The Death of Chopin
“Mother Louise and daughter Louise” hurried to him at once. Calasante
accompanied them. Chopin would have greatly liked to see again the
friend of his youth, Titus, who had just arrived at Ostend. But as
he was a Russian subject, passport difficulties prevented him from
entering France. “The doctors do not allow me to travel,” wrote the
invalid, who had hoped to be able to go to meet him. “I drink Pyrenees
water in my room, but your presence would be more healing than any
medicine. Yours even in death, your Frederick.”
About six weeks glided by without any improvement. Chopin hardly spoke
any more and made himself understood by signs. A consultation took
place between the Doctors Cruveillé, Louis and Blache. They decided
that any change to the South of France was thenceforth useless, but
that it would be preferable to take the dying man to quarters that
could be heated, and were more convenient, and very airy. After long
search, they found what they needed at No. 12, Place Vendôme. Chopin
was carried there. One last time he took up his pen to write to
Franchomme. “I shall see you next winter, being settled at last in a
comfortable manner. My sister will remain with me unless they should
call her back for something important, I love you, that is all that I
can say for the moment because I am crushed with fatigue and weakness.”
Charles Gavard, the young brother of one of his pupils, often came to
see him and read to him. Chopin indicated his preferences. He returned
with the greatest pleasure to Voltaire’s _Dictionnaire Philosophique_,
in which he appreciated especially the form, the conciseness, and the
impeccable taste. It was, in fact, the chapter on “The Different Tastes
of Peoples” that Gavard read to him one of the last times.
His condition grew rapidly worse; yet he complained little. The
thought of his end did not seem to affect him much. In the first days
of October he had no longer strength enough to sit up. The spells of
suffocation grew worse. Gutmann, who was very tall and robust, knew
better than any how to hold him, to settle him in his pillows. Princess
Marceline Czartoryska again took up her service as nurse, spending the
greater part of her days at the Place Vendôme. Franchomme came back
from the country. The family and friends assembled about the dying man
ready to help as they could. All of them waited in the room next to
that in which Chopin lived his last days.
One of his childhood friends, Abbé Alexandre Jelowiçki, with whom he
had been on cold terms, wanted to see him again when he learned of
the gravity of his illness. Three times in succession they refused
to receive him; but the Abbé succeeded in informing Chopin of his
presence, and was admitted immediately. After that he came back every
day. Chopin had great pleasure in recovering this comrade of other days.
“I would not like to die,” he said, “without having received the
sacraments, lest I should pain my mother; but I do not understand them
as you wish. I can see nothing in confession beyond the relief of a
burdened heart on the heart of a friend.”
The Abbé has related that on the 13th of October, in the morning, he
found Chopin a little better.
“My friend,” the Abbé said, “to-day is the birthday of my poor dead
brother. You must give me something for this day.”
“What can I give you?”
“Your soul.”
“Ah! I understand,” cried Frederick. “Here it is. Take it.”
Jelowiçki fell on his knees and presented the Crucifix to Chopin,
who began to weep. He immediately confessed, made his communion, and
received extreme unction. Then he said, embracing his friend with
both arms in the Polish fashion: “Thank you, dear friend. Thanks to
you I shan’t die like a pig.” That day was calmer, but the fits of
suffocation began again very shortly. As Gutmann was holding him in
his arms during one of these wearing attacks, Chopin said after a long
breathless silence:
“Now I begin my agony.”
The doctor felt his pulse and sought for a reassuring word, but Chopin
went on with authority:
“It is a rare favour that God gives to a man in revealing the moment
when his agony begins; this grace He has given to me. Do not disturb
me.”
It was that evening also that Franchomme heard him murmur: “Still, she
told me that I should not die except in her arms.”
On Sunday the 15th of October his friend Delphine Potoçka arrived from
Nice, whence a telegram had recalled her. When Chopin knew that she was
in his drawing-room he said: “So that is why God has delayed calling me
to Him. He wanted to let me have the pleasure of seeing her again.”
She had hardly approached his bed when the dying man expressed the
desire to hear the voice that he had loved. They pushed the piano on
to the threshold of the room. Smothering her sobs, the Countess sang.
In the general emotion no one could remember later on, with certainty,
what pieces she chose. Yet at the request of Chopin she sang twice.
Suddenly they heard the death-rattle. The piano was pushed back, and
all knelt down. Yet that was not the end, and he lived through that
night. On the 16th his voice failed, and he lost consciousness for
several hours. But he came to himself, made a sign that he wished to
write, and placed on a sheet of paper his last wish:
“_As this Earth will smother me I conjure you to have my body opened so
that I may not be buried alive._”
Later he again recovered the feeble use of his voice. Then he said:
“You will find many compositions more or less sketched out; I beg of
you, by the love you bear me, to burn them all, with the exception of
the beginning of a _Method_, which I bequeath to Alkan and Reber to
make some use of it. The rest, without exception, must be burned, for
I have a great respect for the public, and my efforts are as finished
as it has been in my power to make them. I will not have my name made
responsible for the circulation of works unworthy of the public.”
Then he made his farewells to each of them. Calling Princess Marceline
and Mlle. Gavard, he said to them: “When you make music together, think
of me, and I shall hear you.” Addressing Franchomme: “Play Mozart in
memory of me.” All that night Abbé Jelowiçki recited the prayers for
the dying, which they all repeated together. Chopin alone remained
mute; life now revealed itself only by nervous spasms. Gutmann held
his hand between his own, and from time to time gave him something to
drink. “Dear friend,” murmured Chopin once. His face became black and
rigid. The doctor bent over him and asked if he suffered. “No more,”
replied Chopin. This was the last word. A few instants later they saw
that he had ceased to live.
It was the 17th of October, 1849, at two o’clock in the morning.
They all went out to weep.
From the early morning hours Chopin’s favourite flowers were brought
in quantities. Clésinger came to make the death-mask. Kwiatkowski made
several sketches. He said to Jane Stirling, because he understood how
much she loved him: “He was as pure as a tear.”