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。