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/#ethiopia
Strakhov looked up in anger. "Bulatovich. So you finally decided to come back, did you? And on the ninth day. Did you save your precious priest?"
"Yes, sir."
"And how many men did you lose doing it?"
"Two of the priest's helpers died. One of us was wounded."
"Badly?"
"So I'm told."
"so a Russian soldier was badly wounded trying to save a Roman Catholic priest, and you feel no guilt, no regret?"
"For that? No, sir."
"It's your damnable luck. That's what makes you so callous. I've heard that story from your man Butorin about that general in Africa -- how he said you would never know what true courage is until that damnable luck of yours ran out. Well, it's run out now."
"Yes, sir, I'm afraid it has."
"Do I detect a note of humility? Humility from the great Bulatovich? Wonder of wonders. What a pity it comes too late, or rather you come too late. You were under strict orders to return within three days. And if you weren't back within a week, Rennenkampf made it clear that you would be treated as a deserter. I warned you myself. I told you that we would be moving shortly, that we could not disrupt the general plan to go racing off after one missionary. I ordered you not to go to Rennenkampf. You disregarded my order. You went over my head. And Rennenkampf let you indulge yourself, within certain clearly stated limits. Well, your seven days ended two days ago."
"Request permission to speak to General Rennenkampf directly, sir."
"Permission denied. Actually, the request is an impossible one. He left for the south with the main body of troops several days ago.
"The war is over. We won, if you wondered. There are a few minor pockets of resistance, but by and large all of Manchuria is under Russian control.
"The cavalry regiment is under orders to rendezvous with Orlov and return with him to Harbin. The men will be returning to Trans-Baikal in time to help finish up the harvest. We just have a few administrative details to take care of first -- you for one. What's wrong with you, man? Can't you stand up straight? You look like you haven't slept for days."
"You're right, sir. I haven't slept much lately."
"Well, then go sleep. Don't just stand around here like a drunken fool. You haven't been drinking, have you?"
"No, sir."
"Then go. Get out of here. Colonel Kupferman and I will consider your case in due order. Go, I said. That's an order."
Strakhov was quite proud of himself. He would enjoy telling this story to Sonya. He had acted decisively, with authority. Bulatovich was obviously cowed, bewildered to see him so strong-willed and in command.
With Kupferman acting strangely, suffering from sudden fits of anxiety, incoherence, and depression, Rennenkampf had relied heavily on Strakhov these past few weeks. And Strakhov had risen to the occasion, always a discreet half step behind his commander, making no attempt to upstage a superior. And Rennenkampf clearly appreciated his competence and discretion. He had written a letter of commendation for Strakhov's permanent file and had recommended him for the Order of Ann of the Second Degree with Swords for his part in the capture of Kirin. But having such a story to tell Sonya about her precious Bulatovich gave him greater satisfaction than any medal.
In walked Kupferman, beaming with delight. "We've got him now. That magic of his must have worn off. He's just a plain mortal in more trouble than he knows what to do with."
"Indeed, sir. You should have been here, sir, to see him squirm."
"Here? Bulatovich? You mean Bulatovich was here?"
"Just a few minutes ago. He was standing right there at attention. Saluting as smartly as he could. Giving me a 'yes, sir' and a 'no, sir.' I've never seen him so docile. I suppose he knows when he's beaten."
"But that's impossible. I saw him not half an hour ago. On a stretcher. Badly wounded."
"He said that one of them was badly wounded. You probably mistook..."
"No mistake. I saw him with my own eyes. They were changing the dressing. A nasty wound in the side. He was pale, like he'd lost a lot of blood. Looked like he hadn't slept in days. I doubt that he could stand up if he wanted to."
"But he did, I tell you," insisted Strakhov. "He stood right here."
"My God!' exclaimed Kupferman, pointing at fresh blood on the ground. "What kind of man is that?"
Strakhov said nothing. He simply stood there, staring at the blood, clenching and unclenching his fists. There was no way he could tell this story to Sonya.
"I found him behind Strakhov's tent, face flat on the ground," Kupferman repeated for the tenth time to the small group, mostly Mazeppy, gathered at the hospital tent. They were all nervous, anxious for any news, any explanation regarding Bulatovich. They kept going over remembered details, trying to find some meaning in them. "Why did he do such a damned fool thing?" asked Kupferman. "Why risk his life to show off to a superior?"
