Chapter 22

14 min

Joh Fredersen stood in the dome-room of the New Tower of Babel, waiting for Slim. He was to bring him news of his son.

Joh Fredersen stood in the dome-room of the New Tower of Babel, waiting for Slim. Slim was to bring him news of his son.

A ghostly darkness lay upon the New Tower of Babel. The light had gone completely out, gone out as though it had been killed—at the moment when the gigantic wheel of the Heart-machine of Metropolis came free from its structure with a roar as from the throats of a thousand wounded beasts, and, still whirling around, was hurled straight up at the ceiling, to strike it with a shattering crash, to bound back, booming the while like a gong as large as the heavens and to crash down upon the splintered ruins of the erstwhile masterpiece of steel, to remain lying there.

A ghostly darkness lay over the New Tower of Babel. The light had gone out completely, as if it had been killed. It went out when the gigantic wheel of the Heart-machine of Metropolis broke free from its structure. The wheel roared like a thousand wounded beasts and, still spinning, flew straight up into the ceiling. It struck the ceiling with a shattering crash and bounced back, booming like a gong as large as the heavens. Then it crashed down onto the splintered ruins of what had once been a masterpiece of steel, and lay there.

Joh Fredersen stood long on the same spot, not daring to move.

Joh Fredersen stood in the same spot for a long time, not daring to move.

It seemed to him that an eternity had passed since he sent Slim out for news of his son. And Slim wouldn’t and wouldn’t come back.

It felt like an eternity since he had sent Slim to find news of his son. And Slim still wouldn’t come back.

Joh Fredersen felt that his whole body was frozen to an icy coldness. His hands, hanging helplessly downwards, were clasped around the pocket-torch.

Joh Fredersen felt his whole body turn icy cold. His hands hung helplessly at his sides, clasped around the flashlight.

He waited ... waited....

Joh Fredersen threw a glance at the clock. But the hands of the giantness stood at an impossible time. The New Tower of Babel had indeed lost itself. Whereas, every day, the throbbing of the streets which tunnelled their course below it, the roar of the traffic of fifty million, the magic madness of speed, had raged its way up to him, there now crouched a calm of penetrating terror.

Joh Fredersen glanced at the clock. But the hands of the giant clock showed an impossible time. The New Tower of Babel had indeed lost its way. Every day, the throbbing of the streets that tunneled below it had risen to him. So had the roar of traffic from fifty million people and the magical madness of speed. But now, in their place, there crouched a silence of penetrating terror.

Stumbling steps were hastening towards the door of the outer room.

Stumbling footsteps hurried toward the door of the outer room.

Joh Fredersen turned the beam of his pocket-torch, upon this door. It flew wide open. Slim stood upon the threshold. He staggered. He closed his eyes dazzled. In the excessively glaring light of the powerful torch his face, right down to his neck, shone a greenish white.

Joh Fredersen aimed his flashlight at the door. It flew wide open. Slim stood on the threshold. He staggered and closed his eyes against the dazzling light. In the fierce glare of the powerful flashlight, his face and neck shone greenish white.

Joh Fredersen wanted to ask a question. But not the least sound passed his lips. A terrible dryness burnt his throat. The lamp in his hand began to tremble and to dance. Up to the ceiling, down to the floor, along the walls, reeled the beam of light....

Joh Fredersen wanted to ask a question. But no sound came from his lips. A terrible dryness burned his throat. The lamp in his hand began to shake and dance. Its beam of light swung up to the ceiling, down to the floor, and along the walls....

Slim ran up to Joh Fredersen. Slim’s wide, staring eyes bore an inextinguishable horror.

Slim ran up to Joh Fredersen. His wide, staring eyes were filled with a horror that would not fade.

“Your son,” he stammered, almost babbling, “your son, Mr. Fredersen—”

“Your son,” he stammered, almost babbling, “your son, Mr. Fredersen...”

Joh Fredersen remained silent. He made no movement, but that he stooped a little—just a very little, forward.

