On the east side of Paris is the famous Pere Lachaise cemetery. Besides the simple fact of its housing the remains of the most rich and famous in Parisian history, it has a unique history of its own. In his excellent 2004 history
The Seven Ages of Paris, Alistair Horne uses it as the Epilogue to wrap up the entire story of Paris by taking a journey among the tombs. If you are serious about your visit, you are bound to be hit by a sense of sadness more than once. I found it in several places.
First, consider this wall. In 1870 the Prussian army overran France, except for Paris. The French government moved to Versailles and eventually capitulated. But Parisians being Parisians, they went down fighting. The Paris Commune led the resistance, concentrating its last defense in the cemetery. When they were finally overcome by the French army, the final 147 defenders were lined up against this wall at the southeast corner of the cemetery and executed in a hail of gunfire, then buried
en masse.
And then take the case of Molière (1622-1673). He was the leading comedic playwright and actor of his time, writing and starring in the plays that he wrote to entertain the royalty as well as the common man. His last play,
The Imaginary Invalid, was his undoing. Dying of tuberculosis off stage, he played the role of the protagonist, who himself was dying on stage. During the performance, he suffered a fit of consumptive coughing. The audience, thinking it acting, roared with approval. Over the urgings of his fellow cast members, Molière insisted on completing the performance, but died at home that night. He died at a time when actors were not allowed to be buried in consecrated ground; it took a pleading wife and the passage of time before he would eventually find his place here.
The last two sites I want to show you are on the lighter side. First, the mandatory proof that I actually visited Jim Morrison's tomb, just in case my son sees this. As (I kid you not) I recently told John Densmore, drummer for the Doors, when my son was in his teens, the Doors were the only band we could find common ground on.
There was a young couple there, who provided me with the following snippet of overheard conversation:
"No, I don't know exactly who he was, but I know he was very famous." And then, remarking at the combination of the profusion of fan-placed decorations in spite of the barricades and signs forbidding crossing them, "They must have broken the rules to put that stuff there." At that point I had to bite my tongue to keep from explaining that Jim Morrison would have applauded everyone who jumped those barricades.
And finally, the grave of Andre Chabot. Who? you ask? As I walked past yet another crypt, the oversized camera inside it looking back at me turned my head. Andre Chabot was the founder of
La Memoire Necropolitaine (The Necropolitan Memory), a loosely-knit association of artists dedicated to an artistic memorialization of the dead. And what better place to end our tour than at the point where we are on camera for a change?
