The mythology of the hero's thinking in I.S. Turgenev's story "Kasyan with a Beautiful Sword" Voronezh asdf. Kasyan with beautiful swords read online, Turgenev Ivan Sergeevich
Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev
KASYAN WITH A BEAUTIFUL SWORD
I was returning from a hunt in a shaking cart and, depressed by the stuffy heat of a cloudy summer day (it is known that on such days the heat is sometimes even more unbearable than on clear ones, especially when there is no wind), I dozed and swayed, with gloomy patience, betraying myself to be eaten fine white dust, constantly rising from the broken road from under the cracked and rattling wheels - when suddenly my attention was aroused by the unusual restlessness and anxious movements of my coachman, who up to that moment had been dozing even more deeply than I. He tugged at the reins, fidgeted on the box and began to shout at the horses, now and then looking somewhere to the side. I looked around. We rode across a wide plowed plain; in extremely gentle, undulating rumbles, low, also plowed hills ran into it; the gaze embraced only some five versts of deserted space; away small birch groves their rounded jagged tops alone broke the almost straight line of the sky. Narrow paths stretched across the fields, disappeared into hollows, twisted along the hillocks, and on one of them, which, five hundred paces ahead of us, had to cross our road, I made out a train. My coachman was looking at him.
It was a funeral. Ahead, in a cart drawn by one horse, a priest rode at a pace; the deacon sat beside him and ruled; behind the cart four peasants, with their heads bare, carried a coffin covered with a white linen; two women followed the coffin. The thin, plaintive voice of one of them suddenly reached my ears; I listened: she was crying. This iridescent, monotonous, hopelessly mournful tune resounded dully among the empty fields. The coachman urged on the horses: he wished to warn this train. Meeting a dead person on the road is a bad omen. He actually managed to ride down the road before the dead man could reach it; but we had not yet gone even a hundred paces, when suddenly our cart was strongly pushed, it tipped over, almost collapsed. The coachman stopped the runaway horses, bent down from the box, looked, waved his hand and spat.
What is there? I asked.
My coachman tears silently and without haste.
Yes, what is it?
The axle is broken… burnt out,” he replied gloomily, and with such indignation he suddenly straightened the harness on the harness that it completely swayed to one side, but resisted, snorted, shook herself and calmly began scratching her front leg below the knee with her tooth.
I got down and stood for some time on the road, vaguely indulging in a feeling of unpleasant bewilderment. The right wheel almost completely tucked under the cart and seemed to be lifting its hub up with mute desperation.
So what's now? I finally asked.
Who's to blame! - said my coachman, pointing with a whip at the train, which had already turned onto the road and was approaching us, - I have always noticed this, - he continued, - this is a sure sign - to meet the dead ... Yes.
And he again disturbed the companion, who, seeing his dislike and severity, decided to remain motionless and only occasionally and modestly waved her tail. I walked a little back and forth and again stopped in front of the wheel.
Meanwhile, the dead man caught up with us. Quietly turning off the road onto the grass, a sad procession stretched past our cart. The coachman and I took off our hats, bowed to the priest, exchanged glances with the porters. They performed with difficulty; their broad breasts rose high. Of the two women walking behind the coffin, one was very old and pale; her motionless features, cruelly distorted by grief, kept an expression of strict, solemn importance. She walked in silence, occasionally raising her thin hand to her thin sunken lips. Another woman, a young woman of about twenty-five, had red and moist eyes, and her whole face was swollen with weeping; having caught up with us, she stopped screaming and covered herself with her sleeve ... But then the deceased passed us, climbed out onto the road again, and again her plaintive, soul-rending singing was heard. Silently following the rhythmically swaying coffin with his eyes, my coachman turned to me.
They are burying Martin the carpenter,” he began, “what about Ryaba.
Why do you know?
I learned from the grandmothers. The old one is his mother, and the young one is his wife.
He was sick, right?
Yes… fever… On the third day the manager sent for the doctor, but the doctor was not found at home… But the carpenter was a good one; zashibal manenko, and was a good carpenter. You see, the woman is killing him like that ... Well, but you know: women have tears that are not bought. Woman's tears are the same water ... Yes.
And he bent down, crawled under the reins of the harness and grabbed the bow with both hands.
However, I said, what are we to do?
