TO THE LIGHTHOUSEtion, which, he knew angrily, wavered instantly hisfather stopped. But no. Nothing would make Mr. Ram-say move on. There he stood, demanding sympathy.

Mrs. Ramsay, who had been sitting loosely, foldingher son in her arm, braced herself, and, half turning,seemed to raise herself with an effort, and at once topour erect into the air a rain of energy, a column ofspray, looking at the same time animated and alive asif all her energies were being fused into force, burningand illuminating (quietly though she sat, taking upher stocking again), and into this delicious fecundity,this fountain and spray of life, the fatal sterility of themale plunged itself, like a beak of brass, barren andbare. He wanted sympathy. He was a failure, he said.Mrs. Ramsay flashed her needles. Mr. Ramsay re-peated, never taking his eyes from her face, that he wasa failure. She blew the words back at him. ‘CharlesTansley. . .’ she said. But he must have more thanthat. It was sympathy he wanted, to be assured of hisgenius, first of all, and then to be taken within thecircle of life, warmed and soothed, to have his sensesrestored to him, his barrenness made fertile, and allthe rooms of the house made full of life — the draw-ing-room; behind the drawing-room the kitchen; abovethe kitchen the bedrooms; and beyond them the nur-series; they must be furnished, they must be filledwith life.

Charles Tansley thought him the greatest meta-physician of the time, she said. But he must havemore than that. He must have sympathy. He must beassured that he too lived in the heart of life; was needed;not here only, but all over the world. Flashing herneedles, confident, upright, she created drawing-room46
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