nothing but horror--torment and to suffering. her hands moved with a feeble gesture to push him away, her dumb lips parted as though she would say, "do not be cruel--do not wake me--i am at peace--leave me, leave me." but though his heart seemed to stand still for pity, he must call her back to life. at last she was roused; she looked round enquiringly, for all her world was in ruins and she knew not whom she could turn or cling to. before her on the floor lay her dead husband's clothes--there stood the cradle out of which they had carried away her baby only yesterday to the charnel-house--what was left her in the world? there still was one! father eusebius took the living baby from the bed and brought it to her. "it is a stranger's child," he said. "but it is yours too!" and the bleeding heart-strings, torn up by the roots, clung to the strange child as if he were her own--the poor beggared soul accepted it as the last alms of love bestowed upon her by the creator; for she was humbled in her misfortune, she did not strive, she did not contend, nor did she bear any malice to the child, for all that it had unconsciously been guilty of. "the child is yours," spoke comfort to her heart, and she believed it as father eusebius himself did when he spoke the words. "what is yours? who within these walls may venture to boast that anything is his own?" said correntian's stern voice at the door. "oh! that man!" shrieked the terrified woman and she fled with the child into the remotest corner of the room from the sinister monk who now came in. "i spoke of the child--to comfort the poor soul, and if you are a man you will leave her that comfort," said brother eusebius. "in this house nothing is ours--but suffering and the hope of redemption," the dark man went on pitilessly. "know that, woman; and remember it at every hour--the venerable fathers have sent me to tell you that you must now wean the child, that the shock of the last few days may do him no harm." a flood of tears burst from the nurse's large and innocent eyes as she heard this, and she asked with white lips, "must i go away then?" "no, not so long as the child is still little and needs a woman's care. now, you know the fathers' determination--act accordingly." and without vouchsafing her a glance he quitted the room. calm, clear and gentle, like the moon in the high heaven when the sun has set, father eusebius stood before the poor woman whose sun of life had set, and in half-inarticulate words she made her lament to him, telling him her sorrow; to him she dared to weep out all the unutterable anguish that would have driven her mad if she had had to bear it alone. day after day passed silently away in the lonely turret-room; in a few weeks the fresh handsome woman had grown pale, thin and old--no longer a scandal to the chaste eyes of the brethren. not a word, not a smile ever came to her lips--she lived only for the child that throve joyously on her crushed affections. every day the little one grew stronger and more blooming; a child as sweet and winning as if angels came down from heaven from time to time to play with him. he was like a ray of sunshine in the gloomy convent and in the closed hearts of the brethren. he could entice a smile from the sternest lips--hardly any one could resist giving him a flower in passing, throwing him a spray, or bringing him some tempting fruit from any more distant walk--a bunch of wood strawberries, an empty bird's-nest, a sparkling pebble--whatever came to hand. "our little brother," they called him, and the words were repeated here and there in the early morning, when the nurse would sit with the boy in the little cloister garden for him to play on the soft grass-plot while she went on silently with her work, for the little one had begun to run about quite prettily and she could leave him to himself for hours. but indeed he never remained alone; hardly was he down in the garden when all the younger monks gathered round him like bees round a newly opened flower. and they played with him like children and made him all sorts of toys; chains of bird-cherries and little parchment wind-mills and ships--downright waste of time the older brethren called it. the rigid old brother carpenter carved him out little sheep and cows and a little manger with a baby christ in it. brother engelbert, the painter, painted him all sorts of lovely pictures in the brightest colours--the whale swallowing jonas and saint christopher carrying the infant christ through the water; and was delighted with the child's shouts of joy when he showed some comprehension of one and the other. brother candidus, the precentor, cut him out sweetly tuned pipes and was never tired of admiring the boy's good ear. thus each did what he could for the "little brother." the hour of recreation was their play-time with the boy and the older men would look on smiling and observe with satisfaction how such innocent and childish amusements could please the younger brethren. the child grew up in bliss--as if in paradise. loved by all, affectionately taught by all, he developed rapidly in body and mind. one above all others bore him in his heart and cared for him with his hands--to one above all others he clung with increasing devotion; this was conrad of ramüss, his uncle. however deep the child might be in some new game, however close the circle of monks around him, when he heard conrad's voice he flung everything aside, got up on his tottering little feet, and trotted jubilant to meet him. it was a striking picture when the tall, handsome man stooped down to lift the boy; when the fat baby arms were clasped round the proud neck with its golden curls and the small round cheeks were pressed caressingly against that noble, spiritual face. "my sweet angel, the flower on my cross!" he would often say to him, and the child would listen almost devoutly and look before him vaguely with his large brown eyes, as though he already could know the significance of the cross which stood in the midst of the convent garden to the honour of the most high. he would sit for hours in the quiet little garden with the child on his knee and his breviary in his hand; so long as he felt the little heart beating against his own he was content. now and then it struck his conscience that perhaps he clung too closely to the child as an earthly treasure; and then he would raise his eyes imploringly to heaven, "forgive me for loving him--i am bringing him up for thee--my god." and as the child grew bigger and learned to speak, it was conrad who with inexhaustible patience taught him his first little prayer; to fold his baby hands and kiss the wooden christ in the garden when he lifted him up in his strong arms. the little one knew every wound as a cruel torment and would lisp out, "holy! holy!" while he pressed his rosy lips to the blood-stained wooden hands and feet. but he who inflicted these torments on the redeemer, to the child's fancy was none other than correntian; the brethren might do what they would, they could never get it out of the child's head that "the cruel man" had nailed the saviour to the cross. "the brat has more wit than all of us put together," said wyso when he heard it. "if christ were to come again correntian would be the first to crucify him." from that time correntian hated him if possible more than before, and the child was so much afraid of him that he fled from him crying when by any chance he approached him. never had he favoured the child with a single word but one of rebuke, nor a look but one of reproach. the merriment of the brethren was in his eyes an outrage and a crime against the rule of saint benedict which did not allow of speech "with gesticulations, nor with showing of the teeth, nor with laughter and outcry." but the others who set the spirit above the letter, and who better understood the rule of saint benedict, did not care, but loved the child all the more. correntian was like a seceder from the rest of the brethren, and the unacknowledged breach between them grew daily more impossible to heal. here again it was the child that was guilty. "the seed of hell that i pointed out is beginning to germinate," said the implacable man. three summers had passed over little donatus and the autumn wind was once more blowing over the stubble-fields though the midday sun still blazed with much power. the nurse was sitting with the boy in an arbour of blossomless juniper; the brethren were busy in the house with their prayers and duties. she was quite alone; as often as the autumn winds blew, the old wounds broke out again in the saddened heart and bled anew; it was now near the season when, four years ago, she had first left her husband and her lowly home, which was now empty and ruined. "you--you took everything from me--and yet i cannot help loving you, you child of sorrow," said she to the boy, who was playing at her feet at a burial, and was just then placing a cross he had made of two little sticks on the top of a mound he had thrown up. it was a delightful occupation and the child was eager at his play; he decked the grave with red bird-cherries as he had seen done in the grave-yard when one of the brethren took him there; then he swung his little clay mug over it by a string for a censer and sang an edifying litany in his baby way as he had heard the brethren do, and he was so absorbed in his pretty play that he screamed and struggled when his nurse suddenly caught hold of him and took him up. but he was easily pacified and, well-pleased with his foster-mother's caresses, he clung closely to that faithful breast. it was long since she had forgotten the prohibition to kiss him. she clasped him again and again with melancholy fervour and pressed a thousand kisses on his sweet baby-lips. at this moment, as if it had sprung from the earth, a dark shadow stood between her and the sun, which threw a golden light on the grass-plot in front of the arbour. she looked up startled--again it was correntian who stood before her. and as if that most sacred feeling, a mother's love, were a sin, she blushed and set the child down on the ground. she was suddenly conscious that she ought not to kiss him--a look of loathing from the monk told her all and she trembled before him. but he only shook his head and said, "this must have an end. stay here!" he added in a tone of rough command and quitted her with a rapid step. the woman sat still as if spell-bound and dared not move from the spot. what misery would he bring upon her now? all at once it had grown cloudy and chill, and yet the sun was shining as before; the grass, the trees--though still green, the sky--though still blue--everything was all at once autumnal and sere as if metamorphosed by a touch. and the child looked to her so strange, so distant, so unattainable, and yet she need only put out her arms to clasp him. so she waited with folded hands, motionless. at last she heard returning steps over the path; it was the abbot and a few of the elder brethren. the abbot hurried up with unwonted haste. "you are an incorrigible woman," he scolded out. "we have shown more than due pity for you, we have kept you here longer than was fit although the boy has long since ceased to need you; there was no way left for you to sin--so we thought--and now i hear that even this child is not sacred to you! why, have i not forbidden you to kiss the boy? 'under heavy penalty,' i said; and you--you despise our orders, you compel the child to submit to your caresses although he struggles with vague misgiving, and you teach his innocent mouth, which is consecrated to god's service, to kiss a woman's lips; you outrage the sight of the brethren who betake themselves to the garden for devout contemplation? it must come to an end, brother correntian is right. there," he added, drawing a little bag full of gold coins out of his frock, and laying it in her hand, "there is your honest pay. i think you will be satisfied with us, it is a donation worthy of a prince. you may buy yourself a farm and land with it down there near nauders or wherever you will, but take yourself off out of the sacred precincts of our cloister, for ever." the nurse made no answer, she stood there pale and dumb; tears dimmed her eyes as if she had been plunged into a lake, and saw everything through water. her clenched hands trembled so that she had let the purse fall, the wretched price of her life's ruined happiness. now the last treasure was taken from her, the only thing left--the child to whom she had sacrificed all; this too! "within these walls nothing is our own but suffering," correntian had said, she remembered that. "take the child with you at once," said the abbot, and correntian's bony fingers grasped the child; but the boy cried so heart-rendingly, and clung with such deadly terror to his foster-mother that he had to be torn away from her, and his screams brought out the younger brethren. the nurse leaned helplessly against the pillar of the arbour, and a deep groan broke from her. the younger monks, looking on, were filled with blind fury; their hatred for correntian, which had been growing for many years, could be no longer contained; they forgot all discipline and obedience, all the rules of their order. they crowded round correntian like a pack of hounds. "leave the child alone, you blood-hound, you spy, who can never leave any thing in peace." "for shame, reverend abbot, for listening to him, the wolf." thus shouted the angry mob who would listen to no farther commands; it was open revolt. the abbot and the elder brethren ran about in confusion, not knowing what to do, when above the tumult they heard the voice which had so often restored peace and calm; father eusebius had just come down from his tower-chamber, and with a rapid glance had taken in the state of affairs. "you are forgetting your obedience, my brethren. we could not keep the woman here for ever; so it is my opinion that conrad of ramüss should take the child into his cell, he loves it, and it clings to him." "yes, yes, let conrad of ramüss take him," they cried with one voice, and brother conrad was fetched out from the chapel. with a glance of infinite pity at the poor trembling woman he took the child in his arms. "be easy, i will take good care of him for you," he said kindly, and she gratefully kissed the hem of his robe. she took one last long look at the child, the beloved boy that she had nursed so faithfully in those arms which might never clasp him again. she dared not give him any parting kiss, his little hands might never touch her more. the tall monk carried him away high above the crowd of brethren, as if he were borne along on a dark stream; now, now the doors close upon him--it is over! the woman sat alone under the withered arbour; it was evening, the dew was falling, the wind rustled in the dry branches, and warned her that it was time to make up her bundle, and to find her way--out into the world where all was dead or strange to her. whither should she go? she knew not, she must wander about alone and helpless so long as her feet would carry her, till she dropped and lay down somewhere or other. she pulled herself up, for so it must be, but she must go upstairs into the empty room whence they had taken the child, just to fetch a few wretched garments. no, she could not do it. she stole away, just as she stood, her knees bending under her, taking only one thing with her: the little cross with which the child had been playing at his mimic grave-yard. she pressed it to her lips while she shed hot tears. thus she glided like a criminal through the mist and darkness, out of the little gate where she had so often watched for her husband. but now no loving arm was waiting to clasp her; the prior called out a compassionate farewell; that was all. one more glance up at the turret-window, and then she went down into the misty valley--a lonely beggar. up in the convent a great conclave was held by the elders in judgment on the younger brethren and their criminal outbreak against all discipline. father eusebius would willingly have hurried off after the poor forsaken woman, but his duty to his order kept him here. "it has all happened just as i said and prophesied," said correntian. "all the mischief comes of the child. it is the child of a curse, and it will bring the curse under our roof." then eusebius rose, his voice sounded sharp and stern as it never had before, and his eyes flashed round upon the assembly with an eagle-like glance. "i will tell you," said he, "the cause of the curse that clings to the child. all the conditions of its life are unnatural. its father's rage was unnatural that made the child an outcast before it was born; your demands on the nurse were unnatural, and the husband, wife, and child have come to ruin in consequence; and the child's life here in the convent is unnatural. that is the seed of hell of which you spoke, correntian, which you have cherished, and which you will reap--the revenge of outraged nature." book ii. martyrdom. chapter i. joy, joy in all the fields! for it is harvest-time. in all the fields up hill and down dale; down in the valley and up on the heights they are cutting the last swathes, the last rodnerinnenlocken are sounding--so they call the old traditional cry with which the hay-maker calls upon the blessed phantom-maidens to come and help him. he strikes three times on his scythe with his whet-stone, so that it rings over hill and valley; the phantom-maidens hear it, and hasten down from their cliffs to help the mowers, so that they may get in the harvest in dry weather. for they are kind-hearted and well-disposed to the peasant who contentedly tills his field, and many old folks are still living who have seen with their own eyes that they were not too proud to work in peasant's dress, helping those who were industrious. but since a rude lad once seized upon one of the "good women," and kissed her by force, they no longer show themselves to mortal eyes; only their kind handiwork can be traced. the more industrious a man is, the more they help him, for they never come to any but the industrious; the idle call on them in vain. but this year there must have been more of them than ever, for it is a splendid harvest, and has been got in quicker than usual. singing and shouting resound on all the meadows, and the long lines of hay-waggons with their intractable teams of spanned oxen seem endless. children are romping among the odorous hay-cocks in the meadows, or lie on the top of the soft piled up heaps stretching their weary limbs luxuriously; lads and lasses together teazing and joking each other in exuberant merriment. up at the window of the eastern tower of marienberg a pair of large melancholy eyes were gazing longingly down on this glorious, smiling scene. a pair of wonderful eyes they were; deep, dark, and yet full of light as though glowing with some inward fire, so that even the white seemed to take a ruddy tint, like an opal held against the light. they gazed down from the tower with a fixed regard, drinking in all the splendour in one long look. the gay, social doings of men--the silent, all-powerful day-star that was riding at its noon-tide height and shedding its rays over all the wide landscape, so that every roof and turret of the thirteen hamlets that lay strewn around were distinctly visible up to the very edge of the gleaming snow-fields and glaciers, which were the only limits set to the roving eye--the wide verdant plain, like a garden with softly swelling hills and tufted woods, and traversed by the silvery streak of the murmuring etsch--all this was mirrored in those hungry, dreamy, far-gazing eyes. they followed the course of the wild, swift rivulet that tosses itself so impatiently over rapids and falls as it leaves the lonely mountain-tarn on the moor, rushing on to the all-engulfing sea. and those eyes sent forth a message of enquiry up to the blue sky, down to the smiling plain, beyond the majestic heads of the great ortler-chain--a dumb, burning question. but no answer came back to him; it vanished, wafted away by the winds, like broken gossamer-threads. the eyes, the anxiously enquiring eyes, belonged to a youth so nobly formed, so full of graciousness, that it seemed as if nature must have formed him for a world of perpetual sundays, and not for a world of weariness, labour and duty--those grim destroyers of the beautiful. "oh! sweet child of humanity; here you sit imprisoned and bemoaning your living death between cloister walls and among pale disfigured faces. forgive me, o, god! if it is a sin to regret that all that is beautiful should be rejected by pitiless asceticism in these rough times--that it must wander through the world misunderstood and unprized, and either perish like flowers on a cross or sink in the pool of perdition." father eusebius was standing behind the young man's chair and his eyes rested sadly and thoughtfully on the young head, with its thick crown of dark curls that waved rebelliously round the prescribed tonsure. eusebius had grown old and feeble, he was now ninety-three years old. his hair was like snow, and his body frail and bent, but his spirit was perennially young and his glance had the same power as of old. the youth turned his head. "what, father eusebius," said he in surprise. "are you there? i did not hear you come in. what has brought your weary feet up here?" "i knew that you would be up here and dreaming again." "are you vexed with me?" asked the boy, and a pleading smile lighted up his face as sweetly as when a crystal pool reflects the sunshine. "who could be vexed with you?" said eusebius, and his old eyes lingered with undisguised delight on the beautiful face of the boy, "i only fear lest the brethren should take it ill in you if you keep apart in the recreation-hour." "ah, reverend brother," answered the youth, "you cannot know how happy i am up here; i can see out into the wide world, far over hill and valley! this was my first home, here stood my cradle, here a kind voice sang me to sleep and in the little nest up there on the roof i first heard the twittering of birds. i cannot tell you how content i am here. i feel as if when my time comes i must die here and fly straight out of that window into eternity after my little foster-sister--as if there could be no other path-way to heaven." eusebius laid his hand on the boy's shoulder. "i do understand you, my son. it would be well for you if so it could be and you need only fly away to reach eternal bliss! but a long and weary and thorny path lies before you, a path which you must tread with bleeding feet; and many a heavy cross awaits you that you must bear on aching shoulders ere you may rest in god!" "oh! brother--why may i not die at once? why may i not depart at once and be with the father, for whom my soul pants?" "because we must live--live and work, my son; work for our neighbour and for future generations. thus only can humanity ripen into perfection; each must do his duty in his own way by word and by example and none may escape his task." "why must we first be men if we proceed from god and are his children?" asked the boy with a sigh. "we do not proceed from god--we shall only go to god! of dust were we born and out of dust we shall be raised and purified by the spirit--to the spirit." the lad rested his head upon his hand and looked out again. "by the spirit, to the spirit--yes--yes--we must cast off this flesh with all its longings and weakness and yet--oh! eusebius, it is so hard! it would be so much easier to throw off this whole miserable body at once and die once for all than slowly to crush this throbbing, longing heart. eusebius, a feeling comes over me as if i must fling my arms wide open and embrace the desert air--as if i must throw myself down on the grass and rest my head on the lap of earth--as if somewhere--in the earth itself or in the warm summer-air--a heart must be beating towards mine on which i might fling myself and weep out all my pain. ah! eusebius, it is true you all love me--and i love you; and i love god too and my holy mother mary above all--and still it is not enough and my soul still thirsts for some love--for something--that shall be my own--wholly and solely mine. 'it is not good for man to be alone,' was said by the lord himself--and i am alone--so utterly, absolutely alone." and the youth raised his glowing eyes with such fervent entreaty to eusebius that it cut the old man to the heart. then he passionately grasped eusebius' hand. "eusebius," he said, "you are wiser than they all. tell me why must it be so? why must we love nothing but god? why is that a sin for us which is permitted to all the rest of mankind?" eusebius was startled by this unexpected question. he himself had once upon a time purchased his salvation with his very heart's blood and the wounds had healed. but would that which had cured him work a cure in another? would the idea that rules the world damp this fire also? eusebius looked thoughtfully before him and there was a pause as if he were seeking the right words; then he said, "the great mass of people are struggling upwards by degrees--working, toiling, producing--step by step to the throne of god; but the steps are centuries and it is only after long centuries that the goal is ever visible to them. but there are solitary souls that feel a more powerful impulse towards heaven than others do and that can separate themselves from the common herd and by great acts of self-denial attain to that perfection, for which centuries are needed by mankind as a whole. such a soul can tread the direct road to god;--but he must walk alone--for he is shut out from all community with nature as soon as he sets forth upon that road. he no longer belongs to the toiling, producing mass, seething with perpetual reproduction of itself from itself--his life must be one long death. it demands the noblest heroism, the highest effort; for one single glance backwards--one false step on his lonely way to death; and omnipotent nature clutches him again and drags the lost soul back among her blindly-working wheels. but in the last judgment god will judge those presumptuous ones who undertook that which they could not carry through, more hardly than all the others, and will say, 'why wouldst thou fain be better and greater than these, if thou hadst not the strength to achieve it?' therefore, my son, we live apart from the world behind these sheltering cloister-walls, that nothing may tempt us from the path of holiness which we have chosen." eusebius paused and watched donatus, who was leaning against the window and breathing hard. "eusebius!" he exclaimed, fervently grasping the old man's hand, "god will be merciful and give me strength to carry through that which i have begun--will he not?" "who can tell? what we ourselves undertake we ourselves must carry out. therefore prove your heart, my son, before you swear the great irrevocable vow; you yourself wished to be a priest--you have obtained your wish, in a few days you will be consecrated to god's service. but if in your heart you bear such earthly longings will you be strong enough for such a sacred calling? if not--renounce it rather than some day break a double vow and so be doubly sinful. better, better that you should fly away into the wide world than that you should be false to your own and to our plighted truth, and so fall lower in the eyes of god than those who never purposed to be more than men among men." "i fly! i not be a priest!" cried the youth vehemently. "nay, nay, my brother. you only wish to try me--you cannot be in earnest. if i said anything to make you doubt my truth, forgive me. never, never has such a thought crossed my mind. and what should i do out in the world? if you drive a bird that was hatched in captivity out of doors it will starve in the midst of plenty--and so it would be with me. only sometimes i suddenly feel as if the convent were too narrow for me, as if you ought not to keep me here like a prisoner! look out there--is not that glorious! must i not long to be out there in the blue distance? must not the plain below tempt me down there, down to the delicious verdure which affords nourishment and refreshment to all? must not those solitary heights tempt me up to the everlasting snow, so high, so near to heaven? or over there, near the bed of the silver stream, out on the heath where i was born? is not god everywhere--over there as well as here? and is it not he whom i would seek down in the valley or up among the frozen glaciers? you--all of you--go in and out; you strengthen and refresh your souls in wood and field, why may i only never quit these walls?--why must i, so long as i live, be rooted like a dumb motionless plant within the narrow limits of the little convent garden?" "my son, i have long expected you to question me thus. i will take upon myself to tell you the reasons why the fathers shelter you so anxiously--against my advice--for so far as i am concerned you should not be a monk nor take the vows of priesthood. i have read many books, old heathen chronicles and histories as well as christian ones, and i have always found that human wit and human cunning must fail when anything was fore-ordained, and that what must be must. and if it must be, you will be torn from us even if we keep you within seven-fold walls. you must know then that a curse of interdicted love rests upon you; that is why your dying mother dedicated you to the cloister, and the reason of their keeping you so strictly, in order that the last will of the dead may be faithfully carried out. the fathers dread lest every step beyond these walls should entail the accomplishment of the curse; nay, correntian even proposed that you should be blinded when you came to us as a new-born infant, to secure you for ever from all temptation." "dreadful man!" said the lad with a shudder. "but--one thing more--solve, i beg of you, the mystery of my birth. why was i born out on the heath, who was my mother, and what crime had she committed that my father should cast her out?" "we all took a solemn oath to our abbot conrad--the abbot at that time--never to breathe the names of your parents either to you or to any one else, so that every tie between you and the world might be broken. your mother died as a saint, and it was her wish that you too should live and die in an equally saintly manner. you are the child of the church; ask after no other parents. this was the answer we were to give you when you should ask, and so i answer you now, as is my duty." "oh! now i understand it all!" said donatus, his voice trembling with deep agitation. "woe is me! a curse rested on my innocent head before i saw the light! aye, it is true; i was the death of the mother that bore me, i made the foster-mother that reared me miserable; she lost her husband and child for my sake. i was born to misfortune, and misfortune will pursue me wherever i go. yes, you are right, there is no road for me but that to god, not a hope but heaven! and i will keep three-fold watch over myself now that i know this! i will quell my rebellious heart even if it must break. i will not dream up here any more; no more shall the soft breath of the morning-breeze caress me, no more will i inhale the aromatic fragrance of the limes beneath this window nor let my gaze wander round the smiling distance--all these things rouse my longing! and perish the wishes even which may tempt me away from the step of the altar to which i am dedicated! i am yours henceforth body and soul, and the world shall never more rob you of a single thought of my mind!" "god grant it may be so!" said eusebius, and his eyes rested sadly on the transfigured countenance of his young companion. did he shake his head? no, he was only shaking off a startled moth. and donatus rose. "let us go down," he said, "and leave this ensnaring spot which too much befools my senses! for i feel i had said things that i ought not to have said, and that it was not god who lent me such words." so saying he closed the little window with its panes, obscured by dust and its worm-eaten frame. at this moment a cheery blast from a horn rang in the distance. "oh look!" cried donatus, "a procession of riders is coming up the mountain!" eusebius went to the window. "it is true," said he, "a riding party--they are coming here; we must hurry down to announce them to the abbot; come." it was eleven o'clock, the hour when the brethren walked in the garden for recreation. abbot conrad of ramüss, for it was he who now wore the mitre, was just then walking under a shady alley of trees and discussing with one of the brethren the preparations for ordaining donatus a priest; for his favourite's festival must be kept with all the pomp of which the rules of the order allowed. noonday silence lay on the peaceful little garden. the apricots and pears on the walls swelled their ruddy cheeks under the hot rays of a july sun and the brethren rested at their ease, stretched out in the shade of quiet arbours and trees. the pigeons cooed on the roof, and at the foot of the crucifix, where the sun shone hottest, lay the lazy old convent cat, her green eyes sleepily closed. suddenly a wild noise was heard at the gate, the neighing of horses and barking of dogs, blasts on the horn and confused shouting; the brethren sprang, up in alarm. donatus and eusebius hurried up. "for god's sake, venerable abbot--there is a splendid riding party at the gate, desiring to be admitted," they called out, "what shall we do?" "what we cannot avoid doing--give them what they require." "oh, dear!" lamented fat old wyso, who had been brought out by the alarm and who could hardly walk for old age and swelled feet. "oh, dear! they will eat us up like the egyptian locusts--do not let them in--or ask first who they are. we are not bound to harbour any one but the lords of the soil and they have already left us poor." "good brother wyso," said the abbot smiling, "if it pleased the lord to let a swarm of locusts fall upon us, should we not be obliged to submit? so submit to these and act cordially with us in showing hospitality." thus speaking they had reached the gate and the abbot himself opened it and met the impatient troop with a dignified demeanour. high above him on horseback sat a number of nobles with a crowd of followers. the gay robes of silk and velvet, trimmed with costly furs, shone splendidly in the sun. men and beasts were bathed in sweat from their hot ride up the steep hill. "_deo gratias_, noble gentlemen," said the abbot. "if you are satisfied to accept what a poor, out-of-the-world mountain-convent has to offer, step in and be welcome in christ's name." "come in, as many as there is room for," said the foremost horseman with a laugh, urging his prancing horse through the narrow doorway. "god save you, my lord abbot, i do not think you good folks here starve?" he added with a merry glance at wyso, who was trying to keep his gouty feet in safety out of the way of the crowd of horses. the knight guided his horse under a shed, in order to alight in the shade; as many of the others followed as could come in; the silent convent yard was like a bustling camp, the mass of horses and men were pressed so closely together in crowded confusion. the horses kicked out in every direction, not liking such close quarters; the hindermost forcing their way in, the foremost unable to go any farther in the narrow space. there was pushing and screaming, prancing and stamping. wyso escaped into the house, not without abusing the visitors, and even the other monks were frightened and startled out of their quiet life by the rough incursion of this high-handed party. "oh--locusts! locusts! you would be a lovely sight compared to these monsters!" wyso lamented as he looked out of window. at last all the horses were put up, some in the cattle stalls and some tied up in a row all round the walls, nay some--and this cut the brethren to the heart--some to the beautiful promising fruit trellises--the toil and care of many years all undone in an instant! and the brethren looked with consternation as they saw great horses' mouths with rolling tongues and sniffing nostrils poking about in the trees and eating what they took a fancy to, pending the arrival of better fare. "what is to be done?" said the abbot in a low voice to the brethren, "we must submit! and this is a friendly incursion--think what it would be if it were a hostile invasion--god preserve us!" meanwhile the marauding visitors had without farther ado overrun the hay lofts and brought down fodder for their horses, and to facilitate the beasts' enjoyment of it they stuffed it between the bars of the fruit trellises, for there were no mangers in the convent. the pack of dogs let loose in the little garden tore with wild howls across the flower beds in chase of the convent cat, who had little expected such visitors. "now, my lord abbot," said the foremost of the riders good-humouredly enough, but in a tone of rough command. "where are your cellarers? they should have appeared long ago to present us with a bowl of wine! true hospitality does not delay till the rider has his foot out of the stirrup." "you shall be served at once, my lords!" said the abbot. "you must take the will for the deed, for we are inexperienced and unaccustomed to receiving so many guests." "but if i am well-informed you have occasionally received your seignior, the count of matsch--or amatia, as they prefer to call it, with all his following?" "we are the vassals of the count of matsch; it is an old right of our liege lords to visit us once a year," answered the abbot. "then you cannot refuse to your sovereign prince what you grant to your liege," said the knight. "i am meinhard the second of görtz and tyrol and the duchess is following me immediately." the abbot bowed to the very ground in pleasure and respect, "happy is the day that procures us the honour of seeing your gracious countenance! hail to duke meinhard!" "hail to duke meinhard! our powerful protector. hail!" rang from all lips, and even wyso came hobbling out again, panting and perspiring, and made his way with unwonted courage among the horses to testify his respect for the powerful duke. "now the ducal horses might be welcome to eat all the apricots and pears, and the dogs to trample all the vegetables and flowers--this is quite another matter!" "make way--make way for the duchess and her suite!" was now the cry of the marshal at the gate, and all made way for the litters of the duchess and her ladies. "oh, dear! oh, dear! women in the cloister! and we cannot keep them out, for our wise rule allows princesses to enter!" lamented wyso slily and winking with secret delight at correntian, who was standing near him. "what do you say to such doings, correntian?" the duke and the abbot went to meet the procession and receive the noble lady. foremost of all on a quiet horse rode the marshal, then followed the panting and sweating beasts that bore the duchess' litter, each walking between two poles which hung from their backs from strong girths; one went in front and the other behind, each guided by a driver with a large cracking whip. between them swung the tall palanquin with light rustling curtains of red silk, blown about by the hot south-wind, and inside it, wearily stretched out on soft crimson cushions embroidered with gold, lay a pale, delicate woman, closely veiled and so simply dressed that it was visible at the first glance that her mind was not set on the royal splendour with which her proud husband loved to surround her. but the ladies of her suite looked all the more haughty as they followed her on horseback. they rode behind the litter between the rows of monks, laughing and chattering, swaying their slender bodies carelessly on their broad-backed palfreys and looking curiously at the shorn heads around them, from under their broad hats, adorned with peacock feathers. suddenly one of them drew her embroidered rein and whispered to her neighbour, "look, there is a handsome one!" and all eyes followed hers to where donatus was standing with downcast lids, grave and silent. "forwards!" cried the marshal, for a troop of riders were still behind as an escort for the ladies. the abbot had taken the leading-rein of the foremost horse in the litter and guided it with his own hand through the court to the inner gateway; here he paused and went up to the lady, "may it please you, noble lady," he said, "to alight and to put up with the accommodation of our humble roof." at a sign from the marshal the squires and pages sprang forward. in an instant the horses were unharnessed, the litter let down on to the ground, the ladies lifted from their horses and litter and horses all led on one side. the duchess, a lady of middle age and apparently afflicted by severe illness, bowed her head humbly before the abbot. "give me your blessing, reverend father," she said softly. the abbot blessed her and led her with her ladies into the cool refectory. "will you condescend to rest and cool yourself here for a time, noble lady?" he said, "while i see to providing some farther refreshment." he conducted the men of the party into a large dining hall which he himself had built and which was only just finished; here the brother-cellarer had set large goblets which were all dewy outside from the coolness of the wine they contained; that was a drink after the frightful heat! hardly could the thirsty lips part with the bowl till the last drop was drained; there were rich cheese and fragrant rolls too, to stay their hunger till the noon-day meal was ready. for the abbot would fain do everything that the resources of the house admitted, and its resources were many, for it had long been in a flourishing condition, and the labours and tillage of the monks had been blessed. he sent new milk to the ladies and little wheaten cakes with limpid golden honey, as might beseem fastidious ladies' lips. thus he cared paternally and tenderly for his guests, rejoicing at the evident satisfaction with which they enjoyed it. even the grooms in the court-yard had heavy loads of bread and mead carried out to them, and soon there was such riot and jubilee as if they had entered into the land of canaan. nay the thoughtful host had remembered even the dogs; they stood in a circle round a great bowl of cool butter-milk and were lapping it with their hot tongues. through the railings of the underground windows there rose up a mighty steam and reek of roast and stewed. the choicest fowls and fat joints of hastily slaughtered mutton sputtered on the rarely-used spits, for such a dainty meal was never prepared but for strangers, and the unusual savour of meat pleasantly tickled brother wyso's nostrils. he could not omit this opportunity of saying spitefully to correntian, "hey! what is that smell?" "the devil's roast!" said correntian with a burst of anger, for the whole occurrence was an abomination to him, and he could hardly control his indignation. he muttered the words of the prophet isaiah, chap. : "_et ecce gaudium et lætitia, occidere vitulos et jugulare arietes, comedere carnes et bibere vinum_--they slaughter oxen, they slay sheep, eating flesh, and drinking wine. _comedamus et libamus, cras enim moriemur_--let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die." "come, come," said wyso chuckling. "it is not so bad as all that--we shall not die quite so soon as to-morrow, unless we may enjoy ourselves too freely to-day, and eat and drink too much--" "_et revelata est in auribus meis vox domini: si dimittetur iniquitas hæc vobis, donec moriamini_--and in my ears was the voice of the lord of sabaoth: verily this sin shall not be forgiven thee till thou die!" continued correntian, but wyso was not to be silenced. "if the reverend abbot grants us a dispensation, god too will forgive us the sin. not that which goes into the mouth defiles the man, but that which proceeds out of the mouth. do you understand? well, why are you staring at me like that with your martyr's face?" he added in a tone of good humoured scolding to donatus. "when i was your age, would i have girded my hungry stomach with rough haircloth, that i might ride lighter on the road to heaven? good lord! they would have to haul me up with cords now, if i had to take all my earthly ballast up with me. but as we must leave to the earth all that is of the earth, earthy, it is all the same what we stuff ourselves with--that is my view." meanwhile the guests within had satisfied their first hunger and thirst, and duke meinhard had informed the abbot of the reason of his visit. his wife elizabeth of bavaria had so long felt herself ailing and feeble, that before her end came she would fain do some good deed for the welfare of her soul, and with this end in view she had founded a house of god at stams in the ober-innthal. the building was now far advanced, and she had made up her mind to undertake a journey, in order to inspect all the most distinguished foundations in the country, and thus to inform herself as to what arrangement of the building, what system and preparatory dispositions would be most advantageous to the newly founded religious house. when the noble lady was rested it was her wish that the abbot might conduct her round the monastery, so that she might see everything for herself. the abbot declared himself most ready to aid in so christian a work, and he designated donatus, as his favourite and most promising disciple, for the high honour of conducting the duchess, as the duke took possession of the abbot himself, to confer in manly fashion about the neighbourhood, the customs of the inhabitants of vintschgau, and all sorts of things ecclesiastical and temporal. donatus coloured with surprise when the abbot informed him of his good-fortune; nay his imploring look seemed to convey a remonstrance; but that was impossible, the brethren of the order might never say "no." next to the duke sat a broad-shouldered, dark man, sunk in sullen, brooding silence. his hair was grey, but before its time, his brow morosely wrinkled and marked down the middle with a strong angry vein. he took no part in the conversation, and from the moment when he had taken his place he never once had moved his eyes from the end of the table where donatus was sitting. "well, count," said the duke, pushing him to rouse him, and nodding to him over his glass. "you are staring fixedly at that one spot; does that young fellow remind you of your own youth?" "it is strange, but do not you think that the boy is like me?" muttered the count. "he certainly is, to a hair; and if you had a son i could believe it was he. only you never looked as gentle and sweet as he does; do not you agree with me, count reichenberg?" "count reichenberg!" for an instant every face turned pale as the monks heard that name; donatus only remained quite unconcerned, for he knew not as yet who and what count reichenberg was to him. "by my soul!" cried another of the gentlemen, "you are as like each other as young and old, tender and tough can be." count reichenberg sprang up. "my lord abbot," said he, "a word with you." the abbot turned paler than before; he exchanged but one rapid glance with the brethren, but they all understood him; then he rose and followed the count into a deep window-bay. "my lord abbot, i am a connection of yours, do you not know me?" said the knight without farther preface. "i never saw you," replied the abbot. "for since my sixteenth year i have lived out of the world as a monk. but if you are the man who married my sister and then repudiated her, you are no relation of mine, there can be no friendship between that man and me." "i am the man," said reichenberg defiantly. "i ask you--where that boy came from to you?" he pointed with an angry expression to donatus. "he was bequeathed to us," said the abbot calmly. "by whom?" the abbot looked at reichenberg, measuring him from head to foot with a steady gaze. "that," he said, "is a secret of the confessional." "i will pay you for it," the count whispered in his ear. "your convent shall benefit largely, i will make over to you by deed a manor and an alp above taufers with glebe and pasturage, and all rights secured to you--only tell me the name of the boy's parents." "no, my lord--not a word; did you ever hear that a benedictine sold the secrets of the confessional?" the count stamped his foot. "then i will find some means of making you speak by force--at a more opportune moment." the abbot looked at him quietly and proudly. "you may kill me, but you can never make me speak." "then one of your herd will, who is less steadfast that you." "i will answer for my brethren, man by man," said the abbot with dignity. the count raised his hand threateningly, "woe to you if i discover what i suspect--" "ho, ho! count reichenberg, what are you making this noise about?" and the duke suddenly stepped between them. "what am i to think of you for thus disturbing the peace of this quiet hour?" "i will inform you presently, my lord duke. just now grant me one word with the young monk there." he signed to donatus to approach, and the boy rose and came modestly forward. "will you tell me who you are?" "i am a monk," said donatus, shortly and firmly. "i see that--but who were you originally--who were your parents?" donatus looked calmly at him--"i do not know." the count cast a glance of hatred at the abbot, "oh, you priests, you priests; who ever got behind your tricks?" "pray be easy, count reichenberg," said the duke soothingly. "i did not come here to torment peaceable monks who entertain us hospitably.--do not take this to heart, my lord abbot--nor you reverend brethren!" he signed to a servant who was standing by a large chest in a corner. "look here, i have something to show you!" he opened, the coffer, which the man carried with difficulty, and took out of it a magnificent chalice of pure gold encrusted with garnets and chased with artistic reliefs representing the passion, a work so fine and costly that the monks had never seen the like. "look here, this is the work of master berthold, the goldsmith of ulm," said the duke. then he took out a little golden tube with a mouth-piece of amber, such as were in use at that time, in order that, when the cup was presented, clumsy or greedy partakers might not imbibe too much of the costly wine. next he produced a heavy golden paten; this was in the same way set with garnets round the edge, and had two finely chased handles, while on the ground of the dish a cross was engraved. this he set on the table by the side of the cup that all the brethren might rejoice in the sight. finally he brought out a dozen of pure silver apples of artistic pierced work and called calefactories; these were hand-warmers for the monks. they were filled with glowing charcoal and held in the hands to prevent the monks' fingers from being frozen at the early mass in winter. "well! how do you like them?" asked the lordly donor, well pleased at the astonishment and admiration with which the monks gazed at the costly treasure. "do you think they will pay you for our dinner?" the abbot looked at him enquiringly. "i do not understand you, my lord!" "no?--that is my offering in return for your hospitality. you shall have cause to remember the day when you entertained your duke under your roof." the brethren, with the exception of correntian and donatus, sprang up with confused cries of delighted surprise, "oh! can it be!" and, "it is too much!" and the abbot said with moistened eyes, "you are magnificent in your favours, my lord, and may god reward you, for we are only poor monks and can make you no return but by blessings and prayers." "that is all i ask," said duke meinhard laughing, "only pray for me stoutly--i am sure to want it, for i hope to commit many more sins, and i shall have great need of the intercession of pious folks with the almighty." he threw the treasure back into the heavy chest and slammed down the lid. "there!" he exclaimed, "now take all the property away into your treasury and let us have dinner brought in as soon as possible, for we must proceed to-day to münster and pass the night there. the duchess wishes to spend some time in the convent of st. gertrude, while we men ride to market and hunt in the neighbourhood." "if it please, your lordship, to wait until we have shown her highness your wife the extent and arrangement of the monastery as she wishes--" suggested the abbot. "aye--pray do so, my lord duke," urged wyso anxiously. "it will be to the advantage of your teeth if you leave the fat sheep, which were running about only an hour ago to sweat a little longer in front of the fire." reichenberg looked sharply at the fat monk with his thick lips and sensual grin. "you are not the man to die for the sake of keeping a vow," thought he. "when you have well drunk you will make a clean breast of it." "very well," said the duke. "then we will wait--less for the sake of my teeth than of yours, old gentleman--if indeed you still have any left. you will grant a dispensation this day in our honour, my lord abbot, will you not?" "i will do so, my lord," said the abbot smiling, "they may enjoy themselves to their heart's content. and so, donatus, my son, come now with me that i may conduct you to her ladyship, the duchess, if she will accept you as her guide." donatus rose with simple dignity, and followed the abbot. the two gentlemen, meinhard and reichenberg, looked after him in silence. "tell me, count, what passed between you and the youngster that you got so angry about it?" asked the duke, pushing back a little way from the table that the others might not overhear them. "it is a mere whim, if you will," replied reichenberg in a low voice. "but the boy's resemblance to me struck me amazingly. i--i might have had a child who would have been of just his age, and if it had been a son he might have looked exactly like that, for not only is the lad like me, he has just my wife's eyes and soft voice." "your wife's?" said the duke, and he shook his head. "my first wife's," said the count, "whom i repudiated just about the time when my first child would have been born. you were then only a boy, and you were not at the court of your grandfather albert. my wife was a ramüss, and hardly were we married when that venomous serpent, the countess of eppan, poisoned my ear and heart. not till last year, when the wretched woman was on her deathbed and sent to me in her last agony, did she confess that she had accused my wife falsely, in order to obtain her place. the name and wealth of the reichenberg family were an eyesore to her, for she was both poor and haughty; the castle of reichenberg, as you know, formerly belonged to the house of eppan. she longed to restore it to them by a marriage with me--her heart was never mine as i saw very plainly later on. now for a year past i have been wandering about the world, seeking in vain for some trace of my outcast wife. god in heaven alone knows what may have become of them both, mother and child; my race ends with me, and i myself have driven out the heir that god perhaps had granted me--an outcast--to die! and that boy's eyes struck me like a thunderbolt. he looked just as my wife looked when i drove her away. duke, if it were he--" the count was silent, and his lips quivered. "what good would it do you? it would be too late; he has taken the vows, and you could not break them." the count looked darkly before him, and made no reply. "your second wife never had much joy of her treason; you repudiated her too if i remember rightly?" "yes; at the end of two years the pope gave me permission to announce that my first wife was dead, and to marry again; my mind had already wandered from the lady of eppan, but i had to keep my word--she held me to it hard and fast--and so she became my wife; but i was always away from home in battle and danger, for the world was spoilt for me, and so was all my liking for that false woman. when i returned from my four years' expedition to the holy land i found her carrying on an intrigue with master friedrich von sunburc, the minnesinger and chronicler of your father's court. nay more, a faithful waiting-woman of my first wife who could never get over the loss of her former mistress, betrayed to me that the shameless woman had not long since had a daughter, and had concealed the child with a strange beggar-woman whom she had met gathering berries and simples in the woods; as soon as the news of my return was known, the woman and the child had disappeared, leaving no trace behind. how i punished her, how the minnesinger was expelled from the court by meinhard the first, and how she died, abandoned to remorse in her own ruined castle, all that you know." "she was an intriguing coquette," said the duke shaking his head, "and ensnared all men with her gold-gleaming owl's eyes and her auburn hair. she had something of the witch about her, and i could almost believe that she was one, for you know the common people say that you can tell a witch not by her feet only, but by her eye-brows that meet above her nose; she had such eye-brows you may remember?" "i do not believe in such things," said reichenberg sulkily. "nor i either," said the duke laughing. "but there was something not quite canny about her, say what you will." the abbot meanwhile had taken donatus to the duchess. "may it please you, noble lady," said he, "that this youth, my favourite disciple, should have the honour of guiding you in your walk round the convent." the duchess glanced at donatus with condescending kindness, and the court-ladies exchanged meaning glances, "that is the one we saw just now." donatus stood in the door-way with downcast eyes. "come then," said the duchess rising. "two of you accompany me; you, emerita, and you, countess hildegard." the two chosen ones sprang forward with pleasure; one of them, hildegard, was the beauty who had previously pulled up her horse in her admiration of donatus' fine figure. she wore a light blue upper-garment or cappa of a fine and almost transparent woollen stuff, and under it a dress of heavy yellow silk rich with gold and bordered with white fur. she had laid aside her broad hat, and her very light hair was bound with a golden circlet, and crowned with fresh alpine roses that she had gathered on the way. her handsome dress hung round her slender form in soft folds, and was gathered in round her waist by a girdle of red velvet embroidered with gold. she was fair to see, that haughty maiden! her brow was as white as marble, and the roses in her cheeks were heightened by a faint touch of the finest florentine rouge. her flashing eyes seemed to ask: "where is there one fairer than i?" nothing was to be got out of the simple god-fearing monks in the cloister, which she now must explore with the duchess, nothing but looks of disapprobation of such worldly court-fashions, and if she could not ere long produce some sort of sensation, she felt she must die of tedium. the other, emerita, the duchess' favourite, was dressed no less splendidly though less elaborately; her hair was modestly fastened up in a fine net of silver-threads tied with white, and a black velvet cap embroidered with pearls; her robes of soft white silk and woollen stuff were bordered with dark fur, and fell heavily and simply to her feet. the duchess herself was the most plainly dressed of all; deeply veiled in matronly fashion, and enveloped from her shoulders in the broad folds of a brown silk mantle fastened over her bosom with a single gold clasp; the rest of her dress consisted entirely of grey woollen stuff. these three figures--so unlike each other--followed their monkish guide through the cold, damp, musty corridors of the vast building. he led them first to the library; the duchess found here a rich harvest for her craving for pious learning, for sacred books and parchments of inestimable value and splendour were amassed in it, and she was soon greedily absorbed in these treasures. hildegard was almost in despair. the dust of books and rouge! these have little in common! and no one by but the coy saint with a head like a heathen god, as fine as any to be seen in rome--living, breathing, and yet of marble! a secret revulsion to spite and hatred sprang up in her soul. tedium is the parent of all kinds of crime. but to her great joy just then it occurred to the duke to accompany the duchess on her tour round the convent, and, conducted by the abbot, he at this instance entered the library. "well, countess hildegard, how do you like yourself here?" said he, laughing and threatening her with his finger. "how fine you are! come, come, do not be bewitching the poor young monk with your charms." "do not be alarmed, my lord," said hildegard mockingly, "he has not vouchsafed us a single glance; i believe his eyes have grown fixed to the ground." the duke looked at her with a smile. "that is a sad grievance for you, is it not, hildegard? if it is but a monk he ought to admire you." hildegard coloured and was silent; but the duke, good-humouredly carrying on the joke, said to donatus, "tell me, pious brother, why do you keep your eyes so immoveably fixed on the ground; are our fair maids of honour not worthy to be looked at?" donatus was standing before the duchess, holding a heavy folio which she was turning over. "it does not become a servant of god to gaze at anything but the earth, which will be his grave, or heaven, which is his hope," he replied with serene gravity. the duchess looked at his guileless countenance, and deep compassion filled her soul, she knew not wherefore. she could have loved this youth as a son. "you are right, my child, and may god give you strength to hold to your principles," she said benevolently. "ah! you see," said the duke in a low voice to tease hildegard. "your arts are wasted on him, pretty countess; here at length is a man who can resist you." "what do you mean, my lord?--i will bring him to look at me this very day--or i will go for a year in sack-cloth and ashes and break every looking-glass," whispered hildegard smiling and showing two rows of brilliant teeth to the duke's admiring eyes. "aye, aye," he said laughing, "that would indeed be a conquest for you. you have princes and dukes at your apron strings--and now a poor monk's soul must burn in eternal fires for your sake." the abbot suggested that they should proceed; the duke gave his arm to his wife, the abbot went on in front, emerita followed; hildegard hung behind a little. "you take your vows in the strictest sense, and that no doubt is right," she said. "but it seems to me, worthy brother, that you must have very little confidence in your own strength if you have to guard your glances so strictly. are you afraid lest a single look should bring you to ruin?--if so--forgive me, but i cannot help saying it--if so, your virtue is in a very bad plight." thus she teased and tried to pique donatus who walked by her side in silence. "whether i am strong or weak--i do not know. but it is written in the first epistle of paul to timothy, that women shall adorn themselves in modest apparel, with shamefacedness and sobriety; not with braided hair, or gold, or pearls, or costly array, but with piety and good works. and your dress is against this commandment--you are scandal in the eyes of the lord--and the eyes of men should avoid seeing you." "bless me! that sounds very terrible! such a severe speech would better become a father confessor than your youthful years; but even stern words sound soft from your lips, and i would sooner obey you than any old lenten preacher." and without pausing to consider, she took off her golden chaplet with its pearls and preciously wrought trefoils, she took out the broad gold clasp which held her robe together over her full bosom, so as to uncover her white throat--and she laid them both in the young monk's hand. "there," she said, "take these for your poor; i offer them willingly, and i will give up everything that i usually wear if you will only give me one friendly look to repay me." the inexperienced boy stood speechless; was she in earnest? was it true that she was so submissive to his words, so self-sacrificing, so ready to repent? and he involuntarily raised his eyes and looked at her--a wide, questioning, admiring gaze. she caught his glance and fixed it with a magic spell, entangling him in a net, woven as it were of the radiant glances of her own eyes. "oh!" she sighed softly, and her voice fell caressingly on his ear like the faint whisper of the limes under the eastern turret-window, "you see, you too can smile. believe me such a smile on your lips has more power than a whole epistle of st. paul." donatus was alarmed and his lids dropped again. "god forbid! you were joking and i thought you were in earnest. take back your golden ornaments--they burn my hands as though they had been forged in unholy fires." but she pushed the things from her and said with an air of sweet earnestness, "nay--you do me an injustice. if i talk the language of the world teach me a better one. look at me! your gaze has a purifying power; look at me, look me in the face and see if i can lie?" and once more he raised his eyes and drank the sweet poison of beauty such as he had never dreamed of. "come, come!" it was the duke's voice, "my coy brother; you are already over head and ears in contemplation of our maid-of-honour! it seems to me she has converted you more quickly than you have converted her.'" donatus started, as from a dream; he blushed deeply, and casting down his eyes, he turned to the abbot to present him with the jewels, which he still held in his hand. the abbot, much surprised, thanked and blessed the generous donor. but the duchess paused and called hildegard to her side. "why did you disturb us?" whispered hildegard angrily in the duke's ear as she passed him. her breath came quickly and her cheeks glowed more scarlet than their rouge. "you are a perfect fiend, hildegard," the duke whispered in return. "i am much displeased with you, countess," said the duchess. "what have you to do with that innocent young monk? try your arts where you will, only not here on these saintly men and do not destroy the peace of these chaste souls. i fear we shall never suit each other, hildegard." hildegard set her teeth, then she said, "very well, my lady duchess, when we reach munster i will ask you to grant me an escort to conduct me back to my father's castle, if my service is no longer acceptable to you." "that will be best for you and for me," said the duchess calmly, and she passed in by a door which the abbot unlocked, and which opened into some steps that led down to the subterranean hall. "in a few days," said the abbot, who had not observed what was passing, "we shall celebrate in this crypt a requiem for the wife of our noble founder, who died in the holy land. our youngest brother donatus will then preach his first discourse, for on the following day he is to be consecrated to the priesthood." thus speaking he led the way down the steep damp stairs, and the sanctity of the spot struck them all involuntarily silent. meanwhile reichenberg was waiting in the refectory, sunk in gloomy brooding, and the hungry monks, who had long passed their usual meal-time, stood about listening if the footsteps of the company might not haply be coming nearer. at last the brother who was in control of the kitchen sounded the dinner-bell, and at the same instant the duchess entered the refectory with donatus, the duke following with the abbot. the duchess was deep in conversation with her companion; presently turning to the abbot, she said kindly, "i thank you, my lord abbot; i have seen a great deal that has both delighted and instructed me. particularly the library--i could spend whole hours there, for you have inestimable treasures preserved there in ancient manuscripts written by pious, learned, and godly men. but above all, i must honestly confess--nay more than all the books of wisdom--this child has edified and elevated my spirit. in good truth, my lord abbot, heavenly blossoms grow in your garden and this world would be a paradise if the lord had many such gardeners." "dear me! the duchess is growing quite young again," said the duke with a laughing, threatening gesture. "hey, hey! my lord abbot, what sort of monks have we here that turn the heads of all the ladies, old and young?" "do not laugh, my lord," said the duchess gravely. "i assure you, the wisdom of old age and the innocence of childhood are united in this youth. if i had only known sooner, my lord abbot, what disciples you could bring up, i should have chosen the monks for my new foundation from your community, and i deeply regret that i have already made an agreement with morimond, the head of the cistercian abbey, for none can have higher qualifications than you possess. but this at least i beg of you, that you will spare me this youth to be my castle chaplain. you tell me he is to be anointed priest; let him exercise his holy office in my service, and god in heaven will recompense you for the good deed you will do to a poor sick woman." the abbot was silent for a moment from surprise and looked at donatus. "happy child!" said he, "what honours are heaped upon your head. shall i grant this gracious lady's wish and give you to her? speak freely." "no--father!" cried donatus in mortal terror. "you will not cast me out!" "forgive him, madam," said the abbot smiling. "we have taught him always to speak nothing but the truth. you see, it is not compulsion that keeps him here, and it will not be against his will if i find myself obliged to refuse your request! the boy, in fact, must never leave the convent, a sacred vow binds us and him." "nay, then god forbid that i should force you to break it, and since it is so i renounce the wish though with regret. but i tell you--and remember my words--if ever you find yourselves under the pressure of any need, if you are threatened by enemies, or if for any cause whatever you have occasion to crave any favour from me, send this youth to ask it, and, on my word of honour, whatever you ask shall be granted you. my noble husband will help me to fulfil this promise." "yes!" cried the duke laughing. "by heaven! your will is my will, elizabeth, but now keep me no longer from my dinner, for i am almost dead of hunger." donatus stepped modestly up to the abbot. "father, you granted a dispensation for to-day, but give me leave, i entreat you, to keep myself from flesh and wine." "do as you will, if you do not wish for meat do not eat any." "yes, i wish for it, but for that reason i would deny myself," said donatus in a low voice. "you are right, my son," said the abbot, and his eye rested with unutterable affection on the boy's pure brow. the serving brother now brought in the first dish, and the duchess signed to the abbot to sit by her side. "where are your ladies, madam?" asked the abbot. "i did not bring them in with me to dinner, for they are young and vain, and might disturb the grave souls of your younger brethren. so, if you please, you will send them out some of the dishes." "i am obliged to you for your forethought," replied the abbot. "you have saved our brethren much scandal. let us now say grace." grace was said and the meal proceeded; the serving brethren could hardly carry the heavy copper vessels with their savoury contents. all enjoyed themselves but correntian and donatus, who sat at the farther end of the table, and would touch none of the tempting food. when dinner was over the duchess returned to her ladies; the duke rose from table, and withdrew to rest for a while in the abbot's cell; the brethren and the gentlemen sought the shade and freshness of the cool arbours in the garden. no one was left in the dining-hall but count reichenberg and wyso. wyso, flushed with his intemperate enjoyment of god's gifts of meat and drink, was resting his red face on the table, and snoring loudly. suddenly he felt himself roughly shaken; he looked up blinking, and saw the count--donatus' father--standing by him. "what is it--what do you want?" said wyso stuttering, and he lazily sat up. "oh, oh--what a thing is man? oh! for shame--what have i eaten?" "can you still understand what is said to you, in spite of your drunkenness?" asked reichenberg in a harsh tone. wyso snorted and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. "oh dear! eating and drinking is a glorious gift of god!" he stuttered in a lamentable voice. "but all the time there is a little devil at the bottom called too-much, and he spoils the pleasure of it." the count gave him another shake. "you have too much wit to be quite drunk; listen to me, you can and you must." a glance shot from wyso's little eyes, all swelled as they were with drink--a glance at the count so full of cunning that reichenberg seized him roughly by the shoulder. "i believe," he said, "you take me for a fool." "i believe i have made a fool of you, my lord; so at least it would seem by your not stirring from my side. but take heart, my lord! was it not a splendid dinner?" "you may henceforth have better dinners than you ever get here; you may come with me to reichenberg, i will give you my chaplaincy, there is not a fatter living in the country; then you may eat all day whatever your heart desires, and i will furnish your cellar;--only say one single word--" wyso cast a sly sidelong glance at reichenberg. "you are very wise, my lord, not to stint your bacon when you want to catch your mouse." "well, i should think a good broil of bacon would smell better to a sturdy old glutton like you, than the incense they will burn upon your coffin when fasting and prayer have brought your miserable life to a close." wyso slowly winked with one eye. "ah!" said he. "is that what you should think?" "tell me, whose child is the young monk whom you call donatus?" wyso's head suddenly fell down on his breast again, and he began to snore. "do not pretend to be asleep, i do not believe it. you are a cunning fellow; what, is the living not enough for you! i will give you a nag and a sledge, much finer than those of the bishop of chur, goat-skins for shoes, and white lamb-skins--what more shall i offer you? only say what you desire, and you shall have it." wyso looked at him with a cunning glance. "you are a very clever man, my lord, but you do not know us yet! do you really suppose that because i do not turn up my eyes, and drawl out the name of god, nor snap in two from sheer fasting and scourging when any one touches me like a starved cockchafer--do you suppose that i am a gluttonous booby who holds his conscience between his teeth, and can wash away all oaths, all honour, and all fidelity to the church which he has served all his life long in one unwonted drinking bout? no, my lord, clever as you are, we have not gone so far as that; you may catch mice with bacon, but not benedictines; do you understand?" and from loud laughter he fell to coughing till every vein swelled, and he had to wipe his face with the corner of the tablecloth. "you oily priest--you! you mock me, do you? i will see if i cannot find means to make you speak--" and he unconsciously clutched at the knife in his girdle; his blood boiled with rage and he hardly knew what he was doing. "what do you want, my lord?" said wyso coolly. "would you like to rip my body up? that would do you no good--i have not written the secret on parchment and then swallowed it!" reichenberg stood for a moment speechless from astonishment, then his arm dropped as if suddenly sobered. reflection came back to him and he understood that his efforts were wasted on this half-drunken cynic. "the devil only knows what you priests are bound by," he muttered and put his knife back into its ivory sheath. "take a little nap, count reichenberg," said wyso, smiling mischievously, "when children have not slept they are always ill-tempered. god grant the dinner may be blest to you! it must have cost us at least twenty gulden, everything included." the count turned away and walked moodily to the window. "go now, my lord, and if you do not want to make an end of me, do not disturb me any more in my noon-tide sleep," said wyso, laying his arms on the table and his red face on them, and pretending once more to be asleep. "count reichenberg," said the duke laughing, as reichenberg went out into the courtyard, his spurs ringing as he walked, "have you any more progeny in these parts? if so pray tell me beforehand, for your humour is enough to spoil the weather for our journey." "i have given it up, my lord, and must wait for better times to take the matter up again," answered reichenberg shortly. the duchess now appeared walking between the abbot and donatus, and ready to set out on her journey. the maids of honour followed, very ill-pleased, for they had been beyond measure dull, and the countess hildegard walked foremost with a broad-brimmed hat and trailing peacock feather on her pretty head in the place of the golden chaplet. she fixed her longing eyes immoveably on donatus, but he did not venture to lift his gaze to her, and the fine florentine rouge fell off her cheeks that turned pale with vexation. the sundial indicated four o'clock in the afternoon; the duke had had the horses saddled and the outriders had already started. the litter was led out and the duchess got into it. "farewell, my lord abbot," she cried once more. "farewell, donatus. bear in mind the words i spoke to you and do not fail to apply to me if ever you are in need of help." once more the duke and the abbot shook hands. the ladies put their gold-embroidered shoes into their stirrups and sprang, ill-satisfied, into their saddles; the whole cortège moved off as it came, amid the cracking of whips and barking of hounds, shouting, trampling, and hallooing, so that it could be heard long after it was out of sight. the brethren drew a long breath of relief and went back to their daily duties, the convent servants swept the court-yard clean with large besoms; the scared cat sneaked suspiciously back over the granary roof and all was soon as quiet and peaceful as before. but a shadow had fallen on the abbot's soul--a secret anxiety which would never let him breathe again so freely as he did that morning--a vague feeling that all was not in fact exactly as it had been before. chapter ii. the week was ended; it was saturday, the eve of the ordination. the busy hands were at rest; harvest was garnered, the doors of the overflowing barns would hardly close. and the church too was to reap her harvest; the seed of faith, which the pious monks had sown, twenty years ago, in the heart of the tiny foundling, had grown fair and strong and full in ear. donatus had just preached his first sermon before all the brethren; with a beating heart he had pronounced the final "amen," his eyes flashing with sacred fires; his words had seemed to fly over the heads of the assembled brethren as if winged by the holy ghost. nay, even after he had ended, the echo of his words sounded in the building, and they listened devoutly till it had quite died away. then the abbot rose and clasped the young man to his heart, "marvellous boy!" he exclaimed. "you came to us, a stranger, and we thought that we knew from whence you came, and believed that we should give to you out of our superfluity and teach you out of the stores of our wisdom. but now you give to us of your abundance and teach us by your wisdom so that we are fain to ask, 'whence are you?' for it was not in the snows of the wild heath where you were picked up, nor between our humble convent-walls that you received such a divine revelation." donatus kissed his uncle's hand. "oh father," he said softly, "i kiss your faithful and fatherly hand in all reverence, for it is the hand that has led me to that sacred fount whence i have drawn living waters for your refreshment. nothing is my own, i have received everything from you, and to you i give it back, and whatever i am, that i am through you! i thank you, my father--i thank you, my brethren! to-day--on the eve of that sacred day--the day of my new birth in the lord--let me offer you all in one word the thanks of a life-time." and all the brethren--with the exception of that one who was always irreconcilable--crowded round him and grasped his hands affectionately. aye! it was a rich and glorious harvest to the lord that they were celebrating that day, and they were proud of it--proud of having brought up the boy so well--proud that they had all been so wise, and so good to him. then the abbot led him to the chapel that he might there make his last confession before the holy and solemn festival. long, long did donatus kneel before the confessional, and the iron grating against which he pressed his brow was wet with his tears. for a secret sin had weighed upon his soul these three days past. "oh father, father!" cried he from an oppressed heart, "i, your son, no longer appear before you pure as i did a few days since. father! i dread to tell you. my eyes have drunk of the poison of woman's beauty and it courses through my veins like a consuming fire. always--always--i see before me the light curling hair, the rosy cheeks, the white throat as i saw it when her robe fell back, when she took off the clasp--the whole lovely form and figure. augustine speaks truly when he says, 'the eyes every day cast us into all sin and crime; what has been created that is more subtle than the eye?' my heart was pure, it harboured no thought but of god; but these eyes, subtle to betray me, have cast me into temptation, they have destroyed the peace of my soul, for even now they still bring the sinful image before my mind again and again. they paint it on the blue sky, on the pillars of the church, on my prayer-book--nay, on the altar-cloth. i see it wherever i turn my eyes, it comes between me and my prayers. oh father, how dare i, with this snare in my soul, bow my head to receive the consecrating oil; will it not hiss and dry up as if it were poured on hot iron?" "calm yourself, my son," said the abbot. "there can be no virtue without a struggle. to be tempted is not to sin, and i know that during the last three days you have mortified and scourged yourself severely, and for three nights have not sought your bed, but have knelt here on the stones of the chapel pavement. he who does such penance for a small fault must certainly win grace and pardon! but it is true that all sin comes of a wanton eye, and it is written in the vith chapter of matthew, 'if thine eye be single, thy whole body shall be full of light; but if thine eye be evil, thy whole body shall be full of darkness.' so guard your eye henceforth, my son, and keep it single, that it may not gaze on forbidden things and that you may continue chaste and pure before god and man." "yes, father!" cried donatus, raising his hand to heaven. "and i here swear in the sight of all the saints that i will act in accordance with your precepts. never again shall my eye rest on the form of woman, never shall it be raised above the hem of her garment where it sweeps the ground, never will i be betrayed into a wish or a desire, or else may god's grace abandon me, and may he cast me into the deepest damnation." "hold, pause, mad boy! that is a curse and not an oath," cried the horrified abbot. "god's grace is far greater than your sick soul can imagine; he pities even the sinner, and judges him after the measure of his strength, not according to his guilt. would you prevent god's grace and pronounce your own damnation when he in his eternal and fatherly mercies would most likely pardon you? whither will your youthful vehemence carry you? man may not purify himself by blind self-destroying zeal, but by faithful and humble submissiveness, by silent fulfilment of duty, by incessant inward struggles. take this to heart, son of my soul, and may the lord pardon you your wild mood; for you will fall again, and many a time, and must often need his saving grace." it was now late; the door of the chapel closed behind the abbot. donatus' confession was over; he remained alone, praying on the steps of the altar. there is silence in earth and heaven, not a breeze stirs the air, there is not a sound in the valley below. all is at rest after labour accomplished, waiting for sunday, the day of rejoicing. for all the human beings down in the valley belong to the church, literally body and soul, and when the church rejoices they too rejoice. a church festival is a festival for them, and they know no others; on the eve of such a festival each one lays him down to sleep full of pious thoughts, so that no sinful dreams may scare away the angels which come down in the night to prepare the souls of the sleepers for the sacred day that is about to dawn. silent, but busy the guardian spirits soar and float from hill to vale all the night through, till the sun rises and its first rays stream through the little cottage-windows, falling on the closed eyelids that open again to the light. then the wakers rub their eyes with a wonderful sense of rapture. sanctification lurks sweetly in their souls though hidden as yet and not fully understood, but in a few hours the consecrated lips of the church will speak the words of absolution; then it will flash into consciousness like a revelation from heaven. the young novice for whom the festival was prepared was still lying on his face before his praying-stool, just as the abbot had left him the evening before. all the night through he had lain there and prayed without moving, the bridegroom of heaven; he had triumphed through fervent prayer, and overthrown all that was earthly. he had purified himself in the fires of devotion, and his soul burned and glowed whole and undivided for her, the celestial bride. his eyes were sunken, his cheeks pale with watching and prayer. for what prayer could indeed be strong, eager, and fervent enough to merit that grace of which no mortal is worthy, and least of all he--he the weak and erring novice who had scarcely mounted the first step towards perfection. the morning-sun streamed brightly down on the towers and pinnacles of marienberg, and threw golden disks of light through the circular panes on to the pavement of the silent chapel. the penitent saw them not, it was still night to him, for he lay there with his face closely hidden in his clasped hands. the bell rang for matins; up flew the angels from the valley to rouse the bridegroom, and he felt their palm-branches waving over his head. he roused himself from his acts of contrition, and hastened to the dormitory to dress, that he might appear in festive attire as a bridegroom, to receive that invisible bride to whom his whole heart went forth in rapture. meanwhile down in the valley all were awake and busy; all souls were purified from sinful thoughts, and water from the sparkling mountain springs served to cleanse all bodies from the soil of labour. rosy baby faces came out from the fresh moisture under their mothers' busy hands, like flowers after rain, with their bright shining eyes that looked undimmed upon the world. and many a wrinkle of care and weariness was washed from the brow of the old by the pure wonder-working glacier waters; the every day frock of frieze was exchanged for a decent sunday dress of stuff, camlet or even better material. the maidens put on white linen gowns--the garb of innocence--not without a happy thrill of veneration, for they were to accompany the bridegroom as bridesmaids, when he walked in procession round the church; then they went out into the little gardens, resplendent with the glories of summer, carefully holding up their white gowns in the narrow paths that they might not sweep the dewy borders; they plucked the ever-sacred elder which must never be wanting at any solemnity whether joyful or sad; a few sprigs of hazel because under it the blessed virgin once took shelter in a storm, for which reason it has ever since been blest with peculiar and marvellous powers; then the juniper with its blackberries, from which the wholesome juniper-spirit is extracted, that they burn to counteract the evil spring-mists; tall-grown lilies and humble daisies--which blossomed under mary's tears when she was forced to fly into egypt; marjoram, rue, and thyme--potent against all devilry; rosemary, hawkweed, and ground-ivy--all sacred blossoms and plants that grow under fortunate stars. of these the girls made the festal garlands, carefully selecting the flowers according to their emblematic significance. last of all they clambered up to break off some boughs of the rosa pomifera, which first sprang from the innocent bloodshed by a pure maiden; which grew luxuriantly, high up on the wall, and when they tried to pull a branch that was too tough to yield, a sparkling shower of dew was shaken down upon them so that they had to take hasty flight with laughter and clamour as though from some saucy teasing companion. presently the tramp of horses coming from the direction of mals broke the morning stillness. one of the girls in the garden farthest from the village peeped over the wall at the approaching party. a lady was riding foremost, she had given the reins to the horse and came rapidly onward, followed by two women on horseback and a few men servants; by her side rode a tall knight to guide and protect her. close to the wall the lady paused and signed to the astonished girl. "here--are they not going to ordain one of the monks up at the monastery to-day?" she called out. "yes--the bell will ring directly," was the answer. the lady threw her bridle to the rider by her side and sprang from the horse before a servant could come to her assistance. "will you give me your linen frock?" she went on. "i will pay you for it as if it were a royal robe." the girl laughed; she thought the lady was jesting. "come round and let me in," commanded the stranger. "dear countess--i beg of you--what have you taken into your head?" whispered the knight. "i am going to the consecration of this priest," said the countess laughing. "but i must not be recognised and shall mingle with the peasant girls--do you understand?" "but consider, i beg of you, such a proceeding is most unbecoming for you," remonstrated the knight. "i know best what is or is not becoming for myself. you others must ride off by another way, up to where the ruins of the old fortress of castellatz will afford you shelter against sun or rain; there you must remain concealed till we proceed on our journey." "could we not find shelter in the convent itself," said the knight, "as we did lately with the duchess?" the countess laughed. "and do you think those strict old gentlemen would receive a wandering maid-of-honour--particularly on a day so solemn? you little know them. do as i desire you, my lord, and your obedience shall meet with its reward," she added with a meaning glance of such promise as brought the blood to her companion's cheeks for joy. "oh! what a beautiful wreath," she exclaimed, as she went to the girl who stood waiting for her. "you must give me that too." her long train disappeared behind the wall and the little door closed behind her. there was nothing left for the knight but to console himself by doing her bidding and to ride slowly away. "what can she want up there?" muttered he, shaking his head and carefully leading away her horse by the bridle. if the horse could have spoken it might have told him--it had carried her on its back that day when she had entered the convent-yard and had seen the young monk for the first time.--but snort and blow as it would it could say nothing and the little procession moved off in silence, behind the village, and through the dewy woods up to the lonely hill of castellatz. the great bell of marienberg was already tolling, the bell that was the wonder of the whole neighbourhood and whose mighty voice could be heard afar over hill and valley. the boys of the village had long since gone up to help to pull the rope, for the sound of that bell had a particular sanctity, and besides it was excellent fun to fly up and down hanging to the rope. the maidens with their large bunches of flowers walked properly close to their parents, and their hearts beat in their young breasts with high and holy festival joy. thus they all mounted the hill in devotional silence, and high up over the church door stood troops of angels with seraphs' wings more radiant than the sun, inviting the people who came pouring in from far and near in their holiday dresses, to enter their father's hospitable mansion where they were welcomed with incense and myrrh and green garlands. the floor of the church trembled under the feet of the crowds that flocked in, and those who could not find room within knelt down outside; for a long, long way round the church the eye could see nothing but kneeling figures, and as the people could not come in to the church, the church went forth to the people. just as in spring-time the streams overflow their banks or as a too full heart overflows in moments of supreme joy, so the church in her hour of highest happiness outstepped her walls of stone and poured her blessing on the crowds outside. when the ceremony of ordination and the high mass were over the solemn procession came out under the open heaven. "they are coming--they are coming!" cried one and another; and amid the ringing of bells, the roar of the organ and the jubilant strains of flutes, harps, psalteries and cymbals, out they marched with banners flying, in white surplices; first the musicians, then the choristers, swinging the censers, while the girls formed a line on each side and strewed flowers in the way. then came the standard bearers with the banner with the image of the virgin, which was embroidered by the lady uta; the deacons with lighted tapers in their hands forming an escort for the abbot who carried the host, and gave his blessing to all; last of all the troop of priests with the newly ordained brother in their midst, walking under the protection of the sacred banners that had been dedicated to the convent by pious hands. the kneeling people reverently made way on each side so that the procession might pass through and bestow salvation on all sides. a scarcely suppressed cry of admiration trembled on every lip, as the young priest made his appearance. he wore a long white surplice, the alb, which was girt round his slim form with a golden girdle; a richly embroidered stole was crossed on his breast and from his shoulders fell the black folds of his cope, while on his head, as signifying innocence and purity, rested the festal chaplet and a wreath of white roses--he came onwards, his head modestly bent, as if the honours of this day were crushing him to the earth. the girls strewed his path with the flowers and plants of good omen that they had gathered in the morning and his feet fell softly on them, so close was the green carpet they made. but suddenly he started as if he had trodden on a thorn. it was only a word that struck him, and with the word a glance. "what a pity!" one of the girls had said to herself, and as he involuntarily looked round, his eye met a glance so appealing, so touching, from such a lovely face--and that face! he knew it so well. and yet how could it be? a peasant-girl and that haughty maid-of-honour, how could they be alike? but the resemblance was so striking that he stood as if blinded by a flash, struck to his inmost core; only for a second, no longer than it takes to draw a deep breath or to snatch a flower as you are passing by, but his foot stumbled as he walked on, as if he were in too great haste to make up for some long delay. on they went, making three circuits round the hill, each wider than the last, till the very last of the crowd of believers had shared the blessing for which he had waited so patiently. out at the farthest edge of the hill, almost at the brink of the precipice, knelt a poor, pale woman with grey hair, miserably clad in rags; she looked longingly up at the young priest as if she were gazing at celestial bliss. and close beside her, also clothed in rags, crouched a being of strange aspect--half child, half girl--with a mass of reddish-brown hair, and large round eyes with golden lights in them under dark brows that met in the middle; eyes that looked dreamily out on the world as if the soul behind them were sleeping still at mid-day, and yet moved in its sleep--as a golden owl spreads its gorgeous plumage in the sunshine while night still reigns to its dazzled eyes, "dark with excess of light." but the strange looking little creature started up as if suddenly awakened, and grasped the woman's arm in alarm. "look there, is that an angel?" she asked, pointing to the slight figure of donatus who was coming near them--now close to them, and the child trembled and shrank back, as from some dread apparition, behind her companion, who furtively put out her lean hand, and seizing a fold of his robe pressed it to her lips. "donatus, my son, do you not know me?" she murmured. the young man looked enquiringly at her. she held up before him a tiny cross of rough wood made of two sticks nailed together, and as if by the waving of a magic wand all the long years vanish, and he sees before him the autumn-tinted arbour where one evening--so long ago--he played at the feet of "his mother," as he had always called her--he sees the little grave-mound, and on it the cross that he himself had made; then they snatch him from his mother's arms, the cruel dark man seizes him, he sees her weep and clings to her knee--and a home-sick longing for all that has vanished, for the warm shelter of a mother's breast--the bitter home-sickness of a life-time is reawakened in his heart. and then--the procession of lofty inaccessible beings moved on, and he with them! one more unperceived glance round, one hasty look; he saw the poor soul stretch out her arms after him, and then fall forward on her face. he had not been able even to ask her the simple question, "mother, where do you live and where can i find you?" he saw that she was starving and he could not even carry a bit of bread to her who had nourished him so that he had grown to strength and manhood, to her who had given her heart's blood for him! and two bitter tears dropped trembling from his lashes and fell into the daisies, which had sprung from the tears of the mother of god as she fled homeless into the desert--and the little flowers seemed to look up at him with answering eyes, and to ask, "for which mother are you weeping?" his eyes fell for shame before the innocent blossoms that he trod under his foot. the unutterable sorrows of the virgin-mother were revealed to him in all their greatness through the woes of his outcast foster-mother; what must she have suffered who bore to see the god who was her son slain like a lamb! and could he weep over the sorrows of the nurse who had not borne him--who need not see him die as mary had seen her divine son--nailed to the cross by cruel hands? "mary, eternal mother--forgive, forgive that i could forget thee for the sake of any earthly woman. my tears are thine alone--and i could weep for another!--forgive, forgive!" thus he prayed and raised his eyes in penitence to the floating banner which went on before him, waving in all its splendour in the fresh mountain breeze. this was the blessing that the daisies had brought him and he thanked the hand that had gathered them. if only it were not the hand of the rosy girl with alluring eyes who had made him start and stumble by her resemblance to the lady who had robbed him of his peace? how much fairer too was she in the simple linen frock than the haughty maid-of-honour in her sinful attire! and the two were so alike, so indistinguishable that it might be easily thought that the peasant girl was in fact the maid-of-honour herself. oh! heavenly mercy! again these earthly thoughts, and on his festal-day--his wedding-day! for the first time in his life he had passed beyond the shelter of the cloister-walls, and he felt already how the world stretched forth its arms to tempt him--fear and trembling came upon him. could those arms reach him in the midst of all this wealth of mercies? woe unto him! for the greater the grace the more fearful the retribution if it were not deserved--the greater the elevation the deeper the fall. "beware, beware," he said to himself, and a cold sweat of anguish stood in drops on his shaven head under the chaplet of roses. the circuit was over, and it was high time, for he felt that he was on the point of fainting; the night spent in prayer and scourging, the fervour which had fired his blood were taking their revenge and he was exhausted to death. the procession turned towards the church again, the white-robed maidens forming a passage as before; once more he stood in their midst, he the pure and pious youth who of all men could never divine how the operation of a blessing could turn to a curse in the unhallowed soul! another glance at that sweet face with its blue eyes would be rapture--but he resisted it. with a beating heart and tightly closed lids he walked on, and only breathed again when he found himself once more within the cool, protecting walls of the church. the ceremony was over, the crowd was dispersing, all was silent again; he was alone, prostrate before the altar and still wrapt in prayer. but the maidens of burgeis had stayed to pray too--the old folks would go slowly and they could soon overtake them; they would not go away so long as the young priest remained there. at last he rose and they pressed round him, as round a saint; they were eager to lay the few flowers they had left, at his feet on the altar steps--and the first to touch him--on whom his eye unconsciously fell was she--whom he dreaded and yet longed for! she was standing close to him like a bride in her white dress, crowned with a festal wreath of flowers; half-shy, half-forward, her eye full of intoxicating invitation. how happy must the man be into whose hands she would resign that maidenly crown as now she lay the flowers at his feet! and without knowing or intending it, his lips repeated the words she had spoken before, "what a pity!" but as the faint murmur left his lips it seemed suddenly to grow to an avalanche in his ears and to sound like the crashing thunder-roll that follows it. could he say this--he, and to-day! and his oath of yesterday! alas! what was sacred, what was sure? the walls of the church tottered, the flames of the tapers danced before his eyes in wild circles, he felt dizzy, he saw nothing but bewitching eyes, glowing cheeks, and white arms stretched out towards him. he must be steadfast, he must not fall or they will reach him, bend over him, ensnare him with their love-spells. if he can only get as far as the door of the sacristy without falling--if he can reach that he will be safe! but it is so far, so much too far, he can support himself no longer--he falls; there--they are there--they fling themselves upon him, he feels soft arms supporting his head--one glance into the dewy blue eyes that are close to his--. and he is lost--his consciousness drowned in a deep blue sea. chapter iii. night had fallen, the noise of the festival was hushed; a lamp still burned dismally in correntian's cell where he was sitting before a large volume--but he was not reading. he leaned back in his chair, brooding gloomily. suddenly there was a light tap at the door, and he called out in much surprise the usual "_deo gratias!_" for the rule of saint benedict does not allow two brethren to be alone together in one cell. it must be an extraordinary occasion that could excuse such a breach of discipline. the door opened and there entered, divested of his festal attire, and dressed in a monk's black robe, the newly ordained priest. "what can you want with me?" asked correntian with a look of contempt. "what can the spoilt darling of the indolent brethren, who can not sufficiently fill up their time with prayers, what can he want of me whom he always was afraid of?" "do not mock me, correntian," said donatus with much solemnity, "i want your help. do not forget that we are brothers." "brethren of the order, but not brothers in heart. leave me. you are sinning against the rules of the order, and you gain nothing by it, for i hate you as much as i love god and the church." "it is precisely because you hate me that i come to you." "do you hope to propitiate me? do you think you can befool me with the honeyed slaver of your lips as you have the weaker brethren? never flatter yourself. i am your enemy, and shall remain so." "but i tell you again it is not a friend, it is an enemy that i seek. and if you could hate me more than i hate myself, all the more would i seek you." "i do not understand you." "listen, and you will understand. i ask you to be my father confessor because you are the only one who does not love me, the only one who has no pity on me; now do you understand? the others love me too much and they show mercy to me. but i ask for no mercy, i desire only stern inexorable justice--that is why i seek you." correntian turned towards him at last, and looked astonished at his agitated countenance. "are you so much in earnest?" he said. "in fearful earnest!" cried the young man with a burst of despair, leaning his forehead against the bare wall. "oh, correntian, for years i have hated, abhorred you; only a few days ago i was angry with you because one of the brethren told me that you wanted to blind me, when i was first brought here. oh! would you had done so, it would have been better for me." "i understand," said correntian coldly. "the tempter seeks you in woman's form, and you are weak. the curse will run its course as sure as the stars, and you cannot escape it." "no, no! for god's sake, not that, only not that. correntian, i will perform any penance you lay upon me, for none can be too great for my sins. the lord hath loved me, and drawn me to him as he did peter, and like peter i have betrayed him at the first cock-crow. i was not faithful even so long as i wore the festal robe, not so long as while i stood before the altar, not so long as the breath which wafted my vows to heaven! cast me out into misery as my father did, i am worthy of nothing better, unworthy of the compassion of men. i am mere dust, flung to every wind; cast it out and scatter it to the blast!" correntian slowly nodded his head. "it has all happened just as i said it would. "you are not made of the stuff from which the conqueror chooses his fighting men. begotten among the wanton joys of a frivolous court, nourished at the breast of a wanton woman, your whole breeding has been wantonness. the loving glances that you raise to heaven are wanton, they wanton with the sun and the blue sky that soothe your senses; the last looks you send after your dead brethren in the grave are wanton, they wanton with the roses that the wind bends over it. nay, even the gaze you fix in devout prayer on the image of our mother mary is wanton, as it looks at the fair woman, at the lovely work of the painter's brush. and how then should it not wanton with the first living woman of flesh and blood who comes before you, as the first woman in paradise appeared to the first man. you are yourself as fair to see as sin, and pleasure-loving women will everywhere run after you; for the doors by which sin may enter into you and go forth from you, are in truth fair and enticing, and those doors are your love-inviting eyes." "true, alas! too true. but what am i to do? can i shut my eyes?" asked the youth. "yes," was the terrible answer, and correntian drew the desk with the heavy latin bible towards him, and hastily turned to a page where it was written, "if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out and cast it from thee." the youth turned pale. he stared at his sinister judge as though a ghost had sprung from the earth before him, a figure so incomprehensible and inconceivable that his gaze could not take it in. the monk sat before the big book, his eyes cast down; the uncertain light of the dingy lamp cast two round shadows in his pale face, like the empty eye-holes of a skull. the youth felt as if he were looking at his own face--corpse-like--eyeless! and yet so calm, so sublime!--and the moon-light that streamed in floated round the bald crown with its narrow fringe of black hair, like a nimbus, in strange, livid contrast to the red light of the lamp. the hour-glass ran calmly on, in its even flow neither hurrying nor tarrying though hearts might throb or break. minute after minute passed--the deadly horror that filled the culprit's breast had paralysed his tongue. the judge leant back quietly in his chair, and gave him time to grasp the idea--even on the rack an interval of rest is allowed. at last the young man said with quivering lips, "no man ever yet did such a thing!" "it is because no man ever did it that it is worth doing." "correntian," continued the youth, but so timidly, so softly, as if the air even might not hear, or as if he feared that the sound of his words might rouse a sleeping tiger, "correntian, why did you never do it?" but the dreadful creature was not roused. without moving a feature, without raising an eye-lash, correntian replied, "because i was strong enough to triumph though i could see; the harder the fight the greater the prize." again they both were silent. the radiant disk of the moon rose higher and higher over the convent-roofs and towers, and looked in with a tender smile. longingly, eagerly, as if it were for the last time, and as if he must harvest all the light ere it was yet night, the boy's large brown eyes drank in the soft radiance. no, no, things have not gone so far--not yet. he may yet fight and conquer. he covered his face with his hands as if for protection, as if he saw already the dagger's point that was turned against it. no, he will fight with all the strength of his soul; fight not for his eternal salvation only, but for his eyes too. well, he will look neither to the right hand nor to the left, he knows well that now every forbidden glance must bring him nearer to the murderous iron that threatens him. "do not look that way; you are looking at your death," this is what he must say when temptation beckons him, and will not that terror enable him to conquer? he fell on his knees before correntian, "time--give me time, a respite," he groaned with pale lips, like a man condemned to death. "coward!" said correntian contemptuously. "no, do not call me so," cried the youth, striving to man himself. "send me out into the wilderness to fight for my life with the snow-storm and wild beasts, or out to the land of the saracens to shed my blood for our mother church. you will not see me tremble, but do not ask me to turn the knife against my own eyes; it is our strongest instinct to cherish them, even stronger than to preserve our life. for though i have often heard of men who plunged a dagger into their heart, i never heard of one who thrust it into his eyes. correntian, have mercy. grant me sight, to see--not the earth--but the heavens only, that eternal home for which we all strive. the wanderer, who is nearing his final rest, feels his strength revived as he sees the metal star that shines on the tower of his home, or the smoke that rises from the paternal roof, and he struggles with renewed vigour to reach the longed-for goal. how much more must we when we are weary, be refreshed by a glance upwards at the real stars, at the distant clouds which look down upon us from our father's house. who does not revive after such a prospect, and hasten joyfully forward? grant me sight for that, and that only, it draws me on and upwards." "sensual fool," said correntian smiling, "do you think to reach heaven by roads that are indicated by earthly light, do you believe that you will lose the way by not being able to see--as an earthly traveller might fail to find his home if he lost his eyes? it is from within and not from without that the light shines which must show you the path to heaven, and the darker all is without, the brighter it is within; that path lies through earthly darkness. none have trodden it on whose eyes death has not first laid its black shroud; and do you not believe that the heavenly light which can irradiate the night of death can also illumine our deepest earthly darkness? do you not believe that god the lord is mighty to open in your soul a spiritual eye instead of the bodily eyes you sacrifice to him, by which you may discern more and fairer things than any mortal yet has gazed on?" "oh correntian--i do understand you--i admire you, but i cannot imitate you--not yet, not yet. if i could, then i should not be the sinner that i am, and you would not need to judge me. give me time--for eternal mercy's sake which god himself shows to sinners--for christ's blood sake which was shed in love for us--give me time." "it is god that has spoken the sentence, not i--the execution of it is in your power, i have nothing farther to say," and correntian rose. "now leave me, for it is unlawful for us to remain any longer in secret conference--this is not the confessional." the youth stood yet a moment before him, hesitating. "correntian--you despise me for not doing what the scripture commands?" "what do you care whether i esteem you or not?" "everything--from this hour everything!" cried the youth passionately. "you are made of other stuff than i am," said correntian, with a strong gesture of repulsion. "my whole nature rejects you. if you were a brave warrior, or a wandering minnesänger, i might esteem you, for you would be what you seem. but as a monk i despise you; for under the mask of self-denial you cloke worldliness and vanity, and the sacred robe you wear smells of the burning of wild and fevered desires. this is the true hell-fire, and fearful is the ravage it may commit if it is not trampled out in time." "i will trample it out--before god i will!" cried the tortured boy. "oh! cannot a drop of holy water mixed with the tears of true repentance extinguish the very fires of hell? repentance and grace--what can the devil do against them?" "there is but one moisture that can surely and for ever extinguish the flames in which you are burning, and that is the limpid crystal in which all the world is mirrored; and it must be spilt by your own hand, poured over your own cheeks. it is indeed a precious dew, more precious than tears or blood, and because there is no man who would not keep it at the cost even of his life, it is so precious that only the highest crown of martyrdom can requite it! you may win this crown--you may rise out of the pool of sin of which the flames are already licking you, to be a saint before whom everyone shall kneel--i the first, i who have so long despised you; and earth and heaven shall rejoice over you--! and all this bliss you may obtain by one stroke of a knife, guided by a steady hand! now go and choose." the door closed on the victim. "now go--and choose." the young man leaned against the outer door-post unable to go any farther. his heart quaked and a deadly chill ran through his veins like cold lead at the thought of such a choice. the highest crown of martyrdom! what! could he win this with one stroke, without any inward vocation or natural ripeness for it? and even if he were to succeed in snatching this super-sensual extasy in one moment by one hasty stroke, could he bear it and support it worthily? and he must not do the deed for the sake of the crown--what we do for a reward has no value. it must be an act of deliverance, of deliverance from the utmost danger--but was it indeed so with him--was he so weak, so wanting in self-control that he needs must shut himself up in a dungeon of eternal night like a thief to keep himself from stealing forbidden fruit? and oh! what a dungeon it will be! will he not be crushed in the narrow confines of such impenetrable darkness--when his eye can see no space before it--neither before it nor around it? will not all the torments of being buried alive come upon him and stop his breath so that his heart will burst under the pressure of the stagnant blood? drop after drop of cold sweat ran down from his forehead. what had he done to deserve a punishment so unspeakably horrible? was he indeed a thief--had he stolen the forbidden fruit? no, he had not done it, he had only longed for it, and as soon as he was conscious of the temptation he had prayed and scourged himself till it was conquered. was temptation in itself a sin? nay else there would have been no saints, for there was not one of them that had not had to pass through some struggles. else father onofrius of saintly memory would not have needed to burn off during a night of visitation all the fingers of his hands, nor need the holy founder of the order, saint benedict, have accustomed himself to sleep on nettles! and must he do more than they all had done, to win the crown of the saints? no, no; this could not be the will of god; it was correntian's stern severity that lay such fearful penance upon him; and outraged nature, revolting against it, tore him from the spot--in wild flight from the lashing of this superhuman asceticism--away--away--over all the barriers of his tortured conscience. his body, numbed as it were into unconsciousness, bereft of all power of resistance and urged by ungovernable terror, obeyed the impulse--he fled from the door of the terrible monk, as if he might open it again and by one commanding word stay the flight of these trembling vital impulses and compel them to a hideous, suicidal, annihilating struggle--away--he must away. he fled down the steps with the swiftness of the whirlwind, pushed back the rusty bolt of the court-yard door and flew out into the fresh air, across the yard to the porter's little gate-house. without pausing to consider, he seized the key of the outer gate from the table, unseen by the sleeping warder--opened the gate and went out into the moonlit night, without stopping to take breath; on and away to the heath--to the harsh mother that bore him--as though he there might find counsel and consolation. never before had his feet borne him on such an expedition, and yet some unconscious urging guided him on the way that his eyes had so often longingly traced from the turret-window. up he went, higher and higher, his feet winged by terror--higher and higher as he ascended, rose the guiding light of the broad, bright moon in the pure sky. his face was streaming with the sweat of exhaustion--fully two hours had gone by when at last he reached the height, and before him lay the wide, level heath, a boundless lake of light. the white mists that floated and broke over it were bathed--soaked--in moonlight, like silvery billows--now rising, now falling--now floating formless, and anon swirling together into fearful wreathing pillars as if they would overwhelm the lonely wanderer in their silent ghostly tide. light--light, of which the eye might take its fill--across to the invisible distance and to where the great ortler peak seemed wrapped in sleep and dreams. light and peace--chaste and divine solitude! the hapless tortured child of man stood still in intoxicating contemplation, and spread out his arms to the splendour now first revealed to him, "almighty lord--thou that art great!" he prayed aloud, "thou that art merciful! thou hast shed upon the world this inexhaustible ocean of light, and wouldst thou rejoice if a miserable worm of earth should bury himself in the night of the grave?" and the words of the psalmist sprang from his soul to his lips, "o lord my god! thou art become exceeding glorious, thou art clothed with majesty and honour, thou deckest thyself with light as it were with a garment, thou spreadest out the heavens like a curtain, thou makest the clouds thy chariot and walkest upon the wings of the wind." and then he hastened on again, farther and farther. psalteries and harps seemed to sound in his ears while his feet were cleaving the illusory intangible flood that closed over him without wetting him. thus might christ have walked dry foot over the waters--for the foundation he stood on was god, and all earthly things seemed to have vanished like the mist. and yet the son of god perished on the cross in the anguish of death like a torn up flower, and endured in patience and bore the woes of the whole earth--he who could command the elements, who had need only to spread his wings in order to soar away into the fields of eternal bliss! god, the all-merciful, the omnipotent, suffered this to happen to his own son! again he stood still, as if face to face with a problem that must be solved before he could go any farther; and he bowed his head, saying, "it must be so, for suffering is our portion; that which we call the hand of fate and which crushes us to the earth, is in fact the hand of god laid in love upon our shoulders--and what we call the anguish of death is but his fatherly kiss that drinks our soul! for so great is he and so small are we that we are destroyed if he do but touch us. and in like manner he gave his only son, raising him up that we might see and acknowledge what his love is. woe to him who resists his sufferings--he resists god! o! father, i will bless thy hand even if it grind me to powder--i will die in thy kiss and the agony of death shall be bliss to me." suddenly--it seemed to him that the fearful correntian was standing behind him, saying with freezing scorn, "thus you swore just now and yet you refuse to make the first sacrifice that the lord requires of you! look, he holds out a craving hand that you may lay your eyes in it, and he says graciously, 'give them to me that i may keep them for thee till i give them back to thee one day to see more gloriously in heaven above'--just as a father might take from the hand of a child some dangerous instrument with which it might hurt itself; and you, like the wilful child, cling to the dangerous possession and push away the hand that asks when it might strike." "woe is me! correntian! dark, avenging angel! must you follow me wherever i go?" groaned the tormented soul. "whither may i fly from you; and where can i save you, my poor eyes, from the two-edged sword that he has planted in my heart there to gnaw in fury against myself." then again he heard the threatening voice, "coward, what do you fear? and what is it after all? you destroy a mirror in which hell focuses its rays--you destroy a transparent vessel, and empty out once for all the fount of those tears which you then need never again shed. one stroke--and it is done; a stroke so slight that a child might drive it home, a hail-stone, a thorn--and you tremble at that?" nay, nay, it was not the stroke of the knife, not the flow of blood that he quaked at. in losing his eyes, he must extinguish the sun, moon, and stars, put out all light with this lovely world that is as the very presentment of god--plunge himself into nothingness, an outcast in the midst of the joys of all creation. the sweat poured down his face, his knees failed him; he sank down in the tall, reedy grass, sobbing as he cooled his burning face in the moist, dewy earth. end of vol. i. * * * * * printing office of the publisher. * * * * * collection of german authors. vol. . * * * * * the hour will come by w. von hillern. in two volumes. vol. ii. tauchnitz edition. by the same author, the vulture maiden (die geier-wally) ... vol. * * * the hour will come a tale of an alpine cloister by wilhelmine von hillern, author of "the vulture maiden (die geier--wally)" etc. from the german by clara bell. in two volumes.--vol. ii. _copyright edition_. leipzig bernhard tauchnitz. london: sampson law, marston, searle & rivington. crown buildings, , fleet street. paris: c. reinwald & cie, rue des saints pÈres. _the author reserves the right of dramatizing this tale_. the hour will come. book ii. martyrdom. (continued.) chapter iv. the heath lay silent and still, as a mother might refrain from disturbing her weeping son; thus the night wore on; dew fell on the victim's head--he heeded it not; the bright moon paled and the young day painted the first streaks on the rim of the eastern horizon--he saw it not. the icy morning-breeze swept keenly down from the glaciers--he did not stir. presently a silvery tinkle sounded across the heath through the morning air; it was the bell ringing for matins at st. valentine's. this roused the penitent from his torpor, and so strong are the ties of obedience that at the first stroke the simple sound of the bell recalled the whole scattered troop of his vital faculties to their duty. his rebellious defiance, the first impulse of disobedience he had ever known, and which had driven him to his nocturnal flight, vanished like a wild dream. as the bell was ringing up here for matins, he would just have time to get down to mass; for prayers were an hour earlier here than at marienberg. if the brethren met together for common prayer in the familiar chapel--and he--he were missing!--an unspeakable sorrow came over him--a home-sick longing for the abbot, for his companions, for the place where he was so tenderly brought up; and without further delay he started up and hastened back to the convent. as day grew broader reflection and composure returned to him, and he was ashamed of his weakness. without once looking behind him, he left the heath--his mother earth--the earth that had drunk his despairing tears--and walked stoutly on, down to marienberg again; but in his too great haste he missed his way and suddenly found himself on a thickly wooded hill at one side of the monastery. an extensive ruin stood up among the dark umbrageous branches; he knew where he was now--on the hill of castellatz, where stood the remains of an ancient roman castle that had served at a later period as a stronghold of the trasp family. huge walls lay fallen one upon the other; walls that had once been inhabited by a defiant race who had borne themselves manfully in many a bloody fight. the labouring peasants still dug out bones of extraordinary size--broad angular skulls of huns and high narrow skulls of goths--they had all fought round these old walls and none of them had yielded, only faith had conquered them. when ulrich, the pious scion of the race, had built the convent at marienberg because he thought that a house of god was the surest fortress that he could take refuge in, he razed the castle to its foundation so that no enemy of the church should henceforth make use of it as a bulwark against the people of god. thus fell the proud walls that had defied the power of man. the youth trod the soil that had a thousand times been drenched in blood, with a reverent step; peace now reigned over the spot, and silence--a sabbath stillness. high above his head the shadowy tree-tops rustled as though they were murmuring some long forgotten heroic legend, or a battle-song of which the echoes had long since died away. and he, the peaceful son of that stern mother, the church--he stood there as one ashamed of his own feebleness, and humbly folding his hands he prayed--"i am no warrior, no hero--i need not fight with the sword or measure the strength of my young limbs, man for man with others--my heroism must lie in obedience. strengthen me therein, my lord and god, that i may never fear to fulfil thy will." and he went forward again, renewed in strength; here--on this old scene of many struggles, where every blade of grass had sprung from blood that heroes had spilt--here, in this bitter hour, he had grown to be a man and his courage had ripened within him; courage for that hardest fight of all, for the heroism of suffering. his resolve was formed--not in mad terror and haste as before in correntian's cell, but quietly, clearly, aye joyfully--his resolve to purchase his salvation. he will await the lord's will, and if the lord give him the strength to close his eyes against all temptation, he will accept it as a gift of mercy saving him from the worst. if he fall into one single fault more--if he turn one single longing look more on a woman's form--then he will carry out the sentence as it has this night been passed upon him--for then he will know that it is god's will. a broad sunbeam broke through the bushes which grew on all sides, their tough roots forcing their way between the grey stones; close by his side a bird twittered in a juniper bush which grew out of a ruined window arch. the little creature had its nest there and it looked at him with its keen eyes to see if it had any cause to fear for its brood; and there in the shrub sat the little birds with gaping, yellow beaks clinging in helpless fright to the swaying branches and screaming for their mother. a pretty picture!--how many a mother might have sat, long ago, under this arch, anxiously watching the foe that threatened her nest while the father was far away--at the chase or fighting in bloody feud in some enemy's country for all that was dear to him. "oh! sweet and wonderful bonds of love, and faith, and closest ties of blood! can it be that ye are not of god!" the question came involuntarily from the depth of the young man's heart. and there!--as if ghosts walked in the ruins--there was a sudden movement among the shrubs; a tall girlish figure broke hastily through the boughs and behind her came a boy--a sturdy lad, the wood-cutter to the monastery. he threw his arm round the girl's buxom form and whispered, "and if i ask you where you went so early, what will you say then?" "to gather berries," she cried laughing and swinging her basket. "just wait and i will kiss your lips till they are so red that folks will think you tumbled down among the berries," said the lad. "come, we will find a quiet place to rest in." and he disappeared again amongst the bushes dragging the girl with him without much trouble. donatus hastily turned to go, but suddenly they both gave a little cry of alarm, "o lord! a wild woman of the woods!" and they fled crossing themselves. donatus stood still; "what was there? what had frightened the pair so much?" he went towards the spot where they had been sitting; the briars hid a ruined arch-way through which he could look into the desolate castle-yard all overgrown with weeds, and there--wonder of wonders--lay a woman, asleep on a bank of turf artificially constructed and screened by a projection of the wall, that might at some former time have formed a niche where the poor and wretched sat on a stone bench to eat the meal they had begged. but the woman who was sleeping there was neither poor nor wretched; there she lay wrapped in a rich cloak of costly furs and dressed in a green robe embroidered with gold--like a forest-fairy! the playing beams of the morning sun that fell upon her through the whispering boughs, threw a bright light on her cheeks that were rosy with sleep, and the morning breeze blew her soft, silky hair across her dreaming brow, like a film of golden vapour. donatus stood as if spell-bound, incapable of going either forwards or backwards--he gazed and gazed and the whole world around him was forgotten. was it a real living woman--or a trick from hell--it seemed to him that it was the same woman--yes, it was she--! she opened her eyes and a flash of delight, brighter than the morning sunshine sparkled in those eyes. "is it you! you?" she exclaimed, springing up. and as donatus looked into her blue eyes he knew that it was she--she, who, dressed in a peasant's garb, had yesterday so bewildered his senses--she, who so lately had stood before him as the maid-of-honour. and to-day she was here--up here, sleeping on the grass, with no roof over her head--like a wood-fairy--could she be indeed a real woman and yet capable of such sudden changes? he had never believed in fairies, but could there be such beings? and were they good or evil spirits? and while he thought over all this he stood as if rooted to the spot, regarding the wonderful apparition with astonishment. he saw her sign to him, he heard her call him, and he made no reply--it was not real, it was only a vision, a dream. "are you turned to stone? wait a minute, i will go to you as you will not come to me." the voice was close to his ear and the brilliant figure lightly climbed up the ruined stone-work and in a moment was standing close to him under the arch and bending over towards him. those azure lakes, in which, only yesterday, his whole consciousness had been lost, were again close to his intoxicated gaze and pouring their flood of blueness into his soul. it stopped his breath--it ran through all his veins--he leaned against the mullion of the window like one stunned, and gazed and gazed--he could not take his eyes off her--heaven and earth had faded from his ken--she was too lovely! "how come you here? what has troubled you so? you are pale and your hair is wet with night dews?" she asked him, softly stroking his tangled curls with her slender white hand. he staggered as if a flash of lightning had struck him without destroying him; a strange shiver ran through his limbs, a gentle tremor as when the morning breeze shakes the dews of night from the topmost branches of a tree; and nearer, nearer comes the sweet face, and warm breath floats round him--still he stirs not. "do not fix your eyes on me so--as if i were not a creature of flesh and blood," she whispered in his ear. "put away your sternness; i deserve it of you. for your sake i have passed the night here with my people; here in this uncanny ruin, under the open sky, only to find some way of seeing you again. you have done for me, once for all, with your dreamy face and your severity, and deny it as you will--that which drove you at night out of your narrow cell was my image which pursued you, and while you fled from me you went in truth to seek me! have i guessed rightly?" and she laid her arm softly round his neck and her lips were close to his ear, while she spoke so that every word was like the breathing of a kiss. he let his head drop and lean against her bosom--he felt dizzy, as if in that instant he had fallen from some towering height. she took him caressingly by the chin, raising his head and looking longingly into his eyes. "oh, those eyes! those maddening eyes. who looks into them is lost! a man who has such eyes as yours can never be a monk!" she exclaimed in a tone of tender jest. "those eyes give the lie to all your severity--they look fire and kindle fire." "and that fire shall be extinguished for ever!" cried donatus suddenly, tearing himself from her arms as if roused from a dream. "it is well for me that you have warned me. with such eyes a man can never be a monk!--it is god himself who has spoken by your lips." and he fled away as from the city of destruction, leaving the temptress startled and astonished. she called after him to stay--she implored, she conjured him--in vain. the matins bell was ringing in the valley below, and he heard that above all her tempting; that was a mightier call. like a hunted deer that can find no shelter, the unhappy man fled back to the sacred cloister walls where only rest and peace were to be found. the gatekeeper on awaking had sought everywhere for the key in the utmost terror, but he had said nothing for fear of being punished, and as donatus came in he started up angrily--"who dared have done it?" but he was pacified as soon as he recognized him. "you!" he said smiling. "oh! you may be forgiven, for you are to be trusted." "aye, you are indeed to be trusted," said a voice suddenly behind him, and correntian stood in the doorway of the little gate-house. "oh, correntian!" cried the youth, making a movement as though to throw himself on his breast; but correntian drew back a step. "that will do," he said. "you know the rules of our order forbid such caresses. but i repeat it--you are to be trusted--for as you have come back to-day you now will never flee!" chapter v. the day was drawing to its close. it was a sultry evening; lead coloured clouds swept across the sky; the swallows flew uneasily round and round the convent towers, their wings widely spread as if the heavy storm rack weighed upon them and hindered their flight. the veiled sunlight threw but a faint shadow on the sundial, pointing to the roman _vii_. vespers were ended, the brethren were walking in the garden, silent for the most part and oppressed by the stormy atmosphere; not a leaf was stirring, even the bees hummed but lazily as they went from flower to flower, inconstant to each and seeking no plunder. the abbot detained donatus as he was going into the house. "where are you going all alone, donatus?" he called out. the youth stood still, but was silent, and the abbot beckoned him to come back to his side. "what ails you, my son?" he asked. "you seem to be ill. your temples are throbbing and your eyes have a feverish wandering glitter; you have refused every kind of nourishment since yesterday--tell me what ails you?" "nothing, father; i am quite well." "then some new temptation assails you, my son; for it is of no avail to tell me that all is well with you as usual," said the abbot, and he drew him aside into a retired vine-alley. "you cannot deceive me, for i have brought you up from the time when you were four years old. my watchful eye has been upon you night and day, in joy and in grief, in health and in sickness. i know every line of your face and mark every shade that passes over it, and you have become so completely one with me that every throb of your heart is felt in mine, and every burden that weighs on your soul oppresses mine. you cannot deceive me, and i am filled with a cruel forboding, as if some fearful evil were lowering over your darkened brow." donatus breathed painfully under the abbot's searching gaze; he was like a sick man who conceals his sufferings the longest from those that love him most. his eyes fell; an unutterable and tender sorrow came over him for the faithful guardian whom he purposed to betray in so frightful a manner as soon as sleep should have closed his watchful eyes. "you are silent! you are concealing some evil from me?" continued the abbot. "for i never before saw you thus. i am not satisfied at your having had so much private talk with correntian since yesterday--and indeed one of the brethren declared that he had seen you steal at night to correntian's cell! what can you two have to say to each other?--why, he has been your mortal enemy ever since you were old enough to think! how is this! when such an unnatural alliance is formed there must be some terrible trouble or dividing of heart at the bottom of it. you are young and generous, you indeed may forget and honestly forgive--but not correntian--never. he is a rock on which many a poor young heart has struck and bled to death when only a loving hand was needed to rescue it. it is this hard nature of his that alienates him from us all, and it is with the greatest anxiety that i see you falling into his power." donatus walked on in silence and reserve by the side of the abbot, who waited in vain for his answer. presently the abbot stood still, as if he would force the young man to look at him. "my son," he said, "do you remember the evening when that sinister man tore you from your nurse's lap, and how you struggled and screamed till i came and took you in my arms? do you remember how you threw your arms round my neck and clung to me, and how i myself put you into your little bed, and you would not leave go of my hand till you had sobbed yourself to sleep? this heart of mine is still the same as when you found refuge in it, these arms are the same as those to which you then ran for protection; throw yourself into them again, my son, and shake off the burden that torments you, so that i may once more protect you against the powers of darkness that threaten you." donatus could bear it no longer; tears rushed to his eyes, and crying out, "my father, my dearest father!" he threw himself into the abbot's arms. the two men stood clasped in a mute embrace, but at this instant of sacred silence correntian came hurrying up. "for god's sake," he cried, "go in! the storm is just over our heads, and it will be a fearful one," and he dragged them apart as if in dutiful anxiety for their safety. they went into the house in silence. it was now bed-time; the younger brethren went to the dormitories, the elders each to his own cell. "good night, my son," said the abbot, and his eye once more rested on donatus with a mournful and searching glance. "remember my words! and one thing more: go up to brother eusebius, and see if he needs anything. i am sorry that he should have felt too feeble to-day to come to table. besides a talk with the wise old man will do you as much good, as a cooling draught." then he called to the other brethren, "see, all of you, to the fires and lights, it will be a dreadful night. at midnight we perform the mass for the soul of the lady uta; see that you none of you oversleep yourselves!" up in eusebius' cell, as the abbot had desired him, sat donatus, opposite to his old friend in the dim light from the little window; the lurid clouds swept on in endless succession, grey on darker grey. eusebius was weaker than usual, but he was sitting up half-buried in books, parchments and instruments, writing-materials, rulers, compasses, and what not. for of all the fields over which the human mind had roamed there was not one which father eusebius, in his quiet cell, had not explored and investigated. while he talked donatus' fingers were unconsciously playing in their fevered restlessness with the thousand objects that were lying about, and thus his hand fell on a large pair of compasses; they were half open, and the two sharp points were parted. he took them up as if absorbed in reflection, he closed his eyes and laid the two points on his eye-lids. "i could easily put my eyes out with these," said he thoughtfully. "both at once with one blow. with a knife or dagger i should have to strike twice, and even if i had the courage for the first--for the second never--no never!" eusebius took the compasses out of his hand, and laid them on the table. "what mad words are you saying! what has put such hideous ideas into your head?" donatus looked wildly at him; his eyes glared strangely in the gloom that had gradually spread itself in the little room. "i have often thought lately that a man who would fain avoid all love must put his eyes out," he said in a low and strangely tremulous voice, like a broken lute jarred by the wind. eusebius shook his head slowly and disapprovingly. "of what use would that be?" he said. "it would come all the same. however sadly a man may picture it to himself, and fancy he has hedged himself in from it--man's wit and man's presumption always succumb to it; nay, even if he tore out his eyes and stopped his ears, it would be of no avail. who would dare suppose he could prevent a tree from budding and sprouting in february? he can pull off the leaves, and cut off the branches, but he can not stop the rising sap that is working within. and it is not the devil that stirs the sap in the tree, and the blood in man--no, it is all wonderfully ordered by god the lord who has made us thus. and though one of us may have succeeded in resisting the law of nature, it is only by some special grace of god who has stood by him, and helped him with particular favour; but that which he has vanquished in the fight is not the devil, but his own weakness which hindered him from freeing himself from the universal law to which all creatures are subject." donatus started up in horror. "woe is me," he cried, "i may not listen to you! what spirit possesses you, your very words are a crime, god help you!" and snatching up the compasses with which he had been playing, the boy fled from the room. "donatus!" called the old man, rising hastily to follow him. but a strange dizziness came over him, and he sank back in his chair; his hands and feet alike refused their service. the door of the cell had fallen shut, the old man was alone with his books and manuscripts. he looked up in silent resignation at the wide and stormy heavens. the winds were rushing and roaring round the tower, nearer and nearer came the storm--but to the old man it seemed as if all that surrounded him were passing into the far, far distance. farther and farther away sounded the rolling thunder, and the outlines of the narrow walls that enclosed him grew fainter and fainter. they were parting asunder, vanishing away, these earthly walls and bonds, and infinity lay before him. the hour-glass on the table had run down; it was the hour at which he was wont to turn it, and as the last grain of sand ran through, the old habit made him try to put out his hand; but the hand fell helpless by his side--the sand had ceased to run. the thunders paused, the winds held their breath, the light was extinguished. "and yet it will come!" he whispered with his last sigh, and the liberated soul soared away into the empyrean without pain or struggle. there he sat silent and peaceful--the lonely dreamer, his head sunk on his breast, his hands folded--sleeping the eternal sleep. a thunder-clap came crashing down on the convent, such a clap as shook the old building to the foundations, and all that were living crossed themselves in terror; only the still sleeper up in his solitary tower will wake and tremble no more. the brethren had all shrunk away to their beds; correntian only remained without, calmly defying the uproar of the elements. suddenly there was a repeated hasty and terrified knocking at the convent-gate; the porter did not hear it for the roaring of the storm, but at last it caught correntian's ever watchful ear. he went in and opened the door; outside there stood a strange child clothed in rags; her beseeching eyes shone with a weird brightness in the darkness, the storm and rain tossed her waving hair and it shone with a reddish gleam in the fitful flashes of the lightning. "where is donatus?" asked the trembling child. "donatus!" exclaimed correntian in horror. "are the messengers of hell sent for him already? away with you--your eyes shine in the darkness like an owl's--your feet shall not cross this sacred threshold!" and he made the sign of the cross over her; but she folded her hands over her innocent bosom and threw herself at the priest's feet. "my lord! my lord! my mother is dying, she was donatus' nurse--she asks to see him; just once more grant her this last comfort." correntian pushed her wildly from him, "his nurse--is she there in spite of our prohibition? and has that snake engendered another snake that the race may not die out? away with you, leave clasping my knees, or i will crush you like an adder." "my lord! my lord!" cried the child wildly. "my mother is dying down there in the wood--without shelter--in the storm and rain. pity, oh, pity--donatus, where is he? oh donatus!" the storm carried away her words, the door closed with a loud clatter; no one could hear her cry of anguish, for it could not reach the monks in the dormitory, above the rushing and roaring of the rain in the dragon-headed gargoyles. "alas! and woe!" rang through the night. "woe!" howled the storm from the forest as though with a human voice--"woe!" groaned the whole terror-stricken earth under the crashing thunderbolts which fell clap upon clap in inextinguishable fury, rending the trees to their roots. dumbly and silently the old stronghold of faith stood on the giddy height, facing the unchained elements with its stony brow; and the uproarious strife raged round about it, as if it were bent on tearing it from its rocky foundations and hurl it into the roaring abyss. what is the meaning of all this fury and tumult, why have the whole rage and might of the elements concentrated themselves on this spot, why does the hand of terror knock so fearfully at these silent gates, of all others, to-night? they are the agonised cries of nature, the eternal mother, over one of her children who this night is outraging her and himself; who is struggling in solitude with the very madness of self-annihilation, with none by to pity him. she rouses the brethren from their sleep, she thunders in their ears, she shouts to them in the wailing of the storm and in torrents of tears, "rise up--save your brother!" they hear the warning indeed, but they understand it not; they start in horror from their beds and cross themselves, "help, oh lord! what is thy purpose with us?" they pray in impotent terror and are full of some unspeakable fear, but they know not whence it came nor how it will end. now long drawn groans came up from the forest, each deeper than the last, striking as it were at the very roots of the building, collecting their forces for one mighty blow, one overwhelming shock. the house stood firm, but the beams groaned and the boards cracked under the pressure; the lime fell from the walls with a dull crack and the lead and tiles torn from the roof were flung with a rattle like hail on the stones of the court-yard and on the garden-beds, crushing and devastating everything. the fiery tongues from the clouds licked the spires with unsated greediness, discharging their electric tension with a deafening roar; and as if the waters of the abyss would fain extinguish the fires of heaven, they rushed in wild and foaming torrents from the mountains into the valleys, dragging the uprooted trees with them in their fall and dashing against the rampart-like wall as if they were nature's battering-rams. "forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us!" prayed the brethren who had gathered together; a little trembling flock in the middle of the dormitory. suddenly one of the brethren grasped his neighbour's arm, "look," he exclaimed, "up there in the eastern turret-window--do you see a light?" the monks could hardly look up, for at every instant the sky was all aflame and they hid their faces in fear. but it was true, they all saw it now--up in the window of the lady uta's room there was in fact a dim light. was it a fire? had the lightning struck it? no, for it remained always the same. the brethren were seized with superstitious horror; was lady uta's ghost watching over her bequests--or was it stiero the strong, now long since dead, and of whom it was said that he always walked when all the elements of nature were in revolt? the monks stood gazing helplessly, hardly daring to breathe, and half-blinded by the flashes. should they call the abbot? should they let him know? at this instant there was a blast so mighty that it seemed as if every joint and seam must part--as if the very earth must be blown out of its course, and they heard a crash on the pavement of the court-yard, while the windows flew open and the vessels and utensils danced on the shelves. it was the copper roof of the eastern tower that had fallen; the light in the turret window was extinguished. the monks fell on their knees, mechanically stammering out paternosters. but what was that? was it not a cry of pain from the tower? the brethren held their breath to listen, they convulsively clasped their rosaries in their cold hands and pressed them to their trembling hearts. there it was again--their blood ran cold, a long drawn cry of anguish was audible above the howling of the storm and the roaring of the waters. at this moment the door was flung open and the abbot rushed in, his lamp in his hand. "did you not hear--" he asked. "was not that a cry from the eastern tower?" "did you hear it too?" whispered the monks, their voices choked with terror. "who can it be? there is no one there, the tower is locked up?" "what a night!--hark--there, again!" "but now it sounds from the forest." "we cannot distinguish in this uproar of noise." "very likely it is some wild animal hurt by a falling tree." "no, no, it is the spirits wailing in the air--a bad omen!" "heaven help us--what evil can it bode?" "lord, have mercy upon us!" the abbot meanwhile had glanced round the room. "where is donatus?" he said, "his bed is empty." donatus--in the general panic no one had missed him. "donatus--my son, my child!" cried the abbot, struck by a horrible suspicion. "look above, below, every one search the whole house for him." and foremost of them all, driven by some inexplicable dread, the abbot rushed out into the storm, bareheaded, heedless of the pelting of stones and tiles, past the lofts that were threatening to fall, across to the eastern tower--the door was locked. "the key! see for the key of the eastern tower," he ordered across the dark court-yard; no one had followed him but correntian; the rest stood scared in the door-way--their lamps blown out. correntian hurried out to the gate-house. the key was gone! beyond a doubt donatus had locked himself up in the tower. "hapless, struggling child!" cried the abbot. "what demon is tormenting you that you must fly up there and tell your woes to the winds." and for the first time in his life he turned upon one of the brethren in anger; in the glare of the lightning that relieved the darkness and revealed them to each other, he fixed his eye piercingly on correntian. "i fear, i fear,"--he said, "that you must have a heavy burden on your conscience and that the cry of anguish of that poor tortured soul is gone up to god against you." correntian stood before him, dogged and invincible, "i only did my duty." "donatus!" cried the abbot again. "donatus, come down, open the door to me, your father--donatus--my son." no answer, all was still; it seemed as though the very storm had paused to listen; but in vain--nothing was moving. "he cannot hear us call," said correntian. "the storm roars too wildly round the detached tower; leave him, it is midnight and time for the service for the dead. the bell will soon ring and he will hear that. when the bell calls him he will come--i know him well." and he went back into the house. the abbot followed him with a deep sigh. "my poor child! god help him to be victorious." the storm had exhausted its fury and had swept away towards the heath at mals. the pauses between the lightning and thunder were longer, the rain did not lash the windows so furiously, and the bell for the mass in memory of the lady uta tolled solemnly above the now distant tumult. the monks assembled in the chapel in grave silence, for they were not yet free from the spell of the night's alarms, and went down into the crypt or founders' hall. all were there but eusebius and donatus. eusebius was now often absent, excused by reason of his advanced age--but donatus had never before been missing. the abbot delayed beginning the solemnity, his anxiety increasing with every minute; the bell had long ceased to toll, still donatus came not. the brethren looked at each other in silence; none dared to increase the abbot's trouble by uttering a word--but it was a mystery to every one. in vain did they strive to collect their thoughts for devotion. each one secretly felt his heart beating wildly, he himself knew not why. hark--what was that? a rustle--a sound of doubtful shuffling steps; slowly and hesitatingly they came down the stairs--slow, dragging steps like those of fate--some one was feeling the way painfully along the wall--feeling for the latch of the door. full of an unaccountable horror all the monks fixed their eyes on the door; it opened and a figure entered--pale and stark as death, like a walking corpse--there was a scream of horror, for it was donatus, his face streaming with sweat and blood--eyeless. chapter vi. a lonely rider was at this same hour of the night traversing the storm-beaten forest that lay below marienberg. his cloak clung dripping round him; his horse's hoofs were inaudible on the soaking moss and he rode noiselessly forward towards a red, glowing spot in the distance, which looked to him like a little heap of burning charcoal shining dimly through the damp night air. he was not deceived, and a woman close by it lay with a child who vainly endeavoured to keep up the smouldering fire. the woman was lying on the bare earth, the child knelt close by, and the rider was startled as he caught sight of her face lighted up by the ruddy glow, and her large eyes which reflected the flame she strove to fan with her breath. at this instant the midnight toll sounded out from the tower on the mountain, the woman raised her arm and shrieked in a piercing voice, "aye! ring away! if there is a god in heaven that is your knell. on the heath, in the wilderness, in the wood--thus may you all die as i am dying; may your house fall as my hovel fell. may despair rend your hearts, and remorse scorch your brains as they have mine." "mother, mother, do not curse, it is a sin, you yourself said so," implored the little girl, clasping the woman's outstretched hand with a soothing gesture. "it is only what they have done," complained the woman. "oh, i was pious and good like you once; i would have been content if only they would have let me see donatus for one hour." the rider pulled up his horse behind the bushes, and dismounted to listen. "only one hour," she went on, "in return for a whole ruined life-time! but even that they would not grant me--not even that. no, let me be, i have nothing but curses that i can fling at their heads; give me an arm to strike with, and i will spare my words." "woman," cried a voice suddenly behind her, "here is the arm you need to carry out your curse, i am just in the mood for such a task!" the child started up in alarm at seeing the grim looking man, and fled to the other side of her mother. the woman gazed thoughtfully at the stranger; something in his face struck her, but she could not tell what. the rider tied up his horse, and flung himself down on his cloak by the woman's side. "your rage is against the monks of marienberg; what have they done to you?" and the woman told him at full length all that had happened from the beginning, how she had lost her child and her husband for the sake of the strange infant, and how she had loved him so much all the same, that she would willingly have sacrificed everything if only she might have clasped him once to her heart, and have made her last confession to him. but not even that would they grant her, a dying woman. they had driven the little girl from the door, and called her an adder. ah! and there was a great weight on her mind about the girl too, and now the child must perish miserably; for when she was dead there would be no one to care for her in all the wide world. the stranger looked absently at the child; he paused for a moment as if the large, tawny-brown eyes with their dark, meeting brows had struck him; but another idea possessed him wholly. "and you do not know who the boy was that you nursed?" he asked almost breathlessly. "no, they did not tell me." "do not you know either where he was brought from?" "yes," said the nurse, "a lay-brother of saint valentine's was there when i went, who had brought him to marienberg." the man vehemently grasped the woman's wasted arm. "do you not remember his name?" "i do not know it, my lord, no one told me. but he was very old, and must be dead long since." "saint valentine's," repeated the stranger between his teeth. "indeed, saint valentine's--there perhaps i might find a trace," and he started up in haste to remount his horse; but the woman clutched him by the sleeve, "my lord, my lord," she cried, "for god's sake! you will not leave us in our misery--and my child, the poor orphan--my hour is near--have pity on the child or she must starve." the knight flung a gold-piece into the sick woman's lap. "here, that is all i carry with me in case of emergency; now, keep me no longer." but she clung to him in her dying agony, "gold is of no use to us, what does the child know of gold; wicked men may take it from her, and then she will be as helpless as ever. shelter, my lord, and protection for the innocent! oh, my lord, she is not my child, she is a child of sin; but the child is pure, my lord, as pure as the dew, as innocent as the fawn in the forest. i have brought her up in decency and the fear of god. take charge of her, she is of noble blood; her mother was a lady, and the knight, her husband, was so long away in the field that she thought he was dead; then she fell into trouble. and the child's father--god save his soul--was a minnesänger at count albert's court, and the child has come by many gifts through him; she can sing and is full of pretty tunes, and hidden things are revealed to her. you would find her a joy to you, my lord." the dark-looking man struck his hand against his forehead with a loud and scornful laugh. "it serves me right! i cast out my own flesh and blood, and in exchange i get a bastard; now i am searching again for my own outcast child, and again, oh! mocking fate, you fling the bastard scornfully into my lap. ay, thou art just, thou severe god, and thy ways are past finding out." the woman and the girl looked in alarm at the powerful man; but after a pause he spoke more calmly, "i am the count of reichenberg," he said, "whose guilty wife gave this child into your charge." "great god!" cried the nurse, crossing herself. "do not harm her, my lord, she could not help it." the count's gaze gradually softened as he looked at the girl's childish beauty. "no, you cannot help it. you have your mother's eyes, but they are not false like hers. i forgave her on her death-bed, and how could i be cruel to you? by heaven, the child bewitches me as her mother did before her. be off with your sick nurse there to reichenberg; you shall no longer wander about homeless. give this ring to the warder as a token that i have sent you, and that he is to take you in to the castle, and take care of you. i shall come after you later, but first i have important work to do in this neighbourhood." "thank you, my lord, and may god reward you," cried the nurse, who was almost bewildered by such unexpected good fortune; "i cannot get so far, for i feel my end is near, but the child--i will send her to you at once." but the little girl shook her head, and threw the ring from her. "no," she said, "i will not go with the strange man, i will stay with you, mother." "child, do not be foolish; when i am dead, what then?" "then i will stay with the angel, he will take care of me." "oh, you silly child!" wailed the woman. "he cannot help you, for he is only a man, and is himself shut up a prisoner among the monks there." "then i will go to the blessed maidens that they may set him free," said the child confidently. the count had not been listening to the last words; he had thrown himself on horseback and set off again--away through wind and weather, straight across country, over roots and broken branches in fevered haste, to the heath of mals, and he raised his fist threateningly at the convent on the height where the gleaming windows shone far out over the dark scene around. up in the convent all were astir. the monks were assembled for a solemn and fearful task; they were sitting in judgment on a breach of their holy rule--the crime of self-mutilation--of which donatus was guilty. this was _culpa gravis_, punishable by the heaviest penance that could be inflicted. one word could absolve the criminal; he had only to say that one of the priests had ordered the deed, that he had done it in obedience to a superior command; but this word he did not speak, for his guilt would then fall on that other one, and he would have none but himself bear his cross. and he, that other who could save him, he spoke not. the lips of both remained sealed. if donatus had still had eyes, the cruel instigator of the crime might well have blenched before the silent appeal with which his victim turned to him; but those eyes were gone which might have spoken, and the bloodstained bandage concealed even the unspoken anguish stamped on the pale brow. the enquiry was ended, the sentence only was wanting; the monks stood in a half-circle round the abbot who supported himself on the arms of his chair; his hands trembled, his face was as pale as death. the younger brethren covered their faces and wept; donatus waited in humble resignation for the sentence to be pronounced. three times the abbot rose, three times his voice failed him--at last he spoke. "seeing that the holy rule of saint benedict strictly forbids any follower of his to lay violent hands upon himself, in that he is no longer his own but belongs to the holy church, and, as such, may not injure himself any more than any sacred vessel, garment, altar, temple or whatever else is the church's property-- "seeing that you, unhappy child, have been instructed and indoctrinated in that holy rule and have wittingly sinned against it out of your own pride of judgment as to what is best, and have thus rendered yourself unfit to do the church that service for which god had especially chosen you-- "seeing that by the commission of this deed, you have rebelled against the will of your spiritual and temporal superiors and so are guilty of the gravest disobedience-- "we declare and pronounce that, as a terrible example to the votaries of all orders and at all times you--" here again his voice failed and he had to draw a long breath, "that you shall be imprisoned to all perpetuity in the convent dungeon." donatus bowed his head in silence--the abbot sank back in his chair and clasped his hands over his face which was bathed in tears. one single inarticulate sob broke from all the conclave; only correntian stood unmoved and his eyes were fixed upon the prisoner. a long silence followed; over their heads stared the fixed stony face of duty--that pitiless divinity--suppressing every outward expression of the sorrow that filled their shrinking hearts. at last the abbot rose and turning to correntian with an awful and reproachful look, "you, correntian," he said, "may fill the office of executioner and lead him away--for not one of us could bear it." and, just as he had long ago snatched him from his nurse's arms, ruthlessly and without delay correntian grasped the blind man's arm--to tear him from the last hearth of humanity that was open to him--from the midst of the brotherhood. donatus obediently turned to follow him. "forgive us!" cried the sobbing group of monks, "we only do our duty." the blind man spread out his arms as though he would clasp them all in one embrace, "if i had eyes to weep, my brethren, it should be for you all and not for myself." the abbot could contain himself no longer; with a cry of anguish he flung himself upon donatus; "my son, my son--why have you done this to me?" the youth sank into his arms with unutterable affection and they stood in close embrace through a long silence. but even these loving arms, which had once rescued him from correntian's iron grip, could not save him now; that iron hand tore him from them and led him away--an unresisting prey. correntian remained the victor. "let us mourn and fast for forty days, my brethren, as for one that is dead," said the abbot to the conclave. "and send for brother eusebius--why is he not here?--he must bind up that poor boy's eyes to the best of his skill--the law does not forbid that," and as he spoke he tottered and put out his hand to cling to the man nearest to him--the strong man's powers were spent and the brethren had to support him, or he would have fallen. correntian led his victim down the slippery dungeon stair; two of the convent servants followed him with hand-cuffs. they reached the damp vault in silence. correntian led his prisoner to a bed made of a heap of straw in a corner, close to which, riveted to the wall, were the rings to which he was to be fastened. "chains too?" said donatus; and in the tone in which he spoke these two words there was something which penetrated even correntian's hard heart to that secret human core, which up to this minute no lament, no dying sigh of any mortal had ever touched; but he strangled the emotion before it found birth, and said calmly, "so it must be." "if it is possible," said donatus humbly, "spare me that--yet, not my will but thine be done." "so it must be," repeated correntian, and the lad was silent. only once he pressed his hand on the bandage which covered his burning sockets, then he submissively held out his trembling hands for the chains; it was quickly done, the irons were riveted and the servants went away. the two monks were alone. "now you have indeed preserved yourself from temptation!" cried correntian, as donatus dropped his fettered hands without a sound of lamentation passing his lips. "martyr! open the eyes of your soul, the crown is hanging above your head!" donatus fell on his knees before the terrible monk and folding his weary, iron-bound hands as if in prayer, he exclaimed, "now, now, i understand you." "donatus!" cried correntian, as if his lifelong torpor was suddenly unpent in a lava-flood of extasy--his eye flashed, his pulses throbbed, his breast heaved--"at one word from me you would have been exempt from this fearful punishment--and i was silent. donatus, tell me, have i been your salvation or your ruin?" "my salvation and i thank you!" groaned donatus, and a terrible smile of bliss passed over his drawn lips; he feebly grasped correntian's hands; the damp walls, like an open grave, echoed back his words: "i thank you." correntian hastily threw his arms round the unconscious boy as he sank to the ground; for the first time in his life a human form rested on his breast, and with the first rays of morning, which fell on him through the slit in the wall, high above him, the first ray of love sparkled in the stern master's eyes and was merged in the martyr's crown that shone on the disciple's head. book iii. grace. chapter i. morning dawned slowly over the heath of mals and the dismal tolling of the bell of saint valentine's proclaimed far and wide that one of the brethren lay at the point of death. it was brother florentinus, the grey-haired watchman, who for more than half a century had lived in constant warfare with the deadly and inhospitable powers of the moor, and whose tender and protecting hand had snatched from them their storm-beaten victims. how old he was no man knew--but it must be near on a century; yet death found it no easy task to crush the life that had defied a thousand snowstorms. he lay close to the chimney, breathing painfully, his dim eyes fixed on the dingy painting of saint valentine. his withered body was like a dried up mummy, his hands and feet were already stiff and cold, but his hardly-drawn breath still fanned the trembling flame. it seemed as though he were waiting for something; and yet what should he be waiting for? he had closed his account with the world. the lonely rider was scouring across the moor from burgeis at the maddest pace to which he could urge his horse. he too heard the knell, and without accounting to himself for the impulse, he struck his spurs into the horse that started forward with great leaps--he felt that he _must_ reach the hospice before the tolling ceased; before the unknown life was extinct that was in that hour wrestling with death. the dying man listened to the beating of the hoofs and turned his eyes to the door. "he is come," he said in a faint, hollow voice. "who?" asked the brethren who knelt round him in prayer. at this instant there was a violent knocking at the door; the old man raised himself with a wonderful exertion of strength. "open quickly," he said. the astonished brethren obeyed him, and in walked the rider clanking and clattering, straight up to the dying man; it was in vain that the brethren signed to him to be silent and not to disturb the dying man's rest. "you are old enough--maybe you are he!" cried the count roughly, and he threw himself on a stool by the old man's couch. "you must not die--you must speak with me." the old man bowed his trembling head. "it is well, it is well," he muttered feebly, "i have thought of him a great deal--and it was a sin. we meant it well--but we all must err." "do you know me?" asked the knight in astonishment. "aye, aye--you will find him again--i know, i know." the count began to be frightened at the old man. "how do you know?" he asked. "she has appeared to me twice--again this very night and announced to me that you would come to fetch him." "she--who?" asked the count with increasing emotion. "she, the countess--the angel of ramüss." "do not make him talk," said one of the brethren, coming up to the count. "what good can the wanderings of a dying man do you?" "silence!" thundered the count so loud that the sick man started, "let him speak or i will make you all dumb for the rest of your days." the brethren stood helpless and consulting each other in whispers. "did you know the lady of reichenberg?" asked the count, bending over florentinus. "did i know her--why she lay here, where i am lying--she and the baby-boy." "the boy?" repeated the knight, and his heart laboured sorely; but he controlled himself to listen to the sick man, whose breathing grew weaker and weaker, that he might hear the words he might speak before it had altogether ceased. "the boy--where have you put him?" "up there--at marienberg--they kept him--but the mother has given me no peace--three times has she come to me and said, 'give him his son again'--" the last words grew fainter--the count felt as if his head would burst with its throbbing. he bowed his ear over the dying lips, they still moved mechanically-- "do not die--do not die," he implored him in anxious expectation--"only say his name--the name they gave the boy in the convent--" the dying man's lips moved and muttered as though to say "do--" but he could no more, his breath failed him. the count took him in his arms and raised his head--he would not let him die--he must pronounce that name on which all depended. "don--don--" he stammered, and his very pulses stood still while listened. "--nat--" murmured florentinus with a last effort. "donatus!" cried the count, no longer master of himself. the dying man bowed assent--a peaceful smile overspread his face and his head fell back--no more now than a noble marble image. the count's blood boiled as he looked at the peaceful corpse; it mounted to his forehead and hands till his veins stood out like cords, and his eyes were ominously blood-shot. the brethren were in the utmost terror. "he was talking nonsense, my lord, do not believe what he said, he had long been childish." but it was of no use. the count, without vouchsafing them a glance, walked straight out of the house, flung himself on horseback and rode madly off, the blood trickling from the flanks of his tired beast--towards marienberg. "oh! luckless day!" cried the abbot, when the brethren who had gone to seek eusebius brought down his dead body from the western tower. "oh! luckless day!" was echoed by the brethren, who from the upper hall had seen a rider spring from a horse which fell down dead at the door. it was count reichenberg. grim rage sat on his brow, grim rage had ridden the noble horse to death, grim rage flapped her angry wings above his head as he knocked at the door with the hilt of his sword. "open, in the name of god!" said the abbot; he divined what it was that hung over him and that nothing now could avert. he stood in the middle of the still convent-yard, immovable as a statue, and the brethren gathered round him as round the pillar which upheld them all. the count walked silently up to him, his white lips trembling with such violent agitation that he had to control himself before he could speak. the abbot quietly awaited what he might say, while the count included him and the whole circle of monks in one glance of hatred, for which his tongue could find no adequate expression. at last he muttered between his teeth, "and dare you actually look me in the face--can you bear that i should look at you? you liars and hypocrites--do you not tremble before me?" "we tremble before no just man," said the abbot, "for our consciences are pure. as to the unjust--them the lord will punish." "spare your words!" cried the count. "every breath of your throat is a falsehood." "my lord count," said the abbot, "do you believe that we--" "believe!" interrupted the count, "i believe nothing--i know.--do you understand? since my visit with the duke i have lurked round your convent. the nurse whom you maltreated betrayed the track; the old man at saint valentine's has confessed. he is dead and he made his last confession to _me_." at those words, which fell upon them like a thunderbolt, the brethren turned pale and were dumb. now was god's judgment come upon them. but with a comprehension of the danger came resignation; if they had sinned, god might punish them--if they had done right, he would surely help them. "where is my son?" cried the count impatiently, glancing round at the whole circle of monks. "my lord, at this moment he is doing penance for a heavy sin," said the abbot in an uncertain voice. "what sin?" asked the count. "a breach of obedience to the rules of our order," explained the abbot. "obedience! that is at an end! a count of reichenberg owes obedience to no man!" "he is not a count of reichenberg--he is a brother of our order; he has taken the vows and he cannot be absolved from them." "it was a forced vow, against all law and justice--he was cheated into it!" shouted the count. "i was lately with the bishop of chur and informed myself on the subject. if you refuse to give the boy up to me, i will accuse you before the pope himself, and you will be laid under an interdict. for, as the bishop told me, that is the law; pope celestin iii. decreed that the decisions of the church in council at toledo and aix-la-chapelle should come into force again, and that no order might receive a child before he was of age without the consent of his parents. and will you hold him to a vow thus surreptitiously extorted from him--will you assert your claim to stolen goods? am i not his father and did i ever give my consent to his becoming a monk? answer!" the brethren had come to a rapid understanding among themselves in latin. "well and good, my lord," replied the abbot, "you speak truly, and according to the letter of the law you are in your rights when you require at our hands that which is your own. the only question is this: is that still yours which you threw away of your own free will and abandoned to destruction? i know very well that such an incredible instance of a perverted nature is not provided for by any law, and if you appeal against us the judgment will be in your favour; but, my lord count, you were no doubt also informed that the same canon law permits young people when they come to full years of discretion to enter an order without their parents' consent. are you or are you not aware of that?" "yes," said the count, biting his lip. "well then, my lord," continued the abbot, "you may punish us according to the letter of the law, for that wherein we have sinned against the letter of the law--but you cannot break the vows your son has taken, for he is now of age and if he now renews them, he is answerable to the law." "but he will not renew them now that his father is here to fetch him home to splendour and dominion," said the count confidently. "only bring him here and let me speak to him myself, and put my patience to no farther proof. a reichenberg can never learn to wait." again a few latin words passed from mouth to mouth in a low whisper. "if it please you to follow us into the refectory and refresh yourself with a cool draught, my lord," said the abbot. "you are exhausted and everything, whatever it may be, is better done when men have rested and strengthened themselves with a cup of wine." "very good--let us go in; and send me the young count that he may empty the first bowl with his father," said the count, somewhat pacified, for he thought the monks' opposition was broken, and his newly awakened fatherly feeling made his heart beat impatiently for the son to whom he must now make up for the neglect of twenty-one long years. so they went into the refectory where bread and wine had been set ready; still the count would touch nothing, "my son," said he; "first fetch my son." the monks looked at each other in their difficulty; god had forsaken them--no farther escape was possible. after another short consultation father correntian went "to fetch him." the abbot stood like a condemned criminal at the foot of the cross on which he is to be crucified; "god help us! have mercy on our wrong-doing! thou who canst read the heart, thou knowest we meant it rightly!" thus he prayed silently. the brethren were one and all incapable of speech. "when the father sees the state of his son--what will happen?" that was the thought that filled every mind. but correntian came back alone. "your son refuses to appear," he said. "he has this very hour renewed his oath never to quit the cloister--and he will not see you." reichenberg laughed loud and wildly. "you silly fellow! you crazy fool! do you suppose that i--the count of reichenberg--can be sent home like a blockhead, with such an answer as that? aye, you may glare at me with your wolfish eyes--they cannot pierce my mailed breast. fetch the boy, on the spot--or i will search the building for him through and through." "he must come, there is no help for it;" the abbot whispered to correntian. "you are not afraid that we cannot rely upon him now, when this severe punishment--" correntian smiled. "be easy," he said; then turning to reichenberg, "i will bring him to you, that he may tell you himself--then you will believe me." the count paced the room with long strides; was it near at last--this consummation--did he at last see the term set to half a life-time of remorse and goading despair? oh! when he held his son in his arms, in those strong arms, nothing should tear him from them--he would make up for everything. minute after minute passed, louder and faster beat the father's heart--more and more shrank the terrified souls of the monks--"how will it end?" now--now close to the door--the footsteps of two men--but slow, much too slow for the father's eager impatience. reichenberg rushed to the door to meet him--the monks turned away not to witness the terrible scene. there stood the longed for son, pale and wasted, and his face covered with a blood-stained bandage. the father tottered back--his eyes fixed, petrified with horror at this vision of suffering. but no! this is not he, he is deceived; this is not donatus. "donatus!" he cried, with a choked utterance, "donatus, my son--where is he?" "i am here," answered the youth. the father, to convince himself, snatched away the bandage from his face--his son was before him--eyeless! a cry broke from the strong man that made the monks' blood run cold; "blind--blinded--my son--blinded. who has done it?" "i myself," said the young monk, in a firm voice. "you--yourself? and why?" groaned the miserable father. "because it was god's will." there was a moment of silence; not one of the monks dared utter a word of consolation. but the torrent of blood that for a moment had been checked in its flow in the heart of the betrayed father, rushed wildly on again, and he turned on the monks in terrible fury, "this then--this is what you have made of my son! executioners--murderers! a father's pride mutilated and disfigured--the last scion of an illustrious race! woe to you! god shall requite you sorely for this service." "count reichenberg," said the abbot, "we are innocent of this blood, nor are your son's eyes upon our conscience, for indeed they were the sunshine of our gloomy walls and everyone of us would willingly have given his own in lieu of his." "spare your speeches, abbot, i do not believe them. even if you have not yourselves been the executioners your accursed teaching has done it. put out your eyes to serve god! aye, that is your priestly notion of a hero. if you had given the boy a well-tempered sword in his hand that, for my part, he could have used against your enemies, he would never have committed such an outrage on himself! oh god! great god, here i stand before thy face; thou knowest all my iniquity, thou knowest wherein i have sinned--but the sorrow that is now rending my heart was of no purpose of thine--no god can be so cruel--but only man." and he beat his brow in a frenzy of rage as if he would strike himself dead with his own hand. meanwhile the blind man stood by in silence, his hands folded, his head sunk on his breast; a picture so touching that even the strong man's heart was melted to pity. "what shall i do?" he went on. "i am a lonely, childless man and you are a poor, maimed creature, a dishonour to the chivalrous house of reichenberg--still you are my own blood and i feel that i can love you with all your infirmities. i will take you with me--come, and like a beggar who picks up pot-sherds, i will gather up the remnants of my ruined race and carry them home under my roof--to weep over them. come, my son." his voice broke as he spoke. "your father will lay aside shield and spear and turn sick-nurse to tend the last of his race till we are carried out of the decaying house to which we two belong." and he took hold of his son's arm to lead him away with him; but the blind man stood as if rooted to the spot, not a foot did he stir to follow his father. the count looked at him as if he could not believe it. "my son!" he shouted in his ear, and he shook his arm as if to rouse him from a stupor, "my son--it is your father who calls you." "forgive me," said donatus wearily, for fever induced by the wounds was beginning to exhaust his strength, "but that is not my father's voice." "in god's name do not you hear me? it is i--your father--reichenberg," urged the count. the blind youth shook his head. "i have no father but the abbot." "donatus!" shrieked the count, "are you in your senses?" he turned to the abbot, "if any earthly bond is still sacred in your eyes--tell him what a son owes to his father." "donatus," said the abbot, "you are this man's son--it is to him that you owe your existence in the world! according to all human rights and duties you belong to him--according to the rights and duties of our order you belong to us.--you are of age and free to choose--choose." all eyes were fixed on donatus. he felt for the abbot's hand, "my father," he said, "i can have but one choice; to live or die with you." "son, son!" cried reichenberg. "is all your nature subverted? can you repel your real father for the sake of a stranger who did not beget you?" "my lord," said donatus, "how can you say you are my father, when you have never dealt with me as a father? while these have treated me as you ought to have done. how can you talk to me and chide me for loving them and calling them father, when i have never known any other father?" reichenberg's eyes fell; "you speak the truth," he replied. "i have erred and sinned grievously towards you; an evil spirit possessed my senses--but of that god is the judge and not you. the children may not be their parents' judges, for the ties of blood are sacred and no law can tear them asunder." "my lord, i am dedicated to heaven--i recognise no ties of blood--" "and is this the doctrine in which you have brought up my child? almighty god! it would have been better for him if the wild beasts had devoured him! the son renounces his father who comes remorsefully to atone for his past crime. oh! it is hideous, and i turn from you in horror! you are not men, you are stones--stones of that proud edifice under which the whole earth groans, and all wholesome life must perish.--and you, blind shade, out of which they have wrung the very blood and marrow, can you reconcile it to your creed of mercy to plunge a dagger in cold blood into the heart of a father who opens his arms to you with eager longing, and cries for atonement as a hart for the water-brooks,--to renounce him when he would fain lead you home under the roof of your ancestors?" donatus drew himself up; his father quailed before him. "my lord," said he, "the winter-night sky was my parental roof; the bare earth was my cradle; the snow-storm sweeping down from the heights gave me the first fatherly kiss. hunger and cold, exhaustion and death were the nurses that tended your wife in her need. pitying love came in monk's garb through the night, and snow, and storm, and snatched the deserted woman and child from the cruel earth, and carried them home, and warmed them, and laid them on a soft bed. and when my mother succumbed to her miseries, again they were monks--these whom you see here--that made me a cradle in the name of him who is love. they have carried me in their arms, they have sheltered and tended me, and watched over me all my life; and shall i leave them and follow a stranger only because an accidental tie of blind nature binds me to him? my lord, sooner could i tear all love out of my heart, as i have torn out my eyes, than do such a thing!" the count had listened to the words of the son he had lost with apparent composure, but he now said to the abbot in a sullen tone, and with lips that were white with anger, "that will do; command him to follow me without resistance, or mischief will come of all this." the abbot drew back a step. "i cannot," he said; "i desired him to choose, i cannot compel him." the count grew paler and colder. "then i will compel him," he answered. "send down to the village for a strong horse that may carry me and the boy." "my lord," urged the abbot, "you surely will not against his will--" "do you think i will entreat him any longer? he must obey, willingly or not; he is my son, and he belongs to me," and with a rapid movement he snatched the enfeebled boy from the midst of the brethren, and threw his mailed arm round his slight form. "sooner would i throw you to the wolves, unnatural child, than leave you here with these monks, and come what may, i will carry you away." "oh, god, help me!" cried the blind man, and in an instant the brethren had flung themselves on the father, and freed the son; the solitary man was forced to yield to numbers. donatus clung to the abbot and correntian who supported him. the count drew his sword. "you will have it!" he cried. "then take it," and he flew like an infuriated wild boar on the unarmed group, so that the foremost recoiled in terror. "a sword, a sword!" donatus heard them shout, and he understood what was happening. in an instant he drew a blood-stained weapon from under his robe--the compasses that he had taken from eusebius--and he turned the two sharp points against his breast. "father!" he shouted above the tumult, "if indeed you are my father, will you kill your own son? see this steel which has already pierced my eyes; i will this instant plunge it into my heart if you touch a hair of one of my brethren!" reichenberg dropped his sword, and for an instant struggled for breath; then he raised his arm again, and the words poured from his lips like a fiery torrent. "you have conquered! your strength is so great, so unfathomable that it is vain for man to fight against it. but still you are of flesh and blood, and still you can die! then hear my solemn oath. in seven days, when the moon changes, i will return with a force, strong enough to destroy you and the whole body of your lansquenets, to rase your convent even with the earth. so bethink yourselves: if by that time you have not turned the heart of the son to his father, if you do not give him up willingly, i will mutilate you as you have mutilated my son; i will rend every tie of humanity as you have rent them by dividing the son from his father; i will trample on your sacred rights as you have trampled on the holy rights of nature. blood for blood, and struggle for struggle! i will require at your hands the heart and the eyes of my son, and you shall answer to me for them." "count reichenberg, we do not tremble at your threats," said the abbot proudly. "you may indeed destroy a poor and helpless monastery, and murder a handful of unarmed monks, but you know very well that a whole world would rise up to avenge us, and, even if you conquered that, our holy father can hurl an anathema at you which will overwhelm you to all eternity, and which you cannot escape from in this world or the next." "and do you believe," cried the count with a wild laugh, "do you believe that i quail before curse and ban?--do you believe that i can fear hell when such wrath as mine is boiling in my veins?--do you believe that i care for heaven--for heaven whose revolting indifference has let every earthly evil fall upon me?--for heaven that did not annihilate you all rather than leave this poor young son of a noble house to blind himself for your doctrines? woe upon you! but there is still a power that you know not of--because you have never felt as men feel, and that is a father's vengeance; neither death nor damnation can terrify that!" he turned towards the door. "so i say again, bethink yourselves; in seven days i shall return and perform my oath--you yourselves have taught me that an oath must be kept." the door closed with a slam--while the brethren, pale with fear, were still looking after their grim enemy. "my brethren," said the abbot, clasping donatus in his arms, "this our brother has proved himself such as never a man before him. he might have escaped the severest penance by following his father, and we gave him his choice. he has chosen perpetual imprisonment and chains, and has refused freedom and happiness. my brethren, when we consider this our disciple's greatness of soul, we must say that we have done right. and they to whom the lord vouchsafes such fruition will not be abandoned in their time of need--for this youth's sake. he will stand by us." "by the help of this youth--aye, truly--but not if you put him in prison," said a voice behind the door. it was brother wyso who had slipped in from the infirmary, somewhat paler and leaner than of yore, but in as good spirits as ever. "i wonder you were not smothered long since in your own fat!" muttered correntian between his teeth. "have you heard what threatens us?" asked the abbot. "i was standing behind the door. i kept myself discreetly hidden, for when he slashed about him with his sword it struck me that my whole head might be of more service to you than the half." "what do you mean?" asked the abbot. "we are lost--lost even if we had reared a whole garden-full of such holy fruit for the lord. why! did you ever see a tree escape the lightning because its fruit was good? has not the almighty let many a cloister perish for all that it seemed a pity? think of our convent at schuls that was burnt to the ground, and yet it was no man's fault! but this time you yourselves are in fault! you should have listened to me when i warned you; now it has come upon you. the count of reichenberg neither can nor will forgive you. either you must give the boy up to him--" a cry of horror interrupted him, but he proceeded with his speech undisturbed--"or he will hack you in pieces with your protectors and your handful of people, so that at the last day there will be no knowing the bones of priest and peasant apart. there is one, only one, who can save us--donatus!" "and how is that?" asked the abbot. "do you not remember how he bewitched the duchess, and how she said, 'send this lad to me and whatsoever you desire shall be granted.'" "aye, aye!" murmured the brethren, beginning to understand him. "but she will turn from him in horror, now." "nonsense! if he pleased her then when he had his pious eyes, he will please her twice as much now because he has put them out for piety's sake. such a thing melts a woman's heart with pity. the duchess is now staying at münster--count reichenberg is ruled by the duke and he is ruled by the duchess--send the boy to her and she will help us." "it seems to me brethren, that brother wyso's counsel is good," said the abbot. "listen to me," cried correntian; but the excited monks would listen to him no longer. "no, no; wyso is right; none but donatus can help us, donatus shall go to the duchess at münster." "my son--you can save us, will you venture on this journey?" asked the abbot. donatus kissed his hand. "my father may dispose of me as he will and whatever he does is well." "well then, my son--there is indeed no other way--set forth. you do it for us--your brethren--and for god. you will get there and back again in two days; but then, my son, your punishment shall be remitted, for you have this day ransomed yourself by an act of fidelity which outweighs a whole life-time of penance." "donatus," said correntian in a low voice, "once again the evil one sends you forth. are you strong enough?" "strong!" donatus smiled--a strange and bitter smile. "what can the world do to me now! i am blind." chapter ii. when a brother of the order went out on a mission he received a pair of new shoes made out of one piece of goat-skin, and a willow-staff sprinkled with holy water. the abbot gave him his blessing and the brethren said the prayer "_cum fratribus nostris absentibus_" for him. for his sustentation and comfort he carried on his back a scrip with some bread in it, and a wooden flagon of wine. thus cared for, body and soul, the wanderer could set forth cheerfully on his way. not so brother donatus. he was indeed provided with bread and wine, with willow-staff and shoes, with blessings and with prayers; but that was lacking to him which the traveller chiefly needs--he had not eyes. with a hesitating step, sick and fever-stricken, he crossed the threshold of the convent for the first time in his life, excepting that short wild night-excursion. he was dazed with the thought that he must thus wander on from night to night, ever onwards without support, without any power of measuring far from near, without any dividing of the infinite darkness. would his next step even fall on the firm earth; might he not lose his footing in space or fall over some obstacle? would he not run up against something, find himself unexpectedly in front of a wall or be caught in the thick brushwood that he heard rustling round him and that often touched him as he passed? and he stopped again and again in involuntary terror before this or that imaginary danger. nor could he put full confidence in his guide, for brother porphyrius had no idea of what blindness was and led him on his way so heedlessly that the poor youth often stumbled and fell. it was indeed a weary journey; sweat stood on his brow, his temples throbbed and many a blood-streaked tear fell from the unhealed wounds of his eyes. but he was patient; he thought of the procession to golgatha and when his foot stumbled--was he not treading in the redeemer's foot-steps! a number of young trees were lying about felled by the recent whirlwind and his guide dragged him across them, suddenly he picked one up in his strong arms and laid it across his shoulder. "what are you doing with that tree?" asked his companion. "i bear it instead of a cross, as simon of cyrene bore the cross after the saviour." "that is not right," said his guide. "you must not overburthen yourself, lest your strength should fail you before you have fulfilled your task. and this is not the saviour's cross and it will profit you little to bear a mere profane log of wood." "oh, shortsighted man!" cried donatus, with a glow in his cheeks. "if the bread which we ourselves have baked can be turned into the lord's body, may not a tree be turned into the lord's cross if it be borne in the name of the lord? truly i say unto you who doubt of such miracles, that you know not the power of faith." "but how can it avail the redeemer when you do such things to serve him; he is enthroned on the right hand of god and no longer bears his cross." "but he still bears the burthen of the cross, and heavy enough it is; a burthen that each one of us must strive to lighten: the burthen of our sins that he took upon himself in the sight of his father, and that every act of true penance serves to diminish. do you believe that he who died for us threw from him at his death all that he had suffered and bled for, and that he now for ever rejoices in celestial bliss, and says, 'let them do as they will, i have done my part. if they will not follow they may be damned, what do i care?' do you think he would be indeed christ if he thought this? i tell you that when he sees that he has died in vain, and that his holy teaching has no power over our sinful natures, he mourns over us, and his loving heart is oppressed with woe. and when one bears his cross in his name that he may follow him into the kingdom of heaven, he serves him as simon of cyrene did." "donatus, you are indeed a saint," cried the monk. "we truly are the blind and you it is that see." and they went on, each lost in his own thoughts. a light step seemed to be following them, close to them but yet invisible; porphyrius looked round several times, but he could see nothing in the thick bush of the upland forest. it was not like a human foot-fall, but could not be the fleeting step of some forest animal, for it kept up evenly with theirs, now near and now distant; a devotional shudder ran over brother porphyrius: it must certainly be an angel sent by the lord to be an invisible support to the penitent, to help him to bear his burthen; and he dared to look round no more, lest he should drop down dead if he caught a glimpse of that heavenly face. thus they proceeded for about an hour through the damp wood; the dripping boughs flung a cooling dew on the penitent's head, the wet brambles brushed against his robe, and his parched lips inhaled the reviving freshness. but the consuming fever which was burning in the two seats of pain which he himself had made, seemed to dry up every kindly drop of dew like a red hot iron; at every pulse his arteries drove the blood more furiously to his temples, his breath grew shorter and shorter, his steps slower and slower, his tall figure was bent and panting under his heavy load. when at last they reached the hem of the forest, and stepped out on to the high road, he began to totter and fail. "i can go no farther," he gasped, and fell to the ground under his burthen. "i knew it would be so!" cried the monk, looking helplessly round for some succour. far and wide there was no living creature to be seen. by the wayside stood an old picture of a saint under a weather-beaten shrine, overgrown with wild roses; the storm had half overthrown it, and no one had set it up again; not a soul could have passed that way. a few birds were perched on the roof bickering over their food. it was in vain that brother porphyrius listened for the steps that had accompanied them through the wood, they had ceased since the monks had come out of it. the protecting angel appeared to have forsaken donatus, and that was why his strength had failed. porphyrius relieved him of his burden, and laid him in the scanty shade of the shrine, for the sun had risen again, and pierced very sensibly through the mists which rose from the deserted and flooded road; it could no longer dazzle the eyeless man, but it scorched his shaven head which he grasped in his hands with faint groans. there was no spring in sight whence to fetch water for the unhappy man. should he go back to the wood? could he leave the blind man alone for so long? "is there no one near," he shouted to the empty distance. "hi, hallo, help!