Recently I have found myself drawn to novels about looking back to the past, about nostalgia and youth. I guess it is a sign that I am getting older or perhaps it is a consequence of the tough time I have been having in my personal life, where, without going into too many details, death has been on the agenda quite a lot. I find myself currently feeling highly emotional, over sensitive, and sentimental. Just yesterday, in fact, I was flicking through Alain-Fournier’s beautiful French novel Le Grand Meaulnes, and almost burst into tears [which is certainly very unusual for me] when I came across this passage:“Weeks went by, then months. I am speaking of a far-away time – a vanished happiness. It fell to me to befriend, to console with whatever words I could find, one who had been the fairy, the princess, the mysterious love-dream of our adolescence.”The 'fairy,' the 'love-dream of our adolescence,' is Yvonne, a young girl who, in short, comes to signify, both for the central characters and the reader, the magic of youth and the impossibility of recapturing the period of your life when everything was new and an adventure. So, anyway, bearing all that in mind, it seems as though this is both the perfect and the worst time to read Ivan Turgenev’s First Love [Первая любовь, Pervaya ljubov], which deals with very similar ideas and themes.The novella begins with a group of men, ‘not old, but no longer young,’ sharing the stories of their own first loves. However, only one of the party has an interesting tale to tell, which took place one summer when he, Vladimir Petrovich, was sixteen. That it was summer is, I believe, significant, because it is of course generally thought to be a season of sunshine and gaiety and positivity, when everything is alive, when the days are longer, the blood is warm, and anything seems possible. Moreover, the age of sixteen is one of the pivotal years of one’s life. One is [to paraphrase that wise old bird, Britney Spears] not a child, not yet an adult; one is open-minded, willing to experience, but may not [certainly at the time the novel was written, if not these days] have any real life experience of your own. Indeed, Vladimir describes himself as ‘expectant and shy'; and while he wanted to give the impression of maturity admits that he was not yet allowed to wear a frock coat. He also points out that his father was ‘indifferent’ to him and his mother neglectful, which meant that he had the necessary freedom to chase those new experiences, and all the more reason to look for love and attention from someone else.“O youth! youth! you go your way heedless, uncaring – as if you owned all the treasures of the world; even grief elates you, even sorrow sits well upon your brow. You are self-confident and insolent and you say, ‘I alone am alive – behold!’ even while your own days fly past and vanish without trace and without number, and everything within you melts away like wax in the sun .. like snow ..”The object of this love is Zinaida, a 21 one year old, impoverished princess who has just moved to the area with her boorish mother. In Benito Perez Galdos’ towering novel Fortunata and Jacinta, Juanito first meets the woman who comes to be his lover on a stairway, while she eats a raw egg, the juice running down her fingers. This is not only a fabulous way to introduce a character, but is clearly meant to say something important about the character herself, and Turgenev does something similar here. When Vladimir first spots Zinaida she is in her garden surrounded by a group of men, and so one knows instantly that she is popular with the opposite sex. Moreover, she is, in turn, tapping each of her suitors on the forehead with a flower. What this suggests, and what the rest of the text backs up, is that she is a lively, free-spirited, young girl. In fact, it comes as no surprise in this regard that she was, apparently, much admired by Gustave Flaubert.[From the German film Erste Liebe, which is based on Turgenev’s novella]Vladimir later describes the girl’s personality as a mixture of ‘cunning and carelessness, artificiality and simplicity, calmness and vivacity’ and I think this does a fine job of summing her up. She is not wholly one thing or the other; she is mysterious, enigmatic, never transparent, seemingly cruel at times, and yet somehow always charming. For example, she instantly gives the boy a nickname, Voldemar, and deliberately plays on his intensifying feelings, while at the same time showing him tenderness and favouring him over the other men in her life. She is, in short, the kind of girl I have myself lost my fucking mind over more than once. And that is strangely comforting in a way, that, even over one hundred years ago, men were giving their hearts to these beautiful, maddening young women. [First Love was, so it is said, based on Turgenev’s own experiences].“She tore herself away, and went out. And I went away. I cannot describe the emotion with which I went away. I should not wish it ever to come again; but I should think myself unfortunate had I never experienced such an emotion.”Interestingly, the situation in the garden does not only tell us about Zinaida. It also reveals something about the men in her life and hints at the reasons for her betrayal of Vladimir [yeah, she does him wrong]. Her admirers all fawn over her, they are all servile, eager to please. This is made clear by the fact that they allow her to hit them on the head with a flower. Later, one buys her a kitten, when she asks for one, and looks to get her a horse. Vladimir is no different. When Zinaida, not expecting him to comply, asks him to prove his love by jumping off a wall, with a 14 foot drop, he does just that. And yet the girl herself says that she can only love a man who would ‘break her in two’ i.e. who would not be her lapdog. This is one thing that I have never understood about men, or a certain type of man. Take my own brother as an example. He hangs around the women he likes, doing their bidding, buying them presents, in the hope that this will somehow show him to be a lovely, sensitive guy, and yet it never works. He never gets the girl because he comes across as weak and pathetic. And this is exactly what happens in First Love. In this way, you have to credit Turgenev with nailing a still-relevant, seemingly universal aspect of human relationships and psychology.