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.
She passed every day a couple of hours with the dying man. She
left him at the last only after having prayed for a long time
beside him who had just then fled from this world of illusions
and sorrows....
After a bad night Chopin felt somewhat better on the morning of the 16th. By several authorities we are informed that on this day, the day after the Potocka episode, the artist received the sacrament which a Polish priest gave him in the presence of many friends. Chopin got worse again in the evening. While the priest was reading the prayers for the dying, he rested silently and with his eyes closed upon Gutmann's shoulder; but at the end of the prayers he opened his eyes wide and said with a loud voice: "Amen."
The Polish priest above mentioned was the Abbe Alexander Jelowicki. Liszt relates that in the absence of the Polish priest who was formerly Chopin's confessor, the Abbe called on his countryman when he heard of his condition, although they had not been on good terms for years. Three times he was sent away by those about Chopin without seeing him. But when he had succeeded in informing Chopin of his wish to see him, the artist received him without delay. After that the Abbe became a daily visitor. One day Chopin told him that he had not confessed for many years, he would do so now. When the confession was over and the last word of the absolution spoken, Chopin embraced his confessor with both arms a la polonaise, and exclaimed: "Thanks! Thanks! Thanks to you I shall not die like a pig." That is what Liszt tells us he had from Abbe Jelowicki's own lips. In the account which the latter has himself given of how Chopin was induced by him to receive the sacrament, induced only after much hesitation, he writes:—
Then I experienced an inexpressible joy mixed with an
indescribable anguish. How should I receive this precious soul
so as to give it to God? I fell on my knees, and cried to God
with all the energy of my faith: "You alone receive it, O my
God!" And I held out to Chopin the image of the crucified
Saviour, pressing it firmly in his two hands without saying a
word. Then fell from his eyes big tears. "Do you believe?" I
asked him.—"I believe."—"Do you believe as your mother
taught you?"—"As my mother taught me." And, his eyes fixed on
the image of his Saviour, he confessed while shedding torrents
of tears. Then he received the viaticum and the extreme
unction which he asked for himself. After a moment he desired
that the sacristan should be given twenty times more than was
usually given to him. When I told him that this would be far
too much, he replied: "No, no, this is not too much, for what
I have received is priceless." From this moment, by God's
grace, or rather under the hand of God Himself, he became
quite another, and one might almost say he became a saint. On
the same day began the death-struggle, which lasted four days
and four nights. His patience and resignation to the will of
God did not abandon him up to the last minute....
When Chopin's last moments approached he took "nervous cramps" (this was Gutmann's expression in speaking of the matter), and the only thing which seemed to soothe him was Gutmann's clasping his wrists and ankles firmly. Quite near the end Chopin was induced to drink some wine or water by Gutmann, who supported him in his arms while holding the glass to his lips. Chopin drank, and, sinking back, said "Cher ami!" and died. Gutmann preserved the glass with the marks of Chopin's lips on it till the end of his life.
[FOOTNOTE: In B. Stavenow's sketch already more than once alluded to by me, we read that Chopin, after having wetted his lips with the water brought him by Gutmann, raised the latter's hand, kissed it, and with the words "Cher ami!" breathed his last in the arms of his pupil, whose sorrow was so great that Count Gryzmala was obliged to lead him out of the room. Liszt's account is slightly different. "Who is near me?" asked Chopin, with a scarcely audible voice. He bent his head to kiss the hand of Gutmann who supported him, giving up his soul in this last proof of friendship and gratitude. He died as he had lived, loving.]
M. Gavard describes the closing hours of Chopin's life as follows:—