CHAPTER XII

THE MATTERHORN--A BEGINNER’S IMPRESSIONS

By AGNES ISOBEL INGLE FINCH

The throngs who swarm on the Matterhorn day after day in the summer, the airy contempt with which some climbers dismiss it as a climbing proposition, the fact that a clumsy novice like myself has actually passed over it--these things do nothing to detract from the wonderment with which I shall always regard the ascent of the most famous mountain in Europe. I have watched it in its moods of calm and storm, sunshine and cloud, and, with eyes glued to the telescope, have seen the braves who callously went to sleep last night in the Schönbühl hut without the slightest apparent tremor of excitement or expectancy at what they were about to attempt in the course of the next few hours, creeping down the slopes in the broad daylight, stepping fearfully forward, slowly gaining each painful inch. I have looked upon it in the soft morning light from the dark pines behind the Riffelalp, as something not of earth, but as it were suspended in the air, splendidly detached from the lowly haunts of men. And always it seemed to me, aloof--almost aggressively aloof--and although I knew that it was part of the ambitious first year’s programme that had been drawn up for me, I could never imagine myself scaling its precipitous slopes. There was one point upon which I had made myself perfectly explicit. I was not going to climb the Matterhorn unless I could do so with zest and enjoyment. If one respects a mountain, one ought to approach it with a joyful mind. I was not going to be pulled up the steep pitches till the cruel rope bruised my waist so that I dared hardly move myself for days afterwards--a sacrifice that the Matterhorn had apparently frequently demanded of its votaries. I had myself suffered in likewise on a defiant little overhang on the Riffelhorn and found the experience of acting as a sack of potatoes irritating to the temper, painful to the flesh and thoroughly demoralising. Altogether, when I reviewed my general conduct on the Riffelhorn, I had little hope for success in the greater venture.

Nevertheless, on an afternoon in August, 1923, I found myself at the Hörnli, where begins the climb of the Matterhorn by the Swiss ridge. The evening meal provided a certain amount of esoteric amusement. Our table was shared by two stalwart Americans who, regarding us through immense tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles, rushed into a diatribe on the guideless climber who was evidently the root of all Alpine evils. Their ideas upon this abnormal specimen of humankind were almost as profuse as they were fantastic, and their faith in the word “guide”--it could only have been in the word, for they confessed to being unable to discriminate between good, bad or indifferent members of the fraternity--touching to the point of tears. The new light shed upon my companion, who was, of course, every inch an outlaw, was rather upsetting, and I began to be very glad indeed of the justifying presence of Padrun.

Padrun was admirable. He had recognised my husband at Lausanne station and introduced himself as a guide from the Engadine. No; he had never climbed round Zermatt, but he would be honoured to accompany us as porter and to be third man on the rope where madame was middle. He hoped to learn and one day become a first-class guide. This no mean ambition and his diffidence regarding his own merits won us at once, and it was straightway arranged that he should join us later in Zermatt. He was young and strong, frank of countenance and speech, good to look upon and always willing. Extremely intelligent and deeply interested in all mountain lore, his general knowledge of the world of nature as well as of men was amazing, and the keenness which he brought to his everyday actions made him the most agreeable of companions. He spoke English, French, Italian, German, Swiss-German and Romanche--all well and freely, so that from the linguistic view point alone he was invaluable to us on our journeyings. But perhaps best of all he was a very perfect “maid.” At the close of a long, tiring day Padrun would cheerfully minister to our creature comforts. Without a flicker of annoyance, he would scour out cooking utensils that ought to have been left clean; dig round for ice and snow to fill the pan for tea; light the fire and lay the table, seemingly oblivious to the lack of civilised amenities; and turn down the rough blanket or mangy-looking sheepskin with all the _sangfroid_ and care with which Célestine would have turned down the cool, fine linen and soft, fleecy blankets in the perfect flat. This seeming disregard of discomfort was merely the outcome of a common sense philosophy, to which, however, I do not think I can attribute Padrun’s invariable success in securing a bed for me, even when a surplus of climbers was already in the hut. That was more a case of ability to seize the opportunity.

