Chapter 4

21 min

There was a house in the great Metropolis which was older than the town. Many said that it was older, even, than the cathedral, and, before the Archangel Michael raised his voice as advocate in the conflict for God, the house stood there in its evil gloom, defying the cathedral from out its dull eyes.

There was a house in the great Metropolis that was older than the town. Many said it was even older than the cathedral. Before the Archangel Michael spoke up for God in the conflict, the house stood there in evil gloom. Its dull eyes stared in defiance at the cathedral.

It had lived through the time of smoke and soot. Every year which passed over the city seemed to creep, when dying, into this house, so that, at last it was a cemetery—a coffin, filled with dead tens of years.

It had survived the age of smoke and soot. Each year that passed over the city seemed to creep into the house as it died. At last, the house was a cemetery, a coffin filled with dead decades.

Set into the black wood of the door stood, copper-red, mysterious, the seal of Solomon, the pentagram.

Set into the door’s black wood was the seal of Solomon, the pentagram, copper-red and mysterious.

It was said that a magician, who came from the East (and in the track of whom the plague wandered) had built the house in seven nights. But the masons and carpenters of the town did not know who had mortared the bricks, nor who had erected the roof. No foreman’s speech and no ribboned nose-gay had hallowed the Builder’s Feast after the pious custom. The chronicles of the town held no record of when the magician died nor of how he died. One day it occurred to the citizens as odd that the red shoes of the magician had so long shunned the abominable plaster of the town. Entrance was forced into the house and not a living soul was found inside. But the rooms, which received, neither by day nor by night, a ray from the great lights of the sky, seemed to be waiting for their master, sunken in sleep. Parchments and folios lay about, open, under a covering of dust, like silver-grey velvet.

People said that a magician from the East had built the house in seven nights. The plague followed wherever he went. But the town’s masons and carpenters did not know who had laid the bricks or put up the roof. No foreman had given a speech or presented a ribboned bouquet to bless the Builder’s Feast, as pious custom required. The town records did not say when or how the magician died. One day, the citizens thought it strange that the magician’s red shoes had avoided the town’s abominable pavement for so long. They forced their way into the house and found no living soul inside. But the rooms seemed to be waiting for their master, sunk in sleep. Neither day nor night did a ray from the great lights of the sky reach them. Parchments and folios lay open under a layer of dust, like silver-grey velvet.

Set in all the doors stood, copper-red, mysterious, the seal of Solomon, the pentagram.

Set into every door was the seal of Solomon, a mysterious, copper-red pentagram.

Then came a time which pulled down antiquities. Then the words were spoken: The house must die. But the house was stronger than the words, as it was stronger than the centuries. With suddenly falling stones it slew those who laid hands on its walls. It opened the floor under their feet, dragging them down into a shaft, of which no man had previously had any knowledge. It was as though the plague, which had formerly wandered in the wake of the red shoes of the magician, still crouched in the corners of the narrow house, springing out at men from behind, to seize them by the neck. They died, and no doctor knew the illness. The house resisted its destruction with so great a force that word of its malignity went out over the borders of the city, spreading far over the land, that, at last, there was no honest man to be found who would have ventured to make war against it. Yes, even the thieves and the rogues, who were promised remission of their sentence provided that they declared themselves ready to pull down the magician’s house, preferred to go to the pillory, or even to the scaffold, rather than to enter within these spiteful walls, these latchless doors, which were sealed with Solomon’s seal.

Then came a time when old buildings were torn down. People said: The house must die. But the house was stronger than their words, just as it was stronger than the centuries. Stones suddenly fell and killed those who laid hands on its walls. The house opened the floor beneath their feet, dragging them into a shaft no one had known existed. It was as though the plague that had once followed the magician’s red shoes still crouched in the narrow house’s corners. It seemed to spring out from behind men and seize them by the neck. They died, and no doctor recognized the illness. The house fought its destruction with such force that word of its evil spread beyond the city, far across the land. At last, no honest man could be found who would dare wage war on it. Even thieves and rogues were promised freedom from their sentences if they agreed to tear down the magician’s house. But they preferred the pillory, or even the scaffold, to entering those spiteful walls and those latchless doors sealed with Solomon’s seal.

The little town around the cathedral became a large town and grew into Metropolis, and into the centre of the world.

The little town around the cathedral grew into a large town. It became Metropolis, the center of the world.

One day there came to the town a man from far away, who saw the house and said: “I want to have that.”

One day, a man from far away came to town. He saw the house and said, “I want to have that.”

He was initiated into the story of the house. He did not smile. He stood by his resolution. He bought the house at a very low price, moved in at once and kept it unaltered.

He was told the story of the house. He did not smile. He stood by his decision. He bought the house at a very low price, moved in at once, and left it unchanged.

This man was called Rotwang. Few knew him. Only Joh Fredersen knew him very well. It would have been easier for him to have decided to fight out the quarrel about the cathedral with the sect of Gothics than the quarrel with Rotwang about the magician’s house.

The man was named Rotwang. Few people knew him. Only Joh Fredersen knew him very well. Joh would have found it easier to settle the quarrel over the cathedral with the sect of Gothics than the quarrel with Rotwang over the magician’s house.

There were in Metropolis, in this city of reasoned, methodical hurry, very many who would rather have gone far out of their way than have passed by Rotwang’s house. It hardly reached knee-high to the house-giants which stood near it. It stood at an angle to the street. To the cleanly town, which knew neither smoke nor soot, it was a blot and an annoyance. But it remained. When Rotwang left the house and crossed the street, which occurred but seldom, there were many who covertly looked at his feet, to see if, perhaps, he walked in red shoes.

