Captain Ribnikov Page #7

"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

								


Schavinsky sat sideways on the table and glanced at the captain,
cunningly screwing up one eye.

‘Of course, I shall give your name?’

‘Why, you may. I’ve no objection. Put it like this: “This information
was supplied to me by Captain Ribnikov who has just returned from the
Front.”’

‘Very well. Why do you want this?’

‘What?’

‘Having your name in it. Do you want it for future evidence that you
inspired the Russian newspapers? What a clever fellow, I am, eh?’

But the captain avoided a direct answer, as usual.

‘But perhaps you haven’t time? You are engaged in other work. Well,
let the reminiscences go to hell! You won’t be able to tell the whole
story. As they say: “There’s a difference between living a life and
crossing a field.” Eh, what? Ha, ha, ha!’

An interesting fancy came into Schavinsky’s head. In his study stood a
big, white table of unpainted ash. On the clean virgin surface of this
table all Schavinsky’s friends used to leave their autographs in the
shape of aphorisms, verses, drawings, and even notes of music. He said
to Ribnikov: ‘See, here is my autograph-book, Captain. Won’t you write
me something in memory of our pleasant meeting, and our acquaintance
which’--Schavinsky bowed politely--‘I venture to hope will not be
short-lived?’

‘With pleasure,’ Ribnikov readily agreed. ‘Something from Pushkin or
Gogol?’

‘No ... far better something of your own.’

‘Of my own? Splendid.’

He took the pen and dipped it, thought and prepared to write, but
Schavinsky suddenly stopped him.

‘We’d better do this. Here’s a piece of a paper. There are drawing-pins
in the box at the corner. Please write something particularly
interesting and then cover it with the paper and fasten the corners
with the drawing-pins. I give you my word of honour as an author, that
for two months I won’t put a finger on the paper and won’t look at what
you’ve written. Is that all right? Well, write then. I’ll go out of the
room so as not to hinder you.’

After five minutes Ribnikov shouted to him: ‘Please come in.’

‘Ready?’ Schavinsky asked, entering.

Ribnikov drew himself up, put his hand to his forehead in salute and
shouted like a soldier: ‘Very good, sir.’

‘Thanks. Now we’ll go to the “Buff,” or somewhere else,’ Schavinsky
said. ‘There we’ll think what we’ll do next. I shan’t let you out of my
sight to-day, Captain.’

‘With the greatest pleasure,’ Ribnikov said in a hoarse bass, clicking
his heels. He lifted up his shoulders and gave a military twist to his
moustaches on either side.

But Schavinsky, against his own will, did not keep his word. At the
last moment before leaving his house the journalist remembered that
he had left his cigarette-case in the study and went back for it,
leaving Ribnikov in the hall. The piece of white paper, carefully
fastened with drawing-pins, aroused his curiosity. He could not resist
the temptation; he turned back stealthily and after lifting a corner
of the paper quickly read the words written in a thin, distinct and
extraordinary elegant hand:

‘Though you are Ivanov the seventh, you’re a fool all the same.’

IV

Long after midnight they were coming out of a suburban café chantant
accompanied by the well-known musical comedy actor Zhenin-Lirsky, the
young assistant Crown-Prosecutor Sashka Strahlmann, who was famous all
over Petersburg for his incomparable skill in telling amusing stories
about the topic of the day, and Karyukov, the merchant’s son, a patron
of the arts.

It was neither bright nor dark. It was a warm, white, transparent
night, with soft chatoyant colours and water like mother-of-pearl in
the calm canals, which plainly reflected the grey stone of the quay and
the motionless foliage of the trees. The sky was pale as though tired
and sleepless, and there were sleepy clouds in the sky, long, thin and
woolly like clews of ravelled cotton-wool.

‘Where shall we go, now?’ said Schavinsky, stopping at the gate of the
gardens. ‘Field-Marshal Oyama! Give us your enlightened opinion.’

All five lingered on the pavement for a while, caught by a moment
of the usual early morning indecision, when the physical fatigue of
the reveller struggles with the irresistible and irritating yearning
after new and piquant sensations. From the garden continually came
patrons, laughing, whistling, noisily shuffling their feet over the
dry, white cobble-stones. Walking hurriedly, boldly rustling the silk
of their petticoats emerged the artistes wearing huge hats, with
diamonds trembling in their ears, escorted by dashing gentlemen,
smartly dressed, with flowers in their buttonholes. With the porters’
respectful assistance these ladies fluttered into carriages and panting
automobiles, freely arranging their dresses round their legs, and flew
away holding the brims of their hats in their hands. The chorus-girls
and the filles du jardin of the higher class drove off alone or two
together in ordinary cabs with a man beside them. The ordinary women of
the street appeared everywhere at once, going round the wooden fence,
following close on the men who left on foot, giving special attention
to the drunken. They ran beside the men for a long while, offering
themselves in a whisper with impudent submissiveness, naming that which
was their profession with blunt, coarse, terrible words. In the bright,
white twilight of May, their faces seemed like coarse masks, blue from
the white of their complexions, red with crimson colour, and one’s eyes
were struck with the blackness, the thickness and the extraordinary
curve of their eyebrows. These naïvely bright colours made the yellow
of their wrinkled temples appear all the more pitiable, their thin,
scraggy necks, and flabby, feeble chins. A couple of mounted policemen,
obscenely swearing, rode them down now and then with their horses’
mouths afoam. The girls screamed, ran away, and clutched at the sleeves
of the passers-by. Near the railing of the canal was gathered a group
of about twenty men--it was the usual early morning scandal. A short,
beardless boy of an officer was dead-drunk and making a fuss, looking
as though he wanted to draw his sword; a policeman was assuring him of
something in a convincing falsetto with his hand on his heart.

A sharp, suspicious-looking type, drunk, in a cap with a ragged peak,
spoke in a sugary, obsequious voice: ‘Spit on ’em, yer honour. They
ain’t worth looking at. Give me one in the jaw, if you like. Allow me
to kiss yer ‘and.’

A thin, stern gentleman at the back, whose thick, black whiskers could
alone be seen, because his bowler was tilted over his face, drawled in
a low, indistinct voice: ‘What do you stand about talking for? Pitch
him into the water and have done with it!’

‘But really, Major Fukushima,’ said the actor, ‘we must put a decent
finish to the day of our pleasant acquaintance. Let’s go off with the
little ladies. Where shall it be, Sashka?’

‘Bertha?’ Strahlmann asked in reply.

Ribnikov giggled and rubbed his hands in joyful agitation.

‘Women? “Even a Jew hanged himself for company’s sake,” as the Russian
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