Read Online But Enough About You: Essays by Christopher Buckley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Christopher Buckley
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old, I taught him how to use the elevator in his hotel. When Sir Arnold was eight himself, in 1908, he met the great Edward Whymper. So I shook the hand that shook the hand of Edward Whymper.
I brought Sir Arnold’s book Matterhorn Centenary on our trip. It’s a fascinating, unsparing account, and from it I learned the intriguing fact that Whymper, the Englishman who did more than anyone else to make the Matterhorn and Zermatt famous, was more or less detested in these parts. The reason had to do with the aftermath of the July 14 tragedy.
In Whymper’s telling, here is what happened. Michel Croz was helping the Englishman Hadow place his feet securely when:
I heard one startled exclamation from Croz, then saw him and Mr. Hadow flying downwards; in another moment Hudson was dragged from his steps, and Lord F. Douglasimmediately after him. All this was the work of a moment. Immediately we heard Croz’s exclamation, old Peter and I planted ourselves as firmly as the rocks would permit: the rope was taut between us, and the jerk came on us both as on one man. We held; but the rope broke midway between Taugwalder and Lord Francis Douglas. For a few seconds we saw our companions sliding downwards on their backs and spreading out their hands, endeavouring to save themselves. They passed from our sight uninjured, disappeared one by one, and fell from precipice to precipice on to the Matter-horngletscher below, a distance of nearly 4,000 feet. From the moment the rope broke it was impossible to help them.
So perished our comrades! For the space of half an hour we remained on the spot without moving a single step.
The accident caused headlines and controversy. There were letters to the Times . Queen Victoria demanded of the lord chamberlain why mountaineering couldn’t simply be prohibited by law. Taugwalder was accused of cutting the rope. Whymper defended him against that charge, but leveled others, implying that Taugwalder had deliberately tied himself to Douglas, an inexpert climber, with a weak rope. He also said that the Taugwalders had asked him to say publicly that they had not been paid for guiding, in order to arouse sympathy for them and to stimulate future business. But most damningly, Whymper told the inquest that as they huddled miserably through the long night, the Taugwalders acted so menacingly toward him that he kept his rock and ice ax at the ready. The implicit charge was that they were seeking to increase their notoriety—and guide business—by becoming the only survivors of the first successful ascent of the Matterhorn. Grim stuff.
The two Taugwalders were tainted by the odious charges until Sir Arnold Lunn published an article in the Alpine Journal exonerating them eighty years later. It wasn’t until then, he wrote, that one Swiss confided to him, “Whymper war nicht beliebt in Tal.” (Whymper was not liked in the valley.)
So there you have the dirty little secret of Edward Whymper, Great Man of the Matterhorn: the locals hated his guts.
Sir Arnold wrote, “He was a friendless, and in many ways a pathetic man, and there was little, if anything, admirable about him excepting his mountaineering, but in spite of defects which I have not attempted to conceal, there was something great about the man. Many eminent mountaineers have contributed to the history of the Matterhorn by forcing new routes up its cliffs, but the Matterhorn remains Whymper’s mountain, partly because he himself had something of the indomitable character of that great peak . . . To the end, he remained astonishingly tough. At the age of 62 he walked from Edinburgh to London, averaging 55 miles a day.”
I spent some pleasant hours with Sir Arnold’s book in the little room on the second floor of the Hotel Monte Rosa. There’s a small library in the hall, donated by a New York lady. There I found a reissue of Whymper’s own book, Scrambles Among the Alps (Dover Publications, New York).
After breakfast, Elan and I would
I brought Sir Arnold’s book Matterhorn Centenary on our trip. It’s a fascinating, unsparing account, and from it I learned the intriguing fact that Whymper, the Englishman who did more than anyone else to make the Matterhorn and Zermatt famous, was more or less detested in these parts. The reason had to do with the aftermath of the July 14 tragedy.
In Whymper’s telling, here is what happened. Michel Croz was helping the Englishman Hadow place his feet securely when:
I heard one startled exclamation from Croz, then saw him and Mr. Hadow flying downwards; in another moment Hudson was dragged from his steps, and Lord F. Douglasimmediately after him. All this was the work of a moment. Immediately we heard Croz’s exclamation, old Peter and I planted ourselves as firmly as the rocks would permit: the rope was taut between us, and the jerk came on us both as on one man. We held; but the rope broke midway between Taugwalder and Lord Francis Douglas. For a few seconds we saw our companions sliding downwards on their backs and spreading out their hands, endeavouring to save themselves. They passed from our sight uninjured, disappeared one by one, and fell from precipice to precipice on to the Matter-horngletscher below, a distance of nearly 4,000 feet. From the moment the rope broke it was impossible to help them.
So perished our comrades! For the space of half an hour we remained on the spot without moving a single step.
The accident caused headlines and controversy. There were letters to the Times . Queen Victoria demanded of the lord chamberlain why mountaineering couldn’t simply be prohibited by law. Taugwalder was accused of cutting the rope. Whymper defended him against that charge, but leveled others, implying that Taugwalder had deliberately tied himself to Douglas, an inexpert climber, with a weak rope. He also said that the Taugwalders had asked him to say publicly that they had not been paid for guiding, in order to arouse sympathy for them and to stimulate future business. But most damningly, Whymper told the inquest that as they huddled miserably through the long night, the Taugwalders acted so menacingly toward him that he kept his rock and ice ax at the ready. The implicit charge was that they were seeking to increase their notoriety—and guide business—by becoming the only survivors of the first successful ascent of the Matterhorn. Grim stuff.
The two Taugwalders were tainted by the odious charges until Sir Arnold Lunn published an article in the Alpine Journal exonerating them eighty years later. It wasn’t until then, he wrote, that one Swiss confided to him, “Whymper war nicht beliebt in Tal.” (Whymper was not liked in the valley.)
So there you have the dirty little secret of Edward Whymper, Great Man of the Matterhorn: the locals hated his guts.
Sir Arnold wrote, “He was a friendless, and in many ways a pathetic man, and there was little, if anything, admirable about him excepting his mountaineering, but in spite of defects which I have not attempted to conceal, there was something great about the man. Many eminent mountaineers have contributed to the history of the Matterhorn by forcing new routes up its cliffs, but the Matterhorn remains Whymper’s mountain, partly because he himself had something of the indomitable character of that great peak . . . To the end, he remained astonishingly tough. At the age of 62 he walked from Edinburgh to London, averaging 55 miles a day.”
I spent some pleasant hours with Sir Arnold’s book in the little room on the second floor of the Hotel Monte Rosa. There’s a small library in the hall, donated by a New York lady. There I found a reissue of Whymper’s own book, Scrambles Among the Alps (Dover Publications, New York).
After breakfast, Elan and I would
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