Metropolis ~ Chapter 15
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, check out the essay below:
Maria dared not move. She dared not even breathe. She did not close her eyes for trembling fear that, between the lowering and raising of her eyelids, a new horror could come 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. Both men had been standing in the shadows, and yet it seemed to the girl as if the outline of both their forms had remained behind in the darkness like fiery lines: The force of Joh Fredersen’s standing, in which his hands were thrown forward like two claws; Rotwang’s body, which hung in these claws and which was dragged away—pulled forth—through the frame of a door which closed behind them both.
What was playing out behind this door?
She heard nothing. She listened with all her senses, but she heard nothing. Not the slightest sound. Minutes passed—endless minutes… There was nothing to be heard, neither footstep nor cry…
Was she breathing wall-to-wall with murder? That clutch at Rotwang’s neck… That form being dragged away, pulled from darkness into deeper darkness… Was he dead? Was he lying in a corner behind the door, face twisted around to his back, with broken neck and glazed eyes? Was the murderer still standing behind that door?
Suddenly, the room she was shut in seemed to fill with the sound of a dull thumping. It grew ever louder and ever more violent. It deafened the ears and yet remained dull. Gradually, she realised: It was her own heartbeat. Would somebody had come into the room with her, she would not have heard them, her heart was beating so.
Stammered words of a childish prayer passed through her brain, confused and senseless: Dear God, I pray unto Thee, be with me, take care of me, Amen!
She thought of Freder… No—don’t cry, don’t cry!
Dear God, I pray unto Thee…
This silence was no longer bearable! She must see; she must have certainty...
But she dared not take a step. She had gotten up and could not find courage to return to her old seat. It was as though she was sewn into a black sack. She held her arms pressed tight to her body. Horror stood on the back of her neck and blew down it.
Now she heard—yes, now she heard something! But 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 the great Metropolis, but she was screaming what she had never screamed before. She was not screaming for fodder. She was screaming: Danger! Danger! There was no end to the screaming. It howled on incessantly. Who had dared to unleash 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—this wild roar—to call him? What danger threatened Metropolis? Fire could not frighten the city to roar with madness. No storm surge threatened Metropolis. These elements were subdued and calm.
Danger from men? Uproar? Was that it?
Rotwang’s words flickered 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? Did doom well up from the depths?
Danger! Danger! screamed the voice of the great city.
As though under the control of a thrust from within, Maria ran abruptly to the door and tore it open. The room which lay before her, like the one she had left, received its own light—scarcely enough—through the window. At the first glance around, it seemed to be empty. Hot and consistent, a strong draft of air streamed from an invisible source through the room, bringing with it the amplified roar of the city.
Maria bent forward. She recognised the room. She had run along these walls in her desperate search for a door. There was a door which had neither bolt nor lock. In the gloomy wood of the door, the seal of Solomon—the pentagram—glowed copper-red. There, in the middle, was the square trapdoor, through which, a length of time ago that she couldn’t measure, she had entered the house of the great inventor. The bright square of the window shone upon the square of the door.
A trap? thought the girl. She turned her head around…
Danger! Danger! roared the city. Did the great Metropolis never wish to stop roaring?
Maria took a step, then stopped again. Something lay there. Something lay there on the floor, between her and the trapdoor. It was an unrecognisable heap. It was something dark and motionless. It might be human, but was maybe just a sack. Yet it lay there and had to be circumvented by anyone wanting to reach the trapdoor.
With a greater display of courage than had ever before been necessary in her life, Maria silently set one foot before the other. The heap on the floor did not move. She stood, bending far forward, her eyes becoming accustomed, deafened by her own heartbeat and the yell of the riot-raising city.
Now she saw clearly; what was lying there was a man. The man lay on his face and had his legs drawn tight to his body, as though he had gathered himself together, wishing to push himself up, and then no longer found the strength to do so. One hand lay thrown over his neck, and its crooked fingers spoke more eloquently than the most eloquent of mouth of frenzied resistance. But the other hand of the human heap lay stretched-out far away from it, on the square of the trapdoor, as though wishing to bolt the trapdoor with itself. The hand was not flesh and bone. The hand was metal; the hand was the masterpiece 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 was pointless to implore this inexorable door to liberty. Under her feet, distant, quite dull, strong and powerful in its essence, she felt a shake like far-off thunder.
The voice of the great Metropolis roared: Danger!
