MONT BLANC AND THE VALLEY OF CHAMONIX.
MONT BLANC AND THE VALLEY OF CHAMONIX.
“That is fine,” said Ruth, “I had forgotten, indeed I never knew that Kant was such a poet.”
“Speaking of poetry,” said I, “did you know that Coleridge, who wrote the ‘Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Chamouni,’ had never seen Chamonix or Mont Blanc in his life? Being a poet, he did not need to see with his actual eyes. Moreover he had a model in Frederika Brunn’s ‘Chamouni at Sunrise,’ which runs with a rhythm reminding me of some of Richard Wagner’s verses. Do you remember her poem?”
“No, but it is in a note to Coleridge’s.”
“Please read it.”
“‘Aus tiefen Schatten des schweigenden Tannenhains,Erblick’ ich bebend dich, Scheitel der Ewigkeit,Blendender Gipfel, von dessen HöheAhnend mein Geist ins Unendliche schwebet.“‘Wer senkte den Pfeiler in der Erde Schoss,Der, seit Jahrtausenden, fest deine Masse stützt?Wer türmte hoch in des Aethers WölbungMächtig und kühn dein umstrahltes Antlitz?“‘Wer goss Euch hoch aus der ewigen Winters Reich?O Zackenströme, mit Donnergetös’ herab?Und wer gebietet laut mit der Allmacht Stimme:‘Hier sollen ruhen die starrenden Wogen?’“‘Wer zeichnet dort dem Morgensterne die Bahn?Wer kränzt mit Blüten des ewigen Frostes Saum?Wem tönt in schrecklichen Harmonieen,Wilder Arveiron, dein Wogengetümmel?“‘Jehovah! Jehovah! kracht’s im berstenden Eis;Lavinendonner rollen’s die Kluft hinab:Jehovah rauscht’s in den hellen Wipfeln,Flüstert’s an rieselnden Silberbächen.’
“‘Aus tiefen Schatten des schweigenden Tannenhains,Erblick’ ich bebend dich, Scheitel der Ewigkeit,Blendender Gipfel, von dessen HöheAhnend mein Geist ins Unendliche schwebet.
“‘Aus tiefen Schatten des schweigenden Tannenhains,
Erblick’ ich bebend dich, Scheitel der Ewigkeit,
Blendender Gipfel, von dessen Höhe
Ahnend mein Geist ins Unendliche schwebet.
“‘Wer senkte den Pfeiler in der Erde Schoss,Der, seit Jahrtausenden, fest deine Masse stützt?Wer türmte hoch in des Aethers WölbungMächtig und kühn dein umstrahltes Antlitz?
“‘Wer senkte den Pfeiler in der Erde Schoss,
Der, seit Jahrtausenden, fest deine Masse stützt?
Wer türmte hoch in des Aethers Wölbung
Mächtig und kühn dein umstrahltes Antlitz?
“‘Wer goss Euch hoch aus der ewigen Winters Reich?O Zackenströme, mit Donnergetös’ herab?Und wer gebietet laut mit der Allmacht Stimme:‘Hier sollen ruhen die starrenden Wogen?’
“‘Wer goss Euch hoch aus der ewigen Winters Reich?
O Zackenströme, mit Donnergetös’ herab?
Und wer gebietet laut mit der Allmacht Stimme:
‘Hier sollen ruhen die starrenden Wogen?’
“‘Wer zeichnet dort dem Morgensterne die Bahn?Wer kränzt mit Blüten des ewigen Frostes Saum?Wem tönt in schrecklichen Harmonieen,Wilder Arveiron, dein Wogengetümmel?
“‘Wer zeichnet dort dem Morgensterne die Bahn?
Wer kränzt mit Blüten des ewigen Frostes Saum?
Wem tönt in schrecklichen Harmonieen,
Wilder Arveiron, dein Wogengetümmel?
“‘Jehovah! Jehovah! kracht’s im berstenden Eis;Lavinendonner rollen’s die Kluft hinab:Jehovah rauscht’s in den hellen Wipfeln,Flüstert’s an rieselnden Silberbächen.’
“‘Jehovah! Jehovah! kracht’s im berstenden Eis;
Lavinendonner rollen’s die Kluft hinab:
Jehovah rauscht’s in den hellen Wipfeln,
Flüstert’s an rieselnden Silberbächen.’
“I think that expression, ‘Scheitel der Ewigkeit’ is ludicrous,” said Ruth.
“Coleridge always improved on his originals when he translated, but it looked rather odd for him to have discussed the elements of the scenery in the Alps when he had never been in Savoy. It looks as if he tried to throw dust in people’s eyes. But tell me, Ruth, which do you like best the Coleridge ‘Hymn’ or Shelley’s ‘Mont Blanc,’ which also claims to have been written in the Vale of Chamonix? First you read the lines you like best in Coleridge andthen I will read a few passages from Shelley.”
Ruth took the volume of Coleridge and began. “I like the first twelve lines,” she said:—
“‘Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-starIn his steep course? So long he seems to pauseOn thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc!The Arve and Arveiron at thy baseRave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form,Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines,How silently! Around thee and aboveDeep is the air and dark, substantial, black,An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest itAs with a wedge! But when I look again,It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,Thy habitation from eternity.’”
“‘Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-starIn his steep course? So long he seems to pauseOn thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc!The Arve and Arveiron at thy baseRave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form,Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines,How silently! Around thee and aboveDeep is the air and dark, substantial, black,An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest itAs with a wedge! But when I look again,It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,Thy habitation from eternity.’”
“‘Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star
In his steep course? So long he seems to pause
On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc!
