The weather in late spring at Notre Dame de Paris is a bit lazy, especially on nights like this, when the lights are dim and you don’t talk to a lamp, choosing silence - this kind of atmosphere is more or less lethargic. People feel a little sleepy. If a bell suddenly rings in your ears at this time, deep and deep, meticulously peeling away the darkness of the night, and comes to inquire into your soul, what will you think of? I imagined in the dark night, pushing through the fog with trembling fingers, walking through the thick night, and arriving in Paris in the fifteenth century. What stood before me was a huge Gothic building with tall towers piercing the sky. Clinging at the feet of giants, I am just a humble ant. She is the world-famous Notre Dame de Paris, a huge and majestic stone symphony.
For thousands of years, the Seine River has passed by her quietly, spending time day and night washing away the smoke and dust of history; and her forehead is covered with vicissitudes of life, and she has read all the changes in the world, calmly. .
For many people who have never been to Paris, she is more often known as a book title and a painful story. Her name is closely linked to Victor Hugo, the great French poet, novelist, literary critic and political commentator in the 19th century, an innovator of poetry and the founder of romantic drama. With his wisdom and hard work, he created a masterpiece for a piece of music. A lifeless, cold stone injected with blood and soul, making her plump and beautiful. They are like a pair of lovers.
Hugo once said in the preface to "Notre Dame de Paris" that when he visited her a few years ago, in the dark corner of a steeple bell tower, he found the words hand-engraved on the wall: ANARKH. These capital Greek letters had gone through the erosion of time, became dark, and were deeply embedded in the stone. These indescribable symbols, especially the fateful and tragic meaning contained in them, deeply shocked his soul.
He thought about who this suffering soul was. He must leave the mark of sin, or the mark of disaster, on the forehead of this ancient church, otherwise he would not leave the world. After the visit, the wall was painted and scraped, and the mysterious writings engraved on the dark bell tower of Notre Dame were lost. It also disappeared. The person who wrote the words on the wall, together with the words, disappeared from the world.
At that time, there was an open-air cafe in front of Notre Dame. He drank gongfu coffee there, which had a strong taste. He sat there until the sunset and watched the colors of the sunset spread evenly on the white stone walls of Notre Dame. I imagined what kind of invisible state of mind Hugo had at that time, wandering under the huge shadow of the front wall of Notre Dame day and night, listening to the long bells from the bell tower, and gently stroking the quilt. Time carved the stone of destiny, and the mysterious words on the bell tower couldn't help but pop into his mind. A noble and painful emotion slowly rose in his heart, and he began to conceive of a magnificent story.
In the Place Greve, the beautiful and kind gypsy wandering girl Esmeralda dances gracefully, followed by the beautiful and smart Gary; the ugly and deformed body of the bell ringer Quasimodo dances back and forth on the bell tower Swinging, roaring like a monster; the priest's gloomy shadow was like a ghost, thick and wet, shining in the wall on the top floor of the bell tower through his black coat. ...
Those stones must still remember his deep and pitiful sigh at that time, and his hot fingers were like a burning flame, sensing his painful process of groping for the heart of humanity.
On the top of Notre Dame de Paris are two bell towers. The giant bell in the south bell tower weighs thirteen tons. Quasimodo was once the carillonner here. Those bells were the only glimmer of light that penetrated into the soul of this deaf and one-eyed man. He loves them, he talks to them, understands them, and enjoys his unique joy. He makes this mysterious church flow with a special kind of vitality.
On the top of the bell tower, far away from the world and close to heaven, is the lofty and holy world belonging to Quasimodo, but also a lonely and desperate world. That day, he looked out from here and saw that the densely packed houses in Paris were cut into pieces by streets and alleys.
The cool morning breeze blew over, making even the bell tower seem to shiver.
In Greve Square, there are excited crowds, mighty kings, domineering soldiers, and of course, powerful executioners and beautiful gallows. Everyone craned their necks, as if expecting a wonderful performance.
The noose bit her neck. She was like an innocent butterfly, her weak wings twitched a few times, and finally stopped moving on the spider web. Her white skirt was scattered in the wind, and the sun was rising at that time.
Esmeralda is dead. Died in the square where she once danced, died in the square where she once gave Quasimodo water to drink.
The eye at the top of the tower quietly shed tears, the one eye that only shed tears once. In the end, he died holding the one he loved in his arms, turning into dust that will never be separated. What echoes in the bells is the kindness buried in cruelty.
Not everything in all things is humanly beautiful. Ugliness is next to beauty, deformity is close to beauty, ugliness is hidden behind sublimity, beauty and evil coexist, light and darkness coexist. , said Hugo.
Birth, destruction, reconstruction, thousands of years of history. Today, the bells still ring and mass is still held. During the day, people go in, isolate, and leave the secular world behind for a while. Dot holy water on your forehead, make the sign of the cross on your chest, light candles in front of the altar, and then sit down quietly to gain spiritual comfort and sublime your heart. Notre Dame is still Notre Dame.
The colorful display windows on the Champs Elysées convey the most cutting-edge fashion concepts from the world, but it is not Paris; nor is the quietly flowing Seine River, silently witnessing the changes in history. Paris; cafes of all sizes, dotted all over the streets, carry French leisure, warmth and romance in their fragrance. It is not Paris either. Paris is the immortal bell of Notre Dame.
On such an unforgettable night, Notre Dame de Paris finally used the bell to see me off. It seemed that everything was already destined. gt；gt；