Metropolis Page 3

  "You do not suffer, father?"

  "No."

  "You are quite free from sin?"

  "The time of sin and suffering lies behind me, Freder."

  "And if this man, now… I have never seen such a thing… but I believe that men resolved to end their lives go out of a room as he did… "

  "Perhaps."

  "And suppose you were to hear, to-morrow, that he were dead… that would leave you untouched… ?" "Yes."

  Freder was silent.

  His father's hand slipped over a lever, and pressed it down. The white lamps in all the rooms surrounding the brain-pan of the New Tower of Babel went out. The Master over Metropolis had informed the circular world around him that he did not wish to be disturbed without urgent cause.

  "I cannot tolerate it," he continued, "when a man, working upon Metropolis, at my right hand, in common with me, denies the only great advantage he possesses above the machine."

  "And what is that, father?"

  "To take delight in work," said the Master over Metropolis. Freder's hand glided over his hair, then rested on its glorious fairness. He opened his lips, as though he wanted to say something; but he remained silent.

  "Do you suppose," Joh Fredersen went on, "that I need my secretaries' pencils to check American stock-exchange reports? The index tables of Rotwang's trans-ocean trumpets are a hundred times more reliable and swift than clerk's brains and hands. But, by the accuracy of the machine I can measure the accuracy of the men, by the breath of the machine, the lungs of the men who compete with her."

  "And the man you just dismissed, and who is doomed (for to be dismissed by you, father, means going down!… Down!… Down!… ) he lost his breath, didn't he?" "Yes."

  "Because he was a man and not a machine… " "Because he denied his humanity before the machine." Freder raised his head and his deeply troubled eyes. "I cannot follow you now, father," he said, as if in pain. The expression of patience on Joh Fredersen's face deepened.

  "The man," he said quietly, "was my first secretary! The salary he drew was eight times as large as that of the last."

  "That was synonymous with the obligation to perform eight times as much. To me. Not to himself. To-morrow the fifth secretary will be in his place. In a week he will have rendered four of the others superfluous. I have use for that man."

  "Because he saves four others."

  "No, Freder. Because he takes delight in the work of four others. Because he throws himself entirely into his work—throws himself as desiringly as if it were a woman."

  Freder was silent. Joh Fredersen looked at his son. He looked at him carefully.

  "You have had some experience?" he asked.

  The eyes of the boy, beautiful and sad, slipped past him, out into space. Wild, white light frothed against the windows, and, in going out, left the sky behind, as a black velvet cloth over Metropolis.

  "I have had no experience," said Freder, tentatively, "except that I believe for the first time in my life to have comprehended the being of a machine… "

  "That should mean a great deal," replied the Master over Metropolis. "But you are probably wrong, Freder. If you had really comprehended the being of a machine you would not be so perturbed."

  Slowly the son turned his eyes and the helplessness of his incomprehension to his father.

  "How can one but be perturbed," he said, "if one comes to you, as I did, through the machine-rooms. Through the glorious rooms of your glorious machines… and sees the creatures who are fettered to them by laws of eternal watchfulness… lidless eyes… "

  He paused. His lips were dry as dust.

  Joh Fredersen leant back. He had not taken his gaze from his son, and still held it fast.

  "Why did you come to me through the machine-rooms," he asked quietly. "It is neither the best, nor the most convenient way."

  "I wished," said the son, picking his words carefully, "Just once to look the men in the face—whose little children are my brothers—my sisters… "

  "H'm," said the other with very tight lips. The pencil which he held between his fingers tapped gently, dryly, once, twice, upon the table's edge. Joh Fredersen's eyes wandered from his son to the twitching flash of the seconds on the clock, then sinking back again to him.

  "And what did you find?" he asked.

  Seconds, seconds, seconds of silence. Then it was as though the son, up-rooting and tearing loose his whole ego, threw himself, with a gesture of utter self-exposure, upon his father, yet he stood still, head a little bent, speaking softly, as though every word were smothering between his lips.

