Disappointment--Ill Health--Visit to England--Devotion of Friends--Last
Sacraments--Delphina Potocka--Louise--M. Gutman--Death.
FROM the date of 1840, the health of Chopin, affected by so many
changes, visibly declined. During some years, his most tranquil hours
were spent at Nohant, where he seemed to suffer less than elsewhere.
He composed there, with pleasure, bringing with him every year to Paris
several new compositions, but every winter caused him an increase of
suffering. Motion became at first difficult, and soon almost impossible
to him. From 1846 to 1847, he scarcely walked at all; he could not
ascend the staircase without the most painful sensation of suffocation,
and his life was only prolonged through continual care and the greatest
precaution.
Towards the Spring of 1847, as his health grew more precarious from day
to day, he was attacked by an illness from which it was thought he could
never recover. He was saved for the last time; but this epoch was marked
by an event so agonizing to his heart that he immediately called it
mortal. Indeed, he did not long survive the rupture of his friendship
with Madame Sand, which took place at this date. Madame de Stael, who,
in spite of her generous and impassioned heart, her subtle and vivid
intellect, fell sometimes into the fault of making her sentences
heavy through a species of pedantry which robbed them of the grace of
"abandon,"--remarked on one of those occasions when the strength of her
feelings made her forget the solemnity of her Genevese stiffness: "In
affection, there are only beginnings!"
This exclamation was based upon the bitter experience of the
insufficiency of the human heart to accomplish the beautiful and
blissful dreams of the imagination. Ah! if some blessed examples of
human devotion did not sometimes occur to contradict the melancholy
words of Madame de Stael, which so many illustrious as well as obscure
facts seem to prove, our suspicions might lead us to be guilty of much
ingratitude and want of trust; we might be led to doubt the sincerity
of the hearts which surround us, and see but the allegorical symbols of
human affections in the antique train of the beautiful Canephoroe, who
carried the fragile and perfumed flowers to adorn some hapless victim
for the altar!
Chopin spoke frequently and almost by preference of Madame Sand, without
bitterness or recrimination. Tears always filled his eyes when he named
her; but with a kind of bitter sweetness he gave himself up to the
memories of past days, alas, now. He stripped of their manifold
significance! In spite of the many subterfuges employed by his friends
to entice him from dwelling upon remembrances which always brought
dangerous excitement with them, he loved to return to them; as if
through the same feelings which had once reanimated his life, he now
wished to destroy it, sedulously stifling its powers through the vapor
of this subtle poison. His last pleasure seemed to be the memory of the
blasting of his last hope; he treasured the bitter knowledge that under
this fatal spell his life was ebbing fast away. All attempts to fix
his attention upon other objects were made in vain, he refused to be
comforted and would constantly speak of the one engrossing subject. Even
if he had ceased to speak of it, would he not always have thought of it?
He seemed to inhale the poison rapidly and eagerly, that he might thus
shorten the time in which he would be forced to breathe it!
Although the exceeding fragility of his physical constitution might
not have allowed him, under any circumstances, to have lingered long
on earth, yet at least he might have been spared the bitter sufferings
which clouded his last hours! With a tender and ardent soul, though
exacting through its fastidiousness and excessive delicacy, he could not
live unless surrounded by the radiant phantoms he had himself evoked;
he could not expel the profound sorrow which his heart cherished as
the sole remaining fragment of the happy past. He was another great
and illustrious victim to the transitory attachments occurring between
persons of different character, who, experiencing a surprise full of
delight in their first sudden meeting, mistake it for a durable feeling,
and build hopes and illusions upon it which can never be realized. It is
always the nature the most deeply moved, the most absolute in its hopes
and attachments, for which all transplantation is impossible, which is
destroyed and mined in the painful awakening from the absorbing dream!
Terrible power exercised over man by the most exquisite gifts which he
possesses! Like the coursers of the sun, when the hand of Phaeton, in
place of guiding their beneficent career, permits them to wander at
random, disordering the beautiful structure of the celestial spheres,
they bring devastation and flames in their train! Chopin felt and often
repeated that the sundering of this long friendship, the rupture of this
strong tie, broke all the chords which bound him to life.