"Pride," answer Trofim. "He's a proud man."
"And he'd die for pride?"
"He'd sell his soul for it," Trofim replied, crossing himself quickly with two fingers.
"But why? Why this chasing after missionaries, this disregard for discipline? Why this infernal pride?"
"He tries to prove something to himself," said Starodubov. "He's not proud, Trofim. He wants to make himself proud."
"He tests himself," offered Shemelin.
Kupferman turned pale, as if he just now realized that Shemelin, this man who had caused him so much trauma was standing right beside him and he himself, a colonel, was fraternizing with such men, talking with them on a equal basis. "But why?" he asked angrily. "Why does your leader act this way?"
Laperdin turned to Kupferman and lifted his glasses for a moment to stare at him. "That's what he asks himself. That's what fascinates me about the man -- he keeps asking himself. He doesn't expect to get answers from anyone else. He acts as if all the answers were inside himself. 'Is there a limit? Where is the limit? Why is there a limit?'"
"The God-in-us," added Pyotr. "He's trying to get in touch with the God-in-us."
"Nonsense," asserted Kupferman.
"It's a matter of soul, sir," suggested Sofronov, in a respectful tone. "He's not just testing his body; he's also testing his will, his spirit, his soul. And not just testing it. He's also making it strong by using it."
"But he has no discipline," insisted Kupferman, once again absorbed in the question at hand, half forgetting who he was and whom he was talking to. "He seems to expect rewards and recognition and advancement as if they were his by merit, by right. But they are only his if they are granted by superiors. I don't care how brave you are, what great deeds you have performed; you must obey. Even if the orders are foolish, you must obey. That's what we have to teach recruits. That's what someone should have taught my father.
"A fine example he set," he said aloud to himself. "How Mother could have loved him, disorderly beggar that he was... and she did love him, she still laughs warmly whenever she speaks of him. I never made her laugh.
"But Bulatovich, yes, Bulatovich, he's an educated man, an officer. He should set an example. Only by the example of men like him can we hope to instill the proper discipline in these men. From him I expect unswerving discipline. And I expect him to strive for the same from his men. I expect..."
Sonya laughed, breaking the seriousness of the moment. She was kneeling by Bulatovich's bedside, wiping his brow with a cold wet cloth. She was paying no attention to Kupferman and the Mazeppy outside the tent. Dr. Volf was joking. Tense with concern, she laughed loudly, even though the joke was a bad one.
Kupferman whirled around as if the laugh had awakened him. "Anna, is that you?" Everyone fell silent. He looked about, bewildered, then embarrassed. Why had he thought of his wife? He thought of her so rarely. And it had been so long since he had last heard her laugh like that. Not since the early days of their marriage, before he had instilled proper habits in her, before she had learned to obey. And then again, she had laughed like that when she was having that affair. He hated to admit it, but he missed that laugh, that joyous look in her eye -- youth with all its disorderly hopes and desires.
Why was he standing here, with everyone staring at him? That was Sonya, Strakhov's Sonya who had laughed -- lucky Strakhov, so young and she so very, very young. Kupferman found himself turned toward the open tent, staring at her. She was looking back at him smiling, with a touch of pity, pity for the old man who was losing his wits. What was he doing here? Why had he talked so freely with common soldiers? Why was he lingering here for them to stare at him? He longed to stretch out in his old familiar armchair. He longed for his wife. could she laugh again? he wondered. Would he ever make her laugh?
"Your precious Sonya was there," Kupferman told Strakhov.
"Where?"
"At the hospital tent, with Bulatovich."
Strakhov grabbed his hat, as if to go immediately.
"He's flat on his back," laughed Kupferman. "Unconscious. No need to be jealous. Not yet." He had never chided Strakhov about his woman before, had never envied him before; maybe because he had never before realized what he himself was missing.
"Sir, that man should be court-martialed for desertion."
"You can't court-martial a man who is unconscious."
"Then we'll wait until he regains consciousness and then court-martial him."
"Such passion, my dear Strakhov. We have our orders, remember. We must rejoin Orlov and proceed to Harbin."
