To complete Pascin and the Demons of Chance, her first novel, Snyderman spent more than ten years researching and writing. She traveled to London, the Isle of Wight, Paris, Washington, DC, and New York. She examined correspondence, conducted interviews and visited libraries, museums, and galleries.

Jules Pascin�s remarkable paintings and drawings�-as well as his escapades with the left bank community in Paris during the 1920s-�made him a legendary figure. But in 1930 at the age of 45 he committed suicide. His fame dimmed mysteriously after his death.

�I wanted to explore answers to questions that have haunted admirers of Pascin for more than 70 years,� she says. �Why the suicide? Why the bond between him and two women who remained connected after his death?� One, Hermine David was a famous printmaker whom Pascin met when they both were in their twenties. The other, Lucy Krohg was modeling for Matisse when Pascin first met her.

Her narrative exposes the reader to the Montparnasse art world of models and muses, to the Nazi occupation of France, and to sites that include London, New York, and Tunis.

An avowed museum and art gallery junkie, Snyderman has been a docent at the Art Institute of Chicago and a founding member of a foundation that supports emerging artists in the Highland Park community. Snyderman holds bachelor�s and master�s degrees in English Language and Literature from the University of Chicago. In 1992 with Margaret Witkovsky she wrote Line Five: The Internal Passport, oral histories of 50 people in 19 Jewish families who immigrated to Chicago from 1986 to 1991.

Visit Elaine P. Snyderman's website.

EXCERPT FROM ELAINE P. SNYDERMAN'S PASCIN AND THE DEMONS OF CHANCE

CHAPTER V

Paris, 1912. At first Lucy Vidil ignored the stranger�s eyes. It wasn�t the first time they had passed each other on the quay but she always turned her nose up at those men that looked at her that way. She knew she was pretty and she considered her looks a commodity. Though her employment as a seamstress at the House of Lanvin was lowly, she hoped that if she attracted the right attention she might become a fashion model. Even if Mme. Lanvin preferred taller, bonier women, Lucy knew her features were perfect for the coutourier�s designs. A good word from someone might help, and she was hoping to meet the right person. This time the stranger, perhaps in his late thirties, suddenly swerved from his path and approached her. He was decently dressed and polite and she was curious. �Excuse me, Mademoiselle, I�m Albert Marquet, an artist, and I�ve observed you. Please, listen a moment, and then decide accordingly.� They were in a busy place in full daylight. She followed him to the low wall overlooking the Seine, where they were out of the path of the other pedestrians.

�Would you be interested in posing for the life drawing class at Academie Matisse? We�ve a fine group of artists who attend�-the highest caliber, not just students but also established men. Matisse is a respected artist and teacher. We are known as the Fauves. Surely you have now heard of us.�

No she had not.

�Mademoiselle, the maitre himself critiques the work. The pay isn�t grand but you can meet some nice people. Think about it.�

Funny he should ask her that, as if he�d been reading her mind. Do I need a special wardrobe for this?

He stifled a smile. �To the contrary.�

�Oh,� she said, realizing her naivet�. �I believe I understand. I will think about it.�

As she thought about it, she was flattered. When she undressed that night, she studied herself in the mirror, her high round breasts, small waist, the pronounced curves of her hips and thighs. I have nothing to be ashamed of, she thought. And I hate being at the bottom of the totem pole, even at a place as snooty as Lanvin.

From then on, she looked more carefully at the paintings of nudes displayed in the fine galleries along the Seine, imagining herself in this pose or that. The next time Marquet approached her on the street, she let him make his proposal. She paused as if reluctant and then, after they discussed wages, she agreed.

At her first sitting in the plain almost factorylike atmosphere of the atelier, crowded with intense young men in their smocks and workpants, she had to struggle to undo the shalt nots of her strict upbringing. After her initial blushes and gooseflesh, however, she not only adjusted to the draftiness and the press of eyes over every aspect of her bare flesh, she began to enjoy the work. But, it was work, striking an arresting pose and holding it while those sober eyes were on her. Sometimes she held a series of brief poses for only a few minutes; other times she was expected to sit for an hour. Nevertheless, she felt the admiring gaze of the artists who formed a dense semi-circle around her and scraped and scraped at their easels. The maitre critiqued the works. With his graying hair and pointed beard, his spectacles and careful attention to detail, Matisse, who was fiftyish, seemed more like the lawyer he decided not to be than the leader of the Fauves. When he liked a work, he signed it, the highest compliment.