Maria clasped her hands and raised them to her mouth. She ran up to the trapdoor. She knelt down. She looked at the heap of humanity which lay at the edge of the trapdoor, and whose metal hand seemed to stubbornly defend the door. The fingers of the other hand, thrown over the neck of the man, were turned towards her, poised high, like a beast before pouncing.
Again, the trembling shake—and now much stronger…
Maria grabbed the iron ring of the trapdoor. She pushed it up. She wanted to push the door upwards. But the hand—the hand which lay upon it—held the door clutched tight.
Maria heard the chattering of her teeth. She pulled herself on her knees towards the motionless human heap. With unending caution, she grabbed the hand which lay like a steel bolt across the trapdoor. She felt the coldness of death emanating from this hand. She pressed her teeth into her white lips. As she pushed back the hand with all her might, the human heap rolled over on its side, and the grey face appeared, staring upwards…
Maria tore open the trapdoor. She swung herself down into the black square. She did not leave herself time to close the door. Maybe it was that she didn’t have the courage to emerge from the depths she had gained once more and see what lay up there at the edge of the trapdoor. 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…
She remembered the red shoes of the magician.
She forced herself to stand still, and to listen. What was that strange sound which seemed to be coming from the passages all around? It sounded like yawning, as though the stone was 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 quiet for a while. But not for long. The grating sound then arose again…
The stone was living. Yes—the stone was living… The stone of the City of the Dead was coming to life.
A shock of incredible violence shook the earth on which Maria was standing. Rumbling of falling stones, trickling, silence.
Maria had staggered into the stone wall, but the wall moved beneath her. Maria shrieked. She threw up her arms and raced onwards. She stumbled over stones which lay in her way, but she did not fall. She did not know what was happening, but the rushing of mystery which the storm drove in front of it, the proclamation of a great calamity, hung in the air above her, driving her forwards.
There—a light in front of her! She ran towards it... A vaulted crypt, great burning candles… Yes, she knew this room! She had often stood here and spoken to those she called brothers. Who, apart from her, had the right to light these candles? For whom had they burnt today? In a violent draft of air, the flames wafted sideways. The wax dripped.
Maria seized a candle and ran on with it. She came to the background of the vaulted crypt. There lay a coat 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 vaulted crypt, 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 unto Thee, be with me, take care of me, Amen...”
She leant her head against the stone wall. The stone wall quaked. Maria looked up high. In the jet-black vaulting of the stone roof above her, there gaped a meandering tear.
What did that mean? What was there above her? Up there were the mole-tunnels of the underground railway. What was happening there? It sounded as though three thousand giants were playing with iron mountain peaks, which they threw jeeringly at each other.
The tear gaped wider, and 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. Suddenly, it was as though an enormous fist had opened a floodgate—but, instead of water, a maelstrom of stones hurtled from the dammed riverbed. Such was the bombardment of blocks, mortar, rubble, stone-splinters and debris coming from the arch—a curtain of stones, a hail of stones. And above the falling and the bashing was the might of a thunder which roared long through the destruction.
An air current of dashing irresistibility swept the girl aside like a blade of straw. The skeletons rose up from the niches; bones rose up steeply and skulls rolled. Judgement Day seemed to be descending upon thousand-year-old City of the Dead.
But above the great Metropolis, the monster-voice was howling, and howling still.
The morning lay red above the stone ocean of the city. The red morning saw, amidst that stone ocean of a city, rolling on broadly, an endless stream.
The stream was twelve files deep. They walked in even step. Men, men, men—all in the same uniform, from neck to ankle in dark blue linen, bare feet in the same hard shoes, hair firmly enclosed by the same black caps. And they all had the same faces: wild faces with eyes like firebrands. They all sang the same song: a song without melody, but with an oath—a storm vow:
“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!”
Before the streaming, bawling masses, a girl danced. She led the masses on. She led the tramping masses towards the heart of the machine-city of Metropolis.
She said: “Come! Come! I will lead you! I will dance the Dance of Death before you! I will dance the Dance of Murderers before you!”
“Destroy—destroy—destroy!” jeered the masses.
They acted without plan, and yet following a law. Destruction was the name of the law; they obeyed it.
The masses divided. A broad stream poured itself, seething, down into the tunnel of the underground railway. On all the tracks, the trains stood ready. Spotlights wedged themselves into the darkness which crouched in the shafts above the rails.
The masses jeered. Here was a toy for giants! Were they not as strong as three-thousand giants? They dragged the drivers from the drivers’ places. They rushed the trains and let them run one after the other—forwards—forwards!
