On Sunday, I hiked up to the Petit Palais, which is in the 1st arrondissement. The weather is gradually cooling (and growing wetter), and I have made the permanent switch to long pants, but the walk was still worth the fresh air. There have been posters up in Paris for some time, advertising a temporary exhibit of the Comedie-Francaise on exposition at the Petit Palais, and the depicting a painting of Moliere in the costume of Julius Caesar; this looked worth visiting.
It was. The Petit Palais has managed to put together a semi-chronological, semi-thematic exhibit in five "Acts," which tells the story of France's national theater company, which originated as the troupe of Moliere. In 1658, his troop "font irruption sur la scene parisien" [erupted onto the Parisian scene], as the exhibit put it, and people are still talking about it. I had no idea, before I arrived in Paris, just how much of a legend Moliere is here, rather comparable to Shakespeare back home. For instance, since I arrived in Paris, I have seen advertisements for seven different productions of his plays (even attending one), and 9 of the top 10 most-performed productions at the Comedie-Francaise are his works (with Corneille's El Cid as a distant #7). There is a great deal we don't know about his life, but what we do know marks him as exceptional: several of his plays (notably Tartuffe and l'Ecole des Femmes) were controversial and scandalous after their performance. Moliere was the absolute ruler of his troupe throughout his career, writing, directing, and starring in its productions, and his death threw its existence into serious jeopardy (for this reason, it fused with several other acting companies in Ile-de-France, until, in 1680, it became the Comedie-Francaise).
Moliere continued to create controversy after his death, because he was buried in hallowed ground, even though he had not renounced his acting profession (he actually died the night after playing the leading role in one of his plays, ironically, titled Le Malade Imaginaire, or The Hypochondriac). The Comedie-Francaise continued to use his armchair as a stage prop until the late 19th century, and his watch and (what might be his) cap are also on display at the Petit Palais. There are a great deal of portraits and other paintings of Moliere (most of them posthumous). My favorite was "Molière et les caractères de ses comédies," by Edmond Geffroy, a painting which included more than fifty of Moliere's characters, and the playwright thoughtfully looking on at their antics.
There is, of course, more to the exhibit than the life and legacy of Moliere. There are paintings and models of the the theater itself; a room full of busts of the great playwrights, several rooms of paintings of the troupe's greatest actors, in costume, and various stageprops, etc. There was even a full-size marble statue of one actor, Talma, commissioned after his death in 1826, because the company considered the loss such a blow from the whole company.
I had wanted to visit the Grand Palais after the Petit Palais, more because of convenience than out of any real desire to see anything particular on display there; however, there was a two-and-a-half hour line, and I decided that I had better things to do (like study for Monday's Contemporary Arab World test). On my walk back to the dorm, however, I happened to pass by the entrance to the Conciergerie, a monument hadn't yet visited. I decided that I had enough time, and that checking out this Conciergerie, whatever it was, was worth the effort.
As it turns out, it was worth the effort (and the free student-rate admission). The Conciergerie is a 700-year-old building constructed by Philippe le Bel to house the Parlement of Paris, although its site as the seat of power and authority is much older, dating back to Lutetia in the time of Julian the Apostate; in the first decade of the 6th century, Clovis began building his royal palace there, after he moved his capital to Paris (he died in 511, before he got very far). Since then, the building has been used as the king's lit de justice, where the king himself legislated, and his royal edicts were registered. Since then, it has been used as a barracks and, famously during the Revolution, a prison. There, you can visit the rooms where Maximilien Robespierre and Marie-Antoinette passed their last days, respectively, as well as learn about the conditions of 18th-century prison life. I arrived five minutes before the start of the 4:15 p.m. daily tour, which I highly recommend to anyone interested in visiting the Conciergerie. Our guide was Spanish, but spoke French flawlessly, and knew her history forwards and backwards, something I've come to expect from French tour guides.
