Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 570 The soul of the English woman must ultimately be saved by the French man!
Next, Ruth's mother, Mrs. DeWittbuckett, appeared, fully displaying the snobbishness and meanness expected of an English aristocrat.

"I heard something," she said, her gaze shifting between Ruth and Carl. "What is it now?"

“Ruth doesn’t want to attend the Captain’s Dinner tonight.” Karl’s tone was like that of a gentleman who tolerates his capricious fiancée.

Mrs. DeWitt-Buckert glared at her daughter. "Don't be silly, Ruth. This is a social occasion; you must attend."

"I'm not feeling well, Mother."

“Then have some energy drinks. I’ll have the maid get you some—please forgive her, Karl. She’s just a little nervous. After all, she’s leaving her hometown.”

“I completely understand.” Carl stood up politely. “Then I’ll go back to my suite to change. The dinner starts at seven, and I’ll come pick you up at six-thirty.”

“Yes, yes,” Mrs. DeWitt-Buckert nodded repeatedly.

Carl left. The moment the door closed, Mrs. DeWittbuckert's expression changed. She went to Ruth and took her arm.

"What are you thinking? We finally found someone like Carl. He's young, rich, and willing to marry a woman who only has a title but no dowry."

Do you know how many aristocratic ladies in London are lining up to wait for him?

"Then let them go get married! I don't want this kind of marriage!"

"You don't want that? Then what do you want? Love? Romance? Let me tell you, Ruth DeWittbuckett, love is a consolation prize for the poor."

People like us aren't qualified to talk about love. We have responsibilities—responsibilities to our families. Your father is dead, leaving behind a mess.

The Carl family's money can salvage the last vestiges of the Dewitt-Buckert family's dignity. Your marriage is your final contribution to this family.

"With my entire life's happiness?"

"Happiness? Do you think I married your father because of happiness? No, it was out of responsibility. Now it's your turn."

She released her hand, her tone returning to calm: "Go change your clothes. Wear that blue taffeta dress with a pearl necklace."

Remember to smile. Smile in front of Karl, in front of everyone. That's the only thing you need to do.

After saying that, she turned and left the living room, went into the bedroom, and closed the door.

Ruth stood motionless. She looked out the porthole at the vast, grey-blue sea. Endless, without end.

She turned, opened the door, and rushed out.

French readers burst into laughter again.

1882 was a period of extreme sensitivity and anti-British sentiment in France, marked not only by fierce colonial competition—with conflicts erupting across Egypt, Sudan, and Africa—but also in other areas.
Britain's dominance in finance and shipping has long been a source of discontent for France.

Lionel's novel "1984" ignited war in British colonies and Ireland, even leading to the assassination of the Queen.

French readers felt that Britain had lost its former glory, much like the DeWitt-Buckert family in the novel—outwardly glamorous but inwardly rotten.

Therefore, the quarrel between Ruth and Carl, and the appearance of Mrs. DeWitt-Buckert, were quickly interpreted by French readers as allusions to England.

In a café on St. Germain Boulevard, a young reader was slapping the table and laughing: "See! Isn't that how Britain is? It's also pretending to be number one in the world."

“Lionel really knows Britain. He’s been in London for so long, it seems he didn’t waste his time.”

"Ruth rushed out...where was she going?"

The answer came quickly—she was going to commit suicide!

Ruth ran out of the suite and onto the upper deck. It was almost dark.

The western sky still held a last vestige of orange-red, but most of the sky was deep purple, and the stars began to appear.

The sea breeze was strong, making her skirt cling to her body. She wasn't wearing a coat and soon began to shiver with cold.

But she doesn't care.

There was hardly anyone on deck. The passengers were all in their cabins preparing dinner, while the sailors were busy near the bridge in the distance.

Ruth walked to the ship's side and placed her hand on the cold brass railing, which was now covered with a thin layer of sea salt.

She looked down. Seawater churned on both sides of the ship, white foam illuminated by the ship's lights before quickly disappearing into the darkness.

The ship was moving very fast; the Titan was heading into the depths of the Atlantic Ocean at a speed of twenty-two knots.

"So high!" she thought. "What would happen if I jumped from such a height?"

It will be cold. Extremely cold. Then you will suffocate. Then you will sink, sink to the dark seabed, and disappear forever…

Will her mother break down? Will Carl find it troublesome? Or will they be relieved to have one less disobedient burden?
Tears streamed down her face, only to be blown away by the wind. She released one hand and leaned forward.

"Oh my god, is she going to jump off the ship's side?"

"How tall was the Titan again?"

"As mentioned before, the ship's side is as high as an eleven-story building!"

"Eleven stories! Oh my god, if I fall down, I'll be..."

