Metropolis Read online

  A sheaf of hand-bills were hurled through the window, falling upon Georgi's knee and before his feet. He bent down mechanically and picked up that for which his fingers were groping.

  On these slips, which gave out a penetrating, bitter-sweet, seductive perfume, there stood, in large, bewitched-looking letters, the word: Yoshiwara…

  Georgi's throat was as dry as dust. He moistened his cracked lips with his tongue, which lay heavy and as though parched in his mouth.

  A voice had said to him: "You will find more than enough money in my pockets… "

  Enough money… what for? To clutch and drag near this city-this mighty, heavenly, hellish city; to embrace her with both arms, both legs, in the irnpotence of mastering her; to despair, to throw one-self into her—take me!—take me!—To feel the filled bowl at one's lips—gulping, gulping—not drawing breath, the brim of the bowl set fast between the teeth—eternal, eternal insatiability, competing with the eternal, eternal overflow, overpouring of the bowl of intoxication…

  Ah—Metropolis!… Metropolis!…

  "More than enough money… "

  A strange sound came from Georgi's throat, and there was something in it of the throat-rattle of a man who knows he is dreaming and wants to awake, and something of the gutteral sound of the beast of prey when it scents blood. His hand did not let go of the wad of bank-notes for the second time. It screwed it up in burning convulsive fingers.

  He turned his head this way and that, as though seeking a way out, which, nevertheless, he feared to find…

  Another car slipped silently along beside his, a great, black-gleaming shadow, the couch of a woman, set on four wheels, decorated with flowers, lighted by dim lamps. Georgi saw the woman very clearly, and the woman looked at him. She cowered rather than sat, among the cushions of the car, having entirely wrapped herself in her gleaming cloak, from which one shoulder projected with the dull whiteness of a swan's feather.

  She was bewilderingly made-up—as though she did not wish to be human, to be a woman, but rather a peculiar animal, disposed, perhaps to play, perhaps to murder.

  Calmly holding the man's gaze, she gently slipped her right hand, sparkling with stones, and the slender arm, which was quite bare and dull white, even as the shoulder, from the wrappings of her cloak, and began to fan herself in a leisurely manner with one of the sheets of paper on which the word Yoshiwara stood…

  "No!" said the man. He panted, wiping the perspiration from his forehead. Coolness welled out from the fine, strange stuff with which he dried the perspiration from his brow.

  Eyes stared at him. Eyes which were fading away. The all-knowing smile of a painted mouth.

  With a panting sound Georgi made to open the door of the taxi and to jump out into the road. However, the movement of the car threw him back on to the cushions. He clenched his fists, pressing them before both eyes. A vision shot through his head, quite misty and lacking in outline, a strong little machine, no larger than a five-year-old child. It's short arms pushed and pushed and pushed, alternately forwards, backwards, forwards… The head, sunken on the chest, rose, grinning…

  "No!" shrieked the man, clapping his hands and laughing. He had been set free from the machine. He had exchanged lives.

  Exchanged—with whom?

  With a man who had said: "You will find more than enough money in my pockets… "

  The man bent back his head into the nape of his neck and stared at the roof suspended above him.

  On the roof there flamed the word:

  Yoshiwara…

  The word Yoshiwara became rockets of light which showered around him, paralysing his limbs. He sat motionless, covered in a cold sweat. He clawed his fingers into the leather of the cushions. His back was stiff, as though his spine were made of cold iron. His jaws chattered.

  "No—!" said Georgi, tearing his fists down. But before his eyes which stared into space, the word flamed up:

  "Yoshiwara… "

  Music was in the air, hurled into the nocturnal streets by enormous loud-speakers. Wanton was the music, most heated of rhythm, of a shrieking, lashing gaiety…

  "No—!" panted the man. Blood trickled in drops from his bitten lips.

  But a hundred multi-coloured rockets wrote in the velvet-black sky of Metropolis, the word:

  "Yoshiwara…

  Georgi pushed the window open. The glorious town of Metropolis, dancing in the drunkenness of light, threw itself impetuously towards him, as though he were the only-beloved, the only-awaited. He leant out of the window, crying:

  "Yoshiwara—"

  He fell back upon the cushions. The car turned in a gentle curve, round in another direction.

