The Name of Hero was published by Tarcher/Houghton Mifflin in 1981. The rights have reverted to the author, Richard Seltzer. He grants permission to make and distribute verbatim electronic copies for non-commercial purposes provided that the copyright notice and this permission notice are preserved on all copies.
This historical novel is based on the life of Alexander Bulatovich, a Russian who was an explorer in Ethiopia, a cavalry officer during Russia's conquest of Manchuria in 1900, and later, as a monk at Mount Athos, led a group of "heretics" who challenged the hierarchy of the Russian Orthodox Church, asserting the divinity of the Name of God.
You can buy this book in hardcover:
The
Name of Hero by Richard Seltzer. an historical novel based
on the life of Alexander Bulatovich, a Russian who was an explorer in Ethiopia,
and a cavalry officer during Russia's conquest of Manchuria in 1900. Later,
as a monk at Mount Athos, he led a group of "heretics" who challenged the
hierarchy of the Russian Orthodox Church, asserting the divinity of the
Name of God.
You can also buy it on CD ROM with the author's other works:
Everything
But the Internet gathers the complete non-Internet
works of Richard Seltzer on CD, in plain text, with software that lets
you listen as well as read. It includes: The Name of Hero, Ethiopia Through
Russian Eyes, The Lizard of Oz, Without a Myth, Spit and Polish, Mercy,
Rights Crossing, short stories, articles, book reviews, and poems.
You'll find related materials at www.samizdat.com/readers.html#ethiopia
She saw no contradiction in "loving" one man passionately and marrying another. Perhaps she had picked up such notions from reading French novels -- the missionary's library had been quite diverse. But it felt natural to her -- a natural as yin and yang -- to be attracted to opposites at once, to need both men in different ways, to love and revere the one for his strength and apparent inaccessibility, and to care for the other perhaps because of his very weakness, his vulnerability to her charms.
She took Strakhov totally by surprise. He had been courting a girl back in Orenburg, slowly, respectfully, for three years. But he had never had much success with women. He was never really sure how to act.
Sonya walked boldly up to him, a total stranger, and said, "Sir, you are a handsome man and a kind man, I can see from your eyes. You look at me, a stranger accosting you like this, and you try to think the best, not the worst of me. You ask yourself not, 'What does she want of me?' but 'What can I do for her? What does she need of me?' Some men would look at me lewdly and say coarse things, but that doesn't even cross your mind until I mention it. But I want it to cross your mind, for you should know about me, not merely guess.
"I am a virgin. I was raised here in Hailar by a Russian missionary. That's why I speak Russian so well. And I speak so fast, not because I'm frightened, which I am, but because that's just the way I am. I know what I want and I come right out and say it. You like my Petersburg accent? You find it amusing, perhaps even attractive in someone so -- Chinese? I want it to be attractive. I want to attract you to me. But remember -- I am a lady. I just turned seventeen. My benefactor, Father Ioann, who raised me from infancy, was killed by the Boxers.
"I have no family, no money, nowhere to go in the world. But you must remember -- I am a lady. I need you. I want you. I can tell from your eyes that you can be a kind, considerate man, if you want to. I can tell that you find me attractive, but wouldn't take advantage of me. Are you married?"
He was so enthralled with her sweet singsong voice and her lively, lovely face that it took him a moment to realize that she had asked him a question. She was wearing a white Cossack tunic with a black belt, a long black skirt, and a little black cap with a visor. She stood there, arms akimbo, waiting for his answer. "Ah... yes... I mean, no. No, I'm not married."
"Good. Then you are the man."
"The man?"
"the man I will marry."
"What do you mean?"
"No matter, we can talk about it again in a day or two."
"Marriage?" he asked in bewilderment.
"Yes, of course. Don't ;look so serious. It's only natural. I'm a young girl without family, without protector. I don't just want a husband -- I need one; for if I don't find a husband now, men will find me and force me and use me, and I'll never have a husband, at least no one as kind and decent as you. Besides, I've reached the age. My body is ready; I am ready to be a wife, and a good one. You'll never regret it, I promise." With that she stood on her tiptoes and quickly kissed him on the lips, with a little flick of the tongue, then ran away before he had a chance to realize what had happened.
