The Honditsch Cross

by Ingeborg Bachmann, Tess Lewis (translator)

Diese historische Novelle, geschrieben von der achtzehnjährigen Ingeborg Bachmann, ist das eindrucksvolle Zeugnis einer frühen Begabung. Es fasziniert durch eine sichere Dramaturgie und eine Bildhaftigkeit, die sich aus der genauen Beobachtung bäuerlicher Sprache und bäuerlichen Lebens nährt. Die Geschichte berichtet vom kurzen, unglücklichen Leben des Kärtner Bauernsohnes Franz Brandstetter, der, im Konflikt zwischen dem, was er für seine Berufung hält – er ist Student der Theologie –, und der erotischen Faszination, die zwei Frauen auf ihn ausüben, einen dritten Weg einschlägt und sich den österreichischen Freischärlern anschließt, die sich gegen die napoleonische Besatzung erheben. Das Motiv Freiheit, das in Ingeborg Bachmanns Werk immer wiederkehrt, kündigt sich bereits in dieser Erzählung aus dem Jahre 1944 an.

Genres: Fiction

80 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1983

About the author

“What actually is possible, however, is transformation. And the transformative effect that emanates from new works leads us to new perception, to a new feeling, new consciousness.” This sentence from Ingeborg Bachmann’s Frankfurt Lectures on Poetics (1959-60) can also be applied to her own self-consciousness as an author, and to the history of her reception. Whether in the form of lyric poetry, short prose, radio plays, libretti, lectures and essays or longer fiction, Bachmann’s œuvre had as its goal and effect “to draw people into the experiences of the writers,” into “new experiences of suffering.” (GuI 139-140). But it was especially her penetrating and artistically original representation of female subjectivity within male-dominated society that unleashed a new wave in the reception of her works.

Although Bachmann’s spectacular early fame derived from her lyric poetry (she received the prestigious Prize of the Gruppe 47 in 1954), she turned more and more towards prose during the 1950’s, having experienced severe doubts about the validity of poetic language. The stories in the collection Das dreißigste Jahr (The Thirtieth Year; 1961) typically present a sudden insight into the inadequacy of the world and its “orders” (e.g. of language, law, politics, or gender roles) and reveal a utopian longing for and effort to imagine a new and truer order. The two stories told from an explicitly female perspective, “Ein Schritt nach Gomorrha” (“A Step towards Gomorrah”) and “Undine geht” (“Undine Goes/Leaves”), are among the earliest feminist texts in postwar German-language literature. Undine accuses male humanity of having ruined not only her life as a woman but the world in general: “You monsters named Hans!” In her later prose (Malina 1971; Simultan 1972; and the posthumously published Der Fall Franza und Requiem für Fanny Goldmann) Bachmann was again ahead of her time, often employing experimental forms to portray women as they are damaged or even destroyed by patriarchal society, in this case modern Vienna. Here one sees how intertwined Bachmann’s preoccupation with female identity and patriarchy is with her diagnosis of the sickness of our age: “I’ve reflected about this question already: where does fascism begin? It doesn’t begin with the first bombs that were dropped…. It begins in relationships between people. Fascism lies at the root of the relationship between a man and a woman….”(GuI 144)

As the daughter of a teacher and a mother who hadn’t been allowed to go to university, Bachmann enjoyed the support and encouragement of both parents; after the war she studied philosophy, German literature and psychology in Innsbruck, Graz and Vienna. She wrote her doctoral dissertation (1950) on the critical reception of Heidegger, whose ideas she condemned as “a seduction … to German irrationality of thought” (GuI 137). From 1957 to 1963, the time of her troubled relationship with Swiss author Max Frisch, Bachmann alternated between Zurich and Rome. She rejected marriage as “an impossible institution. Impossible for a woman who works and thinks and wants something herself” (GuI 144).

From the end of 1965 on Bachmann resided in Rome. Despite her precarious health—she was addicted to pills for years following a faulty medical procedure—she traveled to Poland in 1973. She was just planning a move to Vienna when she died of complications following an accidental fire.

Joey Horsley

Reviews

[Una Roven · Rating 4 out of 5]

War and Peace if it was a hundred pages long and written by an 18 year old girl

[Omar Z · Rating 3 out of 5]

My first Bachmann is one of Bachmann's first as well, but I don't think it'll be my last.

In this intensely early work, Ingeborg writes like someone that'd been fixated on an idea for a life too long now finally able to indulge, yet not knowing how to communicate it wholely; throughout the book, we're met with glimpses of an artistry half-crystalized--this being written by Ingeborg at the age of 18, you're to be met with obvious moments attributed to what'd possibly been deemed by Ingeborg herself as juvenilia, which only explains the several decade-long gestation, or limbo (if you like that term more) in which this book was later released, after her death, and, for the first time, in English; whilst reading, I realized that the only way to take this book in is to acknowledge that one would need to mine for the glinting minerals laced in the common stone--all in all, you must work for this to function, as did Bachmann when she tried her hand; in spite of this being an early work, there're passages in this book I believe I couldn't have read at any better time than when I read them, with these passages displaying Ingeborg's early capabilities at creating a great depth to this otherwise simple yet deeply personal novella.

