#varney summary

Dividing this scene into four separate chapters sure was A Choice Rymer made. If I had planned this a little better I probably would have combined this chapter and the last one into one post; oh, well.

At the start of this chapter, we see an example of the mob's irrational thinking, or what is intended to be such.

"It's all very well, mates, to take care of ourselves, you know," began one tall, brawny fellow; "but, if we bean't to be sucked to death by a vampyre, why we must have the life out of him." "Ay, so we must." "Jack Hodge is right; we must kill him, and there's no sin in it, for he has no right to it; he's robbed some poor fellow of his life to prolong his own."

At this point, I suppose the mob are blaming the deaths of the stranger at the inn and Miles the butcher on Varney; but his only actual victim, Flora, appears to have been completely forgotten, and it is a recurring theme that Varney almost never kills his victims--I think out of all the hapless young maidens in the book, only two die, and only one of those was on purpose. We, the audience, are supposed to understand this, and see how irrational the mob are for making Varney out to be worse than he is.

Now, I am 100% a Varney apologist, but I also consider Rymer my personal nemesis, and refuse to uncritically accept his premise. Vampires have long been used as a way to explain unexplained deaths; in a world which lacks our modern understanding of disease, and also one where vampires factually exist, it seems to me a fairly reasonable logical leap to suspect your area's Confirmed Vampire may be responsible for the mysterious deaths in your community.

Clearly, what the story needs at this point to benefit both parties is some kind of neutral third party, preferably one trained in matters of law and medicine, who can weigh the evidence and determine the true cause of the deaths, and reconcile Varney and the townsfolk.

Rymer trivializes gunshot wounds to an astonishing degree; you would think Varney's servants were armed with paintball guns, for all the damage from them is taken seriously.

As it was, several of them found stray slugs were lodged in various parts of their persons, and accelerated their retreat from the house of the vampyre. "What luck?" inquired one of the mob to the others, as they came back; "I'm afraid you had all the honour." "Ay, ay, we have, and all the lead too," replied a man, as he placed his hand upon a sore part of his person, which bled in consequence of a wound.

So the soldiers are all retching on the floor at the sight of one (1) stabbed corpse, but these guys shrug off blunderbuss shot like it's just another Tuesday? And you expect me to believe the military are the brave and gallant ones, Rymer?

The phrase "sucked to death" makes a reappearance, and it's even funnier the second time:

"I don't want to be sucked to death when I'm a-bed."

We already know Rymer cannot write romance, and is similarly incompetent at horror; but how is his action writing?

Bad. It's bad.

"Now, then, we have them," exclaimed the servants, who began to belabour the whole party with blows, with every weapon they could secure. Loudly did the fallen men shout for assistance, and but for their fellows who came rushing in behind, they would have had but a sorry time of it. "Hurrah!" shouted the mob; "the house is our own." "Not yet," shouted the servants. "We'll try," said the mob; and they rushed forward to drive the servants back, but they met with a stout resistance, and as some of them had choppers and swords, there were a few wounds given, and presently bang went the blunderbuss. Two or three of the mob reeled and fell. This produced a momentary panic, and the servants then had the whole of the victory to themselves, and were about to charge, and clear the passage of their enemies, when a shout behind attracted their attention. That shout was caused by an entrance being gained in another quarter, whence the servants were flying, and all was disorder.

The constant paragraph breaks, a stylistic choice almost certainly motivated by the fact that Rymer was technically paid by the line, not by the word, really undercut the tension, since each one reads as a pause. I'm also a fan of the mob and servants shouting back and forth in unison, like two choruses in a musical.

Certainly, the mob were by no means cowards,

Funny, this has not been true literally any other time you've written about a mob, Rymer. I don't think it will even continue to hold true for the rest of this scene.

I learned something new this chapter:

Indeed, they rushed on with a desperation truly characteristic of John Bull, and defied the heaviest blows;

I had never heard of John Bull before, so I looked him up on Wikipedia. He's the anthropomorphic personification of Great Britain, similar to the United States' Uncle Sam, but he fell out of use after WWI.

