“Have you made any decisions about your papers?”
“No. That will have to be as it may. It depends upon Providence,
to which I submit. But in addition to this, I am financially ruined, and
now I have nothing, only enough to pay my funeral expenses.”That same Sunday, Kierkegaard was visited by his brother-in-law Johan
Christian Lund, who brought along his daughter Sophie as well as his fif-
teen-year-old nephew, Troels Frederik Lund. Troels could remember how
the sick man, pale and thin, had sat, all bent over, in a tall armchair, and had
greeted him with a tired but friendly smile. The visitors had been slightly ill
at ease because the cool, clinical air of the hospital had stimulated Johan
Christian Lund’s pronounced hypochondria. When he asked Kierkegaard
how he felt and what was really wrong with him, he received a laconic
reply: “Things are as you see them. I myself know no more.” Johan Chris-
tian Lund found these words, in all their simplicity, both unsatisfactory and
threatening, and he almost lost his head: “No! Listen. Do you know what,
Søren? So help me God, there is nothing wrong with you except your old
and unreasonable habit of letting your back slouch over. The position you
are sitting in would of course make anybody sick. Just straighten your back
and stand up and the sickness will disappear! I can tell you that!” Johan
Christian Lund could himself sense that his almost explosive reaction had
merely added insult to injury, and he fell silent. Sophie looked down at the
floor while Troels stole a glance at Kierkegaard and their eyes met for a split
second: “Through the sadness there gleamed a look of gentle tolerance,
combined with the playful, provocative glint of a subversive proclivity to
laughter, and a sense of fun—this was instantly captivating, and we looked
at each other in happy conspiracy....This tone ran, as it were, through
the entire gamut of feelings, from a schoolboy’s sparkling laughter to a pene-
trating and all-forgiving glance.... It was as if allexpression had been
drained from his bodily movements, indeed, even from his facial features,
and had been concentrated all the more strongly in his eyes alone. They
shone with a soulfulness that made an indelible impression....Astheyoun-
gest, I extended him my hand last, looked into his incredible eyes one more
time, and said, shyly and with emotion, ‘Good-bye and a good recovery!’”
TUESDAY,OCTOBER16. Urination was still involuntary and very fre-
quent. Kierkegaard had now been constipated for three days. Castor oil
had been tried a number of times, but now aclysma sebumwas prescribed,
a laxative rectal injection of a soapy solution. It worked. At night, one of
the night nurses sat in his room. The head night nurse was named Ilia
Fibiger, who spoke with him regularly, expressing her enthusiasm for his