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:
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, Sunday, March 2 (February 17 old style), 1902
[draft of April 8, 1989, revised March 1998]
In a hired sleigh on the way to the train station, Vaska sat with his head nestled on Bulatovich's shoulder. At last he was being carried away from the cold confines of the Generalsha's house to visit the fabled "regiment" and to live forever with his beloved father.
But he must remember, he told himself, not to be too good. It wasn't good to be too good, though he couldn't fathom why. He must be mischievous at times. Real boys were mischievous.
Now he was just curious. "Who's in your squadron, father, now that you have your own squadron?"
Alex gave Vaska a gentle squeeze, then took off his own cap and put it on Vaska's head. "You remember Zelepukin?"
"Zelepukin?"
"My orderly, back when we were in Ethiopia."
"You must mean Mustache."
"Mustache?"
"He had this mustache that curled back on itself twice."
'He still does."
"It bounced so funny when he laughed. I'd pull it; and he'd laugh; and it would bounce. 'Mustache' is the first word of Russian I learned."
"It was? I thought it was 'more, more -- give me more.'"
Vaska laughed, "Well, Mustache is the name I knew him by."
"He's a sergeant now in my squadron. And Kapnin, too. You'll see them today."
"Kapnin? I don't know him."
"He was my orderly on my last trip to Ethiopia. He saved my life -- shot an enraged elephant that was within inches of crushing me. I've known him and Zelepukin for quite a while. We were recruits together before I became an officer."
"But what's he look like, father? Tell me so I can shut my eyes and see him."
Alex took off his glasses and chewed on he frame. "Muscles and mucles on top of muscles. He neer rests. He's always building up his body. He carries a rubber ball in his pocket to squeeze at odd moments. He would rather run in place than stand still. When he raised his eyebrows, I'm never sure if he's surprised, or if that's just another exercise of his."
"And the rest. Tell me about all of them."
"No,not all of them," chuckled Alex. "But I will tell you about the Mazeppy."
"Who are they?"
"Well, only one of them has been with me all along -- Starodubov, my orderly. But when I telephoned the squadron this morning, they told me that two more had showed up yesterday, looking for me. From their descriptions, they sound like Sofronov and Shemelin or maybe Butorin. I gave orders to welcome them if they return; and I'd wager that they will soon. We might even see them at this morning's drill.
"Another, named Laperdin, is working in a nursing home in St. Petersburg. We may see him soon, too.
"They all fought under me in Manchuria. They're from Siberia, out beyond Lake Baikal -- the frontier country near the Chinese border. They called me 'Mazeppa" as my squadron here does."
"Why?"
Alex paused a moment. "I suppose it started here as an insult and a joke. I was in charge of the training detachment, and the men thought me a strict task master. Mazeppa was a rebel traitor in the days of Peter the Great. That was probably the nastiest name they could think of. At first it bothered me when I found out they were calling me that behind my back. But the next day when they were noisy at drill, I yelled at them in anger, 'Silence! Mazeppa wants silence!' They snapped to attention immediately. I don't know whether it was the new tone in my voice or that my use of the name let them know I knew of their insubordination. But there was fear in their eyes, and they obeyed me without hesitation. After that, whenever I was particularly serious, I adopted that tone and called myself by that name. I haven't had a discipline problem since. The name that started as a joke has become a mark of pride. They are proud to serve Mazeppa. And the name followed me even to Manchuria."
"How did a soldier from Manchuria end up in your squadron?"
"He followed me here, and I used my influence on his behalf."
"Well, tell me about Starodubov," Vaska insisted, shutting his eyes tight, so he could imagine better.
"He's a gray-haired peasant giant, awkward on a horse, but fearless in battle. He's a fine craftsman with a knife. He appreciates things of beauty, and is quite deft at stealing what he appreciates.
"He hovers about and worries over me as if I were his son. He stuck by me all through Manchuria, to Japan, and back to Manchuria again. When it was all over, he came back here with me. There's no getting rid of him, and no way I'd want to. A man couldn't ask for a better companion."
"And the rest? What are they like?"
"Shemelin is an excellent horseman and an earnest student -- a peasant who somehow taught himself to read and now wants to read everything."