Soon there was an influx of new students. Lucy couldn�t help but notice that the classes in which she posed swelled to fill the available space. She enjoyed the informal but not improper admiration of the artists. She had practiced her reluctant smile and taunting glance in the mirror and now used them effectively. Sometimes she caught a phrase during her break, the students commenting on her �flawless body.� One particularly smug fellow made sure she heard him when he said, �Under siege, even the stone citadel surrenders.� She was amused.

When Pascin showed up the very first time, she knew he was there. No one had ever looked at her that way. At the start, she wondered if he had a plan of conquest. He would linger after class and say audacious things to provoke a smile. She remained serious. Then he began asking for private modeling sessions; she refused; he persisted. Although she was now very busy with her two jobs, she met him after class for a drink and allowed him to display his wit and charm.

�Do I look dangerous?� he asked, dropping his man-of-the-world manner. �You�re the most beautiful girl I�ve ever seen, and I�ve seen a number of them. Artists are inspired by certain qualities, each artist by a different kind of beauty. You�re extraordinary. I must have a private session with you. I�ll pay you in advance and you can walk out any time.�

She thought�I�m a baker�s daughter, sent to work at the age of fourteen. This is an educated refined young man who admires me. He�s not the first in my life and I�m not afraid to be alone with him, even if my parents would be scandalized.

When at last she nodded in agreement, his expression changed from hopeful to triumphant. True to his word, he paid her in advance, more than she earned in a week at Lanvin. Pascin took a room in the Hotel Anvers where he met her on her day off. �Please leave your stockings on,� he asked. Behind the screen she undressed quickly, then came out in a robe. He pointed to the armchair, waiting politely while she slipped off what she was wearing, except for the stockings, which he studied briefly. �May I adjust them?� He was very correct and businesslike; letting them fall below the knee without letting his hands even graze her skin. He then took the robe and tossed it over the screen. Like the other artists she overheard at the Academie, he liked to work when the daylight was strong and sketched swiftly during those hours, a burning cigarette dangling on his lip, the smoke a constant aura round his head.

One sheet after another, he finished and replaced, tossing each on a pile near his feet. He wasn�t handsome; his profile had the nervous, dark severity of some of his race. The ebony eyes of the Sephardic Jew kindled on her unprotected flesh.

�I�d heard of you before I saw you,� he said in one of those rare moments when he spoke during the session. �They were right. You are the most delicious model in Paris.�

She considered herself a professional (though at 20, hardly seasoned) and therefore neither moved a muscle nor altered the fix of her eyes. She�d learned about him as well. He continued working.

�But I also heard you were Catholic and very proper, different from many of the other models.� His accent amused her, slightly guttural. He continued to speak, the vocabulary rich but the grammar imperfect. Still one could tell he was well read and very quick, qualities she admired. When he broke the silence again for a brief spell, he poked fun at the aristocracy, the bourgeois, some of the intellectuals of the day. And all the time he was punning, even when he repeated an anecdote he�d heard. Then he would lapse again into a long silence. His conversation came in brilliant bursts like fireworks and then the silence like the River Seine in moonlight.

She was captivated by his words and the silence between words. But she wouldn�t allow herself to be used by someone with his reputation. Some said he was a womanizer, flitting like a wanton bee to pretty flowers. No, she would not allow anything that wasn�t professional. When the light faded, he put his charcoal away and tossed the last sketch on the pile. He brought the robe to her, covering her almost tenderly. Stepping back, he allowed her to rise then reached for her, but she slipped quickly away, wrapped chastely in the robe, behind the screen, a kind of no man�s land where she knew she�d be safe while dressing.

�Will you come back tomorrow?� he asked apologetically.

�I work tomorrow.�

�Next week, here, same time?�

Lucy emerged, her face deadpan. �Of course.� She saw with a rush of conquest her own sudden smile instantly echoed by his.

The following week he worked in ink but otherwise the procedure was the same. �There�s something about you...� he said, the cigarette sending up pungent clouds, �I usually don�t talk at all when I work but I want you to know me.� He continued telling stories about his past, droll stories about puffed up people he'd squelched in Budapest, Munich, Vienna. But the joke was often on himself.

He did not show off about the lavish parties he threw, the exhibitions he�d given, the fact that though many other painters were starving, he had a steady income. He didn�t drop names but she knew he was considered part of a group of emigre artists, many of whom were from Eastern Europe, that were already gaining a reputation among their colleagues. He was 27.

Once again the day disappeared. He brought her the robe and she put it on. This time she came over to see the work. He busied himself putting away his brushes, pens and other materials, glancing her way to get her reaction. The sketches of the first session were striking, but the work in charcoal, ink and sepia was even more masterful. One drawing took her breath away. He heard the sharp intake.

