Mind Of Steel And Clay Read online

  Mind of Steel and Clay: Camille Claudel

  Enrique Laso

  Translated by Emma May Price

  “Mind of Steel and Clay: Camille Claudel”

  Written By Enrique Laso

  Copyright © 2014 Enrique Laso

  All rights reserved

  Distributed by Babelcube, Inc.

  www.babelcube.com

  Translated by Emma May Price

  “Babelcube Books” and “Babelcube” are trademarks of Babelcube Inc.

  Mind of Steel and Clay: Camille Claudel

  Enrique Laso

  “All those marvellous gifts granted to her by nature brought her nothing but misfortune”

  Paul Claudel

  © Enrique Laso, 2012

  All rights reserved.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

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  Chapter 1

  Farewell Montdevergues

  Montdevergues, 21st of October 1943

  Today we buried an exceptional woman in a communal grave. Like a coward, petrified, I was mute, watching as they threw her small body, barely wrapped in a simple sheet, into that unworthy grave; such a dishonourable place to share her rest, side by side with the bones of other lunatics in the same tomb.

  Supposedly fearless, there was I, the bored and silent spectator who smothers their conscience, torn apart by pain and helplessness. Camille was soon indistinguishable amongst the clump of corpses, covered first in quicklime and then with shovel after shovel of damp, filthy earth. It has rained non-stop for two days, in this endless autumn that seems to be forever mourning the loss of such an unparalleled genius. Will anyone remember her in a few years’ time? Her name has almost already been whipped away by time’s relentless wind, by the greatness of two men who loved her like no other and then left her to her fate, all for the hypocrisy of this ridiculous and severely sickened society in which we live.

  When the gravediggers had finished their job, I remained transfixed and immobile next to the freshly-dug grave. It was as if the earth of Vaucluse had encased my limbs, and I could not drag myself away. My pupils refused to leave Camille’s gaunt, malnourished figure. The damp air reached my nose, bringing with it the scent of the Mediterranean, mixed with stretches of countryside, weeping for their loss.

  I stayed there until dusk, until my knees had become stiff and numb. Some elderly ladies were entertaining themselves as they watched me, perhaps imagining I was a lunatic myself, obsessed with passing the time amongst the dead. How ironic. My legs felt tired, my feet had sunken into the mud, and I wished that it would just swallow me up entirely. Cemeteries are steeped in bitter sadness. It felt as though happiness and smiles would never grace these paths again, lost amongst the labyrinth of gravestones.

  Everyone was asleep by the time I arrived back at the asylum. Only occasionally could you hear the distant cry of a patient complaining, or as they woke, petrified from a nightmare. I am glad I live in separate quarters, removed from them, and also further from other medical staff. Here, I’m more isolated, and I can go on believing that the world is a different one, where lies, evil, madness, hunger, cold, injustice, the Nazis and the war do not exist. This place, which has been my home for 20 years, is where I can imagine that Camille is still alive, and as the years go by, that the world will remember her as one of the greatest sculptors who ever lived.

  Nobody wanted to come to her funeral. I was the only one. No relative, no other doctor, no patient. I sent a telegram to her brother Paul, knowing all the while it would be in vain. Just as I expected, he never turned up. He still has not deigned to reply to me personally, but up until the very last second, poor Camille trusted that he would visit her one more time before she died. She always believed in him.

  Tonight is even more sad than usual. From my window I can see the dull, solid walls of Montdevergues, like a chipped blanket of stones. Outside, a whole other world exists, life, a society that evolves according to certain rules. Here everything is different; this is another world with its own set of rules.

  Camille had worn the same dress for 10 days. I had tried to cheer her up, to convince her that it needed washing, but she refused, frowning at me in a suspicious way. She hadn’t looked at me like that for many years. She was tired, she walked heavily, dragging her feet and mumbling under her breath. Her persistent limp had grown worse. She hardly left her room and complained continually, even more than usual. We had barely spoken in the last few days, and when we did, it was in very brief conversations that were dry and ended predictably.

  Even from the asylum I can smell the stench of wet earth. It is almost like the smell of the freshly dug-up grave, with its enormous muddy gullet waiting to swallow the emaciated bodies of the insane, whose lives were abandoned at the hands of God to this madhouse. I know this smell will accompany me for the rest of my life. This strange scent will remain ingrained in my amygdala, and although things may get better, I will always remember that this day happened, that once I was the Director of a mental hospital, and that I passively attended not only the cruel and anonymous burial of an exceptional human being, but that I was also a vital collaborator in many of the unjust years of her confinement and needless suffering. This unmistakable smell will always penetrate through to my soul and releases the feelings of pain, shame and guilt.

  In the early hours of this tragic morning, as always, I am writing by candlelight. I am about to embark on a journey of atonement; a way of purging myself, somewhat minimally, of all the harm my own cowardice has caused. My hand feels stiff, clutching at the quill like a lost soul, resisting the powerful pull of being sucked into the depths of hell. What if I am already in its shadows? The act of sinning is a long, drawn-out process, one that you fall into without realising, almost without appreciating the real consequences of each and every action you take.

