安徒生童話故事第97篇：筆和墨水壺The Pen and the Inkstand

引導語：筆和墨水壺是我們生活中常見的生活用品，那麼這兩件物品湊在一起會寫出什麼樣的安徒生童話故事呢?歡迎大家閱讀下文學習，還有英文版的。

在一個詩人的房間裏，有人看到桌上的墨水壺，說：“一個墨水壺所能產生的東西真是了不起!下一步可能是什麼呢?是的，那一定是了不起的!”

“一點也不錯，”墨水壺說。“那真是不可想象——我常常這樣說!“它對那枝鵝毛筆和桌上其他能聽見它的東西說。”我身上產生出來的東西該是多美妙呵!是的，這幾乎叫人不相信!當人把筆伸進我身體裏去的時候，我自己也不知道，下一步我可以產生出什麼東西。我只須拿出我的一滴就可以寫半頁字，記載一大堆東西。我的確是一件了不起的東西。我身上產生出所有的詩人的作品：人們以爲自己所認識的那些生動的人、一切深沉的感情、幽默、大自然美麗的圖畫等。我自己也不理解，因爲我不認識自然，但是它無疑地是存在於我身體裏面的`。從我的身體出來的有：飄蕩的人羣、美麗的姑娘、騎着駿馬的勇士、比爾·杜佛和吉斯丹·吉美爾①。是的，我自己也不知道。——我坦白地說，我真想不到我會有什麼東西拿出來。”

“你這話說得對!”鵝毛筆說。“你完全不用頭腦，因爲如果你用用頭腦的話，你就會了解，你只不過供給一點液體罷了。你流出水，好使我能把我心裏的東西清楚地表達出來，真正在紙上寫字的是筆呀!任何人都不會懷疑這一點。大多數的人對於詩的理解和一個老墨水壺差不了多少。”

“你的經驗實在少得可憐!”墨水壺說。“用不到一個星期，你就已經累得半死了。你幻想自己是一個詩人嗎?你不過是一個傭人罷了。在你沒有來以前，我可是認識不少你這種人。你們有的是屬於鵝毛②這個家族，有的是英國造的!鵝毛筆和鋼筆，我都打過交道!許多都爲我服務過;當他——人——回來時，還有更多的會來爲我服務，——他這個人代替我行動，寫下他從我身上取出來的東西。我倒很想知道，他會先從我身上取出什麼來。”

“墨水!古時的筆是用鵝毛管做的。”筆說。

晚上很遲的時候，詩人回來了。他去參加了一個音樂會，聽了一位傑出提琴家的演奏，而且還被這美妙的藝術迷住了。這位音樂家在他的樂器上奏出驚人的豐富的調子、一會兒像滾珠似的水點，一會兒像在啾啾合唱的小鳥，一會兒像吹過樅樹林的蕭蕭的風聲。他覺得聽到自己的心在哭泣，但是在和諧地哭泣，像一個女人的悅耳的聲音一樣。看樣子不僅是琴絃在發出聲音，而且是弦柱、甚至梢和共鳴盤在發出聲音。這是一次很驚人的演奏!雖然樂器不容易演奏，但是弓卻輕鬆地在弦上來回滑動着，像遊戲似的。你很可能以爲任何人都可以拉它幾下子。

提琴似乎自己在發出聲音，弓也似乎自己在滑動——全部音樂似乎就是這兩件東西奏出來的。人們忘記了那位掌握它們和給與它們生命與靈魂的藝術家。人們把這位藝術家忘掉了，但是這位詩人記得他，寫下了他的名字，也寫下了他的感想：

“提琴和弓只會吹噓自己的成就，這是多麼傻啊!然而我們人常常幹這種傻事——詩人、藝人、科學發明家、將軍。我們表現出自高自大，而我們大家卻不過是上帝所演奏的樂曲罷了。光榮應該屬於他!我們沒有什麼東西可以值得驕傲。”

是的，詩人寫下這樣的話，作爲寓言把它寫下來的，並且把它題名爲：藝術家和樂器。

“這是講給你聽的呀，太太!”當旁邊沒有別人的時候，筆這樣對墨水壺說。“你沒有聽到他在高聲朗誦我所寫的東西麼?”

“是的，這就是我交給你、讓你寫下的東西呀，”墨水壺說。“這正是對你自高自大的一種諷刺!別人挖苦你，你卻不知道!我從心裏向你射出一箭——當然我是知道我的惡意的!”

“你這個墨水罐子!”筆說。

“你這根筆桿子!”墨水壺也說。

它們各自都相信自己回擊得很好，回擊得漂亮。這種想法使得它們感到愉快——它們可以抱着這種愉快的心情去睡覺，而它們也就睡着了。不過那位詩人並沒有睡去。他心裏涌出許多思想，像提琴的調子，像滾動的珠子，像吹過森林的蕭蕭風聲。他在這些思想中能夠觸覺到自己的心，能夠看到永恆的造物主的一線光明。

光榮應該屬於他!

①也是丹麥古城羅斯吉爾得的主教堂的鐘上的兩個人形。每到一點鐘比爾·杜佛(Per Dver)就敲起來;每到一刻鐘，吉斯丹·吉美爾(Kirsten Kimer)就敲起來。

②古時的筆是用鵝毛管做的。

筆和墨水壺英文版：

　　The Pen and the Inkstand

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.”