Paris Kiss (5 page)

Chapter 7

Paris

June 1884

Camille brushed off my attempts to talk about what had happened in the Bois de Boulogne and the next time I saw Rodin was in our studio. He talked pleasantly enough to me about my work, but I could tell his attention was on Camille, who was ignoring him.

Rodin waited for her to look up but she dug into a lump of clay as if she wanted to destroy it. After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence he rapped his stick on the floor.

‘Come now and rest,
Mesdemoiselles
. We shall have some coffee with a little something for inspiration.' Rodin took a silver flask from his coat pocket and sat at our tea chest.

‘You know how to boil water, I expect,' Camille said, sitting opposite him.

Rodin eyed her with amusement and she stared back, coolly.

I was uncomfortable, but when I started to leave Camille cut her eyes towards me, and I knew I had to stay and witness the silent drama between them.

‘I'll make the coffee,' I moved to the stove and measured the grounds into a ceramic percolator. I set the mismatched cups on the table and Rodin tipped viscous green fluid from the hipflask into them.

He smacked his lips. ‘This absinthe has killed the last of the little worms wriggling about in my head from the terrible wine they serve in the Bois de Boulogne.'

‘From what I could see, you found other consolations in the Bois,' Camille bit back.

Rodin laughed uncomfortably and glanced at me. I dipped my eyes and took a gulp of the absinthe and nearly choked. It was vile.

Rodin pressed his hands together and looked at us in turn. ‘I have a proposition for you both. I've lost two assistants recently and a big commission has just come in. So, I'd like you to work in my main
atelier
at the
Dépôt des Marbres
. What do you say?' He sat back and waited.

I put down my cup with a clatter and realised my hands were shaking. It was unprecedented for women to work in a male sculptor's studio, let alone one of Rodin's standing. I looked at Camille, but she was staring at Rodin.

‘The new commission,' Rodin continued calmly, as if he'd merely invited us for a promenade. ‘Is from the
mairie
of Calais. It will be a lot of work, but it's prestigious and will be displayed in the town centre. Mademoiselle Claudel, you will work on the hands and feet, and Mademoiselle Lipscomb, Legros tells me you are one of the few young sculptors to have really mastered draperies, so that will be your job.' He spread out his hands. ‘Well, will you come and work for me?'

I wanted to shout: ‘Yes! Yes!' It was the chance of a lifetime and more than I could ever have hoped. Working in Rodin's studio would open doors and be the making of my career. I glanced at Camille, expecting to see her fizzing with excitement, but she was studying her cup, as if considering her options. Only the flush creeping up her neck betrayed her emotion.

Finally, she looked up. ‘I want to accept, but there are difficulties. Everything depends on Jessie.'

I frowned at her. ‘Why on me?'

Camille put her hand in mine. ‘I can't attend Rodin's
atelier
on my own – my parents would not allow it. But, together it would be possible for two unmarried women to work in a man's studio – unorthodox but possible if my father gives his permission. And he will be more likely to do that if we chaperone each other. So, everything depends on your agreement, Jessie, and whether you can help me persuade my parents to give us permission.' She waited, as still as a cat.

Rodin poured some more absinthe into my cup. I took another drink, feeling his and Camille's eyes upon me. My limbs felt loose and there was a giddy fluttering in my stomach. I held out my cup and Rodin filled it again.

‘Of course we must do it,' I said.

I caught the look between them and wondered for a moment if they had planned this. It would explain why Camille was so unfazed by the offer. But the thought left my fuzzy head and I smiled and raised my cup.

‘To us!'

They laughed with relief and patted me on the back. We were like conspirators. I could hardly believe we would soon be working in Rodin's studio.

Rodin put his hands on his thighs and stood up. ‘I will leave you now. It's getting late and as my new employees I order you to get some rest.' He bowed to us in mock formality while we clapped and called out ‘
au
'
voir, au 'voir
'.

When we were alone, Camille clutched my hands and beamed at me, her eyes shining.

‘Can you imagine? Rodin's studio! Oh, Jessie, I bless the day you came to me.'

Chapter 8

Camille's father was expected home the following Sunday and she planned to ask his permission then. That week we worked on in a fever of excitement. When Sunday morning finally arrived, I woke early to the clamour of church bells. The Claudels' apartment was quiet and at first I thought the dining room was empty when I went in. I was startled when Paul stood up.

‘G-g-good morning, Jessie. M-m-may I say how charming you look?' He had a slight stutter that made his shyness even more endearing.

I smiled to put him at his ease. ‘I'm glad to see you; Camille is still asleep and I thought I would have to break my fast alone.'

‘My sister has never been an early riser.'

