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The Man Who Kept His Money in a Box By: Anthony Trollope (1815-1882) |
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THE MAN WHO KEPT HIS MONEY IN A BOX by Anthony Trollope
I first saw the man who kept his money in a box in the midst of the
ravine of the Via Mala. I interchanged a few words with him or with
his wife at the hospice, at the top of the Splugen; and I became
acquainted with him in the courtyard of Conradi's hotel at Chiavenna.
It was, however, afterwards at Bellaggio, on the lake of Como, that
that acquaintance ripened into intimacy. A good many years have
rolled by since then, and I believe this little episode in his life
may be told without pain to the feelings of any one. His name was ; let us for the present say that his name was Greene.
How he learned that my name was Robinson I do not know, but I remember
well that he addressed me by my name at Chiavenna. To go back,
however, for a moment to the Via Mala; I had been staying for a few
days at the Golden Eagle at Tusis, which, by the bye, I hold to be
the best small inn in all Switzerland, and its hostess to be, or to
have been, certainly the prettiest landlady, and on the day of my
departure southwards, I had walked on, into the Via Mala, so that the
diligence might pick me up in the gorge. This pass I regard as one of
the grandest spots to which my wandering steps have ever carried me,
and though I had already lingered about it for many hours, I now
walked thither again to take my last farewell of its dark towering
rocks, its narrow causeway and roaring river, trusting to my friend
the landlady to see that my luggage was duly packed upon the
diligence. I need hardly say that my friend did not betray her trust. As one goes out from Switzerland towards Italy, the road through the
Via Mala ascends somewhat steeply, and passengers by the diligence may
walk from the inn at Tusis into the gorge, and make their way through
the greater part of the ravine before the vehicle will overtake them.
This, however, Mr. Greene with his wife and daughter had omitted to
do. When the diligence passed me in the defile, the horses trotting
for a few yards over some level portion of the road, I saw a man's
nose pressed close against the glass of the coupe window. I saw more
of his nose than of any other part of his face, but yet I could
perceive that his neck was twisted and his eye upturned, and that he
was making a painful effort to look upwards to the summit of the rocks
from his position inside the carriage. There was such a roar of wind and waters at the spot that it was not
practicable to speak to him, but I beckoned with my finger and then
pointed to the road, indicating that he should have walked. He
understood me, though I did not at the moment understand his answering
gesture. It was subsequently, when I knew somewhat of his habits,
that he explained to me that on pointing to his open mouth, he had
intended to signify that he would be afraid of sore throat in exposing
himself to the air of that damp and narrow passage. I got up into the conductor's covered seat at the back of the
diligence, and in this position encountered the drifting snow of the
Splugen. I think it is coldest of all the passes. Near the top of
the pass the diligence stops for awhile, and it is here, if I
remember, that the Austrian officials demand the travellers'
passports. At least in those days they did so. These officials have
now retreated behind the Quadrilatere, soon, as we hope, to make a
further retreat, and the district belongs to the kingdom of United
Italy. There is a place of refreshment or hospice here, into which we
all went for a few moments, and I then saw that my friend with the
weak throat was accompanied by two ladies. "You should not have missed the Via Mala," I said to him, as he stood
warming his toes at the huge covered stove. "We miss everything," said the elder of the two ladies, who, however,
was very much younger than the gentleman, and not very much older than
her companion... Continue reading book >>
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Genres for this book |
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Fiction |
Literature |
Short stories |
Travel |
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