That night, after dark, she came to his tent, bringing a few clothes, her only possessions, tied up in a tablecloth. She lay down beside him on the ground and said softly, "Remember, I am a lady. I am the woman you are going to marry. Treat me with respect, and I will learn to love you. Yes, from your eyes I see that I could learn to love you very quickly. But I talk too much. Everyone says that I talk too much. And I want to know you, and I want you to know how much I want to know you. Talk to me, please. Tell me about yourself. Where do you come from? What is your family like? What will our life be like after the war? Now, don't argue with me. I'm not going to touch you or seduce you. I don't have diseases. I'm a virgin. I didn't come here to your tent to have physical love with you. You could force me if you like -- I won't scream. When it's over, I'll get up and leave and you'll never see me again. Because that would mean you're not the man I think you are, that you're not the man I want to marry. Better to find that out now than later. Yes, you're tempted. You're calculating the risks. There are none, I assure you. No disease. No screaming 'rape.' And I just go away -- you have no obligation to me; you needn't pay me; you needn't even feed me."
She had left the tent flap open. The light of a distant campfire reflected brightly in her eyes as she stared into his, searching them, a bit sadly. "If you like, I'll make it easy for you," she continued. "I'll take my clothes off and spread my legs. Is that what you want?"
Still he didn't answer. Tears began to form in her eyes. They too caught the fire's reflection. And she began to undo her belt and pull off her tunic.
He reached for her. She must have thought he meant to grab her and pull her toward him. She started to fall, sobbing in his direction. But he pushed her aside, gently, and helped her put her clothes back in order.
It gave him a strange exhilarating feeling and strength of will to consider her feelings instead of just his own at a time like this, when she was so tempting and so vulnerable.
"Please," he requested softly, "please don't tempt me further. What can you expect of a man? No, don't answer," he insisted, covering her mouth. "If you start talking again, I'll never get a chance to ask you. Are you hungry?"
She nodded quickly, giggled, hugged him, then rolled away and up into a sitting position, with legs crossed -- happy and waiting. She was indeed very hungry.
Two days later he told her that he had submitted a request to General Orlov for permission to marry her. She looked up at him, with delighted doubting eyes, stood on her tiptoes and kissed him as she had when they first met -- their first kiss since that time.
They slept together in the same tent, ate from the same plate, talked endlessly. She even let him talk, playfully tying a gag around her mouth to prevent herself from interrupting him and running off with her own thoughts.
She was direct and candid. He was candid in return. He even told her about his first battle experience, at Ongun, complete with all the embarrassing details. She laughed and he laughed with her -- it seemed so long ago. Even the Battle of Hailar, where he had outwardly acted the part of a hero. They laughed together at how he had dashed off to the latrine ditch at the moment of attack. It was such a relief to him to talk to someone about these experiences, someone non-critical, someone who was delighted with who he was now and who he had been before.
He told her how his father had probably tricked him into becoming a soldier, getting him to rebel, to think he was rebelling when he was really doing just what his father had wanted him to do. He told her about Olga, the girl he had been courting back in Orenburg, and how awkward he had been, tripping on the top step the first time he tried to kiss her. Telling about himself, about his motives and concerns when he was back in Orenburg, his ambition to advance in the army, his sensitivity to what people thought of him, he felt he was talking about somebody else, and he told her so.
"Of course," she said, "before you were just Major Strakhov. Now you are my man."
She made him feel like he was her "man" the way she listened to him and looked at him, focused on him and him alone.
Then she started asking about Bulatovich. It seemed natural at first because he had brought up the subject himself, telling about their brief confrontation over the fate of the thief. But then she kept asking about him again and again. Whatever Strakhov did, she wanted to know what Bulatovich was doing. She said she had never really spoken to Bulatovich directly, had only seen him from a distance. But Strakhov wondered. This was one area in which he didn't dare be candid -- not because he was afraid she would see he was jealous, but because he was afraid his fears would be confirmed. He knew that she had spent a night at Bulatovich's camp before he had met her. He didn't dare ask her where she had slept that night or if she had made the same offer to someone else before making it to him.
