This chapter is an excerpt from a novel in progress entitled The Name of Man, a sequel to The Name of Hero. Comments and suggestions welcome. You can contact the author directly: Richard Seltzer, 33 Gould St., West Roxbury, MA 02132. seltzer@samizdat.com
Permission is granted to make and distribute verbatim electronic copies of this novel for non-commercial purposes provided the copyright notice and this permission notice are preserved on all copies. This novel has not yet been published in paper form.
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.
The Name of Hero was published by Tarcher/Houghton Mifflin in 1981. You can buy the hard cover edition of that book:
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 the full text of The Name of Hero and related material at www.samizdat.com/readers.html#name and www.samizdat.com/readers.html#ethiopia
St. Petersburg, Russia, Saturday, March 1 (February 16 old style), 1902
[draft of April 8, 1989, revised March 1998]
That afternoon, Sonya's father, Prince General Sergei Vassilchikov, arrived in St. Petersburg. From the train station, he proceeded by cab -- past the Admiralty and the Winter Palace, beyond the bend in the Neva River to the Tauride Palace. There he and several hundred other high-ranking Guad officers gathered for an inspirational address from their titular Corps commander, Grand Duke Vladimir, uncle of the Tsar.
Outside, fur-wrapped children of aristocrats shrieked and laughed as they skate don the pond in the park. Inside, the officers filed quietly and respectfully through the Round Room, past a bust of Tsar Alesander II, liberator of the serfs, and into the white and gold Ball Room, where, over a hundred years before, Catherine the Great had danced with her lover Potemkin, conqueror of the Crimea or "Tauris."
Although a prince and a general, Sonya's father was only fifty-second in precedence in this glittering assemblage.
He stood aside, chatted with his old friend, the rotund and jovial Colonel Molchanov, and watched the others parade by. Well aware of the importance of pomp and tradition to morale, and the importance of morale to fighting readiness, he savored occasions like this.
The heavy cavalry -- the Guard Lancers or Uhlans -- marched past in their blue tunics with scarlet facings and gray-blue trousers, with the knee-high black boots and spurs that were standard in cavalry regiments. Next came the Chevalier or Cuirassier Guards, who resembled knights of old, with their white armor on chest and back, and their brass helmets topped with silver double-headed eagles. The Horse Grenadiers, renowned for their fencing ability, paraded in green tunics with red facings and black trousers. The Guard Cossacks, with the riding skills of circus acrobats, were decked out in bright red, blue and crimson.
Finally, filing toward the far back of the hall, came officers of the two light cavalry or hussar regiments -- the best trained and disciplined military horsemen in the Empire. Against all the splendid attire displayed in this hall, their uniforms stood out as the most striking by far. Each had elaborate horizontal braid work across the front of the tunic -- characteristic of hussars, who were typically the best dressed soldiers in any army.
The Grodno Hussars had dark green tunics with white braid and crimson trousers and dark green high cylindrical cloth hats or "busbies," each with a red cloth "busby bag" for ornament, and a white plume on top.
Then last in precedence, first in excellence, Colonel Molchanov's regiment, the regiment Sonya's father had once commanded, the Emperor's Hussars or, more precisely, His Majesty's Life Guard Hussars -- in scarlet tunics with gold braid and gold waist sash, blue trousers, and short red caps with black visors.
The officers moved quickly, but ceremoniously, all in proper order, all to their proper places. Without rehearsal, each knew the protocol, knew the rank, the time in rank, and the degree of deference due to each of his fellow officers.
Across the middle fo the Ball Room, above oil paintings of scenes from the Battle of Borodino and of skirmishes in the Caucasus, were draped banners with the imperial double-headed eagle in black on white. Up and down the aisles were unfurled the standards of each of the Guard regiments, replete with medals and ribbons betokening honors bestowed on the regiments by generations of grateful tsars.
The Preobrazhensky Regiment sat up front. The regimental commander occupied the first seat, and the seat beside him was deliberately left vacant as a proud reminder that the commander of their first battalion, by tradition from the days of Peter the Great, was the Tsar himself.
Facing this assemblage, on a raised platform, between a portrait of himself in younger days and a portrait of his nephew the Tsar, stood Grand Duke Vladimir, titular Guard Corps commander.
Taking his seat beside the Second Cavalry Division commander, Prince General Vassilchikov scanned the room. the younger officers attending such a rare gathering for the first time, sat rigid at attention, wide-eyed with excitement. He remembered himself at that age and beamed with pride that the traditions of the Corps, of the Division, and of his old beloved Regiment were entrusted to such fine men as these.
