Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 575 We French people really know how to enjoy life!
On the first Sunday of 1883, many Parisians rose early, a rare occurrence.

The winter in Paris is still cold, and a thin mist hangs over the Seine, but the streets of the Latin Quarter are already awake.

The cries of newsboys rose and fell, carrying the most anticipated news of the morning:
"Modern Life! Latest issue! The Sinking of the Titan! Jacques and Rose's first kiss on the bow!"

"Jacques and Rose! A French man and an English woman! A passionate carriage adventure, a must-see!"

"Only fifteen pounds! If you miss it, you'll have to wait a week!"

At the corner of Boulevard Saint-Michel, a college student wrapped in a thick scarf stuffed coins into a newsboy's hand, almost snatching the magazine.

Ignoring the cold wind, he stood by the roadside and opened the cover. His eyes quickly scanned the table of contents and went straight to "The Sinking of the Titan".

Several people had already gathered around. They were all students from the Sorbonne University, waiting to read this installment.

"Read it quickly!" a bespectacled man urged. "Where was it parked last week?"

"Jacques stopped and saved Ruth from jumping into the sea. Then they parted ways. Ruth went back to the Captain's Dinner, and Jacques went back to his cabin."

"Yes, yes. And then?"

"Don't rush, let's go to the coffee shop first."

Stepping into the coffee shop and feeling the warm air, the college student began reading this installment of the series.

Ruth DeWittbuckter never imagined she would be standing in third class on a cruise ship.

Even though she had taken off her pearl necklace and let her hair down, her blue taffeta dress still made her look out of place.

The third-class cabin first overwhelmed her senses with sound.

It wasn't a violin quartet, nor a piano solo, just a hoarse accordion. There were also whistles, clapping, the clatter of wooden shoes, men's rough laughter, women's shrill screams, and children's cries…

The smells of tobacco, sweat, cheap perfume, the sourness of cheap beer, greasy stew, the salty smell of the sea, and the stench of hundreds of people crammed into a narrow cabin...

Ruth instinctively took a half step back, but Jacques took her hand.

There were no private rooms or booths, only rows of long wooden tables and benches. On the tables were tin plates, cups, and wine jugs. The floor was covered with rough tarpaulin, worn black from being walked on so many times.

It was after dinner. The sailors had changed shifts, the immigrants had eaten their fill, and the drinkers had finished their first round of drinks. An accordionist sat on a box in the corner playing his instrument. Several young men and women were dancing in the open space.

"What are they dancing?" Ruth asked in a low voice.

"I don't know. It could be the Irish jig, or the Polish Krakowiak, or a dance they invented themselves."

There were Irish, Italians, Poles, Russians, Germans, and French people here. Everyone brought something from their homeland.

……

Jacques took a tin mug from the table, poured half a glass of beer from the flask, and handed it to Ruth. Thick foam piled up on the amber-colored liquid.

Everyone around her was watching. Several men stopped talking, several women stopped feeding their children, and even the accordion player slowed down the tempo. Everyone wanted to know what this first-class lady would do.

Ruth took the glass, and without hesitation, tilted her head back and took a sip. The taste was bitter, completely different from any champagne she had ever had before.

Champagne has a pale golden color and fine bubbles like mousse. It is served in a stemmed glass and accompanied by a lemon slice.

But she swallowed it without frowning.

……

Jacques took her hand and led her into the dancing crowd.

Ruth's upbringing taught her to maintain a polite distance when dancing, to only lightly touch the other person with her fingers, and to draw a perfect arc with her skirt when spinning.

But this place was completely different. Jacques's arms were around her waist, their bodies almost pressed together. She could feel the warmth of his body and smell his scent.

The music grew faster and faster. The accordion player's fingers flew across the keyboard, and the dancers began to stomp their feet, each stomp landing heavily on the metal plate, producing a synchronized boom.

Ruth felt her heart racing, her feet began to move on their own, and she twirled to the rhythm of the music, her skirt billowing in the air.

She laughed heartily, but her voice was quickly drowned out by the greater noise.

Some people banged on the iron bucket with wooden spoons to create drumbeats; others whistled to embellish the melody. Children chased and played among the tables and chairs.

Several women were clapping and singing, and the lyrics were utter nonsense.

Ruth spun around and around. Her hair was disheveled, her blonde hair clung to her sweaty forehead, her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes sparkled.

She had never danced like this before in her life, and it was as if the whole world consisted only of the music and the man holding her.

The music finally reached its climax, and then abruptly stopped.

The dancers stopped, panting. Ruth leaned against Jacques, breathing heavily. She could feel Jacques' heartbeat, as fast as hers.

...]

