Of Mice and Men

by John Steinbeck

And then her words tumbled out in a passion of communication, as though she hurried before her listener could be taken away.

“Coulda been in the movies, an’ had nice clothes—all them nice clothes like they wear. An’ I coulda sat in them big hotels, an’ had pitchers took of me. When they had them previews I coulda went to them, an’ spoke in the radio, an’ it wouldn’ta cost me a cent because I was in the pitcher. An’ all them nice clothes like they wear. Because this guy says I was a natural.”

Curley’s wife said angrily, “Don’t you think of nothing but rabbits?”

Curley’s wife moved away from him a little. “I think you’re nuts,” she said. “No I ain’t,” Lennie explained earnestly. “George says I ain’t. I like to pet nice things with my fingers, sof’ things.” She was a little bit reassured. “Well, who don’t?” she said. “Ever’body likes that. I like to feel silk an’ velvet. Do you like to feel velvet?” Lennie chuckled with pleasure. “You bet, by God,” he cried happily. “An’ I had some, too. A lady give me some, an’ that lady was—my own Aunt Clara. She give it right to me—’bout this big a piece. I wisht I had that velvet right now.” A frown came over his face. “I lost it,” he said. “I ain’t seen it for a long time.” Curley’s wife laughed at him. “You’re nuts,” she said. “But you’re a kinda nice fella. Jus’ like a big baby. But a person can see kinda what you mean. When I’m doin’ my hair sometimes I jus’ set an’ stroke it ’cause it’s so soft.”

Lennie was in a panic. His face was contorted. She screamed then, and Lennie’s other hand closed over her mouth and nose. “Please don’t,” he begged. “Oh! Please don’t do that. George’ll be mad.” She struggled violently under his hands. Her feet battered on the hay and she writhed to be free; and from under Lennie’s hand came a muffled screaming. Lennie began to cry with fright. “Oh! Please don’t do none of that,” he begged. “George gonna say I done a bad thing. He ain’t gonna let me tend no rabbits.” He moved his hand a little and her hoarse cry came out. Then Lennie grew angry. “Now don’t,” he said. “I don’t want you to yell. You gonna get me in trouble jus’ like George says you will. Now don’t you do that.” And she continued to struggle, and her eyes were wild with terror. He shook her then, and he was angry with her. “Don’t you go yellin’,” he said, and he shook her; and her body flopped like a fish. And then she was still, for Lennie had broken her neck.

“I don’t want ta hurt you,” he said, “but George’ll be mad if you yell.” When she didn’t answer nor move he bent closely over her. He lifted her arm and let it drop. For a moment he seemed bewildered. And then he whispered in fright, “I done a bad thing. I done another bad thing.”

Curley’s wife lay on her back, and she was half covered with hay.

Curley’s wife lay with a half-covering of yellow hay. And the meanness and the plannings and the discontent and the ache for attention were all gone from her face. She was very pretty and simple, and her face was sweet and young. Now her rouged cheeks and her reddened lips made her seem alive and sleeping very lightly. The curls, tiny little sausages, were spread on the hay behind her head, and her lips were parted.

As happens sometimes, a moment settled and hovered and remained for much more than a moment. And sound stopped and movement stopped for much, much more than a moment.

When she didn’t answer, he stepped nearer. “You oughten to sleep out here,” he said disapprovingly; and then he was beside her and—“Oh, Jesus Christ!” He looked about helplessly, and he rubbed his beard. And then he jumped up and went quickly out of the barn.

Now Candy spoke his greatest fear. “You an’ me can get that little place, can’t we, George? You an’ me can go there an’ live nice, can’t we, George? Can’t we?” Before George answered, Candy dropped his head and looked down at the hay. He knew. George said softly, “—I think I knowed from the very first. I think I knowed we’d never do her. He usta like to hear about it so much I got to thinking maybe we would.”

“Lennie never done it in meanness,” he said. “All the time he done bad things, but he never done one of ’em mean.”

Old Candy watched him go. He looked helplessly back at Curley’s wife, and gradually his sorrow and his anger grew into words. “You God damn tramp,” he said viciously. “You done it, di’n’t you? I s’pose you’re glad. Ever’body knowed you’d mess things up. You wasn’t no good. You ain’t no good now, you lousy tart.” He sniveled, and his voice shook. “I could of hoed in the garden and washed dishes for them guys.” He paused, and then went on in a singsong. And he repeated the old words: “If they was a circus or a baseball game . . . we would of went to her . . . jus’ said ‘ta hell with work,’ an’ went to her. Never ast nobody’s say so. An’ they’d of been a pig and chickens . . . an’ in the winter . . . the little fat stove . . . an’ the rain comin’ . . . an’ us jus’ settin’ there.” His eyes blinded with tears and he turned and went weakly out of the barn, and he rubbed his bristly whiskers with his wrist stump.

Curley came suddenly to life. “I know who done it,” he cried. “That big son-of-a-bitch done it. I know he done it. Why—ever’body else was out there playin’ horseshoes.” He worked himself into a fury. “I’m gonna get him. I’m going for my shotgun. I’ll kill the big son-of-a-bitch myself. I’ll shoot ’im in the guts. Come on, you guys.” He ran furiously out of the barn. Carlson said, “I’ll get my Luger,” and he ran out too.

Old Candy lay down in the hay and covered his eyes with his arm.

