# The Conversion of St. Vladimir/Canto 2

Illustrated by Věnceslav Černý
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, 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!