Maria saw that. She did not know what it meant. She had the uncertain feeling of something not being as it ought to be. But she did not want to think about it. With an almost violent movement she tore her hands, her gown, free from the children’s tugging fingers, and dashed, hurled forward far more by her desperate will than by her benumbed feet, through the empty room and up the steep stairway.
She stretched out her hands and tried to raise the pressed-in door. It did not budge. Once more. No result. Head, arms, shoulders pushing, hips and knees pressing, as if to burst their sinews. No result. The door did not yield by a hair’s breadth. If a child had tried to push the cathedral from its place it could not have acted more foolishly nor ineffectually.
For, upon the door, which alone led the way out of the depths, there towered, as high as houses, the corpses of the dead engines, which, when madness first broke out over Metropolis, had been the terrible playthings of the mob. Train upon train, with carriages thundering along, all lights burning and on full power, had rushed along the rails, lashed by the bawling of the mob, had fallen upon each other, had become mixed and piled up together, had burnt down and were now lying, half-melted, still smouldering, a mass of ruins. And one, single lamp, remaining undamaged, threw the shaft of its sharp, corrosive light over the chaos, from the steel breast of the hindmost engine.
But Maria knew nothing of all this. She did not need to know. Sufficient for her that the door, which was the only means of deliverance for her and the children she wanted to save, remained inexorable, immovable, and finally, with bleeding hands and shoulders, with battered head, and feet crippled with numbness, she was obliged to resign herself to the incomprehensible, to the murderous.
She raised her face to the ray of light which fell upon her. The words of a little, childish prayer, now no longer intelligible, ran through her head. She dropped her head and sat down on the stairs.
The children stood in silence, crowded closely together, under the curse of something which, though they could not understand it, was very close above them.
“Little brothers, little sisters,” said Maria’s voice, very affectionately, “can you all understand what I am saying?”
“Yes,” floated up from the children.
“The door is closed … We must wait a little … Someone is sure to come and open it for us. Will you be patient and not be frightened?”
“Yes,” came an answer, as a sigh.
“Sit down as well as you can …”
The children obeyed.
“I am going to tell you a story,” said Maria.
XVIII
“Little sister …”
“Yes?”
“I am so hungry, sister … !”
“Hungry … !” echoed out of the depths.
“Don’t you want to hear the end of my story?”
“Yes … But sister, when you’ve finished, can’t we go out and have dinner?”
“Of course … as soon as my story’s finished … Just think: Foxy Fox went for a walk—went for a walk through the beautiful flowery meadows; he had his Sunday coat on, and he held his bushy red tail bolt upright, and he was smoking his little pipe and singing all the while … Do you know what Foxy Fox sang?—
I am the cheerful Fox—Hurray!
I am the cheerful fox—Hurray!
“And then he hopped for joy! And little Mr. Hedgehog was sitting on his hillock and he was so glad that his radishes were coming on so nicely, and his wife was standing by the hedge, gossipping with Mrs. Mole, who had just got a new fur for the Autumn …”
“Sister …”
“Yes?”
“Can the water from down there be coming up after us?”
“Why, little brother?”
“I can hear it gurgling …”
“Don’t listen to the water, little brother … just listen to what Mrs. Hedgehog has to chatter about!”
“Yes, sister, but the water is chattering so loud … I think it chatters much louder than Mrs. Mole …”
“Come away from the stupid water, little brother … Come here to me! You can’t hear the water here!”
“I can’t come to you sister! I can’t move, sister … Can’t you come and fetch me?”
“Me too, sister—yes, me too!—me too!”
“I can’t do that, little brothers, little sisters! Your youngest brothers and sisters are on my lap. They have gone to sleep and I mustn’t wake them!”
“Oh sister, are we sure to get out?”
“Why do you ask as if you were frightened, little brother?”
“The floor is shaking so and stones are tumbling down from the ceiling!”
“Have those silly stones hurt you?”
“No, but my little sister’s lying down and she’s not moving any more.”
“Don’t disturb her, little brother. Your sister’s asleep!”
“Yes, but she was crying just now … !”
“Don’t be sorry little brother that she had gone where she need not cry any more …”
“Where has she gone to, then, sister?”
“To heaven, I think.”
“Is heaven so near, then?”
“Oh yes, quite near. I can even see the door from here! And if I’m not wrong, Saint Peter is standing there, in front of it, with a large golden key, waiting until he can let us in …”
“Oh, sister … sister!! Now the water’s coming up—! Now it’s got hold of my feet! Now it’s lifting me up—!”
“Sister!! Help me, sister.—The water has come—!!”
“God can help you—Almighty God!”
“Sister, I’m frightened!”
“Are you frightened of going into the lovely heaven?”
“Is it lovely in heaven?”
“Oh—glorious—glorious!”
“Is Foxy Fox in heaven, too—and little Mr. Hedgehog?”
“I don’t know! Shall I ask Saint Peter about it?”
“Yes, sister … Are you crying?”
“No, why should I be crying?—Saint Peter—! Saint Peter—!”
“Did he hear?”
“Dear God, how cold the water is …”
“Saint Peter—! Saint Peter—!!”
“Sister … I think he answered, just now …”
“Really, little brother?”
“Yes … somebody was calling …”
“Yes, I heard it, too!”
“… So did I …”
“… So did I …”
“Hush, children, hush …”
“Oh, sister, sister—!”
“Hush, please—please—!”
“… Maria!”
“Freder—!!!”
“Maria—are you there—?”
“Freder—Freder—here I
