I never saw Chekhov lose his temper. Very seldom was he irritated, and if it did happen he controlled himself astonishingly. I remember, for instance, that he was once annoyed by reading in a book that he was "indifferent" to questions of morality and society, and that he was a pessimist. Yet his annoyance showed itself only in two words: "Utter idiot!" Nor did I find him cold. He said that he was cold when he wrote, and that he only wrote when the thoughts and images that he was about to express were perfectly clear to him, and then he wrote on, steadily, without interruptions, until he had brought it to an end. "One ought only to write when one feels completely calm," he said once. But this calm was of a very peculiar nature. No other Russian writer had his sensibility and his complexity. Indeed, it would take a very versatile mind to throw any light upon this profound and complex spirit--this "incomparable artist" as Tolstoy called him. I can only bear witness that he was a man of rare spiritual nobleness, distinguished and cultivated in the best sense, who combined tenderness and delicacy with complete sincerity, kindness and sensitiveness with complete candour. To be truthful and natural and yet retain great charm implies a nature of rare beauty, integrity, and power. I speak so frequently of Chekhov's composure because his composure seems to me a proof of the strength of his character. It was always his, I think, even when he was young and in the highest spirits, and it was that, perhaps, that made him so independent, and able to begin his work unpretentiously and courageously, without paltering with his conscience. Do you remember the words of the old professor in "The Tedious Story?" "I won't say that French books are good and gifted and noble; but they are not so dull as Russian books, and the chief element of creative power is often to be found in them--the sense of personal freedom." Chekhov had in the highest degree that "sense of personal freedom" and he could not bear that others should be without it. He would become bitter and uncompromising if he thought that others were taking liberties with it. That "freedom," it is well known, cost him a great deal; but he was not one of those people who have two different ideals--one for themselves, the other for the public. His success was for a very long time much less than he deserved. But he never during the whole of his life made the least effort to increase his popularity. He was extremely severe upon all the wire-pulling which is now resorted to in order to achieve success. "Do you still call them writers? They are cab-men!" he said bitterly. His dislike to being made a show of at times seemed excessive.