I've used a whole lot of quotes from Titanic in this part, all of which
belong to James Cameron. Some of the stuff was in the script but got cut
from the movie; I've still included it.
ROSE'S STORY: BEGINNINGS
I left work, not even caring whether or not I had permission to go on break. Rose put some money on the table and we emerged from the café. She chose not to walk by the Seine, as I suggested, explaining, "I have a thing with water. You'll understand soon enough." Instead, we headed for the Jardin de Tuilleries, promenading under the trees. I let Rose tell her story
"I was born in 1895, into one of the richest families in Philadelphia. My great-grandfather had established an incredibly successful banking company, which my father eventually came to run. He married my mother and soon afterwards, I was born. They named me Rose Victoria Dewitt Bukater."
So she wasn't a Dawson by birth. She had become one later. That could only mean . . . Stop playing guessing games, Charlotte. Let her tell the story.
"I was a society girl, Charlotte. I attended soirees and charm school and countless other deathly-boring events. I could act well mannered of course, and ladylike, but inside, all I ever wanted to escape. I felt stifled, as though I were about to suffocate. I hated them. I hated it all. The pretension, the formality, the stiffness, the money. I wanted freedom; I wanted to experience life. I thought that perhaps if I could go to college, I would get a chance to break free."
Freedom. Wasn't that what we were all looking for?
"But when I was sixteen, my father passed away. He went to bed and never woke back up. I grieved for him, but it was my mother who was truly inconsolable. Of course, my mother was shallow and heartless; she cried not so much because my father was dead, but because we were left with nothing but debt. She was afraid that she would have to become a seamstress, that she would work. 'Can you imagine it, Rosie?' she'd sob. 'I, Ruth DeWitt Bukater, working.!' She didn't know what we would do. Then, at one of the balls, we were introduced to the Hockleys. That was when everything changed."
A parent dead. That was something I knew enough about. But the engagement, the money . . . I was grateful that I had never had to go through any of that.
"Caledon Hockley was eight years my senior. His father, Nathan Hockley, was a Pittsburgh steel tycoon. I sparked Cal's interest, which in turn sparked my mother's interest. If I could marry into their wealth, our problems would be solved. Lucky for her, Cal began to court me. Within weeks, my mother and he had arranged our engagement. I was heartbroken. I wanted to die."
"What I believed to be my final time of happiness was the trip Cal, Mother, and I took to Europe that winter. It was 1912 then, and I was seventeen. I pushed aside all thoughts of my impending marriage, my inevitable imprisonment, and did my best to enjoy the sights around me. I've always loved it here, you see. Paris, especially. Last time I was here, Cal purchased a number of Picasso's for me. He was rather unheard of at the time. 'He won't amount to a thing, trust me,' Cal would say. He was more wrong than he knew."
Picasso had come into the café last week. It wasn't that unusual. He liked his coffee black. He called me Mademoiselle Charlotte. Mademoiselle Charlotte, permettez-moi de vous peinter, s'il vous plait. He always asked; I always declined. Nonetheless, he was one of my favorite customers.
"Anyway, I digress. By April, we were preparing to return to America. The wedding invitations had been sent out, and we were holding an engagement gala later that month. Cal had booked us passage on what everyone thought was the grandest ship in the world - the Titanic."
Titanic. The unsinkable ship had sunk on her maiden voyage, months before my birth. My mother once told me that the day the ship sank was the day she discovered she was pregnant with me. Fifteen hundred people perished, she had said, but all I could think about was one little person who would live.