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base
Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form,
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines,
How silently! Around thee and above
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black,
An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it
As with a wedge! But when I look again,
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,
Thy habitation from eternity.’”
“Yes,” I said, “that ‘bald awful head’ is better than ‘Scheitel der Ewigkeit,’ but I don’t like the immediate repetition of ‘awful’ two lines below; ‘as with a wedge,’ too, is weak. But go on!”
“‘Awake, my soul! not only passive praiseThou owest! not alone these swelling tears,Mute thanks and secret ecstasy. Awake,Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake!Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn!“‘Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the Vale!O, struggling with the darkness all the night,And visited all night by troops of stars,Or when they climb the sky or when they sink:Companion of the morning-star at dawn,Thyself Earth’s rosy star and of the dawnCo-herald: wake, O wake, and utter praise!Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth?Who filled thy countenance with rosy light?Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?’”
“‘Awake, my soul! not only passive praiseThou owest! not alone these swelling tears,Mute thanks and secret ecstasy. Awake,Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake!Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn!
“‘Awake, my soul! not only passive praise
Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears,
Mute thanks and secret ecstasy. Awake,
Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake!
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn!
“‘Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the Vale!O, struggling with the darkness all the night,And visited all night by troops of stars,Or when they climb the sky or when they sink:Companion of the morning-star at dawn,Thyself Earth’s rosy star and of the dawnCo-herald: wake, O wake, and utter praise!Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth?Who filled thy countenance with rosy light?Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?’”
“‘Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the Vale!
O, struggling with the darkness all the night,
And visited all night by troops of stars,
Or when they climb the sky or when they sink:
Companion of the morning-star at dawn,
Thyself Earth’s rosy star and of the dawn
Co-herald: wake, O wake, and utter praise!
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth?
Who filled thy countenance with rosy light?
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?’”
Again I interrupted:—“I think it is far-fetched to call the mountain ‘Earth’s rosy star,’ and again he uses the word ‘rosy’ just below: ‘who filled thy countenance with rosy light?’ That is a weak line, don’t you think? ‘Visited all night by troops of stars’ however is masterly. But go on.”
“‘And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad!Who called you forth from night and utter death,From dark and icy caverns called you forth,Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks,Forever shattered and the same forever?Who gave you your invulnerable life,Your strength, your speed, your fury and your joy,Unceasing thunder and eternal foam?And who commanded (and the silence came)Here let the billows stiffen and have rest.Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain’s browAdown enormous ravines slope amain—“‘Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voiceAnd stopt at once amid their maddest plunge!Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!Who made you glorious as the Gates of HeavenBeneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sunClothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowersOf loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations,Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God!God! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice!Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!“‘Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost!Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle’s nest!Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm!Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!Ye signs and wonders of the elements!Utter forth God and fill the hills with praise!“‘Thou, too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks,Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard,Shoots downward, glittering through the pure sereneInto the depth of clouds that veil thy breast—Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thouThat as I raise my head, awhile bowed lowIn adoration, upward from thy baseSlow traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears,Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud,To rise before me—Rise, O ever rise,Rise like a cloud of incense from the Earth!Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills,Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven,Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent skyAnd tell the stars and tell yon rising sunEarth with her thousand voices praises God!’”
“‘And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad!Who called you forth from night and utter death,From dark and icy caverns called you forth,Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks,Forever shattered and the same forever?Who gave you your invulnerable life,Your strength, your speed, your fury and your joy,Unceasing thunder and eternal foam?And who commanded (and the silence came)Here let the billows stiffen and have rest.Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain’s browAdown enormous ravines slope amain—
“‘And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad!
Who called you forth from night and utter death,
From dark and icy caverns called you forth,
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks,
Forever shattered and the same forever?
Who gave you your invulnerable life,
Your strength, your speed, your fury and your joy,
Unceasing thunder and eternal foam?
And who commanded (and the silence came)
Here let the billows stiffen and have rest.
Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain’s brow
Adown enormous ravines slope amain—
“‘Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voiceAnd stopt at once amid their maddest plunge!Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!Who made you glorious as the Gates of HeavenBeneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sunClothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowersOf loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations,Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God!God! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice!Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!
“‘Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice
And stopt at once amid their maddest plunge!
Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!
Who made you glorious as the Gates of Heaven
Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun
Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?
God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations,
Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God!
God! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice!
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!
And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!
“‘Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost!Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle’s nest!Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm!Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!Ye signs and wonders of the elements!Utter forth God and fill the hills with praise!
“‘Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost!
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle’s nest!
Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm!
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!
Ye signs and wonders of the elements!
Utter forth God and fill the hills with praise!
“‘Thou, too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks,Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard,Shoots downward, glittering through the pure sereneInto the depth of clouds that veil thy breast—Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thouThat as I raise my head, awhile bowed lowIn adoration, upward from thy baseSlow traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears,Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud,To rise before me—Rise, O ever rise,Rise like a cloud of incense from the Earth!Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills,Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven,Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent skyAnd tell the stars and tell yon rising sunEarth with her thousand voices praises God!’”
“‘Thou, too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks,
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard,
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene
Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast—
Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thou
That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low
In adoration, upward from thy base
Slow traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears,
Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud,
To rise before me—Rise, O ever rise,
Rise like a cloud of incense from the Earth!
Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills,
Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven,
Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky
And tell the stars and tell yon rising sun
Earth with her thousand voices praises God!’”
“I think it ends pretty feebly,” said I. “He compares Mont Blanc first with a vapoury cloud, then to a cloud of incense; then calls it a kingly Spirit throned, then a dread ambassador and then a Great Hierarch. What could be more mixed in its metaphors? But now let us take Shelley’s ‘Mont Blanc.’”
