"You should not read your writing to other people before it is published," he often said. "And it is most important never to take any one's advice. If you have made a mess of it, let the blood be on your own head. Maupassant by his greatness has so raised the standard of writing that it is very hard to write; but we have to write, especially we Russians, and in writing one must be courageous. There are big dogs and little dogs, but the little dogs should not be disheartened by the existence of the big dogs. All must bark--and bark with the voice God gave them." All that went on in the world of letters interested him keenly, and he was indignant with the stupidity, falsehood, affectation and charlatanry which batten upon literature. But though he was angry he was never irritable and there was nothing personal in his anger. It is usual to say of dead writers that they rejoiced in the success of others, and were not jealous of them. If, therefore, I suspected Chekhov of the least jealousy I should be content to say nothing about it. But the fact is that he rejoiced in the existence of talent, spontaneously. The word "talentless" was, I think, the most damaging expression he could use. His own failures and successes he took as he alone knew how to take them. He was writing for twenty-five years and during that time his writing was constantly attacked. Being one of the greatest and most subtle of Russian writers, he never used his art to preach. That being so, Russian critics could neither understand him nor approve of him. Did they not insist that Levitan should "light up" his landscapes--that is paint in a cow, a goose, or the figure of a woman? Such criticism hurt Chekhov a good deal, and embittered him even more than he was already embittered by Russian life itself. His bitterness would show itself momentarily--only momentarily. "We shall soon be celebrating your jubilee, Anton Pavlovitch!" "I know your jubilees. For twenty-five years they do nothing but abuse and ridicule a man, and then you give him a pen made of aluminum and slobber over him for a whole day, and cry, and kiss him, and gush!" To talk of his fame and his popularity he would answer in the same way--with two or three words or a jest. "Have you read it, Anton Pavlovitch?" one would ask, having read an article about him. He would look slyly over his spectacles, ludicrously lengthen his face, and say in his deep voice: "Oh, a thousand thanks! There is a whole column, and at the bottom of it, 'There is also a writer called Chekhov: a discontented man, a grumbler.'" Sometimes he would add seriously: "When you find yourself criticized, remember us sinners. The critics boxed our ears for trifles just as if we were school-boys. One of them foretold that I should die in a ditch. He supposed that I had been expelled from school for drunkenness."