Young Gerard was for many years of his life a son apart and distinct;
object of no fears and no great hopes. No fears; for he was going into
the Church; and the Church could always maintain her children by hook or
by crook in those days: no great hopes, because his family had no
interest with the great to get him a benefice, and the young man's own
habits were frivolous, and indeed, such as our cloth merchant would not
have put up with in any one but a clerk that was to be. His trivialities
were reading and penmanship, and he was so wrapt up in them that often
he could hardly be got away to his meals. The day was never long enough
for him: and he carried ever a tinder-box and brimstone matches, and
begged ends of candles of the neighbors, which he lighted at
unreasonable hours--ay, even at eight of the clock at night in winter,
when the very burgomaster was abed. Endured at home, his practices were
encouraged by the monks of a neighboring convent. They had taught him
penmanship, and continued to teach him, until one day they discovered,
in the middle of a lesson, that he was teaching them. They pointed this
out to him in a merry way: he hung his head and blushed: he had
suspected as much himself, but mistrusted his judgment in so delicate a
matter. "But, my son," said the elderly monk, "how is it that you, to
whom God has given an eye so true, a hand so subtle yet firm, and a
heart to love these beautiful crafts, how is it you do not colour as
well as write? a scroll looks but barren unless a border of fruit, and
leaves, and rich arabesques, surround the good words, and charm the
sense as those do the soul and understanding; to say nothing of the
pictures of holy men and women departed, with which the several chapters
should be adorned, and not alone the eye soothed with the brave and
sweetly blended colours, but the heart lifted by effigies of the saints
in glory. Answer me, my son."
At this Gerard was confused, and muttered that he had made several
trials at illuminating, but had not succeeded well; and thus the matter
rested.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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