Little things like this show how slowly time has marched in these lake towns of northern Italy.

The cool fragrance of early morning filled the air when we waved _addio_ to our _padrone_ and followed the curves of the sh.o.r.e toward Como at the end of the lake. There is much in favor of an early start before the heat begins to quiver above the road and the air to resemble a continuous cloud of dust. Every foot of the way was interesting. There were bright-colored villas half smothered in vines; crumbling bell towers flung their shadows across our path; dizzy cliffs hung above us; the lake was constantly within view.

At one of the turns a bicycle rider shot by. We missed him by an inch. He was followed by many others, scattered over the distance of a mile. They were all riding recklessly, rounding the corners at top speed and with heads bent low over the handle bars. Different numbers were pinned on their backs. This was evidently a long-distance bicycle race.

It was nerve racking to meet so many curves and not to know whether the riders would pa.s.s us on the right or on the left. There is no fixed rule of the road in Italy. In towns having a tram, one turns to the left.

Southern Italy is still more confusing, since each town has its own rule. In Como we motored down two or three streets before finally discovering, after many inquiries, the road running northward to Aosta in the Italian Alps.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Italian villas on Lake Como_

Copyright by Underwood & Underwood]

We regretted our last glimpse of the lake. Instead of hazy mountains, blue sparkling waters, red sails, and pretty villas, the scenery changed to flat, uninteresting country. Novara was reached by noon, its streets baking in the fierce August sun. At the Hotel Italia the flies covered table and dishes. The menu card presented difficulties; it was written in a very illegible Italian. We guessed at most of the courses, but macaroni was the only dish of which we were sure. But our plight was not quite so discouraging as that of another motorist who found that for three of his courses he had ordered eggs cooked in three different ways.

The early afternoon was so hot that we had thought of taking a siesta, but soon gave up the idea. There were too many flies. The inmates of the garage were all fast asleep, and the two blinking men whom we aroused could not conceal their surprise at our unseasonable departure.

Once out in the country, the dust invaded and pervaded everything. It was real Italian dust, that sifted into us and all but blinded us. The heat was terrific. For fear of bursting a tire, we halted in a drowsy village to let the car cool off under a shady chestnut tree. As if by magic, a score of dirty, ragged Italian children surrounded us, and begged for _centesimi_. We threw them a few coppers, but this vision of riches only served to redouble the clamor. Flight seemed the only price of tranquillity.

A little way outside the village, a cloud rolled swiftly toward us. The motor car did not appear to be much more than a cloud when it pa.s.sed us, so thick was the dust. If there is anything hotter or dustier than an Italian highway on the third of August, we do not wish to see it. The drivers of most of the small carts were curled up, content to let the patient mule take its own pace, provided their siesta was undisturbed.

The shrill call of our horn often caused them to move a little; there would be a slight twitching of the reins, and then they would relax again into slumber. The mule never changed its course.

Beyond Ivrea the country became more rolling and broken, and the Alps, which an hour before had appeared as blue, shadowy cloud ma.s.ses, now lifted bold, distinct outlines. This contrast in scenery was as abrupt as it was impressive. Perhaps it was a ruined castle perched like an eagle's nest amid high crags. Within the same view, the eye beheld the vineyards, not planted in the usual manner of row above row, but arbor above arbor, supported by white stone pillars, and these arbors rising to the very summit of lofty hills.

The road which had been winding and rising above the magnificent valley of Aosta now ran into a level stretch. We had opened wide the throttle, when all at once a motor car flashed around a curve two hundred yards ahead of us. An officer in the back seat waved to attract our attention, and kept pointing back to the curve. The warning was just in time, for as we waited within the shadow of the bend, another motor car shot at racing speed around the curve. She was a French racer. There had been no warning shriek of her horns; the road was so narrow at this point that a collision could hardly have been avoided without that precious second of warning.

Every year in Europe reckless driving causes more accidents than all the steep roads of the Alps. This is the chief danger of motoring on the Continent. The roads are so good that there is the constant temptation to disregard the still small voice of prudence.

The old Roman town of Aosta was in sight. This "Rome of the Alps" is a perfect treasure house of antiquities. Pa.s.sing under ancient Roman arches, we rode down the quaint main streets to the Hotel Royal Victoria, situated, according to our _Michelin Guide_, "_pres de la gare_." The hotel, although small, was clean. This fact of cleanliness speaks much for any hotel located in a small Italian town.

