THE LONG TRAIL ENDS
It was not until near the end of October that we decided to go. We had
planned to remain for another winter, but the aspect of things did not
improve as the weeks passed. With nine tenths of Europe at war and the
other tenth drilling, there was a lack of repose beneath the outward
calm, even of Vevey. In the midst of so many nervous nations, to linger
until spring might be to remain permanently.
Furthermore, our occupations were curtailed. Automobiles were
restricted, the gasoline supply cut off. The streets had a funereal
look. I was told that I could get a special permit to use the car, but
as our gasoline supply consisted of just about enough to take us over
the Simplon Pass into Italy, we decided to conserve it for that purpose.
The pass closes with the first big snow, usually the 15th of October.
The presence of many soldiers there would keep it open this year a
little longer. It could not be risked, however, later than the end of
the month.
We debated the matter pretty constantly, for the days of opportunity
were wasting. We wasted ten of them making a little rail and pedestrian
trip around Switzerland, though in truth those ten glorious days of
October tramping along the lakes and through the hills are not likely
to be remembered as really wasted by any of us. When we returned I got a
military pass to take the car out of Switzerland, but it was still
another week before we packed our heavy baggage and shipped it to Genoa.
We were a fair example of any number of families, no longer enthralled
by Europe and not particularly needed at home. I think hesitation must
have nearly killed some people.
It was the 27th of October--a perfect morning--when for the last time I
brought the car to the front of our hotel, and we strapped on our bags
and with sad hearts bade good-by to the loveliest spot and the best
people in Europe. Then presently we were working our way through the
gay, crowded market place (though we did not feel gay) down through the
narrow, familiar streets, with their pretty shops where we had bought
things, and their little _patisseries_ where we had eaten things; down
through La Tour, and along the lake to Clarens and Montreux, and past
Chillon, and so up the valley of the Rhone to Brigue, the Swiss entrance
to the Simplon Pass.
We had new tires now, and were not troubled about our going; but the
world had grown old and sad in three months, and the leaves were blowing
off of the trees, and the glory had gone out of life, because men were
marching and killing one another along those happy fields that such a
little while before had known only the poppy stain and the marching of
the harvesters--along those shady roads where good souls had run with
the car to hand us cherries and wish us "_Gute reise._"
We crossed the Simplon in the dullness of a gray mist, and at the top,
six hundred feet in the peaks, met the long-delayed snowstorm, and knew
that we were crossing just in time.
Down on the Italian slope the snow turned to rain and the roads were not
good. The Italians dump rock into their roads and let the traffic wear
it down. We were delayed by a technicality on the Swiss border, and it
was dark by the time we were in Italy--dark and rainy. Along the road
are overhanging galleries--really tunnels, and unlighted. Our prestolite
had given out and our oil lamps were too feeble. I have never known a
more precarious drive than across that long stretch from Gondo to
Domodossola, through the night and pouring rain. It seemed endless, and
when the lights of the city first appeared I should have guessed the
distance still to be traveled at forty miles. But we did arrive; and we
laid up three days in a hotel where it was cold--oh, very cold--but
where blessedly there was a small open fire in a little sitting room.
Also, the food was good.
It had not quit raining even then, but we started, anyway. One can get a
good deal of Domodossola in three days, though it is a very good town,
where few people stop, because they are always going somewhere else when
they get there. Our landlady gave us a huge bunch of flowers at parting,
too huge for our limited car space. A little way down the road I had to
get out and fix something; an old woman came and held an umbrella over
me, and, having no Italian change, I gave her the flowers, and a Swiss
nickel, and a German five-pfennig piece, and she thanked me just as if
I had contributed something valuable. The Italians are polite.
We went to Stresa on Lake Maggiore, and stopped for the night, and
visited Isola Bella, of course, and I bought a big red umbrella which
the others were ashamed of, and fell away from me when I opened it as if
I had something contagious. They would rather get soaking wet, they
said, than be seen walking under that thing. Pride is an unfortunate
asset. But I didn't have the nerve myself to carry that umbrella on the
streets of Milan. Though Stresa is not far away, its umbrellas are
unknown in Milan, and when I opened it my audience congested traffic. I
didn't suppose anything could be too gay for an Italian.
We left the car at Milan and made a rail trip to Venice. It was still
raining every little while and many roads were under water, so that
Venice really extended most of the way to Milan, and automobile travel
was thought to be poor in that direction. All the old towns over there
we visited, for we were going home, and no one could say when Europe
might be comfortable for tourists again. A good deal of the time it
rained, but a good deal of the time it didn't, and we slept in hotels
that were once palaces, and saw much, including Juliet's tomb at Verona,
and all the things at Padua, and we bought violets at Parma, and
sausages at Bologna. Then we came back to Milan and drove to Genoa,
stopping overnight at Tortona, because we thought we would be sure to
find there the ices by that name. But they were out of them, I suppose,
for we could not find any.
Still we had no definite plans about America; but when at Genoa we found
we could ship the car on a pretty little Italian vessel and join the
same little ship ourselves at Naples, all for a very reasonable sum. I
took the shipping man to the hotel garage, turned the car over to him,
and the thing was done.
So we traveled by rail to Pisa, to Florence, to Rome, to Naples and
Pompeii, stopping as we chose; for, as I say, no one could tell when
Europe would be a visiting place again, and we must see what we could.
So we saw Italy, in spite of the rain that fell pretty regularly, and
the rather sharp days between-time. We did not know that those rains
were soaking down to the great central heat and would produce a terrible
earthquake presently, or we might have been rather more anxious to go.
As it was, we were glad to be there and really enjoyed all the things.
Yet, there was a different feeling now. The old care-freedom was gone;
the future had become obscure. The talk everywhere was of the war; in
every city soldiers were marching, fine, beautiful regiments, commanded
by officers that were splendidly handsome in their new uniforms. We were
told that Italy would not go to war--at least not until spring, but it
was in the air, it was an ominous cloud. Nowhere in Europe was anything
the same.
One day our little ship came down from Genoa, and we went aboard and
were off next morning. We lay a day at Palermo, and then, after some
days of calm sailing in the Mediterranean, launched out into the
Atlantic gales and breasted the storms for nearly two weeks, pitching
and rolling, but homeward bound.
* * * * *
A year and four months from a summer afternoon when we had stood on the
upper deck of a little French steamer in Brooklyn and looked down into
the hold at a great box that held our car, I went over to Hoboken and
saw it taken from another box, and drove it to Connecticut alone, for
the weather was cold, the roads icy. It was evening when I arrived,
Christmas Eve, and when I pushed back the wide door, drove into the
barn, cut off the engine, and in the dim winter light saw our capable
conveyance standing in its accustomed place, I had the curious feeling
of never having been away at all, but only for a winter's drive,
dreaming under dull skies of summertime and France. And the old
car--that to us had always seemed to have a personality and
sentience--had it been dreaming, too?
It was cold there, and growing dark. I came out and locked the door. We
had made the circuit--our great adventure was over. Would I go again,
under the same conditions? Ah me! that wakens still another dream--for
days ahead. I suppose one should not expect more than one real glimpse
of heaven in this world, but at least one need not give up hoping.