Finland is a country of endless little hills, and endless forests, all alike bestrewn with huge granite boulders; it is also a land of endless rivers and lakes. It is pretty in a monotonous fashion, and looks wonderfully tidy after Russia proper. The wooden houses and villages are all neatly painted a chocolate brown, and in spite of its sparse population it seems very prosperous. The Finns are all Protestants; the educated classes are mostly Swedish-speaking, the others talking their own impossible Ural-Altaic language. At the extremely comfortable club-house at Harraka Niska none of the fishermen or boatmen could talk anything but Finnish. We all had little conversation books printed in Russian and Finnish, but we usually found the language of signs more convenient. In later years, in South America, it became my duty to interview daily the Legation cook, an accomplished but extremely adipose female from Old Spain. I had not then learnt Spanish, and she understood no other tongue, so we conversed by signs. It is extremely derogatory to one's personal dignity to be forced to imitate in succession a hen laying an egg, a sheep bleating, or a duck quacking, and yet this was the only way in which I could order dinner. No one who has not tried it can believe how difficult it is to indicate in pantomime certain comestibles, such, for instance, as kidneys, liver and bacon, or a Welsh rarebit.
The fish at Harraka would not look at a fly, and could only be hooked on a phantom-minnow. The fishing there was very exciting. The big fish all lay where Lake Saima debouched into the turbulent Vuoksi river. There was a terrific rapid there, and the boatmen, who knew every inch of the ground, would head the boat straight for that seething white caldron of raging waves, lashing and roaring down the rocky gorge, as they dashed up angry spurts of white spray. Just as it seemed that nothing could save one from being hurled into that mad turmoil of leaping waters, where no human being could hope to live for a minute, a back-current shot the boat swiftly across to the other bank. That was the moment when the fish were hooked. They were splendid fighters, and played magnificently. These Harraka fish were curiously uniform in size, always running from 18 to 22 lb. Though everyone called them salmon, I think myself that they were really bull-trout, or Salmo ferox. A salmon would have had to travel at least 400 miles from salt water, and I do not believe that any fish living could have got up the tremendous Imatra waterfall, some six miles lower down the Vuoksi. These fish invariably had lice on them. In Great Britain sea-lice on a salmon are taken as a certain indication that the fish is fresh-run. These fish cannot possibly have been fresh-run, so I think it probable that in these great lakes there may be a fresh-water variety of the parasite. Another peculiarity of the Harraka fish was that, though they were excellent eating, they would not keep above two days. I have myself caught eleven of these big fellows in one day. During June there was capital grayling fishing in the lower Vuoksi, the fish running large, and taking the fly readily, though in that heavy water they were apt to break off. There were plenty of small trout too in the Vuoksi, but the densely-wooded banks made fishing difficult, and the water was always crystal-clear, and needed the finest of tackle.
I spent some most enjoyable days at Koltesha, a small English shooting-club of ten members, about twenty miles out of Petrograd. During September, for one fortnight, the marshes round Koltesha were alive with "double-snipe." This bird migrates in thousands from the Arctic regions to the far South, at the approach of autumn. They alighted in the Koltesha marshes to recruit themselves after their journey from the North Pole, and owing to circumstances beyond their control, few of them continued their journey southward. This confiding fowl has never learnt to zig-zag like the other members of the snipe family, and they paid the penalty for this omission by usually proceeding to the kitchen. A "double-snipe" is most delicious eating. The winter shooting at Koltesha was most delightful. The art of "ski-walking" had first to be learnt, and on commencing this unaccustomed method of locomotion, various muscles, which its use called into play for the first time, showed their resentment by aching furiously. The ground round Koltesha being hilly was admirably adapted for coasting on ski. It was difficult at first to shoot from the insecure footing of ski, and the unusual amount of clothing between one's shoulder and the stock of one's gun did not facilitate matters. Everything, however, can be learnt in time. I can claim to be the pioneer of ski on the American Continent, for in January, 1887, I brought over to Canada the very first pair of ski ever seen in America. I used to coast down the toboggan slides at Ottawa on them, amidst universal derision. I was told that, however useful ski might be in Russia, they were quite unsuited to Canadian conditions, and would never be popular there, as the old-fashioned "raquettes" were infinitely superior. Humph! Qui vivra verra!
Koltesha abounded in black game, "ryabchiks," or hazel-grouse, and ptarmigan. Russian hares turn snow-white in winter, and are very difficult to see against a snowy background in consequence. It is almost impossible to convey on paper any idea of the intense delight of those days in the sun and the cold, when the air had that delicious clean smell that always goes with intense frost, the dark fir woods, with their purple shadows, stood out in sharp contrast to the dazzling sheet of white snow, and the sunlight gilded the patches of oak and birch scrub that climbed down the hollows of the low hills. One returned home glowing from head to foot. We got larger game too by "ringing them." The process of "ringing" is as follows. No four-footed creature can travel over the snow without leaving his tracks behind him. Let us suppose a small wood, one mile in circumference. If a man travels round this on ski, and if the track of any animal crosses his trail, going into the wood, and this track does not again come out of the wood, it is obvious that that particular animal is still taking cover there. Measures to drive him out are taken accordingly. We got in this way at Koltesha quite a number of elks, lynxes, and wolves.
