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 Principles of Psychology (Volume 1 of 2) (1890)

  In a later note I shall return to the subject again (see p. 520).[453] Professor Beaunis found that the accuracy with which a certain tenor sang was not lost when his vocal cords were made anæsthetic by cocain. He concludes that the guiding sensations here are resident in the laryngeal muscles themselves. They are much more probably in the ear. (Beaunis, Les Sensations Internes (1889), p. 253).[454] As the feeling of heat, for example, is the last psychic antecedent of sweating, as the feeling of bright light is that of the pupil's contraction, as the sight or smell of carrion is that of the movements of disgust, as the remembrance of a blunder may be that of a blush, so the idea of a movement's sensible effects might be that of the movement itself. It is true that the idea of sweating will not commonly make us sweat, nor that of blushing make us blush. But in certain nauseated states the idea of vomiting will make us vomit; and a kind of sequence which is in this case realized only exceptionally might be the rule with the so-called voluntary muscles. It all depends on the nervous connections between the centres of ideation and the discharging paths. These may differ from one sort of centre to another. They do differ somewhat from one individual to another. Many persons never blush at the idea of their blunders, but only when the actual blunder is committed; others blush at the idea; and some do not blush at all. According to Lotze, with some persons "It is possible to weep at will by trying to recall that peculiar feeling in the trigeminal nerve which habitually precedes tears. Some can even succeed in sweating voluntarily, by the lively recollection of the characteristic skin-sensations, and the voluntary reproduction of an indescribable sort of feeling of relaxation, which ordinarily precedes the flow of perspiration." (Med. Psych., p. 303.) The commoner type of exceptional case is that in which the idea of the stimulus, not that of the effects, provokes the effects. Thus we read of persons who contract their pupils at will by strongly imagining a brilliant light. A gentleman once informed me (strangely enough I cannot recall who he was, but I have an impression of his being a medical man) that he could sweat at will by imagining himself on the brink of a precipice. The sweating palms of fear are sometimes producible by imagining a terrible object (cf. Manouvrier in Rev. Phil., XXII. 203). One of my students, whose eyes were made to water by sitting in the dentist's chair before a bright window, can now shed tears by imagining that situation again. One might doubtless collect a large number of idiosyncratic cases of this sort. They teach us how greatly the centres vary in their power to discharge through certain channels. All that we need, now, to account for the differences observed between the psychic antecedents of the voluntary and involuntary movements is

• From The Principles of Psychology (Volume 1 of 2) (1890)

  The next thing to be noticed is this, that every one of the bodily changes, whatsoever it be, is FELT, acutely or obscurely, the moment it occurs. If the reader has never paid attention to this matter, he will be both interested and astonished to learn how many different local bodily feelings he can detect in himself as characteristic of his various emotional moods. It would be perhaps too much to expect him to arrest the tide of any strong gust of passion for the sake of any such curious analysis as this; but he can observe more tranquil states, and that may be assumed here to be true of the greater which is shown to be true of the less. Our whole cubic capacity is sensibly alive; and each morsel of it contributes its pulsations of feeling, dim or sharp, pleasant, painful, or dubious, to that sense of personality that every one of us unfailingly carries with him. It is surprising what little items give accent to these complexes of sensibility. When worried by any slight trouble, one may find that the focus of one's bodily consciousness is the contraction, often quite inconsiderable, of the eyes and brows. When momentarily embarrassed, it is something in the pharynx that compels either a swallow, a clearing of the throat, or a slight cough; and so on for as many more instances as might be named. Our concern here being with the general view rather than with the details, I will not linger to discuss these, but, assuming the point admitted that every change that occurs must be felt, I will pass on.

• From Anxiety at Work: 8 Strategies to Help Teams Build Resilience, Handle Uncertainty, and Get Stuff Done

  Method 3: Preserve Gratitude’s SignificanceAn employee we interviewed said, “My boss said I was going to be recognized in front of our team for reaching one year of service. The company did these service awards all the time, and they were nice things, so I said that’d be okay.” But when the big day arrived, the employee found out they were going to tack his award presentation on after another—a woman who was receiving a twenty-year service award. “All these people from outside our department showed up and it was like a eulogy,” he said. “Folks were crying and telling her how much they loved her. I wanted to crawl into a hole. I hardly knew anyone yet. When they got around to my turn, the people who had come from other departments couldn’t just up and walk away, so they stayed and watched my miserable little one-year award being given. A couple of my team members said nice things, but compared to the lovefest we’d all just witnessed it was embarrassing.” He darkly joked that it was like giving out the Sound Mixing Oscar after the award for Best Picture. He added, “Later, when my manager told me we’d be celebrating my three-year anniversary—that was the next one they gave out an award for—I told him they could do it without me. There was no way in hell I was going to be there.” The point: Whenever you express gratitude, do not dampen the result by combining it with other business. Also, do not minimize accomplishments. If you talk about lessons learned (Rebecca sure has come a long way ) or if you try to socialize the experience (Good work, Trey. I wish I could recognize everyone on our team ), you will most likely diminish the positive effect your gratitude would otherwise have provided. The last warning is to acknowledge the difference between recognition and celebration. Some managers are reticent to single out individuals. Instead of recognizing the above-and-beyond contributions of one or two people in each staff meeting, say, they’ll take the whole team to lunch once a month. That’s not recognition, it’s a celebration. And it may create more anxiety for high achievers, who often are eager to know their work is valued. Individual recognition and team celebrations serve unique but different roles in building a high-performing team.

