A Tramp Abroad
little while; he glanced around and discovered Jimmy standing in an
imposing attitude in a corner, with a dark and deadly frown on his face.
What that meant was very plain--HE WAS IMPERSONATING THE DEITY! Think of
the guileless sublimity of that idea.
We reached Vispach at 8 P.M., only about seven hours out from St.
Nicholas. So we must have made fully a mile and a half an hour, and it
was all downhill, too, and very muddy at that. We stayed all night at
the Hotel de Soleil; I remember it because the landlady, the portier,
the waitress, and the chambermaid were not separate persons, but were
all contained in one neat and chipper suit of spotless muslin, and she
was the prettiest young creature I saw in all that region. She was the
landlord's daughter. And I remember that the only native match to her
I saw in all Europe was the young daughter of the landlord of a village
inn in the Black Forest. Why don't more people in Europe marry and keep
hotel?
Next morning we left with a family of English friends and went by train
to Brevet, and thence by boat across the lake to Ouchy (Lausanne).
Ouchy is memorable to me, not on account of its beautiful situation and
lovely surroundings--although these would make it stick long in one's
memory--but as the place where _I_ caught the London TIMES dropping into
humor. It was NOT aware of it, though. It did not do it on purpose.
An English friend called my attention to this lapse, and cut out the
reprehensible paragraph for me. Think of encountering a grin like this
on the face of that grim journal:
ERRATUM.--We are requested by Reuter's Telegram Company to correct an
erroneous announcement made in their Brisbane telegram of the 2d inst.,
published in our impression of the 5th inst., stating that “Lady Kennedy
had given birth to twins, the eldest being a son.” The Company explain
that the message they received contained the words “Governor of
Queensland, TWINS FIRST SON.” Being, however, subsequently informed that
Sir Arthur Kennedy was unmarried and that there must be some mistake, a
telegraphic repetition was at once demanded. It has been received today
(11th inst.) and shows that the words really telegraphed by Reuter's
agent were “Governor Queensland TURNS FIRST SOD,” alluding to the
Maryborough-Gympic Railway in course of construction. The words in
italics were mutilated by the telegraph in transmission from Australia,
and reaching the company in the form mentioned above gave rise to the
mistake.
I had always had a deep and reverent compassion for the sufferings of
the “prisoner of Chillon,” whose story Byron had told in such moving
verse; so I took the steamer and made pilgrimage to the dungeons of the
Castle of Chillon, to see the place where poor Bonnivard endured his
dreary captivity three hundred years ago. I am glad I did that, for it
took away some of the pain I was feeling on the prisoner's account. His
dungeon was a nice, cool, roomy place, and I cannot see why he should
have been dissatisfied with it. If he had been imprisoned in a St.
Nicholas private dwelling, where the fertilizer prevails, and the goat
sleeps with the guest, and the chickens roost on him and the cow comes
in and bothers him when he wants to muse, it would have been another
matter altogether; but he surely could not have had a very cheerless
time of it in that pretty dungeon. It has romantic window-slits that
let in generous bars of light, and it has tall, noble columns, carved
apparently from the living rock; and what is more, they are written
all over with thousands of names; some of them--like Byron's and Victor
Hugo's--of the first celebrity. Why didn't he amuse himself reading
these names? Then there are the couriers and tourists--swarms of them
every day--what was to hinder him from having a good time with them? I
think Bonnivard's sufferings have been overrated.
Next, we took the train and went to Martigny, on the way to Mont Blanc.
Next morning we started, about eight o'clock, on foot. We had plenty of
company, in the way of wagon-loads and mule-loads of tourists--and dust.
This scattering procession of travelers was perhaps a mile long. The
road was uphill--interminable uphill--and tolerably steep. The weather
was blisteringly hot, and the man or woman who had to sit on a creeping
mule, or in a crawling wagon, and broil in the beating sun, was an
object to be pitied. We could dodge among the bushes, and have the
relief of shade, but those people could not. They paid for a conveyance,
and to get their money's worth they rode.
We went by the way of the Tête Noir, and after we reached high ground
there was no lack of fine scenery. In one place the road was tunneled
through a shoulder of the mountain; from there one looked down into a
gorge with a rushing torrent in it, and on every hand was a charming
view of rocky buttresses and wooded heights. There was a liberal
allowance of pretty waterfalls, too, on the Tête Noir route.
About half an hour before we reached the village of Argentière a vast
dome of snow with the sun blazing on it drifted into view and framed
itself in a strong V-shaped gateway of the mountains, and we recognized
Mont Blanc, the “monarch of the Alps.” With every step, after that,
this stately dome rose higher and higher into the blue sky, and at last
seemed to occupy the zenith.
Some of Mont Blanc's neighbors--bare, light-brown, steeplelike
rocks--were very peculiarly shaped. Some were whittled to a sharp point,
and slightly bent at the upper end, like a lady's finger; one monster
sugar-loaf resembled a bishop's hat; it was too steep to hold snow on
its sides, but had some in the division.
While we were still on very high ground, and before the descent toward
Argentière began, we looked up toward a neighboring mountain-top, and
saw exquisite prismatic colors playing about some white clouds which
were so delicate as to almost resemble gossamer webs. The faint pinks
and greens were peculiarly beautiful; none of the colors were deep, they
were the lightest shades. They were bewitching commingled. We sat down
to study and enjoy this singular spectacle. The tints remained during
several minutes--flitting, changing, melting into each other; paling
almost away for a moment, then reflushing--a shifting, restless,
unstable succession of soft opaline gleams, shimmering over that air
film of white cloud, and turning it into a fabric dainty enough to
clothe an angel with.
