First Love : complete with colorful Illustration Ivan Sergeyevic Turgenev

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Published: May 15th 2015

Kindle Edition

63 pages


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First Love : complete with colorful Illustration  by  Ivan Sergeyevic Turgenev

First Love : complete with colorful Illustration by Ivan Sergeyevic Turgenev
May 15th 2015 | Kindle Edition | PDF, EPUB, FB2, DjVu, audiobook, mp3, RTF | 63 pages | ISBN: | 10.60 Mb

I was sixteen then. It happened in the summer of 1833.I lived in Moscow with my parents. They had taken a country house for the summer near the Kalouga gate, facing the Neskutchny gardens. I was preparing for the university, but did not work muchMoreI was sixteen then. It happened in the summer of 1833.I lived in Moscow with my parents. They had taken a country house for the summer near the Kalouga gate, facing the Neskutchny gardens.

I was preparing for the university, but did not work much and was in no hurry.No one interfered with my freedom. I did what I liked, especially after parting with my last tutor, a Frenchman who had never been able to get used to the idea that he had fallen ‘like a bomb’ (comme une bombe) into Russia, and would lie sluggishly in bed with an expression of exasperation on his face for days together. My father treated me with careless kindness- my mother scarcely noticed me, though she had no children except me- other cares completely absorbed her. My father, a man still young and very handsome, had married her from mercenary considerations- she was ten years older than he.

My mother led a melancholy life- she was for ever agitated, jealous and angry, but not in my father’s presence- she was very much afraid of him, and he was severe, cold, and distant in his behaviour… . I have never seen a man more elaborately serene, self-confident, and commanding.I shall never forget the first weeks I spent at the country house. The weather was magnificent- we left town on the 9th of May, on St. Nicholas’s day. I used to walk about in our garden, in the Neskutchny gardens, and beyond the town gates- I would take some book with me – Keidanov’s Course, for instance – but I rarely looked into it, and more often than anything declaimed verses aloud- I knew a great 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 the 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.



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