The Paradise of Children
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Nathaniel Hawthorne >> The Paradise of Children
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cried out, Pandora would probably have withdrawn her hand, and the fatal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.
"O, 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 thundercloud 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 dorbugs 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 fairylike 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, "for ever 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!"
"O 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.