TIME MACHINE
Built to satisfy the unique requirements of an Italian countess, this plucky pre-war Lancia Augusta is awe-inspiringly original. Its owner (reluctantly) allowed us a rare drive
This car is not made to be driven,’ says owner Corrado Lopresto. ‘It deserves to be in the centre of a living room, just to be admired by visiting friends.’ So it’s with an awkward lack of pathos that I ask for the keys to his one-off Lancia Augusta. And a moment of hesitation from him before he hands them over.
As I enter the cockpit the door closes with the light click of a well-made pre-war car. Looking out over the bonnet, much shorter than typical coachbuilt specials of the era, I crank the engine. It starts with no hesitation and minimal vibration, and as it warms through I marvel at its intricate interior details. I’ll inspect them in more detail later. The small V4 engine has a sweet voice and impeccable manners, pulling well from low engine speeds. Maximum speed is a modest 60mph or so, but a steady cruise of 45mph feels seemlier and allows me to appreciate the direct steering and the soft ride.
The clutch is light and the gears slot home easily, even before the transmission fluids are warm. The wheel feels too close, but this was a special request from the slightly built first owner, Como resident Countess Carla Centenari Viscardi. She ordered the smallest chassis in Lancia’s range – Augusta Type 234 – and requested Stabilimenti Farina clothe it with a one-off body based on a design by Mario Revelli di Beaumont, a freelancer who collaborated with the most respected coachbuilders.
In its common berlina (saloon) form the Augusta, launched in 1933, had a sober, upright body that wasn’t particularly appealing. But the Augusta boasted unitary body construction (a first for a saloon), as well as independent front suspension and hydraulic drum brakes. Maybe these innovations convinced Ms Viscardi to choose it. More likely, she just needed a compact, classy car to drive through the narrow, twisty roads surrounding her family’s villa on the Lake Como shoreline. In any case, she had the presence of mind to specify a central lubrication system and fog lights. The car retains them today, along with her C.C.V. initials hand-painted on the doors, and the CO (Como) number plate.
‘The Countess’ rings left marks on the gearknob that can still be seen’
Originally from Milan, the Countess’ family was famous for its wealth and she was well-known for her impeccable taste, so it’s no surprise that every detail of the car is well-judged, striking the perfect balance of charm and class. The Farina coachwork wears a two-tone colour scheme, with grey-green for the main body and turtle dove brown for the roof and wings, plus a touch of dark red for the wheel covers. Revelli was known for his attention to detail, and the quality level of Carrozzeria Farina – founded by Giovanni Farina in 1906 – was among the finest of the period.
But this Augusta’s best feature is an interior befitting a pre-war limousine. The exterior colours are picked out within the largely beige interior with dark red seat piping, steering wheel and gearknob, and turtle dove on the dashboard. ‘We know that Countess Centenari drove it often,’ says Lopresto. ‘By tradition, the cars of the family were never sold, but simply left in the garage under the care of the family chauffeurs to be kept in running order. We still can see the marks of the Countess’ rings on the steering wheel and gearknob, where the red paint has worn away.’
The delightful details come in layers, like the small Jaeger clock integrated into the rear-view mirror. Its dial is read through a small window in the mirror glass – a pre-war heads-up display of sorts – while the numbers are acidised into the glass. ‘That was quite a challenge to fix,’ says Lopresto. ‘We had to be extremely careful not to damage the glass and the delicate silver foil behind it. But the clock itself simply needed a good cleaning to work again. We managed to keep everything totally original, including the chromed pusher that sets the time.’
Other extravagances include a wool-and-silk headlining, a cord operated silk rear blind, and small cubbyholes in each B-pillar. One side holds a drinks set for two with glasses and a bottle; the other a beauty set comprising brush, mirror, perfumes and powder boxes. Outside, the bronze locking fuel cap is a piece of high engineering patented by Revelli with ten spring-loaded buttons and a central lever. Like a modern codelock, the buttons must be pressed in the correct order.
‘The most incredible fact about this car is its originality,’ says Lopresto. ‘Everything, and I really mean every single detail is still totally untouched since its creation.’ Yet this car has no physical
‘Every detail is untouched since its creation’
history file – it has only had three owners, each with their own mechanics to look after it. Eighty-two years of existence can be summarised as one careful lady owner from new from 1935 to 1975, then a museum collection until 2013, when it joined Lopresto’s fleet of Italian one-offs.
However, that apparently straightforward ownership journey turns out to be more impressive when contextualised. Como in war-time was not a particularly safe place for a car to live, especially such an opulent one. During the war it managed to not only evade detection by the armies of Germany, Italy and the Allied Forces, but also local partisans. ‘We know nothing about the car’s movements during the war,’ says Lopresto. ‘The Centenari Viscardi family was a very influential one, so maybe that spared it from being commandeered. Perhaps it was simply well hidden. Or maybe it was just too small to be of use to the military, which invariably preferred large, open cars.
‘The Eighties and Nineties restoration craziness was probably a bigger risk to the car’s preserved status. Had the paint or upholstery been refreshed back then, most of its incredible originality would have been lost.’ Luckily, it spent this period in Milan’s Museo delle Comunicazioni, curated by the late Giacomo Tavoletti. This respected collector was a pioneer of what became the preservation-class automobile, his collection wide enough to allow the car to remain largely unused, and sympathetically stored. Lopresto remembers it being shown at the 1996 Villa d’este concours. ‘The car was a hit because everybody knew about it, but very few had the opportunity to see it in person beforehand. The judges, most of them designers and coachbuilders of the pre-war period, double-checked everything with enthusiasm because it seemed almost impossible to find something so original after so many years. It won the trophy for the best-preserved car.
‘When I had the opportunity to buy it I was delighted, because it is a real piece of history. I spent two years admiring it before deciding what to do. When I took the decision to show it at Pebble Beach in 2015, I initially thought of taking the car as it was. But when it was accepted, I realised that I had a duty to prepare it.
‘I was more concerned about the Pebble Beach Tour on the Thursday than for Sunday’s show, so we checked the mechanical elements. The truth is that we did nothing apart from basic maintenance work, and a little use of the car just to get the parts moving – changing only what was absolutely mandatory for the safety of the engine – as it would be the furthest the car had travelled in 50 years.
‘In using it, my confidence in the car improved as it was responding well to our short drives. Funnily enough, the most laborious part of preparing an 80 yearold-car for the most important classic car show in the world was giving it a good bath. It probably hadn’t seen a sponge in 40 years, so it took days of hard work to remove 80 years of dust from the carpet, headlining and seats. Most of the work had to be done with small brushes and cotton buds. We avoided polishing and retouching any paint blemishes and simply handwaxed it, mainly to protect it from the California sun and Monterey mist. We also fixed the few broken items – a hook of the rear screen, a couple of springs of the fuel cap locker and one spoke of the spare rim, which still wore its original tyre.’ At the end of my drive, I switch off the engine and take time to fully absorb the car’s rich historical aura one last time. I smile as I give the keys back to Corrado, appreciating how fortunate I’ve been to drive a one-off time-capsule, and relieved that no kamikaze insects had decided that it was time to end it all.
This time, Corrado smiles back – his priceless living room decoration can now return to its parking space.