The Tree of Knowledge1

Henry James

It was one of the secret opinions，such as we all have，of Peter Brench that his main success in life would have consisted in his never having committed himself about the work，as it was called，of his friend Morgan Mallow.This was a subject on which it was，to the best of his belief，impossible with veracity to quote him，and it was nowhere on record that he had，in the connexion，on any occasion and in any embarrassment，either lied or spoken the truth.Such a triumph had its honour even for a man of other triumphs—a man who had reached fifty，who had escaped marriage，who had lived within his means，who had been in love with Mrs Mallow for years without breathing it，and who，last but not least，had judged himself once for all.He had so judged himself in fact that he felt an extreme and general humility to be his proper portion；yet there was nothing that made him think so well of his parts as the course he had steered so often through the shallows just mentioned.It became thus a real wonder that the friends in whom he had most confidence were just those with whom he had most reserves.He couldn't tell Mrs Mallow—or at least he supposed，excellent man，he couldn't—that she was the one beautiful reason he had never married；any more than he could tell her husband that the sight of the multiplied marbles in that gentleman's studio was an affliction of which even time had never blunted the edge.His victory，however，as I have intimated，in regard to these productions，was not simply in his not having let it out that he deplored them；it was，remarkably，in his not having kept it in by anything else.

The whole situation，among these good people，was verily a marvel，and there was probably not such another for a long way from the spot that engages us—the point at which the soft declivity of Hampstead began at that time to confess in broken accents to Saint John's Wood.He despised Mallow's statues and adored Mallow's wife，and yet was distinctly fond of Mallow，to whom，in turn，he was equally dear.Mrs Mallow rejoiced in the statues—though she preferred，when pressed，the busts；and if she was visibly attached to Peter Brench it was because of his affection for Morgan.Each loved the other moreover for the love borne in each case to Lancelot，whom the Mallows respectively cherished as their only child and whom the friend of their fireside identified as the third—but decidedly the handsomest—of his godsons.Already in the old years it had come to that—that no one，for such a relation，could possibly have occurred to any of them，even to the baby itself，but Peter.There was luckily a certain independence，of the pecuniary sort，all round：the Master could never otherwise have spent his solemn Wanderjahre in Florence and Rome，and continued by the Thames as well as by the Arno and the Tiber to add unpurchased group to group and model，for what was too apt to prove in the event mere love，fancy—heads of celebrities either too busy or too buried—too much of the age or too little of it—to sit.Neither could Peter，lounging in almost daily，have found time to keep the whole complicated tradition so alive by his presence.He was massive but mild，the depositary of these mysteries—large and loose and ruddy and curly，with deep tones，deep eyes，deep pockets，to say nothing of the habit of long pipes，soft hats and brownish greyish weather—faded clothes，apparently always the same.

He had 'written'，it was known，but had never spoken，never spoken in particular of that；and he had the air （since，as was believed，he continued to write）of keeping it up in order to have something more—as if he hadn't at the worst enough—to be silent about.Whatever his air，at any rate，Peter's occasional unmentioned prose and verse were quite truly the result of an impulse to maintain the purity of his taste by establishing still more firmly the right relation of fame to feebleness.The little green door of his domain was in a garden—wall on which the discoloured stucco made patches，and in the small detached villa behind it everything was old，the furniture，the servants，the books，the prints，the immemorial habits and the new improvements.The Mallows，at Carrara Lodge，were within ten minutes，and the studio there was on their little land，to which they had added，in their happy faith，for building it.This was the good fortune，if it was not the ill，of her having brought him in marriage a portion that put them in a manner at their ease and enabled them thus，on their side，to keep it up.And they did keep it up—they always had—the infatuated sculptor and his wife，for whom nature had refined on the impossible by relieving them of the sense of the difficult.Morgan had at all events everything of the sculptor but the spirit of Phidias—the brown velvet，the becoming beretto，the 'plastic'presence，the fine fingers，the beautiful accent in Italian and the old Italian factotum.He seemed to make up for everything when he addressed Egidio with the 'tu'and waved him to turn one of the rotary pedestals of which the place was full.They were tremendous Italians at Carrara Lodge，and the secret of the part played by this fact in Peter's life was in a large degree that it gave him，sturdy Briton as he was，just the amount of 'going abroad'he could bear.The Mallows were all his Italy，but it was in a measure for Italy he liked them.His one worry was that Lance—to which they had shortened his godson—was，in spite of a public school，perhaps a shade too Italian.Morgan meanwhile looked like somebody's flattering idea of somebody's own person as expressed in the great room provided at the Uffizi Museum for the general illustration of that idea by eminent hands.The Master's sole regret that he hadn't been born rather to the brush than to the chisel sprang from his wish that he might have contributed to that collection.

