Mind Of Steel And Clay Read online

  But usually, news would arrive when I least expected it, when my mind was more occupied with matters to do with running the asylum. It was always the older guard who would come to see me, as the other was a timid creature and was so pathetic he could barely even greet me.

  -“Mr. Faret, I have news for you concerning Miss Claudel,” he said firmly and matter-of-factually.

  I already knew what to do. I breathed in deeply, and waited a few minutes more in my chair. What emotion I felt surging through me during those eternal seconds! Never in all my sad existence have I felt such excitement as those few seconds. What would the divine bring me this time? Would they be dancing nymphs, a young girl praying, or perhaps Atlas holding up our planet? The routine was exactly the same every single time: I would stealthily leave my office, heading towards the back of my quarters, safe from prying eyes and judgmental looks. It was there that the trading would take place: one or two pieces were handed over to me in exchange for a few francs. Everyone was satisfied with the transaction. Then I would quickly hide in my room, and from there would delight in admiring my new treasures before I went back to work. The aftereffects of my thorough examining of those masterfully sculpted figurines would go on for weeks, like a drug with long-lasting side-effects. Sooner or later I knew that I would have to prepare myself for the withdrawal symptoms, that would inevitably take hold of me. So after a couple of months of indescribable elation, I was plunged into sadness and troubled by an insatiable itch that I never came to relieve.

  One day as I was walking along one of the bustling streets of Avignon, I came across a sculpture studio that immediately caught my attention. As I went in, I soon realised it was not a place for artists, but rather for simple merchants and carvers that sculpted, with no passion or inspiring sources, large pots or other decorative stone ornaments. Curious, I asked to speak with the person in charge of the studio. I was warmly received by a kind, tanned elderly gentleman with a toothless grin.

  -“Apart from these magnificent pieces,” I lied, trying to win him over, “do you make any busts or human torsos?”

  The old man looked me up and down, and then scratched his head. He seemed to be trying to think of away to not to disappoint me, as no doubt he believed that behind my question there lay a serious business opportunity.

  -“That’s not our sort of thing, Sir. At best we do bird carvings or other ornamental animals... although we could always try. But for that we would need a model.”

  My original idea had been to bring Camille with me to Avignon, even if it had meant dragging her by the hair, to set her up in the right environment that may help to unleash her creativity. But I suddenly realised that she would never have deigned to sculpt among these simple people, so I had to change my plans altogether.

  -“I see... what about marble, do you work with marble?” I asked, not seeing any piece carved in the material.

  At first, the man seemed taken aback, then suddenly burst into laughter, visibly satisfied and in high spirits having established a connection to form a business relationship.

  -“It's not very common, but there are always elegant people like yourself who are willing to pay a good price for a touch of distinction. The Germans love it, and we have even received an order from Paris itself,” the old man said pompously, “Marble is quite rare, so at the moment I don't have any in stock. But while we order it, we could start sketching out the model. How does this sound, Sir?”

  -“Good... But I was really just after the crude stone, not carved, do you see what I mean?”

  The old man shrugged his shoulders, disappointed, but soon regaining his natural enthusiasm, as he was going to make sure that my needs were met.

  -“Alright, as you wish. I can get hold of a white marble, which I am sure you will be delighted with. It is of good quality, and we can agree on a reasonable price for it. Would you like to take it yourself or shall we deliver it to an address?”

  -“Do you know Montfavet?”

  -“Yes, of course, it's about 15 miles away or so from here.”

  -“Well, please deliver the marble to the Montdevergues asylum. From there, ask for me, Edouard Faret.

  -“Will that be all Sir?” said the man, unashamedly rubbing his hands together right in front of me.

  I thought it over for a few seconds before it suddenly dawned on me that the marble would be of no use to Camille without the right tools. Not knowing where to start, I asked for what I considered to be the essentials, as there would always be time to get more equipment at a later stage.

  -“Well yes... A couple of chisels, two hammers, three or four files, a stool...” I said uncertainly.

  -“I'll take care of it,” replied the old man, suspecting I was going to need all the help I could get to work the stone properly.

  Eventually we came to a rather expensive agreement, and in a couple of weeks the marble was delivered to me; a block of just over three feet in length, along with the rest of the tools, and I placed them at the back of my quarters. I became overwhelmed with emotion just at the pleasing thought of Camille sculpting for me, coming face to face with the stone after so many years of worry and neglect. Every morning I would hear the sound of the hammer as it tapped at the stone, enthralled by the slow process of the mastering of the marble, as it was shaped and molded to fulfill the artist's every desire.

  I waited a few days before going to Camille's room, equipped with a dark handkerchief hidden in my pocket. After greeting each other cordially as usual, I eagerly began to discuss the real reason why I had come to he room.

  -“Camille, it's your birthday soon and I've taken the liberty of getting you a little present. I know it's rather bold on my part, but I think you deserve something a bit special.”

  She looked at me, both excited and perplexed.

  -“What sort of present, Edouard? There's not many things left that can make me smile.”

  -“If you want to see it, you'll have to let me to blindfold you”

  Camille reluctantly agreed, eventually letting me cover her eyes with the dark handkerchief that I had with me in my jacket.