During this attack his life was despaired of for several days. M.
Gutman, his most distinguished pupil, and during the last years of his
life, his most intimate friend, lavished upon him every proof of tender
attachment. His cares, his attentions, were the most agreeable to him.
With the timidity natural to invalids, and with the tender delicacy
peculiar to himself, he once asked the Princess Czartoryska, who visited
him every day, often fearing that on the morrow he would no longer be
among the living: "if Gutman was not very much fatigued? If she thought
he would be able to continue his care of him;" adding, "that his
presence was dearer to him than that of any other person." His
convalescence was very slow and painful, leaving him indeed but the
semblance of life. At this epoch he changed so much in appearance
that he could scarcely be recognized The next summer brought him that
deceptive decrease of suffering which it sometimes grants to those who
are dying. He refused to quit Paris, and thus deprived himself of the
pure air of the country, and the benefit of this vivifying element.
The winter of 1847 to 1848 was filled with a painful and continual
succession of improvements and relapses. Notwithstanding this, he
resolved in the spring to accomplish his old project of visiting London.
When the revolution of February broke out, he was still confined to bed,
but with a melancholy effort, he seemed to try to interest himself in
the events of the day, and spoke of them more than usual. M. Gutman
continued his most intimate and constant visitor. He accepted through
preference his cares until the close of his life.
Feeling better in the month of April, he thought of realizing his
contemplated journey, of visiting that country to which he had intended
to go when youth and life opened in bright perspective before him. He
set out for England, where his works had already found an intelligent
public, and were generally known and admired.
[Footnote: The compositions of Chopin were, even at that
time, known and very much liked in England. The most
distinguished virtuosi frequently executed them. In a
pamphlet published in London by Messrs. Wessel and
Stappletou, under the title of AN ESSAY ON THE WORKS OF F.
CHOPIN, we find some lines marked by just criticism. The
epigraph of this little pamphlet is ingeniously chosen, and
the two lines from Shelley could scarcely be better applied
than to Chopin:
"He was a mighty poet--and
A subtle-souled Psychologist."
The author of this pamphlet speaks with enthusiasm of the
"originative genius untrammeled by conventionalities,
unfettered by pedantry;... of the outpourings of an
unworldly and tristful soul--those musical floods of tears,
and gushes of pure joyfulness--those exquisite embodiments
of fugitive thoughts--those infinitesimal delicacies, which
give so much value to the lightest sketch of Chopin." The
English author again says: "One thing is certain, viz.: to
play with proper feeling and correct execution, the PRELUDES
and STUDIES of Chopin, is to be neither more nor less than a
finished pianist, and moreover to comprehend them
thoroughly, to give a life and tongue to their infinite and
most eloquent subtleties of expression, involves the
necessity of being in no less a degree a poet than a
pianist, a thinker than a musician. Commonplace is
instinctively avoided in all the works of Chopin; a stale
cadence or a trite progression, a humdrum subject or a
hackneyed sequence, a vulgar twist of the melody or a worn-
out passage, a meagre harmony or an unskillful counterpoint,
may in vain be looked for throughout the entire range of his
compositions; the prevailing characteristics of which, are,
a feeling as uncommon as beautiful, a treatment as original
as felicitous, a melody and a harmony as new, fresh,
vigorous, and striking, as they are utterly unexpected and
out of the common track. In taking up one of the works of
Chopin, you are entering, as it were, a fairyland, untrodden
by human footsteps, a path hitherto unfrequented but by the
great composer himself; and a faith, a devotion, a desire to
appreciate and a determination to understand are absolutely
necessary, to do it any thing like adequate justice....
Chopin in his POLONAISES and in his MAZOURKAS has aimed at
those characteristics, which distinguish the national music
of his country so markedly from, that of all others, that
quaint idiosyncrasy, that identical wildness and
fantasticality, that delicious mingling of the sad and
cheerful, which invariably and forcibly individualize the
music of those Northern nations, whose language delights in
combinations of consonants...."]
He left France in that mood of mind which the English call "low
spirits." The transitory interest which he had endeavored to take in
political changes, soon disappeared. He became more taciturn than ever.