The thought of losing her made him feel empty and alone, a feeling he had never felt before in his life. He had never known before that there was an alternative, so he had never missed the close friendship of a woman. But knowing Sonya, living with her for a few days -- there was no way he could go back to his old way of life. He needed her. The more she asked about Bulatovich, the more he knew he had to marry her, and the more he hated that vainglorious Guardsman.
When he told her he had asked for permission to marry her, she didn't know whether to believe him. She felt that he would marry her eventually, but despite her abundant self-confidence, she found it hard to believe that she had actually made that deep and lasting an impression on Strakhov in such a short time. Perhaps he had asked only halfheartedly in hopes of being refused, so he could use the refusal as an excuse. She didn't care; he was so kind, gentle, and considerate, sooner or later he would marry her.
One night as he covered her and brushed the hair from her eyes, she reached up and clasped her hands behind his neck. For a long minute, they stared at each other. Then she said, "You have shown that you respect me and that you care for me. That is enough. You do not need to prove it further by sleeping alone. I want you now. Take me now. You are my man. Someday you will be my husband. Not another word now." She kissed him before he had a chance to object. After they had kissed, he didn't want to object.
It was his first time. But he had already admitted his inexperience to her so he wasn't self-conscious about it. She was helpful, holding him, helping him, guiding him, as best she could, in her own frightened and curious inexperience. Time and again, he tried and failed to open her, and they broke out laughing and hugged and kissed and rolled. Finally, he lit a candle so they could see more clearly. She was beautiful in the flickering light. He lost himself completely in those deep dark eyes, caressing her gently, hugging her ever so tightly, and before they had time to set about things in the practical manner he had intended, before he even had time to kiss her deeply with his tongue, as she had taught him, she was his completely, and there was no need to be practical, ever -- completely his, not Bulatovich's, just his.
Would there never be time to rest? Bulatovich wondered. Time to look into unfinished business -- like Shemelin and Kupferman, like Strakhov and this Chinese Sonya. Bulatovich would have liked to write a letter to his own Sonya, the woman who had been his Sonya. But now he was committed to leading another patrol -- immediately. Already, Pyotr and Starodubov had gathered the Mazeppy, Bodisko's railway guards, and another hundred troops quickly chosen to fill out the "flying detachment."
They set out in late afternoon, following the railway eastward. Trofim prayed loudly, calling down the wrath of God on these "pagan headhunters," quoting again from Revelation.
Pyotr rode beside Bulatovich. They both seemed overexcited and needed to talk. Bulatovich talked about Ethiopia and about Vaska, the Ethiopian boy he had brought back to Russia. Pyotr spoke of his mother and his sisters, their pastureland overlooking Lake Baikal.
"What about your father?" asked Bulatovich.
"Yes, Father." The furrow that was forming over Pyotr's left brow grew deeper. "He's dead."
"Oh yes, I'm sorry. Grotten told me."
"It happened two years ago. A hunting accident. He got caught in another hunter's trap. Lost a foot. Probably bled to death before the wolves got to him. I wanted to kill those wolves," he added somberly. "Mother wouldn't let me out of her sight. I was fifteen. She was afraid I'd get myself killed too. Trofim just prayed. But Login slipped away. He came back a week later with the heads of two dozen wolves. No one's seen a wolf in those parts since."
And so the conversation ended, both men restless.
They overtook the main forces of the retreating Chinese about ten miles east, near Dzhaimete, the next station on the railway. Bulatovich was tempted to attack with his small force and try to confuse and scatter the Chinese by surprise. But he thought better of it: too risky. His men were too tired.
"Starodubov..." he began, thinking of ordering them to turn back. But already, Pyotr was racing across the plain, and Starodubov, awkward horseman that he was, urged his horse onward, protectively close behind. Trofim shouted "Revenge!" and the rest of the "flying detachment," including Bulatovich, joined in the charge.
Their attack was ineffectual. The rear guard of the Chinese put up a hard fight for hours and repulsed each repeated cavalry charge.
Butorin vanished in the midst of the fighting, then reappeared at dusk, horseless, saber in hand, slashing wildly at the gusting wind and laughing insanely. The Chinese who had fought so hard and long scattered at the sight of this strange apparition.
