First Love

Ivan Turgenev

• Publisher: Open Road Media Romance
• Year: 2015
• ISBN:
  9781504013918
• Topic: Literatura
• Subtopic: Clásicos

A timeless tale of youth, love, and loss, masterfully rendered by Ivan Turgenev Vladimir Petrovich and his friends are gathered at a party recounting stories of their first loves. Vladimir tells a vivid tale of unrequited adolescent passion: When he was sixteen, he met the beautiful twenty-one-year-old Zinaida Alexandrovna Zasyekina and fell head over heels. Unfortunately for Vladimir, several other—more eligible—suitors also hoped to win the affections of the beautiful Zinaida. An assured classic, Turgenev's poignant novella follows young Vladimir through the peaks of ecstatic ardor and the valleys of bitter disappointment, concluding in inevitable tragedy. This ebook has been professionally proofread to ensure accuracy and readability on all devices.

IV

In the narrow and untidy passage of the lodge, which I entered with an involuntary tremor in all my limbs, I was met by an old grey-headed servant with a dark copper-coloured face, surly little pig’s eyes, and such deep furrows on his forehead and temples as I had never beheld in my life. He was carrying a plate containing the spine of a herring that had been gnawed at; and shutting the door that led into the room with his foot, he jerked out, ‘What do you want?’

‘Is the Princess Zasyekin at home?’ I inquired.

‘Vonifaty!’ a jarring female voice screamed from within.

The man without a word turned his back on me, exhibiting as he did so the extremely threadbare hindpart of his livery with a solitary reddish heraldic button on it; he put the plate down on the floor, and went away.

‘Did you go to the police station?’ the same female voice called again. The man muttered something in reply. ‘Eh…Has some one come?’ I heard again…‘The young gentleman from next door. Ask him in, then.’

‘Will you step into the drawing-room?’ said the servant, making his appearance once more, and picking up the plate from the floor. I mastered my emotions, and went into the drawing-room.

I found myself in a small and not over clean apartment, containing some poor furniture that looked as if it had been hurriedly set down where it stood. At the window in an easy-chair with a broken arm was sitting a woman of fifty, bareheaded and ugly, in an old green dress, and a striped worsted wrap about her neck. Her small black eyes fixed me like pins.

I went up to her and bowed.

‘I have the honour of addressing the Princess Zasyekin?’

‘I am the Princess Zasyekin; and you are the son of Mr. V.?’

‘Yes. I have come to you with a message from my mother.’

‘Sit down, please. Vonifaty, where are my keys, have you seen them?’

I communicated to Madame Zasyekin my mother’s reply to her note. She heard me out, drumming with her fat red fingers on the window-pane, and when I had finished, she stared at me once more.

‘Very good; I’ll be sure to come,’ she observed at last. ‘But how young you are! How old are you, may I ask?’

‘Sixteen,’ I replied, with an involuntary stammer.

The princess drew out of her pocket some greasy papers covered with writing, raised them right up to her nose, and began looking through them.

‘A good age,’ she ejaculated suddenly, turning round restlessly on her chair. ‘And do you, pray, make yourself at home. I don’t stand on ceremony.’

‘No, indeed,’ I thought, scanning her unprepossessing person with a disgust I could not restrain.

At that instant another door flew open quickly, and in the doorway stood the girl I had seen the previous evening in the garden. She lifted her hand, and a mocking smile gleamed in her face.

‘Here is my daughter,’ observed the princess, indicating her with her elbow. ‘Zinotchka, the son of our neighbour, Mr. V. What is your name, allow me to ask?’

‘Vladimir,’ I answered, getting up, and stuttering in my excitement.

‘And your father’s name?’

‘Petrovitch.’

‘Ah! I used to know a commissioner of police whose name was Vladimir Petrovitch too. Vonifaty! don’t look for my keys; the keys are in my pocket.’

The young girl was still looking at me with the same smile, faintly fluttering her eyelids, and putting her head a little on one side.

‘I have seen Monsieur Voldemar before,’ she began. (The silvery note of her voice ran through me with a sort of sweet shiver.) ‘You will let me call you so?’

‘Oh, please,’ I faltered.

‘Where was that?’ asked the princess.

The young princess did not answer her mother.

‘Have you anything to do just now?’ she said, not taking her eyes off me.

‘Oh, no.’

‘Would you like to help me wind some wool? Come in here, to me.’

She nodded to me and went out of the drawing-room. I followed her.

In the room we went into, the furniture was a little better, and was arranged with more taste. 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.

The young princess sat down, took out a skein of red wool and, motioning me to a seat opposite her, carefully untied the skein and laid it across my hands. All this she did in silence with a sort of droll deliberation and with the same bright sly smile on her slightly parted lips. She began to wind the wool on a bent card, and all at once she dazzled me with a glance so brilliant and rapid, that I could not help dropping my eyes. When her eyes, which were generally half closed, opened to their full extent, her face was completely transfigured; it was as though it were flooded with light.

‘What did you think of me yesterday, M’sieu Voldemar?’ she asked after a brief pause. ‘You thought ill of me, I expect?’

‘I…princess…I thought nothing…how can I?…’ I answered in confusion.

‘Listen,’ she rejoined. ‘You don’t know me yet. I’m a very strange person; I like always to be told the truth. You, I have just heard, are sixteen, and I am twenty-one: you see I’m a great deal older than you, and so you ought always to tell me the truth…and to do what I tell you,’ she added. ‘Look at me: why don’t you look at me?’

I was still more abashed; however, I raised my eyes to her. She smiled, not her former smile, but a smile of approbation. ‘Look at me,’ she said, dropping her voice caressingly: ‘I don’t dislike that…I like your face; I have a presentiment we shall be friends. But do you like me?’ she added slyly.

‘Princess…’ I was beginning.

‘In the first place, you must call me Zinaïda Alexandrovna, and in the second place it’s a bad habit for children’—(she corrected herself) ‘for young people—not to say straight out what they feel. That’s all very well for grown-up people. You like me, don’t you?’

Though I was greatly delighted that she talked so freely to me, still I was a little hurt. I wanted to show her that she had not a mere boy to deal with, and assuming as easy and serious an air as I could, I observed, ‘Certainly. I like you very much, Zinaïda Alexandrovna; I have no wish to conceal it.’

She shook her head very deliberately. ‘Have you a tutor?’ she asked suddenly.

‘No; I’ve not had a tutor for a long, long while.’

I told a lie; it was not a month since I had parted with my Frenchman.

‘Oh! I see then—you are quite grown-up.’

She tapped me lightly on the fingers. ‘Hold your hands straight!’ And she ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Prologue
• I
• II
• III
• IV
• V
• VI
• VII
• VIII
• IX
• X
• XI
• XII
• XIII
• XIV
• XV
• XVI
• XVII
• XVIII
• XIX
• XX
• XXI
• XXII
• Copyright