Chapter 8

23 min

Freder walked up the steps of the cathedral hesitatingly; he was walking up them for the first time. Hel, his mother, used often to go to the cathedral. But her son had never yet done so. Now he longed to see it with his mother’s eyes and to hear with the ears of Hel, his mother, the stony prayer of the pillars, each of which had its own particular voice.

Freder hesitated as he climbed the cathedral steps. It was his first time there. His mother, Hel, had often gone to the cathedral. But her son had never been there before. Now he longed to see it through his mother’s eyes. He wanted to hear, as Hel had heard, the stone prayer of the pillars, each with its own voice.

He entered the cathedral as a child, not pious, yet not entirely free from shyness—prepared for reverence, but fearless. He heard, as Hel, his mother, the Kyrie Eleison of the stones and the Te Deum Laudamus—the De Profundis and the Jubilate. And he heard, as his mother, how the powerfully ringing stone chair was crowned by the Amen of the cross vault....

He entered the cathedral like a child. He was not religious, yet he was a little shy, ready to feel reverence but unafraid. Like his mother, Hel, he heard the stones’ Kyrie Eleison and Te Deum Laudamus, their De Profundis and Jubilate. And like his mother, he heard how the Amen of the cross vault crowned the powerfully ringing stone chair....

He looked for Maria, who was to have waited for him on the belfry steps; but he could not find her. He wandered through the cathedral, which seemed to be quite empty of people. Once he stopped. He was standing opposite Death.

He looked for Maria, who was supposed to wait for him on the bell tower steps, but he could not find her. He wandered through the cathedral, which seemed completely empty. At one point, he stopped. He was standing opposite Death.

The ghostly minstrel stood in a side-niche, carved in wood, in hat and wide cloak, scythe on shoulder, the hour-glass dangling from his girdle; and the minstrel was playing on a bone as though on a flute. The Seven Deadly Sins were his following.

The ghostly minstrel stood in a niche to one side, carved from wood. He wore a hat and a wide cloak. A scythe rested on his shoulder, and an hourglass hung from his belt. He played a bone as if it were a flute. The Seven Deadly Sins followed him.

Freder looked Death in the face. Then he said:

“If you had come earlier you would not have frightened me.... Now I pray you: Keep away from me and my beloved!”

“If you had come earlier, you wouldn't have frightened me.... Now I beg you: Stay away from me and my beloved!”

But the awful flute-player seemed to be listening to nothing but the song he was playing upon a bone.

But the terrible flute player seemed to hear nothing except the song he was playing on a bone.

Freder walked on. He came to the central nave. Before the high altar, over which hovered God Incarnate, a dark form lay stretched out upon the stones, hands clutching out to each side, face pressed into the coldness of the stone, as though the blocks must burst asunder under the pressure of the brow. The form wore the garment of a monk, the head was shaven. An incessant trembling shook the lean body from shoulder to heel, and it seemed to be stiffened as though in a cramp.

Freder walked on and came to the central nave. A dark figure lay stretched out on the stone floor before the high altar, above which hovered God Incarnate. Its hands reached out to either side, and its face was pressed against the cold stone. It seemed as though the blocks must burst apart under the pressure of its forehead. The figure wore a monk’s robe, and its head was shaved. Its lean body trembled constantly from shoulder to heel and seemed stiff with cramp.

But suddenly the body reared up. A white flame sprang up: a face; black flames within it: two blazing eyes. A hand rose up, clutching high in the air towards the crucifix which hovered above the altar.

But suddenly the body rose up. A white flame appeared: a face. Black flames burned within it: two blazing eyes. A hand rose, reaching high toward the crucifix that hovered above the altar.

A voice spoke, like the voice of fire:

“I will not let thee go, God, God, except thou bless me!”

“I will not let you go, God, God, unless you bless me!”

The echo of the pillars yelled the words after him.

The words echoed among the pillars, shouting after him.

The son of Joh Fredersen had never seen the man before. He knew, however, as soon as the flame-white face unveiled the black flames of its eyes to him: it was Desertus the monk, his father’s enemy....

Joh Fredersen’s son had never seen the man before. But as soon as the man’s flame-white face revealed his black, flaming eyes, he knew. It was Desertus the monk, his father’s enemy....

Perhaps his breath had become too loud. Suddenly the black flame struck across at him. The monk arose slowly. He did not say a word. He stretched out his hand. The hand indicated the door.

Perhaps his breathing had become too loud. Suddenly, the black flame flashed toward him. The monk slowly stood up. He said nothing. He stretched out his hand and pointed to the door.

“Why do you send me away, Desertus?” asked Freder. “Is not the house of your God open to all?”

“Why are you sending me away, Desertus?” Freder asked. “Isn't your God's house open to everyone?”

“Hast thou come here to seek God?” asked the rough, hoarse voice of the monk.

“Have you come here to seek God?” asked the monk in a rough, hoarse voice.

Freder hesitated. He dropped his head.

Freder hesitated. He lowered his head.

“No.” He answered. But his heart knew better.

“No,” he answered. But his heart knew better.

“If thou hast not come to seek God, then thou hast nothing to seek here,” said the monk.

“If you haven't come to seek God, then you have nothing to seek here,” said the monk.

Then Joh Fredersen’s son went.

He went out of the cathedral as one walking in his sleep. The daylight smote his eyes cruelly. Racked with weariness, worn out with grief, he walked down the steps, and aimlessly onwards.

He left the cathedral as if he were sleepwalking. The daylight struck his eyes cruelly. Exhausted and worn out with grief, he walked down the steps and wandered on without direction.

The roar of the streets wrapped itself, as a diver’s helmet, about his ears. He walked on in his stupefaction, as though between thick glass walls. He had no thought apart from the name of his beloved, no consciousness apart from his longing for her. Shivering with weariness, he thought of the girl’s eyes and lips, with a feeling very like homesickness.