  I had never felt such a deep, intense pain. I’ve had to witness many a funeral since my arrival at the asylum, too many, especially since the Nazis invaded our country and imposed their new regime of misery. But those of us who lead this asylum cannot claim to be any better. First we eat first, then the sickest patients, and the rest are left with the scraps. This is the way things are in this distressing, grim time but we have no choice but to bare it.

  I am merely surviving in this vile place, surrounded by, as unlikely as it would seem, an even greater corruption, but I constantly wonder if my wage is worth it. One day, if the war ends, and I can leave this hospital and move to Paris, Marseille or maybe Lyon, will I ever be able to leave the ghosts behind that have grown to haunt my conscience? Will I be strong enough to come to terms with the fact I was living side-by-side for nearly two decades with Camille Claudel in her endless torment, and that I did absolutely nothing to save her?

  Chapter 2

  Meeting Camille

  Montdevergues,
23rd of October 1943

  Camille was already 60 years’ old by the time I met her. I remember her big blue eyes, vacant and melancholic, that gazed in a subdued yet curious way, distrusting and filled with resentment. I can still hear the first words she said to me, “Do with me what you want, Doctor; for years I have been robbed of everything I ever had, there is nothing left to take.”

  I had just graduated in medicine, my head was swimming with hopes and dreams, and I had accepted the position at the Montdevergues asylum in good faith as it was very near to Avignon where some relatives lived. It was not too far from the sea either, so that on free days I could always escape to Marseille, Toulon or Montpellier. The first time I crossed the walls of the asylum, I was filled with pride to be working in such a magnificent place. The main building was made of solid stone, and from either side of the entrance door stood large bay windows protected by wrought-iron bars, which granted the façade with a powerful, yet strangely beautiful appearance. Two more modest buildings extended on either side; the wings for the lower classes, one for men and one for women. A small house stands apart from this group of buildings, completely isolated, which they provided me with as soon as I arrived. I accepted the offer gladly, as I liked the idea of being able to enjoy a bit of solitude. The main building houses the dining hall, the storeroom, the reception, doctors’ offices, consultation rooms, the operating theatre, the visitors’ room, the living quarters for staff and the Medical Director, rooms for upper-class patients and the leisure wing, located at the rear. This building is sometimes used as a theatre, and for a few years was host to some lovely performances led by the patients themselves.

  For a long time, perhaps for some years, I thought Montdevergues was an almost idyllic place. Surrounded by woods and a rich natural vegetation, going for a walk nearby soon became an enjoyable routine of mine. The climate in this region is not too extreme, being mild almost all year round, as long as you can put up with the occasional spring or autumn shower. Winter is harsh, but not too bad, and the summer heat is more bearable than on the coast where the humidity can be the culprit of many a sleepless night. I believed I had landed on my feet and that I had found the best place to begin practising my profession.

  I liked to walk to the nearby village of Montfavet, located a little over a kilometre away, wandering along an unpaved road lined with a variety of trees, mostly oak and cypress. It is an easy, light stroll, without any steep hills, where you are bound to bump into country folk and friendly, thickset farmers, a common sight in this region. Athough Montfavet is thought of as a small, simple town, to me it seemed more like a spiritual retreat, where many a Frenchmen would be happy to live out their final days. Houses are generous in size and arranged in a disorderly fashion around a small square, almost haphazardly, in way that only makes sense to the inhabitants. My walks would involve a quick visit to a little brasserie for a glass of wine or beer accompanied by rye bread and cheese. There I would spend a few minutes with the locals, reading the regional paper from Avignon. Night had usually drawn in by the time I wandered back with only the moon to guide me, which was easily visible in this area with so little artificial light. I lingered a while to breathe in the pleasant, humid night air, as I sat on a rock to gaze up at the firmament or a shooting star.

  Montdevergues is peppered with exquisite gardens. After years of neglect they have become rather unseemly, yet when I first arrived they were at their peak of grandeur. I would often sit down to read, on sunny days, enjoying one of the many books from the asylum library, perhaps near a fountain to bask in the gentle warmth of the sun. More often than not, I would find myself sharing the bench with one of the patients. Some of the treatments at the asylum were quite advanced and avant-garde, positing that the less problematic of patients should be allowed a certain degree of freedom. Although I was in charge of the female wing, it was on one of those benches that I met Camille, as I had not had chance to meet all of Montdevergues’ 300 patients.

  -“You’re Edouard, aren’t you? The new person in charge of female patients...,” she said, sitting herself down beside me.

  -“Yes, that’s right,” I replied, sitting up straight to greet her politely.

  -“My name is Camille Claudel. Do with me what you want, Doctor; for years I have been robbed of everything I ever had, there is nothing left to take.”

