home › Cooling system › The dispute of the heroes about the beautiful in the story of J. Sand "What the Flowers Talk About". Book: What Flowers Say What Birds Say Georges Sand

The dispute of the heroes about the beautiful in the story of J. Sand "What the Flowers Talk About". Book: What Flowers Say What Birds Say Georges Sand

George Sand

Title: Buy the book "What Flowers Say": feed_id: 5296 pattern_id: 2266 book_author: Sand Georges book_name: What Flowers Say

When I was a child, my dear Aurora, I was very worried that I could not catch the conversation of flowers. My botany professor assured me they didn't say anything, whether he was deaf or didn't want to tell me the truth, but he insisted that the flowers didn't say anything. I was sure otherwise. I could hear them whispering shyly, especially when the evening dew fell on them, but unfortunately they spoke too softly for me to make out their words, and then they were incredulous. When I walked through the garden near the flower beds or along the path past the hayfield, then in the air some kind of sh-sh-i was heard throughout the space, this sound ran from one flower to another and seemed to want to say: “Let's take care, shut up! Beside us is a child who listens to us.” But I insisted on my own: I tried to walk so quietly that not a single grass stirred under my steps. They calmed down, and I moved closer and closer. Then, so that they would not notice me, I bent down and went under the shade of the trees. Finally, I managed to overhear a lively conversation. It was necessary to concentrate all your attention, because they were such gentle voices, so pleasant and thin that the slightest fresh breeze, the buzzing of large butterflies or the flight of moths, completely hid them.

I don't know what language they spoke. It was neither French nor Latin, which I was then taught, but somehow I understood it well. It even seemed to me that I understood this language much better than any other that I had hitherto heard. One evening, in a hidden corner, I lay down on the sand, and I managed to listen very clearly to the whole conversation going on around me. A hum was heard throughout the garden, all the flowers spoke at once, and it did not take much curiosity to learn more than one secret at a time. I remained motionless - and this is how the conversation went among the field red poppies.

Gracious sovereigns and sovereigns! It's time to end this nonsense. All plants are equally noble, our family is not inferior to any other - and therefore let whoever wants to recognize the primacy of the rose, as for me, I repeat to you that I am terribly bored with all this, and I do not recognize the right of anyone else be considered better than me in their origin and title.

To this the daisies all answered at once that the orator, the field red poppy, was absolutely right. One of the daisies, which was bigger and more beautiful than the others, asked to speak.

I never understood, she said, why the Rose Society assumes such an important air. Why exactly, I ask you, is the rose better and more beautiful than me? Nature and art alike took care to multiply our petals and enhance the brightness of our colors. On the contrary, we are much richer, because the best rose will have no more than two hundred petals, while we have up to five hundred. As for the color, we have purple and pure blue - exactly the kind that the rose does not have.

And I, - said the big Cavalier Spur with fervor, - I am Princess Delphinia, I have the azure of heaven on my corolla, and my numerous relatives have all pinkish shades. The imaginary queen of flowers can envy us a lot, but as for her vaunted smell ...

I beg you, do not tell me about this, - the field red poppy interrupted her. “Smelling bragging gets on my nerves. What is smell? Explain to me please. You may, for example, think that a rose smells bad, but I smell sweet...

We don’t smell of anything,” said the daisy, “and by this, I hope, we set an example of good tone and taste. Perfume is a sign of indiscretion and vanity. A plant that respects itself does not make itself felt by smell: its beauty is enough for it.

I do not share your opinion! - exclaimed poppy, from which it smelled strongly, - perfume is a sign of health and mind.

The fat poppy's words were covered in laughter. The carnation held on to its sides, and the mignonette even fainted. But instead of getting angry, he began to criticize the shape and colors of the rose, which could not defend itself, because all its bushes were pruned, and on new shoots there were only small buds tightly wrapped in their green diapers. Luxuriously dressed Pansies terribly attacked double flowers, but since they made up the majority in the flower garden, they began to get angry. The jealousy that the rose aroused in everyone was so great that everyone decided to ridicule and humiliate her. Pansies had the most success - they compared the rose to a large head of cabbage and preferred the latter for its size and usefulness. The stupid things I had to hear drove me to despair, and I, grumbling, spoke in their language:

Shut up! I screamed, pushing those stupid flowers with my foot. - For all the time you did not say anything smart. I thought to hear among you the wonders of poetry, oh, how cruelly deceived I am! You disappoint me with your rivalry, vanity and petty jealousies.

There was a deep silence, and I withdrew from the flower garden. "Let's see," I said to myself, "perhaps wild plants have more sublime feelings than these well-bred talkers, who, having received beauty from us, also borrowed our prejudices and our falsity." I slipped through the shady hedge and went to the meadow, I wanted to know if the meadowsweet, which was called the queen of the meadows, was just as envious and proud. But I stopped beside a large wild rose, on which all the flowers spoke together.

“I’ll try to find out,” I thought, “whether the wild rose blackens the capital rose and whether it despises the terry rose.”