Rose continued. "Everything about the Titanic, right down to the last rivet, was brand new. It's been 18 years, and I can still smell the fresh paint. The china had never been used. The beds had never been slept in. I was a spoiled brat at the time - at least your father thought so - and so I didn't see what all the fuss was about. I wasn't as dazzled by the great ship as everyone else. They all called it the Ship of Dreams. It was the ship of dreams . . . to everyone else. To me it was a slave ship, taking me back to America in chains. Outwardly I was everything a well brought up girl should be. Inside, I was screaming. Every moment we sailed brought me farther and farther away from the places I loved and closer to Philadelphia, to Cal, to marriage. I sulked until I couldn't take it any longer. Suddenly, at dinner one night, all my emotions began to overcome me. . I sat there, staring at my plate, barely listening to the inconsequential babble around me. I remember taking the little crab fork and stabbing my hand, under the table, until I bled. I need pain to be tangible."
"My entire world felt wrong to me that night. I saw my whole life as if I'd already lived it . . . An endless parade of parties and cotillions, yachts and polo matches . . . always the same narrow people, the same mindless chatter. I felt like I was standing at a great precipice, with no one to pull me back, no one who cared . . . or even noticed. The world was closing in on me. I had to get out. Crazy, angry, hating myself and my life, I ran towards the stern of the ship. I wanted to die. I climbed over the railing and was about to jump. Then the most incredible thing happened."
Rose was becoming choked up at the memories, but she swallowed hard and continued.
"I heard a voice behind me. I'll never forget the words. 'Don't do it,' he said. I turned my head and saw a young man standing a few feet behind me. I was angry at him and told him to stand back, not to come any closer. How dare he interfere with me? His worn clothes instantly told me that he was poor, yet he was very handsome. He had dirty blonde hair and clear, luminous eyes. He was twenty years old. He told me to take his hand, that he would pull me back in. I refused, telling him to go away. He said, 'I can't. I'm involved now. If you let go I have to jump in after you.' Well, he began to undo his boots and remove his jacket. He really acted like he would have gone in after me. He told me that he wasn't as concerned about the fall as he was about the coldness of the water. 'Water that cold,' he said, 'like right down there, it hits you like a thousand knives stabbing all over your body. You can't breath, you can't think... least not about anything but the pain.'"
Who is this mystery man, this hero appearing out of the shadows? Where is my father in all of this? Rose's story feels epic to me; it is laced with the excitement I find only in novels.
"In retrospect," said Rose, "I guess it's all very ironic. Anyway, he asked if I get him off the hook and come back over the edge of the railing. I told him he was crazy. He looked at me and said, "That's what everybody says. But with all due respect, I'm not the one hanging off the back of a ship.' No one had ever spoken to me so rudely. It was quite refreshing." She laughed. "He told me to give him my hand. For the first time in months, I felt like someone actually cared about me. Someone cared, and that was enough to live for. I took his hand and turned to face him. He introduced himself as Jack Dawson."
Jack Dawson. My father. This man is my father. Was my father. He had saved her life, pulled her back.
"I began to climb back over the side of the ship. Then suddenly, my dress became caught on the railing, and I slipped. I was dangling hundreds of feet over the freezing water, and he held me only by the arm. I began to scream for my life. 'I won't let go,' promised Jack. 'I've got you.' Slowly he helped pull my back up. I collapsed on top him, and we both fell backwards onto the deck. My screams had alerted people, and when they saw him, the stereotypical penniless person, lying on top of a first-class passenger like me, with me clearly shaken up, they spared no time in arresting him. When Cal arrived, he was infuriated. 'What made you think you could put your hands on my fiancé?' He cried."
I hate this Cal. He's so controlling. How dare he speak to my father in such a way? Can't he understand that Jack was just saving her life?
I fumbled for an excuse, explaining to Cal that I had been leaning over the railing to look at the propellers, and had slipped, and that Mr. Dawson had saved me. I didn't want Cal to know that I had been about to kill myself. Jack was graceful enough to agree with my story. The officer proclaimed him a hero. He was. As Cal and I left the deck, one of the officers suggested giving Jack something for saving my life. Cal gave him twenty dollars, which was worth a lot more then than it was now. I protested the measly gift, and so Cal invited Jack to join us for dinner the following night. We returned to our suite. I was cold, but I felt as if somehow my life had changed. Something was different. I had met Jack. It was our beginning."
