by Mark Twain
"Very glad to make your acquaintance, 'm sure; very glad indeed, assureyou. I've read all your little efforts and greatly admired them, andwhen I heard you were here, I ..."
I indicated a chair, and he sat down. This grandee was the grandson ofan American of considerable note in his day, and not wholly forgottenyet--a man who came so near being a great man that he was quitegenerally accounted one while he lived.
I slowly paced the floor, pondering scientific problems, and heard thisconversation:
GRANDSON. First visit to Europe?
HARRIS. Mine? Yes.
G.S. (With a soft reminiscent sigh suggestive of bygone joys that maybe tasted in their freshness but once.) Ah, I know what it is to you. Afirst visit!--ah, the romance of it! I wish I could feel it again.
H. Yes, I find it exceeds all my dreams. It is enchantment. I go...
G.S. (With a dainty gesture of the hand signifying "Spare me your callowenthusiasms, good friend.") Yes, _I_ know, I know; you go to cathedrals,and exclaim; and you drag through league-long picture-galleries andexclaim; and you stand here, and there, and yonder, upon historicground, and continue to exclaim; and you are permeated with your firstcrude conceptions of Art, and are proud and happy. Ah, yes, proud andhappy--that expresses it. Yes-yes, enjoy it--it is right--it is aninnocent revel.
H. And you? Don't you do these things now?
G.S. I! Oh, that is VERY good! My dear sir, when you are as old atraveler as I am, you will not ask such a question as that. _I_ visitthe regulation gallery, moon around the regulation cathedral, do theworn round of the regulation sights, YET?--Excuse me!
H. Well, what DO you do, then?
G.S. Do? I flit--and flit--for I am ever on the wing--but I avoid theherd. Today I am in Paris, tomorrow in Berlin, anon in Rome; but youwould look for me in vain in the galleries of the Louvre or the commonresorts of the gazers in those other capitals. If you would find me, youmust look in the unvisited nooks and corners where others never thinkof going. One day you will find me making myself at home in some obscurepeasant's cabin, another day you will find me in some forgotten castleworshiping some little gem or art which the careless eye has overlookedand which the unexperienced would despise; again you will find me asguest in the inner sanctuaries of palaces while the herd is content toget a hurried glimpse of the unused chambers by feeing a servant.
H. You are a GUEST in such places?
G.S. And a welcoming one.
H. It is surprising. How does it come?
G.S. My grandfather's name is a passport to all the courts in Europe. Ihave only to utter that name and every door is open to me. I flit fromcourt to court at my own free will and pleasure, and am always welcome.I am as much at home in the palaces of Europe as you are among yourrelatives. I know every titled person in Europe, I think. I have mypockets full of invitations all the time. I am under promise to go toItaly, where I am to be the guest of a succession of the noblest housesin the land. In Berlin my life is a continued round of gaiety in theimperial palace. It is the same, wherever I go.
H. It must be very pleasant. But it must make Boston seem a little slowwhen you are at home.
G.S. Yes, of course it does. But I don't go home much. There's no lifethere--little to feed a man's higher nature. Boston's very narrow, youknow. She doesn't know it, and you couldn't convince her of it--so I saynothing when I'm there: where's the use? Yes, Boston is very narrow, butshe has such a good opinion of herself that she can't see it. A man whohas traveled as much as I have, and seen as much of the world, sees itplain enough, but he can't cure it, you know, so the best is to leave itand seek a sphere which is more in harmony with his tastes and culture.I run across there, once a year, perhaps, when I have nothing importanton hand, but I'm very soon back again. I spend my time in Europe.
H. I see. You map out your plans and ...
G.S. No, excuse me. I don't map out any plans. I simply follow theinclination of the day. I am limited by no ties, no requirements, Iam not bound in any way. I am too old a traveler to hamper myself withdeliberate purposes. I am simply a traveler--an inveterate traveler--aman of the world, in a word--I can call myself by no other name. I donot say, "I am going here, or I am going there"--I say nothing at all, Ionly act. For instance, next week you may find me the guest of a grandeeof Spain, or you may find me off for Venice, or flitting toward Dresden.I shall probably go to Egypt presently; friends will say to friends,"He is at the Nile cataracts"--and at that very moment they will besurprised to learn that I'm away off yonder in India somewhere. I ama constant surprise to people. They are always saying, "Yes, he wasin Jerusalem when we heard of him last, but goodness knows where he isnow."
