Chapter 1

21 min

Now the rumbling of the great organ swelled to a roar, pressing, like a rising giant, against the vaulted ceiling, to burst through it.

Now the great organ's rumbling swelled to a roar. Like a rising giant, the sound pressed against the vaulted ceiling, threatening to burst through it.

Freder bent his head backwards, his wide-open, burning eyes stared unseeingly upward. His hands formed music from the chaos of the notes; struggling with the vibration of the sound and stirring him to his innermost depths.

Freder tilted his head back. His wide, burning eyes stared upward without seeing. His hands made music from the chaos of notes. He struggled with the vibrations of the sound, which stirred him to his very core.

He was never so near tears in his life and, blissfully helpless, he yielded himself up to the glowing moisture which dazzled him.

He had never been so close to tears. Blissfully helpless, he surrendered to the glowing moisture that dazzled him.

Above him, the vault of heaven in lapis lazuli; hovering therein, the twelve-fold mystery, the Signs of the Zodiac in gold. Set higher above them, the seven crowned ones: the planets. High above all a silver-shining bevy of stars: the universe.

Above him, the dome of heaven was made of lapis lazuli. Within it hovered the twelvefold mystery, the Signs of the Zodiac in gold. Higher above them were the seven crowned ones: the planets. High above all was a silver-shining cluster of stars: the universe.

Before the bedewed eyes of the organ-player, to his music, the stars of heavens began the solemn mighty dance.

Before the organ player's tear-filled eyes, the stars began a solemn, mighty dance to his music.

The breakers of the notes dissolved the room into nothing. The organ, which Freder played, stood in the middle of the sea.

Waves of music dissolved the room into nothing. The organ Freder played stood in the middle of the sea.

It was a reef upon which the waves foamed. Carrying crests of froth, they dashed violently onward, and the seventh was always the mightiest.

It was a reef where the waves foamed. The waves crashed violently onward, their crests white with foam. Every seventh wave was the strongest.

But high above the sea, which bellowed in the uproar of the waves, the stars of heaven danced the solemn, mighty dance.

But high above the roaring waves, the stars danced their solemn, mighty dance.

Shaken to her core, the old earth started from her sleep. Her torrents dried up; her mountains fell to ruin. From the ripped open depths the fire welled up; the earth burnt with all she bore. The waves of the sea became waves of fire. The organ flared up, a roaring torch of music. The earth, the sea and the hymn-blazing organ crashed in and became ashes.

Shaken to her core, the old earth woke from her sleep. Her torrents dried up, and her mountains crumbled. Fire rose from the torn depths. The earth burned, along with everything on it. The waves of the sea became waves of fire. The organ blazed like a roaring torch of music. The earth, the sea, and the organ blazing with hymns collapsed and turned to ashes.

But high above the deserts and the spaces, to which creation was burnt, the stars of heaven danced the solemn mighty dance.

But high above the deserts and empty spaces that creation had been burned into, the stars danced a solemn, mighty dance.

Then, from the grey, scattered ashes, on trembling wings unspeakably beautiful and solitary, rose a bird with jewelled feathers. It uttered a mournful cry. No bird which ever lived could have mourned so agonisingly.

Then a bird rose from the scattered gray ashes on trembling wings. It was indescribably beautiful and alone, with jeweled feathers. It let out a mournful cry. No bird that ever lived could have mourned so painfully.

It hovered above the ashes of the completely ruined earth. It hovered hither and thither, not knowing where to settle. It hovered above the grave of the sea and above the corpse of the earth. Never, since the sinning angel fell from heaven to hell, had the air heard such a cry of despair.

It hovered above the ashes of the completely ruined earth. It drifted back and forth, not knowing where to settle. It hovered above the grave of the sea and the corpse of the earth. Since the sinning angel fell from heaven to hell, the air had never heard such a cry of despair.

Then, from the solemn mighty dance of the stars, one freed itself and neared the dead earth. Its light was gentler than moonlight and more imperious than the light of the sun. Among the music of the spheres it was the most heavenly note. It enveloped the mourning bird in its dear light; it was as strong as a deity, crying: “To me ... to me!”

Then, from the solemn, majestic dance of the stars, one star broke free and approached the dead earth. Its light was gentler than moonlight and more commanding than sunlight. Among the music of the spheres, it was the most heavenly note. It wrapped the mourning bird in its beloved light. Strong as a god, it cried: “To me ... to me!”

Then the jewelled bird left the grave of the sea and earth and gave its sinking wings up to the powerful voice which bore it. Moving in a cradle of light, it swept upwards and sang, becoming a note of the spheres, vanishing into Eternity....

Then the jeweled bird left the grave of the sea and earth. It surrendered its sinking wings to the powerful voice that carried it. Cradled in light, it swept upward and sang. It became a note in the music of the spheres, vanishing into Eternity....

Freder let his fingers slip from the keys. He bent forward and buried his face in his hands. He pressed his eyes until he saw the fiery dance of the stars behind his eye-lids. Nothing could help him—nothing. Everywhere, everywhere, in an agonising, blissful omnipresence, stood, in his vision, the one countenance.

Freder let his fingers slip from the keys. He bent forward and buried his face in his hands. He pressed his eyes until he saw stars dancing like fire behind his eyelids. Nothing could help him. Nothing. Everywhere he looked, he saw that one face. It was everywhere, filling him with agony and bliss.

The austere countenance of the virgin, the sweet countenance of the mother—the agony and the desire with which he called and called for the one single vision for which his racked heart had not even a name, except the one, eternal, you ... you ... you...!

The stern face of the virgin, the sweet face of the mother. In agony and longing, he called and called for that single vision. His tormented heart had no name for it except the one eternal word: you ... you ... you...!

