Metropolis quotes

It was a reef upon which the waves foamed. Carrying crests of froth, they dashed violently onward, and the seventh was always the mightiest.

But high above the sea, which bellowed in the uproar of the waves, the stars of heaven danced the solemn, mighty dance.

Shaken to her core, the old earth started from her sleep. Her torrents dried up; her mountains fell to ruin. From the ripped open depths the fire welled up; The earth burnt with all she bore. The waves of the sea became waves of fire.

It hovered above the ashes of the completely ruined earth. It hovered hither and thither, not knowing where to settle. It hovered above the grave of the sea and above the corpse of the earth.

Never, since the sinning angel fell from heaven to hell, had the air heard such a cry of despair.

Then, from the solemn mighty dance of the stars, one freed itself and neared the dead earth. Its light was gentler than moonlight and more imperious than the fight of the sun. Among the music of the spheres it was the most heavenly note.

There was one among them—Slim, with his courteous face, the expression of which never changed—Freder knew of him: one word to him, and, if the girl still walked on earth with her silent step, then Slim would find her.

But one does not set a bloodhound on the track of a sacred, white hind, if one does not want to be cursed, and to be, all his life long, a miserable, miserable man.

Freder saw, without looking at him, how Slim’s eyes were taking stock of him. He knew that the silent creature, ordained, by his father, to be his all-powerful protector, was, at the same time, his keeper.

A smile, a rather bitter smile, drew down the corners of his mouth.

He was a treasure which must be guarded as crown jewels are guarded.

The son of a great father, and the only son.

The laughter induced the friends, for no reason, only because they were young and carefree, to join in the cheerful sound.

Like a joyously ringing rainbow, peal upon peal of laughter arched itself gaily above the young people.

Then suddenly—suddenly—Freder turned his head. His hands, which were resting on the hips of the drink-mixer, lost hold of her, dropping down by his sides as if dead. The laughter ceased, not one of the friends moved.

She released the children and stretched forward her hand, motioning towards the friends and saying to the children:

“Look, these are your brothers!”

And, motioning towards the children, she said to the friends:

He looked at his friends.

He saw these beings who never wearied, unless from sport⁠—who never sweated, unless from sport⁠—who were never out of breath, unless from sport.

Beings requiring their joyous games in order that their food and drink might agree with them, in order to be able, to sleep well and digest easily.

“But perhaps,” he continued, without raising his voice, “perhaps you notice, you, my beloved creation, that you are no longer my only love.

Nothing on earth is more vengeful than the jealousy of a machine which believes itself to be neglected.

Yes, I know that … You are imperious mistresses … ‘Thou shalt have none other Gods but me.’ Am I right? A thought apart from you—you feel it at once and become perverse.

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 ocean when it is angry, the voice of falling torrents, the voice of very close thunderstorms 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.

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 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.

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.

Freder pushed open the glass doors. He felt them tremble like strings under strokes of the bow. He stepped out on to the narrow gallery which ran around this, almost the highest house of Metropolis.

… was nothing but work, despising sleep, eating and drinking mechanically, pressed his fingers on the blue metal plate, which apart from himself, no man had ever touched, so long would the voice of the machine-city of Metropolis roar for food, for food, for food …

She wanted living men for food.

Then the living food came pushing along in masses. Along the street it came, along its own street which never crossed with other people’s streets. It rolled on, a broad, an endless stream. The stream was twelve files deep. They walked in even step.

In ten hours he would let the machine brute roar anew. And in another ten hours, again. And always the same, and always the same, without ever loosening the ten-hour clamp.

Metropolis did not know what Sunday was. Metropolis knew neither high days nor holidays.

Metropolis had the most saintly cathedral in the world, richly adorned with Gothic decoration.

But, it was said, he died exceedingly happy, for the Archangel Michael rang him on his way to death so wonderfully, touchingly, that all agreed the saints must have forgiven the sinner already, to ring the heavenly bells, thus, to receive him.

The bells still rang with their old, ore voices but when Metropolis roared, then Saint Michael itself was hoarse.

The New Tower of Babel and its fellow houses stretched their sombre heights high above the cathedral spire, that the young girls in the workrooms and wireless stations gazed down just as deep from the thirtieth story windows on the star-crowned virgin as she, in …

Too, the demolition of the cathedral was not yet so burning a question as to have been the object of an estimate of expenses. But when the moment should come, the cost of its pulling down would exceed that of the construction of Metropolis.

The Gothics were ascetics; the Master of Metropolis knew by experience that a multimillionaire was more cheaply bought over than an ascetic.

Freder wondered, not without a foreign feeling of bitterness, how many more times the great Master of Metropolis would permit him to look on at the scene which the cathedral would present to him on every rainless day:

But the Virgin on the top of the tower seemed to have her own gentle starlight, and hovered, set free from the blackness of the stone, on the sickle of the silver moon, above the cathedral.

Freder had never seen the countenance of the Virgin and yet he knew it so well he could have drawn it: the austere countenance of the Virgin, the sweet countenance of the mother.

He stooped, clasping the burning palms of his hands around the iron railing.

The brainpan of the New Tower of Babel was peopled with numbers.

From an invisible source the numbers dropped rhythmically down through the cooled air of the room, being collected, as in a water-basin, at the table at which the great brain of Metropolis worked, becoming objective under the pencils of his secretaries.

“The door opened. Nobody was announced.

Nobody comes to me unannounced. Only my son.

”

“I have no use for him,” said Joh Fredersen, still not having looked at his son.

“I have no use for people who start when one speaks to them,” said the Master over Metropolis.

“Perhaps he felt ill … perhaps he is worrying about somebody who is dear to him.”

“Possibly. Perhaps too, he was still under the effects of the too long night in Yoshiwara.

Freder, avoid assuming people to be good, innocent and victimized just because they suffer. He who suffers has sinned, against himself and against others.

”

“You are quite free from sin?”

“The time of sin and suffering lies behind me, Freder.”

“And if this man, now … I have never seen such a thing … but I believe that men resolved to end their lives go out of a room as he did …”

“Do you suppose,” Joh Fredersen went on, “that I need my secretaries’ pencils to check American stock-exchange reports? The index tables of Rotwang’s trans-ocean trumpets are a hundred times more reliable and swift than clerk’s brains and hands.

But, by the accuracy of the machine I can measure the accuracy of the men, by the breath of the machine, the lungs of the men who compete with her.

”

“Because he was a man and not a machine …”

“Because he denied his humanity before the machine.”

Freder raised his head and his deeply troubled eyes.

“I cannot help them,” said the brain of Metropolis. “Nobody can help them.

They are where they must be. They are what they must be.

They are not fitted for anything more or anything different.”

the machine lifts and pushes. They have nothing else to do but eternally one and the same thing, each in this place, each at his machine. Divided into periods of brief seconds, always the same clutch at the same second, at the same second.

They have eyes, but they are blind but for one thing, the scale of the manometer.

They have ears, but they are deaf but for one thing, the hiss of their machine. They watch and watch, having no thought but for one thing:

“I do not know for what they are fitted,” said Freder, expressionlessly: his head fell upon his breast as though almost severed from his neck. “I only know what I saw—and that it was dreadful to look upon …

I went through the machine-rooms⁠—they were like temples. All the great gods were living in white temples.

I saw Baal and Moloch, Huitziopochtli and Durgha; some frightfully companionable, some terribly solitary. I saw Juggernaut’s divine car and the Towers of Silence, Muhammad’s curved sword, and the crosses of Golgotha.

“

That men are used up so rapidly at the machines, Freder, is no proof of the greed of the machine, but of the deficiency of the human material.

Man is the product of change, Freder. A once-and-for-all being. If he is miscast he cannot be sent back to the melting-furnace. One is obliged to use him as he is.

But not one returned my greeting. The machines were all too eagerly tautening their nerve-strings. And when I looked at them, father, quite closely, as closely as I am now looking at you—I was looking myself in the face …

Every single man, father, who slaves at your machines, has my face⁠—has the face of your son⁠ ⁠…

”

He looked at the clock and stretched out his hand. In all the rooms surrounding the brainpan of the New Tower of Babel the white lamps flared up.

“And doesn’t it fill you with horror,” asked the son, “to know so many shadows, so many phantoms, to be working at your work?”

