Captain Ribnikov Page #6

"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

								

Admiral Togo with applications, offering to repeat the exploit. What
amazing heroes! But still more magnificent is Togo’s order that the
officers under him should not so madly risk their lives, which belong
to their country and not to them. It’s damnably beautiful, though!’

‘What’s this street we’re in?’ interrupted Ribnikov, yawning. ‘After
the dug-outs in Manchuria I’ve completely lost my sense of direction in
the street. When we were in Kharbin....’

But the ecstatic Schavinsky went on, without listening to him.

‘Do you remember the case of an officer who was taken prisoner and
battered his head to pieces on a stone? But the most wonderful thing
is the signatures of the Samurai. Of course, you’ve never heard of it,
Captain Ribnikov?’ Schavinsky asked with sarcastic emphasis. ‘It’s
understood, you haven’t heard of it.... You see General Nogi asked
for volunteers to march in the leading column in a night attack on
the Port Arthur forts. Nearly the whole brigade offered themselves
for this honourable death. Since there were too many and they pressed
in front of each other for the opportunity of death, they had to make
application in writing, and some of them, according to an old custom,
cut off the first finger of their left hand and fixed it to their
signature for a seal of blood. That’s what the Samurai did!’

‘Samurai,’ Ribnikov dully repeated. There was a noise in his throat as
if something had snapped and spread. Schavinsky gave a quick glance to
his profile. An expression such as he had never seen in the captain’s
face before suddenly played about his mouth and on his chin, which
trembled once; and his eyes began to shine with the warm, tremulous
light which gleams through sudden, brimming tears. But he pulled
himself together instantly, shut his eyes for a second, and turned
a naïve and stupid face to Schavinsky, and suddenly uttered a long,
filthy, Russian oath.

‘Captain, Captain, what’s the matter with you?’ Schavinsky cried,
almost in fright.

‘That’s all newspaper lies,’ Ribnikov said unconcernedly. ‘Our Russian
Tommy is not a bit behind. There’s a difference, of course. They fight
for their life, however, independence--and what have we mixed ourselves
up in it for? Nobody knows! The devil alone knows why. “There was no
sorrow till the devil pumped it up,” as we say in Russian. What! Ha,
ha, ha!’

On the race-course the sport distracted Schavinsky’s attention a
little, and he could not observe the captain all the while. But in the
intervals between the events, he saw him every now and then in one
or another of the stands, upstairs or downstairs, in the buffet or
by the pari-mutuel. That day the word Tsushima was on everybody’s
lips--backers, jockeys, book-makers, even the mysterious, ragged beings
that are inevitable on every race-course. The word was used to jeer at
a beaten horse, by men who were annoyed at losing, with indifferent
laughter and with bitterness. Here and there it was uttered with
passion. Schavinsky saw from a distance how the captain in his easy,
confident way picked a quarrel with one man, shook hands with others,
and tapped others on the shoulder. His small, limping figure appeared
and disappeared everywhere.

From the races they drove to a restaurant, and from there to
Schavinsky’s house. The journalist was rather ashamed of his rôle of
voluntary detective; but he felt it was out of his power to throw it
up, though he had already begun to feel tired, and his head ached with
the strain of this stealthy struggle with another man’s soul. Convinced
that flattery had been of no avail, he now tried to draw the captain to
frankness, by teasing and rousing his feelings of patriotism.

‘Still, I’m sorry for these poor Japs,’ he said with ironical pity.
‘When all is said, Japan has exhausted all her national genius in
this war. In my opinion she’s like a feeble little man who lifts
a half dozen hundredweight on his shoulders, either in ecstasy or
intoxication, or out of mere bravado, and strains his insides, and
is already beginning to die a lingering death. You see Russia’s an
entirely different country. She’s a Colossus. To her the Manchurian
defeats are just the same as cupping a full-blooded man. You’ll see how
she will recover and begin to blossom when the war is over. But Japan
will wither and die. She’s strained herself. Don’t tell me they have
civilisation, universal education, European technique: at the end of
it all, a Japanese is an Asiatic, half-man, half-monkey. Even in type
he approaches a Bushman, a Touareg, or a Blackfellow. You have only to
look at his facial angle. It all comes to this, they’re just Japs! It
wasn’t your civilisation or your political youth that conquered us at
all, but simply a fit of madness. Do you know what a seizure is, a fit
of frenzy? A feeble woman tears chains to pieces and tosses strong men
about like straws. The next day she hasn’t even the power to lift her
hand. It’s the same with Japan. Believe me, after the heroic fit will
follow impotence and decay; but certainly before that she will pass
through a stage of national swagger, outrageous militarism and insane
Chauvinism.’

‘Really?’ cried Ribnikov in stupid rapture. ‘You can’t get away from
the truth. Shake hands, Mr. Author. You can always tell a clever man at
once.’

He laughed hoarsely, spat about, tapped Schavinsky’s knee, and shook
his hand, and Schavinsky suddenly felt ashamed of himself and the
tricks of his stealthy searching into human souls.

‘What if I’m mistaken and this Ribnikov is only the truest type of the
drunken infantryman. No, it’s impossible. But if it is possible, then
what a fool I’m making of myself, my God!’

At his house he showed the captain his library, his rare engravings, a
collection of old china, and a couple of small Siberian dogs. His wife,
who played small parts in musical comedy, was out of town. Ribnikov
examined everything with a polite, uninterested curiosity, in which his
host caught something like boredom, and even cold contempt. Ribnikov
casually opened a magazine and read some lines aloud.

‘He’s made a blunder now,’ Schavinsky thought, when he heard his
extraordinary correct and wooden reading, each separate letter
pronounced with exaggerated precision like the head boy in a French
class showing off. Evidently Ribnikov noticed it himself, for he soon
shut the book and asked:

‘But you’re a writer yourself?’

‘Yes.... I do a bit.’

‘What newspapers do you write for?’

Schavinsky named them. It was the sixth time he had been asked the
question that day.

‘Oh, yes, yes, yes. I forgot, I’ve asked you before. D’you know what,
Mr. Author?’

‘What is it?’

‘Let us do this. You write and I’ll dictate. That is, I won’t dictate
... oh, no, I shall never dare.’ Ribnikov rubbed his hands and bowed
hurriedly. ‘You’ll compose it yourself, of course. I’ll only give you
some thoughts and--what shall I call them--reminiscences of the war?
Oh, what a lot of interesting copy I have!...’
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