The voice of the Archangel Michael, coming from the cathedral, recalled them to consciousness of the hour, and they parted hurriedly, as if caught neglecting their duty.
Maria listened to the man's retreating step…
Then she turned and looked about her.
What a strange sound the Michael bell had… The bell was calling so furiously—so agitatedly, as though to tumble over at every peal…
Maria's heart became an echo of the bell. It fluttered in its piteous fear, which had no source other than the general vibration of terror above the town. Even the warming flames of the fire frightened her, as if they had some knowledge of secrets of Horror.
She sat up and put her feet to the ground. She felt the hem of her dress. It was still rather wet but she would go now. She took a few steps through the dimly-lighted room. How brown the air was outside the windows… She hesitatingly opened the nearest door and listened…
She was standing in the room in which she had stood on the day when she saw Freder for the first time, when she had led the train of little, grey child-spectres to those who were care-free and joyous—when she had called to Freder's heart with her gentle:
"Look, these are your brothers!"
But of all the dearly beloved sons of boundlessly wealthy fathers, to whom this house belonged, not one was to be seen. They must have left the tottering town long ago.
Sparsely distributed candles were burning, giving the room an inward cosiness and a warm air of comfort. The room was filled with the tender twittering of sleepy child-voices, chattering like swallows before they fly to their nests. Answering them in tones which were but little darker, came the voices of the beautiful, brocaded, painted women, who had once been the playthings of the sons. Equally frightened at the thought of flight as of remaining where they were, they eventually stayed in the "House of the Sons," being still undecided; and Maria had brought the children to them, because they could have found no better refuge; for, by the beautiful and dreadful chance of all that had taken place, the troup of loving little harlots became a troup of loving little mothers, burning with a new fire in the execution of their new duties.
Not far from Maria the little drink-mixer was kneeling, washing the skinny slender-limbed body of Grot's daughter, who was standing in front of her. But the child had taken the sponge from her hand, and, without saying a word, proceeding with intense gravity, was thoughtfully and untiringly washing the beautiful, painted face of the drink-mixer.
The girl knelt quite still, her eyes closed, neither did she move when the child's hands began to dry her face with the rough towel. But Grot's daughter was not quite successful in this undertaking; for, whenever she dried the girl's cheeks, again and again did the swift, bright drops run over them. Until Grot's daughter dropped the towel to look at the girl who was kneeling before her inquiringly, and not without reproach. Upon which the girl caught the child in her arms, pressing her forehead to the heart of the silent creature, uttering to this heart words of love which she had never found before.
Maria passed by with soundless step.
But when the door to the hall, into which no noise from the noisy Metropolis could penetrate, closed behind her, the ore-voice of the angel of the cathedral struck at her breast like a fist of steel, that she stood still, stunned, raising her hands to her head.
Why was Saint Michael crying out so angrily and wildly? Why was the roar of Azrael, the angel of Death joining in so alarmingly?
She stepped into the street. Darkness, like a thick layer of soot, lay over the town, and only the cathedral shimmered, ghost—Like, a wonder of light, but not of grace.
The air was filled with a spectral battle of discordant voices. Howling, laughing, whistling, were to be heard. It was as though a gang of murderers and robbers were passing by—In the unrecognisable depths of the street. Mingled with them, shrieks of women, wild with excitement…
Maria's eyes sought the New Tower of Babel. She had only one way in her mind: to Joh Fredersen. She would go there. But she never went.
For suddenly the air was a blood-red stream, which poured itself forth, flickering, formed by a thousand torches. And the torches were dancing in the hands of beings who were crowding out of Yoshiwara. The faces of the beings shone with insanity, every mouth parted in a gasp, yet the eyes which blazed above them were the bursting eyes of men choking. Each was dancing the dance of Death with his own torch, whirling madly about, and the whirl of the dancers formed a train, revolving in itself.
"Maohee—!" flew the shrill cries above it. "Dance-dance—dance—Maohee—!"
But the flaming procession was led by a girl. The girl was Maria. And the girl was screaming with Maria's voice:
"Dance—dance—dance—Maohee!"
She crossed the torches like swords above her head. She swung them right and left, brandishing them so that showers of sparks fell about the Way. Sometimes it seemed as if she were riding on the torches. She raised her knees to her breast, with laughter which brought a moan from the dancers of the procession.
But one of the dancers ran along at the girl's feet, like a dog, crying incessantly:
"I am Jan! I am Jan! I am the faithful Jan! Hear me, at last, Maria!"
But the girl struck him in the face with her sparkling torch.
His clothes caught fire. He ran for some time, a living torch, along by the girl. His voice sounded as if from the blaze:
"Maria—! Maria—!"
Then he swung himself up on to the parapet of the street and hurled, a streak of fire, into the blackness of the depths.
"Maohee—! Maohee—!" called the girl, shaking her torch.
The procession was endless. The procession was endless. The street was already covered, as far as the eye could see, with circling torches. The shrieks of the dancers mixed themselves sharply and shrilly with the angry voices of the archangels of the cathedral. And behind the train, as though tugged along by invisible, unbreakable cords, there reeled a girl, the damp hem of the hose dress lashed about her ankles, whose hair was falling loose under the clawing fingers which she pressed to her head, whose lips babbled a name in ineffectual entreaty: "Freder… Freder… "
The smoke-swathes from the torches hovered like the grey wings of phantom birds above the dancing train.
