Chapter 16

11 min

“Father—!!”

“Father!!”

Joh Fredersen’s son knew quite well that his father could not hear him, for he, the son, was standing in the lowest part of the pedestal of the New Tower of Babel, whither the twitching pulse of the street had thrown him, and his father was high, high, above the boiling of the city, the untouched brain, in the cool brain-pan. But yet he shouted for him and had to shout, and his shout, itself, was a cry for help and an accusation.

Joh Fredersen’s son knew very well that his father could not hear him. The son stood at the bottom of the New Tower of Babel’s pedestal, where the twitching pulse of the street had thrown him. His father was high, high above the boiling city, the untouched brain in its cool skull. But he shouted for his father anyway. He had to shout. His shout was both a cry for help and an accusation.

The round structure of the New Tower of Babel was throwing up people who pushed out into the street, laughing as if insane. They were sucked up by the pulp of those in the street. The New Tower of Babel was deserted. Those who had occupied its rooms and passages—those who had been poured by the buckets of the Pater-noster works down to the depths, up to the heights—who had taken up their positions on the stairs—who had received instructions and passed them on—who had suffocated amidst figures—who had listened in to the whispers of the world—all, all streamed out from the New Tower of Babel as blood streams out from a cut vein, until it stood there, horribly empty—bled white.

People poured from the round structure of the New Tower of Babel and pushed into the street, laughing as if insane. The mass of people in the street swallowed them up. The New Tower of Babel was deserted. Its rooms and passages had been full of people. The buckets of the Pater-noster lifts had carried them down to the depths and up to the heights. They had taken their places on the stairs, received instructions and passed them on. They had suffocated amid figures and listened to the whispers of the world. All, all streamed out of the New Tower of Babel as blood streams from a cut vein. The tower stood there, horribly empty, bled white.

But the machines went on living.

But the machines kept living.

Yes, they seemed to be coming to life for the first time.

Freder, who stood—a crumb of humanity—alone, in the hugeness of the round structure, heard the soft, deep, rushing howl, like the breath of the New Tower of Babel, growing louder and louder, clearer and clearer, and he saw, on turning round, that the empty cells of the Pater-noster were speeding more and more rapidly, more and more hurriedly, upwards and downwards. Yes, now it was as if these cells, these empty cells, were dancing upwards and downwards and the howling which trans-sected the New Tower of Babel seemed to proceed from out their empty jaws.

Freder stood alone in the vast round structure, a crumb of humanity. He heard a soft, deep, rushing howl, like the breath of the New Tower of Babel. It grew louder and louder, clearer and clearer. He turned and saw the empty cells of the Pater-noster moving up and down faster and faster. Now the empty cells seemed to be dancing up and down. The howl that cut through the New Tower of Babel seemed to come from their empty jaws.

“Father—!!” shouted Freder. And the whole round structure roared with him, with all its lungs.

“Father!!” Freder shouted. And the whole round building roared with him at the top of its lungs.

Freder ran, but not to the heights of the Tower. He ran to the depths, driven by horror and curiosity—down into the hell—guided by luminous pillars—to the abode of the Pater-noster machine, which was like Ganesha, the god with the elephant’s head.

Freder ran, but not up to the heights of the Tower. Driven by horror and curiosity, he ran down into the depths of hell. Glowing pillars guided him to the home of the Pater-noster machine. The machine was like Ganesha, the god with an elephant’s head.

The luminous pillars by which he ran did not shine as usual with their white, icy light. They blinked, they flashed lightning, they flickered. They burnt with an evil, green light. The stones, over which he ran, swayed like water. The nearer he came to the machine-room, the more bellowing did the voice of the tower become. The walls were baking. The air was colourless fire. If the door had not burst open by itself—no human hand could have opened it, for it was like a glowing curtain of liquid steel.

The glowing pillars he ran past did not shine with their usual icy white light. They blinked, flashed like lightning, and flickered. They burned with an evil green light. The stones beneath his feet swayed like water. The closer he came to the machine room, the louder the tower's voice bellowed. The walls were baking. The air was colorless fire. If the door had not burst open on its own, no human hand could have opened it. The door was like a glowing curtain of liquid steel.

