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Pervaja ljubov'

Pervaja ljubov'

Автор Ivan Turgenev

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Pervaja ljubov'

Автор Ivan Turgenev

оценки:
3/5 (226 оценки)
Длина:
113 страниц
2 часа
Издатель:
Издано:
Jun 11, 2013
ISBN:
9781782677628
Формат:
Книга

Описание

Действие повести проис¬ходит в 1833 г. в Москве, Глав¬ному герою — Володе — шест¬на¬дцать лет, он живет с роди¬те¬лями на даче и гото¬вится к поступ¬лению в универ¬ситет. Вскоре в бедный флигель по сосед¬ству въез¬жает семья княгини Засе-киной. Володя случайно видит княжну и очень хочет с ней позна¬ко¬миться. На следу-ющий день его мать полу¬чает от княгини Засе¬киной безгра¬мотное письмо с просьбой оказать ей покро¬ви¬тель¬ство. Матушка посы¬лает к княгине Володю с устным пригла¬ше¬нием пожа¬ло¬вать к ней в дом. Там Володя знако¬мится с княжной — Зина¬идой Алек¬сан¬дровной, которая старше его на пять лет. Княжна тут же зовет его к себе в комнату распу¬ты¬вать шерсть, кокет¬ни¬чает с ним, но быстро теряет к нему интерес. В тот же день княгиня Засе¬кина наносит визит его матери и произ¬водит на нее крайне небла¬го¬при¬ятное впечат¬ление. Однако, несмотря на это, мать пригла¬шает её вместе с дочерью на обед. Во время обеда княгиня шумно нюхает табак, ерзает на стуле, вертится, жалу¬ется на бедность и расска¬зы¬вает про свои беско¬нечные векселя, а княжна, напротив, вели¬чава — весь обед разго¬ва¬ри¬вает с Воло¬диным отцом по-фран¬цузски, но смотрит на него враж¬дебно. На Володю она не обра¬щает внимания, однако, уходя, шепчет ему, чтобы он приходил к ним вечером.

Иван Тургенев – Первая любовь

Издатель:
Издано:
Jun 11, 2013
ISBN:
9781782677628
Формат:
Книга

Об авторе

Ivan Turgenev was a Russian writer whose work is exemplary of Russian Realism. A student of Hegel, Turgenev’s political views and writing were heavily influenced by the Age of Enlightenment. Among his most recognized works are the classic Fathers and Sons, A Sportsman’s Sketches, and A Month in the Country. Turgenev is today recognized for his artistic purity, which influenced writers such as Henry James and Joseph Conrad. Turgenev died in 1883, and is credited with returning Leo Tolstoy to writing as the result of his death-bed plea.


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Pervaja ljubov' - Ivan Turgenev

тетрадке:

I

Мне было тогда шестнадцать лет. Дело происходило летом 1833 года.

Я жил в Москве у моих родителей. Они нанимали дачу около Калужской заставы, против Нескучного. Я готовился в университет, но работал очень мало и не торопясь.

Никто не стеснял моей свободы. Я делал, что хотел, особенно с тех пор, как я расстался с последним моим гувернером-французом, который никак не мог привыкнуть к мысли, что он упал «как бомба» (comme une bombe) в Россию, и с ожесточенным выражением на лице по целым дням валялся на постели. Отец обходился со мной равнодушно-ласково; матушка почти не обращала на меня внимания, хотя у ней, кроме меня, не было детей: другие заботы ее поглощали. Мой отец, человек еще молодой и очень красивый, женился на ней по расчету; она была старше его десятью годами. Матушка моя вела печальную жизнь: беспрестанно волновалась, ревновала, сердилась – но не в присутствии отца; она очень его боялась, а он держался строго, холодно, отдаленно… Я не видал человека более изысканно спокойного, самоуверенного и самовластного.

Я никогда не забуду первых недель, проведенных мною на даче. Погода стояла чудесная; мы переехали из города девятого мая, в самый Николин день. Я гулял – то в саду нашей дачи, то по Нескучному, то за заставой; брал с собою какую-нибудь книгу – курс Кайданова, например, – но редко ее развертывал, а больше вслух читал стихи, которых знал очень много на память; кровь бродила во мне, и сердце ныло – так сладко и смешно: я все ждал, робел чего-то и всему дивился и весь был наготове; фантазия играла и носилась быстро вокруг одних и тех же представлений, как на заре стрижи вокруг колокольни; я задумывался, грустил и даже плакал; но и сквозь слезы и сквозь грусть, навеянную то певучим стихом, то красотою вечера, проступало, как весенняя травка, радостное чувство молодой, закипающей жизни.

