How Russians Hunt in Winter

Leonid Arkadyevich Zemsky, a literary scholar who had devoted his life to writing commentaries on The Lay of Igor’s Campaign, dreamed of visiting the countryside in winter and going on a real Russian hunt. He thought the hunt he’d read about in an 1892 book by Leonid Sabaneyev was still out there in real life, with its houndsmen and their hunting dogs and a wolf brought to bay then nicely trussed, just like in Sergey Bondarchuk’s movie of War and Peace. Friends recommended the little village of Stozharovo, which had been renowned for its hound hunts some twenty years back. But when he got there, alas, Leonid Arkadyevich found only skewed huts and lopsided livestock barns. The blizzard whirled and the wind howled down the deserted street.

After ramming his four-by-four’s bumper into a snowdrift, Leonid got out and followed a path to a hut where lights were glimmering. An old girl swaddled in shawls opened the door to his knock. She was leaning on a stick, and she was mad.

“Dear lady, do tell: who hunts in the Russian way here?”

She brandished her stick at him and yelled, “Everyone does just that master of mine, every last one of ’em! Poachers, no more, no less, shooting from dawn to dusk! Nearly nailed my goat too!”

Leonid stuffed a thousand-ruble note into her pocket. “But who’s the one to talk to?” he asked. “Who’s the gamekeeper?”

“Pfft,” the old girl replied. “Get yourself over to the next house, Lyokha Karnaukhov’s place. He’ll be the troublemaker-in-chief.”

Lyokha, who did indeed like to think of himself as a hunter extraordinaire, was only too glad to offer Leonid Arkadyevich bed and board. He lived like a hermit and ran his home as any bachelor would. Flustered at first by the lack of amenities and the impenetrable filth, Leonid finally decided that these conditions were just the thing when you’re hunting. Meanwhile Lyokha was telling him how this December’s mild and snowy weather would make for a successful hunt.

“Point is, Arkadich” – Lyokha scratched the back of his head – “that the snow’ll show the tracks sure enough.”

“It certainly will!” Leonid Arkadyevich said, thinking back to an illustration he’d seen titled “Animal Tracks in the Snow.”

“Well, then.” Lyokha poured himself a glassful. “What animal are we after? We’ve got the lot.” He sliced the edge of his grimy palm across his neck. “Step this way, there’s a moose, step that way there’s a bear, then you’ve got boars, foxes, wolves, and all sorts of smaller critters.”

Leonid Arkadyevich squeezed his eyes shut in horror. “Bear’s off the table for a start, Aleksey,” he said.

“Up to you.” Lyokha spat on the floor. “Wolf, then?”

“And what do I do with it when I’ve got it?” Leonid asked listlessly.

“Moose?” Lyokha poured himself another glassful.

“No.” Leonid was picturing a moose with its suede-soft lips, long eyelashes, and sad eyes. “I’d hate to hurt a moose.”

“Oh well, Professor – a wild pig, then?”

Our literary scholar brightened up. “A boar will do,” he said. “That’s a game animal, right?”

“I’ll say! So peel off the cash, and tomorrow you’ll be good to go.”

Leonid Arkadyevich clapped his hands. “And houndsmen? And hunting dogs? And beaters? Excellent! How much?”

“Have you come here to hunt or to dicker?” Lyokha snatched a couple of five-thousand-ruble bills from Leonid’s wallet and vanished.

Lyokha poked Leonid Arkadyevich hard just as he was having a terrible dream of being cornered by the huge, murderous bear from that US movie The Edge. Blood dripped from the beast’s fangs and the stink from its maw was horrendous. Leonid woke and spent a long time staring at Lyokha’s face, which put him in mind of a broken-down boot.

“It’s time, Arkadich.” Lyokha was loading a backpack. “You’ll have stalkers and beaters and all. You’ll be standing in the shooting position – got that? You won’t mess up?” Lyokha thrust a Taiga rifle at Leonid, who was scared to death now. “You’ll be given the ammo when we get there. Felt boots, there you go. Sheepskin coat, there you go.”

“Could use some coffee, Aleksey.” Leonid shivered, realizing that the long-awaited hour was near.

“Later on. Boars have a great sense of smell. Once we’ve brought one down, though, there’ll be a campfire, vodka, kebabs... So shake a leg, Professor!”

It was still dark when they left, with the sun just about to rise over the distant forest. The village seemed swathed in a gray blanket with little tears that let little stars peek dimly through. In between taking deep, deep breaths, Leonid went on and on, telling Lyokha how much the writers of Russia’s Golden Age loved hunting...

“Shut up, won’t you?” Lyokha begged him. “My head’s buzzing.”

Turning off the highway, they followed a trail to the forest outskirts, where they found some ski-shod lads and a dejected horse harnessed to a sleigh waiting for them. One of the men was sitting in the sleigh, aiming occasional blows at a sack covered with hay. The sack was rolling around and making noises like the whine of a saw.

Leonid pointed to the sleigh. “What’s that?” he asked.

