In Chapter 18, Amelia's world threatens to collapse around her when her family is ruined at the outbreak of the Napoleonic wars. Amelia's husband, George, driven by his own greed, refuses to empathize with her predicament—a twist that Thackeray takes as an opportunity to satirize the uneven power dynamics of 19th-century marriage through verbal irony and hyperbole:
To whom could the poor little martyr tell these daily struggles and tortures? Her hero himself only half understood her. She did not dare to own that the man she loved was her inferior; or to feel that she had given her heart away too soon. Given once, the pure bashful maiden was too modest, too tender, too trustful, too weak, too much woman to recall it.
The narrator sees Amelia as a paragon of virtue and tends to convey this in hyperbole, as above—Amelia seems to be too perfect ("too modest [...] too much woman") to fall out of love with George, and despite his awful treatment of her, Amelia maintains that he is her hero. Amelia may be earnest in her convictions, but the narrator drenches his own observation of Amelia's behavior in verbal irony. George is no hero, and Thackeray takes up the entire situation as a bitter satire of the ways that marriages fall into dysfunction without accountability.
In Chapter 24, Dobbin confronts Mr. Osborne after Osborne forbids his son, George, from marrying Amelia Sedley—whose family has just lost its fortune following Napoleon's return to power. Their altercation is an exercise in dramatic irony for the reader:
“Marry her indeed—he, he! why should he? I warrant you she’d go to him fast enough without.”
“Sir,” said Dobbin, starting up in undisguised anger; “no man shall abuse that lady in my hearing, and you least of all.”
“O, you’re going to call me out, are you? Stop, let me ring the bell for pistols for tow. Mr. George sent you here to insult his father, did he?” Osborne said…
“Mr. Osborne,” said Dobbin… “it’s you who are insulting the best creature in the world. You had best spare her, Sir, for she’s your son’s wife.”
While Dobbin's impassioned defense of Amelia to her father-in-law may come as a surprise to Osborne himself, the reader is well aware that Dobbin is in love with Amelia—and that defending Amelia, and otherwise supporting her best interests, is the only way he can express this love.
In a novel full of dysfunctional families, the dynamic between Osborne, George, and Amelia is particularly tense. Osborne wields his ability to disinherit both his son and daughter-in-law like a weapon, and his preoccupation with family legacy—which is to say, family money—is a major example of Vanity Fair's thematic exploration of the convoluted intersection between greed, family, and social class.
In Chapter 34, Becky and Rawdon Crawley enjoy a lovely winter in Paris: it is 1815, and Napoleon has been defeated at Waterloo—and Becky has made a fortune selling her horses to Jos. Always on the lookout for a way to advance her social standing, Becky tells her newfound acquaintances in Paris that Rawdon and she are in line to inherit the fortune of Miss Crawley, Rawdon's aunt. In a satirical sequence that pokes further fun at the conceitedness of European aristocracy, Thackeray recounts Miss Crawley's ferocious attempt to expose Becky:
Too much shaken to compose a letter in the French language in reply to that of her correspondent, she dictated to Briggs a furious answer in her own native tongue, repudiating Mrs. Rawdon Crawley altogether, and warning the public to beware of her as a most artful and dangerous person. But as Madame the Duchess of X—had only been twenty years in England, she did not understand a single word of the language, and contented herself by informing Mrs. Rawdon Crawley at their next meeting, that she had received a charming letter from that chère Mees […]
Miss Crawley's rage never makes it across the English Channel: by writing to the French aristocrat "Madame the Duchess of X," Crawley has assumed the duchess could speak English. She cannot, as Thackeray notes with irony: 20 years would be more than enough time for anyone to pick up the tongue, but the French—who, stereotypically, hold the English language in significant disdain—can make no such effort.
This passage simultaneously plays up the long-standing rivalry between England and France and satirizes the upper class of both countries: the French, just as the English, are beset by vanities, and the Duchess of X makes up the contents of the letter when relating it to Becky—thereby exacerbating the conflict between the young Crawley couple and the elder Crawleys back in England, and continuing the chain of vapid miscommunications that accounts for a great portion of the drama in Vanity Fair.
In Chapter 44, Becky takes charge of Sir Pitt's house after the aging knight finally dies. In a moment of situational irony, Thackeray uses imagery to convey how the house improves under Becky's control:
The black outer-coating of the bricks was removed, and they appeared with a cheerful, blushing face streaked with white: the old bronze lions of the knocker were gilt handsomely, the railings painted, and the dismallest house in Great Gaunt Street became the smartest in the whole quarter, before the green leaves in Hampshire had replaced those yellowing ones which were on the trees in Queen’s Crawley avenue when old Sir Pitt Crawley passed under them for the last time.
Despite the fact that Sir Pitt was the only legitimate aristocrat in his family, it is only after his death that his residence gains the proper grandeur of a noble's residence: this is the source of the situation's irony. Thackeray emphasizes the drama of this transformation by invoking the vivid color imagery of gilt lions, red-and-white brick, and fresh green leaves.