--help." then again he listened to the silence, holding his hand over his eyes. something moved at the edge of the wood, a young girl came out of it. in one hand she held a rush basket, and in the other a hazel-rod; on her shoulders she carried a small bundle and a round wooden water-jar, such as pilgrims used. her hair shone in the sun like flaming gold, her little bare feet showed below her short petticoat like white flowers. her gait was as light, and she ran forward as quickly as if she were moved by some mysterious power. that must be the light step that has accompanied them so far. brother porphyrius stared fixedly at the marvel as it came forth from the dim shade of the wood, so brilliant and yet so modest, simple, and maidenly--half a child and half a maiden--so sweet and yet so grave. had the blind man's guardian angel indeed assumed a human form, so as not to reveal itself in all its glory to the unworthy eyes of the brother who could see? before he had time to think of all this, the little girl was by his side. "did he fall down, has he hurt himself?" she asked, and her large golden-brown eyes were filled with tears of unutterable anxiety; brother porphyrius did not answer, he gazed at her, speechless; she did not wait for the answer, but knelt down by the sick man. "my angel," she said softly, "my lord and my angel, do not die and leave me." and she gently raised his head, and poured water on his brow from her flask; donatus began to breathe again, and raising himself he asked, "who is that?" "a child that has been following us," said porphyrius. "she does not belong to our neighbourhood. i never saw her before." "i thank you, my child," said donatus. "you refresh the weary; blessed are the merciful." "let me wet your handkerchief, to cool you," said the girl, carefully taking the bandage from his eyes. he instinctively covered the wounds with his hand, but she did not heed it, for she was wholly absorbed in her helpful zeal. she wetted the linen with the water in her bottle. "it is all bloody," she said. "have you hurt yourself?" "yes," he replied hardly audibly. she folded it into a square pad and laid it on his head; but he still kept his eyes covered that the child might not be frightened. "that will do you good," said she, and then she took some of her wood-strawberries and put them into his mouth. "there, eat them; i picked them for you, and you--the other one, have some too--but the best are for donatus." "do you know me then?" asked donatus in surprise. "certainly i know you. you are the angel i saw that day." "are you in your right senses, child? when was i ever an angel?" "yes--don't you remember--that day when they made you a priest?" "oh! i never was farther from being an angel than in that hour," murmured donatus, and he let his hand fall from his face. "but you had wings then; why have you lost them?" continued the girl. "child, you are dreaming, i never had wings." "i thought i saw you with wings. but there is something different in you now--" she studied him attentively; suddenly she started up, "oh--now i know--you have not got any eyes?" donatus clasped his hands over his face; the child stood by pale and trembling, and tear after tear forced its way through her long lashes and fell on her little clasped hands. "poor, poor man!" she sighed from the depths of her child's heart. brother porphyrius had to turn away his head, he was so deeply moved. donatus started up. "let us go on," he said hastily. "i will go with you," said the little girl. "why, where are you going?" asked porphyrius. "wherever you go." "do you know then whither we are going?" asked donatus. "no." "then how can you know that our roads are the same?" "your road is my road, where you are i will be--and when you stop i will stop." "ruth!" exclaimed porphyrius involuntarily. "child, what has come over you!" said donatus. "what do you want with me?" "nothing," said the child, for in truth she herself did not know. "but you cannot wander about the world alone in this fashion," said donatus. "alone! i shall be with you," answered the girl. "but think, what will your mother say?" the child's eyes filled with tears. "my mother is dead," said she. "and your father?" "he is dead too." "then you are an orphan?" "yes." "that makes a good pair, an orphan and a blind man. where is your home?" "nowhere." "you must have been born somewhere." "i do not know." "but how came you here, what were you seeking in this neighbourhood?" "i was looking for you." "leave her alone," porphyrius whispered in donatus' ear. "do you not perceive that she is no mortal being?" donatus drew back a step. "what do you mean?" "it is a spirit that has taken a maiden's form--your guardian spirit sent to you by god--believe me. do not press her any more with questions or you will drive her away." donatus pondered on the marvel for a while, "suppose it were a demon?" he said. "you say that only because you are blind; if you could see you could not doubt," porphyrius persisted. but donatus made the sign of the cross over her and drew his missal from his breast. "if thou art born of woman or sent by god, kiss this book; but if thou art come from the nethermost pit to lead us astray, depart--in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy ghost," and he held up the open book before her to exorcise her. she seized his hand and drew it towards her with the book to kiss it. it was still warm from the fevered heart on which it had been lying, and she pressed her lips to it long and fervently. it seemed to donatus that the book was part of his very self, and he felt the kiss as she impressed it on the book. "she is pure," he said, and concealed the breviary again in his bosom. "if then you will accompany me, come on. i will ask you no more questions. if you will tell me whence you come, do so unquestioned." the girl was silent, she knew not what to say; she took up the sick man's scrip and slung it over her shoulder with her own. "what are you doing?" asked donatus, feeling himself suddenly relieved of the weight. "i will carry it for you." "nay indeed you shall not; you are yourself but a tender child." "yes, let me, let me, i will do it willingly, it is for you," said the child and they set forward. but donatus still paused for a moment. "the log that i was carrying for a cross, can i leave that?" "yes, let it lie, you have cross enough in your blindness." "do you hear?" porphyrius said in a low awe-stricken tone. "it is god that speaks by her." "then break off a twig from it and give it me that i may keep it, it will bring me a blessing." the little girl ran back and broke off a twig which she brought to him. "if you will only wait a few minutes longer i will make you a wreath of leaves from the little tree so that the sun may not burn your head." the two men were quite content to do everything the child wished, was not her will god's will? and with nimble fingers that moved as if by magic, the little one twined a broad wreath to give a cool shade to the wounded man's burning head; then they went on again. "let me lead you, i shall do it better," said the child, and she took the blind man's hand from that of the other monk. this too they agreed to, and donatus felt as if the child's touch infused new strength into him. "there is a blessing in your hand, it leads me softly," he said gratefully. the little girl was silent, only her eyes told of unutterable happiness as she looked speechlessly up at him. and on went the three, now over slippery morasses, now over green hills and fields, and after taking the little girl's hand the blind man's foot stumbled no more, and the thorns no longer tore him; she carefully cleared every stone out of his path; where it was uneven she warned him by word or sign and guided his steps slowly and cautiously. no mother could guide her child, no sister tend her infant brother, no angel lead a soul to heaven, as she watched over the blind man in his helplessness. the girl's pure breath fanned him like forest-airs when her bosom rose and fell quickly from some steep ascent or the fatigue of guiding him. he neither saw nor heard her; for her little bare feet went on by his side as softly as those of a fairy, he only felt her. he felt as if an angel of pity was walking by his side to cool his deadly pain with the waving of tender wings. they spoke no word and yet they understood each other as spirits do without any earthly speech. what they could say to each other was but little and very simple, but what they told in that dumb discourse was higher than human wit and worldly wisdom and echoed in their soul like angelic hymns. it was by this time noon; the sun brooded hotly on the gorgeous landscape. the wanderers took their first rest outside the village of glurns in the shade of the churchyard wall and eat their meagre meal, while far and near the solemn noontide peal was rung. the glaciers looked down kind and radiant from above the high cliffs of micaceous schist, which, turning here towards the south-east, form the opening of the gorge of the münster-thal. far and wide, spread a picture of blooming life and sturdy strength; villages and towns lay scattered all round while, veiled in the misty noon-tide blue, the haughty walls of the fortresses of reichenberg and rotund stared down from their rocky eminence like border watchers over the münsterthal overlooking the smiling plain. porphyrius looked across at them with grave consideration. "i would we were only safely past reichenberg," he exclaimed. "they can overlook the whole valley from thence and it seems to me that it is dangerous to take the road by day; our dress will betray us and we might be carried prisoners to the castle." "does any danger threaten you from thence?" asked the girl. "yes," said porphyrius anxiously. "then let us rest in the wood till nightfall," the little one counselled, "and take the road at dusk." "that will not do, we might lose our way in the dark," said porphyrius. "not if i lead you; oh no! i am used to find my way in the dark," and a shadow of deep pain passed across her face as she spoke. porphyrius looked at her much disappointed. "do you not come from higher realms than we do?" "oh god knows!" sighed the child, folding her little hands across her bosom. "my foot has carried me as a fugitive about the world all the days of my life, and my eyes shun the light like a nightbird's, for the sun has rarely shone on me. i have hidden myself by day in the darkness of the wood and walked about at night." "god preserve us!" cried porphyrius, signing himself with a cross. "that is a hard lot," said donatus. "oh, it was well that it should be so, for thus i am able to guide you wherever you must go in the dark." "but, you poor child, you were not born merely to be my guide," said donatus compassionately. "what for then?" asked the child. "that i do not know," replied donatus. "but you must have some purpose and some end. what will become of you when our journey is ended and we must part?" "oh! no," said the child, "we shall never part." "child, you are talking foolishly, we must part, i shall return in two days to the convent, and unless you have the art of making yourself invisible, you cannot follow me there." "then i shall go to the blessed maidens up on the heath and ask them to set you free--or i will ask them to let me find the blind worm that makes folks invisible. then i will go into the convent and stay with you." "what folly are you talking, child, in the name of all the saints! the blessed maidens and the blind worm! who put them into your head?" "did you never hear of the blessed maidens?" "no--of such blessed maidens as those--certainly not." "don't you know that--not even that? oh, the folks that brought you up can have very little sense if they did not tell you that. up there on the heath--going towards nauders--there is a cave which is called the way to the blessed--that is the entrance to their country. you must have a wishing-rod made of a white hazel stick which has grown where cross ways meet and that was cut with a pure heart at the new-moon; then the door will fly open. take hold--here is one," and she gave him the hazel wand she held in her hand that he might feel it; but he fell into a fit of righteous rage and broke the rod into pieces and flung it away. "oh, folly, folly! woe to you if you carry on such night-magic and witches arts--we can never go on together, for these are not the ways that lead to the light." the girl had cried out with alarm when she saw him break the hazel-rod that she had been searching for all her life and had never found till the last new-moon; with that wand all she had ever hoped for had fallen into ruins--all the splendour of the kingdom of the blessed that it was to have opened to her--the help of the beneficent phantoms--all, all was gone. but worse even than the loss of her joys was her "angel's" wrath and the words he had spoken; their ways could never lie together. the child threw herself at his feet crushed with despair, and wept bitterly. "forgive me--i only meant to do it that they might release you from the convent and so i might always stay with you. only tell me what i am to do so that you may never be angry with me again. i will do anything in the world that you tell me. if you wish that i should hunger and fast, i will do it, and if you wish that i should die, i will die--only be kind to me again, i beseech you." the blind man laid his hand lovingly on the child's innocent head, and a strange emotion came over him as he felt her trembling beneath his touch. "do not tremble, young soul! you have had pity on me and i will have pity on you. i will save you from the ways of error and darkness; i will show you a path to the blessed--but to the truly blessed. it opens not to wishing rods nor spring-herbs--only by penance and prayer may it be found." "aye, my lord, teach me to act according to your will, as i guide your blindness do you guide me where you see while i am blind." "amen!" said donatus, and he felt as though the tears which he could no longer shed fell back like heavenly dew on the drought of his lonely heart. god had sent him this soul to be saved by him for heaven. for the first time in his life he had found something he could call his own, and he felt that she was wholly his, absolutely given up to him, and that her salvation was in his hand. thus must a father feel when a child is born to him. he clasped the girl's head as if he wished to grasp this new-born joy, and said only one word; "my child!" but in a tone like the soft melodious ripple of the newly melted snow as it trickles down from the cliff under the beams of the first spring-sunshine; and the girl bowed under the touch of her "angel's" hand, speechless and motionless, as though she feared to disturb the miracle even by drawing breath. the soft breath of noon bore the perfume of lilies and roses from the graves in the churchyard, and the little screech-owl[ ] shouted from the wood his cry of "come here, come here." the girl listened to the call knowing what it betokened, but she only smiled at it; for her life had but just begun--a life in which there is no death. and as soon as donatus released her she sprang up, and her shout of joy went up to heaven like the song of the lark, and she ran through the little gate in the wall into the church-yard and flung herself down by the first grave to pray in front of its wooden cross. but she could not pray--could not think; she flung her arms round the cross and pressed her cheek against it as against her mother's breast. brother porphyrius meanwhile, sitting under the wall, shook his head. "we have been deceived in her, donatus, she is not a spirit, but a child of man like us, and god only knows whence she came, for her paths lie through the darkness as she herself told us--" "but i shall lead her to the light!" interrupted donatus. "be not presumptuous--to me there is something uncanny about her since i have learnt that she is of this world; she is too fair for an earthly maiden and i am uneasy about you." donatus smiled in melancholy but proud calmness as in the morning. "what is there to fear?" he said. "am i not blind!" chapter iii. it was now night, but not dark; the moon illuminated the valley with a light almost as bright as day, and displaying every object, even in the remotest distance, in trenchant outlines of light and shade. the pinnacles of reichenberg, of rotund, and of the tower of "helf mir gott" were bathed in a mysterious splendour. once upon a time a maiden who was wooed by a wicked knight threw herself from this last-named tower down into the valley, but fell unhurt, for the saints spread out their mantles to bear her up. this was the story that the little girl told the monks; but in a low voice, as if her prattle could wake the sleepers upon the heights, and her soft voice mingled with the murmur of the ram which danced along in the moon-light close to their path. "do you know this neighbourhood?" asked porphyrius. "certainly. i was here as a child when the pretty lady used to come and see me at night, and the handsome man whom i used to call father; and then mother had to fly with me to the trafoy thal where the three holy springs are, and then, as we were never safe there, across the heath to the forests by finstermünz. i know every road and turning far and near." "why had you to hide so constantly?" asked porphyrius. "had your mother committed some crime?" "oh! no, my mother never did anything wrong. but she was always afraid they would try to kill me." "very strange! what then did she live upon?" "the pretty lady gave my mother money, and with that we bought food and clothing. it lasted till i was a big girl, but now it is all gone; and we wanted to work by the day, but they drove us away everywhere, and at last we were obliged to beg. begged bread is hard bread--my mother died of it." the child wiped her eyes with her sleeve, and was silent. "here is some dark secret," said porphyrius softly to donatus. "poor child, when did your mother die?" asked donatus. "last night, in the forest." "why, then she is not buried?" "i laid her in a hole where the storm had uprooted a tree, and i covered her with branches, and i rolled some stones down on her too, as many as i could; and a little wooden cross that she always wore--i stuck that in and prayed by it." "what was your mother's name?" asked donatus thoughtfully. "berntrudis, my lord, you know her well, for she was your nurse." "berntrudis," exclaimed donatus sorrowfully; "was she your mother?" "no, she was not really, but she brought me up and i called her so." "alas, poor woman, and was this your end--like the beasts of the field, on the wet earth, in storm and whirlwind, and now to lie unburied like them. could not the church even give you christian burial, you who reared a son for her, and why, child, did you not fetch one of us this morning, so that we might have given her a grave in consecrated ground?" "whom then should i have fetched? i dared not go up to your people any more since the cruel man drove me away in the night. ah! if you had only come to her you would certainly have made her well again, and she would not have died." "i? how could i guess it! if only you had come to fetch me." "but i did go to fetch you, but the dark man kicked me away from the door." "who?" "the pale dark man, with black eyes--" "correntian!" cried donatus. "did you tell him that it was berntrudis that was ill?" "indeed i did, and i entreated him to send you to comfort her at the last. but he threatened to tread me to death like an adder." "you!" groaned donatus, and as if it were his part to protect her, he threw his arm round the child's shoulder, and pressed her closely to him. "correntian!" he repeated, "may god recompense him!" porphyrius laid a warning hand on his companion's arm. "donatus!" he said. but donatus heeded not. "to cast out this child in the night and storm when she had come to ask for the last consolation for a dying woman! woe to correntian! that is not the spirit that ought to inspire us," and he held the child clasped to him as a father might. "poor, forsaken orphan! here, here you have a home, i will make up for what the hard man did to you; i will repay to you, her nursling, all that my faithful nurse did for me, all she suffered for me! yea! i will, as true as the spirit of love lives in me which correntian so outraged." "oh, my dear, dear master," said the child, her voice husky with blissful joy. but porphyrius shook his head. "what are you doing, donatus? i am only a humble lay-brother, but it seems to me that it can be no duty of yours to pick up girls by the wayside, and offer them a home in your affections." "the brethren picked me up by the wayside, and shall i not pity the forsaken? rather is it well for me that i may at last know the joys of compassion." "but you lack moderation in it, as in everything," warned porphyrius. "moderation! who shall set the limits to loving kindness? this is the first creature to whom i have ever been able to do any good; do you know what that is?" "a vagabond girl who herself confesses that she has been driven out wherever she went; is she worthy of your kindness?" grumbled the more deliberate monk. "child," he shouted at her, "confess, why have you not earned your bread honestly by the labour of your hands, why were you hunted from place to place, if no evil report attached to you?" the girl turned pale and trembled, "i--i cannot tell you." "what, you hesitate!" cried porphyrius. "why do you tremble so if your conscience is clear?" "oh, my lord, you will abominate me and drive me away from you." "is it so? god preserve us! we have indeed been deceived in you," roared porphyrius. "confess at once, confess, are you a witch or a sorceress?" "indeed, my lord, i do not know. folks say so because my brows grow together and i have little feet. i have never done a harm wittingly to any one, really and truly never, and yet the boys run after me wherever i go and scold at me because they say i oppress them in their sleep and am a witch; and the women throw the three white gifts after me, and the children throw stones, and laugh at me and hang wisps of straw about me. and so i fly from place to place, but it pursues me everywhere, and nowhere can i find peace, and the child burst into heartrending sobs. "now we have it!" cried porphyrius clasping his hands in horror. but the child in her anguish clung to donatus. "oh! my lord! oh master! do not cast me out, have pity upon me. i will confess everything. yes, indeed, it is true i have many signs about me that i myself am almost obliged to believe in. i have always been glad to creep into a hollow tree and sit and dream that i really was a night-bird and shunned the light, for by day they were always tormenting and hunting me--so how should i love the daylight? and often, often i have felt as if i must squeeze my mother to death for love; and when i have had some pet animal, a lamb or a little dog, i have hugged it till its breath was almost spent, but i never did squeeze one to death, and i was always sorry when i had hurt it at all. and often when i had no living thing i have run into the wood and bent down the little young trees till they split, and then i felt better again. nay, my lord, i will confess to you, that even with you, who are to me so high and sacred, i have felt tempted. when i held your hand, and led you along, a feeling came over me as if i must press your hand, till i almost dropped down dead. tell me, is that sorcery? but you know even witches can be made good, and if i am one, help me that i may fight with my nature--i am to be saved, do not let me fall away, my lord!" donatus felt her sink at his feet--felt her whole frame trembling with deadly anguish, and he raised her with his strong arm. "be you what and who you may," he said, "i believe in you." then he suddenly felt that the slight form was flung violently to the ground, and he heard a low cry from the girl; then a strong arm gripped his and tried to force him from the spot. "what is that?" he cried. "away with you!" whispered porphyrius. "do you think i will let you league yourself with such a being? get thee gone, accursed witch!" and again donatus heard a blow fall as it were on some soft body. something was all at once roused in him, as if only in this moment he had suddenly grown to manhood. with one hand he pulled up the ill-used child from where she was lying at his feet, the other he raised against the monk. "if you touch her again it is at the peril of your life." "donatus," screamed the horrified monk, "are things gone so far with you?" "so far?" cried donatus. "do you dare, you miserable man, to doubt me, me the votary of death? is the impenetrable darkness that shrouds me not too sacred for your suspicions to spot it? this child is my child; i have put myself in her father's place, and i will protect her with my heart's blood." the poor little head had sunk wearily on his breast like a scared bird, he felt her painful breathing, and rage and grief gave him a giant's strength; still the imprudent monk ventured once more to try to part them, but the fist of his aggravated companion, though blindly aimed, hit his temple so that he fell tottering on to a stone and lay there unconscious. "woe is me!" cried donatus who heard the heavy fall. "is he dead?" the child knelt down by the fallen foe and rubbed his brow and temples. "no, he is alive, but he has hit himself against a stone and is bleeding." "great god, what have i done? raised my hand against a brother; what evil spirit possesses me? god have mercy upon me!" the girl meanwhile had sprinkled water on the unconscious man and he opened his eyes; donatus stood by wringing his hands and helpless. the monk pointed up in the direction of reichenberg. "look there!" he exclaimed. the little girl looked up--lights were glancing in the castle, and just above a low copse they could see the heads of men on horseback who were riding quickly down the road. "those are the count's men--we are lost!" groaned the wounded monk, "if you are not wholly a child of hell, save him, in god's name." "and you? can you not come with us?" she asked. "no, my strength fails me, i cannot stand; leave me, it matters little; but everything depends on him, save him and god will show you mercy for his sake." the riders were already turning the corner of the copse. "away, away!" the child seized the blind man with supernatural strength and dragged him, half springing half tumbling, down the bank into the thick willow-scrub that at this spot bordered the deeply excavated bed of the river. "lie still and do not stir," she commanded him in a whisper, and she hid him as much as possible among the bushes; she herself crouched down beside him, and the tepid waves washed round the couple, softly and soothingly, like the downy cushions of a cool, freshly made couch. "here lies a priest!" cried one of the horsemen, pulling up his horse. "that is a good find, for the count has promised us a gold piece for every monk of marienberg that we take him." and they dismounted to examine the wounded monk. "you have had a blow. who has been beforehand with us?" asked one with a laugh. "no one," said porphyrius. "i fell over a stone." "were there not a couple more with you? i thought i saw something of the kind as we came round the corner." "yes, yes, it was like a shadow that slipped down into the water," cried another. "you saw rightly," said porphyrius quietly. "it was my cloak; i lost it when i fell down." the horsemen leaned over the edge of the road-way, but could perceive nothing. "it is washed down the stream long ago. wait a bit, friend monk, we will take you to a place where you will be hot enough even without your cloak! your time is come, you fat monks; in seven days we are to have a jolly butchery up at marienberg. now you may ride with us to bid the guests to the feast." and they lifted him on to one of their horses and rode off with shouting and laughter. their hoofs sounded for a long time in the distance; at last they died away and deep silence reigned on the lonely road. donatus and his companion still listened for some time in their hiding-place; at last the lights were extinguished in the castle and they were safe once more. the girl helped the blind man up the steep bank with much difficulty--again and again he slipped back on the sandy declivity in his wet robe. but she was as clever and resolute as she was slight and supple, and she succeeded in getting him to the top. there they stood, the two of them alone, a blind man and a defenceless child; but they feared nothing, they had each other and they asked for nothing more. "child, what am i to call you? my soul would fain utter your name to the lord in praise and thanksgiving. my heart is full of you, let it know your name that it may overflow in praise of you." "my name is beata." "beata! you have saved me--god is with you. now lead me on that i may rescue my brethren. we must not lose an instant, for the danger is pressing." "come my lord--my angel! here below i will lead you, you shall lead me above! but in order to guide you i must know where you are going? i should never have dared to ask while that stern brother was by, but now you must tell me everything, for now you have no one else to take care of you." "i am sent to st. gertrude's, the convent of nuns, with a message to the duchess; lead me thither by the nearest way." "good--you shall soon be there. ah! do not be sad; it is so delightful now i have you all to myself." and she pressed the hand by which she led him so tightly in the extremity of her joy that he started involuntarily; but she released it as if in alarm. "no, no, i will not squeeze you--no, i will not indeed!" she said, controlling herself. "poor child, i know just how you feel--there was a time when i too used to clasp the wooden cross to my breast, and kiss the cold earth in my impetuous and unspeakable longing; when i could have exhaled my very soul in one single embrace, in my thirst for love." "yes, yes--that is it," whispered the child, quivering with excitement. "but i have found what will quench that thirst and that longing; the water of which jesus spoke: 'whosoever shall drink the water that i give him shall never thirst.' i will teach you to draw that water and peace will be with you." the girl walked by his side in silence, her eyes fixed on the ground so that no stone might hurt the blind man's foot, for the road was rough and ill-constructed. so they went on together without speaking. "your hand is as hot as fire," said the girl at last, "and it throbs and beats as if there were a little hammer inside; and your step is uncertain. do your wet clothes hinder you, or are you ill?" "oh! child--ask me no questions." "but you frighten me. trust me and let me know about your troubles." the blind man stood still for a moment and pressed his hand over his eyes. "they burn and ache like live coals! my god, my god! grant that i may not be discouraged." the little girl was overcome with grief at seeing him stand thus wringing his hands in a convulsion of pain, as he pressed them to the aching sockets. "oh! poor, poor man--and i cannot help you. if i could cure you by tearing out my heart, oh! how gladly would i do it." "your words are balm, they have a wondrous healing power. come, now i can go on again." "wait a little while--i will fetch some water and bind you up afresh," said the child, and she would have gone to the river, but he held her firmly. "no--not an instant more. let us hasten onwards--every moment is of importance. think of my poor brethren." "i can think of nothing but you and your suffering!" cried the child--but she had to obey and to lead the blind monk forward. he pulled her on without farther delay. they were now passing by the foot of the fortress of reichenburg, and the little girl looked anxiously up at the blank and towering walls. "god be thanked!" she sighed, when they were past, "reichenburg is behind us! now we have nothing more to fear." "how long will it be before we reach saint gertrude's?" asked donatus. "before sun-down we shall be there. what shall we do then?" "there i shall beseech the duchess to grant me an escort and an efficient force to protect my brethren at marienberg, and i shall hasten back with them. i shall give you into the noble lady's charge that she may obtain your reception among the brides-of-heaven who dwell in the cloister of saint gertrude, for that is the path-way of the blessed in which i promised to lead you, and there flows the well of living water of which you must drink." "jesu maria!" shrieked the child. "you will shut me up in a cloister!" "what else could i do with you that would be pleasing to the lord?" "oh!--no, never, never!--" the child groaned under her breath. "beata--is this your obedience?" "i will follow you, as faithful as a dog, for that is my destiny--but free--of my own free will. i will not be imprisoned, i will not be shut up, if you mean to rob me of my freedom, i will fly from you--and no one will ever be able to find me again." "woe to you, beata! will you spurn the salvation that i offer you? unhappy child. to-morrow i must go home to my convent and then you will see me no more. what then will be your lot? you will wander about homeless as before, and hunger and freeze, while there you would find food and nurture for soul and body." "do you think i am afraid of hunger and cold? i--the homeless, the vagabond? offer a wild dove the handsomest cage under a roof, the host for food and holy water to drink--it will sooner creep into a hollow tree in the hardest winter, and starve rather than be captive. and the lord will have pity on the wild bird and will forgive it, for it is he himself that has made it so that it cannot live except in freedom." donatus stood still in astonishment and drew his hand out of hers. "child! what spirit is this that speaks in you? what power possesses you? you fear not that which man fears--that which tempts others does not tempt you; nothing earthly has any influence over you and you are sacred in your innocence. the beasts of the forest spare you, and sin cannot touch you. yes, your simplicity has vanquished me, and i bow before your childish wisdom. i will lead you on, wild dove, according to your destiny. perhaps, indeed, god has called you to bear the olive leaf to some lonely and erring soul that it may be reconciled to humanity." he took her hand again and walked on. "now lead the blind traveller to his goal and then spread your wings and fly away--my soul will know where to find you, flee where you will. and when storms rave round our towers and a feeble wing beats against my window, when the snow covers the land and the starving birds crave their crumbs of us--then i will think of my wild dove out in the wood--god preserve her!" he was suddenly silent; a strange and unfamiliar pain overcame him, and the words died on his lips. the child looked up at the stars with moistened eyes and an expression of immutable faith on her innocent brow. those stars above could never purpose that they should part--it could not be--nay, it would never happen. they neither of them spoke again till the towers of saint gertrude's were visible through the darkness. the little girl's heart beat faster for all her confidence, and she involuntarily slackened her pace as they neared the spot. but at last they had reached it, they stood at the gate--the moment of parting was come. chapter iv. "the duchess is gone," was the terrible news which the porter announced to donatus. "there is no one here now of all the court but count reichenberg, whom the duchess came here to seek. will you speak with him?" "god have mercy! let me go--quickly--away at once!" cried donatus, "he must not see me, not for worlds. tell me which way the duchess went, and can i overtake her?" "she set out for saint mary's; if you do not linger you might yet meet with her. but will you not first take a morsel to eat? the convent lets no one pass the threshold without some hospitable entertainment, and least of all a holy brother." "no--no--nothing; if the count of reichenberg sees me it will be the ruin of my cloister. let me go without any delay, and do not betray me if you have any reverence for the sacred will of the abbot of marienberg. farewell, and the lord protect your holy house." "and good luck to you on your way," the gatekeeper called after him. the door closed, and the two wanderers again stood alone on the road. "beata," said donatus gravely, "it is god's will; he has delivered me into your hand as helpless as a child; will you guide me farther still?" "god be thanked, god be thanked!" cried the girl with a fluttering heart, and her cheeks crimson with delight. "you will stay with me and i with you, for ever--for ever." "child, your thoughts are as busy and erratic as wild bees. the most impossible things seem sure to you, and what we count by hours to you seems eternal. you are but a child, but the lord has said, 'suffer little children to come unto me, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.' and so i think that your simplicity must be pleasing in his sight. but let us walk faster. i tremble at the thought of reichenberg." "i am walking as fast as i can, but if i go too fast you will fall, and then we shall be lost indeed." "i shall not fall while you guide me. oh! make haste, you know not what the stake is." "but here there is no need, it is woody here, and my mother taught me how to hide from the sight of men. and i learned it so well that she often said, it was as if i had the art of making myself invisible, i could creep away so quickly, and keep so very still." "why was your mother always afraid of losing you?" "because they had taken you away from her, and she was in terror lest they should take me too. she often said how foolish she had been not to fly away with you into the woods, as she did with me. it would have been a very different thing no doubt, for they would have hunted for you, but no one ever wanted me. "did your mother often speak of me?" "oh, very often, constantly; not a day passed that she did not tell me something about you; but her recollections were always of a little boy, so i could only fancy you one, just as we always picture the lord jesus christ as a baby in a manger. and oh! i loved you so dearly. at first, to be sure, when i was very little i was often jealous of you when my mother cried for you, but as i grew older she taught me to love you as she herself loved you, and taught me to pray for you." "oh wondrous providence! there lived on earth, though far from me and unknown, a soul that had thoughts of love for me while i, alone and a stranger to the world, prayed within convent-walls. was it you who were present to me in the spirit when i flung myself with fevered longing down in the grass, or on a grave, and believed that some response must come to my soul's cry, either from above, or from the abyss below! was it you?" "indeed it must have been, for i often shouted your name to the distance, and thought you would hear it and come. we waited for you, day after day, but at last my mother could wait no longer and she took me to burgeis, to be nearer to you. yes, and when i saw a pretty little boy, with dark curls and brown eyes, i asked my mother if you had not looked like that, and if she said 'yes,' i would take him up and nurse him and kiss him and call him donatus. and when i saw you in the procession, i did not know you, because you were no longer a boy, but tall and dignified. i took you for an angel; but mother knew you again. still, now i have you with me and you are so poor and helpless i can quite make you out to be the same with the little boy i used to picture. oh! i wish you were still so little." "and why?" "because then i could carry you in my arms and shelter you in my bosom from wind and weather and every danger." "oh merciful providence--what wonders dost thou create. yes, you are a wonder, you pure and holy child-spirit. it is such as you that god in his mercy sends to lonely pilgrims on the way to heaven to fare forth with them and strew the path of death with flowers. all my wild longing was but a vague seeking for you--pure and holy child--for you too are not of this world; you, like me, are not of the earth, earthly; you, like me, have no hope but in the other world." the girl leaned her face on his arm and wept softly, but she was weeping for happiness; for had he not himself said that god had created them for each other, and whether for life or for death, it was all the same to her. they were two stricken souls flung together into a dark sea; for an instant they might cling to each other, and then, clasped in that embrace, must sink in the hopeless depths--but that one moment was worth a whole lifetime. thus they went on to the little village of saint mary--the namesake of marienberg. it was only three quarters of an hour from münster, but he had to gather up all his strength to drag himself along; beata felt with increasing anxiety how he gradually leaned more and more heavily on her shoulder, and how his power was failing. if only they could reach their destination, thought she with an anxious sigh, then he could rest. but no such good fortune was in store for them. they had reached st. mary's, here was the same terrible news. "the duchess is gone." "whither?" "on a pilgrimage to trafoy, to the three holy wells." "all-merciful god!" trafoy was eight miles away--a day's journey; and his feet would hardly carry him. they must return all the way to glurns, almost three miles, for there was no path which a blind man could climb across the mountains that divide the three valleys. past the convent at münster and the towers of reichenberg, where they might meet the dreaded count, once more under the burning sun, over the shadeless fields of galfa, which they had traversed last night in the cool moonlight, and all this with strength impaired by fever and pain. "almighty god, thy hand is heavy upon me!" sighed donatus. but he did not pause to consider, he did not hesitate. "forwards," he exclaimed seizing the child's hand, "god will help us; beata, we must go on!" a short rest, for beata's sake and not for his own, at the farm in the village he did however allow; once more she dressed his wounds. then they set out on the whole weary way back to glurns, and from thence to the wild valley of trafoy and the three holy wells. "oh, my brethren, how anxiously you will be waiting," lamented donatus. "woe is me, for a useless worm that can only crawl when wings are needed. woe is me--i have done you an injury by injuring myself, and you were very right to punish me; my eyes belonged to you, i had no right to rob you of them." "do not be disheartened, dear master. when we reach trafoy you can moisten your eyes at the holy wells; perhaps that may make you see again." donatus shook his head with a bitter smile. "everything else on earth may heal and grow again--a withered stick may blossom again as a sign of grace; the body of the lord may grow for us in the dryest bread, but eyes cannot grow again--never, never." he was forced to stand still, a dull groan broke from his lips. he felt something light and soft laid upon his breast; it was the child's hand, she dared not speak, but she longed to comfort him, and a stream of sweet peace seemed to flow from that little hand; the tumult of his despairing heart subsided under that innocent touch. he stood for some time struggling for breath and holding the consoling hand tightly to his breast. "you heal every pain," he said. "you are one of those of whom the lord said, 'behold, in thy hands i have signed thee'--!" "they belong to you, so you may make use of them; my hands, my eyes--all that i have is yours," said the child, and a solemn thrill ran through the blind man. the sun shone with pitiless heat down in the valley, the naked cliffs of gneiss and micaceous schist that shut it in reflected the burning rays with double fervour, and out of the sea of glowing vapour uprose the frowning towers of reichenberg on their rocky height. the girl shaded her eyes with her hand and looked up--a line of armed men at that moment were riding up the mountain-side, at their head a leader on a black horse--the child thought she recognised the count; she clung to donatus in terror. "there they are," she whispered, "they can see us as well as we can see them--your black robe betrays you." "what can we do?" said donatus. "all around is bare--but there is a shepherd's cart and close by it the man himself minding his flock. i will ask him to hide you in it till night-fall--we cannot go on by daylight. i will mind his sheep for him till evening, in return." "great god! must another day be wasted without our being any nearer to the goal?" said donatus. "there is no other way. if count reichenberg finds us you will never reach it at all, for he is of a bad sort and is plotting evil against you." "what, do you know him?" "of course i do, he was with my mother just lately and they talked of all sorts of things that i did not understand; they stormed and threatened at the convent up there, and i could plainly see it was no good that they were promising." "and your mother was in league with him? oh berntrudis!" "she was furious with the fathers of marienberg on your account." "oh! woe is me that i must say it--we deserve it, for they made her a bad return for all her love and fidelity. but i bring misfortune and fatality on all that come near me." "not on me--you have not brought them on me," said the child, and donatus felt as if he could see the smile of rapture with which she spoke the words. they had reached the shepherd's hut, beata stood still in front of it. "now hide yourself in here while i speak to the shepherd." "beata--devise some plan for god's sake--i dare not wait till evening, for if we miss the duchess all hope is lost." "i know of no plan--unless you will change dresses with the shepherd. he must give you his smock and you must give him your clothes instead." "what! lay aside the dress of my order?" cried donatus horrified. "i can never do that--the rules forbid it." "then you must stop here till night-fall--one or the other is the only possible course." donatus wrung his hands, "what can i do? disobedience and infraction of the rule are my fate wherever i turn. and yet if i must infringe one law it had better be the lesser. more depends on my saving the brethren than on the outward observance. call the man here for god's sake; i will change clothes with him that i may go on unrecognised." "but--one thing more," said beata reflecting. "if afterwards the count were to see the man in your monk's cowl--that might betray you. i would rather burn it and give the shepherd something more valuable for his smock frock." "have you any valuables then?" asked donatus in surprise. "yes--here, feel; i have a ring that count reichenberg gave me. at first i flung it away, but my mother put it on me again, and said, 'who knows of what use it may be yet!'" "the count gave you a ring?" "aye--and a gold piece. that i have kept--we can buy bread with that when we have none left. he gave them both to me that night. the ring i was to show to the warder of the castle that he might admit me. he wanted to adopt me as his child." "and you did not go?" the child smiled. "why, how should i? i went with you." "but by-and-bye--consider--the ring will be the key to a new life of pleasure and splendour." "and even if it were the key to the cavern of the blessed--what do i want with it--i have you." donatus stood overpowered by this simple fidelity; at this moment the shepherd came forward, curious to see the strangers. "blessed be the name of the lord!" he exclaimed in astonishment. "how comes a cloister-brother here?" "here, you man," said beata quickly, "have you another smock frock?" "aye--my sunday clothes and my cape; what does the girl want with them?" "give them here, coat, cape, and hat, this blind brother has enemies--they are plotting against his life and that of his brethren--and if he cannot disguise himself in your clothes danger threatens him." the man shook his head. "i want my clothes myself," he said, "particularly the cape and hat; i cannot do without them." "consider--you have a house to shelter you from wind and weather, and he has nothing if you refuse to give him the cape and hat. look here, i will give you this ring for them, it is of pure gold--you may believe me, only don't consider any longer. i will mind your sheep--help him to put them on, and then we will burn the monk's dress." "the girl is no fool!" said the shepherd, laughing and turning the ring about as it sparkled in the sun, "for such a jewel as this you might strip me of my skin as well as my shirt." he glanced at the girl as she ran lightly off to keep the sheep together. "a smart girl she is! and it all slipped off her tongue as easily as a pater noster." and he fetched the things out of the hut, and began to help the blind man to put them on. in a few minutes donatus appeared from behind the hut, another man. his breast and arms were bare, for the scanty garment scarcely met round his shoulders and loins, and he had modestly wrapped the ragged cape round his slim white knees. "how handsome you are!" said the girl, gazing up in innocent astonishment at the manly young form that had hitherto been so completely concealed by the monk's black frock and cowl. donatus blushed involuntarily, the simple words disconcerted him; to this moment he had never thought whether he were handsome or hideous, and he was full of regret at having to exhibit himself in such a guise before the eyes of men. already he was considering whether it might not be possible to face all the danger of proceeding in his monk's dress. he was overwhelmed with shame, shame at his undignified disguise--when he suddenly perceived the unpleasant odour of burning wool; the girl with quick decision had flung the monkish garb on to the fire by which the shepherd was cooking his midday meal; it gave donatus a shock of horror, it was as if he himself were being burnt. "the sacred garb that you wear smells of the scorching of your too-easily inflamed desires," correntian had said to him in that last night. now the flames had indeed taken possession of it and consumed it. he stood by in brooding silence, and with deep sighs he made the sign of the cross over the fire and himself. then he pressed his breviary and the cross of his rosary to his lips and hid them carefully in the scanty robe that covered his breast. "beata, where are you?" at last he asked, putting out his hand. "here," said the child, going quickly up to him. "let us go." "here is the hat," said the little girl with prudent forethought, and she put the hat of coarse straw plait on his head. "now we can go on. farewell shepherd, and as you hope for salvation do not betray us, promise me that, by the holy virgin." the shepherd laid his right hand in hers which she held out to him. "the holy virgin need not trouble herself when you forbid it. i think no one could refuse you anything. go in peace, i would rather you should stay with me and help me to mind my sheep, but it is better so, for if i had you to look at i should forget the sheep! it is well that the pious brother there is blind, for if he had eyes to see you it would go hard with him." "farewell," said the child, interrupting him and hurrying donatus away. "you are trembling, beata. do not let his idle prating annoy you. the world is full of these baser souls, but they cannot come near us; they vanish before us like the dust clouds that whirl up beneath our feet." "ah! but you see, my lord, this is what happens to me wherever i go, first they torment me with friendly advances, and then when i fly from them they curse me and call me a witch." "poor little witch!" and an expression played upon his lips, a faintly sweet and merry smile. "oh! you are smiling, you are smiling," cried the child joyfully. "i can see you smile for the first time!" and again she would have said, "how handsome you are!" but for the first time in her life she coloured consciously, and the words died on her lips. donatus laid his hand on the child's head. "let me feel how tall you are?" said he, "are you quite grown up?" "i should think so," said the child, leaning her head on his breast. "see i reach up to there." donatus felt the height with his hand. "only so far! oh! then you will certainly grow taller yet. how many summers old are you then?" "that i do not know." "what, child, do you not even know how old you are?" "wait, not by summers, but i can count by trees." "by trees?" "yes, wait a little. every year since i could run alone my mother made me cut a cross in a young tree when the birds were building their nests. now here in münsterthal there was one tree," she reckoned on her fingers, "on the road to marienberg there was one; two at nauders, and five in finstermünz, and in the ober-innthal three, that makes twelve, then there are three in lechthal, and one on the way down, in vintschgau; that makes sixteen little trees. so that since i came into the world there must have been seventeen springs, for when i cut the first cross i was so tiny that my mother had to guide my hand with the knife; so she told me, for i cannot remember it." "then you are already seventeen summers old? i thought you were still quite a child," said donatus thoughtfully. "and what colour are your eyes?" he went on presently. "brown or blue?" "brown i fancy, but i cannot be certain, for i have no mirror but the water, but mother used to say they shone at night like owl's eyes." "and your hair?" "reddish-brown. the children used to call me hairy-owl when they saw me combing it, because i could cover myself all over with it like a cloak; here, feel my plaits, they are as long as i am tall. i have to fasten them up." and she laughingly drew the thick, half unplaced locks through his hand while he wondered at their length and weight. "and your eyebrows grow together, the true sign of a witch?" "alas, yes." "and a little rosy baby mouth?" "yes, may-be--i do not know." "beata! oh, would i could see you!" he said for the first time since they had been together. it thrilled her with delight as he said it, she herself knew not wherefore. chapter v. it was now noon-day; beata and donatus took a short rest to eat their bread. the forest waved high above their heads, and close to them the noisy wildbach tumbled down the cliff, and the girl fetched some of the cool water for their frugal meal. "i cannot hear you, beata, are you there?" asked the blind man. "certainly, my good master, quite close to you!" "why are you so quiet?" he asked. "i have been thinking of a little song that says in rhyme just what you asked me to-day. would you like to hear it?" "of course; are you skilled in such things?" "a little," and in a low voice she sang as follows. "the blind man to the maiden said: 'o thou of hearts the truest, thy countenance is hid from me; let not my questions anger thee! speak, though in words the fewest! "'tell me what kind of eyes are thine? dark eyes, or light ones rather?' 'my eyes are a decided brown so much, at least--by looking down-- from the brook's glass i gather.' "'and is it red--thy little mouth? that too the blind must care for!' 'ah, i would tell that soon to thee, only--none yet has told it me. i cannot answer, therefore!' "'but dost thou ask what heart i have there hesitate i never! in thine own breast 'tis borne, and so 'tis thine in weal and thine in woe, for life, for death,--thine ever!'"[ ] "beata, who taught you that song?" cried donatus, starting up from the soft moss. the tender words had gone to his head and heart like sweet wine. he passed his hand across his brow as if to wipe away the spell which had been lightly woven over him. "who taught you that song?" he asked again. "no one, who should? no one could have heard what we were talking of to-day." "but who taught you to say what you felt in that sweet fashion?" "my father," said the child, and a deep melancholy rang through the words. "you have never told me about him, beata, how is that? "because i never can help crying when i speak of him, and that will not make you happy." "beata," said donatus gravely, "you share my sorrows, and shall i not share yours? tell me who was the wonderful man that taught a wild wood-bird to sing with such sweet art?" "he was a troubadour; it was his profession to turn thoughts into artistic verse, and so he taught me. poor father! the song of his lips was most sweet, and whoever heard him and his beautiful lute-playing, was made thankful and merry of heart. and yet he had to wander from place to place like me, and hide his handsome face under hideous disguises. for he was an exile and an outcast, and every man's hand was against him." "and what crime had he committed?" asked donatus. "i never knew--my mother said i was guilty of it all. it was because i had come into the world that things went so hardly with him--oh!--and how could i help it!" she hid her head in her hands and wept bitterly. donatus drew her hands away and took them consolingly in his own. "my child, my dear child!" "that is just what my father always used to say when he came to see us and took me in his arms. you know he never could stay with us; he was obliged to go into the towns and sing to people for his daily bread. and when he did come it was by stealth, and only when we were at finstermünz, or the valleys of the inn or the lech, where no one from these parts was likely to see him. he used to bring us as much food and money as he could spare, and would stay a few weeks with us in the forest. there he taught me a number of little proverbs and sayings and pretty tunes, and the arts of rhyming as far as i could learn them, but i was still quite young when he died--i could not count more than twelve trees that i had marked." "how did he die?" asked her companion. the child's hand trembled as she answered. "they fell upon him like a wild deer--some people out hunting who recognised him--and he dragged himself to us almost bleeding to death. we nursed him as best we could, but it was too late to be of any use. oh! and he was so patient and gentle even when he was dying; he laid his hand upon my head and blessed me, and said, 'may god never visit the guilt of your parents on your head--expiate in faithfulness their sin against faithfulness.'" donatus took her hand solemnly in his. "yes, you will be faithful and expiate the guilt of your parents whatever their sin was--a strange divination tells me this, and my soul is possessed with a deep sadness for your sake. what dark secret hangs over your birth, poor child--who may you be? did you never ask your mother berntrudis?" "no--why should i? what good could it do me? i am a poor, useless creature, i come and pass away like a wild heath-flower, no one asking whence came you or why do you bloom?" "poor heath-flower--lonely and sweet, how sacred you are to me. the perfume refreshes the weary pilgrim, and the dreaming spirit, like the dainty bee, gathers golden honey from the blossom of your lips. you grow firmly rooted in the dry rock, and humbly bend your head to the wind as it sweeps over the desert spot--and yet you stand firm and live on through sunshine and rain, through the fury of wind and weather! oh! heath-flower--i will not ask whence you came--i only rest my weary head in your shade and bless you!" and he threw himself on his knees before her, and bent his brow on her hands. thus he rested for some time in silence; not a breath, not a sound roused him from his dreams. in such a moment of exquisite rapture the girl almost held her breath--feeling herself like a holy vessel into whom the lord was pouring out his mercies. but suddenly he started up. "great god!" exclaimed he, "time is flying and i am delaying and dreaming. come, beata, 'of hearts the truest,' lead me onward." and on they went again, on and on, these two who might not rest; but was it the intoxicating perfume of the heath-flower, or his rising fever that made his steps uncertain? he knew not which; but he felt that his strength was failing. "hold thou me up, o lord!--for this day only hold thou me up, till i have brought succour to my brethren!" so he prayed fervently, as he put his arm round the girl's shoulders for a firmer support. "am i too heavy for you?" "oh no--never!" cried the child, though she could hardly hold herself up under the beloved burden, for her long walk through the night had by degrees crippled even her young limbs and made them feel like lead. but she would rather have died than he should know it. "poor little one, how much rather would i carry you!" he said, and he involuntarily dropped his head on to hers which reached just to his shoulder. he felt her silky hair like a soft pillow under his cheek, and the breath of her lips came up to him like incense. then he whispered softly--and the words sounded like a sad caress-- "is it your heart that i have to carry in my breast that is so heavy that my feet totter under the weight of it?" "if love and truth can be weighed in an earthly scale, then, indeed, dear master, you could hardly carry it." "i could almost believe that you are a witch, and that your little heart was an incubus that weighed on mine!" "what you too! you say so?" cried beata pitifully. "then it must be true." suddenly they heard a distant rush through the wood on each side of them, like the tramp of hoofs, and the startled creatures of the wood scampered through the brushwood, or whirled across their path in hasty flight. "god help us! it is the mounted soldiers!" exclaimed beata. "but collect yourself--your dress disguises you perfectly. do not betray yourself." and she hastily snatched the bandage from his eyes and hid it in her bosom; then she pulled the hat low over his brow so that his eyes might not be seen under its broad brim. "do not say that you are blind," she whispered. by this time the riders broke through the bushes; they were the followers of count reichenberg and the lord of ramüss. they were heated and angry. "have you met a benedictine?" said one of them, in a tone of authority. "a benedictine! what was he like?" asked beata. "we had taken him prisoner and he has vanished--his name is porphyrius, he was tall and stout, and had blue eyes," said the man. "that does not matter," interrupted his companion. "we will take every benedictine we find, whether his eyes are blue or green. our master reichenberg gives a ducat for every cowl." beata turned pale, but she preserved her presence of mind. "this morning i saw one at saint mary's in münsterthal; he was resting there, and meant to go on again at noon," she said with prudent forethought. "where to?" "to the engadine, i believe. if you make haste, you may easily overtake him." "good, forward then to saint mary's," cried the first speaker. "you had better come with us," cried his companion to the two wayfarers. "so stout a lad can surely fight, and so pretty a wench can surely kiss. we will take you on horseback, and when we have caught the shaveling we will make merry together out of the ducat. come, little one, i will lift you into the saddle." "get away with you, we are not for the like of you; my brother is ill, i must get him home." "your brother is it? then all the more you belong to me!" said the rider with a laugh. "do not come near me, i am a witch!" screamed beata. the man spurred his horse forward, and tried to snatch at her from his saddle. but she had quickly drawn a knife from the folds of her dress, and she plunged it into the horse's flank, so that he started aside with a leap. "good god, she really is a witch!" cried the others. "let us be off or she will bewitch our horses." and thereupon the whole troop rode off; the danger was past. "all praise to your cunning, beata, you are as soft as a dove, and as wise as a serpent." beata supported herself, breathless, against his shoulder. "oh, my lord--oh, my angel! if they had carried you off from me, and perhaps killed you--" she burst into convulsive sobs, and threw her arms round him as if even now he might be torn from her. donatus stood trembling in her embrace; then he felt that her knees failed her, and that she sank speechless before him. "beata, my child!" he said, kneeling down beside her. "what is the matter, what has bereft you of your strength for the first time since we have been together?" "it is only the fright--it will soon pass off--in a moment--" but her voice died away, and she lost consciousness. he felt for her drooping head, and laid it on his bosom; he rubbed her forehead and temples; a stream of unutterable feeling ran through him, a sweet compassion, a rapture of anxiety. "beata!" he cried, "poor stricken deer, wake up, listen to the voice of your friend. i cannot go to the stream to fetch you water as you did for me. i am blind and unable to return you even the smallest service for all you have done for me. listen to my voice, sweet soul! wake up." and she opened her eyes, and found her head resting on the breast of the man who to her was so sacred and dear, and she would fain have closed her eyes again, and have slept on into eternity; but obedient to his call, she collected her strength and answered, "my good master!" "how are you?" he asked softly. "i am quite well, i can go on now," she said, though her voice was weak. he felt, however, that she was still exhausted, and required rest. "no, my child," said he, "i have already made the most unreasonable demands on your strength. i should have a heart of stone if i could drive my poor lamb any farther. the rest that i would not give myself, i must grant to you," and he took off his cape, and laid it under her head for a pillow. "there, rest for an hour, and repair the mischief that my negligence has occasioned." "but you, my lord, what will you do if i go to sleep? for since i have lain down sleep weighs upon my eyelids like lead." "i will watch over you, and though indeed my eyes are closed, my ear is sharp and will warn me if danger threatens." "give me your hand," she said, and as he gave it her she laid her head upon it, and fell asleep. the blind man sat by the sleeping child without moving. "now, angels of heaven, spread your wings over us," he prayed. she slept soundly and calmly; exhausted nature drew refreshment from the dark fount of sleep. he waited patiently for her awaking; he knew not how long a time had passed, he could not see the sun's place in the sky and his mind was so full of wandering thoughts, so steeped in the charm that the breath of the sleeping child cast round him, that he lost all estimate of time. suddenly he felt a burning ray of sunshine fall on his cheek, as sharp as a bee's sting; a single ray that had pierced between the boughs from the westward. by this he knew that the sun was sinking; the sultriness of noon too had much diminished, and there was more life stirring in the brush-wood and in the air than during the midday heat. he perceived at once, by many vague and yet unmistakeable signs, that evening was drawing on, and he lightly touched the girl's eyelids to feel if they still were closed. "beata," he whispered, leaning over her, but the call had only a magical attraction; she turned towards him in her sleep, as a flower turns to the light. he felt her lips close to his and a thought flashed through his brain, a thought at once intoxicating and terrible. and yet, no, not a thought, only an involuntary impulse of his lips, as when a draught of water is withheld from a thirsty man. he shrunk in horror of himself; was he still capable of such emotion--he, the blind man, the ascetic, cut off from life and its joys? he drew back far from the tempting lips so that their breath could reach him no more. why did his heart throb so violently? was it from anxiety at the long time the child was sleeping? he was sparing the girl, and neglecting to rescue his brethren. should he awake her? no, she must awake soon of her own accord, and then they will make up for lost time all the quicker. by evening they will reach trafoy, then he can speak with the duchess at once and by night ride home again with the armed escort. but beata! oh god what will become of her? can he ever find it in his heart to turn her out, a wanderer on the earth? "sleep, poor child, that heavy hour will come soon enough," cried his tortured soul. far and wide all was as still as death. a sharp ear could hear the squirrels' little claws scratching against the branches, and the birds twittering in the tree-tops, while on the ground there was not a sound but the light foot of some wild animal or the rustle of a beetle in the grass. donatus felt the dancing sunbeams that fell here and there between the trunks, he felt the cool breeze that came down from the nearer glaciers. perhaps they were looking down through some cleared opening in the thicket, those royal, shining forms, and bathing the sleeping child in their broad reflected splendour! "how beautiful it must all be," was his involuntary thought, and he hid his aching brow in his hand. he felt again and again as if, like another samson, he must break through the dark vault that imprisoned him, for every power and muscle and nerve in his body was in a state of tension; and in the next instant he sank back overwhelmed by the mere thought of the ineffectual effort. for those walls, intangible and incorporate, would yield to no earthly force; no earthly ray might pierce them even if the blind man stood in the very eye of the sun--that was over for ever. now at this hour, when he was alone for the first time since meeting beata, now he is conscious that it is the child's presence that has this day kept him upright. for so soon as he is left to himself, despair lifts its dragon head and threatens to darken his soul with madness. and he had to summon all his self-command to keep himself from crying out aloud, "beata, wake and save me from myself!" at this moment the girl awoke and opened her eyes, as if she had heard the dumb cry for help that came from his struggling soul. donatus was sitting motionless, his hands convulsively clasped and his head leaning against the trunk of a tree. she thought that he slept, overcome by fatigue, and she propped her head on her hand and silently contemplated the pale suffering face with the sunken closed eyelids, a still and sublime martyr's face, while her heart overflowed in tears that coursed each other down her cheeks. she folded her hands in worship of him. what were earth and heaven to her, what was god even? all were contained in this one man. he was love, he was patience, he was goodness. in earth and heaven there was none but he; and she rose to her knees softly, not to wake him as she thought, and prayed to him, the martyr, the blind man who could see no light but from whom all the light of her life proceeded. she gazed at his sunken eyes and unutterable pity came over her; he was fast asleep, he could not know--gradually--irresistibly--it took possession of her. she did not know what she was doing, nor even that she was doing it--her lips breathed a kiss on those closed lids; a soft, deep, tender kiss. he started up and pressed his hands to his eyes. "what has happened, what was that? beata, you kissed me--on my eyes. holy father, what have you done?" "forgive me!" cried beata, sinking into his arms almost distracted. "or kill me, kill me, my lord, my angel, my deliverer?" "oh wonder of wonders! i see again! it is fire, red fire that i am gazing into. woe is me!--you have opened my eyes, and i see that which i ought not to see. i see you beata, just as you are, your tawny shining eyes that gaze at me so imploringly, your rosy mouth that kissed me so sweetly. i see your waving hair, i see your whole sweet figure down to your little feet that have followed me so faithfully, i see it all, and i would fain sink in those fathomless eyes, and bury my face in that soft hair and drink death from those sweet lips. what is this feeling that shakes me to the very stronghold and foundation of my being? all-powerful god, this is love--it has come, it has come! i have suffered in vain." and he clasped the tree-trunk against which he was leaning as if to chain himself to it by his own arms, so that he might not snatch the girl to his breast and sink with her in the overwhelming torrent of fire. the child stood by trembling like a young sapling in a whirlwind; donatus pressed his face against the bark of the tree and a few blood-stained tears ran down his cheeks. st. benedict slept on stinging nettles when temptation approached him, and he, what should he do? "quench, oh quench the fire!" he groaned. "let it rain, let the brooks overflow, oh god! to cool my fever. water, beata, for pity's sake; lead me to the spring or i shall perish." the terrified girl took his robe, as if she dared not touch him again, and led him to the torrent which fell with a sudden leap over the rocks, foaming till it was as white as the glacier snow from whence it came. it had worn a deep channel in the earth into which it fell, and the spray leaped up again in a fountain. the blind man flung himself into the icy glacier water, as if he were pursued by the fire-brands of hell, and the cataract came splashing on to him, throwing him down; the cold waves of the pure and purifying element rushed over him with a deafening roar; the burning pulses of his blood turned to ice under it, his limbs grew rigid, and it penetrated to his very heart like the icy touch of death. chapter vi. it was night; the white heads of the glaciers looked down like pale watchers into the silent and sleeping trafoy thal. there it lay, deep in the shadows of the sheltering mountain walls, the lonely little valley. fragments and boulders of fallen rocks strewed the earth--a sea of stones--and only here and there a red glow shone in the darkness, the light of the smelting furnaces of which several were scattered about; not a living creature was to be seen far and near. tired to death and with bruised feet the lonely couple toiled through the stony chaos towards the still invisible green nook, where the miraculous waters of the three holy wells take their rise. "do you see anything?" asked donatus in a weary tone, "all is so still--" "i see nothing far and wide," answered the child. "beata," said donatus, "if she is not here either!--" he broke off, the terrible thought choked his utterance. and on they went again. he listened for the least sound that might betray the presence of a travelling encampment and she strained her keen sight for his sake; but sharp as were her eyes, quick as was his ear, there was nothing to be seen, nothing stirring. they had traversed the whole valley. "i can hear the rush of water, are we not near the holy wells?" asked donatus. "yes, here we are," said beata, trembling as if she feared to tell him. "and there is no one to be seen?" "no one," she said hardly audibly. "all merciful god!--and i can go no farther." donatus sank to the ground on the spot where he was standing, and hid his face in his clasped hands. "oh, good god! what misery!" lamented the girl. "lie here a while, i will go back to the smelting houses, and get some news of the duchess." "beata, you can walk no farther," sighed donatus. "for you i can do anything," she said boldly and steadily, and soon the blind man lost the sound of her steps in the distance. an endless term of waiting in motionless patience ensued, and the agonised watcher felt the dull silence around like the influence of a petrifying basilisk, slowly tormenting its victim to death. he listened and listened, and yet could hear nothing but the singing of the blood in his ears, the ceaseless trickle of the three streams close at hand, and the distant thunder of the waterfalls that fling themselves from the precipices of the königspitze. from time to time his thoughts became confused; he heard the noisy travelling-train of the duchess approaching, he called to her what his errand was, but she did not hear, he could not make himself intelligible and he tried to scream but he could not. the horses went over him, he felt their trampling feet, then he started up and felt all round him; the hard stones on which he was lying had bruised him all over, and the tramp of horses that he had fancied he heard was no more than the roar of the water. all was silent, and all remained silent. then again a dread came over him lest beata should never return, some harm might have befallen the child among the smelters--a half wild crew--and he, a miserable mere shade of a man, he could not save her, he must depend for succour on a weak and helpless woman. he loathed himself; could god take delight in such a miserable cripple? "wretch, blind feeble wretch--die!" he groaned, and his limbs shook with fever. "son of all misfortune, what are you alive for? that you may scatter abroad the seeds of misery which you bear in your bosom--" and then again fear for the child overcame him, and he shouted to the night, "beata, beata, where are you?" till once more his consciousness was clouded. at last she bent over him, and softly called his name. "is it you, beata?" he cried, starting up, and his trembling arms clasped her slender form as though he thought she might be a dream and would melt away. his hair clung to his brow, his breath came quickly, his face was flushed with incipient fever. beata saw in a moment that he was ill, very ill. "my dear master--i have brought a boy, the smelter's son from the hut out yonder, and he will help me to carry you under his father's roof, so that you may get some rest." donatus staggered to his feet. "no--no--i cannot rest--the duchess, where is the duchess?" he cried. "we shall never catch her up, my poor master," said beata hesitatingly. "she set out at night on account of the heat--she has been gone an hour, and no one can tell me where." "an hour!" shrieked donatus. "that was the hour of my temptation--that was the hour that i wasted dreaming in the wood--the hour i let you sleep because as you slept your breath kept me spell-bound, and i forgot everything--everything depended on that one hour, and now it is lost--all lost--by my fault." he stood tottering and tried to take a few steps. "after her--i must go after her--" "how can you, my dear master--consider, they are on horseback and have an hour's start of us. besides you are ill and cannot stir from the spot." "oh lord god! work a miracle--thou hast done so many for others--do one for us! help me, bear me up--we shall overtake them--only go on, go on!" he panted; and he sank into the arms of beata and the boy. "the clouds, the clouds, they are strong enough, they will bear me--no, stop, i am going too fast--heaven and earth! i am giddy--do not let me fall." "oh, dear master--!" beata burst into tears and sank on her knees under her heavy burden, resting his head in her lap. the boy, a smutty fellow with dull, staring eyes, stood by stupidly looking on. "go and fetch your father to help us," said beata. the boy shook his head. "father cannot leave the ore till the furnace is tapped," he said. "well, go and beg him to come as soon as he can," and the boy slowly strolled away. the towering peaked walls of the ortler--madatsch, and the glaciers of trafoy--stared pitilessly down on the forsaken pair--there was not a projecting rock, not a cave that could offer shelter to the sick man. they stood up appallingly bare and steep and almost perpendicular, like giant walls built up to protect the world's holy of holies. and there it was too--that holy of holies. the three holy wells poured out in the moon-shine like rivulets of light, from the hearts of the wooden images of the virgin mother, the redeemer and the baptist, which were protected by a little wooden structure which might well afford shelter to the sick man also. there--if she could only get him there; and she whispered in his ear, imploring and urging him till at last he heard her and began to move. "dear master--if you could only go a few steps farther--there flows the holy water--that will make you well--" the sick man caught her words. "where--where?" he said. "come--only come, i will help you up--there, now one step--one more--we are there now." with a tremendous effort she had got him there, and she let him softly slide down on to the soft ground under the shrine in front of the madonna. "you are kneeling before our mother mary," she whispered reverently, and she bathed his brow and eyes with the miraculous water. "oh, holy virgin! have mercy upon us," she prayed, and she held up the folded hands of the blind man who no longer had strength enough to raise them in prayer. "have mercy upon us!" he stammered, after her "_rosa mystica, maris stella, stella matutina_"; his feeble lips went through the thousand-times repeated rosary, and then his head sank back in the girl's lap, and he lost consciousness. chapter vii. nine times had the sun risen and set without the sick man's darkened spirit being conscious of it. it is true that his blinded eyes would not have told him even if he had been conscious, but the measure of time of which men have an instinctive idea would have served him even in his darkness, and have driven the tortured man home to his imperilled brethren. from time to time indeed he had roused a little, and had asked the time, but the girl--god will forgive her--had deceived him; had taken advantage of his blindness, and had made him believe he had slept but an hour, while a whole day or a whole night had gone by. she meant it well, that he might be content to rest, and not get so ill as to die. so each time he had laid his head down again, and let himself be persuaded--"till it was day"--to go no farther. and thus it had nine times been day, and nine times night. to-day for the first time the rage of his fever was subdued, and his reawakened consciousness began to light up his pale face. "beata, are you there?" he asked. "yes, master." "i believe you have not slept the whole night through--whenever i have called you you have been awake. is it not yet day?" "yes, dear master, very soon; but rest a little longer." donatus felt around him; he was surprised to find a soft straw-bed under him, and by his side a wall. "where am i?" "in the smelter's hut; we carried you in that you might be sheltered from wind and weather." "then we are among men?" "yes, they are poor folks, but compassionate and helpful." "how many are they?" "a man and his son." "do you think the boy could conduct me to marienberg?" "to marienberg?" said beata, turning pale. he did not answer for some time, then he said, "it is so sultry and heavy in here; if you would do me a last service, help me up and lead me out into god's open air that i may collect my senses." "you are still too weak to stand; have a little patience," she begged. "not a minute longer must i delay; i must go home to my brethren to share the danger which i could not avert." he rose from the bed, and the girl led him silent and tottering out into the air. the sky bent in ethereal blue over the mighty glaciers, an icy morning-wind blew down from them and waved the sick man's hair across his face, for it had grown long. he inhaled the pure air of the heights in long deep breaths like a man risen from the grave. heaven sent him a greeting from the cloud-capped peaks, it invited him up there; he felt it, the flames of hell thirsted for him in vain; the child seated him on a stone bench by the door of the hut. "beata," he said in a hollow voice, "we must part." the child uttered a cry of pain that pierced him to the very heart. he went on, "beata, i have erred and gone astray. i believed that i might escape love if i blinded myself, and i lulled my soul in that security, till temptation was upon me before i suspected it. it was so fair a dream, beata, when we wandered on together in innocence, as in paradise, but original sin has driven us out of it! from the first hour when your sweet charm stirred my soul with earthly longings, from that hour our paradise was lost. beata, hell would fain have power over the immortal part of us, let us snatch it from its power. it is yet time; i have as yet withstood that hellish temptation, but now let us part lest the darker deed should follow hard on the dark thought. i gave up my eyes that i might keep myself pure, now i will give you up too. be strong, beata, prove yourself worthy of the suffering i endure for your sake, and obey in silence." "no, no! require what you will of me but not that," shrieked the child. "plant a knife in my heart and i will not shrink, but do not require me to part from you without crying out like some wild creature that is only half killed, and can neither live nor die." donatus clasped his hands, and a cold sweat stood on his brow; beata flung herself before him. "my lord and master, do not drive me away; you cannot be so cruel, you only fancy that you can, and you will rue it when you are gone a few hundred yards, and you will call your child to come back to you; but it will be too late. i have been with you in the hour of anguish, my eyes are dim with watching by your bed, my bleeding feet have stained the stones on the paths along which i have led you, and you will drive me away? oh, dear good master! you would not drive away a lost dog that humbly licked your hand, and have you no pity on my suffering and my tears?" and she laid her tear-bathed face on his hands and tremblingly clasped his knees. the tortured man cried out from the depths of his soul, "oh god, my god! is it not enough? beata, have pity, have pity, no devil could torture me as you are doing. beata, if you are not indeed of the powers of hell, if you are not an emissary of the devil sent to torment me, go from me. oh holy spirit! enlighten her, purify her, deliver her, as thou hast delivered me." he rose and solemnly lifted his hand, "beata would you win everlasting bliss?" "i ask for no bliss without you," said the girl. "beata, do you wish me to lose it too?" the child shuddered but did not speak. "beata if you renounce me i may yet be saved. but if you will not quit me, if you make me faithless to my vows, i must be eternally damned. now choose, which is it to be?" the girl answered in a tremulous and hardly audible voice, "i will--go." all was silent, as when the last life struggle is past, and the bystanders whisper, "all is over!" for a few minutes longer the wretched man listened, his face bathed in a sweat of anguish; then he threw up his arms to heaven as if to ask, "what can be left to me to suffer more?" then he felt his way back into the hut. "spare me your boy," he said to the smelter, "that he may guide me to marienberg." "do you want to go on again?" asked the man. "where is the girl that was leading you?" "she--she must stay here, take care of her; you are a good man. take care of the child as the apple of your eye; oh! angels of heaven will guard your hut so long as she is in it." he hid his face in his hands and burst into loud sobs. "if it troubles you so why do you leave her?" asked the man. "do not ask, do not talk, give me your son and let me go. when i have got back to the abbey, i will send you a rich reward by your son." the boy sprang forward when he heard of a reward; donatus took his rough hand, his heart tightened as he took it; it was not beata's soft and loving touch. "farewell!" he called out to the man, and the rocks dismally echoed, "farewell." his foot had crossed the threshold, and he set forth without delay towards marienberg. for the ninth time since he first had set out the sun was setting behind the cliffs of mals and burgeis when the weary wanderer returned from his dreary and fruitless pilgrimage. poor and wretched as if the wind and waves had tossed him on shore after a shipwreck; scorched and desolate in spirit as if in some pilgrimage in the holy land the burning sun of the desert had consumed him heart and brain, and he had fled without earning his title to salvation. he laboriously climbed the mountain, led by his clumsy guide; the boy had heedlessly brought him by the lonely and little used 'goats'-steps,' so called because only goats and goat-herds could climb it without turning giddy; at every step the blind man was in danger of falling into the yawning depth below. the dank mists of evening fell thickly on the mountain, the vesper bell must presently ring, donatus had been listening for it all the way. "boy, do you see no lights in the convent." "no," said the lad, "all is dark." "and yet it must be late," said donatus, panting but hurrying still more up the steep ascent. "aye, it is late," said the boy. at this moment the vesper bell rang out and up from burgeis; now they will ring here too-- he listened, his heart throbbed once, twice, thrice, all was still. what had happened? a shudder ran through him, the cold night wind blew down from the peaks and chilled his very marrow. the vesper bells rang out, each in a separate note, from the valleys far and near; only up here was it dumb. "can you see the convent yet?" asked the blind man. "yes, there it is," said the lad indifferently. "take me to the door." the boy obeyed; donatus put out his hand for the knocker, his hand grasped the air. "the door is open," said the lad. "wait out here," said donatus, and he went in. he easily found his way across the familiar court-yard; it was incomprehensible that the door should be open and no one in the way. he felt his way by the wall to the inner entrance--this too was open. he felt to right and left of him--the door-posts were there, but no door! perhaps he had mistaken his way in the open space, and was in a quite different direction to what he believed. but how could there be a gap in the walled quadrangle that formed the court-yard if it were not the doorway? he will call out--does no one hear him? he listens--no answer! there is something gruesome in this silence; an unaccountable alarm takes possession of him. he can feel the stone of the threshold quite plainly with his foot--he is standing in the very doorway; then if he feels to the right the wall must be there, and the holy-water vessel of stone--yes, there it is, and the vessel too, so he has come the right way, he dips his hand in the piscina to take the holy-water--it is empty. it is strange, who can have emptied it? he comes to the door of the refectory--there at last the brethren must certainly be. here are the carved and iron-bound door-posts, he feels for the massive handle--again he grasps the empty air, and his foot is on the vacant threshold. is he delirious? or does his blindness cheat him with false ideas of space? his sense of touch perhaps betrays him--or some demon is tricking him, and juggling with his senses to torment him? perhaps he is still out in the sheds, and only fancies he has made his way to the refectory? a searching draught blew in his face through the open halls and corridors; a sickening wind bringing a horrible reek of smoke as if it blew across the dead embers of a burnt city, and a cloud of dusty ashes was wafted into his face. "is no one there?" he called aloud--all was still. then he walked on again--aimlessly, taking no particular direction in the darkness; suddenly his foot struck some unwonted object. he stooped--the refectory table lay in pieces at his feet--again he perceived the same strange smell of burning, and his hand fell on some charred fragments--the table was half burnt. donatus walked all round it; wherever he trod there were ruins; he started back, finding himself suddenly at the opposite wall. then he felt for a window--his feet trampled on crashing splinters of glass--the opening was empty, the wood work all charred. invasion had been here, and the fearful traces that it leaves wherever it enters--terror and desolation--depicted themselves vividly on the blind man's fancy. "my brethren--my abbot--where are you?" he shouted in despair to the darkness and chaos. "my father--my brothers!" he cried out--but the words rang in the deserted rooms--and he wandered on without aim or purpose among the ruins and timbers--now straight forward, now round and round, without knowing why or whither. "to the chapel--to the sacristy!" an inward voice suddenly suggested. "perhaps they are there, praying--" and with infinite trouble he felt his way on through the chaos of destruction. he could no longer find his way, for everything he was familiar with, and that could serve him as a starting point had been torn from its place or destroyed, and he toiled in vain through the darkness to reach the spot which he always missed though so close to it. "help--light!" he shrieked as if demented--as though he could see the light even if there were one. he forgot his blindness--he forgot everything, he was half crazed with terror. then again he stood still and listened--nothing was stirring but the storm which sang unceasingly its wild lament through the ruined windows. he wandered on again towards the chapel. at last the smell of burning was mingled with the odour of stale incense, and a wild confusion of broken choir-seats, images, and candelabra impeded his steps. "are you here, my brethren? is no one here?" he shouted again and listened. he heard something--this time it was not the wind, it was a low groan from some human being. "who is there? answer me!" he cried, trembling. "who are you?" a well-known but broken voice fell upon his ear. "correntian!" cried donatus, between fear and joy. "donatus!" answered the voice, and a strange shudder ran through him--as if he were called to the last judgment, and a voice from the clouds had read his name on the list of the damned. "donatus," repeated correntian, "miserable son, why are you come so late? you have been our ruin." "correntian, my brother, i will tell you all; give me your hand and help me over these ruins." "i am lying with crushed limbs under the overturned altar, i cannot help you," groaned correntian. "all-merciful god! how has this happened?" "i wanted to rescue the charter of the convent from the enemy, and to hide it under the altar, but they surprised me, and in the struggle the altar was overturned upon me," groaned correntian. "and the brethren, where are they?" "they have fled, driven away stripped and bare, the whole party. our herds are driven off, the convent destroyed and plundered. your father, who had leagued himself with your mother's kindred, committed the crime." trembling as he went, and with infinite effort, the youth had made his way through the medley of fragments and ruins towards the spot whence the voice proceeded; a hand now arrested his lifted foot. "stop, you will tread upon me." he stooped down, there lay correntian on the bare stone half buried under the enormous mass of the stone altar. "oh! misery and horror!" screamed the blind man. "crushed like a worm, a great, strong man! and no one to help you, no one!" "the brethren could scarcely save their own lives, the people of the neighbourhood fled from the fearful scene; for three days i have lain here, abandoned, and not a hand to give me a draught of water." "i will fetch you some water, i will find the spring," cried donatus, but correntian held him back. "no, never mind, the well is choked, and it would not serve me now. my torture is near its end, i feel--" "oh poor soul, and must you end so miserably?" lamented the younger man. "crushed by the altar you so faithfully served!" "do not grieve for me, i die as i have lived--for the church. it is the highest mercy that god should grant me to die such a death. there is one who is yet more to be pitied than i." donatus staggered. "god help me, not the abbot?" "yes, unhappy boy, the abbot, who loved you with a love which was a sin against the rules of our holy order--he expiated his sin fearfully." "speak, for pity's sake, torture me no longer," implored donatus. "what happened to him?" "count reichenberg demanded that he should give you up, for he thought you were hidden in the convent, and when he refused--was obliged to refuse--he had him bound and dragged into the court-yard and then--" correntian paused for breath. "and then, what then?" "then they made him give his eyes for yours, as the count had sworn." a scream rang through the chapel, and its quivering echoes shook the broken panes; then there was a silence as if the youth's heart had cracked in that one cry, and he had fallen lifeless. correntian breathed slowly and painfully; angels of death spread their dark wings and hovered round that ruined altar. presently the stupor that had followed the first blow was broken. "oh! eternal justice, where art thou that this should happen?" sobbed donatus. "god of grace, god of mercy! where wert thou that such things could be done? that pure, innocent and saintly man, punished for my guilt--god of pity, how could'st thou allow this?" and he sank down by the broken altar, and wept as though he could shed all at once all the tears that flood the world. "those eyes, those kind eyes, that so often looked at me with affection, that watched over me so faithfully. oh god! give me mine again that i may weep for those far dearer ones!" but his lamentations grew less loud and violent as though he were kneeling at the abbot's feet, and were listening tenderly to his soothing words as of yore. "oh! lamb of god, patient and long suffering victim. you, in your gentle soul, forgave me, for you were too lofty a spirit to remember evil, but i, i can not forgive myself; my father, give me once--only once, your beloved hand, that i may press a kiss of remorse upon it--only once, only once, and then will i sink into damnation and expiate for ever that which i can never make amends for." and then again he was silent, all his strength of soul, which is needed even for suffering, was spent; he was forced to pause and draw breath for a fresh outburst. "and the brethren," he groaned at length, "could they not protect him?" "they were out numbered, there was a whole host of marauders," said correntian. donatus stood up, "oh if i had been there i would have protected him. i would have covered him with my own body against a whole world of them." "aye, if you had come at the right time, then it would all have been different. why did you not come, where were you waiting so long?" "i followed the duchess in vain for two whole days." "and then?" "and then i hastened home." "and did that take nine days and nights!" cried correntian. "brother! what are you saying? i left you only three days since." "woe upon you, son of the evil one!" screamed correntian. "where were you? what cheated your senses as to the time? did you linger in the nether world that the days hastened by uncounted? were you bewitched that you did not observe that since you left more than a week is past?" "merciful heaven! a week?" said donatus, "and she told me that i had slept but a night. oh beata! beata! could you so deceive me?" "beata!" repeated correntian. "then it was a woman who stole all consciousness of time from you! and you ruined all for a woman's sake. this is how you kept your word to us, this is what came of your vows? woe, woe, all is come to pass that i foretold at your birth; you were the changeling laid by the devil in our peaceful home to work our ruin, and yet you deceived even me into recalling my own prediction and trusting you. nay more, hear, oh lord! and punish me for my sin. you were the first human being i ever loved. and at the very moment when i thought to set the crown of martyrdom on your head you relapse into the base element whence you rose and drag us all down with you in your fall!" "correntian, hear me. yes, it is true, i have sinned; yes i have led you all into ruin for a girl's sake, and i will expiate it through all eternity. not even my blindness could save me, eusebius was right, the devil is more cunning than man, and yet i am innocent and pure!" "pure," shouted correntian. "how dare you call yourself so, criminal," and with all the added horror of his suffering he raised the upper part of his body and stretched out his arm towards donatus. "the curse that was upon you even in your mother's womb, i take it up and pour it, a double curse upon your head. only your father's curse has weighed upon you hitherto, i add to it your mother's curse; for your mother is the church you have brought to shame. an outcast shall you be, perjured wretch, an outcast from the church, an outcast from humanity--an outcast from the flock of penitents who yet may hope. the grass shall wither under your feet; the hand be palsied that offers you the sacred host; death and pestilence shall visit him who takes pity on your hunger. your bones shall fall to dust, and that their pestilential reek may not poison the earth that yields food for other mortals, i bid you flee away to the ends of the earth, up to the realm of death, to the ice of the glaciers, as far as your feet can bear you, where not a blade can grow that can imbibe the poison of your corpse. all that is mortal of you shall be blotted out from creation to the very last jot, and what is immortal shall suffer to all eternity such torment as has racked my very marrow for these three days--" his voice failed, the rigor of death had fallen upon him, he fell back on the stone floor. once more he raised himself, his clenched fists clutched at the fissures in the ground in his last agony. "oh, lord god! have mercy on my sins!" he groaned, seized with sudden horror at the thought that he must depart without the last sacraments and with a curse on his lips. he felt that death had laid its icy hand on his heart; it was too late, his lips tried to stammer some words, but his jaws were clenched in a convulsion. thus he gave up his cold and stubborn spirit, without consolation, without atonement, hoping for no mercy, for he had shown none; yet he had been true to himself and the church, true even unto death. but donatus, crushed and banned, knelt by the corpse and prayed for mercy on the hapless erring soul. would god hearken still to the prayer of the accursed? could it reach the throne of god? he bowed his forehead to the dust, and gave the cold stones a farewell kiss. then he rose, and made his way back to the door where the boy was to wait. "boy, where are you?" he called out. no answer, the boy was gone. he had heard correntian's curse, and had fled; the blind man was abandoned wholly. where should he go? the church had disowned him, the earth cast him out. "lord, hast thou not a drop of mercy left for me out of thine inexhaustible fount of grace? did i not obey thy will in so far as i understood it? i gave the light of my eyes to escape love; the staff that was the prop of my darkened life i broke and cast from me, and all my sacrifices have turned to curses and my obedience to fatal ends. i may well say with job, 'my face is foul with weeping, and on my eyelids is the shadow of death. not for any injustice in mine hands, also my prayer is pure.' oh, lord my god! if thou didst see me in the hour when i drove away the girl, that pure and faithful child, thou must know whether i then did not expiate my sins, and deserve thy mercy or not. yea, i will flee from all the ties of life, i will die alone like the chamois that hides itself in the glacier when its end is nigh; i will efface the trace of my steps on earth that fatality may no longer pursue me. oh, god, my god! will the measure of my sorrows never be full?" so he stood, his arms uplifted, a dumb image of suffering--like a tree stricken by a storm. a few stars peeped out from time to time between the driving clouds; the abyss lay in slumberous silence at his feet, and the night-breeze snatched pitilessly at the ragged garments that scarcely sufficed to cover him. the empty windows of the ruined stronghold of faith stared at him like hollow eye-sockets, in dumb reproach. no cry from heaven above or the earth beneath responded to his lament, no pitying hand clasped his to lead him to his last bourne; he sank down on a stone, and hid his head in his hands. "o! god, my god, why hast thou forsaken me?" chapter viii. high, high up where no blade of corn can grow, in the glacier desert of the ortler chain, the solitary penitent lived on the extremest verge where it was possible for flesh and blood to live and breathe--fulfilling literally correntian's curse. below lay the unfathomable depth of the valley of trafoy between its deeply cleft walls, like an open grave. the glacier torrents roared down through fissures and crevices, feeding the three holy wells in the gorge below; the rock crumbled away beneath the volume of the mighty waters, and wide floods devastated the land. a strange herd-boy had led him up whom he had met with that night at marienberg, and who had taken pity on him for god's sake. it was a difficult task to guide the blind man up to these heights, but guardian spirits were with him and upheld him, or he would have slipped from the boy's weak hand a hundred times and down the steep and slippery path. it is only from those who love life that god requires it; the wretch to whom death would be release may not die! again and again the boy was fain to stop, but the penitent was not to be persuaded to stay where a bird's call was still to be heard--where he could still lay his hand on fruitful soil. so, after long wandering, they had reached their goal--the last for which he longed--the realm of everlasting peace, where no sound of a human voice could pierce, where no slenderest thread could reach to link man to man. here is the first circle of hell, cold and silent, here he might atone and die, and live above for ever. the boy had contrived an indispensable shelter against the wind and rain under an overhanging rock, and then had left him; but from time to time he came to bring bread to the hermit. he was a strange boy, he came and went without the blind man's perceiving it, noiselessly and without a word, and donatus was grateful to him for that. he would have felt it a desecration to break the sacred silence that bathed his soul like a sea which no profane sound might pierce. once every week his moss-bed was freshly made, and a fragrant loaf laid by the side of it; but he who brought it vanished as he came. often it seemed to the blind man that it could be no boy of flesh and blood, but a friendly angel of death sent by god to guide him hither, and to support his existence until he were fit to die; and as the season advanced, and it became more and more difficult for any human being to find his way up the snow-covered path, he believed this still more firmly. what could prompt a strange and lowly herd-boy to such a fearful sacrifice? for what hope of reward could he do this? and what to him was the accursed outcast--the hapless wretch who could no longer give him even a blessing? yes, it was daily clearer to his mind that it was a messenger from the other world; daily he felt more sure that here, with the earth far below him, he was nearer to the world of spirits. in the roaring of the storm, in the thunder of the avalanche, in the freezing snow-drift, in all the terrors of the wilderness, he felt with reverent awe the nearness of him who rides the clouds and speaks in the thunder; and that which appals most mortals and fills them with dread, uplifted his soul which had triumphed over this life, in jubilant hope of redemption and release. "crush, mangle this body!" he would shout to the raging blast, to the falling rocks, to the torrents of heaven, when they whirled round him in wild uproar, and he kissed the invisible hand of the storm that lashed him, he thanked the pain that gnawed his numbed limbs--it all was penance, and penance meant deliverance; and then again when the tumult had subsided, when the last faint rays of the autumn sun shone from the once more peaceful sky, and all the air was still--then he felt as if a reconciled spirit hovered over him too--a divine something, for which he found no name. and then, indeed, a mood would come over him in which he would stretch out his arms to the vacant air, and a cry would escape his lips--like a bird freed from its cage--"beata." so near, so real, did her watchful spirit seem that he would fancy he heard her breathing and almost thought he felt her passing lightly by him. "beata--have you died down in the valley, and come up to watch by me till i may follow you into eternity? oh, poor child, the son of perdition may not follow you--not even when he has shed this mortal husk, for you will soar upwards to the fields of the blest--and i must sink among the souls in purgatory," and then it seemed to him that the wind bore a soft cry to his ear. yes, certainly--it was her soul--that mourned for him, that prayed for him with tears to the saints. and could they withstand her prayers? in such an hour he felt as if a breath of salvation floated round him; here, up at the limits of the earth, on the brink of the other world, the very air was full of revelation. the two realms seemed to touch and mingle, and he learned more and more to understand their gentle ebb and flow. thus it grew to be winter and the chastening hand fell more roughly, and the fetters of death closed more tightly upon him; still he prayed and sang praises without ceasing, and as often as he found a fresh loaf by his couch and a warm skin to preserve him from the increasing cold, he received it as a miracle from god the lord, who in days of old rained down manna on his starving people. so long as god sent him nourishment, so long it was his will that he should live, and he relished the bread with a thankful heart, full of devout meditation as if it were the body of christ--which no mortal hand might evermore present to him. at last the supplies of bread ceased. he knew not how many days had passed, for him there was neither day nor night; but he perceived that it was longer than usual, for his meagre store had never been exhausted before the fresh supply came. now it was exhausted, and the place where he was wont to find his bread was empty. now he knew that the last trial was at hand. nature inexorably asserted her claims, and gnawing hunger tormented his vitals; death was approaching in the form of starvation. he felt it--it was a cruel death, but he could thank the lord for it; now the hour was come when, like the chamois, he must end in a hidden crevasse; he wound his rosary round his hand, and only prayed, "grant, lord, that i may bear the trial with honour." he went out of his cave to seek a cleft in the ice so as to carry out his vow; something checked his steps--it was lying at his feet, and softly caressing his knee like a faithful dog. but it was not a dog, it clung to him and grasped his arm with a human hand. "donatus," it whispered in a beseeching tone. "donatus, forgive me!" "beata!" shrieked the blind man, staggering back against the cliff. he felt as if the mountain had fallen and had buried everything under it--man, and all his works and laws--as if he were left alone with beata and with god. but that god was he who spoke, saying, "i am love." "donatus, i could not help myself any longer--i can get you no more bread," stammered the girl. "for three days i have been trying in vain, but i can do no more--my limbs are frozen--the cold--i am dying. oh, poor soul, what will become of you?" "beata! angel of my life--angel of my soul!" cried donatus, rejoicing and weeping in the same breath. "beata! blessed one, having overcome the world! you have been with me all the time, you have brought me food, have been by my side through snow and frost, in death and desolation? all-merciful god, why were you so long silent?" "that you should not sin for my sake, nor drive me away--that is why i was silent! forgive me for disobeying you--i could not, could not leave you." "forgive you--i forgive you, you messenger of grace." and with a strong arm the blind man raised the dying girl and carried her into the sheltering cave, and laid her on his bed, covering her with the warm skins that she herself had brought him in her indefatigable care. then he flung himself down by the couch and covered her care-worn face and faithful breast, and her poor, frozen, little feet with innumerable kisses. he could say no more; only moans and inarticulate sounds of love and sorrow escaped him, and he held her in his arms, and rocked her and soothed her as a mother does her dying child. and she clung to him in a perfect extasy of joy. "you see--now i am dying by your side--it has happened as i said"--she whispered in his ear. "and you have kept your word; you wanted to lead me to bliss--now i am indeed blessed." the blind man was like one in the very whirlwind of a celestial revelation. "oh, sweet martyr! you have done what no man ever did. we, when we deny ourselves and subdue ourselves, we hope for a future reward and fear future punishment--but you have renounced all, and fought the fight without hope and without fear. you have sacrificed yourself freely and without compulsion, and have bled to death in silence. what is all that heroism and chastity have ever achieved in comparison with this deed? no--it is no power of the devil that has accomplished this. it is not with dying lips that the evil one seeks to tempt--nor with the kiss of death that he entangles his victims. it is a higher power--yes--now i see and know it! beata, your death has released me from my bonds--there is a love, that is god--and we have loved each other with such a love, and for that love's sake we shall find mercy." "amen!" said the girl, and with a smile of rapture she clasped his head that had sunk upon her breast. and there was peace--the peace of god, in their souls. her breath was now short and weak, but she clasped him to her with all her remaining strength. he pressed her to his breast and rubbed her frozen limbs, and breathed on her with his warm breath. he implored her with a thousand loving words. "do not die, my child, my wife--gift of god, stay with me. god who gave you to me, will let you stay with me one day--one hour, only one little hour that i may make up to you for all you have suffered!" in vain! the cold hand could no longer stroke his head; it fell by her side. "beata!" he called in her ear. "i abandoned you in life, but in death i will not forsake you, i will die with you." she still heard, a sigh of rapture answered him as from a happy bride--it was her last--then she bowed her head and slept, softly and peacefully, with a smile on her lips. she was gone like the night-moth whose fate it is never to rejoice in the light of the sun, that is snatched away by the first frosts of winter, without a sound, without a wail--out of darkness into darkness. donatus still listened for a while to hear if the stilled heart beat no more--not a breath, not a throb, all was over. long, long did he lie so, the body clasped to his heart; then he rose, and saying half-aloud as though she still could hear, "come, my child," he laid the slender form across his shoulders like a dead lamb, and went out into the open air. snow was falling, softly and lightly spreading a white coverlet under his feet over which he glided inaudibly, feeling his way by the rocky wall. whither was he going, what did he seek? he could not answer himself these questions, the time for thought was over; one feeling alone possessed him, and that was love. all seemed light to his blind eyes; a slight form rose out of the darkness, and floated before him with a sad but blissful smile. it was beata's glorified spirit. she pointed out the way, and signed to him to follow with a look of unutterable love. "yes, i am coming, i follow," he cried, and hurried on as fast as he could through the snow--after her. presently the sweet vision reached a spot where the rock ended precipitously, a perpendicular cliff of more than a thousand fathoms. she stood still and looked round. "wait, i am coming!" he cried. once more she beckoned, then she soared up and floated across the abyss up--away. by this time he too had reached the spot, and without a shudder he sprang after her; but his mortal body with its burden weighed him down. he slid into the abyss in a cloud of snow, and the loosened mass came plunging after him, a thundering avalanche that filled the air with an ocean of snow. but just as the air that clings to a heavy body when it is plunged into the depths of the sea rises to rejoin its parent element in shining globules, the spirit of the engulfed donatus rose from the deep to its eternal home. the earth lay dead and dumb as if the sun could never rise again, as if love had perished for ever--and yet it will return, bringing softer airs, under whose quickening breath heaven and earth shall once more be reconciled. footnotes: [footnote : himmelsschlüssel--keys of heaven--is the pretty german name.] [footnote : the adige lower down.] [footnote : in german the corpse-owl.] [footnote : the translator is indebted for these verses to the kindness of a friend.] the end. * * * * * printing office of the publisher. transcriber's note: inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. obvious typographical errors have been corrected. italic text is denoted by _underscores_. the preface listed as being on page vii is on page ix. true tales of mountain adventure [illustration: melchior anderegg . _frontispiece._] true tales of mountain adventure for non-climbers young and old by mrs aubrey le blond (mrs main) new york e. p. dutton & company (_all rights reserved._) to mr edward whymper whose spirited writings and graphic pencil first awakened an interest in mountaineering amongst those who had never climbed, i dedicate these true tales from the hills, the material for some of the most striking of which i owe to his generosity. preface there is no manlier sport in the world than mountaineering. it is true that all the sports englishmen take part in are manly, but mountaineering is different from others, because it is sport purely for the sake of sport. there is no question of beating any one else, as in a race or a game, or of killing an animal or a bird as in hunting or shooting. a mountaineer sets his skill and his strength against the difficulty of getting to the top of a steep peak. either he conquers the mountain, or it conquers him. if he fails, he keeps on trying till he succeeds. this teaches him perseverance, and proves to him that anything is possible if he is determined to do it. in mountaineering, all the party share the pleasures and the dangers. every climber has to help the others. every climber has to rely both on himself and on his companions. mountaineering makes a person quick in learning how to act in moments of danger. it cultivates his presence of mind, it teaches him to be unselfish and thoughtful for others who may be with him. it takes him amongst the grandest scenery in the world, it shows him the forces of nature let loose in the blinding snow-storm, or the roaring avalanche. it lifts him above all the petty friction of daily life, and takes him where the atmosphere is always pure, and the outlook calm and wide. it brings him health, and leaves him delightful recollections. it gives him friends both amongst his fellow-climbers, and in the faithful guides who season after season accompany him. it is a pursuit which he can commence early in life, and continue till old age, for the choice of expeditions is endless, and ascents of all scales of difficulty and of any length are easily found. that i do not exaggerate the joys and the benefits of mountaineering will be borne out by those extracts from the true tales from the hills of which this book chiefly consists. some may think i have dwelt at undue length on the catastrophes which have darkened the pages of alpine history. i do not apologize. if in one single instance any one who reads these pages becomes afterwards a climber, and takes warning from anything i have told him, i am amply justified. it has been difficult in a work like this to know always what to include and what to omit. my guiding principle has been to give preference to descriptions which are either so exciting by reason of the facts narrated, or else so brilliantly and wittily written, that they cannot fail to excite the reader's interest. to these i have added four chapters, those on mountaineering, on glaciers, on avalanches, and on the guides of the alps, which may help to make climbing more intelligible to those who have never attempted it. my warm thanks are due to sir leslie stephen, messrs whymper, tuckett, charles pilkington, and clinton dent who have rendered the production of this book possible by allowing me to quote at considerable length from their writings; also to messrs longman who have permitted me to make extracts from works of which they hold the copyright, and to messrs newnes and messrs hutchinson for their kind permission to re-print portions of my articles which have appeared in their publications. i am also under a debt of gratitude to mr philip gosset, who has not only allowed me to reprint his account of the avalanche on the haut-de-cry, but has also most kindly placed his wide knowledge of glaciers at my disposal by offering to revise the chapter i have written on that subject in this book. dr kennedy, whose beautiful edition of mr moore's diary, "the alps in ," recently appeared, has generously given me permission to make any extracts i desire from it. colonel arkwright, whose brother perished on mont blanc in , has been good enough to allow me to reproduce a most interesting and hitherto unpublished photograph of the relics discovered in . the illustrations, except those connected with the arkwright accident, and a view of the matterhorn, by the late mr w. f. donkin, are from photographs by me. by them i have tried rather to show how climbers carry out their mountaineering than to illustrate any particular locality. in my own writings i have adopted, in the spelling of names of places, the modern official forms, but, of course, when quoting i have kept to those followed by each writer. if, in the following pages, i have given any pleasure to those who have never scaled a peak, or have perhaps recalled happy days amongst the mountains to a fellow-climber, it will be a very real gratification to me. e. le blond. , the drive, brighton, _oct. th, _. contents. chap. page preface vii. i. what is mountaineering? ii. a few words about glaciers iii. avalanches iv. the guides of the alps v. the guides of the alps (continued) vi. an avalanche on the haut-de-cry--a race for life vii. caught in an avalanche on the matterhorn--the ice-avalanche of the altels--an avalanche which robbed a lady of a garment viii. lost in the ice for forty years ix. the most terrible of all alpine tragedies x. a wonderful slide down a wall of ice xi. an adventure on the trift pass--the perils of the moming pass xii. an exciting passage of the col de pilatte xiii. an adventure on the aletsch glacier--a loyal companion--a brave guide xiv. a wonderful feat by two ladies--a perilous climb xv. a fine performance without guides xvi. the piz scerscen twice in four days--the first ascent by a woman of mont blanc xvii. the ascent of a wall of ice xviii. the aiguille du dru xix. the most famous mountain in the alps--the conquest of the matterhorn xx. some tragedies on the matterhorn xxi. the whole duty of the climber--alpine distress signals glossary index list of illustrations page melchior anderegg, _frontispiece_ climbers descending the ortler the aletsch glacier from bel alp general view of a glacier a glacier table: after a storm a crevassed glacier an avalanche near bouveret: a tunnel through an avalanche edouard cupelin descending a rock peak near zermatt a big crevasse: the gentle persuasion of the rope a typical couloir: the ober gabelhorn: the wrong way to descend: very soft snow piz palü: hans and christian grass christian almer, an avalanche falling eiger and mönch from lauberhorn avalanche falling from the wetterhorn on monte rosa mr whymper: mrs aubrey le blond: group on a high peak in winter mrs aubrey le blond and joseph imboden: crossing a snow couloir mont blanc: nicolas winhart: a banker of geneva: the relics of the arkwright accident alpine snow-fields a start by moonlight: shadows at sunrise: a standing glissade: a sitting glissade on a snow-covered glacier martin schocher and schnitzler exterior of a climber's hut: interior the meije: ascending a snowy wall top of piz scerscen: party descending piz bernina: on a mountain top: descent of a snow-ridge hard work: setting out in a long skirt a steep icy slope: on the top of a pass a slab of rock: negotiating a steep passage the family of herr seiler, zermatt: going to zermatt in the olden days the guides' wall, zermatt the zermatt side of the matterhorn: rising mists a bitterly cold day: the matterhorn from the zmutt side jost, porter of hotel monte rosa, zermatt hoar frost in the alps errata the plate labelled to face page , to face page . " " " " , " . true tales of mountain adventure chapter i what is mountaineering? mountaineering is not merely walking up hill. it is the art of getting safely up and down a peak where there is no path, and where steps may have to be cut in the ice; it is the art of selecting the best line of ascent under conditions which vary from day to day. mountaineering as a science took long to perfect. it is more than a century since the first ascent of a big alpine peak was accomplished, and the early climbers had but little idea of the dangers which they were likely to meet with. they could not tell when the snow was safe, or when it might slip away in an avalanche. they did not know where stones would be likely to fall on them, or when they were walking over one of those huge cracks in the glacier known as crevasses, and lightly bridged over with winter snow, which might break away when they trod on it. however, they soon learnt that it was safer for two or more people to be together in such places than for a man to go alone, and when crossing glaciers they used the long sticks they carried as a sort of hand-rail, a man holding on to each end, so that if one tumbled into a hole the other could pull him out. of course this was a very clumsy way of doing things, and before long it occurred to them that a much better plan would be to use a rope, and being all tied to it about feet apart, their hands were left free, and the party could go across a snow-field and venture on bridged-over crevasses in safety. at first both guides and travellers carried long sticks called alpenstocks. if they came to a steep slope of hard snow or ice, they hacked steps up it with small axes which they carried slung on their backs. this was a very inconvenient way of going to work, as it entailed holding the alpenstock in one hand and using the axe with the other. so they thought of a better plan, and had the alpenstock made thicker and shorter, and fastened an axe-head to the top of it. this was gradually improved till it became the ice-axe, as used to-day, and as shown in many of my photographs. this ice-axe is useful for various purposes besides cutting steps. if you dig in the head while crossing a snow-slope, it acts as an anchor, and gives tremendous hold, while to allude to its functions as a tin-opener, a weapon of defence against irate bulls on alpine pastures, or as a means for rapidly passing through a crowd at a railway station, is but to touch on a very few of its admirable qualities. [illustration: climbers descending a snow-clad peak (the ortler).] when people first climbed they went in droves on the mountains, or i should say rather on the mountain, for during the first half of the nineteenth century mont blanc was the object of nearly all the expeditions which set out for the eternal snows. after some years, however, it was found quite unnecessary to have so many guides and porters, and nowadays a party usually numbers four, two travellers and two guides, or three, consisting generally of one traveller and two guides, or occasionally five. two is a bad number, as should one of them be hurt or taken ill, the other would have to leave him and go for help, though one of the first rules of mountaineering is that a man who is injured or indisposed must never be left alone on a mountain. again, six is not a good number; it is too many, as the members of the party are sure to get in each other's way, pepper each other with stones, and waste no end of time in wrangling as to when to stop for food, when to proceed, and which way to go up. a good guide will run the concern himself, and turn a deaf ear to all suggestions; but the fact remains that six people had better split up and go on separate ropes. and if they also, in the case of rock peaks, choose different mountains, it is an excellent plan. the best of friends are apt to revile each other when stones, upset from above, come whistling about their ears. the early mountaineers were horribly afraid of places which were at all difficult to climb. mere danger, however, had no terrors for them, and they calmly encamped on frail snow-bridges, or had lunch in the path of avalanches. after a time the dangerous was understood and avoided, and the difficult grappled with by increased skill, until about the middle of the nineteenth century there arose a class of experts, little, if at all, inferior to the best guides of the present day. the most active and intelligent of the natives of chamonix, zermatt, and the bernese oberland now learnt to find their way even on mountains new to them. some were chamois hunters, and accustomed to climb in difficult places. others, perhaps, had when boys minded the goats, and scrambled after them in all sorts of awkward spots. others, again, had such a taste for mountaineering that they took to it the very first time they tried it. of these last my own guide, joseph imboden, was one, and later on i will tell you of the extraordinary way in which he began his splendid career. [illustration: on a rock ridge near the top of monte rosa. the schallihorn may be seen in the top right-hand corner of the picture.] it is from going with and watching how good guides climb that most people learn to become mountaineers themselves. nearly all take guides whenever they ascend difficult mountains, but some are so skilful and experienced that they go without, though few are ever good enough to do this quite safely. i am often asked why people climb, and it is a hard question to answer satisfactorily. there is something which makes one long to mountaineer more and more, from the first time one tries it. all climbs are different. all views from mountains are different, and every time one climbs one is uncertain, owing to the weather or the possible state of the peak, if the top can be reached or not. so it is always a struggle between the mountain and the climber, and though perseverance, skill, experience, and pluck must give the victory to the climber in the end, yet the fight may be a long one, and it may be years before a particularly awkward peak allows one to stand on its summit. perhaps, if you have patience to read what follows, you may better understand what mountaineering is, and why most of those who have once tried it become so fond of it. [illustration: the aletsch glacier from bel alp. the medial moraine is very conspicuous. this glacier is about a mile in width.] chapter ii a few words about glaciers of all the beautiful and interesting things mountain districts have to show, none surpass the glaciers. now a glacier is simply a river of ice, which never melts away even during the hottest summer. glaciers form high up on mountains, where there is a great deal of snow in winter, and where it is never very hot even in summer. they are also found in northern lands, such as greenland, and there, owing to the long cold winter and short summer, they come down to the very level of the sea. a glacier is formed in this way: there is a heavy fall of snow which lies in basins and little valleys high up on the mountain side. the air is too cold for it to melt, and as more falls on the top of it the mass gets pressed down. now, if you take a lump of snow in your hand and press it, you get an icy snow-ball. if you squeeze anything you make it warmer. the pressing down of the great mass of snow is like the squeezing of the ball in your hand. it makes it warmer, so that the snow first half melts and then gradually becomes ice. you bring about this change in your snow-ball in a moment. nature, in making a glacier, takes much longer, so that what was snow one year is only partly ice the next--it is known as _nevé_--and it is not until after several seasons that it becomes the pure ice we see in the lower part of a glacier. one would fancy that if a quantity of snow falls every winter and does not all melt, the mountains must grow higher. but though only a little of the snow melts, it disappears in other ways. some is evaporated into the atmosphere; some falls off in avalanches. most of it slowly flows down after forming itself into glaciers. for glaciers are always moving. the force of gravity makes them slide down over their rocky beds. they flow so slowly that we cannot see them move, in fact most of them advance only a few inches a day. but if a line of stakes is driven into the ice straight across a glacier, we shall notice in a few weeks that they have moved down. and the most interesting part of it is that they will not have moved evenly, but those nearest the centre will have advanced further than those at the side. in short, a glacier flows like a river, the banks keeping back the ice at the side, as the banks of a river prevent it from running so fast at the edge as in the middle. [illustration: general view on the lower part of a large glacier. the surface is ice, not snow. the snow-line may be seen further up.] a large glacier is fed by such a gigantic mass of snow that it is in its upper part hundreds of feet thick. of course when it reaches warmer places it begins to melt. but the quantity of ice composing it is so great that it takes a long time before it disappears, and a big glacier sometimes flows down far below the wild and rocky parts of mountains and reaches the neighbourhood of forests and corn-fields. it is very beautiful at chamonix to see the white, glittering ice of the glacier des bossons flowing in a silent stream through green meadows. the reason that mountaineers have to be careful in crossing glaciers is on account of the holes, cracks, or, to call them by their proper name, crevasses, which are met with on them. ice, unlike water, is brittle, so it splits up into crevasses whenever the glacier flows over a steep or uneven rocky bed. high up, where snow still lies, these chasms in the ice are often bridged over, and if a person ventures on one of these snow bridges it may break, and he may fall down the crevasse, which may be so deep that no bottom can be found to it. he is then either killed by the fall or frozen to death. if, as i have explained before, several climbers are roped together, they form a long string, like the tail of a kite, and not more than one is likely to break through at a time. as the rope is--or ought to be--kept tightly stretched, he cannot fall far, and is easily pulled out again. the snow melts away off the surface of the glacier further down in summer. it is on this bare, icy stream, scarred all over with little channels full of water running merrily down the melting rough surface, that the ordinary tourist is taken when he visits a glacier during his summer trip to switzerland. [illustration: a glacier table (page ).] [illustration: taken in mid-winter on reaching the lower slopes of a mountain after a terrific storm of snow and wind. the local swiss snow-shoes were used during part of the ascent.] you will notice in most of the photographs of glaciers black streaks along them, sometimes only near the sides, sometimes also in the centre. these are heaps of stones and earth which have fallen from the mountains bordering the glacier, and have been carried along by the slowly moving ice. the bands in the centre have come there, owing to the meeting higher up of two glaciers, which have joined their side heaps of rubbish, and have henceforward flowed on as one glacier. the bands of piled up stones are called moraines, those at the edge being known as lateral moraines, in the centre as medial moraines, and the stones which drop off the end (or snout) of a glacier, as terminal moraines. besides these compact bands, we sometimes find here and there a big stone or boulder by itself, which has rolled on to the ice. often these stones are raised on a pedestal of ice, and then they are called "glacier-tables." they have covered the bit of ice they lie upon, and prevented it from melting, while the glacier all round has gradually sunk. after a time the leg of the table begins to feel the sun strike it also. it melts away on the south side and the stone slips off. a party of climbers, wandering about on a glacier at night or in a fog, and having no compass, can roughly take their bearings by noticing in what position these broken-down glacier-tables lie. occasionally sand has been washed down over the surface of the ice, and a patch of it has collected in one place. this shields the glacier from the sun, the surrounding ice sinks, and eventually we find cones which are lightly covered with sand, the smooth ice beneath being reached directly we scratch the surface with the point of a stick. it is difficult to realise the enormous size of a large glacier. the aletsch glacier, the most extensive in the alps, would, it has been said, if turned to stone, supply building material for a city the size of london. with regard to the movement of glaciers, the entertaining author of "a tramp abroad" mildly chaffs his readers by telling them that he once tried to turn a glacier to account as a means of transport. accordingly, he took up his position in the middle, where the ice moves quickest, leaving his luggage at the edge, where it goes slowest. thus he intended to travel by express, leaving his things to follow by goods train! however, after some time, he appeared to make no progress, so he got out a book on glaciers to try and find out the reason for the delay. he was much surprised when he read that a glacier moves at about the same pace as _the hour hand of a watch_! [illustration: a distorted and crevassed glacier. showing the rough texture of the surface of a glacier below the snow-line.] many thousands of years ago there were glaciers in scotland and england. we are certain of this, as glaciers scratch and polish the rocks they pass over as does nothing else. stones are frozen into the ice, and it holds them and uses them as we might hold and use a sharply-pointed instrument, scratching the rock over which the mighty mass is slowly passing. in addition to the scratches, the ice polishes the rock till it is quite smooth, writing upon it in characters never to be effaced the history of past events. another thing which proves to us that these icy rivers were in many places where there are no glaciers now, is the boulders we find scattered about. these boulders are sometimes of a kind of rock not found anywhere near, and so we know that they must have been carried along on that wonderful natural luggage-train, and dropped off it as it melted. we find big stones in north wales which must have come on a glacier beginning in scotland! glacier-polished rocks are found along the whole of the west coast of norway, and there are boulders near geneva, in switzerland, which have come from the chain of mount blanc, miles away. so you see that the glaciers of the alps are far smaller than they were at one time, and that in many places where formerly there were huge glaciers, there are to-day none. the ice age was the time when these great glaciers existed, but the subject of the ice age is a difficult and thorny one, which is outside the scope of my information and of this book. chapter iii avalanches many of the most terrible accidents in the alps have been due to avalanches, and perhaps, as avalanches take place from different causes and have various characteristics, according to whether they are of ice, snow, or _débris_, some account of them may not be out of place. we may briefly classify them as follows:-- . ice avalanches, only met with on or near glaciers. . dust avalanches, composed of very light, powdery snow. . compact avalanches (_grund_ or ground avalanches, as the germans call them), consisting of snow, earth, stones, trees, and anything which the avalanche finds in its path. these take place only in winter and spring, while the two other kinds happen on the mountains at any season. an ice avalanche is easily understood when it is borne in mind that a glacier is always moving. when this river of ice comes to the edge of a precipice, or tries to crawl down a very steep cliff, it splits across and forms tottering crags of ice, which lean over more and more till they lose their balance and go crashing down the slope. some of the ice is crushed to powder by its fall, yet many blocks generally survive, and are occasionally heaped up in such huge masses below that they form another glacier on a small scale. if a party of mountaineers passes under a place overhung by threatening ice, they are in great danger, though at early morning, before the sun has loosened the frozen masses, the peril is less. sometimes, too, if the distance to be traversed is very short and the going quite easy, it is safe enough to dash quickly across. [illustration: a tunnel feet long through an avalanche. tree trunks, etc., can be seen embedded in it.] [illustration: an avalanche near bouveret, lake of geneva.] dust avalanches occur when a heavy fall of light, powdery snow takes place on frozen hillsides or ice-slopes, and so long as there is no wind or disturbance, all remains quiet, and inexperienced people would think there was no danger. but in reality dust avalanches are the most to be feared of any, for they fall irregularly in unexpected places, and their power is tremendous. while all seems calm and peaceful, suddenly a puff of wind or the passage of an animal disturbs the delicately-balanced masses, and then woe betide whoever is within reach of this frightful engine of destruction. first, the snow begins to slide gently down, then it gathers pace and volume, and even miles away the thunder of its fall can be heard as it leaps from ledge to ledge. covered with a cloud of smoking, powdery dust, it is a veritable niagara of giant height, and as it descends towards the forests, it carries with it whatever it finds in its path. trees are mown down with as much ease as the tender grass of spring. houses are lifted from the ground and tossed far away. an avalanche is preceded by a blast even more destructive than the masses of snow which it hurls along. as it advances with ever-increasing rapidity the air in front is more and more compressed as the avalanche rushes on with lightning-like speed behind it. the wind sweeps everything before it, and many are the tales related by those who have survived or witnessed a display of its power. on one occasion more than a hundred houses were overwhelmed by a huge avalanche at saas (prättigau, near davos), and during the search afterwards the rescue party found amidst the ruins a child lying asleep and uninjured in his cradle, which had been blown to some distance from his home, while close by stood a basket containing six eggs, none of which were broken. i have myself seen a row of telegraph posts in an alpine valley in winter thrown flat on the ground by the air preceding an enormous avalanche, which itself did not come within yards of them. it is a very wonderful thing that persons buried beneath an avalanche can sometimes hear every word spoken by a search party, and yet not a sound that they utter reaches the ears of those outside. a great deal of air is imprisoned between the particles of snow, and so it is possible for those overwhelmed by an avalanche to live inside it for hours. cases have been known where a man, buried not far below the surface, has been able to melt a hole to the outer air with his breath, and eventually free himself from his icy prison. on th january, , enormous avalanches fell in some of the mountainous districts of northern italy, houses, cattle, crops, and granaries being carried away, and many victims buried beneath the ruins. some touching episodes of wonderful escapes were related. "for instance, at riva, in the valley of susa, a whole family, consisting of an old woman of seventy, her two daughters, her four nieces, and a child four months old, were buried with their house in the snow, exposed apparently to certain death from cold and hunger. but the soldiers of the compagnie alpine, hearing of the sad case, worked with all their might and main to save them, and at last they were found and brought out alive, the brave old grandmother insisting that the children should be saved first, and then her daughters, saying that their lives were more precious than her own." the soldiers, who worked with a will above all praise, were obliged in several cases to construct long galleries in the snow in order to reach the villages, which were sometimes buried beneath feet of snow. compact avalanches, though very terrible on account of their frequently great size, can be more easily guarded against than dust avalanches, because they always fall in well-defined channels. a compact avalanche consists of snow, earth, stones, and trees, and comes down in times of thaw. many fall in early spring in alpine valleys, and though it is not unusual for them to come right across high roads, the fatal accidents are comparatively few. the inhabitants know that wherever, high up on the hills, there is a hollow which may serve as a _reservoir_ or collecting-basin for the snow, and below this a funnel or shoot, there an avalanche may be expected. often they take means to prevent one starting, for an avalanche, whose power is irresistible when once it has begun to move quickly, is very easily kept from mischief if it is not allowed a running start. the best of all ways for preventing avalanches is to plant the gullies with trees, but where this cannot be done, rows of stakes driven into the ground will serve to hold up the snow, and where the hillside is extremely steep, and much damage would be caused if an avalanche fell, stone walls are built one above another to keep the soil and the snow together, very much as we see on precipitous banks overlooking english railways. the driving roads over alpine passes are in places exposed to avalanches in winter. at the worst spots galleries of stone are built, through which the sleighs can pass in perfect safety, and if an avalanche fell while they were inside it would pass harmlessly over their heads. on the albula pass, in switzerland, as soon as the avalanches come down, tunnels are cut in the snow through them, and are in constant use till early summer. occasionally houses or churches are built in the very path of an avalanche. a v-shaped wall, called an avalanche-breaker, is put behind, and this cuts the snowy stream in two parts, which passes on harmlessly on either side of the building. sometimes avalanche-breakers of snow, hardened into ice by throwing water over them, are constructed behind barns which have been put in exposed places. in order that an avalanche may get up speed enough to commence its swift career, the slope the snow rests on where it starts must be at an angle of from ° to ° at least. chapter iv the guides of the alps: what they are and what they do there is no profession drawing its members from the peasant class which requires a combination of so many high and rare qualities as that of a mountain guide. happily, the dwellers in hill countries seem usually more noble in mind and robust of frame than the inhabitants of plains, and all who know them well must admit that among alpine guides are to be found men whose intelligence and character would rank high in any class of life. i have usually noticed that the abilities and duties of a guide are little understood by the non-climber, who often imagines that a guide's sole business is to know the way and to carry the various useless articles which the beginner in mountaineering insists on taking with him. [illustration: edouard cupelin of chamonix. the guide with whom mrs aubrey le blond commenced her climbing.] guiding, if it sometimes does include these duties, is far more than this. the first-class guide must be the general of the little army setting out to invade the higher regions. he need not _know_ the way--in fact, it sometimes happens that he has never before visited the district--but he must be able to _find_ a way, and a safe one, to the summit of the peak for which his party is bound. an inferior guide may know, from habit, the usual way up a mountain, but, should the conditions of ice and snow alter, he is unable to alter with them and vary his route. you may ask: "how does a guide find his way on a mountain new to him?" there are several means open to him. if the peak is well known, as is, say, the matterhorn, he will have heard from other guides which routes have been followed, and will know that if he desires to take his traveller up the ordinary way he must go past the schwarz-see hotel, and on to the ridge which terminates in the hörnli, making for the hut which he has seen from below through the telescope. then he remembers that he must cross to the east face, and while doing so he will notice the scratches on the rocks from the nailed boots of previous climbers. now, mounting directly upward, he will pick out the passages which seem easiest, until, passing the ruined upper hut, he comes out on the ridge and looks down the tremendous precipice which overhangs the matterhorn glacier. this ridge, he knows, he simply has to follow until he reaches the foot of a steep face of rock some feet high, down which hangs a chain. he has heard all about this bit of the climb since his boyhood, and he tells his traveller that, once on the top of the rock, all difficulty will be over, and the final slope to the summit will be found a gentle one. so it comes to pass that the party reaches the highest pinnacle of the great mountain without once diverging from the best route. occasionally the leading guide may take with him as second guide a man from the locality, but most climbers will prefer to keep with them the two guides they are used to. it is not only on mountains that a guide is able to find his way over little known ground. many years ago melchior anderegg came to stay with friends in england, and arrived at london bridge station in the midst of a thick london fog. "he was met by mr stephen and mr hinchliff," writes his biographer in _the pioneer of the alps_, "who accompanied him on foot to the rooms of the latter gentleman in lincoln's inn fields. a day or two later the same party found themselves at the same station on their return from woolwich. 'now, melchior,' said mr hinchliff, 'you will lead us back home.' instantly the skilful guide, who had never seen a larger town than berne, accepted the situation, and found his way straight back without difficulty, pausing for consideration only once, as if to examine the landmarks at the foot of chancery lane." now, let us see how a guide sets about exploring a district where no one has previously ascended the mountains. of this work i have seen a good deal, since in arctic norway my swiss guides and i have ascended more than twenty hitherto-unclimbed peaks, and were never once unable to reach the summit. of course, the first thing is to see the mountains, and, to do this, it is wise to ascend something which you are sure, from its appearance, is easy, and then prospect for others, inspecting others again from them, and so on, _ad infinitum_. you cannot always see the whole of a route, and, perhaps, your leading guide will observe: "we can reach that upper glacier by the gully in the rocks." "what gully?" you ask. "the one to the left. there _must_ be one there. look at the heap of stones at the bottom!" thus, from the seen to the unseen the guide argues, reading a fact from writing invisible to the untrained eye. between difficulty and danger, too, he draws a sharp distinction, and attacks with full confidence a steep but firm wall of rock, turning back from the easy-looking slope of snow ready to set forth in an avalanche directly the foot touches it. and how is this proficiency obtained? how does the guide learn his profession? in different ways, but he usually begins young, tending goats on steep grassy slopes requiring balance and nerve to move about over. later on, having decided that he wishes to be a guide, the boy, at the age of seventeen or eighteen, offers himself for examination on applying for a certificate as porter. the requirements for this first step are not great: a good character, a sound physique, a knowledge of reading and writing, and in most alpine centres the guild of guides will grant him a license. he can now accompany any guide who will take him, on any expedition that guide considers within the porter's powers. his advancement depends on his capacity. should he quickly adapt himself to the work, the guides will trust him more and more, taking him on difficult ascents and allowing him occasionally to share the responsibility of leading on an ascent and coming down last when descending. it will readily be seen that the leader must never slip, and must, when those who follow are moving, be able to hold them should anything go wrong with them. the same applies to the even more responsible position of last man coming down. when a porter reaches this stage, he is little inferior to a second guide. he can now enter for his final examination. if he is competent, he has no trouble in passing it, and i fear that if the contrary--as is the case in many of those who apply--he gets through easily enough. at chamonix the guides' society is controlled by government. the rules press hardly on the better class of guides there, or would do so if observed; but a first-class guide is practically independent of them, and mountaineers who know the ropes can avoid the regulations. at zermatt greater liberty is allowed, and, indeed, i believe that everywhere except at chamonix a guide is free to go with any climber who applies for him. at chamonix the rule is that the guides are employed in turn, so that the absurd spectacle is possible of a man of real experience carrying a lady's shawl across the mer de glace, while a guide, who is little better than a porter, sets out to climb the aiguille de dru! however, the exceptions to this rule make a broad way of escape, for a lady alone, a member of an alpine club, or a climber bent on a particularly difficult ascent, may choose a guide. the pay of a first-class guide is seldom by tariff, for the class of climber who alone would have the opportunity of securing the services of one of the extremely limited number of guides of the first order generally engages him for some weeks at a time. indeed, such men are usually bespoken a year in advance. the pay offered and expected is fr. a day, including all expeditions, or else fr. a day for rest days, fr. for a peak, fr. for a pass, in both cases the guide to keep himself, while travelling expenses and food on expeditions are to be paid for by the employer. if a season is fine and the party energetic, the former rate of payment may be the cheaper. the second guide generally receives two-thirds as much as the first guide. when a novice is about to choose a guide, the advice of an experienced friend is invaluable, but, failing this, it is worse than useless to rely on inn-keepers, casual travellers, or the _guide-chef_ at the guides' office of the locality. from these you can obtain the names of guides whom they recommend, but before making any definite arrangements, see the men themselves and carefully examine their books of certificates. in these latter lie your security, if you read them intelligently. bear in mind that their value consists in their being signed by competent mountaineers. for instance, you may find something like the following in a guide's book:-- a. dumkopf took me up the matterhorn to-day. he showed wonderful sureness of foot and steadiness of head, and i consider him a first-class guide, and have pleasure in recommending him. (signed) a. s. smith. now, this is by some one you never heard of, and a very little consideration will show you that a. s. smith is quite ignorant of climbing, judging by his wording of the certificate. that which follows, taken from the late christian almer's _führerbuch_, is the sort of thing to carry weight:-- christian almer has been our guide for three weeks, during which time we made the ascents of the matterhorn (ascending by the northern and descending by the southern route), weisshorn (from the bies glacier), dent blanche, and the bietschhorn. every journey that we take under almer's guidance confirms us in the high opinion we have formed of his qualities as a guide and as a man. to the utmost daring and courage he unites prudence and foresight, seldom found in combination. (signed) w. a. b. coolidge. visp, september nd, . it is when things go badly that a first-class guide is so conspicuously above an inferior man. in sudden storms or fog you may, if accompanied by the former, be in security, while the latter may get his party into positions of great peril. the former will take you slowly and carefully, sounding, perhaps, at every step, over what appears to you a perfectly easy snow plateau. the latter goes across a similar place unsuspecting of harm and with the rope loose, and, lo and behold, you all find yourselves in a hidden crevasse, and are lucky if you escape with your lives. in the early days of mountaineering guides were frequently drawn from the chamois hunters of a district, a sport requiring, perhaps, rather the quickness and agility of the born climber and gymnast than the qualities of calculation and prudence needed in addition by the guide. [illustration: a careful party descending a rock peak near zermatt (the unter gabelhorn).] the most thoroughly unorthodox beginning to a great career of which i have ever heard was that of joseph imboden, of st nicholas. when a boy his great desire, as he has often told me, was to become a guide. but his father would not consent to it, and apprenticed him to a boot-maker. during the time he toiled at manufacturing and mending shoes he contrived to save fr. he then, at the age of sixteen, ran away from his employer, bought a note-book, and established himself at the riffel hotel above zermatt. on every possible occasion he urged travellers to employ him as guide. "where is your book, young man?" they invariably enquired. he showed it to them, but the pages were blank, and so no one would take him. "at last," imboden went on, "my fr. were all but spent, when i managed to persuade a young englishman to let me take him up monte rosa. i told him i knew the mountain well, and i would not charge him high. so we started. i had never set foot on a glacier before or on any mountain, but there was a good track up the snow, and i followed this, and there were other parties on monte rosa, so i copied what the guides did, and roped my gentleman as i saw the guides doing theirs. it was a lovely day, and we got on very well, and my gentleman was much pleased, and offered me an engagement to go to chamonix with him over high passes. "then i said to myself: 'lies have been very useful till now, but the time has come to speak the truth, and i will do so.' "so i said to him: 'herr, until to-day i have never climbed a mountain, but i am strong and active, and i have lived among mountaineers and mountains, and i am sure i can satisfy you if you will take me.' "he was quite ready to do so, and we crossed the col du géant and went up mont blanc, but could do no more as the weather was bad. then he wrote a great deal in my book, and since then i have never been in want of a gentleman to guide." imboden's eldest son, roman, began still younger. when only thirteen he was employed by a member of the alpine club, mr g. s. barnes, to carry his lunch on the picnics he made with his friends on the glaciers near saas-fée. the party eventually undertook more ambitious expeditions, and one evening, roman, who was very small for his age, was seen entering his native village at the head of a number of climbers who had crossed the ried pass, the little boy proudly carrying the largest knapsack of which he could possess himself, a huge coil of rope, and an ice-axe nearly as big as himself. thus commenced the career of an afterwards famous alpine guide. during some fifteen seasons imboden accompanied me on my climbs, frequently with roman as second guide. once the latter went with me to dauphiné, and, though only twenty-three at the time, took me up the meije, ecrins, and other big peaks, his father being detained at home by reason of a bitter feud with the railway company about to run a line through his farm. it is sad to look back to the terrible ending of roman's career at a period when he was the best young guide in the alps. how little, in september , as with the imbodens, father and son, i stood on the summit of the lyskamm, did any of us think that never again should we be together on a mountain, and that from the very peak on which we were roman would be precipitated in one awful fall of hundreds of feet, his companions, dr guntner and the second guide ruppen, also losing their lives. i shall never forget the evening the news reached us at zermatt. imboden was, as usual, my guide, but roman was leading guide to dr guntner. a month or two previously this gentleman had written to roman asking if he would climb with him. roman showed the letter to his father, saying: "i only go with english people, so i shall refuse." "do not reply in a hurry," was the answer; "wait and see what the herr is like, he is coming here soon." so roman waited, saw dr guntner, liked him immensely, and engaged himself, not only till the end of the season, but also for a five months' mountaineering expedition in the himalayas. we had all arrived at zermatt from fée a few days before, and while we waited in the valley for good weather, dr guntner, roman imboden, and ruppen went to the monte rosa hut to get some exercise next day on one of the easier peaks in the neighbourhood. dr guntner much wished to try the lyskamm. roman was against it, as the weather and snow were bad. however, in the morning there was a slight improvement, and as dr guntner was still most anxious to attempt the lyskamm and roman was so attached to him that he wished to oblige him in every way he could, he consented to, at any rate, go and look at it. another party followed, feeling secure in the wake of such first-rate climbers, and, though the snow was atrocious and the weather grew worse and worse, no one turned back, and the summit was not far distant. the gentleman in the second party did not feel very well, and made a long halt on the lower part of the ridge. something seems to have aroused his suspicions--some drifting snow above, it was said, but i could never understand this part of the story--and an accident was feared. abandoning the ascent, partly because of illness, partly on account of the weather, the party went down. at the bottom of the ridge, wishing to see if indeed something had gone wrong, they bore over towards the italian side of the mountain. directly the snowy plain at the base of the peak became visible, their worst fears were confirmed, for they perceived three black specks lying close together. examining them through their glasses, it was but too certain that what they saw were the lifeless bodies of dr gunnter, roman, and ruppen. meanwhile, unconscious of the awful tragedy being enacted that day on the mountains, i had sent imboden down to st nicholas to see his family, and, after dinner, was sitting writing in the little salon of the hotel zermatt when two people entered, remarking to each other, "what a horrible smash on the lyskamm!" i started to my feet. something told me it must be roman's party. crossing quickly over to the monte rosa hotel, i found a silent crowd gathering in the street. i went into the office. "who is it?" i asked. "roman's party," was the answer. "how do you know?" "the other party has telephoned from the riffel; we wait for them to arrive to hear particulars." the crowd grew larger and larger in the dark without. all waited in cruel suspense. i could not bear to think of imboden. an hour passed. then there was a stir among the waiting throng, and i went out among them and waited too. the other party was coming. as the little band filed through the crowd, one question only was whispered. "is there any hope?" sadly shaking their heads, the gentleman and his guides passed into herr seiler's room, and there we learned all there was to hear. i need not dwell on imboden's grief. he will never be the same man again, though three more sons are left him; but i must put on record his first words to me when i saw him: "ruppen has left a young wife and several children, and they are very poor. will you get up a subscription for them, ma'am, and help them as much as possible?" [illustration: stopped by a big crevasse. the party descended a little till a better passage was found by crossing a snow-bridge (page ).] [illustration: the gentle persuasion of the rope (page ).] it was done, and for roman a tombstone was erected, "by his english friends, as a mark of their appreciation of his sterling qualities as a man and a guide." roman was twenty-seven at the time of the accident. neither imboden nor i cared to face the sad associations of the alps after the death of roman, and the next and following years we mountaineered in norway instead. it will have been noticed that a climber nearly always takes two guides on an expedition. a visitor at zermatt, or some other climbing centre, was heard to enquire: "why do people take two guides? is it in case they lose one?" there are several reasons why a climbing party should not number less than three. in a difficult place, if one slips, his two companions should be able to check his fall immediately, whereas if the party number but two the risk of an accident is much greater. again, a mishap to one of a party of two is infinitely more serious than had there been three climbing together. a glance at the accompanying photograph of some mountaineers reconnoitring a big crevasse will make my point clear. a first-class guide will use the rope very differently to an inferior man, who allows it to hang about in a tangle, and to catch on every point of projecting rock. a friend of mine, a senior wrangler, was extremely anxious to learn how to use a rope properly. so, instead of watching the method of his guide, he purchased a handbook, and learned by heart all the maxims therein contained on the subject. shortly after these studies of his i was descending a steep face of rock in his company. i was in advance, and had gone down as far as the length of rope between us permitted. a few steps below was a commodious ledge, so i called out: "more rope, please!" my friend hesitated, cleared his throat, and replied: "i am not sure if i ought to move just now, because, in _badminton_, on page so-and-so, line so-and-so, the writer says----" "will you please give the lady more rope, sir!" called out imboden. "he says that if a climber finds himself in a position----" "will you go on, sir, or must i come down and help you?" exclaimed imboden from above, and, at last, reluctantly enough, my friend moved on. he is now a distinguished member of the alpine club, so there is, perhaps, something to be said in favour of learning mountaineering from precept rather than example! occasionally a guide's manipulation of the rope includes something more arduous than merely being always ready to stop a slip. if his traveller is tired and the snow slopes are long and wearisome, it may happen that a guide will put the rope over his shoulder and pull his gentleman. a mountaineer of my acquaintance met a couple ascending the breithorn in this manner. it was a hot day, and the amateur was very weary. furthermore, he could speak no german. so he entreated his compatriot to intercede for him with the guide, who would insist on taking him up in spite of his groans of fatigue. "why do you not return when the gentleman wishes it?" queried the stranger. "sir," replied the guide, "he can go, he must go; he has paid me in advance!" the rope generally used by climbers is made in england, is known as alpine club rope, and may be recognised by the bright red thread which runs through the centre of it. a climber should have his own rope, and not trust to any of doubtful quality. should climbers desire to make ascents in seldom explored parts of the world, such as the caucasus, the andes, or the himalayas, they must take alpine guides with them, for mountains everywhere have many characteristics in common, and as a good rider will go over a country unknown to him better than a bad horseman to whom it is familiar, so will a skilful guide find perhaps an easy way up a mountain previously unexplored, while the natives of the district declare the undertaking an impossible one. the canadian pacific railway company have recognised the truth of this, and have secured the services of swiss guides for climbing in the rockies. the devotion of a really trustworthy guide to his employer is a fine trait in his character. my guide, joseph imboden, has often told me that for years the idea that he might somehow return safe from an expedition during which his traveller was killed, was simply a nightmare to him. directly the rope was removed his anxiety commenced, and he was just as careful to see that the climber did not slip in an easy place as he had been on the most difficult part of the ascent. it is an unbroken tradition that no st. nicholas guide ever comes home without his employer; all return safely or all are killed. alas! the list of killed is a long one from that little alpine village. in the churchyard, from the most recent grave, covered by the beautiful white marble stone placed there by roman's english friends, to those recalling accidents a score or more of years ago, there lies the dust of many brave men. but i must not dwell on the gloom of the hills; let me rather recall some of the many occasions when a guide, by his skill, quickness, or resource, has saved his own and his charges' lives. a famous oberlander, lauener by name, noted for his great strength, performed on one occasion a marvellous feat. he was ascending a steep ice slope, at the bottom of which was a precipice. he was alone with his "gentleman," and to this fact, usually by no means a desirable one, they both owed their lives. a big boulder seemed to be so deeply imbedded in the ice as to be actually part of the underlying rock. the traveller was just below it, the guide had cut steps alongside, and was above with, most happily, the rope taut. as he gained the level of the boulder he put his foot on it. to his horror it began to move! he took one rapid step back, and with a superhuman effort positively swung his traveller clean out of the steps and dangled him against the slope while the rock, heeling slowly outwards, broke loose from its icy fetters and plunged down the mountain side, right across the very place where the climber had been standing but an instant before. a small man, whose muscles are in perfect condition, and who knows how to turn them to account, can accomplish what would really appear to be almost impossible for any one of his size. ulrich almer, eldest son of the famous guide, the late christian almer, saved an entire party on one occasion by his own unaided efforts. they were descending the ober gabelhorn, a high mountain near zermatt, and had reached a ridge where there is usually a large cornice. now, a cornice is an overhanging eave of snow which has been formed by the wind blowing across a ridge. sometimes cornices reach an enormous size, projecting feet or more from the ridge. in climbing, presence of mind may avail much if a cornice breaks--absence of body is, however, infinitely preferable. even first-class guides may err in deciding whether a party is or is not at an absolutely safe distance from a cornice. though not actually on that part of the curling wave of snow which overhangs a precipice, the party may be in danger, for when a cornice breaks away it usually takes with it part of the snow beyond. [illustration: a typical couloir is seen streaking the peak from summit to base in the centre of the picture (page ).] [illustration: the cross marks the spot where the accident happened on the cornice of the ober gabelhorn in (page ).] [illustration: the wrong way to descend.] [illustration: very soft snow which, on a steep slope, would cause an avalanche (page ).] by some miscalculation the first people on the rope walked on to the cornice. it broke, and they dropped straight down the precipice below. but at the same moment ulrich saw and grasped the situation, and, springing right out on the other side, was able to check them in their terrible fall. it was no easy matter for the three men, one of whom had dislocated his shoulder, to regain the ridge, although held all the time by ulrich. still it was at length safely accomplished. the two gentlemen were so grateful to their guide that they wished to give him an acceptable present, and after much consideration decided that they could not do better than present him with a cow! in trying to save a party which has fallen off a ridge, either by the breaking of a cornice or by a slip, i am told by first-rate guides that the proper thing to do is to jump straight out into the air on the opposite side. you thus bring a greater strain on the rope, and are more likely to check the pace at which your companions are sliding. i had a very awkward experience myself on one occasion when, owing to the softness of the snow, we started an avalanche, and the last guide, failing to spring over on the other side, we were all carried off our feet. luckily, we were able, by thrusting our axes through into a lower and harder layer of snow, to arrest our wild career. piz palü, in the engadine, was once nearly the scene of a terrible tragedy through the breaking of a cornice, the party only being saved by the quickness and strength of one of their guides. the climbers consisted of mrs wainwright, her brother-in-law dr b. wainwright and the famous pontresina guides hans and christian grass. bad weather overtook them during their ascent, and while they were passing along the ridge the fog was so thick that hans grass, who was leading, got on to the cornice. he was followed by the two travellers, and then with a mighty crack the cornice split asunder and precipitated them down the icy precipice seen to the right. last on the rope came sturdy old christian grass, who grasped the awful situation in an instant, and sprang back. he held, but could, of course, do no more. now was the critical time for the three hanging against the glassy wall. both hans and the lady had dropped their axes. dr wainwright alone retained his, and to this the party owed their lives. of course he, hanging at the top, could do nothing; but after shouting out his intentions to those below, he called on hans to make ready to catch the axe when it should slip by him. a moment of awful suspense, and the weapon was grasped by the guide, who forthwith hewed a big step out of the ice, and, standing on it, began the toilsome work of constructing a staircase back to the ridge. at last it was done, and when the three lay panting on the snow above, it was seen that by that time one strand only of the rope had remained intact. [illustration: the dotted line in the top right-hand corner shows the spot on piz palü where the wainwright accident took place, the slope being the one the party fell down.] [illustration: hans and christian grass.] the following account of a narrow escape from the result of a cornice breaking has an especially sad interest, for it was found amongst the papers of lord francis douglas after his tragic death on the matterhorn, and was addressed to the editor of the _alpine journal_. the ascent described was made on th july , and the poor young man was killed on the th of the same month. the gabelhorn is a fine peak, , feet high, in the zermatt district. lord francis douglas writes:--"we arrived at the summit at . . there we found that some one had been the day before, at least to a point very little below it, where they had built a cairn; but they had not gone to the actual summit, as it was a peak of snow, and there were no marks of footsteps. on this peak we sat down to dine, when, all of a sudden, i felt myself go, and the whole top fell with a crash thousands of feet below, and i with it, as far as the rope allowed (some feet). here, like a flash of lightning, taugwald came right by me some feet more; but the other guide, who had only the minute before walked a few feet from the summit to pick up something, did not go down with the mass, and thus held us both. the weight on the rope must have been about stone, and it is wonderful that, falling straight down without anything to break one's fall, it did not break too. joseph viennin then pulled us up, and we began the descent to zermatt." here, again, one of the guides saved the party from certain destruction. it is in time of emergency that a really first-rate guide is so far ahead of an inferior man. in many cases when fatal results have followed unexpected bad weather or exceptionally difficult conditions of a mountain, bad guiding is to blame, while the cases when able guides have brought down themselves and their employers from very tight places indeed, are far more frequent than have ever been related. a really wonderful example of a party brought safely home after terrible exposure is related in _the pioneers of the alps_. the well-known guides, andreas maurer and emile rey, with an english climber, had tried to reach the summit of the aiguille du plan by the steep ice slopes above the chamonix valley. "after step-cutting all day, they reached a point when to proceed was impossible, and retreat looked hopeless. to add to their difficulties, bad weather came on, with snow and intense cold. there was nothing to be done but to remain where they were for the night, and, if they survived it, to attempt the descent of the almost precipitous ice-slopes they had with such difficulty ascended. they stood through the long hours of that bitter night, roped together, without daring to move, on a narrow ridge, hacked level with their ice-axes. i know from each member of the party that they looked upon their case as hopeless, but maurer not only never repined, but affected rather to like the whole thing, and though his own back was frozen hard to the ice-wall against which he leaned, and in spite of driving snow and numbing cold, he opened coat, waistcoat and shirt, and through the long hours of the night he held, pressed against his bare chest, the half-frozen body of the traveller who had urged him to undertake the expedition. "the morning broke, still and clear, and at six o'clock, having thawed their stiffened limbs in the warm sun, they commenced the descent. probably no finer feat in ice-work has ever been performed than that accomplished by maurer and rey on the th august . it took them ten hours of continuous work to reach the rocks and safety, and their work was done without a scrap of food, after eighteen hours of incessant toil on the previous day, followed by a night of horrors such as few can realize." had the bad weather continued, the party could not possibly have descended alive, "and this act of unselfish devotion would have remained unrecorded!" perhaps the most remarkable instance of endurance took place on the croda grande. the party consisted of mr oscar schuster and the primiero guide, giuseppe zecchini. they set out on th march , from gosaldo at . a.m., the weather becoming unsettled as they went along. after they had been seven hours on the march a storm arose, yet, as they were within three-quarters of an hour of the top of their peak, they did not like to turn back. they duly gained the summit, the storm momentarily increasing in violence, and then they descended on the other side of the mountain till they came to an overhanging rock giving a certain amount of shelter. the guide had torn his gloves to pieces during the ascent, and his fingers were raw and sore from the difficult icy rocks he had climbed. as the cold was intense, they now began to be very painful. the weather grew worse and worse, and the two unfortunate climbers were obliged to remain in a hole scooped out of the snow, not only during the night of the th, but also during the whole day and night of the th. on the th, at a.m., they made a start, not having tasted food for forty-eight hours. five feet of snow had fallen, and the weather was still unsettled, but go they had to. first they tried to return as they came, but the masses of snow barred the way. they were delayed so long by the terrible state of the mountain that they had to spend another night out, and it was not till p.m. on the th, after great danger that they reached gosaldo. the guide, from whose account in _the alpine journal_ i have borrowed, lost three fingers of his right hand and one of the left from frost-bite; the traveller appears to have come off scot free. chapter v the guides of the alps--(_continued_). the fathers of modern mountaineering were undoubtedly the two great oberland guides, melchior anderegg and christian almer, who commenced their careers more than half a century ago. the former is still with us, the latter passed away some two years ago, accomplishing with ease expeditions of first-rate importance till within a season or two of his death. melchior began his climbing experiences when filling the humble duties of boots at the grimsel inn. he was sent to conduct parties to the glaciers, his master taking the fee, while melchior's share was the _pourboire_. his aptitude for mountain craft was soon remarked by the travellers whom he accompanied, and in a lucky hour for him--and indeed for all concerned--he was regularly taken into the employ of mr walker and his family. at that time melchior could speak only a little german in addition to his oberland _patois_, and was quite unaccustomed to intercourse with english people. he was most anxious, however, to say the right thing, and thought he could not do better than copy the travellers, so mr walker was somewhat startled on finding himself addressed as "pa-pa," while his children were greeted respectively as "lucy" and "horace." the friendship between melchior and the surviving members of mr walker's family has lasted ever since, and is worthy of all concerned. melchior was born a guide, as he was born a gentleman, and no one who has had the pleasure of his acquaintance can fail to be impressed by his tact and wonderful sweetness of disposition, which have enabled him to work smoothly and satisfactorily with other guides, who might well have felt some jealousy at his career of unbroken success. melchior's great rival and friend, christian almer, was of a more impetuous disposition, but none the less a man to be respected and liked for his sturdy uprightness and devotion to his employers. the romantic tale of his ascent of the wetterhorn, which first brought him into notice, has been admirably told by chief-justice wills in his "wanderings among the high alps." mr wills, as he then was, had set out from grindelwald to attempt the ascent of the hitherto unclimbed wetterhorn. he had with him the guides lauener, bohren, and balmat. the former, a giant in strength and height, had determined to mark the ascent in a way there should be no mistaking, so, seeking out the blacksmith, he had a "flagge," as he termed it, prepared, and with this upon his back, he joined the rest of the party. the "flagge" was a sheet of iron, feet long and broad, with rings to attach it to a bar of the same metal or feet high, which he carried in his hand. "he pointed first to the 'flagge,' and then, with an exulting look on high, set up a shout of triumph which made the rocks ring again." the wetterhorn is so well seen from grindelwald that it was natural some jealousy should arise as to who should first gain the summit. at this time christian almer was a chamois hunter, and his fine climbing abilities had been well trained in that difficult sport. he heard of the expedition, and took his measures accordingly. meanwhile mr wills' party, having bivouacked on the mountain side, had advanced some way upwards towards their goal, and were taking a little rest. as they halted, "we were surprised," writes mr wills, "to behold two other figures, creeping along the dangerous ridge of rocks we had just passed. they were at some little distance from us, but we saw they were dressed in the guise of peasants." lauener exclaimed that they must be chamois hunters, but a moment's reflection showed them that no chamois hunter would come that way, and immediately after they noticed that one of them "carried on his back a young fir-tree, branches, leaves, and all." this young man was christian almer, and a fitting beginning it was to a great career. "we had turned aside to take our refreshment," continues mr wills, "and while we were so occupied they passed us, and on our setting forth again, we saw them on the snow slopes, a good way ahead, making all the haste they could, and evidently determined to be the first at the summit." the chamonix guides were furious, declaring that no one at chamonix would be capable of so mean an action, and threatening an attack if they met them. the swiss guides also began to see the enormity of the offence. "a great shouting now took place between the two parties, the result of which was that the piratical adventurers promised to wait for us on the rocks above, whither we arrived very soon after them. they turned out to be two chamois hunters, who had heard of our intended ascent, and resolved to be even with us, and plant their tree side by side with our 'flagge.' they had started very early in the morning, had crept up the precipices above the upper glacier of grindelwald before it was light, had seen us soon after daybreak, followed on our trail, and hunted us down. balmat's anger was soon appeased when he found they owned the reasonableness of his desire that they should not steal from us the distinction of being the first to scale that awful peak, and instead of administering the fisticuffs he had talked about, he declared they were '_bons enfants_' after all, and presented them with a cake of chocolate; thus the pipe of peace was smoked, and tranquility reigned between the rival forces." the two parties now moved upwards together, and eventually reached the steep final slope of snow so familiar to all who have been up the wetterhorn. they could not tell what was above it, but they hoped and thought it might be the top. [illustration: christian almer, .] at last, after cutting a passage through the cornice, which hung over the slope like the crest of a great wave about to break, mr wills stepped on to the ridge. his description is too thrilling to be omitted. "the instant before, i had been face to face with a blank wall of ice. one step, and the eye took in a boundless expanse of crag and glacier, peak and precipice, mountain and valley, lake and plain. the whole world seemed to lie at my feet. the next moment, i was almost appalled by the awfulness of our position. the side we had come up was steep; but it was a gentle slope compared with that which now fell away from where i stood. a few yards of glittering ice at our feet, and then nothing between us and the green slopes of grindelwald, feet below. balmat told me afterwards that it was the most awful and startling moment he had known in the course of his long mountain experience. we felt as in the immediate presence of him who had reared this tremendous pinnacle, and beneath the 'majestical roof' of whose blue heaven we stood poised, as it seemed, half-way beneath the earth and sky." another notable ascent by almer of the wetterhorn was made exactly thirty years later, when, with the youngest of his five sons (whom he was taking up for the first time) and an english climber he repeated as far as possible all the details of his first climb, the lad carrying a young fir-tree, as his father had done, to plant on the summit. finally, in , almer celebrated his golden wedding on the top of the mountain he knew so well. he was accompanied by his wife, and the sturdy old couple were guided by their sons. but all guides are not the melchiors or the almers of their profession. sometimes, bent on photography from the easier peaks, i have taken whoever was willing to come and carry the camera, and on one occasion had rather an amusing experience with an indifferent specimen of the pontresina _führerverein_. all went well at first, and our large party, mostly of friends who knew nothing of climbing, trudged along quite happily till after our first halt for food. when we started again after breakfast our first adventure occurred. we had one first-class guide with us in the person of martin schocker, but were obliged to make up the number required for the gang by pressing several inferior men into our service. one of these was leading the first rope-full (if such an expression may be allowed), and with that wonderful capacity for discovering crevasses where they would be avoided by more skilful men, he walked on to what looked like a firm, level piece of snow, and in a second was gone! the rope ran rapidly out as we flung ourselves into positions of security, and as we had kept our proper distances the check came on us all as on one. we remained as we were, while the second caravan advanced to our assistance. its leading guide, held by the others, cautiously approached the hole, and seeing that our man was dangling, took measures to haul him up. this was not very easy, as the rope had cut deeply into the soft snow at the edge; but with so large a party there was no real difficulty in effecting a rescue. at last our guide appeared, very red in the face, puffing like a grampus, and minus his hat. as soon as he had regained breath he began to talk very fast indeed. it seemed that the crown of his hat was used by him for purposes similar to those served by the strong rooms and safes of the rich; for in his head-gear he was in the habit of storing family documents of value, and among others packed away there was his marriage certificate! the hat now reposed at the bottom of a profound crevasse, and his lamentations were, in consequence, both loud and prolonged. i don't know what happened when he got home, but for the rest of the day he was a perfect nuisance to us all, explaining by voice and gesture, repeated at every halt, the terrifying experience and incalculable loss he had suffered. another unlucky result of his dive into the crevasse was its effect upon a lady member of the party, who had been induced, by much persuasion, to venture for the first time on a mountain. so startled was she by his sudden disappearance, that she jibbed determinedly at every crack in the glacier we had to cross, and, as they were many, our progress became slower and slower, and it was very late indeed before we regained the valley. mr clinton dent, writing in _the alpine journal_, justly remarks: "guides of the very first rank are still to be found, though they are rare; yet there are, perhaps, as many of the first rank now as there have ever been. the demand is so prodigiously great now that the second-class guide, or the young fully qualified guide who has made some little reputation for brilliancy, is often employed as leader on work which may easily overtax his powers. there is no more pressing question at the present time in connection with mountaineering, than the proper training of young guides." [illustration: the dust of an avalanche falling from the matterhorn glacier may be seen to the right.] chapter vi an avalanche on the haut-de-cry the haut-de-cry is not one of the giants of the alps. it is a peak of modest height but fine appearance, rising abruptly from the valley of the rhone. in it had never been climbed in winter, and one of our countrymen, mr philip gosset, set out in february of that year to attempt its ascent. he had with him a friend, monsieur boissonnet, the famous guide bennen, and three men from a village, named ardon, close by, who were to act as local guides or porters. the party had gained a considerable height on the mountain when it became necessary to cross a couloir or gully filled with snow. it was about feet broad at the top, and or at the bottom. "bennen did not seem to like the look of the snow very much," writes mr gosset in _the alpine journal_. "he asked the local guides whether avalanches ever came down this couloir, to which they answered that our position was perfectly safe. we were walking in the following order--bevard, nance, bennen, myself, boissonnet, and rebot. having crossed over about three-quarters of the breadth of the couloir, the two leading men suddenly sank considerably above their waists. bennen tightened the rope. the snow was too deep to think of getting out of the hole they had made, so they advanced one or two steps, dividing the snow with their bodies. bennen turned round and told us he was afraid of starting an avalanche; we asked whether it would not be better to return and cross the couloir higher up. to this the three ardon men opposed themselves; they mistook the proposed precaution for fear, and the two leading men continued their work. "after three or four steps gained in the aforesaid manner, the snow became hard again. bennen had not moved--he was evidently undecided what he should do. as soon, however, as he saw hard snow again, he advanced, and crossed parallel to, but above, the furrow the ardon men had made. strange to say, the snow supported him. while he was passing, i observed that the leader, bevard, had ten or twelve feet of rope coiled round his shoulder. i of course at once told him to uncoil it, and get on to the arête, from which he was not more than fifteen feet distant. bennen then told me to follow. i tried his steps, but sank up to my waist in the very first. so i went through the furrows, holding my elbows close to my body, so as not to touch the sides. this furrow was about twelve feet long, and as the snow was good on the other side, we had all come to the false conclusion that the snow was accidentally softer there than elsewhere. bennen advanced; he had made but a few steps when we heard a deep, cutting sound. the snow-field split in two, about fourteen or fifteen feet above us. the cleft was at first quite narrow, not more than an inch broad. an awful silence ensued; it lasted but a few seconds, and then it was broken by bennen's voice, 'wir sind alle verloren.'[ ] his words were slow and solemn, and those who knew him felt what they really meant when spoken by such a man as bennen. they were his last words. i drove my alpenstock into the snow, and brought the weight of my body to bear on it. i then waited. it was an awful moment of suspense. i turned my head towards bennen to see whether he had done the same thing. to my astonishment i saw him turn round, face the valley, and stretch out both arms. the ground on which we stood began to move slowly, and i felt the utter uselessness of any alpenstock. i soon sank up to my shoulders, and began descending backwards. from this moment i saw nothing of what had happened to the rest of the party. with a good deal of trouble i succeeded in turning round. the speed of the avalanche increased rapidly, and before long i was covered up with snow. i was suffocating, when i suddenly came to the surface again. i was on a wave of the avalanche, and saw it before me as i was carried down. it was the most awful sight i ever saw. the head of the avalanche was already at the spot where we had made our last halt. the head alone was preceded by a thick cloud of snow-dust; the rest of the avalanche was clear. around me i heard the horrid hissing of the snow, and far before me the thundering of the foremost part of the avalanche. to prevent myself sinking again, i made use of my arms, much in the same way as when swimming in a standing position. at last i noticed that i was moving slower; then i saw the pieces of snow in front of me stop at some yards distant; then the snow straight before me stopped, and i heard on a large scale the same creaking sound that is produced when a heavy cart passes over frozen snow in winter. i felt that i also had stopped, and instantly threw up both arms to protect my head, in case i should again be covered up. i had stopped, but the snow behind me was still in motion; its pressure on my body was so strong that i thought i should be crushed to death. this tremendous pressure lasted but a short time; i was covered up by snow coming from behind me. my first impulse was to try and uncover my head--but this i could not do, the avalanche had frozen by pressure the moment it stopped, and i was frozen in. whilst trying vainly to move my arms, i suddenly became aware that the hands as far as the wrist had the faculty of motion. the conclusion was easy, they must be above the snow. i set to work as well as i could; it was time for i could not have held out much longer. at last i saw a faint glimmer of light. the crust above my head was getting thinner, but i could not reach it any more with my hands; the idea struck me that i might pierce it with my breath. after several efforts i succeeded in doing so, and felt suddenly a rush of air towards my mouth, i saw the sky again through a little round hole. a dead silence reigned around me; i was so surprised to be still alive, and so persuaded at the first moment that none of my fellow-sufferers had survived, that i did not even think of shouting for them. i then made vain efforts to extricate my arms, but found it impossible; the most i could do was to join the ends of my fingers, but they could not reach the snow any longer. after a few minutes i heard a man shouting; what a relief it was to know that i was not the sole survivor!--to know that perhaps he was not frozen in and could come to my assistance! i answered; the voice approached, but seemed uncertain where to go, and yet it was now quite near. a sudden exclamation of surprise! rebot had seen my hands. he cleared my head in an instant, and was about to try and cut me out completely, when i saw a foot above the snow, and so near to me that i could touch it with my arms, although they were not quite free yet. i at once tried to move the foot; it was my poor friend's. a pang of agony shot through me as i saw that the foot did not move. poor boissonnet had lost sensation, and was perhaps already dead. "rebot did his best. after some time he wished me to help him, so he freed my arms a little more, so that i could make use of them. i could do but little, for rebot had torn the axe from my shoulder as soon as he had cleared my head (i generally carry an axe separate from my alpenstock--the blade tied to the belt, and the handle attached to the left shoulder). before coming to me rebot had helped nance out of the snow; he was lying nearly horizontally, and was not much covered over. nance found bevard, who was upright in the snow, but covered up to the head. after about twenty minutes, the two last-named guides came up. i was at length taken out; the snow had to be cut with the axe down to my feet before i could be pulled out. a few minutes after p.m. we came to my poor friend's face.... i wished the body to be taken out completely, but nothing could induce the three guides to work any longer, from the moment they saw it was too late to save him. i acknowledge that they were nearly as incapable of doing anything as i was. when i was taken out of the snow the cord had to be cut. we tried the end going towards bennen, but could not move it; it went nearly straight down, and showed us that there was the grave of the bravest guide the valais ever had or ever will have." thus ends one of the most magnificent descriptions of an avalanche which has ever been written. the cause of the accident was a mistaken opinion as to the state of winter snow, which is very different to the snow met with in summer, and of which at that time the best guides had no experience. a race for life once upon a time, in the year , a certain famous mountaineer, mr f. f. tuckett, had with his party a desperate race for life. the climbers numbered five in all, three travellers and two guides, and had started from the wengern alp to ascend the eiger. nowadays there is a railway to the wengern alp, and so thousands of english people are familiar with the appearance of the magnificent group of mountains--the eiger, the mönch, and the jungfrau--which they have before them as they pass along in the train. suffice it here to say that the way up the eiger lies over a glacier, partly fed by another high above it, from which, through a narrow, rocky gully, great masses of ice now and again come dashing down. unless the fall is a very big one, climbers skirting along the edge of this glacier are safe enough, but on the only occasion i have been up the eiger, i did not fancy this part of the journey. [illustration: eiger. mönch. from the lauberhorn. the cross marks the scene of "a race for life." the dotted line shows the steep ice-wall of the eigerjoch (page ).] to return to mr tuckett and his friends. they were advancing up the snowy valley below the funnel-shaped opening through which an avalanche occasionally falls. the guide, ulrich lauener, was leading, and, remarks mr tuckett, "he is a little hard of hearing; and although his sight, which had become very feeble in , is greatly improved, both ear and eye were perhaps less quick to detect any unexpected sound or movement than might otherwise have been the case. be this as it may, when all of a sudden i heard a sort of crack somewhere up aloft, i believe that, for an instant or two, his was the only head not turned upwards in the direction from which it seemed to proceed, viz., the hanging ice-cliff; but the next moment, when a huge mass of sérac broke away, mingled apparently with a still larger contingent of snow from the slopes above, whose descent may, indeed, have caused, or at least hastened, the disruption of the glacier, every eye was on the look-out, though as yet there was no indication on the part of any one, nor i believe any thought for one or two seconds more, that we were going to be treated to anything beyond a tolerably near view of such an avalanche as it rarely falls to anyone's lot to see. down came the mighty cataract, filling the couloir to its brim; but it was not until it had traversed a distance of to feet, and on suddenly dashing in a cloud of frozen spray over one of the principal rocky ridges with which, as i have said, the continuity of the snow-slope was broken, appeared as if by magic to triple its width, that the idea of danger to ourselves flashed upon me. i now perceived that its volume was enormously greater than i had at first imagined, and that, with the tremendous momentum it had by this time acquired, it might, instead of descending on the right between us and the rocks of the klein eiger, dash completely across the base of the eiger itself in front of us, attain the foot of the rothstock ridge, and then, trending round, sweep the whole surface of the glacier, ourselves included, with the besom of destruction. "i instinctively bolted for the rocks of the rothstock--if haply it might not be too late--yelling rather than shouting to the others, 'run for your lives!' "ulrich was the last to take the alarm, though the nearest to the danger, and was thus eight or ten paces behind the rest of us, though he, too, shouted to whitwell to run for his life directly he became aware of the situation. but by this time we were all straining desperately through the deep, soft snow for dear life, yet with faces turned upwards to watch the swift on-coming of the foe. i remember being struck with the idea that it seemed as though, sure of its prey, it wished to play with us for a while, at one moment letting us imagine that we had gained upon it, and were getting beyond the line of its fire, and the next, with mere wantonness of vindictive power, suddenly rolling out on its right a vast volume of grinding blocks and whirling snow, as though to show that it could out-flank us at any moment it chose. "nearer and nearer it came, its front like a mighty wave about to break, yet that still 'on the curl hangs poising'; now it has traversed the whole width of the glacier above us, taking a somewhat diagonal direction; and now run, oh, run! if ever you did, for here it comes straight at us, still outflanking us, swift, deadly, and implacable! the next instant we saw no more; a wild confusion of whirling snow and fragments of ice--a frozen cloud--swept over us, entirely concealing us from one another, and still we were untouched--at least i knew that i was--and still we ran. another half second and the mist had passed, and there lay the body of the monster, whose head was still careering away at lightning speed far below us, motionless, rigid, and harmless. it will naturally be supposed that the race was one which had not admitted of being accurately timed by the performers; but i believe that i am speaking with precision when i say that i do not think the whole thing occupied from first to last more than five or six seconds. how narrow our escape was may be inferred from the fact that the spot where i halted for a moment to look back after it had passed, was found to be just twelve yards from its edge, and i don't think that in all we had had time to put more than thirty yards between us and the point where our wild rush for the rocks first began. ulrich's momentary lagging all but cost him his life; for in spite of his giant stride and desperate exertions he only just contrived to fling himself forwards as the edge of the frozen torrent dashed past him. this may sound like exaggeration, but he assured me that he felt some fragments strike his legs; and it will perhaps appear less improbable when it is considered that he was certainly several yards in the rear, and when the avalanche came to a standstill, its edge, intersecting and concealing our tracks along a sharply defined line, rose rigid and perpendicular, like a wall of cyclopean masonry, as the old bible pictures represent the waters of the red sea, standing 'upright as an heap' to let the israelites through. "the avalanche itself consisted of a mixture, in tolerably equal proportions, of blocks of sérac of all shapes and sizes, up to irregular cubes of four or five feet on a size, and snow thoroughly saturated with water--the most dangerous of all descriptions to encounter, as its weight is enormous. we found that it covered the valley for a length of about feet, and a maximum breadth of , tailing off above and below to or feet. had our position on the slope been a few hundred feet higher or lower, or in other words, had we been five minutes earlier or later, we must have been caught beyond all chance of escape." * * * * * there was no rashness which can be blamed in the party finding themselves in the position described. avalanches, when they fall down the gully, hardly ever come so far as the one met with on this occasion, and they very seldom fall at all in the early morning. the famous guide, christian almer, while engaged on another expedition, visited the spot after the avalanche had fallen, and said that it was the mightiest he had ever seen in his life. mr tuckett roughly estimated its total weight as about , tons. footnote: [ ] "we are all lost." chapter vii caught in an avalanche on the matterhorn the following exciting account is taken from an article by herr lorria, which appeared in _the st moritz post_ for th january . the injuries received were so terrible that, i believe, herr lorria never entirely ceased to feel their effects. the party consisted of two austrian gentlemen, herren lammer and lorria, without guides, who, in , had made zermatt their headquarters for some climbs. they had difficulty in deciding which ascent to begin with, especially as the weather had recently been bad, and the peaks were not in first-class condition. herr lorria writes: "i fancied the pointe de zinal as the object of our tour; but lammer, who had never been on the matterhorn, wished to climb this mountain by the western flank--a route which had only once before been attacked, namely by mr penhall. we had with us the drawing of penhall's route, published in _the alpine journal_. "after skirting a jutting cliff, we reached the couloir at its narrowest point. it was clear that we had followed the route laid down in _the alpine journal_; and although mr penhall says that the rocks here are very easy, i cannot at all agree with him. "we could not simply cross over the couloir, for, on the opposite side, the rocks looked horrible: it was only possible to cross it some forty or fifty mètres higher. we climbed down into the couloir: the ice was furrowed by avalanches. we were obliged to cut steps as we mounted upwards in a sloping direction. in a quarter of an hour we were on the other side of the couloir. the impression which the couloir made upon me is best shown by the words which i at the moment addressed to lammer: 'we are now completely cut off.' we saw clearly that it was only the early hour, before the sun was yet upon the couloir, which protected us from danger. once more upon the rocks, we kept our course as much as possible parallel to the n.w. arête. we clambered along, first over rocks covered with ice, then over glassy ledges, always sloping downwards. our progress was slow indeed; the formation of the rock surface was ever becoming more unfavourable, and the covering of ice was a fearful hindrance. "such difficult rocks i had rarely seen before; the wrinkled ledges of the dent blanche were easy compared to them. at p.m., we were standing on a level with the "grand tower"; the summit lay close before us, but as far as we could see, the rocks were completely coated with a treacherous layer of ice. immediately before us was a precipitous ice couloir. all attempts to advance were fruitless, even our crampons were of no avail. driven back! if this, in all cases, is a heavy blow for the mountain climber, we had here, in addition, the danger which we knew so well, and which was every moment increasing. it was one o'clock in the afternoon; the rays of the sun already struck the western wall of the mountain; stone after stone, loosened from its icy fetters, whistled past us. back! as fast as possible back! lammer pulled off his shoes and i stuffed them into the knapsack, holding also our two ice-axes. as i clambered down the first i was often obliged to trust to the rope. the ledges, which had given us trouble in the ascent, were now fearfully difficult. across a short ice slope, in which we had cut steps in the ascent, lammer was obliged, as time pressed, to get along without his shoes. the difficulties increased; every moment the danger became greater; and already whole avalanches of stones rattled down. the situation was indeed critical. at last, after immense difficulty, we reached the edge of the couloir at the place we had left it in the ascent. but we could find no spot protected from the stones; they literally came down upon us like hail. which was the more serious danger, the threatening avalanches in the couloir or the pelting of the stones which swept down from every side? on the far side of the couloir there was safety, as all the stones must in the end reach the couloir, which divides the whole face of the mountain into two parts. it was now five o'clock in the afternoon; the burning rays of the sun came down upon us, and countless stones whirled through the air. we remembered the saying of dr güssfeldt, in his magnificent description of the passage of the col du lion, that only at midnight is tranquility restored. we resolved, then, to risk the short stretch across the couloir. lammer pulled on his shoes; i was the first to leave the rocks. the snow which covered the ice was suspiciously soft, but we had no need to cut steps. in the avalanche track before us on the right a mighty avalanche is thundering down; stones leap into the couloir, and give rise to new avalanches. "suddenly my consciousness is extinguished, and i do not recover it till twenty-one days later. i can, therefore, only tell what lammer saw. gently from above an avalanche of snow came sliding down upon us; it carried lammer away in spite of his efforts, and it projected me with my head against a rock. lammer was blinded by the powdery snow, and thought that his last hour was come. the thunder of the roaring avalanche was fearful; we were dashed over rocks, laid bare in the avalanche track, and leaped over two immense bergschrunds. at every change of the slope we flew into the air, and then were plunged again into the snow, and often dashed against one another. for a long time it seemed to lammer as if all were over, countless thoughts went thronging through his brain, until at last the avalanche had expended its force, and we were left lying on the tiefenmatten glacier. our fall was estimated at from to english feet. "i lay unconscious, quite buried in the snow; the rope had gone twice round my neck and bound it fast. lammer, who quickly recovered consciousness, pulled me out of the snow, cut the rope, and gave me a good shake. i then awoke, but being delirious, i resisted with all my might my friend's endeavours to pull me out of the track of the avalanche. however, he succeeded in getting me on to a stone (i was, of course, unable to walk), and gave me his coat; and having thus done all that was possible for me, he began to creep downwards on hands and knees. he could not stand, having a badly sprained ankle; except for that he escaped with merely a few bruises and scratches. at length lammer arrived at the stockje hut, but to his intense disappointment there was nobody there. he did not pause to give vent to his annoyance, however, but continued his way down. twice he felt nearly unable to proceed, and would have abandoned himself to his fate had not the thought of me kept him up and urged him on. at three o'clock in the morning he reached the staffel alp, but none of the people there were willing to venture on the glacier. he now gave up all hope that i could be saved, though he nevertheless sent a messenger to herr seiler, who reached zermatt at about . a.m. "in half an hour's time a relief party set out from zermatt. when the party reached the staffel alp, lammer was unconscious, but most fortunately he had written on a piece of paper the information that i was lying at the foot of penhall's couloir. they found me about half-past eight o'clock. i had taken off all my clothes in my delirium, and had slipped off the rock on which lammer had left me. one of my feet was broken and both were frozen into the snow, and had to be cut out with an axe. "at p.m. i was brought back to zermatt, and for twenty days i lay unconscious at the monte rosa hotel hovering between life and death." herr lorria pays a warm tribute to the kindness of seiler and his wife, and the skill of dr de courten, who saved his limbs when other doctors wished to amputate them. he ends his graphic account as follows: "the lesson to be learnt from our accident is not 'always take guides,' but rather 'never try the penhall route on the matterhorn, except after a long series of fine, hot days, for otherwise the western wall of the mountain is the most fearful mouse-trap in the alps.'" the ice avalanche of the altels. those who climbed in the alps during the summer of will recollect how wonderfully dry and warm the weather was, denuding the mountains of snow and causing a number of rock-falls, so that many ascents became very dangerous, and, in my own case, after one or two risky encounters with falling stones, we decided to let the rock peaks alone for the rest of that campaign. [illustration: in the centre of the picture may be seen an avalanche, which a non-climber might mistake for a waterfall, dropping down the rocks of the wetterhorn.] in _the alpine journal_ of august , mr charles slater gives an admirable description of a great ice-avalanche which overwhelmed one of the fertile pastures near the well-known gemmi route. from this account i make some extracts, which will give an idea of the magnitude of the disaster and its unusual character, as the ice from a falling glacier rarely ever approaches cultivated land and dwellings. the scene of the catastrophe was at spitalmatten, a pasturage with châlets used in summer by the shepherds, in a basin at the beginning of the valley which extends to the pass. steep slopes bound it on the east, and above them rises the glacier-capped peak of the altels. the glacier was well seen from the gemmi path, and all tourists who passed that way must have noticed and admired it. it is believed that a big crevasse, running right across the glacier, was noticed during the month of august, and the lower part of the glacier seemed to be completely cut off from the upper portion by it. on the evening of th september, the vice-president of the commune of leuk (to which commune the alp belonged) arrived at the châlets to settle the accounts of the past summer. several of the women had already gone down, taking some of the calves with them, and the rest of the inhabitants of the little settlement were to follow next day. the weather was warm but cloudy, with a strong _föhn_ wind.