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Chopin's Funeral

Chopin's Funeral

4.5 4
by Benita Eisler

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Frédéric Chopin’s reputation as one of the Great Romantics endures, but as Benita Eisler reveals in her elegant and elegiac biography, the man was more complicated than his iconic image.

A classicist, conservative, and dandy who relished his conquest of Parisian society, the Polish émigré was for a while blessed with genius, acclaim, and


Frédéric Chopin’s reputation as one of the Great Romantics endures, but as Benita Eisler reveals in her elegant and elegiac biography, the man was more complicated than his iconic image.

A classicist, conservative, and dandy who relished his conquest of Parisian society, the Polish émigré was for a while blessed with genius, acclaim, and the love of Europe’s most infamous woman writer, George Sand. But by the age of 39, the man whose brilliant compositions had thrilled audiences in the most fashionable salons lay dying of consumption, penniless and abandoned by his lover. In the fall of 1849, his lavish funeral was attended by thousands—but not by George Sand.

In this intimate portrait of an embattled man, Eisler tells the story of a turbulent love affair, of pain and loss redeemed by art, and of worlds—both private and public—convulsed by momentous change.

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
“A wonderfully evocative melding of music and life.” —Financial Times

“[Written] with poetic insight and admirable brevity, combining analytical skill with that of a novelist.” —New York Times Book Review

“A captivating narrative. . . . [Eisler] manages to infuse cultural history with heartbreak.” —New York Sun

“Psychologically compelling. . . . Eisler writes beautifully about Chopin’s music.” --The Christian Science Monitor

