EUROPE FROM A MOTOR CAR
[Illustration: Copyright by Underwood & Underwood
_The approach to the Stelvio pass_ _Page 36_]
EUROPE
FROM A
MOTOR CAR
_By_
RUSSELL RICHARDSON
[Illustration]
RAND McNALLY & COMPANY
CHICAGO NEW YORK
_Copyright, 1914_
BY RAND, MCNALLY & COMPANY
The Rand-McNally Press
_Chicago_
TO
MY MOTHER
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
_Preface_ 9
I Berlin to Marienbad 11
II Marienbad to Trafoi 24
III Crossing the Stelvio into Italy 36
IV A Visit to Lyons 65
V Chambéry to Nîmes 79
VI Nîmes to Carcassonne 97
VII Carcassonne to Tarbes 110
VIII Tarbes to Biarritz 122
IX A Day in Spain 130
X Biarritz to Mont-de-Marsan 143
XI Mont-de-Marsan to Périgueux 159
XII Périgueux to Tours 172
XIII The Châteaux of Touraine 182
XIV Orléans to Dieppe 197
XV Expenses and Suggestions 215
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
The Approach to the Stelvio Pass 2
A French Highway 11
The Brandenburger Thor 20
Cutting Across the Glacier 34
Lake Como, Most Beautiful of the Italian
Lakes 44
Italian Villas on Lake Como 48
Above the Val d'Aosta 54
The Rhone at Lyons 66
Out of the Silence and Gloom 80
The Ancient Roman Theater at Orange 86
Arc de Triomphe at Orange 88
The Palace of the Popes at Avignon 90
The Ruined Bridge of St. Benezet at
Avignon 92
The Maison Carrée at Nîmes 94
The Castle and Double Line of Fortifications
at Carcassonne 102
The Walled City of Carcassonne 104
The Pyrenees Were in Sight 112
Ice Peaks of the Pyrenees 116
The Grande Plage at Biarritz 126
The Ox-carts Were Curious Creations 134
The Death Stroke 140
A Familiar Village Scene in Provincial
France 156
A Miracle of Gothic Splendor 162
A Convenient Way to Carry Bread 176
The Road Swept Us Along the Bank of
the Loire 180
The Château of Loches Behind Its Imposing
Entrance 186
The Château of Chenonceaux 190
The Château of Amboise on the Loire 194
The Wheat Fields of Normandy 198
The Gothic Cathedral at Chartres 200
The Seine at Rouen 208
Where Jeanne d'Arc was Burned at the
Stake 212
PREFACE
The following pages have not been written to supplement the thousands of
guide books about Europe. Long, technical descriptions have been
avoided. An endeavor has been made, rather, to give our personal
impressions of the Old World from a motor car. Our itinerary overlooked
the larger cities whose contents have been so well inventoried by
Baedeker. The life of the peasantry, the small towns seldom visited by
American tourists, quaint villages unapproached by any railroad, the
superb roads and views of the Tyrol, the crossing of the Alps over the
snow-crowned Stelvio into Italy, the flight through northern Italy to
Como, loveliest of the Italian lakes--such unique experiences amid
beautiful scenery appealed to us more than the attractions of the
crowded metropolis. We were out for a motor ramble instead of a
sight-seeing tour. Our route did not follow entirely the familiar
highways of tourist traffic. From the summit of the Alps we were to see,
far below us, the valleys of picturesque Savoy. Then came the long,
thrilling descent into France through Provençe, that treasure land of
Roman antiquity, through the Pyrenees, lifting their huge barriers
between France and Spain, to Biarritz on the Atlantic. Spain was before
us, the pastoral beauties of Limousin and Périgord, the châteaux of
Touraine, and the cathedrals of Normandy.
An important part of our equipment was the _Michelin Guide_, which, with
its convenient arrangement and wealth of useful information about hotels
and roads, rendered invaluable aid. Its maps were so clear that it was
seldom necessary to retrace our path. By means of them we planned our
route and found our way through the different countries.
