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Updated: May 20, 2025
The streets were almost deserted. An occasional drosky, carrying home some belated pleasure-seeker, was all that disturbed the silence. I walked some distance in the direction of the Kremlin. The air was deliciously cool and refreshing, and the sky wore a still richer glow than I had noticed a few hours before at the gardens of the Peterskoi.
Every man has a right to my time, my purse, my real estate in Oakland, my coat, my boots, or my razor nay, in a case of emergency, my tooth-brush but no man has a right to deluge my diaphragm with slops, or make a ditch of Mundus of my stomach. At the Peterskoi Gardens we had a little more tea, dashed with vodka, to keep out the night air.
In these gardens all that is brilliant, beautiful, and poetical in Russian life finds a congenial atmosphere. I spent an evening at the Peterskoi which I shall long remember as one of the most interesting I ever spent at any place of popular amusement.
Here we visited Peterskoi, another palace, more comfortable, being of moderate extent and less decorated. The chief interest attached to this chateau is that refugees, when Moscow was in flames, fled to it for safety, and an apartment is shown where by the light of the flaming city Napoleon dictated the dispatch conveying the sad intelligence to France.
This draws me insensibly toward the beautiful gardens of the Peterskoi a favorite place of resort for the Moskovites, and famous for its chateau built by the Empress Elizabeth, in which Napoleon sought refuge during the burning of Moscow. It is here the rank and fashion of the city may be seen to the greatest advantage of a fine summer afternoon.
We must make love, sweet ladies, or die. There is no help for it. Resistance is an abstract impossibility. The best man in the world could not justly be censured for practicing a little with his eyes, when away from home, merely as I do, you know, to keep up the expression. The gardens of the Peterskoi are still a dream to me. For a distance of three versts from the gate of St.
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