The Conversion of St. Vladimir/Canto 1
The Conversion of St. VLADIMIR By KAREL HAVLIČEK
Illustrated
by
V. Černý.
Translated by Ernst Altschul
CANTO I
Perun and Vladimir
Vladimir, seated on the throne
Upon his festive day,
Dispatched a guard to god Perun
And ordered him to say:
Perun, upon this holiday
Release your thunder’s roar,
’Twere wasteful to use powder,
We need it in our war.
"Send thunderbolts, to save my guns,
Upon this day of glee—
Then you come and enjoy a cup
Of chocolate with me.”
The guard arrived at Perun’s gate
And knocked with noisy din,
And sharply asked the scullion maid:
“Is Daddy Perun in?”
“Yes, Mister Guard, he’s home, all right,
Cross as a bear—and rants—
A-top the bake-oven he sits,
A-patching up his pants.”
“Our Tsar, dear Dad, sends his regards;
He ordered me to come
With the command that you should beat
Today your loudest drum.”
When god Perun this mandate heard,
He puckered up his brow,
He threw the trousers to the floor
And made an awful row.
“I’d rather herd the village geese
And wade through mire and smear
Than to slave on this job as god
For your Tsar Vladimir.
“Hard labor—working day and night—
And very little pay,—
Must I, even on holidays,
Do clowning for his play?
“During that recent thunderstorm
In the hot lightning’s fire—
There’s where I burned a great big hole
In this, my best attire.
“Small wages, and but little graft,
And scarcely any tips—
Harldy enough for salad oil
To grease my parching lips.
“A roast on Sundays only,
With water—what a life—
On such a paltry income
I could hardly get a wife!
“This job would never keep me
Did I not have the choice
To help with physics lessons
Some backward college boys.
Did not some peasant women
Make a few kopeks clink,
I could not, e’en on Sundays,
Buy me a little drink.
“To work for nearly nothing
Drives me most to despair;
Tell him that for his chocolate
I do not give a care.
“I shall no longer thunder,
Week-day nor holiday,
For Vladimir or others;
I find it does not pay.”
The messenger, dumbfounded,
Looked silly as a mawk—
“Remember, Daddy Perun,
Be careful with your talk!”
“I, too, am but a servant,
We each must do our bit.
If I should bring this answer
The Tsar would have a fit.”
Perun, enraged, was ready
The messenger to drub,
And reached beneath the table
For his big thunder-club.
The copper did not tarry
And, seized with sudden fear,
Ran fast as legs would carry
Him, to Tsar Vladimir.
“Your Tsarship’s humble servant,
I hasten to report
With abject shame and horror
God Perun’s foul retort.
“He claims he will not thunder;
He chased me like a cur.
Upon your Excellency
He cast a filthy slur.
Without him, as you please;
And for his situation
He does not give a sneeze.
“As for your private holiday,
He does not care a fig,
The Tsar to him is nothing
But a conceited pig.”
Vladimir, after hearing
This villainous retort,
Spat on the marble flooring,
As did his noble court.
He hastened four policemen
At once, for god Perun;
“Go, bring before our mighty throne
That scurrilous poltroon.”
They left, but he recalled them
With a contemptuous cry
“Just leave it till tomorrow
We’re sitting high and dry!
“Let with our gay carousal
No roughneck interfere,
But bring him back tomorrow,
Then we shall pull his ear!
“We need not beg god Perun
To let his thunder loose,
Since we, with shot and cannon
Can lot of noise produce.”
His chief Adjutant-General,
While feasting at the meal,
Called out a pair of batteries
To make the cannons peal.
And by the sound of music
With greed they gorge and quaff,
Full many belts were loosened
By all the royal staff.
They drank wine, beer and vodka,
And many a valiant knight
Filled up on meat and pastry
Then found his vest too tight.
They sang and danced, made merry
Upon the ballroom floor—
With popping corks they smothered
The noisy mortars’ roar.
And all who joined this jolly feast
Happily got drunk;
And, loaded up with dainties,
Were carried to their bunk.