The New York Times
Chopin's Funeral lays considerable blame at Sand's doorstep. Chopin died at 39, in poverty, just two years after the breakup with Sand. Many of their friends thought she killed him. But, after all, it was she who had made it possible for him to outlive his fate for so long. The attraction that held them together may be explained by the voracious appetite for work they shared. Chopin never wrote so well as when he lived with Sand at Nohant, he worrying the piano all day while she scribbled all night. And in the end, we have the extraordinary body of music, and the novels that tell us what it was like to be a woman in Sand's time. So who's to say it was all a terrible mistake? — Angeline Goreau
The Los Angeles Times
In its sensitive re-creation of the time and place in which Chopin lived, and its painstaking and detailed observation of events — as though Eisler were writing about things she had seen — this elegantly slim volume takes its place at the head of, yet apart from, a long list of biographical tributes to the Romantic era's most elusive and hermetic composer. What's more, even though the art is subordinate to the artist here, Eisler, without losing the thread of her narrative, lends a perceptive ear to Chopin's music, which gives her book, if not completeness, at least a satisfying kind of integrity. — Ted Libbey
Publishers Weekly
Biographer Eisler, whose last book was on Byron, has moved to much more heavily trodden ground with this one, and it is to her credit that she manages to make the brief arc of the exiled Polish composer's life so affecting. She begins with a journalistic close-up of Chopin's funeral, which ironically was a lavish affair, though in his last months of sickness he was neglected by most of his society friends. Eisler then proceeds to the familiar story of his triumphant arrival on the Paris scene and the swift liaison with the notorious George Sand. Wisely skipping over the couple's disastrous and endlessly dramatized winter together on Majorca, Eisler focuses her well-researched attention on the closing years of the composer's life. She has an excellent chapter on Chopin's unhappy time in England and Scotland; and she writes with real vigor and sympathy of the byzantine family politics that embroiled the Sand household, both at the country retreat Nohant and in Paris, where the novelist turned away from her daughter Solange and rested her hopes on her far less worthy son, Maurice. In the end it was Solange who comforted the dying composer after Sand had ruthlessly thrust him from her life. Chopin's failings-his rigid conservatism and snobbishness, his political timidity and frequent financial selfishness-are made clear; but Eisler, deeply sympathetic to the quality of the music, also shows that he never ceased to struggle, despite perpetual illness, to expand his extraordinary gift into areas where no musician had previously ventured. The book adds little to the sum of Chopin scholarship, but is a skillfully written and mercifully brief overview that hits the right notes. (Mar. 9) Forecast: A striking cover and a handy size are good selling points for those in search of an accessible account. Copyright 2003 Cahners Business Information.
Library Journal
Eisler, a New York-based biographer (Byron: Child of Passion, Fool of Fame), uses Chopin's funeral, a grand "invitation only" event attended by thousands of Parisians, as a metaphor for the composer's life, which, to the author, represents a tragic fall from grace. A theme that runs continually throughout the narrative is Chopin as a man curiously at odds with his time and locale; socially and politically conservative at a time of great revolutionary upheaval; a dandy in an age of the rising middle class; and an artist in exile. Beginning with the funeral, then proceeding in a more traditional chronological manner, Eisler weaves a fascinating account of Chopin's life, with great attention paid to his complex relationship with Europe's best-known woman novelist, George Sand. The music itself is touched upon lightly-there are no notated examples or passages of theoretical analytic-but the author does draw upon current musicological research when describing Chopin's works. Eisler is a compelling storyteller, sweeping the reader into the exhilarating milieu of Paris in the 1820s and 1830s. Highly recommended for all general collections.-Larry Lipkis, Moravian Coll., Bethlehem, PA Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Poor Frédéric Chopin: so much talent, so much sorrow. Eisler, a gifted biographer of artists and writers (Byron, 1999, etc.), strikes exactly the right elegiac tone on the first page of this slender volume, which opens with the Polish composer’s funeral in Paris in 1849. Eighteen years earlier, Chopin had arrived in the city an unknown, 21-year-old exile from Poland and immediately thrilled the elite of Orleanist France with two incandescent performances. The elite were just the ones he was after: though his music, like Beethoven’s, has long been considered progressive and even revolutionary, Chopin, writes Eisler, "had a horror of ‘the People’ as a force of upheaval or even change" and was "repelled by marginality: by poor Poles, by Jews, by the ill-dressed and ill-mannered, by coarseness or slovenliness, in art or life." He was particularly offended by any suggestion that art should serve the cause of social justice or reform, a position championed by one of the most visible and popular artists of the time, novelist George Sand, "the daughter of a bird seller turned camp follower," with whom the snobbish provincial immediately struck up a torrid affair without having read a word of her writing. Sand was a bit frightening, Eisler tells us, a cigar-smoking terror who all but devoured men; yet she made a perfect balance to the timid Chopin, who was rapidly becoming a superstar--and not just among the elite, but among young amateur pianists who rushed to buy his sheet music, so that the "tender, swaying rhythms of the mazurka became, along with all things Polish, the rage in Paris." For many reasons, though, and none of them pleasant, Chopin’s and Sand’s love soon soured; eachcontributed to its collapse, which unfolds in these pages, like so much in Chopin’s life, as an inevitable tragedy. A sad story superbly chronicled. Agent: Gloria Loomis/Watkins Loomis Agency

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Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
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Read an Excerpt

Lacrymosa ies illa: "What weeping on that day"

On a sparkling Paris morning, Tuesday, October 30, 1849, crowds poured into the square in front of the Church of the Madeleine. The occasion was the funeral of Frédéric Chopin, and for it, the entire facade of the great neoclassical temple had been draped in swags of black velvet centered with a cartouche bearing the silver-embroidered initials FC.

Admission was by invitation only: Between three thousand and four thousand had received the black-bordered cards. Observing the square with its crush of carriages, the liveried grooms and sleek horses, the throngs converging on the porch, Hector Berlioz reported that "the whole of artistic and aristocratic Paris was there." But another who surveyed the crowd, the music critic for the Times of London, suspected that of the four thousand who filled the pews, a large number had been admitted just before noon, strangers to the dead man, mere bystanders even, "many of whom, perhaps, had never heard of him."

