In the Salle à manger they met with a miscellaneous assortment1 of tourists. These, of whom there were above thirty, varied2 not only as to size and feature, but as to country and experience. There were veteran Alpine3 men—steady, quiet, bronzed-looking fellows, some of them—who looked as if they had often “attacked” and conquered the most dangerous summits, and meant to do so again. There were men, and women too, from England, America, Germany, France, and Russia. Some had been at Chamouni before, and wore the self-possessed air of knowledge; others had obviously never been there before, and were excited. Many were full of interest and expectation, a few, chiefly very young men, wore a blasé, half-pitiful, half-patronising air, as though to say, “that’s right, good people, amuse yourselves with your day-dreams while you may. We have tried a few weeks of this sort of thing, and have done a summit or two; in imagination we have also been up Mont Blanc and Monte Rosa, and the Matterhorn, and a few of the Hymalaya peaks, and most of the mountains in the moon, and several of the fixed4 stars, and—haw—are now rather boa–ord with it all than otherwise!” There were men who had done much and who said little, and men who had done little and who spoke5 much. There were “ice-men” who had a desire to impart their knowledge, and would-be ice-men who were glad to listen. Easy-going men and women there were, who flung the cares of life behind them, and “went in,” as they said, for enjoyment6; and who, with abounding7 animal spirits, a dash of religious sentiment, much irrepressible humour and fun, were really pleasant objects to look at, and entertaining companions to travel with. Earnest men and women there were, too, who gathered plants and insects, and made pencil-sketches and water-colour drawings during their rambles8 among mountains and valleys, and not a few of whom chronicled faithfully their experiences from day to day. There was a Polish Count, a tall, handsome, middle-aged9, care-worn, anxious-looking man, who came there, apparently10 in search of health, and who was cared for and taken care of by a dark-eyed little daughter. This daughter was so beautiful, that it ought to have made the Count well—so thought most of the young men—simply to look at her! There was a youthful British Lord, who had come to “do” Mont Blanc and a few other peaks. He was under charge of a young man of considerable experience in mountaineering, whose chief delight seemed to be the leading of his charge to well-known summits by any other and more difficult tracks than the obvious and right ones, insomuch that Lewis Stoutley, who had a tendency to imprudent remark, said in his hearing that he had heard of men who, in order to gain the roof of a house, preferred to go up by the waterspout rather than the staircase. There was an artist, whom Lewis—being, as already observed, given to insolence—styled the mad artist because he was enthusiastic in his art, galvanic in his actions, and had large, wild eyes, with long hair, and a broad-brimmed conical hat. Besides these, there was a Russian Professor, who had come there for purposes of scientific investigation11, and a couple of German students, and a Scotch12 man of letters, whose aim was general observation, and several others, whose end was simply seeing the world.
In the arrangements of the table, Captain Wopper found himself between Emma Gray and the Polish Count, whose name was Horetzki. Directly opposite to him sat Mrs Stoutley, having her son Lewis on her right, and Dr Lawrence on her left. Beside the Count sat his lovely little daughter Nita, and just opposite to her was the mad artist. This arrangement was maintained throughout the sojourn13 of the various parties during their stay at Chamouni. They did, indeed, shift their position as regarded the table, according to the arrival or departure of travellers, but not in regard to each other.
Now it is an interesting, but by no means surprising fact, that Cupid planted himself in the midst of this party, and, with his fat little legs, in imminent14 danger of capsizing the dishes, began to draw his bow and let fly his arrows right and left. Being an airy sprite, though fat, and not at any time particularly visible, a careless observer might have missed seeing him; but to any one with moderate powers of observation, he was there, straddling across a dish of salad as plain as the salt-cellar before Captain Wopper’s nose. His deadly shafts15, too, were visibly quivering in the breasts of Lewis Stoutley, George Lawrence, and the mad artist. Particularly obvious were these shafts in the case of the last, who was addicted16 to gazing somewhat presumptuously17 on “lovely woman” in general, from what he styled an artistic18 point of view—never from any other point of view; of course not.
