Mind Of Steel And Clay Read online

  The Medical Director came towards me and took me by the shoulders, as he often did and then drew me close to him, pressing into me. Again I had that same strong feeling that we were father and son, rather than a superior who was handing over the baton to his subordinate.

  -“Don’t forget that you must make common cause with the staff. There will be times when you feel alone, and the only way to move forward will be to rely on them. Montdevergue can be a fantastic place,” Cyril exclaimed, in a slight melancholic tone.

  -“I’ll try not to let it down.”

  Mr Mathieu let me go, and for a moment I thought he was about to leave and run off down the stairs without a single word. That stern, heavyset man, who sometimes appeared as cold as steel, was in fact fragile and even sentimental. He never cried but his eyes misted over, showing that his departure was much more than just leaving his lifelong career.

  -“One more thing Edouard,” the Medical Director said darkly. I could hear his erratic breathing and his irregular heartbeat.

  -“Yes, Sir.”

  -“Let go of your fixation on Miss Claudel. There are the files containing her medical records, as promised,” he said, pointing to papers on a shelf, “but maybe it’s better if you let them be; let them collect dust, or perhaps don’t read them at all and throw them in the fire. The world is full of injustice and we can’t do anything, or almost anything, about it. So says a man who’s lived for many years already. Stop indulging yourself, let it go and get on with your life without getting too involved in the patients. I know it doesn’t sound right, but sadly it’s not worth the hassle. That’s my last piece of advice for you, do you understand?”

  -“Perfectly, Mr. Mathieu,” I replied through clenched teeth, rather opposing his last long-winded remark.

  Cyril Mathieu did not say another word. He picked up a couple of things from his desk, which was now nearly mine, and left the room in silence. I heard his footsteps disappearing down the stairs. I heard the distant farewells from behind the car and the choked sobs of a few nurses. The car set off, and the office was suddenly filled with an inconsolable loneliness.

  I spent about two hours at the window, contemplating the green expanse of valley that stretched all the way to the nearby hills. I felt my hands trembling uncontrollably from an unrelenting anxiety, or perhaps it was the wind that buffeted together the dark clouds above the asylum. The summer was spreading itself thinly in these final days and it seemed as though autumn was about to cover Montdevergues in a blanket of sadness. I turned and went towards the shelves where the files were kept. I hesitated for a few seconds, just brushing the spine with one finger before I jumped back, as though running from someone infected with the plague.

  Every morning as I sat at my desk and before getting on with anything else, I would take a quick look at those files. It was like a temptation that was finally within reach, just as you had the strength to resist it. I could still here the echo of the Cyril Mathieu’s words in my head, exercising their powerful influence over my will. What exactly had the Medical Director wanted to tell me as he left? Why had he gone to so much trouble to warn me?

  The days were passing by, and little by little I began to break the promises I had made to myself and the unspoken ones I had made to Mathieu. It was not long before I had removed Camille Claudel from the care of the new head of female patients. I found a perfect excuse for her to be placed back in my care from the innumerable complaints she had made. But what if Camille had complained before about my medical care? And anyway, who was I meant to be helping with this decision, her or me? I could almost read the answer from the look Richard gave me, the young man who had replaced me in my previous position.

  -“I don’t understand the reason behind taking one of my patients out of my care. Please understand,” he exclaimed, annoyed after I had informed him of my decision, “that not only are you undermining me, but I also don’t know how Miss Claudel will take this, or the rest of the medical staff for that matter.”

  Richard’s arguments, although rather audacious, were full of common sense. But from my perspective, anything that involved Camille was anything but sensible. I turned to lying once again to ruthlessly reason with and silence the weak protests of my colleague. I also began to find a unexpected pleasure in using the darkest side of my power.

  -“This isn’t my decision; it’s not up to me. Miss Camille’s family asked it of me in a letter. You do realise that we are talking about our most prestigious patient here,” I said, paraphrasing Cyril Mathieu’s during such a shameful moment, “and that her stay in our asylum is a delicate matter, especially because of her brother’s growing importance.”

  Richard nodded and resisted any further comment, as an intelligent man he knew that there was nothing more he could do. His insisting would have only irritated me, and it was not a matter of life or death. But even so, ever since that day I do believe he never looked at me again with the same respect.

  That small, tyrannical incident dramatically sped up my descent into hell, my irreversible fall into the sins that, in some way, I knew Mr. Mathieu had tried to steer me away from. My fascination for Camille had not dwindled over the past few years, but rather on the contrary, it had intensified, like anything we keep forever denying ourselves. It was no surprise when one December morning, exactly 16 years ago today, like a forcibly abstaining alcoholic pouncing on a stock of wine bottles, I raided the filing cabinet that had become my most deeply buried obsession.

