Golden rose in cut. Paustovsky Konstantin Georgievich

18.04.2019

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Paustovsky Konstantin Georgievich (1892-1968), Russian writer was born on May 31, 1892 in the family of a railway statistician. Father, according to Paustovsky, "was an incorrigible dreamer and a Protestant," which is why he constantly changed jobs. After several moves, the family settled in Kiev. Paustovsky studied at the 1st Kiev classical gymnasium. When he was in the sixth grade, his father left his family, and Paustovsky was forced to independently earn a living and study by tutoring.

"Golden Rose"- a special book in the work of Paustovsky. It was published in 1955, at that time Konstantin Georgievich turned 63. This book can be called a" textbook for beginning writers "only remotely: the author lifts the curtain over his own creative kitchen, talks about himself, the sources of creativity and the role of the writer for the world Each of the 24 chapters contains a piece of wisdom of a wise writer who reflects on creativity based on his many years of experience.

The book can be conventionally divided into two parts. If in the first the author introduces the reader to the "secret of secrets" - to his creative laboratory, then the other half of it were sketches about writers: Chekhov, Bunin, Blok, Maupassant, Hugo, Olesha, Prishvin, Green. Narratives are characterized by subtle lyricism; as a rule, this is a story about the experience, about the experience of communication - full-time or part-time - with one or another of the masters of the artistic word.

The genre composition of Paustovsky's "Golden Rose" is in many ways unique: creative portrait, a sketch of creativity, a poetic miniature about nature, linguistic research, the history of the concept and its embodiment in the book, autobiography, everyday sketch. Despite the heterogeneity of genres, the material is "cemented" by the author's cross-cutting image, who dictates his own rhythm and tonality to the narrative, and conducts reasoning in accordance with the logic of a single theme.

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 leadership. These are just notes about my understanding of writing and my experiences.

Huge layers of ideological justification for our writing work not touched upon in the book, since in this area we do not have much disagreement. Heroic and educational value literature is clear to everyone.

In this book, I have told so far only what little I have managed to tell.

But if I, even in a small fraction, managed to convey to the reader an idea of the wonderful essence of writing, then I will consider that I have fulfilled my duty to literature. 1955

Konstantin Paustovsky

"Golden Rose"

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

You should always strive for beauty.

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

Much will be considered controversial.

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

Huge layers of ideological foundations of our writing are not touched upon in the book, since in this area we do not have big disagreements. The heroic and educational significance of literature is clear to all.

In this book, I have told so far only what little I have managed to tell.

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

Chekhov

His notebooks live in literature on their own, like special genre... He used them little for his work.

How interesting genre there are notebooks of Ilf, Alphonse Daudet, diaries of Tolstoy, the Goncourt brothers, French writer Renard and many other recordings of writers and poets.

As an independent genre, notebooks have every right to exist in literature. But I, contrary to the opinion of many - writers, consider them almost useless for the main writing work.

I kept notebooks for a while. But every time I took an interesting note from a book and inserted it into a story or story, it was this piece of prose that turned out to be lifeless. He stuck out of the text like something alien.

I can only explain this by the fact that the best selection of material produces memory. What remains in memory and is not forgotten is the most valuable thing. The same thing that must be written down so as not to forget is less valuable and can rarely be useful to a writer.

Memory, like a fabulous sieve, lets rubbish through itself, but retains grains of gold.

Chekhov had a second profession. He was a doctor. Obviously, it would be useful for every writer to know the second profession and practice it for some time.

The fact that Chekhov was a doctor not only gave him knowledge of people, but also affected his style. If Chekhov had not been a doctor, then perhaps he would not have created such a sharp, as a scalpel, analytical and accurate prose.

Some of his stories (for example, "Ward No. 6", "Boring Story", "The Jumping Girl", and many others) are written as exemplary psychological diagnoses.

His prose did not tolerate the slightest dust and stains. “We need to throw away the unnecessary,” wrote Chekhov, “to clear the phrase from“ as much as possible, ”“ with the help, ”we must take care of its musicality and not allow almost“ became ”and“ stopped ”in one phrase.

