Mind Of Steel And Clay Read online

  -“Were they so similar?”

  -“They were actually, but it took me a while to realise it. He was a very controversial sculptor who’d been accused of taking casts for the bronze from the model itself, rather than over the plaster, so faultless was his technique. We both paid a lot of attention to detail, the smoothness of the lines, the perfect replica of human skin... Later, the whole thing about the casts was proven to be all a lie, and from then on his fame only grew.

  -“And your loathing for him, did it last much longer?”

  -“Truth be told, no, it didn’t. I loved the way he taught me, pinpointing the different aspects I needed to improve on. Also the way he used to inspire me and praise my sculptures. It didn’t take long for Mr. Rodin to see a twin soul in me and then he invited me to his studio, a man’s studio!

  Camille was talking as though she were reliving events that had occurred perhaps a few months ago, when in fact it was decades since these instances had taken place. Her eyes were incredibly wide, showing the deep-blue of her iris that still sparkled, despite her age.

  -“I’m sorry, I don’t understand...”

  -“In those days, seeing a woman in a man’s studio was almost unheard of, we were closed off from almost all the artistic circles. The only women that went into those studios were models to pose. That is who they thought I was when I first came to the studio where Rodin carried out most of his work in the company of a group of talented young men on the Rue de l'Université. I was often the butt of many a joke, but Mr. Rodin eventually put things right.

  -“And he put things right for you too, as a sculptress...” I said, flattering her.

  -“Yes, that’s true. But without the support of Mr. Rodin from the start, no one would have taken me seriously, that I can assure you.”

  -“He knew that you were someone special,” I said, feeling jealous towards this immortal sculptor, wishing that I had been the one to discover Camille, picturing the few magnificent figures on display in my room.

  -“He did know. He soon fell in love with me and began to write me some wonderful letters. Then soon...”

  Suddenly the wind picked up, and the those dark clouds that just a few moments ago seemed so far away and harmless had begun to cluster together above our heads. The storm seemed to have set in and was not far behind us. Camille pressed herself against me for shelter.

  -“Well I never, it seems as though someone wants to interrupt our walk,” I said, playing down the imminent rain storm.

  -“It’s Mr. Rodin kicking up a fuss from up there. Even in death he can’t let me enjoy a moment’s peace.”

  As she said these last words, Camille raised a threatening fist towards the clouds, and I do not think she was joking in the slightest. Without paying much heed to her last remark, I quickened our pace as much as I could, given that she could barely walk any faster than before. A light drizzle began to fall on our heads and settle over the fields.

  -“Don’t worry, we’ll soon get back to the asylum,” I said, although it was actually me who was more worried.

  -“I love it when it rains, so don’t hurry up for my sake,” replied Camille, looking upwards so that hundreds of raindrops ran down her face.

  I decided to go a bit slower, but I was frightened that at any moment a lightning bolt would hit us and we would never be able to leave, burnt to smithereens right on the path I had grown so fond of. The rain fell harder intermittently, but Camille only seemed delighted with the downpour.

  -“This is hopeless,” I said, taking off my jacket to try to cover our heads like an umbrella.

  -“Just a second,” said Camille, separating from me and heading towards the verge.

  -“Where are you going?” I asked, perplexed, as I waited for her, becoming more and more drenched with the heavy drops.

  Camille then fashioned a sort of bag from the front part of her dress and she dropped a handful of clay inside it. She came back to my side, beaming, all covered in brown mud.

  -“That’s how I used to do it when I lived in Villeneuve, when I was just a child. On rainy days I would go out to collect clay with my brother Paul, just like now with you, and I would go home with enough material to keep myself entertained for a few days.”

  And we both returned with that sludgy, damp treasure, like two children ready for their mother’s angry scolding, meanwhile just behind us the storm bellowed and roared, trying to trap us forever between its watery jaws and blazing bolts of electricity.