Freder held his arm flung before his forehead, as if wishing to protect his brain from bursting. His eyes sought the machine—the machine in front of which he had once stood. It was crouching in the centre of the howling room. It shone with oil. It had gleaming limbs. Under the crouching body and the head which was sunken on its 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.

Freder held his arm across his forehead, as if trying to keep his brain from bursting. His eyes searched for the machine in front of which he had once stood. It crouched in the center of the howling room. It shone with oil. Its limbs gleamed. Under its crouching body and its head, sunk against its chest, crooked legs rested on the platform like a gnome’s. The body and legs were still. But the short arms pushed and pushed and pushed, taking turns moving forward, backward, forward.

And the machine was quite abandoned. Nobody was watching it. Nobody’s hand held the lever. Nobody’s gaze was fixed on the clock, the hands of which chased through the grades as though gone mad.

And the machine was completely abandoned. Nobody was watching it. Nobody held the lever. Nobody watched the clock, whose hands raced through the marks as if they had gone mad.

“Father—!!” shouted Freder, about to hurl himself forward. But at the same moment it was as if the hunched up body of the wild machine, which was like Ganesha, raised itself up to a furious height, as though its legs stretched themselves upon stumpy feet, to make a murderous leap, as though its arms no longer stretched themselves to push—no, to seize, to seize to crush—as though the howling voice of the New Tower of Babel broke from the lungs of the Pater-noster machine alone, howling:

“Father!” shouted Freder, about to hurl himself forward. But at that same moment, the wild machine seemed to raise its hunched body to a furious height. It was like Ganesha. Its legs seemed to stretch up from their stumpy feet, ready to make a murderous leap. Its arms seemed to reach out, not to push, but to seize, to seize and crush. The howling voice of the New Tower of Babel seemed to come from the lungs of the Pater-noster machine alone, howling:

“Murder—!”

“Murder!”

And howling unceasingly:

And howling without stopping:

“Murder—!”

“Murder!”

The flame curtain of the door flew sideways, whistling. The monster-machine rolled itself down from the platform with pushing arms. The whole structure of the New Tower of Babel quivered. The walls shook. The ceiling groaned.

The door's curtain of flames flew sideways with a whistle. The monster-machine rolled down from the platform, pushing with its arms. The entire New Tower of Babel trembled. The walls shook. The ceiling groaned.

Freder turned around. He threw his arms about his neck and ran. He saw the luminous pillars stabbing at him. He heard a rattling gasp at his back and felt the marrow dry up, and ran and ran. He ran towards doors, pushed them open, slammed them to behind him and raced onwards.

Freder turned around. He threw his arms around his neck and ran. He saw the glowing pillars stabbing at him. He heard a rattling gasp behind him and felt the marrow dry up in his bones. He ran and ran. He ran toward doors, pushed them open, slammed them shut behind him, and raced on.

“Father—!!” he shouted—and with a feeling as if his brain were overturning: “Our Father, Which art in heaven—”

“Father!!” he shouted. He felt as if his brain were turning over. “Our Father, who is in heaven...”

Upstairs. Where did these stairs lead to—? Doors thundered open, rebounding against walls.

Upstairs. Where did these stairs lead? Doors thundered open and bounced back against the walls.

Aaah—! The temples of the machine-rooms? Deities, the machines—the shining Lords—the god-machines of Metropolis! All the great gods were living in white temples! Baal and Moloch and Huitzilopochtli and Durgha! Some frightfully companionable, some terribly solitary. There—Juggernaut’s divine car! There—the Towers of Silence! There—Mahomet’s curved sword! There—the crosses of Golgotha!

Aaah! The temples of the machine rooms? The machines were gods, the shining Lords, the god-machines of Metropolis! All the great gods lived in white temples! Baal and Moloch and Huitzilopochtli and Durgha! Some were frighteningly sociable, some terribly solitary. There was Juggernaut’s divine car! There were the Towers of Silence! There was Mahomet’s curved sword! There were the crosses of Golgotha!

