On the next afternoon we started for Montreux intending to remain there about three days. We put up at the Hôtel du Cygne. Our windows opened on Lake Leman bordered by high snow-clad mountains, which lay like a mirror before us. Far away, the jagged summit of La Dent du Midi revealed itself in a dazzling and lovely garb; on the opposite side of the wide lake appeared the shores of France.

The next morning we rode to Chillon where we visited the mediæval castle, historically old and famous. The Château de Chillon stands on a small island which is reached by a bridge. An old guardian produced a large bunch of keys and took us all over the castle, down a labyrinth of mysterious echoing passages with many hidden nooks. It is a place full of thrilling historical associations; to hear the guide talk of the massacres that took place here, made my blood run cold. Down steep, winding steps we followed our guide into the secret chambers where the victims were kept. He brought us into a dungeon where Bonnivard, the famous “Prisoner of Chillon,” endured his weary captivity, chained up to a post three hundred years ago. It has tall columns carved apparently from the rock, inscribed all over with a thousand names beginning with Byron and Victor Hugo. The torture-chamber was also shown to us, where the prisoners, after hideous martyrdom on the bed of tortures, were sentenced to death. We saw the huge stone upon which the victims condemned to death spent their last night. After long tortures to some of them it was announced that they were free, and believing that they were going into liberty, they joyfully descended the three steps which led into a deep pit and fell down upon sharp-pointed daggers. A shiver ran through me when I passed the open square where the gibbet stood, and saw the windows from which the corpses of the executed were thrown right down into the lake. Now we were entering the apartments of the duchesses which opened on the lake, whereat those of their husbands looked into the courtyard. As it appears in olden times also the first place was given to the ladies. Then pushing open a heavy oak door we entered a great vaulted hall paved with stone quarries and adorned with figures of knights in armour, with a monumental granite fire-place at one end. We went out of the gloomy castle as fast as we could, and were glad to be back at peaceful and modern Montreux.

The next day we went out on donkeys for an excursion up in the mountains. We were up very early, drank our tea in a gulp, and were ready to start by seven o’clock. Our long-eared steeds were already at the gates of the hotel, waiting for us; we mounted them and rode towards the mountain called Les Avants. My donkey’s name was La Grise and Sergy’s bore the valiant name of Garibaldi. Though the guide boasted of his donkeys being bien gentils, nevertheless, they had to be harpooned with a pointed stick all the way to make them advance. We were warned that Garibaldi, being a stallion, must not be allowed to walk behind La Grise, who pressed herself amorously to her companion, and stopped at every moment to clip the grass, stooping so low that many a time I nearly came to tumbling over her head. Still my donkey could be stirred up to a gallop, urged by our guide’s stick; but Garibaldi was not true to his name, being very lazy, and every few steps he would stop short, and the guide had to walk at his side so as to keep him on his legs. Sergy, fearing to remain behind, was tugging at the recalcitrant quadruped, but this stubborn little ass was in one of his sulky moods and absolutely would not gallop. As we strolled along, gigantic flies pricked the poor animals, and La Grise strove to kick them off with her hind leg. One can easily imagine how comfortable I felt in my seat. We took three hours to mount to the summit of the mountain; the road was heavy and the heat overwhelming. We made a halt half-way and sat on the grass under the shelter of a great oak and ate the excellent lunch we had brought with us. A brook ran clear and shallow at our feet. The view from here spread on the whole valley of the Rhone, girt out with snow-capped mountains, Lake Leman, Vevey and Clarence. From where we sat we saw the lake on our left through a frame of foliage, and green mountains on our right where sheep were quietly browsing. During our siesta our donkeys were placidly cropping tufts of grass, whilst Garibaldi, being at war with the flies, slapped my umbrella with his tail all the time. We descended to Montreux by a cross-road, following a steep path in the hollow of the rocks.

Next day we started to Chamonix. On reaching Martigny we had to quit the train which was going to Simplon. The journey from here has to be accomplished in a wretched carriage, over precipitous roads and rough ground. A peasant, wearing a blue blouse, offered his patache to us, a battered, shabby-looking vehicle with a prodigious rattling framework, drawn by two sorry-horses. We jolted in our shaky, springless car, bounding over big uneven stones; the sky was laden with black clouds running before the wind, and soon rain began to fall. Whilst we were crossing a village where a group of women were washing their linen in a pond, one of the women, an acquaintance of our charioteer, offered him her blue cotton umbrella, big enough to protect a whole family from the downpour. The road narrowed and became rougher and rougher, the foot passengers even had to scramble on the rocks to give us passage. We began to climb a path lined with precipices winding and twisting through the mountain-passes, and here we met an old grey-haired curate mounted on a donkey, who called out to us saying that there was not much room for us to pass each other, and, in fact, the road was the worst to be met with in a civilized country. When we arrived at the summit of the ascent, we saw a big wooden crucifix standing against the sky and near it stood a pole with a placard stuck to it saying, that one-horse conveyance only could pass in this place; and so one of our horses had to be taken out and attached behind to the carriage.