Then in the back of the hall, in the very last row of the Emperor's Hussars, he spotted the man he had wanted for a son-in-law. There sat Staff-Rotmister Alexander Xavierevich Bulatovich -- a short, tough bundle of unstoppable energy; a natural leader. If only this Bulatovich had stayed put in the Regiment, as he had advised instead of racing off from one corner of the world to another. Then Sonya wouldn't have gotten mixed up with that old Jew professor, and Bulatovich himself would be well on his way in his military career. AS it was, despite neglecting to cultivate influential connections, Bulatovich had recently been appointed commander of the Fifth Squadron. That was an important post that a number of officers with much better connections had struggle dfor. Without deliberately trying to, this Bulatovich inspired respect. His military and leadership talents were too obvious to be overlooked. He would go far, very far, if only he could polish his social and political skills.
Unlike the other newcomers here, Bulatovich betrayed no sign of excitement. His red cap was tilted at an awkward, unmilitary angle so the visor covered his bespectacled eyes. In fact, in the midst of all this splendor, resting his beard on his hand and his elbow on his lap, Bulatoivch had the unprecedented audacity to fall asleep.
Ten years before, as an enlisted man, a volunteer aristocrat in training, a raw recruit with no military school background Alexander Bulatovich had learned form his fellow recruits the art of dozing off while sitting or standing or even riding. the other enlisted men were peasants, hand-picked form other units for their military demeanor and abilities, particularly their horsemanship. Aristocrats who served with them for training purposes were expected to remain aloof from them. But Alex rarely did what the others of his class considered "normal."
He found ceremonial occasions, such as this, an annoying waste of time. Try, as he sometimes did, he couldn't take them seriously, regardless of how exalted the personages involved. Not that he had a disrespectful attitude toward the Tsar or the Empire, but rather that he felt he could better serve them by doing something productive and practical. Besides, he was exhausted, having worked most of the night reviewing details of his latest scheme for the mechanized transport of troops.
"Pursue it in detail," his friend Colonel Molchanov always said. "Pursue it and again pursue it, piece by piece. Don't let yourself be intimidated by the immensity of the task. Take it apart and work the details one by one and thoroughly."
The advice was in tune with Alex' temperament, so he remembered it and often attributed his own persistence to the wisdom and influence of his friend. Molchanov's other admonitions, regarding regimental politics, he politely ignored.
Alex' ultimate goal was to modernize the Russian army, in particular the cavalry. To begin with, he wanted to transform the traditional, prestigious, socially elite Guard regiments into efficient fighting forces. At the moment, he was working out the details of how to make best use of bicycles and the newly invented motorized bicycles and motor cars for moving a squadron of cavalry.
A dozen years before, Mark Twain had mockingly suggested the military use of bicycles in his novel A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court. He had Sir Launcelot and the Knights of the Round Table ride bicycles instead of horses to race to the rescue of King Arthur and the Yankee. It was an excellent idea, deserving of serious consideration and experimentation. For Bulatovich, this meant selecting and procuring equipment, drilling his squadron in cycling in formation over rough terrain, and training them in vehicle maintenance. He foresaw using large motorized vehicles to move men and bicycles within a few miles of the front, and then cycling or motor cycling the rest of the way.
Although Alex loved horses and displays of military horsemanship, he recognized that they were but a means to an end. it was well known that when two armies with equal numbers and armaments clashed, the side with the greater mobility usually won, because it could put its strength to the best use and disrupt the enemy's plans. For centuries, greater mobility had meant better trained cavalry. So the nations of Europe had invested their best efforts and resources to develop the discipline, esprit de corps and elan that can prompt men to charge on horseback in close formation, with orderly and suicidal daring -- the very qualities that made dead heroes of the British Light Brigade in the Crimea.
But, Alex reasoned, if technology created better means for moving troops, then forget the horses and get on with the real business of war. He asked his critics, "How can you know for certain that bicycles and motor vehicles are inappropriate for battle unless you provide intensive training in their use?" Horse-mounted units required unending, daily drill to reach and maintain the level of excellence in horsemanship and discipline necessary for an effective, closely coordinated cavalry charge. it was only reasonable to suppose that success in the use of bicycles would require the same sort of persistence and attention to detail.
Fortunately, Colonel Molchanov, the regimental commander, sympathized with these notions and was able to release enough funds to equip two troops of sixteen men each. But the idea of the Emperor's Guards riding into battle on bicycles was politically dangerous. Not only was it a break with tradition, but it could also be considered demeaning, as a blemish to the dignity fo the entire Guard Corps. So exercises to determine the optimum distances, techniques, and training for bicycle-mounted maneuvers had to be conducted surreptitiously inside the regimental hippodrome.
If the training were allowed to continue, Alex estimated that by summer they should be able to challenge any two cavalry troops in the Guard Corps in a test of mobility.
Meanwhile there were details to resolve, and political pettiness to deal with. Success was unlikely, and headaches were a certainty. What was the point of it all? he wondered, as weariness overtook him.
