the knot; and happening to glance at the flower-wreathed face on the lid
of the enchanted box, she seemed to perceive it slyly grinning at her.
"That face looks very mischievous," thought Pandora. "I wonder whether
it smiles because I am doing wrong! I have the greatest mind in the
world to run away!"
But just then, by the merest accident, she gave the knot a kind of a
twist, which produced a wonderful result. The gold cord untwined itself,
as if by magic, and left the box without a fastening.
"This is the strangest thing I ever knew!" said Pandora. "What will
Epimetheus say? And how can I possibly tie it up again?"
She made one or two attempts to restore the knot, but soon found it
quite beyond her skill. It had disentangled itself so suddenly that she
could not in the least remember how the strings had been doubled into
one another; and when she tried to recollect the shape and appearance of
the knot, it seemed to have gone entirely out of her mind. Nothing was
to be done, therefore, but to let the box remain as it was until
Epimetheus should come in.
"But," said Pandora, "when he finds the knot untied, he will know that I
have done it. How shall I make him believe that I have not looked into
the box?"
And then the thought came into her naughty little heart, that, since she
would be suspected of having looked into the box, she might just as well
do so at once. Oh, very naughty and very foolish Pandora! You should
have thought only of doing what was right, and of leaving undone what
was wrong, and not of what your playfellow Epimetheus would have said or
believed. And so perhaps she might, if the enchanted face on the lid of
the box had not looked so bewitchingly persuasive at her, and if she had
not seemed to hear, more distinctly than before, the murmur of small
voices within. She could not tell whether it was fancy or no; but there
was quite a little tumult of whispers in her ear,--or else it was her
curiosity that whispered,--
"Let us out, dear Pandora,--pray let us out! We will be such nice pretty
playfellows for you! Only let us out!"
"What can it be?" thought Pandora. "Is there something alive in the box?
Well!--yes!--I am resolved to take just one peep! Only one peep; and
then the lid shall be shut down as safely as ever! There cannot possibly
be any harm in just one little peep!"
But it is now time for us to see what Epimetheus was doing.
This was the first time, since his little playmate had come to dwell
with him, that he had attempted to enjoy any pleasure in which she did
not partake. But nothing went right; nor was he nearly so happy as on
other days. He could not find a sweet grape or a ripe fig (if Epimetheus
had a fault, it was a little too much fondness for figs); or, if ripe at
all, they were over-ripe, and so sweet as to be cloying. There was no
mirth in his heart, such as usually made his voice gush out, of its own
accord, and swell the merriment of his companions. In short, he grew so
uneasy and discontented, that the other children could not imagine what
was the matter with Epimetheus. Neither did he himself know what ailed
him, any better than they did. For you must recollect that, at the time
we are speaking of, it was everybody's nature, and constant habit, to be
happy. The world had not yet learned to be otherwise. Not a single soul
or body, since these children were first sent to enjoy themselves on the
beautiful earth, had ever been sick or out of sorts.
At length, discovering that, somehow or other, he put a stop to all the
play, Epimetheus judged it best to go back to Pandora, who was in a
humor better suited to his own. But, with a hope of giving her pleasure,
he gathered some flowers, and made them into a wreath, which he meant to
put upon her head. The flowers were very lovely,--roses, and lilies, and
orange-blossoms, and a great many more, which left a trail of fragrance
behind, as Epimetheus carried them along; and the wreath was put
together with as much skill as could reasonably be expected of a boy.
The fingers of little girls, it has always appeared to me, are the
fittest to twine flower-wreaths; but boys could do it, in those days,
rather better than they can now.
And here I must mention that a great black cloud had been gathering in
the sky, for some time past, although it had not yet overspread the sun.
But, just as Epimetheus reached the cottage door, this cloud began to
intercept the sunshine, and thus to make a sudden and sad obscurity.
He entered softly; for he meant, if possible, to steal behind Pandora,
and fling the wreath of flowers over her head, before she should be
aware of his approach. But, as it happened, there was no need of his
treading so very lightly. He might have trod as heavily as he
pleased,--as heavily as a grown man,--as heavily, I was going to say, as
an elephant,--without much probability of Pandora's hearing his
footsteps. She was too intent upon her purpose. At the moment of his
entering the cottage, the naughty child had put her hand to the lid, and
was on the point of opening the mysterious box. Epimetheus beheld her.
