安徒生童话:The Pen and the Inkstand墨水笔和墨水瓶

　　有人在一位诗人的房间里看见他桌子上摆着墨水瓶的时候，说了这样的话：“真奇怪，这么个墨水瓶里，竟然会生出这么些东西！真不知下一步又是些甚么？是啊，真奇怪！”“就是的，”墨水瓶说道。“真不可思议！就是的，我常这样说！”它对羽毛笔说道，也是对桌子上其他能听到的东西说的。“真奇怪，从我身上竟生出了这么多东西！是啊，这几乎是令人不能相信的！而我自己也真不知道，当人在我里面醮的时候，下一步会是甚么样。只要我的一滴就够写满半页纸，这半页纸上甚么不能写。我真是一种奇妙的东西！从我产生出了所有的诗人的作品！产生出了人们觉得自己认识的这许多活生生的人，这许多内心的感受，这种美好的心情，这些对秀丽的大自然的描写。我自己也不明白，因为我并不瞭解大自然。不过它却就在我体内！从我这儿产生出了一群四处闯荡的人，漂亮的姑娘，骑着高头大马的骑士，皮尔·杜佛和基尔斯腾·基默1！是啊，我自己也不知道！我向您保证，我没有想着这一层。”“您是对的！”羽毛笔说道：“您根本没有想。因为要是您想，您便会明白，您只不过出了些水罢了！您提供水，这样我便可以表达，可以把我内心的东西表现在纸上，东西是我写下来的。写字的是笔呢！这一点任何人都不怀疑，大多数人对诗的瞭解和一个老墨水瓶是一样的。”“您只有很少的经验！”墨水瓶说道，“您服役还只不过一个星期就已经半秃了。您竟然就以为您就是诗人！您只是一个仆人罢了。您来以前，这类东西我就有过不少了。有的是从鹅家族来的，也有英国制造的。我知道羽毛笔和铁笔！为我服务过的墨水笔很多很多。当他，人，为我而写写划划的人来写下我内心的东西的时候，还会有更多的墨水笔为我服务。我现在倒很想知道，他首先从我身上拿出甚么东西来。”“一滩黑水！”墨水笔说道。

　　晚上很晚的时候，诗人回家来了。他去参加了一个音乐会，听了一位小提琴家的十分精彩的演奏，心中回荡着那位音乐家的优美乐声，他完全被他那无比优美的旋律所陶醉。小提琴家用他的乐器奏出了令人惊异极为丰富多彩的乐曲清泉：时而像清脆的粒粒水滴，颗颗珠子，时而像鸟儿在啾啾唧唧和谐地鸣唱，时而又像一阵狂风吹过云杉树林。诗人以为他听到了自己的心灵在哭泣，可是这是一种音乐，就像是能从妇女动人的声音中听出的那种和谐的乐声。就好像不仅是提琴的弦在发音，而且弦桥、弦栓及共鸣箱也都在鸣响。简直太不寻常了！演奏是很难的，但是却像一场游戏，就像弓只是在弦上来回奔跑，人人谁都会以为自己也会拉一样。提琴自己在响，弓自己在演奏，这一切好像就是琴和弓两个的作为。大家忘记了把握着这两样东西，给它们以生命和魂灵的大师；大师忘记了大家；但是诗人想着他，提到他，诗人把自己的思想这样写了下来：“要是弓和琴竟夸耀起自己的所作所为，那该是多么地愚蠢啊！而我们人，诗人、艺术家、科学上的发明家、将领，却常常这样干。我们夸耀自己，——而我们大家实则只不过都是上帝演奏的乐器罢了。光荣只属於他！我们没有甚么可以夸耀的。”

　　是的，诗人写下了这些，把它写成一篇寓言，把它称作《大师与乐器》。“您得到您的了，夫人！”它们两个单独在一起的时候，墨水笔对墨水瓶这样说道。“您大约听到了他念的那些我所写下的东西了吧？”“是啊，得到了我给您，让您写下的东西，”墨水瓶说道。“那是针对您的自高自大写的！瞧您竟然连人取笑您都不懂！我从我内心刺您一下！不过我得承认我的恶意。”“装一肚子墨水的雌玩意儿！”笔说道。“胡写乱划的细签子！”墨水瓶说道。

　　诸位都意识到它们两个都作了很好的对答，知道自己回答得不错是一件很愉快的事。这样便可以安然入睡，它们也睡得很安然。可是诗人没有睡，文思不断涌出，就像音乐从提琴涌出一样，像滚来滚去的珠子，像掠过树林的风暴。他感到了其中有自己的心，他瞥见了永恆的大师的光芒。光荣属於他！

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.”