He thought dawdling, protective thoughts, sitting under the lamp, but he knew that pretty soon his
name would be called and he would have to go up before the bench with himself as judge and his own
crimes as jurors.
And his name was called, shrilly in his ears. His mind walked in to face the accusers: Vanity, which charged him with being ill dressed and dirty and vulgar; and Lust, slipping him the money for his whoring; Dishonesty, to make him pretend to talent and thought he did not have; Laziness and Gluttony arm in arm. Tom felt comforted by these because they screened the great Gray One in the back seat, waiting—the gray and dreadful crime. He dredged up lesser things, used small sins almost like virtues to save himself. There were Covetousness of Will’s money, Treason toward his mother’s God, Theft of time and hope, sick Rejection of love.
Samuel spoke softly but his voice filled the room. “Be good, be pure, be great, be Tom Hamilton.”
Tom ignored his father. He said, “I’m busy greeting my friends,” and he nodded to Discourtesy and Ugliness and Unfilial Conduct and Unkempt Fingernails. Then he started with Vanity again. The
Gray One shouldered up in front. It was too late to stall with baby sins. This Gray One was Murder.
Virtue is venerable as nothing else in this world is.
John SteinbeckHe clothed his motives in the names of virtue, and I have wondered whether he ever knew that no gift will ever buy back a man’s love when you have removed his self-love.
There was a man, who perhaps made many errors in performance but whose effective life was devoted to making men brave and dignified and good in a time when they were poor and frightened and when ugly forces were loose in the world to utilize their fears. This man was hated by the few. When he died the people burst into tears in the streets and their minds wailed, “What can we do now? How can we go on without him?
But whereas a puppy will cringe away or roll on its back, groveling, a little boy may cover his shyness with nonchalance, with bravado, or with secrecy. And once a boy has suffered rejection, he will find rejection even where it does not exist—or, worse, will draw it forth from people simply by expecting it.
John SteinbeckAdam thought he had me. When I was hurt, all broken up, he took me in and he waited on me, cooked for me. He tried to tie me down that way. Most people get tied down that way. They’re grateful, they’re in debt, and that’s the worst kind of handcuffs. But nobody can hold me. I waited and waited until I was strong, and then I broke out. Nobody can trap me,” she said. “I knew what he was doing. I waited.”
“I don’t hate you,” he said. “But I’m glad you’re afraid.
Nearly everyone has his box of secret pain, shared with no one. Will had concealed his well, laughed loud, exploited perverse virtues, and never let his jealousy go wandering. He thought of himself as slow, doltish, conservative, uninspired. No great dream lifted him high and no despair forced self destruction. He was always on the edge, trying to hold on to the rim of the family with what gifts he had—care, and reason, application. He kept the books, hired the attorneys, called the
undertaker, and eventually paid the bills. The others didn’t even know they needed him. He had the
ability to get money and to keep it. He thought the Hamiltons despised him for his one ability. He had
loved them doggedly, had always been at hand with his money to pull them out of their errors. He thought they were ashamed of him, and he fought bitterly for their recognition. All of this was in the frozen wind that blew through him.
There’s no money in that,” said Will. “Farmers don’t make any money. It’s the man who buys from him and sells. You’ll never make any money farming.” Will knew that Cal was feeling him, testing him, observing him, and he approved of that.
John SteinbeckAbout Cal she couldn’t decide. He disturbed her sometimes with anger, sometimes with pain, and
sometimes with curiosity. He seemed to be in a perpetual contest with her. She didn’t know whether
he liked her or not, and so she didn’t like him. She was relieved when, calling at the Trask house, Cal
was not there, to look secretly at her, judge, appraise, consider, and look away when she caught him at
it.
Lee, I’m not good enough for him.”
“Now, what do you mean by that?”
“I’m not being funny. He doesn’t think about me. He’s made someone up, and it’s like he put my skin on her. I’m not like that—not like the made-up one.”
“What’s she like?”
“Pure!” said Abra. “Just absolutely pure. Nothing but pure—never a bad thing. I’m not like that.”
“Nobody is,” said Lee.
“He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t even want to know me. He wants that—white—ghost.
Lee went quickly out of the kitchen. He sat in his room, gripping his hands tightly together until he
stopped choking. He got up and took a small carved ebony box from the top of his bureau. A dragon
climbed toward heaven on the box. He carried the box to the kitchen and laid it on the table between
Abra’s hands. “This is for you,” he said, and his tone had no inflection.
She opened the box and looked down on a small, dark green jade button, and carved on its surface
was a human right hand, a lovely hand, the fingers curved and in repose. Abra lifted the button out and
looked at it, and then she moistened it with the tip of her tongue and moved it gently over her full lips,
and pressed the cool stone against her cheek.
Lee said, “That was my mother’s only ornament.”
Abra got up and put her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek, and it was the only time
such a thing had ever happened in his whole life.
Lee laughed. “My Oriental calm seems to have deserted me,” he said. “Let me make the tea,
darling. I’ll get hold of myself that way.” From the stove he said, “I’ve never used that word—never
once to anybody in the world.
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