�You see that you have an effect on me,� he said. No one had revealed her like this, as if the veil of smoke was present in the painting, a misty radiance. He had captured the delicacy of his passion, the unmistakable sweetness and goodness of what he felt for her. He had explored the landscape of her flesh more intimately without touch than any man who had loved her before, the shape of her breasts and hips, the mound of Venus, reverently rendered. When moments later he took her in his arms, she realized she had seduced him. In his embrace, his mouth now hers, she tasted the bliss of an all too transient paradise.

During the brief space after they met, he proceeded to educate her, not only in the art of love, but in what to read of literature, philosophy, poetry. Everything changed when she met him. He opened the great doors of art and life to her. Then, at their last tryst he said that he had to prepare for the Salon, that he would see her after that. Lucy understood. The Academie artists were all anxious now. They had the Salon d�Automne deadline to meet.

On a day when summer had exhausted itself, Hermine, lugging art supplies and a parcel of groceries, climbed the stairs to their studio apartment. She was returning after an extended stint at her mother�s, and unlocked the door, only to discover him in bed asleep, naked. He did not rest in the curled position of the child but lay on his back in a helpless cruciform, his proud maleness as spent as the rest of him. She seldom saw him asleep and was struck not only by the image, but his pale exhaustion. If she hadn�t been so troubled about him for so long, she might have been won over by his vulnerable state. She decided to let him be.

Before she entered the little kitchen down the narrow corridor, she caught a nauseating whiff of decay and saw the place was a horror, the femme de menage having come and gone without touching a thing. No doubt he had dispatched her and paid her anyway. Trying to protect her nose from the stench with the back of one hand, she looked for a place to unload the groceries and art supplies clutched in the other, but instead stopped, disgusted. There was no place to set the things down; she had to prop them on the floor. Clearly he�d taken advantage of her absence to entertain some low-lifes she would not have tolerated. Wherever she turned there was chaos�glasses, empty wine bottles, a pile of soiled towels in which someone had vomited. Gagging, she wrapped them in old newspaper and threw them out in a container on the porch.

In a frenzy, she heated water and filled the enamel basin, thrusting the filthy things inside. A glass slipped through her soapy fingers and broke. She tried to retrieve the shards from the murky solution and sliced her palm. Blood welled obscenely red, a miniature lava flow which, when she lifted her arm to see the damage, flowed inexorably down to her elbow, then to her skirt and finally pooled on the floorboards. She watched, mesmerized, then found a dish towel in a cupboard drawer, and somehow bound the wound. Now she despaired of completing her work in time for the Salon d� Automne, anxious even without an injured hand, the date was hastening forward at a pace beyond her abilities. First the quarrel, then the wretched time at her mother�s, now his dreadful mess. And who was the one cleaning up!

She tried not to weep. Weeping burned her tender eye. It was a weakness, a sign of dependency. Somehow in this state, she righted the kitchen but drew a cupboard drawer out too far. It fell and crashed, narrowly missing her foot. �Merde!� When did she ever use such language! Now she bent to retrieve the scattered cutlery. Even as she set things straight once more, she tried to make excuses for him, but an ache remained. Where had he been? With whom? Why? And then she felt the harsh tears, the muscles in her face twitching. A sob escaped her but she forced herself to rinse out the basin. When she heard something behind her, she half turned and he was standing there.

�Lord, you�re a sight,� she managed, drying her tears with the wrapped hand. His eyes were traced with red and his chin covered with dark stubble. He�d thrown on a robe.

�You woke me up,� he groused.

�You�ve been bingeing like a fool, Pascin.�

�Maybe you could do me a cafe creme.� He sounded like a spoiled child. �I feel crummy.�

She couldn�t believe his nonchalance but it wasn�t worthy of talk. Masking her resentment as much from habit as from anything else, she prepared the coffee. She could use a cup herself. She heard him moving about and when he returned he was shaved, wearing fresh clothes, once more the fastidious man of the world.

�What happened to your hand?�

�I was cleaning up your damn mess.�

He was indignant. �I would have done it.�

She wouldn�t fall for this ploy. �I need an explanation for all this�this insanity,� she said, handing him the cups. He poured and they sat down.

�So do I,� he responded after a few sips. �You left without a word. That�s what stuck in my craw. I had to get over it.�

�You forgot why I left?� asked Hermine, quietly incredulous.