[Illustration: _The Swiss ridge of the Matterhorn from the Matterhorn hut._

_The dotted line indicates the route._

1. _Site of old Matterhorn hut._ 2. _Solvay hut._ 3. _The Shoulder._

_Facing page 166._ ]

We turned in early. But the presumptuous nature of what I was about to attempt kept me wakeful; so that at one o’clock I was glad to hear the voices of my husband and Padrun in low conversation outside as they made their preparations for our high adventure. I was soon beside them, ready to move off. The night was beautifully clear, blue-black, for there was no moon; and the silence was so deep that it almost made one ache. We roped. My husband, as leading man, carried the only lantern we possessed. It proved to be a sorry affair, for we had just passed along the short level ridge to the foot of the obelisk, which in the darkness looked ten times as large as usual, when the candle dropped out. We recovered and re-lighted it, and pursued our scrambling course upwards. The way was easy; countless feet had trodden out what was almost a path leading along the ridge, or a little below it either to right or left. Soon the other parties began to follow, and twinkling lights showed all about the base of the Matterhorn, making it look like a gigantic Christmas-tree. Holds were always ready where wanted. I soon began to lose all consciousness of effort, my body felt light as the cool night air; and feet and hands, as if instinctively, sought and found hold. We mounted higher and higher--right out of ourselves, so to speak. There was none of the straining and panting that I had thought must mark my climbing attempts. Here and there, as we seemed to wind our way in and out amongst the rocky towers of the ridge, I was aware of the tingling depth of precipice or chasm, and once I made a false step and dipped my right foot over into nothingness.

Presently the last of our stock of candles had fallen out of the rickety lantern, and we went forward in the darkness, lighted by the occasional flash of an electric torch. This proved troublesome, and was retarding our progress so much that we were moved to borrow a lantern from a party of three Swiss boys who, like us, were bound for the Italian hut.

Thenceforward we climbed comfortably and without haste, until at 3.30 a.m. we arrived at the ruins of the old Matterhorn hut which, built in 1867, two years after the first ill-fated ascent, had afforded welcome shelter to many of the early conquerors of the great mountain. Situated in an exposed position on a small ledge at the foot of a great vertical bluff, it is not surprising that its present state is one of roofless demolition. We rested here in the gloom for five minutes, then moved off once more.

The next step was to be the Solvay Refuge. This information was emphatically impressed upon me; it meant, in reality, that I was forbidden to linger and watch the dawn come up and chase the night from sky and hill. In due course we reached the place that is now known as Moseley’s slab. The historic interest of the Matterhorn is enhanced beyond that of all other mountains by the fact that so many of its different features bear the names of the men associated with them; a story seems to hang to every stone. At the slab, a steep, smooth pitch where hands and feet and additional effort are all required, the lantern was extinguished; and I saw that the rock around me and at my feet was losing its bluish-black tint. But I dared not divert my attention from the work in hand. To gain the first foothold on the slab, I had to have a little leverage from below and a pull from above; my limbs and climbing experience were alike too short to enable me to reach it unaided. With the exception of this and one other occasion on the ascent, I managed by myself, if the second person on a rope can ever truly be said to do so. My previous reading of Alpine literature had led me to conclude that, in any mountaineering venture, the man to whom admiration is due is he who is first on the ascent and last in the descent. On him falls the real work and responsibility; the others are merely backers-up, adequate or inadequate as the case may be. While the party is on the move, the leader must never relax even for a fraction of a second. He must never slip, must always be sure of himself and never lose his presence of mind. He brings the others up to him or lets them down while he holds them securely from above. When, therefore, I remark that I “managed by myself” I mean that, well nursed from above on a strong leading string, I contrived to lift my feet into the holds that were obligingly waiting for them. I had also learnt on the way up to support and trust myself to my arms alone, and swing myself up on them. An improvement this on my Riffelhorn behaviour. I could not then bring myself to believe that I could hang on my arms without their breaking or being pulled out of their sockets. What had actually occurred, of course, was that I had discovered the use and strength of fingers.

At about half-past five we reached the Solvay hut. To describe sunrise on the mountains is a task that must be left to the brush or pen of the artist. The ordinary mortal must be content to worship before a sight than which “earth has not anything to show more fair.” Every mountain-top was on fire, and I chafed at the thought that had we left earlier, or had I been quicker, we might now have been on the summit of the Matterhorn knowing what it was to be bathed in the clear, transparent, rosy glow that, deepening, crept all too swiftly downwards and disappeared. Half an hour was spent in the refuge, resting and eating a frugal breakfast; the real banqueting ground was to be the summit. Just as several others parties were arriving, we resumed our climb. The ridge proved rather unstable, and great care had to be taken not to loosen stones. Keeping close together and all moving at once, we presently reached the Shoulder. Here begin the fixed ropes which render the climb too easy to the expert but are so useful and comforting to the tyro. Then came a short stretch of extremely sharp ridge with an appalling precipice falling away on the right. We were now moving one at a time, and as I waited while the leader went out the full length of the rope to find good, firm standing ground, it seemed to me that I simply could not face the teeth in front, to say nothing of the giddy drop. However, a party was following close behind us, and in that party was one of my own sex.

