in the room of a poet，where his inkstand stood up－on the table，it was said，“it is wonderful what can come out of an inkstand．what will the next thing be？it is wonderful！”
“yes，certainly，”said the inkstand．“it's inconceivable—that's what i always say，”he exclaimed to the pen and to the other articles on the table that were near enough to hear．“it is wonderful what a number of things can come out of me．it's quite incredible．and i really don't myself know what will be the next thing，when that man begins to dip into me．one drop out of me is enough for half a page of paper；and what cannot be contained in half a page？from me all the works of the poet go forth—all these living men，whom people can imagine they have met—all the deep feeling，the humour，the vivid picture of nature．i myself don't understand how it is，for i am not acquainted with nature，but it certainly is in me．from me all these things have gone forth，and from me proceed the troops of charming maidens，and of brave knights on prancing steeds，［and all the lame and the blind，］and i don't know what more—i assure you i don't think of anything
“there you are right，”said the pen；“you don't think at all，for if you did，you would comprehend that you only furnish the fluid．you give the fluid，that i may exhibit upon the paper what dwells in me，and what i would bring to the day．it is the pen that writes．no man doubts that；and，indeed，most people have about as much insight into poetry as an old inkstand．”
“you have but little experience，”replied the ink－stand．“you've hardly been in service a week，and are already half worn out．do you fancy you are the poet？you are only a servant；and before you came i knew many of your sort，some of the goose family，and others of english manufacture．i know the quill as well as the steel pen．many have been in my service，and i shall have many more when he comes—the man who goes through the motions for me，and writes down what he derives from me．i should like to know what will be the next thing he'll take out of me．”
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“inkpot！”exclaimed the pen．
late in the evening the poet came home．he had been to a concert，where he had heard a famous violinist，with whose admirable performances he was quite enchanted．the player had drawn a wonderful wealth of tone from the instrument：sometimes it had sounded like tinkling water－drops，like rolling pearls，sometimes like birds twittering in chorus，and then again it went swelling on like the wind through the fir trees．
the poet thought he heard his own heart weeping，but weeping melodiously，like the sound of a woman's voice．it seemed as though not only the strings sounded，but every part of the instrument．it was a wonderful per－formance；and difficult as the piece was，the bow seemed to glide easily to and fro over the strings，and it looked as though any one might do it．the violin seemed to sound of itself，and the bow to move of itself—those two appeared to do everything；and the audience forgot the master who guided them and breathed soul and spirit into them．the master was forgotten；but the poet remembered him，and named him，and wrote down his thoughts concerning the subject．
“how foolish it would be of the violin and the bow to boast of their achievements！and yet we men often commit this folly—the poet，the artist，the inventor in the domain of science，the general—we all do it．we are only the instruments which the almighty uses：to him alone be the honour！we have nothing of which we should be proud．”
yes，that is what the poet wrote down．he wrote it in the form of a parable，which he called“the master and the instruments．”
“that is what you get，madam，”said the pen to the inkstand，when the two were alone again．“did you not hear him read aloud what i have written down！”
“yes，what i gave you to write，”retorted the ink－stand．“that was a cut at you，because of your conceit．that you should not even have understood that you were being quizzed！i gave you a cut from within me—surely i must know my own satire！”
“ink-pipkin！”cried the pen．
“writing-stick！”cried the inkstand．
and each of them felt a conviction that he had answered well；and it is a pleasing conviction to feel that one has given a good answer—a conviction on which one can sleep；and accordingly they slept upon it．but the poet did not sleep．thoughts welled up from within him，like the tones from the violin，falling like pearls，rushing like the storm-wind through the forests．he felt his own heart in these thoughts，and caught a ray from the eternal master．
to him be all the honour！
笔和墨水壶
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，但是它无疑是存在于我身体里面的。从我的身体走出来的有：［漂荡的人群、］一队队美丽的姑娘、骑着骏马的勇士［、比尔·杜佛和吉斯丹·吉美尔］。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，因为如果你动动脑子的话，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！”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。这是一次绝妙的演奏！虽然乐谱不容易演奏，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予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，也写下了自己的感想：
“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、艺术家、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器罢了。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了，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——当然我是知道我自己的讽刺的！”
“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感觉到自己的心，能够看到永恒的造物主的一线光明。
光荣应该属于他！
这篇童话发表在1859年12月9日（但在封面上印的是1860年）出版的《新的童话和故事集》第1卷第4部里。安徒生在他的手记中写道：“在《笔和墨水壶》中，每个人听过提琴家埃纳斯特和奈翁纳德的演奏，将会回忆起他的美妙的琴声。”埃纳斯特（heinnich wilhelm ernst；1814—1865）和奈翁纳德（hubert neonard，1819—1840）分别是奥地利和比利时的著名提琴家和作曲家。这个故事事实上是一篇小小的文艺评论，它的意思是：素材不管怎么好，没有艺术家或作家心灵的融合和创造，决不能成为艺术品。