hei TPU help me plizz. uite am de tradus texul asta dar va rog sa fie corect : 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.That tenement had a certain quiet distinction; b there was no sign upon its face that he made for any of the Royal Family - merely his own German name Gessler Brothers; and in the window a few pairs of boots. He made only what was ordered, and it seemed so inconceivable that what he made could ever have failed to fit.Those shoes could only have been made by one who saw before him the Soul of Boot. For to make boots, such bots as he made, seemed to me then, and still seems to me, mysterious and wonderful.Mr. Gessler had a few customs like my father, who ordered their shoes only from him. They knew that they couldn't get more comfortable shoes from any other shoemaker. I remember well my si remark, one day, while stretching out to him my youthful foot; "Isn't it awfully hard to do, Mr. Gessler?" And his answer, givenwith a sudden smile from out of the sardonic redness of his beard : " It is an Art!"
Himself, he was a little man as if made from leather, with his yellow crinkly face, and crinckly reddish hair and beard.His eyes, which were gray-blue, had in them the simple gravity of one secretly possessed by the Ideal. He was a pleasant and talented man. He made wonderful shoes, he made them quickly and the price was quite reasonable. I enjoyed each visit to his shop. But I didn't have the opportunity to call at his shop very often as his shoes were always of high quality, fitted me nicely and so I wore them for a long time.It was over a year before I was again in London. And the fist 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 termulous, who genuinely, this time, did not at first know me.That day I was wearing a pair of shoes which Ihad bought in a large shop when I was on business trip in a foreign country. While he was taking my order, he was looking at my shoes all the time. At last he said : " Those are not mine." The tone eas not one of anger, nor of soeeow, not even of contempt, but there was in it something quiet that froze the blood.He touched my left shoe where it was not quite comfortable and side: " Those big compainies are not reliable at all. They take our bunyers from us by their advertising, not by work. It seems people do not want good shoes. Soon I'll have no more work, I'm afraid". Unexpectedly I saw thins I had never seen before. I understood how difficult his life was. He couldn't be a competitor to big well-known companies who produced shoes and got high profits. I tried to explain to him why I had bought those shoes. But he didn't hear me. He looked very unhappy and I was so sorry for him that I ordered many pairs, more than I wanted. As a result of my purchase I did not have to go to him for about two years. Time flew. When I came ti his shop one day I was surprised to find another name painted on the door. The sign on the door was very colourful and attractive. It said there was a shoemaker there who had made shoes for the Royal Family. I decided to come in to find out what had happened to Mr. Gessler. A young man in a well-made suit met me. He greeted me warmly. "Would you like to see some shoes, Sir? We can find anything you like". "No", Ibanswered."Thank you. You see, I'd like to know if Mr.Gessler works here". "Oh, poor old man", the shoemaker said, " he died a few months ago". And he tod me that Mr.Gessler had to shell the shop as it had become too expensive for him to keep it. He had no one in London who could help him."Oh, but what could youbexpect of a man with his ideas? He never advertised his shoes thought nobody in London could make shoes of better quality. I really feel sorry for him". I could not stay at the shop any longer and left it.

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