| It was once remarked
by someone who was looking at the inkwell on an author's desk:
"Isn't it strange, all that can come out of an inkwell? I wonder
what will come from it next? Oh, it is a wonder!" |
Der blev sagt i en Digters
Stue, idet man saae paa hans Blækhuus der stod paa Bordet:"Det
er mærkeligt, Alt hvad der dog kan komme op af det Blækhuus!
hvad mon nu det Næste bliver? Ja, det er mærkeligt!" |
| "That it is," agreed
the inkwell. "It is very hard to understand. And that has always
been my opinion." The inkwell was talking to the pen and everything
else that happened to be on the desk. "It is, indeed, strange
and wonderful what can come out of me! Why, I would call it
almost unbelievable! Sometimes I don't even know myself what
will come next--what will happen when human beings dip into
me. One drop of me is enough to cover half a page of paper,
and what cannot be written on that! I am someone quite extraordinary.
From me springs all poetry; descriptions of people who have
never lived, and yet are more alive than those who walk around
on two legs; the deepest feelings; the greatest wit; and the
loveliest word paintings of nature. How can all that be inside
me--I who do not even know nature--but nonetheless it is! All
of these gallant knights on their magnificent horses and all
the beautiful young girls who live in books have, in fact, been
born in me. Yes, I cannot even understand it myself." |
"Det er det!" sagde
Blækhuset."Det er ubegribeligt! det er det jeg altid siger!"
sagde det til Pennefjederen og til hvad Andet der paa Bordet
kunde høre det."Det er mærkeligt, Alt hvad der kan komme fra
mig! ja, det er næsten utroligt! og jeg veed virkelig ikke selv
hvad det Næste bliver, naar Mennesket begynder at øse af mig.
Een Draabe af mig, den er nok til en halv Side Papir, og hvad
kan der ikke staae paa den. Jeg er noget ganske mærkeligt! fra
mig udgaaer alle Digterens Værker! disse levende Mennesker,
som Folk troe at kjende, disse inderlige Følelser, dette gode
Humeur, disse yndige Skildringer af Naturen; - jeg begriber
det ikke selv, for jeg kjender ikke Naturen, men det er nu engang
i mig! fra mig udgik og udgaaer denne Hærskare svævende, yndige
Piger, kjække Riddere paa fnysende Gangere, Peer Døver og Kirsten
Kimer! ja jeg veed det ikke selv! jeg forsikkrer Dem, jeg tænker
ikke ved det!" |
| "There you spoke the
truth!" said the quill pen. "You do not understand because you
cannot think; if you could, you would realize that you contain
merely liquid. You exist so that I can express upon paper the
thoughts that are within me, so that I can write them down.
It is the pen that writes! This no man doubts, and I can assure
you that most human beings have a great deal more insight into
poetry than an old inkwell." |
"Det har De Ret i!"
sagde Pennefjederen;"De tænker slet ikke, for tænkte De, da
vilde De forstaae at De kun giver Vædske! De giver Væde, saa
at jeg kan udtale og synliggjøre paa Papiret det jeg har i mig,
det jeg skriver ned. Pennen er det som skriver! derom tvivler
intet Menneske, og de fleste Mennesker have da ligesaa god Indsigt
i Poesien, som et gammelt Blækhuus!" |
| "You have not had much
experience yet," said the inkwell. "You are young in the service,
though already half used up, I am afraid. Do you really believe
that you are the poet? You are only a servant, and I have had
many of them before you arrived. Both English steel pens and
those who can claim geese as their family. I have known all
kinds of pens. I cannot even count the number that have been
in my service; and more will come, I am sure. He wears them
out, the human being who does the manual labor, he who writes
down what is inside me. I wonder what he will lift out of me
next." |
"De har kun lidt Erfaring!"
sagde Blækhuset."De er jo knap en Uge i Tjenesten og allerede
halv opslidt. Bilder De Dem ind, at De er Digteren! De er kun
Tyende, og mange af den Slags har jeg havt før De kom, og det
baade af Gaasefamilien og af engelsk Fabrik; jeg kjender baade
Fjederpen og Staalpen! der ere Mange jeg har havt i Tjeneste
og jeg vil faae Mange endnu, naar han, Mennesket, som gjør Bevægelserne
for mig, kommer og skriver ned, hvad han faaer ud af mit Indvendige.
