Metropolis ~ Chapter 10
This piece is part of my ongoing translation of the novel of Thea von Harbou’s “Metropolis”. If you’d like to find out more about the project and see other chapters, check out the essay below:
As often as Josaphat tried in the following days to break through the barrier drawn around Freder, there was always a strange person there, and always a different one, who said, with blank expression: "Mr. Freder cannot receive anybody. Mr. Freder is ill."
But Freder was not ill — at least, it wasn’t how illness usually manifests itself in people. From morning to evening, from evening to morning, Josaphat watched the house whose crowning tower was Freder's flat. He never saw Freder leave the house. But through the hours he saw, during the night, behind the white-veiled, wall-to-wall windows, a shadow wandering back and forth — and saw at the hour of twilight, when the rooves of Metropolis still shone, immersed in the sun, and when the darkness in ravines of its streets became washed-out by streams of cold light, the same shadow, a motionless form, standing on the narrow balcony which ran around almost the highest house in Metropolis.
Yet what was expressed by the shadow's back-and-forth wandering, and the motionless standing-still of the shadowy form, was not illness. It was helplessness to the extreme. Lying on the roof of the house which was opposite Freder's flat, Josaphat observed the man who had chosen him as friend and brother, whom he had betrayed and whom he had come home to. He could not discern his face, but he read from the pale spot which this face was in the setting sun, in the plunge of the spotlights, that the man over there, whose eyes stared across Metropolis, did not see Metropolis.
Sometimes people emerged beside him, speaking to him, expecting an answer. But the answer never came. Then the people would go glumly.
One time, Joh Fredersen came — came to his son, who stood on the narrow balcony and seemed not to notice that his father was near. Joh Fredersen spoke to him for a long time. He laid his hand on his son's hand, which was resting on the railing. The mouth received no answer. The hand received no answer. Only once Freder turned his head cumbersomely, as though his neck joints were rusted. He looked at Joh Fredersen.
Joh Fredersen went.
And when his father had gone, Freder turned his head back again through a sluggish pivot and stared again across the great Metropolis, which danced in the frenzy of light — and stared with blind eyes.
The railing of the narrow balcony on which he stood appeared as an insurmountable wall of loneliness, of knowing deep down to be abandoned. No calling, no waving, not even the loudest of sounds penetrated this wall, which was awash in the strong, luminous surf of the great Metropolis.
But Josaphat did not want to dare the leap from Heaven to Earth, not as someone who fulfilled his duty as a dead man having chased into infinity, just to be stopped powerlessly at this wall of loneliness.
There came a night which hung, glowing and vapour-rich, over Metropolis. A thunderstorm, which was still distant, fired off its warning shots in deep clouds. All the lights of the great Metropolis seemed, more violently and more unbridled, to lavish themselves on the darkness.
Freder stood by the railing of the narrow balcony, his hot hands laying on the railing. A sultry, anxious puff of wind tugged at him, making the white silk which covered his now-gaunt body to flutter.
Around the ridge of the house just opposite him, there ran, in a luminous frame, a luminous word, running around behind itself in an eternal circuit: Phantasus… Phantasus… Phantasus...
Freder did not see this row of words. His retina received it, not the brain.
But suddenly, the illustrated word was extinguished, and in its place numbers sparkled out of the darkness, disappearing and appearing again and again.
And this appearing and disappearing, appearing again and disappearing and coming anew had the effect, in its imperturbability, of a penetrating, persistent call.
99... 7... 7...
99... 7... 7...
99... 7... 7...
Freder's eyes caught the numbers.
99... 7... 7...
They turned around, they came back again.
99... 7... 7...
Thoughts stumbled through his brain.
99? And 7? A second 7?
What did that mean?
How intrusive these numbers were.
99... 7... 7...
99... 7... 7...
99... 7... 7...
Freder closed his eyes. But now the numbers were within him. He saw them flare up, sparkle, and go out… flare up, sparkle, go out.
Was that — no!
Or yes?
Had these numbers had meaning for him, before this period of time that no longer seemed measurable?
99 — 99 —
Suddenly a voice in his head said: “Ninety-ninth Block… House seven… seventh floor...”
Freder tore open his eyes. Over there, on the house just opposite, the numbers blazed up, asking and blared:
99... 7... 7...
Freder bent forward over the railing, such that it seemed he should be hurtling into the depths. The numbers dazzled him. He made a movement with his arm as though he wanted to cover them up or put them out.
