Chapter 32

The Paris Salon

August 1885

William didn’t come back. He left France without another word to me and I didn’t try to stop him. There was nothing I could say in my defence, nothing that would alter what I had done. I had lost William and it was only in losing him that I realised how much I loved him. I spent that summer in Norway with my parents, numb with misery as we walked through ice canyons, three tiny figures picking our way over turquoise glaciers. My parents worried about my silences but I was too ashamed to tell them what had happened. At night I left the window open and stared out at the pale Arctic sky, unable to cry. In the mornings my quilt was covered in snow.

Paris in August was hot and empty. I returned to a stifling studio buzzing with flies. There was a letter waiting for me: my piece had not been accepted for the Salon. I sank down on my valise and finally wept. When Camille came in some time later I wiped my eyes but she didn’t notice I had been crying. She was breathless and laughing as she pulled off her hat and threw it in the corner.

‘Jessie! You’ll never guess! I’ve been accepted, for the Salon, my piece. Can you believe it?’

I was crushed. A nasty thought crept into my mind: no wonder Camille was accepted, she’s sleeping with Rodin and he has power and influence. It was unworthy of me but I couldn’t help it. My best friend’s victory was a dagger in my heart. First William, and now I had failed in this. I had been wrong about my talent; Paris had taught me nothing and I had lost William chasing an empty dream. Camille was looking at me expectantly and I mustered a smile.

‘But that’s wonderful, simply wonderful!’ I made myself embrace her but she broke away, too excited to be still for even a moment. She paced around the studio, restlessly picking up tools and shifting pieces. Suddenly Camille whirled around.

‘Sang bleu! The vernissage! It’s today. Quick, quick, we must get to the Salon at once. Hurry, Jessie, we don’t want to be late.’ She crammed on her hat and we ran out of the door.

I paused on the stairs. ‘My gloves.’

‘Dieu tout-puissant! Forget your gloves. We don’t want to be late for the first night of the Salon.’

The sky was a wash of violet and the evening air was full of conversations. The dead weight that had lain over my heart all summer shifted as we walked through the crowded streets. By the time we reached the Champs-Élysées, everyone seemed to be heading in the same direction, to the Salon de Paris, the largest and most important art exhibition in the world. To have a piece accepted by the Salon’s jury of established artists was like being given the key to a select club. We reached the steps and I stopped in front of the doors, wide open to let in the last of the light. I straightened my back. Just because I had failed to get in this year didn’t mean I couldn’t try again. Why, Rodin himself had been rejected over and again. Camille looked at me questioningly and this time my smile was broad and warm and from the heart.

I smoothed a curl behind her ear. ‘My dear friend, you deserve this.’

Camille wrinkled her nose and laughed. ‘Of course I do! Am I not the hardest-working artist in all Paris?’ She linked her arm through mine. ‘And next year, Jessie, we will be showing side by side, you’ll see.’

We were about to go in when an artist balancing a canvas on his head bumped into us.

‘A thousand apologies, Mesdemoiselles.’ He lowered the painting and clicked his heels.

‘Sasha!’ Camille said.

The Russian beamed at us and pulled us both into a clumsy hug.

Once I was free, I nodded at his painting. ‘For the vernissage?’

‘Da. I work on canvas all night, all day, but is not finish and now is too late.’ He was unshaved and looked haggard, with dark shadows under his eyes.

I steadied Sasha’s picture to get a better look at it, careful to keep my fingers away from the wet oils. A field of golden wheat stretched into the distance under a cerulean sky. Peasant girls with their skirts tucked into their waists were bent over sheaves, their faces and arms browned by the sun. It was well executed but hardly an original subject: everyone from Millet to Courbet and Bastien-Lepage had done it to death. The critics would love it. Sasha headed into the Salon, already busy with viewers and artists frantically varnishing their paintings and making sure they were correctly hung.

Camille grabbed my arm. ‘Are the judges blind, to allow such a boring painting and keep out your works?’ I was comforted by her words. Camille was a harsh critic, but her judgement was unerring; it was one of the reasons Rodin consulted her before he made any decisions in Studio M. He trusted her. We all did.

Camille and I followed Sasha through the crush of elegant Parisians, the women preening in jewel colours, the men conferring in top hats and tails like crows on a fence.