  A rocket shot up and wrote in the sky above Metropolis: Yoshiwara.

  Chapter 4

  THERE WAS A HOUSE in the great Metropolis which was older than the town. Many said that it was older, even, than the cathedral, and, before the Archangel Michael raised his voice as advocate in the conflict for God, the house stood there in its evil gloom, defying the cathedral from out its dull eyes.

  It had lived through the time of smoke and soot. Every year which passed over the city seemed to creep, when dying, into this house, so that, at last it was a cemetery—a coffin, filled with dead tens of years.

  Set into the black wood of the door stood, copper-red, mysterious, the seal of Solomon, the pentagram.

  It was said that a magician, who came from the East (and in the track of whom the plague wandered) had built the house in seven nights. But the masons and carpenters of the town did not know who had mortared the bricks, nor who had erected the roof. No foreman's speech and no ribboned nosegay had hallowed the Builder's Feast after the pious custom. The chronicles of the town held no record of when the magician died nor of how he died. One day it occurred to the citizens as odd that the red shoes of the magician had so long shunned the abominable plaster of the town. Entrance was forced into the house and not a living soul was found inside. But the rooms, which received, neither by day nor by night, a ray from the great lights of the sky, seemed to be waiting for their master, sunken in sleep. Parchments and folios lay about, open, under a covering of dust, like silver-grey velvet.

  Set in all the doors stood, copper-red, mysterious, the seal of Solomon, the pentagram.

  Then came a time which pulled down antiquities. Then the words were spoken: The house must die. But the house was stronger than the words, as it was stronger than the centuries. With suddenly falling stones it slew those who laid hands on its walls. It opened the floor under their feet, dragging them down into a shaft, of which no man had previously had any knowledge. It was as though the plague, which had formerly wandered in the wake of the red shoes of the magician, still crouched in the corners of the narrow house, springing out at men from behind, to seize them by the neck. They died, and no doctor knew the illness. The house resisted its destruction with so great a force that word of its malignity went out over the borders of the city, spreading far over the land, that, at last, there was no honest man to be found who would have ventured to make war against it. Yes, even the thieves and the rogues, who were promised remission of their sentence provided that they declared themselves ready to pull down the magician's house, preferred to go to the pillory, or even to the scaffold, rather than to enter within these spiteful walls, these latchless doors, which were sealed with Solomon's seal.

  The little town around the cathedral became a large town and grew into Metropolis, and into the centre of the world.

  One day there came to the town a man from far away, who saw the house and said: "I want to have that."

  He was initiated into the story of the house. He did not smile. He stood by his resolution. He bought the house at a very low price, moved in at once and kept it unaltered.

  This man was called Rotwang. Few knew him. Only Joh Fredersen knew him very well. It would have been easier for him to have decided to fight out the quarrel about the cathedral with the sect of Gothics than the quarrel with Rotwang
about the magician's house.

  There were in Metropolis, in this city of reasoned, methodical hurry, very many who would rather have gone far out of their way than have passed by Rotwang's house. It hardly reached knee-high to the house-giants which stood near it. It stood at an angle to the street. To the cleanly town, which knew neither smoke nor soot, it was a blot and an annoyance. But it remained. When Rotwang left the house and crossed the street, which occurred but seldom, there were many who covertly looked at his feet, to see if, perhaps, he walked in red shoes.

  Before the door of this house, on which the seal of Solomon glowed, stood Joh Fredersen.

  He had sent the car away and had knocked.

  He waited, then knocked again.

  A voice asked, as if the house were speaking in its sleep:

  "Who is there?"

  "Joh Fredersen," said the man.

  The door opened.

  He entered. The door closed. He stood in darkness. But Joh Fredersen knew the house well. He walked straight on, and as he walked, the shimmering tracks of two stepping feet glistened before him, along the passage, and the edge of the stair began to glow. Like a dog showing the track, the glow ran on before him, up the steps, to die out behind him.