"But what's he look like?"
"That depends on what side you look at him from. He has a scar over his left eye that gives that side of his face a fierce and oriental look. From the right side, he looks humble, like a servant. But looks don't mirror personality,a t least not in his case. The scar was just an accident of war.
"Sofronov is altogether different. He is haughty, proud, and pedantic. His character shows from the way he holds his head high, the thin line of his ips, and the deep furrows in his brow that he seems to have cultivated as a sign of seriousness. Fortunately, like the rest of us, he has less control over himself than he would like. At times, he forgets how great he is. Then he can be a brave and unselfish comrade.
"Butorin has a long lean face with dark leathery skin, and he often has a mad look in his eye, like a shaman in touch with the dead or the supernatural. That's probably how he'd like people to see him. But despite all his dramatics and showmanship, there really is something uncanny about the things he knows without having been told or taught. In Manchuria, he was our guide and interpreter. Here I suspect he'll be our clown and soothsayer, a welcome addition to an otherwise serious set of career soldiers."
"You must know your men very well to describe them like that,"noted Vaska, trying to sound very grownup.
"Not anywhere near well enough," replied Alex thoughtfully.
"And how would you describe yourself?"
"Ten feet tall, with a long green beard and seven arms."
"And how would you describe me?" asked Vaska, still maintaining a serious tone.
"A mischievous little rascal," Alex answered, grabbing him and tickling him to the boy's infinite delight.
With the rhythmic rattling of the train to Tsarskoye Selo, it wasn't long before Alex, still weary, dozed off.
Once again he dreamt he was on the mountaintop beside the spring. Once again he labored to make that barren spot an oasis. But this time he was not alone. Dozens, no, hundreds of men were running in relays, passing along to one another sacks of soil and plum trees, rose bushes, lilies... an endless flow of vegetation -- as if this oasis were a Noah's Ark where all plants had to be represented.
The Mazeppy were there -- mad Butorin, earnest Shemelin, pompous Sofronov, towering gray Starodubov, over-anxious Pyotr, and Laperdin the political gadfly. The men of the fifth squadron were there too -- just the enlisted men, led by sergeants Kapnin and Zelepukin.
Then, instead of running, they were all riding bicycles, with their burdens tied to their backs -- an endless line of bicycles, as far as the eye could see -- and the work went far faster. Together they were transforming this one small piece of the planet, until Colonel Molchanov arrived...
"Bicycles!" Molchanov exclaimed. "Brilliant idea. Very efficient, I can see. But we must not forget the honor of the regiment. We are horsemen first and foremost."
Suddenly, the bicycles turned into horses, and, on the side of the mountain, there appeared stables and granaries and the shops of blacksmiths, harness makers, and wheelwrights. Soon the bags of dirt brought from many miles away were dumped near the stables, and oats were planted there, and other food corps for the multitide of people in the new town.
Soon there was a police station, a jail, a town hall, and government offices with names five and six words long. Then the town was so big the water of the spring and the food grown on the hillside were not enough for all those people and horses. Food and water had to be carted in at great expense.
As far as the eye could see, there was an endless line of horse-drawn carts, bringing supplies to the town. No one was left to carry anything up to the spring at the top of the mountain. No one had time to care for it or for the exotic plants which now withered and died in the harsh climate.
Then one day, a bright young man, who looked very much like Bulatovich, protested at the terrible waste of maintaining a town this size in the middle of nowhere. "What's the purpose of this town?" he asked.
"It's been here as long as anyone can remember," answered the town's people. "It's a time-honored tradition."
"If it has no purpose, it has no right to exist," insisted this dream Bulatovich. "It should be dismantled, and all this effort and expense should be put to use somewhere else, where it's truly needed." He started to explain about the spring and its purpose and his purpose of giving it a purpose. But no one listened. Perhaps no one heard. He couldn't even hear himself -- yelling silently on a barren mountainside.
"Father! Father!" Vaska shook him anxiously until he awoke. "The train has stopped. I think we're there."