Whether or not Cupid had discharged his artillery19 at the young ladies, we cannot say, for they betrayed no evidence of having been wounded. In their case, he must either have missed his aim, or driven his shafts home with such vigour20, that they were buried out of sight altogether in their tender hearts. It is probable that not one member of that miscellaneous company gave a thought at that time to the wounded men, except the wounded men themselves, so absorbing is the love of food! The wounded were, however, sharp-set in all respects. They at once descried21 each other’s condition, and, instead of manifesting sympathy with each other, were, strange to say, filled with intense jealousy22. This at least is true of the younger men. Lawrence, being somewhat older, was more secretive and self-possessed.
At first Captain Wopper, having declined a dish of cauliflower because it was presented alone, and having afterwards accepted a mutton chop alone, with feelings of poignant23 regret that he had let the cauliflower go by, was too busy to observe what the heathen-mythological youngster was doing. Indeed, at most times, the said youngster might have discharged a whole quiver of arrows into the Captain’s eyes without his being aware of the attack; but, at the present time, the Captain, as the reader is aware, was up to the eyes in a plot in which Cupid’s aid was necessary; he had, as it were, invoked24 the fat child’s presence. When, therefore, he had got over the regrets about the cauliflower, and had swallowed the mutton-chop, he began to look about him—to note the converse25 that passed between the young men, and the frequent glances they cast at the young women.
It was not the first time that the Captain had, so to speak, kept his weather-eye open in regard to the affection which he had made up his mind must now have been awakened26 in the breasts of George Lawrence and Emma Gray; but hitherto his hopes, although sanguine27, had not received encouragement. Though polite and respectful to each other, they were by no means tender; altogether, they acted quite differently from what the Captain felt that he would have done in similar circumstances. A suspicion had even crossed the poor seaman28’s mind that Emma was in love with her handsome and rattling29 cousin Lewis; but anxiety on this head was somewhat allayed30 by other and conflicting circumstances, such as occasional remarks by Lewis, to the effect that Emma was a goose, or a pert little monkey, or that she knew nothing beyond house-keeping and crochet31, and similar compliments. Now, however, in a certain animated32 conversation between Lawrence and Emma, the designing seaman thought he saw the budding of his deep-laid plans, and fondly hoped ere long to behold33 the bud developed into the flower of matrimony. Under this conviction he secretly hugged himself, but in the salon34, that evening, he opened his arms and released himself on beholding35 the apparently fickle36 Lawrence deeply engaged in converse with the Count Horetzki, to whose pretty daughter, however, he addressed the most of his remarks.
The Captain, being a blunt honest, straightforward37 man, could not understand this state of matters, and fell into a fit of abstracted perplexity on the sofa beside Mrs Stoutley, who listened listlessly to the Russian Professor as he attempted to explain to her and Emma the nature of a glacier38.
“Well, I don’t understand it at all,” said Mrs Stoutley, at the end of one of the Professor’s most lucid39 expositions.
We may remark, in passing, that the Professor, like many of his countrymen, was a good linguist40 and spoke English well.
“Not understand it!” he exclaimed, with a slight elevation41 of his eyebrows42. “My dear madam, it is most plain, but I fear my want of good English does render me not quite intelligible43.”
“Your English is excellent,” replied Mrs Stoutley, with a smile, “but I fear that my brain is not a sufficiently44 clear one on such matters, for I confess that I cannot understand it. Can you, Captain Wopper?”
“Certainly not, ma’am,” answered the Captain, thinking of the fickle Lawrence; “it takes the wind out of my sails entirely45.”
“Indeed!” said the Professor. “Well, do permit me to try again. You understand that all the mountain-tops and elevated plateaus, for many miles around here, are covered with ice and snow.”
“Oh!” exclaimed the Captain, awaking to the fact that his answer was not relevant; “may I ax what is the particular pint46 that puzzles you, ma’am?”
Emma laughed aloud at this, and coughed a little to conceal47 the fact. She was rather easily taken by surprise with passing touches of the ludicrous, and had not yet acquired the habit of effectually suppressing little explosions of undertoned mirth.
“The thing that puzzles me,” said Mrs Stoutley, “is, that glaciers48 should flow, as I am told they do, and yet that they should be as hard and brittle49 as glass.”
“Ah, well, yes, just so, h’m!” said the Captain, looking very wise; “that is exactly the pint that I want to know myself; for no man who looks at the great tongue of that glacier day Bossung—”
“Des Bossons,” said the Professor, with a bland50 smile.
