LITERATURE

Globe, Volume XXIV, Issue 2644, 28 September 1882, Page 4

LITERATURE

THE QUIDE’3 WOOING. An Ai,PiNB Fkktch. BY H, ECHUXZ WILSON. August 187—.—Arrived at last at the hut on the Italian side of the Wiesenhorn, After a long and hard scramble, we have attained a height of 13,524 feet, and oan rest for the night, before adventuring the stiff and difficult climb from this rude shelter to the top. The Wiesenhorn is, as every Alpine reader will know, the grandest and most terrible mountain in the Alps. Isolated from all other mountains, presenting four magnificent sides towards the grand hills around It—each side of the Wiesenhorn is wholly n ble and distinct—it stands solitarily in its unmatched glory and terror. We—that is, the friend of my youth, Herbert Grey, and myself—had done the north side, and wanted to make a pass of the giant hill. For guides we had Hans Bergmann and Max Steiger, Hans Is first-rate, and is known to all members of the Alpine Clnb. Max is younger, but Is in training to become a first-class guide. He is a fine, tall, well-built fellow ; exceedingly efficient, but remarkably silent. I myself have a talent for taciturnity, bat Max beats me. And now that we have got to the hut, what do wo see ! Of course, we begin by looking downwards, over the long sleep route that wo have trodden with so mush toil. It is abont the hour of sunset, but there is no son The light is gray, the stealthy wind is ohlll. Mists are slowly curling round over the earth that wo have left beneath ns. Wo oan see nothing below the 00l dn Tigre. The great dreary snow wa-tea are shrouded over. Yes, the view is limited, and Is somewhat che rless; but, never'hel.-ss, it is sublime The rcok-slopes end stretches are hard, blind, cruel—as Kate. Masses, huge and vast, of bleak rook are sad and awful, seen in the gray and chill of fading daylight. There is a bleak look ever all that we can see. The mountain, like a cobra abont to strike, raises and carves ils deadly head npreared from out a base of thick coll ; and this mountain is sullen and blind, ruthless and dangerous. It will havo no pity upon you if you cannot conquer it. Oorqner, and it will remain impassive. If it conquer you, it will be as Impassive over your shattered remains. We looked long upon onr grim surroundings, and then, with an involuntary shudder, wo went into the hut. There the guides had lit a fire, and were preparing dinner. We encouraged them. The objective and the material are a solace against spiritual depression. The rope and the ice-axes stood idly by the rude wooden door. Flaxes flickered wood crackled and Herbert said dreamily that he should rot go out again—until the last thing. Boon .he mountain meal, such as that is, is ready for na. Stowing away onr hats we sit down round the fire, and the dinner begins. We were all alngnlarly silent as the guides, as usual, ate heartily ; and we did what we oonld with the viands. Somehow, the outside gray had shod melancholy into the rough windy hnt, and while the meal lasted we were not merry. But there comes a time in which you forget all that Is ontslde yon. Externals cease to Influence. 'There is wine still in the

onp.’as Moore sayap and ithen —there la to baooo. With the smoking tho talking begins. Recumbent on the uneven hard floor, the pipes begin to coo and sing their harmonies. * Hans, you have been here before; toll u l about it. ’ ‘Yes, Herr, I have been here before several times. But there was one time that I remember better than all the others ’ * Hah ! had you a lidy here, Hans V * Yes, Herr, I kad. She is now my wife — my Aonnchen. It was the third time that human feet crossed this mountain, or ever stood upon its top, ’ ‘Tell ua about that, Hans. By tho way, did you believe that the top was haunted P’ ‘ No, I didn’t; bat 1 thought It might be, because one cin't know j and they use 1 then all to say it was ’ * Good ; now do go on, Hans, and toll us all about that ascent.’

Hirs shifted about uneasily, and drank some wine -tho bravo fe'low was not much used to long efforts of narrative art. He said that he couldn’t toll a story contiguously, so we promised to interrupt him very often ; this prospect soothed and encouraged him, and he began smoking slowly, to gather up the threads of tender memory ‘Mar, yon remember’ Aennoheu’s father ? He was a chamois hunter, and was killed in winter—you know, Max 1* ‘ I know,’ said Max curtly. He never wasted words ; but he, too, wanted to hear the story. Ha may have he»rd it before; but then, you sea, in such a hut, and at such a time, a tale may, with iffaot, be twice told. ‘ I was then jnst beginning to be a guide,’ ■aid Hans, speaking very slowly; ‘and I was in love with Aennchon, She was an orphan, all but her mother, who wran’t over kind to her. Well—never naiad that. I took a fancy to try to go over the Wiesonborn, and I took a fancy to take Acnnchen with me.’ A silence—we waited, smoking intently. * I had a friend, Christian Landamann, now the well-known guide 5 you all know kirn!’ ‘ Yes, yes, Hans, wo know Christian well,’ ‘ 80 I spoke to 1 hrlstian, and he agreed to go with me. I wanted a good cragsman and a good fellow—Christian was both—to share in sueh an expedition. I * Some o! your lady mountaineers, Herr, as you know, go really very well j but not all of them can walk well, Pome of them—’

‘I know about them,’ Interrupted my Mend, laying great stress upon the personal pronoun. He teemed, for some reason or other, to have a vicious diallke to ladies upon the glacier or on the rook. ‘Well, resumed Hans, ‘there was one lady that never would go on any mountain or over any pass without me j and aha was fond of climbing. While the was light it was all very well, because I o .uld hoist or haul her up from place to place with one hand ; but she got so heavy that I declined to go with her any more. 1 couldn’t, at last, pall her up even with two hands, and It wasn’t safe. Her feet didn’t seem to be of much use to her; indeed, very often she hardly touched the mountain with her feet It was what yon call tea ohett work, IF till, you know, she did mountains In that way ; and she had a pretty 1 ng list of ascents accomplished.’ 1 1 fancy that I have seen that list,' observed my friend sardonically; *or if I haven’t seen it, I have heard a good deal about It.’

