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intention to allow the fatal course to be continued to its dreadful conclusion. Then in a separate article, Mirbeau agreed with Jourdain's statements, and issued a declaration addressed to the French government, which went as follows: "The French state has an obligation to protect the creative genius of its people when circumstances develop that might be detrimental to that end. If it is determined that major cultural and artistic contributions are threatened by certain conditions, serious mental or physical problems, then it is incumbent on those responsible to take affirmative action. Maurice Utrillo falls into this category: he is a recognized talent, he should be given assistance benevolently applied, and it should be done promptly by those who can best achieve results which will preserve his art as a national treasure." Castagnary, a reviewer who had hinted in several articles that the State had a vested interest in the survival of Maurice Utrillo, added his voice with a piece that had a prominent caption in Charavari, which echoed, more or less, the same theme: "We are watching a suicidal performance which will succeed unless something drastic is done!" Castagnary called the inaction of the State, "Insensitive, a betrayal of a God-given talent!" There was no doubt about time being short as far as Maurice was concerned; the momentum of his drinking had reached its highest peak; and I agreed that if something were not done to slow him down, the entire "Affair Utrillo," would be just a memory. Maurice himself was not unaware of what was going on, that he had created a serious problem for the authorities, and they were in the position of having to take action of some kind. It upset Maurice to think the freedom he had enjoyed was about to end, that he would be subject to some kind of supervision, that it could even mean extended or permanent incarceration in the penal system. When I met Maurice during the times when he was reasonably sober, when he might possibly listen to me, when he was between binges, when he wanted to talk to somebody close, he always insisted: "My choices are my own!" There was a feeling of panic in his voice, a manifestation of the deep-set fear which tore at him, a fear which had been far worse before he understood that the system was lenient because of his talent as an artist. "My life belongs to me," he told me, "I will live it as I wish!" Maurice still clung to the fantasy that his anti-social behavior would be forgiven no matter what he did, and that the privilege would go on and on forever.... He was convinced that the establishment would not dump him into the French Correctional System, that he had kind of a carte blanche insuring immunity from incarceration, that the warnings he had received were merely reactions put out by the Prefect Beraud to placate the public for political purposes. Explaining to Maurice that this was a dangerous assumption failed because he believed he had reached a position where he was invincible, above the law, beyond the clutches of his enemies around the Montmartre. Despite the criticism in the press, complaints from the public, and warnings from the Prefect Beraud, Maurice's day to day intoxication process intensified, and became more scandalous. The misery of this was calamitous, physically destructive, usually concluding at the jailhouse or in the Charitee Hospital. On occasions where this didn't happen, he usally ended up in a doorway, a gutter, or at the Montmartre Cemetery. He was at home at the conclusion of a drunk only if Sergeant Gay, Utter, or someone else carted him there. When the agony and the ecstacy of boozing had run its course, Maurice, in rare instances, would sneak in at night at the Rue Cortot. I'd find him sitting, bleary-eyed, watching the brilliant sun slowly creep across the room.... Then, before I could speak with him, he'd leave abruptly, without a word, going down three flights of stairs with uncertain steps, holding tightly to the iron railing with one hand, and still grasping an empty wine bottle in the other. If I tried to comfort him, to offer a solid meal, Maurice would push me violently aside, cursing the sympathy I offered. He had the disturbing capacity to love and hate simultaneously, the hate fueled by a savage desire to drink, and his love by an instinctive response to the only person who cared about him. With people in general, it wasn't that different, he could blow hot or cold, according to the amount of alcohol he had in his system. When Maurice became infuriated for one reason or another, it was the fierce flame of the moment, extinguished and forgotten in a relatively short time. He was always contentious with the motley group who followed him around seeking to rob him of a painting or the change he had in his pocket, but no matter how angry the argument, or how brutal the exchanges were, it was forgotten by the next day, and the relationships picked up where they had been broken off. Maurice's associations with the gentlemen of the press were similar; brawling was commonplace, with somebody getting their lumps, but the damage inflicted in these wild melees was, for the most part, minimal, because Maurice was outnumbered, crazily drunk, not at his best, physically. The unfortunate thing was that this sort of hostility was not the most efficient way to establish rapport with an individual who was of the greatest interest. Octave Mirbeau, critic for L"Evenement, got on splendidly with Maurice by using the simple expedient of treating him with the respect he deserved for his accomplishments as an artist; ignoring his bad side as unimportant to the issue at hand, a concept, most agreed, that was very difficult to follow considering the circumstances. Nevertheless, the press, staying along these lines, established a better relationship; there were far fewer incidents; and the articles, while they didn't play down the sensationalism, were more accurate about the facts. Part of this was Maurice's recognition that antagonizing the press was only going to worsen things for him all the way around. There was no doubt that his relatively safe position in the criminal justice system was due to newspaper exposure that beat the drums for a talented inebriate, protecting him from the justice he deserved.... Maurice liked some members of the press, tolerated a few, and totally ignored those who were the most aggressive about interviewing him. These people, usually bourgeois types: top hats, formal dress coats, fancy vests with cravats, striped pants, two-toned shoes, and this sort of thing; with the inevitable cigar in their mustached mouths, followed Maurice from cafe to cafe, enveloped in a cloud of cigar smoke, trying to get a story. Of the lot, he liked Octave Mirbeau the best, not only for his tactful, courteous manner, but for his understanding of his problems. Mirbeau was a straightforward fellow, totally honest, dedicated to art, and content to let his colleagues deal with the seamier side of my son's life. I cannot remember a single instance when the critic didn't follow this approach, expounding