Montblanc Heritage 1912 Review

(Susan M. Pigott is a fountain pen collector, pen and paperholic, photographer, and professor. You can find more from Susan on her blog Scribalishess.)

I wasn't planning on buying another Montblanc, especially not one that retails for $1,100. But I saw one for sale on Fountain Pen Network for almost half the price of retail, and, in spite of misgivings about the seller (see last week's post "Remorse"), I purchased one.

By the time I made my purchase, I had read several reviews of the Heritage 1912. This pen seems to be one of those that you either love or hate. Some reviewers deride the white star/snow cap that makes up the entire finial of the cap, saying it is ostentatious. Some like the simple lines of the pen and others think it is boring. Some appreciate the mechanics of the pen (it works like a safety pen); whereas others find it cumbersome to use. But almost everyone agrees that the nib, though plain, is something special: springy with a tiny bit of flex, reminiscent of MB nibs from the old days.

My Montblanc Heritage 1912 arrived in bubble wrap and packaged in a cheap Eau de Toilette box. If you buy yours from a more reputable seller, you will likely get a nicer box. I don't know how brand new Montblanc Heritage 1912s are packaged, but I presume that the box is much nicer than mine.

I took my chances when I bought my pen from an untrustworthy seller on Fountain Pen Network. As a consequence, I got an imperfect pen. The exterior is marred by one very obvious chip near the piston and numerous scratches all over the pen (most of which you can't see unless you look through a macro lens, which I always do, so I see every imperfection).

Plus, as many other Heritage owners noted, the cap leaves scratches where it screws onto the barrel. At this price point, such a thing shouldn't happen. But since my pen already had scratches, I'm not too bothered by it.

The Montblanc Heritage 1912 is a small pen, measuring only 121mm in length capped and 126 mm with the nib extended. It fits my hand perfectly, but people with larger hands might find it a bit small, especially since you cannot post the cap. Even though the pen is small in length, the barrel is fairly large in diameter (from 10.2 to 13.1mm). It's a hefty pen, weighing 48 grams capped, 37 grams uncapped. So though it is small in length, it feels substantial in the hand. I find it quite comfortable to write with.

The gigantic white snowcap/star underneath a clear, resin dome reminds me somewhat of a snow globe. I've read that the star is either cut out of quartz or painted with mother-of-pearl lacquer. Either way, it dazzles in light. It's quite distinctive from other modern Montblanc stars and mimics the original white finial of the Simplo Safety Filler.

The clip also hearkens back to the safety pen on which the Heritage is modeled. It is platinum plated and unadorned except for the Montblanc star engraved on the back.

The clip doesn't even have the name "Montblanc" engraved on it, though thanks to this blog post, I discovered that the words "Made in Germany" are engraved under the clip. A serial number is also inscribed in tiny numbers and letters on the upper ring of the clip.

The pen uncapped looks unremarkable, much like the Writer's Edition Agatha Christie without a nib. The barrel is slightly thinner near the nib opening and widens closer to the knob. The knob is set off by grooves which match the grooves beneath the finial on the cap. That's it. The barrel of the pen is black, sleek, and simple.

The coolest thing about this pen is the mechanism that performs dual functions. If you twist the knob clockwise, the nib extends; counterclockwise, the nib retracts. Original safety pens did the same thing, and you filled them with an eyedropper.

But the Heritage is a piston filler. After extending the nib, you can pull the knob out and it functions as a piston.

Dip the nib into the ink of your choice, turn the knob, and the pen is filled with ink. Push the knob back in place and you're ready to write. I think this is absolutely ingenious. Though some complain that the pen doesn't hold much ink (about 0.8ml), I don't mind. I can fill it without the mess of an eyedropper. And, as far as I know, this is the first pen Montblanc has made with an extendable nib that doesn't require the use of cartridges.

The nib is 14K gold and rhodium-plated and Montblanc describes it as "soft elastic." Unlike most MB nibs with their intricate designs, this nib is fairly plain with a triangular breather hole. The MB star/snowcap symbol and the number 4810 are the only adornments on the nib, which is also stamped with the karats and the name Montblanc.

