"Charles L. Harness - The Rose" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harness Charles L)

The psychiatrist lifted her shoulders delicately. "I agree. It is ridiculous. What sane woman at the peak of
her profession would suddenly toss up her career to mergeтАФyou'd say "submerge"тАФher identity, her
very existence, with that of an utterly alien male mentality?"

"What woman, indeed?"

Anna mused to herself, and did not answer. Finally she said: "And yet, that's the price; take it or leave it,
they say. What's a girl to do?"

"Stick up for her rights!" declared Martha Jacques spiritedly.

"All hail to unrewarding perseverance!" Ruy Jacques was back, swaying slightly. He pointed his half-filled
glass toward the ceiling and shouted: "Friends! A toast! Let us drink to the two charter members of the
Knights of the Crimson Grail." He bowed in saturnine mockery to his glowering wife. "To Martha! May
she soon solve the Jacques Rosette and blast humanity into the heavens!"

Simultaneously he drank and held up a hand to silence the sudden spate of jeers and laughter. Then,
turning toward the now apprehensive psychiatrist, he essayed a second bow of such sweeping
grandiosity that his glass was upset. As he straightened, however, he calmly traded glasses with her. "To
my old schoolteacher, Dr. van Tuyl. A nightingale whose secret ambition is to become as beautiful as a
red red rose. May Allah grant her prayers." He blinked at her beatifically in the sudden silence. "What
was that comment, doctor?"

"I said you were a drunken idiot," replied Anna. "But let it pass." She was panting, her head whirling. She
raised her voice to the growing cluster of faces. "Ladies and gentlemen, I offer you the third seeker of the
grail! A truly great artist. Ruy Jacques, a child of the coming epoch, whose sole aim is not aimlessness, as
he would like you to think, but a certain marvelous rose. Her curling petals shall be of subtle texture, yet
firm withal, and brilliant red. It is this rose that he must find, to save his mind and body, and to put a soul
in him."

"She's right!" cried the artist in dark glee. "To Ruy Jacques, then! Join in, everybody. The party's on
Martha!"

He downed his glass, then turned a suddenly grave face to his audience. "But it's really such a pity in
Anna's case, isn't it? Because her cure is so simple."

The psychiatrist listened; her head was throbbing dizzily.

"As any competent psychiatrist could tell her," continued the artist mercilessly, "she has identified herself
with the nightingale in her ballet. The nightingale isn't much to look at. On top it's a dirty brown; at
bottom, you might say it's a drab gray. But ah! The soul of this plain little bird! Look into my soul, she
pleads. Hold me in your strong arms, look into my soul, and think me as lovely as a red rose."

Even before he put his wine glass down on the table, Anna knew what was coming. She didn't need to
watch the stiffening cheeks and flaring nostrils of Martha Jacques, nor the sudden flash of fear in Bell's
eyes, to know what was going to happen next.

He held out his arms to her, his swart satyr-face nearly impassive save for its eternal suggestion of
sardonic mockery.