Archangelski, late in the evening.
A year ago this very day I never even dreamt that I should be sitting here. On the river by which Moscow stands, some three miles away, amidst spacious gardens, lies a mansion in the Italian style. In front there is a broad, terraced, sloping lawn, surrounded by hedges like those of Schönbrunn, to the river side, and to the left of it a pavilion, in the six rooms of which I wander alone. On the other side of the water is a broad moonlit plain; here, grass-plats, hedges, and orangeries. The wind howls, and the flame flickers in the stove; old pictures look in a ghostly manner at me from the walls, and white marble statues from without. I return to-morrow, with my host, to Moscow; the day after to-morrow, by way of St. Petersburg, to Berlin. I shall remain, if it be the will of God, until Friday, to “see what is to be seen.” My pen is very bad. I shall go to bed, though it looks broad and cold. Good-night. God be with you, and all those sheltered by Reinfeld!
The 7th.—Despite the broad cold bed, I slept well—had a capital fire made up, and am looking over the steaming tea-urn out to the somewhat clearer, but still grayish, horizon, and into the entirely green surroundings of my pavilion. It is a pleasant spot of earth, and I have the comfortable feeling that I am beyond the reach of telegraphs. My servant, like a true Russian, has, as I perceive, slept in my antechamber on a silken divan, and this would seem to be a domestic arrangement, servants not being provided with special sleeping accommodation. My pavilion has an orangery, now empty, attached to it, about 150 feet long, at the least—the winter inhabitants of which are at present planted out in the hedges in stately grandeur. The whole with its appurtenances is something like a very magnified —— with rococo appendices in the way of furniture, hedges, terraces, and statues. I am now going out walking.
Moscow, 8th June.—The city, as a city, is certainly the handsomest and most original in existence; the environs are friendly, neither pretty nor ugly; but the prospect above from the Kremlin, over the surrounding houses, with green roofs, gardens, churches, towers of the most extraordinary shapes and colors—most of them green, red, or bright blue, usually crowned by a gigantic golden ball, many with five or more on a church, unquestionably a thousand towers—something so curiously beautiful, as it appears in the setting sun, can not be seen elsewhere. The weather is again clear, and I should remain here some days longer, had there not arisen rumors of a great battle in Italy which may lead to diplomatic work; so I will make haste to be at my post. The house in which I write is very remarkable, as being one of the few remaining from 1812, with ancient thick walls like those of Schönhausen, of Oriental architecture—great Moorish courts.
BISMARCK TO HIS WIFE.
Peterhof, 28th June, 1859.
By the preceding date, you can see I am again up. I drove here early, to take leave of the Empress-Mother, who sails to-morrow. Her charming sincerity has truly for me something of a character of maternity, and I can explain myself to her as if I had known her from a child. She conversed with me to-day for a long time on many subjects; she was lying in a chaise-longue, dressed in black, knitting at a white and red woollen shawl with long needles, on the balcony looking to the country. I could have listened to her deep voice and honest laugh and scolding for many an hour longer, I felt so at home. I had only come for two hours in undress; but as she finally said she did not wish to say farewell, but that I must have a great deal to do, I assured her nothing at all, and then she said, “You had better remain till to-morrow, when I leave.” I accepted the invitation joyfully as a command, for here it is delightful, and in Petersburg so stony. Only imagine the heights of Oliva and Zoppot all laid out as parks; with a dozen palaces having terraces, fountains, and lakes between, with shady walks and lawns down to the sea-line, blue sky, and warm sun with white clouds, and beyond the green ocean of foliage, the real blue sea with ships and seagulls. I have not enjoyed any thing so much for a long time. In a few hours the Emperor and Gortschakow will be here, and then some business will penetrate the idyl; but, God be thanked, the world seems more peaceful despite our mobilization, and I need make myself less anxious at certain conclusions. I am sorry for the Austrian soldiers; how can they be commanded, that they are always beaten? On the twenty-fourth again. It is a lesson for the ministers, which, in their stupidity, they will still not take to heart. I should fear France rather than Austria from the moment we took up arms.