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Updated: May 11, 2025
Gerard bowed, and smiled; but hesitated a little. "I may not call myself a painter. I am a writer, a caligraph. I copy Greek and Latin manuscripts, when I can get them to copy." "And you call that an artist?" "Without offence to your superior merit, Signor Pietro." "No offence, stranger, none. Only, meseemeth an artist is one who thinks, and paints his thought.
She prefers intellectual to manual occupations, and is not so fond of fancy work as many of the blind children are; yet she is eager to join them in whatever they are doing. She has learned to use the Caligraph typewriter, and writes very correctly, but not rapidly as yet, having had less than a month's practice.
See how fair and even be the letters. Few are left can write like that; and scarce a quarter of the price." "I would fain have it," said Gerard sadly, "but my heart will not let me. Know that I am a caligraph, and these disciples of Fust run after me round the world a-taking the bread out of my mouth. But I wish them no ill. Heaven forbid!" And he hurried from the shop.
Now a caligraph but draws in black and white the thoughts of another." "'Tis well distinguished, signor. But then, a writer can write the thoughts of the great ancients, and matters of pure reason, such as no man may paint: ay, and the thoughts of God, which angels could not paint. But let that pass. I am a painter as well; but a sorry one." "The better thy luck. 'They will buy thy work in Rome."
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