[ ] on the morning of th september, about a.m., the few people who lived at or near the schwarenbach inn heard a roar like an earthquake, and felt a violent blast of wind. a servant, rushing out of the inn, saw "what appeared to be a white mist streaming down the altel's slope. the huge mass of ice forming the lower end of the glacier had broken away, rushed down the mountain side, leapt from the tateleu plateau into the valley, and, like an immense wave, had swept over the alp, up the uschinen grat, as if up a sea-wall, and even sent its ice-foam over this into the distant uschinen thal." the only other eye-witness of this appalling catastrophe was a traveller who was walking up the kanderthal from frutigen in the early morning. "he saw in the gemmi direction a fearful whirlwind, with dust and snow-clouds, and experienced later a cold rain falling from a clear sky, the rain being probably due to the melting of the ice-cloud." the scene after the disaster must have been a terrible one. "winter had apparently come in the midst of summer"; the whole pasture was covered with masses of ice. "the body of the vice-president was found lying yards away from the hut. another body had been flung into the branches of an uprooted tree, while a third was found still holding a stocking in one hand, having been killed in the act of dressing." there was no chance of escape for the people, as only a minute or little more elapsed from the time the avalanche started till it reached the settlement. the cows were nearly all killed, "they seem to have been blown like leaves before a storm to enormous distances." a year later, much of the avalanche was still unmelted. the thickness of the slice of glacier which broke away is believed to have been about feet, and it fell through a vertical height of feet. it moved at about the average rate of two miles a minute. "it is difficult to realise these vast figures, and a few comparisons have been suggested which may help to give some idea of the forces which were called into play. the material which fell would have sufficed to bury the city of london to the depth of six feet, and hyde park and kensington gardens would have disappeared beneath a layer six-and-a-half feet deep. the enormous energy of the moving mass may be dimly pictured when we think that a weight of ice and stones ten times greater than the tonnage of the whole of england's battle-ships plunged on to the alp at a speed of nearly miles an hour." an almost exactly similar accident had occurred in . an avalanche which robbed a lady of a garment one of the greatest advantages in mountaineering as a sport is the amount of enjoyment it gives even when climbing-days are past. while actually engaged in the ascent of difficult peaks our minds are apt to be entirely engrossed with the problem of getting up and down them, but afterwards we delight in recalling every interesting passage, every glorious view, every successful climb; and perhaps this gives us even more pleasure than the experiences themselves. if we happen to have combined photography with mountaineering we are particularly to be envied, for an hour in the company of one of our old albums will recall with wonderful vividness many an incident which we should have otherwise forgotten. turning over some prints which long have lain on one side, a wave of recollection brings before me some especially happy days on snowy peaks, and makes me long to bring a breath of alpine air to the cities, where for so much of the year dwell many of my brother and sister climbers. with the help of the accompanying photographs, which will serve to generally illustrate my remarks, let me relate what befell me during an ascent of the schallihorn--a peak some twelve thousand and odd feet high, in the neighbourhood of zermatt. now, although zermatt is a very familiar playground for mountaineers, yet even as late as ten years ago one or two virgin peaks and a fair number of new and undesirable routes up others were still to be found. i had had my share of success on the former, and was at the time of which i write looking about for an interesting and moderately safe way, hitherto untrodden, up one of the lesser-known mountains in the district. my guide and my friend of many years, joseph imboden, racked his brains for a suitable novelty, and at length suggested that as no one had hitherto attacked the south-east face of the schallihorn we might as well see if it could be ascended. he added that he was not at all sure if it was possible--a remark i have known him to make on more than one peak in far away arctic norway, when the obvious facility of an ascent had robbed it of half its interest. however, in those days i still rose satisfactorily to observations of that sort, and was at once all eagerness to set out. we were fortunate in securing as our second guide imboden's brilliant son roman, who happened to be disengaged just then. a further and little dreamed-of honour was in store for us, as on our endeavouring to hire a porter to take our things to the bivouac from the tiny village of taesch no less a person than the mayor volunteered to accompany us in that capacity. [illustration: mr whymper. zermatt, .] [illustration: mrs aubrey le blond on a mountain top. _photographed by her guide, joseph imboden_] [illustration: a hot day in mid-winter on the summit of a peak , feet high.] so we started upwards one hot afternoon, bound for some overhanging rocks, which, we were assured by those who had never visited the spot, we should find. for the regulation routes up the chief peaks the climber can generally count on a hut, where, packed in close proximity to his neighbours, he lies awake till it is time to get up, and sets forth on his ascent benefited only in imagination by his night's repose. within certain limits the less a man is catered for the more comfortable he is, and the more he has to count on himself the better are the arrangements for his comfort. thus i have found a well-planned bivouac under a great rock infinitely preferable to a night in a hut, and a summer's campaign in tents amongst unexplored mountains more really luxurious than a season in an over-thronged alpine hotel. two or three hours' walking took us far above the trees and into the region of short grass and stony slopes. eventually we reached a hollow at the very foot of our mountain, and here we began to look about for suitable shelter and a flat surface on which to lay the sleeping-bags. the pictured rocks of inviting appearance were nowhere to be found, and what there were offered very inferior accommodation. but the weather was perfect, and we had an ample supply of wraps, so we contented ourselves with what protection was given by a steep, rocky wall, and turned our attention to the schallihorn. the proposed route could be well seen. imboden traced out the way he intended taking for a long distance up the mighty precipice in front of us. there were tracks of avalanches at more than one spot, and signs of falling stones were not infrequent. my guide thought he could avoid all danger by persistently keeping to the projecting ridges, and his idea was to descend by whatever way we went up, as the ordinary route is merely a long, uninteresting grind. we now lit a fire, made soup and coffee, and soon after got into our sleeping-bags. the night passed peacefully, save for the rumble of an occasional avalanche, when great masses of ice broke loose on the glacier hard by. before dawn we were stirring, and by the weird light of a huge fire were making our preparations for departure. it gradually grew light as our little party moved in single file towards the rocky ramparts which threatened to bar the way to the upper world. as we ascended a stony slope, imboden remarked, "why, ma'am, you still have on that long skirt! let us leave it here; we can pick it up on our return." now, in order not to be conspicuous when starting for a climbing expedition, i always wore an ordinary walking-skirt over my mountaineering costume. it was of the lightest possible material, so that, if returning by a different route, it could be rolled up and carried in a knapsack. i generally started from the bivouac without it; but the presence on this occasion of the mayor of täsch had quite overawed me; hence the unusual elegance of my get-up. lest i be thought to dwell at undue length on so trifling a matter, i may add that the skirt had adventures that day of so remarkable a nature that the disappearance of elijah in his chariot can alone be compared to them. the skirt was now duly removed, rolled up and placed under a heavy stone, which we marked with a small cairn, so as to find it the more easily on our return. shortly after, the real climb began, and, putting on the rope, we commenced the varied series of gymnastics which make life worth living to the mountaineer. we had several particularly unpleasant gullies to cross, up which imboden glanced hastily and suspiciously, and hurried us over, fearing the fall of stones. at length we came for a little time to easier ground, and as the day was now intensely hot the men took off their waistcoats, leaving them and their watches in a hole in the rock. above this gentler slope the mountain steepened again, and a ridge in the centre, running directly upwards, alone gave a possible route to the summit. this ridge, at first broad and simple, before long narrowed to a knife-edge. there was always enough to hold; but the rocks were so loose and rotten that we hardly dared to touch them. spread out over those treacherous rocks, adhering by every finger in our endeavour to distribute our weight, we slowly wormed ourselves upwards. such situations are always trying. the most brilliant cragsman finds his skill of little avail. unceasing care and patience alone can help him here. throwing down the most insecure of the blocks, which fell sometimes on one side, sometimes on the other of the ridge, we gradually advanced. the conversation ran rather in a groove: "not that one, ma'am, or the big fellow on the top will come down!" "don't touch the red one or the little white one!" "now come up to where i am without stepping on any of them!" "roman! look out! i'm letting this one go!" then bang! bang! bang! and a disgusting smell as of gunpowder, while a great boulder dashed in leaps towards the glacier below, grinding and smashing itself to atoms before it reached the bottom. [illustration: joseph imboden. mrs aubrey le blond. zermatt, september, .] [illustration: crossing a snow couloir (page ).] thus with untiring thoroughness imboden led his little band higher and higher, till at last the summit came in sight and our muscles and overstrained nerves saw rest ahead. i readily agreed to imboden's decision that we should go down the ordinary way. after descending for a considerable distance we stopped, and the guides held a short consultation. it seemed that roman was anxious to try and fetch the waistcoats and watches and my skirt, and his father did not object. wishing him the best of good-luck, we parted by the rocks and trudged on over the snow towards zermatt. we moved leisurely, as people who climb for pleasure, with no thought of record-breaking; and as it was late in september it was dusk as we neared the village. later in the evening i saw imboden, and asked for news of roman. he had not arrived, and as time passed we grew uneasy, knowing the speed at which, if alone, he would descend. by p.m. we were really anxious, and great was our relief when a figure with knapsack and ice-axe came swinging up the narrow, cobbled street. it was an exciting tale he had to tell, though it took a good deal of danger to impress roman with the notion that there was any at all. soon after leaving us he came to the first gully. just as he was about to step into it he heard a rumble. springing back, he squeezed himself under an overhanging piece of rock, while a huge mass of stones and snow dashed down the mountain, some of the fragments passing right over him--though, thanks to his position, none actually touched him. when tranquility was restored he dashed across to the other side, and immediately after a fresh fall commenced, which lasted for a considerable time. at length he approached without injury the spot he was looking for, far down on the lower slopes, where my skirt had been left, and here he felt that all danger was past. but the extraordinarily dry season had thrown out most people's calculations, and at that very moment he was really in the direst peril. as he ran gaily down the slope of earth and stones a tremendous crash brought him to a standstill, and looking back he saw the smoke of a mighty avalanche of ice coming in a huge wave over the cliffs above. he rushed for shelter, which was near at hand, and from beneath the protection of a great rock he saw the avalanche come on and on with the roar of artillery, and he gazed, fascinated, as it swept majestically past his place of refuge. he could see the mound where lay my skirt with its heap of stones. and now a striking sight met his eyes, for before ever the seething mass could touch it the whole heap rose from the ground and was carried far out of the path of the avalanche, borne along by the violence of the wind which preceded it. the late john addington symonds has related in one of his charming accounts of winter in the alps that an old woman, sitting peaceably before her châlet door in the sun, was transported by the wind of an avalanche to the top of a lofty pine-tree, where, quite uninjured, she calmly awaited assistance; but that my skirt should have such an adventure brought very strongly home to me the dangers roman had passed through that afternoon and the escape we had had ourselves. footnote: [ ] the exact origin of the _föhn_ wind is still disputed. it is thought to have no connection with the sirocco, a wind which in europe blows always from the south, bears with it sometimes particles of sand, and is impregnated with damp from its passage over the mediterranean. the _föhn_ blows from any quarter (though usually from the south), and is a dry, warm wind, which causes the snow to melt rapidly. in german switzerland it is called the _schneefresser_, or snow devourer, and it has been said that if no _föhn_ visited the alps, switzerland would still be in the glacial period. chapter viii lost in the ice for forty years it was in that the summit of mont blanc was reached for the first time. it had been attained on only eleven occasions, and no accidents had happened on it when, in , the catastrophe since known as the hamel accident, took place. dr joseph hamel was a russian savant, and counsellor of state to the czar. he much desired to ascend mont blanc in order that he might make scientific experiments on the top, and in august , he came to chamonix for the purpose. it is of no use, and of little interest to general readers, if i enter into particulars of the controversy which this expedition excited. some declared that dr hamel urged his guides to proceed against their better judgment. others say that the whole party--which included two englishmen and nine guides--were anxious to continue the ascent, and, indeed, saw no reason for doing otherwise. certain it is, however that in those days no one was a judge of the condition of snow, and able to tell from its consistency if an avalanche were likely or not. [illustration: mont blanc. the black line shows the probable course the bodies took during their years' descent in the ice. _by a local photographer._] [illustration: nicolas winhart, escaping on this occasion with his life, afterwards perished on the col des grands montets in (page ). _by a local photographer._] [illustration: a banker at geneva, who was a most active searcher for henry arkwright's body. he was killed in a duel in . it is interesting to compare the old-fashioned costume with that of the present day climber. _by a local photographer._] [illustration: the relics. the rope was found round the body but worn through in two places by the hip bones. the handkerchief, shirt front with studs, prune stones, watch chain, pencil case, cartridge, spike of alpenstock, coins, glove tied with spare bootlace, etc., all belonged to henry arkwright.] the party, which at first numbered fourteen, duly reached the rocks of the grands mulets, where it was usual to spend the night. the sky clouded over towards evening, and there was a heavy thunderstorm during the night. next morning the weather was too unsettled for the ascent to be tried, so a couple of guides were sent down to chamonix for more provisions, and a second night was spent in camp. early next morning, in beautiful weather, a start was made, one of the members of the party, monsieur selligne, who felt ill, and two guides leaving the others and going down to chamonix. the rest safely reached the grand plateau. the snow, hardened by the night's frost, had thus far supported the weight of the climbers and made their task easy. it was, however, far from consolidated beneath the crust, as the warm wind of the previous days had made it thoroughly rotten. all were in excellent spirits during the halt for breakfast on the grand plateau, that snowy valley which is spread out below the steeper slopes of the final mass of the mountain. dr hamel employed part of his time in writing a couple of notes announcing his arrival on the top of mont blanc leaving a blank on each to insert the hour. these notes he intended to despatch by carrier pigeon, the bird being with them, imprisoned in a large kettle. at . they reached the foot of what is now known as the ancien passage. this is a steep snow-slope leading almost directly to the top of mont blanc. when the snow is sound, and the ice above does not overhang much, this route is as safe as any other; but a steep slope covered with a layer of rotten snow is always most dangerous. at that time, the ancien passage was the only way ever taken up mont blanc. they had ascended a considerable distance, the snow being softer and softer as they rose, and they formed a long line one behind the other, not mounting straight up, but making their way rather across the slope. six guides walked at the head of the troop, and then, after an interval, the two englishmen and two more guides, dr hamel being last. all seemed to be going excellently. everyone plodded along, and rejoiced to be so near the culminating point of the expedition. no thought of danger disturbed them. suddenly there was a dull, harsh sound. immediately the entire surface of the snow began to move. "my god! the avalanche! we are lost!" shrieked the guides. the slope at dr hamel's end of the party was not steep,--barely more than °--but up above it was more rapid. the leading guides were carried straightway off their feet. hamel was also swept away by the gathering mass of snow. using his arms as if swimming, he managed to bring his head to the surface, and as he did so the moving snow slowed down and stopped. in those few moments, some feet had been descended. at first dr hamel thought that he alone had been carried away, but presently he saw his english friends and their guides--no more. "where are the others?" cried dr hamel. balmat, who a moment before had let his brother pass on to the head of the party, wrung his hands and answered, "the others are in the crevasse!" the crevasse! strange that all had forgotten it! the avalanche had poured into it, filling it to the brim. "a terrible panic set in. the guides lost all self-control. some walked about aimlessly, uttering loud cries. matthieu balmat sat in sullen silence, rejecting all kind offices with an irritation which made it painful to approach him. dornford threw himself on the snow in despair, and henderson, says hamel, 'was in a condition which made one fear for the consequences.' a few minutes later two other guides extricated themselves, but the remaining three were seen no more. hamel and henderson descended into the crevasse, and made every possible attempt to find the lost guides, but without avail; the surviving guides forced them to come out, and sore at heart they returned to chamonix. "the three guides who were lost were pierre carrier, pierre balmat, and auguste tairraz. they were the three foremost in the line and felt the first effects of the avalanche. matthieu balmat, who was fourth in the line, saved himself by his great personal strength and by presence of mind. julien dévouassoud was hurled across the crevasse, and joseph marie couttet was dragged out senseless by his companions, 'nearly black from the weight of snow which had fallen upon him.'"[ ] scientific men had already begun to give attention to the movement of glaciers. in addition to this, cases had occurred where the remains of persons lost on glaciers had been recovered years afterwards. a travelling seller of hats, crossing the tschingel glacier on his way from the bernese oberland to valais, had fallen into a crevasse. eventually his body and his stock of merchandise was found at the end of the glacier. near the grimsel, the remains of a child were discovered in the ice. an old man remembered that many years before a little boy had disappeared in that locality and must doubtless have been lost in a crevasse. these facts were probably known to dr hamel, and he made the remark that perhaps in a thousand years, the bodies of his guides might be found. forbes, who knew more of the subject, believed that, travelling in the ice, they would reach the end of the glacier in forty years. he was right, for on th august , his "bold prediction was verified, and the ice give up its dead." on that day, the guide, ambrose simond, who happened to be with some tourists on the lower part of the glacier des bossons, discovered some pieces of clothing and human bones. from that time until the glacier did not cease to render up, piece by piece, the remains and the belongings of the three victims. an accident, very similar to that which befell dr hamel's party, took place in . this has for me a very special interest, as i have met the brother of the englishman who perished, and have examined all the documents, letters, newspaper cuttings, and photographs relating to the catastrophe. the guide, sylvain couttet, an old friend of mine, since dead, has given a moving account of the sad event. sylvain knew mont blanc better than any other native of chamonix, and though when i knew him he had given up guiding, he desired to add one more ascent of the great white peak to his record, for at that time he had been up ninety-nine times. i accordingly invited him to come with my party when we climbed it from the italian side. he did so--he had never been up that way before--and i well remember how he slipped himself free of the rope after the last rocks, saying, "ah, you young people, you go on. the old man will follow." alone he arrived on the top, strode about over its snowy dome as if to say good-bye, and was just as ready for his work as any of us when, in a stiff gale, we descended the ridge of the bosses. but to return to what is known as the arkwright accident. in the year , henry arkwright, a young man of twenty-nine, aide-de-camp to the lord-lieutenant of ireland, was travelling in switzerland with his mother and two sisters. writing from geneva on rd september to a member of his family, he said, "we have ventured to try our luck higher up, as the weather is so warm and settled--as otherwise i should leave switzerland without seeing a glacier." on what an apparent chance--a run of fine weather--do great issues depend! the party shortly afterwards moved on to chamonix, where many excursions were made, thanks to the beautiful weather which still continued. it had now become quite the fashion to go up mont blanc, so one is not surprised that henry arkwright, though no climber, decided to make the attempt. one of his sisters went with him as far as the hut at the grands mulets, and they were accompanied by the guide michael simond, and the porters joseph and françois tournier. another party proposed also to go up. it consisted of two persons only, sylvain couttet and an _employé_ of the hotel royal named nicolas winhart, whom sylvain had promised to conduct to the top when he had time and opportunity. it was the th october when they left chamonix, and all went well across the crevassed glacier des bossons, and they duly reached their night quarters. while the climbers were absent next day, miss fanny arkwright employed herself with writing and finishing a sketch for her brother. meanwhile the two parties, having set out at an early hour, advanced quickly up the snow-slopes. the days were short, and it was desirable to take the most direct route. for years the ancien passage had been abandoned, and the more circuitous way by the corridor used instead. however, the snow was in good order, and as up to then no accidents had happened through falling ice, this danger was little dreaded, though it is sometimes a very real one in the ancien passage. so the guides advised that this should be the way chosen, and both parties directed their steps accordingly. sylvain couttet has left a remarkable description of the events which followed, and portions of this i now translate from his own words as they appeared in _the alpine journal_. the two parties were together at the beginning of the steep snow-slope. sylvain's narrative here commences:--"i said to the porter, joseph tournier, who had thus far been making the tracks, 'let us pass on ahead; you have worked long enough. to each of us his share!' it was to this kindly thought for my comrade that, without the slightest doubt, winhart and i owe our salvation! we had been walking for about ten minutes near some very threatening _séracs_ when a crack was heard above us a little to the right. without reasoning, i instinctively cried, 'walk quickly!' and i rushed forwards, while someone behind me exclaimed, 'not in that direction!' "i heard nothing more; the wind of the avalanche caught me and carried me away in its furious descent. 'lie down!' i called, and at the same moment i desperately drove my stick into the harder snow beneath, and crouched down on hands and knees, my head bent and turned towards the hurricane. i felt the blocks of ice passing over my back, particles of snow were swept against my face, and i was deafened by a terrible cracking sound like thunder. "it was only after eight or ten minutes that the air began to clear, and then, always clinging to my axe, i perceived winhart feet below me, with the point of his stick firmly planted in the ice. the rope by which we were tied to each other was intact. i saw nothing beyond winhart except the remains of the cloud of snow and a chaos of ice-blocks spread over an area of about feet. "i called out at the top of my voice--no answer--i became like a madman, i burst out crying, i began to call out again--always the same silence--the silence of death. "i pulled out my axe, i untied the rope which joined us, and both of us, with what energy remained to us, with our brains on fire and our hearts oppressed with grief, commenced to explore in every direction the enormous mountain of shattered ice-blocks which lay below us. finally, about feet further down i saw a knapsack--then a man. it was françois tournier, his face terribly mutilated, and his skull smashed in by a piece of ice. the cord had been broken between tournier and the man next to him. we continued our search in the neighbourhood of his body, but after two hours' work could find nothing more. it was vain to make further efforts! nothing was visible amongst the masses of _débris_, as big as houses, and we had no tools except my axe and winhart's stick. we drew the body of poor tournier after us as far as the grand plateau, and with what strength remained to us we descended as fast as we could towards the hut at the grands mulets, where a terrible ordeal awaited me--the announcement of the catastrophe to miss arkwright. "the poor child was sitting quietly occupied with her sketching. "'well, sylvain!' she cried on seeing me, 'all has gone well?' "'not altogether, mademoiselle,' i replied, not knowing how to begin. "mademoiselle looked at me, noticed my bent head and my eyes full of tears--she rose, came towards me--'what is the matter? tell me all!' "i could only answer, 'have courage, mademoiselle.' "she understood me. the brave young girl knelt down and prayed for a few moments, and then got up pale, calm, dry-eyed. 'now you can tell me everything,' she said, 'i am ready.' * * * * * "she insisted on accompanying me at once to chamonix, where she, in her turn, would have to break the sad tidings to her mother and sister. "at the foot of the mountain the sister of mademoiselle met us, happy and smiling. "do not ask me any more details of that awful day, i have not the strength to tell them to you." * * * * * thirty-one years passed, when, in , colonel arkwright, a brother of henry arkwright's, received the following telegram from the mayor of chamonix: "restes henry arkwright peri mont blanc retrouvés." once more the glacier had given up its dead, and during these thirty-one years the body of henry arkwright had descended feet in the ice and had been rendered back to his family at the foot of the glacier. the remains of the englishman were buried at chamonix, and perhaps never has so pathetic a service been held there as that which consigned to the earth what was left of him who thirty-one years before had been snatched away in the mighty grip of the avalanche. many belongings of the lost one's came by degrees to light. a pocket-handkerchief was intact, and on it as well as on his shirt-front, henry arkwright's name and that of his regiment written in marking-ink were legible. though the shirt was torn to pieces, yet two of the studs and the collar-stud were still in the button-holes and uninjured. the gold pencil-case (i have handled it), opened and shut as smoothly as it had ever done, and on the watch-chain there was not a scratch. a pair of gloves were tied together with a boot-lace which his sister remembered taking from her own boot so that he might have a spare one, and coins, a used cartridge, and various other odds and ends, were all recovered from the ice. the remains of the guides had been found and brought down soon after the accident, but that of henry arkwright had been buried too deeply to be discovered. in connection with the preservation of bodies in ice the following extract from _the daily telegraph_ for th may is of great interest. it is headed: mammoth years old reuter's representative has had an interview with mr j. talbot clifton, who has lately returned from an expedition in northern siberia, undertaken for the purpose of discovering new species of animals. mr clifton gives the following account of the herz mammoth, which he saw on his arrival at irkutsk. "it is," he said, "about the size of an elephant, which it resembles somewhat in form. it possesses a trunk, has five toes instead of four, and is a heavy beast. it is supposed to have lived about years ago. its age was probably not more than twenty-six years--very young for a mammoth. its flesh was quite complete, except for a few pieces which had been bitten at by wolves or bears. most of the hair on the body had been scraped away by ice, but its mane and near foreleg were in perfect preservation and covered with long hair. the hair of the mane was from in. to in. long, and of a yellowish brown colour, while its left leg was covered with black hair. in its stomach was found a quantity of undigested food, and on its tongue was the herbage which it had been eating when it died. this was quite green." footnote: [ ] _the annals of mont blanc_, by c. e. mathews. chapter ix the most terrible of all alpine tragedies there is no great mountain in the alps so easy to ascend as mont blanc. there is not one on which there has been such a deplorable loss of life. the very facility with which mont blanc can be climbed has tempted hundreds of persons totally unused to and unfitted for mountaineering to go up it, while the tariff for the guides--£ each--has called into existence a crowd of incapable and inexperienced men who are naturally unable, when the need for it arrives, to face conditions that masters of craft would have avoided by timely retreat. the great danger of mont blanc is its enormous size, and to be lost on its slopes in a snow-storm which may continue for days is an experience few have survived. on a rocky mountain there are landmarks which are of the utmost value in time of fog, but when all is snow and the tracks are obliterated as soon as made, can we wonder if the results have been disastrous when a poorly equipped party has encountered bad weather? of all the sad accidents which have happened on mont blanc, none exceeds in pathos that in which messrs bean, m'corkindale, randall, and eight guides perished. none of these gentlemen had any experience of mountaineering. stimulated rather than deterred by the account given by two climbers who had just come down from the mountain, and had had a narrow escape owing to bad weather, these three men, with their guides, who were "probably about the worst who were then on the chamonix roll," set out for the grands mulets. the weather was doubtful, nevertheless the next morning they started upwards, leaving their only compass at their night quarters. during the whole of that th of september the big telescope at the châlet of plan-praz above chamonix was fixed on their route, but they could only be seen from time to time, as the mountain was constantly hidden by driving clouds. at last they were observed close to the rocks known as the petits mulets not far below the summit. it was then a quarter past two o'clock. there was a terrific wind, and the snow was whirled in clouds. the party could be seen lying down on the ground, to avoid being swept away by the hurricane. [illustration: these small figures, in a waste of snow, may help to give some faint idea of the extent of alpine snow-fields.] the chamonix guide, sylvain couttet, had gone to the châlet of pierre-pointue, where the riding path ends, to await the return of the climbers. on the morning of the th, as there was still no sign of them, sylvain became uneasy, and mounting to an eminence not far off, from which he could see nearly all the route to the grands mulets, he carefully searched for tracks with the aid of his telescope. snow had fallen during the night, yet there was no trace of footsteps. seriously alarmed, sylvain hurried back to pierre-pointue, sent a man who was there to chamonix in order that a search party might be held in readiness, and accompanied by the servant of the little inn he went up the grands mulets. sylvain had arranged that if no one was there he would put out a signal and the search party would then ascend without delay. on reaching the hut at the grands mulets his worst fears were realised--it was empty. he now quickly regained chamonix from where fourteen guides were just starting. he remounted with them immediately. by the time they got a little way above pierre-pointue, the snow was again falling heavily, it was impossible to go further. next day the weather was so bad that the party had to descend to chamonix, and for several days longer the rain in the valley and the snow on the heights continued. on the th the weather cleared, and sylvain went up to plan-praz to see if from there any traces of the lost ones could be discovered with the telescope. the first glance showed him five black specks near the petit mulets, which could be nothing else but the bodies of some of the victims. on the th, with twenty-three other guides, sylvain spent the night at the grands mulets. the th, they mounted to the spot they had examined with the telescope, and there they found the bodies of mr m'corkindale and two porters. three hundred feet higher was mr bean, with his head leaning on his hand, and by him another porter. these were in a perfectly natural position, whereas the others appeared to have slipped to where they were, as their clothes were torn, and the ropes, knapsacks (still containing food), sticks, and so on, lay by the others above. the five bodies were frozen hard. as complete a search as possible was now made for the remaining six members of the party, but without success. probably they fell either into a crevasse or down the italian side of the mountain. it is no wonder that mr mathews calls this "the most lamentable catastrophe ever known in the annals of alpine adventure." but the most pathetic part of the story is to come. during those terrible, hopeless hours mr bean had made notes of what was happening, and they tell us all we shall ever know about the disaster: "_tuesday, th september._--i have made the ascent of mont blanc with ten persons--eight guides, mr m'corkindale, and mr randall. we arrived at the summit at half-past two o'clock. immediately after leaving it i was enveloped in clouds of snow. we passed the night in a grotto excavated out of the snow, affording very uncomfortable shelter, and i was ill all night. _ th september, morning._--intense cold--much snow, which falls uninterruptedly. guides restless. _ th september, evening._--we have been on mont blanc for two days in a terrible snowstorm; we have lost our way, and are in a hole scooped out of the snow at a height of , feet. i have no hope of descending. perhaps this book may be found and forwarded. we have no food. my feet are already frozen, and i am exhausted. i have only strength to write a few words. i die in the faith of jesus christ, with affectionate thoughts of my family--my remembrance to all. i trust we may meet in heaven." chapter x a wonderful slide down a wall of ice twice at least in the alps climbers have lost their footing at the top of a steep slope, and rolled down it for so long a distance that it seemed impossible they could survive. the two plucky mountaineers who have competed in an involuntary race to the bottom of a frozen hillside are mr birkbeck, in his famous slide near mont blanc, and mr whymper, when he made his startling glissade on the matterhorn. it was in july that a party of friends, whose names are well known to all climbers, set out to cross a high glacier pass in the chain of mont blanc. the revs. leslie stephen, charles hudson, and messrs tuckett, mather, and birkbeck were the travellers, while in addition to the three magnificent guides, melchior anderegg, perren, and bennen, there were two local guides from the village of st gervais. let me give the account of the accident in mr hudson's own words. how sad to think that, only four years later, this capable and brave mountaineer himself perished on the grim north slopes of the matterhorn! the col de miage is reached by a steep slope of ice or frozen snow, and is just a gap in the chain of peaks which runs south-west from mont blanc. col is the word used for a pass in french-speaking districts. "on the morning of the th, at . , we left the friendly rock on or near which we had passed the night, and at o'clock we had reached the summit of the col de miage. here we sat down on a smooth, hard plain of snow, and had our second breakfast. shortly afterwards birkbeck had occasion to leave us for a few minutes, though his departure was not remarked at the time. when we discovered his absence, melchior followed his footsteps, and i went after him, and, to our dismay, we saw the tracks led to the edge of the ice-slope, and then suddenly stopped. the conclusion was patent at a glance. i was fastening two ropes together, and melchior had already bound one end round his chest, with a view to approach or even descend a portion of the slope for a better view, when some of the party descried birkbeck a long way below us. he had fallen an immense distance. "my first impulse led me to wish that melchior and i should go down to birkbeck as fast as possible, and leave the rest to follow with the ropes; but on proposing this plan some of the party objected. for a considerable time birkbeck shouted to us, not knowing whether we could see his position. his course had been arrested at a considerable distance above the bottom of the slope, by what means we know not; and just below him stretched a snow-covered crevasse, across which he must pass if he went further. we shouted to him to remain where he was, but no distinguishable sounds reached him; and to our dismay we presently saw him gradually moving downwards--then he stopped--again he moved forwards and again--he was on the brink of the crevasse; but we could do nothing for him. at length he slipped down upon the slope of snow which bridged the abyss. i looked anxiously to see if it would support his weight, and, to my relief, a small black speck continued visible. this removed my immediate cause of apprehension, and after a time he moved clear of this frail support down to the point where we afterwards joined him. bennen was first in the line, and after we had descended some distance he untied himself and went down to birkbeck. it was . when we reached him. he told us he was becoming faint and suffering from cold. on hearing this, melchoir and i determined to delay no longer, and, accordingly, unroped and trotted down to the point where we could descend from the rocks to the slope upon which he was lying. arrived at the place, i sat on the snow, and let birkbeck lean against me, while i asked him if he felt any internal injury or if his ribs pained him. his manner of answering gave me strong grounds for hoping that there was little to fear on that score." mr hudson gives a graphic description of poor mr birkbeck's appearance when he was found on the snow. "his legs, thighs, and the lower part of his body were quite naked, with his trousers down about his feet. by his passage over the snow, the skin was removed from the outside of the legs and thighs, the knees, and the whole of the lower part of the back, and part of the ribs, together with some from the nose and forehead. he had not lost much blood, but he presented a most ghastly spectacle of bloody raw flesh. this, added to his great prostration, and our consciousness of the distance and difficulties which separated him from any bed, rendered the sight most trying. he never lost consciousness. he afterwards described his descent as one of extreme rapidity, too fast to allow of his realising the sentiment of fear, but not sufficiently so to deprive him of thought. sometimes he descended feet first, sometimes head first, then he went sideways, and once or twice he had the sensation of shooting through the air. "the slope where he first lost his footing was gentle, and he tried to stop himself with his fingers and nails, but the snow was too hard. he had no fear during the descent, owing to the extreme rapidity; but when he came to a halt on the snow, and was ignorant as to whether we saw, or could reach him, he experienced deep anguish of mind in the prospect of a lingering death. happily, however, the true christian principles in which he had been brought up, led him to cast himself upon the protection of that merciful being who alone could help him. his prayers were heard, and immediately answered by the removal of his fears." the account of how the injured man was brought down to the valley is very exciting. mr hudson continues:--"the next thing was to get him down as fast as possible, and the sledge suggested itself as the most feasible plan. only the day before, at contamines, i had had the boards made for it, and without them the runners (which, tied together, served me as an alpenstock) would have been useless. two or three attempts were made before i could get the screws to fit the holes in the boards and runners, and poor melchior, who was watching me, began to show signs of despair. at length the operation was completed, and the sledge was ready. we spread a plaid, coats, and flannel shirts over the boards, then laid birkbeck at full length on them, and covered him as well as we could. "now came the 'tug-of-war,' for the snow was much softened by the sun, the slope was steep, and there were several crevasses ahead; added to this, there was difficulty in getting good hold of the sledge, and every five or six steps one of the bearers plunged so deeply in the snow that we were obliged to halt. birkbeck was all the time shivering so much that the sledge was sensibly shaken, and all the covering we could give him was but of little use. "i was well aware of the great danger birkbeck was in, owing to the vast amount of skin which was destroyed, and i felt that every quarter of an hour saved was of very great importance; still the frequent delay could not be avoided." so matters continued till the party was clear of the glacier. then mr tuckett went ahead to chamonix, a ten hours' tramp or so, in search of an english doctor, and on the way left orders for a carriage to be sent as far as there was a driving road, to meet the wounded man, and more men beyond to help in carrying him. the chief part of the transport was done by the three great guides, melchoir, bennen, and perren, and was often over "abrupt slopes of rock, which to an ordinary walker would have appeared difficult, even without anything to carry. we had so secured birkbeck with ropes and straps, that he could not slip off the sledge, otherwise he would on these occasions at once have parted company with his stretcher, and rolled down the rocks." at last, after incredible toil, they reached the pastures, and at about three o'clock in the afternoon eight hours after the accident, they got to the home of one of the guides, where they were able to make poor mr birkbeck more comfortable before undertaking the rest of the journey, warming his feet and wrapping him in blankets. for two hours more the poor fellow had to be carried down, and then they met the carriage, in which he was driven to st gervais, accompanied by the doctor from chamonix. thanks to the skilful treatment and excellent nursing he received, mr birkbeck made a good recovery, though, of course, it was weeks before he could leave his bed. mr hudson ends his wonderfully interesting narrative with an account of a visit he paid later in the season to the place where the accident happened. he says "the result of our observations is as follows: 'the height of the col de miage is , . the height of the point at which birkbeck finally came to a standstill is feet; so the distance he fell is, in _perpendicular_ height, feet." as part of the slope would be at a gentle angle, one may believe that the slip was over something like a mile of surface! mr hudson continues:--"during the intervening three weeks, vast changes had taken place in the glacier. the snowy coating had left the couloir in parts, thus exposing ice in the line of birkbeck's course, as well as a rock mid-way in the slope, against which our poor friend would most likely have struck, had the accident happened later. "this is one of that long chain of providential arrangements, by the combination of which we were enabled to save birkbeck's life. ( ) the recent snow, and favourable state of the glacier, enabled us to take an easier and much quicker route, if not the only one possible for a wounded man. ( ) we had a singularly strong party of guides, without which we could not have got him down in time to afford any chance of his recovery. ( ) if we had not had real efficient men as travellers in the party we should not have got the telegram sent to geneva; and a few hours' delay in the arrival of dr metcalfe would probably have been fatal. ( ) the day was perfectly calm and cloudless; had there been wind or absence of sun, the cold might have been too much for such a shaken system to bear. ( ) we had with us the very unusual addition of a sledge, without which it would have been scarcely possible to have carried him down. "one thing there was which greatly lessened the mental trial to those engaged in bringing birkbeck down to st gervais, and afterwards in attending upon him, and that was, his perfect calmness and patience--and of these i cannot speak too highly. no doubt it contributed greatly to his recovery." chapter xi an adventure on the trift pass few passes leading out of the valley of zermatt are oftener crossed than the trift. it is not considered a difficult pass, but the rocks on the zinal side are loose and broken and the risk of falling stones is great at certain hours in the day. the zinal side of the trift is in shadow in the early morning, and therefore most climbers will either make so early a start from the zermatt side that they can be sure of descending the dangerous part before the sun has thawed the icy fetters which hold the stones together during the night, or else they will set out from the zinal side, and sleep at a little inn on a patch of rocks which jut out from the glacier at the foot of the pass, from which the top of the trift can be reached long before there is any risk from a cannonade. one of the earliest explorers of this pass, however, mr thomas w. hinchliff, neglected the precaution of a sufficiently early start, and his party very nearly came to grief in consequence. he has given us an excellent description in _peaks, passes, and glaciers_ of what befell after they had got over the great difficulties, as they seemed in those days, of descending the steep wall of rock on the zinal side. i will now begin to quote from his article: "being thoroughly tired of the rocks, we resolved as soon as possible to get upon the ice where it swept the base of the precipices. the surface, however, was furrowed by parallel channels of various magnitudes; some several feet in depth, formed originally by the descent of stones and avalanches from the heights; and we found one of these troughlike furrows skirting the base of the rocks we stood upon. one by one we entered, flattering ourselves that the covering of snow would afford us pretty good footing, but this soon failed; the hard blue ice showed on the surface, and we found ourselves rather in a difficulty, for the sides of our furrow were higher here than at the point where we entered it, and so overhanging that it was impossible to get out. "delay was dangerous, for the _débris_ far below warned us that at any moment a shower of stones might come flying down our channel; a glissade was equally dangerous; for, though we might have shot down safely at an immense speed for some hundreds of feet, we should finally have been dashed into a sea of crevasses. cachat in front solved the puzzle, and showed us how, by straddling with the feet as far apart as possible, the heel of each foot could find pretty firm hold in a mixture of half snow and half ice, his broad back, like a solid rock, being ready to check any slip of those behind him. "we were soon safe upon a fine open plateau of the _névé_, where we threaded our way among a few snow crevasses requiring caution, and then prepared for a comfortable halt in an apparently safe place. "the provision knapsacks were emptied and used as seats; bottles of red wine were stuck upright in the snow; a goodly leg of cold mutton on its sheet of paper formed the centre, garnished with hard eggs and bread and cheese, round which we ranged ourselves in a circle. high festival was held under the deep blue heavens, and now and then, as we looked up at the wonderful wall of rocks which we had descended, we congratulated ourselves on the victory. m. seiler's oranges supplied the rare luxury of a dessert, and we were just in the full enjoyment of the delicacy when a booming sound, like the discharge of a gun far over our heads, made us all at once glance upwards to the top of the trifthorn. close to its craggy summit hung a cloud of dust, like dirty smoke, and in few seconds another and a larger one burst forth several hundred feet lower. a glance through the telescope showed that a fall of rocks had commenced, and the fragments were leaping down from ledge to ledge in a series of cascades. the uproar became tremendous; thousands of fragments making every variety of noise according to their size, and producing the effect of a fire of musketry and artillery combined, thundered downwards from so great a height that we waited anxiously for some considerable time to see them reach the snow-field below. as nearly as we could estimate the distance, we were yards from the base of the rocks, so we thought that, come what might, we were in a tolerably secure position. at last we saw many of the blocks plunge into the snow after taking their last fearful leap; presently much larger fragments followed; the noise grew fiercer and fiercer, and huge blocks began to fall so near to us that we jumped to our feet, preparing to dodge them to the best of our ability. 'look out!' cried someone, and we opened out right and left at the approach of a monster, evidently weighing many hundredweights, which was coming right at us like a huge shell fired from a mortar. it fell with a heavy thud not more than feet from us, scattering lumps of snow into the circle." years afterwards a very sad accident occurred at this spot, a lady being struck and killed by a falling stone. in this case the fatality was unquestionably due to the start having been made at too late an hour. an inn in the trift valley makes it easy to reach the pass soon after dawn. the perils of the moming pass. in many peaks remained unsealed, and passes untraversed in the zermatt district, though now almost every inch of every mountain has felt the foot of man. yet even now few passes have been made there so difficult and dangerous (if mr whymper's route be exactly followed) as that of the moming, from zinal to zermatt. mr whymper gives a most graphic and exciting description of what befell his party, which included mr moore and the two famous guides almer and croz. having slept at some filthy châlets, the climbers, first passing over easy mountain slopes, gained a level glacier. beyond this a way towards the unexplored gap in the ridge, which they called the moming pass, had to be decided on. the choice lay between difficult and perhaps impassable rocks, and an ice-slope so steep and broken that it appeared likely to turn out impracticable. in fact it was the sort of position that whichever route was chosen the climbers were sure, when once on it, to wish it had been the other. finally, the ice-slope, over which a line of ice-cliffs hung threateningly, lurching right above the track to be taken, was decided on, and the whole party advanced for the attack. mr whymper writes: "across this ice-slope croz now proceeded to cut. it was executing a flank movement in the face of an enemy by whom we might be attacked at any moment. the peril was obvious. it was a monstrous folly. it was foolhardiness. a retreat should have been sounded.[ ] "'i am not ashamed to confess,' wrote moore in his journal, 'that during the whole time we were crossing this slope my heart was in my mouth, and i never felt relieved from such a load of care as when, after, i suppose, a passage of about twenty minutes, we got on to the rocks and were in safety.... i have never heard a positive oath come from almer's mouth, but the language in which he kept up a running commentary, more to himself than to me, as we went along, was stronger than i should have given him credit for using. his prominent feeling seemed to be one of _indignation_ that we should be in such a position, and self-reproach at being a party to the proceeding; while the emphatic way in which, at intervals, he exclaimed, 'quick; be quick,' sufficiently betokened his alarm. "it was not necessary to admonish croz to be quick. he was fully as alive to the risk as any of the others. he told me afterwards that this place was the most dangerous he had ever crossed, and that no consideration whatever would tempt him to cross it again. manfully did he exert himself to escape from the impending destruction. his head, bent down to his work, never turned to the right or to the left. one, two, three, went his axe, and then he stepped on to the spot he had been cutting. how painfully insecure should we have considered those steps at any other time! but now, we thought only of the rocks in front, and of the hideous _séracs_, lurching over above us, apparently in the act of falling. "we got to the rocks in safety, and if they had been doubly as difficult as they were, we should still have been well content. we sat down and refreshed the inner man, keeping our eyes on the towering pinnacles of ice under which we had passed, but which, now, were almost beneath us. without a preliminary warning sound, one of the largest--as high as the monument at london bridge--fell upon the slope below. the stately mass heeled over as if upon a hinge (holding together until it bent thirty degrees forwards), then it crushed out its base, and, rent into a thousand fragments, plunged vertically down upon the slope that we had crossed! every atom of our track that was in its course was obliterated; all the new snow was swept away, and a broad sheet of smooth, glassy ice, showed the resistless force with which it had fallen. "it was inexcusable to follow such a perilous path, but it is easy to understand why it was taken. to have retreated from the place where croz suggested a change of plan, to have descended below the reach of danger, and to have mounted again by the route which almer suggested, would have been equivalent to abandoning the excursion; for no one would have passed another night in the châlet on the arpitetta alp. 'many' says thucydides, 'though seeing well the perils ahead, are forced along by fear of dishonour--as the world calls it--so that, vanquished by a mere word, they fall into irremediable calamities.' such was nearly the case here. no one could say a word in justification of the course which was adopted; all were alive to the danger that was being encountered; yet a grave risk was deliberately--although unwillingly--incurred, in preference to admitting, by withdrawal from an untenable position, that an error of judgment had been committed. "after a laborious trudge over many species of snow, and through many varieties of vapour--from the quality of a scotch mist to that of a london fog--we at length stood on the depression between the rothhorn and the schallhorn.[ ] a steep wall of snow was upon the zinal side of the summit; but what the descent was like on the other side we could not tell, for a billow of snow tossed over its crest by the western winds, suspended o'er zermatt with motion arrested, resembling an ocean-wave frozen in the act of breaking, cut off the view.[ ] "croz--held hard in by the others, who kept down the zinal side--opened his shoulders, flogged down the foam, and cut away the cornice to its junction with the summit; then boldly leaped down and called on us to follow him. "it was well for us now that we had such a man as leader. an inferior or less daring guide would have hesitated to enter upon the descent in a dense mist; and croz himself would have done right to pause had he been less magnificent in _physique_. he acted, rather than said, 'where snow lies fast, there man can go; where ice exists, a way may be cut; it is a question of power; i have the power--all you have to do is to follow me.' truly, he did not spare himself, and could he have performed the feats upon the boards of a theatre that he did upon this occasion, he would have brought down the house with thunders of applause. here is what moore wrote in _his_ journal "('the descent bore a strong resemblance to the col de pilatte, but was very much steeper and altogether more difficult, which is saying a good deal. croz was in his element, and selected his way with marvellous sagacity, while almer had an equally honourable and, perhaps, more responsible post in the rear, which he kept with his usual steadiness.... one particular passage has impressed itself on my mind as one of the most nervous i have ever made. we had to pass along a crest of ice, a mere knife-edge,--on our left a broad crevasse, whose bottom was lost in blue haze, and on our right, at an angle of °, or more, a slope falling to a similar gulf below. croz, as he went along the edge, chipped small notches in the ice, in which we placed our feet, with the toes well turned out, doing all we knew to preserve our balance. while stepping from one of these precarious footholds to another, i staggered for a moment. i had not really lost my footing; but the agonised tone in which almer, who was behind me, on seeing me waver, exclaimed, "slip not, sir!" gave us an even livelier impression than we already had of the insecurity of the position.... one huge chasm, whose upper edge was far above the lower one, could neither be leaped nor turned, and threatened to prove an insuperable barrier. but croz showed himself equal to the emergency. held up by the rest of the party, he cut a series of holes for the hands and feet down and along the almost perpendicular wall of ice forming the upper side of the _schrund_. down this slippery staircase we crept, with our faces to the wall, until a point was reached where the width of the chasm was not too great for us to drop across. before we had done, we got quite accustomed to taking flying leaps over the _schrunds_.... to make a long story short; after a most desperate and exciting struggle, and as bad a piece of ice-work as it is possible to imagine, we emerged on to the upper plateau of the hohlicht glacier.')" from here, in spite of many further difficulties necessitating a long _detour_, the party safely descended to zermatt by the familiar trift path. footnotes: [ ] the responsibility did not rest with croz. his part was to advise, but not to direct. [ ] the summit of the pass has been marked on dufour's map, mètres, or , feet. [ ] these snow-cornices are common on the crests of high mountain ridges, and it is always prudent (just before arriving upon the summit of a mountain or ridge), to _sound_ with the alpenstock, that is to say, drive it in, to discover whether there is one or not. men have often narrowly escaped losing their lives from neglecting this precaution. these cornices are frequently rolled round in a volute, and sometimes take extravagant forms. chapter xii an exciting passage of the col de pilatte even now the valleys and mountains of dauphiné are neglected in comparison with the ranges of mont blanc, monte rosa, and other famous mountain chains of the alps. in , when mr whymper with his friends messrs moore and walker undertook a summer campaign there, it was practically unexplored from the climbers' point of view. the party was a skilful and experienced one, the guides, almer and croz, of the highest class, and the _esprit de corps_ in the little army of invasion most admirable. thus it is no wonder that peak after peak fell before them, passes were accomplished at the first assault, and no accident or annoyance spoilt the splendid series of expeditions which were so successfully accomplished. of these i have taken the account of the crossing of the col de pilatte, a high glacier pass, for, though it was excelled in difficulty by other climbs, yet it is so wittily described by mr whymper in his _scrambles in the alps_, and gives so excellent an idea of the sort of work met with on glaciers, and the ease with which a thoroughly competent party tackles it, that it cannot fail to be read with interest. the three englishmen had been joined by a french friend of theirs, monsieur reynaud, and had left their night quarters at entraigues at . a.m. on the morning of th june. their course was prodigiously steep. _in less than two miles difference of latitude they rose one mile of absolute height._ the route, however, was not really difficult, and they made good progress. they had reached the foot of the steep part when i take up the narrative in mr whymper's own words: "at . a.m. we commenced the ascent of the couloir leading from the nameless glacier to a point in the ridge, just to the east of mont bans.[ ] so far the route had been nothing more than a steep grind in an angle where little could be seen, but now views opened out in several directions, and the way began to be interesting. it was more so, perhaps, to us than to our companion m. reynaud, who had no rest in the last night. he was, moreover, heavily laden. science was to be regarded--his pockets were stuffed with books; heights and angles were to be observed--his knapsack was filled with instruments; hunger was to be guarded against--his shoulders were ornamented with a huge nimbus of bread, and a leg of mutton swung behind from his knapsack, looking like an overgrown tail. like a good-hearted fellow he had brought this food thinking we might be in need of it. as it happened, we were well provided for, and, having our own packs to carry, could not relieve him of his superfluous burdens, which, naturally, he did not like to throw away. as the angles steepened, the strain on his strength became more and more apparent. at last he began to groan. at first a most gentle and mellow groan; and as we rose so did his groans, till at last the cliffs were groaning in echo, and we were moved to laughter. [illustration: start of a climbing party by moonlight.] [illustration: shadows at sunrise.] [illustration: a standing glissade.] [illustration: an easy descent.] "croz cut the way with unflagging energy throughout the whole of the ascent, and at . we stood on the summit of our pass, intending to refresh ourselves with a good halt; but just at that moment a mist, which had been playing about the ridge, swooped down and blotted out the whole of the view on the northern side. croz was the only one who caught a glimpse of the descent, and it was deemed advisable to push on immediately, while its recollection was fresh in his memory. we are consequently unable to tell anything about the summit of the pass, except that it lies immediately to the east of mont bans, and is elevated about , feet above the level of the sea. it is one of the highest passes in dauphiné. we called it the col de pilatte. "we commenced to descend towards the glacier de pilatte by a slope of smooth ice, the face of which, according to the measurement of mr moore, had an inclination of °! croz still led, and the others followed at intervals of about feet, all being tied together, and almer occupying the responsible position of last man: the two guides were therefore about feet apart. they were quite invisible to each other from the mist, and looked spectral even to us. but the strong man could be heard by all hewing out the steps below, while every now and then the voice of the steady man pierced the cloud: 'slip not, dear sirs; place well your feet; stir not until you are certain.' "for three-quarters of an hour we progressed in this fashion. the axe of croz all at once stopped. 'what is the matter, croz?' 'bergschrund, gentlemen.' 'can we get over?' 'upon my word, i don't know; i think we must jump.' the clouds rolled away right and left as he spoke. the effect was dramatic! it was a _coup de théâtre_, preparatory to the 'great sensation leap' which was about to be executed by the entire company. "some unseen cause, some cliff or obstruction in the rocks underneath, had caused our wall of ice to split into two portions, and the huge fissure which had thus been formed extended, on each hand, as far as could be seen. we, on the slope above, were separated from the slope below by a mighty crevasse. no running up and down to look for an easier place to cross could be done on an ice-slope of °; the chasm had to be passed then and there. "a downward jump of or feet, and a forward leap of or feet had to be made at the same time. that is not much, you will say. it was not much. it was not the quantity, but it was the quality of the jump which gave to it its particular flavour. you had to hit a narrow ridge of ice. if that was passed, it seemed as if you might roll down for ever and ever. if it was not attained, you dropped into the crevasse below, which, although partly choked by icicles and snow that had fallen from above, was still gaping in many places, ready to receive an erratic body. "croz untied walker in order to get rope enough, and warning us to hold fast, sprang over the chasm. he alighted cleverly on his feet; untied himself and sent up the rope to walker, who followed his example. it was then my turn, and i advanced to the edge of the ice. the second which followed was what is called a supreme moment. that is to say, i felt supremely ridiculous. the world seemed to revolve at a frightful pace, and my stomach to fly away. the next moment i found myself sprawling in the snow, and then, of course, vowed that it was nothing, and prepared to encourage my friend reynaud. "he came to the edge and made declarations. i do not believe that he was a whit more reluctant to pass the place than we others, but he was infinitely more demonstrative--in a word, he was french. he wrung his hands, 'oh! what a _diable_ of a place!' 'it is nothing, reynaud,' i said, 'it is nothing.' 'jump,' cried the others, 'jump.' but he turned round, as far as one can do such a thing in an ice-step, and covered his face with his hands, ejaculating, 'upon my word, it is not possible. no! no! no! it is not possible.' "how he came over i scarcely know. we saw a toe--it seemed to belong to moore; we saw reynaud a flying body, coming down as if taking a header into water; with arms and legs all abroad, his leg of mutton flying in the air, his bâton escaped from his grasp; and then we heard a thud as if a bundle of carpets had been pitched out of a window. when set upon his feet he was a sorry spectacle; his head was a great snowball; brandy was trickling out of one side of the knapsack, chartreuse out of the other--we bemoaned its loss, but we roared with laughter. "i cannot close this chapter without paying tribute to the ability with which croz led us, through a dense mist, down the remainder of the glacier de pilatte. as an exhibition of strength and skill, it has seldom been surpassed in the alps or elsewhere. on this almost unknown and very steep glacier, he was perfectly at home, even in the mists. never able to see feet ahead, he still went on with the utmost certainty, and without having to retrace a single step; and displayed from first to last consummate knowledge of the materials with which he was dealing. now he cut steps down one side of a _sérac_, went with a dash at the other side, and hauled us up after him; then cut away along a ridge until a point was gained from which we could jump on to another ridge; then, doubling back, found a snow-bridge, over which he crawled on hands and knees, towed us across by the legs, ridiculing our apprehensions, mimicking our awkwardness, declining all help, bidding us only to follow him. "about p.m. we emerged from the mist and found ourselves just arrived upon the level portion of the glacier, having, as reynaud properly remarked, come down as quickly as if there had not been any mist at all. then we attacked the leg of mutton which my friend had so thoughtfully brought with him, and afterwards raced down, with renewed energy, to la bérarde." footnote: [ ] the upper part of the southern side of the col de pilatte, and the small glaciers spoken of on p. , can be seen from the high road leading from briançon to mont dauphin, between the th and th kilomètre stones (from briançon). chapter xiii an adventure on the aletsch glacier mr william longman, a former vice-president of the alpine club, has given us an interesting account in _the alpine journal_ of an exciting adventure which happened to his son in august . the party, consisting of mr longman, his son, aged fifteen, two friends, two guides, and a porter, set out one lovely morning from the eggischhorn hotel for an excursion on the great aletsch glacier. the names of the guides were fedier and andreas weissenflüh. mr longman writes:--"we started in high spirits; the glacier was in perfect order; no fresh snow covered the ice; the crevasses were all unhidden; and no one thought it necessary to use the rope. i felt it to be a wise precaution, however, to place my son, a boy of fifteen years of age, under the care of the eggischhorn porter. it was his second visit to switzerland, and he could, i am sure, have taken good care of himself, but i felt it was my duty to place him under the care of a guide. i have no wish to throw undeserved blame on the guide; but his carelessness was unquestionably the cause of the accident. he began wrong, and i ought to have interfered. he tied his handkerchief in a knot, and, holding it himself, gave it to my son to hold also in his hand. this was worse than useless, and, in fact, was the cause of danger, for it partly deprived him of that free and active use of his limbs which is essential to safety. it threw him off his guard. except at a crevasse, it was unnecessary for the boy to have anything to hold by; and, at a crevasse, the handkerchief would have been insufficient. the impression that there was no real danger, and that all that was required was caution in crossing the crevasses, prevented my interfering. so the guide went on, his hand holding the handkerchief behind him, and my son following, his hand also holding the handkerchief. many a time i complained to the guide that he took my boy over wide parts of the crevasses because he would not trouble himself to diverge from his path, and many a time did i compel him to turn aside to a narrower chasm. at last, i was walking a few yards to his left, and had stepped over a narrow crevasse, when i was startled by an exclamation. i turned round suddenly, and my son was out of sight! i will not harrow up my own feelings, or those of my readers, by attempting to describe the frightful anguish that struck me to the heart; but will only relate, plainly and calmly, all that took place. when my son fell, the crevasse, which i had crossed so easily, became wider, and its two sides were joined by a narrow ridge of ice. it was obviously impossible to ascertain exactly what had taken place; but i am convinced that the guide went on in his usual thoughtless way, with his hand behind him, drawing my son after him, and that, as soon as he placed his foot on the narrow ridge, he slipped and fell. i rushed to the edge of the crevasse and called out to my poor boy. to my inexpressible delight he at once answered me calmly and plainly. as i afterwards ascertained, he was feet from me, and neither could he see us nor we see him. but he was evidently unhurt; he was not frightened, and he was not beyond reach. in an instant weissenflüh was ready to descend into the crevasse. he buckled on one of my belts,[ ] fixed it to the rope, and told us to lower him down. my two friends and i, and the other two guides, held on to the rope, and slowly and gradually, according to weissenflüh's directions, we paid it out. it was a slow business, but we kept on encouraging my son, and receiving cheery answers from him in return. at last weissenflüh told us, to our intense joy, that he had reached my son, that he had hold of him, and that we might haul up. strongly and steadily we held on, drawing both the boy and the guide, as we believed, nearer and nearer, till at length, to our inexpressible horror, we drew up weissenflüh alone. he had held my son by the collar of his coat. the cloth was wet, his hand was cold, and the coat slipped from his grasp. i was told that when my boy thus again fell he uttered a cry, but either i heard it not or forgot it. the anguish of the moment prevented my noticing it, and, fortunately, we none of us lost our presence of mind, but steadily held on to the rope. poor weissenflüh reached the surface exhausted, dispirited, overwhelmed with grief. he threw himself on the glacier in terrible agony. in an instant fedier was ready to descend, and we began to lower him; but the crevasse was narrow, and fedier could not squeeze himself through the ice. we had to pull him up again before he had descended many feet. by this time the brave young weissenflüh had recovered, and was ready again to go down. but we thought it desirable to take the additional precaution of lowering the other rope, with one of the belts securely fixed to it. my son quickly got hold of it, and placed the belt round his body, but he told us his hands were too cold to buckle it. weissenflüh now again descended, and soon he told us he had fixed the belt. with joyful heart some hauled away at one rope and some at the other, till at length, after my son had been buried in the ice for nearly half an hour, both he and the guide were brought to the surface.... let a veil rest over the happiness of meeting. my boy's own account of what befell him is, that he first fell sideways on to a ledge in the crevasse, and then vertically, but providentially with his feet downwards, till his progress was arrested by the narrowness of the crevasse. he says he is sure he was stopped by being wedged in, because his feet were hanging loose. his arms were free. he believes the distance he fell, when weissenflüh dropped him, was about three or four yards, and that he fell to nearly, but not quite, the same place as that to which he fell at first, and that, in his first position, he could not have put the belt on. his fall was evidently a slide for the greater part of the distance; had it been a sheer fall it would have been impossible to escape severe injury." a loyal companion the following is taken from _the times_ of rd july . "on tuesday, th july, herr f. burckhardt, member of the basel section of the swiss alpine club, accompanied by the guides fritz teutschmann and johann jossi, both from grindelwald, made an attempt to ascend the jungfrau from the side of the little scheideck. after leaving the guggi cabin the party mounted the glacier of the same name. the usual precautions were of course taken--that is to say, the three men were roped together, herr burckhardt in the middle, one of the guides before, the other behind him. when the climbers reached the _séracs_, at a point marked on the siegfried karte as being at an elevation of mètres, an enormous piece of ice broke off from the upper part of the glacier, and came thundering down. although by good fortune the mass of the avalanche did not sweep across the path of the three men, they were struck by several large blocks of ice, and sent flying. jossi, who was leading, went head first into a crevasse of unfathomable depth, dragging after him herr burckhardt, who, however, contrived to hold on to the edge of the crevasse, but in such a position that he could not budge, and was unable to help either himself or jossi. their lives at that moment depended absolutely on the staunchness of teutschmann, who alone had succeeded in keeping his feet. it was beyond his power to do more; impossible by his own unaided strength to haul up the two men who hung by the rope. if he had given way a single step all three would have been precipitated to the bottom of the crevasse. so there he stood, with feet and ice-axe firmly planted, holding on for dear life, conscious that the end was a mere question of time, and a very short time; his strength was rapidly waning, and then? it would have been easy for the two to escape by sacrificing the third. one slash of burckhardt's knife would have freed both teutschmann and himself. but no such dastardly idea occurred to either of them. they were resolved to live or die together. half an hour passed; they had almost abandoned hope, and teutschmann's forces were well-nigh spent, when help came just in time to save them. the same morning another party, consisting of two german tourists, and the two guides peter schlegel and rudolph kaufmann, had started from the little scheideck for the jungfrau, and coming on traces of burckhardt's party had followed them up, and arrived before it was too late on the scene of the accident. without wasting a moment schlegel went down into the crevasse and fastened jossi to another rope, so that those above were enabled to draw him up and release burckhardt and teutschmann. jossi, although bruised and exhausted, was able to walk to the scheideck, and all reached grindelwald in safety." [illustration: on a snow-covered glacier. the party is crossing a snow bridge, and the rope between the centre and last man is too slack for safety.] when it is remembered how few people make this expedition, the escape of mr burckhardt's party is the more wonderful, and would not have been possible unless other climbers had taken the same route that day. this way up the jungfrau is always somewhat exposed to falling ice, though sometimes it is less dangerous than at other times. as the editor of _the alpine journal_ has written, "no amount of experience can avail against falling missiles, and the best skill of the mountaineer is shown in keeping out of their way." a brave guide the brave actions of guides are so many in number that it would be impossible to tell of them all, and many noble deeds have never found their way into print. the following, however, is related of a guide with whom i have made many ascents, and is furthermore referred to in _the alpine journal_ as "an act of bravery for which it would be hard to find a parallel in the annals of mountaineering." on st september , a party of two german gentlemen with a couple of guides went up piz palü, a glacier-clad peak frequently ascended from pontresina. one of the guides was a tyrolese, klimmer by name, the other a native of the engadine, schnitzler. they had completed the ascent of the actual peak, and were on their way down, some distance below the bellavista saddle. here there are several large crevasses, and the slope is very steep at this point. i remember passing down it with schnitzler the previous january, and finding much care needed to cross a big chasm. schnitzler was leading, then came the two travellers, finally the tyrolese, who came down last man. suddenly schnitzler, who must have stepped on a snow-bridge, and herr nasse dropped without a sound into the chasm. dr borchardt was dragged some steps after them, but managed to check himself on the very brink of the abyss. behind was klimmer, but on so steep a surface that he could give no help beyond standing firm. at last, after some anxious moments, came a call from below, "pull!" they did their best but in vain. "my god!" cried schnitzler from below, "i can't get out!" a period of terrible apprehension followed. herr nasse was entreated to try and help a little, or to cut himself free from the rope, as he appeared to be suffering greatly. but he was helpless, hanging with the rope pressing his chest till he could hardly breathe, and cried out that he could stand it no longer. dr borchardt made a plucky attempt to render assistance, and the desperate endeavour nearly caused him to fall also into the crevasse. [illustration: martin schocher standing, schnitzler sitting. on the summit of crast' agüzza in mid-winter.] [illustration: a projecting cornice of snow, which might fall at any moment. the accident on the lyskamm, described on page , was due to the breaking of a cornice.] [illustration: between earth and sky (page ).] [illustration: an extremely narrow snow ridge, but a much easier one to pass than that described by mr moore (page )] the position was terrible, and herr nasse was at the end of his forces. he called out in a dying voice that he could bear no more--it was the last time he spoke. of schnitzler nothing was heard, and the others could not tell if he were still alive. but while this terrible scene was passing, schnitzler had performed an act of the highest bravery. first he had tried, by using his axe, to climb out of the icy prison where he hung. this he could not do, so steadying himself against the glassy wall, he deliberately cut himself loose from the rope. he dropped to the floor of the crevasse, which, luckily, was not of extraordinary depth, and being uninjured, he set himself to find a way out. he followed the crevasse along its entire length, and discovered a little ledge of ice, with the aid of which, panting and exhausted, he reached the surface. but even with schnitzler's help it was impossible to raise herr nasse out of the chasm. the rope had cut deeply into the snow. he hung underneath an eave of the soft surface and could not be moved. another willing helper, an englishman, now came up, and after a time the body--for herr nasse had not survived--was lowered to the floor of the crevasse. every effort was made to restore animation, but with no result, and there was nothing left to do but leave that icy grave and descend to the valley. herr nasse had suffered from a weak heart and an attack of pleurisy, and these gave him but a poor chance of withstanding the terrible pressure of the rope. dr scriven, from whose spirited translation from the german i have taken my facts, remarks that, "the death of professor nasse seems to emphasize a warning, already painfully impressed on us by the loss of mr norman neruda, that there are special dangers awaiting those whose vital organs are not perfectly sound, and who undertake the exertion and fatigue of long and difficult climbs." footnote: [ ] in the early days of mountaineering it was the custom to pass the rope through a ring or spring-hook attached to a strong leather belt, instead of, as now, attaching it in a loop round the body of each climber. chapter xiv a wonderful feat by two ladies one of the highest and hardest passes in the alps is the sesia-joch, , feet high, near monte rosa. the well-known mountaineer, mr ball, writing in , referred to its first passage by messrs george and moore, as "amongst the most daring of alpine exploits," and expressed a doubt whether it would ever be repeated. the party went _up_ the steep italian side (on the other, or swiss side, it is quite easy). we can, therefore, judge of the astonishment of the members of the alpine club when they learnt that in "two ladies had not only crossed this most redoubtable of glacier passes, but crossed it from zermatt to alagna, thus descending the wall of rock, the ascent of which had until then been looked on as an extraordinary feat for first-rate climbers." the following extract from an italian paper, aided by the notes communicated by the misses pigeon to _the alpine journal_, fully explains how this accidental but brilliant feat of mountaineering was happily brought to a successful termination. "on th august , miss anna and miss ellen pigeon, of london, were at the riffel hotel, above zermatt, with the intention of making the passage of the lys-joch on the next day, in order to reach gressonay. starting at a.m. on the th, accompanied by jean martin, guide of sierre, and by a porter, they arrived at a.m. at the gorner glacier, which they crossed rapidly to the great plateau, enclosed between the zumstein-spitz, signal-kuppe, parrot-spitze, and lyskamm, where they arrived at a.m. at this point, instead of bearing to the right, which is the way to the lys-joch, they turned too much towards the left, so that they found themselves on a spot at the extremity of the plateau, from which they saw beneath their feet a vast and profound precipice, terminating at a great depth upon a glacier. the guide had only once, about four years before, crossed the lys-joch, and in these desert and extraordinary places, where no permanent vestiges remain of previous passages, he had not remembered the right direction, nor preserved a very clear idea of the localities. at the sight of the tremendous precipice he began to doubt whether he might not have mistaken the way, and, to form a better judgment, he left the ladies on the col, half-stiffened with cold from the violence of the north wind, ascended to the parrot-spitze, and advanced towards the ludwigshöhe, in order to examine whether along this precipice, which lay inexorably in front, there might be a place where a passage could be effected. but wherever he turned his eyes he saw nothing but broken rocks and couloirs yet more precipitous. "in returning to the col after his fruitless exploration, almost certain that he had lost his way, he saw among some _débris_ of rock, an empty bottle (which had been placed there by messrs george and moore in ). this discovery persuaded him that here must be the pass, since some one in passing by the place had there deposited this bottle. he then applied himself to examining with greater attention the rocks below, and thought he saw a possibility of descending by them. he proposed this to the ladies, and they immediately commenced operations. all being tied together, at proper intervals, with a strong rope, they began the perilous descent, sometimes over the naked rock, sometimes over more or less extensive slopes of ice, covered with a light stratum of snow, in which steps had to be cut. it was often necessary to stop, in order to descend one after the other by means of the rope to a point where it might be possible to rest without being held up. the tremendous precipice was all this time under their eyes, seeming only to increase as they descended. this arduous and perilous exertion had continued for more than seven hours when, towards p.m., the party arrived at a point beyond which all egress seemed closed. slippery and almost perpendicular rocks beneath, right and left, and everywhere; near and around not a space sufficient to stretch one's self upon, the sun about to set, night at hand! what a position for the courageous travellers, and for the poor guide on whom devolved the responsibility of the fatal consequences which appeared inevitable! "nevertheless, jean martin did not lose his courage. having caused the ladies to rest on the rocks, he ran right and left, climbing as well as he could, in search of a passage. for about half an hour he looked and felt for a way, but in vain. at length it appeared to him that it would be possible to risk a long descent by some rough projections which occurred here and there in the rocks. with indescribable labour, and at imminent peril of rolling as shapeless corpses into the crevasses of the glacier below, the travellers at length set foot upon the ice. it was p.m.; they had commenced the descent at a.m.; they crossed the sesia glacier at a running pace, on account of the increasing darkness of the night, which scarcely allowed them to distinguish the crevasses. after half an hour they set foot on _terra firma_ at the moraine above the alp of vigne, where they perceived at no great distance a light, towards which they quickly directed their steps. the shepherd, named dazza dionigi, received them kindly, and lodged them for the night. until they arrived at the alp, both the ladies and the guide believed that they had made the pass of the lys-joch, and that they were now upon an alp of gressonay. it was, therefore, not without astonishment that they learned from the shepherd that, instead of this, they were at the head of the val sesia, and that they had accomplished the descent of the formidable sesia-joch." [illustration: exterior of a climber's hut.] [illustration: interior of a climber's hut.] as an accompaniment to the foregoing highly-coloured narrative, the following modest notes, sent to _the alpine journal_ by the misses pigeon, will be read with interest: "all mountaineers are aware how much the difficulty of a pass is lessened or increased by the state of the weather. in this we were greatly favoured. for some days it had been very cold and wet at the riffel; and when we crossed the sesia-joch we found sufficient snow in descending the ice-slope to give foothold, which decreased the labour of cutting steps--the axe was only brought into requisition whenever we traversed to right or left. had the weather been very hot we should have been troubled with rolling stones. it was one of those clear, bright mornings so favourable for mountain excursions. our guide had only once before crossed the lys-joch, four years previously, and on a very misty day. we were, therefore, careful to engage a porter who professed to know the way. the latter proved of no use whatever except to carry a knapsack. "we take the blame to ourselves of missing the lys-joch; for, on making the discovery of the porter's ignorance, we turned to _ball's guide book_, and repeatedly translated to martin a passage we found there, warning travellers to avoid keeping too much to the right near the lyskamm. the result of our interference was that martin kept too much to the left, and missed the lys-joch altogether. "when we perceived the abrupt termination of the actual col, we all ascended, with the aid of step-cutting, along the slope of the parrot-spitze, until we came to a place where a descent seemed feasible. martin searched for a better passage, but, after all, we took to the ice-slope, at first, for a little way, keeping on the rocks. finding the slope so very rapid, we doubted whether we could be right in descending it; for we remembered that the descent of the lys-joch is described by mr ball as _easy_. we therefore retraced our steps up the slope to our former halting-place, thus losing considerable time, for it was now twelve o'clock. then it was that martin explored the parrot-spitze still further, and returned in three-quarters of an hour fully persuaded that there was no other way. we re-descended the ice-slope, and lower down crossed a couloir, and then more snow-slopes and rocks brought us to a lower series of rocks, where our passage seemed stopped at five o'clock. here the mists, which had risen since the morning, much impeded our progress, and we halted, hoping they would disperse. martin again went off on an exploring expedition, whilst the porter was sent in another direction. as both returned from a fruitless search, and sunset was approaching, the uncomfortable suggestion was made that the next search would be for the best sleeping quarters. however, martin himself investigated the rocks pronounced impracticable by the porter, and by these we descended to the sesia glacier without unusual difficulty. when once fairly on the glacier, we crossed it at a running pace, for it was getting dark, and we feared to be benighted on the glacier. it was dark as we scrambled along the moraine on the other side, and over rocks and grassy knolls till the shepherd's light at vigne gave us a happy indication that a shelter was not far off. the shouts of our guide brought the shepherd with his oil-lamp to meet us, and it was a quarter to nine o'clock p.m. when we entered his hut. after partaking of a frugal meal of bread and milk, we were glad to accept his offer of a hay bed, together with the unexpected luxury of sheets. when relating the story of our arrival to the abbé farinetti on the following sunday at alagna, the shepherd said that so great was his astonishment at the sudden apparition of travellers from that direction, that he thought it must be a visit of angels. "we consider the italian account incorrect as to the time we occupied in the descent. we could not have left our halting-place near the summit for the second time before a quarter to one o'clock, and in eight hours we were in this shepherd's hut. "the italian account exaggerates the difficulty we experienced. the rope was never used 'to hold up the travellers and let them down one by one.' on the contrary, one lady went _last_, preferring to see the awkward porter in front of her rather than behind. at one spot we came to an abrupt wall of rock and there we gladly availed ourselves of our guide's hand. the sensational sentence about 'rolling as shapeless corpses into the crevasses' is absurd, as we were at that juncture rejoicing in the prospect of a happy termination of our dilemma, and of crossing the glacier in full enjoyment of our senses." the editor of _the alpine journal_ concludes with the following comments: "it is impossible to pass over without some further remark the behaviour of the guide and porter who shared this adventure. jean martin, if he led his party into a scrape, certainly showed no small skill and perseverance in carrying them safely out of it. porters have as a class, and with some honourable exceptions, long afforded a proof that swiss peasants are not necessarily born climbers. their difficulties and blunders have, indeed, served as one of the standing jokes of alpine literature. but we doubt if any porter has ever exhibited himself in so ignoble a position as the man who, having begun by obtaining an engagement under false pretences, ended by allowing one of his employers, a lady, to descend the italian side of the sesia-joch last on the rope." a perilous climb in the year but few different routes were known up mont blanc. it has now been ascended from every direction and by every conceivable combination of routes, yet i doubt if any at all rivalling the one i intend quoting the account of has ever been accomplished. the route in question is by the brenva glacier on the italian side of the great mountain, and the travellers who undertook to attempt what the guides hardly thought a possible piece of work, consisted of mr walker, his son horace, mr mathews, and mr moore, the account which i take from _the alpine journal_ having been written by the latter. for guides they had two very first-rate men, melchior anderegg and his cousin, jacob anderegg. i shall omit the first part of the narrative, interesting though it is, and go at once to the point where, not long after sunrise, the mountaineers found themselves. "we had risen very rapidly, and must have been at an elevation of more than , feet. our position, therefore, commanded an extensive view in all directions. the guides were in a hurry, so cutting our halt shorter than would have been agreeable, we resumed our way at . , and after a few steps up a slope at an angle of °, found ourselves on the crest of the buttress, and looking down upon, and across, the lower part of a glacier tributary to the brenva, beyond which towered the grand wall of the mont maudit. we turned sharp to the left along the ridge, jacob leading, followed by mr walker, horace, mathews, melchior, and myself last. we had anticipated that, assuming the possibility of gaining the ridge on which we were, there would be no serious difficulty in traversing it, and so much as we could see ahead led us to hope that our anticipations would turn out correct. before us lay a narrow but not steep arête of rock and snow combined, which appeared to terminate some distance in front in a sharp peak. we advanced cautiously, keeping rather below the top of the ridge, speculating with some curiosity on what lay beyond this peak. on reaching it, the apparent peak proved not to be a peak at all, but the extremity of the narrowest and most formidable ice arête i ever saw, which extended almost on a level for an uncomfortably long distance. looking back by the light of our subsequent success, i have always considered it a providential circumstance that, at this moment, jacob, and not melchior was leading the party. in saying this, i shall not for an instant be suspected of any imputation upon melchior's courage. but in him that virtue is combined to perfection with the equally necessary one of prudence, while he shares the objection which nearly all guides have to taking upon themselves, without discussion, responsibility in positions of doubt. had he been in front, i believe that, on seeing the nature of the work before us, we should have halted and discussed the propriety of proceeding; and i believe further that, as the result of that discussion, our expedition would have then and there come to an end. now in jacob, with courage as faultless as melchior's, and physical powers even superior, the virtue of prudence is conspicuous chiefly from its absence; and, on coming to this ugly place, it never for an instant occurred to him that we might object to go on, or consider the object in view not worth the risk which must be inevitably run. he therefore went calmly on without so much as turning to see what we thought of it, while i do not suppose that it entered into the head of any one of us spontaneously to suggest a retreat. "on most arêtes, however narrow the actual crest may be, it is generally possible to get a certain amount of support by driving the pole into the slope on either side. but this was not the case here. we were on the top of a wall, the ice on the right falling vertically (i use the word advisedly), and on the left nearly so. on neither side was it possible to obtain the slightest hold with the alpenstock. i believe also that an arête of pure ice is more often encountered in description than in reality, that term being generally applied to hard snow. but here, for once, we had the genuine article, blue ice without a speck of snow on it. the space for walking was, at first, about the breadth of an ordinary wall, in which jacob cut holes for the feet. being last in the line i could see little of what was coming until i was close upon it, and was therefore considerably startled on seeing the men in front suddenly abandon the upright position, which in spite of the insecurity of the steps and difficulty of preserving the balance, had been hitherto maintained, and sit down _à cheval_. the ridge had narrowed to a knife edge, and for a few yards it was utterly impossible to advance in any other way. the foremost men soon stood up again, but when i was about to follow their example melchior insisted emphatically upon my not doing so, but remaining seated. regular steps could no longer be cut, but jacob, as he went along, simply sliced off the top of the ridge, making thus a slippery pathway, along which those behind crept, moving one foot carefully after the other. as for me, i worked myself along with my hands in an attitude safer, perhaps, but considerably more uncomfortable, and, as i went, could not keep occasionally speculating, with an odd feeling of amusement, as to what would be the result if any of the party should chance to slip over on either side--what the rest would do--whether throw themselves over on the other side or not--and if so, what would happen then. fortunately the occasion for the solution of this curious problem did not arise, and at . we reached the end of the arête, where it emerged in the long slopes of broken _névé_, over which our way was next to lie. as we looked back along our perilous path, it was hard to repress a shudder, and i think the dominant feeling of every man was one of wonder how the passage had been effected without accident. one good result, however, was to banish from melchior's mind the last traces of doubt as to our ultimate success, his reply to our anxious enquiry whether he thought we should get up, being, 'we must, for we cannot go back.' in thus speaking, he probably said rather more than he meant, but the fact will serve to show that i have not exaggerated the difficulty we had overcome." mr moore goes on to describe the considerable trouble the party had in mounting the extremely steep snow-slope on which they were now embarked. the continual step-cutting was heavy work for the guides. at last they were much annoyed to find between them and their goal "a great wall of ice running right across and completely barring the way upwards. our position was, in fact, rather critical. immediately over our heads the slope on which we were, terminated in a great mass of broken _séracs_, which might come down with a run at any moment. it seemed improbable that any way out of our difficulties would be found in that quarter. but, where else to look? there was no use in going to the left--to the right we _could_ not go--and back we _would_ not go. after careful scrutiny, melchior thought it just possible that we might find a passage through those séracs on the higher and more level portion of the glacier to the right of them, and there being obviously no chance of success in any other direction, we turned towards them. the ice here was steeper and harder than it had yet been. in spite of all melchior's care, the steps were painfully insecure, and we were glad to get a grip with one hand of the rocks alongside of which we passed. the risk, too, of an avalanche was considerable, and it was a relief when we were so close under the séracs that a fall from above could not well hurt us. melchior had steered with his usual discrimination, and was now attacking the séracs at the only point where they appeared at all practical. standing over the mouth of a crevasse choked with _débris_, he endeavoured to lift himself on to its upper edge, which was about feet above. but to accomplish this seemed at first a task too great even for his agility, aided as it was by vigorous pushes. at last, by a marvellous exercise of skill and activity, he succeeded, pulled up mr walker and horace, and then cast off the rope to reconnoitre, leaving them to assist mathews, jacob and myself in the performance of a similar manoeuvre. we were all three still below, when a yell from melchior sent a thrill through our veins. 'what is it?' said we to mr walker. a shouting communication took place between him and melchior, and then came the answer, 'he says it is all right.' that moment was worth living for." mr moore tells how, over now easy ground, the party rapidly ascended higher and higher. "we reached the summit at . , and found ourselves safe at chamouni at . . our day's work had thus extended to nearly hours, of which ½ hours were actual walking." it is interesting to note that in after years a route was discovered on the opposite, or french side of mont blanc, of which the chief difficulty was an extremely narrow--but in this case also steep--ice ridge. this ascent, _via_ the aiguille de bionnassay, enjoys, i believe, an even greater reputation than that by the brenva. it has been accomplished twice by ladies, the first time by miss katherine richardson, whose skill and extraordinary rapidity of pace have given her a record on more than one great peak. miss richardson, having done all the hard part of the climb, descended from the dome de gouter. the second ascent by a lady was undertaken successfully in , by mademoiselle eugénie de rochat, who has a brilliant list of climbs in the mont blanc district to her credit. chapter xv a fine performance without guides the precipitous peak of the meije, in dauphiné, had long, like the matterhorn, been believed inaccessible, and it was only after repeated attempts that at last the summit was reached. the direct route from la bérarde will always be an extremely difficult climb to anyone who desires to do his fair share of the work; the descent of the great wall of rock is one of the few places i have been down, which took longer on the descent than on the ascent. when the members of the alpine club heard that a party of englishmen had succeeded, _without guides_, in making the expedition, they were much impressed by the feat, and on th december , one of the climbers, mr charles pilkington, read a paper before the club describing his ascent. from it i quote the following. the party included the brothers pilkington and mr gardiner. [illustration: the meije is to the left, the glacier carré is the snow-patch on it, beneath this is the great wall.] [illustration: ascending a snowy wall (page ).] "on the th july , we reached la bérarde, where we found mr coolidge with the two almers. coolidge knew that we had come to try the meije, and he had very kindly given us all the information he could, not only about it, but about several other peaks and passes in the district. almer also, after finding out our plans, was good enough not to laugh at us, and gave us one or two useful hints. he told us as well that the difficulty did not so much consist in finding the way as in getting up it. "at two o'clock in the afternoon of th july, we left for our bivouac in the vallon des etançons, taking another man with us besides our two porters, and at four reached the large square rock called the hôtel châteleret, after the ancient name of the valley. we determined to sleep here instead of at coolidge's refuge a little higher up. the meije was in full view, and we had our first good look at it since we had read the account of its ascent. "we went hopefully to bed, telling our porters to call us at eleven the same evening, so as to start at midnight; but long before that it was raining hard, and it required all the engineering skill of the party and the india-rubber bag to keep the water out. it cleared up at daybreak. of course it was far too late to start then; besides that, we had agreed not to make the attempt unless we had every sign of fine weather. "as we had nothing else to do, we started at a.m. on an exploring expedition, taking our spare ropes and some extra provisions, to leave, if possible, at m. duhamel's cairn, some distance up the mountain, whilst our porters were to improve the refuge and lay in a stock of firewood. the snow was very soft, and we were rather lazy, so it was not until eleven that we reached the upper part of the brêche glacier, and were opposite our work. the way lies up the great southern buttress, which forms the eastern boundary of the brêche glacier, merging into the general face of the mountain about one-third of the total height from the glacier des etançons, and feet below, and a little to the west of the glacier carré, from whence the final peak is climbed. the chief difficulty is the ascent from m. duhamel's cairn, on the top of the buttress to the glacier carré. "after a few steps up the snow, we gained the crest of the buttress by a short scramble. the crest is narrow, but very easy, and we went rapidly along, until we came to where a great break in the arête divides the buttress into an upper and a lower part; being no longer able to keep along the crest, we were forced to cross the rocks to our left to the couloir. not quite liking the look of the snow, gardiner asked us to hold tight whilst he tried it. finding it all right he kicked steps up, and at five minutes past one we reached the cairn, having taken one hour and thirty-five minutes from the glacier. the great wall rose straight above us, but the way up, which we had had no difficulty in making out with the telescope from below, was no longer to be seen. our spirits which had been rising during our ascent from the glacier, sunk once more, and our former uncertainty came back upon us; for it is difficult to imagine anything more hopeless-looking than this face of the meije. it has been said that, after finding all the most promising ways impossible, this seeming impossibility was tried as a last chance. we looked at it a long time, but at last gave up trying to make out the way as a bad job, determined to climb where we could, if we had luck enough to get so far another day; so, leaving our spare ropes, a bottle of wine, a loaf of bread, and a tin of curried fowl carefully covered with stones, we made the best of our way back, reaching the glacier in one hour and twenty minutes, and our bivouac in an hour and a half more. there we spent the next night and following day, but at last we had to give in to the bad weather, and go sorrowfully down to la bérarde. it was very disappointing. we had been looking forward to the attempt for more than six months. i had to leave in a few days for england. it was not a mountain for two men to be on alone; what if we had spent all our time and trouble for nothing, and only carried our bed and provisions to the cairn for someone else to use? "on the evening of the th we were again at our bivouac; this time there was a cold north wind blowing, and the weather looked more settled than it had yet done since we came into the district. we watched the last glow of the setting sun fade on the crags of the meije, and then crawled into our now well-known holes. at midnight exactly we were off, and, as we had much to carry, we took our porters with us as far as the bottom of the buttress, where we waited for daylight. at last the tête du replat opposite to us caught the reflection of the light, so, leaving a bottle of champagne for our return, as a reward of victory or consolation for defeat, we started at . , unfortunately with an omen, for in bidding good-bye to our porters, we said 'adieu,' instead of 'au revoir, and though we altered the word at once, they left us with grave faces, old lagier mournfully shaking his head. gardiner took the lead again, and at . we once more stood beside the stone-man, finding our _câche_ of provisions all safe. here we rearranged our luggage. both the others took heavy loads; gardiner the knapsack, lawrence the feet of spare rope and our wine tin, holding three quarts; the sleeping bag only was given to me, as i was told off to lead. "we got under weigh at . , and soon clambered up the remaining part of the buttress, and reached the bottom of the great wall, the glacier carré being about feet above us, and some distance to our right. we knew that from here a level traverse had to be made until nearly under the glacier before it was possible to turn upwards. we had seen a ledge running in the right direction; crossing some steep rocks and climbing over a projecting knob (which served us a nasty trick on our descent), we let ourselves gently down on to the ledge, leaving a small piece of red rag to guide us in coming back. the ledge, although or feet broad, was not all that could be wished, for it was more than half-covered with snow, which, as the ledge sloped outwards, was not to be trusted; the melting and refreezing of this had formed ice below, nearly covering the available space, forcing us to walk on the edge. we cut a step here and there. it improved as we went on, and when half-way across the face we were able to turn slightly upwards, and at . were near the spot where later in the day the icicles from the extreme western end of the glacier carré fall. it is not necessary to go right into the line of fire, and in coming back we kept even farther away than on the ascent. "so far the way had been fairly easy to find, but now came the great question of the climb; how to get up the feet of rock wall above us. to our right it rose in one sheer face, the icicles from the glacier carré, fringing the top; to our left the rocks, though not so steep, were very smooth, and at the top, especially to the right, near the glacier, they became precipitous. a little above us a bridge ledge led away to the left, slanting upwards towards the lowest and most practicable part of the wall, obviously the way up. climbing to this ledge, we followed it nearly half-way back across the face, then the holding-places got fewer and more filled with ice, the outward slope more and more until at last its insecure and slippery look warned us off it, and we turned up the steeper but rougher rocks on our right. in doing so i believe we forsook the route followed by all our predecessors, but we were obliged to do so by the glazed state of the rocks. "as the direction in which we were now going was taking us towards the glacier and the steep upper rocks, we soon turned again to our left to avoid them, the only way being up some smooth slabs, with very little hold, the sort of rocks where one's waistcoat gives a great deal of holding power; worming oneself up these we reached a small shelf where we were again in doubt. it was impossible to go straight up; to the left the rocks, though easier, only led to the higher part of the ledge we had forsaken; we spent some minutes examining this way, but again did not like the look of the glazed rocks; so we took the only alternative and went to the right. keeping slightly upwards, we gained about feet in actual height by difficult climbing. we were now getting on to the steep upper rocks near the glacier, which we had wanted to avoid. "this last piece of the wall will always remain in our minds as the most desperate piece of work we have ever done; the rocks so far had been firm, but now, although far too steep for loose stones to lodge on, were so shattered that we dared not trust them; at the same time we had to be very careful, lest in removing any we should bring others down upon us. "one place i shall never forget. gardiner was below, on a small ledge, with no hand-hold to speak of, trying to look as if he could stand any pull; my brother on a knob a little higher up, to help me if necessary. i was able to pull myself about feet higher, but the next rock was insecure, and the whole nearly perpendicular. a good many loose stones had been already pulled out; this one would not come. it is hard work tugging at a loose stone with one hand, the other in a crack, and only one foot finding anything to rest on. i looked down, told them how it was, and came down to rest. "for about a minute nothing was said; all our faces turned towards the glacier carré, now only about feet above us. we all felt it would have been hard indeed to turn back, yet it was not a pleasant place, and we could not see what was again above. we were on what may be fairly called a precipice. in removing the loose stones, the slightest backhanded jerk, just enough to miss the heads of the men behind, sent them clear into the air; they never touched anything for a long time after leaving the hand, and disappeared with a disagreeable hum on to the glacier des etançons, feet below. we looked and tried on both sides, but it was useless, so we went at it again. after the fourth or fifth attempt i managed to get up about feet, to where there was some sort of hold; then my brother followed, giving me rope enough to get to a firm rock, where i remained till joined by the others. it was almost as bad above, but we crawled carefully up; one place actually overhung--fortunately there was plenty of hold, and we slung ourselves up it! from this point the rocks became rather easier, and at . we reached a small sloping shelf of rock, about yards to the west of the glacier carré and on the top of the great rock wall. stopping here for a short time to get cool, and to let one of the party down to get the axes, which had been tied to a rope and had caught in a crevice in the rock, we changed leaders, and crossing some shelving rocks, climbed up a gully, or cleft, filled with icicles, and reached the platform of rock at the south-west end of the glacier carré at . a.m. "the platform we had reached can only be called one by comparison; it is rather smooth, and slopes too much to form a safe sleeping-place, but we left our extra luggage there. "at . we started up the glacier, gardiner going ahead, kicking steps into the soft, steep snow. "we were much more cheerful now than we had been two hours before. my companions had got rid of their heavy loads, the day was still very fine, and almer had told us that, could we but reach the glacier, we should have a good chance of success. "shortly before p.m. we were underneath the well-known overhanging top, the rocks of which, cutting across the face, form a triangular corner. it is the spot where gaspard lost so much time looking for the way on the first ascent. we knew that the arête had here to be crossed, and the northern face on the other side taken to. "almost before i got my head over the crest came the anxious question from below, 'will it go on the other side?' i could not see, however; so when the others came up, gardiner fixed himself and let us down to the full extent of the rope. the whole northern face, as far as we could see, looked terribly icy; but as there was no other way of regaining the arête higher up without going on to it, we told him to come down after us. "turning to the right as soon as possible, we had to traverse the steep, smooth face for a short distance. it took a long time, for the rocks were even worse than they had appeared; we often had to clear them of ice for a yard before we could find any hold at all and sometimes only the left hand could be spared for cutting. after about yards of this work we were able to turn upwards, and with great difficulty wriggled up the slippery rocks leading to the arête; rather disgusted to find the north face so difficult--owing, perhaps, to the lateness of the season. "it was our last difficulty, for the arête, though narrow, gives good hand and foot-hold, and we pressed eagerly onwards. in a few minutes it became more level, and there, sure enough, were the three stone-men, only separated from us by some easy rocks and snow, which we went at with a rush, and at . we stood on the highest point of the meije. "knowing that it would be useless for us to try and descend further than the glacier carré that day, and as it was pleasanter on the top than there, we went in for a long halt. untying the rope--for the top is broad enough to be safe--we examined the central cairn, where the tokens are kept. we found a tin box, containing the names of our predecessors; a bottle, hanging by a string, the property of mr coolidge; a tri-coloured flag; and a scented pocket-handkerchief belonging to m. guillemin, still retaining its former fragrance, which it had not 'wasted on the desert air.' we tore a corner off each, leaving a red-and-yellow rag in exchange; put our names in the tin, and an english penny with a hole bored through it. "then, after repairing the rather dilapidated southern cairn, we sat down to smoke and enjoy the view, which the fact of the mountain standing on the outside of the group, the tremendous depth to which the eye plunges on each side, the expansive panorama of the dauphiné and neighbouring alps, and the beautiful distant view of the pennine chain from mont blanc to monte rosa, combine to make one of the finest in the alps. "at four o'clock, after an hour and a half on the top, we started downwards, soon arriving at the spot where it was necessary to leave the arête; however, before doing so, we went along it to where it was cut off, to see if we could let ourselves straight down into the gap, and so avoid the detour by the northern face, but it was impracticable; so, putting the middle of the spare rope round a projecting rock on the arête, we let ourselves down to where we had gone along on the level, pulling the rope down after us; then regaining the gap by the morning's route, we crossed it, and leisurely descended the south-western face to the glacier carré, filling our now empty wine tin with water on the way down. we reached the glacier at . . in skirting the base of the pic du glacier we found a nice hollow in the snow, which looked a good place to sleep in. gardiner wanted one of us to stop and build a stone-wall, whilst the others fetched the bag and provisions from the bottom of the glacier. lawrence was neutral; i was rather against it, having slept on snow before. at last we all went down to the rocky platform where our luggage had been left. we cleared a place for the bag, but it all sloped so much, and the edge of the precipice was so near, that we dared not lie down. we looked for a good rock to tie ourselves to; even that could not be found. then some one thought we might scrape a hole in the steep snow above us, and get into it. that, of course, was quite out of the question. nothing therefore remained for us but gardiner's hollow above--the only level place we had seen above m. duhamel's cairn large enough for us to lay our bag on. there was no time to be lost; it was getting dark; a sharp frost had already set in: so we at once shouldered our traps and trudged wearily up the glacier once more, wishing now that we had left somebody to build a wall. "on reaching the hollow we put the ropes, axes, hats, and knapsack on the snow as a sort of carpet, placed the bag on the top, then, pulling off our boots for pillows, and putting on the comfortable woollen helmets given to us by mrs hartley, got into the bag to have our supper. fortunately there was not much wind; but it was rather difficult to open the meat tin. we did as well as we could, however, and after supper tried to smoke; but the cold air got into the bag and made that a failure; so we looked at the scene instead. "the moon was half full, and shone upon us as we lay, making everything look very beautiful. we could see the snow just in front of us, and then, far away through the frosty air all the mountains on the other side of the vallon des etançons, with the silver-grey peak of the ecrins behind, its icy ridges standing out sharply against the clear sky; and deep down in the dark valley below was the signal fire of our porters. as this could only be seen by sitting bolt upright, we got tired of looking at it, and the last link connecting us with the lower world being broken, we felt our utter loneliness. "the moon soon going behind a rocky spur of the pic du glacier, we lay down and tried to get warm by pulling the string round the neck of the bag as tight as possible and breathing inside; but somehow the outside air got in also. so closing it as well as we could, with only our heads out, we went to sleep, but not for long. the side on which we lay soon got chilled. now, as the bag was narrow, we all had to face one way on account of our knees; so the one who happened to be the soonest chilled through would give the word, and we all turned together. i suppose we must have changed sides every half-hour through the long night. we got some sleep, however, and felt all right when the first glimmering of dawn came over the mountains on our left. as soon as we could see we had breakfast; but the curried fowl was frozen, and the bread could only be cut with difficulty, as a shivering seized one every minute. we had the greatest trouble in getting our boots on. they were pressed out of shape, and, in spite of having been under our heads, were hard frozen. at last, by burning paper inside, and using them as lantern for our candle, we thawed them enough to get them on, and then spent a quarter of an hour stamping about to thaw ourselves. we rolled the bag up and tied it fast to a projecting rock, hanging the meat tin near as a guide to anyone looking for it. "at . we set off, very thankful that we had a fine day before us. we soon went down the glacier, and down and across to the shelf of rock where the real descent of the wall was to begin. a few feet below was a jagged tooth of rock which we could not move; so to it we tied one end of the feet of rope, taking care to protect the rope where it pressed on the sharp edges, with pieces of an old handkerchief; the other end we threw over the edge, and by leaning over we could just see the tail of it on some rocks below the bad part,[ ] so we knew it was long enough. "after a short discussion we arranged to go down one at a time, as there were places where we expected to throw all our weight on the rope. gardiner was to go first as he was the heaviest; my brother next, carrying all the traps and the three axes, as he had the strongest pair of hands and arms in the party; whilst i as the lightest, was to bring down the rear. so tying the climbing rope round his waist as an extra help, gardiner started, whilst we paid it out. he soon disappeared, but we knew how he was getting on, and when he was in the worst places, by the 'lower,' 'a little lower,' 'hold,' 'hold hard,' which came up from below, getting fainter as he got lower. fifty feet of the rope passed through our hands before he stopped going. 'can you hold there?' we asked. 'no. hold me while i rest a little, and then give me feet more if you can.' so after a while we got notice to lower, and down he went again until nearly all our rope was gone; then it slackened. he told us he was fast, and that we could pull up the rope. "then lawrence shouldered his burdens, the three axes being tied below him with a short piece of rope. the same thing happened again, only it was more exciting, for every now and then the axes caught and loosened with a jerk, which i felt on the rope i was paying out, although it was tied to him. at first i thought it was a slip, but soon got used to it. lawrence did not go so far as gardiner, but stopped to help me at the bottom of the worst piece. "it was now my turn. tying the other end of the loose rope round me, i crawled cautiously down to where the tight rope was fixed. the others told me afterwards they did not like it. i certainly did not. the upper part was all right; but lower down the rocks were so steep that if i put much weight on the rope it pulled me off them, and gave a tendency to swing over towards the glacier carré, which, as only one hand was left for climbing with, was rather difficult to resist. i remember very well sitting on a projecting rock, with nothing below it but air for at least feet. leaving this, lawrence half pulled me towards him with the loose rope. a few steps more and i was beside him, and we descended together to gardiner, cutting off the fixed rope high up, so as to leave as little as possible, and in a few minutes more we all three reached the small shelf of rocks above the smooth slabs by which we had descended the day before. it was the place where we had spent some time trying to avoid the steep bit we had just descended, and which had taken us nearly two hours. "this ledge is about feet broad. we had got down the only place on the mountain that had given us any anxiety. it was warm and pleasant; all the day was before us; so we took more than an hour to lunch and rest. "on starting again we ought to have stuck to our old route and descended by the slabs, as we could easily have done; but after a brief discussion we arranged to take a short cut, by fixing a second rope and letting ourselves straight down the drop on to the lower slanting ledge, at a point a few feet higher than where we had left it on the ascent. "we descended one at a time, as before, and, what with tying and untying, took much longer than we should have done had we gone the other way. on gaining the ledge we turned to our left and soon came across one of our marks; then striking down sooner than our old route would have taken us, we gave a wider berth to the falling ice, and got into the traverse leading to the top of the buttress. along it we went; but it looked different, had less snow, and when we came near the end a steep rock, with a nasty drop below, blocked the way. it appeared so bad that i said we were wrong. as the others were not sure, we retraced our steps, and by a very difficult descent gained a lower ledge. there was no snow on this, but the melting of the snow above made the rocks we had to take hold of so wet that we often got a stream of water down our arms and necks. "at last, after nearly crossing, it became quite impossible, and we turned back, having gained nothing but a wetting. "below it was far too steep. immediately above was the place we had tried just before. we could not make it out; we had been so positive about the place above. "we were just thinking of trying it again more carefully, when lawrence pointed up at something, and there, sure enough, was the bit of red rag left the day before to show the commencement of the traverse. "we marked where it was, and then crawled back along the ledge on which we were. scrambling up the steep drop, we made quickly upwards, and, turning towards our flag, found that the only way to it was along the very ledge where we had first tried, and which proved to be the traverse after all. "we were very glad to get into it once more, as for the last three hours we had been on the look-out for falling ice. some had already shot over our heads, sending showers of splinters on to us, and one piece as big as one's fist had come rather closer than was pleasant. on our left, the glacier carré kept up a regular fire of it, the ice following with tremendous noise on to the rocks below. every time it gave us a start, as we could not always see at once where the fall had taken place; and although the danger was more imaginary than real, it is not pleasant to be constantly on the look-out, and flattening one's self against the rocks to avoid being hit. "we soon crossed the snowy part of the traverse, and were again in front of the rock which had turned us back before. it looked no better; but on going close up we found a small crack near the top, just large enough to get our fingers into, giving excellent hold. by this we swung ourselves up and across the worst part. "we thought we had only two hours more easy descent, and our work would be done. but we made a mistake. "at first we went rapidly down, and were soon cheered by the sight of m. duhamel's cairn, looking about five minutes off. i was in front at the time, and was just getting on to a short snow-slope by which we had ascended the day before, when, doubting its safety, i asked the others to hold fast whilst i tried it. the moment i put my foot on the snow, all the top went away, slowly at first, then, taking to the left, went down the couloir with a rush. we tried again where the upper layer had gone away, but it was all unsafe; so we had to spend half an hour getting down the rocks, where we had ascended in ten minutes, and it was not until . that we reached the cairn. "it was . before we continued the descent. the couloir was not in good order and required care. gardiner, who was in front, did not get on as well as usual. at last, thinking we might get impatient, he showed us his fingers, which were bleeding in several places, and awfully raw and sore. he had pluckily kept it all to himself until the real difficulties were over; but the snow of the couloir had softened his hands, and these last rocks were weathered granite, and very sharp and cutting; so he had to go very gingerly. "at the bottom of the buttress a surprise awaited us, for as we descended the last feet, the weather-beaten face of old lagier, our porter, appeared above the rocks. the faithful old fellow said he had traced our descent by the occasional flashing of the wine tin in the sun, and had come alone to meet us, bringing us provisions as he thought we might have run short. he had waited six hours for us, and had iced the bottle of champagne which had been left on the ascent. we opened it and then hurried down to the glacier, taking off the rope at the moraine, and ran all the rest of the way on the snow to our bivouac, like a lot of colts turned loose in a field, feeling it a great relief to get on to something on which we could tumble about as we liked without falling over a precipice." that the meije is a really difficult mountain may be assumed from the fact that for some years after its first ascent, no party succeeded in getting up and down it on the same day. when every step of the way became well known, of course much quicker times were possible, and when, on th september , i went up it with the famous dauphiné guide, maximin gaspard, and roman imboden (the latter aged twenty-three, and perhaps the finest rock climber in switzerland), we had all in our favour. there was neither ice nor snow on the rocks, and no icicles hung from the glacier carré, while the weather was still and cloudless. we slept at the bottom of the buttress--just at the spot where mr pilkington met his porter--and from here were exactly four hours (including a halt of one hour) reaching the top of the meije. it is now the fashion to cross the meije from la bérarde to la grave, the descent on the other side being also extremely hard. for a couple of hours after leaving the summit a narrow ridge is traversed with several formidable gaps in it. footnote: [ ] the remains of this rope hung for years where mr pilkington had placed it, and when i ascended the meije i saw the bleached end of it hanging over as sickening looking a place as i have ever desired to avoid. the ordinary route passes more to the west. chapter xvi the piz scerscen twice in four days--the first ascent of mont blanc by a woman. it was a mad thing to do. i realised that when thinking of it afterwards; but this is how it happened. i had arranged with a friend, mr edmund garwood, to try a hitherto unattempted route on a mountain not far from maloja. he was to bring his guide, young roman imboden; i was to furnish a second man, wieland, of st moritz. [illustration: wieland on the highest point of piz scerscen (page ).] [illustration: a party on a mountain top.] [illustration: the other party descending piz bernina (page ).] [illustration: a party commencing the descent of a snow ridge.] the hour had come to start, the carriage was at the door and the provisions were in it, and wieland and i were in readiness when, to our surprise, roman turned up without mr garwood. a note which he brought explained that the latter was not well, but hoped i would make the expedition all the same, and take roman with me. i was unwilling to monopolise a new ascent, though probably only an easy one, so i refused to go till my friend was better, and asked the guides to suggest something else. the weather was lovely and our food ready, and it seemed a pity to waste either. wieland could not think of a suitable climb, so i turned to roman, who had only arrived at pontresina two days before, and asked him his ideas. he very sensibly inquired: "what peaks have you not done yet here, ma'am?" "all but the scerscen." "then we go for the--whatever you call it." "oh, but roman," i exclaimed, "the scerscen is very difficult, and there is feet of fresh snow on the mountains, and it is out of the question!" "i don't believe any of these mountains are difficult," said roman doggedly, with that contempt for all engadine climbing shown by guides from the other side of switzerland. "ask wieland," i suggested. wieland smiled at the question, and said he did not at all mind going to look at the scerscen, but, as to ascending it under the present conditions, of course it was absurd. "besides," he added, "we are much too late to go to the marinelli hut to-day." "why not do it from the mortel hut?" i remarked, on the "in for a penny in for a pound" principle. he smiled again; indeed, i think he laughed, and agreed that, as anyhow we could not go up the scerscen, we might as well sleep at the mortel hut as anywhere else. "have you ever been up it?" roman inquired. wieland answered that he had not. roman turned to me: "can you find the mountain? should you know it if you saw it? don't let us go up the wrong one, ma'am!" i promised to lead them to the foot of the peak, and roman repeated his conviction that all engadine mountains were perfectly easy, and that we should find ourselves on the top of the scerscen next morning. however, he made no objection to taking an extra rope of feet, and, telling one friend our plan in strictest confidence, we climbed into the carriage. we duly arrived at the mortel hut and were early in bed, as roman wished us to set out at an early hour, or a late one, if i may thus allude to p.m. he was still firmly convinced that to the top of the scerscen we should go, and wanted every moment in hand, in spite of his recent criticisms of engadine mountains. there was a very useful moon, and by its light we promised roman to take him to the foot of the peak, where its rocky sides rise abruptly from the scerscen glacier. i must here explain that there are several ways up the scerscen. i wished to ascend by the rocks on the south side, which, though harder, were safer than the other routes. as for the descent (if we got up!) we intended coming down the way we had ascended, little knowing not only that no one had been down by this route, but also that a party had attempted to get down it and had been driven back. as for finding our way up, some notes in the _alpine journal_ were our only guide. the mountain had been previously ascended but a few times altogether, and only, i think, once or twice by the south face. no lady had up till then tried it. we were off punctually at p.m., and by the brilliant light of the moon made good time over the glacier and up the snow slopes leading to the sella pass. this we reached in three hours, without a pause, from the hut, and, making no halt there, immediately plunged into the softer snow on the italian side, and began to skirt the precipices on our left. even in midsummer, it was still dark at this early hour, and the moon had already set. a great rocky peak rose near us, and wieland gave it as his opinion that it was the scerscen. i differed from him, believing our mountain to be some distance farther, so it was mutually agreed that we should halt for food, after which we should have more light to enable us to determine our position. gradually the warmth of dawn crept over the sky, and soon the beautiful spectacle of an alpine sunrise was before us, with the wonderful "flush of adoration" on the mountain heads. there was no doubt now where we were; our peak was some way beyond, and the only question was, how to go up it? i repeated to roman the information i had gleaned from the journal, and he thanked me, doubtless having his own ideas, which he intended alone to be guided by. luckily, as we advanced the mountain became visible from base to summit, so that roman could trace out his way up it as upon a map. we walked up the glacier to the foot of the mighty wall, and soon began to go up it, advancing for some time with fair rapidity, in spite of the fresh snow. after, perhaps, a couple of hours or so, we came to our first real difficulty. this was a tall, red cliff, with a cleft up part of it, and, as there was an evil-looking and nearly perpendicular gully of ice to the right and overhanging rocks to the left, we had either to go straight up or abandon the expedition. the cleft was large and was garnished with a sturdy icicle, or column of ice, some feet or more in diameter. bidding me wedge myself into a firm place, roman began to cut footholds up the icicle, and then, when after a few steps the cleft or chimney ended, he turned to his right and wormed himself along the very face of the cliff, holding on by the merest irregularities, which can hardly be termed ledges. after a couple of yards he struck straight up, and wriggling somehow on the surface, rendered horribly slippery by the snow, he at last, after what seemed an age, called on wieland to follow. what was a _tour de force_ for the first man was comparatively easy for the second, and soon my turn came to try my hand--or rather my feet and knees and any other adhesive portion of my person--on the business. the first part was the worst, for, as the rope came from the side and not above till the traverse was made, i had no help. eventually i, too, emerged on to the wall, and saw right over me the rope passing through a gap, behind which, excellently placed, were the guides. i helped myself to the utmost of my capacity, but a pull was not unwelcome towards the end, when, exhausted and breathless, i could struggle no more. as i joined the guides they moved to give me space on the ledge, and we spent a well-earned quarter of an hour in rest and refreshment. the worst was now over, but owing to the snow, which covered much of the rock to a depth of about or feet, the remainder of the way was distinctly difficult, and as the mountain was totally unknown to us we never could tell what troubles might be in store. however, having left the foot of the actual peak at . a.m., we arrived on the top at . a.m., and as we lifted our heads above the final rocks, hardly daring to believe that we really were on the summit, a distant cheer was borne to our ears from piz bernina, and we knew that our arrival had been observed by another party. so formidable did we consider the descent that we only allowed ourselves ten minutes on the top, and then we prepared to go. could we cross the ridge to piz bernina and so avoid the chimney? it had a great reputation, and we feared to embark on the unknown. so at . a.m. we began the descent, moving one at a time with the utmost caution. before long the difficulties increased as we reached the steeper part of the mountain. the rocks now streamed with water from the rapidly melting snow, under the rays of an august sun. as i held on, streams ran in at my wristbands, and soon i was soaked through. but the work demanded such close attention that a mere matter of discomfort was nothing. presently we had to uncoil our spare feet of rope, and now our progress grew slower and slower. after some hours we came to the chimney. no suitable rock could be found to attach the rope to, so roman sat down and thought the matter out. the difficulty was to get the last man down; for the two first, held from above, the descent was easy. roman soon hit upon an ingenious idea. wieland and i were to go down to the bottom of the cleft. wieland was to unrope me and, leaving me, was to cut steps _across_ the ice-slope to our left till leverage was obtainable for the rope across the boss of rock where roman stood, and where it would remain in position so long as it was kept taut, with roman at one end and wieland slowly paying out from below. the manoeuvre succeeded, and after about two hours' work wieland had hewn a large platform in the ice and prepared to gradually let out the rope as roman came down. he descended in grand form, puffing at his pipe and declared the difficulty grossly over-rated, though he did not despise the precaution. at . a.m. we re-entered the mortel hut, somewhat tired, but much pleased with the success of our expedition. our second ascent of piz scerscen is soon told. four days later roman casually remarked to me: "it is a pity, ma'am, we have not crossed the scerscen to the bernina." "it is," i replied. "let us start at once and do it." wieland was consulted, and was only too delighted to go anywhere under roman's leadership. our times will give an idea of the changed state of the mountain, for, leaving the mortel hut at . midnight, we were on the top of the scerscen at a.m. at nine we set off, and taking things leisurely, with halts for food, we passed along the famous arête, and, thanks to roman's choice of route, met with not one really hard step. at . p.m. we found ourselves on the top of piz bernina, and had a chat with another party, who had arrived not long before. i waited to see them start, and rejoiced that i had kept two plates. then we, too, set forth, and were in the valley by p.m. the first ascent of mont blanc by a woman, and some subsequent ascents the first woman who reached the summit of mont blanc was a native of chamonix, maria paradis by name. her account of her expedition is so admirably graphic and picturesque that i shall give a translation of it as like the original as i can. though it was so far back as the year , maria writes quite in the spirit of modern journalism. she begins:--"i was only a poor servant. one day the guides said to me, 'we are going up there, come with us. travellers will come and see you afterwards and give you presents.' that decided me, and i set out with them. when i reached the grand plateau i could not walk any longer. i felt very ill, and i lay down on the snow. i panted like a chicken in the heat. they held me up by my arms on each side and dragged me along. but at the rochers-rouge i could get no further, and i said to them 'chuck me into a crevasse and go on yourselves.' "'you must go to the top,' answered the guides. they seized hold of me, they dragged me, they pushed me, they carried me, and at last we arrived. once at the summit, i could see nothing clearly, i could not breathe, i could not speak." maria was thirty years of age, and made quite a fortune out of her achievement. from that time, tourists returning from mont blanc noticed with surprise, as they passed through the pine woods, a feast spread out under the shade of a huge tree. cream, fruit, etc., were tastefully displayed on the white cloth. a neat-looking peasant woman urged them to partake. "it is maria of mont blanc!" the guides would cry, and the travellers halted to hear the story of her ascent and to refresh themselves. the second woman, and the first lady to climb mont blanc, was a frenchwoman, mademoiselle d'angeville. for years she had determined to make the attempt, but it was only in , when she was years of age, that she came to chamonix with the intention of immediately setting out for the great mountain. she had many difficulties to surmount. the guides feared the responsibility of taking up a woman, many of the chamonix people thought her mad, and while one was ready to offer a thousand francs to five that she would not reach the top, another was prepared to accept heavy odds that there would be a catastrophe. at last, however, all was ready, and she started. two other parties offered to join her. she declined with thanks. after half an hour on the glacier she detached herself from the rope and would accept no help. this was far from being out of sheer bravado, it was simply that she desired to inspire confidence in her powers. during the night on the rocks of the grands mulets she suffered terribly from cold and could not snatch a moment's sleep. when the party stopped for breakfast at the grand plateau, she could eat nothing. at the corridor, feverishness, and fearful thirst overcame her; she fell to the ground from weakness and drowsiness. after a little rest, however, she was able to go on, but at the mur de la cote she felt desperately ill. violent palpitation seized on her and her limbs felt like lead. with a tremendous effort she moved on. the beatings of her heart became more suffocating, her pulse was too rapid to count, she could not take more than ten steps without stopping. one thing only remained strong in her--the _will_. during these frequent halts she heard the murmuring of talk between the guides, as in a dream. "we shall fail! look at her, she has fallen asleep! shall we try and carry her?" while couttet cried, "if ever i find myself again with a lady on mont blanc!" at these words mademoiselle d'angeville, with a desperate effort, shook off her torpor and stood up. she clung with desperate energy to the one idea: "if i die," she said to the guides, "promise to carry me up there and bury me on the top!" and the men, stupified with such persistence, answered gravely, "make your mind easy, mademoiselle, you shall go there, dead or alive!" [illustration: hard work.] [illustration: mrs aubrey le blond sets out in a long skirt (page ).] as she approached the top she felt better, and was able to advance without support, and when she stepped on to the summit, and knew that her great wish was at last accomplished, all sensation of illness vanished as if by enchantment. "and now, mademoiselle, you shall go higher than mont blanc!" exclaimed the guides, and joining hands they lifted her above their shoulders. one more ascent by a lady deserves mention here, that of miss stratton, on st january . she was the first person to reach the summit of mont blanc in mid-winter. it is difficult to understand why these early climbers of mont blanc, men as well as women, suffered so terribly from mountain sickness, a disease one rarely hears of nowadays in the alps. the question is too vexed a one for me to discuss it here, but i may say that want of training and unsuitable food bring it on in most cases. "the stagnation of the air in valleys above the snow-line," was believed to produce it, and i cannot help thinking that this does have some effect. the first time i went up mont blanc i did not feel well on the grand plateau, but was all right when i reached the breezy ridge of the bosses. the second time, ascending by the route on the italian side of the peak, where there are no snowy valleys, i did not suffer at all. the third time i felt uncomfortable on the slope leading to the corridor, but quite myself again above. chapter xvii the ascent of a wall of ice of all the writers on alpine matters none has a more charming style, or has described his adventures in a more modest manner, than sir leslie stephen. perhaps the most delightful passages in his _playground of europe_ are those in which he tells how, in company with the messrs mathews, he managed to get up the great wall of ice between the mönch and the eiger, known as the eigerjoch. the messrs mathews had with them two chamonix guides, while mr leslie stephen had engaged the gigantic oberlander ulrich lauener. in those days there was often keen rivalry--and something more--between french and german-speaking guides, and lauener was apt to be rather an autocrat on the mountains. "as, however, he could not speak a word of french, nor they of german, he was obliged to convey his 'sentiments' in pantomime, which, perhaps, did not soften 'their vigour.' i was accordingly prepared for a few disputes next day. "about four on the morning of th august we got off from the inn on the wengern alp, notwithstanding a few delays, and steered straight for the foot of the eiger. in the early morning the rocks around the glacier and the lateral moraines were hard and slippery. before long, however, we found ourselves well on the ice, near the central axis of the eiger glacier, and looking up at the great terrace-shaped ice-masses, separated by deep crevasses, which rose threateningly over our heads, one above another, like the defences of some vast fortification. and here began the first little dispute between oberland and chamouni. the chamouni men proposed a direct assault on the network of crevasses above us. lauener said that we ought to turn them by crossing to the south-west side, immediately below the mönch. my friends and their guides forming a majority, and seeming to have little respect for the arguments urged by the minority, we gave in and followed them, with many muttered remarks from lauener. we soon found ourselves performing a series of manoeuvres like those required for the ascent of the col du géant. at times we were lying flat in little gutters on the faces of the _séracs_, worming ourselves along like boa-constrictors. at the next moment we were balancing ourselves on a knife-edge of ice between two crevasses, or plunging into the very bowels of the glacier, with a natural arch of ice meeting above our heads. i need not attempt to describe difficulties and dangers familiar to all ice-travellers. like other such difficulties, they were exciting, and even rather amusing for a time, but, unfortunately, they seemed inclined to last rather too long. some of the deep crevasses apparently stretched almost from side to side of the glacier, rending its whole mass into distorted fragments. in attempting to find a way through them, we seemed to be going nearly as far backwards as forwards, and the labyrinth in which we were involved was as hopelessly intricate after a long struggle as it had been at first. moreover, the sun had long touched the higher snow-fields, and was creeping down to us step by step. as soon as it reached the huge masses amongst which we were painfully toiling, some of them would begin to jump about like hailstones in a shower, and our position would become really dangerous. the chamouni guides, in fact, declared it to be dangerous already, and warned us not to speak, for fear of bringing some of the nicely-poised ice-masses down on our heads. on my translating this well-meant piece of advice to lauener, he immediately selected the most dangerous looking pinnacle in sight, and mounting to the top of it sent forth a series of screams, loud enough, i should have thought, to bring down the top of the mönch. they failed, however, to dislodge any _séracs_, and lauener, going to the front, called to us to follow him. by this time we were all glad to follow any one who was confident enough to lead. turning to our right, we crossed the glacier in a direction parallel to the deep crevasses, and therefore unobstructed by any serious obstacles, till we found ourselves immediately beneath the great cliffs of the mönch. our prospects changed at once. a great fold in the glacier produces a kind of diagonal pathway, stretching upwards from the point where we stood towards the rocks of the eiger--not that it was exactly a carriage-road--but along the line which divides two different systems of crevasse, the glacier seemed to have been crushed into smaller fragments, producing, as it were, a kind of incipient macadamisation. the masses, instead of being divided by long regular trenches, were crumbled and jammed together so as to form a road, easy and pleasant enough by comparison with our former difficulties. pressing rapidly up this rough path, we soon found ourselves in the very heart of the glacier, with a broken wilderness of ice on every side. we were in one of the grandest positions i have ever seen for observing the wonders of the ice-world; but those wonders were not all of an encouraging nature. for, looking up to the snow-fields now close above us, an obstacle appeared which made us think that all our previous labours had been in vain. from side to side of the glacier a vast _chevaux de frise_ of blue ice-pinnacles struck up through the white layers of _névé_ formed by the first plunge of the glacier down its waterfall of ice. some of them rose in fantastic shapes--huge blocks balanced on narrow footstalks, and only waiting for the first touch of the sun to fall in ruins down the slope below. others rose like church spires, or like square towers, defended by trenches of unfathomable depths. once beyond this barrier we should be safe upon the highest plateau of the glacier at the foot of the last snow-slope. but it was obviously necessary to turn them by some judicious strategical movement. one plan was to climb the lower rocks of the eiger; but, after a moment's hesitation, we fortunately followed lauener towards the other side of the glacier, where a small gap between the _séracs_ and the lower slopes of the mönch seemed to be the entrance to a ravine that might lead us upwards. such it turned out to be. instead of the rough footing in which we had hitherto been unwillingly restricted, we found ourselves ascending a narrow gorge, with the giant cliffs of the mönch on our right, and the toppling ice-pinnacles on our left. a beautifully even surface of snow, scarcely marked by a single crevasse, lay beneath our feet. we pressed rapidly up this strange little pathway, as it wound steeply upwards between the rocks and the ice, expecting at every moment to see it thin out, or break off at some impassable crevasse. it was, i presume, formed by the sliding of avalanches from the slopes of the mönch. at any rate, to our delight, it led us gradually round the barrier of _séracs_, till in a few minutes we found ourselves on the highest plateau of the glacier, the crevasses fairly beaten, and a level plain of snow stretching from our feet to the last snow-slope. "we were now standing on the edge of a small level plateau. one, and only one, gigantic crevasse of really surpassing beauty stretched right across it. this was, we guessed, some feet deep, and its sides passed gradually into the lovely blues and greens of semi-transparent ice, whilst long rows and clusters of huge icicles imitated (as lauener remarked) the carvings and ecclesiastical furniture of some great cathedral. "to reach our pass, we had the choice either of at once attacking the long steep slopes which led directly to the shoulder of the mönch, or of first climbing the gentle slope near the eiger, and then forcing our way along the backbone of the ridge. we resolved to try the last plan first. "accordingly, after a hasty breakfast at . , we started across our little snow-plain and commenced the ascent. after a short climb of no great difficulty, merely pausing to chip a few steps out of the hard crust of snow, we successively stepped safely on to the top of the ridge. as each of my predecessors did so, i observed that he first looked along the arête, then down the cliffs before him, and then turned with a very blank expression of face to his neighbour. from our feet the bare cliffs sank down, covered with loose rocks, but too steep to hold more than patches of snow, and presenting right dangerous climbing for many hundred feet towards the grindelwald glaciers. the arête offered a prospect not much better: a long ridge of snow, sharp as the blade of a knife, was playfully alternated with great rocky teeth, striking up through their icy covering, like the edge of a saw. we held a council standing, and considered the following propositions:--first, lauener coolly proposed, and nobody seconded, a descent of the precipices towards grindelwald. this proposition produced a subdued shudder from the travellers and a volley of unreportable language from the chamouni guides. it was liable, amongst other things, to the trifling objection that it would take us just the way we did not want to go. the chamouni men now proposed that we should follow the arête. this was disposed of by lauener's objection that it would take at least six hours. we should have had to cut steps down the slope and up again round each of the rocky teeth i have mentioned; and i believe that this calculation of time was very probably correct. finally, we unanimously resolved upon the only course open to us--to descend once more into our little valley, and thence to cut our way straight up the long slopes to the shoulder of the mönch. "considerably disappointed at this unexpected check, we retired to the foot of the slopes, feeling that we had no time to lose, but still hoping that a couple of hours more might see us at the top of the pass. it was just eleven as we crossed a small bergschrund and began the ascent. lauener led the way to cut the steps, followed by the two other guides, who deepened and polished them up. just as we started, i remarked a kind of bright tract drawn down the ice in front of us, apparently by the frozen remains of some small rivulet which had been trickling down it. i guessed it would take some fifty steps and half-an-hour's work to reach it. we cut about fifty steps, however, in the first half-hour, and were not a quarter of the way to my mark; and as even when there we should not be half-way to the top, matters began to look serious. the ice was very hard, and it was necessary, as lauener observed, to cut steps in it as big as soup-tureens, for the result of a slip would in all probability have been that the rest of our lives would have been spent in sliding down a snow-slope, and that that employment would not have lasted long enough to become at all monotonous. time slipped by, and i gradually became weary of a sound to which at first i always listened with pleasure--the chipping of the axe, and the hiss of the fragments as they skip down the long incline below us. moreover, the sun was very hot, and reflected with oppressive power from the bright and polished surface of the ice. i could see that a certain flask was circulating with great steadiness amongst the guides, and the work of cutting the steps seemed to be extremely severe. i was counting the th step, when we at last reached the little line i had been so long watching, and it even then required a glance back at the long line of steps behind to convince me that we had in fact made any progress. the action of resting one's whole weight on one leg for about a minute, and then slowly transferring it to the other, becomes wearisome when protracted for hours. still the excitement and interest made the time pass quickly. i was in constant suspense lest lauener should pronounce for a retreat, which would have been not merely humiliating, but not improbably dangerous, amidst the crumbling _séracs_ in the afternoon sun. i listened with some amusement to the low moanings of little charlet, who was apparently bewailing his position to croz, and being heartless chaffed in return. one or two measurements with a clinometer of mathews' gave inclinations of ° or °, and the slope was perhaps occasionally a little more. [illustration: a very steep ice slope.] [illustration: hard snow in the early morning on the top of a glacier pass nearly , feet above sea.] "at last, as i was counting the th step, we reached a little patch of rock, and felt ourselves once more on solid ground, with no small satisfaction. not that the ground was specially solid. it was a small crumbling patch of rock, and every stone we dislodged went bounding rapidly down the side of the slope, diminishing in apparent size till it disappeared in the bergschrund, hundreds of feet below. however, each of us managed to find some nook in which he could stow himself away, whilst the chamouni men took their turn in front, and cut steps straight upwards to the top of the slope. by this means they kept along a kind of rocky rib, of which our patch was the lowest point, and we thus could occasionally get a footstep on rock instead of ice. once on the top of the slope, we could see no obstacle intervening between us and the point over which our pass must lie. "meanwhile we meditated on our position. it was already four o'clock. after twelve hours' unceasing labour, we were still a long way on the wrong side of the pass. we were clinging to a ledge in the mighty snow-wall which sank sheer down below us and rose steeply above our heads. beneath our feet the whole plain of switzerland lay with a faint purple haze drawn over it like a veil, a few green sparkles just pointing out the lake of thun. nearer, and apparently almost immediately below us, lay the wengern alp, and the little inn we had left twelve hours before, whilst we could just see the back of the labyrinth of crevasses where we had wandered so long. through a telescope i could even distinguish people standing about the inn, who no doubt were contemplating our motions. as we rested, the chamouni guides had cut a staircase up the slope, and we prepared to follow. it was harder work than before, for the whole slope was now covered with a kind of granular snow, and resembled a huge pile of hailstones. the hailstones poured into every footstep as it was cut, and had to be cleared out with hands and feet before we could get even a slippery foothold. as we crept cautiously up this treacherous staircase, i could not help reflecting on the lively bounds with which the stones and fragments of ice had gone spinning from our last halting place down to the yawning bergschrund below. we succeeded, however, in avoiding their example, and a staircase of about one hundred steps brought us to the top of the ridge, but at a point still at some distance from the pass. it was necessary to turn along the arête towards the mönch. we were preparing to do this by keeping on the snow-ridge, when lauener, jumping down about feet on the side opposite to that by which we had ascended, lighted upon a little ledge of rock, and called to us to follow. he assured us that it was granite, and that therefore there was no danger of slipping. it was caused by the sun having melted the snow on the southern side of the ridge, so that it no longer quite covered the inclined plane of rock upon which it rested. it was narrow and treacherous enough in appearance at first; soon, however, it grew broader, and, compared with our ice-climb, afforded capital footing. the precipice beneath us thinned out as the viescher glacier rose towards our pass, and at last we found ourselves at the edge of a little mound of snow, through which a few plunging steps brought us, just at six o'clock, to the long-desired shoulder of the mönch. "i cannot describe the pleasure with which we stepped at last on to the little saddle of snow, and felt that we had won the victory." chapter xviii the aiguille du dru few mountains have been the object of such repeated attempts by experienced climbers to reach their summits, as was the rocky pinnacle of the aiguille du dru, at chamonix. while the name of whymper will always be associated with the matterhorn, so will that of clinton dent be with the aiguille du dru, and the accounts given by him in his delightful little work, _above the snow line_, of his sixteen unavailing scrambles on the peak, followed by the stirring description of how at last he got up it, are amongst the romances of mountaineering. i have space for only a few extracts describing mr dent's early attempts, which even the non-climber would find very entertaining to read about in the work from which i quote. the chamonix people, annoyed that foreign guides should monopolise the peak, threw cold water on the idea of ascending it, and were ready, if they got a chance, to deny that it had been ascended. an honourable exception to the attitude adopted by these gentry, was, however, furnished by that splendid guide, edouard cupelin, who always asserted that the peak was climbable, and into whose big mind no trace of jealousy was ever known to enter. very witty are some of the accounts of mr dent's earlier starts for the aiguille du dru. on one occasion, starting in the small hours of the morning from chamonix, he reached the montanvert at . a.m. "the landlord at once appeared in full costume," he writes; "indeed i observed that during the summer it was impossible to tell from his attire whether he had risen immediately from bed or no. our friend had cultivated to great perfection the art of half sleeping during his waking hours--that is, during such time as he might be called upon to provide entertainment for man and beast. now, at the montanvert, during the tourists' season, this period extended over the whole twenty-four hours. it was necessary, therefore, in order that he might enjoy a proper physiological period of rest, for him to remain in a dozing state--a sort of æstival hybernation--for the whole time, which in fact he did; or else he was by nature a very dull person, and had actually a very restricted stock of ideas. "the sight of a tourist with an ice-axe led by a kind of reflex process to the landlord's unburdening his mind with his usual remarks. like other natives of the valley he had but two ideas of 'extraordinary' expeditions. 'monsieur is going to the jardin?' he remarked. 'no, monsieur isn't.' 'then, beyond a doubt, monsieur will cross the col du géant?' he said, playing his trump card. 'no, monsieur will not.' 'pardon--where does monsieur expect to go?' 'on the present occasion we go to try the aiguille du dru.' the landlord smiled in an aggravating manner. 'does monsieur think he will get up?' 'time will show.' 'ah!' the landlord, who had a chronic cold in the head, searched for his pocket-handkerchief, but not finding it, modified the necessary sniff into one of derision." on this day the party did not get up, nor did they gain the summit a little later when they made another attempt. they then had with them a porter who gave occasion for an excellent bit of character-sketching. "he was," says mr dent, "as silent as an oyster, though a strong and skilful climber, and like an oyster when its youth is passed, he was continually on the gape." they mounted higher and higher, and began at last to think that success awaited them. "old franz chattered away to himself, as was his wont when matters went well, and on looking back on one occasion i perceived the strange phenomenon of a smile illuminating the porter's features. however, this worthy spoke no words of satisfaction, but pulled ever at his empty pipe. "by dint of wriggling over a smooth sloping stone slab, we had got into a steep rock gully which promised to lead us to a good height. burgener, assisted by much pushing and prodding from below, and aided on his own part by much snorting and some strong language, had managed to climb on to a great overhanging boulder that cut off the view from the rest of the party below. as he disappeared from sight we watched the paying out of the rope with as much anxiety as a fisherman eyes his vanishing line when the salmon runs. presently the rope ceased to move, and we waited for a few moments in suspense. we felt that the critical moment of the expedition had arrived, and the fact that our own view was exceedingly limited, made us all the more anxious to hear the verdict. 'how does it look?' we called out. the answer came back in _patois_, a bad sign in such emergencies. for a minute or two an animated conversation was kept up; then we decided to take another opinion, and accordingly hoisted up our second guides. the chatter was redoubled. 'what does it look like?' we shouted again. 'not possible from where we are,' was the melancholy answer, and in a tone that crushed at once all our previous elation. i could not find words at the moment to express my disappointment; but the porter could, and gallantly he came to the rescue. he opened his mouth for the first time and spoke, and he said very loud indeed that it was 'verdammt.' precisely: that is just what it was." [illustration: on a very steep, smooth slab of rock.] [illustration: negotiating steep passages of rock.] it was not till that mr dent was able to return to chamonix. he had now one fixed determination with regard to the dru:--either he would get to the top or prove that the ascent was impossible. his first few attempts that season were frustrated by bad weather, and so persistently did the rain continue to fall that for a couple of weeks no high ascents could be thought of. during this time, mr maund, who had been with mr dent on many of his attempts, was obliged to return to england. "on a mountain such as we knew the aiguille du dru to be, it would not have been wise to make any attempt with a party of more than four. no doubt three--that is, an amateur with two guides--would have been better still, but i had, during the enforced inaction through which we had been passing, become so convinced of ultimate success, that i was anxious to find a companion to share it. fortunately, j. walker hartley, a highly skilful and practised mountaineer, was at chamouni, and it required but little persuasion to induce him to join our party. seizing an opportunity one august day, when the rain had stopped for a short while, we decided to try once more, or, at any rate, to see what effects the climatic phases through which we had been passing had produced on the aiguille. with alexander burgener and andreas maurer still as guides, we ascended once again the slopes by the side of the charpoua glacier, and succeeded in discovering a still more eligible site for a bivouac than on our previous attempts. a little before four the next morning we extracted each other from our respective sleeping bags, and made our way rapidly up the glacier. the snow still lay thick everywhere on the rocks, which were fearfully cold, and glazed with thin layers of slippery ice; but our purpose was very serious that day, and we were not to be deterred by anything short of unwarrantable risk. we intended the climb to be merely one of exploration, but were resolved to make it as thorough as possible, and with the best results. from the middle of the slope leading up to the ridge the guides went on alone, while we stayed to inspect and work out bit by bit the best routes over such parts of the mountain as lay within view. in an hour or two burgener and maurer came back to us, and the former invited me to go on with him back to the point from which he had just descended. his invitation was couched in gloomy terms, but there was a twinkle at the same time in his eye which it was easy to interpret--_ce n'est que l'oeil qui rit_. we started off, and climbed without the rope up the way which was now so familiar, but which on this occasion, in consequence of the glazed condition of the rocks, was as difficult as it could well be; but for a growing conviction that the upper crags were not so bad as they looked, we should scarcely have persevered. 'wait a little,' said burgener, 'i will show you something presently.' we reached at last a great knob of rock close below the ridge, and for a long time sat a little distance apart silently staring at the precipices of the upper peak. i asked burgener what it might be that he had to show me. he pointed to a little crack some way off, and begged that i would study it, and then fell again to gazing at it very hard himself. though we scarcely knew it at the time this was the turning point of our year's climbing. up to that moment i had only felt doubts as to the inaccessibility of the mountain. now a certain feeling of confident elation began to creep over me. the fact is, that we gradually worked ourselves up into the right mental condition, and the aspect of a mountain varies marvellously according to the beholder's frame of mind. these same crags had been by each of us independently, at one time or another, deliberately pronounced impossible. they were in no better condition that day than usual, in fact, in much worse order than we had often seen them before. yet, notwithstanding that good judges had ridiculed the idea of finding a way up the precipitous wall, the prospect looked different that day as turn by turn we screwed our determination up to the sticking point. here and there we could clearly trace short bits of practicable rock ledges along which a man might walk, or over which at any rate he might transport himself, while cracks and irregularities seemed to develop as we looked. gradually, uniting and communicating passages appeared to form. faster and faster did our thoughts travel, and at last we rose and turned to each other. the same train of ideas had independently been passing through our minds. burgener's face flushed, his eyes brightened, and he struck a great blow with his axe as we exclaimed almost together, 'it must, and it shall be done!' "the rest of the day was devoted to bringing down the long ladder, which had previously been deposited close below the summit of the ridge, to a point much lower and nearer to the main peak. this ladder had not hitherto been of the slightest assistance on the rocks, and had, indeed, proved a source of constant anxiety and worry, for it was ever prone to precipitate its lumbering form headlong down the slope. we had, it is true, used it occasionally on the glacier to bridge over the crevasses, and had saved some time thereby. still, we were loth to discard its aid altogether, and accordingly devoted much time and no little exertion to hauling it about and fixing it in a place of security. it was late in the evening before we had made all our preparations for the next assault and turned to the descent, which proved to be exceedingly difficult on this occasion. the snow had become very soft during the day; the late hour and the melting above caused the stones to fall so freely down the gully that we gave up that line of descent and made our way over the face. often, in travelling down, we were buried up to the waist in soft snow overlying rock slabs, of which we knew no more than that they were very smooth and inclined at a highly inconvenient angle. it was imperative for one only to move at a time, and the perpetual roping and unroping was most wearisome. in one place it was necessary to pay out feet of rope between one position of comparative security and the one next below it, till the individual who was thus lowered looked like a bait at the end of a deep sea-line. one step and the snow would crunch up in a wholesome manner and yield firm support. the next, and the leg plunged in as far as it could reach, while the submerged climber would, literally, struggle in vain to collect himself. of course those above, to whom the duty of paying out the rope was entrusted, would seize the occasion to jerk as violently at the cord as a cabman does at his horse's mouth when he has misguided the animal round a corner. now another step, and a layer of snow not more than a foot deep would slide off with a gentle hiss, exposing bare, black ice beneath, or treacherous loose stones. nor were our difficulties at an end when we reached the foot of the rocks, for the head of the glacier had fallen away from the main mass of the mountain, even as an ill-constructed bow-window occasionally dissociates itself from the façade of a jerry-built villa, and some very complicated manoeuvring was necessary in order to reach the snow slopes. it was not till late in the evening that we reached chamouni; but it would have mattered nothing to us even had we been benighted, for we had seen all that we had wanted to see, and i would have staked my existence now on the possibility of ascending the peak. but the moment was not yet at hand, and our fortress held out against surrender to the very last by calling in its old allies, sou'-westerly winds and rainy weather. the whirligig of time had not yet revolved so as to bring us in our revenge. * * * * * "perhaps the monotonous repetition of failures on the peak influences my recollection of what took place subsequently to the expedition last mentioned. perhaps (as i sometimes think even now) an intense desire to accomplish our ambition ripened into a realisation of actual occurrences which really were only efforts of imagination. this much i know, that when on th september we sat once more round a blazing wood fire at the familiar bivouac gazing pensively at the crackling fuel, it seemed hard to persuade one's self that so much had taken place since our last attempt. leaning back against the rock and closing the eyes for a moment it seemed but a dream, whose reality could be disproved by an effort of the will, that we had gone to zermatt in a storm and hurried back again in a drizzle on hearing that some other climbers were intent on our peak; that we had left chamouni in rain and tried, for the seventeenth time, in a tempest; that matters had seemed so utterly hopeless, seeing that the season was far advanced and the days but short, as to induce me to return to england, leaving minute directions that if the snow should chance to melt and the weather to mend i might be summoned back at once; that after eight-and-forty hours of sojourn in the fogs of my native land an intimation had come by telegraph of glad tidings; that i had posted off straightway by _grande vitesse_ back to chamouni; that i had arrived there at four in the morning." once more the party mounted the now familiar slopes above their bivouac, and somehow on this occasion they all felt that something definite would come of the expedition, even if they did not on that occasion actually reach the top. i give the remainder of the account in mr dent's own words: "now, personal considerations had to a great extent to be lost sight of in the desire to make the most of the day, and the result was that hartley must have had a very bad time of it. unfortunately, perhaps for him, he was by far the lightest member of the party; accordingly we argued that he was far less likely to break the rickety old ladder than we were. again, as the lightest weight, he was most conveniently lowered down first over awkward places when they occurred. "in the times which are spoken of as old, and which have also, for some not very definable reason, the prefix good, if you wanted your chimneys swept you did not employ an individual now dignified by the title of a ramoneur, but you adopted the simpler plan of calling in a master sweep. this person would come attended by a satellite, who wore the outward form of a boy and was gifted with certain special physical attributes. especially was it necessary that the boy should be of such a size and shape as to fit nicely to the chimney, not so loosely on the one hand as to have any difficulty in ascending by means of his knees and elbows, nor so tightly on the other as to run any peril of being wedged in. the boy was then inserted into the chimney and did all the work, while the master remained below or sat expectant on the roof to encourage, to preside over, and subsequently to profit by, his apprentice's exertions. we adopted much the same principle. hartley, as the lightest, was cast for the _rôle_ of the _jeune premier_, or boy, while burgener and i on physical grounds alone filled the part, however unworthily, of the master sweep. as a play not infrequently owes its success to one actor so did our _jeune premier_, sometimes very literally, pull us through on the present occasion. gallantly indeed did he fulfil his duty. whether climbing up a ladder slightly out of the perpendicular, leaning against nothing in particular and with overhanging rocks above; whether let down by a rope tied round his waist, so that he dangled like the sign of the 'golden fleece' outside a haberdasher's shop, or hauled up smooth slabs of rock with his raiment in an untidy heap around his neck; in each and all of these exercises he was equally at home, and would be let down or would come up smiling. one place gave us great difficulty. an excessively steep wall of rock presented itself and seemed to bar the way to a higher level. a narrow crack ran some little way up the face, but above the rock was slightly overhanging, and the water trickling from some higher point had led to the formation of a huge bunch of gigantic icicles, which hung down from above. it was necessary to get past these, but impossible to cut them away, as they would have fallen on us below. burgener climbed a little way up the face, planted his back against it, and held on to the ladder in front of him, while i did the same just below: by this means we kept the ladder almost perpendicular, but feared to press the highest rung heavily against the icicles above lest we should break them off. we now invited hartley to mount up. for the first few steps it was easy enough; but the leverage was more and more against us as he climbed higher, seeing that he could not touch the rock, and the strain on our arms below was very severe. however, he got safely to the top and disappeared from view. the performance was a brilliant one, but, fortunately, had not to be repeated; as on a subsequent occasion, by a deviation of about or feet, we climbed to the same spot in a few minutes with perfect ease and without using any ladder at all. on this occasion, however, we must have spent fully an hour while hartley performed his feats, which were not unworthy of a japanese acrobat. every few feet of the mountain at this part gave us difficulty, and it was curious to notice how, on this the first occasion of travelling over the rock face, we often selected the wrong route in points of detail. we ascended from to feet, then surveyed right and left, up and down, before going any further. the minutes slipped by fast, but i have no doubt now that if we had had time we might have ascended to the final arête on this occasion. we had often to retrace our steps, and whenever we did so found some slightly different line by which time could have been saved. though the way was always difficult nothing was impossible, and when the word at last was given, owing to the failing light, to descend, we had every reason to be satisfied with the result of the day's exploration. there seemed to be little doubt that we had traversed the most difficult part of the mountain, and, indeed, we found on a later occasion, with one or two notable exceptions, that such was the case. "however, at the time we did not think that, even if it were possible, it would be at all advisable to make our next attempt without a second guide. a telegram had been sent to kaspar maurer, instructing him to join us at the bivouac with all possible expedition. the excitement was thus kept up to the very last, for we knew not whether the message might have reached him, and the days of fine weather were precious. "it was late in the evening when we reached again the head of the glacier, and the point where we had left the feeble creature who had started with us as a second guide. on beholding us once more he wept copiously, but whether his tears were those of gratitude for release from the cramped position in which he had spent his entire day, or of joy at seeing us safe again, or whether they were the natural overflow of an imbecile intellect stirred by any emotion whatever, it were hard to say; at any rate he wept, and then fell to a description of some interesting details concerning the proper mode of bringing up infants, and the duties of parents towards their children; the most important of which, in his estimation, was that the father of a family should run no risk whatever on a mountain. reaching our bivouac, we looked anxiously down over the glacier for any signs of kaspar maurer. two or three parties were seen crawling homewards towards the montanvert over the ice-fields, but no signs of our guide were visible. as the shades of night, however, were falling, we were able indistinctly to see in the far-off distance a little black dot skipping over the mer de glace with great activity. most eagerly did we watch the apparition, and when finally it headed in our direction, and all doubt was removed as to the personality, we felt that our constant ill-luck was at last on the eve of changing. however, it was not till two days later that we left chamouni once more for the nineteenth, and, as it proved, for the last time to try the peak. "on th september we sat on the rocks a few feet above the camping-place. never before had we been so confident of success. the next day's climb was no longer to be one of exploration. we were to start as early as the light would permit, and we were to go up and always up, if necessary till the light should fail. possibly we might have succeeded long before if we had had the same amount of determination to do so that we were possessed with on this occasion. we had made up our minds to succeed, and felt as if all our previous attempts had been but a sort of training for this special occasion. we had gone so far as to instruct our friends below to look out for us on the summit between twelve and two the next day. we had even gone to the length of bringing a stick wherewith to make a flagstaff on the top. still one, and that a very familiar source of disquietude, harassed us as our eyes turned anxiously to the west. a single huge band of cloud hung heavily right across the sky, and looked like a harbinger of evil, for it was of a livid colour above, and tinged with a deep crimson red below. my companion was despondent at the prospect it suggested, and the guides tapped their teeth with their forefingers when they looked in that direction; but it was suggested by a more sanguine person that its form and very watery look suggested a band of hope. an insinuating smell of savoury soup was wafted up gently from below-- 'stealing and giving odour.' we took courage; then descended to the tent, and took sustenance. "there was no difficulty experienced in making an early start the next day, and the moment the grey light allowed us to see our way we set off. on such occasions, when the mind is strung up to a high pitch of excitement, odd and trivial little details and incidents fix themselves indelibly on the memory. i can recall as distinctly now, as if it had only happened a moment ago, the exact tone of voice in which burgener, on looking out of the tent, announced that the weather would do. burgener and kaspar maurer were now our guides, for our old enemy with the family ties had been paid off and sent away with a flea in his ear--an almost unnecessary adjunct, as anyone who had slept in the same tent with him could testify. notwithstanding that maurer was far from well, and, rather weak, we mounted rapidly at first, for the way was by this time familiar enough, and we all meant business. "our position now was this. by our exploration on the last occasion we had ascertained that it was possible to ascend to a great height on the main mass of the mountain. from the slope of the rocks, and from the shape of the mountain, we felt sure that the final crest would be easy enough. we had then to find a way still up the face, from the point where we had turned back on our last attempt, to some point on the final ridge of the mountain. the rocks on this part we had never been able to examine very closely, for it is necessary to cross well over to the south-eastern face while ascending from the ridge between the aiguille du dru and the aiguille verte. a great projecting buttress of rock, some two or three hundred feet in height, cuts off the view of that part of the mountain over which we now hoped to make our way. by turning up straight behind this buttress, we hoped to hit off and reach the final crest just above the point where it merges into the precipitous north-eastern wall visible from the chapeau. this part of the mountain can only be seen from the very head of the glacier de la charpoua just under the mass of the aiguille verte. but this point of view is too far off for accurate observations, and the strip of mountain was practically, therefore, a _terra incognita_ to us. "we followed the gully running up from the head of the glacier towards the ridge above mentioned, keeping well to the left. before long it was necessary to cross the gully on to the main peak. to make the topography clearer a somewhat prosaic and domestic simile may be employed. the aiguille du dru and the aiguille verte are connected by a long sharp ridge, towards which we were now climbing; and this ridge is let in, as it were, into the south-eastern side of the aiguille du dru, much as a comb may be stuck into the middle of a hairbrush, the latter article representing the main peak. here we employed the ladder which had been placed in the right position the day previously. right glad were we to see the rickety old structure, which had now spent four years on the mountain, and was much the worse for it. it creaked and groaned dismally under our weight, and ran sharp splinters into us at all points of contact, but yet there was a certain companionship about the old ladder, and we seemed almost to regret that it was not destined to share more in our prospective success. a few steps on and we came to a rough cleft some five-and-twenty feet in depth, which had to be descended. a double rope was fastened to a projecting crag, and we swung ourselves down as if we were barrels of split peas going into a ship's hold; then to the ascent again, and the excitement waxed stronger as we drew nearer to the doubtful part of the mountain. still, we did not anticipate insuperable obstacles; for i think we were possessed with a determination to succeed, which is a sensation often spoken of as a presentiment of success. a short climb up an easy broken gully, and of a sudden we seemed to be brought to a stand still. a little ledge at our feet curled round a projecting crag on the left. 'what are we to do now?' said burgener, but with a smile on his face that left no doubt as to the answer. he lay flat down on the ledge and wriggled round the projection, disappearing suddenly from view, as if the rock had swallowed him up. a shout proclaimed that his expectations had not been deceived, and we were bidden to follow; and follow we did, sticking to the flat face of the rock with all our power, and progressing like the skates down the glass sides of an aquarium tank. when the last man joined us we found ourselves all huddled together on a very little ledge indeed, while an overhanging rock above compelled us to assume the anomalous attitude enforced on the occupant of a little-ease dungeon. what next? an eager look up solved part of the doubt. 'there is the way,' said burgener, leaning back to get a view. 'oh, indeed,' we answered. no doubt there was a way, and we were glad to hear that it was possible to get up it. the attractions of the route consisted of a narrow flat gully plastered up with ice, exceeding straight and steep, and crowned at the top with a pendulous mass of enormous icicles. the gully resembled a half-open book standing up on end. enthusiasts in rock-climbing who have ascended the riffelhorn from the gorner glacier side will have met with a similar gully, but, as a rule, free from ice, which, in the present instance, constituted the chief difficulty. the ice, filling up the receding angle from top to bottom, rendered it impossible to find handhold on the rocks, and it was exceedingly difficult to cut steps in such a place, for the slabs of ice were prone to break away entire. however, the guides said they could get up, and asked us to keep out of the way of chance fragments of ice which might fall down as they ascended. so we tucked ourselves away on one side, and they fell to as difficult a business as could well be imagined. the rope was discarded, and slowly they worked up, their backs and elbows against one sloping wall, their feet against the other. but the angle was too wide to give security to this position, the more especially that with shortened axes they were compelled to hack out enough of the ice to reveal the rock below. in such places the ice is but loosely adherent, being raised up from the face much as pie-crust dissociates itself from the fruit beneath under the influence of the oven. strike lightly with the axe, and a hollow sound is yielded without much impression on the ice; strike hard, and the whole mass breaks away. but the latter method is the right one to adopt, though it necessitates very hard work. no steps are really reliable when cut in ice of this description. "the masses of ice, coming down harder and harder as they ascended without intermission, showed how they were working, and the only consolation we had during a time that we felt to be critical, was that the guides were not likely to expend so much labour unless they thought that some good result would come of it. suddenly there came a sharp shout and cry; then a crash as a great slab of ice, falling from above, was dashed into pieces at our feet and leaped into the air; then a brief pause, and we knew not what would happen next. either the gully had been ascended or the guides had been pounded, and failure here might be failure altogether. it is true that hartley and i had urged the guides to find a way some little distance to the right of the line on which they were now working; but they had reported that, though easy below, the route we had pointed out was impossible above.[ ] a faint scratching noise close above us, as of a mouse perambulating behind a wainscot. we look up. it is the end of a rope. we seize it, and our pull from below is answered by a triumphant yell from above as the line is drawn taut. fastening the end around my waist, i started forth. the gully was a scene of ruin, and i could hardly have believed that two axes in so short a time could have dealt so much destruction. nowhere were the guides visible, and in another moment there was a curious sense of solitariness as i battled with the obstacles, aided in no small degree by the rope. the top of the gully was blocked up by a great cube of rock, dripping still where the icicles had just been broken off. the situation appeared to me to demand deliberation, though it was not accorded. 'come on,' said voices from above. 'up you go,' said a voice from below. i leaned as far back as i could, and felt about for a handhold. there was none. everything seemed smooth. then right, then left; still none. so i smiled feebly to myself, and called out, 'wait a minute.' this was, of course, taken as an invitation to pull vigorously, and, struggling and kicking like a spider irritated by tobacco smoke, i topped the rock, and lent a hand on the rope for hartley to follow. then we learnt that a great mass of ice had broken away under maurer's feet while they were in the gully, and that he must have fallen had not burgener pinned him to the rock with one hand. from the number of times that this escape was described to us during that day and the next, i am inclined to think that it was rather a near thing. at the time, and often since, i have questioned myself as to whether we could have got up this passage without the rope let down from above. i think either of us could have done it in time with a companion. it was necessary for two to be in the gully at the same time, to assist each other. it was necessary, also, to discard the rope, which in such a place could only be a source of danger. but no amateur should have tried the passage on that occasion without confidence in his own powers, and without absolute knowledge of the limit of his own powers. if the gully had been free from ice it would have been much easier. "'the worst is over now,' said burgener. i was glad to hear it, but looking upwards, had my doubts. the higher we went the bigger the rocks seemed to be. still there was a way, and it was not so very unlike what i had, times out of mind, pictured to myself in imagination. another tough scramble, and we stood on a comparatively extensive ledge. with elation we observed that we had now climbed more than half of the only part of the mountain of the nature of which we were uncertain. a few steps on and burgener grasped me suddenly by the arm. 'do you see the great red rock up yonder?' he whispered, hoarse with excitement-- 'in ten minutes we shall be there and on the arête, and then----' nothing could stop us now; but a feverish anxiety to see what lay beyond, to look on the final slope which we knew must be easy, impelled us on, and we worked harder than ever to overcome the last few obstacles. the ten minutes expanded into something like thirty before we really reached the rock. of a sudden the mountain seemed to change its form. for hours we had been climbing the hard, dry rocks. now these appeared suddenly to vanish from under our feet, and once again our eyes fell on snow which lay thick, half hiding, half revealing, the final slope of the ridge. a glance along it showed that we had not misjudged. even the cautious maurer admitted that, as far as we could see, all appeared promising. and now, with the prize almost within our grasp, a strange desire to halt and hang back came on. burgener tapped the rock with his axe, and we seemed somehow to regret that the way in front of us must prove comparatively easy. our foe had almost yielded, and it appeared something like cruelty to administer the final _coup de grâce_. we could already anticipate the half-sad feeling with which we should reach the top itself. it needed but little to make the feeling give way. some one cried 'forward,' and instantly we were all in our places again, and the leader's axe crashed through the layers of snow into the hard blue ice beneath. a dozen steps, and then a short bit of rock scramble; then more steps along the south side of the ridge, followed by more rock, and the ridge beyond, which had been hidden for a minute or two, stretched out before us again as we topped the first eminence. better and better it looked as we went on. 