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Updated: June 11, 2025
Both spoke a great deal and spoke sincerely, but neither one understood the other; it seemed to Foma that whatever Luba had to say was foreign to him and unnecessary to her, and at the same time he clearly saw that his awkward words did not at all interest her, and that she did not care to understand them.
A short, stout little man, shabbily dressed, pushed his way forward to the table, saying "Luba Lazareff is a well-known revolutionist, your excellency. The French maker of bombs, Gustave Lemaire, is her lover not this gentleman. Gustave only left Ostrog yesterday." The speaker was, it was plain, an agent of secret police. "And where is Lemaire now? I gave orders for his arrest some days ago."
Sitting somewhere in a dark corner of the garden or lying in bed, he conjured up before him the images of the fairy-tale princesses they appeared with the face of Luba and of other young ladies of his acquaintance, noiselessly floating before him in the twilight and staring into his eyes with enigmatic looks.
But these larger animals were entirely out of his sphere he did not understand them. One day when the lad was about seven years old, the village folks suddenly noticed that he was lame. When asked about it, all he would reply was: "The pigeons made me lame." Luba, a farmer's fat cook, once told at the market-place how Peter became lame.
"You were not within my soul," replied Foma, calmly. "You cannot know my thoughts." "What is there that you should think of?" said Luba, shrugging her shoulders. "So? First of all, I am alone. Secondly, I must live. Don't I understand that it is altogether impossible for me to live as I am now? I do not care to be made the laughing-stock of others. I cannot even speak to people.
S. 5d 45'. The chief town of Luba, another independent chief, is eight days farther in the same direction, or lat. S. 4d 50'. Judging from the appearance of the people who had come for the purposes of trade from Mai, those in the north are in quite as uncivilized a condition as the Balonda. They are clad in a kind of cloth made of the inner bark of a tree.
Foma tried to think what he would say in such a case, and confused, he began to laugh, finding no appropriate words. Then he recalled Luba Mayakin. She would surely be first to say something, uttering some unintelligible words, which were foreign to herself. Somehow it seemed to him that all her words were foreign, and she did not speak as was proper for a girl of her age, appearance and descent.
But after his father's death he was almost every day at the Mayakins, and somehow Luba said to him one day: "I am looking at you, and, do you know? you do not resemble a merchant at all." "Nor do you look like a merchant's daughter," said Foma, and looked at her suspiciously.
The huge pendulum peeped out every moment from beneath the glass of the clock-case, and flashing dimly, was hiding with a weary sound now on the right side, now on the left. Foma looked at the pendulum and he began to feel awkward and lonesome. Luba arose and lighted the lamp which was hanging over the table. The girl's face was pale and stern. "You went for me," said Foma, reservedly. "What for?
As I knew we could not take the wagons beyond a certain point where there was a river called the Luba, unfordable by anything on wheels, I requested him, moreover, to send a hundred bearers with whatever escort might be necessary, to meet us on the banks of that river at a spot which was known to both of us.
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