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These disputes were pointless, he was set in his ways, having chosen a way of life not subject to change. With Utter's on and off presence at the flat, along with Maurice's problems, my life had degenerated into one crisis after another. The hopes I had for a career in art, an orderly existence, seemed entirely out of reach. I asked myself many times about the future, where I could make changes, without a satisfactory answer; the truth, no doubt, was deep in my own character; something I was incapable of knowing myself. The days stretched out interminably; I tried to work, but the concentration required was missing; part of it was my sense of insecurity; the lack of money touched everything. There was no income outside of the small amounts Libaude passed on to me, a fraction of the money I needed for rent, food, and other necessities. I became severely depressed, unable to function; in a passive state. For the most part, I sat by the window, head in my hands, occassionally crying when I was overcome by the bleakness of my position. Near me, a small canvas sat on my easel, my materials scattered around it, on the floor, or on the window sill, untouched. Magazines were everywhere, half-open, piled on each other, and ash trays, heaped with half-smoked cigarettes, proliferated, along with newspapers and miscellaneous debris. The disarray went with the mood I was in, an extension of my mind, demonstrating a lack of any definitive plan for the days ahead. Crisis, as far as I was concerned, whether it was Utter, Maurice or myself, was never far away, and it was particularly bad with my son, which had terrible implications; the inevitable disaster; the darkness; the impending tragedy. Maurice, although he was at Sergeant Gay's above the Belle Gabrielle, was constantly on my mind; a haunting presence; one that remained, and could not be exorcized from my head no matter how hard I sought to get rid of it.... Utter's tenuous ties with me, uncertain, disruptive, unstable, was also a pervasive ache, but the dark overtones were not as frightening. I had the feeling that Utter was going to fly off, that I would never see him again, that he was fed up with my anger at his lifestyle. The idea offended and pleased me simultaneously. There was no doubt he was looking around to improve his position; that he was tired of the turmoil in the Rue Cortot, his physical encounters with Maurice, and the uncertainties of dealing with a situation that was in imminent danger of blowing up. Utter, nobody would dispute thist was a bummer, a scoundrel, a loafer, a man totally without conscience, vain, egotistical, and when he was angry, he could be cruel. It was apparent, right from the start, when I met him as he was painting with Quizet on the Place Clichy, that he had no serious intentions about anything in life.... that if I was smart, I wouldn't have anything to do with him. He was a parasite from the top of his curly blonde hair to the gray spats he wore over his shiny patent-leather shoes, a man who made his living sponging off the generosity of other human beings. Utter had an inordinate pride in his appearance, an ego-mania to parade himself for the approbation of his cafe friends, a vanity which had no limitations. This was displayed in his mannerisms, his conversation, particularly in his bizarre notions of what constituted fashionable attire. For him, style was was the key to everything in life; he was fastidious to a fault; every article of clothing carefully evaluated to fit his notion of such things. The problem for Utter was that he lacked even the slightest taste in such matters; he was terribly gauche, choosing blatant combinations offensive to anyone with any sensitivity, standing out wherever he went, attracting attention--which expressed what he wanted, after all. His voice, very penetrating, was calculated to dominate the conversation wherever he happened to be, and his ideas, although essentially a show-off type of expression, were intelligently presented. Utter was the gallant knight in action, colors flying at all times, and with the panache that went with that sort of thing. Every action, gesture, nuance, was care fully judged for the results it would produce, money being, of course, the main objective. The source of this, in the main, was the generosity of the cafe habitues, who when they were well-provided for, were ready to subsidize a penniless bon vivant. It would be incorrect to call Utter a con-man, that he committed crimes which might possibly attract the attention of the Prefect Beraud. He was acutely aware of how far he could go, where the danger line was, safely staying within established guidelines, which worked out fine, because his type was quite common around the Montmartre. Utter's vanity dominated all aspects of his character, a self-adoration which began the moment he opened his eyes in the morning, and continued until his cafe routines were completed. He never passed a window without stopping to admire himself, and, as this went on, the pearl comb he always carried in breast pocket of his jacket came out, the hair would be groomed, each blonde curl exact, and the comb returned to the proper place. There was always the extra look, patting his hair affectionately, or straightening out the imagined wrinkle in his suit. The manifestations of vanity were seen by his cafe associates as a huge joke, and, references, in a sarcastic vein, were constantly being made about them. Utter, I'll say this for him, took the ribbing good-naturedly, never losing his temper even when it made him look ridiculous in front of the other patrons. One of the major isues between Utter and Maurice was my son's hostility about my relationship with Utter. He saw the bon vivant as replacing him in my eyes--a very serious matter--and depriving him of my services which he considered essential to his functioning. When they were together