An abducted museum
Montdevergues, 21st of November 1943
Sometimes I would spend hours locked away in my room. After taking up the position as Director of Montdevergues, I refused to move into the main building. With my new post came the right to more comfortable quarters, closer to my office and with spectacular views, but in exchange I would have to sacrifice the privacy I had grown so accustomed to. So I decided to stay where I was. The rest of the staff took this as a sign of humility and it was well-received, but it was rather just a symptom of my secret disaffection with human beings as a whole. As individuals, I believe in people and their potential, but in groups I feel that any one of us is capable of committing the worst kind of atrocity. Fortunately the war in France has not put state against state, but instead has pitted smaller groups against each other, organised around the so-called Resistance. This has left doctors out of the equation, and we are not obliged to participate in the battle. God knows what kind of villainy I would have been capable of committing, lost in the dirty anonymity of the people and such brutality. I have had too many nightmares of me holding a bayonet, and committing the worst of crimes, gunning down others like me, and only when I wake up do I feel the unrecognisable sense of guilt.
Here, hidden away in this modest building, I feel like a nobleman from the Middle Ages at the top of his tower. Removed from everything, immune to the events that would otherwise involve me, I am separated from the situation I have taken on, one that hangs in a precarious balance. As I sit here, I am surrounded by dozens and dozens of figures that were made by Camille during her years of imprisonment, the ones I have rescued them from untimely end. It feels like building your very own paradise. The world outside shrivels up in its unremitting decay.
I remember the day when I went back to the guards who were about to smash three new figures with that same insensitivity, haste and coldness as the last time. I was so shocked by their detachment and the unshakeable manner in which they carried out their task without any remorse.
-“Good afternoon,” I greeted, in a distracted sort of way, as though I happened to be there by chance. But it was hard to even fool myself.
-“Good afternoon, Sir,” they replied in unison, without looking up at me.
-“Would those happen to be Miss Claudel’s figures?” I asked, stupidly, only making my supposed disinterest seem even more unlikely.
One of the guards looked at the other, as if to say, “this guy’s back again with his mad ideas”. The same one replied, rather out of forced politeness than for a real desire to satisfy my unhealthy curiosity.
-“Yes, Sir. You know we’ve been given orders to destroy them and to throw the rest away,” he replied, as though repeating a refrain I had heard a thousand times before.
I looked at the men, then at the clay figures; just a quick glance, but long enough to discern that these were sublime, pure works of art by the delicate hand of a genius, a quality reserved for the highest of beings. I felt dizzy. I was willing to be subjected to any kind abuse if it meant saving the figures from being so savagely destroyed.
-“Yes, I do know that. I spoke about the matter with Mr. Mathieu, and we’ve come to an agreement that suits us both,” I claimed, brazenly lying and improvising on the go. Anything to prevent another sacrilege.
The guards turned to look at each other, puzzled. The older one who was of a stockier build and seemed brighter took up the role of spokesperson again.
-“We don’t know anything. The Director hasn’t mentioned anything to us,” he said, puffing out his chest defensively.
I felt a sharp pain of rage rip through my gut. I had not been long at the asylum and my authority could of course still be questioned, as long as it was done so with a good dose of respect. Those guards should answer almost exclusively to the Director, who was after all the one who paid them: he was their leader, and more importantly was the one with the power to dismiss them.
-“He must have forgotten. He’s got a lot on his mind. We thought,” I began, now taking the lie too far, “that it would be a good idea for me to take care of these figures and for me to keep hold of them in case Miss Claudel regains her sanity and wants to do something with them. At the end of the day, they are hers after all,” I concluded, trying to show myself to be fair and perhaps even compassionate.
-“As you say so,” replied the guard, not very convinced, with his eyes glued to the ground. He looked at the figurines in the same way he would have looked at a piece of rubbish, and of course, he was very far from understanding my ridiculous fixation.
I suddenly realised that my ruse would inevitably lead me to having problems with Cyril Mathieu, perhaps even to my immediate resignation. I had to get these two men on my side if I did not want to lose my job.
-“Obviously you’ll receive a reward for your work. Every time you bring me one of Miss Claudel’s figures intact, I’ll pay you with a few francs...” I said, and although I did not have much money to spare back then, I thought this was better than leaving any trace of income behind.
The guards smiled slyly. Finally they understood, or rather it was me who had finally learned how to handle the situation.
-“Why didn’t you just say so, Sir,” said the stockier of the two guards, bending down to pick up the figures, passing them to me kindly. “Come to think of it, Mr Mathieu did say something about the sculptures made by Claudel,” he concluded rather cynically. “So there’s no need to say any more about it.”
Ashamed of my double-dealing, I took off with the three figures and ran, faster than my legs could carry me. Confined in my room, I closed all the curtains. I lit some candles and devoted my time to studying deliberately, unhurriedly and with great pleasure my three new treasures that joined the other two. These new ones were minute, they seemed to be holding hands as though dancing around an invisible fire. They reminded me immediately of the work of the amazing Degas which I had once seen at a Paris exhibition. I stroked the half-finished human figures, simple maquettes that were superior enough to reveal the compelling force of a limitless imagination. They evoked in you an incredible feeling of tranquillity.
Many years later, the same figurines are still here, dancing as though time had stood still and the dream of whoever made them continued to spur them on. They are impregnated with this beautiful, endless, almost celestial movement. I stare admirably at them, and no matter what happens outside in the real world, this never detracts from the sublime moment my soul finds peace with itself and seems to reach a state of supreme happiness. So here they are, forming part of this museum built on the foundations of shameful bribery, stolen in equal parts from Camille and the muddy canyons of the Vaucluse.