My coachman first rested his knee on the shoulder of the root, shook it twice with an arc, straightened the saddle, then again crawled under the reins of the harness and, passing it in passing in the face, went up to the wheel - went up and, without taking his eyes off him, slowly pulled out from under the floor caftan tavlinka, slowly pulled out the lid by the strap, slowly put his two thick fingers into the tavlinka (and two barely fit in it), crushed and crushed the tobacco, twisted his nose in advance, sniffed with an arrangement, accompanying each reception with a long groan, and, painfully squinting and blinking his watery eyes, he plunged into deep thought.
Well? I finally spoke.
My coachman carefully put the tavlinka into his pocket, pulled his hat over his eyebrows, without the help of his hands, with one movement of his head, and thoughtfully climbed onto the box.
Where are you? I asked him, not without amazement.
If you please, sit down, - he answered calmly and picked up the reins.
Yes, how are we going?
Let's go, sir.
Yes axle...
Feel free to sit down.
Yes the shaft is broken...
She broke, she broke; well, we’ll get to the settlements ... at a step, that is. Here, behind the grove to the right, there are settlements, they are called Yudins.
And you think we'll get there?
My coachman did not deign to answer me.
I'd rather walk, I said.
Whatever, with…
And he waved his whip. The horses set off.
We really got to the settlements, although the right front wheel was barely holding on and was spinning in an unusually strange way. On one hillock it nearly fell off; but my coachman shouted at him in an angry voice, and we descended safely.
Yudin's settlements consisted of six low and small huts, which had already managed to twist on one side, although they were probably put up recently: not all of the yards were surrounded by wattle fences. Driving into these settlements, we did not meet a single living soul; not even chickens were visible on the street, not even dogs; only one, black, with a short tail, hurriedly jumped out of a completely dry trough in our presence, where thirst must have driven her, and immediately, without barking, rushed headlong under the gate. I went into the first hut, opened the door to the passage, called out to the hosts - no one answered me. I clicked again: a hungry meow came from behind another door. I pushed her with my foot: a thin cat darted past me, green eyes flashing in the darkness. I stuck my head into the room, looked: dark, smoky and empty. I went to the courtyard, and there was no one there ... In the fence, a calf lowed; a lame gray goose hobbled a little to one side. I moved into the second hut - and there was not a soul in the second hut. I'm in the yard...
In the very middle of the brightly lit yard, on the very, as they say, in the sun, lay, facing the ground and covering his head with a coat, as it seemed to me, a boy. A few paces from him, near a bad cart, stood, under a thatched awning, a thin horse in a tattered harness. Sunlight, falling in streams through the narrow openings of the dilapidated mantle, was full of small bright spots of her shaggy red-bay hair. Immediately, in a tall birdhouse, the starlings were chatting, looking down from their airy house with calm curiosity. I went up to the sleeping man, started to wake him up ...
He raised his head, saw me, and immediately jumped to his feet... “What, what do you need? what's happened?" he muttered sleepily.
I did not immediately answer him: I was so struck by his appearance. Imagine a dwarf in his fifties with a small, swarthy and wrinkled face, a pointed nose, brown, barely visible eyes, and curly, thick black hair that, like a hat on a mushroom, sat wide on his tiny head. His whole body was extremely frail and thin, and it is absolutely impossible to convey in words how unusual and strange his look was.
What do you need? he asked me again.
I explained to him what was the matter, he listened to me, not taking his eyes off me slowly blinking.
So can't we get a new axle? - I said at last, - I would gladly pay.
And who are you? Hunters, right? he asked, looking me up and down.
Hunters.
Are you shooting heavenly birds? .. forest animals? .. And it’s not a sin for you to kill God’s birds, shed innocent blood?
The strange old man spoke very slowly. The sound of his voice also amazed me. There was not only nothing decrepit in him, but he was surprisingly sweet, young and almost feminine tender.
The author returns in a cart from hunting. A funeral train crosses the path: a priest and men with bare heads carry the coffin. It is believed by the people that it is a bad omen to meet a dead person on the road. After some time, the driver stops, informs the author that their cart's axle has broken, and adds that he learned from the women accompanying the coffin who was being buried (Martyn the carpenter).