Our morning promenade revealed much that was interesting. The middle of some of the streets was traversed by a mountain stream, the above-ground sewage system of Aosta. It was curious to notice how a part of the ancient Roman theater had become the supporting wall of a crowded tenement house. Aosta remains to-day almost undiscovered to the American tourist world. Yet there are few places where antiquity speaks more vividly. The market place was a scene of activity. This is the starting point for the crossing of the Pet.i.t St. Bernard pa.s.s. Here tourists were climbing into large excursion automobiles, and German mountain climbers were setting out, well equipped with long, iron-pointed poles, ice picks, ropes, and heavy spiked shoes for their battle with snow and ice.

It was ideal weather for our second conquest of the Alps over the Pet.i.t St. Bernard, which is closed eight months out of the year. While very dangerous in places, the pa.s.s is free from the restrictions which the motorist finds on the Simplon. There, one has to give notice in writing of intention to cross. It is also necessary to pay five francs for a permit. The speed limit of six miles an hour is rigidly enforced.

Nevertheless, as one experienced motorist told us, if the Simplon pa.s.s compels a speed of six miles an hour on the straight course, and one and three-fourths miles at the curves, the Pet.i.t St. Bernard ought to have a special speed-limit of three miles an hour on the straight and two guards at every corner. Except the Stelvio, there is probably not a more difficult mountain pa.s.s in Europe.

We left Aosta to its memories of Roman days, threaded for some distance the tortuous windings of the Val d'Aosta, and crossed the Pont de la Salle above a high gorge. Near the ancient village of Pre St. Didier a rocky tunnel buried us temporarily from the outer world. Here the ascent began, and continued for some miles to La Thuile, the Italian _dogana_. As we climbed out of the valley the panorama included a sublime view of Mont Blanc, highest of the Alps.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Above the Val d'Aosta_

Copyright by Underwood & Underwood]

At La Thuile, two Frenchmen, about to make the ascent on motor cycles, cautioned us about the dangers of the climb. The customhouse officials were unusually affable, and were delighted to be included in a group picture. Then the long climb of six miles to the summit began to reveal dangers and difficulties. One sharp curve followed another. We soon overtook the French motor cyclists. They were walking, having found the ascent too steep. It was thrilling to be able to look down into the sunshine and fertility of Italy and then to observe the barren world of rock and snow into which we had risen. The engine proved equal to the severe test. We used the same tactics which were so successful on the Stelvio, keeping the same pace until the summit was gained, where we let the car rest near the world-famous Hospice du Pet.i.t St. Bernard. Other cars had halted in succession, having made the ascent from the French side _en tour_ to Italy.

There was missing one interesting personality who had greeted visitors to the _hospice_ in other years, the Abbe Chanoux, for fifty years rector of the _hospice_ and the last patriarch of that legendary region of the Alps. The _hospices_ of the Grand St. Bernard, and of the Simplon in Swiss territory, are managed by priests, but the Abbe Chanoux reigned alone in his mountain hospital, a.s.sisted by a few helpers and by his dogs. For half a century it was always a joy, when he saw some traveler less hurried than the others, to offer him a gla.s.s of _muscat_ in his workshop and then, after having shown his garden of Alpine plants, to point out the shortest road to La Thuile. To-day the tourist can see the Alpine garden and the grave where, at the age of eighty-one years, Abbe Chanoux was buried. The resting place is where he wished it to be, in view of Italy, France, Mont Blanc, and his beloved _hospice_.

Just beyond the _hospice_ is a Roman column of rough marble bearing the statue of St. Bernard. One also sees, close by, a circle of large stones marking the spot where Hannibal is supposed to have held a council of war. A simple slab by the roadside designates the boundary line between Italy and France. As if to emphasize the fact that we were in France, a group of French soldiers were on duty close to the frontier. The cuisine of the restaurant Belvedere, with its attractive _carte du jour_, took us into the real atmosphere of the country.

The descent of nearly eighteen miles from the summit to the French _douane_ at Seez, was like pa.s.sing from mid-winter to mid-summer. What a superb stretch of motoring it was! The panorama, one of those marvelous masterpieces which nature rarely spreads before the eyes even of fortunate motorists! From our point of observation, on a level with the ice peaks, we could look for miles down into the plains of Savoy. Mont Blanc glistened like burnished silver. We could trace the mountain streams from their cradle in the glacier to their wild leaping from cascade to cascade and to the more peaceful flow through the valley.

