#george bannerworth

[mayhemchicken-varneyposting]

Trick or treat

take good care of him

[antiquesfreaks]

your character design for George Bannerworth is impeccable

VARNEY POSTING PART 5: in which i finally make varney bite some characters who are not charles

in order: dr. chillingworth, henry bannerworth, marchdale, admiral bell, jack pringle, mortimer/montgomery, josiah crinkles (averted by surprise time-traveling jonathan harker appearance), jack seward (hitched a ride with jonathan), george bannerworth (averted bc it's unclear if chibi-style george even has a neck)

[cleolinda]

Varney the Vampire: Chapter 6

Chapter 5: Please, be responsible with your vampires.

Chapter 6: Originally posted on Livejournal on December 14, 2010. The original one was a bit short, so this has been expanded.

Previously on:

"Be of better cheer, Henry -- be of better cheer," said Marchdale; "there is one circumstance which we ought to consider, it is that, from all we have seen, there seems to be some things which would favour an opinion, Henry, that your ancestor, whose portrait hangs in the chamber which was occupied by Flora, is a vampyre."

Also:

Henry related to George what had taken place outside the house, and the two brothers held a long and interesting conversation for some hours upon that subject, as well as upon others of great importance to their welfare. It was not until the sun's early rays came glaring in at the casement that they both rose, and thought of awakening Flora, who had now slept soundly for so many hours.

I am stunned that this fascinating conversation was not given three chapters of its own. The printer must have put his foot down and said, "I can pay you by the line, not the ton."

CHAPTER VI.

A GLANCE AT THE BANNERWORTH FAMILY. -- THE PROBABLE CONSEQUENCES OF THE MYSTERIOUS APPARITION'S APPEARANCE.

Rymer trusts that it would not be unideal to acquaint us further with the Beaumont Bannerworth family. Short version: previous heads of the Bannerworth family were a bunch of hell-raisin' runnagate gamblers, and thus noble Henry and his family are now quietly penniless. We are told that his father, Marmaduke Bannerworth, Oh Why Not the Second, was "found lying dead" (of what: not specified. sus? absolutely) in the garden, with only an unfinished message written in pencil:

"The money is -- -- " And then there was a long scrawl of the pencil, which seemed to have been occasioned by his sudden decease.

Of course there was. To ramp up the foreshadowing that James Malcolm Rymer might never, ever follow up on, we're also told,

He had, but a few hours before he was found lying dead, made the following singular speech to Henry, -- "Do not regret, Henry, that the old house which has been in our family so long is about to be parted with. Be assured that, if it is but for the first time in my life, I have good and substantial reasons now for what I am about to do. We shall be able to go to some other country, and there live like princes of the land." Where the means were to come from to live like a prince, unless Mr. Bannerworth had some of the German princes in his eye, no one knew but himself, and his sudden death buried with him that most important secret.

Henry, of course, never gets to find out wtf this means. Not entirely sure what the drive-by snark at German princes is about, either. (At this point, the German Confederation was still a few short years away from the Revolutions of 1848. A Regent's Council was ruling Austria for Ferdinand I, who served as a de facto president of the Confederation; the whole thing was decentralized, "weak and ineffective," and so I'm guessing individual princes had a good bit of money and power? I have no idea what this has to do with Marmaduke II's plans.)

So the current Bannerworths, they are broke. And then, suddenly, Random J. Solicitor, Esq., from London writes them to say, "Look, I have this client. I can't tell you who it is, but he'll pay you a shitload of money for the Hall." The Bannerworths want to hold onto the ancestral hall, mortgages and debts and all. "No, seriously. Anything you want." Even the Bannerworths' own lawyer is like, SERIOUSLY, WHY WON'T YOU TAKE THE MONEY? Well, because it's their ancestral family home, and also… there's this guy who likes Flora, and they want to make sure he can drop in on them someday. Because, if they move, they have no way of letting him know.

Now, in 2010, I wrote rather dryly, "I don't know how we survived before Facebook, you guys." The subtext here was, I already hated Facebook and used it, like, twice in my whole life, mostly as a mobile game login. Obviously, this statement hits different in 2023; I'm not sure we'll survive anyway, but this is the gag I wrote 12-13 years ago, and I stand by it:

Flora Bannerworth thinks that Italy is beautiful this time of year

Flora Bannerworth is GOING OVER A CLIFF O NOES!!2!

Charles Holland is saving some random girl he's never met before from certain death-----

Henry Bannerworth likes this-----

George Bannerworth likes this-----

Mrs. Bannerworth likes this

Henry Bannerworth has invited Charles Holland to join The Quietly Penniless Bannerworth Family

And thus, 620 words later, we are introduced to Charles Holland, Artist by Profession, Traveling for Instruction and Amusement, Loved by Everyone (But Especially Flora). Literally, he saved her from a terrific stormy abyss, into which she nearly damseled into off a cliff, and surely would have perished thereunto. Charles Holland then had Somewhere Else to Be for two years—but when he gets done with Something, at Someplace with No Address, he will absolutely come back and look Flora up at Bannerworth Hall! So we definitely cannot move, y'all.

With one exception this was the state of affairs at the hall, and that exception relates to Mr. Marchdale.

Ah: Mrs. Bannerworth's childhood sweetheart, failed suitor, and "distant relative"—shoulda been her cousin, Marchdale, you would've had a far better chance. While we're here, I should tell you my theory about why so many heroines in nineteenth century literature end up marrying their cousins. (An unparalleled example: Louisa May Alcott's Eight Cousins and its sequel Rose in Bloom, in which the Campbell family waits breathlessly to see which of a HERD of male cousins young heiress Rose will marry. She chooses the nerd.) I think it's because cousins were allowed to interact like siblings—that is, like friends—whereas mere acquaintances were held apart from young women by a certain degree of convention and propriety. Courtship was often ridiculously formal, particularly as the century wore on. So, for a writer, it would be really appealing to have a male character in place that your heroine can even just be around, someone the reader can witness her having an emotional relationship with—not just a superficial introduction, then a perfunctory proposal. So it's far more narratively satisfying to go with "the cousin we've known for the entire book" instead of "cousin's random friend we saw three times." Even Charles Holland rapidly gets promoted to—well, we'll get to that.

Instead, Mrs. Bannerworth "had, as is generally the case among several admirers, chosen the very worst: that is, the man who had treated her with the most indifference and who paid her the least attention." Not to mention, a dissipated gambler. Good to see that, even back in the day, the Bad Boy Fallacy was already in effect.

So, after the Very Worst turned up dead in the garden, Marchdale renewed his attentions to his old flame and distant relative, the Widow Bannerworth:

It might have been some slight tenderness towards him which had never left her, or it might be the pleasure merely of seeing one whom she had known intimately in early life, but, be that as it may, she certainly gave him a kindly welcome; and he, after consenting to remain for some time as a visitor at the hall, won the esteem of the whole family by his frank demeanour and cultivated intellect.

Marchdale (we are told) is well-traveled, courteous, spins a good yarn on a dull 1840s night, and has "a small [financial] independence of his own," so he's actually better off than the family hosting him, and finds ways to support them. This is the Bannerworth household, all told, and they're making it work. Sometimes a family is a widow, her three adult children, her cousin-suitor, and his crowbar.

Such then may be considered by our readers as a brief outline of the state of affairs among the Bannerworths -- a state which was pregnant with changes, and which changes were now likely to be rapid and conclusive. How far the feelings of the family towards the ancient house of their race would be altered by the appearance at it of so fearful a visitor as a vampyre, we will not stop to inquire, inasmuch as such feelings will develop themselves as we proceed.

Well—wait. What? "Altered by the appearance at it of"? What the hell is this? God, it's like the literary equivalent of a speed bump. Anyway: all the servants promptly quit. Sorry—the feelings of the domestics inasmuch as the domestics could afford to have feelings were inevitably altered towards the desirability of the wages paid thereunto by the appearance of a fucking vampire. Ugh. Nobody wants to work these days.

(Chapter 7 will go up Friday, March 31.)

[nerves-nebula]

I gotta write a fanfic about the adventures of George Bannerworth & what he does after disappearing from the narrative

Like after a life of neglect he uses his forgettability for the better and is secretly behind all the bizzare unexplained plot points

Maybe he joins the townspeople in their LARKS

[0bfvscate]

Varney The Vampire Canon as Understood by the Antiques Freaks Patreon Exclusives:

Jack and Admiral Bell are gay married

Flora Bannerworth is her generation's Slayer but can't hear her calling because, as an upper class British woman, she lacks two braincells to rub together

Mister Chillingworth doesn't want there to be a vampire panic because he has been stealing bodies out of the cemetery for years

A vampire is a type of fish

The dead butcher is gay and also a vampire

The dead gay butcher returned just long enough to turn his boyfriend and possibly their adopted son. Either way, they are all living their best life in the next town over.

Sir Frances Varney doesn't have any special vampire abilities except leaving a bad situation so fast he can cut a perfect outline of himself in a building's outer wall

George Bannerworth slept through the Bannerworth's evacuation of their house and now lives like Kevin in Home Alone in the abandoned wing of the hall

Sir Frances is actually kind of hot

Let me know if I missed any

[antiquesfreaks]

Our friend Olivia @0bfvscate rejoins us for the chapter wherein the Bannerworths FINALLY LEAVE THE DAMN HALL! (Except for George, who is left behind Home Alone style.)

Check out Olivia's short speculative fiction and essays at ofcieri.com, and buy her spooky urban fantasy novel LORD OF THUNDERTOWN!

