“It is better not to understand,” murmured Bozevsky with knitted brows. “Stahl is distraught; he is ill. Pay no attention to him. And never follow either his advice nor his example. But pray,” he added, “do not worry your head over anything we have said; the shooting match will soon begin. I think your husband is looking for you.”
But Vassili was far from troubling himself about me. He was rushing to and fro setting up rows of bottles that were to serve as targets, and distributing guns and cartridges to all our guests. Then he hurried towards us. “There,” he said to Dr. Stahl and to Bozevsky, giving them each a Flobert rifle, “these are for you.”
“And what about the Countess?” asked Stahl in his hollow voice. “Is she not going to compete in the shooting?”
“Oh, no!” I exclaimed. “I am much too frightened.”
“Nonsense!” cried Vassili, pushing a gun into my unwilling hands. “Of course you must shoot with the rest. And I warn you that if you are not brave I shall play William Tell with an apple on your head!” He passed on laughing, with Madame Grigorievskaja armed with a Browning by his side.
I was not at all brave; I held the rifle at arm's length, trembling with fear lest it should explode by itself. Stahl was amused by my terror, while Bozevsky sought to encourage and comfort me.
“Poor timid birdling,” he murmured, “do not be frightened. See, I will teach you. It is done like this”—and he lifted the gun to my shoulder, placed my hands in position, and with his glowing face quite close to mine, showed me how I was to take aim. What with my terror of the gun and the fragrance of his fair hair near my cheek I felt quite dizzy.
“There, that's it. Now press the trigger.”
“No! no! Don't say that! don't let me!” I screamed, incoherent with terror while Stahl and Bozevsky laughed.
Vassili from a distance caught sight of me: “Bravo, Mura!” he cried. “That's right. Go on. Shoot!”