Embarrassment

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  I wondered what it might be made of, but durst not ask the friend about it. I therefore summoned the waiter. My friend saw the movement and sternly asked across the table what was the matter. With considerable hesitation I told him that I wanted to inquire if the soup was a vegetable soup. ‘You are too clumsy for decent society,’ he passionately exclaimed ‘If you cannot behave yourself, you had better go. Feed in some other restaurant and await me outside.’ This delighted me. Out I went. There was a vegetarian restaurant close by, but it was closed. So I went without food that night. I accompanied my friend to the theatre, but he never said a word about the scene I had created. On my part of course there was nothing to say. That was the last friendly tussle we had. It did not affect our relations in the least. I could see and appreciate the love by which all my friend’s efforts were actuated, and my respect for him was all the greater on account of our differences in thought and action. But I decided that I should put him at ease, that I should assure him that I would be clumsy no more, but try to become polished and make up for my vegetarianism by cultivating other accomplishments which fitted one for polite soceity. And for this purpose I undertook the all too impossible task of becoming an English gentleman. The clothes after the Bombay cut that I was wearing were, I thought unsuitable for English society, and I got new ones at the Army and Navy stores. I also went in for a chimney-pot hat costing nineteen shillings an excessive price in those days. Not content with this, I wasted ten pounds on an evening suit made in Bond Street, the centre of fashionable life in London; and got my good and noble-hearted brother to send me a double watch-chain of gold. It was not correct to wear a ready-made tie and I learnt the art of tying one for myself. While in India, the mirror had been a luxury permitted on the days when the family barber gave me a shave. Here I wasted ten minutes every day before a huge mirror, watching myself arranging my tie and parting my hair in the correct fashion. My hair was by no means soft, and every day it meant a regular struggle with the brush to keep it in position. Each time the hat was put on and off, the hand would automatically move towards the head to adjust the hair, not to mention the other civilized habit of the hand every now and then operating for the same purpose when sitting in polished society. As if all this were not enough to make me look the thing, I directed my attention to other details that were supposed to go towards the making of an English gentleman.

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  She was watching a brown spaniel that had run out of a side-path, and was looking toward them with lifted nose, making a soft, fluffy bark. A man with a gun strode swiftly, softly out after the dog, facing their way as if about to attack them; then stopped instead, saluted, and was turning down hill. It was only the new gamekeeper, but he had frightened Connie, he seemed to emerge with such a swift menace. That was how she had seen him, like the sudden rush of a threat out of nowhere. He was a man in dark-green velveteens and gaiters ... the old style, with a red face and red moustache and distant eyes. He was going quickly down hill. "Mellors!" called Clifford. The man faced lightly round, and saluted with a quick little gesture, a soldier! "Will you turn the chair round and get it started? That makes it easier," said Clifford. The man at once slung his gun over his shoulder, and came forward with the same curious swift, yet soft movements, as if keeping invisible. He was moderately tall and lean, and was silent. He did not look at Connie at all, only at the chair. "Connie, this is the new gamekeeper, Mellors. You haven't spoken to her ladyship yet, Mellors?" "No, Sir!" came the ready, neutral words. The man lifted his hat as he stood, showing his thick, almost fair hair. He stared straight into Connie's eyes, with a perfect, fearless, impersonal look, as if he wanted to see what she was like. He made her feel shy. She bent her head to him shyly, and he changed his hat to his left hand and made her a slight bow, like a gentleman; but he said nothing at all. He remained for a moment still, with his hat in his hand. "But you've been here some time, haven't you?" Connie said to him. "Eight months, Madam ... your Ladyship!" he corrected himself calmly. "And do you like it?" She looked him in the eyes. His eyes narrowed a little, with irony, perhaps with impudence. "Why, yes, thank you, your Ladyship! I was reared here...." He gave another slight bow, turned, put his hat on, and strode to take hold of the chair. His voice on the last words had fallen into the heavy broad drag of the dialect ... perhaps also in mockery, because there had been no trace of dialect before. He might almost be a gentleman. Anyhow, he was a curious, quick, separate fellow, alone, but sure of himself. Clifford started the little engine, the man carefully turned the chair, and set it nose-forwards to the incline that curved gently to the dark hazel thicket. "Is that all then, Sir Clifford?" asked the man.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  I wanted them all to stay together in India, if possible, and to live the life they had led at Phoenix. I did not know of any Ashram to which I could recommend them to go, and therefore cabled to them to meet Mr. Andrews and do as he advised. So they were first put in the Gurukul, Kangri, where the late Swami Shraddhanandji treated them as his own children. After this they were put in the Shantiniketan Ashram, where the Poet and his people showered similar love upon them. The experiences they gathered at both these places too stood them and me in good stead. The Poet, Shraddhanandji and Principal Sushil Rudra, as I used to say to Andrews, composed his trinity. When in South Africa he was never tired of speaking of them, and of my many sweet memories of South Africa, Mr. Andrews’ talks, day in and day out, of this great trinity, are amongst the sweetest and most vivid. Mr. Andrews naturally put the Phoenix party in touch also with Sushil Rudra. Principal Rudra had no Ashram, but he had a home which he placed completely at the disposal of the Phoenix family. Within a day of their arrival, his people made them deal so thoroughly at home that they did not seem to miss Phoenix at all. It was only when I landed in Bombay that I learnt that the Phoenix party was at Shantiniketan. I was therefore impatient to meet them as soon as I could after my meeting with Gokhale. The receptions in Bombay gave me an occasion for offering what might be called a little Satyagraha. At the party given in my honour at Mr. Jehangir Petit’s place, I did not dare to speak in Gujarati. In those palatial surroundings of dazzling splendour I, who had lived my best life among indentured labourers, felt myself a complete rustic. With my Kathiawadi cloak, turban and dhoti, I looked somewhat more civilized than I do today, but the pomp and splendour of Mr. Petit’s mansion made me feel absolutely out of my element. However, I acquitted myself tolerably well, having taken shelter under Sir Pherozeshah’s protecting wing. Then there was the Gujarati function. The Gujaratis would not let me go without a reception, which was organized by the late Uttamlal Trivedi. I had acquainted myself with the programme beforehand. Mr. Jinnah was present, being a Gujarati, I forget whether as president or as the principal speaker. He made a short and sweet little speech in English. As far as I remember most of the other speeches were also in English. When my turn came, I expressed my thanks in Gujarati explaining my partiality for Gujarati and Hindustani, and entering my humble protest against the use of English in a Gujarati gathering.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  about me. The friend had planned to take me to this restaurant evidently imagining that modesty would forbid any questions. And it was a very big company of diners in the midst of which my friend and I sat sharing a table between us. The first course was soup. I wondered what it might be made of, but durst not ask the friend about it. I therefore summoned the waiter. My friend saw the movement and sternly asked across the table what was the matter. With considerable hesitation I told him that I wanted to inquire if the soup was a vegetable soup. ‘You are too clumsy for decent society,’ he passionately exclaimed ‘If you cannot behave yourself, you had better go. Feed in some other restaurant and await me outside.’ This delighted me. Out I went. There was a vegetarian restaurant close by, but it was closed. So I went without food that night. I accompanied my friend to the theatre, but he never said a word about the scene I had created. On my part of course there was nothing to say. That was the last friendly tussle we had. It did not affect our relations in the least. I could see and appreciate the love by which all my friend’s efforts were actuated, and my respect for him was all the greater on account of our differences in thought and action. But I decided that I should put him at ease, that I should assure him that I would be clumsy no more, but try to become polished and make up for my vegetarianism by cultivating other accomplishments which fitted one for polite soceity. And for this purpose I undertook the all too impossible task of becoming an English gentleman. The clothes after the Bombay cut that I was wearing were, I thought unsuitable for English society, and I got new ones at the Army and Navy stores. I also went in for a chimney-pot hat costing nineteen shillings an excessive price in those days. Not content with this, I wasted ten pounds on an evening suit made in Bond Street, the centre of fashionable life in London; and got my good and

