"Grot, listen to me—"
"I won't listen to anything!—"
"Grot, in the underground city, the water has broken in… "
Seconds of silence. Then—roars of laughter, and, on the heap of ruins, the dance of a four-legged lump, which kicked its stumps amid wild yells, clapping its hands the while.
"That's right—! Hallelujah Amen—!"
"Grot—!" Freder laid fast hold of the dancing lump and shook it so that its teeth rattled. "The water has flooded the city! The lights lie in ruins! The water has risen up the steps! And upon the door—upon the only door, there lie tons upon tons of trains which collided with each other there!"
"Let the rats drown—!"
"The children, Grot—!!"
Grot stood as if paralysed.
"A girl," continued Freder, clutching his hand into the man's shoulder, "a girl," he said sobbingly, bending his head as if to bury it in the man's breast, "a girl has tried to save the children and is now shut in with them and can't get out—"
Grot began to run. "We must explode the ruins, Grot!"
Grot stumbled, turned about and went on running, Freder behind him, closer than his shadow…
"… But Foxy Fox knew very well that Mr. Hedgehog would come to help him out of the trap, and he wasn't a bit frightened and waited quite cheerfully, although it was a good long time before Mr. Hedgehog—gallant Mr. Hedgehog came back… "
"Maria—!"
"Oh Christ… Freder?"
"Don't be startled, do you hear?"
"Freder, you're not in danger?"
No answer. Silence. A crackling sound. Then a childish voice:
"And did Mr. Hedgehog come, sister?"
"Yes—"
But the "yes" was drowned by the tearing of thousands of steel cables, the roar of tens of thousands of rocks which were hurled up to the dome of heaven, to burst the dome and to sink, to hurtle downwards, causing the earth to sway under their fall.
Supplementary crackling. Grey, leisurely clouds. Distant rumbling. And steps. Childish crying. And, up above, the door which was hauled upwards:
"Maria—!"
A blackened face bent downwards; filthy hands stretched out, gropingly.
"Maria—!" "Here I am, Freder!"
"I can hardly hear you… "
"Get the children out first, Freder… The wall's sinking… "
Grot came lumbering along and threw himself on the ground by Freder's side, clutching down into the pit from which the children were scrambling out, screaming. He grabbed the children by the hair, by the neck, by the head, and hauled them up, as one pulls up radishes. His eyes were popping out of his head with fear. He hurled the children over his body, so that they tumbled over, shrieking miserably. He cursed like a hundred devils. "Isn't that nearly all of them—?" He bawled down two names…
"Father, father—!" sobbed two little voices in the depths. "The devil take you, you couple of Jackanapes!", roared the man. He rummaged the children aside with his fists, as if he were shovelling rubbish on the dustheap. Then he gulped, snorted, clutched out, and had two children hanging around his neck, wet and shivering piteously, but alive—and their limbs stood more in danger of his fumbling fists than previously of the water and the tumbling stones.
With the children in both arms, Grot rolled over on his side. He sat up and planted the couple before him.
"You God-damned pair of ragamuffins!" he said, amidst sobs. He wiped the tears from his eyes. And sprang up, hurling the children aside, like two little hay-stooks. With the furious roar of a lion, he ran to the door, from the depths of which Maria was emerging, with closed eyes, supported by Freder's arm.
"You bloody—!" he howled out. He dragged Freder aside, shoved the girl back into the depths, slammed the trap-door to, and slung his entire weight upon it, drumming the rhythm of his laughter upon it with clenched fists.
A grim effort had kept Freder on his feet. Beside himself, he fell upon the maniac to tug him from the trap-door, fell over him and rolled with him, in furious embrace, among the ruins of the machines.
"Let me go, you dog, you mangy dog!" howled Gort, trying to bite at the angry fist which held him. "That woman murdered my machine—That damn woman led the rabble—!! That woman alone turned the lever to 12—! I saw it when they were trampling on me—! The woman can drown down there—! I'm going to kill that woman—!"
With marvellous tension of all his muscles Grot drew himself up and heaved himself, with a jerk, away from the raving man—with such infuriated strength that he, Grot, shot, describing a curve, amidst the children.