“The time of horror lies behind me, Freder.”

Joh Fredersen said, speaking rather softly:

“From now on I wish to be informed of my son’s every action.”

Slim bowed, waited, saluted and went.

“Then go home, Josaphat. Perhaps I shall come to you myself; perhaps I shall send a messenger who will bring you to me. I do not know what the next few hours will bring forth …

But I do not want any man I know, if I can prevent it, to lie a whole night long, staring up at the ceiling until it seems to come crashing down on him⁠ ⁠…

”

“Paternoster … that means, Our Father! …

Our Father, which are in heaven! We are in hell.

Our Father! … What is thy name? Art thou called Paternoster, Our Father? Or Joh Fredersen? Or machine? … Be hallowed by us, machine. Paternoster!

… Thy will be done, Paternoster! … Give us this day our daily bread … Grind, machine, grind flour for our bread.

The bread is baked from the flour of our bones⁠ ⁠…

And forgive us our trespasses … what trespasses, Paternoster? The trespass of having a brain and a heart, that thou hast not, machine?

… Thy will be done, Paternoster! … Give us this day our daily bread … Grind, machine, grind flour for our bread. The bread is baked from the flour of our bones … And forgive us our trespasses … what trespasses, Paternoster?

The trespass of having a brain and a heart, that thou hast not, machine?

And lead us not into temptation … Lead us not into temptation to rise against thee, machine, for thou art stronger than we, thou art a thousand times stronger than we, and thou art always in the right and we are always in the wrong, …

“

We shall now exchange lives, Georgi. You take mine, I yours.

I shall take your place at the machine. You go quietly out in my clothes. Nobody noticed me when I came here. Nobody will notice you when you go. You must only not lose your nerve and keep calm.

… under the earth than the underground stations of Metropolis, with their thousand shafts—In a town the houses of which storied just as high above squares and streets as, above in the night, did the houses of Metropolis, which towered so high, one above the other?

Had he ever known anything else than the horrible sobriety of these houses, in which there lived not men, but numbers, recognisable only by the enormous placards by the house-doors?

Had his life ever had any purpose other than to go out from these doors, framed with numbers, out to work, when the sirens of Metropolis howled for him—and ten hours later, crushed and tired to death, to stumble into the house by the door …

… any purpose other than to go out from these doors, framed with numbers, out to work, when the sirens of Metropolis howled for him—and ten hours later, crushed and tired to death, to stumble into the house by the door of which his number stood?

Was he, himself, anything but a number⁠—number 11811⁠—crammed into his linen, his clothes, his cap?

Had not the number also become imprinted into his soul, into his brain, into his blood, that he must even stop and think of his own name?

It had lived through the time of smoke and soot.

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

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

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

It was said that a magician, who came from the East (and in the track of whom the plague wandered) had built the house in seven nights.

But the masons and carpenters of the town did not know who had mortared the bricks, nor who had erected the roof. No foreman’s speech and no ribboned nosegay had hallowed the Builder’s Feast after the pious custom.

Then came a time which pulled down antiquities. Then the words were spoken: The house must die.

But the house was stronger than the words, as it was stronger than the centuries.

With suddenly falling stones it slew those who laid hands on its walls. It opened the floor under their feet, dragging them down into a shaft, of which no man had previously had any knowledge.

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

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

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

It hardly reached knee-high to the house-giants which stood near it. It stood at an angle to the street. To the cleanly town, which knew neither smoke nor soot, it was a blot and an annoyance. But it remained.

When Rotwang left the house and crossed the street, which occurred but seldom, there were many who covertly looked at his feet, to see if, perhaps, he walked in red shoes.

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

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

It was not the work of an artist, it was the work of a man, who, in agonies for which the human tongue lacks words, had wrestled with the white stone throughout immeasurable days and nights until at last it seemed to realise and form the woman’s head by itself.

It was as if no tool had been at work here—no, it was as if a man, lying before this stone, had called on the name of the woman, unceasingly, with all the strength, with all the longing, with all the despair, of his brain, …

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

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

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

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

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

The soft, far-off voice laughed.

The being was, indubitably, a woman. In the soft garment which it wore stood a body, like the body of a young birch tree, swaying on feet set fast together.

But, although it was a woman, it was not human.

The body seemed as though made of crystal, through which the bones shone silver. Cold streamed from the glazen skin which did not contain a drop of blood.

The being was, indubitably, a woman. In the soft garment which it wore stood a body, like the body of a young birch tree, swaying on feet set fast together. But, although it was a woman, it was not human.

The body seemed as though made of crystal, through which the bones shone silver.

Cold streamed from the glazen skin which did not contain a drop of blood. The being held its beautiful hands pressed against its breast, which was motionless, with a gesture of determination, almost of defiance.

Cold streamed from the glazen skin which did not contain a drop of blood. The being held its beautiful hands pressed against its breast, which was motionless, with a gesture of determination, almost of defiance.

But the being had no face. The beautiful curve of the neck bore a lump of carelessly shaped mass.

The skull was bald, nose, lips, temples merely traced. Eyes, as though painted on closed lids, stared unseeingly, with an expression of calm madness, at the man—who did not breathe.

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

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

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

“Who is it?” he replied. “Futura … Parody … whatever you like to call it. Also: delusion … In short: it is a woman …

Every man-creator makes himself a woman.

I do not believe that humbug about the first human being a man. If a male-god created the world (which is to be hoped, Joh Fredersen) then he certainly created woman first, lovingly and revelling in creative sport. You can test it, Joh Fredersen:

A little cool—I admit, that comes of the material, which is my secret. But she is not yet completely finished. She is not yet discharged from the workshop of her creator. I cannot make up my mind to do it. You understand that?

Completion means setting free.

I do not want to set her free from me. That is why I have not yet given her a face. You must give her that, Joh Fredersen. For you were the one to order the new beings.”

“No plaything, Joh Fredersen, no … you and I, we no longer play. Not for any stakes … We did it once. Once and never again. No plaything, Joh Fredersen but a tool.

Do you know what it means to have a woman as a tool?

A woman like this, faultless and cool? And obedient—Implicitly obedient … Why do you fight with the Gothics and the monk Desertus about the cathedral? Send the woman to them Joh Fredersen! Send the woman to them when they are kneeling, scourging themselves.

Send the woman to them when they are kneeling, scourging themselves. Let this faultless, cool woman walk through the rows of them, on her silver feet, fragrance from the garden of life in the folds of her garment …

Who in the world knows how the blossoms of the tree smell, on which the apple of knowledge ripened.

The woman is both: Fragrance of the blossom and the fruit …

Shall she have the gestures of the Gothic Madonnas? Or the gestures of love of an Asiatic dancer? What hair shall I plant upon the skull of your tool? Shall she be modest or impudent? Excuse me my many words, you man of few!

I am drunk, d’you see, drunk with being a creator.

I intoxicate myself, I inebriate myself, on your astonished face! I have surpassed your expectations, Joh Fredersen, haven’t I? And you do not know everything yet: my beautiful Parody can sing, too! She can also read!

“How can one bind you, Joh Fredersen,” he murmured, “what is a word to you—or an oath … Oh God … you with your own laws.

What promise would you keep if the breaking of it seemed expedient to you?

”

“Don’t talk rubbish, Rotwang,” said Joh Fredersen. “I shall hold my tongue because I still need you.

I know quite well that the people whom we need are our solitary tyrants.

So, if you know, speak.”

“In the city of graves, over which Metropolis stands,” he answered at last. “

Deep below the moles’ tunnels of your underground railway, Joh Fredersen, lies the thousand-year-old Metropolis of the thousand-year-old dead⁠ ⁠…

”

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

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

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

The man before the machine which was like Ganesha, the god with the elephant’s head, was no longer a human being.

Merely a dripping piece of exhaustion, from the pores of which the last powers of volition were oozing out in large drops of sweat. Running eyes no longer saw the manometer.

The eye of the little machine, the soft, malicious eye, twinkled at him from behind.

“Goodbye, friend,” said the little machine.

Freder’s head fell upon his breast. He felt himself dragged further, heard the dull evenness of feet tramping onwards, felt himself tramping, a member of twelve members. The ground under his feet began to roll; it was drawn upwards, pulling him up with it.