I must tell you that when I was a child, then there were not such diverse breeds of roses that scientific gardeners have since bred by grafting and transplanting, but nature was not poorer for this. Our bushes were full of various kinds of roses in the wild, they were: rosehip rose, which was considered a good remedy for the bite of rabid dogs, cinnamon rose, musk rose, rubiginous, which was considered one of the beautiful roses, rose blue-headed, felt, alpine and so on and so forth. In addition to these, we had other beautiful varieties of roses in our gardens, which are now almost lost; they were: striped - red and white, which had few petals, but had a bright yellow stamen with the smell of bergamot; this rose is very hardy and was not afraid of either a dry summer or a harsh winter; small and large double roses, now rare; and the little May rose, the earliest and most fragrant, is now almost never sold; the Damascus or Provence rose, which has been very useful to us and which we can now only find in the south of France; finally, the capital rose, or, rather, a rose with a hundred petals, whose homeland is unknown and which is usually referred to as grafted. This capital rose was for me, as for many others, the ideal rose, and I was not sure, as my professor was sure, that this monstrous rose owed its origin to the art of gardeners. I read from my poets that the rose was a model of beauty and fragrance in ancient times. In all likelihood, they did not then know about the existence of our tea rose, which does not smell at all, and about those lovely varieties of our day that have so changed the rose that it completely lost its true type. Then I was taught botany, but I understood it in my own way. I had a keen sense of smell, and I wanted the smell to be the hallmark of the flower. My professor, who snuffed tobacco, didn't want to take my word for it. He felt only the smell of tobacco, and when he sniffed some other plant, he began to sneeze endlessly.

And so, sitting by the hedge, I heard very distinctly the wild roses talking over my head. From their first words, I understood that they were talking about the origin of the rose.

Stay here, meek marshmallow! Look how we have blossomed! The lovely roses of the flower beds are still sleeping, wrapped in their green buds. Look how fresh and cheerful we are, and if you shake us a little, we will spread the same fragrance everywhere as our famous queen.

I heard the Zephyr answer them:

Shut up, you children of the north; I will gladly talk to you a little, but you do not even think to be equal to the queen of flowers.

Sweet Zephyr! We respect and love her, - answered the wild rose flowers in one voice, - and we know how other flowers of the garden envy her. They place her no higher than we are, and say that she is the daughter of a wild rose, and owes her beauty to the gardener's care and grafting. We are ignorant and do not know how to speak. You, who came to earth before us, tell us real story roses.

I will tell it to you, - answered the marshmallow, - because it is my own story. Listen and never forget.

And Zephyr said the following.

“During it, when earthly beings, like the authorities of the universe, still spoke the language of the gods, I was born the firstborn from the king of thunderstorms. My black wings touched the two ends of the vast horizon at once, and my huge hair mingled with the clouds. My appearance was terrible and menacing; I had the power to connect the clouds and stretch them like an impenetrable veil between the sky and the sun.

Long have I reigned with my father and brothers on a barren planet. Our duty was to throw everything into disorder and destroy everything. My brothers and I, cut off on all sides from this miserable little world, served as a constant hindrance to the manifestation of life on that formless mass that is now called the earth. I was the youngest and most cruel of all my brothers. When the king, my father, got tired, he lay down on top of the clouds and rested on them from his labors - constant destruction. But in the chest of the earth, then still inactive, a spirit swarmed, an omnipotent deity - the spirit of life, who wanted to live and who, breaking mountains, filling seas and connecting dust particles, one fine day began to break through everywhere. Our efforts redoubled, but served nothing but to hasten the action of a mass of beings who escaped us partly due to their microscopic nature, and partly, despite their seeming weakness, resisted us; small flexible plants, thin floating shells appeared everywhere: on the bark of the earth that had not yet cooled down, in the mud, in the water and in various debris. In vain we directed the waves of our anger at these barely noticeable creatures: life is non-stop, in different types and forms was born and manifested everywhere.

We began to tire of this apparently weak, but in fact inevitable resistance. We destroyed whole masses of living beings, but there were those among them who could resist us without dying. We were exhausted from anger and, in order to have some rest, retired to the top of the clouds - and there our father supplied us with new forces. And while he gave us various orders, the earth, freed for a few minutes from our presence on it, was covered with numerous plants and myriads of animals of various breeds, seeking shelter and food for themselves in vast forests or on the ledges of majestic mountains, as well as in vast waters.

Go, - our father, the king of thunderstorms, told us, - here the earth has dressed up in its Wedding Dress and is preparing to marry the sun, stand in the midst of them, gather huge clouds, roar - and try to let your breath destroy the forests, raze the mountains to the ground and scatter the sea. Go - and don't come back until there is at least one living creature or plant left on this accursed land, where life wants to develop in spite of us.

And we, like the spirits of death, rushed to both hemispheres of the earth. I, like an eagle, cutting through the veils of clouds, broke out over the ancient countries of the Far East - where deep gorges from the height of the Asian highlands descend to the sea under a hot fiery sky and where gigantic plants bloom in the moisture and terrible animals live. Having rested from the destruction, I again felt the presence of immeasurable power in myself. I was proud that among these weak ones, who seemed to laugh at me, I could sow confusion and death. With one blow of the wing, I, like a scythe, mowed down the whole area, with my breath I destroyed entire forests; I felt blind joy within myself and was intoxicated by the thought that I was stronger than all the forces of nature.