[mayhemchicken-varneyposting]

Varney the Vampire, Chapter 2: A Conspicuous Lack Of Lizard Fashion

[Previous chapter] [Next chapter]

The other occupants of the house - two young men, their mother, and Some Guy - are awakened by a scream. They stand around talking about it for several minutes instead of taking action, but eventually conclude that By God, It Came From Flora's Chamber! We Must Investigate At Once! After Another Page Or So Of Pointless Dialogue, Of Course. And so, armed with pistols, a crowbar, and enough lines of pointless chatter to pay Rymer's rent for the week, the two young men (Henry and George) and the older gentleman (Marchdale) force the door to Flora's room. Henry rushes inside and is immediately tackled and bowled over by the vampire, who then rushes for the window. Marchdale whips out his 18th-century Glock 17 and fires on the creature; it's unclear whether the bullet connects. The vampire turns to look at them for just long enough for us to see that his face is now flushed with fresh blood; then he jumps out the window, cackling. The three men run after him; the mother, who is not named now or ever, runs into the bedroom and faints at the sight of the bloodied Flora.

They find the vampire trying and failing to jump over the garden wall, and spend several minutes watching him do this instead of doing anything to stop him. Finally, just as he manages to reach the top of the wall, Henry shoots him and he falls off the other side.

Chapter 1, for all its grammatical clumsiness, was decently engaging and fun to read. Chapter 2 rapidly introduces four new characters, gives the name of only one of them, and drops a solid wall of conversation between the four with almost no dialogue tags to distinguish them. The effect feels a bit like being dropped down an open manhole.

As Flora's line hinted in Chapter 1, Rymer has a remarkable anti-gift for writing dialogue. His plodding, stilted, meandering conversations sound like no human being who has ever lived, and frequently disregard the urgency of a situation in favor of being as wordy as possible. A small sample:

"Did you hear a scream, Harry?" asked a young man, half-dressed, as he walked into the chamber of another about his own age.

"I did—where was it?"

"God knows. I dressed myself directly."

"All is still now."

"Yes; but unless I was dreaming there was a scream."

"We could not both dream there was. Where did you think it came from?"

"It burst so suddenly upon my ears that I cannot say."

There was a tap now at the door of the room where these young men were, and a female voice said— "For God's sake, get up!"

"We are up," said both the young men, appearing.

"Did you hear anything?"

"Yes, a scream."

And on and on it goes. Boys, your sister is fucking under attack - you might want to move a LITTLE faster than this!

Eventually Mr. Marchdale, who is not their father but a family friend who is staying in their house for whatever reason, spurs the young men into action, and the three of them set to work prying open the locked door to Flora's room. Varney's feeding must be VERY loud, as they can hear it through the thick oak door:

"I hear a strange noise within," said the young man, who trembled violently.

"And so do I. What does it sound like?"

"I scarcely know; but it nearest resembles some animal eating, or sucking some liquid."

I will restrain myself from making the obvious joke.

The three men spend a few minutes forcing the door with a crowbar. Then, out of nowhere, the narration drops the following gem:

How true it is that we measure time by the events which happen within a given space of it, rather than by its actual duration.

Very ADHD of you, Rymer. I'm not about to armchair diagnose the man - I do not think this paid-by-the-line vampire story is particularly insightful of the way his mind works - but I will say that reading this story is what having unmedicated ADHD feels like. My brain, bereft of dopamine, is getting paid by the thought.

Anyway.

Henry runs into the room so fast that the candle he's holding nearly goes out; then Varney leaps at him from the bed like a cat with the zoomies and knocks the candle out of his hand, putting it out for real.

But Mr. Marchdale was a man of mature years; he had seen much of life, both in this and in foreign lands; and he, although astonished to the extent of being frightened, was much more likely to recover sooner than his younger companions, which, indeed, he did, and acted promptly enough.

Doesn't Rymer just have such a way with words.

Marchdale draws a pistol, which the narrator takes great pains to point out is a REAL gun, NOT a toy, and fires on Varney, which doesn't appear to do much except piss him off. Varney turns to him, and we see that his face is reddened with blood, and his eyes are now glowing and emitting little crackling lightning bolts. Yes, really. For a moment he seems about to pounce; then he changes his mind and leaps out the window instead.

"God help us!" ejaculated Henry.

I love reading 19th century books.

Marchdale gives chase, with Henry and George trailing behind him. At some point he manages to grab hold of Varney, tearing off a scrap of his clothing. The three of them find the vampire trying to jump over a 12-foot-high garden wall. For some reason, Varney's repeated failed attempts to jump over the wall are horrifying to them rather than comical, and they stand there watching him bound at the wall like a cat in a viral video, falling to the ground over and over again. It's not until he finally manages to reach the top of the wall that any of them think "hey wait, maybe we should try and stop him or something." At that point, Henry shoots him, and he falls down on the other side of the wall.

Next: We check back in on poor Flora.

[mayhemchicken-varneyposting]

Varney the Vampire, Chapter 8: Checkmate Atheists

[Previous chapter] [Next chapter]

The party looks around the vault. It's spoopy in there, creppy even, and Henry and George are creeped out. Everyone begins to examine the coffins in the vault, only to find that the older coffins are so fragile that they crumble to dust with a touch. Finally they find a coffin plate with the name of the ancestor they are looking for, who is now named Marmaduke instead of Runnagate for some reason. It's been detached from its coffin, so they scan the coffins with no plate to figure out which one it came from. Eventually, they find the matching coffin; the death date is off by a century, but no one comments on this, so it appears to be a mistake by the author.

The coffin opens easily, and appears to be empty except for a few rotten scraps of cloth. Chillingworth confirms that no dead body appears to have ever been placed in the coffin, at least not one that underwent any amount of decomposition. This news is greatly disheartening to Henry, George, and Marchdale, but not to Chillingworth, who makes the bold claim that he would not believe in vampires if one bit him on the neck. He goes on to say that he also does not believe in miracles, because he believes every phenomenon has a scientific explanation.

The group leaves the vault. Henry remarks that his family is cursed by Heaven, which Chillingworth scoffs at. As they close up the vault and leave the church, Chillingworth attempts to counsel Henry, telling him that the best thing to do is stubbornly refuse to accept his situation, and get really angry instead. Henry comments that this approach sounds a lot like defying Heaven, to which Chillingworth replies that it is nothing of the sort, because if God didn't want us to defy our circumstances He would not have given us defiance in the first place. He then makes the mistake of saying all religion which cannot be rationally explained is merely allegory, and Henry straightens up and gives a moving religious speech, God's Not Dead style, which stuns Chillingworth into silence. The narrator then soapboxes a whole bunch about how religious people always win arguments with atheists because their arguments are so much more true and correct.

My god this chapter is wild. Can you believe the part where they break into a grave looking for a vampire is the boring half of this chapter?

Last time I commented that Henry and George seemed not to know how decomposition worked. This time, it becomes obvious that Rymer himself does not know how decomposition works.

"Some of the earlier coffins of our race, I know, were made of marble, and others of metal, both of which materials, I expect, would withstand the encroaches of time for a hundred years, at least." [...] When, however, they came to look, they found that "decay's offensive fingers" had been more busy than they could have imagined, and that whatever they touched of the earlier coffins crumbled into dust before their very fingers.

How fucking old are these coffins, Rymer??

Next we get a stunning display of just how much Rymer Does Not Care about consistency. First off, Runnagate Bannerworth has changed names - he is now Marmaduke. I don't know how Rymer bungled the name this badly. The name "Runnagate" is never mentioned again.

(Eagle eyed readers may note that I tagged Dad Bannerworth as "marmaduke bannerworth" a couple chapters ago. This is because Rymer later changed his mind on who Marmaduke is.)

The coffins in this vault consist of two layers, an outer and an inner coffin. The outer coffins are mostly wood, with coffin plates affixed to the top, while the inner ones are metal and have inscriptions engraved on them directly. The coffin plate and coffin inscriptions for Marmaduke Bannerworth are as follows:

"Ye mortale remains of Marmaduke Bannerworth, Yeoman. God reste his soule. A.D. 1540."

"Marmaduke Bannerworth, Yeoman, 1640."

Most probably one of these is a typo; I find it hard to imagine even Rymer forgetting which century a guy died in within the space of a single page. It could also be that he truly gave that little of a shit.

Chillingworth roots around in Marmaduke's coffin for a bit before dispassionately reporting that it contains no body, nor any signs of one having decomposed. It's at this point that the chapter really starts to get interesting, as Rymer takes Chillingworth's established character as a skeptic and dials it up as far as it will possibly go, culminating in a Christian-vs-atheist debate between him and Henry and a fairly lengthy editorial from Rymer himself. It isn't clear to me just what Rymer is trying to do with the character of Chillingworth; at all other points in the story, he appears to be a voice of reason and a cool head, with his viewpoints and actions largely considered to be sane and reasonable ones, examples worthy of emulation. Yet here, for a single chapter, Rymer puts him on a soapbox and uses him to make a point about how much he, the author, hates atheism. Evidently Rymer's careless inconsistency extends to the themes of the text and the treatment of the characters; Chillingworth is the model of reason until Rymer needs him not to be, then he becomes a strawman who believes in skepticism like a religion, and whose cold objectivity is evidently meant to come across as harsh and unreasonable.

