“Secrets” suggests that love is the only lasting legacy of a person’s life after their death. In the first scene, as the protagonist sees his Great Aunt Mary on her death bed, he observes how much of her personality has already been lost in her declining health. Though devoutly Catholic, Mary cannot grip the crucifix her family has placed in her hands. And though devoted to keeping her appearance impeccably neat, in death, Mary has “lost all the dignity [the protagonist] knew her to have.” Furthermore, the events of the story revolve around the material remnants of Aunt Mary’s long life: her correspondence and photos, including a picture of her in her youth and a collection of letters from her former lover, John (who later became a monk named Brother Benignus). In life, these objects were important to Aunt Mary, as she guarded them vigilantly in a locked bureau and became very angry when the protagonist invaded her privacy to read John’s letters. But after her death, her belongings lose much of the significance they held while she was alive. While clearing out Aunt Mary’s room, the protagonist’s mother burns all of Aunt Mary’s papers, reducing the traces of her life to ash. And despite her pledge to remember the protagonist’s hurtful invasion of her privacy “until the day she dies,” Aunt Mary is “too far gone to speak” when she dies, rendering her unable to forgive or condemn the protagonist for his disrespectful action. Her disputes, like her personality and her possessions, are lost to death. The only remaining trace of Aunt Mary’s life is in the protagonist’s loving memory of her. After John’s letters burn, the legacy of Mary and John’s relationship still remains in the protagonist’s mind, alongside his fond memories of his “maiden aunt, his teller of tales.” Therefore, the story suggests, love is the only legacy that truly survives death.
Death, Love, and Legacy ThemeTracker
Death, Love, and Legacy Quotes in Secrets
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.”
“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.
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.