'see there,' cried burgener suddenly, 'the actual top!' "there was no possibility of mistaking the two huge stones we had so often looked at from below. they seemed, in the excitement of the moment, misty and blurred for a brief space, but grew clear again as i passed my hand over my eyes, and seemed to swallow something. a few feet below the pinnacles and on the left was one of those strange arches formed by a great transverse boulder, so common near the summits of these aiguilles, and through the hole we could see blue sky. nothing could lay beyond, and, still better, nothing could be above. on again, while we could scarcely stand still in the great steps the leader set his teeth to hack out. then there came a short troublesome bit of snow scramble, where the heaped-up cornice had fallen back from the final rock. there we paused for a moment, for the summit was but a few feet from us, and hartley, who was ahead, courteously allowed me to unrope and go on first. in a few seconds i clutched at the last broken rocks, and hauled myself up on to the sloping summit. there for a moment i stood alone gazing down on chamouni. the holiday dream of five years was accomplished; the aiguille du dru was climbed. where in the wide world will you find a sport able to yield pleasure like this?" footnote: [ ] it has transpired since that our judgment happened to be right in this matter, and we might probably have saved an hour or more at this part of the ascent. chapter xix the most famous mountain in the alps--the conquest of the matterhorn the story of the matterhorn must always be one of unique attraction. like a good play, it resumes and concentrates in itself the incidents of a prolonged struggle--the conquest of the alps. the strange mountain stood forth as a goliath in front of the alpine host, and when it found its conqueror there was a general feeling that the subjugation of the high alps by human effort was decided, a feeling which has been amply justified by events. the contest itself was an eventful one. it was marked by a race between eager rivals, and the final victory was marred by the most terrible of alpine accidents. [illustration: mr and mrs seiler and three of their daughters. zermatt, .] [illustration: going leisurely to zermatt with a mule for the luggage in the olden days.] "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 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 , 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 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 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 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 ° 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 or 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 feet in seven or eight bounds. ten feet more would have taken me in one gigantic leap of feet on to the glacier below. "the situation was sufficiently serious. the rocks could not be let go for a moment, and the blood was spirting out of more than twenty cuts. the most serious ones were in the head, and i vainly tried to close them with one hand, whilst holding on with the other. it was useless; the blood jerked out in blinding jets at each pulsation. at last, in a moment of inspiration, i kicked out a big lump of snow, and stuck it as a plaster on my head. the idea was a happy one, and the flow of blood diminished. then, scrambling up, i got, not a moment too soon, to a place of safety, and fainted away. the sun was setting when consciousness returned, and it was pitch dark before the great staircase was descended; but, by a combination of luck and care, the whole feet of descent to breuil was accomplished without a slip, or once missing the way. i slunk past the cabin of the cowherds, who were talking and laughing inside, utterly ashamed of the state to which i had been brought by my imbecility, and entered the inn stealthily, wishing to escape to my room unnoticed. but favre met me in the passage, demanded 'who is it?' screamed with fright when he got a light, and aroused the household. two dozen heads then held solemn council over mine, with more talk than action. the natives were unanimous in recommending that hot wine mixed with salt should be rubbed into the cuts; i protested, but they insisted. it was all the doctoring they received. whether their rapid healing was to be attributed to that simple remedy or to a good state of health is a question. they closed up remarkably quickly, and in a few days i was able to move again." in mr whymper once more returned to the attack, but still without success. in he was unable to visit the neighbourhood of the matterhorn, but in he made his eighth and last attempt on the breuil, or italian side. the time had now come when mr whymper became convinced that it was an error to think the italian side the easier. it certainly looked far less steep than the north, or zermatt side, but on mountains quality counts for far more than quantity; and though the ledges above breuil might sometimes be broader than those on the swiss side, and the general slope of the mountain appear at a distance to be gentler, yet the rock had an unpleasant outward dip, giving sloping, precarious hold for hand or foot, and every now and then there were abrupt walls of rock which it was hardly possible to ascend, and out of the question to descend without fixing ropes or chains. [illustration: the guides' wall, zermatt.] now the swiss side of the great peak differs greatly from its italian face. the slope is really less steep, and the ledges, if narrow, slope inward, and are good to step on or grasp. mr whymper had noticed that large patches of snow lay on the mountain all the summer, which they could not do if the north face was a precipice. he determined, therefore, to make his next attempt on that side. he had, in , intended to climb with michel croz, but some misunderstanding had arisen, and croz, believing that he was free, had engaged himself to another traveller. his letter, "the last one he wrote to me," says mr whymper, is "an interesting souvenir of a brave and upright man." the following is an extract from it: "enfin, monsieur, je regrette beaucoup d'être engagè avec votre compatriote et de ne pouvoir vous accompagner dans vos conquetes mais dès qu'on a donnè sa parole on doit la tenir et être homme. "ainsi, prenez patience pour cette campagne et esperons que plus tard nous nous retrouverons. "en attendant recevez les humbles salutations de votre tout devoué. "croz michel-auguste." by an extraordinary series of chances, however, when mr whymper reached zermatt, whom should he see sitting on the guides' wall but croz! his employer had been taken ill, and had returned home, and the great guide was immediately engaged by the rev. charles hudson for an attempt on the matterhorn! mr whymper had been joined by lord francis douglas and the taugwalders, father and son, and thus two parties were about to start for the matterhorn at the same hour next day. this was thought inadvisable, and eventually they joined forces and decided to set out the following morning together. mr hudson had a young man travelling with him, by name mr hadow, and when mr whymper enquired if he were sufficiently experienced to take part in the expedition, mr hudson replied in the affirmative, though the fact that mr hadow had recently made a very rapid ascent of mont blanc really proved nothing. here was the weakest spot in the whole business, the presence of a youth, untried on difficult peaks, on a climb which might involve work of a most unusual kind. further, we should now-a-days consider the party both far too large and wrongly constituted, consisting as it did of four amateurs, two good guides, and a porter. on th july, , at . a.m., they started from zermatt in cloudless weather. they took things leisurely that day, for they only intended going a short distance above the base of the peak, and by o'clock they had found a good position for the tent at about , feet above sea. the guides went on some way to explore, and on their return about p.m. declared that they had not found a single difficulty, and that success was assured. [illustration: the zermatt side of the matterhorn. the route now usually followed has been kindly marked by sir w. martin conway. the first party, on reaching the snow patch near the top, bore somewhat to their right to avoid a nearly vertical wall of rock, where now hangs a chain. _from a photograph by the late w. f. donkin._] [illustration: rising mists.] the following morning, as soon as it was light enough to start, they set out, and without trouble they mounted the formidable-looking north face, and approached the steep bit of rock which it is now customary to ascend straight up by means of a fixed chain. but they were obliged to avoid it by diverging to their right on to the slope overhanging the zermatt side of the mountain. this involved somewhat difficult climbing, made especially awkward by the thin film of ice which at places overlay the rocks. "it was a place over which any fair mountaineer might pass in safety," writes mr whymper, and neither here nor anywhere else on the peak did mr hudson require the slightest help. with mr hadow, however, the case was different, his inexperience necessitating continual assistance. before long this solitary difficulty was passed, and, turning a rather awkward corner, the party saw with delight that only feet or so of easy snow separated them from the top! yet even then it was not certain that they had not been beaten, for a few days before another party, led by jean antoine carrel, had started from breuil, and might have reached the much-desired summit before them. the slope eased off more and more, and at last mr whymper and croz, casting off the rope, ran a neck and neck race to the top. hurrah! not a footstep could be seen, and the snow at both ends of the ridge was absolutely untrampled. "where were the men?" mr whymper wondered, and peering over the cliffs of the italian side he saw them as dots far down. they were feet below, yet they heard the cries of the successful party on the top, and knew that victory was not for them. still a measure of success awaited them too, for the next day the bold carrel, with j. b. bich, in his turn reached the summit by the far more difficult route on the side of his native valley. carrel was the one man who had always believed that the matterhorn could be climbed, and one can well understand mr whymper's generous wish that he could have shared in the first ascent. one short hour was spent on the summit. then began the ever-eventful descent. the climbers commenced to go down the difficult piece in the following order: croz first, hadow next, then mr hudson, after him lord francis douglas, then old taugwalder, and lastly mr whymper, who gives an account of what happened almost immediately after in the following words: "a few minutes later a sharp-eyed lad ran into the monte rosa hotel to seiler, saying that he had seen an avalanche falling from the summit of the matterhorn on to the matterhorngletscher. the boy was reproved for telling idle stories; he was right, nevertheless, and this was what he saw: "michel croz had laid aside his axe, and in order to give mr hadow greater security, was absolutely taking hold of his legs, and putting his feet, one by one, into their proper positions.[ ] so far as i know, no one was actually descending. i cannot speak with certainty, because the two leading men were partially hidden from my sight by an intervening mass of rock, but it is my belief, from the movements of their shoulders, that croz, having done as i have said, was in the act of turning round, to go down a step or two himself; at this moment mr hadow slipped, fell against him, and knocked him over. i heard one startled exclamation from croz, then saw him and mr hadow flying downwards. in another moment hudson was dragged from his steps, and lord francis douglas immediately after him.[ ] all this was the work of a moment. immediately we heard croz's exclamation old peter and i planted ourselves as firmly as the rocks would permit;[ ] the rope was taut between us, and the jerk came on us both as on one man. we held, but the rope broke midway between taugwalder and lord francis douglas. for a few seconds we saw our unfortunate companions sliding downwards on their backs, and spreading out their hands, endeavouring to save themselves. they passed from our sight uninjured, disappeared one by one, and fell from precipice to precipice on to the matterhorngletscher below, a distance of nearly feet in height. from the moment the rope broke it was impossible to help them. so perished our comrades!" [illustration: a bitterly cold day, , feet above sea.] [illustration: the matterhorn from the zmutt side. the dotted line shows the course which the unfortunate party probably took in their fatal fall.] a more terrible position than that of mr whymper and the taugwalders it is difficult to imagine. the englishman kept his head, however, though the two guides, absolutely paralysed with terror, lost all control over themselves, and for a long time could not be induced to move. at last old peter changed his position, and soon the three stood close together. mr whymper then examined the broken rope, and found to his horror that it was the weakest of the three ropes, and had only been intended as a reserve to fix to rocks and leave behind. how it came to have been used will always remain a mystery, but that it broke and was not cut there is no doubt. taugwalder's neighbours at zermatt persisted in asserting that he severed the rope. "in regard to this infamous charge," writes mr whymper, "i say that he _could_ not do so at the moment of the slip, and that the end of the rope in my possession shows that he did not do so beforehand." at p.m., after a terribly trying descent, during any moment of which the taugwalders, still completely unnerved, might have slipped and carried the whole party to destruction, they arrived on "the ridge descending towards zermatt, and all peril was over." but it was still a long way to the valley, and an hour after nightfall the climbers were obliged to seek a resting-place, and upon a slab barely large enough to hold the three they spent six miserable hours. at daybreak they started again, and descended rapidly to zermatt. "seiler met me at the door. 'what is the matter?' 'the taugwalders and i have returned.' he did not need more, and burst into tears." at a.m. on sunday the th, mr whymper and two other englishmen, with a number of chamonix and oberland guides, set out to discover the bodies. the zermatt men, threatened with excommunication by their priests if they failed to attend early mass were unable to accompany them, and to some of them this was a severe trial. by . they reached the plateau at the top of the glacier, and came within sight of the spot where their companions must be. "as we saw one weather-beaten man after another raise the telescope, turn deadly pale, and pass it on without a word to the next, we knew that all hope was gone." they drew near, and found the bodies of croz, hadow and hudson close together, but of lord francis douglas they could see nothing, though a pair of gloves, a belt and a boot belonging to him were found. the boots of all the victims were off, and lying on the snow close by. this frequently happens when persons have fallen a long distance down rocks. eventually the remains were brought down to zermatt, a sad and dangerous task. so ends the story of the conquest of the matterhorn. its future history is marred by many a tragedy, of which perhaps none are more pathetic, or were more wholly unnecessary, than what is known as the borckhardt accident. footnotes: [ ] not at all an unusual proceeding, even between born mountaineers. i wish to convey the impression that croz was using all pains, rather than to indicate inability on the part of mr hadow. the insertion of the word "absolutely" makes the passage, perhaps, rather ambiguous. i retain it now in order to offer the above explanation. [ ] at the moment of the accident croz, hadow, and hudson were close together. between hudson and lord francis douglas the rope was all but taut, and the same between all the others who were above. croz was standing by the side of a rock which afforded good hold, and if he had been aware, or had suspected that anything was about to occur, he might and would have gripped it, and would have prevented any mischief. he was taken totally by surprise. mr hadow slipped off his feet on to his back, his feet struck croz in the small of the back, and knocked him right over, head first. croz's axe was out of his reach, and without it he managed to get his head uppermost before he disappeared from our sight. if it had been in his hand i have no doubt that he would have stopped himself and mr hadow. mr hadow, at the moment of the slip, was not occupying a bad position. he could have moved either up or down, and could touch with his hand the rock of which i have spoken. hudson was not so well placed, but he had liberty of motion. the rope was not taut from him to hadow, and the two men fell or feet before the jerk came upon him. lord francis douglas was not favourably placed, and could neither move up nor down. old peter was firmly planted, and stood just beneath a large rock, which he hugged with both arms. i enter into these details to make it more apparent that the position occupied by the party at the moment of the accident was not by any means excessively trying. we were compelled to pass over the exact spot where the slip occurred, and we found--even with shaken nerves--that _it_ was not a difficult place to pass. i have described the _slope generally_ as difficult, and it is so undoubtedly to most persons, but it must be distinctly understood that mr hadow slipped at a comparatively easy part. [ ] or, more correctly, we held on as tightly as possible. there was no time to change our position. chapter xx some tragedies on the matterhorn by the summer of it had become common for totally inexperienced persons with incompetent guides (for no first-rate guide would undertake such a task) to make the ascent of the matterhorn. in fine settled weather they contrived to get safely up and down the mountain. but like all high peaks the matterhorn is subject to sudden atmospheric changes, and a high wind or falling snow will in an hour or less change the whole character of the work and make the descent one of extreme difficulty even for experienced mountaineers. practically unused to alpine climbing, thinly clothed, and accompanied by young guides of third-rate ability, what wonder is it that when caught in a storm, a member of the party, whose expedition is described below, perished? [illustration: jost, for many years porter of the monte rosa hotel, zermatt. ] the editor of _the alpine journal_ writes: "on the morning of th august last four parties of travellers left the lower hut on the mountain and attained the summit. one of them, that of mr mercer, reached zermatt the same night. the three others were much delayed by a sudden storm which came on during the descent. two dutch gentlemen, led by moser and peter taugwald, regained the lower hut at an advanced hour of the night; but monsieur a. de falkner and his son (with j. p. and daniel maquignaz, and angelo ferrari, of pinzolo), and messrs john davies and frederick charles borckhardt (with fridolin kronig and peter aufdemblatten), were forced to spend the night out; the latter party, indeed, spent part of the next day ( th august) out as well, and mr borckhardt unfortunately succumbed to the exposure in the afternoon. he was the youngest son of the late vicar of lydden, and forty-eight years of age. neither he nor mr davies was a member of the alpine club." _the pall mall gazette_ published on th august the account given by mr davies to an interviewer. it is as follows, and the inexperience of the climbers is made clear in every line:- "we left zermatt about o'clock on monday afternoon in capital spirits. the weather was lovely, and everything promised a favourable ascent. we had two guides whose names were on the official list, whose references were satisfactory, and who were twice over recommended to us by herr seiler, whose advice we sought before we engaged them, and who gave them excellent credentials. we placed ourselves in their hands, as is the rule in such cases, ordered the provisions and wine which they declared to be necessary, and made ready for the ascent. i had lived among hills from my boyhood. i had some experience of mountaineering in the pyrenees, where i ascended the highest and other peaks. in the engadine i have also done some climbing; and last week, together with mr borckhardt, who was one of my oldest friends, i made the ascent of the titlis, and made other excursions among the hills. mr borckhardt was slightly my senior, but as a walker he was quite equal to me in endurance. when we arrived at zermatt last saturday we found that parties were going up the matterhorn on monday. we knew that ladies had made the ascent, and youths; and the mountain besides had been climbed by friends of ours whose physical strength, to say the least, was not superior to ours. it was a regular thing to go up the matterhorn, and we accordingly determined to make the ascent. "we started next morning at half-past two or three. we were the third party to leave the cabin, but, making good speed over the first stage of the ascent, we reached the second when the others were breakfasting there, and then resumed the climb. mr mercer, with his party, followed by the dutch party, started shortly before us. we met them about a quarter-past eight returning from the top. they said that they had been there half an hour, and that there was no view. we passed them, followed by the italians, and reached the summit about a quarter to nine. the ascent, though toilsome, had not exhausted us in the least. both mr borckhardt and myself were quite fresh, although we had made the summit before the italians, who started together with us from the second hut. had the weather remained favourable, we could have made the descent with ease.[ ] "even while we were on the summit i felt hail begin to fall, and before we were five minutes on our way down it was hailing heavily. it was a fine hail, and inches of it fell in a very short time, and the track was obliterated. we pressed steadily downwards, followed by the italians, nor did it occur to me at that time that there was any danger. we got past the ropes and chains safely, and reached the snowy slope on the shoulder. at this point we were leading. but as the italians had three guides, and we only two, we changed places, so that their third guide could lead. they climbed down the slope, cutting steps for their feet in the ice. we trod closely after the italians, but the snow and hail filled up the holes so rapidly, that, in order to make a safe descent, our guides had to recut the steps. this took much time--as much as two hours i should say--and every hour the snow was getting deeper. at last we got down the snow-slope on to the steep rocks below. the italians were still in front of us, and we all kept on steadily descending. we were still in good spirits, nor did we feel any doubt that we should reach the bottom. our first alarm was occasioned by the italians losing their way. they found their progress barred by precipitous rocks, and their guides came back to ours to consult as to the road. our guides insisted that the path lay down the side of a steep couloir. their guides demurred; but after going down some ten feet, they cried out that our guides were right, and they went on--we followed. by this time it was getting dark. the hail continued increasing. we began to get alarmed. it seemed impossible to make our way to the cabin that night. we had turned to the right after leaving the couloir, crossed some slippery rocks, and after a short descent turned to the left and came to the edge of the precipice where mosely fell, where there was some very slight shelter afforded by an overhanging rock, and there we prepared to pass the night, seeing that all further progress was hopeless. we were covered with ice. the night was dark. the air was filled with hail. we were too cold to eat. the italians were about an hour below us on the mountain side. we could hear their voices and exchanged shouts. excepting them, we were thousands of feet above any other human being. i found that while borckhardt had emptied his brandy-flask, mine was full. i gave him half of mine. that lasted us through the night. we did not try the wine till the morning, and then we found that it was frozen solid. "never have i had a more awful experience than that desolate night on the matterhorn. we were chilled to the bone, and too exhausted to stand. the wind rose, and each gust drove the hail into our faces, cutting us like a knife. our guides did everything that man could do to save us. aufdemblatten did his best to make us believe that there was no danger. 'only keep yourselves warm; keep moving; and we shall go down all right to-morrow, when the sun rises.' 'it is of no use,' i replied; 'we shall die here!' they chafed our limbs, and did their best to make us stand up; but it was in vain. i felt angry at their interference. why could they not leave us alone to die? i remember striking wildly but feebly at my guide as he insisted on rubbing me. every movement gave me such agony, i was racked with pain, especially in my back and loins--pain so intense as to make me cry out. the guides had fastened the rope round the rock to hold on by, while they jumped to keep up the circulation of the blood. they brought us to it, and made us jump twice or thrice. move we could not; we lay back prostrate on the snow and ice, while the guides varied their jumping by rubbing our limbs and endeavouring to make us move our arms and legs. they were getting feebler and feebler. borckhardt and i, as soon as we were fully convinced that death was imminent for us, did our best to persuade our guides to leave us where we lay and make their way down the hill. they were married men with families. to save us was impossible; they might at least save themselves. we begged them to consider their wives and children and to go. this was at the beginning of the night. they refused. they would rather die with us, they said; they would remain and do their best. [illustration: hoar frost in the alps.] [illustration: hoar frost in the alps.] "borckhardt and i talked a little as men might do who are at the point of death. he bore without complaining pain that made me cry out from time to time. we both left directions with the guides that we were to be buried at zermatt. borckhardt spoke of his friends and his family affairs, facing his death with manly resignation and composure. as the night wore on i became weaker and weaker. i could not even make the effort necessary to flick the snow off my companion's face. by degrees the guides began to lose hope. the cold was so intense, we crouched together for warmth. they lay beside us to try and impart some heat. it was in vain. 'we shall die!' 'we are lost!' 'yes,' said aufdemblatten, 'very likely we shall.' he was so weak, poor fellow, he could hardly keep his feet; but still he tried to keep me moving. it was a relief not to be touched. i longed for death, but death would not come. "towards half-past two on wednesday morning--so we reckoned, for all our watches had stopped with the cold--the snow ceased, and the air became clear. it had been snowing or hailing without intermission for eighteen hours. it was very dark below, but above all was clear, although the wind still blew. when the sun rose, we saw just a gleam of light. then a dark cloud came from the hollow below, and our hopes went out. 'oh, if only the sun would come out!' we said to each other, i do not know how many times. but it did not, and instead of the sun came the snow once more. towards seven, as near as i can make it, a desperate attempt was made to get us to walk. the guides took borckhardt, and between them propped him on his feet and made him stagger on a few steps. they failed to keep him moving more than a step or two. the moment they let go he dropped. they repeated the same with me. neither could i stand. i remember four distinct times they drove us forward, only to see us drop helpless after each step. it was evidently no use. borckhardt had joined again with me in repeatedly urging the guides to leave us and to save themselves. they had refused, and continued to do all that their failing strength allowed to protect us from the bitter cold. as the morning wore on, my friend, who during the night had been much more composed and tranquil than i, began to grow perceptibly weaker. we were quite resigned to die, and had, in fact, lost all hope. we had been on the mountain from about a.m. on tuesday to p.m. on wednesday--thirty-four hours in all. eighteen of these were spent in a blinding snowstorm, and we had hardly tasted food since we left the summit at nine on the tuesday morning. at length (about one) we heard shouts far down the mountain. the guides said they probably proceeded from a search party sent out to save us. i again urged the guides to go down by themselves to meet the searchers, and to hurry them up. this they refused to do unless i accompanied them. borckhardt was at this time too much exhausted to stand upright, and was lying in a helpless condition. the guides, although completely worn out, wished to attempt the descent with me, and they considered that by so doing we should be able to indicate to the searchers the precise spot where my friend lay, and to hasten their efforts to reach him with stimulants. since early morning the snow had ceased falling. we began the descent, and at first i required much assistance from the guides, but by degrees became better able to move, and the hope of soon procuring help from the approaching party for my poor friend sustained us. after a most laborious descent of about an hour and a half, we reached the first members of the rescue party, and directed them to where borckhardt lay, requesting them to proceed there with all haste, and, after giving him stimulants, to bring him down to the lower hut in whatever condition they found him. we went on to the hut to await his arrival, meeting on the way mr king, of the english alpine club, with his guides, who were hurrying up with warm clothing. a few hours later we heard the terrible news that the relief party had found him dead." a letter to _the times_, written by mr (now sir henry seymour) king comments as follows on this deplorable accident. it is endorsed by all the members of the alpine club then at zermatt. after describing the circumstances of the ascent, the writer continues: "instead of staying all together, as more experienced guides would have done, and keeping mr borckhardt warm and awake until help came, they determined at about p.m. to leave him alone on the mountain. according to their account, the snow had ceased and the sun had begun to shine when they left him. at that moment a relief party was not far off, as the guides must have known. they heard the shouts of the relief party soon after leaving mr borckhardt, and there was, as far as i can see, no pressing reason for their departure. they reached the lower hut at about p.m., and at about the same time a rescue party from zermatt, which had met them descending, reached mr borckhardt, and found him dead, stiff, and quite cold, and partly covered with freshly-fallen snow. no doubt he had succumbed to drowsiness soon after he was left. "the moral of this most lamentable event is plain. the matterhorn is not a mountain to be played with; it is not a peak which men ought to attempt until they have had some experience of climbing. above all, it is not a peak which should ever be attempted except with thoroughly competent guides. in a snowstorm no member of a party should ever be left behind and alone. he will almost certainly fall into a sleep, from which it is notorious that he will never awake. if he will not walk, he must be carried. if he sits down, he must be made to get up. guides have to do this not unfrequently. a stronger and more experienced party would undoubtedly have reached zermatt without misfortune. in fact, one party which was on the mountain on the same day did reach zermatt in good time." it is fitting that this short, and necessarily incomplete, account of the conquest of the matterhorn, and events occurring subsequently on it, should conclude with the recital of a magnificent act of heroism performed by jean-antoine carrel, whose name, more than that of any other guide, is associated with the history of the peak. no more striking instance of the devotion of a guide to his employers could be chosen to bring these true tales of the hills to an appropriate end. i take the account from _scrambles among the alps_. "when telegrams came in, at the beginning of september , stating that jean-antoine carrel had died from fatigue on the south side of the matterhorn, those who knew the man scarcely credited the report. it was not likely that this tough and hardy mountaineer would die from fatigue anywhere, still less that he would succumb upon 'his own mountain.' but it was true. jean-antoine perished from the combined effects of cold, hunger, and fatigue, upon his own side of his own mountain, almost within sight of his own home. he started on the rd of august from breuil, with an italian gentleman and charles gorret (brother of the abbé gorret), with the intention of crossing the matterhorn in one day. the weather at the time of their departure was the very best, and it changed in the course of the day to the very worst. they were shut up in the _cabane_ at the foot of the great tower during the th, with scarcely any food, and on the th retreated to breuil. although jean-antoine (upon whom, as leading guide, the chief labour and responsibility naturally devolved) ultimately succeeded in getting his party safely off the mountain, he himself was so overcome by fatigue, cold, and want of food, that he died on the spot." jean-antoine carrel entered his sixty-second year in january ,[ ] and was in the field throughout the summer. on st august, having just returned from an ascent of mont blanc, he was engaged at courmayeur by signor leone sinigaglia, of turin, for an ascent of the matterhorn. he proceeded to the val tournanche, and on the rd set out with him and charles gorret, for the last time, to ascend his own mountain by his own route. a long and clear account of what happened was communicated by signor sinigaglia to the italian alpine club, and from this the following relation is condensed: "we started for the cervin at . a.m. on the rd, in splendid weather, with the intention of descending the same night to the hut at the hörnli on the swiss side. we proceeded pretty well, but the glaze of ice on the rocks near the col du lion retarded our march somewhat, and when we arrived at the hut at the foot of the great tower, prudence counselled the postponement of the ascent until the next day, for the sky was becoming overcast. we decided upon this, and stopped. "here i ought to mention that both i and gorret noticed with uneasiness that carrel showed signs of fatigue upon leaving the col du lion. i attributed this to temporary weakness. as soon as we reached the hut he lay down and slept profoundly for two hours, and awoke much restored. in the meantime the weather was rapidly changing. storm clouds coming from the direction of mont blanc hung over the dent d'hérens, but we regarded them as transitory, and trusted to the north wind, which was still continuing to blow. meanwhile, three of the maquignazs and edward bich, whom we found at the hut, returned from looking after the ropes, started downwards for breuil, at parting wishing us a happy ascent, and holding out hopes of a splendid day for the morrow. "but, after their departure, the weather grew worse very rapidly; the wind changed, and towards evening there broke upon us a most violent hurricane of hail and snow, accompanied by frequent flashes of lightning. the air was so charged with electricity that for two consecutive hours in the night one could see in the hut as in broad daylight. the storm continued to rage all night, and the day and night following, continuously, with incredible violence. the temperature in the hut fell to degrees. "the situation was becoming somewhat alarming, for the provisions were getting low, and we had already begun to use the seats of the hut as firewood. the rocks were in an extremely bad state, and we were afraid that if we stopped longer, and the storm continued, we should be blocked up in the hut for several days. this being the state of affairs, it was decided among the guides that if the wind should abate we should descend on the following morning; and, as the wind did abate somewhat, on the morning of the th (the weather, however, still remaining very bad) it was unanimously settled to make a retreat. "at a.m. we left the hut. i will not speak of the difficulties and dangers in descending the _arête_ to the col du lion, which we reached at . p.m. the ropes were half frozen, the rocks were covered with a glaze of ice, and fresh snow hid all points of support. some spots were really as bad as could be, and i owe much to the prudence and coolness of the two guides that we got over them without mishap. "at the col du lion, where we hoped the wind would moderate, a dreadful hurricane recommenced, and in crossing the snowy passages we were nearly _suffocated_ by the wind and snow which attacked us on all sides.[ ] through the loss of a glove, gorret, half an hour after leaving the hut, had already got a hand frost-bitten. the cold was terrible here. every moment we had to remove the ice from our eyes, and it was with the utmost difficulty that we could speak so as to understand one another. "nevertheless, carrel continued to direct the descent in a most admirable manner, with a coolness, ability, and energy above all praise. i was delighted to see the change, and gorret assisted him splendidly. this part of the descent presented unexpected difficulties, and at several points great dangers, the more so because the _tourmente_ prevented carrel from being sure of the right direction, in spite of his consummate knowledge of the matterhorn. at p.m. (or thereabouts, it was impossible to look at our watches, as all our clothes were half frozen) we were still toiling down the rocks. the guides sometimes asked each other where they were; then we went forward again--to stop, indeed, would have been impossible. carrel at last, by marvellous instinct, discovered the passage up which we had come, and in a sort of grotto we stopped a minute to take some brandy. "while crossing some snow we saw carrel slacken his pace, and then fall back two or three times to the ground. gorret asked him what was the matter, and he said 'nothing,' but he went on with difficulty. attributing this to fatigue through the excessive toil, gorret put himself at the head of the caravan, and carrel, after the change, seemed better, and walked well, though with more circumspection than usual. from this place a short and steep passage takes one down to the pastures, where there is safety. gorret descended first, and i after him. we were nearly at the bottom when i felt the rope pulled. we stopped, awkwardly placed as we were, and cried out to carrel several times to come down, but we received no answer. alarmed, we went up a little way, and heard him say, in a faint voice, 'come up and fetch me; i have no strength left.' "we went up and found that he was lying with his stomach to the ground, holding on to a rock, in a semi-conscious state, and unable to get up or to move a step. with extreme difficulty we carried him to a safe place, and asked him what was the matter. his only answer was, 'i know no longer where i am.' his hands were getting colder and colder, his speech weaker and more broken, and his body more still. we did all we could for him, putting with great difficulty the rest of the cognac into his mouth. he said something, and appeared to revive, but this did not last long. we tried rubbing him with snow, and shaking him, and calling to him continually, but he could only answer with moans. "we tried to lift him, but it was impossible--he was getting stiff. we stooped down, and asked in his ear if he wished to commend his soul to god. with a last effort he answered 'yes,' and then fell on his back, dead, upon the snow. "such was the end of jean-antoine carrel--a man who was possessed with a pure and genuine love of mountains; a man of originality and resource, courage and determination, who delighted in exploration. his special qualities marked him out as a fit person to take part in new enterprises, and i preferred him to all others as a companion and assistant upon my journey amongst the great andes of the equator. going to a new country, on a new continent, he encountered much that was strange and unforeseen; yet when he turned his face homewards he had the satisfaction of knowing that he left no failures behind him.[ ] after parting at guayaquil in we did not meet again. in his latter years, i am told, he showed signs of age, and from information which has been communicated to me it is clear that he had arrived at a time when it would have been prudent to retire--if he could have done so. it was not in his nature to spare himself, and he worked to the very last. the manner of his death strikes a chord in hearts he never knew. he recognised to the fullest extent the duties of his position, and in the closing act of his life set a brilliant example of fidelity and devotion. for it cannot be doubted that, enfeebled as he was, he could have saved himself had he given his attention to self-preservation. he took a nobler course; and, accepting his responsibility, devoted his whole soul to the welfare of his comrades, until, utterly exhausted, he fell staggering on the snow. he was already dying. life was flickering, yet the brave spirit said 'it is _nothing_.' they placed him in the rear to ease his work. he was no longer able even to support himself; he dropped to the ground, and in a few minutes expired."[ ] footnotes: [ ] here the whole contention that the party was a competent one falls to the ground. no one without a reserve of strength and skill to meet possible bad weather should embark on an important ascent. fair-weather guides and climbers should keep to easy excursions. [ ] the exact date of his birth does not seem to be known. he was christened at the church of st antoine, val tournanche, on th january . [ ] signor peraldo, the innkeeper at breuil, stated that a relief party was in readiness during the whole of th august (the day on which the descent was made), and was prevented from starting by the violence of the tempest. [ ] see _travels amongst the great andes of the equator_, . [ ] signor sinigaglia wrote a letter to a friend, from which i am permitted to quote: "i don't try to tell you of my intense pain for carrel's death. he fell after having saved me, and no guide could have done more than he did." charles gorret, through his brother the abbé, wrote to me that he entirely endorsed what had been said by signor sinigaglia, and added, "we would have given our own lives to have saved his." jean-antoine died at the foot of "the little staircase." on the th of august his body was brought to breuil, and upon th it was interred at valtournanche. at the beginning of july an iron cross was placed on the spot where he expired at the expense of signor sinigaglia, who went in person, along with charles gorret, to superintend its erection. chapter xxi the whole duty of the climber--alpine distress signals i cannot bring this book to a more fitting end than by quoting the closing words of a famous article in _the alpine journal_ by mr c. e. mathews entitled "the alpine obituary." it was written twenty years ago, but every season it becomes if possible more true. may all who go amongst the mountains lay it to heart! "mountaineering is extremely dangerous in the case of incapable, of imprudent, of thoughtless men. but i venture to state that of all the accidents in our sad obituary, there is hardly one which need have happened; there is hardly one which could not have been easily prevented by proper caution and proper care. men get careless and too confident. this does not matter or the other does not matter. the fact is, that everything matters; precautions should be not only ample but excessive. 'the little more, and how much it is, and the little less and what worlds away.' "mountaineering is not dangerous, provided that the climber knows his business and takes the necessary precautions--all within his own control--to make danger impossible. the prudent climber will recollect what he owes to his family and to his friends. he will also recollect that he owes something to the alps, and will scorn to bring them into disrepute. he will not go on a glacier without a rope. he will not climb alone, or with a single companion. he will treat a great mountain with the respect it deserves, and not try to rush a dangerous peak with inadequate guiding power. he will turn his back steadfastly upon mist and storm. he will not go where avalanches are in the habit of falling after fresh snow, or wander about beneath an overhanging glacier in the heat of a summer afternoon. above all, if he loves the mountains for their own sake, for the lessons they can teach and the happiness they can bring, he will do nothing that can discredit his manly pursuit or bring down the ridicule of the undiscerning upon the noblest pastime in the world." alpine distress signals no book on climbing should be issued without a reminder to its readers that tourists (who may need it even oftener than mountaineers) have a means ready to hand by which help can be signalled for if they are in difficulties. that in many cases a signal might not be seen is no reason for neglecting to learn and use the simple code given below and recommended by the alpine club. it has now been adopted by all societies of climbers. the signal is the repetition of a sound, a wave of a flag, or a flash of a lantern _at regular intervals_ at the rate of six signals per minute, followed by a pause of a minute, and then repeated every alternate minute. the reply is the same, except that three and not six signals are made in a minute. the regular minute's interval is essential to the clearness of the code. glossary and index glossary. alp a summer pasture. arÊte the crest of a ridge. sometimes spoken of as a knife-edge, if very narrow. bergschrund a crevasse forming between the snow still clinging to the face of a peak, and that which has broken away from it. col a pass between two peaks. couloir a gully filled with snow or stones. grat the same as _arête_. joch the same as _col_. kamm the same as _arête_. moraine see chapter on glaciers, page . moulin see chapter on glaciers, page . nÉvÉ see chapter on glaciers, page . pitz an engadine name for a peak. schrund a crevasse. sÉrac a cube of ice, formed by intersecting crevasses where a glacier is very steep. called thus after a sort of chamonix cheese, which it is said to resemble. a albula pass, aletsch glacier, , almer, christian, , , , , , almer, ulrich, altels, ice-avalanche of the, anderegg, jacob, anderegg, melchior, , , , d'angeville, mademoiselle, ardon, arkwright, henry, aufdemblatten, peter, avalanches, different kinds of, b balmat, barnes, mr g. s., bean, mr, bennen, , , bich, j. b., bionnassay, aiguille de, birkbeck, mr, blanc, mont, , , , , bohren, boissonnet, monsieur, borchart, dr, borckhardt, f. c., bossons, glacier des, breil, brenva glacier, ascent of mont blanc by, burckhardt, herr f., burgener, alexander, c carré, glacier, carrel, j. a., , , , death of, coolidge, rev. w. a. b., , couttet, sylvain, , , croda grande, feat of endurance on, croz, michel, , , d davies, john, dent, clinton, , douglas, lord francis, , distress signals, alpine, dru, aiguille du, e eigerjoch, f falkner, monsieur de, föhn wind, note on the, g gabelhorn, ober, , gardiner, mr, garwood, mr edmund, glacier tables, gorret, charles, gosaldo, gosset, mr philip, grass, hans and christian, greenland, glaciers of, guntner, dr, h hadow, mr, hamel, dr joseph, hartley, mr walker, haut-de-cry, hinchliff, mr t. w., hudson, rev. c., , i imboden, joseph, , , , , , imboden, roman, , , j jungfrau, k king, sir h. seymour, klimmer, kronig, f., l lammer, herr, lauener, , , , longman, w., lorria, herr, m m'corkindale, mr, mammoth, maquignaz, j. p. and d., martin, jean, mather, mr, mathews, mr c. e., mathews, messrs, matterhorn, , , maurer, andreas, , maurer, kaspar, meije, mercer, mr, miage, col de, moming, pass, moore, mr, , , moraines, moser, n nasse, herr, p palü, piz, , paradis, maria, penhall, mr, perren, pigeon, the misses, pilatte, col de, pilkington, messrs, plan, aiguille du, r randall, mr, rey, emile, reynaud, monsieur, richardson, miss k., riva, valley susa, rochat, mademoiselle e. de, s saas, prättigau, schallihorn, schnitzler, schuster, oscar, scerscen, piz, sesia, joch, sinigaglia, leone, stephen, sir leslie, , stratton, miss, t taugwald, peter, taugwalder, trift pass, tuckett, mr f. f., , w wainwright, mrs and dr, walker, mr, , , wetterhorn, wieland, wills, chief justice, whymper, mr c., , , z zecchini, g., printed at the edinburgh press & young street adventures on the roof of the world some books on mountaineering =the annals of mont blanc=: a monograph. by c. e. mathews, sometime president of the alpine club. with map, swan-types and other illustrations, and facsimiles. demy vo, cloth gilt, s. net. =the life of man on the high alps=: studies made on monte rosa. by angelo mosso. translated from the second edition of the italian by e. lough kiesow, in collaboration with f. kiesow. with numerous illustrations and diagrams. royal vo, cloth, s. =the early mountaineers=: the stories of their lives. by francis gribble. fully illustrated. demy vo, cloth gilt, s. =the climbs of norman-neruda.= edited, with an account of his last climb, by may norman-neruda. demy vo, cloth, s. =in the ice world of himalaya.= by fanny bullock workman and william hunter workman. with four large maps and nearly illustrations. demy vo, cloth gilt, s. also a s. edition. =from the alps to the andes.= by mathias zurbriggen. demy vo, cloth, s. d. net. =mountaineering in the sierra nevada.= by clarence king. crown vo, cloth, s. net. =true tales of mountain adventure= (for non-climbers, young and old). by mrs aubrey le blond (mrs main). demy vo, cloth, s. d. net. london: t. fisher unwin. [illustration: the finding of the last bivouac of messrs. donkin and fox in the caucasus. (p. .) from a drawing by mr. willink after a sketch by captain powell. taken, by kind permission of mr. douglas freshfield, from "the exploration of the caucasus." _frontispiece._] adventures on the roof of the world by mrs aubrey le blond (mrs main) author of "my home in the alps," "true tales of mountain adventure," etc. _illustrated_ [illustration: colophon] london t. fisher unwin paternoster square (_all rights reserved._) to joseph imboden my guide and friend for twenty years, i dedicate these records of a pastime in which i owe my share to his skill, courage, and helpful companionship. preface "dear heart," said tommy, when mr barlow had finished his narrative, "what a number of accidents people are subject to in this world!" "it is very true," answered mr barlow, "but as that is the case, it is necessary to improve ourselves in every possible manner, so that we may be able to struggle against them." thus quoted, from _sandford and merton_, a president of the alpine club. the following true tales from the hills, if they serve to emphasise not only the perils of mountaineering but the means by which they can be lessened, will have accomplished the aim of their editor. this book is not intended for the climber. to him most of the tales will be familiar in the volumes on the shelves of his library or on the lips of his companions during restful hours in the alps. but the non-climber rarely sees _the alpine journal_ and the less popular books on mountaineering, nor would he probably care to search in their pages for narratives likely to interest him. to seek out tales of adventure easily intelligible to the non-climber, to edit them in popular form, to point out the lessons which most adventures can teach to those who may climb themselves one day, has occupied many pleasant hours, rendered doubly so by the feeling that i shall again come into touch with the readers who gave so kindly a greeting to my _true tales of mountain adventure_. in that work i tried to explain the principles of mountaineering and something of the nature of glaciers and avalanches. those chapters will, i think, be found helpful by non-climbers who read the present volume. for much kindly advice and help in compiling this work i am indebted to mr henry mayhew, of the british museum, and to mr clinton dent. mrs maund has enabled me to quote from a striking article by her late husband. sir w. martin conway, sir h. seymour king, messrs tuckett, g. e. foster, cecil slingsby, harold spender, and edward fitzgerald have been good enough to allow me to make long extracts from their writings. messrs newnes have generously permitted me to quote from articles which appeared in their publications, and the editor of _the cornhill_ has sanctioned my reprinting portions of a paper from his magazine. i am also indebted to the editor of _m'clure's magazine_ for a similar courtesy. mons. a. campagne, inspector of water and forests (france), allows me to make use of two very interesting photographs from his work on the valley of barège. several friends have lent me photographs for reproduction in this work, and their names appear under each of the illustrations i owe to them. messrs spooner have kindly allowed me to use several by the late mr w. f. donkin. when not otherwise stated, the photographs are from my own negatives. i take this opportunity of heartily thanking those climbers, some of them personally unknown to me, whose assistance has rendered this work possible. e. le blond. the drive, brighton, _december _. contents chap. page preface ix i. some tales of alpine guides ii. two days on an ice-slope iii. some avalanche adventures iv. a month beneath an avalanche v. a month beneath an avalanche (_continued_) vi. an exciting caucasian ascent vii. a melancholy quest viii. some narrow escapes and fatal accidents ix. a night adventure on the dent blanche x. alone on the dent blanche xi. a stirring day on the rosetta xii. the zinal rothhorn twice in one day xiii. benighted on a snow peak xiv. the story of a big jump xv. a perilous first ascent xvi. thunderstorms in the alps xvii. landslips in the mountains xviii. some terrible experiences xix. falling stones and falling bodies glossary index list of illustrations the last bivouac of messrs donkin and fox in the caucasus _frontispiece_ christian almer, joseph imboden, jean antoine carrel, alexander burgener _to face page_ the last steep bit near the top--at the end of a hot day--an instant's halt to choose the best way up a steep wall of rock--the ice-axes are stowed away in a crack, to be brought up by the last man " " auguste gentinetta--auguste gentinetta on the way to the matterhorn--the beginning of the climb up the matterhorn--the spot where was the _bergschrund_ into which mr sloggett's party fell " " auguste gentinetta on a mountain-top--the ice-cliffs over which mr sloggett's party would have fallen had they not been dashed into the _bergschrund_--the ruined chapel by the schwarzsee--the last resting-place at zermatt of some english climbers " " on a snow ridge--a halt for lunch above the snow-line--mrs aubrey le blond " " a cutting through an avalanche--the remains of an avalanche--an avalanche of stones--a mountain chapel " " a mountain path--peasants of the mountains--a village buried beneath an avalanche--terraces planted to prevent avalanches " " a typical caucasian landscape " " melchior anderegg, his son and grandchild " " crevasses and séracs--on the border of a crevasse--a snow bridge--soft snow in the afternoon " " the bétemps hut--ski-ing--a fall on skis--a great crevasse " " the balloon "stella" getting ready to start (p. )--a bivouac in the olden days--boulder practice--the last rocks descending " " provisions for a mountain hotel--an outlook over rock and snow--dent blanche from schwarzsee (winter)--dent blanche from theodule glacier (summer) " " hut on col de bértol--ascending the aiguilles rouges--summit of the dent blanche--cornice on the dent blanche " " ambrose supersax (p. )--view from the rosetta " " climbing party leaving zermatt--the gandegg hut--the trift hotel--zinal rothhorn from trift valley " " zinal rothhorn--top of a chamonix aiguille--a steep face of rock--"leading strings" " " a _bergschrund_--homewards over the snow-slopes " " the ecrins--clouds breaking over a ridge--summit of the jungfrau--wind-blown snow " " the ecrins from the glacier blanc " " slab climbing--a rock ridge--on the dent du géant--the top at last " " the second largest glacier in the alps--on a ridge in the oberland " " thirteen thousand feet above the sea--on the furggen grat--a "personally conducted" party on the breithorn--packing the knapsack " " monte rosa from the furggen grat--the matterhorn from the wellenkuppe " " a glacier lake--amongst the séracs--taking off the rope--water at last! " " the balloon "stella" starting from zermatt--a moment after " " the matterhorn from the hörnli ridge--the matterhorn from the furgg glacier--joseph biner--the matterhorn hut " " a hot day on a mountain-top--a summit near saas--luncheon _en route_ (winter)--luncheon on a glacier pass (summer) " " a tedious snow-slope--a sitting glissade--a glacier-capped summit--on the frontier " " unpleasant going--on the crest of an old moraine " " an awkward bit of climbing--guides at zermatt--the boval hut--_au revoir!_ " " adventures on the roof of the world chapter i some tales of alpine guides in a former work, i have given some details of the training of an alpine guide, so i will not repeat them here. the mountain guides of switzerland form a class unlike any other, yet in the high standard of honour and devotion they display towards those in their charge, one is reminded of two bodies of men especially deserving of respect and confidence, namely, the civil guards of spain and the royal irish constabulary. like these, the alpine guide oftentimes risks his health, strength--even his life--for persons who are sometimes in themselves the cause of the peril encountered. like these, mere bodily strength and the best will in the world need to be associated with intelligence and foresight. like these, also, keen, fully-developed powers of observation are essential. a certain climber of early days has wittily related in _the alpine journal_ a little anecdote which bears on this point. "some years ago," writes the late mr f. craufurd grove, "a member of this club was ascending a small and easy peak in company with a famous oberland guide. part of their course lay over a snow-field sinking gradually on one side, sharply ended by a precipice on the other. the two were walking along, not far from the edge of this precipice, when the englishman, thinking that an easier path might be made by going still nearer the edge, diverged a little from his companion's track. to his considerable surprise, the guide immediately caught hold of him, and pulled him back with a great deal more vigour than ceremony, well-nigh throwing him down in the operation. wrathful, and not disinclined to return the compliment, the englishman remonstrated. the guide's only answer was to point to a small crack, apparently like scores of other cracks in the _névé_, which ran for some distance parallel to the edge of the precipice, and about feet from it. [illustration: jean antoine carrel of valournanche. by signor vittorio sella.] [illustration: christian almer of grindelwald.] [illustration: alexander burgener of eisten (saasthal).] [illustration: joseph imboden of st. nicholas. _to face p. ._] "the traveller was not satisfied, but he was too wise a man to spend time in arguing and disputing, while a desired summit was still some distance above him. they went on their way, gained the top, and the traveller's equanimity was restored by a splendid view. when, on the descent, the scene of the morning's incident was reached, the guide pointed to the little crack in the _névé_, which had grown perceptibly wider. 'this marks,' he said, 'the place where the true snow-field ends. i feel certain that the ice from here to the edge is nothing but an unsupported cornice hanging over the tremendous precipice beneath. it might possibly have borne your weight in the early morning, though i don't think it would. as to what it will bear now that a powerful sun has been on it for some time--why, let us see.' therewith he struck the _névé_ on the further side of the ice sharply with his axe. a huge mass, some or feet long, immediately broke away, and went roaring down the cliff in angry avalanche. whereat the traveller was full of amazement and admiration, and thought how there, on an easy mountain and in smiling weather, he had not been very far from making himself into an avalanche, to his own great discomfort and to the infinite tribulation of the alpine club." a fatal accident was only narrowly averted by the skill of the famous guide zurbriggen when making an ascent in the new zealand alps with mr edward fitzgerald. i am indebted to this gentleman for permission to quote the account from his article in _the alpine journal_. the party were making the ascent of mount sefton, and were much troubled by the looseness of the rock on the almost vertical face which they had to climb. however, at last they reached a ridge, "along which," writes mr fitzgerald, "we proceeded between two precipices, descending to the copland and to the mueller valleys--some feet sheer drop on either hand. "we had next to climb about feet of almost perpendicular cliff. the rocks were peculiarly insecure, and we were obliged to move by turns, wherever possible throwing down such rocks as seemed most dangerous. at times even this resource was denied us, so dangerous was the violent concussion with which these falling masses would shake the ridge to which we clung. i carried both the ice axes, so as to leave zurbriggen both hands free to test each rock as he slowly worked his way upwards, while i did my utmost to avoid being in a position vertically beneath him. "suddenly, as i was coming up a steep bit, while zurbriggen waited for me a few steps above, a large boulder, which i touched with my right hand, gave way with a crash and fell, striking my chest. i had been just on the point of passing up the two ice axes to zurbriggen, that he might place them in a cleft of rock a little higher up, and thus leave me both hands free for my climb. he was in the act of stooping and stretching out his arms to take them from my uplifted left hand, and the slack rope between us lay coiled at his feet. the falling boulder hurled me down head foremost, and i fell about feet, turning a complete somersault in the air. suddenly i felt the rope jerk, and i struck against the side of the mountain with great force. i feared i should be stunned and drop the two ice axes, and i knew that on these our lives depended. without them we should never have succeeded in getting down the glacier, through all the intricate ice-fall. "after the rope had jerked me up i felt it again slip and give way, and i came down slowly for a couple of yards. i took this to mean that zurbriggen was being wrenched from his foot-hold, and i was just contemplating how i should feel dashing down the feet below, and wondering vaguely how many times i should strike the rocks on the way. i saw the block that i had dislodged going down in huge bounds; it struck the side three or four times, and then, taking an enormous plunge of about feet, embedded itself in the glacier now called the tuckett glacier. "i felt the rope stop and pull me up short. i called to zurbriggen and asked him if he were solidly placed. i was now swinging in the air like a pendulum, with my back to the mountain, scarcely touching the rock face. it would have required a great effort to turn round and grasp the rock, and i was afraid the strain which would thus necessarily be placed on the rope might dislodge zurbriggen. "his first fear was that i had been half killed, for he saw the rock fall almost on top of me; but, as a matter of fact, after striking my chest it had glanced off to the right and passed under my right arm; it had started from a point so very near to me that it had not time to gain sufficient impetus to strike me with great force. zurbriggen's first words were, 'are you very much hurt?' i answered, 'no,' and again i asked him whether he were firmly placed. 'no,' he replied, 'i am very badly situated here. turn round as soon as you can; i cannot hold you much longer.' i gave a kick at the rocks with one foot, and with a great effort managed to swing myself round. "luckily there was a ledge near me, and so, getting some hand-hold, i was soon able to ease the strain on the rope. a few moments later i struggled a little way up, and at last handed to zurbriggen the ice axes, which i had managed to keep hold of throughout my fall. in fact, my thoughts had been centred on them during the whole of the time. we were in too bad a place to stop to speak to one another; but zurbriggen, climbing up a bit further, got himself into a firm position, and i scrambled up after him, so that in about ten minutes we had passed this steep bit. [illustration: the last steep bit near the top.] [illustration: an instant's halt to choose the best way up a steep wall of rock.] [illustration: at the end of a hot day.] [illustration: the ice-axes are stowed away in a crack, to be brought up by the last man. _to face p. ._] "we now sat for a moment to recover ourselves, for our nerves had been badly shaken by what had so nearly proved a fatal accident. at the time everything happened so rapidly that we had not thought much of it, more especially as we knew that we needed to keep our nerve and take immediate action; but once it was all over we both felt the effects, and sat for about half an hour before we could even move again. i learned that zurbriggen, the moment i fell, had snatched up the coil of rope which lay at his feet, and had luckily succeeded in getting hold of the right end first, so that he was soon able to bring me nearly to rest; but the pull upon him was so great, and he was so badly placed, that he had to let the rope slip through his fingers, removing all the skin, in order to ease the strain while he braced himself in a better position, from which he was able finally to stop me. he told me that had i not been able to turn and grasp the rocks he must inevitably have been dragged from his foot-hold, as the ledge upon which he stood was literally crumbling away beneath his feet. we discovered that two strands of the rope had been cut through by the falling rock, so that i had been suspended in mid-air by a single strand." the remainder of the way was far from easy, but without further mishap the party eventually gained the summit. that there are many grades of alpine guides was amusingly exemplified once upon a time at the montanvert, where in front of the hotel stood the famous courmazeur guide, emil rey (afterwards killed on the dent du géant), talking to the duke of abruzzi and other first-rate climbers, while a little way off lounged some extremely indifferent specimens of the chamonix _societé des guides_. presently a tourist, got up with much elegance, and leaning on a tall stick surmounted by a chamois horn, appeared upon the scene, and addressed himself to emil rey. "combien pour traverser la mer de glace?" he enquired. "monsieur," replied rey, removing his hat with one hand and with the other indicating the group hard by, "voila les guides pour la mer de glace! moi, je suis pour la grande montagne!" [illustration: auguste gentinetta, of zermatt, .] [illustration: the climb up the matterhorn by the ordinary swiss route begins at the rocky corner to the left of the picture.] [illustration: auguste gentinetta on the way to the matterhorn.] [illustration: the bergschrund, open when the accident to mr. sloggett's party took place, was above the ice cliff below which the man is standing. _to face p. ._] one of the most wonderful escapes in the whole annals of mountaineering was that of a young englishman, mr sloggett, and the well-known guide, auguste gentinetta, the second guide, alphons fürrer, being killed on the spot. they had made a successful ascent of the matterhorn on th july , and were the first of three parties on the descent. when nearly down the mountain, not far from the hörnli ridge, an avalanche of stones and rocks swept them off their feet. fürrer's skull was smashed, and he was killed immediately, and the three, roped together, were precipitated down a wall of ice. their axes were wrenched from their grasp, and they could do nothing to check themselves. gentinetta retained full consciousness during the whole of that awful descent, and while without the slightest hope that they could escape with their lives, he in no way lost his presence of mind. about feet below the spot where their fall commenced was a small _bergschrund_, or crack across the ice. this was full of stones and sand, and into it the helpless climbers were flung; had they shot over it nothing in this world could have saved them. gentinetta, though much bruised and knocked about, had no bones broken, and he at once took means to prevent an even worse disaster than that which had already happened, for mr sloggett had fallen head downwards, with his face buried in sand, and was on the point of suffocation. well was it for him that his guide was a man of promptness and courage. without losing an instant gentinetta pulled up his traveller and got his face free, clearing the sand out of his mouth, and doing all that mortal could for him. mr sloggett's jaw and two of his teeth were broken, but his other injuries were far less than might have been expected. nevertheless, the position of the two survivors was still a most perilous one. they were exactly at the spot on to which almost every stone which detached itself from that side of the mountain was sure to fall, and their ice axes were lost, rendering it almost impossible for them to work their way to a place of safety. still, to his infinite credit, the guide did not lose heart. by some means, which he now declares he is unable to understand, he contrived to climb, and to assist his gentleman, up that glassy, blood-stained wall, which even for a party uninjured, and properly equipped, it would have been no light task to surmount. this desperate achievement was rendered doubly trying by gentinetta's being perfectly aware that if any more stones fell the two mountaineers must inevitably be swept away for the second time. at last they gained their tracks and sought a sheltered spot, where they could safely rest a little. here they were joined by the other parties, who rendered invaluable help during the rest of the descent. the two sufferers finally arrived at the schwarzsee hotel, whence they were carried down the same evening to zermatt. [illustration: auguste gentinetta on a mountain top, .] [illustration: the ruined chapel by the schwarzsee.] [illustration: the cliff of ice over which mr. sloggett's party must have precipitated if they had not been dashed into the bergschrund.] [illustration: the last resting place at zermatt of some english climbers. _to face p. ._] the next day a strong party started for the scene of the accident to recover the body of the dead guide, fürrer. it was a difficult and a dangerous task, and those who examined the wall down which the fall took place expressed their amazement that two wounded men, without axes, should have performed what seemed the incredible feat of getting up it. both mr sloggett and gentinetta made an excellent recovery, though they were laid up for many weeks after their memorable descent of the matterhorn. the qualities found in a first-class guide include not only skill in climbing, but the ability to form a sound conclusion when overtaken by storm and mist. the following experience which took place in , and which i am permitted by mrs maund to quote from her late husband's article in _the alpine journal_, proves, by its happy termination, that maurer's judgment in a critical position was thoroughly to be relied on. mr maund had just arrived at la bérarde, in dauphiné, and he writes:-- "the morning of the th broke wet and stormy, and rodier strongly advised me not to start; this, however, was out of the question, as i was due at la grave on that day to keep my appointment with mr middlemore. after waiting an hour, to give the weather a chance, we started in drizzling rain at a.m. desolate as the val des Étançons must always look, it appeared doubly gloomy that morning, with its never-ending monotony of rock and moraine unrelieved by a single patch of green. as we neared the glacier, the weather fortunately cleared, and the clouds, which till then had enveloped everything, began to mount with that marvellous rapidity only noticeable in mountain districts, leaving half revealed the mighty cliffs of the meije towering feet almost sheer above us. as the wind caught and carried into the air the frozen sheets of snow on his summit, the old mountain looked like some giant bill distributer throwing his advertisements about. entirely protected from the wind, we whiled away an hour and a half, searching with our telescope for any feasible line of attack. having satisfied ourselves that on this side the mountain presented enormous, if not insurmountable, difficulties, we shouldered our packs and made tracks for the brèche, which we reached at . . "meanwhile the weather had become worse again, and during the last part of the ascent it was snowing heavily; the wind too, from which we had been protected on the south side of the col, was so strong that we were absolutely obliged to crawl over to the north side. our position was by no means a pleasant one; neither martin nor i knew anything of the pass, and rodier, who had told us overnight that he had crossed it more than once, seemed to know no more, and although sure of the exact bearing of la grave, we could not, owing to the fast falling snow, see further than or yards in advance; added to this, it was intensely cold. having paid rodier francs (a perfect waste of money, as it is impossible to mistake the way to the brèche from the val des Étançons, and, as i have said, he could not give us the least clue to the descent on the la grave side), we dismissed him, hoping devoutly that he might break his--well, his ice axe, we'll say--on the way down. by keeping away to the right of the brèche and down a steep slope, we crossed the crevasses which lay at its base without difficulty. we then bore to the left across a plateau, on which the snow lay very deep; floundering through this sometimes waist deep, we reached the upper ice-fall of the glacier, and after crossing several crevasses became involved in a perfect net-work of them. after a consultation, we determined to try to the right, but met with no better success, as again we were checked by an absolute labyrinth. at last, about five o'clock, we took to some rocks which divide the glacier into two branches. meanwhile the snow was falling thicker and thicker, and, driven by the strong n.w. wind which caught up and eddied about what had already fallen, it appeared to come from every quarter at once. it was impossible to see more than a few yards in advance, and the rocks which under ordinary circumstances would have been easy, were, with their coating of at least inches of snow, much the reverse, as it was quite impossible to see where to put hand or foot. our only trust was in our compass, which assured us that while keeping to the backbone of this ridge we were descending in an almost direct line towards la grave. "we had at most two hours of daylight before us, but there was still a hope that by following our present line we should get off the glacier before dark. how i regretted now the time lost in the morning. a little before seven we were brought to a standstill; our further direct descent was cut off by a precipice, while the rocks on either side fell almost sheer to the glaciers beneath. it was too late to think of looking for another road, so nothing now remained but to find the best shelter we could and bivouac for the night. we re-ascended to a small platform we had passed a short time before, and selecting the biggest and most sheltered bit of rock on it, we piled up the few movable stones there were about, to form the outside wall to our shelter, and having cleared away as much of the snow as we could from the inside, laid our ice axes across the top as rafters, with a sodden mackintosh--ironically called a waterproof by mr carter--over all for a roof. despite this garment, i was wet to the skin. luckily, we had each of us a spare flannel shirt and stockings in our knapsacks, but as the meagre dimensions of our shelter would not admit of the struggles attendant on a change, we were obliged to go through the operation outside. i tried to be cheerful, and martin tried to be facetious as we wrung out our wet shirts while the snow beat on our bare backs, but both attempts were lamentable failures. if up to the present time my readers have not stripped in a snow-storm, let me strongly advise them never to attempt it. having got through the performance as quickly as possible, we crawled into our shelter, but here again my ill luck followed me, for in entering i managed to tread on the tin wine-flask which martin had thrown aside, and, my weight forcing out the cork, every drop of wine escaped. after packing myself away as well as i could in the shape of a pot-hook, martin followed, and pot-hooked himself alongside me. we were obliged to assume this elementary shape, as the size of our shelter would not admit of our lying straight. all the provisions that remained were then produced. they consisted of a bit of bread about the size of a breakfast-roll, one-third of a small pot of preserved meat, about two ounces of raw bacon with the hide on, and half a small flask of a filthy compound called genèpie, a sort of liqueur; besides this, we mustered between us barely a pipe-full of tobacco, and eight matches in a metal-box. the provisions i divided into three equal parts--one-third for that night's supper, and the remaining two-thirds for the next day. i need not enlarge on the miseries of that night. the wind blew through the chinks between the stones, bringing the snow with it, until the place seemed all chinks; then the mackintosh with its weight of snow would come in upon us, and we had with infinite difficulty to prop it up again, only to go through the same operation an hour later; at last, in sheer despair, we let it lie where it fell, and found to our relief it kept us warmer in that position. the snow never ceased one moment although the wind had fallen, and when morning broke there must have been nearly a foot of it around and over us. a more desolate picture than that dawn i have never seen. snow everywhere. the rocks buried in it, and not a point peeping out to relieve the unbroken monotony. the sky full of it, without a break to relieve its leaden sameness, and the heavy flakes falling with that persistent silence which adds so much to the desolation of such a scene. "i was all for starting; for making some attempt either to get down, or to recross the col. martin was dead against it--and i think now he was right. first of all, we could not have seen more than a few yards ahead; the rocks would have been considerably worse than they were the evening before, and if we had once got involved amongst the crevasses it was on the cards that we shouldn't get clear of them again; added to this, even if we could hit off the col, what with want of sleep and food, and the fatigue consequent on several hours' floundering in deep snow, we might not have strength to reach it. at any rate, we decided not to start until it cleared sufficiently to let us see where we were going. our meagre stock of provisions was redivided into three parts, one of which we ate for breakfast. i then produced the pipe, but to our horror we found the matches were still damp. martin, who is a man of resource, immediately opened his shirt and put the box containing them under his arm to dry. meanwhile the snow never ceased, and the day wore on without a sign of the weather breaking. if it had not been for the excitement of those matches, i do not know how we should have got through that day; at last, however, after about six hours of martin's fond embrace, one consented to burn, and i succeeded in lighting the pipe. we took turns at twelve whiffs each, and no smoke, i can conscientiously say, have i ever enjoyed like that one. during this never-ending day we got a few snatches of sleep, but the cold consequent on our wet clothes was so great, our position so cramped, and the rocks on which we lay so abominably sharp, that these naps were of the shortest duration. "a little before six the snow ceased, and for a moment the sun tried to wink at us through a chink in his snow-charged blanket, before he went to bed--long enough, however, for us to see la grave far below, with every alp almost down to the village itself covered with its white mantle. "and then, as our second night closes in, the snow recommences, and we draw closer together even than before; for we feel that during the long hours to come we must economise to the fullest the little animal heat left in us. "that night i learnt to shiver, not the ordinary shivers, but fits lasting a quarter of an hour, during which no amount of moral persuasion could keep your limbs under control; and it was so catching! if either of us began a solo, the other was sure to join in, and we shivered a duet until quite exhausted. as we had nothing to drink, i had swallowed a considerable quantity of snow to quench my thirst, and this, acting on an almost empty stomach, produced burning heat within, while the cold, which was now intense, acting externally, induced fever and light-headedness, and once or twice i caught myself rambling. martin, too, was affected in the same way. the long hours wore on, and still there was no sign of better weather. towards midnight things looked very serious. martin, who had behaved like a brick, thought 'it was very hard to perish like this in the flower of his age,' and i, too, thought of writing a line as well as i was able in my pocket-book, bequeathing its contents to my finder, then of sleeping if i could and waking up with the houris; but i had the laugh of him afterwards, because he thought aloud and i to myself. however, this mood did not last long, and after shaking hands, i do not quite know why, because we had not quarrelled, we cuddled up again, and determined, whatever the weather, to start at daybreak. in half an hour the snow ceased, the wind backed to the s., and the temperature rose as if by magic; while the snow melting above trickled down in little streams upon us. we cleared the snow off the mackintosh, and putting it over us again, slept like logs in comparative warmth. when i awoke the sun was well up, and on looking round i could hardly realise the scene. not a cloud in the sky! not a breath of wind! the rocks around us, which yesterday were absolutely buried, were showing their black heads everywhere, and only a few inches of snow remained, so rapid had been the thaw; while far away to the n. the snow-capped summits of the pennine alps stood out in bold relief against the cloudless sky. "i woke martin, and at a quarter to six, after thirty-five hours' burial, we crawled out of our shelter. at first neither of us could stand, so chilled were we by long exposure, and so cramped by our enforced position, but after a good thaw in the hot sun we managed to hobble about, and pack the knapsacks. after eating the few scraps that remained, we started at seven o'clock up the ridge that we had descended two days before. "we were very shaky on our legs at first, but at each step the stiffness seemed to wear off, and after half an hour we quite recovered their use; but there remained an all-pervading sense of emptiness inside that was not exhilarating. after ascending a short distance, and with my telescope carefully examining the rocks, we determined to descend to the glacier below us (the western branch), and crossing this get on to some more rocks beneath the lower ice-fall. if we could get down these our way seemed clear. "i won't trouble you with the details of the descent: suffice it to say that, without encountering any difficulty, we stepped on to grass about twelve o'clock, and descending green slopes, still patched here and there with snow (which would have provided sufficient edelweiss for all the hats of the s.a.c.), we arrived safely at la grave, after a pleasant little outing of fifty-six hours. mr middlemore, despairing of my coming, had started for england the night before, and had left jaun to await my arrival. "after a hot bath, and some bread-crumbs soaked in warm wine, i went to bed, and the next morning i awoke as well as i am now, with the exception of stiffness in the knees, and a slight frost-bite on one hand. martin, however, who, i suspect, had eaten a good deal on his arrival, was seized with severe cramp, and for some hours was very ill. "two days' rest put us all to rights again." though rivalry may be keen between first-class guides, and bitter things be said now and then in the heat of the struggle for first place, yet when a great guide has passed away, it is seldom that one hears anything but good of him. a pretty story is told--and i believe it is true--of the son of old maquignaz of valtournanche, which exemplifies this chivalrous trait. maquignaz and jean antoine carrel were often in competition in the early days of systematic climbing, and if not enemies, they were at any rate hardly bosom friends. carrel's tragic and noble death on the matterhorn will be recalled by readers of my _true tales of mountain adventure_. not very long ago a french climber was making an ascent of the italian side of the matterhorn, with "young" maquignaz as guide. "where did carrel fall?" he innocently enquired, as they ascended the precipitous cliffs on the breuil side of the mountain. young maquignaz turned sharply to him and exclaimed: "carrel n'est pas tombé! _il est mort!_" chapter ii two days on an ice-slope there are few instances so striking of the capacity of a party of thoroughly experienced mountaineers to get out of a really tight place, as was the outcome of the two days spent by messrs mummery, slingsby, and ellis carr, on an ice slope in the mont blanc district. the party intended trying to ascend the aiguille du plan direct from the chamonix valley. mr ellis carr has generously given me permission to make use of his account, which i quote from _the alpine journal_. he relates the adventures of himself and his two friends, whose names are household words to climbers, as follows:-- "mummery, slingsby, and i started at p.m., with a porter carrying the material for our camp. this comprised a silk tent of mummery's pattern, only weighing ½ to lbs.; three eider-down sleeping-bags, lbs.; cooking apparatus of thin tin, ½ lbs.; or, with ropes, rucksacks, and sundries, about lbs., in addition to the weight of the provisions. though not unduly burdened, the porter found the valley of boulders exceedingly troublesome, and in spite of three distinct varieties of advice as to the easiest route across them, made such miserably slow progress, often totally disappearing amongst the rocks like a water-logged ship in a trough of the sea, that we were forced to pitch our tents on the right moraine of the nantillons glacier, instead of near the base of our peak, as intended. the _gîte_, built up with stones on the slope of the moraine, with earth raked into the interstices, was sufficiently comfortable to afford mummery and myself some sleep. a stone, however, far surpassing the traditional _gîte_ lump in aggressive activity, seemed, most undeservedly, to have singled out slingsby as its innocent victim, and, judging by the convulsions of his sleeping-bag, and the sighs and thumps which were in full swing every time i woke up, it must have kept him pretty busy all night dodging its attacks from side to side. his account of his sufferings next morning, when mummery and i were admittedly awake, fully confirmed and explained these phenomena, but on going for the enemy by daylight, he had the satisfaction of finding that he had suffered quite needlessly, the stone being loose and easily removed. we used mummery's silk tent for the first time, and found that it afforded ample room for three men to lie at full length without crowding. the night, however, was too fine and still to test the weather-resisting power of the material, and as this was thin enough to admit sufficient moonlight to illuminate the interior of the tent, and make candle or lamp superfluous, we inferred that it might possibly prove to be equally accommodating in the case of rain and wind. it was necessary, moreover, on entering or leaving the tent, to adopt that form of locomotion to which the serpent was condemned to avoid the risk of unconsciously carrying away the whole structure on one's back. we started next morning about three o'clock, leaving the camp kit ready packed for the porter, whom we had instructed to fetch it during the day, and pushed on to the glacier at the foot of our mountain at a steady pace, maintained in my case with much greater ease than would have otherwise been possible by virtue of some long, single-pointed screw spikes inserted overnight in my boot soles; and i may here venture to remark that a few of these spikes, screwed into the boots before starting on an expedition where much ice-work is expected, appear to offer a welcome compromise between ponderous crampons and ordinary nails. they do not, i think, if not too numerous, interfere with rock-climbing, and can be repeatedly renewed when worn down. a slight modification in the shape would further facilitate their being screwed in with a box key made to fit.[ ] "leaving the rock buttress, the scene of our reconnaissance on the th, on the right, we struck straight up the glacier basin between it and the aiguille de blaitiére, which glacier appeared to me to be largely composed of broken fragments of ice mixed with avalanche snow from the hanging glaciers and slopes above. keeping somewhat to the left, we reached the _bergschrund_, which proved to be of considerable size, extending along the whole base of the couloir, and crossed it at a point immediately adjoining the rocks on the left. the axe at once came into requisition, and we cut steadily in hard ice up and across the couloir towards the small rib or island of rock before-mentioned as dividing it higher up into two portions. the rocks at the base of this rib, though steep, gritty, and loose, offered more rapid going than the ice, and we climbed then to a gap on the ridge above, commanding a near view of the perpendicular country in front of us. far above us, and immediately over the top of the right-hand section of the couloir, towered the ice cliffs of the hanging glacier we had tried to reach on the th, and beyond these again, in the grey morning light, we caught the glimpse of a second and even a third rank of _séracs_ in lofty vista higher up the mountain. as before observed, this section of the couloir seemed admirably placed for receiving ice-falls, and we now saw that it formed part of the natural channel for snow and _débris_ from each and all of these glaciers. we therefore directed our attention to our friend on the left, and after a halt for breakfast, traversed the still remaining portion of the dividing ridge, turning a small rock pinnacle on its right, and recommenced cutting steps in the hard ice which faced us. as has been before remarked, it is difficult to avoid over-estimating the steepness of ice-slopes, but, allowing for any tendency towards exaggeration, i do not think i am wrong in fixing the angle of the couloir from this point as not less than °. we kept the axe steadily going, and with an occasional change of leader, after some hours' unceasing work, found ourselves approaching the base of the upper portion of the couloir, which from below had appeared perpendicular. we paused to consider the situation. for at least to feet the ice rose at an angle of ° to °, cutting off all view of the face above, with no flanking wall of rock on the right, but bounded on the left by an overhanging cliff, which dripped slightly with water from melting snow above. the morning was well advanced, and we kept a sharp look-out aloft for any stray stones which might fancy a descent in our direction. none came, and we felt gratified at this confirmation of our judgment as to the safety of this part of the couloir. however, the time for chuckling had not yet come. as i stated, we had halted to inspect the problem before us. look as we might we could discover no possibility of turning the ice wall either to the right or left, and though, as we fondly believed and hoped, it formed the only barrier to easier going above, the terrible straightness and narrowness of the way was sufficient to make the very boldest pause to consider the strength of his resources. "how long _i_ should have paused before beating a retreat, if asked to lead the way up such a place, i will not stop to enquire, but i clearly remember that my efforts to form some estimate of the probable demand on my powers such a feat would involve were cut short by mummery's quiet announcement that he was ready to make the attempt. let me here state that amongst mummery's other mountaineering qualifications not the least remarkable is his power of inspiring confidence in those who are climbing with him, and that both slingsby and i experienced this is proved by the fact that we at once proceeded, without misgiving or hesitation, to follow his lead. we had hitherto used an -feet rope, but now, by attaching a spare -feet length of thin rope, used double, we afforded the leader an additional feet. mummery commenced cutting, and we soon approached the lower portion of the actual ice wall, where the angle of the slope cannot have been less than °. "i am not aware that any authority has fixed the exact degree of steepness at which it becomes impossible to use the ice axe with both hands, but, whatever portion of a right angle the limit may be, mummery very soon reached it, and commenced excavating with his right hand caves in the ice, each with an internal lateral recess by which to support his weight with his left. slingsby and i, meanwhile possessing our souls in patience, stood in our respective steps, as on a ladder, and watched his steady progress with admiration, so far as permitted us by the falling ice dislodged by the axe. "above our heads the top of the wall was crowned by a single projecting stone towards which the leader cut, and which, when reached, just afforded sufficient standing-room for both feet. the ice immediately below this stone, for a height of or feet, was practically perpendicular, and slingsby's definition of it as a 'frozen waterfall' is the most appropriate i can find. here and there mummery found it necessary to cut through its entire thickness, exposing the face of the rock behind. "on reaching the projecting stone the leader was again able to use the axe with both hands, and slowly disappeared from view; thus completing, without pause or hitch of any kind, the most extraordinary feat of mountaineering skill and nerve it has ever been my privilege to witness. "the top of the wall surmounted, slingsby and i expected every moment to hear the welcome summons to follow to easier realms above. none came. time passed, the only sounds besides the occasional drip of water from the rocks on our left, or the growl of a distant avalanche, being that of the axe and the falling chips of ice, as they whizzed by or struck our heads or arms with increasing force. the sounds of the axe strokes gradually became inaudible, but the shower continued to pound us without mercy for more than an hour of inaction, perhaps more trying to the nerves, in such a position, than the task of leading. the monotony was to some extent varied by efforts to ward off from our heads the blows of the falling ice, and by the excitement, at intervals, of seeing the slack rope hauled up a foot or so at a time. it had almost become taut, and we were preparing to follow, when a shout from above, which sounded from where we stood muffled and far away, for more rope, kept us in our places. it was all very well to demand more rope, but not so easy to comply. the only possible way to give extra length was to employ the feet of thin rope single, instead of double, at which we hesitated at first, but, as mummery shouted that it was absolutely necessary, we managed to make the change, though it involved slingsby's getting out of the rope entirely during the operation. to any one who has not tried it i should hardly venture to recommend, as an enjoyable diversion, the process, which must necessarily occupy both hands, of removing and re-adjusting feet of rope on an ice slope exceeding ° at the top of a steep couloir some feet high. the task accomplished, we had not much longer to wait before the shout to come on announced the termination of our martyrdom. we went on, but, on passing in turn the projecting stone, and catching sight of the slope above, we saw at a glance that our hopes of easy going must, for the present, be postponed. mummery, who had halted at the full extent of his tether of about feet of rope, was standing in his steps on an ice slope quite as steep as that below the foot of the wall we had just surmounted. he had been cutting without intermission for two hours, and suggested a change. being last on the rope, i therefore went ahead, cutting steps to pass, and took up the work with the axe. the ice here was occasionally in double layer, the outer one some or inches in thickness, which, when cut through, revealed a space of about equal depth behind, an arrangement at times very convenient, as affording good hand-holes without extra labour. i went on for some time cutting pigeon-holes on the right side of the couloir, and, at the risk of being unorthodox, i would venture to point out what appears to me the advantages of this kind of step on very steep ice. cut in two perpendicular rows, alternately for each foot, the time lost in zigzags is saved, and no turning steps are necessary; they do not require the ice to be cut away so much for the leg as in the case of lateral steps, and are therefore less easily filled up by falling chips and snow. being on account of their shape more protected from the sun's heat, they are less liable to be spoiled by melting, and have the further advantage of keeping the members of the party in the same perpendicular line, and consequently in a safer position. they also may serve as hand-holds. to cut such steps satisfactorily it is necessary that the axe be provided with a point long enough to penetrate to the full depth required for the accommodation of the foot up to the instep, without risk of injury to the shaft by repeated contact with the ice. "as we had now been going for several hours without food, and since leaving the rock rib, where we had breakfasted, had come across no ledge or irregularity of any kind affording a resting-place, it was with no little satisfaction that i descried, on the opposite side of the couloir, at a spot about or feet above, where the cliff on our left somewhat receded, several broken fragments of rock cropping out of the ice, of size and shape to provide seats for the whole party. we cut up and across to them, and sat down, or rather hooked ourselves on, for a second breakfast. we were here approximately on a level with the summit of our rock buttress of the th, and saw that it was only connected with the mountain by a broken and dangerous-looking ridge of ice and _névé_ running up to an ice-slope at the foot of the glacier cliffs. the gap in the latter was not visible from our position. the tower we had tried to turn appeared far below, and the intervening rocks of the buttress, though not jagged, were steep and smooth like a roof. the first gleams of sunshine now arrived to cheer us, and, getting under way once more, we pushed on hopefully, as the couloir was rapidly widening and the face of the mountain almost in full view. we had also surmounted the rock wall which had so long shut out the prospect on our left, and it was at this point that, happening to glance across the slabs, we caught sight of a large flat rock rapidly descending. it did not bound nor roll, but slid quietly down with a kind of stealthy haste, as if it thought, though rather late, it might still catch us, and was anxious not to alarm us prematurely. it fell harmlessly into the couloir, striking the ice near the rock rib within a few feet of our tracks, and we saw no other falling stones while we were on the mountain. "leaving the welcome resting-place, mummery again took the lead, and cut up and across the couloir, now becoming less steep, to a rib or patch of rocks higher up on the right, which we climbed to its upper extremity, a distance of some or feet. "here, taking to the ice once more, we soon approached the foot of the first great snow-slope on the face, and rejoiced in the near prospect of easier going. at the top of this slope, several hundred feet straight before us, was a low cliff or band of rocks, for which we decided to aim, there being throughout the entire length of the intervening slope no suspicious grey patches to indicate ice. the angle was, moreover, much less severe, and it being once more my turn to lead, i went at it with the zealous intention of making up time. my ardour was, however, considerably checked at finding, when but a short distance up the slope, that the coating of _névé_ was so exceedingly thin as to be insufficient for good footing without cutting through the hard ice below. instead, therefore, of continuing in a straight line for the rocks, we took an oblique course to the right, towards one of the hanging glaciers before referred to, and crossing a longitudinal crevasse, climbed without much difficulty up its sloping bank of _névé_. hurrah! here was good snow at last, only requiring at most a couple of slashes with the adze end of the axe for each step. if this continued we had a comparatively easy task before us, as the rocks above, though smooth and steep, were broken up here and there by bands and streaks of snow. taking full advantage of this our first opportunity for making speed, we cut as fast as possible and made height rapidly. we still aimed to strike the band of rocks before described, though at a point much more to the right, and nearer to where its extremity was bounded by the ice-cliffs of another hanging glacier; but, alas! as we approached nearer and nearer to the base of the cliffs, looming apparently higher and higher over our heads, the favouring _névé_, over which we had been making such rapid progress, again began to fail, and before we could reach the top of the once more steepening slope the necessity of again resorting to the pick end of the axe brought home the unwelcome conviction that our temporary respite had come to an end, and that, instead of snow above, and apart from what help the smooth rocks might afford, nothing was to be expected but hard, unmitigated ice. "we immediately felt that, as it was already past noon, the establishment of this fact would put a totally different complexion on our prospects of success, and, instead of reaching the summit, we might have to content ourselves with merely crossing the ridge. we continued cutting, however, and reached the rocks, the last part of the slope having once more become exceedingly steep. to turn the cliff, here unclimbable, we first spent over half an hour in prospecting to the right, where a steep ice-gully appeared between the rocks and the hanging glacier; but, abandoning this, we struck off to the left, cutting a long traverse, during which we were able to hitch the rope to rocks cropping out through the ice. the traverse landed us in a kind of gully, where, taking to the rocks whenever practicable, though climbing chiefly by the ice, we reached a broken stony ledge, large and flat enough to serve as a luncheon place, the only spot we had come across since leaving the rock rib, where it was possible really to rest sitting. luncheon over, we proceeded as before, choosing the rocks as far as possible by way of change, though continually obliged to take to the ice-streaks by which they were everywhere intersected. this went on all the rest of the afternoon, till, when daylight began to wane, we had attained an elevation considerably above the gap between our mountain and the aiguille de blaitiére, or more than , feet above the sea. "the persistent steepness and difficulty of the mountain had already put our reaching the ridge before dark entirely out of the question, though we decided to keep going as long as daylight lasted, so as to leave as little work as possible for the morrow. "the day had been gloriously fine, practically cloudless throughout, and i shall never forget the weird look of the ice-slopes beneath, turning yellow in the evening light, and plunging down and disappearing far below in the mists which were gathering at the base of the mountain; also, far, far away, we caught a glimpse of the lake of geneva, somewhere near lausanne. i had turned away from the retrospect, when an exclamation from slingsby called me to look once more. a gap had appeared in the mists, and there, some feet below us, as it were on an inferior stage of the world, we caught a glimpse of the snow-field at the very foot of the mountain, dusky yellow in the last rays of the sun. mummery was in the meantime continuing the everlasting chopping, in the intervals of crawling up disobliging slabs of rock, till twilight began to deepen into darkness, and we had to look about for a perch on which to roost for the night. the only spot we could find, sufficiently large for all three of us to sit, was a small patch of lumps of rocks, more or less loose, some or feet below where we stood, and we succeeded, just as the light failed, or about . p.m., and after some engineering, in seating ourselves side by side upon it. our boots were wet through by long standing in ice-steps, and we took them off and wrung the water out of our stockings. the others put theirs on again, but, as a precaution against frost-bite, having pocketed my stockings, i put my feet, wrapped in a woollen cap, inside the rucksack, with the result that they remained warm through the night. the half hour which it took me next morning to pull on the frozen boots proved, however, an adequate price for the privilege of having warm feet. as a precaution against falling off our shelf we hitched the rope over a rock above and passed it round us, and to make sure of not losing my boots (awful thought!), i tied them to it by the laces. "after dinner we settled down to spend the evening. the weather fortunately remained perfect, and the moon had risen, though hidden from us by our mountain. immediately below lay chamonix, like a cheap illumination, gradually growing more patchy as the night advanced and the candles went out one by one, while above the stars looked down as if silently wondering why in the world we were sitting there. the first two hours were passed without very much discomfort, but having left behind our extra wraps to save weight, as time wore on the cold began to make itself felt, and though fortunately never severe enough to be dangerous, made us sufficiently miserable. packed as we were, we were unable to indulge in those exercises generally adopted to induce warmth, and we shivered so vigorously at intervals that, when all vibrating in unison, we wondered how it might affect the stability of our perch. sudden cramp in a leg, too, could only be relieved by concerted action, it being necessary for the whole party to rise solemnly together like a bench of judges, while the limb was stretched out over the valley of chamonix till the pain abated, and it could be folded up and packed away once more. we sang songs, told anecdotes, and watched the ghostly effect of the moonlight on a subsidiary pinnacle of the mountain, the illuminated point of which, in reality but a short distance away, looked like a phantom matterhorn seen afar off over an inky black _arête_ formed by the shadow thrown across its base by the adjoining ridge. we had all solemnly vowed not to drop asleep, and for me this was essential, as my centre of gravity was only just within the base of support; but while endeavouring to give effect to another chorus, in spite of the very troublesome _vibrato_ before referred to, i was grieved and startled at the sudden superfluous interpolation of two sustained melancholy bass notes, each in a different key and ominously suggestive of snoring. the pensive attitude of my companions' heads being in keeping with their song, in accordance with a previous understanding, i imparted to mummery, who sat next to me, a judicious shock, but, as in the case of a row of billiard balls in contact, the effect was most noticeable at the far end, and _slingsby_ awoke, heartily agreeing with me how weak it was of mummery to give way thus. the frequent necessity for repeating this operation, with strengthening variations as the effect wore off, soon stopped the chorus which, like sullivan's 'lost chord,' trembled away into silence. "the lights of chamonix had by this time shrunk to a mere moth-eaten skeleton of their earlier glory, and i became weakly conscious of a sort of resentment at the callous selfishness of those who could thus sneak into their undeserved beds, without a thought of the three devoted explorers gazing down at them from their eyrie on the icy rocks. "from to o'clock the cold became more intense, aggravated by a slight 'breeze of morning,' and while waiting for dawn we noticed that it was light enough to see. "daylight, however, did not help mummery to find his hat, and we concluded it had retired into the _bergschrund_ under cover of darkness. "we helped each other into a standing position, and decided to start for the next patch of rocks above, from there to determine what chance of success there might be in making a dash for the summit, or, failing this, of simply crossing the ridge and descending to the col du géant. there was very little food left, and, as we had brought no wine, breakfast was reduced to a slight sketch, executed with little taste and in a few very dry touches. owing to the time required to disentangle virulently kinked and frozen ropes, etc., the sun was well above the horizon when we once more started upwards, though unfortunately, just at this time, when his life-giving rays would have been most acceptable, they were entirely intercepted by the ridge of the blaitiére. we started on the line of steps cut the night before, but soon after mummery had recommenced cutting, the cold, or rather the impossibility, owing to the enforced inaction, to get warm, produced such an overpowering feeling of drowsiness that slingsby and i, at mummery's suggestion, returned to the perch, and jamming ourselves into the space which had before accommodated our six legs, endeavoured to have it out in forty winks. mummery meanwhile continued step-cutting, and at the end of about half an hour, during which slingsby and i were somewhat restored by a fitful dose, returned, and we tied on again for another attempt. "surmounting the patches of rock immediately above our dormitory, we arrived at the foot of another slope of terribly steep, hard ice, some feet in height. at the top of this again was a vertical crag or feet high, forming the outworks of the next superior band of rocks, which was interspersed with ice-streaks as before. a few feet from the base of this crag was a narrow ledge about foot in width, where we were able to sit after scraping it clear of snow. slingsby gave mummery a leg up round a very nasty corner, and he climbed to a point above the crag, whence he was able to assist us with the rope up a still higher and narrower ledge. beyond was another steep slope of hard ice, topped by a belt of rocks, as before. "before reaching this point the cold had again begun to tell upon me, and i bitterly regretted the mistaken policy of leaving behind our extra wraps, especially as the coat i was wearing was not lined. as there was no probability of a change for the better in the nature of the going before the ridge was reached, i began to doubt the wisdom of proceeding, affected as i was, where a false step might send the whole party into the _bergschrund_ feet below; but it was very hard, with the summit in view and the most laborious part of the ascent already accomplished, to be the first to cry 'hold!' i hesitated for some time before doing so, and the others meanwhile had proceeded up the slope. the rope was almost taut when i shouted to them the state of the case, and called a council of war. they returned to me, and we discussed what was practically something of the nature of a dilemma. to go on at the same slow rate of progress and without the sun's warmth meant, on the one hand, the possible collapse of at least one of the party from cold, while, on the other hand, to turn back involved the descent of nearly feet of ice, and the passage, if we could not turn it, of the couloir and its ghastly ice-wall. partly, i think, to delay for a time the adoption of the latter formidable alternative, partly to set at rest any doubt which might still remain as to the nature of the going above, mummery volunteered to ascend alone to the rocks at the summit of the ice-slope, though the chance of their offering any improved conditions was generally felt to be a forlorn hope. he untied the rope, threw the end down to us, and retraced his steps up the slope, in due time reaching the rocks some or feet above, but, after prospecting in more than one direction, returned to us with the report that they offered no improvement, and that the intersecting streaks were nothing but hard ice. he, however, was prepared to continue the attempt if we felt equal to the task. if we could at that moment have commanded a cup of hot soup or tea, or the woollen jackets which in our confidence in being able to reach the ridge we had left behind, i am convinced i should have been quite able to proceed, and that the day and the mountain would have been ours; but in the absence of these reviving influences and that of the sun, i was conscious that in my own case, at any rate, it would be folly to persist, so gave my vote for descending. as the food was practically exhausted, the others agreed that it would be wiser to face the terrible ordeal which retracing our steps involved (we did not then know that it meant recutting them), rather than continue the ascent with weakened resources and without absolute certainty of the accessibility of the summit ridge. "as slingsby on the previous day had insisted on being regarded merely as a passenger, and had therefore not shared in the step-cutting, it was now arranged that he should lead, while mummery, as a tower of strength, brought up the rear. though it was past five o'clock, and of course broad daylight, a bright star could be seen just over the ridge of our mountain, not far from the summit--alas! the only one anywhere near it on that day. we started downwards at a steady pace, and soon were rejoicing in the returning warmth induced by the more continuous movement. before we had gone far, however, we found that most of the steps were partially filled up with ice, water having flowed into them during the previous afternoon, and the work of trimming or practically recutting these was at times exceedingly trying, owing to their distance apart, and the consequent necessity of working in a stooping and cramped position. "but if the work was tough the worker, fortunately, was tougher still, and mummery and i congratulated ourselves on being able to send such powerful reserves to the front. "the morning was well advanced before the sun surmounted the cold screen of the blaitiére, but having once got to work he certainly made up by intensity for his tardy appearance. "the provisions, with the exception of a scrap or two of cheese and a morsel of chocolate, being exhausted, and having, as before stated, nothing with us in the form of drink, nothing was to be gained by a halt, though, as we descended with as much speed as possible, we kept a sharp look-out for any signs of trickling water with which to quench the thirst, which was becoming distressing. "since finally deciding to return, we had cherished the hope that it might still be possible to turn the ice-wall by way of the great rock buttress, and made up our minds at any rate to inspect it from above. with this in view, when the point was reached where we had on the previous day struck the flank of the hanging glacier instead of continuing in the tracks which trended to the right across the long ice-slope, we cut straight down by the side of the glacier to its foot, and over the slope below, in the direction of the _séracs_ immediately crowning the summit of the buttress. "on nearer approach, however, it was manifest that even if by hours of step-cutting a passage from the ice to the rocky crest below could be successfully forced, descent by the latter was more than doubtful, while the consequences of failure were not to be thought of. "driven, therefore, finally to descend by the couloir, we cut a horizontal traverse which brought us back into the old tracks, a short way above the point where the ice began to steepen for the final plunge, where we braced ourselves for the last and steepest feet of ice. slingsby still led, and, on arriving at the spot below our second breakfast-place, where i had last cut pigeon-holes, joyfully announced that one of them contained water. he left his drinking cup in an adjoining step for our use as we passed the spot in turn, and the fact that it was only visible when on a level with our faces may give some idea of the steepness of the descent. the delight of that drink was something to remember, though only obtainable in thimblefuls, and i continued dipping so long that mummery became alarmed, being under the impression that the cup was filled each time. "mummery had previously volunteered, in case we were driven to return by the couloir, to descend first, and recut the steps and hand-holes in the ice-wall, and as we approached the brink we looked about for some projecting stone or knob of rock which might serve as a hitch for the rope during the operation. the only available projection was a pointed stone of doubtful security, somewhat removed from the line of descent, standing out of the ice at the foot of a smooth vertical slab of rock on the left. round this we hitched the rope, slingsby untying to give the necessary length. with our feet firmly planted, each in its own ice-step, we paid out the rope as mummery descended and disappeared over the edge. it was an hour before he re-appeared, and this period of enforced inaction was to me, and i think to slingsby, the most trying of the whole expedition. the want of food was beginning to tell on our strength, the overpowering drowsiness returned, and though it was absolutely essential for the safety of the party to stand firmly in the ice-steps, it required a strong effort to avoid dropping off to sleep in that position. we were fortunately able to steady ourselves by grasping the upper edge of the ice where it adjoined the rocky slab under which we stood. this weariness, however, must have been quite as much mental as physical from the long-continued monotony of the work, for when mummery at last reappeared we felt perfectly equal to the task of descending. the rope was passed behind a boss of _névé_ ingeniously worked by mummery as a hitch to keep it perpendicular, and i descended first, but had no occasion to rely upon it for more than its moral support, as the steps and hand-holds had been so carefully cut. i climbed cautiously down the icy cataract till i reached a point where hand-holds were not essential to maintain the balance, and waited with my face almost against the ice till slingsby joined me. mummery soon followed, and rather than leave the spare rope behind detached it from the stone and descended without its aid, his nerve being to all appearance unimpaired by the fatigues he had gone through. i had before had evidence of his indifference while on the mountains to all forms of food or drink, with the single exception, by the way, of strawberry jam, on the production of which he generally capitulates. "rejoicing at having successfully passed the steepest portion of the ice-wall without the smallest hitch of the wrong sort, we steadily descended the face of the couloir. "here and there, where a few of the steps had been hewn unusually far apart, i was fain to cut a notch or two for the fingers before lowering myself into the next one below. at last the rock rib was reached, and we indulged in a rest for the first time since turning to descend. "time, however, was precious, and we were soon under way again, retracing our steps over the steep loose rocks at the base of the rib till forced again on to the ice. "oh, that everlasting hard ice-slope, so trustworthy yet so relentlessly exacting! "before we could clear the rocks, and as if by way of hint that the mountain had had enough of us, and of me in particular (i could have assured it the feeling was mutual), a flick of the rope sent my hat and goggles flying down to keep company with mummery's in the _bergschrund_, and a sharp rolling stone, which i foolishly extended my hand to check, gashed me so severely as to put climbing out of the question for more than a week. as small pieces of ice had been whizzing down for some time from above, though we saw no stones, it was satisfactory to find our steps across the lower part of the couloir in sufficiently good order to allow of our putting on a good pace, and we soon reached the sheltering rock on the opposite side and the slopes below the _bergschrund_ wherein our hats, after losing their heads, had found a grave. the intense feeling of relief on regaining, at . p.m., safe and easy ground, where the lives of the party were not staked on every step, is difficult to describe, and was such as i had never before experienced. i think the others felt something like the same sensation. fatigue, kept at bay so long as the stern necessity for caution lasted, seemed to come upon us with a rush, though tempered with the sense of freedom from care aforesaid, and i fancy our progress down the glacier snow was for a time rather staggery. though tired, we were by no means exhausted, and after a short rest on a flat rock and a drink from a glacier runnel, found ourselves sufficiently vigorous to make good use of the remaining daylight to cross the intervening glaciers, moraines, and valley of boulders, before commencing to skirt the tedious and, in the dark, exasperating stony wastes of the charmoz ridge. sternly disregarding the allurements of numerous stonemen, which here seem to grow wild, to the confusion of those weak enough to trust them, we stumbled along amongst the stones to the brow of the hill overlooking the hotel, where shouts from friends greeted the appearance of our lantern, and, descending by the footpath, we arrived among them at . p.m., more than fifty-four hours after our departure on the th." [illustration: on a snow ridge.] [illustration: mrs. aubrey le blond, . by royston le blond.] [illustration: a halt for lunch above the snow line.] [illustration: mrs. aubrey le blond. by joseph imboden. _to face_ p. .] chapter iii some avalanche adventures we should never have got into such a position, but when definite orders are not carried out the general must not be blamed. the adventure might easily have cost all three of us our lives. this is how we came to be imperilling our necks on an incoherent snow-ridge , feet above the sea. it was the end of september, and my two guides and i were waiting at zermatt to try the dent blanche, a proceeding which, later on, was amply justified by success. much fresh snow had recently fallen, and the slopes of the mountains were running down towards the valleys faster than the most active chamois could have galloped up them. idleness is an abomination to the keen climber, and doubly so if he be an enthusiastic photographer, and the sun shone each day from a cloudless sky. something had to be done, but what could we choose? all the safe second-class ascents up which one might wade through fresh snow without risk, we had accomplished over and over again. something new to us was what we wanted, and what eventually we found in the stately hohberghorn. now this peak is seldom ascended. it is overtopped by two big neighbours, and until these have been done, no one is likely to climb the less imposing peak. furthermore, the hohberghorn is a grind, and though we got enough excitement and to spare out of it, yet in our case the circumstances were peculiar. the view was certain to be grand, and, _faute de mieux_, we decided to start for it. on this occasion, in addition to my guide of many years' standing, the famous joseph imboden of st nicholas, i had a second man, who had a great local reputation in his native valley at the other end of switzerland (and deservedly so, as far as his actual climbing ability was concerned), but who had never been on a rope with imboden before. this was the cause of the appalling risk we ran during our expedition. we arrived in good time at the hut, and found another party, who proposed going up the dom, the highest mountain entirely in switzerland ( , feet) next day. our way lay together for a couple of hours over the great glacier, and we proceeded the following morning in magnificent weather towards our respective peaks. it was heavy work ploughing our way through the soft new snow, and we could not advance except very slowly. as a result, it was already mid-day when we gained the ridge of the hohberghorn, not far below the summit. the sun streamed pitilessly down, the snow cracked and slipped at every step. to understand what followed, our position must now be made clear. imboden, who led, was on the very crest of the ridge. next to him on the rope, at a distance of about feet, was my place, also on the ridge. at an equal distance behind me was the second guide. he was a trifle below the ridge, on the side to our left. we stood still for a moment, and then imboden distinctly but very quietly remarked to the other man, "be on your guard. at any moment now we may expect an avalanche." i never to this day can understand how he failed to grasp what this meant. it should have been obvious that it was a warning to look out, and at the first sign of approaching danger to step down on to the other side of the ridge. had not this been a perfectly simple thing to do, we should not have continued the ascent, but the second guide failed us hopelessly when the critical moment came. imboden, to avoid a small cornice or overhanging eave of snow to our right, now took a few steps along and below the ridge to the left, while the man behind me came in the tracks to the crest, and i followed the leader. from this position the last man could in an instant have been down the slope to his right, and have held us with the greatest ease. we advanced a yard or two further, and then the entire surface upon which we stood commenced to move! a moment more and we were struggling for our lives, dashing our axes through the rushing snow, and endeavouring to arrest our wild career, which, unless checked at once, would cause us to be precipitated down the entire face of the mountain, to the glacier below. then it was that the firm bed of snow beneath the newer layer stood us in good stead. our axes held, and, breathless, bruised and startled, we found ourselves clinging to the slope, while the avalanche, momentarily increasing in volume, thundered down towards the snow-fields below, where at length, heaped high against the mountain-side, it came to rest. we now took stock of the position. we were practically unhurt, but so confused and rapid had been the slip that the rope was entangled round us in a manner wonderful to behold. there was nothing to prevent us reaching the summit, for every atom of fresh snow had been swept away from the slope, so we continued our climb, and soon were able to rest on the top. to this day, imboden and i always look back to our adventure on the hohberghorn as the greatest peril either of us has ever faced. more than one instance has been recorded where, owing to the prompt action of the last man on the rope, fatal accidents on snow-ridges have been avoided. the two most famous occasions in alpine annals[ ] were when hans grass saved his party on piz palü, and when ulrich almer performed his marvellous feat on the gabelhorn. it is true that in both these cases the risk was due to the breaking away of a snow-cornice, but the remedy was exactly the same as it ought to have been when our avalanche was started. i have only to add that we found the other party at the hut, much exhausted by their unsuccessful attempt on the dom, and very anxious on our account, as they both heard and saw the avalanche which had so nearly ended our mountaineering career. the famous climber, mr tuckett, has very kindly allowed me to quote from _peaks, passes, and glaciers_, the following description of a narrow escape from an avalanche while descending the aletschhorn: "we had accomplished in safety a distance of scarcely more than yards when, as i was looking at the jungfrau, my attention was attracted by a sudden exclamation from victor, who appeared to stagger and all but lose his balance. at first, the idea of some sort of seizure or an attack of giddiness presented itself, but, without stopping to enquire, i at once turned round, drove my good -foot ash-pole as deeply as possible through the surface layer of fresh snow into the firmer stratum beneath, tightened the rope to give victor support, and shouted to peter to do the same. all this was the work of an instant, and a glance at once showed me what had happened. victor was safe for the moment, but a layer or _couche_ of snow, inches to a foot in thickness, had given way exactly beneath his feet, and first gently, and then fleet as an arrow, went gliding down, with that unpleasant sound somewhat resembling the escape of steam, which is so trying to the nerves of the bravest man, when he knows its full and true significance. at first a mass to yards in breadth and or in length alone gave way, but the contagion spread, and ere another minute had elapsed the slopes right and left of us for an extent of at least half a mile, were in movement, and, like a frozen niagara, went crashing down the ice-precipices and _séracs_ that still lay between us and the aletsch glacier, to feet below. the spectacle was indescribably sublime, and the suspense for a moment rather awful, as we were clinging to an incline at least as steep as that on the grindelwald side of the strahleck--to name a familiar example--and it was questionable whether escape would be possible, if the layer of snow on the portion of the slope we had just been traversing should give way before we could retrace our steps. "not a moment was to be lost; no word was spoken after the first exclamation, and hastily uttered, 'au col! et vite!' and then in dead silence, with _bâtons_ held aloft like harpoons, ready to be plunged into the lower and older layers of snow, we stole quietly but rapidly up towards the now friendly-looking _corniche_, and in a few minutes stood once more in safety on the ridge, with feelings of gratitude for our great deliverance, which, though they did not find utterance in words, were, i believe, none the less sincerely felt by all of us. 'il n'a manqué que peu à un grand malheur,' quietly remarked victor, who looked exhausted, as well he might be after what he had gone through; but a _goutte_ of cognac all round soon set us right again, and shouting to bennen, who was still in sight, though dwindled in size to a mere point, we were soon beside him, running down the _névé_ of our old friend, the aren glacier. the snow was now soft and the heat tremendous, and both bennen and bohren showed signs of fatigue; but a rapid pace was still maintained in spite of the frequent crevasses. some were cleared in a series of flying leaps, whilst into others which the snow concealed, one and another would occasionally sink, amid shouts of laughter from his companions, who, in their turn, underwent a similar fate. to the carefully secured rope, which, with the alpenstock and ice axe, are the mountaineer's best friends, we owed it that these sudden immersions were a mere matter of joke; but even the sense of security which it confers does not altogether prevent a 'creepy' sensation from being experienced, as the legs dangle in vacancy, and the sharp metallic ring of the icy fragments is heard as they clatter down into the dark blue depths below." the higher and more snow-laden the mountain chain, the more risk is there from avalanches. it seems practically certain that mr mummery met his death in the himalayas from an avalanche, and that messrs donkin and fox and their two swiss guides perished in the caucasus from a like cause. sir w. martin conway, in his book on the himalayas, makes several allusions to avalanches, and on at least one occasion, some members of his party had a narrow escape. he relates the adventure as follows: [illustration: a cutting through an immense avalanche which fell some months previously.] [illustration: the remains of a large avalanche.] [illustration: an avalanche of stones.] [illustration: a mountain chapel near zermatt where special prayers are offered for defence against avalanche. _to face_ p. .] "zurbriggen and i had no more than set foot upon the grass, when we beheld a huge avalanche-cloud descending over the whole width of the ice-fall, utterly enveloping both it and a small rock-rib and couloir beside it. bruce and the gurkhas were below the rib, and could only see up the couloir. they thought the avalanche was a small one confined to it, and so they turned back and ran towards the foot of the ice-fall. this was no improvement in position, and there was nothing for them to do then but to run straight away from it, and get as far out to the flat glacier as they could. the fall started from the very top of the lower burchi peak, and tumbled on to the plateau above the ice-fall; it flowed over this, and came down the ice-fall itself. we saw the cloud before we heard the noise, and then it only reached us as a distant rumble. we had no means of guessing the amount of solid snow and ice that there might be in the heart of the cloud. the rumble increased in loudness, and was soon a thunder that swallowed up our puny shouts, so that bruce could not hear our warning. had he heard he could easily have reached the sheltered position we gained before the cloud came on him. zurbriggen and i cast ourselves upon our faces, but only the edge of the cloud and an ordinary strong wind reached us. our companions were entirely enveloped in it. they afterwards described to us how they raced away like wild men, jumping crevasses which they could not have cleared in cold blood. when the snow just enveloped them, the wind raised by it cast them headlong on the ice. this, however, was the worst that happened. the snow peppered them all over, and soaked them to the skin, but the solid part of the avalanche was happily arrested in the midst of the ice-fall, and never came in sight. when the fog cleared they were all so out of breath that for some minutes they could only stand and regard one another in panting silence. they presently rejoined us, and we halted for a time on the pleasant grass." in the olden days, before the great alpine lines had tunnelled beneath the mountains and made a journey from one side of the range to the other in midwinter as safe and as comfortable as a run from london to brighton, passengers obliged to cross the alps in winter or spring were exposed to very real peril from avalanches. messrs newnes have courteously allowed me to make a short extract from an article which appeared in one of their publications, and in which is described the adventures of two english ladies who were obliged to return home suddenly from innsbruck on account of the illness of a near relative. their shortest route was by _diligence_ to constance, over the arlberg pass, and although it was considered extremely dangerous at that time of year--the beginning of may --they resolved to make the attempt. much anxiety with regard to avalanches was felt in neighbouring villages, as the sun had lately been very hot, and the snow had become rotten and undermined. owing to heavy falls during the previous winter, the accumulation of snow was enormous, and thus the two travellers set out under the worst possible auspices. the conductor of the _diligence_ warned them of the danger, and told them on no account to open a window or to make any movement which could shake the coach. he got in with them and sat opposite, looking very worried and anxious. they reached the critical part of their journey, and, to quote mrs brewer's words: "suddenly a low, booming sound, like that of a cannon on a battlefield or a tremendous peal of thunder, broke on our ears, swelling into a deafening crash; and in a moment we were buried in a vast mass of snow. one of the immense piles from the mountain above had crashed down upon us, carrying everything with it. at the same moment we felt a violent jerk of the coach, and heard a kind of sound which expressed terror; but, happily, our vehicle did not turn over, as it seemed likely to do for a minute or so. there we sat--for how long i know not--scarcely able to breathe, the snow pressing heavily against the windows, and utterly blocking out light and air, so that breathing was a painful effort. and now came a curious sensation. it was an utter suspension of thought, and of every mental and physical faculty. "true, in a sort of unconscious way i became aware that the guard was sobbing out a prayer for his wife and children; but it had not the slightest effect on me. "we might have been buried days and nights for all i knew, for i kept no count of time. in reality, i believe it was but a couple of hours between the fall of the avalanche and the first moment of hope, which came in the form of men striking with pickaxes. the sound seemed to come from a long distance--almost, as it were, from another world. "the guard, roused by the noise, said earnestly: 'ach gott! i thank thee.' and then, speaking to us, he said: 'ladies, help is near!' "gradually the sound of the digging and the voices of the men grew nearer, till at length one window was open--the one overlooking the valley; and the life-giving air stole softly in upon us. even now, however, we were told not to move; not that we had any inclination to do so, for we were in a dazed, half-conscious condition. when at length we used our eyes, it was to note that the valley did not seem so deep, and that the villages with their church spires had disappeared; the meaning of it was not far to seek. "we were both good german scholars, and knew several of the dialects, so that we were able to learn a good deal of what had happened by listening to the men's talk. the school inspector in his terror had lost all self-control, and forgetful of the warnings given him, threw himself off the seat and leaped into space, thereby endangering the safety of all. he mercifully fell into one of the clumps of trees some distance down the slope, and so escaped without very much damage to himself, except shock to the system and bruises. the poor horses, however, fared infinitely worse. the weight of the snow lifted the rings from the hooks on the carriage, and at the same time carried the poor brutes down with it into the valley--never again to do a day's work. "the difficulties still before us were very serious. we could neither go backward nor forward, and there was danger of more avalanches falling. the next posting village was still far ahead, and there was no chance of our advancing a step until the brave body of men could cut a way through or make a clearance, and even then time would be required to bring back horses." the ladies were at last extricated from their still dangerous position, and amid a scene of the greatest excitement, arrived at a little tyrolese village. the people could not do enough to welcome them, and every kindness was shown to them. thus ended a wonderfully narrow escape for all who were concerned in the adventure. [illustration: a mountain path.] [illustration: a village completely buried beneath an avalanche.] [illustration: peasants of the mountains.] [illustration: terraces cut on the hill sides and planted with trees to prevent the fall of avalanches. _to face_ p. .] chapter iv a month beneath an avalanche one of the treasures of collectors of alpine books is a small volume in italian by ignazio somis. the british museum has not only a copy of the original, but also a couple of translations, from one of which, published in , i take the following account. i have left the quaint old spelling and punctuation just as they were; they accentuate the vividness and evident truth of this "true and particular account of the most surprising preservation and happy deliverance of three women," who were buried for a month under an avalanche. the occurrence was fully investigated by ignazio somis, who visited the village of bergemoletto, and obtained his narrative from the lips of one of the survivors. "in the month of february and march of the year , we had in turin, a great fall of rain, the sky having been almost constantly overcast from the ninth of february till the twenty-fourth of march. during this interval, it rained almost every day, but snowed only on the morning of the twenty-first of february, when the liquor of reaumur's thermometer stood but one degree above the freezing point. now, as it often snows in the mountains, when it only rains in the plain; it cannot appear surprising that during this interval, there fell vast quantities of snow in the mountains that surround us, and in course, several valancas[ ] were formed. in fact, there happened so many in different places on the side of aosta, lanzo, susa, savoy, and the county of nice, that by the end of march, no less than two hundred persons had the misfortune of losing their lives by them. of these overwhelmed by these valancas, three persons, however, mary anne roccia bruno, anne roccia, and margaret roccia, had reason to think themselves in other respects, extremely happy, having been dug alive on the twenty-fifth of april, out of a stable, under the ruins of which, they had been buried, the nineteenth of march, about nine in the morning, by a valanca of snow, forty-two feet higher than the roof, to the incredible surprise of all those who saw them, and afterwards heard them relate how they lived all this while, with death, as we may say, continually staring them in the face. "the road from demonte to the higher valley of stura, runs amidst many mountains, which, joining one another, and sometimes rising to a great height, form a part of those alps, by historians and geographers, called maritime alps, separating the valley of stura and piedmont, from dauphiny and the county of nice. towards the middle of the road leading to the top of these mountains, and on the left of the river stura, we meet with a village called bergemolo, passing through which village, and still keeping the road through the said valley, we, at about a mile distance, arrive at a little hamlet called bergemoletto, containing about one hundred and fifty souls. from this place there run two narrow lanes, both to the right and left, one less steep and fatiguing than the other, and in some measure along two valleys, to the mountains. the summit of the mountain makes the horizon an angle much greater than °, and so much greater in some places, as to be in a manner perpendicular, so that it is a very difficult matter to climb it, even by a winding path. now it was from the summit of the aforesaid mountains that fell the valancas of snow, which did so much mischief, and almost entirely destroyed the hamlet of bergemoletto. "the bad weather which prevailed in so many other places, prevailed likewise in the foresta of bergemoletto. by this word foresta, the alpineers understand the villages dispersed over the vallies covered with small trees and bushes, and surrounded with high mountains; for it began to snow early in march, and the fall increased so much on the , , and , that many of the inhabitants began to apprehend, and not without reason, that the weight of that which was already fallen, and still continued to fall, might crush their houses, built with stones peculiar to the country, cemented by nothing but mud, and a very small portion of lime, and covered with thatch laid on a roof of shingles and large thin stones, supported by thick beams. they, therefore, got upon their roofs to lighten them of the snow. at a little distance from the church, stood the house of joseph roccia, a man of about fifty, husband of mary anne, born in demonte, of the family of bruno; who, with his son james, a lad of fifteen, had, like his neighbours, got upon the roof of his house on the th in the morning in order to lessen the weight on it, and thereby prevent its destruction. in the meantime the clergyman who lived in the neighbourhood, and was about leaving home, in order to repair to the church, and gather his people together to hear mass; perceiving a noise towards the top of the mountains, and turning his trembling eyes towards the quarter from whence he thought it came, discovered two valancas driving headlong towards the village. wherefore raising his voice he gave joseph notice, instantly to come down from the roof, to avoid the impending danger, and then immediately retreated himself into his own house. "these two valancas met and united, so as to form but one valanca which continued to descend towards the valley, where, on account of the increase of its bulk, the diminution of its velocity and the insensible declivity of the plane it stopped and arrested by the neighbouring mountain, though it covered a large tract of land, did no damage either to the houses or the inhabitants. joseph roccia, who had formerly observed that the fall of one valanca was often attended with that of others, immediately came off the roof at the priest's notice, and with his son fled as hard as he could towards the church, without well knowing, however, which way he went; as is usually the case with the alpineers, when they guess by the report in the air, that some valanca is falling or seeing it fall with their own eyes. the poor man had scarce advanced forty steps, when hearing his son fall just at his heels, he turned about to assist him, and taking him up, saw the spot on which his house, his stable, and those of some of his neighbours stood, converted into a huge heap of snow, without the least sign of either walls or roofs. such was his agony at this sight, and at the thoughts of having lost in an instant, his wife, his sister, his family, and all the little he had saved, with many years increasing labour and economy, that hale and hearty, as he was, he immediately, as if heaven and earth were come together, lost his senses, swooned away, and tumbled upon the snow. his son now helped him, and he came to himself little by little; till at last, by leaning upon him, he found himself in a condition to get on the valanca, and, in order to re-establish his health there, set out for the house of his friend, spirito roccia, about one hundred feet distant from the spot, where he fell. mary anne, his wife, who was standing with her sister-in-law anne, her daughter margaret, and her son anthony, a little boy two years old, at the door of the stable, looking at the people throwing the snow from off the houses, and waiting for the ringing of the bell that was to call them to prayers, was about taking a turn to the house, in order to light a fire, and air a shirt for her husband, who could not but want that refreshment after his hard labour. but before she could set out, she heard the priest cry out to them to come down quickly, and raising her trembling eyes, saw the foresaid valancas set off, and roll down the side of the mountain, and at the same instant heard a horrible report from another quarter, which made her retreat back quickly with her family, and shut the door of the stable. happy it was for her, that she had time to do so; this noise being occasioned by another immense valanca, the whole cause of all the misery and distress, she had to suffer for so long a time. and it was this very valanca, over which joseph, her husband was obliged to pass after his fit, in his way to the house of spirito roccia. "some minutes after the fall of the valanca another huge one broke off driving along the valley and beat down the houses which it met in its course. this valanca increased greatly, by the snow over which it passed, in its headlong course, and soon reached with so much impetuosity, the first fallen valanca, it carried away great part of it; then returning back with this reinforcement, it demolished the houses, stopping in the valley which it had already overwhelmed in its first progress. so that the height of the snow, paris measure, amounted to more than seventy-seven feet; the length of it to more than four hundred and twenty-seven and the breadth above ninety-four. some people affirm that the concussion of the air occasioned by this valanca, was so great, that it was heard at bergemolo, and even burst open some doors and windows at that place. this i know that nothing escaped it in bergemoletto, but a few houses, the church, and the house of john arnaud. "being therefore gathered together, in order to sum up their misfortunes, the inhabitants first counted thirty houses overwhelmed; and then every one calling over those he knew, twenty-two souls were missing, of which number, was d. giulio caesare emanuel, their parish priest, who had lived among them forty years. the news of this terrible disaster, soon spread itself over the neighbourhood, striking all those who heard it, with grief and compassion. all the friends and relations of the sufferers, and many others, flocked of their own accord, from bergemolo and demonte; and many were dispatched by the magistrates of these places, to try if they could give any relief to so many poor creatures, who, perhaps, were already suffocated by the vast heap of snow that lay upon them; so that by the day following, the number assembled on this melancholy occasion amounted to three hundred. joseph roccia, notwithstanding his great love for his wife and family, and his desire to recover part of what he had lost, was in no condition to assist them for five days, owing to the great fright and grief, occasioned by so shocking an event, and the swoon which overtook him at the first sight of it. in the meantime, the rest were trying, if, by driving iron-rods through the hardened snow, they could discover any roofs; but they tried in vain. the great solidity and compactness of the valanca, the vast extent of it in length, breadth and heighth, together with the snow, that still continued to fall in great quantities, eluded all their efforts; so that after some days' labour, they thought proper to desist from their trials, finding that it was throwing away their time and trouble to no purpose. the husband of poor mary anne, no sooner recovered his strength, than in company with his son, and anthony and joseph bruno, his brothers-in-law who had come to his assistance from demonte, where they lived, did all that lay in his power to discover the spot, under which his house, and the stable belonging to it, were situated. but neither himself, nor his relations, could make any discovery capable of affording them the smallest ray of comfort; though they worked hard for many days, now in one place, and now in another, unable to give up the thoughts of knowing for certain, whether any of their family was still alive, or if they had under the snow and the ruins of the stable, found, at once, both death and a grave. but it was all labour lost, so that, at length, he thought proper to return to the house of spirito roccia, and there wait, till, the weather growing milder, the melting of the snow should give him an opportunity of paying the last duty to his family, and recovering what little of his substance might have escaped this terrible calamity. "towards the end of march, the weather, through the lengthening of the days, and the setting in of the warm winds, which continued to blow till about the twentieth of april, began to grow mild and warm; and, of course, the great valanca to fall away by the melting of the snow and ice that composed it; so that little by little, the valley began to assume its pristine form. this change was very sensible, especially by the eighteenth of april, so that the time seemed to be at hand for the surviving inhabitants of bergemoletto to resume their interrupted labours, with some certainty of recovering a good part of what they had lost on the unfortunately memorable morning of the nineteenth of march. accordingly, they dispersed themselves over the valanca, some trying in one place, and some in another, now with long spades, and another time with thick rods of iron, and other instruments proper to break the indurated snow. one of the first houses they discovered by this means, was that of louisa roccia, in which they found her dead body, and that of one of her sons. next day, in the house called the confreria, that had two rooms on the ground floor, and one above them, they found the body of d. giulio caesare emanuel, with his beads in his hand. joseph roccia, animated by these discoveries, set himself with new spirits about discovering the situation of his house, and the stable belonging to it; and with spades and iron crows, made several and deep holes in the snow, throwing great quantities of earth into them; earth mixed with water, being very powerful in destroying the strong cohesion of snow and ice. on the twenty-fourth, having made himself an opening two feet deep into the valanca, he began to find the snow softer and less difficult to penetrate; wherefore, driving down a long stick, he had the good fortune of touching the ground with it. "it was no small addition to joseph's strength and spirit, to be thus able to reach the bottom; so that he would have joyfully continued his labour, and might perhaps on that very day, had it not been too far advanced, have recovered some part of what he was looking for, and found that which, assuredly, he by no means expected to meet with. when, therefore, he desisted for that time, it was with much greater reluctance than he had done any of the preceding days. the anxiety of joseph, during the following night, may well be compared to that of the weather-beaten mariner, who finding himself, after a long voyage, at the mouth of his desired port, is yet, by the coming on of night obliged to remain on the inconstant waves till next morning. wherefore, at the first gleam of light, he, with his son, hastened back to the spot, where the preceding day he had reached the ground with the stick, and began to work upon it again; but he had not worked long, when lo, to his great surprise, who should he see coming to his assistance but his two brothers-in-law joseph and anthony bruno. "anthony, it seems, the night between the preceding thursday and friday, being then in delmonte, dreamed that there appeared to him, with a pale and troubled countenance, his sister mary anne roccia, who, with an earnestness intermixed with grief and hope, called upon him for assistance in the following words: "'anthony, though you all look upon me as dead in the stable where the valanca of snow overwhelmed me on the nineteenth of march, god has kept me alive. hasten therefore to my assistance, and to relieve me from my present wretched condition; in you, my brother, have i placed all my hopes, dont abandon me; help, help i beseech you.' anthony's imagination, was so affected by the thoughts of thus seeing his sister, and hearing her utter these piteous words, that he immediately started up, and calling out to his brother joseph, he acquainted him with what he had seen and heard. they both, therefore, as soon as it was day, set out for bergemoletto, where they arrived a little before eight, tired and out of breath, for they seemed to have their sister continually before their eyes, pressing them for help and assistance. having therefore taken a little rest and refreshment, they set out again for the place, where joseph roccia, and many others, were hard at work in looking for the wrecks of their houses. joseph had left the spot, where, the day before he thought he had reached the ground, and was trying to reach it in other places. his brothers-in-law immediately fell to work with him, and making many new holes in the snow, the interior parts of which were not so very hard, with the same iron rods, with earth and with long poles, they at last, about ten, discovered the so long sought for house, but found no dead bodies in it. knowing that the stable did not lie one hundred feet from the house, they immediately directed their search towards it, and proceeding in the same manner, about noon, they got a long pole through a hole, from whence issued a hoarse and languid voice, which seemed to say: 'help, my dear husband, help, my dear brother, help.' the husband and brother thunderstruck, and at the same time encouraged by these words, fell to their work with redoubled ardour, in order to clear away the snow, and open a sufficient way for themselves, to the place from whence the voice came, and which grew more and more distinct as the work advanced. it was not long, therefore, before they had made a pretty large opening, through which (none minding the danger he exposed himself to) anthony descended, as into a dark pit, asking who it was, that could be alive in such a place. mary anne knew him by his voice, and answered with a trembling and broken accent, intermixed with tears of joy. 'tis i, my dear brother, who am still alive in company with my daughter and my sister-in-law, who are at my elbow. god, in whom i have always trusted, still hoping that he would inspire you with the thought of coming to our assistance, has been graciously pleased to keep us alive.' god, who had preserved them to this moment, and was willing they should live, inspired anthony with such strength and spirits, that, notwithstanding the surprise and tenderness with which so joyful and at the same time so sad a sight must have affected him, had presence of mind enough to acquaint his fellow-labourers, all anxiously waiting for the report of his success, that mary anne, margaret, and anne roccia were still alive. whereupon joseph roccia, and joseph bruno, enlarging the passage as well as they could, immediately followed him into the ruins; whilst the other alpineers, scattered over the valanca in quest of their lost substance, and the dead bodies of their relations, on the son's calling out to them, flocked round the mouth of the pit, to behold so extraordinary a sight; not a little heightened by that of two live goats scampering out of the opening. in the meantime, those who had descended into the hole, were contriving how to take out of it the poor and more than half dead prisoners, and convey them to some place, where they might recover themselves. the first thing they did was to raise them up, and take them out of the manger in which they had been so long stowed. they then placed them one by one on their shoulders, and lifted them up to those who stood round the mouth of the pit, who with very great difficulty took hold of them by the arms, and drew them out of their dark habitation. mary anne, on being exposed to the open air, and seeing the light, was attacked by a very acute pain in the eyes, which greatly weakened her sight, and was attended with so violent a fainting fit, that she had almost like to have lost, in the first moment of her deliverance, that life, which she had so long and with such difficulty preserved. but this was a consequence that might be easily foreseen. she had been thirty-seven days, secluded, in a manner entirely, from the open air; nor had the least ray of light, in all that time, penetrated her pupils. "her son found means to bring her to herself with a little melted snow, there being nothing else at hand fit for the purpose, and the accident that happened her was improved into a rule for treating the companions of her misfortune. they, therefore, covered all their faces, and wrapped them up so well, as to leave them but just room to breathe, and in this condition took them to the house of john arnaud, where mary anne was entirely recovered from her fit, by a little generous wine. they then directly placed them in some little beds put up in the stable, which was moderately warm, and almost entirely without light, and prepared for them a mess of rye meal gruel, mixed with a little butter; but they could swallow but very little of it." chapter v a month beneath an avalanche--(_continued_) "it is now proper i should say something of the most marvellous circumstance, attending this very singular and surprising accident, i mean their manner of supporting life, during so long and close a confinement. i shall relate what i have heard of it from their own mouths, being the same, in substance, with what count nicholas de brandizzo, intendant of the city and province of cuneo, heard from them on the sixteenth of may, when, by order of our most benevolent sovereign, he repaired to bergemoletto, effectually to relieve these poor women, and the rest of the inhabitants, who had suffered by the valanca. "to begin then; on the morning of the twenty-ninth of march, our three poor women, expecting every minute to hear the bell toll for prayers, had in the mean time, taken shelter from the rigour of the weather, in a stable built with stones, such as are usually found in these quarters, with a roof composed of large thin stones, not unlike slate, laid on a beam ten inches square, and covered with a small quantity of straw, and with a pitch sufficient to carry off the rain, hail or snow, that might fall upon it. in the same stable were six goats, (four of which i heard nothing of) an ass and some hens. adjoining to this stable, was a little room, in which they had fixed a bed, and used to lay up some provisions, in order to sleep in it in bad weather without being obliged to go for anything to the dwelling-house, which lay about one hundred feet from it. i have already taken notice, that mary anne was looking from the door of the stable at her husband and son, who were clearing the roof of its snow, when warned by a horrible noise, the signal by which the alpineer knows the tumbling of the valancas, she immediately took herself in with her sister-in-law, her daughter, and her little boy of two years old, and shut the door, telling them the reason for doing it in such a hurry. soon after they heard a great part of the roof give way, and some stones fall on the ground, and found themselves involved on all sides with a pitchy darkness; all which they attributed, and with good reason, to the fall of some valanca. upon this, they for some time thought proper to keep a profound silence, to try if they could hear any noise, and by that means have the comfort of knowing that help was at hand, but they could hear nothing. they therefore set themselves to grope about the stable, but without being able to meet with anything but solid snow. anne light upon the door, and opened it, hoping she had found out the way to escape the imminent danger they thought they were in of the buildings tumbling about their ears; but she could not distinguish the least ray of light, nor feel any thing but a hard and impenetrable wall of snow, with which she acquainted her fellow prisoners. they, therefore, immediately began to bawl out with all their might; 'help, help, we are still alive'; repeating it several times; but not hearing any answer, anne put the door to again. they continued to grope about the stable, and mary anne having light upon the manger, it occurred to her, that, as it was full of hay, they might take up their quarters there, and enjoy some repose, till it should please the almighty to send them assistance. the manger was about twenty inches broad, and lay along a wall, which, by being on one side supported by an arch, was enabled to withstand the shock, and upheld the chief beam of the roof, in such a manner, as to prevent the poor women from being crushed to pieces by the ruins. mary anne placed herself in the manger, putting her son by her, and then advised her daughter and her sister-in-law to do so too. upon this, the ass which was tied to the manger, frightened by the noise, began to bray and prance at a great rate; so that, fearing lest he should bring the parapet of the manger, or even the wall itself about their ears; they immediately untied the halter, and turned him adrift. in going from the manger, he stumbled upon a kettle that happened to lie in the middle of the stable, which put mary anne upon picking it up, and laying it by her, as it might serve to melt the snow in for their drink, in case they should happen to be confined long enough to want that resource. anne, approving this thought, got down, and groping on the floor till she had found it, came back to the manger. "in this situation the good women continued many hours, every moment expecting to be relieved from it; but, at last, being too well convinced, that they had no immediate relief to expect, they began to consider how they might support life, and what provisions they had with them for that purpose. anne recollected that the day before she had put some chestnuts into her pocket, but, on counting them, found they amounted only to fifteen. their chief hopes, therefore, and with great reason now rested on thirty or forty cakes, which two days before had been laid up in the adjoining room. the reader may well imagine, though anne had never told me a word of it, with what speed and alertness she must, on recollecting these cakes, have got out of the manger, to see and find out the door of the room where they lay; but it was to no purpose; she roved and roved about the stable to find out what she wanted, so that she was obliged to come as she went, and take up her seat again amongst her fellow-sufferers, who still comforted themselves with the hopes of being speedily delivered from that dark and narrow prison. in the mean while, finding their appetite return, they had recourse to their chestnuts. the rest of the chestnuts they reserved for a future occasion. they then addressed themselves to god, humbly beseeching him to take compassion on them, and vouchsafe in his great mercy to rescue them from their dark grave, and from the great miseries they must unavoidably suffer, in case it did not please him to send them immediate assistance. they spent many hours in ejaculations of this kind, and then thinking it must be night, they endeavoured to compose themselves. margaret and the little boy, whose tender years prevented their having any idea of what they had to suffer in their wretched situation, or any thought of death, and of what they must suffer, before they could be relieved, fell asleep. but it was otherwise with mary anne and anne, who could not get the least rest, and spent the whole night in prayer, or in speaking of their wretched condition, and comforting one another with the hopes of being speedily delivered from it. as it seemed to them, after many hours, that it was day again, they endeavoured to keep up their spirits with the thoughts, that joseph with the rest of their friends and relations not getting any intelligence of their situation, would not fail of doing all that lay in their power to come at them. the sensation of hunger was earliest felt by the two youngest; and the little boy crying out for something to eat, and there being nothing for him but the chestnuts, anne gave him three. "i said, that these women seemed to have some notion of the approach of day and night, but i should never have dreamed in what manner this idea could be excited in them, shut up as they were in a body of ice, impervious to the least ray of light, had not they themselves related it to me. the hens shut up in the same prison, were it seems the clocks, which by their clucking all together, made them think the first day that it was night, and then again after some interval that it was day again. this is all the notion they had of day and night for two weeks together; after which, not hearing the hens make any more noise, they no longer knew when it was day or night. "this day the poor women and the boy supported themselves with their chestnuts; and at the return of the usual signal of night, the boy and margaret went to sleep; while the mother and aunt spent it in conversation and prayer. on the next day the ass by his braying, gave now and then, for the last time, some signs of life. on the other hand, the poor prisoners had something to comfort themselves with; for they discovered two goats making up to the manger. this, therefore, was a joyful event, and they gave the goats some of the hay they sat upon in the manger, shrunk up with their knees to their noses. it then came into anne's head to try if she could not get some milk from the milch goat; and recollecting that they used to keep a porringer under the manger for that purpose, she immediately got down to look for it, and happily found it. the goat suffered herself to be milked, and yielded almost enough to fill the cup which contained above a pint. on this they lived the third day. the night following the boy and the girl slept as usual, while neither of the two others closed their eyes. who can imagine how long the time must have appeared to them, and how impatient they must have been to see an end to their sufferings? this, after offering their prayers to the almighty, was the constant subject of their conversation. 'o, my husband,' mary anne used to cry out, 'if you two are not buried under some of the valancas and dead; why do not you make haste to give me, your sister, and children, that assistance which we so much stand in need of? we are thank god, still alive, but cannot hold out much longer, so it will soon be too late to think of us.' 'ah, my dear brother,' added anne, 'in you next to god, have we placed all our trust. we are alive, indeed, and it depends upon you to preserve our lives, by digging us out of the snow and the ruins, in which we lie buried.' 'but let us still hope,' both of them added, 'that as god has been pleased to spare our lives, and provide us with the means of prolonging it, he will still in his great mercy put it into the hearts of our friends and relations to use all their endeavours to save us.' to this discourse succeeded new prayers, after which they composed themselves as well as they could, in order to get, if possible, a little sleep. "the hens having given the usual signal of the return of day, they began again to think on the means of spinning out their lives. mary anne bethought herself anew of the cakes put up in the adjacent room; and upon which, could they but get at them, they might subsist a great while without any other nourishment. on the first day of their confinement, they had found in the manger a pitch fork, which they knew used to be employed in cleaning out the stable, and drawing down hay through a large hole in the hay-loft, which lay over the vault. anne observed, that such an instrument might be of service in breaking the snow, and getting at the cakes, could they but recover the door leading into the little room. she, therefore, immediately got out of the manger, from which she had not stirred since the first day, and groping about, sometimes meeting with nothing but snow, sometimes with the wall, and sometimes loose stones, she, at length, light upon a door, which she took for the stable door, and endeavoured to open it as she had done the first day, but without success; an evident sign that the superincumbent snow had acquired a greater degree of density, and pressed more forcibly against it. she, therefore, made step by step, the best of her way back to the manger, all the time conversing with her fellow-sufferers; and taking the fork with her, continued to rove and grope about, till at last she light upon a smooth and broad piece of wood, which to the touch had so much the appearance of the little door, as to make her hope she had at last found what she had been so earnestly looking for. she then endeavoured to open it with her hand, but finding it impossible, told the rest that she had a mind to employ the pitch fork; but mary anne dissuaded her from doing so. 'let us,' said she, 'leave the cakes where they are a little longer, and not endanger our lives any further, by endeavouring to preserve them. who knows but with the fork, you might make such destruction, as to bring down upon our heads, that part of the stable that still continues together, and which, in its fall, could not fail of crushing us to pieces. no, god keep us from that misfortune. lay down your fork anne, and come back to us, submitting yourself to the holy will of the almighty, and patiently accept at his hands whatever he may please to send us.' anne, moved by such sound and affecting arguments and reasons, immediately let the fork fall out of her hands, and returned to the manger. 'let us,' continued mary anne, 'let us make as much as we can of our nursing goats, and endeavour to keep them alive by supplying them with hay. here is a good deal in the manger, and it occurs to me, that when that is gone, we may supply them from another quarter, for by putting up my hand, trying what was above me, i have discovered that there is hay in the loft, and that the hole to it is open, and just over our heads; so that we have nothing to do, but to pull it down for the goats, whose milk we may subsist upon, till it shall please god to dispose otherwise of us." this reasoning was not only sound in itself, but supported by facts; for ever since their confinement, they had heard stones fall from time to time upon the ground, and these stones could be no others than those of the building, which the shock of the valanca had first loosened, and which the weight it every day acquired by encreasing in density, afterwards enabled it to displace. wherefore, had she happened to disturb with the pitch-fork, as there was the greatest reason to fear she might, any of those parts, which, united together, served to keep up the beam that supported the great body of snow, under which they lay buried, the fall of the stable, and their own destruction, must have infallibly been the consequence of it. "this day the sensation of hunger was more and more lively and troublesome, without their having anything to allay it with but snow, and the milk yielded them by one of the goats their fellow prisoners. i say one of the goats for as yet they had milked but one of them, thinking it would be useless, or rather hurtful, even if they could, to take any milk from that in kid. anne had recourse to the other, and in the whole day, got from her about two pints of milk, on which, with the addition of a little snow, they subsisted." the little boy, unable to struggle against the terrible conditions, grew rapidly weaker and weaker, and the time had now come when he passed painlessly away. "the death of this poor child proved the severest trial that the three women, the two eldest especially, had to suffer during their long confinement; and from this unfortunate day, the fear of death, which they considered as at no great distance, began to haunt them more and more. the little nourishment, which the goat yielded the poor women, had made them suffer greatly on the preceding days; they were, besides, benumbed, or rather frozen with the intense cold. add to this the necessary, but inconvenient and tormenting posture of their feet, knees, and every other part of their bodies; the snow, which melting over their heads, perpetually trickled down their backs, so that their clothes, and their whole bodies were perfectly drenched with it: they were often on the point of swooning away, and obliged to keep themselves from fainting, by handling the snow, and putting some of it into their mouths; the thirst with which their mouths were constantly burnt up; the thoughts, that in all this time no one had been at the pains to look for and relieve them; the consideration, that all they had hitherto suffered, was nothing in comparison of what they had still to suffer before they could recover their liberty, or sink under the weight of all the evils which encompassed them; all these, certainly, were circumstances sufficient to render them to the last degree, wretched and miserable. add to this, that the milk of their fond and loving nurse, fell away little by little, till at length, instead of about two pints, which she, in the beginning used to yield, they could not now get so much as a pint from her. the hay that lay in the manger was all out, and it was but little the poor women could draw out of the hole which lay above them; so that as the goats had but little fodder, little sustenance could be expected from that which they thought proper to milk. these animals were become so tame and familiar, in consequence of the fondness shewn them, that they always came on the first call to the person that was to milk them, affectionately licking her face and hands. anne, encouraged by this tameness of theirs, bethought herself of accustoming them to leap upon the manger, and from thence upon her shoulders, so as to reach the hole of the hay-loft, and feed themselves; so apt is hard necessity to inspire strength and ingenuity. she began by the goat that yielded them milk, helping her up into the manger, and then putting her upon her shoulders. this had the desired effect, the animal being thereby enabled to reach much further with its head, than they could with their hands. they did then the same by the other goat, from whom, as soon as she should drop her kid, they expected new relief. she, too, in the same manner, found means to get at the hay, which afforded the poor women some relief in the midst of their pressing necessity. after this day, the goats required no further assistance, they so soon learned to leap of themselves on the manger, and from thence on the women's shoulders. but we must not conclude that hunger was the chief of the poor women's sufferings; far from it. after the first days, during which it proved a sore torment to them, they through necessity, grew so accustomed to very little and very light nourishment, that they no longer felt any sensation of that kind, but lived contentedly on the small quantity of milk they could get from their goat, mixed with a little snow. their breath was what gave them most uneasiness; for it began to be very difficult on the fifth or sixth day, every inspiration being attended with the sensation of a very heavy and almost insupportable load upon them. "they now had lost all means of guessing at the returns of night and day, and their only employment was to recommend themselves fervently to god, beseeching him to take compassion of them, and at length, put an end to their miseries, which increased from day to day. at last, their nurse growing dry, they found themselves without any milk, and obliged to live upon snow alone for two or three days, mary anne not approving an expedient proposed by her sister. this was to endeavour to find the carcasses of the hens; for as they had not heard them for some days past, they had sufficient reason to think they were dead; and then eat them, as the only thing with which they could prolong life. but mary anne, rightly judging that it would be almost impossible to strip them clean of their feathers, and that besides, the flesh might be so far putrified, as to do them more harm than good, thought proper to dissuade her sister from having recourse to this expedient. but the unspeakable providence of god, whose will it was that they should live, provided them with new means of subsistence, when least they expected it, by the kidding of the other goat. by this event, they judged themselves to be about the middle of april; wherefore, after offering god their most humble thanks, for having preserved them so long, in the midst of so many, and such great difficulties they again beseeched him to assist them effectually, till they could find an opportunity of escaping their doleful prison, and see an end to their great sufferings. their hopes of this their humble supplication being heard, were raised on the appearance of this new supply, and on their reflecting that the snow begins to thaw in april, in consequence of which that about the stable would soon dissolve enough to let some ray of light break in upon them. mary anne told me, that, though she was thoroughly sensible of the badness of her condition, in which it was impossible for her to hold out much longer, and saw it every day grow worse and worse; she never, however, despaired of her living to be delivered. for my part, i cannot sufficiently admire the courage and intrepidity of anne, who told me, that in all this time she never let a tear escape her but once. this was on its occurring to her, that, as they must at length perish for want, it might fall to her lot to die last. for the thought of finding herself amidst the dead bodies of her sister and her niece, herself too in a dying condition, terrified and afflicted her to such a degree, that she could no longer command her tears, but wept bitterly. "i observed, that the goat had kidded. this event afforded the poor women a new supply of milk, anne for a while getting two porringers at a time from her, with which they recruited themselves a little. but as the goats began to fall short of hay, the milk of the only one that gave them any, began to lessen in proportion, so that at length they saw themselves reduced to a single, and even half a porringer. it was, therefore, happy for them, that the time drew nigh, in which god had purposed to rescue them from their horrible prison and confinement, and put an end to their sufferings. one time they thought they could hear a noise of some continuance at no great distance from them. this was probably the th, when the parish priest's body was found. and, upon it, they all together raised their weak and hoarse voices, crying out, 'help, help!' but the noise ceased, and they this time neither saw nor heard anything else that might serve as a token of their deliverance being at hand. however, this noise alone was sufficient to make them address god with greater fervour than ever, beseeching him to have compassion on them, and to confirm them still more and more in their warm hopes, that the end of their long misery was not far off. in fact, they again heard another noise, and that nearer them, as though something had fallen to the ground. on this they again raised their voices, and again cried out, 'help, help': but no one answered, and soon after the noise itself entirely ceased. their opinion concerning this noise, and in this they certainly were not mistaken, was that it came from the people, who were at work to find them, and who left off at the approach of night, and went home with a design to return to their labour the next morning. after the noise of the body fallen to the ground in their neighbourhood, they seemed for the first time to perceive some glimpse of light. the appearance of it scared anne and margaret to the last degree, as they took it for a sure fore-runner of death, and thought it was occasioned by the dead bodies; for it is a common opinion with the peasants that those wandering wild-fires, which one frequently sees in the open country, are a sure presage of death to the persons constantly attended by them, which ever way they turn themselves; and they accordingly call them death fires. but mary anne, was very far from giving in to so silly a notion. on the contrary the light inspired her with new courage, and she did all that lay in her power to dissipate the fears of her sister and daughter, revive their hopes in god, and persuade them that their deliverance and the end of all their sufferings was at hand; insisting that this light could be no other than the light of heaven, which had, at last, reached the stable, in consequence of the valanca's melting, and still more in consequence of the constant boring and digging into it by their relations, in order to come at their dead bodies. mary anne guessed right for it was the next day that anthony descended into the ruins of the stable, and to his unspeakable surprise found the poor women alive, blessing and exalting the most high, and restored them from darkness to light, from danger to security, from death to life, by drawing them out of the manger, and removing them to the house of joseph arnaud, where they continued to the end of july. "thirty-seven entire days did these poor women live in the most horrible sufferings occasioned no less by filth and the disagreeable posture they were confined to, than by cold and hunger; but the lord was with them. he kept them alive, and they are still living, in a new cottage built the same year in the foresta of bergemoletto, at no great distance from their former habitation." chapter vi an exciting caucasian ascent the following account of the ascent of gestola, in the central caucasus, is taken from _the alpine journal_, and the author, mr c. t. dent, has most kindly revised it for this work, and has added a note as follows: "at the time ( ) when this expedition was made, the topography of the district was very imperfectly understood. the mountain climbed was originally described as tetnuld tau--tau = mountain. since the publication of the original paper a new survey of the whole district has been carried out by the russian government and the nomenclature much altered. the peak of tetnuld is really to the south of gestola. the nomenclature has in the following extract been altered so as to correspond with that at present in use and officially sanctioned." the party consisted of mr dent, the late mr w. f. donkin, and two swiss guides. they had safely accomplished the first part of their ascent of a hitherto unclimbed peak, and were on the ridge and face to face with the problem of how to reach the highest point. after describing the glorious scenery which lay around them, mr dent writes: "woven in between all these peaks lay a wilderness of crevassed slopes, jagged rock ridges, and stretching glaciers, bewildering in their beauty and complexity. to see the wondrous sights that were crowded into those few minutes while we remained on the ridge, we would willingly have gone five times further and fared ten times worse. in high spirits we turned to the left (s.s.e.), and began our journey along the ridge which was to lead us to gestola, ever keeping an eye on the snowy form of tetnuld, and marvelling whether it would overtop our peak or not. for a few steps, and for a few only, all went well. the snow was in good order on the ridge, but we had to leave this almost immediately and make s.w. in order to skirt the heights which still intervened between us and our peak. the ice began to change its character. two or three steps were cut with a few strokes of the axe, and then all went well again for a time. then more steps, and a more ringing sound as the axe fell. we seemed, too, however we might press on, to make no impression on this first slope. our doubt returned; the leader paused, drew up the rope, and bit at a fragment of ice as he gazed anxiously upwards over the face. no! we were on the right track, and must stick to it if we would succeed. for an hour and a quarter we kept at it in silence, save for the constant ringing blows of the axe. our courage gradually oozed out, for when we had worked back to the ridge again, we seemed to have made no progress at all. the top of the mountain far above was already swathed in cloud, and a distant storm on the south side was only too obvious. another little peak was won before we looked about again, but the summit seemed no nearer. the exertion had begun to tell and the pace became slower. some one remarked that he felt hungry, and we all thereupon realised our empty state, so we fortified ourselves for further efforts on a dainty repast of steinbock, black bread a week old, and water--invigorating victuals and exhilarating drink, rather appropriate to the treadmill kind of exercise demanded. it is under conditions such as these that strange diet tells on the climber; but even more trying and more weakening than the poor quality of the food was the want of sleep from which we had suffered for a good many nights. in the language of science, our vital force and nervous energy were becoming rather rapidly exhausted, or, to put it more colloquially and briefly, we were awfully done. three hours more at least was the estimate, and meanwhile the weather was growing worse and worse. reflecting that all points fall to him who knows how to wait and stick to it, we pressed on harder to escape from the dispiriting thoughts that suggested themselves, and almost of a sudden recognised that the last of the deceptive little tops had been left behind us, and that we were fighting our way up the final peak. better still, tetnuld, which for so long had seemed to tower above us, was fast sinking in importance, and there really seemed now, as we measured the peak with the clinometer between the intervals of step-cutting, to be little difference between the two points. the air was so warm and oppressive that we were able to dispense with gloves. one of the guides suffered from intense headache, but the rest of us, i fancy, felt only in much the same condition as a man does at the finish of a hard-run mile race. the clouds parted above us for a while, mysteriously, as it seemed, for there was no wind to move them; but we could only see the slope stretching upwards, and still upwards. yet we could not be far off now. again we halted for a few seconds, and as we glanced above, we mentally took stock of our strength, for there was no question the pleasure had been laborious. some one moved, and we were all ready on the instant. to it once more, and to the very last victory was doubtful. true, the summit had seemed close enough when the last break in the swirling clouds had enabled us to catch a glimpse of what still towered above; but our experience of swiss snow mountains was long enough to make us sceptical as to apparent tops, and possibly the caucasian giants were as prone to deceive as the human pigmies that crawled and burrowed at their bases. "still anxious, still questioning success, we stepped on, and the pace increased as the doubt persisted. it is often said to be impossible, by those who don't try, to explain why the second ascent of a mountain always appears so much easier than the first; some explanation may be found in the fact that on a virgin peak the uncertainty is really increasing during the whole time, and the climax comes in the last few seconds. every step upwards make success more probable, and at the same time, would make failure more disappointing. in fact, the only periods when we are morally certain of success on a new expedition are before the start and when victory is actually won. still, we could hardly believe that any insuperable obstacle would now turn us back; yet all was new and uncertain, and the conditions of weather intensified the anxiety. the heavy stillness of the air seemed unnatural, and made the mind work quicker. the sensibility became so acute that if we ceased working and moving for a moment the silence around was unendurable, and seemed to seize hold of us. a distant roll of thunder came almost as a relief. a step or two had to be cut, and the delay appeared interminable. suddenly, a glimpse of a dark patch of rocks appeared above looming through the mist. the slope of the ridge became more gentle for a few yards. our attention was all fixed above, and we ascended some distance without noticing the change. another short rise, and we were walking quickly along the ridge. we stopped suddenly; the rocks we had seen so recently, had sunk below us on our left, while in front the _arête_ could be followed with the eye, sloping away gradually for a few yards, and then plunging sharply down to a great depth. it was all over; through fair weather and through foul we had succeeded; and there was yet another peak to the credit of the alpine club. [illustration: a typical caucasian landscape. _to face_ p. . by signor vittorio sella.] "it was not a time for words. burgener turned to us and touched the snow with his hand, and we sat down in silence. almost on the instant as we took our places a great burst of thunder rolled and echoed around--a grim salvo of nature's artillery. the sudden sense of rest heightened the effect of the oppressive stillness that followed. never have i felt the sense of isolation so complete. gazing in front into the thin mists, the very presence of my companions seemed an unreality. the veil of wreathing vapour screened the huge panorama of the ice-world from our sight. the black thunderclouds drifting sullenly shut out the world below. no man knew where we were; we had reached our furthest point in a strange land. we were alone with nature, far from home, and far from all that we were familiar with. strange emotions thrilled the frame and quickened the pulse. weird thoughts crowded through the mind--it was not a time for words. believe me, under such conditions a man will see further across the threshold of the unknown than all the book-reading or psychological speculation in the world will ever reveal to him. "coming back to considerations more prosaic and practical, we found that it was . p.m. we realised, too, that the ascent had been very laborious and exhausting, while there was no doubt that evil times were in store for us. there were no rocks at hand to build a cairn, but we reflected that the snow was soft, and that our footsteps would easily be seen on the morrow. the aneroid marked the height we had attained as , feet.[ ] a momentary break in the mist gave us a view of dych tau, and we had just time to get a compass observation. after a stay of fifteen minutes we rose and girded ourselves for the descent. i think we all felt that the chief difficulty was yet to come, but we had little idea of what was actually to follow. directly after we had left the summit a few puffs of wind began to play around and some light snow fell. still, it was not very cold, and if the storm would only keep its distance all might be well. down the first slope we made our way rapidly enough, and could have gone faster had we not deemed it wise to husband our strength as much as possible. in an hour and twenty minutes we reached the place where we had left the provisions and the camera. the feast was spread, but did not find favour. never did food look so revolting. the bread seemed to have turned absolutely black, while the steinbock meat looked unfit to keep company with garbage in a gutter; so we packed it up again at once, more from a desire to hide it from our eyes than from any idea that it might look more appetising later on. andenmatten's headache had become much worse, and he could scarcely at starting stand steady in his steps. possibly his suffering was due to an hour or two of intensely hot sun, which had struck straight down on us during the ascent. i could not at the moment awaken much professional interest in his case, but the symptoms, so far as i could judge, were more like those experienced by people in diving-bells--were pressure effects in short--for the pain was chiefly in the skull cavities. i may not here enter into technical details, and can only remark now that though andenmatten suffered the most it by no means followed on that account that his head was emptier than anybody else's. in due course we came to the ice-slope up and across which we had cut our way so laboriously in the morning; here, at least, we thought we should make good progress with little trouble; but the sun had struck full on this part of the mountain, and all the steps were flattened out and useless. every single step ought to have been worked at with as much labour as in the morning, but it was impossible to do more than just scratch out a slight foothold, as we made our way round again to the ridge. below, on the west side, the slope plunged down into the ewigkeit, and our very best attention had to be given in order to avoid doing the same. it was one of the worst snow faces i ever found myself on, perhaps, under the conditions, the worst. the direction in which we were travelling and the angle of the slope made the rope utterly useless. close attention is very exhausting: much more exertion is required to walk ten steps, bestowing the utmost possible care on each movement, than to walk a hundred up or down a much steeper incline when the angle demands a more accustomed balance. not for an instant might we relax our vigilance till, at . p.m., we reached once more the ridge close to the place where we had forced our way through the cornice in the morning. "we had little time to spare, and hurrying up to the point, looked anxiously down the snow wall. a glance was sufficient to show that the whole aspect of the snow had entirely altered since the morning. burgener's expression changed suddenly, and a startled exclamation, which i trust was allowed to pass unrecorded, escaped from him. andenmatten brought up some stones and rolled them down over the edge; each missile carried down a broad hissing band of the encrusting snow which had given us foot-hold in the morning, and swept the ice-slope beneath as black and bare as a frozen pond; here and there near rocks the stones stopped and sank deeply and gently into the soft, treacherous compound. the light had begun to fail, and snow was falling more heavily as we pressed on to try for some other line of descent. a hundred yards further along the ridge we looked over again; the condition of the snow was almost the same, but the wall was steeper, and looked at its very worst as seen through the mist. some one now suggested that we might work to the north-west end of the ridge and make our way down to the pass by the ice-fall. we tramped on as hard as possible, only to find at the end of our journey that the whole mass seemed abruptly cut away far above the adine col, and no line of descent whatever was visible. we doubled back on our tracks till we came within a few yards of the summit of a small peak on the ridge, the height of which was probably not less than , feet. already the cold was numbing and our wet clothes began to stiffen; again we peered over the wall, but the rocks were glazed, snow-covered, and impossible. the leader stopped, looked right and left along the ridge, and said, 'i don't know what to do!' for the moment we seemed hopelessly entrapped; the only conceivable place of shelter for the night was a patch of rocks close to the summit of the peak near at hand, and for these we made. it was an utter waste of time. apart from sleeping, we could not have remained there an hour, for we met the full force of the wind, which by this time had risen considerably, and was whirling the driving snow into every crack and cranny. what might have begun as a temporary rest would infallibly have ended in a permanent occupation. indeed, the cold would have been far too intense that night for us to have lived on any part of the bleak ridge. the situation was becoming desperate. 'we must get down off the ridge and out of the wind.' 'ay,' said burgener, 'we must, i know; but where?' the circumstances did not call for reasonable answers, and so we said, 'anywhere! to stay up here now means that we shall never get down at all.' burgener looked up quickly as if to say no, but hesitated, and then muttered, 'that is true. then what will you do? there is no way down anywhere along the wall with the snow as it is now. there are great ice-slopes a little way down.' as he spoke he leant over and looked along the wall for confirmation of his opinions. a little way off a rib of rock, blacker than the rest, showed through the mist. we both saw it at the same time; burgener hesitated, looked at it again, and then facing round glanced at the prospect above. the wind was stronger and colder and the snow was driving more heavily. there was no room for doubt. we must put it to the touch and take the risk. we turned again, and in a few minutes had squeezed ourselves through the cornice, and were fairly launched on the descent. "we were now at a much higher level on the ridge than at the point we had struck in ascending. it was only possible to see a few yards down; the rocks looked appallingly steep, glazed, and grizzly, and we knew not what we were coming to. but at any rate we were moving, and in a stiller atmosphere soon forgot the cold. we went fast, but only by means of doing all we knew, for the climbing was really difficult. it was a case of every man for himself, and every man for the rest of the party. now was the time to utilise all that we had ever learned of mountain craft. never before, speaking for myself only, have i felt so keenly the pleasure of being united to thoroughly trustworthy and good mountaineers; it was like the rush of an eight-oar, where the sense of motion and the swish through the water alone are sufficient to make every member of the crew put all his strength into each stroke. the mind was too active to appreciate the pain of fatigue, and so we seemed strong again. now on the rocks, which were loose and crumbly in parts, elsewhere big and glazed, now in deep snow, now on hard crusts, we fought our way down. so rapid was the descent that, when the opportunity offered, we looked anxiously through the mist in the hope of seeing the glacier beneath. surely we had hit on a possible line of descent to the very bottom. but there was not a moment for the grateful repose so often engendered by enquiring minds on the mountains. we were racing against time, or at least against the malevolent powers of darkness. down a narrow flat couloir of rock of no slight difficulty we seemed to go with perfect ease, but the rocks suddenly ceased and gave way to an ill-favoured snow-slope. the leader stopped abruptly and turned sharp to the right. a smooth ice-gully some feet wide separated us from the next ridge of rock. the reason for the change of direction was evident enough when burgener pointed it out. as long as the line of descent kept to the side that was more sheltered during the day from the sun, so long was the snow fairly good. our leader judged quickly, and with the soundest reasoning, as it proved directly afterwards, that the line we had been following would infallibly lead, if pursued further, to snow as treacherous as that with which we were now so familiar. across the ice-slope then we must cut, perhaps a dozen or fifteen steps. "the first two or three burgener made vigorously enough, but when within or feet of the rocks the extra effort told. he faltered suddenly; his blow fell listlessly, and he leant against the slope, resting hands and head on his axe. 'i am almost exhausted,' he said faintly, as he turned round to us, while his quivering hands and white lips bore evidence to the severity of the exertion. so for a minute or two we stood in our tracks. a word of encouragement called up what seemed almost a last effort, some little notches were cut, and we gained the rocks again. a trickling stream of water was coursing down a slab of rock, and at this we gulped as eagerly as a fevered patient. standing on the projecting buttress, we looked anxiously down, and caught sight at last of the glacier. it seemed close to us; the first few steps showed that burgener's judgment was right; he had changed the line of descent at exactly the right moment, and at the best possible place. down the last few hundred feet we were able to go as fast as before. the level glacier beneath seemed in the darkness to rise up suddenly and meet us. we tumbled over the _bergschrund_, ran down a short slope on the farther side of it, and stood in safety on the glacier, saved by as fine a piece of guiding as i have ever seen in the mountains. we looked up at the slope. to our astonishment all was clear, and i daresay had been so for long. above, in a blue-black frosty sky, the stars were winking merrily; the mists had all vanished as by magic. no doubt the cold, which would have settled us had we stayed on the ridge, assisted us materially in the descent by improving the snow. "there seemed still just light enough to search for our tracks of the morning across the glacier, and we bore well to the right in the hope of crossing them. i fancy that the marks would have been really of little use, but, anyhow, we could not find them, and so made a wide sweep across the upper part of the snow basin. as a result we were soon in difficulty with the crevasses, and often enough it seemed probable that we should spend the rest of the night in wandering up and down searching for snow bridges. but we reached at last a patch of shale and rock, which we took to be the right bank of the little glacier we had crossed in the morning. our clothes were wet, and the cold was becoming so sharp that it was wisely decided, against my advice, to push on if possible to the tent at once. for some three or four hours did we blunder and stumble over the moraine, experiencing not a few tolerably severe falls as we did so. andenmatten selected his own line of descent, and in a few minutes we had entirely lost sight of him. it was too dark to find our way across the glacier, and we could only hope by following the loose stone ridge to make our way to the right place. so we stuck to the rocks, occasionally falling and nearly sticking on their detestably sharp points. even a caucasian moraine leads somewhere if you keep to it long enough, and as we turned a corner, the huge glimmering mass of dych tau, towering up in front, showed that the end of our journey was not far off. presently the little white outline of the tent appeared, but we regarded it with apathy, and made no effort to quicken our movements, although the goal was in sight; it seemed to require, in our semi-comatose condition, almost an effort to stop. as we threw open the door of the tent the welcome sight of divers packets, neatly arranged in a corner, met our gaze. the head policeman had proved himself an honour to his sex, an exception to his compatriots, and a credit to the force. there were bread, sugar, rice, meat, and firewood--yet we neither spoke nor were moved. andenmatten spurned the parcels with his foot and revealed the lowermost. a scream of delight went up, for they had found a packet of tobacco. the spell was broken, and once more all were radiant. such is man. a strange compound--i refer to the tobacco--it proved to be, that would neither light nor smoke, and possessed as its sole property the power of violently disagreeing with the men. it was past midnight before the expedition was over. there were few preliminaries observed before going to bed. i don't think that even donkin took more than a quarter of an hour in arranging a couch to his satisfaction, and placing a very diminutive air-cushion on anatomical principles in exactly the right place, while andenmatten was fast asleep in two minutes, his head pillowed gently on some cold mutton, and his boots reposing under the small of his back. something weighed on our minds as we too lay down and tried to sleep. the towering cone of tetnuld, the distant view of uschba, elbruz, and the giant dych tau, the rock and snow-slopes, pictured themselves one after another as dissolving views on the white walls of the tent. the expedition was over, but the pleasure and the impressions it had evoked were not. faster and faster followed the visions as in delirium. i sat up, and in the excitement of the moment dealt a great blow at the nearest object, which, as it chanced, was andenmatten's ribs. i shouted out to my companion. a muffled 'hulloa' was the response, and he too rose up. 'what is it?' 'by heavens! it is the finest climb we have ever made.' and so it was." chapter vii a melancholy quest the accident in the caucasus in , by which messrs donkin and fox and their two swiss guides lost their lives, was one of the saddest that has ever happened in the annals of mountaineering. i will not dwell on it, but will rather pass on to the search expedition, a short account of whose operations will serve to illustrate how a thorough knowledge of mountaineering may be utilised in finding a conjectured spot in an unmapped region in the snow world. the year after the accident--for the season when it occurred was too advanced for a thorough search to be then undertaken--a party of four englishmen, messrs douglas freshfield, clinton dent, hermann woolley, and captain powell, with maurer of the bernese oberland as leading guide, set out from england to try and ascertain how the accident happened, and, if possible, recover the remains. they succeeded, in the course of a profoundly interesting journey, in finding the last camp of their friends, and from mr clinton dent's fine description in _the alpine journal_ i make, with his kind consent, the following extracts. they show how well the old school of climbers learnt all the routine of their art, and how superior is the trained mountaineer of any nationality to the inexperienced dweller amongst mountains, who is utterly unable to advance a single step upon them. having journeyed to the district and got over all the easier ground at first met with, the party was now fairly embarked in the region of ice and snow. "the day was well advanced," writes mr dent, "and it is only on rare occasions in the central caucasus that the valleys and sky are free from cloud at such an hour. but not a vestige of mist was to be seen. the conditions were not merely of good omen, but were also in the hightest degree fortunate, for the object of our search seemed very minute in the presence of such gigantic surroundings. the air was clear and soft, and the snow in perfect order for walking. we worked our way due west, and gradually, as we turned the buttress of rock, a steep and broad ice-gully came into view, leading up to the pass. this consisted of a broad snow-topped depression, from to feet above the snow-field. on the right or east of the pass the ridge ran sharply up to the pinnacle already mentioned, while on the left the ridge, broken up on its crest by great towers of rock, stretched away to the summit of dych tau, the peak of which from our point of view was not visible. a careful inspection of the rocks with the telescope revealed nothing. a possible place for a bivouac might have been found at any point on the rocks below the pass, but no particularly likely spot was evident. it was conceivable too, of course, that the travellers had discovered a more suitable place on the ullu auz side, close to the summit of the pass. in any case our plan of action was clear, and we set forth without delay to ascend the wall. two long ribs of rock lying on the right of the ice-gully offered the best means of access. both looked feasible, but it was only after a moment's hesitation that the left-hand one was selected, as it seemed more broken, was broader, and ran up higher. if the right-hand rib had been chosen, we might conceivably have missed the object of our search altogether. we made our way up the rocks without any great difficulty. half-melted masses of snow constantly hissed down the ice-gully as we ascended, and the great chasm that extends along the base of the cliff was choked for the most part with avalanche snow. the rocks were steep, but so broken as to offer good hand-and foot-hold. still, the mind was sufficiently occupied in attending to the details of climbing to prevent the thoughts from wandering. insensibly, we began to think little save of the view that would be revealed from the top of the pass. from time to time an opportunity would be found of gazing to the right or left, but progress was tolerably continuous. maurer, who was leading, looked upwards now and again, as he worked out the best line of ascent, but the rocks were so steep that he could only see a very few feet. just about mid-day, as he stopped for a moment to look upwards, i saw his expression suddenly change. 