He brutally banished from prose such words as "appetite", "flirting", "ideal", "disk", "screen". They disgusted him.

Chekhov's life is instructive. He said about himself that for many years he had squeezed out of himself a slave drop by drop. It is worth expanding photographs of Chekhov over the years - from youth to recent years life - in order to see firsthand how the slight touch of philistinism gradually disappears from his appearance and how his face becomes more and more stern, significant and beautiful, and his clothes become more and more elegant and freer.

We have a corner in our country where everyone keeps a part of their heart. This is Chekhov's house on the Autka.

For people of my generation, this house is like a window illuminated from within. Behind him you can see your half-forgotten childhood from the dark garden. And to hear the gentle voice of Maria Pavlovna - that sweet Chekhov's Masha, whom almost the whole country knows and loves in a related way.

The last time I visited this house was in 1949.

We sat with Maria Pavlovna on the lower terrace. Thickets of white fragrant flowers covered the sea and Yalta.

Maria Pavlovna said that Anton Pavlovich planted this magnificently overgrown bush and called it somehow, but she cannot remember this tricky name.

She said it so simply, as if Chekhov was alive, was here quite recently, and only left for a while - to Moscow or Nice.

I plucked a camellia in Chekhov's garden and presented it to the girl who was with us at Maria Pavlovna's. But this carefree "lady with a camellia" dropped a flower from a bridge into the mountain river Uchan-Su, and he sailed into the Black Sea. It was impossible to be angry with her, especially on this day, when it seemed that at every turn of the street we could meet with Chekhov. And it will be unpleasant for him to hear how they scold the gray-eyed embarrassed girl for such nonsense as a lost flower from his garden.

The Golden Rose is a book of essays and stories by KG Paustovsky. First published in the magazine "October" (1955, No. 10). Separate edition was released in 1955.

The idea of the book was born in the 30s, but fully took shape only when Paustovsky began to consolidate on paper the experience of his work in a prose seminar at the Literary Institute. Gorky. Paustovsky was originally going to call the book The Iron Rose, but later abandoned the intention - the story of the lyre player Ostap, who bound the iron rose, was included as an episode in The Story of Life, and the writer did not want to exploit the plot a second time. Paustovsky was going to, but did not manage to write the second book of notes on creativity. In the last lifetime edition the first book (Collected Works. T.Z. M., 1967-1969) were expanded by two chapters, there were several new chapters, mainly about writers. Written for the 100th anniversary of Chekhov "Notes on a cigarette box" became the chapter of "Chekhov". The essay "Meetings with Olesha" turned into the chapter "The Little Rose in the Buttonhole". The same edition includes the essays "Alexander Blok" and "Ivan Bunin".

"Golden Rose", in the words of Paustovsky himself, "a book about how books are written." Its leitmotif is most fully embodied in the story with which the "Golden Rose" begins. The story of the "precious dust" that the Parisian scavenger Jean Chamette collected in order to order a golden rose from a jeweler after collecting precious grains is a metaphor for creativity. The genre of Paustovsky's book seems to reflect her main topic: it consists of short "grains" - stories about the writer's duty ("Inscription on a Boulder"), about the connection of creativity with life experience("Flowers from shavings"), about the idea and inspiration ("Lightning"), about the relationship between the plan and the logic of the material ("Riot of Heroes"), about the Russian language ("Diamond Tongue") and punctuation marks ("The case in the Alshwang store" ), about the working conditions of the artist ("As if trifles") and artistic detail("The old man in the station buffet"), about imagination ("Life-giving principle") and about the priority of life over creative imagination("Night Stagecoach").

The genre composition of Paustovsky's "Golden Rose" is in many ways unique: in a single compositionally completed cycle, fragments of different characteristics are combined - a confession, memoirs, a creative portrait, an essay on creativity, a poetic miniature about nature, linguistic research, the history of an idea and its embodiment in a book, an autobiography , household sketch. Despite the heterogeneity of genres, the material is "cemented" by the author's cross-cutting image, 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" caused a lot of responses in the press. Critics noted the great skill of the writer, the originality of the very attempt to interpret the problems of art by means of art itself. But it also caused a lot of criticism, reflecting the spirit of the transitional period, preceding the "thaw" of the late 50s: the writer was reproached for "limited author's position"," Excess of beautiful details "," insufficient attention to ideological basis art ".

