EXCERPTS FROM “VANITY FAIR – W. M.

THACKERAY

EXCERPT I

Chapter 2

[……..]

The catastrophe came, and she was brought to the Mall as to her home. The rigid
formality of the place suffocated her: the prayers and the meals, the lessons and the walks,
which were arranged with a conventual regularity, oppressed her almost beyond endurance;
and she looked back to the freedom and the beggary of the old studio in Soho with so much
regret, that everybody, herself included, fancied she was consumed with grief for her father.
She had a little room in the garret, where the maids heard her walking and sobbing at night;
but it was with rage, and not with grief. She had not been much of a dissembler, until now her
loneliness taught her to feign. She had never mingled in the society of women: her father,
reprobate as he was, was a man of talent; his conversation was a thousand times more
agreeable to her than the talk of such of her own sex as she now encountered. The pompous
vanity of the old schoolmistress, the foolish good-humour of her sister, the silly chat and
scandal of the elder girls, and the frigid correctness of the governesses equally annoyed her;
and she had no soft maternal heart, this unlucky girl, otherwise the prattle and talk of the
younger children, with whose care she was chiefly intrusted, might have soothed and
interested her; but she lived among them two years, and not one was sorry that she went
away. The gentle tender-hearted Amelia Sedley was the only person to whom she could
attach herself in the least; and who could help attaching herself to Amelia?

The happiness the superior advantages of the young women round about her, gave
Rebecca inexpressible pangs of envy. "What airs that girl gives herself, because she is an
Earl's grand-daughter," she said of one. "How they cringe and bow to that Creole, because of
her hundred thousand pounds! I am a thousand times cleverer and more charming than that
creature, for all her wealth. I am as well bred as the Earl's grand-daughter, for all her fine
pedigree; and yet every one passes me by here. And yet, when I was at my father's, did not
the men give up their gayest balls and parties in order to pass the evening with me?" She
determined at any rate to get free from the prison in which she found herself, and now began
to act for herself, and for the first time to make connected plans for the future.

She took advantage, therefore, of the means of study the place offered her; and as she
was already a musician and a good linguist, she speedily went through the little course of
study which was considered necessary for ladies in those days. Her music she practised
incessantly, and one day, when the girls were out, and she had remained at home, she was
overheard to play a piece so well that Minerva thought, wisely, she could spare herself the
expense of a master for the juniors, and intimated to Miss Sharp that she was to instruct them
in music for the future.
 The girl refused; and for the first time, and to the astonishment of the majestic mistress
of the school. "I am here to speak French with the children," Rebecca said abruptly, "not to
teach them music, and save money for you. Give me money, and I will teach them."

Minerva was obliged to yield, and, of course, disliked her from that day. "For five-and-
thirty years," she said, and with great justice, "I never have seen the individual who has dared
in my own house to question my authority. I have nourished a viper in my bosom."

"A viper—a fiddlestick," said Miss Sharp to the old lady, almost fainting with
astonishment. "You took me because I was useful. There is no question of gratitude between
us. I hate this place, and want to leave it. I will do nothing here but what I am obliged to do."

It was in vain that the old lady asked her if she was aware she was speaking to Miss
Pinkerton? Rebecca laughed in her face, with a horrid sarcastic demoniacal laughter, that
almost sent the schoolmistress into fits. "Give me a sum of money," said the girl, "and get rid
of me—or, if you like better, get me a good place as governess in a nobleman's family—you
can do so if you please." And in their further disputes she always returned to this point, "Get
me a situation—we hate each other, and I am ready to go."

Worthy Miss Pinkerton, although she had a Roman nose and a turban, and was as tall as
a grenadier, and had been up to this time an irresistible princess, had no will or strength like
that of her little apprentice, and in vain did battle against her, and tried to overawe her.
Attempting once to scold her in public, Rebecca hit upon the before-mentioned plan of
answering her in French, which quite routed the old woman. In order to maintain authority in
her school, it became necessary to remove this rebel, this monster, this serpent, this firebrand;
and hearing about this time that Sir Pitt Crawley's family was in want of a governess, she
actually recommended Miss Sharp for the situation, firebrand and serpent as she was. "I
cannot, certainly," she said, "find fault with Miss Sharp's conduct, except to myself; and must
allow that her talents and accomplishments are of a high order. As far as the head goes, at
least, she does credit to the educational system pursued at my establishment."

And so the schoolmistress reconciled the recommendation to her conscience, and the
indentures were cancelled, and the apprentice was free. The battle here described in a few
lines, of course, lasted for some months. And as Miss Sedley, being now in her seventeenth
year, was about to leave school, and had a friendship for Miss Sharp ("'tis the only point in
Amelia's behaviour," said Minerva, "which has not been satisfactory to her mistress"), Miss
Sharp was invited by her friend to pass a week with her at home, before she entered upon her
duties as governess in a private family.
 EXCERPT II

Chapter 26

[………]

Love had been her faith hitherto; and the sad, bleeding disappointed heart began to feel
the want of another consoler.