Now to betray “cold feet” in the presence of another woman is out of the question. So I swallowed hard, sailed in with an affectation of nonchalance and conquered. Indeed, I believe that the main cause of my unwonted display of prowess, or rather the absence of my wonted display of clumsiness, throughout the ascent of the Swiss ridge was the thought that the girl behind might be watching. It is true that I once looked back, and found that she was completely occupied with her own doings. She seemed even more raw at the game than myself. But that was no guarantee that she wouldn’t find time to criticise.

Just below the last gentle slope leading to the Swiss summit is a rather exposed bulge. There was no rope, though I have been told that there is usually one at this spot. I was too short to reach the handholds and pull myself up so that I could use my knee, and, disappointing though it was, I was forced to accept Padrun’s proffered shoulder as a foothold. Thenceforward to the top was a mere walk. The Swiss summit being too small to meet with our requirements, we took a quick, dizzy peep over the top into a new country and crossed over to the Italian summit. Here we found the three Swiss boys who were to follow us on the descent. We returned their lantern with many thanks, and seated ourselves on a fairly commodious platform lower down.

[Illustration: _The Swiss summit of the Matterhorn from the Italian summit._

_The metal cross in the foreground was erected by a party of enthusiastic Italian mountaineers headed by a priest._

_The summit of Mont Blanc in 1911._

_The partially snowed-up hut seen in the photograph is now completely submerged._

_A contrast in mountain tops._

_Facing page 170._ ]

It was about a quarter to eight; we had been over six hours _en route_, having taken our time and extracted as much enjoyment out of the climb as was possible. And now we were to reap at least one of the advantages of guideless climbing. Our time was our own; there was nobody to hurry us off to the summit after a cursory glance round at the view. I felt moved to pity for the girl who had agonised her way up behind me when I saw her ruthlessly bundled off the top after five minutes’ breathing space. I prepared to settle myself comfortably for the next hour and,

## acting on the assumption that I might never again visit the summit of

the Matterhorn, proceeded to indulge in a process of cramming, mental and physical. My husband found a comfortable seat for me, which Padrun padded with knapsacks and coats. They then produced the wherewithal to appease my voracious appetite. I am not of those who, when above a certain altitude, lose all desire for food and perfunctorily nibble at an inadequate morsel of chocolate, nor yet of those who forget physical needs in the intensity of their emotional delight. Like the Persian, my paradise is one which caters for the body as well as the soul, especially after six hours’ scrambling. I clamour for bread, lots of it, and the thicker the better, and a generous helping of cheese. I was given what I craved and a thermos of tea, and therewith settled down to a profound enjoyment of my position and surroundings.

Just how much of the pleasure of being on a mountain-top arises from the view alone, I have so far been unable to gauge. On a clear day, the eye can see for a hundred miles, perhaps two hundred miles, in every direction, and the breath catches at the unexpected width and bigness of nature and the littleness of the man-made dwellings in the far-down valleys. From above, the actual beauty of the rolling, snow-white ranges is, I think, less great than from below. I am of opinion that it is the feeling that one is actually on top of a peak that causes the pleasure, or rather elation, that grips one; and that with thick mist blotting out all view the elation would still exist. One is buoyed up, away from the earth. It is the same indefinite sensation of pleasant wonderment that one experiences during the not uncommon flying or “levitation” dream. One is simply off the earth.

We sat in calm enjoyment of the wonderful panorama. The day was quiet, the breeze was of the gentlest, the sky of the clearest and bluest, and the sun was bright and warm. At our feet the mountain sloped steeply down on all sides. Away below, Breuil lay still asleep; and all around, range upon range of snow and ice-clad peaks stretched to the far horizon. It must have been on just such a day that Whymper made his memorable ascent, and human foot first trod the summit of this noblest of pyramids.