The wicked little boy�s grin stole out. �No, but that doesn�t change how I felt then.�

�To stay away so long�without a word�is so cruel. It�s so�!� She stopped, mute with fury and pain.

�Rules again! Remember me? I�m not an accountant or a salesman. I don�t keep my hours in a ledger.� His face had darkened.

She eased back because he was upset too. �I�m not asking what I wouldn�t ask of myself, not correctness but courtesy. Because I love you.�

The words seemed to mollify him. �I don�t want to hurt you,� he said, staring down at his coffee cup. �I�ll try to be more what you want, but don�t expect too much.�

In the days ahead, while her hand was healing, Pascin put together their breakfast, made a stab at cleaning up afterwards, and picked up whatever provisions they needed. �Even if you can�t engrave now,� he advised, �in a few days you may be able to draw or paint. Certainly you won�t be able to use the presse a gravure yourself. We can go through your newer prints and see what you might submit. Then you won�t have to worry about pulling from the plates�when every atelier de tirage is working around the clock.�

They were colleagues again, and the days sped by. She was now able to sketch. Often she would watch with mystification, the way, in the midst of working at his easel, he would automatically switch his pen or brush from one hand to the other; yet he would still come up with a work of art.

�I�m jealous that I can only work with my right hand,� she confessed. He was putting away his materials, ready to consider the evening ahead.

�You�re jealous of me? I wish I had your talent and discipline. I�d be a genius.�

�She looked up from her drawing, a portrait of him in ink. �You can�t be serious.�

�Of course not,� he laughed oddly, without conviction.

One morning he announced, �This is ridiculous. If you would work in the nude, then you could model for me at the same time. After all, if it weren�t for your bad influence, I wouldn�t be submitting to the salons.�

At first she was merely annoyed at the outlandish suggestion and wouldn�t have bothered with a reply until she saw that he was serious. �Your idea is what�s ridiculous. You know I�m too thin for your taste. As for the salons, you would have�eventually.�

He paused, distracted. �But I haven�t forgotten you�re irresistible in the hay,� he remarked, and with sudden energy captured her to prove his words. Later in the group of works he was submitting to his dealer in Berlin, he included a silly portrait of Hermine, sitting elegantly on the edge of the bed, clad only in long black stockings. When she viewed it, dumbstruck, he said, �You see, I�ve a pretty good memory.�

As if they weren�t busy enough, she convinced him in a good moment to consider moving to a tiny flat she discovered near the Bois de Boulogne, inexpensive but close to the woods she loved to paint. Because they had so few possessions, moving involved only a day of dislocation and enlisting a friend with a wagon and car. They settled in, only a block away from her mother, with a new address on Avenue des Ternes.

She was thankful at the sight each morning of forest and serene at the prospect that she had created a long and much desired distance between Pascin and the steamy night life of Montmartre. After the move however, she thought that in addition to the bed, two chairs, worktable and armoire, it might be pleasant to possess a few objects of furniture. �Would it be too expensive to buy a divan and two armchairs? Perhaps a coffee table? They�d fit, and we�ll still have room for our work.� He, who never hesitated to pick up the dinner or drink bill for the crowd, looked askance at the question.

�What for?�

�We don�t even have a dining room table.�

�We cover the atelier table with a cloth and it�s fine. We never lack for guests at our parties.�

�You�re right,� she sighed and dropped the subject. But the main objective had been accomplished. He was away from Pigalle, and for this reason, away less. The Salon d�Automne exhibition loomed and he concentrated his best efforts almost exclusively on drawing and painting from life, most of his subjects models she knew. One of his drawings caught her attention. It was done so tenderly, she experienced a kind of shock. �Who is this?� He left the easel.

�Her name is Lucy.�

�I�ve never seen her here, have I?�

�No,� he said and continued to work. The subject was a girl with a childlike face, knowing eyes and ripe body. He had posed her lounging in an overstuffed armchair, unclothed except for the black stockings that were almost his hallmark, slid carelessly below her parted knees. He had devoted unusual care to the details of her graceful little hands and feet. She put the drawing aside but could not forget it. Goaded by this image, she began to torment herself. Could she have moved out after the first all-night episode, when he revealed this propensity, this constant urge for other women? Yes, she reflected, but she was in thrall, convinced that she could not live without breathing the air he breathed. Was he selfish? Yes, there was money enough for his whims�treating the crowd to dinner and drink or a train ride to Vienna or a seaside resort, or the ceaseless Circean lure of the brothels. Did she wish for some of the niceties their friends had�a pretty lamp, a soft carpet, a comfortable sofa, items of ordinary indulgence? No doubt, but what would she have without him�a drab, loveless existence, devoid of the light of his spirit? The light she knew she needed to become the consummate artist she aspired to be. As long as it was Hermine he loved and only Hermine, nothing else mattered.

