A Holiday in the Happy Valley with Pen and Pencil Part 2

No colour; no life anywhere, excepting an occasional peasant plodding along a muddy road, sheltering himself under the characteristic flat and bony umbrella of the country.

At Peschiera we had promise of better things. The weather cleared somewhat, revealing ranges of white-clad hills around Garda.... But, alas! at Verona it rained as hard as ever, and we made our way from the railway station at Venice, cowering in the coffin-like cabin of a damp and extremely draughty gondola, while cold flurries of an Alpine-born wind swept across the Grand Ca.n.a.l.

Sunshine is absolutely necessary to bring out the real beauty of Italy.

This is particularly the case in Venice, where light and life are required to dispel the feeling of sadness so sure to creep over one amid the signs of long-past grandeur and decaying magnificence.

On a grey and wintry day one is chiefly impressed by the dank chilliness of the palaces on the Grand Ca.n.a.l, whose feet lie lapped in slimy water; the lovely tracery of whose windows shows ragged and broken, whose stately guest-chambers are in the sordid occupation of the dealer in false antiques, and whose motto might be "Ichabod," for their glory has departed.

It is five-and-twenty years since I was last in Venice, and I can truly say that it has not improved in that long time. The loss of the great Campanile of St. Mark is not compensated for by the gain of the penny steamer which frets and fusses its prosaic way along the Grand Ca.n.a.l, or blurts its noisome smoke in the very face of the Palace of the Doges.

Well! A steady downpour is dispiriting at any time, excepting when one is snugly at home with plenty to do, and it is particularly so to the unlucky traveller who has to live through half-a-dozen long hours intervening between arrival at and departure from Venice on a cold, dull, wintry afternoon.

The sombre gondola writhed its sinuous course and deposited us all forlorn in the near neighbourhood of the Piazza San Marco. Splashing our way across, and pushing through the crowd of greedy fat pigeons, we entered the world-famous church. I know my Ruskin, and I feel that I should be lost in wonder and admiration--I am not.

The gloom--rich golden gloom if you will--of the interior oppresses me; it is cavernous. A service is being held in one of the transepts, and the congregation seems noisier and less devout than I could have believed possible. My thoughts fly far to where, on its solitary hill, the n.o.ble pile of Chartres soars majestic, its heaven-piercing spires dominating the wide plain of La Beauce. In fancy I enter by the splendid north door and find myself in the pillared dimness softly lighted by the great window in the west. This seems to me to be the greatest achievement of the Christian architect, n.o.ble alike in conception and in execution.

There is no means of procuring a cold more certain than lingering too long in a cold and vault-like church or picture gallery, so we adjourned to the Palazzo Daniele, now a mere hotel, where we browsed on the literature--chiefly cosmopolitan newspapers--until it was time to start for Trieste.

The journey is not an attractive one, as we seemed to be perpetually worried by Custom-house authorities and inquisitive ticket-collectors! If possible, the wary traveller should so time his sojourn at Venice as to allow him to go to Trieste by steamer. The Hotel de la Ville at Trieste is not quite excellent, but 'twill serve, and we were remarkably glad to reach it, somewhere about midnight, having left Milan soon after seven in the morning!

Trieste itself is rather an engaging town; at least so it seemed to us when we awakened to a fresh, bright morning, a blue-and-white sky overhead, and a copious allowance of yellow mud under foot!

There were various final purchases to be made. Our deck chairs were with the heavy luggage, which the pa.s.senger by Austrian Lloyd only gets at Port Sad, as it is sent from London by sea; so a deck chair had to be got, also a stock of light literature wherewith to beguile the long sea hours.

A visit to our ship--the _Marie Valerie_--showed her to be a comfortable-looking vessel of some 4500 tons. She was busily engaged in taking in a large cargo, princ.i.p.ally for j.a.pan, and she showed no signs of an early departure. Her nominal hour for starting was 4 P.M., but the captain told us that he should not sail until next morning. So we descended to examine our cabin, and found it to be large and airy, but totally deficient in the matter of drawers or lockers.

