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The Tree
Lovecraft, Howard Phillips
Published:
1921
Categorie(s):
Fiction, Short Stories
Source:
http://en.wikisource.org
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About Lovecraft:
Howard Phillips Lovecraft was an American author of fantasy, horror
and science fiction. He is notable for blending elements of science fiction
and horror; and for popularizing "cosmic horror": the notion that some
concepts, entities or experiences are barely comprehensible to human
minds, and those who delve into such risk their sanity. Lovecraft has be-
come a cult figure in the horror genre and is noted as creator of the
"Cthulhu Mythos," a series of loosely interconnected fictions featuring a
"pantheon" of nonhuman creatures, as well as the famed Necronomicon,
a grimoire of magical rites and forbidden lore. His works typically had a
tone of "cosmic pessimism," regarding mankind as insignificant and
powerless in the universe. Lovecraft's readership was limited during his
life, and his works, particularly early in his career, have been criticized as
occasionally ponderous, and for their uneven quality. Nevertheless,
Lovecraft’s reputation has grown tremendously over the decades, and he
is now commonly regarded as one of the most important horror writers
of the 20th Century, exerting an influence that is widespread, though of-
ten indirect. Source: Wikipedia
Also available on Feedbooks for Lovecraft:
•
(1926)
•
(1931)
•
(1928)
•
(1934)
•
(1931)
•
(1936)
•
(1930)
•
(1927)
•
(1938)
•
(1932)
Copyright:
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On a verdant slope of Mount Maenalus, in Arcadia, there stands an olive
grove about the ruins of a villa. Close by is a tomb, once beautiful with
the sublimest sculptures, but now fallen into as great decay as the house.
At one end of that tomb, its curious roots displacing the time-stained
blocks of Panhellic marble, grows an unnaturally large olive tree of
oddly repellent shape; so like to some grotesque man, or death-distorted
body of a man, that the country folk fear to pass it at night when the
moon shines faintly through the crooked boughs. Mount Maenalus is a
chosen haunt of dreaded Pan, whose queer companions are many, and
simple swains believe that the tree must have some hideous kinship to
these weird Panisci; but an old bee-keeper who lives in the neighboring
cottage told me a different story.
Many years ago, when the hillside villa was new and resplendent,
there dwelt within it the two sculptors Kalos and Musides. From Lydia
to Neapolis the beauty of their work was praised, and none dared say
that the one excelled the other in skill. The Hermes of Kalos stood in a
marble shrine in Corinth, and the Pallas of Musides surmounted a pillar
in Athens near the Parthenon. All men paid homage to Kalos and
Musides, and marvelled that no shadow of artistic jealousy cooled the
warmth of their brotherly friendship.
But though Kalos and Musides dwelt in unbroken harmony, their
natures were not alike. Whilst Musides revelled by night amidst the urb-
an gaieties of Tegea, Saios would remain at home; stealing away from
the sight of his slaves into the cool recesses of the olive grove. There he
would meditate upon the visions that filled his mind, and there devise
the forms of beauty which later became immortal in breathing marble.
Idle folk, indeed, said that Kalos conversed with the spirits of the grove,
and that his statues were but images of the fauns and dryads he met
there for he patterned his work after no living model.
So famous were Kalos and Musides, that none wondered when the
Tyrant of Syracuse sent to them deputies to speak of the costly statue of
Tyche which he had planned for his city. Of great size and cunning
workmanship must the statue be, for it was to form a wonder of nations
and a goal of travellers. Exalted beyond thought would be he whose
work should gain acceptance, and for this honor Kalos and Musides
were invited to compete. Their brotherly love was well known, and the
crafty Tyrant surmised that each, instead of concealing his work from the
other, would offer aid and advice; this charity producing two images of
unheard of beauty, the lovelier of which would eclipse even the dreams
of poets.
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With joy the sculptors hailed the Tyrant's offer, so that in the days that
followed their slaves heard the ceaseless blows of chisels. Not from each
other did Kalos and Musides conceal their work, but the sight was for
them alone. Saving theirs, no eyes beheld the two divine figures released
by skillful blows from the rough blocks that had imprisoned them since
the world began.
