Very dear friend,—What are you doing? How are your people,
  your country, your art? you are unjustly severe upon me, for
  you know my infirmity in the matter of letter-writing. I have
  thought of you much, and on reading the other day that there
  was a disturbance at Heidelberg, I tried some thirty rough
  draughts [brouillons] in order to send you a line, the end of
  them all being to be thrown into the fire. This page will
  perhaps reach you and find you happy with your good mother.
  Since I had news from you, I have been in Scotland, in this
  beautiful country of Walter Scott, with so many memories of
  Mary Stuart, the two Charleses, &c. I drag myself from one
  lord to another, from one duke to another. I find everywhere,
  besides extreme kindness and hospitality without limit,
  excellent pianos, beautiful pictures, choice libraries; there
  are also hunts, horses, dogs, interminable dinners, and
  cellars of which I avail myself less. It is impossible to form
  an idea of all the elaborate comfort which reigns in the
  English mansions. The Queen having passed this year some weeks
  in Scotland, all England followed her, partly out of courtesy,
  partly because of the impossibility of going to the disturbed
  Continent. Everything here has become doubly splendid, except
  the sun, which has done nothing more than usual; moreover, the
  winter advances, and I do not know yet what will become of me.
  I am writing to you from Lord Torphichen's. In this mansion,
  above my apartment, John Knox, the Scotch reformer, dispensed
  for the first time the Sacrament. Everything here furnishes
  matter for the imagination—a park with hundred-year-old
  trees, precipices, walls of the castle in ruins, endless
  passages with numberless old ancestors—there is even a
  certain Red-cowl which walks there at midnight. I walk there
  my incertitude. [II y a meme un certain bonnet rouge, qui s'y
  promene a minuit. J'y promene mon incertitude.]

  Cholera is coming; there is fog and spleen in London, and no
  president in Paris. It does not matter where I go to cough and
  suffocate, I shall always love you. Present my respects to
  your mother, and all my wishes for the happiness of you all.
  Write me a line to the address: Dr. Lishinsky, [FOOTNOTE: The
  letter I shall next place before the reader is addressed by
  Chopin to "Dr. Lishinski." In an Edinburgh medical directory
  the name appeared as Lyszynski.] 10, Warriston Crescent,
  Edinburgh, Scotland.—Yours, with all my heart,
  CHOPIN.

  P.S.—I have played in Edinburgh; the nobility of the
  neighbourhood came to hear me; people say the thing went off
  well—a little success and money. There were this year in
  Scotland Lind, Grisi, Alboni, Mario, Salvi—everybody.

From Chopin's letters may be gathered that he arrived once more in London at the end of October or beginning of November.

Chopin to Dr. Lyschinski; London, November 3, 1848:—

  I received yesterday your kind words with the letter from
  Heidelberg. I am as perplexed here as when I was with you, and
  have the same love in my heart for you as when I was with you.
  My respects to your wife and your neighbours. May God bless
  you!

  I embrace you cordially. I have seen the Princess
  [Czartoryska]; they were inquiring about you most kindly.

  My present abode is 4, St. James's Place. If anything should
  come for me, please send it to that address.

  3rd November, 1848.

  Pray send the enclosed note to Miss Stirling, who, no doubt,
  is still at Barnton.

  [FOOTNOTE: In this case, as when writing to Woyciechowski,
  Matuszynski, Fontana, Franchomme and Gutmann, Chopin uses in
  addressing his correspondent, the pronoun of the second person
  singular. Here I may also mention the curious monogram on his
  seal: three C's in the form of horns (with mouthpieces and
  bells) intertwined.]

The following letter shows in what state of mind and body Chopin was at the time.

Chopin to Grzymala; London, October [should be November] 17-18, 1848:—

  My dearest friend,—For the last eighteen days, that is, since
  my arrival in London, I have been ill, and had such a severe
  cold in my head (with headache, difficult breathing, and all
  my bad symptoms) that I did not get out of doors at all. The
  physician visits me daily (a homoeopathist of the name of
  Mallan, the same whom my Scotch ladies have and who has here a
  great reputation, and is married to a niece of Lady
  Gainsborough). He has succeeded in restoring me so far that
  yesterday I was able to take part in the Polish Concert and
  Ball; I went, however, at once home, after I had gone through
  my task. The whole night I could not sleep, as I suffered,
  besides cough and asthma, from very violent headache. As yet
  the mist has not been very bad, so that, in order to breathe a
  little fresh air, I can open the windows of my apartments
  notwithstanding the keen cold. I live at No. 4, St. James's
  Street, see almost every day the excellent Szulczewski,
  Broadwood, Mrs. Erskine, who followed me hither with Mr.
  Stirling, and especially Prince Alexander [Czartoryski] and
  his wife.

