Vanity Fair, like North and South, is a book I loved when I was a teenager but haven’t picked up in at least 15 years. I was thus very excited at the prospect of a review-along hosted by FictionFan. My edition is 690 pages (with small font), so I can’t possibly cover it all in a single review and won’t try. Spoilers abound in this post! Vanity Fair starts out in the early years of the 19th century, with central characters Becky Sharp and Amelia Sedley just leaving their boarding school for the last time, setting out on the rest of their lives as young women. Amelia is shrinking and sweet and inoffensive, a very typical Victorian heroine, and wealthy (albeit with “new” money). Becky, in contrast, is poor, clever, wildly ambitious, and self-centred. She is an orphan with questionable antecedents – her father was a painter and her mother was a French dancing girl – and has been working at the school to pay for her room and board.
This is an absolutely marvellous satire on everything about genteel early 19th century society. For me, the best thing about it is Thackeray’s narrative voice. The omniscient narrator really is a character within the novel, sardonic and wry and deliciously funny. He comments constantly on the behaviour of each character in the book, about their decisions – one moment poking fun at them (all of them pretty well equally), and the next turning the question on the reader. Though Thackeray is mostly just making sport of his characters, there were times when he seemed eager to make the point that his reader might, in the same circumstances, behave similarly. This is really the best type of satire, so rare in fiction – both genuinely funny and genuinely insightful. This is perhaps best exemplified in his handling of Amelia. Amelia – poor, pathetic, ridiculous Amelia – makes a bad marriage relatively early on in the book, promptly loses her husband at Waterloo, and spends about 80% of the novel snivelling about it (on which, more below). Both narrator and reader are completely fed up with this by the end – but Thackeray never loses sight of the way in which she was constrained by her circumstances. He would make fun of her and draw out the reader’s empathy for her in almost the same breath, which I find extremely impressive.
Of all the books I’ve read and loved, this is one the one that most strongly contradicts my position that I need to have someone I can root for in a book. Amelia is pathetic. The best thing to happen to her in the book is her husband George’s death, but she stubbornly refuses to see what an awful man he was despite ample proof. She’s weak and pining, and no-one has ever cried that much since the beginning of human history. She spoils her son and clings to him and generally makes him into a tyrant before he’s ten. Her faithful but deluded suitor Dobbin, who initially seems quite promising, makes an idol out of her and grovels at her undeserving feet. I love this passage about the way he sees her:
Very likely Amelia was not like the portrait the Major had formed of her. There was a figure in a book of fashions which his sisters had in England, and with which William had made away privately, pasting it into the lid of his desk, and fancying he saw some resemblance to Mrs Osbourne in the print; whereas I have seen it, and can vouch that it is but the picture of a highwaisted gown with an impossible doll’s face simpering over it; and perhaps Mr Dobbin’s sentimental Amelia was no more like the real one than this absurd little print which he cherished.
There are several times in the novel where the narrator comments drily on the way men view women, but that is perhaps my favourite. Dobbin comes to realise his folly only very late in the book: he gives her her marching orders at last, upon realising she’s no more substantial than that bit of paper. Rather frustratingly, he comes crawling back the minute she asks him to. He should have married Glorvina O’Dowd, who at least had a sense of humour and would have made his life a lot more interesting than Amelia did. Still, I love him despite the fact that he’s an idiot, so I’m glad he got a hobby (writing Travels in the Punjab) and a much-loved daughter out of the deal, even if Amelia herself was a prize not much worth winning.
A lot of people really love Becky, which I understand. She merrily uses, abuses, and manipulates her way through the book, determined to get as much pleasure out of life as she can. I just couldn’t get over her cruelty – not to her primary victims, because Lord Steyne deserved it and Jos’s life was probably better because of her, but to the secondary victims of her selfishness – Mr Raggles, who had to pull his children out of school and sell his house because Becky and husband Rawdon never paid their rent (useless but well-meaning Rawdon made to pay it once or twice in the book, and Becky diverted the money to a more selfish aim); the assorted wives of the men Becky seduces for financial gain; all the innocents about whom she cares not a fig. Like weak Dobbin, I’m also fond of weak Rawdon, this time for the way that he nurtured and loved little Rawdon. This brings me to other main issue with Becky, which is that I simply can’t get past how unkind she is to her son. Still, it’s fascinating to watch her. She is a much more engaging character than Amelia. She’s such a wonderful antidote to the simpering, tedious heroines of the era. Probably my favourite scene in the book is the one where Becky shows Amelia the proof that George had wanted to elope with the former a fortnight after his marriage to the latter – which is the only selfless thing that she ever does, and it’s the better for six hundred pages of backstory to the contrary. Lest we think that Becky has had a moment of lasting repentence, though, very shortly afterwards it is implied that she bumps off Jos Sedley for the life insurance money. Becky is Becky to the very last page.