У меня была верховая лошадка, я сам ее седлал и уезжал один куда-нибудь подальше, пускался вскачь и воображал себя рыцарем на турнире – как весело дул мне в уши ветер! – или, обратив лицо к небу, принимал его сияющий свет и лазурь в разверстую душу.

Помнится, в то время образ женщины, призрак женской любви почти никогда не возникал определенными очертаниями в моем уме; но во всем, что я думал, во всем, что я ощущал, таилось полусознанное, стыдливое предчувствие чего-то нового, несказанно сладкого, женского…

Это предчувствие, это ожидание проникло весь мой состав: я дышал им, оно катилось по моим жилам в каждой капле крови… ему было суждено скоро сбыться.

Дача наша состояла из деревянного барского дома с колоннами и двух низеньких флигельков; во флигеле налево помещалась крохотная фабрика дешевых обоев… Я не раз хаживал туда смотреть, как десяток худых и взъерошенных мальчишек в засаленных халатах и с испитыми лицами то и дело вскакивали на деревянные рычаги, нажимавшие четырехугольные обрубки пресса, и таким образом тяжестью своих тщедушных тел вытискивали пестрые узоры обоев. Флигелек направо стоял пустой и отдавался внаймы. В один день – недели три спустя после девятого мая – ставни в окнах этого флигелька открылись, показались в них женские лица – какое-то семейство в нем поселилось. Помнится, в тот же день за обедом матушка осведомилась у дворецкого о том, кто были наши новые соседи, и, услыхав фамилию княгини Засекиной, сперва промолвила не без некоторого уважения: «А! княгиня… – а потом прибавила: – Должно быть, бедная какая-нибудь».

– На трех извозчиках приехали-с, – заметил, почтительно подавая блюдо, дворецкий, – своего экипажа не имеют-с, и мебель самая пустая.

– Да, – возразила матушка, – а все-таки лучше.

Отец холодно взглянул на нее: она умолкла.

Действительно, княгиня Засекина не могла быть богатой женщиной: нанятый ею флигелек был так ветх, и мал, и низок, что люди, хотя несколько зажиточные, не согласились бы поселиться в нем. Впрочем, я тогда пропустил это все мимо ушей. Княжеский титул на меня мало действовал: я недавно прочел «Разбойников» Шиллера.

II

У меня была привычка бродить каждый вечер с ружьем по нашему саду и караулить ворон. К этим осторожным, хищным и лукавым птицам я издавна чувствовал ненависть. В день, о котором зашла речь, я также отправился в сад – и, напрасно исходив все аллеи (вороны меня признали и только издали отрывисто каркали), случайно приблизился к низкому забору, отделявшему собственно наши владения от узенькой полосы сада, простиравшейся за флигельком направо и принадлежавшей к нему. Я шел потупя голову. Вдруг мне послышались голоса; я взглянул через забор – и окаменел… Мне представилось странное зрелище.

В нескольких шагах от меня – на поляне, между кустами зеленой малины, стояла высокая стройная девушка в полосатом розовом платье и с белым платочком на голове; вокруг нее теснились четыре молодые человека, и она поочередно хлопала их по лбу теми небольшими серыми цветками, которых имени я не знаю, но которые хорошо знакомы детям: эти цветки образуют небольшие мешочки и разрываются с треском, когда хлопнешь ими по чему-нибудь твердому. Молодые люди так охотно подставляли свои лбы – а в движениях девушки (я ее видел сбоку) было что-то такое очаровательное, повелительное, ласкающее, насмешливое и милое, что я чуть не вскрикнул от удивления и удовольствия и, кажется, тут же бы отдал все на свете, чтобы только и меня эти прелестные пальчики хлопнули по лбу. Ружье мое соскользнуло на траву, я все забыл, я пожирал взором этот стройный стан, и шейку, и красивые руки, и слегка растрепанные белокурые волосы под белым платочком, и этот полузакрытый, умный глаз, и эти ресницы, и нежную щеку под ними…

– Молодой человек, а молодой человек, – проговорил вдруг подле меня чей-то голос, – разве позволительно глядеть так на чужих барышень?

