Captain Ribnikov Page #10

"Captain Ribnikov" is a novel by Russian author Aleksandr Kuprin, published in 1913. The story revolves around the experiences of Captain Ribnikov, a dedicated and principled officer in the Russian Navy, as he confronts moral dilemmas and the harsh realities of life at sea. The narrative explores themes of duty, honor, and the complexities of human relationships, set against the backdrop of naval life. Kuprin's vivid storytelling captures the struggles of individuals grappling with their ideals and the often brutal world around them, making it a poignant reflection on the nature of loyalty and sacrifice.

• Novel

								

some one was singing sadly in the distance.

‘When will you come again?’ the woman asked.

‘What?’ Ribnikov asked sleepily, opening his eyes. ‘When am I coming?
Soon--to-morrow....’

‘I know all about that. Tell me the truth. When are you coming? I’ll be
lonely without you.’

‘M’m.... We will come and be alone.... We will write to them. They will
stay in the mountains ...’ he murmured incoherently.

A heavy slumber enlocked his body; but, as always with men who have
long deprived themselves of sleep, he could not sleep at once. No
sooner was his consciousness overcast with the soft, dark, delightful
cloud of oblivion than his body was shaken by a terrible inward shock.
He moaned and shuddered, opened his eyes wide in wild terror, and
straightway plunged into an irritating, transitory state between sleep
and wakefulness, like a delirium crowded with threatening and confused
visions.

The woman had no desire to sleep. She sat up in bed in her chemise,
clasping her bended knees with her bare arms, and looked at Ribnikov
with timid curiosity. In the bluish half-light his face grew sharper
still and yellower, like the face of a dead man. His mouth stood open,
but she could not hear his breathing. All over his face, especially
about the eyes and mouth, was an expression of such utter weariness
and profound human suffering as she had never seen in her life before.
She gently passed her hand back over his stiff hair and forehead. The
skin was cold and covered all over with clammy sweat. Ribnikov trembled
at the touch, cried out in terror, and with a quick movement raised
himself from the pillow.

‘Ah! Who’s that, who?’ he cried abruptly, wiping his face with his
shirt-sleeve.

‘What’s the matter, darling?’ the woman asked with sympathy. ‘You’re
not well? Shall I get you some water?’

But Ribnikov had mastered himself, and lay down once more.

‘Thanks. It’s all right now. I was dreaming.... Go to sleep, dear, do.’

‘When do you want me to wake you, darling?’ she asked.

‘Wake.... In the morning.... The sun will rise early.... And the
horsemen will come.... We will go in a boat.... And sail over the
river....’ He was silent and lay quiet for some minutes. Suddenly his
still, dead face was distorted with terrible pain. He turned on his
back with a moan, and there came in a stream from his lips mysterious,
wild-sounding words of a strange language.

The woman held her breath and listened, possessed by the superstitious
terror which always comes from a sleeper’s delirium. His face was only
a couple of inches from hers, and she could not tear her eyes away.
He was silent for a while and then began to speak again, many words
and unintelligible. Then he was silent again, as though listening
attentively to some one’s speech. Suddenly the woman heard the only
Japanese word she knew, from the newspapers, pronounced aloud with a
firm, clear voice:

‘Banzai!’

Her heart beat so violently that the velvet coverlet lifted again and
again with the throbbing. She remembered how they had called Ribnikov
by the names of Japanese generals in the red cabinet that day, and a
far faint suspicion began to stir in the obscurity of her mind.

Some one lightly tapped on the door. She got up and opened.

‘Clotilde dear, is that you?’ a woman’s gentle whisper was heard.
‘Aren’t you asleep? Come in to me for a moment. Leonka’s with me, and
he’s standing some apricot wine. Come on, dear!’

It was Sonya, the Karaim,[1] Clotilde’s neighbour, bound to her by the
cloying, hysterical affection which always pairs off the women in these
establishments.

    [1] The Karaim are Jews of the pure original stock who entered
        Russia long before the main immigration and settled in the
        Crimea. They are free from the ordinary Jewish restrictions.

‘All right. I’ll come now. Oh, I’ve something very interesting to tell
you. Wait a second. I’ll dress.’

‘Nonsense. Don’t. Who are you nervous about? Leonka? Come, just as you
are!’

She began to put on her petticoat.

Ribnikov roused out of sleep.

‘Where are you going to?’ he asked drowsily.

‘Only a minute.... Back immediately ... I must ...’ she answered,
hurriedly tying the tape round her waist. ‘You go to sleep. I’ll be
back in a second.’

He had not heard her last words. A dark heavy sleep had instantly
engulfed him.

VI

Leonka was the idol of the whole establishment, beginning with Madame,
and descending to the tiniest servant. In these places where boredom,
indolence, and cheap literature produce feverishly romantic tastes, the
extreme of adoration is lavished on thieves and detectives, because of
their heroic lives, which are full of fascinating risks, dangers and
adventures. Leonka used to appear in the most varied costumes, at times
almost made up. Sometimes he kept a meaning and mysterious silence.
Above all every one remembered very well that he often proclaimed
that the local police had an unbounded respect for him and fulfilled
his orders blindly. In one case he had said three or four words in a
mysterious jargon, and that was enough to send a few thieves who were
behaving rowdily in the house crawling into the street. Besides there
were times when he had a great deal of money. It is easy to understand
that Henrietta, whom he called Genka and with whom he had an assiduous
affair, was treated with a jealous respect.

He was a young man with a swarthy, freckled face, with black moustaches
that pointed up to his very eyes. His chin was short, firm and broad;
his eyes were dark, handsome and impudent. He was sitting on the sofa
in his shirt-sleeves, his waistcoat unbuttoned and his necktie loose.
He was small but well proportioned. His broad chest and his muscles, so
big that his shirt seemed ready to tear at the shoulder, were eloquent
of his strength. Genka sat close to him with her feet on the sofa;
Clotilde was opposite. Sipping his liqueur slowly with his red lips, in
an artificially elegant voice he told his tale unconcernedly:

‘They brought him to the station. His passport--Korney Sapietov,
resident in Kolpin or something of the kind. Of course the devil was
drunk, absolutely. “Put him into a cold cell and sober him down.”
General rule. That very moment I happened to drop into the inspector’s
office. I had a look. By Jove, an old friend: Sanka the Butcher--triple
murder and sacrilege. Instantly I gave the constable on duty a wink,
and went out into the corridor as though nothing had happened. The
constable came out to me. “What’s the matter, Leonti Spiridonovich?”
“Just send that gentleman round to the Detective Bureau for a minute.”
They brought him. Not a muscle in his face moved. I just looked him
in the eyes and said’:--Leonka rapped his knuckles meaningly on the
table--‘“Is it a long time, Sanka, since you left Odessa and decided
to honour us here?” Of course he’s quite indifferent--playing the
fool. Not a word. Oh, he’s a bright one, too. “I haven’t any idea
who Sanka the Butcher is. I am ... so and so.” So I come up to him,
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