CROSSING THE STELVIO INTO ITALY
It was before seven that we started on the long climb. An early start is
important when the main care is to keep the engine cool. Cloudless skies
favored our attempt. Across the gorge we saw the towering Weiskugel, its
snows turned to radiant silver while the valley was still in shadow. The
Ortler was transfigured, the Madatsch dazzling--almost blinding until
our eyes had grown wonted to the brilliant spectacle. Slowly the long
grades sank behind us. It seemed better to set a steady, even though
slow pace, and maintain it until the summit was reached. So we were
forced to use second speed. The sides of the engine bonnet had been tied
back to give the engine every possible bit of cool air. From "hairpin"
to "hairpin" we went, these curves so sharp that at first it seemed
impossible to make them without backing. How they twisted above us like
the loops of a gigantic lasso flung far up the mountain, into the region
of eternal snow! Imagine it! Forty-six of them! Only on one turn were
we forced to back, but with a large, powerful car this record would have
been impossible. Any car that cannot turn easily in a fifty-foot circle
would better find some other way of reaching Italy. It is not pleasant
to back up when the edge of the precipice is a matter of inches.
When the Austrians built this road, a century ago, they were not
thinking about motor cars. This masterpiece of road construction was
intended for armies, not for automobiles. The makers of those curves,
cut through heights of solid rock, never anticipated the luxurious modes
of modern travel. If then they had only foreseen the coming of motor
warfare, how much inconvenience would have been spared the impetuous
motorist who to-day attempts to climb the Stelvio in a long, powerful
car which cannot quite make the turns without backing. Surely, a few
feet would have been added to those tantalizing, agonizing curves. How
little the Austrians realized that their military invasion would be
followed by the more peaceful motor invasion of our day.
With every turn, our admiration for this perfect road increased. One
marvels at such matchless feats of engineering, at such gigantic
obstacles so completely overcome. Here, high retaining walls have been
built to keep the road from crumbling away; there, mountain torrents
that would have washed it away have been diverted. Turn after turn, and
still higher to go! Pine woods gave way to stunted shrubbery, and then
vegetation ceased altogether. We were above the clouds. Nothing but the
sun above us. Snow banks appeared on either side; we could put out our
hands and touch them. Then through Franzenshöhe, formerly the seat of
the Austrian customhouse, to Ferdinandshöhe and the summit of Stelvio,
9,041 feet above the sea, the highest point of motor or carriage travel
in Europe.
It is impossible to describe the thrill, the intoxication, of the moment
as we stood there watching the ice fields roll away in great waves, as
if the ocean, in a moment of wild upheaval, had been frozen. Leaving the
car near the little Ferdinandshöhe hotel, we climbed an elevation of one
hundred and fifty feet to the Hotel Dreisprachenspitze, where one
stands at the apex of three countries. We could look down into Italy.
The ice floods of Switzerland swept to the horizon; a hundred snow peaks
flashed in the morning sun. In the other direction yawned the mighty
gorge of the Stelvio, where it had taken us two hours and seven minutes
to make eight miles. The wind was of razor keenness.
On descending to arrange customhouse details with the Austrian
officials, we found the car frozen in the ice. The hot steel-studded
tires had melted a deep groove, and were now held fast in the prison of
their own making. Even on the Stelvio we had not expected to be frozen
fast on the first of August. In vain we opened wide the throttle. The
wheels turned furiously without gaining an inch. Austrian soldiers came
to our rescue. Half a dozen of us pushed from behind. Two American
tourists who had just climbed the Stelvio from the Italian side in a
Cadillac, also gave generous aid. With the additional help of pickaxes
and quantities of sawdust, the car finally shook off its icy fetters.
Meanwhile we had succeeded in snapping some kodak pictures without
attracting the notice of the Austrian officers. The Stelvio is a
military road, various forts are in the neighborhood, and the government
regulations forbid the taking of photographs. In securing these pictures
we ran the risk of heavier penalties than the confiscation of the camera
and films.
Fortune did not smile so cheerfully at the Italian _dogana_, two miles
farther down. Hardly had we touched the kodak when Italian soldiers and
customhouse officers rushed toward us. We were not sure whether we would
be shot on the spot or simply left to languish in an Italian prison. One
of the officers seized the camera, tied a red string around it, and
sealed it. Observing that our ignorance of military regulations was
fully equal to our ignorance of Italian, he instructed us in French not
to open the camera until we were beyond Tirano, seventy miles away, the
frontier town of the military zone.