' Very likely,’ returned simple Hans. • I believe that she told everybody about her walks. But I myself don’t, as a rule, csra for ladies on the glaciers. I think they are oat of place there. I know we guides usually earn the money that we get from them very hardly; they are mostly rather troublesome ; bat some of them—like that young lady that you took up to the Grande Mulcts are very nice However, my Aeunchen wasn’t at all like any of the ladles that I have ever seen on mountains. Yon see, it was altogether a different thing. Onr Swiss children are need to go always up hill, and are In what yon call training; they are sure footed, and know how to step. They don’t slip; then they can stand fatigue, and, being so need to walking np steep paths, their wind is good. Again, they don’t muoh mind rough weather, and the girls are almost as hardy as the boys ; so that, yon see, It is different.

* Well, when I proposed to my Aennohen to go with me over the Wieaenhorn, she waa a little surprised at first. She knew vaguely that it was a big thing to do, and she thought that she might be In my way. She didn’t ever think of danger. Yon see, she had great confidence In me, and she knew that she could go. She wasn’t afraid of the work or of roughing It, or of the then almost unknown mountain Itself; but she thought It unnatural for a Swiss girl like her to go on what she held to be a pleasure trip with me. She thought that snob ascents were only fit for veyageurt who wanted to enjoy themselves, and who could pay guides. It did not seem to her quite natural that a peasant girl should indulge In the luxury of a climb without a distinct purpose. It looked, too, like mere pleat arc, and she was used to work. You see, our women here in the mountains don’t have much of what you Herren. that live in great cities like London, call pleasure. Life is harder with ns.'

‘ And yet,’ observed Herbert, 1 our ladies, that live In cities, find their pleasure in coming here to see your glorious mountains.’ • Ah !’ returned the great gnlde, ‘ but that is for a change, for a holiday, for another kind of pleasure.’ ‘Tell mo, Hans,’ asked Herbert, * do you Swiss love your mountains—say, as wa do, now ?’

Hans thought a little, and then answered slowly, ‘ Well, you see, we do love them, in onr way. But wo always see them. They are a part of onr life. We can't well understand life without them. Bat still I don’t think that we see so muoh in them as yon do—you who know poetry, and science, and all that—and who corns here for a month or so, for holiday and change. When we are away from the mountains, wo feel first how we love them, Swiss who have been away eay to America as emigrants—have told me how a strange longing for the bills of their childhood has come over them, and ntle them yearn to get back again. You English certainly do love onr mountains quite as muoh as we do, I think, though la a different way—though ia a different way.’ Here the great guide made np the fire, and then went oat for a moment to look at the night. It was cold la the hut. ‘lt may bo fair to-morrow ; though it it doesn’t look very clear now,’ observed Hans, with sententious confidence. The tobacco ponoh (a large one) was passed round, and pipes were refilled and lit, ‘Now, Hans, go on telling ns about year brave bride.’ ‘ Yes ; she was a bravo girl, ’ said Hans, with a glow in his dark face ; * and she ia a brave girl now ! Isn’t she, Max?' Max, whose pipe was just beginning to draw, gave a hearty grunt of assent too deep for words ; and Hans resumed, ‘The Wieaenhorn then wasn’t quite what the Wieaenhorn Is now—there were no ropes or chains anywhere. Very few people knew the route. 1 hid talked with one of the two galdes who htd made the ascent; but I had never been on the mountain myself, and I knew that there were very difficult places —dangerous ones, too. You have seen some of them, and you’ll see more to-morrow. I thought that if I had learned the way to olimu such a mountain, just after It had first been climbed, I could get many English Herren to take up ; and I thought that if s girl were taken up it would show that the mountain waa not too difficult.’

‘ Bad reasoning. Hands, as regarded the English Herren,’ remarked Herbert decisively. ‘ Well, yes, Herr, perhaps bo ; but I had another objec'. I was in love, yon see ; and I was yonsg then. As I was going without an Herr, I wanted to go with her ; and I wanted to see if my Sobatz were as brave as I knew she was —as I knew she was. I thought I could love a wife better who conld do a great hill; and I fancied that I ahotsld see if she were good-tempered, and patient, and doolie, and kindly, and courageous. It was a kind of trial, and It was a joy.’ I imagine that, if Hans had not been so sunburnt and if the but had not been so dark, he would not have been seen to blush. The memory of that old climb glowed yet In his heart j and the girl who Ead it with him, was now his wife. •We shall be poor substitutes for Aonaohon,’ I said. ‘No,’ replied Hans, ‘not now; that was the time of romance, both for love and for the monntaln. Both were new and comparatively untried. Now I like going up with my Herren.* He paused a moment, and then went on, (To be continued )