  "Father! Help the men who live at your machines!"

  "I cannot help them," said the brain of Metropolis. "Nobody can help them. They are where they must be. They are what they must be. They are not fitted for anything more or anything different."

  "I do not know for what they are fitted," said Freder, expressionlessly: his head fell upon his breast as though almost severed from his neck. "I only know what I saw—and that it was dreadful to look upon… I went through the machine-rooms—they were like temples. All the great gods were living in white temples. I saw Baal and Moloch, Huitziopochtli and Durgha; some frightfully companionable, some terribly solitary. I saw Juggernaut's divine car and the Towers of Silence, Mahomet's curved sword, and the crosses of Golgotha. And all machines, machines, machines, which, confined to their pedestals, like deities to their temple thrones, from the resting places which bore them, lived their god—Like lives: Eyeless but seeing all, earless but hearing all, without speech, yet, in themselves, a proclaiming mouth—not man, not woman, and yet engendering, receptive, and productive—lifeless, yet shaking the air of their temples with the never-expiring breath of their vitality. And, near the god-machines, the slaves of the god-machines: the men who were as though crushed between machine companionability and ma chine solitude. They have no loads to carry: the machine carries the loads. They have not to lift and push: the machine lifts and pushes. They have nothing else to do but eternally one and the same thing, each in this place, each at his machine. Divided into periods of brief seconds, always the same clutch at the same second, at the same second. They have eyes, but they are blind but for one thing, the scale of the manometer. They have ears, but they are deaf but for one thing, the hiss of their machine. They watch and watch, having no thought but for one thing: should their watchfulness waver, then the machine awakens from its feigned sleep and begins to race, racing itself to pieces. And the machine, having neither head nor brain, with the tension of its watchfulness, sucks and sucks out the brain from the paralysed skull of its watchman, and does not stay, and sucks, and does not stay until a being is hanging to the sucked-out skull, no longer a man and not yet a machine, pumped dry, hollowed out, used up. And the machine which has sucked out and gulped down the spinal marrow and brain of the man and has wiped out the hollows in his skull with the soft, long tongue of its soft, long hissing, the maching gleams in its silver-velvet radiance, anointed with oil, beautiful, infallible—Baal and Moloch, Huitzilopochtli and Durgha. And you, father, you press your fingers upon the little blue metal plate near your right hand, and your great glorious, dreadful city of Metropolis roars out, proclaiming that she is hungry for fresh human marrow and human brain and then the living food rolls on, like a stream, into the machine-rooms, which are like temples, and that, just used, is thrown up… "

  His voice failed him. He struck his fists violently together, and looked at his father.

  "And they are all human beings!"

  "Unfortunately. Yes."

  The father's voice sounded to the son's ear as though he were speaking from behind seven closed doors.

  "That men are used up so rapidly at the machines, Freder, is no proof of the greed of the machine, but of the deficiency of the human material. Man is the product of change, Freder. A once-and-for-all being. If he is miscast he cannot be sent back to the melting-furnace. One is obliged to use him as he is. Whereby it has been statistically proved that the
powers of performance of the non-intellectual worker lessen from month to month."

  Freder laughed. The laugh came so dry, so parched, from his lips that Joh Fredersen jerked up his head, looking: at his son from out narrowed eyelids. Slowly his eyebrows! rose.

  "Are you not afraid, father (supposing that the statistics are correct and the consumption of man is progressing increasingly, rapidly) that one fine day there will be no more food there for the man-eating god-machines, and that the Moloch of glass, rubber and steel, the Durgha of aluminium with platinum veins, will have to starve miserably?"

  "The case is conceivable," said the brain of Metropolis.

  "And then?"

  "Then," said the brain of Metropolis, "by then a substitute for man will have to have been found."

  "The improved man, you mean—? The machine-man—?"

  "Perhaps," said the brain of Metropolis.

  Freder brushed the damp hair from his brow. He bent forward, his breath touching his father.