We ate in companionable silence for a while, but there was something about the way the sun came in the windows and pooled over our breakfast that reminded me of Sunday mornings at home, and, for the first time since I had arrived in Paris, I was struck by a wave of homesickness. It caught me by surprise and I couldn't stop the tears filling my eyes. At home, the bells from St Botolph's would be calling my parents to worship in the simple little thirteenth-century church with its carved wooden pews and cross-stitched hassocks. They would be at breakfast now, spreading Cooper's Oxford on their toast, Papa grumbling over the newspaper while Ma scolded him for scattering crumbs.

Paul noticed my distress and passed me a napkin to wipe my eyes. ‘You miss your family.'

‘I do, very much. Paris is wonderful but…' I couldn't go on.

Paul waited until I had composed myself. ‘I'm glad you are here, Jessie, you are good for Camille.'

I looked up, surprised. ‘It is she who is good for me – she has such talent.'

‘It is true, she has an immense talent, but she benefits from your steadiness and from your gentleness. She is a lot less bullet-headed since you came to live with us. Camille has always known exactly what she wants – and how to get it. She is an irresistible force of nature.' His laughter held a note of resentment.

I buttered my bread and waited for him to go on. This was my chance to find out more about Camille.

Paul shrugged, his face sweet and open once more. ‘But, I'm being unfair to my sister. Life in our family is not easy for her. Maman likes to blame Camille for our move to a cramped apartment in an unfashionable part of Paris.'

‘Why would it be Camille's fault?'

He explained that she had outgrown her tutors in the village where she had grown up and one had recommended a move to Paris so she could attend art college, and Paul one of the city's finest
lycées
.

‘So, you see, the move was for me too. But Maman chose to blame Camille – her story is that she bullied the family into moving to Paris. Unfortunately, Father cannot leave his business in the country, so Maman is unhappy. It's easier for her to blame Camille than to go against her husband. My poor sister, she would never admit it, but she suffers most from our mother's coldness. Maman does not easily give those little gestures of affection that seem to come so naturally to other women.'

I thought of my own mother, who had always stroked my hair and put out her arms to me as a child, covering my face in kisses, who hugged me still. There was a world of difference between Madame Claudel and her martyred air and Ma, who had a tough life working as a barmaid in a railway hotel before Papa met her but was always cheerful. She would have had little patience for Camille's mother, who was always complaining about living in Montparnasse.

‘And do you like it here?' I said. ‘Or do you miss your childhood home?'

‘The countryside near our village, Villeneuve, is beautiful, but it is a backwater. There is nowhere quite like Paris.'

I smiled. ‘You're right – as much as I miss my home in England, there isn't anywhere I'd rather be now than Paris.'

We heard the front door open and a man's voice speaking to the maid in the hall.

Paul turned his head towards the noise, his face apprehensive. ‘Papa is home,' he said. ‘He'll want to put us all through our paces. He's ambitious for all of us, you see, even for Louise. He wishes her to play the piano to concert level. Can you imagine?'

We shared a smile.

‘I got the impression she prefers visiting the milliner to practising her scales,' I said.

‘You have the measure of her, I see.'

We heard more voices coming from the salon, and after a while the dining room door flew open. It was Camille.

She spoke quickly. ‘Jessie, there you are! Papa is here. I told him about Rodin's proposal. He is not against it, but Maman is being impossible.' She spotted her brother and pulled him to his feet. ‘You must help me persuade her, Paul, you are the favourite and she will listen to you.'

In the salon, a sharp-featured man with mutton-chop whiskers wearing a fez stood near the window. He regarded our entrance with amusement.

‘Ah, here come the revolutionaries, the rebellious artists ready to scandalise the good ladies of Paris. And here is their knight errant,
le petit
Paul. What do you have to say about this latest scheme of Camille's?' He held out his arms to his son, who embraced him stiffly.

‘Oh, Papa,' Camille said, dancing around her father. ‘You must let Jessie and I do this. Just think how much we will learn in Rodin's studio! He has promised me the hands and the feet.
The hands and the feet!
'

Madame Claudel observed her daughter coolly from where she sat next to the window, a hoop of embroidery on her lap. ‘It's out of the question.'

Camille grasped Paul's elbow and looked at him beseechingly to intercede, but he only blushed and turned away.

Her husband said, ‘Now, my dear. Let us consider this proposal rationally. I presume, Camille, that this is your new friend, Mademoiselle Lipscomb?'

Monsieur Claudel came towards me and shook my hand. He looked me up and down with a wry smile. ‘The English are such a practical race, I'm sure we can trust your judgement in this matter, Mademoiselle. What do you have to say about Monsieur Rodin's extraordinary proposal? I know my wife trusts your steadying influence on our wayward girl.' With his back to Madame Claudel, he winked at me and I understood my role at once: to persuade Madame Claudel our virtue would not be sullied.

