Summary of the story "Golden Rose" by chapters. Konstantin Paustovsky golden rose

The language and profession of a writer - K.G. writes about this. Paustovsky. " golden rose"(summary) is exactly what this is about. Today we will talk about this exceptional book and its benefits for both the average reader and the aspiring writer.

Writing as a vocation

"Golden Rose" is a special book in Paustovsky's work. It was published in 1955, at that time Konstantin Georgievich was 63 years old. This book can only be called a “textbook for aspiring writers” only remotely: the author lifts the curtain on his own creative kitchen, talks about himself, the sources of creativity and the role of the writer for the world. Each of the 24 sections carries a piece of wisdom from a seasoned writer who reflects on creativity based on his many years of experience.

Unlike modern textbooks, “The Golden Rose” (Paustovsky), a brief summary of which we will consider further, has its own distinctive features: Here more biography and reflections on the nature of writing, and there are no exercises at all. Unlike many modern authors Konstantin Georgievich does not support the idea of writing everything down, and for him writing is not a craft, but a vocation (from the word “call”). For Paustovsky, a writer is the voice of his generation, the one who must cultivate the best that is in a person.

Konstantin Paustovsky. "Golden Rose": summary of the first chapter

The book begins with the legend of the golden rose (“Precious Dust”). It talks about the scavenger Jean Chamet, who wanted to give a rose made of gold to his friend, Suzanne, the daughter of a regimental commander. He accompanied her on her way home from the war. The girl grew up, fell in love and got married, but was unhappy. And according to legend, a golden rose always brings happiness to its owner.

Shamet was a garbage man, he did not have money for such a purchase. But he worked in a jewelry workshop and came up with the idea of sifting the dust that he swept out of there. Many years passed before there were enough grains of gold to make a small golden rose. But when Jean Chamet went to Suzanne to give her a gift, he found out that she had moved to America...

Literature is like this golden rose, says Paustovsky. "The Golden Rose", a summary of the chapters of which we are considering, is completely imbued with this statement. The writer, according to the author, must sift through a lot of dust, find grains of gold and cast a golden rose that will make the life of an individual and the whole world better. Konstantin Georgievich believed that a writer should be the voice of his generation.

A writer writes because he hears a call within himself. He can't help but write. For Paustovsky, writing is the most beautiful and most difficult profession in the world. The chapter “The Inscription on the Boulder” talks about this.

The birth of the idea and its development

“Lightning” is chapter 5 from the book “Golden Rose” (Paustovsky), the summary of which is that the birth of a plan is like lightning. The electric charge builds up for a very long time in order to later strike with full force. Everything that a writer sees, hears, reads, thinks, experiences, accumulates in order to one day become the idea of a story or book.

In the next five chapters, the author talks about naughty characters, as well as the origins of the idea for the stories “Planet Marz” and “Kara-Bugaz”. In order to write, you need to have something to write about - main idea these chapters. Personal experience very important for a writer. Not the one that is created artificially, but the one that a person receives while living active life, working and communicating with different people.

"Golden Rose" (Paustovsky): summary of chapters 11-16

Konstantin Georgievich reverently loved the Russian language, nature and people. They delighted and inspired him, forced him to write. The writer attaches enormous importance to knowledge of language. Everyone who writes, according to Paustovsky, has his own writer's dictionary, where he writes down all the new words that impress him. He gives an example from his life: the words “wilderness” and “swei” were very unknown to him for a long time. He heard the first from the forester, the second he found in Yesenin’s verse. Its meaning remained unclear for a long time, until a philologist friend explained that svei are those “waves” that the wind leaves on the sand.

You need to develop a sense of words in order to be able to convey its meaning and your thoughts correctly. In addition, it is very important to use punctuation marks correctly. A cautionary tale from real life can be read in the chapter "Incidents in Alschwang's store."

On the Uses of Imagination (Chapters 20-21)

Although the writer seeks inspiration in the real world, imagination plays a role in creativity big role, says The Golden Rose, a summary of which would be incomplete without this, is filled with references to writers whose opinions about the imagination differ greatly. For example, a verbal duel with Guy de Maupassant is mentioned. Zola insisted that a writer does not need imagination, to which Maupassant responded with a question: “How then do you write your novels, having only one newspaper clipping and not leaving the house for weeks?”

