Rodin's Lover
Page 11
Edmond’s hand shot out and righted the crystal glass just in time. “An artist’s work takes time and diligence, something you are well versed in yourself, Monsieur Hugo,” he said. He looked quickly at Auguste, an apology in his eyes, and back to Hugo. “But perhaps you would like time alone? We are more than happy to oblige.”
Jules refused to make eye contact, though the telltale lift of his chin meant he had abandoned the bonds of friendship to side with his idol.
To be seen as a pest made Auguste ill, as did Dalou’s betrayal. He wanted to immortalize the great man, but he possessed integrity. He captured a subject’s pain in his art so another might find beauty in man’s struggle and not feel alone—not to delight in it. If Hugo did not understand his intentions, he must go.
“Get out. All of you! And you”—Hugo directed his ire at Auguste—“your work is finished.” Monsieur Hugo threw down his serviette and strutted from the room.
Rodin flushed in embarrassment and anger.
Dalou paled. “How dreadful. I’m sorry, Auguste.”
“He isn’t himself,” Edmond attempted to reassure him.
Auguste stood, his face still aflame. He wanted to tear into the ass who had ruined his chances with Hugo. The previous artist must have been dreadfully unprofessional.
A footman appeared with Rodin’s coat and hat. “Your things, monsieur.”
“Good evening, everyone.” Auguste nodded at Edmond and the stunned diners, and quickly departed from the room and the apartment.
A wall of rain greeted him, soaking the passage walk and streaming down the arched roof. Auguste popped open his umbrella and joined the sea of black-and-navy-clad pedestrians shuffling to their destinations. Hugo had no right to be so rude to him—he had kept his promise. Still, he could never fault a man in such pain. The old man watched life’s breath trickle from his lover’s lips and the night close in around her.
To lose one’s great love must be the most acute, exquisite pain.
Auguste sloshed through a puddle, drenching his shoes and trousers. The tunnel of death loomed for Hugo, too. The inevitable slip of time weighed on a man’s soul.
A vision of Auguste’s father with gaunt face and gray skin vibrated in his memory. Those final days before Papa’s death had leeched his spirit, and were a horror to behold. Even a strong man would wither in this life and meet his maker. He moved his umbrella to the side and let the cold rain wash over his face. He must seize his passions while he had the time, and allow emotion to flood his soul, feel the rain on his face. Taste the sweet fruit of elusive love. Such precious, short time there was.
Chapter 12
Jessie returned to Paris and joined the atelier at Notre Dame des Champs. The months slipped by in an easy rhythm. Camille admired the way her friend adapted to her new home and fell into the same arduous work routine as hers. For the first time in her life, she felt as if she had a true friend who understood her, other than her brother. Emily, by contrast, had appeared less and less often at the atelier—and classes—and rarely helped with bills.
One spring afternoon, the ladies strolled through a park with Rodin along patches of manicured lawn and rows of hedges. Camille bent to stroke the satin petals of a pink tulip, her strong hands turning gentle, then snapped the flower’s head from its stem to twirl it between her fingers.
“I beg your pardon,” Jessie said, pushing aside a tree branch heavy with buds. “You aren’t to pick them.”
“They won’t miss one.” Camille took a seat on a nearby bench to soak in the spring sunshine.
Jessie sat beside her. “I prefer peonies. My mother’s garden is full of them. And roses.”
Rodin joined them, but he focused on the passersby instead of the flowers. After several moments, he squinted and adjusted his position. “There,” he said. “Do you see the gentleman in the Homburg hat speaking with the lady in the flowered dress?” He opened his sketchbook. “The movement of his jaw, and his neck muscles, straining as he leans closer to her.” His hand moved over the paper in swift strokes, though his eyes never left his subject. A charcoal outline of a body appeared, then a head with cords of muscle pulsing along the neck and shoulders.
Camille gazed at his hands, his face. She marveled at his concentration.