At night, as of yore, Musides sought the banquet halls of Tegea whilst
Kalos wandered alone in the olive Grove. But as time passed, men ob-
served a want of gaiety in the once sparkling Musides. It was strange,
they said amongst themselves that depression should thus seize one with
so great a chance to win art's loftiest reward. Many months passed yet in
the sour face of Musides came nothing of the sharp expectancy which the
situation should arouse.
Then one day Musides spoke of the illness of Kalos, after which none
marvelled again at his sadness, since the sculptors' attachment was
known to be deep and sacred. Subsequently many went to visit Kalos,
and indeed noticed the pallor of his face; but there was about him a
happy serenity which made his glance more magical than the glance of
Musides who was clearly distracted with anxiety and who pushed aside
all the slaves in his eagerness to feed and wait upon his friend with his
own hands. Hidden behind heavy curtains stood the two unfinished fig-
ures of Tyche, little touched of late by the sick man and his faithful
attendant.
As Kalos grew inexplicably weaker and weaker despite the ministra-
tions of puzzled physicians and of his assiduous friend, he desired to be
carried often to the grove which he so loved. There he would ask to be
left alone, as if wishing to speak with unseen things. Musides ever gran-
ted his requests, though his eyes filled with visible tears at the thought
that Kalos should care more for the fauns and the dryads than for him.
At last the end drew near, and Kalos discoursed of things beyond this
life. Musides, weeping, promised him a sepulchre more lovely than the
tomb of Mausolus; but Kalos bade him speak no more of marble glories.
Only one wish now haunted the mind of the dying man; that twigs from
certain olive trees in the grove be buried by his resting place-close to his
head. And one night, sitting alone in the darkness of the olive grove,
Kalos died. Beautiful beyond words was the marble sepulchre which
stricken Musides carved for his beloved friend. None but Kalos himself
could have fashioned such basreliefs, wherein were displayed all the
splendours of Elysium. Nor did Musides fail to bury close to Kalos' head
the olive twigs from the grove.
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As the first violence of Musides' grief gave place to resignation, he
labored with diligence upon his figure of Tyche. All honour was now
his, since the Tyrant of Syracuse would have the work of none save him
or Kalos. His task proved a vent for his emotion and he toiled more
steadily each day, shunning the gaieties he once had relished. Mean-
while his evenings were spent beside the tomb of his friend, where a
young olive tree had sprung up near the sleeper's head. So swift was the
growth of this tree, and so strange was its form, that all who beheld it ex-
claimed in surprise; and Musides seemed at once fascinated and
repelled.
Three years after the death of Kalos, Musides despatched a messenger
to the Tyrant, and it was whispered in the agora at Tegea that the mighty
statue was finished. By this time the tree by the tomb had attained amaz-
ing proportions, exceeding all other trees of its kind, and sending out a
singularly heavy branch above the apartment in which Musides labored.
As many visitors came to view the prodigious tree, as to admire the art
of the sculptor, so that Musides was seldom alone. But he did not mind
his multitude of guests; indeed, he seemed to dread being alone now that
his absorbing work was done. The bleak mountain wind, sighing
through the olive grove and the tomb-tree, had an uncanny way of form-
ing vaguely articulate sounds.
The sky was dark on the evening that the Tyrant's emissaries came to
Tegea. It was definitely known that they had come to bear away the
great image of Tyche and bring eternal honour to Musides, so their re-
ception by the proxenoi was of great warmth. As the night wore on a vi-
olent storm of wind broke over the crest of Maenalus, and the men from
far Syracuse were glad that they rested snugly in the town. They talked
of their illustrious Tyrant, and of the splendour of his capital and exulted
in the glory of the statue which Musides had wrought for him. And then
the men of Tegea spoke of the goodness of Musides, and of his heavy
grief for his friend and how not even the coming laurels of art could con-
sole him in the absence of Kalos, who might have worn those laurels in-
stead. Of the tree which grew by the tomb, near the head of Kalos, they
also spoke. The wind shrieked more horribly, and both the Syracusans
and the Arcadians prayed to Aiolos.
In the sunshine of the morning the proxenoi led the Tyrant's messen-
gers up the slope to the abode of the sculptor, but the night wind had
done strange things. Slaves' cries ascended from a scene of desolation,
and no more amidst the olive grove rose the gleaming colonnades of that
vast hall wherein Musides had dreamed and toiled. Lone and shaken
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