Joh Fredersen remained silent. He did not move, except to lean forward a little, just a very little.

“I have not found your son ...” said Slim. He did not wait for Joh Fredersen to answer him. His tall body, with the impression it gave of asceticism and cruelty, the movements of which had, in Joh Fredersen’s service, gradually gained the disinterested accuracy of a machine, seemed quite out of joint, shaken out of control. His voice inquired shrilly, in the grip of a deep innermost frenzy: “Do you know, Mr. Fredersen, what is going on around you, in Metropolis—?”

“I have not found your son ...” said Slim. He did not wait for Joh Fredersen to answer. His tall body gave an impression of self-denial and cruelty. In Joh Fredersen’s service, his movements had gradually gained the detached precision of a machine. Now he seemed shaken and out of control. In the grip of a deep inner frenzy, he asked in a shrill voice: “Do you know, Mr. Fredersen, what is happening around you in Metropolis?”

“What I will,” answered Joh Fredersen. The words sounded mechanical, and as though they had been read before they were spoken: “What does that mean: You have not found my son—?”

“What do I want?” answered Joh Fredersen. His words sounded mechanical, as if he had read them before speaking: “What do you mean, you haven’t found my son?”

“It means what it means,” answered Slim in his shrill voice. His eyes bore an awful hatred. He stood, leaning far forward, as if ready to pounce upon Joh Fredersen, and his hands became claws. “It means that Freder, your son is not to be found—it means that he, perhaps, wanted to look on with his own eyes at what becomes of Metropolis by his father’s will and the hands of a few lunatics—it means, as the now half-witted servants told me, that your son left the safety of his home, setting out in company with a man who was wearing the uniform of a workman of Metropolis, and that it might well be difficult to seek your son in this city, in which, by your will, madness has broken out—the madness to destroy, Mr. Fredersen, the madness to ruin!—and which has not even light to lighten its madness—!”

“It means what it means,” Slim answered in his shrill voice. His eyes burned with hatred. He stood leaning far forward, as if ready to pounce on Joh Fredersen. His hands curled into claws. “It means that Freder, your son, cannot be found. It means that perhaps he wanted to see for himself what is happening to Metropolis through his father’s will and the work of a few lunatics. It means that your son left the safety of his home with a man wearing a Metropolis workman’s uniform. The servants, who are now half-witted, told me that. And it means your son may be hard to find in this city, where madness has broken out by your will. The madness to destroy, Mr. Fredersen, the madness to ruin! And the city does not even have light to illuminate its madness!”

Slim wanted to continue, but he did not do so.

Slim wanted to continue, but he didn't.

Joh Fredersen’s right hand made a senseless, fumbling gesture through the air. The torch fell from his hand, continuing to burn on the floor. The mightiest man of Metropolis swung half around, as though he had been shot, and collapsed empty-eyed, back into the chair by the writing-table.

Joh Fredersen’s right hand made a helpless, fumbling gesture in the air. The torch fell from his hand and continued to burn on the floor. The most powerful man in Metropolis turned halfway around, as if he had been shot. Then he collapsed back into the chair by the writing desk, his eyes vacant.

Slim stooped forward, to look Joh Fredersen in the face. Before these eyes he was struck silent.

Slim leaned forward to look Joh Fredersen in the face. The sight of his eyes struck him silent.

Ten—twenty—thirty seconds long he did not dare to draw a breath. His horrified gaze followed the aimless movements of Joh Fredersen’s fingers, which were fumbling about as though seeking for some lever of rescue, which they could not find. Then, suddenly, the hand rose a little from the table-top. The forefinger straightened as though admonishing to attention. Joh Fredersen murmured something. Then he laughed. It was a tired, sad little laugh, at the sound of which Slim thought he felt the hair of his head begin to bristle.