“I think it begins with a curious mixture,” said Ruth. “He says the everlasting universe of things flows through the mind, where from secret springs the source of human thought brings its tribute of waters with a sound but half its own such as a feeble brook assumes in the wild woods. How can the eternal universe of things rolling rapid waves diminish itself to a feeble brook? But it goes on:—
“‘In the wild woods, among the mountains lone,Where waterfalls around it leap foreverWhere woods and winds contend, and a vast riverOver its rocks ceaselessly bursts and raves.’”
“‘In the wild woods, among the mountains lone,Where waterfalls around it leap foreverWhere woods and winds contend, and a vast riverOver its rocks ceaselessly bursts and raves.’”
“‘In the wild woods, among the mountains lone,
Where waterfalls around it leap forever
Where woods and winds contend, and a vast river
Over its rocks ceaselessly bursts and raves.’”
“It seems to me a hopeless mixture. The description of the Vale is better:—
“‘Thus thou, Ravine of Arve—dark, deep Ravine—Thou many-colored, many-voiced vale,Over whose pines and crags and caverns sailFast cloud-shadows and sunbeams: awful scene,Where Power in likeness of the Arve comes downFrom the ice-gulfs that gird his secret throne,Bursting thro’ these dark mountains like the flameOf lightning thro’ the tempest;—thou dost lie,Thy giant brood of pines around thee clinging,Children of elder time, in whose devotionThe chainless winds still come and ever cameTo drink their odors and their mighty swingingTo hear—an old and solemn harmony;Thine earthly rainbows stretcht across the sweepOf the ethereal waterfall, whose veilRobes some unsculptured image; the strange sleepWhich when the voices of the desert failWraps all in its own deep eternity;—Thy caverns, echoing to the Arve’s commotion,A loud, lone sound no other sound can tame;Thou art pervaded with that ceaseless motion,Thou art the path of that unresting sound—Dizzy Ravine! and when I gaze on theeI seem as in a trance sublime and strangeTo muse on my own separate fantasy,My own, my human mind which passivelyNow renders....’”
“‘Thus thou, Ravine of Arve—dark, deep Ravine—Thou many-colored, many-voiced vale,Over whose pines and crags and caverns sailFast cloud-shadows and sunbeams: awful scene,Where Power in likeness of the Arve comes downFrom the ice-gulfs that gird his secret throne,Bursting thro’ these dark mountains like the flameOf lightning thro’ the tempest;—thou dost lie,Thy giant brood of pines around thee clinging,Children of elder time, in whose devotionThe chainless winds still come and ever cameTo drink their odors and their mighty swingingTo hear—an old and solemn harmony;Thine earthly rainbows stretcht across the sweepOf the ethereal waterfall, whose veilRobes some unsculptured image; the strange sleepWhich when the voices of the desert failWraps all in its own deep eternity;—Thy caverns, echoing to the Arve’s commotion,A loud, lone sound no other sound can tame;Thou art pervaded with that ceaseless motion,Thou art the path of that unresting sound—Dizzy Ravine! and when I gaze on theeI seem as in a trance sublime and strangeTo muse on my own separate fantasy,My own, my human mind which passivelyNow renders....’”
“‘Thus thou, Ravine of Arve—dark, deep Ravine—
Thou many-colored, many-voiced vale,
Over whose pines and crags and caverns sail
Fast cloud-shadows and sunbeams: awful scene,
Where Power in likeness of the Arve comes down
From the ice-gulfs that gird his secret throne,
Bursting thro’ these dark mountains like the flame
Of lightning thro’ the tempest;—thou dost lie,
Thy giant brood of pines around thee clinging,
Children of elder time, in whose devotion
The chainless winds still come and ever came
To drink their odors and their mighty swinging
To hear—an old and solemn harmony;
Thine earthly rainbows stretcht across the sweep
Of the ethereal waterfall, whose veil
Robes some unsculptured image; the strange sleep
Which when the voices of the desert fail
Wraps all in its own deep eternity;—
Thy caverns, echoing to the Arve’s commotion,
A loud, lone sound no other sound can tame;
Thou art pervaded with that ceaseless motion,
Thou art the path of that unresting sound—
Dizzy Ravine! and when I gaze on thee
I seem as in a trance sublime and strange
To muse on my own separate fantasy,
My own, my human mind which passively
Now renders....’”
“Oh stop, stop! Uncle, I can’t follow it!”
“Very good, I will skip to where he tells how he is gazing on the naked countenance of earth. Listen:—
“‘The glaciers creepLike snakes that watch their prey, from their far fountainsSlow rolling on....’”
“‘The glaciers creepLike snakes that watch their prey, from their far fountainsSlow rolling on....’”
“‘The glaciers creep
Like snakes that watch their prey, from their far fountains
Slow rolling on....’”
“What are rolling on, snakes, avalanches or far fountains?”
“‘There many a precipice,Frost and the Sun in scorn of mortal powerHave piled: dome, pyramid, and pinnacle,A city of death, distinct with many a towerAnd wall impregnable of beaming ice.Yet not a city but a flood of ruinIs there, that from the boundaries of the skyRolls its perpetual stream; vast pines are strewing....’”
“‘There many a precipice,Frost and the Sun in scorn of mortal powerHave piled: dome, pyramid, and pinnacle,A city of death, distinct with many a towerAnd wall impregnable of beaming ice.Yet not a city but a flood of ruinIs there, that from the boundaries of the skyRolls its perpetual stream; vast pines are strewing....’”
