Far, Far The Mountain Peak

by John Masters

  But of course she’d been a fool and Peter had won again, because if she caught measles now it would not be at the same time as Gerry, but later--at the same time as Peter.

  Peter said: ‘We couldn’t let measles stop us. Measles! We’re on our way---‘

  ‘To the Matterhorn!’ Peggy cried.

  ‘By the Zmutt ridge!’ Emily retorted; and then they were all laughing, and Emily could not stop herself from joining in, because after all they were on their way, and Gerry was with them.

  Chapter 6

  She stood on the steep slope of snow, the young sun warm on her right cheek, the ice-axe dug firmly in beside her and the tail of the rope from her waist anchored round it. Twenty feet diagonally up the slope the guide stood in exactly the same attitude, his goggled face turned up, the rope firm but not taut between him and the man, twenty feet up again, who was cutting steps. The step-cutter was standing in an awkward position, one foot directly behind the other in steps he had already cut, as he wielded the ice-axe with both hands. That was Peter Savage, leading the first rope up the south-east arête of the Wellenkuppe. She glanced back. The second rope--Harry Walsh, Peggy, and Gerry--was waiting a hundred feet down the slope and well behind.

  ‘Not so fast, Herr Savage,’ the guide growled. There is no hurry. But more small steps, bitte. The Fraülein’s legs are not so long like yours.’

  She glanced up again. Peter had been hitting so hard that the dislodged snow flew out in big scoops over the slope and hissed down, glittering in rainbow crystals as the sun shone through them. He appeared to have lost his balance from the force of his blows, just before Christian called, for he was steadying himself against the slope, and Christian was muttering something in Schwyz-deutsch.

  There’s no hurry, she repeated to herself. Come to that, there’s no need for him to be in the lead on this slope, cutting these over-big steps as though the people behind him were wearing snow-shoes. But that was Peter; he was in a hurry, whatever the time of day; and he had to be in the lead because that was the only way he could learn what it felt like. They had argued in the hotel quite late the evening before, until finally Gerry gave in. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘I don’t suppose there’s really much danger, with Christian behind you.’

  Then Harry Walsh suggested that he make third on the rope. That would have made a very strong rope indeed, for Harry was as good as any of the guides--better, perhaps, in dealing with the unexpected. But Peter said: ‘No, thanks. I’d feel as if I was being carried up in an armchair. Why not make it a cordée of two, Christian and I?’

  ‘Four on the second rope?’ Harry Walsh asked with a smile. ‘That’s not much fun.’

  What a fuss, she thought, when only Harry and Christian Holz were going above the Wellenkuppe anyway. Holz moved forward, and when she had moved up to where he had been, Peter turned and began another diagonal. Down the hill, Harry followed suit.

  ‘Two hands on the axe, Herr Savage,’ Christian said. ‘With one hand it is impossible--nearly.’

  ‘That’s what I want to find out,’ Peter grunted, in time with the blows of his axe. She saw that he was now using the axe one-handed.

  She sighed and watched impatiently. It was tiring being harnessed like this, literally now, to Peter’s continuous relentless effort, even for a couple of hours. It must be about nine o’clock in the morning. They had started from the Monte Rosa Hotel at four. Now the sun was up and the long morning shadows climbing fast out of the valley towards the mountain-tops. The sun laid a line of fire along the eastern crest line--on the mountain Monte Rosa, sprawled across the head of its glaciers; on the Strahlhorn, the Rimpfischhorn, the Allalinhorn, the Taschhorn, the Dom. Turning to glance over her shoulder, she saw the sudden torrent of sunlight cascading down the east face of the Matterhorn where, caught between the soaring Hornli and Furgg ridges, the mountain leaned like a breaking wave over the trench of the Zermatt valley.