For ten, twenty, thirty seconds, he did not dare to breathe. He watched in horror as Joh Fredersen’s fingers moved aimlessly. They fumbled as if searching for some lever that could save him, but they could not find it. Then, suddenly, his hand rose a little from the table. His forefinger straightened, as if warning someone to pay attention. Joh Fredersen murmured something. Then he laughed. It was a small, tired, sad laugh. Hearing it, Slim thought he felt his hair begin to stand on end.

Joh Fredersen was talking to himself. What was he saying? Slim bent over him. He saw the forefinger of Joh Fredersen’s right hand gliding slowly across the shiny table-top, as though he were following and spelling out the lines of a book.

Joh Fredersen was talking to himself. What was he saying? Slim bent over him. He saw the index finger of Joh Fredersen’s right hand moving slowly across the shiny tabletop. It was as if he were tracing the lines of a book and spelling out the words.

Joh Fredersen’s soft voice said:

Joh Fredersen said softly:

“Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he reap....”

“Whatever a person sows, they will reap....”

Then Joh Fredersen’s forehead fell on to the smooth wood, and, unceasingly, in a tone which, except for a dead woman, no one had ever heard from Joh Fredersen, his soft voice cried the name of his son....

Then Joh Fredersen’s forehead fell onto the smooth wood. He cried his son’s name over and over in a soft voice. No one but a dead woman had ever heard Joh Fredersen speak in that tone....

But the cries remained unanswered....

But no one answered the cries....

Up the steps of the New Tower of Babel there crept a man. It seldom happened in the great Metropolis, Joh Fredersen’s time-saving city, that anyone used the stairs. They were reserved in case of all the lifts and the Pater-noster being over-crowded, of the cessation of all means of transit, of the outbreak of fire and similar accidents—improbable occurrences in this perfect settlement of human beings. But the improbable had happened. Piled up, one above the other, the lifts, which came hurtling down, blocked up their shafts, and the cells of the Pater-noster seemed to have been bent and charred by a hellish heat, smouldering up from the depths.

A man crept up the stairs of the New Tower of Babel. In the great Metropolis, Joh Fredersen’s time-saving city, people rarely used the stairs. They were reserved for times when all the elevators and the Pater-noster were overcrowded, or all transportation stopped. They were also there in case of fire or similar accidents. Such events were unlikely in this perfect human settlement. But the unlikely had happened. The elevators had hurtled down and piled up one above another, blocking their shafts. The cells of the Pater-noster seemed bent and charred by a hellish heat, smoldering up from the depths.

Up the stairs of the New Tower of Babel did Josaphat drag himself. He had learnt to swear in that quarter of an hour, even as Grot used to swear, and he made full use of his newly acquired art. He roared at the pain which racked his limbs. He spat out an excess of hatred and contempt at the agony in his knees. Wild and ingenious were the execrations which he hurled at every landing, every new bend in the staircase. But he conquered them all—one hundred and six flights of stairs, each consisting of thirty steps. He reached the semicircle where the lifts had their opening. In the corners before the door to Joh Fredersen’s rooms there crouched knots of human beings, pressed together by the common pressure of a terrible fear.

Josaphat dragged himself up the stairs of the New Tower of Babel. In the past quarter of an hour, he had learned to swear just as Grot used to. He made full use of his new skill. He roared at the pain racking his limbs. He spat out his hatred and contempt for the agony in his knees. At every landing and every new bend in the staircase, he hurled wild, inventive curses. But he conquered them all, one hundred and six flights of thirty steps each. He reached the semicircular area where the elevators opened. In the corners outside the door to Joh Fredersen’s rooms, groups of people crouched together, united by terrible fear.

They turned their heads to stare at the man who was crawling up the stairs, dragging himself up by aid of the walls.

They turned to stare at the man crawling up the stairs, dragging himself along with the help of the walls.

His wild eyes swept over them.

His wild eyes scanned them.

“What is it?” he asked breathlessly. “What are you all doing here?”

Agitated voices whispered. Nobody knew who was speaking. Words tumbled over each other.

Anxious voices whispered. Nobody knew who was speaking. Words tumbled over each other.

