He had been worried that he would fall sick. Illness was something that preoccupied him even though he enjoyed remarkably good health, except for the embarrassment of his gout. He was in the habit of going up to the altana some mornings with his coffee, a book, and his thoughts, and he had hoped to spend some time doing that today with his Goethe, but a light, misty rain was falling. There had been thunderstorms overnight and prolonged periods of rain that had awakened him intermittently for a few seconds, until he had drifted back into a dreamless sleep. After spending an hour in his library, he lost concentration on what the German writer had called his irresistible need to set out on his long, solitary journey to Italy. The death of Albina Gonella had given Urbino his own irresistible need and, in its own way, it was a journey just as solitary as Goethe’s. He hoped that it would be just as fruitful. He abandoned the Palazzo Uccello and set out at a brisk stride to San Marco. Deep puddles along his route, where no wooden planks were set up, made it necessary to backtrack.
