Metropolis ~ Chapter 14
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:
A vault like the vault of a sepulchre. Human heads so tightly compact that they appeared like clods on a freshly-ploughed field. All faces turned towards one point, towards a light source as mild as God. Candles burnt, the flames shaped like swords. Slender, glowing swords of light stood in a circle around the head of a girl…
Freder stood pressed into the background of the arch, so far from the girl that he perceived nothing of her face except the shimmer of its pallor, the wonder of its eyes and its blood-red mouth. His eyes hung upon this blood-red mouth as though it were the centre of the world where, by eternal law, his blood must pour down in to. This mouth was agonising… All the Seven Deadly Sins had such a mouth… The woman on the scarlet-coloured beast, who bore the name Babylon upon her forehead, had such a mouth…
He pressed both hands to his eyes in order to see this mouth of deadly sin no longer.
Now he heard more clearly… Yes, that was her voice, sounding such that even God could not to refuse her anything. Was that really it? The voice came from out the blood-red mouth. It was like a flame, hot and pointed. It was full of a wicked sweetness…
The voice said: “My brothers...”
But from out these words came no peace. Little red snakes hissed through the air. The air was boiling hot, an agony to breathe…
Groaning deeply, Freder opened his eyes. The heads before him were dark, heftily-churning waves. These waves frothed, raged and roared. Here and there a hand waved through the air. Words flew up as foam flecks of the surge. But the voice of the girl was like a tongue of fire, fluttering, calling, burning over the heads.
“Which is more delightful: water or wine?”
“… Wine is more delightful!”
“Who drinks the water?”
“… We do!”
“Who drinks the wine?”
“… The masters! The masters of the machines!”
“Which is more delightful: meat or dry bread?”
“… Meat is more delightful!”
“Who eats the dry bread?”
“… We do!”
“Who eats the meat?”
“… The masters! The masters of the machines!”
“Which is more delightful to wear: blue linen or white silk?”
“… White silk is more delightful to wear!”
“Who wears the blue linen?”
“… We do!”
“Who wears the white silk?”
“… The masters! The sons of the masters!”
“Where is it more delightful to live: on or under the earth?”
“… It is more delightful to live on the earth!”
“Who lives under the earth?”
“… We do!”
“Who lives upon the earth?”
“… The masters! The masters of the machines!”
“Where are your wives?”
“… In misery!”
“Where are your children?”
“… In misery!”
“What do your wives do?”
“… They starve!”
“What do your children do?”
“… They cry!”
“What do the wives of the masters of the machines do?”
“… They feast!”
“What do the children of the masters of the machines do?”
“… They play!”
“Who are the producers?”
“… We are!”
“Who are the squanderers?”
“...The masters! The masters of the machines!”
“What are you?”
“… Slaves!”
“No! What are you?”
“… Dogs!”
“No! What are you?”
“… Tell us! Tell us!”
“You are fools! Numbskulls! Numbskulls! Throughout the morning, the midday, the evening and the night, the machine howls for fodder, for fodder, for fodder! You are the fodder! You are the living fodder! The machine devours you like chaff and spits you out again! Why do you fatten the machines with your bodies? Why do you grease the joints of the machines with your brains? Why do you not let the machines starve, you fools? Why do you not let them perish, numbskulls? Why do you feed them? The more you feed them, the more they crave your flesh, your bones and your brains. You are ten thousand! You are a hundred thousand! Why not throw yourselves—a hundred thousand murderous fists—upon the machines and strike them dead? You are the masters of the machines, you! Not the others who walk in white silk! Turn the world upside-down! Stand the world on its head! Become the murderers of the living and the dead! Take the inheritance from the living and the dead! You have waited long enough! The time has come!”
A voice cried out from the crowd: “Lead us, Maria!”
In a wave, all the heads broke forward. The blood-red mouth of the girl laughed and flamed. Huge and greenish-black, the eyes flamed above it. She raised her arms with an unspeakably difficult, burden-raising, sweet, mad gesture. The slim body grew and stretched itself up. The girl’s hands met above her parting. Through her shoulders, her breasts, her hips, her knees, there ran an incessant, barely-perceptible trembling. It was like the trembling of the delicate spinal fins of a luminous, deep-sea fish. It was as though the girl were carried higher and higher by this trembling, even though her feet did not move.
She said: “Come! Come! I wish to lead you! I will dance the dance of death for you! I will dance the dance of the murderers for you!”
The masses moaned. The masses gasped. The masses stretched out their hands. The masses bowed their heads and necks low, as though their shoulders and backs were to be a carpet for the girl. The masses, wheezing, toppled onto their knees like a single beast felled by an axe. The girl raised her foot and stepped upon the neck of the outstretched beast…
A voice shouted out, sobbing with rage and pain: “You are not Maria!”
The masses turned around. The masses saw a man standing in the background of the arch, whose coat had fallen from his shoulders. Under the coat he wore the white silk. The man was paler than someone who had bled to death. He stretched out his hand and pointed to the girl. He yelled out in his shrill voice:
“You are not Maria! No, You are not Maria!”
The heads of the masses stared at the man who was a stranger among them, who wore the white silk.