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  dine at her house every Sunday. On special occasions also she would invite me, help me to conquer my bashfulness and introduce me to young ladies and draw me into conversation with them. Particularly marked out for these conversations was a young lady who stayed with her, and often we would be left entirely alone together. I found all this very trying at first. I could not start a conversation nor could I indulge in any jokes. But she put me in the way. I began to learn; and in course of time looked forward to every Sunday and came to like the conversations with the young friend. The old lady went on spreading her net wider every day. She felt interested in our meetings. Possibly she had her own plans about us. I was in a quandary. ‘How I wished I had told the good lady that I was married!’ I said to myself. ‘She would then have not thought of an engagement between us. It is, however, never too late to mend. If I declare the truth, I might yet be saved more misery.’ With these thoughts in my mind, I wrote a letter to her somewhat to this effect: ‘Ever since we met at Brighton you have been kind to me. You have taken care of me even as a mother of her son. You also think that I should get married and with that view you have been introducing me to young ladies. Rather than allow matters to go further, I must confess to you that I have been unworthy of your affection. I should have told you when I began my visits to you that I was married. I knew that Indian students in England dissembled the fact of their marriage and I followed suit. I now see that I should not have done so. I must also add that I was married while yet a boy, and am the father of a son. I am pained that I should have kept this knowledge from you so long. But I am glad God has now given me the courage to speak out the truth. Will you forgive me? I

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  "No," said Hammond. "It's wrong. You, for example, May, you squander half your force with women. You'll never really do what you should do, with a fine mind such as yours. Too much of you goes the other way." "Maybe it does ... and too little of you goes that way, Hammond, my boy, married or not. You can keep the purity and integrity of your mind, but it's going damned dry. Your pure mind is going as dry as fiddlesticks, from what I see of it. You're simply talking it down." Tommy Dukes burst into a laugh. "Go it you two minds!" he said. "Look at me.... I don't do any high and pure mental work, nothing but jot down a few ideas. And yet I neither marry, or run after women. I think Charlie's quite right; if he wants to run after the women, he's quite free not to run too often. But I wouldn't prohibit him from running. As for Hammond, he's got a property instinct, so naturally the straight road and the narrow gate are right for him. You'll see he'll be an English Man of Letters before he's done, A. B. C. from top to toe. Then there's me. I'm nothing. Just a squib. And what about you, Clifford? Do you think sex is a dynamo to help a man on to success in the world?" Clifford rarely talked much at these times. He never held forth; his ideas were really not vital enough for it, he was too confused and emotional. Now he blushed and looked uncomfortable. "Well!" he said, "being myself _hors de combat_, I don't see I've anything to say on the matter." "Not at all," said Dukes; "the top of you's by no means _hors de combat_. You've got the life of the mind sound and intact. So let us hear your ideas." "Well," stammered Clifford, "even then I don't suppose I have much idea ... I suppose marry-and-have-done-with-it would pretty well stand for what I think. Though of course between a man and woman who care for one another, it is a great thing." "What sort of great thing?" said Tommy. "Oh ... it perfects the intimacy," said Clifford, uneasy as a woman in such talk. "Well, Charlie and I believe that sex is a sort of communication like speech. Let any woman start a sex conversation with me, and it's natural for me to go to bed with her to finish it, all in due season. Unfortunately no woman makes any particular start with me, so I go to bed by myself; and am none the worse for it.... I hope so anyway, for how should I know? Anyhow I've no starry calculations to be interfered with, and no immortal works to write. I'm merely a fellow skulking in the army...."

