Captain Ribnikov Page #11

"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

								

catch hold of him by the beard--hey, presto--the beard’s left in my
hand. False!... “Will you own up now, you son of a bitch?” “I haven’t
any idea.” Then I let fly straight at his nose--once, twice--a bloody
mess. “Will you own up?” “I haven’t any idea.” “Ah, that’s your game,
is it? I gave you a decent chance before. Now, you’ve got yourself to
thank. Bring Arsenti the Flea here.” We had a prisoner of that name. He
hated Sanka to death. Of course, my dear, I knew how they stood. They
brought the Flea. “Well, Flea, who’s this gentleman?” The Flea laughs.
“Why Sanka the Butcher, of course? How do you do, Sanichka? Have you
been honouring us a long while? How did you get on in Odessa?” Then the
Butcher gave in. “All right, Leonti Spiridonovich. I give in. Nothing
can get away from you. Give us a cigarette.” Of course I gave him one.
I never refuse them, out of charity. The servant of God was taken away.
He just looked at the Flea, no more. I thought, well, the Flea will
have to pay for that. The Butcher will do him in for sure.’

‘Do him in?’ Genka asked with servile confidence, in a terrified
whisper.

‘Absolutely. Do him in. That’s the kind of man he is!’

He sipped his glass complacently. Genka looked at him with fixed,
frightened eyes, so intently that her mouth even opened and watered.
She smacked her hands on her lips.

‘My God, how awful! Just think, Clotilduchka! And you weren’t afraid,
Leonya?’

‘Well, am I to be frightened of every vagabond?’

The rapt attention of the woman excited him, and he began to invent
a story that students had been making bombs somewhere on Vassiliev
Island, and that the Government had instructed him to arrest the
conspirators. Bombs there were--it was proved afterwards--twelve
thousand of them. If they’d all exploded then not only the house
they were in, but half Petersburg, perhaps, would have been blown
to atoms.... Next came a thrilling story of Leonka’s extraordinary
heroism, when he disguised himself as a student, entered the ‘devil’s
workshop,’ gave a sign to some one outside the window, and disarmed the
villains in a second. He caught one of them by the sleeve at the very
moment when he was going to explode a lot of bombs.

Genka groaned, was terror-stricken, slapped her legs, and continually
turned to Clotilde with exclamations:

‘Ah! what do you think of all that? Just think what scoundrels these
students are, Clotilduchka! I never liked them.’

At last, stirred to her very depths by her lover, she hung on his neck
and began to kiss him loudly.

‘Leonichka, my darling! It’s terrible to listen to, even! And you
aren’t frightened of anything!’

He complacently twisted his left moustache upwards, and let drop
carelessly: ‘Why be afraid? You can only die once. That’s what I’m paid
for.’

Clotilde was tormented all the while by jealous envy of her friend’s
magnificent lover. She vaguely suspected that there was a great deal
of lying in Leonka’s stories; while she now had something utterly
extraordinary in her hands, such as no one had ever had before,
something that would immediately take all the shine out of Leonka’s
exploits. For some minutes she hesitated. A faint echo of the tender
pity for Ribnikov still restrained her. But a hysterical yearning to
shine took hold of her, and she said in a dull, quiet voice: ‘Do you
know what I wanted to tell you, Leonya? I’ve got such a queer visitor
to-day.’

‘H’m. You think he’s a sharper?’ he asked condescendingly. Genka was
offended.

‘A sharper, you say! That’s your story. Some drunken officer.’

‘No, you mustn’t say that,’ Leonka pompously interrupted. ‘It happens
that sharpers get themselves up as officers. What was it you were going
to say, Clotilde?’

Then she told the story of Ribnikov with every detail, displaying a
petty and utterly feminine talent for observation: she told how they
called him General Kuroki, his Japanese face, his strange tenderness
and passion, his delirium, and finally now he said ‘Banzai!’

‘You’re not lying?’ Leonka said quickly. Keen points of fire lit in his
eyes.

‘I swear it’s true! May I be rooted to the ground if it’s a lie! You
look through the keyhole, I’ll go in and open the shutter. He’s as like
a Japanese as two peas.’

Leonka rose. Without haste, with a serious look, he put on his
overcoat, carefully feeling his left inside pocket.

‘Come on,’ he said resolutely. ‘Who did he arrive with?’

Only Karyukov and Strahlmann remained of the all-night party. Karyukov
could not be awakened, and Strahlmann muttered something indistinctly.
He was still half drunk and his eyes were heavy and red.

‘What officer? Blast him to hell! He came up to us when we were in the
“Buff,” but where he came from nobody knows.’

He began to dress immediately, snorting angrily. Leonka apologised
and went out. He had already managed to get a glimpse of Ribnikov’s
face through the keyhole, and though he had some doubts remaining, he
was a good patriot, distinguished for impertinence and not devoid of
imagination. He decided to act on his own responsibility. In a moment
he was on the balcony whistling for help.

VII

Ribnikov woke suddenly as though an imperative voice within him had
said ‘Wake up.’ An hour and a half of sleep had completely refreshed
him. First of all he stared suspiciously at the door: it seemed to him
that some one was watching him from there with a fixed stare. Then he
looked round. The shutter was half open so that every little thing in
the room could be seen. The woman was sitting by the table opposite the
bed, silent and pale, regarding him with big, bright eyes.

‘What’s happened?’ Ribnikov asked in alarm. ‘Tell me, what’s been
happening here?’

She did not answer, but her chin began to tremble and her teeth
chattered.

A suspicious, cruel light came into the officer’s eyes. He bent his
whole body from the bed with his ear to the door. The noise of many
feet, of men evidently unused to moving cautiously, approached along
the corridor, and suddenly was quiet before the door.

Ribnikov with a quick, soft movement leapt from the bed and twice
turned the key. There was an instant knock at the door. With a cry the
woman turned her face to the table and buried her head in her hands.

In a few seconds the captain was dressed. Again they knocked at the
door. He had only his cap with him; he had left his sword and overcoat
below. He was pale but perfectly calm. Even his hands did not tremble
while he dressed himself, and all his movements were quite unhurried
and adroit. Doing up the last button of his tunic, he went over to the
woman, and suddenly squeezed her arm above the wrist with such terrible
strength that her face purpled with the blood that rushed to her head.

‘You!’ he said quietly, in an angry whisper, without moving his jaws.
‘If you move or make a sound, I’ll kill you....’

Again they knocked at the door, and a dull voice came: ‘Open the door,
if you please.’

The captain now no longer limped. Quickly and silently he ran to the
window, jumped on to the window-ledge with the soft spring of a cat,
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