“But would Fedor Ivanitch, at his age-----” she began.

“Please, play your games,” Lavretsky hastened to interpose; “don’t pay attention to me.  I shall be happier myself, when I am sure I am not in your way.  And there’s no need for you to entertain me; we old fellows have an occupation which you know nothing of yet, and which no amusement can replace—­our memories.”

The young people listened to Lavretsky with polite but rather ironical respect—­as though a teacher were giving them a lesson—­and suddenly they all dispersed, and ran to the lawn; four stood near trees, one in the middle, and the game began.

And Lavretsky went back into the house, went into the dining-room, drew near the piano and touched one of the keys; it gave out a faint but clear sound; on that note had begun the inspired melody with which long ago on that same happy night Lemm, the dead Lemm, had thrown him into such transports.  Then Lavretsky went into the drawing-room, and for a long time he did not leave it; in that room where he had so often seen Lisa, her image rose most vividly before him; he seemed to feel the traces of her presence round him; but his grief for her was crushing, not easy to bear; it had none of the peace which comes with death.  Lisa still lived somewhere, hidden and afar; he thought of her as of the living, but he did not recognize the girl he had once loved in that dim pale shadow, cloaked in a nun’s dress and encircled in misty clouds of incense.  Lavretsky would not have recognized himself, could he have looked at himself, as mentally he looked at Lisa.  In the course of these eight years he had passed that turning-point in life, which many never pass, but without which no one can be a good man to the end; he had really ceased to think of his own happiness, of his personal aims.  He had grown calm, and—­why hide the truth?—­he had grown old not only in face and in body, he had grown old in heart; to keep a young heart up to old age, as some say, is not only difficult, but almost ridiculous; he may well be content who has not lost his belief in goodness, his steadfast will, and his zeal for work.  Lavretsky had good reason to be content; he had become actually an excellent farmer, he had really learnt to cultivate the land, and his labours were not only for himself; he had, to the best of his powers, secured on a firm basis the welfare of his peasants.

Lavretsky went out of the house into the garden, and sat down on the familiar garden seat.  And on this loved spot, facing the house where for the last time he had vainly stretched out his hand for the enchanted cup which frothed and sparkled with the golden wine of delight, he, a solitary homeless wanderer, looked back upon his life, while the joyous shouts of the younger generation who were already filling his place floated across the garden to him.  His heart was sad, but not weighed down, nor bitter; much there was to regret, nothing to be ashamed of.