"Then you are one who would doubt a miracle, if you saw it with your own eyes." "I would, because I do not believe in miracles. I should endeavour to find some rational and some scientific means of accounting for the phenomenon, and that's the very reason why we have no miracles now-a-days, between you and I, and no prophets and saints, and all that sort of thing." "I would rather avoid such observations in such a place as this," said Marchdale. "Nay, do not be the moral coward," cried Mr. Chillingworth, "to make your opinions, or the expression of them, dependent upon any certain locality."

Interestingly, Chillingworth is not a true atheist, professing to a belief in Heaven. I'm not sure if this is because true atheism wasn't really a Thing yet in the 1840s or Rymer just chickened out.

"I am satisfied," said Henry; "I know you both advised me for the best. The curse of Heaven seems now to have fallen upon me and my house." "Oh, nonsense!" said Chillingworth. "What for?" "Alas! I know not." "Then you may depend that Heaven would never act so oddly. In the first place, Heaven don't curse anybody; and, in the second, it is too just to inflict pain where pain is not amply deserved."

Oddly, even though the entire back half of this chapter is setting up Chillingworth's extreme skepticism for Henry to get a sick Christian dunk on at the end, the narrative still seems to want to position Chillingworth's point of view as an admirable one:

Mr. Chillingworth's was the only plan. He would not argue the question. He said at once,— "I will not believe this thing—upon this point I will yield to no evidence whatever." That was the only way of disposing of such a question; but there are not many who could so dispose of it[...]

Rymer is definitely trying to make a point in this chapter - he has all the subtlety of an elephant playing a church organ - but he's muddied it so much that it's difficult to know what to take away here. Am I supposed to like or dislike Chillingworth? Am I meant to agree with him or scoff at his viewpoints? The author himself seems unable to make up his mind.

As we approach the God's Not Dead Epic Dunk, Chillingworth imparts some advice to Henry which would be right at home on Twitter:

"Now, when anything occurs which is uncomfortable to me, I endeavour to convince myself, and I have no great difficulty in doing so, that I am a decidedly injured man."

He has a very high opinion of his own opinions.

"I know these are your opinions. I have heard you mention them before." "They are the opinions of every rational person. Henry Bannerworth, because they will stand the test of reason[...]"

And now we come to the climax of the chapter, when Henry finally speaks out in defiance of Chillingworth's opinions. With apologies for the long ass quote:

"I consider so, and the most rational religion of all. All that we read about religion that does not seem expressly to agree with it, you may consider as an allegory." "But, Mr. Chillingworth, I cannot and will not renounce the sublime truths of Scripture. They may be incomprehensible; they may be inconsistent; and some of them may look ridiculous; but still they are sacred and sublime, and I will not renounce them although my reason may not accord with them, because they are the laws of Heaven." No wonder this powerful argument silenced Mr. Chillingworth, who was one of those characters in society who hold most dreadful opinions, and who would destroy religious beliefs, and all the different sects in the world, if they could, and endeavour to introduce instead some horrible system of human reason and profound philosophy. But how soon the religious man silences his opponent; and let it not be supposed that, because his opponent says no more upon the subject, he does so because he is disgusted with the stupidity of the other; no, it is because he is completely beaten, and has nothing more to say.

I hope my flippant jokes throughout this commentary haven't given the wrong idea here; I have no desire to knock on religion as a whole. But Rymer's soapbox at the end of this chapter is laughably pathetic. Henry's "argument" really isn't arguing anything at all; he's just stating a declaration of faith. The author's two paragraphs of lecturing the audience directly read like bluster. This is a really sad defense of faith; whether you are a believer or not, I think we can all agree that this passage is pretty cringe.

Rymer has one last psychic gutpunch to deliver before he closes the chapter out:

Mr. Chillingworth, who was a very good man, notwithstanding his disbelief in certain things of course paved the way for him to hell,

"Chillingworth is a good guy. He's going to hell though."

What the fuck, Rymer.

Next: FLORA'S GOT A GUN, YOU BETTER RUN

[mayhemchicken-varneyposting]

Varney the Vampire, Chapter 7: Much Ado About Matches

[Previous chapter] [Next chapter]

It's morning now, and Flora is awake and feeling much better. Henry and George agree to not tell her about the events of the previous night. Henry is fixated on the idea of investigating the family crypt, so George and Marchdale agree to accompany him on an expedition. Marchdale says they ought to go secretly in the dead of night, and the others agree that this is the sensible and reasonable thing to do. The only trouble is that all three of them going would leave Flora unprotected. Henry talks to Flora, without actually telling her where they're going, and she says she will be alright by herself. Henry gets the bright idea to leave a couple of guns with her, so that if the vampire comes by again she can blast him. Flora, who apparently has experience with firearms and is a good shot, agrees to this. Marchdale suggests they invite Chillingworth to come along, which they do.

That evening, Henry, George, and Marchdale set off for the church where the Bannerworth family vault is located, armed with tools for a break-in. However, Marchdale has forgotten to bring matches, even though it was his idea to visit the tomb at night. Fortunately, at the exact moment he realizes this they run into Chillingworth, who happens to always carry matches on his person. Convenient!

They reach the church, and the author pauses to complain for an entire paragraph about old buildings in Kent being pulled down to make way for modern ones. They set about breaking into first the church and then the vault. Chillingworth gripes extensively about there being no secrets to find here except the smell, which begs the question of why he tagged along on this mission in the first place.

Inside the vault, Marchdale pulls out the candles he brought along and realizes that he did bring matches after all, rendering a whole page of this story entirely pointless.

In this chapter, it begins to become clear that Flora is by far the most competent character in the cast. It's a damn shame, then, that she is never allowed to do anything. From a different author I might take this as commentary; however, in Rymer's case it's merely a symptom of poor writing. Flora is competent because she never gets to do anything, meaning the author does not have to hand her the idiot ball repeatedly in order to keep his plot going.

Henry and George have a long conversation about decomposition rates, during which they show an alarming lack of knowledge about how bones work. Boys, I'm pretty sure skeletons keep for more than a hundred years.

"What then, do you suppose, could remain of any corpse placed in a vault so long ago?" "Decomposition must of course have done its work, but still there must be a something to show that a corpse has so undergone the process common to all nature. Double the lapse of time surely could not obliterate all traces of that which had been."

We learn Marchdale went out to search the garden one more time, but found no trace of any vampire. Once again, he shies away from confronting the reality of the situation. All these characters actively shun being genre-aware.

"The fact is, that although at your solicitation I went to bed, I could not sleep, and I went out once more to search about the spot where we had seen the—the I don't know what to call it, for I have a great dislike to naming it a vampyre." "There is not much in a name," said George. "In this instance there is," said Marchdale. "It is a name suggestive of horror."

Marchdale is very much in favor of visiting the tomb, reasoning that if they find no evidence of a vampire then they'll put their minds at ease, and if they do, then they'll only be in roughly the same place they were already. He then proposes that they conduct their mission in secret, in the dead of night, reasoning that since daylight cannot get into the tomb anyway, there's no harm in going at night. I would accept this logic in Minecraft, but here...well, see what I said about genre awareness. This is how you get eaten by vampires, dude. At the very least, you're going to psych yourselves out way more going at night. Don't you remember the daylight has literal physical properties of soothing the mind?

"There is ample evidence," said Mr. Marchdale, "but we must not give Flora a night of sleeplessness and uneasiness on that account, and the more particularly as we cannot well explain to her where we are going, or upon what errand."

In a better story, they would have told Flora what they were doing, and she would have insisted on coming with them, guns and all. Alas.

"Oh, I shall be quite content. Besides, am I to be kept thus in fear all my life? Surely, surely not. I ought, too, to learn to defend myself." Henry caught at the idea, as he said,— "If fire-arms were left you, do you think you would have courage to use them?" "I do, Henry." "Then you shall have them; and let me beg of you to shoot any one without the least hesitation who shall come into your chamber." "I will, Henry. If ever human being was justified in the use of deadly weapons, I am now."

This exchange still kind of rules though.

After some discussion of Flora by Henry, George, and Marchdale, during which they conclude that she is exceptional and that "most" women her age would never have recovered from what she experienced (this isn't even true in the universe of Varney the Vampire), we reach the tedious and pointless Three Stooges routine with the matches. What stands out most about this sequence is how unnecessary it is; it seems to only exist to pad the wordcount, and has the side effect of making all the characters look like incompetent clowns.

Many words are spent on describing the church; most of them are not very descriptive.

There were numerous arched windows, partaking something of the more florid gothic style, although scarcely ornamental enough to be called such. The edifice stood in the centre of a grave-yard, which extended over a space of about half an acre, and altogether it was one of the prettiest and most rural old churches within many miles of the spot.

Rymer briefly pauses the story to grouse about something in the present day, a habit he will return to throughout the book.

In Kent, to the present day, are some fine specimens of the old Roman style of church, building; and, although they are as rapidly pulled down as the abuse of modern architects, and the cupidity of speculators, and the vanity of clergymen can possibly encourage, in older to erect flimsy, Italianised structures in their stead, yet sufficient of them remain dotted over England to interest the traveller.

Holy comma abuse, Batman.

Now give it up for...character breaking a small pane of glass, reaching a hand through, and undoing a window clasp!

"The only way I can think of," said Henry, "is to get out one of the small diamond-shaped panes of glass from one of the low windows, and then we can one of us put in our hands, and undo the fastening, which is very simple, when the window opens like a door, and it is but a step into the church."

I told you Rymer loves doing this.

Chillingworth continues to be irritating.

