Joh Fredersen stood in the dome-room of the New Tower of Babel, waiting
for Slim. He was to bring him news of his son.
A ghostly darkness lay upon the New Tower of Babel. The light had
gone completely out, gone out as though it had been killed—at the
moment when the gigantic wheel of the Heart-machine of Metropolis came
free from its structure with a roar as from the throats of a thousand
wounded beasts, and, still whirling around, was hurled straight up
at the ceiling, to strike it with a shattering crash, to bound back,
booming the while like a gong as large as the heavens and to crash down
upon the splintered ruins of the erstwhile masterpiece of steel, to
remain lying there.
Joh Fredersen stood long on the same spot, not daring to move.
It seemed to him that an eternity had passed since he sent Slim out for
news of his son. And Slim wouldn’t and wouldn’t come back.
Joh Fredersen felt that his whole body was frozen to an icy coldness.
His hands, hanging helplessly downwards, were clasped around the
pocket-torch.
He waited ... waited....
Joh Fredersen threw a glance at the clock. But the hands of the
giantness stood at an impossible time. The New Tower of Babel had
indeed lost itself. Whereas, every day, the throbbing of the streets
which tunnelled their course below it, the roar of the traffic of fifty
million, the magic madness of speed, had raged its way up to him, there
now crouched a calm of penetrating terror.
Stumbling steps were hastening towards the door of the outer room.
Joh Fredersen turned the beam of his pocket-torch, upon this door. It
flew wide open. Slim stood upon the threshold. He staggered. He closed
his eyes dazzled. In the excessively glaring light of the powerful
torch his face, right down to his neck, shone a greenish white.
Joh Fredersen wanted to ask a question. But not the least sound passed
his lips. A terrible dryness burnt his throat. The lamp in his hand
began to tremble and to dance. Up to the ceiling, down to the floor,
along the walls, reeled the beam of light....
Slim ran up to Joh Fredersen. Slim’s wide, staring eyes bore an
inextinguishable horror.
“Your son,” he stammered, almost babbling, “your son, Mr. Fredersen—”
Joh Fredersen remained silent. He made no movement, but that he stooped
a little—just a very little, forward.
“I have not found your son ...” said Slim. He did not wait for Joh
Fredersen to answer him. His tall body, with the impression it gave of
asceticism and cruelty, the movements of which had, in Joh Fredersen’s
service, gradually gained the disinterested accuracy of a machine,
seemed quite out of joint, shaken out of control. His voice inquired
shrilly, in the grip of a deep innermost frenzy: “Do you know, Mr.
Fredersen, what is going on around you, in Metropolis—?”
“What I will,” answered Joh Fredersen. The words sounded mechanical,
and as though they had been read before they were spoken: “What does
that mean: You have not found my son—?”
“It means what it means,” answered Slim in his shrill voice. His eyes
bore an awful hatred. He stood, leaning far forward, as if ready to
pounce upon Joh Fredersen, and his hands became claws. “It means that
Freder, your son is not to be found—it means that he, perhaps, wanted
to look on with his own eyes at what becomes of Metropolis by his
father’s will and the hands of a few lunatics—it means, as the now
half-witted servants told me, that your son left the safety of his
home, setting out in company with a man who was wearing the uniform
of a workman of Metropolis, and that it might well be difficult to
seek your son in this city, in which, by your will, madness has broken
out—the madness to destroy, Mr. Fredersen, the madness to ruin!—and
which has not even light to lighten its madness—!”
Slim wanted to continue, but he did not do so.
Joh Fredersen’s right hand made a senseless, fumbling gesture through
the air. The torch fell from his hand, continuing to burn on the
floor. The mightiest man of Metropolis swung half around, as though he
had been shot, and collapsed empty-eyed, back into the chair by the
writing-table.
Slim stooped forward, to look Joh Fredersen in the face. Before these
eyes he was struck silent.
Ten—twenty—thirty seconds long he did not dare to draw a breath.
His horrified gaze followed the aimless movements of Joh Fredersen’s
fingers, which were fumbling about as though seeking for some lever
of rescue, which they could not find. Then, suddenly, the hand rose
a little from the table-top. The forefinger straightened as though
admonishing to attention. Joh Fredersen murmured something. Then he
laughed. It was a tired, sad little laugh, at the sound of which Slim
thought he felt the hair of his head begin to bristle.
