THE SHOEMAKERS

  The shoemakers, as the tailors, also were called tailors. "And a tailor, and a reaper, and in tune player, "in other words - a jack of all trades. Profession often passed from father to son or grandfather to grandson. According to a legend, Tsar Peter presumptuously took one day to weave bast shoes, but he could not finish the job, no matter how hard he tried.
 Making boots is not easy. Leo Tolstoy, they say, made boots himself. If you say this to a real cobbler, he will grin: books by the great writer were undoubtedly much better. A cobbler also needs talent. Without love for the trade, the skill will diminish.
   What begins as a love for the trade? Perhaps with the acid, incomparable smell of soaking leather. Those who turn their noses from the smell will not be cobblers. Maybe this love arises from the creaking and gloss of new boots worn for the first time by the young lads who came to gather. And maybe just from the fact that all people, young and old, expect this love of the trade from you.
   As a child, the author of this book has experienced a burning interest in the work of a shoemaker. Impatience to try to make at least a few stitches in the seam of the boot top was so considerable that it accounted for every possible way to please the cobbler and even to flatter him. However, the master would never allow an apprentice to do something if he did not learn all the steps that had to be done before. However, it also happens that the subsequent operation yields the complexity of the previous one. You certainly want to stitch, twisting a waxed thread on the fists and pulling it out at both ends with a whistle. But no, my dear! Learn first to weave into waxed thread bristles.
   And so the shoemaker, nurturing the patience, shows a little boy a spindle of fine good yarn, through the hook driven into the window jamb, hands four or six threads on the length of the future wax end. He divides them in half (by twos or threes) and, from the hook, begins to twist them to make a waxed thread. Then, clasping each pair of threads to the knee with his palm, he twists them, and twisted pairs, in turn, have twisted with each other.
   This is the way to make a waxed thread. But he is still on the hook; it should be thoroughly waxed: pull over the leather fold in which smeared pitch a dozen times. The smell of the black sticky potions brewed from beeswax and pine resin brings the cobbler into a particular working state! However, a waxed thread without bristles is still the waxed thread but half of the waxed thread. The flax ends of it diminish to the end with the finest hairs. If genuine, pork bristles have a unique property: they can be split and torn in half lengthwise.
   The shoemaker in front of the boy takes to form a bundle one brittle, splits it up in half, puts an end to the splitting of waxed thread, and gently twists his first with a bristle half, then with the other. Done! One thing is done. Now take an awl, the leather belt and sit down to stitch the boot-uppers. But the shoemaker, for some reason, is not in a hurry to sit down on his low folding chair; he begins to drag from the spindle to the hook new threads. Several balls of finished waxed thread should always be in stock, even for a bad employee.
   Oh, how one wants to stitch! An experienced mentor will teach how to make what is necessary, but he will not tempt fate: children's interests can fade as quickly as they flare up. Therefore, rewarding the young curious mind's patience, the shoemaker asks him to make a few stitches ... The same thing goes for when you want to nail wooden studs into the sole or layered heel, to nail with the same gusto as a cobbler. You still need to get the hammer; learn to make these wooden nails first.
   And now, a future master climbs onto the stove, pulls out from the old shirling dry birch circles, saw-off by the length of the nail. He breaks these circles with the hammer and the knife on equal, same-thickness plates, each such plate resting in a unique rest of the board, sharpening from one end with the shoemaker's knife. Then, put several plates one to another; you can cut them from the bottom, already half-sharpened, and shear nails. 
   Birch pins crunching fall off from the diminishing plates. The master—an artist with talent or even the desire to do no worse than others at each step of his professional cycle—gives a little ritual, a solemn sense.
   Thus, a shoemaker comes to the customer's home and sets up his tools on a bench opposite the window; he starts to soak the leather. Well-made material is a pledge of shoemakers' luck. This proves a mutual relationship and labour dependence on other trades and people. If a furrier tanned leather so-so, the cobbler cannot be envied. A master sharpens the tool after cutting out patterns and soaks the leather. What could you find in his vast box besides two hooks, those big boards with the outlines of the boot! Here are knives, three or four varieties, tongs, and pliers for stretching macerated vamp. Lastly, there are awls of varying length, thickness, and shape. There are also hammers, stones, rasps, and wooden "boots" to smooth the welt.
   Once everything is ready—the waxed thread, birch pins, and leather are soaked—the cobbler starts pulling the first hook. He fastens with nails tanned leather on the curved (hence the word "hook"), carved out of spruce roots boot-like board. He pulls it on both sides, smoothing any folds until they disappear. It is difficult and requires patience and skill. It also happened with a whistle that hurled tongs and hammers at the door.
    Northern shoemakers preferred to avoid the vamps with tongues sewn into the tops by mass-production method. They had to constantly pull off the hooks to make the vamps and the tops of one piece of leather. Shoemaker puffs, removing stubborn creases. Finally, the hook is made to perform. The leather is stouter and crowded at the bend, and at the corners, which will be joined to the backdrop, it stretches out and thinner. All are fastened with small iron nails. While both "hooks" sit out, taking the required form, the shoemaker does something else: he sews boots for the mistress (to walk in the yard to the cattle), then soles old shoes or makes new vamps for old boots.
    Directly embroidery begins with joining the so-called pasting to the tops, i.e. the inner lining. If the pasting is not for the whole hook, then the lower edge of it, the master stitches only to the flesh side of the boot; he does not puncture the skin through. God forbid if he does a lousy stitch! Then, taking off one boot, the customer can pull his foot from the tops together with the pasting. Such a shame to the cobbler!
 After the pasting, the boots are joined and sewed in a backdrop, an inner pocket at the heel. Bark plates are inserted into the backdrop for hardness and stitched a few times. Only after that can you put a boot on the shoe-horse and the insole. The leather on the shoe-horse is pulled again with the pliers, fastened with nails and shoe thread, flattened, and made smooth. Before nailing the soles, the cobbler encompasses the entire boot sole with the welt, cuts, and removes nailed on the edges of a strip of leather.
   Only bull's leather was used for the soles —selected goods. (There were times when a couple of soles became cash equivalents.)
 If a customer was a bachelor or a rare type of dandy, the master put under the sole birch reeds that squeaked at walking and dancing. Bachelors and young men considered "creaking" boots particularly chic. The sole is nailed with three rows of birch pegs, and the heel is built out of leather scraps. All of this is smoothed, painted, and finally, file tips of pins inside the boot. If the product is soft and the customer is dandy, the boots are "on the straw." After sitting "on the straw," the boot-top takes the form of an accordion. Many shoemakers sing during work, and others love having a conversation.