Paustovsky's book of stories, created in the final period of his work, reappeared, which was noted back in early works artist's interest in the field creative activity, to the spiritual essence of art.

1. The book "Golden Rose" is a book about writing.
2. Suzanne's faith in the dream of a beautiful rose.
3. Second meeting with the girl.
4. Rush of Chamette to beauty.

KG Paustovsky's book "The Golden Rose" is dedicated, by his own admission, to the work of writing. 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 protagonist 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. In the not quite attractive image of the scavenger Jean Chamette, suddenly appears wonderful person, a man-toiler, ready for the happiness of a creature dear to him to turn mountains of garbage to obtain the smallest gold dust. This is what fills the life of the protagonist with meaning, he is not afraid of the daily hard work, ridicule and disdain of others. The main thing is to bring joy to the girl who once settled in his heart.

The story of Precious Dust was set on the outskirts of Paris. Jean Chamette, written off for health reasons, was returning from the army. On the way, he had to bring the daughter of the regimental commander, a girl of eight years old, to her relatives. On the way, Suzanne, who lost her mother early, was silent all the time. Chamette never saw a smile on her gloomy face. Then the soldier decided that it was his duty to somehow amuse the girl, to make her journey more exciting. He immediately dismissed the game of dice and rough barracks songs - this was not suitable for a child. Jean began to tell her his life.

At first, his stories were unprepossessing, but Suzanne eagerly caught new and new details and even often asked to tell her again. Soon, Shamet himself could no longer determine with certainty 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 hung from a crucifix in the house of an old fisherwoman. According to legend, this rose was given to the beloved and was bound to bring happiness to the owner. It was considered a great sin to sell or exchange this gift. Chamett himself saw a similar rose in the house of a distressed old fisherwoman, who, despite her unenviable position, never wanted to part with her adornment. The old woman, according to rumors that reached the soldier, nevertheless waited for her happiness. A son-artist came to her from the city, and the old shack of the fisherwoman "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 then did not yet realize how much he was attached to the child. However, after he handed the girl over to a tall "woman with pursed yellow lips," he remembered Suzanne for a long time and even carefully kept her blue crumpled ribbon, tenderly, as it seemed to the soldier, smelling of violets.

Life decreed that after long ordeals, Chamett became a Parisian scavenger. From now on, the smell of dust and garbage dumps haunted him everywhere. Monotonous days merged into one. Only rare memories of the girl brought joy to Jean. He knew that Suzanne had grown up long ago, that her father had died from his wounds. The scavenger blamed himself for leaving the child too dry. 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 also carefully kept in Shamet's things.

Fate presented a gift to Jean - he met Suzanne and, perhaps, even warned her against the fatal step when the girl, having quarreled with her lover, standing at the parapet, looked into the Seine. The scavenger gave shelter to the grown-up owner of the blue ribbon. Suzanne spent five whole days at Chamette's. Probably for the first time in his life, the scavenger was really happy. Even the sun over Paris did not rise for him the way it used to. And as to the sun, Jean was reaching out with all his soul to the beautiful girl. His life suddenly took on a completely different meaning.