The chapter ends awkwardly, as Rymer attempts to end it on a cliffhanger, but instead just sort of interrupts an action beat before it's fully clear what's going on. I'll spoil a little bit of next chapter for the sake of clarity: the shout at the end of this chapter comes from a subgroup of the mob which has climbed up to a balcony on the second story and entered the house that way. This leaves the servants surrounded on both sides, which would have made a much better cliffhanger, Rymer.

Fun fact: It isn't possible to add alt text to that screenshot because the "remove image" button is layered over the "add alt text" button due to the narrowness of the image. Functional website!

Really, the last chapter was a bigger L than this, but that's just how the Roman numerals worked out. At least plot is happening in this chapter, even if it's moving at a ploddingly slow pace. And there's the promise of Varney to come. (but not until the chapter after next, because Rymer hates You, Personally.)

I actually have nothing to say about this chapter. It's very short, and almost entirely setup. I will instead devote this commentary section to wild speculation about what Varney's been up to while the narrative has been faffing about with boring nonsense. Here is what the servant at the door tells the mob:

"Well, is [Varney] at home?" "I decline saying; so you had better, all of you, go back to the town again, for we are well provided with all material to resist any attack you may be fools enough to make."

Varney is, in fact, at home, and has been preparing for a veritable siege, as we will learn over the next couple of chapters. Varney's servants are a fascinating batch of characters, despite or maybe because of how little we see of them. Rymer speculates in this chapter that one of them may have betrayed him, and that is how the mob knows he's at home, but on-page we never see anything but unfailing loyalty from Varney's staff. When and where did he hire them? Do they know or suspect he is a vampire? Why are they so willing to fight enraged mobs of people on his behalf? None of these questions are answered any more than the question of how Varney made it home after, I repeat, Charles tackled him to the floor and tried to strangle him to death. This would be less frustrating if Rymer did not spend chapters and chapters focusing on parts of the story I could not care less about. Henry's indecision and the mob's random acts of violence are BORING, Rymer. Put some more vampire in your goddamn vampire story.

It seems fairly clear to me that Varney has been preparing for this attack since he got home; given the rate at which he attracts mobs, I would not rule out the possibility that he has done this song and dance before. At the very least, he seems very aware that the townsfolk will not be satisfied after his disappearance in the ruins, and will come after him again.

Hey, here's a theory with absolutely 0 textual evidence to back it up: what if there's a secret passage connecting the ruin and Varney's house? That would explain how he was able to get home undetected. It would also allow me to engage in some highly self-indulgent speculative Charles/Varney hurt/comfort

As far as the mob chapters go, this one actually isn't too bad--it has some decent jokes, at least. As far as the overall story goes, this chapter has about as much relevance as the ones where a character sits down to read a story for a whole chapter, which is to say, none whatsoever. If we must spend multiple chapters among the townsfolk, the least the author could do is to flesh out a handful of them as recurring characters, but this never happens--none of the named characters in this chapter ever reappear, and neither do any of the named villagers in future mob chapters, of which there will be at least a couple.

I'm not clear on whether Fletcher (referred to by the mob as "Fletcher, the ranter") is an actual preacher, or one of those guys who stands on street corners and yells at people about how they must repent or face hellfire. He mentions having a chapel, but ah...

"...you shall take that likewise as a signification that what I say to you shall be as the Gospel, and that by coming to the chapel of the Little Boozlehum, ye shall achieve a great salvation."

Then again, given the other names in this book, "Little Boozlehum" isn't terribly far out of the ordinary.

Big Dick is the first guy to start digging, and he's so enthusiastic about it that he starts flinging shovelfuls of earth into the crowd. One of them hits Fletcher in the face mid-rant and he gets a mouthful of dirt.

Rymer can't resist making derogatory remarks about the crowd.

It was, indeed, a scene of intense excitement—a scene which only wanted a few prominent features in its foreground of a more intellectual and higher cast than composed the mob, to make it a fit theme for a painter of the highest talent.

Fuck off, man.

To compare this book to Discworld would be a great insult to Pratchett, but I do get a sort of Colon-and-Nobbs vibe from Big Dick and the unnamed boy who spends much of the rest of this chapter making smart remarks.

