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
Staff-Captain Bodisko was sitting on a stool just inside the tent, and Dr. Volf had settled down on a box of champagne he had brought along.
Bulatovich stood near them. He had just introduced himself to his new commander and, much to his discomfort, found himself invited to join in the conversation with these men he hardly knew and had no desire to be with.
"You should have seen old Kupferman," said Bodisko, taking a swig of champagne and passing the bottle to Volf. "He went sneaking up to the hospital tent. Maybe the crowd made him nervous. Maybe he was afraid the man he had beaten had died and there might be repercussions. Maybe he felt bad about what he had done. Who knows? Maybe he even has a soul."
"To the eternal soul of man," proposed Volf. "And to his all-to-corruptible flesh."
"Well, there were about fifty people gathered outside Shemelin's tent," Bodisko continued. "I was there myself."
"So were half the wounded," added Volf, "Nearly all the ones who could walk. Business was light at the doctor's office. to Shemelin!" he proposed.
"It seems they think this Shemelin's some kind of saint," said Bodisko. "They wanted to touch him or look at him or pray near him. Others, like me, were gathered around just curious to see what was happening. As far as I could tell, there weren't any miracles. Nobody got a leg put back on; nobody even got rid of their diarrhea or lice. But what Shemelin did with Kupferman as worth seeing."
Bodisko stood up to act out the motions. "Imagine, as soon as Kupferman arrives, the crowd parts, like he has some kind of disease they don't want to be near. When he's a hundred feet away, there's no one between him and Shemelin. Their eyes meet. 'Welcome, sir, welcome. I hoped that we would meet again,' says Shemelin. Kupferman stares cautiously. For a moment it looks like he wants to beat Shemelin again and put an end to him. 'I wanted to thank you for this blessing,' said Shemelin. 'You were God's agent.'
"Well, form the look in Kupferman's face, he doesn't know if he's being made fun of or what. He stares all around him as if daring anyone to laugh at him. Then he turns fast and runs away -- yes, runs. And Shemelin shouts after him, 'Don't go, sir. Please, come back!"
"Shemelin's one of your men, isn't he?" Smolyannikov asked Bulatovich.
"Yes, but I can't make any sense out of this business."
"To nonsense!" proposed Bodisko.
"It's this damned heat, the climate," suggested Volf.
"No, it's the country and the people with the pigtails," said Bodisko, "the graves and the ghosts all over the place. Something in the air makes men mad."
"Yes," agreed Volf. "All this Boxer madness -- you wouldn't see anarchy like that in Petersburg.
"Things aren't always as different as they seem," noted Smolyannikov.
"That proves my point," Volf drunkenly insisted. "Who could be madder than you?" Turning to Bulatovich he explained, "This tough old mercenary's been in China for nearly twenty years now, and it's gone to his head. Do you realize he spends all of his money on his wife's doctor bills? It's been years since he's even seen her. He can't afford to go to Petersburg to see her because all his money goes to pay the fancy doctors who keep her alive there. Filthy doctors," he added, and took another swig. "Should have let her die here with her folks in China."
"You never met her," said Smolyannikov, staring at the ground. "If you had, you wouldn't talk that way."
"You don't even know if she's dead or alive," Volf persisted. "All you know is they keep sending the bills."
"And as long as I pay them, she's alive to me. That's a cheap price to pay. It's easy to buy someone's death, but how often can you buy a life?"
They fell silent, passing the bottles around. Volf seemed to have an infinite supply of champagne. Tired of standing, Bulatovich sat stiffly on the ground and nursed a bottle by himself. His mind wandered back to Petersburg and to Sonya. He remembered a scene in the woods when she had sat with her head cuddled close to his shoulder, her hand idly caressing his thigh while he bragged to her about elephant hunting. If he had her there now, he wouldn't talk, and she wouldn't push him away. He'd know how to bend her and control her; he'd know how to move her from flirtation to passion. He remembered her, too, as she had stood, ever so briefly, naked beside the pond -- her hair dripping wet, her eyes flashing blue, her half-smile an invitation and a challenge. She seemed to say, "Hold me close -- I dare you."
When he looked up it was twilight. Bodisko and Volf were asleep. His eyes met Smolyannikov's. He got the impression that Smolyannikov had been looking at him for some time, not critical or angry, just curious.
"They were wrong, you know, about my wife. It's not the Chinese influence, it's the Russian in me that insists on trying to keep her alive. 'It's against nature,' she'd say, if she could talk. That's what her eyes told me when I sent her there. To her, death is part of life and life is part of death. When the time comes to die, you should accept it and flow with it. She respects and loves nature."