While the nib is by no means a vintage flex, it is springy and offers some line variation. The feed supplies plenty of ink and the nib writes smoothly. I've experienced no hard starts or skipping with this nib. I find it hard to describe why the writing experience is so special, but it is. This pen writes like no other pen I own.

The cap has a mechanism in it that prevents you from accidentally trying to cap the pen while the nib is extended. Yes, I've accidentally tried that once or twice. But this feature protects your nib.

The Montblanc Heritage 1912 is a solid pen. I can't stop writing with it. I love turning the knob and watching the nib emerge and disappear. (I am obviously easily entertained). Would I pay retail ($1,100) for this pen? No. I only bought this pen because it was priced well below retail. Admittedly, my pen was not in new condition (though it was described as such), and the seller gave me a partial refund. Ultimately, I bought this pen for less than half of its retail price. It is imperfect cosmetically, but it's a great writer, and that's what matters.

I highly recommend the Montblanc Heritage 1912 if you can afford it new or if you can find it at a really good price used (though I wouldn't recommend my seller). It's a beautiful, elegant, well-designed pen and an excellent writer.

Pros

• The nib absolutely makes this pen. It has a bounce and slight flex to it that is reminiscent of vintage pens. It writes beautifully.
• If you like understated, black pens with a simple retro clip and don't mind a big white snowcap on the top, you'll love this pen.
• The mechanism for extending and retracting the nib and for piston filling is simply genius. It works smoothly and flawlessly.
• The pen has a good balance to it in the hand, even though it is rather heavy and wide in diameter.
• The Heritage 1912 is a piston filler.

Cons

• Hoo boy, is this pen expensive!
• Some people find the white star/snowcap too ostentatious for an otherwise simple pen. Me? I love it.
• You cannot post the cap. If that matters to you, then it's definitely a negative for this pen. I never post, so it doesn't bother me.
• To use the pen, you have to unscrew the cap and extend the nib. That's an extra step, and some people find that burdensome. I think that's part of the cool-factor for the pen. But, if you find it tedious to add the extra step of extending or retracting the nib, then you won't like this pen.

You Think This Comes Along Every Day?

(This is a guest post by Jon Bemis. You can find Jon on Twitter @jtower42.)

After more than a decade of marriage it becomes more and more difficult to come up with gifts for the other person. The reasons for this are manifold. We’re lucky enough to have the financial security that we typically don’t have to use holidays as an excuse to get things we need. Replacing worn-out shoes and broken toasters are within our budget. That means we are each blessed with the opportunity to get things for each other that the other would want. The problem with that (and a nice problem it is to have) is that we already have many of the things we want. I love to cook, but over the years, I’ve acquired all the kitchen knives and pots and pans I need. My wife likes to sew, but she has a nice sewing machine already.

At this point, we’ve given up on most gift-giving holidays and instead open a nice bottle of wine, or find a babysitter and treat ourselves to an evening out. With two very busy lives and four very busy kids, the gift of TIME to be together is more precious than most “things.”

However, I am still a pen addict.

Ever since my addiction took hold, I have been trying to get my wife to enjoy pens as much as I do, sometimes with humbling results (See Pen Snobbery). I continued to hold out hope that I could find a fountain pen and ink combination that will work for my lefty life partner, and had been on the hunt for a particular pen for which I had high hopes. A Waverly nib has a slight upturn, like the tip of a ski, and I hoped this would help the pen glide through the push strokes with which so much of her penmanship has been cursed.

My search for an affordable pen with a Waverly nib had led me to one of those global trading websites, written mostly in indecipherable Japanese. (Thanks for NOTHING, Google Translate.) I was not at all confident that I was not sending my money and personal information to a hacker who could not BELIEVE his luck, but hey, sometimes that’s how it is in the fountain pen jungle.