"You may depend he's a vampyre," said one, "or it wouldn't be so difficult to get him out of the grave." "Oh, there can be no mistake about that," said one; "when did a natural Christian's coffin stick in the mud in that way?" "Ah, to be sure," said another; "I knew no good would come of his goings on; he never was a decent sort of man like his neighbours, and many queer things have been said of him that I have no doubt are true enough, if we did but know the rights of them." "Ah, but," said a young lad, thrusting his head between the two who were talking, "if he is a vampyre, how does he get out of his coffin of a night with all that weight of mould a top of him?" One of the men considered for a moment, and then finding no rational answer occur to him, he gave the boy a box on the ear, saying,— "I should like to know what business that is of yours? Boys, now-a-days, ain't like the boys in my time; they think nothing now of putting their spokes in grown-up people's wheels, just as if their opinions were of any consequence."

"Oughtn't we to have the service for the dead?" said one. "Yes," said the impertinent boy who had before received the knock on the head, "I think we ought to have that read backwards."

By the way, I feel like you should know that the eventual canon answer to the boy's question is, "vampires are magically compelled to dig up others of their kind, and they all carry specialized shovels for this purpose".

Big Dick calls the rest of the crowd cowards for hesitating to open the coffin, and a short king steps forward to say that maybe he's the coward, actually. Dick pretends to panic and yells, "He's a-coming—he's a-coming!", which causes mass panic among the crowd. Rymer makes another weird unnecessary soapbox.

With some difficulty the little man was extricated from the grave, and then, oh, for the consistency of a mob! they all laughed at him; those very people who, heedless of all the amenities of existence, had been trampling upon each other, and roaring with terror, actually had the impudence to laugh at him, and call him a cowardly little rascal, and say it served him right. But such is popularity!

Big Dick--and I should confess he's only referred to that way once, the rest of the time he's just "Dick"--makes a couple of remarks about Miles the Butcher which sound a little...you know...

"I knowed the old fellow when he was alive, and many a time he's d——d me and I've d——d him, so I ain't a-going to be afraid of him now he's dead. We was very intimate, you see, 'cos we was the two heaviest men in the parish; there's a reason for everything."

"Who'd a thought that I should ever had a look at old fat and thunder again?—that's what I used to call him; and then he used to request me to go down below, where I needn't turn round to light my blessed pipe."

I actually have no idea what that second one is supposed to mean. But like, these men definitely were fucking, right? It's not just me?

The brick, as well as the disappearance of the butcher's body, are never explained. Big Dick initially speculates that Miles has transformed into a brick, but quickly pivots to saying he must have become a vampire and left his grave.

The mob are very disappointed not to have a body, which is odd to me, since you'd think the disappearance of an entire corpse would get them excited. Someone throws a stone at Big Dick, who grabs the guy and punches him to keep the rest of them from getting any ideas. The guy then accuses him of being a vampire, and Dick responds with his little brick-throwing stunt:

"Now, you're a cowardly set," he said; "cause you're disappointed, you want to come upon me. Now, I'll just show what a little thing will frighten you all again, and I warn beforehand it will, so you sha'n't say you didn't know it, and were taken by surprise." The mob looked at him, wondering what he was going to do. "Once! twice! thrice!" he said, and then he flung the brick up into the air an immense height, and shouted "heads," in a loud tone. A general dispersion of the crowd ensued, and the brick fell in the centre of a very large circle indeed.

Somehow, everyone clears off far away enough for the boy to hide in the coffin without anybody noticing.

This chapter, thankfully, is not too long, because even with it actually having a couple decent jokes, it's still sort of uncomfortable to read. So much of the humor is dependent on how cowardly, violent, and stupid the townsfolk are. It's a bit like having an entire village of Roald Dahl's The Twits--just a whole load of unpleasant people playing mean pranks on each other. The mob scenes in Varney are much worse to read than The Twits, though, because at least in the latter there's no implication that the titular characters' behavior is applicable to an entire social class.

EDIT: I almost forgot to mention that there is Big Dick/Miles the Butcher fanfic on AO3, written I believe by a friend of the @antiquesfreaks podcast. In case anyone is dying for more of those two.

