Captain Ribnikov Page #5

"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

								

if it’s all true, and Captain Ribnikov is really a Japanese spy, then
what extraordinary presence of mind the man must have to play with
this magnificent audacity, this diabolically true caricature of a
broken-down officer in broad daylight in a hostile capital. What awful
sensations he must have, balanced every second of the day on the very
edge of certain death!’

Here was something completely inexplicable to Schavinsky--a
fascinating, mad, cool audacity--perhaps the very noblest kind of
patriotic devotion. An acute curiosity, together with a reverent fear,
drew the journalist’s mind more and more strongly towards the soul of
this amazing captain.

But sometimes he pulled himself up mentally: ‘Suppose I’ve forced
myself to believe in a ridiculous preconceived idea? Suppose I’ve
just let myself be fooled by a disreputable captain in my inquisitive
eagerness to read men’s souls? Surely there are any number of yellow
Mongol faces in the Ural or among the Oremburg Cossacks.’ Still more
intently he looked into every motion and expression of the captain’s
face, listened intently to every sound of his voice.

Ribnikov did not miss a single soldier who gave him a salute as he
passed. He put his hand to the peak of his cap with a peculiarly
prolonged and exaggerated care. Whenever they drove past a church
he invariably raised his hat and crossed himself punctiliously
with a broad sweep of his arm, and as he did it he gave an almost
imperceptible side-glance to his companion--is he noticing or not?

Once Schavinsky could hold out no longer, and said: ‘But you’re pious,
though, Captain.’

Ribnikov threw out his hands, hunched his shoulders up funnily, and
said in his hoarse voice: ‘Can’t be helped, old man. I’ve got the habit
of it at the Front. The man who fights learns to pray, you know. It’s
a splendid Russian proverb. You learn to say your prayers out there,
whether you like it or not. You go into the firing line. The bullets
are whirring, terribly--shrapnel, bombs ... those cursed Japanese
shells.... But it can’t be helped--duty, your oath, and off you go!
And you say to yourself: “Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed
be Thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy Will be done in earth, as it is in
heaven....”’

And he said the whole prayer to the end, carefully shaping out each
sound.

‘Spy!’ Schavinsky decided.

But he would not leave his suspicion half-way. For hours on end he went
on watching and goading the captain. In a private room of a restaurant
at dinner he bent right over the table and looked into Ribnikov’s very
pupils.

‘Listen, Captain. No one can hear us now.... What’s the strongest oath
I can give you that no one will ever hear of our conversation?... I’m
convinced, absolutely and beyond all doubt, that you’re a Japanese.’

Ribnikov banged himself on the chest again.

‘I am Capt----’

‘No, no. Let’s have done with these tricks. You can’t hide your face,
however clever you are. The line of your cheekbones, the cut of
your eyes, your peculiar head, the colour of your skin, the stiff,
straggling growth on your face--everything points beyond all shadow of
doubt to you belonging to the yellow race. But you’re safe. I shan’t
tell on you, whatever offers they make me, however they threaten
me for silence. I shan’t do you any harm, if it’s only because I’m
full of admiration for your amazing courage. I say more--I’m full
of reverence, terror if you like. I’m a writer--that’s a man of
fancy and imagination. I can’t even imagine how it’s possible for a
man to make up his mind to it: to come thousands of miles from your
country to a city full of enemies that hate you, risking your life
every second--you’ll be hanged without a trial if you’re caught,
I suppose you know? And then to go walking about in an officer’s
uniform, to enter every possible kind of company, and hold the most
dangerous conversations. The least mistake, one slip will ruin you in
a second. Half an hour ago you used the word “holograph” instead of
“manuscript.” A trifle, but very characteristic. An army captain would
never use this word of a modern manuscript, but only of an archive or
a very solemn document. He wouldn’t even say “manuscript,” but just a
“book”--but these are trifles. But the one thing I don’t understand
is the incessant strain of the mind and will, the diabolical waste
of spiritual strength. To forget to think in Japanese, to forget
your name utterly, to identify yourself completely with another’s
personality--no, this is surely greater than any heroism they told us
of in school. My dear man, don’t try to play with me. I swear I’m not
your enemy.’

He said all this quite sincerely, for his whole being was stirred to
flame by the heroic picture of his imagination. But the captain would
not let himself be flattered. He listened to him, and stared with
eyes slightly closed at his glass, which he quietly moved over the
tablecloth, and the corners of his blue lips twisted nervously. And in
his face Schavinsky recognised the same hidden mockery, the same deep,
stubborn, implacable hatred, the peculiar hatred that a European can
perhaps never understand, felt by a wise, cultured, civilised beast,
made man, for a being of another species.

‘Keep your kindness in your pocket,’ replied Ribnikov carelessly. ‘Let
it go to hell. They teased me in the regiment too with being a Jap.
Chuck it! I’m Captain Ribnikov. You know there’s a Russian proverb,
“The face of a beast with the soul of a man.” I’ll just tell you there
was once a case in our regiment----’

‘What was your regiment?’ Schavinsky asked suddenly.

But the captain seemed not to have heard. He began to tell the old,
threadbare dirty stories that are told in camp, on manœuvres, and in
barracks, and in spite of himself Schavinsky began to feel insulted.
Once during the evening as they sat in the cab Schavinsky put his arm
round his waist, and drew him close and said in a low voice:

‘Captain ... no, Colonel, at least, or you would never have been
given such a serious mission. Let’s say Colonel, then. I do homage
to your daring, that is to the boundless courage of the Japanese
nation. Sometimes when I read or think of individual cases of your
diabolical bravery and contempt of death, I tremble with ecstasy. What
immortal beauty, what divine courage there is, for instance, in the
action of the captain of the shattered warship who answered the call
to surrender by quietly lighting a cigarette, and went to the bottom
with a cigarette in his lips! What titanic strength, what thrilling
contempt for the enemy! And the naval cadets on the fireships who
went to certain death, delighted as though they were going to a ball!
And do you remember how a lieutenant, all by himself, towed a torpedo
in a boat at night to make an end of the mole at Port Arthur? The
searchlights were turned on and all there remained of the lieutenant
and his boat was a bloody stain on the concrete wall. But the next day
all the midshipmen and lieutenants of the Japanese Fleet overwhelmed
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