"Golden Rose" (Paustovsky): description and analysis of the book from the encyclopedia. golden rose

1. Book " golden rose"- a book about writing.
2. Suzanne's faith in the dream of a beautiful rose.
3. Second meeting with the girl.
4. Shamet’s impulse to beauty.

The book by K. G. Paustovsky “Golden Rose” is dedicated, according to him own confession, writing work. That is, that painstaking work of separating everything superfluous and unnecessary from truly important things, which is characteristic of any talented master of the pen.

The main character of the story “Precious Dust” is compared with a writer who also has to overcome many obstacles and difficulties before he can present to the world his golden rose, his work that touches the souls and hearts of people. Not really attractive image scavenger Jean Chamet suddenly appears wonderful person, a hard worker, ready to turn over mountains of garbage to obtain the smallest gold dust for the sake of the happiness of a creature dear to him. This is what fills the life of the main character with meaning; he is not frightened by the daily hard work, ridicule and disdain from others. The main thing is to bring joy to the girl who once settled in his heart.

The story "Precious Dust" took place on the outskirts of Paris. Jean Chamet, decommissioned for health reasons, was returning from the army. Along the way, he had to take the regimental commander’s daughter, an eight-year-old girl, to her relatives. On the road, Suzanne, who lost her mother early, was silent the entire time. Shamet never saw a smile on her sad face. Then the soldier decided that it was his duty to somehow cheer up the girl, to make her journey more exciting. He immediately dismissed dice games and crude barracks songs - this was not suitable for a child. Jean began to tell her his life.

At first, his stories were unpretentious, but Suzanne greedily caught more and more details and even often asked to tell them to her again. Soon, Shamet himself could no longer accurately determine where the truth ends and other people’s memories begin. Outlandish stories emerged from the corners of his memory. So he remembered amazing story about a golden rose, cast from blackened gold and suspended from a crucifix in the house of an old fisherman. According to legend, this rose was given to a beloved and was sure to bring happiness to the owner. Selling or exchanging this gift was considered a great sin. Shamet himself saw a similar rose in the house of a poor old fisherman who, despite her unenviable position, never wanted to part with the decoration. The old woman, according to rumors that reached the soldier, still waited for her happiness. Her son, an artist, came to her from the city, and the old fisherman’s shack “was filled with noise and prosperity.” The story of the fellow traveler made a strong impression on the girl. Suzanne even asked the soldier if anyone would give her such a rose. Jean replied that maybe there would be such an eccentric for the girl. Shamet himself did not yet realize how strongly he became attached to the child. However, after he handed the girl over to the tall “woman with pursed yellow lips,” he remembered Suzanne for a long time and even carefully kept her blue crumpled ribbon, gently, as it seemed to the soldier, smelling of violets.

Life decreed that after long ordeals, Shamet became a Parisian garbage collector. From now on, the smell of dust and garbage heaps followed him everywhere. Monotonous days merged into one. Only rare memories of the girl brought joy to Jean. He knew that Suzanne had long since grown up, that her father had died from his wounds. The scavenger blamed himself for parting with the child too dryly. The former soldier even wanted to visit the girl several times, but he always postponed his trip until time was lost. Nevertheless, the girl’s ribbon was just as carefully kept in Shamet’s things.

Fate presented a gift to Jean - he met Suzanne and even, perhaps, warned her against the fatal step when the girl, having quarreled with her lover, stood at the parapet, looking into the Seine. The scavenger sheltered the grown-up blue ribbon winner. Suzanne spent five whole days with Shamet. Probably for the first time in his life the scavenger was truly happy. Even the sun over Paris rose differently for him than before. And like the sun, Jean reached out to the beautiful girl with all his soul. His life suddenly took on a completely different meaning.