The true villain of this book is here. In a literal sense, it's the mob, but more accurately it is the fear, ignorance, and superstition which fuels them. I've written before on this topic; it is one of the principal themes underpinning the text. In this chapter, we see the primary manifestation of this theme laid out before us, and the contradictory way ignorance and knowledge are framed by the text.

Human nature truly delights in the marvellous, and in proportion as a knowledge of the natural phenomena of nature is restricted, and unbridled imagination allowed to give the rein to fathomless conjecture, we shall find an eagerness likewise to believe the marvellous to be the truth.

The people comprising the mob are uneducated and ignorant; this, in turn, makes them superstitious, and their superstition leads in turn to violence and chaos. Lack of knowledge is, therefore, a bad thing. And yet:

...we blame Mr. Chillingworth for being so indiscreet as to communicate the secret of such a person as Varney the vampyre to his wife...

Spreading information is also bad. This is the same author who thinks gaslighting people is good actually. One would think that the solution to ignorance causing mass panic would be to educate the populace, but this is not how Rymer thinks. In his worldview, certain people are almost innately uneducated, and efforts to remedy their ignorance only make the problem worse. The mob rebuffs all efforts to explain the situation; the only new information they absorb is that which reinforces their beliefs. It is clear that the only solution which exists in the author's head is that the townsfolk had never learned the rumor of a vampire at all. His thesis, here, is that ignorant people must be kept ignorant, because they cannot be trusted to correctly interpret information.

Under such circumstances, ignorant people always do what they have heard has been done by some one else before them and in an incredibly short space of time the propriety of catching Sir Francis Varney, depriving him of his vampyre-like existence, and driving a stake through his body, became not at all a questionable proposition.

...All of which is ludicrous to present in a narrative where the core central conceit is that vampires are real. Please tell me again, in this novel which opens with a graphic description of a vampire attack, why the actions of the townsfolk should be considered at all unreasonable.

Chillingworth spends this whole chapter lamely following the mob around, attempting to convince them to put down their pitchforks and go home. You would think, given the sentiments he has expressed earlier in the text, that his arguments would consist primarily of reasons why Sir Francis Varney is not a vampire, and vampires are not real. Would you believe, then, that this never once comes up?

"You are wrong. I assure you, you are all wrong," said Mr. Chillingworth, imploringly; "there is no vampyre here, you see. Sir Francis Varney has not only escaped, but he will take the law of all of you."

Why are you conceding the possibility that Varney is a vampire, dude, whatever happened to "vampires aren't real and I wouldn't believe in them if one bit me"?

At the beginning of the chapter, we receive some very "citation needed" facts about vampires and vampire-like creatures in other cultures.

The ghoul of eastern nations is but the same being, altered to suit habits and localities; and the sema of the Scandinavians is but the vampyre of a more primitive race...

I cannot for the life of me figure out where he got the word "sema" from. I assume he is thinking of the draugr, but can see no way for him to have gotten "sema" out of that, unless he literally made up a term because he didn't know what they were called.

Rymer depicts the mob as a sort of separate entity in its own right, at once more brutal and more stupid than the sum of its parts, though equally as cowardly. You can really taste his contempt for the working class. He gets in a little misogynist dig, too.

Men and women were mixed indiscriminately together, and in the shouting, the latter, if such a thing were possible, exceeded the former, both in discordance and energy.

The social order has broken down, and it is lower-class women who head the rising tide of Hobbesian chaos. Their gossip spreads and inflames the vampire rumor, and their action (contrasted to the upper-class Flora's virtuous passivity) drives the mob's vicious appetites.

"Drive a stake through him," said a woman; "it's the only way, and the humanest. You've only to take a hedge stake and sharpen it a bit at one end, and char it a little in the fire so as there mayt'n't be no splinters to hurt, and then poke it through his stomach."

Within the mob, individual voices are amplified, lending them power. In this story, however, the power of collective action is firmly negative, with the hollered suggestions of the crowd functioning as a sort of blind animal impulse which leads them from one violent act to the next. This will become more and more evident as we move ahead in the story, and the mob violence escalates further and further.