Then the door of the cathedral was opened wide. From the depths of the cathedral came the rushing of the organ. There mixed itself in the fourfold tone of the archangel bells, in the rushing of the organ, in the shrieks of the dancers, an iron-tramping, mighty choir.
The hour of the monk Desertus had come.
The monk Desertus was leading on his own.
Two by two walked those who were his disciples. They walked on bare feet, in black cowls. They had thrown their cowls back from their shoulders. They carried the heavy scourges in both hands. They swung the heavy scourges in both hands, right and left, right and left, upon the bare shoulders. Blood trickled down from the scourged backs. The Gothics sang. They sang to the time of their feet. To the time of their scourge strokes did they sing.
The monk Desertus was leading the Gothics on.
The Gothics bore a black cross before them. It was so heavy that twelve men had to carry it, pantingly. It swayed, held up by dark cords.
And on the cross hung the monk Desertus.
The black flames of the eyes in the flame-white face were fixed upon the procession of dancers. The head was raised. The pale mouth was opened.
"See!" shouted the monk Desertus in a voice which ail-powerfully out-rang, the fourfold tone of the archangel bells, the rushing of the organ, the choir of scourge-swingers and the shrieks of the dancers: "See—! Babylon, the great—! The Mother of Abominations—! Doomsday is breaking—! The destruction of the world—!"
"Doomsday is breaking—! The destruction of the world—!" chanted the choir of his followers after him.
"Dance—dance—dance—Maohee—!" shrieked the voice of the girl leading the dancers. And she swung her torches over
her shoulders, and hurled them far from her. She tore her gown from shoulders and breasts, standing, a white torch, stretching up her arms and laughing, shaking her hair; "Dance with me, Desertus—dance with me—!"
Then the girl, dragging herself along at the end of the train, felt that the cord, the invisible cord upon which she was hanging, snapped. She turned around and began, not knowing, whither, to run—only to get away—only to get away—no matter where to—only to get away—!
The streets flashed by in a whirl. She ran and ran, down, and down, and at last she saw, running along the bottom of the street and towards her, a wild mob of people, saw, too, that the men wore the blue linen uniform and sobbed in relief:
"Brothers—brothers—!"
And stretched out her hands.
But a furious roar answered her. Like a collapsing wall, the mass hurled itself forward, shook itself loose and began to tear along, roaring loudly.
"There she is—! There she is—! The bitch, who is to blame for it all—! Take her—! Take her—!"
The women's voices shrieked:
"The witch—! Kill the witch—! Burn her before we all drown!"
And the trampling of running feet filled the dead street, through which the girl fled, with the din of hell broken loose.
The houses flashed by in a whirl. She did not know the way in the dark. She sped on, running aimlessly, in a blind horror, which was the deeper for her not knowing its origin.
Stones, cudgels, fragments of steel, flew at her from behind. The mob roared in a voice which was no longer human:
"After her—! After her—! She'll escape us—! Quicker—!! Quicker—!!"
Maria could no longer feel her feet. She did not know if she was running on stones or water. Her panting breath came through lips which stood apart as those of one drowning. Up streets, down streets… A twirling dance of lights was staggering across the way, far ahead of her… Far away, at the end of the enormous square, in which Rotwang's house also lay, the mass of the cathedral rested upon the earth, weighty and dark, yet showing a tender, reassuring shimmer, which fell through cheerful stained-glass windows and through open portal, out into the darkness.
Suddenly breaking out into sobs, Maria threw herself forward with her last, entirely despairing strength. She stumbled up the cathedral steps, stumbled through the portal, perceived the odour of incense, saw little, pious candles of intercession before the image of a gentle saint who was: suffering smilingly, and collapsed on to the flags.
She no longer saw how, at the double opening of the street which led to the cathedral, the stream of dancers from 'Yoshiwara coincided with the roaring stream of workmen and women, did not hear the bestial shriek of the women at the sight of the girl who was riding along on the shoulders of a dancer—who was torn down, overtaken, captured, and stamped to earth—did not see the short, ghastly hopeless conflict of the men in evening dress with the men in blue silinen—nor the ridiculous fight of the half naked women before the claws and fists of the workmen's wives.
She lay in deep oblivion, in the great, mild solemnity of death, and from the depths of her unconsciousness she was not awakened even by the roaring voice of the mob which was erecting a bonfire for the witch, before the cathedral.
Chapter 20
"FREDER—!!! GROT—!!! FREDER—!!!"
Josaphat shouted so that his voice cracked, and raced with the bounds of a harried wolf, through passages, across steps of the great pump-works. His shouts were not heard. In the machine rooms were wounded machines in agony, wanting to obey and not being able. The door was closed. Josaphat hammered against it with his fists, with his feet. It was Grot who opened it to him, revolver in hand.
"What in the name of seething hell… "
"Get out of the way—! Where's Freder—?"
"Here! What's the matter?"
