Children had come, he had followed his ideas. She was there
for him, just to keep him in condition. She was to him one of
the baser or material conditions necessary for his welfare in
prosecuting his ideas, of nationalism, of liberty, of
science.
But gradually, at twenty-three, twenty-four, she began to
realize that she too might consider these ideas. By his
acceptance of her self-subordination, he exhausted the feeling
in her. There were those of his associates who would discuss the
ideas with her, though he did not wish to do so himself. She
adventured into the minds of other men. His, then, was not the
only male mind! She did not exist, then, just as his attribute!
She began to perceive the attention of other men. An excitement
came over her. She remembered now the men who had paid her
court, when she was married, in Warsaw.
Then the rebellion broke out, and she was inspired too. She
would go as a nurse at her husband's side. He worked like a
lion, he wore his life out. And she followed him helplessly. But
she disbelieved in him. He was so separate, he ignored so much.
He counted too much on himself. His work, his ideas,--did
nothing else matter?
Then the children were dead, and for her, everything became
remote. He became remote. She saw him, she saw him go white when
he heard the news, then frown, as if he thought, "Why
have they died now, when I have no time to grieve?"
"He has no time to grieve," she had said, in her remote,
awful soul. "He has no time. It is so important, what he does!
He is then so self-important, this half-frenzied man! Nothing
matters, but this work of rebellion! He has not time to grieve,
nor to think of his children! He had not time even to beget
them, really."
She had let him go on alone. But, in the chaos, she had
worked by his side again. And out of the chaos, she had fled
with him to London.
He was a broken, cold man. He had no affection for her, nor
for anyone. He had failed in his work, so everything had failed.
He stiffened, and died.
She could not subscribe. He had failed, everything had
failed, yet behind the failure was the unyielding passion of
life. The individual effort might fail, but not the human joy.
She belonged to the human joy.
He died and went his way, but not before there was another
child. And this little Ursula was his grandchild. She was glad
of it. For she still honoured him, though he had been
mistaken.
She, Lydia Brangwen, was sorry for him now. He was
dead--he had scarcely lived. He had never known her. He had
lain with her, but he had never known her. He had never received
what she could give him. He had gone away from her empty. So, he
had never lived. So, he had died and passed away. Yet there had
been strength and power in him.