Master and Servant rose from the American experience of an Eastern European poet, whose soul wasn't (and maybe isn't) yet flavored with the huge distance's sandy tastes and the perfumes of near-total freedom. Therefore, perhaps, his eyes look to things with an uncommon (for Americans) myopia regarding details. His paintbrush doesn't hit strongly. A sense of fear keeps his hand still, lest it overcome some fine limits of expression, as one sees in the very modern styles, which are full of aggressive, free voices. Both master and servant sleep in the same individual to such an extent that we sometimes come close to madness, become confused and nervous, especially in these times of dynamic changes in conception and speed. Could all these be seen as a kind of sincerity and fragility that will make the readers curious and enticed to read?