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 puncture. The ideas and spirit of that letter—its good sense and its sensitiveness—pervade all the family letters and all the relations of his life pretty consist ently straight through to the end. And these rules for decent behavior by no means constitute his entire conception of the obligations devolved upon a man by accepting membership in the intellectual class. Courage, gayety, vivacity and the "light touch" are clearly elements in his ideal, as they are also constant elements in his practice.

The letters to Olga Knipper I read with mixed feelings. They are a batch of ante-and-post-nuptial love letters almost too intimate for publication. An intellectual in love and in the intimacy of marriage. Piquant themes. Rather curiously, as it seemed to me, their substance is far inferior to that of the other collection. Many of them are little more than flights of caresses and salutations of the author bowing down at the "little feet" of the lady, till his forehead knocks on the floor. Nevertheless, I should defer to Chekhov's unquestionably superior knowledge of the right thing in this connection and assume that he knew what the recipient wanted, except that she herself frequently complains of his brevity and his triviality—to which he often replies with announcement that he has had his hair cut and has brushed his teeth but could not bathe.

His playful epithets are amusing: "My sweet actress," "popsey," "sweet dog," "ginger-haired dog," "my fiery dog," "my splendid spouse," "my little crocodile," "my little whale," etc. So is much of his incessant banter amusing, especially when he plays at being a brutal peasant, threatens to "smash" her if she doesn't write, reminds her that he is her "lawful