“You must capture it—not just the musculature, but the life that feeds it,” Rodin continued. He sketched another figure similar in scale, still without looking down, as if the image had burned into his mind. After he’d finished, he rooted through his satchel and retrieved a lump of clay. In a few short minutes, he shaped a maquette between his thumb and forefinger and the man’s form emerged.
Camille flipped open her sketchbook, but rather than drawing the man, she outlined the woman—the fervor in her expression, the laughing mouth, the joyful twirl of her white silk parasol dotted with black spots.
“Oh, she’s lovely,” Jessie said, peering over Camille’s shoulder. “Brava. Her expression is perfect.”
“I’m sure her companion hasn’t noticed her expression,” Camille said. “He can think of nothing but her ample bosom.”
Jessie covered her mouth with a gloved hand and laughed. “You do love to shock us, don’t you?”
“I speak the truth.” Camille smudged the folds of the stenciled gown with her thumb.
Rodin watched her sketch. When she looked up, she searched his face for an answer—did he approve? He stroked his coppery beard in silence.
“Well? What is wrong with it?”
“Not a single thing. In fact, it’s excellent. A perfect sketch, slavish devotion to your work . . . I think, mesdemoiselles, it is time.”
Camille set her shopping basket on the dining table next to Papa.
“I’ve bought some things,” she said, unloading her items one by one. “Flowers to brighten the room for Mother. And for you, a new tin of your favorite tobacco and some chocolate biscuits.”
“Generous of you, dear girl, but why the gifts?” Papa looked up from his newspaper.
“A thank-you.” She kissed him on the cheek. “For the atelier, and for believing in me.”
“I am pleased to see you happy.” He slurped tea from a petite porcelain cup etched with bluebells and silver vines.
Camille plopped down in a chair and wrung her hands in her lap. She had something else to tell Papa. “I need to speak with you.” She poured her own tasse of tea to busy her hands.
He removed his spectacles. “What is it, chérie?”
Mother breezed into the room humming a Chopin tune.
Camille stilled. Mother wore an evening gown in chartreuse silk with lace appliqué on the sleeves and neck. Her skin looked sickly next to the yellow-green fabric, and she reeked of lavender perfume. Camille stared, awestruck, as she touched her hair, fastened with a cache-peigne. The looped ribbons dangled from the decorative comb onto her shoulder.
Not only did Mother very rarely dress for an occasion, but she never wore rouge. This morning she had painted her cheeks heavily enough for two.
“You’re dressed for the theater.” Camille glanced at her father’s equally incredulous expression. “Are you going somewhere?” She seemed . . . odd today.
“Must you always criticize me?” Mother’s bright mood turned stormy in an instant, like a blustery autumn sky. “Such a negative child.”
“It was a simple observation,” Camille said.
“You were saying, my dear?” Papa asked, diverting the conversation, though his brow creased with concern at his wife’s strange behavior.
Camille chewed her bottom lip. She didn’t want to share the news in front of Mother, but she may as well be out with it. “You have heard of the sculptor Monsieur Auguste Rodin?” she said. “The tutor Boucher appointed.”
“I have read reviews of his work from time to time.” Papa leaned forward in anticipation. “Does he like your work?”
Papa sprang from his seat and cradled her face in his hands. “Mon amour!” He pulled her into a tight embrace. “I knew it! I knew they’d see your talent one day.”
Excitement fluttered in her stomach. If she had Papa’s blessing, she could accept, and it was a good thing, because she already had. “Thank you, Papa.”
“It is an all-male atelier?” Mother said, her voice an octave too high.
“You know how few women have had the opportunity to develop their talents.”
“Except you, of course.” Mother cleared dishes from the table. The china rattled in her shaking hands. “Camille, the genius child.” She said her name as if it were a disease, then let the dishes crash to the floor.
Corinne, the maid, scurried into the kitchen at the alarming sound of breaking china. Her jaw dropped when she saw Mother’s attire.
