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.
ou 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
But what line was he on? Did it matter? He had thought he had a choice. For four years he had been racing along at full steam, quite proud of himself for the direction he had chosen, for the rapid success and special status he had achieved in Ethiopia. But now, somehow, switches had been thrown, and he found his train was on another track, going in another direction. And he wanted to get off, but he wasn't sure how to get off or what to do once he was off. (Was it ever possible to catch a second train?)
Muraviev was dead. He had died suddenly. The papers claimed it was a heart attack after a stormy interview with the Tsar. Probably an argument over China. It was said that Muraviev was largely responsible for Russian involvement there, and now war had broken out.
So Muraviev was dead. Kuropatkin's influence would predominate all the more in the government. The slim hopes that Bulatovich had entertained of returning to Ethiopia were now gone. The train simply couldn't go there anymore.
Why should he do anything? The train was going where it was going anyway. Why struggle? Why strive? Why not just sit back and let it happen? Read a good book. Eat a satisfying meal. Perhaps try to sleep.
A young Chinese girl entered his compartment. Chinese Sonya. Strakhov's woman.
What was she doing here/ If he was on his way to Manchuria, he hadn't even met her yet. He must be dreaming, or maybe he wasn't on his way to Manchuria. Maybe he was leaving.
She smiled at him, stared him boldly in the eye. He averted his glance and looked out the window. She was still staring at him -- he could feel it. He wanted a woman badly. Whenever he relaxed, whenever there was no new challenge to meet, he felt the absence of Asalafetch, the absence of her arms and legs pressed about him. He was tempted to find out if this young girl was as willing as she seemed.
"Do you have anarchist tendencies?" she asked.
"What?" It brought him away from the window.
"Pyotr said you said you have anarchist tendencies. Rather, he said he told you he had them, and you said you did, too. Don't get me wrong, now. I don't mean that as a slur against Pyotr. Actually, I respect him for it -- for telling me and for having those tendencies. It's an aspect of his character I hadn't detected before. And I pride myself on being able to read people through their eyes. I must admit, these anarchist tendencies frightened me at first, but they made me curious too. I thought, here is a man of 'depth,' a man with impulses and energy that he has to keep under control. I couldn't forget something Pyotr said you had said: 'What's the virtue of a virtuous life if you don't have to struggle to act that way?'
"You don't believe. I can see it from your eyes. You were napping and I woke you. You're wondering 'Who is this girl?' and "What's she talking about/' Well, my name is Sonya. You may remember when your men rescued me at Hailar. Now I'm engaged to Major Strakhov. Well, not actually engaged. The general won't let us make it official yet. But good as engaged, because Major Strakhov is a most reliable and responsible man. I think very highly of him. Someday I'll love him; I know I will. But here I am rambling on about my private business. I'm always doing that; not just to anyone, but to people like you. I've heard so much about you that I feel I've known you for years. And when Pyotr told me that you said you had anarchist tendencies too, I just wanted to run over here and tell you that I think none the worse of you for it; that I respect you all the more. And yes, I wanted to meet you. I've wanted to meet you for some time now. And now's the time that I got the urge actually to come up to you and speak to you, and I've done it. Pleased to meet you, sir." And she curtsied.
"Where are we?' he asked, fascinated by the lively good-natured flow of her voice, and the way her eyes, so slightly out of line, caught and held his attention.
"Kuan-ch'eng-tzu."
"Kuan what?"
Sonya laughed. "Yes, you're half asleep, exhausted. Kuan-ch'en-tsu. Remember? General Orlov sent you to check the road to Harbin, to make contact with the Russians who had taken Harbin. Strakhov told me all about it."
"Harbin... yes..."
"It was after the Battle of the Hsing-An Mountains. And while you were gone, we met the army of General Rennekampf at Tsitsihar. Rennenkampf them took command of the cavalry from both armies, leaving Orlov with the infantry, and raced toward the city of Kirin."
"Oh, God, yes, Rennenkampf," Bulatovich remembered. "Has he taken Kirin yet?"
"No, not yet. He's such a brave commander. Strakhov speaks highly of him, thinks he's far better than Orlov."
"He would," mumbled Bulatovich, wiping the sleep from his eyes and slowly getting up from the ground.