The writer wishes to thank Michelin & Co. of Paris, and Dr. Lehmann of
the Benz Company in Mannheim, Germany, for their assistance and advice.
The files of the _London Daily Mail_ contributed helpful suggestions.
Obligation is also expressed to Mr. Charles Netcher, whose good judgment
and motormanship were indispensable to the success of the trip.
RUSSELL RICHARDSON.
[Illustration: Copyright by Underwood & Underwood
_A French highway_ _Page 178_]
EUROPE FROM A MOTOR CAR
CHAPTER I
BERLIN TO MARIENBAD
Before us was the long stretch of the Potsdamer Strasse bathed in the
sunshine of a July morning. Slowly the speedometer began to devour the
kilometers of the Kaiser's imperial city, and the low music of the siren
seemed like a song of rejoicing that we were at last starting on our
quest of motor experiences along the highways of Europe. The
exhilaration of the moment called for speed, a leaping burst of it, but
a Berlin street is unfortunately no place for speeding. Numerous
helmeted policemen, vigilant guardians of German speed laws, were
sufficient reminders that the way of the motor transgressor would be
paved with heavy fines.
These policemen looked like soldiers. In Berlin one is always surrounded
by a military atmosphere. The city is the product and the producer of
this martial spirit. The Prussian wars are written so completely in
pages of bronze and marble, one has the impression of being among people
who are on the verge of war and prepared for it. Even as we glided
along, a huge Zeppelin air ship hovered above us, one of those ill-fated
war machines which have so often met destruction.
A little farther on, there was a stirring sound of military music, and
our way was intercepted by a marching regiment. It was fully ten minutes
before the last soldier passed. Such scenes are common in the capital of
a country bounded on two frontiers by powerful nations, and dependent
for its very existence upon the maintenance of a large standing army.
Gradually the music grew fainter, the warnings of countless "verbotens"
became less frequent. Soon we were riding through the Prussian country,
pleasantly pastoral and interspersed by red-roofed villages. Everywhere
were barracks and soldiers, and each small community was throbbing with
industrial life. This was prosaic, military, modern Germany; that is, it
might have seemed prosaic had we not seen it from a motor car. There is
a quality of romance about all motoring in Europe. It is fascinating to
appear unexpectedly among a people in the midst of their everyday
activities, to see them as they really are, to flash for a brief moment
upon the horizon of their local life, and then to whirl on to other
scenes. Such a trip is never monotonous. There is magic in this song of
the swift kilometers.
The tourist, by train or on foot, is overwhelmed by details. He sees
small cross-sections of life. But the motorist, of all travelers, can
see larger outlines. For him a thousand details merge to form a unit
which he can grasp; to paint a picture of clear-cut, dominating
impressions and filled with life-long memories. Even "the best
traveler[1] on foot--Barrow or Stevenson--can enjoy himself, or interest
others, only by his impressions of the insistent details of each trudged
mile. The motorist alone can perform the great deduction of travel. His
privilege is to see the surface of his planet and the activities of his
fellowmen unroll in impressive continuity. He moves along the vital
lines of cause and effect. He sees how the earth has imposed character
and habits upon her inhabitants."
[1] From "The Alpine Road of France," by Sir Henry Norman, M. P., in
_Scribner's Magazine_ for February, 1914.
When one has seen Europe from a motor car, the geography of the Old
World ceases to be a mass of hazy facts set off by indefinite
boundaries. We had vaguely thought of the Alps as being in Switzerland.
After crossing them twice, these mountain barriers, extending from
Vienna to the Mediterranean, through Austria, Switzerland, Italy, and
France, were to have a new meaning. Most of us would probably confuse
the old provinces of France with the departments which correspond
roughly to our states. But Normandy, Brittany, and Provençe have no more
geographical significance to-day than "Mason and Dixon's Line," which
once served as a boundary between North and South. Places which had
previously existed for us, in cold print, were to glow with life and
color, and were in turn to tell their romantic story. Now, when we look
at our map of France, we can see "the great central wheat plain; the
broad wine belt; the western _landes_; the eastern pine slopes; the
welter of history in Touraine and Anjou; dear, yellow, dusty,
windswept, singing, dancing, Provençe; the southward climatic procession
of buckwheat, wheat, vine, olive, palm, and orange tree."[2]
[2] From "The Alpine Road of France," by Sir Henry Norman, M. P., in
_Scribner's Magazine_ for February, 1914.
