Petersburg, April 4, '59.

My Dear Heart,—Now that the rush of today noon is past, I sit down in the evening to write you a few more lines in peace. When I closed my letter today I did it with the intention of writing to you next a birthday letter, and thought I had plenty of time for it; it is only the 23d of March here. I have thought it over, and find that a letter must go out today exactly to reach Frankfort on the 11th; it is hard to get used to the seven days' interval which the post needs. So I hurry my congratulations. May God grant you His rich blessing in soul and body, for all your love and truth, and give you resignation and contentment in regard to the various new conditions of life, contrary to your inclinations, which you will meet here. We cannot get rid of the sixtieth degree of latitude, and we have not chosen our own lot. Many live happily here, although the ice is still solid as rock, and more snow fell in the night, and there are no garden and no Taunus here.

I could get along very well indeed here if I only knew the same of you, and, above all, if I had you with me. All official matters—and in them rests really the calling which in this world has fallen to my lot, and which you, through your significant "Yes" in the Kolziglow church, are bound to help bear in joy and sorrow—all official matters are, in comparison with Frankfort, changed from thorns to roses; whether they will ever blossom is, indeed, uncertain. The aggravations of the Diet and the palace venom look from here like childishness. If we do not wantonly make ourselves disagreeable, we are welcome here. Whenever the carriages are called here, and "Prusku passlanika" ("Prussian carriage") is cried out among those waiting, then all the Russians look about with pleasant smiles, as though they had just popped down a ninety-degree glass of schnapps. There is some social affair every evening, and the people are different from those in Frankfort. Your aversion to court life will weaken. You cannot fail to like the Czar; you have seen him already—have you not! He is extremely gracious to me, as well as the Czarina—the young Czarina, I mean. And it is easy to get along with the mother, in spite of her imposing presence. I dined with her today with the Meiendorfs and Loen,¹⁹ and it was just like that dinner at our house with Prince Carl and the Princess Anna, when we enjoyed ourselves so much. In short, only take courage, and things will come out all right. So far I have only agreeable impressions; the only thing that provokes me is that smoking is not allowed on the street. One can have no idea in what disfavor the Austrians are over here; a mangy dog will not take a piece of meat from them. I am sorry for poor Szechenyi; I do not dislike him. They will either drive things to a war from here, or let it come, and then they will stick the bayonet into the Austrians' backs; however peacefully people talk, and however I try to soften things down, as my duty demands, the hatred is unlimited, and goes beyond all my expectations. Since coming here I begin to believe in war. There seems to be no room in Russian politics for any other thought than how to strike at Austria. Even the quiet, mild Czar falls into rage and fire whenever he talks about it, as does the Czarina, although a Darmstadt Princess; and it is touching when the Dowager Czarina talks of her husband's broken heart, and of Francis Joseph, whom he loved as a son, really without anger, but as if speaking of one who is exposed to God's vengeance. Now I have still much to write for the carrier tomorrow, and this you will not receive, I suppose, until two days after your dear birthday, just when I am celebrating mine by the calendar here. Farewell, my dear, and give each child a sweet orange from me. Love to all.

Your most faithful v.B.

Petersburg, June 4, '59.

My Dear Heart,—At last, day before yesterday, came the long-yearned-for news from you, with the reassuring post-mark, Stolp. I could not go to sleep at all in the evening, because of anxious pictures of my imagination, whose scenes were all the stopping-places between Berlin and Reinfeld. * * * Yesterday I dined at the Czarina's, in Zarske, where I found the Grand Princess Marie, who could tell me at least that she had seen you in Berlin, and that you were all right. On the way back the Czar met me at the station, and took me into his coupé—very conspicuous here for a civilian with such an old hat as I generally wear. In the evening I was, of course, on the islands, on a lively dark-brown horse, and drank tea there with a nice, old, white-haired Countess Stroganoff. The lilac, I must tell you, has flowered here as beautifully as in Frankfort, and the laburnum, too; and the nightingales warble so happily that it is hard to find a spot on the islands where one does not hear them. In the city, during these days, we had such unremitting heat as we almost never have at home. The captain of the Eagle told me that the temperature in southern Pomerania was actually refreshing in comparison; with such short nights, too, the morning brings no real coolness, and I could ride or drive about for hours in the mysterious gloaming which hovers at midnight over the surface of the water, if the increasing brightness did not give warning that another day is waiting with its work and care, and that sleep demands its rights beforehand. Since I have had the drosky, in which there is too little room for an interpreter, I am making, to the smirking delight of Dmitri, the coachman, progress in Russian, since there is nothing left for me to do but to speak it tant bien que mal. I am sorry that you have not been able to watch with me the sudden awakening of spring here; as if it had suddenly occurred to her that she had overslept her time, she is putting on, in twenty-four hours, her entire green dress, from head to foot. * * * This whole preparation for war is somewhat premature, and is causing us unnecessary expense. I hope we shall come to our senses finally before setting all Europe on fire, for the sake of obliging some little princes, and, at our own cost, helping Austria in glory out of her embarrassment. We cannot allow Austria either to be annihilated or, through brilliant victory, to be strengthened in her feeling of self-confidence and to make us the footstool of her greatness. But there is plenty of time for either case before we take the plunge, and many a piece of Lombard water can be dyed red, for things will not go forward so easily as hitherto when the Austrians have once placed themselves in their line of forts, as they should have done at the first. * * *