“He drove us out into the town, where death is running as though amok.... He sent us out to look for his son, Freder. We couldn’t find him.... None of us.... We daren’t go in to Joh Fredersen.... Nobody dares take him the news that we haven’t been able to find his son....”

“He drove us out into the town, where death is running wild.... He sent us to look for his son, Freder. We couldn’t find him.... None of us could.... We don’t dare go in to Joh Fredersen.... Nobody dares tell him that we haven’t been able to find his son....”

A voice swung out, high and sharp from out the knot:

A high, sharp voice rang out from the crowd:

“Who can find one single damned soul in this hell—?”

“Who can find a single damned soul in this hell?”

“Hush ... hush...!”

“Shh ... shh...!”

“Listen—!”

“Listen!”

“He is talking to Slim.”

And in the tension of listening, which smothered every sound, the heads bent towards the door.

And as they listened in tense silence, their heads bent toward the door.

Behind the door a voice spoke, as were the wood rattling:

Behind the door, a voice spoke, sounding as if the wood were rattling:

“Where is my son...?”

Josaphat made for the door, staggering. The panting cry of many men tried to stop him. Hands were stretched out towards him.

Josaphat staggered toward the door. Many men cried out breathlessly, trying to stop him. Hands reached out toward him.

“Don’t—don’t—!!”

“Don’t, don’t!!”

But he had already pushed open the door. He looked about him. Through the enormous windows the first glow of the youthful day was flowing, lying on the shining floor like pools of blood. By the wall, near the door, stood Slim. And just before him stood Joh Fredersen. His fists were pressed against the wall, right and left of the man, holding him fast, as though they had been drilled through him, crucifying him.

But he had already pushed the door open. He looked around. The first glow of the young day streamed through the enormous windows. It lay on the shining floor like pools of blood. Slim stood by the wall, near the door. Joh Fredersen stood directly in front of him. His fists were pressed against the wall on either side of Slim, holding him in place. It was as though his fists had been driven through Slim, crucifying him.

“Where is my son—?” said Joh Fredersen. He asked—and his voice cracked as if in suffocation:

“Where is my son?” Joh Fredersen asked. His voice cracked as if he were suffocating:

“Where is my child?”

Slim’s head flung back against the wall. From his ashen lips came the toneless words:

Slim’s head snapped back against the wall. He spoke in a flat voice, his lips pale:

“To-morrow there will be many in Metropolis who will ask:

“Tomorrow many people in Metropolis will ask:

“'Joh Fredersen, where is my child?’”

Joh Fredersen’s fists relaxed. His whole body twisted around. Then the man who had been the Master over Metropolis saw that another man was standing in the room. He stared at him. The sweat trickled down his face in cold, slow, burdensome drops. The face twitched in a terrible impotence.

Joh Fredersen’s fists relaxed. His whole body turned around. Then the man who had been the master of Metropolis saw another man standing in the room. He stared at him. Cold sweat ran down his face in slow, heavy drops. His face twitched with terrible helplessness.

“Where is my son—?” asked Joh Fredersen, babblingly. He stretched out his hand. The hand shot through the air, groping aimlessly. “Do you know, where my son is—?”

“Where is my son?” Joh Fredersen asked, babbling. He reached out. His hand shot through the air, groping aimlessly. “Do you know where my son is?”

Josaphat did not answer. Yes, the answer shouted in his throat. But he could not form the words. There was a fist at his throat, strangling him.... God—Almighty God in highest heaven, was it Joh Fredersen who was standing before him?

Josaphat did not answer. Yes, the answer was shouting in his throat. But he could not get the words out. A fist was gripping his throat, choking him.... God, Almighty God in heaven, was it Joh Fredersen standing before him?

Joh Fredersen made an uncertain step towards him. He bent his head low to look at him the more closely. He nodded again.

Joh Fredersen took a hesitant step toward him. He bent his head low to get a closer look at him. He nodded again.

