Jealousy

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)

  The instinct of personal isolation, of which we have spoken, exists more strongly in men with respect to one another, and more strongly in women with respect to men. In women it is called coyness, and has to be positively overcome by a process of wooing before the sexual instinct inhibits it and takes its place. As Darwin has shown in his book on the 'Descent of Man and Sexual Selection,' it has played a vital part in the amelioration of all higher animal types, and is to a great degree responsible for whatever degree of chastity the human race may show. It illustrates strikingly, however, the law of the inhibition of instincts by habits—for, once broken through with a given person, it is not apt to assert itself again; and habitually broken through, as by prostitutes, with various persons, it may altogether decay. Habit also fixes it in us toward certain individuals: nothing is so particularly displeasing as the notion of close personal contact with those whom we have long known in a respectful and distant way. The fondness of the ancients and of modern Orientals for forms of unnatural vice, of which the notion affects us with horror, is probably a mere case of the way in which this instinct may be inhibited by habit. me can hardly suppose that the ancients had by gift of Nature a propensity of which we are devoid, and were all victims of what is now a pathological aberration limited to individuals. It is more probable that with them the instinct of physical aversion toward a, certain class of objects was inhibited early in life by habits, formed under the influence of example; and that then a kind of sexual appetite, of which very likely most men possess the germinal possibility, developed itself in an unrestricted way. That the development of it in an abnormal way may check its development in the normal way, seems to be a well-ascertained medical fact. And that the direction of the sexual instinct towards one individual tends to inhibit its application to other individuals, is a law, upon which, though it suffers many exceptions, the whole régime of monogamy is based. These details are a little unpleasant to discuss, but they show so beautifully the correctness of the general principles in the light of which our review has been made, that it was impossible to pass them over unremarked. Jealousy is unquestionably instinctive. Parental Love is an instinct stronger in woman than in man, at least in the early childhood of its object. I need do little more than quote Schneider's lively description of it as it exists in her:

• From Story of O (1954)

  One afternoon she and Jacqueline had gone to Cannes together to the hairdresser, alone, then to the Reserve Café for an ice cream on the terrace. Jacqueline was superb in her tight-fitting black slacks and sheer black sweater, eclipsing even the brilliance of the children around her she was so bronzed and sleek, so hard and bright in the burning sun, so insolent and inaccessible. She told O she had made an appointment there with the director whose picture she had been playing in in Paris, to arrange for taking some exteriors, probably in the mountains above Saint-Paul-de- Vence. And there he was, forthright and determined. He didn't need to open his mouth, it was obvious he was in love with Jacqueline. All one had to do was see the way he looked at her. What was so surprising about that? Nothing; but what was surprising was Jacqueline. Half reclining in one of those adjustable beach chairs, Jacqueline listened to him as he talked of dates to be set, appointments to be made, of the problems of raising enough money to finish the half- completed picture. He used the tu form in addressing Jacqueline, who replied with a mere nod or shake of her head, keeping her eyes half-closed. O was seated across from Jacqueline, with him between them. It took no great act of perception to notice that Jacqueline, whose eyes were lowered, was watching, from beneath the protection of those motionless eyelids, the young man's desire, the way she always did when she thought no one was looking. But strangest of all was how upset she seemed, her hands quiet at her side, her face serious and expressionless, without the trace of a smile, something she had never displayed in René's presence. A fleeting, almost imperceptible smile on her lips as O leaned forward to set her glass of ice water on the table and their eyes met, was all O needed to realize that Jacqueline was aware that O knew the game was up. It didn't bother her, though; it was rather O who blushed. "Are you too warm?" Jacqueline said. "We'll be leaving in five minutes. Red is becoming to you, by the way." Then she smiled again, turning her gaze to her interlocutor, a smile so utterly tender that it seemed impossible he would not hasten to embrace her. But he did not. He was too young to know that motionlessness and silence can be the lair of immodesty. He allowed Jacqueline to get up, shook hands with her, and said goodbye. She would phone him. He also said goodbye to the shadow that O represented for him, and stood on the sidewalk watching the black Buick disappear down the avenue between the sun-drenched houses and the dark, almost purple sea. The palm trees looked as though they had been cut out of metal, the strollers like poorly fashioned wax models, animated by some absurd mechanism.

• From Sex at Dawn (2010)