He let his hands sink and raised his eyes to the heights of the beautifully vaulted room, in which his organ stood. From the sea-deep blue of the heavens, from the flawless gold of the heavenly bodies, from the mysterious twilight around him, the girl looked at him with the deadly severity of purity, quite maid and mistress, inviolability, graciousness itself, her beautiful brow in the diadem of goodness, her voice, pity, every word a song. Then to turn, and to go, and to vanish—no more to be found. Nowhere, nowhere.

He lowered his hands and looked up at the beautiful vaulted ceiling of the room where his organ stood. The girl looked at him from the sea-deep blue of the sky, the flawless gold of the heavenly bodies, and the mysterious twilight around him. Her purity had a deadly severity. She was both maiden and mistress, untouchable and gracious. Goodness crowned her beautiful brow. Her voice was pity, and every word a song. Then she turned and left, vanishing without a trace. He could find her nowhere, nowhere.

“You—!” cried the man. The captive note struck against the walls, finding no way out.

“You!” the man cried. His trapped cry struck the walls, finding no way out.

Now the loneliness was no longer bearable. Freder stood up and opened the windows. The works lay, in quivering brightness, before him. He pressed his eyes closed, standing still, hardly breathing. He felt the proximity of the servants, standing silently, waiting for the command which would permit them to come to life.

Now the loneliness was unbearable. Freder stood up and opened the windows. The works lay before him, shimmering with light. He closed his eyes tightly and stood still, hardly breathing. He sensed the servants nearby. They stood silently, waiting for the command that would let them come to life.

There was one among them—Slim, with his courteous face, the expression of which never changed—Freder knew of him: one word to him, and, if the girl still walked on earth with her silent step, then Slim would find her. But one does not set a bloodhound on the track of a sacred, white hind, if one does not want to be cursed, and to be, all his life long, a miserable, miserable man.

Freder knew of one of them, Slim, whose courteous face never changed expression. One word to Slim, and he would find the girl, if she still walked the earth with her silent step. But you do not set a bloodhound on the trail of a sacred white hind unless you want to be cursed and miserable, miserable for the rest of your life.

Freder saw, without looking at him, how Slim’s eyes were taking stock of him. He knew that the silent creature, ordained, by his father, to be his all-powerful protector, was, at the same time, his keeper. During the fever of nights, bereft of sleep, during the fever of his work, in his workshop, during the fever when playing his organ, calling upon God, there would be Slim measuring the pulse of the son of his great master. He gave no reports; they were not required of him. But, if the hour should come in which they were demanded of him, he would certainly have a diary of faultless perfection to produce, from the number of steps with which one in torment treads out his loneliness with heavy foot, from minute to minute, to the dropping of a brow into propped up hands, tired with longing.

Without looking at him, Freder saw Slim watching him closely. He knew that his father had appointed the silent creature as his all-powerful protector. But Slim was also his keeper. During feverish, sleepless nights, Slim was there, measuring the pulse of his great master’s son. He was there during Freder’s feverish work in his workshop, and when Freder played his organ feverishly, calling upon God. Slim gave no reports because none were required of him. But if reports were ever demanded, he would surely produce a perfectly detailed diary. It would record everything, from the steps Freder took as he paced heavily through his tormented loneliness, minute by minute, to the moment he bowed his head into his hands, weary with longing.

Could it be possible that this man, who knew everything, knew nothing of her?

Could this man, who knew everything, know nothing about her?

Nothing about him betrayed that he was aware of the upheaval in the well-being and disposition of his young master, since that day in the “Club of the Sons.” But it was one of the slim, silent one’s greatest secrets never to give himself away, and, although he had no entrance to the “Club of the Sons” Freder was by no means sure that the money-backed agent of his father would be turned back by the rules of the club.

Nothing about him showed that he knew how much his young master’s health and mood had changed since that day in the “Club of the Sons.” But the slim, silent man was especially skilled at never giving himself away. Although he was not allowed into the “Club of the Sons,” Freder was far from sure that the club’s rules would keep out his father’s well-funded agent.

He felt himself exposed, unclothed. A cruel brightness, which left nothing concealed, bathed him and everything in his workshop which was almost the most highly situated room in Metropolis.

He felt exposed, naked. A cruel light bathed him and everything in his workshop, leaving nothing hidden. The workshop was almost the highest room in Metropolis.

“I wish to be quite alone,” he said softly.

“I want to be completely alone,” he said softly.

Silently the servants vanished. Slim went.... But all these doors, which closed without the least sound, could also, without the least sound, be opened again to the narrowest chink.

The servants silently disappeared. Slim left.... But all the doors had closed without a sound, and they could also be opened a crack without a sound.

His eyes aching, Freder fingered all the doors of his work-room.

His eyes aching, Freder ran his fingers over all the doors of his workroom.

A smile, a rather bitter smile, drew down the corners of his mouth. He was a treasure which must be guarded as crown jewels are guarded. The son of a great father, and the only son.

A smile turned down the corners of his mouth, a rather bitter smile. He was a treasure that had to be guarded like the crown jewels. He was the only son of a great father.

Really the only one—?

Really the only one?

Really the only one—?

Really the only one?

His thoughts stopped again at the exit of the circuit and the vision was there again and the scene and the event....

His thoughts returned to the exit of the circuit. Again, he saw the vision, the scene, and the event....

The “Club of the Sons” was, perhaps, one of the most beautiful buildings of Metropolis, and that was not so very remarkable. For fathers, for whom every revolution of a machine-wheel spelt gold, had presented this house to their sons. It was more a district than a house. It embraced theatres, picture-palaces, lecture-rooms and a library—in which, every book, printed in all the five continents, was to be found—race tracks and stadium and the famous “Eternal Gardens.”