It was their beginning. Jack and Rose. My father, and my friend.
To be continued . . .
.
ROSE'S STORY: BEGINNINGS
I left work, not even caring whether or not I had permission to go on break. Rose put some money on the table and we emerged from the café. She chose not to walk by the Seine, as I suggested, explaining, "I have a thing with water. You'll understand soon enough." Instead, we headed for the Jardin de Tuilleries, promenading under the trees. I let Rose tell her story
"I was born in 1895, into one of the richest families in Philadelphia. My great-grandfather had established an incredibly successful banking company, which my father eventually came to run. He married my mother and soon afterwards, I was born. They named me Rose Victoria Dewitt Bukater."
So she wasn't a Dawson by birth. She had become one later. That could only mean . . . Stop playing guessing games, Charlotte. Let her tell the story.
"I was a society girl, Charlotte. I attended soirees and charm school and countless other deathly-boring events. I could act well mannered of course, and ladylike, but inside, all I ever wanted to escape. I felt stifled, as though I were about to suffocate. I hated them. I hated it all. The pretension, the formality, the stiffness, the money. I wanted freedom; I wanted to experience life. I thought that perhaps if I could go to college, I would get a chance to break free."
Freedom. Wasn't that what we were all looking for?
"But when I was sixteen, my father passed away. He went to bed and never woke back up. I grieved for him, but it was my mother who was truly inconsolable. Of course, my mother was shallow and heartless; she cried not so much because my father was dead, but because we were left with nothing but debt. She was afraid that she would have to become a seamstress, that she would work. 'Can you imagine it, Rosie?' she'd sob. 'I, Ruth DeWitt Bukater, working.!' She didn't know what we would do. Then, at one of the balls, we were introduced to the Hockleys. That was when everything changed."
A parent dead. That was something I knew enough about. But the engagement, the money . . . I was grateful that I had never had to go through any of that.
"Caledon Hockley was eight years my senior. His father, Nathan Hockley, was a Pittsburgh steel tycoon. I sparked Cal's interest, which in turn sparked my mother's interest. If I could marry into their wealth, our problems would be solved. Lucky for her, Cal began to court me. Within weeks, my mother and he had arranged our engagement. I was heartbroken. I wanted to die."
"What I believed to be my final time of happiness was the trip Cal, Mother, and I took to Europe that winter. It was 1912 then, and I was seventeen. I pushed aside all thoughts of my impending marriage, my inevitable imprisonment, and did my best to enjoy the sights around me. I've always loved it here, you see. Paris, especially. Last time I was here, Cal purchased a number of Picasso's for me. He was rather unheard of at the time. 'He won't amount to a thing, trust me,' Cal would say. He was more wrong than he knew."
Picasso had come into the café last week. It wasn't that unusual. He liked his coffee black. He called me Mademoiselle Charlotte. Mademoiselle Charlotte, permettez-moi de vous peinter, s'il vous plait. He always asked; I always declined. Nonetheless, he was one of my favorite customers.
"Anyway, I digress. By April, we were preparing to return to America. The wedding invitations had been sent out, and we were holding an engagement gala later that month. Cal had booked us passage on what everyone thought was the grandest ship in the world - the Titanic."
Titanic. The unsinkable ship had sunk on her maiden voyage, months before my birth. My mother once told me that the day the ship sank was the day she discovered she was pregnant with me. Fifteen hundred people perished, she had said, but all I could think about was one little person who would live.
Rose continued. "Everything about the Titanic, right down to the last rivet, was brand new. It's been 18 years, and I can still smell the fresh paint. The china had never been used. The beds had never been slept in. I was a spoiled brat at the time - at least your father thought so - and so I didn't see what all the fuss was about. I wasn't as dazzled by the great ship as everyone else. They all called it the Ship of Dreams. It was the ship of dreams . . . to everyone else. To me it was a slave ship, taking me back to America in chains. Outwardly I was everything a well brought up girl should be. Inside, I was screaming. Every moment we sailed brought me farther and farther away from the places I loved and closer to Philadelphia, to Cal, to marriage. I sulked until I couldn't take it any longer. Suddenly, at dinner one night, all my emotions began to overcome me. . I sat there, staring at my plate, barely listening to the inconsequential babble around me. I remember taking the little crab fork and stabbing my hand, under the table, until I bled. I need pain to be tangible."
