A Holiday in the Happy Valley with Pen and Pencil | Page 6

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 noble 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, noble 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 Hôtel 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 passenger by Austrian Lloyd only
gets at Port Saïd, 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, principally for Japan, 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 passengers, 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-passengers 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
harassed 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