A vault, like the vault of a sepulchre, human heads so closely crowded together as to produce the effect of clods on a freshly ploughed field.

All heads turned towards one point: to the source of a light, as mild as God.

Candles burnt with sword-like flames. Slender, lustrous swords of light stood in a circle around the head of a girl, whose voice was as the Amen of God.

A vault, like the vault of a sepulchre, human heads so closely crowded together as to produce the effect of clods on a freshly ploughed field. All heads turned towards one point: to the source of a light, as mild as God.

Candles burnt with sword-like flames. Slender, lustrous swords of light stood in a circle around the head of a girl, whose voice was as the Amen of God.

The voice spoke, but Freder did not hear the words. He heard nothing but a sound, the blessed melody of which was saturated with sweetness as is the air of a garden of blossoms with fragrance.

Gracious one, formed his mouth. Mine! Mine! My beloved!

How could the world have existed before you were? How must God have smiled when he created you!

You are speaking?—What are you saying?—My heart is shouting within me—I cannot catch your words … Be patient with me, gracious one, beloved!

I see a man who comes from the Dawn of the World. He is as beautiful as the world, and has a burning heart.

He loves to walk upon the mountains and to offer his breast unto the wind and to speak with the stars.

He is strong and rules all creatures. He dreams of God and feels himself closely tied to him. His nights are filled with faces.

“One hallowed hour bursts his heart. The firmament is above him and his friends. ‘Oh friends! Friends!’ he cries, pointing to the stars. ‘

Great is the world and its Creator! Great is man!

Come, let us build a tower, the top of which reaches the sky! And when we stand on its top, and hear the stars ringing above us, then let us write our creed in golden symbols on the top of the tower!

“And they set to, a handful of men, full of confidence, and they made bricks and dug up to the earth. Never have men worked more rapidly, for they all had one thought, one aim and one dream.

When they rested from work in the evening each knew of what the other was thinking. They did not need speech to make themselves understood.

But after some time they knew: The work was greater than their working hands. Then they enlisted new friends to their work. Then their work grew. It grew overwhelming.

Never have men worked more rapidly, for they all had one thought, one aim and one dream. When they rested from work in the evening each knew of what the other was thinking. They did not need speech to make themselves understood.

But after some time they knew: The work was greater than their working hands.

Then they enlisted new friends to their work. Then their work grew. It grew overwhelming. Then the builders sent their messengers to all four winds of the world and enlisted Hands, working Hands for their mighty work.”

“The Hands came. The Hands worked for wages. The Hands did not even know what they were making. None of those building Southwards knew one of those digging toward the North.

The Brain which conceived the construction of the Tower of Babel was unknown to those who built it. Brain and Hands were far apart and strangers.

Brain and Hands became enemies. The pleasure of one became the other’s burden. The hymn of praise of one became the other’s curse.

None of those building Southwards knew one of those digging toward the North. The Brain which conceived the construction of the Tower of Babel was unknown to those who built it. Brain and Hands were far apart and strangers. Brain and Hands became enemies.

The pleasure of one became the other’s burden. The hymn of praise of one became the other’s curse.

“ ‘Babel!’ shouted one, meaning: Divinity, Coronation, Eternal, Triumph!

“

The same word was prayer and blasphemy. Speaking the same words, the men did not understand each other.

“That men no longer understood each other, that Brain and Hands no longer understood each other, was to blame that the Tower of Babel was given up to destruction, that never were the words of those who had conceived it written on its top in …

“

That Brain and Hands no longer understand each other will one day destroy the New Tower of Babel.

“Brain and Hands need a mediator. The Mediator between Brain and Hands must be the Heart …”

“

Brain and Hands need a mediator. The Mediator between Brain and Hands must be the Heart⁠ ⁠…

”

The girl looked at him, and over her sweet face passed the gleam of a boundless confidence.

“Wait for him,” she said. “He is sure to come.”

A murmur ran through the rows of men. Freder bowed his head to the girl’s feet, His whole soul said:

Destroy!—Do not fight, my brothers, for that makes you to sin. Believe me: One will come, who will speak for you—who will be the mediator between you, the Hands, and the man whose Brain and Will are over you all.

He will give you something which is more precious than anything which anybody could give you: To be free, without sinning.

”

“Hush! Keep quiet!” whispered the voice, which was soundless and yet which had the effect of laughter—like the laughter of spiteful mockery.)

The girl’s face was as a crystal, filled with snow.

She made a movement as if for flight. But her knees would not obey her. Reeds which stand in troubled water do not tremble more than her shoulders trembled.

The girl’s face was as a crystal, filled with snow. She made a movement as if for flight. But her knees would not obey her.

Reeds which stand in troubled water do not tremble more than her shoulders trembled.

“If you have come to betray us, son of Joh Fredersen, then you will have but little blessing from it,” she said softly, but in a clear voice.

The girl’s face was as a crystal, filled with snow. She made a movement as if for flight. But her knees would not obey her. Reeds which stand in troubled water do not tremble more than her shoulders trembled.

“If you have come to betray us, son of Joh Fredersen, then you will have but little blessing from it,” she said softly, but in a clear voice.

He stood up and remained standing before her.

Those condemned to wear it all their life long, live in an underground city, which is accounted a wonder of the world in all the five continents. It is an architectural wonder—that is true. It is light and shining bright and a model of tidiness.

It lacks nothing but the sun⁠—and the rain⁠—and the moon by night⁠—nothing but the sky.

That is why the children which are born there have their gnome-like faces … Do you want go down into this city under the earth in order the more to enjoy your dwelling which lies so high above the great Metropolis, in the light of …

“Won’t you understand me?” asked Freder. “Why do you look at me with such stern eyes? You wish me to be a mediator between Joh Fredersen and those whom you call your brothers …

There can be no mediator between heaven and hell who never was in heaven and hell⁠ ⁠…

I never knew hell until yesterday. That is why I failed so deplorably, yesterday, when I spoke to my father for your brothers. Until you stood before me for the first time, Maria, I lived the life of a dearly loved son.

Until you stood before me for the first time, Maria, I lived the life of a dearly loved son. I did not know what an unrealisable wish was. I knew no longing, for everything was mine …

Young as I am, I have exhausted the pleasures of the earth, down to the very bottom.

I had an aim—a gamble with Death: A flight to the stars … And then you came and showed me my brothers … From that day on I have sought you.

I did not know what an unrealisable wish was. I knew no longing, for everything was mine … Young as I am, I have exhausted the pleasures of the earth, down to the very bottom.

I had an aim⁠—a gamble with Death: A flight to the stars⁠ ⁠…

And then you came and showed me my brothers … From that day on I have sought you. I have so longed for you that I should gladly and unhesitatingly have died, had somebody told me that that was the way to you.

“To you, Maria … I will not make myself out to you to be better than I am. I want to come to you, Maria—and I want you …

I love mankind, not for its own sake, but for your sake⁠—because you love it.

I do not want to help mankind for its own sake, but for your sake—because you wish it. Yesterday I did good to two men; I helped one whom my father had dismissed.

He no longer felt the stones under his feet.

A wave carried him, him and the girl whom he held clasped to him as though he wished to die of it⁠—and the wave came from the bottom of the ocean, roaring as though the whole sea were an organ; and the wave was of fire and flung right up to the heavens.

Then sinking … sinking … endlessly gliding down—right down to the womb of the world, the source of the beginning … Thirst and quenching drink … hunger and satiation … pain and deliverance from it … death and rebirth …

The girl walked through the passages that were so familiar to her. The bright little lamp in her hand roved over the roof of stone and over the stone walls, where, in niches, the thousand-year-old dead slept.

The girl had never known fear of the dead; only reverence and gravity in face of their gravity.

Today she saw neither wall nor dead. She walked on, smiling and not knowing she did it. She felt like singing. With an expression of happiness, which was still incredulous and yet complete, she said the name of her beloved over to herself.

“Freder—!” she called. She listened.

But suddenly there came a cool draught of air which made the hair at her neck quiver, and a hand of snow ran down her back.

There came an agonized sigh—a sigh which would not come to an end …

“Freder!” she thought.

She bit the name tightly between her jaws, yet heard the scream with which her heart screamed it.

She threw herself forwards and felt—she was free—she was still free—and ran and stumbled, and pulled herself up again and staggered from wall to wall, knocking herself bloody, suddenly clutched into space, stumbled, fell to the ground, felt … Something lay there … what? No—No—No—!