“‘There many a precipice,
Frost and the Sun in scorn of mortal power
Have piled: dome, pyramid, and pinnacle,
A city of death, distinct with many a tower
And wall impregnable of beaming ice.
Yet not a city but a flood of ruin
Is there, that from the boundaries of the sky
Rolls its perpetual stream; vast pines are strewing....’”
“Oh, what a rhyme—ruin and strewin’. Do you suppose Shelley dropped his ‘g’’s?”
“Don’t be irreverent. Listen:—
“‘vast pines are strewingIts destined path, or in the mangled soilBranchless and shattered stand; the rocks drawn downFrom yon remotest waste, have overthrownThe limits of the dead and living world....’
“‘vast pines are strewingIts destined path, or in the mangled soilBranchless and shattered stand; the rocks drawn downFrom yon remotest waste, have overthrownThe limits of the dead and living world....’
“‘vast pines are strewing
Its destined path, or in the mangled soil
Branchless and shattered stand; the rocks drawn down
From yon remotest waste, have overthrown
The limits of the dead and living world....’
“I will omit about a dozen rather blind lines about man and his puniness and begin:—
“‘Below, vast cavesShine in the rushing torrents’ restless gleam,Which from those secret chasms a tumult wellingMeet in the vale, and one majestic RiverThe breath and blood of distant lands, foreverRolls its loud waters to the ocean waves,Breathes its swift vapors to the circling air.’
“‘Below, vast cavesShine in the rushing torrents’ restless gleam,Which from those secret chasms a tumult wellingMeet in the vale, and one majestic RiverThe breath and blood of distant lands, foreverRolls its loud waters to the ocean waves,Breathes its swift vapors to the circling air.’
“‘Below, vast caves
Shine in the rushing torrents’ restless gleam,
Which from those secret chasms a tumult welling
Meet in the vale, and one majestic River
The breath and blood of distant lands, forever
Rolls its loud waters to the ocean waves,
Breathes its swift vapors to the circling air.’
“Now he comes to Mont Blanc itself:—
“‘Mont Blanc yet gleams on high:—the power is there,The still and solemn power of many sights,And many sounds and much of life and death.In the calm darkness of the moonless nights,In the lone glare of day, the snows descendUpon that Mountain; none beholds them there,Nor when the flakes burn in the sinking sun,Or the star-beams dart thro’ them:—Winds contendSilently there and heap the snow with breathRapid and strong but silently! Its homeThe voiceless lightning in these solitudesKeeps innocently and like vapor broodsOver the snow. The secret strength of thingsWhich governs thought and to the infinite domeOf heaven is as a law, inhabits there!And what were thou and earth and stars and seaIf to the human mind’s imaginingsSilence and solitude were vacancy?’
“‘Mont Blanc yet gleams on high:—the power is there,The still and solemn power of many sights,And many sounds and much of life and death.In the calm darkness of the moonless nights,In the lone glare of day, the snows descendUpon that Mountain; none beholds them there,Nor when the flakes burn in the sinking sun,Or the star-beams dart thro’ them:—Winds contendSilently there and heap the snow with breathRapid and strong but silently! Its homeThe voiceless lightning in these solitudesKeeps innocently and like vapor broodsOver the snow. The secret strength of thingsWhich governs thought and to the infinite domeOf heaven is as a law, inhabits there!And what were thou and earth and stars and seaIf to the human mind’s imaginingsSilence and solitude were vacancy?’
“‘Mont Blanc yet gleams on high:—the power is there,
The still and solemn power of many sights,
And many sounds and much of life and death.
In the calm darkness of the moonless nights,
In the lone glare of day, the snows descend
Upon that Mountain; none beholds them there,
Nor when the flakes burn in the sinking sun,
Or the star-beams dart thro’ them:—Winds contend
Silently there and heap the snow with breath
Rapid and strong but silently! Its home
The voiceless lightning in these solitudes
Keeps innocently and like vapor broods
Over the snow. The secret strength of things
Which governs thought and to the infinite dome
Of heaven is as a law, inhabits there!
And what were thou and earth and stars and sea
If to the human mind’s imaginings
Silence and solitude were vacancy?’
“Well, what do you say? Which is the truer poetry?” I asked.
“I think that Shelley would have done better if he had not tried to rhyme his verses,” said Ruth. “The attempt to find rhymes led him on and on into meanings that he didn’t mean. But there are fine lines in both. By the way,” she added with an abrupt dislocation of our literary talk, and yet it was suggested by it, “Will and I propose to take you to Chamonix. Would you like that?”
“Of course I would.”
“We will get an early start to-morrow—that is, if the weather prove propitious.”
The weather could not have been more kindly disposed. We started early in the morning and reached Villeneuve in less than an hour. Thence we rode up the at first broad and then ever narrowing valley of the mystic Rhône. I wished that I might see some of the strange things that it is said to conceal. Juste Olivier tells of its sandy nonchalant banks, its marshes and creeks of almost stagnant waters, the little bridges carrying fascinating paths, which later, glittering with silvery dust, suddenly plunge under long vaults where the light scarcely penetrates the green cool arches.
“Here and there,” he says, “there are fantastic clearings. Old trunks of ancient willows,oddly wrapt around and still more oddly crowned now with creepers, now with young bushes which have climbed to their tops, and now with their own branches contorted and interlaced. Immense oaks loved by adventurous pairs of the wild pigeons which fill the solitude with their plaintive notes. Young alders countless in number and growing so closely the heifers can with difficulty force a way through between their smooth even trunks. In a word, a forest variegated by marshes, by patches of sand, by yellowish fields where the water contributes its murmur, the desert its solemnity, the infinite its mystery, the unknown its charm.