They went out. The luminous frame went out. The house stood gloomy, only half awash in the shimmer of the white street. Suddenly visible, the stormy sky lay above his roof, and lightning seemed to be crackling.
In the faded light, over there, stood a man.
Freder stepped back from the railing. He raised both hands to his mouth. He looked to the right, to the left, raised both arms. Then he turned away, as if turned away by a force of nature from the spot on which he stood, running into the house, running through the room, stopping still again...
Careful! Careful now...
He contemplated. He pressed his skull between his fists. Among his servants, was there one single person who he could believe would not to betray him to The Thin Man?
What a meagre situation. Agh, what a meagre situation!
But what alternative had he to leaping into the abyss, which every test of confidence amounts to?
He would have liked to extinguish the lights in his room, but he did not dare to, for up to this day he had not been able to bear darkness around him. He paced up and down. He felt the sweat on his forehead and the trembling of his joints. He could no longer measure the time passing. In his ears, the blood roared like a waterfall.
The first bolt of lightning fell over Metropolis, and, in the late-responding rumble of thunder, the rushing of the rain finally entered the mix. It swallowed up the sound of the opening of the door. When Freder turned around, Josaphat was standing in the middle of the room. He was in a worker’s uniform.
They walked up to each other as though driven by an outside force. But, halfway, they both stopped and looked at each other, and each had for the other the same horrified question on his face. Where have you been since I last saw you? To what hell have you descended?
Freder, in his feverish haste, was the first to collect himself.
“Sit down!” he said in a toneless voice that occasionally held the morbid dryness of burnt things. He sat down beside him, not taking his hand from the others arm. "You waited for me, in vain and in vain… I could not send you a message. Forgive me!"
"I have nothing to forgive you for, Mr. Freder," said Josaphat, quietly. "I did not wait for you. On the evening which I was supposed to wait for you, I was far, far away from Metropolis and from you."
Freder's waiting eyes looked at him.
"I have betrayed you, Mr. Freder," said Josaphat.
Freder smiled, but Josaphat's eyes extinguished his smile.
"I have betrayed you, Mr. Freder," repeated the man. "The Thin Man came to me. He offered me lots of money. But I only laughed. I threw it at his head. But then he laid on the table a note with your father's signature. You must believe me, Mr. Freder; He would never have gotten me with the money. There is no sum of money for which I would have sold you. But when I saw your father's handwriting… I still put up a fight. I would have gladly strangled him. But I had no more power. Joh Fredersen was written on the note… I had no more power then."
"I understand," muttered Joh Fredersen's son.
"Thank you. I was supposed to go away from Metropolis, far away… I flew… The pilot was a strange man. We kept flying straight towards the sun. The sun was about to set. Then it occurred to my empty brain that the hour had now come in which I was supposed to wait for you. And I was not going to be there when you came. I wanted to turn around. I asked the pilot. He didn’t want to. He wanted to force me to go further and further away from Metropolis. He was as defiant as a man can be only when he knows Joh Fredersen’s will to be behind him. I begged and I threatened. But nothing was helping. So then, with one of his own tools, I smashed his skull in."
Freder's fingers, which still lay on Josaphat's arm, tightened a little, but they laid still again immediately.
"Then I jumped out, and I was so far away from Metropolis that a young girl who picked me up in the field had never once known the way to the great Metropolis… I came here and found no message from you, and all that I found out was that you were ill..."
He hesitated and silenced, looking at Freder.
"I am not ill," said Freder, glancing straight ahead. He loosened his fingers from Josaphat's arm, bent forwards and laid both hands flat on his head. He spoke into the void. "But do you believe, Josaphat, that I am insane?"
"No."
"But I must be," said Freder, and he collapsed so tightly into himself that it seemed as if, sitting in his place, were a little boy filled with a mighty fear. His voice suddenly sounded high and thin, and something in it made Josaphat's eyes water.
Josaphat stretched out his hand, fumbled, and found Freder's shoulder. His hand slid around his neck, gently drawing him close, holding him still and tight.
"Tell me about it, Mr. Freder!" he said. "I don’t believe there are many things which seem insurmountable to me since I leapt from the aeroplane, steered by a dead man, as though leaping from Heaven to Earth. Also," he continued with a softer voice, "I learnt in a single night that one can bear very much when one has someone near who keeps watch, who asks nothing and who is simply there."