… as good a head for drink as if his name had been McFosh, avaricious and superstitious as a Scotsman and—in certain circumstances, which made it requisite, of that highly bred obliviousness, which is a matter of will and a foundation stone of the British Empire.

He spoke practicality all living languages as though his mother had taught him to pray in them and his father to curse.

His greed appeared to hail from the Levant, his contentment from China. And, above all this, two quiet, observant eyes watched with German patience and perseverance.

He spoke practicality all living languages as though his mother had taught him to pray in them and his father to curse.

His greed appeared to hail from the Levant, his contentment from China.

And, above all this, two quiet, observant eyes watched with German patience and perseverance.

September looked at him.

At this moment the tiniest hamlet in North Siberia would have flatly refused to have been proclaimed the birthplace of so idiotic looking an individual.

“If it is the man for whom I have come here to look,” continued Slim, “then I shall rid you of him in a more agreeable and swifter manner than the police.”

“

My dear sir, the lion is also a cat. Maohee is a drug: but what is a cat beside a lion?

Maohee is from the other side of the earth. It is the divine, the only thing—because it is the only thing which makes us feel the intoxication of the others.”

“My dear sir, the lion is also a cat. Maohee is a drug: but what is a cat beside a lion? Maohee is from the other side of the earth.

It is the divine, the only thing⁠—because it is the only thing which makes us feel the intoxication of the others.

”

It has not its like. It is built like a winding seashell, like a mammoth shell, in the windings of which thunders the surf of seven oceans; in these windings people crouch, so densely crowded that their faces appear as one face.

No one knows the other, yet they are all friends.

They all fever. They are all pale with expectation. They have all clasped hands.

“And suddenly a man is standing in the middle of the shell, in the gleaming circle, on the milk-white disc.

But it is no man. It is the embodied conception of the intoxication of them all.

He is not conscious of himself … A slight froth stands on his mouth.

He is what his intoxication is. From the thousands of eyes which have cast anchor into his soul the power of intoxication streams into him. There is no delight in God’s creation which does not reveal itself, surmounted by the medium of these intoxicated souls.

What he says becomes visible, what he hears becomes audible to all.

What he feels: Power, desire, madness, is felt by them all. On the shimmering area, around which the shell revolves, to music beyond all description, one in ecstasy lives the thousandfold ecstasy which embodies itself in him, for thousands of others …”

That man there was no God, no Storm, no Fire, and his drunkenness most certainly inspired him with no desire. It seems to me that he had come up from hell and is roaring in the intoxication of damnation.

He did not know that the ecstasy for men who are damned is also damnation⁠ ⁠…

The fool! The prayer he is praying will not redeem him. He believes himself to be a machine and is praying to himself. He has forced the others to pray to him. He has ground them down. He has pounded them to a powder.

It seems to me that he had come up from hell and is roaring in the intoxication of damnation. He did not know that the ecstasy for men who are damned is also damnation … The fool!

The prayer he is praying will not redeem him. He believes himself to be a machine and is praying to himself.

He has forced the others to pray to him. He has ground them down. He has pounded them to a powder. There are many dragging themselves around Metropolis today who cannot comprehend why their limbs are as if broken …”

“I am the Three-in-one—Lucifer—Belial—Satan—! I am the everlasting Death! I am the everlasting Noway! Come unto me—!

In my hell there are many mansions! I shall assign them to you!

I am the great king of all the damned—! I am a machine! I am the tower above you all! I am a hammer, a flywheel, a fiery oven! I am a murderer and of what I murder I make no use.

Come unto me—! In my hell there are many mansions! I shall assign them to you! I am the great king of all the damned—! I am a machine! I am the tower above you all! I am a hammer, a flywheel, a fiery oven!

I am a murderer and of what I murder I make no use. I want victims and victims do not appease me!

Pray to me and know: I do not hear you! Shout at me: Paternoster! Know: I am deaf!”

“That’s no more a man,” he whispered with ashen lips. “A man would have died of it long ago … Do you see his arms, sir?

Do you think a man can imitate the pushing of a machine for hours and hours at a time without its killing him?

He is as dead as stone. If you were to call to him he’d collapse and break to pieces like a plaster statue.”

“Wait!” said Slim, more with the movement of his head than in words. He saw a glass jug of water standing on the table and the coolness of the water had studded the jug with a thousand pearls.

Slim drank like an animal which finds drink on coming from the desert.

He put down the jug and shivered. A short shudder passed through him.

The lips of the sick man were moistened with wine. His eyes stood wide open, staring up at the ceiling, tears upon tears running gently and incessantly from the corners of his eyes, down over his temples.

It was as though they had nothing to do with the man⁠—as though they were trickling from a broken vessel and could not stop trickling until the vessel had run quite empty.

Slim looked the doctor in the face; the latter shrugged his shoulders. Slim bent over the prostrate man.

His voice died away. His head fell to one side.

He breathed as though his soul wept, for his eyes could do so no longer.

The doctor cleared his throat cautiously.

“Who?” asked Josaphat, listlessly. He had waited, had not slept and his eyes stood excessively large in his thin, almost white face.

His gaze, which he did not take from Freder, was like hands which are raised adoringly.

“Georgi,” repeated Freder. He smiled happily with his tired mouth.

it fell to the ground. His hand sank from his brow, over his eyes, resting there a little while. Then the other joined it, as though wishing to console its sister.

His form was like that of a young birch tree pressed sideways by a strong wind.

Josaphat’s eyes hung on the uniform which Freder wore.

“

One does not set oneself free from your father. It is he who decides whether one remains with him or must leave him.

“There is nobody who is stronger than Joh Fredersen. He is like the earth. As regards the earth we have no will either.

“

There is nobody who is stronger than Joh Fredersen. He is like the earth.

As regards the earth we have no will either.

“There is nobody who is stronger than Joh Fredersen. He is like the earth. As regards the earth we have no will either.

Her laws keep us eternally perpendicular to the centre of the earth, even if we stand on our head⁠ ⁠…

When Joh Fredersen sets a man free it means just as much as if the earth were to shut off from a man her powers of attraction. It means falling into nothing … Joh Fredersen can set free whom he may;

It means falling into nothing …

Joh Fredersen can set free whom he may; he will never set free his son⁠ ⁠…

”

“

For the inventive spirit of man there is no Utopia: there is only a Not-yet.

I have made up my mind to venture the path. I must take it—yes, I must take it! I do not know the way yet, but I shall find it because I must find it …”

“

Slim loves all his victims.

Which does not prevent him, as the most considerate and kindly of executioners, from laying them before my father’s feet. He is the born tool, but the tool of the strongest.

“Slim loves all his victims. Which does not prevent him, as the most considerate and kindly of executioners, from laying them before my father’s feet.

He is the born tool, but the tool of the strongest.

He would never make himself the tool of the weaker one, for he would thus humiliate himself. And you have just told me, Josaphat, how much stronger my father is than I …”

“I have no friends, Josaphat, and, what weighs still more, I have no friend. I had playfellows—sport-fellows—but friends? A friend? No, Josaphat!

Can one confide oneself to somebody of whom one knows nothing but how his laughter sounds?

”

“… What is that supposed to mean … Immediately? …”

Slim opened his eyes, and they were as cold and bright as a pebble in a brook.

“Immediately means within an hour … Immediately means long before this evening …”

“You love a woman. The woman does not love you.

Women who are not in love are very expensive.

You want to buy this woman. Very well.

For the fraction of a second they stared each other in the face. Then Josaphat’s hands flew to Slim’s throat. Slim lowered his head. He threw forward his arms, like the grabbing arms of the octopus.

They held each other, tightly clasped, and wrestled together, burning and ice-cold, raving and reflecting, teeth-grinding and silent, breast to breast.

They tore themselves apart and dashed at each other. They fell, and, wrestling, rolled along the floor. Josaphat forced his opponent beneath him. Fighting, they pushed each other up. They stumbled and rolled over armchairs and divans.

They tore themselves apart and dashed at each other. They fell, and, wrestling, rolled along the floor. Josaphat forced his opponent beneath him. Fighting, they pushed each other up. They stumbled and rolled over armchairs and divans.

