"The Scorpion (a publishing firm) advertise their books badly," he wrote to me after the publication of "Northern Flowers." "They put my name first, and when I read the advertisement in the daily _Russkya Vedonosti_ I swore I would never again have any truck with scorpions, crocodiles, or snakes." This was the winter of 1900 when Chekhov who had become interested in certain features of the new publishing firm "Scorpion" gave them at my request one of his youthful stories, "On the Sea." They printed it in a volume of collected stories and he many times regretted it. "All this new Russian art is nonsense," he would say. "I remember that I once saw a sign-board in Taganrog: Arfeticial (for 'artificial') mineral waters are sold here! Well, this new art is the same as that." His reserve came from the loftiness of his spirit and from his incessant endeavor to express himself exactly. It will eventually happen that people will know that he was not only an "incomparable artist," not only an amazing master of language but an incomparable man into the bargain. But it will take many years for people to grasp in its fullness his subtlety, power, and delicacy. "How are you, dear Ivan Alexeyevitch?" he wrote to me at Nice. "I wish you a happy New Year. I received your letter, thank you. In Moscow everything is safe, sound, and dull. There is no news (except the New Year) nor is any news expected. My play is not yet produced, nor do I know when it will be. It is possible that I may come to Nice in February.... Greet the lovely hot sun from me, and the quiet sea. Enjoy yourself, be happy, don't think about illness, and write often to your friends.... Keep well, and cheerful, and don't forget your sallow northern countrymen, who suffer from indigestion and bad temper." (8th January, 1904). "Greet the lovely hot sun and the quiet sea from me" ... I seldom heard him say that. But I often felt that he ought to say it, and then my heart ached sadly. I remember one night in early spring. It was late. Suddenly the telephone rang. I heard Chekhov's deep voice: "Sir, take a cab and come here. Let us go for a drive." "A drive? At this time of night?" I answered. "What's the matter, Anton Pavlovitch?" "I am in love." "That's good. But it is past nine.... You will catch cold." "Young man, don't quibble!" Ten minutes later I was at Antka. The house, where during the winter Chekhov lived alone with his mother, was dark and silent, save that a light came through the key-hole of his mother's room, and two little candles burnt in the semi-darkness of his study. My heart shrank as usual at the sight of that quiet study, where Chekhov passed so many lonely winter nights, thinking bitterly perhaps on the fate which had given him so much and mocked him so cruelly.