She opposed her son and the work of her son. But he did not let her alone; he forced her to him. When she angrily vowed she wished to live in her house—under the thatched roof, with its vault, the walnut tree—until her dying day, he transplanted house and tree and gaily blossoming garden to the flat roof of the stone house-giant which lay between the cathedral and the New Tower of Babel. The walnut tree ailed one year long; and then it became green again. The garden blossomed, a wonder of beauty, about the house.
When Joh Fredersen entered this house he came from sleepless nights and evil days.
He found his mother as he always found her: sitting in the wide, soft chair by the open window, the dark rug over the now paralysed knees, the great Bible on the sloping table before her, in the beautiful old hands the delicate figured lace at which she was sewing; and, as ever, when he came to her, she silently laid aside the fine work and folded her hands firmly in her lap as though she must collect all her will and every thought for the few minutes which the great son spent with his mother.
They did not shake hands; they did not do that any more.
“How are you, mother?” asked Joh Fredersen.
She looked at him with eyes in which gleamed the strength of a heavenly legion. She asked:
“What is it you want, Joh?”
He sat down opposite her and laid his forehead in his hands.
There was nobody in the great Metropolis, not anywhere else on earth who could have boasted ever having seen Joh Fredersen with sunken brow.
“I need your advice, mother,” he said, looking at the floor.
The mother’s eyes rested on his hair.
“How shall I advise you, Joh? You have taken a path along which I cannot follow you—not with my head, and certainly not with my heart. Now you are so far away from me that my voice can no longer reach you. And if it were able to reach you, Joh, would you listen to me were I to say to you: Turn back—? You did not do it then and would not do it today. Besides, all too much has been done which cannot be undone, you have done all too much wrong, Joh, and do not repent, but believe yourself to be in the right. How can I advise you then … ?”
“It is about Freder, mother … ?”
“… about Freder?”
“Yes.”
“What about Freder …”
Joh Fredersen did not answer immediately.
His mother’s hands trembled greatly, and, if Joh Fredersen had looked up, the fact could not have remained hidden from him. But Joh Fredersen’s forehead remained sunken upon his hands.
“I had to come to you, mother, because Hel is no longer alive …”
“And of what did she die?”
“I know: of me … You have made it clear to me, mother, often and cruelly, and you have said I had poured boiling wine into a crystal. Then the most beautiful of glass must crack. But I do not repent it, mother. No, I do not repent it … For Hel was mine …”
“And died of it …”
“Yes. Had she never been mine perhaps she would still be alive. Better that she should be dead.”
“She is, Joh. And Freder is her son.”
“What do you mean by that, mother?”
“If you did not know just as well as I, Joh, you would not have come to me today.”
Joh Fredersen was silent. Through the open window, the rustling of the walnut tree was to be heard, a dreamy, touching sound.
“Freder often comes to you, mother, doesn’t he?” asked Joh Fredersen.
“Yes.”
“He comes to you for aid against me …”
“He is in great need of it, Joh …”
Silence. Then Joh Fredersen raised his head. His eyes looked as though sprinkled with purple.
“I have lost, Hel, mother,” he said. “I can’t lose Freder too …”
“Have you reason to fear that you will lose him?”
“Yes.”
“Then I am surprised,” said the old lady, “that Freder has not yet come to me …”
“He is very ill, mother …”
The old lady made a movement as though wishing to rise, and into her archangel eyes there came an angry glitter.
“When he came here recently,” she said, “he was as healthy as a tree in bloom. What ails him?”
Joh Fredersen got up and began to walk up and down the room. He smelt the perfume of flowers streaming up from the garden through the open window as something inflicting pain which ripped his forehead into lines.
“I do not know,” he said suddenly, quite disjointedly, “how this girl could have stepped into his life. I do not know how she won this monstrous hold over him. But I heard from his own lips how he said to her: My father no longer has a son, Maria …”
“Freder does not lie, Joh. So you have lost him already.”
Joh Fredersen did not answer. He thought of Rotwang. He had said the same words to him.
“Is it about this that you have come to me, Joh?” asked his mother. “Then you could have spared yourself the trouble. Freder is Hel’s son. Yes … That means he has a soft heart. But he is yours too, Joh. That means he has a skull of steel. You know best, Joh, how much obstinacy a man can summon up to attain to the woman he wants.”
“You cannot make that comparison, mother. Freder is almost a boy, still. When I took Hel to me I was a man, and knew what I was doing. Hel was more needful to me than the air to breathe. I could not do without Hel, Mother. I would have stolen her from the arms of God himself.”
“From God, Joh, you can steal nothing, but something can be stolen from man. You have done that. You have sinned, Joh. You have sinned towards your friend. For Hel loved Rotwang and it was you who compelled her.”
“When she