Prince General Sergei Vassilchikov felt torn between his duty as an office of the Guard and his instincts as a father. For nearly eight years, he had thought of Bulatovich as the future husband of his only child. He had watched him mature and toughen, had closely followed his triumphs and frustrations. Now his daughter had gone her own headstrong way, he felt all the more attached to the man who should have been his son-in-law -- this bold and foolish younger copy of himself.
Just yesterday, in going through the attic, he had found an old photo of himself and been surprised to see that their faces were quite similar -- like members of the same family. They had the same rectangular head, high cheek bones, firm jaw, and thin lips set hard and straight. And naturally, like everyone else chose for His Majesty's Hussar Guards, they were the same height and dark complexioned.
In the incident with the Grand Duke, the Prince's first reaction had been shock at such a breech of decorum. He had held back while Molchanov stepped forward and risked his career in Bulatovich's defense.
After the ceremonies, there in the Tauride Palace and just outside, Bulatovich, who had been relatively unknown before, became notorious, as tales of his heroics and his defiance of authority quickly spread. One new and persistent rumor asserted that he was training his men on bicycles and doing it at the connivance of his commanding officer, right in the regimental hippodrome.
The first time he heard of that project, the Prince had laughed it off as a joke. But he soon realized that the tale was too much in character not to be true. So he refrained from defending Bulatovich from his detractors, and declined as well an invitation to the party Molchanov had hurriedly arranged. Best that he distance himself publicly from Bulatovich so if matters came to another crisis he could quietly use his influence to protect this almost son-in-law from these willful acts of self-destruction. By protecting Bulatovich, he reminded himself, he would be defending the reputation of the regiment.
The next morning, he went straight to the hippodrome, alone. Sergeant Zelepukin ws standing guard.
"Good morning, your excellency," Zelepukin smartly saluted.
"Carry on," repied the Prince-General, returning the salute and moving toward the door.
But Zelepukin adroitly slid in front of him and apologized. "Excuse me, your excellency, but I have strict orders that no one is to disturb the drill in progress."
"And I am countermanding that order," replied the Prince-General, reaching for the doorknob.
Zelepukin firmly, but gently pushed his arm aside.
"I have my orders, your excellency."
"And I'll have your head!" bellowed the Prince-General. He was angry not at the soldier's thick-headed loyalty, but rather at Bulatovich because this unprecedented level of security seemed to confirm the rumors.
Just then, he heard from behind him a shrill shriek, "Hello, Mustache!" Before he had time to turn and look, his feet were knocked out from under him, and he fell over backwards on the ice.
He quickly jumped to his feet and drew his saber, "How dare you..." he began. Then he saw it was a little black boy who had slid into him. "Damnation! What are you doing here? This is no place for servant boys to be running about. Who do you belong to?"
The boy tried to smile his winningest smile, slowly, cautiously backing up; but he slipped again and sat in the snow.
"He's mine, Prince-General Vassilchikov!" came a shout from the distance.
"Ah! Bulatovich! Alexander Xavierevich. The man I've been looking for." The Prince-General hastened forward to meet him. "This sergeant of yours has unaccountably refused me access o the hippodrome," he explained, in mock surprise, indicating by his tone that he knew perfectly well what they had to hide.
"No probelm, you excellency."
"No problem?" the Prince-General continued, in the same knowing tone. "Indeed! For that act of insubordination he deserves at least a month in the guardhouse, and maybe a good flogging as well."
"Then I'm the one at fault, our excellency," Bulatovich humbly admitted.
"Indeed?" the Prince-General led him on, hoping for a quick confession and resolution of this potentially dangerous situation.
"He was following my orders... Let me explain," Alex offered, leading the Prince-General off to the side.
"What mischief are you up to this time? What deep dark secret do you have to hide in there?" the Prince-General prompted.
Bulatovich hesitated, glanced toward the black boy, then at the Prince-General with a look of inspiration. "it's just a surprise, a special entertainment the men have been preparing for Vaska here. You remember Vaska, don't you, your excellency? The boy from Ethiopia? Zelepukin was jsut overzealous in his execution of my orders."
The Prince-Geneal was amused and pleased that his "son" had so quickly invented so convenient a tale. Now they could avoid direct confrontation and both save face. Taking the cue, he asked, "Whatt sort of entertainment?"
"Bicycles," Alex admitted.