The roar of the streets surrounded his ears like a diver’s helmet. He walked on, dazed, as though between thick glass walls. He thought of nothing but his beloved’s name and felt nothing but his longing for her. Shivering with exhaustion, he thought of the girl’s eyes and lips. The feeling was very much like homesickness.

Ah!—brow to brow with her—then mouth to mouth—eyes closed—breathing....

Ah! Forehead to forehead with her, then mouth to mouth, eyes closed, breathing....

Peace.... Peace....

“Come,” said his heart. “Why do you leave me alone?”

“Come,” his heart said. “Why are you leaving me alone?”

He walked along in a stream of people, fighting down the mad desire to stop amid this stream and to ask every single wave, which was a human being, if it knew of Maria’s whereabouts, and why she had let him wait in vain.

He walked along in a stream of people, fighting the mad urge to stop and ask every wave in that stream, every person, if they knew where Maria was and why she had made him wait in vain.

He came to the magician’s house. There he stopped.

He came to the magician’s house and stopped there.

He stared at a window.

Was he mad?

There was Maria, standing behind the dull panes. Those were her blessed hands, stretched out towards him ... a dumb cry: “Help me—!”

There was Maria, standing behind the cloudy windowpanes. Her blessed hands reached out toward him ... a silent cry: “Help me!”

Then the entire vision was drawn away, swallowed up by the blackness of the room behind it, vanishing, not leaving a trace, as though it had never been. Dumb, dead and evil stood the house of the magician there.

Then the whole vision was drawn away, swallowed by the darkness of the room behind it. It vanished without a trace, as if it had never existed. The magician's house stood there, silent, dead, and evil.

Freder stood motionless. He drew a deep, deep breath. Then he made a leap. He stood before the door of the house.

Freder stood still. He took a deep, deep breath. Then he leaped. He stood in front of the house's door.

Copper-red, in the black wood of the door, glowed the seal of Solomon, the pentagram.

The seal of Solomon, the pentagram, glowed copper-red in the black wood of the door.

Freder knocked.

Nothing in the house stirred.

Nothing in the house moved.

He knocked for the second time.

He knocked a second time.

The house remained dull and obstinate.

The house remained dull and stubborn.

He stepped back and looked up at the windows.

They looked out in their evil gloom, over and beyond him.

They looked out from their sinister gloom, past him and into the distance.

He went to the door again. He beat against it with his fists. He heard the echo of his drumming blows shake the house, as in dull laughter.

He went back to the door. He pounded on it with his fists. He heard his pounding echo through the house, shaking it like dull laughter.

But the copper Solomon’s seal grinned at him from the unshaken door.

But the copper Solomon’s seal grinned at him from the door, which had not budged.

He stood still for a moment. His temples throbbed. He felt absolutely helpless and was as near crying as swearing.

He stood still for a moment. His temples throbbed. He felt completely helpless and was as close to crying as he was to swearing.

Then he heard a voice—the voice of his beloved.

Then he heard a voice. It was the voice of the one he loved.

“Freder—!” and once more: “Freder—!”

“Freder!” and again: “Freder!”

He saw blood before his eyes. He made to throw himself with the full weight of his shoulders against the door....

He saw blood before his eyes. He started to throw his full weight against the door with his shoulders....

But in that same moment the door opened noiselessly. It swung back in ghostly silence, leaving the way into the house absolutely free.

But at that same moment, the door opened without a sound. It swung back in ghostly silence, leaving the way into the house completely clear.

That was so unexpected and alarming that, in the midst of the swing which was to have thrown him against the door, Freder caught both his hands against the door-posts, and stood fixed there. He buried his teeth in his lips. The heart of the house was as black as midnight....

That was so unexpected and frightening that Freder stopped himself as he swung toward the door. He grabbed both sides of the doorframe and stood frozen. He bit his lips. The heart of the house was as black as midnight....

But the voice of Maria called to him from the heart of the house: “Freder—! Freder—!”

But Maria’s voice called to him from the heart of the house: “Freder! Freder!”

He ran into the house as though he had gone blind. The door fell to behind him. He stood in blackness. He called. He received no answer. He saw nothing. He groped. He felt walls—endless walls.... Steps.... He climbed up the steps....

He ran into the house as if he had gone blind. The door closed behind him. He stood in darkness. He called out. No one answered. He could see nothing. He felt his way around. He felt walls, endless walls.... Steps.... He climbed the steps....

A pale redness swam about him like the reflection of a distant gloomy fire.

A pale red glow drifted around him, like the reflection of a distant, gloomy fire.

Suddenly—he stopped still, clawing his hand into the stonework behind him—a sound was coming out of the nothingness: The weeping of a woman sorrowing, sorrowing unto death.

Suddenly, he stopped, clawing at the stonework behind him. A sound was coming out of the nothingness: a woman weeping, grieving to the point of death.

It was not very loud, but yet it was as if the source of all lamentation were streaming out of it. It was as though the house were weeping—as though every stone in the wall were a sobbing mouth, set free from eternal dumbness, once and once only, to mourn an everlasting agony.

It was not very loud, but it was as if the source of all sorrow were pouring out of it. It was as though the house were weeping. Every stone in the wall seemed like a sobbing mouth, freed just once from eternal silence to mourn an endless agony.

Freder shouted—he was fully aware that he was only shouting in order not to hear the weeping any more.

Freder shouted. He knew he was shouting only to keep from hearing the weeping.

“Maria—Maria—Maria—!”

“Maria, Maria, Maria!”

His voice was clear and wild as an oath: “I am coming!”

He ran up the stairs. He reached the top of the stairs. A passage, scarcely lighted. Twelve doors opened out here.

He ran up the stairs. At the top was a dimly lit passage. Twelve doors opened onto it.

In the wood of each of these doors glowed, copper-red, the seal of Solomon, the pentagram.

The seal of Solomon, the pentagram, glowed copper-red in the wood of each door.

He sprang to the first one. Before he had touched it it swung noiselessly open before him. Emptiness lay behind it. The room was quite bare.

