A Style Guide to the Russian North

Having taken a brief inventory of my journal, I realised, with a touch of chagrin, that fashion has hitherto escaped my pen. I write of linguistics, I pontificate on art, yet the sartorial predilections of bygone centuries have somehow eluded my attention. It is high time to remedy the omission. All the more so because the formidable fashion of the Russian North was never a matter of a couturier’s whim; it was a triumph of sheer survival and extraordinary practicality.

Moscow is currently hosting an exhibition dedicated to the Kenozero National Park. It chronicled the lives not merely of the inhabitants of the Arkhangelsk Lake District, but also of their coastal neighbours along the White Sea—the Pomors. Naturally, the existence of the Pomors revolved entirely around the sea. As they themselves were wont to say, “All blessings flow from the dear sea.”

Salmon, Herring, and Cod: The Rhythm of the Pomor Year

The undisputed monarch of the local fisheries was ever the Atlantic salmon, which the Pomors referred to simply as The Fish or, with proper deference, Mother Salmon. The fishing season stretched from late May until the close of October. Once hauled aboard, the salmon was instantly dispatched with a blow to the head using a wooden cudgel known as a krotilka—a procedure termed krotit’ (“to tame”). The object was to immobilise the creature without damaging its scales. A blemished salmon commanded a considerably lower price, and virtually the entire catch was destined for the market.

Second in consequence was the White Sea herring. From late November through March, the Pomors engaged in ice-fishing; in the summer months, at their coastal fishing stations—the tonyas—they deployed formidable seine nets. From these, the herring was ladled out using hand-nets (saks) and transferred into large decked boats called karbases. A little later, from December through February, they set trap-nets (ryuzhas) beneath the ice for saffron cod, whereas in summer they fished for Atlantic cod from their boats just offshore.

An Etymological Interlude

(for I simply cannot help myself!):

• Tonya (accented on the first syllable) — A designated fishing ground upon a body of water, the act of netting itself, or a net laden with a catch. Derived from the Proto-Slavic *topnǐ, from *topiti (“to submerge” or “to sink”).
• Sak (whence the diminutive sachok, or landing-net) — A bag-shaped fishing net stretched over a semi-hoop. Borrowed from the French sac (“bag”).
• Karbas — A distinctly Pomor regionalism denoting a medium-sized sailing-and-rowing vessel. Borrowed from the Vepsian karbaz (cf. Finnish karvas, Norwegian karfi). Curiously, the word may have originally travelled to the Finno-Ugric tongues from the Slavs: Proto-Slavic *korà (“bark”) → *kъrbǔ (“basket made of bark”) → *korabĺjǐ (“dugout canoe” or “vessel”). Philologists do not rule out that this root reached Ancient Greek (káravos), passed thence into Latin (cārabus), and ultimately yielded the Romance diminutive caravel.
• Ryuzha — A fyke-net or trap-net. Borrowed from the Karelian rüüžä, originating from the Middle Low German (Hanseatic) ruse (cf. Swedish ryssja and German Reuse, bearing the selfsame meaning).

Out Upon the Ice Floes for Seal

In late February, hard upon Candlemas, the men would band together into associations called romshas and set out for the vesnovaniye—the spring hunting of the Greenland seal. Until April they traversed the drifting ice, which not infrequently carried them far out into the Arctic Ocean.

By midsummer, their quarry shifted to beluga whales, which approached the Onega Peninsula in vast pods. Autumn brought the hunt for the “sea hare” (bearded seal), following in the wake of the herring shoals. These were taken with specialized entangling nets known as yundas.

The blubber of marine beasts was prized exceedingly and sold as readily as it was consumed at home. From their tough hides, the countrymen fashioned high wading boots (bakhily), watertight sacks, and sundry other indispensable gear.

More Words for the Curious:

• Romsha — An Arkhangelsk regionalism signifying a train of sledges laden with provisions and tackle, or a crew of fishermen operating together. Etymology obscure.
• Yunda — A line of interconnected nets anchored in a single direction. Borrowed from Karelian, which in turn had adopted it from the Sámi.

