Vanity Fair in half the time Becky Sharp is the most alluring yet ruthless heroine ever to climb the social ladder. From sordid bohemian beginnings she moves upwards through Regency society, betraying her husband, her friend Amelia and all who cross her in her determination to acquire power. In post-war London after Waterloo, Becky continues her manipulative schemes but finds herself thwarted by personal and social forces.
Release date:
November 18, 2010
Publisher:
Weidenfeld & Nicolson
Print pages:
379
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While the present century was in its teens, and on one sunshiny morning in June, there drove up to the great iron gate of
Miss Pinkerton’s academy for young ladies, on Chiswick Mall, a large family coach, with two fat horses in blazing harness.
A black servant, who reposed on the box beside the coachman, uncurled his bandy legs as soon as the equipage drew up opposite
Miss Pinkerton’s shining brass plate, and as he pulled the bell, at least a score of young heads were seen peering out of
the narrow windows of the stately old brick house. The acute observer might have recognised the little red nose of good-natured
Miss Jemima Pinkerton herself, rising over some geranium-pots in the window of that lady’s own drawing-room.
‘It is Mrs Sedley’s coach, sister,’ said Miss Jemima. ‘Sambo has just rung the bell.’
‘Have you completed all the necessary preparations incident to Miss Sedley’s departure?’ asked Miss Pinkerton herself, that
majestic lady; the Semiramis of Hammersmith, the friend of Doctor Johnson.
‘The girls were up at four this morning, packing her trunks, sister,’ replied Miss Jemima.
‘And I trust you have made a copy of Miss Sedley’s account. Be kind enough to address it to John Sedley, Esquire, and to seal
this billet which I have written to his lady.’
In Miss Jemima’s eyes an autograph letter of her sister, Miss Pinkerton, was an object of as deep veneration as would have
been a letter from a Sovereign.
In the present instance Miss Pinkerton’s ‘billet’ was to the following effect:
The Mall, Chiswick, June 15, 18—
MADAM,
– After her six years’ residence at the Mall, I have the honour and happiness of presenting Miss Amelia Sedley to her parents,
as a young lady not unworthy to occupy a fitting position in their polished and refined circle. Those virtues which characterise
the young English gentlewoman will not be found wanting in the amiable Miss Sedley, whose industry and obedience have endeared her to her instructors, and whose delightful sweetness of temper has charmed her companions.
In music, in dancing, in orthography, in every variety of embroidery and needlework, she will be found to have realised her
friends’ fondest wishes. In the principles of religion and morality, Miss Sedley will be found worthy of an establishment which has been honoured
by the presence of The Great Lexicographer. In leaving the Mall, Miss Amelia carries with her the hearts of her companions, and the affectionate regards of her mistress,
who has the honour to subscribe herself,
Madam, your most obliged humble servant,
BARBARA PINKERTON
P.S. – Miss Sharp accompanies Miss Sedley. It is particularly requested that Miss Sharp’s stay in Russell Square may not exceed
ten days. The family of distinction with whom she is engaged desire to avail themselves of her services as soon as possible.
This letter completed, Miss Pinkerton proceeded to write her own name, and Miss Sedley’s, in the fly-leaf of a Johnson’s Dictionary – the interesting work which she invariably presented to her scholars on their departure.
Being commanded by her elder sister to get ‘the Dictionary’, Miss Jemima had extracted two copies of the book. When Miss Pinkerton
had finished the inscription in the first, Jemima, with a timid air, handed her the second.
‘For whom is this?’ said Miss Pinkerton, with awful coldness.
‘For Becky Sharp: she’s going too.’
‘MISS JEMIMA!’ exclaimed Miss Pinkerton, in the largest capitals. ‘Are you in your senses? Replace the Dixonary and never venture to take such a liberty in future.’
‘Well, sister, it’s only two and ninepence, and poor Becky will be miserable if she don’t get one.’
Miss Sedley’s papa was a merchant in London, and a man of some wealth; whereas Miss Sharp was an articled pupil, for whom
Miss Pinkerton had done quite enough, without conferring upon her the high honour of the Dixonary.