He rushed to the first one. Before he touched it, it swung open silently. There was nothing behind it. The room was completely bare.

The second door. The same.

The third. The fourth. They swung open before him as though his breath had blown them off the latch.

The third. The fourth. They swung open before him as if his breath had blown them off their latches.

Freder stood still. He screwed his head down between his shoulders. He raised his arm and wiped it across his forehead. He looked around him. The open doors stood agape. The mournful weeping ceased. All was quite silent.

Freder stood still. He hunched his head between his shoulders. He raised his arm and wiped his forehead with it. He looked around. The doors stood wide open. The mournful weeping stopped. Everything was silent.

But out of the silence there came a voice, soft and sweet, and more tender than a kiss....

But out of the silence came a voice, soft and sweet, more tender than a kiss....

“Come...! Do come...! I am here, dearest...!”

“Come...! Please come...! I’m here, darling...!”

Freder did not stir. He knew the voice quite well. It was Maria’s voice, which he so loved. And yet it was a strange voice. Nothing in the world could be sweeter than the tone of this soft allurement—and nothing in the world has ever been so filled to overflowing with a dark, deadly wickedness.

Freder did not move. He knew the voice well. It was Maria’s voice, which he loved so much. And yet it sounded strange. Nothing in the world could be sweeter than its soft, seductive tone. Yet nothing in the world had ever been so full of dark, deadly wickedness.

Freder felt the drops upon his forehead.

Freder felt the drops on his forehead.

“Who are you?” he asked expressionlessly.

“Who are you?” he asked without expression.

“Don’t you know me?”

“Who are you?”

“... Maria....”

“You are not Maria....”

“Freder—!” mourned the voice—Maria’s voice.

“Freder!” the voice cried mournfully. It was Maria’s voice.

“Do you want me to lose my reason?” said Freder, between his teeth. “Why don’t you come to me?”

“Do you want me to lose my mind?” Freder said through clenched teeth. “Why don’t you come to me?”

“I can’t come, beloved....”

“I can’t come, my love....”

“Where are you?”

“Look for me!” said the sweetly alluring, the deadly wicked voice, laughing softly.

“Look for me!” said the sweetly seductive, wicked voice, laughing softly.

But through the laughter there sounded another voice—being also Maria’s voice, sick with fear and horror.

But through the laughter came another voice. It was also Maria’s voice, sick with fear and horror.

“Freder ... help me, Freder.... I do not know what is being done to me.... But what is being done is worse than murder.... My eyes are on....”

“Freder ... help me, Freder.... I don't know what they're doing to me.... But it's worse than murder.... My eyes are on....”

Suddenly, as though cut off, her voice choked. But the other voice—which was also Maria’s voice, laughed, sweetly, alluringly, on:

Suddenly, her voice choked, as if cut off. But the other voice, which was also Maria’s, kept laughing sweetly and alluringly:

“Look for me, beloved!”

“Look for me, my love!”

Freder began to run. Senselessly and unreasoningly, he began to run. Along walls, by open doors, upstairs, downstairs, from twilight into darkness, drawn on by the cones of light, which would suddenly flame up before him, then dazzled and plunged again into a hellish darkness.

Freder began to run. He ran blindly, without thinking. He ran along walls, past open doors, up and down stairs, from dim light into darkness. Beams of light suddenly flared up ahead of him and drew him on. Then he was dazzled and plunged back into hellish darkness.

He ran like a blind animal, groaning aloud. He found that he was running in a circle, always upon his own tracks, but he could not get free of it, could not get out of the cursed circle. He ran in the purple mist of his own blood, which filled his eyes and ears, heard the breaker of his blood dash against his brain, heard high above, like the singing of birds, the sweetly, deadly wicked laugh of Maria....

He ran like a blind animal, groaning aloud. He realized he was running in a circle, always following his own tracks. But he could not break free of the cursed circle. He ran through the purple mist of his own blood, which filled his eyes and ears. He heard his blood crash against his brain like a wave. High above, he heard Maria's sweet, deadly wicked laugh, like the singing of birds....

“Look for me, beloved!... I am here!... I am here!...”

“Look for me, my love! I am here! I am here!”

At last he fell. His knees collided against something which was in the way of their blindness; he stumbled and fell. He felt stones under his hands, cool, hard stones, cut in even squares. His whole body, beaten and racked, rested upon the cool hardness of these blocks. He rolled over on his back. He pushed himself up, collapsed again violently, and lay upon the floor. A suffocating blanket sank downwards. His consciousness yielded up, as though drowned....

At last he fell. Unable to see, he struck his knees against something in his path. He stumbled and fell. Beneath his hands, he felt cool, hard stones, cut into even squares. His whole body, battered and aching, rested on the cool, hard blocks. He rolled onto his back. He pushed himself up, then fell hard again and lay on the floor. A suffocating blanket descended over him. His consciousness slipped away, as if drowning....

Rotwang had seen him fall. He waited attentively and vigilantly to see if this young wildling, the son of Joh Fredersen and Hel, had had enough at last, or if he would pull himself together once more for the fight against nothing.

Rotwang had seen him fall. He watched closely to see if the young wildling had finally had enough. The young man was the son of Joh Fredersen and Hel. Or would he pull himself together once more to fight against nothing?

But it appeared that he had had enough. He lay remarkably still. He was not even breathing now. He was like a corpse.

But it seemed he had had enough. He lay remarkably still. He was not even breathing now. He was like a corpse.

The great inventor left his listening post. He passed through the dark house on soundless soles. He opened a door and entered a room. He closed the door and remained standing on the threshold. With an expectation that was fully aware of its pointlessness, he looked at the girl who was the occupant of the room.

The great inventor left his listening post. He walked silently through the dark house. He opened a door and entered a room. He closed the door and stood in the doorway. He looked at the girl in the room with expectation, though he knew it was pointless.