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  “I presented myself the next day as requested. But I left my punk duds in a pile on the floor of my closet and dug out a dress I’d worn to my sister’s wedding, a white dress with a high neck and long, tight sleeves. It made me feel repressed and virginal. I didn’t have any fancy femmie underwear, so I didn’t wear any. At first I was embarrassed and thought maybe I was being too theatrical, but then I realized that I was pretty stupid, since I was going to meet someone who was about as subdued and understated as Mata Hari. Dressing up would only help me play my part better. So I hopped in my car and drove to the address on the card. I had to ring the bell and tell her who I was through the intercom. The door opened all by itself, and I had to climb up a winding set of stairs. There was a mirror at the first bend so she could see who was coming. She was wearing a different outfit, but it was the same aesthetic, straight out of Morticia Addams’ wardrobe. She seated herself on a red velveteen couch and told me to bring a tray with coffee and little cakes in from the kitchen. I think some of the coffee slopped over the edge of the cups onto the tray. And that wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all. I didn’t think the punishment was in proportion to the crime, but I wasn’t about to complain. “When it was finished, as we nibbled on pastries and drank the cold coffee, she made me an offer. She was a dominatrix. She had a separate room in her house—which I had not yet seen—fixed up with a standing rack and whips and dildoes and chains and a cage and a table. Submissive straight men paid her to do scenes with them. Once in a while, she would find someone who wanted to work with her, and train her to take on part of the clientele. When she was doing S/M for love instead of money, she preferred to play submissive to dominant men. She had an agreement with her master that she would not enter into any other ongoing S/M relationships. But she was curious about S/M dynamics between women. She told me that if I would stay with her for about a month, as her slave, she would give me a taste of every technique she knew. At the end of that time, if I had performed satisfactorily, she would reward me with permanent cuffs and a collar. She also told me that when my training was complete, she would put me out, and I would never see her again.” Jessie had been signaling for another cigarette for five minutes. I finally “noticed” and supplied her with one. I could tell by the tightening of her jaw that she took due notice of this provocation.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  I must tell you that Messer Forese and Giotto had each his country house at Mugello and the former, having gone to visit his estates, at that season of the summer when the Courts hold holiday, and returning thence on a sorry cart-horse, chanced to fall in with the aforesaid Giotto, who had been on the same errand and was then on his way back to Florence nowise better equipped than himself in horse and accoutrements. Accordingly, they joined company and fared on softly, like old men as they were. Presently, it chanced, as we often see it happen in summer time, that a sudden shower overtook them, from which, as quickliest they might, they took shelter in the house of a husbandman, a friend and acquaintance of both of them. After awhile, the rain showing no sign of giving over and they wishing to reach Florence by daylight, they borrowed of their host two old homespun cloaks and two hats, rusty with age, for that there were no better to be had, and set out again upon their way. When they had gone awhile and were all drenched and bemired with the splashing that their hackneys kept up with their hoofs--things which use not to add worship to any one's looks,--the weather began to clear a little and the two wayfarers, who had long fared on in silence, fell to conversing together. Messer Forese, as he rode, hearkening to Giotto, who was a very fine talker, fell to considering his companion from head to foot and seeing him everywise so ill accoutred and in such scurvy case, burst out laughing and without taking any thought to his own plight, said to him, 'How sayst thou, Giotto? An there encountered us here a stranger who had never seen thee, thinkest thou he would believe thee to be, as thou art, the finest painter in the world?' 'Ay, sir,' answered Giotto forthright, 'methinketh he might e'en believe it whenas, looking upon you, he should believe that you knew your A B C.' Messer Forese, hearing this, was sensible of his error and saw himself paid with money such as the wares he had sold."[304] [Footnote 304: Or, as we should say, "in his own coin."] THE SIXTH STORY [Day the Sixth] MICHELE SCALZA PROVETH TO CERTAIN YOUNG MEN THAT THE CADGERS OF FLORENCE ARE THE BEST GENTLEMEN OF THE WORLD OR THE MAREMMA AND WINNETH A SUPPER The ladies yet laughed at Giotto's prompt retort, when the queen charged Fiammetta follow on and she proceeded to speak thus: "Young ladies, the mention by Pamfilo of the cadgers of Florence, whom peradventure you know not as doth he, hath brought to my mind a story, wherein, without deviating from our appointed theme, it is demonstrated how great is their nobility; and it pleaseth me, therefore, to relate it.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  round Ventnor. I was no slow walker, but my companion walked even faster, dragging me after her and chattering away all the while. I responded to her chatter sometimes with a whispered ‘yes’ or ‘no’, or at the most ‘yes, how beautiful!’ She was flying like a bird whilst I was wondering when I should get back home. We thus reached the top of a hill. How to get down again was the question. In spite of her high-heeled boots this sprightly young lady of twenty- five darted down the hill like an arrow. I was shamefacedly struggling to get down. She stood at the foot smiling and cheering me and offering to come and drag me. How could I be so chicken hearted? With the greatest difficulty, and crawling at intervals, I somehow managed to scramble to the bottom. She loudly laughed ‘bravo’ and shamed me all the more, as well she might. But I could not escape scatheless everywhere. For God wanted to rid me of the canker of untruth. I once went to Brighton, another watering- place like Ventnor. This was before the ventnor visit. I met there at a hotel an old widow of moderate means. This was my first year in England. The courses on the menu were all described in French, which I did not understand. I sat at the same table as the old lady. She saw that I was a stranger and puzzled, and immediately came to my aid. ‘You seem to be a stranger,’ she said, ‘and look perplexed. Why have you not ordered anything?’ I was spelling through the menu and preparing to ascertain the ingredients of the courses from the waiter, when the good lady thus intervened. I thanked her, and explaining my difficulty told her that I was at a loss to know which of the courses were vegetarian as I did not understand French. ‘Let me help you,’ she said. ‘I shall explain the card to you and show you what you may eat.’ I gratefully availed myself of her help. This was the beginning of an acquaintance that ripened into friendship and was kept up all through my stay in England and long after. She gave me her London address and invited me to