  -“You're such a child, aren't you?”

  Together we walked the corridors of Montdevergues, followed by the worried look of patients and nurses. We crossed the garden, giggling together like two lovers that were going on an adventure together for the first time. My heart as beating unusually fast. I was so wanting to give Camille a nice surprise. We arrived behind my house, where I had placed the block surrounded by all the tools the old man from the studio in Avignon had sold me, and I positioned her in front of it. Then, I untied the blindfold.

  The first thing Camille did was to bring her hands up to her face, something I saw as sign she was overwhelmed with emotion. Then she turned to face me, and gave me a slap.

  -“What is it you are trying to do, Edouard! You will never get a single sculpture out of me!”

  “But Camille...” I murmured, a little embarrassed.

  -“I will never, ever carve marble again! At least as long as I am locked up in this place...”

  -“I don't understand, I only wanted to help you. I think that sculpting might be an excellent way to lift your spirits.”

  Turning her back on me, Camille began to walk back to her room. When we were separated by a few feet she turned around and shouted:

  -“You're just like everyone else, you don't give a damn about my situation. I know perfectly well what you're after!”

  I did not consult Camille for over a month. Every morning, before leaving for my office, I walked around my house and looked on in sadness at the useless block of marble, surrounded by tools, as it waited silently and patiently for someone to strip it of its unfinished beauty. There were days when I would stroke it, feeling the coarse, cold touch of the stone. The block was beautiful just as it was, without being carved, but in my dreams it was finished, transformed into one of those simple clay figures that adorned the shelves of my room.

  Despite the calamity, I c
ontinued to persuade Camille of the need to freely exercise her creativity. Soon it began to turn into a ridiculous, futile struggle.

  -“Please, Camille, please reconsider. You're making a huge mistake, whatever it is you're thinking. I do wish you would trust me,” I pleaded desperately, on one occasion.

  -“I would also like to be able to trust you. You're actually the one person I have trusted more in recent years, but I'm afraid the same thing will happen as it did with Paul and with Mr. Rodin, if it's not happening already,” she replied, seething with rage.

  -“ But what is happening?! Please, Camille, we are in an asylum hidden away in the depths of France, you've been locked up in here for ages, what on earth do you imagine will happen to you? What harm could I possibly do to you?”

  -“I am not going to make more sculptures just so others can bask in their glory. I am sick of being taken for a fool,” she mumbled, dejectedly.

  -“Fine. But the block will still be there waiting for you. I bought it for you, and you will be the one to carve it.”

  In a way, this is exactly what happened. When I returned from one of my occasional trips to Paris, I came back to find the staff rather glum and elusive. I asked if anything significant had happened, if a patient had passed away or suffered a seizure whilst I had been away. No one dared to answer me, and they all simply shook their heads. It was not until dusk that I found out the awful truth behind their silence and uncharacteristic behaviour: the block of white marble that had cost me so much, had been shattered into tiny pieces, shiny fragments that were scattered about the back garden of my quarters. Among the shards of rock, a note had been left on the ground, signed by Camille.

  Chapter 21

  Hope

  Montdevergues, 20th of January 1944

  In the spring of 1929, Camille's physical and mental state went precariously up and down;one day she would wake up, radiant and beaming, the next she would be depressed and broody. These abrupt changes of mood and health concerned me a great deal, as she was close to 65 and I feared that any morning we would find her corpse.

  To remedy the situation, I tried to include Camille in the variety of group activities that were organised in those days at Montdevergues, from theatre, and singing lessons to outdoor exercise and painting.

  -“You must be absolutely mad. I would never dream of mixing with the other patients. It would be like recognising that I've finally lost my mind. Stop insisting because you're not going to achieve anything!” she contested on that occasion, when I suggested it for the thousandth time. I never tired of trying my best to relieve the misery of her painful existence.

  -“But Camille, you've been more than 15 years in this aslyum, and you hardly have contact with anyone. You only talk to me, your nurse and a couple of other patients. Do you really think that's normal?! Whatever your condition may be, mixing with other people that share the same space as you could only ever do you good, don't you think?”

  Whenever I touched on a topic that Camille found uncomfortable or unpleasant, she would usually cling to the bars of her little bedroom window.

  -“I'm prisoner at Montdevergues, this place is my prison, and so I shall behave as one. I'm not here to have fun or celebrate, I have no reason to appear happy.”

  At risk of getting myself into trouble, or of rousing one of her frequent outbursts of rage, I was bold enough to remind her that what she was saying was not entirely true.

  -But Camille, you have to admit that this year, in the past few months, there have been days when you've woken up in quite a good mood. Not accepting your confinement doesn't mean that you have to sulk all the time. The only one who gets hurt in all this is you.”

  -“I've told you so many times before that those little moments of joy have got nothing to do with what goes on here, and they simply come from dreams of my childhood memory in Villeneuve, that are at their strongest when I wake up. But my happiness is always short-lived, and barely sees the morning through, at most perhaps lasting until the afternoon. Don't imagine for one minute that I'm happy or content.”