"Bicylces?" asked the Prince-General in mock surprise.
"Yes," he elaborated. "Circus-like maneuers on bicycles... including a motor bicycle. The boy is wild about bicycles, and a number of the men are keenly competitive and quite proficient with them." The Prince-General was ominously silent, so Alex quickly added, "It's a hobby they've taken up... with my encouragement."
"Indeed? How very like the rumors I've heard."
"Rumors?"
"That you were conducting training on bicycles, which clearly you have. Unfortunately, there's been some misunderstanding regarding the purpose of the training. These rumors are most unfortunate, I'm sure that you can appreciate, reflecting as they do on the hono of the regiment."
"And what, precisely, has been rumored?" Alex asked cautiously.
The Prince-General wore a smile of condescension, as if proud to have so quickly taken command of a delicate political situation. "In substance, I'm sure the rumors are quite absurd -- that you, of all people, the finest horseman in the hussars, were conspiring -- yes, that's the word they used, 'conspiring' -- to have us all switch from horses to bicycles. I heard it first from a stable boy. He wanted to know if he'd lose his job when the horses went, or if he could find work as a mechanic. Then I heard some indignant lieutenant protest that he, for one, would never parade in front of the Tsar on a bicycle, like a schoolboy; that he'd resign his commission rather than face such humiliation. Yes, it's gone quite far, quite far enough. Whatever your true intentions, I'm sure you much recognize we must stop these rumors completely now. The hobby is finished."
"Yes, your excellency," replied Alex, maintaining his outward composure, despite his deep frustration and disappointment.
"You must show me this entertainment, this final entertainment of yours," the Prince-General continued expansively. "I've always had a keen interest in mechanical gadgetry. I'm even considering buying a motor car -- for my personal use, of course. As we all know, such things have no place in the military. But we all have our personal interests and hobbies. We just must remember not to let our enthusiasm for those hobbies to cloud our professional judgement, and not to allow our actions to become subject to misinterpretation and loose talk.
"But why am I telling you this? You were never one to put your personal interests above your sense of duty. On the contrary, if anything, you err in the opposite direction -- chasing off to Ethiopia and Manchuria, rather than further your career here... and rather even than marry that daughter of mine," he added with a self-indulgent chuckle.
"How is Sonya, your excellency?"
"She's into more mischief. Damn it, boy, why didn't you marry her? She as good as threw herself at you. She was always such a hot-tempered filly. But you could have broken her and tamed her, if anyone could. I used too loose a reign on her. I let her find her own way. She is so full of lust for life. I didn't want to kill that in her. I loved her for that. It's so hard to be harsh to the ones you love, even when they need it -- especially when they need it. Her mother would have been harsher if I'd let her. A touch of jealousy there, I think; or a cooler head than mine.
"Now that damned fool husband of hers indulges her every whim. The doddering fool -- he's worse than her father, I'd say. He's at least as old as me, I'm sure.
"She has no judgment. She has all wit and no judgment, I always told her. She needs someone strong, like you, to judge for her.
"That husband of hers let her throw a party last night that is already the talk and scandal of all Petersburg. Pickpockets among the guests. A mad magician. and the centerpiece was a girl of the streets who gave birth to a freak right in the drawing room, with everyone looking on. That part is so outrageous that no rumor-monger would have made it up. It's so absurd it, reeks of truth.
"But I'm holding you up and you ahve a party of your own here. Let's show the boy his surprise."
The hippodrome had been set up with a challening obstacle course, like a steeplechase. Two dozen men were racing around on bicycles, to the cheers of dozens more on the sidelines. There were steep ramps leading to jumps, deep ditch-like inclines, water hazards, inclines that twisted left then right, sudden turns, and a long straightaway to the finish.
The crowd cheered as the first hussar crossed the finish line.
"Is that Muscles?" asked Vaska.
"Yes, that's Kapnin," answered Alex.
"What kind of bicycles are these?" asked the Prince-General, taking hold of one that was parked near the entrance. "They don't look at all like the ones I rode as a child. Why, the front and back wheels are both the same size."