  In barely two blissful hours I had read through Camille’s entire medical history. Exhausted, I leaned back into the armchair of my office, feeling the soft, icy breeze on my neck from the slightly open window. I was worn out, but at the same time I was furious, fuming, angry, yet I did not have the strength to take on the colossal revenge on the atrocious humiliation Camille had been victim to. She had never been mad, not in the strict meaning of the word, perhaps at most she had suffered a nervous breakdown that had led to reclusiveness and her distancing herself from everyone for fear of what they might do to her. It was true that she suffered from a persecution complex, her phobias were not just indulgent, but most of them were based on facts that would cause anyone to have at least severe changes in behaviour and personality, if nothing worse. Her problem was called Auguste Rodin, who she blamed unfairly, and probably unjustly, for all the misfortunes she had ever had to go through. And she did so continually, and passionately. Only a few months into her confinement at the Montdevergues asylum, she had begun to show clear signs that she had fully recovered from her depressive neurosis, and was in fact completely sane and ready to lead a normal life. From that moment onwards, Cyril Mathieu was pressured first by Camille’s family, and then by his superiors to alter those “erroneous” reports, because Miss Claudel had clearly lost all judgement and posed a great danger to society.

  Camille’s medical history had more gaps on the last pages. First, every three months, then every six, and finally just one comment per year, which over the past three years had been the same, like a persistent adage in Cyril Mathieu’s own handwriting: “The patient continues to be completely sane and rational, although she does run the risk of incurable dementia caused by the cruel prison sentence we have subjected her to.”

  Chapter 13

  The beginnings of a collection

  Montdevergues, 7th of December 1943

  A great deal of time had passed since I had recovered Camille’s last three pieces from my bribery with the guards, and in this sparse collection of five little sculptures I found more anguish than satisfaction. It was not that I had tired of them, but rather I had admired them with such spellbound fascination that I knew each of their tiny intricacies almost off by heart, and I needed something new to quench my soul, thirsty for fresh artistic demonstrations of similar calibre. Just like a collector who is fanatical about his hobby, I would neurotically go behind my house near to where the guards would carry out their wicked deed. But the weeks went by and there was no sign of them. Perhaps
the most obvious thing to do would have been to go to them first, but I did not dare. Not only was I ashamed of my actions, bordering on the immoral, but I was also aware that my new position as highest authority at Montdevergues had seriously limited the permissions I could grant myself. Worse still, every time I bumped into one of the guards, especially the older one, I was sure I could detect a hint of disapproval and fear in his eyes. They certainly condemned my improper behaviour, much more so now I was the Medical Director of the asylum, and they probably felt slightly uncomfortable with being the only ones who knew about my slippery cowardice. So there was no other solution but to go straight to the creator herself, now that I had my private consultations with her again. Without frills, I went straight to the point as I suspected that Camille would be unlikely to swallow my coated remarks. She was too intelligent a woman to try to pull the wool over her eyes with just any old ploy.

  -“It’s been a while since you last sculpted clay,” I said suddenly during one of our routine meetings, trying to bring it up casually.

  Camille squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her fists in unison, as though she was using all her strength to unravel the meaning of my words. Her reflex time was surprising, and was surely down to her natural state of alertness that almost never left her.

  -“What do you mean by that?” she asked, disgruntled, with her eyes still closed.

  -“Well, it’s just it’s been a while since you made a figurine,” I stammered, already afraid I had chosen the wrong strategy.

  -“How did you find out I make them?”

  I let a few seconds go by before answering, now certain that I had done the wrong thing, and that going to the guards would not have been such a bad idea after all. Now I had no choice but to continue.

  -“I saw a couple of guards smashing them behind my house,” I replied, truthfully, as I did not want her to find out I was lying about such a delicate matter.

  Camille played distractedly with her dishevelled, brittle hair, taking a few steps away and turned her back on me.

  -“They got rid of them...” she muttered, as if she was asking a question, or perhaps wanting me to answer with some kind of prophetic affirmation.

  -“Yes,” I lied.

  -“Everything’s alright then!” she exclaimed, turning to look at me again, almost radiant, and probably wanting to change the subject.

  -“Why have you stopped sculpting?” I asked, fully aware that I was touching on an extremely uncomfortable topic for Camille, but impetuously indulging myself in my own infatuation.

  -“I’m not allowed to. Perhaps Mathieu never mentioned it to you before he left?”

  Camille turned to look at me in a defiant way. There was no doubt she suspected what my real motives were, then more than ever. I had to tread more carefully.

  -“Yes he did. He told me everything. But the thing is even though you were forbidden, you carried on doing it...” I said in a quiet, shrewd voice.

  -“Are you planning to make security even tighter so I am forced to comply with that wretched rule?

  I did not speak for a few seconds. Camille was getting more and more infuriated. The conversation had gone down a very different path from the one I had envisaged, although I had known all along that her reaction was not going to be exactly good-natured.

  -“Absolutely not, Camille, on the contrary, I want to encourage it. I would love to be able to watch you as you work, if I may,” I said, completely backing down.

  Camille frowned and came at me violently as though she was about to attack me, or to spit right in my face. Instinctively, I cowered to protect myself like a frightened child.

  -“What do you want?! What are you trying to do?! Haven’t you all had enough! Wasn’t it enough to first exploit my studio, then my demise, and now my confinement in this prison!” she screamed furiously, waving her right fist in front of my face, using the “we” form that included me in the group I surely felt most comfortable in.

