FOR THREE YEARS after the battle of Molodi the Tsar lived in comparative tranquillity. There were, of course, occasional executions and sudden outbursts of terrifying rage, but on the whole he found himself attempting to live like a civilized human being. The rages exhausted him, and the years of unrestrained ferocity sapped his energies. He was a sick man, suffering from a variety of maladies, and conscious that his physical and spiritual powers were on the wane. The slow processes of corruption had long been at work on him, and now at last he was paying the penalty for his outrageous crimes. “Sores of the flesh and the spirit multiply, and there is no doctor who can heal me.”
Nevertheless, as he well knew, there was a doctor constantly in attendance. God dwelt in him, and around him, and His medications had proved efficacious. By the victory at Molodi God had ensured that he, Ivan, would reign for many more years as Tsar and Grand Prince of Russia. He saw God’s awesome hand over the battlefield, and therefore owed no debt to Prince Mikhail Vorotynsky, the hero of the battle, and his courageous soldiers. He was grateful and relieved now that the victory had been won, and yet not so grateful that he did not believe he had no share in the victory. On the contrary, he had a full share in it. He, the Tsar, by his constant prayers to God, had helped to work this miracle.
He and the Russian people knew what would have happened if they had been defeated—they would have become the slaves of the Tatars, who once were the masters of most of Russia, exacting tribute, ordering the princes to attend their courts and beg for favors. This had lasted for two hundred years. In the time of Ivan’s grandfather the Tatars were finally expelled from Russia. Ivan, in his own time, had seen them so dangerously close to winning back their lost empire that he had fled twice to Novgorod, knowing that if they won his only recourse was to go to England and throw himself on the mercy of Queen Elizabeth.
There hangs in the National Museum at Copenhagen, in a small room devoted to sixteenth-century furniture, a small painting of Ivan on wood, which shows him troubled, perhaps anguished, the forehead deeply lined, the face very red, the hair receding, the nose very long and pendulous, thick sensual lips, a heavy red beard streaked with silver. He wears the sumptuous raiment of the court and a wide collar studded with emeralds, rubies and pearls.
What is surprising is the artist’s success in making a credible portrait within the limits of a tradition of ecclesiastical painting. Saints must be shown stiffly, hieratically. But while Ivan is shown hieratically, he is not stiff; it is a human face burdened by the weight of fleshly cares. It is not an especially distinguished face. He might be a defrocked priest or carpet seller with an interest in religion. The deeply sunken eyes are speculative, the lips deride chastity. In that brooding face there is not a trace of imperial grandeur. Yet it is not easily forgotten, and it is not difficult to believe that this is an authentic portrait of the man who single-handedly plunged Russia into a long-lasting reign of terror. That he looked like a priest does not surprise us, and that he also looked like a carpet seller should surprise us even less. Morose, vindictive, avaricious, mean-spirited, totally self-centered, with no saving graces except his intelligence, he confronts us in the portrait and seems to be asking for our sympathy.
Not that sympathy was often given to him by a people who were mercilessly oppressed by him. Their feeling for him was one of awe amounting almost to terror before a divinely appointed ruler; he was history incarnate; he walked on the heights remote from the ordinary affairs of men; and if he punished them it was because in some mysterious way they were worthy of punishment. It seems never to have occurred to the Russians to do away with him, for we hear of no authentic attempts on his life. Ivan himself believed he was being threatened daily, and he executed thousands of men because he thought they were disloyal and therefore menaced his very existence. It was not true and he must have known it was not true; nevertheless he saw traitors everywhere.
After the battle of Molodi his violence subsided and his fear of treachery diminished. The victory was so complete, it was so obviously preordained and he was so clearly implicated that he lost his customary fear and gave himself up to a feeling of general well-being. The Swedes were troublesome; the truce had expired, and they were spreading rumors that he was about to sue for peace. While still in Novgorod, with the news of victory ringing in his ears, he wrote on August 11 a curious letter to King John III of Sweden, who had delayed sending his ambassador to Ivan perhaps because the outcome of the Tatar invasion was still uncertain:
I had believed that you and your people, having felt the weight of my wrath, would act reasonably. I awaited your ambassadors, they did not arrive, and all the time you were spreading rumors that I was suing for peace. This shows you have no pity for the Swedish people and you put your trust in your great wealth.
Look what happened to the Khan of the Crimea at the hands of my military leaders!