“What is the matter with you?” Papa clenched his hands into fists. “Your daughter may promote the reputation of this family. She may very well influence the art world. Why are you so ungrateful, woman? She has been given a gift. We have been given a gift!”
“She humiliates us, cavorting with those self-important fools. They put filthy ideas in her head and now you allow her to work with them. In the company of whores who remove their clothes for money! That does not promote our reputation.” She clasped Camille by the shoulders and shook her. “You’ll be a whore, too!” Her lips pulled back to reveal gritted teeth, like those of a growling canine.
“Let go of me!” She tried to pry Mother’s viselike grip from her arms.
Papa wrenched his wife away. “Get hold of yourself, woman!”
With a huff Mother yanked on her gown to straighten it. “I’ve received a letter from Monsieur Bertillion.”
Now Camille understood why she was so livid.
“He is no longer interested in courting our ‘lovely daughter,’ but wishes her the best of luck with her art. I assume he was put off by her skipping his calls to the house.”
“I didn’t want to marry him, Mother.” Camille sniffed.
“You ungrateful wench!” Mother lunged toward her once more. Camille ducked and Mother stumbled over the leg of a dining chair.
Papa caught her around the middle. “Stop this at once!”
“You love her more!” Mother screeched. “You’ve always loved her more than any of us—your other children, even me.” She dissolved to the floor in a weeping pile of expensive silk.
Camille rubbed her arms, eyes wide. How had she been born from such a woman? Had she gone mad? She would never be like her, Camille swore to herself.
The following week, Jessie and Camille stood on the Rue de l’Université across from Rodin’s famed atelier, the Dépôt des Marbres. Iron balconies jutted from windows in the building’s stone facade, and an array of workers streamed in and out through the double doors, their shoes and trousers covered in dust. Sunlight burst through the cloud cover and Camille smiled.
“Here we are.” She clasped Jessie’s hand. Beyond the opportunity, she could hardly wait to work alongside Rodin, though she would never say so aloud.
“I am anxious to begin,” Jessie said.
Two men hauled a block of white marble indoors.
“We’ll have less time for our own pieces. That’s my largest concern.”
Jessie squeezed her hand. “But just think! We might have a chance to show at Salon with Monsieur Rodin at our side. And we will be paid.”
Camille nodded absently. A kernel of fear lodged in the pit of her stomach. Their association with Rodin might also mean their identities as artists would blur. Still, the opportunity could not be missed. She had learned so much in the year since she had met him.
They followed a pair of assistants inside. The odor of clay and resin permeated the air, and the enormous space echoed with the sounds of artists hard at work. At least two dozen apprentices scurried about in their splattered trousers and smocks; several bent over a bucket of plaster, while others sawed pieces for a wooden base, or twisted metal frames to support a protruding limb. Two nude models perched on a platform, their posed forms as graceful as ballerinas. A select few workers chipped away at a hunk of marble, a skill reserved for the best of artists.
Camille longed to work with marble, but the material was too expensive to practice upon. She glanced at Jessie and saw a reflection of her own bewilderment on her features. How had Rodin created such an operation? He must have more private commissions than he could complete. Hardly an artist alive owned such a large work space with so many apprentices. She clasped and unclasped her hands. Why was she so anxious? She cursed herself for her weakness.
A man with overgrown facial hair and a blocky body shouted, “Are you coming in or not?”
“He looks like a woolly mammoth,” Camille whispered to Jessie.
Jessie laughed. “What on earth is that?”
“You haven’t heard of the elephant creatures covered in hair?” She had read not only mythology and literature as a child, but anything about science as well. In fact, she read almost anything when not sculpting.
A man whistled in appreciation as they passed. Camille glared at him and he laughed.
“No need to be prudish, sweetheart,” he said. “You’ll be naked on the stand soon enough.”
“Je suis sculpteur, and you are an ass.”