The best wolf-shooting I ever got was at the invitation of the Russian Minister of Finance. Great packs of these ravenous brutes were playing havoc on his estate, two hundred miles from Petrograd, so he invited a large shooting party to his country house. We travelled down in a private sleeping-car, and had over twenty miles to drive in rough country sledges from the station. One of the guests was an enormously fat Russian General, a perfect mammoth of a man. As I was very slim in those days, I was told off as this gigantic warrior's fellow-passenger. Although he took up nine-tenths of the sledge, I just managed to creep in, but every time we jolted—and as the track was very rough, this was pretty frequently—I got 250 lb. of Russian General on the top of me, squeezing the life out of me. He was a good-natured Colossus, and apologised profusely for his own obesity, and for his instability, but I was black and blue all over, and since that day I have felt profound sympathy for the little princes in the Tower, for I know what being smothered with a feather-bed feels like.
The Minister's country house was, as are most other Russian country houses, a modest wooden building with whitewashed rooms very scantily furnished. The Minister had, however, thoughtfully brought down his famous Petrograd chef, and I should judge about three-quarters of the contents of his wine-cellar. We had to proceed to our places in the forest in absolute silence, and the wolf being an exceedingly wary animal with a a very keen sense of smell, all smoking was rigorously prohibited.
It was nice open scrubland, undulating gently. The beaters were skilful and we were very lucky, for after an interminable wait, the entire pack of wolves rushed down on us. A wolf is killed with slugs from a smooth-bore. I personally was fortunate, for I got shots at eight wolves, and six of them felt disinclined for further exertions. I still have a carriage-rug made of the skins of the wolves I killed that day. The banging all round meanwhile was terrific. In two days we accounted for fifty-two of these pests. It gave me the utmost pleasure killing these murderous, bloodthirsty brutes; far more than slaying an inoffensive bear. Should a bear encounter a human being in the course of his daily walks, he is certainly apt to hug him to death, as a precautionary measure. He is also addicted to smashing to a jelly, with one blow of his powerful paws, the head of a chance stranger. These peculiarities apart, the bear may be regarded as practically harmless. It is otherwise with the wolf.
Some of the British Colony were fond of going to Finland for a peculiar form of sport. I use the last word dubiously, for to kill any game birds during the breeding season seems a curiously unsportsmanlike act. Circumstances rather excused this. It is well known that black game do not pair, but that they are polygamous. During the breeding season the male birds meet every morning at dawn on regular fighting grounds, and there battle for the attentions of the fairer sex. These fighting grounds are well known to the keepers, who erect there in early autumn conical shelters of fir branches. The birds become familiar with these shelters (called in Russian "shagashki") and pay no attention to them. The "gun" introduces himself into the shelter not later than midnight, and there waits patiently for the first gleam of dawn. He must on no account smoke. With the first grey streak of dawn in the sky there is a great rushing of wings in the air, and dozens of male birds appear from nowhere; strutting up and down, puffing out their feathers, and hissing furiously at each other in challenge. The grey hens meanwhile sit in the surrounding trees, watching, as did the ladies of old at a tournament, the prowess of their men-folk in the lists. The grey hens never show themselves, and make no sound; two things, one would imagine, contrary to every instinct of their sex. A challenge once accepted, two males begin fighting furiously with wings, claws, and beaks. So absorbed are the birds in their combat, that they neither see nor hear anything, and pay no attention to a gun-shot. Should they be within reach of the "shagashka," that is the time to fire. It sounds horribly unsportsmanlike, but it must be remembered that the birds are only just visible in the uncertain dawn. As dawn matures into daylight, the birds suddenly stop fighting, and all fly away simultaneously, followed by the grey hens. I never would kill more than two as specimens, for this splendid bird is such a thing of joy in his breeding plumage, with his glossy dark blue satin coat, and white velvet waistcoat, that there is some excuse for wanting to examine him closer. Ladies, too, loved a blackcock's tail or wings for their hats. It was also the only way in which this curious and little-known phase of bird life could be witnessed.
The capercailzie is called in Russian "the deaf one." Why this name should be given to a bird of abnormally acute hearing seems at first sight puzzling. The explanation is that the male capercailzie in the breeding season concludes his love-song with a peculiar "tchuck, tchuck," impossible to reproduce on paper, moving his head rapidly to and fro the while. During this "tchuck, tchuck," the bird is deaf and blind to the world. The capercailzie hunter goes out into the forest at about 1 a.m. and listens intently. As soon as he hears a capercailzie's song, he moves towards the sound very, very cautiously. When within half a mile of the bird, he must wait for the "tchuck, tchuck," which lasts about two minutes, before daring to advance. The "tchuck" over, he must remain absolutely motionless until it recommences. The snapping of a twig will be enough to silence the bird and to make it fly away. It will be seen then that to approach a capercailzie is a difficult task, and one requiring infinite patience. Once within shot, there is no particular fun in shooting a sitting bird the size of a turkey, up at the top of a tree, even though it only appears as a dusky mass against the faint beginnings of dawn.