The beautiful room, turned into a wilderness, seemed to be too small for the two twisted bodies, which jerked like fishes, stamped like steers, struck at each other like fighting bears.

But against Slim’s unshakeable, dreadful coldness the white-hot fury of his opponent could not stand its ground.

He left go of the man, who was now standing upright, and he looked around him with a gloomy smile.

“A good thing we settled the price beforehand,” he said. “Now the flat would be considerably cheaper.”

He sighed a little and looked at Josaphat.

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.

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.”

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.

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

The Seven Deadly Sins were his following.

“

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

”

A voice spoke, like the voice of fire:

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

The echo of the pillars yelled the words after him.

“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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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 doorposts, and stood fixed there. He buried his teeth in 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—!”

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.

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

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 felt the drops upon his forehead.

“I can’t come, beloved …”

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

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

“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 …”

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 ⁠…

”

“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.

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:

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.”

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

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

“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 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!”

He swung the footstool and hurled it at the door. The footstool 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.

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.

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—!!”

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

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

The powerful engine of the aeroplane worked in perfect silence. But the air through which the aeroplane tore was filled with a mysterious thunder, as though the dome of heaven were catching up the roaring in the globe and throwing it angrily back again.

The aeroplane hovered homelessly above a strange earth, like a bird not able to find its nest.

Suddenly, amid the thunder of the air, the pilot heard a voice at his left ear saying, almost softly:

“Don’t move!” said the voice at his left ear, which was so soft, yet making itself understood through the thunder of the air. “Don’t look round, either! I have no revolver with me. Had I had one handy I should probably not be here.

What I have in my hand is an implement the name and purpose of which are unknown to me.

But it is made of solid steel and quite sufficient to smash in your skull with should you not obey me immediately … Turn back!”

How strangely the aeroplane was rising and falling!

It was making jumps like a horse that wants to shake off its rider.

Now it was racing towards the sun, now it was turning its back upon it. The young girl had never seen so wild and unruly a creature in the air before.

The young girl had never seen so wild and unruly a creature in the air before. Now it had swung westwards and was dashing in long, spurting bounds along the sky. Something freed itself from it; a broad, silver-grey cloth, which swelled itself out.

Drifted hither and thither by the wind, the silver-grey cloth fluttered down to earth⁠—In the webs of which a gigantic, black spider seemed to be hanging.

Screaming, the young girl began to run. The great, black spider spun itself lower and lower on the thin cords. Now it was already like a human being. A white, death-like face bent earthwards. The earth curved itself gently towards the sinking creature.

The girl was silenced by the sight of these marks.

An expression of horror came into her face, but, at the same time, an expression such as mother-beasts have when they scent an enemy and do not want to betray themselves nor their offspring in any way.

She clenched her teeth together so forcibly that her young mouth became quite pale and thin. She knelt down beside the young man and lifted his head into her lap.

Stretching out far and wide were fields and meadows, hemmed in by forests, standing there in their evening stillness. The scarlet of the sky had faded away. The crickets chirped. The mist about the distant, solitary willows brewed milky white.

From the hallowed purity of the great sky the first star appeared with still glimmer.

“I must go,” said the man with the white, deathlike face.

The stars stood glorious above the world. The distant voice was silent. The young girl looked down upon the man whose head lay in her lap.

In her eyes was the never sleeping watchfulness which one sees in the eyes of animals and of mothers.

And when his father had gone Freder turned his head back again on idle joints and stared out once more across Metropolis, which was dancing in a whirl of light, staring with blind eyes.

The railing of the narrow balcony on which he stood appeared as an insuperable wall of loneliness, of deep, inward consciousness of having been deserted.

No calling, no signalling, not even the loudest of sounds penetrated this wall which was washed about by the strong, lustrous surf of the great Metropolis.

He wouldn’t. He wanted to carry me away by force, farther and farther from Metropolis. He was as obstinate as only a man can be when he knows Slim’s will to be behind him. I begged and I threatened. But nothing was of any use.

So then, with one of his own tools, I smashed in his skull.

”

Freder!” he said. “I do not think there are many things which seem insuperable to me since I sprang, as though from heaven to earth, from the aeroplane which was steered by a dead man. Also,” he continued in a soft voice, “

I learnt in one single night that one can bear very much when one has someone near one who keeps watch, asks nothing and is simply there.

”

Josaphat was silent. His patient hand lay motionless on Freder’s shoulder.

And suddenly, as though his soul were an overfilled vessel, which had lost its balance, toppled over and poured out in streams, Freder began to speak.

He told his friend the story of Maria, from the moment of their first meeting in the “Club of Sons,” to when they saw each other again right down under the earth in the City of the Dead—his waiting for her in the cathedral, his …

I wanted to kill my father … It was not my fault that the attempt at parricide was unsuccessful … But ever since that moment I have not been human …

I am a creature that has no feet, no hands and hardly a head.

And this head is only there eternally to think that I wanted to kill my own father. Do you believe that I shall ever get free from this hell—? Never, Josaphat. Never—never in all eternity.

I lay in the depths of a black pit; but my thoughts ran along behind my father’s steps, as though chained to his soles. What horror has come upon the world that this could happen?

Is there a comet in the heavens which drives mankind to madness?

Is a fresh plague coming, or Antichrist? Or the end of the world?

What horror has come upon the world that this could happen? Is there a comet in the heavens which drives mankind to madness? Is a fresh plague coming, or Antichrist? Or the end of the world?

A woman, who does not exist, forces herself between father and son and incites the son to murder against the father⁠ ⁠…

It may be that my thoughts were running themselves a little hot at the time … Then my father came in to me …”

“You know my father. There are many in the great Metropolis who do not believe Joh Fredersen to be human, because he seems not to need to eat and drink and he sleeps when he wishes to; and usually he does not wish to …

They call him The Brain of Metropolis, and if it is true that fear is the source of all religion then the brain of Metropolis is not very far off from becoming a deity⁠ ⁠…

This man, who is my father came up to my bed … He walked on tiptoe, Josaphat. He bent over me and held his breath … My eyes were shut.

“No … I don’t see how you could. I only realised it myself some hours later …

For the first time since the great Metropolis had stood, Joh Fredersen had omitted to press on the little blue metal plate and to let the Behemoth-voice of Metropolis roar out, because he did not wish to disturb his son’s sleep⁠ ⁠…

”

A weird moon stood in the sky; as though along a broad street this ghostly, unreal light flowed down upon the city, which was deserted to the last soul.

All the houses were distorted and had faces.

They squinted evilly and spitefully down at me, for I was walking deep down between them, along the glimmering street.

“The town was alive. The houses were alive. Their open mouths snarled after me.

The window-caverns, open eyes, winked blindly, horribly, maliciously.

“Graspingly, I reached the square before the cathedral …

“The cathedral was lighted up. The doors stood open—no, they did not stand open. They reeled to and fro like swing doors through which an invisible stream of guests was passing.

The organ rolled, but not with music.

Croaking, bawling, screeching and whimpering sounded from the organ and intermingled were wanton dance tunes, wailing whore-songs.

“

Empty, ungodded, splintered, hung the crucifix above the high altar, from which the holy vessels had vanished.

“A fellow, dressed in black, the caricature of a monk, stood in the pulpit, howling out in a pulpit-voice:

“The light in the cathedral changed colour.

Were it possible to speak of a blackish light this would be the expression best applied to the light.

Only in one place did it shine, white, gleaming, cutting, a sharply whetted sword: there where death is figured as a minstrel.

“Suddenly the organ stopped, and suddenly the dance. The voice of the preacher-fellow in the pulpit stopped. And through the silence which did not dare to breathe rang the sound of a flute.

Death was playing. The minstrel was playing the song which nobody plays after him, on his flute which was a human bone.

“The ghostly minstrel stepped from out his side-niche, carved in wood, in hat and wide cloak, scythe on shoulder, the hourglass dangling from his girdle. Playing his flute, he stepped out of his niche and made his way through the cathedral.

“

The seven Deadly Sins danced along behind Death, who was playing the flute.

“Then the cathedral was filled with a light which seemed to be made from rose-leaves. An inexpressibly sweet, overpowering perfume hovered up, like incense, between the pillars. The light grew stronger and it seemed to ring.

