The Tree by H.P. Lovecraft
The Tree
by H.P. Lovecraft
1920 
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 urban 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. 
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 observed 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 
figures of Tyche, little touched of late by the sick man and his faithful 
attendant. 
As Kalos grew inexplicably weaker and weaker despite the ministrations 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 granted 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. 
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. Meanwhile 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 exclaimed 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 amazing 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 forming 
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 reception by the proxenoi was of 
great warmth. As the night wore on a violent 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 
console him in the absence of Kalos, who might have worn those laurels instead. 
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 messengers 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 mourned the humble courts and the lower walls, for 
upon the sumptuous greater peri-style had fallen squarely the heavy overhanging 
bough of the strange new tree, reducing the stately poem in marble with odd 
completeness to a mound of unsightly ruins. Strangers and Tegeans stood aghast, 
looking from the wreckage to the great, sinister tree whose aspect was so 
weirdly human and whose roots reached so queerly into the sculptured sepulchre 
of Kalos. And their fear and dismay increased when they searched the fallen 
apartment, for of the gentle Musides, and of the marvellously fashioned image of 
Tyche, no trace could be discovered. Amidst such stupendous ruin only chaos 
dwelt, and the representatives of two cities left disappointed; Syracusans that 
they had no statue to bear home, Tegeans that they had no artist to crown. 
However, the Syracusans obtained after a while a very splendid statue in Athens, 
and the Tegeans consoled themselves by erecting in the agora a marble temple 
commemorating the gifts, virtues, and brotherly piety of Musides. 
But the olive grove still stands, as does the tree growing out of the tomb of 
Kalos, and the old bee-keeper told me that sometimes the boughs whisper to one 
another in the night wind, saying over and over again. "Oida! Oida! -I know! I 
know!" 




© 1998-1999 William Johns
Last modified: 12/18/1999 18:45:46