"He's in the town somewhere," cried one. "Let's go back to the town." It is strange how suddenly any mob will obey any impulse, and this perfectly groundless supposition was sufficient to turn their steps back again in the direction whence they came,

At this early stage, however, it is hard to find fault with these people, despite Rymer's best efforts to portray them as ignorant and savage. Henry assumes the mob must have rallied on his behalf, but they don't care about him:

"Oh, to be sure," said the humane woman; "nobody's feelings is nothing to us. Are we to be woke up in the night with vampyres sucking our bloods while we've got a stake in the country?"

This is, I think, a very understandable motivation. Vampires in folklore are bad fucking news. Are they really going to put themselves, their livestock, and their children at risk simply because the vampire in question is very good at playing gentleman? Recollect, also, that Henry JUST got done trying to kill Varney, and indeed our heroes have shot at him many times. Apparently when rich people try to kill a vampire, it's virtuous self defense, but when poor people try it, it's vicious barbarism.

From here on out, Varney rapidly becomes more and more sympathetic. It is hard to say which comes first in this chicken-and-egg scenario: whether Rymer introduced the mob as a convenient way to make the heroes sympathize with Varney, or whether Varney's defanging as a villain (no pun intended) is meant to highlight the monstrosity of the mob.

"What a strange mixture," exclaimed Marchdale, "of feelings and passions this Varney appears to be. At one moment acting with the apparent greatest malignity; and another, seeming to have awakened in his mind a romantic generosity which knows no bounds. I cannot understand him."

It is fascinating to me how the mob are othered in a way Varney, the literal monster, never is. Varney is humanized throughout the text, even while he is biting people and committing crimes, but the mob--well, they are presented as both an overwhelming and deadly force of evil, and also as cowardly, impotent, and stupid, which is the exact blend of contradictory characteristics used by fascists and conspiracy theorists to other their targets of fear and hatred.

Yet what danger could there be? there were they, more than half a hundred stout, strong men, to cope with one; they felt convinced that he was completely in their power; they knew the ruins could not hide him, and that five minutes time given to the task, would suffice to explore every nook and corner of them. And yet they hesitated, while an unknown terror shook their nerves, and seemingly from the very fact that they had run down their game successfully, they dreaded to secure the trophy of the chase.

Any voice would have sufficed to break the spell which bound them. This did so; and, with one accord, and yells of imprecation, they rushed forward and plunged among the old walls of the ruin. [...] It was astonishing how the fact of not finding him in a moment, again roused all their angry feelings against him, and dispelled every feeling of superstitious awe with which he had been surrounded; rage gave place to the sort of shuddering horror with which they had before contemplated his immediate destruction, when they had believed him to be virtually within their very grasp.

The mob slingshots back and forth between rage and fear. Rage spurs them impulsively forward, and so long as their rage produces results, they will keep on moving; but as soon as they encounter an obstacle, fear sets in, and they will retreat unless some voice within their ranks gives a suggestion or rallying cry which can rekindle their rage once more. At the end of this chapter, having failed to find Varney's hiding place within the ruins, the mob slink fearfully away, milling about uncertainly nearby until a lone voice gives them an actionable suggestion:

"Now, my good friends, I propose that we all appear to give it up, and to go away; but that some one of us shall remain and hide among the ruins for some time, to watch, in case the vampyre makes his appearance from some hole or corner that we haven't found out."

Spurred into action by this plan, the mob leaves en masse; but none of them, including the man who volunteered the suggestion, are brave enough to stay behind, and the ruin is ultimately left unguarded.

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.

Add a tally to the "author getting his own characters' names wrong" board.

George Holland had been on the eve of fighting a duel with Sir Francis Varney, previous to his mysterious disappearance.

The total number of braincells in this book continues to be 0. Flora has only just now come to the conclusion that Varney must be responsible for Charles' disappearance, despite him practically confessing to her a couple chapters previous. Henry, meanwhile, apparently does not think it is possible that Varney would do such a thing. Henry now is not the time to see the best in everyone. He drank your sister's blood Henry. Henry.