Actively participating in the life of his guest, helping her reconcile with her lover, Shamet felt completely new strength in himself. That is why, after Suzanne mentioned the golden rose during farewell, the garbage man firmly decided to please the girl or even make her happy by giving her this gold jewelry. Left alone again, Jean began to attack. From now on, he did not throw out garbage from jewelry workshops, but secretly took it to a shack, where he sifted out the smallest grains of golden sand from garbage dust. He dreamed of making an ingot from sand and forging a small golden rose, which, perhaps, would serve for the happiness of many ordinary people. It took the scavenger a lot of work before he was able to get the gold bar, but Shamet was in no hurry to forge a golden rose from it. He suddenly began to be afraid of meeting Suzanne: “... who needs the tenderness of an old freak.” The scavenger understood perfectly well that he had long become a bogeyman for ordinary townspeople: “... only desire people who met him were quick to leave and forget his skinny, gray face with sagging skin and piercing eyes.” The fear of being rejected by a girl forced Shamet, almost for the first time in his life, to pay attention to his appearance, to the impression he made on others. Nevertheless, the garbage man ordered a piece of jewelry for Suzanne from the jeweler. However, severe disappointment awaited him: the girl left for America, and no one knew her address. Despite the fact that at the first moment Shamet was relieved, the bad news turned the unfortunate man’s whole life upside down: “...the expectation 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 " The scavenger had no reason to live anymore, so he prayed to God to quickly take him to himself. Disappointment and despair consumed Jean so much that he even stopped working and “lay in his shack for several days, turning his face to the wall.” Only the jeweler who forged the jewelry visited him, but did not bring him any medicine. When the old scavenger died, his only visitor pulled from under his pillow a golden rose wrapped in a blue ribbon that smelled like mice. Death transformed Shamet: “... it (his face) became stern and calm,” and “... the bitterness of this face seemed even beautiful to the jeweler.” Subsequently, the golden rose ended up with the writer, who, inspired by the jeweler’s story about the old scavenger, not only bought the rose from him, but also immortalized the name former soldier 27th Colonial Regiment by Jean-Ernest Chamet in his works.

In his notes, the writer said that Shamet’s golden rose “seems to be a prototype of our creative activity" How many precious specks of dust does a master have to collect in order for a “living stream of literature” to be born from them? And pushes towards this creative people, first of all, the desire for beauty, the desire to reflect and capture not only the sad, but also the brightest, best moments of the life around us. It is the beautiful that can transform human existence, reconcile it with injustice, fill it with a completely different meaning and content.

This book consists of several stories. In the first story main character Jean Chameté is serving in the army. By a fortunate coincidence, he never manages to find out the real service. And so he returns home, but at the same time receives the task of escorting the daughter of his commander. On the way, the little girl pays absolutely no attention to Jean and does not speak to him. And it is at this moment that he decides to tell her the whole story of his life in order to cheer her up at least a little.

And so Jean tells the girl the legend of the golden rose. According to this legend, the owner of roses immediately became the owner of great happiness. This rose was cast from gold, but in order for it to start working, it had to be given to your beloved. Those who tried to sell such a gift immediately became unhappy. Jean saw such a rose only once, in the house of an old and poor fisherman. But still, she waited for her happiness and the arrival of her son, and after that her life began to improve and began to sparkle with new bright colors.

After many years Loneliness Jean meets his old lover Suzanne. And he decides to cast exactly the same rose for her. But Suzanne left for America. Our main character dies, but still learns what happiness is.

This work teaches us to appreciate life, enjoy every moment of it and, of course, believe in miracles.

Picture or drawing of a Golden rose

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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 theoretical research, much less the leadership. 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.

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, 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 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.

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 long-gone 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 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 no fire was 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, combed 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 was higher than anything else. 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 the 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 pursed yellow lips - to 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!

at all summary K. Paustovsky's story The Golden Rose. Paustovsky Golden Rose

golden rose
1955
Summary of the story
Reads in 15 minutes
original 6 h
Precious Dust

Inscription on a boulder

Flowers made from shavings

First story

Lightning
http://www.litra.ru/composition/get/coid/00202291295129831965/woid/00016101184773070195/
golden rose
1955
Summary of the story
Reads in 15 minutes
original 6 h
Precious Dust
Scavenger Jean Chamet cleans up craft workshops in a Parisian suburb.