Towards evening we arrived at Brientz, an Alpine village buried among the hills, at a few minutes’ distance from the very summit of a huge mountain clad with perpetual snow. As it was getting dark and we had still a long way before getting to Chamonix, our charioteer pulled up his horses at the door of a cosy hostelry where we put up for the night. The inn proved to be old-fashioned and clean. We were shown by the inn-keeper into a clean, white-washed room, where supper was offered to us, consisting of cold chicken and eggs. A robust maiden with blooming country cheeks and rather staring eyes, came in and laid the cloth. Directly after supper, I returned to my room and was already in bed when Sergy brought me a glass of fresh foaming milk. The rain had ceased by this time and we breathed the good scent on the pasture grounds coming through the open window. A stream, tumbling its way busily over the rocks, made a never ceasing music of its own, and a jingle of bells came down from the village church ringing for vespers. The nights are chilly at the height of five thousand feet, and this time we were glad to have eider-downs to keep us warm. There was a great storm in the night; it is well our charioteer advised us to stop here. We were out of bed at break of day to resume our journey. The weather promised to be fine, the sun shone brightly. We saw on the verge of a forest a withered old granny bending under the weight of a bundle of twigs and fallen branches that she was bringing home for fuel. As we drove along, whilst our horses were climbing slowly up a steep hill, we encountered a band of children with knapsacks on their backs, climbing up the hill on their way to school. The girls had quill-pens sticking from under their hoods. Sergy spoke to the children and made them a little examination in geography. Their answers were satisfactory, they pointed out on their maps the place where Russia stands and received some coins in recompense. Soon before our eyes, amongst the glittering peaks of the Alps, rose the majestic “Mont Blanc.” Not long after, Chamonix was reached.

We put up at the Hôtel de la Croix-Blanche, facing the chain of the Alps, with “Mont Blanc” showing its snowy cone. On the public square, just opposite the hotel, stands an immense telescope. We took a look through it and saw the top of “Mont Blanc,” brilliant with sunshine. With the naked eye we could dimly make out a house standing by the side of the great glacier and with the telescope we could see a caravan of eleven persons making the great ascent, surrounded by the eternal snows. I had a great wish to follow their example and go up the “Mont Blanc” to enjoy one of the most famous views in the Alps. The weather is most favourable for the ascent just now, and we decided to start on our “Mont Blanc” expedition on the following day. We got up early and equipped ourselves for the expedition, putting on proper mountaineering large nailed boots with heavy soles. Before starting we went through a hurried breakfast in the dining-room, in the company of a French traveller and an individual wearing a blue blouse, very dirty-looking and with a flavour of the stable about him. He appeared to be the charioteer who had brought that traveller from Martigny, and who had his driver at the same table with him. It was horrible to see how that creature half swallowed his knife when he ate. He was very familiar with his passenger and conversed with him as with an equal. Oh, republic! It was time to start on our thrilling mountain expedition. Our mules were led up. As our guide swung me awkwardly into the saddle, my mule “Nini” made a sudden start and I went sprawling full length on the ground. It was an excellent beginning! We followed a narrow track leading to the mountain “Montauvert.” The road now threatened to dwindle into a goat-path. There were only a few inches to spare on each side of the road-shelf. We were surrounded by hideous desolation; a more wild spot it would have been difficult to discover. Everywhere towered the great cliffs, destitute of tree and herbage. The cold increased the higher we got. By and by we seemed to have passed beyond the inhabited zone. The beautiful snows of the Alps towered in all their glory in front of us. An eagle was flying low overhead. Presently we came to the path in the hills which must be ascended on foot. We retained here a special guide with an alpenstock in his hand, an ice-axe in his belt and a coil of rope over one shoulder, and proceeded to the “Mer de Glace.” We passed before a group of huge dogs lying beside a cannon which was fired as usual when the passage of the “Mont Blanc” is about to be undertaken. The sound of the gun resounded a long time like a echo in the mountains. The climb was excessively fatiguing. We were roped to our guide and moved in single file; the guide, nimble as a goat, went in front, I next and Sergy behind. We drove our alpenstocks in the snow, in order to support ourselves; the guide cut steps with his ice-axe with one hand and held me with the other, and as fast as he took his foot out of one of these holes, our feet occupied it. After a quarter-of-an-hour’s climb in the snow desert, we arrived at the “Mer de Glace” and were filled with speechless admiration at the splendid panorama which spread before our eyes. We found ourselves in snow fairy-land. Oh, how high in the air I felt! The large continent of gleaming snow was a spectacle of silent majesty and infinite grandeur. Around us lay vast plains of untouched snow, a wonderful white world! The desert of ice that stretched far and wide about was like a sea whose deep waves had frozen solid. I have never before seen anything so impressive. Though very weary I climbed conscientiously, dragged up by the guide. The waves of ice were slippery and difficult to climb. We took our way across yawning and terrific crevices, up to our waist in snow, running the risk of being precipitated into the abyss. This mode of ascent must surely cool the ardour of the most enthusiastic Alpine climbers. All of a sudden we heard, not far off, the cracking of the ice, and suddenly an avalanche fell a few steps from us with a noise of rolling thunder. We had a near escape, thank God! Rapid torrents produced by the melting of the snows tossed all around us in cascades. I suffered from the so-called mountain sickness, and becoming exhausted with thirst, I stopped kneeling to drink greedily at a crevice from an icy stream; the water was deliciously cold and refreshing, but it was enough to make me catch my death of cold. Overcoming almost unsurmountable difficulties we arrived at the “Mauvais Pas,” the most dangerous part of the ascent, a break-neck path around the face of a precipice of fifty feet. We here had to plant our feet on a piece of rock as large as a cricket ball, on the very edge of a deep precipice and to creep insect-like. This infernal passage well deserves its name, it is really a veritable Dante’s Hell. The road is a mere shelf projecting along bottomless precipices. How to proceed became a puzzle. There was hardly room to stand upon our feet and nothing to hang on by but a thin iron rod to keep one’s equilibrium. I felt a nervous shudder come over me and the guide did not soothe my fears by the cool observation that a false step would send us headlong. I recommend that passage to persons searching for strong emotions. We reached the end of the dangerous passage safely; one last effort and the “Mauvais Pas” was got over. It took more than five hours to overcome all these difficulties. One minute more and I shouldn’t have been able to make another step. At last we reached the “Chapeau,” a sort of inn with a bar, serving as a shelter to Alpine climbers in case of bad weather. We found there a company of old fogies, wearing hideous hats with green veils and blue goggles. They appeared to be awful screws; finding that the milk offered to them was too expensive for their purses, they went themselves to draw water from a spring near-by. Now we began our descent and reached the high road by a short cut, where our guides were waiting for us with our mules. We descended by the valley and had another two hours’ ride before arriving at Chamonix. I was so done up that I could hardly sit in my saddle, and envied our guides, who walked briskly alongside. They invited us to repeat the great ascent on “Mont Blanc” next year, and said that the mountain-sickness which I had felt was just the same as sea-sickness, one gets accustomed to it by repeated practice. Just now there are about 300 guides at Chamonix. They obtain their rank as Alpine guides when they reach the age of twenty-three, and only after having escorted a caravan of tourists, right to the top of “Mont Blanc;” before that they have to undergo a medical inspection, just like recruits.

