9 The Tree of Knowledge.docx
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9 The Tree of Knowledge.docx
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9TheTreeofKnowledge
TheTreeOfKnowledge
HenryJames
I
Itwasoneofthesecretopinions,suchasweallhave,ofPeterBrenchthathismainsuccessinlifewouldhaveconsistedinhisneverhavingcommittedhimselfaboutthework,asitwascalled,ofhisfriend,MorganMallow.Thiswasasubjectonwhichitwas,tothebestofhisbelief,impossible,withveracity,toquotehim,anditwasnowhereonrecordthathehad,intheconnection,onanyoccasionandinanyembarrassment,eitherliedorspokenthetruth.Suchatriumphhaditshonourevenforamanofothertriumphs—amanwhohadreachedfifty,whohadescapedmarriage,whohadlivedwithinhismeans,whohadbeeninlovewithMrs.Mallowforyearswithoutbreathingit,andwho,lastnotleast,hadjudgedhimselfonceforall.Hehadsojudgedhimselfinfactthathefeltanextremeandgeneralhumilitytobehisproperportion;yettherewasnothingthatmadehimthinksowellofhispartsasthecoursehehadsteeredsooftenthroughtheshallowsjustmentioned.Itbecamethusarealwonderthatthefriendsinwhomhehadmostconfidencewerejustthosewithwhomhehadmostreserves.Hecouldn’ttellMrs.Mallow—oratleasthesupposed,excellentman,hecouldn’t—thatshewastheonebeautifulreasonhehadnevermarried;anymorethanhecouldtellherhusbandthatthesightofthemultipliedmarblesinthatgentleman’sstudiowasanafflictionofwhicheventimehadneverbluntedtheedge.Hisvictory,however,asIhaveintimated,inregardtotheseproductions,wasnotsimplyinhisnothavingletitoutthathedeploredthem;itwas,remarkably,inhisnothavingkeptitinbyanythingelse.
Thewholesituation,amongthesegoodpeople,wasverilyamarvel,andtherewasprobablynotsuchanotherforalongwayfromthespotthatengagesus—thepointatwhichthesoftdeclivityofHampsteadbeganatthattimetoconfessinbrokenaccentstoSt.John’sWood.HedespisedMallow’sstatuesandadoredMallow’swife,andyetwasdistinctlyfondofMallow,towhom,inturn,hewasequallydear.Mrs.Mallowrejoicedinthestatues—thoughshepreferred,whenpressed,thebusts;andifshewasvisiblyattachedtoPeterBrenchitwasbecauseofhisaffectionforMorgan.Eachlovedtheother,moreover,fortheloveborneineachcasetoLancelot,whomtheMallowsrespectivelycherishedastheironlychildandwhomthefriendoftheirfiresideidentifiedasthethird,butdecidedlythehandsomest,ofhisgodsons.Alreadyintheoldyearsithadcometothat—thatnoone,forsucharelation,couldpossiblyhaveoccurredtoanyofthem,eventothebabyitself,butPeter.Therewasluckilyacertainindependence,ofthepecuniarysort,allround;theMastercouldneverotherwisehavespenthissolemn Wanderjahre inFlorenceandRomeandcontinued,bytheThamesaswellasbytheArnoandtheTiber,toaddunpurchasedgrouptogroupandmodel,forwhatwastooapttoproveintheeventmerelove,fancy-headsofcelebritieseithertoobusyortooburied—toomuchoftheageortoolittleofit—tosit.NeithercouldPeter,lounginginalmostdaily,havefoundtimetokeepthewholecomplicatedtraditionsoalivebyhispresence.Hewasmassive,butmild,thedepositaryofthesemysteries—largeandlooseandruddyandcurly,withdeeptones,deepeyes,deeppockets,tosaynothingofthehabitoflongpipes,softhatsandbrownish,greyish,weather-fadedclothes,apparentlyalwaysthesame.
Hehad“written,”itwasknown,buthadneverspoken—neverspoken,inparticular,ofthat;andhehadtheair(since,aswasbelieved,hecontinuedtowrite)ofkeepingitupinordertohavesomethingmore—asifhehadnot,attheworst,enough—tobesilentabout.Whateverhisair,atanyrate,Peter’soccasionalunmentionedproseandversewerequitetrulytheresultofanimpulsetomaintainthepurityofhistastebyestablishingstillmorefirmlytherightrelationoffametofeebleness.Thelittlegreendoorofhisdomainwasinagarden-wallonwhichthestuccowascrackedandstained,andinthesmalldetachedvillabehinditeverythingwasold,thefurniture,theservants,thebooks,theprints,thehabitsandthenewimprovements.TheMallows,atCarraraLodge,werewithintenminutes,andthestudiotherewasontheirlittleland,towhichtheyhadadded,intheirhappyfaith,tobuildit.Thiswasthegoodfortune,ifitwasnottheill,ofherhavingbroughthim,inmarriage,aportionthatputtheminamannerattheireaseandenabledthemthus,ontheirside,tokeepitup.Andtheydidkeepitup—theyalwayshad—theinfatuatedsculptorandhiswife,forwhomNaturehadrefinedontheimpossiblebyrelievingthemofthesenseofthedifficult.Morganhad,atallevents,everythingofthesculptorbutthespiritofPhidias—thebrownvelvet,thebecoming beretto,the“plastic”presence,thefinefingers,thebeautifulaccentinItalian,andtheoldItalianfactotum.HeseemedtomakeupforeverythingwhenheaddressedEgidiowiththe“tu”andwavedhimtoturnoneoftherotarypedestalsofwhichtheplacewasfull.TheyweretremendousItaliansatCarraraLodge,andthesecretofthepartplayedbythisfactinPeter’slifewas,inalargedegree,thatitgavehim,sturdyBritonthathewas,justtheamountof“goingabroad”hecouldbear.TheMallowswereallhisItaly,butitwasinameasureforItalyhelikedthem.HisoneworrywasthatLance—towhichtheyhadshortenedhisgodson—was,inspiteofapublicschool,perhapsashadetooItalian.Morgan,meanwhile,lookedlikesomebody’sflatteringideaofsomebody’sownpersonasexpressedinthegreatroomprovidedattheUffizziMuseumforPortraitsofArtistsbyThemselves.TheMaster’ssoleregretthathehadnotbeenbornrathertothebrushthantothechiselsprangfromhiswishthathemighthavecontributedtothatcollection.