  This was the backdrop to the arrival of a note from Paul Claudel,who had come to visit his sister again the previous summer towards the end of June. The letter informed me of the recent passing of their mother and that she was already buried in Villeneuve, so it was impossible for Camille to attend the funeral, and that it was up to me to find the right moment to share the tragic news with her. The cowardice and emotional detachment of that man had no limit.

  After reading the letter, I felt a great sense of relief. I know it may sound awful, but there are times when one finds pleasure in nature taking care of your dirty work, without the slightest intention of wrongdoing. The death of Louise-Athanaïse, Camille's mother, was greatly satisfying for me. It also opened up a world of possibilities.

  I waited a few days before telling Camille about her mother's death, as I believed that the arrival of summer, which was usually quite pleasant in Vaucluse, would improve her state of health as well as her short-temper. I took the opportunity which came to me one morning as she accepted my invitation to join me for breakfast. We sat on the main terrace of the asylum which was set out with small tables and white wrought iron chairs, normally used for afternoon tea.

  -“Camille, unfortunately I have some very sad news for you,” I said, as I put on my best show of grief, because I knew that despite everything, she was still strangely fond of her mother.

  Camille stared at me intently, like a bristling cat waiting for a predator to attack. I could not even detect the slightest trace of emotion.

  -“Do get on with it,” she said frostily, so sure that nothing that I could say would hurt her.

  -“Your mother has died. She passed away about three weeks ago. She's already been buried, and I've only been asked to give you the sad news.”

  At first, Camille clenched her fists, and then pressed her lips tightly together. She gently pushed away the tea and pastry that was in front of her, and looked out over the garden that separated the large wings of the asylum.

  -“Poor mother, always so righteous and self-sacrificing. I don't even know if she was happy even once in her life, poor thing.”

  I was stunned. In the depths of my being I had wanted her to react with disproportionate happiness, out of spite, perhaps to burst into laughter. Camille stood up, presumably to head back to her room and hide away within those four walls to come to terms with the news. Livid, I followed her, first stopping at my office to pick up an envelope. I reached Camille's room still feeling indignant and knocked loudly several times on the door. She opened it, looking slightly startled but with a peaceful, calm expression on her face that immediately mellowed my vengeful rage.

  -“What do you want, Edouard?” she asked, guessing from the anger in my eyes what my malicious intent might be and preparing herself for the words to come.

  -“Nothing, nothing...” I stuttered, reacting at the very last second, realising that it was not the right moment to criticise anything or anyone, let alone to aggravate an old lady imprisoned in a mental asylum that I happened to be in charge of. “I just want you to know that I'm always here if you need anything, anything at all.”

  -“Thank you, Doctor. I'll bear that in mind, but for now I'm fine and I would rather be on my own,” she said before closing the door.

  Disheartened, I went back to my office, feeling like an awful person as I clutched the crumpled envelope in my right hand that contained the only letter that I had ever received from Louise-Athanaïse in response to one of mine, in which she emphatically told me that under no circumstances, whilst she was still alive, would Camille be transferred to Paris or freed from her confinement, despite all my protests. I remember the hate that erupted inside me as I read the words of that vicious, spiteful mother, so inconceivably cruel. In her message she also warned me of all the evils her daughter possessed and that had ruined her life, preventing her from ever being happy since the day she was born. She also listed a series of rid
iculous incidents that did nothing more than feed my suspicion that she was the one who needed to be sectioned, not innocent Camille.

  It took me several days to take in the contents of the letter, and for many nights I was unable to sleep as I tried to come up with a way to lift the precondition of family consent that was required to free Camille. In the end I gave up, relinquishing to the apathy and indifference that generally applied to all those involved in this atrocious confinement.

  I left the crumpled envelope in one of my desk draws and let out a long sigh, as I thought at the end of the day, this unpleasant woman now lies in a coffin, and a ray of hope shines on Camille's future.

  Chapter 22

  One last injustice

  Montdevergues, 28th of January 1944

  The air is thick with tension. Apart from the handful of collaborators who have joined the Nazis, the whole of France is awaiting the arrival of the Americans. In a small bistrot in Avignon I talked with a well-informed former politician who predicted that the imminent and permanent liberation of our town, in only a matter of months. I could see it in the faces of the few German soldiers I came across. They had also heard the news, and were surely beginning to trust it more than the haranguing from their own superiors. I still harbour doubts as to the future of Montdevergues, and if the post-war will bring with it a better era than the one we have endured during the occupation. Only time will tell.

  In 1933, I believed I had seen the worst of Camille's family and their capabilities, and that I was passed being appalled by their behaviour. But I was wrong. After the death of Louise-Athanaïse, I had extended my efforts to negotiate Paul Claudel's consent to improve the conditions of his sister, but these had all proven to be in vain. I was also confronted with the predicament of his long periods of time abroad that formed part of his diplomatic duties, making him rather difficult to get hold of. But the brilliant dramatist and poet refused to have Camille registered or moved to an institution in Paris, as she so pleaded. Not only that, in the fateful year of 1933, he went on to tell me me in a simple letter that from then on he would not be taking care of his sister's costs at Montdevergues, and that he would deliver the money himself every time he visited so that she could allocate it as she saw best.