If death is a mirror of life, Chopin's funeral reflected all the disjunctions of his brief existence. The most private of artists, his genius was mourned in a public event worthy of a head of state. Canonized as "angelic," a Shelleyan "poet of the keyboard," Chopin seemed to personify romanticism, and before he was buried, its myths had already embalmed him: a short and tragic life; an heroic role as Polish patriot and exile; doomed lover of the century's most notorious woman; and finally, his death from consumption, that killer of youth, beauty, genius, and of courtesans foolish enough to fall in love.

In reality, he was the least romantic of artists. While the generation that had come of age just before his own in France, including the Olympian Victor Hugo, had defined romanticism as a holy war of the "moderns" (themselves) against the "ancients" (their literary elders), setting off riots in theaters to make their point, Chopin clung to the past. His musical touchstones were Haydn, Mozart-but especially Bach. He harbored doubts about Beethoven's lapses of taste, was incurious about the music of Schubert, and generally contemptuous of his other contemporaries: Schumann, Berlioz, and Liszt, towards whom his feelings were further tangled by rivalrous friendship. In art, he preferred the marmoreal neoclassicism of Ingres and his followers to the radical inventions in color and form of his friend Delacroix. Socially and politically, he was still more conservative.

The same aristocratic circles that had embraced Chopin the child prodigy in Warsaw were waiting to welcome the twenty-one-year-old sensation of Paris. Chopin arrived in France in 1831. One year before, revolution had replaced the Bourbon Restoration with the Orleanists swept in by Louis Philippe and his July monarchy. It was still a world of fixed hierarchies: of titles, birth, and breeding, buoyed by a flood tide of fresh money coined by the financiers and industrialists whose entertainments outshone the Sun King in splendor, if not in style. Chopin made some friends among the professional middle class-a less grand banker or diplomat, a few fellow musicians. He had a horror of "the People" as a force of upheaval or even change (which he dreaded in any form), and he was suspicious of those who championed their cause. He was appalled by that quintessentially romantic belief, whose most ardent proponent was George Sand, that art must serve the cause of social justice-or, indeed, any other cause except itself.

Like many who have thrived as "exceptions," propelled by talent from modest origins to a place among the privileged, Chopin was repelled by marginality: by poor Poles, by Jews, by the ill-dressed and ill-mannered, by coarseness or slovenliness, in art or life.

Most likenesses of the composer suggest that he was far from handsome. He had pale, colorless hair, a thin, hooked nose, a pursey mouth, and rabbity, lashless eyes. In these images, Chopin bears only a glancing resemblance to his famous portrait by Delacroix-the portrait of romantic genius itself, with his tousled chestnut mane and burning inward gaze. Chopin's famous dandyism, then, must be understood as another labor of creation, like his music an imperious quest for perfection. The dandy enlists distinction-in dress, speech, manners-along with distance, to create a masterpiece: himself.

What appeared to many-then and now-as the snobbery of a provincial, self-invented aristocrat and aesthete, had deeper sources. Chopin needed the reassurance that a fixed social order provides. Dependent and childlike in many ways, he clung to the security of protective institutions-the monarchy, the Church, and the family-which defined themselves proudly as patriarchal, stern but loving fathers keeping watch over children, dedicated to exalting an ideal past and to keeping present chaos at bay.

Two years and only two public concerts after his arrival in Paris, Chopin ranked among those few artists who moved in every circle that counted. Ignoring protocol, older, established musicians called upon him. He was a fixture at the grandest houses, where, arriving in his own carriage, he was welcomed as a lionized guest who never failed to charm and amuse; if he could be prevailed upon to perform, he hypnotized every listener. The musically knowledgeable drew close to the piano to study the wizardry of his technique and his famous inventions in fingering, third finger crossing the fourth, that made his impossibly difficult compositions appear effortless. Fellow exiles heard laments for a homeland in the languorous rubato of the mazurkas, with their heart-catching drop from major to minor keys, but the mood of elegy was as often shattered by discordant salvos of unleashed rage. Even those guests whose attendance was simply an occasion to wear the new diamonds, to remark casually at the bourse that the reception last evening at Baron James's had been more than usually delightful, stayed well past midnight, straining to hear the final note, when the pianist, pale and exhausted, rose wearily to take his bow. It was uncanny how Chopin's music spoke so intimately to their most private, long-buried thoughts and memories, evoking childhood happiness and lost love; innocent, nobler selves trampled by the harsh rules of life.