  Chapter 17

  The confinement

  Montdevergues, 2nd of January 1944

  Camille Claudel was committed to the Ville-Evrard psychiatric hospital on the 10th of March 1913, one week after the death of her dear father. A family conspiracy that was devised long beforehand. It was her brother Paul who would seal her fate and betray her, seeing to all the paperwork. I am not entirely sure whether he found it painful or not, but he most certainly took that thankless task on himself. Camille was shortly moved to Montdevergues, under the pretext of the Great War, to an asylum with a far worse reputation, less prestigious and most of all, very far from Paris.

  It took me many years to reveal the whole, official truth behind Camille’s confinement, and even more to be able to talk about the tragic event that would mark the rest of her days. If mentioning Rodin was prickly, trying to get her to recall the day when they locked her up would be criminal. But in some way I felt she needed to, yet I did not want to give up on ever knowing how she felt about the matter. My selfishness knew no bounds, and I was certainly lacking a great deal in professionalism and sensitivity.

  It is true though that I did postpone discussing the matter on several occasions, but perhaps more out of cowardice than unwillingness to. I would always find an excuse to put off the topic at any sign of trouble, but was left crawling with an insatiable restlessness, like the kind that torments someone who knows they have missed out on a great opportunity, perhaps a once-in-a-lifetime chance.

  It was exactly 10 years’ ago today, just after New Year when I took a strong dose of courage and showed Camille once and for all, besides her emotions and mental stability, that the thing I most cared about was her past and her sad, wretched life.

  -“How were you taken to Ville-Evrard?” I asked clumsily, trying to sound casual and spontaneous, verging on being malicious.

  The question caught her completely off guard, and she jumped, like a little bird suddenly trapped in a butterfly net. We had just been sharing a moment of peaceful silence together as we listened to some classical music on my record player, to help speed up up our fall into the dark, bottomless chasm of time. Of course, I had to ruin it.

  -“I don’t understand why you’re suddenly dropping this question on me now,” Camille replied, somewhat annoyed.

  -“We have to talk about everything,” I said, unkindly insisting.

  -“You know fine well that it was because of betrayal, it was a plot conspired a long time ago to finish me off.

  -“Yes, I know Camille, but what was it they wanted to finish?” I asked, this time more calmly.

  -“You know exactly what! I’ve told you time and time again! They couldn’t stand my way of life, they couldn’t bare me living on my own, they were jealous of my artwork, my quest for freedom, my ability to face everything and everyone, all on my own. I left Mr. Rodin 15 years’ ago, because I had my own studio by then. It had also been a while since my mother had hauled me back in with her tyrannical tentacles. My sister Louise looked down on me, Paul held a grudge against me because I never seemed pay him the attention his care and affection deserved. It was a horrible plot hatched by a powerful allegiance and there were few who came to my defence. Almost everyone was pleased with my confinement, and almost nobody cared about what became of me.”

  Camille was indeed upset, but I had chosen the right moment as she managed to keep her emotions in check without too much trouble. She had just chosen to take a sedative, and what would have otherwise turned into a violent explosio
n on any other day was nothing more than a slight moment of tension, reined in by the effects of the medicine.

  -“What was that day like?”

  -“Two nurses came for me, two thugs ready to trap me as if I was some sort of dangerous runaway or criminal. They took me by force through the window, they destroyed by studio, they gagged me and threw me into an ambulance which took me to Ville-Evrard...” Camille paused. Her words tumbled reluctantly out of her mouth, poisoned with sadness and exasperation that had long ago been dampened down. “I waited a few days for them, expecting them to come for me. I found out through a letter from my good cousin Charles that my father had passed away three days earlier, I couldn’t even go to his funeral! I spent the next four days under lock and key, expecting those ruffians to come back any moment, as I listened to mumblings of my fellow captives outside my door and window. They waited for Dad to die and then they launched themselves on me like a pack of wild dogs.

  -“But Camille, you weren’t well...” I said quietly, trying to reason with her.

