The article describes a fragment of a funeral

The deacons of the Wu Mansion who were holding white paper stickers with the word "Yin" were wearing long black cloth gowns and fastened around their waists a belt made of the boss's thick, long and wide white cloth. , walking like a shuttle under the scorching sun, just walked from the main door to the large living room that serves as the mourning hall, and then rushed back to the dog door to "introduce" new mourners - all of them were so tired that they were sweating profusely. Before half past ten, the eight people in this class could sometimes sit with their buttocks pointed on the wooden bench next to the "drummer" at the gate for a minute or two, picking up the white cloth belt around their waists and wiping their faces. He was sweating, and replaced the fan with the white paper post with the word "Yin", took a breath, and complained that Mr. Wu San was unwilling to use more people. But when the poisonous sun shined directly above his head, the hanging guests came like a tide, and the crowd was full of people. The two groups of drummers at the door and in front of the mourning hall were playing without taking a breath. The deacons who "led" the way became like machines running back and forth. They didn't even have time to complain about Master Wu San. After thinking about it, I at least occasionally glanced at the six deacons serving in front of the mourning hall, and secretly envied their good luck. The horn of the car, the flute, the suona, the gongs of the small class, the mixed "sorrow and music", the shouts of "tea is poured somewhere, soda is opened somewhere", the quarrels at the meal counter when the bus departs, The spies patrolling the gate drove away the crowds; the spicy smell of cigarettes and the stench of human sweat all merged into one, permeating the halls and rooms of Wu Mansion and the eight or nine acres of the garden. (Mao Dun: "Midnight" p. 31)

During the ceremony, I felt a kind of panic, a premonition of the future, and I couldn't stand still. Finally, the body was put into a coffin and nailed. Then the funeral attendants placed the coffin on the hearse and set off. I only escorted him through one street. When we got there, the driver suddenly started driving the car at full speed, and the old man ran after the hearse - crying loudly, but the running movement made the cry tremble every now and then. On and off. Then his hat fell off, and the poor old man didn't stop to pick it up, even though the rain was beating on his head, the wind was blowing, and the snow and rain stung and hit his face. He ran from one side of the hearse to another, as if he did not understand this cruel thing - the sides of his old coat were blown by the wind like a pair of wings. Each pocket of his clothes was bulging with books, and he held a particularly large book under his arm, which he held tightly to his chest. As the funeral procession passed by, passers-by took off their hats and made the sign of the cross on their chests. Some passers-by stopped and stared at the pitiful old man in astonishment. From time to time a book slipped out of his pocket and fell into the mud, so when someone stopped him and told him to pay attention to the fact that his book had fallen, he stopped, picked it up, and ran to follow the hearse. At a corner of the street, a ragged old woman followed him closely, until the hearse turned, and I lost sight of her. ([Russian] Dostoevsky: "The Poor>> Pages 64-65)

Karatete's wife must not leave her husband alone in the grave. And the unfortunate woman herself did not want to live alone. This is a custom and a duty. Such instances of sacrificial martyrdom are common in New Zealand's history. Karatete's wife appears. She is still very young. Her hair was tangled on her shoulders, and she was howling and choking, her wails shaking the sky. She cried and complained, imitating the living sounds of the vague lake. Her lingering mourning and intermittent sentences all praised the character of the deceased. When her grief reached the extreme, she lay down at the foot of the mound and beat her head on the ground. At this time, the bone-gnawing demon walked up to her. Suddenly the poor victim tried to get up again, but the chief waved the "wooden hammer" - a terrible big mallet - and knocked him down again. She was furious. ([French] Verne: "Captain Grant's Children" page 664)

He glanced at the crowd surrounding the tomb. They were all policemen, all wearing civilian clothes and the same raincoat. The same straight black hat, umbrella held in the hand like a sword, these strange wakers, the wind blew them here from nowhere, their loyalty seems unreal. Behind them, in echelons, the municipal band, dressed in black and red uniforms, had been hastily summoned, trying desperately to protect their golden instruments under their coats.

They just gathered around the coffin, which lay flat there, a wooden box without wreaths or flowers, but the only place of warmth, buried in the endless raindrops, which rained monotonously. It splashes on the ground, always the same, never ending. The pastor had already finished reading. No one noticed. There is only rain here, and people only hear the sound of rain. The priest coughed, first once, then several times. Then the bass trumpet, the trumpet, the horn, the cornet, and the bass flute all sounded together, arrogant and majestic, and the instruments shone golden in the rain curtain, but they also sank, dissipated, and stopped. Everything is hidden under umbrellas and raincoats. The rain kept falling. Shoes got stuck in the mud, and rainwater formed streams into the empty tomb. ([Switzerland] Durhenmatt: "The Judge and His Executioner" p. 45)

Everything has been prepared for the funeral. The senators lowered the coffin beside the funeral pyre. Van Lelia walked up, closed the dead man's eyelids, and according to the custom of the time, stuffed a copper coin into the dead man's mouth so that he could pay Xinglong to use it as a boat to cross the rough Akelon River. money. Then the widow kissed the deceased on the lips and said loudly according to the custom: "Farewell! According to the order arranged by God, we will follow you." The musicians began to play mournful music, and the devotees were playing In the sound, many animals designated as sacrifices were brought and killed, their blood was mixed with milk, honey and wine, and then sprinkled around the funeral pyre. After all this was done, the mourners began to pour sesame oil on the pyre, throw in various spices, and pile countless laurel wreaths and wreaths on it. There were so many wreaths that they not only covered the entire pyre, but were also stacked thickly around the pyre. A thunderous ovation rolled across the Place de Mars in answer to the homage paid to the dead by the young triumphant and conquering marshal of Africa. A burst of flame suddenly burst out, and then spread quickly. Finally, the entire pyre emitted countless winding and fluttering tongues of flame, and was enveloped by bursts of cloud-like, fragrant smoke. ([It means] Giovannioli, "Spartacus" page 246)

The old wife of Tagore Mukherjee died after having a high fever for seven days. Mr. Mukherjee Sr. made a fortune in the grain business. His four sons, three daughters, grandchildren, son-in-law, relatives, friends, and servants all came here, and it was like a noisy celebration. People from the village also came in droves to witness this grand and dignified funeral ceremony. The daughters cried and smeared a thick layer of rouge on their mother's soles, and put a streak of cinnabar on her middle-parted hair. The daughters-in-law put sandalwood ointment on their mother-in-law's forehead and wrapped her mother-in-law in expensive saris. The final touch of the feet. Colorful flowers, green leaves, rich sandalwood, garlands of various colors, and no trace of sadness can be detected in the noise - this seems to be a wealthy housewife pretending to be a newlywed again after fifty years. The mother set off for her husband's house. Old Mr. Mukherjee calmly said his final farewell to his wife, secretly wiped away two tears, and began to comfort his daughter and daughter-in-law who were crying sadly. "Hari! Hari!" The thunderous chants shook the clear sky, and people in the whole village set off with the funeral procession... The crematorium was on the beach by the river outside the village. The firewood, sandalwood chips, ghee, honey, rosin, and sal resin needed to burn the corpse there have been prepared. ...When the corpse was placed on the large and grand funeral pyre... everyone shouted the holy name of "Hari" in unison, and the son held a torch purified by the Brahmin priest's mantra, The funeral fire was lit...the fire in the son's hand. This is really not easy. Leave your husband, son, daughter, grandchildren, relatives, friends, servants - everything in the world in the blazing flames, the old Brahmin. My wife has gone to heaven. ([Indian] Chatterjee: "Oparji's Paradise" "Foreign Short Stories" Volume 2, pp. 462-463)