But suddenly I felt a hitherto unfamiliar smell and, struck by a completely new sensation for me, stopped to give myself an account. Then I saw for the first time a creature that appeared on earth in my absence - a creature fresh, tender and beautiful: it was a rose!

I burst out over her to destroy her, but she lay down on the grass and said to me:

Have pity on me! I'm so beautiful and fresh! Breathe in my fragrance - then you will spare me.

I sniffed it, and a sudden intoxication quelled my anger. I lay down on the ground beside her and fell asleep. When I awoke, the rose stood up, swaying softly with my soothed breath.

Be my friend! she told me. - Don't leave me anymore! When your wings are folded, I love you and even find you beautiful. You must be the king of the forests. Your soothing breath is like a beautiful singing. Stay with me or take me with you. Soar with me as high as you can and show me the sun and clouds closer.

I put the rose on my chest and flew with it. But soon it seemed to me that she was withering, exhausted, she no longer spoke, but her smell continued to delight me. Afraid of losing her, I flew quietly, lightly touching the tops of the trees and avoiding the slightest push. With great care, I ascended to the palace of the dark clouds, where my father was waiting for me.

What do you want? - he asked me - And why did you leave and not destroy this forest on the banks of the Indus, which I see from here? Come back and destroy him as soon as possible!

Listen, - I answered and showed him a rose. - I'll be right back, only I ask you to save this treasure.

With one breath, he tore the rose from my hand, which flew into space, sowing its faded petals everywhere.

I was about to rush to grab at least its stalk, but angry and implacable, the king of thunderstorms grabbed me and, placing his chest on his knee, angrily tore out my wings, the feathers of which flew down to join with the scattered rose petals.

Pitiful child! my father told me. - You have learned pity, you are no longer my son! .. Go to the ground and unite with that disastrous spirit of life, which is so brave, let's see what it will make of you. Now you are nothing!

And throwing me into the void, he forgot me forever.

I rolled down to a certain valley and prostrated myself in exhaustion beside a rose, which was cheerful, beautiful and fragrant more than ever.

What a miracle I considered you dead and mourned for you! Or do you have a gift to be reborn after death?

Yes, - answered the rose, - like all living beings. Take a look at these buds that surround me. Tonight I will lose my brilliance and start working on my revival, my sisters will enchant you with their beauty and, just like me, they will perfume you. Stay with us! Why don't you want to become our comrade and friend?

Deprived of my former strength, I felt so humiliated that I watered the ground with my tears, with which I felt forever chained. The spirit of life heard my cry and was touched by it. He came to me in the form bright angel and said:

You know compassion and took pity on the rose, now I want to take pity on you. It is true that your father is omnipotent, but I am even more powerful than he: he can destroy, and I can create.

Speaking in this way, the bright image touched me, and I turned into a lovely child, with a face like a rose. Butterfly wings grew on my shoulders, and I began to fly with pleasure.

Stay with the flowers, under the fresh shade of the forests, the Spirit of Life told me. - Now, under these domes of greenery, you will find protection for yourself. Later, when I conquer the fury of the elements, you can fly all over the earth, where people will love and bless you, and poets will sing. As for you, my lovely rose, which with its beauty was the first to tame the fury of storms, be you the guarantee of the future harmony of the now warring forces of nature. You will also serve as an example to future generations of people who will want everything to serve their needs. But the most precious gifts, like grace, tenderness, and beauty, may not be as important to them as wealth and strength. Teach them, dear rose, that the most important and most lawful force is that which enchants and reconciles. I proclaim you queen of the meadows, and this title I have given you will not dare to take from you in the coming ages. The task of the kingdoms that I establish is the establishment of peace and bliss on earth.

From that day on, I began to live in peace with the sky and was always loved by people, animals and plants. My divine origin kept me free to choose to live where I wanted. But I am a friend of the earth and a servant of life, to which I pay tribute with my breath, I cannot leave this earth, on which my eternal love. Yes, my little ones, I will always be faithful to the rose and consider myself your friend and brother.

In that case, the rosehip roses all at once exclaimed, give us a ball, and we will have fun together and sing praises to the queen - the oriental centennial rose.

Zephyr waved his beautiful wings, and a frantic dance began over my head, accompanied, instead of castanets and drums, by the rustle of branches and the flapping of leaves. Some of the little fools tore their pink ball gowns and sprinkled their petals on my hair, but they ignored it and continued to dance and sing:

“Long live the beautiful rose, she defeated the son of thunderstorms! Long live the marshmallow, friend of flowers!”

When I told my professor what I had heard, he decided that I was sick and that I needed to be given medicine. It's good that my grandmother stood up for me and said:

I am very sorry that you did not happen to hear the conversation of flowers. As for me, I deeply regret that I have lost the ability to understand this conversation: this ability belongs exclusively to children.

Beware of confusing ability with illness.

George Sand

What do the flowers say

To this the daisies all answered at once that the orator, the field red poppy, was absolutely right. One of the daisies, which was bigger and more beautiful than the others, asked to speak.

I do not share your opinion! - exclaimed poppy, from which it smelled strongly, - perfume is a sign of health and mind.

“I’ll try to find out,” I thought, “whether the wild rose blackens the capital rose and whether it despises the terry rose.”

