might regard as fortunate in life came by and never forgot to say ‘Good
morning’andoccasionallyalsotoexchangeafewwordswithher....How
hearteningitisinsomanywaysfortheclassofpeoplewhomustotherwise
stand and wait in anterooms, who are hardly permitted to say a single
word—howhearteningitisthatthereisonepersonwhomtheyalwayssee
onthestreet,apersonwhomtheycanapproachandtalkwithfreely.”
People beyond the ramparts of the city might also benefit from Kierke-
gaard’sunaffectedpresence.ThusH.C.Rostedrecountshowforanumber
ofyearsthemagisterwasafrequentguestattheMailCoachInninHørsholm
innorthernZealand,wherehiscarriagewouldcomesweepinginsothathe
couldspend theday in the romanticsurroundings: “Often he stoodout in
the cow barn and chatted with the herdsman, and sometimes he could be
seensittingoutbytheroadwithanoldstonebreaker.Heespeciallytalked
with the stone breaker a good deal, and when the latter met people from
theinnhewouldalwaysask,‘WhenistheMagistercoming?’—andheliked
toaddthattheMagisterwassuchafinemantotalkwith.”
The free and easy atmosphere at the Mail Coach Inn was particularly
attributabletotheladyofthehouse,MissReinhard,whowasinchargeof
food service and had the splendid first name Regine! It was said that she
hadan“extraordinarilyhigh”opinionofKierkegaard,andinfactthefamily
would sometimes tease her, calling Kierkegaard her “flame.” The feelings
mayhavebeenreciprocatedtoacertainextentbecauseforthissecondRe-
gine, Kierkegaard “always [brought along] a copy of the writings he pub-
lished.” And unlike thefirstRegine, thesecondRegine had the requisite
religiousfoundation.Atonepointin1855,whenoneoftheyoungerfamily
members caught her sitting and reading an issue ofThe Momentand asked
herifshecouldreallyunderstandwhatshewasreading,sheansweredindig-
nantly:“DoIunderstandit?Yes,youcanbelieveIunderstandeveryword.”
AndReginealsoknewhowtoprepareavealcutletsothatittasteddivine
and remembered to have on hand the correct Rhine wine—liebfraumilch
(whichKierkegaardlovedespeciallybecauseofitsname).And,finally,she
knewthatshewastoservethedozenboiledprunesthatthebrilliantguest’s
sluggishstomachrequired.
NowthatwasarealRegine!
“Yes, of Course, I Am an Aristocrat—”
The city is a metaphor for Kierkegaard’s work as an author—changeable
anddisquieting—anditcouldtakealmostnotimetomovefromthelight-
filled, elegantly beveled neoclassical plazas to the cacophony of the dark