• From Sex at Dawn (2010)

  J ERRY S EINFELD There’s a story about President Calvin Coolidge and a chicken farm every evolutionary psychologist knows by heart. It goes like this: The president and his wife were visiting a commercial chicken farm in the 1920s. During the tour, the first lady asked the farmer how he managed to produce so many fertile eggs with only a few roosters. The farmer proudly explained that his roosters happily performed their duty dozens of times each day. “Perhaps you could mention that to the president,” replied the first lady. Overhearing the remark, President Coolidge asked the farmer, “Does each cock service the same hen each time?” “Oh no,” replied the farmer, “he always changes from one hen to another.” “I see,” replied the president. “Perhaps you could point that out to Mrs. Coolidge.” Whether the story is historically factual or not, the invigorating effect of a variety of sexual partners has become known as “the Coolidge effect.” While there’s little doubt that the females of some primate species (including our own) are also intrigued by sexual novelty, the underlying mechanism appears to be different for them. Thus the Coolidge effect generally refers to male mammals, where it’s been documented in many species. 18 But that doesn’t mean women’s only motivation for sex is relational, as is often argued. Psychologists Joey Sprague and David Quadagno surveyed women from twenty-two to fifty-seven years of age and found that among those under thirty-five, 61 percent of the women said their primary motivation for sex was emotional, rather than physical. But among those over thirty-five, only 38 percent claimed their emotional motivations were stronger than the physical hunger for contact. 19 At face value, such results suggest women’s motivations change with age. Or one could also argue that this effect could simply reflect women becoming less apologetic as they mature. First-time travelers to Istanbul, Bali, Gambia, Thailand, or Jamaica may be surprised to see thousands of middle-aged women from Europe and the United States who flock to these places in search of no-strings sexual attention. An estimated eighty thousand women fly to Jamaica looking to “Rent a Rasta” every year. 20 The number of female Japanese visitors to the Thai island resort Phuket jumped from fewer than four thousand in 1990 to ten times that just four years later, outnumbering male Japanese tourists significantly. Chartered jets carrying nothing but Japanese women land in Bangkok every week, if not daily. In her book Romance on the Road, Jeannette Belliveau catalogs dozens of destinations frequented by such women. That this sort of behavior would seem unbelievable and embarrassing to most of the young American women filling out questionnaires for their psychology professors is both result and cause of a more general scientific and cultural blindness to the true contours of female sexuality.

• From Sex at Dawn (2010)