It is a misfortune that I always write to you in a steaming hurry; now the foxy face of the chancery servant, who is in the police pay, besides, is before me again already, and is hurrying me up, and everything I wanted to say is shrivelling before the fellow, who is useful, however. I was just thinking of much more that I wanted to write, and now I do not know anything except that I should like to beat him. * * * In the greatest love,

Your most faithful v.B.

Moscow, June 6, '59.

A sign of life, at least, I want to send you from here, my dear, while I am waiting for the samovar, and a young Russian in a red shirt is struggling, with vain attempts, to light a fire; he blows and sighs, but it will not burn. After complaining so much before about the scorching heat I waked up today between Twer and here, and thought I was dreaming when I saw the land and its fresh green covered far and wide with snow. Nothing surprises me any more so when I could no longer be in doubt about the fact I turned quietly on my other side to continue sleeping and rolling on, although the play of the green-and-white colors in the morning red was not without charm. I do not know whether the snow still lies about Twer; here it is all melted, and a cool, gray rain is drizzling down on the sheet of roofs. Russia certainly has a perfect right to claim green as her color. Of the four hundred and fifty miles hither I slept away one hundred and eighty, but of the other two hundred and seventy every hand's-breadth was green, of all shades. Cities and villages, especially houses, with the exception of the stations, I did not notice; bushy forests, chiefly birches, cover swamps and hills, fine growth of grass under them, long meadows between. So it goes for fifty, one hundred, one hundred and fifty miles. I don't remember to have noticed any fields, or any heather or sand; lonely grazing cows or horses waken in one now and then the conjecture that there are people, too, in the neighborhood. Moscow looks from above like a corn-field, the soldiers green, the furniture green, and I have no doubt that the eggs lying before me were laid by green hens. You will want to know how I happen to be here; I have asked myself the same question, and presently received the answer that variety is the spice of life. The truth of this profound observation is especially obvious when one has been living for ten weeks in a sunny hotel-room, looking out upon stone pavements. Besides, one's senses become somewhat blunted to the joys of moving, if repeated often in a short time, so I determined to forego these same pleasures, handed over all papers to Klüber, gave Engel my keys, explained that I should take up my lodgings in the Stenbock house in a week, and rode to the Moscow station. That was yesterday, twelve noon, and today early, at eight, I alighted here at the Hôtel de France. * * * It lies in the nature of this people to harness slowly and drive fast. I ordered my carriage two hours ago, and to all inquiries which I have been making about every ten minutes during the last hour and a half they say (Russian), "Ssitschàss," ("immediately"), with unshaken and amiable calm, but there the matter ends. You know my exemplary patience in waiting, but everything has its limits; hunting comes later, and horses and carriages are broken in the bad roads, so that one finally takes to walking. While writing I have drunk three glasses of tea and made way with a number of eggs; the attempts at heating up have also been so entirely successful that I feel the need of getting some fresh air. I should shave myself for very impatience if I had a mirror, in default of which, however, I shall send a greeting to my dear Tata, with yesterday's stubble beard. It is very virtuous really that my first thought is always of you whenever I have a moment free, and you should make an example of that fact. Very rambling is this city, and especially foreign-looking, with its churches and green roofs and countless cupolas, quite different from Amsterdam, but the two are the most original cities that I know. Not a single German conductor has any idea of the luggage that can be slipped into one of these coupés; not a Russian without two real, covered head-cushions, children in baskets, and masses of provisions of every sort, although they eat five big meals at the stations on the way, breakfast at two, dinner five, tea seven, supper ten; it's only four, to be sure, but enough for the short time. I was complimented by an invitation into a sleeping-coupé, where I was worse off than in my easy-chair; it is a wonder to me that so much fuss is made over one night.