  "Then just listen to one thing, father," he breathed, the veins on his temples standing out, blue, "see to it that the machine-man has no head, or, at any rate, no face, or give him a face which always smiles. Or a Harlequin's face, or a closed visor. That it does not horrify one to look at him! For, as I walked through the machine-rooms to-day, I saw the men who watch your machines. And they know me, and I greeted them, one after the other. But not one returned my greeting. The machines were all too eagerly tautening their nerve-strings. And when I looked at them, father, quite closely, as closely as I am now looking at you—! was looking myself in the face… Every single man, father, who slaves at your machines, has my face—has the face of your son… "

  "Then mine too, Freder, for we are very like each other," said the Master over the great Metropolis. He looked at the clock and stretched out his hand. In all the rooms surrounding the brain-pan of the New Tower of Babel the white lamps flared up.

  "And doesn't it fill you with horror," asked the son, "to know so many shadows, so many phantoms, to be working at your work?"

  "The time of horror lies behind me, Freder."

  Then Freder turned and went, like a blind man—first missing the door with groping hand, then finding it. It opened before him. It closed behind him, and he stood still, in a room that seemed to him to be strange and icy.

  Forms rose up from the chairs upon which they had sat, waiting, bowing low to the son of Joh Fredersen, the Master of Metropolis.

  Freder only recognized one; that was Slim.

  He thanked those who greeted him, still standing near the door, seeming not to know his way. Behind him slipped Slim, going to Joh Fredersen, who had sent for him.

  The master of Metropolis was standing by the window, his back to the door.

  "Wait!" said the dark square back.

  Slim did not stir. He breathed inaudibly. His eyelids lowered, he seemed to sleep while standing. But his mouth, with the remarkable tension of its muscles, made him the personification of concentration.

  Joh Fredersen's eyes wandered over Metropolis, a restless roaring sea with a surf of light. In the flashes and waves, the Niagara falls of light, in the colour-play of revolving towers of light and brilliance, Metropolis seemed to have become transparent. The houses, dissected into cones and cubes by the moving scythes of the search-lights gleamed, towering up, hoveringly, light flowing down their flanks like rain. The streets licked up the shining radiance, themselves shining, and the things gliding upon them, an incessant stream, threw cones of light before them. Only the cathedral, with the star-crowned Virgin on the top of its tower, lay stretched out, massively, down in the city, like a black giant lying in an enchanted sleep.

  Joh Fredersen turned around slowly. He saw Slim standing by the door. Slim greeted him. Joh Fredersen came towards him. He crossed the whole width of the room in silence; he walked slowly on until he came up to the man. Standing there before him, he looked at him, as though peeling everything corporal from him, even to his innermost self.

  Slim held his ground during this peeling scrutiny.

  Joh Fredersen said, speaking rather softly:

  "From now on I wish to be informed of my son's every action."

  Slim bowed, waited, saluted and went. But he did not find the son of his great master again where he had left him. Nor was he destined to find him.

  Chapter 3

  THE MAN WHO had been Joh Fredersen's first secretary stood in a cell of the Pater-noster, the never-stop passenger lift which, like a series of never ceasing well-buckets, trans-sected the New Tower of Babel.—With his back against the wooden wall, he was making the journey through the white, humming house, from the heights of the roof, to the depths of the cellars and up again to the heights of the roof, for the thirtieth-time, never moving from the one spot.

  Persons, greedy to gain a few seconds, stumbled in with him, and stories higher, or lower, out again. Nobody paid the least attention to him. One or two certainly recognised him. But, as yet, nobody interpreted the drops on his temples as being anything but a similar greed for the gain of a few seconds. All right—he would wait until they knew better, until they took him and threw him out of the cell: What are you taking up space for, you fool, if you've got so much time? Crawl down the stairs, or the first escape…

  With gasping mouth he leant there and waited…

  Now emerging from the depths again, he looked with stupified eyes towards the room which guarded Joh Fredersen's door, and saw Joh Fredersen's son standing before that door. For the fraction of a second they stared into each other's over-shadowed faces, and the glances of both broke out as signals of distress, of very different but of equally deep distress. Then the totally indifferent pumpworks carried the man in the cell upwards into the darkness of the roof of the tower, and, when he dipped down again, becoming visible once more on his way downwards, the son of Joh Fredersen was standing before the opening of the cell and was, in a step, standing beside the man whose back seemed to be nailed to the wooden wall.

