Europe from a Motor Car Part 1

Europe from a Motor Car.

by Russell Richardson.

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 Provence, 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 Perigord, the chateaux 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 a.s.sistance and advice.

The files of the _London Daily Mail_ contributed helpful suggestions.

Obligation is also expressed to Mr. Charles Netcher, whose good judgment and motormans.h.i.+p were indispensable to the success of the trip.

RUSSELL RICHARDSON.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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 Stra.s.se bathed in the suns.h.i.+ne 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 s.h.i.+p 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 pa.s.sed. 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 ma.s.s 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 Provence 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, Provence; 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 das.h.i.+ng brooks, with pleasant vistas of distant mountains.

On reaching Carlsbad about noon we found the season of this fas.h.i.+onable watering place at its height. Crowds of visitors were promenading in the street, returning from the baths and springs or trying to stimulate jaded appet.i.tes 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 canon. 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 fas.h.i.+oned 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 suns.h.i.+ne and pine breezes. Unlike most health resorts, the atmosphere of the sick room is absent. Few invalids are to be seen. Most of the _Kurgaste_ 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 gla.s.ses 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 gla.s.ses are emptied, and then again filled. It is customary to walk up and down for an hour, while drinking two gla.s.ses of mineral water. With each swallow the _Kurgaste_ appear to be imbibing the hopes of their diminis.h.i.+ng 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 habitues some who could easily qualify for the monstrosity cla.s.s. 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 _Sc.h.i.n.ken 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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 Kaiserstra.s.se. At this evening hour all the visitors to Marienbad pa.s.s 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, fis.h.i.+ng, and managing their lucrative property. The monastic vow of poverty has probably long since ceased to mean much of a hards.h.i.+p.

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. Amus.e.m.e.nt 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.

CHAPTER II

MARIENBAD TO TRAFOI

Even a congenial environment like that of Marienbad began to lack interest when we looked at our motor itinerary and saw awaiting us such rich experiences as climbing above the clouds over the s...o...b..und Stelvio, or the sight of Carca.s.sonne, tower-girt and formidable behind feudal walls. The call of the white road was irresistible when it led through the purple valleys of the Pyrenees to beautiful Biarritz on the Atlantic and to San Sebastian in Spain, where the Spanish king and queen hold summer court. The perfect day of blue skies added its persuasive voice.

We were again on the road. The villas of Marienbad withdrew behind the mountains, and we settled down to the complete enjoyment of the ride through Bohemia and southern Germany to Munich. On either side were quaint scenes of Bohemian life. Every little farm hamlet had its pond of geese, with a goose girl tending her flocks. One of them threw us a flower. Her action meant more to us than she thought; it was a happy omen for the rest of the trip. Peasant women were toiling barefooted in the fields, or trudging along the road, bending under heavy burdens of wood. This human element in the scene was impressive. Here, as everywhere, the great drama of human life was being played. But the role of the actors was such a humble and pathetic one, so much of the land was given over to unfruitful fields, half cleared of stumps! There were no such pictures of content and prosperity as one finds everywhere in Germany and Holland. The houses were scarcely more than huts.

We halted in some of the towns to take a first lesson in the Czeck or Bohemian dialect. The store signs were mysterious, with their hieroglyphics. One shop contained sewing machines, and the word "Singowiski" above the door hinted that this might be the Bohemian translation of Singer sewing machines. Road signs were not always visible, and less often intelligible. Then we were obliged to ask the way. If the source of our information was a town official he usually spoke in German, otherwise in Bohemian, an answer which did not relieve us of our uncertainty.