‘Look at her,’ I whispered to Camille. ‘Over there in the pink ruched silk skirt and burgundy jacket. Isn’t she elegant?’

‘Ridiculous, I would say. They all look like they should be at the opera, not looking at art.’ Camille was wearing a simple dark dress but somehow stood out from the crowd despite her plain clothes. Next to her I looked as overdressed as a tropical parrot in green velvet trimmed with yellow silk. My new dress – bought in London by Ma to cheer me up – was far too warm for the stifling heat of Paris in August. My back was soaking by the time we’d fought our way into the centre of the grand hall where paintings hung two, three and sometimes four deep, from floor to ceiling.

Sasha stopped at an enormous ladder that stretched the height of the hall, and looked despairingly upwards. ‘Bastards in Salon hanging committee put me nearly on roof. Am I Michelangelo? Nyet. Is this Sistine Chapel? Nyet.’ He ran his hands through his blond hair and looked as if he were about to cry.

Camille patted him on the back. ‘Courage, mon brave.’ She gripped one end of the painting and pushed him up the ladder in front of her, shouting abuse at him, using the coarse words of a workman. I held the ladder and called encouragement, shaking with laughter. A small crowd gathered to watch Camille’s progress. There were gasps when she neared the top and wobbled under the weight of the painting, applause when she steadied herself and handed Sasha her half. Ignoring her audience, she carried on shouting directions, hands on hips, a small figure backlit by the blazing electric candelabra. Once the painting was in place and Sasha was engrossed in putting the finishing touches to the canvas, Camille began to climb down. I was worried about her weak leg and was so absorbed in willing her not to fall that I didn’t notice Georges until he was standing right behind me.

His mouth was sulky. ‘I wrote dozens of letters, all summer, but not one reply.’

I noticed with a stab of desire that his hair was longer, curling around the collar of his black velvet jacket. William had taken himself away and left me to face the world without him. But here was someone who desired me, who didn’t judge me and find me wanting.

He was looking at me intently, waiting for my answer.

‘Georges. You startled me.’

A surge in the crowd pushed us together and his lips brushed mine.

‘Jessie, why didn’t you answer my letters?’

A space opened up behind me and I stepped back. ‘I, I only received them last week when I returned from my walking holiday. I spent most of the summer travelling in Scandinavia with my parents and then I was so busy getting ready to return to Paris, I didn’t have time to write back. I’m sorry.’ I bit my lip and couldn’t meet his eyes.

He frowned. ‘What’s wrong? Your face is thinner and you look as if you’ve been crying. What’s happened?’ Georges was always most irresistible to me when he was being kind. I found myself telling him tearfully about William finding the portrait and reading the note. How I hadn’t heard from him since. When I finished I looked up and saw the triumph in his eyes.

‘Can’t you see how awful all this is for me?’ I said, irritated.

‘On the contrary, it is exactly what you need, to be freed from that Englishman. Now we can be together. Everything has worked out perfectly, completely to plan!’

I was puzzled. ‘What do you mean everything has worked out perfectly. The whole thing is a mess, and it’s not as if you planned it.’

He grinned. ‘Didn’t I? I suppose I can tell you now, you’ll find it amusing no doubt. That painting – the one of William and the two prostitutes?’

I winced and nodded. Why had I been so quick to jump to the wrong conclusion?

Georges put his hand on his chest. ‘It was I who persuaded Henri to paint that scene, and then to hang it on his studio wall and take you there so you were bound to see it – and think the worse. Géniale, non? And as for the portrait and the love note, well, that was a stroke of luck.’

I stared at him while he laughed. I had been a fool, tricked like a child into believing fairy stories that hid the ugly truths of the cruel adult world. Georges stopped laughing.

‘Come on now, Jessie, surely you’re not angry with me. You can’t blame me for doing everything I could to win you. Après tout, all’s fair in love and so forth.’

I hissed at him. ‘Of all the low…’

‘Salut, Georges!’ Camille jumped down the last two rungs. Her face was flushed with the exhilaration of her climb. ‘Dis donc, Duchamp, where have you been all summer?’