The rails roared. The thundering carriage-snakes, lit up blazingly, hurled along by their emptiness, raced into the brownish gloom. Two, three, four of the drivers fought like men possessed, but the masses sucked them up. “Will you shut your mouths, you dogs! We are the masters! We want to play! We want to play like giants!”
They howled the song—the song of their deadly hatred:
“We’ve pronounced judgement upon the machines!
We have condemned the machines to death!”
They counted the seconds: “Fifty-nine—sixty—sixty-one—sixty-two—now? Aaaaah!
Somewhere in the depths of the tunnel, a crash, as if the Earth were splitting. Once—and once again…
The masses howled:
“The machines must die—to Hell with them!
Death! Death! Death to the machines!”
There! What was that? From one of the tunnels, one of the trains broke forth, like a steed of fire, with sparkling lights, driverless, at break-neck speed—Death galloping. From whence did this hell-horse come? Where were the giants who were answering the giant-game of the masses? Screeching, the train vanished—and seconds later came the tearing crash from the depths of the shaft. And already the second train was chasing onwards, dispatched by unknown hands.
Under the feet of the masses, the stones shuddered. Smoke billowed up from the shaft. Suddenly the lights went out. Only the clocks, the whitish-shimmering clocks, hung as flickers of light in a darkness filled with dim, dragging plumes.
The masses pressed towards the stairs and up them. Behind them, like unchained demons, the unleashed engines raced one another, pulling their reeling carriages along behind them, and were flamingly fierce.
Metropolis had a head. Metropolis had a heart.
The heart of the machine-city of Metropolis dwelt in a white, cathedral-like machine hall. The heart of the machine-city of Metropolis was guarded by a single man.
The man’s name was Grot, and he loved his machine.
The machine was a universe unto itself. Above the deep mysteries of its delicate joints stood, like the solar disc, like the halo of a divine being, the silver spinning wheel, whose spokes appeared, in the whirl of its revolutions, as a single gleaming disc. This disc filled the back wall of the machine hall with its entire breadth and height.
There was no machine in the whole of Metropolis which did not receive its power from this heart.
A single lever governed this steel wonder. All the treasures of the world piled up before him would not, for Grot, have outweighed this: his machine.
When Grot heard, at the red hour of dawn, the voice of the great Metropolis roaring, he glanced at the clock on the brow of the wall where the door was, and thought: That’s against all nature and correctness…
When Grot saw, at the red hour of dawn, the stream of the masses rolling along, twelve files deep, led by a girl dancing to the rhythm of the jeering masses, he set the lever of the machine to ‘Safety,’ carefully closed the door to the machine hall and waited.
The masses thundered against his door.
Oh, knock away! Thought Grot. That door can withstand a lot.
He looked at the machine. The wheel was spinning slowly. The beautiful spokes were playing, clearly recognisable. Grot nodded to his beautiful machine.
They will not trouble us long, he thought. He waited for a signal from the New Tower of Babel—on a word from Joh Fredersen. The word did not come.
He knows, thought Grot, he can rely on me…
The door trembled like a giant drum. The masses—a living battering ram—hurled themselves against it.
There are quite a few of them, it seems, thought Grot. He looked at the door. It trembled, but it held, and it appeared as though it would still hold for a very long time. Grot nodded to himself in deep contentment. He would have liked to light a pipe, if only smoking had not been forbidden here. He heard the jeers of the crowd, and impact upon impact against the door that hummed with a comforting fierceness. He loved the door. It was his ally. He turned around and looked at the machine. He nodded at it affectionately: “Us two, eh? What do you say to those pissed-up fools, machine?”
The storm at the door wound itself up into a typhoon. In it was hackling anger over such long resistance.
“Open up!” hackled the fury. “Open up, scoundrel!”
Wouldn’t that just suit you, thought Grot. How well the door was holding—his valiant door!
What were those drunken apes out there singing about?
“We’ve pronounced judgement upon the machines!
We have condemned the machines to death!”
Ho ho ho! He could sing too, he could sing drunken songs superbly! He kicked with both heels against the base of the machine upon which he sat. He pushed the black cap down lower into his neck. He had his red fists resting upon his lap and sang with his whole throat, his mouth torn open and his little, wild eyes fixed on the door:
“Come on then you, you drunken lot, if you do dare!
Come if you’re wanting a beating, you lousy apes!
Your mother forgot to give you a good hiding
when you were little, you snotty-nosed brats!