And the woman was sitting upon a scarlet-coloured beast, having seven heads and ten horns. And the woman was arrayed in purple and scarlet and decked with gold, precious stones and pearls. She had in her hand a golden cup.

On the crowned brow of the woman there stood, mysteriously written: Babylon.

“Like a deity, she grew up and radiated. Death and the seven Deadly Sins bowed low before her.

“Death flung back his wide cloak. He stretched himself up and grew.

He grew much taller even than the houses of Metropolis. The highest hardly reached to his knee.

“Death swung his scythe and made a whistling cut. The earth and all the stars quivered. But the scythe did not seem to be sharp enough for him. He looked about him as though seeking a seat.

The earth and all the stars quivered. But the scythe did not seem to be sharp enough for him. He looked about him as though seeking a seat. The New Tower of Babel seemed to suit Death.

He sat down on the New Tower of Babel, propped up the scythe took the whetstone from his girdle, spat on it and began to whet the scythe.

Blue sparks flew out of the steel. Then Death arose and made a second blow. A rain of stars poured down from the sky.

But my heart lay as if dead in my breast. Yet I could not help looking for her. I wandered about the place where I had already waited for her once before …

Yes⁠—so may a bird wander about the place where was its nest which it cannot find again, because the lightning or the storm has destroyed it.

“And, when I came to the side-niche, in which Death stands, as a minstrel, playing upon a human bone, the niche was empty, Death had disappeared …

“He was older than I, and was, it is true, not the happiest of us all, but the gayest. And the women loved him and feared him equally, for he was in no way to be captivated, either by laughter or by tears.

Now he had the thousand-year-old face of men, who, yet living, are dead.

It was as if a cruel executioner had removed his eyelids, that he was condemned never to sleep, so that he was perishing of weariness.

And the women loved him and feared him equally, for he was in no way to be captivated, either by laughter or by tears. Now he had the thousand-year-old face of men, who, yet living, are dead.

It was as if a cruel executioner had removed his eyelids, that he was condemned never to sleep, so that he was perishing of weariness.

“But it surprised me more than all to find him here, in the cathedral, for he had been, all his life long, the greatest of scoffers.

“

Who is she, who has laid fire to this city? She is herself a flame⁠—an impure flame.

You were given of a brand, might. She is a fiery blaze over man. She is Lilith, Astarte, Rose of Hell. She is Gomorrha, Babylon—Metropolis! Your own city—this fruitful, sinful City!—has born this woman from out the womb of its hell. Behold her!

“The woman who is called Babylon, the Mother of the Abominations of the Earth, wanders as a blazing brand through Metropolis. No wall and no gate bids her halt. No tie is sacred. An oath turns to mockery before her.

Her smile is the last seduction. Blasphemy is her dance.

She is the flame which says: ‘God is very wroth. Woe unto the city in which she shall appear!’ ”

“

It was as though the air was burning. We breathed fire.

At the same time there radiated from the girl a coldness—an unbearable, cutting coldness. The smile which hovered between her half-open lips seemed to be the unspoken closing verse of a shameless song.

“It was as though the air was burning. We breathed fire. At the same time there radiated from the girl a coldness—an unbearable, cutting coldness.

The smile which hovered between her half-open lips seemed to be the unspoken closing verse of a shameless song.

“Is there some substance through the power of which emotions are destroyed, as colours are by acids? The presence of this girl was enough to annul everything which spells fidelity in the human heart, even to a point of absurdity.

“

Is there some substance through the power of which emotions are destroyed, as colours are by acids?

The presence of this girl was enough to annul everything which spells fidelity in the human heart, even to a point of absurdity. I had accepted the invitation of this house because Tora had told me she would go too.

The slender hands touched above her hair-parting. Over her shoulders, her breasts, her hips, her knees, there ran an incessant, a barely perceptible trembling. It was no frightened trembling.

It was like the trembling of the final spinal fins of a luminous, deep sea fish.

It was as though the girl were carried higher and higher by this trembling, though she did not move her feet.

And the strange thing was that, among all these motionless beings who were standing there as though benumbed, there was not one who could have hidden his feelings. Each knew how it was with the other.

Each felt that he was naked and saw the nakedness of the others.

Hatred, born of shame, smouldered among us. Tora was crying. I could have struck her … Then the girl danced.

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.

The eyes of Josaphat and Freder met.

She had had to look on once and see how one of Joh Fredersen’s machine-Titans crushed men as though they were dried up wood.

She had screamed to God. He had not heard her.

She fell to the ground and never got up again. Only head and hands retained their vitality in the paralysed body. But the strength of a legion blazed in her eyes.

She had had to look on once and see how one of Joh Fredersen’s machine-Titans crushed men as though they were dried up wood. She had screamed to God. He had not heard her. She fell to the ground and never got up again.

Only head and hands retained their vitality in the paralysed body. But the strength of a legion blazed in her eyes.

She opposed her son and the work of her son. But he did not let her alone; he forced her to him.

He sat down opposite her and laid his forehead in his hands.

There was nobody in the great Metropolis, not anywhere else on earth who could have boasted ever having seen Joh Fredersen with sunken brow.

“I need your advice, mother,” he said, looking at the floor.

“How shall I advise you, Joh? You have taken a path along which I cannot follow you—not with my head, and certainly not with my heart.

Now you are so far away from me that my voice can no longer reach you.

And if it were able to reach you, Joh, would you listen to me were I to say to you: Turn back—? You did not do it then and would not do it today.

“I know: of me …

You have made it clear to me, mother, often and cruelly, and you have said I had poured boiling wine into a crystal. Then the most beautiful of glass must crack.

But I do not repent it, mother. No, I do not repent it … For Hel was mine …”

“You cannot make that comparison, mother. Freder is almost a boy, still. When I took Hel to me I was a man, and knew what I was doing.

Hel was more needful to me than the air to breathe.

I could not do without Hel, Mother. I would have stolen her from the arms of God himself.”

Freder is almost a boy, still. When I took Hel to me I was a man, and knew what I was doing. Hel was more needful to me than the air to breathe. I could not do without Hel, Mother.

I would have stolen her from the arms of God himself.

”

“

From God, Joh, you can steal nothing, but something can be stolen from man.

You have done that. You have sinned, Joh. You have sinned towards your friend. For Hel loved Rotwang and it was you who compelled her.”

“Yes. When she saw that you, too, were a man, when your head was beating against the floor and you were crying out.

But do you believe, Joh, that this one smile in her dying hour outweighs all that which brought about her death?

”

“Oh yes, Joh—oh yes! Your sin walks behind you like a good dog on the trail. It does not lose your scent, Joh—it remains always and always at your back.

A friend is unarmed against his friend. He has no shield before his breast, nor armour before his heart.

A friend who believes in his friend is a defenceless man. A defenceless man was it whom you betrayed, Joh.”

“Oh yes, Joh—oh yes!

Your sin walks behind you like a good dog on the trail.

It does not lose your scent, Joh—it remains always and always at your back. A friend is unarmed against his friend. He has no shield before his breast, nor armour before his heart. A friend who believes in his friend is a defenceless man.

Your sin walks behind you like a good dog on the trail. It does not lose your scent, Joh—it remains always and always at your back. A friend is unarmed against his friend. He has no shield before his breast, nor armour before his heart.

A friend who believes in his friend is a defenceless man.

A defenceless man was it whom you betrayed, Joh.”

“Take care, Joh,” said the old mother. “I know what it means when your eyes grow cold, as now, and when you grow as pale as one of the stones of the wall.

You have forgotten that lovers are sacred.

Even if they are mistaken, Joh, their mistake itself is sacred. Even if they are fools, Joh, their folly itself is sacred. For where lovers are, there is God’s garden, and no one has the right to drive them out. Not even God.

“Take care, Joh,” said the old mother. “I know what it means when your eyes grow cold, as now, and when you grow as pale as one of the stones of the wall. You have forgotten that lovers are sacred.

Even if they are mistaken, Joh, their mistake itself is sacred. Even if they are fools, Joh, their folly itself is sacred.

For where lovers are, there is God’s garden, and no one has the right to drive them out. Not even God. Only their own sin.”

You have forgotten that lovers are sacred. Even if they are mistaken, Joh, their mistake itself is sacred. Even if they are fools, Joh, their folly itself is sacred.