  M ARK T WAIN, Letters from the Earth We recently spotted a young man strolling down Las Ramblas in Barcelona proudly sporting a T-shirt proclaiming that he was Born to F*ck. One wonders whether he has a whole set of these shirts at home: Born to Bre*the, Born to E*t, Born to Dr*nk, Born to Sh*t, and of course the depressing but inevitable Born to D*e. But maybe he was making a deeper point. After all, the argument central to this book is that sex has long served many crucial functions for Homo sapiens, with reproduction being only the most obvious among them. Since we human beings spend more time and energy planning, executing, and recalling our sexual exploits than any other species on Earth, maybe we all should wear such shirts. Or maybe just the women. When it comes to sex, men may be trash-talking sprinters, but it’s the women who win all the marathons. Any marriage counselor will tell you the most common sex-related complaint women make about men is that they are too quick and too direct. Meanwhile, men’s most frequent sex-related gripe about women is that they take too damned long to get warmed up. After an orgasm, a woman may be anticipating a dozen more. A female body in motion tends to stay in motion. But men come and go. For them, the curtain falls quickly and the mind turns to unrelated matters. This symmetry of dual disappointment illustrates the almost comical incompatibility between men’s and women’s sexual response in the context of monogamous mating. You have to wonder: if men and women evolved together in sexually monogamous couples for millions of years, how did we end up being so incompatible? It’s as if we’ve been sitting down to dinner together, millennium after millennium, but half of us can’t help wolfing everything down in a few frantic, sloppy minutes, while the other half are still setting the table and lighting candles. Yes, we know: mixed strategies, lots of cheap sperm versus a few expensive eggs in one basket, and so on. But these flagrantly maladjusted sexual responses make far more sense when viewed as relics of our having evolved in promiscuous groups. Rather than spinning theories within theories in an effort to prop up an unstable paradigm—monogamy with mistakes, mild polygyny, mixed mating strategies, serial monogamy—can we simply face the one scenario where none of this self-contradicting, inconsistent special pleading is necessary? Okay, fine, it’s embarrassing.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  'All right. I see,' said Stepan Arkadyevitch. 'I should ask you to come to us, you know, but my wife's not quite the thing. But I tell you what: if you want to see them, they're sure now to be at the Zoological Gardens from four to five. Kitty skates. You drive along there, and I'll come and fetch you, and we'll go and dine somewhere together.' 'Capital. So good-bye till then.' 'Now mind, you'll forget, I know you, or rush off home to the country!' Stepan Arkadyevitch called out, laughing. 'No, truly!' And Levin went out of the room, only when he was in the doorway remembering that he had forgotten to take leave of Oblonsky's colleagues. 'That gentleman must be a man of great energy,' said Grinevitch, when Levin had gone away. 'Yes, my dear boy,' said Stepan Arkadyevitch, nodding his head, 'he's a lucky fellow! Over six thousand acres in the Karazinsky district; everything before him; and what youth and vigour! Not like some of us.' 'You have a great deal to complain of, haven't you, Stepan Arkadyevitch?' 'Ah, yes, I'm in a poor way, a bad way,' said Stepan Arkadyevitch with a heavy sigh. VI W HEN Oblonsky asked Levin what had brought him to town, Levin blushed, and was furious with himself for blushing, because he could not answer, 'I have come to make your sister-in-law an offer,' though that was precisely what he had come for. The families of the Levins and the Shtcherbatskys were old, noble Moscow families, and had always been on intimate and friendly terms. This intimacy had grown still closer during Levin's student-days. He had both prepared for the university with the young Prince Shtcherbatsky, the brother of Kitty and Dolly, and had entered at the same time with him. In those days Levin used often to be in the Shtcherbatskys' house, and he was in love with the Shtcherbatsky household. Strange as it may appear, it was with the household, the family that Konstantin Levin was in love, especially with the feminine half of the household.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  'Well, it's this,' said Levin; 'but it's of no importance, though.' His face all at once took an expression of anger from the effort he was making to surmount his shyness. 'What are the Shtcherbatskys doing? Everything as it used to be?' he said. Stepan Arkadyevitch, who had long known that Levin was in love with his sister-in-law, Kitty, gave a hardly perceptible smile, and his eyes sparkled merrily. 'You said a few words, but I can't answer in a few words, because . . . Excuse me a minute …' A secretary came in, with respectful familiarity and the modest consciousness, characteristic of every secretary, of superiority to his chief in the knowledge of their business; he went up to Oblonsky with some papers, and began, under pretence of asking a question, to explain some objection. Stepan Arkadyevitch, without hearing him out, laid his hand genially on the secretary's sleeve. 'No, you do as I told you,' he said, softening his words with a smile, and with a brief explanation of his view of the matter he turned away from the papers, and said: 'So do it in that way, if you please, Zahar Nikititch.' The secretary retired in confusion. During the consultation with the secretary Levin had completely recovered from his embarrassment. He was standing with his elbows on the back of a chair, and on his face was a look of ironical attention. 'I don't understand it, I don't understand it,' he said. 'What don't you understand?' said Oblonsky, smiling as brightly as ever, and picking up a cigarette. He expected some queer outburst from Levin. 'I don't understand what you are doing,' said Levin, shrugging his shoulders. 'How can you do it seriously?' 'Why not?' 'Why, because there's nothing in it.' 'You think so, but we're overwhelmed with work.' 'On paper. But, there, you've a gift for it,' added Levin. 'That's to say, you think there's a lack of something in me?' 'Perhaps so,' said Levin. 'But all the same I admire your grandeur, and am proud that I've a friend such a great person. You've not answered my question, though,' he went on, with a desperate effort looking Oblonsky straight in the face. 'Oh, that's all very well. You wait a bit, and you'll come to this yourself. It's very nice for you to have over six thousand acres in the Karazinsky district, and such muscles, and the freshness of a girl of twelve; still you'll be one of us one day. Yes, as to your question, there is no change, but it's a pity you've been away so long.' 'Oh, why so?' Levin queried, panic-stricken. 'Oh, nothing,' responded Oblonsky. 'We'll talk it over. But what's brought you up to town?' 'Oh, we'll talk about that, too, later on,' said Levin, reddening again up to his ears.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  Levin frowned, shook hands coldly, and at once turned to Oblonsky. Though he had a great respect for his half-brother, an author well known to all Russia, he could not endure it when people treated him not as Konstantin Levin, but as the brother of the celebrated Koznishev. 'No, I am no longer a district councillor. I have quarrelled with them all, and don't go to the meetings any more,' he said, turning to Oblonsky. 'You've been quick about it!' said Oblonsky with a smile. 'But how? why?' 'It's a long story. I will tell you some time,' said Levin, but he began telling him at once. 'Well, to put it shortly, I was convinced that nothing was really done by the district councils, or ever could be,' he began, as though someone had just insulted him. 'On one side it's a plaything; they play at being a parliament, and I'm neither young enough nor old enough to find amusement in playthings; and on the other side' (he stammered) 'it's a means for the coterie of the district to make money. Formerly they had wardships, courts of justice, now they have the district council—not in the form of bribes, but in the form of unearned salary,' he said, as hotly as though some one of those present had opposed his opinion. 'Aha! You're in a new phase again, I see—a conservative,' said Stepan Arkadyevitch. 'However, we can go into that later.' 'Yes, later. But I wanted to see you,' said Levin, looking with hatred at Grinevitch's hand. Stepan Arkadyevitch gave a scarcely perceptible smile. 'How was it you used to say you would never wear European dress again?' he said, scanning his new suit, obviously cut by a French tailor. 'Ah! I see: a new phase.' Levin suddenly blushed, not as grown men blush, slightly, without being themselves aware of it, but as boys blush, feeling that they are ridiculous through their shyness, and consequently ashamed of it and blushing still more, almost to the point of tears. And it was so strange to see this sensible, manly face in such a childish plight, that Oblonsky left off looking at him. 'Oh, where shall we meet? You know I want very much to talk to you,' said Levin. Oblonsky seemed to ponder. 'I'll tell you what: let's go to Gurin's to lunch, and there we can talk. I am free till three.' 'No,' answered Levin, after an instant's thought, 'I have got to go on somewhere else.' 'All right, then, let's dine together.' 'Dine together? But I have nothing very particular, only a few words to say, and a question I want to ask you, and we can have a talk afterwards.' 'Well, say the few words, then, at once, and we'll gossip after dinner.'

