At the beginning of the novel, the narrator introduces his story as a puppet show put on in the Vanity Fair. One by one, the narrator examines the main characters' puppets—which foreshadow, metaphorically, key qualities of the characters' personalities that will come through over the course of the novel: "The famous little Becky Puppet has been pronounced to be uncommonly flexible in the joints, and lively on the wire," the narrator notes, while "the Amelia Doll, though it has had a smaller circle of admirers, has yet been carved and dressed with the greatest care by the artist." And, finally, "the Dobbin Figure, though apparently clumsy, [...] dances in a very amusing and natural manner."
The Becky Puppet's physical flexibility and animated behavior anticipates Becky's own moral flexibility—her ability to play many different parts, to manipulate her way up the social ladder, and to work all sides of a situation. The Amelia Doll's precious, lovely appearance anticipates her position in the novel as a particularly lovely, virtuous character who elicits sympathy from the reader—and the narrator's note that the artist has crafted Amelia Doll "with the greatest care" predicts the narrator's own unabashed affection for Amelia herself. The Dobbin Figure, meanwhile, is clumsy but natural—not unlike Dobbin's genuine, honest demeanor and notable lack of social tact.
It's no coincidence that the narrator would prime the reader for his story by focusing on the physical appearance and mannerisms of each character's doll. In the England that Thackeray portrays in Vanity Fair (a satirical version of England in the early 19th century), appearance is everything: the vanity of the upper classes feeds the interminable gossip and moral judgements that, in turn, establishes the English social hierarchy. Though Thackeray shows the reader the complexity and humanity of each character, the characters themselves often refuse to see each other in the same nuanced light.
In Chapter 2, Thackeray introduces the reader to Rebecca ("Becky") Sharp, whom he immediately prepares the reader to dislike. As the narrator describes Becky's dour demeanor, he explains the impact of this demeanor on her worldview, suggesting that she is not "in the least bit kind or placable" and that "all the world used her ill," though he also indicates that supposedly mistreated people usually "deserve entirely the treatment they get." The narrator then uses a metaphor, noting: "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 of companion [...]."
If the world is a "looking-glass," or mirror, and Becky can only approach it with a scowl, then she will only see a scowl: this is the metaphor by which Thackeray tries to emphasize how Becky, by setting herself against the world, comes to see only the worst in it. The use of a looking-glass as a metaphorical device is especially relevant to the novel's central theme of human vanity—the more self-involved one becomes, the more one's world comes to feel unbearable. It is exactly this feedback loop that drives Becky to her ruthless attempts at improving her social standing.
Throughout Vanity Fair, the narrator metaphorically compares a number of female characters, especially Becky and Amelia, to birds. In Chapter 12, he describes Becky as a hawk on the hunt and Amelia as some sort of young, nesting bird:
Snares or shot may take off the old birds foraging without – hawks may be abroad, from which they escape or by whom they suffer; but the young ones in the nest have a pretty comfortable unromantic sort of existence in the down and the straw, till it comes to their turn, too, to get on the wing. While Becky Sharp was on her own wing in the country, hopping on all sorts of twigs, and amid a multiplicity of traps, and pecking up her food quite harmless and successful, Amelia lay snug in her home at Russell Square;
Becky's characterization as a hawk makes sense considering her predatory behavior for much of the novel—she treats the world around her as a hunting ground, with everyone available as prey to help feed her ambition for wealth and grandeur. Amelia's description as a somewhat more harmless bird is also consistent with the narrator's treatment of Amelia as an essentially benevolent "creature" throughout the novel.
Much later in the novel, in Chapter 67, the narrator once again describes Amelia as a gentle bird—this time, one who has returned after a long flight to roost:
Emmy, whose shawl and bonnet were off in the passage in the hands of Miss Payne, now went to undo the clasp of William’s cloak, and – we will, if you please, go with George, and look after breakfast for the Colonel. The vessel is in port. He has got the prize he has been trying for all his life. The bird has come in at last. There it is with its head on his shoulder, billing and cooing close up to his heart, with soft outstretched fluttering wings. This is what he has asked for every day and hour for eighteen years.
There is a gendered component to these metaphorical descriptions—women have long been compared to birds in literature, in part because of the equation between the social expectation of a woman's delicate appearance and behavior and the fragile, delicate nature of many birds—but Thackeray's metaphor is not fully in line with this tradition. Becky's hawk-like qualities are brutal rather than delicate, and Amelia's warmth and gentleness is not a weakness but her primary strength. In the end, the comparison works because the flight paths and migration patterns of birds have a certain inevitability to them. Although the reader can only suspect it, the narrator has had a good grasp on the entire sweep of Vanity Fair from the very first page—and it was therefore only a matter of time before Amelia finally came home to roost beside Dobbin, the two morally redeemable characters nestled together at last.