Although schoolmistresses’ letters are to be trusted no more nor less than churchyard epitaphs; yet, it sometimes happens
that a person departs this life who is really deserving of all the praises the stonecutter carves over his bones. Miss Amelia
Sedley was a young lady of this singular species; and deserved not only all that Miss Pinkerton said in her praise, but had
many charming qualities which that pompous old woman could not see.
For she could not only sing like a lark; and embroider beautifully; and spell as well as a Dixonary itself; but she had such
a kindly, smiling, tender, gentle, generous heart of her own, as won the love of everybody who came near her. She had twelve
intimate and bosom friends out of the twenty-four young ladies. Even envious Miss Briggs never spoke ill of her; high and
mighty Miss Saltire (Lord Dexter’s granddaughter) allowed that her figure was genteel; and as for Miss Swartz, the rich woolly-haired
mulatto from St Kitt’s, on the day Amelia went away, she was in such a passion of tears, that they were obliged to send for
Dr Floss, and half tipsify her with sal volatile.
As we are to see a great deal of Amelia, there is no harm in saying, at the outset of our acquaintance, that she was a dear
little creature; and a great mercy it is, both in life and in novels, which (and the latter especially) abound in villains
of the most sombre sort, that we are to have for a constant companion so guileless and good-natured a person. As she is not
a heroine, there is no need to describe her person; indeed I am afraid that her nose was rather short than otherwise, and
her cheeks a great deal too round and red for a heroine; but her face blushed with rosy health, and her lips with the freshest
of smiles, and she had a pair of eyes which sparkled with the brightest and honestest good humour, except indeed when they
filled with tears, and that was a great deal too often; for the silly thing would cry over a dead canary-bird; or over the end of a novel,
were it ever so stupid. So that when the day of departure came, between her two customs of laughing and crying, Miss Sedley
was greatly puzzled how to act. She was glad to go home and yet most woefully sad at leaving school.
Well, then. The trunks and bonnet-boxes of Miss Sedley having been arranged in the carriage, together with a very small and
weather-beaten old cow’s-skin trunk with Miss Sharp’s card neatly nailed upon it, which was packed with a sneer, the hour
for parting came.
‘You’ll go in and say good-bye to Miss Pinkerton, Becky!’ said Miss Jemima to a young lady of whom nobody took any notice,
and who was coming downstairs with her own bandbox.
‘I suppose I must,’ said Miss Sharp calmly, and much to the wonder of Miss Jemima; and the latter having knocked at the door,
and receiving permission to come in, Miss Sharp advanced in a very unconcerned manner, and said in French, and with a perfect
accent, ‘Mademoiselle, je viens vous faire mes adieux.’
Miss Pinkerton did not understand French; she only directed those who did; but biting her lips and throwing up her venerable
head, she said, ‘Miss Sharp, I wish you a good morning.’ As the Hammersmith Semiramis spoke she waved one hand, both by way
of adieu and to give Miss Sharp an opportunity of shaking one of the fingers which was left out for that purpose.
Miss Sharp only folded her own hands with a very frigid smile, and quite declined to accept the proffered honour. In fact,
it was a little battle between the young lady and the old one, and the latter was worsted. ‘Come away, Becky,’ said Miss Jemima,
pulling the young woman away in great alarm.
Then came the parting below. Words refuse to tell it. All the servants were there in the hall – all the dear friends – all
the young ladies; and there was such a hugging, and kissing, and crying, with the hysterical yoops of Miss Swartz, from her room, as no pen can depict. The embracing was over; they parted – that is, Miss Sedley parted from
her friends. Miss Sharp had demurely entered the carriage some minutes before. Nobody cried for leaving her.
Sambo of the bandy legs slammed the carriage-door on his weeping mistress. He sprang up behind the carriage. ‘Stop!’ cried
Miss Jemima, rushing to the gate with a parcel.