In elevating the house to its proper glory, Becky cannot help but play the part of the aristocrat's wife—despite the fact that she has yet to convince the new Sir Pitt, Pitt Crawley, to share his inheritance.
In Chapter 44, the Becky and Rawdon Crawley struggle to maintain their lavish lifestyle with what little wealth they have left. As tensions mount, Becky's treatment of her son, Rawdy, worsens, and the Crawleys' servants begin to mutter amongst themselves about Becky's erratic behavior—and her possible affair with Lord Steyne, who shows up frequently at the Crawley residence. Thackeray emphasizes the subversive power of gossiping servants in a series of metaphorical allusions:
If you are guilty, tremble. That fellow behind your chair may be a Janissary with a bow-string in his plush breeches pocket. If you are not guilty, have a care of appearances: which are as ruinous as guilt.
‘Was Rebecca guilty or not?’ The Vehmgericht of the servants’ hall had pronounced against her.
This double allusion affirms the considerable power that servants hold over their masters: a Janissary was a legendary soldier in the Ottoman sultan's infantry, said to carry strings to strangle enemies of the sultan, while the Vehmgericht was a semi-secret court in medieval Germany that dealt out death sentences to convicted criminals. By comparing a butler waiting "behind your chair" to a Janissary and the institution of the servants' hall to the Vehmgericht, Thackeray emphasizes the devastating role that servants can play in destroying the reputation of even the most prominent families. There is considerable situational irony in Becky's predicament: her household staff is at once a sign of the social class she has worked so hard to attain and a possible source of her downfall.
In Chapter 45, Becky attempts to charm Sir Pitt (Pitt Crawley) in order to secure some part of his fortune for herself. She resorts to flattery and also makes an appeal Sir Pitt's sense of ambition, using a metaphor to get the point across—but not without fostering some dramatic irony:
I could read your heart, Sir Pitt. If I had a husband who possessed your intellect as he does your name, I sometimes think I should not be unworthy of him – but – but I am your kinswoman now,’ she added with a laugh. ‘Poor little penniless I have got a little interest – and who knows, perhaps the mouse may be able to aid the lion.’
Yet again, Becky proves her facility for manipulation. In this case, she casts herself as a metaphorical mouse who, perhaps because of its size, speed, or cunning, might be able to offer some service to Sir Pitt's lion. There is a gendered component to this comparison, in which Sir Pitt plays the role of the large fierce predator and Becky plays the small, skittish prey, but there's also a certain amount of dramatic irony at play, since the reader has, by now, seen the ways in which Becky can use her traditionally "feminine" qualities to be a vicious, ruthless opponent to all who get in her way—if anything, she is the lion in the situation.
In Chapter 49, Lord Steyne beats back accusations of Becky's impropriety as his social circle catches wind of the possible affair between the two. Thackeray emphasizes the passion behind Steyne's defense through the use of hyperbole and metaphor:
As for Mrs Crawley’s character, I shan’t demean myself or that most spotless and perfectly irreprochable lady, by even hinting that it requires a defence. You will be pleased to receive her with the utmost cordiality, as you will receive all persons whom I present in this house. This house?’ He broke out with a laugh. ‘Who is the master of it? and what is it? This Temple of Virtue belongs to me. And if I invite all Newgate or all Bedlam here, by — they shall be welcome.’
Lord Steyne's support for Becky hinges on the hyperbolic assertion that she is "spotless" and "irreproachable" and apparently perfect—a fountain of dramatic irony for the reader, who is well aware of Becky's duplicitous and manipulative behavior, of which London society is only beginning to grow suspicious. Steyne then issues a metaphorical comparison between his house and a "Temple of Virtue" over which he has absolute power, like some sort of despotic priest. Steyne's insistence on his virtue—and the supposed virtues of his consort—only serves to underscore his deep vanity.
In Chapter 55, Becky tries to convince the new Sir Pitt (Pitt Crawley) to believe her claim that she only involved herself with Lord Steyne in an attempt to negotiate a better future for her husband. Her entire appeal stokes dramatic irony in the reader:
Your genius and Lord Steyne’s interest made it more than probable, had not this dreadful calamity come to put an end to all our hopes. But, first, I own that it was my object to rescue my dear husband – him whom I love in spite of all his ill-usage and suspicions of me – to remove him from the poverty and ruin which was impending over us. I saw Lord Steyne’s partiality for me,’ she said, casting down her eyes. ‘I own that I did everything in my power to make myself pleasing to him, and as far as an honest woman may, to secure his – his esteem.
With the help of a narrator who is by no means impartial, the reader can never take Becky's words at face value. She is a master manipulator, and her nest of lies—to which the reader is privy, when the narrator deems it appropriate—is ever-expanding in service of her unending quest for wealth and social status. In this passage, the reader is well aware of Becky's self-serving, borderline adulterous relationship with Lord Steyne, but the reader can only watch as she begins to sway Sir Pitt over to her side.