"You yourself said he's dangerous. He has an unnatural effect on people. Even on me, I must say -- standing there like that when he's half dead and never letting on that he had been wounded. Only a showman, a rebel would do such a thing. He must be stopped. He must be court-martialed."
"Well, I'll not have his blood on my hands. I'll not play Pontius Pilate to his Christ. Bring him along. Let Orlov deal with him."
"I thought of that, too," replied Strakhov. "But Dr. Stankevich says he can't be moved."
"Then don't move him. Simply leave him here. If he lives, that's the will of God. And if he dies, that's the will of God, too. I'll have nothing to do with it. Nothing, you understand? I'm tired of being responsible for people. People I don't even know. Let them be responsible for themselves. And I'll try to be responsible for myself. I'm going to retire. Yes, retire. And the pension be damned. I'm going home. Yes, home. It's time I went home to my wife. If Bulatovich tries to start a rebellion or whatever he's up to, that's his business, that's his test, his trial. If I try to live peacefully with my wife, that's my trial. God grant us both strength and wisdom."
"I don't understand, sir. I don't understand you at all."
"It's time for me to see to my soul, son. My everlasting soul."
Sonya went to Strakhov's tent early that evening. She wanted to be sure to get there before he did. She had been sick again that morning. She felt certain now that she was pregnant, and she wanted to tell him. She wanted to share her joy with him, and even her qualms about forcing him into marriage couldn't restrain her anymore. She simply had to tell him.
She had imagined disrobing and waiting for him naked and giving him great pleasure before she told him. But when she took off her clothes, the ground felt lumpy and hard and cold. She was uncomfortable. Her stomach started bothering her again. Her body was changing at a bewildering pace. She was both excited and frightened by the process taking place in her. She was in a mood just to sit in a corner, at peace with herself, alone.
But Strakhov would be coming back to the tent shortly, and he had come to expect that they would make love as soon as he set foot inside. She smile at the thought. She did it for pleasure and for pleasure of giving pleasure. And he enjoyed it, too; she was sure of that. But more than this, he seemed to need it -- physically and mentally. She could recollect times when he got no pleasure from it at all -- he was so wrapped up in the business of the day -- but yet he insisted on doing it. men were so strange.
As for whatever business of the moment was distracting him, she tried not to meddle in that. After his initial help in seeing to the problems of the Chinese Christians in Hailar, he had put up increasing resistance to similar requests from her. it made him uncomfortable. He felt a conflict of interests, or was afraid that others would construe things that way, especially when he was in a position to make decisions himself. How could anyone expect him to judge a petition fairly, on its merits, when he was living with its chief proponent? She sensed his discomfort and respected it. She never discussed with him the matter of Lavoisier. Thinking she was sparing Strakhov's sensitivities, she had gone straight to Bulatovich -- the man most likely actually to carry out the rescue, officially or unofficially. She had intended her silence as a sign of respect for Strakhov, but he seemed to have taken it otherwise. That was why she felt it was all the more important to put him in a good mood before telling him about the baby, to do everything she could imagine him wanting her to do, even if she didn't really feel like it, even if she would rather just be alone.
She was unused to the climate of this hilly region of central Manchuria. The heavy rains of September had ended abruptly with an October chill in the air. The ground was cold. She wrapped herself up in a blanket and huddled in a corner.
She must have fallen asleep. The next thing she knew, Strakhov was unwrapping her and caressing her rather anxiously, doing all the little things that normally excited her, but doing them impatiently and a little roughly. She was a bit put off that he hadn't spoken to her yet or even kissed her gently on the lips. She still wanted to please him, but her body simply wasn't responding to him. She was tempted to pretend that she was still asleep, half hoping that he would lose interest and leave her alone tonight, half curious about what he would do if he thought she was asleep.
Her lack of response made him still more impatient. His fingers hurt her.
"No, please, stop," she said quietly, and firmly pushed his hand away. "I just don't feel like it tonight. I'm sorry."
He shut her up with an insistent kiss on the mouth, and his hand insinuated itself where it had been before.