"But of course. They say that Rennenkampf captured Tsitsihar with less than five hundred Cossacks -- and that was a well-fortified city with a garrison of more than nine thousand."
"And nobody's going to beat him to Kirin."
"Certainly not. Strakhov says that would be awful. He's thinking of our future, you see. He understands the ways of the army. It's all very strange to me. But he feels it's very important to be with the army that gets credit for taking Kirin. And he's very pleased that Rennenkampf's in charge now, because Rennenkampf understands how important these details can be. Why, ever since he met up with Orlov and took command of the cavalry regiment, we've been moving at breakneck speed."
"I know. I had to race to catch up with you."
"Yes, Pyotr was telling me. You were off on patrol with the armies met. And you were on the road for nearly two weeks."
"Fine. I'm glad you have some of the facts straight. As for 'anarchist tendencies,' that's a malicious rumor. I'm a Christian and a loyal servant of the Tsar."
"You needn't apologize. There's nothing wrong wit being a rebel. Really. To hear Pyotr talk, a person would be less of a person without those tendencies. Like his need for revenge. If he were a true Christian, he would have just accepted his brother's death as God's will; everything that happens is God's will. But he couldn't. Something inside of him rebelled. And he went riding off to revenge. Laperdin explained."
"Look, I'm tired. I want to sleep. What do you want of me?"
"It's a missionary," she said in a loud whisper.
"A what?"
"Some forty miles south of here, a missionary is in trouble. I heard form a Chinese Christian convert who managed to escape. Boxers have surrounded the church. Any day, any hour, when the mood strikes, they will kill him and the converts who are with him."
"What business is that of mine?"
"But you're a hero."
Bulatovich laughed. "Look, young lady, if you want something done, get your Major Strakhov to see to it. I'm just a subordinate here. I'm not some knight-errant with the right to go riding off rescuing everybody in trouble. Tell Strakhov about it, he'll..."
"I did. He'll do nothing. Rennenkampf's waiting for the right moment to strike Kirin."
"From what I've heard of him, I'd say he's waiting for the reporters to get here. No point in performing heroics unless it gets proper publicity."
"Well, he is waiting, whatever he's waiting for. I don't understand any of this military business. I'm sure he's a great general and Strakhov's a great major. But they're not interested in what happens to a missionary."
"And you are?"
"I was raised by one."
"And why isn't he taking care of you now?"
"Because no one rescued him when he needed it. I was in Hailar. I saw it with my own eyes. The Boxers surrounded the church and waited. Three days, four days. I lost count. They must have been purposely torturing us. By day you couldn't see them and you couldn't hear them, but you knew they were there, waiting to kill you if you stepped out of the church. By night they set off firecrackers and shot their guns wildly and made hideous shrill screams, as if any moment they would attack. Father Ioann led us in prayer. There were thirty of us. Women and children. All Chinese Christians. We prayed that a savior would come. But on one came. On the third day or the fourth day, they attacked. We had no weapons. Father Ioann didn't want us to fight at all. He just knelt there in front of the icons and waited. But the women picked up chairs and boards and metal -- one even used a cross -- and swung wildly at the Boxers as they poured through the doors. One of the women must have hit me by mistake or fallen on me. When I woke up, the bodies of two women were on top of me. Everyone was dead, even Father Ioann, even the littlest children. I cowered in a corner, behind the panels of icons, for several days. There was water and some wine and bread for the sacraments. The stench of the dead was sickening, but I daren't show my face outside for fear of the Boxers. It was one of your men -- Sofronov -- who found me there."
"I remember," he replied gently. "But what do you expect of me now?"
"I expect you to act honorably, like the true hero you are. I expect you to do what's right simply because it must be done, because the life of this missionary and the lives of his converts are at stake. You aren't the kind of man who takes risks only for publicity and personal advancement."
Bulatovich laughed weakly. "Where did you get this notion?"
"I can tell things. Really I can. I can look into a man's eyes and know what kind of a man he is. And you are a hero, believe me. Besides, if you don't do this, you'll just be sitting idly about camp."
"And Kirin?"