  But the recent advent of affordable DNA testing has blown embarrassing holes in this story, too. Although a pair of bluebirds may build a nest and rear the young together, an average of 15 to 20 percent of the chicks are not sired by the male in the partnership, according to Patricia Adair Gowaty, a behavioral ecologist. And bluebirds aren’t particularly slutty songbirds: DNA studies of the chicks of some 180 bird species previously thought to be monogamous have shown that about 90 percent of them aren’t. Swans, alas, are not among the virtuous 10 percent. So if you’re looking for monogamy, forget the swan, too! Is monogamy natural? Yes…. Human beings almost never have to be cajoled into pairing. Instead, we do this naturally. We flirt. We feel infatuation. We fall in love. We marry. And the vast majority of us marry only one person at a time. Pair-bonding is a trademark of the human animal. H ELEN F ISHER Strange trademark for a species that enjoys so much extra-pair sexual activity. The glue holding the standard narrative together is the assumption that to marry and to mate have universally applicable meanings, like the verbs to eat, or to give birth. But whatever terminology we use for the socially approved special relationship that often exists between men and women around the world will never communicate the universe of variations our species comes up with. “Marriage,” “mating,” and “love” are socially constructed phenomena that have little or no transferable meaning outside any given culture. The examples we’ve noted of rampant ritualized group sex, mate-swapping, unrestrained casual affairs, and socially sanctioned sequential sex were all reported in cultures that anthropologists insist are monogamous simply because they’ve determined that something they call “marriage” takes place there. No wonder so many insist that marriage, monogamy, and the nuclear family are human universals. With such all-encompassing interpretations of the concepts, even the prairie vole, who “sleeps with anyone,” would qualify. * Most famously in Nora Ephron’s film Heartburn. Sex at Dawn: The Prehistoric Origins of Modern Sexuality CHAPTER TEN Jealousy: A Beginner’s Guide to Coveting Thy Neighbor’s Spouse [Once] marriage … becomes common, jealousy will lead to the inculcation of female virtue; and this, being honoured, will tend to spread to the unmarried females. How slowly it spreads to the male sex, we see at the present day. C HARLES D ARWIN 1 In a traditional Canela marriage ceremony, the bride and groom lie down on a mat, arms under each other’s heads, legs entwined. The brother of each partner’s mother then comes forward. He admonishes the bride and her new husband to stay together until the last child is grown, specifically reminding them not be jealous of each other’s lovers. S ARAH B LAFFER H RDY 2 A printer’s error in 1631 resulted in Bibles that proclaimed, “Thou shalt commit adultery.” 3 Though not a biblical injunction, a common thread running through many of our examples of S.E.Ex.

• From Sex at Dawn (2010)

  If he limits himself to a meaningless sexual dalliance with another woman (in modern terms, preferably a woman of a lower social class or a prostitute—whom he would be unlikely to marry), this would be far less threatening to her standard of living and that of her children. However, if he were to fall in love with another woman and leave, the woman’s prospects (and those of her children) would plummet. From the man’s perspective, as noted above, the worst-case scenario would be to spend his time and resources raising another man’s children (and propelling someone else’s genes into the future at the expense of his own). If his partner were to have an emotional connection with another man, but no sex, this genetic catastrophe couldn’t happen. But if she were to have sex with another man, even if no emotional intimacy were involved, he could find himself unknowingly losing his evolutionary “investment.” Hence, the narrative predicts—and the research seems to confirm—that his jealousy should have evolved to control her sexual behavior (thus assuring paternity of the children), while her jealousy should be oriented toward controlling his emotional behavior (thus protecting her exclusive access to his resources). * As you might guess, the mixed strategy referred to earlier would follow similar lines. The male’s mixed strategy would be to have a long-term mate, whose sexual behavior he could control—keeping her barefoot and pregnant if poor, foot-bound and pregnant if Chinese, or in high heels and pregnant if rich. Meanwhile he should continue having casual (low-investment) sex with as many other women as possible, to increase his chances of fathering more children. This is how standard evolutionary theory posits that men evolved to be dirty, lying bastards. According to the standard narrative, the evolved behavioral strategy for a man is to cheat on his pregnant wife while being insanely—even violently—jealous of her. Charming. Although the survival odds of any children resulting from his casual encounters would presumably be lower than those of the children he helps raise, this investment would still be wise for him, given the low costs he incurs (a few drinks and a room at the Shady Grove Motor Lodge—at the hourly rate). The woman’s mixed strategy would be to extract a long-term commitment from the man who offers her the best access to resources, status, and protection, while still seeking the occasional fling with rugged dudes in leather jackets who offer genetic advantages her loving, but domesticated, mate lacks. It’s hard to decide who comes out looking worse. Various studies have demonstrated that women are more likely to cheat on their husbands (to have extra-pair copulations, or EPCs) when they are ovulating and less likely to use birth control than they are when not fertile. Furthermore, women are likely to wear more perfume and jewelry when ovulating than at other points in their menstrual cycle and to be attracted to more macho-looking men (those with physical markers of more vigorous genes).

• From Sex at Dawn (2010)

  First-born children often feel jealous when a younger sibling is born. Wise parents make a special point of reassuring the child that she’ll always be special, that the baby doesn’t represent any kind of threat to her status, and that there’s plenty of love for everyone. Why is it so easy to believe that a mother’s love isn’t a zero-sum proposition, but that sexual love is a finite resource? Evolutionary biologist Richard Dawkins asks the pertinent question with characteristic elegance: “Is it so very obvious that you can’t love more than one person? We seem to manage it with parental love (parents are reproached if they don’t at least pretend to love all their children equally), love of books, of food, of wine (love of Château Margaux does not preclude love of a fine Hock, and we don’t feel unfaithful to the red when we dally with the white), love of composers, poets, holiday beaches, friends … why is erotic love the one exception that everybody instantly acknowledges without even thinking about it?” 14 Why, indeed? How would the prevalence and experience of jealousy be affected in Western societies if the economic dependence trapping most women and their children didn’t exist, leading female sexual access to be a tightly controlled commodity? What if economic security and guilt-free sexual friendships were easily available to almost all men and women, as they are in many of the societies we’ve discussed, as well as among our closest primate cousins? What if no woman had to worry that a ruptured relationship would leave her and her children destitute and vulnerable? What if average guys knew they’d never have to worry about finding someone to love? What if we didn’t all grow up hearing that true love is obsessive and possessive? What if, like the Mosuo, we revered the dignity and autonomy of those we loved? What if, in other words, sex, love, and economic security were as available to us as they were to our ancestors? If fear is removed from jealousy, what’s left? Human beings will be happier—not when they cure cancer or get to Mars or eliminate racial prejudice or flush Lake Erie but when they find ways to inhabit primitive communities again. That’s my utopia. U KRT V ONNEGUT, J R. According to E. O. Wilson, “all that we can surmise of humankind’s genetic history argues for a more liberal sexual morality, in which sexual practices are to be regarded first as bonding devices and only second as a means for procreation.”