Well! we shall have to keep everything in cabin trunks, and "live in our boxes" for the next three weeks.

There was cabin accommodation for twenty pa.s.sengers, but at dinner we mustered but nine. This is, of course, the season when all right-minded folks are coming home from India, and we never expected to find a crowd; still, nine individuals scattered abroad over the wide decks make but a poor show.

The first meal on board a big steamer is always interesting. Every one is quietly "taking stock" of his, or her, neighbours, and forming estimates of their social value, which are generally entirely upset by after experience.

Of our fellow-pa.s.sengers there were only five whose presence affected us in any way. A young Austrian, Herr Otto Frantz, with his wife, going out as first secretary of legation to Tokio; Major Twining, R.E., and his wife; and Miss Lungley, a cosmopolitan lady, who makes Kashmir her headquarters and Rome her _annexe_.

We became acquainted with each other sooner than might have been expected, by reason of an exploit of the stewardess--a gibbering idiot. The night was cold, so several of the ladies, following an evil custom, sent forth from their cabins those vile inventions called hot bottles. Only two came back..., and then the fun began. The stewardess, who speaks no known tongue, played "hunt the slipper" for the missing bottles through all the cabins, whence she was shot out by the enraged inhabitants until she was reduced to absolute imbecility, and the hara.s.sed stewards to gesticular despair.

The missing articles were, I believe, finally discovered and routed out of an unoccupied bed, where they had been laid and forgotten by the addle-pated lady, and peace reigned.

We sailed from Trieste early on the morning of the 28th of February, and steamed leisurely on our way. The Austrian Lloyd's "unaccelerated"

steamers are not too active in their movements, being wont to travel at purely "economical speed," and so we were given an excellent view of some of the Ionian Islands, steaming through the Ithaca channel, with the snow-tipped peak of Cephalonia close on our starboard hand.

Then, leaving the far white hills of the Albanian coast to fade into the blue mists, we sped

"Over the sea past Crete,"

until the tall lighthouse of Port Sad rose on the horizon, followed by the spars of much shipping, and the roofs of the houses dotted apparently over the waters of the Mediterranean. At length the low mudbanks which represent the two continents of Africa and Asia spread their dull monotony on either hand, and the good ship sat quietly down for a happy day's coaling.

Port Sad has grown out of all knowledge since I first made its acquaintance in 1877. It was then a cl.u.s.ter of evil-looking shanties, the abode of the sc.u.m of the Levant, who waxed fat by the profits of the gambling h.e.l.ls and the sale of p.o.r.nographic photographs. It has now donned the outwardly respectable look of middle age; it has laid itself out in streets; the gambling dens have disappeared, and the robbers have betaken themselves to the sale of the worst cla.s.s of j.a.panese and Indian "curios,"

ostrich feathers from East Africa, and tobacco in all its forms.

Port Sad has undoubtedly improved, but still it is not a nice place, and we were unfeignedly glad to repair on board the _Marie Valerie_ as soon as we noted the cessation of the black coaly cloud, through the murkiness of which a chattering stream of gnome-like figures pa.s.sed their burthens of "Cardiff" into the bowels of the ship.

Port Sad was cold, and Suez was cold, and we started down the Red Sea followed by a strong north wind, which kept us clad in greatcoats for a day or two, and, as we got down into wider waters, obliged us to keep our ports closed.

An object-lesson on the subject of closed ports was given in our cabin, where the fair chatelaine was reclining in her berth reading, fanned by the genial air which floated in at the open port,--a truculent Red Sea billow, meeting a slight roll of the ship, entered the cabin in an unbroken fall on the lady's head. A damp tigress flew out through the door, wildly demanding the steward, a set of dry bedding, and the instant execution of the captain, the officer of the watch, and the man at the wheel!

How dull we should be without these little incidents!

A hoopoe took deck, or rather rigging, pa.s.sage for a while, and evoked the greatest interest. Stalking gla.s.ses and binoculars were levelled at the unconcerned fowl, who sat by the "cathead" with perfect composure, and preened himself after his long flight.