Introducing various characters and their own situations that extend and link toward the main character (Franz Brandstetter) with every chapter, The Honditsch Cross is set up like a complex novel yearning for the many pages necessary to sprout flesh on its skeleton, like a house with a solid frame and foundation and yet no storm to test its longevity, and so, this book gives one the impression of a mission statement: Ingeborg had a thought in mind, committed to putting it on paper, then took off after doing what she came for, that's it.

The topics addressed in this 99-page work cycle between the mistreatment of women during war (which bears striking resemblances to contemporary life today, with a couple of the characters feeling realistic, being mere reflections of people today [which makes one dawn on the thought of how Ingeborg possibly had been treated at the time of writing this]), how women have to adapt in a man's world, which is one typically filled with inescapable violence; the internal struggle between not knowing what you want and believing what you want is what the people in your environment want for you (because, it's true, that is what you want, but are you willing to commit to that desire, are you able to discern desire from passion, are the things you're passionate for but the ideas drilled into your head via subliminal messaging by the people around you that wish to live out their dreams by proxy, through the life you live--your failure is their personal disappointment--are you a slate compiled of the passions of other people?); then we have the theems of paranoia from abroad or next door, with the ones next door being heavier, much more frightening than anything from afar; authenticity, to yourself, to others; and uncertainty.

Of course, as the reader I am, although dyslexic, reading carefully, I journaled my thoughts during this multi-day jaunt I extended to release a review closer to the book's release date, chronicling first impressions, critiques (both on the author and the editing), and the narrative itself--there're a couple errors in this book, but, don't worry, there're nowhere near as on the level as the errata situation Dalkey's been battling recently; the errors aren't major (they aren't sentence long,) they border on the omission of a word or the addition of a letter, so no, they won't take you out of the story, they're the equivalent of one's eyes ignoring their nose then remembering they're ignoring their nose, or a nudge to the shoulder that reminds you it's a book; here're the errors (5 total):

1) page 36: "He was practically trotting home because his mother wouldn't stand for anyone missing from table";

2) page 46: "Then he let the farmgirl take the wagon back to the field and got ready to go the Unterbergers'";

3) page 47: "Someone had just entered the house so he and went downstairs";

4) page 91: "Then inn" should say "The in";

5) page 95: "Then she looked him";

and, as is known, one isn't allowed to quote from ARCs, thankfully, I have the final print so I could circumvent that situation, hopefully; to remain on the safe side, I'll refrain from posting any quotes from the book till the release date on the 29th; I jumped ahead of the curve so as to spare myself from falling into a situation someday where I cannot read before the date.

My last critique(s) of this text is that early Ingeborg has a tendency to explain a metaphor in the same or very next sentence, ultimately defusing any attempt of producing anything of a poetic nature from time to time, she has a propensity to state the obvious, unnecessary things that the reader is highly capable of inferring for themselves (it doesn't happen all the time, its frequency is at its highest at the beginning of the text); and I should mention that there's a moment in which a character contradicts themself--this doesn't spoil anything--a general doesn't allow a levy to be paid with grain, but then it's stated that the townspeople couldn't muster up the grain necessary to pay it off, which allows one to mental gymnastic through this hiccup with the idea of the general possibly giving an unstated leniency, or maybe Ingeborg hadn't sat that one through long enough; apart from that, this is a solid book with the occasional fluctuation in the quality of language--it feels like Ingeborg wrote the novel, archived it for years, blew the dust off, rewrote passages, and left the rest as it was the first time she penned it.

Lovely; I believe this book should be read by Bachmann completionists, people that haven't read her (but won't judge the rest of her work based on this alone,) or anyone hoping to get into more quality translations released by NDP; Tess Lewis' translation and afterword were lovely, this release couldn't have come out without it, as it gives some information integral to the conception of the novella and to Ingeborg's life at the time.

One day, I will read Ingeborg's 'Malina,' I will, I just need to get the book, soon--I'm trying to see what she was capable of doing at the top of her game, especially in the realm of poetry; this is a great effort, one that the author wasn't primarily geared up to take on fully, and so she took it on for the rest of her life.

[76/100]

[Bhaskar Thakuria · Rating 3 out of 5]

.....And now he was tempted by something uncertain, something he’d quietly longed for. It would be liberating to toss everything aside, to throw away his entire predetermined future, in which the path was already clearly laid, to leave it all behind and escape the unhealthy arousal, the thoughts that whirred back and forth in his mind, that stung and tormented him, that blithely poured poison into every cell of his brain. To escape it all and find unity, to attain peace: this was a glorious madness. He would set out now, fighting for his native soil, for his homeland! The madness was intoxicating, it stripped away all earthbound impediments. There were the fields and meadows of his father’s farm, his house, the cool porch, the kitchen with the large oven and the crucifix in the corner and not the cold, gray parish house on the market square.