We are now leaving for Moscow, but we shall return to Novgorod in December. Then you will see the Russian Tsar and his army sue for peace from the Swedes!
This letter was written in the midst of the victory celebrations. All over Russia there was rejoicing; solemn services of thanksgiving were held in all the churches and cathedrals; and in Novgorod there was a special service in honor of the victory at the Cathedral of St. Sophia followed by entertainments and feasts over which Ivan presided. On August 19, the day before he left for Moscow, the Tsar was feasted in the palace of Archbishop Leonid, who would soon learn that it was dangerous to be close to the man who believed that all victories and defeats come from God.
By the end of the month Ivan was in Moscow, his faltering power reestablished by victory. He was at the center of things, no longer in exile. His first task was to shower the army with rewards. To the leading commanders, and especially to Prince Mikhail Vorotynsky, went gold plates and other valuables from his treasury; lesser rewards were given to the junior officers according to their rank and their accomplishments on the battlefield. Vorotynsky had become a popular hero, ballads were sung about him, and this too was dangerous. The newly discovered document known as the Anonymous Chronicle reports that “the Tsar began to hate him because he received so much praise from the people, and accused him of treason.” In fact the accusation came many months later. It was not in the Tsar’s nature to feel grateful toward those who saved him. Outwardly he remained on terms of close friendship with Vorotynsky; inwardly he seethed with indignation and planned to destroy his benefactor.
Icon of Ivan IV probably painted shortly after his death and now in the National Museum in Copenhagen. The inscription at top left and right reads: “Tsar and Grand Prince Ivan Vasilievich of all Russia.” (Courtesy, National Museum, Copenhagen)
He had studied the arts of revenge with minute care. The place, the punishment, the disposal of the body, were not chosen arbitrarily. For every real or imagined crime against him there could be found suitable remedies.
Thus, when he received an envoy from the Khan of the Crimea on September 4, 1572, shortly after his return to Moscow, he deliberately arranged that the reception should take place in the house of a peasant in a small village called Luchinskoye outside of Moscow. In this way no honors need be paid to the envoy. The envoy presented the inevitable insulting letter from the Khan, who announced that he had never contemplated making war on Russia. On the contrary, he had entered Russia in order to conclude a lasting peace with the Tsar, and as for those unfortunate skirmishes, they only showed the superiority of the Tatar forces. He had returned to the Crimea only because the Nogay tribesmen claimed that their horses were worn out. He asked that Kazan and Astrakhan should be given to him; and if not both, then at least the Tsar should think seriously of offering him Astrakhan. The Khan added that he would accept no gifts of money or treasure from the Tsar because he could always raid the Lithuanians and Circassians “to avoid hunger.” The calculated impudence was designed to enrage Ivan, who replied calmly that he had not the least intention of surrendering Kazan and Astrakhan. “We have one sword against us in the Crimea,” he answered mildly. “If we give up Kazan, we shall have two swords against us, and if we give up Astrakhan we shall have three.” The envoy was sent away empty-handed from the peasant’s house in an obscure village. This, too, was part of the punishment.
More envoys arrived, this time from Poland and Lithuania. King Sigismund Augustus died on July 18, 1572, and the vexing question of the succession was once more being discussed. The envoys were toying with the possibility that the crown of Poland might be given to Ivan’s second son Fyodor. The idea alarmed the Tsar, who wondered why Fyodor should be preferred to himself. He advanced his own claim to the throne at some length, pointing to his obvious virtues, his sense of implacable justice, his experience, and his love for the Polish and Lithuanian people. He was anxiously looking forward to the time when they would send plenipotentiaries with full powers to negotiate. He said:
If the Polish and Lithuanian nobles, who are now without a King, decided to choose me for their King, then they would discover what a good ruler I am and how well I would protect them. The power of the Muslims would not increase but decrease, and not only the Muslims—no Christian kingdom would succeed in opposing us if God willed that our countries become united.
Ivan was well aware that he had a reputation for exacting stern punishments, and defended himself with the argument always used by dictators. “You say I am harsh and vengeful,” he said. “It is true, but ask yourselves against whom I am harsh. I am harsh only with those who are harsh with me!” Then he touched the gold chain of kingly office that hung from his shoulders. “For those who are good to me—why, I would pluck off this chain and give it myself to a good servant!” At that moment Maliuta Skuratov, one of the most murderous of the oprichniki and still in high favor, decided to intervene. Skuratov was standing next to Ivan. He said, “Orthodox Tsar and Lord! Your treasury is not so poor! If you have need to reward someone for services performed, there are other things that can be found to give him!”