Sitting there in the midst of this grand assemblage at the Tauride Palace, Alex dreamt.
He found a spring in the mountains. The clear fresh water rose abruptly from barren rock. It was a forbidding climate. There were no trees, no living creatures, no one and nothing to benefit from the clear cool waters.
He wondered, "Why here where no one can benefit from it? If there is a God, surely all things must have a purpose. But what's the purpose of this spring? Its water just slows and stops and dries in the desert."
Sitting beside it, he wondered if he himself had a purpose, or if all men and all things were just randomly scattered through time and space.
He took a drink, then stood up, determined to give the world a purpose, whether God had given it one or not. For he could not live in a world that was without order and purpose.
With his binoculars, he scanned the horizon for signs of life. Then he set out time and again, returning with his knapsack full of rich soil and seedlings gathered from far off. No matter how long it might take him, he would make this barren spot an oasis.
Climbing the mountain again with a birch tree strapped to his back, his side began to ache from the strain. He stopped. The ache was urgent. His own body was rebelling at the futility of this immense task he had undertaken.
Someone was poking him with an elbow as he awoke. When he opened his eyes, he saw a chest laden with so many medals and ribbons that it could belong to no one other than the great black-bearded Grand Duke himself, standing just two feet away.
"What need does this army have for eccentrics?" boomed the Duke's deep, angry voice.
"But, your Imperial Highness," interceded Colonel Molchanov, respectfully bowing his bald head, as he edged his short rotund body between Bulatovich and this tall specter of doom, "there's a cause for this eccentricity -- a physical cause, that came in the line of duty."
"Indeed?" the Duke sneered.
"He wears his visor low over his eyes on doctor's orders to shield them from light. He was in a typhoon, you understand, in the Sea of Japan, off the coast of Manchuria; and the salt water did permanent damage to his eyes."
"Yes... oh, yes... salt water can be aggravating, I've heard. Sea of Japan? Indeed. Most interesting." His face softened for a moment, then he bellowed, "Staff-Rotmister Bulatovich!"
Alex jumped to his feet and snapped to attention, "Yes, your Imperial Highness."
"I wish to congratulate you -- now that you are finally awake -- for having performed with distinction in the recent actions against the Chinese. "The Sovereign Emperor has assented to bestow on you the Order of Saint Ann in the Second Degree with swords and the Order of Saint Apostle-Like Prince Vladimir in the fourth degree with swords and bow. I congratulate you on your narrow escapes -- both in Manchuria and here; and on your having a commander so loyal and devoted as to risk his neck for you. May you continue to be so fortunate."
Two hours later, in a hurriedly hired room at a nearby restaurant, Molchanov and a number of friends, dignitaries, and hangers-on insisted on celebrating this honor that had come so close to disaster. Sonya's father was conspicuously absent.
Alex always felt uncomfortable in social gatherings. He would rather face an enemy in battle than engage in idle chatter with a politically important personage. Here, he stood apart form the crowd, focusing his attention on the scenes of ancient and modern Greece depicted on silken wallpaper, the black imperial eagle on the fine china, the clinking of crystal, the jangling of ornamental spurs.
"Congratulations, Alex," a stranger from the Cossack Guards threw his arm around Alex' shoulders and gave him a friendly squeeze. Alex smiled back non-commitally. This impromptu gathering that Molchanov had arranged was swarming with people Alex didn't know and had no desire to meet.
"You don't recognize me?" The Cossack Guard continued. "No wonder, I suppose. It's been four or five years. Krasnov, Addis Ababa.
"Yes, of course," Alex made an effort to remember. "Pyotr..."
"Yes. Nikolaevich. Those were the days, weren't they? The elephant hunts and those Amharic women. Have you kept in touch with any of the old crowd?"
"Old crowd?"
"You know. The bunch of us from back in Ethiopia."
"Just Zelepukin and Kapnin."
"Zele who?"
"Zelepukin. They were my orderlies."
"But I meant the people who count," insisted Krasnov.
"Well, Kapnin saved my life. I consider that rather important," Alex smiled.
"But the officers," Krasnov laughed. "The real people. Have you kept in touch with any of them?"
"Can't say that I have."
"Well, they say Chertkov over in the Chevalier Guards is being groomed for the job of regimental commander. Just a matter of time, they say. And Artamanov, remember him? From the General Staff? He was in Manchuria, like you. Did you look him up there? That's an acquaintance it would be politic to follow up." Krasnov winked. "He's going places, I tell you. Made it to major general already.
"You know, I tried to get to Manchuria myself, but I guess I didn't pull the right strings. As for you, I hear you['ll be going to the Pavlovsky Military Institute for their accelerated course. That's a wise move, believe me."
"Colonel Molchanov has recommended it for promotion purposes," Alex admitted. "But I'm far too busy for that right now."