Presently the Grandson rose to leave--discovered he had an appointmentwith some Emperor, perhaps. He did his graces over again: gripped mewith one talon, at arm's-length, pressed his hat against his stomachwith the other, bent his body in the middle three times, murmuring:
"Pleasure, 'm sure; great pleasure, 'm sure. Wish you much success."
Then he removed his gracious presence. It is a great and solemn thing tohave a grandfather.
I have not purposed to misrepresent this boy in any way, for what littleindignation he excited in me soon passed and left nothing behind it butcompassion. One cannot keep up a grudge against a vacuum. I have triedto repeat this lad's very words; if I have failed anywhere I have atleast not failed to reproduce the marrow and meaning of what he said.He and the innocent chatterbox whom I met on the Swiss lake are the mostunique and interesting specimens of Young America I came acrossduring my foreign tramping. I have made honest portraits of them, notcaricatures.
The Grandson of twenty-three referred to himself five or six times asan "old traveler," and as many as three times (with a serene complacencywhich was maddening) as a "man of the world." There was something verydelicious about his leaving Boston to her "narrowness," unreproved anduninstructed.
I formed the caravan in marching order, presently, and after riding downthe line to see that it was properly roped together, gave the command toproceed. In a little while the road carried us to open, grassy land. Wewere above the troublesome forest, now, and had an uninterrupted view,straight before us, of our summit--the summit of the Riffelberg.
We followed the mule-road, a zigzag course, now to the right, now tothe left, but always up, and always crowded and incommoded by going andcoming files of reckless tourists who were never, in a single instance,tied together. I was obliged to exert the utmost care and caution, forin many places the road was not two yards wide, and often the lower sideof it sloped away in slanting precipices eight and even nine feet deep.I had to encourage the men constantly, to keep them from giving way totheir unmanly fears.
We might have made the summit before night, but for a delay caused bythe loss of an umbrella. I was allowing the umbrella to remain lost, butthe men murmured, and with reason, for in this exposed region we stoodin peculiar need of protection against avalanches; so I went into campand detached a strong party to go after the missing article.
The difficulties of the next morning were severe, but our couragewas high, for our goal was near. At noon we conquered the lastimpediment--we stood at last upon the summit, and without the loss of asingle man except the mule that ate the glycerin. Our great achievementwas achieved--the possibility of the impossible was demonstrated, andHarris and I walked proudly into the great dining-room of the RiffelbergHotel and stood our alpenstocks up in the corner.
Yes, I had made the grand ascent; but it was a mistake to do it inevening dress. The plug hats were battered, the swallow-tails werefluttering rags, mud added no grace, the general effect was unpleasantand even disreputable.
There were about seventy-five tourists at the hotel--mainly ladies andlittle children--and they gave us an admiring welcome which paid us forall our privations and sufferings. The ascent had been made, and thenames and dates now stand recorded on a stone monument there to prove itto all future tourists.
I boiled a thermometer and took a
n altitude, with a most curious result:THE SUMMIT WAS NOT AS HIGH AS THE POINT ON THE MOUNTAINSIDE WHERE IHAD TAKEN THE FIRST ALTITUDE. Suspecting that I had made an importantdiscovery, I prepared to verify it. There happened to be a still highersummit (called the Gorner Grat), above the hotel, and notwithstandingthe fact that it overlooks a glacier from a dizzy height, and that theascent is difficult and dangerous, I resolved to venture up there andboil a thermometer. So I sent a strong party, with some borrowed hoes,in charge of two chiefs of service, to dig a stairway in the soil allthe way up, and this I ascended, roped to the guides. This breezy heightwas the summit proper--so I accomplished even more than I had originallypurposed to do. This foolhardy exploit is recorded on another stonemonument.