Pine forests mantled the lower part of the mountain.

Ignition was cut off, and the car left to her own momentum. The grades were much steeper than on the Italian slope, and the curves without railing or protection of any kind. The slightest carelessness in steering would have been fatal. Flowers and gra.s.s began to cover the meadows. Pine forests surrounded us. Then we entered on the long, sharp descent to Seez, stopping at the _douane_ where the French officials came out to receive us.

The following incident will sound almost too incredible even to be included in a story of motor experiences. There was a small duty to be paid on the gasoline which we were carrying. Our wealth consisted of American express checks, a few Italian coins, and some French change, insufficient by twenty _centimes_ to pay the duty. One of the officials advanced the twenty _centimes_ from his own pocket, thus saving us the inconvenience of trying to cash the express checks somewhere in the town. We wished to "snap" his picture, but his modesty was too great. He also refused the Italian coins which we tried to press upon him as a souvenir of the occasion. One a.s.sociates customhouse officials with so many things that are unpleasant, that the incident naturally made a great impression on us.

Our difficulties were by no means over. The winding road with its sharp grades required the greatest caution. Near the Pont St. Martin it appeared to run straight over a precipice, and then turned sharply to the right. This was the place where only a few weeks later an American party suffered a terrible accident. Their machine swerved while making the slippery turn, and fell nearly seventy feet among the rocks.

For a distance of seventeen miles from Bourg St. Maurice to Mouthiers the road was in an appalling condition, any speed over ten miles an hour being at the risk of breaking the springs. A railroad was being constructed, and the heavy teams had raised havoc. We were creeping through this traffic, when the sudden halt of the wagon in front compelled us to stop. Two big teams, drawing stone, closed in on either side. The drivers, intent only on looking ahead, did not notice that their heavy wheels were in danger of smashing the car. We finally attracted their attention, but barely in time to avoid trouble. From Albertville our course was over the splendid Nationale, which runs from Paris to Italy.

It is always a pleasant experience to motor on these famous highways, to observe the governmental system of tree planting, and to study what trees have been found most suitable in certain regions to protect the road and the traveler. The ornamental horse chestnut and maple greeted us most often in the small towns of eastern and northern France. Long rows of plane trees formed one of the familiar and beautiful sights of Provence. We often saw these trees fringing the fields to give shelter and protection from the blasts of the mistral. It was also interesting to notice how fruit trees have in many places replaced forest trees along the road. These national highways, so much improved by Napoleon, were for us like open books for the study of the French trees.

It has been well noted that "while the state has the right to plant along the national roads, at any distance it pleases from the adjoining property, it exercises this right with judicious moderation and leaves, as a rule, two meters--six and one-half feet--between the trees and the outside edge of the roadway.

"Tree planting is let in small contracts, sometimes as low as five thousand francs apiece. The object of this is to promote compet.i.tion and to attract specialists, such as gardeners and nurserymen, who are hardly likely to have the means for undertaking large contracts.

"Government inspectors see that the contractor plants well-formed trees, free from disease and in every way first cla.s.s.

"As the best planting season is short, a fine is imposed for every day's delay. When the contractor gets his pay, a certain sum is retained as a guarantee; and for two years he is responsible for the care of the trees and for the replacing of any that died or that proved defective. The sum held back until the final acceptance of his work, protects the government from danger of loss."[3]

[3] From "French Roads and their Trees," by J. J. Conway, in _Munsey's Magazine_ for October, 1913.

There was no hurry about reaching Chambery, our headquarters for the night. The distance of a few miles could easily be covered before dark, so we halted for a little while by the roadside. The car was in remarkably good condition after the tremendous strain of the day's ride.

Dimly, in the distance, towered the snow-clad heights where we had been motoring only a short time before. By thus tarrying a while we enjoyed dazzling retrospect, present beauty, and alluring prospect.

A big Peugot tore by. These wide, smooth highways of crushed stone invite speed. There is a speed limit of eighteen miles in the open country, but it has long been a dead letter. The French system is to allow the motorist to choose his own pace, but to make him fully responsible for accidents. By thus heavily penalizing careless driving, the law works to develop the driver's discretion and does not impose farcical speed limits. This absence of burdensome regulations eliminates an endless amount of friction, and is one of many conditions in France which have contributed to the pleasure and comfort of foreign motorists.

