The writing in Vanity Fair

I’ve been reading, and very much enjoying, Vanity Fair. 

Compared to Dickens’s, Thackeray’s prose is plainer, more straightforward. Nothing extraordinary as such about his descriptions.

“Changed into a man of this sort, Dobbin found the once florid, jovial, and prosperous John Sedley. His coat, that used to be so glossy and trim, was white at the seams, and the buttons showed the copper. His face had fallen in, and was unshorn; his frill and neckcloth hung limp under his bagging waistcoat. When he used to treat the boys in old days at a coffee-house, he would shout and laugh louder than anybody there, and have all the waiters skipping round him; it was quite painful to see how humble and civil he was to John of the Tapioca, a blear-eyed old attendant in dingy stockings and cracked pumps, whose business it was to serve glasses of wafers, and bumpers of ink in pewter, and slices of paper to the frequenters of this dreary house of entertainment, where nothing else seemed to be consumed.” (Ch.20) 

Compared to Dickens, Tolstoy, Flaubert, or Edith Wharton, Thackeray is not a very visual writer. He’s more interested in manners and personalities—in this regard, he’s closer to Jane Austen. 

“As the only endowments with which Nature had gifted Lady Crawley were those of pink cheeks and a white skin, and as she had no sort of character, nor talents, nor opinions, nor occupations, nor amusements, nor that vigour of soul and ferocity of temper which often falls to the lot of entirely foolish women, her hold upon Sir Pitt's affections was not very great. Her roses faded out of her cheeks, and the pretty freshness left her figure after the birth of a couple of children, and she became a mere machine in her husband's house of no more use than the late Lady Crawley's grand piano. Being a light-complexioned woman, she wore light clothes, as most blondes will, and appeared, in preference, in draggled sea-green, or slatternly sky-blue.” (Ch.9)

There isn’t much to say about his metaphors and similes either. 

“When men of a certain sort, ladies, are in love, though they see the hook and the string, and the whole apparatus with which they are to be taken, they gorge the bait nevertheless—they must come to it—they must swallow it—and are presently struck and landed gasping.” (Ch.14) 

That’s a cliché. 

“… and the rogue Jos, willing to kill two birds with one stone.” (Ch.22) 

Another cliché. 

“She put up the two or three trinkets: and, as for the letters, she drew them out of the place where she kept them; and read them over—as if she did not know them by heart already: but she could not part with them. That effort was too much for her; she placed them back in her bosom again—as you have seen a woman nurse a child that is dead.” (Ch.18) 

I’m sure we’ve seen that comparison many times before. 

“These were the materials which prudent Mrs. Bute gathered together in Park Lane, the provisions and ammunition as it were with which she fortified the house against the siege which she knew that Rawdon and his wife would lay to Miss Crawley.” (Ch.19) 

Again, the metaphor is not extraordinary. 

“When anybody entered the room, she uttered a shshshsh so sibilant and ominous, that it frightened the poor old lady in her bed, from which she could not look without seeing Mrs. Bute's beady eyes eagerly fixed on her, as the latter sate steadfast in the arm-chair by the bedside. They seemed to lighten in the dark (for she kept the curtains closed) as she moved about the room on velvet paws like a cat.” (ibid.) 

This is a bit more interesting because of the phrase “velvet paws”, but to compare someone walking quietly to a cat isn’t unusual. 

“Mrs. Bute said (letting the cat of selfishness out of the bag of secrecy)…” (ibid.) 

This one is more interesting, as Thackeray adds some colour to the idiom. 

“… And her kind thoughts sped away as if they were angels and had wings, and flying down the river to Chatham and Rochester, strove to peep into the barracks where George was. . . . All things considered, I think it was as well the gates were shut, and the sentry allowed no one to pass; so that the poor little white-robed angel could not hear the songs those young fellows were roaring over the whisky-punch.” (Ch.13) 

I also like this one: “her kind thoughts sped away as if they were angels and had wings” is a cliché, but the comment from the narrator is brilliant. 

However, if it’s often banal when Thackeray picks a metaphor, or compares one thing to another, I like the way he compares a situation to another, which is not dissimilar from what Proust does. 

“When she called Sedley a very handsome man, she knew that Amelia would tell her mother, who would probably tell Joseph, or who, at any rate, would be pleased by the compliment paid to her son. All mothers are. If you had told Sycorax that her son Caliban was as handsome as Apollo, she would have been pleased, witch as she was.” (Ch.3) 

Now that is good—very funny. Here’s another Shakespeare reference: 

“I know where she kept that packet she had—and can steal in and out of her chamber like Iachimo—like Iachimo? No—that is a bad part. I will only act Moonshine, and peep harmless into the bed where faith and beauty and innocence lie dreaming.” (Ch.12) 

I like that. 

