Chapter III: 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.

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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.

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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.

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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.