by Mark Twain
CHAPTER XL
[Piteous Relics at Chamonix]
I am not so ignorant about glacial movement, now, as I was when I tookpassage on the Gorner Glacier. I have "read up" since. I am aware thatthese vast bodies of ice do not travel at the same rate of speed; whilethe Gorner Glacier makes less than an inch a day, the Unter-Aar Glaciermakes as much as eight; and still other glaciers are said to go twelve,sixteen, and even twenty inches a day. One writer says that the slowestglacier travels twenty-five feet a year, and the fastest four hundred.
What is a glacier? It is easy to say it looks like a frozen river whichoccupies the bed of a winding gorge or gully between mountains. But thatgives no notion of its vastness. For it is sometimes six hundred feetthick, and we are not accustomed to rivers six hundred feet deep; no,our rivers are six feet, twenty feet, and sometimes fifty feet deep; weare not quite able to grasp so large a fact as an ice-river six hundredfeet deep.
The glacier's surface is not smooth and level, but has deep swales andswelling elevations, and sometimes has the look of a tossing sea whoseturbulent billows were frozen hard in the instant of their most violentmotion; the glacier's surface is not a flawless mass, but is a riverwith cracks or crevices, some narrow, some gaping wide. Many a man, thevictim of a slip or a misstep, has plunged down one of these and met hisdeath. Men have been fished out of them alive; but it was when theydid not go to a great depth; the cold of the great depths would quicklystupefy a man, whether he was hurt or unhurt. These cracks do not gostraight down; one can seldom see more than twenty to forty feet downthem; consequently men who have disappeared in them have been soughtfor, in the hope that they had stopped within helping distance, whereastheir case, in most instances, had really been hopeless from thebeginning.
In 1864 a party of tourists was descending Mont Blanc, and while pickingtheir way over one of the mighty glaciers of that lofty region, ropedtogether, as was proper, a young porter disengaged himself from the lineand started across an ice-bridge which spanned a crevice. It broke underhim with a crash, and he disappeared. The others could not see how deephe had gone, so it might be worthwhile to try and rescue him. A braveyoung guide named Michel Payot volunteered.
Two ropes were made fast to his leather belt and he bore the end of athird one in his hand to tie to the victim in case he found him. He waslowered into the crevice, he descended deeper and deeper between theclear blue walls of solid ice, he approached a bend in the crack anddisappeared under it. Down, and still down, he went, into this profoundgrave; when he had reached a depth of eighty feet he passed underanother bend in the crack, and thence descended eighty feet lower, asbetween perpendicular precipices. Arrived at this stage of one hundredand sixty feet below the surface of the glacier, he peered through thetwilight dimness and perceived that the chasm took another turn andstretched away at a steep slant to unknown deeps, for its course waslost in darkness. What a place that was to be in--especially if thatleather belt should break! The compression of the belt threatened tosuffocate the intrepid fellow; he called to his friends to draw him up,but could not make them hear. They still lowered him, deeper and deeper.Then he jerked his third cord as vigorously as he could; his friendsunderstood, and dragged him out of those icy jaws of death.
Then they attached a bottle to a cord and sent it down two hundred feet,but it found no bottom. It came up covered with congelations--evidenceenough that even if the poor porter reached the bottom with unbrokenbones, a swift death from cold was sure, anyway.
A glacier is a stupendous, ever-progressing, resistless plow. It pushesahead of it masses of boulders which are packed together, and theystretch across the gorge, right in front of it, like a long grave or along, sharp roof. This is called a moraine. It also shoves out a morainealong each side of its course.
Imposing as the modern glaciers are, they are not so huge as were somethat once existed. For instance, Mr. Whymper says:
"At some very remote period the Valley of Aosta was occupied by a vastglacier, which flowed down its entire length from Mont Blanc to theplain of Piedmont, remained stationary, or nearly so, at its mouthfor many centuries, and deposited there enormous masses of debris. Thelength of this glacier exceeded _eighty miles_, and it drained abasin twenty-five to thirty-five miles across, bounded by the highestmountains in the Alps.
"The great peaks rose several thousand feet above the glaciers, andthen, as now, shattered by sun and frost, poured down their showers ofrocks and stones, in witness of which there are the immense piles ofangular fragments that constitute the moraines of Ivrea.
"The moraines around Ivrea are of extraordinary dimensions. That whichwas on the left bank of the glacier is about _thirteen miles_ long, andin some places rises to a height of _two thousand one hundred and thirtyfeet_ above the floor of the valley! The terminal moraines (those whichare pushed in front of the glaciers) cover something like twenty squaremiles of country. At the mouth of the Valley of Aosta, the thickness ofthe glacier must have been at least _two thousand_ feet, and its width,at that part, _five miles and a quarter._"
It is not easy to get at a comprehension of a mass of ice like that. Ifone could cleave off the butt end of such a glacier--an oblong blocktwo or three miles wide by five and a quarter long and two thousandfeet thick--he could completely hide the city of New York under it,and Trinity steeple would only stick up into it relatively as far as ashingle-nail would stick up into the bottom of a Saratoga trunk.