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  With the trace of a smile of commiseration for herself she sat down in the arm-chair, taking off and putting on the rings on her left hand, vividly picturing from different sides his feelings after her death. Approaching footsteps—his steps—distracted her attention. As though absorbed in the arrangement of her rings, she did not even turn to him. He went up to her, and taking her by the hand, said softly— 'Anna, we'll go the day after tomorrow, if you like. I agree to everything.' She did not speak. 'What is it ?' he urged. 'You know,' she said, and at the same instant, unable to restrain herself any longer, she burst into sobs. 'Cast me off!' she articulated between her sobs. 'I'll go away tomorrow . . . I'll do more. What am I? An immoral woman! A stone round your neck. I don't want to make you wretched; I don't want to! I'll set you free. You don't love me; you love someone else!' Vronsky besought her to be calm, and declared that there was no. trace of foundation for her jealousy; that he had never ceased, and never would cease, to love her; that he loved her more than ever. 'Anna, why distress yourself and me so?' he said to her, kissing her hands. There was tenderness now in his face, and she fancied she caught the sound of tears in his voice, and she felt them wet on her hand. And instantly Anna's despairing jealousy changed to a despairing passion of tenderness. She put her arms round him, and covered with kisses his head, his neck, his hands. XXV F EELING that the reconciliation was complete, Anna set eagerly to work in the morning preparing for their departure. Though it was not settled whether they should go on Monday or Tuesday, as they had each given way to the other, Anna packed busily, feeling absolutely indifferent whether they went a day earlier or later. She was standing in her room over an open box, taking things out of it, when he came in to see her earlier than usual, dressed to go out. 'I'm going off at once to see maman, she can send me the money by Yegorov. And I shall be ready to go tomorrow,' he said. Though she was in such a good mood, the thought of his visit to his mother's gave her a pang. 'No, I shan't be ready by then myself,' she said; and at once reflected, 'so then it was possible to arrange to do as I wished.' 'No, do as you meant to do. Go into the dining-room, I'm coming directly. It's only to turn out those things that aren't wanted,' she said, putting something more on the heap of frippery that lay in Annushka's arms.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  That love was less; consequently, as she reasoned, he must have transferred part of his love to other women or to another woman—and she was jealous. She was jealous not of any particular woman but of the decrease of his love. Not having got an object for her jealousy, she was on the lookout for it. At the slightest hint she transferred her jealousy from one object to another. At one time she was jealous of those low women with whom he might so easily renew his old bachelor ties; then she was jealous of the society women he might meet; then she was jealous of the imaginary girl whom he might want to marry, for whose sake he would break with her. And this last form of jealousy tortured her most of all, especially as he had unwarily told her, in a moment of frankness, that his mother knew him so little that she had had the audacity to try and persuade him to marry the young Princess Sorokin. And being jealous of him, Anna was indignant against him and found grounds for indignation in everything. For everything that was difficult in her position she blamed him. The agonising condition of suspense she had passed at Moscow, the tardiness and indecision of Alexey Alexandrovitch, her solitude—she put it all down to him. If he had loved her, he would have seen all the bitterness of her position, and would have rescued her from it. For her being in Moscow and not in the country, he was to blame too. He could not live buried in the country as she would have liked to do. He must have society, and he had put her in this awful position, the bitterness of which he would not see. And again, it was his fault that she was for ever separated from her son. Even the rare moments of tenderness that came from time to time did not soothe her; in his tenderness now she saw a shade of complacency, of self-confidence, which had not been of old, and which exasperated her. It was dusk. Anna was alone, and waiting for him to come back from a bachelor dinner. She walked up and down in his study (the room where the noise from the street was least heard), and thought over every detail of their yesterday's quarrel. Going back from the well-remembered, offensive words of the quarrel to what had been the ground of it, she arrived at last at its origin. For a long while she could hardly believe that their dissension had arisen from a conversation so inoffensive, of so little moment to either. But so it actually had been. It all arose from his laughing at the girls' high schools, declaring they were useless, while she defended them. He had spoken slightingly of women's education in general, and had said that Hannah, Anna's English protégée, had not the slightest need to know anything of physics. This irritated Anna.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  You won't want another dog, will you?' Levin remained with the wagonette, and looked enviously at the sportsmen. They walked right across the marsh. Except little birds and peewits, of which Vassenka killed one, there was nothing in the marsh. 'Come, you see now that it was not that I grudged the marsh,' said Levin, 'only it's wasting time.' 'Oh no, it was jolly all the same. Did you see us?' said Vassenka Veslovsky, clambering awkwardly into the wagonette with his gun and his peewit in his hands. 'How splendidly I shot this bird! Didn't I? Well, shall we soon be getting to the real place?' The horses started off suddenly, Levin knocked his head against the stock of someone's gun, and there was the report of a shot. The gun did actually go off first, but that was how it seemed to Levin. It appeared that Vassenka Veslovsky had pulled only one trigger, and had left the other hammer still cocked. The charge flew into the ground without doing harm to anyone. Stepan Arkadyevitch shook his head and laughed reprovingly at Veslovsky. But Levin had not the heart to reprove him. In the first place, any reproach would have seemed to be called forth by the danger he had incurred and the bump that had come up on Levin's forehead. And besides, Veslovsky was at first so naively distressed, and then laughed so good-humouredly and infectiously at their general dismay, that one could not but laugh with him. When they reached the second marsh, which was fairly large, and would inevitably take some time to shoot over, Levin tried to persuade them to pass it by. But Veslovsky again over-persuaded him. Again, as the marsh was narrow, Levin, like a good host, remained with the carriage. Krak made straight for some clumps of sedge. Vassenka Veslovsky was the first to run after the dog. Before Stepan Arkadyevitch had time to come up, a grouse flew out. Veslovsky missed it and it flew into an unmown meadow. This grouse was left for Veslovsky to follow up. Krak found it again and pointed, and Veslovsky shot it and went back to the carriage. 'Now you go and I'll stay with the horses,' he said. Levin had begun to feel the pangs of a sportsman's envy. He handed the reins to Veslovsky and walked into the marsh. Laska, who had been plaintively whining and fretting against the injustice of her treatment, flew straight ahead to a hopeful place that Levin knew well, and that Krak had not yet come upon. 'Why don't you stop her?' shouted Stepan Arkayevitch.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  And they bring forward some notion, some policy that they don't believe in, that does harm; and the whole policy is really only a means to a government house and so much income. Cela n'est pas plus fin que ça, when you get a peep at their cards. I may be inferior to them, stupider perhaps, though I don't see why I should be inferior to them. But you and I have one important advantage over them for certain, in being more difficult to buy. And such men are more needed than ever.' Vronsky listened attentively, but he was not so much interested by the meaning of the words as by the attitude of Serpuhovskoy, who was already contemplating a struggle with the existing powers, and already had his likes and dislikes in that higher world, while his own interest in the governing world did not go beyond the interests of his regiment. Vronsky felt, too, how powerful Serpuhovskoy might become through his unmistakable faculty for thinking things out and for taking things in, through his intelligence and gift of words, so rarely met with in the world in which he moved. And, ashamed as he was of the feeling, he felt envious. 'Still I haven't the one thing of most importance for that,' he answered; 'I haven't the desire for power. I had it once, but it's gone.' 'Excuse me, that's not true,' said Serpuhovskoy smiling. 'Yes, it is true, it is true . . . now!' Vronsky added, to be truthful. 'Yes, it's true now, that's another thing; but that now won't last for ever.' 'Perhaps,' answered Vronsky. 'You say perhaps,' Serpuhovskoy went on, as though guessing his thoughts, 'but I say for certain. And that's what I wanted to see you for. Your action was just what it should have been. I see that, but you ought not to keep it up. I only ask you to give me carte blanche. I'm not going to offer you my protection . . . though, indeed, why shouldn't I protect you?—you've protected me often enough! I should hope our friendship rises above all that sort of thing. Yes,' he said, smiling to him as tenderly as a woman, 'give me carte blanche, retire from the regiment, and I'll draw you upwards imperceptibly.' 'But you must understand that I want nothing,' said Vronsky, 'except that all should be as it is.' Serpuhovskoy got up and stood facing him. 'You say that all should be as it is. I understand what that means. But listen: we're the same age, you've known a greater number of women perhaps than I have.'