If he had cried out, Pandora would probably have withdrawn her hand, and
the fatal mystery of the box might never have been known.
But Epimetheus himself, although he said very little about it, had his
own share of curiosity to know what was inside. Perceiving that Pandora
was resolved to find out the secret, he determined that his playfellow
should not be the only wise person in the cottage. And if there were
anything pretty or valuable in the box, he meant to take half of it to
himself. Thus, after all his sage speeches to Pandora about restraining
her curiosity, Epimetheus turned out to be quite as foolish, and nearly
as much in fault, as she. So, whenever we blame Pandora for what
happened, we must not forget to shake our heads at Epimetheus likewise.
As Pandora raised the lid, the cottage grew very dark and dismal; for
the black cloud had now swept quite over the sun, and seemed to have
buried it alive. There had, for a little while past, been a low growling
and muttering, which all at once broke into a heavy peal of thunder. But
Pandora, heeding nothing of all this, lifted the lid nearly upright, and
looked inside. It seemed as if a sudden swarm of winged creatures
brushed past her, taking flight out of the box, while, at the same
instant, she heard the voice of Epimetheus, with a lamentable tone, as
if he were in pain.
"Oh, I am stung!" cried he. "I am stung! Naughty Pandora! why have you
opened this wicked box?"
Pandora let fall the lid, and, starting up, looked about her, to see
what had befallen Epimetheus. The thunder-cloud had so darkened the room
that she could not very clearly discern what was in it. But she heard a
disagreeable buzzing, as if a great many huge flies, or gigantic
mosquitoes, or those insects which we call dor-bugs, and pinching-dogs,
were darting about. And, as her eyes grew more accustomed to the
imperfect light, she saw a crowd of ugly little shapes, with bats'
wings, looking abominably spiteful, and armed with terribly long stings
in their tails. It was one of these that had stung Epimetheus. Nor was
it a great while before Pandora herself began to scream, in no less pain
and affright than her playfellow, and making a vast deal more hubbub
about it. An odious little monster had settled on her forehead, and
would have stung her I know not how deeply, if Epimetheus had not run
and brushed it away.
Now, if you wish to know what these ugly things might be, which had made
their escape out of the box, I must tell you that they were the whole
family of earthly Troubles. There were evil Passions; there were a great
many species of Cares; there were more than a hundred and fifty
Sorrows; there were Diseases, in a vast number of miserable and painful
shapes; there were more kinds of Naughtiness than it would be of any use
to talk about. In short, everything that has since afflicted the souls
and bodies of mankind had been shut up in the mysterious box, and given
to Epimetheus and Pandora to be kept safely, in order that the happy
children of the world might never be molested by them. Had they been
faithful to their trust, all would have gone well. No grown person would
ever have been sad, nor any child have had cause to shed a single tear,
from that hour until this moment.
But--and you may see by this how a wrong act of any one mortal is a
calamity to the whole world--by Pandora's lifting the lid of that
miserable box, and by the fault of Epimetheus, too, in not preventing
her, these Troubles have obtained a foothold among us, and do not seem
very likely to be driven away in a hurry. For it was impossible, as you
will easily guess, that the two children should keep the ugly swarm in
their own little cottage. On the contrary, the first thing that they did
was to fling open the doors and windows, in hopes of getting rid of
them; and, sure enough, away flew the winged Troubles all abroad, and so
pestered and tormented the small people, everywhere about, that none of
them so much as smiled for many days afterwards. And, what was very
singular, all the flowers and dewy blossoms on earth, not one of which
had hitherto faded, now began to droop and shed their leaves, after a
day or two. The children, moreover, who before seemed immortal in their
childhood, now grew older, day by day, and came soon to be youths and
maidens, and men and women by and by, and aged people, before they
dreamed of such a thing.
