Chapter 25

Joh Fredersen came to his mother’s house.

Joh Fredersen came to his mother’s house.

Death had passed over Metropolis. Destruction of the world and the Day of Judgment had shouted from out the roars of explosion, the clanging of the bells of the cathedral. But Joh Fredersen found his mother as he always found her: in the wide, soft chair, by the open window, the dark rug over the paralysed knees, the great Bible on the sloping table before her, in the beautiful old hands, the figured lace at which she was sewing.

Death had passed over Metropolis. The roar of explosions and the ringing of the cathedral bells had proclaimed the end of the world and Judgment Day. But Joh Fredersen found his mother as he always did. She sat in the wide, soft chair by the open window, a dark blanket over her paralyzed knees. The great Bible lay on the sloping table before her. In her beautiful old hands, she held the patterned lace she was sewing.

She turned her eyes towards the door and perceived her son.

She looked toward the door and saw her son.

The expression of stern severity on her face became sterner and more severe.

Her stern expression grew even more severe.

She said nothing. But about her closed mouth was something which said: “You are in a bad way, Joh Fredersen....”

She said nothing. But something about her closed mouth said: “You are in trouble, Joh Fredersen....”

And as a judge did she regard him.

And she looked at him like a judge.

Joh Fredersen took his hat from his head. Then she saw the white hair above his brow....

Joh Fredersen took off his hat. Then she saw the white hair above his forehead....

“Child—!” she said quietly, stretching her hands out towards him.

“Child!” she said quietly, reaching out her hands toward him.

Joh Fredersen fell on his knees by his mother’s side. He threw his arms about her, pressing his head into the lap, which had borne him. He felt her hands on his hair—felt how she touched it, as though fearful of hurting him, as though this white hair was the mark of an unhealed wound, very near the heart, and heard her dear voice saying:

Joh Fredersen fell to his knees beside his mother. He threw his arms around her and pressed his head into the lap that had borne him. He felt her hands on his hair. She touched it as if afraid of hurting him, as if his white hair were the mark of an unhealed wound, very close to the heart. He heard her dear voice saying:

“Child.... My child.... My poor child....”

“Child.... My child.... My poor child....”

The rustling of the walnut tree before the window filled a long silence with longing and affection. Then Joh Fredersen began to speak. He spoke with the eagerness of one bathing himself in Holy water, with the fervour of a conquered one, confessing, with the redemption of one ready to do any penance, and who was pardoned. His voice was soft and sounded as though coming from far away, from the farther bank of a wide river.

The walnut tree outside the window rustled, filling a long silence with longing and affection. Then Joh Fredersen began to speak. He spoke eagerly, like someone bathing in holy water. He spoke with the fervor of a defeated person confessing, and the relief of someone pardoned who was ready to do any penance. His voice was soft and seemed to come from far away, from the far bank of a wide river.

He spoke of Freder; then his voice failed him entirely. He raised himself from his knees and walked through the room. When he turned around there stood in his eyes a smiling loneliness and the realisation of a necessary giving-up—of the tree’s giving up of the ripe fruit.

He spoke of Freder, then his voice failed him entirely. He rose from his knees and walked across the room. When he turned around, his eyes held a smiling loneliness. He understood that he had to let go, as a tree must let go of its ripe fruit.

“It seemed to me,” he said, gazing into space, “as though I saw his face for the first time ... when he spoke to me this morning.... It is a strange face, mother. It is quite my face—and yet quite his own. It is the face of his beautiful, dead mother and yet it is, at the same time, fashioned after Maria’s features, as though he were born for the second time of that young, virginal creature. But it is, at the same time, the face of the masses—confident in her, related to her, as near to her as brothers....”

“It seemed to me,” he said, staring into space, “that I saw his face for the first time ... when he spoke to me this morning.... It is a strange face, mother. It is exactly like mine, and yet entirely his own. It is the face of his beautiful, dead mother. Yet it also resembles Maria’s, as though he had been born a second time to that young, virginal creature. But it is also the face of the masses, who trust her, are related to her, and are as close to her as brothers....”

“How do you come to know the face of the masses, Joh?” asked his mother gently.

“How did you come to know the face of the masses, Joh?” his mother asked gently.

For a long time Joh Fredersen gave no answer.

For a long time, Joh Fredersen did not answer.

“You are quite right to ask, mother,” he said then. “From the heights of the New Tower of Babel I could not distinguish it. And in the night of lunacy, in which I perceived it for the first time it was so distorted in its own horror that it no more resembled itself....

“You are right to ask, mother,” he said then. “I could not make it out from the heights of the New Tower of Babel. And when I first saw it, on that night of madness, its own horror had distorted it beyond recognition....

