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

He peered at her curiously. "Oh? Well, if it will please you....All right, Violet, but off with that dress
before you pour up."

Why, wondered Anna, do I keep thinking his declaration of love to a red rose is my death sentence? It's
moving too fast. Who, whatтАФis The Red Rose? The Nightingale dies in making the white rose red. So
sheтАФor IтАФcan't be The Red Rose. Anyway, The Nightingale is ugly, and The Rose is beautiful. And
why must The Student have a Red Rose? How will it admit him to his mysterious dance?

"Ah , Madame De Medici is back." Jacques took the glass and purple bundle the old woman put on the
table. "What are the proper words?" he asked Anna.

"Whatever you want to say."

His eyes, suddenly grave, looked into hers. He said quietly; "If ever The Red Rose presents herself to
me, I shall love her forever."

Anna trembled as he upended the glass.

Chapter Fifteen
A little later they slipped into the Park of the White Roses. The buds were just beginning to open, and
thousands of white floreate eyes blinked at them in the harsh artificial light. As before, the enclosure was
empty, and silent, save for the chattering splashing of its single fountain.

Anna abandoned a disconnected attempt to analyze the urge that had brought her here a second time. It's
all too fatalistic, she thought, too involved. If I've entrapped myself, I can't feel bitter about it. "Just think,"
she murmured aloud, "in less than ten minutes it will all be over, one way or the other."

"Really? But where's my red rose?"

How could she even consider loving this jeering beast? She said coldly: "I think you'd better go. It may
be rather messy in here soon." She thought of how her body would look, sprawling, misshapen, uglier
than ever. She couldn't let him see her that way.

"Oh, we've plenty of time. No red rose, eh? Hmm. It seems to me, Anna, that you're composing yourself
for death prematurely. There really is that little matter of the rose to be taken care of first, you know. As
The Student, I must insist on my rights."

What made him be this way? "Ruy, please..." Her voice was trembling, and she was suddenly very near
to tears.

"There, dear, don't apologize. Even the best of us are thoughtless at times. Though I must admit, I never
expected such lack of consideration, such poor manners, in you. But then, at heart, you aren't really an
artist. You've no appreciation of form." He began to untie the bundled purple dress, and his voice took
on the argumentative dogmatism of a platform lecturer. "The perfection of form, of technique, is the
highest achievement possible to the artist. When he subordinates form to subject matter, he degenerates
eventually into a boot-lick, a scientist, or, worst of all, a Man with a Message. Here, catch!" He tossed
the gaudy garment at Anna, who accepted it in rebellious wonder.

Critically, the artist eyed the nauseating contrast of the purple and green dresses, glanced momentarily