Although this reread did bump Vanity Fair off my favourite novels list, it’s not because it isn’t fantastic. It’s just that ineffable quality of being extremely fond of a book. This is a wonderful novel and absolutely one of the best books of the era (that I have read). The narrator, in particular, is a real highlight, and I kind of love the way that it doesn’t end happily for anyone. Perhaps in another mood, I would more thoroughly enjoy reading about Becky’s adventures, and wouldn’t trouble myself unduly about the Raggleses and Rawdons and Briggses of this world. On this occasion, I winced more than I laughed and that meant it wasn’t destined to be a favourite this time around – but I will certainly be rereading this, probably many times over my life, and I’m sure I will get something new out of it every time. Isn’t that one of the hallmarks of a great book?
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I’ve linked to FictionFan’s review above (check out the comments as well, as they have a lot of interesting discussion) – I’ll add the others here as people post them! It has been a lot of fun reading along and discussing this with everyone.
louloureads 
Yes, poor Briggs! I only know this from the recent adaptation with Olivia Cooke, who is great. I couldn’t stand Dobbin myself, he needed to grow a backbone. I liked Rawdon (the actor, anyway) and thought Jos seemed like a lot of fun! I will have to read this eventually, even though I know how it all ends.
Oh yes, I really recommend it (obviously)! I’ve never seen an adaptation of this, because I can’t imagine how it would handle the intrusive narrative voice without a very cheesy framing device – but I am tempted to give one of them a whirl. (I’d also be interested to see how a modern adaptation would handle the shedloads of racism in the first quarter of the novel). I’ve heard good things about the 1997 adaptation but I hadn’t heard of the more recent one until you mentioned it!
The 1997/8 one with Natasha Little is brilliant – really captures the tone. It’s one of my all-time favourite adaptations.
Aha, you’re another ‘Team Becky’ reader!
There were so many characters to feel sorry for in this story including the Raggles family and Miss Briggs, but the reader forgets all about them because they are wondering what terrible thing Becky is going to do next.
The narrator is wonderful, isn’t he? I agree with your point about getting something new out of a great book every time you re-read it. Wishing you many happy re-reads of Vanity Fair 🙂
I’m not quite sure I’m Team Becky – she’s definitely mesmerising though. I was fascinated by her, and she’s much more interesting than weeping Amelia! I think if anything I’m Team Lady Jane – the only woman in the novel with both a heart and a spine – and I would have quite liked more of her.
Mesmerising and fascinating certainly describe Becky!
Team Lady Jane is probably the best of the teams to be on. I liked that she recognised what was going on with her husband and sorted it out, much more effective than weeping about it. She’s probably worthy of a novel of her own, except that if Becky were in it, she’d steal all of the scenes.
I sat in on a class called The Victorian Universe, and this was the first book we read. I was so intimidated, as I had never read anything so long for a class before. However, i realized that one trick for studying was to read the Wikipedia page for its characters, who are described in general and by relationship to other characters, and those sites that summarize each chapter one at a time. That way, I had a sense of what was coming and could focus a little better with a guiding light. We also read Bleak House and Middlemarch.
Oh, I love Middlemarch! It’s another one that I’ve been thinking of rereading lately, though if I’m not careful I’ll just see the year out rereading books I loved over a decade ago and not trying anything new. This must indeed have been quite the intimidating introduction to Victorian fiction – I think I’d read Oliver Twist and A Christmas Carol by the time I got to this, so I wasn’t going in completely cold.
Great review! Haha, I so agree that Dobbin should have married Glorvina – she’d have made the perfect soldier’s wife, unlike snivelling Emmy! Although I’m Team Becky through and through, I agree totally about the appalling way she treats some of the weaker or poorer people in the book, especially her son. In her defence, women back then had no choice about becoming mothers and she did provide Briggs as a sort of substitute maternal figure. But the scene where she hits him made me gasp – I wonder if it would have seemed as shocking back then, though. The son also humanises Rawdon though, and raises him from being just another weak victim of Becky’s charm to being a man with honour, in some aspects of his life at least.