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  Vronsky got up and, looking cordially at Levin, shook hands with him. 'I believe I was to have dined with you this winter,' he said, smiling his simple and open smile; 'but you had unexpectedly left for the country.' 'Konstantin Dmitritch despises and hates town and us townspeople,' said Countess Nordston. 'My words must make a deep impression on you, since you remember them so well,' said Levin, and, suddenly conscious that he had said just the same thing before, he reddened. Vronsky looked at Levin and Countess Nordston, and smiled. 'Are you always in the country?' he inquired. 'I should think it must be dull in the winter.' 'It's not dull if one has work to do; besides, one's not dull by oneself,' Levin replied abruptly. 'I am fond of the country,' said Vronsky, noticing, and affecting not to notice, Levin's tone. 'But I hope, count, you would not consent to live in the country always,' said Countess Nordston. 'I don't know; I have never tried for long. I experienced a queer feel ing once,' he went on. 'I never longed so for the country, Russian country, with bast shoes and peasants, as when I was spending a winter with my mother in Nice. Nice itself is dull enough, you know. And indeed, Naples and Sorrento are only pleasant for a short time. And it's just there that Russia comes back to me most vividly, and especially the country. It's as though . . . ' He talked on, addressing both Kitty and Levin, turning his serene, friendly eyes from one to the other, and saying obviously just what came into his head. Noticing that Countess Nordston wanted to say something, he stopped short without finishing what he had begun, and listened attentively to her. The conversation did not flag for an instant, so that the princess, who always kept in reserve, in case a subject should be lacking, two heavy guns—the relative advantages of classical and of modern education, and universal military service—had not to move out either of them, while Countess Nordston had not a chance of chaffing Levin. Levin wanted to, and could not, take part in the general conversation; saying to himself every instant, 'Now go,' he still did not go, as though waiting for something. The conversation fell upon table-turning and spirits, and Countess Nordston, who believed in spiritualism, began to describe the marvels she had seen. 'Ah, countess, you really must take me, for pity's sake do take me to see them! I have never seen anything extraordinary, though I am always on the look-out for it everywhere,' said Vronsky, smiling. 'Very well, next Saturday,' answered Countess Nordston. 'But you, Konstantin Dmitritch, do you believe in it?' she asked Levin. 'Why do you ask me? You know what I shall say.'

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  The bright sun, the brilliant green of the foliage, the strains of the music were for her the natural setting of all these familiar faces, with their changes to greater emaciation or to convalescence, for which she watched. But to the prince the brightness and gaiety of the June morning, and the sound of the orchestra playing a gay waltz then in fashion, and above all, the appearance of the healthy attendants, seemed something unseemly and monstrous, in conjunction with these slowly moving, dying figures gathered together from all parts of Europe. In spite of his feeling of pride and, as it were, of the return of youth, with his favourite daughter on his arm, he felt awkward, and almost ashamed of his vigorous step and his sturdy, stout limbs. He felt almost like a man not dressed in a crowd. 'Present me to your new friends,' he said to his daughter, squeezing her hand with his elbow. 'I like even your horrid Soden for making you so well again. Only it's melancholy, very melancholy here. Who's that?' Kitty mentioned the names of all the people they met, with some of whom she was acquainted and some not. At the entrance of the garden they met the blind lady, Madame Berthe, with her guide, and the prince was delighted to see the old Frenchwoman's face light up when she heard Kitty's voice. She at once began talking to him with French exaggerated politeness, applauding him for having such a delightful daughter, extolling Kitty to the skies before her face, and calling her a treasure, a pearl, and a consoling angel. 'Well, she's the second angel, then,' said the prince, smiling. 'She calls Mademoiselle Varenka angel number one.' 'Oh! Mademoiselle Varenka, she's a real angel, allez,' Madame Berthe assented. In the arcade they met Varenka herself. She was walking rapidly towards them carrying an elegant red bag. 'Here is papa come,' Kitty said to her. Varenka made—simply and naturally as she did everything—a movement between a bow and a curtsey, and immediately began talking to the prince, without shyness, naturally, as she talked to everyone. 'Of course I know you; I know you very well,' the prince said to her with a smile, in which Kitty detected with joy that her father liked her friend. 'Where are you off to in such haste?' 'Maman's here,' she said, turning to Kitty. 'She has not slept all night, and the doctor advised her to go out. I'm taking her her work.' 'So that's angel number one?' said the prince when Varenka had gone on. Kitty saw that her father had meant to make fun of Varenka, but that he could not do it because he liked her. 'Come, so we shall see all your friends,' he went on, 'even Madame Stahl, if she deigns to recognise me.' 'Why, did you know her, papa?'