Meanwhile, the naughty Pandora, and hardly less naughty Epimetheus,
remained in their cottage. Both of them had been grievously stung, and
were in a good deal of pain, which seemed the more intolerable to them,
because it was the very first pain that had ever been felt since the
world began. Of course, they were entirely unaccustomed to it, and could
have no idea what it meant. Besides all this, they were in exceedingly
bad humor, both with themselves and with one another. In order to
indulge it to the utmost, Epimetheus sat down sullenly in a corner with
his back towards Pandora; while Pandora flung herself upon the floor and
rested her head on the fatal and abominable box. She was crying
bitterly, and sobbing as if her heart would break.
Suddenly there was a gentle little tap on the inside of the lid.
"What can that be?" cried Pandora, lifting her head.
But either Epimetheus had not heard the tap, or was too much out of
humor to notice it. At any rate, he made no answer.
"You are very unkind," said Pandora, sobbing anew, "not to speak to me!"
Again the tap! It sounded like the tiny knuckles of a fairy's hand,
knocking lightly and playfully on the inside of the box.
"Who are you?" asked Pandora, with a little of her former curiosity.
"Who are you, inside of this naughty box?"
A sweet little voice spoke from within,--
"Only lift the lid, and you shall see."
"No, no," answered Pandora, again beginning to sob, "I have had enough
of lifting the lid! You are inside of the box, naughty creature, and
there you shall stay! There are plenty of your ugly brothers and sisters
already flying about the world. You need never think that I shall be so
foolish as to let you out!"
She looked towards Epimetheus, as she spoke, perhaps expecting that he
would commend her for her wisdom. But the sullen boy only muttered that
she was wise a little too late.
"Ah," said the sweet little voice again, "you had much better let me
out. I am not like those naughty creatures that have stings in their
tails. They are no brothers and sisters of mine, as you would see at
once, if you were only to get a glimpse of me. Come, come, my pretty
Pandora! I am sure you will let me out!"
And, indeed, there was a kind of cheerful witchery in the tone, that
made it almost impossible to refuse anything which this little voice
asked. Pandora's heart had insensibly grown lighter, at every word that
came from within the box. Epimetheus, too, though still in the corner,
had turned half round, and seemed to be in rather better spirits than
before.
"My dear Epimetheus," cried Pandora, "have you heard this little voice?"
"Yes, to be sure I have," answered he, but in no very good-humor as yet.
"And what of it?"
"Shall I lift the lid again?" asked Pandora.
"Just as you please," said Epimetheus. "You have done so much mischief
already, that perhaps you may as well do a little more. One other
Trouble, in such a swarm as you have set adrift about the world, can
make no very great difference."
"You might speak a little more kindly!" murmured Pandora, wiping her
eyes.
"Ah, naughty boy!" cried the little voice within the box, in an arch and
laughing tone. "He knows he is longing to see me. Come, my dear Pandora,
lift up the lid. I am in a great hurry to comfort you. Only let me have
some fresh air, and you shall soon see that matters are not quite so
dismal as you think them!"
"Epimetheus," exclaimed Pandora, "come what may, I am resolved to open
the box!"
"And, as the lid seems very heavy," cried Epimetheus, running across the
room, "I will help you!"
So, with one consent, the two children again lifted the lid. Out flew a
sunny and smiling little personage, and hovered about the room, throwing
a light wherever she went. Have you never made the sunshine dance into
dark corners, by reflecting it from a bit of looking-glass? Well, so
looked the winged cheerfulness of this fairy-like stranger, amid the
gloom of the cottage. She flew to Epimetheus, and laid the least touch
of her finger on the inflamed spot where the Trouble had stung him, and
immediately the anguish of it was gone. Then she kissed Pandora on the
forehead, and her hurt was cured likewise.
After performing these good offices, the bright stranger fluttered
sportively over the children's heads, and looked so sweetly at them,
that they both began to think it not so very much amiss to have opened
the box, since, otherwise, their cheery guest must have been kept a
prisoner among those naughty imps with stings in their tails.
"Pray, who are you, beautiful creature?" inquired Pandora.
"I am to be called Hope!" answered the sunshiny figure. "And because I
am such a cheery little body, I was packed into the box, to make amends
to the human race for that swarm of ugly Troubles, which was destined to
be let loose among them. Never fear! we shall do pretty well in spite of
them all."
"Your wings are colored like the rainbow!" exclaimed Pandora. "How very
beautiful!"
