Chartres: A Retrospective

By the end of the program I was too busy soaking up every sight, sound, and smell of Paris (and enjoying some British comedy at night) to spend much time blogging. Now that I'm home (whatever home is right now) it's catch up time.

Paris is wonderful, but France has much more to offer than the City of Lights. Back on the 25th of February we took a day trip out to Chartres, a small town a short train ride away from Paris. It was our first experience in France outside of Paris. Although Paris is undeniably French, France is not Parisian. It was nice to see what not-Paris looks like.

We arrived about an hour before our scheduled tour, so we used the time to explore. The main attraction in Chartres is of course the cathedral, but that's not all to see there. We decided to check out an older, smaller church, which we found after wandering through windy cobblestone streets and past an empty market place. The church was quite old, and seemed to be made up of bits and pieces of different centuries: romanesque here, high gothic there, a bit of neo-classical over there. Moss, lichen, and tiny flowers were growing all over the walls.



Inside we were greeted with breathtaking stained glass depicting scenes from the Old Testament. The chapel itself was modest and utterly free from the touristy trappings of Notre Dame de Paris or Sainte Chapelle. It was simply a place of worship, as it was always intended to be.



To show us around the cathedral, Notre Dame de Chartres, we had a wonderful old tour guide named Malcolm Miller. He’s the sort of old British scholar who I think sits by a fireplace at night with a glass of sherry in one hand and the writings of some medieval scholar in the other. He taught us to recognize saints' lives and Bible stories depicted in glass and stone, some obscured behind years of ash and dirt, some recently restored to shining brilliance.



Perhaps the greatest treasures at Chartres are the stained glass windows, many of which date back to the 13th century and are original to the building. We started our tour with a reading lesson: stained glass windows were meant to be read by the worshippers, bottom to top and left to right.



Each window contains scenes from the Bible, saints’ lives, and especially the life of Christ and the Virgin Mary. At first glance, and to the untrained eye, the figures are indiscernible one from the other, but dear Mr. Miller taught us how to recognize and understand some of the symbols. The windows ranged from very simple, widely known stories such as the raising of Lazarus, to fairly sophisticated biblical commentaries.

The best example of this was the Good Samaritan window (I don't know if it's actually called that, but that's how I remember it). One set of medallions shows the story of the Good Samaritan; another shows Adam and Eve being cast out of the Garden of Eden. How do the two connect? It's pretty cool if you ask me (then again, most medieval Christianity is pretty cool to me). Adam and Eve, and all mankind for that matter, are the man who was robbed and left for dead. We are all left for dead, so to speak, in this mortal world (remember that this is a medieval Catholic approach), robbed and beaten by that serpent Satan. The Good Samaritan, who cleans our wounds and provides a safe shelter for us, is of course Jesus Christ. Cool, huh?



Like many old churches I’ve seen here, the structure that now stands at Chartres is not the first place of worship that was there. When the Romans showed up back in the day they found pagans worshipping at a holy spring there. As the locals converted to Christianity they incorporated the sacred site into their new religion, and by around 830ish AD a cathedral was built (a cathedral is the seat of a bishop). Chartres really made it big though in the mid-9th century, when Charles le Chauve (the bald), grandson of Charlemagne, gave a relic to the cathedral: la sainte chemise, or a shirt worn by the Virgin Mary herself. This gift predates the widespread adoration of Mary associated with the Catholic church, but it made the cathedral a major pilgrimage destination (the relic has been carbon dated back to the 1st century AD; I'll let you make of that what you will). After a series of devastating fires followed by renovations, the cathedral at Chartres became the stunning flamboyant Gothic edifice that’s there now.



One of many highlights of the trip was being able to climb one of the towers. It was a long climb up a narrow spiral staircase, but it was worth every step. I’ve seen my fair share of flying buttresses and gargoyles and rose windows, but to be up there with it all, next to the bells and looking down on the whole town was took my breath away. Or maybe that was the dizzying climb up the seemingly endless spiral staircase. Either way, it was a transcendent experience.







On the way back a group of us decided to make a slight detour in the little town of Maintenon to see the Chateau de Maintenon (built for Madame de Maintenon, mistress and later wife to Louis XIV). The sun finally came out and it stopped raining. We didn’t really know where we were going, so we asked people on the street until we found it. Maintenon is a charming town, with a quiet little river and stone bridges and lots of trees. Not to mention the 17th century chateau AND Roman aqueduct. The sun was setting as we waited on the platform, wrapping up an almost ridiculously perfect day.

