She invited literary people, and they were brought to her at once in multitudes. Afterwards they came of themselves without invitation, one brought another. Never had she seen such literary men. They were incredibly vain, but quite open in their vanity, as though they were performing a duty by the display of it. Some (but by no means all) of them even turned up intoxicated, seeming, however, to detect in this a peculiar, only recently discovered, merit.
They tell me, shaking their heads:
'You should be kinder... You are somehow-furious.'
I used to be kind. It didn’t last long.
Life was breaking me hitting me in the teeth.
I lived like a silly puppy.
They would hit me- and again I would turn the other cheek.
I’d wag my tail of complacency,
and then, to make me furious,
someone chopped it off with a single blow.
And now I will tell you about fury,
about that fury with which you go to a party
and make polite conversation
while dropping sugar into your tea with tongs.
And when you offer me more tea
I’m not bored- I merely study you.
I submissively drink my tea from the saucer,
and, hiding my claws, stretch out my hand.
And I’ll tell you something else about fury.
When before the meeting they whisper:
'Give it up...
You’re young, better you write,
don’t jump into a fight for a while...'
Like hell I’ll give in!
To be furious at falsehood- is real goodness!
I’m warning you- that fury hasn’t left me yet.
And you ought to know- I’ll stay infuriated for a long time.
There’s none of my former shyness left in me.
After all- life is interesting when you’re furious!
1955
Translated by Tina Tupikina-Glaessner, Geoffrey Dutton, and Igor Mezhakoff-Koriakin (revised)
Yevgeny Yevtushenko
The Poet and the painter casting shadows on the water
as the sun plays on the infantry returning from the sea.
The do-er and the thinker: no allowance for the other
as the failing light illuminates the mercenary's creed.
The home fire burning: the kettle almost boiling
but the master of the house is far away.
The horses stamping - their warm breath clouding
in the sharp and frosty morning of the day.
And the poet lifts his pen while the soldier sheaths his sword.