Taking an active part in the life of his guest, helping her to come to terms with her lover, Shamet felt completely new strength in himself. That is why, after the mention of the golden rose by Suzanne during parting, the scavenger was determined to please the girl or even make her happy by giving her this golden jewelry. Once again left alone, Jean began to graze. From now on, he did not throw garbage out of jewelry workshops, but secretly carried it to a shack, where he sifted out the smallest grains of golden sand from the dust. He dreamed of making an ingot out of sand and forging a small golden rose, which, perhaps, will serve for the happiness of many ordinary people... It took a lot of work from the scavenger before he was able to get hold of the gold bar, but Chamet was in no hurry to forge a golden rose from it. He suddenly became afraid of meeting Suzanne: "... who needs the tenderness of an old freak." The scavenger understood perfectly well that he had long become a scarecrow for ordinary townspeople: “... the only desire of the people who met him was to leave as soon as possible and forget his skinny, gray face with sagging skin and piercing eyes. " The fear of being rejected by a girl made Chamette, almost for the first time in his life, pay attention to his appearance, to what impression he makes on those around him. Nevertheless, the scavenger ordered a piece of jewelry for Suzanne from the jeweler. However, a severe disappointment awaited him ahead: the girl left for America, and no one knew her address. Despite the fact that at the first moment Chamette was relieved, the bad news turned the whole life of the unfortunate man: “... the expectation of an affectionate and light meeting with Suzanne, in an incomprehensible way, turned into a rusty iron splinter ... this thorny splinter stuck in Chamette's chest, near his heart ". The garbage man had no reason to live anymore, so he prayed to God to quickly take him into his own place. Jean's disappointment and despair so engulfed him that he even stopped working, "lay for several days in his shack, turning his face to the wall." Only the jeweler who forged the jewelry visited him, however, without bringing him any medicine. When the old scavenger died, his only visitor pulled a golden rose from under his pillow, wrapped in a blue ribbon that smelled of mice. Death transformed Chamette: "... it (his face) became stern and calm", and "... the bitterness of this face seemed to the jeweler even beautiful." Subsequently, the golden rose came to the writer, who, inspired by the story of the jeweler about the old scavenger, not only bought a rose from him, but also immortalized the name of the former soldier of the 27th Colonial Regiment Jean-Ernest Chamette in his works.

In his notes, the writer said that the golden rose of Chamette "appears to be the prototype of our creative activity." How many precious grains of dust a master has to collect in order to create a "living stream of literature" from them. And pushes to this creative people, first of all, the desire for beauty, the desire to reflect and capture not only the sad, but also the brightest, the best moments of the surrounding life. It is the beautiful that is capable of transforming human existence, reconciling it with injustice, filling it with a completely different meaning and content.

To my devoted friend Tatiana Alekseevna Paustovskaya

Literature is 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 just notes about my understanding of writing and my experiences.

Important questions the ideological foundations 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 all.

In this book, I have told so far only what little I have managed to tell.

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

Precious dust

I can't remember how I came to know this story about the Parisian garbage man Jeanne Chamette. Chamett made a living by cleaning up the workshops of artisans in his quarter.

Shamet lived in a shack on the outskirts of the city. Of course, one could describe in detail this outskirts and thereby divert the reader away from the main thread of the story. But, perhaps, it is only worth mentioning that the old ramparts have survived to this day on the outskirts of Paris. At the time this story was set, the ramparts were still covered with thickets of honeysuckle and hawthorn, and birds nested in them.

The scavenger hut is nestled at the foot of the northern rampart, next to the houses of tinsmiths, shoemakers, cigarette butts and beggars.

If Maupassant had become interested in the life of the inhabitants of these shacks, then perhaps he would have written some more excellent stories. Perhaps they would add new laurels to his long-standing fame.

Unfortunately, none of the outsiders looked into these places, except for the detectives. And they appeared only in those cases when they were looking for stolen things.

Judging by the fact that the neighbors nicknamed Chamette "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 a crest of a bird.

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

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

The commander was a widower and therefore had to take the girl with him everywhere.

But this time he decided to part with his daughter and send her to his sister in Rouen. Mexico's climate was devastating for European children. What's more, a messy guerrilla war created many sudden dangers.

During the return of Chamette to France, over Atlantic Ocean the heat was smoking. The girl was silent all the time. Even at the fish that flew out of the oily water, she looked without smiling.

Chamett took care of Suzanne as best he could. He understood, of course, that she expects from him not only care, but also affection. And what could he think of an affectionate, colonial soldier? How could he keep her busy? Dice game? Or rough barracks songs?

But still it was impossible to remain silent for a long time. Chamette more and more often caught the girl's bewildered look on himself. Then he finally made up his mind and began to awkwardly tell her his life, remembering to the smallest detail a fishing village on the shores of the English Channel, loose sands, puddles after low tide, a village chapel with a cracked bell, his mother, who was treating neighbors for heartburn.

