Pere Lachaise – Flirting with the Dead
I would love to see the resumé of François de La Chaise d’Aix. If such a document ever existed, it probably would have included tasks such as: teach the gospel of Jesus, minister to the masses, absolve sins, manage acolytes, etc. But no doubt the Jesuit priest’s most important job responsibility was as the confessor of King Louis XIV, the Sun King. I bet he heard some good stuff.
Father La Chaise was good at his job – so good that almost a century after he died, a cemetery bearing his name was established on the grounds of his former home in the outskirts of Paris. As the cemetery grew in popularity, newly buried were joined by the relocated remains of many other decedents. Over time the cemetery expanded to over 100 acres, covering the entirety of the gently sloping, forested hillside. Miles of cobblestoned alleyways and narrow paths snake their way between and around the tombs, dappled by sunlight filtering through the verdant canopy overhead. Today over one million souls claim Pere Lachaise as their permanent residence. It’s a pretty nice place to spend a day, or eternity.
Wander off any path and you are immediately surrounded by a dense jumble of gravesites, each a unique work of art. Some have eerie facsimiles of their “owners,” seemingly guarding their tombs, self-sentinels of the dead. Many graves are festooned with flowers, framed photographs, decorative frills and stone objets d’arts. A few monuments are massive sarcophagi, as big as small houses, their rusted doors or gates obscuring the darkness inside, beckoning – a siren’s call. It’s all a bit haphazard; edifices and tombstones crowd together at various angles, nudged out of true by shifting ground and tree roots, their surfaces patinaed with colorful lichen and the mottling of age.
During the day it is always respectfully quiet, bird songs and gentle breezes rustling through the trees are the only sounds. Visitors stroll the shaded lanes, leisurely wandering. Some come to picnic in the serene ambiance, some just to avoid the summer heat. Most, however, come to flirt with the dead. But at night, when the crowds are gone and darkness descends, the dead are alone. I imagine them whispering amongst themselves: “So, are you new here?” “What are you in for?” Maybe they rekindle their unfinished conversations and relationships, cut short by the cruelty of man or mortality.
Nine hundred years ago, a teacher and theologian fell in love with his much younger student. A passionate and forbidden relationship ensued, and a child was born. But their partnership could not withstand the mores of oppressive medieval society. They married in secret, but were forced to give up their illicitly conceived child. Fearing further retribution, they separated to live in different cities, seeking the protection offered by a life of piety, becoming monk and nun. They communicated the remainder of their lives only by means of their now famous love letters. Sentimentalists from around the world come to visit the tomb of Héloïse and Abélard.
In the 1920s Americans flocked to Paris, eager to try their hand at writing and art. Gertrude Stein, a wealthy American author and art collector, welcomed many of these aspiring expats to her home just off the Jardin du Luxembourg. Frequent guests included the likes of Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Picasso. While she mentored the mostly male artists, Stein’s partner in love and life, Alice B. Toklas, would entertain their female companions. Stein died in 1946 and was buried in Pere Lachaise. Toklas lived another twenty years; upon her death, her name was carved into the reverse side of Stein’s tombstone, and her body reunited with her more famous companion.
One of the most popular figures to be buried in Pere Lachaise is that of Frederic Chopin, the revered Polish composer. His grave is located halfway down an unassuming, narrow pathway crowded with other tombs; it would be difficult to find except for the ever-present crowd of admirers. Chopin lived most of his adult life in Paris, producing perhaps an unparalleled canon of classical compositions, despite his failing health. He died young – 39 years old – without ever returning to his native country. His body was buried in Pere Lachaise, but per his wishes, his sister took his preserved heart back home to Poland.
A century after Chopin died, Michel Petrucciani was born, albeit with a disease that caused brittle bones and stunted his growth. He suffered broken bones frequently and was almost always in pain. As an adult he stood only three feet tall and weighed about 70 pounds. To play the piano he had to be lifted on to his stool. But once he was situated, his hands were unencumbered, and his playing knew no bounds. Despite his stature, Petrucciani went on to become a French national hero and one of the most celebrated jazz pianists of his generation. He died when he was just 36 years old. In what might be a simple twist of fate, Petrucciani’s grave resides directly across the narrow path from Chopin. Sadly, most of those who come to pay homage to the Polish composer are unaware of the significance of the tomb just behind them, simply marked: Michel Petrucciani – 1962 – 1999.
Oscar Wilde, the controversial Irish author and playwright, is memorialized by a tomb unlike any other – it is massive in size and modernist and flamboyant in style, and stands in stark contrast to the more stolid monuments in its vicinity. At almost any time of day you’re likely to see his fans, dog-eared copies of The Pictures of Dorian Gray or The Importance of Being Earnest in hand, quietly paying their respects. But you might also see red kisses on his tomb, a trend started by overzealous fans. The tomb is slowly eroding, one kiss at a time, from the chemicals in the lipstick.
The most famous resident of Pere Lachaise may be an American. Jim Morrison, the charismatic lead singer for the band The Doors, was buried here after dying under mysterious circumstances in a Paris apartment at the age of 27. When I first visited Pere Lachaise, Morrison’s grave was easily found by following red arrows heretically spray painted on tombs, pointing the way. For years his rather simple grave was adorned with a bust of the singer, but after repeated episodes of vandalism, the bust was removed, and barriers now prevent direct access. That hasn’t stopped the many pilgrims from around the globe who come to pay tribute to the so-called Lizard King, as they sit in quiet contemplation from their perches on adjacent tombs.
Opportunities to flirt with the dead abound here. Edith Piaf, the beloved French chanteuse, rests in a conspicuous location near an entrance to the cemetery. Off in a remote corner of the grounds stand life-size, skeletal figures in tortured poses, commemorating anonymous victims of the Holocaust. Many other artists and celebrities such as Molière, Honoré de Balzac, Sarah Bernhardt, Modigliani, and Yves Montand, in addition to untold numbers of common folk, claim Pere Lachaise as their final resting place. Ironically, Father La Chaise himself is not among them. He rests comfortably in the crypt of a Paris church not far from the cemetery that borrowed his name.
© 2021 L. Wechsler. All rights reserved.