continued ...

The sudden influx of money had a disastrous effect on Maurice, triggering a monumental binge which ended in the lockup at the jailhouse of the 18th Arrondisement, a long low building of red brick, surrounded by high walls, at the very end of Rue Saint Germaine. Success, at least financial success, was not the answer to his problems, accelerating them rather than slowing them down. Where Maurice's share of Libaude's payment went in one furious day of drinking remained a mystery, but it doesn't take much guesswork to figure something out. The crowd that followed him around, especially when he had a bundle of banknotes, had a nose for the easy touch, along with the cunning to to get the money into their own pockets. Maurice had no concept of money outside of knowing it purchased him booze; this is what it represented to him; its importance was only in satisfying his need; beyond that it had no meaning. He had absolutely no use for the material things of life; having clothes, jewelry, property of any kind, meant nothing to him. His world began and ended in a glass, he was zeroed in on this focal point as his main goal in life. When this desire for drink was satisfied, any cash in his pocket belonged to his drinking partners, or anyone able to make a hit at the appropriate moment. Maurice never thought of tomorrow, the next week, month, or year, speculative periods of time which had no importance in his plans. He lived each day, it was all that mattered, it was all that he was prepared to deal with. Knowing this, I realized it was foolish of me to turn over large amounts of money.; but he had earned it, and the way I saw things was that he had every right to do what he wished with it.... The debilitating nature of Maurice's addiction was an ever-present concern, gaining momentum, destroying him mentally and physically. The ravages of his lifestyle was clearly evident to me in his fragile mentality, his slitted, sunken eyes, bloodshot and watery, the uncertain hands, stained yellow by tobacco, and his increasing alienation from social contact. With these handicaps hampering his ability to care for himself, he was moving slowly toward a climax which could have disastrous implications. I feared, at some stage, as the drinking accelerated, that the incessant degradation of his body, the brutal carousing, the disdain of food, would render him non-functional. Although it had not happened yet, the signs of it were unmistakable, they could not be disregarded, and as Max Jacobs observed: "No one can get away with suicidal, self-destructive habits forever: the day of reckoning will come; it is inevitable; and terrible when it happens!" Maurice sensed the deadly nature of what he faced, but his fear was far weaker than the powerful addiction, unable to change things for him. We were in the fire together; I felt more despondent that I had in the past; I still dreamed that there was a way out of the dilemma; but they remained dreams, illusory, unreal events of the night, more wishful thinking than anything else. Deep down, I knew what the fate of Maurice would be; it had been decided long ago; and when it came it meant incarceration, a life lived under the supervision of others, those trained to deal with the serious problems of alcoholism. There were other answers: private sanitariums and that sort of thing; but such extravagances were outside of our financial ability. I had the curious feeling of watching a drama unfold to its inevitable conclusion; I was a spectator like everyone else on the sidelines; I could pray, I could help, as I occasionally did, but essentially, that was all; the inexorable kaliedescope, like an early movie, flickered on its wobbly projection, each scene tied into an overall pattern which followed a story line that was predictable. The movie was only half finished, the staggering figure of its protagonist going through the familiar routines, and the supporting characters were already wringing their hands over an inability to deal with the enormity of what was slowly happening before their eyes. There was no middle-ground for Maurice; he spent his existence between the twin horrors of having drink and not having drink. He was not stupid drunk all of the time; there were moments when he hated himself and what he had become. Religion, when he couldn't account for his personal tragedy, was still important. But as time passed it became less effective in providing the spiritual comfort he needed. Maurice's concept of Christ was like a glass of wine, it was pleasing, it brought a mild euphoria without changing the sin and punishment aspects of his life which made his day to day moods, terrifying and intolerable. Maurice never got the meaning, as the Church taught it, of the Roman Catholic Catechism, a small brochure which Madeliene had given him during his childhood when they walked each day up the winding paths toward the towering cluster of buildings which constituted the Sacre-Coeur. This ignorance of the religious message had no effect on his belief that it was a talisman containing magic powers. He carried it in his pocket, referred to it if he felt he was in trouble with the omnipotent ruler of the universe. It was considered an extremely valuable ally in the torturous struggle with his conscience. For him, it symbolized God, Christ, the Virgin Mary, Saint Joan of Lorraine, the entire fabric of the Church as it was represented by these individual images--one neat package. In a similar way, the religious infrastructure served the same purpose with its imposing elaborate architecture, its stained glass windows, icons, the priests, the solemn mass, the incense, all examples of God presence on earth. It was his vision of a vast spiritual world, the sum capsule of a heavenly paradise; glorious in all respects, and in stark contrast to the misery of life on earth.... The idea of religion as most people understood it, was incomprehensible to Maurice, and didn't dent his thinking. It was like his painting in the sense that he preferred to go his own way, to adapt his version to the already existing structure. When a cleric tried to explain the correct biblical interpretation--the dogma which controlled all basic routines; Maurice would sit mutely, his eyes blank, a distant look on his face. As this went on, Maurice often became agitated, his feet would shuffle from side to side, and his attitude reflected a comprehension of his being in great danger: his world, the one which was real for him, was being challenged--an intolerable condition. The cleric, aware of this, and nervous about Maurice's strange movements, usually closed his bible, crossed himself, and resumed other duties. God, for my son, was a simple entity, something he could talk to if he wished, or a God who could be ignored, more or less, if the situation warranted