I must tell you that when I was a child, then there were not such diverse breeds of roses that scientific gardeners have since bred by grafting and transplanting, but nature was not poorer for this. Our bushes were full of various kinds of roses in the wild, these were: rose hips, which was considered a good remedy for the bite of rabid dogs, cinnamon rose, musk rose, rubiginous, which was considered one of the beautiful roses, blue-headed rose, felt, alpine and so on and other. In addition to these, we had other beautiful varieties of roses in our gardens, which are now almost lost; they were: striped - red and white, which had few petals, but had a bright yellow stamen with the smell of bergamot; this rose is very hardy and was not afraid of either a dry summer or a harsh winter; small and large double roses, now rare; and the little May rose, the earliest and most fragrant, is now almost never sold; the Damascus or Provence rose, which has been very useful to us and which we can now only find in the south of France; finally, the capital rose, or, rather, a rose with a hundred petals, whose homeland is unknown and which is usually referred to as grafted. This capital rose was for me, as for many others, the ideal rose, and I was not sure, as my professor was sure, that this monstrous rose owed its origin to the art of gardeners. I read from my poets that the rose was a model of beauty and fragrance in ancient times. In all likelihood, they did not then know about the existence of our tea rose, which does not smell at all, and about those lovely varieties of our day that have so changed the rose that it completely lost its true type. Then I was taught botany, but I understood it in my own way. I had a keen sense of smell, and I wanted the smell to be the hallmark of the flower. My professor, who snuffed tobacco, didn't want to take my word for it. He felt only the smell of tobacco, and when he sniffed some other plant, he began to sneeze endlessly.

I am very sorry for you if you yourself have never heard what flowers are talking about.

I would like to go back to the times when I understood them. This is the property of children. Do not mix properties with ailments!

When I was little, I was very tormented that I could not make out what the flowers were talking about. My botany teacher assured me they didn't talk about anything. I don't know if he was deaf or hiding the truth from me, but he swore that flowers don't talk at all.

Meanwhile, I knew it wasn't. I myself heard their indistinct babble, especially in the evenings, when the dew was already setting. But they spoke so quietly that I couldn't make out the words. In addition, they were very distrustful, and if I walked through the garden between the flower beds or across the field, they whispered to each other: “Shh!” Anxiety seemed to be conveyed throughout the row: "Shut up, otherwise a curious girl is eavesdropping on you."

But I got my way. I learned to step so carefully so as not to touch a single blade of grass, and the flowers did not hear how I came close to them. And then, hiding under the trees so that they would not see my shadow, I finally understood their speech.

I had to exert all my attention. The flowers had such thin, gentle voices that the breath of a breeze or the buzzing of some nocturnal moth completely drowned them out.

I don't know what language they spoke. It was neither French nor Latin, which I was taught at the time, but I understood it perfectly. It even seems to me that I understood it better than other languages I know.

One evening, lying on the sand, I managed not to utter a word of what was said in the corner of the flower garden. I tried not to move and heard one of the field poppies speak:

- Gentlemen, it's time to put an end to these prejudices. All plants are equally noble. Our family is second to none. Let anyone recognize the rose as a queen, but I declare that I have had enough, and I do not consider anyone entitled to call himself more noble than I.

“I don’t understand what the rose family is so proud of. Tell me, please, is the rose more beautiful and slimmer than me? Nature and art combined to increase the number of our petals and make our colors especially bright. We are undoubtedly richer, since the most luxurious rose has many, many two hundred petals, while ours has up to five hundred. And such shades of lilac and even almost blue, like ours, a rose will never achieve.

- I'll tell myself, - intervened a brisk bindweed, - I'm Prince Delphinium. Sky blue is reflected in my aureole, and my numerous relatives own all pink overflows. As you can see, the notorious queen can envy us in many ways, and as for her vaunted aroma, then ...

“Ah, don’t talk about it,” the field poppy interrupted with fervor. - I'm just annoyed by the eternal rumors about some kind of aroma. Well, what is the aroma, please tell me? A conventional concept coined by gardeners and butterflies. I find that roses have an unpleasant smell, but I have a pleasant one.

“We don’t smell of anything,” said the astra, “and by this we prove our decency and good manners. The smell indicates indiscretion or boastfulness. A self-respecting flower will not hit you in the nose. It's enough that he's handsome.

- I disagree with you! - exclaimed the terry poppy, which was distinguished by a strong aroma. - The smell is a reflection of the mind and health.

The voice of the terry poppy was drowned out by friendly laughter. The carnations held on to their sides, and the mignonette swayed from side to side. But, paying no attention to them, he began to criticize the shape and color of the rose, which could not answer - all rose bushes shortly before that, they were pruned, and on young shoots only small buds appeared, tightly tied together with green slings.

richly dressed pansies they spoke out against terry flowers, and since terry flowers predominated in the flower garden, general displeasure began. However, everyone was so envious of the rose that they soon made up with each other and began to vied with each other to ridicule her.

It was even compared with a head of cabbage, and they said that a head of cabbage, in any case, is both thicker and more useful. The nonsense I listened to made me impatient, and stamping my foot, I suddenly spoke in the language of flowers:

- Shut up! You are all talking nonsense! I thought to hear the wonders of poetry here, but, to my extreme disappointment, I found in you only rivalry, vanity, envy!