About a quarter to nine, we began to repack in preparation for the descent, and by nine were ready to embark upon what I regarded as the most thrilling part of the day’s work. Padrun went first, I, as before, was middleman, and my husband came last. At a discreet distance followed the three Swiss boys who betrayed some little amusement at my audacity. I thought that the Italian ridge of the Matterhorn was one long succession of vertical, even overhanging precipices, over which one let oneself down on ropes. Like most people who have never climbed, I was possessed of various preconceived ideas regarding precipices, the chief of which was that I would find being on the edge of one so dizzy an experience, that I would immediately lose my head and tumble over. A rather more interesting one was that I would want to throw myself over! I had often when on top of high sea cliffs, watching the waves splash and whiten against the rocks below, been strangely conscious of the uncanny lure of depth. Though I had not been unaware of the presence of appalling steepnesses while ascending the Swiss ridge, I had neither suffered from vertigo nor evinced the slightest desire to fling myself into space. I had not had time. My faculties had been concentrated on what was immediately before and above me, and not on what was behind and below. Precipices were part and parcel of the mountain, and to act like a fly on a wall seemed the most natural thing in the world. It is not to be supposed for one moment that I could walk along the edge of a house roof and escape disaster!

Padrun went forward, and soon came his shout, “A fixed rope!” He lowered himself over, out of sight. I waited for his signal. “All right!” Cautiously I approached the brink and peered over. I must confess to a shock. Padrun was standing below me, grinning cheerfully on what seemed a most inadequate platform for one pair of mountain boots, let alone two. He assured me, however, that there was room and invited me to “come along.” From the rear came an order to the same effect. I was greatly troubled. How to lean down on the edge of nothing and catch hold of the fixed rope was a difficult problem. My feet were dreadfully far off. But the plunge had to be taken. I suppose I must have turned face in towards the rock, kneeled down and lowered myself on my arms until I had slithered far enough over to be able to grasp the rope--a pleasantly thick one it was! I scraped for footholds and found them at distressingly long intervals, so that practically all the time I was hanging on my hands. I had not yet learned to shin down a rope, sailor fashion, using feet as brakes. I was, of course, held securely from above on the Alpine rope. My nurse was conscientiousness itself, but the Alpine rope looked terribly puny, and I was not quite convinced that, if I released my hold on the fixed rope, the other could stand my weight. All manner of interesting information as to the strength and breaking strain of an Alpine rope had been vouchsafed to me, but I was sceptical. So I clung as if for dear life with my hands. Presently I joined Padrun on the little shelf, and, as soon as I had made myself secure, he went down the next pitch. “All right!” I passed the word up to my husband, who came down at an amazing speed as I took in his rope. Then he once more let me down to Padrun. And so it went on. I meant to count the ropes on the Italian ridge, but failed to carry out my intention. They seemed innumerable. In time the strain on my arms began to tell, and the friction was beginning to tear the skin off my hands, but still I could not be induced to trust to the climbing rope and permit myself to be lowered over. Finally, however, came the last straw that broke down the barrier of distrust. Half-way down one very long rope, my outraged arms struck work. Willy-nilly, I was hanging on the Alpine rope like a spider on its thread--and behold! it did not break under my weight. The pitch was safely negotiated, and almost immediately afterwards we were at the famous ladder of Jordan. It was a very pretty ladder with strong rope sides and wooden rungs, but it hung over a great bulge and dangled in space. Padrun held it as near the wall at the bottom as he could while I descended face towards the rock. As I approached the nose, the ladder showed a tendency to swing away from the rock, and when I actually arrived at the tip, the space between myself and the wall was disagreeably wide. It was the most thrilling part of the descent so far, but soon over. From the spacious platform at the foot, I watched carefully, on the look-out for the correct way to descend Jordan’s ladder, and I saw that when my husband reached the tip of the nose, that is, the edge of the actual overhang, he changed his position and came down on the _inside_ of the ladder.

[Illustration: _Descending the Italian ridge._

“... a pleasantly thick fixed rope.”

_Facing page 174._ ]

All the time since passing the first fixed rope, we had been working more or less down the face of the mountain. Now we turned slightly to our right and gained the ridge. On the broad shelf that marks the beginning of Carrel’s corridor, we rested for fully an hour. It had been our intention to snatch only a short breathing space, but two

## parties were coming up towards us, and, as the ground was loose and

unstable, we waited until they approached. The first was a party of three, whose feet were continually getting entangled in their rope which lay in coils between each member and dragged loose stones about in a most disconcerting manner. It was warm and sunny, we had many hours of daylight at our disposal--for our destination that day was only the Italian hut--and the world was beautiful to look upon.

