[Footnote: From "The Inn of Tranquillity," by John Galsworthy.
Copyright, 1912, by Charles Scribner's Sons.]
I knew him from the days of my extreme youth, because he made my
father's boots; inhabiting with his elder brother two little shops
let into one, in a small by-street--now no more, but then most
fashionably placed in the West End.
That tenement had a certain quiet distinction; there was no sign
upon its face that he made for any of the Royal Family--merely his
own German name of Gessler Brothers: and in the window a few pairs
of boots. I remember that it always troubled me to account for
those unvarying boots in the window, for he made only what was
ordered, reaching nothing down, and it seemed so inconceivable
that what he made could ever have failed to fit. Had he bought
them to put there? That, too, seemed inconceivable. He would never
have tolerated in his house leather on which he had not worked
himself. Besides, they were too beautiful--the pair of pumps, so
inexpressibly slim, the patent leathers with cloth tops, making
water come into one's mouth, the tall brown riding boots with
marvellous sooty glow, as if, though new, they had been worn a
hundred years. Those pairs could only have been made by one who
saw before him the Soul of Boot--so truly were they prototypes
incarnating the very spirit of all foot-gear. These thoughts, of
course, came to me later, though even when I was promoted to him,
at the age of perhaps fourteen, some inkling haunted me of the
dignity of himself and brother. For to make boots--such boots as
he made--seemed to me then, and still seems to me, mysterious and
wonderful.
I remember well my shy remark, one day, while stretching out to
him my youthful foot:
"Isn't it awfully hard to do, Mr. Gessler?"
And his answer, given with a sudden smile from out of the sardonic
redness of his beard: "Id is an Ardt!"
Himself, he was a little as if made from leather, with his yellow
crinkly face, and crinkly reddish hair and beard, and neat folds
slanting down his cheeks to the corners of his mouth, and his
guttural and one-toned voice; for leather is a sardonic substance,
and stiff and slow of purpose. And that was the character of his
face, save that his eyes, which were gray-blue, had in them the
simple gravity of one secretly possessed by the Ideal. His elder
brother was so very like him--though watery, paler in every way,
with a great industry--that sometimes in early days I was not
quite sure of him until the interview was over. Then I knew that
it was he, if the words, "I will ask my brudder," had not been
spoken; and that, if they had, it was his elder brother.
When one grew old and wild and ran up bills, one somehow never ran
them up with Gessler Brothers. It would not have seemed becoming
to go in there and stretch out one's foot to that blue iron-
spectacled glance, owing him for more than--say--two pairs, just
the comfortable reassurance that one was still his client.
For it was not possible to go to him very often--his boots lasted
terribly, having something beyond the temporary--some, as it were,
essence of boot stitched into them.
One went in, not as into most shops, in the mood of: "Please serve
me, and let me go!" but restfully, as one enters a church; and,
sitting on the single wooden chair, waited--for there was never
anybody there. Soon, over the top edge of that sort of well--
rather dark, and smelling soothingly of leather--which formed the
shop, there would be seen his face, or that of his elder brother,
peering down. A guttural sound, and the tip-tap of bast slippers
beating the narrow wooden stairs, and he would stand before one
without coat, a little bent, in leather apron, with sleeves turned
back, blinking--as if awakened from some dream of boots, or like
an owl surprised in daylight and annoyed at this interruption.
And I would say: "How do you do, Mr. Gessler? Could you make me a
pair of Russia leather boots?"
Without a word he would leave me, retiring whence he came, or into
the other portion of the shop, and I would continue to rest in the
wooden chair, inhaling the incense of his trade. Soon he would
come back, holding in his thin, veined hand a piece of gold-brown
leather. With eyes fixed on it, he would remark: "What a beaudiful
biece!" When I, too, had admired it, he would speak again. "When
do you wand dem?" And I would answer: "Oh! As soon as you
conveniently can." And he would say: "To-morrow fordnighd?" Or if
he were his elder brother: "I will ask my brudder!"
Then I would murmur: "Thank you! Good-morning, Mr. Gessler."
"Goot-morning!" he would reply, still looking at the leather in
his hand. And as I moved to the door, I would hear the tip-tap of
his bast slippers restoring him, up the stairs, to his dream of
boots. But if it were some new kind of foot-gear that he had not
yet made me, then indeed he would observe ceremony--divesting me
of my boot and holding it long in his hand, looking at it with
eyes at once critical and loving, as if recalling the glow with
which he had created it, and rebuking the way in which one had
disorganized this masterpiece. Then, placing my foot on a piece of
paper, he would two or three times tickle the outer edges with a
pencil and pass his nervous fingers over my toes, feeling himself
into the heart of my requirements.
I cannot forget that day on which I had occasion to say to him:
"Mr. Gessler, that last pair of town walking-boots creaked, you
know."