By and by we perceived what those super-delicate colors, and their
continuous play and movement, reminded us of; it is what one sees in a
soap-bubble that is drifting along, catching changes of tint from the
objects it passes. A soap-bubble is the most beautiful thing, and the
most exquisite, in nature; that lovely phantom fabric in the sky was
suggestive of a soap-bubble split open, and spread out in the sun. I
wonder how much it would take to buy a soap-bubble, if there was only
one in the world? One could buy a hatful of Koh-i-Noors with the same
money, no doubt.
We made the tramp from Martigny to Argentière in eight hours. We beat
all the mules and wagons; we didn't usually do that. We hired a sort of
open baggage-wagon for the trip down the valley to Chamonix, and then
devoted an hour to dining. This gave the driver time to get drunk. He
had a friend with him, and this friend also had had time to get drunk.
When we drove off, the driver said all the tourists had arrived and
gone by while we were at dinner; “but,” said he, impressively, “be not
disturbed by that--remain tranquil--give yourselves no uneasiness--their
dust rises far before us--rest you tranquil, leave all to me--I am the
king of drivers. Behold!”
Down came his whip, and away we clattered. I never had such a shaking up
in my life. The recent flooding rains had washed the road clear away in
places, but we never stopped, we never slowed down for anything. We tore
right along, over rocks, rubbish, gullies, open fields--sometimes with
one or two wheels on the ground, but generally with none. Every now and
then that calm, good-natured madman would bend a majestic look over his
shoulder at us and say, “Ah, you perceive? It is as I have said--I am
the king of drivers.” Every time we just missed going to destruction,
he would say, with tranquil happiness, “Enjoy it, gentlemen, it is very
rare, it is very unusual--it is given to few to ride with the king of
drivers--and observe, it is as I have said, I am he.”
He spoke in French, and punctuated with hiccoughs. His friend was
French, too, but spoke in German--using the same system of punctuation,
however. The friend called himself the “Captain of Mont Blanc,” and
wanted us to make the ascent with him. He said he had made more ascents
than any other man--forty seven--and his brother had made thirty-seven.
His brother was the best guide in the world, except himself--but he,
yes, observe him well--he was the “Captain of Mont Blanc”--that title
belonged to none other.
The “king” was as good as his word--he overtook that long procession
of tourists and went by it like a hurricane. The result was that we got
choicer rooms at the hotel in Chamonix than we should have done if
his majesty had been a slower artist--or rather, if he hadn't most
providentially got drunk before he left Argentière.
A TRAMP ABROAD, Part 7.
By Mark Twain
(Samuel L. Clemens)
First published in 1880
Illustrations taken from an 1880 First Edition
* * * * * *
ILLUSTRATIONS:
1. PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR
2. TITIAN'S MOSES
285. STREET IN CHAMONIX
286. THE PROUD GERMAN
287. THE INDIGNANT TOURIST
288. MUSIC OF SWITZERLAND
289. ONLY A MISTAKE
290. A BROAD VIEW
291. PREPARING TO START
292. ASCENT OF MONT BLANC
293. “WE ALL RAISED A TREMENDOUS SHOUT”
294. THE GRANDE MULETS
295. CABIN ON THE GRANDE MULETS
296. KEEPING WARM
297. TAIL PIECE
298. TAKE IT EASY
299. THE MER DE GLACE (MONT BLANC)
300. TAKING TOLL
301. A DESCENDING TOURIST
302. LEAVING BY DILIGENCE
303. THE SATISFIED ENGLISHMAN
301. HIGH PRESSURE
305. NO APOLOGY
307. A LIVELY STREET
308. HAVING HER FULL RIGHTS
309. HOW SHE FOOLED US
310. “YOU'LL TAKE THAT OR NONE”
311. ROBBING A BEGGAR
312. DISHONEST ITALY
313. STOCK IN TRADE
314. STYLE
315. SPECIMENS FROM OLD MASTERS
316. AN OLD MASTER
317. THE LION OF ST MARK
318. OH TO BE AT RRST!
319. THE WORLD'S MASTERPIECE
320. TAIL PIECE
321. AESTHETIC TASTES
322. A PRIVATE FAMILY BREAKFAST
323. EUROPEAN CARVING
323. A TWENTY-FOUR HOUR FIGHT
325. GREAT HEIDELBERG TUN
326. BISMARCK IN PRISON
327. TAIL PIECE 600
328. A COMPLETE WORD
CONTENTS:
CHAPTER XLIII Chamonix--Contrasts--Magnificent Spectacle--The Guild
of Guides--The Guide--in--Chief--The Returned Tourist--Getting
Diploma--Rigid Rules--Unsuccessful Efforts to Procure a Diploma--The
Record-Book--The Conqueror of Mont Blanc--Professional Jealousy
--Triumph of Truth--Mountain Music--Its Effect--A Hunt for a Nuisance
CHAPTER XLIV Looking at Mont Blanc--Telescopic Effect--A Proposed
Trip--Determination and Courage--The Cost all counted----Ascent of
Mont Blanc by Telescope--Safe and Rapid Return--Diplomas Asked for and
Refused--Disaster of 1866--The Brave Brothers--Wonderful Endurance and
Pluck--Love Making on Mont Blanc--First Ascent of a Woman--Sensible
Attire
CHAPTER XLV A Catastrophe which Cost Eleven Lives--Accident of 1870--A
Party of Eleven--A Fearful Storm--Note-books of the Victims--Within Five
Minutes of Safety--Facing Death Resignedly