#marchdale

I struggled to convince myself not to write my commentary for this chapter structured along the Hamilton song The Ten Duel Commandments, and I failed. I'm not going to cram everything under the gimmick but I think it will be a helpful framework for outlining what the hell is going on with all the dueling logistics in this chapter.

Without further ado.

#1: The Challenge (Demands Satisfaction)

The gauntlet, as of this chapter, has already been thrown down. Varney denies being a vampire, so apology is out of the question.

#2: Get A Friend, That's Your Second

Varney has failed Step 2, on account of having no friends to appoint. The musical does not account for this possibility, and it seems to thwart the characters at first. Chillingworth is very uneasy about the idea of Henry facing down a man with no second, and it isn't entirely clear to me why. Something to do with wanting to make sure they meet on equal terms. Much ado is made about fairness and abiding by decorum.

#3: Have Your Seconds Meet Face To Face

With no second on Varney's side, Step 3 has gotten all messed up. Varney initially attempts to negotiate the terms with Jack and Chillingworth directly, but Chillingworth objects to this. Strangely, once Jack has appointed Admiral Bell, who is not present, as Varney's second, Chillingworth then is willing to name a time and place for the duel on the spot.

#4: Get Some Pistols And A Doctor On Site

Marchdale's intervention takes care of this step. The question of paying Chillingworth never comes up, of course--possibly omitted for irrelevance, possibly he's just so nosy that he's willing to work for free for a chance at more juicy gossip.

#5: Duel Before The Sun Is In The Sky

Okay maybe this format is breaking down a little, this is not a point about which there is anything interesting to be said. The location they picked for the duel is a valley, so not exactly "high and dry". At this rate they are never going to get a good grade in dueling, something that is normal to want and possible to achieve.

#6: Leave A Note For Your Next Of Kin

I left it out of my summary, but Henry does spend the rest of the day "writing documents and letters of one kind and another", so he presumably was doing this.

#7: Confess Your Sins

This never comes up. I assume it's in the song to make the lyrics work.

#8: Your Last Chance To Negotiate

I believe this step is the reason Chillingworth wants Varney to have a second so badly? It does seem like there's some customs and ideas surrounding the practice of dueling that are going over my head.

The duel itself has yet to occur, so #9 and #10 are not relevant at this point. I have plenty left to say about this chapter, though, so let's abandon the musical gimmick and buckle down to some more standard commentary.

Jack Pringle makes a "sea bow" as he leaves Varney's house. I have no idea what that means. Let's see...

...No, duckduckgo, I don't think that's what he means by that.

Marchdale's back! This fucking guy. He just barely missed getting appointed as Varney's second, but he's just in time to swap places with Chillingworth, conveniently freeing him up to act as doctor for the duel. Marchdale brings up an important aspect of dueling: the nature of the practice as both honorable and scandalous. He reasons that, being a bachelor with no family attachments, he can easily leave the country following the duel, while Chillingworth's reputation as a surgeon would be ruined if he served as Henry's second. The contradictory nature of duels is fascinating to me. The duel must be conducted as secretly as possible, and the author mentions that Varney would be well within his rights to call upon legal authorities to protect him from having to fight in the duel; and yet, to not fight in a duel appears to be every bit as reputation-ruining as fighting in one. You're either a disreputable rogue or a dishonorable coward, there's no winning.

The characters keep trying to call Jack Pringle by more formal names. "Mr. Pringle" and "Mr. John Pringle" are both used. The latter is much funnier to me than it should be. Mr. John Pringle.

The admiral makes much less fuss about being appointed Varney's second than I would have expected. Jack Pringle sort of backs him into it by his insistence that he knows Admiral Bell will be a good sport, and his reasoning that someone has to do it to keep Varney from wiggling out of the duel. Not to worry, we'll get plenty of fussing later when Varney meets with his second.

The author pads an already long chapter with a LENGTHY rambling reflection on the feelings of everybody gathering at the dueling ground, the possible motivations of Varney for not wanting to duel, the reputation of the Bannerworth family, and the appearance of the scenery in the early morning light. Most of it is not important; however, you should pay attention to this passage:

It has been seen during the progress of our tale, that its action has been tolerably confined to Bannerworth Hall, its adjacent meadows, and the seat of Sir Francis Varney; the only person at any distance, knowing anything of the circumstances, or feeling any interest in them, being Mr. Chillingworth, the surgeon, who, from personal feeling, as well as from professional habit, was not likely to make a family's affairs a subject of gossip. A change, however, was at hand—a change of a most startling and alarming character to Varney—one which he might expect, yet not be well prepared for. This period of serenity was to pass away, and he was to become most alarmingly popular.