Skuratov was speaking in the authentic accents of the political toady. Ivan should be warned against making too many sacrifices for his people. This thought inspired Ivan to speak to the Poles and Lithuanians about his great wealth, pointing out that his treasury and the lands he had inherited from his father and grandfather had increased twofold during his reign. He added, “Of course, this is neither here nor there, but I thought I would mention it in passing.”
Again and again he came back to the accusations of cruelty which were being levelled at him from so many quarters. It was obviously a matter that deeply concerned him, and he had a whole quiverful of arguments to defend himself. He told them how he had almost fallen into the hands of the Tatars through the negligence and treachery of his army commanders. “Surely this was not a small act of treason!” he insisted. “Some were executed for it, and it was a just punishment! Don’t you have executions in your own country?” He promised that if they made him King of Poland and Lithuania, they would find in him a merciful Lord.
He reminded his listeners that he had never shown anything but mercy to Prince Kurbsky, who fled Russia to become a prince of Lithuania. Prince Kurbsky had committed innumerable crimes and had even brought about the death of Anastasia—and here the Tsar pointed to his son, saying, “This boy’s mother”—and yet it had never occurred to Ivan to punish this man. “I swear by God and by my word as Tsar that it never occurred to me to have him executed! All I wanted, because he had done wrong, was to bring him to obedience and to deprive him of his rank and privileges, and after this it was my intention to forgive him and return everything to him, but before I could do this he panicked and fled to Lithuania. You nobles should watch him for your own good lest he flee to another country and cause you great harm!”
Ivan was presenting himself as the mildest and most generous of emperors and also as a doting father who could not possibly let his son Fyodor become King of Poland because “I have only two sons, and they are like the eyes in my head, and if I give away one of them it is like plucking out the heart of a man.”
In matters of religion, too, Ivan presented himself as a moderate. “There are Poles and Lithuanians who follow the Lutheran creed and destroy icons,” he announced. “They do not want me for their ruler, but I shall say nothing about them since the Scriptures were given to us so that we shall not give way to violence and anger but so that we will show gentleness and meekness.”
He portrays himself as the man of peace, the gentle executioner, the servant of God. By asking that Fyodor should become King of Poland, they were implying that they wanted a mild and compassionate ruler, for Fyodor was known to be reserved and gentle. As he went on speaking, Ivan grew more and more enamored at the prospect of adding two more crowns to the many he already possessed, and he said, “Remember all I have told you and tell it to your nobles! Let them send plenipotentiaries as soon as possible, so that this good matter shall not be allowed to grow stale!” Maliuta Skuratov, not to be outdone, echoed his master’s words and added a half-concealed threat. “Your nobles should send plenipotentiaries quickly,” he said, “so that this good cause shall remain good and so that nothing evil happens meanwhile.”
The ambassadors departed, but they had seen enough of Ivan at close quarters to be dubious about his qualifications. The order to send plenipotentiaries quickly was not obeyed. Six months passed before the Lithuanians sent a plenipotentiary to Ivan’s court, and about the same time the Poles apologized for not sending a representative, giving as their excuse the fact that a plague was ravaging the country. Mikhail Garaburda, an astute and experienced diplomat, maintained that the Lithuanian nobility were unable to make up their minds; they would accept either Ivan or Fyodor; the Tsar must decide. But the Tsar was in no mood to make decisions. He was too busy attending to the liquidation of the Oprichnina to assume any further responsibilities. Lithuania tempted him, but Livonia tempted him even more, and both harbored nests of traitors.
Ivan appears to have developed a great fondness for Novgorod, where he remained all winter and late into the spring. Here in the Cathedral of St. Sophia, on April 12, 1573, he attended the wedding of Prince Magnus to the thirteen-year-old Princess Maria, the daughter of Prince Vladimir of Staritsa. The Danish prince, now titular King of Livonia, had been betrothed to her elder half-sister, who died. Since Ivan was determined to marry Magnus into his own family and Maria was the only available princess, the wedding was merely a matter of convenience. Nor was Magnus especially happy about the arrangement. He was a king without power, living on an estate on the island of Oesel in the Baltic, with few soldiers and small revenue. He had been promised five trunkfuls of gold, but Ivan failed to send them. Instead, as a wedding present, he received several trunks full of clothes for himself and his bride and the deeds to the town of Karkus and the surrounding villages in Russian-occupied Livonia. Ivan hoped he would conquer the rest of Livonia and Magnus wondered why he received so little help.