  [FOOTNOTE: Charles Francis Szulczewski, son of Charles
  Szulczewski, Receiver General for the District of Orlow, born
  on January 18, 1814, was educated at the Military School at
  Kalisz, served during the War of 1831 in the Corps of
  Artillery under General Bem, obtained the Cross of Honour
  (virtuti militari) for distinguishing himself at Ostrolenka,
  passed the first years of his refugee life in France, and in
  1842 took up his residence in London, where, in 1845, he
  became Secretary of the Literary Association of the Friends of
  Poland. He was promoted for his services to the rank of Major
  in the Polish Legion, which was formed in Turkey under the
  command of Ladislas Zamoyski, and after the treaty of Paris
  (1856) the English Government appointed him to a post in the
  War Office. Major Szulczewski, who died on October 18, 1884,
  was an ardent patriot, highly esteemed not only by his
  countrymen, but also by all others who came in contact with
  him, numbering among his friends the late Lord Dudley Stuart
  and the late Earl of Harrowby.]

  Address your letters, please, to Szulczewski. I cannot yet
  come to Paris, but I am always considering what is to be done
  to return there. Here in these apartments, which for any
  healthy man would be good, I cannot remain, although they are
  beautifully situated and not dear (four and a half guineas a
  week, inclusive of bed, coals, &c.); they are near Lord
  Stuart's, [FOOTNOTE: Lord Dudley Cuotts Stuart, a staunch and
  generous friend of the Poles.] who has just left me. This
  worthy gentleman came to inquire how I felt after last night's
  concert. Probably I shall take up my quarters with him,
  because he has much larger rooms, in which I can breathe more
  freely. En tout cas—inquire, please, whether there are not
  somewhere on the Boulevard, in the neighbourhood of the Rue de
  la Paix or Rue Royale, apartments to be had on the first etage
  with windows towards the south; or, for aught I care, in the
  Rue des Mathurin, but not in the Rue Godot or other gloomy,
  narrow streets; at any rate, there must be included a room for
  the servant. Perhaps Franck's old quarters, which were above
  mine, at the excellent Madame Etienne's, in the Square No. 9
  (Cite d'Orleans), are unoccupied; for I know from experience
  that I cannot keep on my old ones during the winter. If there
  were only on the same story a room for the servant, I should
  go again and live with Madame Etienne, but I should not like
  to let my Daniel go away, as, should I at any time wish or be
  able to return to England, he will be acquainted with
  everything.

  Why I bother you with all this I don't know myself; but I must
  think of myself, and, therefore, I beg of you, assist me in
  this. I have never cursed anyone, but now I am so weary of
  life that I am near cursing Lucrezia! [FOOTNOTE: George Sand.
  This allusion after what has been said in a previous chapter
  about her novel Lucrezia Floriani needs no further
  explanation.] But she suffers too, and suffers more because
  she grows daily older in wickedness. What a pity about Soli!
  [FOOTNOTE: I suppose Solange, Madame Clesinger, George Sand's
  daughter.] Alas! everything is going wrong in this world.
  Think only that Arago with the eagle on his breast now
  represents France!!! Louis Blanc attracts here nobody's
  attention. The deputation of the national guard drove
  Caussidier out of the Hotel de la Sablonniere (Leicester
  Square) from the table d'hote with the exclamation: "Vous
  n'etes pas francais!"

  Should you find apartments, let me know at once; but do not
  give up the old ones till then.—Your

FREDERICK.

The Polish Ball and Concert alluded to in the above letter deserves our attention, for on that occasion Chopin was heard for the last time in public, indeed, his performance there may be truly called the swan's song.

The following is an advertisement which appeared in the DAILY NEWS of November 1, 1848:—

  Grand Polish Ball and Concert at Guildhall, under Royal and
  distinguished patronage, and on a scale of more than usual
  magnificence, will take place on Thursday, the 16th of
  November, by permission of the Lord Mayor and Corporation of
  the City of London; particulars of which will be shortly
  announced to the public.

                             JAMES R. CARR, HONORARY SECRETARY.

The information given in this advertisement is supplemented in one of November 15:—

  The magnificent decorations used on the Lord Mayor's day are,
  by permission, preserved. The concert will comprise the most
  eminent vocalists. Tickets (refreshments included), for a lady
  and gentleman, 21/-; for a gentleman, 15/-; for a lady, 10/6;
  to be had of, &c.

On the 17th of November the TIMES had, of course, an account of the festivity of the preceding night:—

  The patrons and patronesses of this annual or rather perennial
  demonstration in favour of foreign claims on domestic charity
  assembled last night at Guildhall much in the same way as they
  assembled last year and on previous occasions, though
  certainly not in such numbers, nor in such quality as some
  years ago. The great hall was illuminated and decorated as at
  the Lord Mayor's banquet. The appearance was brilliant without
  being particularly lively.

