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FROM "BLACK FLOWERS" And - later - later - in Paris Frederick Chopin was living in rue Chaillot which, when you walk up from the Champs Elysees, in the left-hand row of houses, on the first floor, has apartments with windows facing gardens, the Pantheon cupola, and the whole of Paris... the only point with a collection of views somewhat approaching those you find in Rome. And such was the apartment that Chopin had with such a view, whose main part consisted of a huge drawing-room with two windows, where his immortal piano stood, a piano you wouldn't describe as exquisite - resembling a wardrobe or a chest of drawers, excellently decorated like the fashionable pianos - but rather quite triangular, long, three-legged, which now, I believe, is hardly ever found in elegant apartments. In this drawing-room Chopin used to have his meal at five, and would then descend, as best he could, down the stairs, and drive to the Bois de Boulogne, from whence, when he returned, they would carry him upstairs, since he could not walk up alone. Many times I had meals with him thus and accompanied him on drives. On one such occasion we made a flying visit to Passy where Bohdan Zaleski lived. We didn't go upstairs as there was no one to carry Chopin, but stayed in the little garden in front of the house where the then quite small son of the poet played on the lawn... A long time passed since that event, and I stopped calling on Chopin, although keeping myself informed always how he was, and knowing that his sister had arrived from Poland. Until one day I did call with the intention of seeing him, but a French maid said he was asleep; I left a visiting card and slipped out quietly. Hardly have I descended a few steps when the maid appears behind me saying that Chopin, when he learnt who had called, was inviting me in - that, in other words, he wasn't asleep but had merely no wish to receive visitors. So I entered the room adjoining the drawing-room, where Chopin had his bedroom, feeling very grateful that he wished to see me, and found him dressed but half-reclining on the-bed, his legs swollen, which I could discern at once because of the shoes and stockings he was wearing. The artist's sister sat at his side, strangely like him in profile... He, in the shadow of a deep bed with curtains, propped up on pillows, and wrapped in a shawl, looked very beautiful, as always, displaying in the most mundane movements something of perfection, something of a monumental outline... something which either Athenian aristocracy could have adopted as a cult during the most beautiful epoch of Greek civilisation - or that which an artist of dramatic genius portrays, for instance, in classical French tragedies, which because of their theoretical polish in no way resemble the world of antiquity, but can nevertheless, thanks to the genius of a Rachel, become naturalised, credible and truly classical... Chopin possessed such naturally idealised perfection of gestures, wherever and how ever I saw him... So - his voice interrupted by coughing and choking, he began to complain that I had neglected him so long - then he began to banter and tried to accuse me in a most innocent manner of mystical tendencies, which, since it gave him pleasure, I allowed - then I conversed with his sister - then there were intervals of coughing - then came the moment to leave him in peace so I began to say goodbye, and he, gripping my hand, and shaking his hair from. his brow, said: "...I'm moving out!..."-and began to cough, which having heard, and knowing that it was good for his nerves sometimes to contradict him strongly, I employed just such an artificial tone and kissing him on the arm said, as one does to a person who is strong and manly : ". . . You keep moving out every year... and yet, God be praised, we still see you alive." To which Chopin, concluding the words interrupted by the cough, said: "I'm saying that I am moving out of this apartment to the Place Vendome..." This was my last conversation with him, for shortly afterwards he moved to the Place Vendome and there died, but I did not see him again after that visit in the rue Chaillot... |