In these memories, Chamett could find nothing to cheer Suzanne. But the girl, to his surprise, listened to these stories eagerly and even forced him to repeat them, demanding more and more details.

Chamett strained his memory and fished out of it these details, until in the end he lost the confidence that they really existed. These were no longer memories, but their faint shadows. They melted like wisps of fog. Chamett, however, never imagined that he would need to recall this long-gone time of his life in his memory.

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

No, perhaps he even once saw this rose and remembered how it gleamed, although there was no sun outside the windows and a gloomy storm was rustling over the strait. The further, the clearer Chamett recalled this brilliance - a few bright lights under the low ceiling.

Everyone in the village was surprised that the old woman did not sell her jewel. She could have made a lot of money for it. Chamet's mother alone assured that it was a sin to sell a golden rose, because her beloved gave it to the old woman “for good luck,” when the old woman, then still a laughing girl, worked at a sardine factory in Audierne.

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

The boy waited impatiently for the old woman to be happy. But there was no sign of happiness at all. The old woman's house shook with the wind, and in the evenings no fire was lit in it.

So Shamet left the village, not waiting for a change in the old woman's fate. Only a year later, a familiar fireman from a mail steamer in Le Havre told him that an artist's son, bearded, cheerful and wonderful, had unexpectedly arrived from Paris to see the old woman. Since then, the shack was no longer recognizable. She was filled with noise and prosperity. Artists, they say, get a lot of money for their daub.

Once, when Chamette, sitting on the deck, was combing Suzanne's hair entangled in the wind with his iron comb, she asked:

- Jean, will someone give me a golden rose?

“Anything is possible,” replied Shamet. - There will be some kind of eccentric for you, Susi. We had one skinny soldier in our company. He was damn lucky. He found a broken gold jaw on the battlefield. We drank it off with the whole company. This is during the Annamite War. Drunken gunners 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, this volcano! It seems Kraka-Taka. The eruption was great! Forty peaceful natives were killed. Just think that because of some kind of jaw, so many people disappeared! Then it turned out that our colonel had lost this jaw. The case, of course, was hushed up - the prestige of the army is above all. But we got drunk then.

- Where did it happen? Susie asked doubtfully.

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

Before this incident, Chamett had heard a lot of soldiers' lies, but he himself never lied. Not because he did not know how to do it, but simply there was no need. Now he considered it a sacred duty to entertain Suzanne.

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

The girl, seeing her, clung tightly to Chamett, to his burnt-out overcoat.

- Nothing! - Shamett said in a whisper and pushed Suzanne in the shoulder. - We, privates, also do not choose company chiefs. Be patient, Susi, soldier!

Chamet is gone. Several times he looked back at the windows of a boring house, where the wind did not even move the curtains. In the narrow streets, the bustling clatter of the clock was heard from the shops. In Shamet's soldier's knapsack lay the memory of Susi - a blue crumpled ribbon from her braid. And the devil knows why, but this ribbon smelled so tender, as if it had been in a basket of violets for a long time.

The Mexican fever undermined Chamet's health. He was dismissed from the army without a sergeant rank. He went into civilian life simple private.

Years passed in monotonous need. Chamette tried many meager pursuits and eventually became a Parisian scavenger. From then on, he was haunted by the smell of dust and garbage. He could smell this smell even in the light wind that penetrated the streets from the Seine, and in armfuls of wet flowers - they were sold by neat old women on the boulevards.

The days merged into yellow dregs. But sometimes a light pink cloud appeared in her before the inner gaze of Chamette - Suzanne's old dress. This dress smelled of spring freshness, as if it had also been kept for a long time in a basket of violets.

Where is she, Suzanne? What with her? He knew that now she already adult girl, and her father died of his wounds.

Chamett kept on going to Rouen to visit Suzanne. But each time he put off this trip until he finally realized that time was lost and Suzanne had probably forgotten about it.

He scolded himself like a pig when he remembered goodbye to her. Instead of kissing the girl, he pushed her in the back towards the old hag and said: "Be patient, Susi, soldier!"

