Karl Heinrich Ulrichs
1885
translated by Jason Colavito
2026
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Karl Heinrich Ulrichs (1825-1895) was a German lawyer, writer, and a gay rights advocate. He advocated for the reform of Prussian laws against homosexuality, and he published widely on what he called “Uranian” love, his term for male homosexuality. It was likely while in exile in the Italian city of L’Aquila in the early 1880s that Ulrichs composed Manor, a short story that used the legend of the vampire as a vehicle to tell the story of a love affair between two teenage boys. The story, composed in German, is set on the Faroe Islands and makes reference to the old gods—to Thor and to Urda, one of the Norns. Its Gothic romance is among the first in literature to treat the love of two boys as a fitting subject for a classical tragedy, and unlike J. Sheridan LeFanu’s thematically similar Carmilla from the previous decade, there is no ambiguity or reluctance in the characters’ embrace of their same-sex relationship.
Manor first appeared in print in 1885 as the third story in Ulrichs’s supernatural collection Matrosengeschichten and was later printed as a standalone work in 1914. Michael A. Lombardi-Nash translated it into English in 1981, but his translation was somewhat free (particularly in the dialogue) and parts were occasionally truncated. For this new translation, made from a review of both the 1885 and 1914 texts, I have hewed as closely as possible to Ulrichs’s original German, though his terse style sometimes demanded I add occasional connecting words to produce readable English. Since the characters are natives of the Faroe Islands, I have rendered place names with the Faroese spelling, as they are generally known in English, though Ulrich of course used the German names. Thus, the islands known today as Streymoy and Vágar appeared in the German text as Strömö and Wagö, from the Danish Strømø and Vagø, while Ulrichs gave Tórshavn as Thorshavn. In the text below, Ulrichs, publishing from exile in Italy, appears to have used the Italian form of his given names, Carlo Enrico, signing himself as C. E. Ulrichs. Manor was loosely adapted as the Danish film No Rest for the Wicked in 2026, with the characters changed into adult men. |
M A N O R
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But by night he seeks solace from an unjust fate,
while the pale moon sails above the ocean. He cannot endure to be touched by her full light; for he fears the bright radiance, too piercing in its brilliance.
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I.
In the middle of the northern ocean lies a group of 35 islands, lonely and deserted, equally distant from Scotland, Iceland, and Norway, called the Faroe Islands; desolate, rocky, wrapped in clouds, resounding with the melancholy cries of fluttering gulls and kittiwakes, surrounded by the roar of breaking waves, almost always veiled in mist. In summer one may see the mountain peaks rise 1,800 and 2,000 feet above the sea; rough cliffs; dark ravines; primeval fir forests; thousands of springs that often plunge down from great heights, roaring and foaming from boulder to boulder. The shores are deeply cut by bays and fjords; almost everywhere inaccessible, hemmed in by high cliffs. The sea all around is full of reefs, here and there completely barricaded, disturbed by whirlpools, churned by wild currents. Only seventeen are inhabited. Streymoy and Vágar are separated only by a narrow sound, swimmable—though it takes a bold swimmer. Many place‑names recall the time when there were no churches yet on the Faroes and the old faith had not been driven out, for example Tórshavn on the coast of Streymoy, i.e. “Thor’s harbor.”
In those days a fisherman from Streymoy rowed out into the open sea with his fifteen‑year‑old son. A storm rose; the boat capsized; the waves threw the boy into the cliffs of Vágar. A young sailor on Vágar saw this. He leapt into the waves, swam between the cliffs, seized the drifting body, and pulled him ashore. He sat down with him on a boulder and cradled the half‑frozen boy in his arms on his knees. Then the boy opened his eyes.
Sailor: “What is your name?”
Boy: “Har. I am from Streymoy.”