‘It’s some sandwiches, my dear,’ said she to Amelia. ‘And Becky, here’s a book for you that my sister – that is, I – Johnson’s Dixonary, you know; you mustn’t leave without that.’ And the kind creature retreated into the garden, overcome with emotion.
But, lo! just as the coach drove off, Miss Sharp put her pale face out of the window and actually flung the book back into
the garden.
This almost caused Jemima to faint with terror. ‘Well, I never,’ – said she – ‘what an audacious’ – Emotion prevented her
from completing either sentence.
Miss Sharp sank back in the carriage in an easy frame of mind, saying, ‘So much for the Dixonary; and, thank God, I’m out
of Chiswick.’
Miss Sedley was exceedingly alarmed at this act of insubordination.
‘How could you do so, Rebecca?’ at last she said.
‘Why, do you think Miss Pinkerton will come out and order me back to the black hole?’ said Rebecca. ‘I hate the whole house.
I wish it were in the bottom of the Thames, and if Miss Pinkerton were there, I wouldn’t pick her out, that I wouldn’t. O
how I should like to see her floating in the water yonder, turban and all, with her nose like the beak of a wherry!’
‘Hush!’ cried Miss Sedley.
‘For two years I have only had insults and outrage from her. I have been treated worse than any servant in the kitchen. I
have never had a friend or a kind word, except from you. I have been made to tend the little girls in the lower schoolroom,
and to talk French to the Misses, until I grew sick of my mother-tongue. But that talking French to Miss Pinkerton was capital
fun, wasn’t it? She doesn’t know a word of French, and was too proud to confess it. Thank heaven for French. Vive la France! Vive l’Empereur! Vive Bonaparte!’
‘O Rebecca, for shame!’ cried Miss Sedley; for in those days in England to say, ‘Long live Bonaparte!’ was as much as to say,
‘Long live Lucifer!’ ‘How dare you have such wicked, revengeful thoughts?’
‘Revenge may be wicked, but it’s natural,’ answered Miss Rebecca. ‘I’m no angel.’ And, to say the truth, she certainly was
not.
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.
Miss Sharp’s father was an artist, and had given lessons of drawing at Miss Pinkerton’s school. He was a clever man with a
great propensity for running into debt, and a partiality for the tavern. When he was drunk, he used to beat his wife and daughter;
and the next morning, with a headache, he would rail at the world for its neglect of his genius. As it was with the utmost
difficulty that he could keep himself, he thought to better his circumstances by marrying a young woman of the French nation,
who was by profession an opera-girl. The humble calling of her female parent Miss Sharp never alluded to, but used to state
subsequently that the Entrechats were a noble family of Gascony, and took great pride in her descent. And curious it is, that
as she advanced in life, this young lady’s ancestors increased in rank and splendour.
Rebecca’s mother had had some education somewhere, and her daughter spoke French with purity and a Parisian accent. It led
to her engagement with Miss Pinkerton. For, her mother being dead, her father, finding himself not likely to recover after
his third attack of delirium tremens, wrote a pathetic letter to Miss Pinkerton, recommending the orphan child to her protection, and so descended to the grave,
after two bailiffs had quarrelled over his corpse. Rebecca was seventeen when she came to Chiswick, and was bound over as
an articled pupil; her duties being to talk French; and her privileges to live cost free, and, with a few guineas a year,
to gather scraps of knowledge from the professors who attended the school.
She was small and slight in person; pale, sandy-haired, and with eyes habitually cast down: when they looked up they were
very large, odd, and attractive; so attractive that the Reverend Mr Crisp, fresh from Oxford, fell in love with Miss Sharp; being
shot dead by a glance of her eyes which was fired all the way across Chiswick Church.
By the side of many bouncing young ladies in the establishment, Rebecca Sharp looked like a child. But she had the dismal
precocity of poverty. Many a dun had she talked to, and turned away from her father’s door. She sat commonly with her father,
who was very proud of her wit, and heard the talk of many of his wild companions – often ill-suited for a girl to hear. But
she never had been a girl, she said; she had been a woman since she was eight years old. O why did Miss Pinkerton let such
a dangerous bird into her cage?
