Certainly a moving story.

read for class

Review to come soon, but until then, a warning: DO NOT buy the edition that I bought. The translation is hideous.

a really nice story on obsession and first love, i had a lot of fun reading this

Cinta Pertama adalah novella Ivan Turgenev pertama yang saya baca...dan harus saya akui, pada saat membacanya sekitar empat tahun lalu, pikiran utama saya adalah "INI APA-APAAN?" Terjemahannya itu lho...bahasanya macam karangan zaman Pujangga Baru. Kaku. Kadang menggunakan kata bahasa Indonesia yang sudah ditelan zaman. Bete pokoknya. Boro-boro meresapi cerita.

Sekarang, setelah lebih dewasa, lebih meluaskan bacaan (terutama yang dianggap klasik) dan menyadari pentingnya membangkitkan kata bahasa Indonesia yang hampir hilang, saya bisa lebih menikmatinya. Menghargai gaya penerjemahan yang liris, mengutamakan rima dan keindahan bahasa. Rasanya justru jadi pantas untuk karya yang ditulis tahun 1860 ini.

Vladimir Petrovich mengisahkan cinta pertamanya ketika berusia 16 tahun, yaitu pada Zinaida Alexandrovna Zasekina, tetangganya. Zinaida berasal dari keluarga bangsawan yang jatuh miskin, sehingga walaupun masih mempertahankan gengsi, kehidupan keluarganya terhitung 'vulgar' untuk ukuran bangsawan. Meski begitu, kecantikan Zinaida telah memikat Vladimir, begitu juga beberapa lelaki lainnya yang secara rutin mengunjungi serta berupaya merebut hati gadis itu.

Zinaida seperti makhluk menawan yang sulit dimengerti. Kepada pengagum-pengagumnya, dia memberikan perhatian silih berganti. Juga pada Vladimir, yang dipanggilnya 'Voldemar' (isn't Voldemar a German form of Vladimir? Is it commonly used as diminutive in Russia?). Layaknya cinta pertama, Vladimir tergulung dalam lika-liku perasaan, romantisme yang berlebihan. Sementara itu Zinaida menunjukkan tanda-tanda bahwa dia mencintai Vladimir, sekaligus juga mengolok-olok kemudaannya (Zinaida lebih tua lima tahun daripada Vladimir). Lelaki-lelaki di lingkaran Zinaida pun bergeming. Apakah pada akhirnya Vladimir berhasil mendapatkan cinta Zinaida?

It is short, simple, and beautiful. Tanpa banyak cakap kita dibawa pada perasaan Vladimir yang tak menentu. Dia belum dianggap dewasa, bahkan Zinaida juga sering menyinggung itu. But that feeling of first love seems so true, so sincere, so pure! Vladimir thought that he was Zinaida's through and through, there was nothing he wouldn't do for her. Vladimir was sure he could love Zinaida in the best way, forever, if only she could be his. How could it be wrong? And Zinaida...she was so charming with her beauty, her grace, and her unpredictability.

Ini adalah kisah yang didasarkan pada kehidupan Turgenev sendiri, dan saat saya membaca kisah cinta pertama Vladimir, saya seperti melihat cinta pertama saya juga. Perasaan tak menentu, tak pantas, namun menggebu itu rasanya saya kenal. Akhirnya mungkin berbeda dengan cerita saya, atau cerita Anda, namun ketika kita bisa merelasikan emosi dengan sebuah cerita yang ditulis berpuluh tahun lampau, I'd say, that is something.

Sedikit hal yang membuat saya terganggu adalah typo dan variasi pengejaan untuk nama, misalnya "Pusykin" alih-alih "Pushkin", "Woloja" alih-alih "Volodya". Mohon agak maklum sebab ini diterjemahkan pada tahun 1960-an. Ejaan Yang Disempurnakan juga belum resmi...saya sih bersyukur aja saya nggak perlu membaca buku ini dalam ejaan Van Ophuysen (oke...itu lebay). Saya juga agak bete karena bahasa Perancisnya nggak diterjemahkan (pada masa itu, kalangan menengah ke atas di Rusia berkiblat ke Perancis, dan banyak menggunakan bahasa Perancis). Iya sih ada Google Translate, tapi kalau bisa dikasih footnotes kenapa enggak.