In Metropolis, a city of orderly, methodical haste, many people would take a long detour rather than pass Rotwang’s house. It barely reached the knees of the giant buildings nearby. The house stood at an angle to the street. In the clean city, which knew neither smoke nor soot, it was a blot and an annoyance. But it remained. Rotwang rarely left the house and crossed the street. When he did, many people secretly looked at his feet to see whether he might be wearing red shoes.

Before the door of this house, on which the seal of Solomon glowed, stood Joh Fredersen.

Joh Fredersen stood before the door of the house, where the seal of Solomon glowed.

He had sent the car away and had knocked.

He had sent the car away and knocked.

He waited, then knocked again.

A voice asked, as if the house were speaking in its sleep:

A voice asked, as if the house were talking in its sleep:

“Who is there?”

“Who’s there?”

“Joh Fredersen,” said the man.

The door opened.

He entered. The door closed. He stood in darkness. But Joh Fredersen knew the house well. He walked straight on, and as he walked, the shimmering tracks of two stepping feet glistened before him, along the passage, and the edge of the stair began to glow. Like a dog showing the track, the glow ran on before him, up the steps, to die out behind him.

He entered. The door closed. He stood in darkness. But Joh Fredersen knew the house well. He walked straight ahead. As he walked, the shimmering tracks of two feet appeared before him along the passage. The edge of the stairs began to glow. Like a dog showing the way, the glow moved ahead of him up the steps and faded behind him.

He reached the top of the stairs and looked about him. He knew that many doors opened out here. But on the one opposite him the copper seal glowed like a distorted eye, which looked at him.

He reached the top of the stairs and looked around. He knew that many doors opened onto the landing. But on the door opposite him, the copper seal glowed like a distorted eye looking at him.

He stepped up to it. The door opened before him.

He walked up to it. The door opened before him.

Many doors as Rotwang’s house possessed, this was the only one which opened itself to Joh Fredersen, although, and even, perhaps, because, the owner of this house knew full well that it always meant no mean effort for Joh Fredersen to cross this threshold.

Of all the doors in Rotwang’s house, this was the only one that opened to Joh Fredersen. It opened to him although, and perhaps even because, Rotwang knew how hard it always was for Joh Fredersen to cross its threshold.

He drew in the air of the room, lingeringly, but deeply, as though seeking in it the trace of another breath....

He slowly drew in a deep breath of the room’s air, as if searching for a trace of someone else’s breath....

His nonchalant hand threw his hat on a chair. Slowly, in sudden and mournful weariness, he let his eyes wander through the room.

He casually tossed his hat onto a chair. Suddenly weary and sad, he slowly looked around the room.

It was almost empty. A large, time-blackened chair, such as are to be found in old churches, stood before drawn curtains. These curtains covered a recess the width of the wall.

It was almost empty. A large chair, blackened with age, stood in front of closed curtains. It was the kind of chair found in old churches. The curtains covered a recess that stretched across the width of the wall.

Joh Fredersen remained standing by the door for a long time, without moving. He had closed his eyes. With incomparable impotence he breathed in the odour of hyacinths, which seemed to fill the motionless air of this room.

Joh Fredersen stood by the door for a long time without moving. His eyes were closed. Utterly helpless, he breathed in the scent of hyacinths. It seemed to fill the still air of the room.

Without opening his eyes, swaying a little, but aim-sure, he walked up to the heavy, black curtains and drew them apart.

Without opening his eyes, he walked toward the heavy black curtains, swaying slightly but sure of his aim. He pulled them apart.

Then he opened his eyes and stood quite still....

Then he opened his eyes and stood completely still....

On a pedestal, the breadth of the wall, rested the head of a woman in stone....

A stone head of a woman rested on a pedestal as wide as the wall....

It was not the work of an artist, it was the work of a man, who, in agonies for which the human tongue lacks words, had wrestled with the white stone throughout immeasurable days and nights until at last it seemed to realise and form the woman’s head by itself. It was as if no tool had been at work here—no, it was as if a man, lying before this stone, had called on the name of the woman, unceasingly, with all the strength, with all the longing, with all the despair, of his brain, blood and heart, until the shapeless stone took pity on him letting itself turn into the image of the woman, who had meant to two men all heaven and all hell.

This was not the work of an artist. It was the work of a man who had wrestled with the white stone for countless days and nights. His agony was beyond words. At last, the stone seemed to understand and form the woman’s head by itself. It was as if no tool had been used. Instead, it was as if a man had lain before the stone, calling the woman’s name without stopping. He had called with all the strength, longing, and despair of his mind, blood, and heart. At last, the shapeless stone seemed to take pity on him and let itself become the image of the woman. She had been all heaven and all hell to two men.

Joh Fredersen’s eyes sank to the words which were hewn into the pedestal, roughly, as though chiselled with curses.

Joh Fredersen looked down at the words roughly carved into the pedestal, as if they had been chiseled with curses.

HEL born to be my happiness, a blessing to all men, lost to Joh Fredersen dying in giving life to his son, Freder

HEL born to be my happiness, a blessing to all men, lost to Joh Fredersen dying while giving birth to his son, Freder

Yes, she died then. But Joh Fredersen knew only too well that she did not die from giving birth to her child. She died then because she had done what she had to do. She really died on the day upon which she went from Rotwang to Joh Fredersen, wondering that her feet left no bloody traces behind on the way. She had died because she was unable to withstand the great love of Joh Fredersen and because she had been forced by him to tear asunder the life of another.