He found her as he always found her. In the farthest corner of the room, on a high, narrow chair, hands laid, right and left, upon the arms of the chair, sitting stiffly upright, with eyes which appeared to be lidless. Nothing about her was living apart from these eyes. The glorious mouth, still glorious in its pallor, seemed to enclose within it the unpronounceable. She did not look at the man—she looked over and beyond him.

He found her as he always did. She sat in the farthest corner of the room, on a high, narrow chair. Her hands rested on its arms, and she sat stiffly upright, her eyes seeming to have no lids. Nothing about her seemed alive except her eyes. Her beautiful mouth, still beautiful despite its paleness, seemed to hold something that could not be spoken. She did not look at the man. She looked over and beyond him.

Rotwang stooped forward. He came nearer to her. Only his hands, his lonely hands groped through the air, as though they wanted to close around Maria’s countenance. His eyes, his lonely eyes, enveloped Maria’s countenance.

Rotwang leaned forward. He came closer to her. Only his hands, his lonely hands, groped through the air, as if they wanted to close around Maria’s face. His eyes, his lonely eyes, enveloped Maria’s face.

“Won’t you smile just once?” he asked. “Won’t you cry just once? I need them both—your smile and your tears.... Your image, Maria, just as you are now, is burnt into my retina, never to be lost.... I could take a diploma in your horror and in your rigidity. The bitter expression of contempt about your mouth is every bit as familiar to me as the haughtiness of your eyebrows and your temples. But I need your smile and your tears, Maria. Or you will make me bungle my work....”

“Won’t you smile just once?” he asked. “Won’t you cry just once? I need both your smile and your tears.... Maria, your image as you are now is burned into my retina. It will never fade.... I know your horror and your stiffness well enough to earn a diploma in them. I know the bitter contempt around your mouth as well as the pride in your eyebrows and temples. But I need your smile and your tears, Maria. Otherwise, you’ll make me botch my work....”

He seemed to have spoken to the deaf air. The girl sat dumb, looking over and beyond him.

It was as if he had spoken to empty air. The girl sat silent, looking past him.

Rotwang took a chair; he sat down astride it, crossed his arms over the back and looked at the girl. He laughed gloomily.

Rotwang took a chair and sat on it backward. He crossed his arms over the back and looked at the girl. He laughed gloomily.

“You two poor children!” he said, “to have dared to pit yourselves against Joh Fredersen! Nobody can reproach you for it; you do not know him and do not know what you are doing. But the son should know the father. I do not believe that there is one man who can boast ever having got the better of Joh Fredersen. You could more easily bend to your will the inscrutable God, who is said to rule the world, than Joh Fredersen....”

“You two poor children!” he said. “You dared to take on Joh Fredersen! Nobody can blame you for it. You do not know him or what you are doing. But a son should know his father. I do not believe any man can boast that he has ever beaten Joh Fredersen. You could more easily bend the mysterious God, who is said to rule the world, to your will than Joh Fredersen....”

The girl sat like a statue, immovable.

The girl sat still as a statue, unable to move.

“What will you do, Maria, if Joh Fredersen takes you and your love so seriously that he comes to you and says: ‘Give me back my son!’”

The girl sat like a statue, immovable.

The girl sat perfectly still, like a statue.

“He will ask you: ‘Of what value is my son to you?’ and if you are wise you will answer him: ‘Of no more and of no less value than he is to you!...’ He will pay the price, and it will be a high price, for Joh Fredersen has only one son....”

“He will ask you: ‘How much is my son worth to you?’ If you are wise, you will answer: ‘No more and no less than he is worth to you!...’ He will pay the price. And it will be a high price, because Joh Fredersen has only one son....”

The girl sat like a statue, immovable.

The girl sat motionless, like a statue.

“What do you know of Freder’s heart?” continued the man. “He is as young as the morning at sunrise. This heart of the young morning is yours. Where will it be at midday? And where at evening? Far away from you, Maria—far, far, away. The world is very large and the earth is very fair.... His father will send him around the world. Out over the beautiful earth he will forget you, Maria, before the clock of his heart is at midday.”

“What do you know about Freder’s heart?” the man continued. “He is as young as the morning at sunrise. This heart of the young morning is yours. Where will it be at midday? And where will it be in the evening? Far away from you, Maria, far, far away. The world is very large, and the earth is very beautiful.... His father will send him around the world. As he travels across the beautiful earth, he will forget you, Maria, before the clock of his heart reaches midday.”

The girl sat like a statue, immovable. But around her pale mouth, which was like the bud of a snowrose, a smile began to bloom—a smile of such sweetness, of such depths, that it seemed as though the air about the girl must begin to beam.

The girl sat motionless, like a statue. But a smile began to bloom around her pale mouth, which was like a snowrose bud. The smile was so sweet and deep that it seemed the air around her must begin to glow.

The man looked at the girl. His lonely eyes were starved and parched as the desert which does not know the dew. In a hoarse voice he went on:

The man looked at the girl. His lonely eyes were hungry and dry as a desert that never knows dew. He continued in a hoarse voice:

“Where do you get your sainted confidence from? Do you believe that you are Freder’s first love? Have you forgotten the ‘Club of the Sons,’ Maria? There are a hundred women there—and all are his! These loving little women could all tell you about Freder’s love, for they know more about it than you do, and you have only one advantage over them: You can weep when he leaves you; for they are not allowed to weep.... When Joh Fredersen’s son celebrates his marriage it will be as though all Metropolis celebrated its marriage. When?—Joh Fredersen will decide that.... With whom?—Joh Fredersen will decide that.... But you will not be the bride, Maria! The son of Joh Fredersen will have forgotten you by the day of his wedding.”