He rowed him back across the sound to Streymoy and brought him to Lära, his mother. Gratefully the boy embraced the neck of his rescuer at parting. The father’s body was washed ashore by the waves. The sailor’s name was Manor. He was an orphan, four years older than Har. He grew fond of him, longed to see him again. Now and then he rowed over to Streymoy, or when summer came, he swam across the lukewarm waves in the evening when the day’s work was done. Har went to the shore, climbed a cliff, and waved his kerchief when he saw Manor’s boat coming from afar. Then they stayed together for an hour or two. They rowed out when the sea was calm and sang sailors’ songs. Or they undressed, plunged into the waves, and swam to the nearby sandbank opposite, sending the seals who were sunning themselves on the sand to flight. Or they went into the dark‑green forest of tall firs, whose rustling tops proclaimed the speech of Thor, or sat on a stone under the branches of an old beech. They chatted and made plans. If ever a whaling ship came, they would both go with it. And when they sat on the stone, Manor laid his arm around Har’s shoulders and called him “My Boy”; and the boy felt no greater happiness than when Manor so embraced him. If Manor came late, he walked quietly to the lilac bush that shaded Har’s window and tapped on the panes. Har awoke and stole out to him. He felt so happy whenever he could be with Manor.
In those days a fisherman from Streymoy rowed out into the open sea with his fifteen‑year‑old son. A storm rose; the boat capsized; the waves threw the boy into the cliffs of Vágar. A young sailor on Vágar saw this. He leapt into the waves, swam between the cliffs, seized the drifting body, and pulled him ashore. He sat down with him on a boulder and cradled the half‑frozen boy in his arms on his knees. Then the boy opened his eyes.
Sailor: “What is your name?”
Boy: “Har. I am from Streymoy.”
He rowed him back across the sound to Streymoy and brought him to Lära, his mother. Gratefully the boy embraced the neck of his rescuer at parting. The father’s body was washed ashore by the waves. The sailor’s name was Manor. He was an orphan, four years older than Har. He grew fond of him, longed to see him again. Now and then he rowed over to Streymoy, or when summer came, he swam across the lukewarm waves in the evening when the day’s work was done. Har went to the shore, climbed a cliff, and waved his kerchief when he saw Manor’s boat coming from afar. Then they stayed together for an hour or two. They rowed out when the sea was calm and sang sailors’ songs. Or they undressed, plunged into the waves, and swam to the nearby sandbank opposite, sending the seals who were sunning themselves on the sand to flight. Or they went into the dark‑green forest of tall firs, whose rustling tops proclaimed the speech of Thor, or sat on a stone under the branches of an old beech. They chatted and made plans. If ever a whaling ship came, they would both go with it. And when they sat on the stone, Manor laid his arm around Har’s shoulders and called him “My Boy”; and the boy felt no greater happiness than when Manor so embraced him. If Manor came late, he walked quietly to the lilac bush that shaded Har’s window and tapped on the panes. Har awoke and stole out to him. He felt so happy whenever he could be with Manor.
II.
A Danish three‑masted ship arrived, anchored in Vágar’s sheltered bay, and sought sailors for a two‑month voyage to hunt whales. Manor went aboard. The captain accepted the slender, youthful lad at once. Har wanted to go along as cabin‑boy. But Lära, upon hearing this, lamented, “You are my only child! The sea swallowed your father. Will you leave me as well?” Har stayed behind. Manor departed. The ship weighed anchor.
Two months had passed, and winter already chilled the air again. Har often climbed the cliff and looked into the distance, and one morning he saw the ship approaching. He waved his kerchief joyfully. But the weather was stormy, and the surf ran high. The ship steered toward Vágar’s bay. Unable to reach Vágar, it was driven into the dangerous reefs of Streymoy and wrecked before Har’s eyes. He saw how the shipwrecked men struggled against the waves. He caught sight of one among them who seized a plank with a strong arm, but in the next moment was sucked down into the whirl of the surf along with the plank. He recognized him. It was Manor.
Many corpses were driven ashore by the tide. Straw was spread on the beach, and they were laid upon it, corpse beside corpse. Har helped, inspecting the bodies as they were laid out. Then they brought Manor’s corpse as well and laid it on the straw. There he lay before Har, with wet hair dripping seawater, eyes closed, cold, with pale lips and wan cheeks from which the blood had fled, slender of form, still beautiful to behold even in death. “So, Manor, this is how I must see you again!” he cried out and threw himself sobbing over the beloved body, and tasted for one last moment the bliss of embracing him.