“There is a sweetness in being the sole source, the autocratic and irresponsible cause of the greatest joy and profoundest pain to another, and I was like wax in Zinaïda’s hands; though, indeed, I was not the only one in love with her. All the men who visited the house were crazy over her, and she kept them all in leading-strings at her feet. It amused her to arouse their hopes and then their fears, to turn them round her finger (she used to call it knocking their heads together), while they never dreamed of offering resistance and eagerly submitted to her.”While First Love is increasingly packaged as a single, stand-alone book, and is, more often than not, described as a novella [by me in this review, no less], it is, in fact, not much more than an obese short story. Yet for such a short work, it is admirably sophisticated. For example, in terms of the structure, there is a lot of very satisfying mirroring going on. Both Zinaida and Vladimir are young, both are in a sense abandoned to themselves by their parents, and, more importantly, both experience their first loves during the course of the narrative. I think it is easy to overlook that Zinaida is not only an object of affection, that she too is going through one of the most tumultuous, defining moments of a person’s life, and it is this that gives the text a greater depth and makes her a more rounded and sympathetic character, because, let’s face it, young love is a bitch, and no one ever really handles it very well or emerges from it spotless. Oh, don’t get me wrong, it’s wonderful too; I wholeheartedly recommend it, but, even so, I couldn’t wish it on anyone with an entirely clear conscience.
Oh, sweet emotions, gentle harmony, goodness and peace of the softened heart, melting bliss of the first raptures of love, where are they, where are they? Vladimir Petrovich, "a man of forty, with black hair turning gray." sits on an evening, after a good meal, with a couple of old friends, sipping the port and drawing on a good cigar. They challenge each other to tell the stories of their first time falling in love. It's a common framing device now, this looking back at the folly of youth with the wisdom of an older age. I don't know which novelist started the trend, but I was thrilled to get confirmation that one of the masters of the after dinner conversation, Joseph Conrad, paid tribute and acknowledged the influence of the great Russian contemporary of Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy. This novella is my first attempt to read Turgheniev, and suddenly I wonder what took me so long, why did I think that he was somehow inferior to these two giants? He speaks truer to my heart than the volcanic, mystical Fyodor and is more delicate in his dissection of the soul than the monumental Lev. Returning to the quiet evening of recollections, two out of the three friends turn out to have little to tell, a sad state of affairs that could probably be replicated today in a similar proportion. One is a tad cynical and wonders what is this feeling that poets brag about, the other tells of an arranged marriage and a slow growth of friendship and respect. Only Vladimir Petrovich has a whopper of a tale to tell: I was sixteen then. It happened in the summer of 1833. And just like this, I am taken back to my own summer of 198_, marvelling at the accuracy of the descriptions of moods and impulses that have little changed from one generation to another, from one corner of the world to its antipodes. This is Vladmir Petrovich in the last summer of his childhood, this is me before I learned to keep it all bottled up inside and be wary of who I am giving my heart away to: I knew a geat deal of poetry by heart; my blood was in a ferment and my heart ached - so sweetly and absurdly; I was all hope and anticipation, was a little frightened of something, and full of wonder at everything, and was on the tiptoe of expectation; my imagination played continually, fluttering rapidly about the same fancies, like martins about a bell-tower at dawn; I dreamed, was sad, even wept; but through tears and through the sadness, inspired by a musical verse, or the beauty of evening, shot up like grass in spring the delicious sense of youth and effervescent life. Vacationing with his affluent parents in a dasha out in the country, young Vladimir is supposed to learn for his admission to university, but the call of the fields, of the forests and of the peaceful waters of the Don is too strong. One fine morning, his promenade is interrupted by the sound of laughter from a neighboring and slightly rundown mansion. Suddenly I heard a voice; I looked across the fence, and was thunderstruck ... There she stands, with the sun in her hair and laughter in her eyes, tall and gracious like a queen, ordering about a group of admirers. Her name is Zinaida, and she is one of the most unforgettable heroines in Russian literature. Poor Vladimir doesn't stand a chance. A lucky turn helps him to get an introduction to the household, but he is, like many youngsters who live more in books than in the real world, tongue tied: Though, indeed, at the moment, I was scarcely capable of noticing anything; I moved as in a dream and felt all through my being a sort of intense blissfulness that verged on imbecility. Zinaida is a little older, in her early twenties, and apparently a coquette who likes to surround herself with admirers, toying with them like a cat with mice. In the evening they gather around her like moths to a flame: Count Malevsky, the poet Meidanov, the doctor Lushin, the dragoon Byelovzorov, old Vonifaty the merchant, Nirmatsky the banker. They play society games, riddles and challenges, discuss literature and politics. Zinaida drags the young boy into their unconventional and turbulent circle, a revolutionary change from the strictures of his own household. It's no wonder he looks at her like to a godess and that these moments will be engraved on his heart for ever: I was as happy as a fish in water, and I could have stayed