Free The Dream of the Celt: A Novel by Mario Vargas Llosa

Matadi and felt clumsy and confused. The former naval officer calmed him: “I understand perfectly, Roger. God has His ways. He makes us uneasy, disturbs us, urges us to search. Until one day everything is illuminated and there He is. It will happen to you, you’ll see.”
    In those three months, at least, it hadn’t happened to him. Now, in 1902, thirteen years later, he still felt religious uncertainty. The fevers had passed, he had lost a good deal of weight, and though at times his weakness made him dizzy, he had resumed his duties as consul in Boma. He went to visit the governor-general and other authorities. He returned to the games of chess and bridge. The rainy season was at its height and would last for many more months.
    At the end of March 1889, when he finished his contract with Reverend William Holman Bentley and after five years away, he returned to Britain for the first time.

V
    “Coming here has been one of the most difficult things I’ve done in my life,” said Alice by way of greeting, pressing his hand. “I thought I’d never manage it. But here I am at last.”
    Alice Stopford Green maintained the appearance of a cold, rational person, far removed from sentimentality, but Roger knew her well enough to understand that she was moved to the marrow of her bones. He noticed the very slight tremor in her voice she could not hide and the rapid quivering of her nose that appeared whenever something worried her. She was close to seventy but still had her youthful figure. Wrinkles had not erased the freshness of her freckled face or the luminosity of her bright, steely eyes. In them the light of intelligence always shone. With her usual sober elegance, she wore a light suit, thin blouse, and boots with high heels.
    “What a pleasure, my dear Alice, what a pleasure,” Roger repeated, taking both her hands. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
    “I brought you books, sweets, and some clothes but the constables at the entrance took everything away.” Her expression showed impotence. “I’m sorry. Are you all right?”
    “Yes, yes,” Roger said eagerly. “You’ve done so much for me all this time. Is there no news yet?”
    “The cabinet meets on Thursday,” she said. “I know from a good source that this matter is at the top of the agenda. We’re doing everything possible and even the impossible, Roger. The petition has close to fifty signatures, all of them important people. Scientists, artists, writers, politicians. John Devoy assures us that anytime now the telegram from the president of the United States ought to reach the British government. All our friends have mobilized to stop, well, I mean, to counteract the vile campaign in the press. You know about it, don’t you?”
    “Vaguely,” said Roger with a look of displeasure. “We don’t get news from outside and the jailers have orders not to say a word to me. The sheriff speaks, but only to insult me. Do you think there’s still a possibility, Alice?”
    “Of course I do,” she affirmed forcefully, but Roger thought it was a compassionate lie. “All my friends assure me the cabinet decides this unanimously. If a single minister opposes the execution, you’re saved. And it seems your former superior at the Foreign Office, Sir Edward Grey, is against it. Don’t lose hope, Roger.”
    This time the sheriff of Pentonville Prison was not in the visitors’ room. Only a very young, discreet guard who turned his back on them and looked at the corridor through the grating in the door, pretending disinterest in their conversation. If all the jailers at Pentonville were this considerate, life here would be much more bearable , he thought, and realized he still hadn’t asked Alice about events in Dublin.
    “I know that when the Easter Week Rising broke out, Scotland Yard went to search your house on Grosvenor Road,” he said. “Poor Alice, did they make things hard for you?”
    “Not too bad, Roger. They took a good number of