Many chapters, including "Night Stagecoach" (chapter 21), are written in short story form. This is a story about the storyteller Andersen and the importance of maintaining a balance between real life and imagination. Paustovsky tries to convey to the aspiring writer very important thing: In no case should you give up a real, full life for the sake of imagination and a fictional life.

The art of seeing the world

You can't feed your creative juices only with literature - main idea last chapters of the book "Golden Rose" (Paustovsky). Summary boils down to the fact that the author does not trust writers who do not like other types of art - painting, poetry, architecture, classical music. Konstantin Georgievich expressed an interesting idea on the pages: prose is also poetry, only without rhyme. Every Writer with capital letters reads a lot of poetry.

Paustovsky advises training your eye, learning to look at the world through the eyes of an artist. He tells his story of communicating with artists, their advice and how he himself developed his aesthetic sense by observing nature and architecture. The writer himself once listened to him and reached such heights of mastery of words that he even knelt before him (photo above).

Results

In this article we have discussed the main points of the book, but this is not full content. “The Golden Rose” (Paustovsky) is a book that is worth reading for anyone who loves the work of this writer and wants to know more about him. It will also be useful for beginning (and not so beginning) writers to find inspiration and understand that a writer is not a prisoner of his talent. Moreover, a writer is obliged to live an active life.

“Golden Rose” is a book of essays and stories by K. G. Paustovsky. First published in the magazine “October” (1955, No. 10). Separate edition published in 1955

The idea of the book was born in the 30s, but it took full shape only when Paustovsky began to put on paper the experience of his work in the prose seminar at the Literary Institute. Gorky. Paustovsky initially intended to call the book “The Iron Rose”, but later abandoned the intention - the story of the lyre player Ostap, who chained the iron rose, was included as an episode in “The Tale of Life”, and the writer did not want to exploit the plot again. Paustovsky was going to, but did not have time to write a second book of notes on creativity. In the last lifetime edition of the first book (Collected Works. T.Z.M., 1967-1969), two chapters were expanded, several new chapters appeared, mainly about writers. “Notes on a Cigarette Box,” written for the 100th anniversary of Chekhov, became the chapter of “Chekhov.” The essay “Meetings with Olesha” turned into the chapter “Little Rose in the Buttonhole.” The same publication includes the essays “Alexander Blok” and “Ivan Bunin”.

“The Golden Rose,” in Paustovsky’s own words, “is a book about how books are written.” Its leitmotif is most fully embodied in the story that begins “The Golden Rose.” The story of the “precious dust” that Parisian scavenger Jean Chamet collected in order to order a gold rose from a jeweler is a metaphor for creativity. The genre of Paustovsky’s book seems to reflect its main topic: it consists of short “grains” of stories about writing duty (“Inscription on a Boulder”), about the connection between creativity and life experience (“Flowers from Shavings”), about design and inspiration (“Lightning”), about the relationship between plan and logic material (“Revolt of Heroes”), about the Russian language (“Diamond Language”) and punctuation (“The Incident in Alschwang’s Store”), about the artist’s working conditions (“As if it were nothing”) and artistic detail(“The Old Man in the Station Buffet”), about imagination (“The Life-Giving Principle”) and about the priority of life over creative imagination("Night Stagecoach").

Conventionally, the book can be divided into two parts. If in the first the author introduces the reader into the “secret of the secret” - into his creative laboratory, then the other half consisted of sketches about writers: Chekhov, Bunin, Blok, Maupassant, Hugo, Olesha, Prishvin, Green. The stories are characterized by subtle lyricism; As a rule, this is a story about what has been experienced, about the experience of communication - face-to-face or correspondence - with one or another of the masters of artistic expression.

The genre composition of Paustovsky’s “Golden Rose” is in many ways unique: in a single compositionally complete cycle, fragments with different characteristics are combined - confession, memoirs, creative portrait, essay on creativity, poetic miniature about nature, linguistic research, history of the idea and its implementation in the book, autobiography, everyday sketch. Despite the genre heterogeneity, the material is “cemented” by the end-to-end image of the author, who dictates his own rhythm and tonality to the narrative, and conducts reasoning in accordance with the logic of a single theme.