The Pomor Lookbook: Style of the Una Settlement

How, then, did a man dress for so unforgiving a trade? Before us stands the quintessential male fisherman’s garb from the early twentieth century, originating from the Una settlement in the Arkhangelsk District.

Over an ordinary stitched linen shirt, he wore a knitted burzunka, or verkhovitsa. These heavy, insulating outer jumpers were either brought over from Norway or knitted in the round on ten needles by local hands. Every village upon the Onega Peninsula boasted its own idiosyncratic decorative tradition; at Una, for instance, a vibrant red-and-white palette was preferred.

Heavy woollen trousers were tucked into high leather boots (bakhily), the soles of which were immovably secured with wooden pegs. The ensemble was crowned with a zuidvestka—the iconic sou’wester hat (the specimen illustrated dating from the 1930s).

It is worth noting that the Pomors were by no means indifferent to dandyism. On festive occasions, they donned bright shirts with elaborate woven sashes and tied silk handkerchiefs about their necks—a dashing touch lifted directly from the foreign tars who frequented their ports.

Equipment for the Extreme Spring Hunt

Setting forth for months into an icy wilderness, a sealer packed a formidable wardrobe into his kit:

• several homespun and knitted shirts;
• three or four pairs of knitted woollen stockings;
• “Russian” mittens—seamlessly knitted from thick yarn using a single needle;
• leather over-mittens (verkhon’ki), slipped over the woollen ones;
• cropped woollen breeches;
• high leather boots.

Over his caftan or sheepskin coat, he would customarily slip a sovik fashioned from thick, home-fulled white cloth—a long, hooded smock. To keep spare garments dry, they were packed into a kisa—a sea-proof bag made of seal skin. The attire for summer fishing differed only in the absence of the heavy fur coat and the sovik.

A Final Etymological Note:

• Burzunka — A Pomor fisherman’s jumper. Likely of Karelian origin: cf. Ludian burž (“foam” or “breaker”).
• Sovik — Hooded outerwear typical of the northern peoples; familiar to many from photographs of Arctic reindeer herders, though in those latitudes it was tailored with the fur facing outwards. The word itself is Nenets, derived from səvə (“hood” or “cap”), tracing back to Proto-Uralic *śuma.
• Kisa (accented on the second syllable, and owing nothing whatever to felines) — A pouch drawn tight with cords. Borrowed from Turkic neighbours (cf. Tatar kesä, Turkish kese), who had received it via Persian or Arabic from Aramaic, where it originally derived from Akkadian, denoting a drawstring bag or purse in every instance.

A sealer’s outfit was broadly similar to that of a coastal fisherman, save for one crucial exception: the boots for the spring hunt were lined with fur and known as pimy (singular: pim or pima). The term was borrowed from the Samoyeds—the Indigenous peoples of the Far North speaking Samoyedic languages. Originally the traditional footwear of reindeer herders, these boots were crafted from the leg skins (kisas) of the reindeer, sewn with the fur facing outwards, and reached well above the knee. The pile was invariably oriented downwards, allowing slush and seawater to run off the fur without resistance. The soles were fashioned from the tough skin between the hooves (known as “brushes”), where the hair is particularly coarse, preventing wet snow from adhering to the bottom. In the Urals and Western Siberia, the word pimy eventually came to denote felt boots (valenki), and the craftsmen who made them were styled pimokaty (literally, “pim-rollers”).

The Living Voice of the North

Now that the utility of each element in this elaborate ensemble is clear, these dialectal borrowings coalesce into a remarkably poignant picture. Consider how this very preparation was described in the 1930s by Afimya Maizerova, a native of Lopshenga village:

The wives, they pack the shirts, and they pack the stockings—three or four pairs of ’em—and the leather over-mittens, too. They put in the homespun caftans, the sheepskin coats, and the heavy woollen blankets. The wives pack it all away into the kisa—so as nothing gets wet.

Therein lies the true essence of Pomor haute couture. It was a fashion woven of quiet maternal and wifely solicitude, wherein every seam, every woollen thread, and every carefully dressed hide stood between a man and the gale-force winds of the White Sea. Here was true over-sizing and layering, dictated not by the runway, but by life itself.

How strikes you this northern attire? Would you brave a winter storm in a burzunka and a sou’wester?