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Updated: June 11, 2025
She was unequal to the task of explaining, without hurting anyone's feelings, that she had always regarded Cuthbert as a piece of cheese and a blot on the landscape. "Introduct me!" thundered the Celebrity. "Why, certainly, certainly, of course. This is Mr. ." She looked appealingly at Cuthbert. "Banks," prompted Cuthbert. "Banks!" cried Vladimir Brusiloff. "Not Cootaboot Banks?"
It appeared that a dinner had a week before been arranged by Prince Galitzine, to which the Grand Dukes Nicholas Nicholaievitch, Constantin Constantinovitch, and Michael Alexandrovitch, together with Generals Arapoff, Daniloff, Brusiloff, and Rennenkampf, had been invited.
The man looked forlorn and hopeless, and Cuthbert wondered whether he had had bad news from home. This was not the case. The latest news which Vladimir Brusiloff had had from Russia had been particularly cheering.
"I've played with Abe Mitchell often, and I was partnered with Harry Vardon in last year's Open." The great Russian uttered a cry that shook the chandelier. "You play in ze Open? Why," he demanded reproachfully of Mrs. Smethurst, "was I not been introducted to this young man who play in opens?" "Well, really," faltered Mrs. Smethurst. "Well, the fact is, Mr. Brusiloff " She broke off.
"'Albert's wife wants to call the baby after Brusiloff, she said, 'but I told her to wait and see what becomes of him first. Them Russians has such a habit of petering out. "The Russians are doing splendidly, however, and they have saved Italy. But even when the daily news of their sweeping advance comes we don't feel like running up the flag as we used to do.
I, of course, did not tell him of the Emperor's peril. Next day he, however, came to me in a state of high indignation. "The fool Tchernine has blundered, just as Sawvitch did!" he cried. "Brusiloff still lives and is continuing the offensive. Did he not promise to use the tube?" "He certainly did," I assured the monk.
No novelists any good except me." And, having uttered this dictum, he removed a slab of cake from a near-by plate, steered it through the jungle, and began to champ. It is too much to say that there was a dead silence. There could never be that in any room in which Vladimir Brusiloff was eating cake. But certainly what you might call the general chit-chat was pretty well down and out.
It is little wonder that he tossed in bed, picking at the coverlet, through sleepless nights, and had to have all his waistcoats taken in three inches to keep them from sagging. This Vladimir Brusiloff to whom I have referred was the famous Russian novelist, and, owing to the fact of his being in the country on a lecturing tour at the moment, there had been something of a boom in his works.
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