So for want of time to crack this hard nutshell we
never got at the kernel.
From Milan we went to Venice, which we found enveloped in a white fog,
with a network of lagoons meandering through streets of the foulest mud.
Venice is pre-eminently a hot-weather city. In winter, with her cold
canals and wet alleys, deep rains and dense mists, her huge, unwarmed
palaces, and her bare, draughty hotels, she is a veritable wet place of
punishment. We stayed in Venice for some days, and made several pleasant
acquaintances. I had with me a German maid, who had never seen Venice.
She went in a gondola for the first time, and was at the highest pitch of
excitement at finding that all was water. She marvelled at the absence
of cabs and dust, and exclaimed perpetually, "Nothing but water, water
everywhere"; which we naturally capped with, "But not a drop to drink,"
until I believe she fancied that drink was the only thing we English
ever thought of.
On December 23 we went across to Trieste by the midnight boat, and next
morning I was at Trieste again, my much-loved home of four years and a
half. I found it all to a hair as I had left it just a year ago, for I
had been absent twelve months in England. Christmas Night, however, was
a little sad. We had accepted an invitation for a Christmas dinner, and
had given the servants leave to go out to see their friends; but Richard
was unfortunately taken ill, and could not dine out, and he went to bed.
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