On a broken axis, the author and the driver somehow get to Yuda's settlements, consisting of six small low huts. No one is found in two huts, and finally, in the courtyard of the third house, the author stumbles upon a man sleeping in the sun. Waking him up, he discovers that he is "a dwarf of about fifty, small, with a small, swarthy and wrinkled face, a sharp nose, brown, barely noticeable eyes and curly thick black hair." The dwarf was extremely thin and frail. The author asks where you can get a new axle, the dwarf in response asks if they are hunters.
Having received an affirmative answer, the dwarf says: "You shoot the birds of heaven, I suppose? Yes, forest animals? And is it not a sin for you to kill God's birds, shed innocent blood?" The author is surprised, but, nevertheless, repeats his request. The old man refuses, says that there is no one, that there is no one to help, and he himself is tired, as he went to the city. The author offers to pay, the old man refuses to pay. Finally, the dwarf agrees to lead the travelers to clearings, where, according to him, a good oak axis can be found. The driver, seeing the dwarf, greets him, calling him Kasyan, and reports on the funeral procession he met on the way, reproaches Kasyan that he did not cure Martyn the carpenter (Kasyan the doctor). Kasyan accompanies the author and the driver to the felling, then asks the author where he is going, and, having learned that he is hunting, asks him to go with him.
On the way, the author watches Kasyan. Kasyan walks unusually nimbly and bounces on the move, it is no coincidence that his fellow villagers called him "a flea". Kasyan whistles with the birds, bends down, picks some herbs, puts them in his bosom, mutters something under his breath, from time to time looks at the author with a strange, inquisitive look. They walk for a long time, the game does not come across. Finally, the author notices some bird, shoots, hits.
Kasyan at this time closes his eyes with his hand and does not move, then he goes to the place where the bird fell, shakes his head and mutters that this is a sin. A description of a beautiful day, spiritualized Russian nature follows. Suddenly, Kasyan asks why the "master" killed the bird. When the author replies that the corncrake is game and can be eaten, Kasyan objects that the author killed him not at all because he was hungry, but for his own amusement. He says that a “free bird” is “not supposed to be food for a person”, that other food and drink are released to him “bread, heavenly waters and a hand-made creature from the ancient fathers (chickens, ducks, etc.)”. When the author asks if, according to Kasyan, it is not a sin to kill a fish, he replies that "a fish is a mute creature, its blood is cold," that it "does not feel," and blood is "a holy thing."
The author asks how Kasyan lives, what he does. He replies that he lives "as the Lord commands," and until spring he catches nightingales, but does not kill them, because "death will take its toll." He recalls Martyn the carpenter, who "did not live long and died, and his wife is now being killed about her husband, about small children." Captured nightingales Kasyan gives " kind people"The author is perplexed and asks what else Kasyan is doing. He replies that he is not busy with anything else, since he is a bad worker. However, he is literate. He has no family.
Then the author asks if Kasyan really heals. Having received an affirmative answer, the author wonders why then Kasyan did not cure Martyn the carpenter. Kasyan says that he found out about the disease late, and besides, everyone still dies when it is written to someone. Further, Kasyan tells that he himself comes from Krasivaya Mechi, a village about a hundred miles from here, that they were resettled here four years ago. Kasyan recalls the beauty of his native places, says that he is not averse to visiting his homeland. It turns out that Kasyan "went" a lot to Simbirsk, and to Moscow, and to the Oka-nurse, and to the Volga-mother, "saw a lot of people" and "visited honest cities." Despite this, he did not go to his native places, and now he regrets it. Kasyan begins to sing a song, which he composes right there, on the go. This surprises the author.
Suddenly, the author and Kasyan meet a girl of eight years old, whom Kasyan greets and towards whom the author notices an incomprehensible tenderness in his companion. The author asks if this is his daughter, but Kasyan avoids answering, calling the girl a "relative". The author cannot extract anything more from Kasyan. After returning to the settlements. Kasyan suddenly admits that it was he who "took away" all the game to the master.
The author is skeptical about such a statement. Annushka (whom the author and Kasyan met in the forest) is not in the hut, but there is a box with mushrooms that she collected. Kasyan suddenly becomes silent and unfriendly, food and drink for the horses of the guests turn out to be bad. Having repaired the axle, the author and the driver leave with displeasure. Dear author, he tries to ask the driver what kind of person Kasyan is. He replies that he is a "wonderful person", complains that he does not work, but "dangles like an endless sheep." The coachman scolds Kasyan, saying that he is an "incongruous and useless" person, although he admits that he sings well. When asked about how Kasyan treats, the driver replies that he treats badly, that all this is nonsense, although he mentions that Kasyan himself cured him of scrofula. When asked who the girl living in Kasyan’s house is, the driver replies that she is an orphan, that no one knows her mother, that perhaps Kasyan is her father, she looks like him, but no one knows anything about this until the end. In the end, the driver assumes that Kasyan will still think of something good to teach Annushka to read and write, since he is such a "fickle, disproportionate" person.