I boiled my thermometer, and sure enough, this spot, which purported tobe two thousand feet higher than the locality of the hotel, turned outto be nine thousand feet LOWER. Thus the fact was clearly demonstratedthat, ABOVE A CERTAIN POINT, THE HIGHER A POINT SEEMS TO BE, THE LOWERIT ACTUALLY IS. Our ascent itself was a great achievement, but thiscontribution to science was an inconceivably greater matter.
Cavilers object that water boils at a lower and lower temperature thehigher and higher you go, and hence the apparent anomaly. I answer thatI do not base my theory upon what the boiling water does, but upon whata boiled thermometer says. You can't go behind the thermometer.
I had a magnificent view of Monte Rosa, and apparently all the rest ofthe Alpine world, from that high place. All the circling horizon waspiled high with a mighty tumult of snowy crests. One might haveimagined he saw before him the tented camps of a beleaguering host ofBrobdingnagians.
NOTE.--I had the very unusual luck to catch one little momentary glimpseof the Matterhorn wholly unencumbered by clouds. I leveled myphotographic apparatus at it without the loss of an instant, and shouldhave got an elegant picture if my donkey had not interfered. It was mypurpose to draw this photograph all by myself for my book, but wasobliged to put the mountain part of it into the hands of theprofessional artist because I found I could not do landscape well.
But lonely, conspicuous, and superb, rose that wonderful upright wedge,the Matterhorn. Its precipitous sides were powdered over with snow, andthe upper half hidden in thick clouds which now and then dissolved tocobweb films and gave brief glimpses of the imposing tower as through aveil. A little later the Matterhorn took to himself the semblance ofa volcano; he was stripped naked to his apex--around this circledvast wreaths of white cloud which strung slowly out and streamed awayslantwise toward the sun, a twenty-mile stretch of rolling and tumblingvapor, and looking just as if it were pouring out of a crater. Lateragain, one of the mountain's sides was clean and clear, and anotherside densely clothed from base to summit in thick smokelike cloud whichfeathered off and flew around the shaft's sharp edge like the smokearound the corners of a burning building. The Matterhorn is alwaysexperimenting, and always gets up fine effects, too. In the sunset, whenall the lower world is palled in gloom, it points toward heaven out ofthe pervading blackness like a finger of fire. In the sunrise--well,they say it is very fine in the sunrise.
Authorities agree that there is no such tremendous "layout" of snowyAlpine magnitude, grandeur, and sublimity to be seen from any otheraccessible point as the tourist may see from the summit of theRiffelberg. Therefore, let the tourist rope himself up and go there; forI have shown that with nerve, caution, and judgment, the thing can bedone.
I wish to add one remark, here--in parentheses, so to speak--suggestedby the word "snowy," which I have just used. We have all seen hills andmountains and levels with snow on them, and so we think we know all theaspects and effects produced by snow. But indeed we do not until we haveseen the Alps. Possibly mass and distance add something--at any rate,something IS added. Among other noticeable things, there is a dazzling,intense whiteness about the distant Alpine snow, when the sun is on it,which one recognizes as peculiar, and not familiar to the eye. The snowwhich one is accustomed to has a tint to it--painters usually give it abluish cast--but there is no perceptible tint to the distant Alpine snowwhen it is trying to look its whitest. As to the unimaginablesplendor of it when the sun is blazing down on it--well, it simply ISunimaginable.
CHAPTER XXXIX
[We Travel by Glacier]
A guide-book is a queer thing. The reader has just seen what a man whoundertakes the great ascent from Zermatt to the Riffelberg Hotel mustexperience. Yet Baedeker makes these strange statements concerning thismatter:
1. Distance--3 hours. 2. The road cannot be mistaken. 3. Guide unnecessary. 4. Distance from Riffelberg Hotel to the Gorner Grat, one hour and a half. 5. Ascent simple and easy. Guide unnecessary. 6. Elevation of Zermatt above sea-level, 5,315 feet. 7. Elevation of Riffelberg Hotel above sea-level, 8,429 feet. 8. Elevation of the Gorner Grat above sea-level, 10,289 feet.