Eyjafjallajökull and Me

The last few days rank easily among the most bizarre and unexpected of my life. Other contenders are the Christmas in Yuma when we all had a terrible stomach flu (I stopped vomiting long enough to open presents), and the Christmas that my baby sister Phoebe was born and we rushed through Lucia festivities, to the hospital, then I ended up in bed for three weeks with the flu. Such fun. Here's a rundown of how this weekend went:

Thursday: Finally done with every bit of homework! I spent the day at Musée d'Orsay and the Pompidou Center. That evening we all went to a performance of Pierre Boulez's Répons which blew my mind. I went home and packed my suitcases.

Friday: My last day! How sad. By now we knew that airports in the UK were closed because of a cloud of ash from a volcano in Iceland. Seriously? A volcano? In Iceland? Whatever. We went to the Palais Garnier of Phantom of the Opera fame (it was incredible by the way), found the bus Courtney and I would take to the airport, then went home to check on things. The Charles De Gaulle website said they would be open by that afternoon. No problem. So off to say my farewells to Notre Dame and Saint Severin; I caught the tail end of Vespers at Notre Dame, prayed that the ash would clear up at Saint Severin, and shed a few sorrowful tears that I would be leaving this city I love. Then off to the Eiffel Tower to meet up with friends and check out the view from the top. My roommate Angela delivered the news: "Your flight is canceled!" Oh well, the Tower was still pretty sweet and surely this cloud wouldn't last forever. Seriously. This is the 21st century, right?

Saturday: After reading the news and enlisting Dad to help me figure out the rebooking process I finally realized that I might be hanging out here for a while. Hayley, Richard and I spent all day trying to track down phone numbers and non-existent ticket offices. We ended up in a thrift store instead and ate kebabs by a fountain. It was a perfect sunny day. Volcano my eye. We finally got the sweetest, most helpful United ticket agent on the phone who rebooked our flights. New plan: land in Colorado Springs one hour before my cousin's wedding reception starts. I hope I make it in time! On the metro back to my place, I was in a very good mood. I get an extra week in Paris! How great is that?

Sunday: The English sunday school was full of Americans here for business and pleasure who are now stuck for the foreseeable future. Halfway through the lesson the fire alarm went off for a drill. *sigh* What next? We finished off the day with pizza and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory at the Ricks' house. Then I made a terrible mistake: I started thinking about where I would be without good ol' Eyjafjallajökull. I would have been in my home ward, with my family, making crepes and telling stories and playing with our new dog... and then Carolina In My Mind came up on my iPod. I skipped it quickly only to hear Take Me Home Country Roads. Thanks James Taylor and John Denver for the nose dive into homesickness.

But hey! The sun is out again, and I have Paris at my fingertips. Time for a picnic I think. Then art museums, walks, old churches, maybe a free concert or two. I get to live la vie en rose for six extra days. With or without the emotional roller coaster, I guess I owe Eyjafjallajökull one.

Easter at Notre Dame de Paris (Cultural Activity 5)

Notre Dame de Paris is probably, with the possible exception of Sacre-Coeur, Paris’ most well known church. It is always full of tourists from all over the world; the square outside is like a 30 second tour of the United Nations. The inside of the building is torn between tourism and worship and sometimes seems a little confused between the two.
In spite of this conflict some of my favorite experiences have taken place at Notre Dame. My first day in Paris I went in and was dazzled by the rose windows. I’ve attended mass there several times. Climbing to the very top of the towers, seeing the big bell, and looking across the city was a wonderful experience.



Another choice experience at Notre Dame de Paris occurred rather serendipitously on Easter Morning. Angela, Courtney and I arrived at the cathedral early for the Gregorian mass, and it turned out we were just in time for the Lauds service. Lauds is one of the old daily services; the name comes from the Latin verb “to praise”, and that’s exactly what we did.
The texts came from Psalms and hymns; the music consisted of simple melodies and chants. Although the texts were fairly standard for Christian hymns, but the music and the way we sang it were different from the Protestant styles and traditions that I’m used to. Instead of four part harmonies accompanied by an organ, we sang simple melodies in response to a soloist. For several psalms there was only a chant marked out on the handout that was given to the congregation. Texture came from the sound of the words, the contrast between the soloist and the congregation, and the organ which occasionally had solos of its own. The music had an ascending quality to it, and allowed the disparate voices of the motley congregation to be united in singing praises to the heavens.



