Vanity Fair: A Novel Without a Hero

A key aspect of every novel is a somewhat clear-cut protagonist. Any story missing this seemingly vital element really isn't a story at all... or is it? Vanity Fair, a lengthy tome written as a serial in the mid-1800's, follows two English girls as they grow up and become acquainted with the world. Both young ladies play major roles, but neither of them changes psychologically during the novel, and both are riddled with classic secondary-character flaws. Nearly every personality in the story is flat, which confirms Thackeray's assertion that his novel is without a genuine protagonist. Furthermore, the plot, a product of the serial format, evolves in short, multidirectional bursts, which may be responsible for the work's apparent lack of unity. William Makepeace Thackeray's convoluted satire Vanity Fair is a freestanding literary work which, for all intents and purposes, is missing a hero.

Because it was written originally as a serial, the story doesn't require an overall main character to still be considered complete. Instead, each chapter centers on an individual microcosmic event, and, like a TV show, there is a cast of important characters whose individual roles re-arrange dynamically to accommodate the plot, though the characters themselves remain unchanged. Rebecca Sharp, who is sometimes singled out as the closest approximation to a main character that the novel possesses, is a classic example of this. Near the beginning of the story, Becky visits her friend Amelia's house and, while taking advantage of her friend's hospitality, flirts shamelessly with her brother, Jos, in hopes of securing an early and convenient marriage. Her plans are foiled when her would-be beaux's self-consciousness gets the better of him, and both parties move on with their lives (36).

Most novelists would use this as a stepping stone, and an average main character would then learn, flourish, and change. These two characters, who we must now assume are not main characters, meet again near the novel's end, and re-enact this same tryst, with each character playing essentially the same role in the relationship (795). Ordinarily, a pair of characters don't pass separately through 700 pages of text and then meet up again, entirely unchanged. This, however, is exactly the nature of Thackeray's literary style: he isn't writing a story as much as he's making a series of satirical jabs at what he sees as the vain aristocracy of his society. Why wouldn't an attractive man of means drop everything for an attractive woman? And why wouldn't an attractive woman do everything in her power to use a man for his money until he's bankrupt or in Jo's case, dead? Thackeray says it himself: "A woman with fair opportunities, and without an absolute hump, may marry whom she likes" (30). Thackeray assigns his characters stereotypical roles and then lets them play in his chosen setting like chess pieces. Just as a knight can only move in an 'L' Jos can only love Becky, and will never see her flaws. Accordingly, Becky can't help herself from using people, and will not change, for better or for worse.

Jos and Becky were introduced as characters before they were given their unchangeable, robotic literary duties. Some of Thackeray's characters, however, are typecast from the very start, and very clearly exist for one purpose only. Labels and devices are used liberally to establish characters which serve the overarching satiric needs of the story without making concessions for the emotional and psychological depth that is required to establish a solid main character. As an example of this, many of Thackeray's characters have symbolic names, which reinforces the assertion that the characters aren't expected to evolve, but are destined to remain hopelessly flat throughout the story. For instance, Mrs. Flamingo is mentioned as wearing bright crimson, Lord Methuselah is an extremely old man, Mrs. Highflyer is tremendously successful in society, Lady Slingstone is the town gossip, and Madame de St. Amour is compassionate and loving (51, 125, 298, 550, 757).

Though it is fun to spot the symbolism and predict how a given character will act, there are no surprises spared for the reader with names that spell out each character's personality. Even more vexing is the notion, which is abundantly clear after the first 100 pages, that none of these characters, in spite of their symbolic names, will change in the slightest before the novel ends. Thackeray employs the most exaggerated of personalities to make a point, but nearly every character has been endowed with a touch of melodrama, leaving no room for subtlety or emotional realization. Each character is like a volatile chemical, but, unlike a scientist, Thackeray is not attempting to dilute, synthesize, or learn more about them, his goal is to throw them onto a page all at once and meticulously record the ensuing explosion, tossing in his own little insightful tidbits as he sees fit.

Indeed, Thackeray often waxes godlike, and while most stories use a character's inner emotional monologue to shape the landscape of the plotline, Vanity Fair's characters are almost entirely flat. At moments when most authors would explain an emotional state and develop the plot, Thackeray instead delivers a sermon on human nature, using the novel as a vehicle for personal philosophy instead of intensive character development. For instance, at the beginning of the novel, as Thackeray is introducing the girls' personalities, he strays from his description of Becky to share a related, but irrelevant thought: "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" (11). It is a valuable passage to be sure, and like all of Thackeray's other existential anecdotes it is good, sound advice. Unfortunately, it stifles any further insight that might have been gleaned about Becky, leaving the reader with pages of hollow philosophy instead of flesh-and-bones characters. This alternative storytelling strategy is responsible in part for the fact that no one character can be singled out as the main protagonist, and creates an incredibly bogged-down feeling for the reader. Like Plato or Aristotle, Thackeray has formulated an opinion on just about everything, and he shares his convictions amid the watered-down banter of his tiresome cast of characters. Near the very end of the novel, when most stories summarize the evolution of the main character and give some allusion to their changes and growth, Thackeray skims over Becky's character, once again favoring social philosophy over character development : "We must pass over a part of Mrs. Rebecca Crawley's biography with that lightness and delicacy which the world demands" (749). Apparently Rebecca's part in the end of the novel is too dastardly to merit a full description, but omitting it leaves a gaping hole in the plot, since Becky, while not necessarily the main character, is undoubtedly the most frequently mentioned. To wrap up the doings of a main character in one nondescript sentence is literarily nonsensical, but to do so for a secondary character is commonplace. This is the contradiction which defines Vanity Fair: surely it is a literary work, but with every character functioning as no more than a piece of descriptive scenery, and with the plot consisting mostly of Thackeray's philosophical stream-of-consciousness, it is a thoroughly mysterious work.

Puzzling in its structure and confusing in style, Vanity Fair is missing a true main character. Despite this, it is hailed as a literary classic and is still enjoyed to this day, somehow reigning as a complete work despite its obvious deficiency. Constructed as a serial, the novel was not intended to be consumed all at once, and is laden with philosophy and robust, colorful characters, intended more for entertainment value than literary significance. Though the context of the novel has faded away, the spirit remains, and if one is willing to weather its challenging composition and frustrating lack of focus, there is still a delightful adventure to be had in Vanity Fair

Works Cited

Thackeray, William Makepeace. Vanity Fair. New York: Penguin Books, 1954.