overnment
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