Have we a right to repeat or to overhear her prayers? These, brother, are secrets, and out
of the domain of Vanity Fair, in which our story lies.

But this may be said, that when the tea was finally announced, our young lady came
downstairs a great deal more cheerful; that she did not despond, or deplore her fate, or think
about George's coldness, or Rebecca's eyes, as she had been wont to do of late. She went
downstairs, and kissed her father and mother, and talked to the old gentleman, and made him
more merry than he had been for many a day. She sate down at the piano which Dobbin had
bought for her, and sang over all her father's favourite old songs. She pronounced the tea to
be excellent, and praised the exquisite taste in which the marmalade was arranged in the
saucers. And in determining to make everybody else happy, she found herself so; and was
sound asleep in the great funereal pavilion, and only woke up with a smile when George
arrived from the theatre.

For the next day, George had more important "business" to transact than that which took
him to see Mr. Kean in Shylock. Immediately on his arrival in London he had written off to
his father's solicitors, signifying his royal pleasure that an interview should take place
between them on the morrow. His hotel bill, losses at billiards and cards to Captain Crawley
had almost drained the young man's purse, which wanted replenishing before he set out on
his travels, and he had no resource but to infringe upon the two thousand pounds which the
attorneys were commissioned to pay over to him. He had a perfect belief in his own mind that
his father would relent before very long. How could any parent be obdurate for a length of
time against such a paragon as he was? If his mere past and personal merits did not succeed
in mollifying his father, George determined that he would distinguish himself so prodigiously
in the ensuing campaign that the old gentleman must give in to him. And if not? Bah! the
world was before him. His luck might change at cards, and there was a deal of spending in
two thousand pounds.

So he sent off Amelia once more in a carriage to her mamma, with strict orders and carte
blanche to the two ladies to purchase everything requisite for a lady of Mrs. George
Osborne's fashion, who was going on a foreign tour. They had but one day to complete the
outfit, and it may be imagined that their business therefore occupied them pretty fully. In a
carriage once more, bustling about from milliner to linen-draper, escorted back to the carriage
by obsequious shopmen or polite owners, Mrs. Sedley was herself again almost, and sincerely
happy for the first time since their misfortunes. Nor was Mrs. Amelia at all above the
pleasure of shopping, and bargaining, and seeing and buying pretty things. (Would any man,
the most philosophic, give twopence for a woman who was?) She gave herself a little treat,
obedient to her husband's orders, and purchased a quantity of lady's gear, showing a great
deal of taste and elegant discernment, as all the shopfolks said.

And about the war that was ensuing, Mrs. Osborne was not much alarmed; Bonaparty
was to be crushed almost without a struggle. Margate packets were sailing every day, filled
with men of fashion and ladies of note, on their way to Brussels and Ghent. People were
going not so much to a war as to a fashionable tour. The newspapers laughed the wretched
upstart and swindler to scorn. Such a Corsican wretch as that withstand the armies of Europe
and the genius of the immortal Wellington! Amelia held him in utter contempt; for it needs
not to be said that this soft and gentle creature took her opinions from those people who
surrounded her, such fidelity being much too humble-minded to think for itself. Well, in a
word, she and her mother performed a great day's shopping, and she acquitted herself with
considerable liveliness and credit on this her first appearance in the genteel world of London.
 EXCERPT III

Chapter 51

[……….]

After Becky's appearance at my Lord Steyne's private and select parties, the claims of
that estimable woman as regards fashion were settled, and some of the very greatest and
tallest doors in the metropolis were speedily opened to her—doors so great and tall that the
beloved reader and writer hereof may hope in vain to enter at them. Dear brethren, let us
tremble before those august portals. I fancy them guarded by grooms of the chamber with
flaming silver forks with which they prong all those who have not the right of the entree.
They say the honest newspaper-fellow who sits in the hall and takes down the names of the
great ones who are admitted to the feasts dies after a little time. He can't survive the glare of
fashion long. It scorches him up, as the presence of Jupiter in full dress wasted that poor
imprudent Semele—a giddy moth of a creature who ruined herself by venturing out of her
natural atmosphere. Her myth ought to be taken to heart amongst the Tyburnians, the
Belgravians—her story, and perhaps Becky's too. Ah, ladies!—ask the Reverend Mr. Thurifer
if Belgravia is not a sounding brass and Tyburnia a tinkling cymbal. These are vanities. Even
these will pass away. And some day or other (but it will be after our time, thank goodness)
Hyde Park Gardens will be no better known than the celebrated horticultural outskirts of
Babylon, and Belgrave Square will be as desolate as Baker Street, or Tadmor in the
wilderness.

