Thea Harbou - Metropolis

A voice shouted out, sobbing with rage and pain:

"You are not Maria—!"

The multitude turned around. The multitude saw a man standing in the background of the arch, a man, from whose shoulders the coat had fallen. Under the coat he wore the white silk. The man was more ghastly to see than one who has bled to death. He stretched out his hand and pointed to the girl. He yelled out:

"You are not Maria!! No—!! You are not Maria—!!"

The heads of the multitude stared at the man who was a stranger among them, who wore the white silk…

"You are not Maria—!" he yelled. "Maria preaches peace — and not murder—!"

The eyes of the multitude began to glare dangerously.

The girl stood bolt upright in the neck of the multitude. She began to totter. It seemed as though she would fall — fall over on to her white face in which the blood-red mouth-the mouth of deadly sin, flamed like hell-fire.

But she did not fall. She held herself upright. She swayed slightly, but she held herself upright. She stretched out her arm and pointed at Freder, calling in a voice which sounded like glass:

"Look—! Look—! The son of Joh Fredersen—! The son of Joh Fredersen is among you—!"

The multitude shouted. The multitude hurled itself around. The multitude made to lay hold of the son of Joh Fredersen.

He did not resist. He stood pressed against the wall. He stared at the girl with a gaze in which belief in eternal damnation was to be read. It seemed as if he were already dead, and as though his lifeless body were falling, ghostlike upon the fists of those who wished to murder him.

A voice roared:

"Dog in white silken skin—!!"

An arm shot up, a knife flashed out…

Upon the billowing neck of the multitude stood the girl. It was as if the knife came flying from out her eyes…

But, before the knife could plunge into the white silk which covered the heart of the son of Joh Fredersen, a man threw himself as a shield before his breast, and the knife ripped open blue linen. Blue linen was dyed purple-red…

"Brothers…!" said the man. Dying, yet standing upright, he was covering the son of Joh Fredersen with his whole body. He turned his head a little to catch Freder's glance. He said with a smile which was transfigured in pain:

"Brothers… "

Freder recognised him. It was Georgi. It was number eleven thousand eight hundred and eleven which was now going out, and which, going out, was protecting him.

He wanted to push past Georgi. But the dying man stood like one crucified, with out-stretched arms and hands clawing into the edge of the niches which were behind him. He held his eyes, which were like jewels, fixedly set on the multitude which was storming towards him.

"Brothers… " he said.

"He said: 'Murderers… Brother murderers… '" said the dying mouth.

The multitude left him alone and raced on. On the shoulders of the multitude the girl was dancing and singing. She sang with her blood-red mouth of deadly sin!

"We've passed sentence 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 multitude thundered through the narrow passages of the City of the Dead. The girl's voice died away. The steps died away. Georgi loosened his hands and pitched forward.

Freder caught him. He sank upon his knee. Georgi's head fell upon his breast.

"Warn… warn..the town… " said Georgi.

"And are you dying—?" gave Freder as answer. His bewildered eyes ran along the walls in the niches of which slept the thousand-year-old dead. "There is no justice in this world!"

"Uttermost justice… " said eleven thousand eight hundred and eleven. "From weakness — sin… From sin-atonement… Warn..the town! — Warn…!"

"I'm going to leave you alone—!"

"I beg you to… beg you—!"

Freder got up, despair in his eyes. He ran to the passage, in which the multitude had died away.

"Not that way—!" said Georgi. "You won't get through that way any more—!"

"I know no other way…."

"I'll take you… "

"You are dying, Georgi! The first step is your death—!"

"Won't you warn the town? Do you want to be an accessory?"

"Come!" said Freder.

He raised Georgi up. With his hand pressed to his wound, the man began to run.

"Pick up your lamp and come!" said Georgi. He ran so that Freder could hardly follow him. Into the ten-thousand-year-old dust dripped the blood which welled up from the freshly inflicted wound. He held Freder's arm clasped, pulling him forwards.

"Hurry!" he murmured. "Hurry — there's not time to lose!"

Passages — crossings — passages — steps — passages — a flight of stairs which led steeply upward… Georgi fell at the first step. Freder wanted to hold him. He pushed him away.

"Hurry!" he said. He indicated the stairs with his head. "Up—! You can't go wrong now… hurry up—!"

"And you, Georgi? — and you—?"

"I—" said Georgi, turning his head to the wall—"I am not going to answer any more questions… "

Freder let go of Georgi's hand. He began to run up the stairs. Night embraced him-the night of Metropolis-this light-mad, drunken night.

Everything was still the same as usual. Nothing indicated the storm which was to break out from inside the earth, under Metropolis, to murder the machine-city.

But it seemed to Joh Fredersen's son as if the stones were giving way under his feet — as though he heard in the air the rushing of wings — the rushing of the wings of strange monsters: beings with women's bodies and snakes' heads — beings, half bull, half angel — devils adorned with crowns — human faced lions….

It seemed to him 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 was fighting the first fight with the Early Morning. He looked for his father. He did not find him. Nobody could say where Joh Fredersen had gone at midnight.

The Brain-pan of the New Tower of Babel was empty.

Freder wiped from his brow the sweat which was running in drops over his temples.

"I must find my father—!" he said. "I must call him — cost what it may!"

Men, with servants eyes looked at him. Men who knew nothing apart from 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 place, which no man ever touched apart from Joh Fredersen.

… Then the great Metropolis began to roar. Then she raised her voice — her Behemoth-voice. But she was not screaming for food — no, she was roaring: Danger…

Above the gigantic city, above the slumbering city, the monster-voice roared: Danger—! Danger—!

A barely perceptible trembling ran through the New Tower of Babel, as if the earth which bore it were shuddering, frightened by a dream, betwixt sleeping and waking….

MARIA DID NOT DARE to stir. She did not even dare to breathe She did not close her eyes for quaking fear that, between the lowering and raising of her eyelids, a fresh horror could come upon her 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. The two men had been standing in the shadow; and yet it seemed to the girl as if the outline of both of their forms had remained behind in the darkness, in fiery lines: The bulk of Joh Fredersen, standing there, his hands thrown forward, like two claws;—Rotwang's body, which hung in these claws, and which was dragged away — pulled forth — through the frame of the door, which closed behind them both.