"Never too busy for that, believe me, Alex. As one friend to another. I went there myself, and politically..."
"Excuse me," Alex interjected, extricating himself from his "friend's" lingering embrace. "There's a matter I have to settle with the Colonel."
"Yes, of course, Alex, of course," replied Krasnov, somewhat put off, but recovering quickly. "You always were all business, come to think of it. But do keep in touch now, won't you? Come see me when you're in town. Our barracks are right across from the Alexander Nevsky Lavra."
With a few deft maneuvers through the crowd, Alex nearly succeeded in slipping out and away alone. But Molchanov, nervously jovial, his bald head glistening with sweat, caught Alex by the arm and walked with hi to the cloak room. Outwardly casual, he shut the door behind him and quickly checked to make sure there wasn't an eavesdropper hidden among the racks of colorful military coats, capes, and scarves.
When he was sure they were alone, Molchanov hurriedly insisted, "I hope to God you have enough sense not to bring that on us again. The Duke has a long memory, and he's not a forgiving man."
"Certainly," Alex replied uncertainly.
"Good," Molchanov sighed with relief. "Then consider it all over and done with."
"What?" asked Alex, every muscle of his short athletic body tensed for danger.
"Your project, of course. Your unmentionable project... It's just as well, you know. Now you will have time for that formal military schooling you've put off far too long."
"But that project is far too important to interrupt for military school nonsense," Alex protested. "I thought, sir, we'd talked it all out. And now I hear from you and from everyone that I intend to go to that school. Who's spreading these rumors?"
"Me, of course," Molchanov chuckled.
"But why?"
"After your little performance today, you can ask that? You were within a hair of being court-martialed for insubordination and disrespect. In front of the whole assemblage of Guard officers, the Grand Duke announces the awarding of your medals, only to find that you yourself are sound asleep. Really," Molchanov chuckled nervously, "you're incorrigible. When will you ever learn the practical value of politics?"
"Practical?" asked Alex in a tone of sarcasm.
"Yes, practical," insisted Molchanov, gesturing for quiet and whispering himself. "You don't build a military career on just cavalry charges and chasing about from one corner of the world to another. You have spent too little time developing your connections here and have made no effort to capitalize on the acclaim your exploits should have entitled you to,.
"All too often, you let opportunities slip by. Not just today's foolishness, although that did come close to disaster.
"Why, take that Vassilchikov girl, Sonya -- or rather you should have taken her while you could. An excellent opportunity that. If you had arrived her, your career would have been assured. Not only is her father chief of staff of the division, but her cousin's acting commander of the entire Guard Corps. Aside from which, she's a beauty, downright striking. And there she was mooning over you for years. But you simply let her drop, and some doddering old professor picked her up. What a shameful waste."
"But, sir, once I have the men trained and can put on a proper demonstration..."
"Nonsense," Molchanov continued, "facts alone will never convince the powers that be. Present them with bare facts, and they'll take it as an insult, a challenge to privilege and protocol and tradition. You'll be judged not on the merits of your case, but on your credentials within their system of beliefs.
"Who are you after all? Yes, you are the son of a general. But he was commander of a minor unheard of regiment off in the provinces. Besides, he was a Roman Catholic of Polish origin. Yes, he served the Tsar well; but under today's laws for the suppression of minorities, he would never be allowed to make general. In fact, he would be barred from holding any official position. Thank goodness your mother had the good sense to raise you as Orthodox.
"But sin of sins, you have had no formal military training. Believe me, that's a strong mark against you. I've been pushing through the paperwork to get you officially confirmed as squadron commander and to get you your promotion to rotmister. No one questions your abilities and your leadership qualities, but time and again I get back notes of inquiry, 'Was this an oversight? Surely, he must have attended some military school?'
"In any dispute over tactics and policy, that's what will be foremost in their minds -- not hte merits of your case, but rather 'how dare you discuss such matters when you've never so much as attended military school? Why should we take your arguments seriously when you don't take your profession and your career seriously enough to go through the prescribed motions.'
"Do it, if not for yourself, then for me. It will get you away from here for six months -- six months for the notoriety of today's events to die down."
It was as if in the middle of a race a barrier had suddenly appeared, tripped his horse and sent him toppling helpless to the ground. It was like he'd been kicked in the testicles. But Alex was a professional solider. He knew how to restrain or disguise his personal pain and frustration. He bowed politely, thanked Molchanov for his help and advice, donned his coat and hat, left the restaurant, and left behind an era of his life.
Out on the street, in the late afternoon sun, the snow looked extraordinarily fresh and white. Dozens of sleighs and a few motor cars battled with pedestrians in a clamor of shouts, honking horns, and anxious neighing of confused, impatient horses.