"The secrets of a fiddlestick!" said the doctor. "What secrets has the tomb I wonder?" "Well, but, my dear sir—" "Nay, my dear sir, it is high time that death, which is, then, the inevitable fate of us all, should be regarded with more philosophic eyes than it is. There are no secrets in the tomb but such as may well be endeavoured to be kept secret."

He's referring to the smell of decay in that last sentence. I dunno, Chillingworth, I think tombs and graves frequently hold secrets. There are entire scientific and criminal investigative fields devoted to this. If you're so convinced there are no secrets to be uncovered here, then why the hell did you come along in the first place?

The chapter ends with the infuriating conclusion to the match saga.

"Why, these are instantaneous matches," said Mr. Chillingworth, as he lifted the small packet up. "They are; and what a fruitless journey I should have had back to the hall," said Mr. Marchdale, "if you had not been so well provided as you are with the means of getting a light. These matches, which I thought I had not with me, have been, in the hurry of departure, enclosed, you see, with the candles. Truly, I should have hunted for them at home in vain."

You didn't have to write it this way, Rymer.

Next: Several narrative inconsistencies are unearthed

[mayhemchicken-varneyposting]

Varney the Vampire, Chapter 18: Talk Shit Get Hit

[Previous chapter] [Next chapter]

The bell at the gate continues to ring wildly until George, annoyed, goes to answer it. It's Admiral Bell and Jack Pringle! They're here to see Charles, but they're very bad at explaining themselves and George is already pissed off.

While the three of them argue, Jack Pringle spots a commotion some distance away, which turns out to be Varney and Marchdale having an argument. Suddenly, Varney bitchslaps Marchdale in the face, and he falls to the ground.

Varney runs off, and Marchdale returns to the others. The Admiral and Jack reintroduce themselves in obnoxiously nautical fashion. Charles and Henry show up, and Charles is surprised to see his uncle. He promises to give him a full explanation once he's gotten permission from Henry to do so.

The narrative now goes on hold to explain Charles' situation in more detail. Charles has an inheritance waiting for when he turns 22; however, since the age of discretion (financial independence, I assume) is 21, his lawyer advised him to take a 2-year vacation in Europe to avoid being preyed on by money-lenders. This plan hit a snag when he met Flora while on his vacation, and fell for her so hard that he was unable to resist returning to England a little early to see her.

Charles meets with Henry, who grants him permission to tell Admiral Bell everything. He also asks Henry how Flora's doing; Henry replies that she's doing better, but could use something to distract her from The Horrors. Charles pulls a random short story out of his backpack and gives it to Henry to give to Flora.

Not much happens in this chapter; it's about two thirds sailor speak by volume. I'll skip right to the good part, which is MARCHDALE GETTING PUNCHED

HELL YEAH GET HIS ASS

Marchdale confirms for us another of Varney's precious few supernatural characteristics:

"I threatened to follow him, but he struck me to the earth as easily as I could a child. His strength is superhuman."

He can't lizard climb or shapeshift, but he sure can throw a punch.

The Admiral and Jack proceed to give Marchdale about the cartooniest introduction they can possibly muster:

"Oh, you may know my name as soon as you like," cried the admiral. "The enemies of old England know it, and I don't care if all the world knows it. I'm old Admiral Bell, something of a hulk now, but still able to head a quarter-deck if there was any need to do so." "Ay, ay," cried Jack, and taking from his pocket a boatswain's whistle, he blew a blast so long, and loud, and shrill, that George was fain to cover his ears with his hands to shut out the brain-piercing, and, to him unusual sound.

Jack Pringle's relationship to the Admiral is sort of clarified, sort of not? I for one am going to be gleefully misinterpreting the "not exactly a servant" line.

"Come in, sir," said George, "I will conduct you to Mr. Holland. I presume this is your servant?" "Why, not exactly. That's Jack Pringle, he was my boatswain, you see, and now he's a kind o' something betwixt and between. Not exactly a servant."

In another moment of surprising quality, I really like the first interaction between Charles and his uncle. The dynamic between them is a lot of fun.

"Your uncle!" said Henry. "Yes, as good a hearted a man as ever drew breath, and yet, withal, as full of prejudices, and as ignorant of life, as a child." Without waiting for any reply from Henry, Charles Holland rushed forward, and seizing his uncle by the hand, he cried, in tones of genuine affection,— "Uncle, dear uncle, how came you to find me out?" "Charley, my boy," cried the old man, "bless you; I mean, confound your d——d impudence; you rascal, I'm glad to see you; no, I ain't, you young mutineer. What do you mean by it, you ugly, ill-looking, d——d fine fellow—my dear boy. Oh, you infernal scoundrel." All this was accompanied by a shaking of the hand, which was enough to dislocate anybody's shoulder, and which Charles was compelled to bear as well as he could.

The banter between these two is delightful. Charles is less of a cartoon character than his uncle, and talks and acts accordingly, and the resulting conversational clash is incredibly entertaining.

"And here you see Admiral Bell, my most worthy, but rather eccentric uncle." "Confound your impudence." "What brought him here I cannot tell; but he is a brave officer, and a gentleman." "None of your nonsense," said the admiral.

The story now goes on hold in order to clarify what the deal is with Charles' two-year vacation.

A very few words will suffice to explain the precise position in which Charles Holland was.

By "a very few words" he means about 600, for the record.

Charles' little backstory is rather contrived and not very interesting. It's one of those details where, had the author not brought it up, I would not have bothered to ask. It does clue us into one thing: Charles is set to be loaded in the near future.

Charles goes to ask Henry's permission to tell his uncle about all the vampire drama, which is frankly unnecessary because Henry already said he could earlier when Admiral Bell was being introduced. The real purpose of their meeting, however, is for Charles to give Henry this random manuscript he happens to have on him, so Flora can read it as a distraction from her troubles. Why all the fuss about this? Haha. Well. We shall see.

Next: Varney the Vampire will return after this short break

[mayhemchicken-varneyposting]

Varney the Vampire, Chapter 5: My God, He's...Unfashionable!

[Previous chapter] [Next chapter]

After learning some troubling new facts about vampires, Henry sits around dissociating for 15 minutes before being interrupted by George, who's brought him a mysterious letter from one Sir Francis Varney. Varney is his neighbor, who recently moved into the neighborhood and wants to be friends, but apparently not enough to get the family's name right. Henry and George are introverts and don't want to be this guy's friend, so they resolve to ignore him and hope he goes away.

The full moon rises, and the brothers and Marchdale gather in Flora's room to keep watch while she sleeps. Marchdale suddenly remembers that he tore the vampire's clothes while chasing him the previous night, and pulls out the scrap of cloth. It looks (and smells) like part of a hundred-year-old coat. They all agree to simply pretend this little piece of evidence had never come up, until a few hours into their watch when Marchdale realizes that the scrap looks a lot like the outfit the guy in the portrait is wearing. This idea is so troubling to them that Henry and Marchdale immediately run across the hall to compare the two, and sure enough they match exactly. Henry mentions that, funnily enough, the man in the portrait was buried in his clothes.

Just then, they're interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the garden outside. They rush out with the intention of shooting the intruder, who they assume is the vampire, but it turns out to be Chillingworth. Chillingworth is a huge busybody, and couldn't resist lying in wait near the house to see if the supposed vampire would turn up. After reconvening briefly with George, Henry, Marchdale, and Chillingworth decide to conduct a sweep of the grounds. They climb up on top of the garden wall in order to have a better vantage point, and from there they spot a human figure lying under a tree. As they watch, the light of the moon falls upon the figure, and it begins to sit up and move.

Immediately, Marchdale shoots it, and it falls to the ground once more. The three of them run to investigate the figure, which gets up again and runs away from them, managing to evade them in the woods. All three of them remark that the figure appeared to be wearing hundred-year-old clothes. This cinches it for Henry, who is now completely convinced that the figure is his ancestor risen as a vampire. Chillingworth, on the other hand, stubbornly insists there's no such thing as vampires. Marchdale proposes that, to put the matter to rest, they go and visit the family crypt and investigate the tomb of Henry's ancestor for signs of disturbance.

We have word from Varney! He's sent Henry a letter, in which he calls him "Mr. Beaumont", which is hilarious and probably not intentional on the part of the author. Rymer is, as we will see, hopelessly bad at keeping his character names consistent. Varney lives in an estate called Ratford Abbey, which he moved into a few days ago and is located very close to the Bannerworth house.

Henry makes explicit for the first time the Bannerworths' dire financial situation, which has previously only been alluded to. The family was once wealthy, but successive generations of irresponsible Bannerworth men have depleted the family fortune, and now they are so poor that Henry fears they may not be able to keep their house much longer. Due to these circumstances, Henry doesn't want to make any new acquaintances. He is sure that Sir Francis Varney, being a gentleman, will pick up on this and not push the matter. Sure, Henry, let's go with that.

Like every girl I knew in middle school, the men in this book insist on doing everything in groups, and sure enough, Henry, George, and Marchdale all end up keeping watch in Flora's room. George insists on joining because his nerves will keep him up all night otherwise, and Marchdale insists because he, being older, has a cooler head than the other two. Immediately after making this assertion he tells them that if he catches the vampire tonight he's gonna wrassle it. The three of them reason that a three-person watch is not overkill because that way, if something distracting happens, they can send two people to investigate it and leave the third behind to keep watch. And boy, can these gentlemen get distracted. First they simply HAVE to go across the hall to compare Marchdale's cloth scrap with the painting (can it not wait until morning?), and then when Chillingworth makes his appearance they make a spur-of-the-moment decision to search the grounds of the house, on the grounds that Chillingworth thought he heard something on the other side of the garden wall.