Я вздрогнул весь, я обомлел… Возле меня за забором стоял какой-то человек с коротко остриженными черными волосами и иронически посматривал на меня. В это самое мгновение и девушка обернулась ко мне… Я увидал огромные серые глаза на подвижном, оживленном лице – и все это лицо вдруг задрожало, засмеялось, белые зубы сверкнули на нем, брови как-то забавно поднялись… Я вспыхнул, схватил с земли ружье и, преследуемый звонким, но не злым хохотаньем, убежал к себе в комнату, бросился на постель и закрыл лицо руками. Сердце во мне так и прыгало; мне было очень стыдно и весело: я чувствовал небывалое волнение.

Отдохнув, я причесался,

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Отзывы читателей

  • (4/5)
    Another Melville House novella I'd never heard of but bought mostly just because of the Melville House endorsement. I had very little in the way of expectations going in, but the book still managed to surprise me. Rather than being about a "first love" where two young people are breathlessly in love with each other, it's about that kind of "first love" that is an unrequited romantic obsession with an inscrutable other.With its themes of decaying Russian aristocracy, I expected this little tale to be far more tragic than it was. Don't get me wrong, there is certainly squalor, cynicism, and heartbreak here. But somehow it all felt on a more ordinary, human scale, rather than epic, and I think I liked it better for that.Another excellent Melville House pick.
  • (4/5)
    Late evening after dinner, three middle-aged men remember their first love. For two of them the experience had no noteworthy aspects, but the third gave an account of his passion for an "older" woman when he was sixteen. As the daughter of a coarse, impoverished princess she had several admirers when mother and daughter moved next door to Petrovich. He was immediately smitten. Nothing has changed for lovelorn teenagers in the almost two hundred years since this story was written, they are still beyond help or advice, with no choice but to wait and see what happens. Beautifully written with an excellent translation by Isaiah Berlin, this slim book is well worth reading.
  • (4/5)
    Very good book about a young boy's first love with a flirtatious older girl. Setting is 18th century Moscow. All of the characters play their part well with the exception of the boy's father, who is devious and quite unlikable (by me that is). A good twist that was easy for the reader to see coming, but not so easy for the boy. A short book and an easy read.
  • (4/5)
    A whirlwind of feelings, rapture and intensity of first love at 16, the crush of abandonment, disappointment, and a twist of fate (albeit slightly predictable) in the end... And even though Turgenev is not the first writer to dwell on this theme, he certainly claims the reader's attention with his compelling and beautiful prose. Sentimental? Yes. But a very touching novella nevertheless.
  • (4/5)
    It's official, I need more Turgenev in my life. He could narrate the mundane and I'd be engrossed. His portraits and scenes are so vivid. A sixteen year old boy falls in love with the impoverished, capricious princess next door, so does a decent chunk of the neighborhood. Her heart, however, belongs to his father - this doesn't stop her from demanding adulation from the other poor sods. Things never end well for russian heroines though!
  • (4/5)
    I had read "First Love" before - somewhere in my early teens, in Russian. I knew what the story was about, I knew the end (or so I thought) and I had always appreciated Turgenev. About 20 years later, I get the chance to read it again, in English this time. And the story is still as good as ever - the narrative of the middle-aged man about his first love, at the time when he was 16; a first love that never happened really - the woman, a few years his senior, fell in love with someone else instead. What I did not remember (or maybe I did not have the experience - both in reading and in life - to see) is how early in the story are the hints about who Zinaida will end up in love with. I knew it was clear long before the protagonist figured it out but the signs are there from almost the start. Maybe I saw them because I knew what was coming... What I don't remember for sure was the end of the story - the fact that our protagonist almost meets Zinaida a few times later in his life. In my memory this story finished when his family came back in the city - apparently my younger self did not like what happened after that and just forgot it. The story is worth reading but only if the reader is ready to immerse themselves in the Russian mid-19th century. What sounds silly and annoying now is what had been the norm back then - complete with the bad poetry (and some good one) and the poor princesses and the men that were surrounding them. And the reader should never forget that this is the story of a 16 years old - even if it is told by him when he is a bit older - things at 16 look different.
  • (3/5)
    St. Barts 2013 #9 - Another ok novella by Turgenev......very accurately capturing the pangs of teenage first love....with an interesting twist.....one I think we all figured out early on, but the book was about the teen discovering the truth of the situation. I enjoyed and have no regrets.
