Christmas Eve, 1880. The area in front of the Paris Opera House was a scene of bustling activity, its splendor in no way less grand than the Rue de Richelieu during the premiere of The Choir a year earlier.
The carriage carrying Lionel and Sophie moved slowly through the dense traffic.
Through the misted-up windows, Lionel gazed out at the noisy crowd, feeling a momentary illusion that he had returned to the night of The Choir's premiere.
Only this time, he was no longer the nervous playwright waiting backstage, but an ordinary audience member, here to watch a work that had changed the history of theatre.
Sophie whispered,
"There are so many people... even more than we expected."
Lionel held her hand:
"The Norwegian name Ibsen, coupled with the controversy surrounding A Doll's House beforehand, is the best advertisement in itself."
In his previous life, he had watched and analyzed this "beginning of modern drama" countless times in lectures, on stage, and on screen.
But watching the live performance here in Paris right now carried an entirely different significance.
Lionel was holding a box seat ticket he had managed to secure from Zola, so there was no need to linger in the crowded mass at the main entrance.
The carriage circled to a side entrance where an usher was respectfully waiting. They were led through quiet corridors directly to the box on the second floor.
Lionel spotted many familiar faces from the literary and artistic circles: critics, writers, painters;
of course, the box was mostly filled with elegantly dressed high-society men and women looking around with curiosity.
The gaslights in the theatre gradually dimmed, the noisy chatter subsided like a receding tide, and the deep crimson curtain slowly rose amid anticipation.
The stage set depicted a typical middle-class living room: comfortable, warm, exquisite, with a level of detail that was astonishingly real.
The plot unfolded along the familiar tracks he knew—
In Act One, Nora danced across the stage like a happy skylark, busy preparing for the coming Christmas, flirting and joking with her husband, Torvald Helmer.
Her furtive actions of secretly eating macaroons, her ecstatic joy over Helmer soon becoming bank manager, her recounting to Mrs. Linde the "heroic feat" of forging a signature to secure a loan to save her dying husband...
The actors' performances were delicate and layered, perfectly embodying a woman referred to by her husband as "squirrel" and "lark."
Sophie watched with intense focus, but Lionel could feel her hand subtly tightening as the plot progressed.
Crisis arrived with Krogstad's appearance—the forged signature on the IOU ripped open the veil of warmth that shrouded the family.
Helmer's true nature began to be exposed.
When he read Krogstad's first threatening letter, his term of endearment for Nora shifted from the affectionate "little fool" to the stern "Nora";
the focus of his concern instantly shifted from Nora's well-being to his own reputation.
Lionel calmly observed everything on stage while keeping an eye on the audience's reactions.
He could hear stifled gasps from the orchestra seats, see certain gentlemen uncomfortably adjusting their neckties, and some ladies lightly pressing handkerchiefs to their lips.
Ibsen's writing tore away the magnificent façade of respectable middle-class European marriage, revealing the unsightly truth beneath—
the wife's subordinate status in law and economics, and the husband's fundamental view of his wife as personal property and a mere accessory to his social standing.
Even though Nora had forged the signature to save her gravely ill husband, even though she later silently repaid the loan through copying work...
Helmer was still primarily concerned with whether his reputation was tarnished, and he even believed Nora had lost the "qualification to raise children."
The climax of the play arrived in the final act.
Once the crisis was averted, Helmer immediately put on a face of forgiveness and grace, proclaiming, "I forgive you," and tried to pull Nora back into the "doll's house."
Nora's calm and clear monologue exploded in the theatre like a thunderclap.
["Sit down, Torvald. We have a lot to talk about... We have been married eight years.
Isn't that something? I can't believe it—thinking back on it now, I can't believe it—I've been living with you for eight years...
I have been your doll here, just as I was my father's doll...."]
Her voice was not high-pitched, but carried a bone-chilling coldness and resolve.
She spoke of religion, law, and the duties of marriage; her questioning lines struck the stage, and they struck the hearts of many in the audience.
["I must see whether I am right or whether you are right!"]
Helmer attempted to keep her by appealing to the "sacred duty of a mother."
Nora's response was even more earth-shattering:
["I don't believe that anymore!"]
Lionel felt Sophie beside him hold her breath. The entire Salle Richelieu was silent; only Nora's clear and firm voice echoed.
["I know most people would agree with you, and what the books say, too. But from now on, I can't just believe what most people say, or what the books say. I have to think things over myself and try to understand things."]
Finally, Nora spoke the line destined to be recorded in history:
["Right now, I only believe that first and foremost, I am a human being, just as much as you are—at least I must learn to be a human being."]
She put down her ring, picked up her luggage, and walked toward the door.
[Hermann called out in vain,
"Nora! Am I forever to be just a stranger to you?"
Nora: "That will have to wait for a miracle of miracles."
"What do you mean, a miracle of miracles?"
"I mean, we would both have to change until—oh, Torvald, I no longer believe in miracles in this world."
"But I do! Go on! What would we both have to change into—?"
"Change until living together truly feels like being husband and wife. Goodbye."
She turned and walked out the door.
A heavy and distinct door slam sounded from backstage.
"Bang!"]
This sound was not particularly loud, yet it produced a deafening effect in the silent theatre.
It seemed not to resonate on the stage, but rather within the heart of every audience member, shattering something inherent that was taken for granted.
The curtain slowly fell.
Silence gripped the theatre for a full few seconds.
Then, like a volcano that had been building up pressure, applause, shouts, and arguments erupted simultaneously, intertwining into a chaotic wave of sound.
Some people stood up excitedly, applauding with flushed faces; others indignantly swept past, muttering about "indecency."
Most people remained in their seats, vehemently debating with their companions, their faces filled with shock and confusion.
Lionel sat quietly in the box, not applauding, nor joining any debate.
He, too, felt a shock, but it came not from the play itself, but from the immense reverberation the play was causing at this time and in this place.
All the theoretical analysis he knew from his past life seemed pale in comparison to experiencing this historical live performance.
Lionel genuinely felt the immense destructive power contained beneath Ibsen's calm narrative.
(End of Chapter)