“When I came out of the cathedral door in the morning the masses were standing as one man, looking towards me. Then the face of the masses was turned towards me. Then I saw, it was not old, was not young, was sorrowless and joyless.

“When I came out of the cathedral that morning, the masses stood as one, looking toward me. Then the face of the masses turned toward me. I saw that it was neither old nor young, neither sorrowful nor joyful.

“What do you want?” I asked. And one answered:

“What do you want?” I asked. And one of them answered:

“We are waiting, Mr. Fredersen....”

“We’re waiting, Mr. Fredersen....”

“For what?” I asked him.

“For what?” I asked him.

“We are waiting,” continued the spokesman, “for someone to come, who will tell us what way we should go....”

“We are waiting,” the spokesman continued, “for someone to come and tell us which way to go....”

“And you want to be this one, Joh?”

“And you want to be this one, Joh?”

“Yes, mother.”

“Yes, mother.”

“And will they trust in you?”

“And will they trust you?”

“I do not know, mother. If we had been living a thousand years earlier, I should, perhaps, set out on the high road, with pilgrim’s staff and cockle hat, and seek the way to the Holy Land of my belief, not returning home until I had cooled my feet, hot from wandering, in the Jordan, and, in the places of redemption, had prayed to the Redeemer. And, if I were not the man I am, it might come to pass that I should set out on a journey along the roads of those who walk in the shadow. I should, perhaps, sit with them in the corners of misery and learn to comprehend their groans and their curses into which a life of hell has transformed their prayers.... For, from comprehension comes love, and I am longing to love mankind, mother.... But I believe that acting is better than making pilgrimages, and that a good deed is worth more than the best of words. I believe, too, that I shall find the way to do so, for there are two standing by me, who wish to help me....”

“I don’t know, mother. If we had lived a thousand years earlier, perhaps I would set out on the road. I would carry a pilgrim’s staff and wear a cockle hat, seeking the Holy Land of my faith. I would not return home until I had cooled my travel-worn feet in the Jordan. And I would pray to the Redeemer at the places of redemption. “And if I were not the man I am, I might travel the roads of those who walk in shadow. Perhaps I would sit with them in their places of misery. I would learn to understand their groans and curses, the prayers that a life of hell has transformed.... For understanding gives rise to love, and I long to love mankind, mother.... “But I believe that action is better than making pilgrimages. A good deed is worth more than the finest words. I also believe I will find a way to act, for two people stand by me who want to help me....”

“Three, Joh....”

“Three, Joh....”

The eyes of the son sought the gaze of the mother.

The son looked into his mother’s eyes.

“Who is the third?”

“Who is the third?”

“Hel....”

“Hel....”

“... Hel—?...”

“... Hel...?”

“Yes, child.”

“Yes, child.”

Joh Fredersen remained silent.

Joh Fredersen stayed silent.

She turned over the pages of her Bible, until she found what she sought. It was a letter. She took it and said, still holding it lovingly:

She turned the pages of her Bible until she found what she was looking for. It was a letter. She took it out and, still holding it lovingly, said:

“I received this letter from Hel before she died. She asked me to give it you, when, as she said, you had found your way home to me and to yourself....”

“I received this letter from Hel before she died. She asked me to give it to you when, as she said, you had found your way home to me and to yourself....”

Soundlessly moving his lips, Joh Fredersen stretched out his hand for the letter.

Moving his lips silently, Joh Fredersen reached for the letter.

The yellowish envelope contained but a thin sheet of paper. Upon it stood, in the handwriting of a girlish woman:

The yellowish envelope contained only a thin sheet of paper. On it, written in a girlish woman's handwriting, were these words:

It took Joh Fredersen a long time before he succeeded in replacing the thin sheet of note-paper in the envelope. His eyes gazed through the open window by which his mother sat. He saw, drawing across the soft, blue sky, great, white clouds, which were like ships, laden with treasures from a far-off world.

It took Joh Fredersen a long time to put the thin sheet of note paper back in the envelope. He looked through the open window beside which his mother sat. Great white clouds drifted across the soft blue sky. They looked like ships laden with treasures from a far-off world.

“Of what are you thinking, child?” asked his mother’s voice, with care.

“What are you thinking about, child?” his mother’s voice asked gently.

But Joh Fredersen gave her no answer. His heart, utterly redeemed, spoke stilly within him:

But Joh Fredersen gave her no answer. His heart, completely redeemed, spoke quietly within him:

“Unto the end of the world.... Unto the end of the world.”

“Until the end of the world.... Until the end of the world.”

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