Scavengers are known to work at night. They are compelled to do this by two reasons: most of all the garbage from hectic and not always useful human activity accumulates at the end of the day, and, in addition, the sight and smell of Parisians should not be offected. At night, almost no one except the rats notices the work of the scavengers.

Chamett got used to working at night and even fell in love with these hours of the day. Especially when the dawn was sluggishly breaking over Paris. Fog billowed over the Seine, but it did not rise above the parapet of the bridges.

Once, at such a misty dawn, Shamet was passing over the Bridge of Invalides and saw a young woman in a pale lilac dress with black lace. She stood at the parapet and looked at the Seine.

Chamette 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.

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

Chamett dropped his hat.

- Susie! He said with despair and delight. - Susie, soldier! My girl! I finally saw you. You must have forgotten me. I am Jean-Ernest Chamette, that private in the 27th Colonial Regiment who brought you to that filthy aunt in Rouen. What a beauty you have become! And how well your hair is combed! And I, a soldier's gag, did not know how to tidy them up at all!

- Jean! - the woman cried out, rushed to Chamett, hugged him by the neck and burst into tears. - Jean, you are as kind as you were then. I remember evrything!

- Uh, nonsense! - muttered Chamette. - What benefit to whom from my kindness. What's the matter with you, my little one?

Chamett pulled Suzanne to him and did what he did not dare to do in Rouen - stroked and kissed her shiny hair. Immediately he pulled away, fearing that Suzanne would hear the stench of a mouse from his jacket. But Suzanne pressed closer to his shoulder.

- What's the matter with you, girl? Chamett repeated in confusion.

Suzanne didn’t answer. She was unable to contain her sobs. Chamett understood that there was no need to ask her about anything yet.

“I have,” he said hastily, “there is a lair by the shaft of the cross. Far from here. The house, of course, is empty - even a rolling ball. But you can warm up 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 Chamette for five days. For five days an extraordinary sun rose over Paris. All buildings, even the oldest ones covered with soot, all the gardens and even Shamet's lair, sparkled in the rays of this sun like jewels.

Whoever did not feel the excitement of the barely audible breath of a young woman will not understand what tenderness is. Her lips were brighter than the wet petals, and her eyelashes glistened from the night's tears.

Yes, with Suzanne, everything happened exactly as Chamett had anticipated. She was cheated on by her lover, a young actor. But those five days that Suzanne lived with Chamette was quite enough for their reconciliation.

Chamett took part in it. He had to take Suzanne's letter to the actor and teach this languid handsome man politeness when he wanted to shove a few sous to Chamet for tea.

Soon the actor arrived in a fiacre for Suzanne. And everything was as it should: a bouquet, kisses, laughter through tears, remorse and slightly cracked carelessness.

When the young people were leaving, Suzanne was in such a hurry that she jumped into the fiacre, forgetting to say goodbye to Chamette. Immediately she caught herself, blushed and guiltily held out her hand to him.

“Since you have chosen life to your liking,” Shamet grumbled to her at last, “then be happy.

“I don’t know anything yet,” Susanna replied, and tears glistened in her eyes.

- You needlessly worry, my baby, - the young actor drawled discontentedly and repeated: - My lovely baby.

- Now, if someone gave me a golden rose! Suzanne sighed. - It would be for sure fortunately. I remember your story on the boat, Jean.

- Who knows! - answered Shamet. “In any case, it’s not this gentleman who will bring you a golden rose. Sorry, I'm a soldier. I don't like shufflers.

The young people looked at each other. The actor shrugged. The fiacre started off.

As a rule, Shamet threw out all the garbage swept out of the craft establishments during the day. But after this incident with Suzanne, he stopped throwing dust from the jewelry workshops. He began to collect it secretly in a sack and take it to his shack. The neighbors decided that the garbage man had "got under way." Few people knew that there was a certain amount of gold powder in this dust, since jewelers always grind off a little gold while working.

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

Chamett did not tell anyone about his idea. He was afraid of the authorities and the police. You never know what would come to mind of court hookers. They can declare him a thief, put him in jail and take away his gold. After all, it was still someone else's.