  He reached the top of the stairs and looked about him. He knew that many doors opened out here. But on the one opposite him the copper seal glowed like a distorted eye, which looked at him.

  He stepped up to it. The door opened before him.

  Many doors as Rotwang's house possessed, this was the only one which opened itself to Joh Fredersen, although, and even, perhaps, because, the owner of this house knew full well that it always meant no mean effort for Joh Fredersen to cross this threshold.

  He drew in the air of the room, lingeringly, but deeply, as though seeking in it the trace of another breath…

  His nonchalant hand threw his hat on a chair. Slowly, in sudden and mournful weariness, he let his eyes wander through the room.

  It was almost empty. A large, time-blackened chair, such as are to be found in old churches, stood before drawn curtains. These curtains covered a recess the width of the wall.

  Joh Fredersen remained standing by the door for a long time, without moving. He had closed his eyes. With incomparable impotence he breathed in the odour of hyacinths, which teemed to fill the motionless air of this room.

  Without opening his eyes, swaying a little, but aim-sure, he walked up to the heavy, black curtains and drew them apart.

  Then he opened his eyes and stood quite still…

  On a pedestal, the breadth of the wall, rested the head of a woman in stone…

  It was not the work of an artist, it was the work of a man, who, in agonies for which the human tongue lacks words, had wrestled with the white stone throughout immeasurable days and nights until at last it seemed to realise and form the woman's head by itself. It was as if no tool had been at work here—no, it was as if a man, lying before this stone, had called on the name of the woman, unceasingly, with-all the strength, with all the longing, with all the despair, of his brain, blood and heart, until the shapeless stone took pity on him letting itself turn into the image of the woman, who had meant to two men all heaven and all hell.

  Joh Fredersen's eyes sank to the words which were hewn into the pedestal, roughly, as though chiselled with curses.

  HEL

  Born

  To be my happiness, a blessing to all men.

  Lost to Joh Fredersen

  Dying in giving life to his son, Freder

  Yes, she died then. But Joh Fredersen knew only too well that she did not die from giving birth to her child. She died then because she had done what she had to do. She really died on the day upon which she went from Rotwang to Joh Fredersen, wondering that her feet left no bloody traces behind on the way. She had died because she was unable to withstand the great love of Joh Fredersen and because she had been forced by him to tear asunder the life of another.

  Never was the expression of deliverance at last more strong upon a human face than upon Hel's face when she knew that she would die.

  But in the same hour the mightiest man in Metropolis had lain on the floor, screaming like a wild beast, the bones of which are being broken in its living body.

  And, on his meeting Rotwang, four weeks later, he found that the dense, disordered hair over the wonderful brow of the inventor was snow-white, and in the eyes under this brow the smouldering of a hatred which was very closely related to madness.

  In this great love, in this great hatred, the poor, dead Hel had remained alive to both men…

  "You must wait a little while," said the voice which sounded as though the house were talking in its sleep.

  "Listen, Rotwang," said Joh Fredersen. "You know that I treat your little juggling tricks with patience, and that I come to you when I want anything of you, and that you are the only man who can say that of himself. But you will never get me to join in with you when you play the fool. You know, too, that I have no time to waste. Don't make us both ridiculous, but come!"

  "I told you that you would have to wait a little while," explained the voice, seeming to grow more distant.

  "I shall not wait. I shall go."

  "Do so, Joh Fredersen!"

  He wanted to do so. But the door through which he had entered had no key, no latch. The seal of Solomon, glowing copper-red, blinked at him.

  A soft, far-off voice laughed.

  Joh Fredersen had stopped still, his back to the room. A quiver ran down his back, running along the hanging arms to the clenched fists.

  "You should have your skull smashed in," said Joh Fredersen, very softly. "You should have your skull smashed in… that is, if it did not contain so valuable a brain… "

  "You can do no more to me than you have done," said the far-off voice.

  Joh Fredersen was silent.

  "Which do you think," continued the voice, "to be more painful: to smash in the skull, or to tear the heart out of the body?"

