一天早上，八等文官基里爾·伊凡諾維奇·瓦維洛諾夫下葬。他死于俄國廣為流行的兩种疾病：老婆太凶和酒精中毒。在送殯行列离開教堂前往墓地的 時候，死者的一名同事，有位姓波普拉夫斯基的人，坐上出租馬車，去找他的朋友格里戈里·彼得羅維奇·扎波伊金--此人雖說年輕，但已相當有名气了。這個扎 波伊金，誠如許多讀者知道的那樣，具有一种罕見的才能，他擅長在婚禮上，葬禮上，各种各樣的周年紀念會上發表即席演說。他任何時候都能開講：半睡不醒也 行，餓著肚子也行，爛醉如泥也行，發著高燒也行。他的演說，好似排水管里的水，流暢、平穩、源源不斷。在他演說家的字典里，那些熱情似火的詞匯，遠比隨便 哪家小飯館里的蟑螂要多。他總是講得娓娓動听，長而又長，所以有的時候，特別是在商人家的喜慶上，為了讓他閉嘴，不得不求助于警察的干預。
“我呀，朋友，找你來了！”波普拉夫斯基正碰到他在家，開始說，“你快穿上衣服，跟我走。我們有個同事死了，這會儿正打發他去另一個世界，所 以，朋友，在告別之際總得扯些廢話……全部希望寄托在你身上了。要是死個把小人物，我們也不會來麻煩你，可要知道這人是秘書……某种意義上說，是辦公廳的 台柱子。給這么一個大人物舉行葬禮，沒人致辭是不行的。”
“啊，秘書！”扎波伊金打了個哈欠，“是那個酒鬼吧？”
“沒錯，就是那個酒鬼。這回有煎餅招待，還有各色冷盤……你還會領到一筆車馬費。走吧，親愛的！到了那邊的墓地上，你就天花亂墜地吹他一通，講得比西塞羅１還西塞羅，到時我們就千恩万謝啦。”
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１西塞羅（前一０六一前四三），古羅馬演說家，政治家。
扎波伊金欣然同意。他把頭發弄亂，裝出一臉的悲傷，跟波普拉夫斯基一起走到了街上。
“我知道你們那個秘書，”他說著坐上出租馬車，“詭計多端，老奸巨滑，但愿他升天，這种人可少見。”
“得了，格利沙１，罵死人可不妥啊。”
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１格里戈里的小名。
“那當然。對死者要么三減（緘）其口，要么大唱贊歌。２不過他畢竟是個騙子。”
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２原文為拉丁文，但他說錯了。
兩位朋友赶上了送殯的行列，就跟在后面。靈樞抬得很慢，所以在到達墓地之前，他們居然來得及三次拐進小酒館，為超度亡靈喝上一小杯。
在墓地上做了安魂祈禱。死者的丈母娘、妻子和小姨子遵照古老的習俗痛哭一陣。當棺木放進墓穴時，他的妻子甚至叫道：“把我也放在他身邊吧！”不過她沒有隨丈夫跳下去，多半是想起了撫恤金。等大家安靜下來，扎波伊金朝前跨出一步，向眾人掃了一眼，開口了：
“能相信我們的眼睛和听覺嗎？這棺木，這些熱淚漣漣的臉，這些呻吟和哭號，豈不是一場噩夢？唉，這不是夢，視覺也沒有欺騙我們！眼前躺著的這 個人，不久前我們還看到他是如此精力充沛，像個年輕人似的如此活潑而純洁，這個人不久前還在我們眼前辛勤工作，像一只不知疲倦的蜜蜂，把自己釀的蜜送進國 家福利這一總的蜂房里，這個人，他……就是這樣一個人如今已變成一堆骸骨，化作物質的幻影。冷酷無情的死神把它那僵硬的手按到他身上的時候，盡管他已到了 駝背的年齡，但他卻依然充滿了青春活力和光輝燦爛的希望。不可彌補的損失啊！現在有誰能為我們取代他呢？好的文官我們這里有很多，然而普羅科菲·奧西佩奇 卻是絕無僅有的！他直到靈魂深處都忠于他神圣的職責，他不吝惜自己的精力，通宵達旦地工作，他無私，不收受賄賂……他嫉惡如仇，那些想方設法損害公共利益 妄圖收買他的人，那些利用种种誘人的生活福利來拉攏他，讓他背棄自己職責的人，統統遭到他的鄙視！是的，我們還看到，普羅科菲·奧西佩奇把他為數不多的薪 水散發給他窮困的同事們，現在你們也親耳听到了靠他接濟的那些孤儿寡母的哭喪。由于他忠于職守，一心行善，他不知道生活的种种樂趣，甚至拒絕享受家庭生活 的幸福。你們都知道，他至死都是一個單身漢！現在有誰能為我們取代他這樣的同事呢？就在此刻我也能看到他那張刮得干干淨淨的、深受感動的臉，它對我們總是 挂著善意的微笑；就在此刻我也能听到他那柔和的、親切友好的聲音。愿你的骸骨安宁，普羅科菲·奧西佩奇！安息吧，誠實而高尚的勞動者！”
扎波伊金繼續說下去，可是听眾卻開始交頭接耳。他的演說也還讓人滿意，也博得了几滴眼淚，但是其中許多話令人生疑。首先，大家弄不明白，為什 么演說家稱死者為普羅科菲·奧西波維奇１，死者明明叫基里爾·伊凡諾維奇呀。其次，大家都知道，死者生前一輩子都同他的合法妻子吵架，因此他算不得單身 漢。最后，他留著紅褐色的大胡子，打生下來就沒有刮過臉，固而不明白，為什么演說家說他的臉向來刮得干干淨淨的。听眾都莫名其妙，面面相覷，聳著肩膀。
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１上文的奧西佩奇為奧西彼維奇的簡稱形式。
“普羅科菲·奧西佩奇！”演說家眼睛望著墓穴，熱情洋溢地繼續道，“你的臉不算漂亮，甚至可以說相當難看，你總是愁眉苦臉，神色嚴厲，可是我們大家都知道，正是在這樣一個有目共睹的軀殼里，跳動著一顆正直而善良的心！”
不久，听眾開始發現，就連演說家本人也發生了某种奇怪的變化，他定睛瞧著一個地方，不安地扭動身子，自己也聳起肩膀來了。突然他打住了，吃惊得張大了嘴巴，轉身對著波普拉夫斯基。
“你听我說，他活著呢！”他惊恐万狀地瞧著那邊說。
“誰活著？”
“普羅科菲·奧西佩奇呀！瞧他站在墓碑旁邊呢！”
“他本來就沒有死！死的叫基里爾·伊凡內奇２！”
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２伊凡內奇為伊凡諾維奇的簡稱形式。
“可是你剛才親口說的，你們的秘書死了！”
“基里爾·伊凡內奇是秘書呀。你這怪人，都搞亂了！普羅科菲·奧西佩奇，這沒錯，是我們的前任秘書，但他兩年前就調到第二科當科長了。”
“咳，鬼才搞得清你們的事！”
“你怎么停住了？接著講，不講可不妙！”
扎波伊金又轉身對著墓穴，憑他三寸不爛之舌繼續致中斷了的悼詞。墓碑旁果真站著普羅科菲·奧西佩奇。一個臉面刮得干干淨淨的年老文官。他瞪著演說家，气呼呼地皺著眉頭。
“你這是何苦呢！”行完葬禮后，一些文官跟扎波伊金一道返回時說，“把個活人給埋葬了。”
“不好呀，年輕人！”普羅科菲·奧西佩奇埋怨道，“您的那些話說死人也許合适，可是用來說活人，這簡直是諷刺挖苦，先生！天哪，您都說了些什 么話？什么無私呀，不被收買呀，不受賄賂呀！這些話用來說活人只能是侮辱人格，先生！再說誰也沒有請您，閣下，來宣揚我的臉面。什么不漂亮呀，什么難看 呀，就算是這樣，又有什么必要拿它來當眾展覽呢？气死人了，先生！”
一八八六年十一月二十九日