Saya merekomendasikan buku ini bagi pembaca yang sudah biasa dengan gaya bahasa penulis Indonesia era sebelum tahun 70-an. Untuk efek penuh, gunakan kesempatan pertama membaca untuk menandai typo dan kata-kata sulit. Kemudian pada pembacaan kedua, bacalah setelah mengartikan kata-kata sulit dengan bantuan KBBI (dan bahasa Perancisnya dengan Google Translate). Saya membacanya dengan cara itu....and I enjoy it immensely.

One more...the cover is soooo pretty! I love it! Really really love it! Kudos for the cover designer!

Es un libro hermosamente escrito, pero me ha tomado por sorpresa y aún no sé que más decir sobre él


"Ya no era un muchacho a secas, sino un enamorado. He dicho que mi pasión data de aquel día; podría agregar que lo mismo cabe decir de mi sufrimiento."

‘That’s love,’ I said to myself again, as I sat at night before my writing-table, on which books and papers had begun to make their appearance; ‘that’s passion! . . . To think of not revolting, of bearing a blow from any one whatever . . . even the dearest hand! But it seems one can, if one loves . . . While I . . . I imagined . . . ’ (Garnett's translation.)

‘That’s what love is’, I told myself again, sitting at night in front of my desk on which books and notebooks had begun to appear. ‘That’s real passion! Not to object, to bear a blow of any kind, even from someone you love very much – is that possible? It’s possible, it seems, if you’re in love… But I’d – I’d imagine...’ (Freeborn's translation.)

Good grief.

I judged a book by its title; it saddens me to say that my intuition didn't fail me this time. Fortunately, I read Asya before this novella – so it’s easier to talk about this one first since there was almost no connection. Otherwise, I would have had second thoughts and probably avoided Turgenev’s prose until November. Oh, his prose! His absolutely exquisite prose with which he explored the complexity of love, the whirl of emotions, the innocence of youth. His poetic language gave me the strength to keep reading this story.

I have to be honest: if it weren’t for the last chapter, I would've given this book a 2-star rating. Maybe my nature was too determined to reject so much mushiness this time, but still, there are many things and concepts to which I couldn’t relate. My idea of love doesn't include losing individuality, giving up the right to have personal space nor the blind devotion that makes one lose all perspective. In that sense, I think it's only natural that I can't identify with these stories, since even when I was a teenager, I wasn't prone to such violent outbursts of affection. I end up bored, let alone if I don't find the writing engaging or remotely enjoyable.
On the other hand, I couldn’t sympathize with almost any character – perhaps the servants who had to put up with their caprices. I mean, could the female protagonist be any more insufferable? Could the men be any more pathetic? Could this depiction of love be any more different from what I have in mind? Could you stop talking like Chandler?

A story in which an intelligent man (whose amount of wealth we don’t know) falls in love with an intelligent woman (whose degree of beauty is not mentioned) just doesn’t entice anyone, huh?
Yeah, I know, that was a stupid thing to write. It’s late, I think I had too much coffee and fell into a state of rapturous delirium.

Most of my friends on here loved this novella, but I'm done for now (I may relapse, who knows) with the juvenile and pointless phase of feeling bad because I didn't like so much what my friends loved - hello, personality. That being said, my curiosity went as far as using the filter to take a look at the number of people who didn't enjoyed this book so much.




I could have been among those 475 and their two "it was ok" stars. The last chapter made me open another door and join another group. However, I read the "2-star group" reviews. I was a little relieved. And then slightly frightened.

There’s an episode in which a poem written in 1825 by [a:Alexander Pushkin|16070|Alexander Pushkin|https://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1207346296p2/16070.jpg] is mentioned. I looked for it and wanted to share it.
The intensity of passion and oblivion in small doses.

Beneath the blue sky of her native land
She languished, faded…
Faded finally, and above me surely
The young shade already hovered;
But there is an unapproachable line between us.
In vain I tried to awaken emotion:
From indifferent lips I heard the news of death,
And received it with indifference.
So this is whom my fiery soul loved
With such painful intensity,
With such tender, agonizing heartache,
With such madness and such torment!
Where now the tortures, where the love? Alas!
For the poor, gullible shade,
For the sweet memory of irretrievable days
In my soul I find neither tears no reproaches.

Jan 24, 18
* Note: I read Constance Garnett and Richard Freeborn’s translations. I prefer the latter.
** Also on my blog.