Turgenev always reminds me of Chekhov’s stories, even though Turgenev was writing before Chekhov was born. First Love is short, about one hundred pages, and I read it in one sitting, which was perfect. He loves Zinaida almost instantly, even when he sees her for less than a perfect creature (in her own words: “I am a flirt: I have no heart: I have an actor’s nature.”), he loves her no less, only his jealousy increases.Īs with many first loves, this one does not end so happily, I might even call it tragic. Soon neighbors (a Princess! and her daughter!) move in next door, and Vladimir catches a glimpse of her. This presentiment, this sense of expectancy, penetrated my whole being I breathed it, it was in every drop of blood that flowed through my veins - soon it was to be fulfilled. I remember that at that time the image of woman, the shadowy vision of feminine love, scarcely ever took definite shape in my mind but in every thought, in every sensation, there lay hidden a half-conscious, shy, timid awareness of something new, inexpressibly sweet, feminine. He begins at his family’s summer home, when he is sixteen, and barely beginning to take notice of girls: His works are full of vivid descriptions of Russian life and some of them present slight psychological analysis and self-evaluation. What follows is the fulfillment of his promise. Turgenev is famous for his revolutionary doctrines which widely spread in Russia in the 19th century. Most of them claim to have uninteresting experiences of first love, but Vladimir Petrovich allows them hope for a good story, saying, “My first love was certainly not at all ordinary.” But he refuses to tell it aloud then and there, promising within two weeks to write it down for them. The host decides the remaining guests, all men, will tell the tale of their first love. Perhaps this is because I’ve only read his shorter works, this novella, First Love, and his ‘short stories,’ Sketches from a Hunter’s Album. Every word seems to matter, every scene intentional. "but at that point my attention was arrested by the appearance of a speckled woodpecker who busily climbed up the slender stem of a birch-tree and peeped out uneasily from behind it, first to the right, then to the left, like a musician behind the bass-viol.There is something so simple, but so satisfying in Turgenev‘s work. Even the nature symbolism is rescued from triteness by lovely poetic similes - e.g. First Love is given its originality and poignancy by Turgenev's mastery of the piercing turning-point (akin to Joyce's "epiphanies") that transforms the character's whole being, making a tragic outcome inevitable. The "boy-meets-girl-then-loses-her" story is universal but not, I think, banal - despite a surprise ending which notoriously turns out to be very little of a surprise. The title of the novella is almost an adequate summary in itself. Translated by Constance Garnett (1861 - 1946)
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