The “Club of the Sons” was perhaps one of the most beautiful buildings in Metropolis. That was hardly surprising. Fathers who earned gold with every turn of a machine wheel had given it to their sons. It was more like a district than a single building. It included theaters, movie theaters, lecture rooms, racetracks, a stadium, and the famous “Eternal Gardens.” Its library held every book printed on all five continents.

It contained very extensive dwellings for the young sons of indulgent fathers and it contained the dwellings of faultless male servants and handsome, well-trained female servants for whose training more time was requisite than for the development of new species of orchids.

It contained spacious homes for the young sons of indulgent fathers. It also housed flawless male servants and beautiful, well-trained female servants. The female servants took longer to train than it took to develop new species of orchids.

Their chief task consisted in nothing but, at all times, to appear delightful and to be incapriciously cheerful; and, with their bewildering costume, their painted faces, and their eye-masks, surmounted by snow-white wigs and fragrant as flowers, they resembled delicate dolls of porcelain and brocade, devised by a master-hand, not purchaseable but rather delightful presents.

Their only task was to look delightful and remain cheerful at all times. They wore bewildering costumes, painted faces, eye masks, and snow-white wigs. Fragrant as flowers, they resembled delicate dolls made of porcelain and brocade by a master craftsman. They were not dolls to be bought, but delightful gifts.

Freder was but a rare visitant to the “Club of the Sons.” He preferred his workshop and the starry chapel in which this organ stood. But when once the desire took him to fling himself into the radiant joyousness of the stadium competitions he was the most radiant and joyous of all, playing on from victory to victory with the laugh of a young god.

Freder rarely visited the “Club of the Sons.” He preferred his workshop and the starry chapel where the organ stood. But sometimes he felt like throwing himself into the bright joy of the stadium competitions. Then he was the brightest and most joyful of all, winning victory after victory with the laugh of a young god.

On that day too ... on that day too.

Still tingling from the icy coolness of falling water, every muscle still quivering in the intoxication of victory he had lain, stretched out, slender, panting, smiling, drunken, beside himself, almost insane with joy. The milk-coloured glass ceiling above the Eternal Gardens was an opal in the light which bathed it. Loving little women attended him, waiting roguishly and jealously, from whose white hands, from whose fine finger-tips he would eat the fruits he desired.

His skin still tingled from the icy falling water, and every muscle quivered with the thrill of victory. He had lain stretched out, slender, panting, smiling, drunk with excitement, beside himself and almost insane with joy. Above the Eternal Gardens, the milky glass ceiling glowed like an opal in the light. Loving little women tended to him, waiting playfully and jealously. He ate the fruits he desired from their white hands and delicate fingertips.

One was standing aside, mixing him a drink. From hip to knee billowed sparkling brocade. Slender, bare legs held proudly together, she stood, like ivory, in purple, peaked shoes. Her gleaming body rose, delicately, from her hips and—she was not aware of it—quivered in the same rhythm as did the man’s chest in exhaling his sweet-rising breath. Carefully did the little painted face under the eye-mask watch the work of her careful hands.

One woman stood to the side, mixing him a drink. Sparkling brocade billowed from her hips to her knees. Her slender, bare legs were held proudly together above purple, pointed shoes. Her gleaming body rose delicately from her hips. Without her knowing it, her body trembled in the same rhythm as the man’s chest as he breathed out his sweet breath. The little painted face beneath her eye mask watched her careful hands at work.

Her mouth was not rouged, but yet was pomegranate red. And she smiled so unselfconsciously down at the beverage that it caused the other girls to laugh aloud.

Her lips wore no lipstick, yet they were pomegranate red. She smiled down at the drink so naturally that the other girls laughed aloud.

Infected, Freder also began to laugh. But the glee of the maidens swelled to a storm as she who was mixing the drink, not knowing why they were laughing, became suffused with a blush of confusion, from her pomegranate-hued mouth to her lustrous hips. The laughter induced the friends, for no reason, only because they were young and care-free, to join in the cheerful sound. Like a joyously ringing rainbow, peal upon peal of laughter arched itself gaily above the young people.

Caught up in their laughter, Freder began to laugh too. But the girls’ laughter grew into a storm when the girl mixing the drink blushed with confusion. She did not know why they were laughing. The blush spread from her pomegranate-colored lips to her gleaming hips. Their friends joined in the laughter for no reason, simply because they were young and carefree. Like a joyously ringing rainbow, peal after peal of laughter arched above the young people.

Then suddenly—suddenly—Freder turned his head. His hands, which were resting on the hips of the drink-mixer, lost hold of her, dropping down by his sides as if dead. The laughter ceased, not one of the friends moved. Not one of the little, brocaded, bare-limbed women moved hand or foot. They stood and looked.

Then suddenly, suddenly, Freder turned his head. His hands slipped from the drink-mixer's hips and fell to his sides as if dead. The laughter stopped. Not one of the friends moved. Not one of the little, bare-limbed women in brocade moved a hand or foot. They stood and stared.

The door of the Eternal Gardens had opened and through the door came a procession of children. They were all holding hands. They had dwarves’ faces, grey and ancient. They were little ghost-like skeletons, covered with faded rags and smocks. They had colourless hair and colourless eyes. They walked on emaciated bare feet. Noiselessly they followed their leader.

The door to the Eternal Gardens opened, and a procession of children came through it. They were all holding hands. Their faces were like dwarves’ faces, gray and ancient. They were little ghostly skeletons, dressed in faded rags and smocks. Their hair and eyes were colorless. They walked on thin, bare feet. They followed their leader without a sound.