If through absence of mind, a few words would escape him. They were only
exclamations of regret. His affection for the limited number of persons
whom he continued to see, was filled with that heart-rending emotion
which precedes eternal farewells! Art alone always retained its absolute
power over him. Music absorbed him during the time, now constantly
shortening, in which he was able to occupy himself with it, as
completely as during the days when he was full of life and hope. Before
he left Paris, he gave a concert in the saloon of M. Pleyel, one of the
friends with whom his relations had been the most constant, the most
frequent, and the most affectionate; who is now rendering a worthy
homage to his memory, occupying himself with zeal and activity in the
execution of a monument for his tomb. At this concert, his chosen and
faithful audience heard him for the last time!
He was received in London with an eagerness which had some effect
in aiding him to shake off his sadness, to dissipate his mournful
depression. Perhaps he dreamed, by burying all his former habits in
oblivion, he could succeed in dissipating, his melancholy! He neglected
the prescriptions of his physicians, with all the precautions which
reminded him of his wretched health. He played twice in public, and many
times in private concerts. He mingled much in society, sat up late at
night, and exposed himself to considerable fatigue, without permitting
himself to be deterred by any consideration for his health. He was
presented to the Queen by the Duchess of Sutherland, and the most
distinguished society sought the pleasure of his acquaintance. He went
to Edinburgh, where the climate was particularly injurious to him.
He was much debilitated upon his return from Scotland; his physicians
wished him to leave England immediately, but he delayed for some time
his departure. Who can read the feelings which caused this delay!... He
played again at a concert given for the Poles. It was the last mark of
love sent to his beloved country--the last look--the last sigh--the last
regret! He was feted, applauded, and surrounded by his own people. He
bade them all adieu,--they did not know it was an eternal Farewell! What
thoughts must have filled his sad soul as he crossed the sea to return
to Paris! That Paris so different now for him from that which he had
found without seeking in 1831!
He was met upon his arrival by a surprise as painful as unexpected. Dr.
Molin, whose advice and intelligent prescriptions had saved his life in
the winter of 1847, to whom alone he believed himself indebted for the
prolongation of his life, was dead. He felt his loss painfully, nay,
it brought a profound discouragement with it; at a time when the
mind exercises so much influence over the progress of the disease, he
persuaded himself that no one could replace the trusted physician, and
he had no confidence in any other. Dissatisfied with them all, without
any hope from their skill, he changed them constantly. A kind of
superstitious depression seized him. No tie stronger than life, no more
powerful as death, came now to struggle against this bitter apathy!
From the winter of 1848, Chopin had been in no condition to labor
continuously. From time to time he retouched some scattered leaves,
without succeeding in arranging his thoughts in accordance with his
designs. A respectful care of his fame dictated to him the wish that
these sketches should be destroyed to prevent the possibility of their
being mutilated, disfigured, and transformed into posthumous works
unworthy of his hand.
He left no finished manuscripts, except a very short WALTZ, and a
last NOCTURNE, as parting memories. In the later period of his life he
thought of writing a method for the Piano, in which he intended to give
his ideas upon the theory and technicality of his art, the results of
his long and patient studies, his happy innovations, and his intelligent
experience. The task was a difficult one, demanding redoubled
application even from one who labored as assiduously as Chopin. Perhaps
he wished to avoid the emotions of art, (affecting those who reproduce
them in serenity of soul so differently from those who repeat in them
their own desolation of heart,) by taking refuge in a region so barren.
He sought in this employment only an absorbing and uniform occupation,
he only asked from it what Manfred demanded in vain from the powers of
magic: "forgetfulness!" Forgetfulness--granted neither by the gayety of
amusement, nor the lethargy of torpor! On the contrary, with venomous
guile, they always compensate in the renewed intensity of woe, for the
time they may have succeeded in benumbing it. In the daily labor which
"charms the storms of the soul," (DER SEELE STURM BESCHWORT,) he sought
without doubt forgetfulness, which occupation, by rendering the memory
torpid, may sometimes procure, though it cannot destroy the sense of
pain. At the close of that fine elegy which he names "The Ideal," a
poet, who was also the victim of an inconsolable melancholy, appeals to
labor as a consolation when a prey to bitter regret; while expecting
an early death, he invokes occupation as the last resource against the
incessant anguish of life:
"And thou, so pleated, with her uniting,
To charm the soul-storm into peace,
Sweet toil, in toil itself delighting,
That more it labored, less could cease,
Though but by grains thou aidest the pile
The vast eternity uprears,
At least thou strikest from TIME the while
Life's debt--the minutes--days--and years."
