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.”
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