In the room of a poet, where his inkstand stood upon 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 extraordinary--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 humor, the
vivid pictures 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
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 Inkstand. "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 had many of
your sorts, 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."
"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 woman's voice. It seemed as though not
only the strings sounded, but every part of the instrument.
It was a wonderful performance; and difficult as the piece was, the bow
seemed to glide easily to and fro over the strings, and it looked as
though every 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 laborer 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
honor! 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 Instrument."
"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 Inkstand. "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 understood his own heart in these thoughts, and
caught a ray from the Eternal Master. To _Him_ be all the honor!
_Hans Christian Andersen._
* * * * *
PIPKIN, a small pipe; a small jar made of baked clay.
Write as many synonyms as you know, or can find, of the words _vivid,
exhibit, comprehend_. Consult the dictionary.