I cleared my throat. ‘It is an unorthodox proposal, yes, but it is also a great honour. Monsieur Rodin has assured us that all due proprieties will be followed.' I took a letter from my pocket. ‘I have written to my own parents, who give their permission.'

I handed the letter to Monsieur Claudel, who read it and gave it to his wife. We waited while Madame Claudel finished reading.

She folded it carefully, her lips a thin line. ‘Jessie's parents obviously trust her, and I suppose we must show the same tolerance. You may go, Camille, but I expect you to behave correctly.' She picked up her embroidery. Monsieur Claudel grinned and motioned that we should leave the room.

In the hall, Camille grasped my hands. ‘Oh, Jessie, you were wonderful!
You have opened the door for us, a door that is locked to other women.'

We swung each other round. We would no longer just be Rodin's pupils, but professional artists, his colleagues!

The rest of that memorable Sunday was taken up with a noisy family lunch that lasted four or five hours.
Père
Claudel took centre stage. I watched quietly as his children sought his approval, like flowers turning their faces to catch the sun's warmth. Despite what she'd said earlier, Camille was clearly his favourite and he beamed with pride while she told him about her latest sculpture. With Paul he discussed poetry and urged him to read us one of his own. Even Madame Claudel thawed a little, batting away her husband's hands when he squeezed her waist. For Louise he had a gentle, bullying tone, forcing her to sit at the piano where she played some of Mozart's and Brahms's more popular pieces, running her languorous white hands up and down the keys.

‘Very pretty, my dear
.
Now, tell me, have you mastered the Debussy I gave you on my last visit home? He is one of France's most exciting new composers. I'm interested to see how you interpret his
L'Enfant Prodigue
.' He settled himself into a chair and steepled his hands expectantly.

Louise pouted and stood up from the piano. ‘Oh, Papa, that tiresome modern music is too difficult for me. The key changes all the time.'

Monsieur Claudel's face hardened and his mocking affability disappeared. ‘You must stretch yourself if you want to become a real musician. There are to be no amateurs in this family, only real artists. Look at your sister, and your brother, how hard they work at improving on their creative gifts.'

Louise looked mutinous. As she scowled I could see her resemblance to her older sister. Her father turned his back on her abruptly and began to talk to Camille about the forthcoming Salon exhibition. Louise bit her lip and went to sit beside Madame Claudel, from where she glared murderously at Camille.

That night, Camille and I sat on her bed talking. Through the open window we could hear distant music, a woman singing a love song. Camille rested her head on my shoulder and we listened for a while.

‘Jessie, are you in love?'

Her curls tickled my nose. I smoothed them down, and wondered what to say. I suppose I was: I had known William since I was a child and couldn't imagine my life without him. But I had never experienced the heady emotions I'd read about in novels.

Camille prodded me. ‘It's not a hard question. Do you have a young man?'

‘Yes, I do, William Elbourne. Our families expect us to marry.'

She sighed and sounded wistful. ‘You're so lucky not to have any impediments to your love, to know what lies ahead.'

I didn't say anything for a while. William was as familiar to me as the air I breathed, but sometimes I wished for more: a grand passion that would knock the breath out of me.

‘And you, Camille, do you have someone?'

She hesitated and I thought she was about to tell me something about her obvious crush on Rodin – I did not suspect the seriousness of their affair then – but instead she stood up and walked over to the window. I went to join her and we leaned our elbows on the balcony railing and looked out over Paris, twinkling with lights. It was a clear night and the stars hung in the velvet sky like jewels in a cape. A cool breeze came off the Seine and I shivered; Camille put her arm around my waist.

‘When shall we tell Rodin that we can work with him?' I said.

‘Tomorrow we'll go to my old college, the Colarossi. One of the sculptors from Rodin's
atelier
attends the morning class. We can give him a message for Rodin.'

Camille pulled me towards the bed. ‘Why don't you stay here tonight? I'm too excited to fall asleep just yet.'

I climbed under the sheets with her. We lay there without speaking for a while, listening to the
chanteuse
.

‘I wonder what the men in Rodin's studio will make of us,' I said.

She shrugged. ‘They'll just have to put up with it. What can they do? Rodin himself has appointed us.'

I wasn't so sure. At South Ken, the studio where the male sculptors worked sounded like a construction site, the men shouting above the racket, cursing like East End stevedores. They were notorious brutes to women. I didn't imagine the ones at Rodin's studio would be any different.

‘We're in for a fight,' I said.

Camille took my hand and squeezed it. ‘Are you frightened?'

I grinned at her. ‘What, of a bunch of muscle-bound fatheads? Not a bit of it!'

Camille laughed and she grabbed my hand. We lay, our fingers intertwined, our faces close together on the pillow; in the moonlight her eyes were a fathomless black.

‘
Ma petite anglaise
,' she said. ‘Together we can do anything.'