Apparently Thackeray said that his intention was to show how different characters manage to struggle through this Vanity Fair of life without God. It is a fascinating picture, full of human nature. This was the time of the Victorians--a time when conduct and etiquette books were replacing the Bible as moral authority; a time when appearances meant more than truth. But beyond the exposure of these trends for what they are, the book continues to resonate since it is a book on human nature. It is a book about vanity, about ambition, about drawing-room and public politics. Each character in it is flawed in one way or another; it is truly a "Novel Without a Hero" (its subtitle).
This book can be seen in many ways as a parallel to Ecclesiastes: "Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities; all is vanity." -Ecclesiastes 1:2.
But is there any hope to be taken from this book? There is but one character in it who stands against the flow (and she doesn't get much air-time). Lady Jane is true to her faith and is an example of a character who passes through this Vanity Fair of life without getting caught up in it.
The concluding sentences sum up much of the thrust of the book:
Ah! Vanitas Vanitatum! Which of us is happy in this world? Which of us has his desire? or having it, is satisfied?
It is true: we have no hope of being satisfied in acquiring our temporal desires but thankfully we have a hope in the life to come where we shall be satisfied with eternal treasures!
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Vanitas Vanitatum, Omnia Vanitas
(Anne Bronte, September 4, 1845)
IN all we do, and hear, and see,
Is restless Toil, and Vanity.
While yet the rolling earth abides,
Men come and go like ocean tides;
And ere one generation dies,
Another in its place shall rise;
That, sinking soon into the grave,
Others succeed, like wave on wave;
And as they rise, they pass away.
The sun arises every day,
And hastening onward to the West,
He nightly sinks, but not to rest:
Returning to the eastern skies,
Again to light us, he must rise.
And still the restless wind comes forth,
Now blowing keenly from the North;
Now from the South, the East, the West,
For ever changing, ne'er at rest.
The fountains, gushing from the hills,
Supply the ever-running rills;
The thirsty rivers drink their store,
And bear it rolling to the shore,
But still the ocean craves for more.
'Tis endless labour everywhere!
Sound cannot satisfy the ear,
Light cannot fill the craving eye,
Nor riches half our wants supply;
Pleasure but doubles future pain,
And joy brings sorrow in her train;
Laughter is mad, and reckless mirth–
What does she in this weary earth?
Should Wealth, or Fame, our Life employ,
Death comes, our labour to destroy;
To snatch the untasted cup away,
For which we toiled so many a day.
What, then, remains for wretched man?
To use life's comforts while he can,
Enjoy the blessings Heaven bestows,
Assist his friends, forgive his foes;
Trust God, and keep his statutes still,
Upright and firm, through good and ill;
Thankful for all that God has given,
Fixing his firmest hopes on heaven;
Knowing that earthly joys decay,
But hoping through the darkest day.
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