Chapter 33 — Teaching Companion

What it asks It asks the student to weigh one word against the man it describes. On the hill Dessie breaks “their unstated code” and asks, “Tom, why don’t you get married?” He answers, “Who’d have me?” and then, “Who’d want a thing like me?” On the porch she asks, “Do you ever go to women?” He says, “Yes.” Is it any good to him? “Not much.” In the living room “she could see that he was still embarrassed from his last admission.” Then: “She thought, How pure he is, how unfit for a world that even she knew more about than he did. A dragon killer, he was, a rescuer of damsels, and his small sins seemed so great to him that he felt unfit and unseemly.” Just before the hill, the narrator says, “Since both were shy they never talked about themselves. Neither knew about the other at all.” After the funeral the small sins come back under the lamp as accusers, among them “Lust, slipping him the money for his whoring,” and “Tom felt comforted by these because they screened the great Gray One.”

One reading

Pure in conscience, not in conduct. She has just heard what he does, and she calls him pure anyway, because of the embarrassment. A man so ashamed of a small thing has a conscience that has never hardened. Her word names how hard he judges himself, and the trial seems to bear her out: he charges himself with sins down to his fingernails.

• she could see that he was still embarrassed from his last admission
• his small sins seemed so great to him that he felt unfit and unseemly

Another reading

Innocent, the way a knight in a story is innocent, and the word tells more about Dessie than about Tom. She has just heard where he goes and how little it gives him, and she makes him a dragon killer and a rescuer of damsels. The narrator has just said neither knew the other at all. Under the lamp the sin she brushed aside comes back as Lust, but it is no torment to him. The small sins comfort him, because they hide a greater one.

• Neither knew about the other at all.
• Tom felt comforted by these because they screened the great Gray One

Listen for

• Hears what Tom has just admitted before Dessie thinks “How pure he is.”
• Says what pure means in her thought: clean in what he does, clean in conscience, or innocent of the world.
• Sets her picture of him beside the narrator’s line that neither knew the other at all.
• Follows the small sins forward to the trial, where Lust comes back and the small sins comfort Tom rather than torment him.

If stuck

• What has Tom just told Dessie on the porch?
• What does Dessie see in his face in the living room?
• Can a person be pure and still have sins?

A strong answer A strong response says what Dessie means by pure and grounds it in the porch and the living room. One reader says she means a clean conscience: she knows what he has just admitted, sees him still embarrassed, and calls him pure because his small sins seem so great to him, which the trial, with its charges down to “Unkempt Fingernails,” seems to bear out. Another says the word is a picture out of a storybook, a dragon killer and a rescuer of damsels, from a sister who, the narrator says, did not know him at all; under the lamp the small sins comfort him because they hide a greater one. The best answers notice that she reads him while she hides her own pain, and that the trial under the lamp will test her word.

What it asks It asks the student to weigh one evening’s plan. After “Who’d have me?” Dessie “took another tack to see whether she could raise some spark in him.” Neither of them has been farther south than San Luis Obispo. “We could go to Paris and to Rome or to Jerusalem. I would dearly love to see the Colosseum.” They could take the cheapest boats: “That’s how our father came here from Ireland. And we could go to Ireland.” She lays out a year of work and saving. “Still he watched her, but a burning was beginning in his eyes.” Tom goes outside and looks up “at blue Venus and red Mars”; his hands close to fists and open. Back inside he asks, “Do you want to go, Dessie?” She says, “More than anything in the world.” He says, “Then we will go!” She asks him the same, and he gives her own words back. They trade names: Egypt, Athens, Constantinople, Bethlehem. By bedtime he is planning shoats and an acorn machine. At her window Dessie “was glad. But she wondered whether she really wanted to go, or whether Tom did. And as she wondered the whisper of pain grew up from her side.”