Our chronicle of this first day of motoring includes a brief glimpse of
Wittenberg, where Luther burned the Papal Bull and thus kindled the
flame of the Reformation. After Wittenberg came Leipzig, famed as the
home of immortal Baedeker. One cannot ride far in Germany without
encountering a city counting its population by the hundred thousand.
This wealth of population explains in part how Prussia, only a
generation ago so agricultural, could have changed so quickly into a
vast workshop; there has always been a plentiful supply of labor.
We stopped for the night at Chemnitz, a smoky city and with a dreary
looking hotel showing in prominent letters the unpleasant name of "Hotel
zur Stadt Gotha." The next morning we ran the easy gauntlet of
customhouse formalities at Gottesgab, and crossed the Austrian frontier
into Bohemia, that land of shadows and thorn in the flesh of the
Austrian government where the gay colors of peasant dress hardly conceal
the evidences of poverty and squalid misery, and where hunger appears to
be driving out plenty. It is a country of peasants. There are millions
of them, back in the Middle Ages as to their agricultural methods,
unable to adapt themselves to the harsh, progressive realities of the
present, and careless whether the abundant meal of to-morrow will make
up for the meager repast of to-day.
If you wish to see real misery, and to understand why the Bohemians
emigrate in such great numbers to the United States, then take a motor
trip through this most discontented and unhappy of all the Austrian
provinces. Here amid picturesque and beautiful scenery one finds the
rural slums of Europe. The small farm hamlets look forlorn and unkempt,
the barnyards disorderly, the towns dirty and neglected, the people as
if they were both the cause and effect of these conditions. It is a
common sight of the road to see women harnessed with dogs or oxen. Here
even wooden shoes would be something of a luxury.
There is something fascinating about exploring these neglected corners
of Europe in a motor car. The dress of the peasants is gay even though
ragged, their life picturesque even in its poverty. One finds lights as
well as shadows in the picture. Nature has softened the harsh lines of
peasant life with dreamy, misty horizons, with pine-clad hills and
dashing brooks, with pleasant vistas of distant mountains.
On reaching Carlsbad about noon we found the season of this fashionable
watering place at its height. Crowds of visitors were promenading in the
street, returning from the baths and springs or trying to stimulate
jaded appetites by a few breaths of the fine invigorating air. The place
is really beautiful with its fine setting of Bohemian mountains.
Friends were expecting us in Marienbad, so we resumed our journey early
in the afternoon. This stretch of forty miles lay through the loveliest
part of Bohemia. Such depths of blue atmosphere melting into the green
of pine forests!
The forestry system of Bohemia is something to admire and to study. For
generations, governmental inspection has been tireless in its efforts to
improve and develop the forests. There are many large estates which have
their own private foresters; no opportunity for tree planting is
neglected. On the smaller farms, if the soil is not adapted to the
raising of fruits and vegetables, the state tells the farmer what trees
will flourish best in that kind of soil. Thus no acre is wasted. Twice a
year the official inspector decides what trees may be cut. If, during
the year, some farmer wishes lumber, it is the inspector who decides
what trees, if any, may be cut. No sooner has the tree fallen than a
fresh sapling takes its place. The trees are planted in regular rows.
There is no crowding. In such a land, forestry is a distinguished
profession.
For some distance the valley narrowed almost to a cañon. Then wider
views opened, until from a wooded ridge we saw below us in the valley
the village of Marienbad. Nature was good to her children when she
fashioned this rare resort, lying so white and clean in its green cradle
of high pine-covered hills.
