THE PEN AND THE INKSTAND

                                  1872

                 FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

                        THE PEN AND THE INKSTAND

                       by Hans Christian Andersen



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."





                        THE END

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