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painters. They believe we are right because they feel it in their bones. Each year there are more of us and we are already strong enough to stop the worst of the destruction. Don’t misunderstand. We are not trying to stand in the way of changing times. We only mean to be sure change does not become a universal blight.”
    Thinking about my own country I was sceptical of Mark’s certainty, but I kept my doubts to myself. Later I concluded that he had not overstated the position. Wherever I journeyed I met more men and women who shared Mark’s convictions than opposed them. On every human level I heard the echo of Mark’s words. I came away convinced that whatever else may happen in the Soviet Union, the past will remain alive and vital and will continue to nurture man and to be nurtured by him.
    One evening Mark offered us a choice of entertainment: a performance of the State Symphony Orchestra, a Chekhov play at the State Theatre, a Verdi opera, or a performance by a troup of Koryak folk singers and dancers (the Koryaks are the native peoples of the northern Kamchatka Peninsula on the Pacific coast). He apologized because there was no ballet scheduled that evening.
    Claire elected to attend the symphony to satisfy her curiosity about the quality of music available in this provincial city some twenty-six hundred miles distant fromMoscow. What she got was a set of five modern pieces by a group of five Leningrad composers all of whom were present in the flesh to conduct their own compositions. She reported that the theatre was packed and that Russian modern music left her just as cold as does its counterpart in North America.
    I forewent the bright lights in favour of an evening spent talking with a small group of Mark’s friends.
    It was mostly a writers’ evening. I was thoroughly quizzed on the status of writers in my own country and in turn heard some revealing things about the other side. Mark presented me with a number of his books. The children’s books were particularly impressive to look at, even if I couldn’t read them. On the whole, books for adults in the U.S.S.R. (unless they are art books) are poorly designed and rather shabbily manufactured. I remarked on this but Yura pointed out that in Russia adult books are sold for their content – not their appearance. They are intended to be read, not used as table ornaments or as status symbols. Furthermore, they are sold at a price everyone can afford. For instance, an average-length novel in hard cover sells for about 8o¢.
    Children’s books are different. Visual appeal is considered vital for children, and the publishers go full out to achieve it. The best artists are hired to do the illustrations, which are always extensive and frequently superb. Production and design are comparable to ours but, because of the mammoth size of the printings, prices are kept to a tithe of what we must pay. Initial printings of Mark’s children’s books run from half to three-quarters of a million copies.
    The shop-talk was interrupted by the arrival of a dapper, dark-complexioned young man named Yakob, bearing gifts – two bottles of Armenian cognac. Yakob was a Buryat, a member of the original cattle-breeding tribe who owned this region before the Russians came. He was also a town planner with a degree from Moscow University and, like all planners, was a rabid enthusiast.
    He adroitly turned the conversation to his chosen field. Some years ago the state planning bodies realized that the twentieth century trend toward agglomeration (whereby the population tends to drift from the periphery of a country into a few mushrooming urban centres) had to be brought under control before it was too late – as it was almost too late for places like Moscow and Kiev. A first principle was established that the population growth of the most threatened cities would have to be arbitrarily arrested. The method chosen was to place stiff controls on the availability of housing – easily done