“This is what you find in these shores of the Rhône called Les Isles. Sometimes strange noises come to the inhabited châlets and the reedy plain and startle the passer-by and are lost in the neighboring fields; it is the voice of la Fennetta-des-Isles who sometimes bellows like thebisein the trees, sometimes like the calves in the pastures, and seems to run over the wrinkled waters of the canal. If the clamor approach the fisherman pulls in his line and turns his head away, for he knows that any person who has caught sight under any form whatever of the fantastic being who thus howlsin the gloomy woods has little more to expect from life.”
We heard no bellowing Lady-of-the-Isles nor did we see her under any form. Probably electric trams, and corrective dykes, and the skeptical boldness of modern science has scared the Little Lady away. She will never come back.
We had a glance at the big château of Aigle and looked to see if we could recognize any of the fair black-eyed, plump-figured women for which that place is famous. We saw the waterfalls on the Grande Eau. We passed through “the smiling village of Bex” and Will asked me if I would like to take the time to visit the remarkable salt-works at Bex the Old—Bévieux—but I told him that I preferred Attic salt. Then we discussed the question how salt should have been deposited so high up among the mountains. Was it the relic of the vast ocean that once covered all Europe? This presence of salt-laden anhydrite and the occasional sulphur springs with high temperatures are extremely interesting. There is evidently heat enough under the Alps to start a volcano some day.
The sight of the mountains gathering about us menacingly made me again remember JusteOlivier’s poetic description of the names of these Savoyan Alps. He advised his pupils to climb them, his word, as the word of every true Alpinist, is “conquer”—conquer them:—
“What marvellous treasures! What fragrant valleys! What flower-adorned slopes! What dazzling crystals! What depths of shade! What fountains! Happy son of the Alps who has succeeded in taming the Genius of them. From the highest summits like a cascade in the eternal chant, by a thousand brooks, by a thousand murmurs, over slate and granite down to the depths of staggering abysses, across mist-hung crags, by the side of mournful lakes, amid green and smiling hiding-places, along pasture-grounds spread with a network of light and shade, in fir-forests which roar like the sea, beds of thyme under beach-trees and laburnum, Poesy descends into the valleys and with the sunset turns back in jets of flame toward the skies.
“Go forth, young hearts! Go quench your thirst at this unknown spring. Follow up the torrents and lose yourselves in the plaintive forests. The Genius of the Alps is waiting for you, and there also is the secret home of the Genius of the Fatherland.”
Rogers took this same route and wrote about it, almost a hundred years ago, at this very same Saint-Maurice where we now arrived:—
“Still by the Leman Lake, for many a mile,Among those venerable trees I went,Where damsels sit and weave their fishing-nets,Singing some national song by the way-side.But now the fly was gone, the gnat was come;Now glimmering light from cottage-windows broke.‘Twas dark; and, journeying upward by the Rhone,That there came down, a torrent from the Alps,I entered where a key unlocks a kingdom;The road and river, as they wind alongFilling the mountain-pass. There, till a rayGlanced through my lattice and the household stirWarned me to rise, to rise and to depart.”
“Still by the Leman Lake, for many a mile,Among those venerable trees I went,Where damsels sit and weave their fishing-nets,Singing some national song by the way-side.But now the fly was gone, the gnat was come;Now glimmering light from cottage-windows broke.‘Twas dark; and, journeying upward by the Rhone,That there came down, a torrent from the Alps,I entered where a key unlocks a kingdom;The road and river, as they wind alongFilling the mountain-pass. There, till a rayGlanced through my lattice and the household stirWarned me to rise, to rise and to depart.”
“Still by the Leman Lake, for many a mile,
Among those venerable trees I went,
Where damsels sit and weave their fishing-nets,
Singing some national song by the way-side.
But now the fly was gone, the gnat was come;
Now glimmering light from cottage-windows broke.
‘Twas dark; and, journeying upward by the Rhone,
That there came down, a torrent from the Alps,
I entered where a key unlocks a kingdom;
The road and river, as they wind along
Filling the mountain-pass. There, till a ray
Glanced through my lattice and the household stir
Warned me to rise, to rise and to depart.”
There was much to interest us at Saint-Maurice, which traces its ancestry to an old Keltic town called Acaunum or Agaunum (as the Latins spelled it). Here once occurred an event which would have pleased Count Tolstoï. A manuscript of the Ninth Century, discovered by Professor Emil Egli at Zürich, relates it as follows:—
“In the army of the Roman Emperor Maximilian who reigned from 286 until 306a. d.was enrolled a legion brought from the east and called the Thebæan Legion. They hesitatedabout fighting brother-Christians. The Emperor learned in the neighboring town of Octodurum that the legion was mutinous in the narrow pass of Agaunum. He ordered every tenth man to be beheaded. But when the legion persisted in its obstinacy he repeated the punishment. Those left mutually exhorted one another to persist and their leader Mauricius with two officers, Exuperius and Candidus advised them rather to perish than to fight against Christians.
“So they threw down their arms and were hacked to pieces.”
The legion consisted of sixty-six hundred men. According to other legends—for this is only a legend which arose in the Fifth Century—some of the legion were subjected to a martyr’s death elsewhere—Ursus, Victor and Verena at Solothurn, Felix and Regula at Zürich. However the story may be regarded, the town is supposed to have received its name from the leader of the Eastern legion. The abbey now occupied by Augustine canons who take pride (for a fee) in showing their treasures—a Saracen vase, a gold crozier and a silver ewer presented by Charlemagne, and other relics—is said to date back to the Fourth Century and was founded by Saint Theodore,one of Licinius’ Greek officers, who was converted and put to death.
