His people all shrank from him: the merchants hid their goods if he, or any of his spies, were in their neighbourhood; none dared be counted rich. He robbed any and all. Even the English merchants, whose good esteem he prized, were forced to furnish him with what he wished, on credit, and were never paid. They dared not offer their wares to any, unless he had first been afforded an opportunity to purchase—at his own price.
His palace at Alexandrovski was a wondrous building; all spires, domes, quaint gables, and corridors—as unlike all other palaces as Vasili Blajenni is unlike other churches. Of his enormities there, none may write. After his death, it was struck by lightning and burned to the ground.
He was rough, uncouth, unfeeling. He emptied scalding soup over one of his favourites and laughed at the sufferer’s contortions. Taking offence at a remark of one of his jesters, he ran his knife into the little fellow’s chest; then called a doctor, telling him he had used his fool roughly. The doctor told him the man was dead. Ivan, remarking that he was a poor jester after all, went away to his revels.
A straightforward old boyard, Morozof, a hard fighter and an upholder of the rights of his order, for disputing with the favoured Boris Godunov about precedence, was exiled. After some years he was again summoned to court, and Ivan made of him a buffoon. Count Alexis Tolstoi uses the story in his romance “Prince Serebrenni.”
“ ‘Yes, the Boyard is old in years but young in spirit. He loves a joke—so do I in the hours not devoted to prayers or my affairs of state. But since I killed that foolish jester, no one knows how to amuse me. I see that the Boyard Morozof wants the post. I have promised to show him a favour—I name him my chief jester! Bring the cap and bells! Put them on the Boyard.’ The muscles of the Tsar’s face worked sharply, his voice was unchanged.
“Morozof was thunder-struck: he could not believe his ears. He looked more terrible even than the Tsar. When Gresnoi brought the cloak, with its tinkling bells, Morozof pushed him aside. ‘Stand back! Do not dare, outcast, to touch Boyard Morozof! Your fathers cleaned out my ancestor’s kennels. You leave me alone! Tsar, withdraw your order. Let me be put to death. With my head you can do as you will. You may not touch my honour!’
“Ivan looked round at the opritchniks. ‘You see I am right in saying that the Boyard will have his joke. I have no right to promote him to the office of jester, eh?’
“ ‘Tsar, I implore you to withdraw your words. Before you were born I fought for your father with Simski against the Cheremiss; with Odoevski and Mstislavski drove back the Krim-Tartars, and chased the Tartars away from Moscow. I defended you when a child; fought for your rights and the rights of your mother. I prized only mine honour; that has always remained unstained. Will you mock the grey hairs of a faithful servant? Behead me rather—if you will.’
“ ‘Your foolish words show that you are well fitted for a jester. Put on the cloak! And you fellows, help him. He is used to be waited upon.’
“The opritchniks put on the fool’s cloak, the parti-coloured cap, and retreating, bowed low before him. ‘Now amuse us as did the late jester!’ said their leader.