The Gothic architecture of the older sections looked so ancient, an effect that was probably enhanced by the very low level of lighting. To me, this seems very ironic; as I continue to learn, Gothic architecture, when it was new, was truly the architecture of shining light and brilliant color; it is only with age, wear, and the elements that Gothic stones have darkened, and their once-beautiful stained-glass windows grown black with spoilage. The windows of Philippe le Bel's Conciergerie were quite large, and kept the interior very well-lighted; now, the windows have been blocked with stone. The building got it's name under Charles V (rival claimant of Edward III of England for the throne of France), who as Dauphin, saw his ministers murdered before his eyes by Etienne Marcel, leader of an armed protest against royal royal. Worried by the possibility of another urban uprising, Charles V kept his distance from Paris, and installed a Concierge, or caretaker, who was in charge of Paris. Hence the name Conciergerie, to describe the building occupied by the Concierge. Charles V went on to do a fairly decent job getting the English out of France, avoiding open battle and simply launching siege after siege on the fortresses they had seized, eventually leaving them with only a few cities along the northern coast (Calais, Cherbourg, and Brest), certain regions of Guyenne (which the Brits could claim partially thanks to Henry II's marriage with Eleanor of Aquitaine two centuries before), as well as certain chateaux.
On Monday, I took a test in my Contemporary Arab World TD, and on Tuesday, I took a test in my Medieval History TD, then delivered an expose on feudalism to the professor of the CM. I really felt like visiting a museum on Tuesday afternoon, and the Louvre was closed, so I took a short walk over to the Sainte-Chapelle, which is, in fact, right next to the Conciergerie, as well as to the Paris courthouse (Palais de Justice, literally, Palace of Justice). The Sainte-Chapelle was constructed by Saint-Louis in the early 13th century, in order to house his relics, most notably (what was purportedly) the Crown of Thorns. After passing the heavy security check, and getting my (free!) ticket, I entered the Lower Chapel, in the midst of restored, and was quite impressed by the restored colors. I noticed that there was a staircase, and I investigated.
The staircase led to the Upper Chapel, which, when I entered, literally made my breath catch in my throat. I have never seen as beautiful stained-glass windows as those of the Sainte-Chapelle, which are absolutely bursting with color, thanks to the restorers' hard work. Each one of the main 14 windows depicts one or two books of the Bible, with the rose on the facade depicting the Apocalypse, and the window on the far end of the nave depicting the Passion. I peered at dozens upon dozens of panes, and had a great deal of difficulty making out what was what. People were seated in folding chairs along the walls; the room is chilly, but if one is dressed warmly enough (as I was), spending a half-hour or an hour just sitting with a friend or family member and looking at the stained glass together would be time well spent.
Before I sign off, I'll take a moment to mention my visit to the Lutetia Arenas, one of the relatively few remnants of Paris's Roman heritage (the Cluny Museum's frigidarium is another). We visited them two weeks ago; they aren't the Roman Colosseum, but they're legit, dating from the 1st century C.E. It's now a public park, more or less, and the clearing in the center is large enough for people to play pétanque, a French version of lawn-bowling, but too small for even little-league baseball. There are concerts held there occasionally, and you can still see the enclosures where animals (lions?) were kept. Nick and I had a debate over whether it would have been possible to escape; the walls are too high to leap up upon from the base of the arena, but it looks to me, anyway, to have scrabbled up the sides, if you were athletic (and desperate) enough. I'm not certain, though. In any case, the arenas are now being put to the good use of giving Parisian children a place to play.
~JD
"Les parlementaires sont donc plus indulgents que les juges de premiere instance. Mais leur attitude ne se modifie pas au cours du siecle: ils ne deviennent pas plus indulgents, a la difference de leurs collegues des juridictions sublaternes" [The members of the court of appeals were thus more indulgent then the trial judges. But their attitudes did not change in the course of the 18th century: they did not become more lenient, unlike their colleagues of subaltern jurisdictions] (Benoit Garnot, Crime et Justice aux XVIIe et XVIIIe siecles, p. 16).
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