Next we arrived at Martigny, the ancient Roman town of Octodurus, near the junction of the Dranse with the Rhône. Octodurus signified the Castle in the Narrows. It was the capital of the Veragri who with the Seduni held possession of the pass of the Great Saint-Bernard. Cæsar makes mention of it in the Third Book of the Gallic War.
Investigations have shown that the Wallisi had the right bank of the Dranse and the Romans the left. Suddenly Galba discovered that all the inhabitants had deserted their houses in one night and that a great body of the Seduni and Veragri were occupying the heights. They knew that the legion was not complete, that two cohorts were at Acaunum and that a good many had gone over the Alps to get provisions and that the fortifications were not finished.
“Galba held a council of war. Some of the men were in favor of fighting their way back; but the majority voted to defend the camp. In the meantime, at a given signal, the Wallisi began to storm down from the heights and fling stones and lances. The Romans defended themselves and every shot told. Whereverthere was a rush of the enemy the Romans met them. But the Wallisi had constant reinforcements. After fighting six hours ammunition began to fail. Breaches were made in the walls; the ditches were filled up and the Romans were in desperate plight. Then Galba had his men rest a while, and at a sudden signal having armed themselves with the lances of the enemy, they made a sudden sortie. The Wallisi were surprised and took to flight. Out of thirty thousand at least a third were killed and the rest threw down their arms. Although the whole country was cleared of the enemy Galba decided to winter elsewhere, and having burnt the town, he led his troops undisturbed down the Rhône through the Nantuati along the lake into that of the Allobrigi.”
THE VALLEY OF THE RHÔNE AT MARTIGNY.
THE VALLEY OF THE RHÔNE AT MARTIGNY.
In the years thirty-seven, thirty-six and thirty-fourb. c.the Wallisi defeated the Romans, but under Augustus, in the year sevenb. c., they were conquered in turn. Augustus treated them humanely and left them to govern themselves though procurators were sent among them to collect tribute. In twenty-twoa. d.Octodurus was given the rights of a free city and had the protection of the Roman law: this was a great incentive to trade and it became the capital and flourished. Claudiusmade it an imperial market-town and gave it the name of Forum Claudi Vallensium. In forty-seven the pass over the Great Saint-Bernard was made into a highway and provided with mile-stones clear down to Vevey. Relics of this can still be seen here and there, now high above the pass, now following the Dranse, and the natives call it stillla route romaine.
Back of Martigny-ville along the Dranse is a broad field with morasses; it belonged to the Abbey of the Great Saint-Bernard. It had little value even as pasturage as its surface was covered with all sorts of rubbish and scattered stones. In 1874 the artist, Raphael Ritz, was making excavations near the so-calledtrésor de la Deleyse. There was found the relics of a small amphitheatre with bones and teeth of wild animals which had been slaughtered there “to make a Roman holiday.” “Aux Morasses” gave up the remains of a colossal bronze statue with gilded garment, a huge oxhead, a laurel wreath with fine bronze leaves, smashed with blows from an ax and then sunk into the thick miry soil. It is supposed that early Christians may have treated these objects in such a manner because they regarded them as idols.
In 1895 systematic excavations were instituted and a wall sixty-three by thirty-one meters was discovered. It was the remains of a basilica which served as a trading-station or custom-house, while in front of it was the forum where once mingled Roman merchants, citizens, soldiers, officials, priests and natives. It was supported by thirteen large columns. On both sides of the square or piazza were narrow wings, each furnished with stalls for merchants and smiths. In front ran the Roman road, meant to last for all time; it is still here and there visible running up the valley. It was paved with large irregular stones. Along the southwest wing were a row of columns with enormous pedestals. The great building was divided into three halls. One ending in a semicircle, like the letter D, had a place for the statue of a god. In the north central wall were eight pilasters and in the niches skeletons were found.
Next to this was still another large building and beyond it was a private dwelling with marble floor, marble dado and painted walls. Any number of coins dating from the year one till three hundred and fiftya. d.were picked up. These buildings were covered with hollow tiles; and the hewn stones for the columns, thedoor-sills, the curb-stones, were all brought from the Jura. Some of the marble came from Italy, some from Greece; there was even porphyry from Egypt. All about Martigny were found these wonderful remains of Roman occupation. One capital of a temple was of colossal dimensions. They had drinking-water piped to the city.
At La Batiaz, where stands the old castle that belonged to the Bishop of Sion, but was dismantled nearly four hundred years ago, stood a Roman watch-tower and not far away the graveyard was found among the vineyards of Ravoire. We saw an inscription which was intensely interesting:—
SALVTI.SACRVMFOROCLAVDIENSES.VALLENSESCVMT.POMPONIOVICTOREPROC.AVGVSTORVM
This signified that Titus Pomponius had, with the aid of the inhabitants, erected an altar to the Goddess of Safety. It dated back to the time of Marcus Aurelius, the good emperor.At that day Wallis (which it must be remembered is still preserved in the very name Vaud) was united under the same government with the Graian Alps. The same Titus Pomponius, together with his family, is found mentioned on an altar to the god Sylvanus as a thank-offering for the conclusion of his term of service, and it preserves a poem addressing the god as hiding in the foliage of the sacred ash-tree, as the protector of the lofty green luxuriant forest. It thanks him for having brought them from a far land and over the immovable mountains of the Alps amid the sweet perfumes of the bushes; it says:—“I performed the duties of the office conferred upon me. Lead me and mine back to Rome, and let us under thy protection cultivate Italian fields. I vow that I will plant a thousand mighty trees to thee.”