  Peter’s thin upper lip was pearled with sweat, and his mouth was set in a tight, straight line. Did he feel anything for the mountains, for the beauty of them and the tremendous, sweeping generosity of their horizons? She had not heard him say anything in that sense in the three weeks since they had arrived. He had something, though, some vividly known emotion towards them, and it had even communicated itself to her. She had recognized it in that first joyful day when they’d discovered that Gerry didn’t have measles--was, in fact, quite recovered by the time they reached Zermatt (only now there was another area, knowledge of the state of his own body, wherein Gerry trusted Peter rather than himself)--and had

  gone up on the Gornergrat railway to renew their friendship with the mountains, as by saying hello to them, one by one, from the edge of the cliff over the Gorner Glacier. Gerry and Peggy pointed them all out to Peter, speaking eagerly in turns, with an air of ownership and gift. There! These were ours, now they’re yours: take them. Peter’s deep, pale eyes were cold and fiery against the blinding glare off the glacier below. He stared long and silently at each peak as they presented it to him, and suddenly the mountains were different to Emily too. They were no longer magnificent friends whose sight filled her with affection and awe. They were the walls of enemy cities, turreted with ice and scarred by the lances of the wind. They were burnished castles, on whose summits the foeman stood, thunderbolts of rock in hand, on guard over the formless glow of an unknown grail. Affection left her for that moment, and a leaping, violent desire filled its place.

  Then Peter said: ‘Have they all been climbed?’

  ‘Yes,’ Gerry answered, laughing. ‘Not only that, most of them, which the pioneers lost their lives on, are reckoned to be “an easy day for a lady.” ‘

  Peter turned his back then and said: ‘I’ll learn a lot on them. Let’s go into the hotel and have some coffee.’

  The next thing he had done was to go out of his way, taking Gerry with him, to attach himself to Harry Walsh. Harry was a good-tempered man and had been very generous in giving up some of his days, which he could have spent on difficult climbs with mountaineers in his own class, to bear-leading Peter up simple ascents and answering his uncountable questions. The girls saw little of them during the daylight after the first week, but on the two occasions when they had all at least started out together from the hotel, later to separate, Emily had been struck with the thought that the three young men were like so many knights of the Round Table. Gerry was Galahad, of course, and Harry Walsh was King Arthur, the undisputed leader, quiet- spoken, easy-moving, and expert. Peggy ought to have been Guinevere, especially since Harry obviously liked her and might have showed it more if it had not been for Peter. She herself would be--who? Galahad didn’t have a lady, did he? ‘Because his heart was pure.’

  And Peter was Sir Launcelot, the black-avised knight whose presence altered the character of every endeavour, whose smile was always a threat. To Harry Walsh a mountain was a mountain. He set out and, if conditions were at all possible, he got to the top. If he did not, you knew that for that day, or that season, or for ever, that climb wouldn’t go. It was impossible. But Peter Savage would stare at some precipice and ask: ‘How do you get up that when there’s ice on the rocks?’ And Harry would say briefly: ‘You don’t’; and Peter would shake his head almost involuntarily and keep on staring.

  ‘Gut,’ Christian said grudgingly. ‘It was better than I hope.’ They had reached the level summit of the Wellenkuppe. She began to unrope, and a moment later the second cordée had joined them.

  ‘We’d better go straight on, Christian,’ Harry said in German, and the guide nodded. Harry turned to Gerry. ‘Sure you don’t want to come on with us?’

  Gerry looked longingly at the ridge leading up to the Obergabelhorn and regretfully shook his head. ‘Peter wants to practice glissading.’

  Harry said: ‘We can all go on in two ropes. We’ve got plenty of time.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Peggy cried impulsively, ‘and down over the Untergabelhorn!’

  ‘Thanks,’ Peter said short
ly, ‘I’d love to, but I must practice glissading. It’s important.’

  ‘I don’t really care one way or the other,’ Peggy said.

  Emily slipped up her goggles and crinkled her eyes in the strong glare. Harry was looking at her, and she had a good mind to accept his invitation, but as third on the rope with Christian and Harry she would have been nothing but a nuisance. She shook her head and watched without speaking as the two men roped up and set off along the ridge towards the Obergabelhorn. The rest of them had work to do and must forgo such aimless pleasures. They must watch Peter Savage teaching himself glissading. She lowered her goggles with a snap and said: ‘Let’s rope up.’

  They went fast down by the way they had come until Peter at the rear said: ‘This is the place I’d picked out. There’s snow on the slope here, and then we can have some short runs on the ice, near the edge of the glacier there.’