There was a deep silence, and I ran out of the garden.

I'll see, I thought, maybe wild flowers are smarter than these swaggering garden plants, which receive artificial beauty from us and at the same time seem to be infected by our prejudices and mistakes.

Under the shade of the hedge, I made my way to the field. I wanted to know if the spirits, who are called the queens of the field, are just as proud and envious. On the way, I stopped near a large wild rose, on which all the flowers were talking.

I must tell you that during my childhood there were not yet numerous varieties of roses, which were subsequently obtained by skillful gardeners through coloring. Nevertheless, nature did not deprive our area, where a variety of roses grew wild. And in the garden we had a centifolia - a rose with a hundred petals; her homeland is unknown, but her origin is usually attributed to culture.

For me, as for everyone then, this centifolia represented the ideal of the rose, and I was not at all sure, like my teacher, that it was only the product of skillful gardening. From books, I knew that even in ancient times, the rose delighted people with its beauty and its aroma. Of course, at that time they did not know the tea rose, which no longer smells like a rose, and all these lovely breeds, which now diversify to infinity, but, in essence, distort the true type of rose. They began to teach me botany, but I understood it in my own way. I had a delicate sense of smell, and I certainly wanted the aroma to be considered one of the main signs of a flower. My teacher, who snuffed tobacco, did not share my hobby. He was sensitive only to the smell of tobacco, and if he sniffed any plant, then he assured me later that it tickled his nose.

I listened with all my ears to what the wild rose was talking about over my head, since from the very first words I realized that we are talking about the origin of the rose.

“Stay still with us, dear breeze,” said the wild rose flowers. - We have blossomed, and the beautiful roses in the flowerbeds are still sleeping in their green shells. Look how fresh and cheerful we are, and if you shake us a little, then we will have the same delicate aroma as our glorious queen.

- Shut up, you're only children of the north. I'll chat with you for a minute, but don't think of being equal to the queen of flowers.

- Dear breeze, we respect and adore her, - rosehip flowers answered. - We know how other flowers envy her. They assure us that the rose is no better than us, that it is the daughter of the wild rose and owes its beauty only to tinting and care. We ourselves are uneducated and do not know how to object. You are older and more experienced than us. Tell me, do you know anything about the origin of the rose?

- Well, my own story is connected with it. Listen and never forget it!

That's what the breeze said.

- In those days, when earthly creatures still spoke the language of the gods, I was the eldest son of the king of storms. With the tips of my black wings I touched the opposite points of the horizon. My huge hair was intertwined with clouds. My appearance was majestic and formidable. It was in my power to collect all the clouds from the west and spread them in an impenetrable veil between the Earth and the Sun.

For a long time, with my father and brothers, I reigned over a barren planet. Our task was to destroy and destroy everything. When my brothers and I rushed from all sides to this helpless and small world, it seemed that life could never appear on the formless block, now called the Earth. If my father felt tired, he lay down to rest on the clouds, leaving me to continue his destructive work. But inside the Earth, which still retained immobility, there was hidden a mighty divine spirit - the spirit of life, which aspired outward and one day, breaking mountains, pushing seas apart, collecting a heap of dust, made its way. We redoubled our efforts, but only contributed to the growth of innumerable creatures, which, due to their small size, eluded us or resisted us by their very weakness. On a still warm surface earth's crust, in crevices, in the waters, flexible plants, floating shells appeared. In vain we drove furious waves at these tiny creatures. Life constantly appeared in new forms, as if a patient and inventive genius of creativity decided to adapt all the organs and needs of beings to the environment we are overwhelmed with.

We began to get fed up with this resistance, seemingly so weak, but in fact insurmountable. We destroyed entire families of living creatures, but in their place others appeared, more adapted to the struggle, which they successfully withstood. Then we decided to gather with the clouds to discuss the situation and ask our father for new reinforcements.

While he was giving us his orders, the Earth, briefly rested from our persecution, managed to be covered with many plants, among which myriads of animals of the most diverse breeds moved, looking for shelter and food in huge forests, on the slopes of mighty mountains or in clear waters huge lakes.

- Go, - said the king of storms, my father. “Look, the Earth has dressed up like a bride about to marry the Sun. Separate them. Collect huge clouds, blow with all your might. Let your breath uproot the trees, flatten the mountains, stir up the seas. Go and don't come back until at least one living being, at least one plant remains on this accursed Earth, where life wants to settle in defiance of us.

We went to sow death in both hemispheres. Splitting the cloudy veil like an eagle, I rushed to the countries Far East, where, on the sloping lowlands, descending to the sea under a sultry sky, gigantic plants and fierce animals are found among strong moisture. I had a rest from my former fatigue and now I felt an unusual rise in strength. I was proud to bring destruction to weak creatures who dared not succumb to me the first time. With one flap of my wing I swept an entire area clean, with one breath I dug out an entire forest and madly, blindly rejoiced that I was stronger than all the mighty forces of nature.

Suddenly I smelled an unfamiliar aroma and, surprised at this new sensation, I stopped to figure out where it came from. Then for the first time I saw a creature that appeared during my absence, a gentle, graceful, lovely creature - a rose!