When she became fully aware of this fact, to her mind it seemed materially to add to the suspicions previously to then entertained, that foul means had been used in order to put Charles out of the way. "Who knows," she said, "that this Varney may not shrink with the greatest terror from a conflict with any human being, and feeling one was inevitable with Charles Holland, unless interrupted by some vigorous act of his own, he or some myrmidons of his may have taken Charles's life!" "I do not think, Flora," said Henry, "that he would have ventured upon so desperate an act; I cannot well believe such a thing possible."

Despite this, Henry does take action, finally, and goes to Varney's house to challenge him to a duel. Varney's extreme obtuseness is definitely here to pad the word count, but in this case it works. It's entertaining to read and serves the story--a rare moment when the text's paid-by-the-word nature works for the story rather than against it.

"I suspect Charles Holland, Sir Francis Varney, has met with unfair treatment, and that he has been unfairly dealt with, for an unworthy purpose." "Undoubtedly," said Varney, "if the gentleman you allude to, has been unfairly dealt with, it was for a foul purpose; for no good or generous object, my young sir, could be so obtained—you acknowledge so much, I doubt not?" "I do, Sir Francis Varney; and hence the purpose of my visit here—for this reason I apply to you—" "A singular object, supported by a singular reason. I cannot see the connection, young sir; pray proceed to enlighten me upon this matter, and when you have done that, may I presume upon your consideration, to inquire in what way I can be of any service to you?"

The punctuation still isn't doing it any favors.

Varney shows no mercy to poor Henry, who does not have nearly the wit required to match him in conversation, and proves easily wound up by Varney's taunts. It's clear that Varney is having tremendous fun.

"You have failed; for I now here, on this spot, defy you to mortal combat. Coward, assassin as you are, I challenge you to fight." "You don't mean on the carpet here?" said Varney, deliberately.

Finally, Varney sees Henry out with a "grave and formal bow" accompanied by a "sarcastic smile, most disagreeable to look upon as well as irritating [...]".

I love him.

Meanwhile, the admiral is also planning to duel Varney. He talks to himself the whole way to Varney's house, because no one in this book is capable of thinking quietly, and seems to get ruder and ruder the closer to Varney he gets. By the time he is actually within Varney's parlor, you can practically see the cartoon steam clouds emanating from him. And that's before Varney starts talking.

Honestly, this is a pretty second-rate Varney/Admiral Bell interaction. Varney doesn't get in nearly as many digs on the admiral as he normally does--evidently he used them all up on Henry. Without them, it's only Admiral Bell's exaggerated sailor speak carrying the comedy of the scene, and that grows tedious after a while. He does call Varney "Blarney" at one point, which I will paste in so that the title of this post makes sense:

"Gammon again, now, Sir Francis Varney, or Blarney." "Varney, if you please, Admiral Bell; I was christened Varney."

I also am required to paste the following line, without comment:

"Well, Admiral Bell," slid Varney, mildly, "in that case, I suppose I must come out;

Even without bringing his usual insult game, Varney still manages to wind up Admiral Bell into a froth simply by acting calm and polite. By the time Admiral Bell goes to bed (drunk, I might add), he is fuming about annihilating the entire French army, because of course he takes his anger out on the French.

Everyone in this book uses such vague euphemisms for duels, and yet somehow always know each other's meaning immediately. I know that "giving satisfaction" was accepted Duel Terminology, but Henry here simply tells Chillingworth he wishes to have "a meeting" with Varney and Chillingworth instantly knows what he means.

Chillingworth actually gives Henry some useful, practical advice! Wow!

"There can be no sort of suspicion about that," remarked Chillingworth; "but allow me to advise you that you take care of yourself, and keep a watchful eye upon every one—do not be seen out alone." "I fear not." "Nay, the gentleman who has disappeared was, I am sure, fearless enough; but yet that has not saved him. I would not advise you to be fearful, only watchful; you have now an event awaiting upon you, which it is well you should go through with, unless circumstances should so turn out, that it is needless; therefore I say, when you have the suspicions you do entertain of this man's conduct, beware, be cautious, and vigilant."

Look at that! Common sense! An endangered species in this book.

"This affair is quite a secret from all of the family?" "Most certainly so, and will remain so—I shall be at the Hall."