Their leader was a girl. The austere countenance of the Virgin. The sweet countenance of the mother. She held a skinny child by each hand. Now she stood still, regarding the young men and women one after another, with the deadly severity of purity. She was quite maid and mistress, inviolability—and was, too, graciousness itself, her beautiful brow in the diadem of goodness; her voice, pity; every word a song.

Their leader was a girl. She had the stern face of the Virgin and the sweet face of a mother. She held a skinny child by each hand. Now she stood still, looking at the young men and women one by one, with the deadly severity of purity. She was entirely maiden and mistress, untouchable. Yet she was also grace itself, her beautiful brow crowned with goodness. Her voice was full of pity, and every word was a song.

She released the children and stretched forward her hand, motioning towards the friends and saying to the children:

She let go of the children and reached out her hand toward the friends. She said to the children:

“Look, these are your brothers!”

And, motioning towards the children, she said to the friends:

And, gesturing toward the children, she said to the friends:

“Look, these are your brothers!”

She waited. She stood still and her gaze rested upon Freder.

She waited. She stood still and looked at Freder.

Then the servants came, the door-keepers came. Between these walls of marble and glass, under the opal dome of the Eternal Gardens, there reigned, for a short time, an unprecedented confusion of noise, indignation and embarrassment. The girl appeared still to be waiting. Nobody dared to touch her, though she stood so defenceless, among the grey infant-phantoms. Her eyes rested perpetually on Freder.

Then the servants and doorkeepers came. For a short time, unprecedented noise, indignation, and embarrassment filled the marble and glass walls beneath the opal dome of the Eternal Gardens. The girl still seemed to be waiting. No one dared to touch her, though she stood defenseless among the gray infant phantoms. Her eyes never left Freder.

Then she took her eyes from his and, stooping a little, took the children’s hands again, turned and led the procession out. The door swung to behind her; the servants disappeared with many apologies for not having been able to prevent the occurrence. All was emptiness and silence. Had not each of those before whom the girl had appeared, with her grey procession of children, so large a number of witnesses to the event they would have been inclined to put it down to hallucination.

Then she looked away from him and bent down slightly to take the children’s hands again. She turned and led the procession out. The door swung shut behind her. The servants left, apologizing profusely for not having been able to prevent what had happened. All was empty and silent. The girl and her grey procession of children had appeared before many people. Without so many witnesses, each of them would have been inclined to think it was a hallucination.

Near Freder, upon the illuminated mosaic floor, cowered the little drink-mixer, sobbing uncontrolledly.

Near Freder, the little bartender cowered on the illuminated mosaic floor, sobbing uncontrollably.

With a leisurely movement, Freder bent towards her and suddenly twitched the mask, the narrow black mask, from her eyes.

Freder slowly leaned toward her and suddenly snatched the narrow black mask from her eyes.

The drink-mixer shrieked out as though overtaken in stark nudity. Her hands flew up, clutching, and remained hanging stiffly in the air.

The drink-mixer shrieked as if someone had caught her completely naked. Her hands flew up, grasping at the air, and stayed there, stiff and suspended.

A little painted face stared, horror-stricken at the man. The eyes, thus exposed, were senseless, quite empty. The little face from which the charm of the mask had been taken away, was quite weird.

A little painted face stared at the man in horror. The exposed eyes were vacant, completely empty. Without the charm of the mask, the little face looked very strange.

Freder dropped the black piece of stuff. The drink-mixer pounced quickly upon it, hiding her face. Freder looked around him.

Freder dropped the piece of black fabric. The drink-mixer quickly pounced on it, hiding her face. Freder looked around.

The Eternal Gardens scintillated. The beautiful beings in it, even if, temporarily, thrown out of balance, shone in their well-cared-forness, their cleanly abundance. The odour of freshness, which pervaded everywhere, was like the breath of a dewy garden.

The Eternal Gardens sparkled. The beautiful beings in the gardens shone with well-groomed, spotless abundance, even if temporarily shaken. The fresh scent everywhere was like the breath of a dewy garden.

Freder looked down at himself. He wore, as all the youths in the “House of the Sons,” the white silk, which they wore but once—the soft, supple shoes, with the noiseless soles.

Freder looked down at himself. Like all the youths in the “House of the Sons,” he wore white silk that they wore only once. He wore soft, supple shoes with silent soles.

He looked at his friends. He saw these beings who never wearied, unless from sport—who never sweated, unless from sport—who were never out of breath, unless from sport. Beings requiring their joyous games in order that their food and drink might agree with them, in order to be able to sleep well and digest easily.

He looked at his friends. He saw beings who never grew tired, except from sports. They never sweated, except from sports. They were never out of breath, except from sports. They needed their joyful games so that food and drink would agree with them, and so they could sleep well and digest easily.

The tables, at which they had all eaten, were laid, as before-hand, with untouched dishes. Wine, golden and purple, embedded in ice or warmth, was there, proffering itself, like the loving little women. Now the music was playing again. It had been silenced when the girlish voice spoke the five soft words:

The tables where they had all eaten were set with untouched dishes, as they had been before. Golden and purple wine, chilled or warm, offered itself like the loving little women. Now the music was playing again. It had stopped when the girlish voice spoke the five soft words:

“Look, these are your brothers!”

And once more, with her eyes resting on Freder:

And once more, looking at Freder:

“Look, these are your brothers!”

As one suffocating, Freder sprang up. The masked women stared at him. He dashed to the door. He ran along passages and down steps. He came to the entrance.

As if he were suffocating, Freder sprang up. The masked women stared at him. He dashed to the door. He ran along passages and down steps. He reached the entrance.

“Who was that girl?”

Perplexed shrugs. Apologies. The occurrence was inexcusable, the servants knew it. Dismissals, in plenty, would be distributed.

