Soren Kierkegaard

back and forth, unable to bring himself to do more than say “dear friend”
over and over again, addressing no one in particular. This peculiar scene
made Kierkegaard think of a similar episode a year and a half earlier, when
he had called on the bishop to find out what he thought ofWorks of Love,
and even at that time it had been quite a while since the bishop had received
the book, replete with a high-flown dedication in which Kierkegaard ex-
pressed his profound devotion to the bishop. On that occasion Kierkegaard
had scarcely come in the door before the bishop had asked rather pointedly,
“Was there anything you wanted?” And indeed, there was—quite a bit, in
fact—but not on the conditions offered.
Among other things, Kierkegaard now wanted to speak with Mynster
about the possibility of an appointment to the Pastoral Seminary. Kierke-
gaard had raised the matter earlier, in March 1849, but that visit had in fact
primarily served as an occasion for Kierkegaard to prove to himself that he
actually could seek a position: “If someone offered it to me, it would hardly
tempt me.” Later he had repeated the attempt, though he did not get to see
the bishop, and he had left the bishop’s residence yet again with the
strangely mixed feelings of relief and indignation typical of a person unable
to decide what he really wants. He had also called upon J. N. Madvig,
minister of church and education, but he, too, had been unavailable. So, a
while later he had gone yet again to see Mynster, who wanted to have
Kierkegaard as far out of the way as possible and therefore had tried to
palm off on him a pastoral appointment in the most faraway rural parish
imaginable. “As soon as you become involved in the practical affairs of life,
it will surely disappear.” “What?” Kierkegaard had asked. “The ideality,”
Mynster had replied, without the least hint of irony.
Kierkegaard had found the remark embarrassing, but in a way he shared
thesamegoalsthat“thevery reverendold man”cherished,excepthe wanted
them “in a major key.” This was one of the main points Kierkegaard now
wanted to make at the bishop’s residence that Monday, June 25, 1849, but
his musical metaphor disintegrated into dissonance. For when Mynster fi-
nally showed up, he once again performed his strange pantomime, repeating
his “ ‘dear friend,’ probably six or seven times” like a mechanical doll, all
the while being very much the bishop, clapping his former confirmand on
the shoulder. “Come again another time,” he said with a strangely off-put-
ting receptiveness, pushing an indignant Kierkegaard backward and down
the stairs, then home to his writing desk, where he finally recovered his
composure when his pen rasped poisonously across the pages of his journal.
Mynster had often caused Kierkegaard’s pen to behave in this manner,
but in recent years the intervals between the venomous patches had become
shorter and shorter, and Mynster earned the dubious honor of being the