It was just before Trinity Sunday. Liza was in her fifth month, and, though careful, she was brisk and active. Both the mothers, his and hers, were living in the house, but under pretext of watching and safeguarding her only upset her by their tiffs. Eugene was specially engrossed with a new experiment for the cultivation of sugar-beet on a large scale.
Just before Trinity Liza decided that it was necessary to have a thorough house-cleaning, as it had not been done since Easter, and she hired two women by the day, to help the servants wash the floors and windows, beat the furniture and the carpets, and put covers on them. The women came early in the morning, heated the coppers, and set to work. One of the two was Stepanida, who had just weaned her baby boy. Through the office-clerk—whom she now carried on with—she had begged for the job of washing the floors. She wanted to have a good look at the new mistress. Stepanida was living by herself, as formerly, her husband being away, and she was up to tricks, as she had formerly been first with old Daniel (who had once caught her taking some logs of firewood), afterwards with the master, and now with the young clerk. She was not concerning herself any longer about her master. "He has a wife now," she thought. But it would be good to have a look at the lady and at her establishment: folk said it was well arranged.
Eugene had not seen her since he had met her with the child. Having a baby to attend to she had not been going out to work, and he seldom walked through the village. That morning, on the eve of Trinity Sunday, Eugene rose at five o'clock and rode to the fallow land which was to be sprinkled with phosphates, and he left the house before the women were about it, and while they were still engaged lighting the copper fires.
Merry, contented, and hungry, Eugene returned to breakfast. He dismounted from his mare at the gate and handed her over to the gardener. Flicking the high grass with his whip and repeating, as one often does, a phrase he had just uttered, he walked towards the house. The phrase he repeated was: "phosphates justify"—what or to whom he neither knew nor reflected.
They were beating a carpet on the grass. The furniture had been brought out.
"There now! What a house-cleaning Liza has undertaken! . . . Phosphates justify. . . . What a manageress she is! A manageress! Yes, a manageress," said he to himself, vividly imagining her in her white wrapper and with her smiling joyful face, as it nearly always was when he looked at her. "Yes, I must change my boots, or else 'phosphates justify,' that is, smell of manure, and the manageress is in such a condition. Why 'in such a condition'? Because a new little Irtenev is growing there inside her," he thought. "Yes, phosphates justify," and smiling at his thoughts he put his hand to the door of his room.
But he had not time to push the door before it opened of itself and he met, face to face, a woman coming towards him carrying a pail, barefoot, and with sleeves turned up high. He stepped aside to let her pass, she too stepped aside, adjusting her kerchief with a wet hand.
"Go on, go on, I won't go there, if you . . ." began Eugene and, suddenly, recognizing her, stopped.
She glanced merrily at him with smiling eyes, and pulling down her skirt went out by the door.
"What nonsense! . . . It is impossible," said Eugene to himself, frowning and waving his hand as though to get rid of a fly, displeased at having noticed her. He was vexed that he had noticed her and yet he could not take his eyes from her strong body, swayed by the agile strides of her bare feet, or from her arms, shoulders, and the pleasing folds of her shirt and handsome skirt, tucked up high above her white calves.
"But why am I looking?" said he to himself, lowering his eyes so as not to see her. "But anyhow I must go in to get some other boots." And he turned back to go into his own room, but had not gone five steps before, without knowing why or wherefore, he again glanced round to have another look at her. She was just going round the corner and also glanced at him.
"Ah, what am I doing!" said he to himself. "She may think . . . It is even certain that she already does think . . ."
He entered his damp room. Another woman, an old and skinny one, was there, and was still washing it. Eugene passed on tiptoe across the floor wet with dirty water to the wall where his boots stood, and he was about to leave the room, when the woman herself went out.
"This one has gone and the other, Stepanida, will come here alone," someone within him began to reflect.
"My God, what am I thinking of and what am I doing!" He seized his boots and ran out with them into the hall, put them on there, brushed himself, and went out on to the verandah where both the mammas were already drinking coffee. Liza had evidently been expecting him and came on to the verandah through another door at the same time.
"My God! If she, who considers me so honourable, pure, and innocent,—if she only knew!"—thought he.
Liza, as usual, met him with shining face. But to-day somehow she seemed to him particularly pale, yellow, long, and weak.