"Yes, they are like the rainbow," said Hope, "because, glad as my nature
is, I am partly made of tears as well as smiles."
"And will you stay with us," asked Epimetheus, "forever and ever?"
"As long as you need me," said Hope, with her pleasant smile,--"and that
will be as long as you live in the world,--I promise never to desert
you. There may come times and seasons, now and then, when you will think
that I have utterly vanished. But again, and again, and again, when
perhaps you least dream of it, you shall see the glimmer of my wings on
the ceiling of your cottage. Yes, my dear children, and I know something
very good and beautiful that is to be given you hereafter!"
"Oh tell us," they exclaimed,--"tell us what it is!"
"Do not ask me," replied Hope, putting her finger on her rosy mouth.
"But do not despair, even if it should never happen while you live on
this earth. Trust in my promise, for it is true."
"We do trust you!" cried Epimetheus and Pandora, both in one breath.
And so they did; and not only they, but so has everybody trusted Hope,
that has since been alive. And to tell you the truth, I cannot help
being glad--(though, to be sure, it was an uncommonly naughty thing for
her to do)--but I cannot help being glad that our foolish Pandora peeped
into the box. No doubt--no doubt--the Troubles are still flying about
the world, and have increased in multitude, rather than lessened, and
are a very ugly set of imps, and carry most venomous stings in their
tails. I have felt them already, and expect to feel them more, as I grow
older. But then that lovely and lightsome little figure of Hope! What in
the world could we do without her? Hope spiritualizes the earth; Hope
makes it always new; and, even in the earth's best and brightest aspect,
Hope shows it to be only the shadow of an infinite bliss hereafter!
Tanglewood Play-Room
_After the Story_
"Primrose," asked Eustace, pinching her ear, "how do you like my little
Pandora? Don't you think her the exact picture of yourself? But you
would not have hesitated half so long about opening the box."
"Then I should have been well punished for my naughtiness," retorted
Primrose, smartly; "for the first thing to pop out, after the lid was
lifted, would have been Mr. Eustace Bright, in the shape of a Trouble."
"Cousin Eustace," said Sweet Fern, "did the box hold all the trouble
that has ever come into the world?"
"Every mite of it!" answered Eustace. "This very snow-storm, which has
spoiled my skating, was packed up there."
"And how big was the box?" asked Sweet Fern.
"Why, perhaps three feet long," said Eustace, "two feet wide, and two
feet and a half high."
"Ah," said the child, "you are making fun of me, Cousin Eustace! I know
there is not trouble enough in the world to fill such a great box as
that. As for the snow-storm, it is no trouble at all, but a pleasure; so
it could not have been in the box."
"Hear the child!" cried Primrose, with an air of superiority. "How
little he knows about the troubles of this world! Poor fellow! He will
be wiser when he has seen as much of life as I have."
So saying, she began to skip the rope.
Meantime, the day was drawing towards its close. Out of doors the scene
certainly looked dreary. There was a gray drift, far and wide, through
the gathering twilight; the earth was as pathless as the air; and the
bank of snow over the steps of the porch proved that nobody had entered
or gone out for a good many hours past. Had there been only one child at
the window of Tanglewood, gazing at this wintry prospect, it would
perhaps have made him sad. But half a dozen children together, though
they cannot quite turn the world into a paradise, may defy old Winter
and all his storms to put them out of spirits. Eustace Bright, moreover,
on the spur of the moment, invented several new kinds of play, which
kept them all in a roar of merriment till bedtime, and served for the
next stormy day besides.
THE THREE GOLDEN APPLES
Tanglewood Fireside
_Introductory to "The Three Golden Apples"_
The snow-storm lasted another day; but what became of it afterwards, I
cannot possibly imagine. At any rate, it entirely cleared away during
the night; and when the sun arose the next morning, it shone brightly
down on as bleak a tract of hill-country, here in Berkshire, as could be
seen anywhere in the world. The frostwork had so covered the
window-panes that it was hardly possible to get a glimpse at the scenery
outside. But, while waiting for breakfast, the small populace of
Tanglewood had scratched peep-holes with their finger-nails, and saw
with vast delight that--unless it were one or two bare patches on a
precipitous hill-side, or the gray effect of the snow, intermingled with
the black pine forest--all nature was as white as a sheet. How
exceedingly pleasant! And, to make it all the better, it was cold enough
to nip one's nose short off! If people have but life enough in them to
bear it, there is nothing that so raises the spirits, and makes the
blood ripple and dance so nimbly, like a brook down the slope of a hill,
as a bright, hard frost.