  • (4/5)
    This is a slight novella and though evocative of the time (19th century Russia), is not fulfilling.Although framed by the narrator, Vladimir Petrovich, recalling his first love, the story is almost exclusively about his 16 year old self and his infatuation that summer with Zinaida, the 21 year out who holds "court" to her numerous suitors in the summer house next door. Although you do not read stories like this for their suspense, I really felt that Vladimir's blindness to the love that Zinaida has for another beggared belief (mine anyway).I read the beautifully bound and illustrated Folio Society edition, and this may have detracted from the story by being such a beautiful physical object!
  • (4/5)
    "First Love" is similar in tone to "Spring Torrents", also by Turgenev. In both, the whirlwind of falling in love with a beguiling woman is shown to overwhelm a young man. It reveals that the pain and awkwardness of being "over your head" was the same in 1860 Russia as it is today; on the other hand, there are also charming little touches that show how different life was then, e.g. the belief a character has that drinking ice water can cause one to catch cold and die. I think reactions will vary to this type of book, but I'm a sucker for the sentimental touches of looking back on one's youth and of "first love" in general, and enjoyed this little story.Favorite quotes: On taking control of one's life; advice that Turgenev heard from his real father :"'Take what you can yourself, and don't let others get you into their hands; to belong to oneself, that is the whole thing in life,' he said to me once. ...'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.'"On love (Ok, on first love, natch :-):"I remember how both our heads were suddenly plunged in a close, fragrant, almost transparent darkness, and how close to me in this darkness her eyes shone softly; and I remember the warm breath from her parted lips, the gleam of her teeth, and how her hair tickled and burnt me. I was silent. She smiled mysteriously and slyly, and finally whispered to me, 'Well?' But I only blushed and laughed and turned away, and could scarcely breathe."Also this one:"She quickly turned towards me, and opening her arms wide, put them round my head, and gave me a strong, warm kiss. God only knows for whom that long farewell kiss was seeking, but I tasted its sweetness avidly. I knew that it would never come again.'Good-bye, good-bye,' I kept repeating.She tore herself from my embrace, and was gone. I went too. I cannot even begin to convey the feelings with which I left her. I never wish to experience them again, but I should count it a misfortune never to have had them at all."On sentimental feelings of lost youth:"Oh, gentle feelings, soft sounds, the goodness and the gradual stilling of a soul that has been moved; the melting happiness of the first tender, touching joys of love - where are you? Where are you?"And this last one which I love:"O youth! youth! you go your way heeding, 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 ... and perhaps the whole secret of your enchantment lies not, indeed, in your power to think that there is nothing you will not do; it is this that you scatter to the winds - gifts which you could never have used to any other purpose. Each of us feels most deeply convinced that he has been too prodigal of his gifts - that he has a right to cry, 'Oh, what could I have not done, if only I had not wasted my time.'"..."What has come of it all - of all that I had hoped for? And now when the shades of evening are beginning to close in upon my life, what have I left that is fresher, dearer to me, than the memoirs of that brief storm that came and went so swiftly one morning in the spring?"Last point: I love the cover of the book in the Penguin Classics edition, wihch is from "Summer Landscape" by Ilya Repin in the Pushkin Museum in Moscow.
  • (4/5)
    I know this is usually regard as one of, if not the best, short story Turgenev wrote.Yet while there are some wonderful elements here - such as Zinaida's character and the games she plays with her suitors - it always felt to me as if the heart were missing from this tale. Perhaps that is because the narrator is himself youthful and so the grand introspection of Turgenev's great novels is not present here.It's a very good short story, but I'd be tempted to rate "Asya" as more memorable.
  • (5/5)
    Even if you pick up on the hints of a tragic ending to this first young love, you can't help but be taken in by the agonies and divinity of falling in love for the first time. Every moment, every description of the tragic despair coupled with the heart wrenching passion is perfectly depicted.
  • (5/5)
    A beautiful little book.
  • (1/5)
    A long short story/ novella about a young man / adolescent's first more or less innocent love where he is consumed by a passion for a young woman who is also involved with his father and several other men. All very aristocratic and Russian. Odd story didn't enjoy it.
  • (5/5)
