The Sainte-Chapelle is contrast. It is built by workers’ hands, but enjoyed only by the monarchy’s eyes. It is damaged by revolutionaries in the name of all that is wrong with France, yet restored in the 19th century in the name of all that is beautiful in France. When there is murmuring, there is a shout asking for quiet. There is a side of stained glass illuminated by the sun, then there is a side nobody faces. Even colors that aren’t complementary find a way to sharply contrast, red and blue emerging against each other as they fight and rest. It is a place Jean Valjean—the convict—would have been refused entry; it is a place Marius’s grandfather—the staunch monarchist—would have refused to enter. Yet, this is only what it is.
The magic of the Saint-Chapelle is in what it does. There is a line in Les Mis when Victor Hugo describes perhaps the most profound character in the novel (yet the only character to “parish” in the musical) as someone who “knew when to remain silent, so also he knew when to speak. O wonderful comforter! He did not try to blot out sorrow through oblivion but to magnify and dignify it through hope. He said, ‘Mind which way you look at the dead. Don’t think of what perishes. Look hard. You’ll see the living light of your dead departed up there in heaven.’ He knew that faith is healing. He sought to transform the grief that dwells on the grave by teaching the grief that dwells on a star” (Hugo 19). This character is the Bishop, and this is what the Sainte-Chapelle does.
“Mind which way you look at the dead.” I sit facing the sunny side. I feel close to a current as I gaze up at the stained glass; I feel far from religion. I always feel the farthest when I am in the closest. I do not go into churches or chapels anymore—only for funerals. Suddenly, I see Death everywhere in the stained glass. It is too beautiful to be absent of grief. There is loss within the reds and blues, acute and infinite. There is fear for all you have left to lose. How lucky is that? Death is everywhere. But, that means so is life. I mind which way I look at Death.
“Don’t think of what perishes. Look hard. You’ll see the living light of your dead departed up there in heaven.” I have a headache from staring at the bright light, but I do not want to wear sunglasses and dim the colors. It reminds me of Jean Valjean’s passing. In contrast, I imagine him sitting in the light of candles. I imagine Cosette got a headache from squinting, from trying to watch his face through shadows. I hear her saying it is “too soon, too soon to say goodbye.” She does not say it is too soon “to die,” but refocuses on the “goodbye.” It is “too soon” for her to be without him. Her head already hurts from trying to see through darkness; the living light of her dead departed would blind her. I turn to look at the side without the sun. The colors are muted, but my eyes ease. There is a beautiful piece of poetry from one of my favorite songs, If We Were Vampires by Jason Isbell. My eyes do not hurt as badly from light, so I put on the song. He sings, “If we were vampires and death was a joke//We’d go out on the sidewalk and smoke// And laugh at all the lovers and their plans//I wouldn't feel the need to hold your hand//Maybe time running out is a gift//I’ll work hard 'til the end of my shift//And give you every second I can find//And hope it isn't me who's left behind.” I feel the current run through my hands, but I do not try to catch it.
“He knew that faith is healing.” The longer I stare, the more I become a part. I Flânuer my way through thoughts of religion and loss and the bishop and Cosette. I sit for some time with my head empty. I breathe and it is nice. I think and I feel angry. Cosette has so little characterization beyond perfection and that is not real. This chapel is visually perfect but it is not real. The Bishop is good and selfless and caring and healing. He is not a real man, but I choose to believe he is. Cosette is an archetype, but her asking her father to stay feels so real. The chapel is intertwined with the religion I resent, and I love it. It makes me choke up, and that is real. Death is everywhere, and sometimes I don’t know what to do with Life.
“He sought to transform the grief that dwells on the grave by teaching the grief that dwells on a star.” There is contrast in everything, meaning Life and Death can only emerge against each other as they fight and rest. When I observe this contrast, I want to clarify that I do not mean I see it as existing on an axis or set of scales. They are not weighing against each other, nor are they unconnected in their opposition. I see contrast as hands holding—not forces pushing. I left the chapel thoughtful and tearful and content.
That night, I walked through the streets. The characters of Les Mis were easier to imagine as I wandered in fading light through smells of piss. I imagined Jean Valjean walking, thinking of the Bishop’s gift as he tried to find peace and look over his shoulder. I jump at the sound of approaching footsteps. They are my own—I am walking through a tunnel and they are echoing. I continue, brought back from my mind, and I realize I have found my way into a garden. It is filled with tunnels and trees and leaves and even two snails, one named Enjolras and one named Gavroche. The Bishop is not in the garden. He, in his ethereal forgiveness, feels far removed from my realm of living. I am often sad and angry, and often for significant reasons. I am no prophet or mage. I am just a girl who went to the Sainte-Chapelle and loved it, and is now walking through a garden feeling at home and paranoid. I contrast myself and the Bishop.
Gavroche the snail slugs by. He has a piece of paper with him. He looks up at me with his little antennas, and I realize the paper is for me. I pat his shell and say thank you. He moves along, and I think of the magic of the Sainte-Chapelle. The paper reads, “There was nothing of the prophet and nothing of the mage about him. This humble soul loved, that is all” (Hugo 55).