This is a brief but argumentative work of fiction, replete with contumacious souls trying to eke out their convictions despite being at 'the end of the tether'. It flashes out as a narrative in which desperate measures are seen as a vehicle for one's self-effacement. At least that was the impression generated in my consciousness when I observed the depiction of the trials and fortitude of the principal characters. On the surface, it can be seen as the inner struggle of a character (the theology student) torn between defending his homeland, the pull of physical desire, and the pursuit of his theological studies.

This historical novella, set in southern Carinthia in the summer and fall of 1813, recounts a minor battle during the final days of the Napoleonic Wars in French-occupied Austrian territory. The Honditsch cross of the title is an actual wooden cross in a wayside shrine erected in honor of fallen soldiers between the villages of Hermagor and Bachmann’s father’s hometown of Obervellach. When home on leave in the summer of ’43, her father, Matthias Bachmann, who had always encouraged his daughter’s literary aspirations, suggested she write a story about the history of that cross. The result is, indubitably, before us, translated (as far as I know) for the first time. And in doing so, the eighteen-year-old Ingeborg created a work of fiction that reveals the sway the genre of the Heimatroman—the “homeland novel” that celebrates rural life, local traditions and dialects, attachment to the fatherland, and idealized pastoral landscapes—had over Bachmann at the time. It also serves as a savage indictment of the senseless wastage of war and the unkind sway it has over its principal sufferers. Besides, the novel showcases the young writer's courage and independence of mind in foregrounding tolerance of the ethnic Slovenian minority.

The young writer demonstrates great flashes of brilliance throughout this work (although a trifle short) and gives us glimpses of the key figure of post-war German literature she was to become later on. And, in conclusion, I feel it is a historical novel on a different, but elevated, footing altogether.

Although this novella is far more traditional in style and structure than Bachmann’s major prose works, it holds the seeds of themes that will preoccupy Bachmann for her entire writing life: the ethics of geographic and linguistic borders, the richness of transnational, multiethnic and multilingual communities that resist nationalist and racist tendencies, peripheries as a beneficial, anti-ideological force, the loss of childhood idylls, the ways in which violence against women frays the social fabric, and a utopian nostalgia for the House of Austria. The Honditsch Cross offers a snapshot of an engaged, rigorous, and innovative writer emerging from her chrysalis.
- (From the translator's afterword)

[Jennifer · Rating 4 out of 5]

“The Windish live among ethnic German Austrians in the Gail Valley, as they do throughout southern Carinthia. They have their own language, which neither Slovenes nor German speakers completely understand. With their presence, they seem to want to blur the borders-the border of the country, but also of language, customs, and mores. They form a bridge, their pillars standing firmly and peacefully on both this side and the other. And it would be good if this were to remain forever the case. Their name for the Gail River is the Zila and much in their conduct is mysterious and miraculous. Their songs seem borne by a dream of vast expanses, flowing with the current of the Zila as they resound over the nearby mountains as bewitchingly as the songs of boundless Russia. In the evenings, the girls in their red skirts recline on the bank and these songs echo far beyond the willows.” (p. 4-5)

“From the rowdy, raucous soldier's life he'd just entered, he would retreat into the most secret, the most beautiful hours of an earlier time. The quiet pleasures of his first student years had gotten lost in the frenzy of the ones that followed. Now, in his brief moments of free time, he would sneak away to the chapel at night, or to hidden nooks during the day. There he nourished his desire, for which he unlocked the expanse of the cathedral, and called forth the dreamy semidarkness, the cool vault, the chill of the cold stones that gnawed through his knee bent in humility. He didn't pray, he neither wished nor requested anything. He was too consumed by his dreams, the pleasure of dreaming. He breathed in all his longing with the veiling smoke of incense and candles, while an incorporeal music enchanted his senses, its notes carried by the voices of somber choirs, and then by the power of the organ. The pleasure was increased by the shudders running through his body, sparked by the cold of the stones and his own excitement. He felt feverish from all of these sensations, and the icy jolts that shot through him from time to time dissolved into the pleasant fatigue that comes from extreme physical exertion and automatically brings contentment.” (p. 84-85)

[Maggie Micklo · Rating 3 out of 5]

A decent historical fiction about a very specific time in the Napoleonic Wars. Moral of the story is war is bad and pointless!

[char 🫀 · Rating 3 out of 5]

This served as a light read because I was in a crazy reading slump, but honestly I don’t think I read the description lmao. This book is very much historical, with even the fiction being based strictly on reality. I think the translation watered down the true power of the book, but I guess that’s to be expected from any translation. It was a nice palate cleanser of heavy historical content after my usual romance books.

[Graham Gilarde · Rating 3 out of 5]

The novel felt like a pretty typical coming of age book. Not a bad read but very slow for the first 50ish pages. Torn if I would recommend.