Butorin laughed again, this time the laugh of a sane man. "What fools! They're more afraid of ghosts and demons than living men. That's the trick: not bravery, just make them think you're possessed."
He ate heartily and joined in the small talk around the campfire. All of the Mazeppy looked at him, not knowing how to react. Then Sofronov asked, cautiously, "Where did you go? After the second charge, you disappeared. We thought you were dead or captured."
"I had some unfinished business to take care of."
"Unfinished business?"
"Yes, with my brother."
"I didn't know you had a brother. Is he here in the detachment?"
"No, he's dead."
"Oh. I'm sorry. Were you able to find the body?"
"What body?"
"Your brother's body. On the battlefield."
"What would his body be doing here/ He died years ago."
"But you said..."
"Yes, you see we were never close. The closest we ever got was when he hit me. And he didn't do that often, not after I'd grown to full size and could fight back. So when he disappeared into the desert one day, it didn't bother me much. That was just a few days after he got married. I've never eaten so well as I did at that wedding. Her folks knew how to do a feast."
"But your business..."
"Yes, my brother's wife."
"You saw her?"
"Not for years. She was young, and he was gone; so I had her and left her like I would any other woman. So I had some unfinished business with that dead brother of mine."
"You mean you felt guilty and had to atone in some way?"
"Guilty? No. I wanted him to know. I wanted to tell him myself what I'd done to his wife. And I did."
"You did?"
"Yes, today." Suddenly he noticed the silence around him and laughed to see he had so many listeners. "Yes," he added, looking them each in the eye, "I talk to the dead. And they listen when I talk. That's one of the advantages of being haunted -- you can take care of unfinished business."
Whether he was a liar or a madman or some sort of holy fool, the Mazeppy quietly decided to avoid him. The sight of Butorin called to mind disturbing memories of the funeral fire, the missing heads, and the unknown realm beyond death.
The next day the flying detachment continued its pursuit, harassing the enemy past Yakeshi and Mien-tu-ho all the way to Khorgo Station, about fifty-five miles to the east of Hailar.
They returned to Hailar that night. They had inflicted no significant damage on the enemy. They had learned nothing of any importance. They had been reduced to the role of pests. Their need for vengeance was still unsatisfied.
At Hailar, the army had nearly doubled in size. At the beginning of the campaign, back at Chita, Orlov had divided his forces. Under Captain Smolyannikov, three of the four companies of railway guards had crossed the Chinese border at Staro Tsurukhaitui to follow the road that ran north of the Hailar River. Meanwhile Orlov with two foot battalions, the cavalry regiment, the artillery battery, and Bodisko's railway guard company had set out from Abagaitui along the southern route. Two reserve foot battalions, under Colonel Vorobyev, had set out along Orlov's route just after the Battle of Ongun, with a large transport of supplies. Both Smolyannikov and Vorobyev had caught up with Orlov at Hailar, bringing the forces up to full strength.
Now that the Russians had taken control of Hailar, the Mongolian inhabitants were returning from all directions, setting up their shops and businesses and selling to the Russians as if nothing had ever happened. What with the additional troops and these returning Mongolians, Orlov was inundated with administrative problems and paperwork.
Provisions were now abundant. The storehouses contained more than 360 tons of flour, oats, millet, vermicelli, soap, and candles; over 3000 chests of tea; and large quantities of skins and tobacco. The transport from Abagaitui had brought cattle for fresh meat. Each man could now receive two pounds of meat a day.
But what were they do with the captured supplies that they couldn't immediately use? Who could they give them to? Could Orlov, in good conscience, refuse to feed the hungry Chinese, particularly the Chinese Christians and the former railway laborers, some of whom had lost all their worldly goods? What about the Russian construction engineers and officials whose houses had been ransacked by the Chinese? Many of their valuables were now among the baggage of the Russian soldiers who had, contrary to orders and despite a respectable effort at policing, managed to loot the homes of the Chinese looters. Should Orlov try to confiscate these valuables and return them to their rightful owners? If so, how could he determine who was the rightful owner of what?