Yes, she died then. But Joh Fredersen knew only too well that she did not die from giving birth to her child. She died then because she had done what she had to do. She had really died on the day she left Rotwang for Joh Fredersen. On the way, she wondered why her feet left no bloody traces behind her. She had died because she could not resist Joh Fredersen’s great love. And he had forced her to tear another person’s life apart.

Never was the expression of deliverance at last more strong upon a human face than upon Hel’s face when she knew that she would die.

No human face ever showed a stronger sense of relief than Hel’s when she knew she would die.

But in the same hour the mightiest man in Metropolis had lain on the floor, screaming like a wild beast, the bones of which are being broken in its living body.

But at that same hour, the most powerful man in Metropolis had lain on the floor, screaming. He screamed like a wild beast whose bones are being broken while it is still alive.

And, on his meeting Rotwang, four weeks later, he found that the dense, disordered hair over the wonderful brow of the inventor was snow-white, and in the eyes under this brow the smouldering of a hatred which was very closely related to madness.

When he met Rotwang four weeks later, he found that the inventor’s thick, unruly hair had turned snow-white above his remarkable forehead. Beneath it, Rotwang’s eyes smoldered with a hatred close to madness.

In this great love, in this great hatred, the poor, dead Hel had remained alive to both men....

In this great love and this great hatred, poor, dead Hel lived on for both men....

“You must wait a little while,” said the voice which sounded as though the house were talking in its sleep.

“You must wait a little while,” said the voice. It sounded as if the house were talking in its sleep.

“Listen, Rotwang,” said Joh Fredersen. “You know that I treat your little juggling tricks with patience, and that I come to you when I want anything of you, and that you are the only man who can say that of himself. But you will never get me to join in with you when you play the fool. You know, too, that I have no time to waste. Don’t make us both ridiculous, but come!”

“Listen, Rotwang,” said Joh Fredersen. “You know I’m patient with your little tricks. You also know that I come to you when I want something from you. You’re the only man who can say that. But you’ll never get me to join you in making a fool of yourself. You know I have no time to waste. Don’t make us both look ridiculous. Come!”

“I told you that you would have to wait a little while,” explained the voice, seeming to grow more distant.

“I told you that you would have to wait a little while,” the voice explained, seeming to grow more distant.

“I shall not wait. I shall go.”

“I won't wait. I'll go.”

“Do so, Joh Fredersen!”

“Do it, Joh Fredersen!”

He wanted to do so. But the door through which he had entered had no key, no latch. The seal of Solomon, glowing copper-red, blinked at him.

He wanted to. But the door he had entered through had no key or latch. The seal of Solomon glowed copper-red and blinked at him.

A soft, far-off voice laughed.

A soft voice laughed in the distance.

Joh Fredersen had stopped still, his back to the room. A quiver ran down his back, running along the hanging arms to the clenched fists.

Joh Fredersen stood still with his back to the room. A shudder ran down his back and along his hanging arms to his clenched fists.

“You should have your skull smashed in,” said Joh Fredersen, very softly.... “You should have your skull smashed in ... that is, if it did not contain so valuable a brain....”

“You should have your skull smashed in,” Joh Fredersen said very softly.... “You should have your skull smashed in ... that is, if it didn't contain such a valuable brain....”

“You can do no more to me than you have done,” said the far-off voice.

“You can't do anything more to me than you already have,” said the distant voice.

Joh Fredersen was silent.

“Which do you think,” continued the voice, “to be more painful: to smash in the skull, or to tear the heart out of the body?”

“Which do you think is more painful,” the voice continued, “smashing in the skull or tearing the heart out of the body?”

Joh Fredersen was silent.

“Are your wits frozen, that you don’t answer, Joh Fredersen?”

“Are you too stunned to answer, Joh Fredersen?”

“A brain like yours should be able to forget,” said the man standing at the door, staring at Solomon’s seal.

“A brain like yours should be able to forget,” said the man at the door, staring at Solomon’s seal.

The soft, far-off voice laughed.

The soft, distant voice laughed.

“Forget? I have twice in my life forgotten something.... Once that Aetro-oil and quick-silver have an idiosyncrasy as regards each other; that cost me my arm. Secondly that Hel was a woman and you a man; that cost me my heart. The third time, I am afraid, it will cost me my head. I shall never again forget anything, Joh Fredersen.”

“Forget? I have forgotten something twice in my life.... Once, I forgot that Aetro-oil and quicksilver react strangely to each other. That cost me my arm. The second time, I forgot that Hel was a woman and you were a man. That cost me my heart. I’m afraid that the third time, it will cost me my head. I will never forget anything again, Joh Fredersen.”

Joh Fredersen was silent.

The far-off voice was silent, too.

The distant voice was silent, too.

Joh Fredersen turned round and walked to the table. He piled books and parchments on top of each other, sat down and took a piece of paper from his pocket. He laid it before him and looked at it.

Joh Fredersen turned and walked to the table. He stacked the books and parchments, sat down, and took a piece of paper from his pocket. He laid the paper in front of him and looked at it.

It was no larger than a man’s hand, bearing neither print nor script, being covered over and over with the tracing of a strange symbol and an apparently half-destroyed plan. Ways seemed to be indicated, seeming to be false ways, but they all led one way; to a place that was filled with crosses.

It was no larger than a man’s hand and had no printed or handwritten words. It was covered with repeated tracings of a strange symbol and a plan that appeared to be half destroyed. The plan seemed to show paths that looked like false routes, but they all led to the same place, which was filled with crosses.

Suddenly he felt, from the back, a certain coldness approaching him. Involuntarily he held his breath.

Suddenly, he felt a chill approaching him from behind. He held his breath without meaning to.