The striking of "four bells" just under his beak unnerved him somewhat, and he departed in a great fuss and pother.

Our roomy decks afford many quiet corners in which to read or doze, and now that the weather is rapidly warming up we spend many hours in these peaceful pastimes, varied by an occasional const.i.tutional--none of your fisherman's walks, "three steps and overboard"--but a good, clear tramp, unimpeded by the innumerable deck-chairs, protruding feet, and ubiquitous children which cover all free s.p.a.ce on board a P. & O.

Then comes dinner, followed by a rubber of bridge, and so to bed.

On Sat.u.r.day the 11th we pa.s.sed the group of islands commonly known as the Twelve Apostles.

First, a tiny rock, rising lonely from the blue--brilliantly blue--waves; then a yellow crag of sandstone, looking like a haystack; and then a whole group of wild and fantastic islands, evidently of volcanic origin, and varying in rough peaks and abrupt cliffs of the strangest colours--brick-red, purple-black, grey, and yellow--utterly bare and desolate:

"Nor tree, nor shrub, nor plant, nor flower, Nor aught of vegetative power, The weary eye may ken,"

save only the white lighthouse, which, perched on its arid hill, serves to emphasise the desolation of earth and sky.

The Red Sea is remarkably well supplied with lighthouses; and, considering the narrowness of the channel in parts, the strong and variable currents, and the innumerable islands and shoals, the supply does no more than equal the demand.

I cannot imagine a more grievous death in life than the existence of a lighthouse-keeper in the Red Sea!

_Sunday, 12th_.--We pa.s.sed through the Gate of Tears this morning--the dismal, flat, and unprofitable island of Perim being scanned by me from the bathroom port, while exchanging an atmosphere of sticky salt air for an unrefreshing dip in sticky salt water.

The hoopoe is again with us; in fact I do not think he really left the ship, but simply sought a secluded perch, secure from prying observation.

He reappeared upon the port stay, and proceeded to preen himself and observe the ship's course. He is evidently bound for Aden, casting glances of quiet unconcern on Perim and the coast of Araby the blest.

Towards sunset we pa.s.sed the fantastic peaks of little Aden, and, drawing up to Steamer Point, cast anchor under the "Barren Rocks of Aden."

_Monday, 13th_.--We had a shocking time last night. All ports closed for coaling left us gasping, whilst a fiendish din arose from the bowels of the ship, whence cargo was being extracted. The stifling air, reeking with damp, developed in the early morning a steady rain, which dripped mournfully on the grimy decks. Rain in Aden! We are told on the best authority that this is most unusual.

Aden, to the pa.s.sing stranger, shows few attractions. We went on sh.o.r.e when the rain showed signs of ceasing, and after buying a few odds and ends, such as a pith hat and some cigarettes, we betook ourselves to the princ.i.p.al hotel, where an excessively bad breakfast was served to us, after which we were not sorry to shake the mud of Aden off our feet, so we chartered a sh.o.r.e boat amid a fearful clamour for extra pay and backshish, and set forth to rejoin our ship, now swept and garnished, and showing little trace of the coal she had swallowed.

_Monday, 20th_.--We reached Karachi yesterday morning after a quiet, calm, and utterly uneventful pa.s.sage across the Indian Ocean.

It was never hot--merely calm, grey, and even showery, our only excitements being an occasional school of porpoises or the sight of a pa.s.sing tramp steamer.

Some time before leaving England I had written to my old friend General Woon, commanding the troops at Abbotabad, asking him to provide me with a servant capable of dry-nursing a pair of Babes in the Wood throughout their sojourn in a strange land. The General promised to supply us with such an one, who, he said, would rob us to a certain extent himself, but would take good care that n.o.body else did so!

Immediately, then, upon our arrival in Karachi roads, a dark and swarthy person, with a black beard and gleaming white teeth, appeared on board, and reported himself as Sabz Ali, our servant and our master!

His knowledge of English "as she is spoke" was scanty and of strange quality, but his masterful methods of dealing with the boatmen and Custom-house subordinates inspired us with awe and a blind confidence that he could--and would--pull us through.