"Please." She pushed it away again. And he kissed her hard again, forcing his tongue into her mouth despite her resistance. She pulled her mouth away. "I want to make you happy, dear. Believe me, I do. I'm sorry. I just don't feel like it tonight. But if you feel you have to, then do it quickly, please, just do it."
Much to her surprise, he didn't tenderly cradle her in his arms and tell her that he loved her, that it was only giving her pleasure that gave him pleasure, that he understood, that it was all right. That's what he would have done, what he had done more than once in their first days together. But no, this time he simply went about his business, as if her lack of participation didn't bother him. Perhaps it even inspired him to be a bit more forceful, a bit rougher, as if he were trying to prove his manliness to her or trying to arouse her. She couldn't help but stiffen, looking up into the dark where his face must be, wondering what was going on in his mind.
It seemed to last forever; he seemed to drag it out on purpose. Or was he having trouble getting aroused himself? But finally it was over. And he rolled over and lay there beside her, still breathing heavily, not having uttered a word of endearment.
For a moment, she thought that she should tell him about the baby now anyway. Maybe he'd understand her moodiness if she told him. But instead, without really thinking, she said, "Bulatovich is quite sick."
"Is that all you can think about -- Bulatovich?" he snapped back, sitting up quickly. "You make love to me -- if you can call that making love -- and the first thing you think of is Bulatovich?"
"Are you jealous, dear?"
"I've got every right to be," he snarled. "You're obsessed with him."
"Oh, you are jealous!" She suddenly hugged him tenderly. "I do love you, you know. You're my man. My only man."
"And Bulatovich?"
"Well, he is sick. Very sick. It turns out he's not only wounded, they think he has typhus, too. Caught it from the missionary he saved."
"Typhus!" Strakhov shouted angrily. "Don't go near him again. That's an order!"
She smiled at this sign that he really cared for her.
But he continued, "Don't you realize how infectious typhus is? Why, you could pass it on to me."
Quickly, she opened the tent flap. Campfire light streamed into the tent. She examined his eyes closely. Yes, that was what he was thinking -- of himself, just of the danger to himself. At this moment, he was concerned about himself, not her.
She slipped on her clothes and quietly crawled out of the tent.
"Where are you going?"
"To the hospital tent."
"To see Bulatovich?"
"Yes."
"Then don't bother to come back," he replied in a threatening, self-righteous tone, as if he expected her to apologize and crawl back in with him, afraid to lose his love.
"Don't worry. I have no intention of coming back. Ever."
From October 7 to October 12, Strakhov lingered at Ta-ku-shan. Kupferman left on October 8 with the main body of the regiment to rejoin Rennenkampf, but Strakhov stayed behind, ostensibly to clear up some minor administrative matters.
He never once went near the hospital tent. He never again brought up the matter of Bulatovich. The question of court-martialing him or exonerating him or giving him a medal (as the rescued priest insisted he deserved) was never officially resolved. Strakhov simply removed Bulatovich's name and the names of the Mazeppy from his roster. Detachments had met and merged and re-formed and split again. Some would stay until the new status of Manchuria was established by treaty. Perhaps some would be stationed here permanently, and Manchuria would become in fact, if not in name, a part of the Russian Empire. But soon this regiment and many of the other Russian units in Manchuria would dissolve. The troops would all go home. As far as the records were concerned, as of October 12, the Mazeppy were no longer with the regiment. They were no longer Strakhov's responsibility.
As she rode away, it was hard not to look back; but he restrained himself. After all, he had been lucky, he told himself. He could have married her and found out only later that she had grown tired of him and was interested in other men. She was only a child, after all. And promiscuous. From the way she had acted when they first met, he should have known better than to get involved with her. Fortunately, he hadn't written to his fiancee, Olga, for two months; so there was no way she could know about his infidelity to her. He would be coming home a bit of a hero, with at least one medal and a good chance for eventual promotion to lieutenant colonel. It was time he finally got married. Sonya had made him realize that. He would certainly miss her. She could be so titillating when she wanted to be; and those last five nights at Ta-ku-shan had been dreadfully lonely. But he was looking forward to seeing Olga, to seeing her reaction to the new man he was proud to have become. He would marry her -- quickly. They had waited long enough. It wouldn't be long before he'd be playing with her some of the same games he had so enjoyed with Sonya.
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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