"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.