Petrovitch, the youngest there, who spoke aloud the thought that thrilled in every heart, and knew not that he spoke until he caught the reproving looks of some of those around him. In the meantime Count Rostopchine calmly completed the sentence as it had been written—"Europe, delivered from slavery, may then celebrate the name of Russia."
Scarcely had he concluded, when the Czar himself stood amongst them, and with a few eloquent words wound up to its highest pitch the enthusiasm of the audience. Amidst the tears and acclamations which followed, the venerable chief of the merchants[1] stood up in his place and subscribed his name for the gift of fifty thousand roubles—two-thirds of his fortune. Others gave in similar proportion; and Petrovitch was surpassed by none in self-sacrificing liberality. Feodor, under his directions, wrote his name upon the list of subscribers. When he had done so, he turned to his grandfather—"Dädushka, I think you must give the Czar something more even yet."
"Even sons and grandsons?" said the old man, with a smile that had in it a little sadness and a great deal of resignation; "well, I shall not refuse."
"Even me?" said Feodor, nestling close to him and putting his arm caressingly about his neck. But Petrovitch did not answer.
"The people were willing," even beyond their power, so that three days afterwards the Czar published a ukase, not to ask for gifts, but to limit their amount. "The nobles literally gave him Russia," wrote the Sardinian ambassador to his sovereign. "They melted into tears; in short, sire, there never was anything like it. The merchants have given him ten million roubles, and lent him fifty or sixty million."
But the mass of the people—peasants, mujiks, serfs, who tilled the soil—what part had they in this splendid outburst of
- ↑ Elected annually from their own body. His munificent donation was paid the next day.