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  'I've been wanting to a long while; I shall certainly go,' said Dolly. 'I am sorry for her, and I know her. She's a splendid woman. I will go alone, when you go back, and then I shall be in no one's way. And it will be better indeed without you.' 'To be sure,' said Stepan Arkadyevitch. 'And you, Kitty?' 'I? Why should I go?' Kitty said, flushing all over, and she glanced round at her husband. 'Do you know Anna Arkadyevna, then?' Veslovsky asked her. 'She's a very fascinating woman?' 'Yes,' she answered Veslovsky, crimsoning still more. She got up and walked across to her husband. 'Are you going shooting, then, tomorrow?' she said. His jealousy had in these few moments, especially at the flush that had overspread her cheeks while she was talking to Veslovsky, gone far indeed. Now as he heard her words, he construed them in his own fashion. Strange as it was to him afterwards to recall it, it seemed to him at the moment clear that in asking whether he was going shooting, all she cared to know was whether he would give that pleasure to Vassenka Veslovsky, with whom, as he fancied, she was in love. 'Yes, I'm going,' he answered her in an unnatural voice, disagreeable to himself. 'No, better spend the day here tomorrow, or Dolly won't see anything of her husband, and set off the day after,' said Kitty. The motive of Kitty's words was interpreted by Levin thus: 'Don't separate me from him. I don't care about your going, but do let me enjoy the society of this delightful young man.' 'Oh, if you wish, we'll stay here tomorrow,' Levin answered, with peculiar amiability. Vassenka meanwhile, utterly unsuspecting the misery his presence had occasioned, got up from the table after Kitty, and watching her with smiling and admiring eyes, he followed her. Levin saw that look. He turned white, and for a minute he could hardly breathe. 'How dare he look at my wife like that!' was the feeling that boiled within him. 'Tomorrow, then ? Do, please, let us go,' said Vassenka, sitting down on a chair, and again crossing his leg as his habit was. Levin's jealousy went further still. Already he saw himself a deceived husband, looked upon by his wife and her lover as simply necessary to provide them with the conveniences and pleasures of life. . . .