Paustovsky’s “Golden Rose” evoked many responses in the press. Critics noted the high skill of the writer, the originality of the very attempt to interpret the problems of art through the means of art itself. But it also caused a lot of criticism, reflecting the spirit of the transitional time that preceded the “thaw” of the late 50s: the writer was reproached for “limitedness” author's position"", "excess of beautiful details", "insufficient attention to ideological basis art."

In the book of Paustovsky’s stories, created in the final period of his work, the early works artist's interest in the field creative activity, to the spiritual essence of art.

Konstantin Paustovsky
golden rose

Literature has been removed from the laws of decay. She alone does not recognize death.
Saltykov-Shchedrin

You should always strive for beauty.
Honore Balzac

Much in this work is expressed abruptly and, perhaps, not clearly enough.
Much will be considered controversial.
This book is not theoretical research, much less the leadership. These are simply notes on my understanding of writing and my experiences.
Huge layers of ideological justification for our work as writers are not touched upon in the book, since we do not have major disagreements in this area. The heroic and educational significance of literature is clear to everyone.
In this book I have told so far only the little that I have managed to tell.
But if I, even in a small way, managed to convey to the reader an idea of the beautiful essence of writing, then I will consider that I have fulfilled my duty to literature.

PRECIOUS DUST

I can't remember how I came across this story about the Parisian garbage man Jean Chamet. Shamet made a living by cleaning up craft workshops in his neighborhood.

Chamet lived in a shack on the outskirts of the city. Of course, it would be possible to describe this outskirts in detail and thereby take the reader away from the main thread of the story. But perhaps it’s only worth mentioning that the old ramparts of the fortress have still been preserved on the outskirts of Paris. At that time, When this story took place, the ramparts were still covered with thickets of honeysuckle and hawthorn, and birds nested in them.

The scavenger's shack was nestled at the foot of the northern ramparts, next to the houses of tinsmiths, shoemakers, cigarette butt collectors and beggars.

If Maupassant had become interested in the life of the inhabitants of these shacks, he would probably have written several more excellent stories. Perhaps they would have added new laurels to his established fame.

Unfortunately, no outsiders looked into these places except the detectives. And even those appeared only in cases where they were looking for stolen things.

Judging by the fact that the neighbors nicknamed Shamet “woodpecker,” one must think that he was thin, had a sharp nose, and from under his hat he always had a tuft of hair sticking out, like the crest of a bird.

Once upon a time Jean Chamet knew better days. He served as a soldier in the army of "Little Napoleon" during the Mexican War.

Shamet was lucky. At Vera Cruz he fell ill with a severe fever. The sick soldier, who had not yet been in a single real firefight, was sent back to his homeland. The regimental commander took advantage of this and instructed Shamet to take his daughter Suzanne, an eight-year-old girl, to France.

The commander was a widower and therefore was forced to take the girl with him everywhere. But this time he decided to part with his daughter and send her to her sister in Rouen. Mexico's climate was deadly for European children. Moreover, the chaotic guerrilla warfare created many sudden dangers.

During Shamet's return to France over Atlantic Ocean the heat was smoking. The girl was silent the whole time. She even looked at the fish flying out of the oily water without smiling.

Shamet took care of Suzanne as best he could. He understood, of course, that she expected from him not only care, but also affection. And what could he come up with that was affectionate, a soldier of a colonial regiment? What could he do to keep her busy? A game of dice? Or rough barracks songs?

But it was still impossible to remain silent for long. Shamet increasingly caught the girl’s perplexed gaze. Then he finally made up his mind and began awkwardly telling her his life, remembering in the smallest detail a fishing village on the English Channel, shifting sands, puddles after low tide, a village chapel with a cracked bell, his mother, who treated neighbors for heartburn.

In these memories, Shamet could not find anything funny to amuse Suzanne. But the girl, to his surprise, listened to these stories with greed and even forced him to repeat them, demanding new details.

Shamet strained his memory and extracted these details from it, until in the end he lost confidence that they really existed. These were no longer memories, but their faint shadows. They melted away like wisps of fog. Shamet, however, never imagined that he would need to recapture this unnecessary time in his life.