It appeared with time at any rate to be to the brush that Lance had been born；for Mrs Mallow，one day when the boy was turning twenty，broke it to their friend，who shared，to the last delicate morsel，their problems and pains，that it seemed as if nothing would really do but that he should embrace the career.It had been impossible longer to remain blind to the fact that he was gaining no glory at Cambridge，where Brench's own college had for a year tempered its tone to him as for Brench's own sake.Therefore why renew the vain form of preparing him for the impossible？The impossible—it had become clear—was that he should be anything but an artist.

'Oh dear，dear！'said poor Peter.

'Don't you believe in it？'asked Mrs Mallow，who still，at more than forty，had her violet velvet eyes，her creamy satin skin and her silken chestnut hair.

'Believe in what？'

'Why in Lance's passion.'

'I don't know what you mean by “believing in it”I've never been unaware，certainly，of his disposition，from his earliest time，to daub and draw；but I confess I've hoped it would burn out.'

'But why should it，'she sweetly smiled，'with his wonderful heredity？Passion is passion—though of course indeed you，dear Peter，know nothing of that.Has the Master's ever burned out？'

Peter looked off a little and，in his familiar formless way，kept up for a moment，a sound between a smothered whistle and a subdued hum.'Do you think he's going to be another Master？'

She seemed scarce prepared to go that length，yet she had on the whole a marvellous trust.'I know what you mean by that.Will it be a career to incur the jealousies and provoke the machinations that have been at times almost too much for his father？Well—say it may be，since nothing but clap—trap，in these dreadful days，can，it would seem，make its way，and since，with the curse of refinement and distinction，one may easily find one's self begging one's bread.Put it at the worst—say he has the misfortune to wing his flight further than the vulgar taste of his stupid countrymen can follow.Think，all the same，of the happiness—the same the Master has had.He'll know.'

Peter looked rueful.'Ah，but what will he know？'

'Quiet joy！'cried Mrs Mallow，quite impatient and turning away.

He had of course before long to meet the boy himself on it and to hear that practically everything was settled.Lance was not to go up again，but to go instead to Paris where，since the die was cast，he would find the best advantages.Peter had always felt he must be taken as he was，but had never perhaps found him so much of that pattern as on this occasion.'You chuck Cambridge then altogether？Doesn't that seem rather a pity？'

Lance would have been like his father，to his friend's sense，had he had less humour，and like his mother had he had more beauty.Yet it was a good middle way for Peter that，in the modern manner，he was，to the eye，rather the young stock—broker than the young artist.The youth reasoned that it was a question of time—there was such a mill to go through，such an awful lot to learn.He had talked with fellows and had judged.'One has got，today，'he said，'don't you see？to know.'

His interlocutor，at this，gave a groan.'Oh，hang it，don't know！'

Lance wondered.'“Don't”？Then what's the use—？'

'The use of what？'

'Why of anything.Don't you think I've talent？'

Peter smoked away for a little in silence；then went on：'It isn't knowledge，it's ignorance that—as we've been beautifully told—is bliss.'

'Don't you think I've talent？'Lance repeated.

Peter，with his trick of queer kind demonstrations，passed his arm round his godson and held him a moment.'How do I know？'

'Oh，'said the boy，'if it's your own ignorance you're defending—！'

Again，for a pause，on the sofa，his godfather smoked.'It isn't.I've the misfortune to be omniscient.'

'Oh，well，'Lance laughed again，'if you know too much—！'

'That's what I do，and it's why I'm so wretched.'

Lance's gaiety grew.'Wretched？Come，I say！'

'But I forgot，'his companion went on—'you're not to know about that.It would indeed for you to make the too much.Only I'll tell you what I'll do.'And Peter got up from the sofa.'If you'll go up again I'll pay your way at Cambridge.'

Lance stared，a little rueful in spite of being still more amused.'Oh，Peter！You disapprove so of Paris？'

'Well，I'm afraid of it.'

'Ah，I see！'

'No，you don't see—yet.But you will—that is you would.And you mustn't.'

The young man thought more gravely.'But one's innocence，already—！'

'Is considerably damaged？Ah，that won't matter，'Peter persisted—'we'll patch it up here.'