They carried the corpses across the sound and buried them that same day in the sand‑dunes of Vágar.
Two months had passed, and winter already chilled the air again. Har often climbed the cliff and looked into the distance, and one morning he saw the ship approaching. He waved his kerchief joyfully. But the weather was stormy, and the surf ran high. The ship steered toward Vágar’s bay. Unable to reach Vágar, it was driven into the dangerous reefs of Streymoy and wrecked before Har’s eyes. He saw how the shipwrecked men struggled against the waves. He caught sight of one among them who seized a plank with a strong arm, but in the next moment was sucked down into the whirl of the surf along with the plank. He recognized him. It was Manor.
Many corpses were driven ashore by the tide. Straw was spread on the beach, and they were laid upon it, corpse beside corpse. Har helped, inspecting the bodies as they were laid out. Then they brought Manor’s corpse as well and laid it on the straw. There he lay before Har, with wet hair dripping seawater, eyes closed, cold, with pale lips and wan cheeks from which the blood had fled, slender of form, still beautiful to behold even in death. “So, Manor, this is how I must see you again!” he cried out and threw himself sobbing over the beloved body, and tasted for one last moment the bliss of embracing him.
They carried the corpses across the sound and buried them that same day in the sand‑dunes of Vágar.
III.
In the evening Har sat in the hut, gloomy and silent. Lära wished to comfort him. But he wanted no comfort; he cursed the gods. He went to bed. He could not fall asleep. Toward midnight he sank into half‑slumber.
Then a noise awakened him. He looked up. It was outside at the window. The branches of the lilac bush bent, and its dry leaves rustled. The window was opened, and a figure climbed inside. Ha! He recognized the figure! Despite the darkness he had recognized it at once! With slow steps it came forward and lay down beside him in the bed. Har trembled, but he did not resist. It stroked his cheeks, but with a cold hand—oh, so cold, so cold! A fever‑chill ran through him. It kissed the warm, quivering boyish mouth with ice‑cold lips. He felt the visitor’s wet garment; wet hair hung down onto his forehead. A shudder passed through him. But it was mixed with bliss. The figure sighed. To him it sounded as though it wished to say:
“Longing drove me here to you! I find no rest in the grave!”
Har did not dare to speak. He scarcely dared to breathe. And already the figure rose. It sighed as though it wished to say:
“Now I must go back again!”
It climbed onto the window‑ledge and departed as it had come.
“Manor has been here,” Har whispered to himself.
That same night a fisherman from Streymoy was out in the sound with his boat. The sea glimmered. Shimmering sparks seemed to drip from his oar. Then, shortly before midnight, he heard a strange rushing. He saw something shoot through the sparkling waves, something whose shape he could not distinguish, moving with the speed of a large fish, heading toward Streymoy. It was not a fish — that much he could make out in the darkness.
The next night Manor came again, ice‑cold as before, yet more ardent. He embraced the boy with cold arms; kissed his cheek and mouth; laid his head upon the soft breast. Har trembled. His heart began to beat under this intimate embrace. And Manor laid his head directly upon the beating heart. The lips sought the gently swelling muscle above the heart, which moved with the beating. There he began to suck, yearning and thirsty, like an infant at its mother’s breast. But after only a few moments he stopped; rose; departed. Har felt as though some suckling creature had filled itself upon him.
Again that night the fisherman busied himself in the strait. At exactly the same hour as the night before, the rushing came again. This time it passed close by him. In the pale moonlight he could see: it was a swimming human being. He swam lying on his right side, as sailors sometimes swim, but clothed in a shroud. The swimmer seemed not to notice him at all, though his face was turned toward him. He swam with closed eyes. The sight was so uncanny to the fisherman that he drew in his spread nets and rowed away.
Over the following nights Manor returned. He sometimes embraced the boy while he slept, for now and then sleep overcame him until Manor arrived. Then he awoke in his embrace. Each time the lips sought the soft rise above the heart. When day came, Har sometimes saw a faint droplet of blood still pearling from his left nipple. He wiped it away with his shirt. Sometimes a droplet had already run into the shirt by itself. Only on the full‑moon night did he not come.