And it didn’t stop there! As Lauds concluded we were given the words and music for Mass. I could barely contain my excitement at seeing the Gregorian notation and Latin text, even though I’m hardly fluent in either. The Gregorian Ensemble at Notre Dame is incredible, and as their exquisite voices sang the Introït the church filled with the scent of incense. The priest and others (I don’t know the details of who does what and when during Mass) processed in with the Cross, surrounded with the smoke from the censer.

The first thing they did was the Rite de l’aspersion. The celebrant blessed a bowl of water (see Ezekial 47:1-9), then walked up and down the aisles and used an olive branch to sprinkle the holy water on the assembled worshippers.
Mass continued mostly in Latin, although the most important parts (like preparing Communion) were done in French. At the end we sang my favorite Latin text, Agnus Dei. In Latin it goes like this:

Agnus Dei qui tolis peccáta mundi:
Miserere nobis.
Agnus Dei qui tolis peccáta mundi:
Miserere nobis.
Agnus Dei qui tolis peccáta mundiL
Dona nobis pacem.

And in English:

Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world:
Have mercy on us.
Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world:
Have mercy on us.
Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world:
Give us peace.

The ensemble sang the first part of each stanza, reminding us who the Lamb of God is; we joined at the second halves, pleading for mercy and peace. Intermittently through both services the sounds of the famous bells could be heard resonating through the stone and arches, combining with incense, stained glass, architecture, a profound sense of history, and our music to create a beautiful experience.

As Mass ended we were treated to some organ music. By the time we got home bells were ringing all over Paris to celebrate the Resurrection.

Le ciné (Cultural Activity 4)

Some of my very favorite films are French: Cyrano de Bergerac, Les Choristes, Ponette, and of course Le fabuleux destin d’Amélie Poulin, so when I had the chance to go see the romantic comedy L’Arnacouer I took it. Arnacouer is a pun on the French word arnaqeur, or con-artist. The movie starts with these words of wisdom (to the best of my recollection and translating ability): “There are three kinds of women: those who are happy, those who are unhappy, and those who are unhappy but don’t know it”. The main characters are a crack team of con artists who earn their living breaking up couples, a wealthy young wine critic about to be married to a dolt of Englishman, and her wealthy and rather shady father who doesn’t want the marriage to go through. I’ll give you a hint as to the plot: the wine critic is a hot girl (Johnny Depp’s wife Vanessa Paradis to be precise) and the main con artist is a hot French guy. You can take it from there.

There were a few funny things about this film. First was the leading lady: she had a massive gap between her front teeth that would be a death knell for a career in American cinema. The French seem to be more accepting of human appearances, whether five o’clock shadow, sweat, gap teeth, frizzy hair, you name it.

Another funny thing about the movie was the presence of American pop culture. “Dirty Dancing”, believe it or not, has an important role in the plot. The movie ends with Steve Miller Band’s (pronounced Steve Meeler Band) The Joker. One American thing was notably missing: English subtitles. My host mom was amazed that I braved such a feat; she even tells her family members when they come for dinner. They have a good laugh when I tell them I only understood 60ish % of it. But I got most jokes, and certainly enjoyed the whole experience.

Wilbur, eat your heart out. (Cultural Activity 3)

Every year at the end of February Paris hosts a massive agricultural fair that would make Wilbur of Charlotte’s Web fame cry. The city hosts the best of the best of France’s massive and very proud agricultural community. We had read about and discussed it earlier in our prep class, and I for one was eager to see this thing for real. Since I grew up in the South I am more or less familiar with rural life, and certainly rural stereotypes, and I was very curious about what France has to offer in this department.

The Salon did not disappoint. In Pavilion 1 we were greeted with a wonderful scent seldom enjoyed in the city: animals! “Ewwww, gross” I hear you say. Trust me, after a month and a half of cigarette smoke and metros that all too often double as loos the earthy wholesome scent of piglets and sheep was fabulous.



Little chicks just hatching, the fattest sheep I’ve ever seen, and adorable little piglets with floppy ears and curly tails tripping around their massive mothers were in pens surrounded by hundreds of parents and children come to see. Most impressive were the cattle; I had no idea that any bovine got that big. Holy cow (take a moment to enjoy that pun).