Then, too, there were medical problems, multiplied by the increase of troops with no additional medical personnel or medical supplies. Already, as was all too common in war, more men had died of typhus and dysentery than of battle wounds. There were far too few doctors, and the ones they had were not trained for the kind of work they had to do. For the most part, they were civilian doctors from Trans-Baikal, conscripted for the campaign regardless of their specialties. One was a psychiatrist and three were obstetricians. The few doctors experienced in surgery had never had to deal with the kind of surgery most often required in the field -- amputation. All but Stankevich and Volf were unused to working in a tent, coping with unsanitary conditions and improvising to make up for the scarcity of supplies. They had run out of anesthetics, quinine, and even castor oil. They had to get a man drunk and lull him to sleep before cutting off his leg.
They also had to learn to cope with the questions of religion and esthetics that kept complicating their already difficult task. For instance, what to do with a man's leg after cutting it off? Throw it in a trash heap for the dogs to get at, or give it a solemn burial? And when the man insists on keeping the amputated limb because he's convinced that when he's dead he has to be buried with all his parts -- otherwise, when Judgment day comes and the dead are resurrected, he'll be left behind in his grave or be forced to hobble one-legged throughout eternity -- how do you tell such a man that it'll rot, smell, and breed disease?
Orlov had his hands full with administrative problems, but still he somehow found time to indulge in his one weakness: his memoirs. The rapid success of his detachment had given him a sense of his own importance. Now and then he pushed aside the unfinished administrative business and feverishly jotted down notes for an autobiographical account of this campaign.
He, the garrison officer, the pen-pusher, the harried husband with three daughters and four granddaughters, but no sons or grandsons, was leading a substantial army to repeated victory against overwhelming odds. He felt compelled to record these historic events. He would write a simple, direct account, giving full credit to the enlisted men who were responsible for the success -- men like Starodubov and Butorin. He'd just as soon forget the officers, all except Bulatovich.
A fine young man, that Bulatovich. Orlov wished he had had a son like that -- a model soldier, not one of those garrison disciplinarians but a man with initiative and courage, a man able to inspire his men to feats of bravery.
Such was his frame of mind when Strakhov found him.
"Your Excellency, have you had an opportunity to consider my requests?"
"Yes, yes," mumbled Orlov, with a twinge of guilt, quickly pushing his historical notes off to the side of the table and shuffling through the large stack of petitions. "And what was it you were requesting? There are so many..."
"There were three petitions, Your Excellency." He stepped forward, apparently to help look for them. Then he hesitated.
Orlov didn't know whether to be pleased or aggravated at the young man's tact, at his not wanting to show up a superior. Had he helped Orlov and found the petitions, Strakhov would have made Orlov feel like a half-blind, fumbling old man. By not helping, he made Orlov acutely aware of his own foolish vanity. The general needed glasses but hated to admit the fact, just as he hated to admit that he was nearly sixty. Moments like this made him painfully aware of his own inadequacies.
"First, Your Excellency, I was asking for food, on behalf of the Chinese Christians."
"But they are being fed. I asked Volzhaninov to take care of that. I remember."
"Yes, Your Excellency. But only on a day-to-day basis. The Chinese are a proud people. They do not like to be treated as beggars."
"Yes, yes. I'll think it over. We have more than enough food. And your second request?"
"Also for the Chinese Christians. Many of them have lost all they owned simply because they were Christian and because they were friendly to Russians. Surely, we should make some effort at restitution."
"I've been thinking about that. You aren't the only one who has made such requests. And the third?"
"A personal matter, Your Excellency. I ask permission to be married."
"That Chinese girl I've seen you with?"
"Yes, Your Excellency."
Orlov laughed. "That that's why you're so interested in all this Chinese Christian business. You work fast, my boy. We've only been here a few days. Congratulations that you've won her. But why marry her?"
"That what I want, what she wants. She's a Christian."
"Christian or not -- just sweet-talk her a bit. Remember, this is wartime, lad. All the niceties of peacetime Russia don't apply."
"But we want to get married," Strakhov insisted, surprised at this resistance.
Orlov laughed again, "I said that myself once; I hate to say how long ago."
Strakhov took heat, "Indeed, Your Excellency?"
"Yes, and I've regretted it ever since. I don't want you to make the same mistake. You hardly know the girl."
"But..."
