So she kissed mama's hand.
So it's some kind of tricks— but she did laugh at you!
By God, brother, that's not worth seventy-five thousand!
You're still capable of noble feelings, that's why I'm telling you.
No, don't go there!
Be careful!
It can't come to any good!"
Having said this, Varya quickly left the room in great agitation.
"That's how they always are!" said Ganya, smiling. "Can they possibly think I don't know it myself?
I know much more than they do."
Having said this, Ganya sat down on the sofa, obviously wishing to prolong his visit.
"If you know it yourself," the prince asked rather timidly, "why have you chosen such a torment, knowing that it's really not worth seventy-five thousand?"
"I wasn't talking about that," Ganya muttered, "but, incidentally, tell me what you think, I precisely want to know your opinion: is this 'torment' worth seventy-five thousand or is it not?"
"To my mind, it's not."
"Well, no news there.
And it's shameful to marry like that?"
"Very shameful."
"Well, be it known to you, then, that I am getting married, and it's now quite certain.
Earlier today I was still hesitating, but not anymore!
Be quiet!
I know what you want to say . . ."
"It's not what you think, but I'm very surprised at your extreme assurance. . ."
"About what?
Which assurance?"
"That Nastasya Filippovna is certain to accept you, and that it's all concluded, and, second, even if she does, that the seventy-five thousand will go straight into your pocket.
Though, of course, there's much here that I don't know."
Ganya made a strong movement towards the prince.
"Of course you don't know everything," he said. "And what would make me take all this burden on myself?"
"It seems to me that it happens all the time: a man marries for money, and the money stays with the wife."
"No, no, it won't be like that with us . . . Here . . . here there are certain circumstances . . ." Ganya murmured in anxious pensiveness.
"And as for her answer, there's no doubt about it now," he added quickly.
"What makes you conclude that she'll reject me?"
"I know nothing except what I've seen. And Varvara Ardalionovna also said just now . . ."
"Eh!
That's nothing, they just don't know what else to say.
And she was making fun of Rogozhin, rest assured, that I could see.
It was obvious.
I was frightened earlier, but now I can see it.
Or maybe you mean the way she treated my mother, and my father, and Varya?"
"And you."
"Perhaps. But here it's the age-old woman's revenge and nothing more.
She's a terribly irritable, suspicious, and vain woman.
Like an official overlooked for promotion!
She wanted to show herself and all her contempt for us . . . well, and for me, too—it's true, I don't deny it . . . But she'll marry me all the same.
You don't even suspect what tricks human vanity is capable of. Here she considers me a scoundrel because I'm taking her, another man's mistress, so openly for her money, but she doesn't know that another man could dupe her in a more scoundrelly way: he'd get at her and start pouring out liberal and progressive stuff, all drawn from various women's questions, and he'd have the whole of her slip right through the needle's eye like a thread.
He'd convince the vain fool (and so easily!) that he's taking her only 'for the nobility of her heart and her misfortunes,' and marry her for her money all the same.
She doesn't like me, because I don't want to shuffle; it would be fine if I did.
And what's she doing herself?
Isn't it the same?
Why, then, does she go scorning me and playing all these games?