A hand grasped along, by his head, a graceful, skeleton hand. Transparent skin was stretched over the slender joints, which gleamed beneath it like dull silver. Fingers, snow-white and fleshless, closed over the plan which lay on the table, and, lifting it up, took it away with it.

A hand reached past his head, a graceful, skeletal hand. Transparent skin stretched over the slender joints, which gleamed like dull silver beneath it. Snow-white, fleshless fingers closed over the plan on the table, lifted it, and took it away.

Joh Fredersen swung around. He stared at the being which stood before him with eyes which grew glassy.

Joh Fredersen turned around. He stared at the being standing before him, his eyes growing glassy.

The being was, indubitably, a woman. In the soft garment which it wore stood a body, like the body of a young birch tree, swaying on feet set fast together. But, although it was a woman, it was not human. The body seemed as though made of crystal, through which the bones shone silver. Cold streamed from the glazen skin which did not contain a drop of blood. The being held its beautiful hands pressed against its breast, which was motionless, with a gesture of determination, almost of defiance.

The being was undoubtedly a woman. Inside her soft garment, her body was like a young birch tree, swaying above feet held close together. But although it was a woman, it was not human. Its body seemed to be made of crystal, with silver bones shining through it. Cold streamed from its glassy skin, which held no blood. The being pressed its beautiful hands against its motionless breast in a gesture of determination, almost of defiance.

But the being had no face. The beautiful curve of the neck bore a lump of carelessly shaped mass. The skull was bald, nose, lips, temples merely traced. Eyes, as though painted on closed lids, stared unseeingly, with an expression of calm madness, at the man—who did not breathe.

But the being had no face. Its beautifully curved neck supported a lump of roughly shaped material. The skull was bald. The nose, lips, and temples were only sketched in. Eyes that looked painted on closed eyelids stared sightlessly at the man. Their expression was one of calm madness. The man did not breathe.

“Be courteous, my parody;” said the far-off voice, which sounded as though the house were talking in its sleep. “Greet Joh Fredersen, the Master over the great Metropolis.”

“Be polite, my parody,” said the distant voice. It sounded as if the house were talking in its sleep. “Greet Joh Fredersen, the master of the great Metropolis.”

The being bowed slowly to the man. The mad eyes neared him like two darting flames. The mass began to speak; it said in a voice full of a horrible tenderness:

The being bowed slowly to the man. Its wild eyes came closer to him, like two darting flames. The mass began to speak in a voice full of horrible tenderness:

“Good evening, Joh Fredersen....”

And these words were more alluring than a half-open mouth.

“Good, my Pearl! Good, my Crown-jewel!” said the far-off voice, full of praise and pride.

“Good, my Pearl! Good, my Crown-jewel!” said the distant voice, full of praise and pride.

But at the same moment the being lost its balance. It fell, tipping forward, towards Joh Fredersen. He stretched out his hands to catch it, feeling them, in the moment of contact, to be burnt by an unbearable coldness, the brutality of which brought up in him a feeling of anger and disgust.

But at that same moment, the being lost its balance and fell forward toward Joh Fredersen. He reached out to catch it. When his hands touched it, they felt burned by an unbearable cold. The brutal cold filled him with anger and disgust.

He pushed the being away from him and towards Rotwang, who was standing near him as though fallen from the air. Rotwang took the being by the arm.

He pushed the being away from himself and toward Rotwang, who stood nearby as if he had fallen from the sky. Rotwang took the being by the arm.

He shook his head. “Too violent,” he said. “Too violent. My beautiful parody, I fear your temperament will get you into much more trouble.”

He shook his head. “Too violent,” he said. “Too violent. My beautiful parody, I'm afraid your temper will get you into much more trouble.”

“What is that?” asked Joh Fredersen, leaning his hands against the edge of the table-top, which he felt behind him.

“What is that?” asked Joh Fredersen, bracing his hands against the edge of the table he felt behind him.

Rotwang turned his face towards him, his glorious eyes glowing as watch fires glow when the wind lashes them with its cold lash.

Rotwang turned his face toward him. His magnificent eyes glowed like watch fires whipped by a cold wind.

“Who is it?” he replied. “Futura.... Parody ... whatever you like to call it. Also: delusion.... In short: it is a woman.... Every man-creator makes himself a woman. I do not believe that humbug about the first human being a man. If a male-god created the world (which is to be hoped, Joh Fredersen) then he certainly created woman first, lovingly and revelling in creative sport. You can test it, Joh Fredersen: it is faultless. A little cool—I admit, that comes of the material, which is my secret. But she is not yet completely finished. She is not yet discharged from the workshop of her creator. I cannot make up my mind to do it. You understand that? Completion means setting free. I do not want to set her free from me. That is why I have not yet given her a face. You must give her that, Joh Fredersen. For you were the one to order the new beings.”

“Who is it?” he replied. “Futura.... A parody ... whatever you like to call it. A delusion, too.... In short, it is a woman.... Every man who creates makes himself a woman. I don’t believe that nonsense about the first human being a man. If a male god created the world, Joh Fredersen, and let’s hope he did, he certainly created woman first. He made her lovingly, delighting in the act of creation. You can test her, Joh Fredersen. She is flawless. A little cool, I admit. That comes from the material, which is my secret. But she is not quite finished yet. She has not yet left her creator’s workshop. I can’t bring myself to let her go. Do you understand? Completing her means setting her free. I don’t want to set her free from me. That is why I haven’t given her a face yet. You must give her one, Joh Fredersen. After all, you were the one who ordered the new beings.”

“I ordered machine men from you, Rotwang, which I can use at my machines. No woman ... no plaything.”

“I ordered machine men from you, Rotwang, to work at my machines. Not a woman ... not a plaything.”