Now we were in Savoy, celebrated for its mountain scenery, its lakes, and curious peasant villages. There was a home feeling in our return to this beautiful French province, for we had motored here a previous summer. Many a delightful motor ramble was a.s.sociated with the names of Chamonix, at the foot of Mont Blanc; Evian-les-Bains, on Lake Geneva; Annecy, on the lake of the same name, that quaint city which so charmed the Prince of Wales, a few years ago, with its arcaded, winding streets and old-world charm; Aix-les-Bains, the noted and popular watering place; and there, only a few miles away, Chambery, historic city of the dukes of Savoy and of the kings of Italy. It was fine to see that same blue atmosphere about us again, and, above all, to think that for weeks our motor wanderings were to be in France, the one country on the continent of Europe where an American can feel most at home, and where the motorist can find, amid diversity of scenery, a provincial life charming alike for its hospitality and old-fashioned customs. Riding through the twilight to Chambery, we hunted up the Hotel de France.

This hotel could hardly have been described as luxurious, but it was comfortable, as are most of the hotels in the provinces.

The chief interest of Chambery centers about the Rue des Arcades. At one end of the arcaded street is the curious Fontaine des Elephants. This monument, on four bronze elephants, is dedicated "to the Comte de Boigne, who settled here after his romantic life of soldiering in India and bestowed much of the fruit of the paG.o.da-tree upon the town." At the other end of the street are the high, ma.s.sive walls which protect the chateau where the dukes of Savoy lived and where some of the kings of Italy were born. There is little enough to recall the glamour and glitter of those proud days. The city, with its more prosaic emblems of civil and military authority, now occupies the chateau.

CHAPTER IV

A VISIT TO LYONS

At Chambery we interrupted our trip through southern France to visit Lyons, the center of the silk industry not only for France but for the entire world. For once, we traveled by train. There is an element of strain about mountain motoring which is as severe upon driver as upon car. A diversion is not only welcome but almost necessary to the motorist who has twice guided his car over the Alps within the short s.p.a.ce of a few days. The exhilaration of looking down into France or Italy from the summit of the Alps does not lessen the dangers of the long descent, where for considerable stretches every foot of the way is crowded with possibilities of accident.

Lyons, while usually overlooked by the vast army of summer tourists, holds, in many respects, a unique place among the world's great cities.

We would speak of its magnificent location upon two rivers, the rapid Rhone and the sluggish Saone; of the twenty-seven bridges that cross them; of the many miles of tree-lined quays, which hold back the spring floods and offer a lovely promenade to the people. No one who has seen Lyons will forget how the houses rise in picturesque confusion, tier piled above tier, to the heights of Fauviere, where some of the Roman emperors lived centuries ago, and where, on the site of the old Roman forum, stands a beautiful church, overlooking the city and embracing one of the views of Europe of which one never tires. On a clear day the Alps are visible, and the snows of Mont Blanc, and just outside the city one can see the two rivers uniting in their sweep to the Mediterranean.

Lyons is a military stronghold. Its prominence as a manufacturing and railroad center indicates, of course, its great strategic importance.

Seventeen forts guard the hills around the city. The army is much in evidence. This constant coming and going of the French soldiers gives much color and animation to the street scenes. Everyone is impressed by the cuira.s.siers. They are powerfully built and look so effective, like real soldiers who could uphold the traditions of Napoleon's time, and who would feel much more at home on the battle field than at an afternoon tea. We saw the Zouaves, in their huge, baggy red _pantalons_ and with their faces tanned by exposure to the tropical sun of Algeria.

Their red caps reminded us of the Turkish fez.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _The Rhone at Lyons_ _Page 65_

Copyright by Underwood & Underwood]

The Place des Terraux, peaceful enough to-day with its busy shops and clouds of white doves, witnessed many a tragic spectacle of the French Revolution. The guillotine stood in the center of the square. Lyons, always royalist in its sympathies, was one of the first cities to raise the standard of revolt against the excesses of the revolutionists in Paris. The consequences of this act were fatal and terrible. The Reign of Terror in Paris was surpa.s.sed by the more gruesome reign of terror in Lyons. An army was sent against the city, which was finally captured, after a desperate resistance. "Then the convention resolved to inflict an unheard-of punishment; it ordered the destruction of a part of the city and the erection on the ruins of a pillar, with the inscription, 'Lyons waged war with liberty; Lyons is no more.'"[4]