A madhouse
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Montdevergues, 30th of October 1943
Today is Saturday, and like every Saturday I like to go and eat outside the asylum walls. It gives me chance to gain a new perspective, to escape from the claustrophobic atmosphere of Montdevergues and to see the world with different eyes. Normally I would head towards Avignon, but today I took a longer trip to Aix-en-Provence, where I enjoyed briefly wondering about the Saint-Sauveur cathedral. I am strangely passionate for cathedrals; they are perfect places for rest and patient reflection. Later I lunched at a small bistrot, one of those typical Provence-style cafes where they serve home-cooked food, prepared very slowly, without the haste usually demanded in larger cities. Being there made me realise just how many people believe that the war is coming to an end, that the Americans are making huge advances in Italy and that France will be next. I would love for this to be true, and for the end of this terrible battle to lead us into a new period of hope, as this is all that we have left.
No sooner had I arrived at the asylum I saw the light on in Camille’s old room, and for a second I thought she was there, once again, in silence as brooded over her misfortune, encased between those four white walls. But then I remembered a new patient must have moved in, so I headed towards my house, dragging my feet behind me. In as long as it takes to cross out a single word on paper, in a single stroke I had managed to scrub out any glimmer of happiness that still lingered from the day. This is how fleeting moments of joy are in times of deception.
The table is piled high with bills, reports and various patients’ notes, episodes and some annotations made by resident doctors. I have neither the strength nor the inclination to even to look at them, preferring instead to return to this strange diary that takes me from yesterday to the present, without a fixed course, yet with one clear, predetermined objective. I am not sure I will be able to achieve the goal I have set for myself. Three or four days after I first met Camille, I found her on the floor of her bedroom, huddled in the corner with her head buried between her knees. It was a sorry sight. I could just make out her matt of grey, wiry and unkempt hair. In that position, hunched over, she seemed weak and fragile, afraid and completely mad, so different from the woman I had met in the garden. I asked the guard who had accompanied me to leave me alone with her, and he agreed, somewhat reluctantly, as the first meeting between a new doctor and a patient labelled as psychotic was certainly risky.
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-“Good morning, Miss Claudel, it’s Edouard, the new person in charge of female patients, do you remember me?” I asked politely, and extremely sensitively, maintaining a cautious distance from her.
-“Of course I remember you; it was actually me who came to greet you. I already told you I would prefer it if you called me by my first name, Camille.”
She answered, still with her head between her knees, her voice sounding distant and muffled, like an echo from a faraway place that no longer existed. I reflected on how difficult it was going to be to handle this old lady, who seemed to be so aware of everything going on around her, but who saw death as the only possibility to put an end to her indisputable suffering.
-“Fine, Camille. I don’t like formalities either. I would prefer to be frank and direct right from the beginning and for us to treat each other as friends.”
-“We will never be friends, Doctor. I see it as more a question of aesthetics. I can’t possibly be considered a lady in this hell, do you understand?”
I felt ridiculous. I briefly glanced over her history, somewhat surprised by the fact that she had been in the asylum for several years, which would usually imply that she a patient of considerable standing, and I proceeded to review her diagnosis: dementia, neurosis, paranoia, delusions of grandeur, persecutory delusions... Too much, I thought, for a woman who seemed to me to be lucid, up to a certain point. I felt an unhealthy curiosity take hold of me again.
-“Camille, I would love to be able to see those blue eyes of yours,” I pleaded, dotingly, improvising a way to get closer to her as discretely as possible.
Finally, Camille lifted her gaze, and scrutinized me from head to toe. Some locks of hair had fallen over her face, giving her with a wild, primitive look. Despite this, she still seemed to possess beauty, one that you couldn’t quite put your finger on, that hid behind those pupils as though they were the last safe place left in her body to preserve the essence of what had once been in another era, without a doubt, an exceptionally striking woman. I think my compliments lifted something in her, as a faint smile was visible for a fleeting moment at the corners of her mouth.
