Soren Kierkegaard

was the last stop before the journey’s mythic destination, Sædding. Never
hadhebeensoclosetohisfamily’spointoforigin:“Isitherequitealone—
itistruethatIhaveoftenbeenequallyalone,butIwasnotsoconsciousof
it—countingthehoursuntilIseeSædding.Icannotrecallthereeverhaving
beenanychangeinmyfather,andnowIwillseetheplaceswhereasapoor
boyhetendedsheep,placesforwhichIhavefelthomesicknessonaccount
ofhisdescriptions.WhatifInowweretofallillandbeburiedinSædding
Cemetery! Strange thought. His last wish for me is fulfilled. Could this
really be thewhole of my earthly destiny?In the name ofGod! Yet, com-
pared with what I owe him, the task was not so little.” Kierkegaard had
consideredthepossibilityofpreaching—forhisfirsttimeever—inSædding,
andhesawtohisamazementthatthetextfortheday—justnow,whenhe
found himself in the poorest parish on the moors of Jutland—was the pas-
sage in the Gospel of Mark about the feeding of the five thousand in the
wilderness. A mysterious coincidence, but the idea of giving a sermon re-
mained an idea only.
From Ringkøbing his carriage traveled the last part of the journey, past
thevillageofLemandthemarshdownnearLøvdrup.Beyond,onthehazy
horizon, he could make out a low, unsteepled, granite church. He drove
intoSædding,wherehisAuntElsecametoherdoortowelcomethesecond
ofherdistinguishednephewsfromCopenhagen.Whenheenteredthelow-
ceilingedroomshecouldverifybybothsightandscentthatwhatElsehad
saidaboutherlivingconditionsbeingpoorhadnotbeenfalsemodesty,but
the sorry truth. The destination for this journey of many, many miles, and
theobjectofequallymanyreveredandcherishedimaginings,turnedoutto
beapigstyinwhichanoldwoman,cloakedinrags,hadtakenupresidence!
EventhoughhewasinSæddingSunday,Monday,andTuesday(August
2–4), except for one or two entries, the pocket notebook in which he
generallynotedthingsverydiligentlyisalmostentirelysilentabouthisstay
atElse’s. And,true toform, whenhedid writesomething down,it wasto
capturethenaturalsetting:“Standingoutsidethedoorwayofthelittleplace
in the last light of evening, in the aroma that hay always gives off; the
foreground is furnished by the sheep drifting home; dark clouds, broken
through here and there by bright beams of light, the sort of clouds that
precede a windstorm; the moor looms up in the background—if only I
could truly remember the impression of this evening.” The other journal
entry is more laconic, less lyrical, and looks something like a parable that
Kierkegaardneitherwanted—nordared—topushtoitsconclusion:“They
say that here in Sædding parish there is a house in which, during the time
of the plague, there lived a man who survived everyone else and buried
them. He dug deep furrows in the heather and buried the bodies in long