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ragdov. He thought it dull. So the bookcase was closed
again.
Shortly afterwards Marfa and Grigory reported to Fy-
odor Pavlovitch that Smerdyakov was gradually beginning
to show an extraordinary fastidiousness. He would sit be-
fore his soup, take up his spoon and look into the soup, bend
over it, examine it, take a spoonful and hold it to the light.
‘What is it? A beetle?’ Grigory would ask.
‘A fly, perhaps,’ observed Marfa.
The squeamish youth never answered, but he did the
same with his bread, his meat, and everything he ate. He
would hold a piece on his fork to the light, scrutinise it mi-
croscopically, and only after long deliberation decide to put
it in his mouth.
‘Ach! What fine gentlemen’s airs!’ Grigory muttered,
looking at him.
When Fyodor Pavlovitch heard of this development in
Smerdyakov he determined to make him his cook, and sent
him to Moscow to be trained. He spent some years there
and came back remarkably changed in appearance. He
looked extraordinarily old for his age. His face had grown
wrinkled, yellow, and strangely emasculate. In character he
seemed almost exactly the same as before he went away. He
was just as unsociable, and showed not the slightest inclina-
tion for any companionship. In Moscow, too, as we heard
afterwards, he had always been silent. Moscow itself had lit-
tle interest for him; he saw very little there, and took scarcely
any notice of anything. He went once to the theatre, but re-
turned silent and displeased with it. On the other hand, he