"My entire world felt wrong to me that night. I saw my whole life as if I'd already lived it . . . An endless parade of parties and cotillions, yachts and polo matches . . . always the same narrow people, the same mindless chatter. I felt like I was standing at a great precipice, with no one to pull me back, no one who cared . . . or even noticed. The world was closing in on me. I had to get out. Crazy, angry, hating myself and my life, I ran towards the stern of the ship. I wanted to die. I climbed over the railing and was about to jump. Then the most incredible thing happened."
Rose was becoming choked up at the memories, but she swallowed hard and continued.
"I heard a voice behind me. I'll never forget the words. 'Don't do it,' he said. I turned my head and saw a young man standing a few feet behind me. I was angry at him and told him to stand back, not to come any closer. How dare he interfere with me? His worn clothes instantly told me that he was poor, yet he was very handsome. He had dirty blonde hair and clear, luminous eyes. He was twenty years old. He told me to take his hand, that he would pull me back in. I refused, telling him to go away. He said, 'I can't. I'm involved now. If you let go I have to jump in after you.' Well, he began to undo his boots and remove his jacket. He really acted like he would have gone in after me. He told me that he wasn't as concerned about the fall as he was about the coldness of the water. 'Water that cold,' he said, 'like right down there, it hits you like a thousand knives stabbing all over your body. You can't breath, you can't think... least not about anything but the pain.'"
Who is this mystery man, this hero appearing out of the shadows? Where is my father in all of this? Rose's story feels epic to me; it is laced with the excitement I find only in novels.
"In retrospect," said Rose, "I guess it's all very ironic. Anyway, he asked if I get him off the hook and come back over the edge of the railing. I told him he was crazy. He looked at me and said, "That's what everybody says. But with all due respect, I'm not the one hanging off the back of a ship.' No one had ever spoken to me so rudely. It was quite refreshing." She laughed. "He told me to give him my hand. For the first time in months, I felt like someone actually cared about me. Someone cared, and that was enough to live for. I took his hand and turned to face him. He introduced himself as Jack Dawson."
Jack Dawson. My father. This man is my father. Was my father. He had saved her life, pulled her back.
"I began to climb back over the side of the ship. Then suddenly, my dress became caught on the railing, and I slipped. I was dangling hundreds of feet over the freezing water, and he held me only by the arm. I began to scream for my life. 'I won't let go,' promised Jack. 'I've got you.' Slowly he helped pull my back up. I collapsed on top him, and we both fell backwards onto the deck. My screams had alerted people, and when they saw him, the stereotypical penniless person, lying on top of a first-class passenger like me, with me clearly shaken up, they spared no time in arresting him. When Cal arrived, he was infuriated. 'What made you think you could put your hands on my fiancé?' He cried."
I hate this Cal. He's so controlling. How dare he speak to my father in such a way? Can't he understand that Jack was just saving her life?
I fumbled for an excuse, explaining to Cal that I had been leaning over the railing to look at the propellers, and had slipped, and that Mr. Dawson had saved me. I didn't want Cal to know that I had been about to kill myself. Jack was graceful enough to agree with my story. The officer proclaimed him a hero. He was. As Cal and I left the deck, one of the officers suggested giving Jack something for saving my life. Cal gave him twenty dollars, which was worth a lot more then than it was now. I protested the measly gift, and so Cal invited Jack to join us for dinner the following night. We returned to our suite. I was cold, but I felt as if somehow my life had changed. Something was different. I had met Jack. It was our beginning."
It was their beginning. Jack and Rose. My father, and my friend.
To be continued . . .
.