Bibliography
For the preparation of this work, materials from the site http://ilib.ru/
... . "Nihilist" is shown strong and noble man and at the same time an ideological loser and bankrupt; and ideological bankruptcy is an expression of social bankruptcy. With the image of Bazarov, Turgenev asserted the social failure of the advanced democratic movement, and with the nickname "nihilist" he armed the reactionary circles in the fight against this movement. At the decisive moment of the approaching...
An unusual, lively and powerful Russian language, not a representative of Westernism in the well-known polemic with the Slavophiles. No. This is Turgenev - a mystic, Turgenev - an esotericist, Turgenev of "gloomy abysses" dark side human spirit. It analyzes mainly his later stories about " strange love”, and we are not talking about the intimate features and oddities of the man Ivan Turgenev, but about ...
And observes their life. Much surprises him, he is pleasantly surprised. Although many literary critics believe that the people in the "Notes of a Hunter" are embellished, "this imaginary embellishment" of the image of the peasants is deciphered as a feature of Turgenev's creative realistic method, associated with his desire to artistically exaggerate the main and fundamental in the spiritual image of the people, enlarged to reveal it ...
I was returning from hunting", "We went on a draft", etc. And only one essay ("Forest and Steppe") is entirely devoted to hunting. The conventionality of the title of the book, which by no means covers all the diversity and depth of its content, becomes even obvious when you compare Turgenev's "Notes of a Hunter" with the book of his older contemporary - S.T. Aksakov. By coincidence, both of them
On a stuffy summer day, I was returning from hunting in a shaking cart. Suddenly my coachman became worried. Looking ahead, I saw that a funeral wagon was crossing our path. It was a bad omen, and the coachman began to urge the horses on in order to have time to pass in front of the convoy. We hadn't even gone a hundred paces when our cart's axle broke. Meanwhile, the dead man caught up with us. The coachman Yerofey said that they were burying Martin the carpenter.
Step by step, we got to Yudin's settlements to buy a new axle there. There was not a soul in the settlements. Finally I saw a man sleeping in the middle of the yard in the very sun, and I woke him up. I was struck by his appearance. He was a dwarf of about 50 with a swarthy, wrinkled face, small brown eyes, and a cap of thick, curly, black hair. His body was frail, and his eyes were unusually strange. His voice was surprisingly young and tender in a feminine way. The coachman called him Kasyan
After much persuasion, the old man agreed to take me to the cuts. Erofey harnessed Kasyanov's horse, and we set off. In the office, I quickly bought an axle and went deep into the cuts, hoping to hunt black grouse. Kasyan followed me. It was not for nothing that he was nicknamed the Flea: he walked very nimbly, plucked some herbs and looked at me with a strange look.
Not having come across a single brood, we entered the grove. I lay down on the grass. Suddenly Kasyan spoke to me. He said that the domestic creature was determined by God for man, and it is a sin to kill a forest creature. The old man's speech did not sound like a man, it was a solemn and strange language. I asked Kasyan what he did for a living. He replied that he did not work well, but that he was catching nightingales for human pleasure. He was a literate man, he had no family. Sometimes Kasyan treated people with herbs, and in the district he was considered a holy fool. They moved them from Krasivaya Mechi about 4 years ago, and Kasyan missed his native places. Taking advantage of his special position, Kasyan went around half of Russia.
Suddenly Kasyan shuddered, peering intently into the thicket of the forest. I looked around and saw a peasant girl in a blue sarafan and with a wicker box on her arm. The old man affectionately called her, calling her Alyonushka. When she came closer, I saw that she was older than I thought, about 13 or 14 years old. She was small and thin, slender and agile. The pretty girl was strikingly similar to Kasyan: the same sharp features, movements and sly look. I asked if it was his daughter. With feigned carelessness, Kasyan replied that she was his relative, while passionate love and tenderness were visible in his whole appearance.