"The boulders from Mont Blanc, upon the plain below Ivrea, assure usthat the glacier which transported them existed for a prodigious lengthof time. Their present distance from the cliffs from which they werederived is about 420,000 feet, and if we assume that they traveled atthe rate of 400 feet per annum, their journey must have occupied them noless than 1,055 years! In all probability they did not travel so fast."
Glaciers are sometimes hurried out of their characteristic snail-pace.A marvelous spectacle is presented then. Mr. Whymper refers to a casewhich occurred in Iceland in 1721:
"It seems that in the neighborhood of the mountain Kotlugja, largebodies of water formed underneath, or within the glaciers (either onaccount of the interior heat of the earth, or from other causes), and atlength acquired irresistible power, tore the glaciers from their mooringon the land, and swept them over every obstacle into the sea. Prodigiousmasses of ice were thus borne for a distance of about ten miles overland in the space of a few hours; and their bulk was so enormous thatthey covered the sea for seven miles from the shore, and remainedaground in six hundred feet of water! The denudation of the land wasupon a grand scale. All superficial accumulations were swept away, andthe bedrock was exposed. It was described, in graphic language, how allirregularities and depressions were obliterated, and a smooth surface ofseveral miles' area laid bare, and that this area had the appearance ofhaving been _planed by a plane_."
The account translated from the Icelandic says that the mountainlikeruins of this majestic glacier so covered the sea that as far as the eyecould reach no open water was discoverable, even from the highest peaks.A monster wall or barrier of ice was built across a considerable stretchof land, too, by this strange irruption:
"One can form some idea of the altitude of this barrier of ice when itis mentioned that from Hofdabrekka farm, which lies high up on a fjeld,one could not see Hjorleifshofdi opposite, which is a fell six hundredand forty feet in height; but in order to do so had to clamber up amountain slope east of Hofdabrekka twelve hundred feet high."
These things will help the reader to understand why it is that a man whokeeps company with glaciers comes to feel tolerably insignificant byand by. The Alps and the glaciers together are able to take every bit ofconceit out of a man and reduce his self-importance to zero if he willonly remain within the influence of their sublime presence long enoughto give it a fair and reasonable chance to do its work.
The Alpine glaciers move--that is granted, now, by everybody. But therewas a time when people scoffed at the idea; they said you might as wellexpect leagu
es of solid rock to crawl along the ground as expect leaguesof ice to do it. But proof after proof was furnished, and the finallythe world had to believe.
The wise men not only said the glacier moved, but they timed itsmovement. They ciphered out a glacier's gait, and then said confidentlythat it would travel just so far in so many years. There is record ofa striking and curious example of the accuracy which may be attained inthese reckonings.
In 1820 the ascent of Mont Blanc was attempted by a Russian and twoEnglishmen, with seven guides. They had reached a prodigious altitude,and were approaching the summit, when an avalanche swept several of theparty down a sharp slope of two hundred feet and hurled five of them(all guides) into one of the crevices of a glacier. The life of oneof the five was saved by a long barometer which was strapped to hisback--it bridged the crevice and suspended him until help came. Thealpenstock or baton of another saved its owner in a similar way. Threemen were lost--Pierre Balmat, Pierre Carrier, and Auguste Tairraz. Theyhad been hurled down into the fathomless great deeps of the crevice.
Dr. Forbes, the English geologist, had made frequent visits to the MontBlanc region, and had given much attention to the disputed question ofthe movement of glaciers. During one of these visits he completed hisestimates of the rate of movement of the glacier which had swallowedup the three guides, and uttered the prediction that the glacier woulddeliver up its dead at the foot of the mountain thirty-five years fromthe time of the accident, or possibly forty.
A dull, slow journey--a movement imperceptible to any eye--but it wasproceeding, nevertheless, and without cessation. It was a journeywhich a rolling stone would make in a few seconds--the lofty point ofdeparture was visible from the village below in the valley.
The prediction cut curiously close to the truth; forty-one years afterthe catastrophe, the remains were cast forth at the foot of the glacier.
I find an interesting account of the matter in the _Histoire Du MontBlanc_, by Stephen d'Arve. I will condense this account, as follows:
On the 12th of August, 1861, at the hour of the close of mass, a guidearrived out of breath at the mairie of Chamonix, and bearing on hisshoulders a very lugubrious burden. It was a sack filled with humanremains which he had gathered from the orifice of a crevice in theGlacier des Bossons. He conjectured that these were remains of thevictims of the catastrophe of 1820, and a minute inquest, immediatelyinstituted by the local authorities, soon demonstrated the correctnessof his supposition. The contents of the sack were spread upon a longtable, and officially inventoried, as follows:
Portions of three human skulls. Several tufts of black and blonde hair.A human jaw, furnished with fine white teeth. A forearm and hand, allthe fingers of the latter intact. The flesh was white and fresh,and both the arm and hand preserved a degree of flexibility in thearticulations.
The ring-finger had suffered a slight abrasion, and the stain of theblood was still visible and unchanged after forty-one years. A leftfoot, the flesh white and fresh.
