At the end of the same campaign, several of the officers were relating their exploits, when Balakireff stepped in among them. “I’ve got a story to tell, too,” cried he, boastfully; “a better one than any of yours!”
“Let us hear it, then,” answered the officers; and Balakireff began,—
“I never liked this way of fighting, all in a crowd together, which they have nowadays; it seems to me more manly for each to stand by himself; and therefore I always went out alone. Now it chanced that one day, while reconnoitering close to the enemy’s outposts, I suddenly espied a Swedish soldier lying on the ground, just in front of me. There was not a moment to lose; he might start up and give the alarm. I drew my sword, rushed upon him, and at one blow cut off his right foot!”
“You fool!” cried one of the listeners, “you should rather have cut off his head!”
“So I would,” answered Balakireff, with a grin, “but somebody else had done that already!”
At times Balakireff pushed his waggeries too far, and gave serious offense to his formidable patron. On one of these occasions the enraged Emperor summarily banished him from the Court, bidding him “never appear on Russian soil again.” The jester disappeared accordingly; but a week had hardly elapsed when Peter, standing at his window, espied his disgraced favorite coolly driving a cart past the very gates of the palace. Foreseeing some new jest, he hastened down, and asked with pretended roughness, “How dare you disobey me, when I forbade you to show yourself on Russian ground?”
“I haven’t disobeyed you,” answered Balakireff, coolly; “I’m not on Russian ground now!”
“Not on Russian ground?”