The pen, a Pilot Custom 912, arrived just a few weeks before our 11th anniversary. I decided to break with tradition and give it to Dana on the occasion of our anniversary, a date we’d long since stopped viewing as a gift-giving opportunity. I didn’t want to ruin the surprise, but I did want to give her a heads up that I’d gotten her something, as I didn’t want her to feel bad that she hadn’t had the opportunity to reciprocate.

“I’m getting you something for our anniversary,” I said. “I DO NOT want you to feel obligated in the slightest to get me anything. I just happened to find something perfect that I thought you should have.”

“What on earth did you get me?” she asked.

“I’m not going to TELL you!” I cried. “But I will say this: If you decide to get me something, make sure it’s something you’d like, too.” I realized immediately how suspicious this sounded.

“What does that mean?” she asked. “Wait – did you get me a pen?”

“No,” I lied, unconvincingly.

“You got me a pen, didn’t you? I can’t believe you got me a pen. You’re such a geek,” she said, grinning.

“Look, I will neither confirm nor deny that your gift is a pen,” I said. “All I’m saying is that if you get me something, it should be something you’ll like. You know, in case I don’t.”

That got an eye-roll.

A few weeks later, our anniversary arrived. We were at our oldest daughter’s theater camp’s Parents’ Night waiting for the performance to start when Dana presented me with a small gift bag. (I, being a doofus, had forgotten her present at work where I had had it delivered. She got it the following day.)

My hand swam through the tiny ocean of tissue paper and seized upon a metal box, about the size and shape of an Altoids tin. I pulled the box out. It did not say “Altoids,” but instead “Kaweco”!

In a flash, this particular anniversary immediately vaulted into the running for best ever. My darling, amazing, BEAUTIFUL wife had gotten me a pen! Unsolicited! This was quite a moment. Even more amazing, she got me a pen despite having a reasonable suspicion that I had gotten her a pen that might very possibly end up back with me.

I opened the box to find a Kaweco Liliput.

But not just any Liliput.

A Fireblue.

If you aren’t familiar with this pen, it’s spectacular. It’s the same compact shape and size as the aluminum and brass versions of the Liliput, perfectly proportioned for a pocket or slipped in the sleeve of a Fodderstack XL. The Fireblue version, however, is made from stainless steel: a little more durable than aluminum and a little lighter than brass. A perfect material choice.

The thing that really makes this pen stand out, though, is the finish. According to Kaweco, each pen is hand-finished by the company’s CEO with a torch. The intense flame burns away residual machining oils and impurities, creating a unique mottle of gray, blue and gold on the steel. It’s a gorgeous pen.

I was thrilled. I was also puzzled.

The Fireblue is a unique and not inexpensive pen with niche appeal, and is only available from a select number of retailers. For my non-pen addict wife to stumble across it seemed unlikely, and I knew she hadn’t heard of it before.

“Where did you get this?” I asked.

“Do you like it?” she asked.

“I LOVE it,” I responded.

“I’m glad you like it,” she said. “It wasn’t easy to find.”

“How DID you find it?” I asked. “And how did you choose this pen specifically?”

“It wasn’t easy, but I searched and searched for a steel pen,” she said. “There aren’t many out there.”

I blinked. “Steel?”

“Of course,” she said. “Did you know the 11th anniversary is considered the steel anniversary?”

I did not know that. I did know I had married the most wonderful woman in the world.

Buyer's Remorse, Impulse Buys, and Shady Sellers: The Vagaries of Buying Fountain Pens Online

(Susan M. Pigott is a fountain pen collector, pen and paperholic, photographer, and professor. You can find more from Susan on her blog Scribalishess.)

It's a horrible feeling, buyer's remorse. You purchase something and then experience crushing, inescapable guilt. Kicking yourself, you wonder why you impulsively purchased something you knew you shouldn't have. Or, you realize, after the fact, that it was something you really didn't want or need, but it was shiny. Or, you discover you paid too much or that the seller sold you a dud. It hurts. It's embarrassing. It's expensive.