in that room forever. Have never left that place. A little context is welcome now, as the discussions in the impoverished saloon of Zinaida turns to the preferences of her audience for the Romanticism of the early 19 century, and mentions are made of Pushkin, Goethe, Schiller, Hugo or Byron. The merits of each are analyzed, and a more naturalist approach is suggested as a better alternative to the exaggerated emotions of the Romantic school. A little further research confirms Turgheniev stance and references in the admiration Gustave Flaubert, Henry James and the already mentioned Joseph Conrad held for the Russian writer.In the meanwhile though, young Vladimir finds out about the reverse of the medal, as his sudden passion for Zinaida is tempered by feelings of inadequacy and by the early onset of jealousy: I felt at that time, I recollect, something like what a man must feel on entering the service: I had ceased now to be simply a young boy; I was in love. I have said that my passion dated from that day; I might have added that my sufferings, too, dated from the same day. It is in the nature of a romantic young boy to torment himself with a too vivid imagination: My fancy set to work. I began picturing to myself how I would save her from the hands of enemies; how, covered with blood I would tear her by force from prison, and expire at her feet. ... but what about Zinaida? what about the slightly older woman? Why is she encouraging Vladimir, and stringing him along with her bevy of admirers? She does seem an epitome of frivolity and irresponsibility, shallow and vain and so proud of her ability to twist the men's will around her little finger. Her portrait is where the artist truly shines and the revelation of her inner nature is both subtle and dramatic. She is not immune herself to the arrows of Cupid, and because this is still a novel of a more moralistic and male dominated epoch, Zinaida will be the one who will suffer the most for the folly of love: "You needn't think I care for him," she said to me another time. "No; I can't care for people I have to look down upon. I must have some one who can master me ... But, merciful heavens, I hope I may never come across anyone like that! I don't want to be caught in anyone's claws, not for anything." It's a wonder how well Turgeniev captures the torment of youth, how truly his words ring and how much of what Vladimir goes through echoes the memories of my own summers, now filtered through the burden of the years, yet still as clear and poignant as if they happened only yesterday. I did get curious about the inspiration for the novella, and I found out that in the words of the author this is the most autobiographical of all his works. There's even a name for the real life Zinaida, and a history very close to the events of the fictional Vladimir (view spoiler)[ she falls in love with his own libertine father (hide spoiler)]
Do You like book First Love (2004)?
I have to say I had an intense dislike for the way the novella was shaping up about a third of the way in but shortly after it took a turn for the better. Vladimir, a 16 year old boy has this obsessive desire to be near Z from the first moment he sees her, he fancies himself in love with her, this 21 year old, down on her luck princess. He’s in the heady throes of first love. He sidles up next to her, finds ways to get her attention and generally makes a fool of himself. But Z is a manipulative sort. She’s used to dangling the puppet strings when it comes to men and evidently, boys. But then the author got me to see more of what Vlad’s parents were like and that helped me to understand him. The regular coterie of men who called on the princess daily, and her surroundings helped me to understand why Z was the way she was and why she did the things she did. We all grow to become the people that we are for numerous reasons and this book showed the power of giving in to obsession, the follies and vagaries of youth, splendidly. For such a short read, I felt by the end of it that I saw parts of myself reflected in parts of the story and learnt a few things along the way. I also enjoyed the descriptive language used to convey the passionate emotion in the novella, and turn the characters into real people, just like you and me.
—DuckieMorroe
"I took advantage of the fact that her eyes remained lowered, to scrutinize her features, at first stealthily and then more and more boldly. Her face appeared to me even more lovely than on the previous day. Everything in it was so delicate, clever and charming. She was sitting with her back to a window which was shaded by a white blind. A sunbeam filtering through the blind shed a gentle light on her soft golden hair, on her pure throat, on her tranquil breast. I gazed at her, and how dear she already was to me, and how near. It seemed to me that I had known her for a long time, and that before her I had known nothing and had not lived. ... She was wearing a dark rather worn dress with an apron. How gladly would I have caressed every fold of that apron. The tips of her shoes looked out from under her skirt. I could have knelt in adoration to those shoes. 'And here I am sitting opposite her,' I was thinking, 'I have met her; I know her. God, what happiness!' I almost leapt from my chair in ecstasy, but in fact I only swung my legs a little, like a child enjoying a sweet. I was as happy as a fish in water. I could have stayed in that room -- I could have remained in it for ever.Her eyes softly opened, and once more her clear eyes shone sweetly upon me, and again she gave me a gentle little smile.'How you do stare at me,' she said slowly, and shook her finger."
—Edward
I haven't read this book, or any other Turgenev book, in something close to a decade. The perfect thing to clear my head after a run of difficult books -- I have an inexplicable weakness for 19th century romantic literature. Predictable until the end, Turgenev inserted a few final barbs to keep things from being too saccharine."Do you know what really makes a man free?""What""Will, your own will, and it gives power which is better than liberty. Know how to want, and you'll be free, and you'll be master too."
—Kelly
