Metropolis

by Thea von Harbou

  The girl stood bolt upright in the neck of the multitude. She began to totter. It seemed as though she would fall—fall over on to her white face in which the blood-red mouth-the mouth of deadly sin, flamed like hell-fire.

  But she did not fall. She held herself upright. She swayed slightly, but she held herself upright. She stretched out her arm and pointed at Freder, calling in a voice which sounded like glass:

  "Look—! Look—! The son of Joh Fredersen—! The son of Joh Fredersen is among you—!"

  The multitude shouted. The multitude hurled itself around. The multitude made to lay hold of the son of Joh Fredersen.

  He did not resist. He stood pressed against the wall. He stared at the girl with a gaze in which belief in eternal damnation was to be read. It seemed as if he were already dead, and as though his lifeless body were falling, ghostlike upon the fists of those who wished to murder him.

  A voice roared:

  "Dog in white silken skin—!!"

  An arm shot up, a knife flashed out…

  Upon the billowing neck of the multitude stood the girl. It was as if the knife came flying from out her eyes…

  But, before the knife could plunge into the white silk which covered the heart of the son of Joh Fredersen, a man threw himself as a shield before his breast, and the knife ripped open blue linen. Blue linen was dyed purple-red…

  "Brothers… !" said the man. Dying, yet standing upright, he was covering the son of Joh Fredersen with his whole body. He turned his head a little to catch Freder's glance. He said with a smile which was transfigured in pain:

  "Brothers… "

  Freder recognised him. It was Georgi. It was number eleven thousand eight hundred and eleven which was now going out, and which, going out, was protecting him.

  He wanted to push past Georgi. But the dying man stood like one crucified, with out-stretched arms and hands clawing into the edge of the niches which were behind him. He held his eyes, which were like jewels, fixedly set on the multitude which was storming towards him.

  "Brothers… " he said.

  "He said: 'Murderers… Brother murderers… '" said the dying mouth.

  The multitude left him alone and raced on. On the shoulders of the multitude the girl was dancing and singing. She sang with her blood-red mouth of deadly sin!

  "We've passed sentence upon the machines! We have condemned the machines to death! The machines must die—to hell with them! Death!—Death!—Death to the machines—!"

  Like the rush of a thousand wings the step of the multitude thundered through the narrow passages of the City of the Dead. The girl's voice died away. The steps died away. Georgi loosened his hands and pitched forward.

  Freder caught him. He sank upon his knee. Georgi's head fell upon his breast.

  "Warn… warn..the town… " said Georgi.

  "And are you dying—?" gave Freder as answer. His bewildered eyes ran along the walls in the niches of which slept the thousand-year-old dead. "There is no justice in this world!"

  "Uttermost justice… " said eleven thousand eight hundred and eleven. "From weakness—sin… From sin-atonement… Warn..the town!—Warn… !"

  "I'm going to leave you alone—!"

  "I beg you to… beg you—!"

  Freder got up, despair in his eyes. He ran to the passage, in which the multitude had died away.

  "Not that way—!" said Georgi. "You won't get through that way any more—!"

  "I know no other way… ."

  "I'll take you… "

  "You are dying, Georgi! The first step is your death—!"

  "Won't you warn the town? Do you want to be an accessory?"

  "Come!" said Freder.

  He raised Georgi up. With his hand pressed to his wound, the man began to run.

  "Pick up your lamp and come!" said Georgi. He ran so that Freder could hardly follow him. Into the ten-thousand-year-old dust dripped the blood which welled up from the freshly inflicted wound. He held Freder's arm clasped, pulling him forwards.

  "Hurry!" he murmured. "Hurry—there's not time to lose!"

  Passages—crossings—passages—steps—passages—a flight of stairs which led steeply upward… Georgi fell at the first step. Freder wanted to hold him. He pushed him away.

  "Hurry!" he said. He indicated the stairs with his head. "Up—! You can't go wrong now… hurry up—!"

  "And you, Georgi?—and you—?"

  "I—" said Georgi, turning his head to the wall—"I am not going to answer any more questions… "

  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.

  But it seemed to Joh Fredersen's son as if the stones were giving way under his feet—as though he heard in the air the rushing of wings—the rushing of the wings of strange monsters: beings with women's bodies and snakes' heads—beings, half bull, half angel—devils adorned with crowns—human faced lions… .

  It seemed to him as if he saw death sitting on the New Tower of Babel, in hat and wide cloak, whetting his propped up scythe..

  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 Brain-pan of the New Tower of Babel was empty.

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

  "I must find my father—!" he said. "I must call him—cost what it may!"