“Where does your holy confidence come from? Do you think you’re Freder’s first love? Have you forgotten the ‘Club of the Sons,’ Maria? There are a hundred women there, and they all belong to him! Those loving little women could all tell you about Freder’s love. They know more about it than you do. You have only one advantage over them: You can cry when he leaves you. They’re not allowed to cry.... When Joh Fredersen’s son gets married, it will be as if all of Metropolis were celebrating its own marriage. When will it happen? Joh Fredersen will decide that.... Who will the bride be? Joh Fredersen will decide that.... But you won’t be the bride, Maria! Joh Fredersen’s son will have forgotten you by his wedding day.”

“Never!” said the girl. “Never—never!”

“Never!” said the girl. “Never, never!”

And the painless tears of a great, true love fell upon the beauty of her smile.

And the painless tears of a great, true love fell on her beautiful smile.

The man got up. He stood still before the girl. He looked at her. He turned away. As he was crossing the threshold of the next room his shoulder fell against the door-post.

The man got up. He stood still in front of the girl. He looked at her. He turned away. As he crossed into the next room, his shoulder hit the doorframe.

He slammed the door to. He stared straight ahead. He looked on the being—his creature of glass and metal—which bore the almost completed head of Maria.

He slammed the door shut. He stared straight ahead at the being, his creature of glass and metal. It had Maria's nearly completed head.

His hands moved towards the head, and, the nearer they came to it, the more did it appear as if these hands, these lonely hands, wished not to create but to destroy.

His hands moved toward the head. The closer they came, the more those lonely hands seemed to want to destroy rather than create.

“We are bunglers, Futura!” he said. “Bunglers!—Bunglers! Can I give you the smile which you make angels fall gladly down to hell? Can I give you the tears which would redeem the chiefest Satan, and make him beatify?—Parody is your name! And Bungler is mine!”

“We are bunglers, Futura!” he said. “Bunglers! Bunglers! Can I give you a smile that would make angels gladly fall into hell? Can I give you tears that would redeem the greatest Satan and make him blessed? Your name is Parody! And mine is Bungler!”

Shining cool and lustrous, the being stood there and looked at its creator with its baffling eyes. And, as he laid his hands on its shoulders, its fine structure tinkled in mysterious laughter....

The being stood there, shining cool and bright. It looked at its creator with puzzling eyes. As he placed his hands on its shoulders, its delicate structure tinkled with mysterious laughter....

Freder, on recovering, found himself surrounded by a dull brightness. It came from a window, in the frame of which stood a pale, grey sky. The window was small and gave the impression that it had not been opened for centuries.

When Freder recovered, he found himself surrounded by a dull light. It came from a window, which framed a pale, grey sky. The window was small and looked as if it had not been opened for centuries.

Freder’s eyes wandered through the room. Nothing that he saw penetrated into his consciousness. He remembered nothing. He lay, his back resting on stones which were cold and smooth. All his limbs and joints were racked by a dull pain.

Freder’s eyes wandered around the room. Nothing he saw registered. He remembered nothing. He lay with his back against cold, smooth stones. All his limbs and joints ached dully.

He turned his head to one side. He looked at his hands which lay beside him as though not belonging to him, thrown away, bled white.

He turned his head to one side. He looked at his hands lying beside him, pale as if drained of blood. They looked as though they did not belong to him, as though they had been thrown away.

Knuckles knocked raw ... shreds of skin ... brownish crusts ... were these his hands?

Knuckles scraped raw ... scraps of skin ... brownish scabs ... were these his hands?

He stared at the ceiling. It was black, as if charred. He stared at the walls; grey, cold walls....

He stared at the ceiling. It was black, as if charred. He stared at the walls. They were gray and cold....

Where was he—? He was tortured by thirst and a ravenous hunger. But worse than the hunger and thirst was the weariness which longed for sleep and which could not find it.

Where was he? He was tortured by thirst and hunger. But worse than either was his exhaustion. He longed to sleep, but could not.

Maria occurred to him....

He thought of Maria....

Maria?... Maria—?

Maria?... Maria?

He jerked himself up and stood on sawn-through ankles. His eyes sought for doors: There was one door. He stumbled up to it. The door was closed, was latchless, would not open.

He jerked himself up and stood on ankles that felt sawn through. His eyes searched for a way out. There was one door. He stumbled toward it. The door was closed. It had no latch and would not open.

His brain commanded him: Don’t be surprised at anything.... Don’t let anything startle you.... Think....

His brain ordered him: Don’t be surprised by anything.... Don’t let anything startle you.... Think....

Over there, there was a window. It had no frame. It was a pane of glass set into stone. The street lay before it—one of the great streets of the great Metropolis, seething with human beings.

Over there was a window. It had no frame. It was a pane of glass set into stone. Outside was one of the great streets of the great Metropolis, teeming with people.

The glass window-pane must be very thick. Not the least sound entered the room in which Freder was captive, though the street was so near.

The window glass must be very thick. Not a single sound reached the room where Freder was held captive, though the street was so close.

Freder’s hands fumbled across the pane. A penetrating coldness streamed out of the glass, the smoothness of which was reminiscent of the sucking sharpness of a steel blade. Freder’s finger tips glided towards the setting of the pane ... and remained, crooked, hanging in the air, as though bewitched. He saw: Down there, below, Maria was crossing the street....

Freder’s hands fumbled across the pane. A piercing cold streamed from the glass. Its smoothness reminded him of the drawing sharpness of a steel blade. Freder’s fingertips glided toward the edge of the pane ... then hung in the air, curled, as if bewitched. He saw Maria crossing the street below....

Leaving the house which held him captive, she turned her back on him and walked with light, hurried step towards the Maelstrom, which the street was....

She left the house where he was held captive and turned her back on him. With light, hurried steps, she headed toward the Maelstrom of the street....

Freder’s fists smote against the pane. He cried the girl’s name. He yelled: “Maria...!” She must hear him. It was impossible that she did not hear him. Regardless of his raw knuckles he banged with his fists against the pane.

Freder pounded his fists against the windowpane. He cried out the girl’s name. He yelled: “Maria...!” She had to hear him. It was impossible that she could not hear him. He kept pounding his fists against the pane, ignoring his raw knuckles.

