上一级

讨论区

本书首页    Previous    Next    Chinese


THE PEN AND INKSTAND

 

IN the room of a poetwhere his Inkstand stood upon the tableit was said,“It is wonderful what can come out of an inkstandWhat will the next thing beIt is wonderful!”

Yescertainly,”said the Inkstand.“It's inconceivablethat'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 meIt's quite incredibleAnd I really don't myself know what will be the next thingwhen that man begins to dip into meOne drop out of me is enough for half a page of paperand what cannot be contained in half a pageFrom me all the works of the poet go forthall these living menwhom people can imagine they have metall the deep feelingthe humourthe vivid picture of natureI myself don't understand how it isfor I am not acquainted with naturebut it certainly is in meFrom me all these things have gone forthand from me proceed the troops of charming maidensand of brave knights on prancing steeds,[and all the lame and the blind,]and I don't know what moreI assure you I don't think of anything

There you are right,”said the Pen;“you don't think at allfor if you didyou would comprehend that you only furnish the fluidYou give the fluidthat I may exhibit upon the paper what dwells in meand what I would bring to the dayIt is the pen that writesNo man doubts thatandindeedmost people have about as much insight into poetry as an old inkstand.”

You have but little experience,”replied the Inkstand.“You've hardly been in service a weekand are already half worn outDo you fancy you are the poetYou are only a servantand before you came I knew many of your sortsome of the goose familyand others of English manufactureI know the quill as well as the steel penMany have been in my serviceand I shall have many more when he comesthe man who goes through the motions for meand writes down what he derives from meI should like to know what will be the next thing he'll take out of me.”

{ewc MVIMAGE,MVIMAGE, !413750T1.bmp}

Inkpot!”exclaimed the Pen

Late in the evening the poet came homeHe had been to a concertwhere he had heard a famous violinistwith whose admirable performances he was quite enchantedThe player had drawn a wonderful wealth of tone from the instrumentsometimes it had sounded like tinkling waterdropslike rolling pearlssometimes like birds twittering in chorusand then again it went swelling on like the wind through the fir trees

The poet thought he heard his own heart weepingbut weeping melodiouslylike the sound of a woman's voiceIt seemed as though not only the strings soundedbut every part of the instrumentIt was a wonderful performanceand difficult as the piece wasthe bow seemed to glide easily to and fro over the stringsand it looked as though any one might do itThe violin seemed to sound of itselfand the bow to move of itselfthose two appeared to do everythingand the audience forgot the master who guided them and breathed soul and spirit into themThe master was forgottenbut the poet remembered himand named himand wrote down his thoughts concerning the subject

How foolish it would be of the violin and the bow to boast of their achievementsAnd Yet we men often commit this follythe poetthe artistthe inventor in the domain of sciencethe generalwe all do itWe are only the instruments which the Almighty usesto Him alone be the honourWe have nothing of which we should be proud.”

Yesthat is what the poet wrote downHe wrote it in the form of a parablewhich he calledThe Master and the Instruments.”

That is what you getmadam,”said the Pen to the Inkstandwhen the two were alone again.“Did you not hear him read aloud what I have written down!”

Yeswhat I gave you to write,”retorted the Inkstand.“That was a cut at youbecause of your conceitThat you should not even have understood that you were being quizzedI gave you a cut from within mesurely 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 welland it is a pleasing conviction to feel that one has given a good answera conviction on which one can sleepand accordingly they slept upon itBut the poet did not sleepThoughts welled up from within himlike the tones from the violinfalling like pearlsrushing like the storm-wind through the forestsHe felt his own heart in these thoughtsand caught a ray from the Eternal Master

To Him be all the honour

 


 

Previous    Next    Chinese

 
 
上一级

讨论区