The Research Magnificent | Page 9

eagles upon a
perilous ledge that crumbled away and left me clinging by my nails to nothing."
The Bisse of Leysin is one of those artificial water-courses which bring water from some
distant source to pastures that have an insufficient or uncertain supply. It is a little better
known than most because of a certain exceptional boldness in its construction; for a
distance of a few score yards it runs supported by iron staples across the front of a sheer
precipice, and for perhaps half a mile it hangs like an eyebrow over nearly or quite
vertical walls of pine-set rock. Beside it, on the outer side of it, runs a path, which
becomes an offhand gangway of planking at the overhanging places. At one corner,
which gives the favourite picture postcard from Montana, the rocks project so sharply
above the water that the passenger on the gangway must crouch down upon the bending
plank as he walks. There is no hand-hold at all.
A path from Montana takes one over a pine-clad spur and down a precipitous zig-zag
upon the middle of the Bisse, and thither Benham came, fascinated by the very fact that
here was something of which the mere report frightened him. He had to walk across the
cold clear rush of the Bisse upon a pine log, and then he found himself upon one of the
gentler interludes of the Bisse track. It was a scrambling path nearly two feet wide, and
below it were slopes, but not so steep as to terrify. At a vast distance below he saw
through tree-stems and blue haze a twisted strand of bright whiteness, the river that joins
the Rhone at Sion. It looped about and passed out of sight remotely beneath his feet. He
turned to the right, and came to a corner that overhung a precipice. He craned his head
round this corner and saw the evil place of the picture-postcards.
He remained for a long time trying to screw himself up to walk along the jagged six-inch
edge of rock between cliff and torrent into which the path has shrunken, to the sagging
plank under the overhanging rock beyond.
He could not bring himself to do that.
"It happened that close to the corner a large lump of rock and earth was breaking away, a
cleft was opening, so that presently, it seemed possible at any moment, the mass would
fall headlong into the blue deeps below. This impending avalanche was not in my path
along the Bisse, it was no sort of danger to me, but in some way its insecurity gave a final
touch to my cowardice. I could not get myself round that corner."
He turned away. He went and examined the planks in the other direction, and these he
found less forbidding. He crossed one precipitous place, with a fall of twoscore feet or
less beneath him, and found worse ahead. There also he managed. A third place was still
more disagreeable. The plank was worn and thin, and sagged under him. He went along it
supporting himself against the rock above the Bisse with an extended hand. Halfway the
rock fell back, so that there was nothing whatever to hold. He stopped, hesitating whether
he should go back--but on this plank there was no going back because no turning round
seemed practicable. While he was still hesitating there came a helpful intervention.

Behind him he saw a peasant appearing and disappearing behind trees and projecting
rock masses, and coming across the previous plank at a vigorous trot. . . .
Under the stimulus of a spectator Benham got to the end of this third place without much
trouble. Then very politely he stood aside for the expert to go ahead so that he could
follow at his own pace.
There were, however, more difficulties yet to come, and a disagreeable humiliation. That
confounded peasant developed a parental solicitude. After each crossing he waited, and
presently began to offer advice and encouragement. At last came a place where
everything was overhanging, where the Bisse was leaking, and the plank wet and slippery.
The water ran out of the leak near the brim of the wooden channel and fell in a long
shivering thread of silver. THERE WAS NO SOUND OF ITS FALL. It just fell--into a
void. Benham wished he had not noted that. He groaned, but faced the plank; he knew
this would be the slowest affair of all.
The peasant surveyed him from the further side.
"Don't be afraid!" cried the peasant in his clumsy Valaisian French, and returned,
returning along the plank that seemed quite sufficiently loaded without him, extending a
charitable hand.
"Damn!" whispered Benham, but he took the hand.
Afterwards, rather ignobly, he tried to explain in his