She met the Salon deadline with landscapes, two of them colored prints she had done earlier, the others, aquarelles of imaginary landscapes completed just in time.

The day they delivered their works for the Salon, they joined a crowd of others also celebrating the deadline, at the Cafe le Dome. The terrace was packed with artists, some of whom had their favorite models seated on one side, a girlfriend or wife on the other, and their feisty dogs carrying on at their feet.

Another couple joined them. Pierre Dubreuil from Brittany, who looked like a perpetual student with his lean face and spectacles, and his lovely friend Elvire Ventura, whose chiseled Mediterranean beauty inspired many drawings by Pascin. Waiters were scurrying with trays of glasses and bottles but because of demand, the service wasn�t up to snuff today. No one was complaining. It was a moment to enjoy. The colors of sunset tinted the happy faces, many of which already sparkled with wine. Aside from the sense of completion, those who submitted were celebrating their hopes for acclaim by the art world, of which Paris was the undisputed heart. The subject of the Salon set aside for the moment, the foursome tried to agree on which restaurant to choose for dinner that night.

Less engrossed in the discussion than the others, suddenly Hermine was aware of a rustle within the terrace parliament, when an adorable young woman, her smile that of a gamine, crossed toward their table. Heads were turning. �Bonsoir, Elvire, bonsoir Pierre,� she beamed, and then, with a deliberate look in Pascin�s direction, she greeted him coyly. �Where have you been? I haven�t seen you at the Academie or had a note in days.� Her tone was possessive. As Pascin rose to reply, the girl seemed to sense rather than see Hermine.

And then for the first time she and Hermine exchanged charged glances. From her instant recoil, clearly she hadn�t known of Hermine�s place in Pascin�s cosmos. Before he could reply, she turned and fled.

Elvire, noting Hermine�s sudden pallor and Pascin�s odd silence, tried to make light of the encounter. �Thats my friend Lucy Vidil. We call her Lucy but her real name is Cecile. She�s been modeling at the Academie Matisse where she�s very popular.�

Pierre put down his absinthe. �I�m working on a sculpture of her in marble. She�s a real favorite. The story goes that Albert Marquet discovered her. Now, the life drawing class is overflowing when Lucy poses. You dropped in a couple of times, didn�t you, Pascin?�

Pascin grunted but not without pulling out his sketchpad and letting his pencil stub fly fast and furious over the paper. Hermine recalled the tender drawing of the child-woman. It was unquestionably Lucy Vidil, and unquestionably�it had not been done in the Academie Matisse.

�I�m for moving on to the Closerie des Lilas for dinner,� Pierre asserted, breaking the uncomfortable silence. �Apollinaire is reading his poems tonight and if we get there soon enough I can trounce you at billiards, Pascin.� He called for the bill and the four headed on foot through the darkening streets.

When they arrived they bumped into a threesome of reveling painters, the expatriate Spaniard Pablo Picasso, seated with his sidekicks Georges Bracque and Albert Gleizes. The gossip of the quarter was that together they were experimenting with fractured forms and flattened perspectives, that their work was scandalizing the bourgeoisie. That they were creating a whole new school of art was irrelevant; the work did not appeal to Pascin who scorned the idea of being part of any pack. The three were seated with the Futuriste poets Max Jacob and Guillaume Apollinaire and the latter�s talented mistress and protegee, the painter Marie Laurencin, a dreamy-eyed wraith of a girl with an evanescent attention span. Pascin and Dubreuil jested briefly with the group but chose to sit at a separate table, the game of billiards forgotten. Brancusi, the Rumanian and another emigre sculptor, the Italian Modigliani came in and sat down at their table. They were discussing all the new buildings going up in Montparnasse and all the Italian sculptors who had been imported for embellishing them. Drinks were ordered all around and the lightheartedness increased.

Hermine barely registered what was happening. Lucy's image had become an imprimatur of Pascin�s faithlessness in Hermine�s psyche. She guarded her pain in silence and never touched what was set before her. Only when she heard Apollinaire�s impassioned recital of his new poem, could she register and comprehend. He was, with his terse aptness of phrase, portraying her life in all its absurdity. He spoke only loud enough for his devoted audience to hear, a bard who, like his painter friends, was reshaping the language of his art to the outermost boundary of the new.

Did anyone else feel as she did, a direct personal connection to the words, as if he could read her mind better than she could?

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