Upon reading this, the university students began to chatter, and even other customers listening to the reading nearby joined in the excitement, everyone talking at once—

"This passage is so well written! This is real life! Not that kind of hypocritical respectability!"

"Ruth didn't complain about the poor quality of the beer; she accepted it. This symbolizes how England's rigid aristocratic traditions were bound to be conquered by the vitality of the French common people!"

"Don't you think this is too idealistic? Is steerage really that fun? Immigrants are leaving their homes and going to unfamiliar countries. Can they really be so carefree?"

"That's the key point! Lionel wasn't writing non-fiction. He was writing allegory, allegory about the essence of life!"

The steerage cabin represents life itself—chaotic, noisy, but real, passionate, and full of possibilities;
First class represents death—order, quiet, perfection, but cold, rigid, and soulless!

“Well said! That’s what I think too. Did you notice? Jacques wasn’t trying to show off or prove anything. He just wanted Ruth to see another world. That attitude itself is very French—open, inclusive, and full of confidence!”

……

Behind the counter, the coffee shop owner listened to the customers' discussion while wiping the cups, and smiled subtly.

Every time Lionel's new novel was released, his business would improve considerably. People would argue about every detail of the novel, and drink cup after cup of coffee.

In his view, Lionel Sorel was a truly clever writer. He knew how to touch the most sensitive chord in the French psyche—

A yearning for "authenticity," a celebration of "life"; and of course, a sense of cultural superiority that "we French understand life best."

------------

Soon, the novel's plot moves to the scene of a "kissing on the bow"—

Over the next few days, the Titan sailed into the depths of the Atlantic Ocean.

The ship sailed westward at a steady speed of twenty-two knots, leaving a long white trail behind it.

Every afternoon and evening, while Carl Canager was in the smoking room discussing stocks and politics with the men, Ruth would slip out of the room.

She would go to the bow. That's where the wind is strongest and the passengers are fewest. Only a few sailors are checking the mooring lines, or lookouts are on watch in baskets on the mast.

Jacques usually paints there.

……

"Want to stand at the very front?" Jacques suddenly asked.

"what?"

"Standing at the very front of the ship, it's like standing on the edge of the world."

Ruth looked toward the bow of the ship, where it was only a foot wide at its narrowest point, with the surging sea below.

Standing there, it felt like being suspended in mid-air, as if I could fall at any moment.

……

"Now, open your arms."

Ruth hesitated for a moment, then slowly opened her arms.

In that instant, she felt like she was about to fly.

The wind lifted her arm, light and free, as if she were no longer flesh and blood, but had become part of the ocean.

“I’m flying,” she whispered.

“You’ve been flying all along,” Jacques said. “You just didn’t know it before. Now you can open your eyes.”

Ruth opened her eyes. There was no deck, no chimney, no cables... nothing was blocking her view.

She was suspended in the air, eleven stories above the sea.

Ruth could see the sun slowly sinking below the horizon, the sky turning from gold to orange-red, and the clouds being ignited by the sunset.

Jacques's arm wrapped around her waist from behind.

"This is freedom. No past, no future, only this moment. No Britain, no America, only here."

There were no noble ladies, no poor painters, only two people standing at the edge of the world.

……

Their faces were close, the golden light of the setting sun illuminating Jacques's face. Ruth saw herself reflected in his eyes. A version of herself she had never seen in a mirror before.

Then she kissed him.

It was a brief kiss, but Ruth felt as if the whole world had stopped.

The sounds of waves, wind, and ship engines—everything vanished. Only his lips remained.

...]

Émile Le Maire, the owner of Le Maire Bookshop, has been running the bookstore for thirty years. He loves books, but he loves even more watching readers become engrossed in them.

This afternoon, his bookstore turned into a small salon. A dozen or so people squeezed into the cramped space, each holding a copy of "Modern Life".

Since there were no chairs, everyone stood, leaned against the bookshelves, or sat on the floor.

“That kiss at the bow of the ship…” a young man sighed, “I couldn’t help but watch it three times.”

“Me too,” his friend said. “That description—no lust, just love. It was a kiss of true love!”

A middle-aged man disagreed: "Excuse my bluntness, but it is really inappropriate for a noble lady to kiss a commoner in public."

A young man who looked like a student immediately retorted: "Modesty? Modesty is meant to be broken! Now Ruth is finally free! That kiss was a declaration of freedom!"

"But this is fiction. In reality, such things rarely happen. The class divide is not so easy to bridge."

"That's why it's a novel! Novels show us possibilities; love that transcends class, nationality, and all obstacles can exist!"

Emil, the shopkeeper, stood behind the counter, listening to their argument with a smile, and he noticed a detail:
Among the readers present today were many women, and their engagement in the discussion far surpassed that of any previous novel, and even exceeded that of the men present!
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(End of this chapter)