I rushed to crush her. She bent down, lay down on the ground and said to me:

- Have pity on me! After all, I'm so beautiful and meek! Breathe in my fragrance, then you will spare me.

I inhaled her fragrance - and a sudden intoxication softened my rage. Dropping to the ground beside her, I fell asleep.

When I woke up, the rose had already straightened up and stood, swaying slightly from my calm breathing.

“Be my friend,” she said, “do not leave me. When your terrible wings are folded, I like you. How beautiful you are! That's right, you are the king of the forests! In your gentle breath I hear a wonderful song. Stay here or take me with myself. I want to look closely at the sun and clouds. I put the rose on my chest and flew. But soon it seemed to me that she was dying. From exhaustion, she was no longer able to talk to me, but her scent continued to delight me. Fearing to destroy her, I flew quietly over the tops of the trees, avoiding the slightest jolt. Thus, with precautions, I reached the palace of dark clouds, where my father was waiting for me.

- What do you need? - he asked. - Why did you leave the forest on the shores of India? I can see him from here. Come back and destroy him quickly.

“Very well,” I replied, showing him the rose. “But let me leave

you are a treasure that I want to save.

- Save! he exclaimed and growled in anger. - Do you want to save something?

With one breath, he knocked the rose out of my hands, which disappeared into space, scattering its faded petals all around.

I rushed after her to grab at least one petal. But the tsar, formidable and inexorable, in turn, grabbed me, threw me down, crushed my chest with his knee and tore off my wings with force, so that the feathers from them flew into space after the rose petals.

- Unfortunate! - he said. - You were imbued with compassion, now you are no longer my son. Go to Earth to the ill-fated spirit of life, which is resisting me. Let's see if he can do anything of you, when now, by my grace, you're good for nothing.

Pushing me into a bottomless abyss, he disowned me forever.

I rolled to the lawn and, broken, destroyed, found myself next to the rose. And she was cheerful and fragrant more than before.

- What a miracle? I thought you were dead and mourned for you. Are you gifted with the ability to be reborn after death?

“Of course,” she replied, “as are all beings supported by the spirit of life. Take a look at the buds around me. Tonight I will already lose my brilliance and will have to take care of my rebirth, and my sisters will captivate you with their beauty and fragrance. Stay with us. Are you not our friend and comrade?

I was so humiliated by my fall that I shed tears on the ground, to which I now felt chained. My sobs touched the spirit of life. He appeared to me in the form of a radiant angel and said:

- You have known compassion, you have pity on the rose, for this I will pity you. Your father is strong, but I am stronger than him, because he destroys, and I create. With these words, he touched me, and I turned into a pretty ruddy child. Butterfly-like wings suddenly sprang up behind my shoulders, and I began to fly with admiration.

“Stay with the flowers under the shadow of the forests,” the spirit told me. - Now these green vaults will shelter and protect you. Subsequently, when I manage to defeat the fury of the elements, you will be able to fly around the whole Earth, where you will be blessed and sung. And you, beautiful rose You were the first to disarm anger with your beauty! Be a symbol of the coming reconciliation of the now hostile forces of nature. Teach also future generations. Civilized peoples will want to use everything for their own purposes. My precious gifts - meekness, beauty, grace - will seem to them almost inferior to wealth and strength. Show them, dear rose, that there is no higher power than the ability to enchant and reconcile. I give you a title that no one will dare to take away from you forever and ever. I proclaim you the queen of flowers. The kingdom I establish is divine and works only by charm.

From that day on, I lived peacefully, and people, animals and plants fell in love with me passionately. Due to my divine origin, I can choose my place of residence anywhere, but I am a devoted servant of life, which I promote with my beneficent breath, and do not want to leave the dear Earth, where my first and eternal love holds me. Yes, dear flowers, I am a true admirer of the rose, and therefore your brother and friend.

- In that case, arrange a ball for us! - exclaimed the wild rose flowers. - We will have fun and sing the praises of our queen, the rose of the east with a hundred petals. The breeze stirred its pretty wings, and lively dances began over my head, accompanied by the rustling of branches and the rustle of leaves, which replaced tambourines and castanets. Some of the wild roses tore their ball gowns out of infatuation and showered their petals on my hair. But this did not stop them from dancing further, singing:

- Long live the beautiful rose, who defeated the son of the king of storms with her meekness! Long live the good breeze, the remaining friend of flowers!

When I told my teacher everything I heard, he said that I was sick and that I should be given a laxative. However, my grandmother helped me out and told him:

- I am very sorry for you if you yourself have never heard what flowers are talking about. I would like to go back to the times when I understood them. This is the property of children. Do not mix properties with ailments!

The main character of the fairy tale "What the Flowers Talk About" thinks that she can hear the voices of flowers. Botany teacher says flowers can't talk. In fact, the teacher is right, because flowers cannot talk like people. At the same time, the girl is also right, because her attention to all living things, sympathy help her seem to hear the voices of plants.

The flowers were arguing about which of them is more beautiful and better. They were outraged that people paid more attention to the rose. They wanted to prove their superiority over the beauty of roses because they felt offended and envious of the rose.

