Vanity Fair: A Novel without a Hero - by William Makepeace Thackeray

Vanity Fair: A Novel without a Hero, written by William Makepeace Thackeray and first published in monthly installments from January 1847 to July 1848, is a landmark Victorian satire that chronicles the intertwined fortunes of two young women—ambitious, clever Becky Sharp and gentle, sentimental Amelia Sedley—against the backdrop of early nineteenth-century English society and the Napoleonic Wars. Drawing its title and central metaphor from John Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress, the novel presents the world as a bustling, morally empty fairground where characters pursue wealth, status, and pleasure with little regard for principle. Through its panoramic depiction of social climbing, marital maneuvering, financial insecurity, and the hypocrisies of the fashionable world, Thackeray offers a coolly ironic portrait of human vanity, refusing the conventional romantic hero and instead exposing the self-interest and pretension that animate nearly every figure on his crowded stage.

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Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackeray. The two young women stepped out of Miss Pinkerton's Academy for young ladies on a bright June morning in the year of Waterloo, each carrying a small trunk and a letter of introduction that would open no doors of consequence. Rebecca Sharp, Becky to those who already sense a sharp edge beneath the smile, was the orphan daughter of an artist and a French opera dancer. She had learned more from the Academy's French master and from a novelist she read in secret than from any moral lecture Miss Pinkerton had ever delivered. Amelia Sedley, soft eyed and trusting, was a cherished only daughter of a city merchant whose house in Russell Square still rang with the comfortable sounds of prosperity. They rode together in the Sedley coach toward London. Becky already measuring the distance between her own empty purse and the world she meant to enter. At the Sedley table, Becky first met Joseph, Amelia's elder brother, a stout, vain, and timid collector of the East India Company's revenues, home on leave and already half in love with his own importance. She played the guitar for him, spoke of India with borrowed knowledge, and allowed him to believe that a governess's daughter might yet become Mrs. Joseph Sedley. The scheme nearly succeeded until George Osborne, Amelia's betrothed and the son of a richer merchant, laughed the notion to pieces in Joseph's hearing. Joseph fled to Cheltenham. Becky's first campaign ended in polite failure. She left Russell Square with a gift of money from kind Mrs. Sedley, and the knowledge that sentiment alone would never pay her way. Sir Pitt Crawley of Queens Crawley in Hampshire required a governess for his two neglected daughters. Becky accepted the post. The baronet was coarse, miserly, and twice widowed. His second wife was a former maidservant who drank. His elder son, Mr. Pitt Crawley, was a solemn evangelical who already calculated the inheritance. The younger son, Captain Rodden Crawley of the Lifeguards, was a handsome, good-natured gambler who spent more than he owned and adored his aunt, the wealthy Miss Crawley of Parklane. Becky made herself indispensable to the household, read novels aloud to the old lady when Miss Crawley came to visit, and in time allowed Rawdon to fall in love with her. They were married in secret by a chaplain of the regiment. When the marriage became known, Miss Crawley cut her favorite nephew without a shilling. Sir Pitt, who had himself proposed to Becky after his wife's death, was enraged and amused by turns. Becky and Rawdon set up House of Mayfair on nothing but Rawdon's pay, his skill at cards, and Becky's genius for living well on credit. Meanwhile, Amelia's fortunes darkened. Old Mr. Osborne had intended his son for a richer bride. When George insisted on marrying the bankrupt Sedley's daughter, the father disinherited him. The young couple were married quietly. Dobbin, George's faithful friend from school in the regiment, stood by them and even advanced money so that George might buy his captaincy. Amelia loved her husband with a devotion that asked nothing in return. George accepted the devotion as his due and continued to flirt, to gamble, and to spend. The regiment was ordered to Belgium. On the eve of Waterloo, George gave Becky a note and a little present. The next day he lay among the dead. Amelia, already a mother, returned to England a widow, still carrying George's miniature against her heart and refusing to believe any ill of him, Rodden fought at Waterloo and came home unharmed. Becky, who had followed the army as far as Brussels and had danced at the Duchess of Richmond's ball, received him with calculated tenderness. They resumed their life of carriages, dinners, and unpaid bills. Becky's drawing room became a place where men of fashion found amusement, and where women of reputation preferred not to be seen. She played the affectionate wife in public and the shrewd manager in private, pawning Rawden's presence, borrowing from tradesmen, and extracting gifts from admirers. Lord Stein, a nobleman of great wealth and greater cynicism, became her most dangerous friend. He paid her debts, advanced her into society, and expected, in the end, more than conversation. Daubin, still a major and still unmarried, watched over Amelia from a distance. He arranged for little Georgie Osborne to be educated, and he protected the Sedleys when old Mr. Osborne's enmity threatened to leave him destitute. Amelia lived in modest lodgings, sewing and dreaming of the dead. She would not hear of a second marriage. Daubin's patience became a kind of quiet martyrdom. He accepted postings abroad rather than force a suit upon a woman who still wore mourning for a man who had never deserved her. The crash came on a night when Rawdon, released at last from a sponging house where he had been detained for debt, returned home earlier than expected. He found Lord Stein alone with his wife. The scene that followed was short and final. Rawdon struck the pier, took the money Stein had left, and left the house forever. Becky's explanations that the money was a loan, that Stein had forced his way in, were not believed. Society closed its doors. Miss Crawley was long dead. The new Sir Pitt, the evangelical son, offered Rawden a colonial governorship on condition that he separate from his wife. Rawdon accepted, provided for his son, and sailed away. Becky was left with small allowance and a ruined name. She wandered, in Paris, in Rome, in German spas. She lived by her wits, sometimes in comfort, sometimes in mean rooms, always with story ready for whoever would listen. At one such spa she encountered Joseph Sedley again. Still unmarried, still timid and now richer, she resumed her old arts. Joseph was flattered, frightened, and finally persuaded to travel with her. Whether she hastened his end or merely outlived him remains a matter of gossip. In any case, she inherited a comfortable sum and returned to England under another name. Amelia's story moved more slowly toward light. Old Mr. Osborne, softened by the sight of his grandson, at last received the boy and made provision for him. Dobbin returned from India a colonel. When Amelia, after years of silence, learned from Becky herself the truth of George's last letter and last gift, the miniature was put away. She married Dobbin. Their life was quiet, affectionate, and free of the glitter that had destroyed so many others. Little Georgie grew up under their care. The Sedley's final years were eased by the son-in-law's steady kindness. Becky, last seen in a continental town, still handsome, still restless, still spinning schemes of no great consequence, remains the most vivid figure in the long procession. The fair itself continues. The booths open, the puppets dance, the same vanities are sold under new names. The manager of performance, having shown his characters through their allotted turns, shuts up the boxes and puts the puppets away.