During the ascent the engine bore the chief strain. It had worked
heroically without once faltering. Now, upon the long down grades of
the Italian slope, we were forced to rely upon the brakes. The road
descended with a continuous and fairly steep gradient for almost
fourteen miles. It was dangerous, difficult work. We not only had to
make the turns, which were just as sharp as on the Austrian side, but it
was necessary to watch the straining brakes, releasing them when the
grade permitted and alternating the emergency brake with compression.
This was a feat demanding all the qualities of motormanship. Coolness
and good judgment were indispensable at every curve of the descent. The
road turned icy corners and edged along precipitous cliffs. If the
brakes had refused to work, it would have been fatal; the downward
plunge of the car would have been beyond control in a few seconds. But
at that moment we were not thinking of danger. The thrill of the
descent, the feeling of flying down from a great height, the ice peaks
that rose higher above us, the stupendous chasm that at every curve
opened newer and more savage depths--these were all a part of our
exhilarating experience.
We were coasting much of the time; gasoline and ignition had been cut
off. Rocky walls hurled back the blast of our motor horn as we entered
the slippery winter galleries of the Diroccamento defile. According to
law, no vehicle may enter a tunnel if it is occupied. Farther down, the
road looped like the coils of a great serpent, twisting, disappearing,
only to reappear farther down as a faint streak of shimmering roadway.
It was curious, that sensation of falling, always sinking lower and yet
never reaching the bottom. One more sweep through the Braulio Valley,
and we stopped for lunch before the luxurious hotel Bagni-Nuovi, that
popular watering place for the leisure rich of Italy.
Our first repast upon Italian soil very fittingly included macaroni and
a generous _bottiglia di vino italiano_. After lunch we went into the
terraced garden, fragrant with orange trees, overlooking dreamy Bormio,
the gateway of Italy. The warm sunshine was delightful after having so
recently faced the icy winds of the Stelvio.
Here we joined an American party from Detroit, Mr. and Mrs. ----, who
were chaperoning two attractive American girls on a motor trip through
Italy and the Tyrol. They had rented an Italian car in Rome, but had not
found the investment altogether satisfactory, the usual story of rented
cars in Europe. These chance meetings with other Americans _en route_
were among the pleasantest features of our trip. We would gladly have
prolonged the visit, had it not been necessary to leave early in the
afternoon if we were to reach Menaggio on Lake Como before dark.
After descending into Bormio, one motors for some distance between high,
vine-clad slopes, and then passes through two or three villages,
typically Italian with their dilapidated churches and narrow, cobbled
streets swarming with dirty children, many of whom took a special
delight in darting across our track just as we were passing.
Northern Italy is wonderfully picturesque. The long defile of S. Antonio
Morignone, the antiquated towns, the slender _campaniles_ standing out
so clearly in the misty, dreamy landscape, the plains of Lombardy with
their scenes of peasant life,--these were all interesting details to be
duly jotted down in the notebook of memory.
It was haying time. The farming methods seemed so primitive; everything
was hand work. We did not see a single labor-saving machine. The
International Harvester Company would not have done a profitable
business here. The hayricks were very small, and even these were often
lacking, for barefooted women staggered under large bundles of hay. Yet
these backward farmers make stalwart soldiers. Sturdy and frugal, they
are, as in France, the backbone and hope of the nation. Europe
recognizes the fine horsemanship of the Italian cavalry. The
"Corazzieri," or royal bodyguard, is a magnificent corps. It is
difficult to believe that most of these men are peasants.
There was no need of a compass to learn that we were going west, for the
afternoon sun shone full in our faces. This steady glare, and the
dazzling reflection from the white, dusty road, became almost
unbearable. It was constantly necessary to shield the eyes. There was no
winding or turning. Often we overtook a hayrick occupying most of the
highway. The driver was usually invisible in the soft depths of the
hay, and so drowsy from the sun or liberal drafts of _chianti_ that
persistent blasts of the motor horn were necessary to attract his
attention. Tresenda was passed, and then Sondrio, the capital of the
fertile Val Tellina, noted for its wines.