One reading

For Tom. Dessie raises Europe on purpose, as another tack to strike a spark in him, and it works: the burning in his eyes, the fists, the shoats and the acorn machine by morning. When he asks whether she wants to go, she gives him the answer he needs to hear. Her doubt at the window gives her away. She is not sure she wants it herself.

• She took another tack to see whether she could raise some spark in him.
• Still he watched her, but a burning was beginning in his eyes.

Another reading

For Dessie. She is the one who says first that they have never been anywhere, and the Colosseum is her own wish. Ireland is the road their father came by, and she wants to travel it the other way. Tom goes out under the stars before he answers, and he asks what she wants before he says what he wants. Her doubt at the window runs both ways: she wonders whether Tom really wants it, as if she had talked him into it.

• I would dearly love to see the Colosseum.
• Do you want to go, Dessie?

Listen for

• Notices that Dessie raises the trip as “another tack” to raise a spark in Tom.
• Notices that Tom goes outside before he answers, and asks what she wants before he says what he wants.
• Hears that each answers in the same words, and weighs whether either means them.
• Notices that the pain comes back as Dessie wonders, and that she says nothing of either.

If stuck

• Why does Dessie bring up Europe at all?
• What does Tom do before he answers her?
• Can you want something mostly because someone else wants it?

A strong answer A strong response names whom the trip was for and grounds it in the evening. One reader says it was for Tom: Dessie raises it as “another tack” to strike a spark, and the burning in his eyes and the plans by morning show that it worked. Another says it was Dessie’s own wish: she speaks first of the Colosseum and of their father’s road from Ireland, and her doubt at the window is whether Tom wants it. The best answers notice that Tom asks first and then answers in Dessie’s own words, so neither can be sure, and that this doubt, never spoken aloud, is the habit of the whole summer.

What it asks It asks the student to set two hidings side by side on the same day. In King City, Will “pulled his lip, rubbed his eyebrows, scratched his nose, cleaned his glasses, and made a major operation of cutting and lighting a cigar.” He agrees only to think it over, and Tom drives home sure the verdict will go against the pigs. Tom has hidden something too: he “had thought to tell Will about Europe, but a quick instinct stopped him.” The narrator says, “Poor Tom did not know and could not learn that dissembling successfully is one of the creative joys of a businessman. To indicate enthusiasm was to be idiotic.” In fact “Parts of the plan fascinated him,” and Will even thinks of giving Tom a Ford. At the ranch Dessie is on the gooseneck sofa. “She rallied herself against pain.” She says, “Just a stomach ache,” and then, “A pretty severe one.” She drinks the salts “obediently,” tries to vomit them while he is in the kitchen, and turns down the eggs, “smiling.” Only at ten does she call him and say, “I’m sorry. But I’m awfully sick, Tom. I’m terribly sick.” Earlier in the summer, when Tom found her rigid with pain, “she controlled her face” and called it a little crick.

One reading

Yes, of a kind. Dessie’s hiding takes skill, as Will’s does. She controls her face, finds a light word for the pain, and smiles while she turns down food. Will hides his interest to keep the upper hand; Dessie hides her pain to keep the summer whole and spare Tom the fright. Both know that showing too much would change what happens next, and both are good at it.

• She rallied herself against pain.
• she controlled her face

Another reading

No. Will’s hiding is a game he enjoys and can drop when he likes, and the only cost is Tom’s sad ride home. Dessie’s is not a game. It is the shy habit of the whole summer, and by evening it is fear hidden on top of pain. It does not even fully work: her second sentence, “A pretty severe one,” sounds like someone half trying to be heard.

• A pretty severe one.
• And on top of the pain there was fear.

Listen for

• Sets Will’s show of doubt beside Dessie’s light words for her pain.
• Notices that Tom hides something from Will too: the trip to Europe.
• Weighs what each hiding is for, and who pays for it.
• Keeps to the hiding itself and gives no diagnosis of Dessie’s pain.

If stuck

• What does Will do with his hands and his cigar while Tom talks?
• What words does Dessie choose for her pain?
• Can you hide something out of love, and do it well?