One day a vague memory of a golden rose arose. Either Shamet saw this rough rose forged from blackened gold, suspended from a crucifix in the house of an old fisherman, or he heard stories about this rose from those around him.

No, perhaps he even saw this rose once and remembered how it glittered, although there was no sun outside the windows and a gloomy storm was rustling over the strait. The further, the more clearly Shamet remembered this brilliance - several bright lights under the low ceiling.

Everyone in the village was surprised that the old woman was not selling her jewel. She could fetch a lot of money for it. Only Shamet’s mother insisted that selling a golden rose was a sin, because it was given to the old woman “for good luck” by her lover when the old woman, then still a funny girl, worked at a sardine factory in Odierne.

“There are few such golden roses in the world,” said Shamet’s mother. “But everyone who has them in their house will definitely be happy.” And not only them, but also everyone who touches this rose.

The boy Shamet was looking forward to making the old woman happy. But there were no signs of happiness. The old woman's house shook from the wind, and in the evenings there was no fire lit in it.

So Shamet left the village, without waiting for a change in the old woman’s fate. Only a year later, a familiar fireman from the mail boat in Le Havre told him that the old woman’s son, an artist, bearded, cheerful and wonderful, unexpectedly came from Paris. From then on the shack was no longer recognizable. It was filled with noise and prosperity. Artists, they say, receive a lot of money for their daubs.

One day, when Chamet, sitting on the deck, was combing Suzanne’s wind-tangled hair with his iron comb, she asked:

- Jean, will someone give me a golden rose?

“Anything is possible,” replied Shamet. “There will be some eccentric for you too, Susie.” There was one skinny soldier in our company. He was damn lucky. He found a broken golden jaw on the battlefield. We drank it down with the whole company. This was during the Annamite War. Drunk artillerymen fired a mortar for fun, the shell hit the mouth of an extinct volcano, exploded there, and from the surprise the volcano began to puff and erupt. God knows what his name was, that volcano! Kraka-Taka, I think. The eruption was just right! Forty civilian natives died. Just think that so many people disappeared because of a worn jaw! Then it turned out that our colonel had lost this jaw. The matter, of course, was hushed up - the prestige of the army is above all. But we got really drunk then.

– Where did this happen? – Susie asked doubtfully.

- I told you - in Annam. In Indo-China. There, the ocean burns like hell, and jellyfish look like lace ballerina skirts. And it was so damp there that mushrooms grew in our boots overnight! Let them hang me if I'm lying!

Before this incident, Shamet had heard a lot of soldiers’ lies, but he himself never lied. Not because he couldn’t do it, but there was simply no need. Now he considered it a sacred duty to entertain Suzanne.

Chamet brought the girl to Rouen and handed over her tall woman with a pursed yellow mouth - to Suzanne's aunt. The old woman was covered in black glass beads, like a circus snake.

The girl, seeing her, clung tightly to Shamet, to his faded overcoat.

- Nothing! – Shamet said in a whisper and pushed Suzanne on the shoulder. “We, the rank and file, don’t choose our company commanders either. Be patient, Susie, soldier!

To my devoted friend Tatyana Alekseevna Paustovskaya

Literature has been removed from the laws of decay. She alone does not recognize death.

Saltykov-Shchedrin

You should always strive for beauty.

Honore Balzac

Much in this work is expressed fragmentarily and, perhaps, not clearly enough.

Much will be considered controversial.

This book is not a theoretical study, much less a guide. These are simply notes on my understanding of writing and my experiences.

Important issues of the ideological basis of our writing are not touched upon in the book, since in this area we do not have any significant disagreements. The heroic and educational significance of literature is clear to everyone.

In this book I have told so far only the little that I have managed to tell.

But if I, even in a small way, managed to convey to the reader an idea of the beautiful essence of writing, then I will consider that I have fulfilled my duty to literature.

Precious Dust

I can't remember how I came across this story about the Parisian garbage man Jeanne Chamet. Shamet made a living by cleaning the workshops of artisans in his neighborhood.

