of instinct and reason that English literature of grace has produced. He
has been compared with the Frenchman, Balzac. Since I have no desire to
provoke squabbles about favorite authors, let us merely definitely agree
that such a comparison is absurd and pass on. Because you must have
noticed that Balzac was often feeble in his reason and couldn't make it
keep step with his instinct, while in Thackeray they both step together
like the Siamese twins. It is a very striking fact, indeed, that during
all Becky's intense early experiences with the great world, Thackeray
does not make her guilty. All the circumstances of that world were
guilty and she is placed amidst the circumstances; but that is all.

"The ladies in the drawing room," said one lady to Thackeray, when
"Vanity Fair" in monthly parts publishing had just reached the
catastrophe of Rawdon, Rebecca, old Steyne and the bracelet--"The ladies
have been discussing Becky Sharpe and they all agree that she was
guilty. May I ask if we guessed rightly?"

"I am sure I don't know," replied the "seared cynic," mischievously. "I
am only a man and I haven't been able to make up my mind on that point.
But if the ladies agree I fear it may be true--you must understand your
sex much better than we men!"

That is proof that she was not guilty with Steyne. But straightway then,
Thackeray starts out to make her guilty with others. It is so much the
more proof of her previous innocence that, incomparable artist as he was
in showing human character, he recognized that he could convince the
reader of her guilt only by disintegrating her, whipping himself
meanwhile into a ceaseless rage of vulgar abuse of her, a thing of which
Thackeray was seldom guilty. But it was not really Becky that
became guilty--it was the woman that English society and Thackeray