Much too briefly must we give our impressions of life at a Bohemian
watering place. Every one lives out of doors. The many villas are
generously provided with balconies to catch the sunshine and pine
breezes. Unlike most health resorts, the atmosphere of the sick room is
absent. Few invalids are to be seen. Most of the _Kurgäste_ come here
for the purpose of reducing their weight. Their chief rule of life is to
eat little and exercise much. The numerous tennis courts are constantly
filled. The mountains invite to long walks. There are hot baths, steam
baths, mud baths, and baths that would probably have been new even to
the bath-loving Romans. The gymnasia are elaborately equipped with
exercising apparatus. If one wishes to watch another phase of this
struggle against excessive avoirdupois, he should rise at a dim gray
hour and walk over to the Promenade. People of every nationality crowd
about the mineral springs and then, with their glasses well filled, they
take their places in the cosmopolitan throng which moves slowly up and
down the long Promenade. One hears the confused murmuring of many voices
in many languages, the favorite topics of this linguistic Babel
relating to various ailments and the weight-reducing qualities of
different mineral waters. A less corpulent arrival is looked upon with
envy. Slowly the glasses are emptied, and then again filled. It is
customary to walk up and down for an hour, while drinking two glasses of
mineral water. With each swallow the _Kurgäste_ appear to be imbibing
the hopes of their diminishing avoirdupois. The Germans are in the
majority. They are always desperately conscientious in their endeavor to
meet all the requirements of this simple but exacting life, possibly
because they realize that a long devotion to beer and sandwiches is not
the best means to preserve the youthful figure. Near the Promenade are
weighing shops. A place like Marienbad naturally includes among its
habitués some who could easily qualify for the monstrosity class. We
remember one Egyptian phenomenon of enormous proportions who had to have
his own private scales.
After the hour at the spring comes a strenuous half-hour climb to a
hilltop restaurant where breakfast is served. How inviting those
repasts in the open air! The coffee is as good as can be found
anywhere in Europe, and the scrambled eggs and _Schinken aus Prague_ are
served by pretty Bohemian waitresses arrayed in all the colors of their
native costumes. At these hilltop restaurants orchestra music is always
an attractive feature of the breakfast.
[Illustration: Copyright by Underwood & Underwood
_The Brandenburger
Thor_ _Page 11_]
One is never sure what distinguished statesmen or prince of royal blood
is sitting near by. While we were breakfasting one morning a gentleman
dressed in an ordinary business suit approached and sat alone at a table
close at hand. We learned later that he was the Prime Minister of
Russia.
The activities and diversions of the day would be incomplete without a
stroll after dinner down the pleasant Kaiserstrasse. At this evening
hour all the visitors to Marienbad pass in leisurely review. The
Austrian officers, erect and soldierly, make quite a striking
appearance. Our attention was also attracted to the monks of Tepl, with
their long black cloaks and broad-brimmed hats. They are the owners of
Marienbad, and live in a monastery situated a few miles from the
village. About two centuries ago the monks of Tepl began to realize the
commercial possibilities of their springs. Forests were cut away;
streets were laid; marshes blossomed into gardens and green lawns;
splendid buildings were erected for patrons who wished to take the
various baths, and to-day Marienbad is a village of hotels and villas.
Last year there were about forty thousand visitors. The monks whom we
saw looked sleek and well-fed. They lead an easy life, hunting, fishing,
and managing their lucrative property. The monastic vow of poverty has
probably long since ceased to mean much of a hardship.
This fact of a modern village being controlled by a wealthy religious
organization dating as far back as 1133 is most unique. It is doubtful
if a parallel case can be found anywhere. The town shows in many ways
the influence of its monastic administration. Licensed gambling halls,
which are so prevalent in all of the French watering places, do not
exist here. There is no night life. After ten o'clock in the evening the
streets begin to look deserted. Amusement places of doubtful character
have thus far found no footing in this simple village life. Considering
the thousands of idle and pleasure-loving Europeans who throng every
year to Marienbad, it seems remarkable that the general tone of the
place should have been kept so high.