Seventeen years later, he died, destitute, in an apartment paid for by friends at the most fashionable address in the most expensive quarter of Paris.

Now, at the funeral, emissaries from the world of music were outnumbered by mourners from the ranks of the rich and titled. The Polish émigré aristocracy and its French counterpart among the old noblesse were in turn outshone by new money: bankers and speculators whose wives and daughters had also been among Chopin's pupils. Certain of the fashionable, one reporter noted, appeared indecorously attired in brilliant colors, glittering with jewels.

While the crowd filed through the portal, the closed casket was carried from the sanctuary and placed under an elaborate catafalque ("utterly pretentious," in the view of Paris's leading music critic) at the transept. Chopin's embalmed body had lain in the crypt for almost two weeks since his death on October 17, aged thirty-nine. His dying had been long and terrible, the disease that killed him still not diagnosed with certainty: tuberculosis of the larynx, cystic fibrosis, mitral stenosis, or a rare viral infection?

With a dandy's discipline, in his final agony of slow suffocation, Chopin had planned the musical program whose principal offering was to be a performance of Mozart's Requiem. Unknown to the dying man, women were not permitted to sing in the city's parish churches; it had taken days of pleading on the part of Chopin's most powerful friends before a special dispensation was issued by the Archbishop of Paris. The decree allowed female participation provided it remained invisible; thus the women singers, including Chopin's friend Pauline Viardot among the featured soloists, were hidden from view behind a black velvet curtain.

As the mourners took their places, the organist played the funeral march from Chopin's own Sonata in B-flat Minor. Then, the choir of the Paris Conservatory sounded the opening notes of the Requiem's Introitus, followed by the first solo-"Te decet hymnus, Deus," Viardot sang, her glorious mezzo-soprano soaring above the chorus and orchestra. Then, voices and instruments were stilled while the priest chanted the High Mass for the Dead.

The pallbearers emerged from their pews. Two princes, Adam and Alexandre Czartoryski, represented the community of Polish exiles. The painter Eugène Delacroix mourned the friend he had both loved and revered, calling him "the truest artist among us." From the world of music, the composer Giacomo Meyerbeer, decorations glinting against his dark mourning attire, appeared the personification of success. He had been the merest acquaintance, but Chopin, passionate for opera, had been a fan, like millions of others who had made Meyerbeer a rich man. In contrast, cellist and composer Auguste Franchomme was known to few. But the modest, scholarly professor at the Conservatory had been the inspiration for the only music Chopin would ever write for an instrument other than the piano. Franchomme was followed by a collaborator of another kind, Camille Pleyel, manufacturer of the pianos that Chopin, more than any other composer who ever lived, had made the instrument of genius.

Shouldering the massive coffin, the six men moved up the nave to the sounds of the organ playing Chopin's Preludes in E Minor and B Minor. Many of those now leaving had heard the composer play these pieces-his favorites-in their own houses, in the salons of friends, or in Pleyel's concert rooms. The familiar notes on the somber instrument spoke of the voice they would never hear again, and they wept.

Outside the church, the mourners gathered around the corbillard, the wagon hearse particular to Paris. Drawn by black plumed horses, it aroused shivers of dread, but also of excitement: Parisians loved a funeral. By this time, most of the mourners had dispersed; Chopin had forbidden any graveside ceremony. With the exception of the pallbearers, freed now of their burden, those who remained were women. They surrounded the small figure of the composer's older sister, Ludwika, summoned from Warsaw by the dying man at the end of June. "Please come, if you can," he had begged, even if she had to borrow the money, of which, he, alas, had none to advance. "Apply for a passport immediately," he urged, and lest he should sound like his familiar hypochrondriacal self, he invoked the advice of others close to him and concerned for his health who had agreed that no medicine would help him as much as the sight of his sister. At the same time, he tried to deny the urgency of his condition. "I don't know myself why I yearn to see Ludwika," he wrote, with a wan coyness, to the rest of the family. "It's like those whims of pregnant women."