Jeg gad nu nok vide hvad det Første bliver, han løfter ud af
mig!" |
| "Ink tub!" sneered the
pen. |
"Blækbøtte!" sagde Pennen.
|
| Later in the evening
the poet came home. He had attended a concert where he had heard
an excellent violinist play. He was still very excited about
what he had heard. The musician had enticed such marvelous sounds
out of his instrument. At one moment it sounded like drops of
water falling from the trees, one pearly drop after another;
and the next, like a storm riding through a pine forest. The
poet had thought he had heard his own heart weeping, so captured
had he been by the music. It was not only the strings that had
sung but the whole instrument, wood and all. And all the while
it had looked so easy: the bow had danced so lightly across
the strings. One was almost convinced that anyone could have
done it, so effortless had the performance appeared. The violin
sang by itself and the bow moved by itself; the two were one.
One almost forgot their master: the musician who played upon
them and gave to these two dead objects a soul. But the poet
had not forgotten him; he pondered over it and wrote down his
thoughts. |
Seent paa Aftenen kom
Digteren hjem, han havde været i Concert, hørt en udmærket Violinspiller
og var ganske opfyldt og betagen af dennes mageløse Spil. Det
havde været et forbausende Væld af Toner, han havde faaet ud
af Instrumentet: snart lød det som klingende Vanddraaber, Perle
paa Perle, snart som qviddrende Fugle i Chor, som bruste Stormen
igjennem en Granskov; han troede at høre sit eget Hjerte græde,
men i Melodie, som den kan høres i en Qvindes deilige Røst.
Det havde været som om ikke blot Violinens Strænge klang, men
Strængestolen, ja Skruer og Sangbund! det var overordenligt!
og svært havde det været, men seet ud som en Leg, som om Buen
kun løb frem og tilbage henover Strængene, man skulde troe,
at Enhver kunde gjøre det efter. Violinen klang af sig selv,
Buen spillede af sig selv, de to var det, som gjorde det Hele,
man glemte Mesteren, der førte dem, gav dem Liv og Sjæl; Mesteren
glemte man; men paa ham tænkte Digteren, ham nævnede han og
nedskrev sin Tanke derved: |
| "How absurd it would
seem if the bow and the violin should be proud and haughty about
their accomplishments. Yet we, human beings, often are; the
poets, the artists, the scientists, and even the generals often
boast in vain pride. Yet they are all but instruments that God
plays upon. To Him alone belongs all honor. We have nothing
to pride ourselves upon!" |
"Hvor taabeligt, om
Buen og Violinen vilde hovmode sig over deres Gjerning! og det
gjør dog saa tidt vi Mennesker, Digteren, Kunstneren, Opfinderen
i Videnskaben, Feltherren; vi hovmode os, -og Alle ere vi dog
kun Instrumenterne Vor Herre spiller paa; ham alene Æren! vi
have Intet at hovmode os over!" |
| Later the poet wrote
a parable and called it "The Genius and His Instrument." |
Ja, det skrev Digteren
ned, skrev det som en Parabel og kaldte den"Mesteren og Instrumenterne."
|
| "Well, madam, that put
you in your place," said the pen to the inkwell when the two
of them again were alone. "I suppose you heard him read aloud
what I had written down?" |
"Der fik De Deres, Madam!"
sagde Pennen til Blækhuset, da de To igjen vare ene."De hørte
ham vel læse op, hvad jeg havde skrevet ned!" |
| "You wrote what I ordered
you to write," retorted the inkwell. "It was especially your
silly arrogance and pride that made me think of it, I am sure.
But I suppose you can't even understand when you are being made
fun of! That whole thing was meant for you and it came from
the very depth of me. Don't you think I can recognize my own
sarcasm?" |
"Ja, hvad jeg gav Dem
at skrive!" sagde Blækhuset."Det var jo en Hib til Dem for Deres
Hovmod! at De ikke engang kan forstaae at man gjør Nar af Dem!
jeg gav Dem et Hib lige fra mit Indvendige! jeg maa dog kjende
min egen Malice!" |
| "Ink skirt!" screamed
the pen. |
"Blækholderske!" sagde
Pennen. |
| "Scribble pin!" shouted
the inkwell. |
"Skrivepind!" sagde
Blækhuset. |
| Each of them thought
his own repartee the cleverer, and there is nothing so satisfying
as the feeling that one has had the last word. It makes for
pleasant slumber, and both the inkwell and the pen went to sleep.
But the poet was not asleep; like tones from a violin, thoughts
upon thoughts came to him. They fell like pearls and rode through
the forest as the storm; he felt the cry of his own heart and
the spark of the Eternal Master. |
Og Enhver af dem havde
Bevidstheden om at de havde svaret godt, og det er en behagelig
Bevidsthed at vide at man har svaret godt, det kan man sove
paa, og de sov paa det; men Digteren sov ikke! Tankerne vældede
frem, som Tonerne fra Violinen, trillende som Perler, brusende
som Stormen gjennem Skoven, han fornam sit eget Hjerte deri,
han fornam Glimtet fra den evige Mester. |
| To Him alone belongs
the honor and the glory! |
Ham alene Æren! |
|