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  At the cottage the door stood open, and there was a rattling heard inside. Connie lingered, the child slipped her hand, and ran indoors. "Gran! Gran!" "Why, are yer back a'ready!" The grandmother had been blackleading the stove, it was Saturday morning. She came to the door in her sacking apron, a blacklead-brush in her hand, and a black smudge on her nose. She was a little, rather dry woman. "Why, whatever?" she said, hastily wiping her arm across her face as she saw Connie standing outside. "Good morning!" said Connie. "She was crying, so I just brought her home." The grandmother looked round swiftly at the child: "Why, wheer was yer Dad?" The little girl clung to her grandmother's skirts and simpered. "He was there," said Connie, "but he'd shot a poaching cat, and the child was upset." "Oh, you'd no right t'ave bothered, Lady Chatterley, I'm sure! I'm sure it was very good of you, but you shouldn't 'ave bothered. Why, did ever you see!"--and the old woman turned to the child: "Fancy Lady Chatterley takin' all that trouble over yer! Why, she shouldn't 'ave bothered!" "It was no bother, just a walk," said Connie smiling. "Why, I'm sure t'was very kind of you, I must say! So she was crying! I knew there'd be something afore they got far. She's frightened of 'im, that's wheer it is. Seems 'e's almost a stranger to 'er, fair a stranger, and I don't think they're two as'd hit it off very easy. He's got funny ways." Connie didn't know what to say. "Look, Gran!" simpered the child. The old woman looked down at the sixpence in the little girl's hand. "An' sixpence an' all! Oh, your Ladyship, you shouldn't, you shouldn't. Why, isn't Lady Chatterley good to yer! My word, you're a lucky girl this morning!" She pronounced the name, as all the people did: Chat'ley.--"Isn't Lady Chat'ley _good_ to you!"--Connie couldn't help looking at the old woman's nose, and the latter again vaguely wiped her face with the back of her wrist, but missed the smudge. Connie was moving away.... "Well, thank you ever so much, Lady Chat'ley, I'm sure. Say thank you to Lady Chat'ley!"--this last to the child. "Thank you," piped the child. "There's a dear!" laughed Connie, and she moved away, saying "Good morning," heartily relieved to get away from the contact. Curious, she thought, that that thin, proud man should have that little, sharp woman for a mother! And the old woman, as soon as Connie was gone, rushed to the bit of mirror in the scullery, and looked at her face. Seeing it, she stamped her foot with impatience. "Of _course_ she had to catch me in my coarse apron, and a dirty face! Nice idea she'd get of me!"