“I can go right off there an’ find a cave,” he said. And he continued sadly, “—an’ never have no ketchup—but I won’t care. If George don’t want me . . . I’ll go away. I’ll go away.”

And when she spoke, it was in Lennie’s voice. “I tol’ you an’ tol’ you,” she said. “I tol’ you, ‘Min’ George because he’s such a nice fella an’ good to you.’ But you don’t never take no care. You do bad things.” And Lennie answered her, “I tried, Aunt Clara, ma’am. I tried and tried. I couldn’ help it.” “You never give a thought to George,” she went on in Lennie’s voice. “He been doin’ nice things for you alla time. When he got a piece a pie you always got half or more’n half. An’ if they was any ketchup, why he’d give it all to you.” “I know,” said Lennie miserably. “I tried, Aunt Clara, ma’am. I tried and tried.” She interrupted him. “All the time he coulda had such a good time if it wasn’t for you. He woulda took his pay an’ raised hell in a whore house, and he coulda set in a pool room an’ played snooker. But he got to take care of you.” Lennie moaned with grief. “I know, Aunt Clara, ma’am. I’ll go right off in the hills an’ I’ll fin’ a cave an’ I’ll live there so I won’t be no more trouble to George.” “You jus’ say that,” she said sharply. “You’re always sayin’ that, an’ you know sonofabitching well you ain’t never gonna do it. You’ll jus’ stick around an’ stew the b’Jesus outta George all the time.” Lennie said, “I might jus’ as well go away. George ain’t gonna let me tend no rabbits now.”

“Tend rabbits,” it said scornfully. “You crazy bastard. You ain’t fit to lick the boots of no rabbit. You’d forget ’em and let ’em go hungry. That’s what you’d do. An’ then what would George think?” “I would not forget,” Lennie said loudly. “The hell you wouldn’,” said the rabbit.

But the rabbit repeated softly over and over, “He gonna leave you, ya crazy bastard. He gonna leave ya all alone. He gonna leave ya, crazy bastard.” Lennie put his hands over his ears. “He ain’t, I tell ya he ain’t.” And he cried, “Oh! George—George—George!”

George shook himself again. “No,” he said. “I want you to stay with me here.” Lennie said craftily—“Tell me like you done before.” “Tell you what?” “ ‘Bout the other guys an’ about us.” George said, “Guys like us got no fambly. They make a little stake an’ then they blow it in. They ain’t got nobody in the worl’ that gives a hoot in hell about ’em——” “But not us,” Lennie cried happily. “Tell about us now.” George was quiet for a moment. “But not us,” he said. “Because——” “Because I got you an’——” “An’ I got you. We got each other, that’s what, that gives a hoot in hell about us,” Lennie cried in triumph.

Lennie said, “Tell how it’s gonna be.” George had been listening to the distant sounds. For a moment he was business-like. “Look acrost the river, Lennie, an’ I’ll tell you so you can almost see it.” Lennie turned his head and looked off across the pool and up the darkening slopes of the Gabilans. “We gonna get a little place,” George began. He reached in his side pocket and brought out Carlson’s Luger; he snapped off the safety, and the hand and gun lay on the ground behind Lennie’s back. He looked at the back of Lennie’s head, at the place where the spine and skull were joined. A man’s voice called from up the river, and another man answered. “Go on,” said Lennie. George raised the gun and his hand shook, and he dropped his hand to the ground again. “Go on,” said Lennie. “How’s it gonna be. We gonna get a little place.” “We’ll have a cow,” said George. “An’ we’ll have maybe a pig an’ chickens . . . an’ down the flat we’ll have a . . . little piece alfalfa——” “For the rabbits,” Lennie shouted. “For the rabbits,” George repeated. “And I get to tend the rabbits.” “An’ you get to tend the rabbits.” Lennie giggled with happiness. “An’ live on the fatta the lan’.” “Yes.” Lennie turned his head. “No, Lennie. Look down there acrost the river, like you can almost see the place.” Lennie obeyed him. George looked down at the gun.

Lennie said, “I thought you was mad at me, George.” “No,” said George. “No, Lennie. I ain’t mad. I never been mad, an’ I ain’t now. That’s a thing I want ya to know.” The voices came close now. George raised the gun and listened to the voices. Lennie begged, “Le’s do it now. Le’s get that place now.” “Sure, right now. I gotta. We gotta.” And George raised the gun and steadied it, and he brought the muzzle of it close to the back of Lennie’s head. The hand shook violently, but his face set and his hand steadied. He pulled the trigger. The crash of the shot rolled up the hills and rolled down again. Lennie jarred, and then settled slowly forward to the sand, and he lay without quivering.

But Carlson was standing over George. “How’d you do it?” he asked. “I just done it,” George said tiredly. “Did he have my gun?” “Yeah. He had your gun.” “An’ you got it away from him and you took it an’ you killed him?” “Yeah. Tha’s how.” George’s voice was almost a whisper. He looked steadily at his right hand that had held the gun. Slim twitched George’s elbow. “Come on, George. Me an’ you’ll go in an’ get a drink.” George let himself be helped to his feet. “Yeah, a drink.” Slim said, “You hadda, George. I swear you hadda. Come on with me.” He led George into the entrance of the trail and up toward the highway. Curley and Carlson looked after them. And Carlson said, “Now what the hell ya suppose is eatin’ them two guys?”