A dead man is often filled with an intense longing for one or another of the loved ones he left behind, a drive so powerful that he leaves the grave at night and comes to him. For it is an ancient belief that Urda grants some a brief half‑life at midnight and then bestows strange powers from beyond the grave. It occurs especially to young people snatched away by bitter death in the bloom of their years. The returning one is also filled with great need for blood and warmth. Then he thirsts for the fresh blood of the living and, like a lover, to embrace. But he also shares his great longing and thereby often causes fierce torment.
Such is what happened here. Har tormented himself all day and pined away. Yet he awaited the night with impatience and longed for the blissful shudders of the midnight embrace.
Then a noise awakened him. He looked up. It was outside at the window. The branches of the lilac bush bent, and its dry leaves rustled. The window was opened, and a figure climbed inside. Ha! He recognized the figure! Despite the darkness he had recognized it at once! With slow steps it came forward and lay down beside him in the bed. Har trembled, but he did not resist. It stroked his cheeks, but with a cold hand—oh, so cold, so cold! A fever‑chill ran through him. It kissed the warm, quivering boyish mouth with ice‑cold lips. He felt the visitor’s wet garment; wet hair hung down onto his forehead. A shudder passed through him. But it was mixed with bliss. The figure sighed. To him it sounded as though it wished to say:
“Longing drove me here to you! I find no rest in the grave!”
Har did not dare to speak. He scarcely dared to breathe. And already the figure rose. It sighed as though it wished to say:
“Now I must go back again!”
It climbed onto the window‑ledge and departed as it had come.
“Manor has been here,” Har whispered to himself.
That same night a fisherman from Streymoy was out in the sound with his boat. The sea glimmered. Shimmering sparks seemed to drip from his oar. Then, shortly before midnight, he heard a strange rushing. He saw something shoot through the sparkling waves, something whose shape he could not distinguish, moving with the speed of a large fish, heading toward Streymoy. It was not a fish — that much he could make out in the darkness.
The next night Manor came again, ice‑cold as before, yet more ardent. He embraced the boy with cold arms; kissed his cheek and mouth; laid his head upon the soft breast. Har trembled. His heart began to beat under this intimate embrace. And Manor laid his head directly upon the beating heart. The lips sought the gently swelling muscle above the heart, which moved with the beating. There he began to suck, yearning and thirsty, like an infant at its mother’s breast. But after only a few moments he stopped; rose; departed. Har felt as though some suckling creature had filled itself upon him.
Again that night the fisherman busied himself in the strait. At exactly the same hour as the night before, the rushing came again. This time it passed close by him. In the pale moonlight he could see: it was a swimming human being. He swam lying on his right side, as sailors sometimes swim, but clothed in a shroud. The swimmer seemed not to notice him at all, though his face was turned toward him. He swam with closed eyes. The sight was so uncanny to the fisherman that he drew in his spread nets and rowed away.
Over the following nights Manor returned. He sometimes embraced the boy while he slept, for now and then sleep overcame him until Manor arrived. Then he awoke in his embrace. Each time the lips sought the soft rise above the heart. When day came, Har sometimes saw a faint droplet of blood still pearling from his left nipple. He wiped it away with his shirt. Sometimes a droplet had already run into the shirt by itself. Only on the full‑moon night did he not come.
A dead man is often filled with an intense longing for one or another of the loved ones he left behind, a drive so powerful that he leaves the grave at night and comes to him. For it is an ancient belief that Urda grants some a brief half‑life at midnight and then bestows strange powers from beyond the grave. It occurs especially to young people snatched away by bitter death in the bloom of their years. The returning one is also filled with great need for blood and warmth. Then he thirsts for the fresh blood of the living and, like a lover, to embrace. But he also shares his great longing and thereby often causes fierce torment.
Such is what happened here. Har tormented himself all day and pined away. Yet he awaited the night with impatience and longed for the blissful shudders of the midnight embrace.
IV.
