# The Conversion of St. Vladimir/Canto 1

Illustrated by Věnceslav Černý
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.