About eleven o’clock we again resumed work on the ridge. The ground was scaly and unpleasant. Thin, flat flakes of stone slipped out underneath the feet. Keeping close together we soon arrived at the Col Félicité, so called in honour of the first woman who reached it; but a more incongruous name, from the point of view of appearance, could not have been found. A little later we came to a narrow snow bridge connecting the shingly slope of the Italian face above with the long level ridge of the Pic Tyndall. Some fifteen inches wide, the bridge falls away nearly perpendicularly on either side to a tremendous depth. I could not help thinking that it would have been much more agreeable if the approach to the bridge had been level and stable instead of sloping and loose, and the exit had not been blocked by a little vertical tower some fifteen feet high over which it was necessary to climb. Padrun sauntered over as calmly as if he were walking on the finest Roman viaduct, and scaled the wall of the tower at the other end. It looked a giddy proceeding. I felt sure that I would wobble to one side or other, and, despite the fact that I would simply dip for a moment into space and then be hoisted up on the rope, the demoralising effect would doubtless be calamitous. However, that “there’s nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so” is nowhere so true as on the mountains. The idea of the venture proved one thousandfold more dreadful than the actuality. I kept my eyes on the turret a few feet away, and was clambering up before I realised it. Daring greatly, I paused to look down, just for the good of my own self-respect. The effect was quite exhilarating.

Once on the ridge of the Pic Tyndall, the going was easy. A stretch of snowy crest provided a welcome change. At the farther end of this I suddenly felt fatigued. Padrun was encouraging. He indicated a great tower on the ridge. “The hut is just below,” he said. “It will take only fifteen minutes.” The result was marvellous; the distance did look short, and my husband, who must have known well enough how deceived Padrun was, had apparently not the heart to dispel our fond illusions. So tired was I, that even my scepticism had vanished, and my memory failed to remind me that ridges have a habit of magically stretching as you proceed along them. Their ends, like the tops of mountains, seem to recede as you advance, and indulge in the playful game until the very last moment. From the Pic Tyndall to the Italian hut took us almost exactly one and a half hours. Before arriving at the big tower we left the ridge and descended by an exceedingly long fixed rope well down into the face on the left, until we found a ledge that led us again to the right. The slope, known as the “Linceul,” over which it is customary to make one’s way by cutting a few steps, was devoid of ice, and a slight deviation from the normal route was necessary. Up and down we seemed to go, and once round a little natural balcony that hung out over space but proved not in the least heady. A handrail in the shape of a fixed rope was provided. Thence onwards the route was well-marked. Short, helpful ropes led down chimneys and over slabs to the hut where we arrived at three o’clock.

The hut is small, and we found it already overcrowded. But going straight down to Breuil was not to be thought of. The two sleeping bunks arranged one above the other were full of inmates sleeping off the effects of their labours: most had walked up from Breuil, and were to return next day. I made up my mind to sleep either on the floor or sitting by the table; either course, uncomfortable though it might be, was more enticing than the questionable comfort and warmth of the sheep-skins that served as bed-linen. Padrun, the indefatigable, set about clearing a space on the littered table, prior to preparing a meal. Finding that there was no water in the hut, he picked up two buckets and went forth in search of ice; something of a quest on the Matterhorn during last year’s phenomenally fine summer. Meantime, my husband proceeded to build a fire in the stove and soon had it alight. Padrun presently returned with a supply of ice. After removing as much of the superficial lining of the pans as he could, he filled them with the ice and put them on to boil. The noise of these activities began to communicate itself to the other occupants of the room, as also did the dense smoke from the fire. Blowing their noses, coughing and wiping tearful eyes, sleepily stretching themselves, they slowly forsook their couches. I put on my snow-glasses to ward off the attacks of smoke and, having ensconced myself in a corner near the window, interestedly watched further happenings.

There is no crowd so amusing as a crowd of Italians. Good-naturedly they jostled each other, all talking at once. A change this from the last fifteen hours. Mountaineering is almost as silent as whist! Scarcely a word is spoken while the game is in progress, save as command or assurance--or when a player is argumentative or more than usually clumsy, in which circumstances the leader waxes eloquent indeed! The spirit of emulation was strong within the inmates of the hut. I watched thirty of them all trying to regale themselves at once--from Padrun’s precious water pans! Presently my attention became riveted to one quarter. A youth stood lolling against the door. Every few seconds he expectorated in the direction of the fire. Fearful, but undeniably fascinated, I regarded Padrun’s cooking-pots. That boy had a beautiful aim. The pots took half an hour to boil, and during all that time the water remained undefiled.

