CHAPTER XIX

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.”