“Where do you get your sainted confidence from? Do you believe that you are Freder’s first love? Have you forgotten the ‘Club of the Sons,’ Maria? There are a hundred women there—and all are his! These loving little women could all tell you about Freder’s love, for they know more about it than you do, and you have only one advantage over them: You can weep when he leaves you; for they are not allowed to weep.... When Joh Fredersen’s son celebrates his marriage it will be as though all Metropolis celebrated its marriage. When?—Joh Fredersen will decide that.... With whom?—Joh Fredersen will decide that.... But you will not be the bride, Maria! The son of Joh Fredersen will have forgotten you by the day of his wedding.” “Never!” said the girl. “Never—never!” And the painless tears of a great, true love fell upon the beauty of her smile. The man got up. He stood still before the girl. He looked at her. He turned away. As he was crossing the threshold of the next room his shoulder fell against the door-post. He slammed the door to. He stared straight ahead. He looked on the being—his creature of glass and metal—which bore the almost completed head of Maria. His hands moved towards the head, and, the nearer they came to it, the more did it appear as if these hands, these lonely hands, wished not to create but to destroy. “We are bunglers, Futura!” he said. “Bunglers!—Bunglers! Can I give you the smile which you make angels fall gladly down to hell? Can I give you the tears which would redeem the chiefest Satan, and make him beatify?—Parody is your name! And Bungler is mine!” Shining cool and lustrous, the being stood there and looked at its creator with its baffling eyes. And, as he laid his hands on its shoulders, its fine structure tinkled in mysterious laughter.... * * * * * Freder, on recovering, found himself surrounded by a dull brightness. It came from a window, in the frame of which stood a pale, grey sky. The window was small and gave the impression that it had not been opened for centuries. Freder’s eyes wandered through the room. Nothing that he saw penetrated into his consciousness. He remembered nothing. He lay, his back resting on stones which were cold and smooth. All his limbs and joints were racked by a dull pain. He turned his head to one side. He looked at his hands which lay beside him as though not belonging to him, thrown away, bled white. Knuckles knocked raw ... shreds of skin ... brownish crusts ... were these his hands? He stared at the ceiling. It was black, as if charred. He stared at the walls; grey, cold walls.... Where was he—? He was tortured by thirst and a ravenous hunger. But worse than the hunger and thirst was the weariness which longed for sleep and which could not find it. Maria occurred to him.... Maria?... Maria—?