Read Ebook: A Holiday in the Happy Valley with Pen and Pencil by Swinburne T R

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Ebook has 1390 lines and 88027 words, and 28 pages

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 Canal.

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 Canal, 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 Canal, 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 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 H?tel 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 Sa?d, 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.

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.

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 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 Sa?d 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 Sa?d has grown out of all knowledge since I first made its acquaintance in 1877. It was then a cluster of evil-looking shanties, the abode of the scum of the Levant, who waxed fat by the profits of the gambling hells and the sale of pornographic 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 class of Japanese and Indian "curios," ostrich feathers from East Africa, and tobacco in all its forms.

Port Sa?d 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, passage for a while, and evoked the greatest interest. Stalking glasses 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 constitutional--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 space on board a P. & O.

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

On Saturday the 11th we passed 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!

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 passed the fantastic peaks of little Aden, and, drawing up to Steamer Point, cast anchor under the "Barren Rocks of Aden."

Aden, to the passing stranger, shows few attractions. We went on shore 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 principal 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 shore 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.

It was never hot--merely calm, grey, and even showery, our only excitements being an occasional school of porpoises or the sight of a passing 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 nobody 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.

There was no difficulty at the Custom-house until it transpired that I wanted to take three firearms into the country. This appeared to be a most unusual and reprehensible desire, and my statement that one weapon was a rifle which I was taking charge of for a friend did not improve the situation. It being Sunday, the principal authorities were sunning themselves in their back parlours, and the thing in charge became exceedingly fussy, and desired that the guns should be unpacked and exhibited lest they should be of service pattern. This was simple, as far as my battery was concerned, and I promptly laid bare the beauties of my Mannlicher and ancient 12-bore; but, alas! Mrs. Smithson's rifle was soldered like a sardine into a strong tin case, and no cold-chisel or screwdriver was forthcoming.

Messengers were sent forth to seek the needful instruments, while I proceeded to cut another Gordian knot.... An acquaintance of mine, hearing that I was coming to India, suggested that I should take charge of a parcel for a friend of hers, who wanted to send it to her fianc? in Bombay. As all the heavy baggage was sent from London to join us at Port Sa?d, I had not seen the "parcel," and, finding no case or box addressed to any one but myself, I had to select one that seemed most likely to be right, and forward that.

At last the needful appliances were got and the rifle unpacked; but, although it proved to be a large-bore Express, the Baboo refused, like a very Pharaoh, to let it go, and I, after a two-hour vexatious delay, paid the duty on my own guns, and, leaving a note for the chief Customs official, explaining the case and begging him to send the rifle on forthwith, packed myself--hot, hungry, and angry--into a "gharri," and set forth to the Devon Place Hotel, whither the rest of the party had preceded me.

I have gone into this little episode somewhat at length in order to impress upon the voyager to India the necessity for limiting the number of firearms or getting a friend to father the extra ones through the Customs--a perfectly simple matter had one foreseen the difficulty. Also the danger of taking parcels for friends--of which more anon!

A big deal case which we unpacked at Srinagar proved to contain a "life-sized" work-table. The package holding our camp beds and bedding, having a humbler aspect, had been sent to Bombay and cost as a world of worry and expense to recover!

Karachi did not strike us as being a particularly interesting town, but that may be to a great extent because we did not see the best part of it. On landing at Kiamari we had only driven along a hot and glaring mole, bordered by swamps and slimy-looking flats for some two miles. Then, on reaching the city proper, a dusty road, bordered by somewhat suburban-looking houses, brought us to the Devon Place Hotel, near the Frere station. After breakfast we merely drove into the bazaars to shop before betaking ourselves to the station, in good time for the 6.30 train.

Passengers--at least first-class passengers--were not numerous, and Major Twining and I had no difficulty in securing two compartments--one for our wives and one for ourselves.

An Indian first-class carriage is roomy, but bare, being arranged with a view to heat rather than cold Two long seats run "fore and aft" on either side, and upon them your servant makes your bed at night. Two upper berths can be let down in case of a crowd. At the end of each compartment is a small toilet-room.

It was unexpectedly chilly at night, and Twining and I were glad to roll ourselves up in as many rugs and "resais" as we could persuade the ladies to leave to us.

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