“… And who on earth, after the daily experience we have, can question the probability of a gentleman marrying anybody? How many of the wise and learned have married their cooks? Did not Lord Eldon himself, the most prudent of men, make a runaway match? Were not Achilles and Ajax both in love with their servant maids? And are we to expect a heavy dragoon with strong desires and small brains, who had never controlled a passion in his life, to become prudent all of a sudden, and to refuse to pay any price for an indulgence to which he had a mind? If people only made prudent marriages, what a stop to population there would be!” (Ch.16) 

Even when I don’t recognise the reference, it is interesting.

“This prostration and sweet unrepining obedience exquisitely touched and flattered George Osborne. He saw a slave before him in that simple yielding faithful creature, and his soul within him thrilled secretly somehow at the knowledge of his power. He would be generous-minded, Sultan as he was, and raise up this kneeling Esther and make a queen of her: besides, her sadness and beauty touched him as much as her submission, and so he cheered her, and raised her up and forgave her, so to speak. All her hopes and feelings, which were dying and withering, this her sun having been removed from her, bloomed again and at once, its light being restored.” (Ch.20) 

It seems that many modern readers don’t like the authorial voice, but I love it—I love the comparisons, I love the digressions. Before, when talking about Middlemarch or Daniel Deronda or Adam Bede, I often said I didn’t like intrusive narrators, but it turns out that it all depends on the personality that the narrator projects, and I simply don’t like George Eliot.  

“Miss Rebecca was not, then, in the least kind or placable. All the world used her ill, said this young misanthropist, and we may be pretty certain that persons whom all the world treats ill, deserve entirely the treatment they get. The world is a looking-glass, and gives back to every man the reflection of his own face. Frown at it, and it will in turn look sourly upon you; laugh at it and with it, and it is a jolly kind companion; and so let all young persons take their choice. This is certain, that if the world neglected Miss Sharp, she never was known to have done a good action in behalf of anybody; nor can it be expected that twenty-four young ladies should all be as amiable as the heroine of this work, Miss Sedley (whom we have selected for the very reason that she was the best-natured of all, otherwise what on earth was to have prevented us from putting up Miss Swartz, or Miss Crump, or Miss Hopkins, as heroine in her place!) it could not be expected that every one should be of the humble and gentle temper of Miss Amelia Sedley…” (Ch.2) 

The best way to deal with the narrator is, I suppose, to see him as a character. 

“That next morning, which Rebecca thought was to dawn upon her fortune, found Sedley groaning in agonies which the pen refuses to describe. Soda-water was not invented yet. Small beer—will it be believed!—was the only drink with which unhappy gentlemen soothed the fever of their previous night's potation. With this mild beverage before him, George Osborne found the ex-Collector of Boggley Wollah groaning on the sofa at his lodgings.” (Ch.6) 

Why do people complain about the narrator? He’s engaging and full of vitality. 

“… But though he had a fine flux of words, and delivered his little voice with great pomposity and pleasure to himself, and never advanced any sentiment or opinion which was not perfectly trite and stale, and supported by a Latin quotation; yet he failed somehow, in spite of a mediocrity which ought to have insured any man a success. He did not even get the prize poem, which all his friends said he was sure of.” (Ch.9) 

I like the sarcasm (“he” is Pitt Crawley). 

“He was always thinking of his brother's soul, or of the souls of those who differed with him in opinion: it is a sort of comfort which many of the serious give themselves.” (Ch.10) 

I feel that line very, very strongly (some of you may know why). 

“He had then been to pass three hours with Amelia, his dear little Amelia, at Fulham; and he came home to find his sisters spread in starched muslin in the drawing-room, the dowagers cackling in the background, and honest Swartz in her favourite amber-coloured satin, with turquoise bracelets, countless rings, flowers, feathers, and all sorts of tags and gimcracks, about as elegantly decorated as a she chimney-sweep on May-day.” (Ch.21) 

Hahahaha. This is perhaps George Osborne’s thoughts rather than the narrator’s, but isn’t the writing hilarious? 

The authorial voice, I think, is one of the main attractions of Vanity Fair. The other attractions are the vitality and characterisation. The characters are superbly drawn. 

But I’ll get to that later.