at the flat on the Rue Cortot, Maurice used every tactic he knew of to insult Utter, coming between Utter and myself, and being as obnoxious as possible--which, for him, wasn't too hard considering his talents in this direction. This naturally, it being that Utter hated him anyway, normally ended in a fight with the two of them rolling on the floor pummeling each other ferociously, while I watched, screaming for them to stop. After a few sessions of beating on each other, each would leave on the usual rounds of the cafes, with Utter cursing because he had been mussed up, blaming me for being the cause of the trouble. Inevitably, this left me a nervous wreck, sitting in my chair, too distraught to move, thinking about the mess they had left behind them, and hating that either one of them had ever come into my life.... For some reason, despite the roiling atmosphere, Utter continued to hang around, even, at times, acting halfway decent, but not overly, just enough to placate me. This was always a surprise because if you consider what was going on--Maurice's devilish tactics, the lack of money, and the threat of an explosion without warning--it is a situation very heavy to deal with effectively. My son's alcoholism lay over our lives, smothering us, poisoning the exchanges, which were few enough anyway. When I tried to visualize a solution to this, nothing ever emerged, nothing appeared even promising, in the remotest sense. The fact that no alternatives existed was the worst part, making each day a futile experience, something like doing nothing when you are floating toward a waterfall which will end everything. There was never any question in my head that my present impasse was caused by my own ineptitude, and was not just bad luck, being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I carried the unfortunate burden of a brain that flew around indiscriminately, one that never gave a thought to the consequences of the decisions I had made. I had been reminded of this weakness of mine many times, but with my usual habit of following my instincts, I had ignored what was clear to all my friends, who wondered at a person so unable to deal with the realities of life. Naly, who was a no-nonsense fellow, never hesitated to speak his mind to me, laying the truth out, demonstrating my folly, and, I appreciated this, even if I didn't choose to go along with his advice. This prompted him to say that if you overlooked the boozing and side activities of Maurice, and the penniless bon vivant career of Utter, it wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that I shared their same general philosophy. "You are three of kind," he said, "cut from the same mold." I didn't dispute this simply on the basis of not being able to do so because I knew it was right on target. Utter, Maurice, and I, it was perfectly true, had always played out our cards, knowing we were headed for a pile of trouble, but going on despite this accepting whatever came out of it--which was usually terrible. In retrospect, I wasn't improved over the silly young girl who was ecstatic over the glitter of cafe life at the Chat Noir and the Mirliton. In those times, I had fed off the remarkably liberal notions of life which probably were still influencing my character, having their effects on my present attitudes, making me what I was in the eyes of my friends. Max Jacobs, who had taken a few hard knocks himself, thought I'd never grown up, and, obviously, the evidence is conclusive, that this is the case. If I am a romantic, I told him, I am this way because I've never really had things work out for me, going uphill most of the time, which tends to make you a dreamer. Looking ahead, I affirmed gives me the strength to get out of bed in the morning, the desire to go paint, to face up regardless of how I feel. If I believed it was just one more day of a miserable existence, I'd lay there and ask God if he didn't have some suggestions to compensate me for the agony I'd gone through, in order to balance out my life a little bit....  In the beginning, for Madeliene and myself, the fever of the Haussmannization process of rebuilding Paris, the emergence of associations relative to my art, made life an exhilarating experience. I soon discovered that it was not as simple as I had anticipated, that there was a dark side unknown to me, which indicated I should be more cautious over the decisions I faced. My major problem was an insatiable desire to have everything, to enjoy it all at once, and not worry about the future. The idea of being on the loose, without responsibilities, overcame any good judgement I might have had, pushing me to excesses, and headed for a fall. Curiously, as look back on the past, there is no regrets from those days, it was finished, and water, once under the bridge was gone forever. My getting to know so many extraordinary people in those last decades of the century, made a tremendous impression on a young girls inspiring ideas about my own life, and plans about how to go about it. Eventually, I convinced myself that the goals I had made, were not too far-fetched, that if I went about it properly they could be reached. This combination of hedonism and idealism in art, was a deadly combination which had a dangerous possibilties, and a high price which might develop a situation that would control my destiny. This happened with the birth of my illegitimate son, bursting the bubble, bringing me down to earth, caught in a trap I had set for myself. I cried through a thousand nights, fearful of what I'd done, unable to adjust to a problem that defied solution. The frightening nature of this, a continuing tragedy, affected every aspect of life. The dilemma that began during Maurice's childhood, a period of dreadful introspection, had intensified, becoming finally, an unimaginable horror, with crisis after crisis, and no end in sight....
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