"Listen to me, Major. This is an order. You will not marry this girl until the end of the campaign. If you take my advice, you shouldn't make her any promises until then, either. Blame it all on me. If you feel the same at the end of the campaign, then you can go ahead with my blessing. Be sure to invite me to the wedding. But if I were you, I'd just enjoy myself and avoid making promises I might regret later."
"But Your Excellency, she's a lady."
"Yes," Orlov chuckled, remembering an incident from his youth, "they all start that way."
Unable to dissemble his anger, Strakhov abruptly turned and started to leave, then turned again to say, "There was something else I wanted to mention, Your Excellency."
"Yes, what else would the Chinese Christians like?"
"It's another matter entirely. Captain Smolyannikov arrived yesterday with three companies of railway guards. He is Bulatovich's superior in rank, and he and his men know this terrain and its people thoroughly. If you have further need of a flying detachment, they would be a natural choice."
"Is Bulatovich back already?"
"Yes, Your Excellency. He is waiting to see you..."
"Alexander Xavierevich!" shouted Orlov, jubilantly. "come in! Come in!" Bulatovich quickly entered. Orlov ran up and patted him on the back and shook his hand. "Good to see you, son. Did you put a scare into those Chinese?"
"No. Their rear guard held strong."
"You don't say? Any casualties?"
"Just three wounded, but not badly. We were lucky."
"You're always lucky, thank God," Orlov laughed. "We need more like you. By the way, I was just talking to Major Strakhov here, and he reminded me that we have one more officer like you, a new man, just arrived here. I've known him off and on for years -- Captain Smolyannikov of the railway guards. From now on his railway guards will serve as our flying detachment with Smolyannikov in charge. I think you could learn something from him. He's lived here for years and he knows the land and the people. He's even married to one of them -- a Chinese." He turned to Strakhov. "It can work, Major. Chinese are women like any other. Just don't rush into it." Turning back to Bulatovich, "He's set on marrying one himself -- some girl he met just a couple days ago. Imagine? No, I guess you can't. You're still a bachelor. You've got more sense than us married men. Anyway, you're welcome to go along with Smolyannikov, if you like. In fact, I think you should, yes, do; that's an order. He's a savvy old fighter. You don't meet his sort often.
"But what I really wanted to talk to you about was my book. You see, I'm writing my memoirs of this campaign..."
Strakhov left with mixed feelings, glad to see Bulatovich temporarily held in check, uneasy about how or whether to tell Sonya that they would have to postpone getting married.
Bulatovich stood before Orlov, alternately knocking his dusty red cap against his knee and polishing his glasses on his shirt, while Orlov debated aloud with himself the pros and cons of first-person historical narrative. When Orlov was satisfied that the "discussion" had run its course (he was delighted to have found such an intent and discerning listener), Bulatovich excused himself, hurriedly, explaining that he had to introduce himself to his new commander, Captain Smolyannikov.
This site is published by B&R Samizdat Express, 33 Gould St., West Roxbury, MA 02132. 617-469-2269 seltzer@samizdat.com
Links to the complete novel, The Name of Hero.
To contact Richard Seltzer send email to seltzer@samizdat.com
Sample chapters from The Name of Man
Complete text of From Entotto to the River Baro
Complete text of With the Armies of Menelik II
Return to Readers' Room and Writers' Showcase.
You can buy this book in hardcover:
The
Name of Hero by Richard Seltzer. an historical novel based
on the life of Alexander Bulatovich, a Russian who was an explorer in Ethiopia,
and a cavalry officer during Russia's conquest of Manchuria in 1900. Later,
as a monk at Mount Athos, he led a group of "heretics" who challenged the
hierarchy of the Russian Orthodox Church, asserting the divinity of the
Name of God.
You can also buy it on CD ROM with the author's other works:
Everything
But the Internet gathers the complete non-Internet
works of Richard Seltzer on CD, in plain text, with software that lets
you listen as well as read. It includes: The Name of Hero, Ethiopia Through
Russian Eyes, The Lizard of Oz, Without a Myth, Spit and Polish, Mercy,
Rights Crossing, short stories, articles, book reviews, and poems.
A
library for the price of a book.
Return to B&R Samizdat Express.
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