“No plaything, Joh Fredersen, no ... you and I, we no longer play. Not for any stakes.... We did it once. Once and never again. No plaything, Joh Fredersen but a tool. Do you know what it means to have a woman as a tool? A woman like this, faultless and cool? And obedient—implicitly obedient.... Why do you fight with the Gothics and the monk Desertus about the cathedral? Send the woman to them Joh Fredersen! Send the woman to them when they are kneeling, scourging themselves. Let this faultless, cool woman walk through the rows of them, on her silver feet, fragrance from the garden of life in the folds of her garment.... Who in the world knows how the blossoms of the tree smell, on which the apple of knowledge ripened. The woman is both: Fragrance of the blossom and the fruit....

“No plaything, Joh Fredersen, no ... you and I don't play anymore. Not for any stakes.... We did it once. Once and never again. Not a plaything, Joh Fredersen, but a tool. Do you know what it means to have a woman as a tool? A woman like this, flawless and cool? And obedient, absolutely obedient.... Why do you fight with the Gothics and the monk Desertus over the cathedral? Send the woman to them, Joh Fredersen! Send her when they are kneeling and whipping themselves. Let this flawless, cool woman walk through their rows on her silver feet. Let the fragrance of the garden of life cling to the folds of her dress.... Who in the world knows how the blossoms smell on the tree where the apple of knowledge ripened? The woman is both: the fragrance of the blossom and the fruit....

“Shall I explain to you the newest creation of Rotwang, the genius, Joh Fredersen? It will be sacrilege. But I owe it to you. For you kindled the idea of creating within me, too.... Shall I show you how obedient my creatures are? Give me what you have in your hand, Parody!”

“Shall I explain the latest creation of Rotwang, the genius, to you, Joh Fredersen? It will be sacrilege. But I owe it to you. You inspired me to create, too.... Shall I show you how obedient my creatures are? Give me what you’re holding, Parody!”

“Stop....” said Joh Fredersen rather hoarsely. But the infallible obedience of the creature which stood before the two men brooked no delay in obeying. It opened its hands in which the delicate bones shimmered silver, and handed to its creator the piece of paper which it had taken from the table, before Joh Fredersen’s eyes.

“Stop....” said Joh Fredersen, his voice rather hoarse. But the creature standing before the two men obeyed without fail or delay. It opened its hands, revealing delicate bones that shimmered silver. Before Joh Fredersen’s eyes, it handed its creator the piece of paper it had taken from the table.

“That’s trickery, Rotwang,” said Joh Fredersen.

“That’s a trick, Rotwang,” said Joh Fredersen.

The great inventor looked at him. He laughed. The noiseless laughter drew back his mouth to his ears.

The great inventor looked at him. He laughed. His silent laughter pulled his mouth back to his ears.

“No trickery, Joh Fredersen—the work of a genius! Shall Futura dance to you? Shall my beautiful Parody play the affectionate? Or the sulky? Cleopatra of Damayanti? Shall she have the gestures of the Gothic Madonnas? Or the gestures of love of an Asiatic dancer? What hair shall I plant upon the skull of your tool? Shall she be modest or impudent? Excuse me my many words, you man of few! I am drunk, d’you see, drunk with being a creator. I intoxicate myself, I inebriate myself, on your astonished face! I have surpassed your expectations, Joh Fredersen, haven’t I? And you do not know everything yet: my beautiful Parody can sing, too! She can also read! The mechanism of her brain is as infallible as that of your own, Joh Fredersen!”

“No trick, Joh Fredersen. This is the work of a genius! Shall Futura dance for you? Shall my beautiful Parody act affectionate? Or sulky? Cleopatra or Damayanti? Shall she move like the Gothic Madonnas? Or like an Asiatic dancer making love? What hair shall I put on the skull of your tool? Shall she be modest or bold? Forgive me for talking so much, you man of few words! You see, I’m drunk. Drunk on being a creator. Your astonished face intoxicates me! I’ve surpassed your expectations, Joh Fredersen, haven’t I? And you don’t know everything yet. My beautiful Parody can sing, too! She can also read! The mechanism of her brain is as infallible as your own, Joh Fredersen!”

“If that is so,” said the Master over the great Metropolis, with a certain dryness in his voice, which had become quite hoarse, “then command her to unriddle the plan which you have in your hand, Rotwang....”

“If that is so,” said the Master of the great Metropolis. His voice had grown quite hoarse and had a dry tone. “Then command her to decipher the plan in your hand, Rotwang....”

Rotwang burst out into laughter which was like the laughter of a drunken man. He threw a glance at the piece of paper which he held spread out in his fingers, and was about to pass it, anticipatingly triumphant, to the being which stood beside him.

Rotwang burst into laughter like a drunken man. He glanced at the paper he held spread between his fingers. Expecting to be triumphant, he was about to pass it to the being standing beside him.

But he stopped in the middle of the movement. With open mouth, he stared at the piece of paper, raising it nearer and nearer to his eyes.

But he stopped halfway through the movement. He stared at the piece of paper with his mouth open, bringing it closer and closer to his eyes.

Joh Fredersen, who was watching him, bent forward. He wanted to say something, to ask a question. But before he could open his lips Rotwang threw up his head and met Joh Fredersen’s glance with so green a fire in his eyes that the Master of the great Metropolis remained dumb.

Joh Fredersen watched him and leaned forward. He wanted to say something, to ask a question. But before he could speak, Rotwang threw up his head and met his gaze. The green fire in Rotwang’s eyes was so fierce that the Master of the great Metropolis fell silent.

