On one occasion Balakireff begged permission of his imperial master to attach himself to the guard stationed at the palace, and Peter, for the sake of the joke, consented—warning him at the same time that any officer of the guard who happened to lose his sword, or to be absent from his post when summoned, was punished with death. The newly-made officer promised to do his best; but the temptation of some good wine sent to his quarters that evening by the Czar, “to moisten his commission,” proved too strong for him; and he partook so freely as to become completely “screwed.” While he was sleeping off his debauch, Peter stole softly into the room, and carried off his sword. Balakireff missing it on awakening, and frightened out of his wits at the probable consequences, could devise no better remedy than to replace the weapon with his own professional sword of lath,—the hilt and trappings of which were exactly similar to those of the guardsmen. Thus equipped, he appeared on parade the next morning, confident in the assurance of remaining undetected, if not forced to draw his weapon. But Peter, who had doubtless foreseen this contingency, instantly began storming at one of the men for his untidy appearance, and at length faced round upon Balakireff with the stern order, “Captain Balakireff, draw your sword and cut that sloven down!”
The poor jester, thus brought fairly to bay, laid his hand on his hilt as if to obey, but at the same time exclaimed fervently, “Merciful Heaven! let my sword be turned into wood!”
And drawing the weapon, he exhibited in very deed a harmless lath. Even the presence of the Emperor was powerless to check the roar of laughter which followed, and Balakireff was allowed to escape.
The jester’s ingenuity occasionally served him in extricating others from trouble as well as himself. A cousin of his, having fallen under the displeasure of the Czar, was about to be executed; and Balakireff presented himself at Court to petition for a reprieve. Peter, seeing him enter, and at once divining his errand, shouted to him: “It’s no use your coming here; I swear that I will not grant what you are going to ask!”
Quick as thought, Balakireff dropped on his knees, and exclaimed, “Peter Alexejevitch, I beseech you put that scamp of a cousin of mine to death!”
Peter, thus caught in his own trap, had no choice but to laugh, and send a pardon to the offender.
During one of the Czar’s Livonian campaigns, a thick fog greatly obstructed the movements of the army. At length a pale watery gleam began to show itself through the mist, and two of the Russian officers fell to disputing whether this were the sun or not. Balakireff, happening to pass by at that moment, they appealed to him to decide. “Is that light yonder the sun, brother?”
“How should I know,” answered the jester; “I’ve never been here before!”