The journey by the St. Gotthard was delightful, the day brilliant, and the
frost keen, while we watched the fleeting panorama of icebound peaks and
snow-powdered pines from the cushions of our comfortable carriage.
The glory of winter left us as we left the Swiss mountains and dropped
down into the fertile flats of Northern Italy, and at Milan all was raw
chilliness and mud.
Nothing can well be more depressing than wet and cheerless weather in a
land obviously intended for sunshine.
We slept at Milan, and the next day set forth in heavy rain towards Venice.
The miserable ranks of distorted and pollarded trees stood sadly in pools
of yellow-stained water, or stuck out of heaps of half-melted and
uncleanly snow.
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.
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