No sooner was breakfast over, than the whole party, well muffled in furs
and woollens, floundered forth into the midst of the snow. Well, what a
day of frosty sport was this! They slid down hill into the valley, a
hundred times, nobody knows how far; and, to make it all the merrier,
upsetting their sledges, and tumbling head over heels, quite as often
as they came safely to the bottom. And, once, Eustace Bright took
Periwinkle, Sweet Fern, and Squash-Blossom, on the sledge with him, by
way of insuring a safe passage; and down they went, full speed. But,
behold, half-way down, the sledge hit against a hidden stump, and flung
all four of its passengers into a heap; and, on gathering themselves up,
there was no little Squash-Blossom to be found! Why, what could have
become of the child? And while they were wondering and staring about, up
started Squash-Blossom out of a snow-bank, with the reddest face you
ever saw, and looking as if a large scarlet flower had suddenly sprouted
up in midwinter. Then there was a great laugh.
When they had grown tired of sliding down hill, Eustace set the children
to digging a cave in the biggest snow-drift that they could find.
Unluckily, just as it was completed, and the party had squeezed
themselves into the hollow, down came the roof upon their heads, and
buried every soul of them alive! The next moment, up popped all their
little heads out of the ruins, and the tall student's head in the midst
of them, looking hoary and venerable with the snow-dust that had got
amongst his brown curls. And then, to punish Cousin Eustace for advising
them to dig such a tumble-down cavern, the children attacked him in a
body, and so bepelted him with snowballs that he was fain to take to his
heels.
So he ran away, and went into the woods, and thence to the margin of
Shadow Brook, where he could hear the streamlet grumbling along, under
great overhanging banks of snow and ice, which would scarcely let it see
the light of day. There were adamantine icicles glittering around all
its little cascades. Thence he strolled to the shore of the lake, and
beheld a white, untrodden plain before him, stretching from his own feet
to the foot of Monument Mountain. And, it being now almost sunset,
Eustace thought that he had never beheld anything so fresh and
beautiful as the scene. He was glad that the children were not with him;
for their lively spirits and tumble-about activity would quite have
chased away his higher and graver mood, so that he would merely have
been merry (as he had already been, the whole day long), and would not
have known the loveliness of the winter sunset among the hills.
When the sun was fairly down, our friend Eustace went home to eat his
supper. After the meal was over, he betook himself to the study, with a
purpose, I rather imagine, to write an ode, or two or three sonnets, or
verses of some kind or other, in praise of the purple and golden clouds
which he had seen around the setting sun. But, before he had hammered
out the very first rhyme, the door opened, and Primrose and Periwinkle
made their appearance.
"Go away, children! I can't be troubled with you now!" cried the
student, looking over his shoulder, with the pen between his fingers.
"What in the world do you want here? I thought you were all in bed!"
"Hear him, Periwinkle, trying to talk like a grown man!" said Primrose.
"And he seems to forget that I am now thirteen years old, and may sit up
almost as late as I please. But, Cousin Eustace, you must put off your
airs, and come with us to the drawing-room. The children have talked so
much about your stories, that my father wishes to hear one of them, in
order to judge whether they are likely to do any mischief."
"Poh, poh, Primrose!" exclaimed the student, rather vexed. "I don't
believe I can tell one of my stories in the presence of grown people.
Besides, your father is a classical scholar; not that I am much afraid
of his scholarship, neither, for I doubt not it is as rusty as an old
case-knife by this time. But then he will be sure to quarrel with the
admirable nonsense that I put into these stories, out of my own head,
and which makes the great charm of the matter for children, like
yourself. No man of fifty, who has read the classical myths in his
youth, can possibly understand my merit as a reinventor and improver of
them."
"All this may be very true," said Primrose, "but come you must! My
father will not open his book, nor will mamma open the piano, till you
have given us some of your nonsense, as you very correctly call it. So
be a good boy, and come along."