Before joining the army, Chamett worked on a farm at the village priest and therefore knew how to handle grain. This knowledge was useful to him now. He remembered how bread blew and heavy grains fell to the ground, and light dust was carried away by the wind.

Chamett built a small winnowing fan and at night squirted jewelry dust in the courtyard. He worried until he saw a barely noticeable golden powder on the tray.

It took a long time for the gold powder to accumulate so much that it was possible to make an ingot out of it. But Chamett hesitated to give it to a jeweler in order to forge a golden rose out of it.

He was not stopped by the lack of money - any jeweler would agree to take a third of an ingot for work and would be pleased with it.

That was not the point. The hour of meeting with Suzanne drew near every day. But for some time now, Chamett began to fear this hour.

All the tenderness, long ago driven into the depths of his heart, he wanted to give only to her, only to Susi. But who needs the tenderness of an old freak! Chamett had long noticed that the only desire of the people who met him was to leave as soon as possible and forget his thin, gray face with sagging skin and piercing eyes.

He had a shard of a mirror in his shack. From time to time, Chamett looked at him, but immediately threw him away with a heavy curse. It was better not to see myself - this awkward little creature hobbling on rheumatic legs.

When the rose was finally ready, Chamett 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, Chamett was even relieved. But then all his expectation of an affectionate and easy meeting with Suzanne turned into an incomprehensible way into a rusty iron shard. This thorny shard was stuck in Chamette's chest, near the heart, and Chamette prayed to God that he would quickly pierce this old heart and stop it forever.

Chamette gave up cleaning up the workshops. For several days he lay in his shack, facing the wall. He was silent and only once smiled, pressing the sleeve of his old jacket to his eyes. But nobody saw it. Neighbors did not even come to Shamett - each had their own worries.

Only one person watched Chamette - that elderly jeweler who forged the finest rose from an ingot and next to it, on a young branch, a small sharp bud.

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

Indeed, Shamet died unnoticed during one of the visits to the jeweler. The jeweler lifted the head of the scavenger, pulled out from under the gray pillow a golden rose wrapped in a crumpled blue ribbon, and left without haste, closing the creaky door. The tape smelled of mice.

Was late fall... The evening darkness stirred with the wind and flashing lights. The jeweler remembered how Chamet's face was transformed after death. It became stern and calm. The bitterness of this face seemed to the jeweler even beautiful.

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

Soon the jeweler sold the golden rose to an elderly man of letters, who was slovenly dressed and, in the jeweler's opinion, not wealthy enough to have the right to purchase such a precious thing.

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

We are indebted to the notes of the old writer for the fact that some people became aware of this sad case from the life of a former soldier of the 27th Colonial Regiment - Jean-Ernest Chamette.

In his notes, the writer, by the way, wrote:

“Every minute, every casually thrown word and look, every deep or humorous thought, every imperceptible movement human heart, as well as the flying fluff of a poplar or the fire of a star in a puddle of night — all these are grains of gold dust.

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

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

But, just as the golden rose of the old scavenger was intended for Suzanne's happiness, 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 power of reason, prevail over the darkness and sparkle like the unsetting sun. "

Boulder inscription

For a writer, full joy comes only when he is convinced that his conscience is in accordance with the conscience of his neighbors.

Saltykov-Shchedrin

I live in a small house on the dunes. The entire Riga seaside is covered with snow. He always flies from tall pines in long strands and crumbles into dust.

It flies off from the wind and from squirrels jumping over the pines. When it is very quiet, you can hear them peeling pine cones.

The house is right next to the sea. To see the sea, you need to go outside the gate and walk a little along the path trodden in the snow past the boarded-up summer cottage.

There have been curtains on the windows of this summer cottage since the summer. They move from the gentle wind. The wind must be penetrating through inconspicuous cracks into the empty dacha, but from a distance it seems that someone is raising the curtain and cautiously watching you.

The sea is not frozen. Snow lies right up to the water's edge. The tracks of hares are visible on it.

When a wave rises on the sea, it is not the sound of the surf that is heard, but the crunch of ice and the rustle of settling snow.

The Baltic is deserted and gloomy in winter.