Joh Fredersen was talking to himself. What was he saying? Slim bent
over him. He saw the forefinger of Joh Fredersen’s right hand gliding
slowly across the shiny table-top, as though he were following and
spelling out the lines of a book.
Joh Fredersen’s soft voice said:
“_Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he reap._...”
Then Joh Fredersen’s forehead fell on to the smooth wood, and,
unceasingly, in a tone which, except for a dead woman, no one had ever
heard from Joh Fredersen, his soft voice cried the name of his son....
But the cries remained unanswered....
Up the steps of the New Tower of Babel there crept a man. It seldom
happened in the great Metropolis, Joh Fredersen’s time-saving city,
that anyone used the stairs. They were reserved in case of all the
lifts and the Pater-noster being over-crowded, of the cessation
of all means of transit, of the outbreak of fire and similar
accidents—improbable occurrences in this perfect settlement of human
beings. But the improbable had happened. Piled up, one above the other,
the lifts, which came hurtling down, blocked up their shafts, and the
cells of the Pater-noster seemed to have been bent and charred by a
hellish heat, smouldering up from the depths.
Up the stairs of the New Tower of Babel did Josaphat drag himself.
He had learnt to swear in that quarter of an hour, even as Grot used
to swear, and he made full use of his newly acquired art. He roared
at the pain which racked his limbs. He spat out an excess of hatred
and contempt at the agony in his knees. Wild and ingenious were the
execrations which he hurled at every landing, every new bend in the
staircase. But he conquered them all—one hundred and six flights of
stairs, each consisting of thirty steps. He reached the semicircle
where the lifts had their opening. In the corners before the door to
Joh Fredersen’s rooms there crouched knots of human beings, pressed
together by the common pressure of a terrible fear.
They turned their heads to stare at the man who was crawling up the
stairs, dragging himself up by aid of the walls.
His wild eyes swept over them.
“What is it?” he asked breathlessly. “What are you all doing here?”
Agitated voices whispered. Nobody knew who was speaking. Words tumbled
over each other.
“He drove us out into the town, where death is running as though
amok.... He sent us out to look for his son, Freder. We couldn’t find
him.... None of us.... We daren’t go in to Joh Fredersen.... Nobody
dares take him the news that we haven’t been able to find his son....”
A voice swung out, high and sharp from out the knot:
“Who can find one single damned soul in this hell—?”
“Hush ... hush...!”
“Listen—!”
“He is talking to Slim.”
And in the tension of listening, which smothered every sound, the heads
bent towards the door.
Behind the door a voice spoke, as were the wood rattling:
“Where is my son...?”
Josaphat made for the door, staggering. The panting cry of many men
tried to stop him. Hands were stretched out towards him.
“Don’t—don’t—!!”
But he had already pushed open the door. He looked about him. Through
the enormous windows the first glow of the youthful day was flowing,
lying on the shining floor like pools of blood. By the wall, near the
door, stood Slim. And just before him stood Joh Fredersen. His fists
were pressed against the wall, right and left of the man, holding him
fast, as though they had been drilled through him, crucifying him.
“Where is my son—?” said Joh Fredersen. He asked—and his voice
cracked as if in suffocation:
“Where is my child?”
Slim’s head flung back against the wall. From his ashen lips came the
toneless words:
“To-morrow there will be many in Metropolis who will ask:
“‘Joh Fredersen, where is my child?’”
Joh Fredersen’s fists relaxed. His whole body twisted around. Then the
man who had been the Master over Metropolis saw that another man was
standing in the room. He stared at him. The sweat trickled down his
face in cold, slow, burdensome drops. The face twitched in a terrible
impotence.
“Where is my son—?” asked Joh Fredersen, babblingly. He stretched out
his hand. The hand shot through the air, groping aimlessly. “Do you
know, where my son is—?”
Josaphat did not answer. Yes, the answer shouted in his throat. But he
could not form the words. There was a fist at his throat, strangling
him.... God—Almighty God in highest heaven, was it Joh Fredersen who
was standing before him?
Joh Fredersen made an uncertain step towards him. He bent his head low
to look at him the more closely. He nodded again.
