Purification

"Purification" by Robert Barr is a thought-provoking novel that delves into themes of morality, redemption, and the quest for self-identity. The story follows the journey of its protagonist as they navigate a world laden with moral ambiguity and personal demons, seeking a path toward purification and understanding. Barr's narrative intertwines rich character development with philosophical questions, inviting readers to reflect on the nature of sin, forgiveness, and the transformative power of introspection. Through compelling storytelling and vivid imagery, the novel explores the complexities of the human experience and the eternal search for meaning.

• Short story

								
Eugène Caspilier sat at one of the metal tables of the Café Égalité,
allowing the water from the carafe to filter slowly through a lump of
sugar and a perforated spoon into his glass of absinthe. It was not an
expression of discontent that was to be seen on the face of Caspilier,
but rather a fleeting shade of unhappiness which showed he was a man to
whom the world was being unkind. On the opposite side of the little
round table sat his friend and sympathising companion, Henri Lacour. He
sipped his absinthe slowly, as absinthe should be sipped, and it was
evident that he was deeply concerned with the problem that confronted
his comrade.

"Why, in Heaven's name, did you marry her? That, surely, was not
necessary."

Eugène shrugged his shoulders. The shrug said plainly, "Why, indeed?
Ask me an easier one."

For some moments there was silence between the two. Absinthe is not a
liquor to be drunk hastily, or even to be talked over too much in the
drinking. Henri did not seem to expect any other reply than the
expressive shrug, and each man consumed his beverage dreamily, while
the absinthe, in return for this thoughtful consideration, spread over
them its benign influence, gradually lifting from their minds all care
and worry, dispersing the mental clouds that hover over all men at
times, thinning the fog until it disappeared, rather than rolling the
vapour away, as the warm sun dissipates into invisibility the opaque
morning mists, leaving nothing but clear air, all round, and a blue sky
overhead.

"A man must live," said Caspilier at last; "and the profession of
decadent poet is not a lucrative one. Of course there is undying fame
in the future, but then we must have our absinthe in the present. Why
did I marry her, you ask? I was the victim of my environment. I must
write poetry; to write poetry, I must live; to live, I must have money;
to get money, I was forced to marry. Valdorême is one of the best
pastry-cooks in Paris; is it my fault, then, that the Parisians have a
greater love for pastry than for poetry? Am I to blame that her wares
are more sought for at her shop than are mine at the booksellers'? I
would willingly have shared the income of the shop with her without the
folly of marriage, but Valdorême has strange, barbaric notions which
were not overturnable by civilised reason. Still my action was not
wholly mercenary, nor indeed mainly so. There was a rhythm about her
name that pleased me. Then she is a Russian, and my country and hers
were at that moment in each other's arms, so I proposed to Valdorême
that we follow the national example. But, alas! Henri, my friend, I
find that even ten years' residence in Paris will not eliminate the
savage from the nature of a Russian. In spite of the name that sounds
like the soft flow of a rich mellow wine, my wife is little better than
a barbarian. When I told her about Tenise, she acted like a mad woman--
drove me into the streets."

"But why did you tell her about Tenise?"

"Pourquoi? How I hate that word! Why! Why!! Why!!! It dogs one's
actions like a bloodhound, eternally yelping for a reason. It seems to
me that a11 my life I have had to account to an inquiring why. I don't
know why I told her; it did not appear to be a matter requiring any
thought or consideration. I spoke merely because Tenise came into my
mind at the moment. But after that, the deluge; I shudder when I think
of it."

"Again the why?" said the poet's friend. "Why not cease to think of
conciliating your wife? Russians are unreasoning aborigines. Why not
take up life in a simple poetic way with Tenise, and avoid the Rue de
Russie altogether?"

Caspilier sighed gently. Here fate struck him hard. "Alas! my friend,
it is impossible. Tenise is an artist's model, and those brutes of
painters who get such prices for their daubs, pay her so little each
week that her wages would hardly keep me in food and drink. My paper,
pens, and ink I can get at the cafés, but how am I to clothe myself? If
Valdorême would but make us a small allowance, we could be so happy.
Valdorême is madame, as I have so often told her, and she owes me
something for that; but she actually thinks that because a man is
married he should come dutifully home like a bourgeois grocer. She has
no poetry, no sense of the needs of a literary man, in her nature."

Lacour sorrowfully admitted that the situation had its embarrassments.
The first glass of absinthe did not show clearly how they were to be
met, but the second brought bravery with it, and he nobly offered to
beard the Russian lioness in her den, explain the view Paris took of
her unjustifiable conduct, and, if possible, bring her to reason.

Caspilier's emotion overcame him, and he wept silently, while his
friend, in eloquent language, told how famous authors, whose names were
France's proudest possession, had been forgiven by their wives for
slight lapses from strict domesticity, and these instances, he said, he
would recount to Madame Valdorême, and so induce her to follow such
illustrious examples.

The two comrades embraced and separated; the friend to use his
influence and powers of persuasion with Valdorême; the husband to tell
Tenise how blessed they were in having such a friend to intercede for
them; for Tenise, bright little Parisienne that she was, bore no malice
against the unreasonable wife of her lover.

Henri Lacour paused opposite the pastry-shop on the Rue de Russie that
bore the name of "Valdorême" over the temptingly filled windows. Madame
Caspilier had not changed the title of her well-known shop when she
gave up her own name. Lacour caught sight of her serving her customers,
and he thought she looked more like a Russian princess than a
shopkeeper. He wondered now at the preference of his friend for the
petite black-haired model. Valdorême did not seem more than twenty; she
was large, and strikingly handsome, with abundant auburn hair that was
almost red. Her beautifully moulded chin denoted perhaps too much
firmness, and was in striking contrast to the weakness of her husband's
lower face. Lacour almost trembled as she seemed to flash one look
directly at him, and, for a moment, he feared she had seen him
loitering before the window. Her eyes were large, of a limpid amber
colour, but deep within them smouldered a fire that Lacour felt he
would not care to see blaze up. His task now wore a different aspect
from what it had worn in front of the Café Égalité. Hesitating a
moment, he passed the shop, and, stopping at a neighbouring café,
ordered another glass of absinthe. It is astonishing how rapidly the
genial influence of this stimulant departs!

Fortified once again, he resolved to act before his courage had time to
evaporate, and so, goading himself on with the thought that no man
should be afraid to meet any woman, be she Russian or civilised, he
entered the shop, making his most polite bow to Madame Caspilier.

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