When the abominable concert was ended, the leader took a handful of yellow flowers, like marigolds, dipped them in Ganges water, and presented one to each of us. Then he kneaded a piece of dough in his hands, and gave it a symbolic form, stuck seven small tapers in it, waved it in every direction before the chapel, and then turning towards us, repeated the same ceremony. Lastly, he took a small white shell, which had been lying until then on the sacred stone, filled it with sacred water from the Ganges, and sprinkled us with it very devoutly. Meanwhile, his companions were setting out a table with a collation of fine fruit and pastry, of which the leader did the honours to us with much politeness and gallantry. So ended a scene as difficult to describe well as to forget.
Now let us leave the Indians and their odd ceremonies, and recur to the European usages, which, to our great surprise we found in many salons of Astrakhan.
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, Eugène 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 Conquête 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 Loïza 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 employés. 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 soirées 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 employé 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.
The magnificence of the governor's palace astonished us. On our arrival for the ball, after passing through several rooms sumptuously furnished, we were led into a boudoir, where we found Madame Timirasif, the governor's lady, surrounded by all the élite of the place. She introduced me to several ladies who spoke French very well, and with whom I was soon engaged in a conversation as frivolous and varied as the chit-chat of the Parisian world of fashion. But the music soon began, and we repaired to a very large ball-room, most splendidly lighted, and already thronged with officers. The orchestra, placed on a raised platform, played French quadrilles in excellent style. I took advantage of an interminable mazurka, to learn the names of various personages: General Brigon, a Livonian, hetman of all the Cossacks; Count Pushkin, curator of the university of Casan; Admiral Lazaref; the Kalmuck prince, Tondoudof; the Princess Dolgoruky; and a young Persian, who occupied the attention of all the ladies during the ball. His handsome Oriental countenance, his rich costume, the grace with which he danced French quadrilles and mazurkas, and above all, his title of traveller, gave him an extraordinary éclat, which seemed in no wise to astonish him. I will say nothing of a collection of colonels and aides-de-camp, an inevitable and always profuse element of every Russian party, nor of a battalion of excellencies loaded with more stars and decorations than are commonly seen in the court balls of France or England.
The governor's wife is a specimen of the Russian lady in the highest perfection of the class. Elegant, lively, fascinating, and pleine de distinction, she possesses all the qualities requisite in the queen of a drawing-room. She did the honours of that remarkable soirée with charming grace. The ball ended with a grand supper, which was prolonged until morning.