Alex adjusted his glasses and checked his pocket watch. There was no need now to hurry back to the squadron. No need to drill the men again and again. Like it or not, he'd have to put in his six months at officer's school. Molchanov had already sent an orderly to register him. Classes would start in a few days.
Time to readjust his agenda -- to see to other responsibilities that he had neglected in his passion to make his project succeed. That was his strength -- the ability to focus all his energies on a single task. That was his failing as well -- the proclivity, almost necessity, of having such a project for which all else must be sacrificed.
He took out his pocket watch and glanced at it again. Here he was in downtown Petersburg with plenty of time, just four blocks from his mother's apartment. It had been more than a month since he had last found time to stop there and visit Vaska, the Ethiopian boy he had rescued and brought back with him to Russia, Vaska who so often begged for a chance to come visit at the regiment. Perhaps today. and now Alex would be in town every day, perhaps rent rooms near the Institute. The boy could come and live with him. He would insist, cutting through all his mother's arguments for why she must continue to put up with the boy, because she and only she (who could never admit she loved the child) was the only one in a position to properly take care of him.
At that moment a snowball struck him on the head, knocking his hussar's cap off and nearly dislodging his glasses. A young soldier came running up, picked up and handed him the cap, half soldier came running up, picked up and handed him the cap, half laughing, half mumbling an apology. Then the soldier scooped up more snow and tossed it at the hyoung woman he was chasing and who was cheerfully throwing snow back at him.
Alex returned the hat to his head and the watch to his pocket. He carefully brushed himself off, then bellowed, "Attention!"
The soldier looked back over his shoulder, puzzled.
"Attention!" Alex repeated, impatiently.
The soldier snapped to attention and saluted, awkwardly, dropping snow in his own face. The swarm of pedestrians rushing about their business veered to avoid this soldier and Alex.
"Name!" demanded Alex, contemptuously returning the salute.
"We were only playing, sir. I apologize..."
"Name!"
"Please, sir. No harm meant," the man's voice cracked, shrill with anxiety.
Alex, eyes magnified by the thick lenses of his glasses, stared intently as if he could see through this young soldier and a mile beyond.
"Pyotr, sir," the soldier reluctantly admitted, "Pyotr..."
Alex heard no more. He continued to stare threateningly, but his mind was elsewhere. He remembered an old friend from the war in Manchuria -- Pyotr Zabelin, a boy of seventeen who had volunteered for war, just for the excitement of it.
He looked this soldier up and down several times, as if inspecting the shine of his boots and belt and buttons. He raised his hand, pointing his index finger at the soldier's chest, about to launch into a tirade.
The soldier gulped audibly, and Alex paused, then blinked, then winked. He couldn't get mad at anyone who reminded him of Pyotr Zabelin, the boy who had been like a son to him. Alex suddenly reached down, tossed a handful of snow at the startled soldier and laughed, "Okay, now we're even. Off with you. Hurry up and catch that woman of yours before she gets away."
Alex missed those early days in Manchuria, under General Orlov. The world was so simple to deal with -- facing swarms of poorly armed and poorly trained Chinese, who were fanatically determined to destroy all foreigners. You knew who your friends and your enemies were. There was no need to stand on ceremony, to get approval from this person or that, to curry favor here and there. You did what you knew was right and necessary.
He missed Captain Smolyannikov, who had died there. And he missed his loyal troop of Cossacks: Pyotr and Trofim Zabelin from Lake Baikal, who had lost their older brother in the war; Yakov Shemelin, who believed he had seen Christ; Alexei Butorin, with his vivid superstitious imagination; Mihail Laperdin, the former medical student and avowed atheist; and Filimon Sofronov, the former theology student. Of them all, only tall, gray, steadfastly loyal Alexei Starodubov had stayed with him through everything, after he had recovered from his wounds -- had followed him to Japan, then back to the war in Manchuria, and then all the way to St. Petersburg.
Alex walked on. He passed the Barracks of the Gendarmerie, the Officers' Casino, the Cathedral of the Transfiguration, the Barracks of the First Brigade Artillery, Tselibeyer's Baths, the Administration of the Imperial Stud...
Just as he came to Zhukovsky Street, with its long row of massive stone hospitals, a troika full of joy-riding aristocrats careened round the corner and slammed into a one-horse ambulance. Both vehicles slid onto the sidewalk full of pedestrians. The snow banks helped cushion the crash, but several people lay bleeding on the street. A crowd gathered, feverishly telling one another what they ahd seen and who was to blame.
On this side of the street, the ponderous, stone institutional buildings all looked very much alike. But there was something familiar about one in particular.
On impulse, while his eyes scanned the other buildings, Alex stretched out his hand, but instead of a doorknob, he grabbed an arm... a man's arm... a priest's arm. For a moment, he thought he was hallucinating.
An old man, one side of his forehead bulging, probably from disease, looked up at him with serene gray eyes, not in anger, not even in impatience.