About twelve days may have passed.
Lära said, “You are so pale and so wan. What is wrong with you, Har?”
He: “Nothing, Mother.”
She: “You are so quiet.”
He sighed.
In the last cottage of the village lived a wise woman who knew all sorts of secrets. The worried mother went to her. The wise woman cast rune‑sticks.
The wise woman said, “The dead are visiting him.”
Lära: “The dead?”
Wise woman: “Yes, at night; and someone must die from it if the visits are not stopped in time, before it is too late.”
Alarmed, Lära returned home.
She said, “Is it true, Har? Are you receiving visits from the dead?”
He looked down at the ground. “Manor has been here,” he said softly, and sank weeping against her breast.
She: “May the gods be merciful to you!”
He: “The gods? Bah! What can the gods do for me now! When he clung to the plank — oh woe, oh woe! — then was the time to be merciful to me, if they wished. But mercilessly they let him sink. How dearly I loved him!”
Now she also noticed the blood‑stains on his shirt. She went to the village elders. They rowed across to Vágar with mother and son, and they took the wise woman with them. They said to the Vágar folk:
“Your graves do not stay shut. One leaves his grave every night, comes over to us, and sucks himself full on the blood of this boy.”
The Vágar folk replied: “Then we shall fasten him down.”
They took a fir‑wood stake, the length of a man and thicker than an arm, which they hewed square with an axe, sharpening it to a point for a foot’s length at the bottom. They went to the dunes; one carried the stake, another a heavy axe. They opened Manor’s grave. There he lay before them, quiet and still, in his shroud.
One man of Vágar said, “Look! He still lies just as we laid him.”
The wise woman: “Because he always puts himself back into the old position.”
Another man of Vágar: “His face is almost fresher than before.”
The wise woman: “No wonder. Har’s face is all the paler for it.”
Har climbed down and threw himself once more over the beloved corpse.
“Manor! Manor!” he cried with a voice full of anguish. “They want to stake you. Manor, awaken! Open your eyes! Your Har is calling you!”
But he did not open his eyes. Motionless he lay under Har’s embrace, just as he had twelve days earlier on the straw at the shore.
Har did not want to let him go. They tore him away. They set the point of the stake upon Manor’s breast. Har groaned. He fell upon his mother’s neck. On her shoulder he hid his face.
“Mother!” he cried out, “why have you done this to me!”
He heard the flat back of the axe fall upon the stake and the stake groan. A heavy blow; another blow; and then half a dozen more.
One man of Vágar said: “Now he is fastened!”
And another: “He will stop coming back now.”
They carried Har away, half fainting. “Now he will leave you in peace, my dear child!” Lära said when they were back in their hut.
Sorrowfully he went to bed. “Now he will come no more!” he said mournfully to himself. He was tired and weak. But restless and without peace he tossed on his bed. Slowly the minutes crept; sluggishly the hours crawled by. Midnight came, and still no sleep had settled upon his lashes.
Listen! What is that? In the lilac bush … — But no; that was impossible. And yet! Again, as before, the branches rustled outside the window. The window opened. Manor was there again. He sighed deeply. He had a great wound in his breast, square, and going through to the back. He lay down beside Har again, embraced him, and sucked. Sucked more yearningly than before and more thirstily.
But Lära kept watch that night in the next room; she listened and trembled. Early in the morning she came in and approached Har’s bed.
She: “My poor child! He has been here again.”
He: “Yes, Mother; he has been with me again.”
The bed was stained with corpse‑blood that had dripped from the great wound.
Lära said, “You are so pale and so wan. What is wrong with you, Har?”
He: “Nothing, Mother.”
She: “You are so quiet.”
He sighed.
In the last cottage of the village lived a wise woman who knew all sorts of secrets. The worried mother went to her. The wise woman cast rune‑sticks.
The wise woman said, “The dead are visiting him.”
Lära: “The dead?”
Wise woman: “Yes, at night; and someone must die from it if the visits are not stopped in time, before it is too late.”
Alarmed, Lära returned home.
She said, “Is it true, Har? Are you receiving visits from the dead?”