While serving as a soldier during the Mexican War, Shamet contracted a fever and was sent home. The regimental commander instructed Shamet to take his eight-year-old daughter Suzanne to France. All the way, Shamet took care of the girl, and Suzanne willingly listened to his stories about the golden rose that brings happiness.

One day, Shamet meets a young woman who they recognize as Suzanne. Crying, she tells Shamet that her lover cheated on her, and now she has no home. Suzanne moves in with Shamet. Five days later she makes peace with her lover and leaves.

After parting with Suzanne, Shamet will stop throwing rubbish out of jewelry workshops, in which a little gold dust will always remain. He builds a small winnowing fan and winnows the jewelry dust. Shamet gold mined over many days is given to a jeweler to make a golden rose.

Rose is ready, but Shamet finds out that Suzanne has left for America, and the trail is lost. He quits his job and gets sick. Nobody takes care of him. Only the jeweler who made the rose visits him.

Soon Shamet dies. The jeweler sells the rose to an elderly writer and tells him the story of Shamet. The rose appears to the writer as a prototype of creative activity, in which, as from these precious specks of dust, a living stream of literature is born.

Inscription on a boulder
Paustovsky lives in small house on the Riga seaside. Nearby lies a large granite boulder with the inscription In memory of all who died and will die at sea. Paustovsky considers this inscription a good epigraph for a book about writing.

Writing is a calling. The writer strives to convey to people the thoughts and feelings that concern him. At the behest of the call of his time and people, a writer can become a hero and endure difficult trials.

An example of this is the fate of the Dutch writer Eduard Dekker, known under the pseudonym Multatuli (Latin: Long-suffering). Serving as a government official on the island of Java, he defended the Javanese and took their side when they rebelled. Multatuli died without receiving justice.

The artist Vincent Van Gogh was equally selflessly devoted to his work. He was not a fighter, but he brought into the treasury of the future his paintings glorifying the earth.

Flowers made from shavings
The greatest gift remaining to us from childhood poetic perception life. A person who has retained this gift becomes a poet or writer.

During his poor and bitter youth, Paustovsky writes poetry, but soon realizes that his poems are tinsel, flowers made from painted shavings, and instead writes his first story.

First story
Paustovsky learned this story from a resident of Chernobyl.

The Jew Yoska falls in love with the beautiful Christa. The girl also loves him, small, red-haired, with a squeaky voice. Khristya moves into Yoska’s house and lives with him as his wife.

The town begins to worry: a Jew lives with an Orthodox woman. Yoska decides to be baptized, but Father Mikhail refuses him. Yoska leaves, cursing the priest.

Upon learning of Yoska's decision, the rabbi curses his family. For insulting a priest, Yoska goes to prison. Christia dies of grief. The police officer releases Yoska, but he loses his mind and becomes a beggar.

Returning to Kyiv, Paustovsky writes his first story about this, re-reads it in the spring and understands that the author’s admiration for Christ’s love is not felt in it.

Paustovsky believes that his stock of everyday observations is very poor. He gives up writing and wanders around Russia for ten years, changing professions and communicating with a variety of people.

Lightning
The idea is lightning. It arises in the imagination, saturated with thoughts, feelings, and memory. For a plan to appear, we need a push, which can be everything happening around us.

The embodiment of the plan is a downpour. The idea is to develop

Konstantin Georgievich Paustovsky is an outstanding Russian writer who glorified the Meshchera region in his works and touched on 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 no fire was lit in it.

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

- Jean, will someone give me a golden rose?

– 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 garbage dumps. 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 big ball. 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’re worrying in vain, 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 had long noticed that the only desire of people who met him was to quickly 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 the life of a former soldier of the 27th colonial regiment, Jean-Ernest Chamet, became known to someone.

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."