After an embarrassing interval, Alex let go and apologized profusely. The priest smiled, made the sign of the cross over him, and shuffled out into the snow, followed by a long retinue of assistants. Alex watched, transfixed by this vision, until they had crossed the street and entered the Hospital of the Dowager Empress Mariya.
Then out of the corner of his eye, he read the sign he must have seen before -- "Saint Pantelaimon Nursing Home." The name was familiar, although, at first, he couldn't place it. He entered.
Beyond the vestibule, there stretched a huge ward, like a barracks -- row after row of beds, occupied by invalids -- women, most of them elderly. As he walked up the center aisle, past odors of formaldehyde, ammonia, incense, and sickening sweet perfume, he was struck by the serenity he saw on face after face. Several of the patients were praying softly. Others lay quietly -- eyes shut, smiling.
A gentleman, evidently a visitor, saw him coming, noted his confusion, and offered to help.
"Are the patients always this calm?" asked Alex.
"No, unfortunately not," replied the tall portly gentleman. "Only after a visit from Father John."
"Father John?"
"Ioann Sergiev, the priest of the Kronstadt Cathedral. Father John, everyone calls him. He just left. You must have passed him. You couldn't have missed him. Is there someone in particular you would like to see? I'm here so often with my wife, I know nearly everyone."
"No, I was just passing and I..." he awkwardly excused himself and started to leave.
As he neared the door, his eyes were caught by the eyes of a woman patient. He couldn't move. He could hardly breathe.
The woman lying there so near to him was Chinese. She looked like she was in her mid-thirties. Her arms were withered from paralytic inactivity, but her eyes shone with intensity.
In Manchuria he had met an extraordinary woman -- Chinese, raised by a Russian priest. She had the same name as his former fiancee -- Sonya. She was lively, provocative and tender. While he was unconscious, weak from wounds and from typhus, she had nursed him lovingly. When he awoke, he found out that she was dead, having caught typhus form him while saving him.
He told himself that this could not be Sonya, that Sonya would only be about eighteen, that Sonya was dead and buried. But those were Sonya's eyes, so slightly, disconcertingly, charmingly out of line with one another. His own eyes were drawn now to the one, now to the other, and held.
He knelt by her bedside and took her warm but limp little hand. He brushed the long black hair away from her eyes and gently rubbed her forehead between her eyebrows, where deep and permanent frown lines had developed. She seemed to respond to his touch, to recognize him, to welcome him.
He crossed himself and shut his eyes to pray, but could think of no words that were appropriate for this miracle.
"Sonya," he said aloud, leaning over her, his face near to hers.
"Her name is Mayling, sir," a doctor loudly informed him, in a tone of puzzlement and concern.
Alex cringed, as if slapped, and drew back, while the woman's eyes seemed to plead that he come closer.
"She's the wife of a Russian officer," continued the doctor. "But in the three years I've worked here, he's never visited. They say he's a mercenary now, stationed in..."
"Manchuria," Alex quickly interjected.
"Then you are..."
"I knew her husband, Captain Smolyannikov. We served together. We were friends." Again he leaned close to her. "He sends his love," he told her tenderly.
"I'm glad to hear the Captain is well," remarked the doctor. "We hadn't heard form him for some time and had begun to wonder."
Alex ignored the doctor, focusing his full attention on Mayling.
Smolyannikov had spent about twenty years in Manchuria, a mercenary defending Russian interests there. For the last few years he had been a captain in the railway guards, a private army with the task of guarding the Chinese Eastern Railway, the section of the Trans-Siberian Railway that passed through Manchuria on its way to Vladivostok.
When his Chinese bridge fell seriously ill, he had sent her to this nursing home thousands of miles away in Petersburg. For five years, nearly all his pay had gone for her medical bills, leaving no money for him to make the long trip to visit her.
When the Boxer Rebellion broke out, Chinese attacked Russian railways and missionaries. The railway guards were forced to retreat into Russia, and detachments of the Russian army were sent to join them and put down the uprising. Having volunteered for duty at the front, Bulatovich, a cavalry officer, was assigned to the same detachment of Cossacks as Smolyannikov. Bulatovich had served under him on reconnaissance missions, riding in small groups near and around enemy encampments. In a few brief weeks they had become close friends.
Like most light cavalry officers, Smolyannikov was short; but twenty years older than Bulatovich, he was graying, more muscular in the shoulders and with a bulge about the waist.
Alex tried to remember him stretched out, relaxed on the rocky ground, staring up at the sky and talking about everything from courage to Chinese culture, from proper care of horses to the nature of man. but instead of that image, he remembered Smolyannikov's lifeless shape, as it was after the Battle of the Hsing-An Mountains -- the face smashed in, only the graying mustache left intact.