The Pavilion 4 had beautiful horses, many of which again were on a scale I had never seen before (holy horse… no, doesn’t work). We also got a glimpse at the French version of a cowboy; naturally my camera battery was dead by this point. Most of the men handling horses sported black trousers, white shirts with the sleeves rolled up, snappy little vests, and charming berets.

By far the most wonderful pavilion of them all was Pavilion 7, which showcased the agricultural products of each Région. “Agricultural products of France” is a fancy way of saying lots of incredible food. Sausages, cheeses, wines, ice cream, fruits de mer, and this incredible concoction called truffade that Haley and I couldn’t pass up. Two loud men from Marseille served massive helpings of cheesy garlicky potatoes from a gigantic skillet.



I was stuffed full until I saw the ice cream from Pas-de-Calais, and since I have ancestors from there I just had to get some. Family history work never tasted so good. Throughout the pavilion old French men with small glasses of wine conversed over wondrous varieties of cheese. Families sat around raclette holding pieces of potato and sausage under melting cheese.

Let me finish off with a good word for the French. The Salon was absolutely packed with people; we often couldn’t move at all, squished between moms with strollers and couples with gigantic cameras. To make it more exciting, the crowd frequently had to part like the Red Sea to let gigantic horses or crowds of piglets walk through. Yet not once was anyone rude. People shifted aside to let children see, cracked jokes with each other, and were generally very cheerful. Good times were had by all.

Siddharta at l'Opèra Bastille (Cultural Activity 2)

There are so many perks to living in Paris: museums, parks, history, incredible art and architecture wherever you turn to name a few. Being able to attend world premiers at the Opèra Bastille is another. Siddharta is a new ballet written by Bruno Mantovani and choreographed by Angelin Preljocaj (click here and scroll down a bit to see some video clips), and thanks to Dr. Ricks getting tickets well in advance we were able to attend the world premier (read with a posh British accent). In 15 tableaux the company told the story of Siddharta and his quest to find Enlightenment.



The ballet didn’t seem too concerned about the story of Siddharta though; instead I felt like it was an exploration of humanity’s search for truth or the right way in a very general sense. The characters in each tableau retained some of the same names, such as Yasodhara his wife and Ananda his cousin. The music bore some elements associated with the Far East, such as gongs.

But there were many modern and Western elements as well. The choreography was a wonderful combination of old and new ballet movements. My favorite modern scene was the fourth tableau, which depicted an epidemic that ravaged Siddharta’s home village. The dancers were in pairs, one in a black body suit and silver motorcycle helmet and the other in a blotchy grey and flesh-colored suits. The helmeted dancers dragged their limp counterparts on to the stage, then performed a bizarre sort of dance that movingly conveyed the ravages of the unnamed disease on the impoverished villagers.

In addition to the expected sounds of gongs and the usual orchestral instruments (albeit combined in unexpected ways for fantastic and surprising score) an electric guitar was added, which goes remarkably well with the harp by the way. And throughout the ballet unusual and distinctly modern props were used: chrome motorcycle helmets, a hovering and rotating house, and a metro undercarriage of all things. For me these new and modern elements brought the story out of the distant past in Nepal and into the 21st century.

Paris Project: C'est ici l'empire de la mort.

Among Paris’ more enjoyable characteristics are the layers and layers of history that surround you wherever you go; Parisians are quite content to live, work, play, and worship on top of and around the same shops, churches and streets that their predecessors have for over two millennia. This also means that they live out their quotidian lives alongside the remains of former Parisians, who rest in peace anywhere and everywhere in the City of Lights. Some are remembered in pomp and glory in the Pantheon or at Les Invalides. For others, small plaques on the walls of schools exhort passersby to "N'oubliez pas" (Do not forget).



This project may sound ghoulish and hopelessly morbid; it isn't. Paris is more than Gothic churches, Renaissance hôtels, and Haussmann-style façades. Paris is a city of millions of flesh and blood living their lives, some in renown and grandeur and others in anonymous poverty. Just as visiting museums, castles, and churches can connect you with the past, so can finding and visiting the dead connect you with the very real people who made that past.

Almost anywhere you go in Paris, the Parisians of years gone by are not far away. In any of the countless Catholic churches in the city, you will find yourself surrounded not only by tourists and worshippers, but also by the dearly departed. As you perambulate the nave you will see the final resting places of an aristocrat, a philosopher, an archbishop or two, and maybe even a war hero or politician. For example Jean-Baptiste Colbert, Louis XIV’s brilliant finance minister, is interred at l’Église Saint-Eustache.