on the qualities of the painting, centering his attention on what he considered the important facts. Mirbeau was a real enthusiast about Utrillo canvasses, advising his fellow-writers to ignore the source of the art, and concentrate on the substance of what it represented--his favorite theme. "Too much attention," he wrote, "is given to the prurient material involved in this person's life, and not enough to the reality that he is a major artist who cannot be ignored!" And he added: "Disregarding Utrillo will make you look extremely inept when the art history of this period is reviewed by the generations to come." Mirbeau had a friendly relationship with Maurice because Maurice sensed the man was truly sympathetic to him, describing his art and his life with great tact, but, at the same time, with a feel for the truth behind a drunk's lifestyle. When they met, Mirbeau of all the reviewers who were after a story, was the only one treated with some courtesy by Maurice; an extraordinary change of character because he hated bourgeois affectations. In most of the sessions with reporters, he used his impressive repertoire of vulgarities, he could become physical if provoked enough, and he never relented in his contempt for what they represented. In one episode with Dupliesse, a brash individual who insisted on a response to his question dealing with attacks on pregnant females, Maurice, enraged, arose from the small table they shared at the Cafe de I'Abreuvoir, pushed it violently on top of the critic along with the bottles and glasses, leaving Dupliesse pinned on the floor beneath, his elegant attire saturated with wine, his cigar still in his mouth, his top hat still on his head, and an astonished expression on his face. Maurice turned to leave, but decided to return, picked up two full bottles of wine purchased by Dupliesse to get in his good graces, tucked them under his arm, wheeled, and was gone, lost in the brilliant sunshine beyond the entrance to the cafe .... An important aspect of the relationship Maurice established with Mirbeau was the writer's comprehension of the code of rules formulated by my son for dealing with the press. These rather complicated procedures of who sat where, how many drinks, who provided the money, how long the interview would last, the elimination of any question which touched on criminal activities, references to the police, all queries, in fact that involved the more provocative side of his character, were not allowed.... Along writers with Mirbeau's observance of strict diplomacy, was Maurice's admiration of Mirbeau as a man. There is no doubt that the critic stood out among his colleagues with his elegant manners, impeccable dress and demeanor. Mirbeau used pince-nez spectacles which he handled with dexterity as he talked, wore a large gold ring studded with diamonds that flashed brilliantly in the weakest light, and he carried a mahogany cane with a brass knob at the top, which was placed on the table before him when he interviewed someone. The formal attire of a gentleman, however, disguised a warm human being, a perceptive person, who was fair at all times, and one who never, no matter what the circumstances were, assumed a position of superiority. Maurice was delighted to be interviewed by Mirbeau, and he enjoyed showing off how important he was in having a person like the critic interested in his art. When Mirbeau asked for a meeting, Maurice always made sure that his drinking companions were on hand to witness the event. For him, it was a splendid occasion, he was the center of attention, sitting across from a splendid fellow who wanted his opinion. In the course of the interview, as he answered Mirbeau's questions, a crowd of his cronies would gather, centering around the table at the Cafe Belle Gabrielle, having gotten Marie Vizier's permission to do so, and applaud everything Maurice said. Vizier told me the contrast between the two of them was extreme; Mirbeau as smooth and elegant as you could possibly imagine; and Maurice slouched in the cafe chair, his clothing and body formlessly stretched out, uncombed, stringy hair hanging over his eyes, and a wet, smoldering cigarette hanging from his lips. "Sometimes," Vizier said, "the group was joined by spectators aware of Maurice's reputation and looking for something violent to happen. When nothing occured," she concluded, "and it was obvious that both Maurice and Mirbeau were on good terms, the disgruntled voyeurs, seeing there were no fireworks, gradually moved on their way." But I hasten to add, even with Mirbeau, that it wasn't always peaches and cream with Maurice--far from it. He was unpredictable, he could explode at any minute, and things, when they appeared to be going smoothly, might go down hill very rapidly. When this happened during an interview, it was no use to attempt to prolong it, it was finished, and the partner in the exchange, no matter who it was, was left sitting bewildered at the table, wondering if he had said something which rubbed Maurice the wrong way. Actually, he may have done nothing at all; it was merely Maurice's decision to terminate the conversation in order to get back to the much more serious business of intoxication, and the concentration on this required all his attention. The interviews were merely an indulgence, related to his painting, but far less important than the obsession of his life--drinking. Good and bad, as normal people judge these things, were not important to Maurice; they were merely incidental, not even particularly significant in his rationale, and were judged more by whether or not they fitted into his routines at the instant they were in his head. It was the same with social amenities; the simple courtesies of everyday life. In my memory, he had never thanked anybody for anything, acknowledged help which had been rendered, despite the fact that the good Samaritans who helped him often did so at great self-sacrifice to themselves. Critics, for example, were piqued when Maurice failed to applaud them for favorable pieces on his art. What they never realized was that it simply wasn't his style to react this way; it didn't fit into his philosophy of living; nor did he really believe he had any reason to be grateful for a reporter doing something which earned him a living in the normal course of events. "Aren't they being paid for what they do?" Maurice asked me. And this was the way he saw most things in life: an exchange; he was doing his thing, and they were doing theirs. They got their reward for arranging and rearranging words and he got his for putting paint in a certain order on a canvas. On the basis of this rationale, he believed he didn't deserve any special consideration, and he relegated them to the same position. It was the kind of thinking he had followed since childhood, a very simple pragmatic concept, one that created a world that was designed to be used by people, and, as far as he was concerned, there was no necessity to be constantly thanking individuals for doing whatever was natural to their station in the scheme of things.

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