"I am mad, Josaphat," said Freder. "But I don't know if it is any solace — I am not alone."
Josaphat was silent. His patient hand lay unmoving on Freder's shoulder.
And suddenly, as though his soul were an over-filled vessel which had lost its balance, toppled over and out-poured in streams, Freder began to speak. He recounted to his friend the story of Maria, from the moment of their first encounter in the "Club of the Sons," to when they saw each other again deep under the earth in the City of the Dead, his waiting in the cathedral, his experience in Rotwang's house, his futile search, the "no" at Maria's home — up to the moment when, for her sake, he wanted to be the murderer of his own father — no, not for her sake: for a being who was not there, whom he believed that only he saw...
Was that not madness?
"Hallucination, Mr. Freder."
"Hallucination? I will tell you more about hallucination, Josaphat, and you mustn't believe that I am speaking in delirium or that I’m not presently in control of my thoughts. I wanted to beat my father to death. It was not my fault that the parricide wasn’t carried through. But since then, Josaphat, I have not been human. I am a creature that has no feet, no hands and hardly a head. And this head is only here to eternally think: I wanted to kill my own father. Do you believe that I may ever be free from this hell? Never, Josaphat. Never — never in all eternity. I lay during the night hearing my father going back and forth in the next room. I lay in the depths of a black pit; but my thoughts, as though chained to his soles, ran along behind my father's steps. What horror has come into the world that this could have happened? Is there a comet in the heavens which drives humanity crazy? Is a fresh plague coming, or the Antichrist? Or Armaggeddon? A woman, who does not exist, forces herself between father and son and tempts the son to murder the father. It may be that my thoughts were running hot at the time. Then my father came in to me..."
He faltered, and his wasted hands wrapped themselves interlockingly over his damp hair.
"You know my father. There are many in the great Metropolis who do not believe Joh Fredersen is human, because he seems not to need food or drink and he sleeps when he wants to, and usually he does not want 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 the great Metropolis is not very far off from becoming a deity. This man, who is my father, came up to my bed. He walked on his tiptoes, Josaphat. He bent over me and held his breath… I had my eyes closed. I laid completely still, and it was, to me, as though my father must’ve heard the weeping of my soul within me. In that hour I loved him more than anything in the world. But if my life depended on it, I would’ve still been unable to open my eyes. I felt how my father's hand stroked my pillow. Then he went again as he had come, on the tips of his toes, closing the door in complete silence behind him. Do you realise, Josaphat, what had happened?"
"No."
"No? And how could you. I only realised it myself many 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 let the Behemoth-voice of Metropolis roar out, because he did not want to disturb his son's sleep."
Josaphat sank his head; he said nothing. Freder let his intertwined hands sink.
"Then I realised," he went on, "that my father had wholly forgiven me. And when I realised that, I truly fell asleep."
He stood up, remaining standing for a while, and seemed to be listening to the rushing of the rain. The lightning still fell over Metropolis, and the furious thunder bounded afterwards. But the rushing of the rain made it powerless.
"I slept," Freder continued, so softly that the other could scarcely understand him, "then I began to dream. I saw this city in the light of a ghostly unreality. An intricate moon stood in the sky; as if along a broad street this ghostly, unreal light flowed down on to the city, which was completely deserted. All the houses seemed distorted and had faces. They squinted evilly and maliciously down on me, for I walked deep between them, along the glimmering street.
The street was quite narrow, as though crushed between the houses; it was like greenish glass — like a solidified, glass river. I glided down along it and looked down through it into the cold bubbling of a subterranean fire.
I did not know my destination, but I knew I had one, and went very fast in order to reach it rapidly. I muted my step as well as I could, but its sound was excessively loud and awakened a rustling whisper over the crooked house walls, as though the houses were murmuring after me. I walked, increasingly hurried, and ran, and, at last, racing — and the more swiftly I ran the more hoarse the echo of the steps sounded after me, as though an army were at my heels. I was dripping with sweat...
The city was alive. The houses were alive. Their wide-open mouths bickered after me. The window-sockets, knocked-out eyes, had a blind, grisly, spiteful twinkle.
Wheezing, I reached the square in front of the cathedral...
The cathedral was illuminated. The doors stood open — no, they reeled to and fro like swing doors through which an invisible stream of guests passed. The organ roared, but not with music. Squawking and bawling, screeching and whimpering sounded from the organ, intermingled with wanton dance tunes and wailing whore-songs.