  The girls went on by themselves until they found a rock in the sun and sat down to watch the glissading. They were too far away to hear the men talking, but Emily saw Gerry gesturing, crouching with the axe held by his right side, his left hand on the axe head, his right holding the shaft down near the point. Then Peter, in the same position, pushed off directly down the slope. He was trying to ride on his feet over the snow, knees bent, with most of his weight back on the point of the axe. Snow rose in a cloud under his boots and flew, like a feather at the bow of a ship, from under his axe point. Faster and faster he went. Then something caught. His heels shot up behind, and he went flying out like a sack over the snow, landed, bounced, rolled, bounced, turned over on to his stomach, dug the pick into the snow, and slowly came to a stop.

  Emily clapped her hands with delight and shouted: ‘What a beautiful fall! Do it again.’

  ‘They can’t hear you,’ Peggy said reproachfully.

  ‘He’s all right,’ she said. ‘He won’t come to any harm. Let’s have a smoke.’

  ‘A smoke!’ Peggy gasped.

  Emily winked. ‘Why not? That awful Mr Kennedy in the hotel gave me two cigarettes yesterday, and I’ve brought them with me. And a box of matches I stole from Daddy’s room.’

  They lit the cigarettes inexpertly and leaned back against the rock. Emily thought the smoke tasted foul, but composed her face to show appreciation. Peter had fallen again. It was a lovely day.

  ‘He’s awfully patient,’ Peggy said, carelessly stubbing out her cigarette.

  ‘And determined,’ Emily said. ‘When is he off to India? Didn’t he say the other day that he was expecting to get a sailing date any moment?’

  ‘October the twelfth,’ Peggy said.

  ‘And then he won’t be back for years,’ Emily said, still feeling very cheerful in spite of the cigarette. She had exaggerated her fears. Peter might be a dangerous sort of man, but he was going out of their lives as surely as Adam Khan.

  Peggy’s voice was small and choked as she repeated, ‘Years!’

  ‘You can write to him,’ Emily said heartlessly.

  ‘Oh, I will. I don’t know whether he’ll have time to write back much. But I’ll write anyway. Four or five years, he thought it would be, before he could come home on leave. Emily, we’ll be twenty-two by then!’

  Twenty-two, Emily thought. Many of their friends would have married and had two children in that time. And herself? She gazed at Gerry with the grown-up feeling of distance, of appraisal, watching as he waited, patient and faithful, at the foot of the snow slope down which his friend was sliding for the twentieth time.

  She jumped to her feet and said: ‘Let’s go down to the hotel. My feet are getting cold.’

  Peggy said: ‘Well---‘ She was pink but determined. ‘I thought I’d ask Peter to take me down across the Gabelhorn glacier and the Hühnerknubel. I’ve never been over there all these years, and I know you have, so I didn’t want to bore you, and---‘

  ‘That’s a good idea, Peg,’ Emily said heartily. ‘And, after all, I haven’t seen much of Gerry this trip either.’

  ‘No, of course not!’ Peggy burst out. She smiled, and the colour died away from her face and neck, leaving her calm, drained, and more grown-up than Emily had ever seen her before--than she would have believed possible.

  Emily turned and yelled: ‘Gerry, Peter! We’re tired of sitting here, and it’s nearly twelve. Come on down!’ This time they heard her and saw the gesturing of her arm. Gerry waved back, and his voice reached her a moment later. ‘One more.’ One more it was, and then the men plodded along the hill to join them.

  After they had eaten the lunch they carried in their rucksacks, Peggy and Peter set off at once and were soon out of sight over the ridge. Gerry began to tidy up, but she stopped him with a wave of her hand. ‘There’s no hurry,’ she said slowly. ‘We’re not going across the Gabelhorn glacier.’ Gerry sat down again. She stared thoughtfully at the point where she had last seen Peter Savage--new boots, new axe, plenty of the best rope, good clothes.

  She turned on Gerry and said suddenly: ‘Who paid for Peter’s trip?’

  ‘I did,’ Gerry said absently. ‘What did you ... Oh!’ He swung round, and now his brown eyes were troubled. ‘I mean ... I don’t know. He paid for himself, of course.’ He looked bravely at her, and she saw that he was trying to make himself angry and outraged. ‘What do you mean, asking such a thing?’

  ‘What’s the point of lying, Gerry?’ she said. ‘You’ve never lied in your life, have you? Unless Peter has made you sometimes. You’re paying for his holiday, aren’t you? Does your father know?’

