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   'Tis time: the pen for peace is asking    nine cantos I have written;    my boat upon the joyful shore  ⁴ by the ninth billow is brought out.    Praise be to you, O nine Camenae, etc.

“P[avel] A[leksandrovich] Katenin (whom a fine poetic talent does not prevent from being also a subtle critic) observed to us that this exclusion, though perhaps advantageous to readers, is, however, detrimental to the plan of the entire work since, through this, the transition from Tatiana the provincial miss to Tatiana the grande dame becomes too unexpected and unexplained: an observation revealing the experienced artist. The author himself felt the justice of this but decided to leave out the chapter for reasons important to him but not to the public. Some fragments [XVI–XIX, l–10] have been published [Jan. 1, 1830, Lit. Gaz.] ; we insert them here, subjoining to them several other stanzas.”

E. [sic] Onegin drives from Moscow to Nizhni Novgorod:

[IX]

   . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .    . . . . . . . . . . . . before him    Makariev bustlingly bestirs itself,  ⁴ with its abundance seethes.    Here the Hindu brought pearls,    the European, spurious wines,    the breeder from the steppes  ⁸ drove a herd of cast steeds,    the gamester brought his decks,    fistful of complaisant dice,    the landowner ripe daughters, ¹² and daughterlings, the fashions of last year;    each bustles, lies enough for two,    and everywhere there's a mercantile spirit.

[X]

   Ennui!...

Onegin fares to Astrahan [XI], and from there to the[Caucasus:

[XII]

   He sees the wayward Térek    eroding its steep banks;    before him soars a stately eagle,  ⁴ a deer stands, with bent horns;    the camel lies in the cliff's shade;    in meadows courses the Circassian's steed,    and round nomadic tents  ⁸ the sheep of Kalmuks graze.    Afar [loom] the Caucasian masses.    The way to them is clear. War penetrated    beyond their natural divide, ¹² across their perilous barriers.    The banks of the Arágva and Kurá    saw Russian tents.

[XIII]

   Now, the eternal watchman of the waste,    Beshtú, compressed around by hills,    stands up, sharp-peaked,  ⁴ and, showing green, Mashúk,    Mashúk, of healing streams dispenser;    around its magic brooks    a pallid swarm of patients presses,  ⁸ the victims, some of martial honor,    some of the Piles, and some of Cypris.    In waves miraculous the sufferer    plans to make firm the thread of life. ¹² To leave the wicked years' offenses at the bottom    [plans] the coquette, and the old man    [plans] to grow young — if only for a moment.

[XIV]

   Onegin, nursing bitter meditations,    among their sorry tribe,    with a gaze of regret  ⁴ looks at the smoking streams and muses,    bedimmed with rue: Why in the breast    am I not wounded by a bullet?    Why am I not a feeble oldster  ⁸ like that poor farmer-general?    Why like a councilman from Tula    am I not lying paralyzed?    Why in the shoulder do I not ¹² at least feel rheumatism? Ah, Lord,    I'm young, life is robust in me,    what have I to expect? Ennui, ennui!...