The hunt failed, and we returned to the settlements, where Yerofey was waiting for me with the axis. Approaching the courtyard, Kasyan said that it was he who took the game away from me. I have not been able to convince him of the impossibility of this. An hour later I left, leaving Kasyan some money. On the way, I asked Yerofey what kind of person Kasyan was. The coachman said that at first Kasyan and his uncles went to the cart, and then he left it and began to live at home. Yerofey denied that Kasyan knew how to heal, although he himself was cured of scrofula. Alyonushka was an orphan, she lived with Kasyan. He doted on her soul and was going to teach literacy.
We stopped several times to wet the axle, which was getting hot from friction. It was already quite late when we returned home.
"is very similar to the character of another story from the same collection - Kalinych. And Kasyan, like Kalinich, is completely alien practical life. He also lives apart, as if afraid of people - afraid of that "struggle for existence" to which Khor is so accustomed. Kasyan does not fight - he humbly submits to everything that falls to his lot. He does not even work, admits his complete inability to live.
“I don’t do anything,” says Kasyan, “I’m painfully unreasonable, since childhood ... – I’m a bad worker! where to me. There is no health and the hands are stupid!
I. S. Turgenev. Kasian with Beautiful Swords. audiobook
From the point of view of practical people, he is either a parasite, or, in best case, "God's man", "holy fool". Kalinych is even closer to nature: Kalinych admires her as an "esthete", - Kasyan idolizes nature, appreciating not only her beauty in it - like a pagan pantheist, he bows to everyone manifestation of the life of nature: knows the healing power of plants, knows conspiracies, knows how to “talk” with birds; the singing of the nightingale excites his heart with “sweet pity”... Living only in the world of sublime, mystical contemplation, he loves to wander through forests and meadows, loves to remain alone, face to face, in front of the great “mother nature” - to merge with her into one common life...
“How will you go, how will you go…” he says. - And the sun shines on you, and God knows you better, and you sing better. Here you look - what kind of grass grows; Well, if you notice, you’ll pluck... Water runs here, for example, spring, a spring of holy water, - well, if you get drunk, you’ll notice too ... , here is the pleasure of man, here is the expanse, here is the grace of God!
This outlook is characteristic in him - with some purely sectarian passion he preaches "love and peace" in life - he idolizes all living things, and is indignant at the hunter who kills a bird "for fun": "it is a great sin to show blood to the world, great sin and fear... Oh, great!” - says this meek, mild-mannered, foolish man, endowed with a great gift to know and love the life of nature, to Turgenev.
And then he tells Turgenev about those distant lands, “where warm seas the sweet-voiced Gamayun bird lives, where “apples grow golden, on silver branches, where every person lives in contentment and justice.” These words open to us a whole world of those mystical dreams that Russian people lived in. ancient Rus', - they dreamed of an "earthly paradise" - the kingdom of justice; they believed in the existence somewhere in the east of the kingdom of Prester John; they read "Alexandria" and believed that there was a country of light, goodness and happiness on earth. IN folk tales this belief found expression in the humorous definition of this happy country with the words: "rivers of milk, shores of jelly." Wandering across the face of the earth in search of “truth” is also a purely Russian phenomenon, witnessed by history, supported by fiction (cf., for example, Pechersky: “In the forests”).
Consequently, in the face of Kasyan, Turgenev portrayed a purely Russian image.
The author returns in a cart from hunting. A funeral train crosses the path: a priest and men with bare heads carry the coffin. It is believed by the people that it is a bad omen to meet a dead person on the road. After some time, the driver stops, informs the author that their cart's axle has broken, and adds that he learned from the women accompanying the coffin who was being buried (Martyn the carpenter).
On a broken axis, the author and the driver somehow get to Yuda's settlements, consisting of six small low huts. No one is found in two huts, and finally, in the courtyard of the third house, the author stumbles upon a man sleeping in the sun. Waking him up, he discovers that he is "a dwarf of about fifty, small, with a small, swarthy and wrinkled face, a sharp nose, brown, barely noticeable eyes and curly thick black hair." The dwarf was extremely thin and frail. The author asks where you can get a new axle, the dwarf in response asks if they are hunters.