Ivan enjoyed the wedding. The chroniclers relate that he danced with the guests and beat time to the music with his staff on the heads of the young monks, who were dancing merrily. As usual he was obsessed by the possibilities of treachery and spoke pointedly on the subject in the speech he delivered at the wedding. Two Livonian mercenaries, Taube and Kruse, had recently attempted an uprising at Dorpat with the intention of giving it to King Sigismund Augustus and Ivan professed to have been deeply shocked by the occurrence, even though the attempt had failed and Dorpat remained in Russian hands. So now, speaking very solemnly, he warned the young King that he could expect no new gifts until he had proved himself. He said:
King Magnus, it is now time for you to return with your bride to your kingdom. There were other towns in Livonia I wanted to give you, and also a large dowry of money, but there came to my mind the thought of the treachery of Taube and Kruse, whom I had showered with favors.
I know you are the son of a King and therefore I have more trust in you, but after all you are only human! If it should occur to you to betray me, then you will use my money to hire soldiers who will join forces with my enemies, and once again we shall be compelled to take Livonia with our blood!
You will earn my continual favor only when you have proved your loyalty!
Magnus was disappointed, but there was nothing he could do. He returned sadly to his estate, living modestly and quietly, serving only three-course dinners and buying toys for his bride, his life of leisure interrupted by occasional border raids and skirmishes. More and more it seemed unlikely that Ivan would make him Tsar of Russia.
Meanwhile Ivan was still winding up the affairs of the Oprichnina which had proved to be so murderous, so useless, and so inefficient. It resembled a giant corporation which could not be wound up without dislocating innumerable businesses. The book work was formidable, for thousands of estates were now being returned to the original owners. Many documents had been lost in the fire of Moscow; it was necessary to examine distant archives, to inquire into inheritances, and to punish the guilty. In some cases the original families owning the sequestered estates had been wiped out. Sometimes the oprichniki had completely ruined the estates, which had to be replaced by other estates. A state of almost total bureaucratic confusion resulted. Confusion lay at the heart of the Oprichnina, and when it was liquidated, there was more confusion. The Oprichnina was dissolved because it had outlived any conceivable usefulness to Ivan, who now at last realized something that was obvious to his meanest subject: it was a cruel absurdity imposed upon the country by imperial power.
There was no date of death and there were no obsequies. The Oprichnina died slowly, piecemeal, in silence. By order of the Tsar no one was allowed to mention that it had ever existed. Heinrich Staden, one of the very few oprichniki to write his memoirs, wrote that if anyone so much as hinted at the existence of the Oprichnina, he was stripped to the waist and whipped through the marketplace. “All their estates were returned to the Zemskiye people because they had resisted the Khan of the Crimea and the Grand Prince could no longer do without them.” It was as simple as that. All the murders, all the bloodbaths, all the miserable subterfuges, came to an end without anyone being officially told that it had come to an end. Where previously there had been a conspiracy of terror there was now a conspiracy of silence.
Of the people who had formed the inner council of the Oprichnina only Maliuta Skuratov and Vasily Griaznoy survived for a little while longer. Skuratov, Ivan’s favorite, was killed while besieging the Livonian fortress of Paida on January 1, 1573. Griaznoy was captured by the Tatars on the steppes of the Upper Don River a few months later. Ivan offered a ransom of 2,000 rubles, but the Tatars thought he was worth more and refused to release him. They offered to exchange him for Divey Mirza, the general commanding the Tatar armies who was still in Russian hands, but Ivan felt it was not a fair exchange. Griaznoy had told his captors that he was a man of great importance in Ivan’s court. It was his biggest mistake. Ivan wrote to him in his Crimean prison:
Why did you say you were a man of great importance? Of course it is true that when we were confronted with the treason of the Boyars, we were compelled to surround ourself with people like you of lowly birth. But do not forget who your father and grandfather were! How then can you consider yourself the equal of Divey Mirza? Freedom will only give you a soft bed. If he goes free, he will raise his sword against the Christians.
You should have known your way, Vasiushka, when you rode after the Tatars. You should not have fallen asleep when you were reconnoitering. You rode out as though you were going hunting, and so you fell into a Tatar trap. Or did it cross your mind that in the Crimea everything would be as easy as cracking jokes at my table?