'herr gott!' he gasped out, 'der schlafplatz!'[ ] i think i shall never forget the thrill the words sent through me. we sprang up, scrambling over the few feet that still intervened, and in a moment were grouped on a little ledge just outside the bivouac. there was little enough to be seen at the first glance save a low horse-shoe shaped wall of stones, measuring some feet by , and carefully built against an overhanging rock. the enclosure was full of drifted snow, raised up into a hump at the back, where it covered a large rücksack. on a ledge formed by one of the stones, a little tin snow spectacle-box caught the eye as it reflected the rays of the sun. for a few moments all was excitement as the presence of one object after another was revealed. 'see here,' cried maurer, as he scooped away the snow with his hands, 'the sleeping-bags!' 'and here a rücksack,' said another. 'look, they made a fire there,' called out a third, 'and here is the cooking kettle and the revolver.' then came somewhat of a reaction, and for a few minutes we could but gaze silently at the place that told so clear a tale, and endeavour to realise to the full the evidence that had come upon us with such overwhelming suddenness. * * * * * "it is most probable that the accident occurred on the south side of the cliffs forming the eastern ridge of dych tau. the party must have been roped at the moment, and it is very reasonable to suppose that they were engaged in traversing one of the many ice and snow covered slopes that exist on this side. what the exact nature of the accident was matters little; but it may be remembered that the snow on such slopes and ledges often binds very lightly, and that there are no mountains, perhaps, where these places are more numerous or more treacherous than in the caucasus. it was possibly one of those rare instances in which the rope was a source of danger and not of security to the party as a whole. yet the rule is clear, and it amounts to this: if a place is too dangerous to cross with a party roped, lest the slip of one drag down all, then it is too dangerous to cross at all. so steep are the cliffs that a fall must have meant instantaneous death. as an example, a torn sleeping-bag which was thrown over the bivouac wall fell to the very bottom of the slope, and we saw it just above the _bergschrund_ as we descended. it was necessary to take down some of the articles discovered, for we might otherwise have found difficulty in convincing the natives of the success of the expedition, and this was an important point. the height of the pass is , feet, and of the bivouac about , feet. we left the bivouac at . p.m., the day being still perfectly cloudless. the ice-fall offered some little difficulty, one or two of the bridges by which we had crossed in the morning having broken down. still we were able to keep to almost the same line as that adopted in ascending. * * * * * "no one familiar with the caucasus would be willing to believe that any native could have reached the bivouac. the people are still very timorous on ice, and are wholly incapable of facing an ice-fall, much less of making any way through one. no native could have been got to the place even if in the train of competent mountaineers; alone, he would not have set foot on the glacier at all. "a day or two later we made our way down to the collection of villages known as balkar, a good three and a half hours' walk from karaoul. the place is not well spoken of, but we were hospitably received and entertained. in this, as in many other villages subsequently, the story of our search excited much interest. on every occasion the proceedings were almost exactly identical. as usual in the caucasus, the natives all crowded into our apartment soon after arrival. powell would then select some russian-speaking man in authority, and announce through him that the results of our expedition would be made known to all who cared to hear them. the whole story was then told, and admirably powell used to narrate it, winding up by pointing out how the people of the district were now exonerated from any suspicion that may have lain on them. such suspicion, he used to add, had never been entertained by any english people. the account was always listened to in breathless silence. at the conclusion it was repeated by the chief to the natives in their own language. then the rücksack was brought in and the articles found shown. these were always instantly accepted as absolute proof; the rusty revolver especially excited attention. expressions of sorrow and brief interjections were always heard on all sides. then the chief spoke to some such effect as follows: 'we are indeed rejoiced that you have found these traces. it relieves our people from an irksome and unjust suspicion. it is well that englishmen came to our country for this search, for we believe that no others could have accomplished what you have done. we are all very grateful to you. englishmen are always most welcome in our country. we are glad to receive them. our houses are theirs, and the best we can do shall always be done for your countrymen.' in several places--at chegem, for instance--words were added to this effect: 'we remember well donkin and fox; they were brave and good men, and we loved them. it is very sad to us to think that they are lost.'" a more detailed account of this melancholy quest will be found in messrs douglas freshfield's and vittorio sella's work, _the exploration of the caucasus_. it is from this, the most beautifully illustrated of any book on mountaineering, that, with mr freshfield's kind permission and that of mr willink, i take the picture of the sleeping-place. the finished drawing was made by mr willink from a sketch by captain powell. chapter viii some narrow escapes and fatal accidents probably not half the narrow escapes experienced by climbers are ever described, even in the pages of the various publications of english and foreign alpine clubs, though when an accident by the breaking of a snow-cornice is just avoided, the incident is so terribly impressive that several accounts have found their way into print. scarcely anything more startling than a certain occurrence on a ridge of the mönch, which happened to the late mr moore and his two guides, melchior and jacob anderegg, has ever been related. the party had succeeded in making the ascent of the mönch from the wengern alp, it being only the third occasion when this long and difficult climb was accomplished, each of their predecessors spending _three days and three nights_ on the expedition. [illustration: melchior anderegg, of meiringen.] [illustration: a son and a grandchild of melchior anderegg, . _to face_ p. .] having gained the summit, the party proceeded to go down by the usual route towards the trugberg. this follows a very narrow _arête_. "on the left hand," says mr moore in _the alpine journal_, "is an absolute precipice; on the right a slope, which might be called precipitous, falls to the aletsch glacier. the quantity of snow on the ridge was enormous, and the sun had begun to tell upon it. we knew too much to attempt to approach the upper edge, and kept at a distance of some feet below it on the aletsch side; lower down we dared not go, owing to the steepness of the slope and the danger of starting an avalanche. with melchior in front it is unnecessary to say that we moved with the greatest caution. no man is more alive than he to the danger arising from a snow-cornice. he sounded with his axe at every step, and we went steadily along, anxious, but with every reason to believe that we were giving the cornice a wide berth. suddenly came a startling cry from melchior. at the same instant i felt myself stagger, and, instinctively swinging ever so slightly to the right, found myself the next moment sitting astride on the ridge. with a thundering roar the cornice on our left for a distance of some yards went crashing down to the depths below, sending up clouds of snow-dust which completely concealed my companions from me. it was only by the absence of all strain on the rope that i knew--though at the moment i scarcely realised the fact--that they were, like myself, safe. as the dust cleared off, melchior, also sitting astride of the ridge, turned towards me, his face white as the snow which covered us. that it was no personal fear which had blanched our leader's sunburnt cheeks his first words, when he could find utterance, showed. 'god be thanked!' said he; 'i never thought to see either of you there.' we had, in fact, escaped destruction by a hand's-breadth. as i believe, our right feet had been on the ridge, our left on the cornice; we had thus just sufficient firm standing-ground to enable us to make that instinctive movement to the right which had landed us _á cheval_, for jacob had fallen in the same position as melchior and myself. few words were said; but words poorly express the emotions at such a moment. melchior's axe had been carried down with the cornice as it fell, but had fortunately lodged on the face of the precipice feet below. it was too precious to leave behind, so we let him down by the rope, and descending in a cat-like way peculiar to first-class guides when not hampered by _herrshaft_, he regained it without difficulty. "our further descent was uneventful." one of the greatest dangers of mountaineering is from falling stones, yet the number of fatal accidents from this cause is as few as the narrow escapes are many. as exciting an experience as can well be imagined took place on the aiguille du midi at chamonix in . the party consisted of messrs horace walker and g. e. foster. the latter wrote a graphic account in _the alpine journal_, and kindly allows me to make the following extracts. the guides were jacob anderegg and hans baumann, and the climbers wished to ascend from the montanvert and be the first to go down the steep face of the mountain on the chamonix side. after some difficulty in finding the route, for both the guides were unacquainted with the district, and mr walker alone knew in a vague sort of way that the peak was somewhere in the neighbourhood of the géant ice-fall, they eventually stood on the top. it had taken them ten hours, and they sat for some time on the more sheltered chamonix side, debating by what route they should descend. the slopes below were very steep, so they decided to retrace their steps to the foot of the rocks, and then, turning over on to the chamonix side of the mountain, make their way as best they could down ice-filled gullies and precipitous rocks. all at first went well, and soon they commenced to cross the face of the cliff to gain a rocky buttress that offered a likely route some hundred feet below the top of the wall. "jacob was leading," writes mr foster, "walker next, i followed, and baumann brought up the rear. only one was moving at a time, and every one had the rope as taut as possible between himself and his neighbour. jacob was crossing a narrow gully, when suddenly, without any warning, as though he had trod on the keystone of the wall, the whole face for some or feet above him peeled off, and with a crash like thunder, hundreds of tons of rocks precipitated themselves on him. in an instant he was torn from his hold, and hurled down the precipice with them. fortunately, walker was able to hold on, though the strain on him was something awful. as the uproar ceased, and silence even more impressive succeeded, we looked in one another's faces with blank dismay. from our position it was impossible to see what had become of jacob, and only the tight rope told us that his body at least, living or dead, was still fastened to us. in a voice singularly unlike his own, walker at length cried out, 'jacob,' and our hearts sank within us as it passed without response. 'jacob! ach jacob!' walker repeated; and i trust none of my readers may ever know the relief we felt when the reply came back, 'ich lebe noch.'[ ] "from where i was i could not see him, but walker craned over a rock, and then turned round. 'i see him. he is awfully hurt, and bleeding frightfully.' i then contrived to shift my position, and saw that he was indeed hurt. his face was black with blood and dirt, the skin torn from his bleeding hands, while his clothes in ribands threatened worse injuries still unseen. after a moment, he managed to recover his footing, and then untied the rope with trembling fingers, and crawled along the face of the cliff to the other side of the gully, where some snow offered means to stanch his wounds. "as soon as he was safe, baumann called on us to stand still, and clambered carefully over the spot where the rocks had given way, our only road lying there. i followed, and then walker, knotting up the rope to which jacob had hung, crossed last. with jacob below us, care was necessary in climbing so as to send no more loose fragments on his head, but we at last reached the spot where he was standing. thanks to the snow, the bleeding had already stopped to a great extent, and with the aid of some sticking-plaster walker had with him, and some torn strips from a pocket-handkerchief, we bound up his wounds as well as we could. he had had a marvellous escape; no fragment had struck him fully, the rock that had grazed his face having missed knocking out his brains from his presence of mind in throwing back his head. fortunately, no bones were broken, though he was badly bruised all over, and after a quarter of an hour's rest and a good pull at the brandy-flask, he said he was ready to start again. "on taking hold of the rope to tie him on again, we were awestruck to find all its strands but one had been severed, so that his whole weight had hung literally on a thread. strange as it may appear, the rock that had done this had probably saved his life by jerking him out of the line of fire. still, all honour to messrs buckingham for their good workmanship, to which, and walker's holding powers, we owe our escape from a miserable ending of our day's work. as it was, poor walker's ribs had suffered sadly, and with two wounded men we recommenced our descent. "naturally, our trust in the rocks was gone, and we took as soon as possible to the steep snow of the couloir. this, however, lay so thin on the ice, that we found we had only exchanged one danger for another. baumann led and we followed, driving in our axe-heads at every step, but were soon forced to descend into a narrow gully, cut by avalanches, where the snow was deep enough to give better footing. the sides of this were above our heads, and the bottom not more than a foot wide, so that the danger from avalanches was very great, but for a time we descended safely. then a startled shout from walker warned me that something was wrong, and driving my axe desperately into the side, i found myself up to the neck in a snow avalanche. for a moment i thought all was up, but held on to the best of my powers. then finding the stream did not stop, i looked back, and found walker and jacob had contrived to get out of the gully. with a shout to baumann, i gave a desperate struggle, and followed their example, and instantly saw the snow i had held up surge over baumann's head. for a moment he held on, then climbed out on my side. we waited till the avalanche had passed, two of us on one side of the gully and two on the other, and then walker and jacob jumped into it with a groan, as it shook their bruised bones, and climbed up to our side, and with an occasional look for baumann's hat, which the avalanche had carried off with it, pursued our way. "so long and steep was the couloir, so thin and treacherous the snow layer on the ice, that a good hour elapsed before we reached the bottom, where a formidable _bergschrund_ cut off access to the glacier. only at one point could we find a bridge, and that was where our old enemy, the avalanche gully, terminated, choking the crevasse with its snows, and spreading in a fan-like mass below. with some hesitation, as our recollection of it was not pleasant, and it was here all hard ice, baumann cut his way down into it. we were scarcely all fairly in it, when we heard a tremendous crash above. clearly, another avalanche was descending, this time composed of rocks. as it was feet above us, and would take some time to clear the distance, a short race for life ensued. baumann cut steps with amazing rapidity. fortunately, some half dozen only were necessary. with one eye on him and one keeping a sharp look-out for the advent of the unwelcome stranger, we hastened down, crossed the bridge, scampered down a slope, and merely stooping down to pick up baumann's hat, which turned up here, got out of the way just in time, as an enormous mass of snow and rocks dashed over where we had stood not a minute before." this was the last adventure the party had that day from avalanches, but their troubles were as yet by no means over. some formidable glacier work had to be accomplished before all was plain sailing. "though we were now tolerably reckless, the difficulties in our way nearly beat us," mr foster goes on to say. "three times we tried, and thrice in vain, though knife edges of the most revolting description were passed, and crevasses of fabulous width and depth jumped or got over as seemed best. again and again we were forced to return. at length, when we were almost in despair, a way was found, and at . , drenched by the storm which by this time had burst upon us, we reached the little hotel at the pierrepointue." there are no climbing dangers which skill and care can more surely avert than those which are ever present on a crevassed, but snow-covered glacier. [illustration: crevasses and sÉracs on the lower part of a glacier.] [illustration: a snow bridge over a crevasse.] [illustration: on the border of a crevasse above the snow line.] [illustration: soft snow in the afternoon on a glacier. by signor r. cajrati crivelli mesmer. _to face_ p. .] should a party fail to arrest the fall of one of its members, and have difficulty in pulling him above ground, however, the position may become most serious. if another party is within hail, matters are generally simple enough, yet even for four or five people it is not always the easiest thing in the world to haul up a companion who has disappeared into the bowels of the earth, especially if the folly of walking unroped has been indulged in. a good description of what might have been a serious business but for the skill and resource of a member of the party is given in the course of a description of some climbs in the rocky mountains. the writer, mr harold b. dixon, says in _the alpine journal_: "a snow-covered crevasse crossed our route at right angles. the party in front, who were without ropes, saw the crevasse, and proceeded to leap it. all crossed in safety but the last man, who broke through the snow and disappeared. through the hole the wide mouth of the crevasse was revealed, showing the danger of trusting to the frail bridge. it was obviously dangerous to recross without a rope, so his companions signalled to us for help, but for some time we failed to observe their signals. "though stunned by the fall our friend was not materially damaged, but he was in a sufficiently awkward fix. jammed between the narrowing walls of ice, he was unable to move a limb except his right arm. the crevasse did not drop perpendicularly, but the ice-wall bulged out from the side we stood on, and then curved over out of sight; we could not see down more than feet. we stood in a little semicircle at the hole, and one short sentence was spoken: 'some one must go down.' we looked at each other. sahrbach and baker are large and heavy men: it was obvious they must 'pass.' i am of lighter build; i proclaimed my stone and readiness to go. but collie went better. 'i am stone ,' was his deliberate statement. there was no means of seeing if this was a bluff, so we threw up our hands--the trick was his. tying a stirrup loop for one foot and a noose round his waist, collie attached himself to one rope, which was then joined to a second. meanwhile the americans were brought across the crevasse by the aid of another rope, and axes were fixed deep in the snow in suitable positions to fasten the rope to. then we let collie down as far as he would go. an anxious moment followed. 'i can't reach him,' came collie's voice from below. then, after a few minutes, 'send down a slip knot on the other rope.' we made the knot and lowered the rope. how collie managed it i don't know, for he could not reach his man, but he threw the loop round the prisoner's right arm, and then called on us to pull. at the second haul we felt something give, and our friend was pulled into an upright position, when collie could just reach him with his left hand, and with this he tied a knot above the elbow of his right arm. by this knot we hauled him out of the narrow crevasse and on to the bulge of ice without difficulty. but as we pulled the rope cut into the snow, and we could not raise our burden within feet of the surface. then, while the rope was held taut, one of us worked the handle of an axe along under the rope by sitting on the snow and pushing it forward with his feet. in this way the rope was loosened, and we could haul up another feet, and then sahrbach, leaning over, reached his collar, and our half-frozen friend was deposited on the snow with an assortment of flasks, while we fished out collie from his uncomfortable position. they were both very wet and cold, but no bones were broken." here we see that even with a large party of competent people, it was no easy matter to rescue a comrade from his icy prison. the details are well given, and may be useful to any one so unfortunate as to require by personal experience a knowledge of what should be done under similar circumstances. the danger of crossing snow-covered glaciers when the party does not number more than two was brought home to those who heard of it by one of the most tragical events which has ever been recorded in the annals of mountaineering. a german, dr schäffer, had been celebrating his golden wedding at a small place on the brenner on nd august . he engaged a guide, by name johann offerer, and, sleeping at a hut, started early next morning. they reached the wildlahner glacier in an hour and a half from their sleeping quarters, and after traversing it for some distance came to a large crevasse. this the guide crossed safely on a snow bridge, but the tourist, a much heavier man, broke through, and pulled his companion down with him. they fell about feet, with the result that the guide had a broken thigh and arm, while dr schäffer only bruised his knee. he put his coat round offerer and left food beside him, and then tried to get out of the crevasse. after hours of toil and pain he managed to reach a ledge not very far below the mouth of the crevasse, but further he could not get. at last he gave up all hope, and sat down to die, first, however, writing a full account of the accident, and leaving a sum of money for the widow of his guide. it is to this pathetic last effort of his life that we owe our knowledge of what happened. the only other instance at all like it is the terrible accident on mont blanc in , when eleven persons perished in a snow-storm, one of their number, mr bean, leaving details in his diary of the events immediately preceding the catastrophe. [illustration: the betÉmps hut.] [illustration: ski-ing.] [illustration: how a beginner usually ends a run.] [illustration: a great crevasse in the upper snow fields. _to face_ p. .] it was only on th september, after a long search, that the remains of the two unfortunate men were discovered. the following is of special interest, because, of late years, the norwegian sport of ski-ing has become exceedingly popular in alpine winter resorts. it is impossible, however, owing to the great length of the ski, to go in difficult places on them, and therefore mountaineers have only used them when intending to ascend to points accessible entirely over snow-slopes, not much broken up by crevasses. the first fatal accident to a climbing party on ski took place in , and may serve as a warning to those intending to traverse glaciers in winter on skis, or indeed even without them. i take my account from a translation from the italian, which appeared in _the alpine journal_. the comments by the editor should be laid to heart. "a party of five gentlemen and four zermatt guides left zermatt on th february for the bétemp hut, with the intention of ascending the signalkuppe and the zumstein, _via_ the grenz glacier and the capanna margherita. "the th was spent in ski practice in the neighbourhood of the hut. on the th the whole party, with the exception of one guide who had brought a defective pair of skis, left the hut at . a.m. in weather marked by no adverse conditions of any kind. the grenz glacier was reached somewhat west of the point marked mètres on the siegfried map. the party unroped, proceeded upwards on their skis towards the point marked mètres, the surface of the glacier, covered with deep snow, showing no crevasses nor the indications of any. about midway between mètres and the point mètres the caravan found itself on a gentle slope, when a muffled crack was heard, and herr koenig, herr flender, and one of the guides, hermann perren, were seen to sink almost simultaneously into a concealed crevasse about feet in width, which ran in a direction parallel with the glacier, carrying with them a mass of snow about feet in length and over feet in thickness. obviously, no amount of probing would have indicated the presence of the crevasse, and thus by an unfortunate coincidence the three men were standing at the same time over the hidden abyss without knowing it. one of the other guides was instantly lowered into the crevasse by the only available rope (the other being on herr flender's back), which proved to be just too short to reach hermann perren, who had fallen about feet, and was standing upright against the side of the crevasse, held fast in a mass of snow which had left his head and one arm free. two of the party hurried down to fetch another rope from the bétemps hut. in the meanwhile perren had managed, after a struggle of two and a half hours, almost to set himself free, and was eventually drawn out safely, practically uninjured, save a slightly frost-bitten hand. the dead body of herr flender, found with his neck broken, partially covered with some feet of hard snow, was then extricated, but in spite of persistent efforts the body of herr koenig was not recovered until the next day, when he was found lying face downwards under a mass of compact snow over feet thick. death in his case was instantaneous, caused by suffocation, the body bearing no signs whatever of external injury. herr koenig was laid to rest in the english cemetery at zermatt, while the body of herr flender was conveyed by his relatives to its last resting-place at düsseldorf. this is, we think, the first fatal accident which has occurred to a party of climbers on skis bound on a serious climbing expedition. the party on this occasion cannot with justice be accused of recklessness, for the apparent neglect of the usual precaution of putting on the rope on a snow-covered glacier will not be misunderstood by those accustomed to the use of skis, who will readily understand that the rope is practically impossible, and even dangerous, for a party on skis. "a remarkable feature of the accident was the thickness of the mass of snow which gave way under the three men, and demonstrates the extreme insecurity of winter snow on a crevassed glacier. it is possible that the three men were perhaps too close to each other at the time of the accident. "it is evident that winter climbers who wish to use skis must carry their lives in their own hands, and perhaps the safer plan for future expeditions of this kind will be to make the ascent roped in the usual way on snow _racquettes_ carrying the skis on the back. on the descent the risk of breaking through the snow covering during the rapid progress on skis would of course be very much less than on the ascent." one of the most fruitful causes of accidents on mountains is the underrating of difficulties by ignorant persons who, having been hauled up and let down precipices by a couple of sturdy guides in fine weather, proceed to inform their friends and acquaintances that "nowadays the matterhorn is mere child's play, don't cher know." a sorry tale is told by the famous climber, mr cecil slingsby, who, himself accustomed to undertake the hardest climbs without guides, would be the first to discourage imitation in any unfit to follow in his steps. writing of skagastöldstind, in norway, of which he made the first ascent, and which is still considered the most difficult of the fashionable climbs in that country, he says in _the alpine journal_: "in a young tourist, son of a rich banker, whom i will call nils, desirous of emulating our exploits, attempted the mountain, and with the assistance of two good climbers, who shoved and hauled him up the rocks, succeeded in reaching the summit. unfortunately, he afterwards wrote a pamphlet of sixty-six pages about the mountain, in which he underrated its difficulties. this pamphlet, i unhesitatingly assert, has been the main cause of a terrible tragedy which took place on skagastöldstind. it was in this manner. at one of the series of huts built by the tourist club a young man, named tönsberg, who had been partially deranged, was staying with his wife, and was deriving much benefit from the mountain air. here he read this pamphlet, and inferred that though skagastöldstind was undoubtedly a very fine mountain, yet the difficulties of its ascent had been much exaggerated, and that any one might make it. upon this he set off with a lad seventeen years of age, at . p.m., in vile weather; walked through the night (in the middle of summer it is never dark), and reached a saetor (or châlet) at a.m.; here they found peter, one of nils' guides, who refused to have anything more to do with the mountain. at last, by means of bribes, and by promising to turn back at once if the mountain should prove impracticable, peter was persuaded to go forward; and at o'clock they sallied out into the wet. wind and snow soon assailed them, but tönsberg would persist in his rash work. at they reached the actual base of the peak, feet below the top. the lad was frost-bitten and could go no further; neither could peter. they tried to tie the man with ropes, but he was too strong for them, and used his alpenstock against them, and it was no good. soon afterwards he left them in the mist, and in twenty strides was out of sight. a month or five weeks after this his remains were found in a deep chasm between a glacier and the rocks, amidst crags at least feet higher up on the mountain. i may add that the valley midt maradal, out of which skagastöldstind rises, is so difficult to approach, that though it contains rich pasturage at its lower end--a mine of wealth in norway--its owner, a man of forty-five years, who has overlooked it hundreds of times and lives within three miles of it as the crow flies, had never been in it when i saw him last, and has asked me several times to guide him into it." referring to an expedition from mouvoison, which began, as do most climbs, over grass slopes, mr clinton dent remarks in _above the snow line_: "one ascent over a grass slope is very much like another, and description in detail would be as wearisome as the slopes themselves often prove. yet it is worthy of notice that there is an art to be acquired even in climbing grass slopes. we had more than one opportunity on the present occasion of seeing that persons look supremely ridiculous if they stumble about, and we noticed also that, like a bowler when he has delivered a long hop to the off for the third time in one over, the stumbler invariably inspects the nails in his boots, a proceeding which deceives no one. it is quite easy to judge of a man's real mountaineering capacity by the way in which he attacks a steep grass slope. the unskilful person, who fancies himself perfectly at home among the intricacies of an ice-fall, will often candidly admit that he never can walk with well-balanced equilibrium on grass, a form of vegetable which it might be thought in many instances of self-sufficient mountaineers, would naturally suit them. there is often real danger in such places, and not infrequently the wise man will demand the use of the rope, especially when there are any tired members among the party. there is no better way of learning how to preserve a proper balance on a slope than by practising on declivities of moderate steepness, and it is astonishing to find how often those who think they have little to learn, or, still worse, that there is nothing to learn, will find themselves in difficulties on a mountain-side, and forced to realise that they have got themselves into a rather humiliating position. we may have seen, before now, all of us, distinguished cragsmen to whom an ascent of the weisshorn or matterhorn was but a mere stroll, utterly pounded in botanical expeditions after edelweiss, and compelled to regain a position of security by very ungraceful sprawls, or, worse still, have to resort to the unpardonable alternative of asking for assistance." the following accounts of adventures on grass slopes, taken from _the alpine journal_, may serve to bear out the truth of mr dent's remarks: "on monday, st august, mr j. f. c. devas, aged , accompanied by a friend, mr a. g. ferard, proceeded after lunch to take a stroll from the riffel-haus towards the gorner glacier by the théodule path. before reaching the glacier they returned, mr ferard by the ordinary route. mr devas, leaving the path to the left, attempted a short cut by climbing some wet and slippery rocks leading to a grass slope above. he reached a difficult place, immediately below the slope, beyond which he was unable to go. mr ferard made his way as speedily as possible to the grass slope and to within a few yards of his friend. while mr ferard was endeavouring to render assistance, mr devas, in trying to pull himself up, lost his footing and slid down about feet to a ledge covered with turf, which it might have been hoped would have arrested his fall. unfortunately, the impetus was sufficient to carry him over the ledge to a further distance of about feet below. his friend hastened to the riffel-haus for assistance, and a number of guides and porters, accompanied by mr ferard and a french gentleman, hurried to the scene of the accident. mr devas, who had sustained a severe fracture of the skull, was brought back to the riffel-haus about p.m., where he received the most unremitting care from m. seiler's staff of servants. he was unconscious from the moment of the accident till he died at noon of the following day." another writer gives an account of an adventure on a grass slope which, happily, had a less serious ending. he also attempted to make a short cut. "i entangled myself in an adventure which, as nearly as possible, ended in a catastrophe. not caring to turn back, i followed a track past the châlets of cavrera, in hope of being able to find a direct ascent over the steep lower ground that enclosed the head of the valley. it seemed as i advanced that among the ledges of rock and grass at the left-hand corner there would be access to the path above. a dubious and attenuated track which led me up in this direction after giving evidence of design in a few steps notched in the great gneiss slabs, vanished, leaving me to choose between the slabs which sloped up in front and a line of juniper bushes on the left of them. as the slabs at this spot could be walked upon, and higher up seemed to ease off again, i kept to the rocks without investigating the juniper belt. but walking exchanged itself for climbing, and i continued to ascend under the impression that i should shortly gain the inclination above. i came to a spot where i had to raise myself on to a small rounded knob of rock with a slight effort, there being no hand-hold above. from this vantage-ground i was able to repeat the process, still buoyed up with the belief that the easy part would be reached above, and to hoist myself on to the only remaining hold in the neighbourhood--a strong tuft of grass in a sort of half corner in the slabs--which supported one foot well, but one foot only. i now found i could go no further. the strata inclined downwards, so that the smooth and crackless slabs overlay one another like the slates on a house-roof, and there was no more hold for hand or foot apparent, while the slabs were far too steep for unsupported progression. the next discovery was a much more alarming one; i looked below, wondered why on earth i had come up such a place, and saw at a glance that i could not get down again. if i fell, moreover, it would not be by the line of my ascent, but down steeper rocks and to a lower depth. generally in a dilemma in climbing there is a sort of instinctive feeling that an escape will be made at last, but now, for the first time, i was seized with a sentiment akin to despair. one chance only remained, and that was to take off my boots and stockings and try the slabs above. "the stories of extraordinary predicaments in the alps one is apt to receive with some incredulity. i never altogether accepted the tale of the chamois-hunter's gashing his feet, and, needless to say, it did not occur to me to imitate him in this particular. for the rest, i can only promise the literal narration of circumstances _as they presented themselves to me at the time_. it is, indeed, sufficiently sensational without exaggeration. well, it appeared at first impossible to take my boots off; i was facing the rocks with one toe on the turf, and the necessary manipulation could not be accomplished. what was to be done? this was, perhaps, the worst moment of the whole, as far as sensation went. however, by turning round, and planting my heel on the tuft and my back on the rock, i found myself in a secure and tolerably comfortable position. i now set to work and slung my boots separately round my neck as i took them off, pocketing the socks. all was done with deliberation; the laces were as usual untied with the button-hook in my cherished knife, and the latter was carefully returned to my pocket with the thought that if it went down it should be in my company. meantime the necessary rigidity of position had to be preserved; there was only room in the turf for one heel, and for the point of my ice-axe, for which there was no other possible resting-place. its preservation, indeed, that day was wonderful; at one time i felt a momentary temptation to throw it down in order to better the hold with the hand, but this would not bear a second thought. "i now lost no time in placing myself on the slabs. i found that i dare not move on them in an upright position, and had to seek support with both hands. my condition was not an enviable one, and in no direction could an effort to proceed be made without danger. the situation was as follows: if i could manage to advance in front, i should, eventually, reach the more easily inclined slabs, on which i could walk; but then it was some way. if i could cross the much shorter interval (some feet) to the right, i should reach a grass band below the rocks at the side; but then there intervened a broad, black, glistening streak, where waters oozed down and where to tread was fatal. suddenly, without any warning, i found myself going down. i remember no slip, but rather that it was as if all hold gave way at once under the too potent force of gravity. anyhow i was sliding down the rocks, and that helplessly i made, i believe, little or no attempt to obtain fresh hold; i simply remained rigid in the position in which i was, waiting for the fatal momentum to come which should dash me below. the instants passed, and at each i expected the momentum to begin. i felt quite a surprise when, instead, the sliding mass slowly pulled up and came to a stoppage. the scales of fate had been most delicately balanced, and a hair's weight in the right one decided that this paper should be written. had i floundered, like a non-swimmer out of his depth, i must have gone down; but the first moments of despondency past the opening for action had once for all brought with it that species of mechanical coolness which is the happy concomitant of so many forms of habitual physical occupation. [illustration: the balloon "stella" getting ready to start from zermatt for the first balloon passage of the alps, september, . (_p. ._)] [illustration: a bivouac in the alps in the olden days. by the late mr. w. f. donkin.] [illustration: boulder practice on an off day. _to face_ p .] [illustration: the last rocks on the descent.] "if it be asked, what were my thoughts when i was going down, i can only reply that they chiefly amounted to a sort of dull feeling that i was actually in for a fall, being concentrated on waiting for its inevitable commencement; and that there was no such terror or disagreeable realisation of the situation as people are apt to assign to such moments. such realisations exist most deeply in the imaginations of the non-combatants outside the fray. during the whole affair my attention was mainly directed to the physical combating with difficulties, and the passing reflections were partly indifferent, partly frivolous. a sort of acceptance of the position, indeed, possessed me, which almost amounted to a melancholy complacency, and, at most, perhaps, the customary 'when i get out of this' was changed as fast as it rose up in my imagination into a sadder 'if ever.' it was the feeling of the gamester or the soldier surprised at last by adverse odds, intent on his craft as at other times, but with a new and melancholy consciousness. "my first thought when i came to a standstill--i cannot have gone more than a couple of feet at most--was what i could do even then, with no more hold than before? but i placed myself again in my old position on the tuft; and reflecting that if i had been intended to go down i should have gone then, and almost feeling as if, having escaped that extremity of risk, i had a sort of security for the rest, i resolved without further hesitation to make a determined effort. i once more raised myself on my feet and decided to make a push across the slabs to the grass belt at all hazards; possibly, in case of slipping on the way, i might be able to make a desperate sort of rush for it. i now found two unevennesses in succession, which would allow the side of the foot to rest in them with some chance of staying, while i moved my body along, there being at no time hold for the hand. the second of these slight hollows was fortunately in the dread bank of moisture itself. below, the rocks shelved away to a steep fall; in front, the grass tufts smiled on me nearer and nearer. while i was feeling along the slabs with the hand that held my ice-axe, the latter by chance fixed itself in a cavity that would otherwise have escaped my notice. it was just about the size and depth of a half-crown, and could not have been caught by the fingers, but the rigid iron stuck in it. this was perhaps the first bit of direct hold i had. a yard further on was another of the same size. but now i had passed the wet rock and was nearing the grass, and carefully launching my ice-axe, so as not to disturb my balance, i hooked it in the grass, and in another moment had reached its hospitable tufts. creeping up the side, i at last found _terra firma_." chapter ix a night adventure on the dent blanche mr cecil slingsby has kindly allowed me to extract the following admirable account of a guideless ascent with two friends of the dent blanche. it will be noticed that during a very cold night they "avoided" their "brandy-flask like poison." when a climber is exhausted and help is near a flask of brandy is invaluable, but when a party has to spend a bitterly cold night in the open, it is madness to touch spirits at all. the effect of a stimulant is to quicken the action of the heart and drive the blood with increased rapidity to the surface. here it is continually cooled, and before long the heart finds it has to work double hard to keep up the circulation. therefore to take brandy in order to resist the cold for hours together is like stirring up a cup of hot fluid, whereby fresh surfaces are continually brought in contact with the air and cooled with far greater rapidity than if left quiet. the best companion a climber can have during a night out above the snow-line is a small spirit-lamp. with this he can amuse and fortify himself at intervals, melting snow and making tea or soup, which will be of real help in enabling the party to pass without injury through the ordeal. doctors and climbers of experience will, i know, bear out what i say. the truth of it was once more shown not very long ago under the following circumstances: [illustration: provisions for a mountain hotel. by royston le blond. _to face p. ._] [illustration: the dent blanche from the theodule glacier in summer.] [illustration: an outlook over rock and snow.] [illustration: the dent blanche from the schwarzsee in winter.] in august two french tourists with a guide and a porter set out to ascend mont blanc. the weather became very bad, nevertheless they pressed on, hoping to reach that veritable death-trap, the vallot hut. in this they failed, and as the hour was late they took the fatal course of digging a hole in the snow in which to pass the night. they were provided with brandy, and, doubtless in ignorance of the results it was sure to cause, they shared all they had. both travellers died before morning, and the guides then attempted to descend to chamonix. they seem to have been dazed, and to have lost their heads, and within a few minutes of each other each fell into a crevasse. the porter was killed on the spot, the guide was rescued, but little injured, after six hours' imprisonment. will people ever realise that mont blanc, by reason of the very facility by which it may be ascended, is the most dangerous mountain a beginner can ascend? he is almost certain to chance on incompetent guides, and these, if the weather becomes bad, have not the moral force--indeed a first-class man would have something even more compelling--to insist on an immediate return. the size of the mountain is so great that to be lost on it is a risk a really good guide would simply refuse to face. to turn now to mr slingsby's narrative. his party had reached the _arête_ of the dent blanche without incident, and he writes: "the rocks on the crest of the ridge were in perfect order. the day was magnificent, and there was not the remotest sign of a storm. climbers who were on neighbouring mountains on this day all speak of the fine weather. my friend, mr eric greenwood, who was on the rothhorn, told me that that peak was in capital condition, but that there was a strong n.w. wind blowing at the top. we had perfect calm. mr greenwood stopped on the snow _arête_ till a late hour in the afternoon, taking photographs, and neither his guides nor he had the slightest expectation of a thunderstorm. "we stuck faithfully to the ridge, and climbed up, and as nearly as possible over, each point as we reached it, because of the ice which shrouded the rocks almost everywhere on the west face. "we were forced on to the face of one little pinnacle, and had to use the greatest care. "nowhere did we come to any place where we felt that our powers were overtaxed; still, the work was difficult, though not supremely so. "a few days later i met mr conway at breuil, and i asked him what he meant in this case by the term, 'following the _arête_.' his interpretation, which is rather an elastic one, is this: 'climb over the pinnacles if it is convenient to do so. if not convenient, shirk them by passing below their western bases.' this latter method was most probably impracticable on the occasion of our ascent, which fully accounts for the great difference between mr conway's 'times' and our own, as we certainly climbed at least as quickly as an average party on the dent blanche during the whole of our ascent. "the time sped merrily and quickly by, and the difficulties decreased as we hastened onward. just as we left the last rocks a light filmy cloud, sailing up from the north, hovered for an instant over the top of the mountain, and then settled upon it; otherwise, though it had then become exceedingly cold, the sky was clear and the day perfect, and we could not help comparing our good fortune with that of those early climbers who fought their way upwards, step by step, against most ferocious gales. "after some tiring step-cutting on the gentler slopes above the rocks, which, like the west face, were sheathed in ice, we reached at last the south end of the little flat ridge which forms the summit of the dent blanche, where a small flagstaff is usually to be seen. here there was an enormous snow cornice which overhung the eastern side. the little cloud merely clung to the cornice on the ridge, and evidently had no malice in it at all. none of us put down the time at which we reached the top. one of us thinks that it was just after four o'clock, but the memory of the two others is clear that it was between three and four; at any rate, of this we are all agreed, that it was not so late as . , the hour when the author of _scrambles in the alps_ reached the summit in bad weather. my watch, being out of order, was left at zermatt. "we left directly, and in less than a minute were out of the little cloud, which was uncommonly cold, and again we revelled in bright sunshine. we were under no apprehension of danger, nor had we any reason whatever to be anxious, as our way was clear enough: there was no doubt about that. we were in capital training, and we had, most certainly, a sufficiency of daylight still left to allow us to get well beyond every difficulty upon the mountain. moreover, solly, with his usual instinctive thoughtfulness, carried a lantern in his pocket, and we had left another lower down. thus we had a most reasonable expectation of reaching the stockje that evening, and zermatt early the next morning. [illustration: the hut on the col de bertol, where climbers now often sleep for the ascent of the dent blanche. by mr. leonard rawlence.] [illustration: a party ascending the aiguilles rouges (arolla). the people can be seen on the sky-line to the left, at the top of the white streak. by mr. leonard rawlence.] [illustration: the summit of the dent blanche. by mr. leonard rawlence.] [illustration: cornice on the summit of the dent blanche. by mr. leonard rawlence. _to face p. ._] "when we had come down for about an hour, we saw an occasional flash of lightning playing about the aiguilles rouges d'arolla. this was the first indication that we had of foul weather. soon afterwards a dark cloud crept up ominously over the shoulder of mont collon, and on to the pigne d'arolla. still no cloud seemed to threaten us, but we hurried on very quickly. "on arriving at the col, just above the great rock tower, we turned down a little gully on the west face. here, though the work was exceedingly difficult, we lost no time whatever, and undoubtedly we chose the best route. the storm, meanwhile, had crossed over the east arolla ridge, and we saw the lightning flashing about the aiguille de la za and dent perroc, and the clouds, as they advanced, grew more and more angry looking. "we were advancing as quickly as the nature of the ground would allow on a buttress which supports the great tower on the west. it was then about six o'clock. we had, at the most, only feet of difficult ground to get over, when a dark and dense cloud fell upon us, and it became, suddenly and almost without any warning, prematurely dark. our axes emitted electric sparks, or rather faint but steady little flames, on both the adze and pick part; so also did our gloves, the hair of which stood out quite straight. a handkerchief, which i had tied over my hat, was like a tiara of light. this was very uncanny, but still deeply interesting. the sparks, when touched by the bare hand or the cheek, gave out no heat. there was no hissing to be heard on our axes or on the rocks, but solly felt a sort of vibration about the spectacles which were on his forehead that he did not at all like, so he put them under his hat. "under ordinary circumstances we should have put away our axes until the storm should had passed away. of course we did not do this, nor indeed would any other member of the alpine club have done so if he had had the good fortune to be with us. we wished to get across the feet which was the only difficulty yet remaining before us. each one of us was quite capable of undertaking the work, and, in spite of the unusual darkness, we had sufficient light for the purpose. "solly was leading across a difficult bit of rock, and clearing away the ice; haskett-smith was paying out the rope as required; i was perched firmly at the bottom end of a narrow and steep ledge round the corner of a crag above them with the rope firmly hitched. we were all working steadily and most carefully, and hoped in a few minutes to clear our last difficulty. all at once the whole mountain side seemed to be ablaze, and at the same time there was a muzzled, muffled, or suppressed peal of thunder, apparently coming out of the interior of the mountain--so much so that, if a great crevice had been opened in the rocks and fire had burst out from it, we should hardly have been more surprised than we were. solly and haskett-smith each exclaimed, 'my axe was struck,' and each of them, naturally enough, let his axe go. where to none knew. solly, describing this, says, 'at the moment i was standing with my face towards the mountain, with my right arm stretched out, feeling for a firm foothold with my axe, which i held just under its head. for perhaps a minute the lightning was coming very fast; then came the noise, and i saw a curve of flame on the head of my axe. i involuntarily let it go. the whole place seemed one blaze of light, and i could distinguish nothing. the thought that rushed through my mind was--am i blinded? the intensity of the light was so terrible. it is difficult to put such events in any order of time; but i think the noise or explosion came first, before the blaze of light, and the light seemed to flicker as if a series of flashes were coming. i hardly know whether my body or any part of my clothing was actually struck. my axe certainly was, and i think the rocks just by me were.' "haskett-smith said that his neck was burnt, and we saw later that a dark-brown band, an inch and a quarter wide, had been burnt exactly half way round his neck. i was untouched. all the sparks disappeared with the flash. "now the matter was serious enough, as we had only one axe, and we felt that we had had a most providential escape. there is little doubt that, if this had occurred upon the crest of the ridge above us, the electric current would have been much stronger, and the consequences much worse. "my two companions then climbed up to the little ledge where i was sitting, to wait at least until the storm should pass away. whilst solly was doing this, a tremendous gust of wind swept up from the n.w., and nearly carried him off his feet. "the storm lasted much longer than we expected it to do, and by the time it had vanished it was quite dark. all climbers will readily agree with me when i say that the storm, seen from such a point of view, where the mountain forms are so wild, and their guardian glaciers so vast and glittering, was indescribably grand--so much so that, even under our circumstances, there was a kind of grim enjoyment which we could not help feeling. "i put my axe upon a higher ledge for safety's sake. when the storm had gone by we took stock of our goods. solly had a lantern. we each had two shirts, scarfs, and unusually warm clothing. we had plenty of food, some cold tea, and a flask of brandy. we knew well that we must stop where we were until morning. it was hard luck certainly, as there was only one narrow prison moat between us and freedom. once over these feet, we could have reached the stockje by lantern light. of this i am certain. but no man living could cross the moat except in daylight. "haskett-smith, who is a marvellous man for making all sort of hitches, knots, and nooses, managed to get a capital hitch for our rope, and lashed us to the rock most skilfully. the ledge was steep, and varied from ½ to feet wide. as we could not sit back to back, which is the best plan when possible, we did the next best thing, and sat, squatted, or leaned, face to back. solly, who sat at the bottom, had a loose piece of friable rock which supported one foot. i was in the middle, with my knees up to my chin, on a steep slope, but was supported by solly's back and by a singularly sharp little stone on which i squatted. haskett-smith leaned with his back against a corner, and with his knees against my back. each of us had a rücksack, which helped to keep out the cold. we made a good meal of potted meat, bread, chocolate, and an orange, and left a box of sardines and other food for the morning. "several short but heavy snow and hail showers fell after the thunderstorm had subsided, but we were thankful that there was no rain. the wind got up too, and whistled wildly through the crags above us. fortunately, a screen of rock above our ledge partly sheltered us. we faced a grim and grisly little pinnacle on the west face of the mountain, which became, hour after hour, if possible, more ghostly. how we did hate it, to be sure. a light in a châlet near ferpécle shone like a beacon for some hours, which was a pleasant contrast to the near view of the ghost, but it seemed to be a terribly long way off. we kept up our spirits capitally, and from previous experience i, at least, knew how thankful we ought to be that no member of our party was of a pessimistic turn of mind. at the same time, we were fully aware how serious the matter was, but we were determined to get well through it, helped, we trusted, by a power not our own. "our greatest trouble during the night arose from the consciousness that mr schuster, herr seiler, and other friends at zermatt would be very anxious about us, and we often spoke of it with regret. "we were most careful to keep moving our hands and feet all the night, and, though the temptation to indulge in sleep was very great, we denied ourselves this luxury. after two o'clock an increased vigilance was necessary, as the sky became clearer, and the cold much more intense. mr aitkin's guides, who were then bivouacking above the stockje, 'complained much of the cold.' we probably suffered less than they did, as, at our great altitude, the air was doubtless much drier than below. at the same time, gentlemen who were occupying comfortable beds in luxurious hotels in the vispthal thought the night was unusually warm. haskett-smith imagined the whole night that solly was another member of the a.c., and invariably addressed him by the wrong name. this hallucination was, no doubt, the result of the electric shock. "shortly before a.m. we opened our sardine-box, which was no easy task, as our outer gloves were like iron gauntlets. we made a good meal of petrified fish, frozen oranges, and bread. we avoided our brandy-flask like poison on the whole expedition. "we soon discovered the lost axes below us, half embedded in hard snow. then we began to move. solly took my axe, and with much difficulty, and at the expense of a good deal of time, cut down to and recovered one of the missing ones. we found, however, that it was then far too cold, and we were too benumbed to work safely, so we returned to our ledge again until eight o'clock. long before this hour the ghostly pinnacle was gilded by the morning sun, and, if possible, we hated it more than ever, as no warm rays could reach the place where we were for hours to come. on telling several of the leading guides in zermatt about waiting until eight o'clock on the ledge, they all said that it was quite early enough for us to move after spending a night out in the cold, and that they had done exactly the same under similar circumstances. we were sure we were right; still their testimony is valuable. messrs kennedy and hardy, when they had their 'night adventure on the bristenstock,' say they were 'obliged to stamp about for some twenty minutes in order to restore circulation, or we should not have had sufficient steadiness to have continued our descent in safety.' well, these gentlemen had neither waistcoats nor neckties, and had only a lump of bread and one bottle of wine. we were at least well fed and warmly clad, but we had no room to stamp about. having now two axes, we were able to work again with renewed confidence in our powers. we saw the third axe lying half imbedded in the snow a long way below us, and about a rope's length from some firm rocks. the hail and snow, which had partly covered the rocks, increased the difficulty, and the ice in which we had to cut steps was unusually hard. in fact, our feet were gained with much difficulty, and, by the exercise of great caution and severe labour, at last, after much time and manoeuvring, we recovered the third axe, and were indeed happy. "two minutes later we stood in bright sunshine, and such was its invigorating power that in ten minutes all our stiffness had vanished. my hat blew off here, and rolled on its stiffened brim at a tremendous pace down a couloir of ice. fortunately, i had a woollen helmet which miss richardson had knitted for me. we hastened on very quickly in order to relieve, as soon as possible, the anxiety which we well knew our friends at zermatt were enduring. "when on the snow ridge between points mètres and mètres we heard voices far below us on the west, and soon saw what we knew afterwards to be mr aitkin, imboden, and a porter. they had abandoned their intention of climbing the dent blanche 'on account of bad weather.' indeed, miss richardson, who had spent the night at the stockje, was told by imboden that 'in such weather it would be impossible, and probably would remain so for a day or two; therefore, they might as well go to ferpécle and do another col the next day.' "seeing that the party were above the route to ferpécle, we knew at once that they were looking for us. imboden shouted out to us, 'where do you come from?' we pointed to the dent blanche, and they immediately turned towards zermatt, and we only missed them by about five minutes at the usual breakfast place. "now, as we knew that there was no need for us to hurry, we rested, and made a most hearty breakfast, as we had left on the rocks a whole chicken, some ham, bread, plums, and a bottle of white wine. "on crossing the glacier to the wandfluh rocks our axes and rücksacks hissed like serpents for a long time, while we saw in the distance the storm which overtook mr macdonald on the lyskamm that very morning; and none of us liked the renewal of electric energy, which may well be believed. a heavy mist also threatened us. mr aitkin had a similar experience to ours. "we descended by way of the wandfluh, and above the stockje untied the rope which we had had on for thirty-eight hours; and such is the virtue of the alpine knot that we were as firmly tied at the end of this time as we were when we first put on the rope. "on the zmutt glacier we bathed our hands repeatedly in the glacier pools as a safeguard against possible frost-bites with entirely satisfactory results. on the glacier we were delighted to meet mr e. t. hartley, who welcomed us most warmly, and told us of the anxiety of our friends; he, however, and one good lady in zermatt said all the time that we should return safe and sound again. just off the glacier we met three porters provided with blankets and provisions sent by the kind thoughtfulness of mr schuster and herr seiler. "we rested at the staffel alp, where we had some most refreshing tea, and reached zermatt in the evening." chapter x alone on the dent blanche i am indebted to mr harold spender, the author of a fine description of the accident in on the dent blanche, for permission to reprint the greater portion of it, and also to the proprietors of _mcclure's magazine_ and of _the strand magazine_, in which publications it first appeared. the safe return of one of the party is alluded to in _the alpine journal_ as one of the most wonderful escapes in the whole annals of mountaineering. "mr f. w. hill, whose narrative in _the alpine journal_ necessarily forms the best evidence as to the incidents, says that it was glynne jones who wanted to climb the dent blanche by its western _arête_--a notably difficult undertaking, and one that has probably only twice been achieved. "glynne jones had discussed the possibilities of the undertaking with his own guide, elias furrer, of stalden, and they had come to the conclusion that the conditions were never likely to be more favourable than in this august of . glynne jones, therefore, asked mr hill to accompany them, and to bring along with him his own guide, jean vuignier, of evolena. both guides knew their climbers very well; for furrer had been with glynne jones on and off for five years, and vuignier had climbed at zermatt with hill the year before. but mr hill, who had promised to take his wife to zermatt over the col d'herens, refused to go. glynne jones accordingly secured a second guide in clemens zurbriggen, of saas-fée, a young member of a great climbing clan. vuignier, however, was so disappointed at his employer's refusal, that mr hill, finding that his wife made no objection, finally consented to join the party. thus, with the addition of mr hill and his guide, the expedition numbered five members. they left arolla on sunday morning, th august, with a porter carrying blankets. they intended to sleep on the rocks below the _arête_. arriving at the bricolla châlets, a few shepherds' huts high up the mountain, at four in the afternoon, they changed their minds, sent the blankets down to arolla, and slept in the huts. "they started at three o'clock in the morning in two parties, the first consisting of furrer, zurbriggen, and jones, roped in that order, and the second of vuignier and hill. they crossed the glacier and reached the ridge in good time. 'it was soon very evident,' says mr hill in his narrative, 'that the climbing was going to be difficult, as the rocks were steep slabs, broken and easy occasionally, but, on the whole, far too smooth.' rock-climbers do not particularly care how steep a rock may be so long as it is broken up into fissures which will give hold to the feet and hands. in the steepest mountains of the dolomite region, for instance, the rocks are thus broken, and therefore mountains can be climbed easily which, from their bases, look absolutely inaccessible. "as they progressed up and along the ridge the climbing became more and more difficult. they had to go slowly and with extreme caution, and often they were in doubt as to the best way to proceed. sometimes, indeed, there seemed no possible route. in these places furrer, who seems to have been accepted as the leader of the party, would detach himself from the rope and go forward to find a passage. "on entering upon this part of the climb the two parties had joined ropes, and were now advancing as one, and roped in this order--furrer, zurbriggen, glynne jones, vuignier, and hill. "it is evident that between nine o'clock and ten climbing had become exceedingly arduous. 'in two or three places,' says mr hill, 'the only possible way was over an overhanging rock up which the leader had to be pushed and the others helped from above and below.' this gives us a graphic picture of the nature of the climb. nothing is more fatiguing than to climb over a rock which is in the least degree overhanging. mr hill tells me that furrer showed him his finger-tips at breakfast-time-- a.m.--and that they were severely cut. "yet no one must imagine for an instant that the party was in the least degree puzzled or vexed. there is nothing so exhilarating as the conflict with danger, and it generally happens in climbing a mountain that the party is merriest at the most difficult places. mr hill, indeed, tells us that they were in the 'highest spirits.' 'climbing carefully,' he says, 'but in the highest spirits, we made good progress, for at ten o'clock it was agreed we were within an hour of the summit.' it was at this point and time that the accident occurred. "they had been forced below the ridge by the difficulty of the rocks, and had come to a place where their obvious route lay up a narrow gully, or sloping chimney. on an ordinary day it is possible that they would have found no difficulty in going forward, but a few days before there had been rain, and probably snow, on these high rock summits. at any rate, the rocks were 'glazed'; covered, that is, with a film of ice, probably snow melted and re-frozen, just sufficiently thick to adhere, and sufficiently slippery to make the fingers 'slither' over the rocks. if the climber cannot clear away the ice with his ice-axe, he must go round another way, and if the rocks are steep the first course becomes obviously impossible. that was the condition of affairs at ten o'clock on the morning of th august . "in a party of five roped together, with feet of rope between each member, the amount of space covered by the party will obviously be yards; and it frequently happens that those who are roped last cannot see the leaders. mr hill, as we have seen, was roped last, and by the time he reached the level of the other climbers furrer had already turned away from the gully and was attempting to climb to the ridge by another route. to the left of the gully in front of them was a vertical rock face stretching for about feet. beyond this was a smooth-looking buttress some feet high, by climbing which the party could regain the ridge. when hill came up with the rest, furrer was already attempting to climb this buttress. "but the buttress was quite smooth, and furrer was at a loss to find a hold. unable to support himself, he called to zurbriggen to place an axe under his feet for him to stand on. in this way he might be able to reach with his hands to the top of the buttress. there was nothing unusual in this method of procedure. in climbing difficult rocks, when the hand-holds are far up, it is frequently the custom to help the climber by placing an ice-axe under his feet. but in this case furrer discovered that he could not climb the buttress with the help of zurbriggen alone, and he would probably have done more wisely if he had abandoned the attempt. but, instead of that, he called glynne jones to help zurbriggen in holding him up. "'apparently,' says mr hill, 'he did not feel safe, for he turned his head and spoke to glynne jones, who then went to hold the axe steady.' "from mr hill's own explanations the situation was as follows: the leading climber, furrer, was grasping the rock face, standing on an ice-axe held vertically by zurbriggen and glynne jones. these two were forced, in order to hold the ice-axe securely, to crouch down with their faces to the ground, and were, therefore oblivious of what was going on above them. but the important point is, that their four hands were occupied in holding the ice-axe, and that as they were standing on a narrow ledge, with a very sharp slope immediately below, these two men were in a helpless position. they were unready to stand a shock. thus, at the critical moment, out of a party of five climbers, three had virtually cast everything on a single die! "mr hill, standing level with the rest of the party, could see quite clearly what was happening. he was about feet distant from them, the guide vuignier being roped between them at an equal distance of some feet from each. furrer could now stand upright on the axe, which was firmly held by four strong hands, and could reach with his own fingers to the top of the buttress. it was a perilous moment. it is the rule with skilled climbers that you should never leave your foot-hold until you have secured your hand-hold. the natural issue would have been that furrer, finding it impossible to secure on the smooth rock a steady grip with his hands, should have declined to trust himself. but the science of the study is one thing and the art of the mountain another. there are moments when a man does not know whether he has secured a steady grip or an unsteady, and the question can only be answered by making the attempt. if the party blundered at all, it was in allowing the second and third men to be so completely occupied with holding the axe that there was no reserve of power to hold up furrer in case of a slip. but it is easy to speak after the event. "what hill now saw was this: he saw furrer reach his hands to the top of the buttress, take a grip, and attempt to pull himself up. but his feet never left the ice-axe beneath, for in the process of gripping his hands slipped. and then, as hill looked, furrer's body slowly fell back. it seemed, he has told himself, to take quite a long time falling. furrer fell backwards, right on to the two oblivious men beneath him, causing them to collapse instantly, knocking them off their standing-place, and carrying them with him in his fall from the ridge. 'all three,' says mr hill in his narrative, 'fell together.' instinctively he turned to the wall to get a better hold of the rock, and therefore did not see the next incident in the fatal sequence. vuignier, as we have seen, was standing feet from the first three, and the weight of three human bodies swinging at the end of the rope must have come directly on him. he was, apparently, taken by surprise, and immediately pulled off the rock. hill heard that terrible sound--the scuffle and rattle of stones that meant the dragging of a helpless human being into space--and he knew, or thought he knew, that his own turn would come in a moment; but as he clung there to the rock, waiting for the inevitable end, there was a pause. nothing happened. "after a few endless seconds of time he faced round and found himself alone. looking down, he saw his four companions sliding down the precipitous slopes at a terrific rate, without a cry, but with arms outstretched, helplessly falling into the abyss. between him and them, and from his waist, there hung feet of rope swinging slowly to and fro. the faithful vuignier had probably fastened the rope securely round some point of rock to protect his master. the full weight of the four bodies had probably expended itself on the rock-fastening of the rope, and thereby saved the life of the fifth climber. dazed and astonished to find himself still in the land of the living, mr hill stood for some time watching his comrades fall, until, sickened, he turned away to face his own situation. "it was not very promising. he was without food, drink, or warm clothing. no man alone could climb down by the ridge up which those five experts had climbed in the morning. and in front lay a difficulty which had already destroyed his friends when attempting to overcome it by mutual help. it seemed impossible. "perhaps it was fortunate that hill was not only a mathematician, but a man of characteristic mathematical temperament--cool, unemotional, long-headed. most men in his situation would have gone mad. some would have waited right there till starvation overcame them or a rescue party arrived. but there was little or no chance of a rescue party, and mr hill was certainly not the man to wait for starvation. it was a curious irony that probably at that very moment there was a party on the summit of the dent blanche. mr hill's party had seen two climbers on the south _arête_ at half-past eight o'clock, and again about an hour later. at this moment they were probably at the summit. but mr hill had no means of communicating with them, and the hour's climb which lay between him and them might as well have been the length of europe. an hour later he himself heard a faint 'cooey' (the party were probably on the way down)--a jovial, generous hail from men unconscious of any catastrophe. "mr hill's immediate task was to regain the ridge and reach the summit. at the moment of the accident he was some feet from the fatal buttress, and now wisely made no attempt to get near it. instead, he moved to circumvent the glazed gully from its other side. after long and tedious efforts, lasting for a period of time which he cannot now even approximately estimate, he succeeded in his flanking movement, and finally, with great labour and peril, climbed back to the ridge by a slope of frozen snow and ice broken with rocks. it would be difficult to imagine anything more terrible than this lonely climb over ice-covered rocks, the painful cutting of steps up an almost precipitous wall, with a precipice many thousand feet deep at his back, down which the smallest slip would send him to certain death. but at last he regained the ridge, and the difficulties of ascent were now mainly overcome. in about another hour he found himself on the summit--a solitary, mournful victor. it was there he heard the shout from the other party. but he could not see them or make them hear, and so he made his way down with all reasonable speed, hoping to overtake them. "hill had climbed the dent blanche in the previous year with a guided party, and therefore, to some extent, knew the route. without much difficulty he was able to follow the ridge as far as possible down to the lowest _gendarme_, a pile of rock with a deep, narrow fissure. then a sudden mist hid everything from view, and it was impossible to see the way off the _gendarme_. he tried several routes downward in the mist, but at last wisely resolved to wait till it lifted. while he was searching, a snow-storm and a cold wind came up. 'they drove me,' says mr hill in his plain way, 'to seek shelter in the lee of the rocks.' there he tied himself with his rope, and, to avoid the danger of falling off in a moment of sleep, still further secured himself by an ice-axe wedged firmly in front of him--poor protections to a man absolutely without food or wraps, clinging to the side of an abyss in the searching cold and stormy darkness of mist and snow, wedged under the eave of an overhanging rock, and only able to sit in a cramped posture. but mr hill was no ordinary man. if the fates were asking for his life he determined to sell it dearly, sustained in his resolve by the thought of that waiting wife, unconscious of ill, below in zermatt. "it must have been, at this time, past mid-day on monday, th august. "the storm lasted all that monday, and monday night, and tuesday morning. all through those dreadful hours of darkness hill sat in the cleft of rock, sleeping most of the time, but always half-frozen with the cold, and whenever he awoke obliged to beat himself to regain his natural warmth. happily, he was well protected against the falling snow by the eave of the overhanging rock, but it covered his knees and boots, causing him intense cold in the feet. "at last, at mid-day on tuesday, the mist cleared and the sun shone again in a sky of perfect blue. he could now resume his descent. to climb over snow-covered rocks in a roped party is difficult enough, but to do it alone is to risk your life many times over. but there was no alternative. "at last the rocks ended and the worst of the peril was over. he had reached the snow _arête_, where not even the heavy fall of snow had quite obliterated the tracks of those who had gone in front of him. these helped him to find his way. but the steps had mostly to be recut, and that must have been very fatiguing after his previous experiences. the next difficulty was the lower part of the wandfluh, a bold wall of rock which leads down first to the schonbuhl and then to the zmutt glaciers, and which, at its base, ends in a steep precipice that can be descended only by one gully. here mr hill's memory failed him. he could not remember which was the right gully. this was, perhaps, the most terrible trial of all. if he could find that gully his task was almost accomplished. the rest of the descent to zermatt is little more than a walk. but hour after hour passed; he descended gully after gully, only to find himself blocked below by one precipice after another. in one of these attempts he dropped his ice-axe, without which he could never hope to return alive. unless he could recover it he was a dead man. but, no, it was not quite lost. there it lay, far below him, on the rocks. slowly and painfully he descended the gully to fetch it. at last he reached it. in this quest he wasted a whole hour! "at last he discovered a series of chimneys to the extreme right of the wandfluh and leading down to the glacier. letting himself down these steep chimneys, he found himself at last, on tuesday evening, on the high moraines of the zmutt glacier. he must have reached the glacier about six o'clock, but he had only the sun to reckon by. here the steep descent ends, and there is but a stony walk of two and a half hours down the glacier by a path which leads to the staffel alp inn. the sun set while he was still on the moraine, and he has a vivid recollection of seeing the red 'alpengluh' on monte rosa. but as the darkness grew it became more and more difficult to keep to the path. "here at last his marvellous strength began to fail him. he had no snow-glasses, and his eyes were suffering from the prolonged glare of the snow. a sort of waking trance fell on him. as he stumbled forward, over the stones of that horrible moraine, he imagined that his companions were still alive and with him. he kept calling to them to 'come along.' 'it is getting late, you fellows,' he shouted; 'come along.' "at last he was brought up by a great rock. in the darkness he had wandered below the path. the rock entirely barred his way. he had a vague illusion that it was a châlet, and wandered round it searching for a door. at last he settled down by it in a semi-conscious condition. then he must have fallen asleep, probably about ten o'clock. the sleep lasted about twelve hours, and was better than meat and drink. to most men it would have ended in death. "when he woke up at ten o'clock on wednesday morning, in broad daylight, he soon saw that he had been sleeping quite near the path. a few minutes' scramble brought him back to it, and he soon came to a little wooden refreshment-house, about an hour below the staffel inn, which he had passed in the darkness. he went up to the woman at the hut and asked for some beer! he had only fifty centimes in his pocket; one of his dead companions had held the purse. he volunteered no complaint; but the woman was sympathetic, and soon found out whence he came. she then gave him a little milk and some dry bread--all she had. after a short rest he resumed his way to zermatt, distant about half an hour, and reached the village at . . as he was walking down the main street past the church he met his wife. "he told her simply what had happened. then he had lunch. 'i was now ravenous,' he says, 'and devoured a beefsteak, with the help of a glass of whisky and soda, and a bottle of champagne.' within an hour or two he was entirely recovered." chapter xi a stirring day on the rosetta amongst the many rock scrambles in the neighbourhood of st martino in the dolomites of tyrol, the rosetta when ascended by the western face can be counted on to awaken an interest in the most stolid of climbers. i am indebted to the courtesy of a girl friend for the loan of her mountaineering diary, and permission to make extracts from its very interesting contents, of which her account of an ascent of the rosetta will, i feel sure, be read with keen enjoyment by climbers and non-climbers alike. that a young english girl on her first visit to the mountains should carry out with such success so difficult an expedition, is much to the credit of both herself and her guides. her brother accompanied her, and the climb took place on th august . [illustration: ambrose supersax. (p. .)] [illustration: from the rosetta. by signor vittorio sella. _to face_ p. .] "a cautious bang at my door, a faint 'si!' from me, and steps departing. then i lit a candle and dressed. but it was the critical moment when the dawn comes quickly, and i blew it out in five minutes and watched the blue light brighten on the dusky outlines of the white church and houses. the cimone was growing pink as i got on my heavy hob-nailed boots, and, taking my tennis shoes also, i tramped softly down to breakfast. bettega, our leading guide, was there, with his cordial smile and hand-shake, and g---- and tavernaro soon appeared. we were off before long, taking with us a porter in addition to the two guides, and g---- and i let bettega see plainly that we thought this a little superfluous, but later on we were glad we had him. i must admit that i never met such good-natured and thoughtful guides, nor such excellent ones. after passing through forest, we had to ascend up steep shingle, and as this steepened i reeled a little, my feet being not as yet well used to this sort of work. bettega, however, put his hand behind him, i crooked my fingers into his, and that gave me all the balance i needed. finally we crossed some snow, and sitting on a little platform under a towering rock, we perceived that the way we were to ascend the rosetta would be a very different experience to the climb by the ordinary route. "at this point i took off my skirt, and removed my boots, putting on tennis shoes instead. the rubber soles of these are far safer than nails on the smooth and slabby dolomite rock. "the guides jabbered between themselves; bettega smiled sublimely and looked utterly in his element, but tavernaro seemed rather subdued; he is under the moral influence of bettega, for though tavernaro may have more education and cleverness he rounds upon his comrade at times owing to his excitable disposition. but on the mountains he slinks at bettega's elbow, as the two roll along with the peculiar mountaineer's bending stride on level ground, and tavernaro never asks a price or arranges for an excursion without consulting bettega. but, on the other hand, bettega lives in fear of tavernaro's lively tongue, so it is about balanced! "having finished our meal, we set off. i was roped to bettega, who led. after about five minutes bettega, who till then had held in his hand all the rope we were not using, dropped it in a big coil, and told me to 'remain firm' where i was. he then climbed upwards for a few minutes, but i did not watch, for though my head had not swum at all as yet, i wasn't too sure of it, and the rock face was very sheer, so i neither looked up nor down, but sat with my cheek against the rock and held on! but all went merrily. tavernaro occasionally placed one of my feet, which was placeless, and we got up the first _camino_, or rocky chimney, fairly well. 'wait a moment, signorina,' said bettega, and then he disappeared overhead--literally disappeared, for he was quite hidden when he cried cheerily, 'come! come!' i got up, and found a very small _posto_ or tiny platform on which to wait, with a disagreeably obtrusive precipice below it. above was a second _camino_, which looked smooth and gloomy. i leant affectionately against the rock, pondering deeply of anything except 'empty space.' 'the signorina is all right there?' enquired bettega solicitously. 'to be sure she is!' cried tavernaro gaily, as he leant over me against the rock. then up clomb bettega, and g---- advanced slowly and surely from below. as the minutes went by i shut my eyes, and was gloomily thankful when the summons came from above. looking up, i could just see bettega's bushy black head and flannel cap couched amongst the rocks. fifteen feet up the _camino_ a big stone was wedged, and between this and the back of the chimney one had to pass, emerging above at the top of the wall. g---- having now reached the _posto_, i began to go up, with tavernaro closely following me. bit by bit i climbed; a grab, a hoist, a foot tucked into a crevice on either side of the _camino_, a long reach with my arm, a steady pull--and likewise, it must be confessed, a pull from the rope!--and so up, up again. the rock wall was abominably straight and holeless. under the stone, with the three members placed on ledges or in cracks, i in vain sought a point of rest for the fourth before hauling. 'good heavens!' i exclaimed in melancholy undertones, and a gurgling chuckle from below showed that tavernaro sympathised. 'here you are, signorina,' he said, giving me his shoulder for a momentary foot-hold. with that instant of support i swung up on to the stone, and so to the next _posto sicuro_, or safe spot. g---- came up without help, but he assured me that it was a really hard place. "of course i don't pretend i did it all myself. quite half a dozen times i doubt if i could have got up without material aid from the cord, or from tavernaro below. once, in a _camino_, the latter gave me a butt with his head, which made me reflect how great a man was lost to the game of football, while the way he placed my feet was a great help to one who, as a novice, had not yet learnt to study the foot-holds in advance. "we now reached a place where a third _camino_ ran up above us, while an awkward traverse led to another on the right. here i heard tavernaro remonstrate with bettega on the route he had taken, but the latter said, very decidedly, that he intended going straight on, so tavernaro, as usual, subsided, but became very quiet. he had never before ascended this _camino_, which was a discovery of bettega's, but no doubt he had heard about it. "we began to climb it, bettega first and i following him closely. it had rained heavily the previous day, and all the loose stones had been washed to the very edge of the ledges. not having been cautioned about these, and intent on getting up, i let several fall. 'hi! gently with the stones!' gasped tavernaro from below, and when he reached my side i saw that his knuckles were bleeding. 'have you hurt yourself?' i enquired. 'no, it is you who have done it, and you've twice nearly killed your brother,' he replied, but g---- told me to tell tavernaro he had sent down a much worse stone than any of mine, whereat he looked resigned, and remarked, 'oh, yes, these things can't always be avoided.' "'stay quietly where you are, and wait till i tell you to come on,' bettega now remarked. i crouched in a very narrow chimney for a little, watched not--a hundred pities--and heard bettega go up beyond. not more than three minutes elapsed before his deep voice sang out: 'now, come up!' and though i replied: 'i'm coming,' i wondered how i was to do it. we were near the top of the chimney. further up, it became too narrow for any human form to squeeze into. one had therefore to come out of it to the right and climb up and over a huge bulging mass of rock about feet high, which overhung the precipice. this mass of gently bulging rock was worn smooth by rain and stones. there was no proper foot-hold, hardly the tiniest crack. _how_ had bettega managed it? i got up the cold, damp chimney as far as i could, leant gasping against the rock, and felt near the end of my courage. tavernaro was stowed away yards below, g---- also out of sight, bettega invisible above. there was just the cord, pulling me away from the inhospitable rocks, and at my very heels an abyss of feet. i made one bold grab on the smooth wall, but speedily retired to the end of the _camino_, and feebly yelled, 'wait! ah, i can't do it!' 'all right! catch hold of this cord!' came the answer, and a loop of rope was let slowly down. i seized it, contrived to get one foot on to a tiny, weeny point, came out of the chimney, and heard bettega call, 'to the right, signorina!' 'to the right; that's all very well!' i muttered fiercely, and felt my hand slipping; my foot gave, my fingers ran down the rope, the cord round my waist tightened, i pushed my arm through the loop of the free rope with one last effort, and then finding no support of any kind for my feet, was ignominiously pulled, kicking, up the precipice by bettega, who, firmly fixed with both feet against rocks, hauled me up most joyously hand over hand. "'but, michele, how did _you_ manage to get up?' i panted, as i sank on a ledge, and gazed in awed admiration at him. 'well, not like that, signorina!' he said, with his honest laugh; 'i really came up by pressure. there are no hand-grips, so you have to do without.' 'it's marvellous! it's stupendous!' murmured i, really awed by the man's power. then we both listened for tavernaro's coming, and a proper little comedy, for us two at least, ensued. of course one could see nothing, the rock bulged too much, but one could hear tavernaro's voice some feet below, as he groped about, swearing softly. five minutes went by and all was still, so bettega began haranguing him. 'more to the right, tony; you must come out, don't go too high in the chimney!' then--'look out, tony, i'll send you the rope-end!' but an ominous '_no_,' quickly answered this proposal. a guide's honour is very sensitive on this point. another three or four minutes passed. 'how is tavernaro getting on?' i whispered, and bettega replied, smiling broadly, 'he wishes to try.' "some gasps from the direction of the chimney were now heard, and bettega again expostulated gently. 'look here, tony, we are old friends; take the rope!' '_no_' in gloomy defiance. 'oh, if we were alone it would be different, but we must not keep the rest of the party waiting, and the signorina may take cold.' this was all in _patois_, but i caught some of it, and here struck in quickly, 'oh, not at all!' bettega looked surprised, and resumed more energetically his exhortations to tony to pocket his pride and accept the loop of rope. at last tony, who must have been within feet of the top and so at the worst spot, suddenly jerked on to the proffered cord, and was up the next moment, hatless, with huge beads of sweat on his forehead and his black hair as straight as matches. there was a great rent in the side of one of his hands, which bled profusely. what struck me most, however, was the expression of suffering and shaken confidence on his face. tavernaro ranks only second to bettega and zecchini, and was asked to go to the caucasus and other distant mountains. he just stumbled to a safe spot, wrung his left hand, and panted out, 'jesu maria! it was cruel!' i fear that bettega's smile was more triumphant than sympathetic. nevertheless, he enquired kindly for tavernaro's hand, but for fully two minutes the latter's loquaciousness was lost. the look of anguish on his face meant, i think, that he had seen death pretty near to him. he told us that he went far too much into the crack on the left, and had remained sticking in it till his hands got so cold he feared he would lose his grip. if he had, he was lost, and probably g---- also, so he had actually held on with his head and left his cap jammed in the crack. i called to g---- to hook the rope over a point of rock in case tavernaro fell, and this he had done, but even so the frightful jerk might have torn him down, and in any case tavernaro must have been either killed or frightfully hurt, as he had, i should think, about feet of rope out. "while i was in the throes of the difficult part, papa's cap fell off my head, but tavernaro caught it and brought it up. he was in an awful state of mind about his own cap, which had his guide's badge, etc., on it, and begged me to call down to my brother about it. i did so, but g---- replied several times with some asperity that he had enough to do to get himself up. 'why can't he bring it up in his mouth?' cried tavernaro excitedly, and, in the end, g---- brought it in his belt. "my opinion is that both g---- and tavernaro ran a great risk, and that tavernaro was fully aware of it, and, for a few minutes after, was not a little shaken. "after half an hour at this notable spot bettega resumed the ascent. 'i hope we shall have nothing more so difficult,' i said eagerly, and bettega replied soothingly that it became 'much less arduous,' but the chimney we were now in was gloomy and slippery, at best very sheer. the guides had resumed their coats, which they had taken off for the bad bit. at the end of the chimney we came to a high overhanging wall, at the foot of which tavernaro and i reposed, while bettega climbed over it and disappeared. 'come!' and i rose wearily. bettega kept that cord very tight on me, and it certainly, as tavernaro afterwards said, inclined to pull me to the right, away from the best holds, for the wall was comparatively easy, though perpendicular, and i ought not to have swung out quite free from it! but that is what i did. as i rose from the second grip with the right hand, my muscles suddenly relaxed, i lost hold, gave a sigh to signify 'it's no good!' and swung clear out, dangling over feet of precipice on a single cord which nearly cut me in two. g---- and tavernaro were much excited below, suddenly seeing me appear hurtling overhead. of course, in a moment, i swung in again, grabbed afresh, and with terrific tightening of the rope from bettega, got up in no time. as i swung in the air, i remember g----, in a curiously calm voice, asking, 'are you all right?' and tavernaro crying, 'don't be afraid, signorina, it's all right!' "five minutes later we left the huge iron walls of rock, and emerged suddenly on to the flat. here one realised what breadth and width meant, as opposed to height and profundity. in two seconds bettega and i romped to the top, where the cairn of stones marking the highest point rose, and shaking hands heartily i gasped with intense feeling, 'o michele, how grateful i am to you! twice to-day i owe you my life!' a debt he utterly disclaimed, remarking that whatever he had done was merely in the day's work, and that on him rested the responsibility of bringing us up that way; as of course it did. our porter was waiting for us on the summit, and we sat down there, while bettega and tavernaro, still looking impressed, knelt attentively to take off our light shoes and put on our nailed boots instead." the party descended by the ordinary route, a pleasant change after all the difficult work they had accomplished during the upward climb. the foregoing account gives what is rare amongst the descriptions beginners usually furnish of anything particularly hard they may have undertaken, for the writer has obviously jotted down, within a few hours of her return, an exact impression of how things struck her during the day. it is refreshing to find some one who admits that at certain points her courage nearly gave out, and at others that her guide had to assist her with the rope, for we know that while the very best climbers have had to train their nerves and muscles before they became what they are, some of the very worst are most ready to exclaim that they never felt fear or accepted assistance, and that a certain mountain up which they were heaved like sacks of corn and let down like buckets in a well is "a perfect swindle; any fool could go up it!" unluckily, every fool does, and each one prepares the way for an appallingly increasing death-roll. the ascent of the rosetta by the western face must not be condemned as an imprudent expedition on the occasion just mentioned. true, there was a novice in the party, but she was the only inexperienced member of it. they had ample guiding power, they were properly equipped, and they had good weather. tavernaro had an offer of help at the critical moment, and availed himself of it when he saw there was real danger. it will be noticed that the four climbers were on two separate ropes. this is usual in the dolomites, but the majority of experienced mountaineers condemn the practice even on rocks, while on snow it is positive madness. it was owing to this, that, as related in the foregoing narrative, the lady's brother and tavernaro ran a greater risk than was at all necessary. [illustration: a climbing party starting from zermatt for the hut.] [illustration: the trift hotel.] [illustration: the gandegg hut, near zermatt.] [illustration: the zinal rothhorn (to the right) from the trift valley. _to face p. ._] chapter xii the zinal rothhorn twice in one day ignorance of what the future has in store is often not a bad thing. had i realised that at the hour when we ought to have been at zinal we should be sitting--and for the second time in one day--on the top of the rothhorn, we should hardly have set out in so light-hearted a fashion from the little inn in the trift valley, above zermatt, at a.m. on th september . the party consisted of my two guides, joseph and roman imboden, father and son, and myself, and our idea was to cross the fine peak of the rothhorn, , feet high, from zermatt to zinal. i had been up that mountain before, and so, on many previous occasions, had imboden, but, oddly enough, he had never been down the other side. roman, however, had once or twice made the traverse, and, in any case, we knew quite enough about the route from hearsay to feel sure we could hit it off even without roman's experience. some fresh snow had fallen a few days previously, and the slabby part of the rothhorn on the north side was unpleasantly white, besides which there was a strong and bitterly cold wind. we pretty well abandoned all idea of getting down on the other side when we saw how unfavourably things were turning out, and though i felt greatly disappointed i never have and never would urge a guide in whom i have confidence to undertake what he considers imprudent. we left the matter open till the last minute, however, and took both the knapsacks to the top, where we arrived at . . warming ourselves in a sunny and sheltered corner of the by no means inhospitable summit, we had some food and a pleasant rest. i cannot say if the meal and the cheering effects of the sunshine made things look different, but it is a fact that after, perhaps, an hour's halt, imboden shouldered his knapsack and remarked to me, "come along, ma'am, as far as the end of the ridge; we will just have a look." hope awakened in me, and scrambling to my feet i followed him. the wind was certainly high; i had difficulty even on those easy rocks in keeping my footing; how, i wondered, should we manage when the real climbing began? i had read of an _arête_ of rock, little broader than one of the blunt knives we had used at breakfast, and the idea of passing along it with a shrieking gale trying to tear us from our perch was not alluring. presently we reached the spot where one quits the gentle slope and comparatively broad ridge, and embarks on the profile of a slender and precipitous face of rock, with nearly vertical forehead and small and infrequent cracks for hands and feet. we were going to do more than look at it, apparently; we were about to descend it, for without any further remark imboden began to get ready, letting roman pass ahead. taking hold of the rope between his son and himself he told me to stand aside while he gradually paid it out as roman went down. the first yard or two consisted of slabs, set at a high angle. then the ridge abruptly curved over and one saw nothing but air till the eye rested on the glacier thousands of feet below. in a few minutes roman had disappeared, and the steady paying out of the rope alone indicated that he was climbing downwards. after a time he reached almost the end of his tether of about feet--for we were on a very long rope--and his father called out, "rope up!" "let the lady come to the edge and give me a little more," came a voice from far down. putting the final loop into my hand and bidding me sit down, imboden held me hard by the cord behind until the tautness of the piece between roman and me showed it was time to be moving. i then advanced very cautiously to what seemed like the edge of the world. turning round with my face to the rock i had my first glance below. far down was the top of roman's hat, and as he saw the advancing soles of my boots he grinned with appreciation, feeling that now we really were embarked on the enterprise. "there's a good place down here, ma'am, come along!" he called up, with one toe on a ledge inches wide, two fingers thrust into a crack, and the rope held out of his way by being put, the remark concluded, between his teeth. i had no doubt it was a nice place when one got there, but meanwhile i had to make the best use i could of my eyes to find a suitable assortment of hand-and foot-holes. soon i, too, was clinging to the face of the precipice, and imboden was left above out of sight and before long almost out of hearing. the wind here was far less trying as we were sheltered by the topmost pinnacle of the mountain. to me the feeling of danger from a gale on a rock peak is due even more to the difficulty of hearing what one's companions are saying than to the risk of one's balance being upset. it is extremely disconcerting, when a climber, descending steep rocks and anxious to make a long but perhaps an easy step downwards to good foot-hold, calls for more rope, and is promptly swung clear out into space by an invisible guide above, who has misunderstood his orders. when a party is accustomed to work together, this sort of thing seldom happens, still it makes all the difference in the pleasure of negotiating difficult rocks if the air is calm. our only trouble now was owing to the fresh snow, but this had partially consolidated, and we got down steadily and safely, gradually leaving behind the cold wind which whistled amongst the crags above. it was early in the day, and we went slowly, stopping once or twice to photograph where warm and sheltered resting-places of comfortable proportions tempted us to linger. the rocky knife edge was unpleasantly sharp for the arms bent over it, but useful ledges down the side helped to distribute the weight and amuse and occupy the mind. when finally we reached the end of the rocks, and had nothing but snow between us and the mountet hut, we considered ourselves as good as there, and made a long halt on the last stones. we were wrong, however. "my boy, i will go ahead now," remarked imboden, stepping off into the snow. he went a few paces, and then looked first all round him and lastly at us. "_blue ice!_" he muttered, with intense disgust. "blue ice right down to the bottom!" we shrugged our shoulders; imboden was ahead doing the work; we could afford to be philosophical. i should not like to say how many strokes of the axe each step required, but the slope was steep, a slip could not be risked, and imboden hewed out great foot-holds in the slippery wall. after this had gone on for some time he paused. "upon my word," remarked he, "it will take us the rest of the day to get down at this rate! i shall try another way." so we turned and remounted the slope, and sitting down once more on the stones, imboden traced out a possible route down the face of the mountain, bearing diagonally across it. it looked dullish; besides, thought i, after all, we don't particularly want to go to zinal. roman put into words what, i think, sprung simultaneously into both our minds. "let us go back to zermatt over the top of the rothhorn again!" "yes, let us do that!" i exclaimed. imboden gazed from one to the other of us in amazement. "go back over the top of the rothhorn?" he repeated. "why, we should simply be out all night!" roman didn't answer, but his eyes wandered persistently up the _arête_. his father now began to calculate, and by some strange process of arithmetic he came to the conclusion that if we hurried very much it was just possible that we might get off the difficult part of the peak before night overtook us. still, he was far from reconciled to the idea, while every moment roman and i liked it better. imboden saw how keen we were, and presently exclaimed: "well, i'll go if you both want it, but we must be quick; if we spend the night on the top of the rothhorn and a storm comes on, we may simply lose our lives!" there was no need however, to tell roman to be quick. he was told off to lead, and i followed, with imboden last. the memory of that ascent has remained in my mind as a confused dream. every scrap of my attention was given to holding on and pulling myself upwards, never pausing, except in the very worst places, to see what either of the guides was doing, and, with every foot-and hand-hold fresh in my memory, i was full of a delightful sense of security which muscles in first-class condition and complete absence of any sensation of fatigue fully justified. we rose at an incredible pace, and after an hour and twenty-five minutes of splendid exercise, we threw ourselves once more on the flat little top of the rothhorn. we had now only the descent by the ordinary route between us and zermatt, and this seemed a small matter compared to what we had accomplished that day. we did not remain long on the summit, and the first part of the descent was quickly ended. we had now reached that point on the mountain where it is necessary to leave the ridge and go down for some distance on the precipitous north face. this bit of the climb, always requiring great care on account of the smoothness and steepness of the rock, was on this occasion particularly difficult because of the powdery snow which covered everything, and the bitterly cold wind to which here, and, luckily for us, here only, we were exposed. the associations of these slabs are not of a nature to reassure the timid climber. many years ago, in fact on the very first occasion when the rothhorn was ascended from the zermatt side, a startling incident took place near this spot. the party consisted of messrs dent and passingham, with alexander burgener, ferdinand imseng, and franz andermatten as guides, and they were descending the mountain when the exciting occurrence described by mr dent happened.[ ] he has kindly allowed me to reprint his account. [illustration: the zinal rothhorn from the breakfast place on the wellenkuppe.] [illustration: a steep face of rock. _to face p. ._] [illustration: the top of a chamonix aiguille. by signor cajrati crivelli mesmer] [illustration: "leading strings."] "down the first portion of the steep rock slope we passed with great caution, some of the blocks of stone being treacherously loose, or only lightly frozen to the face. we had arrived at the most difficult part of the whole climb, and at a rock passage which at that time we considered was the nastiest we had ever encountered. the smooth, almost unbroken face of the slope scarcely afforded any foot-hold, and our security almost entirely depended on the rope we had laid down in our ascent. had not the rope been in position we should have varied our route, and no doubt found a line of descent over this part much easier than the one we actually made for, even without any help from the fixed cord. imseng was far below, working his way back to the _arête_, while the rest of the party were holding on, moving but slowly, with their faces to the mountain. suddenly i heard a shout from above; those below glanced up at once: a large flat slab of rock, that had afforded us good hold in ascending, but proved now to have been only frozen in to a shallow basin of ice, had been dislodged by the slightest touch from one of the party above, and was sliding down straight at us. it seemed an age, though the stone could not have had to fall more than feet or so, before it reached us. just above me it turned its course slightly; franz, who was just below, more in its direct line of descent, attempted to stop the mass, but it ground his hands against the rock and swept by straight at imseng. a yell from us hardly awoke him to the danger; the slab slid on faster and faster, but just as we expected to see our guide swept away, the rock gave a bound for the first time, and as, with a startled expression, he flung himself against the rock face, it leapt up, and, flying by within a few inches of his head, thundered down below. a moment or two of silence followed, and then a modified cheer from imseng, as subdued as that of a 'super' welcoming a theatrical king, announced his safety, and he looked up at us with a serious expression on his face. franz's escape had been a remarkably lucky one, but his hands were badly cut about and bruised. in fact, it was a near thing for all of us, and the mere recollection will still call up that odd sort of thrill a man experiences on suddenly recollecting at p.m. that he ought to have dined out that evening with some very particular people. had not the rock turned its course just before it reached franz, and bounded from the face of the mountain over imseng's head, one or more of the party must unquestionably have been swept away. the place was rather an exceptional one, and the rock glided a remarkably long distance without a bound, but still the incident may serve to show that falling stones are not a wholly imaginary danger." a far more serious occurrence, however, took place on the north side of the rothhorn in , involving the loss of a life, the rest of the party escaping in a miraculous manner. i take my account of the disaster from _the alpine journal_. "on th september an accident occurred on the zinal rothhorn, in which joseph marie biner, a well-known zermatt guide, lost his life. the other members of the party were dr peter horrocks and peter perren, both of whom are to be congratulated on their very narrow escape. the party had already effected the ascent of the mountain, and were descending towards zermatt. on reaching the well-known _blatte_ overlooking the durand glacier, the usual precautions were observed. biner, who was leading, crossed the awkward slab, and planted himself firmly on the opposite side. perren, who was last, was standing behind and holding on to a fair-sized rock, round which he was paying out the rope; while dr horrocks crossed the slab, and biner gradually pulled in the slack. suddenly, the rock in which perren placed such confidence came out, and bounded down the mountain side. perren slid rapidly down the steep rocks; dr horrocks, who had no foot-hold and very little hand-hold, was jerked from his position, turning a somersault, and becoming momentarily stunned from his head striking against the rock. the strain on the rope was too great for biner to withstand, and he was dragged down too. the whole party half tumbled, half slid, down the very steep smooth rocks for feet or feet, when the rope between dr horrocks and perren caught behind a projecting rock, and brought them both to a standstill. perren found himself landed in a small patch of soft snow some feet below the rock, which had so fortunately engaged the rope, while dr horrocks, some feet higher up, though at first suspended with his back to the steep rocks, was very soon able to get more or less foot-hold. poor biner had the extra length of his own rope still to fall, and, when the strain came, the rope broke, according to one account, half-way between him and dr horrocks; according to another, rather nearer to the latter. biner fell down on to the durand glacier, some feet below, whence his mutilated body was recovered by a search party which crossed the trift pass, carried the body down to zinal, and so by road and train brought it to zermatt, where the funeral took place. dr horrocks and perren were rescued from their dangerous position some ten or twelve minutes after the accident occurred, by the guides emile gentinetta and edouard julen, who were following down the mountain with another party." to return to ourselves. we steadily progressed down the cold and snowy face, with rope kept taut and paid out slowly as, one by one, we moved lower. i need not follow our climb, which was without incident, and while it was still daylight, we reached the snow ridge, on the stones just below, which in ascending it is usual to pause for breakfast. we were particularly anxious to be off the stony rocks below and to gain the little glacier and pass over the moraine before dark, but this we could not manage, so in spite of our lantern we wandered about on those odious rocks for hours before we found the gully by which alone it is possible to get off them. our various attempts entailed the descent of slippery chimneys leading to the top of black precipices, with nothing to be done but scramble up again, merely to embark in other chimneys with precisely similar consequences. i got so sick of the whole thing that i would gladly have dozed under a rock and awaited daylight. the guides, however, stuck to the business, and after a positive nightmare of gullies they at last hit off the right and only one. i have seldom felt greater satisfaction than when i stepped off those detestable rocks on to the snow, shimmering beneath our feet in the starlight. we had now only to cross the glacier and make our way down an exceedingly steep but well-defined foot-path over the sharply-crested moraine. once we had left this behind us we had nothing more than grass-slopes between us and the trift inn. as soon as we reached this final stage in our day's work, we selected the most comfortable-looking hollow, and hanging the lantern to an axe stuck upright in the ground, we prepared, at a somewhat unorthodox hour and within only thirty minutes of the hotel, to enjoy a well-earned meal. chapter xiii benighted on a snow peak in a most interesting account of a mountain adventure which, by the courtesy of the writer, sir h. seymour king, i am enabled to reprint from _the alpine journal_, we are once more reminded that a party of thoroughly competent and robust mountaineers can come without evil after-effects out of a night of great hardship which would have undoubtedly proved fatal to ill-equipped and inexperienced amateurs and guides, such as those accompanying mr burckhardt, who perished from exposure on the matterhorn.[ ] after describing a previous ascent, sir h. seymour king goes on to say: "a few days later we went to mürren, with the intention of carrying out a long-cherished plan of mine and testing the possibility of ascending the silberhorn from the roththal. previous ascents had proved so lengthy, necessitating, i think, in nearly every case, the passing of a night on the rocks or the glacier, that i thought it would be highly desirable if some shorter route could be discovered. i had an idea that the route by the western _arête_ would prove to be the one sought for. unfortunately, we were delayed in making an attempt by bad weather until the rd of september, which is undoubtedly too late in the year for so difficult an expedition. "i left the hôtel silberhorn with ambrose supersax and louis zurbrücken as guides, and a porter, at ten o'clock on the morning of the rd of september, and followed for some distance the usual path to the jungfrau hut; at length, leaving the roththal path on the right, we struck off into a goat track, which leads by narrow ledges round the shoulder of the great bluffs forming the northern boundary of the roththal. in this way gaining the face of the alp fronting mürren, we made our way to the base of the 'strahlplatten,' where we had determined to encamp for the night. "the nights were already lengthening out, and where we were it was not light before six, and it was not possible to move earlier than five; punctually at that hour we started. we took only one knapsack with us, leaving the rest of the things with the porter, whom we instructed to stay where he was until he saw whether we were going to return the same way or not, as we thought it was quite possible we might have to pass another night at the same place. we therefore arranged with him that when we got to a certain point on the ridge, if we intended to return, we would wave our hats; but if we made no sign, he might pack up his things and go home, as in that case he might understand that we had determined either to descend from the silberhorn across the glacier to the wengern alp, or else make our way over the jungfrau, and pass the night in the bergli hut. "now let me try for a moment to describe the appearance of the rock face up which we purposed making our way on to the _arête_. from where we were the _arête_ appeared to run nearly due east and west. at the west it terminated in the precipices which face mürren, and at the east with the peak whence we had arranged to signal to our porter. from this peak a ridge descended towards the valley bounding the side facing us. on that side the rock face itself was divided into two compartments by a well-marked ridge running down the middle, giving the appearance of two couloirs leading to the _arête_; the whole side was composed of extremely smooth rocks, with very little foot-hold or hand-hold which would be extremely dangerous, if not impossible, to attempt, if they were not dry. fortunately, we found them perfectly free from either water or ice, and, with the exception of one difficult piece, which it took us some little time to surmount, we found nothing to check us until we were just under the _arête_. we ascended by the right-hand couloir, if i may so term it, and then made for the gap on the ridge at the extreme westerly end. just below this gap we experienced some difficulty, owing to the excessive smoothness of the rocks, but finally reached the gap i have mentioned a little before nine. "i need not say that our hopes rose high, and that we were in the very best of spirits, and when we finally stood in the gap itself we began to think the worst part of the work was over. we soon found, however, that it had hardly begun; it was all very well being in the gap, but the problem was how to get from there on to the _arête_ itself; for, though the latter was not more than feet above us, the peculiar formation of the rocks rendered every attempt to get on to it fruitless. the rocks hung over on every side. we exhausted ourselves in vain attempts to surmount them. an hour soon passed away, and after each of us in turn had failed, we sat down disconsolately to consider the situation under the lee of the ridge, so as to be out of the way of the biting north wind which was blowing. looking round as we sat mournfully consuming some breakfast, i spied a bottle in a crevice, and found it contained the names of mr c. e. matthews and herr e. von fellenberg, with melchior anderegg and two other guides; it was undated, but recounted how they had reached this spot and had been obliged to return without achieving their object, which apparently was identical with our own. this was the last straw, and exasperated ambrose to the highest degree. that we should have gone through so much only to have gained the same spot where another party several years before had arrived was too much for his equanimity. he vowed he would never go back, and nothing under heaven should turn him back, he would get on to the ridge. we might do as we liked, he meant to stay there until he had. all of which i pointed out to him was very fine talk, but, as men were at present constructed, it did not appear to me possible to climb an acute angle. ambrose, however, persisted that he would make another attempt to get on to the ridge, and, as it was quite hopeless anywhere on the side by which we had ascended, he roped himself, and insisted on being let down the northern face of the mountain. "with great skill he managed to work himself along the face for the full length of the rope, and the first feet being exhausted, a second of feet was tied to it, and this again paid out to its utmost length; still he could find no way up to the ridge. he thereupon demanded that the rope should be let go, and, in spite of our remonstrances at the danger he was running, he pulled it in, slung it on his back, and proceeded, while we sat down and waited with no little anxiety lest some accident should befall him. "for half an hour we neither saw nor heard anything of him, and our shouts remained unanswered. zurbrücken muttered at intervals something about 'dummheit,' and was evidently very uneasy. suddenly we heard a shout from above, which told us he had succeeded in ascending the wall above him, and getting on to the ridge, down which he was actually coming at the moment, and the next minute he was peering over the point where we had been stuck. "it was really a magnificent exhibition both of pluck and skill, and ambrose deserves the highest credit for his success. letting the rope over, and fastening it well to a piece of rock, he first hauled up the ice axes and knapsacks, and then we each in turn were half hauled, and half climbed to the place where he stood. i know when i arrived at the top i was nearly speechless from the terrible exertion it was necessary to make, and the pressure of the rope on my ribs; i could only lie on my back and gasp feebly for brandy! "however, it was imperative to proceed; more than two hours had been wasted here, and it was nearly eleven o'clock. the way in front of us looked fairly plain and easy, and our hopes once again began to rise; but soon, as we proceeded along the ridge, it became narrower and narrower, until from walking we were reduced to kneeling, and at last could only proceed _à cheval_; in this elegant position we struggled along for some little distance, until the _arête_ widening out again permitted us once more to stand up; but here we found the rocks much more difficult, and finally absolutely impossible. at the foot of the peak at the easterly end of the ridge which i have before mentioned we were forced off the _arête_ on to a wall of ice which led to the summit; the slope was at a very sharp angle, the ice very hard and blue, and at last became so steep that we were forced back on to the rocks, and with some considerable difficulty reached the summit; from there we could see the silberhorn in front of us jutting out like a great white promontory into a frozen sea. it being then one o'clock, we saw there was no possibility of our getting back the same way that evening, so we made no sign to our porter, whom we could see watching us far down below. "the formation of the ridge here is somewhat curious. after a slight descent it broadens out into a small and much crevassed glacier, shut in on the further side by a level snow wall, the promontory which i have mentioned above. the _arête_ of this wall appears to run level from the rock ridge to its northern termination; indeed, i am of opinion that the highest point is on the rock ridge itself, and that the extreme end of the ridge facing the wengern alp is a few feet lower than the rocks overlooking the roththal. "we speedily crossed the little intervening glacier, or snow-field, and commenced to ascend diagonally the snow wall, but found the snow in such a dangerous condition, lying as it was loosely on the surface of ice, that from the fear of starting an avalanche we once more made our way back to the ridge which formed the continuation of the _arête_ along which we had been climbing. here the rocks were extremely difficult, being interspersed with ice and very rotten. i think this was one of the most difficult parts of the expedition. it was half-past three when we reached the final summit, and then made our way along the snow ridge nearly to its extremity. the snow _arête_ was very narrow, and in its then condition not very pleasant to traverse; the day too was far advanced, and we had no time to spend in much exploration, so we returned as quickly as we could to the ridge which leads down to the silberlücke; we were already getting very doubtful as to whether we should get any shelter for the night. we had reached the narrow rock _arête_ joining the silberhorn with the precipices of the jungfrau; in the middle was the narrow gap called the silberlücke, and to that we crawled down and halted a moment to consider whether it would not be better to descend on to the glacier and strike across to the wengern alp; but we knew from the results of previous expeditions that crossing the glacier would probably take four, if not five hours. none of us had ever been across it; it was then four o'clock, and it would be dark at six. our only hope lay in getting across the jungfrau before the daylight finally died out. in the gap we found a ladder left by some previous explorer, and two or three pieces of wood; and after debating whether we had not better pass the night there, finally decided to push on for the jungfrau. "our chance of escaping a night in the open air depended mainly on two points: first, whether the snow leading to the jungfrau was in fairly good condition; and, secondly, whether anybody whose steps we could make use of for descending had been on the mountain that day. a few minutes settled the first question; we found that the slopes leading up to the upper snow-field which circles round the base of the jungfrau were hard as ice, and we were soon laboriously cutting steps upwards. we pushed on with all speed, but step-cutting is at the best a slow operation, and before we got into the roththal track the lengthening shadows had almost overtaken us. we hurried on and managed to get across the _bergschrund_ before the last rays of sunlight left the summit of the jungfrau. as we surmounted the final rocks i turned for a minute to look across switzerland, and was rewarded by one of the most beautiful spectacles it has ever been my good fortune to witness. the valleys were filled with mist, but the setting sun tinged their surface with a deep crimson glow; the last rays were still lingering round mont blanc and one or two of the higher mountains; where we stood was still filled with golden light from the last rays of the sinking sun. the sky was perfectly clear, and the panorama which unrolled itself before our eyes with its mingled light and shadow was one of the most wonderful that lover of mountain scenery could desire to gaze on. a justification for the erection of a hut on the summit of the jungfrau might almost be found in the possibility of obtaining such a view. "but we had no time for indulging in rhapsodies; a bitter north wind was still blowing so keenly, that the upper leather of our boots had frozen stiff as boards while we walked. the moon was well up, and if only our second hope were realised, and some one had been on the mountain that day, we might find a refuge from the wind in the bergli or concordia huts. we tumbled rather than scrambled down the rocks by the flickering moonlight, until we reached the well-known point where it is necessary to strike across the face just above the roththal sattel. our last hope was dashed to the ground. no one had been there that day, and if we were to get down it must be by our own efforts. so ambrose at once set to work to cut steps across the face. we had been there a fortnight before, and gone up and down the jungfrau without cutting hardly a step; now the face was all blue ice, and in five minutes i made up my mind that the risk of such a descent was too much to take. "the wall above the great _bergschrund_ was in shadow, the _bergschrund_ last year was especially formidable, and we were all too exhausted safely to face the freezing wind on such a steep ice-slope in the dark. we returned, therefore, to the rocks, and, after a brief consultation, decided to pass the night there as best we could. we managed to find a corner shut in on two sides by rock about feet high, from the floor of which we set to work to rake out the snow with our axes. the snow had drifted to a considerable depth, and its excavation gave us a good quantity of heat to start the night with, but our boots refused to thaw, and do what we would our feet would not get warm. "our provisions being nearly exhausted, we agreed only to take a mouthful of brandy and a little bread that night, and keep the bulk of the provisions until next morning, when we expected to be in a more or less exhausted condition, as the cold was very great, and it was obvious that we had a pretty severe ordeal before us. it was by this time half-past seven o'clock. we put on our gloves and gaiters, buttoned up our coats, and after making a seat apiece out of three smooth stones, sat down as close together as we could, and commenced to smoke. "the night was beautifully clear, but far away to the south we could see a great thunderstorm raging over the italian hills, and were in no little trepidation lest it should be coming up in our direction, as indeed a storm had done in exactly a similar way a week before; but the north wind kept it at bay, and we luckily had not a snow-storm to face in addition to the other discomforts. "the night passed slowly enough; it was necessary to keep shuffling our feet and beating our arms together the whole night long without cessation, in order to prevent being frost-bitten, and it was even more difficult to keep awake. the hours, however, passed somehow, and at half-past four the first primrose streaks in the sky heralded the coming day. by five o'clock the welcome face of the sun peeped over the trugberg, and we began to prepare for a start. "our first thought was breakfast, but this solace was denied us; the wine and brandy had frozen during the night, and were solid lumps of ice; the bread required nothing less than an ice-axe to cut it, and then probably would have flown into chips like a log of wood; the three remaining eggs we possessed had been converted during the night into icicles; there was nothing for it, therefore, but to start hungry and thirsty. ambrose proposed that he and zurbrücken should first cut the steps, and then come back for me, but after a very few minutes' exposure to the wind they were obliged to return and wait until the sun had warmed them a little, the biting cold of the night and exhaustion from want of sleep rendered it impossible to face the work of step-cutting in such a bitter wind. we resumed our seats, therefore, and waited another hour, and then commenced our descent to the _bergschrund_. we had to cut steps the whole way down, and very glad i was we had not attempted it in the dark, as i think it would have been almost impossible to get over without an accident. "we pushed on steadily, but the night had taken all the spurt out of us, and our progress across the jungfrau firn was not very rapid. we hoped to find water under the mönch joch, where we had found a good supply a fortnight previously, but the wind had prevented the snow melting at the time we reached the spot, and there was nothing for it but to press on to grindelwald, and it was not until we reached the end of the viescher glacier that we found any water to drink. at the bäregg we got some ginger nuts to eat, and by three o'clock in the afternoon were being hospitably welcomed by the bosses at the 'bär,' whose welcome was never more appreciated. these estimable hosts soon had an excellent dinner ready, and by half-past four i was driving to interlaken to rejoin the rest of my party." chapter xiv the story of a big jump through the kindness of dr kennedy, i am enabled to reprint from his new edition of _the alps in _, by the late mr a. w. moore, an admirable account of the first passage of the col de la pilatte in dauphiné. this expedition has become classical, thanks to mr whymper's fine description of it,[ ] so it is interesting to read what impression the adventures of the day made on another member of the party. the first part of the expedition was easy, but, wrote mr moore, "before getting near the foot of the couloir, we had something to do in threading a way up and through the huge chasms into which the glacier was broken. croz was here thoroughly in his element, and led the way with great skill and determination, passing one obstacle after another, and bearing gradually to the left towards the enemy. at every step we took, it became more apparent that nature had never intended any one to pass this way, and had accordingly taken more than usual pains to render the approach to the couloir difficult and dangerous. below the highest _bergschrund_ were a series of smaller ones, arranged systematically one above the other, stretching completely across a very steep slope, so that they could not be turned, but must each in succession be attacked _en face_. fortunately at this early period of the season, and with so much snow, the difficulty was less considerable than it would have been under other circumstances, and, exercising every precaution, we finally passed the last of the outer lines of defence, and had nothing but a short steep slope between us and the final _schrund_, above which the couloir rose more unfriendly than ever, as we approached it nearer. i had been sorely puzzled in my mind how we were going to get across this chasm, as from below it appeared to have a uniform width of about feet, the upper edge, as usual, much higher than the lower, and no visible bridge at any point. on getting up to it, however, we found that on the extreme right it had been choked by a considerable mass of snow, the small remains of which at one point formed a narrow, rotten, and most insecure bridge, over which croz cautiously passed, and made himself firm in the soft snow above. walker, whymper, mons. renaud, myself, and almer, then followed, as if we were treading on eggs, and all got safely over, much to our relief, as there really appeared no small chance of the bridge going to grief before we were all across, which would have been awkward for those on the wrong side. "it was just . when we fairly took to this extraordinary gully, which, above the _bergschrund_ was certainly not more than feet wide, and gradually narrowed in its upward course. for the first few steps we trod in a sufficiency of soft snow in good condition, but, to our dismay, this soon sensibly diminished both in quantity and quality, until at last there was nothing but the old, disgusting, powdery snow resting on hard ice. the axe accordingly came into play; but if steps were cut of the ordinary size, we should never get to the top till night, so croz just hacked out sufficient space for the feet to cling to, and worked away as fast as possible, cautioning us emphatically to look out, and to hold on well with our axes while each step was being cut. another argument in favour of rapid progress arose from the palpable danger in which we were. the centre of the couloir was occupied by a deeply-scored trough, evidently a channel for stones and avalanches, while the space on either side was so narrow that in case of a large fall we could scarcely expect to escape unharmed. looking up to see what was likely to come down, we discovered at the very head of the couloir a perpendicular or slightly overhanging wall of _névé_, some feet in height, and lower down, projecting over the rocks on our left, an enormous mass of icicles, on which the sun was playing, and, of course, momentarily loosening their tenure to the rocks. at the moment we were exactly in the line which they must follow, if they fell, as they evidently would before long, so we lost no time in crossing the stone channel to the other side, where the great mass was scarcely likely to come, and we might probably ward off any stray fragments. i received a lively hint as to the effect of a _large_ mass of ice coming suddenly down on one's head, by the effect of a blow from a comparatively small piece, which croz hewed out from one of the steps. being so far down in the line, it had time to gain momentum before it struck me, which it did on the head with such violence that for a few moments i felt quite sick and stupid. the incident will give a very good idea of the steepness of the slope on which we were. i had too much to think of to measure it with a clinometer, but it was certainly steeper than any part of the couloir leading to the col des ecrins, the greatest inclination of which was °. at one point a little water trickled over the rocks, which the two front men managed to get a suck at, but those behind were out of reach, and the footing was too precarious for more than a minute's halt, not to mention occasional volleys of small stones which shot by us, and might be the precursors of large ones. i don't think that i ever experienced a greater feeling of insecurity than during the whole of this ascent, which was unavoidably long. what with the extreme steepness of the slope, and the necessary vagueness of the steps, which were made additionally unsafe by the powdery snow which filled them up as soon as they were cut, i felt that a slip was a by no means unlikely contingency, and was glad enough upon occasions to find almer's hand behind, giving me a friendly push whenever a particularly long stride had to be made. when we were nearing the top, our attention was attracted by a tremendous uproar behind us, and, looking round, we were just in time to see a prodigious avalanche falling over the cliffs of the pic de bonvoisin, on the other side of the valley. it was at least a quarter of a mile in length, and many minutes elapsed before the last echoes of its fall died away. we were now so near the great snow-wall that it was time to begin to circumvent it; so, crossing the couloir again, we clambered up the rocks on that side in order to get out of it, hoping to be able from them to get on to the main ridge to the left of the wall, which itself was quite impassable. as almer had expected, the snow was here very thin over the rocks, and what little there was, was converted into ice, so that the climbing was most difficult and perilous, and we had no small trouble to get on at all. however, we managed to scramble up, and found ourselves overlooking a gully running parallel, and of a similar character, to the one we had been ascending, but free from snow and ice, and much more precipitous. on our side it was quite impossible to get on to the main ridge as an impracticable rock rose above our heads, and it was, therefore, necessary to step across this second couloir. i never made a nastier step; the stride was exceedingly long, there was nothing in particular to stand on, and nothing at all but a smooth face of rock to hold on by, so that we had literally to trust to the natural adhesiveness of our hands. fortunately, there was sufficient rope to allow the man in front to cross and get on to the main ridge, and make himself fast before his successor followed, so we attacked the difficulty in turn. i got over somehow, but did not like it at all; lifted myself on to the ridge, almer followed, and at . a.m., the col was gained. "during our ascent of the couloir, the weather, though doubtful, had not been unfavourable, but, just as we got on to the ridge, a cloud swooped down, and enveloped us in its dense folds, and at the same moment it began to snow violently. luckily croz, who was first on the top, had been able to satisfy himself that we _were_ above the glacier de la pilatte, and got a glimpse of what lay between us and it; but the state of the atmosphere was, nevertheless, sufficiently disappointing, as we were unable to fix with accuracy the exact position of our gap with reference to the peak of les bans, and the highest point of the boeufs rouges, or to determine its height. from the brèche de la meije, we had seen clearly that we were then considerably lower than any point on the ridge south of the glacier de la pilatte, and, taking this into consideration, together with the apparent height of our gap, seen from the valley below, we estimated the height of the col, which we proposed to call col de la pilatte, at about , feet. it is certainly not much below this, and is, therefore, probably the highest pass yet effected in the dauphiné alps. [illustration: a very tame bergschrund. by mr. leonard rawlence.] [illustration: homeward over the snow-slopes.] "it was no less provoking to have missed the view of the ecrins and ailefroide, which we had expected to be particularly fine. but there was no help for it, and no prospect of immediate improvement; so, without halting for a minute, we commenced the descent in the same order as before. all we could see was a steep ice-wall, stretching downwards from our feet, the actual ridge not being more than a couple of feet wide. what was the length of the wall, or what lay below it, we could not discover, but had a shrewd suspicion that we should anyhow find a considerable _bergschrund_. croz steered to the left, and began cutting steps diagonally downwards. the snow was in a much worse condition than it had been in the couloir; there was more of it, but it was so exceedingly soft, that our feet pressed through it to the hard ice, as though it had been water, and we were very rarely able to trust to it without cutting a step. we should have been better pleased had there been no snow at all, as the whole slope, the angle of which was about °, was in just the proper condition for an avalanche. i never saw almer so nervous, and with reason; for, as he himself said, while he implored us not to move from one step into another before we felt that one foot at least was secured, this was just one of those places where no amount of skill on the part of croz or himself could entirely prevent the chance of a serious accident. it was a wonder how we did manage to stick to some of the steps, the objectionable character of which was increased from their being cut along the side of the slope, a position in which it is always more difficult to get from one to the other than when they are cut straight up or down. as we got lower down there was more snow, which, though softer than ever, was so steep that we could tread tolerably secure steps on it, by help of which we worked down, until we found ourselves brought up short on the upper edge of the expected _bergschrund_. croz had hoped to hit this at a point where it was partially choked, but he was disappointed, as the chasm yawned below us, entirely unbridged. a glance right and left showed that there was no more assailable point within reach, so croz gave out the unwelcome intelligence that if we wished to get over we must jump and take our chance. the obstacle appeared to be about feet wide, of uncomfortable depth, and the drop from the upper to the lower edge about feet. from the lower edge the glacier sloped away, only less steep than the wall on which we were, of which it was a continuation, but cut off by this sudden break. there was, however, so much soft snow that we should fall easy, and the only difficulty, therefore, was to take a sufficiently fair spring to clear the chasm; for, good as i believed my rope to be, i should have been sorry to see any one suspended by it, with a sudden jerk, over such a gulf as that we had beneath us. walker was untied, so as to give rope enough to croz, who then boldly sprung over, and landed heavily on the lower edge in the snow, where he stood to receive the rest of the party. walker followed, and then whymper, leaving mons. renaud, myself, and almer above. mons. renaud advanced to the edge, looked, hesitated, drew back, and finally declared that he could not jump it; he felt perfectly convinced that he should be unable to clear the distance, and should jump in instead of over. we encouraged him, but without effect, and at last proposed to lower him down, when the others would hook hold of his legs somehow and pull him across. almer and i, therefore, made our footing as secure as possible, anchored ourselves with our axes, and made all ready to lower our friend, but his courage failed him at the last moment, and he refused to go. we were now obliged to use stronger arguments, as it was snowing fast, and time was passing, so we pointed out that, if we wished to return ever so much, we could not get the others back across the _schrund_, and that, in point of fact, there was no chance--over he _must_ go. again did he advance to the edge, again draw back, but finally, with a despairing groan, leaped, and just landed clear of the chasm, but, instead of letting his rope hang loose, he held it in one hand, and thereby nearly pulled me over head foremost. then came my turn, and i must confess that, when i stood in the last step from which i had to spring, i did not like the look of the place at all, and, in fact, felt undeniably nervous. but i had not been one of the least backward in objurgating mons. renaud, so felt constrained to manifest no hesitation myself, whatever might be my private feelings. i, therefore, threw over my axe and spectacles, gathered myself up, and took the leap. the sensation was most peculiar. i had not the faintest idea whether i should or should not clear the chasm, but the doubt was soon solved by my landing heavily on the further side, rather to the right of the rest of the party. the heavy load on my back sent me forwards on my face, and i shot down the slope with tremendous velocity, head foremost, until i was suddenly stopped by the tightening round my waist of the rope, the other end of which was held by almer above. my first impression was, that half my ribs were crushed in; as it was, my wind was so completely bagged by the severity of the jerk that i could not speak, but laughed hysterically, until nature's bellows had replenished my unlucky carcass. the incident was so far satisfactory that it showed the enormous strength of the rope, and also how severe a shock a man like almer, standing in a most insecure position, can bear unmoved when he is prepared for it. my weight, unloaded, is ½ stone, and the strain on the rope was certainly nearly as great as though i _had_ jumped into the crevasse. almer now followed us over, and at . we were all together without accident below the _schrund_, which, with the wall above it, was as ugly-looking a place as i would wish to see. "we now floundered down the slope of soft snow, without taking much care, as we imagined that henceforward it was all plain sailing, but were abruptly checked in our pace by coming upon a huge crevasse, of great length and breadth, but covered over in places. several attempts were made to cross at one of these points, but without success, as the breadth was too great, and the snow unsubstantial in the extreme, and a long _détour_ was necessary before we were able to get over near its eastern extremity. this proved to be the beginning of a new series of troubles, as the chasms became more and more numerous and complicated, until the slope which we had imagined would be so easy, resolved itself into a wall of gigantic _séracs_, the passage of which tasked our energies to the utmost. the difficulty of the position was increased by our still being enveloped in a mist so thick that we could not see a distance of feet below us, and were in a happy state of ignorance as to whether we were steering properly, or were only plunging deeper into the mire. nothing, however, could exceed the energy and skill with which croz threaded his way through the labyrinth which surrounded us. he never once had to retrace his steps, but, cutting along the sides of some crevasses and underneath others, he steadily gained ground. in spite of the generally deep snow, a good deal of step-cutting was necessary here and there, and we had nearly an hour of most exciting work before the inclination of the glacier diminished, and at . p.m., for the first time since leaving the col, we stood at ease upon a flat plain of snow. but how long would it last? a fog on an unknown glacier always suggests to my desponding mind the probability of marching round and round in a circle, and finally having to pass the night in a crevasse, so that i, personally, was particularly relieved when, just as we emerged from the _séracs_, the mist suddenly lifted sufficiently to let us see a long way over the glacier in front, which displayed itself to our admiring eyes perfectly level and uncrevassed." [illustration: the ecrins from the summit of the grande ruine.] [illustration: _the summit of the jungfrau._ (_p. ._) _to face p. ._] [illustration: clouds breaking like a giant waterfall on a mountain ridge.] [illustration: snow (not cloud) blown by a terrific wind from a mountain ridge.] chapter xv a perilous first ascent mr whymper has also immortalised the first ascent of the ecrins. here is the account mr moore wrote in his diary of that eventful day: "it must be confessed that the higher we climbed, the greater became our contempt for our peak. it certainly seemed that, once over the _bergschrund_, we ought very soon to be on the top, and so persuaded was i of this, that i hazarded the opinion that by . we should be seated on the highest point. whymper alone was less sanguine; and, probably encouraged by the result of his former bet, on hearing my opinion, offered to bet walker and myself two francs that we should not get up at all, an offer which we promptly accepted. we were now sufficiently near to the _bergschrund_ to be able to form some idea of its nature and difficulty. it certainly was a formidable-looking obstacle running completely along the base of the final peak, or rather ridge from which the peak itself rose. for a long distance the chasm was of great width, and, with its upper edge rising in a wall of ice, fringed with icicles, to a height of, perhaps, feet above the lower edge, was obviously quite impassable. but on the extreme right (looking up), the two lips so nearly met that we thought we might be able to get over, and on the extreme left, it seemed possible, by a considerable _détour_, to circumvent the enemy, and get round his flank. we finally determined on the latter course, as, to the right, the slope above the chasm seemed to be steeper than at any other point. after the first start, we had been steering tolerably straight forwards up the centre of the glacier, and were now approaching the _bergschrund_, just under the highest peak of the mountain, at about its most impracticable point. the more direct course would have been to attack it on the right, but, for the reason above stated, we chose the opposite end, so had to strike well away to the left diagonally up the slope. we here first began to suspect that our progress would not be quite so easy and rapid as we had hoped, as the snow became less abundant, and the use of the axe necessary. still we worked away steadily, until, at . a.m., in one hour and forty minutes from the col, we turned the _bergschrund_, and were fairly on its upper edge, clinging to an ice-step which promised to be only the first of an unpleasantly long series. "above us the slope stretched up to some rocks, which continued without interruption to the main ridge, a prominent point on which was just above our heads. the rocks looked quite easy, and it seemed that, by making for them just under the small peak, we should be able to work round the latter, and get on to the main ridge to the right of it without serious difficulty. almer led, and wielded his axe with his usual vigour, but the ice was fearfully hard, and he found the work very severe, as the steps had to be cut sufficiently large and good to serve for our retreat, if need be. after each blow, he showered down storms of fragments which came upon the hands and legs of his followers with a violence that rendered their position the reverse of pleasant. still the rocks kept their distance, and it was a long time before we scrambled on to the lowest of them, only to find that, although from below they had appeared quite easy, they were in reality very steep, and so smooth that it was scarcely possible to get along them at all, the hold for hands and feet being almost nil. the rocky peak, too, above us turned out to be much further off than we had supposed, and, to reach the point on the main ridge to the right of it, we had before us a long and difficult climb up and along the face of the rocks. the prospect was not pleasant, but we scrambled along the lower part of the rocks for a short time, and then almer started off alone to reconnoitre, leaving us rather disconsolate, and walker and myself beginning to think that there was a considerable probability of our francs, after all, finding their way into whymper's pocket. croz did not approve of the rocks at all, and strongly urged the propriety of getting down on to the ice-slope again, and cutting along it above the _bergschrund_ until we should be immediately under the peak, and then strike straight up towards it. he accordingly cast loose the rope, and crawling cautiously down, began cutting. i am not very nervous, but, as i saw him creeping alone over the ice-covered rocks, i felt an unpleasant qualm, which i was doomed to experience several times before the end of the day. just as croz had begun to work almer returned, and reported that things ahead were decidedly bad, but that he thought we could get on to the _arête_ by keeping up the rocks. we passed his opinion down to croz, and, while he was digesting it, we communicated to almer what croz had been saying to us. now, up to the present time no two men could have got on better, nor more thoroughly agreed with each other, than croz and almer. we had been slightly afraid that the natural antipathy between an oberlander and a chamouniard would break out upon every occasion, and that a constant series of squabbles would be our daily entertainment. we were, however, agreeably disappointed, as almer displayed such an utter abnegation of self, and such deference to croz's opinion, that had the latter been the worst-tempered fellow in the world, instead of the really good fellow that he was, he could not have found a cause of quarrel. upon this occasion, although almer adhered to his own opinion that it would be better to keep to the rocks, he begged us to follow the advice of croz, who was equally strong in favour of the ice, should he, on further consideration, prefer that course. croz protested emphatically against the rocks, but left it to us to decide, but in such a manner that it was plain that a decision adverse to his wishes would produce a rumpus. the position was an awkward one. the idea of cutting along a formidably-steep slope of hard ice immediately above a prodigious _bergschrund_ was most revolting to us, not only on account of the inevitable danger of the proceeding, but also because of the frightful labour which such a course must entail on the two men. on the other hand, a serious difference with croz would probably destroy all chance of success in our attempt. so convinced, however, were we that the rocks offered the most advisable route that we determined to try the experiment on croz's temper, and announced our decision accordingly. the effect was electric; croz came back again in the steps which he had cut, anger depicted on his countenance, giving free vent to the ejaculations of his native land, and requesting us to understand that, as we had so chosen, we might do the work ourselves, that he would do no more. affairs were evidently serious, so each of us cried _peccavi_, and, to calm his irritation, agreed, it must be confessed against our better judgment, to adopt his route. almer was more amused than annoyed, and concurred without a word, so the storm blew over; the sky was again clear, and we resumed our labours, which, during the discussion, had been suspended for a few minutes. "the half-dozen steps that led us to the ice were about the most unpleasant i ever took. the rocks were glazed with ice; there was nothing in particular to hold on by, and without the trusty rope i should have looked a long time before trusting myself to move. as it was, i was very considerably relieved when we were all standing in the steps, and croz, again roped on to us, began at . to cut in front. i must do him the justice to say that, so soon as we were committed to his line of march, he worked splendidly, bringing the whole force of his arm to bear in the blows with which he hewed the steps. never halting for a moment nor hesitating, he hacked away, occasionally taking a glance behind to see that all was right. we could not but admire the determination with which he laboured, but the exertion was fearful, and we became momentarily more of opinion that our original decision was the wisest. the slope on which we were was inclined at an angle of °, never less, sometimes more, for the most part of hard blue ice, bare of snow. this was bad enough; but far worse were places which we occasionally came to, where there was a layer of soft, dry, powdery snow, without cohesion, so that it gave no footing, and steps had to be cut through it into the ice below, steps which were filled up almost as soon as cut, and which each man had to clear out with his hands before trusting his feet in them. all the time the great _bergschrund_ yawned about feet below us, and the knowledge of this fact kept us well on the alert, although, from the steepness of the slope below, the chasm itself was not visible. one hears people talk occasionally of places where the rope should not be used, because one person slipping might entail the loss of the whole party; but i never heard a guide give vent to any such idea, and certain i am that had any one of us now proposed to take off the rope and go alone on that account, almer and croz would never have allowed it, and, indeed, would not have advanced another step. it must be admitted, however, that all along this slope, had one of us unfortunately slipped, the chance of the others being able to hold him up would have been very small, and the probability of the party in their fall being shot over, instead of into, the _bergschrund_, still smaller. but, in my opinion, the use of the rope on such places gives so much more confidence, if it is no real protection, that the chances of a slip are much diminished, and certainly a party can progress more rapidly. for an hour croz kept on his way unwearied, cutting the steps for the most part beautifully, but occasionally giving us rather a long stride, where every one held on like grim death, while each man in succession passed. but at last even his powerful frame required rest; so almer relieved him, and went to the front. "all this time we had risen but little, but we were now very nearly under the highest peak, and it was necessary to think of getting on to the ridge; so we at last fairly turned our faces to the slope, and began cutting straight up what appeared to be a great central couloir. unlike most couloirs, this one did not run without interruption to the ridge above, but came to an abrupt termination at a considerable distance below it, leaving an intervening space of rock, which promised some trouble. but we were yet far from the lowest point of these rocks, and every step towards them cost no small amount of time and labour. i have rarely been on harder ice, and, as blow after blow fell with so little apparent result in raising us towards our goal, an inexpressible weariness of spirit and a feeling of despair took possession of me. nevertheless we _did_ mount, and at . , after two hours of terribly hard work (for the guides), we grasped with our hands the lowest of the crags. to get on them, however, was no easy task, as they were exceedingly smooth, and coated with ice. almer scrambled up, how i know not, and, taking as much rope as possible, crawled on until he was _fest_, when, by a combined operation of pulling from above and pushing from below, each of us in turn was raised a few steps. we hoped that this might be an exceptional bit, and that higher up matters would improve. but it was a vain hope; the first few steps were but a foretaste of what was to follow, and every foot of height was gained with the greatest difficulty and exertion. as we climbed with the tips of our fingers in some small crevice, and the tips of our toes just resting on some painfully minute ledge, probably covered with ice or snow, one question gradually forced itself upon us, almost to the exclusion of the previously absorbing one, whether we should get to the top of the mountain, and this was, how on earth we should ever get down again--get down, that is to say, in any other state than that of _débris_. the idea that it would be possible to descend these rocks again, except with a rush in the shape of an avalanche, seemed rather absurd; and at last, some one propounded the question to almer and croz, but those worthies shirked the answer, and gave us one of those oracular replies which a good guide always has at the tip of his tongue when he is asked a question to which he does not wish to give a straightforward response, to the effect that we should probably get down somehow. they were, perhaps, of opinion that one thing at a time was sufficient, and that they had work enough to settle the question of how we were to get up. our progress was unavoidably slow, and the positions in which one was detained, while the man in front was going the full length of his tether, were far from agreeable; while hanging on by my eyelids, the view, seen between my legs, of the smooth wall of rock and ice on which we had been so long engaged, struck me as being singularly impressive, and gave me some occupation in discussing mentally where i should stop, if in an oblivious moment i chanced to let go. but to all things must come an end, and, at . p.m., with a great sigh of relief, we lifted ourselves by a final effort on to the main ridge, which had so long mocked at our efforts to reach it, and, to our huge delight, saw the summit of the mountain on our right, led up to by a very steep _arête_ of rocks, but evidently within our reach. "the work of the last four hours and a half had been so exciting that we had forgotten to eat, and, indeed, had not felt the want of food; but now the voice of nature made itself heard, and we disposed ourselves in various positions on the ridge, which in many places we might have straddled, and turned our attention to the provisions. as we sat facing the final peak of the ecrins, we had on our left the precipice which falls to the head of the glacier noir. without any exaggeration, i never saw so sheer a wall; it was so smooth and regular that it might have been cut with a knife, as a cheese is cut in two. looking over, we saw at once that, as we had thought probable, had we been able to get from la bérarde on to the ridge at the head of the glacier du vallon, it would have been impossible to get down on to the glacier noir, as the cliffs are almost as precipitous as those down which we were looking. on the right bank of the glacier noir towered the dark crags of the pelvoux, crête du pelvoux, and ailefroide, a most glorious sight, presenting a combination of, perhaps, the finest rock-forms in the alps; i certainly never saw so long and steep a line of cliffs, rising so abruptly from a glacier. "at . we started again, almer leading. we had first to cross a very short but very narrow neck of snow, and almer had scarcely set foot on this, when a great mass of snow, which had appeared quite firm and part of the ridge, suddenly gave way, and fell with a roar to the glacier noir below. almer's left foot was actually on this snow when it gave way. he staggered, and we all thought he was over, but he recovered himself and managed to keep steady on the firm ridge. it is true he was roped; but the idea of a man being dropped with a sudden jerk, and then allowed to hang suspended, over that fearful abyss, was almost too much for my equanimity, and for the second time a shudder ran through my veins. this little isthmus crossed, we tackled the rocks which rose very steeply above our heads, and climbed steadily up along the _arête_, generally rather below the edge on the side of the glacier de l'encula. the work was hard enough, but easier than what we had gone through below, as the rocks were free from ice, and the hold for hands and feet was much better, so that there was no fear of slipping. i don't think a word was said from the time we quitted our halting-place until we were close to the top, when the guides tried to persuade us to go in front, so as to be the first to set foot on the summit. but this we declined; they had done the work, let them be the first to reap the reward. it was finally settled that we should all go on together as much as possible, as neither party would give way in this amicable contest. a sharp scramble in breathless excitement ensued, until, at . p.m., the last step was taken, and we stood on the top of the ecrins, the worthy monarch of the dauphiné alps. [illustration: the ecrins (in the centre) from the glacier blanc. by signor vittorio sella. _to face p. ._] "in that supreme moment all our toils and dangers were forgotten in the blissful consciousness of success, and the thrill of exultation that ran through me, as i stood, in my turn, on the very highest point of the higher pinnacle--a little peak of rock with a cap of snow--was cheaply purchased by what we had gone through. close to us was a precisely similar point, of much the same height, which scarcely came up to the rank of a second summit. it could have been reached in a few seconds from our position, but, as our point was actually the higher of the two, and was also more convenient for sitting down, we remained where we were. i must confess to a total inability to describe the wonderful panorama that lay extended before us. i am not one of those happily constituted individuals who, after many hours of excitement, can calmly sit on the apex of a mountain, and discuss simultaneously cold chicken and points of topography. i am not ashamed to confess that i was far too excited to study, as i ought to have done, the details of a view which, for extent and variety, is altogether without a parallel in my alpine experience. suffice it to say that over the whole sky there was not one single cloud, and that we were sitting on the most elevated summit south of mont blanc, and it may fairly be left to the imagination to conceive what we saw, as, at an elevation of , feet, we basked in the sun, without the cold wind usually attendant at these heights. there was not a breath of air, and the flame of a candle would have burnt steadily without a flicker. in our immediate neighbourhood, after the range of the pelvoux, before described, the most striking object was the great wall of the meije, the western summit of which, from here, came out distinctly the highest. the aiguilles d'arves stood out exceedingly well, and, although feet lower than our position, looked amazingly high. almost the only trace of civilisation we could distinctly make out was the lautaret road, a portion of which, probably near the entrance of the valley leading to the glacier d'arsines, was plainly visible. on the side of the mountain towards la bérarde, what principally struck us was a very great and extensive glacier, apparently not marked on the map, which appeared to be an arm of the glacier du vallon, but far more considerable itself than the whole glacier is depicted on the french map. of the extent of the view, and the wonderfully favourable condition of the atmosphere, a fair idea may be gained from the fact that we clearly identified the forms and ridges of the matterhorn and weisshorn, the latter at a distance of miles, as the crow flies, and that those were by no means the most distant objects visible. [illustration: slab climbing. by mr. leonard rawlence.] [illustration: a narrow rock ridge. by mr. leonard rawlence.] [illustration: on the dent du gÉant. by the late mr. w. f. donkin.] [illustration: the top at last! _to face p. ._] "so soon as the first excitement consequent on success had subsided, we began seriously to meditate upon what during the ascent had frequently troubled us, viz. the descent. with one consent we agreed that unless no other route could be found, it would be most unadvisable to attempt to go down the way we had mounted. the idea of the rocks, to be followed by the ice-slope below--in a doubly dangerous state after being exposed all day to the scorching sun--was not to be entertained without a shudder. the only alternative route lay along the opposite _arête_ to that which had led us to the top, and, although we could not see far in this direction, we determined, after very little discussion, to try it. accordingly, after twenty minutes' halt, we each pocketed a small fragment of the stone that was lying on the snow, and, regretting that we had no bottle to leave, and no materials with which to construct a cairn, took our departure at . from the lofty perch which, i fancy, is not likely to receive many subsequent visitors. passing immediately below the second point before mentioned, so that our hands almost rested on it, and also several similar pinnacles, our work commenced. i never, before or since, was on so narrow an _arête_ of rock, and really from step to step i was at a loss to imagine how we were to get on any further. we kept, as a rule, just below the edge, as before, on the side of the glacier de l'encula, along a series of ledges of the narrowest and most insecure character; but we were always sufficiently near the top to be able to look over the ridge, down the appalling precipices which overhang, first the glacier noir, and later, the glacier du vallon. of course, every single step had to be taken with the greatest care, only one person moving in turn, and the rest holding on for dear life, croz coming last to hold all up. in spite of the great difficulty of the route, the obstacles were only such as required more or less time to surmount, and although the slightest nervousness on the part of any one of us would have endangered the whole party and delayed us indefinitely, in the absence of that drawback we got on pretty well. we were beginning to hope that the worst was over, when almer suddenly stopped short, and looked about him uneasily. on our asking him what was the matter, he answered vaguely that things ahead looked bad, and that he was not sure that we could pass. croz accordingly undid the rope, as also did almer, and the two went forward a little, telling us to remain where we were. we could _not_ see what was the nature of the difficulty, but we _could_ see the countenances of the men, which sufficiently showed us that the hitch was serious. under any other circumstances we should have been amused at almer's endeavours to communicate his views to croz in an amazing mixture of pantomime, bad german, and worse french. he evidently was trying to persuade croz of something, which croz was not inclined to agree to, and we soon made out that the point at issue was, whether we could get over this particular place, or whether we must return to the summit, and go down the way we had come. croz was of the latter opinion, while almer obstinately maintained that, bad as the place was, we _could_ get over it, and proceeded to perform some manoeuvres, which we could not clearly see, by way of showing the correctness of his opinion. croz, however, was unconvinced, and came back to us, declaring plainly that we should have to return. we shouted to almer, who was still below, but he evidently had not the slightest intention of returning, and in a few moments called upon us to come on, an injunction which we cheerfully obeyed as, in our opinion, anything would be preferable to a retreat, and croz perforce followed. a very few steps showed us the nature of the difficulty. the _arête_ suddenly narrowed to a mere knife-edge of _rock_, while on one side a smooth wall, some feet in height, fell sheer towards the glacier du vallon, and on the other side, above the glacier de l'encula, the slope was not much less steep and equally smooth. to pass below the ridge on either side was obviously quite impossible; to walk along the ridge, which was by no means level, was equally so, and the only way of getting over the difficulty, therefore, was to straddle it, an operation which the sharpness of the ridge, putting aside all other considerations, would render the reverse of agreeable. however, there, perched in the middle of this fiendish place, sat almer, with one leg over glacier du vallon and the other over the glacier de l'encula, calm and unmoved, as if the position was quite an everyday one. he had not got the rope on, and as he began moving along the ridge we shrieked at him to take care, to which he responded with a '_ja, gewiss!_' and a chuckle of satisfaction. we threw him the end of the rope, and then cautiously moved, one at a time, towards him. i must confess that when i found myself actually astride on this dizzy height i felt more inclined to remain there for ever, contemplating the glacier du vallon, on to which i might have dropped a stone, than to make my way along it. the encouraging voice of almer, however, urged me on, and i gradually worked myself along with my hands until i was close up to him and walker, with no damage save to the seat of my trousers. whymper and croz followed. from this point forwards we had for half-an-hour, without exception, the most perilous climbing, i ever did. we crept along the cliffs, sometimes on one side of the ridge, sometimes on the other, frequently passing our arms over the summit, with our feet resting on rather less than nothing. almer led with wonderful skill and courage, and gradually brought us over the worst portion of the _arête_, below which the climbing was bad enough, but not quite such nervous work as before, and we were able to get along rather quicker. at length, at . , in two hours from the top, we were not far above the well-marked gap in the ridge, between the highest peak and the one marked on the french map mètres, or , feet. there we thankfully left the _arête_, and, turning to the right, struck straight down the ice-slope towards the _bergschrund_. almost every step had to be cut, but, in spite of all he had done, almer's vigour seemed unimpaired, and resolutely declining croz's offers to come to the front, he hacked away, so that we descended steadily, if slowly. we could not see the _bergschrund_, and were therefore uncertain for what exact point to steer, for we knew that at only one place would it be possible to get over it at all, where from below we had seen that the two edges nearly met--at all others the breadth and height would be far too great for a jump. for some distance we kept straight down, but after a time bore rather to the left, cutting diagonally along the slope, which was inclined at an angle of °, and, below us, curled over so rapidly, that we _could_ see the glacier on to which we wished to descend, but _could not_ see what lay between us and it. passing over a patch of ice-covered rocks which projected very slightly from the general level of the slope, we were certain that we could not be far above the _schrund_, but did not quite see how we were to get down any further without knowing whether we _were_ above a practicable point or not. it was suggested that one of the party should be let down with a rope, but, while we were discussing who should be the one, almer cut a few steps more, and then, stooping down and craning over, gave a yell of exultation, and exclaimed that it was all right, and that we might jump over. by a marvellous bit of intuition, or good luck, he had led us to the only point where the two edges of the chasm so nearly met that we could get across. he cut down as low as possible, and then, from the last step, each man, in turn, sprang without difficulty on to the lower edge of the crevasse, and at . the problem of getting off the mountain was solved. "the return from this point was uneventful." a few days later mr moore had an amusing conversation with a chance acquaintance, who made a remark that has since been often quoted. mr moore relates it as follows:-- "at the door of the hotel was standing a young frenchman, with whom we got into conversation, observing that we had just made the ascent of the highest mountain in the country. 'oh,' replied he, 'sans doute, le pic de belledonne'; a rather elevated rigi in the neighbourhood. we informed him that our conquest was not the pic de belladonne, but the pic des ecrins, on hearing which he smiled blandly, never having heard the name before, and, evidently meditating how he might avoid showing his ignorance, finally contented himself with a spasmodic 'ah!' after a short pause, he inquired whether we had been up mont blanc, and, on _my_ replying in the negative, went on to say that _he_ had, about ten days before. we were astonished, as, without wishing to reflect on the appearance of the worthy gaul, i must say that he did not give us the idea of a man capable of such a performance. however, we, in our turn, smiled blandly, and inquired whether, so early in the season, he had found the ascent difficult, and whether he had had a good view from the _summit_. 'from the summit!' said he; 'i did not go to the summit.' we ventured to inquire how high his wanderings had reached. 'mon dieu!' replied he, 'jusqu'au montanvert!' our politeness was not proof against this, so we broke off the conversation abruptly, and retired to indulge our merriment unchecked." the ecrins is now frequently climbed. a new way up the rocky south side was discovered by a frenchman, and is now usually taken for the ascent, the descent being accomplished by the north face which the party that included mr moore went up by and which has just been described. the route is now well known, and thus it is possible to hit off the easiest passages, but the traverse of what is known to the guides as 'the couloir whymper' always requires the greatest care. chapter xvi thunderstorms in the alps the fatal accident caused by lightning on the wetterhorn in has emphasized the curious fact that, except on that occasion, and once before, many years ago, when mrs arbuthnot was killed on the schildthorn, no lives[ ] have been lost in a thunderstorm on the alps. this is the more remarkable when we glance through books on mountaineering, and notice how often climbers have been exposed to the full fury of summer storms, and what narrow escapes they have had. in july , mr and mrs spence watson, with two friends and two guides, made an excursion from the Æggischhorn to the high glacier pass of the jungfraujoch, an admirable account of the day's adventures having been contributed by mr watson to _the alpine journal_, from which i extract the following details. after starting on a lovely morning, the weather changed, and when they got to the pass they encountered a severe storm of wind, snow, and hail. they quickly turned to descend, the snow falling so heavily that they could not for a time see their old tracks. suddenly a loud peal of thunder was heard, "and shortly after," writes mr watson, "i observed that a strange singing sound like that of a kettle was issuing from my alpenstock. we halted, and finding that all the axes and stocks emitted the same sound, stuck them into the snow. the guide from the hotel now pulled off his cap, shouting that his head burned, and his hair seemed to have a similar appearance to that which it would have presented had he been on an insulated stool under a powerful electrical machine. we all of us experienced the sensation of pricking or burning in some part of the body, more especially in the head and face, my hair also standing on end in an uncomfortable but very amusing manner. the snow gave out a hissing sound, as though a shower of hail were falling; the veil in the wide-awake of one of the party stood upright in the air; and on waving our hands, the singing sound issued loudly from the fingers. whenever a peal of thunder was heard the phenomenon ceased, to be resumed before its echoes had died away. at these times we felt shocks, more or less violent, in those portions of the body which were most affected. by one of these shocks my right arm was paralysed so completely that i could neither use nor raise it for several minutes, nor, indeed, till it had been severely rubbed by claret, and i suffered much pain in it at the shoulder joint for some hours. at half-past twelve the clouds began to pass away, and the phenomenon finally ceased, having lasted twenty-five minutes. we saw no lightning, and were puzzled at first as to whether we should be afraid or amused. the young guide was very much alarmed, but claret, who had twice previously heard the singing (unaccompanied by the other symptoms), laughed so heartily at the whole affair that he kept up our spirits." [illustration: on a ridge in the oberland.] [illustration: the second largest glacier in the alps. by royston le blond. _to face p. ._] the position of the party, was, however, by no means safe, yet though i have often heard the buzzing of ice-axes and rocks when in a thunderstorm on the mountains, i have never seen any ill effects from it. a little later another description appears in _the alpine journal_, by mr c. packe, who, during the descent of a peak in the pyrenees, was astonished to hear a curious creaking sound proceeding from behind him. he was carrying various heavy articles at the time, and imagined that the noise was due to the straining of the straps of his knapsack. he presently unslung his load, and was amazed to find a strange buzzing noise proceeding from his rifle, "as though it had been an air gun trying to discharge itself. as i held it away from me, pointed upwards," he continues, "the noise became stronger, and as i in vain sought to account for it, i thought it possible that some large insect--a bee or beetle--might have got down the barrel, and be trying to escape. i held the barrel downwards, with a view to shake it out; but on lowering the gun the sound at once ceased, but was renewed as often as i raised it." it then began to occur to mr packe that the sound was electrical, and he felt sure this was so when he found that his alpenstock had joined in the buzzing. he therefore made a hasty retreat out of the highly charged upper regions. several peals of thunder had previously been heard but no lightning was seen. a violent storm had, however, been experienced in a neighbouring district. that similar conditions may seem delightful to one man and entirely odious to another will strike whoever reads the following short extract from an account of a climb in the pyrenees made by mons. henri brulle. it was translated by count russell for _the alpine journal_, and runs as follows: "another time i crossed the vignemale alone, _en col_, under conditions which made this expedition the pleasantest of my souvenirs. a furious storm was raging. enveloped in the morning in a dense fog, annoyed in the steep couloirs of the cerbillonas by vultures which swept over me like avalanches, just grazing me with their long wings, assailed during three hours by hailstones of such size that they bruised and stunned me, deafened by thunder, and so electrified that i was hissing and crepitating, i notwithstanding reached the summit at half-past four in the evening, amidst incessant detonations. in descending the glacier i got lost in a labyrinth of crevasses, and while balancing myself on an ice-wave i nearly dropped my ice-axe. as a climax, night came on as black as ink, and i had to grope and feel my way down the endless valley of ossoue. it was eleven o'clock at night when i reached gavarnie, almost starved and quite exhausted, but having lived the crowning day of my life." here is indeed mark tapley in the flesh! captain e. clayton relates in _the alpine journal_ an adventure that nearly cost him his life. "on th august last i left the hochjoch haus with gabriel spechtenhauser with the intention of ascending the weisskugel at the head of the oetzthal. the weather for the past week had been very changeable, but when we started at a.m. it was fine and starlight. a german gentleman with two guides and two others with two guides started at the same time. as long as the aid of a lantern was desirable we kept together, but as it grew light gabriel and i gradually drew ahead. as day broke clouds began to gather, and when we halted for breakfast at . a.m. they hung so heavy on the weisskugel that after breakfast, instead of going straight on, we diverged to the top of the rocks leading down towards kurzras, with the intention of waiting a short time to see what the weather would do, and if it did not mend, of going down to kurzras, where a friend was awaiting me. "at these rocks we were overtaken by the single german gentleman with his guides, who had outstripped the other party. before long the weather seemed to improve, the clouds on the weisskugel got lighter, the sky seemed bright to the north, and we thought that very soon everything would be quite clear. the german quickly made a fresh start, but gabriel and i waited to finish our pipes. however, we soon passed the other party, and, passing over a minor summit, where we left the rope, reached the real summit at . a.m. we had heard one or two peals of thunder on the way, but none appeared very close, and they seemed to be getting more distant. the summit was still in cloud, but it did not seem thick, and i thought it would soon blow away. but almost directly we reached the top it began to hail, and we went down a few steps on the rocky ridge that falls towards the langtauferer glacier, to be somewhat sheltered. "here i remember handing gabriel my map to put in his pocket to keep dry, and knew nothing more till i woke to the consciousness that he was lifting me up from where i was lying on the rocks, some feet, i suppose, lower than the point where we had been standing. i was bleeding from a cut on the head, and my right arm was very painful, and turned out afterwards to be broken. gabriel said that he had been knocked down also, but not rendered insensible, and, falling on his hands towards the upward slope, was not hurt. he also said that he was to a certain extent conscious of there having been a sudden glare and explosion, but i knew nothing of it. the german and his two guides, who at the time were just below the first summit, but not within sight of us, were so alarmed at the lightning and thunder, that they turned at once and never stopped till they reached kurzras. the other party, who had not got beyond the rocks where we halted during the ascent, waited there for us, and joseph spechtenhauser, one of their guides, came to meet us and see if we wanted assistance. however, i was quite myself when i came to, which was directly gabriel lifted me up, and the mountain is so easy that my disabled arm was of little consequence. i did not notice any more thunder or lightning after the flash that knocked us down, and the day cleared up to a lovely one. i have every reason to be pleased with gabriel's kindness and attention to me without regard to himself, and very much regret that my accident prevented me from carrying out any of the other expeditions which i had promised myself the pleasure of making in his company." one of the most exciting accounts of an adventure in the alps is mr tuckett's description of "a race for life,"[ ] on the eiger. hardly less stirring is a paper in _the alpine journal_ by the same famous climber, from which he most kindly allows me to give a long quotation, telling of a narrow escape during one of the most appalling thunderstorms that could be experienced. the party were making the ascent of the roche melon, a peak , feet high not far from the mont cenis. the weather was unsettled, and grew worse as they mounted. "proceeding very cautiously through the whirling wreaths of vapour lest we should suddenly drop over upon italy and hurt it--or ourselves--we struck up the 'final incline'--as an american companion of mine once dubbed the cone of vesuvius as we looked down upon it from its rim--and at . stood beside the ruins of the signal and enjoyed a very magnificent view of nothing in particular. as we had plenty of time at our disposal--three and a half hours sufficing for the descent to susa--and the wind was keen and damp, our first proceeding was to search for the chapel, which we knew must be quite close to the summit of the peak; and, about feet lower down, on the southern side, which was entirely free from snow, we came upon a tight little wooden building, some or feet long and high by broad, very carefully constructed, with flat bands of thin iron on the outside covering the lines of junction of the planks, so as effectually to keep out both wind and moisture. opposite the door, which we found carefully bolted, was a wooden shelf against the wall serving as an altar, on which stood a small bronze statuette of the virgin, whilst on either hand hung the usual curious medley of votive paintings, engravings, crosses, tapers etc., not to mention certain pious scribblings. taking great care to disturb nothing, we arranged a loose board and our packs on the rather damp floor so as to form a seat, and waited for the clouds to disperse and disclose the superb panorama that we knew should here be visible. "here i may be allowed to mention that a chapel, said to have been originally excavated in the rock, and subsequently buried under ice or snow, was here dedicated to the virgin by a crusader of asti, boniface by name, of the house of rovero, in fulfilment of a vow made whilst a captive in the hands of the saracens. more recently the present wooden structure has taken its place, and every year, on th august, pilgrims resort to it in considerable numbers. lower down on the susa side is a much more substantial structure, at a height of feet, called the cà d'asti, in allusion to the circumstances of its foundation. the last is a solidly, not to say massively, constructed circular edifice of stone and mortar, some or feet in diameter, and perhaps rather more in height, with a vaulted roof of solid masonry covered externally with tiles, and surmounted by an iron cross. seen from below, it stands out boldly on a mass of crags which conceal the actual summit of the roche melon, and close by are some low sheds, which appear ordinarily to serve as shelter for flocks of sheep browsing on the grassy slopes around, but on the night preceding the festa of th august, furnish sleeping quarters for the assembled pilgrims, who attend mass in the adjoining chapel, if the weather, as frequently happens, does not permit of its being celebrated on the summit of the mountain, in what is probably the most elevated shrine in europe. * * * * * "the roche melon stands just in the track of the great storms which, brewed in the heated plains of lombardy and piedmont, come surging up through the valley of the dora riparia, and burst, hurling and crashing over the depression of mont cenis, to find or make a watery grave in the valley of the arc. of their combined fierceness and grandeur we were soon to have only too favourable an opportunity of judging, for scarcely more than five minutes after we had comfortably established ourselves under shelter, suddenly, without a moment's warning, a perfect _mitraille_ of hail smote the roof above us, tore through the mist like grape-shot through battle-smoke, and whitened the ground like snow. we closed the door carefully, for now came flash after flash of brilliant lightning, with sharp, angry, snapping thunder, which, if we had been a quarter of an hour later, would have made our position on the exposed northern side anything but pleasant. we congratulated ourselves on our good fortune, but were glad to pitch our axes amongst the _débris_ of rock above us and await patiently the hoped-for dispersal of the fog. in a few minutes the hail ceased, the mist became somewhat brighter, rifts appeared in all directions, and, issuing forth, we were amply rewarded by such glimpses of the wonderful view as, if not fully satisfactory for topographical purposes, were, in a picturesque and artistic point of view, indescribably grand and interesting. the extent of level country visible is a remarkable feature in the view from the roche melon, as also in that from the summit of the pourri, where imseng not a little amused me on first catching sight of the plains of france stretching away till lost in the haze, by shouting in a fit of uncontrollable enthusiasm, 'ach! das ist wunderschön!--ganz eben!'[ ] "we had not had more than time enough to seize the general features of the panorama and admire the special effects with their ever-changing and kaleidoscopic combinations, when the mist once more swooped upon us, again to be followed by hail, lightning, and thunder, and a fresh clearance. but this second visitation left behind it a further souvenir in the shape of a phenomenon with which most mountaineers are probably more or less familiar, but which i never met with to the same extent before--i allude to an electrified condition of the summit of the mountain and all objects on its surface by conduction. as the clouds swept by, every rock, every loose stone, the uprights of the rude railing outside the chapel, the ruined signal, our axes, my lorgnette and flask, and even my fingers and elbows, set up "'a dismal universal hiss.' it was as though we were in a vast nest of excited snakes, or a battery of frying-pans, or listening at a short distance to the sustained note of a band of _cigali_ in a chestnut wood--a mixture of comparisons which may serve sufficiently to convey the impression that the general effect was indescribable. i listened and looked and tried experiments for some time, but suddenly it burst out with an energy that suggested a coming explosion, or some equally unpleasant _dénouement_, and, dropping my axe, to whose performance i had been listening, i fairly bolted for the chapel. [illustration: , feet above the sea.] [illustration: on the furggen grat.] [illustration: a "personally conducted" party on the breithorn.] [illustration: packing the knapsack after lunch. _to face p. ._] "we had now spent a couple of hours on the summit, and had succeeded in getting, bit by bit, a sight of most of the principal features of the very remarkable view, with the exception of monte viso, which persistently sulked; so at . , as there seemed a probability of the weather becoming worse before it improved, we quitted our excellent shelter, and, after putting everything in order and carefully closing and bolting the door, sallied forth into the mist, which was again enshrouding the mountain, apparently as the advance guard of the fiercest storm in the neighbourhood, which we had for some time been watching as it swept solemnly towards us down the valley of the dora. "there is a sort of track, rather than well-defined path, down the bare, rocky, and _débris_-covered southern face of the mountain, but in the fog and momentarily increasing gloom of the coming tempest it was not always very easy to distinguish it. still, we descended rapidly, and in less than half an hour had dropped down some feet to a point where, during an instant's lift, we descried the outline of the cà d'asti five minutes below us, just as the edge of the coming hail smote us with a fury which it was hard at times to face. we dashed on--it was a regular _sauve qui peut_--blinded and staggering under the pitiless pelting and the fury of the blast, gained the door of the chapel, which faced the storm, deposited our axes outside, and darted in, thankful again to find ourselves under so good a roof just when it was most needed. "for, if there had been at times wild goings on upon the summit during the morning, they were merely a faint prelude to the elemental strife which now raged around. the wind roared and the hail hissed in fiendish rivalry, and yet both seemed silenced when the awful crashes of thunder burst above and about us. we were in the very central track and focus of the storm, and, as we sat crouched upon the floor, the ground and the building seemed to reel beneath the roar of the detonations, and our heads almost to swim with the fierce glare of the lightning. i had carefully closed the door, not only to keep the wind and hail out, but also because lightning is apt to follow a current of air, and, to the right on entering, at about the height of a man, was a small unglazed window some feet square. opposite the door was the altar, on the step of which i seated myself. imseng took a place by my side, between me and the window, whilst christian perched himself on the coil of rope with his back to the wall, not far from the door, and between it and the window. a quarter of a hour may have gone by when a flash of intense vividness seemed almost to dart through the window, and so affected imseng's nerves that he hastily quitted his seat by me and coiled himself up near christian, remarking that 'that was rather too close to be pleasant.' then came four more really awful flashes, followed all but instantaneously by sharp, crackling thunder, which sounded like a volley of bullets against a metal target, and then a fifth with a slightly increased interval between it and the report. i was just remarking to christian that i thought the worst was past, and that we should soon be liberated, adding, 'how fortunate we are for the second time to-day to get such shelter just in the nick of time,' when--crash! went everything, it seemed, all at once: "'no warning of the approach of flame, swiftly like sudden death it came.' if some one had struck me from behind on the bump of firmness with a sledge-hammer, or if we had been in the interior of a gigantic percussion shell which an external blow had suddenly exploded, i fancy the sensation might have resembled that which i for the first instant experienced. we were blinded, deafened, smothered, and struck, all in a breath. the place seemed filled with fire, our ears rang with the report, fragments of what looked like incandescent matter rained down upon us as though a meteorite had burst, and a suffocating sulphurous odour--probably due to the sudden production of ozone in large quantities--almost choked us. for an instant we reeled as though stunned, but each sprang to his feet and instinctively made for the door. what my companions' ideas were i cannot tell; mine were few and simple--i had been struck, or was being struck, or both; the roof would be down upon us in another moment; inside was death, outside our only safety. the door opened inwards, and our simultaneous rush delayed our escape; but it was speedily thrown back, and, dashing out into the blinding hail, we plunged, dazed and almost stupefied, into the nearest shed. for the next few minutes the lightning continued to play about us in so awful a manner that we were in no mood calmly to investigate the nature or extent of our injuries. it was enough that we were still among the living, though i must own that, at first, i had a fearful suspicion that poor imseng was seriously wounded. he held his head between his hands, and rolled it about in so daft a manner, and was so odd and unnatural in his movements generally, that it struck me his brain might have received some injury. i, for my part, was painfully conscious of a good deal of pain in the region of the right instep, and i saw that one of christian's hands was bleeding, and that he was holding both his thighs as if in suffering. [illustration: monte rosa from the furggen grat.] [illustration: the matterhorn from the wellenkuppe. _to face p. _.] "gradually the storm drew off towards the mont cenis, and, with minds free from the tension of imminent peril, we had time to take stock of our condition. it was a relief to see imseng let go his head and observe that it remained erect; to hear christian say that his thighs were getting better; and to find, on examining my foot, that the mischief was nothing more than a flesh wound, which was bleeding but slightly. my hat, indeed, was knocked in, my pockets filled with stones and plaster, and my heart, it may be, somewhat nearer my mouth than usual, but otherwise we could congratulate ourselves, with deep thankfulness on a most marvellous escape from serious harm. "on comparing our impressions, imseng declared that the lightning had entered through the window, struck the altar, glanced off from it to the wall, and then vanished, whilst christian and i agreed in the belief that the roof had been the part struck, and the flash had descended almost vertically upon us. quitting our place of refuge and repairing to the chapel, we encountered a scene of ruin which at once confirmed the correctness of our views. the lightning had evidently first struck the iron cross outside and smashed in the roof, dashing fragments of stone and plaster upon us which, brilliantly illuminated, looked to our dazed and confused vision like flakes of fiery matter. it had then encountered the altar, overturning the iron cross and wooden candlesticks only feet from the back of my head as i sat on the step, tearing the wreath of artificial flowers or worsted rosettes strung on copper wire which surrounded the figure of the virgin, and scattering the fragments in all directions. next it glanced against the wall, tore down, or otherwise damaged, some of the votive pictures (engravings), and splintered portions of their frames into 'matchwood.' the odour of ozone was still strong, the water from the melting hail was coming freely through the roof, and the walls were in two places cracked to within feet of the ground. in fact, as a chapel, the building was ruined, though showing little traces, externally, of the damage done, so that it is possible--unless a stray shepherd happened to look in--that its condition would for the first time become known upon the arrival of the pilgrims on the eve of th august. "we stood long watching our departing foe, and then three very sobered men dropped down silently and quickly that afternoon upon susa, thinking of what might have been our fate." chapter xvii landslips in the mountains "sir w. martin conway has been good enough to allow me to extract from _the alps from end to end_ the following account of the destruction of elm. mountain falls have a special interest for all who travel in switzerland, where the remains of so many are visible. "the himalayas are, from a geological point of view, a young set of mountain ranges; they still tumble about on an embarrassingly large scale. the fall, which recently made such a stir, began on th september . that day the maithana hill ( , feet), a spur of a large mountain mass, pitched bodily rather than slid, into the valley. "'little could be seen of the terrible occurrence, for clouds of dust instantly arose, which darkened the neighbourhood and fell for miles around, whitening the ground and the trees until all seemed to be snow covered. the foot of the hill had been undermined by springs until there was no longer an adequate base, and in the twinkling of an eye a large part of the mountain slid down, pushed forward, and shot across the valley, presenting to the little river a lofty and impervious wall, against which its waters afterwards gathered. masses of rocks were hurled a mile away, and knocked down trees on the slopes across the valley. many blocks of dolomitic limestone, weighing from to tons, were sent like cannon-shots through the air. the noise was terrific, and the frightened natives heard the din repeated at intervals for several days, for the first catastrophe was succeeded by a number of smaller slides. even five months after the mountain gave way, every rainy day was succeeded by falls of rocks. a careful computation gives the weight of the enormous pile of rubbish at , , tons.' "the himalayas are indeed passing through their dramatic geological period, when they give rise to such landslips as this at relatively frequent intervals. plenty of landslips quite as big have been recorded in the last half-century, and, amongst the remote and uninhabited regions of the great ranges, numbers more of which no record is made constantly happen. the catastrophic period has ended for the alps. landslips on a great scale seldom occur there now; when they do occur, the cause of them is oftener the activity of man than of natural forces. but of a great landslip in the alps details are sure to be observed, and we are enabled to form a picture of the occurrence. when the alps tremble the nations quake; the himalayas may shudder in their solitudes, but the busy occidental world pays scant attention, unless gathering waters threaten to spread ruin afar. of the gohna lake we have been told much, but little of the fall that caused it. eye-witnesses appear not to have been articulate. we can, however, form some idea of what it was like from the minute and accurate account we possess of a great and famous alpine landslip. i refer to that which buried part of the village of elm, in canton glarus, on th september .