In Chapter 18, Thackeray offers a brief bit of historical context for the events of the novel—while his Vanity Fair unfolds in England, Napoleon escapes exile and begins to make his way back across France. Thackeray uses a combination of metaphor and personification to connect his story with Napoleon's conflict:
Our surprised story now finds itself for a moment among very famous events and personages, and hanging on to the skirts of history. When the eagles of Napoleon Bonaparte, the Corsican upstart, were flying from Provence, where they had perched after a brief sojourn in Elba, and from steeple to steeple until they reached the towers of Notre Dame, I wonder whether the Imperial birds had any eye for a little corner of the parish of Bloomsbury, London, which you might have thought so quiet, that even the whirring and flapping of those mighty wings would pass unobserved there?
Thackeray's story, thus personified, is helpless before Napoleon's relentless march—all it can do is cling to the "skirts of history" and hope for the best. Thackeray describes Napoleon's ambitious return in the metaphorical language of an eagle flying through the French countryside, church by church, until at last landing on the spires of Notre Dame herself in Paris.
The point of this metaphor is to imply that the war (the “flapping" of this eagle's "mighty wings”) is strong enough to sweep Thackeray's story up with it—and effect even those living a quiet posh life in London, however small their role in global history might seem.
As Thackeray's narrator continues, “Napoleon is flinging his last stake, and poor little Emmy Sedley’s happiness forms, somehow, part of it.” Sure enough, the reader is about to learn, the war has ruined Amelia’s father’s fortune and left her without anything—which will, in turn, cause her relationship with George Osborne to disintegrate after George's father condemns it. The narrator tends to cast the events of the narrative in terms of their effect on various characters' fortunes, and this moment is no different: by ruining Amelia Sedley, Napoleon himself drives the narrative of Vanity Fair forward.
In Chapter 18, the narrator interrupts the story to give his thoughts on the way that men treat women in relationships. He uses metaphor and simile to get his point across:
We are Turks with the affections of our women; and have made them subscribe to our doctrine too. We let their bodies go abroad liberally enough, with smiles and ringlets and pink bonnets to disguise them instead of veils and yak-maks. But their souls must be seen by only one man, and they obey not unwillingly, and consent to remain at home as our slaves—ministering to us and doing drudgery for us.
By the narrator's perspective, the English are metaphorically Turkish when it comes to their treatment of women—a likely reference to the Ottoman sultan's practice of keeping a harem of women in his court, some of whom were enslaved. The narrator builds upon this comparison more explicitly with the closing simile of the passage: women "remain at home as our slaves," imprisoned by the possessiveness of their husbands and forbidden to ever truly go free.
This is a scathing critique of the institution of marriage as a tool for setting repressive gender expectations on women, and by taking this stance early on in the novel, the narrator primes the reader to look out for challenges to this norm. Sure enough, the story of Becky's interlocking romantic and social escapades constitute a major rebellion against this stifling marital environment: although occasionally destitute and often deceitful, Becky's soul remains free.
In Chapter 18, the marriage between George and Amelia comes grinding to a halt as George dismisses his former beloved the moment her family faces financial ruin. Amelia grieves the loss of her marriage like the loss of a life, and Thackeray uses the metaphor of death to emphasize the gravity of her heartbreak:
It was over these few worthless papers that she brooded and brooded. She lived in her past life – every letter seemed to recall some circumstance of it. How well she remembered them all! His looks and tones, his dress, what he said and how – these relics and remembrances of dead affection were all that were left her in the world. And the business of her life, was – to watch the corpse of Love.
If love itself is a metaphorical corpse, and Amelia processes its death accordingly. As Amelia looks at the tatters of her relationship, she conducts a memorial service of sorts for this union: she glances over the love letters she has exchanged with George and for a moment lives "in her past life"—her memories come alive, only to dissolve into the present as she confronts the reality of her situation. Death is in the air.
Among other things, Vanity Fair is a series of interlocking love stories. The failure of this first marriage—and the chaotic end of a love story almost as soon as it begins—affirms that Thackeray looks at his fictional world through a lens of gritty realism, without expecting any comfortable resolution.
In Chapter 24, the reader sees Dobbin interact with his fellow soldiers for the first time. As he reassures one soldier, Stubble, Thackeray uses a metaphor to emphasize the emotional impact of Dobbin's words:
“Thank you, Dobbin,” he said, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles, “I was just—just telling her I would. And, O Sir, she’s so dam kind to me.” The water pumps were at work again, and I am not sure that the soft-hearted Captain’s eyes did not also twinkle.
The younger soldiers revere Dobbin and find him to be a major source of comfort and inspiration in an uncertain time—as Napoleon rampages through Europe, it is unclear what role England will have to play in keeping him at bay. In this metaphor, Stubble's eyes are compared to water pumps that pump out tears—although many of the male characters in Vanity Fair mask their vulnerability with performative bravado, this is a moment of genuine connection between the two soldiers.
Although most of the characters in Thackeray's novel are far from virtuous, Dobbin is one of the few who regularly acts with compassion and concern for those around him and not out of pure self-interest. Although he has no shortage of conflicts and drama throughout the novel—particularly where Amelia, his unrequited love, is concerned—he manages to scrape by without often indulging his vanity.