  The tone of this sad statement was dry and defeated. A feeling of despair and angst was left hanging in the air, filling my lungs, still impossible to expel.

  -“Miss Claudel...,” I began, a little taken aback.

  -“Call me Camille, please,” she interjected.

  -“Camille, you shouldn't say things like that. There are still lots of things left to do in life.”

  Camille looked at me quizzically. The sunlight had turned her dark-blue eyes almost transparent, as they shone from the shelter of her worn and wrinkled eyelids. Her expression was severe, her skin lined and withered, pallid, like an old lady who doesn’t often venture from her room. Yet the timbre of her voice was coated in an innate strength, laced with traces of culture and unmistakeable wisdom. Gazing at her was like admiring the ancient ruins of a building: the remains still exuding something of her former beauty.

  -“You, Sir, are very young. I spent too many years a slave to this prison, and any flicker of hope I had has slowly been put out,” she said, still watching the flowerbeds in front of us with a disinterested gaze.

  -“You, Madame, are very lucid,” I exclaimed without thinking, immediately realising my amateur’s mistake, as it was wrong to pass on an early diagnosis to a patient.

  -“It would be better if I went back to my room, before you say any more absurdities that only serve to rekindle what has taken me so long to stamp out,” she said brusquely.

  She quickly got up and left, almost offended, and disappeared through one of the doors of the main building without greeting anyone and without lifting her gaze from the floor. She was wearing a dark cotton dress that seemed to float around her body. I calculated that she must have been about 60, although her voice and her ability to reason showed signs of someone much younger at heart.

  It wasn’t long before Cyril Mathieu, the asylum’s Medical Director at the time, claimed Camille’s space on the stone bench where I was still gathering my thoughts. Mathieu was a tall, serious and pensive man, who I had not had time to analyse so far but who seemed to me to be fair and kind to his patients. His stern face concealed a loveable and honest character, although rather secretive.

  -“You’ve just met our most reputable patient, Edouard,” he said, giving me a friendly nudge on the shoulder as he slid next to me.

  -“Who? That poor old lady Camille...,” I said, faltering, with the echo of her last mysterious words still resounding in my ears.

  -“Yes, Camille Claudel. Doesn’t the name sound familiar to you?” Mathieu asked, blinking quizzically.

  I tried to associate her with a well-known figure, perhaps related to politics or the dramatic arts, but to no avail. The surname Claudel did ring a bell, and although not very common in France, it was not particularly unusual either.

  -“No, I must say it doesn't.”

  -“Maybe you’ll recognise her brother’s name then, Paul Claudel.”

  -“Yes, yes,” I said excitedly, as if discovering the answer to the most complex riddle in the world, “He’s a poet, or a playwright...”

  -Well, he’s actually both. His diplomatic career is also getting off to quite a good start. His sister, on the other hand, was less fortunate, as you can see for yourself.

  I detected a strange sort of sympathy in Cyril’s words, a kind of affliction towards Camille that took me by surprise. This sensitivity made me suddenly feel more at ease, which came as somewhat of a relief; I still did not trust him very much but I had wanted to bond with him.

  -“Has she been at Montdevergue for many years?”

  -“About ten,” he replied rather tersely. I interpreted this as a sign there was something
about Camille that Mathieu wasn’t comfortable talking about.

  -“And how did she get here? She seemed to me to be quite sane, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  -“I think it better she explain this to you herself”.

  On that note, Cyril got up and left me submersed in a sea of questions. Alone again I could enjoy reading my book, whilst a soft breeze picked up from the west, lifting the dry heat that had clung to France for weeks and swept it all the way to the Mediterranean Sea.

  It was not long before I had the feeling I was being watched, leaving me no choice but to look up. Immediately I saw who it was who had been spying on me: Camille did not take her eyes off me, as she stared down from the small window of her room. We must have been separated by almost a hundred metres but I could still make out her features. I was certain I could see an imploring, even hopeful look on her face.

  Chapter 3

  Memories lost and found

  Montdevergues, 27th of October 1943

  The rain has finally left us. Even the sky must have tired of mourning; it was time for life to go back to normal. A blazing sun shone through the lace curtains of my window, more like a summer sun than an autumn one. But this gentle warmth still has not lifted the humidity that has been soaking into the moistened earth for weeks on end. But the air is still impregnated with the smell and taste of the raindrops that not long ago had fallen so heavily from the clouds.

  It is almost unbelievable the kinds of sensations a clay figure can evoke in a person: wet earth left to dry, which then solidifies all the world’s beauty at its core, sowing the seeds of a memory which will grow and become unforgettable as time goes by. Just like the figures of hard mud here on my table, moulded by the supreme desires of a higher being, gifted in taming the elements. The sun’s rays travel across time and space to caress these gleaming figurines, stretching out their shadows along the worn-out, coarse wood. They transform into new shapes, evoking strange dreams, and perhaps take us back to the artist’s initial ideas when the work was still in progress.