  Men, with servants eyes looked at him. Men who knew nothing apart from blind obedience—who could not advise, still less help…

  Joh Fredersen's son stepped into his father's place, at the table where his great father used to sit. He was as white as the silk which he wore as he stretched out his hand and pressed his fingers on the little blue metal place, which no man ever touched apart from Joh Fredersen.

  … Then the great Metropolis began to roar. Then she raised her voice—her Behemoth-voice. But she was not screaming for food—no, she was roaring: Danger…

  Above the gigantic city, above the slumbering city, the monster-voice roared: Danger—! Danger—!

  A barely perceptible trembling ran through the New Tower of Babel, as if the earth which bore it were shuddering, frightened by a dream, betwixt sleeping and waking… .

  Chapter 15

  MARIA DID NOT DARE to stir. She did not even dare to breathe She did not close her eyes for quaking fear that, between the lowering and raising of her eyelids, a fresh horror could come upon her and seize her.

  She did not know how much time had elapsed since the hands of Joh Fredersen had closed around the throat of Rotwang, the great inventor. The two men had been standing in the shadow; and yet it seemed to the girl as if the outline of both of their forms had remained behind in the darkness, in fiery lines: The bulk of Joh Fredersen, standing there, his hands thrown forward, like two claws;—Rotwang's body, which hung in these claws, and which was dragged away—pulled forth—through the frame of the door, which closed behind them both.

  What was happening behind this door?…

  She heard nothing. She listened with all her senses—but she heard nothing, not the least sound… .

  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… .

  Was he dead?… Was he lying behind that door, in a corner, face twisted around to his back, with broken neck and glazed eyes? Was the murderer still standing behind that door?

  The room, in which she was seemed suddenly to become filled with the sound of a dull thumping. It grew louder and louder, more and mor
e violent. It deafened the ears and yet remained dull… Gradually she realised: It was her own heart-beat… If somebody had come into the room, she would not have heard him, her heart was beating so.

  Stammered words of a childish prayer passed through her brain, confusedly and senselessly… "Dear God, I pray Thee, bide with me, take care of me, Amen."… She thought of Freder… No—don't cry, don't cry—!

  "Dear God, I pray Thee… ."

  This silence was no longer bearable! She must see—must be certain.

  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.

  It was the voice of Metropolis. But she was screaming what she had never screamed before.

  She was not screaming for food. She was screaming: Danger—! Danger—! The screaming did not stop. It howled on, incessantly. Who had dared to unchain the voice of the great Metropolis, which otherwise obeyed no one but Joh Fredersen? Was Joh. Fredersen-no longer in this house? Or was this voice to call him?—this wild roar of: Danger—! Danger—! What danger was threatening Metropolis? Fire could not be alarming the city, to make her roar so, as though she had gone mad. No high tide was threatening Metropolis. These elements were subdued and quiet.

  Danger—of man?… Revolt—?

  Was that it—?

  Rotwang's words fluttered through her brain… In the City of the Dead—what was going on in the City of the Dead? Did the uproar come from the City of the Dead? Was destruction welling up from the depths?

  Danger—! Danger—! screamed the voice of the great city.

  As though by power of a thrust within, Maria ran, all at once, to the door and tore it open. The room which lay before her, just as that which she had left, received its solitary light—and sparely enough—through the window. At the first glance round, the room seemed to be empty. A strong current of air, coming from an invisible source, streamed, hot and even, through the room, bringing in the roaring of the town with renewed force.

  Maria stooped forward. She recognised the room. She had run along these walls in her despairing search for a door. There was a door, which had neither bolt nor lock. Copper-red, in the gloomy wood of the door, glowed the seal of Solomon, the pentagram. There, in the middle, was a square, the trap-door, through which, some time ago, a period which she could not measure, she had entered the house of the great inventor. The bright square of the window fell upon the square of the door.

  A trap, thought the girl. She turned her head around… .

  Would the great Metropolis never stop roaring—?

  Danger—! Danger—! Danger—! roared the town.

  Maria took a step, then stopped again.

  There was something lying over there. There was something lying there on the floor. Between her and the trap-door, something was lying on the floor. It was an unrecognisable heap. It was something dark and motionless. It might be human, and was, perhaps, only a sack. But it lay there and must be passed around if one wanted to reach the trap-door.

  With a greater display of courage than had ever before in her life been necessary, Maria silently set one foot before the other. The heap on the floor did not move… She stood, bending far forward, making her eyes reconnoitre, deafened by her own heart-beat and the roar of the uproar-proclaiming city.

  Now she saw clearly; What was lying there was a man. The man lay on his face, legs drawn tightly to his body, as though he had gathered them to him to push himself up and had then not found any more strength to do it. One hand lay thrown over his neck, and its crooked fingers spoke more eloquently than the most eloquent of mouths of a wild self-defence.