He looked down at the ground. “Manor has been here,” he said softly, and sank weeping against her breast.
She: “May the gods be merciful to you!”
He: “The gods? Bah! What can the gods do for me now! When he clung to the plank — oh woe, oh woe! — then was the time to be merciful to me, if they wished. But mercilessly they let him sink. How dearly I loved him!”
Now she also noticed the blood‑stains on his shirt. She went to the village elders. They rowed across to Vágar with mother and son, and they took the wise woman with them. They said to the Vágar folk:
“Your graves do not stay shut. One leaves his grave every night, comes over to us, and sucks himself full on the blood of this boy.”
The Vágar folk replied: “Then we shall fasten him down.”
They took a fir‑wood stake, the length of a man and thicker than an arm, which they hewed square with an axe, sharpening it to a point for a foot’s length at the bottom. They went to the dunes; one carried the stake, another a heavy axe. They opened Manor’s grave. There he lay before them, quiet and still, in his shroud.
One man of Vágar said, “Look! He still lies just as we laid him.”
The wise woman: “Because he always puts himself back into the old position.”
Another man of Vágar: “His face is almost fresher than before.”
The wise woman: “No wonder. Har’s face is all the paler for it.”
Har climbed down and threw himself once more over the beloved corpse.
“Manor! Manor!” he cried with a voice full of anguish. “They want to stake you. Manor, awaken! Open your eyes! Your Har is calling you!”
But he did not open his eyes. Motionless he lay under Har’s embrace, just as he had twelve days earlier on the straw at the shore.
Har did not want to let him go. They tore him away. They set the point of the stake upon Manor’s breast. Har groaned. He fell upon his mother’s neck. On her shoulder he hid his face.
“Mother!” he cried out, “why have you done this to me!”
He heard the flat back of the axe fall upon the stake and the stake groan. A heavy blow; another blow; and then half a dozen more.
One man of Vágar said: “Now he is fastened!”
And another: “He will stop coming back now.”
They carried Har away, half fainting. “Now he will leave you in peace, my dear child!” Lära said when they were back in their hut.
Sorrowfully he went to bed. “Now he will come no more!” he said mournfully to himself. He was tired and weak. But restless and without peace he tossed on his bed. Slowly the minutes crept; sluggishly the hours crawled by. Midnight came, and still no sleep had settled upon his lashes.
Listen! What is that? In the lilac bush … — But no; that was impossible. And yet! Again, as before, the branches rustled outside the window. The window opened. Manor was there again. He sighed deeply. He had a great wound in his breast, square, and going through to the back. He lay down beside Har again, embraced him, and sucked. Sucked more yearningly than before and more thirstily.
But Lära kept watch that night in the next room; she listened and trembled. Early in the morning she came in and approached Har’s bed.
She: “My poor child! He has been here again.”
He: “Yes, Mother; he has been with me again.”
The bed was stained with corpse‑blood that had dripped from the great wound.
V.
A few hours later another boat rowed across the sound, but now without Har. They went again to the dunes, and again they opened the grave. The square stake still stood in the grave, but no longer in Manor’s breast. Instead, he lay bent beside the stake. The stake prevented him from lying stretched out.
The wise woman said, “He was able to free himself. The stake is the same thickness at top and bottom.”
One of the men of Vágar said: “He wound himself upward along the stake from below.”
Another said: “It must have taken him inhuman exertion.”
On the wise woman’s advice, they hewed this time a stronger stake, which they left twice as thick at the top as at the bottom, so that it looked like a nail with a head. They pulled out the old stake and pinned him down with this one.
“So! Now he is nailed down,” the axe-man said when he gave the stake its final blow on the head.
Another man from Vágar said: “Let him twist and turn; he will not free himself from that one.”
Lära returned to Har and told him what had happened. “Now it is over,” he said to himself as he went to bed. Sleepless he lay there. Midnight came. Yet all remained still. Nothing rustled outside the window in the branches of the lilac bush. No swimmer again startled the fisherman at night by cutting through the waves of the strait with closed eyes.
Lära said, “Now you have peace from him. He tormented you so.”