Then the dancing, Mr. Adams' excellent band, the refreshment rooms, a few noble Lords, the Lord Mayor, and some of the civic authorities (who "diversified the plain misters and mistresses who formed the majority"), the gay costumes of some Highlanders and Spaniards, and Lord Dudley (the great lion of the evening)—all these are mentioned, but there is not a word about Chopin. Of the concert we read only that it "was much the same as on former anniversaries, and at its conclusion many of the company departed." We learn, moreover, that the net profit was estimated at less than on former occasions.

The concert for which Chopin, prompted by his patriotism and persuaded by his friends, lent his assistance, was evidently a subordinate part of the proceedings in which few took any interest. The newspapers either do not notice it at all or but very briefly; in any case the great pianist-composer is ignored. Consequently, very little information is now to be obtained about this matter. Mr. Lindsay Sloper remembered that Chopin played among other things the "Etudes" in A flat and F minor (Op. 25, Nos. 1 & 2). But the best account we have of the concert are some remarks of one present at it which Mr. Hueffer quotes in his essay on Chopin in "Musical Studies":—

  The people, hot from dancing, who went into the room where he
  played, were but little in the humour to pay attention, and
  anxious to return to their amusement. He was in the last stage
  of exhaustion, and the affair resulted in disappointment. His
  playing at such a place was a well-intentioned mistake.

What a sad conclusion to a noble artistic career!

Although Chopin was longing for Paris in November, he was still in London in the following January.

Chopin to Grzymaia; London, Tuesday, January, 1849:—

  My dearest friend,—To-day I am again lying almost the whole
  day, but Thursday I shall leave the to me unbearable London.
  The night from Thursday to Friday I shall remain at Boulogne,
  and, I hope, go to bed on Friday night in the Place d'Orleans.
  To other ailments is now added neuralgia. Please see that the
  sheets and pillows are quite dry and cause fir-nuts to be
  bought; Madame Etienne is not to spare anything, so that I may
  warm myself when I arrive. I have written to Drozewski that he
  is to provide carpets and curtains. I shall pay the paper-
  hanger Perrichon at once after my arrival. Tell Pleyel to send
  me a piano on Thursday; let it be closed and a nosegay of
  violets be bought, so that there may be a nice fragrance in
  the salon. I should like to find a little poesy in my rooms
  and in my bedroom, where I in all probability shall lie down
  for a long time.

  Friday evening, then, I expect to be in Paris; a day longer
  here, and I shall go mad or die! My Scotch ladies are good,
  but so tedious that—God have mercy on us! They have so
  attached themselves to me that I cannot easily get rid of
  them; only Princess Marcelline [Czartoryska] and her family,
  and the excellent Szulczewski keep me alive. Have fires
  lighted in all rooms and the dust removed—perhaps I may yet
  recover.—Yours ever,

       FREDERICK.

Mr. Niedzwiecki told me that he travelled with Chopin, who was accompanied by his servant, from London to Paris.

[FOOTNOTE: Leonard Niedzwiecki, born in the Kingdom of Poland in 1807, joined the National Army in 1830, distinguished himself on several battlefields, came in 1832 as a refugee to England, made there a livelihood by literary work and acted as honorary librarian of the Literary Association of the friends of Poland, left about 1845 London for Paris and became Private Secretary, first to General Count Ladislas Zamoyski, and after the Count's death to the widowed Countess. M. Niedzwiecki, who is also librarian of the Polish Library at Paris, now devotes all his time to historical and philological research.]

The three had a compartment to themselves. During the journey the invalid suffered greatly from frequent attacks of breathlessness. Chopin was delighted when he saw Boulogne. How hateful England and the English were to him is shown by the following anecdote. When they had left Boulogne and Chopin had been for some time looking at the landscape through which they were passing, he said to Mr. Niedzwiecki: "Do you see the cattle in this meadow? Ca a plus d'intelligence que les Anglais." Let us not be wroth at poor Chopin: he was then irritated by his troubles, and always anything but a cosmopolitan.





CHAPTER XXXII.

DETERIORATION OF CHOPIN'S STATE OF HEALTH.—TWO LETTERS.—REMOVES FROM THE SQUARE D'ORLEANS TO THE RUE CHAILLOT.—PECUNIARY CIRCUMSTANCES.—A CURIOUS STORY.—REMINISCENCES AND LETTERS CONNECTED WITH CHOPIN'S STAY IN THE RUE CHAILLOT.—REMOVES TO NO. 12, PLACE VENDOME.—LAST DAYS, AND DEATH.—FUNERAL.—LAST RESTING-PLACE.—MONUMENT AND COMMEMORATION IN 1850.

The physical condition in which we saw Chopin in the preceding chapter was not the outcome of a newly-contracted disease, but only an acuter phase of that old disease from which he had been suffering more or less for at least twelve years, and which in all probability he inherited from his father, who like himself died of a chest and heart complaint. [FOOTNOTE: My authority for this statement is Dr. Lyschinski, who must have got his information either from Chopin himself or his mother. That Chopin's youngest sister, Emilia, died of consumption in early life cannot but be regarded as a significant fact.] Long before Chopin went in search of health to Majorca, ominous symptoms showed themselves; and when he returned from the south, he was only partly restored, not cured.

