TO THE LIGHTHOUSEenergy, a column of spray, looking at the sametime animated and alive as if all her energies werebeing fused into force, burning and illuminating(quietly though she sat, taking up her stockingagain), and into this delicious fecundity, thisfountain and spray of life, the fatal sterility of themale plunged itself, like a beak of brass, barrenand bare. He wanted sympathy. He was afailure, he said. Mrs. Ramsay flashed herneedles. Mr. Ramsay repeated, never taking hiseyes from her face, that he was a failure. She blewthe words back at him. "Charles Tansley . . ."she said. But he must have more than that.It was sympathy he wanted, to be assured of hisgenius, first of all, and then to be taken withinthe circle of life, warmed and soothed, to havehis senses restored to him, his barrenness madefertile, and all the rooms of the house made fullof life—the drawing-room; behind the drawing-room the kitchen; above the kitchen the bedrooms;and beyond them the nurseries; they must befurnished, they must be filled with life.

Charles Tansley thought him the greatestmetaphysician of the time, she said. But hemust have more than that. He must havesympathy. He must be assured that he too livedin the heart of life; was needed; not here only,but all over the world. Flashing her needles,62
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