  -“Yes, you’re right! But I didn’t deserve to be humiliated like that. Anyone else would have been given more chance or have been treated with more dignity. But as a woman I have to conform! Ah, all those cowards that used me, how they laughed and toasted to my fall from grace! Finally everyone was free from Camille!”

  She was exhausted. At nearly 70 years’ old, she could barely hold herself upright, let alone face her terrible past under the swaying effects of the tranquilisers. Now she was panting, like an exerted animal after a long chase from a predator. And I was that predator, stalking her with my insatiable, blood-thirsty greed.

  -“Camille, I’m sorry I keep on insisting, but there’s something I don’t quite understand. Why did no one come to your rescue? Why did no one try to defend you from such unjust cruelty? Surely you have friends...”

  With all the strength she had left, Camille got up from the sofa where she had been lying all this time and came towards me, waving a firmly clenched fist in front of my eyes.

  -“Perhaps you think I didn’t try. I did, with all I had, which wasn’t a lot. But my worst enemy was right at home, amongst my own family. Hardly anyone came to my aid, and those that did hardly knew me, so it was unlikely anyone would pay them any heed. As a single woman, I had no control over my own life. I needed my mother's or my brother Paul’s signature, which after all was what imprisoned me in the end. And after all these years I’ve spent in this hell, they still haven’t come to release me! They’ll never do it now, not now they know I pose a threat. I would show them up for who they are, I would expose their despicable crime. How would I ever show the world who the real Camille Claudel was; that she wasn't mad, that she never was, and that even her soul mate joined in on the farce seeking revenge and personal gain! They’ll leave me here to die, until my bones decay within the walls of this morbid asylum. And when I’m gone, they’ll forget me, and they’ll never say my name again under the pretence that they never had a sister called Cam.”

  Camille’s speech left me bewildered. Her lucidity, the ease at which she expressed her thoughts, despite the pitiful, miserable quality of life she was subjected to, both surprised and astonished me. Who was I to put her through this kind of torment, to ridicule her so? How could I take advantage of her condition, just to feed my own unhealthy curiosity and to ease the hankering needs of my disease-stricken soul? Would Camille ever be able to forgive me, one day, when she was far, far away from this place?

  -I’m so sorry Camille. I’m incredibly unfair on you, and I wouldn’t want you to misinterpret my intentions,” I said, coming back to my senses, feeling ashamed of my behaviour. Even now, I can still feel the heat of the shame, prickling under my skin.

  -“Don’t worry, Doctor. I already told you the first time we met. You can’t take anything else away from me because I don’t have anything left,” she replied with dignity as she left my side, which I took this deservedly as a sign of her disdain for me.

  -“You must understand that your past seems almost unbelievable to me, and at the same time an utter tragedy. It’s just so incredible that something like that ever happened,” I said in a quiet, sad voice, almost as though thinking aloud. I was being completely honest with her.

  -“And it is still happening! Remember that. It seems as though the Camille who was locked away 20 years’ ago and the one right in front of your eyes were not the same person... I’m still alive and I’m still locked up against my will!”

  -“I apologise, you’re absolutely right,” I said, admitting my unforgivable mistake.

  -“No one, almost no one lifted a finger to stop this injustice, no one even raised a hand or a voice to set me free. It seems this was the solution that best suited everyone, as it would only be me who could be harmed by it.”

  Neither of us uttered another word for the whole afternoon. I do not know what was going on in Camille’s mind to the backdrop of those beautiful melodies that filled my office, but I think I have a fairly good idea. I do know what was tormenting mine, cowing me into shameful silence. I had not raised my voice enough to free her either, even I, who felt such anger and disgust towards all those people who had lent a hand, almost indifferently, to Camille’s confinement. Even I had hardly lifted a finger to help her. As proof, there we both were, trapped behind the walls of Montdevergues whilst outside the world went along on its merry way, like the waters of the Rhone as they flow out towards the Mediterranean.