ONE fine morning the collegiate assessor, Kirill Ivanovitch Babilonov, who had died of the two afflictions so widely spread in our country, a bad wife and alcoholism, was being buried. As the funeral procession set off from the church to the cemetery, one of the deceased's colleagues, called Poplavsky, got into a cab and galloped off to find a friend, one Grigory Petrovitch Zapoikin, a man who though still young had acquired considerable popularity. Zapoikin, as many of my readers are aware, possesses a rare talent for impromptu speechifying at weddings, jubilees, and funerals. He can speak whenever he likes: in his sleep, on an empty stomach, dead drunk or in a high fever. His words flow smoothly and evenly, like water out of a pipe, and in abundance; there are far more moving words in his oratorical dictionary than there are beetles in any restaurant. He always speaks eloquently and at great length, so much so that on some occasions, particularly at merchants' weddings, they have to resort to assistance from the police to stop him. "I have come for you, old man!" began Poplavsky, finding him at home. "Put on your hat and coat this minute and come along. One of our fellows is dead, we are just sending him off to the other world, so you must do a bit of palavering by way of farewell to him. . . . You are our only hope. If it had been one of the smaller fry it would not have been worth troubling you, but you see it's the secretary . . . a pillar of the office, in a sense. It's awkward for such a whopper to be buried without a speech." "Oh, the secretary!" yawned Zapoikin. "You mean the drunken one?" "Yes. There will be pancakes, a lunch . . . you'll get your cab-fare. Come along, dear chap. You spout out some rigmarole like a regular Cicero at the grave and what gratitude you will earn!" Zapoikin readily agreed. He ruffled up his hair, cast a shade of melancholy over his face, and went out into the street with Poplavsky. "I know your secretary," he said, as he got into the cab. "A cunning rogue and a beast--the kingdom of heaven be his--such as you don't often come across." "Come, Grisha, it is not the thing to abuse the dead." "Of course not, _aut mortuis nihil bene_, but still he was a rascal." The friends overtook the funeral procession and joined it. The coffin was borne along slowly so that before they reached the cemetery they were able three times to drop into a tavern and imbibe a little to the health of the departed. In the cemetery came the service by the graveside. The mother-in-law, the wife, and the sister-in-law in obedience to custom shed many tears. When the coffin was being lowered into the grave the wife even shrieked "Let me go with him!" but did not follow her husband into the grave probably recollecting her pension. Waiting till everything was quiet again Zapoikin stepped forward, turned his eyes on all present, and began: "Can I believe my eyes and ears? Is it not a terrible dream this grave, these tear-stained faces, these moans and lamentations? Alas, it is not a dream and our eyes do not deceive us! He whom we have only so lately seen, so full of courage, so youthfully fresh and pure, who so lately before our eyes like an unwearying bee bore his honey to the common hive of the welfare of the state, he who . . . he is turned now to dust, to inanimate mirage. Inexorable death has laid his bony hand upon him at the time when, in spite of his bowed age, he was still full of the bloom of strength and radiant hopes. An irremediable loss! Who will fill his place for us? Good government servants we have many, but Prokofy Osipitch was unique. To the depths of his soul he was devoted to his honest duty; he did not spare his strength but worked late at night, and was disinterested, impervious to bribes. . . . How he despised