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  After the waltz Kitty went to her mother, and she had hardly time to say a few words to Countess Nordston when Vronsky came up again for the first quadrille. During the quadrille nothing of any significance was said: there was disjointed talk between them of the Korsunskys, husband and wife, whom he described very amusingly, as delightful children at forty, and of the future town theatre; and only once the conversation touched her to the quick, when he asked her about Levin, whether he was here, and added that he liked him so much. But Kitty did not expect much from the quadrille. She looked forward with a thrill at her heart to the mazurka. She fancied that in the mazurka everything must be decided. The fact that he did not during the quadrille ask her for the mazurka did not trouble her. She felt sure she would dance the mazurka with him as she had done at former balls, and refused five young men, saying she was engaged for the mazurka. The whole ball up to the last quadrille was for Kitty an enchanted vision of delightful colours, sounds, and motions. She only sat down when she felt too tired and begged for a rest. But as she was dancing the last quadrille with one of the tiresome young men whom she could not refuse, she chanced to be vis-à-vis with Vronsky and Anna. She had not been near Anna again since the beginning of the evening, and now again she saw her suddenly quite new and surprising. She saw in her the signs of that excitement of success she knew so well in herself; she saw that she was intoxicated with the delighted admiration she was exciting. She knew that feeling and knew its signs, and saw them in Anna; saw the quivering, flashing light in her eyes, and the smile of happiness and excitement unconsciously playing on her lips, and the deliberate grace, precision, and lightness of her movements. 'Who?' she asked herself. 'All or one?' And not assisting the harassed young man she was dancing with in the conversation, the thread of which he had lost and could not pick up again, she obeyed with external liveliness the peremptory shouts of Korsunsky starting them all into the grand rond, and then into the chaîne, and at the same time she kept watch with a growing pang at her heart. 'No, it's not the admiration of the crowd has intoxicated her, but the admiration of one. And that one? can it be he?' Every time he spoke to Anna the joyous light flashed into her eyes, and the smile of happiness curved her red lips. She seemed to make an effort to control herself, not to show these signs of delight, but they came out on her face of themselves.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  'We talk about the peasants drinking; I don't know which drinks most, the peasantry or out own class: the peasants do on holidays, but . . . ' But Kitty took not the slightest interest in discussing the drinking habits of the peasants. She saw that he blushed, and she wanted to know why. 'Well, and then where did you go?' 'Stiva urged me awfully to go and see Anna Arkadyevna.' And as he said this, Levin blushed even more, and his doubts as to whether he had done right in going to see Anna were settled once for all. He knew now that he ought not to have done so. Kitty's eyes opened in a curious way and gleamed at Anna's name, but controlling herself with an effort, she concealed her emotion and deceived him. 'Oh!' was all she said. 'I'm sure you won't be angry at my going. Stiva begged me to, and Dolly wished it,' Levin went on. 'Oh no!' she said, but he saw in her eyes a constraint that boded him no good. 'She is a very sweet, very, very unhappy, good woman,' he said, telling her about Anna, her occupations, and what she had told him to say to her. 'Yes, of course, she is very much to be pitied,' said Kitty, when he had finished. 'Whom was your letter from?' He told her, and believing in her calm tone, he went to change his coat. Coming back, he found Kitty in the same easy-chair. When he went up to her, she glanced at him and broke into sobs. 'What? what is it?' he asked, knowing beforehand what. 'You're in love with that hateful woman; she has bewitched you! I saw it in your eyes. Yes, yes! What can it all lead to? You were drinking at the club, drinking and gambling, and then you went . . . to her of all people! No, we must go away. . . . I shall go away tomorrow.' It was a long while before Levin could soothe his wife. At last he succeeded in calming her, only by confessing that a feeling of pity, in conjunction with the wine he had drunk, had been too much for him, that he had succumbed to Anna's artful influence, and that he would avoid her. One thing he did with more sincerity confess to was that living so long in Moscow, a life of nothing but conversation, eating and drinking, he was degenerating. They talked till three o'clock in the morning. Only at three o'clock they were sufficiently reconciled to be able to go to sleep. XII A FTER taking leave of her guests, Anna did not sit down, but began walking up and down the room.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  I can't say what I feel, but this is awful. . . . I'm not jealous, but I'm wounded, humiliated that anybody dare think, that anybody dare look at you with eyes like that.' 'Eyes like what?' said Kitty, trying as conscientiously as possible to recall every word and gesture of that evening and every shade implied in them. At the very bottom of her heart she did think there had been something precisely at the moment when he had crossed over after her to the other end of the table; but she dared not own it even to herself, and would have been even more unable to bring herself to say so to him, and so increase his suffering. 'And what can there possibly be attractive about me as I am now? . . .' 'Ah!' he cried, clutching at his head, 'you shouldn't say that! . . . If you had been attractive then . . .' 'Oh no, Kostya, oh, wait a minute, oh, do listen!' she said, looking at him with an expression of pained commiseration. 'Why, what can you be thinking about! When for me there's no one in the world, no one, no one! . . . Would you like me never to see anyone?' For the first minute she had been offended at his jealousy; she was angry that the slightest amusement, even the most innocent, should be forbidden her; but now she would readily have sacrificed, not merely such trifles, but everything, for his peace of mind, to save him from the agony he was suffering. 'You must understand the horror and comedy of my position,' he went on in a desperate whisper; 'that he's in my house, that he's done nothing improper positively except his free and easy airs and the way he sits on his legs. He thinks it's the best possible form, and so I'm obliged to be civil to him.' 'But, Kostya, you're exaggerating,' said Kitty, at the bottom of her heart rejoicing at the depth of his love for her, shown now in his jealousy. 'The most awful part of it all is that you're just as you always are, and especially now when to me you're something sacred, and we're so happy, so particularly happy—and all of a sudden a little wretch . . . He's not a little wretch; why should I abuse him? I have nothing to do with him. But why should my, and your, happiness . . . ' 'Do you know, I understand now what it's all come from,' Kitty was beginning. 'Well, what? what?' 'I saw how you looked while we were talking at supper.' 'Well, well!' Levin said in dismay. She told him what they had been talking about. And as she told him, she was breathless with emotion. Levin was silent for a space, then he scanned her pale and distressed face, and suddenly he clutched at his head. 'Katya, I've been worrying you!