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  "Of course!--_May_ I ask your Ladyship how Sir Clifford is!--I believe she ranks you even higher than Nurse Cavell!" "And I suppose you said I was blooming." "Yes! And she looked as rapt as if I had said the heavens had opened to you. I said if she ever came to Tevershall she was to come and see you." "Me! Whatever for! See me!" "Why yes, Clifford. You can't be so adored without making some slight return. Saint George of Cappadocia was nothing to you, in her eyes." "And do you think she'll come?" "Oh, she blushed! and looked quite beautiful for a moment, poor thing! Why don't men marry the women who would really adore them?" "The women start adoring too late. But did she say she'd come?" "Oh!" Connie imitated the breathless Miss Bentley, "your Ladyship, if ever I should dare to presume!" "Dare to presume! how absurd! But I hope to God she won't turn up. And how was her tea?" "Oh, Lipton's and _very_ strong! But Clifford, do you realise you are the _Roman de la rose_ of Miss Bentley and lots like her?" "I'm not flattered, even then." "They treasure up every one of your pictures in the illustrated papers, and probably pray for you every night. It's rather wonderful." She went upstairs to change. That evening he said to her: "You do think, don't you, that there is something eternal in marriage?" She looked at him. "But Clifford, you make eternity sound like a lid or a long, long chain that trailed after one, no matter how far one went." He looked at her, annoyed. "What I mean," he said, "is that if you go to Venice, you won't go in the hopes of some love affair that you can take _au grand sérieux_, will you?" "A love affair in Venice _au grand sérieux_? No, I assure you! No, I'd never take a love affair in Venice more than _au très petit sérieux_." She spoke with a queer kind of contempt. He knitted his brows, looking at her. Coming downstairs in the morning, she found the keeper's dog Flossie sitting in the corridor outside Clifford's room, and whimpering very faintly. "Why Flossie!" she said softly, "What are you doing here?" And she quietly opened Clifford's door. Clifford was sitting up in bed, with the bed-table and typewriter pushed aside, and the keeper was standing attention at the foot of the bed. Flossie ran in. With a faint gesture of head and eyes, Mellors ordered her to the door again, and she slunk out. "Oh, good morning Clifford!" Connie said. "I didn't know you were busy." Then she looked at the keeper, saying good morning to him. He murmured his reply, looking at her as if vaguely. But she felt a whiff of passion touch her, from his mere presence. "Did I interrupt you, Clifford? I'm sorry." "No, it's nothing of any importance."

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  Shantiniketan. I was therefore impatient to meet them as soon as I could after my meeting with Gokhale. The receptions in Bombay gave me an occasion for offering what might be called a little Satyagraha. At the party given in my honour at Mr. Jehangir Petit’s place, I did not dare to speak in Gujarati. In those palatial surroundings of dazzling splendour I, who had lived my best life among indentured labourers, felt myself a complete rustic. With my Kathiawadi cloak, turban and dhoti, I looked somewhat more civilized than I do today, but the pomp and splendour of Mr. Petit’s mansion made me feel absolutely out of my element. However, I acquitted myself tolerably well, having taken shelter under Sir Pherozeshah’s protecting wing. Then there was the Gujarati function. The Gujaratis would not let me go without a reception, which was organized by the late Uttamlal Trivedi. I had acquainted myself with the programme beforehand. Mr. Jinnah was present, being a Gujarati, I forget whether as president or as the principal speaker. He made a short and sweet little speech in English. As far as I remember most of the other speeches were also in English. When my turn came, I expressed my thanks in Gujarati explaining my partiality for Gujarati and Hindustani, and entering my humble protest against the use of English in a Gujarati gathering. This I did, not without some hesitation, for I was afraid lest it should be considered discourteous for an inexperienced man, returned home after a long exile, to enter his protest against established practices. But no one seemed to misunderstand my insistence on replying in Gujarati. In fact I was glad to note that everyone seemed reconciled to my protest. The meeting thus emboldened me to think that I should not find it difficult to place my new- fangled notions before my countrymen. After a brief stay in Bombay, full of these preliminary experiences, I went to Poona whither Gokhale had summoned me. 128.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  us to put up at the Victoria Hotel in London. Sjt Mazmudar and I accordingly went there. The shame of being the only person in white clothes was already too much for me. And when at the Hotel I was told that I should not get my things from Grindlay’s the next day, it being a Sunday, I was exasperated. Dr. Mehta, to whom I had wired from Southampton, called at about eight o’clock the same evening. He gave me a hearty greeting. He smiled at my being in flannels. As we were talking. I casually picked up his top- hat, and trying to see how smooth it was, passed my hand over it the wrong way and disturbed the fur. Dr. Mehta looked somewhat angrily at what I was doing and stopped me. But the mischief had been done. The incident was a warning for the future. This was my first lesson in European etiquette, into the details of which Dr. Mehta humorously initiated me. ‘Do not touch other people’s things,’ he said. ‘Do not ask questions as we usually do in India on first acquaintance; do not talk loudly; never address people as ‘sir’ whilst speaking to them as we do in India; only servants and subordinates address their masters that way; And so on and so forth. He also told me that it was very expensive to live in a hotel and recommended that I should live with a private family. We deferred consideration of the matter until Monday. Sjt.Mazmudar and I found the hotel to be a trying affair. It was also very expensive. There was, however, a Sindhi fellow-passenger from Malta who had become friends with Sjt Mazmudar, and as he was not a stranger to London, he offered to find rooms for us. We agreed,and on Monday, as soon as we got our baggage, we paid up our bills and went to the rooms rented for us by the Sindhi friend. I remember my hotel bill came to £ 3 an amount which shocked me. And I had practically starved in spite of this heavy bill! For I could relish nothing. When I did not like one thing, I asked for another, but had to pay for both just

• From The Ice Storm (1994)