...Never mind, it couldn't last. Hey, guys? Keeping his midnight duel a secret was what got Charles' ass kidnapped. Now I am imagining a scenario in which Varney just keeps kidnapping characters as they challenge him to duels in turn until the entire cast is stuck in the ruins. Someone else write this fanfic, I have too many WIPs on my plate already.

Admiral Bell slept soundly enough though, towards morning, he fell into a strange dream, and thought he was yard arm and yard arm with a strange fish—something of the mermaid species.

...You know, technically speaking, this does not say that he was fighting that mermaid. I will definitely not be reading into this.

Rymer seemingly does not get tired of writing Admiral Bell and Jack Pringle arguing with each other. I, however, get tired of reading it. It was funny at first, but like Hans Christian Anderson in the house of Charles Dickens it is outstaying its welcome. For you, dear reader, I wade through oceans of nautical grousing to pick out only the choicest lines. Like this one:

"...Admiral Bell ain't a-going to have his nephew burned and eaten, and sucked like I don't know what, by a vampyre, or by any other confounded land-shark."

He is very concerned the vampire might have sucked Charles. This is a grave matter, stop laughing.

Servants in Varney the Vampire always have it rough, but this chapter is really something else. Pull out your Rymer Classism Bingo Cards--wait actually I should make a Varney bingo card/drinking game, that sounds fun.

Where was I? Oh, briefly before we get into the servant stuff, I would like to touch on how Henry is an idiot who blindly trusts everyone around him, because from his vantage point Admiral Bell should be raising some MAJOR red flags right now. The admiral has bullied him into giving up his ENTIRE HOUSE and ALL THE FURNITURE IN IT, and is rushing the move along besides. Between Admiral Bell's pushiness, Marchdale's passive aggression, and Chillingworth's useless skepticism, genuinely the most trustworthy and put together older man in Henry's life right now is Varney the fucking vampire.

Speaking of Varney, I really hope he pays his servants well, because this poor fellow needs a raise. For the sum total crimes of:

Being Varney's servant

Showing up at Bannerworth Hall to pay Varney's compliments and inquire how they're doing after the duel + mob fiasco earlier

Saying a couple of rude remarks (on Varney's orders)

this servant endures what Rymer apparently considers some light-hearted slapstick comic relief.

Jack laid hold of him by the two ears, and holding him under the pump, kicked his shins until he completely gathered himself beneath the spout. It was in vain that he shouted "Murder! help! fire! thieves!" Jack was inexorable, and the admiral pumped. Jack turned the fellow's head about in a very scientific manner, so as to give him a fair dose of hydropathic treatment, and in a few minutes, never was human being more thoroughly saturated with moisture than was Sir Francis Varney's servant. He had left off hallooing for aid, for he found that whenever he did so, Jack held his mouth under the spout, which was decidedly unpleasant; so, with a patience that looked like heroic fortitude, he was compelled to wait until the admiral was tired of pumping.

Yeah sure guys, that's a proportionate response to give to a cheeky messenger. Forget asking for a raise, this guy should press criminal charges.

Of course, all that was simply not enough beating up on a random working man for Rymer. Oh no.

"Very good," at length he said. "Now, Jack, for fear this fellow catcher cold, be so good as to get a horsewhip, and see him off the premises with it."

Jack proceeded to kick the shivering animal from the garden with a vehemence that soon convinced him of the necessity of getting out of it as quickly as possible.

Our Heroes, everybody.

The insolence of his servant was, no doubt, a matter of pre-arrangement with that individual, however he might have set about it con amore. As for the termination of the adventure, that, of course, had not been at all calculated upon; but, like most tools of other people's insolence or ambition, the insolence of the underling had received both his own punishment and his master's. We know quite enough of Sir Francis Varney to feel assured that he would rather consider it as a good jest than otherwise of his footman, so that with the suffering he endured at the Bannerworths', and the want of sympathy he was likely to find at home, that individual had certainly nothing to congratulate himself upon but the melancholy reminiscence of his own cleverness.