The swing-doors, the light, the witches’ sabbath — everything appeared to be mysteriously excited, hurried as though there were no time to lose, and full of a deep, evil satisfaction.
I walked over to the cathedral and up the steps. A door seized me like an arm, and forcefully wafted me into the cathedral.
But that was as little the cathedral as the city was Metropolis. A horde of lunatics seemed to have taken possession of it, and not one was a human being; dwarfish creatures, seeming half monkey, half devil, swarmed it completely. In place of the saints, goat-like figures were enthroned, calcified in the most ridiculous of leaps, in the column niches. And around every column was a ring of dancers, raving to the bawling of the organ.
Empty, undeified and splintered, the crucifix hung 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 preacher’s tone: ‘Repent! The kingdom of Heaven is at hand!'
A stentorian neigh answered him.
The organ player — I saw him, he was like a demon — stood with his hands and feet on the keys, and his head beat in-time with the ring-dance of the spirits.
The fellow in the pulpit produced a book, enormous and black, with seven locks. Whenever his hand touched a lock, it burst up in flame and sprang apart.
Uttering incantations, he opened the cover. He bent down over the book. A ring of flames suddenly stood around his head.
From the heights of the bell-towers it struck midnight. But it was as though it wasn’t enough for the clock to proclaim the hour of demons just once. Over and over again, in despicable, haunted haste, did it strike the ghoulish twelve.
The light in the cathedral changed its colour. Were it possible to speak of a blackish light, this word would come closest to expressing the light. Only in one place did it shine white, gleaming, and cutting like a sharply-polished blade: it was where Death is depicted as a minstrel.
And suddenly the organ stilled — and suddenly the dance. The voice of the preacher-fellow in the pulpit silenced. And through the silence which dare not breathe, the sound of a flute rang out. Death was playing. The minstrel played 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 rope girdle. Playing his flute, he stepped out of his niche and made his way through the cathedral. And behind him came the Seven Deadly Sins as followers of Death.
Death made a circle around every column. Louder and ever louder, the song of his flute rang out. The Seven Deadly Sins joined hands. As a widely-swung chain they paced behind Death, and gradually their paces became a dance.
The Seven Deadly Sins danced along behind Death, who played the flute.
Then the cathedral was filled with a light which seemed to be made from rose petals. An inexpressibly sweet, narcotic perfume hovered like incense between the columns. The light became stronger and it seemed to ring. Pale red lightning flashed from on high and, in the central aisle, it gathered itself into the unprecedented radiance of a crown.
The crown was seated on the head of a woman. And the woman was sat upon a scarlet-coloured beast, having seven heads and ten horns. And the woman was dressed in scarlet and rose and lavished 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.
And the woman who bore the name Babylon had the features of Maria, whom I love...
The woman arose. She touched the cross vault of the lofty cathedral with her crown. She seized the hem of her cloak and opened it, spreading out her cloak with both hands. Then one saw that the golden cloak was embroidered with images of manifold demons. Beings with women's bodies and snakes' heads — beings half bull, half angel — devils adorned with crowns — human-faced lions.
The flute-song of Death was silenced. But the fellow in the pulpit raised his shrill voice: ‘Repent! The kingdom of Heaven is at hand!’
The church-clock still hammered the wild twelve-time of midnight.
The woman looked Death in the face. She opened her mouth. She said to Death: 'Go!'
Then Death hung the flute on his rope girdle, next to the hourglass, took the scythe down from his shoulder and went. He went through the cathedral and went out of the cathedral. And from the cloak of the great Babylon, the demons freed themselves, having come to life, and flew after Death.
Death went down the steps of the cathedral, into the city, black birds with human faces rustling around him. He raised the scythe as if indicating the way to them. Then they divided themselves and swarmed apart. Their broad wings darkened the moon.
Death flung his wide cloak backwards. He stretched himself up and grew. He grew much taller than even the houses of Metropolis. The highest of them barely reached to his knees.
Death swung his scythe and made a whistling strike. The earth and all the stars quivered. But the scythe did not seem to be sharp enough for him. He looked around him, as though searching for 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 grindstone from his rope girdle, spat on it and began to sharpen the scythe. Blue sparks flew from the steel. Then Death arose and made a second strike. A rain of stars then poured down from the sky.
Death nodded in contentment, turned around and began his journey through the great Metropolis…”
< Chapter 9 = = = = = = = = = = = Chapter 11 >