  My attachment [writes George Sand in "Ma Vie"] could work this
  miracle of making him a little calm and happy, only because
  God had approved of it by preserving a little of his health.
  He declined, however, visibly, and I knew no longer what
  remedies to employ in order to combat the growing irritation
  of his nerves. The death of his friend Dr. Matuszynski, then
  that of his own father, [FOOTNOTE: Nicholas Chopin died on May
  3, 1844. About Matuszynski's death see page 158.] were to him
  two terrible blows. The Catholic dogma throws on death
  horrible terrors. Chopin, instead of dreaming for these pure
  souls a better world, had only dreadful visions, and I was
  obliged to pass very many nights in a room adjoining his,
  always ready to rise a hundred times from my work in order to
  drive away the spectres of his sleep and wakefulness. The idea
  of his own death appeared to him accompanied with all the
  superstitious imaginings of Slavonic poetry. As a Pole he
  lived under the nightmare of legends. The phantoms called him,
  clasped him, and, instead of seeing his father and his friend
  smile at him in the ray of faith, he repelled their fleshless
  faces from his own and struggled under the grasp of their icy
  hands.

But a far more terrible blow than the deaths of his friend and his father was his desertion by George Sand, and we may be sure that it aggravated his disease a hundredfold. To be convinced of this we have only to remember his curse on Lucrezia (see the letter to Grzymala of November 17-18, 1848).

Jules Janin, in an obituary notice, says of Chopin that "he lived ten years, ten miraculous years, with a breath ready to fly away" (il a vecu dix ans, dix ans de miracle, d'un souffle pret a s'envoler). Another writer remarks: "In seeing him [Chopin] so puny, thin, and pale, one thought for a. long time that he was dying, and then one got accustomed to the idea that he could live always so." Stephen Heller in chatting to me about Chopin expressed the same idea in different words: "Chopin was often reported to have died, so often, indeed, that people would not believe the news when he was really dead." There was in Chopin for many years, especially since 1837, a constant flux and reflux of life. To repeat another remark of Heller's: "Now he was ill, and then again one saw him walking on the boulevards in a thin coat." A married sister of Gutmann's remembers that Chopin had already, in 1843-4, to be carried upstairs, when he visited her mother, who in that year was staying with her children in Paris; to walk upstairs, even with assistance, would have been impossible to him.

  For a long time [writes M. Charles Gavard] Chopin had been,
  moving about with difficulty, and only went out to have
  himself carried to a few faithful friends. He visited them by
  no means in order that they might share his misery, on the
  contrary, he seemed even to forget his troubles, and at sight
  of the family life, and in the midst of the demonstrations of
  love which he called forth from everyone, he found new impulse
  and new strength to live.

  [FOOTNOTE: In a manuscript now before me, containing
  reminiscences of the last months of Chopin's life. Karasowski,
  at whose disposal the author placed his manuscript, copies
  LITERALY, in the twelfth chapter of his Chopin biography, page
  after page, without the customary quotation marks.]

Edouard Wolff told me that, in the latter part of Chopin's life, he did not leave the carriage when he had any business at Schlesinger's music-shop; a shopman came out to the composer, who kept himself closely wrapped in his blue mantle. The following reminiscence is, like some of the preceding ones, somewhat vague with regard to time. Stephen Heller met Chopin shortly before the latter fell ill. On being asked where he was going, Chopin replied that he was on his way to buy a new carpet, his old one having got worn, and then he complained of his legs beginning to swell. And Stephen Heller saw indeed that there were lumps of swelling. M. Mathias, describing to me his master as he saw him in 1847, wrote: "It was a painful spectacle to see Chopin at that time; he was the picture of exhaustion—the back bent, the head bowed forward—but always amiable and full of distinction." That Chopin was no longer in a condition to compose (he published nothing after October, 1847), and that playing in public was torture to him and an effort beyond his strength, we have already seen. But this was not all the misery; he was also unable to teach. Thus all his sources of income were cut off. From Chopin's pupil Madame Rubio (nee Vera de Kologrivof) I learned that latterly when her master was ill and could not give many lessons, he sent to her several of his pupils, among whom was also Miss Stirling, who then came to him only once a week instead of oftener. But after his return from England Chopin was no longer able to teach at all. [FOOTNOTE: "When languor [son mal de langueur] took hold of him," relates Henri Blaze de Bury in "Etudes et Souvenirs," "Chopin gave his lessons, stretched on a sofa, having within reach a piano of which he made use for demonstration."] This is what Franchomme told me, and he, in the last years especially, was intimately acquainted with Chopin, and knew all about his financial affairs, of which we shall hear more presently.