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  He painted studies from nature under the guidance of an Italian professor of painting, and studied mediæval Italian life. Mediæval Italian life so fascinated Vronsky that he even wore a hat and flung a cloak over his shoulder in the mediæval style, which, indeed, was extremely becoming to him. 'Here we live, and know nothing of what's going on,' Vronsky said to Golenishtchev as he came to see him one morning. 'Have you seen Mihailov's picture?' he said, handing him a Russian gazette he had received that morning, and pointing to an article on a Russian artist, living in the very same town, and just finishing a picture which had long been talked about, and had been bought beforehand. The article reproached the government and the academy for letting so remarkable an artist be left without encouragement and support. 'I've seen it,' answered Golenishtchev. 'Of course he's not without talent, but it's all in a wrong direction. It's all the Ivanov-Strauss-Renan attitude to Christ and to religious painting.' 'What is the subject of the picture?' asked Anna. 'Christ before Pilate. Christ is represented as a Jew with all the realism of the new school.' And the question of the subject of the picture having brought him to one of his favourite theories, Golenishtchev launched forth into a disquisition on it. 'I can't understand how they can fall into such a gross mistake. Christ always has His definite embodiment in the art of the great masters. And therefore, if they want to depict, not God, but a revolutionist or a sage, let them take from history a Socrates, a Franklin, a Charlotte Corday, but not Christ. They take the very figure which cannot be taken for their art, and then…' 'And is it true that this Mihailov is in such poverty?' asked Vronsky, thinking that, as a Russian Mæcenas, it was his duty to assist the artist regardless of whether the picture were good or bad. 'I should say not. He's a remarkable portrait-painter. Have you ever seen his portrait of Madame Vassiltchikov? But I believe he doesn't care about painting any more portraits, and so very likely he is in want. I maintain that. . . ' 'Couldn't we ask him to paint a portrait of Anna Arkadyevna?' said Vronsky. 'Why mine?' said Anna. 'After yours I don't want another portrait. Better have one of Annie' (so she called her baby girl). 'Here she is,' she added, looking out of the window at the handsome Italian nurse, who was carrying the child out into the garden, and immediately glancing unnoticed at Vronsky. The handsome nurse, from whom Vronsky was painting a head for his picture, was the one hidden grief in Anna's life. He painted with her as his model, admired her beauty and mediævalism, and Anna dared not confess to herself that she was afraid of becoming jealous of this nurse, and was for that reason particularly gracious and condescending both to her and her little son.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  'No, Stiva doesn't drink . . . Kostya, stop, what's the matter?' Kitty began, hurrying after him, but he strode ruthlessly away to the dining-room without waiting for her, and at once joined in the lively general conversation which was being maintained there by Vassenka Veslovsky and Stepan Arkadyevitch. 'Well, what do you say, are we going shooting tomorrow?' said Stepan Arkadyevitch. 'Please, do let's go,' said Veslovsky, moving to another chair, where he sat down sideways, with one fat leg crossed under him. 'I shall be delighted, we will go. And have you had any shooting yet this year?' said Levin to Veslovsky, looking intently at his leg, but speaking with that forced amiability that Kitty knew so well in him, and that was so out of keeping with him. 'I can't answer for our finding grouse, but there are plenty of snipe. Only we ought to start early. You're not tired? Aren't you tired, Stiva?' 'Me tired? I've never been tired yet. Suppose we stay up all night. Let's go a walk!' 'Yes, really, let's not go to bed at all! Capital!' Veslovsky chimed in. 'Oh, we all know you can do without sleep, and keep other people up too,' Dolly said to her husband, with that faint note of irony in her voice which she almost always had now with her husband. 'But to my thinking, it's time for bed now. . . . I'm going, I don't want supper.' 'No, do stay a little, Dolly,' said Stepan Arkadyevitch, going round to her side behind the table where they were having supper. 'I've so much still to tell you.' 'Nothing really, I suppose.' 'Do you know Veslovsky has been at Anna's, and he's going to them again? You know they're hardly fifty miles from you, and I too must certainly go over there. Veslovsky, come here!' Vassenka crossed over to the ladies, and sat down beside Kitty. 'Ah, do tell me, please; you have stayed with her? How was she?' Darya Alexandrovna appealed to him. Levin was left at the other end of the table, and though never pausing in his conversation with the princess and Varenka, he saw that there was an eager and mysterious conversation going on between Stepan Arkadyevitch, Dolly, Kitty, and Veslovsky. And that was not all. He saw on his wife's face an expression of real feeling as she gazed with fixed eyes on the handsome face of Vassenka, who was telling them something with great animation. 'It's exceedingly nice at their place,' Veslovsky was telling them about Vronsky and Anna. 'I can't, of course, take it upon myself to judge, but in their house you feel the real feeling of home.' 'What do they intend doing?' 'I believe they think of going to Moscow.' 'How jolly it would be for us all to go over to them together! When are you going there?' Stepan Arkadyevitch asked Vassenka. 'I'm spending July there.' 'Will you go?' Stepan Arkadyevitch said to his wife.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  'Your wife and I are cousins and very old friends,' said Vassenka Veslovsky, once more shaking Levin's hand with great warmth. 'Well, are there plenty of birds?' Stepan Arkadyevitch said to Levin, hardly leaving time for everyone to utter their greetings. 'We've come with the most savage intentions. Why, maman, they've not been in Moscow since! Look, Tanya, here's something for you! Get it, please, it's in the carriage, behind!' he talked in all directions. 'How pretty you've grown, Dolly,' he said to his wife, once more kissing her hand, holding it in one of his, and patting it with the other. Levin, who a minute before had been in the happiest frame of mind, now looked darkly at everyone, and everything displeased him. 'Who was it he kissed yesterday with those lips?' he thought, looking at Stepan Arkadyevitch's tender demonstrations to his wife. He looked at Dolly, and he did not like her either. 'She doesn't believe in his love. So what is she so pleased about? Revolting!' thought Levin. He looked at the princess, who had been so dear to him a minute before, and he did not like the manner in which she welcomed this Vassenka, with his ribbons, just as though she were in her own house. Even Sergey Ivanovitch, who had come out too on to the steps, seemed to him unpleasant with the show of cordiality with which he met Stepan Arkadyevitch, though Levin knew that his brother neither liked nor respected Oblonsky. And Varenka, even she seemed hateful, with her air sainte nitouche making the acquaintance of this gentleman, while all the while she was thinking of nothing but getting married. And more hateful than anyone was Kitty for falling in with the tone of gaiety with which this gentleman regarded his visit in the country, as though it were a holiday for himself and everyone else. And, above all, unpleasant was that particular smile with which she responded to his smile. Noisily talking, they all went into the house; but as soon as they were all seated, Levin turned and went out. Kitty saw something was wrong with her husband. She tried to seize a moment to speak to him alone, but he made haste to get away from her, saying he was wanted at the counting-house. It was long since his own work on the estate had seemed to him so important as at that moment. 'It's all holiday for them,' he thought; 'but these are no holiday matters, they won't wait, and there's no living without them.' VII L EVIN came back to the house only when they sent to summon him to supper. On the stairs were standing Kitty and Agafea Mihalovna, consulting about wines for supper. 'But why are you making all this fuss? Have what we usually do.'