Griaznoy died in prison, a fate which he richly deserved. Prince Mikhail Vorotynsky died more barbarously, the victim of the intrigues of a thieving servant and of Ivan’s implacable vengeance against the greatest military commander of his time.
Vorotynsky was arrested on the southern front, brought in chains to Moscow, and confronted in Ivan’s presence with a servant he had dismissed. The servant had much to say, and Ivan professed to believe every word of it.
“Your servant,” Ivan said, “has testified against you that you desired to place me under a spell and employed witches to work magic over me.”
Vorotynsky was known to be especially devout, and witchcraft was not a subject which had ever interested him. He was a soldier, the hero of many battles, intelligent, and forthright. He was now about sixty years old, and he knew he was doomed.
“I never learned to practice magic, O Tsar,” he said, “nor did I ever inherit any knowledge of it from my ancestors, and I know nothing of witchcraft. I learned to worship one God, who is glorified in the Trinity, and truly to serve you, my Tsar and Sovereign. The man who accuses me is a servant who escaped from my household after robbing me. You should not accept his evidence or put any trust in him, for he is doing evil by betraying me and bearing false witness against me.”
Vorotynsky was condemned to death by burning. Ivan, according to his custom, attended the execution and amused himself by raking the burning coals with his iron staff. At the last moment when the great general’s body was scorched with the flames and he was scarcely breathing, Ivan ordered a reprieve. Vorotynsky was to be sent to a prison at Beloozero in the far north, but he died when he was three miles outside Moscow.
In Vorotynsky’s memory Prince Kurbsky, who had known him well, wrote a famous panegyric, praising him for his steadfastness, his superb intelligence, his heroism, and his innocence. “In the hands of the drinker of blood,” he wrote, “you received a great suffering, and you shall receive from the hands of Christ our God the crown of martyrdom.”
About the same time two other noblemen, Prince Nikita Odoevsky and the boyar Mikhail Morozov, were also executed together with their wives. Odoevsky was in command of the right wing of the army on the southern front, a young man, the father of three sons, with a distinguished career in front of him. Morozov had commanded the artillery at the siege of Kazan in 1552 and combined an army career with high office in the government, becoming successively governor of Smolensk and of Dorpat. He, too, had fought at the battle of Molodi. The two noblemen were accused of witchcraft, tortured, and sentenced to death. Prince Kurbsky relates that Odoevsky was killed in a very curious manner. “Many forms of torture were inflicted on him: they stuffed a shirt through his chest, tugged it to-and-fro, and he died immediately.” Of the manner of Morozov’s death nothing is known. Many years later, in 1583, Ivan sent a hundred rubles, an unusually large donation, to the Troitsa-Sergeyevsky Monastery for the prayers for the repose of Morozov’s soul.
A few weeks later a long smoldering dispute concerning the treatment of well-known noblemen under sentence of banishment at the Kirillov Monastery in Beloozero began to occupy Ivan’s attention. The dispute concerned questions of privilege. Were the nobles to be treated better than the monks? Was it permissible for them to live in aristocratic luxury while the monks lived simply? Ivan Sheremetev, a boyar, who had fought at Kazan and been second-in-command of the Tsar’s bodyguard, a man with a distinguished record in the Boyar Council and in military affairs, was sentenced to prison in Beloozero after being tortured to make him reveal the place where he had hidden his treasures. At the Kirillov Monastery he adopted the name of Iona. Another boyar, Ivan Khabarov, was also living there under the name of Ioasaf. There was a third boyar, Vasily Sobakin, the father of Ivan’s third wife Marfa Sobakina, and he was living under the name of Varlaam. It appears that Sobakin was infuriated by Sheremetev’s high standard of living. There was an open quarrel, and one of the elders of the monastery reported the matter to Ivan in September 1572. Ivan wrote back that all the former boyars now living in the monastery must live frugally.
This was not the end of the matter, for in the summer of 1573 the Abbot of the Kirillov Monastery wrote to Ivan, saying that Sheremetev had been in ill-health and that was why he was permitted to eat well. Ivan replied with a long letter written in rage and self-disgust, by turns ironical, sarcastic, threatening, playful, venomous. The fury is undisguised and the self-abasement is prolonged beyond reason with the result that it becomes finally unconvincing, and no doubt was intended to be unconvincing. Mingled with the rage is the sound of full-bellied, raucous laughter:
To the most pure Monastery of the Dormition of the most pure Mother of God and of the blessed, God-fearing and saintly Father Kirill and to their brethren in Christ, the Tsar and Grand Prince Ivan Vasilievich of all Russia sends greetings.
