[Illustration]
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, nor 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 carolling like birds, or gushing out in merry
laughter, throughout the livelong day.
What was most wonderful of all, the children never quarreled among
themselves; neither had they any crying fits; nor, since time first
began, had a single one of these little mortals ever gone apart into a
corner, and sulked. Oh, what a good time was that to be alive in! The
truth is, those ugly little winged monsters, called Troubles, which
are now almost as numerous as mosquitoes, had never yet been seen on
the earth. 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 in the world 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 very good-tempered child,
like a multitude of children in those days, "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 your telling me what is inside of it."
[Illustration: PANDORA WONDERS AT THE BOX]
"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, however, she could not help thinking and talking about the box.
"At least," said she, "you can tell me how it came here."
"It was just 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 he 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 went to gather figs and grapes by
himself, or to seek whatever amusement he could find, in other society
than his little playfellow's. 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 till 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 positively a very handsome article of
furniture, and would have been quite an ornament to any room in which
it should be placed. 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 most 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, or something or other that was disagreeable, and
which stole the beauty out of all the rest. Nevertheless, on looking
more closely, and touching the spot with her finger, 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 centre of the lid. There was nothing else, save the dark,
smooth richness of the polished wood, and this one face in the centre,
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, I had almost forgotten to say, 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 skillfullest 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 would 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."
It might have been better for Pandora if she had had a little work to
do, or anything to employ her mind upon, so as not to be so constantly
thinking of this one subject. But children led so easy a life, before
any Troubles came into the world, that they had really a great deal
too much leisure. They could not be forever playing at hide-and-seek
among the flower-shrubs, or at blind-man's-buff with garlands over
their eyes, or at whatever other games had been found out, while
Mother Earth was in her babyhood. When life is all sport, toil is the
real play. There was absolutely nothing to do. A little sweeping and
dusting about the cottage, I suppose, and the gathering of fresh
flowers (which were only too abundant everywhere), and arranging them
in vases,--and poor little Pandora's day's work was over. And then,
for the rest of the day, there was the box!
After all, I am not quite sure that the box was not a blessing to her
in its way. It supplied her with such a variety of ideas to think of,
and to talk about, whenever she had anybody to listen! When she was
in good-humor, she could admire the bright polish of its sides, and
the rich border of beautiful faces and foliage that ran all around it.
Or, if she chanced to be ill-tempered, she could give it a push, or
kick it with her naughty little foot. And many a kick did the
box--(but it was a mischievous box, as we shall see, and deserved all
it got)--many a kick did it receive. But, certain it is, if it had not
been for the box, our active-minded little Pandora would not have
known half so well how to spend her time as she now did.
[Illustration: PANDORA DESIRES TO OPEN THE BOX]
For it was really an endless employment to guess what was inside. What
could it be, indeed? Just imagine, my little hearers, how busy your
wits would be, if there were a great box in the house, which, as you
might have reason to suppose, contained something new and pretty for
your Christmas or New Year's gifts. Do you think that you should be
less curious than Pandora? If you were left alone with the box, might
you not feel a little tempted to lift the lid? But you would not do
it. Oh, fie! No, no! Only, if you thought there were toys in it, it
would be so very hard to let slip an opportunity of taking just one
peep! I know not whether Pandora expected any toys; for none had yet
begun to be made, probably, in those days, when the world itself was
one great plaything for the children that dwelt upon it. But Pandora
was convinced that there was something very beautiful and valuable in
the box; and therefore she felt just as anxious to take a peep as any
of these little girls, here around me, would have felt. And,
possibly, a little more so; but of that I am not quite so certain.
On this particular day, however, which we have so long been talking
about, her curiosity grew so much greater than it usually was, that,
at last, she approached the box. She was more than half determined to
open it, if she could. Ah, naughty Pandora!
First, however, she tried to lift it. It was heavy; quite 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. 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.
[Illustration: PANDORA OPENS THE BOX]
"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?"