THE PEN AND THE INK BOTTLE

Look at all the wonders within this inkwell!" exclaimed someone who found themselves in a poet's study. "So many beautiful things! What will be the first masterpiece to emerge from it? Surely, it will be a remarkable work."

"It is truly remarkable," responded the voice of the inkwell, "absolutely remarkable!" It repeated, turning to the quill and other objects on the desk for confirmation. "There are so many things within me... one can hardly fathom it. The truth is, I am ignorant of it myself, and I would be hard-pressed to say what emerges when a quill dips into me. Just one drop of my ink can fill half a page. Imagine what this whole inkwell contains! From me springs forth all the works of the master of this place. It's within me that he finds those subtle thoughts, those beloved heroes, and those enchanting landscapes that fill so many books. I may not comprehend it, and nature leaves me entirely indifferent, but regardless, all of this originates from me, and that suffices."

"You are absolutely right to be content with that," replied the quill. "It proves that you don't contemplate, for if you possessed the gift of reflection, you would understand that your role is quite different from what you believe. You provide the material that allows me to make visible what resides within me. You contain nothing but ink, my friend, nothing more. It is I, the quill, who writes. Not a person disputes this fact, and yet, many among humankind are as skilled in poetry as an old inkwell."

"Your words are rather lofty for someone with so little experience," retorted the inkwell. "You've barely been around for a week, my dear, and you are already in a sorry state. Do you perhaps imagine that my works are your own? Oh, what a fine story! Whether made of goose feathers or steel, you're all the same and are no better than one another. It's your mechanical task to transfer onto paper what I contain when a person comes to consult me. What will they borrow from me next time? I'm curious to know."

"You blunderer!" the quill concluded.

However, the poet was in a state of great excitement when he returned in the evening. He had attended a concert and succumbed to the irresistible charm of an incomparable violinist. Under the inspired performance of the artist, the instrument had come to life, exuding its soul in overflowing harmonies.

The poet believed he could hear his own heart sing, with a divine voice like that of some women at times. It was as if everything vibrated within the violin—strings, the bridge, the body—to achieve a higher level of expression. Despite the virtuoso's extreme skill, the execution seemed almost child's play. One could hardly see at times the bow touching the strings; it made everyone want to do the same with a violin that seemed to sing on its own, with a bow that appeared to move by itself. The artist was forgotten, he who nonetheless made them what they were by infusing a part of his genius into them. But the poet remembered, and as he sat at his desk, he took his quill to write down his impressions.

"How foolish it would be for the bow and the violin to boast of their merits! Yet we share in this folly, we poets, artists, inventors, or scholars. We sing our praises, we take pride in our works, and we forget that we are instruments played by the Creator. Honor to Him alone! We have nothing of our own to boast about."

On this theme, the poet elaborated a parable, which he titled "The Craftsman and the Instruments."

"To those who have ears to hear," my dear," the quill said to the inkwell, after their master had left. "Did you grasp what I wrote and what he just read aloud?"

"Of course, as it was I who provided it to you in the first place, my dear. I advise you to learn from this lesson, as you are not typically known for your modesty. But you didn't even realize that you were being made fun of!"

"You old jug!" quipped the quill.

"You old broom!" retorted the inkwell.

Each of them was convinced they had silenced their opponent with crushing arguments. With such conviction, they had clear consciences and slept well, enjoying the sleep of the righteous.

However, the poet wasn't sleeping; his mind was teeming with ideas, like notes under the violinist's bow—sometimes fresh and crystalline as pearls from cascades, other times powerful as stormy winds in the forest. He vibrated entirely under the hand of the Supreme Master. Honor to Him alone!