Puzzled shrugs. Apologies. The servants knew what had happened was inexcusable. Many would be fired.

The Major Domo was pale with anger.

“I do not wish,” said Freder, gazing into space, “that anyone should suffer for what has happened. Nobody is to be dismissed ... I do not wish it....”

“I don’t want anyone to suffer for what happened,” Freder said, staring into space. “No one is to be fired ... I don’t want that....”

The Major Domo bowed in silence. He was accustomed to whims in the “Club of the Sons.”

The Major Domo bowed silently. He was used to whims in the “Club of the Sons.”

“Who is the girl ... can nobody tell me?”

“Who is the girl ... can't anyone tell me?”

No. Nobody. But if an inquiry is to be made...?

No. Nobody. But what if someone asks...?

Freder remained silent. He thought of Slim. He shook his head. First slowly, then violently. “No—”

Freder said nothing. He thought of Slim. He shook his head, slowly at first, then violently. “No.”

One does not set a bloodhound on the track of a sacred, white hind.

You don't set a bloodhound on the trail of a sacred white doe.

“Nobody is to inquire about her,” he said, tonelessly.

“No one is to ask about her,” he said without emotion.

He felt the soulless glance of the strange, hired person upon his face. He felt himself poor and besmirched. In an ill-temper which rendered him as wretched as though he had poison in his veins, he left the club. He walked home as though going into exile. He shut himself up in his work-room and worked. At nights he clung to his instrument and forced the monstrous solitude of Jupiter and Saturn down to him.

He felt the soulless gaze of the strange hired person on his face. He felt poor and dirty. He left the club in a foul mood, feeling as miserable as if he had poison in his veins. He walked home as though going into exile. He shut himself in his workroom and worked. At night, he clung to his instrument and drew down to himself the monstrous solitude of Jupiter and Saturn.

Nothing could help him—nothing! In an agonising blissful omnipresence stood, before his vision the one, one countenance; the austere countenance of the virgin, the sweet countenance of the mother.

Nothing could help him. Nothing! One face was everywhere before his eyes, filling him with agonizing bliss. It was the stern face of the virgin, the sweet face of the mother.

A voice spoke:

“Look, these are your brothers.”

And the glory of the heavens was nothing, and the intoxication of work was nothing. And the conflagration which wiped out the sea could not wipe out the soft voice of the girl:

And the glory of the heavens meant nothing, and the thrill of work meant nothing. And the fire that wiped out the sea could not wipe out the girl's soft voice:

“Look, these are your brothers!”

My God, my God—

My God, my God...

With a painful, violent jerk, Freder turned around and walked up to his machine. Something like deliverance passed across his face as he considered this shining creation, waiting only for him, of which there was not a steel link, not a rivet, not a spring which he had not calculated and created.

With a painful, violent jerk, Freder turned around and walked up to his machine. His face showed something like relief as he looked at the shining creation, waiting only for him. He had designed and created every steel link, rivet, and spring in it.

The creature was not large, appearing still more fragile by reason of the huge room and flood of sunlight in which it stood. But the soft lustre of its metal and the proud swing with which the foremost body seemed to raise itself to leap, even when not in motion, gave it something of the fair godliness of a faultlessly beautiful animal, which is quite fearless, because it knows itself to be invincible.

The creature was not large, and the huge, sunlit room made it look even more fragile. But its metal had a soft shine. Even when still, the front of its body seemed to rise proudly, ready to leap. These qualities gave it the beautiful, godlike bearing of a perfectly beautiful animal. Such an animal is completely fearless because it knows it cannot be defeated.

Freder caressed his creation. He pressed his head gently against the machine. With ineffable affection he felt its cool, flexible members.

Freder stroked his creation. He gently pressed his head against the machine. He felt its cool, flexible parts with an affection beyond words.

“To-night,” he said, “I shall be with you. I shall be entirely enwrapped by you, I shall pour out my life into you and shall fathom whether or not I can bring you to life. I shall, perhaps, feel your throb and the commencement of movement in your controlled body. I shall, perhaps, feel the giddiness with which you throw yourself out into your boundless element, carrying me—me, the man who made—through the huge sea of midnight. The seven stars will be above us and the sad beauty of the moon. Mount Everest will remain, a hill, below us. You shall carry me and I shall know: You carry me as high as I wish....”

“Tonight,” he said, “I will be with you. I will be completely wrapped in you. I will pour my life into you and see whether I can bring you to life. Perhaps I will feel you pulse and your controlled body begin to move. Perhaps I will feel the rush as you leap into your boundless element. You will carry me, the man who made you, through the vast sea of midnight. The seven stars and the sad beauty of the moon will be above us. Mount Everest will be below us, no more than a hill. You will carry me, and I will know: You can carry me as high as I wish....”

He stopped, closing his eyes. The shudder which ran through him was imparted, a thrill, to the silent machine.

He stopped and closed his eyes. A shudder ran through him and passed as a tremor to the silent machine.

“But perhaps,” he continued, without raising his voice, “perhaps you notice, you, my beloved creation, that you are no longer my only love. Nothing on earth is more vengeful than the jealousy of a machine which believes itself to be neglected. Yes, I know that.... You are imperious mistresses.... ‘Thou shalt have none other Gods but me....’ Am I right? A thought apart from you—you feel it at once and become perverse. How could I keep it hidden from you that all my thoughts are not with you. I can’t help it, my creation. I was bewitched, machine. I press my forehead upon you and my forehead longs for the knees of the girl of whom I do not even know the name....”

