wondered what in the world he should do with "all that money." He might
travel. Yes, but he preferred to travel with a view of seeing things,
rather than of reaching places. He would rather walk most of the way.
The only way in which he could possibly live up to such an income must
be by changing his entire mode of life--a house, somewhere in a great
city, horses, servants, and even a wife--Claudius laughed for the first
time in many months, a deep Homeric laugh--they would all help him to
get rid of his money. But then, a life like that--pshaw! impossible. He
was sick of it before beginning, then what would he feel after a month
of it?

The problem faced him in the dark, like an unsolved equation, staring
out black and white before his eyes, or like an unfinished game of chess
when one goes to bed after five or six hours' play. Something he must
decide, because it was his nature to decide always, before he left a
subject, on some course of thought. Meanwhile he had been so little
disturbed by the whole business that, in spite of his uncle's death, and
a million and a half of money, he was hungry and thirsty. So he struck a
match and lit his study-lamp, and found his coat and hat and stick. Then
he paused. He did not want to meet Dr. Wiener and Dr. Wurst that
evening; he would fetch himself something to eat and drink, and be
quiet. So he slung a heavy stone jug on his arm, and, turning his lamp
down to save the oil, trudged down the stairs and out into the street.
He made for the little inn at the corner, and while the fat old landlord
filled his jug with the best Markgräfler, he himself picked out a couple
of smoked sausages from the great pile on the counter, and wrapping them
up with half a dozen pretzels, transferred the package to his capacious
pocket. Then he took the jug from the innkeeper, and having paid half a
gulden for the whole supply of eatables and wine, he departed to consume
them in solitude. It was his usual supper. He had done the same thing