Cursing ardently, he gathered himself up again; but, though he was uninjured, he could not move a limb. He stuck, an impotent spoon, in a porridge of children, which adhered to his arms, legs and fists. No steel fetters could have condemned him so effectually to helplessness, as did the little cold, wet hands, which were defending her who had rescued them all. Yes, his own children were standing before him, pommelling angrily upon his clenched fists, unscared by the blot-shot eyes with which the giant glared at the dwarves, cudgelling him.
"That woman murdered my machine—!" he howled out at last, more complainingly than angrily, looking at the girl, who was resting upon Freder's arm, as though expecting her to bear him out.
"What does he mean?" asked Maria. "And what has happened?"
And she looked with eyes, the horror in which was only modified by the deepest of exhaustion, at the destruction round about, and at the snorting Grot.
Freder did not answer.
"Come," he said. And he raised her up in his arms and carried her out. The children followed them like a flock of little lambs, and Grot had no alternative than to run along in the tracks of the tiny feet, whither the little, tugging hands drew him.
Chapter 19
THEY HAD TAKEN the children into the house and Freder's eyes sought Maria, who was kneeling in the street, among the last remaining children, consoling them, and bestowing her loving smile upon weeping and bewildered eyes.
Freder ran across to them and carried Maria into the house.
"Don't forget," he said, letting her down upon a couch before the blazing fire in the entrance hall, and holding captive in his longing arms her half-lying, half-sitting, gently resisting form, "that Death and madness and something very like destruction' of the world have passed very close by us—and that, after all that has happened, I do not even know the colour of your eyes—and that you have not yet kissed me once by your own free will… "
"Dearest," said Maria, leaning towards him, so that her pure eyes, bathed in painless tears, were quite near to him,, while, at the same time, a great, concentrated gravity kept her lips away from his, "are you sure that Death and madness have already passed by?"
"By us, beloved—yes!"
"And all the others—?"
"Are you sending me away, Maria?" he asked, lovingly. She did not answer, at least not in words. But, with a gesture which was at once frank and touching, she put her arms about his neck and kissed him on the mouth.
"Go along," she said, stroking his bewildered face with her virginal, motherly hands. "Go to your father. That is the most hallowed way… I shall go to the children as soon as my clothes are a little dryer. For I'm afraid," she added with a smile which made Freder blush to his eyes, "numerous as the women are who live in the 'House of the Sons,' and willing and eager as they may be, not one of them has a dress she could lend me… !"
Freder stood bending over her with lowered eyes. The flames of the huge fire glowed upon his handsome, open face, which wore an expression of shame and sadness. But when he raised his glance to meet Maria's eyes, which were silently fixed upon him, without saying a word he took her hands and pressed them against his eyelids, remaining thus for a long time.
And all this while they both forgot that, on the other side of the wall which was protecting them, a city was throbbing in grisly conflict, and that among the ruins thousands of beings, themselves but ruins, hurled hither and thither, were losing their reason, and perishing, tortured by deadly fear.
The voice of the Archangel Michael, coming from the cathedral, recalled them to consciousness of the hour, and they parted hurriedly, as if caught neglecting their duty.
Maria listened to the man's retreating step…
Then she turned and looked about her.
What a strange sound the Michael bell had… The bell was calling so furiously—so agitatedly, as though to tumble over at every peal…
Maria's heart became an echo of the bell. It fluttered in its piteous fear, which had no source other than the general vibration of terror above the town. Even the warming flames of the fire frightened her, as if they had some knowledge of secrets of Horror.
She sat up and put her feet to the ground. She felt the hem of her dress. It was still rather wet but she would go now. She took a few steps through the dimly-lighted room. How brown the air was outside the windows… She hesitatingly opened the nearest door and listened…
She was standing in the room in which she had stood on the day when she saw Freder for the first time, when she had led the train of little, grey child-spectres to those who were care-free and joyous—when she had called to Freder's heart with her gentle:
"Look, these are your brothers!"
But of all the dearly beloved sons of boundlessly wealthy fathers, to whom this house belonged, not one was to be seen. They must have left the tottering town long ago.
