‘I Too Lived in Arcadia’ by Ingeborg Bachmann (1952)

Read an exclusive, newly translated story by Ingeborg Bachmann from the upcoming Complete Stories.

‘I Too Lived in Arcadia’ (1952)

. . . But one day my time was up and I left. It was late autumn. Rotting berries fell from the bushes and the sheep came down from the hills, freezing and hungry because overnight the wind had swept the grass from the mountain pastures and tossed it onto the rocky shore. The train carried me away on silvery tracks—two last rays of sun. I reached the border at night. The customs officers seized my luggage and when I tried to exchange my money, I was given to understand that a different currency was used here. Unfortunately, my homeland had no currency exchange agreements with other countries, so my money was worthless.

But I didn’t lose heart. In the very first city I entered, I met many friendly people; they helped me where they could, and I soon found work in a factory. Later I was hired by a construction company, building roads. It was spring, I was working on the first road I’d ever seen, a wonderful highway that could support the heaviest vehicles, a wide, magnificent road that led to the sea. But the sea was far away and there were many stops along the way, smaller towns and very large cities, even a cosmopolitan metropolis. Several historians of the city maintained that it had risen from the ruins of ancient Babylon, but to me its official history seemed bland and trivial compared to its present.

This city took hold of me and wouldn’t let go: whatever I did—whether I played the stock market, built machines, or tried to increase the yield of the plantations—was crowned with remarkable success that exceeded all my expectations. When my name was first mentioned in the newspapers, I was happier than I’d ever been, and I decided to stay. At this point I could’ve traveled to the sea at any time but never did, because I constantly had to keep new promises I’d made and meet new responsibilities I’d taken on in order to prove myself worthy of the affirmation I’d been given.

Some evenings, when I was very tired, I would ride as far as the arterial road that led to the sea, and deeply exhausted from my devotion to my duties I would dredge up the image of the sea I didn’t know and sink, half asleep, facing the distant horizon and the infinite sky that joins the water to encircle the earth. As soon as my drowsiness subsided, I would drive back, clear-headed, telling myself that this journey would always be there and at this point it couldn’t offer me anything I didn’t already have. 

Years come and go, people come and go, and time and people are kind to me: I have my place under the sun.

For some days now, in moments when I have no time or attention to spare, I’ve been hearing the sound of a flute, a melody frayed by the wind, a faint call from very far away, which seems to be coming from the autumn hills that touch the blue of a flawless morning sky. Or is it the bells of the white lambs brushing past the shrubs as they descend into the valley? Or does it come from the hum of the tracks, those silvery rays that lead to the huts beside the stream and from there straight to the ball of the sun that, like a great, sinking celestial station, brings all trains home to heaven?

I’m occasionally asked about the secret of my success, and I could tell you that I might reach the sea and inscribe my name on all the streets and bodies of water in the world, if only the hope remained that I could return home at the end of the day and have the astonished shepherds, the hills, and the streams of my homeland understand and appreciate all that I have acquired. But the currencies are still incompatible and if I went back, I wouldn’t return home any richer than when I’d left, just a bit older and more tired, and at this point I probably wouldn’t have the heart to adapt to more modest circumstances. 

But now a melody is again reaching me, this time amplified by the wind, a call frighteningly nearby, so close that I can’t ignore it: it seems to be coming from my own heart, which is breaking over me, as though the autumn hills were settling onto my trembling chest and the flawless sky was infiltrating my being in order to kill me. Or is it the ringing of a bell I wear when my desire grazes the bushes to harvest last year’s ripe red berries? Or do these sounds come from the drone of the tracks that flash in the evening light and transport me to the huts beside the stream and from there straight to the melting ball of the sun that, like a great, sinking celestial station, brings all wanderers home to heaven?