"Freder, they've taken Maria captive—"
"What?"
"They've taken Maria captive and they're killing her—!"
Freder reeled. Josaphat dragged him towards the door. Like a log, Grot stood in his way, his lips mumbling, his eyes glaring.
"The woman who killed my machine—!"
"Shut up, you fool—get out of the way—!"
"Grot!" A sound born half of madness… .
"Yes, Mr. Freder!"
"You stop with the machines!"
"Yes, Mr. Freder!"
"Come on, Josaphat—!"
The sound of running, running, retreating, ghostlike.
Grot turned round. He saw the paralysed machines, He lifted his arm and struck the machine with the full of his fist, as one strikes a stubborn horse between the eyes.
"The woman," he shouted with a howl, "who saved my little children—!"
And he flung himself upon the machine with grinding teeth…
"Tell me—!" said Freder, almost softly. It was as if he did not want to waste an atom of strength. His face was a white stone in which his two eyes flamed like jewels. He jumped to the wheel of the little car in which Josaphat had come. For the pump works lay at the extreme end of the great Metropolis.
It was still night.
The car started.
"We must go terribly out of our way," said Josaphat, fixing the flashlight. "Many bridges between the houseblocks are blown up… "
"Tell me," said Freder. His teeth met, chattering, as if he were cold.
"I don't know who found it out… Probably the women, who were thinking of their children and wanted to get home. You can't get anything out of the raving multitude. But anyway: When they saw the black water running towards them from the shafts of the underground railway, and when they realised that the pump-works, the safe-guard of their city, had been destroyed by the stopping of the machines, then they went mad with despair. They say that some mothers, blind and deaf to all remonstrance, tried, as if possessed, to dive down through the flooded shafts, and just the terrible absoluteness of the futility of any attempt at rescue has turned them into beasts and they lust for revenge… "
"Revenge… on whom?"
"On the girl who seduced them… "
"On the girl… ?"
"Go on… "
"Freder, the engine can't keep up that speed… "
"Go on… "
"I do not know how it happened that the girl ran into their hands. I was on my way to you when I saw a woman running across the cathedral square, with her hair flying, the roaring rabble behind her. There has been the very hell of a night anyway. The Gothics are parading through the town scourging themselves, and they have put the monk Desertus on the cross. They are preaching: Doomsday had come, and it seems that they have converted a good many already, for September is crouching before the smoking ruins of Yoshiwara. A troop of torch dancers joined itself to the flagellants and, with frothing curses upon the Mother of Abominations, the great whore of Babylon, they burned Yoshiwara down to the ground… "
"The girl, Josaphat—"
"She did not reach the cathedral, Freder, where she wanted to take refuge. They overtook her on the steps because she fell on the steps—her gown hung down in ribbons from her body. A woman, whose white eyes were glowing with insanity shrieked out, as one inspired with the gift of prophecy:"
"Look—! Look—! The saints have climbed down from their pedestals and will not let the witch into the cathedral."
"And—"
"Before the cathedral they are erecting a bonfire on which to burn the witch… "
Freder said nothing. He bent down lower. The car groaned and leapt.
Josaphat buried his hand in Freder's arm.
"Stop—for God's sake!!!"
The car stopped.
"We must go to the left—don't you see? The bridge has gone!"
"The next bridged'
"Is impassable!"
"Listen… "
"What is there to hear—"
"Don't you hear anything?"
"No… "
"You must hear it—!"
"But what, Freder�
�?"
"Shrieks… distant shrieks… ."
"I can't hear anything… "
"But you must be able to hear it—!!" "Won't you drive on, Freder?"
"And don't you see that the air over there is getting bright red?"
"From the torches, Freder… "
"They don't burn so brightly… "
"Freder, we're losing time here—!"
Freder did not answer. He was staring at the tatters of the iron bridge which were dangling down into the ravine of the street. He must cross over, yes, he must cross over, to get to the cathedral by a short cut…
The frame-support of a ripped-open tower had fallen over from this side of the street to the other, gleaming metallically in the uncertain light of the fading night "Get out," said Freder. "Why?"
"Get out, I tell you!
"I want to know why?"
"Because I'm going across there… "
"Across where?"
"Across the frame-support."
"Going to drive across—?"
"Yes."
"It's suicide, Freder!"
"I didn't ask you to accompany me. Get out!"
"I won't permit it—It's blazing lunacy!" "The fire over there is blazing, man—!" The words seemed not to come from Freder's mouth. Every wound of the dying city seemed to be roaring out of him.
"Drive on!" said Josaphat through clenched teeth. The car gave a jump. It climbed. The narrow irons received the sucking, skidding wheels, with an evil, maliciously hypocritical sound.
Blood was trickling from Freder's lips.
"Don't—don't put the brake on—for God's sake don't put the brake on!" shouted the man beside him making a clutch of madness at Freder's hand. The car, already half-slipping, shot forward again. A split in the frame-work—over, onwards. Behind them the dead frame-work crashed into space amid shrieks!
They reached the other side with an impetus which was no longer to be checked. The wheels rushed into blackness and nothing. The car overturned, Freder fell and got up again. The other remained lying.
Metropolis Page 20