Woe unto me the sinner! Woe unto me the accursed! Woe unto me the unclean! Who am I to venture to ascend these heights? For God’s sake I pray you, fathers and teachers, to reconsider your decision.
I am not worthy to call myself your brother, so let me be like one of your common laborers. I kneel before you and beg you to reconsider your decision for God’s sake! For it is written, Angels are the light of monks, monks are the light of the laity. It is proper for you, our teachers, to enlighten us who have erred into the darkness of pride and into the mortal delights of pride, gluttony and intemperance. But I—foul stinking dog that I am—who can I teach? What can I instruct? How can I enlighten?
If you desire enlightenment, then you have a teacher among you, the great light Kirill. Pray beside his tomb and he will give you guidance. You have his saintly disciples and his monastic rules. In them you will find an instructor and teacher. Learn from them. Forgive us who are poor in spirit and enlighten us, and for God’s sake forgive us our boldness.
The Tsar was begging forgiveness for his boldness in writing to the Abbot. He explained that his effrontery was perhaps justified by the fact that once in a state of black depression brought about by alarms and treacheries in Moscow, he had thought very seriously of retiring from life and becoming a monk at the Kirillov Monastery. He had gone so far as to kneel before the Abbot while visiting the monastery to implore a blessing for his novitiate. “And thus it seems to me that I am half a monk and have dared to speak to you.”
All this was merely the overture: the conjuring trick transforming “the foul stinking dog” into the novice who kneels imploringly in front of the Abbot. He had been asked for his judgment on the affair and felt an overmastering need to reply. According to the rules laid down by St. Kirill, everyone at the monastery must be treated equally and therefore there could be no distinction between the boyars and monks. Ivan wrote:
When one takes monastic vows, one forsakes the world and everything in the world. But how can one call Sheremetev a monk? The tenth servant of his who lives in his apartment eats better than the monks who eat in the dining hall. The Russian saints have laid down the rules of monastic life leading to salvation, while the boyars who came to you introduced their own worldly ways. It is not they who have been tonsured by you, but you who have been tonsured by them.
Yes, the rules of Sheremetev are good! Keep them! The rules of St. Kirill are not good, so set them aside! Today this boyar will introduce one of his worldly ways, and tomorrow another will introduce another, and little by little monastic rules will vanish and there will be only worldly rules. Remember that in all monasteries the founder introduced strict rules in the beginning, and then the worldly ones came along and overthrew them. . . .
Because of Sheremetev you give us no peace! I have told you that Sheremetev and Khabarov must eat with the rest of the monks in the dining hall. If Sheremetev is really sick and not shamming, then he should eat alone in his cell. What about all these parties? Why is there feasting, and why are sweetmeats brought to his cell? In the old days, at the Kirillov Monastery, there was not even a spare needle and thread. What can be said about his store-house outside the monastery walls? All this is lawlessness and totally unnecessary. For food he should have bread, a piece of fish, and kvas. Beyond that, if you so decide, give him anything you wish, as long as he eats alone and there are no feasts or celebrations. If someone comes to him to converse on spiritual matters, let him not come at meal time, for there should be no eating or drinking during spiritual conversations.
Or perhaps you are sorry for Sheremetev because his brothers even to this day continue to send messages to the Crimea urging the Muslims to wage war against Christians.
So, for page after page, Ivan inveighs with heavy sarcasm against the luxuries enjoyed by the boyars, the obsequiousness of the monks, the absurdity of it all. Like St. Chrysostom, from whom in this discourse he borrows unashamedly, he claims that all luxuries are designed to turn men away from God, forgetting that he lived himself in a state of luxury which beggared description. Poor Sheremetev! Poor Khabarov! How tragic their lives, and how ill-used they are! As for the poor Abbot, what can be expected of him since he permits the rule of Sheremetev to override the rule of St. Kirill? Ivan concludes his letter with a flourish:
May the peace of God and the mercy of the most pure Mother of God and the prayers of the wonder-working Kirill be with you and with us, Amen! And we, O Fathers, bow to the ground before you!
