ThePenandtheInkstand
引导语：笔和墨水壶是我们生活中常见的生活用品，那么这两件物品凑在一起会写出什么样的安徒生童话故事呢?欢迎大家阅读下文学习，还有英文版的。
在一个诗人的房间里，有人看到桌上的墨水壶，说：“一个墨水壶所能产生的东西真是了不起!下一步可能是什么呢?是的，那一定是了不起的!”
“一点也不错，”墨水壶说。“那真是不可想象——我常常这样说!“它对那枝鹅毛笔和桌上其他能听见它的东西说。”我身上产生出来的东西该是多美妙呵!是的，这几乎叫人不相信!当人把笔伸进我身体里去的时候，我自己也不知道，下一步我可以产生出什么东西。我只须拿出我的一滴就可以写半页字，记载一大堆东西。我的确是一件了不起的东西。我身上产生出所有的诗人的作品：人们以为自己所认识的那些生动的人、一切深沉的感情、幽默、大自然美丽的图画等。我自己也不理解，因为我不认识自然，但是它无疑地是存在于我身体里面的。从我的身体出来的有：飘荡的人群、美丽的姑娘、骑着骏马的勇士、比尔·杜佛和吉斯丹·吉美尔①。是的，我自己也不知道。——我坦白地说，我真想不到我会有什么东西拿出来。”
“你这话说得对!”鹅毛笔说。“你完全不用头脑，因为如果你用用头脑的话，你就会了解，你只不过供给一点液体罢了。你流出水，好使我能把我心里的东西清楚地表达出来，真正在纸上写字的是笔呀!任何人都不会怀疑这一点。大多数的人对于诗的理解和一个老墨水壶差不了多少。”
“你的经验实在少得可怜!”墨水壶说。“用不到一个星期，你就已经累得半死了。你幻想自己是一个诗人吗?你不过是一个佣人罢了。在你没有来以前，我可是认识不少你这种人。你们有的是属于鹅毛②这个家族，有的是英国造的!鹅毛笔和钢笔，我都打过交道!许多都为我
服务过;当他——人——回来时，还有更多的会来为我服务，——他这个人代替我行动，写下他从我身上取出来的东西。我倒很想知道，他会先从我身上取出什么来。”
“墨水!古时的笔是用鹅毛管做的。”笔说。
晚上很迟的时候，诗人回来了。他去参加了一个音乐会，听了一位杰出提琴家的演奏，而且还被这美妙的艺术迷住了。这位音乐家在他的乐器上奏出惊人的丰富的调子、一会儿像滚珠似的水点，一会儿像在啾啾合唱的小鸟，一会儿像吹过枞树林的萧萧的风声。他觉得听到自己的心在哭泣，但是在和谐地哭泣，像一个女人的悦耳的声音一样。看样子不仅是琴弦在发出声音，而且是弦柱、甚至梢和共鸣盘在发出声音。这是一次很惊人的演奏!虽然乐器不容易演奏，但是弓却轻松地在弦上来回滑动着，像游戏似的。你很可能以为任何人都可以拉它几下子。
提琴似乎自己在发出声音，弓也似乎自己在滑动——全部音乐似乎就是这两件东西奏出来的。人们忘记了那位掌握它们和给与它们生命与灵魂的`艺术家。人们把这位艺术家忘掉了，但是这位诗人记得他，写下了他的名字，也写下了他的感想：
“提琴和弓只会吹嘘自己的成就，这是多么傻啊!然而我们人常常干这种傻事——诗人、艺人、科学发明家、将军。我们表现出自高自大，而我们大家却不过是上帝所演奏的乐曲罢了。光荣应该属于他!我们没有什么东西可以值得骄傲。”
是的，诗人写下这样的话，作为寓言把它写下来的，并且把它题名为：艺术家和乐器。
“这是讲给你听的呀，太太!”当旁边没有别人的时候，笔这样对墨水壶说。“你没有听到他在高声朗诵我所写的东西么?”
“是的，这就是我交给你、让你写下的东西呀，”墨水壶说。“这正是对你自高自大的一种讽刺!别人挖苦你，你却不知道!我从心里向你射出一箭——当然我是知道我的恶意的!”
“你这个墨水罐子!”笔说。 “你这根笔杆子!”墨水壶也说。
它们各自都相信自己回击得很好，回击得漂亮。这种想法使得它们感到愉快——它们可以抱着这种愉快的心情去睡觉，而它们也就睡着了。不过那位诗人并没有睡去。他心里涌出许多思想，像提琴的调子，像滚动的珠子，像吹过森林的萧萧风声。他在这些思想中能够触觉到自己的心，能够看到永恒的造物主的一线光明。
光荣应该属于他!
①也是丹麦古城罗斯吉尔得的主教堂的钟上的两个人形。每到一点钟比尔·杜佛(Per Dver)就敲起来;每到一刻钟，吉斯丹·吉美尔(Kirsten Kimer)就敲起来。
②古时的笔是用鹅毛管做的。
笔和墨水壶英文版： The Pen and the Inkstand
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.”
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