Pandora's Gifts

This story follows the tale of Prometheus’ punishment by Zeus for stealing fire to benefit men.  When it opens, Prometheus is hanging on a cliff in the distant Caucasus Mountains

17. Pandora’s Gifts 

Zeus had sworn that the next misery he inflicted upon men would be impossible for anyone—even Prometheus—to relieve.  He planned to create an evil so enticing that men would scramble to embrace it before they realized its dangers.  

Chortling at his own cleverness, Zeus mustered his forces.  First, he commanded Hephaestus to mix together earth and water and sculpt it into a figure that resembled the goddesses.  Once this was done, Aphrodite poured over its head a beauty that beguiled the minds of all who saw it and made their bodies ache with desire.

It was at this point that the gods noticed the figure was naked.  Athena quickly dressed it in gleaming robes, bound at the waist with a silver belt.  The Graces and Persuasion added golden necklaces, bracelets and earrings that glimmered in the light of the hearth-fire.  

Over its head, Athena draped a finely embroidered veil.   On top of that she placed a wreath of spring flowers that the Seasons had gathered from the meadows, crowned by a golden diadem that Hephaestus had forged.  Upon it, Hephaestus had engraved all of the monsters born from Earth and Sea.  So deft was his work that the creatures seemed to breathe and speak.

Athena gave a few final tugs to the figure’s garments and then stepped back to admire her work: the figure was truly a wonder to behold.

Now that its outer form was finished, the gods infused their creation with skills and emotions.  Touching its hands, Athena bestowed on them an ability to spin and weave.  Touching its breast, Hermes infected it with an audacious mind, a crafty disposition, and deceitful ways.  He also gave it an alluring voice, without which his other gifts would have lain fallow.  

And then he gave it a name: Pandora, which means ‘All-Gifts.’  Hermes smiled at this joke; a gift, indeed, would this be to the tribe of men, this creature destined to be the first woman, the mother of all of men’s misfortunes.

When Hermes spoke her name, Pandora awoke—no longer clay draped in finery but living flesh, blinking her eyes and shaking her limbs.  At Zeus’ command, Hermes escorted her down to earth and offered her to Epimetheus as a bride.   

Many years earlier, Prometheus had warned his brother never to accept any gifts from the gods.  When Epimetheus saw Pandora, however, he forgot everything that Prometheus had said; he could no more refuse Pandora than he could cease breathing.  And so, Epimetheus hugged Zeus’ evil plan to his silly heart, embracing a life of misery for himself and other men.

All of that came later, however.  Pandora and Epimetheus settled into marriage happily, discovering the delights of love together.  Pandora soon bore a daughter whom they named Pyrrha, ‘Fire,’ in honor of Prometheus’ gift. Pandora bore other children, too, and in this early age of human existence, she lived long enough to watch them have children, grandchildren and even great grandchildren of their own.

And Pandora used the cunning Hermes had given her to invent the ways of keeping house.  Previously, men had lived from day to day, never troubling to think ahead.  As long as each man worked at least one day a year, there had always been plenty to go around. 

Now there were other people to consider.  Pandora, the men thought, wasn’t capable of working in the fields or hunting in the forests, especially when she was pregnant.  They told her to stay in the house, which was warm in winter and cool in summer.  The men labored to feed her and her children, which meant that they strove longer and harder than they had before.  As some of them married Pandora’s descendants and begat children of their own, they strove harder still.

Pandora devised ways to save and preserve what the men brought home.  She used ceramic jars to stockpile grain, olive oil and other food.  By sinking the jars partway into the cool earth of her pantry floor, she was able to keep their contents fresh for a long time.   She established the rule that she alone was allowed to open these jars, regulating how much would be consumed and how much kept back against the threat of a bad harvest or a lengthy winter.

One day Pandora discovered that there was an extra jar in her pantry, slightly different from the others.  How did this new jar get there, she wondered, and what did it hold?  Wheat, oil, dried figs, honey?  Something even better—something new and wonderful?  A gift from the gods?  She knelt on the earth and opened it.  

Immediately, a swarm of vermin rushed out, scuttling and slithering away in all directions.  Some unfurled leathery wings and disappeared into the air; others writhed towards the river and, sprouting scales, flung themselves in; still others, hag-like, darted into the fields or forests or dwellings of mortals.  

These were the evils that would plague humans forevermore, as varied as their number.  Some of them worked by night and others by day; some announced themselves boldly to their victims and others, by Zeus’ command, worked silently until their wicked jobs were done.

Toil, rank with sweat, lurched towards the fields, his shoulders stooped and his knuckles swollen.  Famine shivered along behind, too gaunt to keep up but determined nonetheless to reach the crops and blight them.  Drought, licking her blackened lips, settled atop a fountain and stopped the flow of water. 

In house after house, Greed, Jealousy and Betrayal hopped into the men’s quarters and squatted there, croaking with glee.  Dysentery coiled into kitchens, dribbling malodorous brown corruption.  Diphtheria, wiping drool from her chin with a bony hand, headed for the women’s quarters, where she found Child-bed Fever already crouching on the coverlets, exuding putrid ooze.  Stillbirth—clammy, flaccid and blue—curled up in the corners where the birthing-stools were kept.  

Shipwreck propelled himself down the river and into the sea, his tentacles eagerly probing the surface of the waters.  Only War, reeking of gore, remained squatting by the jar, picking his teeth, waiting for the summons that he knew was soon to come, now that the other evils were at work. 

Horrified, Pandora clapped the lid onto the jar again, but it was too late.  Everything had escaped except one creature who, by the will of Zeus, had been too slow to get away: Hope.  Of all of Zeus’ decisions, this may have been the cruelest, for as long as the lid of the jar remained firmly shut, mortals still possessed Hope.  Blinded by her to the gravity of their circumstances, they would persevere, whatever challenges they faced.