The fact is, the old lady believed Rebecca to be the meekest creature in the world, so admirably, on the occasions when her
father brought her to Chiswick, used Rebecca to perform the part of the ingénue.
The catastrophe came, and she was brought to the Mall as to her home. The rigid formality of the place suffocated her, and
she looked back to the freedom of the old studio in Soho with so much regret that everybody, herself included, fancied she
was consumed with grief for her father. The silly chat of the elder girls and the frigid correctness of the governesses equally
annoyed her; and she had no soft maternal heart, otherwise the prattle 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 superior advantages of the young women round about her gave Rebecca inexpressible pangs of envy. ‘How they cringe and
bow to that Creole, because of her hundred thousand pounds!’ She determined at any rate to get free from the prison in which
she found herself.
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. One day she
was overheard to play a piece so well that Miss Pinkerton thought 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. ‘I am here to speak French with the children,’ Rebecca said abruptly, ‘not to teach them music. 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 have never 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. ‘You took me because I was useful. There is no question of gratitude
between us. Give me a sum of money,’ said the girl, ‘and get rid of me – or get me a good place as governess in a nobleman’s
family – you can do so if you please.’
In order to maintain authority in school, it became necessary to remove this rebel; and hearing that Sir Pitt Crawley’s family
was in want of a governess, Miss Pinkerton actually recommended Miss Sharp for the situation, firebrand and serpent as she
was.
So the apprentice was free. And as Miss Sedley was about to leave school, and had a friendship for Miss Sharp, Miss Sharp
was invited by her friend to pass a week with her at home before she entered upon her duties as governess.
Thus the world began for these two young ladies. For Amelia it was quite a new, fresh, brilliant world, with all the bloom
upon it. It was not quite a new one for Rebecca. But, at all events, if Rebecca was not beginning the world, she was beginning
it over again.
When at length home was reached, Miss Amelia Sedley skipped out on Sambo’s arm, as happy and as handsome a girl as any in
the whole big city of London. Both he and coachman agreed on this point, and so did her father and mother, and so did every
one of the servants in the house, as they stood bobbing, and curtseying, and smiling, in the hall to welcome their young mistress.
You may be sure that she showed Rebecca over every room of the house, and everything in every one; and her books, and her
piano, and her dresses, and all her necklaces, brooches, laces, and gimcracks. She insisted upon Rebecca accepting the white
cornelian and the turquoise rings, and a sweet sprigged muslin, which was too small for her now, though it would fit her friend to a
nicety.
When Rebecca saw the two magnificent Cashmere shawls which Joseph Sedley had brought home to his sister, she said, with perfect
truth, ‘that it must be delightful to have a brother’, and easily got the pity of the tender-hearted Amelia, for being alone
in the world, an orphan without friends or kindred.
‘Not alone,’ said Amelia; ‘I shall always be your friend, and love you as a sister – indeed I will.’
‘Ah, but to have parents, as you have, who give you everything you ask for; and their love, which is more precious than all!
My poor papa could give me nothing. And then to have a brother, a dear brother! Oh, how you must love him!’
Amelia laughed.
‘What! don’t you love him? you, who say you love everybody?’
‘Yes, of course, I do – only Joseph doesn’t seem to care much whether I love him or not. He gave me two fingers to shake when
he arrived after ten years’ absence! He was very kind to me as a child,’ she added; ‘I was but five years old when he went
away.’
‘Isn’t he very rich?’ said Rebecca. ‘They say all Indian nabobs are enormously rich.’
‘I believe he has a very large income.’
‘And is your sister-in-law a nice pretty woman?’
‘La! Joseph is not married,’ said Amelia, laughing again.
Perhaps she had mentioned the fact already to Rebecca, but that young lady did not appear to have remembered it; indeed, protested
that she expected to see a number of Amelia’s nephews and nieces. She was quite disappointed; she doted so on little children.