[ ] "elm is the highest village in the sernf valley. its position is fixed by the proximity of a meadow-flat of considerable extent. above this three minor valleys radiate, two of which are separated from one another by a mountain mass, whose last buttress was the plattenbergkopf, a hill with a precipitous side and a flat and wooded summit, which used to face the traveller coming up the main valley. it was this hill that fell. "the cause of the fall was simple, and reflects little credit on swiss communal government. about half-way up the hill there dips into it a bed of fine slate, excellent for school-slates. in the year concessions were given by the commune for working this slate for ten years without any stipulation as to the method to be employed. immense masses of the rock were removed. a hole was made mètres wide, and no supports were left for the roof. it was pushed into the mountain to a depth of mètres! in , when the concessions lapsed, the commune, by a small majority, decided to work the quarry itself. every burgher considered that he had a right to work in the quarry when the weather was unsuitable for farm labour. the place was therefore overcrowded on wet days, and burdened with unskilful hands. the quarry, of course, did not pay, and became a charge on the rates, but between eighty and one hundred men drew wages from it intermittently. "the roof by degrees became visibly rotten. lumps of rock used to fall from it, and many fatal accidents occurred. the mass of the mountain above the quarry showed a tendency to grow unstable, yet blasting went forward merrily, and no precautions were taken. cracks opened overhead in all directions; water and earth used to ooze down through them. fifteen hundred feet higher up, above the top of the plattenbergkopf, the ground began to be rifted. in a large crack split the rock across above the quarry roof, and four years later the mass thus outlined fell away. in serious signs were detected of coming ruin on a large scale. a great crack split the mountain across behind the top of the hill. the existence of this crack was well known to the villagers, who had a special name for it. it steadily lengthened and widened. by august it was over four mètres wide, and swallowed up all the surface drainage. every one seems then to have agreed that the mountain would ultimately fall, but no one was anxious. the last part of august and the first days of september were very wet. on th september masses of rock began to fall from the hill; more fell on the th, and strange sounds were heard in the body of the rock; work was at last suspended in the quarry. on the th a commission of incompetent people investigated the hill, and pronounced that there was no immediate danger. they, however, ordered that work should cease in the quarry till the following spring, whereat the workmen murmured. all through the th and the morning of the th falls of rock occurred every quarter of an hour or so. some were large. they kept coming from new places. the mountain groaned and rumbled incessantly, and there was no longer any doubt that it was rotten through and through. "the th of september was a wet sunday. rocks and rock-masses kept falling from the plattenberg. the boys of the village were all agog with excitement, and could hardly be prevented by their parents from going too near the hill. in the afternoon a number of men gathered at an inn in the upper village, just at the foot of the labouring rocks, to watch the falls. they called to meinrad rhyner, as he passed, carrying a cheese from an alp, to join them, but he refused, 'not fearing for himself, but for the cheese.' another group of persons assembled in a relative's house to celebrate a christening. a few houses immediately below the quarry were emptied, but the people from them did not move far. at four o'clock schoolmaster wyss was standing at his window, watch in hand, registering the falls and the time of their occurrence. huntsman elmer was on his doorstep looking at the quarry through a telescope. every one was more or less on the _qui vive_, but none foresaw danger to himself. "many of the people in the lower village, called müsli, which was the best part of a mile distant from the quarry, and separated from it by a large flat area, were quite uninterested. they were making coffee, milking cows, and doing the like small domestic business. "suddenly, at a quarter past five, a mass of the mountain broke away from the plattenbergkopf. the ground bent and broke up, the trees upon it nodded, and folded together, and the rock engulfed them in its bosom as it crashed down over the quarry, shot across the streams, dashing their water in the air, and spread itself out upon the flat. a greyish-black cloud hovered for a while over the ruin, and slowly passed away. no one was killed by this fall, though the _débris_ reached within a dozen yards of the inn where the sightseers were gathered. the inhabitants of the upper village now began to be a little frightened. they made preparations for moving the aged and sick persons, and some of their effects. people also came up from the lower villages to help, and to see the extent of the calamity. others came together to talk, and the visitors who had quitted the inn returned to it. some went into their houses to shut the windows and keep out the dust. no one was in any hurry. "this first fall came from the east side of the plattenbergkopf; seventeen minutes later a second and larger fall descended from the west side. the gashes made by the two united below the peak, and left its enormous mass isolated and without support. the second fall must have been of a startling character, for schoolmaster wyss forgot his watch after it. it overwhelmed the inn and four other houses, killed a score of persons, and drove terror into all beholders, so that they started running up the opposite hill. oswald kubli, one of the last to leave the inn, saw this fall from close at hand. he was standing outside the inn when he heard some one cry out: 'my god, here comes the whole thing down!' every one fled, most making for the düniberg. 'i made four or five strides, and then a stone struck geiger and he fell without a word. pieces from the ruined inn flew over my head. my brother jacob was knocked down by them.' again a dark cloud of dust enveloped the ruin. as it cleared off, huntsman elmer could see, through his glass, the people racing up the hill (the düniberg) 'like a herd of terrified chamois.' when they had reached a certain height most of them stood still and looked back. some halted to help their friends, others to take breath. "'of those who were before me,' relates meinrad rhyner, 'some were for turning back to the valley to render help, but i called to them to fly. heinrich elmer was carrying boxes, and was only twenty paces behind me when he was killed. there were also an old man and woman, who were helping along their brother, eighty years old; they might have been saved if they had left him. i ran by them, and urged them to hasten.' "of all who took refuge on the düniberg, only six escaped destruction by the third fall, and they held on their way, and went empty-handed. ruin overtook the kind and the covetous together. "at this time, before the third fall, fear came also upon the cattle. a cow, grazing far down the valley, bellowed aloud and started running for the hillside with tail out-straightened. she reached a place of safety before her meadow was overwhelmed. cats and chickens likewise saved themselves, and two goats sought and found salvation on the steps of the parsonage. "during the four minutes that followed the second fall every one seems to have been running about, with a tendency, as the moments passed, to conclude that the worst was over. then those who were watching the mountain from a distance beheld the whole upper portion of the plattenbergkopf, , , cubic mètres of rock, suddenly shoot from the hillside. the forest upon it bent 'like a field of corn in the wind,' before being swallowed up. 'the trees became mingled together like a flock of sheep.' the hillside was all in movement, and 'all its parts were playing together.' the mass slid, or rather shot down, with extraordinary velocity, till its foot reached the quarry. then the upper part pitched forward horizontally, straight across the valley and on to the düniberg. people in suitable positions could at this moment clearly see through beneath it to the hillside beyond. they also saw the people in the upper village, and on the düniberg, racing about wildly. no individual masses of rock could be seen in the avalanche, except from near at hand; it was a dense cloud of stone, sharply outlined below, rounded above. the falling mass looked so vast that schoolmaster wyss thought it was going to fill up the whole valley. a cloud of dust accompanied it, and a great wind was flung before it. this wind swept across the valley and overthrew the houses in its path 'like haycocks.' the roofs were lifted first, and carried far, then the wooden portions of the houses were borne bodily through the air, 'just as an autumn storm first drives off the leaves and then the dead branches themselves from the trees.' in many cases wooden ruins were dropped from the air on to the top of the stone _débris_ when the fall was at an end. eye-witnesses say that trees were blown about 'like matches,' that houses were 'lifted through the air like feathers,' and 'thrown like cards against the hillside,' 'that they bent, trembled, and then broke up like little toys' before the avalanche came to them. hay, furniture, and the bodies of men were mixed with the house-ruins in the air. some persons were cast down by the blast and raised again. others were carried through the air and deposited in safe positions; others, again, were hurled upward to destruction and dropped in a shattered state as much as a hundred mètres away. huntsman elmer relates as follows: "'my son peter was in müsli (nearly a mile from the quarry) with his wife and child. he sought to escape with them by running. on coming to a wall, he took the child from his wife and leaped over. turning round, he saw the woman reach out her hand to another child. at that moment the wind lifted him, and he was borne up the hillside. my married daughter, also in müsli, fled with two children. she held the younger in her arms and led the other. this one was snatched away from her, but she found herself, not knowing how, some distance up the hillside, lying on the ground face downwards, with the baby beneath her, both uninjured.' "the avalanche, as has been said, shot with incredible swiftness horizontally across the valley. it pitched on to the düniberg, struck it obliquely, and was thus deflected down the level and fertile valley-floor, which it covered in a few seconds, to the distance of nearly a mile and over its whole width, with a mass of rock _débris_ more than feet thick. most of the people on the hillside were instantly killed, the avalanche falling on to them and crushing them flat, 'as an insect is crushed into a red streak under a man's foot.' only six persons here escaped. two of them were almost reached by the rocks, the others were whirled aloft through the air and deposited in different directions. one survivor describes how the dust-cloud overtook him, 'and came between him and his breath!' he sank face downwards on the ground, feeling powerless to go further. looking back, he saw 'stones flying above the dust-cloud. in a moment all seemed to be over. i stood up and climbed a few yards to a spring of water to wash out the dust, which filled my mouth and nose' (all survivors on the düniberg had the same experience). 'all round was dark and buried in dust.' "it was only when the avalanche had struck the düniberg and began to turn aside from it--the work of a second or two--that the people in the lower village, far down along the level plain, had any suspicion that they were in danger. twenty seconds later all was over. some of them who were on a bridge had just time to run aside, not a hundred yards, and were saved, but most were killed where they stood. the avalanche swept away half the village. its sharply defined edge cut one house in two. all within the edge were destroyed, all without were saved. almost the only persons wounded were those in the bisected house. huntsman elmer with his telescope, and schoolmaster wyss with his watch, whose houses were just beyond the area of ruin, beheld the dust-cloud come rolling along, 'like smoke from a cannon's mouth, but black,' filling the whole width of the flat valley to about twice the height of a house. the din seemed to them not very great, and the wind, which, in front of the cloud, carried the houses away like matchwood, did not reach them. others describe the crash and thunder of the fall as terrific; it affected people differently. all agree that it swallowed up every other sound, so that shrieks of persons near at hand were inaudible. the mass seemed to slide or shoot along the ground rather than to roll. one or two men had a race for life and won it, but most failed to escape who were not already in a place of safety. fridolin rhyner, an eleven-year-old boy, kept his head better than any one else in the village, and succeeded in eluding the fall. he saw, too, 'how kaspar zentner reached the bridge as the fall took place, and how he started running as fast as he could, but was caught by the flood of rocks near rhyner's house; he jumped aside, however, into a field, limped across it, got over the wall into the road, and so just escaped.' "the last phase of the catastrophe is the hardest to imagine, and was the most difficult to foresee. the actual facts are these. ten million cubic mètres of rock fell down a depth (on an average) of about mètres, shot across the valley and up the opposite (düniberg) slope to a height of mètres, where they were bent ° out of their first direction, and poured, almost like a liquid, over a horizontal plane, covering it, uniformly, throughout a distance of mètres and over an area of about , square mètres to a depth of from to mètres. the internal friction of the mass and the friction between it and the ground were insignificant forces compared with the tremendous momentum that was generated by the fall. the stuff flowed like a liquid. no wonder the parson, seeing the dust-cloud rolling down the valley, thought it was only dust that went so far. his horror, when the cloud cleared off and he beheld the solid grey carpet, beneath which one hundred and fifteen of his flock were buried with their houses and their fields, may be imagined. he turned his eyes to the hills, and lo! the familiar plattenbergkopf had vanished and a hole was in its place. "the roar of the fall ceased suddenly. silence and stillness supervened. survivors stood stunned where they were. nothing moved. then a great cry and wailing arose in the part of the village that was left. people began to run wildly about, some down the valley, some up. as the dust-cloud grew thinner the wall-like side of the ruin appeared. it was quite dry. all the grass and trees in the neighbourhood were white with dust. those who beheld the catastrophe from a distance hurried down to look for their friends. amongst them was burkhard rhyner, whose house was untouched at the edge of the _débris_. he ran to it and found, he said, 'the doors open, a fire burning in the kitchen, the table laid, and coffee hot in the coffee-pot, but no living soul was left.' all had run forth to help or see, and been overwhelmed--wife, daughter, son, son's wife, and two grandchildren. 'i am the sole survivor of my family.' few were the wounded requiring succour; few the dead whose bodies could be recovered. here and there lay a limb or a trunk. on the top of one of the highest _débris_ mounds was a head severed from its body, but otherwise uninjured. every dead face that was not destroyed wore a look of utmost terror. the crushed remains of a youth still guarded with fragmentary arms the body of a little child. there were horrors enough for the survivors to endure. the memory of them is fresh in their minds to the present day. "such was the great catastrophe of elm. the hollow in the hills, whence the avalanche fell, can still be seen, and the pile of ruin against and below the düniberg; but almost all the rest of the _débris_-covered area has been reclaimed and now carries fields, which were ripening to harvest when i saw them. the fallen rocks, some big as houses, have been blasted level; soil has been carried from afar and spread over the ruin. a channel, feet deep or more, has been cut through it for the river, so that the structure of the rock-blanket can still be seen. the roots of young trees now grasp stones that took part in that appalling flight from their old bed of thousands of years to their present place of repose. the valley has its harvests again, and the villagers go about their work as their forefathers did, but they remember the day of their visitation, and to the stranger coming amongst them they tell the tragic tale with tears in their eyes and white horror upon their faces." chapter xviii some terrible experiences all must have noticed, summer after summer, in the daily papers, a recital from time to time under some such heading as, "perils of the alps," of a variety of disasters to germans or austrians on mountains the names of which are unfamiliar to english people or even to english climbers. many young men, of little leisure and of slight means, develop a passionate love for the peaks of their native land. the minor ranges of austria and germany offer few difficulties to really first-class, properly equipped parties, but nasty places can be found on most of them, and the very fact that they do not boast of glaciers removes the chief argument against solitary ascents. the rax, near vienna, is a mountain which can be reached in a few hours from that city, and while a good path has been laid out to the summit, many other routes requiring climbing--by climbing i mean the use of the hands--are available for the hardier class of tourists. one route in particular, that from the kaiserbrunn through the wolfsthal, appears to be really difficult, and is unfit for a man to ascend alone unless he is a climber of great skill. a terrible experience fell to the lot of a young viennese compositor, employed on the _neue freie presse_, and by name emil habl. he set out by himself to make the expedition referred to, and, having fallen and broken his leg, he managed, thanks to his pluck and endurance, to escape with his life. "despite injuries which made it impossible for him to stand," says a writer in one of messrs newnes' publications, from which i am courteously permitted to quote, "he yet succeeded in conveying himself from the scene of his accident into the valley in the neighbourhood of human dwellings. three dreadful days and three awful nights lasted that memorable descent--a descent which can easily be made in two hours by any one able to walk. it may almost certainly be said that the case is without a parallel in the annals of alpine accidents." herr habl had ascended the rax on previous occasions, and twice before by the wolfsthal. it is the custom on many of the easier austrian mountains to mark the way by painted strips on the rocks. these are sometimes very useful, but occasionally they tempt the tourist into tracks which may be beyond his powers, or lure him on till, at last, losing sight of them, he is induced to strike out a route--and perhaps an impracticable one--for himself. the wolfsthal route up the rax is marked in green, but the paint had worn off in many places, and after a time herr habl could no longer trace it. at last the way was barred by a precipice, but while pausing in uncertainty beneath it, the climber noticed two iron clamps fixed far apart on the face of the cliff, and argued that they must at one time have supported ladders and formed, perhaps, part of a hunter's path. he made an attempt to scramble up the rock, in spite of the absence of the ladder, but when more than feet up saw that it was impossible to scale it. he therefore determined to return, but a loose stone, giving way beneath him, he was precipitated from his precarious hold, and fell with a crash straight to the bottom. this happened at about . a.m., and for a long time he lay unconscious. when he came to himself again he was suffering greatly. "the first thing i noticed," he says, "was a terrible pain in my right leg, my head, and left side; i was also bleeding profusely from several wounds. at the same time, considering the fearful fall i had had, i felt thankful i had not been killed outright. on trying to get up i discovered, to my utter horror, that i had broken my right shin-bone. it was quite impossible to rise. the break was about inches below the knee, and at the first glance i knew it to be a very bad fracture. it was what the doctors call an 'open' fracture--that is, the bone projected through the skin." it was in vain that he shouted for help. tourists seldom pass that way, and it was useless to expect any one to hear him. to make matters worse, the weather had changed, and rain now fell heavily. but herr habl did not lose courage. he writes: "unless i wanted miserably to die a long-drawn-out, hideous death from hunger and thirst, i knew _i must save myself_. i decided not to lose another moment in fruitless brooding, and waiting, and shouting, but to act at once. "i perceived that first of all i must set my broken leg and bandage it in some rough fashion. in spite of the agony it caused me, i rolled over and over the ground in different directions like a bale of goods--a few yards here and a few yards there--until i had collected a sufficient quantity of fallen branches, bits of fir and moss; this strange collecting process took me some hours. the next thing was to tear off the sleeves of my shirt and such other parts of my underwear as i could spare. on my mountain excursions i always took with me a box containing iodoform gauze and cambric; and now these things were more than welcome. "at last, then, i was ready to begin the operation. but, good heavens, what agony! my deadliest enemy i would not wish such excruciating pains as i suffered when setting the poor splintered bone--which, be it remembered, was not broken straight across. the dreadful splinters, indeed, dug deep into my flesh. not regarding the pain (although nearly fainting therewith) i exerted my whole force, and at last succeeded in getting the bone into what, as far as i could judge, was its right position. then i wound the iodoform gauze round it, and over that i put the cambric, the bits of underclothing, and a layer of moss. next in the queer operation came my alpenstock and some boughs in place of splints; and finally i tied the whole together with the string, my hat-line, and neck-tie." during the rest of the day the agonising descent continued, down rocks which were difficult even for a sound man to ascend. as evening approached herr habl bethought him of the need of food, but, alas! all was gone from his knapsack, doubtless left at the spot where the bandages had been put on. to regain this point was out of the question, so berries and leaves were resorted to, to appease the craving of hunger. that night was passed in pain and weariness. the rain never ceased, the poor wounded man was soaked to the skin. the next day, from dawn to dark the fearful descent continued, and was followed by another night of indescribable misery. the morning after herr habl could hardly drag himself a yard, and the temptation to lie down and await the end was very great. still, for the sake of his parents at home, he continued his efforts, though bleeding now from the contact of the sharp rocks over which he pushed himself in a half-lying, half-sitting posture. by four o'clock that afternoon it seemed as if human endurance could bear no more, and for two hours he lay in an awful apathy he could not shake off. then, when all hope seemed over, help came, for he heard the sound of human voices, and this so stirred him that once more he began to crawl downward, though unable to obtain any reply to his cries for assistance. another night passed, and during it, for the first time, he got some sleep. the next morning, he once more dragged his poor lacerated body downwards and at last came in sight of some houses. calling feebly for help, he was delighted beyond measure to receive an answer, and soon he was carried to hôtel kaiserbrunn, and the same evening transported to the hospital at vienna. he concludes his most interesting account by remarking: "i do not think that my accident, terrible as it is, has cured me of my love of mountaineering. but certainly the remembrance of those three terrible days and nights will deter me from again undertaking difficult climbs by myself." [illustration: a glacier lake. by royston le blond.] [illustration: taking off the rope at the end of the climb.] [illustration: amongst the sÈracs.] [illustration: water at last. _to face p. ._] an adventure, having a happier termination, befell some friends of mine in the bregaglia group, owing to the marking of a route with paint. the district was but little known to them, so they were glad to follow where the marks led. one of the party, writing in _the alpine journal_, says: "the descent began by a grass ledge. after a few yards this was suddenly closed by overhanging rocks. françois, who was first, appeared to us to plunge down a precipice. he answered our criticism by pointing to the red triangles. they indicated the only means of advance. it was requisite to go down a dozen feet of nearly vertical rock by the help of two grass tufts, and then for several yards to walk across a horizontal crack which gave foot-hold varying from inches to nothing. nominal support--help in balance--could be gained at first by digging axes into grass overhead; further on hand-hold was obtainable. françois walked across without a moment's hesitation, but we did not despise the rope. this _mauvais pas_ would not, perhaps, trouble younger cragsmen. it came upon us unprepared and when somewhat tired. but to indicate a route including such an obstacle to unsuspecting tourists as a station path is surely rash. a practical joke that may lead to fatal results should only be resorted to under exceptional circumstances--as, for example, in the case of an hotel bore. there can be little doubt that in this instance the milanese section entrusted their paint-pot to a conscious, if unconscientious, humorist; for we found afterwards that he had continued his triangles through the village, along the high road, and finished up only on the ticket office." the following terrible experience did not, it is true, happen to a party of mountaineers, but as _the alpine journal_, from which i take my account, has considered a notice of it appropriate to its pages, i include it amongst my tales. "a distinguished aeronaut, captain charbonnet, of lyons, married a young girl from turin. on the evening of their wedding, in october, , they set out in captain charbonnet's balloon 'stella,' and covered about miles on their way towards lyons. "next morning, accompanied by two young italians named durando and botto, one of whom had made many previous ascents with captain charbonnet, they started again. stormy weather seemed to be brewing, and after rising to a height of mètres they were caught in a current. at saluggia they nearly touched ground, then leapt up again to , and presently to mètres. about . p.m. the balloon began to descend rapidly, and they had some difficulty in stopping it at mètres. [illustration: the balloon "stella" starting from zermatt to make the first passage of the alps by balloon. _to face page ._] [illustration: a moment after the balloon started.] "here they were in dense clouds, and bitterly cold; quite ignorant, moreover, of their position. captain charbonnet made his crew lie down in the car, himself leaning out in order to try if he could catch a glimpse of any point from which he could learn his bearings. the balloon was drifting at a great rate, and nothing could be done to check it. presently there was a shock, and captain charbonnet was thrown to the bottom of the car, by a heavy blow over his left eye. "the balloon rebounded, and dashing across a gully struck the other side of it, and it finally settled down on a steep rocky spur on the east side of the bessanese ( mètres = , feet), just above the small glacier of salau. it had struck the wall of the mountain which faces the rifugio gastaldi, at a height of about mètres ( feet). "the aeronauts reached the ground a good deal shaken and bruised, but none of them, except the leader, suffering from any serious injuries.... their sole provision was one bottle of wine; but they were fairly well off for covering, and they cut up the balloon to supply deficiencies. in the night a violent storm came on, to add to their misery. in spite of his injuries, captain charbonnet kept up the spirits of his companions as well as might be, but towards morning his powers failed, and when day dawned his young wife, a girl of eighteen, had some difficulty in bringing him round. "they started to descend the snow-slope, durando going first, and making steps to the best of his power with his feet 'and with a long key which he happened to have in his pocket.' of course they had neither nails nor poles; and, by a fatal imprudence, they did not tie themselves together, though ropes must have been in plenty in the wreck of the balloon. "presently charbonnet slipped. he was held up by his wife and botto; but a few minutes later he disappeared into a hidden crevasse. the others could see him far below, but as he neither moved nor answered their call, they rightly assumed that he was beyond the reach of any human help, and proceeded downwards. "with infinite difficulty, owing to their utter ignorance of the country, and after another night spent in the open air, they found a path which brought them to the hut under the rocca venoni. thence a shepherd guided them to the cantina della mussa, where they were at first taken for deserters or spies; the lady, it should be said, had been obliged to put on a suit of her husband's clothes, her own having been torn to pieces. "the sight of her hair and bracelets convinced the inhabitants of the true state of the case; a telegram was sent to turin, and a message to balme, and a search party came up from the latter place in the afternoon. captain charbonnet's body was recovered the next day. it was found at the bottom of a crevasse more than feet deep, and completely doubled up; but medical examination showed that his death was primarily due to the injury received when the balloon first struck." the first passage of the alps by balloon was made in september , by captain spelterini, of zürich, accompanied by dr hermann seiler and another friend. they started from zermatt, crossed the mischabel group, passed over the valley of saas, then rose above the weissmies range, and approached the lago maggiore so closely that they were able to converse with the passengers of a steamer. they then rose again and spent the night above the mountains not far from the gotthard. the next day it would have been possible to clear the bernese alps and descend somewhere near lucerne, but though dr seiler, who is a climber and was fully equipped for a descent above the snow line, urged the attempt being made to cross the chain, captain spelterini and his friend, unused to the aspect of the higher peaks, considered it more prudent to descend, and so the expedition came to an end after twenty hours aloft, during which no discomfort from cold was experienced. when an accident happens in the alps involving loss of life, it is not difficult to learn whatever facts may be known with regard to it, but when climbers have a narrow escape from death the occurrence is often hushed up and nothing said or written about the matter. and yet it is just the narrow escapes that furnish the most interesting alpine narratives. amongst them are few more exciting than a mishap on the matterhorn which happened in , and is admirably described by an onlooker, mr ernest elliot stock, in the pages of one of messrs newnes' periodicals, from which i am courteously permitted to quote a portion of the tale. mr stock's party consisted of himself, his sister, mr grogan (the well-known traveller who first crossed africa from south to north), mr broadbent, and the guides, p. a. and alois biner, peter perrin, and zurmatter. an american of no climbing experience, with joseph biner and felix julen, was on the mountain at the same time, and both parties having made the ascent by the ordinary route, were coming down the same way, and had descended in safety to just below "moseley's platte" when the incident which so nearly cost them their lives took place. they were on a steep slope, and the american party was slightly in advance. mr stock writes: [illustration: the matterhorn from the hÖrnli ridge.] [illustration: the matterhorn from the furgg glacier.] [illustration: joseph biner.] [illustration: the matterhorn hut. _to face p. _] "we had been working slowly, and at a slight zig-zag, down this for some feet, only one member of the party moving at a time, and keeping carefully within the steps cut by the leader, when suddenly a flat stone, some inches across, became detached from a small pile either to the side of or directly behind me--possibly loosened by our passage or picked up by the rope as it tautened between myself and peter biner, who came next. peter's cry of warning was echoed by his brother at the tail of the party, and i half turned to see it slipping past on the right. "reaching out with my axe i endeavoured to stop it, but its impetus had become too great. getting upon its edge it rolled and struck a small rock; then jumped some feet down the ice-slope, narrowly missing perrin and 'america,' and struck again upon a larger and flatter rock, when, amidst a flight of smaller stones, it bounded outwards and downwards, striking the leading guide, joseph biner, full and square on the head. he fell as though he had been shot, dragging 'america' after him amidst a perfect shower of snow and stones. julen, who came third, with the greatest presence of mind drove his ice-axe hard and deep into the ice, took a turn round it with his left arm, and, though dragged violently from his steps, to our intense relief held on. "but we were in an awkward plight. poor joseph half lay, half hung, without movement, at the end of some feet of rope, bleeding copiously from a deep gash in the head and another across the forehead caused by his fall; 'america' clung to a small rock projecting from the snow, beating a tattoo with his boots on the ice and wailing dismally; julen held the two by favour of his ice-axe and firmly planted feet only. for a space no one moved, excepting to get such anchorage as was possible upon the spur of the moment, each expecting a rope-jerk, the forerunner of a swift and battered end in the ice-fall of the furgg glacier thousands of feet below. "the guides for a time seemed utterly stunned by the catastrophe, and to all suggestions could only reply with muttered prayers and exclamations. so exasperating did this become at last, with the thought of the man below bleeding to death, if not dead already, that mr grogan, who had vainly been endeavouring to bring the guides to a sense of the position, quietly slipped the rope, and, amid a storm of protest from them, traversed out some distance to avoid a patch of loose stones, and descended inwards again, cutting his steps as he went, till he reached a spot immediately below the wounded man. poor joseph hung with his head buried in a patch of snow, and in an extremely awkward position to reach from above. mr grogan, however, refused to be daunted by the difficulties, and we were treated to a fine piece of ice-craft during his descent." after a little time mr grogan managed to cut a seat in the slope of ice and placing the still breathing but insensible man in it, he bandaged the wounds on his head, and before long had the satisfaction of seeing him recover his senses. with great difficulty, as he was very weak and shaken, poor joseph was helped down the mountain, and at last every one arrived safe and sound at the lower hut. there is no doubt that joseph owed his life to mr grogan's skill, promptness, and courage. had the travellers in the party following "america's" been of the usual type of tourist, who is hauled up and let down the matterhorn, one dare not think what would probably have been the result, for the description mr stock gives of the behaviour of his guides seems in no way exaggerated. i edit this account in sight of the very spot where the accident occurred, and i have made careful enquiries here as to the accuracy of the story, and am assured that it is true in every detail. it is a pleasure to feel that a fellow-countryman should show so brilliant an example to those who were not willing and probably would have hardly been able to rescue their comrade, although to attempt such a task was one of the prior obligations of their profession. to be bombarded by falling stones in the alps is bad enough. to be hurled from one's foot-hold by a flock of eagles seems to me even more appalling. though on one occasion, when on the slopes of a bleak and rocky peak in lapland, in company with my husband, a pair of eagles came screaming so close to us that we drove them away by brandishing our ice-axes and throwing stones at them, i did not till recently believe that there could be positive danger to a climbing party from an onslaught by these birds. it was only a few weeks ago that taking up one of messrs newnes' publications i came upon an account of a tragedy in the maritime alps caused by an attack from eagles. on applying to the editor of the magazine in question, he kindly allowed me to make some extracts from a striking article by mons. antoine neyssel. this gentleman with a friend, mons. joseph monand, was making a series of ascents in the maritime alps with sospello as their headquarters. from here they took a couple of guides and got all ready for a climb on the following morning, rd july. during the evening the amazing news reached them that a postman, while crossing a high pass, had been attacked and nearly killed by eagles. they at once went into the cottage where the poor man lay unconscious on two chairs, a pool of blood beneath him and his clothes torn to ribbons. a few days later he died from the terrible injuries he had received. though much shocked at the sad event, the climbers believed that their party of four would be quite safe, for each man had an ice-axe and some carried rifles. so the next morning they set out, and, ascending higher and higher, reached the glacier and put on the rope. they had forgotten all about the ferocious birds when suddenly, as they traversed the upper edge of a crevasse near the summit of their peak, the leading guide stopped with an exclamation of horror. close to them the ground was strewn with feathers and marked with blood, doubtless the spot where the postman was attacked. they passed on, however, and remembering that they were a party of four, felt reassured. but soon after weird cries came to their ears from below, followed by the whirr and beating of great wings. looking cautiously over the abyss, they saw a fight of eagles in progress; feathers flew in the air and strange sounds came out of the seething mass. it seemed to rise towards them, and in their insecure position on the edge of a crevasse, they were badly placed to resist an attack. the foot-hold was of frozen and slippery snow. suddenly the eagles burst up and around them. the guides immediately cut the rope and each person did what he could to save himself. "wherever possible," says mons. neyssel, "we simply raced over the frozen snow like maniacs. in another moment they dashed upon us like an avalanche. i heard a shot--i suppose monand fired, but i did not: i do not know why. the attack was quite too dreadful for words. speaking for myself, i remember that the eagles struck me with stunning force with their wings, their hooked beaks, and strong talons. every part of my body seemed to be assailed simultaneously. it was a fierce struggle for life or death. strangely enough, i remember nothing of what happened to my companions. i neither saw nor heard anything of them after the first great rush of the eagles. it is a miracle i was not hurled to death into the crevasse. "do not ask me how long this weird battle lasted. it may have been five or six minutes, or a quarter of an hour. i do not know. i grew feebler, and felt almost inclined to give up the struggle, when the blood began to trickle down my face and nearly blinded me. i knew that every moment might be my last, and that i might be hurled into the crevasse. strangely enough, the prospect did not appal me. from this time onward i defended myself almost mechanically, inclined every moment to give up and lie down. "i gave no thought to the guides and my poor friend monand. if i am judged harshly for this, i regret it; but i could not help it. all at once i heard loud, excited voices, but thought that these were merely fantastic creations of my own brain. in a moment or two, however, i could distinguish a number of men laying about them fiercely with sticks, and beating off the eagles." the villagers, having watched the ascent through a telescope had come to the rescue and had saved the lives of the writer and his two guides. his poor friend, however, was dashed into the crevasse, at the bottom of which his body was found five days later. chapter xix falling stones and falling bodies i am indebted to the editor of _the cornhill_ and the author of an article entitled "the cup and the lip" for permission to reprint portions of a paper containing much shrewd wisdom, several accounts of narrow escapes, and withal of a wittiness and freshness that brings to the reader a keen blast of alpine air and the memory, if by chance he be a climber, of his own early days upon the mountains. [illustration: a hot day in summer on a mountain top.] [illustration: a summit near saas.] [illustration: luncheon on the way to the hut in winter.] [illustration: luncheon in summer on the top of a glacier pass. _to face p. ._] the writer, after remarking that even in these days when the traveller, by the purchase of a few climbing requisites, is inclined to consider himself a mountaineer before he has ever set foot on a peak, goes on to say that, in reality, "for the most of us the craft is long to learn, the conquering hard. and in the experience of many there are two distinct phases. there is the time when, flushed with youth and victory, you seem to go on from strength to strength, faster from year to year, more confident in foot and hand, more scornful of the rope which you have seen so often used, not as a means of safety, but as an assistance to the progression of the weaker brethren, until one day your foot unaccountably finds the step too small, or the bit of rock comes away in your hand, or the outraged spirit of the mountains smites you suddenly with a stone, and all is changed. henceforth every well-worn and half-despised precaution has a new meaning for you; it becomes a point of honour to walk circumspectly, to turn the rope round every helpful projection when the leader moves, and to mark and keep your distance; and you begin to catch a little of the wisdom of your fathers. it is not until the slip comes--as it comes to all--that you believe a slip is possible; and were it not for slips the continual advance of cup to lip might become in time monotonous and irksome, and mountaineering nothing but a more laborious and elaborate form of walking up a damp flight of stairs. but when it has come, and there has passed away the result of the consequent shock to your self-esteem, and to other even more sensitive portions of your person, there succeeds a new pride of achievement, and you will have the advantages of the converted sinner over the ninety-and-nine just persons whose knickerbockers are still unriven. furthermore, you will have commenced the graduate stage of your mountaineering education. unlucky, too, will you be if your experience has not given you something more than a juster estimate of your own moral and physical excellence; for your misfortune, if you have chosen your companions aright, will suddenly turn your grumbling hireling into a friend as gentle and as patient as a nurse, and disclose in those who were your friends qualities of calm and steadfastness never revealed in the fret of the valley; while, if you need wine and oil for your wounds, when you reach home again, you will find in the inn some english doctor, asking nothing better than to devote the best part of his holiday to the gratuitous healing of the stranger. [illustration: a tedious snow slope to ascend.] [illustration: a sitting glissade and a quick descent.] [illustration: a glacier-capped summit.] [illustration: italy to the left, switzerland to the right. _to face p. ._] "the form of my own awakening was not such as to require wine or oil or consolation, and indeed, had i spoken of it at the time, would have scarcely escaped ridicule. we had reached the summit of our pass, and the guides and myself had decided that the steep wall of snow on the further side was an admirable place for a glissade. accordingly, we went through the inevitable ritual of the summit, consumed as much sour bread and wine as we could, with unerring inaccuracy applied the wrong names to all the newly disclosed mountain-tops, adjusted the rope and prepared for the descent. unfortunately, we omitted to explain the particular form of pleasure in which we were about to indulge to my companion, who was ignorant alike of mountaineering and the german tongue. the result was simple: the second guide, who was in front, set off with his feet together and his axe behind him; i followed in as correct an imitation of his attitude as i could induce my body to assume; but the novice stood still on the crest of the pass to 'await in fitting silence the event,' and the rope tightened. the jerk, after nearly cutting me in two, laid me on my back in the snow, and was then transmitted to the guide, who was also pulled off his feet and plunged head foremost down. our combined weights drew after us both my companion and the chief guide, who was taken unawares, and both came crushing upon me. we rolled over and over, mutually pounding one another as we rolled; hats and spectacles and axes preceded us, and huge snowballs followed in our wake, until, breathless and humiliated, we had cleared the _schrund_, and came to an ignominious halt on the flat snow below. "this was no very rude introduction to my climbing deficiencies, but before the end of the season i had felt fear at the pit of my stomach. we (that is a. t. and myself) had scrambled up an austrian mountain, and, on our way down, had come to where the little glacier intervenes between the precipice and the little moraine heaps above the forest. the glacier would hardly deserve the name in any other part of the alps, so small is it; but it makes up for what it lacks in size by its exceeding steepness; the hardness of its ice, and the ferocity (if one may attribute personal characteristics to nature) of the rock walls which keep in its stream on either hand, hem it in so closely that i think it must be always in deep shadow, even in the middle of a june day. "here you must cross it very nearly on a level, and then skirt down its further side between ice and rock for a few feet before you come to a suitable place for the crossing of the big crevasse below you; and then a short slide down old avalanche _débris_ shoots you deliciously into the sun again. the crossing of the glacier in the steps cut by the numerous parties who have passed on previous days is an extremely simple affair. but you must not hurry, for a slip could not be checked, and would probably finish in the before-mentioned crevasse. we started, however, in some fear; for a party ascending the mountains favoured us with continual showers of stones of all sizes, and the higher they climbed the more viciously came their artillery. hence i was nervous and apt to go carelessly when we reached the middle of the ice, and here the noise began. i heard a strange, whizzing, whirring noise which sounded strangely familiar, accompanied by a physical shiver on my part and a curious knocking together of the knees; again and again it came, followed each time by a slight dull thud; and, looking at the rocks below us on each side, i saw a little white puff of dust rising at every concussion. then i knew why the sound seemed familiar. i was reminded how, as a panting schoolboy, i had toiled up a long dusty road to a certain down with a rifle much too large for me, in the vain hope of shooting my third-class, and how, as we bruised our shoulders at the yards' range, another young gentleman firing at the yards at the parallel range on the left, had mistaken his mark and fired across our heads at the target beyond us on the right. everything was present: the indescribable whirring of the bullet, its horrible invisibility while it flew, and the grey little cloud as it flattened itself on the white paint of the target. the sensation was horrible, the tendency to hurry irresistible, and but for my companion i should have risked slip and crevasse and everything to get out of the line of fire. but my companion remained absolutely steady; while he poured forth curses in every language and every _patois_ ever spoken in the italian tyrol, he still moved his feet as deliberately, improved the steps with as much care and minuteness as if he were a chamonix guide conducting a frenchman on the mer de glace. i know he felt the position as acutely as i did, for when, a week later, we had to cross the same place under a similar fire, and the third member of the party was sent on in front with a large rope to recut the steps, he turned to me with impressive simplicity, and said, '_adesso è quello in grande pericolo_. if he is hit, we cannot save him.' how long we took to cross i do not know. but when at last we reached the other bank we cast the rope off with one impulse, and, bending under the shelter of the rocks, ran where i had found climbing hard in the morning, jumped the _bergschrund_, fell and rolled down the snow under a final volley from the mountain, and lay long by the stream panting and safe. "i suspect the danger here was far more apparent than real. my next adventure with a falling stone was more real than i like to think of. four of us had been scrambling round the rocks beside the ventina glacier, and were returning to our camp to lunch. by bad luck, as it turned out, i reached level ground first, and, lying on my back amongst great boulders, watched with amusement the struggles of my companions who were about a hundred feet above me, apparently unable to get up or down. they were screaming to me, but the torrent drowned their voices, and i smoked my pipe in contentment. _suave mari magno._ at last they moved, and with them the huge rock which they had been endeavouring to uphold and shouting to me to beware of. it crashed down towards me, but i determined to stop where i was. the roughness of the ground would have hindered my escape to any distance, and i calculated on stepping quickly aside when my enemy had declared himself for any particular path of attack. so i did, but the stone at that moment broke in pieces, and, quick as i was with desperation, one fragment was quicker still. it caught me, glancing as i turned between the shoulder and the elbow, only just touching me, as i suppose, for the bone was quite unhurt. up i went into the air and down i came among the stones, with all the wind knocked out of me, large bruises all over me, not hurt, but very much frightened. [illustration: unpleasant going over loose stones.] [illustration: on the crest of an old moraine. _to face p. ._] "such experiences as this leave no very lasting impression, and might just as easily happen were the party accompanied by the best of guides. but i hardly think that any guide would have been crack-brained enough to take part in two expeditions which taught me what it feels like to slip on rock and ice respectively. the first slip took place during the winter. with one companion i was climbing in a long and not very difficult gully on a welsh mountain. the frost had just broken, and there was more water in the pitches than was quite pleasant. it was very cold water, and my hands, which had been frost-bitten the week before, were still swathed in bandages. hence progress was very slow, and at last my friend took the lead to spare me. he was climbing over a big overhanging stone jammed between the walls of the gully and forming an excellent spout for the water, which was thus poured conveniently down his neck. i stood on the shelving floor of the gully in perfect safety, and watched the shower-bath, which was gradually exhausting him. he asked for his axe, and i, in a moment of madness, came near and handed it up; his legs, which were all i could then see of him, were kicking in the water about feet above my head. what happened next i do not know, but i shall always maintain that, seeing an eligible blade of grass above him, he plunged the adze in and hauled with both hands. the blade resented such treatment, and came out. anyhow he fell on my head, and we commenced a mad career down the way we had ascended, rather rolling than falling, striking our heads and backs against the rocks, and apparently destined for the stony valley upon which we had looked down between our legs for hours. people who have escaped drowning say that, in what was their struggle for life, their minds travelled back over their whole history. i know that my brain at this moment suddenly acquired an unusual strength. in a few seconds we were safe, but in those seconds there was time for centuries of regret. there was no fear; that was to come later. but i felt vividly that i was present as a spectator of my own suicide, and thought myself a feeble kind of fool. had it been on the dru or the meije, i thought, it might have been worth it, but, half-drowned, to plunge a poor feet over the next pitch on a hill not feet high, with a carriage road in sight, and a girl driving in the cows for milking in nant francon! we did not roll far, and stuck between the walls of the gully, where they narrowed. then i arose and shook myself, unhurt. my companion made me light his pipe, which cheered me very much, and we each partook of an enormous mutton sandwich. help was near, for another party of three was climbing in the next gully, and came to our shouts; one ran down to the farm for a hurdle, the rest began the descent. for hours we seemed to toil, for my companion, though with admirable fortitude he supported the pain of movement, had temporarily no power over his legs and the lower part of his body. i could do little, but the others worked like blacks, and just at dark we reached the farm and the ministrations of a welsh doctor, who told my friend, quite erroneously, that there was nothing the matter with him, pointed out a swelling on my face as big as a pigeon's egg, which, he said, would probably lead to erysipelas, and then departed into the darkness. "a fall on ice has something in it more relentless, though, until the last catastrophe, less violent. we had all been victims to the flesh-pots of the valley, and were, perhaps, hardly fit for a long ice-slope, when we began to cut up the last few feet to gain the _arête_ of our mountain. the incline seemed to me very steep, and, third on the rope, i was watching the leader at his labours, half pitying him for his exertions, half envying him his immunity from the ice fragments which he was sending down to me. below me the fourth man had barely left the great flat rock on which we had breakfasted; there was no reason to think of danger; when to my horror i saw the leader cut a step, put out his foot slowly, and then very slowly and deliberately sway over and fall forwards and downwards against the ice. we were in a diagonal line, but almost immediately beneath one another, and he swung quietly round like a pendulum, his axe holding him to the slope, until he was immediately beneath the second man. very slowly, as it seemed, the rope grew taut; the weight began to tug at his waist; and then he, too, slowly and reflectively in the most correct mountaineering attitude, as though he were embarking upon a well-considered journey, began to slide. now was the time for me to put into practice years of patient training. i dug my toes in and stiffened my back, anchored myself to the ice, and waited for the strain. it was an unconscionable time coming, and, when it came, i still had time to think that i could bear it. then the weight of stone in a remorseless way quietly pulled me from my standpoint, as though my resistance were an impudence. still, like the others, i held my axe against the ice and struggled like a cat on a polished floor, always seeing the big flat rock, and thinking of the bump with which we should bound from it, and begin our real career through the air; when suddenly the bump came and we all fell together in a heap on to the rock and the fourth man, who had stepped back upon it, my crampons running into his leg, and my axe, released from the pressure, going off through the air on the very journey which i had anticipated for us all. the others were for a fresh attack on the malicious mountain; but i was of milder mood, and very soon, torn and wiser, we were off on a slower but more convenient path to the valley than had seemed destined for us a few minutes before. but our cup was not yet full. having no axe with which to check a slip, i was placed at the head of the line, and led slowly down, floundering a good deal for want of my usual support. the great couloir was seamed across with a gigantic crevasse, the angle of the slope being so sharp that the upper half overhung, and we had only crossed in the morning by standing on the lower lip, cutting hand-holes in the upper, and shoving up the leader from the shoulder of the second man: hence, in descending, our position was similar to that of a man on the mantel-shelf who should wish to climb down into the fire itself. we chose the obvious alternative of a jump to the curb, which was, i suppose, about feet below us and made of steep ice with a deep and deceptive covering of snow. i jumped and slid away with this covering, to be arrested in my course by a rude jerk. i turned round indignant; but my companions were beyond my reproaches. one by one, full of snow, eloquent, and bruised, they issued slowly from the crevasse into which i had hurled them, and, heedless of the humour of the situation, gloomily urged me downwards. "some hours still passed before we reached our friendly italian hut, left some days before for a raid into swiss territory; there on the table were our provisions and shirts as we had left them, and a solemn array of bottles full of milk carried up during our absence by our shepherd friends; and there, on the pile, in stinging comment on our late proceedings, lay a slip of paper, the tribute of some italian tourist, bearing the inscription 'omaggio ai bravi inglesi ignoti.' we felt very much ashamed. "when the soup has been eaten and the pipes are lighted, and you sit down outside your hut for the last talk before bed, you will find your guides' tongues suddenly acquire a new eloquence, and, if you are a novice at the craft, will be almost overwhelmed by the catalogue of misfortune which they will repeat to you. and so, too, upon us in the winter months comes the temptation to dwell on things done long ago and ill done, and, as we write of the sport for others, we give a false impression of peril and hardihood in things that were little more than matter for a moment's laughter. i too must plead guilty to a well-meant desire to make your flesh creep. [illustration: an awkward bit of climbing.] [illustration: guides at zermatt.] [illustration: a large party for a small hut.] [illustration: au revoir. _to face p. ._] "mountaineering by skilled mountaineers is about as dangerous as hunting in a fair country, and requires about as much pluck as to cross from the temple to the law courts at midday. difficult mountaineering is for the unskilled about as dangerous as riding a vicious horse in a steeplechase for a man who has never learnt to ride. but the tendency in those who speak or write of it for the outer world who are not mountaineers is to conceal a deficiency of charm of style by an attempt to slog in the melodramatic, and i plead guilty at once. "so we think and write as though to us our passion for the hills were a fancy of the summer, a mere flirtation. yet no one has lost the first bloom of his delight in alpine adventure before the element of sternness has come to mar his memory and bind more closely his affections. you find the mildly horatian presence of death somewhere near you, and that at a moment when, whatever your age and strength, and whatever your infirmities, you are at the full burst of youth; when nature has been kindest she has been most capricious, and has flaunted her relentless savagery just when she has bent to kiss you. the weirdest rocks rise from italian gardens, and the forms of hill seem oldest when you are most exultant--immortal age beside immortal youth. yet is it not this, 'the sense of tears,' in things which are not mortal which must mark your alpine paths with memories as heavy and as definite as those inscriptions which tell of obscure and sudden death on every hillside, and invite your prayers for the woodcutter and the shepherd? you too will have seen friends go out into the morning whom you have never welcomed home. there is a danger, sometimes encountered recklessly, sometimes ignorantly, but sometimes--hard as it may be to understand the mood--not in the mere spirit of the idle youth, but met with and overcome, or overcoming, in a resolution which knows no pleasure in conquest save when the essay is fierce, and is calmly willing to pay the penalty of failure. while for ourselves we enjoy the struggle none the less because we have taken every care that we shall win, they freely give all; and for such there is surely no law. while by every precept and example we impress the old rules of the craft on our companions and our successors, how can we find words of blame for those who have at least paid the extreme forfeit, and found 'the sleep that is among the lonely hills'? "the penalty for failure is death; not always exacted at the first slip, for nature is merciful and ofttimes doth relent; but surely waiting for those who scorn the experience of others and slight her majesty in wilfulness, in ignorance, in the obstinate following of a fancy, in the vain pursuit of notoriety. the rules are known, and those who break them, and by precept and example tempt to break them those whom they should teach, wrong the sport which they profess to love. "in this game as in any other, it should be a point of honour for us not to make the sport more difficult for others, and not to bring unnecessary sorrow upon the peasants, who help us to play it, and upon their families. it should be a point of honour to play the game, and, if disaster comes in playing it, we have at least, done our best." glossary alp a mountain pasture, usually with chalets tenanted only in summer. arÊte a ridge. bergschrund a crevasse between the snow adhering to the rocks and the lower portion of the glacier. col a pass between two peaks. couloir a gully, usually filled with snow or stones. crevasse a crack in a glacier, caused by the movement of the ice over an uneven bed or round a corner. firn the snow of the upper regions, which is slowly changing into glacier ice. grat a ridge. joch a pass between two peaks. kamm a summit ridge. moraine an accumulation of stones and sand which has fallen from bordering slopes on to a glacier. medial moraines are formed by the junction of glaciers, their lateral moraines joining. moulin a glacier mill, or shaft through the ice, formed by a stream which has met a crevasse in its course, and plunging into its depths has bored a hole right through the glacier and often into the rock beneath. nÉvÉ the french of _firn_. (see firn.) rÜcksack the bag type of canvas knapsack now invariably used by guides and climbers. schrund a crevasse. (see crevasse.) sÊrac a cube of ice, formed by transverse crevasses, and found where a glacier passes over steep rocks. this part of a glacier is called an ice-fall. index a abruzzi, duke of, adine col, Æggischhorn, ailefroide, , aitkins, mr, aletsch glacier, aletschhorn, avalanche on, almer, christian, , almer, ulrich, andenmatten, anderegg, jacob, , anderegg, melchior, , andermatten, franz, arbuthnot, mrs, arc, valley of, aren glacier, , arlberg pass, arolla, arves, aiguilles d', asti, b baker, mr, balloon (crossing alps), balme, bans, les, baumann, hans, bean, mr, bennen, bergemoletto, bergli hut, bessanese, bettega, biner, alois and p., biner, joseph, , blaitiére, aiguille de, , blanc, mont, , blanche, dent, , , boeufs rouges, bohren, boniface, bonvoison, pic de, botto, bregaglia group, brenner, brewer, mrs, bricolla châlets, bristenstock, broadbent, mr, bruce, major, brulle, mons. h., burckhardt, mr, burchi peak, burgener, alexander, , c cà d'asti, carr, mr ellis, carrel, j. a., caucasus, , , cenis, mont, cerbillonas, the, chamonix, , , , charbonnet, captain, charmoz ridge, claret, clayton, captain, collie, dr norman, constance, conway, sir w. m., , copland valley, croz, michel, , d dauphiné, dent, mr c. t., , , , devas, mr j. f. c., dixon, mr h. b., dolomites, dom, donkin, mr w. f., , , dora riparia, valley of, düniberg, durand glacier, durando, dych tau, e ecrins, , ecrins, col des, eiger, elbruz, elm, landslip of, elmer, huntsman, encula, glacier de l', Étançons, val des, f fellenberg, e. von, ferard, mr a. g., fitzgerald, mr e., flender, herr, foster, mr g. e., fox, mr, freshfield, mr douglas, fürrer, alphons, furrer, elias, g gabelhorn, ober, gastaldi, rifugio, gavarnie, géant, dent du, geneva, lake of, gentinetta, a., gentinetta, e., gestola, glace, mer de, glarus, canton, gohna lake, grass, hans, greenwood, mr eric, grogan, mr, grove, f. craufurd, gurkhas, h habl, herr emil, hardy, mr, hartley, mr e. t., hill, mr, himalayas, , hochjoch haus, hohberghorn, hörnli, horrocks, d. p., i imboden, joseph, , , imboden, roman, imseng, ferdinand, , innsbruck, interlaken, j jones, mr glynne, julen, edouard, julen, felix, jungfrau, , jungfrau hut, k kaiserbrunn, kennedy, dr, , king, sir h. s., koenig, herr, kubli, herr oswald, kurzras, l la bérarde, , la grave, langtauferer glacier, lapland, lausanne, lucerne, lyons, m maggiore, lago, maithana hill, fall of, maquignaz, maritime alps, martino, st, matthews, mr e. c., matterhorn, , , , maund, mr, maund, mrs, maurer, , meije, , meije, brèche de la, , middlemore, mr, midi, aiguille du, mischabel group, monand, mons. j., mönch, montanvert, moore, mr a. w., , , "moseley's platte," mouvoison, mueller valley, mummery, mr, , mürren, müsli, mussa, cantina della, n nant francon, nantillons glacier, neyssel, mons. antoine, noir, glacier, o oetzthal, offerer, j., ossoue, valley of, p palü, piz, passingham, mr, packe, mr c., pelvoux, pelvoux, crête du, perren, h., perren, p., pilatte, col de la, plan, aiguille du, plattenbergkopf, pourri, mont, powell, captain, , pyrenees, r rax, the, renaud, mons., rey, emil, rhyner, fridolin, rhyner, meinrad, richardson, miss, rocca venoni, roccia, family of, roche melon, rocky mountains, rodier, rosetta, rothhorn, zinal, s saas, valley of, sahrbach, schäffer, dr, schildthorn, schuster, mr, schwarzsee hotel, sefton, mount, seiler, herr, , seiler, d. h., sernf valley, silberhorn, skagastöldstind, ski accident, slingsby, mr cecil, , , sloggett, mr, smith, mr haskett-, solly, mr, somis, ignazio, sospello, spechtenhauser, spelterini, captain, spender, mr h., strahlplatten, stock, mr e. e., stockje, supersax, ambrose, susa, t tavernaro, tetnuld tau, tönsberg, trift valley, tuckett, mr f., , tuckett glacier, turin, u uschba, v vallon, glacier du, vallot hut, valtournanche, ventina glacier, vignemale, viso, monte, vuignier, jean, w walker, mr, , walker, mr horace, wandfluh, , watson, mr and mrs, weisshorn, weisskugel, weissmies, wengern alp, , willink, mr, wildlahner glacier, wolfsthal, woolley, mr h., whymper, mr e., , wyss, schoolmaster, z zentner, kaspar, zermatt, , , , , zmutt glacier, , zurbriggen, , zurbriggen, clemens, zurbrücken, louis, zurmatter, printed at the edinburgh press, and young street footnotes: [ ] these are now known as mummery nails, and are often used by climbers. [ ] _true tales of mountain adventure_, pp. and . [ ] or, in modern phraseology, "avalanches." [ ] mountain aneroids generally overstate the heights. the height of gestola is now computed at , feet, and that of tetnuld at , feet. [ ] "good god! the sleeping-place!" [ ] "i am still living." [ ] _above the snow line_, by clinton dent. [ ] _true tales of mountain adventure_, p. . [ ] _true tales of mountain adventure_, p. . [ ] at the moment of going to press, i must note a fatal accident on the mountains due to lightning, namely, the death of the guide, joseph simond, on the dent du géant. this i had overlooked. [ ] see _true tales of mountain adventure_. [ ] "ah! that is really wonderfully beautiful!" [ ] all details connected with this avalanche were collected on the spot, and shortly afterwards published in a volume, _der bergsturz von elm_, by e. buss and a. heim. zürich, . * * * * * typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber: the baloon "stella"=> the balloon "stella" {pg xiv} sufficient to carry of the=> sufficient to carry off the {pg } kaisserbrunn, => kaiserbrunn, {index} transcriber's note: . page scan source: http://www.archive.org/details/alpinefayromance wern . the diphthong oe is represented by [oe]. the alpine fay a romance from the german of e. werner by mrs. a. l. wister philadelphia j. b. lippincott company . * * * * * copyright, , by j. b. lippincott company. * * * * * contents. chapter i.--a mountain home ii.--a morning call iii.--explanatory iv.--the last thurgau v.--the lover and the suitor vi.--at president nordheim's vii.--a new scheme viii.--another clime ix.--the herr president speaks x.--a professional visit xi.--on the alm xii.--the bale-fire xiii.--an outraged wife xiv.--midsummer blessing xv.--a betrothal xvi.--suspicions xvii.--unforeseen obstacles xviii.--a mountain ramble xix.--nemesis xx.--blasts and counterblasts xxi.--a challenge xxii.--an unexpected visit xxiii.--a jealous lover xxiv.--the avalanche xxv.--not all despair xxvi.--the kiss of the alpine fay xxvii.--midsummer-eve again . chapter i. a mountain-home. high above the snow-crowned summits of the mountains gleamed a rainbow. the storm had passed; there was still a low mutter of thunder in the ravines, and masses of clouds lay encamped about the mountainsides, but the skies were once more clear, the loftiest peaks were unveiling, and dark forests and green slopes were beginning slowly to emerge from the sea of cloud and mist. the extensive alpine valley through which rushed a considerable stream lay far in the depths of the mountain-range, so secluded and lonely that it might have been entirely shut off from the world and its turmoil; and yet the world had found the way to it. the quiet mountain-road, usually deserted save for an occasional wagon or a strolling pedestrian, was all astir with bustle and life. everywhere were to be seen groups of engineers and labourers; everywhere measuring, surveying, and planning were going on; the railway, in a couple of years, was to stretch its iron arms forth into this mountain seclusion, and preparations were already making for its course. some way up the mountain-road, on the brink of a hollow whose rocky sides fell away in a steep descent, lay a dwelling-house, which at first sight did not appear to differ much from others scattered here and there among the mountains; a near view, however, soon made plain that it was no peasant's abode situated thus on the spacious green slope. the house had firmly-cemented walls of blocks of stone, and low but broad doors and windows; two semicircular projections, the pointed roofs of which gave them the air of small towers, lent it a stately appearance, and above the entrance there was artistically carved in the stone a scutcheon. it was one of those old baronial mansions, yet to be found here and there among the mountains, simple and rude, half suggesting a peasant abode, gray and weather-worn, but stoutly resisting the decay to which many a proud castle had fallen a victim. the ascending slope of the mountain formed a picturesque background, and high above a huge peak reared its rocky crest, crowned with snow, lonely and proud. the interior of the house accorded with its outside. through a vaulted hall, with a stone floor, a low spacious room was reached which occupied nearly the entire width of the building. the wainscot, brown with age, the gigantic tiled stove, the high-backed chairs, and the heavily-carved oaken cupboards were all plain and simple and showed marks of long years of use. the windows were wide open, affording a magnificent view of the mountains, but the two gentlemen sitting at the table were too earnestly engaged in conversation to pay any heed to the beauties which each moment revealed more fully. one of them, a man fifty years of age, was a giant in stature, with a broad chest and powerful limbs. not a thread of silver as yet streaked his thick hair and fair, full beard; his tanned face beamed with the life and health that characterized his entire figure. his companion was of perhaps the same age, but his spare figure, his sharp features, and his gray hair made him appear much older. his face and the high forehead, already deeply lined, spoke of restless striving and scheming, as well as of the energy necessary for them; there was in his expression a degree of arrogance which was far from prepossessing, and his air and speech conveyed an impression of self-confidence, as of a man accustomed to rule those about him. "so pray listen to reason, thurgau," he said, in a tone in which impatience was audible. "your opposition will do you no good. in any case you will be forced to relinquish your estate." "i, forced!" exclaimed thurgau, angrily. "we'll see about that. while i live, not a stone of wolkenstein shall be touched." "but it is directly in the way. the big bridge starts from here, and the line of railway goes directly through your property." "then alter your cursed line of railway! carry it where you choose, over the top of the wolkenstein, for all i care, but let my house alone. no need to talk, nordheim; i persist in my 'no.'" nordheim smiled, half compassionately, half sarcastically: "you seem to have entirely forgotten in your seclusion how to deal with the world and its requirements. do you actually imagine that an undertaking like ours can be put a stop to, just because the freiherr von thurgau chooses to refuse us a few square rods of his land? if you persist, nothing is left us save to have recourse to our right of compulsion. you know that we have long been empowered to use it." "oho, i have rights too!" exclaimed the freiherr, bringing his fist down heavily upon the table. "i have protested, and shall continue to protest, while i live. wolkenstein court shall be left untouched, though the entire railway company with the herr president nordheim at their head should band themselves against me." "but if you are offered double its value----" "if i were offered a hundred times its value, it would be all the same. i do not bargain for the last of my inheritance. wolkenstein court shall not be touched, and there's an end of it!" "this is your old obstinacy which has so often stood in your way in life," said the president with irritation. "i might have foreseen it; it is far from agreeable to have my own brother-in-law force to extreme measures the company of which i am president." "that is why you condescended to come up here yourself, for the first time for years," thurgau said, with a sneer. "i wanted to try to talk you into a reasonable state of mind, since my letters were of no avail. you surely know how entirely my time is taken up." "yes, yes, heaven knows it is! nothing would induce me to run the perpetual race which you call life. what good do you get out of your millions and your incredible successes? now here, now there, you are always on the wing, always burdened down with business and responsibility. there's where you get the wrinkles on your forehead and your gray hair. look at me!" he sat upright and stretched his huge limbs. "i am a full year older than you!" "very true; but then it is not given to every man to live up here with the marmots and shoot chamois. you resigned from the army ten years ago, although your ancient name would have insured you a brilliant career." "because the service did not suit me. it never did suit the thurgaus. you think that is what has brought them down in the world? i can see you do by your sneer. well, there is not, it is true, much of the old splendour left, but i have at least a roof over my head, and the soil beneath my feet is my own; here no one has a right to order me about and control me, least of all your cursed railway. no offence, brother-in-law, we will not quarrel over the matter, and neither has a right to reproach the other, for if i am obstinate you are domineering. you hector your precious company until they are almost blind and deaf, and if one of them dares to contradict you he is simply tossed aside neck and crop." "what do you know about it?" asked nordheim, piqued by the last words. "as a rule, you trouble yourself very little about our affairs." "true, but i was talking awhile ago with a couple of engineers who were up here surveying, and who, of course, had no idea of the relationship between us; they scolded away at a great rate about you and your tyranny, and favouritism. oh, i heard a deal that was extremely interesting." the president shrugged his shoulders with an air of indifference: "my appointment of the superintendent for this district was probably distasteful to the gentlemen. they certainly threatened an open revolt because i advanced to be their superior officer a young man of seven-and-twenty who has more in his head than all the rest of them put together." "but they maintain that he is a fellow who would shun no means, so it might promote his advancement," thurgau said, bluntly. "you, as president of the company, had nothing to do with the appointment,--the engineer-in-chief alone has the right to appoint his staff." "officially it is so, and i do not often bring my influence to bear in his department; when i do so i expect due deference to be paid to my wishes. enough, elmhorst is superintendent and will remain so. if it does not suit the gentlemen they can resign their posts; their opinion is of very little consequence." in his words there was all the arrogant self-assertion of a man accustomed to have his own way, regardless of consequences. thurgau was about to reply, but at the moment the door opened, or rather was flung wide, and a something made up of drenched clothes and floating curls flew past the president and eagerly embraced the freiherr; a second something, equally wet and very shaggy, followed, and also rushed towards the master of the house, springing upon him with loud and joyful barks of recognition. the noisy and unexpected intrusion was almost an attack, but thurgau must have been used to such onslaughts, for he showed no impatience at the damp caresses thus bestowed upon him. "here i am, papa!" cried a clear girlish voice, "wet as a nixie; we were up on the wolkenstein all through the storm; just see how we look, griff and i!" "yes, it is plain that you come directly from the clouds," thurgau said, laughing. "but do you not see, erna, that we have a visitor? do you recognize him?" erna turned about; she had not perceived the president, who had risen and stepped aside upon her entrance, and for a few seconds she seemed uncertain as to his identity, but she finally exclaimed, delightedly, "uncle nordheim!" and hurried towards him. he, however, put out his hands and stood on the defensive. "pray, pray, my child; you are dripping at every step. you are a veritable water-witch. for heaven's sake do not let the dog come near me! would you expose me to a rain-storm here in the room?" erna laughed, and, taking the dog by the collar, drew him away. griff showed a decided desire to cultivate an acquaintance with the visitor, which in his dripping condition would hardly have been agreeable. in fact, his young mistress did not look much better; the mountain-shoes which shod her little feet very clumsily, her skirt of some dark woollen stuff, kilted high, and her little black beaver hat, were all dripping wet. she seemed to care very little about it, however, as she tossed her hat upon a chair and stroked back her damp curls. the girl resembled her father very slightly; her blue eyes and fair hair she had inherited from him, but otherwise there existed not the smallest likeness between the freiherr's giant proportions and good-humoured but rather expressionless features and the girl of sixteen, who, lithe and slender as a gazelle, revealed, in spite of her stormy entrance, an unconscious grace in every movement. her face was rosy with the freshness of youth; it could not be called beautiful, at least not yet: the features were still too childish and undeveloped, and there was an expression bordering on waywardness about the small mouth. her eyes, it is true, were beautiful, reminding one in their blue depths of the colour of the mountain-lakes. her hair, confined neither by ribbon nor by net, and dishevelled by the wind, hung about her shoulders in thick masses of curls. she certainly did not look as if she belonged in a drawing-room, she was rather the personification of a fresh spring rain. "are you afraid of a few rain-drops, uncle nordheim?" she asked. "what would have become of you in the rain-spout to which we were exposed just now? i did not mind it much, but my companion----" "why, i should have thought griff's shaggy hide accustomed to such drenchings," the freiherr interposed. "griff? oh, i had left him as usual at the sennerin's hut; he cannot climb, and from there one must rival the chamois. i mean the stranger whom i met on the way. he had strayed from the path, and could not find his way down in the mist; if i had not met him, he would be on the wolkenstein at this moment." "yes, these city men," said thurgau,--"they come up here with huge mountain-staffs, and in brand-new travelling-suits, and behave as if our alpine peaks were mere child's play; but at the first shower they creep into a rift in the rocks and catch cold. i suppose the fine fellow was in a terrible fright when the storm came up?" erna shook her head, but a frown appeared on her forehead. "no, he was not afraid; he stayed beside me with entire composure while the lightning and rain were at their worst, and in our descent he showed himself courageous, although it was evident he was quite unused to that sort of thing. but he is an odious creature. he laughed when i told him of the mountain-sprite who sends the avalanches down into the valley every winter, and when i grew angry he observed, with much condescension, 'true, this is the atmosphere for superstition; i had forgotten that.' i wished the mountain-sprite would roll an avalanche down upon his head on the spot, and i told him so." "you said that to a stranger whom you had met for the first time?" asked the president, who had hitherto listened in silence, with an air of surprise. erna tossed her head: "of course i did! we could not endure him, could we, griff? you growled at him when he reached the sennerin's hut with me, and you were right,--good dog! but now i really must change my wet clothes; uncle nordheim will else catch cold from merely having me near him." she hurried off as quickly as she had come; griff tried to follow her, but the door was shut in his face, and so he decided upon another course. he shook from his shaggy hide a shower of drops in every direction, and lay down at his master's feet. nordheim took out his pocket-handkerchief and ostentatiously brushed with it his black coat, although not a drop had reached it. "forgive me, brother-in-law; i must say that the way in which you allow your daughter to grow up is inexcusable." "what?" asked thurgau, apparently extremely surprised that any one could possibly find anything to object to in his child. "what is the matter with the girl?" "everything, i should say, that could be the matter with a fräulein von thurgau. what a scene we have just witnessed! and you allow her to wander about the mountains alone for hours, making acquaintance with any tourist she may chance to meet." "pshaw! she is but a child!" "at sixteen? it was a great misfortune for her to lose her mother so early, and since then you have positively let her run wild. of course when a young girl grows up under such circumstances, without instruction, without education----" "you are mistaken," the freiherr interrupted him. "when i removed to wolkenstein court, after the death of my wife, i brought with me a tutor, the old magister, who died last spring. erna had instruction from him, and _i_ have brought her up. she is just what i wished her to be; we have no use up here for such a delicate hot-house plant as your alice. my girl is healthy in body and mind; she has grown up free as a bird of the air, and she shall stay so. if you call that running wild, so be it, for aught i care! my child suits me." "perhaps so, but you will not always be the sole ruling force in her life. if erna should marry----" "mar--ry?" thurgau repeated in dismay. "certainly, you must expect her to have lovers, sooner or later." "the fellow who dares to present himself as such shall have a lesson from me that he'll remember!" roared the freiherr in a rage. "you bid fair to be an amiable father-in-law," said nordheim, dryly. "i should suppose it was a girl's destiny to marry. do you imagine i shall require my alice to remain unmarried because she is my only daughter?" "that is very different," said thurgau, slowly, "a very different thing. you may love your daughter,--you probably do love her,--but you could give her to some one else with a light heart. i have nothing on god's earth save my child; she is all that is left to me, and i will not give her up at any price. only let the gentlemen to whom you allude come here as suitors; i will send them home again after a fashion that shall make them forget the way hither." the president's smile was that of the cold compassion bestowed upon the folly of a child. "if you continue faithful to your educational theories you will have no cause to fear," he said, rising. "one thing more: alice arrives at heilborn to-morrow morning, where i shall await her; the physician has ordered her the baths there, and the mountain-air." "no human being could ever get well and strong in that elegant and tiresome haunt of fashion," thurgau declared, contemptuously. "you ought to send the girl up here, where she would have the mountain-air at first hand." nordheim's glance wandered about the apartment, and rested with an unmistakable expression upon the sleeping griff; finally he looked at his brother-in-law: "you are very kind, but we must adhere to the physician's prescriptions. shall we not see you in the course of a day or two?" "of course; heilborn is hardly two miles away," said the freiherr, who failed to perceive the cold, forced nature of his brother-in-law's invitation. "i shall certainly come over and bring erna." he rose to conduct his guest to his conveyance; the difference of opinion to which he had just given such striking expression was in his eyes no obstacle to their friendly relations as kinsmen, and he bade his brother-in-law farewell with all the frank cordiality native to him. erna too came fluttering down-stairs like a bird, and all three went out of the house together. the mountain-wagon which had brought the president to wolkenstein court a couple of hours previously--not without some difficulty in the absence of any good road--drove into the court-yard, and at the same moment a young man made his appearance beneath the gate-way and approached the master of the house. "good-day, doctor," cried the freiherr in his jovial tones, whilst erna, with the ease and freedom of a child, offered the new-comer her hand. turning to his brother-in-law, thurgau added: "this is our Æsculapius and physician-in-ordinary. you ought to put your alice under his care; the man understands his business." nordheim, who had observed with evident displeasure his niece's familiar greeting of the young doctor, touched his hat carelessly, and scarcely honoured the stranger, whose bow was somewhat awkward, with a glance. he shook hands with his brother-in-law, kissed erna on the forehead, and got into the vehicle, which immediately rolled away. "now come in, dr. reinsfeld," said the freiherr, who did not apparently regret this departure. "but it occurs to me that you do not know my brother-in-law,--the gentleman who has just driven off." "president nordheim,--i am aware," replied reinsfeld, looking after the vehicle, which was vanishing at a turn in the road. "extraordinary," muttered thurgau. "everybody knows him, and yet he has not been here for years. it is exactly as if some potentate were driving through the mountains." he went into the house; the young physician hesitated a moment before following him, and looked round for erna; but she was standing on the low wall that encircled the court-yard, looking after the conveyance as with some difficulty it drove down the mountain. dr. reinsfeld was about twenty-seven years old; he did not possess the freiherr's gigantic proportions, but his figure was fine, and powerfully knit. he certainly was not handsome, rather the contrary, but there was an undeniable charm in the honest, trustful gaze of his blue eyes and in his face, which carried written on its brow kindness of heart. the young man's manners and bearing, it is true, betrayed entire unfamiliarity with the forms of society, and there was much to be desired in his attire. his gray mountain-jacket and his old beaver hat had seen many a day of tempest and rain, and his heavy mountain-shoes, their soles well studded with nails, showed abundant traces of the muddy mountain-paths. they bore testimony to the fact that the doctor did not possess even a mountain-pony for his visits to his patients,--he went on foot wherever duty called him. "well, how are you, herr baron?" he asked when the two men were seated opposite each other in the room. "all right again? no recurrence of the last attack?" "all right," said thurgau, with a laugh. "i cannot understand why you should make so much of a little dizzy turn. such a constitution as mine does not give gentlemen of your profession much to do." "we must not make too light of the matter. at your years you must be prudent," said the young physician. "i hope nothing will come of it, if you only follow my advice,--avoid all excitement, and diet yourself to a degree. i wrote it all down for you." "yes, you did, but i shall not pay it any attention," the freiherr said, pleasantly, leaning back in his arm-chair. "but, herr von thurgau----" "let me alone, doctor! the life that you prescribe for me would be no life at all. i take care of myself! i, accustomed as i am to follow a chamois to the topmost peak of our mountains without any heed of the sun's heat or the winter's snow,--always the first if there is any peril to be encountered,--i give up hunting, drink water, and avoid all agitation like a nervous old maid! nonsense! i've no idea of anything of the kind." "i did not conceal from you the grave nature of your attack, nor that it might have dangerous consequences." "i don't care! man cannot balk his destiny, and i never was made for such a pitiable existence as you would have me lead. i prefer a quick, happy death." reinsfeld looked thoughtful, and said, in an undertone, "in fact, you are right. baron, but----" he got no further, for thurgau burst into a loud laugh. "now, that's what i call a conscientious physician! when his patient declares that he cares not a snap for his prescriptions, he says 'you are right!' yes, i am right; you see it yourself." the doctor would have protested against this interpretation of his words, but thurgau only laughed more loudly, and erna made her appearance with griff, her inseparable companion. "uncle nordheim is safe across the bridge, although it was half flooded," she said. "the engineers all rushed to his assistance and helped to draw the carriage across, after which they drew up in line on each side and bowed profoundly." she mimicked comically the reverential demeanour of the officials, but the freiherr shrugged his shoulders impatiently. "fine fellows those! they abuse my brother-in-law in every way behind his back, but as soon as he comes in sight they bow down to the ground. no wonder the man is arrogant." "papa," said erna, who had been standing beside her father's chair, and who now put her arm around his neck, "i do not think uncle nordheim likes me: he was so cold and formal." "that is his way," said thurgau, drawing her towards him. "but he has a great deal of fault to find with you, you romp." "with fräulein erna?" asked reinsfeld, with as much astonishment and indignation in look and tone as if the matter in question had been high treason. "yes; she ought to conduct herself like a fräulein von thurgau. oh, yes, child, awhile ago he offered to have you come to him to be trained for society with his alice by all sorts of governesses! what do you say to such an arrangement?" "i do not want to go to my uncle, papa. i will never go away from you. i mean to stay at wolkenstein court as long as i live." "i knew it!" said the freiherr, triumphantly. "and they insist that you will marry some day,--go off with a perfect stranger and leave your father alone in his old age! we know better, eh, erna? we two belong together and we will stay together." he stroked his child's curls with a tenderness pathetic in the bluff, stalwart man, and erna nestled close to him with passionate ardour. it was plain to see that they belonged together; each was devoted to the other, heart and soul. chapter ii. a morning call. "well, herr superintendent, you are at your post already? it is one of difficulty and responsibility, especially for a man of your years, but i hope nevertheless that you are quite competent to fulfil its duties." the young man to whom president nordheim addressed these words bowed respectfully, but in no wise humbly, as he replied, "i am perfectly aware that i must show myself worthy of the distinction which i owe principally to your influence in my behalf, herr president." "yes, there was much against you," said nordheim. "first of all, your youth, which was regarded as an obstacle by those in authority, the rather that older and more experienced applicants look upon their rejection as an offence, and finally there was a decided opposition to my interference in your favour. i need not tell you that you must take all these things into account; they will make your position far from an easy one." "i am prepared for that," elmhorst replied, quietly, "and i shall not yield a jot to the hostility of my fellow-workers. i have hitherto, herr president, had no opportunity to express my gratitude to you save by words; i trust i shall be able to show it by deeds at some future time." his answer seemed to please the president, and, far more graciously than was his wont, he signed to his favourite to sit down,--for such elmhorst was already considered in circles that were quite conscious of the value of the president's preference. the young superintendent-engineer, who, upon this official visit, wore, of course, the livery of the company, was extremely attractive in appearance, tall and slender, with regular, decided features, to which a complexion browned by the sun, and a dark beard and moustache, lent a manly air. thick brown hair was parted above a broad brow which betokened keen intelligence, and the eyes would have been extremely fine had they not been so cold and grave in expression. they might observe keenly, and perhaps flash with pride and energy, but they could hardly light up with enthusiasm, or glow with the warmer impulses of the heart; there was no youthful fire in their dark depths. the man's manner was simple and calm, perfectly respectful to his superior, but without a shadow of servility. "i am not quite satisfied with what i see here," nordheim began again. "the men are taking a great deal of time for the preliminary work, and i doubt if we can begin the construction next year; there is no display of eagerness or energy. i begin to fear that we have made a mistake in putting ourselves into the hands of this engineer-in-chief." "he is considered a first-class authority," elmhorst interposed. "true, but he has grown old, physically and mentally, and such a work as this demands the full vigor of manhood,--a famous name is not all that is required. the undertaking depends greatly upon the conductors of the individual sections, and your section is one of the most important on the entire line." "the most important, i think. we have every possible natural obstacle to overcome here; i am afraid we shall not always succeed, even with the most exact calculations." "my opinion precisely; the post requires a man capable of calculating upon the unforeseen, and ready in an emergency to lend a hand himself. i therefore nominated you, and carried through your appointment, in spite of all opposition; it is for you to justify my confidence in you." "i will justify it," was the decided reply. "you shall not find yourself mistaken in me, herr president." "i am seldom deceived in men," said nordheim, with a searching glance at the young man's countenance, "and of your technical capacity you have given proof sufficient. your plan for bridging over the wolkenstein chasm shows genius." "herr president----" "no need to disclaim my praise, i am usually very chary of it; as a former engineer i can judge of such matters, and i repeat, your plan shows genius." "and yet for a long time it was not only not accepted, it was entirely disregarded," said elmhorst, with some bitterness. "had i not conceived the happy idea of requesting a personal interview with you, at which i explained my plans to you, they never would have been accorded the slightest notice." "possibly not; talent out at elbows, with difficulty finds a hearing; 'tis the way of the world, and one from which i, myself, suffered in my youth. but one conquers in the end, and you come off conqueror with your present position. i shall know how to maintain you in it if you do your duty. the rest is your own affair." he rose, and waved his hand in token of dismissal. elmhorst also rose, but lingered a moment; "may i make a request?" "certainly; what is it?" "a few weeks ago i had the honour in the city of seeing fräulein alice nordheim, and of being hastily presented to her as she was getting into the carriage with you. she is now, i hear, in heilborn,--may i be permitted to inquire personally after her health?" nordheim was startled, and scanned the bold petitioner keenly. he was wont to have none save business relations with his officials, and was considered very exclusive in his choice of associates, and here was this young man, only a simple engineer a short time previously, asking a favour which signified neither more nor less than the _entrée_ of the house of the all-powerful president. it seemed to him a little strong; he frowned and said in a very cold tone, "your request is a rather bold one, herr--elmhorst." "i know it, but fortune favours the bold." the words might have offended another patron, but not the man to whom they were spoken. influential millionaire as he was, nordheim had enough of flattery and servility, and despised both from the bottom of his soul. this quiet self-possession, not a whit destroyed by his presence, impressed him; he felt it was something akin to his own nature. 'fortune favours the bold!' it had been his own maxim by which he had mounted the social ladder, and this elmhorst looked as if he never would be content with remaining on its lower rounds. the frown vanished from his brow, but his eyes remained fixed upon the young engineer's face as if to read his very soul,--his most secret thoughts. after a pause of a few seconds he said, slowly, "we will admit the proverb to be right this time. come!" in elmhorst's eyes there was a flash of triumph; he bowed low, and followed nordheim through several rooms to the other wing of the house. nordheim was occupying one of the most beautiful and elegant villas in the fashionable spa. half hidden by the green shade of the shrubberies, it enjoyed a charming prospect of the mountain-range, and its interior was wanting in none of the luxuries to which spoiled and wealthy guests are accustomed. in the drawing-room the glass door alone was open, the jalousies were closed to keep out the glare of sunlight, and in the cool, darkened room sat two ladies. the elder, who held a book, and was apparently reading, was no longer young. her dress, from the lace cap covering her gray hair to the hem of her dark silk gown, was scrupulously neat, and she sat up stiff and cool and elegant, an embodiment of the rules of etiquette. the younger, a girl of sixteen at most, a delicate, pale, frail creature, was sitting, or rather reclining, in a large arm-chair. her head was supported by a silken cushion, and her hands were crossed idly and languidly in the lap of her white, lace-trimmed morning-gown. her face, although hardly beautiful, was pleasing, but it wore a weary, apathetic expression which made it lifeless when, as at present, the eyes were half closed and the young lady seemed to be dozing. "herr wolfgang elmhorst," said the president, introducing his companion. "i believe he is not quite a stranger to you, alice. frau baroness lasberg." alice slowly opened her eyes, large brown eyes, which, however, shared the apathetic expression of her other features. there was not the slightest interest in her glance, and she seemed to remember neither the name nor the person of the young man. frau von lasberg, on the other hand, looked surprised. only wolfgang elmhorst and nothing more? gentlemen without rank or title were not wont to be admitted to the nordheim circle; there surely must be something extraordinary about this young man, since the president himself introduced him. nevertheless his courteous bow was acknowledged with frigid formality. "i cannot expect fräulein nordheim to remember me," said wolfgang, advancing. "our meeting was a very transient one; i am all the more grateful to the herr president for his introduction to-day. but i fear fräulein nordheim is ill?" "only rather fatigued from her journey," the president made answer in his daughter's stead. "how are you to-day, alice?" "i feel wretched, papa," the young lady replied in a gentle voice, but one quite devoid of expression. "the heat of the sun in the narrow valley is insufferable," frau von lasberg observed. "this sultry atmosphere always has an unfavourable effect upon alice; i fear she will not be able to bear it." "the physicians have ordered her to heilborn, and we must await the result," said nordheim, in a tone that was impatient rather than tender. alice said not a word; her strength seemed exhausted by her short reply to her father's inquiry, and she left it to frau von lasberg and her father to continue the conversation. elmhorst's share in it was at first a very modest one, but gradually and almost imperceptibly he took the lead, and he certainly understood the art of conversation. his remarks were not commonplaces about the weather and every-day occurrences; he talked of things which might have been thought foreign to the interest of the ladies,--things which had to do with the railway enterprise among the mountains. he described the wolkenstein, its stupendous proportions, its heights which dominated the entire mountain-range, the yawning abyss which the bridge was to span, the rushing mountain-stream, and the iron road which was to wind through cliffs and forests above streams and chasms. his were no dry descriptions, no technical explanations,--he unrolled a brilliant picture of the gigantic undertaking before his listeners, and he succeeded in enthralling them. frau von lasberg became some degrees less cool and formal; she even asked a few questions, expressing her interest in the matter, and alice, although she persisted in her silence, evidently listened, and sometimes bestowed a half-surprised glance upon the speaker. the president seemed equally surprised by the conversational talent of his _protégé_, with whom, hitherto, he had talked about official and technical matters only. he knew that the young man had been bred in moderate circumstances, and that he was unused to 'society' so called, and here he was in this drawing-room conversing with these ladies as if he had been accustomed to such intercourse all his life. and there was an entire absence in his manner of anything like forwardness; he knew perfectly well how to keep within the bounds assigned by good breeding for a first visit. in the midst of their conversation a servant appeared, and with a rather embarrassed air announced, "a gentleman calling himself baron thurgau wishes----" "yes, wishes to speak to his illustrious brother-in-law," a loud, angry voice interrupted him, as he was thrust aside by a powerful arm. "thunder and lightning, what sort of a household have you got here, nordheim? i believe the emperor of china is more easy of access than you are! we had to break through three outposts, and even then the betagged and betasselled pack would have denied us admittance. you have brought an entire suite with you." alice had started in terror at the sound of the stentorian voice, and frau von lasberg rose slowly and solemnly in mute indignation, seeming to ask by her looks the meaning of this intrusion. the president too did not appear to approve of this mode of announcement; but he collected himself immediately and advanced to meet his brother-in-law, who was followed by his daughter. "probably you did not at first mention your name," he said, "or such a mistake could not have occurred. the servants do not yet know you." "well, there would have been no harm in admitting any simple, honest man to your presence," thurgau growled, still red with irritation. "but that is not the fashion here, apparently; it was only when i added the 'baron' that they condescended to admit us." the servant's error was undeniably excusable, for the freiherr wore his usual mountaineer's garb, and erna hardly looked like a young baroness, although she had not donned her storm-costume to-day. she wore a simple gown of some dark stuff, rather more suitable for a mountain ramble than for paying visits, and as simple a straw hat tied over her curls, which were, however, confined to-day in a silken net, against which they evidently rebelled. she seemed to resent their reception even more than did her father, for she stood beside him with a frown and a haughty curl of the lip, gloomily scanning those present. behind the pair appeared the inevitable griff, who had shown his teeth angrily when the servant attempted to shut him out of the room, and who maintained his place in the unshaken conviction that he belonged wherever his mistress was. the president would have tried to smooth matters, but thurgau, whose wrath was wont to evaporate as quickly as it was aroused, did not allow him to speak. "there is alice!" he exclaimed. "god bless you, child, i'm glad to see you again! but, my poor girl, how you look! not a drop of blood in your cheeks. why, this is pitiful!" amid such flattering remarks he approached the young lady to bestow upon her what he considered a tender embrace; but frau von lasberg interposed between alice and himself with, "i beg of you!" uttered in a sharp tone, as if to shield the girl from an assault. "come, come, i shall do my niece no harm," thurgau said, with renewed vexation. "you need not protect her from me as you would a lamb from a wolf. whom have i the honour of addressing?" "i am the baroness lasberg!" the lady explained, with due emphasis upon the title. her whole manner expressed frigid reserve, but it availed her nothing here. the freiherr cordially clasped one of the hands she had extended to ward him off, and shook it until it ached again. "extremely happy, madame, extremely so. my name you have heard, and this is my daughter. come, erna, why do you stand there so silent? are you not going to speak to alice?" erna approached slowly, a frown still on her brow, but it vanished entirely at sight of her young cousin lying so weary and pale among her cushions; suddenly with all her wonted eagerness she threw her arms round alice's neck and cried out, "poor alice, i am so sorry you are ill!" alice accepted the caress without returning it; but when the blooming, rosy face nestled close to her colourless cheek, when a pair of fresh lips pressed her own, and the warm, tender tones fell on her ear, something akin to a smile appeared upon her apathetic features and she replied, softly, "i am not ill, only tired." "pray, baroness, be less demonstrative," frau von lasberg said, coldly. "alice must be very gently treated; her nerves are extremely sensitive." "what? nerves?" said thurgau. "that's a complaint of the city folks. with us at wolkenstein court there are no such things. you ought to come with alice to us, madame; i'll promise you that in three weeks neither of you will have a single nerve." "i can readily believe it," the lady replied, with an indignant glance. "come, thurgau, let us leave the children to make acquaintance with each other; they have not seen each other for years," said nordheim, who, although quite used to his brother-in-law's rough manner, was annoyed by it in the present company. he would have led the way to the next room, but elmhorst, who during this domestic scene had considerately withdrawn to the recess of a window, now advanced, as if about to take his leave, whereupon the president, of course, presented him to his relative. thurgau immediately remembered the name which he had heard mentioned in no flattering fashion by the comrades of the young superintendent, whose attractive exterior seemed only to confirm the freiherr in his mistrust of him. erna too had turned towards the stranger; she suddenly started and retreated a step. "this is not the first time that i have had the honour of meeting the baroness thurgau," said elmhorst, bowing courteously. "she was kind enough to act as my guide when i had lost my way among the cliffs of the wolkenstein. her name, indeed, i hear to-day for the first time." "ah, indeed. so this was the stranger whom you met?" growled thurgau, not greatly edified, it would seem, by this encounter. "i trust the baroness was not alone?" frau von lasberg inquired, in a tone which betrayed her horror at such a possibility. "of course i was alone!" erna exclaimed, perceiving the reproach in the lady's words, and flaming up indignantly. "i always walk alone in the mountains, with only griff for a companion. be quiet, griff! lie down!" elmhorst had tried to stroke the beautiful animal, but his advances had been met with an angry growl. at the sound of his mistress's voice, however, the dog was instantly silent and lay down obediently at her feet. "the dog is not cross, i hope?" nordheim asked, with evident annoyance. "if he is, i must really entreat----" "griff is never cross," erna interposed almost angrily. "he never hurts any one, and always lets strangers pat him, but he does not like this gentleman at all, and----" "baroness--i beg of you!" murmured frau von lasberg, with difficulty maintaining her formal demeanour. elmhorst, however, acknowledged erna's words with a low bow. "i am excessively mortified to have fallen into disgrace with herr griff, and, as i fear, with his mistress also," he declared, "but it really is not my fault. allow me, ladies, to bid you good-morning." he approached alice, beside whom frau von lasberg was standing guard, as if to protect her from all contact with these savages who had suddenly burst into the drawing-room, and who could not, unfortunately, be turned out, because, setting aside the relationship, they were baron and baroness born. on the other hand, this young man with the bourgeois name conducted himself like a gentleman. his voice was gentle and sympathetic as he expressed the hope that fräulein nordheim would recover her health in the air of heilborn; he courteously kissed the hand of the elder lady when she graciously extended it to him, and then he turned to the president to take leave of him also, when a most unexpected interruption occurred. outside on the balcony, which overhung the garden and was half filled with blossoming shrubs, appeared a kitten, which had probably found its way thither from the garden. it approached the open glass door with innocent curiosity, and, unfortunately, came within the range of griff's vision. the dog, in his hereditary hostility to the tribe of cats, started up, barking violently, almost overturned frau von lasberg, shot past alice, frightening her terribly, and out upon the balcony, where a wild chase began. the terrified kitten tore hither and thither with lightning-like rapidity without finding any outlet of escape and with its persecutor in close pursuit; the glass panes of the door rattled, the flower-pots were overturned and smashed, and amidst the confusion were heard the freiherr's shrill whistle and erna's voice of command. the dog, young, not fully broken, and eager for the chase, did not obey,--the hurly-burly was frightful. at last the kitten succeeded in jumping upon the balustrade of the balcony and thence down into the garden. but griff would not let his prey escape him thus; he leaped after it, overturning as he did so the only flower-pot as yet uninjured, and immediately afterwards there was a terrific barking in the garden, mingled with a child's scream of terror. all this happened in less than two minutes, and when thurgau hurried out on the balcony to establish peace it was already too late. meanwhile, the drawing-room was a scene of indescribable confusion,--alice had a nervous attack, and lay with her eyes closed in frau von lasberg's arms; elmhorst, with quick presence of mind, had picked up a cologne-bottle and was sprinkling with its contents the fainting girl's temples and forehead, while the president, scowling, pulled the bell to summon the servants. in the midst of all this the two gentlemen and frau von lasberg witnessed a spectacle which almost took away their breath. the young baroness, the freifräulein von thurgau, suddenly stood upon the balustrade of the balcony, but only for an instant, before she sprang down into the garden. this was too much! frau von lasberg dropped alice out of her arms and sank into the nearest armchair. elmhorst found himself necessitated to come to her relief also with cologne, which he sprinkled impartially to the right and to the left. below in the garden erna's interference was very necessary. the child whose screams had caused her to spring from the balcony was a little boy, and he held his kitten clasped in his arms, while before him stood the huge dog, barking loudly, without, however, touching the little fellow. the child was in extreme terror, and went on screaming until erna seized the dog by the collar and dragged him away. baron thurgau, meanwhile, stood quietly on the balcony observing the course of affairs. he knew that the child would not be hurt, for griff was not at all vicious. when erna returned to the house with the culprit, now completely subdued, while the child unharmed ran off with his kitten, the freiherr turned and called out in stentorian tones to his brother-in-law in the drawing-room, "there! did i not tell you, nordheim, that my erna was a grand girl?" chapter iii. explanatory. president nordheim belonged to the class of men who owe their success to themselves. the son of a petty official, with no means of his own, he had educated himself as an engineer, and had lived in very narrow circumstances until he suddenly appeared before the public with a technical invention which attracted the attention of the entire profession. the first mountain-railway had just been projected, and the young, obscure engineer had devised a locomotive which could drag the trains up the heights. the invention was as clever as it was practical; it instantly distanced all competing devices, and was adopted by the company, which finally purchased the patent from the inventor at a price which then seemed a fortune to him, and which certainly laid the foundation of his future wealth, for he took rank immediately among men of enterprise. contrary to expectation, however, nordheim did not pursue the path in which he had made so brilliant a _début_; strangely enough, he seemed to lose interest in it, and adopted another, although kindred, career. he undertook the formation and the financial conduct of a large building association, of which in a few years he made an enormous success, meanwhile increasing his own property tenfold. other projects were the consequence of this first undertaking, and with the increase of his means the magnitude of his schemes increased, and it became clear that this was the field for the exercise of his talents. he was not a man to ponder and pore for years over technical details,--he needed to plunge into the life of the age, to venture and contrive, making all possible interests subservient to his success, and developing in all directions his great talent for organization. in his restless activity he never failed to select the right man for the right place; he overcame all obstacles, sought and found sources of help everywhere, and fortune stood his energy in stead. the enterprises of which nordheim was the head were sure to succeed, and while he himself became a millionaire, his influence in all circles with which he had any connection was incalculable. the president's wife had died a few years since,--a loss which was not especially felt by him, for his marriage had not been a very happy one. he had married when he was a simple engineer, and his quiet, unpretending wife had not known how to accommodate herself to his growing fortunes and to play the part of _grande dame_ to her husband's satisfaction. then too the son which she bore him, and whom he had hoped to make the heir of his schemes, died when an infant. alice was born some years afterwards, a delicate, sickly child, for whose life the greatest anxiety was always felt, and whose phlegmatic temperament was antagonistic to the vivid energy of her father's nature. she was his only daughter, his future heiress, and as such he surrounded her with every luxury that wealth could procure, but she made no part of his life, and he was glad to intrust her education and herself to the baroness lasberg. nordheim's only sister, who had lived beneath his roof, had bestowed her hand upon the freiherr von thurgau, then a captain in the army. her brother, who had just achieved his first successes, would have preferred another suitor to the last scion of an impoverished noble family, who possessed nothing save his sword and a small estate high up among the mountains, but, since the couple loved each other tenderly and there was no objection to be made to thurgau personally, the brother's consent was not withheld. the young people lived very modestly, but in the enjoyment of a domestic happiness quite lacking in nordheim's wealthy household, and their only child, the little erna, grew up in the broad sunshine of love and content. unfortunately, thurgau lost his wife after six years of married life, and, sensitive as he was, the unexpected blow so crushed him that he determined to leave the army, and to retire from the world entirely. nordheim, whose restless ambition could not comprehend such a resolve, combated it most earnestly, but in vain; his brother-in-law resisted him with all the obstinacy of his nature. he quitted the service in which he had attained the rank of major, and retired with his daughter to wolkenstein court, the modest income from which, joined to his pension, sufficing for his simple needs. since then there had been a certain amount of estrangement between the brothers-in-law; the mediating influence of the wife and sister was lacking, and in addition their homes were very wide apart. they saw each other rarely, and letters were interchanged still more rarely until the construction of the mountain-railway and the necessity for purchasing thurgau's estate brought about a meeting. chapter iv. the last thurgau. about a week had passed since the visit to heilborn, when dr. reinsfeld again took his way to wolkenstein court, but on this occasion he was not alone, for beside him walked superintendent elmhorst. "i never should have dreamed, wolfgang, that fate would bring us together again here," said the young physician, gaily. "when we parted two years ago, you jeered at me for going into 'the wilderness,' as you were pleased to express yourself, and now you have sought it yourself." "to bring cultivation to this wilderness," wolfgang continued the sentence. "you indeed seem very comfortable here; you have fairly taken root in the miserable mountain-village where i discovered you, benno; i am working here for my future." "i should think you might be contented with your present." benno observed. "a superintendent-engineer at twenty-seven,--it would be hard to surpass that. between ourselves, your comrades are furious at your appointment. take care, wolf, or you will find yourself in a wasps'-nest." "do you imagine i fear to be stung? i know all you say is true, and i have already given the gentlemen to understand that i am not inclined to tolerate obstacles thrown in my way, and that they must pay me the respect due to a superior. if they want war, they shall have it!" "yes, you were always pugnacious; i never could endure to be perpetually upon a war-footing with those about me." "i know it; you are the same peace-loving old benno that you always were, who never could say a cross word to anyone, and who consequently was maltreated by his beloved fellow-beings whenever an opportunity offered. how often have i told you that you never could get on in the world so! and to get on in the world is what we all desire." "you certainly are striding on in seven-league boots," said reinsfeld, dryly. "you are the acknowledged favourite, they say, of the omnipotent president nordheim. i saw him again lately at wolkenstein court." "saw him again? did you know him before?" "certainly, in my boyhood. he and my father were friends and fellow-students; nordheim used to come to our house daily; i have sat upon his knee often enough when he spent the evening with us." "indeed? well, i hope you reminded him of it when you met him." "no; baron thurgau did not mention my name----" "and of course you did not do so either," said wolfgang, laughing. "just like you! chance brings you into contact with an influential man whose mere word would procure you an advantageous position, and you never even tell him your name! i shall repair your omission; the first time i see the president i shall tell him----" "pray do no such thing. wolf," benno interrupted him. "you had better say nothing about it." "and why not?" "because--the man has risen to such a height in life that he might not like to be reminded of the time when he was a simple engineer." "you do him injustice. he is proud of his humble origin, as all clever men are, and he could not fail to be pleased to be reminded of an early friend." reinsfeld gently shook his head. "i am afraid the memory would be a painful one. something happened later,--i never knew what,--i was a boy at the time; but i know that the breach was complete. nordheim never came again to our house, and my father avoided even the mention of his name; they were entirely estranged." "then of course you could not reckon upon his favour," said elmhorst, in a disappointed tone. "the president seems to me to be one who never forgives a supposed offence." "yes, they say he has grown extremely haughty and domineering. i wonder that you can get along with him. you are not a man to cringe." "that is precisely why he likes me. i leave cringing and fawning to servile souls who may perhaps thus procure some subordinate position. whoever wishes really to rise must hold his head erect and keep his eyes fixed upon the goal above him, or he will continue to crawl on the ground." "i suppose your goal is a couple of millions," benno said, ironically. "you never were very modest in your plans for the future. what do you wish to be? the president of your company?" "perhaps so at some future time; for the present only his son-in-law." "i thought there was something of the kind in your mind!" exclaimed benno, bursting into a laugh. "of course you are sure to be right, wolf; but why not rather pluck down yonder sun from the sky? it would be quite as easy." "do you fancy i am in jest?" asked wolfgang, coolly. "yes, i do take that liberty, for you cannot be serious in aspiring to the daughter of a man whose wealth and consequence are almost proverbial. nordheim's heiress may choose among any number of freiherrs and counts, if indeed she does not prefer a millionaire." "then all the freiherrs and counts must be outdone," said the young engineer, calmly, "and that is what i propose to do." dr. reinsfeld suddenly paused and looked at his friend with some anxiety; he even made a slight movement as if to feel his pulse. "then you are either a little off your head or in love," he remarked, with decision. "for a lover nothing is impossible, and this visit to heilborn seems to be fraught with destiny for you. my poor boy, this is very sad." "in love?" wolfgang repeated, a smile of ineffable contempt curling his lip. "no, benno, you know i never have either time or inclination to think of love, and now less than ever. but do not look so shocked, as if i were talking high treason. i give you my word that alice nordheim, if she marries me, shall never repent it. she shall have the most attentive and considerate of husbands." "indeed you must forgive me for finding all this calculation most sordid," the young physician burst forth indignantly. "you are young and gifted; you have attained a position for which hundreds would envy you, and which relieves you from all care; the future lies open before you, and all you think of is the pursuit of a wealthy wife. for shame, wolfgang!" "my dear benno, you do not understand," wolfgang declared, enduring his friend's reproof with great serenity. "you idealists never comprehend that we must take into account human nature and the world. you will, of course, marry for love, spend your life slaving laboriously in some obscure country town to procure bread for your wife and children, and at last sink noiselessly into the grave with the edifying consciousness that you have been true to your ideal. i am of another stripe,--i demand of life everything or nothing." "well, then, in heaven's name win it by your own exertions!" exclaimed benno, growing every moment more and more indignant. "your grand model, president nordheim, did it." "he certainly did, but it took him more than twenty years. we are now slowly and laboriously plodding up this mountain-road in the sweat of our brows. look at that winged fellow there!" he pointed to a huge bird of prey circling above the abyss. "his wings will carry him in a few minutes to the summit of the wolkenstein. yes, it must be fine to stand up there and see the whole world at his feet, and to be near the sun. i do not choose to wait for it until i am old and gray. i wish to mount _now_ and, rely upon it, i shall dare the flight sooner or later." he drew himself up to his full height; his dark eyes flashed, his fine features were instinct with energy and ambition. the man impressed you as capable of venturing a flight of which others would not even dream. there was a sudden rustling among the larches on the side of the road, and griff came bounding down from above, and leaped about the young physician in expectation of the wonted caress. his mistress also appeared on the height, following the course which the dog had taken, springing down over stones and roots of trees, directly through the underbrush, until at last, with glowing cheeks, she reached the road. frau von lasberg would certainly have found some satisfaction in the manner in which the greeting of the herr superintendent was returned, with all the cool dignity becoming a baroness thurgau, while a contemptuous glance was cast at the elegance of the young man's costume. elmhorst wore to-day an easy, loose suit bearing some similitude to the dress of a mountaineer, and very like that of his friend, but it became him admirably; he looked like some distinguished tourist making an expedition with his guide. dr. reinsfeld with his negligent carriage certainly showed to disadvantage beside that tall, slender figure; his gray jacket and his hat were decidedly weather-worn, but that evidently gave him no concern. his eyes sparkled with pleasure at sight of the young girl, who greeted him with her wonted cordial familiarity. "you are coming to us, herr doctor, are you not?" she asked. "of course, fräulein erna; are you all well?" "papa was not well this morning, but he has nevertheless gone shooting. i have been to meet him with griff, but we could not find him; he must have taken another way home." she joined the two gentlemen, who now left the mountain-road and took the somewhat steep path leading to wolkenstein court. griff seemed scarcely reconciled to the presence of the young engineer: he greeted him with a growl and showed his teeth. "what is the matter with griff?" reinsfeld asked. "he is usually kindly and good-humoured with everybody." "he does not seem to include me in his universal philanthropy," said elmhorst, with a shrug. "he has made me several such declarations of war, and his good humour cannot always be depended upon; bestirred up a terrible uproar in heilborn, in the herr president's drawing-room, where fräulein von thurgau achieved a deed of positive heroism in comforting a little child whom the dog had nearly frightened to death." "and, meanwhile, herr elmhorst applied himself to the succour of the fainting ladies," erna said, ironically. "upon my return to the drawing-room i observed his courteous attentions to both alice and frau von lasberg,--how impartially he deluged both with cologne. oh, it was diverting in the extreme!" she laughed merrily. for an instant elmhorst compressed his lips with an angry glance at the girl, but the next he rejoined politely: "you took such instant possession of the heroic part in the drama, fräulein von thurgau, that nothing was left for me but my insignificant _rôle_. you cannot accuse me of timidity after meeting me upon the wolkenstein, although in my entire ignorance of the locality i did not reach the summit." "and you never will reach it," reinsfeld interposed. "the summit is inaccessible; even the boldest mountaineers are checked by those perpendicular walls, and more than one foolhardy climber has forfeited his life in the attempt to ascend them." "does the mountain-sprite guard her throne so jealously?" elmhorst asked, laughing. "she seems to be a most energetic lady, tossing about avalanches as if they were snowballs, and requiring as many human sacrifices yearly as any heathen goddess." he looked up to the wolkenstein,[ ] which justified its title: while all the other mountain-summits were defined clearly against the sky, its top was hidden in white mists. "you ought not to jest about it, wolfgang," said the young physician, with some irritation. "you have never yet spent an autumn and winter here, and you do not know her, our wild mountain-sprite, the fearful elemental force of the alps, which only too frequently menaces the lives and the dwellings of the poor mountaineers. she is feared, not without reason, here in her realm; but you seem to have become quite familiar with the legend." "fräulein von thurgau had the kindness to make me acquainted with the stern dame," said wolfgang. "she did indeed receive us very ungraciously on the threshold of her palace, with a furious storm, and i was not allowed the privilege of a personal introduction." "take care,--you might have to pay dearly for the favour!" exclaimed erna, irritated by his sarcasm. elmhorst's mocking smile was certainly provoking. "fräulein von thurgau, you must not expect from me any consideration for mountain-sprites. i am here for the express purpose of waging war against them. the industries of the nineteenth century have nothing in common with the fear of ghosts. pray do not look so indignant. our railway is not going over the wolkenstein, and your mountain-sprite will remain seated upon her throne undisturbed. of course she cannot but behold thence how we take possession of her realm and girdle it with our chains. but i have not the remotest intention of interfering with your faith. at _your_ age it is quite comprehensible." he could not have irritated his youthful antagonist more deeply than by these words, which so distinctly assigned her a place among children. they were the most insulting that could be addressed to the girl of sixteen, and they had their effect. erna stood erect, as angry and determined as if she herself had been threatened with fetters; her eyes flashed as she exclaimed, with all the wayward defiance of a child, "i wish the mountain-sprite would descend upon her wings of storm from the wolkenstein and show you her face,--you would not ask to see it again!" with this she turned and flew, rather than ran, across the meadow, with griff after her. the slender figure, its curls unbound again to-day, vanished in a few minutes within the house. wolfgang paused and looked after her; the sarcastic smile still hovered upon his lips, but there was a sharp tone in his voice. "what is baron thurgau thinking of, to let his daughter grow up so? she would be quite impossible in civilized surroundings; she is barely tolerable in this mountain wilderness." "yes, she has grown up wild and free as an alpine rose," said benno, whose eyes were still fixed upon the door behind which erna had disappeared. elmhorst turned suddenly and looked keenly at his friend. "you are actually poetical! are you touched there?" "i?" asked benno, surprised, almost dismayed. "what are you thinking of?" "i only thought it strange to have you season your speech with imagery,--it is not your way. moreover, your 'alpine rose' is an extremely wayward, spoiled child; you will have to educate her first." the words were not uttered as an innocent jest; they had a harsh, sarcastic flavour, and apparently offended the young physician, who replied, irritably, "no more of this, wolf! rather tell me what takes you to wolkenstein court. you wish to speak with the freiherr?" "yes; but our interview can hardly be an agreeable one. you know that we need the estate for our line of railway; it was refused us, and we had to fall back upon our right of compulsion. the obstinate old baron was not content: he protested again and again, and refused to allow a survey to be made upon his soil. the man positively fancies that his 'no' will avail him. of course his protest was laid upon the table, and since the time of probation granted him has expired and we are in possession, i am to inform him that the preliminary work is about to begin." reinsfeld had listened in silence with an extremely grave expression, and his voice showed some anxiety as he said, "wolf, let me beg you not to go about this business with your usual luck of consideration. the freiherr is really not responsible on this head. i have taken pains again and again to explain to him that his opposition must be fruitless, but he is thoroughly convinced that no one either can or will take from him his inheritance. he is attached to it with every fibre of his heart, and if he really must relinquish it, i am afraid it will go nigh to kill him." "not at all! he will yield like a reasonable man as soon as he sees the unavoidable necessity. i certainly shall be duly considerate, since he is the president's brother-in-law; otherwise i should not have come hither to-day, but have set the engineers to work. nordheim wishes that everything should be done to spare the old man's feelings, and so i have undertaken the affair myself." "there will be a scene," said benno, "baron thurgau is the best man in the world, but incredibly passionate and violent when he thinks his rights infringed upon. you do not know him yet." "you mistake; i have the honour of knowing him, and his primitive characteristics. he gave me an opportunity of observing them at heilborn, and i am prepared to-day to meet with the roughest usage. but you are right; the man is irresponsible in matters of grave importance, and i shall treat him accordingly." they had now reached the house, which they entered. thurgau had just come in; his gun still lay on the table, and beside it a couple of moor-fowl, the result of his morning's sport. erna had probably advised him of the coming visitors, for he showed no surprise at sight of the young superintendent. "well, doctor," he called out to reinsfeld, with a laugh, "you are just in time to see how disobedient i have been. there lie my betrayers!" he pointed to his gun and the trophies of his chase. "your looks would have informed me," reinsfeld replied, with a glance at the freiherr's crimson, heated face. "moreover, you were not well this morning, i hear." he would have felt thurgau's pulse, but the hand was withdrawn: "time enough for that after a while; you bring me a guest." "i have taken the liberty of calling upon you, herr von thurgau," said wolfgang, approaching; "and if i am not unwelcome----" "as a man you are certainly welcome, as a superintendent-engineer you are not," the freiherr declared, after his blunt fashion. "i am glad to see you, but not a word of your cursed railway, i entreat, or, in spite of the duties of hospitality, i shall turn you out of doors." he placed a chair for his guest and took his own accustomed seat. elmhorst saw at a glance how difficult his errand would be; he felt as a tiresome burden the consideration he was compelled by circumstances to pay, but the burden must be shouldered, and so he began at first in a jesting tone. "i am aware of what a fierce foe you are to our enterprise. my office is the worst of recommendations in your eyes; therefore i did not venture to come alone, but brought my friend with me as a protection." "dr. reinsfeld is a friend of yours?" asked thurgau, in whose estimation the young official seemed suddenly to rise. "a friend of my boyhood; we were at the same school, and afterwards studied at the same university, although our professions differed. i hunted up benno as soon as i came here, and i trust we shall always be good comrades." "yes, we all lived here very pleasantly so long as we were by ourselves," the freiherr said, aggressively. "when you came here with your cursed railway the worry began, and when the shrieking and whistling begin there will be an end of comfort and quiet." "now, papa, you are transgressing your own rule and talking of the railway," erna cried, laughing. "but you must come with me, herr doctor. i want to show you what my cousin alice has sent me from heilborn; it is charming." with the eager impatience of a child, who cannot wait to display its treasures, she carried off the young physician into the next room, thus giving the herr superintendent fresh occasion to disapprove of her education, or rather of the want of it. on this point he quite agreed with frau lasberg. what sort of way was this to behave towards a young man, were he even ten times a physician and the friend of the family! benno as he followed her glanced anxiously at the two left behind; he knew what topic would now be discussed, but he relied upon his friend's talent for diplomacy, and, moreover, the door was left open. if the tempest raged too fiercely, he might interfere. "yes, yes, the matter cannot be avoided," the freiherr growled, and elmhorst, glad to come to business, took up his words. "you are quite right, herr baron, it will not be ignored, and on peril of your fulfilling your threat and really turning me out of doors, i must present myself to you as the agent of the railway company intrusted with imparting to you certain information. the measurements and surveys upon the wolkenstein estate cannot possibly be delayed any longer, and the engineers will go to work here in the course of a few days." "they will do no such thing!" thurgau exclaimed, angrily. "how often must i repeat that i will not allow anything of the kind upon my property!" "upon your property? the estate is no longer your property," said elmhorst, calmly. "the company bought it months ago, and the purchase-money has been lying ready ever since. that business was finished long ago." "nothing has been finished!" shouted the freiherr, his irritation increasing. "do you imagine i care a button for judgments that outrage all justice, and which your company procured god only knows by what rascality? do you suppose i am going to leave my house and home to make way for your locomotives? not one step will i stir, and if----" "pray do not excite yourself thus, herr von thurgau," wolfgang interrupted him. "at present there is no idea of driving you away,--it is only that the preliminary surveys must be begun; the house itself will remain entirely at your disposal until next spring." "very kind of you!" thurgau laughed, bitterly. "till next spring! and what then?" "then, of course, it must go." the freiherr was about to burst forth again, but there was something in the young man's cool composure that forced him to control himself. he made an effort to do so, but his colour deepened and his breath was short and laboured, as he said, roughly,-- "does that seem to you a matter 'of course'? but what can you know of the devotion a man feels for his inheritance? you belong, like my brother-in-law, to the century of steam. he builds himself three--four palaces, each more gorgeous than its predecessor, and in none of them is he at home. he lives in them one day and sells them the next, as the whim takes him. wolkenstein court has been the home of the thurgaus for two centuries, and shall remain so until the last thurgau closes his eyes, rely----" he broke off in the midst of his sentence, and, as if suddenly attacked by vertigo, grasped the table, but it was only for a few seconds; angry, as it were, at the unwonted weakness, he stood erect again and went on with ever-increasing bitterness: "we have lost all else; we did not understand how to bargain and to hoard, and gradually all has vanished save the old nest where stood the cradle of our line; to that we have held fast through ruin and disaster. we would sooner have starved than have relinquished it. and now comes your railway, and threatens to raze my house to the ground, to trample upon rights hundreds of years old, and to take from me what is mine by the law of justice and of god! only try it! i say no,--and again no. it is my last word." he did indeed look ready to make good his refusal with his life, and another man might either have been silent or have postponed further discussion. but wolfgang had no idea of anything of the kind; he had undertaken to bring the matter to a conclusion, and he persisted. "those mountains outside," he said, gravely, "have been standing longer than wolkenstein court, and the forests are more firmly rooted in the soil than are you in your home, and yet they must yield. i am afraid herr von thurgau, that you have no conception of the gigantic nature of our undertaking, of the means at its disposal, and of the obstacles it must overcome. we penetrate rocks and forests, divert rivers from their course, and bridge across abysses. whatever is in our path must give way. we come off victorious in our battle with the elements. ask yourself if the will of one man can bar our progress." a pause of a few seconds ensued. thurgau made no reply; his furious anger seemed dissipated by the invincible composure of his opponent, who confronted him with perfect respect and an entire adherence to courtesy. but his clear voice had an inexorable tone, and the look which encountered that of the freiherr with such cold resolve seemed to cast a spell upon thurgau. he had hitherto shown himself entirely impervious to all persuasion, all explanation; he had, with all the obstinacy of his character, intrenched himself behind his rights, as impregnable, in his estimation, as the mountains themselves. to-day for the first time it occurred to him that his antagonism might be shattered, that he might be forced to succumb to a power that had laid its iron grasp thus upon the mountains. he leaned heavily upon the table again and struggled for breath, while speech seemed denied him. "you may rest assured that we shall proceed with all possible regard for you," wolfgang began again. "the preliminary work which we are about to undertake will scarcely disturb you, and during the winter you will be entirely unmolested; the construction of the road will not begin until the spring, and then, of course----" "i must yield, you think," thurgau interposed, hoarsely. "yes, you _must_, herr baron," said elmhorst, coldly. the fateful word, the truth of which instantly sank into his consciousness, robbed the freiherr of the last remnant of composure; he rebelled against it with a violence that was almost terrifying, and that might well have caused a doubt as to his mental balance. "but i will not,--will not, i tell you!" he gasped, almost beside himself "let rocks and mountains make way before you, _i_ will not yield. have a care of our mountains, lest, when you are so arrogantly interfering with them, they rush down upon you and shatter all your bridges and structures like reeds. i should like to stand by and see the accursed work a heap of ruins; i should like----" he did not finish his sentence, but convulsively clutched at his breast; his last word died away in a kind of groan, and on the instant the mighty frame fell prostrate as if struck by lightning. "good god!" exclaimed dr. reinsfeld, who had appeared at the door of the next room just as the last sentences were being uttered, and who now hurried in. but erna was before him; she first reached her father, and threw herself down beside him with a cry of terror. "do not be distressed, fräulein erna," said the young physician, gently pushing her aside, while with elmhorst's help he raised the unconscious man and laid him on the sofa. "it is a fainting-fit,--an attack of vertigo such as the herr baron had a few weeks ago. he will recover from this too." the young girl had followed him, and stood beside him with her hands convulsively clasped and her eyes riveted upon the face of the speaker. perhaps she saw there something that contradicted the consoling words. "no, no!" she gasped. "you are deceiving me; this is something else! papa! papa! it is i. do you not know your erna?" benno made no rejoinder, but tore open thurgau's coat; elmhorst would have helped him, but erna thrust away his hand with violence. "do not touch him!" she exclaimed, in half-stifled accents. "you have killed him, you have brought ruin to our household. leave him! i will not let you even touch his hand!" wolfgang involuntarily recoiled and looked in dismay that was almost terror at the girl, who at this moment was no longer a child. she had thrown herself before her father with outspread arms as if to shield and defend him, and her eyes flashed with savage hatred as though she were confronting a mortal foe. "go, wolfgang," reinsfeld said in a low tone, as he led him away. "the poor child in her anguish is unjust, and, moreover, you must not stay. the baron may possibly recover consciousness, and if so he must not see you." "may recover?" elmhorst repeated. "do you fear----" "the worst! go, and send old vroni here; she must be somewhere in the house. wait outside, and i will bring you tidings as soon as possible." with these whispered words he conducted his friend to the door. wolfgang silently obeyed; he sent into the room the old maid-servant, whom he found in the hall, and then went out into the open air, but there was a dark cloud on his brow. who could have foreseen such an issue! a quarter of an hour might have elapsed, when benno reinsfeld again made his appearance. he was very pale, and his eyes, usually so clear, were suffused. "well?" wolfgang asked, quickly. "it is all over!" the young physician replied in an undertone. "a stroke of apoplexy, undoubtedly mortal. i saw that at once." wolfgang was apparently unprepared for this reply; his lips quivered as he said in a strained voice, "the affair is intensely painful, benno, although i am not in the least to blame. i went to work with the greatest caution. the president must be informed." "certainly; he is the only near relative, so far as i know. i shall stay with the poor child, who is suffering intensely. will you undertake to send a messenger to heilborn?" "i will drive over myself to inform nordheim. farewell." "farewell," said benno, as he returned to the house. wolfgang turned to go, but suddenly paused and walked slowly to the window, which was half open. within the room erna was on her knees, with her hands clasped about her father's body. the passionate man who had been standing here but one short quarter of an hour ago in full vigour, obstinately resisting a necessity, now lay motionless, all unconscious of the despairing tears of his orphan child. fate had decreed that his words should be true; wolkenstein court had remained in the possession of the ancient race whose cradle it had been until the last thurgau had closed his eyes forever. chapter v. the lover and the suitor. the house which president nordheim occupied in the capital bore abundant testimony in its princely magnificence to the wealth of its possessor. it reared its palatial proportions in the most fashionable quarter of the city, and had been built by one of the first architects of the day; there was lavish splendour in its interior arrangements, and a throng of obsequious lackeys was always at hand; in short, nothing was wanting that could minister to the luxurious life of its inmates. at the head of the household the baroness lasberg had held sway for years. widowed and without means, she had been quite willing to accept such a position in the establishment of the wealthy parvenu to whom she had been recommended by some one of her highborn relatives. here she was perfectly free to rule as she pleased, for nordheim, with all his strength of will, could not but regard it as a great convenience to have a lady of undoubted birth and breeding control his servants, receive his guests, and supply the place of mother to his daughter and niece. for three years erna von thurgau had now been living beneath the roof of her uncle, who was also her guardian, and who had taken her to his home immediately after the death of her father. the president was in his study, talking with a gentleman seated opposite him, one of the first lawyers in the city and the legal adviser of the railway company of which nordheim was president. he seemed also to belong among the intimates of the household, for the conversation was conducted upon a footing of familiarity, although it concerned chiefly business matters. "you ought to discuss this with elmhorst personally," said the president. "he can give you every information upon the subject." "is he here?" asked the lawyer, in some surprise. "he has been here since yesterday, and will probably stay for a week." "i am glad to hear it; our city seems to possess special attractions for the herr superintendent; he is often here, it seems to me." "he certainly is, and in accordance with my wishes. i desire to be more exactly informed with regard to certain matters than is possible by letter. moreover, elmhorst never leaves his post unless he is certain that he can be spared; of that you may be sure, herr gersdorf." herr gersdorf, a man of about forty, very fine-looking, with a grave, intellectual face, seemed to think his words had been misunderstood, for he smiled rather ironically as he rejoined, "i certainly do not doubt herr elmhorst's zeal in the performance of duty. we all know he would be more apt to do too much than too little. the company may congratulate itself upon having secured in its service so much energy and ability." "it certainly is not owing to the company that it is so," said nordheim, with a shrug. "i had to contest the matter with energy when i insisted upon his nomination, and his position was at first made so difficult for him, that any other man would have resigned it. he met with determined hostility on all sides." "but he very soon overcame it," said gersdorf, dryly. "i remember the storm that raged among his fellow-officials when he assumed authority over them, but they gradually quieted down. the herr superintendent is a man of unusual force of character, and has contrived to gather all the reins into his own hand in the course of the last three years. it is pretty well known now that he will tolerate no one as his superior or even equal in authority, save only the engineer-in-chief, who is now entirely upon his side." "i do not blame him for his ambition," the president said, coolly. "whoever wishes to rise must force his way. my judgment did not play me false when it induced me to confirm in so important an office, in spite of all opposition, a man so young. the engineer-in-chief was prejudiced against him, and only yielded reluctantly. now he is glad to have so capable a support; and as for the wolkenstein bridge,--elmhorst's own work,--he may well take first rank upon its merits." "the bridge promises to be a masterpiece indeed," gersdorf assented. "a magnificently bold structure; it will doubtless be the finest thing in the entire line of railway. so you wish me to speak with the superintendent himself; shall i find him at his usual hotel?" "no, at present you will find him here. i have invited him to stay with us this time." "ah, indeed?" gersdorf smiled. he knew that officials of elmhorst's rank were sometimes obliged to await nordheim's pleasure for hours in his antechamber; this young man had been invited to be a guest beneath his roof. still more wonderful stories were told of his liking for elmhorst, who had been his favourite from the first. for the present, however, the lawyer let the matter drop, contenting himself with remarking that he would see herr elmhorst shortly. he had other and more important affairs in his head apparently, for he took his leave of the president rather absently, and seemed in no hurry to seek out the young engineer; the card which he gave to the servant in the hall was for the ladies of the house, whom he asked to see. the reception-rooms were in the second story, where frau von lasberg was enthroned in the drawing-room in all her wonted state. alice was seated near her, very little changed by the past three years. she was still the same frail, pale creature, with a weary, listless expression on her regular features,--a hot-house plant to be guarded closely from every draught of air, an object of unceasing care and solicitude for all around her. her health seemed to be more firmly established, but there was not a gleam of the freshness or enthusiasm of youth in her colourless face. there was no want of them, however, to be detected in the young lady seated beside the baroness lasberg, a graceful little figure in a most becoming walking-suit of dark blue trimmed with fur. a charming, rosy face looked out from beneath her blue velvet hat; the eyes were dark, and sparkling with mischief, and a profusion of little black curls showed above them. she laughed and talked incessantly with all the vivacity of her eighteen years. "such a pity that erna is out!" she exclaimed. "i had something very important to discuss with her. not a syllable of it shall you hear, alice; it is to be a surprise for your birthday. i hope we are to have dancing at your ball?" "i hardly think so," said alice, indifferently. "this is march, you know." "but the middle of winter, nevertheless. it snowed only this morning, and dancing is always delightful." as she spoke, her little feet moved as if ready for an instant proof of her preference. frau von lasberg looked at them with disapprobation, and remarked, coldly,-- "i believe you have danced a great deal this winter, baroness molly." "not nearly enough," the little baroness declared. "how i pity poor alice for being forbidden to dance! it is good to enjoy one's youth; when you're married there's an end of it. 'marry and worry,' our old nurse used to say, and then burst into tears and talk of her dear departed. a mournful maxim. do you believe in it, alice?" "alice bestows no thought upon such matters," the old lady observed, severely. "i must frankly confess to you, my dear molly, that this topic seems to me quite unbecoming." "oh!" exclaimed molly "do you consider marriage unbecoming, then, madame?" "with consent and approval of parents, and a due regard for every consideration,--no." "but it is just then that it is most tiresome!" the young lady asserted, rousing even alice from her indifference. "but, molly!" she said, reproachfully. "baroness ernsthausen is jesting, of course," said frau von lasberg, with an annihilating glance. "but even in jest such talk is extremely reprehensible. a young lady cannot be too guarded in her expressions and conduct. society is, unfortunately, too ready to gossip." her words had, perhaps, some concealed significance, for molly's lips quivered as if longing to laugh, but she replied with the most innocent air in the world,-- "you are perfectly right, madame. just think, last summer everybody at heilborn was gossiping about the frequent visits of superintendent elmhorst. he came almost every week----" "to see the herr president," the old lady interposed. "herr elmhorst had made the plans and drawings for the new villa in the mountains and was himself superintending its construction; frequent consultations were unavoidable." "yes, everybody knew that, but still they gossiped. they talked about herr elmhorst's baskets of flowers and other attentions, and they said----" "i must really beg you, baroness, to spare us further details," frau von lasberg interposed, rising in indignant majesty. the inconsiderate young lady would probably have received a much longer reprimand had not a servant announced that the carriage was waiting. frau von lasberg turned to alice: "i must go to the meeting of the ladies' union, my child, and of course you cannot drive out in this rough weather. moreover, you seem to be rather out of sorts; i fear----" a very significant glance completed her sentence, and testified to her earnest desire for the visitor's speedy departure, but quite in vain. "i will stay with alice and amuse her," molly declared, with amiable readiness. "you can go without any anxiety, madame." madame compressed her lips in mild despair, but she knew from experience that there was no getting rid of this _enfant terrible_ if she had taken it into her head to stay; therefore she kissed alice's forehead, inclined her head to her young friend, and made a dignified exit. scarcely had the door closed after her when molly danced about like an india-rubber ball with, "thank god, she has gone, high and mighty old duenna that she is! i have something to tell you, alice, something immensely important,--that is, i wanted to confide it to erna, but, unfortunately, she is not here, and so you must help me,--you must! or you will blast forever the happiness of two human beings!" "who? i?" asked alice, who at such a tremendous appeal could not but open her eyes. "yes, you; but you know nothing yet. i must explain everything to you, and there goes twelve o'clock, and albert will be here in a moment,--herr gersdorf, i mean. the fact is, he loves me, and i love him, and of course we want to marry each other, but my father and mother will not consent because he is not noble. good heavens, alice, do not look so surprised! i learned to know him in your house, and it was in your conservatory that he proposed to me a week ago, when that famous violinist was playing in the music-room and all the other people were listening." "but----" alice tried to interpose, but without avail; the little baroness went on, pouring out the story of her love and her woes. "do not interrupt me; i have told you nothing yet. when we went home that evening i told my father and mother that i was betrothed, and that albert was coming the next day to ask their consent. oh, what a row there was! papa was indignant, mamma was outraged, and my granduncle fairly snorted with rage. he is a hugely-important person, my granduncle, because he is so very rich, and we shall have his money. but he must die first, and he has no idea of dying, which is very bad for us, papa says, for we have nothing; papa never makes out with his salary, and my granduncle, while he lives, never will give us a penny. there, now you understand!" "no, i do not understand at all," said alice, fairly stupefied by this overwhelming stream of confidence. "what has your granduncle to do with it?" molly wrung her hands in despair at this lack of comprehension: "alice, i entreat you not to be so stupid! i tell you they actually passed sentence upon me. mamma said she was threatened with spasms at the mere thought of my ever being called frau gersdorf; papa insisted that i must not throw myself away, because at some future time i should be a great match, at which my granduncle made a wry face, not much edified by this reference to the heirship, and then he went on to make a greater row than any one else about the _mésalliance_. he enumerated all our ancestors, who would one and all turn in their graves. what do i care for that? let the old fellows turn as much as they like; it will be a change for them in their tiresome old ancestral vault. unfortunately, i took the liberty of saying so, and then the storm burst upon me from all three sides at once. my granduncle raised his hand and made a vow, and then i made one too. i stood up before him, so,"--she stamped her foot on the carpet,--"and vowed that never, never would i forsake my albert!" the little baroness was forced to stop for a moment to take breath, and she availed herself of this involuntary pause to run to the window, whence came the sound of a carriage rolling away; then flying back again, she exclaimed, "she has gone,--the duenna. thank god, we are rid of her! she suspects something; i knew it by the remarks with which she favoured me this morning! but she has gone for the present; her meeting will last for at least two hours. i reckoned upon that when i laid my plans. you must know, alice, that i have been strictly forbidden either to speak or to write to albert; of course i wrote to him immediately, and i must speak with him besides. so i made an appointment with him here in your drawing-room, and you must be the guardian angel of our love." alice did not appear greatly charmed by the part thus assigned her. she had listened to the entire story in a way which positively outraged the eager molly, without any 'ah's' or 'oh's,' and in mute astonishment that such things could be. a betrothal without, and even against, the consent of parents was something quite outside of the young lady's power of comprehension. frau von lasberg's training did not admit of such ideas. so she sat upright, and said, with a degree of decision, "no, that would not be proper." "what would not be proper? your being a guardian angel?" molly exclaimed, indignantly. "are you going to betray my confidence? do you wish to drive us to despair and death? for we shall die, both of us, if we are parted. can you answer it to your conscience?" fortunately, there was no time to settle this question of conscience, for herr gersdorf was announced, and there was a distressing moment of hesitation. alice really seemed inclined to declare that she was ill and could not receive the visitor, but molly, in dread of some such disaster, advanced and said aloud and quite dictatorially, "show herr gersdorf in." the servant vanished, and with a sigh alice sank back again in her arm-chair. she had done her best, and had tried to resist, but since the words were thus taken out of her mouth she was not called upon for further effort, but must let the affair take its course. herr gersdorf entered, and molly flew to meet him, ready to be clasped in his arms, instead of which he kissed her hand respectfully, and, still retaining it in his clasp, approached the young mistress of the house. "first of all, fräulein nordheim, i must ask your forgiveness for the extraordinary demands which my betrothed has made upon your friendship. you probably know that, after her consent to be my wife, i wished immediately to procure that of her parents, but baron ernsthausen has refused to see me." "and he locked _me_ up," molly interpolated, "for the entire forenoon." "i then wrote to the baron," gersdorf continued, "and made my proposal in due form, but received in return a cold refusal without any statement of his reasons therefor. baron ernsthausen wrote me----" "a perfectly odious letter," molly again interposed, "but my granduncle dictated it. i know he did, for i listened at the keyhole!" "at all events it was a refusal; but, since molly has freely accorded me her heart and hand, i shall assuredly assert my rights, and therefore i believed myself justified in availing myself of this opportunity of seeing my betrothed, although without the knowledge of her parents. once more i entreat your forgiveness, fräulein nordheim. be sure that we shall not abuse your kindness." it all sounded so frank, so cordial and manly, that alice began to find the matter far more natural, and in a few words signified her acquiescence. she could not indeed comprehend how this grave, reserved man, who seemed absorbed in the duties of his profession, had fallen in love with molly, who was like nothing but quicksilver, nor that his love was returned, but there was no longer any doubt of the fact. "you need not listen, alice," molly said, consolingly. "take a book and read, or if you really do not feel quite well, lay your head back and go to sleep. we shall not mind it in the least, only do not let us be interrupted." with which she led the way to the recess of a window half shut off from the room by turkish curtains looped aside. here the conversation of the lovers was at first carried on in whispers, but the vivacious little baroness soon manifested her eagerness by louder tones, so that at last alice could not choose but hear. she had taken up a book, but it dropped in her lap as the terrible word 'elopement' fell on her ear. "there is no other way," molly said, as dictatorially as when she had ordered the servant to admit her lover. "you must carry me off, and it must be the day after to-morrow at half-past twelve. my granduncle leaves for his castle at that time, and my father and mother go with him to the railway-station; they always make so much of him. meanwhile, we can slip off conveniently. we'll travel as far as gretna green, wherever that is,--i have read that there are no tiresome preliminaries to be gone through with there,--and we can return as man and wife. then all my dead ancestors may stand on their heads, and so may my granduncle, for that matter, if i may only belong to you." this entire scheme was advanced in a tone of assured conviction, but it did not meet with the expected approval; gersdorf said, gravely and decidedly,-- "no, molly, that will not do." "not? why not?" "because there are laws and injunctions which expressly forbid such romantic excursions. your fanciful little brain has no conception as yet of life and its duties; but i know them, and it would ill become me, whose vocation it is to defend the law, to trample it underfoot." "what do i care for laws and injunctions?" said molly, deeply offended by this cool rejection of her romantic scheme. "how can you talk of such prosaic things when our love is at stake? what are we to do if papa and mamma persist in saying no?" "first of all we must wait until your granduncle has really gone home. there is nothing to be done with that stiff old aristocrat; in his eyes i, as a man without a title, am perfectly unfitted to woo a baroness ernsthausen. as soon as his influence is no longer present in your household i shall surely have an interview with your father, and shall try to overcome his prejudice; it will be no easy task, but we must have patience and wait." the little baroness was thunderstruck at this declaration, this utter ruin of all her air-built castles. instead of the romantic flight and secret marriage of which she had dreamed, here was her lover counselling patience and prudence; instead of bearing her off in his arms, he talked as if he were ready to institute legal proceedings for her possession. it was altogether too much, and she burst out angrily, "you had better declare at once that you do not care for me, after all; that you have not the courage to win me. you talked very differently before we were betrothed. but i give you back your troth; i will part from you forever; i----" here she began to sob. "i will marry some man with no end of ancestors whom my granduncle approves of, but i shall die of grief, and before the year is out i shall be in my grave." "molly!" "let go my hand!" but he held it fast. "molly, look at me! do you seriously doubt my love?" this was the tender tone which molly remembered only too well,--the tone in which the words had been spoken that evening in the fragrant, dim conservatory, to which she had listened with a throbbing heart and glowing cheeks. she stopped sobbing and looked up through her tears at her lover as he bent above her. "darling molly, have you no confidence in me? you have given yourself to me, and i shall keep you for my own in spite of all opposition. be sure i shall not let my happiness be snatched from me, although some time may pass before i can carry home my little wife." it sounded so fervent, so faithful, that molly's tears ceased to flow; her head leaned gently on her lover's shoulder, and a smile played about her lips, as she asked, half archly, half distrustfully, "but, albert, we surely shall not have to wait until you are as old as my granduncle?" "no, not nearly so long, my darling," albert replied, kissing away a tear from the long lashes, "for then, wayward child that you are, ready to fly off if i do not obey your will on the instant, you would have nothing to say to me." "oh, yes, i should, however old you were!" exclaimed molly. "i love you so dearly, albert!" again the voices sank to whispers, and the close of the conversation was inaudible. in about five minutes the lovers advanced again into the drawing-room, just in time to meet the herr superintendent elmhorst, who, as the guest of the house, entered unannounced. wolfgang had gained much in personal appearance during the last three years; his features had grown more decided and manly, his bearing was prouder and more resolute. the young man who when we saw him last had but just placed his foot on the first round of the ladder, which he was determined to ascend, had now learned to mount and to command, but in spite of the consciousness of power, which was revealed in his entire air, there was nothing the least offensive in his demeanour; he seemed to be one whose superiority of nature had involuntarily asserted itself. he had brought with him a bunch of lovely flowers, which he presented with a few courteous words to the young mistress of the house. there was no need of an introduction to gersdorf, who had often seen him, and molly had made his acquaintance at heilborn, where she had passed the preceding summer. there was some general conversation, but gersdorf took his leave shortly, and ten minutes afterwards molly too departed. she would have been glad to stay, to pour out her heart to alice, but this herr elmhorst did not seem at all inclined to go; indeed, in spite of all his courtesy the little baroness could not help feeling that he considered her presence here superfluous; she took her leave, but said to herself as she passed down the staircase, "there's something going on there." she was perhaps right, but the 'something' did not make very rapid progress. alice smelled at her bouquet of camellias and violets, but looked very listless the while. the wealthy heiress, who had always been the object of devoted attention on all sides, had been loaded with flowers, and took no special pleasure in them. wolfgang sat opposite her and entertained her after his usual interesting fashion; he talked of the new villa which nordheim had had built in the mountains and which the family were to occupy for the first time the coming summer. "the interior arrangements will all be complete before you arrive," he said. "the house itself was finished in the autumn, and the vicinity of the line of railway made it possible for me to superintend everything personally. you will soon feel at home among the mountains, fräulein nordheim." "i know them already," said alice, still trifling with her flowers. "we go to heilborn regularly every summer." "merely a summer promenade, with the mountains for a background," elmhorst said. "those are not the mountains which you will learn to know in your new home; the situation is magnificent, and i flatter myself that you will be pleased with the home itself. it is indeed only a simple mountain-villa, but as such i was expressly ordered to construct it." "papa says it is a little masterpiece of architecture," alice remarked, quietly. wolfgang smiled and, as if accidentally, moved his chair a little nearer: "i should be very glad to acquit myself well as an architect. it is not exactly my _métier_, but _you_ were to occupy the villa, fräulein alice, and i could not leave it to other hands. i obtained permission from the president to build the little mountain-home, which he tells me he intends shall be your special property." the significance of his words was sufficiently plain, as was also his intimation of her father's approval, but the young lady neither blushed nor seemed confused; she merely said, with her usual indifferent lassitude,-- "yes, papa means the villa shall be a present to me; therefore he did not wish me to see it until it was entirely finished. it was very kind of you, herr elmhorst, to undertake its construction." "pray do not praise me," wolfgang hastily interposed. "on the contrary, it was rank selfishness that caused me to thrust myself forward in the matter. every architect asks to be paid, and the recompense for which i sue may well seem to you presumptuous. nevertheless may i speak--may i ask of you what it has long been in my heart to entreat?" alice slowly raised her large brown eyes to his with an inquiring expression that was almost melancholy and that seemed fain to read the truth in the young man's resolute face. she read there eager expectation, but nothing more, and the questioning eyes were again veiled beneath their long lashes. she made no reply. wolfgang seemed to consider her silence as an encouragement; he arose and approached her chair, as he went on: "my request is a bold one, i know it, but 'fortune favours the bold.' so i told the herr president when i first besought of him the honour of an introduction to you. it has always been my motto, and i cling to it to-day. will you listen to me, alice?" she slightly inclined her head, and made no resistance when he took her hand and carried it to his lips. he went on, making a formal proposal for her hand in well-chosen, courteous terms, his melodious voice adding greatly to the eloquence of his words. all that was lacking was ardour; this was a suit for her hand, not a declaration of love. alice listened mutely in no surprise; it had long been an open secret to her that elmhorst was her suitor, and she knew, too, that her father, discouraging as he had shown himself hitherto to the advances of other men, favoured elmhorst's suit. he permitted the young man a freedom of intercourse in his house accorded to no other, and he had frequently expressly declared in his daughter's presence that wolfgang elmhorst had a brilliant career before him, worth in his eyes incalculably more than the scutcheons of men of rank, who were fain to rehabilitate the faded splendour of their names with a wife's money. alice herself was too docile to have any will in the matter; it had been impressed upon her from earliest childhood that a well-bred young lady should marry in accordance with her parents' wishes, and she might have found nothing wanting in this extremely correct proposal had not molly hit upon the idea of making her the guardian angel of a love-affair. that scene in the window-recess had been so very different; those whispered tones, caressing, cajoling the wayward girl, whose whole heart seemed, nevertheless, devoted to the grave man so much her senior! with what tenderness he had treated her! this suitor respectfully requested the hand of the wealthy heiress,--her hand: there had been no mention whatever made of her heart. wolfgang finished and waited for a reply, then stooped and, looking in her face, said, reproachfully, "alice, have you nothing to say to me?" alice saw clearly that something must be said, but she was unaccustomed to decide for herself, and she made answer, as was befitting a pupil of frau von lasberg's,-- "i must first speak with papa; his wishes----" "i have just left him," elmhorst interposed, "and i come with his permission and entire approval. may i tell him that my suit has found favour in your eyes? may i present my betrothed to him?" alice looked up with the same anxious inquiry in her eyes as before, and replied, softly, "you must have great consideration for me. i have been so ill and wretched all through my childhood that i am still oppressed with a sense of my weakness. you will suffer from it, and i am afraid----" she broke off, but there was a childlike pathos in her tone, in the entreaty for forbearance from the young heiress, who, with her hand, bestowed a princely fortune. wolfgang, perhaps, felt this, for for the first time there was something like ardour in his, manner as he declared,-- "do not speak thus, alice! i know that yours is a delicate temperament needing to be guarded and protected, and i will shield you from every rude contact in life. trust me, confide your future to me, and i promise you by my----" "love" he was going to say, but his lips refused to utter the falsehood. the man was proud, he might coolly calculate, but he could not feign, and he completed his sentence more slowly,--"by my honour you never shall repent it!" the words sounded resolute and manly, and he was in earnest. alice felt this; she laid her hand willingly in his, and submitted to be clasped in his arms. her suitor's lips touched her own, he expressed his gratitude, his joy, called her his beloved; in short, they were duly betrothed. a trifle only was lacking,--the exultant confession made just before by little molly amid tears and laughter, 'i love you so dearly, so very dearly!' chapter vi. at president nordheim's. the reception-rooms of the nordheim mansion were brilliantly lighted for the celebration not only of the birthday of the daughter of the house, but also of her betrothal. it was a surprising piece of news for society, which, in spite of all reports and gossip, had never seriously believed in the possibility of an alliance so unheard-of. it was incredible that a man, notoriously one of the wealthiest in the country, should bestow his only child upon a young engineer without rank, of unpretending origin, and possessing nothing save distinguished ability, which, to be sure, was warrant for his future. that it was scarcely an affair of the heart every one knew; alice had the reputation of great coldness of nature; she was probably incapable of very deep sentiment. nevertheless she was a most enviable prize, and the announcement of her betrothal caused many a bitter disappointment in aristocratic circles where the heiress had been coveted. this nordheim, it was clear, did not understand how to prize the privileges which his wealth bestowed upon him. with it he might have purchased a coronet for his daughter, instead of which he had chosen a son-in-law from among the officials of his railway. there was much indignation expressed, nevertheless every one who was invited came to this entertainment. people were curious to see the lucky man who had distanced all titled competitors, and whom fate had so suddenly placed on life's pinnacle, in that he had been chosen as the future lord of millions. it was just before the beginning of the entertainment when the president with elmhorst entered the first of the large reception-rooms. he was apparently in the best of humours and upon excellent terms with his future son-in-law. "you have your first introduction to the society of the capital this evening, wolfgang," said he. "in your brief visits you have seen only our family. it is time for you to establish relations here, since it will be your future place of residence. alice is accustomed to the society life of a great city, and you can have no objection to it." "of course not, sir," wolfgang replied. "i like to be at the centre of life and activity, but hitherto it has been incompatible with the duties of my profession. that it will not be so in the future i see from your example. you conduct from here all your various undertakings." "this activity, however, is beginning to oppress me," said nordheim. "i have latterly felt the need of a support, and i depend upon your partially relieving me. for the present you are indispensable in the completion of the railway line; the engineer-in-chief, in his present state of feeble health, is the head of the work only in name." "yes, it is in fact entirely in my hands, and if he retires,--i know he is thinking seriously of doing so,--i have your promise, sir, that i shall succeed him?" "assuredly, and this time i am not afraid of meeting with any opposition. it is, to be sure, the first time that so young a man has been placed at the head of such an undertaking, but you have shown your ability in the wolkenstein bridge, and the position can scarcely be refused to my future son-in-law." "in admitting me to your family, herr nordheim, you give me much.