Where could he go?
There was the Black Forest, but he knew that thoroughly; Bohemia--he had been there; Switzerland; the Engadine--yes, he would go back to Pontresina and see what it had grown into since he was there six years ago.

It used to be a delightful place then, as different from St.Moritz as anything could well be.

Only students and artists and an occasional sturdy English climber used to go to Pontresina, while all Europe congregated at St.Moritz half a dozen miles away.

He would go there as he went everywhere, with a knapsack and a thick stick and a few guldens in his pocket, and be happy, if so be that he had any capacity for enjoyment left in him.
"It is absurd," said Claudius to himself, argumentatively.

"I am barely thirty years old, as strong as an ox, and I have just inherited more money than I know what to do with, and I feel like an old cripple of ninety, who has nothing left to live for.