A strong answer A strong response takes a side on whether Dessie’s hiding is an art and grounds it in the two scenes. One reader says it is: she controls her face, chooses light words, and smiles as she turns down the eggs; like Will, she knows that showing too much would change what happens next, though she hides to protect Tom, not to win. Another says it is not: Will’s hiding is a game he enjoys, while Dessie’s is fear hidden on top of pain, and her own words half give her away with “A pretty severe one.” The best answers notice that the narrator pities Tom for not understanding this kind of hiding, though Tom hides Europe from Will that same afternoon.

What it asks It asks the student to look at the evidence in Tom’s court. Once the small sins give way and the Gray One is named Murder, “Tom’s hand felt the chill of the glass,” and he says aloud in the empty room, “This will do the job. Just wait till morning. You’ll feel fine then.” His mind insists, “That’s how it had sounded, exactly how.” Set that beside the night itself. Tom said, “It may gripe you a little but it’ll do the job”; then, “The salts should work pretty soon”; then, “Maybe you can get some sleep. It’ll be gone in the morning. The salts will do the job.” Dessie said, “Just a stomach ache,” and, “A pretty severe one.” She said “I can’t” to the eggs, smiling. At ten she said, “I’m sorry. But I’m awfully sick, Tom.” None of her words comes back under the lamp. Later, Tom says to his father, “My father, I’m sorry. I can’t help it.” The chapter does not say what was wrong with Dessie, or whether anything done sooner would have changed the end.

One reading

Because a trial weighs what the accused did, and this is what he did. He chose the cure, put the glass in her hand and told her it would work. The memory insists on its own accuracy: it sounded “exactly” so. Leaving her words out is not a trick. After an evening of stalling with baby sins, it is Tom looking straight at his own act.

• Tom’s hand felt the chill of the glass
• That’s how it had sounded, exactly how

Another reading

Because he is still keeping her secret. That night she told him little until late: a stomach ache, a smile over the eggs, and at ten an apology before “I’m awfully sick.” To bring her words into his court would put some of the blame on her, and he will not. So the court hears only him, and even his own words come back harder than he said them. That night the salts “should work pretty soon”; under the lamp no “should” is left.

• I’m sorry. But I’m awfully sick, Tom.
• The salts should work pretty soon

Listen for

• Sets the words Tom repeats beside what he said that night, and notices what has dropped out.
• Remembers what Dessie said that evening, and how little of it told him.
• Notices that both Dessie and Tom say “I’m sorry” for what they cannot help.
• Claims nothing about what was wrong with Dessie, and stops short of a verdict on Tom.

If stuck

• What did Tom say to Dessie when he gave her the salts?
• What did Dessie say to him about her pain?
• Why might a man on trial in his own mind leave someone out?

A strong answer A strong response gives a reason why Tom repeats only his own words and grounds it in the two nights. One reader says a trial rightly weighs what the accused did: the glass, the cure and the promise are his, and the memory insists it is “exactly” right. Another says Tom is still keeping Dessie’s secret: her light words and her apology would share the blame, so he leaves them out, and even his own words return without the “should” he spoke that night. The best answers set the repeated lines beside the real ones and leave the verdict itself for the last written question.

What it asks It asks the student to judge the tone of one strange moment. Just before it, the narrator says, “Now this is true, Tom Hamilton was dead and he had only to do a few decent things to make it final.” Then “The sofa cricked in criticism, and Tom looked at it and at the smoking lamp to which the sofa referred.” Tom says “Thank you” to the sofa, and “I hadn’t noticed it,” and turns down the wick. This is the horsehair sofa Tom rebuilt, the one Dessie was lying on when he came home from Will’s, and the one his eyes avoid when he first sits down. Crick is Dessie’s word: in the summer she hid a grabbing pain behind “A little crick, that’s all.” All evening the house has behaved like people. The furniture shrinks from him “in distaste,” “A stool avoided him,” and he fetches new matches “with a feeling of apology.” The same night has dry jokes in it: the voice of Samuel calls Tom’s head a “turnip,” and the letter to Liza ends with Polly the parrot.