  But the other hand of the heap of humanity lay stretched far away from it, on the square of the trapdoor, as though wishing, in itself, to be a bolt to the door. The hand was not of flesh and bone. The hand was of metal, the hand was the master-piece of Rotwang, the great inventor.

  Maria threw a glance at the door, on which the seal of Solomon glowed. She ran up to it, although she knew it to be pointless to implore this inexorable door for liberty. She felt, under her feet, distant, quite dull, strong and impelling, a shake, as of distant thunder.

  The voice of the great Metropolis roared: Danger—! Maria clasped her hands and raised them to her mouth. She ran up to the trap-door. She knelt down. She looked at the heap of humanity which lay at the edge of the trapdoor. She knelt down. She looked at the heap of humanity which lay at the edge of the trap-door, the metal hand of which seemed obstinately to be defending the trap-door. The fingers of the other hand, thrown over the man's neck, were turned towards her, poised high, like a beast before the spring.

  And the trembling shake again—and now much mightier-Maria seized the iron ring of the trap-door. She pushed it up. She wanted to pull up the door. But the hand—the hand which lay upon it—held the door clutched fast.

  Maria heard the chattering of her teeth. She pushed herself across on her knees towards the motionless heap of humanity. With infinite care, she grasped the hand which lay, as a steel bolt, across the trap-door. She felt the coldness of death proceeding from this hand. She pressed her teeth into her white lips. As she pushed back the hand with all her strength, the heap of humanity rolled over on its side, and the grey face appeared, staring upwards…

  Maria tore open the trap-door. She swung herself down, into the black square. She did not leave herself time to close the door. Perhaps it was that she had not the courage, once more to emerge from the depths she had gained, to see what lay up there, at the edge of the trap-door. She felt the steps under her feet, and felt, right and left, the damp walls. She ran through the darkness, thinking only half-consciously: If you lose your way in the City of the Dead… .

  The red shoes of the magician occurred to her…

  She forced herself to stand still, forced herself to listen… .

  What was that strange sound which seemed to be coming, from the passages round about?… It sounded like yawning—It sounded as though the stone were yawning. There was a trickling… above her head a light grating sound grew audible, as though joint upon joint were loosening itself… Then all was still for a while. But not for long. Then the grating sound began again…

  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.

  Maria was pitched against the stone wall. But the wall moved behind her. Maria shrieked. She threw up her arms and raced onwards. She stumbled over stones which lay across her way, but she did not fall. She did not know what was happening but the rustle of mystery which the storm drives along before it—the proclamation of a great evil, hung in the air above her, driving her forward.

  There—a light in front of her! She ran towards it. An arched vault… Great burning candles… Yes, she knew the place. She had often stood here and spoken to those whom she called "brothers."… Who, but she, had the right to light these candles? For whom had they burnt today? The flames blew sideways in a violent draught of air; the wax dropped.

  Maria seized a candle and ran on with it. She came to the background of the arched vault. A coat lay on the floor. None of her brothers wore such a coat over his blue linen uniform. She bent down. She saw, in the thousand-year-old dust of the arched vault, a trail of dark drops. She stretched out her hand and touched one of the drops. The tip of her finger was dyed red. She straightened herself up and closed her eyes. She staggered a little and a smile passed over her face as though she hoped she were dreaming.

  "Dear God, I pray Thee, bide with me, take car
e of me… Amen… "

  She leant her head against the stone wall. The wall quaked. Maria looked right up. In the dark, black vaulting of the stone roof above her, there gaped a winding cleft.

  What did that mean… ?

  What was there—above her?

  Up there were the mole-tunnels of the underground railway. What was happening up there—? It sounded as though three thousand giants were playing nine-pins 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.

  The structure of the City of the Dead quaked right down to the centre of the earth. It was as if a mighty fist had suddenly opened a sluice—but, instead of water, a maelstrom of stones hurtled from the dammed-up bed—blocks, mortar, crumbles, stone-splinters, ruins poured down from the arch—a curtain of stones—a hail of stones. And above the falling and the smashing was the power of a thunder which was roaring, and roaring long and resonantly, through the destruction.

  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.

  But above the great Metropolis the monster-voice was still howling and howling.

  Red lay the morning above the stone ocean of the city. The red morning saw, amidst the stone ocean of the city, rolling along, a broad, an endless stream.

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

  "We've passed sentence upon the machines!"

  "We have condemned the machines to death."

  "The machines must die, to hell with them!"

  "Death!—Death!—Death to the machines—!"