Themes of denial and aversion continue to crop up. As evidence of the vampire mounts, the men continually remind each other not to do anything so rash as believe in the obvious conclusion:

"Say nothing of this relic of last night's work to any one." "Be assured I shall not. I am far from wishing to keep up in any one's mind proofs of that which I would fain, very fain refute."

Henry tells us that the ancestor in the portrait committed suicide. While never directly stated as such by the text, this is another hint; one folkloric belief is that death by suicide could lead to a person becoming a vampire.

Hearing a noise from outside, they assume the vampire has returned, and in doing so nearly shoot Chillingworth:

"Among the laurels. I will fire a random shot, and we may do some execution." "Hold!" said a voice from below; "don't do any such thing, I beg of you." "Why, that is Mr. Chillingworth's voice," cried Henry. "Yes, and it's Mr. Chillingworth's person, too," said the doctor, as he emerged from among some laurel bushes.

You know, it's funny that it never occurs to anyone that Chillingworth might be the vampire. So far the guy has been behaving very suspiciously.

Chillingworth says he heard something, so naturally a search of the grounds is in order. They return to Flora's room to tell George their plan. George agrees to stay behind, but not before arming himself with a sword, which he was keeping in his bedroom. I assume that sort of thing was more normal in the 18th century.

Chillingworth continues to be suspicious, or at the very least incredibly nosy:

"You are, no doubt, much surprised at finding me here," said the doctor; "but the fact is, I half made up my mind to come while I was here; but I had not thoroughly done so, therefore I said nothing to you about it."

They fetch a ladder from the garden, and use it to climb to the top of the wall Varney spent five minutes failing to climb the previous night. From this vantage point, they catch sight of a mysterious figure lying underneath a tree. Is the implication that he's been lying there all night?

The moon slowly rises higher in the sky, until the moonlight falls on the ground below the tree. As the light falls over the figure, they see him move, convulse, and then slowly begin to get to his feet - at which point Marchdale shoots him, laying him low again. Rude, Marchdale.

Of course, as Marchdale points out, they could stand around shooting him all night - so long as the moon shines on him, he'll keep getting up again. And get up he does, just in time to evade Chillingworth running at him. Off runs the vampire into the dark woods, where none of the three men dare give chase. Henry has been greatly shaken by all this, and finally sheds the air of forced denial which the men had all adopted. I would think this sensible if it led to him taking any action - stock up on garlic, perhaps? - but that's not how this book works. Believer or skeptic, all are equally incompetent. Case in point: Chillingworth, quite the opposite of Henry, stubbornly refutes the notion that what they just witnessed was in any way supernatural. Does he have an explanation, then, for what just happened?

"True; I saw a man lying down, and then I saw a man get up; he seemed then to be shot, but whether he was or not he only knows; and then I saw him walk off in a desperate hurry. Beyond that, I saw nothing."

You saw a man wearing hundred-year-old clothes, matching the appearance of the one who broke into the Bannerworth house last night, who in turn matches the appearance of their hundred-years-dead ancestor. At the very least you should suspect foul play of some kind.

Marchdale winds up being the voice of reason, as the only one of these dumbasses to come up with an actionable suggestion: hey, if we think this guy might be Vampire Runnagate Bannerworth, why don't we go check on him and see if his grave's been disturbed? The chapter ends there, with the three of them reconvening with George and telling him of their new plan, and all four of them committing to carry it out.

Next: The author stalls for time with an entire chapter of exposition.

[mayhemchicken-varneyposting]

Varney the Vampire, Chapter 4: Guys I Think It Might Be A Vampire

[Previous chapter] [Next chapter]

Morning dawns, so bright and clear and beautiful you can practically hear the Peer Gynt suite in the background. Henry, who has been casting paranoid looks at the creepy portrait all night, is much relieved. Flora wakes up, and she's still freaked out from last night. Henry, after making a token attempt to comfort her, calls his mom in to deal with her Girl Feelings and leaves to confer with Marchdale.

Marchdale is finally willing to share his theory about what is going on. After building suspense for a full page or so, he finally reveals that he thinks it was...a vampire! Both him and Henry immediately agree that this is such a horrible thought that they're not even going to entertain the notion that it might be true, even though it fits the evidence better than any explanation they can think of. They then further agree that they must not tell George any of this, as he is of a delicate constitution and the very idea may just kill him.

George then enters the room, and tells them he's come to the conclusion that Flora was attacked by a vampire.

Henry and Marchdale are greatly upset by this, and make George swear he won't go around actually believing that, or talking about it to anyone. After all, if they tell their mother or Flora, the shock of such an idea may simply be too great.

Flora continues to show symptoms of major blood loss, so Henry rides into town to enlist the services of a medical gentleman, a man of drugs, or any other silly euphemism for "doctor" Rymer can think of. He then discovers that the servants have gossiped about the attack, and now literally everyone in the entire countryside is talking about how there's been a vampire attack. Frazzled, he goes to see the doctor, one Mr. Chillingworth, who tells him he's being crazy and ridiculous. Chillingworth agrees to come by later and have a look at Flora, and Henry rides home as fast as possible to prevent any more people from asking him about the vampire.

When he gets home, he finds out that Flora has also, independently, come to the conclusion that she was attacked by a vampire. Flora is still jumpy and paranoid, and she's heard of the idea that people who are bitten turn into vampires themselves, which isn't helping her mental state. She's also remembered a few more details from the attack, which she recounts vividly. Henry tries to reassure her with little success.

Then Dr. Chillingworth arrives, and proceeds to gaslight the hell out of Flora. First he tells her everything she experienced was a dream, and then after examining the wounds on her neck for two straight minutes pronounces them to be bug bites. Flora can tell this is bullshit, but is too exhausted to really argue with him.

Henry and Chillingworth go into another room, where Chillingworth shares his real opinion, which is that the whole situation is really weird and he has no idea what to make of it. It sure does seem like a vampire, huh! Haha Henry did you know that vampires are healed by the full moon, and that some legends say they prefer to hunt close to full moons so they'll be healed if they get hurt, and that tonight is a full moon? Wild. All obviously bullshit superstitions, of course. Don't even worry about it. Vampires aren't real. But if they were they would definitely attack you tonight. They won't though. Probably. Good night, Henry!

Oh my god this is a long chapter. Okay. Here we go.

The chapter opens with a little narrator soliloquy on the marvelous powers of daylight to sweep away the worries and fears of night. Rymer confidently asserts:

There must be a downright physical reason for this effect—it is so remarkable and so universal. It seems that the sun's rays so completely alter and modify the constitution of the atmosphere, that it produces, as we inhale it, a wonderfully different effect upon the nerves of the human subject. We can account for this phenomenon in no other way.

He uses dry sarcasm from time to time, but I think he might actually believe this.

Something I left out of my summary above is the sheer amount of time dedicated to Moving The Painting Logistics. While he stays up watching his sister, Henry spends several paragraphs examining the painting and trying to figure out how to move it, before eventually concluding that actually, there's no need to, because Flora's definitely going to want to change rooms after this. He will rehash his thought process in full to George and Marchdale later.

Speaking of which, Henry's conversations with the other men in this chapter introduce a fascinating and baffling idea which will be repeated throughout this book.

"He mentioned it to me; but we have both agreed to repudiate it with horror." "To—repudiate—it?" "Yes, George." "And yet—and yet—" "Hush, hush! I know what you would say. You would tell us that our repudiation of it cannot affect the fact. Of that we are aware; but yet will we disbelieve that which a belief in would be enough to drive us mad."

This - this is a weird way of thinking. I could write entire essays on this idea, how it presents itself in the text, and just what the hell I think Rymer might be trying to say with it. To summarize my thoughts in brief, fear in Varney the Vampire is treated as a worse specter than any of the things that cause fear. The idea that is repeated over and over again throughout the narrative is that not believing in a horror which is provably real is better than acknowledging the horror exists. Why? Because the worst, most heinous thing any person can be is afraid. Fear leads to madness, hysteria, emasculation, and societal decline. On the flipside of this, lying and gaslighting are Good Actually so long as they're in the service of preventing fear.

...I would like to remind everyone at this point that vampires are a PROVABLY REAL FACTUAL ENTITY in this universe. This is like not telling people in Florida that a hurricane is about to hit because you don't want to scare them.

With this in mind, we ought to talk about Chillingworth. First, though, I would like to share this line from George that I thought was funny:

"As you please, brother, and as you please, Mr. Marchdale. I know I am a frail reed, and my belief is that this affair will kill me quite."

On to Chillingworth. Chillingworth plays the part of the dedicated skeptic, a role which he adopts, ironically, with a sort of religious fervor. More on that later. As a doctor, Chillingworth fills the Gothic literature archetype of the rational modern man, which means he is completely insufferable. When Henry comes to him with his story, he is openly rude and dismissive:

"I never in all my life heard a more circumstantial narrative in favour of so hideous a superstition." [...] "But the glaring facts of the case." "I don't care if they were ten times more glaring, I won't believe it. I would rather believe you were all mad, the whole family of you—that at the full of the moon you all were a little cracked."

With Flora he is even worse. He's gaslighting her from his very first words:

"Well, Miss Bannerworth," he said, "what is all this I hear about an ugly dream you have had?"