One reading

Yes. The moment is funny, and Steinbeck means it to be. A man who has just judged himself dead thanks a sofa for a tip about the lamp, like a polite guest. The same dry humor comes back in Samuel’s “turnip” and the parrot in the letter. The laugh does not make light of Tom. It shows the courtesy he keeps to the end, toward a stool, a match, a lamp, and soon his mother.

• I hadn’t noticed it
• make use of that turnip you call your head

Another reading

No, or not easily. The sofa is the one Dessie lay on, and it speaks in her word: she hid her pain behind “A little crick,” and now the sofa cricks at him. The whole house has turned into witnesses. Tom’s polite answer is not comic. It is the calm of a man who has already let go and is doing small decent things “to make it final.”

• A little crick, that’s all.
• he had only to do a few decent things to make it final

Listen for

• Hears what comes just before: “Tom Hamilton was dead.”
• Finds Dessie’s word, crick, in the summer and hears it again in the sofa.
• Notices the other light touches in the same night: the turnip, the parrot.
• Says what a laugh here would do to the reader, not only whether it comes.

If stuck

• Who lay on that sofa, and when?
• What does Tom say to it, and what does he do next?
• Can one moment be funny and sad at once?

A strong answer A strong response takes a position on whether a reader should laugh and grounds it in the room. One reader says yes: a man who has judged himself dead thanks a sofa, the same night has a “turnip” and a parrot in it, and the joke shows Tom’s courtesy lasting to the end. Another says no: the sofa is Dessie’s, it speaks in her word, crick, and Tom’s politeness is that of a man doing “a few decent things to make it final.” The best answers notice that the narrator gives the lamp as the plain reason and still chooses Dessie’s word, and say what the moment’s tone does to the reader on the way to the letters.

What it asks It asks the student to listen to the only voice that answers Tom in his trial. Early on, Samuel “spoke softly but his voice filled the room”: “Be good, be pure, be great, be Tom Hamilton.” Tom ignores him: “I’m busy greeting my friends.” Later, because “you couldn’t avoid Samuel because he was in the air every place,” Tom tells him, “You overestimated me. You were wrong. I wish I could justify the love and the pride you squandered on me,” and “I’ve killed Dessie and I want to sleep.” Then “his mind spoke for his father absent”: “Why, I can understand how that would be. There are so many patterns to choose from in the arc from birth back to birth again. But let’s think how we can make it all right with Mother. Why are you so impatient, dear?” Tom answers, “I can’t wait any more.” The voice: “Why, sure you can, my son, my darling. You’re grown great as I knew you would. Open the table drawer and then make use of that turnip you call your head.” The drawer holds the paper and pencils. When the letters are done, Tom asks Samuel, “Is that all right?” The chapter gives no answer.

One reading

It comforts him. The voice does what Tom cannot do for himself: it never calls him a murderer. It understands, calls him dear and darling, and tells him he has “grown great.” It even slows him down, asking why he is so impatient and telling him he can wait. What it asks him to wait for is a way to spare his mother. In his father’s voice Tom finds the only mercy in the trial.

• Why, I can understand how that would be.
• Why are you so impatient, dear?

Another reading

It urges him on. The narrator says plainly that Tom’s own mind speaks for Samuel. The father who said “Be good, be pure, be great” never argues with “I cannot live.” He turns at once to making it all right with Mother, and points Tom to the drawer. Tom has written his father’s lines so that his father blesses the plan. And at the end, when Tom asks whether it is all right, no one answers.

• And his mind spoke for his father absent
• Open the table drawer and then make use of that turnip you call your head.

Listen for

• Notices that the narrator says Tom’s own mind speaks for Samuel.
• Sets the first Samuel, “Be good, be pure, be great, be Tom Hamilton,” beside the second, who never argues with “I cannot live.”
• Hears the tenderness of the voice at full strength.
• Notices that “Is that all right?” goes unanswered.