  Vera Neumann, also known as Vera, winner of the 1972 National Home Fashion League Trailblazer Award, was the standard-bearer of these color harmonies. The decorator fabrics themselves were more durable than in the past. Synthetics and cotton/poly blends dominated. Plastics had also penetrated far into the home. Coffee tables, modular furniture, kitchenware, and electrical appliances—all could now be fashioned from plastic. Shag rugs of rust and brown like fallen leaves and corroded automobiles or green and gray like cave algae or a thick beach-coating of seaweed—shag was the area rug of the area. Shorter piles with startling mandalas and floral prints were also possible because of new manufacturing technologies. Yet shag continued to exert its charm over the decorators of New Canaan. It was versatile —it could conceal crumbs, ancient pieces of chewing gum, spittle, disease- carrying fleas and ants and silverfish, shreds of paper, and other unrecovered items. And it helped the vacuum-cleaner business move units. The seating unit had come to replace the couch in the vanguard of living room accommodations. A minimalist vocabulary was evident in these ingenious designs, reflecting the influence of simple, primal iconography in sculpture and architecture. Single- color stylings decorated sleek, curvaceous, cornerless shapes. The modular pieces of these seating units could be easily moved and rearranged in a variety of amoebic configurations. The traditional couch—and with it the loveseat, the divan, and the chaise longue—was in eclipse. The new seating units were often fashioned from polyurethane foam, a cheap, easy-to-manufacture, artificial filling. The Furniture Council of the Society of the Plastics Industry even presented a Poly Award for the groundbreaking adaptation of polymers. In 1973 it went to Donald A. Geddes, editor of American Furniture Design, who was named Polymer Man of the Year. Benjamin Hood reflected on fashion only briefly upon taking his wife’s hand —noticing in passing her ring and the raw, red crevices that surrounded it. She needed lotion. Passing across the Halfords’ threshold, into the foyer with its large standing sculpture—a melted I-beam twisted into a sort of anguished helix —catching a glimpse of the clustering and valent neighbors arranged in the corridor, Hood realized the truth of the matter: his ascot was no longer in fashion. In fact, sweaters, furry and dense and of Netherlandish origin, were numerous in the front hall at Dorothy and Robert Halford’s. There were a few old tweed jackets, but no ascots. Had Hood been in a mind to comfort himself, he might have approved of his ample shirt collar, spread wide on the wings of his lapels. But how had he managed to get out the door wearing the ascot? How had he let himself? Hood didn’t wear three-inch cork heels or white loafers.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  What while he continued to pass back and forth, it chanced one holiday that, the lady being seated with many others before her door and espying Master Alberto making towards them from afar, they one and all took counsel together to entertain him and do him honour and after to rally him on that his passion. Accordingly, they all rose to receive him and inviting him [to enter,] carried him into a shady courtyard, whither they let bring the choicest of wines and sweetmeats and presently enquired of him, in very civil and pleasant terms, how it might be that he was fallen enamoured of that fair lady, knowing her to be loved of many handsome, young and sprightly gentlemen. The physician, finding himself thus courteously attacked, put on a blithe countenance and answered, 'Madam, that I love should be no marvel to any understanding person, and especially that I love yourself, for that you deserve it; and albeit old men are by operation of nature bereft of the vigour that behoveth unto amorous exercises, yet not for all that are they bereft of the will nor of the wit to apprehend that which is worthy to be loved; nay, this latter is naturally the better valued of them, inasmuch as they have more knowledge and experience than the young. As for the hope that moveth me, who am an old man, to love you who are courted of many young gallants, it is on this wise: I have been many a time where I have seen ladies lunch and eat lupins and leeks. Now, although in the leek no part is good, yet is the head[71] thereof less hurtful and more agreeable to the taste; but you ladies, moved by a perverse appetite, commonly hold the head in your hand and munch the leaves, which are not only naught, but of an ill savour. How know I, madam, but you do the like in the election of your lovers? In which case, I should be the one chosen of you and the others would be turned away.' [Footnote 71: _i.e._ the base or eatable part of the stem.] The gentlewoman and her companions were somewhat abashed and said, 'Doctor, you have right well and courteously chastised our presumptuous emprise; algates, your love is dear to me, as should be that of a man of worth and learning; wherefore, you may in all assurance command me, as your creature, of your every pleasure, saving only mine honour.' The physician, rising with his companions, thanked the lady and taking leave of her with laughter and merriment, departed thence. Thus the lady, looking not whom she rallied and thinking to discomfit another, was herself discomfited; wherefrom, an you be wise, you will diligently guard yourselves." * * * * *

• From The Ice Storm (1994)

  And he didn’t wear his hair long or wear double-breasted suits or pleated pants. His gesture toward what he saw as a more flamboyant presentation had been these ascots, fashioned of a silk he liked to feel against his neck, against spots irritated by his Wilkinson double-bonded razor. But these ascots were no longer appropriate. Only months before, Benjamin Hood had lived in the certainty that his dress was in accord with the prevailing climatic conditions. But now, just as quickly, he was solitary in his garb. He dressed poorly. He disgraced himself. His wife looked fine, in her slacks and Hush Puppies, but he disgraced her company. Of women’s fashion at the Halfords’, Hood might have noticed ankle-length skirts, dignified and elegant, though there were also skirts at the knee and the midcalf. Here, too, sweaters were the accessory of choice, reflecting a polyphony of styles—sweaters of cashmere, mohair, and shetland. Sweaters, sweaters, sweaters. Sweaters, and pearls. Dorothy Halford overtook them in the foyer. With a free hand, she waved a little celery canoe at them. It was loaded down with an aqua-colored dip. Dot wore a blue-and-gray crocheted sweater over a thin crepe de chine blouse, pants of gray flannel, black velvet beret. No makeup. She was petite; there was something Katharine Ross–cherubic, unthreatening, wholesome about her. She appeared both willing and unsullied in the brute arena of erotic love. She seemed to take no notice of how her guests, the Hoods, were turned out, and she couldn’t have seen the traces of a recent disagreement in their eager hellos. —Ben, Elena! Wonderful! Wonderful. So wonderful to see you. She swallowed the last of the celery canoe. With an adolescent sexual pout, Dot kissed the air near Ben’s ear and crushed Elena in a manic hug. Then she seized the simple, white salad bowl that had been sitting on the table in the front hall. It was sinister in its simplicity. She thrust it at them. —Would you care to play? The enormity of the bowl took a moment to dawn on Ben. At first, he thought it was a joke, a joke with a visual gag—Did you hear the one about Spiro Agnew’s accountant? HA! HA! HA! HA! What did Mary Jo Kopechne’s mom say to Jack Ruby? HA! HA! HA! HA!—at which he might laugh agreeably without any comprehension of the punch line. But when he examined the contents of the bowl, he understood.