In a couple of chapters, we're going to find out what this means. An important character--possibly the second most important character in the book after Varney--is on the verge of being introduced.

Varney is not looking so good. It sounds like he didn't get a very good night's sleep.

Sir Francis Varney, who, to all appearance, had been waiting, emerged from among the trees, rolled up in his dismal-looking cloak, and, if possible, looking longer and thinner than ever he had looked before. His face wore a singular cadaverous looking aspect. His very lips were white and there was a curious, pinkish-looking circle round each of his eyes, that imparted to his whole countenance a most uninviting appearance. He turned his eyes from one to the other of those who were advancing towards him, until he saw the admiral, upon which he gave such a grim and horrible smile, that the old man exclaimed,— "I say, Jack, you lubber, there's a face for a figure head."

He's also behaving rather strangely.

Varney seemed to think, that after the smiling welcome he had given to his second, he had done quite enough; for there he stood, tall, and gaunt, and motionless, if we may except an occasional singular movement of the mouth, and a clap together of his teeth, at times, which was enough to make anybody jump to hear.

I can only assume he's making this noise:

Which, I must admit, is a pretty sick trait to give a vampire.

Welcome to chapter...44. Chapters 41-43 do not actually exist. From now on, to keep myself from getting confused, chapters will be numbered according to how they're labeled in the text, meaning the next chapter will be Chapter 45.

This chapter marks the starting point of blood, sweat, and tears, my magnum opus Varney fanfiction. It picks up right where the opening scene of this chapter leaves off, which is more than can be said for the actual novel because we never find out how that scene resolves. The next time we see Varney, he's chilling at home, and we won't go back to poor Charles for a long while. If, like me, you find this incredibly infuriating and unsatisfying, good news! I wrote 43k words of fanfic about it, and the first 5 chapters are relatively spoiler-free. It is better written than this book I guarantee.

Alright that's enough self-promo, we have a lot of chapter to get through.

The bulk of this chapter is Flora and Henry's conversation, during which they meticulously discuss the motives of every other character in the story. It's a clumsy attempt to lay out a mystery, as the author simultaneously is incapable of either weaving clues in with subtlety or having the characters draw any conclusions with the information they have. For instance:

"And now, sister, before we leave the place which has been a home to us from earliest life, let us for a few moments consider if there be any possible excuse for the notion of Mr. Chillingworth, to the effect that Sir Francis Varney wants possession of the house for some purpose still more inimical to our peace and prosperity than any he has yet attempted." "Has he such an opinion?" "He has." "'Tis very strange." "Yes, Flora; he seems to gather from all the circumstances, nothing but an overwhelming desire on the part of Sir Francis Varney to become the tenant of Bannerworth Hall." "He certainly wishes to possess it." "Yes; but can you, sister, in the exercise of any possible amount of fancy, imagine any motive for such an anxiety beyond what he alleges?" "Which is merely that he is fond of old houses." "Precisely so. That is the reason, and the only one, that can be got from him. Heaven only knows if it be the true one." "It may be, brother."

The overall effect is insulting to both the characters and the reader. No one is this bad at putting pieces together!

Chillingworth is clearly meant to be the rational one, but Flora and Henry's conversation also seems to imply that he thinks his own theory is mutually exclusive with Varney being a vampire. He has other reasons for thinking this--we will learn about them later--but even from my vantage point, having read the entire book, this is an irrational position to hold. Nothing is stopping Varney from being after the house for monetary reasons and also a vampire, and Chillingworth's refusal to even entertain the possibility is pure stubbornness on his part.

Flora's meeting with Varney has made her sympathetic to him, and now she wants them to leave him alone and not kill him.

"Thus, brother. It is said—and well may I who have been subject to an attack of such a nature, tremble to repeat the saying—that those who have been once subject to the visitations of a vampyre, are themselves in a way to become one of the dreadful and maddening fraternity." "I have heard so much, sister," replied Henry. "Yes; and therefore who knows but that Sir Francis Varney may, at one time, have been as innocent as we are ourselves of the terrible and fiendish propensity which now makes him a terror and a reproach to all who know him, or are in any way obnoxious to his attacks." "That is true." "There may have been a time—who shall say there was not?—when he, like me, would have shrunk, with a dread as great as any one could have experienced, from the contamination of the touch even of a vampyre." "I cannot, sister, deny the soundness of your reasoning," said Henry, with a sigh; "but I still no not see anything, even from a full conviction that Varney is unfortunate, which should induce us to tolerate him." "Nay, brother, I said not tolerate. What I mean is, that even with the horror and dread we must naturally feel at such a being, we may afford to mingle some amount of pity, which shall make us rather seek to shun him, than to cross his path with a resolution of doing him an injury."