Bulwer's translation of SCHILLER'S "Ideal."
Beschoeftigung, die nie ermattet
Die langsam schafft, doch nie zerstoert,
Die zu dem Bau der Ewigkeiten
Zwar Sandkorn nur, fuer Sandkorn reicht,
Doch von der grossen Schuld der Zeiten
Minute, Tage, Jahre streicht.
Die Ideale--SHILLER.
The strength of Chopin was not sufficient for the execution of
his intention. The occupation was too abstract, too fatiguing. He
contemplated the form of his project, he spoke of it at different times,
but its execution had become impossible. He wrote but a few pages of it,
which were destroyed with the rest.
At last the disease augmented so visibly, that the fears of his friends
assumed the hue of despair. He scarcely ever left his bed, and spoke but
rarely. His sister, upon receiving this intelligence, came from Warsaw
to take her place at his pillow, which she left no more. He witnessed
the anguish, the presentiments, the redoubled sadness around him,
without showing what impression they made upon him. He thought of death
with Christian calm and resignation, yet he did not cease to prepare for
the morrow. The fancy he had for changing his residence was once more
manifested, he took another lodging, disposed the furnishing of it anew,
and occupied himself in its most minute details. As he had taken no
measures to recall the orders he had given for its arrangement, they
were transporting his furniture to the apartments he was destined never
to inhabit, upon the very day of his death!
Did he fear that death would not fulfil his plighted promise! Did he
dread, that after having touched him with his icy hand, he would still
suffer him to linger upon earth? Did he feel that life would be almost
unendurable with its fondest ties broken, its closest links dissevered?
There is a double influence often felt by gifted temperaments when upon
the eve of some event which is to decide their fate. The eager heart,
urged on by a desire to unravel the mystic secrets of the unknown
Future, contradicts the colder, the more timid intellect, which fears to
plunge into the uncertain abyss of the coming fate! This want of harmony
between the simultaneous previsions of the mind and heart, often causes
the firmest spirits to make assertions which their actions seem to
contradict; yet actions and assertions both flow from the differing
sources of an equal conviction. Did Chopin suffer from this inevitable
dissimilarity between the prophetic whispers of the heart, and the
thronging doubts of the questioning mind?
From week to week, and soon from day to day, the cold shadow of death
gained upon him. His end was rapidly approaching; his sufferings became
more and more intense; his crises grew more frequent, and at each
accelerated occurrence, resembled more and more a mortal agony. He
retained his presence of mind, his vivid will upon their intermission,
until the last; neither losing the precision of his ideas, nor the clear
perception of his intentions. The wishes which he expressed in his
short moments of respite, evinced the calm solemnity with which he
contemplated the approach of death. He desired to be buried by the side
of Bellini, with whom, during the time of Bellini's residence in Paris,
he had been intimately acquainted. The grave of Bellini is in the
cemetery of Pere LaChaise, next to that of Cherubini. The desire of
forming an acquaintance with this great master whom he had been brought
up to admire, was one of the motives which, when he left Vienna in 1831
to go to London, induced him, without foreseeing that his destiny would
fix him there, to pass through Paris. Chopin now sleeps between Bellini
and Cherubini, men of very dissimilar genius, and yet to both of whom
he was in an equal degree allied, as he attached as much value to
the respect he felt for the science of the one, as to the sympathy he
acknowledged for the creations of the other. Like the author of NORMA,
he was full of melodic feeling, yet he was ambitions of attaining the
harmonic depth of the learned old master; desiring to unite, in a great
and elevated style, the dreamy vagueness of spontaneous emotion with the
erudition of the most consummate masters.