    This is a damn good little novel providing rolling emotions of joy, giddiness, loathing, sorrow, and more. With themes mirroring his own life, especially his distant father and less desirable mother, Turgenev tells the tale of Vladimir Petrovich’s first love, in the countryside of Moscow, in the summer of 1833. The narration is autobiographical, with Petrovich discovering his first desires of adult love at the age of 16, immediately after which he finds his new impoverished neighbor, Princesses Zinaida, age 21, to be the object of his adoration and endless affections. Add a snuff-snorting princess mother, five other overly eager suitors, the aforementioned distant father who isn’t happy in his marriage and a mother who fears her husband, the comedy and the inevitable tragedy virtually writes itself. To say the story is predictable would not be a fair statement. We know it can’t end well. The beauty of the book is its flow, its word usage (fantastic translation by Isaiah Berlin), and the affecting footprint that it leaves, despite the brevity. A boy’s first love going awry, the revelation of the truth, his regret at the end are simple but effective. The passages of love – the desire, the enchantment, the loss of innocence, the first falling, being lost in it, yielding to it, crushed by it, to leave it, the shock of it, and its eventual passing – are all in these pages, without sappiness. His first love was his most memorable. My last love was my most memorable. Good-bye.Some Quotes:In the Foreword, advice from Turgenev’s father:"'Take what you can yourself, and don't let others get you into their hands; to belong to oneself, that is the whole thing in life.” On love – the youth desiring love:“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… 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.”On love – the enthrallment:“…I forgot everything; my eyes devoured the graceful figure, the lovely neck, the beautiful arms, the slightly disheveled fair hair under the white kerchief – and the half-closed, perceptive eye, the lashes, the soft cheek beneath them… I blushed terribly…, fled to my room, threw myself on the bed and covered my face with my hands. My heart leaped within me. I felt very ashamed and unusually gay. I was extraordinarily excited.”On love – the youth sinking into the first love, innocence gone:“… the image of Zinaida still hovered triumphant over my soul, though even this image seemed more tranquil. Like a swan rising from the grasses of the marsh, it stood out from the unlovely shapes which surrounded it, and I, as I fell asleep, in parting for the last time clung to it, in trusting adoration.Oh, gentle feelings, soft sounds, the goodness and the gradual stilling of a soul that has been moved; the melting happiness of the first tender, touching joys of love - where are you? Where are you?”On love – better to have loved than not at all:"She quickly turned towards me, and opening her arms wide, put them round my head, and gave me a strong, warm kiss. God only knows for whom that long farewell kiss was seeking, but I tasted its sweetness avidly. I knew that it would never come again.'Good-bye, good-bye,' I kept repeating.She tore herself from my embrace, and was gone. I went too. I cannot even begin to convey the feelings with which I left her. I never wish to experience them again, but I should count it a misfortune never to have had them at all."Lastly – on youth and its inevitable passing:"O youth! youth! you go your way heeding, 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 ... and perhaps the whole secret of your enchantment lies not, indeed, in your power to think that there is nothing you will not do; it is this that you scatter to the winds - gifts which you could never have used to any other purpose. Each of us feels most deeply convinced that he has been too prodigal of his gifts - that he has a right to cry, 'Oh, what could I have not done, if only I had not wasted my time… What has come of it all - of all that I had hoped for? And now when the shades of evening are beginning to close in upon my life, what have I left that is fresher, dearer to me, than the memoirs of that brief storm that came and went so swiftly one morning in the spring?..."
  • (4/5)
    A party is over, but two men remain late with the host, smoking cigars. After midnight the talk turns to first loves, and one of the men, Vladimir Petrovich, admits he has a story to tell. So much of a story, in fact, that he insists on taking the time to tell it properly -- by writing it down. His first-person narrative thus becomes Ivan Turgenev’s coming-of-age novella, First Love. Initially published in 1860, it's translated from the Russian by Isaiah Berlin and now published as part of Penguin Books’ 20-title Great Loves series.Petrovich is a sensitive, 16-year-old Muscovite who spends the summer of 1833 with his parents at a country house. He’s dazzled to discover that an aging princess and her beautiful, 21-year-old daughter, Zinaida, occupy an adjoining house. Estranged a bit from his parents and on his own most of the time, young Petrovich is drawn into the adult world of Zinaida and the men who court her. Though a mere hundred pages, the novella captures not only 19th-century Russia, but also the thrill of first love, betrayal and the loss of innocence, and the complications of a later opportunity to reunite.“I never wish to experience [those feelings] again,” Petrovich writes, “but I should count it a misfortune never to have had them at all.” Ah yes, that’s first love! Highly recommended.