Chapter 3 - The Staircase Everyone Was Talking About
I found the Grand Staircase by accident.
That is probably not the proper way to discover one of the most celebrated rooms aboard Titanic, but it suited me.
Samuel had told me where it was.
I had ignored half his directions.
So after walking down the wrong corridor and nearly entering a private stateroom, I followed a group of elegantly dressed passengers through a wide doorway.
Then I stopped.
For several seconds, I forgot about my notebook.
The staircase descended beneath a great glass dome that filled the space with pale daylight. Polished oak surrounded everything. Curving rails swept downward toward the deck below. At the central landing stood an elaborate clock framed by carved figures.
People moved through the space slowly.
Not because they had to.
Because this was the sort of room that made people slow down.
A woman in a pale lavender dress descended with one hand resting lightly on the rail. A young steward stepped aside for her. Two gentlemen spoke beneath the clock. A maid carried a small case upstairs.
Nobody seemed impressed.
That amused me.
Perhaps wealth teaches people to pretend they have seen everything before.
I had not.
I leaned toward Samuel.
“You people put this on a ship?”
“So it would seem.”
“This staircase is nicer than my editor’s entire house.”
“Perhaps don’t print that.”
“I definitely will.”
Samuel pointed toward the carving around the clock.
I studied it for a moment.
Everything had been designed to create the impression that Titanic was not merely transportation.
She was an experience.
That word appeared constantly in White Star Line advertising, though perhaps not in exactly those terms.
A person crossing the Atlantic no longer needed to endure the ocean.
The wealthy, at least, could pretend the ocean was not there.
That idea fascinated me.
We walked down.
The light changed from deck to deck.
Electric lamps glowed against polished wood. Upholstered chairs stood in corners where passengers could pause. Potted palms softened the heavy architecture.
I tried to imagine the same space during rough weather.
Samuel assured me that we were fortunate.
“The sea is behaving.”
“Does it often misbehave?”
“The Atlantic?”
He looked at me.
“What do you think?”
At the lower level, we entered a reception room.
Women sat talking in small groups.
Men waited for companions.
A steward crossed the floor carrying glasses.
There was a warmth to the room that made me forget there were thousands of feet of North Atlantic beneath us.
I understood the trick now.
Titanic did not make you forget you were traveling.
She made you forget what was carrying you.
Later Samuel took me to the First Class lounge.
Again, I found myself searching for evidence that we were at sea.
Bookcases, carved wood, comfortable chairs, writing tables, lamps—all the things one might expect in an expensive private club.
A man was reading a newspaper.
Another slept with his chin against his chest.
Two women were writing letters.
I wondered what they wrote.
Dear Mother, the ship is wonderful.
Dear James, the food is excellent.
Dear Aunt Margaret, you would not believe the staircase.
Ordinary sentences.
That was what interested me most.
A famous ship was still filled with ordinary moments.
I spent nearly an hour sitting beside a window, writing.
A woman across from me finally lowered her book.
“You have been describing that lamp for ten minutes.”
I looked up.
She appeared to be in her late fifties, perhaps early sixties. Silver threaded her dark hair, which was pinned neatly beneath a modest hat. Her dress was expensive but not showy.
“Is it that obvious?”
“You keep looking at the lamp, then your notebook, then the lamp.”
“I’m a journalist.”
“That explains the worried expression.”
I laughed.
“Ethan Cole.”
“Eleanor Brooks.”
She was from Philadelphia and returning home after visiting a married daughter in England.
“Are you writing about the ship?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“What have you concluded?”
“That I cannot afford most of the furniture.”
She smiled.
“That is a promising beginning.”
We talked for almost half an hour.
Eleanor had crossed the Atlantic six times.
Titanic impressed her, but she refused to behave as though the ship had descended from heaven.
“It is still a ship,” she said.
“Samuel says something similar.”
“Samuel sounds sensible.”
“He finds me exhausting.”
“That also sounds sensible.”
When she left, she paused.
“Mr. Cole?”
“Yes?”
“If you are writing about Titanic, don’t only write about the expensive rooms.”
I closed my notebook.
“What should I write about?”
She glanced around the lounge.
“The people who think they are going somewhere.”
Then she walked away.
I sat there for several minutes.
At first I thought she was simply being philosophical.
Later I understood exactly what she meant.
That evening, I returned to the staircase before dinner.
The glass dome above had darkened with the evening sky. Electric lights had taken over, warming the oak until the whole space seemed golden.
The clock ticked above the landing.
People descended toward dinner.
No one hurried.
No one had any reason to.
I remember thinking that if Titanic contained a heart, perhaps it was there.
May you like
Four nights later, I would stand in almost the same place.
And it would look like an entirely different ship.