Chopin might have spent the last twenty years in the most emancipated company of Paris, but it was still natural to him to ask permission of his brother-in-law for Ludwika to make the journey: "A wife must obey her husband," he wrote. "Thus, I am asking you as the husband to accompany your spouse." With the intervention of the czar's ambassador to France, whose wife was Polish, the endless passport process was hastened and Ludwika, accompanied by her husband, Józef Kalasanty Jedrzejewciz, and fifteen-year-old daughter, arrived in Paris in August. But the grumpy Kalasanty returned to Poland in September; it was only Chopin's sister and his little niece Louisette who remained with him to the end.

Another young mourner, Adolf Gutmann, thirty years old, was one of Chopin's few pupils training to be a professional musician. Others, including pianists said to be just as talented, could not have performed by virtue of birth; they were women and aristocrats of title or wealth; indeed, the most gifted of all Chopin's students was a princess, Marcelina Czartoryska, who had walked to the cemetery accompanied by Countess Delfina Potocka. Sumptuously beautiful of face and body, her golden hair as bewitching as her soprano voice, Delfina, long separated from her husband, was so prodigal with her sexual favors that she had been crowned "the Great Sinner"-no small distinction in the Paris of the July Monarchy. Chopin was rumored to have been one of her many lovers. She had rushed to Paris from her villa in Nice at the news that he was dying. With only hours to live, he had begged Delfina to play and sing for him. A piano was moved to the open door of his bedroom. But the sounds of the voice so dear to him or the music she played or sang caused spasms of choking and he motioned for her to stop.

Sending their carriages ahead, the Polish noblewomen walked the distance, east along the grand boulevards, skirting the slums of Paris to Père Lachaise Cemetery. Others, arriving earlier in hired cabs, stood waiting by the open grave: a brawny red-haired sculptor, Auguste Clésinger, and his young wife, Solange, daughter of George Sand. Clésinger had been summoned to the dying man's bedside to mold the death mask, but the resulting likeness-bald head, drooping eyes, mouth contorted by agonized efforts to breathe-was rejected by the horrified Ludwika. Working swiftly, the sculptor had applied another layer of wet plaster, which, after removal, he reworked, smoothing away all evidence of struggle and pain until the dead man's features were composed into an expression of Christian peace. Clésinger's reward was the commission for a funerary monument, and he now surveyed the site where his marble tribute, featuring a Muse holding a lyre, would rise above a small oval profile of the composer.

Towering over the Clésingers, Ludwika, the priest, the Polish nobles, and the pallbearers was the angular figure of Miss Jane Stirling, a Scottish heiress, Chopin's pupil and patroness, who had supported the composer in the last year of his life. It was Stirling who had paid the bill for the funeral-five thousand pounds-of which two thousand were spent on the orchestra and chorus alone.

In the silence ordained by the dead man, his coffin was lowered. The mourners pressed closer together for a last look. But they also seemed to close ranks, filling an empty place among them.

Absent from the small circle of those who had been closest to the dead man was George Sand.

What People are Saying About This

From the Publisher
“A wonderfully evocative melding of music and life.” —Financial Times

“[Written] with poetic insight and admirable brevity, combining analytical skill with that of a novelist.” —New York Times Book Review

“A captivating narrative. . . . [Eisler] manages to infuse cultural history with heartbreak.” —New York Sun

“Psychologically compelling. . . . Eisler writes beautifully about Chopin’s music.” —The Christian Science Monitor

Meet the Author

Benita Eisler is the author of O’Keeffe and Stieglitz: An American Romance and Byron: Child of Passion, Fool of Fame. She lives in New York City.