“Yes...” Lyokha lit up and gestured at the man in the sleigh. “That’s, umm, Vityok. Got plastered yesterday, so we’re sobering him up for the hunt. That’s as Russian as it gets.”

“O-o-oh,” Leonid smiled. “This is a real Russian hunt!”

The horse was told to walk on, and horse, sleigh, and driver disappeared into the forest. The rest of them stayed to have a drink or two, each gulp chased by a bite of bread. When that was done, they scooped lard from a jar and slathered it over their faces and hands.

Leonid and Lyokha put on short hunting skis too, and the whole party took off in single file, following the trail of the sleigh to a blind set on a wooden platform beneath the very tallest fir where the forest proper began.

Lyokha kicked some fir branches. “You’ll hunker down here,” he said. “Sit tight, Professor, and wait. When you hear me whistle, start firing.”

Leonid Arkadyevich leaned against the fir trunk, watching the sun rise and thinking about the warlike Polovtsians and Prince Rurik, until he was chilled to the bone. He took a nip of brandy from his flask and lit up a cigarette. The wait was tiresome, and he was starting to nod off when he heard a spirited whistle and cries of “Sic ’im, get ’im!” that frightened him so much, he fired into the air. A wild boar was flying at him now, squealing frantically and kicking up great eddies of snow. He’s a strange-looking one, Leonid thought, and fired again. The boar gave a desperate squeal and charged past him, toward the village. A breathless Lyokha appeared with the other men.

“Well, Professor – muffed it? Screw it all, then... You’ve knocked this whole hunt on the head. Now where’re we gonna find you a boar?”

Leonid Arkadyevich stood with bowed head, so upset at having missed, he was almost in tears. He’d muffed it alright. He’d be a laughing stock back at home... But on the other hand, he thought, cheering up a little, the boar has a wife, and kids too, right? Plus, the time he’d spent on the hunt had made him feel like a real man.

They rode back to the village in the sleigh. The little horse trudged dolefully along, swiveling its ears, but Leonid was happy.

“And where’s Vityok?” he asked Lyokha, patting the hay.

“Who?” Lyokha asked, playing for time, but after a prod in the side from the driver, he muttered, “What of him? Sobered up, and so what? Must be sleeping somewhere...”

They stumbled into the hut, drank until evening, and told tall tales about hunting, which Leonid Arkadyevich noted down. This is Turgenev, pure and simple, he thought in delight, replacing the salty language with asterisks.

The next day, it happened all over again. When the frozen-cold Leonid had the boar in his sights, it made a sharp swerve with a wiggle of its rear end, and galloped off toward the village. Leonid Arkadyevich then announced that he was sick of boar hunting and asked for boars to be swapped out for something simpler. They opted for hares.

Lyokha took charge and hustled him on through the snowdrifts. But, amazingly enough, the hares were so spooked by all the yelling and shooting that they hightailed it in the direction of the village too. Those hares bothered Leonid even more, not least because they were all kinds of colors, when, according to Sabaneyev’s book, they should have been white in winter. He complained to Lyokha about the multicolored hares, but Lyokha just made a vague noise and explained that with the climate being what it was nowadays, there was no telling what types of hare might show up.

“I want to go home,” Leonid declared wearily that evening. “I’m tired of hunting.”

Lyokha acted like he didn’t care. “Come in summer, Professor,” he said. “The boars’ll have more omph to ’em then...”

When Lyokha presented him with a basketful of plucked carcasses, Leonid Arkadyevich colored up and asked, “What’s this, Aleksey?”

“Partridges,” Lyokha replied without batting an eye. “Bagged a little while back. Take ’em, Arkadich, and don’t sweat it.”

“My thanks to you,” said Leonid, giving Lyokha a heartfelt hug. “This has been such a pleasure for me. All my life I’ve been dreaming of a Russian winter hunt. Good thing we didn’t kill anyone, though, isn’t it?”

Grandma Zina the neighbor waited until she had her money from Lyokha, then wailed so the whole village could hear, “You’re a wretch you are, Lyokha. Put such fear into my hog, shook him up so much, he’s gone all skin and bones. What were you about, dragging him into the forest like that? His flanks are all beat up. And what did you smear him with paint for? Pink he was, now he’s brown, and that’s a crying shame. And why’d you glue hair on him? He’s scratching so bad, he’s tore up his sty.”

“Oh, alright, Zina.” Lyokha added a couple more bills. “It was in a good cause anyway. All his life, that professor wanted to go on a hunt, didn’t he? But these days the wildlife’s gone missing. Look at it like your hog was in a movie. There, then...”

The old girl mulled that over. “And what if he’d killed him?” she asked.

“Never you mind, Gran, we loaded blanks. Else it would have been me in trouble, not that ninny of a professor.”

“And you’ll pay full price for the rabbits, Lyokha.” The old girl blew her nose into her apron. “Not a one of ’em came back. Dogs must’ve ripped ’em to shreds, eh? And you’ll pay me for the chickens too, Lyokha. Where d’you hide my chickens, anyway?”

“Your chickens, Gran” – Lyokha was already making for home – “flew off to Moscow. ’Cos they’re partridges now, see.”