For where lovers are, there is God’s garden, and no one has the right to drive them out. Not even God.

Only their own sin.”

Joh Fredersen hesitated. Then he walked up to his mother. She laid her hand on the bible which lay before her. Joh Fredersen read: …

Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he reap⁠ ⁠…

Joh Fredersen turned around. He walked through the room. His mother’s eyes followed him. As he turned toward her, suddenly, violently, with a violent word on his lips he found the gaze of her eyes set upon him.

“

You are colder than stone, harder than any stone.

The tip of your finger must cut through the diamond as though it were water … I do not implore your love. What does a girl know of love?

What does light know of light? Flame of burning? What do the stars know of the laws by which they wander? You must ask chaos—coldness, darkness, the eternal unredeemed which wrestles for the redemption of itself. You must ask the man what love is.

The hymn of Heaven is only composed in Hell⁠ ⁠…

I do not implore your love, Maria. But your pity, you motherly one, with the virgin face …”

“I hold you captive … Is that my fault? I do not hold you captive for myself, Maria. Above you and me there is a Will which forces me into being evil.

Have pity on him who must be evil, Maria!

All the springs of good within me are choked up. I thought them to be dead; but they are only buried alive. My being is a rock of darkness.

“I hold you captive … Is that my fault? I do not hold you captive for myself, Maria. Above you and me there is a Will which forces me into being evil. Have pity on him who must be evil, Maria!

All the springs of good within me are choked up. I thought them to be dead; but they are only buried alive.

My being is a rock of darkness.

Above you and me there is a Will which forces me into being evil. Have pity on him who must be evil, Maria! All the springs of good within me are choked up. I thought them to be dead; but they are only buried alive.

My being is a rock of darkness. But deep within the sad stone I hear the springs rushing⁠ ⁠…

If I defy the Will which is above you and me … If I destroy the work I created after your image … It would only be what Joh Fredersen deserves and it would be better for me!

… The hands of your Beloved are cold. You ask: ‘Shall I warm your hands for you, Beloved?’ You do not wait for his ‘Yes.’

You set fire to a city. You burn down a kingdom, so that you can warm the hands of your Beloved at its blaze⁠ ⁠…

You rise up and pluck from the heaven of the world its most radiant stars, without caring that you destroy the Universe and put the dance of the Eternal out of balance. ‘Do you want the stars—Beloved?’

“Neither do I implore your pity, Maria.

There is nothing on earth more incompassionate than a woman who only loves one single being⁠ ⁠…

You cool murderesses in the name of Love … You goddesses of Death, with your smile! … The hands of your Beloved are cold. You ask: ‘Shall I warm your hands for you, Beloved?’ You do not wait for his ‘Yes.’

You may step, fearfully inviolable, before the throne of God and say: ‘Get up, Creator of the World! I need the throne of the World for my beloved! …’ You do not see who dies by your side if only the one is living.

A drop of blood on the finger of your Beloved frightens you more than the destruction of a continent⁠ ⁠…

All this I know, and have never possessed it! … I—No, I do not call upon your pity, Maria. But I call upon your fidelity … !”

Dark, angry waves were the heads before him. These waves frothed, raged and roared. Here and there a hand shot up into the air. Words sprang up, foam flecks of the surf.

But the voice of the girl was like a tongue of fire, drawing, enticing, burning above the heads.

“Which is more pleasant: water or wine?”

“You are fools! Blockheads! Blockheads! Throughout your morning, your midday, your evening, your night, the machine howls for food, for food, for food—!

You are the food! You are the living food!

—The machine devours you like fodder and then spews you up again!

The multitude moaned. The multitude gasped. The multitude stretched out its hands. The multitude bowed head and neck low, as though its shoulders, its backs, should be a carpet for the girl.

The multitude fell on its knees with a groan, one single beast felled with the hatchet.

The girl raised her foot and stepped upon the neck of the outstretched beast …

Freder let go of Georgi’s hand. He began to run up the stairs.

Night embraced him⁠—the night of Metropolis⁠—this light-mad, drunken night.

Everything was still the same as usual. Nothing indicated the storm which was to break out from inside the earth, under Metropolis, to murder the machine-city.

He reached the New Tower of Babel. Everything was as usual. The Dawn was fighting the first fight with the Early Morning. He looked for his father. He did not find him. Nobody could say where Joh Fredersen had gone at midnight.

The brainpan of the New Tower of Babel was empty.

Freder wiped from his brow the sweat which was running in drops over his temples.

Minutes passed—endless minutes … There was nothing to be heard, neither step nor cry …

Was she breathing, wall to wall, with murder?

Ah—that clutch at Rotwang’s neck … That form, being dragged away, pulled from darkness into deeper darkness …

But she did not dare to take a step. She had got up and could not find courage to return to her old seat.

She was as though sewn into a black sack.

She held her arms pressed close to her body. Horrors stood at her neck and blew at her.

But she did not dare to take a step. She had got up and could not find courage to return to her old seat. She was as though sewn into a black sack. She held her arms pressed close to her body.

Horrors stood at her neck and blew at her.

Now she heard—yes, she heard something. Yet the sound did not come from inside the house; it came from far away. This sound even penetrated the walls of Rotwang’s house, which were otherwise penetrated by no sound, wherever it came from.

The stone was living. Yes—the stone was living …

The stones of the City of the Dead were coming to life.

The shock of extreme violence shook the earth on which Maria was standing. Rumbling of falling stones, trickling, silence.

Up there were the mole-tunnels of the underground railway. What was happening up there—?

It sounded as though three thousand giants were playing ninepins with iron mountains, throwing them, one against the other, amid yells⁠ ⁠…

The cleft gaped wider. The air was filled with dust. But it was not dust. It was ground stone.

A current of air, an irresistible whirl, swept the girl aside like a blade of straw.

The skeletons rose up from the niches: bones rose up erect and skulls rolled!

Doomsday seemed to be breaking over the thousand-year-old City of the Dead.

The stream was twelve files deep. They walked in even step. Men, men, men, all in the same uniform; from throat to ankle in the dark blue linen, bare feet in the same hard shoes, hair tightly pressed down by the same black caps.

And they all had the same faces. Wild faces, with eyes like firebrands.

And they all sang the same song—song without melody, but an oath—a storm vow:

She said: “Come … ! Come … ! Come … ! I will lead you … ! I will dance the dance of Death before you. … I will dance the dance of the murderers before you … !”

They acted without plan, and yet following a law. Destruction was the name of the law; they obeyed it.

The multitude divided. A broad stream poured itself, frothing, down into the tunnel of the underground railway.

Then—! What happened then?—Then!!—

From one of the tunnels there broke forth a train, like a steed of fire, with sparkling lights, driverless, at a tearing speed⁠—galloping death.

From whence did this hell-horse come?—Where were the giants, who were thus giving answer to the giants’ game of the mob? The train vanished, amid shrieks—and, some seconds later, came the tearing crash from the depths of the pit.

The man’s name was Grot, and he loved his machine.

The machine was 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.

One single lever controlled this marvel of steel.

All the treasures of the world heaped up before him would not, for Grot, have outweighed this, his machine.

When, at the grey hour of dawn, Grot heard the voice of the great Metropolis roaring, he glanced at the clock on the brow of the wall where was the door, and thought: “That’s against all nature and regularity …”

Grot nodded to himself in deep contentment. He would have loved to light his pipe, if only smoking had not been forbidden here. He heard the yelling of the mob, and rebound upon rebound against the singing door with a feeling of smug fierceness.

He loved the door. It was his ally.

He turned around and looked at his machine. He nodded at it affectionately: “We two—eh? … What do you say to that boozy lot of fatheads, machine?”

The girl was standing before the Heart-machine of the city.

Her smile was cool and silver.

She stretched out her hand, which was more delicate than glass, she seized the weighty lever, which was set to “Safety.” She pressed the lever round, still smiling, then walked out, with light, mad, step.

Behind her the machine began to race. Above the deep mysteries of its delicate joints, like the sun’s disc—like the halo of a divine being—stood the silver racing wheel, the spokes of which appeared, in the whirl of revolution, as a single circling disc.

The heart of Metropolis, Joh Fredersen’s city, began to run up a temperature, seized by a deadly illness⁠ ⁠…

… 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.

But the machines went on living.

