(No, I haven't moved from Monday to Sunday in the Star, in case you're wondering. This is a one-off, produced for a special issue of the Star. We'll be back to regular programming tomorrow.)
AS MOST people what their idea of the finest pen in the world is, and the name that will almost surely spring to their minds and lips will be “Montblanc.” There are, in truth, quite a few other makers of top-rank fountain pens from Japan, Italy, the United States, and the UK—as well as from Germany itself, where Montblanc is based, in Hamburg—but few brands have acquired Montblanc’s inimitable familiarity, even among people who’ve never held and used a fountain pen in their lives.
We say “Montblanc” in the same breath as we say “Rolls Royce”, and that says a lot for the mystique of a company that started out 102 years ago as the Simplo-Filler Pen Company before switching to “Montblanc” in 1910. And a good thing, too, that they did: “Simplo-Filler” doesn’t quite roll off the tongue with the same panache as “Montblanc”—which, incidentally, is always spelled as one word when applied to the pen brand, and two words otherwise—that “otherwise” being the snowcapped massif (the “white mountain,” thus the name) in the Alps between Italy and France. (The white “star” on the cap of every Montblanc pen is meant to be the mountain summit itself, and the number “4810” you’ll find on the nib is the height, in meters, of Europe’s tallest mountain.) The story goes that Montblanc’s founders—two men, Claus Johannes Voss and Christian Lausen—chose the name to signify their desire to reach the absolute peak of penmaking success.
And, boy, did they. Capitalizing on the brand’s cachet, the company has since gone on to craft not just writing instruments but high-end luxury items such as watches, leather goods, jewelry, eyewear, and even fragrances, sold in about 360 boutiques worldwide. A line of limited-edition pens—named after and dedicated to such luminaries as Mozart, Hemingway, and Agatha Christie—demonstrates the ultimate in Montblanc’s core competency, the making of fine pens.
But never mind the press releases and the global sales figures. Like any other writer and fancier of fountain pens, my relationship with Montblanc has been an intimately personal one, forged over decades of distant admiration and constant use. Like many, I’d always dreamed even in my youth of owning a Montblanc, equating it to that model that, once you see it, you’ll never forget—the hugely impressive Meisterstuck (“Masterpiece”) 149, beloved of diplomats, CEOs, and politicians. Unfortunately, it was well beyond what I could afford as a young reporter, even if I forsook a year’s lunches.
My first Montblanc would have to wait until 1990; I had begun to seriously collect pens as a graduate student in America, and where I was—the Midwest, around Michigan, Illinois, Wisconsin, and Ohio—was the heartland of antiques and vintage collectibles; great pens were still quite easy to find at reasonable prices, as long as you were willing to track them down in shops, auctions, yard sales, and conventions (the Internet was still in its infancy then). There was a big pen show in Chicago that I was willing to skip classes for to attend, and attend I did, clutching what few pens I had that I thought I could trade for something I truly coveted.
One of those pens in my pocket was a lapis-blue Parker Duofold junior-sized fountain pen from the mid-1920s, the barrel of which I’d gotten for $5 from another show and had found the right cap for, for another $5. Its lustrous blue color was much sought after, and I knew I had a winner in my hands. I ambled over to a stall that seemed to sell nothing but marvelous Montblancs—rows and rows of gigantic 149s and the somewhat smaller 146s—and sighed when I saw their prices. But then the stall owner saw the little blue Parker in my pocket and said the magic words, “Wanna trade?” I didn’t think twice, and walked away with a 146 that remains, hands down, my best “daily writer” today in terms of the smoothness of the flow of the ink from its gold nib.
That 146 would be joined by a few others; some years later, following what had to be a windfall, I finally got my 149; I’ve never used it on a daily basis, still astounded after all this time by its sheer size. When I see one in someone else’s pocket (like my friend’s, the architect Toti Villalon) I still let out a small gasp of longing, forgetting that I have one stashed away under lock and key.
Also some years before she died, the food critic and social historian Doreen G. Fernandez gifted me with a small black box that turned out to contain a pen-and-pencil set of Montblanc 220s from about 1960. And fairly recently, the art dealer Eric Duldulao made me a present of a very fine silver Montblanc Noblesse from the 1970s.
I still can’t come up with a good answer when I ask what I’ve done to deserve such extravagant kindnesses, but I’m not complaining. Sometimes I think that our greatest desires emanate from us like a big red sign, and my passion for pens led my friends to turn over what they believed to be their most precious ones, their Montblancs. Thank you all! And now for that Ernest Hemingway Limited Edition, seen here with its glorious orange barrel…. Hither, dear, come hither!