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Authors: Thea von Harbou
Tags: Fiction, Science-Fiction
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Parody!"
"Stop… " said Joh Fredersen rather hoarsely. But the infallible obedience of the creature which stood before the two men brooked no delay in obeying. It opened its hands in which the delicate bones shimmered silver, and handed to its creator the piece of paper which it had taken from the table, before Joh Fredersen's eyes.
"That's trickery, Rotwang," said Joh Fredersen.
The great inventor looked at him. He laughed. The noiseless laughter drew back his mouth to his ears.
"No trickery, Joh Fredersen—the work of a genius! Shall Futura dance to you? Shall my beautiful Parody play the affectionate? Or the sulky? Cleopatra of Damayanti? Shall she have the gestures of the Gothic Madonnas? Or the gestures of love of an Asiatic dancer? What hair shall I plant upon the skull of your tool? Shall she be modest or impudent? Excuse me my many words, you man of few! I am drunk, d'you see, drunk with being a creator. I intoxicate myself, I inebriate myself, on your astonished face! I have surpassed your expectations, Joh Fredersen, haven't I? And you do not know everything yet: my beautiful Parody can sing, too! She can also read! The mechanism of her brain is as infallible as that of your own, Joh Fredersen!"
"If that is so," said the Master over the great Metropolis, with a certain dryness in his voice, which had become quite hoarse, "then command her to unriddle the plan which you have in your hand, Rotwang… "
Rotwang burst out into laughter which was like the laughter of a drunken man. He threw a glance at the piece of paper which he held spread out in his fingers, and was about to pass it, anticipatingly triumphant, to the being which stood beside him.
But he stopped in the middle of the movement. With open mouth, he stared at the piece of paper, raising it nearer and nearer to his eyes.
Joh Fredersen, who was watching him, bent forward. He wanted to say something, to ask a question. But before he could open his lips Rotwang threw up his head and met Joh Fredersen's glance with so green a fire in his eyes that the Master of the great Metropolis remained dumb.
Twice, three times did this green glow flash between the piece of paper and Joh Fredersen's face. And during the whole time not a sound was perceptible in the room but the breath that gushed in heaves from Rotwang's breast as though from a boiling, poisoned source.
"Where did you get the plan?" the great inventor asked at last. Though it was less a question than an expression of astonished anger.
"That is not the point," answered Joh Fredersen. "It is about this that I have come to you. There does not seem to be a soul in Metropolis who can make anything of it."
Rotwang's laughter interrupted him.
"Your poor scholars!" cried the laughter. "What a task you have set them, Joh Fredersen. How many hundredweights of printed paper have you forced them to heave over. I am sure there is no town on the globe, from the construction of the old Tower of Babel onward, which they have not snuffled through from North to South. Oh—If you could only smile, Parody! If only you already had eyes to wink at me. But laugh, at least, Parody! Laugh, rippingly, at the great scholars to whom the ground under their feet is foreign!"
The being obeyed. It laughed, ripplingly.
"Then you know the plan, or what it represents?" asked Joh Fredersen, through the laughter.
"Yes, by my poor soul, I know it," answered Rotwang. "But, by my poor soul, I am not going to tell you what it is until you tell me where you got the plan."
Joh Fredersen reflected. Rotwang did not take his gaze from him. "Do not try to lie to me, Joh Fredersen," he said softly, and with a whimsical melancholy.
"Somebody found the paper," began Joh Fredersen.
"Who—somebody?"
"One of my foremen."
"Grot?"
"Yes, Grot."
"Where did he find the plan?"
"In the pocket of a workman who was killed in the accident to the Geyser machine."
"Grot brought you the paper?"
"Yes."
"And the meaning of the plan seemed to be
"Stop… " said Joh Fredersen rather hoarsely. But the infallible obedience of the creature which stood before the two men brooked no delay in obeying. It opened its hands in which the delicate bones shimmered silver, and handed to its creator the piece of paper which it had taken from the table, before Joh Fredersen's eyes.
"That's trickery, Rotwang," said Joh Fredersen.
The great inventor looked at him. He laughed. The noiseless laughter drew back his mouth to his ears.
"No trickery, Joh Fredersen—the work of a genius! Shall Futura dance to you? Shall my beautiful Parody play the affectionate? Or the sulky? Cleopatra of Damayanti? Shall she have the gestures of the Gothic Madonnas? Or the gestures of love of an Asiatic dancer? What hair shall I plant upon the skull of your tool? Shall she be modest or impudent? Excuse me my many words, you man of few! I am drunk, d'you see, drunk with being a creator. I intoxicate myself, I inebriate myself, on your astonished face! I have surpassed your expectations, Joh Fredersen, haven't I? And you do not know everything yet: my beautiful Parody can sing, too! She can also read! The mechanism of her brain is as infallible as that of your own, Joh Fredersen!"
"If that is so," said the Master over the great Metropolis, with a certain dryness in his voice, which had become quite hoarse, "then command her to unriddle the plan which you have in your hand, Rotwang… "
Rotwang burst out into laughter which was like the laughter of a drunken man. He threw a glance at the piece of paper which he held spread out in his fingers, and was about to pass it, anticipatingly triumphant, to the being which stood beside him.
But he stopped in the middle of the movement. With open mouth, he stared at the piece of paper, raising it nearer and nearer to his eyes.
Joh Fredersen, who was watching him, bent forward. He wanted to say something, to ask a question. But before he could open his lips Rotwang threw up his head and met Joh Fredersen's glance with so green a fire in his eyes that the Master of the great Metropolis remained dumb.
Twice, three times did this green glow flash between the piece of paper and Joh Fredersen's face. And during the whole time not a sound was perceptible in the room but the breath that gushed in heaves from Rotwang's breast as though from a boiling, poisoned source.
"Where did you get the plan?" the great inventor asked at last. Though it was less a question than an expression of astonished anger.
"That is not the point," answered Joh Fredersen. "It is about this that I have come to you. There does not seem to be a soul in Metropolis who can make anything of it."
Rotwang's laughter interrupted him.
"Your poor scholars!" cried the laughter. "What a task you have set them, Joh Fredersen. How many hundredweights of printed paper have you forced them to heave over. I am sure there is no town on the globe, from the construction of the old Tower of Babel onward, which they have not snuffled through from North to South. Oh—If you could only smile, Parody! If only you already had eyes to wink at me. But laugh, at least, Parody! Laugh, rippingly, at the great scholars to whom the ground under their feet is foreign!"
The being obeyed. It laughed, ripplingly.
"Then you know the plan, or what it represents?" asked Joh Fredersen, through the laughter.
"Yes, by my poor soul, I know it," answered Rotwang. "But, by my poor soul, I am not going to tell you what it is until you tell me where you got the plan."
Joh Fredersen reflected. Rotwang did not take his gaze from him. "Do not try to lie to me, Joh Fredersen," he said softly, and with a whimsical melancholy.
"Somebody found the paper," began Joh Fredersen.
"Who—somebody?"
"One of my foremen."
"Grot?"
"Yes, Grot."
"Where did he find the plan?"
"In the pocket of a workman who was killed in the accident to the Geyser machine."
"Grot brought you the paper?"
"Yes."
"And the meaning of the plan seemed to be
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