“I know you,” he said tonelessly. “You are Josaphat and you were my
first secretary. I sent you away. I treated you cruelly. I did you
wrong and I ruined you.... I beg your forgiveness.... I am sorry that
I was ever cruel to you or to anyone else.... Forgive me.... Forgive
me, Josaphat, for ten hours I have not known where my son is.... For
ten hours, Josaphat, I have been sending all the men I could get hold
of, down into that damned city to look for my son, and I know it is
senseless, and I know it is quite pointless, the day is breaking, and I
am talking and talking and I know that I am a fool but perhaps, perhaps
you know where my son is...?”
“Captured,” said Josaphat, and it was as though he ripped the word from
his gullet, and feared to bleed to death there-from. “Captured....”
A stupid smile hovered over Joh Fredersen’s face.
“What does that mean ... captured...?”
“The mob has captured him, Joh Fredersen!”
“Captured—?”
“Yes.”
“My son—?”
“Yes!—Freder, your son—!”
A senseless, pitiable, animal sound broke from Joh Fredersen’s mouth.
His mouth stood open, distorted—his hands rose as in childish defence,
to ward off a blow which had already fallen. His voice said, quite high
and piteously:
“My son...?”
“They took him prisoner,”—Josaphat tore the words out—“because
they sought a victim for their despair, and for the fury of their
immeasurable, inconceivable agony. When they saw the black water
running towards them from the shafts of the underground railway,
and when they realised that, as the result of the stopping of the
pumps, the whole workmen’s town had been flooded out, then they went
mad with despair. They say that some mothers, blind and deaf to
all remonstrance, tried, as if possessed, to dive down through the
flooded shafts, and just the terrible absoluteness of the futility of
any attempt at rescue has turned them into beasts and they lust for
revenge....”
“Revenge ... on whom?”
“On the girl who seduced them....”
“On the girl....”
“Yes....”
“Go on....”
“They have taken captive the girl, on whom they put the blame of all
this horror.... Freder wanted to save her, for he loves the girl....
They have taken him captive and are forcing him to look on and see
how his beloved dies.... They have built the bonfire before the
cathedral.... They are dancing round the bonfire.... They are yelling:
‘We have captured the son of Joh Fredersen and his beloved’ ... and I
know—I know: He’ll never get away from them alive...!”
For the space of some seconds there was so deep and perfect a silence
that the golden glow of the morning, breaking forth, strong and radiant
had the effect of a powerful roar. Then Joh Fredersen turned around,
breaking into a run. He flung himself at the door. So forceful and
irresistible was this movement that it seemed as if the closed door
itself were not able to withstand it.
Past the knots of human beings ran Joh Fredersen—across to the
staircase and down the steps. His course was as a pauseless series
of leaps. He did not notice the height. With hands stretched forward
he ran, in bounds, his hair rearing up like a flame above his brow.
His mouth was wide open and between his parted lips there hovered—a
soundless scream—the unscreamed name: “Freder!”
An infinity of stairs ... clefts ... rents in walls ... smashed stone
blocks ... twisted iron ... destruction ... ruin....
The street.
The day was streaming down, red, upon the street....
Howls in the air. And the gleam of flame. And smoke....
Voices ... shouts—and no exultant shouting ... shouts of fear, of
horror, of terribly strained tension....
At last the cathedral square....
The bonfire. The mob ... men, women, immeasurable masses ... but they
were not gazing at the bonfire, on the smoking fieriness of which
smouldered a creature of metal and glass, with the head and body of a
woman.
All eyes were turned upwards, towards the heights of the cathedral, the
roof of which sparkled in the morning sunshine.
Joh Fredersen stopped, as though a blow had been struck at his knees.
“What ...” he stammered. He raised his eyes, he raised his hands quite
slowly to the level of his head ... his hands rested upon his hair.
Soundlessly, as though mown down, he fell upon his knees.
Upon the heights of the cathedral roof, entwined about each other,
clawed to each other, wrestled Freder and Rotwang, gleaming in the
sunlight.
They fought, breast pressed to breast, knee to knee. One did not
need very sharp eyes to see that Rotwang was by far the stronger.
The slender form of the boy, in white-silken tatters, bent under the
throttling grip of the great inventor, farther and farther backwards.