'Here？Then you want me to stay at home？'

Peter almost confessed to it.'Well，we're so right—we four together—just as we are.We're so safe.Come，don't spoil it.'

The boy，who had turned to gravity，turned from this，on the real pressure of his friend's tone，to consternation.'Then what's a fellow to be？'

'My particular care.Come，old man'—and Peter now fairly pleaded—'I'll look out for you.'

Lance，who had remained on the sofa with his legs out and his hands in his pockets，watched him with eyes that showed suspicion.Then he got up.'You think there's something the matter with me—that I can't make a success.'

'Well，what do you call a success？'

Lance thought again.'Why the best sort，I suppose，is to please one's self.Isn't that the sort that，in spite of cabals and things，is—in his own peculiar line—the Master's？'

There were so much too many things in this question to be answered at once that they practically checked the discussion，which became particularly difficult in the light of such renewed proof that，though the young man's innocence might，in the course of his studies，as he contended，somewhat have shrunken，the finer essence of it still remained.That was indeed exactly what Peter had assumed and what above all he desired；yet perversely enough it gave him a chill.The boy believed in the cabals and things，believed in the peculiar line，believed，to be brief，in the Master.What happened a month or two later wasn't that he went up again at the expense of his godfather，but that a fortnight after he had got settled in Paris this personage sent him fifty pounds.

He had meanwhile at home，this personage，made up his mind to the worst；and what that might be had never yet grown quite so vivid to him as when，on his presenting himself one Sunday night，as he never failed to do，for supper，the mistress of Carrara Lodge met him with an appeal as to—of all things in the world—the wealth of the Canadians.She was earnest，she was even excited.'Are many of them really rich？'

He had to confess he knew nothing about them，but he often thought afterwards of that evening.The room in which they sat was adorned with sundry specimens of the Master's genius，which had the merit of being，as Mrs Mallow herself frequently suggested，of an unusually convenient size.They were indeed of dimensions not customary in the products of the chisel，and they had the singularity that，if the objects and features intended to be small looked too large，the objects and features intended to be large looked too small.The Master's idea，either in respect to this matter or to any other，had in almost any case，even after years，remained undiscoverable to Peter Brench.The creations that so failed to reveal it stood about on pedestals and brackets，on tables and shelves，a little staring white population，heroic，idyllic，allegoric，mythic，symbolic，in which 'scale'had so strayed and lost itself that the public square and the chimney—piece seemed to have changed places，the monumental being all diminutive and the diminutive all monumental；branches at any rate，markedly，of a family in which stature was rather oddly irrespective of function，age and sex.They formed，like the Mallows themselves，poor Brench's own family—having at least to such a degree the note of familiarity.The occasion was one of those he had long ago learnt to know and to name—short flickers of the faint flame，soft gusts of a kinder air.Twice a year regularly the Master believed in his fortune，in addition to believing all the year round in his genius.This time it was to be made by a bereaved couple from Toronto，who had given him the handsomest order for a tomb to three lost children，each of whom they desired to see，in the composition，emblematically and characteristically represented.

Such was naturally the moral of Mrs Mallow's question：if their wealth was to be assumed，it was clear，from the nature of their admiration，as well as from mysterious hints thrown out （they were a little odd！）as to other possibilities of the same mortuary sort，what their further patronage might be；and not less evident that should the Master become at all known in those climes nothing would be more inevitable than a run of Canadian custom.Peter had been present before at runs of custom，colonial and domestic—present at each of those of which the aggregation had left so few gaps in the marble company round him；but it was his habit never at these junctures to prick the bubble in advance.The fond illusion，while it lasted，eased the wound of elections never won，the long ache of medals and diplomas carried off，on every chance，by everyone but the Master；it moreover lighted the lamp that would glimmer through the next eclipse.They lived，however，after all—as it was always beautiful to see—at a height scarce susceptible of ups and downs.They strained a point at times charmingly，strained it to admit that the public was here and there not too bad to buy；but they would have been nowhere without their attitude that the Master was always too good to sell.They were at all events deliciously formed，Peter often said to himself，for their fate；the Master had a vanity，his wife had a loyalty，of which success，depriving these things of innocence，would have diminished the merit and the grace.Anyone could be charming under a charm，and as he looked about him at a world of prosperity more void of proportion even than the Master's museum he wondered if he knew another pair that so completely escaped vulgarity.