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.

"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 441 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 1861, 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 200 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 1862 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 5 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 45° 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 50 or 60 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 200 feet in seven or eight bounds. Ten feet more would have taken me in one gigantic leap of 800 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 4900 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 1863 Mr Whymper once more returned to the attack, but still without success. In 1864 he was unable to visit the neighbourhood of the Matterhorn, but in 1865 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.

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 1865, 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 13th July, 1865, at 5.30 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 12 o'clock they had found a good position for the tent at about 11,000 feet above sea. The guides went on some way to explore, and on their return about 3 P.M. declared that they had not found a single difficulty, and that success was assured.

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 200 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 1250 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.[11] 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.[12] 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;[13] 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 4000 feet in height. From the moment the rope broke it was impossible to help them. So perished our comrades!"

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 6 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 2 A.M. on Sunday the 16th, 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 8.30 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:

[11] 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.

[12] 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 10 or 12 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.

[13] Or, more correctly, we held on as tightly as possible. There was no time to change our position.