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Yet the mujik mind always works in a mysterious way. The true facts concerning the desperate conspiracy against Generals Brusiloff and Korniloff have never been told, though several French writers have attempted to reveal them, and the revolutionists themselves have endeavoured to delve into the mystery. As secretary to the Starets, I am able to disclose the actual and most amazing truth.
The Russians, after their long retreat in 1915 had gradually gotten back their strength, and had piled up ammunition and gathered guns for a new attack. This began early in June, 1916, when General Brusiloff attacked the Austro-Hungarians in Galicia and Bukowina and drove them back for miles and miles, capturing hundreds of thousands of prisoners.
"Nastikoff no good," said Vladimir Brusiloff, coldly. He paused, listening to the machinery. "Nastikoff worse than Sovietski." He paused again. "I spit me of Nastikoff!" he said. This time there was no doubt about it. The bottom had dropped out of the market, and Raymond Parsloe Devine Preferred were down in the cellar with no takers.
And in eleven days the Russians had made prisoners of a hundred and fifty thousand Austrians, and Brusiloff had just said: "This is only the beginning." Lastly the close prospect of the resistless Allied Western offensive which would deracinate Prussian militarism was uplifting men's minds.
A strained, anguished look came into Mrs. Smethurst's face and was reflected in the faces of the other members of the circle. The eminent Russian had sprung two entirely new ones on them, and they felt that their ignorance was about to be exposed. What would Vladimir Brusiloff think of the Wood Hills Literary Society?
A spasm of anguish flitted through all his nerve-centres as he saw that she was accompanied by Raymond Parsloe Devine. "Good morning, Mr. Banks," said Adeline. "Good morning," said Cuthbert hollowly. "Such good news about Vladimir Brusiloff." "Dead?" said Cuthbert, with a touch of hope. "Dead? Of course not. Why should he be?
At this point in his meditations he was aware that his hostess was looming up before him with a pale young man in horn-rimmed spectacles at her side. There was in Mrs. Smethurst's demeanour something of the unction of the master-of-ceremonies at the big fight who introduces the earnest gentleman who wishes to challenge the winner. "Oh, Mr. Brusiloff," said Mrs.
Then after a pause he added: "Ring up His Excellency the Minister of War and ask where Brusiloff is at the present moment." I did so, and after a short wait found myself talking to General Soukhomlinoff, who told me that the Russian commander was that day at headquarters at Minsk.
Meanwhile he had contrived, as the Kaiser ordered, to prevent the offensive being resumed in Poland; and yet so cleverly did he effect all this that General Brusiloff, who was at the south-west front, actually gave an interview to a British journalist, declaring that the war was already won, "though it was merely speculation to estimate how much longer will be required before the enemy are convinced that the cause for the sake of which they have drenched Europe in blood is irretrievably lost."
Raymond Parsloe Devine hesitated for a moment, then, realizing his situation, turned and slunk to the door. There was an audible sigh of relief as it closed behind him. Vladimir Brusiloff proceeded to sum up. "No novelists any good except me. Sovietski yah! Nastikoff bah! I spit me of zem all. No novelists anywhere any good except me. P. G. Wodehouse and Tolstoi not bad. Not good, but not bad.
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