"Well, how about Lablache?"
"I heard him in Paris, in 'The Barber of Seville.' Then he was the only one, but now he is old. He can't be an artist, he is old."
"Well, supposing he is old, still he is fine in morceaux d'ensemble," said Delesof, still speaking of Lablache.
"Who said that he was old?" said Albert severely. "He can't be old. The artist can never be old. Much is needed in an artist, but fire most of all," he declared with glistening eyes, and raising both hands in the air. And, indeed, a terrible inner fire seemed to glow throughout his whole frame. "Ah, my God!" he exclaimed suddenly. "You don't know Petrof, do you,—Petrof, the artist?"
"No, I don't know him," replied Delesof with a smile.
"How I wish that you and he might become acquainted! You would enjoy talking with him. How he does understand art! He and I often used to meet at Anna Ivánovna's, but now she is vexed with him for some reason or other. But I really wish that you might make his acquaintance. He has great, great talent."
"Oh! Does he paint pictures?" asked Delesof.
"I don't know. No, I think not; but he was an artist of the Academy. What thoughts he had! Whenever he talks, it is wonderful. Oh, Petrof has great talent, only he leads a very gay life!... It's too bad," said Albert with a smile. The next moment he got up from the bed, took the violin, and began to play.
"Have you been at the opera lately?" asked Delesof.
Albert looked round, and sighed.