As we saw from the letter quoted at the end of the last chapter, Chopin took up his quarters in the Square d'Orleans, No. 9. He, however, did not find there the recovery of his health, of which he spoke in the concluding sentences. Indeed, Chopin knew perfectly by that time that the game was lost. Hope showed herself to him now and then, but very dimly and doubtfully. Nothing proves the gravity of his illness and his utter prostration so much as the following letters in which he informs his Titus, the dearest friend of his youth, that he cannot go and meet him in Belgium.

Chopin to Titus Woyciechowski; Paris, August 20, 1849:—

  Square d'Orleans, Rue St. Lazare, No 9.

  My dearest friend,—Nothing but my being so ill as I really am
  could prevent me from leaving Paris and hastening to meet you
  at Ostend; but I hope that God will permit you to come to me.
  The doctors do not permit me to travel. I drink Pyrenean
  waters in my own room. But your presence would do me more good
  than any kind of medicine.—Yours unto death,

  FREDERICK.
  Paris, September 12, 1849.

  My dear Titus,—I had too little time to see about the permit
  for your coming here; [FOOTNOTE: As a Russian subject,
  Woyciechowski required a special permission from the Rusian
  authorities to visit Paris, which was not readily granted to
  Poles.] I cannot go after it myself, for the half of my time I
  lie in bed. But I have asked one of my friends, who has very
  great influence, to undertake this for me; I shall not hear
  anything certain, about it till Saturday. I should have liked
  to go by rail to the frontier, as far as Valenciennes, to see
  you again; but the doctors do not permit me to leave Paris,
  because a few days ago I could not get as far as Ville
  d'Avraye, near Versailles, where I have a goddaughter. For the
  same reason they do not send me this winter to a warmer
  climate. It is, then, illness that retains me; were I only
  tolerably well I should certainly have visited you in Belgium.

  Perhaps you may manage to come here. I am not egotistic enough
  to ask you to come only on my account; for, as I am ill, you
  would have with me weary hours and disappointments, but,
  perhaps, also hours of comfort, and of beautiful reminiscences
  of our youth, and I wish only that our time together may be a
  time of happiness.—Yours ever,

          FREDERICK.

When Chopin wrote the second of the above letters he was staying in a part of Paris more suitable for summer quarters than the Square d'Orleans—namely, in the Rue Chaillot, whither he had removed in the end of August.

  The Rue Chaillot [writes M. Charles Gavard] was then a very
  quiet street, where one thought one's self rather in the
  province than in the capital. A large court-yard led to
  Chopin's apartments on the second story and with a view of
  Paris, which can be seen from the height of Chaillot.

The friends who found these apartments for the invalid composer made him believe that the rent was only 200 francs. But in reality it was 400 francs, and a Russian lady, Countess Obreskoff, [FOOTNOTE: Madame Rubio, differing in this one particular from Franchomme, said that Chopin paid 100 francs and Countess Obreskoff 200.] paid one half of it. When Chopin expressed surprise at the lowness of the rent, he was told that lodgings were cheap in summer.

This last story prompts me to say a few words about Chopin's pecuniary circumstances, and naturally leads me to another story, one more like romance than reality. Chopin was a bad manager, or rather he was no manager at all. He spent inconsiderately, and neglecting to adapt his expenditure to his income, he was again and again under the necessity of adapting his income to his expenditure. Hence those borrowings of money from friends, those higglings with and dunnings of publishers, in short, all those meannesses which were unworthy of so distinguished an artist, and irreconcilable with his character of grand seigneur. Chopin's income was more than sufficient to provide him with all reasonable comforts; but he spent money like a giddy-headed, capricious woman, and unfortunately for him had not a fond father or husband to pay the debts thus incurred. Knowing in what an unsatisfactory state his financial affairs were when he was earning money by teaching and publishing, we can have no difficulty in imagining into what straits he must have been driven by the absolute cessation of work and the consequent cessation of income. The little he had saved in England and Scotland was soon gone, gone unawares; indeed, the discovery of the fact came to him as a surprise. What was to be done? Franchomme, his right hand, and his head too, in business and money matters—and now, of course, more than ever—was at his wits' end. He discussed the disquieting, threatening problem with some friends of Chopin, and through one of them the composer's destitution came to the knowledge of Miss Stirling. She cut the Gordian knot by sending her master 25,000 francs. [FOOTNOTE: M. Charles Gavard says 20,000 francs.] This noble gift, however; did not at once reach the hands of Chopin. When Franchomme, who knew what had been done, visited Chopin a few days afterwards, the invalid lamented as on previous occasions his impecuniosity, and in answer to the questions of his astonished friend stated that he had received nothing. The enquiries which were forthwith set on foot led to the envelope with the precious enclosure being found untouched in the clock of the portiere, who intentionally or unintentionally had omitted to deliver it. The story is told in various ways, the above is the skeleton of apparently solid facts. I will now make the reader acquainted with the hitherto unpublished account of Madame Rubio, who declared solemnly that her version was correct in every detail. Franchomme's version, as given in Madame Audley's book on Chopin, differs in several points from that of Madame Rubio; I shall, therefore, reproduce it for comparison in a foot-note.