But Maria did not hear him. She did not turn her head around. With her gentle but hurried step she submerged herself in the surf of people as though into her very familiar element.

But Maria did not hear him. She did not turn her head. With gentle but hurried steps, she slipped into the sea of people as if it were her natural element.

Freder leaped for the door. He heaved with his whole body, with his shoulders, his knees, against the door. He no longer shouted. His mouth was gaping open. His breath burnt his lips grey. He sprang back to the window. There, outside, hardly ten paces from the window, stood a policeman, his face turned towards Rotwang’s house. The man’s face registered absolute nonchalance. Nothing seemed to be farther from his mind than to watch the magician’s house. But the man who was striving, with bleeding fists, to shatter a window pane in his house could not have escaped even his most casual glance.

Freder leaped at the door. He threw his whole body against it, pushing with his shoulders and knees. He no longer shouted. His mouth hung open. His breath burned his lips gray. He sprang back to the window. Outside, hardly ten paces away, a policeman stood facing Rotwang’s house. The man’s face showed complete indifference. Nothing seemed further from his mind than watching the magician’s house. But even a casual glance would have shown him the man trying to break a window in the house with bleeding fists.

Freder paused. He stared at the policeman’s face with an unreasoning hatred, born of fear of losing time where there was no time to be lost. He turned around and snatched up the rude foot-stool, which stood near the table. He dashed the foot-stool with full force at the window pane. The rebound jerked him backwards. The pane was undamaged.

Freder paused. He stared at the policeman’s face with an irrational hatred. He was afraid of wasting time when there was none to lose. He turned around and grabbed the rough footstool near the table. He hurled it at the window with all his strength. The impact jerked him backward. The window was undamaged.

Sobbing fury welled up in Freder’s throat. He swung the foot-stool and hurled it at the door. The foot-stool crashed to earth. Freder dashed to it, snatched it up and struck and struck, again and again, at the booming door, in a ruddy, blind desire to destroy.

Sobs of rage rose in Freder’s throat. He swung the footstool and hurled it at the door. The footstool crashed to the ground. Freder rushed over and snatched it up. He struck the booming door again and again, driven by a red, blind desire to destroy.

Wood splintered, white. The door shrieked like a living thing. Freder did not pause. To the rhythm of his own boiling blood, he beat against the door until it broke, quivering.

White wood splintered. The door screamed like a living thing. Freder did not stop. To the rhythm of his boiling blood, he beat on the door until it broke and trembled.

Freder dragged himself through the hole. He ran through the house. His wild eyes sought an enemy and fresh obstacles in each corner. But he found neither one nor the other. Unchallenged, he reached the door, found it open and reeled out into the street.

Freder dragged himself through the hole. He ran through the house. His wild eyes searched every corner for an enemy or fresh obstacles. But he found neither. No one stopped him as he reached the door. He found it open and staggered out into the street.

He ran in the direction which Maria had taken. But the surf of the people had washed her away. She had vanished.

He ran in the direction Maria had gone. But the wave of people had washed her away. She had vanished.

For some minutes Freder stood among the hurrying mob, as though paralysed. One senseless hope befogged his brain: Perhaps—perhaps she would come back again ... if he were patient and waited long enough....

For several minutes, Freder stood among the rushing crowd, as if paralyzed. One foolish hope clouded his mind: Perhaps, perhaps she would come back if he was patient and waited long enough....

But he remembered the cathedral—waiting in vain—her voice in the magician’s house—words of fear—her sweet, wicked laugh....

But he remembered the cathedral, waiting in vain, her voice in the magician’s house, her fearful words, her sweet, wicked laugh....

No—no waiting—! He wanted to know.

No, no waiting! He wanted to know.

With clenched teeth he ran....

He ran with his teeth clenched....

There was a house in the city where Maria lived. An interminably long way. What should he ask about? With bare head, with raw hands, with eyes which seemed insane with weariness, he ran towards his destination: Maria’s abode.

There was a house in the city where Maria lived. It was an endlessly long way. What should he ask about? Bareheaded, his hands raw and his eyes wild with exhaustion, he ran toward Maria’s home.

He did not know by how many precious hours Slim had come before him....

He did not know how many precious hours earlier Slim had arrived....

He stood before the people with whom Maria was supposed to live: a man—a woman—the faces of whipped curs. The woman undertook the reply. Her eyes twitched. She held her hands clutched under her apron.

He stood before the people Maria was supposed to live with: a man and a woman. Their faces looked like those of beaten dogs. The woman answered. Her eyes twitched. She held her hands tightly clasped under her apron.

No—no girl called Maria lived here—never had lived here....

No, no girl named Maria lived here. She never had....

Freder stared at the woman. He did not believe her. She must know the girl. She must live here.

Freder stared at the woman. He didn't believe her. She had to know the girl. She had to live here.

Half stunned with fear that this last hope of finding Maria could prove fallacious too, he described the girl, as memory came to the aid of this poor madman.

Half stunned by fear that this last hope of finding Maria might also prove false, he described the girl as memories came back to this poor madman.

She had such fair hair.... She had such gentle eyes.... She had the voice of a loving mother.... She wore a severe but lovely gown....

She had such light hair.... She had such gentle eyes.... She had the voice of a loving mother.... She wore a plain but lovely dress....

The man left his position, near the woman, and stooped down sideways, hunching his head down between his shoulders as though he could not bear to hear how that strange young man there, at the door, spoke of the girl, for whom he was seeking. Shaking her head in angry impatience for him to be finished, the woman repeated the same unvarnished words: The girl did not live here, once and for all.... Hadn’t he nearly finished with his catechism?

The man moved away from the woman and bent to one side, hunching his head between his shoulders. He seemed unable to bear hearing the strange young man at the door speak about the girl he was looking for. The woman shook her head, angrily impatient for the young man to finish. She repeated the same blunt words: The girl did not live here, and that was final.... Wasn’t he nearly done with all his questions?