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Chopin's Funeral 4.5 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 4 reviews.
TFrench More than 1 year ago
In graduate school one of my professors cautioned us to read works only by musical scholars, not by ill-informed enthusiasts Here are some errors--just a few. 1. "Unlike Brahms, Chopin never found a George Bernard Shaw to champion his work in Britain." Shaw DESPISED the music of Brahms until well after the latter's death when it made no difference. 2. Chopin's height is given by the author as 5 feet. If she had viewed Chopin's 1836 passport, she would have seen that his official height was just under 5 ft. 7 in. 3. Original (supposed) death mask by Clésinger. Ms. Eisler describes it: "Bald head...mouth contorted by agonized efforts to breathe..." Death masks were sometimes finished showing subjects bald, but Chopin had a headful of hair at his death. The author could have referred to the postmortem sketches by Kwiatowski--there you see it: hair. As for the "mouth contorted by agonized efforts to breathe," the mouth is no more contorted than any dead man's, especially after being mashed down under a couple of pounds of plaster. No such mask is on the website of the Bibliotheque Nationale de France. Does it resemble Chopin? The line of the nose doesn't, nor the chin, nor the massive, square jaws. Other than the the receding lower lip (due to missing teeth) this mask could just as easily be that of a hanged criminal. 4. "Called 'consumptive rage,' the particular disease¿has been related to episodes of paranoid suspicion..." Really? There's no such term in the Practice of Physic, by T. Watson, the preeminent clinician of this period. No Google search turns up anything in medical literature under the name. 5 Chopin was "repelled by...Jews..." Chopin was no more anti-Semitic than any other Pole of his day. And his anti-Semitic remarks (often as jests) are found mainly in his youthful letters. 6. "The disease that killed him is still not diagnosed with certainty..." Chopin exhibited the classic symptoms of pulmonary tuberculosis, probably contracted from a tubercular roommate early in adulthood. 7. "Every other day he spent five minutes inhaling deeply from a bottle whose contents, prescribed by Dr. Molin, and probably containing morphine..." There's no evidence for this. Morphine was smoked or swallowed during this period, not inhaled. The only inhaled pre-1850 medications for tuberculosis for which there's evidence are nitrous oxide and sulfuric ether. In a letter of July, 1849, Chopin refers to Molin's treatments as homeopathy. Probably there was no actual medication in his bottle. 8. Error dating Chopin's 1849 daguerreotype: Eisler dates Chopin's last daguerreotype to 1846, confusing it with an earlier photo. She also points out Chopin's edema in this 1849 photo (which, again, she says is from 1846). Edema would not have been apparent three years prior to death. Chopin himself doesn't refer to his swelling until the last year of his life. 9. Re. a possible postmortem photo of Chopin. The author says, "No evidence exists that (the Bisson studio) made 'house calls.'" Yes, Ms. Eisler, they did indeed make house calls. Post mortem photography was a huge source of income for daguerreotypists. And yes, an (apparent) postmortem photo of Chopin exists. 10. For those who enjoy being slowly tortured, peruse any of the author's interpretations of Chopin's music. The author says that she had no idea "how terrifyingly hard it is to write ab
ARMAJO More than 1 year ago
Guest More than 1 year ago
I received this book for my birthday a few months ago, and since then, has become a staple of my music bookshelf! I found it as intriging as a fiction book and as instructive as a music teacher. I discovered things about Chopin's life that I had not before known. The notes concerning Chopin's compositions, the circumstances at the time, and his own personal thoughts are incredible and add so much to interpretation! Since I've read this book, I have viewed Chopin in a totally different light and approach his music even more respectfully and carefully. I would highly recommend this book to all Chopin enthusiasts!
Guest More than 1 year ago
I've been reading Chopin biographies for over 30 years, and I found this to be one of the best. It doesn't have the scope of some others; the book is mostly concerned with Chopin's adult life and his times with George Sand. But her depiction of those years is arresting and highly readable. To focus on just one aspect, I don't think any other Chopin biographer has ever given readers such a detailed picture of Sand's relationships with her children. So much has already been written about Chopin and Sand that another entry in the series needs to be good to have a claim on our attention, but this book doesn't disappoint.