Captain Ribnikov Page #2

"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

								

generosity with which he lent his fellow-writers half sovereigns. On
this day the reporters had promised to procure a race-card for him,
with mysterious annotations from the stable.

Vassily, the porter, took off Schavinsky’s overcoat, with a friendly
and respectful smile.

‘If you please, Vladimir Ivanovitch, company’s all there. In the big
saloon, where Prokhov waits.’

And Prokhov, stout, close-cropped, and red-moustached, also gave him a
kindly and familiar smile, as usual not looking straight into the eyes
of a respectable customer, but over his head.

‘A long time since you’ve honoured us, Vladimir Ivanovich! This way,
please. Everybody’s here.’

As usual his fellow-writers sat round the long table hurriedly dipping
their pens in the single inkpot and scribbling quickly on long slips
of paper. At the same time, without interrupting their labours, they
managed to swallow pies, fried sausages and mashed potatoes, vodka and
beer, to smoke and exchange the latest news of the town and newspaper
gossip that cannot be printed. Some one was sleeping like a log on the
sofa with his face in a handkerchief. The air in the saloon was blue,
thick and streaked with tobacco smoke.

As he greeted the reporters, Schavinsky noticed the captain, in his
ordinary army uniform, among them. He was sitting with his legs apart,
resting his hands and chin upon the hilt of a large sword. Schavinsky
was not surprised at seeing him, as he had learned not to be surprised
at anything in the reporting world. He had often seen lost for weeks in
that reckless noisy company,--landowners from the provinces, jewellers,
musicians, dancing-masters, actors, circus proprietors, fishmongers,
café-chantant managers, gamblers from the clubs, and other members of
the most unexpected professions.

When the officer’s turn came, he rose, straightened his shoulders,
stuck out his elbows, and introduced himself in the proper hoarse,
drink-sodden voice of an officer of the line:

‘H’m!... Captain Ribnikov.... Pleased to meet you.... You’re a writer
too?... Delighted.... I respect the writing fraternity. The press is
the sixth great power. Eh, what?’

With that he grinned, clicked his heels together, shook Schavinsky’s
hand violently, bowing all the while in a particularly funny way,
bending and straightening his body quickly.

‘Where have I seen him before?’ the uneasy thought flashed across
Schavinsky’s mind. ‘He’s wonderfully like some one. Who can it be?’

Here in the saloon were all the celebrities of the Petersburg reporting
world. The Three Musketeers--Kodlubtzov, Riazhkin, and Popov--were
never seen except in company. Even their names were so easily
pronounced together that they made an iambic tetrameter. This did not
prevent them from eternally quarrelling, and from inventing stories
of incredible extortion, criminal forgery, slander, and blackmail
about each other. There was present also Sergey Kondrashov, whose
unrestrained voluptuousness had gained him the name of ‘A Pathological
Case, not a man.’ There was also a man whose name had been effaced by
time, like one side of a worn coin, to whom remained only the general
nickname ‘Matanya,’ by which all Petersburg knew him. Concerning the
dour-looking Svischov, who wrote paragraphs ‘In the police courts,’
they said jokingly: ‘Svischov is an awful blackmailer--never
takes less than three roubles.’ The man asleep on the sofa was the
long-haired poet Piestrukhin, who supported his fragile, drunken
existence by writing lyrics in honour of the imperial birthdays and the
twelve Church holidays. There were others besides of no less celebrity,
experts in municipal affairs, fires, inquests, in the opening and
closing of public gardens.

Said lanky, shock-headed, pimply Matanya: ‘They’ll bring you the card
immediately, Vladimir Ivanovich. Meanwhile, I commend our brave captain
to your attention. He has just returned from the Far East, where, I may
say, he made mince-meat of the yellow-faced, squinting, wily enemy....
Now, General, fire away!’

The officer cleared his throat and spat sideways on the floor.

‘Swine!’ thought Schavinsky, frowning.

‘My dear chap, the Russian soldier’s not to be sneezed at!’ Ribnikov
bawled hoarsely, rattling his sword. ‘“Epic heroes!” as the immortal
Suvorov said. Eh, what? In a word, ... but I tell you frankly, our
commanders in the East are absolutely worthless! You know the proverb:
“Like master, like man.” Eh, what? They thieve, play cards, have
mistresses ... and every one knows, where the devil can’t manage
himself he sends a woman.’

‘You were talking about plans, General,’ Matanya reminded him.

‘Ah! Plans! Merci! ... My head.... I’ve been on the booze all
day.’ Ribnikov threw a quick, sharp glance at Schavinsky. ‘Yes, I
was just saying.... They ordered a certain colonel of the general
staff to make a reconnaissance, and he takes with him a squadron
of Cossacks--dare-devils. Hell take ’em!... Eh, what? He sets off
with an interpreter. Arrives at a village, “What’s the name?” The
interpreter says nothing. “At him, boys!” The Cossacks instantly use
their whips. The interpreter says: “Butundu!” And “Butundu” is Chinese
for “I don’t understand.” Ha-ha! He’s opened his mouth--the son of a
bitch! The colonel writes down “village, Butundu.” They go further
to another village. “What’s the name?” “Butundu.” “What! Butundu
again?” “Butundu.” Again the colonel enters it “village, Butundu.” So
he entered ten villages under the name of “Butundu,” and turned into
one of Tchekov’s types--“Though you are Ivanov the seventh,” says he,
“you’re a fool all the same.”’

‘Oh, you know Tchekov?’ asked Schavinsky.

‘Who? Tchekov? old Anton? You bet--damn him.... We’re friends--we’re
often drunk together.... “Though you are the seventh,” says he, “you’re
a fool all the same.”’

‘Did you meet him in the East?’ asked Schavinsky quickly.

‘Yes, exactly, in the East, Tchekov and I, old man.... “Though you are
the seventh----”’

While he spoke Schavinsky observed him closely. Everything in him
agreed with the conventional army type: his voice, manner, shabby
uniform, his coarse and threadbare speech. Schavinsky had had the
chance of observing hundreds of such debauched captains. They had the
same grin, the same ‘Hell take ’em,’ twisted their moustaches to the
left and right with the same bravado; they hunched their shoulders,
stuck out their elbows, rested picturesquely on their sword and clanked
imaginary spurs. But there was something individual about him as well,
something different, as it were, locked away, which Schavinsky had
never seen, neither could he define it--some intense, inner, nervous
force. The impression he had was this: Schavinsky would not have been
at all surprised if this croaking and drunken soldier of fortune had
suddenly begun to talk of subtle and intellectual matters, with ease
and illumination, elegantly; neither would he have been surprised at
some mad, sudden, frenzied, even bloody prank on the captain’s part.
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