If stuck

• What does Tom tell his father he has done?
• What does the voice tell him to do next?
• Can a comfort also be a push?

A strong answer A strong response decides what the voice does and grounds it in the trial. One reader says it comforts: it is the only voice that never calls Tom a murderer, it calls him “my son, my darling,” and it slows him down so that he can spare his mother. Another says it urges him on: Tom’s own mind speaks for his father, the voice never argues with “I cannot live,” and it sends him to the drawer. The best answers keep the tenderness and the danger together, and notice that the first Samuel, who asks Tom to be great, is the one Tom ignores.

What it asks It asks the student to weigh one line in a careful letter. After his trial Tom remembers that his mother “had a strong distaste for suicide, feeling that it combined three things of which she strongly disapproved—bad manners, cowardice, and sin,” and thinks, “There must be a way to avoid Liza’s disapproval.” The voice of Samuel says, “But let’s think how we can make it all right with Mother.” The letter wishes her well, promises, “I am going to plan to spend more time with you,” and Thanksgiving at Olive’s, and tells of a fifteen-dollar gelding that “has taken a dislike to mankind.” “He’s thrown me twice but I’ll get him yet,” Tom writes, and “you can be sure I’ll break him if it takes all winter.” Then: “I don’t know why I go on about him, only the man I bought him from said a funny thing.” The seller said, “That horse is so mean he’d eat a man right off his back.” And Tom asks his mother to “remember what Father used to say when we went rabbit hunting?” The saying is an old one from ancient Sparta, a mother’s word to a son going to war: come home with your shield, having fought, or be carried home dead on it. “He wondered whether it was good enough, but he was too tired to do it again.” He adds a P.S. about Polly the parrot. To Will he writes, “I was killed by a horse—thrown and kicked in the head—please!” The chapter does not say what Liza or Will does with the letters. It leaves Liza’s view of suicide and the narrator’s last line, “He was a gallant gentlemen,” side by side. Let the student notice the plural; do not correct it.

One reading

It lets the truth in. Tom cannot quite lie to his mother, so he hides the truth inside his father’s words. It is the one grave line in a cheerful letter, and “on it” is a goodbye: he is coming home the second way. Tom himself notices the letter running away from him, as if he were saying more than the horse story needs.

• Come back with your shield or on it.
• I don’t know why I go on about him

Another reading

It is part of the cover, and a careful one. The letter builds the horse up as a fight: it has thrown him twice, it would eat a man off his back, and he will break it if it takes all winter. A son who quotes his father’s rabbit-hunting joke is a son going cheerfully back to the fight. Liza thinks suicide is bad manners, cowardice and sin. The shield line offers her a son who fell bravely instead, and it fits the story Tom asks Will to tell.

• He’s thrown me twice but I’ll get him yet
• bad manners, cowardice, and sin

Listen for

• States a thesis on why the line is there, and says what “on it” means.
• Uses the letter itself: the mean horse, the promise of Thanksgiving, “I don’t know why I go on about him,” and whether it was “good enough.”
• Meets the strongest objection with a line from the chapter and revises, perhaps by saying the same words do both jobs.
• Lets the plural in the last line stand, claims nothing about what Liza or Will does, and stays with this chapter’s night rather than suicide in general.

If stuck

• What story does the letter tell about the horse?
• What did Tom remember about his mother just before he wrote?
• Can one line hide the truth and tell it at the same time?

A strong answer A strong response says why the line is there, meets the strongest objection, and revises. One thesis says it lets the truth in: it is the one grave line in a cheerful letter, “on it” is a goodbye in his father’s words, and Tom himself notices he goes on about the horse. The strongest objection is that the line serves the cover story: it belongs to a son vowing to break a mean horse “if it takes all winter,” and it turns a death his mother would call “bad manners, cowardice, and sin” into a brave fall. A good revision might say the same words do both jobs, or that the letter is the chapter’s old habit at its most skilled: hiding what hurts to spare someone, with the truth folded inside. The best answers let the plural in the last line stand and claim nothing about what Liza or Will does next.