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  Haven't I told you that I haven't a thought I wouldn't lay bare to you?' 'Yes, yes,' she said, evidently trying to suppress her jealous thoughts. 'But if only you knew how wretched I am! I believe you, I believe you…. What were you saying?' But he could not at once recall what he had been going to say. These fits of jealousy, which of late had been more and more frequent with her, horrified him, and however much he tried to disguise the fact, made him feel cold to her, although he knew the cause of her jealousy was her love for him. How often he had told himself that her love was happiness; and now she loved him as a woman can love when love has outweighed for her all the good things of life—and he was much further from happiness than when he had followed her from Moscow. Then he had thought himself unhappy, but happiness was before him; now he felt that the best happiness was already left behind. She was utterly unlike what she had been when he first saw her. Both morally and physically she had changed for the worse. She had broadened out all over, and in her face at the time when she was speaking of the actress there was an evil expression of hatred that distorted it. He looked at her as a man looks at a faded flower he has gathered, with difficulty recognising in it the beauty for which he picked and ruined it. And in spite of this he felt that then, when his love was stronger, he could, if he had greatly wished it, have torn that love out of his heart; but now, when as at that moment it seemed to him he felt no love for her, he knew that what bound him to her could not be broken. 'Well, well, what was it you were going to say about the prince? I have driven away the fiend,' she added. The fiend was the name they had given her jealousy. 'What did you begin to tell me about the prince ? Why did you find it so tiresome?' 'Oh, it was intolerable!' he said, trying to pick up the thread of his interrupted thought. 'He does not improve on closer acquaintance. If you want him defined, here he is: a prime, well-fed beast such as takes medals at the cattle-shows, and, nothing more,' he said, with a tone of vexation that interested her. 'No; how so?' she replied. 'He's seen a great deal, any way; he's cultured?' 'It's an utterly different culture—their culture. He's cultivated, one sees, simply to be able to despise culture, as they despise everything but animal pleasures.' 'But don't you all care for these animal pleasures?' she said, and again he noticed a dark look in her eyes that avoided him. 'How is it you're defending him?' he said, smiling.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  'We had splendid shooting, and so many delightful experiences!' said Veslovsky, going up to Kitty, who was sitting at the samovar. 'What a pity ladies are cut off from these delights!' 'Well, I suppose he must say something to the lady of the house,' Levin said to himself. Again he fancied something in the smile, in the all-conquering air with which their guest addressed Kitty…. The princess, sitting on the other side of the table with Marya Vlasyevna and Stepan Arkadyevitch, called Levin to her side, and began to talk to him about moving to Moscow for Kitty's confinement, and getting ready rooms for them. Just as Levin had disliked all the trivial preparations for his wedding, as derogatory to the grandeur of the event, now he felt still more offensive the preparations for the approaching birth, the date of which they reckoned, it seemed, on their fingers. He tried to turn a deaf ear to these discussions of the best patterns of long clothes for the coming baby; tried to turn away and avoid seeing the mysterious, endless strips of knitting, the triangles of linen, and so on, to which Dolly attached special importance. The birth of a son (he was certain it would be a son) which was promised him, but which he still could not believe in—so marvellous it seemed—presented itself to his mind, on one hand, as a happiness so immense, and therefore so incredible; on the other, as an event so mysterious, that this assumption of a definite knowledge of what would be, and consequent preparation for it, as for something ordinary that did happen to people, jarred on him as confusing and humiliating. But the princess did not understand his feelings, and put down his reluctance to think and talk about it to carelessness and indifference, and so she gave him no peace. She had commissioned Stepan Arkadyevitch to look at a flat, and now she called Levin up. 'I know nothing about it, princess. Do as you think fit,' he said. 'You must decide when you will move.' 'I really don't know. I know millions of children are born away from Moscow, and doctors . . . why . . . ' 'But if so … ' 'Oh no, as Kitty wishes.' 'We can't talk to Kitty about it! Do you want me to frighten her? Why, this spring Natalia Golitzin died from having an ignorant doctor.' 'I will do just what you say,' he said gloomily. The princess began talking to him, but he did not hear her. Though the conversation with the princess had indeed jarred upon him, he was gloomy, not on account of that conversation, but from what he saw at the samovar. 'No, it's impossible,' he thought, glancing now and then at Vassenka bending over Kitty, telling her something with his charming smile, and at her, flushed and disturbed. There was something not nice in Vassenka's attitude, in his eyes, in his smile.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  Only that day he had been talking to Prince Tchetchensky. Prince Tchetchensky had a wife and family, grown-up pages in the corps,… and he had another illegitimate family of children also. Though the first family was very nice too, Prince Tchetchensky felt happier in his second family; and he used to take his eldest son with him to his second family, and told Stepan Arkadyevitch that he thought it good for his son, enlarging his ideas. What would have been said to that in Moscow? His children? In Petersburg children did not prevent their parents from enjoying life. The children were brought up in schools, and there was no trace of the wild idea that prevailed in Moscow, in Lvov's household, for instance, that all the luxuries of life were for the children, while the parents have nothing but work and anxiety. Here people understand that a man is in duty bound to live for himself, as every man of culture should live. His official duties? Official work here was not the stiff, hopeless drudgery that it was in Moscow. Here there was some interest in official life. A chance meeting, a service rendered, a happy phrase, a knack of facetious mimicry, and a man's career might be made in a trice. So it had been with Bryantsev, whom Stepan Arkadyevitch had met the previous day, and who was one of the highest functionaries in government now. There was some interest in official work like that. The Petersburg attitude on pecuniary matters had an especially soothing effect on Stepan Arkadyevitch. Bartnyansky, who must spend at least fifty thousand to judge by the style he lived in, had made an interesting comment the day before on that subject. As they were talking before dinner, Stepan Arkadyevitch said to Bartnyansky— 'You're friendly, I fancy, with Mordvinsky; you might do me a favour: say a word to him, please, for me. There's an appointment I should like to get—secretary of the agency…' 'Oh, I shan't remember all that, if you tell me . . . But what possesses you to have to do with railways and Jews? . . . Take it as you will, it's a low business.' Stepan Arkadyevitch did not say to Bartnyansky that it was a 'growing thing'—Bartnyansky would not have understood that. 'I want the money, I've nothing to live on.' 'You're Jiving, aren't you?' 'Yes, but in debt.' 'Are you, though? Heavily?' said Bartnyansky sympathetically. 'Very heavily: twenty thousand.' Bartnyansky broke into good-humoured laughter. 'Oh, lucky fellow!' said he. 'My debts mount up to a million and a half, and I've nothing, and still I can live, as you see!' And Stepan Arkadyevitch saw the correctness of this view not in words only but in actual fact. Zhivahov owed three hundred thousand, and hadn't a farthing to bless himself with, and he lived, and in style too!

