relics from their sepulcher!"
But Deucalion pondered in his heart the word of the goddess, ever
seeking in it some hidden meaning not at first made clear. At length
his eye brightened; he called Pyrrha to him and said: "If I understand
it right, there is an answer to the dark enigma that will free the
goddess's word from taint of sacrilege. Our mighty mother is the
earth; the stones are her bones. These we must cast behind us."
With renewed hope and gladness Pyrrha heard his words, and though
doubting still resolved to try.
Descending from the mountain to the plain that was strewn with stones,
reverently they veiled their heads, and, taking up one stone after
another, they flung them over their shoulders.
And as the stones fell to the ground a miracle was wrought. As each
stone fell it visibly changed. At first but the imperfect rudiments of
a form appeared, such as is seen in marble where the chisel has begun
to chip it out, and the sculptor has not yet lavished on it his
finished art. Then by degrees the stones seemed to swell and soften
like ripening fruit, till at last the life-blood ran through the blue
veins, while the bones kept their hardness and supported the
new-formed frame.
By divine power each stone thrown by Deucalion turned into a man;
while each that Pyrrha threw bloomed into a fair woman. Thus was the
earth repeopled.
'Tis a marvelous tale, but if you doubt its truth go question the
Egyptian rustics. They will tell you that when the Nile subsides they
find in the slime rude stones shaped like a man's body, with a knob
like a head and bosses like the beginnings of arms and legs. These are
stones that Deucalion and Pyrrha threw, but such as fell at their feet
instead of behind them, and only began to turn into men and women.
EPIMETHEUS AND PANDORA
BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
Long, long ago, when this old world was in its tender infancy, there
was a child, named Epimetheus, who never had either father or mother;
and that he might not be lonely, another child, fatherless and
motherless like himself, was sent from a far country to live with him,
and be his playfellow and helpmate. Her name was Pandora.
The first thing that Pandora saw, when she entered the cottage where
Epimetheus dwelt, was a great box. And almost the first question which
she put to him, after crossing the threshold, was this: "Epimetheus,
what have you in that box?"
"My dear little Pandora," answered Epimetheus, "that is a secret, and
you must be kind enough not to ask any questions about it. The box was
left here to be kept safely, and I do not myself know what it
contains."
"But who gave it to you?" asked Pandora. "And where did it come from?"
"That is a secret, too," replied Epimetheus.
"How provoking!" exclaimed Pandora, pouting her lip. "I wish the great
ugly box were out of the way!"
"Oh, come, don't think of it any more!" cried Epimetheus. "Let us run
out of doors, and have some nice play with the other children."
It is thousands of years since Epimetheus and Pandora were alive; and
the world, nowadays, is a very different sort of thing from what it
was in their time. Then, everybody was a child. There needed no
fathers and mothers to take care of the children, because there was no
danger or trouble of any kind, and no clothes to be mended, and there
was always plenty to eat and drink. Whenever a child wanted his
dinner, he found it growing on a tree; and if he looked at the tree in
the morning, he could see the expanding blossom of that night's
supper; or, at eventide, he saw the tender bud of to-morrow's
breakfast. It was a very pleasant life indeed. No labor to be done, no
tasks to be studied; nothing but sports and dances, and sweet voices
of children talking, or caroling like birds, or gushing out in merry
laughter throughout the livelong day.
It is probable that the very greatest disquietude which a child had
ever experienced was Pandora's vexation at not being able to discover
the secret of the mysterious box.
This was at first only the faint shadow of a Trouble; but every day it
grew more and more substantial, until before a great while the cottage
of Epimetheus and Pandora was less sunshiny than those of the other
children.
"Whence can the box have come?" Pandora continually kept saying to
herself and to Epimetheus. "And what on earth can be inside of it?"
"Always talking about this box!" said Epimetheus at last; for he had
grown extremely tired of the subject. "I wish, dear Pandora, you would
try to talk of something else. Come, let us go and gather some ripe
figs, and eat them under the trees for our supper. And I know a vine
that has the sweetest and juiciest grapes you ever tasted."
"Always talking about grapes and figs!" cried Pandora pettishly.
"Well, then," said Epimetheus, who was a good-tempered child, "let us
run out and have a merry time with our playmates."
"I am tired of merry times, and don't care if I never have any more!"
answered our pettish little Pandora. "And besides, I never do have
any. This ugly box! I am so taken up with thinking about it all the
time. I insist upon you telling me what is inside of it."
"As I have already said, fifty times over, I do not know!" replied
Epimetheus, getting a little vexed. "How, then, can I tell you what is
inside?"
"You might open it," said Pandora, looking sideways at Epimetheus,
"and then we could see for ourselves."
"Pandora, what are you thinking of?" exclaimed Epimetheus.
And his face expressed so much horror at the idea of looking into a
box which had been confided to him on the condition of his never
opening it, that Pandora thought it best not to suggest it any more.
Still, she could not help thinking and talking about the box.
"At least," said she, "you can tell me how it came here."
"It was left at the door," replied Epimetheus, "just before you came,
by a person who looked very smiling and intelligent, and who could
hardly forbear laughing as he put it down. He was dressed in an odd
kind of a cloak, and had on a cap that seemed to be made partly of
feathers, so that it looked almost as if it had wings."
"What sort of a staff had he?" asked Pandora.
"Oh, the most curious staff you ever saw!" cried Epimetheus. "It was
like two serpents twisting around a stick, and was carved so
naturally that I, at first, thought the serpents were alive."
