When Benham was already seventeen and, as he supposed, hardened against his fear of beasts, his friend Prothero gave him an account of the killing of an old labouring man by a stallion which had escaped out of its stable.The beast had careered across a field, leapt a hedge and come upon its victim suddenly.He had run a few paces and stopped, trying to defend his head with the horse rearing over him.It beat him down with two swift blows of its fore hoofs, one, two, lifted him up in its long yellow teeth and worried him as a terrier does a rat--the poor old wretch was still able to make a bleating sound at that--dropped him, trampled and kicked him as he tried to crawl away, and went on trampling and battering him until he was no more than a bloody inhuman bundle of clothes and mire.
For more than half an hour this continued, and then its animal rage was exhausted and it desisted, and went and grazed at a little distance from this misshapen, hoof-marked, torn, and muddy remnant of a man.No one it seems but a horror-stricken child knew what was happening....
This picture of human indignity tortured Benham's imagination much more than it tortured the teller of the tale.It filled him with shame and horror.For three or four years every detail of that circumstantial narrative seemed unforgettable.A little lapse from perfect health and the obsession returned.He could not endure the neighing of horses: when he saw horses galloping in a field with him his heart stood still.And all his life thereafter he hated horses.
6
A different sort of fear that also greatly afflicted Benham was due to a certain clumsiness and insecurity he felt in giddy and unstable places.There he was more definitely balanced between the hopelessly rash and the pitifully discreet.
He had written an account of a private struggle between himself and a certain path of planks and rock edges called the Bisse of Leysin.
This happened in his adolescence.He had had a bad attack of influenza and his doctor had sent him to a little hotel--the only hotel it was in those days--at Montana in Valais.There, later, when he had picked up his strength, his father was to join him and take him mountaineering, that second-rate mountaineering which is so dear to dons and schoolmasters.When the time came he was ready for that, but he had had his experiences.He had gone through a phase of real cowardice.He was afraid, he confessed, before even he reached Montana; he was afraid of the steepness of the mountains.
He had to drive ten or twelve miles up and up the mountain-side, a road of innumerable hairpin bends and precipitous banks, the horse was gaunt and ugly with a disposition to shy, and he confesses he clutched the side of the vehicle and speculated how he should jump if presently the whole turnout went tumbling over....
"And afterwards I dreamt dreams of precipices.I made strides over precipices, I fell and fell with a floating swiftness towards remote valleys, I was assailed by 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.