The discussion wasn't over yet; readers were quickly drawn into the following plot—

"If I were you, I wouldn't do that," a voice came from behind her.

Ruth was startled and turned around abruptly. A young man stood a few meters away, wearing an old coat but no hat, holding a sketchbook and a charcoal pencil.

"The seawater is too cold. You'll lose consciousness in two minutes at most. And falling from such a height, the water surface will be as hard as cement, and you might be knocked unconscious on the spot. In that case, you won't even have a chance to regret it."

"Who are you? Are you spying on me? Did Karl send you?"

“Surveillance? No, I’m just drawing here. This angle is good; you can see the entire stern and the wake churned by the propeller.” He held up his sketchbook to show her the drawing. Indeed, it was a drawing of the Titan’s stern, vividly sketched with only charcoal.

"Are you a painter?"

"Barely. Jacques Juncson. A Parisian."

"Another Jacques?"

"Sorel has recently become obsessed with the name 'Jacques'!"

“The previous Jacques—the ones in 'The Sun Also Rises,' the one in 'The Old Man and the Sea,' the one in 'Pirates of the Caribbean'… were all different!”

"Who is this Jacques this time?"

"I believe they won't let us down!"

"The soul of this English woman must ultimately be saved by us French men!"

A strong sense of curiosity compelled the reader to continue reading—

Why are you stopping me?

"Because suicide is foolish. Especially suicide because of someone else's mistakes."

How do you know I did it for someone else?

“If it weren’t for others, you wouldn’t hesitate like this. People who really want to die wouldn’t stand here crying. They would just jump.”

"You're the one who distracted me. Go away, stay away from me."

“But I’m already here, miss. If you jump, I will jump after you.”

"You don't understand anything."

“Perhaps,” Jacques shrugged, “but I know one thing—as long as you’re alive, you have choices. Once you’re dead, you have nothing.”

“I had no choice. I had to marry someone I didn’t love, go to a country I didn’t want to go to, and live a life I didn’t want to live. I had no choice.”

"How old are you?"

"nineteen."

"Nineteen years old. When I was nineteen, I was painting signs in Paris. I worked fourteen hours a day and earned just enough to pay rent and buy bread."

In winter, my attic is so cold that ink bottles freeze. But I never thought of jumping into the Seine.

"That's different."

"What's the difference? Because you're noble—your accent tells me—so your suffering is more noble than mine?"

Pain is pain, miss. Hunger is pain, cold is pain, being forced to marry someone you don't love is pain. But pain is not a reason to die.

Ruth turned her head and looked closely at the unfamiliar French man. His coat was old and torn in several places.

"You're staying in steerage?"

"Yes. I won a ticket. I hadn't planned to go to America, but since I won the ticket, I thought I'd go and see. Maybe I'll have a chance in New York."

"What opportunity?"

"I don't know. Maybe someone will buy my paintings. Maybe I can find a job teaching painting. Maybe I won't find anything and will end up going back to Paris."

But what does it matter? Paris, London, New York… at least I've been to enough places.”

Ruth looked at him; this man was unlike anyone else in her world.

But perhaps the railing was too cold; her fingers had frozen and she could no longer grip it.

And so, Ruth DeWittbuckert sank into the dark gray sea...

(Thank you for reading. Please look forward to the next issue!)

"Bang!" The young student in the café slammed his hand on the table again. "Damn it! It ended here again! Did Sorel go to London to study 'fragmentation'?"

His companion laughed: "How come you're still not used to it? It's been like this ever since 'A Study in Scarlet'. Let's wait for next week's 'Modern Life'."

However, to be fair, this 'Jacques' was still a poor painter. There were disparities in class, nationality, and culture—all the elements of conflict were present.

"Jacques Junson really writes well! He's not like the heroes of traditional romance novels. He doesn't use clichés like 'life is precious.' He's practical; he'll say things like 'the sea is too cold, you'll get dizzy.' That's very realistic."

"And he was very aware of his position. He was a captain's passenger, and she was a first-class lady. He didn't have any illusions; he just did what he thought he should do—prevent someone from committing suicide."

"But the story doesn't end there. The Titan hasn't sunk yet. I suspect there's more to happen between these two before the ship sinks."

"Definitely. Lionel wouldn't arrange this encounter for no reason."

"What I'm more curious about is, why did Lionel write this story? What was he trying to metaphorically convey through the sinking of the Titan?"

This question caused a brief silence to fall over the group of young people.

Yes, Lionel Sorel was never the kind of writer who only wrote love stories. There was always something deeper in his works—

1984 is a warning against totalitarianism, Pirates of the Caribbean is a satire of colonialism, and The Sun Also Rises is a portrayal of the lost generation.

So, what about "The Sinking of the Titan"?

(Second update, one more tonight! Requesting monthly votes!)

(End of this chapter)