He looked at me for a time without replying, as if expecting me to
withdraw or qualify the statement, then said:
"Id shouldn'd 'ave greaked."
"It did, I'm afraid."
"You goddem wed before dey found demselves?"
"I don't think so."
At that he lowered his eyes, as if hunting for memory of those
boots, and I felt sorry I had mentioned this grave thing.
"Zend dem back!" he said; "I will look at dem."
A feeling of compassion for my creaking boots surged up in me, so
well could I imagine the sorrowful long curiosity of regard which
he would bend on them.
"Zome boods," he said slowly, "are bad from birdt. If I can do
noding wid dem, I dake dem off your bill."
Once (once only) I went absent-mindedly into his shop in a pair of
boots bought in an emergency at some large firm's. He took my
order without showing me any leather, and I could feel his eyes
penetrating the inferior integument of my foot. At last he said:
"Dose are nod my boods."
The tone was not one of anger, nor of sorrow, not even of
contempt, but there was in it something quiet that froze the
blood. He put his hand down and pressed a finger on the place
where the left boot, endeavoring to be fashionable, was not quite
comfortable.
"Id 'urds you dere," he said. "Dose big virms 'ave no self-
respect. Drash!" And then, as if something had given way within
him, he spoke long and bitterly. It was the only time I ever heard
him discuss the conditions and hardships of his trade.
"Dey get id all," he said, "dey get id by adverdisement, nod by
work. Dey dake it away from us, who lofe our boods. Id gomes to
this--bresently I haf no work. Every year id gets less--you will
see." And looking at his lined face I saw things I had never
noticed before, bitter things and bitter struggle--and what a lot
of gray hairs there seemed suddenly in his red beard!
As best I could, I explained the circumstances of the purchase of
those ill-omened boots. But his face and voice made so deep
impression that during the next few minutes I ordered many pairs.
Nemesis fell! They lasted more terribly than ever. And I was not
able conscientiously to go to him for nearly two years.
When at last I went I was surprised to find that outside one of
the two little windows of his shop another name was painted, also
that of a bootmaker--making, of course, for the Royal Family. The
old familiar boots, no longer in dignified isolation, were huddled
in the single window. Inside, the now contracted well of the one
little shop was more scented and darker than ever. And it was
longer than usual, too, before a face peered down, and the tip-tap
of the bast slippers began. At last he stood before me, and,
gazing through those rusty iron spectacles, said:
"Mr.--, isn'd it?"
"Ah! Mr. Gessler," I stammered, "but your boots are really TOO
good, you know! See, these are quite decent still!" And I
stretched out to him my foot. He looked at it.
"Yes," he said, "beople do nod wand good boods, id seems."
To get away from his reproachful eyes and voice I hastily
remarked: "What have you done to your shop?"
He answered quietly: "Id was too exbensif. Do you wand some
boods?"
I ordered three pairs, though I had only wanted two, and quickly
left. I had, I do not know quite what feeling of being part, in
his mind, of a conspiracy against him; or not perhaps so much
against him as against his idea of boot. One does not, I suppose,
care to feel like that; for it was again many months before my
next visit to his shop, paid, I remember, with the feeling: "Oh!
well, I can't leave the old boy--so here goes! Perhaps it'll be
his elder brother!"
For his elder brother, I knew, had not character enough to
reproach me, even dumbly.
And, to my relief, in the shop there did appear to be his elder
brother, handling a piece of leather.
"Well, Mr. Gessler," I said, "how are you?"
He came close, and peered at me.
"I am breddy well," he said slowly; "but my elder brudder is
dead."
And I saw that it was indeed himself--but how aged and wan! And
never before had I heard him mention his brother. Much shocked, I
murmured: "Oh! I am sorry!"
"Yes," he answered, "he was a good man, he made a good bood; but
he is dead." And he touched the top of his head, where the hair
had suddenly gone as thin as it had been on that of his poor
brother, to indicate, I suppose, the cause of death. "He could nod
ged over losing de oder shop. Do you wand any boods?" And he held
up the leather in his hand: "Id's a beaudiful biece."
I ordered several pairs. It was very long before they came--but
they were better than ever. One simply could not wear them out.
And soon after that I went abroad.
It was over a year before I was again in London. And the first
shop I went to was my old friend's. I had left a man of sixty, I
came back to one of seventy-five, pinched and worn and tremulous,
who genuinely, this time, did not at first know me.
"Oh! Mr. Gessler," I said, sick at heart; "how splendid your boots
are! See, I've been wearing this pair nearly all the time I've
been abroad; and they're not half worn out, are they?"
He looked long at my boots--a pair of Russia leather, and his face
seemed to regain steadiness. Putting his hand on my instep, he
said:
"Do dey vid you here? I 'ad drouble wid dat bair, I remember."