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  In the drawing-room there were already sitting Prince Alexander Dmitrievitch Shtcherbatsky, young Shtcherbatsky, Turovtsin, Kitty, and Karenin. Stepan Arkadyevitch saw immediately that things were not going well in the drawing-room without him. Darya Alexandrovna, in her best grey silk gown, obviously worried about the children, who were to have their dinner by themselves in the nursery, and by her husband's absence, was not equal to the task of making the party mix without him. All were sitting like so many priests' wives on a visit (so the old prince expressed it), obviously wondering why they were there, and pumping up remarks simply to avoid being silent. Turovtsin—good, simple man—felt unmistakably a fish out of water, and the smile with which his thick lips greeted Stepan Arkadyevitch said, as plainly as words: 'Well, old boy, you have popped me down in a learned set! A drinking-party now, or the Château des Fleurs, would be more in my line!' The old prince sat in silence, his bright little eyes watching Karenin from one side, and Stepan Arkadyevitch saw that he had already formed a phrase to sum up that politician of whom guests were invited to partake as though he were a sturgeon. Kitty was looking at the door, calling up all her energies to keep her from blushing at the entrance of Konstantin Levin. Young Shtcherbatsky, who had not been introduced to Karenin, was trying to look as though he were not in the least conscious of it. Karenin himself had followed the Petersburg fashion for a dinner with ladies and was wearing evening dress and a white tie. Stepan Arkadyevitch saw by his face that he had come simply to keep his promise, and was performing a disagreeable duty in being present at this gathering. He was indeed the person chiefly responsible for the chill benumbing all the guests before Stepan Arkadyevitch came in. On entering the drawing-room Stepan Arkadyevitch apologised, explaining that he had been detained by that prince, who was always the scapegoat for all his absences and unpunctualities, and in one moment he had made all the guests acquainted with each other, and, bringing together Alexey Alexandrovitch and Sergey Koznishev, started them on a discussion of the Russification of Poland, into which they immediately plunged with Pestsov. Slapping Turovtsin on the shoulder, he whispered something comic in his ear, and set him down by his wife and the old prince. Then he told Kitty she was looking very pretty that evening, and presented Shtcherbatsky to Karenin. In a moment he had so kneaded together the social dough that the drawing-room became very lively, and there was a merry buzz of voices.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  He walked about the whole day and only brought back three birds, but to make up for that— he brought back, as he always did from shooting, an excellent appetite, excellent spirits, and that keen, intellectual mood which with him always accompanied violent physical exertion. And while out shooting, when he seemed to be thinking of nothing at all, suddenly the old man and his family kept coming back to his mind, and the impression of them seemed to claim not merely his attention, but the solution of some question connected with them. In the evening at tea, two landowners who had come about some business connected with a wardship were of the party, and the interesting conversation Levin had been looking forward to sprang up. Levin was sitting beside his hostess at the tea-table, and was obliged to keep up a conversation with her and her sister, who was sitting opposite him. Madame Sviazhsky was a round-faced, fair-haired, rather short woman, all smiles and dimples. Levin tried through her to get at a solution of the weighty enigma her husband presented to his mind; but he had not complete freedom of ideas, because he was in an agony of embarrassment. This agony of embarrassment was due to the fact that the sister-in-law was sitting opposite to him, in a dress, specially put on, as he fancied, for his benefit, cut particularly open, in the shape of a trapeze, on her white bosom. This quadrangular opening, in spite of the bosom's being very white, or just because it was very white, deprived Levin of the full use of his faculties. He imagined, probably mistakenly, that this low-necked bodice had been made on his account, and felt that he had no right to look at it, and tried not to look at it; but he felt that he was to blame for the very fact of the low-necked bodice having been made. It seemed to Levin that he had deceived someone, that he ought to explain something, but that to explain it was impossible, and for that reason he was continually blushing, was ill at ease and awkward. His awkwardness infected the pretty sister-in-law too. But their hostess appeared not to observe this, and kept purposely drawing her into the conversation. 'You say,' she said, pursuing the subject that had been started, 'that my husband cannot be interested in what's Russian. It's quite the contrary; he is always in cheerful spirits abroad, but not as he is here. Here, he feels in his proper place. He has so much to do, and he has the faculty of interesting himself in everything. Oh, you've not been to see our school, have you?' 'I've seen it. . . . The little house covered with ivy, isn't it ? ' 'Yes; that's Nastia's work,' she said, indicating her sister.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  Sergey Ivanovitch put his hand into the box, put the ball somewhere, and making room for Levin, stopped. Levin advanced, but utterly forgetting what he was to do, and much embarrassed, he turned to Sergey Ivanovitch with the question, 'Where am I to put it?' He asked this softly, at a moment when there was talking going on near, so that he had hoped his question would not be overheard. But the persons speaking paused, and his improper question was overheard. Sergey Ivanovitch frowned. 'That is a matter for each man's own decision,' he said severely. Several people smiled. Levin crimsoned, hurriedly thrust his hand under the cloth, and put the ball to the right as it was in his right hand. Having put it in, he recollected that he ought to have thrust his left hand in too, and so he thrust it in though too late, and, still more overcome with confusion, he beat a hasty retreat into the background. 'A hundred and twenty-six for admission! Ninety-eight against!' sang out the voice of the secretary, who could not pronounce the letter r. Then there was a laugh; a button and two nuts were found in the box. The nobleman was allowed the right to vote, and the new party had conquered. But the old party did not consider themselves conquered. Levin heard that they were asking Snetkov to stand, and he saw that a crowd of noblemen were surrounding the marshal, who was saying something. Levin went nearer. In reply Snetkov spoke of the trust the noblemen of the province had placed in him, the affection they had shown him, which he did not deserve, as his only merit had been his attachment to the nobility, to whom he had devoted twelve years of service. Several times he repeated the words: 'I have served to the best of my powers with truth and good faith, I value your goodness and thank you,' and suddenly he stopped short from the tears that choked him, and went out of the room. Whether these tears came from a sense of the injustice being done him, from his love for the nobility, or from the strain of the position he was placed in, feeling himself surrounded by enemies, his emotion infected the assembly, the majority were touched, and Levin felt a tenderness for Snetkov. In the doorway the marshal of the province jostled against Levin.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  But against her own will, here in his own house, he overawed her more than ever, and she could not be at ease with him. She felt with him the same feeling she had had with the maid about her dressing-jacket. Just as with the maid she had felt not exactly ashamed, but embarrassed at her darns, so she felt with him not exactly ashamed, but embarrassed at herself. Dolly was ill at ease, and tried to find a subject of conversation. Even though she supposed that, through his pride, praise of his house and garden would be sure to be disagreeable to him, she did all the same tell him how much she liked his house. 'Yes, it's a very fine building, and in the good old-fashioned style,' he said. 'I like so much the court in front of the steps. Was that always so?' 'Oh, no!' he said, and his face beamed with pleasure. 'If you could only have seen that court last spring!' And he began, at first rather diffidently, but more and more carried away by the subject as he went on, to draw her attention to the various details of the decoration of his house and garden. It was evident that, having devoted a great deal of trouble to improve and beautify his home, Vronsky felt a need to show off the improvements to a new person, and was genuinely delighted at Darya Alexandrovna's praise. 'If you would care to look at the hospital, and are not tired, indeed, it's not far. Shall we go?' he said, glancing into her face to convince himself that she was not bored. 'Are you coming, Anna?' he turned to her. 'We will come, won't we?' she said, addressing Sviazhsky. 'Mais il ne faut pas laisser le pauvre Veslovsky et Tushkevitch se morfondre là dans le bateau. We must send and tell them.' 'Yes, this is a monument he is setting up here,' said Anna, turning to Dolly with that sly smile of comprehension with which she had previously talked about the hospital. 'Oh, it's a work of real importance!' said Sviazhsky. But to show he was not trying to ingratiate himself with Vronsky, he promptly added some slightly critical remarks. 'I wonder, though, count,' he said, 'that while you do so much for the health of the peasants, you take so little interest in the schools.' 'C'est dévenu tellement commun les écoles,' said Vronsky. 'You understand it's not on that account, but it just happens so, my interest has been diverted elsewhere. This way then to the hospital,' he said to Darya Alexandrovna, pointing to a turning out of the avenue. The ladies put up their parasols and turned into the side-path. After going down several turnings, and going through a little gate, Darya Alexandrovna saw standing on rising ground before her a large pretentious-looking red building, almost finished. The iron roof, which was not yet painted, shone with dazzling brightness in the sunshine.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  All she had seen in entering the house and walking through it, and all she saw now in her room, gave her an impression of wealth and sumptuousness and of that modern European luxury of which she had only read in English novels, but had never seen in Russia and in the country. Everything was new from the new French hangings on the walls to the carpet which covered the whole floor. The bed had a spring mattress, and a special sort of bolster and silk pillow-cases on the little pillows. The marble washstand, the dressing-table, the little sofa, the tables, the bronze clock on the chimneypiece, the window-curtains and the portières were all new and expensive. The smart maid, who came in to offer her services, with her hair done up high, and a gown more fashionable than Dolly's, was as new and expensive as the whole room. Darya Alexandrovna liked her neatness, her deferential and obliging manners, but she felt ill at ease with her. She felt ashamed of her seeing the patched dressing-jacket that had unluckily been packed by mistake for her. She was ashamed of the very patches and darned places of which she had been so proud at home. At home it had been so clear that for six dressing-jackets there would be needed twenty-four yards of nainsook at sixteenpence the yard, which was a matter of thirty shillings besides the cutting-out and making, and these thirty shillings had been saved. But before the maid she felt, if not exactly ashamed, at least uncomfortable. Darya Alexandrovna had a great sense of relief when Annushka, whom she had known for years, walked in. The smart maid was sent for to go to her mistress, and Annushka remained with Darya Alexandrovna. Annushka was obviously much pleased at that lady's arrival, and began to chatter away without a pause. Dolly observed that she was longing to express her opinion in regard to her mistress's position, especially as to the love and devotion of the count to Anna Arkadyevna, but Dolly carefully interrupted her whenever she began to speak about this. 'I grew up with Anna Arkadyevna; my lady's dearer to me than anything. Well, it's not for us to judge. And, to be sure, there seems so much love . . . ' 'Kindly pour out the water for me to wash now, please,' Darya Alexandrovna cut her short. 'Certainly. We've two women kept especially for washing small things, but most of the linen's done by machinery. The count goes into everything himself. Ah, what a husband! . . .' Dolly was glad when Anna came in, and by her entrance put a stop to Annushka's gossip. Anna had put on a very simple batiste gown. Dolly scrutinised that simple gown attentively. She knew what it meant, and the price at which such simplicity was obtained. 'An old friend,' said Anna of Annushka. Anna was not embarrassed now.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  'Not that you weren't in the room . . . I couldn't have been so natural in your presence . . . I am blushing now much more, much, much more,' she said, blushing till the tears came into her eyes. 'But that you couldn't see through a crack.' The truthful eyes told Levin that she was satisfied with herself, and in spite of her blushing he was quickly reassured and began questioning her, which was all she wanted. When he had heard everything, even to the detail that for the first second she could not help flushing, but that afterwards she was just as direct and as much at her ease as with any chance acquaintance, Levin was quite happy again and said he was glad of it, and would not now behave as stupidly as he had done at the election, but would try the first time he met Vronsky to be as friendly as possible. 'It's so wretched to feel that there's a man almost an enemy whom it's painful to meet,' said Levin. 'I'm very, very glad.' II ' D o , please, go then and call on the Bols,' Kitty said to her husband, when he came in to see her at eleven o'clock before going out. 'I know you are dining at the club; papa put down your name. But what are you going to do in the morning?' 'I am only going to Katavasov,' answered Levin. 'Why so early?' 'He promised to introduce me to Metrov. I wanted to talk to him about my work. He's a distinguished scientific man from Petersburg,' said Levin. 'Yes; wasn't it his article you were praising so? Well, and after that?' said Kitty. 'I shall go to the court, perhaps, about my sister's business.' 'And the concert?' she queried. 'I shan't go there all alone.' 'No? do go; there are going to be some new things. . . . That interested you so. I should certainly go.' 'Well, anyway, I shall come home before dinner,' he said, looking at his watch. 'Put on your frock-coat, so that you can go straight to call on Countess Bol.' 'But is it absolutely necessary?' 'Oh, absolutely! He has been to see us. Come, what is it? You go in, sit down, talk for five minutes of the weather, get up and go away.' 'Oh, you wouldn't believe it! I've got so out of the way of all this that it makes me feel positively ashamed. It's such a horrible thing to do ! A complete outsider walks in, sits down, stays on with nothing to do, wastes their time and worries himself, and walks away!' Kitty laughed. 'Why, I suppose you used to pay calls before you were married, didn't you?' 'Yes, I did, but I always felt ashamed, and now I'm so out of the way of it that, by Jove! I'd sooner go two days running without my dinner than pay this call! One's so ashamed!