--i know it," said elmhorst, gravely; "in return i can give you only a son." the president's eyes rested thoughtfully upon the face of the speaker, and with an access of warmth extremely rare in the man of business, he replied, "i had an only son, in whom all my hopes were centred; he died in early childhood, and i have often reflected bitterly that some spendthrift idler would probably scatter abroad what i had taken such pains to accumulate. i think better of you; you will continue and preserve what i have begun, complete what i leave unfinished. i am glad to make you my intellectual as well as my material heir." "i will not disappoint you," wolfgang said, pressing the hand extended to him. here were two kindred natures, but surely the conversation was a strange one for the evening of a betrothal and while awaiting a promised bride. both men had spoken of their schemes and undertakings; alice had not been mentioned. the father had demanded of his future son-in-law much, but there had been no allusion to his daughter's happiness; and the lover, who seemed entirely sensible of the advantages of the family connection in prospect, never mentioned the name of his betrothed. they talked of construction and bridges, of the engineer-in-chief and the railway company, as coolly and in as business-like a fashion as if the matter in question were a partnership to be formed between them; and in fact it was nothing else,--either could easily have foregone the additional relationship. they were interrupted, however: a servant entered to ask for orders from the president with relation to the arrangement of the table, and nordheim thought best to betake himself to the dining-hall to decide the matter. it was still too early for the arrival of the guests, and the ladies of the house had not yet made their appearance. the servants were all at their posts, and for the moment wolfgang was left alone in the reception-rooms, which occupied the entire upper story of the mansion. from the large apartment where he was, with its rich crimson rugs and velvet hangings, and its profusion of gilding, he could look through the entire suite of rooms, the splendour of which was most striking in their present deserted, empty condition. everywhere there was a lavish wealth of costly objects, everywhere pictures, statues, and other works of art, each one worth a small fortune, and the long suite ended, as in some fairy realm, in a dimly-lit conservatory filled with exotic plants of rare magnificence. in an hour these brilliant, fragrant apartments would be crowded with the most distinguished society of the capital, all ready to accept the hospitality of the railway king. wolfgang stood still and looked slowly about him. it was indeed a bewildering sensation, that of knowing himself a son of this house, the future heir of all this magnificence. no one could blame the young man if at the thought he stood proudly erect, while his eyes gleamed exultantly. he had kept the vow made to himself,--he had executed the bold scheme which he had once confided to his friend,--he had dared the flight and had reached the summit. at an age when others are beginning to shape their future he had clutched success in a firm grasp. he was now standing upon the height of which he had dreamed, and the world lay fair indeed at his feet. the drawing-room door opened; elmhorst turned and advanced a few steps towards it, then paused suddenly, for instead of his expected betrothed erna von thurgau entered. she was much changed since she had been met by the strayed young superintendent among the cliffs of the wolkenstein. the wayward child who had grown up free and untrammelled among her mountains had not without result passed three years in her uncle's luxurious home, under the training of frau von lasberg. the little alpine rose had been transformed to a young lady, who with perfect grace but also with entire formality returned wolfgang's salutation. this was a beautiful woman, a gloriously beautiful woman. her childish features had become perfectly regular, and although the rich bloom of health still coloured her cheek, her face expressed a degree of cool gravity unknown to the joyous daughter of the freiherr von thurgau. her eyes no longer laughed as of old; there lay hidden in their depths a mystery akin to that of the mountain-lakes of her home, whose colour they had borrowed,--a mystery as powerfully attractive as that of the lakes themselves. she looked singularly lovely as she stood in the full light of the chandelier, dressed in pure mist-like white, her only ornaments single water-lilies scattered here and there among its whiteness. her hair no longer fell in masses about her shoulders, but fashion permitted its full luxuriance to be appreciated, and pale lily-buds gleamed amid its waves. "alice and frau von lasberg will be here presently," she said, as she entered. "i thought my uncle was here." "he has gone for a moment to the dining-hall," elmhorst replied, after a salutation quite as formal as her own. for an instant erna seemed about to follow her uncle, but, apparently recollecting that this might be discourteous towards a future relative, she paused and let her gaze wander through the long suite of rooms. "i think you see these rooms fully lighted to-night for the first time, herr elmhorst? they are very fine, are they not?" "very fine; and upon one coming, as i do, from the winter solitude of the mountains, they produce a dazzling impression." "they dazzled me too when i first came here," the young lady said, indifferently; "but one easily becomes accustomed to such surroundings, as you will find by experience when you take up your residence here. it is settled that you are to be married in a year, is it not?" "it is,--next spring." "rather a long time to wait. have you really consented to such a period of probation?" the lover seemed, oddly enough, to be rather averse to this allusion to his marriage. he examined with apparent interest a huge porcelain vase which stood near him, and replied, evidently desirous of changing the subject, "i cannot but consent, since for the present i am master neither of my time nor of my movements. the first thing to be attended to is the completion of the railway, of the construction of which i am superintendent." "are you, then, so fettered?" erna asked, with gentle irony. "i should have thought you would find it easy to liberate yourself?" "liberate myself,--from what?" "from a profession which you must certainly resign in the future." "do you consider that as a matter of course, fräulein von thurgau?" wolfgang asked, nettled by her tone. "i cannot see what should induce such a course on my part." "why, your future position as the husband of alice nordheim." the young engineer flushed crimson; he glanced angrily at the girl who ventured to remind him that he was marrying money. she was smiling, and her remark sounded like a jest, but her eyes spoke a different language, the language of contempt, which he understood but too well. he was not a man, however, to rest quietly under the scorn which pursues a fortune-hunter; he too smiled, and rejoined, with cool courtesy, "pardon me, fräulein von thurgau, you are mistaken. my profession, my work, are necessities of existence for me. i was not made for an idle, inactive enjoyment of life. this seems incomprehensible to you----" "not at all," erna interposed. "i perfectly understand how a true man must depend solely upon his own exertions." wolfgang bit his lip, but he parried this thrust too: "that i may accept as a compliment, for i certainly depended entirely upon my own exertions when i planned the wolkenstein bridge, and i trust my work will bring me credit, even as 'the husband of alice nordheim.' but excuse me; these are matters which cannot interest a lady." "they interest me," erna said, bluntly. "my home was destroyed by the wolkenstein bridge, and your work demanded yet another and far dearer sacrifice of me." "which you never can forgive me, i know," wolfgang went on. "you reproach me for an unhappy accident, although your sense of justice must tell you that i am not to blame, that i do not deserve it." "i do not blame you, herr elmhorst." "you did in that most wretched hour, and you do it still." erna did not reply, but her silence was eloquent enough. elmhorst appeared to have expected a denial, if only a formal one, for there was an added bitterness in his tone as he continued: "i regret infinitely that i should have been the one chosen to conduct the last business arrangements with baron thurgau. they had to be made, and their tragic conclusion lay beyond human foresight. it was not i, fräulein thurgau, but iron necessity that required of you the sacrifice of your home; the wolkenstein bridge is not less guilty than i am." "i know it," erna observed, coldly; "but there are cases in which one finds it impossible to be just,--you should see that, herr elmhorst. you are now a member of our family, and may rest assured that i shall show you all the consideration due to a relative; for my feelings i cannot be called to account." wolfgang looked her full and darkly in the face: "in other words, you detest my work and--myself?" erna was silent: she had long outgrown the childish waywardness that had once prompted her to tell the stranger to his face that she could not endure him or his sneers at her mountain-legends. the young lady never dreamed of conduct so unbecoming, and she confronted him now in entire self-possession. but her eyes had not forgotten their language, and at this moment they declared that the girlish nature was quelled only in appearance,--it still slumbered untamed in the depths of her soul. there was a lightning-flash in them which uttered a quick, vehement 'yes' in answer to wolfgang's last question, although the lips were mute. it was impossible for elmhorst to misunderstand it, and yet he gazed into the blue depths of those hostile eyes as if they had the power to hold him spell-bound; only for a few seconds, however, for erna turned away, saying, lightly, "we certainly are having a very odd conversation, talking of sacrifice, blame, and hatred, and all on the day of your betrothal." "you are right, fräulein thurgau; let us talk of something else," wolfgang rejoined. but they did not talk of anything else; on the contrary, an oppressive silence ensued. erna seated herself and became apparently absorbed in an examination of the pictures on her fan, while her companion walked to the door of the next room as if to admire its magnificence. his face, however, no longer showed the proud satisfaction which had informed it a quarter of an hour before: he looked irritated and ill at ease. again the drawing-room door opened and alice and frau von lasberg entered, the latter with a certain air of resignation; a darling wish of hers was to be frustrated to-night. she had looked forward to seeing alice, whom she had trained entirely according to her own ideas, enrolled in the ranks of the aristocracy, and one of the young girl's distinguished suitors, the scion of an ancient noble line, had enjoyed the baroness's special favour, and now wolfgang elmhorst was carrying off the prize! he was indeed the only man without a title whom frau von lasberg could have forgiven for so doing,--he had long since succeeded in winning her regard,--but it was nevertheless a painful fact that a man so perfectly well-bred, so agreeable to the strict old lady, possessed not the ghost of a title. alice, in a pale-blue satin gown rather overtrimmed with costly lace, and with a long train, did not look particularly well. the heavy folds of the rich material seemed to weigh down her delicate figure, and the diamonds sparkling on her neck and arms--her father's birthday gift to her--did not avail to relieve her want of colour. such a frame did not suit her; an airy flower-trimmed ball-dress would have been much more becoming. wolfgang hastened to meet his betrothed, and carried her hand to his lips. he was full of tender consideration for her, and he was courtesy itself to the baroness lasberg, but the cloud did not vanish from his brow until the president returned and the guests began to arrive. gradually the rooms were filled with a brilliant assemblage. those present were indeed the foremost in the capital, the aristocracy by birth and by talent, those distinguished both in the world of finance and in the domain of art, the best names in military and diplomatic circles. splendid uniforms alternated with costly toilets, and the throng glittered and rustled as only such an assemblage can,--an assemblage thoroughly in keeping with the magnificence of the nordheim establishment. the centre of attraction was found in the betrothed pair, or rather in the lover, who, an entire stranger to most of those present, was doubly an object of interest. he certainly was an extremely handsome man, this wolfgang elmhorst, no one could deny that, and there was no doubt of his capacity and his talent, but these gifts alone hardly entitled him to the hand of a wealthy heiress, who might well look for something more. and then, too, the young man appeared to take his good fortune, which would have fairly intoxicated any one else, quite as a matter of course. not the slightest embarrassment betrayed that this was the first time he had been thus surrounded. with his betrothed's hand resting on his arm he stood proudly calm beside his future father-in-law, was presented to every one, received and acknowledged with easy grace all congratulations, and played admirably the principal part thus assigned him. he was entirely the son of the house, accepting his position as such as a foregone conclusion, and even at times seeming to dominate the entire assembly. among the guests was the court-councillor von ernsthausen, a stiff, formal bureaucrat, who in the absence of his wife had his daughter on his arm. the little baroness was charming in her pink tulle ball-dress, with a wreath of snow-drops on her black curls, and she was beaming with delight and exultation in having, after a hard combat, succeeded in being present at the entertainment. her parents had at first refused to allow her to come, because herr gersdorf was also invited, and they dreaded the renewal of his attentions. the herr papa was armed to the teeth against attack from the hostile force; he kept guard like a sentinel over his daughter, and seemed resolved that she should not leave his side during the entire evening. but the lover showed no inclination to expose himself to the danger of another repulse; he contented himself with a courteous salutation from a distance, which baron ernsthausen returned very stiffly. molly inclined her head gravely and decorously, as if quite agreed with her paternal escort; of course she had devised the plan of her campaign, and she proceeded to carry it out with an energy that left nothing to be desired. she embraced and congratulated alice, which necessitated her leaving her father's arm; then she greeted frau von lasberg with the greatest amiability in return for a very cool recognition on that lady's part, and finally she overwhelmed erna with demonstrations of affection, drawing her aside to the recess of a window. the councillor looked after her with a discontented air, but, as gersdorf remained quietly at the other end of the room, he was reassured, and apparently conceived that his office of guardian was perfectly discharged by keeping the enemy constantly in sight. he never suspected the cunning schemes that were being contrived and carried out behind his back. the whispered interview in the window-recess did not last long, and at its close fräulein von thurgau vanished from the room, while molly returned to her father and entered into conversation with various friends. she managed, however, to perceive that erna returned after a few minutes, and, approaching herr gersdorf, addressed him. he looked rather surprised, but bowed in assent, and the little baroness triumphantly unfurled her fan. the action had begun, and the guardian was checkmated for the rest of the evening. meanwhile, the president had missed his niece and was looking about for her rather impatiently, while talking with a gentleman who had just arrived, and who was not one of the _habitués_ of the house. he was undoubtedly a person of distinction, for nordheim treated him with a consideration which he accorded to but few individuals. erna no sooner made her appearance again than her uncle approached her and presented the stranger. "herr ernst waltenberg, of whom you have heard me speak." "i was so unfortunate as to miss the ladies when i called yesterday, and so am an entire stranger to fräulein von thurgau," said waltenberg. "not quite: i talked much of you at dinner," nordheim interposed. "a cosmopolitan like yourself, who after the tour of the world comes to us directly from persia, cannot fail to interest, and i am sure you will find an eager listener to your experiences of travel in my niece. her taste is decidedly for the strange and unusual." "indeed, fräulein von thurgau?" asked waltenberg, gazing in evident admiration at erna's lovely face. nordheim perceived this and smiled, while, without giving his niece a chance to reply, he continued: "you may rely upon it. but we must first of all try to make you more at home in europe, where you are positively a stranger. i shall be glad if my house can in any wise contribute to your pleasure; i pray you to believe that you will always be welcome here." he shook his guest's hand with great cordiality and retired. there was a degree of intention in the way in which he had brought the pair together and then left them to themselves, but erna did not perceive it. she had been in no wise interested in the presentation of the new-comer,--strangers from beyond the seas were no rarity in her uncle's house,--but her first glance at the guest's unusual type of countenance aroused her attention. ernst waltenberg was no longer young,--he had passed forty, and although not very tall his frame was muscular and well-knit, showing traces, however, of a life of exposure and exertion. his face, tanned dark brown by his sojourn for years in tropical countries, was not handsome, but full of expression and of those lines graven not by years, but by experience of life. his broad brow was crowned by close black curls, and his steel-gray eyes beneath their black brows could evidently flash on occasion. there was something strangely foreign about him that set him quite apart from the brilliant but mostly uninteresting personages that crowded nordheim's rooms. his voice too had a peculiar intonation,--it was deep, but sounded slightly foreign, possibly from years of speaking other tongues than his own. evidently he was perfectly versed in the forms of society; the manner in which he took his seat beside fräulein von thurgau was entirely that of a man of the world. "you have but lately come from persia?" erna asked, referring to what her uncle had said. "yes, i was there last; for ten years i have not seen europe before." "and yet you are a german? probably your profession kept you away thus long?" "my profession?" waltenberg repeated, with a fleeting smile. "no; i merely yielded to my inclination. i am not of those steadfast natures which become rooted in house and home. i was always longing to be out in the world, and i gratified my desire absolutely in this respect." "and in all these ten years have you never been homesick?" "to tell the truth, no! one gradually becomes weaned from one's home, and at last feels like a stranger there. i am here now only to arrange various business affairs and personal matters, and do not propose to stay long. i have no family to keep me here; i am quite alone." "but your country should have a claim upon you," erna interposed. "perhaps so; but i am modest enough to imagine that it does not need me. there are so many better men than i here." "and do you not need your country?" the remark was rather an odd one from a young lady, and waltenberg looked surprised, especially when the glance that met his own emphasized the reproach in the girl's words. "you are indignant at my admission, fräulein thurgau, but nevertheless i must plead guilty," he said, gravely. "believe me, a life such as mine has been for years, free of all fetters, surrounded by a nature lavish in beauty and luxuriance, while our own is meagre enough, has the effect of a magic draught. those who have once tasted it can never again forego it. were i really obliged to return to this world of unrealities, this formal existence in what we call society, beneath these gray wintry skies, i think i----but this is rank heresy in the eyes of one who is an admired centre of this same society." "and yet she can perhaps understand you," erna said, with a sudden access of bitterness. "i grew up among the mountains, in the magnificent solitude of the highlands, far from the world and its ways, and it is hard, very hard, to forego the sunny, golden liberty of my childhood!" "even here?" waltenberg asked, with a glance about him at the brilliant rooms, now crowded with guests. "most of all here." the answer was low, scarcely audible, and the look that accompanied it was strangely sad and weary, but the next moment the young girl seemed to repent the half-involuntary confession; she smiled and said, jestingly,-- "you are right, this is heresy, and my uncle would disapprove; he evidently hopes to make you really at home among us. let me make you acquainted with the gentleman now approaching us; he is one of our celebrities and will surely interest you." her intention of breaking off a conversation that had become unusually grave was evident, and waltenberg bowed silently, but with an expression of annoyance. he was presented to the 'celebrity,' with whom he conversed but for a few moments, however, before seeking out herr gersdorf, whom he had long known; they had been college-friends. "well, ernst, are you beginning to be at home among us?" the lawyer asked. "you seemed much interested in your talk with fräulein thurgau. a handsome girl, is she not?" "yes, and really worth the trouble of talking to," ernst replied, retiring somewhat from the throng with his friend, who laughed, as he said in an undertone,-- "extremely complimentary to all the other ladies. i suppose it is not worth the trouble to talk with them?" "no, it is not," waltenberg coolly replied, in a still lower tone. "i really cannot bring myself to take part in their vapid talk through an entire evening. it is particularly tiresome around the betrothed couple,--a perfect chorus of utterly senseless remarks. moreover, the lady looks very insignificant, and is very uninteresting." gersdorf shrugged his shoulders: "nevertheless her name is alice nordheim, and that was quite enough for her lover. there is many a one here who would gladly stand in his shoes, but he had the wit to gain her father's favour, and so won the prize." "marrying for money, then? a fortune-hunter?" "if you choose to call him so,--yes; but very talented, very energetic,--sure to succeed. he already rules the various officials of his railway as absolutely as his future father-in-law does the directors, and when you see his _chef-d'[oe]uvre_, the wolkenstein bridge, you will admit that his talent is of no common order." "no matter for that, i detest fortune-hunting from my very soul. one might forgive it in a poor devil with no other chance to rise in the world, but this elmhorst seems to have force of character, and yet sells himself and his liberty for money. contemptible!" "my dear ernst, you are evidently just from the wilds," gersdorf rejoined. "such things are very usual in our much-lauded 'society,' and among very respectable people. of course money is no consideration to you, with your hundreds of thousands. are you never going to cease wandering to and fro on the earth and try sitting beside your own hearthstone?" "no, albert, i never was made for that. liberty is my bride, and i shall be faithful to her." "i said the same thing," the lawyer rejoined, with a laugh; "but time brings one experience of this same bride's rather chilly nature, and if in addition one meets with the misfortune of falling in love, liberty loses all attraction and the whilom bachelor is glad enough to turn into an honest married man. i am just about to undergo this transformation." "i condole with you." "no need; it suits me extremely well. but you know all the story of my love and woe; what do you think of the future frau gersdorf?" "i think her so charming that she excuses in a measure your desertion of your colours. she is lovely, with that rosy, laughing little face." "yes, my little molly is an embodiment of sunshine," albert said, heartily, his glance seeking out the young girl. "the barometer at her home points to 'stormy' at present; but although the court-councillor and his entire family, with the famous granduncle,--who, by the bye, is the worst of all,--should take the field against me, i am resolved to come off victorious." "herr waltenberg, may i request you to escort my niece to supper?" said the president as he passed the young men. "with pleasure," waltenberg assented, hurrying away, with such sincere satisfaction expressed in his face, that gersdorf could not help looking after him with a mocking smile. "i doubt whether i shall long be the only one of us two to desert his colours," he said to himself as his friend joined fräulein von thurgau, looking like anything rather than a misogynist. chapter vii. a new scheme. the doors of the supper-room were opened and the assemblage began to enter it by couples. baron ernsthausen offered his arm to the baroness lasberg, having been assigned her as his neighbour at table, and having learned from her with much satisfaction that lieutenant von alven was to be his daughter's escort, and that herr gersdorf's place was at the opposite end of the table. the distinguished couple slowly advanced followed by a crowd of others, but, strangely enough, lieutenant von alven offered his arm to another young girl, and herr gersdorf approached the baroness ernsthausen. "what does this mean, molly?" he asked, in a low tone. "am i to take you to supper, as fräulein von thurgau tells me? did you prevail on frau von lasberg----?" "oh, she is a firm ally of my father and mother," molly whispered, taking his arm. "only fancy, she had the entire length of the table between us! mamma is at home with a headache, but she enjoined it upon papa not to let me out of his sight, and frau von lasberg was to be guard number two. but they have no idea with whom they have to deal; i have outwitted them all." "what is it that you have done?" gersdorf asked, rather uneasily. "changed the table-cards!" molly declared, exultantly, "or rather persuaded erna to change them. she did not want to at first, but when i asked her whether she could answer it to her conscience to plunge us both into fathomless despair, she really could not, and so she consented." the phrases which the little baroness used to beguile the guardian angels of her love came trippingly from her tongue; her lover, however, did not seem greatly edified by her stroke of policy; he shook his head, and said, reproachfully, "but, my dear molly, it cannot possibly be concealed, and when your father sees us----" "he'll be furious!" molly completed the sentence very placidly. "but you know, albert, he always is that, and a little more or a little less really makes no difference. and now do not look so frightfully grave. i believe you would actually like to scold me for my brilliant idea." "i ought to," said albert, smiling in spite of himself; "but who could find fault with you, you wayward little sprite?" in the buzz of conversation the lovers' whispered tones were unheard as they entered the supper-room, where the councillor was already seated beside his companion. the pleasures of the table were dear to his heart, and the prospect of a good supper attuned his soul to benevolence. but suddenly his face grew rigid as if from a sight of the gorgon, although it was only upon perceiving the extremely happy face of his little daughter as she appeared upon herr gersdorf's arm. "madame, for heaven's sake, look there!" he whispered. "you told me that lieutenant von alven----" "was to take molly to supper; and in accordance with your express wish herr gersdorf----" frau von lasberg stopped in the middle of her sentence and also became petrified as she perceived the couple just taking their seats near the other end of the table. "beside him!" the councillor darted an annihilating glance down the long table, past thirty seated guests, at the lawyer. "i cannot understand this; i arranged the places at table myself." "perhaps some mistake of the servants----" "no, it is a plot of the baroness's," frau von lasberg interposed, indignantly. "but pray let us have no scene. when supper is over----" "i shall take molly directly home!" ernsthausen concluded the sentence, opening his napkin with an energy that boded no good to his disobedient daughter. the supper began and followed its course with all the splendour to be expected from an entertainment in the nordheim mansion. the tables were almost overloaded with heavy silver and glittering glass, among which bloomed the rarest flowers. there was an endless variety of food, with the finest kinds of wine. the usual toasts to the betrothed couple were offered, the usual speeches made, and over it all brooded the weariness inseparable from such displays of princely wealth. nevertheless certain of the younger folk enjoyed themselves excessively; notably baroness molly, who, quite unaffected by her approaching doom, laughed and talked with her neighbour at table, while gersdorf would have been no lover had he not forgotten all else and quaffed full draughts of the unexpected happiness of this interview. not less eager, if graver and of more significance, was the conversation carried on at the upper end of the table between fräulein von thurgau, who as the nearest relative of the family had her place opposite the betrothed couple, and ernst waltenberg, who was a distinguished guest. hitherto he had seemed to take but little interest in the assemblage and had been rather silent, but now he made it plain that where it pleased him to charm by his conversation he was fully able to do so. he did indeed tell of distant lands and peoples, but he described them so vividly that his hearer seemed to see them. as he spoke of the charm of the southern seas, the splendour of the tropical landscape, erna, listening with sparkling eyes, seemed carried away. now and then wolfgang, beside alice on the opposite side of the table, scanned the pair with an oddly searching glance; his conversation with his betrothed did not seem to be of a particularly lively nature, master of the art though he were. at last supper was over, and all returned to the reception-rooms. the universal mood seemed less constrained, laughter and talk were louder, and so general was the mingling of various groups that it was difficult to single out any particular individual, as baron ernsthausen found to his vexation, for his young daughter had disappeared for the time. ernst waltenberg had conducted erna to the conservatory, and was seated beside her, deep in the conversation begun at supper, when the betrothed couple entered. wolfgang started as he perceived the pair, he bowed coldly to waltenberg, who sprang up to offer his place to fräulein nordheim, and said, "alice complains of weariness and thinks it will be quieter here. we are not intruding?" "upon whom?" erna asked, quietly. "upon yourself and herr waltenberg. you were in such earnest conversation, and we should be very sorry----" instead of replying, erna took her cousin's hand and drew her down beside her: "you are right, alice, you need rest. it is a hard task even for those stronger than you to be the centre of such an entertainment." "i only wanted to withdraw for a few moments," said alice, who really did look fatigued. "but we seem to have disturbed you; herr waltenberg was in the midst of a most interesting description, which he broke off when we entered." "i was telling of my last visit to india," waltenberg explained, "and i took the opportunity to make a request of baroness thurgau, which i should like to make of you also, fräulein nordheim. in the course of my ten years of absence from europe i have collected a quantity of foreign curiosities. they were all sent home, and form a veritable museum which i am just having arranged by an experienced hand. may i entreat the ladies to honour me with a visit,--with yourself, of course, herr elmhorst? i think i can show you much that will interest you." "i fear my engagements will not allow me to accept your kind invitation," elmhorst replied, with rather cool courtesy. "i must leave town in a couple of days." "so shortly after your betrothal?" "i must. in the present condition of our work i cannot allow myself a longer leave of absence." "do you agree to this, fräulein nordheim?" waltenberg appealed to alice. "i should think under present circumstances you would have the first claim." "duty has the first claim upon me, herr waltenberg,--in my opinion, at least." "must you take it so seriously,--even now?" "wolfgang's eyes flashed. he understood this 'even now?' and understood also the look which he encountered; he had seen the same expression on another face a few hours ago. he bit his lip; for the second time he was reminded that he was considered in society only as 'alice nordheim's future husband,'--one who could with her fortune in prospect purchase immunity from duties which he had undertaken to fulfil. "to fulfil a duty is with me a point of honour," he replied, coldly. "yes, we germans are fanatics for duty," waltenberg said, negligently. "i have lost somewhat of this national characteristic in foreign countries. oh, fräulein von thurgau, not that disapproving look, i entreat. my unfortunate frankness will ruin me in your estimation, but remember i come from quite another world, and am absolutely uncivilized according to european ideas." "you certainly seem so with respect to some of your views," erna said, lightly, but withal with a shade of severity. he smiled, and, leaning over the back of her chair, said, in a lower tone, "yes, i need to be harmonized with mankind, and with our worthy germans. perhaps some one will have pity upon me and undertake the task. do you think it would be worth the trouble?" "can you really endure this close, stifling temperature, alice?" wolfgang asked, with ill-concealed impatience. "i fear it is worse for you than the heat of the rooms." "but there is such a crowd of people there. pray let us stay here, wolfgang." he bit his lip, but naturally yielded to a wish of his betrothed's so distinctly expressed. "the air here is tropical," said waltenberg. "it is indeed. oppressive, and debilitating for any one accustomed to breathe freely." the words sounded almost rude, but he to whom they were addressed took no heed; he was still gazing at erna as he went on: "these palms and orchids require it. look, fräulein von thurgau, they enchant the eye even here in captivity. in the tropics, where they climb and twine in liberty, they are wonderful indeed." "yes, that world must be beautiful," erna said, softly, while her eyes wandered dreamily over the foreign splendour of the blossoms gleaming among the green on every side and filling the conservatory with their sweet but enervating fragrance. "was your stay in the east a long one, herr waltenberg?" alice asked, in her cool, uninterested way. "i passed some years there, but i am at home all over the world, and can even boast having penetrated far into africa." wolfgang's attention was roused by these last words: "probably as a member of some scientific expedition?" he observed. "no, that would have had no charm for me. i detest nothing so much as constraint, and it is impossible in such expeditions to preserve one's personal freedom. one is bound by the rules of the expedition, by the wishes of one's companions, by all sorts of things, and i am wont to follow my own will only." "ah, indeed?" a half-contemptuous smile played about wolfgang's lips. "i beg pardon; i really thought you had gone to africa as a scientific pioneer." "good heavens, how in earnest you are about everything, herr elmhorst!" waltenberg said, with a scarcely perceptible sneer. "must life perforce be labour? i never coveted fame as an explorer; i have enjoyed the freedom and beauty of the world, and have renewed my youth and strength in quaffing long draughts of such enjoyment. to put it to positive use would destroy its romance for me." elmhorst shrugged his shoulders, and remarked, with apparent indifference, in which there was nevertheless a spice of insolence, "certainly a most convenient way of arranging one's existence. and yet hardly to my taste, and quite impossible for most people. so to live one should be born to great wealth." "no, not of necessity," waltenberg retorted, in the same tone. "some lucky chance may endow one with wealth." wolfgang looked annoyed, and he was evidently about to make a sharp reply, when erna, perceiving this, hastened to give the conversation another turn. "i fear my uncle must resign all hope of making you at home among us," said she. "you are so entirely under the spell of your tropical world, that everything here will seem petty and meagre to you. i hardly think that even our mountains could move you to admiration, but there you will find me a determined antagonist." waltenberg turned towards her,--perhaps he saw in her face, or was conscious himself, that he had gone too far. "you do me injustice, fräulein thurgau," he replied. "i have never forgotten the alpine world of my native country,--its lofty summits, its deep-blue lakes, and the lovely creations of its legends by which it is peopled,--creatures"--his voice sounded veiled--"compounded as it were of air and alpine snow, with the white fairy-like flowers of its waters crowning their fair hair." the compliment was too bold, but the manner in which it was uttered took from it all presumption, as the speaker's eyes rested in admiration upon the beautiful girl before him in her white, misty ball-dress. "alice, are you rested?" wolfgang asked, aloud. "we really ought not to remain away from the other room so long. let us go back." his words sounded almost like a command. alice arose, put her hand within his arm, and they left the conservatory together. "herr elmhorst seems to have a decided predilection for command," waltenberg said, ironically, looking after them. "his tone was decidedly that of the future lord and master, and upon the very day of his betrothal. fräulein nordheim's choice seems surprising to me in more than one sense." "alice's is a very gentle, docile nature," erna observed. "so much the worse. her lover seems to have no conception that it is this connection alone that raises him to a position to which he could not personally lay any claim." the young girl had risen and approached a group of plants, whose heavy crimson blossoms hung amid dark green leaves. after a moment's pause she rejoined, "i do not think wolfgang elmhorst a man to allow himself to be 'raised.'" "why, then, should her---- pardon me, i ought not to say one word in disapproval of your future relative." erna did not reply, and he seemed to take her silence as a permission to proceed, for he continued, very gravely: "do you think inclination plays any part in his suit?" "no." the word was uttered with a certain harshness, as the girl's face leaned half hidden among the crimson flowers. "nor do i, and my opinion of herr elmhorst is based upon that conviction. pray, fräulein thurgau, do not inhale the fragrance of those blossoms so closely; i know the plant,--its odour is delicious but mischievous, and will give you headache. be careful." "you are right," she said, with a deep breath, passing her hand across her forehead and standing erect. "it is, besides, time that we returned to the other rooms. may i trouble you, herr waltenberg?" he seemed hardly to agree with this, but nevertheless instantly offered his arm and conducted her to the ball-room, which was still full. the court-councillor was sitting in a corner nursing his wrath with fran von lasberg, who seemed inclined to fan the flame. she had ascertained by questioning the servants that the cards on the table had really been changed, and her indignation was extreme. she harangued the unfortunate father of such a daughter in low but expressive tones, and concluded her discourse with the annihilating declaration, "in short, the conduct of herr gersdorf seems to me outrageous!" "yes, it is outrageous!" ernsthausen murmured in a fury. "and, moreover, i have been looking for molly for half an hour to take her home, and i cannot find her. she is a terrible child!" "under no circumstances should i have allowed her to attend this entertainment," the old lady began again. "when the frau baroness opened her heart to me about the affair, i urged it upon her to have recourse to vigorous measures." "and so we have," ernsthausen declared; "but it is of no use. my wife is ill with all this worry and vexation, and her indisposition may, probably will, last for days. i am occupied with my official duties. who is to stand guard over the girl meanwhile and frustrate all her insane schemes?" "send molly to the country to her granduncle," was frau von lasberg's advice. "there no personal intercourse with gersdorf will be possible, and if i know the old baron he will find a means of preventing any exchange of letters." the councillor looked as if a ray of light had suddenly invaded the darkness of his soul; he adopted the suggestion with enthusiasm. "that is an idea!" he cried. "you are right, madame, perfectly right! molly shall go to my uncle immediately,--the day after to-morrow. he was beside himself at learning of the affair, and will certainly be the best of guardians. i will write to him early to-morrow morning." he was so possessed with this thought that he hastily arose, and made a fresh attempt to find his daughter, but it was a difficult undertaking. he might as well have given chase to a butterfly, for molly possessed a wonderful talent for disappearing just as her father was about to confront her. ernst waltenberg, who had been taken into council by the lovers twice, acted as a lightning-conductor on this occasion, in view of the approaching storm, which he diverted by his conversation. meanwhile, the little baroness would disappear among a crowd of her friends, to come to light again in an entirely different place. she seemed to regard the company as an assemblage of guardian-angels, to be used according to her good pleasure, and even the minister, her father's illustrious chief, who was present, was obliged to serve her purpose, for she finally took refuge with his excellency, and complained in the most moving terms that her father was insisting upon driving home, when she wanted to stay so much. the old gentleman instantly espoused the cause of the charming child, and when the councillor appeared with a stern "molly, the carriage is waiting," he kindly interposed with, "let it wait, my dear councillor. youth claims its rights, and i promised the baroness to intercede for her. you will stay, will you not?" ernsthausen was inwardly raging, while his outward man bowed in polite assent, in recognition of which his chief engaged him in conversation, and did not release him until a quarter of an hour had passed. then, however, the baron was determined; he invaded the hostile camp, where his daughter was seated in great content between waltenberg and gersdorf. the latter approached him with extreme courtesy. "herr councillor, will you kindly appoint an hour when i can call upon you, either to-morrow or the day after?" ernsthausen gave him an annihilating glance: "i regret extremely, herr gersdorf, that pressing business----" "quite right, it is that about which i wish to consult with you," gersdorf interposed. "the matter concerns the railway company, whose legal representative i am, as you know, and his excellency the minister has referred me to you. permit me, however, to visit you at your home instead of at your office, since i have a private matter also to discuss with you." the baron was unfortunately in no uncertainty as to what this private matter was, but since he could not refuse to receive the lawyer in his legal capacity, he stood erect with much dignity and answered, coolly, "the day after to-morrow, at five in the afternoon, i shall be at your service." "i shall be punctual," said gersdorf, bowing as he took leave of molly, who thought best at last to comply with the paternal command and to allow herself to be taken home. on the staircase, however, she declared, resolutely, "papa, the day after to-morrow i will not be locked up again. i mean to be there when my lover presents himself." "the day after to-morrow you will be in the country," ernsthausen asserted, with emphasis. "you will depart by the early train; i shall myself see you safely to the railway-carriage, and when you arrive your grand uncle will receive you, and will keep you with him for the present." molly's curly head emerged from her white hood in speechless horror. but only for a moment was she silent; then she assumed a warlike attitude: "i will not go, papa. i will not stay with my granduncle; i will run away and come back to town on foot." "you will hardly do that," said the councillor. "i should think you knew the old gentleman and his principles better. after his death you will be a most distinguished match,--remember that!" "i wish my granduncle would go to monaco and gamble away all his money," molly retorted, sobbing angrily, "or that he would adopt some orphan and leave her every penny he possesses!" "good heavens, child, you are mad, absolutely mad!" ernsthausen exclaimed in desperation, but the little baroness went on excitedly: "then i should be no match at all, and could marry albert. i mean to pray fervently that my granduncle may commit some such folly, in spite of his seventy years!" still sobbing, she sprang into the carriage and buried her face in the cushions. her father followed her, muttering, "a terrible child!" the brilliant rooms gradually became more empty and more quiet. one after another the guests took their leave, until finally the president, having bidden farewell to the last, was left alone with wolfgang in the spacious reception-room. "waltenberg bus invited us to inspect his collection of curios," he said. "i shall hardly have time to go, but you----" "i shall have still less," elmhorst interposed. "the three days at my disposal are already fully occupied." "i know, i know, but nevertheless you must escort alice; she and erna have accepted waltenberg's invitation, and i wish them to go." wolfgang was surprised; he looked keenly at his future father-in-law for an instant, and then asked, hastily, "who and what is this waltenberg, sir? you treat him with extraordinary consideration, and yet he appeared in your house to-night for the first time. have you known him long?" "certainly. his father took part in several of my schemes. a capital, prudent man of business, who would have amassed millions had he lived longer. unfortunately, the son has inherited none of his practical ability. he prefers to travel all over the earth and to consort with all kinds of savage nations. well, his property permits him to pursue such follies, and it has just been nearly doubled. his aunt, his father's only unmarried sister, died a few months ago, leaving him her heir. he came home, indeed, only to arrange his affairs, and is already talking of going away again. an incomprehensible man!" the tone in which nordheim spoke of the man for whom he had shown such consideration betrayed his entire want of sympathy with him personally, and elmhorst seemed to be of the same mind, for he instantly observed,-- "i think him insufferable! at table he talked exclusively of his travels, and precisely as if he were delivering a lecture. all you heard was of 'blue depths of water,' 'waving palms,' and 'dreamy lotus-blossoms.' it was intolerable! fräulein von thurgau, however, seemed quite carried away by it. i must confess, sir, i thought all this poetic oriental talk far too confidential for a first interview." the words were meant to be ironical, but they hardly concealed the speaker's irritation. the president, however, did not observe it, but replied, quietly, "in this case i have no objection to such confidences; quite the contrary." "that means--you have intentionally brought them together." "certainly," nordheim replied, in some surprise at the eager haste with which the question was put. "erna is nineteen; it is time to think seriously of her settlement in life, and as her relative and guardian it is my duty to provide for it. the girl is greatly admired in society, but no one has as yet presented himself as her suitor. she has no money." "no, she has no money," wolfgang repeated as if mechanically, and his look sought the adjoining room, where the ladies still lingered. alice was sitting on the sofa, and erna stood before her, her slender white figure framed in by the door-way. "i cannot blame the men," the president continued. "erna's only inheritance is the couple of thousand marks paid for wolkenstein court; and although i shall of course furnish my niece with a trousseau, that would be nothing for a man whose demands upon life are at all great. waltenberg has no need of money,--he is wealthy himself, and of excellent family; in short, a brilliant match. i planned it immediately upon his return, and i think it will succeed." he explained everything in a cool, business-like fashion, as if the matter under discussion were some new speculation. in fact, the 'settlement' of his niece was for him an affair of business, as had been his daughter's betrothal. in the one case money was necessary in exchange for a bride, in the other intelligence and ability, and nordheim could express himself with perfect freedom to his future son-in-law, who occupied the same point of view and had acted upon principles similar to his own. but just now the young man's face was strangely pale, and there was an odd expression in the eyes fixed upon the picture framed in by the arched door-way and brilliantly illuminated in the candle-light. "and you think fräulein von thurgau is agreed?" he asked, slowly, at last, without averting his gaze. "she will not be such a fool as to reject such good fortune. the girl is, to be sure, possessed by unaccountable fancies, obstinate as her father, and on certain points not to be controlled. we scarcely harmonize in our views, any one can see that, but this time i think we shall agree. such a man as waltenberg with his eccentricities is precisely after erna's taste. i think her quite capable of accompanying him in his wanderings, if he cannot make up his mind to relinquish them." "and why not?" wolfgang said, harshly. "it is so uncommonly romantic and interesting, life in foreign lands with no occupation and no country. with no duties to exercise any controlling influence, life can be dreamed away beneath the palms in inactive enjoyment. to me such an existence, however, seems pitiable; it would be impossible for me." "you are really indignant," said nordheim, amazed at this sudden outburst. "you forget that waltenberg has always been wealthy. you and i must work to attain eminence; no such necessity exists for him,--he has always occupied the height towards which we must climb. such men are rarely fit for serious exertion." he turned to a passing servant and gave him an order. but wolfgang stood motionless and gloomy, his gaze still fixed upon the white figure 'compounded as it were of air and alpine snow, with the white fairylike flower of its waters crowning its fair hair,' and inaudibly but with intense bitterness he muttered, "yes, he is rich, and so he has a right to be happy." chapter viii. another clime. waltenberg's dwelling was somewhat remote from the central portion of the city; it was a fine, spacious villa, surrounded by a garden which was almost a park. it had been built by the father of the present possessor, and had been occupied by him until his death. since then it had been empty, for the son, always travelling in distant lands, was far too wealthy to think of renting it. he left it in charge of a trustworthy person, whose duty it had been to receive, to unpack, and to arrange the various chests and packages sent home by his master from time to time, until now, after the lapse of a decade, the closed doors and windows were again opened, and the desolate rooms showed signs of occupation. the large balconied apartment in the middle of the house was still furnished precisely as it had been in the lifetime of its former master. there was no magnificence here as in the nordheim mansion, but on every hand was to be observed the solid comfort of a well-to-do burgher. the persons present at this time in the room, however, looked strangely foreign. a negro black as night, with woolly hair, and a slender, brown malay lad, both in fantastic oriental costume, were busy arranging a table with flowers and all kinds of fruits, while a third individual stood in the middle of the room giving the necessary directions. the dress of this last was european in cut, and seemed to be something between the garb of a sailor and that of a farmer. its wearer was an elderly man, very tall and thin, but at the same time most powerfully built. his close-cut hair was grizzled here and there, and his furrowed, sunburned face was scarcely less brown than that of the malay. but from the brown face looked forth a pair of genuine german, blue eyes, and the words that issued from the man's lips were such pure, unadulterated german as is spoken only by those to whom it is the mother-tongue. "the flowers in the centre!" he ordered. "herr waltenberg wishes it to be romantic; he must have his way. said, boy, don't stand the silver épergnes close together like a pair of grenadiers; put them at either end of the table, and the glasses on the side-table where the wine is to be served. do you understand?" "oh, yes, master," the negro replied, in english. "and speak german. do you not know that we are in germany, on this god-forsaken soil where you freeze stiff in march, and where the sun appears once a month, and then only at the command of the authorities? i detest it, as does herr waltenberg. but you must learn german, or, true as my name is veit gronau, you'll repent it. you're still half a heathen, and djelma there is a whole one. see how he stares! do you understand a word i say, boy?" the malay shook his head. evidently his progress in the german tongue was slow, and the negro, who was much farther advanced, was obliged to come to his assistance frequently. "it is the master's fault; he talks your gibberish to you too often," veit gronau grumbled. "if i did not insist upon your speaking german neither of you would understand a syllable of it. there! now the table is ready. all fruit and flowers, and nothing really fit to eat and drink. that, i suppose, is romantic; i think it crazy, which is very much the same thing, after all." "are there ladies coming?" said asked, inquisitively. "unfortunately, yes. it is no pleasure, but an honour, for in this country they are treated with immense respect, very differently from your black and brown women; so behave yourselves!" he would probably have continued his admonitions, but at this moment the door opened and the master of the house entered. he glanced at the table loaded with flowers and fruit, signed to said to retire to the antechamber, spoke a few words in some indian tongue to djelma, who straightway disappeared, and then turning to veit gronau, said, "president nordheim has sent an excuse, but the rest are coming; herr gersdorf has also accepted. you will escape for this time the encounter you have so dreaded, gronau." "dreaded?" the other repeated. "hardly that! it certainly would have given me no great pleasure to meet an old playmate with whom i was once on most familiar terms, and to be honoured by him with a condescending nod when i was presented to him as a kind of servant." "as my secretary?" waltenberg said, with emphasis. "i should not suppose such a position could be in any wise humiliating." gronau shrugged his shoulders: "secretary, steward, travelling companion, all in one. true, you have always treated me like a fellow-countryman, and not as an inferior, herr waltenberg. when you picked me up in melbourne i was very near starvation, and i should have starved but for you. god requite you!" "nonsense!" said ernst, repudiating his gratitude almost harshly. "you were a priceless discovery for me, with your knowledge of languages and your practical experience, and i think we have been well content with each other for these six years. so the president was one of your playmates?" "yes, we were the children of neighbours, and grew up together until life parted us, sending one hither and the other thither. he always prophesied to me, and to benno reinsfeld, who was one of us, that i should be a poor devil." waltenberg had gone to the window, and was looking out with some impatience while nevertheless listening attentively. the youth of the man whom he had known only in the midst of wealth and luxury seemed to interest him. "of course all three of us entertained vast schemes for the future," veit continued, with good-humoured self-ridicule. "i was to go abroad and return a wealthy nabob, reinsfeld was to astound the world with some wonderful invention; we were boys who imagined that the universe belonged to us. but nordheim, the wise, poured cold water upon our heated brains. 'neither of you will ever achieve anything,' said he, 'for you do not understand expediency.' we jeered at the calculator of twenty with his wonderful sagacity, but he was right. i have wandered about the world, and have tried my hand at everything, but i have always been poor as a church mouse, and reinsfeld with all his talent was left in the lurch as a paltry engineer, while our comrade nordheim is a millionaire and a railway king,--because he understood expediency." "he certainly has always understood that," waltenberg said, coolly. "he occupies an extremely influential position---- but there come our guests." he hastily left the window and went to receive his friends. a carriage had drawn up before the door, bringing frau von lasberg and alice, escorted by elmhorst. wolfgang had not succeeded in evading the duty of accompanying his betrothed, and he had no excuse for refusing an invitation which his future father-in law regarded with such favour. he therefore submitted to necessity, but any one who knew him could see that, in spite of the extreme courtesy with which he greeted his host, he was making a great sacrifice. the two men, who had instinctively disliked each other from the first, hid their antipathy under a strictly courteous demeanour. "fräulein von thurgau is late; she drove to the court-councillor's to call for baroness ernsthausen." frau von lasberg, who gave this information, was rather surprised by it herself. she had supposed that molly was in the country under the secure guardianship of her granduncle; instead of which a note had arrived in the morning for erna begging her to call for her on her way to herr waltenberg's. her journey must have been postponed, probably for several days. but the old lady's surprise was transformed to indignation upon the entrance of herr gersdorf. actually a rendezvous! and the ladies of nordheim's family were made accomplices as it were, since molly was under their protection. this must not be concealed from the girl's parents: they should hear of it this very day; and frau von lasberg, who was not at all inclined to play the part of a guardian-angel, received herr gersdorf with icy coldness. unfortunately, it did not produce the slightest impression upon him; there was an expression of great content upon his grave features, and he took part in the conversation with unusual readiness. meanwhile, erna had called at the court-councillor's, where she had waited in the carriage for five minutes before the little baroness appeared in a state of great agitation, quite startling her friend by the stormy embrace with which she greeted her. "what is the matter, molly?" she asked. "you seem quite beside yourself." "i am betrothed!--betrothed to albert," the girl exclaimed, "and we are to be married in three months! oh, my granduncle is the dearest, most delightful of men! i could kiss him if he were not so very ugly!" erna's composure was not so easily shaken as molly's, but, knowing as she did the views of the entire ernsthausen family, this news was certainly surprising. "your parents have given their consent?" she asked. "and so suddenly? it seemed quite impossible a few days ago." "nothing is impossible!" molly cried, in a rapture. "oh, i prayed so fervently that my granduncle would commit some folly! but i never dreamed of this; and you will hardly believe it, erna,--you cannot!" "do talk sensibly. pray explain yourself," said erna. "he has married! seventy, and married! he is a bridegroom. oh, i shall die of laughter!" and she did laugh until the tears came. "the old baron--married?" erna repeated, incredulously. "yes, to an old maid of irreproachable descent. the affair was arranged long ago; but it was kept secret, because he was afraid of a scene with my father and mother. he came to town simply and solely to alter his will, which was left with his attorney, and immediately after his return he had the knot tied fast by church and state, and papa says he has left all his money to his bride, and we shall not have a penny, so i am no match at all. think what good luck!" the young girl ran on without pausing for an instant, so that it was impossible to interpose a word. she scarcely gave herself time to take breath before she began again: "they had actually formed a conspiracy,--papa and your wise old duenna, to whom i owe something for her conduct as long as i live. i was to be tied up like a parcel and sent to my granduncle's address. my prayers and tears were of no avail,--my trunks were packed. suddenly my granduncle's letter announcing his marriage fell into the midst of us like a bombshell. papa looked ready to have a stroke, mamma went into violent hysterics, and i danced about my room tossing the things out of my trunks, for of course the journey was out of the question. the next morning was like the calm after ten thunder-storms; my granduncle was excommunicated with bell, book, and candle. there was a secret conference between my parents, and when albert came in the afternoon, he was accepted without a word." "and you were absolutely happy, i am sure," erna at last contrived to interpose. "no; at first i was angry," molly declared, with a little grimace, "albert behaved so prosaically. instead of talking of our eternal love and our half-broken hearts, he told my father the exact amount of his income, and explained his prospects. of course i was listening in the next room, and i was outraged; but papa and mamma seemed really quite gentle and amiable. at last they called me in, and there was general embracing and emotion. of course i cried too, although i would far rather have danced, and i was provoked with albert for not shedding a single tear! a telegram was despatched to my granduncle,--it will embitter his honeymoon,--and to-morrow the announcements of the betrothal are to be sent out, and in three months we are to be married." in the excess of her happiness the little baroness threw her arms around her friend and embraced her afresh. the carriage, however, now reached its destination, and molly's supreme moment of triumph was at hand. while the master of the house was receiving fräulein von thurgau, gersdorf, secure in his lately-acquired right, hastened towards his betrothed, thus provoking an indignant glance from frau von lasberg. "i supposed you had already left town, baroness," she remarked, in her sharpest tone. "oh, no, madame," molly replied, with the most innocent air. "i did, it is true, propose to pay my granduncle a visit, but as he is just married----" "what?" asked the old lady, imagining she had not heard correctly. "the marriage of my granduncle, baron ernsthausen of frankenstein, and my betrothal took place at the same time. allow me, madame, to present my betrothed to you." the smile on waltenberg's face at these words showed that he was in the secret, but frau von lasberg sat quite dumfounded, and it was not until all the rest had eagerly pressed around molly with their wishes for her happiness that she made up her mind to utter a few formal, congratulatory words, which the girl received with a smile that was not without malice. but molly was too happy to-day to have refused forgiveness to her worst enemy, and her brilliant gaiety was contagious. all present seemed greatly to enjoy the occasion, although, as gronau expressed it, 'there was nothing fit to eat.' he required some refreshment more solid than fruit, rare as such exquisite fruit was at this season of the year, and something better to drink than the heavy, fragrant cordial, which could be but sparingly sipped. the ladies, however, did not seem to share his opinion, and all left the table in a most cheerful mood to inspect the host's collection, which occupied the entire upper story. waltenberg conducted his guests up the staircase, and when the tall folding-doors opened into the suite of rooms, the entire party seemed suddenly transported as by magic from the gray wintry atmosphere of this northern march day to the sunny, glowing east. foreign treasures from every zone were here heaped up in such lavish profusion as only years spent abroad, and abundant means, could make possible; but the arrangement of this almost priceless collection would have driven a man of science to despair. there was not the faintest attempt at order of a scientific kind,--picturesque effect alone was aimed at, and this was achieved; groups of exotic plants placed here and there combined to present a picture before which all preconceived ideas of a genuine 'collection' vanished. rugs of the richest oriental fabrics and colours covered the walls and draped the windows and tables; gorgeously ornamented weapons were hung against these tapestries; cabinets contained specimens of glass and porcelain exquisite in hue and shape; skins of tigers and lions were spread upon the floor; and said and djelma in their fantastic costume added to the foreign effect, which was heightened by the yellow light which penetrated the coloured glass of the windows and bathed the whole in what seemed a magical southern sunshine. waltenberg was a delightful cicerone. he led his guests from one room to another, explaining and pointing out rare objects of art, and enjoying to the full their appreciation of his treasures. as he told of how and where this and that article had been obtained, his hearers were impressed with the strange, unreal character of the life the man had led. it was natural that he should address himself especially to erna, for the girl's remarks showed intense interest in the fantastic character of her surroundings. elmhorst preserved a courteous but cold reserve in his expressions of admiration, and alice and frau von lasberg were soon wearied. gersdorf, who was familiar with his friend's collection, played the part of guide to his betrothed; by no means an easy task, for while molly desired to see and to admire everything, her chief object of interest was her albert. she fluttered about like some gay butterfly just escaped from the chrysalis, and was so like a joyous child at sight of each new and rare object, that frau von lasberg felt it her duty to interfere, although she knew well how little such interference would avail. she actually barred the young girl's way while gersdorf was talking with alice. "my dear baroness, i really must remind you that there are proprieties which a young girl must observe when she is betrothed. she should preserve her feminine dignity, and not proclaim to all the world that she is quite beside herself with delight. a betrothal is----" "something heavenly!" molly interrupted her. "i should like to know how my granduncle behaved; if he longed to dance all day long as i do?" "one would suppose you still a child, molly," the old lady said, indignantly. "look at alice; she too is betrothed, and has been so for only a few days." molly clasped her hands with an expression of mock horror: "oh, yes, but heaven defend me from a lover like hers!" "baroness, you forget yourself!" "indeed i cannot help it, madame; but alice is quite content, and herr elmhorst is the pink of courtesy. all that one hears is, 'does this please you, my dear alice?' and, 'just as you choose, my dear alice.' always polite, always considerate. but if albert should treat me with such cool deference, his manner always at the freezing-point, i should straightway send him back his ring." frau von lasberg heaved a long sigh. it was plainly impossible to impress molly with a sense of decorum, and she held her peace, whereupon the girl, forgetting all the old baroness's admonitions, shot off like an arrow to rejoin her lover. meanwhile, elmhorst had entered into conversation with veit gronau, who had been presented to him as to the rest as waltenberg's private secretary, and who, true to his expressed opinion that the presence of ladies was an honour but not a pleasure, held himself aloof from them. of course they talked of the objects about them, and wolfgang said, pointing to the negro and the malay, who were busy in bringing forward for closer inspection various articles indicated by their master, "herr waltenberg seems to prefer foreigners for servants; and you too, herr secretary, in spite of your name and your german tongue, appear to me more than half a foreigner." "you are right," gronau assented. "i have been away from germany for twenty-five years, and never thought to see old europe again. i met herr waltenberg in australia; that black fellow there, said, we brought back from an african tour, and we picked up djelma only the year before last, in ceylon, which is why he is still so stupid. we lack only a pig-tailed chinaman and a cannibal from the south seas to make our menagerie complete." "there is no disputing about tastes," elmhorst said, with a shrug; "but i am afraid that herr waltenberg has become so entirely estranged from his native land in all his habits of life that he will find it impossible to live here." "we have no idea of doing so," veit replied, with blunt frankness. "how under heaven could we ever reconcile ourselves to the dull existence led here? we shall leave germany as soon as possible." involuntarily wolfgang breathed a sigh of relief. "you appear to have no special love for your native land," he observed. "none at all. as herr waltenberg says, one must outgrow all national prejudices. he delivered me a long sermon upon that text when on the ship coming home a bragging american undertook to revile germany." "what! you quarrelled with him for so speaking?" "not exactly. i only knocked him down," veit said, coolly. "it did not come to a quarrel; he picked himself up and ran to the captain, who made himself rather disagreeable, but herr waltenberg finally interfered, and paid the man for his outraged dignity, and i was quite a distinguished person thereafter. not another word was uttered in dispraise of germany." "i had a deal of trouble, however, in arranging the affair," said waltenberg, who overheard the last words. "if the man had refused to be appeased, we should have had no end of annoyance. you behaved like an irritable game-cock, gronau, and the provocation was not worth it." "why, what would you have had me do?" growled gronau. "shrug your shoulders and keep silent. of what importance is the opinion of a stranger? the man had a right to his views, as you had to yours." "you seem indeed to have outgrown all 'national prejudice,' herr waltenberg," wolfgang said, with evident irony. "i certainly consider it an honourable distinction to be as free from prejudice as possible." "but under certain circumstances one neither could nor should be thus free. doubtless you are right, but i should have been in the wrong with herr gronau; i should have acted as he did." "indeed, herr elmhorst? such sentiments from you surprise me." "why from _me_?" the tone in which the question was put was sharp and cold. "because you seem to me perfectly capable of preserving your self-control. your entire personality is indicative of such decision, such perfect command of circumstances, that i am convinced you always know what you are about. unfortunately, that is not so with us idealists; we ought to learn of you." the words sounded courteous, but the sting in them made itself felt, and elmhorst was not a man to allow them to pass unresented. his look grew dark: "ah, indeed? you consider yourself an idealist, herr waltenberg?" "i do,--or do you count yourself among them?" "no," wolfgang said, coldly; "but among those quick to resent an insult." his attitude and manner were so provoking that waltenberg perceived the necessity for moderation, although his nature rebelled against yielding to the 'fortune-hunter' who confronted him so proudly. what turn the conversation might have taken, however, it is impossible to say, for herr gersdorf here interrupted it. he had no suspicion of what was going on, and turned to wolfgang with, "i have just heard, herr elmhorst, that you leave town to-morrow. may i beg you to carry my warm remembrances to my cousin reinsfeld?" "i will do so with pleasure, herr gersdorf. i may tell him of your betrothal?" "certainly. i shall write to him shortly, and trust we may see him upon our wedding-tour." waltenberg had turned away, quite conscious that he could not possibly provoke a quarrel with his guest, and well pleased that gersdorf had intervened. veit gronau, however, seemed suddenly interested. "pardon me, gentlemen," said he: "you mentioned a name which i remember from the time of my boyhood. are you speaking of the engineer benno reinsfeld?" "no, but of his son," gersdorf said, in some surprise,--"a young physician, and a friend of herr elmhorst's." "and the father?" "dead, more than twenty years ago." gronau's rugged features worked strangely, and he hastily passed his hand across his eyes: "ah, yes, i might have known it. when one inquires after twenty-five years he finds death has been busy among his friends and comrades. and so benno reinsfeld is gone! he was the best of us all, and the most talented. i suppose his inventive genius never brought him wealth?" "had he a gift that way?" asked gersdorf. "i never heard of it, and it was never recognized, for he died a simple engineer. his son has had to make his own way in the world, and has become a very clever physician, as herr elmhorst will tell you." "an extremely skilful physician," elmhorst declared; "only too modest. he has no capacity for bringing himself and his talent into notice." "just like his father," said gronau. "he always allowed himself to be thrust aside and made use of by any one who knew how to do so. god rest his soul! he was the kindest, most faithful comrade man ever had!" meanwhile, waltenberg had joined erna von thurgau at the other end of the room. he had just shown her a rarely beautiful specimen of coral, and as he replaced it he said, "have you been at all interested? i should be so glad if my 'treasures,' as you call them, could arouse more than a fleeting interest with you; i might then look for some indulgence in those grave eyes, in which i seem always to read reproach. confess, fräulein von thurgau, that you cannot forgive the cosmopolite for becoming so entirely estranged from his home." "at least i can now make excuses for him," said erna, smiling. "this enchanted domain is fascinatingly bewildering; it is difficult, nay, almost impossible, to withstand its spell." "and yet these are only the mute, dead witnesses of a life inexhaustible in beauty and charm. if you could see it all in its home where it belongs, you would understand why i cannot exist beneath these cold northern skies, why i am so powerfully attracted to lands of sunshine. you too would find their charm irresistible." "perhaps so. and still i might be possessed in your lands of sunshine by intense yearning for the cool mountains of my home. but we will not dispute about a question that only a trial could decide, a trial that i shall hardly make." "why should you not make it?" "because such an amount of freedom is not accorded to my sex. we cannot wander about the world alone at will as you do." "alone!" ernst repeated, in a low tone. "but you might trust yourself to a protector, a guide who would reveal this new world to you, whose delight it would be to unlock its pleasures for you. you may visit it some day with such a one beside you." his last words were spoken so as to be audible to erna alone. she looked up at him in surprise, and encountered a glance of such unmistakable passion that she changed colour and involuntarily turned aside. "it is very improbable," she said, coldly. "one must have a natural inclination for such a life, and i----" "you are made for it," he eagerly interrupted her,--"you alone among hundreds of women. i am sure of it." "are you so wonderfully gifted with insight, herr waltenberg?" the girl asked, calmly. "we meet today for the second time,--surely your estimate of the character of a stranger is overbold." the rebuff was evident; waltenberg bit his lip. "you are right, fräulein von thurgau," he replied, "perfectly right. in this world of forms and unrealities one may easily be mistaken in an estimate of character. there is no intensity of feeling here, and an ardent word that rises involuntarily to the lips may well be accounted overbold. all here must conform to times and rules. i beg pardon for my inadvertence." he bowed and joined the other ladies. erna felt relieved by his absence; she had received his evident attentions without attaching any importance to them, without a suspicion of her uncle's plans. it certainly was bold to address her thus in a second interview, but it was not offensive, and she--she liked what was bold and unusual, inconsistent with form and rule. why did she so shrink from his half-concealed declaration? why did a kind of terror possess her at the thought of ever being obliged to face the question at which he had hinted? she could not answer. frau von lasberg now rose to go. in truth, the visit had been greatly prolonged, and all took leave. farewells and courteous expressions of pleasure were interchanged, and ernst waltenberg took pains to show himself to the last the amiable, courteous host. but he hardly succeeded in controlling the mood which his conversation with erna had induced. there was a degree of constraint in his manner of taking leave of his guests, and he was relieved by their departure. he stood looking gloomily after the carriages as they rolled away, and then turned back to the deserted rooms. he was deeply wounded and vexed by the rebuff he had met with. it grated upon his impassioned nature like a breath from the icy north which he so detested; he retired to his beloved orient, which here surrounded him with its lights and colour. but something of the chill seemed to linger here,--everything looked dreary and colourless,--it was, after all, but a lifeless image of the reality. "mister gronau, what ails the master?" asked said, who appeared after a while with djelma in the balconied room to clear away the table. "he wants to be alone; he's in a very bad humour." "yes, very bad," djelma added, quick to use the few german words he knew. veit gronau had also observed the master's change of mood, but could find no explanation for it. however, in his reply to the servants he unconsciously hit the nail upon the head. he said, briefly, "it is all because he invited ladies. wherever there are ladies there is always sure to be trouble." "what, always?" asked said, who seemed hardly to understand. "always!" gronau declared, impressively. "no matter whether they are white or brown or black, they always make trouble. and so the only thing to do is to keep out of their way. remember that, you scoundrels." chapter ix. the herr president speaks. summer had come; it was only early summer still however, in the mountains, for it was the middle of june; but the woods and meadows were clothed in fresh green, and only the loftiest peaks wore the mantle of snow which was never laid aside. up there neither spring, summer, nor autumn had any existence: winter reigned in eternal, icy splendour. the extensive alpine valley which three years ago lay undisturbed in its solemn, dreary solitude, now showed all the traces of the human intellect which was then just invading it with its host of obedient forces. dark openings yawned in the walls of rock, and from the depths a narrow path wound upward in serpentine lines,--the iron road to which forest and rock had been forced to yield,--while across the wolkenstein chasm the masterpiece of the whole gigantic undertaking, the bridge, now wellnigh completed, seemed to hover in air above the dizzy depths. it had been no easy task to build this railway, and the wolkenstein domain had presented the greatest obstacles to its completion. they seemed actually to spring out of the ground at every step; the most careful calculations continually turned out to be imperfect, well-devised schemes proved ineffectual, unforeseen catastrophes occurred, and more than once imperilled the success of the undertaking. but the man who conducted the road through the wolkenstein section was equal to every difficulty, was daunted by no obstacle, discouraged by no catastrophe. he proceeded on his way with his myrmidons, step by step subjecting to his sway the rugged and hitherto unquelled nature of the alpine fastnesses. the railway company was well aware of the force it possessed in its superintending engineer, and now extolled the wisdom of its president in the choice it had at first opposed. gradually a power to act almost without limits was placed in the hands of the young man, and he knew well how to keep and to use it. the engineer-in-chief had long given nothing save his name to the undertaking; every project, every decision, was the work of his energetic and talented chief of staff, and when the young man was betrothed to nordheim's daughter and became the probable heir to millions, all opposition was mute,--everything bowed before him. every trace of wolkenstein court had vanished; it was levelled to the ground the year in which its master closed his eyes forever. there was no longer any need to regard the feelings of the eccentric old man whose heart had been broken by the invasion of his home. on the spot where the ancestral abode of the thurgaus had once stood there was now a stately structure, the future railway-station, built just at the entrance of the huge bridge. until the line of railway should be opened in the coming spring, the building was occupied by various offices, and superintendent elmhorst had his rooms in the upper story. it formed, so to speak, the head-quarters of the wolkenstein section, and the centre of gravitation of the entire railway. wolfgang had established himself here after the manner which had become a necessity to him since his salary had been increased. the bright, spacious apartments had a most comfortable aspect, the pleasantest being his office, with its dark hangings and rugs, its carved oaken furniture, and its well-filled bookshelves. the corner window before which the writing-table was placed commanded the entire view of the great bridge. the bold structure was always before the eyes of its architect. elmhorst sat at his writing-table talking with benno reinsfeld, who had just appeared. the young physician was unchanged in person and manner, except that he had become rather more unconventional and awkward. long years passed in a retired mountain-village, the laborious nature of the practice of a country doctor, and constant intercourse with men for whom the forms of society did not exist, had produced their effect. at present, indeed, the herr doctor was in full dress; he wore a black coat, which saw the light only on state occasions; unfortunately, its cut was that of ten years previous. he certainly did not show in it to advantage, it pinched him too much; his gray jacket and felt hat were infinitely more comfortable. there was no denying that reinsfeld looked a good deal like a peasant, and he was probably conscious of it himself, for he was enduring with a very meek air the reproaches of his friend, who shook his head as he looked at him. "do you want me to present you to the ladies in that coat?" he said, irritably. "why did you not put on your dress-coat, at least?" "i have no dress-coat," benno said, by way of excuse. "there is no use for one here, and it would have been a needless expense; but i have had my old hat ironed out, and i bought myself a pair of gloves in heilborn." he produced from his pocket as he spoke a huge pair of gloves, intensely yellow of hue, and displayed them with much self-satisfaction to his friend, who looked at them in dismay. "but, good heavens, you are not going to wear those monsters!" he cried. "they are a great deal too big for you." "but they are quite new, and such a fine yellow," benno rejoined, disappointed, for he had reckoned upon some expression of approval of his unwonted outlay in the interest of his toilet, having made up his mind to such expense only after due consideration. "you will cut a pretty figure at the nordheims'," said elmhorst, shrugging his shoulders. "there is positively nothing to be done with you." "wolf, must i pay this visit?" the doctor asked, in a tone of piteous entreaty. "yes, benno, you must. i want you to treat alice while she is here, for her wretched health makes me very anxious. she has had all sorts of physicians in town and at heilborn, but each one's diagnosis is different from all the rest, and not one of them has done her any good. you know how highly i rate your medical skill, and you will not refuse to do me this favour." "certainly not, if you desire it; but you know my reasons for wishing to avoid any personal intercourse with the president." "what! that old difference with your father? after all these years, who remembers it? hitherto, in accordance with your wishes, i have not mentioned your name, but now when i ask your help for my betrothed i am forced to introduce you. besides, you will not meet my future father-in-law, for he was going back to town this morning. confess, benno, your true reason is that you are so used to practising among your peasants that you would if you could avoid intercourse with ladies." perhaps he was right in this conjecture, for reinsfeld did not contradict him, he only sighed profoundly. "you will absolutely degenerate in the life you lead," wolfgang went on, impatiently. "here you have been planted for five years in this wretched little mountain-nest with a practice which makes the most tremendous demands upon you, and brings you but the poorest remuneration, and here you will perhaps stay all your life, only because you have not the courage to grasp anything else that offers. how can you endure such an existence?" "my home certainly does present an aspect unlike that of your rooms," said benno, good-humouredly, as he looked around him. "but you always had the tastes of a millionaire, and years ago you determined to be one, and you understand how to grasp fortune boldly; no one can deny that." elmhorst frowned, and replied, in an irritated tone, "what! you too? must i always be assailed by these hints as to nordheim's wealth, as if my importance were entirely due to my betrothal? am i nothing of myself any longer?" reinsfeld looked at him in surprise: "what do you mean, wolf? you know that i enjoy your good fortune with all my heart, but you are strangely sensitive whenever i allude to it, although you certainly have every reason to be proud, for if ever a man achieved a speedy and brilliant success, you are that man." upon wolfgang's writing-table stood a photograph of alice in a richly-carved frame. it was a likeness, but a very unflattering one; there was little justice done to the delicacy of her features, and the eyes were entirely without expression. that slender, overdressed girl produced the impression of one of those nervous, superficial creatures who are so frequently to be met with in the fashionable world. this seemed to be dr. reinsfeld's opinion; he looked at his friend and then at the picture, remarking, drily, "your attainment of your goal, however, has not made you happy." wolfgang turned upon him: "why not? what do you mean?" "come, come, do not be angry again. i cannot help it, you are much changed from the wolfgang of a few months ago. i hear of your betrothal, and expect you to return to me beaming with the triumphant consciousness of the realization of all your plans, instead of which you are now always grave, not to say out of humour, and irritable to a degree,--you who used to be so even-tempered. what is the matter with you, wolf? tell me." "nothing. let me alone," was the rather peevish reply; but benno went up to him and laid his hand upon his shoulder: "if your betrothal had been an affair of the heart i should think something there had gone wrong, but----" "i have no heart; you have told me so often enough," wolfgang interposed, bitterly. "no, you have nothing but ambition,--absolutely nothing," reinsfeld rejoined, seriously. elmhorst made an impatient gesture: "don't lecture me again, benno! you know we never shall understand each other on that point. you are, and always will be----" "an overstrained idealist who would rather eat dry bread with the darling of his heart than drive about in a gorgeous equipage beside a grand wife whom he did not love. yes, i am unpractical in the extreme, and since at present i have not bread enough for two, it is fortunate that there is no darling of my heart." "we must go," said wolfgang, rising; "alice expects me at twelve o'clock. and now do me the favour to look your best. i do not believe you know even how to make a bow." "my patients are glad enough to be cured without one," said benno, defiantly. "and if i do you no credit in your betrothed's society, it is your own fault: why do you take me there like a lamb led to the slaughter? i suppose fräulein von thurgau is there too?" "she is." "and has she grown to be a grand lady too?" "i suppose you would call her so." these answers were not very reassuring to the poor doctor, who looked forward to this visit with positive dread. he did not rebel, however, for he was accustomed to yield to his friend. so he took from the table his hat, which, in spite of its late ironing, did not belie its years, and prepared to draw on the yellow gloves, saying, submissively, "well, then, what must be, must." beyond the line of railway, about half a mile from the future station, lay the president's new villa. the house, built after the fashion common in the mountains, with an overhanging roof and graceful galleries, accorded well with its surroundings, while everything within was arranged to suit the grand scale upon which nordheim's mode of life was conducted. the views of the finest portions of the mountain-range were magnificent, the meadows about the villa had been laid out in gardens, and the adjoining forest so cleared as to form a natural park. there had been an immense outlay of money that the place might serve for a six-weeks' residence in the summer, but nordheim never took the expense into account when he laid his plans, and had given his architect _carte blanche_. elmhorst had, in fact, created a masterpiece of beauty in this mountain-retreat, and it was to be his wife's property. within, all appearance of simplicity vanished. the sunlight came through costly coloured glass to fall upon brilliant rugs and hangings, while carpeted stairs and corridors led to suites of apartments which, if not so splendid as those in the city, quite equalled them in luxury, and from every room there was an exquisite distant view. hither the president had now brought his family, and alice was to pass the summer months here for the sake of the mountain-air which had been prescribed for her. as usual, nordheim himself had no time to spend in relaxation; he stayed only long enough to oversee the work on the railway before he was recalled to town by business. he had intended to take his departure in the early morning, but several letters had arrived to which he was obliged to attend, and this had delayed him for a few hours. his carriage was waiting while he himself sought out his niece, with whom he wished to speak before leaving for town. erna's room was in the upper story; the glass door leading out upon the balcony was open, and outside lay griff comfortably stretched out in the sunshine. the dog was almost the only relic left the girl of her home; but griff she had insisted upon taking with her when she left wolkenstein court, in spite of the opposition of her uncle and of frau von lasberg, who could not endure 'the creature.' at the suggestion of leaving it behind there had been a scene; erna had positively refused to go from the house unless griff accompanied her, and nordheim had yielded at last upon condition that the dog was never to be admitted to the drawing-room. this condition had been fulfilled; and, moreover. griff had grown extremely well behaved, and it would now never have occurred to him to raise a riot in any room. he was no longer a puppy, but had developed into a magnificent animal. there was something lionlike in his appearance as he lay with huge, tawny paws stretched out, his large black eyes following every movement of his young mistress. something special must have occurred to bring the president thus to erna. he was wont to have neither time nor inclination for the joys of domesticity; he was absent from his home for weeks and months at a time, and when there, was seen by his family only at meal-times. even his relations with his daughter were far from intimate, and with his niece he stood on a very formal footing. he lived and moved in the world of affairs; everything else was subordinate to his business interests. he entered erna's room in his travelling-suit, and said, without sitting down and as if by the way, "i wanted to tell you that an hour ago i had a letter from waltenberg. he came to heilborn yesterday, intending to spend some weeks there, and will probably pay you a visit to-morrow." the words seemed to be carelessly spoken, but they were accompanied by a keen glance at erna, who received the intelligence with indifference, and replied, "indeed? i will let alice and frau von lasberg know." "frau von lasberg knows it already, and will pay him all requisite attention; but i should wish a certain regard accorded him from--another quarter. do you hear, erna?" "i was not aware, uncle, that i had seemed regardless of your guest." "my guest? as if you did not know as well as i what attracts him to this house, and what has brought him to heilborn. he wishes to know his fate with certainty, and i cannot blame him for wearying, after being trifled with all these months." "i have never trifled with herr von waltenberg," erna rejoined, coolly. "i merely thought it best to maintain a degree of reserve with him, since he seems to imagine that he has only to stretch out his hand to obtain whatever he may desire." "well, we will not dispute about that, for you seem to have pursued precisely the right course, with your cool reserve. men like waltenberg, who make a positive cult of their liberty, and regard all family ties as so many fetters, need to be dealt with very carefully. too ready a welcome might have made him shy. what is withheld attracts him." the girl's eyes flashed indignantly: "such calculation is yours, uncle, not mine!" "no matter, if it is correct," said nordheim, paying no heed to the reproach contained in her words. "i have refrained from interfering hitherto because i saw that the affair was progressing as i would have it, but now i desire you no longer to avoid a declaration on waltenberg's part. i have no doubt that he will shortly propose to you, and your answer----" "may, perhaps, not accord with his wishes," erna completed the sentence. the president turned and looked searchingly at his niece: "what does that mean? you would not be insane enough to reject him?" she was silent, but the same obstinacy was legible in her face that had characterized the girl of sixteen. nordheim probably recognized the look and what it foreboded, for he frowned darkly. "erna, i confidently expect to find no obstacles in the way of my serious and well-considered plans. the matter in question is your marriage with a man----" "whom i do not love," she interrupted him. nordheim smiled, half contemptuously, half compassionately: "i supposed there was some exaggerated nonsense in the background. love! what are called love-matches always end in disappointment. a marriage should be contracted upon a more sensible basis, and alice sets you an example. do you suppose that she was influenced by any romantic ideas in her betrothal, or that they have any weight with wolfgang?" "oh, no; least of all with _him_," erna said, with evident contempt. "which, of course, amounts to a crime in your eyes! nevertheless i confide to him my daughter's future in the conviction that he will be to her an excellent husband. i certainly should not have chosen an enthusiast for my son-in-law. waltenberg indeed can allow himself any luxury in the way of romance,--his means are ample. he is as eccentric as yourself; in fact, you are extremely alike, and i cannot understand what objection you can have to him." "his egotism! he lives only for himself and for what he considers the enjoyment of life. he knows neither country nor profession, neither duty nor ambition, nor does he choose to know them, because they might disturb his enjoyment. such a man can never live a life of earnest endeavour; he has no future, nor can he love a wife, for he loves himself alone." "he offers you his hand, however, and that is the matter to be considered at present. if you require in your future husband only ambition and energy, you should have married wolfgang. he _has_ a future,--for that i'll go warrant." erna shrank from him, and her tone was almost sharp as she exclaimed, "spare me such jests, uncle, i pray you." "i am not given to jesting; but, by the way, erna, your relations with wolfgang are very unpleasant, and the manner in which you conduct yourselves towards each other is most disagreeable for those about you. let me seriously request you to modify the extreme coldness of your manner to him. but to return to the subject of our talk. you seem to think that you have but to make your choice among a crowd of suitors of one who shall conform to your ideal. i regret being obliged to show you your mistake, but the truth is, you have no choice. a girl without means will certainly be admired and flattered if she is beautiful, but married she will not be, for men are very calculating. this offer is the first you have had, and will probably be the only one; moreover, it is a more brilliant one than you had any right to expect. there is every reason why you should accept it." his words were not uttered in a tone of well-meant admonition; there was something indescribably heartless and offensive in the way in which president nordheim explained to his niece that in spite of her beauty she had no claim to be loved and wooed, since she was poor. erna turned pale, and her lip quivered, but her face was by no means expressive of docility. "and if, notwithstanding all this, i do not accept it?" she asked, slowly. "then you must abide by the consequences. your position will hardly be an enviable one if you remain unmarried. alice is to be married next year, as you know." "and in the same year i shall be of age--and free!" "free!" sneered nordheim. "how grand it sounds! have you, then, been fettered in chains in my house, where you were received as a daughter? or are you longing for your patrimony? it is the merest pittance, and you are accustomed to the requirements of a lady." "i lived with my father in the simplest way," said erna, bitterly, "and we were happy. i have never been so in your house." the president shrugged his shoulders: "yes, you are emphatically your father's daughter. he too preferred to live in a peasant's hut rather than, with his ancient name, to have a career in the world. well, waltenberg offers you the freedom for which you pine. as his wife you can have wealth and position; he will fulfil your every wish, gratify your every whim, if you but understand how to manage him. for the last time i entreat you to take a rational view of the matter. if you refuse to do so, you and i have done with each other. i have no toleration for exaggerations, which appear to be hereditary in the thurgau family." erna made no reply, and her uncle seemed to expect none, for he turned to go, pausing, however, on the threshold of the door to say, with frigid emphasis, "i confidently hope to find you betrothed when i return. farewell!" he left the room, and a few minutes afterwards his carriage rolled down the road. erna threw herself into an arm-chair, more agitated than she had cared to show to a man so cold,--a man who regarded her marriage as solely a business arrangement. betrothed! she had a dread of the word, so apt to beguile a maiden's ear; and yet she was beloved by this man: the only one who never questioned whether she were rich or poor, but asked only to carry her from this house, where money was all in all, far away into a world of freedom and beauty! perhaps she might learn to love him, perhaps, in spite of all, he was worthy to be loved. could she not overcome herself? she covered her face with her hands. suddenly she was aware of a gentle touch. griff had approached unperceived, and was close beside her. he laid his huge head in her lap, and looked at her inquiringly out of his beautiful, large eyes as if he felt his young mistress's grief. she looked up; the dog was the only thing preserved to her from the time of her sunny, happy youth among the mountains with her father, whose idolized darling she had been. he had long been at peace in the grave, his dear old home had vanished from the face of the earth, and his only child lived among those who were strangers to her in spite of the ties of kinship. suddenly the girl sobbed aloud, and as she threw her arms about the dog's neck she whispered, "oh, griff, if we were only in wolkenstein court once more! if these strangers had only never come! they brought death to your master, and to me what was far worse!" chapter x. a professional visit. the president's carriage was rolling along the mountain-road, the only one available until the railway should be opened, when elmhorst and reinsfeld left the former's rooms and took their way to the villa. elmhorst of course did not wait to be announced,--the servants bowed low before the future son-in-law of the house, and he conducted his friend to the drawing-room. if the doctor had dreaded the visit beforehand, he was now completely crushed by his unaccustomed surroundings. the room, with its luxurious carpets, its curtains admitting only a half light, its pale-blue hangings and furniture, seemed to him like some fairy realm. there were a few pictures on the walls, and a statuette of white marble peeped forth from a group of flowering plants that perfumed the air. all here was as fresh and delicate as though it had been elf-land. unfortunately, benno was not accustomed to the society of elves. he stumbled over the carpet, dropped his hat, and in stooping to pick it up wellnigh overturned a little table, which nothing but wolfgang's dexterity preserved from a fall. he mutely endured the unavoidable introduction, made an awkward bow, and when frau von lasberg's cold, stern face arose upon his vision scanning 'this strange person' with evident surprise, he lost all self-possession. elmhorst frowned: he had not fancied it would be quite so bad as this; still, there was no retreat: the interview had to be gone through with, although, to poor benno's great relief, he made it as short as possible. the embarrassed visitor held the recovered hat tightly in the hands adorned with the yellow gloves which were far too large, while his friend presented him to his betrothed. "you have promised me, dear alice, to consult dr. reinsfeld, and this is he. you know how anxious i am about your health." the tone in which the words were spoken was anxious and considerate, but there was no tenderness in it. reinsfeld, who had been quite crushed by the magnificence of the baroness, scarcely dared to lift his eyes to the young heiress, who, he was sure, must be infinitely haughtier and more magnificent. he stood like a victim at the altar, when suddenly the gentlest voice in the world addressed him: "i am so very glad to see you, herr doctor; wolfgang has told me so much about you." he looked up amazed into a pair of large brown eyes in which there was certainly no disdain. his head had been filled with the satin-clad and lace-shrouded lady of the photograph, but in her stead he saw a delicate little figure in a thin, white morning-gown, her light-brown hair twisted in a loose knot, her lovely face pale and weary, but the reverse of haughty. he was positively startled, and stammered something about 'exceeding pleasure,' and 'great honour,' soon, however, coming to a stand-still. wolfgang came to his aid with some remark as to the purpose of the visit, wishing to afford his friend an opportunity to show himself at his best as the skilful physician. but to-day benno belied his entire nature. he asked several questions, but his manner was that of one suing for mercy; he stammered, he blushed like a girl, and, worse than all, he was conscious of how unbecoming was his behaviour. this robbed him of the last remnant of self-possession; he sat gazing at the young lady imploringly, as if entreating her forgiveness for annoying her by his presence. whether it were this same imploring expression or the childlike sincerity and gentleness, which, in spite of the young man's embarrassment, were evident in the dark-blue eyes lifted to her own, that touched alice, she suddenly felt moved to say, with extreme kindness, "you will hardly be able to judge of my health in this first visit, herr doctor, but be sure that i shall place implicit confidence in wolfgang's friend." and she held out to him a transparent little hand, which lay like a rose-leaf in his own as he said, with far more earnestness than the occasion warranted, "oh, thank you, thank you, fräulein nordheim!" frau von lasberg's face plainly showed her doubt of the capacity of a physician whose first visit to a patient so overwhelmed him with stammering confusion, and who was so profusely grateful for nothing. and this man was elmhorst's friend, and alice seemed quite content. the old lady shook her head, and said, with much reserve, "you are wont to be very chary of your confidence, my dear alice." "i am all the more pleased that she should make an exception in my friend's favour," wolfgang interposed. "you will not regret it, alice. i assure you, benno's acquirements and skill will bear comparison with those of his most distinguished fellows. i am always remonstrating with him for not exercising them in a wider field. he is sacrificing his life here in a subordinate position, and only last year he refused a most advantageous offer." "but you know, wolf----" reinsfeld attempted to interrupt this praise. "yes, i know that a couple of little peasants who were ill so absorbed you that you let the opportunity slip." "ah, was that the reason?" alice asked, in an undertone, glancing again at the young man, who looked as if he were being accused of some crime. "the herr doctor practises among the peasantry, if i understand aright?" said frau von lasberg. "do you really drive up the mountains to the secluded cottages scattered here and there?" "no, madame, i walk," reinsfeld explained, simply. "i have, it is true, been obliged of late years to buy a mountain-pony for extreme distances, but i usually walk." the lady cleared her throat and looked significantly at the engineer, who was intrusting his betrothed's health to a doctor of peasants. benno was now entirely out of her good graces. wolfgang understood her look, and smiled rather contemptuously as he said, "yes, madame, he walks; and when he reaches his home after an expedition through snow and ice, he works away at a scientific treatise that will one day make him famous. but no one must know anything about that. i discovered it only by chance." "pray, pray, wolf!" benno protested, in such embarrassment that elmhorst could not but release him. he observed that his friend had a medical visit to pay, and thus allowed him to take his leave. how this leave was taken the poor doctor never quite understood; he only knew that the delicate white hand was held out to him in token of farewell, and that the kindly brown eyes were lifted half compassionately to his own. then elmhorst took his arm, piloted him past all the flowers and statuettes, and then the door was closed between him and the fairy realm. in the antechamber he asked, timidly, "wolf--did it go off so very badly?" "god knows, it could hardly have been worse," was elmhorst's irritated reply. "i told you before, i am unused to society," benno said, piteously. "but you are a man nearly thirty, and can be resolute enough by the bedside of a patient; while to-day you behaved like a school-boy who has not learned his task." thus he hectored his friend after his usual fashion, and benno meekly submitted. only when he was entreated earnestly to collect himself and be more sensible the next time, did he ask, in a half-frightened, half-pleased tone, "may i come again, then?" elmhorst fairly lost patience: "benno, i really do not know what to think of you. have i not begged you to take charge of my betrothed's health?" "but the old lady was much displeased,--i could see that," reinsfeld observed, dejectedly, "and i am afraid that fräulein nordheim too thinks----" he paused and looked down. "i do not ask the baroness lasberg's permission in my plans for my betrothed," wolfgang said, haughtily. "and my influence with alice is supreme. since it is my wish, she has accepted you for her physician." the doctor eyed him askance: "wolf, you really do not deserve your good fortune." "why not? because i take the helm into my own hands thus early? you do not understand, benno. when a man without means, like myself, enters a family like nordheim's, he must choose whether to rule, or to occupy a very subordinate position. i prefer to rule." "you are a monster to talk of ruling that delicate creature!" benno broke out, angrily. "of course i did not mean alice," wolfgang rejoined, coolly; "her nature is extremely gentle, and she is used to yield to the will of another. i merely take care that this other shall be myself. you need not look at me so angrily; my wife will never find me a tyrant. i know she needs the greatest forbearance and care, and she shall always find them at my hands." "yes, because she brings you a million," benno muttered, as he turned to go. elmhorst detained him. "you have not told me your opinion of alice?" "at present i have formed none. she seems to be in an extremely nervous condition, but i must have more opportunity of observation." "as much as you please. _au revoir_." "adieu." they parted, and while wolfgang returned to his betrothed the doctor left the villa. he seemed in haste, for he strode quickly up a mountain-path, and did not stay his steps or look back until he had reached a distant point. there, behind those windows with white lace curtains, lay the fairy realm, where they were now ridiculing and laughing at the awkward fellow who had so plainly, in every word and gesture, shown his unfitness for the nordheim drawing-room. involuntarily he glanced at his gloves, which had seemed to him so extremely elegant an hour before, and in a sudden fit of impatience he tore them off and tossed the innocent yellow things into the thicket of pines. one fell on the ground, but the other was caught upon a bough, where it dangled and nodded like a huge sunflower. this irritated its owner still more, and he was half minded to send his hat after it, when he bethought himself in time that he really could not dispose of his entire wardrobe thus. "you cannot help it, old fellow!" he said, sadly, looking at his venerable beaver. "i am not used to polite society. i wonder whether _she_ is laughing too?" there was no explanation as to whom the 'she' referred to, but certainly for a time dr. reinsfeld was as miserable a man as could be found among the mountains. the consciousness of his want of society tact oppressed him terribly. chapter xi. on the alm. saint john's day!--the people's holiday from legendary times, preceding midsummer day, all redolent with mystery, when hidden treasures rise from the depths and allure wondrously, when the slumbering forces of magic awaken, and the entire elfin world of the mountains reveals itself in its wonder-working power. the people have not forgotten the ancient festival of the sun's turning, and legend still throws its veil about the sacred midsummer-time, when the sun mounts highest, when the earth shows fairest, and warm, fresh life courses throughout nature. in the country about wolkenstein this day was one of the grand yearly festivals. the inhabitants of the lonely, secluded alpine valley which the railway was to open to the world the ensuing year were devoted to their customs and habits, and clung closely to their superstitions. here the mountain-sprite still held undisputed sway, and not merely as a devastating force of nature with snow-storm and avalanche; for most of the people she was enthroned bodily on the veiled summit of the wolkenstein, and the beacon-fires which flamed up everywhere on st. john's evening had some hidden connection with the dreaded spirit of the mountain. nothing was known here of the pagan significance of the bale-fire, nor of christian legend gathered about it; the people in their superstition clung directly to their own mountain-legends, which they credited fully. the clear, mild, june day was near its close; the sun had set; a crimson glow still lingered about the loftiest mountain-tops. all the other heights were lightly veiled in blue mists, while the valleys lay in deep shadow. high above the forests which clothed the foot of the wolkenstein, where the projecting cliff's of the huge mountain began their rise, there was a smooth, green meadow, whereon stood a low hut. it was usually very lonely up here, and seldom visited by strangers, since the ascent of the wolkenstein was deemed impossible, but to-day it was enlivened by an unwonted stir and bustle. a huge wood-pile had been built upon the spacious meadow, many an ancient pine and hemlock having contributed to its erection. gigantic logs of wood, dry branches, old roots, towered high in air. the bale-fire on the wolkenstein was always one of the largest, and gleamed far and wide abroad over the country, for was it not lighted upon the legendary throne of the entire range, at the very feet of the mountain-sprite? around the pile was assembled a circle of mountaineers, mostly shepherds and woodsmen, with girls among them from the neighbouring alms, all powerful, sunburned figures, who lived up on the heights in sunshine and storm all through the summer, descending into the valley only when autumn reigned there. all were in merry mood: there were endless shouts and laughter; for people who worked hard day after day, and whose monotonous existence was rarely interrupted by any relaxation, the old popular festival was a joyous one. to-day, however, they were not entirely left to themselves; there was a little group of spectators who had taken up a position on one side upon a low eminence. this was an unaccustomed sight for the mountaineers, and under other circumstances would have been an unwelcome one, for on such occasions they liked to feel themselves undisputed lords of their domain. but the young lady sitting on the mossy stone was no stranger among them, nor was the huge lion-like dog at her feet. the two had lived among these mountains for years, in old wolkenstein court, not a stone of which was now standing. true, the wild, joyous child of those days had grown to be a grand young lady and lived in the fine nordheim villa, which was nothing short of a fairy castle in their eyes, but the fräulein came among them just as she used to do, and talked with them in their patois as of old; no one dreamed of thinking her a stranger. moreover, sepp was with her; he had been ten years in the service of baron thurgau, and had superintended the affairs of the little estate, and the two strangers who had accompanied her did not look at all, with their brown faces, like city people. one of them had made sepp bring him directly into the circle of mountaineers, where he was found to speak the patois perfectly, and was not one whit behind the rest in enjoyment of the fun. the other, who looked a far finer gentleman, with black hair and thick black eyebrows, stayed close beside the young lady, and had just leaned over her to ask rather anxiously, "are you tired, fräulein thurgau? we never stopped once to rest as we came up." erna shook her head, smiling: "oh, no, i have not yet forgotten how to climb. i used to go much higher, greatly to griff's disgust; he regularly made a halt here when i clambered up the rocks, and he still remembers the place." "yes, i saw with admiration how lightly and easily you walked up. i fancy you would find the difficulties of travel mere child's play where other women could not possibly confront them. i am very proud of being your escort upon this bale-fire expedition." "i should else hardly have been permitted to come. frau von lasberg was horrified at the idea of a nightly expedition among the mountains, and alice is not strong enough to undertake anything of the kind. sepp indeed long ago offered to accompany me, but he was not thought sufficiently trustworthy, although he lived with us for ten years." there was a shade of bitterness in the words, which did not escape the hearer. "you would not have been permitted?" he asked, surprised. "do you really allow yourself to be governed by others in such matters?" erna was silent, knowing well what a scene there had been when she expressed a desire to make this expedition. frau von lasberg had been almost beside herself at so eccentric and unbecoming an idea,--wishing to mingle among peasants after nightfall, and to witness their rude festivities. but it chanced that ernst waltenberg and his secretary arrived from heilborn in the afternoon. he immediately offered to escort the young girl, and, as he was already regarded in the nordheim household as erna's future husband, the privilege was accorded him which had been denied to faithful old sepp. ernst was about to pursue his inquiries, when a stranger approached and said, half shyly, half familiarly,-- "welcome home, fräulein von thurgau!" "dr. reinsfeld!" exclaimed erna, in delighted surprise, offering him her hand with the same confidence with which as a child she had treated him upon his visits to her father. he seemed at first amazed, but his face instantly lit up with pleasure as he grasped the offered hand with answering cordiality. in a moment griff had recognized his old friend, and was leaping about him with every mark of delight. "i did not have a glimpse of you yesterday when you were at our house," said erna. "i did not know of your visit until you had gone." "and i did not venture to ask for you; i did not know whether you would like to have me claim acquaintance with you." "could you entertain such a doubt?" there was reproach in her tone, but reinsfeld evidently was not depressed by it, and he looked at the girl with sparkling eyes. he could see how much more beautiful, how much graver, she had become, but she was the same to him as of old, nor did he in her presence feel any of the timidity and embarrassment which had made him so awkward on the previous day. "i had such a dread of seeing you a fine lady," he said, simply. "but, thank god, you are not that!" the ejaculation seemed to come so directly from his heart that erna laughed,--the same merry, childlike laugh to which she had for years been a stranger. waltenberg had at first observed with evident dismay the familiar greetings thus exchanged, and the look with which he had scanned reinsfeld was darkly suspicious. its result, however, could not but be satisfactory. this herr doctor in jacket and felt hat could hardly be a dangerous rival; the very ease and familiarity of his intercourse with erna was the best of warrants that he was merely a friend of her childhood. ernst waltenberg was quite capable of perceiving this, and his manner when reinsfeld was presented to him was extremely cordial. "we are but just arrived," said the doctor, after the introduction had taken place, "and in all this merry turmoil we did not at first perceive you. but where has wolfgang gone? i brought your future relative with me, fräulein thurgau. wolf, where are you?" his call was quite unnecessary, for elmhorst was standing fifty paces off, looking fixedly at the group. apparently he had not intended to join it; he now slowly approached, and benno could not but be surprised at the formality of the greetings interchanged between the 'future relatives.' wolfgang bowed formally, and erna's manner seemed to indicate that this meeting was anything but agreeable to her. "i thought you were to be in oberstein this evening, herr elmhorst?" said she. "you spoke yesterday of going there." "i did, and i have been there with benno, but he persuaded me to come up to the alm with him." "that he may see a veritable bale-fire," benno interposed. "there is one kindled in oberstein too, but there the entire village, all the labourers on the railway, the engineers, and a crowd of guests from heilborn are assembled, and so the fine old custom comes to be only a noisy spectacle for strangers. up here we have the genuine unadulterated mountain-life. and there is sepp! how are you, old fellow? yes, we are here. you would rather we were not to-night, i know, and therefore i said not one word in oberstein of our expedition. you must put up with us,--that is, with the herr superintendent and the stranger gentleman there,--for fräulein von thurgau and i belong here." "yes, you belong here," said sepp, solemnly. "you surely ought not to be absent." "i should like to protest against being treated as an entire stranger," said wolfgang. "i have been living for three years in the mountains." "but in constant war with them," waltenberg interposed, half ironically. "that would hardly establish your right to feel at home among them, it seems to me." "at most only the right of the conqueror;" erna said, coldly. "herr elmhorst upon his arrival here was wont to boast that he would take possession of the realm of the mountain-sprite and bind it in chains." "you see, however, fräulein thurgau," wolfgang replied, in the same tone, "that it was no empty boast. we _have_ brought her under subjection, the haughty ruler of the mountains. she made it difficult enough for us, so intrenching herself in her forests and fields that we were obliged to contend for every step of our way; but she was conquered at last. by the end of autumn the last structures will be completed, and next spring our trains will thunder through this entire wolkenstein domain." "i am sorry for the magnificent valley," said waltenberg. "all its beauty will be lost when steam once takes possession of it and the shrill whistle of the locomotive invades the sublime repose of the mountains." wolfgang shrugged his shoulders: "i am sorry, but such romantic considerations cannot have any weight where the question is one of furnishing the world with roads for travel." "the world which belongs to you! here in europe you have mastered it with steam and iron. we who would find some quiet valley wherein to dream undisturbed shall finally be obliged to seek it in some distant island in the ocean." "assuredly, herr waltenberg, if such dreaming seem to you the sole aim of existence. for us it is action." ernst bit his lip: he saw that erna was listening, and to be thus reproved in her presence was more than he could bear; adopting, therefore, the same indifferent, high-bred tone with which he had tried to humiliate the 'fortune-hunter' at their first interview, he said, "the old dispute, begun in the herr president's conservatory! i never doubted your activity, herr elmhorst; you have certainly by its aid achieved brilliant results." wolfgang involuntarily held himself more erect; he knew what result was meant, but he merely smiled contemptuously. here he was not merely 'the future husband of alice nordheim' as in society in the capital; here he was in his own domain, and with all the proud self-consciousness of a man perfectly aware of his talent and of his achievements, he replied, "you allude to my work as an engineer? the wolkenstein bridge is indeed my first work, but it will hardly be my last." waltenberg was silenced. he had seen the gigantic structure spanning the yawning abyss, and he felt that he must give up treating as an adventurer the man who had devised it. though he should aspire ten times over to the hand of the millionaire's daughter, there was stuff in this elmhorst, even his antagonist must admit, however unwillingly. "i have indeed admired the engineer of that magnificent work," he replied, after a pause. "i am greatly flattered by your saying so,--you have seen all the finest bridges in the world." the words sounded courteous, but the glances which the men exchanged were like rapiers. each felt at this moment that something more than dislike--that positive hatred divided them. hitherto erna had taken no part in the conversation; she probably perceived with whom the victory lay, for her voice betrayed annoyance as she interposed at last: "you had better give up contending with herr elmhorst. he is of iron, like his work, and there is no place in his world for romance. you and i belong to quite another one, and the abyss between his and ours no bridge can span." "you and i,--yes!" ernst repeated quickly, turning to her. all strife was forgotten and all hatred dissolved in the joy that sparkled in his eyes as he said, almost triumphantly, 'you and i!' wolfgang retired so suddenly that benno looked amazed. the doctor was talking with veit gronau, who had approached when he heard from sepp the name reinsfeld, and had introduced himself. "you cannot possibly remember me," he was saying, "you were a very little fellow when i went abroad, so you must believe upon the evidence of my face that i was a friend of your father's when he was young. he died long ago, i know, but his son will not refuse me the hand which my old benno cannot give me." "most certainly not," benno assured him, pressing the offered hand cordially. "and now let me hear how it happens that you have returned to europe." chapter xii. the bale-fire. the last crimson reflection of sunset had long vanished, field and forest were covered with dew, and the darkness was softly creeping up from the valleys to the heights, while above the snow-peaks began to gleam with a silvery lustre,--the herald of the rising moon, which was not yet visible. then flames began to dart forth from the heaped-up wood on the wolkenstein; at first only fitfully, crackling and smoking, until the fire caught the giant logs, and then it leapt aloft wildly with a magnificent ruddy glare, hailed by cheers from the circle of men around it,--the ancient bale-fire of the mountains. it was wonderfully picturesque,--the scene to which the growing darkness added much in effect,--the flaming altar sending its sparks towards heaven, and around it in the red light the crowd of brown-visaged mountaineers in joyous motion. they chased and chaffed one another, and leaped around the fire, snatching and waving aloft the burning brands in unrestrained delight, to which the crackling and roaring of the flames added intensity, while above it all the smoke rolled and floated in thick clouds, now half veiling and anon revealing the scene below. erna and waltenberg had not left their place,--probably preferring to keep somewhat aloof from the noisy crowd. at a little distance stood wolfgang with folded arms, apparently lost in contemplation of the fantastic spectacle. probably by chance, he had taken up a position where he was almost entirely in the shadow; all the more brilliant did the light seem which was thrown upon the little group on the hillock, the slender, graceful figure of the girl, the tall, dark form beside her, and the shaggy dog lying motionless at their feet, his head resting upon his huge paws. benno, standing near the fire with gronau, now and then glanced towards them, but that other pair of eyes watched them intently from the gloom, and if sometimes their owner resolutely looked away towards the busy, happy throng, some mysterious force seemed to compel his gaze to rest again upon the pair, who looked as if they already belonged to each other. erna, who had grown warm from climbing, had taken off her hat and laid it upon the mossy stone that served her for a seat, while waltenberg leaned above her, conversing in a low tone. what he said had, perhaps, no special significance, but his look sought hers with a passionate eagerness which he took no pains to conceal. his eyes could well express the emotion which thrilled his whole being. the man whose thirst for freedom had so long defied the fetters of love was now hopelessly enthralled. the conversation was carried on in an undertone, but wolfgang distinguished every word; through all the shouting and laughter, through all the crackling and hissing of the flames, every syllable distinctly fell on his ear, for every nerve was strung in the effort to listen, as if for him life and death depended upon what was said. "inaccessible do you call the wolkenstein?" asked waltenberg. "that only means that no one has yet ascended it. it can be subdued, that haughty peak." "hitherto no one has subdued it, however," erna replied. "several have ventured up through the rocks to the foot of the topmost cliff, but there every one has been stayed; even my father, who was not easily daunted by any ascent and pursued the chamois to the highest summits, often declared, 'the wolkenstein peak is inaccessible.'" ernst looked up at the peak, now only partially visible, and smiled: "do you know, fräulein thurgau, your description tempts me to venture the ascent?" she looked up at him in dismay: "herr waltenberg, you would not----?" "climb the wolkenstein peak? at least i shall attempt it." "impossible! you are jesting." "do you think so? i hope to prove to you that i am in earnest." "but why? what for?" "why does one undertake any adventure? because the danger excites; because it is a victory, a triumph, to achieve the apparently impossible." "and if this triumph should cost you your life? you would not be the first victim of the peak. ask sepp; he can tell you a sad story." "bah! i am no novice in such attempts. i have climbed higher mountains than your dreaded wolkenstein." his tone betrayed the defiant persistence of a man accustomed to danger, apt indeed to seek it. nordheim was right: he longed only for what was withheld from him, and life had thus far withheld from him little enough. to climb a mountain-summit which no human foot had ever before trod, or to win a beautiful, proud woman who met his advances with coy reserve,--either attempt attracted him. he must win, subdue,--nothing was impossible. the wind, which was rising, blew the flames to one side; they flickered and leaped, and a shower of sparks fell upon wolfgang, who hardly noticed it. he remained motionless in the ruddy glare, which did not reveal his extreme pallor. the entire pile was now one mountain of flame, whence huge tongues soared aloft, higher and higher, invading the night with a fiery breath. the cool, dewy meadow, the dark forests, the steep declivities of the wolkenstein,--all looked strangely transformed in the red, darting light beneath the clouds of smoke rolling overhead. and there was a reflection of the glowing fire in the face of the man who endured mutely, with compressed lips, the torture that he would not flee. he felt the hot breath of the flames, but he could not tear himself from the spot where those low, half-whispered words reached his ear. "take care. it is the legendary stronghold of our mountains; there is a spell upon it. its ruler permits no human foot to press her throne." "until he comes who subdues her. the german legends all end thus. he whose courage wins the summit clasps the enchantress in his arms." "and dies beneath the mountain-sprite's icy kiss. yes, so runs the legend." waltenberg laughed contemptuously: "yes, the tale may terrify children and simple peasants. thence comes the inaccessibility of the wolkenstein,--not from the danger, but from superstition! nevertheless i hope to make it mine, that mysterious kiss." "you will not persist?" erna interposed, between entreaty and command. "give up so foolhardy an idea!" "no, no, fräulein von thurgau, not even at your command." "but if i entreat?" there was an instant's pause; in the brilliant light wolfgang could distinguish every feature in the girl's face turned upward in genuine entreaty, and in that of the man who bent over her so close that he wellnigh touched her curls. the daring, reckless tone had vanished from his voice; it sounded low, but infinitely tender, as he rejoined, "_you_ entreat me?" "yes--from my heart! do not persist in such folly. it troubles me." ernst smiled, and replied, in a voice strangely gentle for one so impatient of control,-- "you shall be obeyed. sweet as it would be to know, were i in any danger, that one human being was anxious on my account, i relinquish my project." the sharp needles of the pine bough about which wolfgang had clasped his hand in a nervous grasp pierced his flesh, but he did not feel them. the hill of fire, which was still glowing erect, tottered, some of the logs gave way, and the burning pile fell into ruins, crashing and crackling, while from the dazzling heap a thousand tongues of flame curled along the ground, illuminating now only a comparatively narrow circle, while the meadow and the hillock vanished in darkness. "it was a magnificent sight, was it not?" benno asked gaily, approaching his friend and laying his hand upon the one clasping the pine. "but, wolf, what is the matter with you? you have an attack of fever,--you are trembling, and your hand is icy cold." "there is nothing the matter," said wolfgang. "i may have taken a little cold here in the damp." "taken cold on this summer evening? a fellow of your iron constitution? you are ill." but elmhorst withdrew the hand the doctor would have taken: "pray do not make so much of a slight indisposition; such attacks go as quickly as they come. i felt it as we were walking up here." benno shook his head; he had not before perceived any symptoms of indisposition. "we had better set out upon our way back," he said. "the fire is going out, and we have a good mile to walk down the mountain." "you are right; we are going too," said waltenberg, approaching. "sepp proposes to take us down by the vulture cliff, but that shorter way seems slightly perilous." "it certainly is by moonlight." "then we will give it up. i promised frau von lasberg to return early, and i must keep my word. gronau can descend with the guide by the cliff, since he seems to want to do so. he can meet us on the high-road." the little party set out together, gronau and sepp agreeing to meet it at an appointed spot in the road below. the meadow with the flickering flames soon vanished, and the silence of the mountain-forest replaced the shouting and laughter on the height. silence also fell upon the descending group; they were obliged to walk heedfully, for the path, although neither steep nor perilous, lay in the shadow of the dense pine forest, which hid the moonlight except for a brilliant ray here and there. waltenberg walked close beside erna; the other two followed. thus descending, they reached the edge of the forest in about half an hour and emerged upon the cleared mountainside. "the heights all around are still flaming," said waltenberg, pointing upward, where, upon the other summits, the fires were yet blazing. "the wolkensteiners lit their pile early. her majesty the mountain-sprite takes precedence, and she seems actually to mean to unveil in honour of the night." he was right. the clouds that during the entire evening had hovered about the summit of the wolkenstein and had veiled its peak were beginning to float away. "i wonder that gronau and sepp are not here," erna remarked. "they ought to have been here before us, since they took the shorter path." "perhaps they have met with some ghostly hinderance," said benno, laughing. "it is midsummer eve, and the mountains are alive with fairies and spirits. i'll wager either that they have encountered some phantom, or that they are now searching for the treasures which rise from hidden depths to the surface on this night in the year. ah, there they are!" in fact, sepp made his appearance on the other side of the road, but he was alone, and the haste of his approach boded ill. "what is the matter?" said waltenberg, going to meet him. "has anything happened? where is herr gronau?" sepp pointed in the direction of the vulture cliff: "up there! we have had an accident. the gentle man slipped on the rocks, and his foot----" "there are no bones broken?" "no, 'tis not so bad as that, for we got down to even ground, but he could not go any farther. the gentleman is up there in the forest, and cannot move his foot, and i came to ask the herr doctor to look after him." "of course i must look after him," said reinsfeld, instantly turning to go. "where did you leave him? far from here?" "no; only a short quarter of a mile up." "i will go with you," said waltenberg, hastily. "i must see after gronau. pray stay here, fräulein von thurgau; you hear it is not far, and we shall return immediately." "would it not be better that we should all go up together?" asked elmhorst. "my aid might be necessary." "oh, a sprained ankle, or even a broken limb, is not dangerous," said benno. "we three can do all that is necessary, even although we should be obliged to carry herr gronau; and fräulein von thurgau cannot be left here alone." "certainly not; herr elmhorst must stay with her," ernst said, decidedly. "we will be as quick as possible, rely upon it, fräulein von thurgau." the arrangement was a very natural one; fearless as the young lady might be, she could not be left here in the night alone, and wolfgang, almost a member of her family, was, of course, the one to be left to take care of her. nevertheless neither of them seemed pleased. erna objected, and thought it would be better to accompany the doctor. but waltenberg would not hear of it; he hurried away with reinsfeld and sepp over the meadow, and then all three vanished in the opposite wood. those left behind were obliged to accommodate themselves to circumstances. they exchanged a few remarks about the accident and its possible consequences, and then there was a long silence. the midsummer night with its deep, mysterious stillness brooded above the mountains, but without the darkness of night. the full moon, now high in the heavens, bathed everything in its dreamy radiance. in its light the fires upon the mountains gleamed but dimly. they no longer flamed aloft, but looked like glowing stars fallen from the firmament and shining on the heights in clear, quiet beauty. by day there was a distant view from this meadow, now the mountain world was veiled in a delicate mist that left only certain detached features distinctly visible. the rigid lines of the tall summits were softened, the thick forests were massed in bluish shadow; below, where yawned the wolkenstein abyss, darkness still reigned, although the moonlight already silvered the bridge. it reached from rock to rock, like a narrow, shining plank, discernible by keen eyes even at this height. the wolkenstein summit alone, close at hand, was defined sharply against the clear sky of night. the forests at its feet, the jagged outlines of the billowy sea of rocks, and the gigantic proportions of the steep wall rising from them,--all were flooded with snowy lustre. around its head there was still a fleecy vapour, which seemed slowly melting away in the moonbeams; at times each icy peak would be revealed clearly, to half vanish again in a semi-transparent veil. erna had seated herself on the stump of a felled tree on the border of the forest. the scene fascinated her, as it did her companion, who was, nevertheless, the first to break the long silence. "herr waltenberg could hardly achieve that ascent," he said. "it was scarcely necessary to warn him off so seriously; he certainly would have turned back at the foot of the rocky wall." "you heard what we said?" the girl asked, without looking away from the wolkenstein. "i did. i was standing very near you." "then you heard that the attempt was relinquished." "at _your_ request." "i was interested that it should be so; there is something distressing to me in all aimless foolhardiness." "in _all_? i think herr waltenberg attached another significance to your words; and was he not justified in so doing?" erna turned and bestowed upon him a glance of disapproval: "herr elmhorst, you evidently consider yourself as already belonging to our family, but i cannot, nevertheless, accord you the right to ask such questions." the rebuff was sufficiently plain. wolfgang bit his lip. "pardon me, fräulein von thurgau, if i was indiscreet; but, from the remarks of my future father-in-law, i judged the matter to be no longer a secret." "my uncle spoke of it to you? and before his departure?" "assuredly. and he also did so three weeks ago, when i was in the city." a dark flush mounted to the girl's cheek. so the president had even then confided to his prospective son-in-law his plans for disposing of his niece, probably before her personal acquaintance with waltenberg. all the pride of her nature was in revolt as she replied, "i know my uncle puts a price upon everything, and why not upon my hand? but in this case the decisive word is mine, as both he and you seem to have forgotten." "i?" said wolfgang, indignantly. "can you suppose me to have any share in his plan?" she looked at him, with a strange expression which he could not unriddle, and there was a shade of scorn in her voice as she replied, "no, certainly not in this plan." "you would do me gross injustice by such a suspicion. moreover, i have no liking for herr waltenberg, and i feel sure that, despite all his brilliant qualities, he is not fitted to make another human being happy." "that is your opinion," erna said, coldly. "in such a case all that a woman takes into consideration is whether she is beloved without calculation or reserve." "ought that alone to be decisive? i should suppose there might be a question as to whether she herself loves." the words came slowly and almost with hesitation from his lips, and yet his eyes were riveted in breathless eagerness upon the face so clearly revealed in the bright moonlight. there was no reply; erna's glance avoided his: her eyes were fixed upon the distant scene. the mountain-fires were growing fainter; the largest, upon the wolkenstein, still gleamed with starlike radiance. above these the wreathing mist was still floating, and the moonbeams called forth from it strange shapes, which, when the eye would have seized and held them fast, eluded it and melted away. slowly, however, from among them the topmost peak emerged white and gleaming, the inaccessible throne of the alpine fay in her garment of eternal ice and snow. wolfgang approached the young girl and stood close beside her as he continued, in an undertone: "i have no right, i know, to ask this question, but doubtless you have put it to yourself, and the answer----" a low, angry growl interrupted him. griff had not forgotten his early antipathy for the superintendent; he could not endure to have him approach his mistress, and, as if to defend her, thrust himself between them. erna laid her hand caressingly upon the dog's head, and he was instantly silent; then she asked, "why do you hate ernst waltenberg?" "i?" elmhorst was apparently amazed by this counter-question, which found him entirely unprepared to reply. "yes. can you deny that it is so?" "no," said wolfgang, with defiant frankness. "i confess it. i hate him!" "you must have some reason for so doing." "i have a reason. but you must allow me to follow your example and withhold the answer to your question." "i will answer it myself. because in ernst waltenberg you see my future husband." elmhorst started and looked at her with an expression of dismay,--nay, of positive terror: "you--know?" "do you suppose a woman cannot feel when she is loved, even though every means be resorted to to conceal it from her?" erna asked, with extreme bitterness. a long, oppressive pause ensued; wolfgang's eyes were downcast; at last he said, in a low, dull voice, "yes, erna, i have loved you--for years!" "and you wooed--alice!" there was harsh condemnation in her words; he stood silent with bent head. "because she is rich; because her hand can confer the wealth which i do not possess. nevertheless alice will not be unhappy; she neither knows nor demands happiness in the higher sense of the word, while i should be unutterably wretched bound to a man whom i despised." "erna!" he exclaimed, in torture. "herr elmhorst?" she rejoined, haughtily. he accepted the rebuff, and controlled himself by an effort: "fräulein von thurgau, you have felt yourself obliged to hate me since the hour of your father's death, and you have avenged yourself richly for a supposed injury. well, then, i will endure your hate if so it must be, but _not_ your contempt. i will not suffer any longer from the cold scorn which i always see in your eyes. you well know how to wound with it, but i pray you--do not drive me to extremes." he really looked as if the farthest limit of his self-control were reached. the man usually so cool and calculating, of such iron resolution, absolutely trembled in the fever of his agitation. griff was still pugnacious, following with an angry eye every movement of him whom he considered a foe, and who seemed to be threatening his young mistress, who, however, took the dog by the collar and held him fast. "can you compel my esteem?" she asked. "yes, by heaven i can and will!" he broke forth. "i compelled respect but now from that insolent egotist, who despises money merely because he possesses it in abundance, and who parades as romanticism his dreamy idle existence. you heard how he was silenced by my reference to my work. he does not know what it is to be poor, and to have bare, hard reality staring him in the face. but i drained that cup to the dregs in my needy youth; life for me possessed no poetry, no ideals. i felt within me the power to excel in my profession, and was tied down by hard mechanical labour. i had to submit to men my inferiors in intellect, and to obey where now i command. the plan of the wolkenstein bridge, now regarded as such a wonder, was rejected again and again because i had no patronage, because a poor, unknown man is sure to be despised. but, in spite of it all, i determined to rise; not for the money's sake, not that i might revel in idle luxury, but that i might work with freedom, undeterred by all the petty hinderances, to soar above which wealth gives wings. there stands my work!" he pointed to the narrow road, which gleamed like silver above the abyss. "whether you hate its designer or not, it must force even you to respect him!" with like proud, bold self-assertion wolfgang elmhorst was wont to silence his opponents and to win the victory, but it stood him in no stead here. erna had risen and stood confronting him, the scorn which he would not brook still looking from her eyes. "no!" she said, decidedly. "that work of yours condemns you. the man capable of achieving that should have had the courage to depend upon himself, and to go forward alone, for he carried his future within him. my uncle recognized your talent long before you wooed his daughter; he had opened the way for you, and you could have attained your goal even without him. but that indeed would have cost time and trouble, and you wanted to take fortune by storm." wolfgang gazed sadly at the girl's agitated face. "yes," he said, "i did. and i have paid a high price for it; perhaps--too high." "the price now is your freedom; in future it may possibly be your honour." "erna! have a care! do not insult me!" "i do not insult you. i only give utterance to what you do not yet choose to confess to yourself. do you imagine that you can with impunity pledge yourself to a man like my uncle? you still have ambition; he has long been done with it, and now cares only for gain. he has, it is true, won millions, and gold flows into his coffers from every quarter, but he is not content. the magnitude of his undertakings does not affect him, except as it brings him money, and once completely in his power he will require you to be the same. you will no longer create, you will only accumulate." wolfgang looked down gloomily; he knew that she spoke the truth; he had long known this side of the president's character, but his pride rebelled against the part thus assigned him. "do you think me so wanting in energy as to be unable to preserve my independence?" he asked. "i have a will, and if necessary can assert it, even in my present position." "then you will be given an alternative, and you will be obliged to submit. you have not chosen the hard, lonely path trodden by so many great men who could call nothing their own save their talent and their faith in themselves. for me,"--there was a kind of passionate inspiration in the girl's eyes,--"i have always imagined that in the striving and struggling there must be happiness perhaps even greater than that of attainment. to ascend thus from the depths, to be conscious that one's power increases with every step forward, with every obstacle overcome, and then at last to stand on the free heights in the joy of victory won by one's own exertions,--i have had some sensation akin to it when i have been climbing a difficult alpine ascent, and not for worlds would i have accepted another's aid." carried away by the enthusiasm of the moment, she was again the free, unconventional child of the mountains, whom wolfgang had once found amidst the abysses of the wolkenstein, her curls waving, and quick to love as to hate. together they had then bidden defiance to the tempest; in fancy he again heard her joyous, reckless laughter amid the hurly-burly, and it seemed to him that he had then been happy, supremely happy, as never again since then. "and could you have loved a man who had risen thus?" he asked at last, with suppressed suffering in his tone. "could you have stood beside him in toil and danger, perhaps in defeat? answer me, erna,--i entreat you!" erna shivered; the light in her eyes faded, as she replied, coldly, "what need to ask? the question comes too late! one thing i know: the man who denied and crushed out his love for the sake of the gold which another hand could bestow, who bought his future because he lacked courage to create it, i never could have loved,--never!" she took a long breath, as if with the words she cast aside a burden, and turned her back to him. griff suddenly became restless; he perceived the approach of the rest although their advance was as yet inaudible; his mistress understood him. "are they coming?" she asked, in an undertone. "let us go to meet them, griff." she slowly crossed the meadow, where the dew lay heavy and glistening. wolfgang made no attempt to detain her: he stood motionless. the last of the mountain-fires had just sunk to ashes; it glimmered aloft for a few moments like a faint and fading star and then vanished. the peak of the wolkenstein, on the contrary, was plainly visible; the mists that had been hovering around it seemed to melt in the moonlight, and the ice-crowned summit stood forth distinct and glistening. she had unveiled herself, the haughty sovereign of the mountain-range, and sat enthroned aloft in her phantom-like beauty, while above her realm brooded the silent mystery of the midsummer night, with its ghostly hint of buried treasures ascending from hidden depths and awaiting discovery,--the ancient, solemn midsummer-eve of st. john. chapter xiii. an outraged wife. the sunday following st. john's day had always been a great holiday in oberstein. the little mountain-village where dr. reinsfeld lived had, it is true, lost somewhat of its secluded character by the invasion of the railway in the vicinity. the labourers on the road frequented it, and some of the young engineers had their quarters in the little inn, but the place was still very humble in appearance. the doctor's house was in no contrast to its surroundings; it was a small cottage, scantily furnished,--indeed barely provided with the necessities of life. the sexton's widow acted as the young physician's housekeeper, and her ideas of the duties of her position were primitive in the extreme. only a nature as content and unassuming as benno's could have long endured existence here. his predecessors had never remained long, while this was the fifth year that he had passed in this place, undaunted by its hardships, and with no present prospect of leaving it. his study was indeed a contrast to the charming, comfortable apartments inhabited by superintendent elmhorst. the whitewashed walls were destitute of decoration save for a couple of portraits of reinsfeld's parents. an old worm-eaten writing-table, with an arm-chair covered with leather which had once been black, a very hard sofa with a coarse linen cover, and a table and chairs of equal antiquity,--such was the furniture, all purchased from the former occupant, of the room in which the doctor lived, and laboured, and gave advice, and even, as on the present occasion, received visits. his cousin albert gersdorf was with him. the lawyer had come from heilborn the day before, and had found a guest already installed here, veit gronau, whom he also knew, and who was recovering here from the effects of his disaster on the vulture cliff. the painful sprain from which he was suffering was not serious, but prevented his walking. he had been with some difficulty brought as far down the mountain as oberstein, and here reinsfeld had offered to take charge of the patient until the sprain was cured; an offer which had been gratefully accepted. the two cousins had not met for years, and their interchange of letters had been infrequent, so that benno's joyful surprise was natural when gersdorf made his unexpected appearance. he had just persuaded him to protract his stay somewhat, and said, delightedly, "so, then, that is all arranged: you will stay until the day after to-morrow; that's right; and your young wife will have no objection to being left so long with her parents in heilborn." "oh, she is extremely content there," gersdorf explained; but there was an unusual gravity in his voice and manner. the doctor gave him a keen glance: "see here, albert: when you arrived yesterday it struck me that something was wrong. i thought you would bring your wife. surely you have not quarrelled?" "no, benno, 'tis not so bad as that. i have simply been forced to make my father- and mother-in-law understand that their untitled son-in-law is perfectly capable of maintaining his position." "aha! 'sits the wind in that corner?' what has happened?" "not much. as i told you, we promised to finish our wedding-tour by a visit to my wife's parents in heilborn, where my mother-in-law is taking the waters. we found her there in a very exclusive circle, which graciously admitted me, although it made me quite sensible that i owed the honour to my having married a baroness ernsthausen. i showed but little appreciation of the amiable reception accorded me, inasmuch as i declined joining a picnic arranged for yesterday. of course this provoked much aristocratic indignation; my respected mother-in-law declared me a tyrant, maintaining that her friends alone were fit associates for her daughter, and at last inducing molly to be obstinate. i told her she was perfectly free to accept the invitation for herself, and she did so." "and went without you?" "without me. an hour afterwards i was on my way to see you,--i meant at all events to see you before i went back to the city,--leaving behind me a brief note explaining my absence." "it was a great piece of audacity on your part to marry into so aristocratic a family," said benno, shaking his head. "you see marriage by no means puts an end to your troubles." "no, but i was perfectly well aware that i should have to fight my way to independence." "can you be quite sure of your wife?" gersdorf smiled, both at the words and at the grave tone in which they were uttered: "indeed i can. molly is still a child, it is true,--a spoiled child who has never been trained,--but her heart is true as steel. do you suppose i enjoyed leaving the wayward little creature? she must learn that a husband's rights are to be respected; if i had yielded to my mother-in-law on this occasion there would have been no end to her interference, and that i will not tolerate." it was plain to see that it had not been easy for the young fellow to keep his resolution; his eyes turned longingly to the window that looked out on the road to heilborn, while benno sat lost in admiration of his cousin's strength of character. he himself would have made any sacrifice to a tyrannical mother-in-law rather than grieve a woman whom he loved. they were interrupted by the entrance of veit gronau. he still limped, but otherwise seemed quite well, as he deposited a large package on the table. "what have you there?" asked gersdorf. "genuine turkish tobacco," gronau replied; "and herr waltenberg sends his regards and he will come over this afternoon with the ladies from wolkenstein, who wish to see the holiday dance. said brought the message and this tobacco, which i asked herr waltenberg to send in pity for the doctor, who smokes wretched stuff, begging his pardon. let me fill the pipes; i understand that business." "that's true," said benno, laughing. "you and herr waltenberg would smoke up my entire income in a year. i cannot afford to be fastidious." veit, who was entirely at home here, hobbled to a little cupboard, whence he took three pipes, which he proceeded to prepare, and the three men were soon filling the room with clouds of fragrant smoke. suddenly the door opened, and a most unexpected apparition appeared upon the threshold, in the person of a young lady in a very elegant travelling-dress, a veil wound about her hat, and a handsome travelling-bag in her hand. she was about to enter hastily, but paused as if petrified by the scene which was presented to her gaze. gronau in all his length of limb lay stretched out on the sofa; the doctor, in his shirt-sleeves, was comfortably established in his arm-chair; gersdorf sat near him astride of a chair, while the room was filled with a thick but unfortunately transparent cloud of blue tobacco-smoke. "herr doctor," the voice of the old housekeeper was heard to say from the corridor behind the stranger, "a young lady has arrived, and wants----" "i want my husband," the young lady interposed, in a resolute tone, advancing into the room, where she created a sensation indeed. gronau sprang up from the sofa, uttering a cry of pain as he did so, for his ankle resented the sudden motion; benno started up in dismay and began looking for his coat, which it seemed impossible to find; and gersdorf emerged from the cloud of smoke, exclaiming, in a tone of delighted surprise, "molly i--is it you?" "yes,--it is i!" frau gersdorf declared in accents so annihilating that one might have supposed her husband had just been detected in the commission of a crime, and as she spoke she advanced with extreme dignity into the middle of the room, where, unfortunately, the smoke interfered with the solemnity of the occasion, for she began to cough and seemed almost ready to choke. poor benno was crushed. he had privately exulted when he had learned that there was no danger of a visit from his new distinguished relative, of whom he stood in such awe that for her reception he would have donned his grandest attire, and now here she was, and he in his shirt-sleeves! in his confusion he took his pocket-handkerchief and tried to flap away the smoke, but, unfortunately, he flapped it directly into the young lady's face, at the same time sweeping his clay pipe off the table where he had laid it, and overthrowing his arm-chair, the leg of which was broken in the fall. at last gersdorf seized him by the arm: "pray stop, benno, or you will make things worse," he said, kindly. "first of all let me present you to my wife. my cousin, benno reinsfeld, molly dear." molly bestowed a most ungracious glance upon this man in his shirt-sleeves who was presented to her as a relative,--really it was exceedingly provoking. "i regret extremely having disturbed the gentlemen," she said, with a withering look at her husband. "my husband informed me that he should pay you a visit. dr. reinsfeld, but no time was appointed for his return." "madame," stammered benno, in great confusion, "it is a great honour--and certainly----" "i am glad to hear it," the lady interrupted him without more ado. "my luggage is outside; pray have it brought in. i shall stay here for a while." this was too much; the doctor was in despair. he thought of the bare little garret room which was all he had had to offer to his cousin, and now here was a baroness ernsthausen about to occupy it also! suddenly his wild, wandering glances fell upon the jacket he had been looking for so anxiously: it lay on the floor beside him; he snatched it up, and vanished into the next room. gronau, whose distaste for 'the ladies' was as decided as it was respectful, hobbled after him, closing the door, as he left the room, with a crash that shook the house. "have i fallen among savages?" molly asked, indignant at this reception. "one shrieks, another runs away, and the third----!" she fairly shuddered at the thought that this third was her husband. but gersdorf cared not a whit for the frown upon her pretty face. now that they were alone, he hurried towards her with outstretched arms: "and you really came, molly?" molly withdrew from his embrace, retreated a step, and declared solemnly, "albert,--you are a monster!" "but, molly----!" "a monster!" she repeated, with emphasis. "mamma says so, and she thinks i ought to requite you with scorn. that is why i came." "ah, indeed, is that why?" said albert, relieving her of her travelling-bag. she allowed this attention, but maintained her dignified attitude. "you have deserted me,--me, your lawful wedded wife,--deserted me shamefully, and upon our wedding-tour!" "pardon me, my child, you deserted me," gersdorf protested. "you drove off with the picnic-party----" "for a few hours! and when i returned you were gone,--gone to the wilderness,--for this oberstein is no less,--and now here you sit in this detestable tobacco-smoke, smoking and laughing and joking. don't deny it, albert, you were laughing. i heard your voice plainly from outside." "i certainly was laughing, but that is no crime." "when your wife was away!" molly exclaimed, angrily,--"when your deeply-injured wife was at that very moment bewailing the fate that has fettered her to a heartless husband! oh, how could you!" she sobbed aloud, and in her despair threw herself upon the sofa; bouncing up again instantly, however, in dismay at its extreme hardness. "molly," her husband said, seriously, as he approached her, "you knew why i wished to avoid those people, and i thought my wife would have stood by me. i was very sorry to find myself mistaken." the reproof went home; molly cast down her eyes and replied, meekly "i care nothing for all those stupid people; but mamma thought i ought not to allow myself to be tyrannized over." "and you complied with your mother's request rather than with mine, and preferred to mine the company of strangers." "you did so too," sobbed molly; "you drove away without a thought of your poor wife consumed with grief and longing!" albert put his arm around her caressingly, as he said, tenderly, "and were you really unhappy, my little molly? so was i." his young wife looked up at him through her tears, and nestled close to him: "when were you coming back?" she asked. "the day after to-morrow, if i could have managed to stay away so long." "and i came to-day. is not that enough for you?" "yes, my darling, quite enough!" said gersdorf. "and if you choose we will return to heilborn this very day." "no, we will not," said molly, resolutely. "i have quarrelled with mamma, and with papa too; they did not want me to come. i have brought our luggage, and now we will stay here." "so much the better," said albert, much relieved. "i went to heilborn solely for your sake, and here we are really in the midst of the mountains. i am only afraid that we must try to find some other quarters; the doctor's house can hardly hold you with all your trunks." the little lady turned up her nose as she surveyed the room, where the smoke still lingered and the broken pipe and the three-legged chair encumbered the floor. "yes, this seems a detestable bachelor establishment. you would grow careless enough with this cousin of yours, who rushes away like a madman if a lady makes her appearance. has he no manners at all?" "poor benno was so terribly embarrassed," albert said, by way of excuse. "he completely lost his head. be kind to him, molly, i pray you, for he is the best fellow in the world. and now let me go look after your luggage." he went, and frau gersdorf took her seat upon the sofa, with more caution than before. in a few moments another door was softly and timidly opened, and the master of the house appeared. he had employed the time of his absence in arranging his dress, and he now approached his guest with much humility. at first she seemed scarcely inclined to be as amiable as her husband had entreated her to be; on the contrary, she eyed her new cousin with judicial severity. "madame," he began, with hesitation, "pray pardon me that, upon your unexpected arrival--i was very sorry for it, very sorry----" "for my arrival?" molly interrupted him, indignantly. "god forbid, no!" exclaimed benno. "i only meant--i wished to observe that i am a bachelor." "unfortunately," said molly, still ungraciously. "it is very sad to be a bachelor. why do you not marry?" "i?" cried benno, dismayed at the question. "certainly; you must marry as soon as possible." the words sounded so dictatorial that the doctor did not venture to contradict them; he merely bowed so profoundly that frau molly began to feel her irritation evaporate, and she added, in a milder tone,-- "albert is married and likes it extremely. do you doubt it?" "oh, no, assuredly not," poor benno hastened to reply; "but i----" "well, you, herr doctor?" his new relative persisted. "i am not accustomed to ladies' society, and my manners are very rude," he said, sadly,--"very rude, madame,--and that unfits me for social enjoyment." this confession found favour with molly. a man who felt his deficiencies so profoundly deserved sympathy. she laid aside her air of severity and rejoined, kindly,-- "they can easily be improved. come, sit down, herr doctor, and let us discuss the matter." "what! marriage?" benno asked, in renewed dismay. this seemed like an immediate settlement of his future life, and he was naturally startled. "oh, no: only your manners, for the present. you are anxious to learn, i can see; all you want is some one to advise and train you. i will do it!" "oh, madame, how kind you are!" said the doctor, with so touching an expression of gratitude that his instructor of eighteen was entirely won over. "i am your cousin, and my name is molly," she rejoined. "we must call each other by our first names; so, benno, come and sit down by me." he complied with her invitation rather shyly, but the little lady soon put him entirely at his ease. she questioned him closely, and he soon grew very confidential; he told her about his awkwardness at the nordheim villa, his consequent mortification, and his desperate but fruitless attempts to attain some degree of ease of manner. as he went on, all his awkwardness vanished and he showed himself as he was, frank, true, intelligent, and kindly. when gersdorf returned at the end of a quarter of an hour, he found his wife and his cousin talking together like the best of friends. "i have had the luggage brought here for the present," he said, "and i have sent to know if we can have rooms at the inn." "not at all necessary," said molly; "we can stay here. i am sure benno will make room for us; will you not, benno?" "of course i will," the doctor exclaimed, eagerly. "i shall move out. gronau and i can move into the garret, and you can have the lower rooms, molly. i will go and have it arranged immediately." he sprang up, and hurried out to do as he said. "benno?--molly? you seem to have made astonishing progress in a few minutes!" "albert, your cousin is a very superior man," molly declared. "we must befriend the young fellow; it is our duty as his relatives." her husband burst out laughing: "the young fellow? allow me to observe, madame, that he is just twelve years your senior." "i am a married woman," was the dignified reply, "and he, unfortunately, is a bachelor. but it is not his fault, and i shall have him married as soon as possible." "good heavens!" exclaimed gersdorf, "you have scarcely seen poor benno, and you are already scheming to marry him? i beg you----" he got no further, for his wife confronted him with an indignant air: "'poor,' do you call him, because he is to be married? you think marriage a misfortune, then. is it because your own is unhappy? albert, what can you mean by such words?" but albert only laughed the more; undismayed by his wife's impressive manner, he clasped her in his arms, and said, "i mean that there is only one little woman in the world who can make her husband as happy as i am. does this explanation content you?" and frau gersdorf was content. chapter xiv. midsummer blessing. the afternoon sun shone merrily down upon the gay assemblage on the green before the inn at oberstein. insignificant as the place was, it was a gathering-point for the inhabitants of all the scattered hamlets and farms in the country round, and all who could had come to the festival, which began with the service in church in the morning, while the afternoon was given over to the usual holiday enjoyments. the st. john's dance, which, in accordance with ancient custom, was always danced in the open air, had been going on for some time upon the improvised dancing-floor in front of the inn. the young peasants, both men and maidens, were engaged in it, while their elders were seated at small tables with their beer-glasses. the country musicians fiddled away unweariedly, and the children played hide-and-seek and ran hither and thither among the happy crowd. it was a lively, merry scene, and its charm was much enhanced by the picturesque holiday costumes of the mountaineers. the presence of the 'city folk,' who had just appeared, did not in the least disturb the festivities, for the young engineers quartered in oberstein joined in the dance, and the two swarthy servants brought by the foreign gentleman from heilborn were objects of admiring wonder for the peasants. waltenberg and the nordheim ladies were seated at a table in the little garden on one side of the inn, and here herr gersdorf and his wife joined them. greatly pleased by this meeting, the entire party was in a very merry mood, with the exception of frau von lasberg. she took no pleasure in any peasant festivities, even as a spectator, and she had, besides, had a slight headache, so she had resolved to decline joining the party. elmhorst, however, had sent word that it would be impossible for him to escort his betrothed on this occasion, as there had been some damage caused to the lower portion of the railway by a freshet, and he was obliged to drive down to inspect it. upon this the old lady had resolved to sacrifice her comfort to her sense of propriety, which would not allow her to leave the two young ladies to be escorted only by waltenberg, who was not as yet erna's declared lover. she drove up the mountain with them, suffering an increase of headache in consequence, and now here was molly, who had been in deep disgrace with the old lady since her marriage. molly knew this perfectly well, and took no pains to regain the lost favour. she expressed an ardent desire to join in the dance, declared that the elegant seclusion of the garden was a great bore, and finally proposed to mingle with the peasantry; in short, she nearly drove poor frau von lasberg to desperation. "and if benno comes, i shall dance with him although it should make albert jealous," she said, with a glance towards her husband, who was standing with erna and waltenberg at the picket-fence looking on at the merriment on the green. "the poor doctor never has a moment's pleasure; just as we were setting out he was called to a patient, fortunately here in oberstein, so he promised to follow us in half an hour. alice, i hear that you are now under benno's care." the young lady nodded assent, and frau von lasberg remarked, condescendingly, "alice conforms to the wishes of her betrothed, but i greatly fear that herr elmhorst over-estimates his friend when he attaches more value to his diagnosis than to that of our first medical authorities. and there is, at all events, great risk in intrusting his betrothed to the care of a young physician who, by his own confession, has practised almost exclusively among peasants." "i think herr elmhorst perfectly right," molly declared, with dignity. "our cousin can easily compete with the 'first medical authorities,' i assure you, madame." baroness lasberg smiled rather contemptuously: "ah, excuse me! i really forgot that dr. reinsfeld is now a relative of yours, my dear baroness." "frau gersdorf, if you please," molly corrected her. "i am very proud of my husband's name, and of my dignity as a married woman." "so i perceive!" the old lady remarked, with an indignant glance at the young wife who so paraded her matrimonial satisfaction, and who, nothing daunted, chattered on merrily,-- "what did you think of benno, alice? he was perfectly inconsolable for his awkwardness on that first visit. were you really as annoyed by it as he thinks you were?" "your cousin's deportment was certainly not calculated to inspire confidence, frau gersdorf," the baroness remarked, emphasizing the plebeian name; but to her immense surprise she here encountered opposition from her usually passive charge. alice raised her head, and said, with unwonted decision, "dr. reinsfeld made a very agreeable impression upon me, and i entirely share wolfgang's confidence in him." molly glanced triumphantly at the old lady, and was about to launch forth in praise of her 'relative,' when the man himself made his appearance. to-day benno was clad in his trim sunday costume, which differed but little from that of the mountaineers of the district, and was generally adopted by gentlemen among the mountains. the gray jacket braided with green and the dark-green hat with its chamois beard became him admirably, setting off his powerful, well-knit frame to the best advantage; and here where all around him was familiar he almost lost his shyness. he greeted his relatives and erna cordially, and received waltenberg courteously; even his bow to frau von lasberg was quite correct. it was only when he turned to alice that the composure hitherto so bravely maintained forsook him; he blushed, and stammered, and cast down his eyes. at first he hardly understood what she said to him, hearing only the sweet, gentle voice, as kind in its tone as it had been before in 'fairy-land.' he partially recovered his self-control only when she spoke of her companion. "poor baroness lasberg is suffering from a violent headache, and it has been worse since she sacrificed herself by driving up here with us. can you suggest a remedy?" frau von lasberg, who was sniffing at her vinaigrette, looked dismayed; she had no idea of intrusting her precious health to this peasant doctor. reinsfeld modestly suggested that the pain had been increased by the broad sunshine and the noise, and proposed that she should retire for an hour to some cool, quiet room in the inn. he hurried away to call the hostess, who came immediately and conducted the old lady, who really felt quite ill and saw the advisability of taking the rest suggested, to a quiet room on the side of the house that looked away from the revellers. "thank heaven, now we are left to ourselves, and can go to the dance!" said molly, rising to lead the way. "what! among the peasants?" alice asked, in alarm. "in their very midst," the young wife undauntedly replied. "do not look so horrified. you ought to thank god that your duenna has the headache, for else she never would have let you go. benno, offer your arm to fräulein nordheim." benno looked equally horrified at this command; but molly had taken possession of her husband, and waltenberg had given his arm to erna, so there was nothing for it but to obey. "fräulein nordheim,--will you allow me?" he asked, timidly. alice hesitated a moment, but then, either tempted by the gaiety outside, or induced by the timid address, she smiled, and took the offered arm, to follow the others, who had already left the garden. the pair walked slowly; the doctor was a rather mute cavalier: he hardly spoke, but looked with shy admiration at the young girl beside him, who did not, however, seem to him half so unapproachable and distinguished as she had been on their first interview. she looked graceful and simple in her light-blue muslin and her flower-trimmed straw hat; it was just the frame for her face, if only the face were not so pale. she was apparently somewhat afraid of the crowd, and when loud shouting was heard from the dancing floor she paused, and looked up timidly at her escort. "are you afraid, fräulein nordheim?" he asked. "then let us go back." alice shook her head, and replied, in an undertone, "i am unused to it; but i do not believe the people are really rude." "indeed they are not!" benno declared. "there is nothing to fear from our wolkensteiners,--that i can testify, having lived as long as i have among them." "yes, for five years, wolfgang tells me. how have you managed it?" the question was put in a tone of such compassion that benno smiled: "oh, it is not so terrible as you suppose. it is, to be sure, a lonely life, and at times a laborious one, but it has its pleasures." "pleasures?" alice repeated, dubiously, raising her large brown eyes to his, which so confused the doctor that he forgot to reply. suddenly there was a movement among the crowd: they perceived reinsfeld for the first time,--for on his arrival he had come through the inn,--and instantly a circle was formed about him. "the herr doctor! our herr doctor! here he is!" resounded from all sides, while twenty, thirty heads were bared, and as many brown hands were stretched out to the young physician. old and young thronged about him eager for a word or a look or to bid 'god bless' him. there was an outburst of enthusiasm at sight of their 'doctor.' reinsfeld glanced with some anxiety at his companion,--he feared she might be annoyed by these stormy demonstrations; but alice seemed, on the contrary, to enjoy them; she clung rather closer to his arm, but she looked unusually happy and interested. no sooner did the doctor explain that the young lady wished to look on at the dance than all began eagerly to arrange a place for her. the entire crowd about the doctor accompanied them to the dancing-floor; the rows of spectators were ruthlessly parted asunder, a chair was brought, and a few moments later alice was seated in the midst of all the joyous tumult of st. john's day, and the sturdy mountaineers formed a sort of _garde d'honneur_ on each side of her, taking care that the whirling couples did not fly past her close enough to brush the fräulein's skirt. there was a certain rude chivalry in the way in which they arranged the place for the companion of their doctor. "the people seem very fond of you," said alice. "i did not imagine that the peasantry were so devoted to their physician." "they are not usually," was reinsfeld's reply. "they are apt to see in him only a man who costs them money, and they try not to avail themselves of his help. but the relation between the wolkensteiners and myself is exceptional. we have gone through some hard times together, and they give me credit for not leaving them in the lurch, and for going indiscriminately to every one who needs me, even although the poor wretch have only a 'god bless you!' by way of fee. there is a great deal of poverty among the people, and it is impossible to think only of one's self; at least i have found it so." "yes, that i know," alice interposed, with unusual vivacity. "you did not think of yourself when a better position was offered you. wolfgang mentioned that during your visit the other day." as she referred to it benno coloured slightly: "do you really remember that remark of his? yes, wolf was very much provoked with me at the time, and i suppose he was right. the position was undoubtedly a good one, in a hospital in one of our large cities, and by a lucky chance i was preferred beyond any of my colleagues; but the condition attached was that i should report myself at the election, and enter immediately upon the duties of my office." "and you had patients here in the village who were very ill at the time?" "not only here, but everywhere throughout the district. diphtheria had broken out, and the children brought home contagion from school. one or two were lying ill in almost every house, and most of the cases were very serious, for the epidemic was particularly virulent,--and just when it was at its height the place was offered me! the nearest physician lived half a day's journey away, and my distinguished colleagues in heilborn do not come up to the lonely farms through storm and snow,--it would cost the people too dear. i delayed my departure from day to day, and wolfgang kept urging me, but i _could_ not go. hansel, come here!" he beckoned to a boy of about six who had worked his way to the front and stood looking on delightedly at the dancers. he was a sturdy little fellow, with flaxen hair and a fresh, chubby face. he obeyed the call instantly, very proud to be summoned by the doctor, and looked up confidingly at the young lady to whom he was presented. "look at this fellow, fräulein nordheim," reinsfeld went on; "he does not look as if, eight months ago, he lay very nearly dying, does he? he is the grandson of old seppel, who used to be at wolkenstein court, and he has a little sister who was at the point of death also. those two decided the matter! just as i had resolved to set out, sepp came to me on a stormy night; the old man cried bitterly, and the mother, a young peasant-woman, wailed out, 'do not go, herr doctor! if you leave us the boy will die, and the girl too.' i knew better than they did the need in which they stood of medical aid, and there were others too who needed me sorely. this poor little rogue struggled so with the frightful disease, and looked up at me with such beseeching eyes, as if i were absolutely the almighty,--and i stayed. i could not find it in my heart to leave the poor little things to suffer just that i might feather my own nest. i sent word, to be sure, why i was obliged to delay, but the gentlemen in authority in could not wait, of course; there were many other applicants, and one of them got the position." "and you?" alice asked, gently. "i? well, fräulein nordheim, i never repented it, for i brought most of my little patients through, and since then the wolkensteiners have been willing to go through fire and water to serve me." alice made no rejoinder; she looked up for a moment at the man who related all this so simply and as if it were quite a matter of course that he should relinquish his future, and then she drew little hansel towards her and gently kissed the boy's rosy cheek. there was something inexpressibly tender in the act, and benno's eyes sparkled as he was conscious of the silent recognition thus conveyed. "well, benno, are you receiving the homage of the assembled populace?" cried molly, approaching with her husband; and gersdorf added, with a laugh,-- "yes, it was really a triumphal procession that escorted fräulein nordheim and yourself to the dancing-floor. pray allow us some share of your popularity." waltenberg and erna soon joined them, and the entire party made themselves comfortable in a corner of the dancing-floor. poor frau von lasberg little dreamed what were the consequences of her headache. alice, her charge, who had been so carefully shielded from every noise, from all undesirable association,--alice was sitting close beside the ear-splitting music of the rural orchestra, in the midst of the shouts and whoops of the dancers, whose nail-shod soles stamped out the time amid the whirling dust, and, strange to say, she was extremely well entertained. there was a faint flush on her pale cheek, her eyes had lost their weary expression and beamed with pleasure, and benno reinsfeld was standing beside her chair, prouder and happier than he had ever been in his life before, conducting himself like the very pink of courtesy. verily, it was a day of signs and wonders! the doctor's popularity, however, had its drawbacks, as was soon to appear. little hansel had been summoned by his mother with an air of mystery from the dancing-floor to be intrusted with an important mission. old sepp had brought from the nordheim villa the intelligence that fräulein von thurgau and the foreign gentleman from heilborn were either already betrothed or were going to be, and that they were only waiting for the president's return to have their betrothal publicly announced. the young peasant-woman, seppel's daughter, who had also been a servant at wolkenstein court until her marriage, and still cherished a loyal allegiance to its former mistress, was quite beside herself with joy at sight of her beloved fräulein, to whom she proudly presented her two children. hansel was now to repeat the st. john's verse to the betrothed pair, and, accompanied by his sister, to present to them the bunch of flowers which obliged those receiving it to dance together. the fräulein knew the old custom and would be delighted to comply with it with her 'schatz.' from the fresh bouquet of alpine flowers which decorated the inn parlour the finest were selected, and a rehearsal hurriedly took place, in which hansel had sustained with great credit the part which he was now to play in public. there was a pause in the dancing, and the music was silent as hansel again made his appearance on the floor, one hand full of alpine flowers, while with the other he led along his little sister, who carried a nosegay equally large. with much gravity he advanced, as he had been instructed to do, towards the group of ladies and gentlemen; but the directions given him could not have been sufficiently clear, for the two children marched straight up to alice and the doctor, and offered them the flowers, while hansel began to recite his verse. "gracious, hansel, those are not the right ones!" his mother cried in a loud whisper, but hansel was not to be deterred. for him there was but one 'right one,' and that was the herr doctor, with the young lady beside him. so he went bravely through his verse, and ended with emphasis,-- "do not refuse it,-- our offering of flowers, and midsummer's blessings fall on you in showers." alice, surprised, graciously accepted the bouquet which the little girl held out to her, but benno, who understood the significance of the little comedy, was overwhelmed with embarrassment. "but, my boy,--my little girl, what are you thinking of?" he exclaimed, trying to turn the children aside. hansel, however, stood his ground sturdily and thrust his nosegay into the doctor's hand. "ah, take his flowers," alice said, in entire unconsciousness. "what does it all mean?" "it is the ancient st. john's blessing," erna explained, smiling, "and the flowers mean that you positively must dance with the doctor, alice; i am afraid there is no help for it." "oh, this is delightful!" molly cried, clapping her hands. "of course; benno must dance by all means." poor reinsfeld was in despair, but waltenberg and gersdorf laughingly insisted, and even erna, who probably guessed, from the young peasant-wife's face, the state of the case, entered into the jest. "you need only go once round the floor, alice," she said. "comply with the old custom; you will offend the people if you refuse their doctor, of whom they think so much, the dance to which, in their opinion, he has a right. it would be to reject the midsummer blessing which they so kindly invoke for you." alice did not seem for her part to think the custom a very strange one; she merely smiled on perceiving the young physician's intense embarrassment, and, turning to him, said, in an undertone,-- "we must comply with their wish, herr doctor; do you not think so?" poor benno, who had never danced save at these rural festivals, fairly grew giddy at these words. "fräulein nordheim--would you?" he asked. in reply alice arose and took his arm. those standing about, who thought it all a matter of course, made room, the music struck up, and in another moment the couple were whirling away. meanwhile, frau von lasberg was feeling much better,--the cool quiet of the secluded apartment had really done her good; she came rustling in great majesty to the door of the inn, where, to her intense annoyance, she found her egress barred by a crowd of people, among whom were gronau with said and djelma, and the host and hostess. all were stretching their necks to gaze towards the dancing-floor, which could be seen very easily from the top of the inn steps, and where something remarkable seemed to be going on. the baroness was naturally of too refined a nature to share in such vulgar curiosity, and she was annoyed that no one seemed to perceive her; she turned to said, who stood near her, and said, authoritatively, "said, stand aside; are the ladies still in the garden?" "no; on the dancing-floor," said replied, delighted. frau von lasberg was indignant; she suspected some folly of molly's, that _enfant terrible_: "and they have left fräulein nordheim alone?" "no; the fräulein is dancing with the doctor!" said explained, showing his white teeth in a grin. the baroness shrugged her shoulders at the stupidity of the negro, with his broken german; but, involuntarily looking in the direction whither he pointed, she saw what almost paralyzed her,--the doctor's athletic figure with its arm about the waist of a young lady in a light summer-gown and a straw hat trimmed with flowers,--her pupil, alice nordheim. and they were dancing together! fräulein alice nordheim dancing with the peasant doctor! it was more than frau von lasberg's overtaxed nerves could endure. she very nearly fainted, and would have fallen had not said received her in his arms, as was of course his duty; but in great embarrassment as to what was to be done with his burden, he called out, "herr gronau! herr gronau! i have got a lady!" "well, you had better keep her, then," said veit, who, quite unaware of what was going on, stood at some distance and did not even turn his head. the host and hostess, however, heard the distressed exclamation and hurried to the rescue. there was a vast stir and commotion, and djelma was running off to the dancing-floor, when gronau detained him: "stop! where are you going?" "to bring the doctor." but veit held him fast. "stay where you are!" veit ordered. "is the poor doctor never to have any pleasure? let him have his dance out, and then he can restore the frau baroness." the crowd about the dancing-floor were quite unconscious of this episode, and the couple danced on. benno's arm encircled the delicate waist, and his eyes rested with delight upon the lovely face, no longer pale, but tinged by the exercise a rosy pink, that was raised to his own, and as he gazed he forgot oberstein and the entire world. oberstein, however, was hugely delighted with the turn affairs had taken, and testified to its pleasure in unmistakable fashion: the musicians fiddled away with enthusiasm, the peasant lads and lasses shouted, hansel and his little sister skipped about, keeping time to the waltz, and all the wolkensteiners sang in chorus,-- "do not refuse it,-- our offering of flowers, and midsummer's blessings fall on you in showers." chapter xv. a betrothal. nearly four weeks had gone by, and july was approaching its close, when president nordheim returned to his mountain-villa. meanwhile, the engineer-in-chief, whose ill health had long necessitated his resigning his position into elmhorst's hands in all save the name, had died, and there had been but one opinion as to the man who should succeed him; the future son-in-law of the president, the engineer of the wolkenstein bridge, was unanimously chosen to fill the vacant post. he was thus at the head of the huge undertaking now so near its completion. several hours after nordheim's return he retired with wolfgang to his study, there to discuss the matter, which they had not done hitherto save by letter. both were well content. "your election was a mere form," said the president. "there was no name save yours mentioned; nevertheless i congratulate you, herr engineer-in-chief." elmhorst smiled slightly, but with none of that proud self-consciousness with which he had formerly achieved his appointment as superintendent, and yet that had been only the starting-point of the career the goal of which was now attained so brilliantly. a change had taken place in him: he looked pale and depressed, and in the keen eyes, whose depths had seemed so cold, there glowed from time to time a fire which leaped to light, only to flicker unsteadily and then to be as quickly extinguished. in conversation, too, he no longer preserved his old deliberate composure; in spite of all his self-control the man seemed to be consumed by some inward struggle, which did not permit him to march forward to gratify his ambition without looking either to the right or to the left,--some racking, tormenting struggle barred his path. "thank you, sir," he replied. "i value highly the proof thus given me of the confidence reposed in me, and i confess, besides, that i take satisfaction in knowing that the completion of the work to which i have given the best that is in me should be connected with my name." "do you set such a value on that?" nordheim asked, indifferently. "true, such an ambition is still natural at your age; but you will soon outgrow it when loftier interests come to the fore." "loftier than the honour that attaches to the creation of a great work?" "more practical interests, i mean,--interests of more decisive weight,--and it is precisely of them that i wish to speak with you. you know that i have long cherished the desire to retire from the company as soon as the railway shall be opened?" "i do; you mentioned it to me some months ago, and surprised me exceedingly. why should you wish to retire from an undertaking which you practically called into existence?" "because it no longer seems to me sufficiently profitable," the president replied, coolly. "the costs of construction are very heavy,--much heavier than i thought; in fact, there was no possibility of foreseeing all the difficulties in our way, and then your predecessor had such a mania for building with solidity. he sometimes drove me to despair with that solidity of his; it was terribly costly." "excuse me, sir, but i share that same 'mania,'" wolfgang declared, with some emphasis. "of course. hitherto you have been simply an engineer of the railway, and it could make but little difference to you if it cost a few millions more or less. but when in future you engage in such undertakings as my son-in-law you will think very differently." "on such points--never!" "oh, you must learn to do so. in this case we can specially emphasize the admirable quality of the structure when the appraisement is made, which will probably be this year. the stockholders must own the railway; i have resolved upon that, and have already taken steps to have it so arranged. my shares stand for millions where others have invested tens of thousands at the most; i can consider myself the practical proprietor of the entire concern. consequently i can impose my own conditions, and therefore i am especially glad to have you at the head of affairs as engineer-in-chief; we need take no stranger into counsel, but can work together." "i am entirely at your service, sir, as you know; as matters stand, the appraisement will be tolerably high." "i hope so," nordheim said, slowly and significantly. "moreover, the calculations are for the most part already made. they should be ready long beforehand, and they demand the work of a thorough man of business. i could not, therefore, call upon you to make them; you have enough to do in the conduct of the technical part of the enterprise. you will merely be called upon to review and approve the appraisement, and in this regard i rely upon you absolutely, wolfgang. the unbounded confidence which you enjoy, as the result of your labours hitherto, will make matters very easy for us." wolfgang looked somewhat puzzled; it was a matter of course that he should do his duty and assist his father-in-law to the best of his ability, but there seemed some other meaning hidden behind the president's words: they sounded odd. there was no opportunity for further explanation, however, for nordheim looked at his watch and arose. "four o'clock already; it will soon be dinner-time. come, wolfgang, we must not keep the ladies waiting." "you brought waltenberg with you," elmhorst said, as he also rose. "yes; he met me in heilborn, and came over with me. his patience seems to have been put to a hard test in these last four weeks. i cannot understand the man. he is proud and self-willed, even arrogant in a certain way, and yet he allows himself to be the victim of a girl's caprice. i mean to have a serious talk with my niece. the matter must be decided." meanwhile, they had passed through the adjoining room and entered the drawing-room, where a servant was employed in raising the curtains, which had been drawn down on account of the sun. nordheim asked if the ladies were in the garden. "only the baroness thurgau and herr waltenberg," was the reply. "fräulein nordheim is in her room, where the herr doctor is paying her a visit." "ah, the new physician whom you have discovered," said the president, turning to wolfgang. "one of your early friends, i think you told me. he certainly seems to understand the matter, for alice has changed greatly for the better in a short time. i was quite surprised by her appearance and her unusual sprightliness; the doctor seems to have worked wonders. what is the name of this oberstein Æsculapius? you forgot to mention it in your letters." wolfgang had purposely avoided doing so, but he felt no longer called upon to pay any regard to what he considered as his friend's whim, and he replied, quietly,-- "dr. benno reinsfeld." nordheim turned upon him hastily: "whom did you say?" "benno reinsfeld," elmhorst repeated, amazed at the tone in which the question was put. he had supposed that the president would scarcely remember the name, and that he would not take the slightest interest in the old associations so foreign now to the millionaire. that they had a deep and lasting hold upon him was evident, however: nordheim's face grew ghastly pale, and expressed dismay, and even terror, which also showed itself in his voice as he exclaimed, "what! that man in oberstein,--and in my house?" wolfgang was about to reply, but at that moment the door opened and benno himself entered. he started slightly upon perceiving the president, but paused calmly and bowed. he had just heard from alice of her father's arrival, and was prepared for this encounter. nordheim immediately divined who the man was; perhaps he remembered the young physician whom he had seen for a moment three years before at wolkenstein court, without hearing his name, and he was man of the world enough to recover himself immediately. with apparent composure he greeted the young man whom wolfgang now presented to him, but his impassible features were still ghastly pale. "herr elmhorst wrote me that he had availed himself of your skill on behalf of his betrothed," he said, with frigid courtesy, "and i must express my thanks to you, herr doctor, for your efforts seem to have achieved very favourable results; my daughter looks decidedly better. your diagnosis, i hear, differs from that of her former physicians?" "fräulein nordheim seems to me to be suffering from a derangement of the nerves," said benno, modestly, "and i have treated her accordingly." "indeed? the other gentlemen were tolerably well agreed in pronouncing her heart affected." "i know it, but i do not agree with them, and the result of my treatment seems to prove me in the right. i have induced fräulein nordheim, who has been hitherto forbidden all exercise, to take walks and to increase their extent daily, and i have advised some mountain-climbing, and that she should spend as much time as possible in the open air, since this high atmosphere seems to suit her extremely well. thus far i have cause to be satisfied with her improvement." "as we all have," the president assented, gazing meanwhile at the young physician as if to read his soul. "as i said, i am grateful to you. you live in oberstein, wolfgang wrote me. have you been there long? "five years, herr president." "and you intend to remain?" "at least until some better position offers." "there should be no difficulty about that," nordheim remarked, and then went on to converse with the young man, but with a degree of distant courtesy that entirely precluded familiar ease. not a word, not a look betrayed any consciousness that the man before him was the son of his early friend; in spite of his apparent kindliness, his reserve was also apparent. benno perceived this clearly, but was not at all surprised by it, for he had expected nothing else. he knew that the memories roused by his name were far from agreeable to the president, and in his modesty he never dreamed that the result of his medical treatment of the daughter could influence the father. he never thought of recalling associations so entirely ignored by the millionaire, and, as the meeting was an annoying one for him, he took his leave as soon as possible. nordheim looked after him in silence for a few moments, and then, turning to wolfgang with a frown, he asked, sharply, "how came you to make this acquaintance?" "as i have told you, reinsfeld is one of my early friends, whom i met again here in oberstein." "and you have known him for years without ever mentioning his name to me?" "i avoided doing so by benno's express desire, for your name is as well known to him as his to you. you do not wish to be reminded that his father was your fellow-student,--i perceived that to-day." "what do you know about it?" the president asked, angrily. "did the doctor speak to you about it?" "he did, and informed me that the former friendship had ended in entire alienation." nordheim leaned his hand as if accidentally upon the back of the chair by which he was standing; his face had grown pale again, and his voice was rather tremulous as he asked, "indeed! and what does he know about it?" "nothing at all! he was a boy at the time, and never learned what caused the breach; but he was much too proud to approach you in any way, and therefore made me promise to avoid mentioning his name for as long as i could." involuntarily nordheim breathed a deep sigh; he made no rejoinder, but walked to the window. "it seems to me that dr. reinsfeld was entitled to a more cordial reception," wolfgang began again, evidently hurt by the cool way in which his friend had been treated. "of course i know nothing of what occurred formerly----" "nor do i wish you to know," the president sharply interrupted him. "the affair was of a purely personal character, and one of which i alone can judge; but you knew that this reinsfeld could not be agreeable to me, and i cannot understand how you came to introduce him into my house and intrust my daughter's health to him. it was an act of supererogation which i cannot approve." he was evidently much irritated by his encounter with benno, and was wreaking his irritation upon his future son-in-law, who was, however, nowise inclined to submit to be addressed in a tone which he heard today for the first time. "i regret, sir, that the matter should annoy you," he said, coldly, "but there is no question here of supererogation. it is certainly my right to call in for my betrothed a physician in whom i have perfect confidence, and who, as you yourself must admit, has entirely justified my confidence. i could not possibly surmise that an old grudge, dating twenty years back, and of which benno is as innocent as he is ignorant, could make you so unjust. your former friend is long since dead, and all unpleasantness should be buried with him." "i am the only judge of that," nordheim interrupted him, with a fresh access of anger. "enough. i will not have this man coming to my house. i will send him a fee,--of course a very large fee,--and decline further visits from him upon any pretext whatsoever. and i also request you to discontinue your intercourse with him. i do not approve of it." the words sounded like a command, but the young engineer-in-chief was not the man to submit. his eyes flashed: "i think i have told you, sir, that dr. reinsfeld is my friend," he said, sternly, "and of course there can be no question of giving him up. it would insult him, after the pains he has taken with alice's health, to dismiss him with a fee before her cure is complete. and i must beg you also to adopt another tone in speaking of him. benno is a man deserving of the greatest regard; beneath an unpretending and even awkward exterior he possesses characteristics and talents worthy of all admiration." "indeed?" the president laughed scornfully. "i am learning to know you to-day, wolfgang, in an entirely new character,--that of an enthusiastic and self-sacrificing friend. i should hardly have thought it of you." "i am at least wont to stand up for my friends, and not to leave them in the lurch," was the very decided reply. "but i repeat that i do not choose to have this man in my house," nordheim said, dictatorially. "i suppose i am master here." "certainly; but in _my_ future house benno will always be a welcome guest, and i shall explain this to him unreservedly, in case i should be obliged by your dismissal of him to discuss the matter with him, and to--excuse you." the words left nothing to be desired in the way of emphasis. it was the first time that there had been a difference of opinion between the two men; hitherto their views and interests had been identical. wolfgang; showed in this first encounter that he was no docile son-in-law, but could maintain his ground with entire resolution. he certainly would not yield, as the president could clearly see; and probably nordheim had some reason for not pushing him to extremities, for he lowered his tone. "the matter is not worth a dispute," he said, with a shrug. "what, in fact, is this dr. reinsfeld to me? i would rather not be reminded by the sight of him of a disagreeable circumstance,--nothing more. in spite of your enthusiastic eulogy, i take the liberty of finding him as insignificant as was the incident that caused me to break with his father. let the matter drop, for all i care." he could not have astounded wolfgang more than by this unwonted acquiescence. this indifference was in direct contrast with his former feverish irritability. the young man was silent and appeared satisfied, but the ancient grudge had acquired a new significance in his eyes. he was now convinced that the cause of it had not been insignificant; a man like nordheim would not have preserved for twenty years the memory of a mere bagatelle. alice here made her appearance, to the evident relief of her father, who made no reference to the physician's visit, but began to talk of other things, and wolfgang also took pains to conceal his annoyance. alice did not perceive anything amiss; she was on her way to the garden to look for erna, and her father, as well as her betrothed, joined her. the garden of the villa was scarcely in accord with its elevated situation, where the usual flowers and ornamental shrubs enjoyed but a short summer, and were buried beneath the snow during more than half the year. the beds that had been laid out on the former meadow were fresh and sunny, but the little pine forest adjoining the garden, and extending to the foot of the cliffs, offered a cool, shady retreat from the hot sun. it formed a kind of natural park, to which the moss-grown rocks, detached from their mountain-home in some ancient avalanche, and lying scattered here and there, lent a romantic charm. upon a rustic seat at the base of one of these rocks sat the baroness thurgau, and before her stood ernst waltenberg, but not engaged in calm conversation; he had sprung up and planted himself before her as if to prevent her escape. he was greatly agitated. "no, no, fräulein thurgau, you must stay and hear me!" he exclaimed. "you have repeatedly escaped me of late when i would fain have uttered what has been upon my lips for months. stay, i entreat! i can endure suspense no longer." erna could not but be conscious that he had a right to be heard. she made no further attempt to leave him, but the expression of her face betrayed her dread of the coming declaration. neither by word nor by look did she give the slightest encouragement to the man who now continued, with ever-increasing ardour,-- "i might have ended this uncertainty long ago, but, for the first time in my life, i have been and am a very coward. you cannot dream, erna, of the misery you have caused me by your reserve, and avoidance of me! when i would have spoken i seemed to read in your eyes a 'no,' and that i could not endure." "herr waltenberg, listen to me," the girl said, gently. "_herr_ waltenberg!" he repeated, bitterly. "have you no other name for me? am i still such a stranger to you that you cannot, for once at least, let me hear you call me ernst? you must have long known that i love you with all a man's passion,--that i sue for you as for the greatest of all blessings. there was a time when entire freedom was my highest ideal of happiness; when i shrank from the thought of any tie that could fetter me. all that is gone and forgotten. what is all the world to me--what is unfettered freedom--without you? on this broad earth i care for you, and for you only!" he had taken her hand, and she did not withdraw it from his clasp, but it lay there cold and passive, and when she raised her eyes to his they were veiled with sadness. "i know that you love me, ernst," she said, slowly, "and i believe in the depth and sincerity of your affection, but i can give you no love in return." he dropped her hand suddenly: "and why not?" "a strange question to ask. can love be forced?" "ah, yes. a man's boundless, passionate devotion must beget love in return--if there is no rival in the way." erna shivered, and the colour mounted slowly in her face, but she was silent. this change of colour did not escape waltenberg, who was gazing at her with breathless eagerness. his dark face grew pale on a sudden, and there was something like a menace in the tone in which he said, "erna, why have you avoided me hitherto? why do you refuse to return my love? tell me the truth at all hazards. do you love another?" a short pause ensued. erna would fain have refused to reply. how could she confess to another that which she shrank from acknowledging even to herself? but a glance into the agitated face of the man before her decided her. "i will be entirely frank with you," she said, firmly. "i have loved. it was a dream, followed by a bitter wakening." "then the man was unworthy of you?" "he was unworthy of any pure and great affection, and when i learned this, i tore my love for him from my heart. i pray you, do not question me further. it is gone and buried." "ah, he is dead, then?" there was a degree of savage triumph in the question, and still more cruel was the hatred that flashed in his eyes,--hatred for one whom he thought dead. erna saw it, and for an instant a wave of terror overwhelmed her. instinctively she bowed her head as before a threatened danger, and before she was conscious that by this gesture she confirmed him in his error the involuntary falsehood was told. ernst drew a deep breath, and the colour slowly returned to his cheek: "well, then, it is with the dead that i must strive. i will not fear a phantom; it must yield when once i clasp you in my arms. erna, come to me!" she recoiled in dismay from the passion in his words: "what! you still persist? when i tell you that i have no love to bestow upon you, does not your pride stand you in stead?" "my pride,--where has it gone?" he broke forth. "do you suppose that i could have gone on wooing you patiently for months without one word of encouragement from you, had i been the same waltenberg who thought he needed but to ask of fate to attain his desire? now i have learned to beg. the sight of you threw about me a spell to escape from which i struggle in vain. erna, if you desire it i will resign my wandering life, and if you should wish for home in those sunny lands which i so long to show you, i will return with you to the cold, gloomy north, and for your sake assume the fetters of existence here. you do not know what a change you have already wrought in me, how all-powerful is your influence over me. ah, do not be thus cold and impassive as your alpine fay upon her icy throne! i must win you for my own although your kiss were as deadly as that of the phantom of your legend." his words were prompted by passion, strong to sweep down all obstacles in its path; such tones are always intoxicating for a woman's ear, and here, moreover, they dropped like soothing balm upon a wound that was still bleeding. it had been so humiliating to the girl to know herself ignored, resigned, not for the sake of another,--erna knew well that that other was as nought to the man whose ambition was his god, the idol to whom she had been sacrificed. and now she was beloved, idolized, encompassed by a passionate regard which knew no calculation and no bounds. she was desired for herself alone. it was a triumph for her pride. and she was assailed, too, by pity,--by the consciousness of power to bestow happiness. everything urged her to utter the consent for which she was implored, and yet she was restrained by an invisible something, and at this decisive moment another face arose in her memory,--a face that had looked so pale in the moonlight as the white lips had faltered, 'and could you have loved a man who had risen thus?' "erna, ah, do not keep me upon the rack!" waltenberg exclaimed, with feverish impatience. "see! i kneel to implore you!" and he threw himself upon his knees before her and pressed her hand to his lips. as she turned away her eyes as if entreating help, she suddenly started, and in a hurried whisper exclaimed, "for heaven's sake, rise, ernst! we are not alone." he sprang to his feet, and, following the direction of her eyes, perceived the president with his daughter and her betrothed just emerging in the distance from among the trees. they had all been witnesses of the scene for a few seconds, but nordheim divined that the decisive word had not been spoken, and that his self-willed niece might thwart his plan at the last moment. he therefore made haste to render its fulfilment irrevocable, and, advancing quickly, exclaimed, with a laugh, "we ask a thousand pardons! nothing was farther from our intention than to intrude, but, since we have done so, let me offer you my best wishes, my child, and, waltenberg, i congratulate you from my heart! we are scarcely surprised, having seen for some time how matters stood with you, and upon my arrival i perceived a betrothal in the air. come, alice and wolfgang, congratulate these lovers." he bestowed a paternal embrace upon his niece, shook waltenberg warmly by the hand, and so overwhelmed the pair with congratulations and good wishes that no denial on erna's part was possible. she passively allowed it all,--allowed alice to embrace her and ernst to clasp her hand in his as his betrothed, only fully recovering her consciousness when wolfgang approached her. "let me add my good wishes to the rest, fräulein von thurgau," he said. his voice was calm, too calm, and his immovable countenance betrayed no breath of the tempest raging within him. only for one instant did his eye meet hers, and that instant told her that she was amply revenged upon the man who had sacrificed his love to ambition and the love of gold. now that he saw her in the arms of another, he felt how pitiable had been his choice, felt that he had bartered away the happiness of his life. chapter xvi. suspicions. "as i say, wolf, i do not know what to think of it. i never applied for the position. i did not, in fact, know anything about it, and here it is offered to me,--to me in this secluded oberstein at the other end of the kingdom. there, read for yourself." as he spoke, benno reinsfeld handed his friend a letter which he had received the day before. they were in the doctor's study, and elmhorst also seemed surprised as he read the letter through attentively. "it certainly is an admirable position," he said. "neuenfeld is one of our largest iron-works,--i know the place by name at least, and the working population form a colony there, while you can establish the pleasantest relations with the multitude of officials employed in the management of the factories. why, your salary will amount to six times your present income. of course you must accept it. you must not let your good fortune slip again." "but that other time i took infinite trouble to obtain the position. i sent in a scientific treatise that got me the preference, and then i was dropped, just because i could not come up to time. i have no association with neuenfeld,--i do not know a soul there,--and with such advantages to offer there must be at least a dozen applicants for the post. how does the management know of the existence of a dr. reinsfeld in oberstein?" wolfgang looked down thoughtfully, then read over the letter again: "i think i can solve the riddle for you," he said at last. "the president has had a hand in it." "the president? impossible!" "on the contrary, very probable. he is interested pecuniarily in the iron-works, and he put the present director there; his influence extends everywhere." "but he certainly would not exert that influence in my behalf. you yourself saw how coldly he received me on the only occasion when i have had the honour of meeting him." "nor do i think that he has been induced to interfere thus for benevolence's sake, but---- benno, do you really know nothing of the cause of the breach between your father and nordheim? can you not remember some expression, some hint, that would give you a clue to it?" benno seemed to reflect, and then shook his head: "no, wolf; no child heeds such things. i only know that afterwards, when i asked after 'uncle nordheim,' my father, with a severity very unlike himself, forbade my speaking of him. soon afterwards my parents died, and in the hard struggle that ensued i had too much to do to allow of my reviving childish memories. but why do you ask?" "because i am now convinced that something very serious occurred then, the sting of which is still sharp after twenty years. it caused the only difference i have ever had with herr nordheim, who visits his anger upon you, who are entirely innocent of all offence." "possibly; but that would be all the more reason why he should not obtain for me a lucrative position." "it is just what he would do, were there no other means of removing you from his vicinity, and i fear that this is the true state of the case. he even wished to put a stop to your professional visits to his daughter. i did not tell you of it, because i thought it might, with justice, offend you, and he apparently changed his mind; but i am quite sure that i see his hand in this offer to you, from an entirely unexpected quarter, of a position that will keep you confined to a spot quite as distant from here as from the capital." "why, that would be a positive plot," reinsfeld interposed, incredulously. "do you really suspect the president of it?" "yes," said elmhorst, coldly. "but, however the case may stand, so advantageous a position is not likely to come in your way soon again: so accept it by all means." "even if it be offered to me from such motives?" "they are only supposititious; and even were they actual, no one in neuenfeld knows anything of the circumstances; there they merely accept the recommendation of an influential man. perhaps he perceives the injustice of visiting an old grudge upon you and wishes to indemnify you, since your presence recalls disagreeable memories." wolfgang knew well that this could not be so; his talk with the president had convinced him that he could be actuated by no sentiments of justice or magnanimity, but the young engineer wished to make the way easy for his friend, with whose sensitive delicacy he was familiar. under all circumstances it was a piece of good fortune for reinsfeld to be removed from his present obscure position, no matter whose was the influence to which he owed the change. "we will discuss it this evening when you come to me," elmhorst continued, taking his hat from the table. "now i must go; my conveyance is waiting outside; i am driving to the lower railway." "wolf," said benno, with a searching, anxious glance at his friend's face, "did you sleep at all last night?" "no; i had some work to do. that sometimes will happen." "sometimes! it has come to be the rule with you. i believe you hardly sleep at all." "not much, it is true, but there is no help for it. every structure must be finished before the winter sets in. of course that makes a deal of work, and as engineer-in-chief i must see to it all." "you are overworking yourself perilously. hardly any other man could do as you are doing, and you cannot go on thus for long. how often i have told you----" "the same old story," wolfgang interrupted him, impatiently. "let me alone, benno; there is no help for it." the doctor had, unfortunately, learned from experience that all his admonitions on this point would avail nothing, and he shook his head anxiously as he escorted his friend to the carriage. he himself was unwearied in the performance of his duties, but he knew nothing of the feverish state of mind that seeks forgetfulness in labour at whatever cost. in the hall they met veit gronau, who had come with waltenberg from heilborn, and had taken the opportunity to pay a visit to oberstein. the gentlemen bade each other good-day, and then elmhorst got into his carriage, while the two others returned to the study. "the herr engineer-in-chief was in a great hurry," said gronau, settling himself in the leathern arm-chair, the leg of which had, fortunately, been mended. "he scarcely took time to speak to me, and he looks very little like a happy lover. he's always as pale and gloomy as the marble guest! and yet he surely has reason to be contented with his lot." "yes, i am anxious about wolf," benno declared. "he is not at all like himself, and i am afraid the post he so coveted will be his bane. even his iron, constitution cannot stand the strain of feverish activity which fills his days and nights. he oversees the entire extent of railway, and he never gives himself an instant's rest, in spite of all i can say." "yes, he is everywhere except with his betrothed," gronau remarked, drily. "the lady seems to be of a remarkably unexacting temperament, else she could hardly endure having her lover entirely given over to locomotives, and tunnels, and bridges, or to have him declare as soon as he appears that he has not a moment to stay. but she takes it all as quite a matter of course. 'tis an odd household, that of the nordheim villa. with two pair of lovers, one would suppose all would go as merrily as a marriage-bell, but instead of that they all seem rather uncomfortable, not excepting herr waltenberg. said and djelma are always complaining to me of his temper. i explained to them that it was all because he was thinking of marrying; that matrimony was sure to make mischief; but the rogues persist in thinking it very fine." "oh, you are a declared foe to matrimony, as we all know," said reinsfeld, with a fleeting smile. "if wolfgang is out of sorts,--and the responsibilities of his position may well make him so,--his betrothed is, in looks and temper, all that could be desired." "yes, she is the gayest of all," gronau assented. "that cure of yours is almost a miracle, herr doctor. what a poor, pining little plant she was, and now she is as fresh and blooming as a rose! baroness thurgau has grown grave and silent; and as for the two men,--one of them is always at the boiling-point, and is as jealous as a turk, while the other is a perfect icicle, and they look at each other as if they would like to fly at each other's throats. what affectionate relatives they will be!" benno suppressed a sigh; the mute hostility between wolfgang and waltenberg, which was barely concealed beneath the forms of conventional courtesy, had not escaped him, but he said nothing. "i am really sorry for herr waltenberg," veit began again. "he cannot live without a sight of his betrothed every twenty-four hours, and he drives over from heilborn daily. she, on the contrary, seems to have taken the famous mountain divinity for her model: she sits enthroned like the alpine sprite, and allows herself to be worshipped, while she remains entirely unmoved. absolutely, doctor, you are the only sensible being among them all. you have no thoughts of matrimony,--hold fast to that!" "i certainly am not thinking of it, but of something else, which will be scarcely less of a surprise to you,--of going away. very unexpectedly a lucrative position has been offered me." "bravo! accept it at once!" "i certainly must." gronau burst into a laugh: "with what a long face you say that! i verily believe it goes to your heart to leave these honest obersteiners who have been wearing you out for five years, to requite you with only a 'god reward you!' just like my dear old benno! he never would have died a poor man if he had understood the world and human nature. there he sat for years bothering over an idea which ought to have made his fortune, but he never knew how to push his claims, and timid requests and modest applications do no good with great capitalists and lords of finance. finally others got before him with his invention, which was in the air, as it were, when they began to build mountain-railways, but nevertheless he was the first to devise the system of mountain-locomotives; all the later inventions are based upon his principle." "my father?" benno asked, with a puzzled air. "you are mistaken; it is the nordheim system upon which the locomotives of to-day are constructed." "i beg pardon: 'tis the reinsfeld method," gronau maintained. "you are mistaken, i assure you. wolf told me himself that his future father-in-law laid the foundation of his fortunes by the sale of his method of constructing mountain-locomotives. it was purchased and used by the first mountain-railways. afterwards, of course, all kinds of improvements were added, but the inventor made a goodly profit; they paid him a very large price for the patent." "paid whom? nordheim?" veit shouted. "the president,--certainly." "and the engineer-in-chief told you this?" "he did; we were talking of it a little while ago. moreover, the thing is well known; any engineer can tell you so." gronau suddenly sprang up and approached the young physician. "doctor," he said, slowly and emphatically, "this is either a wretched mistake or a scoundrelly trick!" "scoundrelly trick?" benno repeated, startled. "what do you mean?" "i mean, or rather i know, that this invention was your father's, and nordheim knows it as well as i do. if he has given it out for his own----" "in heaven's name, you would not call----" "the highly-respected president a scoundrel? well, that remains to be seen. it was, of course, possible for a stranger to have hit upon the same invention,--every engineer was occupied with the problem at the time,--but nordheim had his friend's completed plan in his possession, studied it thoroughly, praised and admired it; there is no possibility of his having happened upon the idea for himself. we must sift the matter. consider, benno, do you really know nothing of the cause of the estrangement of which you have told me?" "nothing at all. i have just told wolfgang so; he asked me the same question." "the engineer-in-chief? what made him do that?" "he thought he saw the president's hand in the offer that has just been made me, and he surmised--but no, no! not a word more of such a shameful suspicion. it is impossible----" "much seems impossible to you, doctor; you have preserved the heart of a child," veit said, gravely. "but when a man has seen as much of men as i have, he comes to disbelieve in such impossibilities. you are sure that nordheim took out a patent for the mountain-locomotive?" "certainly; of that fact i am sure." "then he is a thief!" gronau exclaimed, in a burst of indignation,--"a trebly disgraced thief, for he robbed his friend!" "hush, hush!" benno interposed, but fruitlessly: veit went on to prove his accusation. "tell me why your father, who was loyalty itself to his friends, should have broken with the one who was nearest to him? why did nordheim, if he were possessed of so inventive a genius, never achieve more than one invention? and why did he entirely abandon engineering shortly afterwards? can you answer these questions?" reinsfeld was silent; under other circumstances he would have rejected all idea of such a suspicion, but the tone of conviction in which the terrible accusation was made, his conversation with wolfgang, the mystery of the quarrel which had left so bitter a sting behind it that his gentle, amiable father had forbidden the mention of the name of a friend once so dear to him,--all this rushed upon his mind, almost paralyzing his power of thought. "we must be sure," gronau said, resolutely. "where are your father's old papers,--his drawings and sketches? you told me you had preserved them all carefully. there must be something to be found among them, and if not, i will go myself to the president and question him. i am curious to see how he will look. where are the papers, benno? produce them; we have no time to lose." benno pointed to a small cabinet in a corner of the room. "you will find there everything that i possess of my father's," he said, sadly. "here is the key. look through it; i----" "i trust you will help me. you are the interested party. why do you hesitate?" the doctor was hesitating, in fact, but veit had already opened the cabinet, and in a few minutes the rather meagre collection of papers belonging to the late engineer was spread out on the table. his old friend and comrade looked through them with the utmost care; every drawing was closely examined, every leaf turned, but in vain! there was nothing that bore any reference to the matter in question,--no sketch, no note, no memorandum, nothing that could confirm gronau's suspicions. benno, who had undertaken the search unwillingly, breathed a sigh of relief, while veit pushed the papers aside in great dissatisfaction. "fools that we are! we might have known it! nordheim never would have played his rascally trick had anything existed that could betray him. he must have borrowed the plan from his friend upon some pretext and then insured himself against discovery. my old benno was not the one to unmask such a fox unless he had been in possession of convincing proof of his treachery; and i, the only one cognizant of the truth of the case, was off in the wide world no one knew where. but i am here now, and i will not rest until the affair is brought to light." "but why?" benno asked, gently. "why rake up the old forgotten quarrel? it can do my poor father no good, and should you find the proof you speak of, it would be a terrible blow for--the president's family." gronau stared at him for a moment speechless, as if he could not understand his words; then he burst forth, angrily, "upon my word this is going too far! any one else would be almost wild with such a discovery, would move heaven and earth to find out the truth and to brand the guilty, and you would fain restrain me because, forsooth, the engineer-in-chief is your friend,--because you are afraid of troubling the family of your worst enemy. you are the true son of your father; he would have done the very same thing." he was not quite right in his surmise. benno had not thought of wolfgang: a very different face had risen in his mind and gazed at him with brown eyes filled with troubled questionings, but not for worlds would he have revealed what made the confirmation of gronau's suspicions so terrible to him, and why he would rather bury the whole affair in oblivion. veit gronau turned away, saying, in a tone expressing discontent and pity, "there is nothing to be done with you, benno. such unpractical sentimentalists are good for nothing in a matter of this kind. fortunately, i am on hand. i am now upon the trail, and, cost what it may, i shall pursue it. my old friend shall have in his grave the recognition that was denied him while living!" chapter xvii. unforeseen obstacles. president nordheim was seated in his office in the capital, in consultation with herr gersdorf, for the consignment of the railway to the stockholders was now decided upon. nordheim's resolve to withdraw from the company after the completion of the undertaking was regretted, but caused no surprise, for the man's restless activity was well known, and it was natural that he should have new schemes wherewith to employ his capital. the glory was his of having devised and executed a bold project which had opened a new highway for the world. the engineer-in-chief had promised that all building operations should be concluded before the beginning of winter, and as soon as they were finished the transfer was to be made. it would then be the business of the new management to effect the final preparations for the opening of the road, which was to take place the ensuing spring. all this had been settled for months, and gersdorf, in his capacity of legal representative of the railway company, had had many consultations with the president. "the engineer-in-chief does in fact achieve almost the impossible," he said, "but yet i cannot understand how he can have all finished by the end of october. the month has begun, and four weeks seems a very short time for the completion of what remains to be done." "if wolfgang has said the work shall be done, he will keep his word," nordheim rejoined, in a tone of calm conviction. "in such cases he spares neither himself nor his subordinates, and in this instance he is also driven by necessity. november brings the snowstorms which are most dangerous in the wolkenstein district; it is very important to have the work finished." "hitherto autumn has brought us only late summer weather," the lawyer observed, as he gathered together some papers scattered on the table. "i cannot wonder that your daughter lingers in the mountains and seems to have no idea of returning." "she, with frau von lasberg, will probably remain there for some weeks yet. the mountain-air has worked miracles for alice; she is almost entirely well, and dr. reinsfeld advises her to extend her stay until the weather changes. i owe a debt of gratitude to your cousin, and i greatly regret that he is to leave oberstein. i hear he has another medical position in prospect in--what is the name of the place?" "neuenfeld." "right,--neuenfeld. the name had escaped me. i cannot wonder at the young physician for desiring a wider sphere of action; but, as i said, we all regret that he is going so far away. wolfgang in especial will miss him much." the words sounded kindly, as though the president were really grateful to his daughter's physician and regretted losing him. gersdorf, who had no reason to suspect his sincerity, was quite impressed. "benno writes me that he shall not leave for his new post before the end of a couple of weeks," he said. "he stipulated for this delay that he might install his successor at oberstein. therefore we shall have an opportunity of seeing each other again, for i must go to heilborn next week. the suit of the parishes of oberstein and unterstein against the railway for damage done to their forests in its construction is to be decided, and i represent the company of course." "then we shall meet there," said nordheim. "i am going to take a short holiday, and then return to town with my family. i have been overweighted with business of late, and am sadly in need of rest. i shall hope to see you at our villa; you will not forgot to come?" "certainly not," said gersdorf, rising to take leave. when he had gone the president rang for lights, for it was growing dark, and then, seating himself at his writing-table, he became absorbed in the papers lying there,--they must have been of a very important nature, for he examined them with the greatest care, his face expressing intense satisfaction as he did so, until it finally broke into a smile. "everything arranged," he murmured. "it will be a brilliant transaction. the figures are rather boldly combined, it is true, but they will do their duty, and as soon as wolfgang has approved them, and affixed his name to the entire estimate, it will be accepted without demur. and that man reinsfeld is fortunately disposed of. i thought he could not refuse the bait of such a position. neuenfeld is far enough away, and he can live there comfortably to the end of his days.