Continuing the reserve of his manners to the very last, he did not
request to see any one for the last time; but he evinced the most
touching gratitude to all who approached him. The first days of October
left neither doubt nor hope. The fatal moment drew near. The next day,
the next hour, could no longer be relied upon. M. Gutman and his sister
were in constant attendance upon him, never for a single moment leaving
him. The Countess Delphine Potocka, who was then absent from Paris,
returned as soon as she was informed of his imminent danger. None of
those who approached the dying artist, could tear themselves from the
spectacle of this great and gifted soul in its hours of mortal anguish.
However violent or frivolous the passions may be which agitate our
hearts, whatever strength or indifference may be displayed in
meeting unforeseen or sudden accidents, which would seem necessarily
overwhelming in their effects, it is impossible to escape the impression
made by the imposing majesty of a lingering and beautiful death, which
touches, softens, fascinates and elevates even the souls the least
prepared for such holy and sublime emotions. The lingering and gradual
departure of one among us for those unknown shores, the mysterious
solemnity of his secret dreams, his commemoration of past facts
and passing ideas when still breathing upon the narrow strait which
separates time from eternity, affect us more deeply than any thing else
in this world. Sudden catastrophes, the dreadful alternations forced
upon the shuddering fragile ship, tossed like a toy by the wild breath
of the tempest; the blood of the battle-field, with the gloomy smoke of
artillery; the horrible charnel-house into which our own habitation is
converted by a contagious plague; conflagrations which wrap whole
cities in their glittering flames; fathomless abysses which open at our
feet;--remove us less sensibly from all the fleeting attachments "which
pass, which can be broken, which cease," than the prolonged view of a
soul conscious of its own position, silently contemplating the multiform
aspects of time and the mute door of eternity! The courage, the
resignation, the elevation, the emotion, which reconcile it with that
inevitable dissolution so repugnant to all our instincts, certainly
impress the bystanders more profoundly than the most frightful
catastrophes, which, in the confusion they create, rob the scene of its
still anguish, its solemn meditation.
The parlor adjoining the chamber of Chopin was constantly occupied by
some of his friends, who, one by one, in turn, approached him to receive
a sign of recognition, a look of affection, when he was no longer able
to address them in words. On Sunday, the 15th of October, his attacks
were more violent and more frequent--lasting for several hours in
succession. He endured them with patience and great strength of mind.
The Countess Delphine Potocka, who was present, was much distressed; her
tears were flowing fast when he observed her standing at the foot of
his bed, tall, slight, draped in white, resembling the beautiful angels
created by the imagination of the most devout among the painters.
Without doubt, he supposed her to be a celestial apparition; and when
the crisis left him a moment in repose, he requested her to sing; they
deemed him at first seized with delirium, but he eagerly repeated his
request. Who could have ventured--to oppose his wish? The piano was
rolled from his parlor to the door of his chamber, while, with sobs in
her voice, and tears streaming down her cheeks, his gifted countrywoman
sang. Certainly, this delightful voice had never before attained an
expression so full of profound pathos. He seemed to suffer less as he
listened. She sang that famous Canticle to the Virgin, which, it is
said, once saved the life of Stradella. "How beautiful it is!"
he exclaimed. "My God, how very beautiful! Again--again!" Though
overwhelmed with emotion, the Countess had the noble courage to comply
with the last wish of a friend, a compatriot; she again took a seat at
the piano, and sung a hymn from Marcello. Chopin again feeling worse,
everybody was seized with fright--by a spontaneous impulse all who were
present threw themselves upon their knees--no one ventured to speak; the
sacred silence was only broken by the voice of the Countess, floating,
like a melody from heaven, above the sighs and sobs which formed its
heavy and mournful earth-accompaniment. It was the haunted hour
of twilight; a dying light lent its mysterious shadows to this
sad scene--the sister of Chopin prostrated near his bed, wept and
prayed--and never quitted this attitude of supplication while the life
of the brother she had so cherished lasted.