Freder went. He went without a word. He heard how the door was slammed to, with a bang. Voices were retiring, bickering. Interminable steps brought him to the street again.

Freder left without a word. He heard the door slam shut with a bang. Voices faded into the distance, still bickering. After what seemed like endless steps, he reached the street again.

Yes ... what next?

He stood helpless. He did not know which way to turn.

He stood there helpless. He did not know where to turn.

Exhausted to death, drunken with weariness, he heard, with a sudden wince, that the air around him was becoming filled with an overpowering sound.

Exhausted to the point of death, drunk with weariness, he suddenly winced. An overwhelming sound was filling the air around him.

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 sea 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.

It was an immeasurably glorious and thrilling sound, as deep and rumbling as any sound on earth, and more powerful. The sound of the angry sea, of falling torrents, and of nearby thunderstorms 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. The sound was everywhere, coming from above and below. It was beautiful and terrifying, 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.

“My father,” thought Freder, half unconsciously, “has pressed his fingers upon the blue metal plate. The brain of Metropolis controls the town. Nothing happens in Metropolis which does not come to my father’s ears. I shall go to my father and ask him if the inventor, Rotwang, has played with Maria and with me in the name of Joh Fredersen.”

“My father,” thought Freder, almost without realizing it, “has pressed his fingers against the blue metal plate. The brain of Metropolis controls the city. Everything that happens in Metropolis comes to my father’s attention. I’ll go to him and ask if the inventor, Rotwang, has been playing with Maria and me in Joh Fredersen’s name.”

He turned around to wend his way to the New Tower of Babel. He set off with the obstinacy of one possessed, with screwed up lips, sharp lines between the eyebrows, clenched fists on his weak, dangling arms. He set off as though he wanted to pound the stone beneath his feet. It seemed as though every drop of blood in his face had collected in his eyes alone. He ran, and, on the interminable way, at every step, he had the feeling: I am not he who is running.... I am running, a spirit, by the side of my own self.... I, the spirit, am forcing my body to run onwards, although it is tired to death....

He turned around and headed for the New Tower of Babel. He set off with the stubbornness of a man possessed. His lips were pursed, deep lines marked his brow, and his fists were clenched on his weak, dangling arms. He strode as if he wanted to pound the stone beneath his feet. It seemed as though every drop of blood in his face had gathered in his eyes. He ran along the endless road. With every step, he felt: I am not the one running.... I am a spirit, running beside myself.... I, the spirit, am forcing my body to keep running, although it is tired to death....

Those who stared at him when he arrived at the New Tower of Babel seemed to be seeing, not him, but a spirit....

When he arrived at the New Tower of Babel, those who stared at him seemed to see a spirit instead....

He was about to enter the Pater-noster, which was pumping its way, a scoop-wheel for human beings, through the New Tower of Babel. But a sudden shudder pushed him away from it. Did there not crouch below, deep, deep, down, under the sole of the New Tower of Babel, a little, gleaming machine, which was like Ganesha, the god with the elephant’s head? Under the crouching body, and the head, which was sunken on the chest, crooked legs rested, gnome-like, upon the platform. The trunk and legs were motionless. But the short arms pushed and pushed and pushed, alternately, forwards, backwards, forwards.

He was about to enter the Pater-noster, which moved through the New Tower of Babel like a scoop wheel for people. But a sudden shudder drove him away from it. Wasn’t there a small, gleaming machine crouched deep, deep down beneath the base of the New Tower of Babel? It was like Ganesha, the elephant-headed god. Beneath its crouching body and its head, sunk against its chest, crooked legs rested on the platform like a gnome’s. Its trunk and legs were motionless. But its short arms kept pushing, one after the other, forward, backward, forward.

Who was standing before the machine now, cursing the Lord’s Prayer—the Lord’s Prayer of the Pater-noster machine?

Who was standing before the machine now, cursing the Lord’s Prayer, the Lord’s Prayer of the Pater-noster machine?

Shivering with horror, he ran up the stairs.

Stairs and stairs and stairs.... They would never come to an end.... The brow of the New Tower of Babel lifted itself very near to the sky. The tower roared like the sea. It howled as deep as the storm. The hurtling of a water-fall boomed in its veins.

Stairs and stairs and stairs.... They would never end.... The top of the New Tower of Babel rose nearly to the sky. The tower roared like the sea. It howled as deeply as a storm. A rushing waterfall boomed in its veins.

“Where is my father?” Freder asked the servants.

They indicated a door. They wanted to announce him. He shook his head. He wondered: Why were these people looking so strangely at him?

They pointed to a door. They wanted to announce his arrival. He shook his head. Why were these people looking at him so strangely?

He opened a door. The room was empty. On the other side, a second door, ajar. Voices behind it. The voice of his father and that of another....

He opened a door. The room was empty. On the other side, a second door stood partly open. He heard voices behind it. One was his father's, and the other belonged to someone else....

Freder suddenly stood still. His feet seemed to be nailed to the floor. The upper part of his body was bent stiffly forwards. His fists dangled on helpless arms, seeming no longer capable of freeing themselves from their own clench. He listened; the eyes in his white face were filled with blood, the lips were open as though forming a cry.

Freder suddenly stopped. His feet seemed nailed to the floor. His upper body was bent stiffly forward. His fists hung from his helpless arms, as if he could no longer unclench them. He listened. His face was pale, his eyes bloodshot, and his lips open as if forming a cry.

Then he tore his deadened feet from the floor, stumbled to the door and pushed it open....

Then he dragged his numb feet from the floor. He stumbled to the door and pushed it open....

In the middle of the room, which was filled with a cutting brightness, stood Joh Fredersen, holding a woman in his arms. And the woman was Maria. She was not struggling. Leaning far back in the man’s arms, she was offering him her mouth, her alluring mouth, that deadly laugh....