One day in 1849 Franchomme came to Madame Rubio, and said that something must be done to get money for Chopin. Madame Rubio thereupon went to Miss Stirling to acquaint her with the state of matters. When Miss Stirling heard of Chopin's want of money, she was amazed, and told her visitor that some time before she had, without the knowledge of anyone, sent Chopin 25,000 francs in a packet which, in order to conceal the sender, she got addressed and sealed in a shop. The ladies made enquiries as to the whereabouts of the money, but without result. A Scotch gentleman, a novelist (Madame Rubio had forgotten the name at the time she told the story, but was sure she would recall it, and no doubt would have done so, had not her sudden death soon after [FOOTNOTE: In the summer of 1880] intervened), proposed to consult the clairvoyant Alexandre. [FOOTNOTE: Madame Rubio always called the clairvoyant thus. See another name farther on.] The latter on being applied to told them that the packet along with a letter had been delivered to the portiere who had it then in her possession, but that he could not say more until he got some of her hair. One evening when the portiere was bathing Chopin's feet, he—who had in the meantime been communicated with—talked to her about her hair and asked her to let him cut off one lock. She allowed him to do so, and thus Alexandre was enabled to say that the money was in the clock in the portiere's room. Having got this information, they went to the woman and asked her for the packet. She turned pale, and, drawing it out of the clock, said that at the time she forgot to give it to Chopin, and when she remembered it afterwards was afraid to do so. The packet of notes was unopened. Madame Rubio supposed that the portiere thought Chopin would soon die and that then she might keep the contents of the parcel.

[FOOTNOTE: After relating that an intimate friend of Chopin's told Miss Stirling of the latter's straitened circumstances, received from her bank-notes to the amount of 25,000 francs, and handed them enclosed in an envelope to the master's portiere with the request to deliver the packet immediately to its address, Madame Audley proceeds with her story (which Franchomme's death prevented me from verifying) thus: "Here, then, was a gleam of light in this darkened sky, and the reassured friends breathed more freely." "But what was my surprise," said M. Franchomme, from whom I have the story, "when some time after I heard Chopin renew his complaints and speak of his distress in the most poignant terms. Becoming impatient, and being quite at a loss as to what was going on," I said at last to him: "But, my dear friend, you have no cause to torment yourself, you can wait for the return of your health, you have money now!"—"I, money!" exclaimed Chopin; "I have nothing."—"How! and these 25,000 francs which were sent you lately?"—"25,000 francs? Where are they? Who sent them to me? I have not received a sou!"—"Ah! really, that is too bad!" Great commotion among the friends. It was evident that the money given to the portiere had not arrived at its destination; but how to be assured of this? and what had become of it? Here was a curious enough fact, as if a little of the marvellous must always be mingled with Chopin's affairs. Paris at that time possessed a much run-after clairvoyant, the celebrated Alexis; they thought of going to consult him. But to get some information it was necessary to put him en rapport, directly or indirectly, with the person suspected. Now this person was, naturally, the portiere. By ruse or by address they got hold of a little scarf that she wore round her neck and placed it in the hands of the clairvoyant. The latter unhesitatingly declared that the 25,000 francs were behind the looking-glass in the loge. The friend who had brought them immediately presented himself to claim them; and our careful portiere, fearing, no doubt, the consequences of a too prolonged sequestration, drew the packet from behind the clock and held it out to him, saying: 'Eh bien, la v'la, vot' lettre!'"]

Chopin, however, refused to accept the whole of the 25,000 francs. According to Madame Rubio, he kept only 1,000 francs, returning the rest to Miss Stirling, whilst Franchomme, on the other hand, said that his friend kept 12,000 francs.

During Chopin's short stay in the Rue Chaillot, M. Charles Gavard, then a very young man, in fact, a youth, spent much of his time with the suffering composer:—

  The invalid [he writes] avoided everything that could make me
  sad, and, to shorten the hours which we passed together,
  generally begged me to take a book out of his library and to
  read to him. For the most part he chose some pages out of
  Voltaire's Dictionnaire Philosophique. He valued very highly
  the finished form of that clear and concise language, and that
  so sure judgment on questions of taste. Thus, for instance, I
  remember that the article on taste was one of the last I read
  to him.

What M. Gavard says of how slowly, in pain, and often in loneliness, the hours passed for Chopin in the spacious, rooms of his lodgings in the Rue Chaillot, reminds me of a passage in Hector Berlioz's admirable article on his friend in the Journal des Debats (October 27, 1849):—

  His weakness and his sufferings had become so great that he
  could no longer either play the piano or compose; even the
  slightest conversation fatigued him in an alarming manner. He
  endeavoured generally to make himself understood as far as
  possible by signs. Hence the kind of isolation in which he
  wished to pass the last months of his life, an isolation which
  many people wrongly interpreted—some attributing it to a
  scornful pride, others to a melancholic temper, the one as
  well as the other equally foreign to the character of this,
  charming artist.