“I know you,” he said tonelessly. “You are Josaphat and you were my first secretary. I sent you away. I treated you cruelly. I did you wrong and I ruined you.... I beg your forgiveness.... I am sorry that I was ever cruel to you or to anyone else.... Forgive me.... Forgive me, Josaphat, for ten hours I have not known where my son is.... For ten hours, Josaphat, I have been sending all the men I could get hold of, down into that damned city to look for my son, and I know it is senseless, and I know it is quite pointless, the day is breaking, and I am talking and talking and I know that I am a fool but perhaps, perhaps you know where my son is...?”

“I know you,” he said without emotion. “You are Josaphat, and you were my first secretary. I sent you away. I treated you cruelly. I wronged you and ruined you.... I beg you to forgive me.... I am sorry I was ever cruel to you or anyone else.... Forgive me.... Forgive me, Josaphat. For ten hours, I have not known where my son is.... For ten hours, Josaphat, I have been sending every man I could find down into that damned city to look for him. And I know it is senseless. I know it is completely pointless. Day is breaking, and I keep talking and talking. I know I am a fool, but perhaps, perhaps you know where my son is...?”

“Captured,” said Josaphat, and it was as though he ripped the word from his gullet, and feared to bleed to death there-from. “Captured....”

“Captured,” said Josaphat. It was as if he had torn the word from his throat and feared he would bleed to death. “Captured....”

A stupid smile hovered over Joh Fredersen’s face.

A stupid smile lingered on Joh Fredersen’s face.

“What does that mean ... captured...?”

“The mob has captured him, Joh Fredersen!”

“Captured—?”

“Captured?”

“Yes.”

“My son—?”

“My son?”

“Yes!—Freder, your son—!”

“Yes! Freder, your son!”

A senseless, pitiable, animal sound broke from Joh Fredersen’s mouth. His mouth stood open, distorted—his hands rose as in childish defence, to ward off a blow which had already fallen. His voice said, quite high and piteously:

A senseless, pitiful, animal sound came from Joh Fredersen’s mouth. His mouth hung open, distorted. He raised his hands like a child defending himself, trying to ward off a blow that had already fallen. His voice came out high and pitiful:

“My son...?”

“They took him prisoner,”—Josaphat tore the words out—“because they sought a victim for their despair, and for the fury of their immeasurable, inconceivable agony. When they saw the black water running towards them from the shafts of the underground railway, and when they realised that, as the result of the stopping of the pumps, the whole workmen’s town had been flooded out, then they went mad with despair. They say that some mothers, blind and deaf to all remonstrance, tried, as if possessed, to dive down through the flooded shafts, and just the terrible absoluteness of the futility of any attempt at rescue has turned them into beasts and they lust for revenge....”

“They took him prisoner,” Josaphat forced out the words, “because they needed a victim for their despair and the fury of their immeasurable, unimaginable agony. They saw black water rushing toward them from the underground railway shafts. Then they realized that the pumps had stopped and the entire workers’ town had been flooded. They went mad with despair. They say some mothers, blind and deaf to every warning, tried to dive down through the flooded shafts, as if possessed. There was absolutely no hope of rescue. That terrible fact has turned them into beasts, and they thirst for revenge....”

“Revenge ... on whom?”

“Revenge ... against who?”

“On the girl who seduced them....”

“On the girl....”

“Yes....”

“Go on....”

“They have taken captive the girl, on whom they put the blame of all this horror.... Freder wanted to save her, for he loves the girl.... They have taken him captive and are forcing him to look on and see how his beloved dies.... They have built the bonfire before the cathedral.... They are dancing round the bonfire.... They are yelling: ‘We have captured the son of Joh Fredersen and his beloved’ ... and I know—I know: He’ll never get away from them alive...!”

“They have captured the girl and blamed her for all this horror.... Freder wanted to save her because he loves her.... They have captured him and are forcing him to watch his beloved die.... They have built the bonfire in front of the cathedral.... They are dancing around it.... They are yelling: ‘We have captured the son of Joh Fredersen and his beloved’ ... and I know, I know he’ll never get away from them alive...!”