And not a soul, not a soul in the white rooms. The machines, these god-machines, left terribly alone. And they were all living—yes they were really living—an enhanced, an enflamed life.

And not a soul, not a soul in the white rooms. The machines, these god-machines, were left terribly alone. And they were all alive. Yes, they were really alive, with a heightened, burning life.

For Metropolis had a brain.

Because Metropolis had a brain.

Metropolis had a heart.

The heart of the machine-city of Metropolis dwelt in a white, cathedral-like building. The heart of the machine-city of Metropolis was, until this day and this hour, guarded by one single man. The heart of the machine-city of Metropolis was a machine and a universe to itself. Above the deep mysteries of its delicate joints, like the sun’s disc—like the halo of a divine being—stood the silver-spinning wheel, the spokes of which appeared in the whirl of revolution, as a single, gleaming, disc.

The heart of the machine-city of Metropolis lay in a white building that resembled a cathedral. Until this day and hour, the heart of the machine-city of Metropolis had been guarded by a single man. The heart of the machine-city of Metropolis was a machine and a universe unto itself. Above the deep mysteries of its delicate joints stood a spinning silver wheel, like the sun’s disc or a divine being’s halo. As the wheel turned, its spokes appeared to form a single, gleaming disc.

No machine in all Metropolis which did not receive its power from this heart.

Every machine in Metropolis received its power from this heart.

One, single lever controlled this marvel of steel.

A single lever controlled this marvel of steel.

With the lever set to “Safety” all the machines would play with their curbed power, like tame animals. The shimmering spokes of the sun-wheel would circle, clearly to be distinguished, above the Heart-machine.

With the lever set to “Safety,” all the machines would play with their restrained power, like tame animals. The shimmering spokes of the sun-wheel would turn above the Heart-machine, each one clearly visible.

With the lever set to “6”—and it was generally set there—then work would spell slavery. The machines would roar. The powerful wheel of the Heart-machine would hang, an apparently motionless mirror of brightest silver, above it. And the mighty thunder of the machines, produced by the heart-beat of this one, would arch itself, a second heaven, above Metropolis, Joh Fredersen’s city.

When the lever was set to “6”, work meant slavery. The lever was usually set there. The machines would roar. The powerful wheel of the Heart-machine would hang above them, like a motionless mirror of the brightest silver. The heartbeat of the Heart-machine drove the mighty thunder of the other machines. That thunder would arch like a second heaven above Metropolis, Joh Fredersen’s city.

But never, as yet, since the construction of Metropolis, had the lever been set to “12.”

But since Metropolis was built, the lever had never been set to “12.”

Now it was set to “12.” Now the lever was set to “12.” A girl’s hand, more delicate than glass, had pressed around the weighty lever, which was set to “Safety,” until it touched “12.” The heart of Metropolis, Joh Fredersen’s great city had begun to run up a temperature, seized by a deadly illness, chasing the red waves of its fever along to all the machines which were fed by its pulse.

Now it was set to “12.” Now the lever was set to “12.” A girl’s hand, more delicate than glass, had gripped the heavy lever. She had pushed it from “Safety” until it reached “12.” The heart of Metropolis, Joh Fredersen’s great city, had begun to run a fever. A deadly illness had seized it, sending red waves of fever through all the machines fed by its pulse.

No machine in all Metropolis which did not receive its power from this heart.

Every machine in Metropolis got its power from this heart.

Then all the god-machines were taken with the fever....

Then all the god-machines caught the fever....

From the Towers of Silence there broke forth the vapour of decomposition. Blue flames hovered in the space above them. And the towers, the huge towers, which used otherwise to turn about but once in the course of the day, tottered around on their pedestals in a drunken, spinning dance, full to bursting point.

Vapors of decay poured from the Towers of Silence. Blue flames hovered above them. The huge towers usually turned only once a day. Now, filled to bursting, they spun unsteadily on their pedestals in a drunken dance.