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

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—Muhammad’s curved sword! There—the crosses of Golgotha!

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 “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.

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.

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.

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

And he heard the voice of his father:

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 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.

“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—!’

‘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 …”

“

Because Death has come upon the city by my will.

”

“

The city is to go to ruin that you may build it up again⁠ ⁠…

”

“

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

”

Maria felt something licking at her feet, like the tongue of a great, gentle dog.

She bent down to fumble for the animal’s head, and felt that it was water into which she was groping.

Now she felt, too, that it was flowing. It was making its way with great certainty of aim in one direction. It was making its way towards the subterranean city—

Old books tell of saintly women, whose smile at the moment of preparing themselves to gain the martyr’s crown, was of such sweetness that the torturers fell at their feet and hardened heathens praised the name of God.

But Maria’s smile was, perhaps, of a still sweeter kind. For, when setting about her race with the silent water, she thought, not of the crown of eternal bliss, but only of death and of the man she loved—

It soaked itself into the hem of her dress, clinging tight and making progress more and more difficult. But that was not the worst.

The worst was that the water also began to have a voice.

The water quoth: “Do you know, beautiful Maria, that I am fleeter than the fleetest foot? I am stroking your sweet ankles. I shall soon clutch at your knees. No one has ever embraced your tender hips.

The water quoth: “

Do you know, beautiful Maria, that I am fleeter than the fleetest foot?

I am stroking your sweet ankles. I shall soon clutch at your knees. No one has ever embraced your tender hips. But I shall do so, and before your steps number a thousand more.

Do you think to overcome your weakness by clasping your hands? You call upon God, but believe me: God does not hear you!

Since I came upon the earth as the great flood, to destroy all in existence but Noah’s ark, God has been deaf to the scream of His creatures.

Or did you think I had forgotten how the mothers screamed then? Have you more responsibility on your conscience than God on His? Turn back, beautiful Maria, turn back!

God does not hear you! Since I came upon the earth as the great flood, to destroy all in existence but Noah’s ark, God has been deaf to the scream of His creatures. Or did you think I had forgotten how the mothers screamed then?

Have you more responsibility on your conscience than God on His?

Turn back, beautiful Maria, turn back!

But the sound which broke from the metal throat was only a whimper, like the whimpering of a dog, and the light grew more and more pale and yellow.

Like a dark, crawling beast, in no hurry, the water wound its way across the smooth street.

But the water did not stand alone in the street. Suddenly, in the midst of a puzzling and very frightening solitude, a little half-naked child was standing there:

She still took the grating of the earth, the jerking impacts, the roar of the awful, tearing thunder the water which gushed up from the shattered depths, to be the effects of the unchained elements.

Yet she could not believe that there existed mothers who would not throw themselves as a barrier before their children when the earth opened her womb to bring forth horror into the world.

Only—the water which crawled up nearer and nearer, the impacts which racked the earth, the light which became paler and paler, gave her no time to think.

Then they came, stumbling and crying, coming in troops, ghastly spectres, like children of stone, passionlessly begotten and grudgingly born.

They were like little corpses in mean little shrouds, aroused to wakefulness on Doomsday by the voice of the angel, rising from out rent-open graves.

They clustered themselves around Maria, screaming because the water, the cool water, was licking at their feet.

There was in her voice the sharp cry of the mother-bird which sees winged Death above its brood. She waded about among the child-bodies, ten at her hands, at her dress, the others following closely, pushed along, torn along, with the stream.

Soon the street was a wave of children’s heads above which the pale, raised-up hands flitted like seagulls.

And Maria’s cry was drowned by the wailing of the children and by the laughter of the pursuing water.

Maria shouted—hardly able to shout any more.

There was in her voice the sharp cry of the mother-bird which sees winged Death above its brood.

She waded about among the child-bodies, ten at her hands, at her dress, the others following closely, pushed along, torn along, with the stream. Soon the street was a wave of children’s heads above which the pale, raised-up hands flitted like seagulls.

She stretched out her hands and tried to raise the pressed-in door. It did not budge. Once more. No result. Head, arms, shoulders pushing, hips and knees pressing, as if to burst their sinews. No result. The door did not yield by a hair’s breadth.

If a child had tried to push the cathedral from its place it could not have acted more foolishly nor ineffectually.

For, upon the door, which alone led the way out of the depths, there towered, as high as houses, the corpses of the dead engines, which, when madness first broke out over Metropolis, had been the terrible playthings of the mob.

The man above her did not give her an answer.

When steeling his muscles and sinews in the “Club of the Sons,” playfully wrestling with his friends, he surely never guessed that he would need them one day to force a path through ruined cables, upright pistons and outspread wheels of fallen machines to the woman he loved.

He thrust the pistons aside like human arms, clutched into steel as into soft, yielding flesh. He worked his way nearer the door and threw himself on the ground.

… muscles and sinews in the “Club of the Sons,” playfully wrestling with his friends, he surely never guessed that he would need them one day to force a path through ruined cables, upright pistons and outspread wheels of fallen machines to the woman he loved.

He thrust the pistons aside like human arms, clutched into steel as into soft, yielding flesh.

He worked his way nearer the door and threw himself on the ground.

A lump of humanity was crawling about the ruins, seeming, from the sounds it emitted, to be nothing but a single curse, on two legs.

The horror which lay over Metropolis was Paradise compared with the last, cruel destruction which the lump of humanity was invoking from the lowest and hottest of hells upon the city and its inhabitants.

He found something among the ruins, raised it to his face, recognised it and broke out into howls, similar to the howls of a kicked dog. He rubbed his sobbing mouth upon the little piece of steel.

Cursing ardently, he gathered himself up again; but, though he was uninjured, he could not move a limb. He stuck, an impotent spoon, in a porridge of children, which adhered to his arms, legs and fists.

No steel fetters could have condemned him so effectually to helplessness, as did the little cold, wet hands, which were defending her who had rescued them all.

Yes, his own children were standing before him, pommelling angrily upon his clenched fists, unscared by the blot-shot eyes with which the giant glared at the dwarves, cudgelling him.

She stepped into the street.

Darkness, like a thick layer of soot, lay over the town, and only the cathedral shimmered, ghost-like, a wonder of light, but not of grace.

The air was filled with a spectral battle of discordant voices. Howling, laughing, whistling, were to be heard. It was as though a gang of murderers and robbers were passing by—in the unrecognisable depths of the street.

“Freder … Freder …”

The smoke-swathes from the torches hovered like the grey wings of phantom birds above the dancing train.

Then the door of the cathedral was opened wide. From the depths of the cathedral came the rushing of the organ.

From the depths of the cathedral came the rushing of the organ. There mixed itself in the fourfold tone of the archangel bells, in the rushing of the organ, in the shrieks of the dancers, an iron-tramping, mighty choir.

The hour of the monk Desertus had come.

The monk Desertus was leading on his own.

They had thrown their cowls back from their shoulders. They carried the heavy scourges in both hands. They swung the heavy scourges in both hands, right and left, right and left, upon the bare shoulders. Blood trickled down from the scourged backs. The Gothics sang.

They sang to the time of their feet. To the time of their scourge strokes did they sing.

The monk Desertus was leading the Gothics on.

“Tell me—!” said Freder, almost softly. It was as if he did not want to waste an atom of strength.

His face was a white stone in which his two eyes flamed like jewels.

He jumped to the wheel of the little car in which Josaphat had come. For the pump-works lay at the extreme end of the great Metropolis.

Rotwang awoke; but he knew quite well he was dead.

And this consciousness filled him with the deepest satisfaction. His aching body no longer had anything to do with him. That was perhaps the last remains of life. But something worried him deeply, as he raised himself up and looked around in all directions:

Strange. He stepped in front of the house and looked deliberatingly around. What he saw seemed to be a kind of Metropolis; but a rather insane kind of Metropolis.

The houses seemed as though struck still in St. Vitus’ dance.

And an uncommonly rough and impolite sort of people was ramping around a flaming bonfire, upon which a creature of rare beauty was standing, seeming, to Rotwang, to be wondrously at ease.

Joh Fredersen threw a glance at the clock. But the hands of the giantess 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.

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

Joh Fredersen threw a glance at the clock.

But the hands of the giantess stood at an impossible time.

The New Tower of Babel had indeed lost itself.