That is such a long quote I'm sorry. Anyway. Flora has strong parallels with Mina Harker here, though they come to the exact opposite conclusion regarding the fate of their respective vampires. In fairness to Flora, Varney so far has not killed anybody, and her entourage of gallant men are blithering idiots, so I can understand her not wanting them to take up the mantle of vampire hunter.

The topic of conversation wanders from here first to the prospect of moving, then to Charles, and finally to Marchdale, and the characters' inability to form conclusions stands out even more strongly than it did when they were talking about Chillingworth. They both have a position but neither of them seem to be arguing towards a point. They're just saying words at each other.

"It is like your generous nature, brother to say so; but you know as well as I, that there has been one here who has, far from feeling any sort of anxiety to think as well as possible of poor Charles Holland, has done all that in him lay to take the worst view of his mysterious disappearance, and induce us to do the like." "You allude to Mr. Marchdale?" "I do." "Well, Flora, at the same time that I must admit you have cause for speaking of Mr. Marchdale as you do, yet when we come to consider all things, there may be found for him excuses." "May there?" "Yes, Flora; he is a man, as he himself says, past the meridian of life, and the world is a sad as well as a bad teacher, for it soon—too soon, alas! deprives us of our trusting confidence in human nature." "It may be so; but yet, he, knowing as he did so very little of Charles Holland, judged him hastily and harshly." "You rather ought to say, Flora, that he did not judge him generously." "Well, be it so." "And you must recollect, when you say so, that Marchdale did not love Charles Holland."

Somehow, Henry wins this one by arguing that Marchdale is less biased than Flora by virtue of not being in love or something? Further proof that Rymer thinks love is a flaw in human reasoning.

Admiral Bell and Chillingworth show up to remind Flora she isn't allowed any agency in this story.

"Now, here's the doctor and I have both been agreeing upon what is best for you."

The admiral has gotten weirdly invested in providing for the Bannerworths. Personally I think it's gotten to the point where, if I were Henry, I'd be wondering if he has an ulterior motive.

"I am going to invest my spare cash in taking houses; so, as I don't care a straw where the houses may be situated, you can look out for one somewhere that will suit you, and I'll take it; so, after all, you will be my guests there just the same as you are here."

He's not giving them a loan for a house; he's buying a house and letting them live there as his guests. Generosity is one thing, but I would be concerned about being this dependent on somebody.

And now...sigh. We go back to the good folk of the town. These are some of my least favorite sections of the book, and I say "sections" because BOY is there a lot of mob-focused content. Entire chapters are spent detailing the antics of the mob of the day, antics which often have no bearing on the plot. Rymer's contemptuous classism is exhausting to read, even moreso because he clearly thinks of these sections as light-hearted comic relief. Haha, poor people are violent and stupid! Isn't that funny?

...Well, except when he's trying to be deep instead, which is even worse:

There is, too, about human nature a natural craving curiosity concerning everything connected with the dead. There is not a man of education or of intellectual endowment who would not travel many miles to look upon the exhumation of the remains of some one famous in his time, whether for his vices, his virtues, his knowledge, his talents, or his heroism; and, if this feeling exist in the minds of the educated and refined in a sublimated shape, which lends to it grace and dignity, we may look for it among the vulgar and the ignorant, taking only a grosser and meaner form, in accordance with their habits of thought. The rude materials, of which the highest and noblest feelings of educated minds are formed, will be found amongst the most grovelling and base; and so this vulgar curiosity, which, combined with other feelings, prompted an ignorant and illiterate mob to exhume Miles, the once fat butcher, in a different form tempted the philosophic Hamlet to moralise upon the skull of Yorick.

This passage, I think, succinctly sums up much of Rymer's worldview. But wait! It gets worse!