Twice, three times did this green glow flash between the piece of paper and Joh Fredersen’s face. And during the whole time not a sound was perceptible in the room but the breath that gushed in heaves from Rotwang’s breast as though from a boiling, poisoned source.

Two, then three times, the green glow flashed between the piece of paper and Joh Fredersen’s face. All the while, the only sound in the room was Rotwang’s heaving breath. It poured from his chest as if from a boiling, poisoned source.

“Where did you get the plan?” the great inventor asked at last. Though it was less a question than an expression of astonished anger.

“Where did you get the plan?” the great inventor finally asked. But it sounded less like a question than an expression of astonished anger.

“That is not the point,” answered Joh Fredersen. “It is about this that I have come to you. There does not seem to be a soul in Metropolis who can make anything of it.”

“That’s not the point,” replied Joh Fredersen. “This is why I’ve come to you. No one in Metropolis seems able to make sense of it.”

Rotwang’s laughter interrupted him.

“Your poor scholars!” cried the laughter. “What a task you have set them, Joh Fredersen. How many hundredweights of printed paper have you forced them to heave over. I am sure there is no town on the globe, from the construction of the old Tower of Babel onward, which they have not snuffled through from North to South. Oh—if you could only smile, Parody! If only you already had eyes to wink at me. But laugh, at least, Parody! Laugh, rippingly, at the great scholars to whom the ground under their feet is foreign!”

“Your poor scholars!” cried the laughter. “What a task you've given them, Joh Fredersen. How many hundredweights of printed paper have you forced them to sift through? I'm sure they've poked through every town on the globe, from north to south. They must have searched every one built since the old Tower of Babel. Oh, if only you could smile, Parody! If only you already had eyes to wink at me. But at least laugh, Parody! Laugh uproariously at the great scholars who don't know the ground beneath their own feet!”

The being obeyed. It laughed, ripplingly.

The being obeyed. It laughed with a rippling sound.

“Then you know the plan, or what it represents?” asked Joh Fredersen, through the laughter.

“Then you know the plan, or what it represents?” Joh Fredersen asked through the laughter.

“Yes, by my poor soul, I know it,” answered Rotwang. “But, by my poor soul, I am not going to tell you what it is until you tell me where you got the plan.”

“Yes, I swear on my poor soul, I know it,” Rotwang answered. “But I swear on my poor soul, I won’t tell you what it is until you tell me where you got the plan.”

Joh Fredersen reflected. Rotwang did not take his gaze from him. “Do not try to lie to me, Joh Fredersen,” he said softly, and with a whimsical melancholy.

Joh Fredersen thought for a moment. Rotwang kept his eyes on him. “Don’t try to lie to me, Joh Fredersen,” he said softly, with a playful sadness.

“Somebody found the paper,” began Joh Fredersen.

“Somebody found the paper,” Joh Fredersen began.

“Who—somebody?”

“Who, somebody?”

“One of my foremen.”

“Grot?”

“Yes, Grot.”

“Where did he find the plan?”

“In the pocket of a workman who was killed in the accident to the Geyser machine.”

“In the pocket of a worker who was killed in the Geyser machine accident.”

“Grot brought you the paper?”

“Did Grot bring you the paper?”

“Yes.”

“And the meaning of the plan seemed to be unknown to him?”

“And he seemed not to know what the plan meant?”

Joh Fredersen hesitated a moment with the answer.

Joh Fredersen hesitated for a moment before answering.

“The meaning—yes; but not the plan. He told me he has often seen this paper in the workmen’s hands, and that they anxiously keep it a secret, and that the men will crowd closely around him who holds it.”

“The meaning, yes, but not the plan. He told me he has often seen this paper in the workers’ hands. They are anxious to keep it secret, and the men crowd closely around whoever holds it.”

“So the meaning of the plan has been kept secret from your foreman.”

“So your foreman has been kept in the dark about what the plan means.”

“So it seems, for he could not explain it to me.”

“So it seems, because he couldn't explain it to me.”

“H’m.”

“Hmm.”

Rotwang turned to the being which was standing near him, with the appearance of listening intently.

Rotwang turned to the being standing near him, which seemed to be listening intently.

“What do you say about it, my beautiful Parody?”

“What do you think about it, my beautiful Parody?”

The being stood motionless.

The being stood still.

“Well—?” said Joh Fredersen, with a sharp expression of impatience.

“Well?” said Joh Fredersen, looking sharply impatient.

Rotwang looked at him, jerkily turning his great skull towards him. The glorious eyes crept behind their lids as though wishing to have nothing in common with the strong white teeth and the jaws of the beast of prey. But from beneath the almost closed lids they gazed at Joh Fredersen, as though they sought in his face the door to the great brain.

Rotwang looked at him, turning his great skull toward him with a jerk. His glorious eyes slipped behind their lids. They seemed to want nothing to do with his strong white teeth and the jaws of a predator. But through his nearly closed lids, they stared at Joh Fredersen. They seemed to be searching his face for a door to his great brain.

“How can one bind you, Joh Fredersen,” he murmured, “what is a word to you—or an oath.... Oh God ... you with your own laws. What promise would you keep if the breaking of it seemed expedient to you?”

“How can anyone bind you to a promise, Joh Fredersen?” he murmured. “What does a word or an oath mean to you? Oh God ... you and your own laws. What promise would you keep if breaking it seemed useful to you?”

“Don’t talk rubbish, Rotwang,” said Joh Fredersen. “I shall hold my tongue because I still need you. I know quite well that the people whom we need are our solitary tyrants. So, if you know, speak.”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Rotwang,” said Joh Fredersen. “I’ll keep quiet because I still need you. I know very well that the people we need are the only tyrants over us. So, if you know, speak.”

