The Alps: A Human History from Hannibal to Heidi and Beyond(7)
In 1816, the weather turned very bad for the English visitors. Several months previously, on the other side of the world, the most powerful volcanic eruption in recorded history—that of Mount Tambora in Indonesia—had launched forty cubic kilometers of debris into the atmosphere. The resulting “Year Without a Summer” brought weeks of torrential rain and terrific electrical storms to the shores of Lake Geneva. Holed up in the villa they shared, the three friends amused themselves by telling each other ghost stories against the phantasmagoric backdrop of tempest, lake, and mountain. Doubtless Byron excelled at scaring the wits out of his friends—“mad, bad and dangerous to know,” a former mistress characterized him—and it was he who suggested that each should compose a lengthy tale of horror for their common edification. Of the three, only Mary held up her end of the bargain and the following year produced a manuscript entitled Frankenstein, or The Modern Prometheus. No matter whether judged sublime or ridiculous, the novel made the mountains even more of a melodramatic dreamscape.
Much of the early action takes place around Lake Geneva, the haunt of the troubled scientist Victor Frankenstein. After fashioning his hideous monster abroad and then fleeing from it in horror, he returns home to Geneva to find that his creation has preceded him there and murdered his younger brother. Distraught, Frankenstein takes to the mountains—and this is significant—to find solace. Of Shelley’s many prose passages devoted to the sublimity of the scientist’s surroundings, one in particular stands out as a sort of manifesto for mountain lovers. The narrator is Victor Frankenstein: The abrupt sides of vast mountains were before me; the icy wall of the glacier overhung me; a few shattered pines were scattered around; and the solemn silence of this glorious presence-chamber of imperial Nature was broken only by the brawling waves, or the fall of some vast fragment, the thunder sound of the avalanche, or the cracking reverberated along the mountains of the accumulated ice, which, through the silent working of immutable laws, was ever and anon rent and torn, as if it had been but a plaything in their hands. These sublime and magnificent scenes afforded me the greatest consolation that I was capable of receiving. They elevated me from all littleness of feeling; and although they did not remove my grief, they subdued and tranquillised it…. I retired to rest at night; my slumbers, as it were, waited on and ministered to by the assemblance of grand shapes which I had contemplated during the day. They congregated round me; the unstained snowy mountain-top, the glittering pinnacle, the pine woods, and ragged bare ravine; the eagle, soaring amidst the clouds—they all gathered round me and bade me be at peace.
Mary Shelley was all of eighteen years old when she wrote those lines. She, along with her times, had come a long way from Goethe’s “zig-zags and irritating silhouettes and shapeless piles of granite.” Frankenstein, although published to mixed reviews, instantly garnered popular success and is now regarded as a pioneering work of Gothic and Romantic literature, as well as an avatar of the science-fiction genre.
I double back from Chillon to take in one last sight in Montreux. The town is dotted with grand old hotels and art boutiques selling all manner of bric-a-brac. I head toward the floral lakeside promenade, through a semipedestrian district, until at last I reach a dead end. An elderly cop is perched on a stool there, indicating that I must turn into an indoor parking lot. I frown and wave him over.
“I just want to take a picture of Freddie,” I plead.
He considers a moment—his job is obviously to prevent people like me from littering the waterfront with automobiles—then notices my muscle car.
Sensing a weakness, I say, “It’s a limited edition.”
He nods and I spring from the car, leaving him to look at it.
In a few steps, I have rounded a corner and confronted the glowering wall of the Alps across the lake once again. I have company. A ten-foot-tall statue of Freddie Mercury, the Tanzanian lead singer of Queen, looks out over the same view. He is no Sisi, disdaining the mountains.
Mercury lived for many years in Montreux and recorded his last album, Made in Heaven, here. I study the monument. Freddie’s left hand grips a mike, while his right forms a fist, pointing skyward defiantly.
I look out at the view, then at the statue. The Alps, then Freddie, then back at the Alps.
It could be the heat, but I have the distinct impression that the singer is egging me on, telling me not to be such a wuss.
I return to the car and bid farewell to the Swiss cop. It is time to drive into the mountains.
2. MONT BLANC
LA ROUTE DES GRANDES ALPES (Great Alpine Road) was traced out in the 1930s. It leaves Thonon-les-Bains, a town on the south shore of Lake Geneva, and winds up and down and up and down southward seven hundred kilometers or so until reaching the Mediterranean resort town of Menton, crossing sixteen passes, including all the tallest ones of the French Alps. It is one of the world’s great drives. I shall be traveling only a portion of it, in the Savoy region, but the passes promise to be very, very high.
Mont Blanc is the destination of this stage of my journey. There is no way it can be ignored, not even from distant Geneva. In some ways, its mammoth white dome announces the disruptive vocation of the Alps, appearing insurmountable, blocking the path for the wayfarer. Mont Blanc and its mountainous siblings merit inspection for the role they have played in human history, creating divisions and fostering differences. I look forward to exploring the sights and sounds of the Alps.