安徒生童話:The Pen and the Inkstand墨水筆和墨水瓶

The Pen and the Inkstand

by Hans Christian Andersen（1860）

IN a poet's room， where his inkstand stood on the table， the remark was once made， “It is wonderful what can be brought out of an inkstand. What will come next？ It is indeed wonderful.”

“Yes， certainly，” said the inkstand to the pen， and to the other articles that stood on the table； “that's what I always say. It is wonderful and extraordinary what a number of things come out of me. It's quite incredible， and I really don't know what is coming next when that man dips his pen into me. One drop out of me is enough for half a page of paper， and what cannot half a page contain？ From me， all the works of a poet are produced； all those imaginary characters whom people fancy they have known or met. All the deep feeling， the humor， and the vivid pictures of nature. I myself don't understand how it is， for I am not acquainted with nature， but it is certainly in me. From me have gone forth to the world those wonderful descriptions of troops of charming maidens， and of brave knights on prancing steeds； of the halt and the blind， and I know not what more， for I assure you I never think of these things.”

“there you are right，” said the pen， “for you don't think at all； if you did， you would see that you can only provide the means. You give the fluid that I may place upon the paper what dwells in me， and what I wish to bring to light. It is the pen that writes： no man doubts that； and， indeed， most people understand as much about poetry as an old inkstand.”

“You have had very little experience，” replied the inkstand. “You have hardly been in service a week， and are already half worn out. Do you imagine you are a poet？ You are only a servant， and before you came I had many like you， some of the goose family， and others of English manufacture. I know a quill pen as well as I know a steel one. I have had both sorts in my service， and I shall have many more when he comes—the man who performs the mechanical part—and writes down what he obtains from me. I should like to know what will be the next thing he gets out of me.”

“Inkpot！” exclaimed the pen contemptuously.

Late in the evening the poet came home. He had been to a concert， and had been quite enchanted with the admirable performance of a famous violin player whom he had heard there. The performer had produced from his instrument a richness of tone that sometimes sounded like tinkling waterdrops or rolling pearls； sometimes like the birds twittering in chorus， and then rising and swelling in sound like the wind through the fir-trees. The poet felt as if his own heart were weeping， but in tones of melody like the sound of a woman's voice. It seemed not only the strings， but every part of the instrument from which these sounds were produced. It was a wonderful performance and a difficult piece， and yet the bow seemed to glide across the strings so easily that it was as if any one could do it who tried. Even the violin and the bow appeared to perform independently of their master who guided them； it was as if soul and spirit had been breathed into the instrument， so the audience forgot the performer in the beautiful sounds he produced. Not so the poet； he remembered him， and named him， and wrote down his thoughts on the subject. “How foolish it would be for the violin and the bow to boast of their performance， and yet we men often commit that folly. The poet， the artist， the man of science in his laboratory， the general，—we all do it； and yet we are only the instruments which the Almighty uses； to Him alone the honor is due. We have nothing of ourselves of which we should be proud.” Yes， this is what the poet wrote down. He wrote it in the form of a parable， and called it “The Master and the Instruments.”

“That is what you have got， madam，” said the pen to the inkstand， when the two were alone again. “Did you hear him read aloud what I had written down？”

“Yes， what I gave you to write，” retorted the inkstand. “That was a cut at you because of your conceit. To think that you could not understand that you were being quizzed. I gave you a cut from within me. Surely I must know my own satire.”

“Ink-pitcher！” cried the pen.

“Writing-stick！” retorted the inkstand. And each of them felt satisfied that he had given a good answer. It is pleasing to be convinced that you have settled a matter by your reply； it is something to make you sleep well， and they both slept well upon it. But the poet did not sleep. Thoughts rose up within him like the tones of the violin， falling like pearls， or rushing like the strong wind through the forest. He understood his own heart in these thoughts； they were as a ray from the mind of the GREat Master of all minds.

“To Him be all the honor.”

