1835
The Still Voices of the Dead
Apparently the family tragedies that periodically plunged Peter Christian
into complete inactivity had no effect, or perhaps even the opposite effect,
on his younger brother. Søren Aabye’s journals, to which he devoted more
and more attention as time went by, are as silent as the grave in regard to
deaths, without even so much as a little cross to note them. Therefore it is
all the more striking when one suddenly reads the following: “I have had
grief since I last wrote you. One of the signs by which you will perceive
this is the black sealing wax that I have had to use—despite the fact that I
generally abhor this sort of external indicator—since nothing else is to be
had in our grieving family. Yes, my brother is dead. But curiously enough
I am not really grieving overhim, but on the contrary I am dominated by
my grief over my [other] brother, who died many years ago. In general I
notice that my grief is not momentary but increases over time.”
This is a carefully drawn little study of the displacement, postponement,
and growth of grief; it has a definite literary character and style that gives a
biographer pause. The piece has the appearance of being one of several
letters to an acquaintance to inform him of the death of an unnamed
brother, whocouldbe Niels Andreas, just as the other brothercouldbe Søren
Michael. But not uncharacteristically, the words float above the actual
events with a special sort of pathos and buoyancy, heading off in the direc-
tion of a short story or whatever is intended that requires black sealing wax
and other romantic accoutrements for its realization. Kierkegaard’s journal
entry wavers between reality and the artistic reproduction of reality. And
thus in one and the same movement he works through his grief and perfects
his pen.
Incidentally, all other sources are silent concerning his mental state at this
time—even the Rudelbach sisters! But in his memoirs Martensen recollects
that he himself had been out of the country at the time, and that Kierkegaard
therefore had occasionally called on his [Martensen’s] mother to hear news
of him. During one such visit Kierkegaard, in “deep sorrow,” told Mar-
tensen’s mother of the death of his own mother. Martensen: “My mother
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