Ivan wrote this long letter with gusto and the appropriate savagery. It was a small matter, but he prolonged it beyond all probability and almost beyond endurance. He resembled those people who tell jokes and repeat them endlessly because they are in love with their own voices and because they tell jokes more to amuse themselves than to amuse the audience. Sometimes, as he describes the behavior of the boyars in the Kirillov Monastery, he seems to be overcome by a great weariness and disgust. When he spoke of himself as “a foul stinking dog,” he was not being entirely ironical.
Many of the spurs of his action no longer existed. The victory of Molodi had settled the fate of the Tatars for many years to come. The dissolution of the Oprichnina was forced upon him by events, and the desperate stratagems, by which he maintained himself in power over a separate, private kingdom while simultaneously ruling over the whole of Russia, were no longer needed. For many years he had been living from one crisis to another; if there was no crisis he would create one. Now at last he seemed to weary of living on the vertiginous heights, and he grew quieter and less adventurous.
What disturbed him most, while the Russians were binding up their wounds after the seven-year nightmare of the Oprichnina, was the prevalence of witches. All over Russia, it seemed to him, powerful spells and magic charms were being uttered against him; the sorcerers were at work; enchantments were being practiced and ghosts were abroad. He was convinced that the sudden death of the Tsaritsa Marfa had been brought about by magic spells and these spells had been uttered not only against the Tsaritsa but against himself and his children. He had survived by the mercy of God, but for how long? Two cousins of Marfa were executed on suspicion of practicing witchcraft. The fear of witches remained with him to the end of his life.
In January 1575 a large number of Russian prisoners returned from the Crimea, and Ivan interrogated them. He wanted to know whether there had been treachery in the ranks of the Russian army, and no doubt he discovered enough traitors to make the interrogations worth his while. Later in the spring he rid himself of his fourth wife Anna Koltovskaya, sending her into a nunnery, and for good measure he executed her relatives.
In the summer Ivan ordered the arrest of Leonid, Archbishop of Novgorod and Pskov. Significantly the archbishop’s many crimes included “the keeping of witches.” He was also accused of sodomy, counterfeiting money, and secret communication with the King of Poland. Prince Kurbsky describes him as “a gentle and distinguished man” and from the Novgorod Chronicle we learn that he once fined his deacons because they arrived late for a service. Of his fate we know nothing for certain except that he died miserably. According to the Pskov Chronicle the Tsar in a rage tore off his vestments, had him sewn in a bearskin, and set the dogs on him. Jerome Horsey, who was in Russia during this time, says the archbishop was lodged in a cell “with irons on his head and legs.” Sentenced to everlasting imprisonment, he is said to have spent his days painting icons, combs, and saddles while living on a diet of bread and water.
The tempo of executions was much slower now. Instead of killing Ivan sometimes resorted to the practice of confiscating everything a man possessed, even his clothes. It was a kind of symbolic execution, and he practiced it on the boyar Nikita Zakharin, the brother of the adored Anastasia. Jerome Horsey, who lived next door to Nikita Zakharin on Varvarka Street in Kitay Gorod, left a vivid account of the sudden eruption of vandals in a quiet street:
His majesty came to the city of Moscow; cast his displeasure upon some noblemen and governors thereof; set a parasite of his and sent with him two hundred gunners to rob Nikita Romanovich our next neighbor, brother to the good empress Anastasia, his first wife, took from him all his armor, horse, plate, and goods, to the value of forty thousand pounds; seized his lands and left him and his so poor and needy as he sent to the English house the next day for as much coarse cotton as made him a gown to cover himself and children withal.
A similar but more bloody punishment was visited about the same time on Andrey Shchelkalov, the Grand Secretary, who was beaten until he disgorged five thousand rubles, and was left half-dead. He was not killed, but his faithful servant Ivan Lottych was murdered, apparently as a warning. Jerome Horsey relates that Shchelkalov was also forced to repudiate his young and beautiful wife and to gash her naked back with a scimitar as a sign of renunciation.
There were more sporadic executions in the late summer of 1575. The chroniclers report that Ivan ordered the heads to be thrown into the courtyards of Prince Ivan Mstislavsky, Andrey Shchelkalov, the Metropolitan, and other high officials as a grizzly warning. It seemed that he could not live without killing but was growing weary of it.
He was also growing weary of life. “The foul stinking dog” would bark and bite, but the vigor was going out of him. He had no philosophy of life, no plans except to survive and to secure the survival of his dynasty, no military policy except to extend his frontier in Livonia with the assistance of King Magnus, who was proving to be totally incompetent. He was exhausted, his sails hung slack, and he drifted with the tide.