The Bishop Theodorus lived here in 381a. d.The Théodule pass is named for him. He built a Christian basilica on the site of the heathen temple. But the Dranse overflowed it and covered it deep with mud and stones. Fire finished it, and now all that is left of it is ashes, broken tiles, melted glass and bits of metal.
Martigny is another of the towns in which I should like to spend a month. There are somany excursions to be taken from it as a centre—up the Arpille, up to the Pierre à Voir from which one looks down into two river valleys and across to the Bernese and Valaisian Alps—a splendid view; to La Dent de Morcles, the Pissevache cascade and dozens of other trips for pleasant days.
The geology here also is particularly interesting. Here the Rhône once more proved that might made right. He turned at almost right angles and stole into the valley belonging to the Dranse. Here the glaciers of the ice-age polished the rock wall—“the most remarkable example of ice-action in the Alps.”
Above Martigny we find the real and only genuine valley of the Rhône: elsewhere it is a robber.
Still ascending the Rhône valley we reached Saxon with its picturesque ruined castle, and then crossing the Ardon and the Morge beyond Riddes reached the medieval city of Sion just at sunset. Approaching the famous old city it was like a dream—the castles on the hills so kindly left by the river; high up, the Château de Tourbillon, where for five hundred years the princely bishops used to luxuriate, looking down on a world of beauty.
Across a valley on a hill only twenty meterslower stands the old castle of Valeria taking the place of an earlier Roman fort; its towers glittered in the sunlight’s last rays. We went to it in the morning, and, on paying a fee, were admitted to the Thirteenth-Century church of Notre Dame, with its quaint Romanesque capitals, and Seventeenth-Century choir-stalls elaborately carved. And, of course, being devoted to antiquities, we looked into the cantonal museum next door. We went also into the Fifteenth-Century Gothic cathedral with its tower six hundred years older; and admired the carved ceiling in the splendid hall of the Super-saxo mansion.
PISSEVACHE CASCADE.
PISSEVACHE CASCADE.
WHOMshould we meet at the hotel at Sion but my friend, Lady Q. She immediately recognized me, and I had the pleasure of presenting to her my niece and her husband. She was on her way to Zermatt and she advised us to leave the car at Visp and take the State Railway over to the region of the Matterhorn. That name amused Will. He asked Lady Q. if we should not be permitted to see the original Vill of the Visp there. Of course Lady Q., being English, saw his joke in a second and thought it very bad, as we all did. The result of it was that we asked her to join us on this trip. But she was expecting friends from Geneva and therefore was obliged to forego the pleasure. So we started off without her, but we adopted her advice. Just above Sion we had a good view of the gorge through which rushes the turbulent Borgne coming down from the wild Val d’Hérens. We crossed the Liène at Saint-Léonard,and just as we reached Sierre we saw a company of pedestrians starting off for the pleasant plateau of Montana. I have seen it since standing up a thousand meters above the Rhône valley, with its charming lakes reflecting the mountains beyond and its splendid view of Mont Blanc and the Weisshorn and the heights between them.
Sierre has its interest to the student of geology; for all around it can be seen the remains of a tremendous rock-fall. It extended from Pfyn almost to the mouth of the Liena. It dammed up the valley and imprisoned the Rhône. But the Rhône, who had learned what he could do with his mighty forces, grew more and more indignant; he swelled his haughty breast, and, when he knew the right moment had come, he put forth his energy and burst his way through. All the forces of the sky helped him; the rains came to his aid, and the tempests and the sun beat down on the snow-fields and contributed to his release. What a sight it must have been when the rushing flood once more went roaring down the valley! What billows, what sheets of sparkling foam, what crashing of overturned forests and jangling of monstrous boulders rolled along to be the wonder of succeeding ages!
Perhaps the pretty little ponds near Sierre are the relics of this prehistoric freshet. All these regions too were haunted by the ancient Kelts. Many warriors were killed hereabouts and were buried in graves even now occasionally detected. I saw a beautifully designed bronze sword which was found in one on the hill of Tevent.
Visp has three names: in French it is Viège. We admired the view up the valley with its great snow pyramid, the Balfrin, more than twice as high as Mount Washington. From here on Teeth become Horns; there are any number of them: Schwarzhorn and Weisshorn and Rothorn, and Faulhorn, and Spitzhorn and Magenhorn and Trifthorn and Mittaghorn and Hohberghorn and the Brunegghorn and Täschhorn—all of them giants covered with eternal snow.
We left the car at a hotel garage and took the train. Up, up we climbed with the Visp River brawling at our left. Then crossing it we reached Stalden between the two branches of the Visp and with superb views. Here we were told was about the limit of the grape-culture. One would not think that fruit could ripen so high above the sea. The grade now and then becomes so steep that the rack andpinion has to help the engine; there are viaducts—the one over the Mühlebach being fifty meters high—and tunnels and long passages close to the precipices, now running straight for a short distance, then winding past sharp corners. The gorges of Kipfen and Selli are cluttered with gigantic blocks of gneiss, over and among which the Visp makes its precipitous way. Saint-Niklaus is almost sixteen hundred feet higher than Visp, and Randa is more than a thousand feet higher than Saint-Niklaus.
From Randa if one wanted to stop there is a convenient approach to the Dom, which is said to be the highest mountain belonging entirely to Switzerland. Its top is four thousand five hundred and fifty-four meters high and it affords one of the grandest views in the Alps. There are, however, others much more difficult; the Edelspitze on the Gabelhorn, though four thousand feet lower, was not conquered until 1904; Professor Tyndall was the first to climb the Weisshorn. But that was in 1861. He was nearly killed by the bombardment of rocks from above.