The room was filled with a piercing light. In the middle stood Joh Fredersen, holding a woman in his arms. The woman was Maria. She was not struggling. Leaning far back in his arms, she offered him her mouth, her seductive mouth, that deadly laugh....

“You...!” shouted Freder.

He dashed to the girl. He did not see his father. He saw only the girl—no, neither did he see the girl, only her mouth and her sweet, wicked laugh.

He rushed to the girl. He did not see his father. He saw only the girl. No, he did not even see her, only her mouth and her sweet, wicked laugh.

Joh Fredersen turned around, broad and menacing. He let the girl go. He covered her with the might of his shoulders, with the great cranium, flamed with blood, and in which the strong teeth and the invincible eyes were very visible.

Joh Fredersen turned around, broad and menacing. He let the girl go. He loomed over her with his powerful shoulders and large, blood-flushed head. His strong teeth and unconquerable eyes stood out.

But Freder did not see his father. He only saw an obstacle between him and the girl.

But Freder did not see his father. He saw only an obstacle between himself and the girl.

He rushed at the obstacle. It pushed him back. Scarlet hatred for the obstacle choked him. His eyes flew around. They sought an implement—an implement which could be used as a battering ram. He found none. Then he threw himself forward as a battering ram. His fingers clutched into stuff. He bit into the stuff. He heard his own breath like a whistle, very high and shrill. Yet within him there was only one sound, only one cry: “Maria—!” Groaningly, beseechingly: “Maria—!!”

He rushed at the obstacle. It pushed him back. Scarlet hatred for the obstacle choked him. His eyes darted around. He looked for something he could use as a battering ram. He found nothing. Then he threw himself forward, using his own body as a battering ram. His fingers dug into the material. He bit into it. He heard his own breath whistling, high and shrill. Yet inside him there was only one sound, only one cry: “Maria!” He groaned and pleaded: “Maria!!”

A man dreaming of hell shrieks out no more, in his torment, than did he.

Even a man dreaming of hell would not scream more in torment than he did.

And still, between him and the girl, the man, the lump of rock, the living wall....

And still, between him and the girl stood the man, the lump of rock, the living wall....

He threw his hands forward. Ah ... look! ... there was a throat! He seized the throat. His fingers snapped fast like iron fangs.

He thrust his hands forward. Ah ... look! ... there was a throat! He grabbed it. His fingers snapped shut like iron fangs.

“Why don’t you defend yourself?” he yelled, staring at the man.

“I’ll kill you—! I’ll take your life—! I’ll murder you—!”

“I’ll kill you! I’ll take your life! I’ll murder you!”

But the man before him held his ground while he throttled him. Thrown this way and that by Freder’s fury, the body bent, now to the right, now to the left. And as often as this happened Freder saw, as through a transparent mist, the smiling countenance of Maria, who, leaning against the table, was looking on with her sea water eyes at the fight between father and son.

But the man before him held his ground as Freder strangled him. Freder shook him furiously, bending his body first to the right, then to the left. Each time, Freder saw Maria’s smiling face as if through a transparent mist. She was leaning against the table, watching the fight between father and son with her sea-water eyes.

His father’s voice said: “Freder....”

He looked the man in the face. He saw his father. He saw the hands which were clawing around his father’s throat. They were his, were the hands of his son.

He looked the man in the face. He saw his father. He saw the hands clawing at his father’s throat. They were his hands, the hands of his son.

His hands fell loose, as though cut off ... he stared at his hands, stammering something which sounded half like an oath, half like the weeping of a child that believes itself to be alone in the world.

His hands went limp, as if they had been cut off. He stared at them, stammering something that sounded half like a curse. The other half sounded like a child crying, believing itself alone in the world.

The voice of his father said: “Freder....”

His father’s voice said: “Freder....”

He fell on his knees. He stretched out his arms. His head fell forward into his father’s hands. He burst into tears, into despairing sobs....

He fell to his knees and reached out his arms. His head fell forward into his father’s hands. He burst into tears, sobbing in despair....

A door slid to.

A door slid shut.

He flung his head around. He sprang to his feet. His eyes swept the room.

He whipped his head around. He jumped to his feet. His eyes scanned the room.

“Where is she?” he asked.

“Who?”

“She....”

“Who—?”

“Who...?”

“She ... who was here....”

“Nobody was here, Freder....”

The boy’s eyes glazed.

The boy’s eyes glazed over.

“What did you say—?” he stammered.

“What did you say?” he stammered.

“There has not been a soul here, Freder, but you and I.”

“No one has been here, Freder, except you and me.”

Freder twisted his head around stiffly. He tugged the shirt from his throat. He looked into his father’s eyes as though looking into well-shafts.

Freder turned his head stiffly. He pulled his shirt away from his throat. He looked into his father’s eyes as if looking down deep wells.

“You say there was not a soul here.... I did not see you ... when you were holding Maria in your arms.... I have been dreaming.... I am mad, aren’t I?...”

“You say no one was here.... I didn’t see you ... when you were holding Maria in your arms.... I’ve been dreaming.... I’m crazy, aren’t I?...”

“I give you my word,” said Joh Fredersen, “when you came to me there was neither a woman nor any other living soul here....”

“I promise you,” said Joh Fredersen, “when you came to me, there was no woman here. There was no one else here at all....”

Freder remained silent. His bewildered eyes were still searching along the walls.

Freder said nothing. His confused eyes were still searching the walls.

“You are ill, Freder,” said his father’s voice.

“You are sick, Freder,” said his father’s voice.

Freder smiled. Then he began to laugh. He threw himself into a chair and laughed and laughed. He bent down, resting both elbows upon his knees, burrowing his head between his hands and arms. He rocked himself to and fro, shrieking with laughter.

Freder smiled. Then he began to laugh. He threw himself into a chair and laughed and laughed. He bent forward, resting his elbows on his knees and burying his head between his hands and arms. He rocked back and forth, shrieking with laughter.

Joh Fredersen’s eyes were upon him.

Joh Fredersen was watching him.