Those who have never seen a mob placed in such a situation as to have cast off all moral restraint whatever, at the same time that it feels there is no physical power to cope with it, can form no notion of the mass of terrible passions which lie slumbering under what, in ordinary cases, have appeared harmless bosoms, but which now run riot, and overcame every principle of restraint. It is a melancholy fact, but, nevertheless, a fact, despite its melancholy, that, even in a civilised country like this, with a generally well-educated population, nothing but a well-organised physical force keeps down, from the commission of the most outrageous offences, hundreds and thousands of persons.

(I'm sorry all these quotes are so long. He won't shut up.)

In the midst of this disheartening screed, let us seek levity in the one aspect of this scene which is actually funny: ridiculous character names.

"It's Waggles! it's Waggles!" cried everybody "it's Waggles, the beadle!"

I'm mature.

The staff was flourished more vigorously than ever, and in the secure position that Waggles occupied it seemed not only impossible to attack him, but that he possessed wonderful powers of resistance, for the staff was long and the knob was heavy.

...Not two sentences after this quote appears, Rymer starts another sentence with "The staff was flourished more vigorously than ever", by the way. We're looking at a real master of the craft of writing here.

The chapter ends sort of abruptly, but the action isn't over yet. Not by a long shot.

Right at the top, I have a question. Who the fuck is doing the cooking in this household?

The servants are all gone. Mrs. Bannerworth is in "an inert state of mind", which apparently prevents her from doing chores or anything that would give her a character to speak of. Is it Flora? Jack Pringle?? Are they just ordering Ye Olde Takeout every night???

This chapter is the first of two instances where the specific phrase "interview with the vampyre" is used; "interview" is used a lot to refer to conversations generally, and comes up a number of times in relation to an exchange with Varney. It never stops being amusing to me.

I've spoken at length before on how this book and Dracula are thematic opposites regarding the treatment of fear, knowledge, and truth; the following passage, then, is extremely interesting.

No doubt the interview she had had with Varney in the summer-house in the garden had dispelled a host of imaginary terrors with which she had surrounded him, although it had confirmed her fully that he and he only was the dreadful being who had caused her so much misery.

So you admit that learning the truth is good for people's mental health, Rymer? That learning what's going on, even if it's horrible, is better than being kept in the dark and uncertain?

It's funny - for this ONE chapter, Flora channels the spirit of Bram Stoker, a newborn infant at the time this was written, and gathers herself with newfound confidence and poise to advocate for knowledge and investigation. The plan she poses is to leave only AFTER they discover Charles's fate - she wants more answers! More knowledge! Go forth, Flora, do some document review!

Actually, if I may put my English professor hat on for a moment, it's interesting the way Flora and Marchdale are positioned as opposites in this chapter. Flora has gained an epiphany and been renewed by it, in turn gaining the strength and confidence to seek more knowledge. Marchdale rebuffs her, despite advising Henry in the last chapter to listen to her counsel; he discourages investigation and document review, insisting that the letters found in Charles's room are exactly as they appear, and there's no need to look into his fate further. He advocates passivity above all; not only does he discourage looking into Charles's fate, he also discourages Henry's desire to seek some kind of revenge on Varney. He shuns both truth and closure; if Flora is the light in this chapter, he is the shadow.

And what happens to him? He gets covered with ink. If it wasn't Rymer writing this I'd call it deft symbolism.

Chillingworth raises what starts out as a reasonable objection, but quickly gets bogged down by arguing back and forth about whether vampires are real.

"That is true," said Mr. Chillingworth, "to a considerable extent, but then it takes too much for granted to please me." "How so, sir?" "Why, certainly, to remove from Bannerworth Hall is a much less evil than to remain at Bannerworth Hall, and be haunted by a vampyre; but then that proposition takes for granted that vampyre business, which I will never grant."

It does take too much for granted, but vampires are really not the point here. They ARE being harassed by someone, vampire or not, and he DID tell Flora that he will stop bothering them if they leave. But by now they've found ample evidence to suspect his motivations. The vampire wants your house, guys! You should be asking yourselves why!

Before he leaves, Marchdale pauses to be a huge bitch one last time.

"Oh, never mind," said Marchdale; "I look upon this old nautical ruffian as something between a fool and a madman. If he were a younger man I should chastise him upon the spot; but as it is I live in hopes yet of getting him into some comfortable lunatic asylum."

This comes in the middle of insisting that he has no desire to offend anyone, and also acting offended himself at being insulted.

Admiral Bell very nearly also leaves, but Flora begs him to stay, which he takes as an opportunity to sweep the house out from under them.

