Thursday, July 7. Weather still celestial, as yesterday. But lo, these
frail tabernacles betray their earthliness. H. remarked at breakfast
that all the "tired" of yesterday was piled up into to-day. And S.
actually pleaded inability, and determined to remain at the hotel.
However, the Mer de Glace must be seen; so, at seven William, Georgy,
H., and I, set off. When about half way or more up the mountain we
crossed the track of the avalanches, a strip or trail, which looks
from beneath like a mower's swath through a field of tall grass. It is
a clean path, about fifty rods wide, without trees, with few rocks,
smooth and steep, and with a bottom of ice covered with gravel.
"Hurrah, William," said I, "let's have an avalanche!"
"Agreed," said he; "there's a big rock."
"Monsieur le Guide, Monsieur le Guide!" I shouted, "stop a moment. H.,
stop; we want you to see our avalanche."
"No," cried H., "I will not. Here you ask me to stop, right on the
edge of this precipice, to see you roll down a stone!"
So, on she ambled. Meanwhile William and I were already on foot, and
our mules were led on by the guide's daughter, a pretty little lass of
ten or twelve, who accompanied us in the capacity of mule driver.
We found several stones of inferior size, and sent them plunging down.
At last, however, we found one that weighed some two tons, which
happened to lie so that, by loosening the earth before and under it
with our alpenstocks, we were able to dislodge it. Slowly,
reluctantly, as if conscious of the awful race it was about to take,
the huge mass trembled, slid, poised, and, with a crunch and a groan,
went over. At the first plunge it acquired a heavy revolving motion,
and was soon whirling and dashing down, bounding into the air with
prodigious leaps, and cutting a white and flashing path into the icy
way. Then first I began to realize the awful height at which we stood
above the plain. Tracts, which looked as though we could almost step
across them, were reached by this terrible stone, moving with
frightful velocity; and bound after bound, plunge after plunge it
made, and we held our breath to see each tract lengthen out, as if
seconds grew into minutes, inches into rods; and still the mass moved
on, and the microscopic way lengthened out, till at last a curve hid
its further progress from our view.
What other cliffs we might have toppled over the muse refuses to tell;
for our faithful guide returned to say that it was not quite safe;
that there were always shepherds and flocks in the valley, and that
they might be injured. So we remounted, and soon overtook H. at a
fountain, sketching a pine tree of special physiognomy.
"Ah," said I, "H., how foolish you were! You don't know what a sight
you have lost."
"Yes," said she, "all C. thinks mountains are made for is to roll
stones down."
"And all H. thinks trees made for," said I, "is to have ugly pictures
made of them."
"Ay," she replied, "you wanted me to stand on the very verge of the
precipice, and see two foolish boys roll down stones, and perhaps make
an avalanche of themselves! Now, you know, C., I could not spare you;
first, because I have not learned French enough yet; and next, because
I don't know how to make change."
"Add to that," said I, "the damages to the _bergers_ and flocks."
"Yes," she added; "no doubt when we get back to the inn we shall have
a bill sent in, 'H. B. S. to A. B., Dr., to one shepherd and six
cows, - fr.'"
And so we chatted along until we reached the _auberge_, and,
after resting a few moments, descended into the frozen sea.
Here a scene opened upon us never to be forgotten. From the distant
gorge of the everlasting Alpine ranges issued forth an ocean tide, in
wild and dashing commotion, just as we have seen the waves upon the
broad Atlantic, but all motionless as chaos when smitten by the mace
of Death; and yet, not motionless! This denser medium, this motionless
mass, is never at rest. This flood moves as it seems to move; these
waves are actually uplifting out of the abyss as they seem to lift;
the only difference is in the time of motion, the rate of change.
These prodigious blocks of granite, thirty or forty feet long and
twenty feet thick, which float on this grim sea of ice, _do
float_, and are _drifting_, drifting down to the valley below,
where, in a few days, they must arrive.
We walked these valleys, ascended these hills, leaped across chasms,
threw stones down the _crevasses_, plunged our alpenstocks into
the deep baths of green water, and philosophized and poetized till we
were tired. Then we returned to the _auberge_, and rode down the
zigzag to our hotel.
LETTER XXXIV.
MY DEAR: -
The Mer de Glace is exactly opposite to La Flegere, where we were
yesterday, and is reached by the ascent of what is called Montanvert,
or Green Mountain. The path is much worse than the other, and in some
places makes one's nerves twinge, especially that from which C.
projected his avalanche. Just think of his wanting to stop me on the
edge of a little shelf over that frightful chasm, and take away the
guide from the head of my mule to help him get up avalanches!
I warn you, if ever you visit the Alps, that a travelling companion
who has not the slightest idea what fear is will give you many a
commotion. For instance, this Mer de Glace is traversed every where by
_crevasses_ in the ice, which go to - nobody knows where, down
into the under world - great, gaping, blue-green mouths of Hades; and
C. must needs jump across them, and climb down into them, to the
mingled delight and apprehension of the guide, who, after
conscientiously shouting out a reproof, would say to me, in a lower
tone, "Ah, he's the man to climb Mont Blanc; he would do well for
that!"
The fact is, nothing would suit our guides better, this clear, bright
weather, than to make up a party for the top of Mont Blanc.
