“Father!” babbled the son of Joh Fredersen, “today, for the first time, since Metropolis stood, you have forgotten to let your city and your great machines roar punctually for fresh food … Has Metropolis gone dumb, father? Look at us! Look at your machines! Your god-machines turn sick at the chewed-up cuds in their mouths—at the mangled food that we are … Why do you strangle its voice to death? Will ten hours never, never come to an end? Our Father, which art in heaven—!”
But in this moment Joh Fredersen’s fingers were pressing the little blue metal plate and the voice of the great Metropolis.
“Thank you, father!” said the mangled soul before the machine, which was like Ganesha. He smiled. He tasted a salty taste on his lips and did not know if it was from blood, sweat or tears. From out a red mist of long-flamed, drawn-out clouds, fresh men shuffled on towards him. His hand slipped from the lever and he collapsed. Arms pulled him up and led him away. He turned his head aside to hide his face.
The eye of the little machine, the soft, malicious eye, twinkled at him from behind.
“Goodbye, friend,” said the little machine.
Freder’s head fell upon his breast. He felt himself dragged further, heard the dull evenness of feet tramping onwards, felt himself tramping, a member of twelve members. The ground under his feet began to roll; it was drawn upwards, pulling him up with it.
Doors stood open, double doors. Towards him came a stream of men.
The great Metropolis was still roaring.
Suddenly she fell dumb and in the silence Freder became aware of the breath of a man at his ear, and of a voice—merely a breath—which asked:
“She has called … Are you coming?”
He did not know what the question meant, but he nodded. He wanted to get to know the ways of those who walked, as he, in blue linen, in the black cap, in the hard shoes.
With tightly closed eyelids he groped on, shoulder to shoulder with an unknown man.
She has called, he thought, half asleep. Who is that … she … ?
He walked and walked in smouldering weariness. The way would never, never come to an end. He did not know where he was walking. He heard the tramp of those who were walking with him like the sound of perpetually falling water.
She has called! he thought. Who is that: she, whose voice is so powerful that these men, exhausted to death by utter weariness, voluntarily throw off sleep, which is the sweetest thing of all to the weary—to follow her when her voice calls?
It can’t be very much further to the centre of the earth …
Still deeper—still deeper down?
No longer any light round about, only, here and there, twinkling pocket torches, in men’s hands.
At last, in the far distance, a dull shimmer.
Have we wandered so far to walk towards the sun, thought Freder, and does the sun dwell in the bowels of the earth?
The procession came to a standstill. Freder stopped too. He staggered against the dry, cool stones.
Where are we, he thought—In a cave? If the sun dwells here, then she can’t be at home now … I am afraid we have come in vain … Let us turn back, brother … Let us sleep …
He slid along the wall, fell on his knees, leant his head against the stone … how smooth it was.
The murmur of human voices was around him, like the rustling of trees, moved by the wind …
He smiled peacefully. It’s wonderful to be tired …
Then a voice—a voice began to speak …
Oh—sweet voice, thought Freder dreamily. Tender beloved voice, your voice, Virgin-mother! I have fallen asleep … Yes, I am dreaming! I am dreaming of your voice, beloved!
But a slight pain at his temple made him think: I am leaning my head on stone … I am conscious of the coldness which comes out of the stone … I feel coldness under my knees … so I am not sleeping—I am only dreaming … suppose it is not a dream … ? Suppose it is reality … ?
With an exertion of will which brought a groan from him he forced open his eyes and looked about him.
A vault, like the vault of a sepulchre, human heads so closely crowded together as to produce the effect of clods on a freshly ploughed field. All heads turned towards one point: to the source of a light, as mild as God.
Candles burnt with sword—like flames. Slender, lustrous swords of light stood in a circle around the head of a girl, whose voice was as the Amen of God.
The voice spoke, but Freder did not hear the words. He heard nothing but a sound, the blessed melody of which was saturated with sweetness as is the air of a garden of blossoms with fragrance. And suddenly there sprang up above this melody the wild throb of a heartbeat. The air stormed with bells. The walls shook under the surf of an invisible organ. Weariness—exhaustion—faded out! He felt his body from head to foot to be one single instrument of blissfulness—all strings stretched to bursting point, yet tuned together into the purest, hottest, most radiant accord, in which his whole being hung, quivering.
He longed to stroke with his hands the stones on which he knelt. He longed to kiss with unbounded tenderness the stones on which he rested his head. God—God—God—beat the heart in his breast, and every throb was a thank-offering. He looked at the girl, and yet he did not see her. He saw only a shimmer; he knelt before it.
Gracious one, formed his mouth. Mine! Mine! My beloved! How could the world have existed before you were? How must God have smiled when he created you! You are speaking?—What are you saying?—My heart is shouting within me—I cannot catch your words … Be patient with me, gracious one, beloved!
Without his being aware of it, drawn by an invisible unbreakable cord, he pushed himself forward on his knees, nearer and nearer to the shimmer which the girl’s face, was to him. At last he was