"You think of letting the Hall?" "Yes, yes." "Let me have it, then, and let me pay a few years in advance. If you don't, I'm d——d if I stay another night in the place. You must give me immediate possession, too, and stay here as my guests until you suit yourselves elsewhere. Those are my terms and conditions. Say yes, and all's right; say no, and I'm off like a round shot from a carronade. D——me, that's the thing, Jack, isn't it?" "Ay, ay, sir." There was a silence of some few moments after this extraordinary offer had been made, and then they spoke, saying,— "Admiral Bell, your generous offer, and the feelings which dictated it, are by far too transparent for us to affect not to understand them. Your actions, Admiral—" "Oh, bother my actions! what are they to you? Come, now, I consider myself master of the house, d—n you! I invite you all to dinner, or supper, or to whatever meal comes next.

He never actually received a yes or no answer, he just declared himself the new owner of their house. If it was that easy then why's Varney going to all this trouble?

The twenty was literal, by the way.

And off went the admiral and Jack, after leaving a twenty pound note in Mrs. Bannerworth's lap.

Varney and Marchdale. Whatever they've got going on could be fascinating. (I say "could be" because in practice Marchdale is a cartoon villain and Varney is a different kind of cartoon villain, and their relationship has zero depth.) I've expanded on their whole Deal a bit in blood, sweat, and tears (god I've referenced so many of my own fics in this post. I guess that's not surprising, most of the relationships I'm interested in are ones I've written about) where I have Marchdale In It For The Immortality and Varney playing along with him because he'll wade through fire for anyone who learns about the vampirism and still treats him like a person.

This chapter was so pointless. Nothing actually happened except that Rymer realized he forgot Charles existed when he was writing last chapter, and that he should probably put in an exchange between Varney and Flora that addresses him. "That's crazy," you may say. "How could he completely forget about one of his own main characters?" To which I say: lol, lmao even.

The admiral's insane gun setup is never mentioned again, which I think is a shame. He should have brought it to a duel.

The brief followup conversation between Flora and Varney that occurs in this chapter is utterly brazen in how transparent an ass-covering it is. Varney may as well have turned to look at the camera and said, "Sorry, readers! I almost forgot to address this plot point!"

"Have you anything to add to what you have already stated?" "Absolutely nothing, unless you have a question to propose to me—I should have thought you had, Flora. Is there no other circumstance weighing heavily upon your mind, as well as the dreadful visitation I have subjected you to?" "Yes," said Flora. "What has become of Charles Holland?"

"I was just wondering if you had any followup questions, Flora, maybe about a certain guy you were in love with who vanished under extremely suspicious circumstances and whose disappearance stressed you out so much that it was actually what caused you to sleepwalk out here? You know, in case you happened to have entirely forgotten about that last chapter for some reason?"

Flora is annoyingly passive (I am annoyed at the author, to be clear); when Varney all but confesses to being responsible for Charles' disappearance, she responds with joy and gratitude that he's promised her Charles will return, and not an ounce of suspicion or anger that he was the one responsible for indisposing Charles in the first place.

"Listen. Do not discard all hope; when you are far from here you will meet with him again." "But he has left me." "And yet he will be able, when you again encounter him, so far to extenuate his seeming perfidy, that you shall hold him as untouched in honour as when first he whispered to you that he loved you." "Oh, joy! joy!" said Flora; "by that assurance you have robbed misfortune of its sting, and richly compensated me for all that I have suffered."

Girl he kidnapped your fiance. At least yell at him a little bit.

"Adieu!" said the vampyre. "I shall now proceed to my own home by a different route to that taken by those who would kill me." "But after this," said Flora, "there shall be no danger; you shall be held harmless, and our departure from Bannerworth Hall shall be so quick, that you will soon be released from all apprehension of vengeance from my brother, and I shall taste again of that happiness which I thought had fled from me for ever." "Farewell," said the vampire; and folding his cloak closely around him, he strode from the summer-house [...]

Henry is making a valiant attempt to channel Jonathan Harker.

"He shall," said Henry; "I for one will dedicate my life to this matter. I will know no more rest than is necessary to recruit my frame, until I have succeeded in overcoming this monster; I will seek no pleasure here, and will banish from my mind, all else that may interfere with that one fixed pursuit. He or I must fall."

If only he had a giant knife that he could sharpen menacingly whenever Marchdale tries to talk him out of doing violence. That would really elevate this book, I think.