‘I think you must have had enough of them at Chiswick,’ said Amelia, rather wondering at the sudden tenderness on her friend’s
part; and indeed in later days Miss Sharp would never have committed herself so far as to advance opinions the untruth of
which would have been so easily detected. But we must remember that she is but nineteen as yet, unused to the art of deceiving,
poor innocent creature! The meaning of the above series of queries, as translated in the heart of this ingenious young woman,
was simply this: ‘If Mr Joseph Sedley is rich and unmarried, why should I not marry him? I have only a fortnight, to be sure, but there is no harm in trying.’ And she redoubled her caresses to Amelia. When the dinner-bell
rang she went downstairs with her arm round her friend’s waist, as is the habit of young ladies. She was so agitated at the
drawing-room door, that she could hardly find courage to enter. ‘Feel my heart, how it beats, dear!’ said she to her friend.
‘No, it doesn’t,’ said Amelia. ‘Come in, don’t be frightened. Papa won’t do you any harm.’
A very stout, puffy man, in buckskins, with several immense neck-cloths that rose almost to his nose, was reading the paper
by the fire when the two girls entered, and bounced off his arm-chair, and blushed excessively.
‘It’s only your sister, Joseph,’ said Amelia, laughing. ‘This is my friend, Miss Sharp, whom you have heard me mention.’
‘No, never, upon my word,’ said the head under the neckcloth, ‘that is, yes, – what abominably cold weather, Miss,’ and herewith
he fell to poking the fire although it was in the middle of June.
‘He’s very handsome,’ whispered Rebecca to Amelia, rather loud.
‘Do you think so?’ said the latter. ‘I’ll tell him.’
‘Darling! not for worlds,’ said Miss Sharp, starting back as timid as a fawn.
‘Thank you for the beautiful shawls, brother,’ said Amelia to the fire-poker. ‘I can’t make you such handsome presents, but
while I was at school, I have embroidered for you a very beautiful pair of braces.’
‘Good Gad! Amelia,’ cried the brother, in serious alarm. ‘For heaven’s sake see if my buggy’s at the door! I must go.’
At this minute the father of the family walked in, rattling his seals like a true British merchant. ‘What’s the matter, Emmy?’
says he.
‘Joseph wants me to see if his buggy is at the door.’
‘This young lady is your friend? Miss Sharp, I am very happy to see you. Have you and Emmy been quarrelling already with Joseph,
that he wants to be off?’
‘I promised Bonamy, of our service, sir,’ said Joseph, ‘to dine with him.’
‘O fie! didn’t you tell your mother you would dine here?’
‘But in this dress it’s impossible.’
‘Look at him, isn’t he handsome enough to dine anywhere, Miss Sharp?’
On which, of course, Miss Sharp looked at her friend, and they both set off in a fit of laughter, highly agreeable to the
old gentleman.
‘Come, come, Joseph, be friends with Miss Sharp, and let us all go to dinner,’ said the father, and he took an arm of wife
and daughter and walked merrily off.
If Miss Rebecca Sharp had determined in her heart upon making the conquest of this big beau, I don’t think, ladies, we have
any right to blame her; for though the task of husband-hunting is generally, and with becoming modesty, intrusted by young
persons to their mammas, recollect that Miss Sharp had no kind parent to arrange these delicate matters for her, and that
if she did not get a husband for herself, there was no one else in the wide world who would take the trouble off her hands.
Joseph Sedley was twelve years older than his sister Amelia. He was in the East India Company’s Civil Service, and his name
appeared in the Bengal division of the East India Register, as Collector of Boggley Wollah, an honourable and lucrative post.
Boggley Wollah is situated in a fine, lonely, marshy, jungly district, famous for snipe-shooting, and where not unfrequently
you may flush a tiger. Joseph had lived for about eight years of his life, quite alone, at this charming place, scarcely seeing
a Christian face except twice a year, when the detachment arrived to carry off the revenues which he had collected, to Calcutta.
Luckily, at this time he caught a liver complaint, for the cure of which he returned to Europe. He did not live with his family
while in London, but had lodgings of his own, like a gay young bachelor. He drove his horses in the Park; he dined at the
fashionable taverns, and made his appearance at the Opera, laboriously attired in tights and a cocked hat.