“Day Bossong,” repeated the Captain, “can deny that it is marked with all the lines, and waves, an eddies51 of a rollin’ river, an’ yet as little can they deny that it seems as hard-and-fast as the rock of Gibraltar.”
The Professor nodded approvingly.
“You are right, Captain Whipper—”
“Wopper,” said the Captain, with a grave nod.
“Wopper,” repeated the Professor, “the glacier des Bossons, like all the other glaciers, seems to remain immovable, though in reality it flows—ever flows—downward; but its motion is so slow, that it is not perceptible to the naked eye. Similarly, the hour-hand of a watch is to appearance motionless. Do you want proof? Mark it just now; look again in quarter of an hour, and you see that it has moved. You are convinced. It is so with the glacier. Mark him to-day, go back to-morrow—the mark has changed. Some glaciers flow at the rate of two and three feet in the twenty-four hours.”
“Yes, but how do they flow, being so brittle?” demanded Mrs Stoutley.
“Ay, that’s the pint, Professor,” said the Captain, nodding, “how do they flow, bein’ made of hard and brittle ice?”
“Why, by rolling higgledy-piggledy over itself of course,” said Lewis, flippantly, as he came up and sat down on the end of the sofa, being out of humour with himself and everybody in consequence of having utterly52 failed to gain the attention of Nita Horetzki, although he had made unusually earnest efforts to join in conversation with her father. Owing to somewhat similar feelings, the artist had flung himself into a chair, and sat glaring at the black fireplace with a degree of concentration that ought to have lighted the firewood therein.
“The cause of a glacier flowing,” said the Professor, “has long been a disputed point. Some men of science have held that it is the pressure of ice and snow behind it which causes it to flow. They do not think that it flows like water, but say it is forced from behind, and crushed through gorges53 and down valleys, as it were, unwillingly54. They say that, if left alone, as they now are, without additions, from this time forward, glaciers would no longer move; they would rest, and slowly melt away; that their motion is due to the fact that there are miles and miles of snow-fields, thousands of feet deep, on the mountain-tops and in the gorges, to which fresh snows are added every winter, so that the weight of what is behind, slipping off the slopes and falling from the cliffs, crushes down and forward that which is below; thus glaciers cannot choose but advance.”
“Ay, ay,” said the Captain, “no doubt no doubt that may be so; but why is it that, bein’ as brittle as glass, a glacier don’t come rumblin’ and clatterin’ down the valleys in small hard bits, like ten thousand millions of smashed-up chandeliers?”
“Ay, there’s the rub,” exclaimed Lewis; “what say you to that?”
“Ha!” exclaimed the Professor, again smiling blandly55, “there you have touched what once was, and, to some philosophers it seems, still is, the great difficulty. By some great men it has been held that glacier ice is always in a partially56 soft, viscid, or semi-fluid condition, somewhat like pitch, so that, although apparently a solid, brittle, and rigid57 body, it flows sluggishly58 in reality. Other philosophers have denied this theory, insisting that the ice of glaciers is not like pitch, but like glass, and that it cannot be squeezed without being broken, nor drawn60 without being cracked. These philosophers have discovered that when ice is subjected to great pressure it melts, and that, when the pressure is removed, the part so melted immediately freezes again—hence the name regelation, or re-freezing, is given to the process. Thus a glacier, they say, is in many places being continually melted and continually and instantaneously re-frozen, so that it is made to pass through narrow gorges, and to open out again when the enormous pressure has been removed. But this theory of regelation, although unquestionably true, and although it exercises some influence on glacier motion, does not, in my opinion, alone account for it. The opinion which seems to be most in favour among learned men—and that which I myself hold firmly—is, the theory of the Scottish Professor Forbes, namely, that a glacier is a semi-fluid body, it is largely impregnated throughout its extent with water, its particles move round and past each other—in other words, it flows in precisely61 the same manner as water, the only difference being that it is not quite so fluid; it is sluggish59 in its flow, but it certainly models itself to the ground over which it is forced by its own gravity, and it is only rent or broken into fragments when it is compelled to turn sharp angles, or to pass over steep convex slopes. Forbes, by his careful measurements and investigations62, proved incontestably that in some glaciers the central portion travelled down its valley at double or treble the rate of its sides, without the continuity of the mass being broken. In small masses, indeed, glacier-ice is to all appearance rigid, but on a large scale it is unquestionably ductile63.”
