He heard the soft, soft weeping of the girl. He fell, where he stood, upon his knees. He wanted to drag himself along on his knees to the girl. And suddenly stopped still. He listened. He stared. He said in a voice which was almost like a shriek, in its wide-awake attention:
“Maria … ? Maria—don’t you hear … ? There’s a strange man in the room …”
“Yes,” said the quiet voice of Joh Fredersen.
And then the hands of Joh Fredersen seized the throat of Rotwang, the great inventor …
XIV
A vault, like the vault of a sepulchre—human heads so closely crowded as to produce the effect of clods of a freshly ploughed field. All faces turned to 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.
Freder stood pressed into the background of the arch—so far from the girl that he perceived of her face nothing but the shimmer of its pallor, the wonder of the eyes and the blood-red mouth. His eyes hung upon this blood-red mouth as though it were the middle point of the earth, to which, by eternal law, his blood must pour down. Tantalising was this mouth … All the seven Deadly Sins had such a mouth … The woman on the scarlet-coloured beast, who bore the name Babylon on her forehead, had such a mouth …
He pressed both hands to his eyes in order no longer to see this mouth of deadly sin.
Now he heard more clearly … Yes, that was her voice, the voice which sounded as though God could refuse it nothing … Was that really it? The voice came from out the blood-red mouth. It was like a flame, hot and pointed. It was full of a wicked sweetness …
The voice said: “My brothers …”
But no peace proceeded from out these words. Little red snakes hissed through the air. The air was hot—an agony to breathe..
Groaning heavily, Freder opened his eyes.
Dark, angry waves were the heads before him. These waves frothed, raged and roared. Here and there a hand shot up into the air. Words sprang up, foam flecks of the surf. But the voice of the girl was like a tongue of fire, drawing, enticing, burning above the heads.
“Which is more pleasant: water or wine?”
“… Wine is more pleasant!”
“Who drinks the water?”
“… We!”
“Who drinks the wine?”
“… The masters! The masters of the machines!”
“Which is more pleasant: meat or dry bread?”
“… Meat is more pleasant!”
“Who eats the dry bread?”
“… We!”
“Who eats the meat?”
“… The masters! The masters of the machines!”
“Which is more pleasant to wear: blue linen or white silk?”
“… White silk is more pleasant to wear!”
“Who wears the blue linen?”
“… We!”
“Who wears the white silk?”
“… The masters! The sons of the masters!”
“Where is it more pleasant to live: upon or under the earth?”
“… It is more pleasant to live upon the earth!”
“Who lives under the earth?”
“… We!”
“Who lives upon the earth?”
“… The masters! The masters of the machines!”
“Where are your wives?”
“… In misery!”
“Where are your children?”
“… In misery!”
“What do your wives do?”
“… They starve!”
“What do your children do?”
“… They cry!”
“What do the wives of the masters of the machines do?”
“… They feast!”
“What do the children of the masters of the machines do?”
“… They play!”
“Who are the providers?”
“… We!”
“Who are the squanderers?”
“… The masters! The masters of the machines!”
“What are you?”
“… Slaves!”
“No!—what are you?”
“… Dogs!”
“No!—what are you?”
“… Tell us!—tell us!”
“You are fools! Blockheads! Blockheads! Throughout your morning, your midday, your evening, your night, the machine howls for food, for food, for food—! You are the food! You are the living food!—The machine devours you like fodder and then spews you up again! Why do you batten the machines with your bodies?—Why do you oil the joints of the machines with your brains?—Why do you not let the machines starve, you fools?—Why do you not let them perish, blockheads—? Why do you feed them—! The more you feed them the more they greed for your flesh, for your bones, for your brains. You are ten thousand! You are a hundred thousand! Why do you not throw yourselves—a hundred thousand murdering fists—upon the machines and strike them dead—? You are the masters of the machines—you! Not the others who walk in their white silk—! Turn the world about—! Stand the world on its head—! Murder the living and the dead—! Take the inheritance from living and dead—! You have waited long enough—! The hour has come!”
A voice shouted from among the multitude:
“Lead us on, Maria—!”
A mighty wave—all the heads broke forward. The blood-red mouth of the girl laughed and flamed. The eyes above it flamed, huge and greenish black. She raised her arms with an unspeakably difficult, burden-raising, sweet, mad gesture. The slim body grew and stretched itself up. The girl’s hands touched above her hair-parting. Over her shoulders, her breasts, her hips, her knees, there ran an incessant, a barely perceptible trembling. It was as though the girl were carried higher and higher by this trembling, though she did not move her feet.
She said: “Come … ! Come … ! I will lead you … ! I will dance the dance of Death before you … ! I will dance the dance of the Murderers before you … !”
The multitude moaned. The multitude gasped. The multitude stretched out its hands. The multitude bowed head and neck low, as though its shoulders, its backs, should be a carpet for the girl. The multitude fell on its knees with a groan, one single beast felled with the hatchet. The girl raised her foot and stepped upon the neck of the outstretched beast …
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.
