The Rainbow

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.