It could be said that A Doll's House not only revolutionized theatrical form but also fiercely impacted the cornerstone of society—the family structure.
Sophie remained silent for a long time, her hand still tightly gripping Lionel's.
In her bright blue eyes were emotion, resonance, as well as confusion and worry.
Sophie's voice was low, as if talking to herself:
"She... she really left."
Lionel squeezed her hand:
"Yes, she left. But the question remains—what happens after Nora leaves?"
His gaze returned to the closed curtain, as if he could see the endless ripples that the thunderous door slam would cause in the decades and centuries to come.
In 1935, a fervor for staging A Doll's House swept through China, with thousands of performances across the country, an era historically known as the "Year of Nora."
Furthermore, A Doll's House completely overturned the traditional European theatre styles popular at the time, whether it was serious drama, comedy, operetta, or light comedy, on a technical level.
Classical dramas often concluded in reconciliation or destruction, leaving the audience with tranquility or pity after catharsis.
But the ending of A Doll's House was a massive question mark, and another beginning.
It threw the problem nakedly back at society, back at every audience member, forcing everyone who watched it to begin thinking—
This was one of the hallmarks of theatre transitioning from classical to modern art forms.
Of course, its set design, built entirely to mirror reality, and its plot, which adhered almost perfectly to reality, made it seem entirely novel.
Even Lionel's own The Choir still utilized a large amount of music, categorizing it somewhat as an "operetta."
On the way back to their apartment on the Boulevard Saint-Germain, the carriage was silent.
Sophie leaned by the window, watching the fleeting Parisian night scenery, clearly still immersed in the shock brought on by A Doll's House.
Lionel did not disturb her; his mind was working at full speed.
Émile Perrin's request still echoed in his ears—the Comédie-Française needed a new play that could contend with A Doll's House!
But how difficult that was!
The success of A Doll's House lay not only in its artistic breakthrough but more so in how it touched the most sensitive social nerve of this era—
The changing dynamics of the family and the awakening of women.
It would be foolish to simply imitate or repeat Ibsen's theme, but avoiding this wave sweeping across the European intellectual sphere was equally unwise.
Since A Doll's House revealed the inequality and oppression within the traditional family, in Lionel's mind, only one play could compare to it.
Sophie's voice suddenly sounded beside Lionel:
"What are you thinking about?"
Lionel startled slightly, then smiled and replied,
"I was thinking about electric lights..."
Sophie jumped:
"The electric lights that exploded at the Louvre last year?"
Lionel nodded:
"Yes, I'm thinking of installing a few in the new apartment to see the effect."
December 31st, 1880, London.
The thick, porridge-like yellow fog tightly enveloped the city.
Although it was the last day of the year, the weather showed little mercy, feeling even more piercingly cold.
However, this could not stop the loyal readers of The Echo magazine from gathering early outside the newsstands scattered across the city.
Their breaths condensed into white mist in the cold air, their faces a complex mixture of anticipation and reluctance.
Today was the final installment of A Study in Scarlet.
The consulting detective who had occupied their thoughts and sparked endless discussion since July was about to draw to a close.
In front of Mr. Hawkins' newsstand, the line snaked around the corner.
George Wilson, a regular customer, rubbed his frozen hands and sighed to the owner,
"Hard to believe it's ending today."
Mr. Hawkins replied without looking up as he took money and handed over the magazine:
"Indeed, Mr. Wilson. But The Echo always gives us something new; just you wait and see."
George took the magazine, still smelling faintly of fresh ink, and eagerly flipped it open, going directly to the starting page of the final chapter of A Study in Scarlet.
The surrounding crowd also quieted down quickly, craning their necks to look at the magazine in his hands.
["...The man consumed by the fire of revenge for half his life, Jefferson Hope, now lay on the crude cot in the temporary cell at Scotland Yard, his face ashen, his breath as faint as a candle in the wind.
His eyes, which had once traversed deserts tracking his enemy, were now devoid of all light, staring blankly at the mottled ceiling.
Holmes stood by the bedside, his expression solemn.
Hope's voice was hoarse: 'Aneurysm... It has been... following me... From Salt Lake City... to London... Now, it can't wait any longer...'
He recounted haltingly the tragedy that had taken place in the distant American West—his pure love for Lucy Ferrier, and how Enoch Drebber and Joseph Stangerson, under the connivance of that 'prophet,' had brutally murdered Lucy's father, leading finally to Lucy's heartbroken death.
His narration was intermittent, yet heartbreaking.
Dark red blood began to seep from the corner of Hope's mouth: 'I... tracked them... for so many years... Revenge... is sweet... but it is also bitter...']
Holmes listened silently until Hope's narrative completely stopped, leaving only labored gasps.
He slowly spoke, his voice calm:
"Hatred drove you, Mr. Hope, and it also destroyed you. You sacrificed your entire life to a spirit long defiled by wickedness."
Hope seemed about to say something, but his eyes suddenly widened, his body convulsed violently, and then he slumped, everything falling into silence.
That heart, which had endured so much suffering and was filled with obsession, finally stopped beating after revenge was complete.
I stepped forward to examine his pupils, then felt his pulse, confirming his death: 'February 10th, 1880, 3:52 PM.'
Holmes turned and briefly told Lestrade and Gregson, who had been waiting by the door,
"It's over. The rest is up to you."
Lestrade seemed relieved, yet also somewhat disgruntled.
Gregson tried to reclaim some authority:
"Very good, Mr. Holmes. Thank you for your... assistance. Scotland Yard will handle the remainder."
Holmes ignored him, merely walked out the door, and departed.
...
In the sitting room at 221B Baker Street, Holmes sat by the fireplace and said to me,
"In all my cases, none has been more magnificent than this one. Look at this city, Watson, millions struggle, love, hate, commit crimes, and die within it. Every case is ultimately driven by greed, fear, passion...
And of course, by souls like Hope, driven by the ghosts of the past. Our job is to dredge up a little bit of pitiful truth from the fog."
The conclusion of the case was presented to all readers a few days later through a report in The Echo.
The article, written in a typical official tone, detailed the "investigative process" of the "Laureston Garden Street Mystery."
The piece generously praised Scotland Yard, particularly Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson, for their "sharp insight" and "unremitting effort," stating that through "rigorous investigation and professional tracking," they had finally clarified this tragedy arising from "internal disputes within an American religious group."
Only at the very end did the report briefly mention in passing:
"It is reported that during the investigation, the police also consulted the opinions of certain private individuals, obtaining some auxiliary clues."
George Wilson roared at his desk at the office:
"Good heavens! How could they—!"
His colleagues around him were equally indignant.
"It's all nonsense! Without Holmes, they wouldn't even have touched the shadow of the killer!"
"'Auxiliary clues'? These bureaucrats! They stole all the credit!"
...
The anger was soon replaced by a larger emotion—disappointment.
As the final line was read, a strange sense of emptiness began to spread in the hearts of all the readers...
(End of Chapter)