  "What is your name?" he asked gently.

  A hesitation in drawing breath, then the answer, which sounded as though he were listening for something: "Josaphat… "

  "What will you do now, Josaphat?"

  They sank. They sank. As they passed through the great hall the enormous windows of which overlooked the street of bridges, broadly and ostentatiously, Freder saw, on turning his head, outlined against the blackness of the sky, already half extinguished, the dripping word: Yoshiwara…

  He spoke as if stretching out both hands, as just if closing his eyes in speaking:

  "Will you come to me, Josaphat?"

  A hand fluttered up like a scared bird.

  "I—?" gasped the stranger.

  "Yes, Josaphat."

  The young voice so full of kindness…

  They sank. They sank. Light—darkness—light—darkness again.

  "Will you come to me, Josaphat?"

  "Yes!" said the strange man with incomparable fervour. "Yes!"

  They dropped into light. Freder seized him by the arm and dragged him out with him, out of the great pump-works of the New Tower of Babel, holding him fast as he reeled.

  "Where do you live, Josaphat?"

  "Ninetieth Block. House seven. Seventh floor."

  "Then go home, Josaphat. Perhaps I shall come to you myself; perhaps I shall send a messenger who will bring you to me. I do not know what the next few hours will bring forth… But I do not want any man I know, if I can prevent it, to lie a whole night long, staring up at the ceiling until it seems to come crashing down on him… "

  "What can I do for you?" asked the man.

  Freder felt the vice—Like pressure of his hand. He smiled. He shook his head. "Nothing. Go home. Wait. Be calm. Tomorrow will bring another day and I hope a fair one… "

  The man loosened the grip of his hand and went. Freder watched him go. The man stopped and looked back at Freder, and dropped his head with an expression which was so earnest, so unconditi
onal, that the smile died on Freder's lips—

  "Yes, man," he said. "I take you at your word!"

  The Pater-noster hummed at Freder's back. The cells, like scoop-buckets, gathered men up and poured them out again. But the son of Joh Fredersen did not see them. Among all those tearing along to gain a few seconds, he alone stood still listening how the New Tower of Babel roared in its revolutions. The roaring seemed to him like the ringing of one of the cathedral bells—like the ore voice of the archangel Michael. But a song hovered above it, high and sweet. His whole young heart exulted in this song.

  "Have I done your will for the first time, you great media-tress of pity?" he asked in the roar of the bell's voice.

  But no answer came.

  Then he went the way he wanted to go, to find the answer.

  As Slim entered Freder's home to question the servants concerning their master, Joh Fredersen's son was walking down the steps which led to the lower structure of the New Tower of Babel. As the servants shook their heads at Slim saying that their master had not come home, Joh Fredersen's son was walking towards the luminous pillars which indicated his way. As Slim, with a glance at his watch, decided to wait, to wait, at any rate for a while—already alarmed, already conjecturing possibilities and how to meet them—Joh Fredersen's son was entering the room from which the New Tower of Babel drew the energies for its own requirements.

  He had hesitated a long time before opening the door. For a weird existence went on behind that door. There was howling. There was panting. There was whistling. The whole building groaned. An incessant trembling ran through the walls and the floor. And amidst it all there was not one human sound. Only the things and the empty air roared. Men in the room on the other side of this door had powerless sealed lips. But for these men's sakes Freder had come.

  He pushed the door open and then fell back, suffocated. Boiling air smote him, groping at his eyes that he saw nothing. Gradually he regained his sight.

  The room was dimly lighted and the ceiling, which looked as though it could carry the weight of the entire earth, seemed perpetually to be falling down.