We had left Chamonix at ten o’clock this morning and it was close upon eight when we were back to the hotel, simply expiring with fatigue and tanned red with the sun. When I looked into the glass I scarcely knew myself. I had no want, no desire except to stretch myself full length in a horizontal line. I stumbled into my bed and was asleep almost before my weary head touched the pillow.

After a night’s rest, we rose refreshed and invigorated; all the hardships of the ascent of the day before were forgotten, and I felt ready to recommence our Alpine exploits and go again mountaineering, but time pressing, we had to go on to Geneva. Our sojourn in the mountains is at an end.

After luncheon we packed ourselves into the huge two-storied diligence named La berline du Mont Blanc, which was to convey us to Geneva. Intrepidly I began the ascent of the steep ladder, of twelve steps, placed against the side of the omnibus. This giant coach, driven by three pairs of horses, contains twenty-five places. The postillon sounded his horn, the driver flourished his long whip, and we started off full speed surrounded by a cloud of dust. We sat higher than the passengers on the top of London ’buses, and I had the feeling as if we were looking out of a window from a house three stories high. We drove for some time along the picturesque sides of the river “Arve,” which twisted like a silver ribbon through the smooth green pastures. The road led up and down a continual succession of hills. The coach soon turned into a woodland. My neighbour, an old lady who indulged in a sweet dose, her drooping head giving abrupt nods back and forward, gave little gasps and woke abruptly when we passed high trees, having to take care of the treacherous topmost branches which scratched our faces. The jolting of the omnibus made me also feel drowsy, but I was soon wakened up by the shouts of little peasant boys and girls who ran behind the diligence barefoot and bareheaded, and importuned us to buy the bouquets of wild flowers which they offered for sale, and fruit laid in baskets fixed to long poles. They continued to run and insisted until they lost breath. At the last station fiery, fretful horses were put to our carriage; before starting they pawed the ground impatiently, tossed their heads and were disposed, in general, to give a great deal of trouble. When we started off at a rattling rate, I heard our coach-driver say to his neighbour that his horses weren’t to be trusted; of course it did not help me to feel safe, especially when we had to drive alongside the railway line, where a passing engine scared our steeds, who bolted and plunged wildly, nearly upsetting our coach. We made a smart entry into Geneva, at full gallop, with a loud jingle of harness-bells.