“Lived a cockroach in the world 
Such was his condition, 
In a glass he chanced to fall 
Full of fly-perdition.” 

“Heavens! What does it mean?” cried Varvara Petrovna.

“That’s when flies get into a glass in the summer-time,” 
the captain explained hurriedly with the irritable 
impatience of an author interrupted in reading. 
“Then it is perdition to the flies, 
any fool can understand. 
Don’t interrupt, don’t interrupt. 
You’ll see, you’ll see.…” 
[He kept waving his arms.]1

“But he squeezed against the flies, 
They woke up and cursed him, 
Raised to Jove their angry cries; 
‘The glass is full to bursting!’ 

In the middle of the din 
Came along Nikifor, 
Fine old man, and looking in … 

I haven’t quite finished it. 
But no matter, I’ll tell it in words,” 
the captain rattled on. 
“Nikifor takes the glass, and in spite of their outcry 
empties away the whole stew, 
flies, and beetles and all, into the pig pail, which ought to have been done long ago. 
But observe, madam, observe, 
the cockroach doesn’t complain. 
That’s the answer to your question, why?” 
he cried triumphantly. 
“‘The cockroach does not complain.’ 
As for Nikifor 
he typifies nature,” he added, 
speaking rapidly and walking complacently about the room.