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King’s continued association with Napoleon, Denmark was plunged into economic chaos. Increasing inflation led the National Bank to declare bankruptcy and in 1813 the Danish “rixdollar” (r.d.) was drastically devalued. In adult life, Søren was clearly aware of the pall that money matters cast over his own identity and that of his family:
I was born in 1813 , in that bad fiscal year when so many other bad banknotes were put in circulation, and my life seems most comparable to one of them. There is a suggestion of greatness in me, but because of the bad conditions of the times I am not worth very much. A banknote like that sometimes becomes a family’s misfortune.
    There is, however, layer upon layer of irony here, as Søren knew full well. For the Kierkegaard family’s misfortune was not monetary.
    Through clever investments and good luck, Michael actually emerged from this time of financial chaos in fine fettle. It was announced that the Royal Bonds that he had invested in would not become “bad banknotes” like the rest of Danish currency. Spared from the effects of inflation, the Kierkegaard family was not forced into poverty in 1813. Indeed the money would go on to become the foundation for Søren’s inheritance, underwriting his literary career and attack upon the Establishment. Michael was wealthier than ever, the Kierkegaards were supported, and, much to his family’s future chagrin, Søren was set up to lob a different kind of rocket-propelled bomb at the sleepy citizens of Copenhagen.
    The constant awareness of money in the family took the form of frugality, which itself was inextricable from the note of tight paternal control that pervaded the home. Henriette Lund remembered of her grandfather: “Obedience was for him not merely a thing of great importance . . . it was the main prop of his life.” A servant recalled how Michael “ was not to be trifled with when he became angry. Not that he shouted or used abusive language, but the seriousness with which his reproaches were uttered made them sink more deeply than if he had made a scene.” Once, when sister Nicoline dropped an expensive soup tureen, Michael did not say a word. He did not need to. His silent disapproval was keenly felt. If he had flown into a rage, it might have been easier to deal with—easily mollified, soon dissipated, quickly forgotten. That this apparently trifling instance survived as a family anecdote long after the principal members had died is testament to the power Michael’s stern silence had over the children. More serious is the story of Søren’s elder brother Niels Andreas. Niels was a bookish lad who was keen to go to university. Michael decided instead that another Kierkegaard was needed to go into business. The two clashed. Niels lost to his implacable father and spent a few dutiful years trying his hand at Copenhagen trade. Niels was unhappy and unsuccessful, and he soon left to seek his fortune in America. The breach with his father was never healed.

    Michael Pedersen Kierkegaard, Søren’s father
    Niels’ story is especially sad because, in fact, Michael also loved reading and sported a keen intellect. Thus another dominant family note was that of lively debate, learned discussion, and constant discourse. In other words, the Kierkegaards liked to talk. A lot.
    When Søren set about crafting an intellectual autobiography of sorts in 1842 he had his pseudonymous stand-in, “Johannes Climacus,” recall the formative times the young lad had with his father. He was “ a very strict man , seemingly dry and prosaic, but beneath this rough homespun cloak he concealed a glowing imagination that not even his advanced age managed to dim.” Johannes asks to go out to play, but the father offers an imaginative conversation instead. Taking his son by the hand, the old man walks around and around the room. “ While they walked up and down the floor, his father would tell about everything they saw. They greeted the