"That's Rennenkampf's business and Strakhov's business. That's military politics, not war. They don't need you, and they don't want you. Strakhov told me all about it."
"He did?"
Yes. He was with Rennenkampf when you and your Mazeppy finally caught up with the regiment. 'Who are those creatures?' asked Rennenkampf. He can be quite haughty when he wants to be. 'Are they some sort of marauding mercenaries? More of those damnable railway guards, with their loose discipline and their foul habits?'
"'No, Your Excellency,' replied Strakhov. 'I regret to admit that they are part of our regiment.' You see, he doesn't really care much for you. He doesn't understand you the way I do.
"'Your regiment?' asked Rennenkampf in disbelief.
"'Yes, perhaps General Orlov mentioned to you a certain Staff-Rotmister Bulatovich?'
"'The name does sound familiar,' said Rennenkampf.
"'He's an incorrigible glory hunter, with a tendency to disregard orders.' You see even Strakhov thinks you're an anarchist. And I haven't said a word to him about it." She quickly shifted back to her Strakhov voice. "'You know the type, I'm sure, Your Excellency. Unquestionably brave, but far too independent in this thoughts and actions for one so lowly in rank. He's forever trying to upstage his superiors and walk away with all the credit and glory. Unfortunately, this being wartime and what with the shortage of officers, we've had to make use of him. Mostly, we send him off with small patrols, trying to keep him away form the rest of the men. A bad influence.'
"'Indeed,' answered Rennenkampf. 'I know how to deal with men like that. Forget your patrols. Let him rot in camp.' That's what he said: 'rot in camp.' You won't be going to Kirin. They're going to leave you while they go off to get all the glory. But you don't want that kind of glory, and you don't want to rot. I can see that. Anyone could see that, looking at those eyes of yours."
He pulled down his glasses and looked over them. "How can you tell? These are rather thick lenses to see through.
She smiled back. "You will then? I knew you would."
"Maybe," he laughed. "Just maybe. If what you say is true and they go riding off and leave me here with the Mazeppy, maybe we could slip away for a day or two and nobody would be any the worse for it." His tone became more serious. "Do you think your missionary can wait?"
"I don't think he has any choice. I just pray that he'll still be alive when you get to him."
Kuan'ch'eng-tsu, September 22, 1900
"Sonya," Bulatovich said softly. "My Sonya."
Sonya Vassilchikova had sent him a letter, at last. It read:
Dearest Sasha. I love you. I tried to hate you, to forget you, but I can't. It's been dreadful here at Kovno. My mother's forever inviting eligible young men to come and visit. She's determined to marry me off, and Father's washed his hands of the matter. Mother claims she always had a soft spot for you until you went off and volunteered for Manchuria. She took that as a personal affront and talks about it all the time -- to me, to all her friends. She makes it sound like you were a scoundrel, leading me on and then running off to Africa and then to China; like my life was ruined by it; like I'm past my prime already. It's dreadful having to listen to her. I don't think she'll let you past the door when you come back.
But all her talk just reminds me of you, makes me miss you all the more. Please come back. I'm tired of playing the decorous young lady. I've written dozens of letters like this at night and torn them up in the morning. But this time, I'm going to give it to a servant girl and have her run and post it right away, before I have a chance to change my mind. I do love you. What does it matter that my parents will try to keep us apart? We'll run off together -- to Africa, to China, to wherever you want to go. I'm yours. Do you understand/ I'll do anything to make you happy. Absolutely anything.
I don't know what happened in Africa to change you; you looked and sounded so distant, preoccupied. I only hope that you've been able to sort out your problems since then. We had so little time to get reacquainted.
I do love you. I do so much want to love you. Just come back to me safely. I want you whole and sound to take in my arms...
Tears. He could feel her tears. No, rain. It was raining. He awoke, with rain dripping in his face, and rolled over. The letter. He groped quickly in the dawn twilight and found two wet sheets of paper. The ink had run and was indecipherable.
"Sonya!" he exclaimed aloud.
"Are you awake?" he heard.
"Sonya/"
"Yes, it's me." Chinese Sonya turned up the flap. "I hoped you were awake, but I didn't dare wake you. Then I heard you call my name. It was as if you were dreaming..."