Moscow, June 8th.

This city is really, for a city, the most beautiful and original that there is; the environs are pleasant, not pretty, not unsightly; but the view from above out of the Kremlin, over this circle of houses with green roofs, gardens, churches, towers of the most extraordinary shape and color, most of them green or red or light blue, generally crowned on top by a colossal golden bulb, usually five or more on one church, and surely one thousand towers! Anything more strangely beautiful than all this, lighted by slanting sunset rays, cannot be seen.

The weather is clear again, and I should stay here some days longer if rumors of a big battle in Italy were not going about, which may result in lots of diplomatic work, so that I must get back to my post. The house in which I am writing is wonderful enough, really; one of the few that have outlived 1812—old, thick walls, as in Schönhausen, Oriental architecture, Moorish, large rooms, almost entirely occupied by the chancery officers, who administer, or maladminister, Jussupow's estates. He, his wife, and I have the one livable wing in the midst of them. Lots of love.

Your most faithful v.B.

Petersburg, July 2, '59.

My Dear Heart,—I received your letter of the 25th yesterday, and you will probably get tomorrow the one that I sent to Stettin on Wednesday with the Dowager Czarina. My homesick heart follows its course with yearning thoughts; it was such charming clear weather and fresh winds when we escorted her Highness on board in Peterhof that I should have liked to leap on the ship, in uniform and without baggage, and go along with her. Since then the heat has grown worse, about the temperature of a freely watered palm-house, and my lack of summer materials is making itself decidedly felt. I go about in the rooms in my shirt alone, as the dear blue dressing-gown is too narrow, even now at six o'clock in the morning. A courier wakened me half an hour ago, with his war and peace, and I cannot sleep any more now, although I did not get to bed until towards two. Our politics are drifting more and more into the Austrian wake, and as soon as we have fired a shot on the Rhine then it's all over with the war between Italy and Austria, and, instead of that, a war between France and Prussia will take the stage, in which Austria, after we have taken the burden from her shoulders, will stand by us or will not stand by us, just as her own interests dictate. She will certainly not suffer us to play a gloriously victorious rôle. It is quite remarkable that in such crises Catholic ministers always hold the reins of our destiny—Radowitz once before, now Hohenzollern, who just now has the predominant influence, and is in favor of war. I look very darkly into the future; our troops are not better than the Austrian, because they only serve half as long; and the German troops, on whose support we reckon, are for the most part quite wretched, and, if things go ill with us, their leaders will fall away from us like dry leaves in the wind. But God, who can hold up and throw down Prussia, and the world, knows why these things must be, and we will not embitter ourselves against the land in which we were born, and against the authorities for whose enlightenment we pray. After thirty years, perhaps much sooner, it will be a small matter to us how things stand with Prussia and Austria, if only the mercy of God and the deserving of Christ remain to our souls. I opened the Scriptures last evening, at random, so as to rid my anxious heart of politics, and my eye lighted immediately on the 5th verse of the 110th Psalm. As God wills—it is all, to be sure, only a question of time, nations and people, folly and wisdom, war and peace; they come and go like waves of water, and the sea remains. What are our states and their power and honor before God, except as ant-hills and bee-hives which the hoof of an ox tramples down, or fate, in the form of a honey-farmer, overtakes? * * * Farewell, my sweetheart, and learn to experience life's folly in sadness; there is nothing in this world but hypocrisy and jugglery, and whether fever or grape-shot shall bear away this mass of flesh, fall it must, sooner or later, and then such a resemblance will appear between a Prussian and an Austrian, if they are of the same size, like Schrech and Rechberg, for example, that it will be difficult to distinguish between them; the stupid and the clever, too, properly reduced to the skeleton state, look a good deal like each other. Patriotism for a particular country is destroyed by this reflection, but we should have to despair in any case, even now, were it linked with our salvation. Farewell once more, with love to parents and children. How impatient I am to see them! As soon as Vriendschap—so our vessel is called—is in sight, I shall telegraph. With love, as always,

Your most faithful VON B.

Paris, May 31, '62.

My Dear Heart,—Only a few lines in the press of business to tell you I am well, but very lonely, with a view out over the green, in this dull, rainy weather, while the bumble-bees hum and the sparrows twitter. Grand audience tomorrow. It's vexatious that I have to buy linen, towels, table-cloths, and sheets. * * * Farewell. Hearty love, and write! Your most faithful v.B.

Paris, June 1, '62.

My Dear Heart