“You are not Maria!” yelled his shrill voice. “Maria talks of peace, not murder!”
The eyes of the masses began to glare dangerously.
The girl stood upright in the neck of the masses. She began to falter. It seemed as though she should have stumbled and fallen on to her white face in which the blood-red mouth—the mouth of deadly sin—flamed like hellfire...
But she did not fall. She held herself upright. She wobbled lightly, but she held herself upright. She stretched out her arm and pointed at Freder, calling out in a voice which sounded like glass:
“Look there! The son of Joh Fredersen! The son of Joh Fredersen is among you!”
The masses yelled. The masses hurled themselves around. The masses wanted to seize the son of Joh Fredersen.
He did not fend them off. He stood pressed against the wall. He stared at the girl with a gaze which bore a belief in eternal damnation. It seemed as though he were already dead, and as though his lifeless body reeled ghost-like at the fists of those who wished to murder him.
A voice roared: “Dog in white silk skin!”
An arm shot up, a knife flashed out. Upon the billowing neck of the masses, the girl stood. It was as though the knife came flying from out her eyes.
But before the knife could plunge into the white silk which covered the heart of Joh Fredersen’s son, a man threw himself in front of his chest like a shield, and the knife ripped open blue linen. The blue linen was dyed purple-red…
“Brothers!” said the man. He covered the son of Joh Fredersen with his whole body, dying, and yet standing upright. He turned his head a little in order to catch Freder’s glance. He said with a smile which was transfigured in pain: “Brother...”
Freder recognised him. It was Georgy. It was number 11811, who was now bleeding out, and, in bleeding out, protected him.
He wanted to push on past Georgy. But the dying man stood like one crucified, with outstretched arms and hands clawing into the edge of the niches which were behind him. He held his eyes, which were like jewels, rigidly set on the masses storming towards him.
“Brothers...” Freder said.
“Murderers… Brother murderers!” said the dying mouth.
The masses let go of him and ran on. On the shoulders of the masses, the girl was dancing and singing. She sang with her blood-red mouth of deadly sin:
“We’ve pronounced judgement 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 masses roared through the narrow passages of the City of the Dead. The girl’s voice faded away. The footsteps faded away. Georgy loosened his hands and fell forward. Freder caught him. He sank to his knees. Georgy’s head fell upon his chest.
“Warn… warn… the city...” said Georgy.
“You’re dying!” answered Freder. His distraught eyes ran along the walls in which the thousand-year-old dead slept in its niches. “There is no justice in this world!”
“Deepest justice...” said Number 11811. “From weakness—sin… From sin—atonement… Warn the city! Warn them...”
“I’m not leaving you alone.”
“I beg you—beg you!”
Freder got up, despair in his eyes. He ran to the passage through which the masses had faded away.
“Not that way!” said Georgy. “You can’t get through that way any more!”
“I know no other way.”
“I’ll take you.”
“You’re dying, Georgy! Your first step will be your death!”
“Do you not want to warn the city? Do you want to become complicit?”
“Come!” said Freder.
He raised Georgy up, his hand pressed to his wound. The men began to run.
“Take your lamp and come!” said Georgy. He ran such that Freder was barely able to follow him. Into the ten-thousand-year-old dust of the City of the Dead dripped blood, which welled from this fresh source. He held Freder’s arm clasped, yanking him forwards.
“Hurry!” he murmured. “Hurry up!”
Passages—crossings—passages—steps—passages—a flight of stairs which led steeply upwards… At the first step, Georgy fell. Freder wanted to hold him. He pushed him back.
“Hurry!” he said. His head indicated towards the stairs. “Up! You can’t go wrong now. Hurry up!”
“And you, Georgy?”
“I...” said Georgy, turning his head to the wall, “I can’t give you answers any more.”
Freder let go of Georgy’s hand. He began to run up the stairs. Night greeted him; the night of Metropolis—this light-mad, drunken night.
Everything was still the same as usual. Nothing yet indicated the storm which was to break out from within the earth beneath Metropolis to murder the machine-city.
But to Joh Fredersen’s son, it was as if the stones were giving way under his feet, as though he heard the rushing of wings in the air—the rushing wings of strange monsters: beings with women’s bodies and snakes’ heads, beings half-bull-half-angel, devils adorned with crowns, human-faced lions. To him, it was 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 fought the first fight with the early morning. He searched for his father. He did not find him. Nobody could say where Joh Fredersen had gone at midnight. The brain-box of the New Tower of Babel was empty.
Freder wiped the sweat from his forehead, which ran in drops over his temples.
“I must find my father,” he said. “I must call him—whatever it may cost!”
Men with servants eyes looked at him. Men who knew nothing except 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 plate, which no man ever touched except Joh Fredersen.
Then the great Metropolis began to roar. Then she raised her voice—her behemoth-voice. But she was not screaming for fodder. She roared: Danger!
Above the gigantic city, above the slumbering city, the monster-voice roared: Danger! Danger!
An almost imperceptible trembling ran through the New Tower of Babel, as if the earth which bore it were shuddering, frightened by a dream, in-between sleep and awakening…
< Chapter 13 = = = = = = = = = = = Chapter 15 >