"Yes, yes," he relied impatiently. "Don't just stand there in the rain."
She ducked and entered his little tent. They touched. He recoiled. She noticed the letter. "oh, what a shame. I hoe it wasn't anything important?"
"What do you want?" he asked angrily, as if she were somehow responsible for the loss of the letter.
"Rennenkampf has left for Kirin."
"And Strakhov?"
"He went too."
"Kupferman?"
"He's been feeling poorly, hasn't budged from his tarantass for a week. The doctors go running back and forth. Nobody seems to know what's wrong with him."
"how many men did they take?"
"Just two squadrons."
Bulatovich laughed. "Either he's a fool or a genius. That's a city of over a hundred thousand."
"Strakhov was quite confident. He said, 'The fewer the men, the greater the glory.'"
Bulatovich laughed. "So now you want me to save your precious missionary?"
"Yes. Now, you must -- while your superiors are gone."
"He's probably dead. It's been nearly two weeks."
"But surely you'll try?"
"It's a risk. We don't even know if there's anyone left to save, and you want us to go risk our lives. I don't think I could ask the Mazeppy to do such a thing. Not now..."
"Now? But they're ready. They're waiting. Even Shemelin."
"Shemelin? But he's an invalid."
"He was an invalid. I just came form his tent. He was frantic. 'The boy is gone!' he said. 'What?' I asked 'The boy. Your orphan boy. Mitya. The boy who led to my rebirth and conversion. He has vanished. Like he had never been here at all.' He was trembling. I looked about and could see no sign of him myself. It certainly was strange for Mitya to take off like that in the rain at night. But you never know with an orphan. Maybe his parents had died on just such a night. Maybe he'll come back when the sun shines.
"'Relax,' I told Shemelin.
"'Relax, you tell me. Was he ever here at all?'
"'He is as real as I am.'
"'Don't say that. Don't!' And he took hold of me and shook me. When I told him he was hurting me, he stopped and lowered his head in shame. 'I'm sorry,' he said; 'it comes over me sometimes. I get this feeling that there's nobody in the world but me; everybody else is just my dreams and nightmares. Maybe there are other real people, but I have no way of knowing who's real and who isn't. It's like there' just me and God, and God is testing me with all these dreams.'
"I slapped him. 'Now stop this foolishness,' I said to him. 'Rennenkampf has left for Kirin. Bulatovich and the Mazeppy are ready to go rescue the missionary and his converts. Good grant that they're still alive. And you're going to go along."
"'Me?' he asked. 'but my back. It hurts just to breathe.'
"'Then just don't breathe.'
"'But I'm a Christian now, a true Christian. How can I fight?'
"'How can you not fight?' I asked.
"'I have to pray,' he whined. 'I have to stay here and pray. You know the little book with the hero without a name -- The Way of the Pilgrim. It once belonged to your missionary father. You and Sofronov helped explain it to me. I'm trying to learn to pray without ceasing like it says in the Bible, like the hero in the book does. When I pray, the pain stops. When I learn to pray without ceasing, I'll never have pain again.'
"'Then pray with your saber. Pray with deed, not word.'
"He stared at me, like he didn't know what to make of me. Then he smiled and crawled out of his tent and stood up straight for the first time in a month. Just to look at him you could see he had new faith. It's awful when a man loses faith. He was tired of being an invalid, especially after the novelty had worn off. The crowds had died down and there was nothing left but the pain. The prayer took his mind off the pain and the boy reminded him that his experience of God had been real. Now the boy was gone. But I could see from his face, at least for the moment, that the pain was gone, too. He was ready to take his chances with the world again."
"Then let Shemelin lead them."
"But you're the one they look up to. You're the one they worship."
"Worship?" Bulatovich laughed uneasily, sitting stiffly as far from her as he could in the narrow tent. He couldn't keep from glancing at her soaking-wet tunic that clung to her breasts revealingly. His back, rubbing against the side of the tent, got wet from the rain; but he didn't budge.