Shamet lived in a shack on the outskirts of the city. Of course, it would be possible to describe this outskirts in detail and thereby lead the reader away from the main thread of the story. But perhaps it’s only worth mentioning that the old ramparts are still preserved on the outskirts of Paris. At the time when this story took place, the ramparts were still covered with thickets of honeysuckle and hawthorn, and birds nested in them.

The scavenger's shack was nestled at the foot of the northern ramparts, next to the houses of tinsmiths, shoemakers, cigarette butt collectors and beggars.

Unfortunately, no outsiders looked into these places except the detectives. And even those appeared only in cases where they were looking for stolen things.

Judging by the fact that the neighbors nicknamed Shamet “Woodpecker,” one must think that he was thin, sharp-nosed, and from under his hat he always had a tuft of hair sticking out, like the crest of a bird.

Jean Chamet once saw better days. He served as a soldier in the army of "Little Napoleon" during the Mexican War.

During Chamet's return to France, the Atlantic Ocean was smoking hot. The girl was silent the whole time. She even looked at the fish flying out of the oily water without smiling.

In these memories, Shamet could not find anything to cheer up Suzanne. But the girl, to his surprise, listened to these stories with greed and even forced him to repeat them, demanding more and more details.

Everyone in the village was surprised that the old woman was not selling her jewel. She could fetch a lot of money for it. Only Shamet’s mother insisted that selling the golden rose was a sin, because it was given to the old woman “for good luck” by her lover when the old woman, then still a funny girl, worked at a sardine factory in Odierne.

The boy was looking forward to making the old woman happy. But there were no signs of happiness. The old woman's house shook from the wind, and in the evenings there was no fire lit in it.

So Shamet left the village, without waiting for a change in the old woman’s fate. Only a year later, a fireman he knew from a mail boat in Le Havre told him that the old woman’s son, an artist, bearded, cheerful and wonderful, had unexpectedly arrived from Paris. From then on the shack was no longer recognizable. It was filled with noise and prosperity. Artists, they say, receive a lot of money for their daubs.

One day, when Chamet, sitting on the deck, was combing Suzanne’s wind-tangled hair with his iron comb, she asked:

- Jean, will someone give me a golden rose?

“Anything is possible,” replied Shamet. “There will be some eccentric for you too, Susie.” There was one skinny soldier in our company. He was damn lucky. He found a broken golden jaw on the battlefield. We drank it down with the whole company. This is during the Annamite War. Drunk artillerymen fired a mortar for fun, the shell hit the mouth of an extinct volcano, exploded there, and from the surprise the volcano began to puff and erupt. God knows what his name was, that volcano! Kraka-Taka, I think. The eruption was just right! Forty civilian natives died. To think that so many people disappeared because of one jaw! Then it turned out that our colonel had lost this jaw. The matter, of course, was hushed up - the prestige of the army is above all. But we got really drunk then.

– Where did this happen? – Susie asked doubtfully.

- I told you - in Annam. In Indochina. There, the ocean burns like hell, and jellyfish look like lace ballerina skirts. And it was so damp there that mushrooms grew in our boots overnight! Let them hang me if I'm lying!

Chamet brought the girl to Rouen and handed her over to a tall woman with pursed yellow lips - Suzanne's aunt. The old woman was covered in black glass beads and sparkled like a circus snake.

The girl, seeing her, clung tightly to Shamet, to his faded overcoat.

- Nothing! – Shamet said in a whisper and pushed Suzanne on the shoulder. “We, the rank and file, don’t choose our company commanders either. Be patient, Susie, soldier!

Konstantin Georgievich Paustovsky is an outstanding Russian writer who glorified the Meshchera region in his works and touched upon the foundations of the folk Russian language. The sensational “Golden Rose” is an attempt to comprehend the secrets literary creativity based on my own writing experience and understanding of creativity great writers. The story is based on the artist's many years of reflection on complex problems psychology of creativity and writing.

To my devoted friend Tatyana Alekseevna Paustovskaya

Literature has been removed from the laws of decay. She alone does not recognize death.

Saltykov-Shchedrin

You should always strive for beauty.

Honore Balzac

Much in this work is expressed fragmentarily and, perhaps, not clearly enough.

Much will be considered controversial.