"That's what aggravates me most about the Chinese," answered Bulatovich, surprised by the vehemence of his own words. "Their passivity, their acceptance, their fatalism, their unwillingness to take on obstacles."
Smolyannikov chuckled and scratched his graying mustache. He was about 50, nearly as old as Starodubov. No taller than Bulatovich, he was far more heavy set; still very muscular around the shoulders, but a bit flabby -- or "relaxed," as he called it -- about the waist.
"Yes, you want a challenge. You'd like to meet the enemy head on. A man of action. But don't underestimate this enemy of ours. Sure, they bend and flow, and they may lose the war. But they will win the peace.
"In the thirteenth century Genghis Khan comes rushing down with his Tatar and Mongolian hordes and conquers their country. But life goes on. The fields still get planted and harvested, and in a generation or two the conquerors are just as Chinese as the conquered. They aren't foreign oppressors anymore. They're just another Chinese dynasty. In the seventeenth century, the Manchus come down from Manchuria and conquer China, and they too are absorbed.
"Sure, we Russians are different. When those same Tatar and Mongolian hordes came our way, we fought and lost, and fought and lost again; and we rebelled whenever we had the chance, just to get stomped down again."
"But Russia rose again," objected Bulatovich.
"Yes, after centuries of being reduced to poverty, having had our civilization completely shattered. But I know how you feel; I feel it myself sometimes still -- the pride that comes from fighting against all odds, not giving in. Sometimes I think it's a national trait. While the Chinese flow with nature, we Russians go against it. Why, most of Russia would be uninhabited if people just sought to live in harmony with nature. No human being can live in harmony with winters like ours. It takes determination to meet the challenge of nature like that -- the kind of stubborn force of will that out of a swamp builds a city like Petersburg. It seems that fighting obstacles and fighting nature makes us strong, or forces us to discover our inner reserves of strength.
"But equal strength comes form the opposite direction. The Chinese love and respect nature and find strength from their knowledge of it. They seek the Tao, the path of least resistance. They try to get the greatest result from the least effort. They respect quiet and peace and fragility. Their perfect action or wu-wei is motion without friction, totally effortless, but effective.
"No, I can see from the expression on your face that you wouldn't make a very good Buddhist monk. Nor would I, for that matter, much as I respect their beliefs and ways. Death more than anything I simply can't accept. I can't just let someone I care for die and presume that she'll come to life again in some new form as man or beast. And I need a challenge every now and then, too, a wall to pound my head against, just to reassure myself that I'm real and alive.
"But what brings you to China? Did you expect to find some great new challenge here? You had to have volunteered for this duty. There's no one else from your regiment or even from Petersburg in the whole Hailar Detachment. Are you looking for something impossible to perform for the honor and the glory of it? for the name of 'hero'?"
Bulatovich shrugged and took a deep swallow of champagne, finally stretching out on the ground, though it was uncomfortable. It didn't yield to his back nor did his back to it. He was tied and hungry. The champagne went to his head quickly and his thoughts were muddled. He wished he didn't need obstacles and challenges to define himself. He wished he were self-defined -- a man of unyielding honor, an uncompromising hero out of Corneille or Racine, who knew who he was, who could stake his life and honor on what he believed, and who held his honor far more dear than life itself. He would like to be able to say, like Luther, "Here I stand. This is who I am. I can act no other way."
In a few days, Smolyannikov and Bulatovich became close friends. they repeatedly tested one another's skills. Sometimes they ventured dangerously far, as much as a hundred miles from headquarters in Hailar. both were excellent horsemen, highly respected by their men. But their styles differed.
Bulatovich was aggressive and determined. Smolyannikov, his elder by some twenty years, approached even the most dangerous situations almost casually, alert but unhurried, ready yet relaxed. Bulatovich pursued; Smolyannikov reconnoitered. Bulatovich sought conflict, Smolyannikov avoided it. Chewing tobacco, Smolyannikov rode at a casual pace lingering where the shade was cool, the water clear, or the view pleasing. He knew the land well. He could let an enemy patrol slip out of sight for hours while he and his men rested, then with little effort catch up with them later.
For Bulatovich, it was a week without responsibility -- almost a vacation. This new flying detachment was made up entirely of railway guards. The Mazeppy had been left behind in Hailar to dream dreams of severed heads and vengeance. Bulatovich had had nothing to say about it. With no men to command, he rode beside Smolyannikov, Bodisko, and Volf, shared their casual camaraderie, and occasionally tested his skills and daring in competition with Smolyannnikov.