“But perhaps,” he continued, without raising his voice, “perhaps you notice, my beloved creation, that you are no longer my only love. Nothing on earth is more vengeful than a jealous machine that believes it is being neglected. Yes, I know that.... You are demanding mistresses.... ‘You shall have no other gods but me....’ Am I right? If I think of anything but you, you feel it at once and become difficult. How could I hide from you that my thoughts are not all with you? I can’t help it, my creation. I was bewitched, machine. I press my forehead against you, but it longs for the knees of a girl whose name I don’t even know....”

He ceased and held his breath. He raised his head and listened.

He stopped and held his breath. He raised his head and listened.

Hundreds and thousands of times had he heard that same sound in the city. But hundreds and thousands of times, it seemed to him, he had not comprehended it.

He had heard that same sound in the city hundreds and thousands of times. But it seemed to him that, hundreds and thousands of times, he had failed to understand it.

It was an immeasurably glorious and transporting sound. As deep and rumbling as, and more powerful than, any sound on earth. The voice of the ocean when it is angry, the voice of falling torrents, the voice of very close thunder-storms would be miserably drowned in this Behemoth-din. Without being shrill it penetrated all walls, and, as long as it lasted, all things seemed to swing in it. It was omnipresent, coming from the heights and from the depths, being beautiful and horrible, being an irresistible command.

The sound was immeasurably glorious and thrilling. It was as deep and rumbling as any sound on earth, and more powerful. The roar of an angry ocean, the rush of waterfalls, and the thunder of nearby storms would be utterly drowned out by this Behemoth-din. Though not shrill, it penetrated every wall. As long as it lasted, everything seemed to sway with it. It was everywhere, coming from above and below, beautiful and horrible, an irresistible command.

It was high above the town. It was the voice of the town.

Metropolis raised her voice. The machines of Metropolis roared; they wanted to be fed.

Metropolis raised her voice. The machines of Metropolis roared. They wanted to be fed.

Freder pushed open the glass doors. He felt them tremble like strings under strokes of the bow. He stepped out on to the narrow gallery which ran around this, almost the highest house of Metropolis. The roaring sound received him, enveloped him, never coming to an end.

Freder pushed open the glass doors. He felt them tremble like strings under a bow. He stepped onto the narrow gallery that ran around the building, one of the tallest in Metropolis. A roaring sound greeted him and surrounded him. It never stopped.

Great as Metropolis was: at all four corners of the city, this roared command was equally perceptible.

Though Metropolis was vast, the shouted command could be heard equally clearly in all four corners of the city.

Freder looked across the city at the building known to the world as the “New Tower of Babel.”

Freder looked across the city at the building the world knew as the “New Tower of Babel.”

In the brain-pan of this New Tower of Babel lived the man who was himself the Brain of Metropolis.

In the skull of this New Tower of Babel lived the man who was himself the Brain of Metropolis.

As long as the man over there, who was nothing but work, despising sleep, eating and drinking mechanically, pressed his fingers on the blue metal plate, which apart from himself, no man had ever touched, so long would the voice of the machine-city of Metropolis roar for food, for food, for food....

The man over there was nothing but work. He despised sleep and ate and drank mechanically. He pressed his fingers on the blue metal plate, which no one else had ever touched. As long as he pressed it, the voice of the machine-city of Metropolis would roar for food, for food, for food....

She wanted living men for food.

She wanted to eat living men.

Then the living food came pushing along in masses. Along the street it came, along its own street which never crossed with other people’s streets. It rolled on, a broad, an endless stream. The stream was twelve files deep. They walked in even step. Men, men, men—all in the same uniform, from throat to ankle in dark blue linen, bare feet in the same hard shoes, hair tightly pressed down by the same black caps.

Then the living food came pushing forward in masses. It moved along its own street, which never crossed anyone else’s. It rolled on in a broad, endless stream, twelve abreast. They walked in step. Men, men, men, all wearing the same uniform. Dark blue linen covered them from throat to ankle. They wore the same hard shoes on their bare feet. Identical black caps pressed their hair tightly down.

And they all had the same faces. And they all appeared to be of the same age. They held themselves straightened up, but not straight. They did not raise their heads, they pushed them forward. They planted their feet forward, but they did not walk. The open gates of the New Tower of Babel, the machine center of Metropolis, gulped the masses down.

And they all had the same faces. They all seemed to be the same age. They held themselves up, but not straight. They did not raise their heads. They pushed them forward. They put one foot in front of the other, but they did not walk. The open gates of the New Tower of Babel swallowed the masses. It was the machine center of Metropolis.

Towards them, but past them, another procession dragged itself along, the shift just used. It rolled on, a broad, an endless stream. The stream was twelve files deep. They walked in even step. Men, men, men—all in the same uniform, from throat to ankle in dark blue linen, bare feet in the same hard shoes, hair tightly pressed down by the same black caps.

Another procession dragged itself toward them, then past them. It was the shift that had just finished work. It rolled on in a broad, endless stream, twelve men deep. They walked in step. Men, men, men, all in the same uniform, dressed from neck to ankle in dark blue linen. Their bare feet were in the same hard shoes, their hair pressed flat by the same black caps.

And they all had the same faces. And they all seemed one thousand years old. They walked with hanging fists, they walked with hanging heads. No, they planted their feet forward but they did not walk. The open gates of the New Tower of Babel, the machine centre of Metropolis, threw the masses up as it gulped them down.

And they all had the same faces. And they all looked a thousand years old. They walked with their fists hanging, their heads bowed. No, they put one foot in front of the other, but they did not walk. The open gates of the New Tower of Babel, the machine center of Metropolis, threw the masses out as they swallowed them up.

When the fresh living food had disappeared through the gates the roaring voice was silent at last. And the never ceasing, throbbing hum of the great Metropolis became perceptible again, producing the effect of silence, a deep relief. The man who was the great brain in the brain-pan of Metropolis had ceased to press his fingers on the blue metal plate.