His condition altered for the worse during the night, but he felt more
tranquil upon Monday morning, and as if he had known in advance the
appointed and propitious moment, he asked to receive immediately the
last sacraments. In the absence of the Abbe ----, with whom he had been
very intimate since their common expatriation, he requested that
the Abbe Jelowicki, one of the most distinguished men of the Polish
emigration, should be sent for. When the holy Viaticum was administered
to him, he received it, surrounded by those who loved him, with great
devotion. He called his friends a short time afterwards, one by one,
to his bedside, to give each of them his last earnest blessing; calling
down the grace of God fervently upon themselves, their affections, and
their hopes,--every knee bent--every head bowed--all eyes were heavy
with tears--every heart was sad and oppressed--every soul elevated.
Attacks more and more painful, returned and continued during the day;
from Monday night until Tuesday, he did not utter a single word. He
did not seem able to distinguish the persons who were around him. About
eleven o'clock on Tuesday evening, he appeared to revive a little. The
Abbe Jelowicki had never left him. Hardly had he recovered the power
of speech, than he requested him to recite with him the prayers and
litanies for the dying. He was able to accompany the Abbe in an audible
and intelligible voice. From this moment until his death, he held his
head constantly supported upon the shoulder of M. Gutman, who, during
the whole course of this sickness, had devoted his days and nights to
him.
A convulsive sleep lasted until the 17th of October, 1849. The final
agony commenced about two o'clock; a cold sweat ran profusely from his
brow; after a short drowsiness, he asked, in a voice scarcely audible:
"Who is near me?" Being answered, he bent his head to kiss the hand of
M. Gutman, who still supported it--while giving this last tender proof
of love and gratitude, the soul of the artist left its fragile clay. He
died as he had lived--in loving.
When the doors of the parlor were opened, his friends threw themselves
around the loved corpse, not able to suppress the gush of tears.
His love for flowers being well known, they were brought in such
quantities the next day, that the bed in which they had placed them, and
indeed the whole room, almost disappeared, hidden by their varied and
brilliant hues. He seemed to repose in a garden of roses. His face
regained its early beauty, its purity of expression, its long unwonted
serenity. Calmly--with his youthful loveliness, so long dimmed by bitter
suffering, restored by death, he slept among the flowers he loved, the
last long and dreamless sleep!
M. Clesinger reproduced the delicate traits, to which death had rendered
their early beauty, in a sketch which he immediately modeled, and which
he afterwards executed in marble for his tomb.
The respectful admiration which Chopin felt for the genius of Mozart,
had induced him to request that his Requiem should be performed at his
obsequies; this wish was complied with. The funeral ceremonies took
place in the Madeleine Church, the 30th of October, 1849. They had been
delayed until this date, in order that the execution of this great work
should be worthy of the master and his disciple. The principal artists
in Paris were anxious to take part in it. The FUNERAL MARCH of Chopin,
arranged for the instruments for this occasion by M. Reber, was
introduced at the Introit. At the Offertory, M. Lefebure Vely executed
his admirable PRELUDES in SI and MI MINOR upon the organ. The solos
of the REQUIEM were claimed by Madame Viardot and Madame Castellan.
Lablache, who had sung the TUBA MIRUM of this REQUIEM at the burial of
Beethoven in 1827, again sung it upon this occasion. M. Meyerbeer, with
Prince Adam Czartoryski, led the train of mourners. The pall was
borne by M. Delacroix, M. Franchomme, M. Gutman, and Prince Alexander
Czartorvski.--However insufficient these pages may be to speak of Chopin
as we would have desired, we hope that the attraction which so justly
surrounds his name, will compensate for much that may be wanting in
them. If to these lines, consecrated to the commemoration of his works
and to all that he held dear, which the sincere esteem, enthusiastic
regard, and intense sorrow for his loss, can alone gift with persuasive
and sympathetic power, it were necessary to add some of the thoughts
awakened in every man when death robs him of the loved contemporaries
of his youth, thus breaking the first ties linked by the confiding and
deluded heart with so much the greater pain if they were strong enough
to survive that bright period of young life, we would say that in the
same--year we have lost the two dearest friends we have known on earth.