"Yes, there have been a number of remarkable improvements in recent years," Alex noted, with rising hope and enthusiasm. He took hold of it and straddled it to demonstrate its features. "This style is known as a 'safety.' It's made in England. The seat is far back so the rider can't be thrown forward over the handlebars. The motion is transmitted by this chain from the pedals to the sprockets on the back wheel. The tires are inflated rubber, for improved comfort and increased speed. This model has three gears, so the rider can alter the ratio between the speed of his pedalling and the speed of rotation of the driving wheel, to match the grade of the road."
"It seems remarkably sturdy."
"It's light as well -- less than twenty-five pounds."
"But we must remember," the Prince-General insisted, jovially, "it's only a toy."
"Some people have come to think differently," Alex ventured. "Why, it was nearly twenty years ago, before all these innovations, that Thomas Stevens rode a bicycle around the world and H.L.Cortis rode twenty miles in an hour."
"All downhill, I presume," added the Prince-General.
"Since then, there have been many proofs of the machine's durability," Alex continued, to press his point. "A couple years ago, E. Hale covered 32,496 miles in 313 days on a bicycle like this one. At the instigation of the manufacturers, many men have devoted themselves to cycling a hundred miles a day for many days on end."
"Indeed," noted the skeptical Prince-General, "if one could believe the statements of manufacturers and hucksters."
"The English take it quite seriously."
"As well they might. They take all their profitable ventures seriously. Theirs is a very commerce-driven society; and bicycles, as I understand it, are a booming business there."
"But, your excellency, even the military there takes them seriously. Why back in 1887, a Colonel Savile organized the first military cycle maneuvers, and the British army has been holding them regularly ever since."
"More politics, I'm sure," insisted the Prince-General. "Parliament and commerce and politics. I pity the true professional soldiers of that country for what they must put up with in the meddling of peddlers and parliamentarians. Thank god for autocracy and tradition and self-respect." He crossed himself quickly, but solemnly. "But you mentioned a motor-driven bicycle," he added with evident curiosity.
"Yes, your excellency," Alex replied, leading him to it, like a salesman showing goods to a prospective customer. This is one of the very first. They just came on the market last year. It weighs about 200 pounds and operates at a maximum of 2000 revolutions per minute. The gasoline engine relieves the rider of all physical exertion, except at starting. It's a powerful machine, but rather difficult to control" Vaska gleefully hopped onto the seat. "Rather like a young boy," Alex noted.
"It takes three levers to control the speed," he went on. "The throttle here; the extra air valve; and over here the spark advance... Don't touch," he quickly told Vaska. "The engine is air cooled. On level ground, you can open the throttle and advance the spark for high speed, or partially close the throttle and retard the spark for slow speed. You can get extra power to go up a steep incline by partially closing the extra air opening... Don't touch," he told Vaska again. "But when you close that opening," he continued, "the cylinder walls can become overheated unless you move fast. Also, since the engine is unsteady at slow speed, you have to resot to pedaling for starting and for riding in slow traffic."
"Most interesting," the Prince-General noted hurriedly. He had recognized the two peasants who had sat in front of his office yesterday and whom his daughter had scandalously taken to her party. He was honestly intrigued by the equipment and impressed by the skill displayed here. But peasants like these were unpredictable. If they recognized him, they might be so bold as to address him directly and bring that regrettable incident to everyone's attention. He preferred to avoid such embarrassment. So, with a show of generosity and firmness, he quickly concluded, "Perhaps one day, perhaps even in your lifetime, such machines may be far enough advanced to serve legitimate military purposes. Indeed, I hope that does come to pass -- in the fullness of time, of course, and after due deliberation, in a manner consistent with our pride and traditions. Far be it from me to stand in the way of progress. But for now, I'm sure you understand full well the importance of clearing these contraptions from the premises of the regiment to avoid any further misunderstandings regarding their premature adoption.
"Good day to you, sir; and to you, too, Vaska. I hope you enjoy your entertainment." With that the Prince-General took his leave.
Meanwhile, the cycling exercises had continued unabated. A new team was racing around the course, while on the sidelines others practiced tricks, such as doing handstands on the seat and handlebars.
Suddenly, a cycle faltered at a jump and fell sideways, knocking three others off course. The riders tumbled to the ground. Shouts arose. A fight started.