it. This characteristic of Maurice to create a religion within a religion, was extremely disturbing to the priesthood. When Maurice went to confession, it had tragic and comic overtones; he was the suffering penitent who had no real intention of changing his ways, a sly drunk who had reached a point where it was a necessary for him to make a move in the direction of God. He interpreted this as getting God's dispensation to go ahead with his drinking, feeling in his mind that he had already obtained foregiveness for anything he might do. I am not sure that Maurice really believed this; it is hard to say for certain, but there is no doubt that the bargaining which went on in his head, was weighing the pros and cons of his current standing, whether or not he had made adequate retribution for the extent of his sinning. Maurice knew, no matter what signals he sent up to his maker, that the drinking would go on, that it was an issue which was not up for arbitration, not even with God. I think the part of this that tortured him was his assumption of what was to be forgiven, and what was not; all I know is that whatever degree of comfort he got out of these negotiations, he never was entirely satisfied of being totally in the deity's good graces. If Maurice was in the confessional, sometimes drunk because this was when his conscience bothered him the most, he sat in the booth, silent and disheveled, hair hanging in dark strings down over his brow, mouth open, dripping saliva, his eyes focused magnetically on the screen separating him from his confessor. This apparition, devilish, ominous, agitated, unnaturally postured, usually unnerved the confessor, in most instances, a young priest lacking the experience to deal with a confrontation which confounded everything he had been taught. On several occasions, I had been informed by the local bishop, Antoine de Linvoir, greatly disturbed by Maurice's undermining the morale of the clergy, that he was going to excommunicate my son if the incidents continued. Apparently, during Maurice's last confession, the priest had panicked, rushed from the cubicle, locked himself in his room, and subsequently, had refused to answer questions about his conduct, even when pressed by the Antoine de Linvoir, to do so. I received a letter from Antoine de Linvoir, asking me to keep Maurice from the churches under his jurisdiction, a request I denied because I had no power to control the movements of my son. Later, I learned that he had appealed to the Prefect Beraud, claiming vandalism, disruption of services, and more serious, the practice of heretical beliefs not in accord with Catholic dogma as formulated at the Vatican, in Rome. It had been stipulated, in the document submitted by the bishop to the Prefect Beraud at the 18th Arrondisement, that Maurice, angered by being ejected from the the Church of Notre-Dame de Clignancourt, wrecked the baptismal area, knocking down the statuary, threw the umbrella stand at the Abbe Verlaine, broke three stained glass windows in the apse, pushed over several benches, scattering the hymnals, and he had pissed in the contribution boxes that stood outside the main entrance of the church. The Prefect, as was expected in such cases, politely declined to take action against Maurice because he got similar complaints by the thousands from all over the Montmartre and besides, he thought it was crazy to send officers on a wild goose chase to collar an unrepentant boozer--he knew perfectly well that whatever he did, Maurice would be out doing the same thing again.... Prefect Beraud was not particular partisan when it came to the Church, figuring that with God's help they should be able to cope the escapades of a simple-minded Catholic intent on repentance for his sins, that the clergy could stop a drunk who refused to follow established procedures. Maurice, I believe, during these incidents which were so disturbing to the clergy, was waiting impatiently for a divine manifestation of the supernatural, a sign that God had acknowledged his presence, that the contact he had been seeking had been consumated and everything would be sweetness and light. Biblical paraphrasing, advice to follow God's commandments, the typical stuff, especially the warning about carousing and drinking, was not what Maurice was after. He saw through the ritual baloney right away, having heard it from childhood and knowing it by heart; and he had strong doubts about the sincerity of those who repeated the religious cliches day in and day out. What he yearned for was the miracle of God himself and he was not going to settle for anything less from people who were assuming to represent God on earth. It was much the same when he went to regular church services; he was seeking a vision of the Lord, a revelation, a direct communication with the ruler of the universe. Maurice, on these occasions, usually sat in the front row, slumped down, long legs at right angles, his posture uncertain, giving the impression of imminent collapse. As the ritual went on, the priests became aware of his burning eyes which took in every little move they made; this concentrated stare, ferociously burning into their consciousness, made them forget their lines and become confused. In several instances, during the droning on of the Latin Mass, Maurice confused by the mumbo-jumbo, felt compelled to shout at the top of his voice because he believed he heard God's command to do so. These demonstrations made Maurice a very unpopular figure at Notre Dame de Clignancourt; some priests defying orders, refused to conduct the services, forcing Bishop Antoine de Linvoir to issue a special decree, stating that he was to be barred from all religious ceremonies until the diocese was satisfied that the disruptive practices were ended; naturally, Maurice disobeyed the order. When this happened, several muscular men of the church, surrounded him, held his arms, marched him up the aisle, and threw him with considerable force, through the front entrance to the street. Just to make sure Maurice would not return, they slammed the door behind him, and stood with their backs against it, prepared to resist if he decided it was a good idea to renew the confrontation. Most of the clergy throughout the Montmartre, as Maurice became notorious as a drunkard, were fully acquainted with his practice of disrupting religious services. Many of the priests considered him to be anti-Christ, a manifestation of satanic forces, out to do as much damage as he could to the Catholic Church. This kind of evaluation of my son made him even more interesting to the press, adding to the other sensational angles, and, unfortunately, centered their coverage on his notorious side, rather then his art, where it should have been....

CHAPTER 9  -->

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