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  ' The family doctor respectfully ceased in the middle of his observations. 'The commencement of the tuberculous process we are not, as you are aware, able to define; till there are cavities, there is nothing definite. But we may suspect it. And there are indications: malnutrition, nervous excitability, and so on. The question stands thus: in presence of indications of tuberculous process, what is to be done to maintain nutrition?' 'But, you know, there are always moral, spiritual causes at the back in these cases,' the family doctor permitted himself to interpolate with a subtle smile. 'Yes, that's an understood thing,' responded the celebrated physician, again glancing at his watch. 'Beg pardon, is the Yausky bridge done yet, or shall I have to drive round?' he asked. 'Ah! it is. Oh, well, then I can do it in twenty minutes. So we were saying the problem may be put thus: to maintain nutrition and to give tone to the nerves. The one is in close connection with the other, one must attack both sides at once.' 'And how about a tour abroad?' asked the family doctor. 'I've no liking for foreign tours. And take note: if there is an early stage of tuberculous process, of which we cannot be certain, a foreign tour will be of no use. What is wanted is means for improving nutrition, and not for lowering it.' And the celebrated doctor expounded his plan of treatment with Soden waters, a remedy obviously prescribed primarily on the ground that they could do no harm. The family doctor listened attentively and respectfully. 'But in favour of foreign travel I would urge the change of habits, the removal from conditions calling up reminiscences. And then the mother wishes it,' he added. 'Ah! Well, in that case, to be sure, let them go. Only, those German quacks are mischievous. . . . They ought to be persuaded. . . . Well, let them go then.' He glanced once more at his watch. 'Oh! time's up already,' and he went to the door. The celebrated doctor announced to the princess (a feeling of what was due from him dictated his doing so) that he ought to see the patient once more. 'What! another examination!' cried the mother, with horror. 'Oh no, only a few details, princess.' 'Come this way.' And the mother, accompanied by the doctor, went into the drawing-room to Kitty. Wasted and flushed, with a peculiar glitter in her eyes, left there by the agony of shame she had been put through, Kitty stood in the middle of the room. When the doctor came in she flushed crimson, and her eyes filled with tears. All her illness and treatment struck her as a thing so stupid, ludicrous even! Doctoring her seemed to her as absurd as putting together the pieces of a broken vase.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  'You teach in it yourself?' asked Levin, trying to look above the open neck but feeling that wherever he looked in that direction he should see it. 'Yes; I used to teach in it myself, and do teach still, but we have a first-rate schoolmistress now. And we've started gymnastic exercises.' 'No, thank you, I won't have any more tea,' said Levin, and conscious of doing a rude thing, but incapable of continuing the conversation, he got up, blushing. 'I hear a very interesting conversation,' he added, and walked to the other end of the table, where Sviazhsky was sitting with the two gentlemen of the neighbourhood. Sviazhsky was sitting sideways, with one elbow on the table, and a cup in one hand, while with the other hand he gathered up his beard, held it to his nose and let it drop again, as though he were smelling it. His brilliant black eyes were looking straight at the excited country gentleman with grey whiskers, and apparently he derived amusement from his remarks. The gentleman was complaining of the peasants. It was evident to Levin that Sviazhsky knew an answer to this gentleman's complaints, which would at once demolish his whole contention, but that in his position he could not give utterance to this answer, and listened, not without pleasure, to the landowner's comic speeches. The gentleman with the grey whiskers was obviously an inveterate adherent of serfdom and a devoted agriculturist, who had lived all his life in the country. Levin saw proofs of this in his dress, in the old-fashioned threadbare coat, obviously not his everyday attire, in his shrewd, deep-set eyes, in his idiomatic, fluent Russian, in the imperious tone that had become habitual from long use, and in the resolute gestures of his large, red, sunburnt hands, with an old betrothal-ring on the little finger. XXVII 'I F I'd only the heart to throw up what's been set going . . . such a lot of trouble wasted . . . I'd turn my back on the whole business, sell up, go off like Nikolay Ivanovitch . . . to hear La Belle Hélène,' said the landowner, a pleasant smile lighting up his shrewd old face. 'But you see you don't throw it up,' said Nikolay Ivanovitch Sviazhsky; 'so there must be something gained.' 'The only gain is that I live in my own house, neither bought nor hired. Besides, one keeps hoping the people will learn sense. Though, instead of that, you'd never believe it—the drunkenness, the immorality ! They keep chopping and changing their bits of land. Not a sight of a horse or a cow. The peasant's dying of hunger, but just go and take him on as a labourer, he'll do his best to do you a mischief, and then bring you up before the justice of the peace.'