We had tea seasoned with loads of sugar and lemon. Then we had soup; at least, that is what they call the concoction in the mountains. A spoon will stand upright in it. The chief ingredients are macaroni, chunks of bread and cheese and a tin of beef. A good chef will make his own little distinctive additions and alterations. The meal over, I went outside. Interested as I was in our gaily-chattering companions, it was scarcely fair to keep a seat that another hungry being would welcome. Besides, the atmosphere within was stifling; the window was closed and the fire smoking as furiously as ever. Without was the sweet cool mountain air and the silence of open spaces, broken only by the roaring of the stone avalanches that made all the south face of the great mountain alive.

[Illustration: _The Matterhorn from the Dent d’Hérens._

“... it stands utterly alone, ... surely the most wonderful mountain in the world.”

_Facing page 178._ ]

Dusk fell. Padrun came out and fetched me. Would I like to lie down and rest? He had obviously seized an opportunity! The idea of the bunk and the sheep-skins was no longer so repugnant, for I was very weary. I stepped inside. Padrun had found a place for me in the lower bunk, and begged me to accept his coat as covering. Sleep was out of the question. The incessant talk and bustle precluded any idea of such a thing; but just to stretch out and relax every muscle was sheer luxury of feeling. About ten o’clock the entire family was abed. The floor space was all utilised, likewise the little loft where the wood was stored. I lay all night long in the same position--on my right side, and so squeezed up against the wall of the hut that I dared not budge an inch for fear of bumping my nose. The breadth of my “bed” could not possibly have exceeded nine or ten inches. But I slept.

About half-past two next morning, movements were heard in the bunk above, and once more the bulk of the inhabitants yawned their way out of bed. At half-past five no one had left the hut, so that all shared the excitement that followed. A terrific cracking followed by a mighty roar was heard. Flying missiles struck the walls and roof of the hut. Tearing its way down towards the glacier was a huge mass of rock which must have weighed some fifty tons. The whole of the slab on the lower side of the first rope immediately above the hut had detached itself from the parent mass.

When the excitement had died down, the first party began the descent towards Breuil. Others followed, and by seven o’clock the hut was empty except for ourselves and a party of two young Swiss boys and their guides, who had made the ascent of the Zmutt ridge on the previous day. Both parties agreed to wait until the last Italians were well out of sight. We would then go down, keeping as close together as was possible on account of loose stones. We breakfasted and left the hut at eight. The party of four went first. They descended quickly and soon outpaced us, so slow was I. As my arms still ached from yesterday’s exertions, the idea of more fixed ropes was not exactly pleasing. They were very short, however--all but one, which was sixty feet in length, but, mercifully for me, knotted. The experts found the knots a bane and a hindrance to shinning down; but to me they were an unqualified boon. They prevented my hands from slipping and furnished me with an occasional rest. Soon we were on the wide, slabby ridge once more, and descending with as much speed as my presence and the necessary care would allow. Suddenly my attention was arrested by a loud shout from my husband, “Falling stones!” Now teaching, common sense, to say nothing of life in London during the war, all told me that when missiles fall from above the decorous thing to do is to take cover. But curiosity proved stronger than common sense or teachings. I sat down and stared, fascinated by the two immense blocks surrounded by smaller satellites that came whirring relentlessly down towards us. I saw my husband make himself as small as possible on the slab. Padrun went down on his knees and hid his head, ostrich-wise, in a most inadequate hole. His bulky, nobbly knapsack, bristling with two ice-axes, stuck up in the air--a fair target for any missile. I was busily engaged calculating what the effect on Padrun would be of the impact of a boulder upon the spike of one of the axes, when I heard an agonised warning from my husband, and at the same time received a jerk on the rope about my waist which effectively laid me low. The spectacle Padrun presented proved too much for me, however, and I lay there shaking with laughter, totally heedless of the danger to which we were undoubtedly exposed. The rocks passed over us; we were unscathed. Some fifty feet farther down, they crashed explosively into the ridge and, their number increased a hundredfold, resumed their mad course. When everything was quiet again above, we moved off with all speed and presently arrived at a fairly well-defined track over scree slopes which led on to the Col du Lion. Thence skirting for some distance round the base of the Tête du Lion, the path brought us down the so-called Grand Staircase to the green pasture-lands above Breuil.

Something made us stop simultaneously and look back. Mists concealed the mountains; but through a little circular rift in the clouds, immeasurably far above and seemingly overhead, appeared a patch of blue sky and a dark, irregular dome-like shape. “See where you have stood,” said my husband proudly. Then only did I realise that what I saw was the summit of the Matterhorn. Inexpressibly awed, I turned towards the valley.

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