Latvians call it “Amber Sea” (“Dzintara Jura”). Perhaps, not only because the Baltica throws out a lot of amber, but also because its water slightly shines with amber yellowness.

A heavy haze lies on the horizon all day long. The outlines of low shores disappear in it. Only here and there in this gloom white shaggy stripes fall over the sea - it is snowing there.

Sometimes wild geese, which arrived too early this year, sit on the water and scream. Their alarming cry spreads far along the coast, but does not cause a response - there are almost no birds in the coastal forests in winter.

During the day, in the house where I live, there is a usual life. Firewood crackles in multicolored tiled stoves, a typewriter muffledly knocks, the silent cleaning lady Lilya sits in a cozy lobby knitting lace. Everything is ordinary and very simple.

But in the evening, pitch darkness surrounds the house, the pines move close to it, and when you leave the brightly lit hall outside, you are overwhelmed by the feeling complete loneliness, eye to eye, with winter, sea and night.

The sea stretches hundreds of miles into lead black distances. Not a single light is visible on it. And not a single splash is heard.

The small house stands, like the last beacon, on the edge of a misty abyss. Here the ground breaks off. And therefore it seems surprising that the light is quietly burning in the house, the radio is singing, soft carpets drown out the steps, and there are open books and manuscripts.

There, to the west, towards Ventspils, behind a layer of darkness lies a small fishing village. An ordinary fishing village with nets drying in the wind, with low houses and low smoke from chimneys, with black motorboats pulled out on the sand, and trusting dogs with shaggy fur.

Latvian fishermen have been living in this village for hundreds of years. Generations follow each other. Fair-haired girls with shy eyes and a melodious voice become weathered, stumpy old women, wrapped in heavy kerchiefs. Ruddy youths in smart caps turn into bristly old men with calm eyes.

Konstantin Georgievich Paustovsky is an outstanding Russian writer who glorified the Meshchersky Territory in his works and touched the foundations of the folk Russian language. The sensational "Golden Rose" - an attempt to comprehend the secrets literary creation based on their own writing experience and understanding of creativity great writers... The story is based on the artist's many years of meditation on difficult problems psychology of creativity and writing skills.

To my devoted friend Tatyana Alekseevna Paustovskaya

Literature is 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 just notes about my understanding of writing and my experiences.

Important questions of the ideological basis of our writing work 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 all.

In this book, I have told so far only what little I have managed to tell.

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

Precious dust

I can't remember how I came to know this story about the Parisian garbage man Jeanne Chamette. Chamett made a living by cleaning up the workshops of artisans in his quarter.

The scavenger hut is nestled at the foot of the northern rampart, next to the houses of tinsmiths, shoemakers, cigarette butts and beggars.

Unfortunately, none of the outsiders looked into these places, except for the detectives. And they appeared only in those cases when they were looking for stolen things.

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

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

During the return of Chamette to France, heat was smoldering over the Atlantic Ocean. The girl was silent all the time. Even at the fish that flew out of the oily water, she looked without smiling.

In these memories, Chamett could find nothing to cheer Suzanne. But the girl, to his surprise, listened to these stories eagerly and even forced him to repeat them, demanding more and more details.

The boy waited impatiently for the old woman to be happy. But there was no sign of happiness at all. The old woman's house shook with the wind, and in the evenings no fire was lit in it.

Once, when Chamette, sitting on the deck, was combing Suzanne's hair entangled in the wind with his iron comb, she asked:

- Jean, will someone give me a golden rose?

- Where did it happen? Susie asked doubtfully.

Chamett brought the girl to Rouen and handed her over to a tall woman with pursed yellow lips - Susanna's aunt. The old woman was all in black bugles and sparkled like a circus snake.

The girl, seeing her, clung tightly to Chamett, to his burnt-out overcoat.

- Nothing! - Shamett said in a whisper and pushed Suzanne in the shoulder. - We, privates, also do not choose company chiefs. Be patient, Susi, soldier!

The Mexican fever undermined Chamet's health. He was dismissed from the army without a sergeant rank. He went into civilian life as a simple private.

Where is she, Suzanne? What with her? He knew that now she was already an adult girl, and her father had died of his wounds.