• From The Incendiaries (2018)

  She laughed, uncertain, then inhaled from a cigarette. Its lit end flared. The tale had fallen flat. If I’d been Phoebe, I’d have replied with tactful questions to help the conversation along. With a light joke, a quick grace note, I’d put this woman, plus all the listeners, at ease. I lacked such skill; instead, I smiled, polite. I excused myself to find a cocktail. It was childish, but I started revising the night. The next time I talked to Phoebe, I’d retell it as the kind of outsize frolic she’d wish she hadn’t missed. I’d gild the event, adding the six-piece jazz band, a hired waltzing troupe. Pop champagne to spout, like liquid mirth, from jeroboam bottles. Twirl the partiers. Set them to dance beneath the jasmine, florets dangling like bells from white-limbed pergolas. The Phelps’ house was also in Shichahai, less than a mile from my apartment. I left the party on foot, but I hadn’t walked much in Beijing. Within minutes, I was lost. I kept walking. It was a dense, hot night again, the slight wind blood-temperature. Girls on bicycles spun past, black triangle seats wedged between taut buttocks. No one knew where I was in the old, ill-lit alleys, the zigzag streets of the hutong, and not a soul could find me. It seemed the quiet the hermit seeks in the wild or the stylite on his post might be realized here, like this, amid Beijing’s chaos. I felt free, blameless: I’d have liked to be lost all night. Too soon, I happened upon the stalls of street-food hawkers. Steam coiled up in a haze from grills and open pots. I asked for directions at the last cart in my college Mandarin. The peddler replied, but I didn’t understand him. The couple waiting in line heard the exchange, and, laughing, said they’d help. While they sketched a map, I noticed a girl who stopped to purchase food. In the occult light of the hawker’s cart, I saw the upturned stub of a nose, a flat bob streaked peacock-blue. She held a translucent plastic backpack with nothing inside. Despite the childish bag, she looked about my age. She had excess baby fat, the kind of flesh a person can grab. Upon receiving the change for a scallion pancake, she inspected the coins, slanting them to the light. Then, she bit into the fried cake; broad front teeth tugged free a long, tantalizing shred of bright green. Inhaling, she sucked both lips clean of oil. She looked nothing like Phoebe, but in relishing the treat, the obvious appetite—it brought my absent girlfriend to mind. We’d fought, again. I hadn’t talked to Phoebe in almost a week. She left; I thanked the couple, then I followed the girl.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  It chanced one day that Guido set out from Orto San Michele and came by way of the Corso degli Ademari, the which was oftentimes his road, to San Giovanni, round about which there were at that present divers great marble tombs (which are nowadays at Santa Reparata) and many others. As he was between the columns of porphyry there and the tombs in question and the door of the church, which was shut, Messer Betto and his company, coming a-horseback along the Piazza di Santa Reparata, espied him among the tombs and said, 'Let us go plague him.' Accordingly, spurring their horses, they charged all down upon him in sport and coming upon him ere he was aware of them, said to him, 'Guido, thou refusest to be of our company; but, harkye, whenas thou shalt have found that God is not, what wilt thou have accomplished?' Guido, seeing himself hemmed in by them, answered promptly, 'Gentlemen, you may say what you will to me in your own house'; then, laying his hand on one of the great tombs aforesaid and being very nimble of body, he took a spring and alighting on the other side, made off, having thus rid himself of them. The gentlemen abode looking one upon another and fell a-saying that he was a crack-brain and that this that he had answered them amounted to nought seeing that there where they were they had no more to do than all the other citizens, nor Guido himself less than any of themselves. But Messer Betto turned to them and said, 'It is you who are the crackbrains, if you have not apprehended him. He hath courteously and in a few words given us the sharpest rebuke in the world; for that, an you consider aright, these tombs are the houses of the dead, seeing they are laid and abide therein, and these, saith he, are our house, meaning thus to show us that we and other foolish and unlettered men are, compared with him and other men of learning, worse than dead folk; wherefore, being here, we are in our own house.' Thereupon each understood what Guido had meant to say and was abashed nor ever plagued him more, but held Messer Betto thenceforward a gentleman of a subtle wit and an understanding." THE TENTH STORY [Day the Sixth] FRA CIPOLLA PROMISETH CERTAIN COUNTRY FOLK TO SHOW THEM ONE OF THE ANGEL GABRIEL'S FEATHERS AND FINDING COALS IN PLACE THEREOF, AVOUCHETH THESE LATTER TO BE OF THOSE WHICH ROASTED ST. LAWRENCE