Flowers argue about which of them is the best and most beautiful. They are outraged that people pay more attention to the rose than to other flowers. They were very jealous of the rose and felt offended and wanted to prove their advantages.
Bindweed called himself "Prince Delphinium" and said that his whisk reflects heavenly glaze.
The field poppy considered the smell of a rose unpleasant, but his own pleasant.
Asters called themselves well-mannered because they don't smell of anything at all. The smell, in their opinion, is a sign of boasting and indiscretion. They also boasted of their shades of purple and blue flowers and they said that a nickname has up to 500 petals, and a rose has only two hundred.
The girl was very outraged by the rivalry of flowers, their envy, pride and vanity, and called the conversations of flowers nonsense.
The breeze told the wild rose flowers that he was once the eldest son of the king of storms, and his goal was the destruction of all life.
One day, his father sent him to Earth and ordered that not a single living creature be left on it. The destructive power of the wind was stopped by the rose, which asked the wind to spare her. The wind breathed in the fragrance of the rose, his anger disappeared. His father tore off his wings and drove him to Earth, and the "spirit of life" took pity on the exile and turned him into a small breeze.

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What do the flowers say

I had to exert all my attention. The flowers had such thin, gentle voices that the breath of a breeze or the buzzing of some nocturnal moth completely drowned them out.

One evening, lying on the sand, I managed not to utter a word of what was said in the corner of the flower garden. I tried not to move and heard one of the field poppies speak:

“Gentlemen, it is time to put an end to these prejudices. All plants are equally noble. Our family is second to none. Let anyone recognize the rose as a queen, but I declare that I have had enough, and I do not consider anyone entitled to call himself more noble than I.

“I’ll tell you about myself,” the brisk bindweed intervened, “I’m Prince Delphinium.” Sky blue is reflected in my aureole, and my numerous relatives own all pink overflows. As you can see, the notorious queen can envy us in many ways, and as for her vaunted aroma, then ...

“Ah, don’t talk about it,” the field poppy interrupted with fervor. - I'm just annoyed by the eternal talk about some kind of aroma. Well, what is the aroma, please tell me? A conventional concept coined by gardeners and butterflies. I find that roses have an unpleasant smell, but I have a pleasant one.

- I don't agree with you! - exclaimed the terry poppy, which was distinguished by a strong aroma. - The smell is a reflection of the mind and health.

The voice of the terry poppy was drowned out by friendly laughter. The carnations held on to their sides, and the mignonette swayed from side to side. But, ignoring them, he began to criticize the shape and color of the rose, which could not answer - all the rose bushes had been pruned shortly before, and only small buds appeared on young shoots, tightly tied together with green twine.

Richly dressed pansies spoke out against double flowers, and since double flowers prevailed in the flower garden, general displeasure began. However, everyone was so envious of the rose that they soon made up with each other and began to vied with each other to ridicule her. It was even compared with a head of cabbage, and they said that a head of cabbage, in any case, is both thicker and more useful. The nonsense I listened to made me impatient, and stamping my foot, I suddenly spoke in the language of flowers:

- Shut up! You are all talking nonsense! I thought to hear the wonders of poetry here, but, to my extreme disappointment, I found in you only rivalry, vanity, envy!

There was a deep silence, and I ran out of the garden.

I listened with all my ears to what the wild rose was talking about above my head, since from the very first words I understood that it was about the origin of the rose.

“Stay still with us, dear breeze,” the rosehip flowers said. - We have blossomed, and the beautiful roses in the flowerbeds are still sleeping in their green shells. Look how fresh and cheerful we are, and if you shake us a little, then we will have the same delicate aroma as our glorious queen.

- Shut up, you are only children of the north. I'll chat with you for a minute, but don't think of being equal to the queen of flowers.

“Darling breeze, we respect and adore her,” rosehip flowers answered. We know how other flowers envy her. They assure us that the rose is no better than us, that it is the daughter of the wild rose and owes its beauty only to tinting and care. We ourselves are uneducated and do not know how to object. You are older and more experienced than us. Tell me, do you know anything about the origin of the rose?

- Well, my own story is connected with it. Listen and never forget it!

That's what the breeze said.

– In those days, when earthly creatures still spoke the language of the gods, I was the eldest son of the king of storms. With the tips of my black wings I touched the opposite points of the horizon. My huge hair was intertwined with clouds. My appearance was majestic and formidable. It was in my power to collect all the clouds from the west and spread them in an impenetrable veil between the Earth and the Sun.

For a long time, with my father and brothers, I reigned over a barren planet. Our task was to destroy and destroy everything. When my brothers and I rushed from all sides to this helpless and small world, it seemed that life could never appear on the shapeless block, now called the Earth. If my father felt tired, he lay down to rest on the clouds, leaving me to continue his destructive work. But inside the Earth, which still retained immobility, there was hidden a mighty divine spirit - the spirit of life, which aspired outward and one day, breaking mountains, pushing seas apart, collecting a heap of dust, made its way. We redoubled our efforts, but only contributed to the growth of innumerable creatures, which, due to their small size, eluded us or resisted us by their very weakness. On the still warm surface of the earth's crust, in crevices, in the waters, flexible plants, floating shells appeared. In vain we drove furious waves at these tiny creatures. Life constantly appeared in new forms, as if a patient and inventive genius of creativity decided to adapt all the organs and needs of beings to the environment we are overwhelmed with.