This book is not a theoretical study, much less a guide. These are simply notes on my understanding of writing and my experiences.

In this book I have told so far only the little that I have managed to tell.

But if I, even in a small way, managed to convey to the reader an idea of the beautiful essence of writing, then I will consider that I have fulfilled my duty to literature.

Precious Dust

I can't remember how I came across this story about the Parisian garbage man Jeanne Chamet. Shamet made a living by cleaning the workshops of artisans in his neighborhood.

The scavenger's shack was nestled at the foot of the northern ramparts, next to the houses of tinsmiths, shoemakers, cigarette butt collectors and beggars.

Unfortunately, no outsiders looked into these places except the detectives. And even those appeared only in cases where they were looking for stolen things.

Jean Chamet once saw better days. He served as a soldier in the army of "Little Napoleon" during the Mexican War.

During Chamet's return to France, the Atlantic Ocean was smoking hot. The girl was silent the whole time. She even looked at the fish flying out of the oily water without smiling.

The boy was looking forward to making the old woman happy. But there were no signs of happiness. The old woman's house shook from the wind, and in the evenings there was no fire lit in it.

One day, when Chamet, sitting on the deck, was combing Suzanne’s wind-tangled hair with his iron comb, she asked:

- Jean, will someone give me a golden rose?

“Anything is possible,” replied Shamet. “There will be some eccentric for you too, Susie.” There was one skinny soldier in our company. He was damn lucky. He found a broken golden jaw on the battlefield. We drank it down with the whole company. This is during the Annamite War. Drunk artillerymen fired a mortar for fun, the shell hit the mouth of an extinct volcano, exploded there, and from the surprise the volcano began to puff and erupt. God knows what his name was, that volcano! Kraka-Taka, I think. The eruption was just right! Forty civilian natives died. To think that so many people disappeared because of one jaw! Then it turned out that our colonel had lost this jaw. The matter, of course, was hushed up - the prestige of the army is above all. But we got really drunk then.

– Where did this happen? – Susie asked doubtfully.

Chamet brought the girl to Rouen and handed her over to a tall woman with pursed yellow lips - Suzanne's aunt. The old woman was covered in black glass beads and sparkled like a circus snake.

The girl, seeing her, clung tightly to Shamet, to his faded overcoat.

- Nothing! – Shamet said in a whisper and pushed Suzanne on the shoulder. “We, the rank and file, don’t choose our company commanders either. Be patient, Susie, soldier!

Shamet left. Several times he looked back at the windows of the boring house, where the wind did not even move the curtains. On the narrow streets the bustling knocking of clocks could be heard from the shops. In Shamet's soldier's backpack lay a memory of Susie - a crumpled blue ribbon from her braid. And the devil knows why, but this ribbon smelled so tenderly, as if it had been in a basket of violets for a long time.

Mexican fever undermined Shamet's health. He was discharged from the army without the rank of sergeant. He went to civil life a simple private.

Years passed in monotonous need. Chamet tried a variety of meager occupations and eventually became a Parisian scavenger. Since then, he has been haunted by the smell of dust and trash heaps. He could smell this smell even in the light wind that penetrated the streets from the Seine, and in the armfuls of wet flowers - they were sold by neat old women on the boulevards.

The days merged into a yellow haze. But sometimes a light pink cloud appeared in it before Shamet’s inner gaze - Suzanne’s old dress. This dress smelled of spring freshness, as if it, too, had been kept in a basket of violets for a long time.

Where is she, Suzanne? What's wrong with her? He knew that now she was already adult girl, and her father died from his wounds.

Chamet was still planning to go to Rouen to visit Suzanne. But each time he postponed this trip, until he finally realized that time had passed and Suzanne had probably forgotten about him.

He cursed himself like a pig when he remembered saying goodbye to her. Instead of kissing the girl, he pushed her in the back towards the old hag and said: “Be patient, Susie, soldier!”

Scavengers are known to work at night. They are forced to do this for two reasons: most of the garbage comes from boiling and not always useful human activity accumulates towards the end of the day, and besides, one must not offend the eyesight and sense of smell of Parisians. At night, almost no one except rats notices the work of the scavengers.