Mahomet’s curved sword was as circular lightning in the air. It met with no resistance, it cut and cut. It grew angry because it had nothing to cut. The power which, squandered too uselessly, was still increasing, now gathered itself together and, hissing, sent out snakes, green, hissing snakes, in all directions.

Mahomet’s curved sword flashed through the air like a circle of lightning. It met no resistance. It cut and cut. It grew angry because it had nothing to cut. Its power was being wasted, but it kept growing. Now the power gathered itself and, hissing, sent out green, hissing snakes in all directions.

From the projecting arms of the crosses of Golgotha there swept long, white, crackling springs of sparks.

Long streams of white, crackling sparks swept from the outstretched arms of the crosses of Golgotha.

Swaying under impacts which had shaken the earth itself, the unslain, the man-crushing car of Juggernaut began to glide, began to roll—checked itself, hanging crookedly on the platform—trembled like a ship, perishing on the rocks, lashed by the breakers—and shook itself free, amidst groans.

The indestructible, man-crushing car of Juggernaut swayed under blows that had shaken the earth itself. It began to glide, then roll. It stopped, hanging crookedly on the platform. It trembled like a ship wrecked on the rocks and battered by waves. Then, amid groans, it shook itself free.

Then, from their glittering thrones, Baal and Moloch, Huitzilopochtli and Durgha arose. All the god-machines got up, stretching their limbs in a fearful liberty. Huitzilopochtli shrieked for the jewel-sacrifice. Durgha moved eight murderous arms, crackling the while. Hungry fires smouldered up from the bellies of Baal and Moloch, licking out of their jaws. And, roaring like a herd of a thousand buffaloes, at being cheated of a purpose, Asa Thor swung the infallible hammer.

Then Baal and Moloch, Huitzilopochtli and Durgha rose from their glittering thrones. All the god-machines stood up, stretching their limbs with frightening freedom. Huitzilopochtli shrieked for the jewel-sacrifice. Durgha moved eight murderous arms, crackling as she did. Hungry fires rose from the bellies of Baal and Moloch and licked out of their jaws. Asa Thor swung his unerring hammer, roaring like a herd of a thousand buffaloes cheated of their purpose.

A lost grain of dust among the soles of the gods, Freder reeled his way through the white rooms, the roaring temples.

Like a lost grain of dust beneath the gods' feet, Freder staggered through the white rooms, the roaring temples.

“Father—!!” he shouted.

“Father!!” he shouted.

And he heard the voice of his father:

And he heard his father's voice:

“Yes!—Here I am!—What do you want?—Come here to me!”

“Yes! Here I am! What do you want? Come here to me!”

“Where are you?”

“Here—!”

“Here!”

“But I can’t see you—!”

“But I can’t see you!”

“You must look higher!”

Freder’s gaze flitted through the room. He saw his father standing on a platform, between the outstretched arms of the crosses of Golgotha from the ends of which long, white, crackling sprigs of sparks blazed. In the hellish fires his father’s face was as a mask of unmistakable coldness. His eyes were blue-gleaming steel. Amidst the great, raving machine-gods, he was a greater god, and lord of all.

Freder’s gaze swept across the room. He saw his father standing on a platform between the outstretched arms of the crosses of Golgotha. Long, white streams of crackling sparks blazed from the ends of the arms. In the hellish fires, his father’s face was a mask of unmistakable coldness. His eyes gleamed like blue steel. Among the great, raging machine-gods, he was a greater god and lord of all.

Freder ran over to him, but he could not get up to him. He clung to the foot of the flaming cross. Wild impacts crashed through the New Tower of Babel.

Freder ran toward him, but he could not reach him. He clung to the base of the flaming cross. Violent blows crashed through the New Tower of Babel.

“Father—!” shrieked Freder. “Your city is going to ruin—!”

“Father!” Freder shrieked. “Your city is falling apart!”

Joh Fredersen did not answer. The sweeping sprigs of flame seemed to be breaking from his temples.

