The Conversion of St. Vladimir/Canto 2
CANTO II
Domestic Affairs
Some mountain peaks are very high,
Others, again, are low—
Who cannot hire a fiddler
Must his own whistle blow.
During the Tsar's carousal
And revels at his court
His god Perun was grouchy—
His humor out of sort.
“Who never had a job as god
Will never know, indeed,
The precarious existence
A busy god must lead.
Before he breakfasts he must spray
The dew. When that is done
He takes the light out of the moon
And heats the shining sun.
He has to lock the imps of night
In, with the devil’s troop,—
Then call the little twinkling stars
Like chickens, to their coop.
And then for all the animals—
Or birds, or bugs—he pours
Their rations every morning
Out from his meager stores.
“But my real troubles just begin
When folks get out of bed;
With all their noisy racket
I almost lose my head.
“Who never had a hornet
A-buzzing in his ear,
He knows not what god Perun
Each morning has to hear.
“Some people weep, some whisper,
While others loudly sing;
Some whimper psalms in churches
It makes my eardrums ring.
“The things for which they ask me
Can hardly be compiled,
And if I were to grant them
’Twould almost drive me wild.
“Some pray for health—or children,
Or something good to eat—
While others, who are lazy,
For easy jobs entreat.
“One begs me watch his meadow
Or help him with his plow—
Another asks my service
As midwife to his cow.
“One peasant asks for showers,
He wants his flax to grow—
Another one wants sunshine,
His grass is ripe to mow.
“One wants it hot, another cold;
One wet, another dry—
One wants the price of corn low,
Another wants it high.
“But that I raised old women
Fills me with bitter gall—
Their obstinate annoyance
Tempts me to starve them all.
“I wish the devil took them—
(Although I should not cuss),—
Whene’er their goats skimp on their milk
They cry and rant and fuss.
“Nobody wants to labor,
They all but pray and drone
That god be the provider
For them, and them alone.
“Some want it to be windy,
Some want their fields manured.
Some, ill from wanton gorging,
Are praying to be cured.
Old maids for some kind husbands
Are praying night and day—
Benedicts beg the plague may take
Their nagging wives away.
“One brings me gifts,—to tip him off
When he the lottery plays—
While one insured his chattels
And wishes for a blaze.
“O rogues, did not my temper
To kindliness succumb,
I’d crush you all to jelly
Just like a rotten plum.”
He took a goodly pinch of snuff,
Which caused a roaring sneeze
And sent to earth a thunderstorm,—
His anger to appease
“Truly, boys, to be a god
Is not a happy station—
Brixen’s Jail[1], compared to this,
Would be a relaxation!”
When all on earth had quietened,
Exhausted from his yoke,
Late in the night, poor Perun
Sat down, to have a smoke.
Soon as he hauled his chibouk
And his tobacco bag,
As usual, Mistress Perun
Began to scold and nag.
“Quite well I heard the message—
The door was half ajar—
You’d sent with that policeman
To Vladimir, our Tsar.
“If you antagonize the Tsar,
I told you right along
You, with your opposition,
Are sure to get in wrong!
“To tell, whate’er is on your tongue
To everybody’s face,
Will make you many enemies
And bring you to disgrace.”
When one’s wife, in her fury
Rails, as but women can,
’Tis sure to drive one frantic
Be he god, or merely man.
Poor Perun, I have compassion
For your sorry, wretched lot—
There awaits you on the morrow
An extremely fiendish plot!
O Perun, unlucky creature,
Without favor, dread or fear,
You have dared to show your hatred
’Gainst your lord, Tsar Vladimir!
Oh, why did you not consider
Poor, unfortunate Perun?
Flee, oh, flee—else if they get you
Your career will end too soon!
- ↑ There the author spent four years as political prisoner.