P. A. Katenin (whom a fine poetic talent does not prevent from being also a subtle critic) remarked to us that this deletion, while perhaps advantageous for the reader, spoils the plan of the entire work, since, as a result, the transition from Tatiana the provincial miss to Tatiana the grande dame becomes too unexpected and unexplained a 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 and not to the public. Some fragments have been published; we give them here with several adjoining stanzas.

E. Onegin leaves Moscow for Nizhny Novgorod:

1.

... In front of him, Makaryev,3 kicking up a shindy, Seethes with its rich emporium: Pearls imported by the Indian, Wines by the European watered, The breeder from the steppe-land speeds To sell his herd of cast-off steeds; The gamester wagers all his cash on His card decks and obliging dice, The squire brings daughters ripe in size, His daughters come with last year's fashion, Each bustles, lies enough for two a A trading spirit rules right through.

2.

Ennui!

Onegin travels to Astrakhan, and thence to the Caucasus.

3.

He sees the wayward Terek,4 scoring Its banks in their abrupt descent, In front of him an eagle soaring, A standing deer with antlers bent; A camel lies in rocky shadows.

And a Circa.s.sian's steed through meadows Races; the sheep of Kalmuks graze Round nomad tents; Onegin's gaze Takes in the far Caucasian ma.s.ses.

The way is opened: war defied The country's natural divide, The perils of its mountain pa.s.ses; Where the Kura, Aragva5 whirled, There were the Russian tents unfurled.6

4.

Now, watchman of the desolation, Beshtu,7 hemmed in by hills, is seen, Sharp-peaked, at its eternal station, And there Mashuk, now turning green, Pours healing streams from its recesses; Around its magic brooklets presses A pallid swarm of invalids, The victims, some of martial deeds, Others of piles or Aphrodite; These sufferers hope to reinforce Life's thread at this prodigious source: Coquettes a to drown the notoriety Of wicked years, and ancient men a To bring back briefly youth again.

5.

Immersed in bitter meditation, Amidst this melancholy crew, Onegin looks with lamentation Upon the waters' steamy flow, And thinks, with sadness overclouded: Why has no bullet in me landed?

Why is it I'm not old, infirm, Like him, poor taxman at his term?

Why is it I'm not paralytic Like him, the clerk of Tula town?

Why don't I in my shoulder bone Feel just the slightest bit rheumatic?

I'm young, o Lord, there's life in me: What's there to come? Ennui, ennui!

Onegin then visits Tauris:

6.

You, land of the imagination: Saw Pylades, Orestes8 strive, And Mithridates9 take his life; There Mickiewicz sang his pa.s.sion10 And midst the coastal cliffs afar Recalled his Lithuania.

7.

How beautiful, when day is dawning, To see you, sh.o.r.es of Tauris, when My ship reflects the star of morning a Thus first you came into my ken; In bridal brilliance apparent, The sky behind you, blue, transparent, The ma.s.ses of your mountains shone, Villages, trees and valleys spun A pattern spreading out before me.

And there, among the Tatar dens...

What ardour roused my sleeping sense!

What magic longing caught me, bore me What yearning pressed my flaming heart!11 But with the past, Muse, let me part.

8.

Whatever feelings then lay hidden Within me a now they are no more: They went or changed, no longer bidden...

Peace unto you, alarms of yore!

It seemed it was the wild I needed, The pearl-edged waves that flowed, receded, The noise of sea, the rocks' cascade, And my ideal of proud, young maid, And nameless torment, tribulation...

Now other days, now other dreams, My springtime's fancies, high-flown themes You've quietened down, with resignation, And into my poetic gla.s.s Much water have I mixed, alas.

9.

I need another kind of image: A sandy, sloping eminence, Two rowans and a little cottage, A wicket gate, a broken fence, The sky when greyish clouds are pa.s.sing, The straw before the thresh-barn ma.s.sing, A pond beneath dense willow trees And ducklings doing as they please; I' m fond now of the balalaika And, at the tavern's door, the pack Of drunkards stamping the trepak.12 Now my ideal's a housewife a like her, It's peace alone that I desire, 'And cabbage soup, while I'm the squire.'13

10.

When recently in rainy weather I dropped into the cattle yard...

But fie on such prosaic blather, The motley dross of Flemish art!

Was such my habit in my heyday?

O fountain of Bakhchisaray,14 say!

Were such the thoughts your endless sound Communicated to my mind, When, watching you in silent wonder, Zarema first appeared to me Midst empty halls of luxury?...

Three years since then, and who should wander Along my tracks, if not Eugene, Recalling me, though long unseen.

11.

I lived in dust-submerged Odessa...

There for a long time skies are clear, Abundant trade that knows no leisure Readies its sails for every sphere; By Europe all things are invaded, The South shines out in variegated And lively multiformity.

The tongue of golden Italy Resounds along the merry pavement, Where our imperious Slav walks cheek- By-jowl with Frenchman, Spaniard, Greek, Armenian, ponderous Moldavian And son of Egypt, Morali,15 Corsair, retired now from the sea.

12.

Our friend Tumansky16 has depicted Odessa in resounding rhyme, But partiality restricted His observations at the time.

Arriving in the town, our poet, Armed with lorgnette, set off to know it, Alone, above the sea a and then, Employing an enchanting pen, Extolled the gardens of Odessa.

All that is well and good, except That round about is naked steppe; In some few spots a recent measure Has forced young boughs on sultry days To mitigate the solar rays.