-“Don’t think you can achieve a lot by flattering me all the time. I’m tired of kind words.”
I sat down beside her, but not so close as to arouse her suspicions. She watched me, mistrustful and rather conceitedly. Now, by her side, I was able to get a better look at her hands, which took me by surprise as they were strong, somewhat large and out of proportion to the rest of her body, with spindly fingers and short nails, chapped and mottled with age spots.
-“I was only trying to be nice, nothing more. You’re a very interesting person, and I can assure you I am being sincere. I would love to have a friendlier relationship with you.”
-“I hope you will be able to do something for me, something useful,” said Camille, in a thin voice.
-“Why else do you think I’m here?” I asked, trying to gain a better idea of how alert she actually was, all the while attempting to build emotional ties.
-“You should be able to answer that for yourself, Edouard,” she replied, signalling to the folder stuffed with papers I had with me.
-“Camille, I would like to know how you feel about this. We are going to be seeing each other rather a lot, and I need to better understand your condition to be able to help you.”
She shot me an icy, hard glare, filled with mistrust verging on rage. Then she let out a short, laboured moan, as though trying to contain an angry and violent reaction. She wrung her hands, and then let her body go, as if all the strength that had been holding her up had vanished, to never come back.
-“You’re hopelessly young and naive. Do you really want to know why I’ve been locked up in this awful prison?”
Despite being a little offended by her hurtful comment, I nodded, encouraging her to share her point of view with me. Her mind was poisoned with bitterness, and I realised that it was going to be very difficult to help her to open up.
-“I’m here because I’m a woman and because I wanted to be free. I’m here because I loved, because I aspired to be something more than just a puppet, because I wanted to take control of my own life. I’m here because I was more talented than my teacher. I’m here because of all these reasons,” she said bluntly.
Camille buried her head again between her knees, revealing her grey, tangled head of hair. I was stunned. After several days examining some patients for the first time, I had finally encountered someone who was really interesting, unique and extraordinary. The tone of her voice was firm, extremely sane and deliberate, contrary to someone who was supposedly afflicted by so many ailments at once.
-“They don’t seem to be enough reasons,” I noted, trying to make her see that there was something she was hiding from me, or that perhaps she was actually deceiving herself.
-“No!” she exclaimed, sounding irritated, “Is there any sin greater than this in such times of betrayal and jealousy? I can assure you that being a woman and trying to be free is seen as almost obscene, and for lack of any other crime worthy of locking me up in prison, they chose to hide me away in this despicable place.”
It was true that Montdevergues was no first-class hotel, but for an asylum, it could be a lot worse. You could even call it wonderful; the patient care techniques were not behind like other places in France. It seemed to me that this hate for what she saw as an unfair confinement had been brewing for years, and the criticisms had more to do with her personal take on the situation rather than an objective analysis of her surroundings.
-“Montdevergues doesn’t seem such a terrible place to me. I can assure you there are far worse institutions in France.”
Camille looked at me again indignantly, seemingly repressing her fury. Her blue eyes had turned even darker, revealing an anger of someone who refuses to accept their condition and confinement.
-“You can obviously come and go as you please, you can escape whenever you want to Paris, Lyon or Avignon. You can do what you want with your life. You could even leave this place and never come back, if that’s what you choose. You have something I’m missing, and maybe that's why you take it for granted. This place seems less terrible to you because you’re not obliged to stay in it, because you haven’t been confined in it for more than ten years. But in my case, everything was taken away from me.”
-“I sincerely hope I can help you.”
-“Do you really want to help me?”
I nodded tentatively, knowing that with this I would be inviting her to express her deepest desire, an aspiration that was surely not beyond what had already been taken from her after giving up so many things.
-“Have me transferred to Paris. I'm not asking to be let out, just ask me to be moved to an asylum near Paris. Nothing else. If you can manage that, then you will have helped me, and I will be eternally grateful.”