有人在一位詩人的房間裏看見他桌子上擺着墨水瓶的時候，說了這樣的話：“真奇怪，這麼個墨水瓶裏，竟然會生出這麼些東西！真不知下一步又是些甚麼？是啊，真奇怪！”“就是的，”墨水瓶說道。“真不可思議！就是的，我常這樣說！”它對羽毛筆說道，也是對桌子上其他能聽到的東西說的。“真奇怪，從我身上竟生出了這麼多東西！是啊，這幾乎是令人不能相信的！而我自己也真不知道，當人在我裏面醮的時候，下一步會是甚麼樣。只要我的一滴就夠寫滿半頁紙，這半頁紙上甚麼不能寫。我真是一種奇妙的東西！從我產生出了所有的詩人的作品！產生出了人們覺得自己認識的這許多活生生的人，這許多內心的感受，這種美好的心情，這些對秀麗的大自然的描寫。我自己也不明白，因爲我並不瞭解大自然。不過它卻就在我體內！從我這兒產生出了一羣四處闖蕩的人，漂亮的姑娘，騎着高頭大馬的騎士，皮爾·杜佛和基爾斯騰·基默1！是啊，我自己也不知道！我向您保證，我沒有想着這一層。”“您是對的！”羽毛筆說道：“您根本沒有想。因爲要是您想，您便會明白，您只不過出了些水罷了！您提供水，這樣我便可以表達，可以把我內心的東西表現在紙上，東西是我寫下來的。寫字的是筆呢！這一點任何人都不懷疑，大多數人對詩的瞭解和一個老墨水瓶是一樣的。”“您只有很少的經驗！”墨水瓶說道，“您服役還只不過一個星期就已經半禿了。您竟然就以爲您就是詩人！您只是一個僕人罷了。您來以前，這類東西我就有過不少了。有的是從鵝家族來的，也有英國製造的。我知道羽毛筆和鐵筆！爲我服務過的墨水筆很多很多。當他，人，爲我而寫寫劃劃的人來寫下我內心的東西的時候，還會有更多的墨水筆爲我服務。我現在倒很想知道，他首先從我身上拿出甚麼東西來。”“一灘黑水！”墨水筆說道。

晚上很晚的時候，詩人回家來了。他去參加了一個音樂會，聽了一位小提琴家的十分精彩的演奏，心中迴盪着那位音樂家的優美樂聲，他完全被他那無比優美的旋律所陶醉。小提琴家用他的樂器奏出了令人驚異極爲豐富多彩的樂曲清泉：時而像清脆的粒粒水滴，顆顆珠子，時而像鳥兒在啾啾唧唧和諧地鳴唱，時而又像一陣狂風吹過雲杉樹林。詩人以爲他聽到了自己的心靈在哭泣，可是這是一種音樂，就像是能從婦女動人的聲音中聽出的那種和諧的樂聲。就好像不僅是提琴的弦在發音，而且弦橋、弦栓及共鳴箱也都在鳴響。簡直太不尋常了！演奏是很難的，但是卻像一場遊戲，就像弓只是在弦上來回奔跑，人人誰都會以爲自己也會拉一樣。提琴自己在響，弓自己在演奏，這一切好像就是琴和弓兩個的作爲。大家忘記了把握着這兩樣東西，給它們以生命和魂靈的大師；大師忘記了大家；但是詩人想着他，提到他，詩人把自己的思想這樣寫了下來：“要是弓和琴竟誇耀起自己的所作所爲，那該是多麼地愚蠢啊！而我們人，詩人、藝術家、科學上的發明家、將領，卻常常這樣幹。我們誇耀自己，——而我們大家實則只不過都是上帝演奏的樂器罷了。光榮只屬於他！我們沒有甚麼可以誇耀的。”

是的，詩人寫下了這些，把它寫成一篇寓言，把它稱作《大師與樂器》。“您得到您的了，夫人！”它們兩個單獨在一起的時候，墨水筆對墨水瓶這樣說道。“您大約聽到了他念的那些我所寫下的東西了吧？”“是啊，得到了我給您，讓您寫下的東西，”墨水瓶說道。“那是針對您的自高自大寫的！瞧您竟然連人取笑您都不懂！我從我內心刺您一下！不過我得承認我的惡意。”“裝一肚子墨水的雌玩意兒！”筆說道。“胡寫亂劃的細籤子！”墨水瓶說道。

諸位都意識到它們兩個都作了很好的對答，知道自己回答得不錯是一件很愉快的事。這樣便可以安然入睡，它們也睡得很安然。可是詩人沒有睡，文思不斷涌出，就像音樂從提琴涌出一樣，像滾來滾去的珠子，像掠過樹林的風暴。他感到了其中有自己的心，他瞥見了永恆的大師的光芒。光榮屬於他！

1這是1500年前後羅斯基勒大教堂的大鐘上的兩個機械人形。