Rotwang still hesitated; but gradually a smile took possession of his features—a good natured and mysterious smile, which was amusing itself at itself.

Rotwang still hesitated. But gradually, a good-natured, mysterious smile spread across his face, as if amused by itself.

“You are standing on the entrance,” he said.

“You’re standing on the entrance,” he said.

“What does that mean?”

“To be taken literally, Joh Fredersen! You are standing on the entrance.”

“I mean that literally, Joh Fredersen! You are standing on the entrance.”

“What entrance, Rotwang? You are wasting time that does not belong to you....”

“What entrance, Rotwang? You are wasting time that isn’t yours....”

The smile on Rotwang’s face deepened to serenity.

Rotwang’s smile grew serene.

“Do you recollect, Joh Fredersen, how obstinately I refused, that time, to let the underground railway be run under my house?”

“Do you remember, Joh Fredersen, how stubbornly I refused to let them run the subway under my house?”

“Indeed I do! I still know the sum the detour cost me, also!”

“Of course I do! I still know how much the detour cost me, too!”

“The secret was expensive, I admit, but it was worth it. Just take a look at the plan, Joh Fredersen, what is that?”

“The secret was expensive, I admit, but it was worth it. Just look at the plan, Joh Fredersen. What is that?”

“Perhaps a flight of stairs....”

“Quite certainly a flight of stairs. It is a very slovenly execution in the drawing as in reality....”

“Definitely a staircase. It is very poorly made, both in the drawing and in real life....”

“So you know them?”

“I have the honour, Joh Fredersen—yes. Now come two paces sideways. What is that?”

“Yes, Joh Fredersen, it’s an honor. Now take two steps to the side. What is that?”

He had taken Joh Fredersen by the arm. He felt the fingers of the artificial hand pressing into his muscles like the claws of a bird of prey. With the right one Rotwang indicated the spot upon which Joh Fredersen had stood.

He had taken Joh Fredersen by the arm. Joh felt the fingers of the artificial hand press into his muscles like a bird of prey’s claws. With his right hand, Rotwang pointed to the spot where Joh Fredersen had stood.

“What is that?” he asked, shaking the hand which he held in his grip.

“What is that?” he asked, shaking the hand he was gripping.

Joh Fredersen bent down. He straightened himself up again.

Joh Fredersen bent down. Then he straightened up again.

“A door?”

“Right, Joh Fredersen! A door! A perfectly fitting and well shutting door. The man who built this house was an orderly and careful person. Only once did he omit to give heed, and then he had to pay for it. He went down the stairs which are under the door, followed the careless steps and passages which are connected with them, and never found his way back. It is not easy to find, for those who lodged there did not care to have strangers penetrate into their domain.... I found my inquisitive predecessor, Joh Fredersen, and recognised him at once—by his pointed red shoes, which have preserved themselves wonderfully. As a corpse he looked peaceful and Christian-like, both of which he certainly was not in his life. The companions of his last hours probably contributed considerably to the conversion of the erstwhile devil’s disciple....”

“Right, Joh Fredersen! A door! A door that fits perfectly and closes tightly. The man who built this house was orderly and careful. Only once did he fail to pay attention, and he paid for it. He went down the stairs beneath the door. He followed the twisting steps and passages connected to them, and never found his way back. The way back is not easy to find. The people who lived there did not want strangers entering their domain.... I found my curious predecessor, Joh Fredersen, and recognized him at once by his pointed red shoes. They have been wonderfully preserved. His corpse looked peaceful and Christian, though he was certainly neither in life. His companions in his final hours probably did much to convert the former disciple of the devil....”

He tapped with his right forefinger upon a maze of crosses in the centre of the plan.

He tapped his right index finger on a maze of crosses in the center of the plan.

“Here he lies. Just on this spot. His skull must have enclosed a brain which was worthy of your own, Joh Fredersen, and he had to perish because he once lost his way.... What a pity for him....”

“Here he lies. Right on this spot. His brain must have been worthy of yours, Joh Fredersen. And he had to die because he once lost his way.... What a pity for him....”

“Where did he lose his way?” asked Joh Fredersen.

Rotwang looked long at him before speaking.

Rotwang looked at him for a long time before speaking.

“In the city of graves, over which Metropolis stands,” he answered at last. “Deep below the moles’ tunnels of your underground railway, Joh Fredersen, lies the thousand-year-old Metropolis of the thousand-year-old dead....”

“In the city of graves beneath Metropolis,” he finally answered. “Deep below the mole tunnels of your underground railway, Joh Fredersen, lies the thousand-year-old Metropolis of the thousand-year-old dead....”

Joh Fredersen was silent. His left eyebrow rose, while his eyes narrowed. He fixed his gaze upon Rotwang, who had not taken his eyes from him.

Joh Fredersen said nothing. His left eyebrow rose as his eyes narrowed. He stared at Rotwang, who had not looked away from him.

“What is the plan of this city of graves doing in the hands and pockets of my workmen?”

“Why do my workers have a map of this city of graves in their hands and pockets?”

“That is yet to be discovered,” answered Rotwang.

“That remains to be discovered,” Rotwang replied.

“Will you help me?”

“Yes.”

“To-night?”

“Tonight?”

“Very well.”

“All right.”

“I shall come back after the changing of the shift.”

“I’ll come back after the shift change.”

“Do so, Joh Fredersen. And if you take some good advice....”

“Do that, Joh Fredersen. And if you take some good advice....”

“Well?”

“Come in the uniform of your workmen, when you come back!”

“When you come back, wear your workers’ uniform!”