He laughed again, revealing brown teeth. “Did you hear that?” He snorted and a glob of mucus flew from his nostril. “We’ve a lady sculptor on our hands.”
A chorus of male voices murmured; a few whistled. “She’s a pretty one. I’ll have her, Alain. You can have the other.” The rail of a man named Alain guffawed.
Another man rearranged his manhood in a lewd gesture. “She’ll join the likes of the rest.”
Jessie’s jaw fell open in shock. “I beg your pardon!”
“It seems, Mademoiselle Lipscomb,” Camille said, projecting her voice loud enough to be heard, “that we’ve joined the house of apes, though they have fewer brains among them.”
A titter of laughter rippled through the room.
Mother’s face, screwed into a disdainful sneer, came to mind. She would have much to say about such a scene. Thankfully, she’d never know.
“Ça suffit!” a familiar voice roared—an uncharacteristic outburst for the rumble of hammering, chiseling, and male banter ceased. “These women are my pupils and fine artistes. You’ll treat them with respect or find another place of employment.” Monsieur Rodin loomed in a doorway leading to an adjoining room. His ginger beard blazed in the room awash in pale light.
Camille noted the immediate attention his quiet yet commanding presence demanded. His frame exuded strength, a power derived from years of experience, from passion and talent. He seemed solid as granite—unmovable, even unbreakable.
Suddenly she longed to see his softer side.
“Oui, monsieur,” a few of his assistants called out.
Camille smirked at Alain and the woolly mammoth. She had the master on her side. Still, she must prove her worth or she’d look a fool. But that would happen soon enough.
“Follow me, ladies. I will show you the rest of the studio.” Rodin abruptly returned to the room from whence he came.
Camille did not miss the female models watching them as they disappeared through the doorway. They would get over their shock as well, and show her respect. She would not be viewed as another of Rodin’s conquests.
“This is my office.” He motioned to a room with a simple oak desk and shelves packed with volumes on cathedrals and history, and artist manuals. Each corner of the room was piled with a mountain of abandoned maquettes on the verge of avalanche.
Camille plucked a severed goblin’s hea
d from his desk and poked her thumb inside the gaping mouth. Even his small pieces appeared alive. She turned it over in her hand, leaving a trail of chalky grit on her palm. “May I?”
Rodin nodded and she slipped it into her satchel.
“Come. I’ll show you the marble room.” He led them down a short corridor and into another large room.
Camille gazed at the array of unfinished statues, broken limbs, and uneven blocks of marble: Parian and Pentelic, the fine-grained limestone from Carrière, and blue-gray Carrara, all sorted by type. The men they had seen carrying the block outdoors now placed their load in the designated lot.
“I’ve always wanted to work with marble.” Camille caressed the bumpy surface of a small stone.
Jessie leaned against another milky slab.
Camille’s eyes lost their focus as she retreated into the dreamy haze of her mind. She knew exactly what she would do with this piece if it were hers.
“All in good time.” Rodin’s features displayed his amusement. “You have much to learn first. Let me show you the studies for the piece you’ll be working on. The Gates of Hell. This way.”
Camille sighed. Today marked the beginning of her labor being devoted to another’s cause. She would have to sketch her new idea that evening.
After several weeks, Auguste couldn’t help but notice Mademoiselle Claudel’s sullen behavior. She possessed such a playful energy and yet he saw none of it in his atelier, only her scarcely controlled irritation. He scooped a coil of clay from beneath a damp cloth and squashed it between his hands. She had arrived every day as they had agreed, except Fridays, when he visited the Rue de Notre Dame des Champs. He read the frustration in the way she heaved load after load of plaster up a ladder, in the way she snapped at the other workers, and in the scowl on her pretty face that deepened as the day went on. She seemed to detest everyone, and above all, him.
A shot of pain coursed through him, a pain he did not understand. Why should he care what Mademoiselle Claudel thought of him?