  Chapter 18

  Brother Paul's visit

  Montdevergues, 5th of January 1944

  In the hot summer of 1927, in August to be precise, I finally had the chance to get to know the man who I loathed with every inch of my being, but who I had never actually met before. Paul Claudel had come to visit his sister Camille. Although according to protocol, relatives needed my permission to see patients, Cyril Mathieu had conceded certain privileges to Mr. Claudel, and so even though I was in Avignon at the time taking care of business, no one could object to him being alone with his sister. When I arrived back at the asylum, one of the nurses immediately came to update me on the situation.

  -“Mr. Claudel has come to visit his sister. They’re in her room on their own at the moment, but a guard is waiting outside the door in case of any trouble.”

  -“Have they been talking for a long time?” I asked calmy, but my insides were burning with rage and impatience. I was desperate to look Camille’s brother in the eyes.

  -“About two hours. Mr. Claudel said he didn’t have much time, as usual, so he’ll be going soon.

  -“I see, I won’t interrupt them then. But please ask Mr. Claudel to kindly come to my office before he leaves.”

  I took shelter behind my desk as though lying in wait for an enemy invasion. I must have broken two pencils, and every so often I stood up from my chair to pace up and down the room like a caged animal. I glanced at the clock every five minutes; the hands conspiring to turn me into a nervous wreck. What would I do face to face with that despicable man who had been capable of locking Camille away? How would I react to this person who had the nerve to come and visit her as though he had nothing to do with the injustice of it all? Whilst I distracted my mind with these passing thoughts, time passed by quickly, and after half an hour someone rapped at the door. It was the nurse who had met me just as I had arrived back from Avignon.

  -“Mr. Faret, shall I let Mr. Claudel in to see you?” she asked, suspecting an imminent conflict.

  -“Yes, please, of course...” I stammered, gulping back my nerves.

  There he was, stood before me. A small man, rather heavy, with thinning hair and with a fashionable, curly moustache, very smartly and elegantly dressed in expensive clothes; absolutely nothing was out of place. His expression feigned concern, with a certain affectation that only politicians know how to do, I thought to myself.

  -“Mr. Claudel, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” lying as I stretched out my arm to shake his hand. His felt cold, lifeless and somew
hat unwilling.

  -“Mr. Faret, my sister has brought me up-to-date. I was under the impression that Mr. Mathieu was still Medical Director of the asylum, I was not aware that he had retired,” exclaimed Paul Claudel, rather distantly and suspiciously. His weak, icy hand slid from mine like a piece of lifeless flesh.

  -“I haven’t been in this position very long. I didn’t write to you because I thought it would be more appropriate to tell you in person, but to be honest I don’t see you around here very often...” I said, sounding insolent and bold.

  Paul Claudel frowned, trying to regain his composure. I thought in diplomatic circles this would have been seen as nothing less than a declaration of war but he seemed quick to remember that he was not striding the corridors of an embassy, but rather behind the walls of a mental asylum.

  -“My work prevents me from visiting her as much as I would like to, and travelling abroad is also part of my duties. But whenever I have some free time I come by, like today,” he replied, still coolly. His manners were impeccable and his voice was like someone on the radio, well spoken and perfect French that was music to my ears.

  -“I’m so sorry, in the confusion of everything I’ve forgotten to offer you something, would you like a lemonade?” I asked, trying to be polite so that I could have the chance to be brazenly insolent again.

  -“You’re too kind, Mr. Faret, but I must leave. I can hardly stay a minute longer. I’m sure you understand,” he replied, returning the politeness.

  I sat back on my chair behind my desk, a gesture to signal to him that as long as he stood there, I was not going to give up on my intention of delving into a serious, unavoidable and unpleasant topic. Despite the admiral poise and calm of his posture, I could see in Paul Claudel's shifty, disconcerted eyes that he had already sensed my motives.