Georges kissed Camille three times on the cheek. ‘Dying of boredom in my parents’ country house, of course. And you, Claudel?’

‘Villeneuve with my family, comme d’habitude. The country was dull, dull, dull after Paris. I would have gone crazy except for a visit from Monsieur and Madame Rodin. They came for lunch one Sunday.’

There was a short silence. Camille was as shameless as Georges. Rosa was right: the two of them were like wild beasts, ruthless predators who would stop at nothing. And they got away with their behaviour. Here was Camille, rewarded for sleeping with Rodin by exhibiting at the Salon, while I had lost William and the chance of a good marriage and endangered my reputation – for what? A momentary lapse from which I’d pulled back. And here was Camille practically boasting about having carried on her affair not only under the noses of her parents, but that of Rose Beuret. Virtue is its own reward, my mother had always told me. Well, bugger that. I glanced at Georges. He looked amused. I wondered how much he knew, but he folded his expression neatly away.

‘Really?’ he said. ‘I wish I’d been there. Such an interesting mix of people.’

Camille answered carelessly. ‘Oh, the visit was a great success. Rodin, Papa and I discussed art while Madame Rodin and Maman talked about the best way to turn a seam and how to boil up bones to make soup.’ She laughed. ‘They got on famously, those two old women. It’s no surprise – they are both classic bonne femmes.’ Her beautiful face turned ugly for a second and I realised how much she hated Rose Beuret. I understood that this petty cruelty was the only way Camille could strike back at the woman she could not best, despite being younger and prettier than her. Camille was the one to be pitied, not Rose. But what had Rodin been thinking? Camille and Rodin had grown reckless. I realised the affair had taken a dangerous turn and I feared for my friend.

She turned to me and took my hand. ‘The rest of the summer passed too slowly. You see, I missed my Jessie so very much.’

Camille had missed me! She had hardly written, not more than a few dashed-off lines, blotted with ink and misspellings and I’d begun to think she had forgotten me as she fell in deeper with Rodin.

Georges’ tone was dry. ‘Oh, Jessie has been far too busy to think about us. She’s been swimming in fjords and scaling glaciers. I’ve always suspected she was one of those terrifying English ladies who scale the Himalayas with only a donkey for company.’

‘Just as well she likes donkeys then, eh, Georges?’ Camille said, punching him on the arm.

Georges rubbed his sleeve. ‘How ladylike! I wish I could say I’ve missed you, chère Camille, but although deadly tedious, les grandes vacances at least gave my bruises time to heal.’

‘Oh stop moaning, you’re worse than a girl.’ She linked arms with us. ‘It is good to be back together. Alors, mes copains, let’s go and see where they’ve put my sculpture. What did you submit, Georges?’

‘I didn’t have time over the summer.’ He waved his free hand. ‘Besides, all this, the Salon, it’s old hat. They say there’s a new place, Le Salon des Independants, it’s where all the avant garde are showing. I might try there, when I’m not so busy.’

In the sculpture hall, Georges spotted his old tutor and left us to go and talk to him. Camille nudged me.

‘All that talk of the Salon being out of fashion, I don’t believe it and neither does Georges. He’s just jealous because I’m better than him, the phoney.’

I was furious at Georges but I couldn’t let this pass. ‘That’s unfair. He’s well regarded in the studio, and you’ve seen his work – it’s exceptional.’

She shrugged. ‘When he sticks at it, or I should say when Jules Debois makes him stick at it. Don’t you remember his studio?’ I looked at her sharply but her face was innocent. ‘It was full of half-finished projects. He’s been the same all the time I’ve known him – lazy. Never mind him, this is my day. Let’s find my sculpture.’

We found her Giganti peering out from behind a potted palm tree. A few idle stragglers looked up briefly from their catalogues and glanced in passing at it before moving on to the next exhibits. Poor Camille – all that hard work and expectation only to be ignored.

Camille bent down and took hold of one end of the planter. ‘Help me move this.’ By the time we had heaved it over to a back wall, spilling dirt all over the marble floor, we were bent double laughing.

