Great Aunt Mary Character Analysis

He was trembling with anger or sorrow, he didn’t know which. He sat in the brightness of her big sitting-room at the oval table and waited for something to happen. On the table was a cut-glass vase of irises, dying because she had been in bed for over a week. He sat staring at them. They were withering from the tips inward, scrolling themselves delicately, brown and neat. Clearing up after themselves. He stared at them for a long time until he heard the sounds of women weeping from the next room.

When he was bored he would interrupt her and ask about the ring. He loved hearing her tell of how her grandmother had given it to her as a brooch and she had had a ring made from it. He would try to count back to see how old it was. Had her grandmother got it from her grandmother? And if so what had she turned it into? She would nod her head from side to side and say, “How would I know a thing like that?” keeping her place in the closed book with her finger.

“Don’t be so inquisitive,” she’d say. “Let’s see what happens next in the story.”

He reached over towards the letters but before his hand touched them his aunt’s voice, harsh for once, warned.

“A-A-A,” she moved her pen from side to side. “Do not touch,” she said and smiled. “Anything else, yes! That section, no!” She resumed her writing.

“Who is that?” he asked.

“Why? What do you think of her?”

“She’s all right.”

“Do you think she is beautiful?” The boy nodded.

“That’s me,” she said. The boy was glad he had pleased her in return for the stamps.

“I thought maybe it was Brother Benignus,” he said. She looked at him not answering.

“Was your friend killed in the war?”

At first she said no, but then she changed her mind.

“Perhaps he was,” she said, then smiled. “You are far too inquisitive. Put it to use and go and see what is for tea.”

My love, it is thinking of you that keeps me sane. When I get a moment I open my memories of you as if I were reading. Your long dark hair—I always imagine you wearing the blouse with the tiny roses, the white one that opened down the back—your eyes that said so much without words, the way you lowered your head when I said anything that embarrassed you, the clean nape of your neck.

The only emotion I have experienced lately is one of anger. Sheer white trembling anger. I have no pity or sorrow for the dead and injured. I thank God it is not me but I am enraged that it had to be them. If I live through this experience I will be a different person.

I have been thinking a lot as I lie here about the war and about myself and about you. I do not know how to say this but I feel deeply that I must do something, must sacrifice something to make up for the horror of the past year. In some strange way Christ has spoken to me through the carnage.

“You have been reading my letters,” she said quietly. Her mouth was tight with the words and her eyes blazed. The boy could say nothing. She struck him across the side of the face.

“Get out,” she said. “Get out of my room.”

The boy, the side of his face stinging and red, put the keys on the table on his way out. When he reached the door she called him. He stopped, his hand on the handle.

“You are dirt,” she hissed, “and always will be dirt. I shall remember this till the day I die.”

Tears came into his eyes for the first time since she had died and he cried silently into the crook of his arm for the woman who had been his maiden aunt, his teller of tales, that she might forgive him.

He was trembling with anger or sorrow, he didn’t know which. He sat in the brightness of her big sitting-room at the oval table and waited for something to happen. On the table was a cut-glass vase of irises, dying because she had been in bed for over a week. He sat staring at them. They were withering from the tips inward, scrolling themselves delicately, brown and neat. Clearing up after themselves. He stared at them for a long time until he heard the sounds of women weeping from the next room.

When he was bored he would interrupt her and ask about the ring. He loved hearing her tell of how her grandmother had given it to her as a brooch and she had had a ring made from it. He would try to count back to see how old it was. Had her grandmother got it from her grandmother? And if so what had she turned it into? She would nod her head from side to side and say, “How would I know a thing like that?” keeping her place in the closed book with her finger.

“Don’t be so inquisitive,” she’d say. “Let’s see what happens next in the story.”

He reached over towards the letters but before his hand touched them his aunt’s voice, harsh for once, warned.

“A-A-A,” she moved her pen from side to side. “Do not touch,” she said and smiled. “Anything else, yes! That section, no!” She resumed her writing.

“Who is that?” he asked.

“Why? What do you think of her?”

“She’s all right.”

“Do you think she is beautiful?” The boy nodded.

“That’s me,” she said. The boy was glad he had pleased her in return for the stamps.

“I thought maybe it was Brother Benignus,” he said. She looked at him not answering.

“Was your friend killed in the war?”

At first she said no, but then she changed her mind.

“Perhaps he was,” she said, then smiled. “You are far too inquisitive. Put it to use and go and see what is for tea.”

My love, it is thinking of you that keeps me sane. When I get a moment I open my memories of you as if I were reading. Your long dark hair—I always imagine you wearing the blouse with the tiny roses, the white one that opened down the back—your eyes that said so much without words, the way you lowered your head when I said anything that embarrassed you, the clean nape of your neck.

The only emotion I have experienced lately is one of anger. Sheer white trembling anger. I have no pity or sorrow for the dead and injured. I thank God it is not me but I am enraged that it had to be them. If I live through this experience I will be a different person.

I have been thinking a lot as I lie here about the war and about myself and about you. I do not know how to say this but I feel deeply that I must do something, must sacrifice something to make up for the horror of the past year. In some strange way Christ has spoken to me through the carnage.

“You have been reading my letters,” she said quietly. Her mouth was tight with the words and her eyes blazed. The boy could say nothing. She struck him across the side of the face.

“Get out,” she said. “Get out of my room.”

The boy, the side of his face stinging and red, put the keys on the table on his way out. When he reached the door she called him. He stopped, his hand on the handle.

“You are dirt,” she hissed, “and always will be dirt. I shall remember this till the day I die.”

Tears came into his eyes for the first time since she had died and he cried silently into the crook of his arm for the woman who had been his maiden aunt, his teller of tales, that she might forgive him.