In Chapter 25, George learns that his father, Mr. Osborne, intends to disinherit him over his decision to marry Amelia. In a series of metaphors, George and Dobbins discuss this unfortunate turn of events:
“Well, well,” said Dobbin, still good-naturedly, “we’ll get her a better conveyance. But try and remember that you are only a dethroned prince now, George, my boy; and be quiet whilst the tempest lasts. It won’t for long. Let your name be mentioned in the Gazette, and I’ll engage the old father relents towards you.”
"Mentioned in the Gazette!” George answered. “And in what part of it? Among the killed and wounded returns, and at the top of the list, very likely.”
This passage contains three small metaphors linked together: Dobbins describes the disinherited George as a "dethroned prince", the entire situation between George, Amelia, and Mr. Osborne as a "tempest," and then George melodramatically compares himself to one of the killed or wounded soldiers returning from the war with Napoleon.
The entire exchange highlights the deadly seriousness with which George treats his situation. Disinheritance might as well be a matter of life and death, for "a man of [his] habits," as he says earlier in the same section.
It is worth noting that George's concern is chiefly with his own fate—Amelia appears to be an afterthought in his mind. A threat to one's own family finances, and thereby one's own social status, takes absolute precedence, as it does for many of the other upper-class characters in Vanity Fair.
In Chapter 25, Amelia's world continues to collapse around her—true to Mr. Osborne's promise, her marriage to George has resulted in his disinheritance. Thackeray conveys the uncertainty of Amelia's future in metaphor:
Scarce a week was past, and it was come to this! The future, had she regarded it, offered a dismal prospect; but Emmy was too shy, so to speak, to look to that, and embark alone on that wide sea, and unfit to navigate it without a guide and protector. I know Miss Smith has a mean opinion of her. But how many, my dear Madam, are endowed with your prodigious strength of mind?
The narrator relates Amelia's future challenges through the metaphorical language of seafaring: Amelia is not ready to "embark on the wide sea" of her future, certainly not without her husband, George—despite George's cruelty toward her.
This passage also contains a mysterious bit of foreshadowing that serves to remind the reader that the narrator perpetually knows more than he lets on: this vast uncertain sea of a future contains at least a "dismal prospect" for Amelia, though she is not ready to see it. Vanity Fair is full of comments like this by the narrator—they serve as a reminder of the novel's original publication in serial, when Thackeray needed to string readers along just enough to keep them coming back for more.
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 48, the Lord and Lady Steyne deign to visit with Becky—and, in proper fashion, they send an emissary ahead to notify Becky of their impending arrival. By way of announcement, the emissary delivers Becky a pair of cards engraved with the names of her noble guests. Thackeray uses an extended metaphor of playing cards to emphasize the effect that these cards have on Becky:
You may be sure they occupied a conspicuous place in the china bowl on the drawing-room table, where Becky kept the cards of her visitors. Lord! lord! how poor Mrs Washington White’s card and Lady Crackenbury’s card, which our little friend had been glad enough to get a few months back, and of which the silly little creature was rather proud once – Lord! lord! I say, how soon at the appearance of these grand court cards, did those poor little neglected deuces sink down to the bottom of the pack.
According to this metaphor, the cards announcing the Steynes arrival are like the "court" cards in a deck of playing cards—traditionally assigned greater value than the numbered cards. Sure enough, the calling cards of a Mrs Washington White and Lady Crackenbury, who apparently belong on a lower rung of the upper-class ladder, are compared to "deuces," or twos.
Later in the day, Lord Steyne finally arrives at the Crawley residence to greet Becky in person. Continuing the metaphor, he remarks how Becky has arranged the cards in the bowl of her drawing-room table in order to emphasize the prominence of her new guests:
My Lord Steyne coming to call a couple of hours afterwards, and looking about him, and observing everything as was his wont, found his ladies’ cards already ranged as the trumps of Becky’s hand, and grinned, as this old cynic always did at any naïve display of human weakness.
This time, the Steynes' cards are the "trumps of Becky's hand"—Lord Steyne is observing how Becky wields his name like a trump card, or a playing card assigned special value to outrank other cards in some card games.
These metaphors cast Becky's relentless efforts to shore up her social status among the English elite in terms of the efforts of a conniving card player striving to win at a ruthless game of cards. The reader is already familiar with the role that card playing has for English society in Vanity Fair—a few characters manage to win and lose significant sums of money at the card table, and such gambling is yet another reminder of the human greed that is one of the novel's major themes.
But while literal card playing is an activity reserved for soldiers and men in Vanity Fair, Thackeray places no gendered restrictions on gambling as metaphor. In the above passages, Becky is being every bit as risky as her male counterparts. At this point in the novel, she has run out of money and her household is running on fumes—kept aloft by staff who have yet to be paid for their labor—and her calling card maneuver is part of a desperate bid to toy with Steyne's vanity and coerce him into giving her some of his fortune. Thackeray's use of gambling language to describe Becky's behavior is a clever reminder that Becky's power comes from her ability to subvert and manipulate gender expectations for her own gain.
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.
