plain. Hence the Russian speech, like the
Russian thought, is direct, terse and almost crude in
its elemental power. All this appears in Serge the
Superman. It is the directest, tersest, crudest thing
we have ever seen. We showed the manuscript to a friend
of ours, a critic, a man who has a greater Command of
the language of criticism than perhaps any two men in
New York to-day. He said at once, "This is big. It is
a big thing, done by a big man, a man with big ideas,
writing at his very biggest. The whole thing has a
bigness about it that is--" and here he paused and
thought a moment and added--"big." After this he sat
back in his chair and said, "big, big, big," till we
left him. We next showed the story to an English critic
and he said without hesitation, or with very little,
"This is really not half bad." Last of all we read
the story ourselves and we rose after its perusal--itself
not an easy thing to do--and said, "Wonderful but
terrible." All through our (free) lunch that day we
shuddered.

CHAPTER I

As a child. Serge lived with his father--Ivan Ivanovitch
--and his mother--Katrina Katerinavitch. In the house,
too were Nitska, the serving maid. Itch, the serving man,
and Yump, the cook, his wife.

The house stood on the borders of a Russian town. It was
in the heart of Russia. All about it was the great plain
with the river running between low banks and over it the
dull sky.

Across the plain ran the post road, naked and bare. In
the distance one could see a moujik driving a three-horse
tarantula, or perhaps Swill, the swine-herd, herding the
swine. Far away the road dipped over the horizon and was
lost.

"Where does it go to?" asked Serge. But no one could tell
him.

In the winter there came the great snows and the river
was frozen and Serge could walk on it.

On such days Yob, the postman, would come to the door,
stamping his feet with the cold as he gave the letters
to Itch.

"It is a cold day," Yob would say.

"It is God's will," said Itch. Then he would fetch a
glass of Kwas steaming hot from the great stove, built
of wood, that stood in the kitchen.

"Drink, little brother," he would say to Yob, and Yob
would answer, "Little Uncle, I drink your health," and
he would go down the road again, stamping his feet with
the cold.

Then later the spring would come and all the plain was
bright with flowers and Serge could pick them.