But in the latter half of the eighteenth century Russia gained a ruler from whom the world came to expect much.  To mount the throne, Catharine II had murdered her husband; to keep the throne she had murdered two claimants whose title was better than her own.  She then became, with her agents in these horrors, a second Messalina.  To set herself right in the eyes of Europe, she paid eager court to that hierarchy of scepticism which in that age made or marred European reputations.  She flattered the fierce deists by owning fealty to “Le Roi” Voltaire; she flattered the mild deists by calling in La Harpe as the tutor of her grandson; she flattered the atheists by calling in Diderot as a tutor for herself.

Her murders and orgies were soon forgotten in the new hopes for Russian regeneration.  Her dealings with Russia strengthened these hopes.  The official style required that all persons presenting petitions should subscribe themselves “Your Majesty’s humble serf.”  This formula she abolished, and boasted that she had cast out the word serf from the Russian language.  Poets and philosophers echoed this boast over Europe—­and the serfs waited.

The great Empress spurred hope by another movement.  She proposed to an academy the question of serf emancipation as a subject for their prize essay.  The essay was written and crowned.  It was filled with beautiful things about liberty, practical things about moderation, flattering things about the “Great Catharine”—­and the serfs waited.

Again she aroused hope.  It was given out that her most intense delight came from the sight of happy serfs and prosperous villages.  Accordingly, in her journey to the Crimea, Potemkin squandered millions on millions in rearing pasteboard villages, in dragging forth thousands of wretched peasants to fill them, in costuming them to look thrifty, in training them to look happy.  Catharine was rejoiced, Europe sang paeans—­the serfs waited.

She seemed to go further:  she issued a decree prohibiting the enslavement of serfs.  But unfortunately the palace intrigues, and the correspondence with the philosophers, and the destruction of Polish nationality left her no time to see the edict carried out.  But Europe applauded—­and the serfs waited.  Two years after this came a deed which put an end to all this uncertainty.  An edict was prepared ordering the peasants of Little Russia to remain forever on the estates where the day of publication should find them.  This was vile; but what followed was diabolic.  Court pets were let into the secret.  These, by good promises, enticed hosts of peasants to their estates.  The edict was now sprung; in an hour the courtiers were made rich, the peasants were made serfs, and Catharine II was made infamous forever.  So, about a century after Peter, a wave of wrong rolled over Russia that not only drowned honor in the nobility, but drowned hope in the people.