Itappeared,withtime,atanyrate,tobetothebrushthatLancehadbeenborn;forMrs.Mallow,onedaywhentheboywasturningtwenty,brokeittotheirfriend,whoshared,tothelastdelicatemorsel,theirproblemsandpains,thatitseemedasifnothingwouldreallydobutthatheshouldembracethecareer.IthadbeenimpossiblelongertoremainblindtothefactthathegainednogloryatCambridge,whereBrench’sowncollegehad,forayear,tempereditstonetohimasforBrench’sownsake.Thereforewhyrenewthevainformofpreparinghimfortheimpossible?
Theimpossible—ithadbecomeclear—wasthatheshouldbeanythingbutanartist.
“Ohdear,dear!
”saidpoorPeter.
“Don’tyoubelieveinit?
”askedMrs.Mallow,whostill,atmorethanforty,hadhervioletvelveteyes,hercreamysatinskin,andhersilkenchestnuthair.
“Believeinwhat?
”
“Why,inLance’spassion.”
“Idon’tknowwhatyoumeanby‘believinginit.’I’veneverbeenunaware,certainly,ofhisdisposition,fromhisearliesttime,todaubanddraw;butIconfessI’vehopeditwouldburnout.”
“Butwhyshouldit,”shesweetlysmiled,“withhiswonderfulheredity?
Passionispassion—thoughofcourse,indeed,you,dearPeter,knownothingofthat.HastheMaster’severburnedout?
”
Peterlookedoffalittleand,inhisfamiliar,formlessway,keptupforamomentasoundbetweenasmotheredwhistleandasubduedhum.“Doyouthinkhe’sgoingtobeanotherMaster?
”
Sheseemedscarcepreparedtogothatlength,yetshehad,onthewhole,amostmarvelloustrust.“Iknowwhatyoumeanbythat.Willitbeacareertoincurjealousiesandprovokethemachinationsthathavebeenattimesalmosttoomuchforhisfather?
Well—sayitmaybe,sincenothingbutclap-trap,inthesedreadfuldays, can,itwouldseem,makeitsway,andsince,withthecurseofrefinementanddistinction,onemayeasilyfindone’sselfbeggingone’sbread.Putitattheworst—sayhe has themisfortunetowinghisflightfurtherthanthevulgartasteofhisstupidcountrymencanfollow.Think,allthesame,ofthehappiness—thesamethattheMasterhashad.He’ll know.”
Peterlookedrueful.“Ah,but what willheknow?
”
“Quietjoy!
”criedMrs.Mallow,quiteimpatientandturningaway.
II
Hehad,ofcourse,beforelong,tomeettheboyhimselfonitandhearthat,practically,everythingwassettled.Lancewasnottogoupagain,buttogoinsteadtoParis,where,sincethediewascast,hewouldfindthebestadvantages.Peterhadalwaysfeltthathemustbetakenashewas,buthadneverperhapsfoundhimsomuchashewasonthisoccasion.“YouchuckCambridgethenaltogether?
Doesn’tthatseemratherapity?
”
Lancewouldhavebeenlikehisfather,tohisfriend’ssense,hadhehadlesshumour,andlikehismotherhadhehadmorebeauty.Yetitwasagoodmiddleway,forPeter,that,inthemodernmanner,hewas,totheeye,rathertheyoungstockbrokerthantheyoungartist.Theyouthreasonedthatitwasaquestionoftime—therewassuchamilltogothrough,suchanawfullottolearn.Hehadtalkedwithfellowsandhadjudged.“Onehasgotto-day,”hesaid,“don’tyousee?
toknow.”
Hisinterlocutor,atthis,gaveagroan.“Oh,hangit, don’t know!
”
Lancewondered.“‘Don’t’?
Thenwhat’stheuse—?
”
“Theuseofwhat?
”
“Why,ofanything.Don’tyouthinkI’vetalent?
”
Petersmokedaway,foralittle,insilence;thenwenton:
“Itisn’tknowledge,it’signorancethat—aswe’vebeenbeautifullytold—isbliss.”
“Don’tyouthinkIhavetalent?
”Lancerepeated.
Peter,withhistrickofqueer,kinddemonstrations,passedhisarmroundhisgodsonandheldhimamoment.“HowdoIknow?
”
“Oh”saidtheboy,“ifit’syourownignoranceyou’redefending—!
”
Again,forapause,onthesofa,hisgodfathersmoked.“Itisn’t.I’vethemisfortunetobeomniscient.”
“Ohwell,”Lancelaughedagain,“ifyouknow too much—!
”
“That’swhatIdo,andwhyI’msowretched.”
Lance’sgaietygrew.“Wretched?
Come,Isay!
”
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