When the fresh living food had disappeared through the gates, the roaring voice finally fell silent. The constant, throbbing hum of the great Metropolis could be heard again. It sounded like silence, a deep relief. The man who was the great brain inside the skull of Metropolis had stopped pressing his fingers on the blue metal plate.

In ten hours he would let the machine brute roar anew. And in another ten hours, again. And always the same, and always the same, without ever loosening the ten-hour clamp.

In ten hours, he would make the machine brute roar again. And ten hours after that, again. The same thing, over and over, without ever loosening the ten-hour clamp.

Metropolis did not know what Sunday was. Metropolis knew neither high days nor holidays. Metropolis had the most saintly cathedral in the world, richly adorned with Gothic decoration. In times of which only the chronicles could tell, the star-crowned Virgin on its tower used to smile, as a mother, from out her golden mantle, deep, deep down upon the pious red rooves and the only companions of her graciousness were the doves which used to nest in the gargoyles of the water-spouts and the bells which were called after the four archangels and of which Saint Michael was the most magnificent.

Metropolis did not know what Sunday was. Metropolis knew neither holy days nor holidays. Metropolis had the most saintly cathedral in the world, richly adorned with Gothic decoration. Long ago, in times known only from the chronicles, the star-crowned Virgin stood on its tower. Wrapped in her golden mantle, she smiled like a mother down on the pious red roofs far below. Her only companions were the doves and the bells. The doves nested in the gargoyles of the water spouts. The bells were named after the four archangels, and Saint Michael was the most magnificent of them.

It was said that the Master who cast it turned villain for its sake, for he stole consecrated and unconsecrated silver, like a raven, casting it into the metal body of the bell. As a reward for his deed he suffered, on the place of execution, the dreadful death on the wheel. But, it was said, he died exceedingly happy, for the Archangel Michael rang him on his way to death so wonderfully, touchingly, that all agreed the saints must have forgiven the sinner already, to ring the heavenly bells, thus, to receive him.

It was said that the Master who cast the bell turned to crime for its sake. Like a raven, he stole consecrated and unconsecrated silver and cast it into the bell’s metal body. As a reward for his deed, he suffered a dreadful death on the wheel at the place of execution. But it was said that he died exceedingly happy. For as he went to his death, the Archangel Michael rang so wonderfully and movingly that all agreed the saints must already have forgiven the sinner. Surely they were ringing the heavenly bells like that to welcome him.

The bells still rang with their old, ore-voices but when Metropolis roared, then Saint Michael itself was hoarse. The New Tower of Babel and its fellow houses stretched their sombre heights high above the cathedral spire, that the young girls in the work-rooms and wireless stations gazed down just as deep from the thirtieth story windows on the star-crowned virgin as she, in earlier days, had looked down on the pious red rooves. In place of doves, flying machines swarmed over the cathedral roof and over the city, resting on the rooves, from which, at night glaring pillars and circles indicated the course of flight and landing points.

The bells still rang with their old metallic voices, but when Metropolis roared, even Saint Michael was hoarse. The New Tower of Babel and its neighboring buildings rose dark and high above the cathedral spire. From the thirtieth-floor windows of the workrooms and wireless stations, young women gazed down at the star-crowned virgin. They looked down from just as high as she once had on the pious red roofs. Instead of doves, flying machines swarmed over the cathedral roof and the city, landing on rooftops. At night, glaring pillars and circles on the rooftops marked flight paths and landing points.

The Master of Metropolis had already considered, more than once, having the cathedral pulled down, as being pointless and an obstruction to the traffic in the town of fifty million inhabitants.

The Master of Metropolis had already considered tearing down the cathedral more than once. He saw it as pointless and an obstacle to traffic in the city of fifty million people.

But the small, eager sect of Gothics, whose leader was Desertus, half monk, half one enraptured, had sworn the solemn oath: If one hand from the wicked city of Metropolis were to dare to touch just one stone of the cathedral, then they would neither repose nor rest until the wicked city of Metropolis should lie, a heap of ruins, at the foot of her cathedral.

But the small, eager sect of Gothics had sworn a solemn oath. Their leader was Desertus, half monk, half mystic. If anyone from the wicked city of Metropolis dared touch a single stone of the cathedral, they would not rest. They would not stop until the wicked city of Metropolis lay in ruins at the foot of its cathedral.

The Master of Metropolis used to avenge the threats which constituted one sixth of his daily mail. But he did not care to fight with opponents to whom he rendered a service by destroying them for their belief. The great brain of Metropolis, a stranger to the sacrifice of a desire, estimated the incalculable power which the sacrificed ones and martyrs showered upon their followers too high rather than too low. Too, the demolition of the cathedral was not yet so burning a question as to have been the object of an estimate of expenses. But when the moment should come, the cost of its pulling down would exceed that of the construction of Metropolis. The Gothics were ascetics; the Master of Metropolis knew by experience that a multi-milliardaire was more cheaply bought over than an ascetic.

The Master of Metropolis used to take revenge for the threats that made up one sixth of his daily mail. But he did not want to fight opponents who would benefit from being killed for their beliefs. The great brain of Metropolis had never sacrificed a desire. He was more likely to overestimate than underestimate the immense power that the sacrificed and the martyrs gave their followers. Besides, demolishing the cathedral was not yet urgent enough for anyone to estimate the cost. But when the time came, tearing it down would cost more than building Metropolis. The Gothics were ascetics. The Master of Metropolis knew from experience that a multibillionaire was cheaper to buy off than an ascetic.