For the space of some seconds there was so deep and perfect a silence that the golden glow of the morning, breaking forth, strong and radiant had the effect of a powerful roar. Then Joh Fredersen turned around, breaking into a run. He flung himself at the door. So forceful and irresistible was this movement that it seemed as if the closed door itself were not able to withstand it.

For a few seconds, the silence was so deep and complete that the strong, radiant golden glow of morning seemed to roar. Then Joh Fredersen turned and broke into a run. He flung himself at the door. His movement was so forceful and unstoppable that it seemed even the closed door could not withstand it.

Past the knots of human beings ran Joh Fredersen—across to the staircase and down the steps. His course was as a pauseless series of leaps. He did not notice the height. With hands stretched forward he ran, in bounds, his hair rearing up like a flame above his brow. His mouth was wide open and between his parted lips there hovered—a soundless scream—the unscreamed name: “Freder!”

Joh Fredersen ran past the clusters of people, across to the staircase and down the steps. He moved in a continuous series of leaps. He did not notice how high up he was. He bounded forward with his hands outstretched, his hair rising like a flame above his forehead. His mouth was wide open. Between his parted lips hovered a silent scream, the name he could not cry out: “Freder!”

An infinity of stairs ... clefts ... rents in walls ... smashed stone blocks ... twisted iron ... destruction ... ruin....

Endless stairs ... cracks ... gaps in walls ... smashed stone blocks ... twisted iron ... destruction ... ruin....

The street.

The day was streaming down, red, upon the street....

Red daylight streamed down onto the street....

Howls in the air. And the gleam of flame. And smoke....

Howls filled the air. And the glow of flames. And smoke....

Voices ... shouts—and no exultant shouting ... shouts of fear, of horror, of terribly strained tension....

Voices ... shouts, but no shouts of joy ... shouts of fear, horror, and unbearable tension....

At last the cathedral square....

At last, the cathedral square....

The bonfire. The mob ... men, women, immeasurable masses ... but they were not gazing at the bonfire, on the smoking fieriness of which smouldered a creature of metal and glass, with the head and body of a woman.

The bonfire. The mob ... men, women, countless masses ... But they were not looking at the bonfire. In its smoky flames, a creature of metal and glass smoldered. It had the head and body of a woman.

All eyes were turned upwards, towards the heights of the cathedral, the roof of which sparkled in the morning sunshine.

Everyone looked up at the cathedral. Its roof sparkled in the morning sunshine.

Joh Fredersen stopped, as though a blow had been struck at his knees.

Joh Fredersen stopped as if someone had struck him on the knees.

“What ...” he stammered. He raised his eyes, he raised his hands quite slowly to the level of his head ... his hands rested upon his hair.

“What ...” he stammered. He looked up and slowly raised his hands to his head. His hands rested on his hair.

Soundlessly, as though mown down, he fell upon his knees.

Silently, he fell to his knees as if he had been cut down.

Upon the heights of the cathedral roof, entwined about each other, clawed to each other, wrestled Freder and Rotwang, gleaming in the sunlight.

High on the cathedral roof, Freder and Rotwang wrestled, tangled together and clawing at each other, gleaming in the sunlight.

They fought, breast pressed to breast, knee to knee. One did not need very sharp eyes to see that Rotwang was by far the stronger. The slender form of the boy, in white-silken tatters, bent under the throttling grip of the great inventor, farther and farther backwards. In a fearfully wonderful arch the slender, white form was extended, head back, knees bent forward. And the blackness which was Rotwang stood out, massy, mountain-like, above the silken whiteness, forcing it downwards. In the narrow gallery of the spire Freder crumpled up like a sack and lay in the corner, stirring no more. Above him, straightened up, yet bent forward—Rotwang, staring at him, then turning....