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  They live like the best of married couples; it's for God to judge them, not for us. And didn't Biryuzovsky and Madame Aveniev . . . and Sam Nikandrov, and Vassiliev and Madame Mamonov, and Liza Neptunov. . . . Did no one say anything about them? And it has ended by their being received by everyone. And then, c'est un intérieur si joli, si comme il faut. Tout-à-fait a l'anglaise. On se réunit le matin au breakfast, et puis on se sépare. Everyone does as he pleases till dinner-time. Dinner at seven o'clock. Stiva did very rightly to send you. He needs their support. You know that through his mother and brother he can do anything. And then they do so much good. He didn't tell you about his hospital ? Ce sera admirable —everything from Paris. Their conversation was interrupted by Anna, who had found the men of the party in the billiard-room, and returned with them to the terrace. There was still a long time before the dinner-hour, it was exquisite weather, and so several different methods of spending the next two hours were proposed. There were very many methods of passing the time at Vozdvizhenskoe, and these were all unlike those in use at Pokrovskoe. 'Une partie de lawn-tennis' Veslovsky proposed, with his handsome smile. 'We'll be partners again, Anna Arkadyevna.' 'No, it's too hot; better stroll about the garden and have a row in the boat, show Darya Alexandrovna the river-banks,' Vronsky proposed. 'I agree to anything,' said Sviazhsky. 'I imagine that what Dolly would like best would be a stroll— wouldn't you? And then the boat, perhaps,' said Anna. So it was decided. Veslovsky and Tushkevitch went off to the bathing-place, promising to get the boat ready and to wait there for them. They walked along the path in two couples, Anna with Sviazhsky, and Dolly with Vronsky. Dolly was a little embarrassed and anxious in the new surroundings in which she found herself. Abstractly, theoretically, she did not merely justify, she positively approved of Anna's conduct. As is indeed not unfrequent with women of unimpeachable virtue, weary of the monotony of respectable existence, at a distance she not only excused illicit love, she positively envied it. Besides, she loved Anna with all her heart. But seeing Anna in actual life among these strangers, with this fashionable tone that was so new to Darya Alexandrovna, she felt ill at ease. What she disliked particularly was seeing Princess Varvara ready to overlook everything for the sake of the comforts she enjoyed. As a general principle, abstractly, Dolly approved of Anna's action; but to see the man for whose sake her action had been taken was disagreeable to her. Moreover, she had never liked Vronsky. She thought him very proud, and saw nothing in him of which he could be proud except his wealth.