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  But in spite of that he made polite and hospitable inquiries of Vassenka about his shooting, his gun, and his boots, and agreed to go shooting next day. Happily for Levin, the old princess cut short his agonies by getting up herself and advising Kitty to go to bed. But even at this point Levin could not escape another agony. As he said good-night to his hostess, Vassenka would again have kissed her hand, but Kitty, reddening, drew back her hand and said with a naive bluntness, for which the old princess scolded her afterwards— 'We don't like that fashion.' In Levin's eyes she was to blame for having allowed such relations to arise, and still more to blame for showing so awkwardly that she did not like them. 'Why, how can one want to go to bed!' said Stepan Arkadyevitch, who, after drinking several glasses of wine at supper, was now in his most charming and sentimental humour. 'Look, Kitty,' he said, pointing to the moon, which had just risen behind the lime-trees—'how exquisite! Veslovsky, this is the time for a serenade. You know, he has a splendid voice; we practised songs together along the road. He has brought some lovely songs with him, two new ones. Varvara Andreevna and he must sing some duets.' When the party had broken up, Stepan Arkadyevitch walked a long while about the avenue with Veslovsky; their voices could be heard singing one of the new songs. Levin hearing these voices sat scowling in an easy-chair in his wife's bedroom, and maintained an obstinate silence when she asked him what was wrong. But when at last with a timid glance she hazarded the question: 'Was there perhaps something you disliked about Veslovsky?' —it all burst out, and he told her all. He was humiliated himself at what he was saying, ana that exasperated him all the more. He stood facing her with his eyes glittering menacingly under his scowling brows, and he squeezed his strong arms across his chest, as though he were straining every nerve to hold himself in. The expression of his face would have been grim, and even cruel, if it had not at the same time had a look of suffering which touched her. His jaws were twitching, and his voice kept breaking. 'You must understand that I'm not jealous, that's a nasty word. I can't be jealous, and believe that. . . .