“Has the theory of regelation been put to the proof?” asked Lewis, with a degree of interest in glaciers which he had never before felt.
“It has,” answered the Professor. “An experimentalist once cut a bar of solid ice, like to a bar of soap in form and size, from a glacier. To this an iron weight of several pounds was suspended by means of a very fine wire, which was tied round the bar. The pressure of the wire melted the ice under it; as the water escaped it instantly re-froze above the wire; thus the wire went on cutting its way through the bar, and the water went on freezing, until at last the weight fell to the ground, and left the bar as solid and entire as if it had never been cut.”
“Well, now,” said Captain Wopper, bringing his hand down on his thigh64 with a slap that did more to arouse Mrs Stoutley out of her languor65 than the Professor’s lecture on glacier ice, “I’ve sailed round the world, I have, an’ seen many a strange sight, and what I’ve got to say is that I’ll believe that when I see it.”
“You shall see it soon then, I hope,” said the Professor, more blandly than ever, “for I intend to verify this experiment along with several others. I go to the Mer de Glace, perhaps as far as the Jardin, to-morrow. Will you come?”
“What may the Jardang be?” asked the Captain.
“Hallo! monkey, what’s wrong?” said Lewis to Emma, referring to one of the undertoned safety-valves before mentioned.
“Nothing,” replied Emma, pursing her little lips till they resembled a cherry.
“The Jardin, or garden,” said the Professor, “is a little spot of exquisite66 beauty in the midst of the glaciers, where a knoll67 of green grass and flowers peeps up in the surrounding sterility68. It is one of the regular excursions from Chamouni.”
“Can ladies go?” asked Lewis.
“Young and active ladies can,” said the Professor, with his blandest69 possible smile, as he bowed to Emma.
“Then, we’ll all go together,” cried Lewis, with energy.
“Not all,” said Mrs Stoutley, with a sigh, “I am neither young nor active.”
“Nonsense, mother, you’re quite young yet, you know, and as active as a kitten when you’ve a mind to be. Come, we’ll have a couple of porters and a chair to have you carried when you knock up.”
Notwithstanding the glowing prospects70 of ease and felicity thus opened up to her, Mrs Stoutley resolutely71 refused to go on this excursion, but she generously allowed Emma to go if so disposed. Emma, being disposed, it was finally arranged that, on the following day, she, the Captain, Lewis, and Lawrence, with Gillie White as her page, should proceed up the sides of Mont Blanc with the man of science, and over the Mer de Glace to the Jardin.
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1
assortment
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| n.分类，各色俱备之物，聚集 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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abounding
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| adj.丰富的，大量的v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的现在分词 ) | |
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rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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presumptuously
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| adv.自以为是地，专横地，冒失地 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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descried
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| adj.被注意到的，被发现的，被看到的 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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invoked
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| v.援引( invoke的过去式和过去分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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seaman
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| n.海员，水手，水兵 | |
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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allayed
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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crochet
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| n.钩针织物；v.用钩针编制 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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glacier
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| n.冰川，冰河 | |
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lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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linguist
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| n.语言学家；精通数种外国语言者 | |
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elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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glaciers
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| 冰河，冰川( glacier的名词复数 ) | |
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brittle
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| adj.易碎的；脆弱的；冷淡的；(声音)尖利的 | |
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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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eddies
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| （水、烟等的）漩涡，涡流( eddy的名词复数 ) | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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gorges
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| n.山峡，峡谷( gorge的名词复数 )；咽喉v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的第三人称单数 )；作呕 | |
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unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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sluggishly
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| adv.懒惰地；缓慢地 | |
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sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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investigations
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| （正式的）调查( investigation的名词复数 )； 侦查； 科学研究； 学术研究 | |
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ductile
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| adj.易延展的，柔软的 | |
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thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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knoll
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| n.小山，小丘 | |
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68
sterility
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| n.不生育，不结果，贫瘠，消毒，无菌 | |
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blandest
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| adj.（食物）淡而无味的( bland的最高级 )；平和的；温和的；无动于衷的 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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