those who to the detriment of the public interest sought to corrupt him, who by the seductive goods of this life strove to draw him to betray his duty! Yes, before our eyes Prokofy Osipitch would divide his small salary between his poorer colleagues, and you have just heard yourselves the lamentations of the widows and orphans who lived upon his alms. Devoted to good works and his official duty, he gave up the joys of this life and even renounced the happiness of domestic existence; as you are aware, to the end of his days he was a bachelor. And who will replace him as a comrade? I can see now the kindly, shaven face turned to us with a gentle smile, I can hear now his soft friendly voice. Peace to thine ashes, Prokofy Osipitch! Rest, honest, noble toiler!" Zapoikin continued while his listeners began whispering together. His speech pleased everyone and drew some tears, but a good many things in it seemed strange. In the first place they could not make out why the orator called the deceased Prokofy Osipitch when his name was Kirill Ivanovitch. In the second, everyone knew that the deceased had spent his whole life quarelling with his lawful wife, and so consequently could not be called a bachelor; in the third, he had a thick red beard and had never been known to shave, and so no one could understand why the orator spoke of his shaven face. The listeners were perplexed; they glanced at each other and shrugged their shoulders. "Prokofy Osipitch," continued the orator, looking with an air of inspiration into the grave, "your face was plain, even hideous, you were morose and austere, but we all know that under that outer husk there beat an honest, friendly heart!" Soon the listeners began to observe something strange in the orator himself. He gazed at one point, shifted about uneasily and began to shrug his shoulders too. All at once he ceased speaking, and gaping with astonishment, turned to Poplavsky. "I say! he's alive," he said, staring with horror. "Who's alive?" "Why, Prokofy Osipitch, there he stands, by that tombstone!" "He never died! It's Kirill Ivanovitch who's dead." "But you told me yourself your secretary was dead." "Kirill Ivanovitch was our secretary. You've muddled it, you queer fish. Prokofy Osipitch was our secretary before, that's true, but two years ago he was transferred to the second division as head clerk." "How the devil is one to tell?" "Why are you stopping? Go on, it's awkward." Zapoikin turned to the grave, and with the same eloquence continued his interrupted speech. Prokofy Osipitch, an old clerk with a clean-shaven face, was in fact standing by a tombstone. He looked at the orator and frowned angrily. "Well, you have put your foot into it, haven't you!" laughed his fellow-clerks as they returned from the funeral with Zapoikin. "Burying a man alive!" "It's unpleasant, young man," grumbled Prokofy Osipitch. "Your speech may be all right for a dead man, but in reference to a living one it is nothing but sarcasm! Upon my soul what have you been saying? Disinterested, incorruptible, won't take bribes! Such things can only be said of the living in sarcasm. And no one asked you, sir, to expatiate on my face. Plain, hideous, so be it, but why exhibit my countenance in that public way! It's insulting." [The end]
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