He dismisses what she has to say, insults and belittles her:

"Well, will you tell me what it was?" "Yes, sir, it was a vampyre." Mr. Chillingworth glanced at Henry, as he said, in reply to Flora's words,— "I suppose that is, after all, another name, Flora, for the nightmare?" "No—no—no!" "Do you really, then, persist in believing anything so absurd, Miss Bannerworth?"

When Flora brings up a valid counter to him - she, Henry, George, Mrs. B, and Marchdale all saw the vampire - he changes the subject. Then, after examining Flora, he gives a diagnosis which is utter bullshit - he KNOWS it's bullshit, too, because he tells Henry his real opinion later.

But all this is Fine and Good, actually, because Chillingworth's role in the story is to maintain Rationality and Truth, which means he can lie and gaslight as much as he wants. Yeah, that makes sense.

He isn't even effective at holding back the tide of superstition, either - in fact, he actively sabotages his own effort to maintain rationality. Not only does no one buy his bullshit explanations about nightmares and bug bites, but later in his conversation with Henry he happens to bring up a bunch of new vampire lore which only worsens Henry's own apprehensions. This is the lore, taken from Polidori's short story The Vampyre, that vampires can be revived by moonlight. In a sequence that is equal parts funny and maddening, he brings this up, along with mentioning that it's a full moon tonight, wouldn't it be funny, Henry, if the figure you shot was a vampire, and the reason you didn't find a body was - ah, but look at me, indulging these silly superstitions. Obviously this is all nonsense.

Not exactly quelling the anxieties about vampires, dude!

Chillingworth's ineffectuality, starkly highlighted in a later chapter, points to the final piece of the theme that runs like a nasty little Bolton Strid underneath the text of Varney the Vampire: fear itself is both powerful and frightening, and rational thinkers are often powerless to stop its effects. (The effects of fear, incidentally, are about a thousand times worse when the people affected are women and/or poor.)

Varney is not the villain of Varney the Vampire. People who are scared of him are. This isn't a metaphor, either. Just wait until we meet the Angry Mobs.

[mayhemchicken-varneyposting]

Varney the Vampire, Chapter 3: Sir Who Now

[Previous chapter] [Next chapter]

Henry, George, and Marchdale rush to the other side of the garden wall, anxious to see what has become of the vampire. To their surprise, there is no trace of a body, or even any signs of someone falling. Mystified, they ponder whether the strange apparition could have been merely a hallucination. Just then, Henry and George remember that they have a sister, and rush back to the house to see what has become of her.

The house is all in an uproar, the servants having all awakened. Rymer goes out of his way to note that the female servants are hysterical and thus useless. Flora is alive, but she has fainted, and there is blood on her nightgown, the sight of which causes Henry to shed a single tear. Upon regaining consciousness, Flora understandably freaks out, only calming down once she's been reassured that she is safe and surrounded by her family. She relates her experience briefly; she only remembers so far as the vampire grabbing her by the hair, at which point she fainted. Marchdale notices some wounds on her neck; they look like two small pinpricks. He seems to know what this means, but doesn't say anything for now, instead advising Flora to get some sleep, which she agrees to so long as Henry stays in the room with her.

George takes notice of the portrait on the wall, and the three men note that it bears an uncanny resemblance to the tall figure that broke into Flora's bedroom. Henry exposits that the portrait depicts an ancestor of theirs, Sir Runnagate Bannerworth, who has been dead for about ninety years.

Chapter 3 starts with this odd assertion from Henry:

"He is human!" cried Henry; "I have surely killed him."

Henry, buddy, lots of things that aren't human can be killed. Including vampires, as we'll find out.

On the other side of the wall, they find no trace of the vampire, not even any spots of blood or disturbed bushes. He's simply vanished into thin air. Disappearing like a stage magician appears to be one of Varney's supernatural abilities, as he does it a number of times; no explanation for it is ever provided.

At this point, the three men realize they dashed out of the house without even checking on Flora. Henry assumes she must be dead, and immediately starts spiraling into grief, before George reminds him that they don't know that yet, since none of them bothered to check if she was alive. You can tell Rymer was writing by the seat of his pants; consequently, every character has no object permanence and no braincells. Henry is hit particularly badly by this; this is not the first time he forgets about one of his family members entirely.

They quickly return to the house. The servants are all awake now, and Rymer wastes no time in making disparaging remarks about them. In Flora's room, they reconvene with their mother, who proceeds to drop a real clunker of exposition:

"Oh, what is this that has happened—what is this? Tell me, Marchdale! Robert Marchdale, you whom I have known even from my childhood, you will not deceive me. Tell me the meaning of all this?"

Thank you, Mrs. B, for explaining to Marchdale who he is. I'm sure there was no better way to convey that information.

Flora is propped up on the pillows, unconscious and alarmingly pale. "Active measures" are taken to revive her, and revive she does, with a bloodcurdling scream. They manage to calm her down with the aid of some wine, which is a really bad idea in real life, but a perfectly sensible one in a vampire story, where on some level four humor theory is real.

After Flora relates, briefly, what she remembers happening, Marchdale takes notice of the vampire bite on her neck. Somehow, despite all the noisy sucking, Varney only left behind two small pinpricks.

"How came these wounds?" said Henry.

"I do not know," she replied. "I feel very faint and weak, as if I had almost bled to death."

"You cannot have done so, dear Flora, for there are not above half-a-dozen spots of blood to be seen at all."

Marchdale seems to know what all this means, but he's not saying anything for now. Instead, everyone goes to bed - but not without first commenting on the big scary portrait hanging on the wall directly across from Flora's bed. Apparently, it depicts one Sir Runnagate Bannerworth, an ancestor of the family - and one who bears a startling resemblance to their nighttime intruder.

At this point, the evidence of it being a vampire is stacking up fast, and you may be thinking it's a wonder no one's connected the dots yet. Cut them some slack - after all, as we see in Dracula, not many people in England are familiar with vampire myths yet.

Next: Literally Everyone In This Story Is Intimately Familiar With Vampire Myths

[mayhemchicken-varneyposting]

Varney the Vampire, Chapter 17: Call Me Ciabatta In A Cistern The Way I'm Well-Bred

[Previous chapter] [Next chapter]

Varney squeezes awkwardly into the summer-house alongside Charles and Flora, interrupting their romantic moment. He explains that he only wished to get out of the rain, and further that he is visiting the house in order to see Henry. Henry soon arrives, along with George and Marchdale, in response to Flora's cry of alarm. Flora is adamant that Varney is the one who attacked her, but no one can bring themselves to accuse such a polite and gentlemanly man of such a thing. Varney offers to lead Flora elsewhere to rest, as she is clearly freaking out, which of course only makes her freak out more. Charles ends up dropping her off with her mother before meeting back up with the rest.

Henry and Charles make forced small talk with Varney. Varney tells them that he was curious about the portrait in Bannerworth Hall that supposedly resembles him. They take him to see it, and he stands underneath it and strikes the same pose so everyone can see how similar they look. Charles attempts to weasel information out of Varney, but is thwarted by Varney's imperturbable poker face and impeccable manners.

Varney asks Henry if he's made up his mind about the house yet; Henry replies that he needs more time to think. He offers Varney a glass of wine, which he accepts but only pretends to drink. He is not even remotely trying to hide that he is a vampire, and Charles finally calls him on it, at which point he calls Charles' sanity into question.

Henry has finally had enough, and challenges Varney to a duel. Varney's mellow, gentlemanly demeanor suddenly drops, and he enters a rage state and offers to duel Henry to the death. Marchdale hastily intervenes, and the duel is called off. Varney leaves, and Marchdale follows him to make sure he doesn't remain skulking about the property somewhere.

Meanwhile, someone is furiously ringing the bell at the gate, but no one in the house is paying attention.

This chapter is so fucking good oh my god. Chapters 13 and 14 Varney was only getting warmed up; now he is serving his FULL cartoon villain best and every word of it is fantastic. The whole chapter is just one outrageous vampire insinuation after another. The protagonists' hapless conformity to Polite English Manners turns the whole thing into a comedic farce, as Varney winds everyone up more and more until they snap. Apologies in advance, I suspect this commentary will run long; there are simply too many fun details to talk about. Let's dive in, shall we?

The stranger stood in the irresolute attitude on the threshold of the summer-house of one who did not wish to intrude, but who found it as awkward, if not more so now, to retreat than to advance.

In the modern day we're all primed for an association between vampires and thresholds. Vampires Must Be Invited In, that's the Rule. Don't be fooled, though - we are 50 years out from Dracula. The Rule does not exist yet. Varney can trespass as much as he wants - and indeed, has already done so multiple times in this story.

"I very much fear that I am an intruder here. Allow me to offer my warmest apologies, and to assure you, sir, and you, madam, that I had no idea any one was in the arbour. You perceive the rain is falling smartly, and I made towards here, seeing it was likely to shelter me from the shower."

Not 5 sentences into the chapter and he's already sopping wet.

Varney bowed to the new comers, and was altogether as much at his ease as everybody else seemed quite the contrary. Even Charles Holland found the difficulty of going up to such a well-bred, gentlemanly man, and saying, "Sir, we believe you to be a vampyre"—to be almost, if not insurmountable.

Here it is, the central conflict of the whole chapter summed up in 2 sentences - a rare moment of conciseness from Rymer.

The only one not bothering to conform to social etiquette is Flora, who understandably is not about to play nice with the guy that drank her blood. There is some very Victorian sexism at play here with her being the only one unable to control her emotions, but I also think her response is a reasonable one.

