And so while the great ones depart to their dinner, the secretary

In the words of Arthur Bryant, “And so while the great ones depart to their dinner, the secretary stays, growing thinner and thinner, racking his brain to record and report what he thinks that they think that they ought to have thought.” This sentence, clothed in humor and irony, reveals a profound truth about the invisible burdens borne by those who serve the powerful. It is a lament, not merely of toil, but of the eternal struggle between the doers and the recorders, between those who wield authority and those condemned to interpret its every shadow. Beneath its witty rhythm lies a sigh of the human soul — the cry of diligence unacknowledged and intellect spent in service of others’ vanity.

The origin of the quote lies in the England of the early twentieth century, a time when the bureaucracy swelled with clerks, typists, and secretaries. Arthur Bryant, historian and essayist, knew well the inner chambers of officialdom — where ambition and pride feasted while the humble chronicler starved for recognition. His words mirror the ancient scenes of royal courts, where scribes toiled through the night, while kings feasted under golden chandeliers. From Babylon to Whitehall, the story is the same: the minds that preserve history are often the ones forgotten by it.

Consider the tale of Niccolò Machiavelli, once secretary to the Florentine Republic. When the great lords of Florence dined, he sat alone in his study, thin from both hunger and thought, recording the movements of men and the whims of princes. His pen was his sword, yet it drew no applause in his time. The great ones of his age — the Medici, the Borgias — are remembered through scandal and splendor, but Machiavelli, the secretary, became the mind that defined them all. Thus is the irony of service: those who record what others think they think they ought to have thought often end by understanding truth more deeply than the actors themselves.

Bryant’s lament is also a mirror for the modern soul, for who among us has not stayed late, forgotten at our desk, while the “great ones” depart to their pleasures? In the glowing light of a computer screen, the ancient scene repeats itself: the thinker, alone, thin in spirit and body, striving to interpret what the powerful will wish they had meant. The secretary is not a mere scribe, but the unseen conscience of power — the mind behind the mask, the one who ensures that thought becomes word, and word becomes action.

Yet there is nobility in such service, if one bears it with awareness. To serve is not to surrender; it is to shape, silently and faithfully, the order of things. The secretary who toils with honesty becomes the guardian of truth against the decay of memory. In every age, the humble chronicler has preserved justice when kings faltered, recorded wisdom when leaders lied. The secretaries of the world are the quiet historians of its conscience.

Still, Bryant’s tone carries warning as well as admiration. For when one’s life is spent only in reflecting the minds of others, one risks losing one’s own. The mind that endlessly interprets without creating grows pale, feeding on echoes. Thus, the teaching of this quote is not only compassion for the servant but caution for the self: do not let your duty consume your destiny. Write, record, and serve — but also think for yourself, dream for yourself, and feast at your own table of thought.

Let this then be the lesson for those who labor unseen. Do not envy the “great ones” at their dinner, for the night will pass and only the truth will remain. Work with honor, but guard your spirit from servitude of the soul. Seek to understand rather than merely interpret, to create rather than only record. For every era needs its chroniclers, but every heart needs its own voice.

Thus, when the great ones have long departed and their dinners are forgotten, it will be the words of the “secretary” — patient, faithful, and wise — that endure like stone beneath the waves of time.