"Halt!" ordered Alex, and the fighting stopped instantly. Starodubov lowered his burden to the ground, and others untangled themselves, and quickly checked among their sores for broken bones and loose teeth.
"What's the meaning of this, Kapnin?" Alex insisted.
"This clumsy peasant doesn't belong in our regiment, sir. He's a hazard and a nuisance -- far too big for this kind of duty. That's the third bicycle Starodubov has wrecked this week. We're lucky he hasn't broken someone's neck with these accidents of his. And now you've asked us to take on three more like him."
"Starodubov?"
"No, sir, begging your pardon, sir. Shemelin and Sofronov are learning fast, sir. And Butorin rides as if he knew how to all along, like he was born riding a bicycle."
"They treat us like scum," added Sofronov.
"It's a matter of the honor of the regiment," explained Kapnin. "It's not fitting that raw frontier peasants like these..."
Alex interrupted him, "It's not fitting that a sergeant second-guess his commanding officer. I judge and value men not by their appears or their background..."
"Help!" went out a high piercing cry. At the same time the roar of an engine was heard fromt he other side of the hippodrome. Vaska, in his curiosity, had started the motor bicycle and was racing off on it along the obstacle course. In seconds, before anyone had a chance tor eact and run, he was at the jump and flying over the heads of astonished soldiers. As he landed -- miraculously on balance, clinging desperately to the handlebars -- he shouted, "How do I stop it?"
"Shut off the throttle!' shouted Alex and half a dozen others in unison. But Vaska was already far off, and, with the roar of the engine, he probably couldn't hear.
Kapnin and Butorin quickly grabbed their bicycles and raced off after him, but the engine carried Vaska far faster. Again he came to the jump, and made it again, screaming "Help!" so loudly that he couldn't hear their shouted instructions.
As he overtook Kapnin and Butorin from behind, he accidentally forced Kapnin to tumble sideways off a ramp. Seconds later, Butorin leapt, caught hold of the seat with one hand, and was dragged for twenty feet through dirt and sawdust before he let go.
Meanwhile, Alex grabbed hold of an exercise rope that dangled from the high ceiling. Just as Vaska successfully completed his third awkward jump, Alex swung overhead, landed on the seat behind him, shut off the throttle and brought the cycle to a halt.
After having completed that incredibly difficult feat, while dismounting, Alex slipped on a wet spot and fell into a water hazard.
Everyone in the squadron, including Alex himself, broke into a loud laugh of relief.
Kapnin and Butorin shook hands and compared bruises. Starodubov put Vaska on his shoulders and ran once aroudn the course with him. Zelepukin brough Alex a towel.
When the commotion had settle down, Alex, the towel still over his shoulder, stood at the top of the jump and addressed them all, "That's it, men -- a fitting finish to our project."
"Finish?" they asked.
"Yes, finish. We'll have to pack up the bicycles and forget it, at least for now. Orders from on high. And as for me, I'll be gone, too, at least for six months. They're packing me off to school to teach me how to be a proper officer.
"While I'm gone, however long that may be, there are a few things I want you to remember. In battle, quality counts for more than quantity. All men are born equal. That I firmly believe. WE are all God's slaves and, as such, equal the day we're born. But we don't stay that way. Some, by self-control and talent and effort, rise above the mediocrity of the crowd.
"You are such men. You are the best. Hand-picked. The finest soldiers int he finest regiment in the Russian army.
"If you should be called on to serve in battle, it is your duty to set an example for the rest, to be in the forefront, to inspire awe int he enemy and to spur the rest of the army to emulate you.
"In cavalry formation, your strength comes from your discipline, your uniformity, your uniform excellence.
"But once your formation is broken, as it must be in battle, you must fight as individuals. Remember then that intensity and individual excellence far outweigh numbers. Remember that true strength in battle comes not from physical size, but form self-control and individual initiative.
"Of course, a stray bullet may stop you no matter how good you are -- and you are all good -- remember that and respect that, every one of you. But luck might just as well be on your side; and if it is, and you act decisively, concentrating your attention and your efforts, not panicking, you each as individuals can accomplish more than entire squadrons.
"Farewell. And may God be with you."
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