He: “Oh Mother! Mother! He did not torment me!”
He pined away in futile longing. “Mother,” he said, “now it is all over with me.” He wasted away and could no longer rise from the bed.
She: “You are so tired and so weak, my dear son!”
He: “He is drawing me down to himself.”
One morning she sat at his bed while he still slept. A month had passed since the shipwreck. It was early. She wept. Then he opened his eyes.
“Mother,” he said in a weak voice, “I must die.”
She: “Oh no, my child! You shall not die so young!”
He: “Yes, yes! He has been with me again. We spoke together. We sat on the stone under the old beech in the forest as before; he put his arm around my neck again and called me ‘My Boy.’ Tonight he will come again and fetch me. He promised me. I cannot endure it without him.”
She bent over him and her tears flowed abundantly onto his bed. “My poor child!” she said, and laid her hand on his forehead.
When night came, she lit a lamp and kept watch beside his bed. He lay still, did not sleep, and gazed silently ahead.
He: “Mother!”
She: “What do you want, my good son?”
He: “Bury me in his grave with him! Yes? And when you do, please pull the dreadful stake from his breast!”
She promised him with a squeeze of his hand and a kiss.
He: “Oh, how sweet it must be to lie with him in the grave!”
Then midnight approached. Suddenly his features became transfigured. He raised his head a little, as though listening for something. With shining eyes, he looked toward the window and the branches of the lilac bush.
“See, Mother, there he comes!”
Those were his last words. His eyes glazed over.
He sank back into the pillow and passed away.
And they did as he had asked.
The wise woman said, “He was able to free himself. The stake is the same thickness at top and bottom.”
One of the men of Vágar said: “He wound himself upward along the stake from below.”
Another said: “It must have taken him inhuman exertion.”
On the wise woman’s advice, they hewed this time a stronger stake, which they left twice as thick at the top as at the bottom, so that it looked like a nail with a head. They pulled out the old stake and pinned him down with this one.
“So! Now he is nailed down,” the axe-man said when he gave the stake its final blow on the head.
Another man from Vágar said: “Let him twist and turn; he will not free himself from that one.”
Lära returned to Har and told him what had happened. “Now it is over,” he said to himself as he went to bed. Sleepless he lay there. Midnight came. Yet all remained still. Nothing rustled outside the window in the branches of the lilac bush. No swimmer again startled the fisherman at night by cutting through the waves of the strait with closed eyes.
Lära said, “Now you have peace from him. He tormented you so.”
He: “Oh Mother! Mother! He did not torment me!”
He pined away in futile longing. “Mother,” he said, “now it is all over with me.” He wasted away and could no longer rise from the bed.
She: “You are so tired and so weak, my dear son!”
He: “He is drawing me down to himself.”
One morning she sat at his bed while he still slept. A month had passed since the shipwreck. It was early. She wept. Then he opened his eyes.
“Mother,” he said in a weak voice, “I must die.”
She: “Oh no, my child! You shall not die so young!”
He: “Yes, yes! He has been with me again. We spoke together. We sat on the stone under the old beech in the forest as before; he put his arm around my neck again and called me ‘My Boy.’ Tonight he will come again and fetch me. He promised me. I cannot endure it without him.”
She bent over him and her tears flowed abundantly onto his bed. “My poor child!” she said, and laid her hand on his forehead.
When night came, she lit a lamp and kept watch beside his bed. He lay still, did not sleep, and gazed silently ahead.
He: “Mother!”
She: “What do you want, my good son?”
He: “Bury me in his grave with him! Yes? And when you do, please pull the dreadful stake from his breast!”
She promised him with a squeeze of his hand and a kiss.
He: “Oh, how sweet it must be to lie with him in the grave!”
Then midnight approached. Suddenly his features became transfigured. He raised his head a little, as though listening for something. With shining eyes, he looked toward the window and the branches of the lilac bush.
“See, Mother, there he comes!”
Those were his last words. His eyes glazed over.
He sank back into the pillow and passed away.
And they did as he had asked.
Aquila, 22–30 July, 1884.
C. E. Ulrichs.