  -“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to, I just...”

  Camille turned her back on me again and withdrew to the small barred window, from which you could barely see the world outside. Her loneliness and listlessness had penetrated me to the very depths of my bones.

  -“I sculpt the filthy clay that comes from the ground here just when and as I please. What a sin to try to imitate what I did when I was only a little girl! Just a couple of figures a year...” she garbled, not making much sense, as though talking to herself.

  -“I will never, ever talk about the matter again, I am truly very sorry. I only wanted for you to feel well, to be able to help you. No one has to know that you sculpt; it would just be our little secret. This was all I meant by it, I promise,” I said, concealing the fact that I intended to enjoy the new figures for myself, the fruits of her imagination, and that I needed unlimited access to her unrivalled art now I had a taste of it.

  -“I remember my first figures. Simple busts of my father, of my brother or of someone in Villeneuve. I remember the excitement and giddy delight I felt as I finished them and put them out in the sun. Only then...”

  Camille’s voice was drowned out by a strange sort of sigh. She was talking aloud to herself, perhaps in the same way she had done a thousand times before, as she hardly left her room or talked with anybody.

  -“Go on Camille, I’m listening.”

  -“Then my father would look at them and stared at them wide-eyed for hours, and would tell me I was gifted, and that I would go far and that I was someone special. I went to bed with those words in my head, sobbing with emotion.”

  -“Your father must have been a great man, I’m sure of it,” I said, trying to rebuild the friendly relationship between us again, as things had certainly gone off track a little.

  Camille stayed transfixed at her small window, perhaps scanning the horizon in search of a place that still held on to a piece of her childhood that she remembered so fondly.

  -“They only waited a week after his death to put me away. They waited patiently until he’d gone before they began cowardly scheming to lock me up. He would never have allowed it, he would never have tolerated such humiliation, such abuse of his favourite daughter,” she said in a quiet, crestfallen whisper.

  I went towards Camille and, ever so delicately put my right hand on her shoulder. She stirred slightly, as though resisting my friendly gesture.

  -“I can try and improve the situation for you here,” I said, just as Mathieu’s words flashed again in my mind. “Seeing as for now you have no choice but to stay in the asylum, it might not be such a bad idea to spend a little time on your favourite hobby. I don’t think it would do you any harm.”

  -“No! No, no and no! You’re the same as Mr. Rodin and all his good-for-nothing entourage. You want me to work so you can steal my figures, to give them to God knows who and to sign them under a different name. I have had enough stolen from me already. I can’t create art in this hell, and when I spend an afternoon sculpting, it’s more like purging myself, nothing more. See to it, Mr. Faret, that every single one of my pieces are destroyed, or I’ll report it myself to my family,” said Camille lividly, enraged and menacingly.

  I was terribly annoyed. My plan had failed, Camille for the first time did seem like a sick woman, and worse still, even if it was on purpose and slightly forced, she’d called me by my last name.

  -“I understand, Miss Claudel,” I said dryly, and I left her room, shutting the door sharply after me without giving her chance to react. As I walked the galleries of the asylum, getting further away from Camille, I felt my heart beating wildly out of control.

  Chapter 14

  Alfred Boucher

  Montdevergues, 14th of December 1943

  Another week has gone by and not a single line written. It pains me to have abandoned this diary, this commitment that is just as easy as it is difficult to keep. On days when work and problems stop me from spending even just a few minutes on it, the thought wafts gently through my mind like a scented oil,
a temptation hard to resist in an environment that is becoming more and more hostile, more despicable. Only sometimes do you hear rumours of France’s imminent liberation at the hands of the Americans. Their troops are advancing quickly from the south of Italy, and if everything continues at a good pace, soon the country will be freed from its fascist chains. But there are times when I cannot see how being free will make times any easier at Montdevergues, either in general or for me in particular. In any case, this country will take a few years to recover.

  A few weeks after the unfortunate disagreement with Camille I took a walk in the asylum gardens, accompanied by a few other doctors and nurses, chatting about trivial matters, when one of the nurses called me over, pulling at my sleeve.

  -“Mr. Faret, I think Miss Claudel wishes to see you,” she said timidly.

  -“Did she tell you herself to ask for me?” I replied, excitedly, certain that Camille had twisted the nurse’s arm and was finally ready to make amends and to restore our special relationship back to normal.

  -“No, no. She’s calling you from her window,” said the nurse, pointing to the small window of Camille’s room. I could see her, making flamboyant gestures and waving a handkerchief. Then I heard the distant shouts, barely audible, calling what sounded like my name. “Do you want us to take care of it?”

  -“It’s ok, I’ll see to it.”

  A little embarrassed, I broke off from the rest of the staff and headed straight for the main building. As I climbed the stairs leading to Camille’s room, I thought about how this performance could only be down to two possible reasons: one, she was either suffering a panic attack and needed me, come what may, or two, she was sorry for the last words she had said to me, and as I was hoping for, wanted to settle our differences once and for all.

  As I entered through the door, there she was, stood right in the middle of the room with her hands on her hips, as though she had been waiting for me for ages and was annoyed by my inexcusable lateness.