I've experienced it multiple times after purchasing fountain pens, and I never seem to learn.

The first time I had buyer's remorse was when I bought a sweet little vintage black Pelikan Ibis from a seller on Fountain Pen Network. It was my first purchase via FPN, and I didn't think sellers would be dishonest. The pen was described as "in working condition" (aren't they all?). I received the pen and filled it with Aurora Black ink (to match the pen, of course). And as soon as I sat down to write in my journal, black ink flooded everywhere. The seller claimed I must have broken the pen, because it was perfectly fine when he sent it (of course it was).

I was devastated. I spent money on a pen that was unusable, and the seller wouldn't accept a return or pay for repair. I felt taken (and I had been). I sent it to kind, gentle Rick Propas who repaired the pen for me. But the experience left a bad taste in my mouth, and even though the pen finally worked, I didn't like it anymore. It reminded me of my naïveté and the seller's bad treatment. I eventually traded the Ibis back to Rick in partial payment for a different Pelikan. Remorse? Yes, because I expected sellers to be honest. It was my first (and not last) experience with shady sellers.

I bought another vintage pen from a reputable dealer. It was a gorgeous lavender Eversharp Doric with an adjustable nib. Problem was, the thing simply would not write. The seller told me I was using the wrong ink, but the pen didn't work even when I used his recommended ink. The seller told me I was filling it wrong or holding it wrong or expecting too much of the pen. Eventually, after sending it back and forth, the seller let me return it. I think I'm probably on his "Do Not Sell Pens to This Woman" list. Remorse? Yes, because the pen was so gorgeous and I really wanted it to write. I loved that adjustable nib. But because I was able to return it, the remorse eventually disappeared but not the disappointment.

The next stupid purchase was also from FPN. I found a Montblanc 146 advertised as a 1950s celluloid MB with a 14K broad nib. The seller stated that the rings had "slight damage." In his photos, it looked like one of the thinner rings was slightly bent. "No problem," I thought. I really wanted a celluloid MB, and the price was a little lower than normal because of the rings (though it was still really expensive). Plus I expected the 1950s 14K nib to be springy, maybe even flexible. So I bought it.

When I got the pen, this is what the rings actually looked like:

Super glue? OMG! The center ring was completely loose, swinging around the cap like a hoola-hoop. I was furious. I contacted the seller who claimed (of course) that I was making much ado about nothing. But when I sent him photographs of the superglued rings and told him that the center ring was completely loose, he at least offered me a partial refund ($100).

I sent that pen to a well-known pen restorer. It was in his queue for over nine months. He returned it with the rings in better shape (cost for repair over $100), but by then the cork had dried up and the pen leaked everywhere. I sent it to yet another pen restorer who fixed the cork and re-did the ring job so the pen looked like new (cost for repair over $100). But he informed me that the nib was really from the 80s (not the 50s). Great. By then I'd spent tons of money on a pen that didn't even have an authentic 1950s nib, and the nib has no character (or flex). Remorse? Oh yes. But I've put too much money into the pen to sell it. I guess I'll have to spend more money and send it to a nibmeister. At least then I'll have a beautiful pen that writes well.

Then there was the Montblanc 90th Anniversary Rose Gold 149 I bought on a whim. Pro Tip: never buy Montblancs on a whim. This was truly an impulse buy–absolutely an emotionally-based decision. Right after the PayPal transaction went through I felt enormous remorse. "Why did you buy that pen?" I asked myself. "What were you thinking? You don't like 149s! They're too big for your hand!" "But it's got a rose gold nib," I told myself. "It's super pretty!"

Regardless, I knew I should not have bought the pen. I emailed the seller telling him I was feeling terrible remorse and asked if I could return it. He was gracious, saying that I could return it, but it would take him a little while to refund the money. He asked that I at least open the pen (but not ink it) just to see if I fell in love with it.