Shamet is used to night work and even fell in love with these hours of the day. Especially the time when dawn was breaking sluggishly over Paris. There was fog over the Seine, but it did not rise above the parapet of the bridges.

One day, at such a foggy dawn, Shamet walked along the Pont des Invalides and saw a young woman in a pale lilac dress with black lace. She stood at the parapet and looked at the Seine.

Shamet stopped, took off his dusty hat and said:

“Madam, the water in the Seine is very cold at this time.” Let me take you home instead.

“I don’t have a home now,” the woman quickly answered and turned to Shamet.

Shamet dropped his hat.

- Susie! - he said with despair and delight. - Susie, soldier! My girl! Finally I saw you. You must have forgotten me. I am Jean-Ernest Chamet, that private of the twenty-seventh colonial regiment who brought you to that vile woman in Rouen. What a beauty you have become! And how well your hair is combed! And I, a soldier’s plug, didn’t know how to clean them up at all!

- Jean! – the woman screamed, rushed to Shamet, hugged his neck and began to cry. - Jean, you are as kind as you were then. I remember everything!

- Uh, nonsense! Shamet muttered. - What benefit does anyone have from my kindness? What happened to you, my little one?

Chamet pulled Suzanne towards him and did what he had not dared to do in Rouen - he stroked and kissed her shiny hair. He immediately pulled away, afraid that Suzanne would hear the mouse stink from his jacket. But Suzanne pressed herself even tighter against his shoulder.

- What's wrong with you, girl? – Shamet repeated confusedly.

Suzanne didn't answer. She was unable to hold back her sobs. Shamet realized that there was no need to ask her about anything just yet.

“I,” he said hastily, “have a lair at the shaft of the cross.” It's a long way from here. The house, of course, is empty – even if it’s a ball rolling. But you can warm the water and fall asleep in bed. There you can wash and relax. And in general, live as long as you want.

Suzanne stayed with Shamet for five days. For five days an extraordinary sun rose over Paris. All the buildings, even the oldest ones, covered with soot, all the gardens and even Shamet’s lair sparkled in the rays of this sun like jewelry.

Anyone who has not experienced excitement from the barely audible breathing of a young woman will not understand what tenderness is. Her lips were brighter than wet petals, and her eyelashes shone from her night tears.

Yes, with Suzanne everything happened exactly as Shamet expected. Her lover, a young actor, cheated on her. But the five days that Suzanne lived with Shamet were quite enough for their reconciliation.

Shamet participated in it. He had to take Suzanne's letter to the actor and teach this languid handsome man politeness when he wanted to tip Shamet a few sous.

Soon the actor arrived in a cab to pick up Suzanne. And everything was as it should be: a bouquet, kisses, laughter through tears, repentance and a slightly cracked carelessness.

When the newlyweds were leaving, Suzanne was in such a hurry that she jumped into the cab, forgetting to say goodbye to Shamet. She immediately caught herself, blushed and guiltily extended her hand to him.

“Since you have chosen a life to suit your taste,” Shamet finally grumbled to her, “then be happy.”

“I don’t know anything yet,” Suzanne answered, and tears sparkled in her eyes.

“You needn’t worry, my baby,” the young actor drawled displeasedly and repeated: “My lovely baby.”

- If only someone would give me a golden rose! – Suzanne sighed. “That would certainly be fortunate.” I remember your story on the ship, Jean.

– Who knows! – answered Shamet. - In any case, it is not this gentleman who will present you with a golden rose. Sorry, I'm a soldier. I don't like shufflers.

The young people looked at each other. The actor shrugged. The cab started moving.

Shamet usually threw out all the trash that had been swept out of the craft establishments during the day. But after this incident with Suzanne, he stopped throwing dust out of jewelry workshops. He began to secretly collect it in a bag and take it to his shack. The neighbors decided that the garbage man had gone crazy. Few people knew that this dust contained a certain amount of gold powder, since jewelers always grind off a little gold when working.

Shamet decided to sift gold from jewelry dust, make a small ingot from it, and forge a small golden rose from this ingot for Suzanne’s happiness. Or maybe, as his mother once told him, it will also serve for the happiness of many ordinary people. Who knows! He decided not to meet with Suzanne until this rose was ready.

