by Hans Christian Andersen 1860s
In a poet's room, where his instand 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 inagine 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 water-
drops 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 woman's voice. It seemed not only the strings,
but every part of the instrument from which these sounds were produced.