During his stay in the Rue Chaillot Chopin wrote the following note and letter to Franchomme:—

  Dear friend,—Send me a little of your Bordeaux. I must take a
  little wine to-day, and have none. How distrustful I am! Wrap
  up the bottle, and put your seal on it. For these porters! And
  I do not know who will take charge of this commission.

  Yours, with all my heart.
  Sunday after your departure, September 17, 1849.

  Dear friend,—I am very sorry that you were not well at Le
  Mans. Now, however, you are in Touraine, whose sky will have
  been more favourable to you. I am less well rather than
  better. MM. Cruveille, Louis, and Blache have had a
  consultation, and have come to the conclusion that I ought not
  to travel, but only to take lodgings in the south and remain
  at Paris. After much seeking, very dear apartments, combining
  all the desired conditions, have been found in the Place
  Vendome, No. 12. Albrecht has now his offices there. Meara
  [FOOTNOTE: This is a very common French equivalent for
  O'Meara.] has been of great help to me in the search for the
  apartments. In short, I shall see you all next winter—well
  housed; my sister remains with me, unless she is urgently
  required in her own country. I love you, and that is all I can
  tell you, for I am overcome with sleep and weakness. My sister
  rejoices at the idea of seeing Madame Franchomme again, and I
  also do so most sincerely. This shall be as God wills. Kindest
  regards to M. and Madame Forest. How much I should like to be
  some days with you! Is Madame de Lauvergeat also at the sea-
  side? Do not forget to remember me to her, as well as to M. de
  Lauvergeat. Embrace your little ones. Write me a line. Yours
  ever. My sister embraces Madame Franchomme.

After a stay of less than six weeks Chopin removed from the Rue Chaillot to the apartments in No. 12, Place Vendome, which M. Albrecht and Dr. O'Meara had succeeded in finding for him. About this time Moscheles came to Paris. Of course he did not fail to inquire after his brother-artist and call at his house. What Moscheles heard and thought may be gathered from the following entry in his diary:-"Unfortunately, we heard of Chopin's critical condition, made ourselves inquiries, and found all the sad news confirmed. Since he has been laid up thus, his sister has been with him. Now the days of the poor fellow are numbered, his sufferings great. Sad lot!" Yes, Chopin's condition had become so hopeless that his relations had been communicated with, and his sister, Louisa Jedrzejewicz, [FOOTNOTE: The same sister who visited him in 1844, passed on that occasion also some time at Nohant, and subsequently is mentioned in a letter of Chopin's to Franchomme.] accompanied by her husband and daughter, had lost no time in coming from Poland to Paris. For the comfort of her presence he was, no doubt, thankful. But he missed and deplored very much during his last illness the absence of his old, trusted physician, Dr. Molin, who had died shortly after the composer's return from England.

The accounts of Chopin's last days—even if we confine ourselves to those given by eye-witnesses—are a mesh of contradictions which it is impossible to wholly disentangle. I shall do my best, but perhaps the most I can hope for is to avoid making confusion worse confounded.

In the first days of October Chopin was already in such a condition that unsupported he could not sit upright. His sister and Gutmann did not leave him for a minute, Chopin holding a hand of the latter almost constantly in one of his. By the 15th of October the voice of the patient had lost its sonority. It was on this day that took place the episode which has so often and variously been described. The Countess Delphine Potocka, between whom and Chopin existed a warm friendship, and who then happened to be at Nice, was no sooner informed of her friend's fatal illness than she hastened to Paris.

  When the coming of this dear friend was announced to Chopin
  [relates M. Gavard], he exclaimed: "Therefore, then, has God
  delayed so long to call me to Him; He wished to vouchsafe me
  yet the pleasure of seeing you." Scarcely had she stepped up
  to him when he expressed the wish that she should let him hear
  once more the voice which he loved so much. When the priest
  who prayed beside the bed had granted the request of the dying
  man, the piano was moved from the adjoining room, and the
  unhappy Countess, mastering her sorrow and suppressing tier
  sobs, had to force herself to sing beside the bed where her
  friend was exhaling his life. I, for my part, heard nothing; I
  do not know what she sang. This scene, this contrast, this
  excess of grief had over-powered my-sensibility; I remember
  only the moment when the death-rattle of the departing one
  interrupted the Countess in the middle of the second piece.
  The instrument was quickly removed, and beside the bed
  remained only the priest who said the prayers for the dying,
  and the kneeling friends around him.

