"No, not Karl.Stay, I made a mistake.Claude Bernard.What was he? Chemist or what?""He must be a savant," answered Alyosha; "but I confess I can't tell you much about him, either.I've heard of him as a savant, but what sort I don't know.""Well, damn him, then! I don't know either," swore Mitya."Ascoundrel of some sort, most likely.They are all scoundrels.And Rakitin will make his way.Rakitin will get on anywhere; he is another Bernard.Ugh, these Bernards! They are all over the place.""But what is the matter?" Alyosha asked insistently.
"He wants to write an article about me, about my case, and so begin his literary career.That's what he comes for; he said so himself.He wants to prove some theory.He wants to say 'he couldn't help murdering his father, he was corrupted by his environment,' and so on.He explained it all to me.He is going to put in a tinge of Socialism, he says.But there, damn the fellow, he can put in a tinge if he likes, I don't care.He can't bear Ivan, he hates him.
He's not fond of you, either.But I don't turn him out, for he is a clever fellow.Awfully conceited, though.I said to him just now,' The Karamazovs are not blackguards, but philosophers; for all true Russians are philosophers, and though you've studied, you are not a philosopher- you are a low fellow.' He laughed, so maliciously.And I said to him, 'De ideabus non est disputandum.'* Isn't that rather good? I can set up for being a classic, you see!" Mitya laughed suddenly.
* There's no disputing ideas.
"Why is it all over with you? You said so just now," Alyosha interposed.
"Why is it all over with me? H'm!...The fact of it is...if you take it as a whole, I am sorry to lose God- that's why it is.""What do you mean by 'sorry to lose God'?""Imagine: inside, in the nerves, in the head- that is, these nerves are there in the brain...(damn them!) there are sort of little tails, the little tails of those nerves, and as soon as they begin quivering...that is, you see, I look at something with my eyes and then they begin quivering, those little tails...and when they quiver, then an image appears...it doesn't appear at once, but an instant, a second, passes...and then something like a moment appears; that is, not a moment- devil take the moment!- but an image; that is, an object, or an action, damn it! That's why I see and then think, because of those tails, not at all because I've got a soul, and that Iam some sort of image and likeness.All that is nonsense! Rakitin explained it all to me yesterday, brother, and it simply bowled me over.It's magnificent, Alyosha, this science! A new man's arising-that I understand....And yet I am sorry to lose God!""Well, that's a good thing, anyway," said Alyosha.
"That I am sorry to lose God? It's chemistry, brother, chemistry! There's no help for it, your reverence, you must make way for chemistry.And Rakitin does dislike God.Ough! doesn't he dislike Him! That's the sore point with all of them.But they conceal it.They tell lies.They pretend.'Will you preach this in your reviews?' I asked him.'Oh, well, if I did it openly, they won't let it through, 'he said.He laughed.'But what will become of men then?' I asked him, 'without God and immortal life? All things are lawful then, they can do what they like?' 'Didn't you know?' he said laughing, 'a clever man can do what he likes,' he said.'A clever man knows his way about, but you've put your foot in it, committing a murder, and now you are rotting in prison.' He says that to my face!
A regular pig! I used to kick such people out, but now I listen to them.He talks a lot of sense, too.Writes well.He began reading me an article last week.I copied out three lines of it.Wait a minute.
Here it is."
Mitya hurriedly pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket and read:
"'In order to determine this question, it is above all essential to put one's personality in contradiction to one's reality.' Do you understand that?""No, I don't," said Alyosha.He looked at Mitya and listened to him with curiosity.
"I don't understand either.It's dark and obscure, but intellectual.'Everyone writes like that now,' he says, 'it's the effect of their environment.' They are afraid of the environment.He writes poetry, too, the rascal.He's written in honour of Madame Hohlakov's foot.Ha ha ha!""I've heard about it," said Alyosha.
"Have you? And have you heard the poem?"
"No."