[Illustration: _Lake Como, most beautiful of the Italian lakes_ _Page
45_
Copyright by Underwood & Underwood]
The sun was a glowing disk upon the horizon when we reached Colico upon
Lake Como, most beautiful of the Italian lakes. There was a crimson
light on the water. Red sails drifted lazily toward the shore. Across
the lake the high mountains rose cone-like to a peak, like extinct
volcanoes. From a distant bell tower floated the clear, sweet tones of
the angelus. Before some of the houses, young Italians were playing
melodies on guitars. Twilight was falling, that wonderful twilight so
full of color and feeling, of the romance and sentiment of northern
Italy. After several miles along the shore, through these fascinating
scenes, we reached Menaggio.
The evening in the cool lake garden of the Grand Hotel was a refreshing
sequel to the afternoon's hot ride. We could see the government
searchlight sweeping its bright rays in search of smugglers. The
Italian lakes are partly in Italy and partly in Switzerland. Salt and
tobacco are state monopolies in Italy. The poor people are forbidden
even to pick up from the docks the few grains of salt which may have
fallen during the loading and unloading of ships. Guards patrol the
beaches to compel those who use the sea for a washtub, thoroughly to
wring the salt water from the clothes. In spite of all the government's
precautions, large quantities of salt and tobacco are smuggled in from
Switzerland over the Italian lakes. The Italian officials are poorly
paid. The operator of the searchlight which we saw received only eight
dollars a month. The small salaries breed bribery and corruption, and it
often happens, therefore, that on a dark night the government
searchlight fails to discover a rowboat that goes out from the Swiss
shore. The smugglers escape the vigilance of the swift revenue cutters,
and make a successful landing on the Italian side.
The next day was so hot that it seemed best to pass the time quietly at
Menaggio, in our restful retreat. The rooms were large and airy, and
open to the fresh lake breezes. The hotel had once been a villa, and
with its private garden of thick plane trees was just such a spot as the
dusty motorist delights to stumble upon after a long ride over the hot
Italian roads.
Our gasoline was running low, so noticing a sign with the words
_Benzino-Lubrificanti_, we entered. The _commercianti_ spoke as much
English as we spoke Italian. We compromised on gestures. In Italy it is
a safe rule to pay about half the price asked. After half an hour of
bargaining we obtained five liters of gasoline for forty-five
_centesimi_ a liter. The price demanded at first was ninety-five
_centesimi_. Our change included a couple of five-lira notes so dirty,
greasy, and mangled that they looked in the last stages of the plague.
We would have felt safer to have handled them with tongs. Within a few
days we had received _kronen_, _heller_, _marks_, _pfennigs_, _lira_,
_centesimi_. It was quite an education in the currency systems of
Europe.
On the way back to the hotel we entered the cathedral. To find so
imposing an edifice amid so much poverty was a surprise. Equally
astonishing was the way the steep hills behind the town were terraced
and cultivated, as though the very rocks themselves had been made to
blossom and bear fruit. An Italian woman across the street was filling
her jug at a fountain. The nozzle, crumpled into a trefoil, was of the
same style as that used by the Roman matrons twenty-five centuries ago.
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 shore 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 pass 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.
[Illustration: _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 ménu 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 passed 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 masses, 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. Passing under ancient Roman
arches, we rode down the quaint main streets to the Hotel Royal
Victoria, situated, according to our _Michelin Guide_, "_près 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 Petit St. Bernard pass. 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 Petit
St. Bernard, which is closed eight months out of the year. While very
dangerous in places, the pass 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 pass
compels a speed of six miles an hour on the straight course, and one and
three-fourths miles at the curves, the Petit 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 pass 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 Pré 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.
[Illustration: _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 Petit 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 Abbé 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 Abbé Chanoux reigned
alone in his mountain hospital, assisted 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 glass 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, Abbé
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 Séez, was like passing 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 grass began to cover the
meadows. Pine forests surrounded us. Then we entered on the long, sharp
descent to Séez, 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 associates 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
Provençe. 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 competition 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 class.
"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 Chambéry, 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 associated 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, Chambéry, 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 Chambéry, we hunted up the Hôtel 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 Chambéry 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 pagoda-tree upon the town." At the
other end of the street are the high, massive walls which protect the
château 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 château.