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