Shamet did not tell anyone about his idea. He was afraid of the authorities and the police. You never know what will come to the minds of judicial quibblers. They can declare him a thief, put him in prison and take his gold. After all, it was still alien.

Before joining the army, Shamet worked as a farm laborer for a rural priest and therefore knew how to handle grain. This knowledge was useful to him now. He remembered how the bread was winnowed and heavy grains fell to the ground, and light dust was carried away by the wind.

Shamet built a small winnowing fan and fanned jewelry dust in the yard at night. He was worried until he saw a barely noticeable golden powder on the tray.

It took a long time until enough gold powder had accumulated that it was possible to make an ingot out of it. But Shamet hesitated to give it to the jeweler to forge a golden rose from it.

The lack of money did not stop him - any jeweler would have agreed to take a third of the bullion for the work and would have been pleased with it.

That wasn't the point. Every day the hour of meeting with Suzanne approached. But for some time Shamet began to fear this hour.

He wanted to give all the tenderness that had long been driven into the depths of his heart only to her, only to Susie. But who needs the tenderness of an old freak! Shamet noted long ago that only desire people who met him were quick to leave and forget his skinny, gray face with sagging skin and piercing eyes.

He had a fragment of a mirror in his shack. From time to time Shamet looked at him, but immediately threw him away with a heavy curse. It was better not to see myself - this clumsy image, hobbling on rheumatic legs.

When the rose was finally ready, Chamet learned that Suzanne had left Paris for America a year ago - and, as they said, forever. No one could tell Shamet her address.

In the first minute, Shamet even felt relieved. But then all his anticipation of a gentle and easy meeting with Suzanne inexplicably turned into a rusty iron fragment. This prickly fragment stuck in Shamet’s chest, near his heart, and Shamet prayed to God that it would quickly pierce this old heart and stop it forever.

Shamet stopped cleaning the workshops. For several days he lay in his shack, turning his face to the wall. He was silent and smiled only once, pressing the sleeve of his old jacket to his eyes. But no one saw this. The neighbors didn’t even come to Shamet – everyone had their own worries.

Only one person was watching Shamet - that elderly jeweler who forged the thinnest rose from an ingot and next to it, on a young branch, a small sharp bud.

The jeweler visited Shamet, but did not bring him medicine. He thought it was useless.

And indeed, Shamet died unnoticed during one of his visits to the jeweler. The jeweler raised the scavenger's head, took out a golden rose wrapped in a blue crumpled ribbon from under the gray pillow, and slowly left, closing the creaky door. The tape smelled like mice.

Was late autumn. The evening darkness stirred from the wind and flashing lights. The jeweler remembered how Shamet’s face had changed after death. It became stern and calm. The bitterness of this face seemed even beautiful to the jeweler.

“What life does not give, death brings,” thought the jeweler, prone to stereotyped thoughts, and sighed noisily.

Soon the jeweler sold the golden rose to an elderly writer, sloppily dressed and, in the opinion of the jeweler, not rich enough to have the right to buy such a precious thing.

Obviously, decisive role During this purchase, the story of the golden rose, told by the jeweler to the writer, played a role.

We owe it to the notes of the old writer that this sad incident from life became known to someone former soldier 27th Colonial Regiment - Jean-Ernest Chamet.

In his notes, the writer, among other things, wrote:

“Every minute, every casual word and glance, every deep or humorous thought, every imperceptible movement of the human heart, just like the flying fluff of a poplar or the fire of a star in a night puddle - all these are grains of gold dust.

We, writers, have been extracting them for decades, these millions of grains of sand, collecting them unnoticed by ourselves, turning them into an alloy and then forging from this alloy our “golden rose” - a story, novel or poem.

Golden Rose of Shamet! It seems to me partly to be a prototype of our creative activity. It is surprising that no one took the trouble to trace how a living stream of literature is born from these precious specks of dust.

But, just as the golden rose of the old scavenger was intended for the happiness of Suzanne, so our creativity is intended so that the beauty of the earth, the call to fight for happiness, joy and freedom, the breadth of the human heart and the strength of the mind will prevail over the darkness and sparkle as never-setting sun."