I have pretty effectually throttled these errors by sending him thefollowing demonstrated facts:
1. Distance from Zermatt to Riffelberg Hotel, 7 days. 2. The road CAN be mistaken. If I am the first that did it, I want the credit of it, too. 3. Guides ARE necessary, for none but a native can read those finger-boards. 4. The estimate of the elevation of the several localities above sea-level is pretty correct--for Baedeker. He only misses it about a hundred and eighty or ninety thousand feet.
I found my arnica invaluable. My men were suffering excruciatingly, fromthe friction of sitting down so much. During two or three days, notone of them was able to do more than lie down or walk about; yet soeffective was the arnica, that on the fourth all were able to sit up.I consider that, more than to anything else, I owe the success of ourgreat undertaking to arnica and paregoric.
My men are being restored to health and strength, my main perplexity,now, was how to get them down the mountain again. I was not willing toexpose the brave fellows to the perils, fatigues, and hardships of thatfearful route again if it could be helped. First I thought of balloons;but, of course, I had to give that idea up, for balloons werenot procurable. I thought of several other expedients, but uponconsideration discarded them, for cause. But at last I hit it. I wasaware that the movement of glaciers is an established fact, for I hadread it in Baedeker; so I resolved to take passage for Zermatt on thegreat Gorner Glacier.
Very good. The next thing was, how to get down the glaciercomfortably--for the mule-road to it was long, and winding, andwearisome. I set my mind at work, and soon thought out a plan. One looksstraight down upon the vast frozen river called the Gorner Glacier, fromthe Gorner Grat, a sheer precipice twelve hundred feet high. We hadone hundred and fifty-four umbrellas--and what is an umbrella but aparachute?
I mentioned this noble idea to Harris, with enthusiasm, and was about toorder the Expedition to form on the Gorner Grat, with their umbrellas,and prepare for flight by platoons, each platoon in command of a guide,when Harris stopped me and urged me not to be too hasty. He asked me ifthis method of descending the Alps had ever been tried before. I saidno, I had not heard of an instance. Then, in his opinion, it was amatter of considerable gravity; in his opinion it would not be well tosend the whole command over the cliff at once; a better way would be tosend down a single individual, first, and see how he fared.
I saw the wisdom in this idea instantly. I said as much, and thankedmy agent cordially, and told him to take his umbrella and try the thingright away, and wave his hat when he got down, if he struck in a softplace, and then I would ship the rest right along.
Harris was greatly touched with this mark of confidence, and said so,in a voice that had a perceptible tremble in it; but at the same time hesaid he did not feel himself worthy of so conspicuous a favor; that itmight cause jealousy in the command, for there were plenty who would nothesitate to say he had used underhanded means to get the appointment,whereas his conscience would bear him witness that he had not sought itat all, nor even, in his secret heart, desired it.
I said these words did him extreme credit, but that he must not throwaway the
imperishable distinction of being the first man to descendan Alp per parachute, simply to save the feelings of some enviousunderlings. No, I said, he MUST accept the appointment--it was no longeran invitation, it was a command.
He thanked me with effusion, and said that putting the thing in thisform removed every objection. He retired, and soon returned with hisumbrella, his eye flaming with gratitude and his cheeks pallid with joy.Just then the head guide passed along. Harris's expression changed toone of infinite tenderness, and he said:
"That man did me a cruel injury four days ago, and I said in my hearthe should live to perceive and confess that the only noble revenge aman can take upon his enemy is to return good for evil. I resign in hisfavor. Appoint him."
I threw my arms around the generous fellow and said:
"Harris, you are the noblest soul that lives. You shall not regret thissublime act, neither shall the world fail to know of it. You shall haveopportunity far transcending this one, too, if I live--remember that."
I called the head guide to me and appointed him on the spot. But thething aroused no enthusiasm in him. He did not take to the idea at all.
He said:
"Tie myself to an umbrella and jump over the Gorner Grat! Excuse me,there are a great many pleasanter roads to the devil than that."