I loved Thackeray’s narrative voice and agree that’s what makes the book so special. Otherwise they’d just have been a bunch of bad people behaving badly, but Thackeray’s obvious warmth towards them makes them all feel enjoyable if not likeable. And I loved that he was so brutal towards his readers, pointing out that the faults he was showing in his characters are reflections of us – and since the faults weren’t specific to the time, they still all feel so relevant today.
Glad we all enjoyed it so much even if it has drifted off your top 50. It’s been fun seeing all the different ways we’ve reacted to it! 😀
Yes, I really love the way that Rawdon’s love for and championing of little Rawdon is the most noble part of his character – him constantly begging Becky to be just a bit kinder to him is rather heartbreaking whenever it happens! I think little Rawdon has a much better chance of being a happy, well-adjusted adult than little George, who is very clearly going to be even worse than George Sr.
It’s very unusual for me to like a book populated so entirely with unlikeable characters (except for perhaps Lady Jane, who seems pretty great), and I think that’s a testament to Thackeray’s skill as a storyteller – without that it would just be such a slog.
Thanks so much for hosting the review-along – I haven’t read anyone else’s posts yet, but I’m really looking forward to them!
I read Vanity Fair for the first time two and a half years ago (I looked that up). Following your conversation with Melanie, my earliest Victorians were Pickwick Papers and Tess of the D’Ubervilles, also (pre-Victorian) Pride & Prejudice and Ivanhoe. Reminded of Black Beauty which was for a long time my favourite, I see it dates from 1877, definitely Victorian.
I’ve made a big effort over the past 20 years to do some catching up, but I still have a way to go. Your analysis of VF will probably induce me to spend a trip listening to it again (though I am increasingly committing my listening time as well as my reading time) so I can compare notes with you.
Both Pickwick Papers and Tess of the D’Urbervilles are books I have not yet read – I will probably never get around to Tess as I really don’t like Hardy’s work, which is too bleak for me. I do want to start reading Dickens again. Because I am from Kent and Dickens is one of our most famous sons, he got a bit forced down our throats at school until I was sick of him, but I intend to give him another try soon.
As for Black Beauty, I haven’t read that in a very long time so I forgot about it when I was thinking of my first Victorian reads, but I did love it!
If you do decide to relisten to VF, apparently the version narrated by Georgina Sutton is very good.
Love this review! Of all those from the review-along, you come closest to how I reacted to the book, though in your case with some humour thrown in whilst I remained hooked and outraged by the unkindness everywhere! My thoughts will up later today – a touch late. I know what you mean about re-reading a favourite book too. But it sounds like you still loved this one even if it’s tumbled off its pillar 😊
I think I had the advantage that I’d read this before, so I knew going in that I’d hate all the characters by the end and was suitably prepared. I do remember that the first time I read this I was very disappointed by Dobbin’s increasing weakness, as I really loved him to start with – whereas this time I knew he’d be infuriating me by the end.
Yes, I can see the advantage there. I, on the other hand, started with the expectation that I wouldn’t particularly enjoy it. From that perspective it did quite well – I certainly didn’t hate it by the end! Not sure that I’ll ever try it again though 😉
I really enjoyed your review! It’s so interesting to hear how your attitudes have changed towards it on a re-read. I keep meaning to re-read Middlemarch to see if I still love it as I did when I was 19 but I’m afraid of spoiling it for myself.
I completely agree about Thackeray’s voice being another character in the book, he’s just as present as all the others and he’s so much fun.
As you say, I’m sure VF will lend itself to many re-reads. It’s such a multi-layered book, we could take away something different each time.
Thanks! Middlemarch is another one that I want to reread – I read it in my very early 20s and I’m curious to see whether I would still like naive, idealistic Dorothea as much as I did then! Like you I am a bit apprehensive about spoiling it for myself.
Yes, that’s the pleasure of these sprawling Victorian novels – there is something new to see every time.
I read VF for late high school, and don’t remember much about it. A few years earlier, for a parent-teacher night, my sister drew up a plot/character chart for VF, and another for an Ian Fleming (James Bond) story. The VF chart was much more complex. I was impressed 🙂
I have only read the one Ian Fleming novel, and I have to say I was not particularly impressed, even though I do enjoy thrillers and other espionage novels! I imagine that in terms of complexity VF would outclass a lot of novels, even very good ones, because it just has so many layers.
I’ve not read this but it sounds delightful and similar to how I imagined it after reading about Charlotte Bronte’s interactions with Thackeray. This is a classic that I think I’d enjoy 🙂
Oh yes, it is delightful – if you can get past how intensely aggravating Becky and Amelia are (in such different ways)! The narrative voice is tonnes of fun and I recommend it for that alone.