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Others are kind enough to admit
that there is something genuine in the passion, but put it on a level
with the passion for climbing greased poles. They think it derogatory to
the due dignity of Mont Blanc that he should be used as a greased pole,
and assure us that the true pleasures of the Alps are those which are
within reach of the old and the invalids, who can only creep about
villages and along high-roads. I cannot well argue with such detractors
from what I consider a noble sport. As for the first class, it is
reduced almost to a question of veracity. I say that I enjoy being on
the top of a mountain, or, indeed, halfway up a mountain; that climbing
is a pleasure to me, and would be so if no one else climbed and no one
ever heard of my climbing. They reply that they don't believe it. No
more argument is possible than if I were to say that I liked eating
olives, and some one asserted that I really eat them only out of
affectation. My reply would be simply to go on eating olives; and I hope
the reply of mountaineers will be to go on climbing Alps.


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