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  At the cottage the door stood open, and there was a rattling heard inside. Connie lingered, the child slipped her hand, and ran indoors. "Gran! Gran!" "Why, are yer back a'ready!" The grandmother had been blackleading the stove, it was Saturday morning. She came to the door in her sacking apron, a blacklead-brush in her hand, and a black smudge on her nose. She was a little, rather dry woman. "Why, whatever?" she said, hastily wiping her arm across her face as she saw Connie standing outside. "Good morning!" said Connie. "She was crying, so I just brought her home." The grandmother looked round swiftly at the child: "Why, wheer was yer Dad?" The little girl clung to her grandmother's skirts and simpered. "He was there," said Connie, "but he'd shot a poaching cat, and the child was upset." "Oh, you'd no right t'ave bothered, Lady Chatterley, I'm sure! I'm sure it was very good of you, but you shouldn't 'ave bothered. Why, did ever you see!"--and the old woman turned to the child: "Fancy Lady Chatterley takin' all that trouble over yer! Why, she shouldn't 'ave bothered!" "It was no bother, just a walk," said Connie smiling. "Why, I'm sure t'was very kind of you, I must say! So she was crying! I knew there'd be something afore they got far. She's frightened of 'im, that's wheer it is. Seems 'e's almost a stranger to 'er, fair a stranger, and I don't think they're two as'd hit it off very easy. He's got funny ways." Connie didn't know what to say. "Look, Gran!" simpered the child. The old woman looked down at the sixpence in the little girl's hand. "An' sixpence an' all! Oh, your Ladyship, you shouldn't, you shouldn't. Why, isn't Lady Chatterley good to yer! My word, you're a lucky girl this morning!" She pronounced the name, as all the people did: Chat'ley.--"Isn't Lady Chat'ley _good_ to you!"--Connie couldn't help looking at the old woman's nose, and the latter again vaguely wiped her face with the back of her wrist, but missed the smudge. Connie was moving away.... "Well, thank you ever so much, Lady Chat'ley, I'm sure. Say thank you to Lady Chat'ley!"--this last to the child. "Thank you," piped the child. "There's a dear!" laughed Connie, and she moved away, saying "Good morning," heartily relieved to get away from the contact. Curious, she thought, that that thin, proud man should have that little, sharp woman for a mother! And the old woman, as soon as Connie was gone, rushed to the bit of mirror in the scullery, and looked at her face. Seeing it, she stamped her foot with impatience. "Of _course_ she had to catch me in my coarse apron, and a dirty face! Nice idea she'd get of me!"

• From Amplified Holy Bible (2015)

  In the Greco-Roman-Jewish culture of the time, hair worn down and loose would suggest a woman of questionable morals. d 11:5 Possibly the mark of an adulteress or prostitute, but likely a sign of disgrace for any number of reasons. In one of Aristophanes’ comedies, for example, head shaving is recommended for a woman whose son is cowardly or otherwise worthless. e 11:6 There is little doubt that this would appear disgraceful and embarrassing, but Paul is essentially providing his readers a simple way to determine for themselves if a woman should cover her head while prophesying or leading prayer in church. f 11:10 This may be an indication that angels are present at gatherings of believers. g 11:13 This verse acknowledges custom as another, separate argument for a woman’s head covering (v 5 ). h 11:20 When Christ instituted the Lord’s Supper (or the Lord’s Table), it was the Passover meal with the special rituals and explanations that He introduced (Matt 26:26 ff; Luke 22:15 ff). The description given here indicates that the early church celebrated the Lord’s Supper in similar fashion by having a full meal (the so-called agape “love” feast) that included the special rites with the bread and wine (see v 21 ). i 11:23 Many scholars believe this may be the first written description of the Lord’s Supper since this letter from Paul is dated earlier than any of the Gospels. j 11:29 I.e. respect Christ’s sacrifice and his fellow believers for whom Christ also died. 1 Corinthians 12 a 12:10 I.e. wonderful events or occurrences beyond human capability which manifest the supernatural power of God and fulfill His purpose. b 12:12 Lit is Christ . 1 Corinthians 13 a 13:1 I.e. a profound thoughtfulness and unselfish concern for other believers regardless of their circumstances or station in life. b 13:3 Early mss read so that I may boast, i.e. as a martyr. 1 Corinthians 14 a 14:1 In both the Old and the New Testaments, prophets are divinely inspired to foretell the future in the process of delivering God’s word to the people. Paul is saying to the Corinthians that all gifts are worthy and necessary (cf 12:11 , 18 , 29 , 30 ), but that they should give the gift of prophecy the highest priority (cf Deut 18 ). b 14:5 Lit receive edification . c 14:11 Lit barbarian, i.e. one who did not speak Greek; especially a person from an uncivilized region whose speech could not be readily translated. d 14:15 May refer to Paul’s spirit, the Holy Spirit, or the gifts of the Holy Spirit. e 14:34 When used elsewhere in the New Testament, in specific reference to a woman (cf Eph 5:22 ; Col 3:18 ; Titus 2:4 , 5 ; 1 Peter 3:1 , 5 ), this word refers to a married woman, so these admonitions (vv 34 , 35 ) may be directed primarily to the wives of believing husbands.