We were destined to experience all possible aspects of a Volga excursion, that day, short of absolute shipwreck.  As we floated down the mighty stream, a violent thunderstorm broke over our heads with the suddenness characteristic of the country.  We were wet to the skin before we could get at the rain-cloaks on which we were sitting, but our boatmen remained as dry as ever, to our mystification.  In the middle of the storm, our unworthy vessel sprung a fresh leak, the water poured in, and we were forced to run aground on a sand-bank for repairs.  These were speedily effected, with a wad of paper, by Piotr, who, with a towel cast about his head and shoulders, looked more like an apostle than ever.

It appeared that our fishing-camp had moved away; but we found it, at last, several miles downstream, on a sand-spit backed with willow bushes.  It was temporarily deserted, save for a man who was repairing a net, and who assured us that his comrades would soon return from their trip, for supplies, to the small town which we could discern on the slope of the hillshore opposite.  There was nothing to explore on our sand-reef except the fishermen’s primitive shelter, composed of a bit of sail-cloth and a few boards, furnished with simple cooking utensils, and superintended by a couple of frolicsome kittens, who took an unfeline delight in wading along in the edge of the water.  So we spread ourselves out to dry on the clean sand, in the rays of the now glowing sun, and watched the merchandise, chiefly fish, stacked like cord wood, being towed up from Astrakhan in great barges.

At last our fisher hosts arrived, and greeted us with grave courtesy and lack of surprise.  They began their preparations by scouring out their big camp kettle with beach sand, and building a fire at the water’s edge to facilitate the cleaning of the fish.  We followed their proceedings with deep interest, being curious to learn the secret of the genuine “amber sterlet soup.”  This was what we discovered.

The fish must be alive.  They remain so after the slight preliminaries, and are plunged into the simmering water, heads and all, the heads and the parts adjacent being esteemed a delicacy.  No other fish are necessary, no spices or ingredients except a little salt, the cookery-books to the contrary notwithstanding.  The sterlet is expensive in regions where the cook-book flourishes, and the other fish are merely a cheat of town economy.  The scum is not removed,—­this is the capital point,—­but stirred in as fast as it rises.  If the ukha be skimmed, after the manner of professional cooks, the whole flavor and richness are lost.