  Gerry shook his head miserably.

  ‘Or Peggy?’ She spoke very gently.

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘You don’t think Peter has told her?’

  ‘He might have. I certainly haven’t. Why should I? Why should he? I only lent him the money, but damn it, I don’t want it back, and I told him so. I’ve got more money than I know what to do with.’ He hated to think about money and was embarrassed whenever the subject came up, but now he was plunging angrily on--as he had once when they had talked about the physical aspects of sex. ‘I suggested we should all come here, at Llyn Gared. Later, Peter told me he didn’t want to come. Heavens, what a thick-skinned ass a man can become when he has always had money to buy whatever he wants! Then one day we were having lunch in a pub outside Cambridge, and I wanted to have a big blow-out to celebrate something, I’ve forgotten what, but he insisted we have bread and cheese and beer. It made me think.’

  I bet it did, my poor Galahad, Emily thought, and I bet Peter knew exactly what you would think and what you would do.

  ‘I didn’t say anything at the time, of course,’ Gerry went on. ‘It would have been insulting. But a few days later I took the bull by the horns and asked him straight out if he’d come to Zermatt as my guest. I told him I would have a miserable time if he didn’t come. That was true enough. He’s such a wonderful chap, isn’t he?’

  Emily nodded.

  ‘Well, finally he said all right, but he’d only borrow the money. He wanted to let everyone know--you, Uncle G., Peggy. But I wouldn’t agree to that. I couldn’t have stood it if people thought he was a sort of hanger-on here, when really... I mean, half the time it’s the other way round, isn’t it? It’s Peter who thinks what’s to be done every day. It’s Peter who makes rocks and climbs we’ve done twenty times suddenly become new and exciting again, more than they ever were-- gives everything a kind of challenge, so that leaving the hotel every morning is as exciting as something you thought would only happen once, like walking out of the pavilion at Lords, first wicket down, in the Harrow match.’

  ‘Let’s get on down,’ she said after a time.

  ‘You mustn’t let anyone even guess about this--the money,’ Gerry said when they were ready to go. ‘You won’t, will you?’

  ‘No,’ she said. She swung into place behind him as he set off down the ridge. The patches of snow grew scarcer and thinner with each step they took towards the bright valley far below.

  She wo
ndered why she was not more annoyed or outraged at Peter. She acknowledged that she had been on the look-out to find things wrong with him ever since he unfairly won the punt race, and now here was a fine, damning piece of evidence--for of course Peter had no more intention of paying back the loan than Gerry had of allowing him to--and she could not feel triumphant, not even when she realized, tramping along at Gerry’s heels, that the episode of Gerry’s suspected measles now shone a new and more unpleasant light on Peter’s conduct. Obviously, if Gerry couldn’t go to Zermatt, Peter couldn’t, so he had willed Gerry to get out of bed, regardless of the severe complications that could have set in if he had had measles--regardless of all consequences.

  Regardless of consequences. She thought that was why she was not angry--that, and the reminder that he was going away on October 12. Regardless of consequences. It was like a cliff, uncompromising, appalling, but tremendous, whose black rim skirted their path. Peter Savage had to do what he had to do, regardless of consequences. Gerry never moved or spoke without thinking of the consequences, of who might be hurt, of who might be insulted. The edge of the cliff had a fearful fascination, drawing her near to peer down. What on earth, or off it, would happen to someone who stepped over?

  ‘Have you made up your mind what you’re going to do, now that you’re a B.A.?’ She addressed the broad back ahead, forcing herself to speak lightly.

  Gerry spoke over his shoulder. ‘No. Country gentleman? Mervyn’s doing a better job with the estates than I ever could. But I thought I’d spend the winter at Wilcot, hunting, and get ready to take over the hounds from old Slade-Carter the year after. Only I think a Master ought to know more about animals, veterinary stuff, farming--everything, really--than I do. Spend the summers here in Zermatt. You’ll all be coming every year, won’t you? Then of course Father’s not getting any younger, and when he pops off I’d have to spend more time in town-- to go to the House. It would be a sort of duty, wouldn’t it? and Mervyn could tell me what to say. I thought I might go to India some time. Big game.’