A singular thing, and one which must strike the traveller strongly, is the moral influence which France exercises in all countries of the world. Wherever you find any trace of civilisation, you are sure to discern the effect of that influence, whether in manners, dress, or political opinions, and that, even among rulers the most distant.
Most of our romance-writers are probably not aware that their works are read with avidity even on the banks of the Caspian, and are criticised there with as much acuteness as in the great capitals of Europe. All who call themselves Russians, in Astrakhan, speak French, and receive every month our newest publications from Brussels. In many of the libraries I found Lamartine, Balzac, Alexandra Dumas, Eugene Sue, George Sand, De Musset, &c., and many other names less known perhaps in Paris than in Astrakhan.
The Russian ladies read a great deal; they are generally gifted with natural talent, and converse with tact and to the purpose. Their only fault in this respect is, that they confine their reading to romances and novels, which almost always warp their judgment, and give them quite erroneous notions of our habits and our literature. Paul de Kock and Pigault Lebrun are especial favourites throughout the empire, and their pictures of low life are read much more eagerly than the elegant and chastened pages of our best writers. I must acknowledge, however, that many Russian ladies are capable of appreciating the gravest works. I saw on many a table in Astrakhan, "Les Ducs de Bourgogne," "L'Histoire du Bas Empire," "La Conquete des Normands," and even treatises on geology. It is needless to add, that our fashions and the prodigies of our civilisation are adopted with the same avidity as our literature.
I had some difficulty in believing myself on the verge of the Caspian, when listening to conversation on the fine arts, and on industrial economy, just as in Vienna or Paris. Music, too, is in high vogue in Astrakhan, and many of Donizetti's pieces are sung there by brilliant and cultivated voices. Our quadrilles, too, are all the rage there, and so are the charming melodies of Loiza Puget.
On the faith of some travellers who have been, or are reported to have been in Astrakhan, we expected to find a good many English, Italians, and even French in the town; but the fact is, it does not even contain a single individual of those nations, and its society consists solely of Russians and Germans, sent thither as employes. I could hear of but one Belgian, formerly a prisoner of war, who became a tailor, and now enjoys a very handsome fortune. Astrakhan pretends to have a theatre, but I have little to say for it. Imagine a very ugly and very black hall furnished with some thirty niches in double row; a pit adorned with a few dirty caftans; an orchestra composed of a paltry violin and half-a-dozen trumpets, the whole lighted up by a row of candles on the proscenium, and you have an idea of what presumes to call itself a theatre on the Caspian shores. As for the pieces and the actors, they are altogether beneath criticism.
The governor gave a grand ball and some soirees during our stay in Astrakhan. Though the heat was intolerable, the rooms were every time filled with a fashionable throng, always eager for pleasure. The Russian governors of provinces play the part of petty kings, and exercise over all classes an influence, which has its source in the very constitution of the country. Under an absolute government, every superior employe exercises unbounded authority in his own sphere. He has his courtiers, his favourites, his numerous chancery, his orderly officers, and his etiquette modelled on that of St. Petersburg, in short all that constitutes the outward tokens of power. But all these appearances of grandeur and might are but relative, for above these petty kings stands a sovereign will, that can by one word strip them of their privileges, and send them to Siberia. We must not imagine that slavery exists in Russia only for the people; whether you go east or west, into the brilliant salons of St. Petersburg, or into the isbas of the Muscovite peasant, you find it everywhere; only it is commonly disguised under forms that deceive many travellers, whose judgments are beguiled by the glittering varnish with which the Russian contrives to invest himself, by his numerous staff, his princely abode, and the pomp of his official life. And yet what is all this in reality? Something like the soap bubbles that glisten with all the colours of the rainbow, but vanish with the least breath.