You’re not even good enough for pig-fodder!
When it took a big bend, you fell from the bin lorry,
and now you stand before the door—my valiant door—and whine:
Open up! Open up! Oh, you chicken lice!”
The pedestal of the machine boomed under the drumming rhythm of his boot heels.
But suddenly both became silent: drumming and singing. A very strong, incredibly white light flared up three times under the dome of the machine hall. A sound-signal, as gentle and penetrating as the gong-strikes of a temple bell, became audible and overcame every other sound.
“Yes!” said Grot, the guardian of the Heart-Machine. He sprang to his feet. He raised his broad face, which gleamed in the joyful avarice of obedience. “Yes, I am here!”
A voice said, slowly and clearly: “Open the door and give the machine up!”
Grot stood motionless. Fists like clumsy hammers hung down from his arms. He gulped, but he said nothing.
“Repeat back the instructions,” said the calm voice.
The guardian of the Heart-Machine swung his head violently this way and that, like a burdensome bundle.
“I… I haven’t understood,” he said, wheezing.
The quiet voice spoke in a more forceful tone: “Open the door and give the machine up!”
But the man still said nothing, gazing dumbly upwards.
“Repeat back the instructions,” said the calm voice.
The guardian of the Heart-Machine drew in a great draught of air.
“Who is speaking?” he asked. “What kind of crooked dog is speaking?”
“Open the door, Grot—”
“The devil I will!”
“—and give the machine up!”
“The machine?” asked Grot, “My machine?”
“Yes,” said the calm voice.
The guardian of the Heart-Machine began to shake. His face, in which the eyes stood like whitish balls, was blue. The masses, which threw themselves as a buffer against the ringing door, jeered, hoarse from jeering:
“The machines must die—to hell with them!
Death! Death! Death to the machines!”
“Who is speaking here?” asked the man, so loudly that he shrieked.
“Joh Fredersen is speaking.”
“I want the password!”
“The password is one-thousand-and-three. The machine is running on half power. You have set the lever to ‘Safety.’”
The guardian of the Heart-Machine stood like a log. Then the log turned itself awkwardly around, lurched to the door, and tore at the bolts.
The masses heard it. They yelled in triumph. The door flew open and the masses swarmed the man who confronted them at the threshold. The masses rolled towards the machine. The masses wanted to get their hands on the machine. A dancing girl led the masses on.
“Look!” she cried. “Look! The beating heart of Metropolis! What should happen to the heart of Metropolis?
“We’ve pronounced judgement upon the machines!
We have condemned the machines to death!
The machines must die—to hell with them!”
But the masses did not catch up with the girl’s song. The masses stared at the machine, the beating heart of the great machine-city, which was called Metropolis, and which they had fed. They pressed forward slowly, as a single body, towards the machine, which glistened like silver. In the face of the masses stood hatred. In the face of the masses stood superstitious fear. In the face of the masses stood desire for ultimate destruction.
But before it could express itself, Grot, the guardian, threw himself before his machine. There were no dirty words which he raised to chuck in the face of the masses. The filthiest expletive was not filthy enough for him to apply to them. The masses turned their red eyes upon him. The masses stared at him vacantly. The masses grasped: The man there, in front of them, was insulting them—insulting them in the name of the machine. For them, the man and the machine coalesced into one. Man and machine deserved the same hatred. They pushed forward against man and machine. They roared him down. They stamped him under foot. They dragged him hither and thither and out of the door. They forgot the machine, for they had the man—the guardian of the heartbeat of all the machines—believing that, in tearing the man away from the Heart-Machine, they were tearing the heart from the chest of the great machine-city which was called Metropolis.
What should happen to the heart of Metropolis? It should be trodden underfoot by the masses!
“Death!” jeered the victorious masses. “Death to the machines!”
They did not notice that they no longer had a leader. They did not notice that the girl was missing from the procession.
The girl was standing before the Heart-Machine of the city. With her hand, which was more delicate than glass, she seized the weighty lever, which stood at “Safety.” She pushed the lever round, then walked out with light, mad, step.
Behind her, the machine began to whirl. Above the deep mysteries of its delicate joints stood, like the solar disc, like the halo of a divine being, the silver spinning wheel, whose spokes appeared, in the whirl of its revolutions, as a single gleaming disc.
The heart of Metropolis, Joh Fredersen’s great city, began to run a fever, seized by a deadly illness…
< Chapter 14 = = = = = = = = = = = Chapter 16 >