Freder wondered, not without a foreign feeling of bitterness, how many more times the great Master of Metropolis would permit him to look on at the scene which the cathedral would present to him on every rainless day: When the sun sank at the back of Metropolis, the houses turning to mountains and the streets to valleys; when the stream of light, which seemed to crackle with coldness, broke forth from all windows, from the walls of the houses, from the rooves and from the heart of the town; when the silent quiver of electric advertisements began; when the searchlights, in all colours of the rainbow, began to play around the New Tower of Babel; when the omnibuses turned to chains of light-spitting monsters, the little motor-cars to scurrying, luminous fishes in a waterless deep-sea, while from the invisible harbour of the underground railway, an ever equal, magical shimmer pressed on to be swallowed by the hurrying shadows—then the cathedral would stand there, in this boundless ocean of light, which dissolved all forms by outshining them, the only dark object, black and persistent, seeming, in its lightlessness, to free itself from the earth, to rise higher and ever higher, and appearing in this maelstrom of tumultuous light, the only reposeful and masterful object.

Freder wondered how many more times the great Master of Metropolis would let him see the cathedral's transformation. The thought brought a strange feeling of bitterness. On every day without rain, the same scene unfolded. The sun sank behind Metropolis, turning the houses into mountains and the streets into valleys. Streams of light, seeming to crackle with cold, poured from every window, from walls and rooftops, and from the heart of the city. Electric advertisements began to flicker silently. Searchlights in every color of the rainbow played around the New Tower of Babel. The buses became chains of light-spitting monsters. The little cars became glowing fish, darting through a waterless deep sea. From the unseen harbor of the underground railway, a steady, magical shimmer surged forward, only to be swallowed by the rushing shadows. In this boundless ocean of light, all forms vanished in the glare. Only the cathedral stood dark, black and unyielding. In its darkness, it seemed to lift free of the earth and rise ever higher. In that whirlpool of turbulent light, it alone seemed calm and commanding.

But the Virgin on the top of the tower seemed to have her own gentle starlight, and hovered, set free from the blackness of the stone, on the sickle of the silver moon, above the cathedral.

But the Virgin atop the tower seemed to have her own gentle starlight. Freed from the black stone, she seemed to hover above the cathedral on the crescent of the silver moon.

Freder had never seen the countenance of the Virgin and yet he knew it so well he could have drawn it: the austere countenance of the Virgin, the sweet countenance of the mother.

Freder had never seen the Virgin’s face. Yet he knew it so well he could have drawn it: the stern face of the Virgin, the sweet face of the mother.

He stooped, clasping the burning palms of his hands around the iron railing.

He bent down, gripping the iron railing with his burning palms.

“Look at me, Virgin,” he begged. “Mother, look at me!”

The spear of a searchlight flew into his eyes causing him to close them angrily. A whistling rocket hissed through the air, dropping down into the pale twilight of the afternoon, the word: Yoshiwara....

A beam from a searchlight struck his eyes, and he shut them angrily. A rocket whistled and hissed through the air, dropping the word into the pale afternoon twilight: Yoshiwara....

Remarkably white, and with penetrating beams, there hovered, towering up, over a house which was not to be seen, the word: Cinema.

The word Cinema hovered high above a building hidden from view. It was strikingly white and shone with piercing light.

All the seven colours of the rainbow flared, cold and ghost-like in silently swinging circles. The enormous face of the clock on the New Tower of Babel was bathed in the glaring cross-fire of the searchlights. And over and over again from the pale, unreal-looking sky, dripped the word: Yoshiwara.

All seven colors of the rainbow flared in silently swinging circles, cold and ghostly. Searchlights crisscrossed the enormous clock face on the New Tower of Babel with their glaring beams. And over and over, the word dripped from the pale, unreal sky: Yoshiwara.

Freder’s eyes hung on the clock of the New Tower of Babel, where the seconds flashed off as sparks of breathing lightning, continuous in their coming as in their going. He calculated the time which had passed since the voice of Metropolis had roared for food, for food, for food. He knew that behind the throbbing second flashes on the New Tower of Babel there was a wide, bare room with narrow windows, the height of the walls, switch-boards on all sides, right in the centre, the table, the most ingenious instrument which the Master of Metropolis had created, on which to play, alone, as solitary master.

Freder stared at the clock on the New Tower of Babel. The seconds flashed like sparks of living lightning, appearing and disappearing without pause. He calculated how much time had passed since the voice of Metropolis had roared for food, for food, for food. He knew there was a wide, bare room behind the pulsing flashes that marked the seconds on the New Tower of Babel. Its narrow windows stretched the full height of the walls, and switchboards lined every side. In the center stood the table, the most ingenious instrument the Master of Metropolis had created. He alone played it, a solitary master.

On the plain chair before it, the embodiment of the great brain: the Master of Metropolis. Near his right hand the sensitive blue metal plate, to which he would stretch out his right hand, with the infallible certainty of a healthy machine, when seconds enough had flicked off into eternity, to let Metropolis roar once more—“for food, for food, for food—”

On the plain chair before it sat the embodiment of the great brain: the Master of Metropolis. Near his right hand was the sensitive blue metal plate. When enough seconds had passed into eternity, he would reach out to it with the perfect certainty of a healthy machine. Then he would let Metropolis roar once more: “for food, for food, for food.”

In this moment Freder was seized with the persistent idea that he would lose his reason if he had, once more, to hear the voice of Metropolis thus roaring to be fed. And, already convinced of the pointlessness of his quest, he turned from the spectacle of the light crazy city and went to seek the Master of Metropolis, whose name was Joh Fredersen and who was his father.

At that moment, Freder could not shake the thought that he would lose his mind if he heard Metropolis roar to be fed again. Already convinced that his quest was pointless, he turned away from the spectacle of the city, mad with light. He went to find the Master of Metropolis, his father, Joh Fredersen.