Joh Fredersen did not answer. Sweeping tongues of flame seemed to burst from his temples.

“Father—! Don’t you understand—? Your city is going to ruin!—Your machines have come to life!—They are dashing the town to pieces!—They are tearing Metropolis to tatters!—Do you hear—? Explosion after explosion—! I have seen a street in which the houses were dancing upon their shattered foundations—just like little children dancing upon the stomach of a laughing giant.... A lava-stream of glowing copper poured itself out from the split-open tower of your boiler-factory, and a naked man was running before it, a man whose hair was charred and who was roaring: ‘The end of the world has come—!’ But then he stumbled and the copper stream overtook him.... Where the Jethro works stood, there is a hole in the earth which is filling up with water. Iron bridges are hanging in shreds between towers which have lost their entrails, cranes are dangling on gallows like men hanged. And the people, incapable of flight as of resistance, are wandering about among houses and streets, both of which seemed doomed....”

“Father! Don’t you understand? Your city is falling apart! Your machines have come to life! They are smashing the city to pieces! They are tearing Metropolis apart! Do you hear? Explosion after explosion! I saw a street where houses were dancing on their shattered foundations. They were like little children dancing on the stomach of a laughing giant.... A stream of glowing copper poured like lava from the split-open tower of your boiler factory. A naked man was running ahead of it. His hair was burned, and he was roaring: ‘The end of the world has come!’ But then he stumbled, and the stream of copper overtook him.... Where the Jethro works stood, there is a hole in the ground filling with water. Iron bridges hang in shreds between towers that have lost their insides. Cranes dangle from gallows like hanged men. And the people can neither flee nor resist. They wander among houses and streets, both of which seem doomed....”

He clasped his hands about the stem of the cross and threw his head back into his neck, to see his father quite clearly, quite openly in the face.

He gripped the stem of the cross with both hands and tilted his head back. He wanted to see his father’s face clearly and openly.

“I cannot believe, father, that there is anything mightier than you! I have cursed your overwhelming might—your overwhelming might which has filled me with horror, from the bottom of my heart. Now I run to you and ask you on my knees: Why do you allow Death to lay hands on the city which is yours—?”

“I cannot believe, father, that anything is more powerful than you! I have cursed your overwhelming power. It has filled me with horror to the bottom of my heart. Now I run to you and ask you on my knees: Why do you let Death lay hands on your city?”

“Because Death has come upon the city by my will.”

“Because I have brought Death upon the city.”

“By your will—?”

“By your choice?”

“Yes.”

“The city is to perish—?”

“The city is going to be destroyed?”

“Don’t you know why, Freder?”

There was no answer.

“The city is to go to ruin that you may build it up again....”

“The city must fall into ruin so that you can rebuild it....”

“—I—?”

“I?”

“You.”

“Then you are laying the murder of the city on my shoulders?”

“Then you're blaming me for the murder of the city?”

“The murder of the city reposes on the shoulders of those alone who trampled Grot, the guard of the heart-machine, to death.”

“Only those who trampled Grot, the guard of the heart-machine, to death are responsible for the murder of the city.”

“Did that also take place by your will, father?”

“Did that happen because you wanted it to, father?”

“Yes!”

“Then you forced them to commit the crime—?”

“Then you forced them to commit the crime?”

“For your sake, Freder; that you could redeem them....”

“For your sake, Freder, so that you could redeem them....”

“And what about those, father, who must die with your dying city, before I can redeem them!”

“And what about the people who must die with your dying city, father, before I can save them!”

“Concern yourself about the living, Freder—not about the dead.”

“Worry about the living, Freder, not the dead.”

“And if the living come to kill you—?”

“And if the living come to kill you?”

“That will not happen, Freder. That will not happen. The way to me, among the raving god-machines, as you called them, could only be found by one. And he found it. That was my son.”

“That will not happen, Freder. That will not happen. Only one person could find the way to me among the raving god-machines, as you called them. He found it. He was my son.”