I grabbed Camille and made her turn round. ‘Look, there are two men looking at your Giganti. Let’s go and listen to what they’re saying.’ We crept up and stood behind a fat man with a red face and extravagant whiskers who was waving his programme and holding forth. ‘This one is by a pupil of Rodin, I can tell.’ He leafed through the programme. ‘Ah, yes, I thought so. It says here, Camille Claudel. Shows promise, wouldn’t you say, Jean-Louis? Well, come on, you’re the critic,’ he boomed at his companion, a bird-like man with a beady look.

Camille looked elated and I squeezed her hand.

The bird-like man said: ‘You have a good eye, Gaston. There is a certain fluidity and lightness of touch, but you can clearly see Rodin’s influence, it’s unmistakable.’ He bent in for a closer look, his hooked nose nearly brushing Giganti’s leonine features. Straightening up, he gave a limp wave. ‘This is merely an insipid copy of his robust style, too tentative, lacks Rodin’s masculine vigour. But what do you expect from a woman? I have always maintained that the female sex is not capable of sculpting. Better they should stick to the decorative arts such as découpage and embroidery. And, if they must paint, let them dabble in watercolours – landscapes and flowers, or sentimental domestic subjects suited to their delicate sensibilities. Not only do these feeble creatures lack the physical strength required by sculpture, it is scientifically proven that their brains are smaller and if they persist in this unnatural pursuit they could lose their minds – a hideous fate. Only men, mon vieux, are capable of withstanding the physical and spiritual demands made by Art.’

I’d been hearing this kind of tosh all my life, but to hear it at the Salon where the admission itself qualified Camille to be judged on equal merit was an outrage. The fury that gripped me was for both of us: for Camille and me, and for all women. Can’t a woman stand on her own two feet? Must she always be at the whim of men? I had been tossed between William and Georges for too long. No more. Now I wanted to avenge my friend, to knock this snivelling wretch to the ground, and shake his bony little frame until he begged for mercy. I took a step towards him, but Camille held me back, her face pale.

The bird was speaking again. ‘Come, Gaston, I’ll show you the real thing.’ The little man led him to a tight group gathered round another sculpture and we followed. There were gasps and a few sniggers from the viewers. Camille pushed her way to the front of the crowd, pulling me behind her. We came upon one of the most remarkable sculptures I’ve ever seen. In all my years, I’ve yet to see a work of art that affected me more. A young woman, carved in snowy marble, knelt before us. Her hair hung loose to hide her face and the nape of her neck was laid bare. Her pale stone back curved like an exquisite guitar down to her perfect buttocks. She was at once sensuously abandoned and vulnerable. I recognised the delicately muscled back and waist: it was Camille.

My eyes widened and Camille nodded. ‘It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful,’ I whispered.

She whispered back. ‘Do you like the pose? It was my idea.’ We shared a smile before she turned her head sharply. The irritating little critic’s hand was hovering over the nude as if he were about to touch her.

‘Regard, if you will, the continuous line, the expression of emotion through the contorted pose,’ he said in a pompous voice to his wider audience. ‘I pronounce this one of Rodin’s finest works.’

‘It’s certainly, er, arousing,’ said the fat man, his eyes bulging. He licked his lips. ‘Rodin must be bedding her, knowing his reputation.’

‘I hear she’s his latest mistress, a pupil no less, barely out of the schoolroom, the rogue,’ said a man with a moustache. More sniggers.

The critic smiled unpleasantly. ‘The little slut clearly has hidden talents. Or not so hidden now, eh Gaston?’ He nudged his fat friend, who wheezed with laughter and stroked the marble girl’s bottom and made a panting face. Camille reached out and smacked his hand away. He looked at her in astonishment. The bird’s eyes narrowed. ‘Aren’t you…?’

‘Mademoiselle Claudel is quite right. I regret it is not permitted to touch the sculptures. Salon rules.’ Rodin’s cane struck the stone flagstones and the crowd parted for him. He stood in front of the critic and glared at him through his spectacles. I held my breath: was he going to strike him as I had longed to? The little man clearly thought so because he seemed to shrink away. Rodin raised his hand, and instead held it out to the critic. ‘Aren’t you Jean-Louis Breton? I often read your articles in the art gazette.’

Breton hesitated but Rodin’s expression was mild and he hesitantly shook his hand. ‘It’s a great honour, Monsieur Rodin. Allow me to express my boundless admiration for your work. And this piece, it’s simply breathtaking. The line! The luminescence!’