Above the little hamlet of Täsch the road, after following the right bank of the Visp, crosses it near the châlets of Zermettje, and, gradually mounting high and higher abovethe river, it enters an extraordinarily narrow defile, and, though every one is forewarned, at the end of it comes the grand surprise—at the right the first glimpse of the Matterhorn, or, as good Swiss like best to call it, Le Mont Cervin—just a tantalizing glimpse, no more; but who would not recognize it, standing up isolated and solitary like an enormously exaggerated Indian arrow-head, or rather the flint from which it comes?
If there is any one thing I detest in travelling it is tunnels; they are marvellous; the skill of man in digging them, in so calculating their direction and their level that though men start from opposite sides of a high mountain, as they did at Mont-Cenis, at the Loetschberg, at the Simplon, and at all the other great mountain-bores, is beyond all praise; but practically they shut one off from the light and the wide horizons.
We were landed safely at Zermatt and for two days we had most perfect views of that wonderful valley and its king of mountains. Here is the story of its conquest. Until 1858 it was regarded as unapproachable—in every sense of the word. But man is never satisfied with the eternal negative. For seven years the battle was waged, and, at last, in July, 1865, Edward Whymper, Lord Francis Douglas, David Hadow and Charles Hudson, with three guides, succeeded in attaining the top. Whymper related the story of the campaign in a volume.
LE MONT CERVIN.
LE MONT CERVIN.
A high price was paid for the success. Every one knows that it is easier to climb than it is to descend. This is particularly true of mountain-excursions. There is a buoyant exhilaration in mounting, especially for the first time; but in addition to the physical difficulties of the descent there is the anticlimax which is moral; so that often the last miles of the descent are sheer agony. “While during an enthusiastic ascent the hope of a steadily nearing goal lifts the climber over all difficulties, in descending only the difficulties remain, while the fatigue increases and the interest diminishes.”
In descending the Matterhorn Hadow lost his footing, and tumbled against Croz, who, not being prepared, lost his. They took with them Lord Francis and Hudson. Had not the rope to which they were attached broken probably Whymper and the two guides Taugwalder, father and son, would have all lost their lives. The survivors could see the doomed four struggling vainly to stop the terrible glissade. Then they disappeared over the precipice. Three ofthem fell on the Cervin glacier four thousand feet below; Lord Francis Douglas’s body was never recovered. Bringing the tragedy in their hearts the other three safely reached Zermatt.
Three days later Jean Antoine Carrel and Jean Baptiste Bich reached the top from the Italian side and they were followed by Professor Tyndall, who went up by the Breuil route and came down to Zermatt. He also wrote an account of it and one of thepicswas named for him. That was in 1868, and since then, though it is still the most dangerous of the larger peaks, it has been attained by hundreds. In 1867 a young girl, the daughter of J. B. Carrel, reached within less than a hundred meters of the top, and the point where she was blocked has been named for her Le Col de Félicité. Miss Lucy Walker, of England, was the first woman to master the peak. She went up from the Zermatt side, returning the same way, July 22, 1871. Miss Brevoort, an American, was the first woman to make what is called the “traverse” from Switzerland to Italy; that was also in 1871.
The year before, Javelle, with only one guide, Nicolas Kubel, reached the top by remarkable good fortune, for no other ascent was made thatwhole year. At the edge of the Gorner glacier they found a bunch of Alpine roses, the highest arborescent vegetation they encountered. Like many other persons, Javelle supposed that Mont Cervin was “a simple giant pyramid unique in the boldness of its form, the hugeness of its bulk, the pride of its isolation.” It is really, as Mr. Coolidge says, “the butt end of a long ridge,” and not an isolated mass rising above a glacial plateau. When they reached the arête connecting the Hörnli with the base of the Cervin they rested for an hour.
When they reached the first wall of the pyramid a fierce north wind began to blow, but they scaled the rocks and then had to walk along an icy arête. When they got about half-way “the sound of a dull rumbling” reached them from above. It was the jealous Spirit of the Mountain who was trying to bombard them with stones. They had just time to flatten themselves against the crag, which, fortunately, hung over them. Great rocks and boulders bounded within a meter of their heads; for half an hour the baffled Spirit kept up his attack and then gave it up.
Visitors like ourselves, looking up to the Cervin, see a long couloir which looks smooth and easy. Javelle says that it is cut up by veritableravines plowed by avalanches or worn in the strata of the rock, so that the whole surface is far more rugged than it appears. The adamantine gneiss with strata of serpentine schist wears but slowly; but sometime the proud apex will be undermined and fall with a world-shaking crash.
After they had climbed with much difficulty and fatigue for about an hour they discovered the hut which some enterprising guides had constructed of planks, walled up with stones. For a hundred feet the precipice is perpendicular and to reach it they had to cling with their fingers to the roughness of the rock. It is at a height of more than thirty-eight hundred meters.
They reached it, and, while the guide was preparing supper, Javelle went out to a hump in the crag to enjoy the spectacle:—
“My eyes turned first of all toward the summit of Le Cervin. The tawny head of the colossus rose just above us. Through the crystalline air of those upper regions it seemed scarcely five hundred feet away and the rock stood out in startling ruggedness. The mighty flank of the pyramid, tremendously seamed and naked, lay before me: Below lay the lonely white plains of the Furgg and the Théodule glaciers; in front beyond them Monte Rosa tossed up its magnificent cluster of peaks....