Misery and magnificence
Montdevergues, 22nd of November 1943
I think about Camille quite often, and the kinds of ideas that must have been swimming around in her head. But the 20 years by her side were not enough for me to get to know every little detail about her. The strangest thing is that although I was fascinated by this extraordinary woman from almost the first I day I met her, I had in fact missed out on some of her best years. In front of me was an old, bitter and mournful lady who was sorry for the fate that her despairing existence had sealed for her, and who tried, albeit unsuccessfully, to free herself from the ties that restrained her in this prison cell. What was the Camille like who had arrived in Paris, as a teenager with the strength and potential of a volcano inside her, ready to take on the world of art? What would that little, unruly girl have been like, the one that drove her mother mad with fanciful ideas from a small village in the north of France? Little or almost nothing was left of her in the woman who had been in my care for the past two decades.
It is not so different here. At Montdevergues, death, misery and corruption live side by side, whilst just a few miles away lies a fertile, sweeping countryside that can carry you up into the dizzying heights of satisfaction. Every so often I go on an unplanned escapade to explore the magnificent landmarks that nature has provided for the pleasure of all mankind. Since I was appointed Medical Director of the asylum, I have use of a vehicle which allows me to move about as I please, which is an unimaginable luxury in this time of great shortage that has been forced upon us. Any day now someone from the Vichy council will come and take it off me, but I am going to make sure I make most of it whilst it lasts.
There are days when I drive for hours, just following the steady line of the Rhone Valley. My journey always begins from Avignon, sometimes heading north through Valence and arriving all the way to Lyon. On other ocassions I go down south in search of the mouth of the river, delighting in the breath-taking delta that wraps around the city of Arles. It is easy to see why well-known artists and predominantly painters have been inspired by this land. The light is different there; the sea, the skyline and even the horizon seem to all merge together. Hours drift by as I crouch on a hillside to watch dusk fall and the waters of the Mediterranean swirl in ever growing darkness.
There are times when I feel more adventurous and I take less travelled roads to find the slopes of Mont Ventoux, which is visible from the asylum on clear days. I park the car and walk up a good distance, perhaps 6 or 7 miles, depending on the day. Eventually I collapse somewhere to take in the spectacular views, to enjoy some wine, bread and fine cheese that I buy along the way. From my viewing points, not chosen for any particular reason, I can look over the entire Rhone valley that stretches out before me. For these few moments, there is no war, no pain and no struggles for the sick, no famine. For a few seconds it is just the world and me. The strong wind that gives name to the mountain ruffles my hair as I remain exposed on the stark slopes with little shelter. But the wind does not bother me. It reaches my face, blasting it clean and fresh and ridding me of all those ugly thoughts that plague me. I feel as though I could stay there forever and never go back, perhaps become wild and live like that until nature decides when my time is up. For a moment I make peace with the cosmos, and I am no longer human, instead transforming into an indestructible stone, a pebble, lichen, or a never-ending trail in the snow.
Inevitably I come back to my senses, but with my mind still following the conviction of a madman; there is really nothing that can drive you more insane than going back to Montdevergues after these few snatched moments of freedom and peace of mind. On my less-than enthusiastic return I often wonder about Camille. My slavery is motivated by a voluntary act, whilst hers is a shameful atrocity as part of an obscene conspiracy led by everyone who had ever tried to control her life. For lack of a better reward, they must have found great pleasure in her demise.
As I arrive back at the asylum, through the walls and into the gardens, the grounds seemed to be a short but pleasant continuation of the landscape that only a few moments ago had surrounded me, helping to create the momentary illusion of similarity between the place I live and the wilderness just a few miles away. But in a matter of hours, I give up and reality brings me back down to civilization with a thump. A newspaper, a note on my desk or the occasional remark made by a nurse all remind me that my feet are still firmly rooted in hell, and even worse, that it was me who chose to bury them there in the first place.
This is why I miss Camille so much. Because after many of those trips, in her dark-blue eyes and their reflections, I would often find something of the sea, the river or the mountain I had just been admiring. These elements lived in Camille and unleashed their forces of nature within her, teamed with her wild, beautiful character that was all things pure and untainted. By her side, her untameable energy was contagious, and even I began to believe, in all my naivety and short-sightedness, that although somewhat minimally, I also formed part of her small select group of people who were meant for glory, who knew they belonged to her and who fought and suffered with all their might to show this to the rest.
But I am nothing more than a sad doctor who can barely even carry out his obligations, one who takes advantage of his position to live that little bit better than the rest and who tries to escape from reality without doing practically anything to change it. I am just a doctor, who, instead of appeasing the suffering of an exceptional, ingenious patient, used her instead to ease his own conscience and unfulfilled desires.
Now whenever I see a stone quarry, filled with hundreds of workers picking away at the planet’s skin, I have a vision of Camille who instead manipulates the indomitable laws of the universe and creates figures in the same material, figures of a certain beauty that only the gods would be able to replicate, if they do so exist.