Russia, since time immemorial, has been a land of mystery. Far from our shore, far from our habit of life and, of course, they, far from us and we, from them. Yet even a cursory reading of their literature shows us that we share a mutual appreciation of beauty, sorrow, joy, and death. We find in the murmuring of a simple stream inspira­tion that lets us echo beauty in music and the written word, on canvas and in sculpture. We have forest mysteries in common and we have the fruitful plain. We also have the desert. None have been missed by their Longfellows and our Chekhovs. Though evidence of their thought abounds, inspired pictorial record of the source does not. What works of nature gave direction to these literary thrusts, these recreations in music and art? And may we not find in this beauty some mutuality, some skein, some path to bring us to understanding?