Frederick Chopin, as a Man and Musician — Complete

by Frederick Niecks

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.