It arrived. I opened it. I took photographs of it. I'm sorry to say I did not fall in love. I can't really say why. It was a beautiful pen. But it didn't wow me like I expected it to. I felt wrong returning it to the kind seller– buyer's remorse just doesn't seem like a legitimate reason to return a pen. Instead, I put it back up on FPN (at a loss) for sale. Happily, someone bought it the next day. Remorse reversed, at least temporarily.

Then there was the blue cotton resin Omas 360 I bought because: BLUE PEN! I am such a sucker for blue pens. There really wasn't anything wrong with the pen, but the nib was too firm for my tastes and the triangular grip did not suit my hand. That one went back up for sale immediately.

As did the Aurora 88 with "slight discoloration" on the grip. Thanks, seller from Italy.

And the Sailor Pro Gear with a 21K hard-fine nib that was just too hard-fine for me but it sure was a pretty turquoise.

Remorse? Yes, yes. But when I can sell pens I shouldn't have bought in the first place, I feel a little redemption.

Most recently I bought a Montblanc Heritage 1912 from a seller we'll say is from Czechoslovakia (I realize that country no longer exists. But his country is rather . . . distinctive, and I guess I should protect his identity). I ignored tons of warning signs. He didn't have many seller ratings. He didn't have the box or papers for the pen even though he claimed it was brand new. He only posted one photograph of the pen. I should have heeded these signs, but when you fall for a pen, just like when you fall in love, you tend to be blind.

I did, at least, ask several questions before buying the pen. I asked if the pen had scratches, specifically scratches from the cap being screwed on (I'd read that some owners of the Heritage complained about this problem). "Oh no! No scratches at all!" he said. I asked if the pen was used or brand new. "It is new! Never used!" "But you don't have the papers?" I asked, a wee bit skeptical. "No, no. I don't keep those things. I just don't have the room. My wife owns this same pen! She loves it. It is made for a female hand. You will be so happy in love with this pen!"

I fell for it. I mean, it wasn't just that he said I'd love it. I was entranced by the cool mechanism of the Heritage 1912–the nib extending with a twist of the knob like a safety pen of old. The knob pulling out and turning into a piston. It was so James Bond. Besides, reviews of the Heritage said the nib was wonderful, almost flexy, and I loved the retro look.

Days and days passed while it traveled from Czechoslovakia. When it arrived, it was packaged in an Eau de Cologne box! That worried me. A Montblanc pen packaged in a cheap perfume box?

I extracted the pen from the bubble wrap, and the first thing I saw was a chip visible to the naked eye near the piston. I got out my macro lens and discovered scratches everywhere, including scratches on the barrel from the cap. Sigh. Duped again.

I PMed the seller and told him how disappointed I was. He claimed I was making a fuss over nothing. "Those are just micro-scratches," he said. I sent him photographs and said, "No. These are real scratches. Deep scratches. Not micro-scratches. This pen has been used!" I told him I wanted to return the pen. "No, no!" he said. "I don't have the funds. I sold another pen and it got lost on the way to China! And now I have to refund that buyer with the money from your Heritage, and it wasn't my fault! I have no money, and I'm about to leave for a three-week vacation!" Yeah . . . right.

I told him I wanted my refund anyway. He said to take it up with PayPal, which I did. Eventually, he agreed to a partial refund, though he tried to wheedle me down even on that. "I have a friend who can put $150 in your PayPal right now, but I can't do more than that." When I said I'd had enough and was returning the pen, he suddenly (and suspiciously) found more money for the partial refund. Remorse? Yes, but the partial refund softened the blow.

I really do love my MB Heritage. It writes beautifully and is one of the coolest pens I own. But somewhere in Czechoslovakia is a sweet-talking, vacationing seller who packages expensive scratched pens in Eau de Cologne boxes. Beware.

I no longer tell my husband these stories, because he just shakes his head and says, "Wife, haven't you learned your lesson?" No. Clearly I never learn my lesson. When a pen starts singing me its Siren song, I simply cannot resist its call. That's the nature of this thing we call fountain pen addiction.

There are worse addictions, right?