However, the end was not yet come, indeed, was not to come till two days after. M. Gavard, in saying that he did not hear what the Countess Potocka sang, acts wisely, for those who pretended to have heard it contradict each other outright. Liszt and Karasowski, who follows him, say that the Countess sang the Hymn to the Virgin by Stradella, and a Psalm by Marcello; on the other hand, Gutmann most positively asserted that she sang a Psalm by Marcello and an air by Pergolesi; whereas Franchomme insisted on her having sung an air from Bellini's Beatrice di Tenda, and that only once, and nothing else. As Liszt was not himself present, and does not give the authority for his statement, we may set it, and with it Karasowski's, aside; but the two other statements, made as they were by two musicians who were ear witnesses, leave us in distressing perplexity with regard to what really took place, for between them we cannot choose. Chopin, says M. Gavard, looked forward to his death with serenity.

  Some days after his removal to the Place Vendome, Chopin,
  sitting upright and leaning on the arm of a friend, remained
  silent for a long time and seemed lost in deep meditation.
  Suddenly he broke the silence with the words: "Now my death-
  struggle begins" [Maintenant j'entre en agonie]. The
  physician, who was feeling his pulse, wished to comfort him
  with some commonplace words of hope. But Chopin rejoined with
  a superiority which admitted of no reply: "God shows man a
  rare favour when He reveals to him the moment of the approach
  of death; this grace He shows me. Do not disturb me."

M. Gavard relates also that on the 16th October Chopin twice called his friends that were gathered in his apartments around him. "For everyone he had a touching word; I, for my part, shall never forget the tender words he spoke to me." Calling to his side the Princess Czartoryska and Mdlle. Gavard, [FOOTNOTE: A sister of M. Charles Gavard, the pupil to whom Chopin dedicated his Berceuse.] he said to them: "You will play together, you will think of me, and I shall listen to you." And calling to his side Franchomme, he said to the Princess: "I recommend Franchomme to you, you will play Mozart together, and I shall listen to you." [FOOTNOTE: The words are usually reported to have been "Vous jouerez du Mozart en memoire de moi."] "And," added Franchomme when he told me this, "the Princess has always been a good friend to me."

And George Sand? Chopin, as I have already mentioned, said two days before his death to Franchomme: "She had said to me that I would die in no arms but hers" [Elle n'avait dit que je ne mourrais que dans ses bras]. Well, did she not come and fulfil her promise, or, at least, take leave of her friend of many years? Here, again, all is contradiction. M. Gavard writes:—

  Among the persons who called and were not admitted was a
  certain Madame M., who came in the name of George Sand—who
  was then much occupied with the impending representation of
  one of her dramas—to inquire after Chopin's state of health.
  None of us thought it proper to disturb the last moments of
  the master by the announcement of this somewhat late
  remembrance.

Gutmann, on the other hand, related that George Sand came to the landing of the staircase and asked him if she might see Chopin; but that he advised her strongly against it, as it was likely to excite the patient too much. Gutmann, however, seems to have been by no means sure about this part of his recollections, for on two occasions he told me that it was Madame Clesinger (George Sand's daughter, Solange) who asked if it was advisable for her mother to come. Madame Clesinger, I may say in passing, was one of those in loving attendance on Chopin, and, as Franchomme told me, present, like himself, when the pianist-composer breathed his last. From the above we gather, at least, that it is very uncertain whether Chopin's desire to see George Sand was frustrated by her heartlessness or the well-meaning interference of his friends.

During this illness of Chopin a great many of his friends and acquaintances, in fact, too many, pressed forward, ready to be of use, anxious to learn what was passing. Happily for the dying man's comfort, most of them were not allowed to enter the room in which he lay.

  In the back room [writes M. Gavard] lay the poor sufferer,
  tormented by fits of breathlessness, and only sitting in bed
  resting in the arms of a friend could he procure air for his
  oppressed lungs. It was Gutmann, the strongest among us, who
  knew best how to manage the patient, and who mostly thus
  supported him. At the head of his bed sat the Princess
  Marcelline Czartoryska: she never left him, guessing his most
  secret wishes, nursing him like a sister of mercy with a
  serene countenance, which did not betray her deep sorrow.
  Other friends gave a helping hand or relieved her, everyone
  according to his power; but most of them stayed in the two
  adjoining rooms. Everyone had assumed a part; everyone helped
  as much as he could: one ran to the doctors, to the
  apothecary; another introduced the persons asked for; a third
  shut the door on the intruders. To be sure, many who had
  anything but free entrance came, and called to take leave of
  him just as if he were about to start on a journey. This
  anteroom of the dying man, where every one of us hopelessly
  waited and watched, was like a guard-house or a camp.

M. Gavard probably exaggerates the services of the Princess Czartoryska, but certainly forgets those of the composer's sister. Liszt, no doubt, comes nearer the truth when he says that among those who assembled in the salon adjoining Chopin's bedroom, and in turn came to him and watched his gestures and looks when he had lost his speech, the Princess Marcelline Czartoryska was the most assiduous.