"The vampyre!—it is the vampyre!" "Are you sure, Flora?" "Do I know your features—my own—my brother's? Do not ask me to doubt—I cannot. I am quite sure. Take me from his hideous presence, Charles." "The young lady, I fear, is very much indisposed," remarked Sir Francis Varney, in a sympathetic tone of voice. "If she will accept of my arm, I shall esteem it a great honour." "No—no—no!—God! no," cried Flora. "Madam, I will not press you."

Varney, meanwhile, is fully aware of the effect he has on everyone and milking it for all it's worth.

Flora is shuffled out of the scene, which might seem unfair to her but at least she got an excuse - George and Marchdale simply drop off the face of the earth until the very end of the chapter.

Varney's command of social situations at times seems to border on a supernatural ability, and it's hard to say how much of this ought to be ascribed to his own charms versus the habits and values of the characters he interacts with. I'm tempted to give this one to Varney, simply because he has so little going on in the magic powers department.

Charles felt himself compelled to behave with courtesy, although his mind was so full of conflicting feelings as regarded Varney; but there was no avoiding, without such brutal rudeness as was inconsistent with all his pursuits and habits, replying in something like the same strain to the extreme courtly politeness of the supposed vampyre.

"Is he a vampyre?" he asked himself. "Are there vampyres, and is this man of fashion—this courtly, talented, educated gentleman one?" It was a perfectly hideous question.

There's a bit of a "Jonathan Harker asking Count Dracula about vampire myths" vibe to the idea that being a courtly gentleman is somehow at odds with vampirism. The setting of this story, of course, well predates the first appearance of the aristocratic vampire in literary fiction. The characters have no way of knowing it's a trope.

"You allude to the supposed visit here of a vampyre?" said Charles, as he fixed his eyes upon Varney's face. "Yes, I allude to the supposed appearance of a supposed vampyre in this family," said Sir Francis Varney, as he returned the earnest gaze of Charles, with such unshrinking assurance, that the young man was compelled, after about a minute, nearly to withdraw his own eyes. "He will not be cowed," thought Charles. "Use has made him familiar to such cross-questioning."

Charles fares rather better than Henry in Varney's social mind games, but is still playing at a disadvantage; he, too, is bound by social etiquette. The same rules which Varney plays to his advantage hinder the protagonists at every turn.

"I am much attached to the softer sex—to young persons full of health. I like to see the rosy cheeks, where the warm blood mantles in the superficial veins, and all is loveliness and life." Charles shrank back, and the word "Demon" unconsciously escaped his lips. Sir Francis took no manner of notice of the expression, but went on talking, as if he had been on the very happiest terms with every one present. "Will you follow me, at once, to the chamber where the portrait hangs," said Henry, "or will you partake of some refreshment first?" "No refreshment for me," said Varney. "My dear friend, if you will permit me to call you such, this is a time of the day at which I never do take any refreshment." "Nor at any other," thought Henry.

And now Varney begins to really ramp up his insolence. Just you wait, he's still only getting started.

Henry pointed to the portrait on the panel, saying— "There, Sir Francis Varney, is your likeness." He looked, and, having walked up to it, in an under tone, rather as if he were conversing with himself than making a remark for any one else to hear, he said— "It is wonderfully like." "It is, indeed," said Charles. "If I stand beside it, thus," said Varney, placing himself in a favourable attitude for comparing the two faces, "I dare say you will be more struck with the likeness than before."

This fucking guy. He's so outrageous. I love him.

Charles continues to attempt a cross-examination of Varney, and receives a heaping helping of sarcasm for his trouble.

"And yet entertaining. I am rather amused than otherwise. The idea of being a vampyre. Ha! ha! If ever I go to a masquerade again, I shall certainly assume the character of a vampyre." "You would do it well." "I dare say, now, I should make quite a sensation." "I am certain you would. Do you not think, gentlemen, that Sir Francis Varney would enact the character to the very life? By Heavens, he would do it so well that one might, without much difficulty, really imagine him a vampyre." "Bravo—bravo," said Varney, as he gently folded his hands together, with that genteel applause that may even be indulged in in a box at the opera itself. "Bravo. I like to see young persons enthusiastic; it looks as if they had some of the real fire of genius in their composition. Bravo—bravo."

(The lack of dialogue tags is a perennial problem for this story. For clarification's sake, the first speaker here is Varney, and the second is Charles.)

The author briefly refers to Charles as "Charles Howard". Mark a tally on the "Rymer gets his own characters' names wrong" board.

Charles and Henry continue to press Varney. Charles tries to glean Varney's age; Varney dodges the question. Henry offers Varney a glass of wine, to see if he will drink it. Charles then commits a continuity error:

Then wine was ordered, and Charles took an opportunity of whispering to Henry,— "Notice well if he drinks." "I will." "Do you see that beneath his coat there is a raised place, as if his arm was bound up?" "I do." "There, then, was where the bullet from the pistol fired by Flora, when we were at the church, hit him."

You were not at the church, Charles. The church expedition was in chapters 7-8, and you didn't get here until chapter 10.

Varney continues to up his creepy vampire behavior, and finally succeeds in getting the others to snap.

He raised the wine to his lips, and seemed to drink, after which he replaced the glass upon the table. Charles glanced at it, it was still full. "You have not drank, Sir Francis Varney," he said. "Pardon me, enthusiastic young sir," said Varney, "perhaps you will have the liberality to allow me to take my wine how I please and when I please." "Your glass is full." "Well, sir?" "Will you drink it?" "Not at any man's bidding, most certainly. If the fair Flora Bannerworth would grace the board with her sweet presence, methinks I could then drink on, on, on."

Personally, I could watch him do this all day, but Charles has had enough. He finally accuses Varney to his face, and Varney effortlessly shifts into gaslight gatekeep girlboss mode and suggests that Charles may be touched in the head.

"Then I say we believe, as far as human judgment has a right to go, that a vampyre has been here." "Go on, it's interesting. I always was a lover of the wild and the wonderful." "We have, too," continued Charles, "some reason to believe that you are the man." Varney tapped his forehead as he glanced at Henry, and said,— "Oh, dear, I did not know. You should have told me he was a little wrong about the brain; I might have quarreled with the lad. Dear me, how lamentable for his poor mother."

[twirls a lock of hair around my finger] he's soooo infuriating.

"I defy you to your teeth, sir! No, God, no! Your teeth!"

This line made me laugh.

Now, however, the etiquette trap has sprung - this story takes place in an era in which it was socially acceptable to challenge someone to a deathmatch for insulting you.

Which is exactly what Varney does.

Sir Francis, in spite of his impenetrable calmness, appeared somewhat moved, as he said,— "I have already endured insult sufficient—I will endure no more. If there are weapons at hand—" "My young friend," interrupted Mr. Marchdale, stepping between the excited men, "is carried away by his feelings, and knows not what he says. You will look upon it in that light, Sir Francis." "We need no interference," exclaimed Varney, his hitherto bland voice changing to one of fury. "The hot blooded fool wishes to fight, and he shall—to the death—to the death."

The institution of the duel is what binds all these characters to such restrictive standards of politeness. Behind every social interaction is the threat of ritualized physical violence; it isn't just rude to accuse your neighbor of vampirism, it is potentially life-threatening. A conversation such as the one in this chapter is a delicate dance, each party treading the line of what is acceptable to express without provoking the other. Engaging in dueling, too, can be harmful to one's reputation, despite its ostensible connection to honor. Varney, as a vampire, has therefore a remarkable advantage over the other characters; he has nothing to lose. His reputation cannot be damaged worse by dueling than by the very nature of what he is, and he need not fear death by sword or by bullet. He is thusly free to tread on as many toes as he likes; dueling has no real consequences for him.

It sure gets annoying, though.

Next: The Admiral joins the party

[mayhemchicken-varneyposting]

I know Flora shoots but I swear ninety percent of everything she does is "faintly" and "timidly" when she's not screaming and passing out, even for Victorian Woman Written By Man it's kinda...

Yeah Flora kinda gets exactly one cool moment and then nothing for the entire rest of the book. She can be smart and assertive in dialogue, sometimes, but that characterization is never borne out in her actions, and the author almost seems to go out of his way to deny her agency as much as possible. It's not just an issue with her, either; this book is deeply, deeply sexist, and the only reason Flora seems to bear the brunt of it right now is we haven't met any other female characters of note.

This spawned an Essay so I'm putting it under a cut

There are three types of female characters in Varney the Vampire: The Maiden, The Shrew, and Mrs. Bannerworth, who is a background prop and not a character. The Maiden, of whom Flora is the principal example, exists to be an innocent victim for Varney to prey on. She is of the highest moral character: unfailingly polite, sweet, good-natured, and charming, and often unfairly put-upon by the universe. She is delicate and sensitive, fainting at the first sign of danger. She inevitably has a match in the form of her One True Love, a gallant young man every bit as charming and good-hearted as she is. This is the full extent of her character.

The Shrew, who will be exemplified when we meet the wife of Dr. Chillingworth, is nearly always an older woman, usually someone's wife or mother. In contrast to The Maiden, The Shrew has zero redeeming qualities: she is petty, dishonest, gossipy, nagging, greedy, vain, and manipulative. The Shrew is often a very driven, active character, and her pursuit of her goals is always painted in a bad light. She thinks nothing of lying, cheating, harassing or emotionally manipulating those around her in order to get her way. She is seen as an annoyance, if not an outright obstacle, by all those around her, and she usually receives comeuppance by the narrative's conclusion.