Having received an affirmative answer, the dwarf says: "You shoot the birds of heaven, I suppose? Yes, forest animals? And is it not a sin for you to kill God's birds, shed innocent blood?" The author is surprised, but, nevertheless, repeats his request. The old man refuses, says that there is no one, that there is no one to help, and he himself is tired, as he went to the city. The author offers to pay, the old man refuses to pay. Finally, the dwarf agrees to lead the travelers to clearings, where, according to him, a good oak axis can be found. The driver, seeing the dwarf, greets him, calling him Kasyan, and reports on the funeral procession he met on the way, reproaches Kasyan that he did not cure Martyn the carpenter (Kasyan the doctor). Kasyan accompanies the author and the driver to the felling, then asks the author where he is going, and, having learned that he is hunting, asks him to go with him.
On the way, the author watches Kasyan. Kasyan walks unusually nimbly and bounces on the move, it is no coincidence that his fellow villagers called him "a flea". Kasyan whistles with the birds, bends down, picks some herbs, puts them in his bosom, mutters something under his breath, from time to time looks at the author with a strange, inquisitive look. They walk for a long time, the game does not come across. Finally, the author notices some bird, shoots, hits.
Kasyan at this time closes his eyes with his hand and does not move, then he goes to the place where the bird fell, shakes his head and mutters that this is a sin. A description of a beautiful day, spiritualized Russian nature follows. Suddenly, Kasyan asks why the "master" killed the bird. When the author replies that the corncrake is game and can be eaten, Kasyan objects that the author killed him not at all because he was hungry, but for his own amusement. He says that a “free bird” is “not supposed to be food for a person”, that other food and drink are released to him “bread, heavenly waters and a hand-made creature from the ancient fathers (chickens, ducks, etc.)”. When the author asks if, according to Kasyan, it is not a sin to kill a fish, he replies that "a fish is a mute creature, its blood is cold," that it "does not feel," and blood is "a holy thing."
The author asks how Kasyan lives, what he does. He replies that he lives "as the Lord commands," and until spring he catches nightingales, but does not kill them, because "death will take its toll." He recalls Martyn the carpenter, who "did not live long and died, and his wife is now being killed about her husband, about small children." Captured nightingales Kasyan gives "kind people". The author is perplexed and asks what else Kasyan is doing. He replies that he is not busy with anything else, since he is a bad worker. However, he is smart. He has no family.
Then the author asks if Kasyan really heals. Having received an affirmative answer, the author wonders why then Kasyan did not cure Martyn the carpenter. Kasyan says that he found out about the disease late, and besides, everyone still dies when it is written to someone. Further, Kasyan tells that he himself comes from Krasivaya Mechi, a village about a hundred miles from here, that they were resettled here four years ago. Kasyan recalls the beauty of his native places, says that he is not averse to visiting his homeland. It turns out that Kasyan "went" a lot to Simbirsk, and to Moscow, and to the Oka-nurse, and to the Volga-mother, "saw a lot of people" and "visited honest cities." Despite this, he did not go to his native places, and now he regrets it. Kasyan begins to sing a song, which he composes right there, on the go. This surprises the author.
Suddenly, the author and Kasyan meet a girl of eight years old, whom Kasyan greets and towards whom the author notices an incomprehensible tenderness in his companion. The author asks if this is his daughter, but Kasyan avoids answering, calling the girl a "relative". The author cannot extract anything more from Kasyan. After returning to the settlements. Kasyan suddenly admits that it was he who "took away" all the game to the master.
The author is skeptical about such a statement. Annushka (whom the author and Kasyan met in the forest) is not in the hut, but there is a box with mushrooms that she collected. Kasyan suddenly becomes silent and unfriendly, food and drink for the horses of the guests turn out to be bad. Having repaired the axle, the author and the driver leave with displeasure. Dear author, he tries to ask the driver what kind of person Kasyan is. He replies that he is a "wonderful person", complains that he does not work, but "dangles like an endless sheep." The coachman scolds Kasyan, saying that he is an "incongruous and useless" person, although he admits that he sings well. When asked about how Kasyan treats, the driver replies that he treats badly, that all this is nonsense, although he mentions that Kasyan himself cured him of scrofula. When asked who the girl living in Kasyan’s house is, the driver replies that she is an orphan, that no one knows her mother, that perhaps Kasyan is her father, she looks like him, but no one knows anything about this until the end. In the end, the driver assumes that Kasyan will still think of something good to teach Annushka to read and write, since he is such a "fickle, disproportionate" person.
Bibliography
For the preparation of this work, materials from the site http://ilib.ru/
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