• From The Principles of Psychology (Volume 1 of 2) (1890)

  If, e.g., one had counted 20 seconds, and at the 21st the star seemed removed by ac from the meridian-thread c , whilst at the 22nd it was at the distance bc ; then, if ac : bc :: 1: 2, the star would have passed at 21 1/3 seconds. The conditions resemble those in our experiment: the star is the index-hand, the threads are the scale; and a time-displacement is to be expected, which with high rapidities may be positive, and negative with low. The astronomic observations do not permit us to measure its absolute amount; but that it exists is made certain by the fact than after all other possible errors are eliminated, there still remains between different observers a personal difference which is often much larger than that between mere reaction-times, amounting . . . sometimes to more than a second." (Op. cit. p. 270.) [335] Philosophische Studien, II. 601. [336] Physiol. Psych., 2d ed. II. 273-4; 3d. ed. II. 339; Philosophische Studien, II. 621 ff.—I know that I am stupid, but I confess I find these theoretical statements, especially Wundt's, a little hazy. Herr v. Tschisch considers it impossible that the perception of the index's position should come in too late, and says it demands no particular attention (p. 622). It seems, however, that this can hardly be the case. Both observers speak of the difficulty of seeing the index at the right moment. The case is quite different from that of distributing the attention impartially over simultaneous momentary sensations. The bell or other signal gives a momentary sensation, the index a continuous one, of motion. To note any one position of the latter is to interrupt this sensation of motion and to substitute an entirely different percept—one, namely, of position—for it, during a time however brief. This involves a sudden change in the manner of attending to the revolutions of the index; which change ought to take place neither sooner nor later than the momentary impression, and fix the index as it is then and there visible. Now this is not a case of simply getting two sensations at once and so feeling them—which would be an harmonious act; but of stopping one and changing it into another, whilst we simultaneously get a third. Two of these acts are discrepant, and the whole three rather interfere with each other. It becomes hard to 'fix' the index at the very instant that we catch the momentary impression; so we fall into a way of fixing it either at the last possible moment before, or at the first possible moment after, the impression comes. This at least seems to me the more probable state of affairs. If we fix the index before the impression really comes, that means that we perceive it too late. But why do we fix it before when the impressions come slow and simple, and after when they come rapid and complex? And why under certain conditions is there no displacement at all?