Albert instantly recognized Delesof. "Why is he great? And why should we bow before him? Has he conducted himself in an honorable and righteous manner? Has he brought society any advantage? Do we not know how he borrowed money, and never returned it; how he carried off a violin that belonged to a brother artist, and pawned it?" "My God! how did he know all that?" said Albert to himself, drooping his head still lower. "Do we not know," the voice went on, "how he pandered to the lowest of the low, pandered to them for money? Do we not know how he was driven out of the theatre? How Anna Ivánovna threatened to hand him over to the police?" "My God! that is all true, but protect me," cried Albert. "You are the only one who knows why I did so." "Stop, for shame!" cried Petrof's voice again. "What right have you to accuse him? Have you lived his life? Have you experienced his enthusiasms?" "Right! right!" whispered Albert. "Art is the highest manifestation of power in man. It is given only to the favored few, and it lifts the chosen to such an eminence that the head swims, and it is hard to preserve its integrity. In art, as in every struggle, there are heroes who bring all under subjection to them, and perish if they do not attain their ends." Petrof ceased speaking; and Albert lifted his head, and tried to shout in a loud voice, "Right! right!" but his voice died without a sound. "That is not the case with you. This does not concern you," sternly said the artist Petrof, addressing Delesof. "Yes, humble him, despise him," he continued, "for he is better and happier than all the rest of you." Albert, with rapture in his heart at hearing these words, could not contain himself, but went up to his friend, and was about to kiss him. "Get thee gone, I do not know you," replied Petrof. "Go your own way, you cannot come here." "Here, you drunken fellow, you cannot come here," cried a policeman at the crossing. Albert hesitated, then collected all his forces, and, endeavoring not to stumble, crossed over to the next street. It was only a few steps to Anna Ivánovna's. From the hall of her house a stream of light fell on the snowy _dvor_, and at the gate stood sledges and carriages. Clinging with both hands to the balustrade, he made his way up the steps, and rang the bell. The maid's sleepy face appeared at the open door, and looked angrily at Albert. "It is impossible," she cried; "I have been forbidden to let you in," and she slammed the door. The sounds of music and women's voices floated down to him. Albert sat down on the ground, and leaned his head against the wall, and shut his eyes. At that very instant a throng of indistinct but correlated visions took possession of him with fresh force, mastered him, and carried him off into the beautiful and free domain of fancy. "Yes! he is better and happier," involuntarily the voice repeated in his imagination.