For the first time since his early days in the army, Bulatovich felt gregarious. He wanted to be one of the group, not the leader, just a comrade-in-arms. Smolyannikov welcomed him, and whomever Smolyannikov welcomed was accepted by all.
Today Smolyannikov had challenged Bulatovich to a race, making a game of their reconnaissance assignments. Leaving behind the flying detachment, just the two of them had ridden completely around the enemy army. The adventure had begun frivolously, but the information they had gathered could prove valuable.
The race had been exhilarating, not simply a short gallop, but a thirty-mile trek over rough terrain -- the type of endurance race at which Bulatovich excelled, riding high with his weight on the stirrups rather than the saddle, pacing himself, getting the most from his mount without exhausting it. After a mile their paths diverged. Smolyannikov took a longer but perhaps easier route, taking advantage of his knowledge of the terrain. Bulatovich charged straight ahead. At sunset he found Smolyannikov waiting for him on a hilltop, with a Chinese prisoner tied across his saddle.
"How did you do it?" laughed Bulatovich.
"I just flowed with the land," Smolyannikov laughed back. "It's a trick an old Buddhist monk taught me."
Shots rang out from below. The valley was swarming with Chinese troops. Horsemen were racing up the hillside. Smolyannikov laughed and turned, threading his way among the boulders and brush, over ravines, up another hill, with Bulatovich struggling to keep up. Soon they had lost their pursuers and once again had an excellent view of the army in the valley.
"Ah! General P'ao," remarked Smolyannikov.
"Where?" asked Bulatovich, scanning the multitude of troops with his binoculars. "The one on the white horse with a parasol?"
"Most high-ranking Chinese officers ride white horses and carry parasols so their troops can see them and rally around them in the confusion of battle. But that's General P'ao, all right. I served under him for several years. He was in charge of the railway guards in this area. I've heard that when the war started, Sheu, the dzyan-dzyan or governor-general of Tsitsihar, capital of Northern Manchuria, respectfully suggested that dear old P'ao kill himself because he had accepted the patronage of the Russians. But he didn't do it like most of their other general would. He said he'd rather die fighting us. He's a tough character, with Western notions of war that he picked up from us. With him in charge, you're liable to get that head-on decisive battle you've been itching for."
"How many men do you think he has?"
"Our friend here says about seven thousand."
As Smolyannikov had gathered from the prisoner's frightened chatter, the first Chinese commander, Chuan-do, had, like Orlov, divided his twelve-thousand-man army. The main force had proceeded along the southern route and encountered Orlov at Ongun. Chuan-do had died in that battle. The other two thousand troops had started out on the northern route toward Staro-Tsurukhaitui. If they had continued on that road, they would have met with Smolyannikov's railway guards. But when word arrived of the disaster at Ongun, they had turned back toward Hailar and chanced on Bulatovich. After the Battle of Hailar, the remnants of the Chinese army had gradually broken apart and vanished into the wasteland. P'ao was bringing a new, apparently better-trained army to strike the Russians at Hailar once again.
Bulatovich and Smolyannikov paused to rest in a rocky ravine. They had to wait until dark to get by the enemy and back to their flying detachment.
They stretched out on the ground, Bulatovich resting his head on his saddlebag; Smolyannikov resting his on a smooth rock. Smolyannikov took a swig from his canteen and passed it to Bulatovich. "You are ambitious, Sasha," he said. "but you are no Napoleon."
"Napoleon?" laughed Bulatovich.
"Not for power, not for money do you strive. What fate could give you would not be enough. You must push yourself to the limit, take one step beyond the impossible and know that you did it. It does my heart good to see the way you ride, the way you push yourself. It makes me feel young again."
It warmed Bulatovich to hear such praise from a man he respected. He had never seen himself in that light before. He opened up to Smolyannikov and told the story of his life, as simply as he could, not bragging, but not holding back either, like talking aloud to himself. He told about his life at Lutsikovka and his battles with his mother, about his sister's death and the teacher Lemm; how he had chosen his career and made himself the best rider and fencer in the regiment; how he had gone to Ethiopia three times, had ridden camelback at record speed across hundreds of miles of desert, had seen lands and peoples that no European had ever seen before, and had become a trusted adviser of the Emperor Menelik. Bulatovich rambled on for over an hour and ended quite satisfied with himself -- proud of who he was, the challenges he had met, and what he had accomplished.
Smolyannikov let him bask in his glory silently for a few moments, then asked, "When this war is over, what will you do next/ The steeplechase again? Africa again? Where will you find a challenge strong enough?"
"I suppose..." Bulatovich started to reply, then realized, uncomfortably, that he had no answer.
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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