Other alcoves feature relics of saints, sometimes dust or a piece of clothing, sometimes an entire bone. These relics are housed in beautiful reliquaries of gold and glass, and invite the prayers of the faithful who come to seek special blessings.
The Incorruptibles are a special category of saintly relics. They are discovered when the remains of saints are exhumed for one reason or another, and if they meet certain criteria the Vatican will declare them Incorruptible. An Incorruptible cannot have been embalmed, and they usually give off an Odor of Sanctity. Sometimes part of the body will decay normally, while other parts (such as the heart or bones) remain intact. The reasoning behind this phenomenon, according to the Catholic Church, is that these saints lived lives so holy that their sanctity permeated their flesh and prevented their bodies from decaying after death.

Two of these saints lie in glass coffins on either side of the altar at La Chapelle Notre Dame la Médaille Miraculeuse. On the left is Sainte Louise de Marillac, who died in 1660. During her life she was a devout follower of Saint Vincent de Paul and founded the order of des Filles de la Charité (Daughters of Charity). On the right is Sainte Catherine Labouré, who died in 1876; it was she who made this chapel so special. She was very devout from a young age, and joined les Filles de la Charité. In 1830 was visited by the Virgin Mary herself in the chapel. Now she lies in a glass coffin beside a reliquary containing the heart of Saint Vincent de Paul, whose example of charity she followed all her life.

Saint Vincent de Paul himself, who died in 1660, was also found to be Incorruptible; his remains lie above the altar in the stunning Chapelle des Lazaristes. His calm and peaceful visage is actually wax covering his incorruptible bones. He spent his life educating and helping the poor, working with Sainte Louise de Marillac to create several charitable orders and organizations. The Chapelle des Lazaristes was empty when we visited, except of course for Saint Vincent. This chapel was built in 1830 specifically to house his remains. I was struck by the more human scale of the columns and arches, in contrast to the lofty pointed arches of Chartres or Notre Dame de Paris; it seemed appropriate to his mission of charity.



In these chapels, the dead are an active part of worship. Sainte Louise and Sainte Catherine are always surrounded by pilgrims seeking special blessings of healing, help, and forgiveness. I went to the chapel twice, and each time it was full of nuns and worshippers, a welcome change from the usual tourist population of many of the churches I've been to here. Even though these saints have been dead for over a century, they remain a part of people's lives today.



Père Lachaise is perhaps one of the world’s most famous cemeteries. It is a small city in and of itself, with its own system of streets and avenues. Here the dead of remembered with varying states of grandeur. Many are interred in family tombs like small houses with the family name written above the door.



Great artists, writers, musicians, and thinkers are among those interred at Père Lachaise. Some of their tombs are quite elaborate, like that of the Romantic painter Gericault. Bas-relief versions of his most famous painting, Raft of the Medusa, adorn the sides of his sarcophagus.



Some of these tombs are quite ordinary except for the copious offerings and tokens of affection left by adoring fans and disciples; the graves of Jim Morrison and Fréderic Chopin grave are notable examples.





Oscar Wilde’s grave marker is covered in lipstick, despite the sign that asks (in two languages) “Respect the memory of Oscar Wilde and do not deface this tomb. It is protected as an historic monument and was restored in 1992”.
It takes more than a polite request to stop these kissing fans.



Père Lachaise is made up of curving streets and tall trees that make it difficult to take in the full scale of the cemetery. Inside the crematorium, however, beneath its slightly disturbing chimneys, you can see row after row after column after column of small square plaques bearing the name and epitaph of the departed.



Behind each plaque is an urn containing their ashes. Here a single glance can take in hundreds of final resting places; most are remembered by loved ones who leave flowers in the vases attached to the markers.



Not all of Paris’ dead are remembered by name; indeed, they seem to be the exception rather than the rule. A surprising number of tombs and grave markers in Père Lachaise have crumbled and decayed so much that there is no hope of reading the name of the deceased.





Beneath the city are literally millions of dead Parisians in anonymous graves. Under the July Column at Place Bastille, for example, lie 500 unnamed revolutionaries who died in one of Paris’ many bloody political conflicts. Underneath Av du Général Leclerc, in what used to be a quarry, the remains of 6 million Parisians are interred. The Catacombes of Paris were created starting in 1786, when the city’s cemeteries were full to overflowing; disease was rampant, threatening anyone who lived near the graveyards. It was decided to remove the remains of the worst cemeteries to the converted quarry underneath the city, where the dead could rest in peace without being a hazard to the living.