  Joh Fredersen was silent.

  "Are your wits frozen, that you don't answer, Joh Fredersen?"

  "A brain like yours should be able to forget," said the man standing at the door, staring at Solomon's seal.

  The soft, far-off voice laughed.

  "Forget? I have twice in my life forgotten something… Once that Aetro-oil and quick-silver have an idiosyncracy as regards each other; that cost me my arm. Secondly that Hel was a woman and you a man; that cost me my heart. The third time, I am afraid, it will cost me my head. I shall never again forget anything, Joh Fredersen."

  Joh Fredersen was silent.

  The far-off voice was silent, too.

  Joh Fredersen turned round and walked to the table. He piled books and parchments on top of each other, sat down and took a piece of paper from his pocket. He laid it before him and looked at it.

  It was no larger than a man's hand, bearing neither print nor script, being covered over and over with the tracing of a strange symbol and an apparently half-destroyed plan. Ways seemed to be indicated, seeming to be false ways, but they all led one way; to a place that was filled with crosses.

  Suddenly he felt, from the back, a certain coldness approaching him. Involuntarily he held his breath.

  A hand grasped along, by his head, a graceful, skeleton hand. Transparent skin was stretched over the slender joints, which gleamed beneath it like dull silver. Fingers, snow-white and fleshless, closed over the plan which lay on the table, and, lifting it up, took it away with it.

  Joh Fredersen swung around. He stared at the being which stood before him with eyes which grew glassy.

  The being was, indubitably, a woman. In the soft garment which it wore stood a body, like the body of a young birch tree, swaying on feet set fast together. But, although it was a woman, it was not human. The body seemed as though made of crystal, through which the bones shone silver. Cold streamed from the glazen skin which did not contain a drop of blood. The being held its beautiful hands pressed agains
t its breast, which was motionless, with a gesture of determination, almost of defiance.

  But the being had no face. The beautiful curve of the neck bore a lump of carelessly shaped mass. The skull was bald, nose, lips, temples merely traced. Eyes, as though painted on closed lids, stared unseeingly, with an expression of calm madness, at the man—who did not breathe

  "Be courteous, my parody," said the far-off voice, which sounded as though the house were talking in its sleep. "Greet Joh Fredersen, the Master over the great Metropolis."

  The being bowed slowly to the man. The mad eyes neared him like two darting flames. The mass began to speak; it said in a voice full of a horrible tenderness:

  "Good evening, Joh Fredersen."

  And these words were more alluring than a half-open mouth.

  "Good, my Pearl! Good, my Crown-jewel!" said the far-off voice, full of praise and pride.

  But at the same moment the being lost its balance. It fell, tipping forward, towards Joh Fredersen. He stretched out his hands to catch it, feeling them, in the moment of contact, to be burnt by an unbearable coldness, the brutality of which brought up in him a feeling of anger and disgust.

  He pushed the being away from him and towards Rotwang, who was standing near him as though fallen from the air. Rotwang took the being by the arm.

  He shook his head. "Too violent," he said. "Too violent. My beautiful parody, I fear your temperament will get you into much more trouble."

  "What is that?" asked Joh Fredersen, leaning his hands against the edge of the table-top, which he felt behind him.

  Rotwang turned his face towards him, his glorious eyes glowing as watch fires glow when the wind lashes them with its cold lash.

  "Who is it?" he replied. "Futura… Parody… whatever you like to call it. Also: delusion… In short: it is a woman… Every man-creator makes himself a woman. I do not believe that humbug about the first human being a man. If a male-god created the world (which is to be hoped, Joh Fredersen) then he certainly created woman first, lovingly and revelling in creative sport. You can test it, Joh Fredersen: it is faultless. A little cool—! admit, that comes of the material, which is my secret. But she is not yet completely finished. She is not yet discharged from the workshop of her creator. I cannot make up my mind to do it. You understand that? Completion means setting free. I do not want to set her free from me. That is why I have not yet given her a face. You must give her that, Joh Fredersen. For you were the one to order the new beings."