Rumours had began to spread in Paris that Fryderyk was dying. And so his appartment at No. 12 place VendĂŽme was filled with dozens of people; friends, who came to say farewell, pupils, to thank him while he encouraged them one last time, and a great number of mere aquaintances, who simply called in as a mark of respect. Fryderyk would hold a brave face while talking to them, but as soon as they left, he couldnât hide his suffering anymore. His gasping breaths were hardly more than pitiful, stifled cries, horrifying sobs.
George Sand sent me a letter, in which she asked about Fryderykâs condition. But the tone of the letter was ill-judged and jarring, filled with pompous insults and assumptions of âmotherly rightsâ, speaking of Fryderyk like a child who had abandoned and forgotten his mother. I never answered the letter.
It was important to Fryderyk to sort out his affaires befare he died, so he gave us careful instructions. He asked that all unfinished musical manuscripts in his portefolio must be destroyed, and that only completele pieces should be published. He asked that Mozartâs Requiem would be sung at his funeral. And he implored that his body would be cut open, so that he would not be buried alive, and that his heart would be brought back to Poland, where it belongs.
Delfina Potocka arrived from Nice the 15th of October to visit Fryderyk. He was moved by this gesture, and begged her to sing for him one last time. She obliged, and sang to him, accompanied by the piano that we rolled up by the bedroom door.
When the 16th came, Fryderyk asked again for music, so Princess Marcelina and Auguste Franchomme played him some Mozart. After they had finished, he asked them to play his own Sonata for Piano and Cello. But only after a few bars of this he began to suffocate, so they had to stop.
By now, most of the callers had gone, leaving only intimate friends. We spent the evening reciting litanies. Fryderyk was silent. Later, two doctors came to examine him. One of them took a candle and held it before Fryderykâs face, who had become dark with suffocation. The doctor remarked that his senses had ceased to act. But when he asked Fryderyk if he was suffering, we quite distinctly heard his answer: âNo longer!â
The night came, and more people left, leaving only me, Princess Marcelina, Gutmann, Thomas Albrecht and Solange. The 16th became the 17th when midnight passed. It was silent. Around two oâclock in the morning, I had fallen asleep, but Fryderyk lay awake. Solange sat beside him, holding his hand.
âDonât stay here, this will be uglyâ, he suddenly said to her. âYou must not see it.â He appeared to have a seizure, so the terrified Solange called Gutmann, who ran over and took Fryderyk in his arms. I woke. We wanted to give him a drink, but death prevented us.
âHe passed away with his gaze fixed on me, he was hideous, I could see the tarnishing eyes in the darknessâ, Solange later wrote. âOh, the soul had died too!â
Fryderyk Chopin, my dear brother, had passed away, after years of sickness and suffering. On the following day, the doctor came to carry out an autopsy, and Auguste ClĂ©singer came to make Fryderykâs death-mask. I was heartbroken; my world had fallen into darkness, but I stayed in Paris for several months in order to arrange his funeral and sort out his affaires. And when I finally returned to Poland, I brought Fryderykâs heart with me home.
âThe soul of an angel, cast down upon earth in a tortured body in order to accomplish some mysterious redemptionâ, was how Solange remembered him. âIs it because his life was a thirty-nine-year agony that his music is so lofty, so sweet, so sublime?â she wondered.
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