While he was giving us his orders, the Earth, having briefly rested from our persecution, managed to become covered with many plants, among which myriads of animals of the most diverse breeds moved, looking for shelter and food in huge forests, on the slopes of mighty mountains or in clear waters. huge lakes.

“Go,” said the king of storms, my father. “Look, the Earth is dressed up like a bride about to marry the Sun. Separate them. Collect huge clouds, blow with all your might. Let your breath uproot the trees, flatten the mountains, stir up the seas. Go and don't come back until at least one living being, at least one plant remains on this accursed Earth, where life wants to settle in defiance of us.

We went to sow death in both hemispheres. Cutting through the cloudy veil like an eagle, I rushed to the countries of the Far East, where on the sloping lowlands descending to the sea under a sultry sky, gigantic plants and fierce animals are found among strong moisture. I had a rest from my former fatigue and now I felt an unusual rise in strength. I was proud to bring destruction to weak creatures who dared not succumb to me the first time. With one flap of my wing I swept an entire area clean, with one breath I dug out an entire forest and madly, blindly rejoiced that I was stronger than all the mighty forces of nature.

I rushed to crush her. She bent down, lay down on the ground and said to me:

- Have pity on me! After all, I'm so beautiful and meek! Breathe in my fragrance, then you will spare me.

I inhaled her scent, and a sudden intoxication softened my fury. Dropping to the ground beside her, I fell asleep.

When I woke up, the rose had already straightened up and stood, swaying slightly from my calm breathing.

with myself. I want to look closely at the sun and clouds. I put the rose on my chest and flew. But soon it seemed to me that she was dying. From exhaustion, she was no longer able to talk to me, but her scent continued to delight me. Fearing to destroy her, I flew quietly over the tops of the trees, avoiding the slightest jolt. Thus, with precautions, I reached the palace of dark clouds, where my father was waiting for me.

- What do you need? - he asked. - Why did you leave the forest on the shores of India? I can see him from here. Come back and destroy him quickly.

“Very well,” I answered, showing him the rose. “But let me leave

you are a treasure that I want to save.

- Save! he exclaimed and growled in anger. Do you want to save something?

With one breath, he knocked the rose out of my hands, which disappeared into space, scattering its faded petals all around.

- Unfortunate! - he said. “You were filled with compassion, now you are no longer my son. Go to Earth to the ill-fated spirit of life, which is resisting me. Let's see if he can do anything of you, when now, by my grace, you're good for nothing.

Pushing me into a bottomless abyss, he disowned me forever.

I rolled to the lawn and, broken, destroyed, found myself next to the rose. And she was cheerful and fragrant more than before.

– What a miracle? I thought you were dead and mourned for you. Are you gifted with the ability to be reborn after death?

“Of course,” she replied, “as are all beings sustained by the spirit of life. Take a look at the buds around me. Tonight I will already lose my brilliance and will have to take care of my rebirth, and my sisters will captivate you with their beauty and fragrance. Stay with us. Are you not our friend and comrade?

I was so humiliated by my fall that I shed tears on the ground, to which I now felt chained. My sobs touched the spirit of life. He appeared to me in the form of a radiant angel and said:

“You have known compassion, you have pity on the rose, for that I will pity you. Your father is strong, but I am stronger than him, because he destroys, and I create. With these words, he touched me, and I turned into a pretty ruddy child. Butterfly-like wings suddenly sprang up behind my shoulders, and I began to fly with admiration.

“Stay with the flowers under the shadow of the forests,” the spirit told me. “Now these green vaults will shelter and protect you. Subsequently, when I manage to defeat the fury of the elements, you will be able to fly around the whole Earth, where you will be blessed and sung. And you, beautiful rose, you were the first to disarm anger with your beauty! Be a symbol of the coming reconciliation of the now hostile forces of nature. Teach also future generations. Civilized peoples will want to use everything for their own purposes. My precious gifts - meekness, beauty, grace - will seem to them almost inferior to wealth and strength. Show them, dear rose, that there is no higher power than the ability to enchant and reconcile. I give you a title that no one will dare to take away from you forever and ever. I proclaim you the queen of flowers. The kingdom I establish is divine and works only by charm.

- In that case, arrange a ball for us! exclaimed the wild rose flowers. - We will have fun and sing the praises of our queen, the rose of the east with a hundred petals. The breeze stirred its pretty wings, and lively dances began over my head, accompanied by the rustling of branches and the rustle of leaves, which replaced tambourines and castanets. Some of the wild roses tore their ball gowns out of infatuation and showered their petals on my hair. But this did not stop them from dancing further, singing:

- Long live the beautiful rose, who defeated the son of the king of storms with her meekness! Long live the good breeze, the remaining friend of flowers!

When I told my teacher everything I heard, he said that I was sick and that I should be given a laxative. However, my grandmother helped me out and told him:

“I am very sorry for you if you yourself have never heard what the flowers are talking about. I would like to go back to the times when I understood them. This is the property of children. Do not mix properties with ailments!

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