‘Thank you.’ Rodin clapped him on the back and the bird coughed. ‘Now, I hope you have not overlooked the work of my most gifted pupil, Mademoiselle Claudel.’ He walked over to Camille’s bust of Giganti and the crowd followed, as if mesmerised. ‘She has a unique style. I showed her where to look for gold, but the gold she finds is her own. Mademoiselle Claudel is certainly worthy of a review all of her own in that newspaper you write for, don’t you think, Monsieur Breton? Allow me to introduce her.’ He beckoned to Camille, who scowled and didn’t move. Rodin waited. After a moment, she walked towards him.

Breton bowed, nearly scraping the floor with his long nose. ‘Mademoiselle, may I congratulate you on a fine piece. Such talent in one so young is astonishing indeed. This piece is exquisite, exquisite.’

Camille’s voice was cold. ‘You don’t find it insipid?’

Breton looked nervously at Rodin and back to Camille. ‘Insipid?’ he stammered. ‘Not at all! It has sheer animal power, if you excuse the expression. And the workmanship is extremely accomplished. You must have a skilled practicien at your atelier.’

Camille put her hands on her hips and glared at Breton. ‘Are you mad? I wouldn’t allow anyone near my sculptures. This is all my own work.’ She jabbed at her chest. ‘Je me répéte. All. My. Own. Work.’

Rodin put a hand on both our shoulder and regarded us with pride. ‘I am fortunate to have two gifted pupils working in my atelier now, mark their names well, Monsieur, for your articles: Camille Claudel and Jessie Lipscomb. I urge you to review the work of these rising stars. You have a duty to tell your readers about two of the best young artists in Paris.’

He had remembered me after all! Rodin began answering a chorus of questions from an adoring group of women viewers who had clustered around him and I turned excitedly to Camille. We had triumphed and it was one in the eye for that odious little man! But it was never going to be that easy. Behind Rodin’s back, the critic smiled slyly at Camille and winked at her.

‘You are indeed fortunate to have such a mentor, Mademoiselle. I can assure you, your name will be appearing in my newspaper tomorrow. Not in the arts reviews – no space, I’m afraid – but I’m sure my dear colleague Gaston has room in his gossip column.’

The two journalists leered at her, tipped their hats and walked away, laughing and slapping each other on the back.

Camille clenched her fists and glowered at their retreating backs. ‘Salauds.’ She spat and a woman walking past shrank back.

The nightmare I had dreaded was beginning to unfurl and Camille’s reputation was heading for disaster. A spiteful item in the gossip column in one of the best-read papers in Paris would be the end of her. Camille was about to fall and there was nothing I could do to help her. She shouldn’t have provoked that ghastly man, but she had been pushed beyond endurance. No male artist would have to put up with such insults.

Camille was trembling and I had to half-drag her to the exit, pushing past knots of viewers. Georges spotted us and called out. When we ignored him he hurried after us. Outside, we sat on the steps, careless of the dirt on our skirts and the legs hurrying past. Camille was weeping openly now, and people were looking at us.

I put my arms around her to shield her from their curious stares. ‘Hush now, hush,’ I murmured. My neck grew wet with her tears.

Georges crouched down beside us. I was grateful for his presence. He took out a handkerchief and wiped Camille’s face. ‘What happened, is she unwell?’ he asked me.

‘It was Rodin’s sculpture. There was this horrible man, a critic. He was vile, just vile.’

His face was grim. ‘I saw the sculpture. All Paris will see it and know who the model was. Tongues will wag.’ Georges spoke to the onlookers. ‘Please, give us some air.’ He lifted Camille into his arms and walked with her towards a line of cabs, where the drivers were smoking and waiting by their horses. He helped me in after Camille and shut the door.

I spoke to him through the window and held onto his arm. ‘Aren’t you coming too?’

He ignored my question. ‘This critic, what was his name?’

‘Breton. Jean-Louis Breton.’

He banged the side of the fiacre with the flat of his hand and the driver shook the horse’s reigns.

As we moved off, I called: ‘Georges, what are you going to do?’

‘I’m going to sort out this Breton.’