Freder dropped his head into his hands. He rocked it to and fro as if in pain. He moaned softly. He was about to speak; but before he could speak a sound ripped the air, which sounded as though the earth were bursting to pieces. For a moment, everything in the white room seemed to hover in space, a foot above the ground—even Moloch and Baal and Huitzilopochtli and Durgha, even the hammer of Asa Thor and the Towers of Silence. The crosses of Golgotha, from the ends of the beams of which long, white crackling sprigs of sparks were blazing, fell together and then straightened up again. Then everything crashed back into its place with furious emphasis. Then all the lights went out. And from the depths and distance the city howled.

Freder dropped his head into his hands. He rocked it back and forth as if in pain. He moaned softly. He was about to speak, but before he could, a sound ripped through the air. It sounded as if the earth were bursting apart. For a moment, everything in the white room seemed to float a foot above the ground. Even Moloch and Baal and Huitzilopochtli and Durgha floated, along with the hammer of Asa Thor and the Towers of Silence. Long, white, crackling sprays of sparks blazed from the ends of the beams on the crosses of Golgotha. The crosses fell together, then straightened up again. Then everything crashed back into place with furious force. Then all the lights went out. And from far below and in the distance, the city howled.

“Father—!” shouted Freder.

“Father!” shouted Freder.

“Yes.—Here I am.—What do you want?”

“Yes. Here I am. What do you want?”

“... I want you to put an end to this nightmare—!”

“... I want you to end this nightmare!”

“Now?—now—!”

“Now? Now!”

“But I don’t want any more people to suffer—! You must help them—you must save them, father—!”

“But I don’t want any more people to suffer! You must help them. You must save them, Father!”

“You must save them. Now—immediately!”

“You must save them. Now, immediately!”

“Now? no!”

“Now? No!”

“Then,” said Freder, pushing his fists out far before him, as if pushing something away from him, “then I must seek out the man who can help me—even if he is your enemy and mine.”

“Then,” said Freder, thrusting his fists out in front of him as if pushing something away, “I must find the man who can help me, even if he is your enemy and mine.”

“Do you mean Rotwang?”

No answer. Joh Fredersen continued:

“Rotwang cannot help you.”

“Rotwang can't help you.”

“Why not—”

“Why not...”

“He is dead.”

Silence. Then, tentatively, a strangled voice which asked:

Silence. Then a strangled voice asked tentatively:

“Dead...?”

“Yes.”

“How did he come ... so suddenly ... to die?”

“How did he ... die so suddenly?”

“He died, chiefly, Freder, because he dared to stretch out his hands toward the girl whom you love.”

“He died mainly because he dared to reach out to the girl you love, Freder.”

Trembling fingers fumbled up the stem of the cross.

Trembling fingers fumbled their way up the stem of the cross.

“Maria, father—Maria...?”

“Maria, Father. Maria...?”

“So he called her.”

“Maria—was with him?—In his house—?”

“Maria was with him? In his house?”

“Yes, Freder.”

“Ah—I see.—I see—!... And now—!”

“Ah, I see. I see!... And now!”

“I do not know.”

“I don’t know.”

Silence.

“Freder?”

No answer came.

There was no answer.

“Freder—?”

“Freder?”

But a shadow ran past the windows of the white machine-cathedral. It ran, ducked down, hands thrown behind its neck, as if it feared that Durgha’s arms could snatch at it, or that Asa Thor could hurl his hammer, which never failed, at it from behind, in order, at Joh Fredersen’s command, to prevent its flight.

But a shadow ran past the windows of the white machine-cathedral. It ran crouched down, with its hands behind its neck. It seemed to fear that Durgha’s arms might snatch it, or that Asa Thor might hurl his hammer at it from behind. His hammer never missed. It was as if they might do this at Joh Fredersen’s command to stop the shadow from escaping.

It did not penetrate into the consciousness of the fugitive that all the machines were standing still because the heart, the unguarded heart of Metropolis, under the fiery lash of the “12,” had raced itself to Death.

The fugitive did not realize why all the machines had stopped. The unguarded heart of Metropolis had raced itself to death under the fiery lash of the “12.”