When they buried his friend, Alex had promised himself that he would visit the wife at the nursing home in St. Petersburg, that he would do what he could to help her. That was over a year ago, and it was six months now since he had returned to St. Petersburg. So much had happened in the meantime, and he had been so single-mindedly absorbed in his project to modernize the army, that he had forgotten her until now.
"Your husband is well," he lied as firmly as he could. "Soon he hopes to come to visit you. I am trying to get him transferred to Petersburg, to my own regiment or one of the others near here. It may take a while, but I'm sure I can make it happen," he elaborated, getting caught up in his own lie.
Her lips moved slightly. He put his ear close, straining to hear, if she was, in fact, talking; and closer still, until his ear touched her lips and felt the words, "Thank you. You are so kind. Your eyes please me. My life, it comes to me; it flows away again. Now I am; now I am not. I flow with light. I flow with darkness. Sometimes darkness is long. Today is light. I rejoice that you are here."
So faint was the voice that he dared not move for fear that he would lose and never regain this tenuous contact. He asked, "Is there anything I can do for you?"
He felt the reply, "Read to me, please. The book ont he table. I listen. I remember. It brings peace."
The book was a Russian translation of The Analects of Confucius. He opened it at random and began to read.
After the surprises of the day, Alex' mind was exceptionally sharp, racing ahead, remembering, weighing and judging at the same time his mouth formed the words of the book. Some of what he read sounded familiar because Smolyannikov had told him such things, and he had mulled them over many times during his convalescence a year ago.
Smolyannikov had spoken of "jen," the Chinese word for "man" which also means virtue and human kindness, because the true man is virtuous and kind. He also had spoken of the "rectification of names" -- living up to what your name is, being who you should be.
He had said, "It's not an easy matter for a man to be a man or a woman a woman -- or even to know what they should be."
Alex remembered the scorching Ethiopian sun and the bug bites on the back of his neck the day the Oromo people awarded him the gold earring of a "true man" for his courage and prowess as a hunter. The hole in his earlobe had closed by now, and that moment seemed so distant it was hard for him to imagine how he could have felt so proud of it. Now he had other needs -- a need to care and to be cared for. "Humankindess" Smolyannikov would have called it.
He remembered all the people he should have cared for but hadn't. He thought of his many sins of omission -- toward his mother; toward Vaska, the little boy he had brought back with him from Ethiopia; toward Sonya Vassilchikova, whom he once thought he loved.
When he realized that he had stopped reading and that Mayling had fallen asleep, he kissed her gently on the forehead and left.
Near the vestibule, the doctor stopped him, and, smiling nervously, struck up a conversation. "You're the first contact we've had with the Captain in more than a year. That was when one of our orderlies joined us. He had served with the Captain as a common soldier, and when discharged after the war, he came straight here with words of encouragement for the wife. He used to be a medical student. He's very bright and hard working."
"Laperdin?" asked Alex.
"Yes, Mihail Laperdin. Do you know him?"
"He was in my squadron," he admitted, with a puzzled look. Laperdin, who outwardly pretended to be skeptical and cold, had gone far out of his way to be kind to a dying woman he had never met, had done what Alex wished he himself had done.
"You'll have to say hello next time you visit. Today's his day off. But you will come agin, won't you? In any case, I'm delighted to hear that the Captain, her husband, is still alive and well," the doctor noted. "Would you know where he can be reached?"
"I'm afraid he's dead, sir."
"Oh..." the doctor quickly recovered from this unexpected news. "Yes, of course. You wouldn't want to break such news to the widow. Her situation is too precarious. We never know from one day tot he next... It's a wonder she's lasted this long. Three years ago I wouldn't have given her ore than six months to live. Yes, indeed... but that does leave us in a very awkward position. You see, this is a private establishment... The Captain was very good about always paying his bills and always in advance. But for over a year now we haven't heard form him, and the bills have been mounting unpaid for several months. At first hte administration presumed that there had been disruptions in the mail, that their inquiries went unanswered due to the hostilities in Manchuria. But recently we had come to fear the worst, which you have now confirmed. I'm sure that a man of your experience can easily see how awkward our position is now."
"What do you intend to do with her?"
"We have no choice but to transfer her to some charitable institution, unless some way could be found to pay the bills."
An elderly orderly started mopping the floor nearby. His bucket smelled of vomit and ammonia. He had the stony, blank look of someone accustomed to dealing with corpses and near-corpses.
"What do you mean by a charitable institution?" asked Alex.
"To put it crassly, sir -- a poor house."
"But it looks like she needs constant medical attention."
"The best, which is what we are here to provide. Sadly, without such care, I don't believe she could als a week. it's a most unpleasant moral quandary we find ourselves in. We certainly don't want to send the poor woman to her death, but to keep her here, someone must pay the bills..." When Alex didn't pick up on that, the doctor quickly added, "It's especially sad considering that she probably won't live that much longer in any case -- six months, a year. We do wish we could make her last days as pleasant as possible. But we are accountable to the auditors and to the trustees... If only a alternate source of funds could be found..."