Sparsely distributed candles were burning, giving the room an inward cosiness and a warm air of comfort. The room was filled with the tender twittering of sleepy child-voices, chattering like swallows before they fly to their nests. Answering them in tones which were but little darker, came the voices of the beautiful, brocaded, painted women, who had once been the playthings of the sons. Equally frightened at the thought of flight as of remaining where they were, they eventually stayed in the "House of the Sons," being still undecided; and Maria had brought the children to them, because they could have found no better refuge; for, by the beautiful and dreadful chance of all that had taken place, the troup of loving little harlots became a troup of loving little mothers, burning with a new fire in the execution of their new duties.
Not far from Maria the little drink-mixer was kneeling, washing the skinny slender-limbed body of Grot's daughter, who was standing in front of her. But the child had taken the sponge from her hand, and, without saying a word, proceeding with intense gravity, was thoughtfully and untiringly washing the beautiful, painted face of the drink-mixer.
The girl knelt quite still, her eyes closed, neither did she move when the child's hands began to dry her face with the rough towel. But Grot's daughter was not quite successful in this undertaking; for, whenever she dried the girl's cheeks, again and again did the swift, bright drops run over them. Until Grot's daughter dropped the towel to look at the girl who was kneeling before her inquiringly, and not without reproach. Upon which the girl caught the child in her arms, pressing her forehead to the heart of the silent creature, uttering to this heart words of love which she had never found before.
Maria passed by with soundless step.
But when the door to the hall, into which no noise from the noisy Metropolis could penetrate, closed behind her, the ore-voice of the angel of the cathedral struck at her breast like a fist of steel, that she stood still, stunned, raising her hands to her head.
Why was Saint Michael crying out so angrily and wildly? Why was the roar of Azrael, the angel of Death joining in so alarmingly?
She stepped into the street. Darkness, like a thick layer of soot, lay over the town, and only the cathedral shimmered, ghost—Like, a wonder of light, but not of grace.
The air was filled with a spectral battle of discordant voices. Howling, laughing, whistling, were to be heard. It was as though a gang of murderers and robbers were passing by—In the unrecognisable depths of the street. Mingled with them, shrieks of women, wild with excitement…
Maria's eyes sought the New Tower of Babel. She had only one way in her mind: to Joh Fredersen. She would go there. But she never went.
For suddenly the air was a blood-red stream, which poured itself forth, flickering, formed by a thousand torches. And the torches were dancing in the hands of beings who were crowding out of Yoshiwara. The faces of the beings shone with insanity, every mouth parted in a gasp, yet the eyes which blazed above them were the bursting eyes of men choking. Each was dancing the dance of Death with his own torch, whirling madly about, and the whirl of the dancers formed a train, revolving in itself.
"Maohee—!" flew the shrill cries above it. "Dance-dance—dance—Maohee—!"
But the flaming procession was led by a girl. The girl was Maria. And the girl was screaming with Maria's voice:
"Dance—dance—dance—Maohee!"
She crossed the torches like swords above her head. She swung them right and left, brandishing them so that showers of sparks fell about the Way. Sometimes it seemed as if she were riding on the torches. She raised her knees to her breast, with laughter which brought a moan from the dancers of the procession.
But one of the dancers ran along at the girl's feet, like a dog, crying incessantly:
"I am Jan! I am Jan! I am the faithful Jan! Hear me, at last, Maria!"
But the girl struck him in the face with her sparkling torch.
His clothes caught fire. He ran for some time, a living torch, along by the girl. His voice sounded as if from the blaze:
"Maria—! Maria—!"
Then he swung himself up on to the parapet of the street and hurled, a streak of fire, into the blackness of the depths.
"Maohee—! Maohee—!" called the girl, shaking her torch.
The procession was endless. The procession was endless. The street was already covered, as far as the eye could see, with circling torches. The shrieks of the dancers mixed themselves sharply and shrilly with the angry voices of the archangels of the cathedral. And behind the train, as though tugged along by invisible, unbreakable cords, there reeled a girl, the damp hem of the hose dress lashed about her ankles, whose hair was falling loose under the clawing fingers which she pressed to her head, whose lips babbled a name in ineffectual entreaty: "Freder… Freder… "