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Who was Karl Bernard?’
‘Karl Bernard?’ Alyosha was surprised again.
‘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.
‘A scoundrel of some sort, most likely. They are all scoun-
drels. 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 cor-
rupted 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 stud-
ied, 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