Ladies, are you aware that the great Pitt lived in Baker Street? What would not your
grandmothers have given to be asked to Lady Hester's parties in that now decayed mansion? I
have dined in it—moi qui vous parle, I peopled the chamber with ghosts of the mighty dead.
As we sat soberly drinking claret there with men of to-day, the spirits of the departed came in
and took their places round the darksome board. The pilot who weathered the storm tossed
off great bumpers of spiritual port; the shade of Dundas did not leave the ghost of a heeltap.
Addington sat bowing and smirking in a ghastly manner, and would not be behindhand when
the noiseless bottle went round; Scott, from under bushy eyebrows, winked at the apparition
of a beeswing; Wilberforce's eyes went up to the ceiling, so that he did not seem to know how
his glass went up full to his mouth and came down empty; up to the ceiling which was above
us only yesterday, and which the great of the past days have all looked at. They let the house
as a furnished lodging now. Yes, Lady Hester once lived in Baker Street, and lies asleep in
the wilderness. Eothen saw her there—not in Baker Street, but in the other solitude.

It is all vanity to be sure, but who will not own to liking a little of it? I should like to
know what well-constituted mind, merely because it is transitory, dislikes roast beef? That is
a vanity, but may every man who reads this have a wholesome portion of it through life, I
beg: aye, though my readers were five hundred thousand. Sit down, gentlemen, and fall to,
with a good hearty appetite; the fat, the lean, the gravy, the horse-radish as you like it—don't
spare it. Another glass of wine, Jones, my boy—a little bit of the Sunday side. Yes, let us eat
our fill of the vain thing and be thankful therefor. And let us make the best of Becky's
aristocratic pleasures likewise—for these too, like all other mortal delights, were but
transitory.
 EXCERPT IV

Chapter 62

[…………]

I like to dwell upon this period of her life and to think that she was cheerful and happy.
You see, she has not had too much of that sort of existence as yet, and has not fallen in the
way of means to educate her tastes or her intelligence. She has been domineered over hitherto
by vulgar intellects. It is the lot of many a woman. And as every one of the dear sex is the
rival of the rest of her kind, timidity passes for folly in their charitable judgments; and
gentleness for dulness; and silence—which is but timid denial of the unwelcome assertion of
ruling folks, and tacit protestantism—above all, finds no mercy at the hands of the female
Inquisition. Thus, my dear and civilized reader, if you and I were to find ourselves this
evening in a society of greengrocers, let us say, it is probable that our conversation would not
be brilliant; if, on the other hand, a greengrocer should find himself at your refined and polite
tea-table, where everybody was saying witty things, and everybody of fashion and repute
tearing her friends to pieces in the most delightful manner, it is possible that the stranger
would not be very talkative and by no means interesting or interested.

And it must be remembered that this poor lady had never met a gentleman in her life
until this present moment. Perhaps these are rarer personages than some of us think for.
Which of us can point out many such in his circle—men whose aims are generous, whose
truth is constant, and not only constant in its kind but elevated in its degree; whose want of
meanness makes them simple; who can look the world honestly in the face with an equal
manly sympathy for the great and the small? We all know a hundred whose coats are very
well made, and a score who have excellent manners, and one or two happy beings who are
what they call in the inner circles, and have shot into the very centre and bull's-eye of the
fashion; but of gentlemen how many? Let us take a little scrap of paper and each make out his
list.

My friend the Major I write, without any doubt, in mine. He had very long legs, a
yellow face, and a slight lisp, which at first was rather ridiculous. But his thoughts were just,
his brains were fairly good, his life was honest and pure, and his heart warm and humble. He
certainly had very large hands and feet, which the two George Osbornes used to caricature
and laugh at; and their jeers and laughter perhaps led poor little Emmy astray as to his worth.
But have we not all been misled about our heroes and changed our opinions a hundred times?
Emmy, in this happy time, found that hers underwent a very great change in respect of the
merits of the Major.

Perhaps it was the happiest time of both their lives, indeed, if they did but know it—and
who does? Which of us can point out and say that was the culmination—that was the summit
of human joy? But at all events, this couple were very decently contented, and enjoyed as
pleasant a summer tour as any pair that left England that year. Georgy was always present at
the play, but it was the Major who put Emmy's shawl on after the entertainment; and in the
walks and excursions the young lad would be on ahead, and up a tower-stair or a tree, whilst
the soberer couple were below, the Major smoking his cigar with great placidity and
constancy, whilst Emmy sketched the site or the ruin. It was on this very tour that I, the
present writer of a history of which every word is true, had the pleasure to see them first and
to make their acquaintance.