Encore by Monique Raphel High Page B

bore me. The peace is almost soporific—I could remain here forever. Though perhaps after some years I might grow restless.”
    Boris stroked his mustache and idly contemplated the symmetrical perfection of a small town house. “You can dispense with the patronym, really now, Pierre. We are friends, aren’t we? No need for formality. I shouldn’t say this—God forbid that it should leak back to good old Nelidov!—but if it weren’t for the refreshing atmosphere provided by your artistic appreciation of this little flatland, I, on the other hand, would wither away from lassitude. For the life of me, I cannot understand what possessed Nelidov to ask for me to join his delegation to the Peace Conference.”
    Pierre looked at the blond count in his elegant gray suit with its stiff collar and stock, gaiters, and gold cufflinks. “You are the picture of a dapper diplomat,” he answered, smiling.
    â€œIt’s all a front. Underneath, I couldn’t care less.” Boris burst out laughing, his mirth so engaging that Pierre, although somewhat reluctantly, had to join him. The young man was still wary of his elder. Now Boris said pensively: “Nelidov and my father are friends. Nelidov, you know, doesn’t believe in this second Hague Conference. Neither does the Tzar. Peace will not be accomplished by a lot of stuffy little men who purposely choose to skirt the very heart of the peace issue: a slowdown in armaments. Yet you mention the words and these men pale, cough with embarrassment, and change the topic very rapidly. Poor Nelidov did not wish to be president. I suspect that he did not know whom to bring along for pleasure and so chose me because I can amuse him between sessions.”
    â€œYes, and my role is the same, isn’t it?” said Pierre. “You amuse Nelidov, and I amuse you. The men behind the scenes.”
    Boris appraised the young painter shrewdly, thinking that he detected a note of bitterness in the repartee. “If I had to be pulled away from more interesting pursuits,” he replied, “and get stuck with two hundred fifty pedants inside a musty hall of the Dutch Parliament, surely your lot is not comparable. A pleasure trip to help broaden you in your field—now isn’t that the traditional gift of a patron to a talented artist? Cheer up, or I shall regret my investment. Rembrandt wouldn’t have complained.”
    They walked along in silence for several minutes. Presently a man approached them, and Boris visibly paled. Pierre saw a middle-aged gentleman, tall and thin, with gray-blond hair parted in the center and pale blue eyes that squinted slightly. The man came up to Boris and bowed very stiffly. “You are Count Kussov, of the Russian delegation?” he asked. He spoke a guttural French, clipped and unmelodic.
    Boris had regained his perfect composure. He smiled and inclined his head. “Baron von Baylen, am I correct?”
    The other nodded. Switching to Russian, Boris said: “Baron, may I present Pierre Grigorievitch Riazhin? Pierre, Baron von Baylen is here with the German delegation, but he is the first secretary at the Petersburg embassy, where I met him several years ago. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it, Baron?”
    â€œIndeed it has. You are taking a constitutional?”
    Boris laughed. “Just enjoying the scenery. My young friend is a painter and has had a better time here than I. Than any of us.” They began to walk again, three abreast, and Boris commented: “A strange time for such a conference, don’t you think? The Kaiser is not well disposed toward peace, is he now?”
    â€œUnlike the Tzar he was not recently defeated, both abroad and at home. Not that the Tzar did not succeed in quelling the rebels in ‘05—but that was a close call, wasn’t it? The Kaiser wants to be a friend to the Tzar—they are cousins by marriage, aren’t