One of them perished in the wild course of civil war. Unfortunate and
valiant hero! He fell with his burning courage unsubdued, his intrepid
calmness undisturbed, his chivalric temerity unabated, through the
endurance of the horrible tortures of a fearful death. He was a Prince
of rare intelligence, of great activity, of eminent faculties, through
whose veins the young blood circulated with the glittering ardor of a
subtle gas. By his own indefatigable energy he had just succeeded in
removing the difficulties which obstructed his path, in creating an
arena in which his faculties might hare displayed themselves with as
much success in debates and the management of civil affairs, as they had
already done in brilliant feats in arms. The other, Chopin, died slowly,
consuming himself in the flames of his own genius. His life, unconnected
with public events, was like some fact which has never been incorporated
in a material body. The traces of his existence are only to be found
in the works which he has left. He ended his days upon a foreign soil,
which he never considered as his country, remaining faithful in the
devotion of his affections to the eternal widowhood of his own. He was
a Poet of a mournful soul, full of reserve and complicated mystery, and
familiar with the stern face of sorrow.
The immediate interest which we felt in the movements of the parties to
which the life of Prince Felix Lichnowsky was bound, was broken by his
death: the death of Chopin has robbed us of all the consolations of an
intelligent and comprehensive friendship. The affectionate sympathy
with our feelings, with our manner of understanding art, of which this
exclusive artist has given us so many proofs, would have softened the
disappointment and weariness which yet await us, and have strengthened
is in our earliest tendencies, confirmed us in our first essays.
Since it has fallen to our lot to survive them, we wish at least to
express the sincere regret we feel for their loss. We deem ourselves
bound to offer the homage of our deep and respectful sorrow upon the
grave of the remarkable musician who has just passed from among us.
Music is at present receiving such great and general development, that
it reminds us of that which took place in painting in the fourteenth
and fifteenth centuries. Even the artists who limited the productions of
their genius to the margins of parchments, painted their miniatures
with an inspiration so happy, that having broken through the Byzantine
stiffness, they left the most exquisite types, which the Francias, the
Peruginos, and the Raphaels to come were to transport to their frescos,
and introduce upon their canvas.
*****
There have been people among whom, in order to preserve the memory of
their great men or the signal events of their history, it was the
custom to form pyramids composed of the stones which each passer-by
was expected to bring to the pile, which gradually increased to an
unlooked-for height from the anonymous contributions of all. Monuments
are still in our days erected by an analogous proceeding, but in place
of building only a rude and unformed hillock, in consequence of a
fortunate combination the contribution of all concurs in the creation
of some work of art, which is not only destined to perpetuate the mute
remembrance which they wish to honor, but which may have the power to
awaken in future ages the feelings which gave birth to such creation,
the emotions of the contemporaries which called it into being. The
subscriptions which are opened to raise statues and noble memorials to
those who have rendered their epoch or country illustrious, originate
in this design. Immediately after the death of Chopin, M. Camille Pleyel
conceived a project of this kind. He commenced a subscription,
(which conformably to the general expectation rapidly amounted to
a considerable sum,) to have the monument modeled by M. Clesinger,
executed in marble and placed in the Pere La-Chaise. In thinking over
our long friendship with Chopin; on the exceptional admiration which we
have always felt for him ever since his appearance in the musical
world; remembering that, artist like himself, we have been the frequent
interpreter of his inspirations, an interpreter, we may safely venture
to say, loved and chosen by himself; that we have more frequently than
others received from his own lips the spirit of his style; that we
were in some degree identified with his creations in art, and with
the feelings which he confided to it, through that long and constant
assimilation which obtains between a writer and his translator;--we have
fondly thought that these connective circumstances imposed upon us
a higher and nearer duty than that of merely adding an unformed
and anonymous stone to the growing pyramid of homage which his
contemporaries are elevating to him. We believed that the claims of a
tender friendship for our illustrious colleague, exacted from us a more
particular expression of our profound regret, of our high admiration. It
appeared to us that we would not be true to ourselves, did we not
court the honor of inscribing our name, our deep affliction, upon his
sepulchral stone! This should be granted to those who never hope to fill
the void in their hearts left by an irreparable loss!...