They fought chest to chest, knee to knee. Anyone could see that Rotwang was much stronger. The great inventor’s grip on the boy’s throat forced his slender body farther and farther backward. His white silk clothes hung in tatters. His body formed a terrifying, beautiful arch, with his head back and his knees bent forward. Rotwang’s dark figure loomed above his silk-clad whiteness, massive as a mountain, forcing him down. In the narrow gallery of the spire, Freder crumpled like a sack and lay motionless in the corner. Above him, Rotwang straightened up but remained bent forward. He stared at Freder, then turned....

Along the narrow roof ridge, towards him—no, towards the dullish bundle of white silk, staggered Maria. In the light of the morning, risen glorious and imperious, her voice fluttered out like the mourning of a poor bird:

Maria staggered along the narrow ridge of the roof toward him. No, toward the dull white silk bundle. In the glorious, commanding light of morning, her voice fluttered out like the mournful cry of a poor bird:

“Freder—Freder—!”

“Freder, Freder!”

Whispers broke out in the cathedral square. Heads turned and hands pointed.

Whispers spread through the cathedral square. Heads turned and hands pointed.

“Look—Joh Fredersen! Look over there—Joh Fredersen!”

“Look, Joh Fredersen! Look over there, Joh Fredersen!”

A woman’s voice yelled out:

A woman shouted:

“Now you see for yourself, don’t you, Joh Fredersen, what it’s like when someone’s only child is murdered—?”

“Now you see for yourself what it’s like when someone’s only child is murdered, don’t you, Joh Fredersen?”

Josaphat leaped before the man who was on his knees, hearing nothing of what was going on around him.

Josaphat leaped in front of the man on his knees, hearing nothing of what was happening around him.

“What’s the matter—?” he shouted. “What’s the matter with you all—? Your children have been saved! In the ‘House of the Sons!’ Maria and Joh Fredersen’s son—they saved your children—!”

“What’s wrong?” he shouted. “What’s wrong with all of you? Your children have been saved! They’re in the ‘House of the Sons’! Maria and Joh Fredersen’s son saved your children!”

Joh Fredersen heard nothing. He did not hear the scream, which, like a bellowed prayer to God, suddenly leaped from the one mouth of the multitude.

Joh Fredersen heard nothing. He did not hear the scream that suddenly rose from the crowd as if from one mouth. It was like a prayer bellowed to God.

He did not hear the shuffling with which the multitude near him, far around him, threw itself on its knees. He did not hear the weeping of the women, the panting of the men, nor prayer, nor thanks, nor groans, nor praises.

He did not hear the shuffling of the crowd as people near and far around him fell to their knees. He did not hear the women weeping or the men panting. He heard no prayers, thanks, groans, or praises.

Only his eyes remained alive. His eyes which seemed to be lidless, clung to the roof of the cathedral.

Only his eyes remained alive. They seemed to have no lids and stayed fixed on the cathedral roof.

Maria had reached the white bundle, which lay, crumpled up in the corner, between the spire and the roof. She slid along to it on her knees, stretching her hands out towards it, blinded with misery:

Maria had reached the white bundle. It lay crumpled in the corner between the spire and the roof. Blinded by misery, she slid toward it on her knees, reaching out her hands:

“Freder.... Freder....”

With a savage snarl, like the snarl of a beast of pray, Rotwang clutched at her. She struggled amid screams. He held her lips closed. With an expression of despairing incomprehension he stared into the girl’s tear-wet face.

Rotwang grabbed her with a savage snarl, like a beast of prey. She screamed and struggled. He held her lips shut. He stared at her tear-streaked face, looking desperate and unable to understand.

“Hel ... my Hel ... why do you struggle against me?” He held her in his ironlike arms, as prey which, now, nothing and no one could tear away from him. Close to the spire a ladder led upwards to the cathedral coping. With the bestial snarl of one unjustly pursued he climbed up the ladder, dragging the girl with him, in his arms.

“Hel ... my Hel ... why do you fight me?” He held her in his ironlike arms. She was his prey, and now nothing and no one could tear her away from him. Near the spire, a ladder led up to the edge of the cathedral roof. With the animal snarl of someone unjustly pursued, he climbed the ladder, dragging the girl up in his arms.