Okay, I know that passage is more of Rymer's usual word salad, but trust me as a sort of masochistic connoisseur of the man's work: this is not what it looks like when he sympathizes with a character, or wants the reader to sympathize with them. Rymer, in fact, does not seem to care at all about the servant one way or another; these paragraphs are part of a dispassionate aside where Rymer speculates, or rather fails to speculate, about how Varney could have made it home safely in order to send this message. I'm pretty sure he completely forgot about the scene where Charles tried to strangle Varney; it is never so much as hinted at ever again.

The literal next paragraph is a jarring transition back to Rymer's all-time favorite subject:

But were the mob satisfied with what had occurred in the churchyard? They were not,

I can't tell whether the sudden shift over the next many, many chapters to a good 50-80% Mob Content is fueled by him liking to write scenes about Stupid Peasants Acting Stupid, him getting bored of all his main characters, or just him realizing that he can milk more money out of this story if he delays the action with a bunch of pointless bullshit. It's probably that last one, actually.

So, the local consensus is that Miles the Butcher is a vampire. Some Random Guy provides an explanation, quickly accepted by the general populace, for how Miles got out of his grave: obviously, other vampires go around digging up eligible corpses and laying them in the moonlight.

And that guy was James Malcolm Rymer himself, because that bit of lore will later become 100% FOR REAL CANON. Not only that, but all vampires carry specialized shovels for that specific task. That's CANON. That's the REAL VAMPIRE LORE of this story. MATCHING VAMPIRE SHOVELS.

Meanwhile, a young man staying at an inn (The Nelson's Arms, the anachronistically-named inn Admiral Bell and Jack Pringle stopped at when they were first introduced to the story) recently took ill and died. His funeral was scheduled, by unfortunate coincidence, for the day that the mob decided to dig up Miles the Butcher's corpse, so the burial was postponed, and his body is still just laying around upstairs.

Enter The Foolish Tavern Wench.

This woman, with all the love of gossip incidental to her class, had, from the first, entered so fully into all the particulars concerning vampyres, that she fairly might be considered to be a little deranged on that head. Her imagination had been so worked upon, that she was in an unfit state to think of anything else, and if ever upon anybody a stern and revolting superstition was calculated to produce direful effects, it was upon this woman. The town was tolerably quiet; the presence of the soldiery had frightened some and amused others, and no doubt the night would have passed off serenely, had she not suddenly rushed into the street, and, with bewildered accents and frantic gestures shouted,— "A vampyre—a vampyre—a vampyre!"

Something I just realized is that, while many of the random male villagers are given names, I'm not sure any of the random female ones ever are. I can't say I'm surprised at this point, just disappointed.

Anyway, Unnamed Chamber Maid here is an example of a character type which props up the heroic narrative role of lying, gaslighting, and not telling people shit. This is a woman who cannot be trusted with the truth, because she will blow it out of proportion with her hysterical Female Emotions, and cause a mass panic. Sure enough, a mob seems to virtually materialize on the spot in response to her cries:

These words soon collected a crowd around her,

Some twenty or thirty persons, with shouts and exclamations, rushed into the inn, while the woman who had created the disturbance still continued to rave, tearing her hair, and shrieking at intervals, until she fell exhausted upon the pavement. Soon, from a hundred throats, rose the dreadful cry of "A vampyre—a vampyre!"

Rymer leaves the actual actions of the mob as a cliffhanger for next week, instead ending this chapter on the following delightful note:

It is truly astonishing the effect which one weak or vicious-minded person can produce upon a multitude. Here was a woman whose opinion would have been accounted valueless upon the most common-place subject, and whose word would not have passed for twopence, setting a whole town by the ears by force of nothing but her sheer brutal ignorance. It is a notorious physiological fact, that after four or five days, or even a week, the bodies of many persons assume an appearance of freshness, such as might have been looked for in vain immediately after death. It is one of the most insidious processes of that decay which appears to regret with its "————— offensive fingers, To mar the lines where beauty lingers." But what did the chamber-maid know of physiology? Probably, she would have asked if it was anything good to eat; and so, of course, having her head full of vampyres, she must needs produce so lamentable a scene of confusion, the results of which we almost sicken at detailing.

I hate him almost as much as he hates this random woman he made up to get mad at.