"How sizable is the unpaid balance?"
"Just a matter of a few hundred rubles, probably a trifle for a man of your standing," the doctor replied hopefully.
"I wish it were," replied Alex, thinking of Laperdin's generosity and his own year-long indifference. "Unlike the other officers in my regiment, I am not independently wealthy. I depend on my salary -- just a little over a thousand rubles a year -- which leaves little or nothing for emergencies such as this... Perhaps if there were someone else who could help, I could scrape something together. I want to contribute, but it would take more than I alone can provide."
"We had been considering that very question, you can be sure, although only tentatively, since he had no confirmation of the Captain's death. The most likely candidate is a banker named Sergei Solvyov. His wife is a patient here, completely paralyzed from an accident. When we approached him, only tentatively, of course, he was hesitant, but, I would say, receptive. After all, we can't simply let the woman die... He's that gentleman over on the left side of the ward. Perhaps the two of you could arrive at an understanding, before we are obliged to go ahead with our other sad alternative."
It was the same gentleman Alex had met on his way in -- a big burly man, with bushy graying sideburns, a handlebar mustache, and bifocal glasses. He was reading silently by his wife's bedside, but jumped to his feet and warmly greeted Alex when he saw him coming. "Welcome, Captain Smoyannikov. Why didn't you tell me? I'd have gladly directed you to your wife. Everyone here knows her and loves her. Her eyes are so expressive..."
"No, I am not the Captain," Alex explained. "But I was his friend."
"Was?"
"Yes, he died in action.
"Oh. How unfortunate," replied Solovyov somberly, sitting down again with the book on his lap.
"The doctor was just explaining to me how unfortunate it could prove to be. He said that he had broached the subject with you before..."
"Yes, money. Everyone expects a banker to have money, as if what we kept in the vaults were our personal property."
"I will contribute myself," Alex hastened to add. "But my pay is but a pittance, a token sum appropriate for an independently wealthy gentleman, which I am not. If there is anything you could do to help... After all, we can't just let her die."
"And what is death?" mused Solovyov. "Sometimes I wonder here. Does eating and drinking and breathing a human being make? many of these poor souls -- my wife included -- are hovering so close to death that it's hard to say if they're really alive or human anymore. Sometimes I wonder if we do them a service keeping them here like this or if it would be better to let them..." He quickly crossed himself.
"But as for Madame Smolyannikova, I can understand how you feel. She is an exceptional person. Sometimes I read to her -- from the Bible and from the writings of Father John, but ost of all she prefers that Confucius of hers. That look of gratitude in her eyes gives me such warmth. I wish there were something I could do for her."
"But you're a banker," suggested Alex. "Even if you don't have cash, surely it should be easy for you to borrow..."
"Yes, borrow," Solovyov smiled nervously, remembering his mounting debts -- his wife's hospital bills, his son's expensive schools, the needs of his good friend Tatiana and her daughter, the mounting temptation to "borrow" unofficially, and now this humanitarian cause that he could not in good conscience turn his back on. "Yes, I'm sure something can be arranged," he offered expansively. "I'll take care of two-third of it myself, if you'll handle the other third."
They shook on it.
"Thank you, sir. Thank you," Alex exclaimed.
"Don't thank me," laughed Solovyov. "Thank Father John. He put me in the mood for it: seeing him here today and reading his book of meditations." He offered the book Alex took it and quickly flipped through the pages.
"Who is this Father John?"
"Surely, you've heard of him? Thousands throng to Kronstadt every Sunday to hear him, to be near him. He has a way of calming troubled minds and bodies with a word, a touch, sometimes just his presence.
"When my wife had her accident... We were late for a party, a business party I felt was important for my advancement. She couldn't make up her mind what dress to wear. The coachman was sick. Everything was going wrong. I drove the sleigh myself and took a shortcut across the frozen Neva. A cold wind blew snow in my face. I could hardly see. Tonya begged me to turn back, but I was in a hurry. As I yelled at her for making us late, we collided head-on with another sleigh. I was only scratched and bruised, but Tonya has been paralyzed ever since.
"The guilt was overpowering. I couldn't think. I couldn't work. I couldn't even cry. A friend told me about Father John. I went to a service at his cathedral in Kronstadt, on Kotlin Island. I got caught up in the spirit of the place and found myself confessing out loud and weeping with the thousands of other sinners assembled there. I don't know what I'd have done without him."
To correspond with the author, send email to seltzer@samizdat.com
Related material, such as books by Bulatovich about Ethiopia
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
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Name of Hero by Richard Seltzer. an historical novel based
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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.
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