This was the sight which met Freder’s eyes when he opened them and tore himself free from the half-unconscious state he was in. He pushed himself up and flung himself across to the ladder. He climbed up the ladder almost at a run, with the blindly certain speed born of fear for his beloved. He reached Rotwang, who let Maria fall. She fell. She fell, but in falling she saved herself, pulling herself up and reaching the golden sickle of the moon on which rested the star-crowned Virgin. She stretched out her hand to clutch at Freder. But at the same moment Rotwang threw himself down upon the man who was standing below him, and clasped tightly together, they rolled along, down the roof of the cathedral, rebounding violently against the narrow railing of the gallery.

This was what Freder saw when he opened his eyes and shook off his half-conscious state. He pushed himself up and lunged for the ladder. He climbed it almost at a run, with the blind certainty of someone afraid for his beloved. He reached Rotwang, who let Maria fall. She fell. But as she fell, she saved herself. She pulled herself up to the golden crescent moon that supported the star-crowned Virgin. She reached out to grab Freder. But at that same moment, Rotwang threw himself down on Freder, who stood below him. Locked tightly together, they rolled down the cathedral roof and slammed against the narrow railing of the gallery.

The yell of fear from the multitude came shrieking up from the depths. Neither Rotwang nor Freder heard it. With a terrible oath Rotwang gathered himself up. He saw above him, sharp against the blue of the sky, the gargoyle of a water-spout. It grinned in his face. The long tongue leered mockingly at him. He drew himself up and struck, with clenched fist, at the grinning gargoyle....

The crowd’s cries of fear rose from the depths. Neither Rotwang nor Freder heard them. With a terrible curse, Rotwang pulled himself up. Above him, he saw the gargoyle on a waterspout, sharp against the blue sky. It grinned in his face. Its long tongue mocked him. He pulled himself up and struck the grinning gargoyle with his fist....

The gargoyle broke....

In the weight of the blow he lost his balance—and fell—and saved himself, hanging with one hand to the Gothic ornamentation of the cathedral.

The force of the blow knocked him off balance, and he fell. He saved himself by grabbing the cathedral’s Gothic ornamentation with one hand.

And, looking upwards, into the infinite blue of the morning sky, he saw Hel’s countenance, which he had loved, and it was like the countenance of the beautiful angel of Death, smiling at him, its lips inclining towards his brow.

He looked up into the endless blue of the morning sky and saw Hel’s face, which he had loved. It was like the face of the beautiful angel of Death, smiling at him, its lips reaching toward his forehead.

Great black wings spread themselves out, strong enough to carry a lost world up to heaven.

Great black wings spread out, strong enough to carry a lost world up to heaven.

“Hel ...” said the man. “My Hel ... at last....”

And his fingers lost their hold, voluntarily....

And his fingers let go willingly....

Joh Fredersen did not see the fall, neither did he hear the cry of the multitude as it stared back. He saw but one thing: the white-gleaming figure of the man, who, upright and uninjured, was walking along the roof of the cathedral with the even step of one fearing nothing, carrying the girl in his arms.

Joh Fredersen did not see the fall or hear the crowd cry out as it stared back. He saw only one thing: the man's figure, gleaming white. Upright and uninjured, the man walked along the cathedral roof with the steady step of someone who feared nothing. He carried the girl in his arms.

Then Joh Fredersen bent down, so low that his forehead touched the stones of the cathedral square. And those near enough to him heard the weeping which welled up from his heart, as water from a rock.

Then Joh Fredersen bent down until his forehead touched the stones of the cathedral square. Those close enough heard him weeping. His tears welled up from his heart like water from a rock.

As his hands loosened from his head, all who stood around him saw that Joh Fredersen’s hair had turned snow-white.

As he lowered his hands from his head, everyone around him saw that Joh Fredersen’s hair had turned snow-white.