--what is it? i do not wish to be disturbed again this evening." the last words were spoken to a servant who entered at the moment, and who now announced, "herr elmhorst has arrived." "the engineer-in-chief?" nordheim asked, surprised. "arrived a moment ago, herr president." nordheim rose quickly, and was about to go to meet the new-comer, but wolfgang appeared at that moment on the threshold in his travelling-dress. "have i startled you, sir, by my unexpected arrival?" he asked. "rather; you sent me no telegram," the president replied, motioning to the servant to withdraw. as soon as the door closed behind him he asked, hastily, and evidently disturbed, "what has happened? anything the matter with the railway?" "no; i left everything in perfect order." "and alice is well, i hope?" this last question was far more composedly put than had been its predecessor. "quite well; you have no cause for anxiety." "thank heaven! i was afraid something unfortunate had occurred to account for your sudden appearance. what brings you here so unexpectedly?" "a matter of business, which i could not explain in writing," said wolfgang, laying aside his hat. "i preferred to see you personally, although i could ill be spared from the railway." "well, then, let us talk over your business," replied the president, who was always ready to discuss affairs. "we shall be entirely undisturbed this evening. but first take some rest. i will give orders to have your rooms----" "thank you, sir," elmhorst interrupted him, "but i should like to have the business that has brought me here settled at once; it is urgent,--at least for me. we are quite alone here?" "we are; i generally insure myself privacy in my own apartments. but for security's sake you can close the door of the next room also." wolfgang complied, and then returned. as he advanced into the circle of light from the lamp his face looked pale and agitated. his pallor could hardly be the effect of fatigue from the long, unbroken ride; there was a frown on his brow, and his dark eyes had a stern, almost menacing expression. "your business must be important," the president observed, as he sat down, "or you would hardly have come yourself. well, then.--but will you not be seated?" the young man paid no heed to the request, but remained standing, with his hand resting on the back of a chair, as he began, in an apparently calm tone, "you sent me over the estimates and calculations which are to serve as the basis of the transfer of the railway to the stockholders." "i did. you remember i told you that i would spare you the details of these calculations. you have enough to do in attending to the technical conduct of the work. all you have to do is to look over and approve the estimates, your word as engineer-in-chief being decisive." "i am aware of that,--entirely aware of my responsibility in the matter, and therefore i wish to put a question to you: who made these estimates?" nordheim glanced in surprise at his future son-in-law; the question evidently astonished him. "who? why, my clerks and those who understand such matters." "that is not what i mean, sir. they simply made up the figures from the memoranda and calculations furnished them. what i want to know is, whose were those memoranda?--who put down the sums which are the basis of the estimates? it cannot possibly have been yourself." "indeed? and why not, may i ask?" "because all the accounts are falsified!" wolfgang said, coldly but very decidedly. "falsified? what do you mean?" "is it possible that it escaped you?" elmhorst asked, never taking his eyes from the president. "i discovered it at a glance. all the buildings are estimated at almost double the cost of their erection, and stations are brought into the calculations which do not exist. the obstacles and catastrophes that impeded us are reckoned up in an incredible fashion, as causing an outlay of hundreds of thousands where not half the amount was expended. in short, the whole sum exceeds by some millions the actual cost of the undertaking." nordheim listened in silence, but with a frown, to this agitated explanation, by which, however, he seemed more surprised than offended; at last he said, coldly, "wolfgang, i really do not understand you." "nor did i understand your letter requiring me to approve and sign that estimate. i thought, and i still think, that there is some mistake, and i wanted to ask you personally about it. i trust you can explain it to me." the president shrugged his shoulders, but maintained the same cool, composed tone, as he replied, "you are a capital engineer, wolfgang, but that you have no talent for business is quite clear. i hoped we should understand each other in this matter without many words, but, since that does not seem to be the case, we must come to an explanation. do you suppose that i intend to withdraw from this undertaking with loss?" "with loss? in any case you receive back your capital with interest." "a transaction that brings in no more than that is to be reckoned as a losing one," said nordheim. "i did not imagine you such a novice in business matters as to require to be told this. we have here a chance to make a profit,--a considerable profit. the railway, in fact, belongs to me. i called it into existence, my capital has been principally expended in its construction, the entire risk has been mine. i venture to think that you will not dispute my right to dispose of my property at any price i think fit." "if that price is to be gained only by the means you have adopted, i do most decidedly dispute the right you speak of. should the company receive the railway under such conditions, its bankruptcy will be certain. even if the road be employed to the fullest extent it cannot bring in a sufficient income to indemnify it approximately for the amount of loss sustained; the entire enterprise must either go to ruin, or fall into the hands of some unprincipled schemer." "and how does that concern us?" nordheim asked, calmly. "how does it concern us?" elmhorst broke forth, indignantly. "to have the work which you devised, to which i have devoted my best energies, at the head of which stand our united names, go miserably to ruin or be an instrument in the hands of swindlers? it concerns me deeply, as i trust i shall be able to show you." the president arose with an impatient wave of his hand: "pray spare me such bursts of declamation, wolfgang. they really are out of place in a business discussion." the young man drew himself up; all emotion vanished from his face, giving place to an expression of cool contempt, and his voice was every whit as cold as the president's own as he replied, "i shall not content myself with mere declamation, as you will find, sir. let me ask once for all, calmly and briefly, who furnished the figures upon which the estimates you sent me are based?" "i, myself," was the quiet reply. "and you expected me to approve them and put my name to them?" "i expect every thing of my future son-in-law," nordheim declared, with sharp emphasis. "then you have misunderstood me. i cannot sign the estimates." "wolfgang!" there was an evident menace in nordheim's tone. "i will not sign them, i say. i never will lend my name to a falsehood." "you dare to use such language to me?" the president exclaimed, angrily. "what other language could be used if i should sanction estimates which i know to be false?" wolfgang asked, with bitterness. "i am the engineer-in-chief, my word is decisive for the company and for the stockholders, who are utterly ignorant in the matter. the responsibility is mine alone." "your word could never be questioned," nordheim interposed. "i had no idea you were such a martinet. you know nothing of business, or you would see that i, in my position, could not possibly venture what i do were there any danger. the figures are so combined that it is impossible to prove an--error from them, and i have explanations prepared for every emergency. no one can blame either you or myself." at this assertion a smile of infinite scorn hovered upon elmhorst's lips: "that was certainly the last thing to occur to me! we do indeed misunderstand each other. you fear discovery, i fear the fraud. in short, i will have nothing to do with a lie, and if i refuse my signature it cannot be told." the president walked close up to him; he was now much agitated, and his voice betrayed extreme irritation: "your expressions are, to say the least, strong. do you suppose you can dictate to me? have a care, wolfgang. you are not yet my son-in-law; the knot is not yet tied which was to link you to me. i can cut it at the last moment, and you are too clever not to know all that you would lose with my daughter's hand." "that means that you make it a condition?" "yes,--your signature! either that--or----!" as nordheim spoke thus explicitly, wolfgang's eyes were fixed gloomily on the ground. he pondered all the consequences of the president's 'either that--or----!' he was indeed 'clever enough' to know that millions would be lost to him with his betrothed,--the wealth, the brilliant future for which he had bartered his happiness. the moment had come in which he was required to barter something more, and suddenly memory recalled that hour on the wolkenstein in the moonlit midsummer night when this moment had been sadly foretold him: 'the price now is your freedom; in future it may perhaps be your honour!' nordheim interpreted the young man's silence after his own fashion; he laid his hand on wolfgang's shoulder, and said, in a gentler tone, "be reasonable, elmhorst. we should both lose by a separation, and it is the last thing that i desire; but i can and must require my son-in-law to go hand in hand with me, and to make my interests his own. you give me your signature, and i will go surety for everything else. we will both forget this conversation, and divide the profit, which will make you a wealthy, independent man." "at the price of my honour!" wolfgang exclaimed, in hot indignation. "no, by heaven, it shall never come to that! i ought to have known long ago whither your rule of life, your business principles, would lead, for since my betrothal to your daughter you have thrown off all reserve; but i chose to see and to know nothing, because i was fool enough to imagine that, in spite of it all, i could pursue my own path and do as i chose. now i see that there is no halting in the downward course, that he who leagues himself with you cannot keep his honour unstained. i have been ambitious and reckless--yes. i reckoned upon our association in this undertaking as you did, and conceded more to it than my conscience could entirely justify, but i never will stoop to deceive. if you believed me ready to be a scoundrel for the sake of your wealth,--if the future of which i have dreamed is to be purchased only at such a price,--let it go. i will have none of it!" he stood erect, and with flashing eyes hurled his refusal at the president. there was something grand and overwhelming in this stormy outbreak from the man who thus at last threw off all the fetters of petty self-interest which had held him bound so long, whose better nature asserted itself and trampled down the alluring temptation. he knew that he was resigning the wealth which would make him independent of nordheim's favour; that with it he should be free and unfettered to realize all his golden dreams of the future. there had been an instant of hesitation, and then he thrust the tempter from him and redeemed his honour! the president stood frowning darkly. he perceived now that he had been mistaken in supposing that he should find in the ambitious young engineer a willing instrument, a nature as unscrupulous as his own, but he had no mind to break entirely with the son-in-law he had chosen. he would lose most by the separation; in the first place, all the profit which wolfgang's signature would insure him would be destroyed, and moreover, he said to himself, it would be dangerous to make an enemy of one so thoroughly acquainted with his schemes. it could not be; a breach must be avoided, at least for the present. "let us drop this matter for to-day," he said, slowly. "it is too important, and we are neither of us in a mood to discuss it calmly. i am going to my mountain-villa in a week, and until then you can take the affair into consideration. i will not accept your present hasty decision." "you will be obliged to accept it at the end of the week," wolfgang declared. "my answer will be precisely the same then. let a true estimate be made of the cost of the railway, at its highest valuation, and i will not refuse to give it my sanction. i never will sign my name to the present one. that is my final word. farewell!" "you are going back immediately?" nordheim asked. "certainly; the next express leaves in an hour, and the business that brought me here is concluded. my presence is indispensable at my post." he bowed and took his leave, not after the familiar fashion of the future son-in-law, but formally, as a stranger, and the president felt the significance of his manner. when elmhorst reached the spacious vestibule he found there two servants awaiting him. his rooms had been prepared for him, and the lackeys asked for further orders, but he waved them aside: "thanks, i am going directly back again, and shall not use the rooms." the men looked surprised. this was indeed a hurried visit. would not herr elmhorst have the carriage to drive to the station? "no; i prefer to walk." as he spoke, elmhorst once more glanced towards the broad staircase leading to the gorgeous apartments in the upper story, and then he left the house where for more than six months he had been regarded as a son, and upon which he was now turning his back forever. outside, the october evening was cold and damp; the skies were starless, the air was full of mist, and a keen blast heralded the approach of winter. involuntarily wolfgang drew his travelling-cloak closer about his shoulders, as he strode forward at a rapid pace. it was over! he was perfectly aware of it, and he also clearly perceived nordheim's desire to avoid a sudden breach for fear lest the man so lately his confidant should expose him by way of revenge. a contemptuous smile curled the young man's lip. such a fear was quite superfluous; any such act was entirely beneath him. his thoughts wandered to where they had rarely been of late,--to his betrothed. alice would not suffer if the betrothal were dissolved. she had accepted his suit without opposition in compliance with her father's wish, and she would bend to his will with the same docility should he sever the tie. there had never been any talk of love between them; neither would be conscious of loss. wolfgang drew a deep breath. he was free again, free to choose; he could pursue his proud, lonely path, dependent only upon his own courage and capacity, but the voice which had roused him from the stupor of egotism and ambition would never again sound in his ears, the lovely face would never again smile upon him. that prize belonged to another, and, whatever he might achieve in the future, his happiness had been bartered away,--lost forever. chapter xviii. a mountain ramble. autumn this year had donned the aspect of a late summer. the days, with but few exceptions, were sunny and clear, the air was mild, and the mountains stood revealed in all their rarest beauty. the inmates of the nordheim villa had prolonged their stay, which had been at first arranged for only the summer months, into october. they had been induced to do this, first out of consideration for alice's health, and then in accordance with erna's wish to spend as long a time as was possible among her beloved mountains. since she had been betrothed to waltenberg her position in the household had undergone a change; frau von lasberg no longer permitted herself to find fault with her, and the president was always ready to forestall his niece's wishes. waltenberg himself, who disliked a city life with its conventionalities and restraints, was glad to be rid of it, and the baroness alone sighed about the 'endless exile,' and comforted herself with the prospect of a winter more than usually gay. now that erna was also betrothed and that elmhorst would be in the capital during the winter months, after his labours as engineer among the mountains were at an end, the nordheim mansion would surely justify its reputation. there would doubtless be a series of entertainments in honour of the young couples, and frau von lasberg revelled in the contemplation of the prominent part it would be hers to play. erna and alice were sitting on the veranda of the villa, and the gay chatter heard thence absolutely came from the lips of alice nordheim. there was not a vestige of the air of indifference with which she used to speak formerly. the change that had taken place in her bordered on the miraculous: the sickly pallor the weary movements, the fatigued, unsympathetic expression, had all vanished; the cheeks were rosy, the eyes bright. whether it were owing to the mountain-air which blew here so pure and fresh, or to the treatment of the young physician, the fact was that in a few months the girl had blossomed forth like some flower which, fading and sickly in the shade, expands into tender beauty in the clear, warm sunshine. "i wonder where herr waltenberg is?" she was just saying. "he is usually here before this time." "ernst wrote me that he should be rather late today, since he meant to bring us a surprise from heilborn," erna replied. she was seated at her drawing, from which she did not look up, nor did she evince the slightest interest in the promised surprise. "'tis strange that he should write to you so often, when he sees you every day," remarked alice, who was quite unused to such attentions from her own lover. "and then he fairly overwhelms you with flowers, for which, it seems to me, you are not half grateful enough." "i am afraid that is ernst's own fault," was the quiet reply. "he spoils me, and i am too ready to be spoiled." "yes, there is something exaggerated in his manner of wooing," alice interposed. "his love seems to me like a fire, which burns rather than illumines." "his is an unusual nature," said erna. "he must not be judged by the standard we apply to others. believe me, alice, much, nay, everything, can be endured in the consciousness that one is supremely and ardently beloved." she laid down her pencil and looked dreamily abroad into space. it sounded odd, the word 'endured,' and its significance was not softened by so much as the shadow of a smile. indeed, the expression of gravity was deepened in the young girl's face, and in her eyes there was an indescribable something which assuredly was not happiness. in the short pause that ensued, the noise of carriage-wheels became audible, and some vehicle drew up in front of the house. erna shivered slightly; she knew who was at hand, although from where she sat the road could not be seen. she slowly closed her sketchbook and arose, but before she could leave the veranda, a young creature came flying out of the drawing-room and clasped her in an enthusiastic embrace, after which she turned just as eagerly to alice. "why, molly, is this you?" both girls exclaimed, in a breath. it was in fact frau gersdorf, rosy, merry, and saucy as ever, and behind her appeared ernst waltenberg, evidently delighted with the success of his surprise. "yes, it is really i," the new-comer began. "albert had a tiresome, never-ending suit to attend to in heilborn, and of course i came with him. the poor fellow's hard work must be made as tolerable as possible for him, so i always go with him upon these expeditions. i verily believe that if he should take it into his head to climb mount blanc, or the himalayas, i should scramble up after him. thank god, there are no cases to try up there, so there is no chance of his undertaking the ascents. and how are you all here? you have absolutely vanished from the capital. but there's no need to ask; alice looks fresh as a rose, and erna is planning her wedding-tour, i hear. where is it to be? to the south sea or the north pole? i should advise the south sea,--the climate is milder." she paused to take breath, and without waiting for a reply threw herself into an arm-chair and declared that she was too tired to say a single word. after the first exchange of greetings ernst approached his betrothed and handed her a bouquet of costly foreign flowers, rich in colour and exhaling an overpowering fragrance. "did i not keep my promise?" he said, pointing to molly. "i planned this surprise with albert yesterday afternoon, knowing i should surely be welcome so accompanied." "but that you always are," said erna, taking the flowers from him with thanks. "always?" he repeated. "really always? some times i doubt it." "do not say that, ernst." his eyes, filled with a passionate entreaty, met her reproachful glance, as together they walked down the veranda steps into the garden. "are you a little glad when i come?" he went on, in a low tone. "i sometimes imagine you dread my approach and shrink from my embrace, and more than once i have fancied i could detect a sigh of relief when i left you." "yes, you watch every look of mine, every breath that i draw, and convert it all into pain, both for yourself and for me," erna said, gravely. "your passionate surveillance torments me; how will it be when we are married?" "ah, then i shall be calm," he said, with a sigh. "then i shall know you for my own, my very own; no other will have any right to intrude between us, and then perhaps i may teach you to love me; hitherto i have tried in vain. that you can love i know. you loved--him!" she hastily withdrew the hand she had left in his: "ernst, you promised me----" "not to speak of that. yes, i promised, but i did not know how hard it is to fight against a memory, to war with a mere phantom. would that it were flesh and blood, that i might battle with it to the death!" his eyes flashed with the mortal hatred that had gleamed in them when he had learned that erna had loved another. she turned pale, as she laid her hand soothingly upon his arm. "ernst," she said, gently, "why torment yourself thus perpetually? you suffer terribly; i see it, and bitterly do i repent my confession. have i no power to make you calmer and happier?" her tone disarmed him at once; he took her hand, and kissed it eagerly: "your power over me is boundless when you look and speak thus. forgive me for paining you; indeed it shall not happen again." the promise had been made a hundred times before, and broken as often. erna smiled, but she was still pale as they walked back to the house. "a scene from othello seems to be going on there," said molly, who, notwithstanding her great fatigue, had been chattering incessantly, and observing the lovers the while. "ernst waltenberg is perilously like that monster of a moor. i believe he would make nothing of a murder if his jealousy were excited. it is to be hoped that erna will put a little common sense into him when they are married; there is very little of it in his love for her at present. i told him about all sorts of interesting things that are going on in the capital, as we were driving over, but he never listened to one of them; he kept his eyes fixed upon the villa, and rushed out of the barouche the instant it stopped before the door. ah! now he is kissing her hand and humbly begging her pardon. albert never did that, even while we were betrothed; on the contrary, i was always the one to be forgiven! albert is not sentimentally inclined, nor is your betrothed, alice. is your engineer not coming to-day?" "i hardly think he will be here," said alice, allowed for the first time to interpose a word. "wolfgang has so much to do; he could only be here for a few moments yesterday. the responsibilities of his position are very great." it sounded composed, too much so for a betrothed maiden who could not but feel herself neglected. alice knew nothing as yet of what had taken place between her father and her lover a week before in the capital. wolfgang had refrained from mentioning it even to his friend reinsfeld; he wished to leave the president, whose arrival was shortly expected, to contrive a pretext for the final rupture. meanwhile, he saw alice as seldom as possible, availing himself of the plea of work, which had sufficed him hitherto. frau von lasberg now made her appearance on the veranda, and greeted molly with great dignity and little cordiality. the young frau was to remain until the next day, when her husband was to call for her, and they were to pay a visit at benno's in oberstein. molly played the part of a hurricane in the quiet and elegant household at the villa; from the moment of her arrival all formality was scattered to the winds. her clear, silvery laughter was heard everywhere; she chatted with alice, she teased erna, she disputed with waltenberg about oriental customs of which she knew absolutely nothing, provoking beyond measure the old baroness, and withal fairly beaming with happiness and merriment. thus the day wore on to noon, and the golden autumn sunlight tempted all into the open air. waltenberg proposed a walk up one of the neighbouring heights, and all assented; even alice, who a few months previously had been debarred from all such enjoyments, was ready to join the party, while frau von lasberg was, of course, obliged to remain at home. the little company walked leisurely up the gradual ascent, through the sunlit, fragrant forest, until they reached the foot of a rocky cliff, where the path became steep and stony. "you must stop here, alice," said erna. "the last part of the way is too steep and rough; you must be careful not to overtask your strength. do you think you are equal to it, molly?" "i am equal to anything," declared molly, half offended at the question. "do you suppose that herr waltenberg and yourself are the only mountaineers? i can outclimb either of you." waltenberg smiled rather derisively at this audacious statement, casting a significant glance the while at the speaker's little high-heeled boots. "there is no danger in this ascent," he said: "the path is made quite easy with steps and hand-rails here and there. but then an accident is always possible, as my secretary found to his cost on the vulture cliff. he was lucky to escape with only a sprained ankle." "oh, that immensely tall herr gronau!" exclaimed molly. "what has become of him? i did not catch even a glimpse of him in heilborn." "he asked for leave of absence for a few weeks, but i am now expecting him back again," replied ernst, who had, in fact, been rather puzzled by veit's long absence. he knew that his secretary had no relatives left in germany, and he could not understand his sudden journey. gronau had not even told him where he was going. alice agreed to await the return of the party; and whilst the others pursued their way to the summit of the height, she seated herself on a mossy bit of rock at the foot of the ascent. the spot was a peaceful little nook in the forest depths which no autumnal blast seemed as yet to have touched. the dark pines and the soft moss had preserved their fresh green, and the noonday sun had dispelled the mists which were so apt to linger here and there among the trees. it was as sunny and warm as on a day in spring. alice had been sitting alone about ten minutes, when she perceived at a little distance the familiar figure of dr. reinsfeld striding along among the trees. he was coming from a patient at one of the mountain-cottages, and was so lost in thought that he emerged upon the little clearing without perceiving the young girl until she called to him: "herr doctor, are you really going to hurry past without even a look for your patient?" benno started at the sound of her voice, and paused in surprise: "you here, fräulein nordheim, and entirely alone?" "oh, i am not so unprotected as you suppose. herr waltenberg, with erna and molly, has just left me. i only stayed behind----" "because you are tired?" was the anxious question. she shook her head, smiling: "oh, no; i only wanted to husband my strength for the walk back, in accordance with your orders. you see how obedient i am." she moved slightly aside, and seemed to expect that the doctor would take his seat beside her. he hesitated for a few seconds, and then accepted her unspoken invitation, and sat down upon the mossy resting-place. they were no longer strangers to each other; in the last few months they had seen and talked with each other almost daily. alice went on conversing cheerfully. there was an innocent delight in her gaiety, the delight of a freshly-aroused vitality asserting itself, still half timidly, after years of depressing ill health. no one could be more childlike and simple-minded than this young heiress, who was so little adapted to fill the position assigned her by her father's millions. here, resting upon her mossy seat, free from all the splendour and pomp which fatigued her, with the golden sunlight playing upon the soft blond hair and the delicately-tinted face, there was an indescribable refinement and charm in her appearance. the young physician, on the other hand, was unusually grave and silent; he forced himself to smile and to reply gaily now and then, but the effort he made was perceptible. alice observed it at last, and she too became more silent, until after a long pause, which reinsfeld made no attempt to interrupt, she asked, "herr doctor, what is the matter?" "with me?" benno started. "oh, nothing,--nothing at all." "i am afraid that is not quite true. you looked very grave and sad as you were striding along so hurriedly, and it is not the first time i have seen you so. for weeks i have fancied that something has been depressing and troubling you, although you take great pains to conceal it. will you not tell me what it is?" the girl's voice was so entreatingly sweet, and her brown eyes looked with so sympathetic a glance of inquiry into those of the young physician, that it was hard to withstand her, and yet nordheim's daughter ought to be the last to learn the cause of reinsfeld's mood. she had indeed seen aright; benno had been suffering for weeks under the burden of the suspicion which gronau had implanted in his soul. nothing indeed had as yet been discovered to confirm it, but reinsfeld divined that veit's sudden departure and prolonged absence were connected with some clue which was being followed up. he hastily collected himself, and replied, "i find it hard to leave oberstein. fatiguing as my practice has been sometimes, and much as i have longed for a more extended sphere of activity, i feel now how attached i have become to the people whose joys and sorrows i have shared for years, and to the mountains where i have had my home. i leave so much behind me that it is hard to go away." his eyes were cast down as he spoke the last words, or he would have become aware of the instant change in the girl's face. she turned pale and her look of innocent gaiety vanished, while the wild-flowers that she had plucked on her way up the height dropped upon the moss at her feet. "is your departure so near at hand?" she asked, gently. "it is indeed; i am only waiting for my successor to arrive, and he is expected in a week." "and then you go--forever?" "yes,--forever!" question and answer sounded sad enough, and a silence ensued. alice stooped and picked up her scattered flowers, beginning to arrange them mechanically. she knew, of course, of the doctor's acceptance of his new position, but it had not occurred to her that he would leave before her own departure, beyond which her thoughts had not strayed. she had been so happy in the mountains, had resigned herself entirely to the enjoyment of the present, without a thought that it could come to an end, and now she was reminded how near at hand was this end. "i may go without anxiety," benno began again. "the health of my district at present leaves nothing to be desired, and you, fräulein nordheim, need me no longer. only be careful for some time to come, and i think i can guarantee your entire recovery. i am very glad to have been able to keep my promise to my friend and to restore him his betrothed well and happy." "if indeed it makes much difference to him," alice said, in a low tone. reinsf----eld looked amazed: "fräulein nordheim?" "do you imagine, then, that wolfgang cares for me? i do not think he does." there was no bitterness in her words; they were only sad, and the eyes which alice raised to the young physician were as sad. "you do not believe in wolfgang's love?" he asked, dismayed. "but why, then, should he have----" he broke off in the middle of his sentence, knowing well enough that love had borne no share in his friend's wooing. he remembered only too distinctly how the young engineer had coldly determined to win for a wife the president's daughter, and the contemptuous shrug with which he had repudiated the idea of sentiment in the affair. it was a speculation,--nothing else. "i have no fault to find with wolfgang, none at all," alice went on. "he is always most attentive, and so anxious about me, but i feel nevertheless how little i am to him, and i can see how his thoughts wander whenever he is with me. formerly i scarcely perceived this, and if i did perceive it, it did not hurt me. i was always so weary; i had no pleasure in life,--it was one long illness for me. but when health began to relieve me of the oppression that had weighed down soul and body, i saw, and understood. wolfgang loves his calling, the future to which he aspires, his great work, the wolkenstein bridge, of which he is so proud. he never will love me!" benno for a moment could find no reply to these words, which both startled and amazed him, from the girl whom he had supposed entirely indifferent in this matter, and who now thus clearly defined the true state of affairs. "wolf's is not an ardent nature," he said at last, slowly. "with him ambition outweighs sentiment; it was his character as a boy, and it is far more evident in the man." alice shook her head: "herr gersdorf's nature is cool and calm, and yet how he loves molly! awhile ago ernst waltenberg cared for nothing save untrammelled freedom, and see how love has transformed him! frau lasberg, to be sure, says such sentiment is the merest nonsense which hardly outlives the honey-moon, that there is no such thing as the enduring affection of a romantic girl's imagination, and that a woman, if she is wise and hopes for happiness in marriage, must banish all such ideas from her mind. she may be right, but such wisdom is terribly depressing. do you share it, herr doctor?" "no!" said reinsfeld, with so decided an emphasis that alice looked up at him in surprise and with a sad smile. "then we are both dreamers and fools, whom sensible people would despise." "thank god that it is so!" benno broke forth. "never let 'such sentiment' be snatched from you, fräulein nordheim; it is all that can make life happy or even worth the living. wolf has always prophesied that i should never come to good, or make myself a fine position in the world. so be it. i do not care! i am happier than he with all his wisdom and his schemes. he takes no real pleasure in anything,--sees nothing anywhere save bare, forlorn reality, transfigured by no ray of inspiration. i have had a hard life. when my parents died i was knocked about the world, with scant favour from any one, and sometimes, as a student, was hard put to it for bread to eat; even now i possess merely the necessaries of life; but i would not exchange lots with my friend for all his brilliant future." he was carried away by his emotion, and did not perceive how his words accused wolfgang; nor did alice appear to take note of it, for she looked up with sparkling eyes at the young physician, wont to be so quiet and calm, who seemed for the moment transfigured. usually shy and reserved; as is the case with all introspective natures, when once the barrier of reserve was overleaped he forgot that any such had ever existed, and went on, with what was almost passionate ardour, "when the sum of our lives is reckoned up, the gain may after all be mine. i question whether wolfgang would not give all the results he has achieved for one draught from the fountain which flows inexhaustibly for me. we poor, ridiculed dreamers are, after all, the only happy human beings, for in spite of all experience we can love with all our hearts, can hope, and trust, and have faith in truth and goodness. and whatever of disappointment this world may have in store for us, nothing can deprive us of the belief in something higher. we attain heights to which others cannot soar; wings to reach it are worth all their vaunted worldly wisdom!" alice listened in breathless silence to these words, the like of which she had never heard beneath her father's roof, but which nevertheless she comprehended at once with the instinct of a warm young heart thirsting for love and happiness. she did not dream that the consciousness of the man who spoke thus in eager defence of faith in all that is best in humanity was burdened with the knowledge of the bitterest failure in the faith and honour of her own father. "you are right!" she exclaimed, holding out both hands to him as in gratitude. "this faith is the highest, the only happiness in life, and we will not allow it to be snatched from us." "the only happiness?" benno repeated, while, scarcely knowing what he did, he clasped and held fast the hands held out to him. "no, fräulein nordheim, other joys also await you. wolfgang's is a noble nature in spite of his ambition; in time you will learn to understand each other, and then he will make you truly happy, or he is utterly unworthy of you. i"--here his voice grew slightly unsteady--"i shall often hear from him and of his married life,--we are faithful correspondents,--and sometimes, perhaps, you will allow me to recall myself to your memory." alice made no reply; her eyes filled with tears. unable to conceal the first profound grief in her young life, at benno's last words she hid her face in her hands and sobbed uncontrollably. for benno this moment was one of intoxicating delight and of intense pain. another man might perhaps have forgotten all else in the rapture of the revelation thus made, but for him alice was sacred as the betrothed of his friend; not for the world would he have uttered one of the thousand expressions of love that rose to his lips. he slowly retreated a few paces, and said, almost inaudibly, "it is well that i am to go to neuenfeld. i have long known how it was with me!" neither of the pair had any idea that they were overheard. just as the doctor had clasped the young girl's hands in his, the shrubbery at the foot of the rock had parted, and molly, who had intended in jest to startle alice by her sudden appearance, noiselessly emerged. her merry face assumed, however, an expression of extreme surprise upon finding her friend, whom she had supposed alone, in benno's society, and in such evident agitation. among the praiseworthy qualities of frau gersdorf might be reckoned intense curiosity. she was instantly eager to know how this interesting interview would terminate. she therefore retreated unperceived, as noiselessly as she had appeared, and, hid among the bushes, overheard all that ensued, until waltenberg's and erna's approaching footsteps became audible as they descended the rocky pathway. fortunately, the little lady was not lacking in presence of mind, and, moreover, since she had before her own marriage peremptorily claimed alice's services as guardian angel, she felt called upon now to requite her after the same manner. so she retreated still farther into the shrubbery, and then called out aloud to the approaching couple that she had easily outstripped them. the result was all that could be desired, and when some minutes later the three new-comers reached the mountain-meadow, alice was sitting as they had left her, and benno, grave and silent, was standing beside her. molly was, of course, immensely surprised at finding her cousin benno, of whom she straightway took possession. she was resolved to extort a confession from him as soon as they should be alone, and from alice also,--as guardian angel she had a right to their unreserved confidence. the little party took its way homewards, and benno was plied by his young relative with questions, to which he replied absently and mechanically, while his eyes sought the slender, delicate figure walking silently beside erna; he had not waited until to-day to know that she was dearer to him than aught else on earth. chapter xix. nemesis. the president made his appearance at the appointed time; until the opening of the railway he was obliged to drive over from heilborn, and he brought with him herr gersdorf, who was to come for his wife. the engineer-in-chief was 'accidentally' absent at a distant post, and could not receive his future father-in-law as usual. nordheim knew what this meant,--he no longer reckoned upon wolfgang's compliance,--but he also knew that matters must come to a final explanation. molly immediately after dinner invited her husband to walk with her in the grove at the foot of the garden, that she might open her heart to him; but when she would have told her secret she prefaced the revelation by so many mysterious hints, such oracular sentences, that gersdorf grew uneasy. "my dear child, pray tell me outright what has happened," he begged her. "i noticed nothing whatever unusual upon my arrival; what have you to tell me?" "a secret, albert," she replied, with much solemnity,--"a profound secret, which i adjure you not to reveal. incredible things have been happening,--here and at oberstein." "at oberstein? has benno anything to do with them?" "yes!" and here frau gersdorf made a long, artistic pause, to give due effect to what was to follow. then she said, in a tone of the deepest tragedy, "benno--loves alice nordheim." unfortunately, the revelation did not produce the desired effect; the lawyer merely shook his head, and observed, with exasperating indifference, "poor fellow! it is well that he is going to neuenfeld, where he will soon get such nonsense out of his head." "nonsense, do you call it?" molly exclaimed, indignantly. "and you suppose it can be easily got rid of? you probably could have done so if you had not married me, albert, for you are a heartless monster!" "but an excellent husband," gersdorf, who was quite used to such tragic outbursts from his wife, asserted with philosophic serenity. "moreover, the case was not similar. i knew that in spite of obstacles i could win you, and then i was sure of your love." "and so is benno. alice loves him also," molly explained, gratified to perceive that her husband took this announcement much more seriously. he listened in thoughtful silence, while, after her usual lively fashion, she told of the scene on the mountain-meadow, of her concealment among the trees, and of her extremely vigorous efforts to smooth matters, as she expressed it. "an hour later i had benno alone by himself," she continued. "at first he would not confess,--not a word; but i should like to see any one conceal from me what i have resolved to find out. finally i said to him, frankly, 'benno, you are in love, desperately in love,' and then he denied it no longer, but said, with a sigh, 'yes, and hopelessly so!' he was in despair, poor fellow, but i told him to take courage, for i would undertake to arrange the affair." "that must, of course, have consoled him greatly," the lawyer interposed. "no; on the contrary, he would not hear of it. benno's conscientiousness is positively something frightful. alice was the betrothed of his friend,--he could not even allow his thoughts to dwell upon her,--never would he see her again, but if possible he would start for neuenfeld to-morrow, and a deal more of such nonsense. he forbade me to speak to alice. of course, as soon as his back was turned, i went to her and extorted a confession from her too. in short, they love each other dearly, intensely, inexpressibly. so there is nothing for them to do but to be married!" "indeed?" said her husband, rather surprised by this conclusion. "you seem to have quite forgotten that alice is betrothed to the engineer-in-chief." frau molly turned up her little nose contemptuously; that betrothal never had found favour in her eyes, and at present she was inclined to make short work of it. "alice never loved that wolfgang elmhorst," she asserted, with decision. "she said yes because her father told her to, because she had not the energy then to say no, and he--well, what he wanted was a wealthy wife." "a very good reason, as you must admit, for disinclination to relinquish her." "i told you just now, albert, that i was going myself to undertake the adjustment of the affair," frau molly declared, with dignity. "i shall see elmhorst, and appeal to his generosity, representing to him that unless he wishes to make two people wretched he must withdraw. he will be touched and softened, he will bring the lovers together, and----" "there will be a most romantic scene," albert concluded her sentence. "no, that is just what he will _not_ do. you little know the engineer-in-chief if you credit him with such sensibility. he is not the man to withdraw from a connection that insures him the future possession of millions, and he will soon console himself for lack of affection in his wife. and what do you suppose nordheim will say to your romance?" "the president?" molly asked, dejectedly. in the contemplation of her scheme in which she played the part of beneficent fairy, joining the hands of the lovers with all the emotion befitting the occasion, she had quite forgotten that alice had a father whose word might be decisive in this matter. "yes, president nordheim, who brought about this betrothal, and who will hardly consent to dissolve it, and to bestow his daughter's hand upon a young country doctor, who, with all his courage and capacity, has nothing to give in return. no, molly, the affair is perfectly hopeless, and benno is quite right to resign all hope. even if alice really loves him, she has promised her hand to wolfgang, and neither he nor her father will release her. there is no help for it, they must both submit." he might have gone on thus forever without convincing his wife. she knew what her own obstinacy had effected in uniting her with her lover, and she would not see why alice could not persist in the same manner. she listened, indeed, attentively, and then cut short any further remarks from her husband by declaring, dictatorially,-- "you do not understand it at all, albert! they love each other. then they ought to marry; and marry they shall!" what could gersdorf say to refute such logic as this? meanwhile, alice nordheim was in her father's study, which she rarely entered, and which she must have sought now for some important purpose, for she looked pale and agitated, and as she stood leaning against the window-frame, seemed to be undergoing an inward struggle; yet there was nothing in prospect save an interview between the father and daughter. there was, to be sure, nothing of confidence or intimacy in the relation existing between them. nordheim, who had surrounded his daughter with all the luxury and splendour that wealth could procure, took, in fact, very little interest in her, as alice had always felt, but in her docile compliance with whatever her father desired, there had never been any collision between them. for the first time this was otherwise; she was about to go to her father with a confession, which must, she knew, provoke his wrath, and she trembled at the thought, although her resolution never wavered. all at once the president's step was heard in the next room, and his voice said, "herr waltenberg's secretary? certainly. show him in!" alice stood hesitating for a moment; her father, who did not suspect her presence here, was not alone, and, agitated as she was, she could not confront a stranger. probably the man brought some message from waltenberg, and his business would shortly be despatched. the young girl, therefore, slipped into her father's bedroom, which adjoined his office, and the door of which remained ajar. nordheim immediately entered the room she had left, and was shortly joined there by his visitor. the president received him with affable ease. he knew that ernst in his travels had picked up somewhere an individual who, ostensibly his secretary, played the part of his confidential friend, but he took further interest in the matter. he either had not heard or had not heeded his name; at all events, he did not recognize his former friend. twenty-five years are long in passing, and such a life as gronau's had been is a great disguiser. this man with his brown, deeply-furrowed face and gray hair had nothing in his appearance to recall the fresh, merry youth who had gone out into the world to seek his fortune. "you are herr waltenberg's secretary?" it was thus that nordheim opened the conversation. "yes, herr president." nordheim started at the sound of the voice, which aroused dim memories within him. he directed a keen glance towards the stranger, and, motioning to him to be seated, he went on: "i suppose we shall not see him to-day? have you a message from him? your name, if you please." "veit gronau," was the reply, as the speaker calmly seated himself. the president looked extremely surprised; he examined the weather-beaten features of his former friend, but the memories thus unexpectedly awakened seemed far from agreeable, and he was apparently not inclined to admit that there had ever existed any friendship between himself and his visitor. his manner distinctly indicated the inferior position which he chose to assign to his friend's secretary. "we are not, then, entire strangers to each other," he remarked. "i was acquainted in my youth with a veit gronau----" "the same who has the honour of waiting upon you at present," gronau concluded the sentence. "it gives me pleasure to hear it." the pleasure was but coldly expressed. "and how have you thriven in the mean while? well, it would seem, your position with herr waltenberg must be a very agreeable one." "i have every reason to be contented. i have hardly reached your heights, herr president, but one must not expect too much." "true, true. human destinies are very various." "and when men undertake to control them, it all depends upon who can best steer his own boat." the remark displeased the president as being too familiar; he desired no intimacy with his former comrade, so he said, evasively,-- "but we are straying from the object of your visit. herr waltenberg sends you to----?" "no," gronau replied, drily. nordheim looked at him in surprise: "you do not bring me a message from him?" "no, herr president. i have just returned from a journey, and have not yet seen herr waltenberg. i announced myself in my capacity of his secretary in order to make sure of your receiving me. i come about an affair of my own." at this disclosure the president became several degrees colder and more formal, for he suspected some favour to be asked; yet the man seated so calmly before him, looking at him with so searching an expression in his clear, keen eyes, did not look like a suppliant; there was something of defiance in his bearing which impressed nordheim disagreeably. "go on, then," he said, with perceptible condescension. "all relations between us are far in the past, nevertheless----" "yes, they date from five-and-twenty years ago," gronau interrupted him. "and yet it is precisely of what then occurred that i wish to speak,--to pray you to inform me what has become of our--excuse me--of my former friend, benno reinsfeld?" the question was so sudden and unexpected that nordheim was silenced for a moment, but he was too entirely accustomed to self-control to be long disconcerted by such surprises. one suspicious glance he shot at his questioner, and then, with a shrug, he replied, coldly,-- "you really demand too much of my memory, herr gronau. i cannot possibly call to mind all the acquaintances of my youth, and in this instance i do not even remember the name you mention." "indeed? then let me assist your memory, herr president. i allude to the inventor of the first mountain-railway locomotive,--the engineer, benno reinsfeld." the men looked each other in the eye, and instantly the president knew that there was nothing accidental in his visitor's presence, that he was confronting a foe, and that the words which sounded so innocent barely disguised a menace. he must next know whether the man appearing thus after years of exile were really dangerous, or whether this were merely an attempt to extort money from his possible fears. nordheim seemed inclined to the latter belief, for he said, frigidly, "you must be falsely informed, _i_ invented the first mountain-locomotive, as is shown by my patent." gronau suddenly rose, his dark face flushed still darker. he had devised a regular scheme of action, arranged in his mind how he should attack his opponent and drive him into a corner, until not a chance of escape was left him, but at such audacious falsehood all his prudent plans fell to pieces, and honest indignation got the upper hand of him. "you dare to tell me that to my face!" he burst out, angrily. "to me, who was present when benno showed us his invention, and explained it, and you admired it, and praised him! does your memory play you false there also?" the president calmly reached for the bell-rope: "will you leave the house, herr gronau, or must i call the servants? i am not inclined to submit to insult beneath my own roof." "i advise you to let the bell alone," gronau burst forth, furiously. "take your choice, whether what i have to say shall be said to you alone, or to all the world. refuse to listen,--i can find a hearing everywhere else." the threat was not without effect; nordheim slowly withdrew his hand. he saw that it would not be easy to deal with this resolute, determined man, and that it would be best not to provoke him further, but his voice was still impassive as he said, "well, then, what have you to say to me?" veit gronau stepped up to his former comrade, and his eyes flashed: "that you are a scoundrel, nordheim, neither more nor less!" the president started, but in an instant burst out, "what! you dare?" "oh, yes; and i dare far more, for this is not a matter to be hushed up easily. poor benno, indeed, neither could nor would defend himself; he bowed his head beneath the stroke, and suffered more, i fancy, from the consciousness of the treachery of a friend than from the treachery itself. had i been here at the time you would not have got off with your booty so easily. don't trouble yourself to look indignant. 'tis of no use with mc. i know you, and we are alone; no need for play-acting. you had better make up your mind what answer to make when i accuse you in public." in his excitement his voice rang out clear and distinct. nordheim made no further attempt to check his words, but he must have felt quite secure, for he never for an instant lost his bearing of calm superiority. "what answer to make?" he said, with a shrug. "where are your proofs?" gronau laughed bitterly: "i thought you would ask that. therefore i did not come instantly to you when i heard the sorry tale from poor benno's son in oberstein. i have spent three weeks in following up traces. i have been in the capital, in benno's last place of residence,--even in the town where we were all three born." "and are they found,--these proofs of yours?" the question was pronounced in a tone of extreme contempt. "no, nothing; that is, that could convict you. you insured yourself well against discovery, and reinsfeld meanwhile delayed applying for a patent for his invention because he did not consider it yet complete. that was the time when i left home and you accepted a position in the capital. poor benno worked away at his invention and perfected it, building many a castle in the air the while, until one fine day he heard that his invention had been bought and patented; but the patent and the money were both in the pocket of his best friend, of whom they made a millionaire." "and this is the precious tale you mean to relate to the world?" the president sneered. "do you actually believe that the assertion of an adventurer like yourself could ruin a man of my standing? why, you yourself admit the absence of proof." "of all direct proof; but what i have learned is quite enough to make the ground hot beneath your feet. reinsfeld himself made an effort to recover his rights; of course he was unsuccessful, although he found credence here and there. then he lost courage and gave up all hope. but the matter was talked of; you were forced to defend yourself against suspicion, and now you have as an antagonist not poor, inexperienced benno, but myself. look to yourself in this encounter. i have sworn to indemnify the son of my friend as far as is possible for the wrong done to his father, and i am wont to keep my word, whether for good or for evil. as an 'adventurer' i have nothing to lose, and i shall proceed against you ruthlessly and resolutely; i shall forge weapons against you out of all that i have lately learned, and shall publish to the world the suspicion, the knowledge of which was formerly confined to a very narrow circle. we shall see whether the truth can die away unheard when an honest man is ready to vindicate it with his very life." there was an iron determination in his words and manner, and nordheim was quite able to measure the power of this antagonist. he seemed engaged in a mental conflict for a minute or two, and then he asked, in a low tone, "what is your price?" gronau's lip quivered with a contemptuous smile: "ah, you are ready to barter, then?" "it may come to that. i do not deny that such a scandal as you threaten to raise would be very disagreeable to me, although i am far from perceiving any danger in it. if you should propose reasonable conditions i might, perhaps, bring myself to make a sacrifice. therefore, what do you ask?" "very little for a man of your stamp. pay to benno's son, young dr. reinsfeld, the entire sum which you formerly received for the patent. it is his lawful inheritance, and would be wealth to him in his present circumstances. moreover, you must confess the truth to him,--privately, for all i care,--and give to the dead his due, at least in his son's eyes. this done, i will answer for it that the matter shall be immediately dropped." "your first condition i accept," nordheim replied, as though he were settling some business transaction, "but not the second. you must content yourselves with the money, which, indeed, will amount to a considerable sum. i suppose you will go shares in it." "is that your opinion?" gronau asked, scornfully. "but how indeed should you know anything of honest, unselfish friendship? benno reinsfeld does not even know that i have come to you, or of the conditions i propose, and i shall have trouble enough, god knows, to induce him to accept what is lawfully his, and his only. i should consider it a disgrace to touch a penny of it. but enough of this. will you accept both conditions?" "no; only the first." "i will retract nothing. i must have both the money and the confession." "which will place me completely in your power? never!" "good! then we have done with each other. if you wish for war you shall have war!" gronau turned and walked towards the door; the president made as if he would have detained him, then apparently changed his mind, and in another moment it was too late: the door had closed behind veit. when nordheim was alone, he began to pace the room rapidly to and fro. now when there were no witnesses present it was evident that the interview had nowise left him as indifferent as he had feigned to be. there was a deep furrow in his brow, and in his face anger and anxiety strove for the mastery; gradually he began to be calmer, and at last he paused and said, half aloud, "'tis folly to allow this to discompose me thus. he has no proof. i deny everything." he turned towards his writing-table, when suddenly he stood rooted to the spot, and a low cry escaped his lips. the door of his sleeping-apartment had opened noiselessly, and upon the threshold stood alice, ashy pale, both hands clasped against her breast, and her large eyes riveted upon her father, who recoiled from her as from some spectre. "you here?" he said, harshly. "how did you come here? have you heard anything of what has been said?" "yes,--i heard everything," the young girl replied, scarce audibly. then for the first time nordheim changed colour. his daughter present at that interview! but the next moment he had collected himself; it surely could not be difficult to divest of all suspicion the mind of this innocent, inexperienced girl who had always yielded so readily to his authority. "it certainly was not meant for your ears," he said, with asperity. "i really cannot understand your playing the part of eavesdropper when you must have heard that a purely business matter was under discussion. you have now been witness to an attempt to blackmail your father,--an attempt which i ought perhaps to have repulsed more decidedly. but such audacious liars have the best men at a disadvantage. the world is ever too ready to credit a falsehood, and where a man is, like myself, engaged in great undertakings, demanding principally the entire confidence of the public, he cannot afford to expose himself to the faintest suspicion. it is better to be rid of such fellows as this man, who live by blackmail, at the expense of a sum of money;----but you understand nothing of it all! go to your room, and pray do not visit mine in secret again." his words did not produce the desired effect: alice stood motionless. she made no reply; she did not stir; and her silence seemed to irritate the president still further. "do you not hear me?" he said. "i wish to be alone, and i require that no word of what you have heard should pass your lips. now go!" instead of obeying, alice slowly approached him, and said, in a strange, nervous tone, "papa, i have something to say to you." "about what? not this attempt at blackmail, i trust? i have explained to you how matters stand, and you will hardly give credence to that scoundrel." "that man was no scoundrel," the young girl replied, in the same strange tone. "indeed?" the president burst forth. "and what am i, then, in your eyes?" no answer, only the same rigid distressed look riveted upon her father's face. there was no longer any question in it, but a condemnation, and nordheim could not bear it. he had confronted his accuser with a brazen brow, before his child's eyes his own sought the ground. alice caught her breath; at first her voice failed her, but it gained in firmness as she went on: "i came here to make a confession, papa, to tell you something that might have angered you. i do not care to speak of it now. i have only one question to ask you: are you going to afford--dr. reinsfeld the satisfaction required of you?" "not at all, i shall abide by my last words." "then i shall give it to him in your stead." "alice, are you bereft of your senses?" the president, now really alarmed, exclaimed; but she went on, undeterred: "he does not indeed need your confession, for he knows the truth; he must have long known it. now i know why he changed so suddenly, why he often looked at me so sadly, and never would betray what troubled him. he knows everything. and yet he has shown me nothing save kindness and compassion, has used every effort to restore me to health,--me, the daughter of the man who----" she could not finish the sentence. nordheim made no further attempt to appear indignant, for he saw that alice was not to be imposed upon, and he also saw that he must give up the attempt to control her by severity. she had foolishly resolved upon what might ruin him; her silence must be secured at all hazards. "i, too, am convinced that dr. reinsfeld has nothing to do with the matter," he said, more calmly; "that he is sufficiently wise to see the folly of such threats. as for your silly purpose to speak of them to him, i am sure you are not in earnest. what is the affair to you?" the young girl stood erect, and her face took on an indescribably stern expression quite foreign to it: "it ought indeed to be much more to you, papa! you knew that dr. reinsfeld dwelt near us, that he laboured night and day, in absolute poverty, and you never even tried to make good to him the wrong done to his father. life and mankind have been so cruel to him: he was thrust out into the world in his childhood; as a student he lacked every means of support, while you won millions with that money, built palaces, and lived in luxury. at least do what gronau asks, papa. you must,--or i shall attempt it myself." "alice!" nordheim exclaimed, between anger and utter amazement at finding his daughter, the gentle, docile creature who had never before ventured to contradict him, now laying down the law for him. "have you no idea of the meaning of the affair? would you deliver up your father to his worst enemy, who----" "benno reinsfeld is not your enemy," alice interrupted him. "if he were, he would long since have made use of the secret to extort from you something quite different from that demanded by gronau,--for--he loves me!" "reinsfeld--loves you?" "yes,--i know it, although he has never told me so. i am betrothed to another, and he, who could obtain from you what he chose by threats, is going from here without one demand, without even a word with you, because he would fain spare me the terrible knowledge, which, nevertheless, is now mine. you do not dream of the extent of this man's magnanimity. i now know it all!" the president stood speechless; he was not prepared for this turn of affairs, for it required no great amount of perspicacity to perceive that benno's love was returned. the girl's passionate indignation spoke plainly enough, and if reinsfeld really knew the story of the past--and that he did so seemed beyond a doubt--there was in fact but one explanation of his reserve and his silence in a matter so nearly concerning him. he had relinquished the advantage which his knowledge gave him that she whom he loved might be saved from disgrace. there was nothing therefore to apprehend from him; the father of the girl whom he loved was secure from his revenge, and perhaps he might induce gronau also to be silent. "this is an astounding piece of news!" nordheim said, slowly, after a short pause, during which he had watched his daughter narrowly. "and i hear it rather late. you spoke just now of a confession. what had you to tell me?" alice cast down her eyes, and a burning blush replaced the pallor of her cheek: "that i do not love wolfgang, nor does he love me," she answered, in a low tone. "i did not know it at first myself, but it has become clear to me within the last few days." she confidently expected a burst of anger from her father, but nothing of the kind ensued; on the contrary, his voice was quite changed, as he said, in an unusually gentle tone, "why have you no confidence in me, alice? i would not force my only daughter to contract a marriage in which her heart had no share; but this must be well considered and reflected upon. for the present i only ask that you will not be overhasty in your resolves, but will leave it to me to find a solution of the difficulty. trust your father, my child; you shall have no cause for dissatisfaction with him." he stooped to press a paternal kiss upon her forehead, but she shrank away from the caress with an evident expression of dislike. "what does this mean?" nordheim asked, with a frown. "are you afraid of me? do you not believe me?" she raised her eyes to his with the same hard, accusing look in them, and her voice, usually so gentle, was inexorably stern, as she replied, "no, papa; i believe neither in your love nor in your kindness. i shall never believe you again,--never!" nordheim bit his lip and turned away, mutely motioning to her to leave the room. as mutely she obeyed. she had rightly divined that the president never for a moment entertained the idea of a marriage between his daughter and the young physician, although he had no scruples in hinting at such a possibility in order to avert for the moment a threatening danger. but he had miscalculated his daughter's insight; the young, inexperienced girl had seen through his device, and, man of iron though he was, he could not endure it. he had preserved his composure in presence of wolfgang's haughty indignation and of gronau's threats. his anger had been aroused, and at most he had experienced a vague dread. now for the first time in his life he felt the sting of shame. even although the danger menacing him should be averted, he could not away with the consciousness that he was judged and condemned by his only child. chapter xx. blasts and counterblasts. the construction of the railway was pushed forward with feverish haste. in fact, it was no easy task to have the work completed at the promised time; but nordheim was right in declaring that the engineer-in-chief would spare neither himself nor his subordinates. elmhorst spurred on his workmen to incredible exertions; he was present everywhere, superintending and directing, giving to his staff of engineers an example of unwearied devotion to duty that inspired their emulation. under his leadership their capacity for work seemed doubled, and he actually attained his end. the numerous structures on the line of mountain-railway were now all but finished, and the last touches were being put to the wolkenstein bridge. wolfgang had just returned from his day's expedition. he had dismissed his vehicle in oberstein, that he might pursue the rest of his way on foot, and now he was standing upon a cliff above the wolkenstein abyss, watching the workmen, swarming like busy ants upon the trestles and framework of the bridge. a few days more would witness the completion of the work, which already excited universal admiration, and which in the course of a year or two would arouse the wonder of thousands; but he who had created it stood gazing at it as gloomily as if all pleasure in his creation had departed. he had evaded for to-day an interview with the president, testifying by his absence to his adhesion to his refusal; but some explanation was unavoidable. that the breach between them was final both knew; nordheim was scarcely the man to accept for his son-in-law one who had so frankly and contemptuously defied him, and from whom he could expect in future no support in his schemes. the question was now how the separation was to be made, since the interests of each required that it should take place as quietly as possible. this was all that was to be arranged, and this was to be settled on the morrow. the sound of a horse's hoofs close at hand roused elmhorst from his reflections, and turning he perceived erna von thurgau upon one of the rough ponies purchased for use among the mountains. she drew rein, evidently surprised, as she recognized the engineer-in-chief. "back already, herr elmhorst? we thought your expedition would take up an entire day." "i finished my inspection sooner than i anticipated. but you cannot ride on for a few moments, fräulein von thurgau: they are blasting just below there; it will be all over, however, in ten minutes." the young lady had already perceived the obstacle; the road leading down the descent and past the bridge was temporarily barricaded, while beyond a number of workmen were busied in blasting a large fragment of rock. "i am in no hurry," she said, indifferently, "and, besides, i must wait for herr waltenberg, who begged me to ride on while he spoke with herr gronau, whom he met just now quite unexpectedly. i do not wish to be too far in advance of him." she let her bridle hang loose, and seemed to bestow all her attention upon the workmen. the previous night had brought an entire change in the weather,--a cold rain had obscured all the sunny, fragrant beauty of the landscape. the skies hung dark and gray above the earth, the mountains were veiled in mist, and the wind whistled in the forests,--autumn had come in a single night. "we shall see you this evening, herr elmhorst?" erna asked, after a silence of several minutes. "i regret extremely that i cannot possibly come. i shall be very much occupied this evening." it was the old pretext to which he had so often had recourse; but it no longer found credence. erna said, with evident significance, "you are probably not aware that my uncle arrived this forenoon?" "oh, yes, i know it, and have excused my absence to him; i shall see him to-morrow." "but alice does not seem well. she will not, it is true, admit any indisposition, nor will she allow dr. reinsfeld to be summoned, but she looked so pale and ill awhile ago when she came out of her father's room, that i was quite alarmed." she seemed to expect an answer, but elmhorst continued to gaze towards the bridge in silence. "surely you ought to forsake your work for to-day and see after your betrothed." "i have no longer the right to call fräulein nordheim my betrothed," wolfgang said, coldly. "herr elmhorst!" "yes, fräulein von thurgau. differences of opinion have arisen between the president and myself of so decided a character that any adjustment is impossible. we have both withdrawn from the intended connection." "and alice?" "she knows nothing of it as yet, at least through me. possibly her father may have acquainted her with the matter; in any case, she will submit to his decision." the words testified clearly to the nature of the strange alliance, which had in fact existed only between nordheim and his intended son-in-law. alice had been betrothed since the interests of both men required that so it should be, and now when these interests no longer existed the betrothal was dissolved without even referring the matter to her; it was taken for granted that she would submit. erna too seemed to have no doubt upon the subject, but she changed colour at the unexpected intelligence. "it has come, then, to this," she said, softly. "yes, it has come to this. i was asked to pay a price far too high for me or----, and i made my choice." "i knew how you would choose!" the girl exclaimed, eagerly. "i never doubted it!" "ah, you did me that justice, then!" wolfgang said, with undisguised bitterness. "i hardly expected it of you." she made no reply, but there was reproach in her eyes; at last she said, with hesitation, "and---what now?" "now i stand just where i did a year ago. the path which you once pointed out to me with such enthusiasm lies open before me, and i shall pursue it, but alone,--entirely alone." erna shivered slightly at his last words, but apparently she did not choose to understand them; she interposed, hastily, "a man like yourself is not alone. he has his talents and his future, and the future before you is so grand and----" "and as dreary and sunless as that mountain-world," he completed her sentence, pointing to the autumnal, cloudy landscape. "but i have no right to complain. it came to meet me once, happiness, brilliant and sunlit, and i turned my back upon it to attain another goal. then it spread its wings and departed, soaring to unattainable heights; and although i would give my very life for it, it never will come back to me. those who trifle with it lose it forever." there was dull, aching misery in his voice as he made this confession, but erna had no word of reply for him, and no glance for the eyes seeking her own. pale and rigid, she gazed abroad into the misty distance. yes, he knew now where for him lay rest and happiness,--now, when it was too late! wolfgang laid his hand upon the horse's mane: "erna, one question before we part. after my final interview with your uncle to-morrow i shall, of course, not enter his house again, and you are going far away with your husband. do you look for happiness at his side?" "at least i hope to confer happiness." "and you?" "herr elmhorst----" "ah, you need not repulse me so sternly! no self-interest lurks behind my question. my sentence i listened to from your lips on that moonlit night upon the wolkenstein. even were you free i should be hopeless, for you never could forgive my wooing of another." "no,--never!" the words were harsh in their decision. "i know it, and hence these last words of warning. ernst waltenberg is not the man to make such a woman as yourself happy. his love is rooted in the egotism that is the basis of his entire nature. he never will ask himself whether he may not be torturing by his jealous passion the woman whom he loves, and how will you endure constant companionship with a man to whom all the lofty ideals which are to you inspiration are but dead ideas? at last i have learned to know--dearly as the knowledge has been purchased--that there is something loftier and better than the self which once bounded my horizon. he never will learn this!" erna's lips quivered; she had long known it far better than any one could tell her. but what availed such knowledge? for her also it was too late. "you are speaking of my betrothed, herr elmhorst," she said, in a tone of reproof,--"and to me. not another word of the kind, i entreat!" wolfgang bowed and retired: "you are right, fräulein von thurgau; but they were farewell words, and as such may be forgiven." she inclined her head in assent, and was about to turn away, when waltenberg appeared on the edge of the forest, urging his horse towards the pair. he and the engineer-in-chief exchanged the coldly courteous greetings habitual to them in what had become their almost daily intercourse. they spoke of the weather, and of the president's arrival,--ernst being now first aware of the barricade in the road. "the men are unconscionably dilatory about their blasting," said wolfgang, glad to find an opportunity to cut short the interview. "i will go and hasten them; you shall not have to wait long." he hurried down the slope, but something seemed to be amiss with the blasting, and the engineer who was directing the proceedings came forward to explain matters to his chief. wolfgang shrugged his shoulders impatiently and passed on into the midst of the workmen, apparently to examine the work himself. meanwhile, waltenberg stayed with his betrothed, who asked him, "you spoke with gronau, then?" "yes, and i took no pains to conceal my surprise at finding him here, since he had not been to see me in heilborn, or informed me of his return. in reply he begged me to see him this evening: he has something to tell me, which he says concerns me in a certain sense. i am really curious to know what it is. he is not wont to be oracularly mysterious. look, erna, how dark and threatening the sky is above the wolkenstein. will that storm not overtake us?" "hardly to-day," said erna, with a glance towards the veiled mountain-top. "to-morrow perhaps, or the day after. in spite of our fine autumn, the tempests which our poor mountaineers so dread seem to be setting in earlier than usual. we had a forerunner of them last night." "there must be something more than fable in the magic power of your alpine fay," ernst said, half in jest. "that cloudy peak, which is well named, for it scarcely ever unveils, has actually cast a spell around me. it allures and attracts me with a mysterious, wellnigh irresistible charm, tempting me to lift the veil of the haughty ice-queen, and to snatch from her the kiss hitherto denied to mortals. if one should try that precipice on this side----" "ernst, you promised me to give up all such ideas forever," erna interposed. "and i will keep my word. i promised you on st. john's eve." "on st. john's eve," the girl repeated, softly, dreamily. "do you remember that evening when i yielded to your request? i had resolved firmly upon an ascent of the wolkenstein, but my resolution vanished before the entreaty in your eyes,--your words. would you really have been distressed had i then disobeyed you?" "but, ernst, what a question!" "it would not have been incumbent upon you then to be so; i was not then your declared lover." there was again the old tormenting jealousy in his voice. "you would probably have been distressed about sepp or gronau if either of them had undertaken the ascent. i mean that trembling anxiety which only assails one where one dearly loved is concerned,--a dread before which all else pales and vanishes,--the distress which would drive me blindly to encounter any danger if i knew you exposed to it. i suppose you know nothing of that?" "why conjure up such fancies?" erna said, half impatiently. "i have your promise, and therefore no ground for distress. why dwell upon an 'if'----?" a crash as of thunder interrupted her. below them earth and stones were hurled into the air, and the huge mass of rock, split into three fragments, fell apart with a dull thud, while on the instant a terrific commotion arose. the assembled labourers rushed away from the bridge towards the spot where the engineer-in-chief with his subordinate officer had been standing an instant before. it was impossible to see what had occurred; all that was to be perceived was a close group of men, whence cries of alarm and dismay were heard. but above them all there rang out such a shriek as is the utterance of an agony of despair, and ernst, turning, saw his betrothed, erect in her saddle, every vestige of colour fled from her face, gazing towards the spot where the catastrophe had occurred. "erna!" he exclaimed. she did not hear him, but gave her horse the rein. the brute, terrified by the noise, shied and would not go forward. a merciless cut with the whip forced it to obey, and the next instant horse and rider were speeding down the slope towards the group of men. it parted at erna's stormy approach; some of the labourers, who thought the horse had become unmanageable from fright, seized it by the bridle and stopped it. erna seemed hardly aware of it; in mortal terror her eyes sought only--wolfgang! and on the instant she perceived him standing quite unhurt in the midst of the throng. he too had seen her as she broke through the crowd; he had recognized the look that sought him out,--had heard the deep-drawn sigh of relief when she found him uninjured,--and from his eyes there shot a ray of passionate ecstasy. his mortal peril had revealed her secret,--she did love him, then! "your fear was unfounded; the engineer-in-chief is unharmed," said ernst waltenberg, who had followed his betrothed and had paused just outside the throng. his voice sounded unnatural, his face was strangely pale, and in the dark eyes now riveted upon erna and wolfgang there gleamed an evil fire. erna shivered, and wolfgang turned hastily. it needed but a glance to tell him that he was confronting a deadly foe; yet appearances must be preserved in view of all these stranger eyes. "the affair might have turned out badly," he said, with forced composure. "the blast was tardy at first, and then took place before we could get well away from it. two of the men are wounded; i am glad to know, only slightly. the rest of us escaped almost by a miracle." "but you are bleeding, herr elmhorst," said one of the engineers, pointing to wolfgang's forehead, where two or three trickling drops of blood were visible. the young man pressed his pocket-handkerchief upon the wound, of which he had not before been aware. "it is not worth mentioning; one of the stones must have grazed my forehead. have the wounds of those men bandaged immediately. fräulein von thurgau, i regret that the accident should have frightened you----" "it frightened my horse, at least," erna interposed, with ready presence of mind. "it shied and ran; i could not control it." the fiction was a plausible one and gained instant credence from the bystanders, explaining as it did the sudden appearance of the young lady and her evident terror and emotion. it was fortunate that the frightened animal had been brought under control in time. there were two men, however, who were not thus deceived,--wolfgang, to whom those few instants of alarm had revealed a certainty which came, indeed, too late, but which he would not for worlds have relinquished, and ernst, who still maintained his place, closely observing the pair. there was a contemptuous emphasis in his voice as he remarked,-- "we have been fortunately spared another catastrophe. have you recovered from your alarm, erna?" "yes." "then we will continue our ride. _au revoir_, herr elmhorst." wolfgang bowed formally, perfectly comprehending the significance of that '_au revoir_;' then he turned to see after the wounds of the two men, which were in fact very slight, as was his own. a fragment of stone had, as he said, merely grazed his forehead. the entire occurrence seemed to have ended very fortunately. but this was only seeming, as might have been clearly seen in waltenberg's countenance. he rode beside his betrothed in silence, without even turning towards her; this went on for a quarter of an hour, until erna could bear it no longer. "ernst," she said, softly. "beg pardon?" "let us turn back. the skies are more threatening, and we can take the mountain-road home." "as you please." they turned their horses into another road, and again complete silence ensued. erna was only too conscious that she had betrayed herself, but she could have borne the wildest outburst of jealousy from her betrothed rather than this gloomy silence, which was terrible. she did not indeed fear for herself, but she saw that an explanation was inevitable so soon as they should reach the house. her expectations were, however, disappointed, for at the door of the villa, after ernst had helped her to dismount, he got on his horse again. "you are going?" she asked, surprised. "yes. i need the open air this afternoon." "do not go, ernst. i wanted to ask you----" "good-bye!" he interrupted her, curtly; and before she could make any further attempt to detain him he was gone, leaving her a prey to a vague anxiety in her ignorance of his intentions. when waltenberg reached the forest he checked his horse's speed and rode on slowly beneath the dark pines, through the tops of which the wind was whistling. he needed no further explanation; he knew everything now,--everything! but in the midst of the tempest raging within him he was aware of a savage satisfaction: the phantom which had tortured him for so long had finally taken on flesh and blood. now he could assail and destroy it! chapter xxi. a challenge. it was evening; elmhorst was in his office with dr. reinsfeld, who had arrived half an hour previously, and from the air of both men it was evident that the subject of their conversation was a grave one. benno seemed especially agitated. "so matters stand at present," he concluded, after a long explanation. "gronau came directly to me after his interview with the president, and all my efforts to deter him from his purpose are vain. i begged him to remember that it would cost him his position with waltenberg, who never could tolerate such an assault upon the fair fame of the uncle and guardian of his betrothed, and that he had no positive proof; that nordheim would do all that lay in his power to brand him as a liar and slanderer. it was of no use. he reproached me bitterly with cowardice,--with indifference to my father's memory. god knows, he was wrong there; but--i cannot bring forward the accusation!" "wolfgang had listened in silence, a contemptuous smile hovering about his lips. it was high time indeed to break off all association with that man; never for an instant did he doubt the truth of gronau's suspicions. "i thank you for your frankness, benno," he said. "it would have been perfectly excusable if you had never taken me into consideration, but had acted only as your father's son. i know how great is the regard you thus show me." benno cast down his eyes; he was conscious that these thanks were undeserved. it was not to spare his friend that he would have buried that discovery in oblivion. "you understand that i cannot possibly move in the affair," he rejoined. "i must leave it to you to speak with your future father-in-law----" "no," wolfgang coldly interrupted him. reinsfeld gazed at him in surprise. "you will not? "no, benno; grouau has openly declared war to him, as you tell me, therefore he is fully prepared; and, moreover, my relations with him are no longer what they were. we are parted once for all." the doctor's amazement was inexpressible: "parted? and your betrothal with fräulein alice----" "is at an end. i cannot give you a detailed explanation of the matter. nordheim has shown himself to me also,--as what you now know him to be. he endeavoured to impose upon me conditions entirely inconsistent, in my opinion, with my honour; therefore i was obliged to retire." reinsfeld still stared at him, bewildered; he could not understand how the man who had once staked everything upon this connection could speak thus composedly of his shattered hopes. "and alice is free?" he managed to ask at last. "yes. but what is the matter with you? what is it?" benno had started up in extreme agitation: "wolf, you never loved your betrothed. i am sure of it, or you could not speak so coldly and calmly of losing her. you do not even know what you are losing, for you never appreciated what you possessed." there was so passionate a reproach in his words that they betrayed everything. elmhorst was startled, and gazed at the doctor half incredulously: "what does this mean? benno, can it be--what? do you love alice?" the young physician's honest blue eyes sparkled as he looked into those of his friend: "no need to reproach me with it, wolf. i have never spoken a word to your betrothed that you might not have heard, and when i saw how impossible it was to struggle against my love, i made up my mind to depart. do you suppose i would ever have accepted the position in neuenfeld, which i more than suspected was the result of the president's influence, if any other way out of the difficulty had been possible? there was nothing else to do if i wished to leave oberstein." the most conflicting sensations were pictured on wolfgang's features as he listened. true, he had never loved his betrothed, but benno's confession touched him very strangely, and there was something akin to bitterness in his voice as he said, "well, i am no longer an obstacle in your way, and if you have any hope that your love is returned----" "it would be vain!" reinsfeld interposed. "you know now what happened between our fathers, enough to separate me from alice forever." "perhaps so, constituted as you are. another man, on the contrary, might use it to force from nordheim a consent which he assuredly would otherwise refuse. that you never could be induced to do." "no, never!" benno said, sadly. "i am going to neuenfeld, and i shall in all probability never see alice again." they were interrupted by the announcement that herr waltenberg wished to speak with the engineer-in-chief. elmhorst instantly arose, and reinsfeld prepared to leave. "good-night, wolf," he said, cordially extending his hand. "nothing can sever our friendship; we must always be what we have always been to each other,--eh?" wolfgang warmly returned the pressure of the hand thus given: "good-night, benno. i shall see you to-morrow." he went with him to the door of the room, just as waltenberg made his appearance; a few words were exchanged among the young men, and then reinsfeld departed, and the two were left alone. ernst seemed to have regained his self-control during his lonely ride of two hours; his manner, at least, was cold and collected, although there was still a gleam in his eyes that boded no good. "i hope i do not interrupt you, herr elmhorst?" he said, slowly approaching the young engineer. "no, herr waltenberg; i expected you," was the reply. "so much the better; there is no need, then, of any preface to what i am come to say. no, thank you!" he interrupted himself, as elmhorst offered him a chair. "between us formal courtesy is superfluous. i need not tell you why i am here. our interpretation of the scene of this afternoon differed from that of the strangers then present, and i have a few words to say to you with regard to it." "i am quite at your service." ernst folded his arms, and there was a trace of contempt in his voice as he continued: "i am, as you know, betrothed to baroness von thurgau, and i am not inclined to allow in my betrothed so intense an interest in the peril of another man. but that is a matter between herself and myself. what i desire to know at present is how far you are implicated in this interest. do you love fräulein von thurgau?" the question sounded like a threat, but wolfgang's answer came instantly and simply: "yes." a flash of deadly hatred shot from ernst waltenberg's eyes, and yet this confession told him nothing new. he knew from erna herself that she had loved another, but he had fancied that he should have to seek that other in the grave, among the shades. here he stood living before him, the man who could sacrifice an erna to wretched mammon; a man incapable of a pure, exalted affection, and who yet held his head as haughtily erect as if there were no reason why he should bow before any on earth. this irritated ernst still more. "and this love does not probably date from to-day or from yesterday? as far as i know, you have frequented the house of the president for years,--before i returned from europe, before baroness von thurgau was betrothed." "i regret being obliged to refuse to give you any satisfaction on these points," wolfgang replied, as frigidly as before. "i am quite ready to answer any question you have a right to put. i refuse to submit to a cross-examination." "i can well believe it," waltenberg declared, with a bitter laugh. "you would fare but ill in such an examination,--as the betrothed of alice nordheim." elmhorst bit his lip,--the shot found a joint in his armour, but he recovered himself in an instant: "first of all, herr waltenberg, i must request you to change your tone, if this conversation is to be prolonged. i will tolerate no insults, least of all, as you well know, from yourself." "i am not to blame if the truth insults you," ernst retorted, arrogantly. "contradict my words, and i will retract them. until you do, you must allow me to entertain my own opinion with regard to a man who loves, or pretends to love, a woman while he woos and wins a wealthy heiress. you cannot possibly ask esteem for such a paltr----" "enough!" wolfgang cut short his words. "no need of abuse to attain your end. i am perfectly aware of why you are here, and i will not balk you. but such words as you are using i forbid. i am in my own house." he confronted his antagonist erect and very pale. something in the man commanded respect, even as he thus repelled the imputation which his conduct had ostensibly deserved. ernst could not but feel that his rival bore himself with dignity, hard as it was to admit it. "you adopt a lofty tone," said waltenberg, with a sneer. "'tis a pity your betrothed is not here; in her presence there might not be so much conscious rectitude in your manner." "i am no longer betrothed," wolfgang coldly declared. waltenberg retreated a step in extreme amazement. "what--what do you mean?" "i simply inform you of a fact to show you that the cause for the imputation with which you would insult me exists no longer, for _i_ was the one to withdraw from the engagement." "when? for what reason?" the questions were put hurriedly. "on these points i owe you no explanation." "i am not so sure of that, for here, as it seems to me, you are reckoning upon my magnanimity. you are mistaken. i never will release erna; and she herself, as i know, will never ask her release at my hands. she does not make a promise to-day to break it to-morrow, and she is far too proud to give herself to a man who preferred wealth to her love." "pray cease your attempts to use the old weapon: it has lost its point," elmhorst said, sternly. "born and bred in the very lap of luxury as you were, ignorant of all self-denial, what can you know of the struggles and efforts of one longing to rise, consumed by ambition to win recognition for himself, to attain a great goal? i yielded to temptation, yes; but i have delivered my soul now, and can bid defiance to your boasted virtue. you too would have succumbed if life had denied you fortune and happiness,--you first of all,--and it may be you would not have fought your way free as i have, for, by heaven! the struggle is no easy one." there was such convincing truth in his words that ernst was silent. he to whom luxury was a necessity of existence could hardly have withstood temptation; but because he could not help the conviction that this was so, did he all the more detest the man who had come off conqueror in the fiercest of all battles,--the conflict with self. "and now go, and hold your betrothed to her promise," wolfgang went on, still more bitterly. "she will not break it, nor will she forgive me for what has been. there you are right. i have paid for my wrong-doing with my happiness. force erna to bestow upon you her hand; her love you cannot gain, for that belongs to me,--to me alone!" "ah, you dare----!" ernst began, furiously, but paused before the cold, proud triumph in the eyes that met his own. "well? upon what ground now would you quarrel with me? that i love your betrothed is hardly an insult; that i am beloved you cannot pardon. i never knew it myself before to-day." waltenberg looked as if he would fain have flown at the throat of the man who thus uttered what could not be gainsaid; in a voice half stifled by passion be rejoined, "then you can easily conceive that i shall hardly consent to share the love of my betrothed with another,--with a living rival at least." elmhorst shrugged his shoulders: "is this a challenge?" "yes, and the affair had best be concluded as soon as possible. i will send herr gronau to you to-morrow to make the necessary arrangements, and i hope you will agree that to-morrow shall decide----" "not at all," elmhorst interrupted him. "i shall have no time to-morrow, nor the day after." "no time for an affair of honour?" "no, herr waltenberg. in fact, i have no great opinion of these affairs of honour which consist in trying to put an end as quickly as possible to a man whom one hates. but there are cases in which one must be false to his convictions rather than incur the imputation of cowardice. so i am ready. but we workingmen have an honour of our own apart from that cherished as such by the favoured idlers of society, and mine demands that i should not expose myself to the possibility of being shot before the task which i have undertaken to fulfil has been accomplished. in eight or ten days the wolkenstein bridge will be finished,--i shall then have completed my task; i shall have seen my work accomplished. then i shall be at your disposal, but not an hour sooner. until then you will be obliged to curb your impatience." there was an almost contemptuous deliberation in the manner in which all this was stated to the man to whom it was scarcely intelligible. waltenberg had never worked, never devised anything that he loved and would fain see completed; he had never done aught save follow the impulse of the whim of the moment. now this impulse incited him to the destruction of his enemy or to his own ruin,--he did not stop to ask which; but to be obliged to wait for days, to stay his thirst for revenge,--the thing seemed an impossibility. "and if i do not accept this condition?" he asked, sharply. "then i do not accept your challenge. the choice is yours." ernst clinched his fist in suppressed fury; but he saw that he must submit: it was his antagonist's right to require this delay. "so be it, then!" he said, controlling himself by an effort. "in from eight to ten days. i rely upon your word." "you will find me ready." a formal, hostile bow was given on both sides, and ernst left the room, while elmhorst slowly walked to the window. outside, the moon, visible now and then among the clouds, cast an uncertain light over the landscape. for a moment it emerged clearly, and in its rays was revealed the bridge, the bold structure which had promised its creator so proud a future. and out into the same light strode the man who had sworn his death,--whose hand was sure when a foe was to be removed from his path. wolfgang made no effort at self-deception: he bade farewell to his dreams for the future, as he had already bidden farewell to his happiness. chapter xxii. an unexpected visit. dr. reinsfeld sat in his room, writing diligently. so much had to be arranged and prepared for his successor, who was to arrive in the course of the next week, and who was to buy the house and furniture. the young physician's belongings were not very valuable, nevertheless he looked about him upon his poor possessions with a sad, yearning expression. here he had been so happy, and so miserable! a carriage drove up and stopped before his door. benno looked up from his writing to see who his visitor might be, and then hurried to the door, in surprise, as he recognized the graceful figure of frau gersdorf about to alight. this distinguished relative, whose acquaintance he had formerly dreaded to make, had come to be his cherished little friend, whose interest in his unhappy love was intense. he had been obliged to discourage this interest of hers, but he was nevertheless grateful for it. he went out with a welcome upon his lips to open the carriage door, but started, dismayed, for beside his young cousin sat a shyly shrinking figure,--alice nordheim. "yes, i am not alone," said molly, highly delighted by the effect of her surprise. "we have been out driving, and did not wish to pass through oberstein without seeing you. well, benno, are you not glad we stopped?" reinsfeld stood dumfounded. driving in this cold rainy weather? why had alice come? and why did she tremble so as he helped her out of the carriage, seeming afraid to look at him? he could not utter a word; but indeed there was no need that he should, for frau gersdorf gave no one any chance to speak. she chattered on until they were in benno's study, and then she began afresh: "and so here we are. you wanted to come, alice, and now you look as if you would like to run away. why? i may surely call upon my cousin if i please, and you are with me, chaperoned by a married woman, so your duenna can make no possible objection. and you need not be in the least embarrassed, children. i know everything,--i grasp the entire situation, and it is very natural that you should wish to talk to each other. so now begin!" she seated herself in the arm-chair which the doctor had just left, and prepared with great solemnity to assist at the interview. but a long pause ensued,--neither alice nor benno spoke,--and, after some minutes of silence, molly began to be tired. "i dare say you would rather talk without listeners," she remarked. "good! i will go into the next room, and see that no one interrupts you." without waiting for a reply, she suited the action to the word, and left the room for the one adjoining, by the closed door of which she placed herself as sentinel. but molly had forgotten the other door of the study, which led through a small vestibule out into the garden, and she was quite unconscious that through the garden veit gronau was just now approaching the house, leaving said and djelma to await him at the garden gate. ernst waltenberg had not returned to heilborn on the previous evening, although he had promised to meet his secretary there. early this morning a messenger from him had brought gronau the intelligence that he had taken up his abode for a few days in the little inn at oberstein, and that the two servants were to be sent to him with all that was necessary for his comfort. this had been done, and veit had accompanied them. driving up the steep mountain-road had been very difficult, wherefore all three had preferred to walk the last part of the way, leaving the vehicle to bring the luggage. the foot-path which thay pursued led directly past the doctor's garden. gronau walked up the little enclosure and opened the familiar back-door. his last interview with benno had been a stormy one,--he had bitterly reproached the young physician with his indifference,--and his kindly nature would not long allow him to cherish any unkind feeling. he came now partly to apologize, and partly in hope of finding the doctor more in sympathy with his wishes. as the nordheim carriage was standing before the front entrance of the house, he had no suspicion of the visit which benno was receiving, else he would have fled in dismay. meanwhile, frau gersdorf maintained her guard with unwearied, devotion,--a devotion all the more disinterested since the stout oaken door effectually deadened the voices of the pair she had left. their conversation, moreover, was far from what she had hoped would ensue. benno, after waiting in vain for alice to break the silence, said, gently,-- "and you really wished to come hither, fräulein nordheim,--really?" "yes, herr doctor," was the low, trembling reply. reinsfeld knew not what to think. lately alice's intercourse with him had been perfectly easy and familiar. true, since their last interview in the forest, her ease of manner had vanished, but that could not explain this alteration in her. she stood pale and trembling before him, seeming actually afraid of him, for she retreated timidly when he would have approached her. "you are afraid--of me?" he asked, reproachfully. she shook her head: "no, not of you, but of what i have to tell you. it is so terrible." reinsfeld was still puzzled for a moment, and then suddenly the truth flashed upon him. "good god! you do not know----?" he paused, for, for the first time, alice looked up at him with eyes filled with such misery, such despair, that all other reply was needless. he hastily went up to her and took her hand. "how could it be? who could have been so cruel, so dastardly, as to distress you with _that_?" "no one!" the girl said, with an evident effort, "by chance--i overheard a conversation between my father and herr gronau----" "you cannot believe i had any share in it!" benno hastily interposed. "i did all that i could to restrain gronau; i refused to give him my sanction." "i know it,--and for my sake!" "yes, for your sake, alice. what can you fear from me? there was no need that you should come hither to entreat my silence." "i did not come for that," alice said, softly. "i wanted to ask your pardon--your forgiveness for----" her voice was lost in a burst of sobs; suddenly she felt herself clasped in benno's arms. she was no longer wolfgang's betrothed; he was no traitor to his friend; he might for once clasp his love in his arms, while she wept convulsively upon his breast. just at this moment veit gronau opened the side-door, and paused in dismay upon the threshold. he would have been less amazed if the skies had fallen than he was by the sight that met his eyes. unfortunately, he did not possess frau gersdorf's diplomatic talent for noiselessly disappearing and pretending not to have observed anything; on the contrary, his surprise expressed itself in a long-drawn "a--h!" the lovers started in terror. alice in great confusion extricated herself from benno's embrace, and the doctor lost all his presence of mind, while the intruder maintained his stand upon the threshold, and in his dismay never thought of stirring. at last the young girl fled into the next room to molly, while benno, with a frown, approached his unbidden guest: "this is an unexpected visit, herr gronau, a surprise indeed." his tone was unusually sharp, but gronau did not seem to notice it. he entered the room, and, with an air of extreme satisfaction, said, "this is quite another affair,--quite another affair." "what of it?" benno exclaimed, impatiently; but veit tapped him cordially on the shoulder: "why did you not tell me this? now i understand why you would not accuse nordheim. you were quite right, quite right." "nor will i suffer any one else to do so," reinsfeld declared, his irritation only aggravated by gronau's genial tone. "i deny any one's right to meddle in my affairs; understand me, herr gronau." "i have no idea of doing anything of the kind," said gronau, quietly. "'tis well that i have said nothing to herr waltenberg as yet. of course the matter must be kept quiet among ourselves. you have been far wiser than i, herr doctor. how could you bear my scolding so patiently? i never gave you credit for such cleverness." "can you suppose me capable of sordid calculation?" benno exclaimed, angrily. "i love alice nordheim." "so i saw just now," veit observed, "and she seemed very willing. bravo! now we shall go to work with the herr president very differently. we shall say not a word about the stolen invention, but shall simply ask for his daughter's hand, and his millions will naturally follow it. 'tis a fact, benno, that you have shown a vast amount of cleverness. your arrangement of the matter would satisfy even your father in his grave." "that is your view," benno declared, sadly. "alice's and mine is very different. what you saw was only a farewell forever." at this intelligence, veit looked as if he had suddenly received a box on the ear. "farewell? forever? doctor, i verily believe you are out of your senses." the young physician was wont to be all patience and gentleness, but at this interference with his most sacred emotions he lost his temper so thoroughly that he tried to be rude. "herr gronau, let me reiterate my request that you will no longer meddle in my affairs. do you suppose that i can ever call by the name of father a man who so injured my father? you understand nothing of any refinement of sentiment." "no, i suppose not; but all the more do i comprehend what is practical, and this matter is as simple as possible. you possess a means of forcing nordheim to consent to your marriage with his daughter, whom you love. use it and marry her. anything else is nonsense, and that's an end of it!" "my opinion precisely," said a voice from the doorway, and frau gersdorf, having heard the last words, advanced into the room and took part with aplomb in the conversation. "herr gronau is perfectly right. the matter is as plain and simple as possible," she repeated. "all you have to do, benno, is to marry alice, and there's an end of it." poor reinsfeld thus assailed on both sides might well tremble for his 'refinement of sentiment.' he made up his mind to a final effort, and declared,-- "but i will not. i am the one, and the only one, to decide here!" "a pretty lover you are!" exclaimed gronau raising his hands to heaven in despair. molly, however, took a much more practical view of the case, and attacked benno's obstinacy from the other side. "benno!" she said, reproachfully, "there sits poor alice in the next room crying her very heart out. will you not try at least to comfort her?" this was perfectly successful. benno hesitated for a moment, but only for a moment, then he rushed into the next room. "there! he will not come back for some time," said molly, closing the door behind him. "now we can take the affair in hand, herr gronau." but this was too much for veit gronau's declared distrust of womankind. charming as was this new ally, her very presence reminded him of how false to his avowed principles he was in thus standing godfather to a love-affair. he suddenly remembered his attendant spirits still waiting at the garden gate, and with a hurried and awkward apology he took his leave, while frau gersdorf, with much self-satisfaction, seated herself in the doctor's study to await the close of the interview in the next room, and to reflect upon the vicissitudes that beset the path in life of a self-constituted guardian angel. chapter xxiii. a jealous lover. for three days there had been raging in the wolkenstein district a storm which even in this mountain-region was held to be unprecedented in violence. the keen blasts of november set in several weeks earlier this year and were unusual in their fury. in addition, the rain poured down day and night; in certain valleys there had been rain-spouts which had deluged the fields, and had so swollen streams and brooks that they had burst all bounds, overflowed their banks, and made travel impossible. communication with heilborn was interrupted, intercourse between neighbouring hamlets and villages was maintained with difficulty, and the danger increased from hour to hour. in the nordheim villa preparations had been made for a return to the capital, but any such intention had to be given up, since travel was not to be thought of in this weather. all regretted the impossibility, and longed to be gone, for the entire household was oppressed as by some gloomy spell. alice pleaded indisposition, and had not left her room for several days, availing herself of this pretext to avoid meeting her father, whom she had dreaded since their last interview; but the president's mind was filled with far other anxieties. he probably never noticed his child's avoidance of him, nor was he aware of the strained relations existing of late between erna and her betrothed. the good fortune which had befriended him hitherto during his life seemed all at once to be forsaking him; it was as if some hostile power were at work, frustrating all his efforts, confusing all his schemes, and confounding all his expectations. the boldly-conceived plan, the success of which was to gain him millions, was shattered, and its ruin came from a quarter whence he had never looked for it. the man whom he thought indissolubly bound to himself and to his interests withdrew from his plans at the decisive moment, and made their execution impossible. nordheim knew perfectly well that if the engineer-in-chief, his future son-in-law, refused to approve the estimates as they had been made out, it would be impossible to present them to the company. the scheme was naught since elmhorst refused his aid, opposing a frigid refusal to all efforts to persuade him. there had been a brief, stern interview between the two men, and it had set the seal upon their estrangement. then wolfgang had spent an hour with his betrothed. what had passed at this interview no one was told, not even the girl's father. alice, with unwonted decision, refused to speak of it, but the parting had surely not been unkindly, for when elmhorst left the house, not to enter it again, alice had waved him a farewell from the window more cordial than any she had ever vouchsafed him while they were betrothed, and he had responded with equal cordiality. nordheim was not a man to bear with equanimity the ruin of schemes which he had spent years in developing, and to his vexation on that score was added annoyance at gronau's threats, which he had at first underestimated. he regretted that he had not attempted at least to conciliate the former friend, whose restless energy he had been familiar with of old. it had been a mistake to make an enemy of him, a mistake which might have serious consequences. for the moment it was, however, all thrown into the background in view of a threatened loss which dwarfed all other anxiety in the president's mind. the mountain-railway, which should have been completed in a few days, was in great peril from the freshets. from all quarters came terrifying reports,--one piece of bad news followed another. the injury done was already serious; if the storm should continue and the water mount higher it might be incalculable, and nordheim was implicated pecuniarily to an extent which could not but be very grave even to a man of his vast wealth. erna and molly, whose departure had been perforce postponed, were in the drawing-room. the lawsuit which had brought gersdorf to heilborn had been decided by a compromise, the arrangement of which detained the lawyer a few days longer. his wife was at first delighted, for in her capacity of guardian angel she considered her presence in the nordheim household as absolutely necessary, although, to her great disappointment, she was obliged to admit that she had nothing here to protect. the engineer-in-chief had retired; his betrothal with alice was dissolved, as all the family now knew, and alice obstinately refused to open her heart to her friend. benno was just as impracticable, seeming to persist in his idea of a separation, and, worse than all, no human being required any advice or counsel from frau doctor gersdorf, who was naturally indignant at such base insensibility. "that is my reward for my philanthropy," she said, very much out of humour. "here i sit, as upon a desert island in the midst of the ocean, cut off from all the world, separated from my husband, in danger of being swept away at any moment by a deluge. albert may be obliged to rescue my corpse from the raging element and return to town an inconsolable widower. i wonder if he will marry again? it would be horrible. i should turn in my grave. but then men are capable of anything." erna, standing at the window looking out at the storm and rain, hardly heard this chatter; her thoughts were elsewhere. "we are not in any peril here, molly," she said at last. "the house is perfectly safe, standing as high as it does, but i am afraid matters look serious in oberstein and on the railway." "oh, the engineer-in-chief will take care of that," molly declared, confidently. "we hear from all sides of his heroic conduct, how he accomplishes the impossible. we never did this elmhorst justice. he released alice although he resigned millions by so doing, and now he is exerting himself to the utmost to preserve the railway for your uncle, although they separated in anger. confess, erna, that you were prejudiced against him." "yes--i was," erna replied, softly. "there comes your betrothed!" exclaimed molly, joining erna at the window. "how odd he looks! the water is actually pouring from his waterproof; he has ridden over from oberstein in this storm. i think he would really go through fire and water for one hour with you. but marriage puts an end to all that, my child; trust the experience of a wife of four months. my lord and master sits calmly with his manuscript in heilborn and waits until the weather is clear enough to come to me. your romantic ernst appears, indeed, to be made of different stuff. but what is the matter with him? for three days he has been glooming about like a thunder-cloud, never taking his eyes off you when you are in the room. it is positively terrible to see you together. nothing will persuade me that there has not something occurred between you. do be frank with me, erna; open your heart to me. i am as silent as the grave." she clasped her hands upon her breast in asseveration of her trustworthiness, but erna, instead of throwing herself into her arms and confessing, returned the greeting of her betrothed as he alighted from his horse, and then said, evasively, "you are quite mistaken, molly; nothing has happened,--nothing at all." frau gersdorf turned away provoked: no one seemed in the least need of a guardian angel; these people had a very stupid way of managing their affairs themselves. the little lady could not understand it, and she rustled out of the room decidedly out of humour. scarcely was she gone when waltenberg entered. he had laid aside his hat and cloak, but nevertheless his dress showed traces of the storm, against which no cloak was a protection. he greeted his betrothed with his usual chivalric courtesy, but there was something chilling in his air which was strangely contradicted by the glow in his dark eyes. molly was right: he was indeed like some thunder-cloud, whose depths threaten ominously. erna went to meet him in evident embarrassment; she had learned to dread this icy calm. "well, how is all going on outside?" she said. "you come directly from oberstein?" "yes, but i had to take a roundabout way, for the mountain-road is under water. oberstein itself looks tolerably secure, but the villagers have entirely lost their heads, and are running about bewailing themselves incessantly. dr. reinsfeld is doing all that he can to bring them to reason, and gronau is giving him all possible support, but the people are behaving like lunatics because they think their paltry belongings are in peril. "those paltry belongings, however, are all that they have in the world," the girl interposed. "their own lives and those of their families depend upon them." ernst shrugged his shoulders indifferently: "i suppose so; but what is that in comparison with the tremendous loss sustained by the railway? as i entered the house just now tidings of fresh disasters were brought to the president. nothing but ill news from all quarters. everything seems to be imperilled." "but they are working away desperately; can it be entirely in vain?" "yes, the engineer-in-chief is waging desperate warfare against the elements," ernst said, with a kind of savage satisfaction. "he is defending his beloved creation to the death, but against such catastrophes no mortal power avails. the water is steadily rising, the dikes are giving way, and the bridges on the lower portion of the road are already carried off. all nature seems in revolt." erna was silent. she went again to the window, and looked out into the mist, which made any distant view impossible. even the stretch of railway in the vicinity of the villa was invisible, while the roaring of the waters was distinctly audible. below there wolfgang was doing battle at the head of his men, fighting, perhaps, in vain. "the wolkenstein bridge stands firm, at all events," waltenberg continued. "herr elmhorst ought to be satisfied with that, and not expose himself so foolishly, as he does at every opportunity. he is no coward, it must be admitted, but it is folly to risk his life to save every dike that is threatened. he does wonders at the head of his engineers and labourers, who follow his lead blindly. they had better take care, or he will drag them with him to destruction." there was a cold, calculating cruelty in his way of speaking to his betrothed of the peril threatening the life of the man whom he knew she loved. she turned and gave him a sad, reproachful glance: "ernst!" "beg pardon?" he asked, without heeding her glance. "why do you avoid the frank explanation which i have so often tried to give you? do you not wish for it?" "no, i do not desire it. let us be silent about it." "because you know that your silence torments me more than any reproaches, and because it gives you pleasure to torment me." the girl's eyes flashed, but her passionate outbreak was met with icy coolness: "how you misapprehend me! i wish to spare you a painful explanation." "and why? i do not feel guilty. i will neither deny nor conceal anything----" "no more than you did at our betrothal!" he interposed, severely. "you were very frank then--about everything save the name. you intentionally left me in error,--an error for which i was originally accountable." "i feared----" "for him--of course! i perfectly understand that. but reassure yourself. i am not particular as to time; i can wait." erna shuddered at his strange, significant words: "wait--for what? for god's sake tell me what you mean!" his smile was cold and cruel as he replied, "how timid you have grown! you used to be braver; but in fact there is one thing which can inspire you with absolutely senseless terror, as i have seen." "and for this one thing you force me to do penance daily! it is an ignoble revenge, ernst. i will refuse you no answer, no confession, that you ask for: only tell me, have you spoken with wolfgang elmhorst since that day?" a full minute passed before ernst replied, during which he studied her every feature intently. "yes," he said slowly, at last. "and what passed between you?" her voice trembled with suppressed anxiety, though she tried hard to control it. "excuse me, that is a matter between herr elmhorst and myself. but you need not distress yourself: i found herr elmhorst quite ready to forestall my wishes, and we parted, understanding each other perfectly." he emphasized every word ironically, and his irony drove erna to the last extremity. hitherto she had mutely endured everything lest she should irritate him still more against wolfgang. she knew that he would fain be revenged upon him; but now, thoroughly roused, she said, indignantly, "take care, ernst; do not go too far. you may repent it. i am not yet your wife; i can still release myself----" she did not finish her sentence, for waltenberg's grasp upon her wrist was like steel, as he muttered, "try it; the day that you sever the tie between us is the last of his life." erna grew pale: his face told her more than his threat. now that he had dropped the mask of coolness and irony there was in his expression something tiger-like, and the evil fire in his eyes made her shudder. she knew he would suit his deeds to his words. "you are horrible!" she said, below her breath. "i--submit!" "i knew it," he said, with a laugh. "my arguments are convincing." he slowly released her hand, for molly, having got over her fit of the sulks, entered the room, curious to know how all was faring in oberstein, what her cousin benno was doing, and how it looked along the railway; she had, as usual, a thousand questions to ask. waltenberg replied courteously; he had instantly recovered his self-possession, and one would never have suspected the tiger-like nature that he had betrayed a moment before. "if it would give you pleasure, and you are not afraid of the rain, we might ride down," he said, after a detailed description of the freshet. "pleasure!" cried molly, who with all her waywardness was truly tender-hearted. "how can you use the word in view of such misery?" "true," ernst replied, with a shrug, "a single man can avail nothing; but i assure you the spectacle is extremely interesting." erna uttered no word of reproof, but this utter selfishness inspired her with horror. down below there, hundreds were expending their utmost force to preserve a bold creation upon which they had laboured for years; enormous sums of money were at stake, and, moreover, the poor mountaineers were threatened with the loss of their little all. ernst had not one word of compassion or of sympathy in view of this calamity; he regarded it all as a very interesting spectacle, and if he experienced any other sensation, it was satisfaction that the work of his enemy was menaced with ruin. and this man would force her to spend an entire, long life at his side; she must belong to him body and soul; and should she rebel and try to break the chain which she had almost involuntarily allowed to be thrown around her in a moment of surprise, he threatened her with the death of him whom she loved, and thus disarmed her. he had found a menace before which all defiance, all opposition, vanished. the president's voice was heard in the next room giving orders in an agitated tone, and the next moment he appeared, very pale, and evidently retaining his composure only by a great effort. according to the latest intelligence, the worst was to be apprehended; he wanted to go down himself and see how matters stood with the railway. waltenberg immediately declared his intention of accompanying him; and, turning to his betrothed, he asked, as quietly as if nothing special had passed between them, "will you not come too, erna? we shall ride to those places that are in the greatest peril. i know you are not afraid." erna hesitated for a few seconds, and then hastily consented. she must see what was going on; she could not wait and watch here, looking out into the driving mist which veiled everything, and only hearing reports from the scene of disaster. they were going to the places in the greatest peril; wolfgang would be there. she should at least see him! molly, who did not understand how any one could venture out in such weather, looked after them, shaking her head, as they rode away. even the president was on horseback, for in the present condition of the roads the mountain conveyances were quite useless; the stout mountain-ponies had much ado to get over the ground through the thick mud. the little party rode on in oppressive silence; now and then waltenberg made a brief remark, which was scarcely heeded. they took their way first to the wolkenstein bridge. chapter xxiv. the avalanche. the wolkenstein had shrouded its crest more closely than ever: heavy clouds were encamped about its peak and floated around its cliffs; wild glacial torrents were rushing down from its ice-fields, and blasts of wind raged over it day and night. the alpine fay was extending her sceptre over her domain; the savage queen of the mountains was revealed in all her terrific might, in all her terrible majesty. the autumnal tempests had often been disastrous: more than once they had brought freshets and avalanches; many a village, many a lonely mountain-range, had suffered; but such a catastrophe as this had not occurred in the memory of man. strangely enough, the hamlets were comparatively spared; the storms and floods threatened the railway, which, following the course of the stream, traversed the entire wolkenstein district, and with its myriad bridges and structures offered many a point for attack. the engineer-in-chief had, with his accustomed foresight and energy, adopted precautionary measures from the first. the entire force of labourers was called out to protect the railway; the engineers were at their posts day and night. elmhorst seemed to be everywhere at once. he flew from one threatened spot to another, exhorting, commanding, inspiring courage, and exposing himself recklessly to danger. his example fired the rest: all that mortal energy could do was done; but human strength is vain in a conflict with the unfettered elements. for three days and nights the rain had been pouring in torrents; the countless veins of water, wont to trickle harmlessly and in silver clearness from the heights, rushed in cataracts down into the valley; the brooks were swollen rivers, breaking through the forests, and tearing away with them huge rocks and uprooted pines, all hurrying towards the mountain-stream, whose waters steadily rose, and dashed their foaming, tumbling waves against the railway-dikes. they could no longer resist the savage onslaught, and at last they were flooded here and torn down there,--the wet, soggy ground gave way everywhere and carried with it woodwork and masonry. the bridges too could no longer resist; one after another succumbed to the assault of the waves, the force of which it was vain to try to stem. in consequence of the pouring rain, both ground and rock gave way; one of the stations was entirely destroyed, and the others were much injured. the raging wind increased tenfold all danger and the difficulty for the labourers. had the engineer-in-chief not been at their head, the people must have given up in despair, and have merely looked on at the destruction they thought themselves powerless to prevent. but wolfgang elmhorst fought the battle to the bitter end. step by step, as he had once conquered this domain, he now defended it. he would not succumb, would not give over his work to ruin; but whilst he was thus putting forth all the energies of his nature in saving it from destruction there rang in his ears incessantly the last words of old baron von thurgau: 'have a care of our mountains, lest, when you are so arrogantly interfering with them, they rush down upon you and shatter all your bridges and structures like reeds. i should like to stand by and see the accursed work a heap of ruins!' the gloomy prophecy seemed near its fulfilment, after all these years. forests and rocks had been penetrated, streams turned aside, and the spacious mountain-realm bound in the iron fetters that were to make it subservient to human purposes. men had boasted that they had subdued and chained the alpine fay, and now just as their work was drawing to a close she had arisen from her cloudy throne and angrily protested. she was descending in storm and destruction, and before her breath all the proud structures of man's devising were crumbling to ruin. no courage, no energy, no desperate struggle, availed; the savage elemental force hurled to destruction in the space of a few days all that which it had cost human ingenuity years of toil to effect, laughing to scorn those who had dreamed of subduing it. the wolkenstein bridge, it is true, stood secure and firm when everything else was being swept away. even the white, seething foam tossed aloft by the dashing river did not reach it, suspended as it was at a dizzy height above the abyss. and all the blasts of heaven raged in vain against the iron ribs of the huge structure. it rested upon its rocky foundations, as if built to bid defiance to destruction for all eternity. the station which served as a temporary habitation for the engineer-in-chief had since the beginning of the storm been the head-quarters where all reports were received and whence all orders were issued. this portion of the railway had been hitherto thought secure, for at this place it crossed one of the narrow, deep valleys, passed over the wolkenstein bridge, and then on the lofty steep cliffs turned again to the mountain-river, which just here made a large curve. the freshet which was so destructive to the lower stretch of railway could not reach this upper portion. but now glacial torrents had broken loose from the wolkenstein, and the masses of mud and fragments of rock which they brought with them extended even to the bridge. the danger here must have been imminent, for elmhorst himself was on the spot directing the labourers. in the prevailing confusion and hurry the arrival of the president and his companions was hardly noticed; one or two of the engineers, however, came towards them and confirmed the latest reports. in spite of the storm, the work went on with feverish persistence, crowds of labourers were busy near the bridge and also near the station, while the rain poured down in torrents and the wind howled so fiercely that it was often impossible to hear the shouted directions of the engineers. nordheim alighted from his horse and approached elmhorst, who left his post and came to meet him. both had believed that the interview in which the tie between them had been dissolved would be a final one, but they now saw and talked with each other daily, scarcely conscious, in the magnitude of the disaster that had befallen the railway, of any embarrassment in their relations. they knew best what there was to lose here, and a community of interest still united them closely. "you are here on the upper stretch?" the president asked, anxiously. "and the lower----" "must be given up!" wolfgang completed the sentence. "it was impossible to secure it any longer. the dikes are broken through, the bridges carried away. i have left only a few of the men to protect the stations, and have concentrated all my available force here. we must control these cataracts at all hazards." nordheim's uncertain glance sought first the bridge, and then the station, where a number of men were busy: "what are they doing there? you are having the house cleared out?"' "i am having the books and papers, the plans and drawings, carried to a place of security, for there is danger of an avalanche from the wolkenstein; we have had one or two warnings." "that too!" the president muttered, in despair; then, turning suddenly, as a thought struck him, "good god! you do not think the bridge----?" "no," said wolfgang, drawing a deep breath. "the enclosed forest protects the abyss, and the bridge with it; no avalanche can break that down. i foresaw and provided for this danger when i planned it." "it would be fearful," nordheim groaned. "the injury even now is incalculable. should the bridge go all is lost!" the frown on elmhorst's brow deepened at this outburst of despair. "control yourself!" he said, in a low tone, but with emphasis. "we are observed; every one is looking at us. we must set an example of courage and hope, or the people will lose heart." "hope!" the president repeated, catching at the word as a drowning man clutches a straw. "have you really any hope?" "no; but i shall fight to the last." nordheim looked the speaker in the face. his pale, stern features gave no hint of the tempest raging within, and yet for him everything was at stake. after the fading of his dreams of wealth and power, his work was all that was left to him upon which to build a future if he lived, and to be at least his enduring monument if he should fall by waltenberg's hand. it was now imperilled. and yet he stood erect and struggled on, while the president was the image of impotent despair. what did he care if others observed his hopelessness? what was it to him that an example of courage was expected from a man in his position? he thought only of the gigantic losses which the catastrophe would cause him,--losses which might ruin him. "i must return to my post," said wolfgang. "if you stay, choose carefully the spot where you stand. stones and earth are continually sliding down: we have had several accidents already." he turned again towards the bridge, and then first noticed that nordheim had not come alone. for a moment he paused, and his glance sought erna. he divined what had brought her hither; he knew that she feared for him, but he made no attempt to approach her, for at her side was the man to whom she belonged, who, mute and inexorable as fate itself, considered her absolutely his property. waltenberg marked the anxious glance of distress which followed wolfgang as he returned to his men and took up his stand on a threatened dam, and, as if by accident, he put his hand upon the bridle of the other horse and held it fast. suddenly behind the pair gronau's tall figure appeared; muddy and drenched, but entirely at his ease, he slowly approached. "here we are," he said, with a bow. "we come directly from oberstein, but we swam rather than walked." "we?" asked ernst. "is dr. reinsfeld with you?" "yes; we succeeded at last in bringing the obersteiners to their senses and in convincing them that their home was not in danger this time. it was a hard piece of work, and we were scarcely through with it when a messenger arrived from the engineer-in-chief to ask the doctor to come and see after some men who had been accidentally injured. the good doctor, of course, ran his fastest, and i ran too, for i thought another pair of stout arms might not come amiss, and it was well i did so. i have established myself in the house there as hospital nurse, and have just come for an instant to let you know i am here, for my hands are quite full." "there have been accidents, then. i hope nothing serious?" erna asked, eagerly. gronau shrugged his shoulders; "one of the men was carried away by a cataract and fished out in a mangled condition; the doctor is afraid he cannot pull him through; and another was struck on the head by a fragment of falling rock; his case too is serious; the others are only slightly injured." "if dr. reinsfeld needs help i am ready to do all i can," the young girl declared, turning her horse as if to go to the house grouau had pointed out. "thanks, fräulein von thurgau, we can get along very well by ourselves," veit replied, while waltenberg looked at his betrothed in surprise. "what, erna, you? there are others to do that work. gronau is helping the doctor. why so superfluously heroic?" "because i cannot endure to stand idly and unsympathetically by while every one else is toiling to the very death!" there was a stern reproof in her words, but ernst did not seem to understand it: "no, you certainly are not unsympathetic, you are actually trembling with emotion," he observed. "but, in fact, the men are using their utmost exertions in spite of the danger that continually threatens them." "because the engineer-in-chief is always foremost in peril," veit continued the sentence. "if he were not everywhere, showing them an example of scorn of all danger, they would waver and hesitate; but such a leader inspires even the timid. there he stands in the very centre of that dam which the water may carry away at any moment, and issues his orders as if he could control the entire mountain-realm. for three days now he has been battling with this accursed alpine fiend, who seems positively mad with fury, and i verily believe he will get the upper hand of her. but i must go back to the doctor. good-bye." he went, and the president, who just then returned to his companions, saw him as he vanished within-doors. he shuddered involuntarily; the appearance of this man was one more evil omen,--it reminded him that a danger menaced him which had nothing to do with the present peril, already terrible enough. his short conversation with wolfgang had deprived nordheim of the last gleam of hope. if the upper stretch of railway were destroyed, what would remain of all the buildings, the erection of which had absorbed millions, and which he could not possibly restore? he had from the beginning owned the chief part of the railway stock, and of late, in view of the enormous profit he hoped to gain upon his retirement, he had greatly increased the number of his shares, so that the tremendous loss would be his almost alone. he knew that his property, invested in many other speculations, could not stand such a blow, and if gronau should make good his threat and accuse him publicly, all was lost. the millionaire secure in his position might perhaps have defied him, the half-ruined speculator would be overwhelmed; nordheim knew the world in which he had lived so long. neither his energy nor his presence of mind stood him in stead now. the man who had for so long been the spoiled darling of fortune, for whom everything had turned to gain, could not understand how she could suddenly prove thus false to him. he had always been a bold, clever man of business, but he had no force of character; in misfortune he was pitiably cast down. in dull, dumb despair he stood gazing at the men, at whose head the engineer-in-chief had again placed himself. wolfgang seemed to be everywhere; one moment he was standing on the most imperilled part of the dam, anon he breasted the tempest in the centre of the bridge, and then he hurried to the station-house to issue his orders thence. he was dripping from head to foot,--the water was trickling from his hair, from his clothes; he did not seem to feel it, or to be in need of either rest or refreshment, and yet nothing but the most fearful tension of mind and body sustained him in the conflict which had now been going on for three times four-and-twenty hours. these were hours when wolfgang elmhorst might have forced even his bitterest enemies to respect and admire him. and his mortal enemy was thus forced, but none the less did his hatred and jealousy burn fiercely. waltenberg was familiar with danger,--he had often invoked it and dallied with it recklessly,--but there was something far beyond dalliance in the unconquerable energy with which elmhorst thus devoted himself to duty. he knew that his was a forlorn hope; half of his work was already destroyed, he could not save the rest, and yet he worked on, seeming determined to die rather than yield. and as he thus struggled, ernst waltenberg on horseback looked on at 'the very interesting spectacle,' but was conscious of the part he had condemned himself to play. he had invited erna to ride with him to the scene of disaster; the same calculating cruelty which had tormented her by silence had dictated the proposal. he knew she would accede to it, since it would give her an opportunity to see wolfgang again, and she should see him in the midst of the danger to which he so recklessly exposed himself, she should tremble in mortal distress, and yet never betray by a change of feature the anguish of her soul. elmhorst was right: this man's love was mere selfishness. what was it to him that the woman he loved was tortured and in agony, if but his savage thirst for revenge were allayed? erna should suffer as he suffered; he would be as pitiless to her as fate had been to himself. but he underestimated the fearless nature of his betrothed when he thought that she would merely tremble at this danger. her eyes were indeed riveted on wolfgang in breathless anxiety, but they flashed with passionate admiration, with proud satisfaction, on beholding how he bore himself in the conflict, how he gazed into the terrible countenance of the alpine fay and strove with her to the death. in this mortal struggle he was for her all hero, her whole soul went out to meet him. every shadow which had formerly obscured his image in her heart was dispersed in this light; he stood before her, as he had confronted nordheim, free from all shackles in the triumph of his own true nature. ernst was thus obliged to feel the shaft which he had shot so cruelly rebound upon himself. he had meant to show erna the danger of the man whom she loved; he had shown her only his heroism. to be sure, he stood guard over her, determined to prevent a meeting, but he could not prevent the mute language of their eyes, the glances that sought and found each other in spite of distance and separation, of tempest and destruction, and in this language they told each other everything. wolfgang felt that at this moment the barriers which his wooing of alice had erected between himself and his love were levelled, and in the midst of the hopelessness of his efforts there gleamed upon him a ray of light, like the gleam of sunset indeed, but all-inspiring. it seemed in fact as if the success of the work of salvation depended upon the presence of this man. the most dangerous of the torrents which rushed wildly against the railway-dike had been successfully turned aside, elmhorst having diverted its course to a deep cut in the rocks, whence it fell harmlessly into the wolkenstein abyss, carrying with it the masses of earth and stones which had been so destructive. the most imminent danger was averted, and for the moment the tempest seemed to subside. the rain ceased, the wind became less violent, and it began to look brighter about the wolkenstein. there was a few minutes' pause in the work. the president and waltenberg, who also had alighted, walked along the bridge, where some of the workmen were gathered, to observe the diverted torrent foaming in the abyss. everything looked more hopeful. the engineer-in-chief, however, stood on one side apart from the rest. he did not hear the cheerful exclamations of the men, but, leaning forward, seemed to listen intently to a sound muttering on high through the air, like the distant roll of thunder; his eyes were fixed upon the crest of the wolkenstein, and suddenly his face took on a death-like pallor. "away from the bridge!" he shouted to the rest. "save yourselves! run for your lives!" his last words were drowned in a dull rumble that grew to a crash as of thunder, but his cry of warning had been heard. the people scattered hastily; they felt the approach of something terrible,--there was no time to understand what it was; they deserted the bridge as quickly as possible. nordheim and waltenberg were carried away by the rush, and the former reached firm land, but ernst stumbled and fell while yet on the bridge. past him and over him the others ran wildly; in the selfishness of mortal terror every one thought only of his own safety, while waltenberg, stunned by his fall, lay on the ground quite unable to rise for the space of a minute, when seconds were precious. suddenly he felt a strong arm grasp him and lift him from the ground, then bear him onward, to release him only when the stout trunk of a tree was reached, around which he could clasp his own arms to hold himself upright. then came the wind, howling and roaring like a hurricane,--a blast to which all that had gone before during the last three days had been but as the sighing of a breeze,--and everything in its path was prostrated or carried away. this was the herald of the alpine sprite, preparing a way for her; and now she herself descended from her cloud-veiled throne. a roar as of a thousand peals of thunder filled the air, echoing from every height, from every abyss, as if the entire mountain-realm were crashing to fragments; the rocks seemed to tremble, the earth to rock, as this terrible something, white and phantom-like, thundered past. it lasted for a minute, and then there was silence,--a silence as of death. the avalanche had torn its way from the peak of the mountain directly into the abyss, and destruction marked its course. the extensive, protecting, enclosed forest at the foot of the cliffs had vanished, and where it had stood there was a desolate, dreary waste. the course of the stream was blockaded; the chasm was half filled with jagged masses of ice, from among which projected trunks of trees and huge fragments of stone, and where the bridge had thrown its bold arch from rock to rock now yawned sheer emptiness. two of the huge shafts were still standing, the rest were partly or entirely torn down, and about them hung some of the iron ribs, bent and snapped like reeds; all the rest lay below in the abyss. she had avenged herself, the savage alpine fay. crushed and splintered at her feet lay the proud creation of man. chapter xxv. not all despair. a scene of indescribable confusion followed upon the catastrophe. at first no one fully grasped what had occurred, and when at last it became clear, all rushed to the rescue. the warning shout of the engineer-in-chief had indeed averted the worst,--at the instant of its destruction no one had been upon the bridge; but some of the men lay senseless, thrown to the ground by the concussion of the air, others had been more or less injured by flying stones and bits of ice; no one, however, at first seemed mortally hurt, and all who were able were intent upon aid. there were shouts and cries, and a running to and fro in wild confusion. very few preserved their presence of mind, and these few could not make themselves heard. one group, however, assembled about a severely wounded man, was quiet enough, and in a few moments this group became a centre of attraction. engineers and workmen crowded around with faces of dismay, a whisper ran from lip to lip, "the president? nordheim himself? for god's sake bring the doctor!" it was indeed president nordheim who lay here bleeding and unconscious. he had reached what he thought a place of safety, when one of the heavy iron stanchions of the bridge, torn from its place, had felled him to the earth. erna and waltenberg were busied about him, and all were doing what they could to restore him to consciousness, when the circle opened to admit the engineer-in-chief and dr. reinsfeld. benno was rather paler than usual, but perfectly calm, as he knelt down and began to examine the injury. the pain of this examination seemed to rouse nordheim; with a groan he opened his eyes, and gazed into the countenance of the man bending over him. he did not recognize him, but probably fancied he saw his early friend, whom the son closely resembled, for with an unmistakable expression of horror and a convulsive movement he tried to rise and to push aside the helping hand. with another agonized groan he sank back, the blood gushing from his mouth. the by-standers observed only the signs of physical pain. benno alone divined the truth; he bent still lower, and as he gently put his hand beneath the sufferer's head he said, softly, "do not reject my help. it is given you freely, from my heart!" nordheim was unable to speak, and the effort he had made exhausted him; again he became unconscious. the young physician examined with all possible gentleness the injury in the breast, and then turned with a very grave face to waltenberg and elmhorst. "you have no hope?" the latter asked, in an undertone. "no, nothing can avail here. we must try to get him home; he may reach the house alive if he is carried with extreme caution. fräulein von thurgau, will you kindly go first and prepare his daughter, that the shock may not be too great? we must not conceal from her that her father is dying; he cannot possibly live until to-morrow." then he gave the necessary directions. a litter was hastily constructed, and the wounded man was laid upon it with infinite care. stout arms were ready to aid, and the sad procession slowly took its way towards the villa. erna preceded it, and reinsfeld, promising to follow immediately, turned his attention to the other wounded men who required his skill, although none of them were mortally injured. "waltenberg too stayed behind. he paused, hesitating and seeming engaged in an inward struggle, but when he saw the engineer-in-chief walk towards the wolkenstein chasm he followed, and overtook him. "herr elmhorst!" wolfgang turned; his face was unnaturally calm, and there was a hard ring in his voice as he said, "you come to remind me of my promise? i am at your service at any hour; my duties are at an end." ernst had entertained no such intention; he made a gesture of dissent: "i think neither of us is in the mood to pursue our quarrel at present. i am sure that you, at least, are not fit for it." elmhorst passed his hand across his brow; now when the terrible tension of his nerves had relaxed he first perceived how utterly exhausted he was. "you are probably right," he said, with the same rigid, unnatural look. "it comes from overwork. i have not slept for three nights; but a couple of hours' rest will restore me entirely, and, as i said, i am at your service." ernst silently gazed into the face of the man who had just lost his all; this forced calm did not mislead him. a reply was upon his lips, but he suppressed it, and his glance wandered to the spot where he had been thrown down in his flight. just there one of the columns had fallen, and the iron part of it was buried deep in the earth. there he would have lain crushed and mangled but for the hand which had rescued him from destruction; perhaps he was not as unconscious as he seemed of whose the hand was. "i must go and see how the president is," he said, hurriedly. "dr. reinsfeld has promised to stay with us to-night, and we will send you word of what happens." "thanks," said wolfgang, seeming both to hear and to speak merely mechanically: his thoughts were elsewhere; and when waltenberg turned away, he slowly walked on to the place where the wolkenstein bridge had stood. the night that ensued was a terrible one for the family and household at the villa. its master lay struggling with death, which seemed slow to come in the midst of such agony. incapable of motion or of speech, but entirely conscious, he knew that the son of the former friend whom he had deceived and betrayed, condemning him to a life of poverty and hardship, while he himself enjoyed wealth and distinction as the fruits of his treachery, was unwearied in his efforts to minister to him, to soothe the death-bed from which he could not dismiss the dark messenger. nothing could be more ready and unselfish than the aid afforded by benno, and this very forgetfulness of self awakened the dying man's most pungent remorse. face to face with death falsehood and deceit vanished, truth alone showed its inexorable countenance, and the effect was annihilating. the agonized struggle lasted, it is true, but for a single night, but in that time were compressed the torture of a lifetime and the penance of a lifetime. when day at last dawned in mist and clouds, struggle and agony were at an end, and it was benno reinsfeld's hand that closed the dying man's eyes. then he gently raised from her knees alice, who was sobbing beside her father's body, and led her away. he spoke no word of love or hope to her,--it would have seemed like desecration to him in such a moment,--but the way in which he put his arm around her and supported her showed plainly that he now claimed his right, and that nothing could part them more. he never could have been a son to the man who had so wronged his father, but that would now be spared him if alice should become his wife; the wealth also which had been the fruit of treachery had mainly vanished. all barriers between the lovers had fallen. erna also, when all was over, retired to her room. alice did not need her: she had a better comforter beside her. the girl sat pale and worn at the window, looking out into the gray, misty morning. alien as her uncle had seemed to her, harshly as she had often judged him, the suffering of his last hours had obliterated every thought of him in her mind save that it was her mother's brother who lay dying. her thoughts now, however, were not with the dead, but with the living, with him who was perhaps standing in the dim dawn beside the ruins of his work. she knew what it had been to him, and felt the blow with him. erna would have given her life to be able to stand beside him now with words of consolation and encouragement, and instead she must know him alone in his despair. she paid no heed to griff, who had crept up to her and laid his head in her lap with sorrowful sympathy in his brown eyes; she gazed out fixedly into the rolling mist. the door opened softly; waltenberg entered and slowly approached his betrothed, who, sunk in a revery, did not perceive him until he stood beside her and uttered her name. when waltenberg thus addressed her she started with an involuntary expression of terror and dislike, which did not escape him; his smile was bitterly sad. "are you so afraid of me? you must endure the intrusion, however, for i have something to say to you." "now? at this moment, when death has just crossed our threshold?" "precisely now; if i wait i may--lose courage to speak." the words sounded so strange that erna looked up, surprised. her eyes encountered his, but did not find there the gleam which had so terrified her of late. in his dark look there glowed somewhat which was neither all love nor all hatred,--perhaps a combination of both,--she could not tell. "go on, then," she said, wearily. "i will listen." he paused and looked fixedly at her, and at last said, with slow emphasis, "i come to bid you farewell." "you are going? now, before my uncle has been laid to rest?" "yes,--and never to return! you mistake me, erna. this is no farewell for days or weeks; it means that we are parting forever." "parting?" the girl looked at him incredulously, only half comprehending his words; they came upon her too suddenly for her to grasp all their meaning. "you evidently have no belief in my magnanimity," ernst said, harshly. "it is true that yesterday i could more easily have annihilated you both, you and your wolfgang, than have given you back your troth. that is over. he has taught me how to subdue an enemy. do you think i do not know whose hand it was that snatched me from a terrible death yesterday? without its aid i should have been crushed at the entrance of the bridge. you saw it,--i know that,--and will only the more worship your hero, whom you watched yesterday with an enthusiasm that transfigured you. this deed of his exalts him to an ideal hero in your eyes. what am i in them?" "yes, i saw it," erna said, looking down, "but i did not think you recognized him, stunned as you were, and in the general confusion." "a mortal enemy is always recognized, even while he is saving one's life. i tried to thank him yesterday, just after the catastrophe, but i could not bring my lips to frame words of gratitude to that man; they would have choked me. let him hear them from you. tell him that i revoke my challenge, and that i release him from his promise, as i release you from yours. now we are quits,--more than quits: i give him what is tenfold dearer to me than the life he saved for me." erna had grown very pale in the certainty of what she had long suspected: "you challenged him? that was the meaning of your interview?" "do you suppose that i could have borne to know him happy in your arms?" waltenberg asked. "but for what happened yesterday i would have shot him down like a dog; and he promised to be at my service as soon as the wolkenstein bridge was completed. fate has released him from his promise." the bitterness in his tone no longer affected erna; she heard only the anguish in his voice, felt only what the renunciation was costing his passionate nature. in gentle entreaty she laid her hand upon his arm: "ernst, trust me, i know the full extent of the sacrifice you are making for me. you have loved me intensely----" "yes, and i was fool enough to fancy that passion such as mine _must_ force you to love in return. i thought that if i carried you to another quarter of the globe, and put an ocean between you and wolfgang elmhorst, you would learn to forget, and to turn to the husband beside you. i have learned my error. i never could have torn that love from your heart; if i had killed him you would have loved him dead. now, in his misery, your whole soul flies out to him. go to him. i am no longer in your way. you are free!" "let us go together," erna entreated, earnestly. "offer him your hand in amity; you can, for you are now the generous one, the benefactor. it is you whom we have to thank." he thrust aside her hand: "no, i never will meet that man again. if i should see him i could not answer for myself, all the fiends within me would break loose once more. you cannot dream what it has cost me to conjure them down; let them rest." erna did not venture to repeat her request; she comprehended that so passionate a nature might renounce, but could not forgive. she bowed her head in mute acquiescence. "farewell!" said ernst, still in the harsh, hostile tone which had characterized him throughout the interview. "forget me. it will be easy at his side." she looked up to him; her eyes filled with tears: "i never shall forget you, ernst, never! but i shall always remember sadly that you left me in bitterness and hatred." "in hatred?" he exclaimed, with an outburst of passion, and suddenly erna felt herself clasped in his arms, pressed to his heart, while his kisses were rained upon her hair, her brow, with the same wild intensity of tenderness which she had so dreaded and which had always failed to arouse in her the least return of his affection. this time there was in his caress something of the madness of despair. he tore himself away and was gone. the short, stormy dream of the love of his life was over forever! meanwhile, the day had fairly appeared. the rain had ceased in the night, and the wind was not so violent,--the wild uproar of nature had begun to subside. the work of the previous day still went on, however, although, since the wolkenstein bridge was gone, there was little more to save. this last blow had been the heaviest, although the entire railway had been incalculably injured; very few of the numerous bridges and structures were not in need of repairs, and, in view of the general destruction, the completion of the undertaking seemed impossible. its author lay dead in his house, and the intended transfer of the railway to the company was of course impossible. how and when, if ever, others would come forward to carry out his schemes time alone could show. such were probably the thoughts occurring to the mind of the man standing alone on the brink of the wolkenstein chasm and gazing down at the ruin below him. the autumn morning was very cold; in the valleys and depths wreaths of gray mist were curling, long trains of clouds hovered about the mountains, and a gloomy sky looked down upon the wet, sodden earth, which bore melancholy traces of the turmoil of the previous day. uprooted and broken trees, fragments of rock, mud, and heaps of stones were everywhere to be seen, and in many a spot the traces could be perceived of the gallant struggle of man in his fight with the elements. the roar of the cataract was not so threatening as it had been, but it still filled the air as the water dashed from the height, and the wind had not yet left the dripping storm-tossed forests in peace. in the wolkenstein chasm alone there was a silence as of the grave. a gigantic glacier seemed to rest in its depths, its rigid whiteness broken by a chaotic mass of rock and earth. the avalanche which had begun on the crest of the wolkenstein must have increased fearfully on its way, for it had prostrated the entire enclosed forest, hitherto regarded as a sure protection; pines a century old had been snapped like straws and had dragged with them into the abyss a portion of the mountain-side. and then the entire mass of ice and snow, of rocks and trunks of trees, its force augmented tenfold by the velocity of its fall, had hurled itself against the bridge and crushed it. no human structure could withstand such an onslaught. it was some consolation to know this, but wolfgang elmhorst seemed to find no comfort in such reflections. he gazed dully down into the icy grave where all his schemes and hopes were lying, perhaps never to rise again. in the beginning, when the railway had first been planned, there had been objections made to the wolkenstein bridge because of the cost of its erection. it had been proposed to avoid the chasm and to carry the line of railway by another less expensive but roundabout road. nordheim, however, who was attracted by the boldness of the scheme, contrived to overbear all opposition and to have his own way. in future there could be no thought, since economy would be especially necessary, of rebuilding the bridge, which, moreover, must be condemned as impossible, since it had fallen a prey to the elements just when it was about to astonish and delight all who beheld it, and to bring reputation and fame to its deviser. suddenly a large, lion-like dog came careering over the sodden ground, testifying by huge leaps to his delight at being released from his long confinement in-doors. he paused close beside elmhorst, and began, after his custom with the engineer-in-chief, to show his teeth, when for the first time his show of dislike was arrested,--something else attracted his attention. wise dog that he was, he perceived what had occurred. he grew restless, stretched his head far over the edge of the abyss, then looked towards the other side, finally turning his intelligent dark eyes upon the engineer-in-chief as if to ask what it all meant. hitherto wolfgang had preserved his composure, at least externally, but he broke down at the dog's mute inquiry. he covered his eyes with his hand, and a tear, the first he had shed since boyhood, rolled down his cheek. on a sudden he heard his name uttered in a voice not unfamiliar to him, but in a tone such as had never before fallen upon his ear: "wolfgang!" he turned, dashed aside the treacherous witness from his cheek, and, entirely self-possessed once more, approached the slender figure, enveloped in a dark wrap, and standing at a little distance, as though afraid to venture nearer. "you here, erna? after the terrible night that you have passed?" "yes, it was terrible!" the girl said, with a deep-drawn sigh. "you have heard that my uncle is dead?" "i heard it two hours ago. i no longer had the right to watch beside his death-bed; moreover, the sight of me would only have distressed him, so i kept away. how does alice bear it?" "for the moment she seems stunned, but dr. reinsfeld is with her." "then she will recover from the blow. they love each other, and with the one who is loved best in the world beside you even the worst trials can be borne." erna made no reply, but she slowly approached and stood beside him. he looked at her, and his sad face grew still darker: "i know why you are here. you would fain speak some word of sympathy, of consolation to me. but why? your dying father's curse has borne fruit: the destruction of the ancestral home of the thurgaus is avenged, and i think even the freiherr would be content." "can you really attach such importance to words which were the result of anger,--of the agitation preceding a sudden death?" erna asked, reproachfully. "since when have you been superstitious?" "since faith in my own power has lain buried there. leave me to myself, erna. what comfort can i take in the sympathy which you offer as an alms, to express which you must have stolen secretly away, and for which you may have to suffer from herr waltenberg's reproaches? i need no sympathy, not even from you." in the irritability of misery he turned away and looked up at the wolkenstein, the crest of which loomed white and shadowy through the clouds. it alone seemed striving to unveil, while a thick mist obscured all the surrounding mountain-tops. "i do not come secretly, nor to offer you an alms," erna said, in a voice which she tried vainly to steady. "ernst knows that i have come to you, and he sends a message by me." "ernst waltenberg--to me?" "to you, wolfgang! he bids me tell you that he releases you from your promise, and recalls his challenge." elmhorst frowned darkly, as he rejoined, "has he told _you_ of all that? very considerate on his part! such matters are generally discussed among men exclusively. but, although i accepted his conditions, i do not accept his magnanimity,--least of all at present." "and yet you first set him the example of magnanimity. no need to deny it. he knows as well as i do whose hand snatched him from destruction on this very spot." "i leave no one to die if it is in my power to save his life, even if he be my worst enemy," wolfgang said, coldly. "at such moments one obeys the instincts of humanity, never stopping to consider, and i refuse to accept his gratitude. i pray you say this to herr waltenberg, since he has chosen you, fräulein von thurgau, for his messenger." "can you really treat his messenger thus harshly?" the girl's voice was low and gentle and her large dark-blue eyes were strangely bright as she looked at the man who could no longer control the anguish of his soul. "why torture me with such looks and tones?" he cried, passionately. "you belong to another----" "whom you misunderstand as i did. i know now how immense is the sacrifice he makes for me, for i know how great was his love for me, when, with this love in his heart, he could give me back my freedom and bid me farewell forever." wolfgang, half stunned at the unexpected announcement, could only be conscious that through the black night of his hopeless despair a dazzling ray of light was darting, heralding the dawn of new life and energy. "you are free, erna?" he broke forth. "and now--now you come----" "to you. it is so heavy a burden,--this misery that you are bearing alone. i claim my share." the words were spoken with earnest simplicity, as if they were mere words of course; but elmhorst changed colour and his look was downcast. he was undergoing a hard struggle with his pride, which felt such devotion at such a moment to be a humiliation. "no, no, not yet!" he murmured, with an attempt to turn away. "let me recover my courage,--my self-possession. i cannot accept your sacrifice. it weighs me down to the earth." "wolf!"--the old pet name of his boyhood, which he had heard from none save benno since that time, came soft and low from the girl's lips,--"wolf, you need me most now! you need a love to encourage and nerve you; never heed the promptings of false pride. you once asked me if i could have stayed beside you on the lonely, rough path leading to success. i come to bring you your answer. you shall not pursue it alone; i will stay beside you through struggle and labour, through hardship and peril. if you have lost faith in your power and your future, i believe in them most firmly. i believe wholly in you!" she looked up at him with a beaming, triumphant smile. all his hesitation vanished: he opened his arms and clasped his love to his heart. griff meanwhile looked on at this development of affairs in extreme amazement and evident dissatisfaction. he did not quite comprehend it all, but thus much was clear,--he must give up all thoughts in future of growling and showing his teeth at the engineer-in-chief, who was holding his young mistress in his arms and kissing her, and griff was much annoyed. he preferred meanwhile to maintain an expectant attitude, and so he lay down and kept a constant watch upon the pair. the mists were still floating about the wolkenstein, but its peak was every minute emerging more clearly. it did not now unveil as in the dreamy moonlight of the mysteriously lovely midsummer-eve; it stood forth white, icy, and phantom-like; above it the heavens heavy with rain, about it storm and clouds, and at its feet the desolation which itself had wrought. and yet from that very desolation there had sprung forth the purest, truest happiness,--happiness grown to life amid tempests and storms. wolfgang released his love from his embrace and stood erect, all trace of despair vanished from his face and figure. it had come back to him,--the joy which he had thought flown forever, and with it had returned the old courage, the old inexhaustible energy. "you are right, my darling!" he exclaimed. "i will not doubt, nor hesitate. i will conquer her yet, that evil force up there. she has destroyed my work. i will create it afresh!" chapter xxvi. the kiss of the alpine fay. the nordheim villa was silent and deserted. the president's remains had been transported to the capital and buried thence, and the entire household had removed thither. the engineer-in-chief also was in the capital, to consult with the company which was part owner of the railway, and to arrange the affairs of the deceased president,--a difficult task, which he had voluntarily undertaken, being justified in the eyes of the world in so doing, since the dissolution of his betrothal to alice had not yet been made public. the time given to mourning must pass before any such announcement could be made, and then alice would no longer need his aid. at present it was above all desirable to avert the gossip and curiosity sure to ensue upon the catastrophe which had caused the president's sudden death, and which had greatly diminished his wealth. a strong arm was needed to save what remained. ernst waltenberg was still in heilborn. since the day when he had bidden farewell to his betrothed he had held aloof from the wolkenstein district, but something appeared to retain him in its vicinity. the late autumn had set in with unusual severity, and the popular watering-place was, of course, quite empty but for the foreign gentleman, with his secretary and servants, who did not as yet talk of departure. veit gronau was pacing to and fro the drawing-room of the comfortable cottage which waltenberg occupied, his face filled with anxiety, and glancing from time to time towards the closed door of the next room,--ernst's study. "if i could only tell what to make of it all!" he muttered. "he locks himself in there day after day, and it is a week now since he set foot in the open air; he who for years has passed two or three hours in the saddle daily. if i could but get at reinsfeld; but with his usual conscientiousness he has gone to neuenfeld, and will not leave it until his first term of office has expired, when it is to be hoped a successor will have been provided for the post. there will surely be enough of the nordheim millions left to insure him an easy existence when he marries his betrothed, and he would have been far wiser to remain near her now. here you are at last, said. what does herr waltenberg say?" "the master begs herr gronau to dine without him," the negro replied. "this will never do!" exclaimed veit; but as he walked towards the door of the next room with some vague intention of forcing it, it opened, and waltenberg himself appeared. "you here yet, gronau?" he said, with a slight frown. "i begged you to dine without me." "i am like yourself, herr waltenberg. i have no appetite." "then, said, have the table cleared. go!" said obeyed, but gronau, although he saw plainly that he too was dismissed, obstinately maintained his post. ernst had gone to the window, whence there was an extended view of the distant range of mountains. during the entire week that had elapsed since the avalanche had occurred the weather had not cleared; it had been dull and stormy, and the mountains, day after day, were veiled. to-day, for the first time, they showed themselves clearly. "it is clearing up--at last!" ernst said, more to himself than to his companion, who shook his head dubiously. "it will not last long. fine weather never does when the outlines of the mountains are so distinct and the crests seem so near." ernst did not at once reply,--he stood gazing steadily at the blue distance; but after two or three minutes he said, "i want to drive to oberstein to-morrow; order the carriage, if you please." gronau looked at him, surprised: "to oberstein? do you intend making an excursion?" "yes; i wish to ascend the wolkenstein." "you mean to the cliffs." "no, to the summit." "now? at this season? it is impossible, herr waltenberg. you know the summit has always been inaccessible." "that is the very reason why it attracts me. i have stayed on here to make the ascent, but i could do nothing in the weather we have had. get me a couple of competent guides----" "there are none such to be had for the ascent you speak of," gronau gravely interrupted him. "why not? because of that old nurse's tale? offer the men a large sum of money; 'tis a sure cure for superstition." "possibly; but it might well fail here, for the old nurse's tale has a background of indubitable reality, as we have seen. the avalanche and the ruin it wrought are too fresh in the memory of the mountaineers." "yes, it wrought ruin indeed," ernst said, dreamily, still gazing towards the mountains. "and therefore let the wolkenstein alone for the present," veit entreated. "this clearing up of the skies is not going to last, i assure you. we cannot undertake the feat now." ernst shrugged his shoulders: "i did not ask you to go with me. stay at home if you are afraid, gronau." veit's brown face showed irritation, but he controlled himself: "we have surely shared enough of adventure together, herr waltenberg, to set your mind at rest with regard to my timidity. i will go with you to the extent of what is possible; you, i fear, mean to go farther, and your mood is not one to enable you to encounter danger coolly." "you are mistaken; my mood is excellent, and i ara going to make this ascent, with or without guides; if needs must i will go alone." gronau was familiar with this tone, and knew that there was nothing to be done in opposition to it; nevertheless he made one last attempt. he supposed that there would be an outbreak, but he determined to speak: "remember your promise. you promised baroness thurgau to avoid the wolkenstein." ernst started: his change of colour, the flash of menace in his eyes, betrayed how he suffered by the touch upon his bleeding wound; but in a moment he had shrouded himself in a frigid composure that forbade all further discussion. "the circumstances under which i made that promise no longer exist. moreover, i must entreat that all allusion to them in my presence be avoided for the future." he went to his room, turning upon the threshold to say, "at eight o'clock to-morrow morning you will have the carriage ready for a drive to oberstein." * * * * * upon a snow-field in face of the peak of the wolkenstein a small group of bold mountain-climbers were assembled, who had undertaken the ascent, and had actually accomplished the greater part of it,--the two guides, muscular, weather-beaten mountaineers, and veit gronau. they were provided with ropes, axes, and every accessory of a mountain-ascent, and were evidently taking a prolonged rest here. they had left oberstein on the previous day and had climbed to the borders of the limitless waste of rocks, where was a hut, in which they had taken shelter for the night, and then with the first dawn of morning they had attacked the cliff hitherto pronounced inaccessible. with persistent pains, with indescribable exertions, and with reckless contempt of the danger that threatened them at every step, they had scaled it. it had been ascended for the first time! this consciousness, however, was the only reward of their success, for the weather, which had hitherto been tolerably clear, had changed within an hour or two. thick mist filled the valleys, obscuring the outlook, and the crests only of the surrounding mountains were visible. the peak of the wolkenstein, itself a mighty pyramid of ice rising sheer above them, was gradually disappearing. gronau's field-glass was directed steadily to this pyramid, and the two guides exchanged a few monosyllabic remarks, while their grave faces showed their anxiety. "i can see nothing more," said veit, at last, taking the glass from his eyes. "the peak is veiled in mist; nothing can be distinguished any longer." "that mist is snow," said one of the guides, an elderly man with grizzled hair. "i told the gentleman it was coming, but he would not listen to me." "yes, it was madness to attempt the ascent under such circumstances," gronau muttered. "i should have thought we had done enough in surmounting this cliff. it was a terrific piece of climbing; few will ever venture to follow us, and it never has been done before." meanwhile, the younger guide had kept a sharp lookout in all directions; he now approached and said, "we can wait no longer, herr; we must return." "without herr waltenberg? upon no account!" gronau declared. the man shrugged his shoulders: "only as far as the snow-barrow, where we can find shelter beneath the rocks, if it comes to the worst. up here we could never stand against the snow, and we must descend the worst part of the cliff before it comes, or not one of us will get down alive. we agreed to wait for the gentleman at the snow-barrow." such had, in fact, been the agreement when waltenberg separated from the party. the guides who had been prevailed upon to undertake the expedition by the offer of three times their usual fee had brought the two strangers successfully to the top of the cliff. here they had positively refused to go farther, not because their courage failed them,--the summit lying directly before them was probably less dangerous to climb than the steep, almost perpendicular cliff they had already scaled,--but the experienced mountaineers well knew what those grayish-white clouds foreboded which were beginning to assemble, at first as light as hovering mist. they begged for an immediate return, and gronau seconded their entreaties, but in vain. ernst saw directly before him the summit he had so longed to attain, and no warning, no entreaty, availed to alter his determination to proceed. he insisted upon the completion of his daring attempt with all the obstinacy of a nature that held cheaply his own life, as well as the lives of others. the threatening skies did not move him, and the refusal of the guides to accompany him only roused his antagonism. with a sneer at their caution when the goal was all but attained he left them. gronau had kept his word; he had gone with him to the extent of what was possible, but when that was reached, when the risk was madness,--a provoking of fate,--he had remained behind, and yet he was regretting that he had done so. the climber had been visible for a while as he toiled upward, until near the summit all trace of him through the field-glass had been lost, because of the mists which gathered quickly and heavily. "we must go down," the elder guide said, resolutely. "if the gentleman comes back he will find us beside the snow-barrow. we shall do him no good by staying here, and we risk our lives by losing time." gronau saw the justice of the man's words, and shut up his glass with a sigh. * * * * * the wavering masses of mist grew thicker and darker; they floated upward from all the valleys, sailed forth from every cleft, and veiled forests and peaks in their damp mantle. the precipices of the wolkenstein, the sheer gigantic stretch of its rocky walls, vanished in the rolling fog,--the ice-pyramid of its peak alone stood forth clear and distinct. and aloft upon this summit stood the man who had persisted and had accomplished what had been deemed impossible. his dress bore traces of his fearful toil, his hands were bleeding from the jagged points of ice by which he had held to swing himself up, but he stood where no human foot save his own had ever trod. he had dared to ascend the cloudy throne of the alpine fay, to lift her veil and to look the sovereign of this icy realm in the face. and her face was beautiful! but its beauty was wild and phantom-like: there was in it no trace of earth, and it dazzled with a painful splendour the eyes of the undaunted adventurer. around him and below him was naught save ice and snow,--rigid white glaciers riven and billowy but gleaming with fairylike brilliancy. the crevasses gave back here the greenish hue of spring and there the deep blue of ocean, and the dazzling white of the jagged, snow-covered crests reflected a thousand prismatic dyes, while above it all arched a sky of such clear azure that it was as if it would fain pour forth all its fulness of light upon the old legendary throne of the mountains, the crystal palace of the alpine fay. ernst drew deep, long breaths: for the first time in many days the weight that had so burdened his spirit vanished; the world, with its loves and hates, its struggles and conflicts, lay far below him; it disappeared in the misty sea that filled the valleys and buried beneath it meadows and forest and the habitations of men. the mountain-peaks alone emerged, like islands in a measureless ocean. here appeared a couple of dark crests of rock, there a peak of dazzling snow, and there a distant range. but they all looked unreal, bodiless, floating and sailing upon the flood which heaved and undulated as it slowly rose higher and higher. over it brooded the silence of death: life was extinct in this realm of eternal ice. and yet a warm, passionate human heart was throbbing in this waste, fain to flee from the world and its woe, seeking forgetfulness here, but bringing its woe with it. so long as danger strained every nerve, so long as there was a goal to be attained, the haunting misery of his soul had been stilled. the old magic draught which ernst had so often quaffed had not lost its charm; danger and enjoyment indissolubly linked, the spell of magnificent nature, and the unfettered freedom again his own, were all-powerful to stir him. again he felt the intoxicating force of the draught, and in the midst of this icy waste he was seized with a burning longing for those lands of sunshine and light where only he had been truly at home. there he could forget and recover,--there he could again live and be happy. the misty sea rose higher and higher; slowly, noiselessly, but steadily, one peak after another vanished beneath the gray, mysterious flood, which, like a deluge, swallowed up everything belonging to earth. the ice-pyramid of the wolkenstein alone still stood forth, but its gleaming splendour had vanished with the vanished sunlight. the solitary dreamer suddenly shuddered as if from the chill of an icy breath. he looked up; the blue above him had faded: he saw only white mist, which began to veil everything near at hand. ernst had been abundantly warned by the guides: he knew this sign; with danger the tension of his nerves returned; it was high time to retrace his steps. he began the descent, slowly, cautiously, testing every step as he had done in climbing up, but the mist barred his way everywhere and chilled him to the bone. nevertheless, he pursued his downward path steadily, the traces of his ascent in the snow guiding him; at last, however, he was forced to search for them, and more than once he lost them. the effects of his over-exertion began also to assert themselves. his breath came short and in gasps, the moisture stood out upon his forehead, and his sight grew uncertain. conscious of this, he roused himself to greater efforts. he had challenged the danger, he would not succumb to it, the old nurse's tale should not come true, and his force of will was again victorious. he traversed the terrible path for the second time, and panting, gasping, half frozen, half dead from fatigue, he finally reached the foot of the pyramid, and stood upon the glacier summit of the cliff. the hardest part of his task was over. true, there was still the sheer descent of the cliff to achieve, but steps had been hewn in the ice by the ascending party, and ropes had been left at the worst places to help in the descent. ernst knew that he should find these aids; in spite of the fog, they would guide him to the snow-barrow, where his companions awaited him. then forth from the mist it hovered white and glistening, like fluttering veils softly touching cheek and brow in a gentle caress,--the snow had begun to fall. and in a few minutes the caressing touch was transformed to an oppressive, stifling embrace which it was vain to try to escape. ernst staggered forward, then turned back, but the icy arms were everywhere: they robbed him of breath and froze the blood in his veins. one short, desperate struggle, and they held him in an indissoluble clasp,--he sank on the ground. but with the struggle the distress too ceased. how delicious to fall asleep thus, so mortally weary that dream and reality mingled and melted into each other! again he was standing on the summit in the sunlight, beholding the palace of ice in all its enchanted splendour, and gazing into the unveiled countenance of the alpine fay, whose pallid beauty no mortal might look upon and live. yet her face was not that of a stranger. he knew those features, and the fathomless blue of the eyes that beamed and smiled upon him as never before. the image of the woman whom he had loved so wildly, so inexpressibly, did not leave him even upon the threshold of death, but stole softly upon the last gleams of his consciousness. then the sea of mist slowly rose higher and higher until all else was overwhelmed; the beloved face alone still showed faint and dreamlike through the gray veil, till finally it too faded, and the dreamer was borne onward by this sea of mist stretching endless and shoreless out into the immeasurable distance,--on into eternity. chapter xxvii. midsummer eve again. almost three years had passed since the terrible avalanche wrought such ruin, and glorious sunshine made glad the hearts of the mountaineers on the day preceding midsummer-eve,--the day of the festival celebrating throughout the wolkenstein district the opening of the new mountain-railway. all the villages on the line of travel, now promoted to the dignity of railway-stations, were gaily decked with green wreaths and fluttering flags, and crowds of mountaineers in their sunday costumes had come from far and near among the mountains to behold with curiosity and wonder the arrival of the first train. the iron road, at last completed, was to bring prosperity to their secluded valleys. at first, when the terrible catastrophe still struck terror to the minds of all who heard of it, there had been a doubt as to whether the upper stretch of the railway, that passing through the wolkenstein district, could ever be completed. consultations with the company had gone on for months, until finally the energy and persistence of the engineer-in-chief had been victorious: the work had been taken up once more, and it was now happily concluded. station oberstein, situated near the village itself, at the end of the wolkenstein bridge, was especially conspicuous in its decorations. the train, bringing the engineer-in-chief and his wife, with the directors of the road, and a number of invited guests, was to make a stop here, and a particularly grand reception had been devised. the crowds from the country around were greater here than elsewhere, and cannon were to be fired from a neighbouring height. in the midst of the gay multitude veit gronau's tall figure was conspicuous. he looked more tanned and weather-beaten than ever, but otherwise was unchanged. ernst waltenberg had provided generously in his will for his former secretary; he was free to live as he chose, but the old love of a wandering life had driven him forth into the world again, and after nearly three years' of absence he had returned for another glimpse of his european home. "and so dr. reinsfeld is to give a grand dinner in his villa to the directors," he said to himself, as he stood on the railway-platform looking out for the train. "i am really curious to see how my good benno conducts himself as a millionaire. probably he is quite uncomfortable; but he will have to get used to it, for gersdorf wrote to me that a million had been rescued out of the wreck of nordheim's colossal fortune." "there it comes!" the shout interrupted his reflections; the crowd pressed forward eagerly and stretched their necks to see the first train, which came gliding from the depths upon the narrow iron road. it vanished for a few moments in the tunnel below oberstein, and then, appearing once more, rolled smoothly onward, the smoke from the gaily-decorated locomotive floating backward like a pennon. anon it thundered over the bridge, and was greeted at the oberstein station by a burst of music, by loud shouts of welcome, and by the cannon-shots from the height, wakening the echoes from all the mountains around. the train was emptied at the station, but almost half an hour elapsed before the party could drive to the villa, for first of all the glory of the road, the wolkenstein bridge, had to be inspected. the bold, gigantic structure had arisen from ruin; as proudly as before it spanned the chasm from rock to rock. below it in the giddy depths rushed the stream with all its old impetuosity, and above it the wolkenstein reared its mighty crest aloft, wearing to-day a light crown of clouds. but upon the declivity, where before had stood the enclosed forest, there was now a broad, solid wall of masonry, a sure protection against any repetition of the former disaster. the engineer-in-chief, with his young wife on his arm, acted as guide to the inspecting party. of course he was the hero of the day, and was overwhelmed on all sides by congratulations and expressions of admiration. he received them gravely, seeming but little elated by them. erna, on the other hand, was beaming with happiness and gratified pride; her eyes sparkled as she listened to all that was said to her husband, and she had a kindly word and a friendly greeting for all who pressed forward to welcome her. the pair were obliged to do the honours of the new road without the aid of dr. reinsfeld, who, as husband of the late president's heiress, was a very important personage on this occasion, but quite averse to performing his duties as such. he no longer wore the antique coat and saffron-coloured gloves in which he had made acquaintance with the invalid alice; his attire was faultless, but nevertheless it was easy to see that his task for the day was held by him to be very difficult of performance. he confined himself to bowing and shaking hands, keeping as much as possible in the background, when suddenly a familiar voice accosted him: "does dr. reinsfeld do me the honour to remember me?" "veit gronau!" exclaimed the doctor, delightedly, offering his hand. "then you received our invitation in time. but why did you not let us know you had arrived, so that you might have come in the train with us?" "i came by the way of heilborn, and was just in time to receive you. i congratulate you, benno, upon your share in this occasion." "yes,--a dinner for eighty people," sighed benno. "wolfgang thought it would be suitable for me to give a dinner to the party, and when wolf takes a thing into his head one had best submit." "he certainly was right this time," gronau said, laughing. "as principal stockholder and director of the company you were bound to do something for the opening of the railway." "if i only did not have to talk to everybody!" the poor doctor lamented. "and worse than all, i ought, he says, to make an after-dinner speech. i cannot. wolfgang built the railway, let him make the speeches. he did, to be sure, speak to-day before we set out, and it was charming; every one was delighted,--his wife most of all. does she not look exquisitely lovely?" veit nodded, but his face grew grave as he looked across at erna. that beauty had driven another man to his death; ernst waltenberg would have given his hope of heaven for such a look as she was bestowing upon her husband at that moment. gronau turned from such thoughts to ask after the health of frau reinsfeld. "oh, alice is as blooming as a rose, and you must see our daughter." benno's face glowed as he spoke of his wife and child. "you knew of----" "of your little one? yes, you wrote me. i suppose you confine your practice entirely to your family now?" "on the contrary, i have more patients than ever," the doctor declared. "when we are here in summer of course i attend all my old friends; and since i can now supply the poorer ones with all that they need----" "why, of course the honest wolkensteiners continue to work you to death," gronau finished the sentence. "but i must no longer detain you from your guests." "oh, stay; pray stay!" benno exclaimed, with a comical look of alarm. "i am so comfortable here in the corner with you, and if you go i shall be obliged to talk to some of these celebrities, to whom i positively have nothing whatever to say." gronau laughed and stayed, but it was of no avail. gersdorf, with frau molly upon his arm, made his appearance, and elmhorst came hurrying towards them to carry off the luckless host, since the distinguished party were getting into the carriages to drive to the villa, where alice was waiting to receive them. she was still a delicate creature in appearance, although in perfect health, and she had never lost a certain maidenly shyness of manner which was her great charm. the dignity of the household was admirably maintained by frau von lasberg, who had never left her former pupil. the entertainment to-day left nothing to be desired. poor benno finally made his speech; of course he all but broke down in it, but it was fortunately just at the end, and wolfgang at the critical moment signed to the musicians to strike up. an hour afterwards the guests departed, conducted to the station by elmhorst and his wife, who were, however, to return to pass several days with reinsfeld and alice at the villa. benno betook himself to the nursery, where the young mother was seated beside the cradle of their little daughter. he carried in his hand a bunch of alpine roses: "it is midsummer-eve, alice; i had to bring you the wonted bouquet." "did you really remember it in all the confusion of the day?" the young mother asked, with a smile. one never forgets a prophecy of happiness, least of all when it has been fulfilled. he handed her the flowers with,-- "do not refuse it,-- our offering of flowers, and midsummer's blessings fall on you in showers." * * * * * evening had fallen when the engineer-in-chief and his wife stood on the platform of the oberstein station, watching the departing train as it vanished in the tunnel beyond the bridge. "i have sent away the carriage, erna," said wolfgang. "i thought we would walk back, the evening is so fine, and we have not been alone once before to-day." "and what a delightful day it has been!" said erna, as she put her arm through her husband's. "only you were so grave, wolf, in the midst of your triumph, and you are so still." he smiled, but his voice was grave as he replied, "i could not but remember how dearly the triumph has been bought, as only you and i can know. you have been my sole confidante, my only refuge, inspiring me with courage and ability when all sorts of petty intrigue nearly drove me insane. if you had not been beside me i could not have persevered." "yes, nothing could have been more trying for a nature like yours than to be so thwarted and harassed on all sides as you have been; but you have come off conqueror at last." "and benno has been such a help in placing everything in my hands as soon as he was alice's husband. i never can forget it of him." "but he owes you more than he can repay," erna interposed. "think of how you worked for alice after my uncle's death. they owe it to you that they are still wealthy." as she spoke, the departed train, having passed through the tunnel, was visible like a black thread winding among the distant mountains, which softly echoed back the whistle of the locomotive through the quiet evening air. wolfgang paused and drew a deep breath: "now she is quelled, the evil force above there. she has given me trouble enough. look, erna, the last clouds are floating off from the throne of your alpine fay. she seems to unveil completely only on midsummer-eve." a shadow passed across erna's happy face, and there were tears in her eyes as she said, looking up at the wolkenstein, "one other conquered her, but he had to pay with his life the price of his victory." "rather of a foolhardy attempt that could benefit no one." elmhorst's voice sounded harsh. "he risked his life, and found what he sought. can you never forget him, erna?" she shook her head: "do not be unjust. wolf, nor jealous of the dead. you know well whom i have always loved. but it is impossible for you with your practical energy of character to comprehend a nature like ernst's." "possibly; we were too diametrically antagonistic to be just to each other. but no more of him to-day, erna; your memory and your thoughts to-day belong to me. the first height is surmounted; with the completion of the wolkenstein railway a sure foundation is laid for my future. but the path was a difficult one." "and yet it was delightful, in spite of cliffs and chasms," erna declared. "was i not right, wolf? it is so fine to ascend from below, to feel your strength increase with every step onward, with every obstacle overcome, and at last to stand above on the height, conscious of victory, as you are now!" "and with my best beloved beside me," elmhorst added, with passionate tenderness. "you came to me in the darkest hour of my life, when everything about me was crumbling to ruin, and with you my lost fortune returned to me. now i can hold it fast and pursue my way to loftier goals." the night fell slowly, the sacred old midsummer night with its breath of mystery. it was not filled as on that other night with dreamy moonlight, but a clear starlit sky arched above the mountains, which began to glow here and there with the beacon-fires,--the largest, as of old, kindled upon the slope of the wolkenstein. it flashed abroad over the realm of the alpine fay,--her conquered realm, into which human will had broken a pathway in spite of all her terrors, and in which it had come off victorious in a strife with the blind fury of the elements. the work was finished,--the iron road wound secure among the mountains, the huge bridge spanned the dizzy chasm, and the wolkenstein, unveiled, looked down upon it all. one brilliant star gleamed just above its peak upon the brow of the alpine fay. footnote: [footnote : "cloud-stone."] the end.