Captain Ribnikov Page #3

"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

								


What struck Schavinsky chiefly in the captain’s looks was the different
impression he made full face and in profile. Side face, he was a common
Russian, faintly Kalmuck, with a small, protruding forehead under a
pointed skull, a formless Russian nose, shaped like a plum, thin stiff
black moustache and sparse beard, the grizzled hair cropped close, with
a complexion burnt to a dark yellow by the sun.... But when he turned
full face Schavinsky was immediately reminded of some one. There was
something extraordinarily familiar about him, but this ‘something’
was impossible to grasp. He felt it in those narrow coffee-coloured
bright eagle eyes, slit sideways; in the alarming curve of the black
eyebrows, which sprang upwards from the bridge of the nose; in the
healthy dryness of the skin strained over the huge cheekbones; and,
above all, in the general expression of the face--malicious, sneering,
intelligent, perhaps even haughty, but not human, like a wild beast
rather, or, more truly, a face belonging to a creature of another
planet.

‘It’s as if I’d seen him in a dream!’ the thought flashed through
Schavinsky’s brain. While he looked at the face attentively he
unconsciously screwed up his eyes, and bent his head sideways.

Ribnikov immediately turned round to him and began to giggle loudly and
nervously.

‘Why are you admiring me, Mr. Author. Interested? I!’ He raised his
voice and thumped his chest with a curious pride. ‘I am Captain
Ribnikov. Rib-ni-kov! An orthodox Russian warrior who slaughters the
enemy, without number. That’s a Russian soldier’s song. Eh, what?’

Kodlubtzov, running his pen over the paper, said carelessly, without
looking at Ribnikov, ‘and without number, surrenders.’

Ribnikov threw a quick glance at Kodlubtzov, and Schavinsky noticed
that strange yellow green fires flashed in his little brown eyes. But
this lasted only an instant. The captain giggled, shrugged, and noisily
smacked his thighs.

‘You can’t do anything; it’s the will of the Lord. As the fable says,
Set a thief to catch a thief. Eh, what?’

He suddenly turned to Schavinsky, tapped him lightly on the knee, and
with his lips uttered a hopeless sound: ‘Phwit! We do everything on
the off-chance--higgledy-piggledy--anyhow! We can’t adapt ourselves to
the terrain; the shells never fit the guns; men in the firing line get
nothing to eat for four days. And the Japanese--damn them--work like
machines. Yellow monkeys--and civilisation is on their side. Damn them!
Eh, what?’

‘So you think they may win?’ Schavinsky asked.

Again Ribnikov’s lips twitched. Schavinsky had already managed to
notice this habit of his. All through the conversation, especially
when the captain asked a question and guardedly waited the answer, or
nervously turned to face a fixed glance from some one, his lips would
twitch suddenly, first on one side then on the other, and he would
make strange grimaces, like convulsive, malignant smiles. At the same
time he would hastily lick his dry, cracked lips with the tip of his
tongue--thin bluish lips like a monkey’s or a goat’s.

‘Who knows?’ said the captain. ‘God only.... You can’t set foot on your
own doorstep without God’s help, as the proverb goes. Eh, what? The
campaign isn’t over yet. Everything’s still to come. The Russian’s
used to victory. Remember Poltava and the unforgettable Suvorov ... and
Sebastopol!... and how we cleared out Napoleon, the greatest captain in
the world, in 1812. Great is the God of Russia. What?’

As he began to talk the corners of his lips twitched into strange
smiles, malignant, sneering, inhuman, and an ominous yellow gleam
played in his eyes, beneath the black frowning eyebrows.

At that moment they brought Schavinsky coffee.

‘Wouldn’t you like a glass of cognac?’ he asked the captain.

Ribnikov again tapped him lightly on the knee. ‘No thanks, old man.
I’ve drunk a frightful lot to-day, damn it. My noddle’s fairly
splitting. Damn it all, I’ve been pegging since the early morning.
“Russia’s joy’s in the bottle!” Eh, what?’ he cried suddenly, with an
air of bravado and an unexpectedly drunken note in his voice.

‘He’s shamming,’ Schavinsky instantly thought. But for some reason he
did not want to leave off, and he went on treating the captain.

‘What do you say to beer ... red wine?’

‘No thanks. I’m drunk already without that. Gran’ merci.’

‘Have some soda?’

The captain cheered up.

‘Yes, yes, please. Soda, certainly. I could do with a glass.’

They brought a siphon. Ribnikov drank a glass in large greedy gulps.
Even his hands began to tremble with eagerness. He poured himself
out another immediately. At once it could be seen that he had been
suffering a long torment of thirst.

‘He’s shamming,’ Schavinsky thought again. ‘What an amazing man!
Excited and tired, but not the least bit drunk.’

‘It’s hot--damn it,’ Ribnikov said hoarsely. ‘But I think, gentlemen,
I’m interfering with your business.’

‘No, it’s all right. We’re used to it,’ said Riazhkin shortly.

‘Haven’t you any fresh news of the war?’ Ribnikov asked. ‘A-ah,
gentlemen,’ he suddenly cried and banged his sword. ‘What a lot of
interesting copy I could give you about the war! If you like, I’ll
dictate, you need only write. You need only write. Just call it:
Reminiscences of Captain Ribnikov, returned from the Front. No, don’t
imagine--I’ll do it for nothing, free, gratis. What do you say to that,
my dear authors?’

‘Well, it might be done,’ came Matanya’s lazy voice from somewhere.
‘We’ll manage a little interview for you somehow. Tell me, Vladimir
Ivanovich, do you know anything of the Fleet?’

‘No, nothing.... Is there any news?’

‘There’s an incredible story, Kondrashov heard from a friend on the
Naval Staff. Hi! Pathological Case! Tell Schavinsky.’

The Pathological Case, a man with a black tragedy beard and a chewed-up
face, spoke through his nose:

‘I can’t guarantee it, Vladimir Ivanovich. But the source seems
reliable. There’s a nasty rumour going about the Staff that the great
part of our Fleet has surrendered without fighting--that the sailors
tied up the officers and ran up the white flag--something like twenty
ships.’

‘That’s really terrible,’ said Schavinsky in a quiet voice. ‘Perhaps
it’s not true, yet? Still--nowadays, the most impossible things are
possible. By the way, do you know what’s happening in the naval
ports--in all the ships’ crews there’s a terrible underground ferment
going on. The naval officers ashore are frightened to meet the men in
their command.’

The conversation became general. This inquisitive, ubiquitous, cynical
company was a sensitive receiver, unique of its kind, for every
conceivable rumour and gossip of the town, which often reached the
private saloon of ‘The Glory of Petrograd’ quicker than the minister’s
sanctum. Each one had his news. It was so interesting that even the
Three Musketeers, who seemed to count nothing in the world sacred or
important, began to talk with unusual fervour.

‘There’s a rumour going about that the reserves in the rear of the army
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