She seemed to sense his discomfort. She made no effort to move closer to him and looked at the ground. "Many people look up to you. Why, Pyotr, for one, almost worships you. He said so himself, just the other day. I was asking him about his sweetheart, Nadyezhda. He wears her picture in a locket. A lovely girl. I asked if she had written to him. He was obviously upset by the question. She probably hasn't, or the letters went astray or were ruined, like your there. I do hope it wasn't important. Not a letter from a sweetheart?" she rambled on, still looking at the ground, not really wanting an answer. "I asked him about Nadyezhda, and he asked me about Strakhov. He doesn't understand what a fine man Strakhov really is. He's the father of my child, you know."
"Your child?"
"My child to be. It's too soon to know for sure. But I feel it; I know it in my own way. And I'm so proud and happy. I had to tell someone; so I told Pyotr, and now I'm telling you. But you mustn't say a word to Strakhov. He might think I was trying to shame him into marrying me, that I was trying to trap him. But he has to marry me out of love alone. Nothing else makes sense if we're to spend a lifetime together."
"Why are you gelling me this?"
"Yes. Excuse me. It's my way to talk too much. I just wanted to tell you about Pyotr. He said, 'People have a bit of God in them.' Maybe you'd call it 'soul,' but Pyotr called it 'a bit of God'; and I rather like that. Soul makes me think of something separate and individual. But he meant what makes us one -- that special spark. He said that's how he can be both a Christian and an anarchist. 'If a bit of God is in us, then maybe our impulses aren't evil -- not all of them, anyway -- even when they go counter to the teaching. I don't know. I think that when we care for someone, it's the God-in-us responding to the God-in-him or the God-in-her.' And he said, 'Other times, I feel like I myself am nothing, but there are gods out there in the world -- Bulatovich for one. And I feel honored to serve him.' That's what he said."
Bulatovich took off his glasses and rubbed the lenses on his shirt. "So poor little Pyotr thinks I'm a god, does he? Well, it's a shame that saying and believing don't make things real. Butorin thinks they do. He doesn't know anymore when he's lying and when he's telling the truth. A fine pack of madmen I have about me. And me the worst." He held his head in his hands and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "That letter. I could imagine it saying all kinds of things. But now I'll never know for sure what I saw and what I imagined; like Shemelin, I'll be plagued with that doubt, because I'm not quite as mad as Butorin." He shook his head sharply. "I'm sorry. I was dreaming. It takes a while to wake up. Especially when a young lady like yourself appears, how am I to know when I'm dreaming?"
"Then get up an go. The missionary may still be alive. But who knows? Maybe they'll kill him and the others with him when the rain stops. God prove yourself a god or a hero or whatever you like." She looked him straight in the eye.
And he stared back at her as if to say, "Can we really be here at dawn in my tent in the rain saying these things?"
She reached out and took his hand. "Yes, I am real and you are real. And men are in real danger. Be proud of your pride. Use your strength. There's no sin in saving a man. The Mazeppy are waiting." She squeezed his hand and left as suddenly as she had appeared.
Just after she left, it occurred to him that he had more he wanted to tell her. Something she had said reminded him about God. Once in the jungle and once as a child, he had had a sensation. It lasted only a moment. "Light and warmth," he wanted to tell her, "and a feeling of peace, yes, peace with the grass and the ground and the sky. Then it was gone. I think people have called such a feeling 'seeing God,' but I didn't literally see him. Rather, it was as if He were in me. The moment passed so quickly, I wondered if it had really happened or if I had imagined it. But I hoped it meant that God is here in me. And probably in others as well. I felt that to find god I should look inside myself. But I've never had the leisure to explore that possibility. Or I never made the time to do it. Probably, I'm afraid that if I look too hard, I won't see anything at all.
"There have been other times, too," he confessed to himself, "times of extreme and sinful pride, times when I felt that I was not just an ordinary man like other men, when I expected that somehow in my case the laws of nature were or could be suspended, when I thought that I could be stronger than other men or braver than other men or more than man, more than mortal. And maybe when I've pushed myself to the limits of physical endurance, maybe that's what I was testing, asking my body again and again, 'Am I just a mortal? Or can I be a god?' I know it sounds insane. It's only a matter of a moment here and there, a moment of foolish prideful exultation, followed all too quickly by pain and exhaustion. But I have felt that, fool that I am."
With that he shook himself, stood up, and strode toward his horse. It was time to act.
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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