Along with these fragments were portions of waistcoats, hats, hobnailedshoes, and other clothing; a wing of a pigeon, with black feathers; afragment of an alpenstock; a tin lantern; and lastly, a boiled leg ofmutton, the only flesh among all the remains that exhaled an unpleasantodor. The guide said that the mutton had no odor when he took it fromthe glacier; an hour's exposure to the sun had already begun the work ofdecomposition upon it.
Persons were called for, to identify these poor pathetic relics, and atouching scene ensued. Two men were still living who had witnessed thegrim catastrophe of nearly half a century before--Marie Couttet (savedby his baton) and Julien Davouassoux (saved by the barometer). Theseaged men entered and approached the table. Davouassoux, more than eightyyears old, contemplated the mournful remains mutely and with a vacanteye, for his intelligence and his memory were torpid with age; butCouttet's faculties were still perfect at seventy-two, and he exhibitedstrong emotion. He said:
"Pierre Balmat was fair; he wore a straw hat. This bit of skull, withthe tuft of blond hair, was his; this is his hat. Pierre Carrier wasvery dark; this skull was his, and this felt hat. This is Balmat'shand, I remember it so well!" and the old man bent down and kissed itreverently, then closed his fingers upon it in an affectionate grasp,crying out, "I could never have dared to believe that before quittingthis world it would be granted me to press once more the hand of one ofthose brave comrades, the hand of my good friend Balmat."
There is something weirdly pathetic about the picture of thatwhite-haired veteran greeting with his loving handshake this friendwho had been dead forty years. When these hands had met last, they werealike in the softness and freshness of youth; now, one was brown andwrinkled and horny with age, while the other was still as young and fairand blemishless as if those forty years had come and gone in a singlemoment, leaving no mark of their passage. Time had gone on, in the onecase; it had stood still in the other. A man who has not seen a friendfor a generation, keeps him in mind always as he saw him last, and issomehow surprised, and is also shocked, to see the aging change theyears have wrought when he sees him again. Marie Couttet's experience,in finding his friend's hand unaltered from the image of it which hehad carried in his memory for forty years, is an experience which standsalone in the history of man, perhaps.
Couttet identified other relics:
"This hat belonged to Auguste Tairraz. He carried the cage of pigeonswhich we proposed to set free upon the summit. Here is the wing of oneof those pigeons. And here is the fragment of my broken baton; it was bygrace of that baton that my life was saved. Who could have told me thatI should one day have the satisfaction to look again upon this bit ofwood that supported me above the grave that swallowed up my unfortunatecompanions!"
No portions of the body of Tairraz, other than a piece of the skull,had been found. A diligent search was made, but without result. However,another search was instituted a year later, and this had better success.Many fragments of clothing which had belonged to the lost guides werediscovered; also, part of a lantern, and a green veil with blood-stainson it. But the interesting feature was this:
One of the searchers came suddenly upon a sleeved arm projecting froma crevice in the ice-wall, with the hand outstretched as if offeringgreeting! "The nails of this white hand were still rosy, and the poseof the extended fingers seemed to express an eloquent welcome to thelong-lost light of day."
The hand and arm were alone; there was no trunk. After being removedfrom the ice the flesh-tints quickly faded out and the rosy nails tookon the alabaster hue of death. This was the third _right_ hand found;therefore, all three of the lost men were accounted for, beyond cavil orquestion.
Dr. Hamel was the Russian gentleman of the party which made the ascentat the time of the famous disaster. He left Chamonix as soon as heconveniently could after the descent; and as he had shown a chillyindifference about the calamity, and offered neither sympathy norassistance to the widows and orphans, he carried with him the cordialexecrations of the whole community. Four months before the first remainswere found, a Chamonix guide named Balmat--a relative of one of the lostmen--was in London, and one day encountered a hale old gentleman in theBritish Museum, who said:
"I overheard your name. Are you from Chamonix, Monsieur Balmat?"
"Yes, sir."
"Haven't they found the bodies of my three guides, yet? I am Dr. Hamel."
"Alas, no, monsieur."
"Well, you'll find them, sooner or later."
"Yes, it is the opinion of Dr. Forbes and Mr. Tyndall, that the glacierwill sooner or later restore to us the remains of the unfortunatevictims."
"Without a doubt, without a doubt. And it will be a great thing forChamonix, in the matter of attracting tourists. You can get up a museumwith those remains that will draw!"
This savage idea has not improved the odor of Dr. Hamel's name inChamonix by any means. But after all, the man was sound on human nature.His idea was conveyed to the public officials of Chamonix, and theygravely discussed it around the offici
al council-table. They were onlyprevented from carrying it into execution by the determined oppositionof the friends and descendants of the lost guides, who insisted ongiving the remains Christian burial, and succeeded in their purpose.
A close watch had to be kept upon all the poor remnants and fragments,to prevent embezzlement. A few accessory odds and ends were sold. Ragsand scraps of the coarse clothing were parted with at the rate equal toabout twenty dollars a yard; a piece of a lantern and one or two othertrifles brought nearly their weight in gold; and an Englishman offered apound sterling for a single breeches-button.