Joh Fredersen raised his head but the great inventor did not let him speak. He raised his hand as one calling for and admonishing to silence.

Joh Fredersen raised his head, but the great inventor did not let him speak. The inventor raised his hand, calling for silence and warning him to keep quiet.

“The skull of the man in the red shoes also enclosed a powerful brain, Joh Fredersen, but nevertheless, he could not find his way homewards from those who dwell down there....”

“The man in the red shoes also had a powerful brain, Joh Fredersen. But even so, he could not find his way home from those who live down there....”

Joh Fredersen reflected. He nodded and turned to go.

Joh Fredersen thought for a moment. He nodded and turned to leave.

“Be courteous, my beautiful Parody,” said Rotwang. “Open the doors for the Master over the great Metropolis.”

“Be polite, my beautiful Parody,” said Rotwang. “Open the doors for the Master of the great Metropolis.”

The being glided past Joh Fredersen. He felt the breath of coldness which came forth from it. He saw the silent laughter between the half-open lips of Rotwang, the great inventor. He turned pale with rage, but he remained silent.

The being glided past Joh Fredersen. He felt the cold breath coming from it. He saw Rotwang, the great inventor, laughing silently through half-open lips. He turned pale with rage, but he said nothing.

The being stretched out the transparent hand in which the bones shone silver, and, touching it with its finger-tips, moved the seal of Solomon, which glowed copperish.

The being stretched out its transparent hand, its bones shining silver. It touched the coppery glow of the seal of Solomon with its fingertips and moved it.

The door yielded back. Joh Fredersen went out after the being, which stepped downstairs before him.

The door swung open. Joh Fredersen went out after the being, which walked down the stairs ahead of him.

There was no light on the stairs, nor in the narrow passage. But a shimmer came from the being no stronger than that of a green-burning candle, yet strong enough to lighten up the stairs and the black walls.

There was no light on the stairs or in the narrow passage. But the being gave off a glow no stronger than a green-burning candle. It was still strong enough to light the stairs and the black walls.

At the house-door the being stopped still and waited for Joh Fredersen, who was walking slowly along behind it. The house-door opened before him, but not far enough for him to pass out through the opening.

At the front door, the being stopped and waited for Joh Fredersen, who was walking slowly behind it. The door opened in front of him, but not wide enough for him to pass through.

The eyes stared at him from the mass-head of the being, eyes as though painted on closed lids, with the expression of calm madness.

Eyes stared at him from the being's mass-head. They looked as if they were painted on closed eyelids, with an expression of calm madness.

“Be courteous, my beautiful Parody,” said a soft, far-off voice, which sounded as though the house were talking in its sleep.

“Be polite, my beautiful Parody,” said a soft, distant voice. It sounded as if the house were talking in its sleep.

The being bowed. It stretched out a hand—a graceful skeleton hand. Transparent skin was stretched over the slender joints, which gleamed beneath it like dull silver. Fingers, snow-white and fleshless, opened like the petals of a crystal lily.

The being bowed. It held out a graceful, skeletal hand. Transparent skin stretched over its slender joints, which gleamed like dull silver beneath it. Snow-white, fleshless fingers opened like the petals of a crystal lily.

Joh Fredersen laid his hand in it, feeling it, in the moment of contact, to be burnt by an unbearable coldness. He wanted to push the being away from him but the silver-crystal fingers held him fast.

Joh Fredersen placed his hand in it. At the touch, he felt burned by an unbearable cold. He wanted to push the being away, but its silver-crystal fingers held him fast.

“Good-bye, Joh Fredersen,” said the mass head, in a voice full of a horrible tenderness. “Give me a face soon, Joh Fredersen!”

“Goodbye, Joh Fredersen,” said the mass head, its voice full of horrible tenderness. “Give me a face soon, Joh Fredersen!”

A soft far-off voice laughed, as if the house were laughing in its sleep.

A soft voice laughed in the distance, as if the house were laughing in its sleep.

The hand let go, the door opened, Joh Fredersen reeled into the street.

The hand let go. The door opened, and Joh Fredersen staggered into the street.

The door closed behind him. In the gloomy wood of the door glowed, copper-red, the seal of Solomon, the pentagram.

The door closed behind him. On its dark wood, the seal of Solomon, the pentagram, glowed copper-red.

When Joh Fredersen was about to enter the brain-pan of the New Tower of Babel Slim stood before him, seeming to be slimmer than ever.

As Joh Fredersen was about to enter the brain of the New Tower of Babel, Slim stood before him. Slim seemed slimmer than ever.

“What is it?” asked Joh Fredersen.

Slim made to speak but at the sight of his master the words died on his lips.

Slim started to speak, but when he saw his master, the words died on his lips.

“Well—?” said Joh Fredersen, between his teeth.

“Well?” Joh Fredersen said through clenched teeth.

Slim breathed deeply.

Slim took a deep breath.

“I must inform you, Mr. Fredersen,” he said, “that, since your son left this room, he has disappeared!”

“I have to tell you, Mr. Fredersen,” he said, “your son has disappeared since he left this room!”

“What does that mean? ... disappeared!”

“He has not gone home, and none of our men has seen him....”

“He hasn't gone home, and none of our men have seen him....”

Joh Fredersen screwed up his mouth.

Joh Fredersen pursed his lips.

“Look for him!” he said hoarsely. “What are you all here for? Look for him!”

He entered the brain-pan of the New Tower of Babel. His first glance fell upon the clock. He stepped to the table and stretched out his hand to the little blue metal plate.

He entered the brain of the New Tower of Babel. He looked first at the clock. Then he stepped to the table and reached for the little blue metal plate.