But he was as lonely here as in his jungle at Boggley Wollah. He scarcely knew a single soul in the metropolis; and the appearance
of a lady frightened him beyond measure. Like most fat men, he would have his clothes made too tight, and took care they should be of the most brilliant colours and youthful cut. He was as vain
as a girl; and perhaps his extreme shyness was one of the results of his extreme vanity. If Miss Rebecca can get the better
of him, and at her first entrance into life, she is a young person of no ordinary cleverness.
The first move showed considerable skill. 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. Perhaps, too, Joseph Sedley would overhear the compliment
– Rebecca spoke loud enough – and he did hear, and the praise thrilled through every fibre of his big body, and made it tingle with pleasure. He conducted the young
lady down to dinner in a dubious frame of mind. ‘Does she really think I am handsome?’ thought he, ‘or is she only making
game of me?’
Downstairs, then, they went, Joseph very red and blushing, Rebecca very modest, and holding her green eyes downwards. She
was dressed in white, the picture of virgin simplicity. ‘I must be very quiet,’ thought Rebecca, ‘and very much interested
about India.’
Mrs Sedley had prepared a fine curry for her son, just as he liked it, and in the course of dinner a portion of this dish
was offered to Rebecca.
‘Oh, I must try some, if it is an Indian dish,’ said Miss Rebecca. ‘I am sure everything must be good that comes from there.’
Rebecca had never tasted the dish before.
‘Do you find it as good as everything else from India?’ said Mr Sedley.
‘Oh, excellent!’ said Rebecca, who was suffering tortures with the cayenne pepper.
‘Try a chili with it, Miss Sharp,’ said Joseph, really interested.
‘A chili,’ said Rebecca, gasping. She thought a chili was something cool, as its name imported. It was hotter than the curry;
flesh and blood could bear it no longer. She laid down her fork. ‘Water, for heaven’s sake!’ she cried. Mr Sedley burst out
laughing.
The paternal laugh was echoed by Joseph, who thought the joke capital. Rebecca would have liked to choke old Sedley, but she
swallowed her mortification as well as she had the abominable curry.
‘You won’t like everything from India now, Miss Sharp,’ said the old gentleman; but when the ladies had retired after dinner, the wily old fellow said
to his son, ‘Have a care, Joe; that girl is setting her cap at you.’
‘Pooh! nonsense!’ said Joe, highly flattered.
Being an invalid, Joseph Sedley contented himself with a bottle of claret besides his Madeira at dinner, and he thought a
great deal about the girl upstairs. ‘A nice, gay, merry young creature,’ thought he to himself. ‘Who’s that singing in the
drawing-room? ’Gad! shall I go up and see?’
But his modesty came rushing upon him with uncontrollable force. His father was asleep: there was a hackney-coach stand hard
by in Southampton Row, and he slipped away gently on the pointed toes of his boots, without waking his worthy parent.
‘There goes Joseph,’ said Amelia, who was looking from the open windows of the drawing-room, while Rebecca was singing at
the piano.
‘Miss Sharp has frightened him away,’ said Mrs Sedley. ‘Poor Joe, why will he be so shy?’
Poor Joe’s panic lasted for two or three days; during which he did not visit the house, nor during that period did Miss Rebecca
ever mention his name. She was all respectful gratitude to Mrs Sedley; as for Mr Sedley’s jokes, Rebecca laughed at them with
a cordiality which not a little pleased that good-natured gentleman. Nor was it with the chiefs of the family alone that Miss
Sharp found favour. She interested Mrs Blenkinsop by evincing the deepest sympathy in the raspberry-jam preserving; she persisted
in calling Sambo ‘Sir’; and apologised to the lady’s-maid for giving her trouble in venturing to ring the bell. The servants’
hall was almost as charmed with her as the drawing-room.
Once, in looking over some drawings which Amelia had sent from school, Rebecca suddenly came upon one which caused her to
burst into tears and leave the room. It was on the day when
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