"I know him," said Pandora thoughtfully. "Nobody else has such a
staff. It was Quicksilver; and he brought me hither, as well as the
box. No doubt he intended it for me; and most probably it contains
pretty dresses for me to wear, or toys for you and me to play with, or
something very nice for us both to eat!"
"Perhaps so," answered Epimetheus, turning away. "But until
Quicksilver comes back and tells us so, we have neither of us any
right to lift the lid of the box."
"What a dull boy it is!" muttered Pandora, as Epimetheus left the
cottage. "I do wish he had a little more enterprise!"
For the first time since her arrival, Epimetheus had gone out without
asking Pandora to accompany him. He was tired to death of hearing
about the box, and heartily wished that Quicksilver, or whatever was
the messenger's name, had left it at some other child's door, where
Pandora would never have set eyes on it. So perseveringly as she did
babble about this one thing! The box, the box, and nothing but the
box! It seemed as if the box were bewitched, and as if the cottage
were not big enough to hold it, without Pandora's continually
stumbling over it and making Epimetheus stumble over it likewise, and
bruising all four of their shins.
Well, it was really hard that poor Epimetheus should have a box in his
ears from morning to night, especially as the little people of the
earth were so unaccustomed to vexations, in those happy days, that
they knew not how to deal with them. Thus a small vexation made as
much disturbance then as a far bigger one would in our own times.
After Epimetheus was gone Pandora stood gazing at the box. She had
called it ugly above a hundred times; but in spite of all that she had
said against it, it was in truth a very handsome article of furniture.
It was made of a beautiful kind of wood, with dark and rich veins
spreading over its surface, which was so highly polished that little
Pandora could see her face in it. As the child had no other
looking-glass, it is odd that she did not value the box, merely on
this account.
The edges and corners of the box were carved with wonderful skill.
Around the margin there were figures of graceful men and women, and
the prettiest children ever seen, reclining or sporting amid a
profusion of flowers and foliage; and these various objects were so
exquisitely represented, and were wrought together in such harmony,
that flowers, foliage, and human beings seemed to combine into a
wreath of mingled beauty.
But here and there, peeping forth from behind the carved foliage,
Pandora once or twice fancied that she saw a face not so lovely, which
stole the beauty out of all the rest. Nevertheless, on looking more
closely, she could discover nothing of the kind. Some face, that was
really beautiful, had been made to look ugly by her catching a sideway
glimpse at it.
The most beautiful face of all was done in what is called high relief,
in the center of the lid. There was nothing else save the dark, smooth
richness of the polished wood, and this one face in the center, with a
garland of flowers about its brow. Pandora had looked at this face a
great many times, and imagined that the mouth could smile if it liked,
or be grave when it chose, the same as any living mouth. The features,
indeed, all wore a very lively and rather mischievous expression,
which looked almost as if it needs must burst out of the carved lips
and utter itself in words.
Had the mouth spoken, it would probably have been something like this:
"Do not be afraid, Pandora! What harm can there be in opening the box?
Never mind that poor, simple Epimetheus! You are wiser than he, and
have ten times as much spirit. Open the box, and see if you do not
find something very pretty!"
The box was fastened; not by a lock, nor by any other such
contrivance, but by a very intricate knot of gold cord. There appeared
to be no end to this knot, and no beginning. Never was a knot so
cunningly twisted, nor with so many ins and outs, which roguishly
defied the skilfullest fingers to disentangle them. And yet, by the
very difficulty that there was in it, Pandora was the more tempted to
examine the knot, and just see how it was made. Two or three times
already she had stooped over the box, and taken the knot between her
thumb and forefinger, but without positively trying to undo it.
"I really believe," said she to herself, "that I begin to see how it
was done. Nay, perhaps I could tie it up again after undoing it. There
could be no harm in that, surely. Even Epimetheus would not blame me
for that. I need not open the box, and should not, of course, without
the foolish boy's consent, even if the knot were untied."
First she tried to lift it. It was heavy; much too heavy for the
slender strength of a child like Pandora. She raised one end of the
box a few inches from the floor, and let it fall again with a pretty
loud thump. A moment afterwards she almost fancied that she heard
something stir inside of the box. She applied her ear as closely as
possible and listened. Positively there did seem to be a kind of
stifled murmur within. Or was it merely the singing in Pandora's ears?
Or could it be the beating of her heart? The child could not quite
satisfy herself whether she had heard anything or no. But, at all
events, her curiosity was stronger than ever.
As she drew back her head her eyes fell upon the knot of gold cord.
"It must have been a very ingenious person who tied this knot," said
Pandora to herself. "But I think I could untie it, nevertheless. I am
resolved, at least, to find the two ends of the cord."
So she took the golden knot in her fingers, and pried into its
intricacies as sharply as she could. Almost without intending it, or
quite knowing what she was about, she was soon busily engaged in
attempting to undo it. Meanwhile the bright sunshine came through the
open window, as did likewise the merry voices of the children playing
at a distance; and, perhaps, the voice of Epimetheus among them.
Pandora stopped to listen. What a beautiful day it was! Would it not
be wiser if she were to let the troublesome knot alone, and think no
more about the box, but run and join her little playfellows and be
happy?
All this time, however, her fingers were half unconsciously busy with
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. 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.
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.
Meanwhile 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
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, 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
they did was to fling open the doors and windows in hope 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. 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 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.