Vanity Fair - Page 540/573

We must pass over a part of Mrs. Rebecca Crawley's biography with that

lightness and delicacy which the world demands--the moral world, that

has, perhaps, no particular objection to vice, but an insuperable

repugnance to hearing vice called by its proper name. There are things

we do and know perfectly well in Vanity Fair, though we never speak of

them: as the Ahrimanians worship the devil, but don't mention him:

and a polite public will no more bear to read an authentic description

of vice than a truly refined English or American female will permit the

word breeches to be pronounced in her chaste hearing. And yet, madam,

both are walking the world before our faces every day, without much

shocking us. If you were to blush every time they went by, what

complexions you would have! It is only when their naughty names are

called out that your modesty has any occasion to show alarm or sense of

outrage, and it has been the wish of the present writer, all through

this story, deferentially to submit to the fashion at present

prevailing, and only to hint at the existence of wickedness in a light,

easy, and agreeable manner, so that nobody's fine feelings may be

offended. I defy any one to say that our Becky, who has certainly some

vices, has not been presented to the public in a perfectly genteel and

inoffensive manner. In describing this Siren, singing and smiling,

coaxing and cajoling, the author, with modest pride, asks his readers

all round, has he once forgotten the laws of politeness, and showed the

monster's hideous tail above water? No! Those who like may peep down

under waves that are pretty transparent and see it writhing and

twirling, diabolically hideous and slimy, flapping amongst bones, or

curling round corpses; but above the waterline, I ask, has not

everything been proper, agreeable, and decorous, and has any the most

squeamish immoralist in Vanity Fair a right to cry fie? When, however,

the Siren disappears and dives below, down among the dead men, the

water of course grows turbid over her, and it is labour lost to look

into it ever so curiously. They look pretty enough when they sit upon

a rock, twanging their harps and combing their hair, and sing, and

beckon to you to come and hold the looking-glass; but when they sink

into their native element, depend on it, those mermaids are about no

good, and we had best not examine the fiendish marine cannibals,

revelling and feasting on their wretched pickled victims. And so, when

Becky is out of the way, be sure that she is not particularly well

employed, and that the less that is said about her doings is in fact

the better.

If we were to give a full account of her proceedings during a couple of

years that followed after the Curzon Street catastrophe, there might be

some reason for people to say this book was improper. The actions of

very vain, heartless, pleasure-seeking people are very often improper

(as are many of yours, my friend with the grave face and spotless

reputation--but that is merely by the way); and what are those of a

woman without faith--or love--or character? And I am inclined to think

that there was a period in Mrs Becky's life when she was seized, not by

remorse, but by a kind of despair, and absolutely neglected her person

and did not even care for her reputation.