The project took several years to complete, from 1786 to 1814. As the new gravesites were completed, monks would take black-draped cart loads from cemeteries down into the catacombs by night, singing requiems in tiny underground chapels and carefully arranging the bones around plaques marking the original resting places of the dead. During the Terror Madame de Guillotine’s victims were placed in the catacombs, including Robespierre himself.



As you enter the catacombs an inscription over the door commands to “Arrêt! C’est ici l’empire de la mort” (Stop! This is the empire of death); that hasn’t stopped many people though (myself included), and those interred there are hardly allowed to rest in peace. A visit down below (far more than six feet under; more like twenty meters in fact) is a thought-provoking encounter with the past. As we walked through the passages water dripped around us (and on us), combining with the dim light to create an atmosphere of mystery and discovery.





Many of the columns bear the thoughts of authors and philosophers about death and human mortality. An anonymous author counsels “Happy is he who has always before his eyes the hour of his death, and who is everyday ready to die”. One Hervey is quoted thus: “Come people of the world, come to this permanent silence and your soul now tranquil will be struck by the voice that rises from their interior: ‘It is here that the greatest of masters, the Tomb, holds his school of truth’”.



The bones of Paris’ dead are carefully arranged, some in patterns and shapes, others simply in neat stacks. Perhaps in becoming a work of art they retain some dignity and recognition, despite their anonymity and the many disturbances to their rest. Signs record the cemeteries from which they came, but there is no way of knowing who they are, or when they lived or died. Each skull and every femur represent a life, a story, that is lost to us today. As I walked past thousands of bones, I wondered about every one. Who was this person? How did they live? How did they die? Who loved them? What did these now empty skulls see, hear, and think?







At the end of the Catacombs, this quote from Le Franc de Pompignan offers a ray of light after a lengthy sojourn in the underground darkness of “l’empire de la mort”. He said:

“Listen dry bones.
Listen to the voice of the Savior.
The powerful God of our ancestors,
Who from a breath created life,
Will rejoin your separated joints.
You will take anew your bodies,
Skin will cover them.
Dry bones, you will live again”.






Sources:

http://nominis.cef.fr/

http://catholic-saints.suite101.com/article.cfm/incorruptible_saints_are_miracles_from_heaven

http://www.chapellenotredamedelamedaillemiraculeuse.com/FR/a__Accueil.asp

http://catholique-paris.cef.fr/658-Chapelle-des-Lazaristes.html

“Walking Through Paris’ History”, Marc Olivier et al.

“Les Catacombes de Paris”, brochure published by Musées de la ville de Paris

Photos and video by yours truly

Drama Drama Drama (Cultural Activity 1)

The Théatre de Madeliene staged a production of Henrik Ibsen’s play A Doll's House (or rather, Maison de Poupée, as it was performed en français), starring none other than Audrey Tautou as Nora. The theatre itself was kind of fun, a sort of art deco blast from the past. We were escorted to our seats by a woman wearing a sort of kimono, adding to the art deco ambience. Red velvet seats and gold trim promised a fun evening.

Now I’m going to indulge in some celebrity fandom: as much as I was looking forward to the play itself, 90% of the reason I bought a ticket was to see Audrey Tautou. Her performance was not disappointing; as the curtain came up she was alone on the stage, standing stock still with a ghostly expression that set the film noir mood for the rest of the play. At the beginning (after the dramatic entrance that is) she bubbled with energy, squealing and jumping up and down like a child. We watched her transform through each scene into a stronger, independent woman while her husband stubbornly kept treating her as a doll. Audrey is so captivating that she just about stole the show, and I was able to understand the character even though she spoke so quickly I understood little of her dialogue.



It was a pleasure to see what a professional theatre company can do with costumes and set . Nora’s costumes in particular were significant. She started out in a blue dress with black trim that seemed to bind her head to toe. Her costume for the fancy dress party was the same as the small doll her husband was playing with. When she finally leaves her husband, she is dressed in a simple petticoat and shift, free from the frills and constraints of her life with Torvald. As the play progressed the set became smaller and smaller, trapping the characters in a claustrophobically miniature (might I say doll-sized?) world. At last the walls seem to collapse around Torvald and he was left in the shambles of his illusory maison de poupée. What is the greatest miracle of all?