Had he been over the Gemmi? Or up this or that mountain? asked another English officer."No, I have not." And it turned out that he had n't been anywhere, and did n't seem likely to do anything but show himself at the frequented valley places.And yet I never saw one whose gallant bearing I so much admired.We saw him afterward at Interlaken, enduring all the hardships of that fashionable place.
There was also there another of the same country, got up for the most dangerous Alpine climbing, conspicuous in red woolen stockings that came above his knees.I could not learn that he ever went up anything higher than the top of a diligence.
THE DILIGENCE TO CHAMOUNY
The greatest diligence we have seen, one of the few of the old-fashioned sort, is the one from Geneva to Chamouny.It leaves early in the morning; and there is always a crowd about it to see the mount and start.The great ark stands before the diligence-office, and, for half an hour before the hour of starting, the porters are busy stowing away the baggage, and getting the passengers on board.
On top, in the banquette, are seats for eight, besides the postilion and guard; in the coup6, under the postilion's seat and looking upon the horses, seats for three; in the interior, for three; and on top, behind, for six or eight.The baggage is stowed in the capacious bowels of the vehicle.At seven, the six horses are brought out and hitched on, three abreast.We climb up a ladder to the banquette:
there is an irascible Frenchman, who gets into the wrong seat; and before he gets right there is a terrible war of words between him and the guard and the porters and the hostlers, everybody joining in with great vivacity; in front of us are three quiet Americans, and a slim Frenchman with a tall hat and one eye-glass.The postilion gets up to his place.Crack, crack, crack, goes the whip; and, amid "sensation" from the crowd, we are off at a rattling pace, the whip cracking all the time like Chinese fireworks.The great passion of the drivers is noise; and they keep the whip going all day.No sooner does a fresh one mount the box than he gives a half-dozen preliminary snaps; to which the horses pay no heed, as they know it is only for the driver's amusement.We go at a good gait, changing horses every six miles, till we reach the Baths of St.Gervais, where we dine, from near which we get our first glimpse of Mont Blanc through clouds,--a section of a dazzlingly white glacier, a very exciting thing to the imagination.Thence we go on in small carriages, over a still excellent but more hilly road, and begin to enter the real mountain wonders; until, at length, real glaciers pouring down out of the clouds nearly to the road meet us, and we enter the narrow Valley of Chamouny, through which we drive to the village in a rain.
Everybody goes to Chamouny, and up the Flegere, and to Montanvert, and over the Mer de Glace; and nearly everybody down the Mauvais Pas to the Chapeau, and so back to the village.It is all easy to do;and yet we saw some French people at the Chapeau who seemed to think they had accomplished the most hazardous thing in the world in coming down the rocks of the Mauvais Pas.There is, as might be expected, a great deal of humbug about the difficulty of getting about in the Alps, and the necessity of guides.Most of the dangers vanish on near approach.The Mer de Glace is inferior to many other glaciers, and is not nearly so fine as the Glacier des Bossons: but it has a reputation, and is easy of access; so people are content to walk over the dirty ice.One sees it to better effect from below, or he must ascend it to the Jardin to know that it has deep crevasses, and is as treacherous as it is grand.And yet no one will be disappointed at the view from Montanvert, of the upper glacier, and the needles of rock and snow which rise beyond.
We met at the Chapeau two jolly young fellows from Charleston, S.C.
who had been in the war, on the wrong side.They knew no language but American, and were unable to order a cutlet and an omelet for breakfast.They said they believed they were going over the Tete Noire.They supposed they had four mules waiting for them somewhere, and a guide; but they couldn't understand a word he said, and he couldn't understand them.The day before, they had nearly perished of thirst, because they could n't make their guide comprehend that they wanted water.One of them had slung over his shoulder an Alpine horn, which he blew occasionally, and seemed much to enjoy.All this while we sit on a rock at the foot of the Mauvais Pas, looking out upon the green glacier, which here piles itself up finely, and above to the Aiguilles de Charmoz and the innumerable ice-pinnacles that run up to the clouds, while our muleteer is getting his breakfast.
This is his third breakfast this morning.