(There are maybe one or two other examples of a Mrs. Bannerworth; she crops up when the author finds himself forced to write a middle-aged woman who isn't evil, and resolves this problem by not writing her at all.)

This story's almost cartoonish misogyny serves as a good illustration, I think, of a problem which arises in stories (usually to a lesser extent than this one) regarding female characters. Henry, Charles, and George are not particularly fleshed-out characters; what little personality they have is pretty one-note, and I've had to do a lot of reaching and inventing in order to characterize them in my fics. The difference between them and Flora, and the principle reason why I've had a harder time figuring out what to do with her character than any of the others, is that her one-note personality is completely tied to her gender; or rather, Rymer's incredibly sexist conception of her gender. Attempting to remove the sexist elements from her character results in her character being erased entirely; she is nothing but a fainting damsel in distress, who happened to fire a gun that one time.

"Woman" is treated as a defining characteristic similar to "sailor" or "skeptic", a stock archetype that can be fleshed out in one or two details. Admiral Bell is a Sailor, Chillingworth is a Skeptic, Flora is a Woman. The Shrew, being a lesser type of Woman, can sometimes have a defining characteristic added to her, such as Gossip or Miser. It's never a positive characteristic, of course. The Maiden, representing Ideal Womanhood, cannot ever have another defining characteristic that would detract from her Pure Womanhood, with the end result that all the Maidens in the text are basically interchangeable. There is never a Skeptic Maiden or a Lawyer Maiden or even so much as a Loves Sewing Maiden. The very fact of her being a Maiden disavows her from having any actual character.

It's a problem which still turns up in popular media to this day: "Man" is the default type of person a character can be, and "Woman" is a modifier similar to "Mechanic" or "Alcoholic" or "Optimist", which is treated similarly narrowly to those other modifiers. Modern media is better at hiding it, because we've invented more Types Of Women. You still get Maidens and Shrews sometimes, but now we've got lots more to choose from, such as Mothers and Sluts. All, of course, are reductive archetypes tied to gender in such a way that engaging with the character in a constructive manner often requires you to first erase their existing character and start over, an effort often not required with male characters of the same relative story prominence.

[mayhemchicken-varneyposting]

Varney the Vampire, Chapter 27: Facts Don't Care About Your Feelings

[Previous chapter] [Next chapter]

Henry is shattered by Charles's apparent betrayal, and spends the night restlessly ruminating on how such a thing could be possible. Somehow, the possibility that it's a trick never occurs to him. The next morning, he consults George on what to do, and they decide to seek Marchdale's advice, as he is more likely to take a rational view of the situation. You know, even though he hates Charles's guts.

Marchdale, predictably, tells them that he knew all along Charles was no good, and that they're better off having rid themselves of him. Henry then goes to take the last of the three letters to Flora, and break to her the awful news.

Flora reads over all three letters and promptly declares them to be forgeries, a proclamation so shocking that it literally staggers Henry. Flora urges everyone to search for Charles right away, as she fears he has fallen victim to some kind of foul play, and the men are all too happy to do as she says - all except for Marchdale, who believes she is putting emotion over reason and stays behind to argue his case.

Congratulations to Flora on being the only cast member currently capable of having a coherent thought.

Clearly, the story has been written this way so that Flora can have her Moment, but I honestly would rather sacrifice it in exchange for the rest of the cast acting remotely believable. In order for Flora's reaction to come as a twist, the rest of the characters must abandon all intelligence and common sense - not like they ever had much to begin with.

Henry spends all night grappling with the contents of the letters, and it never ONCE occurs to him to take them at anything other than face value.

...he strove, with what energy he was able to bring to the task, to find out some excuses, if he could, for Charles's conduct. But he could find none. View it in what light he would, it presented but a picture of the most heartless selfishness it had ever been his lot to encounter.

The narration goes on enough about Charles's treachery and heartlessness that I start to wonder if Rymer is trying to get his readers to believe Charles actually abandoned the Bannerworths. I know he had a low opinion of his audience, but surely he didn't think they were that stupid.

George advised that Mr. Marchdale, who as yet knew nothing of the matter, should be immediately informed of it, and consulted, as being probably better qualified than either of them to come to a just, a cool, and a reasonable opinion upon the painful circumstance, which it could not be expected that either of them would be able to view calmly.

The continued assertion that Marchdale is a wholly unbiased and reasonable actor continues to irk me, as well. Ask Chillingworth if you need an unbiased opinion. Marchdale has threatened to leave multiple times as a result of disagreeing with Charles, and I would like to put down for the record here that Marchdale is probably twice Charles's age. He should absolutely know better than to get wound up by a 21-year-old acting slightly hotheaded.

...He of course spins his own immaturity as having known, or suspected, all along that Charles was no good, and takes pains to cast himself as level-headed for the very actions I point to as evidence of his pettiness.

"And, I repeat, I always had a bad opinion of Charles Holland, which he guessed, and hence he conceived a hatred to me, which more than once, as you cannot but remember, showed itself in little acts of opposition and hostility."

"You much surprise me."

"I expected to do so. But you cannot help remembering that at one time I was on the point of leaving here solely on his account."

"You were so."

"Indeed I should have done so, but that I reasoned with myself upon the subject, and subdued the impulse of the anger which some years ago, when I had not seen so much of the world, would have guided me."

I would like to remind everyone that the incident which prompted Marchdale to nearly leave was Charles taking offense at Marchdale's lurid descriptions of how his girlfriend was going to become a vampire and prey on their children.

Also, can the narrative stop sucking his dick for five minutes?

He turned aside his head to hide the traces of emotion which, despite even his great powers of self-command, would shew themselves upon his handsome and intelligent countenance.

Marchdale has a dramatic outburst about how evil Charles is, and the characters take a moment to remind the reader how unhinged the Victorian notion of emotions was:

"Excuse me," he said, "excuse me; I am much moved, and I am human. I cannot always, let me strive my utmost, place a curb upon my feelings."

"They are feelings which do you honour."

"Nay, nay, I am foolish to have suffered myself to be led away into such a hasty expression of them."

Hey buddy maybe if you expressed your feelings more you wouldn't be such a passive-aggressive dickhole.

Anyway.

Flora I am so sorry you have to be a character in this book.

"Oh, God! oh, God! what is all that has occurred compared to this? Charles—Charles—Charles!"

"Flora!" exclaimed Henry, suddenly turning from the window. "Flora, is this worthy of you?"

"Heaven now support me!"

"Is this worthy of the name you bear Flora? I should have thought, and I did hope, that woman's pride would have supported you."

"Let me implore you," added Marchdale, "to summon indignation to your aid, Miss Bannerworth."

"Charles—Charles—Charles!" she again exclaimed, as she wrung her hands despairingly.

"Flora, if anything could add a sting to my already irritated feelings," said Henry, "this conduct of yours would."

Shut UP, Henry.

"Whence came these letters?—where did you find these most disgraceful forgeries?"

"Forgeries!" exclaimed Henry; and he staggered back, as if someone had struck him a blow.

"Yes, forgeries!" screamed Flora. "What has become of Charles Holland? Has he been murdered by some secret enemy, and then these most vile fabrications made up in his name? Oh, Charles, Charles, are you lost to me for ever?"

"Good God!" said Henry; "I did not think of that"

You're an idiot, Henry.

The admiral rallies admirably, and him and Henry both are greatly relieved by the appearance of a possibility other than "Charles is a scoundrel". George does not notably react because the author forgot to give him a character in this scene. Marchdale continues to be petty.

"Mr. Marchdale, what do you think of this new suggestion," said George to that gentleman.

"Pray, excuse me," was his reply; "I would much rather not be called upon to give an opinion."

Oh, wouldn't you now.

It was quite clear that [Marchdale] considered Flora had spoken from the generous warmth of her affection as regarded Charles Holland, and not from the convictions which reason would have enforced her to feel.

I'm going to go off a bit about Rymer's perception of "reason", because he seems to be of the school of thought that reason and cynicism are synonyms. Frankly, no one in this scene is behaving completely reasonably, but Flora proposes by far the most logical approach to the situation. Her perspective, rightly so, is that the letters are not characteristic of what they know of Charles; furthermore, they have no concrete proof that Charles wrote them. Flora, by considering AT ALL the possibility that the letters are fake, and thus something bad may have happened to Charles, proposes a vastly more level-headed plan than the men's "disavow Charles entirely and forget him". After all, if she's wrong, the worst that happens is they find out she's wrong. But if they're wrong, they could be leaving an innocent Charles for dead.

If Flora had been in the loop the previous night, they might have caught up with Charles before he reached the meeting place with Varney and gotten an explanation from him in person. Because the reasonable thing to do in this situation is to investigate all possibilities before leaping to conclusions, dammit! But no one in this story seems capable of holding or testing a hypothesis, instead acting like the "reasonable" position is simply the most cynical conclusion that can be leaped to, with all other conclusions being silly emotional ones. THE RATIONAL RESPONSE. IS THAT THERE IS NOT ENOUGH EVIDENCE TO DRAW A CONCLUSION. THIS IS GRADE SCHOOL COMMON SENSE.

Not only are the characters too quick to leap to conclusions, but paradoxically they're ALSO abysmal at forming inferences based on evidence they've uncovered. We will see this shortly; it's mostly a result of Rymer's inability to drop clues with any subtlety, but it makes it feel like the characters' reasoning is genuinely impaired. It is maddening.

Next: A clue is dropped with no subtlety