The Orator

Anton Chekhov

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

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.

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.

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

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

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."