What it asks It asks the chapter’s whole question. On the hill “both were shy” and “Neither knew about the other at all.” Dessie keeps her pains “a secret in herself.” In the summer she calls the grabbing pain “A little crick”; on the sofa, “Just a stomach ache,” and then, “A pretty severe one.” Tom says, “I can fix up a stomach ache,” and brings the salts, “Mother’s remedy in green apple season.” Three times he tells her the salts will work, asks, “What do you suppose you ate to cause it?”, reads to her from the World Almanac, and dozes. She tries to vomit the salts while he is in the kitchen. At ten she says, “I’m sorry. But I’m awfully sick, Tom.” On the telephone the doctor shouts, “Salts! You goddam fool!” A week after the funeral Tom goes “up before the bench with himself as judge and his own crimes as jurors.” Small sins come first, “almost like virtues to save himself,” until “It was too late to stall with baby sins. This Gray One was Murder.” He says aloud again, “This will do the job. Just wait till morning,” and feels the walls and chairs “could prove it.” He tells Samuel, “I’ve killed Dessie and I want to sleep.” The chapter’s last line passes another verdict on him: “He was a gallant gentlemen.” The chapter does not say what was wrong with Dessie, or that a doctor called sooner would have saved her.

One reading

Fair in what it sees, if not in its word. Tom chose the cure himself and promised three times that it would work. He saw the color of her face and asked what she had eaten; he read and dozed while she fought. The doctor’s first word for him is “fool.” And in the end Tom refuses to hide behind small sins: he makes himself face the worst word. In a chapter full of hiding, he stops hiding from himself.

• The salts will do the job.
• Salts! You goddam fool!
• It was too late to stall with baby sins.

Another reading

Not fair. Murder means meaning to kill, and nothing in the chapter shows Tom wanting anything but Dessie’s good. He gave her their mother’s remedy, the cure the family had always used, and he did not know how sick she was, because she called it a stomach ache until late that night. His court is rigged: he is the judge, his own crimes are the jurors, and no one speaks for him. If there is a fault, it is a silence they both kept.

• Mother’s remedy in green apple season.
• he would have to go up before the bench with himself as judge and his own crimes as jurors
• Since both were shy they never talked about themselves.

Listen for

• States a thesis on whether the verdict is fair, and says what murder would have to mean for it to be.
• Weighs both sides of the silence: Dessie’s light words for her pain, and Tom’s trust in the cure.
• Meets the strongest objection with a line from the chapter and revises, perhaps by separating guilt from grief, or by setting Tom’s verdict beside the narrator’s last line.
• Claims nothing about what killed Dessie or whether an earlier doctor would have saved her, and gives no verdict on suicide in general.

If stuck

• What did Tom do that night, step by step?
• What did Dessie tell him about her pain?
• Who sits as judge and jury in Tom’s trial?

A strong answer A strong response builds a thesis, meets the strongest objection, and revises. One thesis says the verdict is fair in substance: Tom chose the salts, promised three times that they would work, and read and dozed while Dessie fought, and the doctor’s first word for him is “fool.” The strongest objection is that murder means meaning to kill, and Tom meant only to help: he gave the family’s own remedy, Dessie hid how sick she was, and his court has no defense, with himself as judge and his crimes as jurors. A good revision might say that Tom is right that he bears part of the blame but wrong in the name he gives it, or that his verdict is the grief of a man who has always judged his small sins too hard. Some will set Tom’s verdict beside the narrator’s last line, “He was a gallant gentlemen,” without deciding what the book thinks of his last act. The best answers weigh both silences, the one Dessie kept and the one Tom never broke, and claim nothing the chapter does not say about what killed her.