In a fearfully wonderful arch the slender, white form was extended,
head back, knees bent forward. And the blackness which was Rotwang
stood out, massy, mountain-like, above the silken whiteness, forcing it
downwards. In the narrow gallery of the spire Freder crumpled up like
a sack and lay in the corner, stirring no more. Above him, straightened
up, yet bent forward—Rotwang, staring at him, then turning....
Along the narrow roof ridge, towards him—no, towards the dullish
bundle of white silk, staggered Maria. In the light of the morning,
risen glorious and imperious, her voice fluttered out like the mourning
of a poor bird:
“Freder—Freder—!”
Whispers broke out in the cathedral square. Heads turned and hands
pointed.
“Look—Joh Fredersen! Look over there—Joh Fredersen!”
A woman’s voice yelled out:
“Now you see for yourself, don’t you, Joh Fredersen, what it’s like
when someone’s only child is murdered—?”
Josaphat leaped before the man who was on his knees, hearing nothing of
what was going on around him.
“What’s the matter—?” he shouted. “What’s the matter with you all—?
Your children have been saved! In the ‘House of the Sons!’ Maria and
Joh Fredersen’s son—they saved your children—!”
Joh Fredersen heard nothing. He did not hear the scream, which, like
a bellowed prayer to God, suddenly leaped from the one mouth of the
multitude.
He did not hear the shuffling with which the multitude near him, far
around him, threw itself on its knees. He did not hear the weeping of
the women, the panting of the men, nor prayer, nor thanks, nor groans,
nor praises.
Only his eyes remained alive. His eyes which seemed to be lidless,
clung to the roof of the cathedral.
Maria had reached the white bundle, which lay, crumpled up in the
corner, between the spire and the roof. She slid along to it on her
knees, stretching her hands out towards it, blinded with misery:
“Freder.... Freder....”
With a savage snarl, like the snarl of a beast of pray, Rotwang
clutched at her. She struggled amid screams. He held her lips closed.
With an expression of despairing incomprehension he stared into the
girl’s tear-wet face.
“Hel ... my Hel ... why do you struggle against me?” He held her in
his ironlike arms, as prey which, now, nothing and no one could tear
away from him. Close to the spire a ladder led upwards to the cathedral
coping. With the bestial snarl of one unjustly pursued he climbed up
the ladder, dragging the girl with him, in his arms.
This was the sight which met Freder’s eyes when he opened them and
tore himself free from the half-unconscious state he was in. He pushed
himself up and flung himself across to the ladder. He climbed up the
ladder almost at a run, with the blindly certain speed born of fear
for his beloved. He reached Rotwang, who let Maria fall. She fell. She
fell, but in falling she saved herself, pulling herself up and reaching
the golden sickle of the moon on which rested the star-crowned Virgin.
She stretched out her hand to clutch at Freder. But at the same moment
Rotwang threw himself down upon the man who was standing below him,
and clasped tightly together, they rolled along, down the roof of the
cathedral, rebounding violently against the narrow railing of the
gallery.
The yell of fear from the multitude came shrieking up from the depths.
Neither Rotwang nor Freder heard it. With a terrible oath Rotwang
gathered himself up. He saw above him, sharp against the blue of the
sky, the gargoyle of a water-spout. It grinned in his face. The long
tongue leered mockingly at him. He drew himself up and struck, with
clenched fist, at the grinning gargoyle....
The gargoyle broke....
In the weight of the blow he lost his balance—and fell—and saved
himself, hanging with one hand to the Gothic ornamentation of the
cathedral.
And, looking upwards, into the infinite blue of the morning sky, he saw
Hel’s countenance, which he had loved, and it was like the countenance
of the beautiful angel of Death, smiling at him, its lips inclining
towards his brow.
Great black wings spread themselves out, strong enough to carry a lost
world up to heaven.
“Hel ...” said the man. “My Hel ... at last....”
And his fingers lost their hold, voluntarily....
Joh Fredersen did not see the fall, neither did he hear the cry of the
multitude as it stared back. He saw but one thing: the white-gleaming
figure of the man, who, upright and uninjured, was walking along the
roof of the cathedral with the even step of one fearing nothing,
carrying the girl in his arms.
Then Joh Fredersen bent down, so low that his forehead touched the
stones of the cathedral square. And those near enough to him heard the
weeping which welled up from his heart, as water from a rock.
As his hands loosened from his head, all who stood around him saw that
Joh Fredersen’s hair had turned snow-white.