[Lindsay Dearinger received her M.A. in English in
2011 and is currently an Adjunct Instructor at the University of Central
Oklahoma
“Great Scott! Is this a game?”
“It is.”[1]
In most vampire narratives, vampires must
engage in play to distract, divert, or mislead humans for the purposes of
self-preservation. Vampire stories also incorporate play as it relates to games
and rules. Vampires and humans alike must play by sets of rules, and the rules
depend upon the game being played. To analyze the use of play in vampire
narratives, I look to the earliest English language vampire-as-genre stories: Varney the Vampire; or, the Feast of Blood,
the prototype for vampire stories since its appearance in the 1840s, and Bram
Stoker’s Dracula, perhaps the most
famous vampire narrative.[2]
Relying on Derrida’s conceptualization of play, this essay examines play as it
relates to the structure of the texts and the characters’ relationships to the
rules of the vampire game in order to determine subversion of the “serious
vampire” archetype.
Derrida’s Concept of Play and
Decentralization
My analysis of play in Dracula and Varney
requires an explication of Derrida’s notion of play and the decentralization of
conceptuality. In “Structure, Sign, and Play in the Discourse of the Human
Sciences,” Derrida relates the history of the concept of structure; he
considers structure in terms of before and after a rupture, or the interruption
of classical thought with the onset of structuralism. Derrida explains that,
before the rupture, structure has been “neutralized or reduced, and this by a
process of giving it a center or of referring it to a point of presence, a
fixed origin” (278). The center, which “grounds” the structure, limits play.
The center focuses and organizes the
structure. Though the center “permits the play of its elements inside the total
form,” the presence of the center also “closes off the play which it opens up
and makes possible” (Derrida 279). In classical thought, since the center acts
as a foundation and limits play in the “total form,” according to Derrida,
“[t]he concept of centered structure is in fact the concept of a play based on
a fundamental ground, a play constituted on the basis of a fundamental
immobility and a reassuring certitude, which itself is beyond the reach of
play” (279). Play is an unplanned, unordered event occurring within the
structure; play is spontaneity, perversion, deviance. The center’s moderating
of play within the structure implements order and stability of the structure.
While the center regulates play, it avoids the effects of play.
In order to regulate play, the center must
be both within the structure and outside of or beyond the structure, a paradox
which contributes to the rupture, or the decentering of the structure. After
the rupture, it becomes necessary to think “that there was no center” in the
first place (Derrida 280). The loss of center causes the concept of structure
to disintegrate, and play becomes important to a conversation about structure
that directly relates to the loss of center.
In vampire narratives, the center is
analogous to the “rules” followed by vampires and hunters. For example, some
rules traditionally observed in vampire stories and folklore include the fact
that vampires are repelled by crucifixes, cannot ingest any substance other
than human blood, and can be killed with a stake through the heart. The center,
here represented by the vampire rules, organizes the structure of the texts.
The vampire rules control or confine the structure of the text. Derrida’s
concept of unregulated play creates a space for the subversion of archetype and
form to occur, and this decentralization of conceptuality allows me to argue
that unregulated play subverts literary motif and narrative structure. It is
the loss of center indicated by Derrida’s concept of unregulated play as
subversion that allows me to contradict Bette Roberts’s assertion that
“Varney’s contributions to the [vampire] myth are superficial and physical
rather than substantial and psychological,” that Varney is “more silly than
serious” (4).
Dracula’s Narrative Strategy and
Structure
Despite more than a century of parodies,
Dracula resists being classified as anything but “serious.” Critics engage with
Stoker’s Dracula more readily than
other vampire texts of the nineteenth century, perhaps, as Roberts insists,
because Dracula is “mysterious,” “inhuman,” and “terrifying” (1, 2). In other
words, Dracula is a proper villain, not a buffoon like Varney. For Roberts, Le
Fanu’s Carmilla is the only nineteenth-century literary vampire to rival
Dracula in villainy, and Varney
occupies a subordinate position to these more “serious” vampire stories.
Stoker’s narrative strategy creates the
“serious” aesthetic of the titular character. From Stoker’s prefatory comments
to Jonathan Harker’s end note, Stoker deliberately plans all narrative events.
Consequently, Dracula provides no
space for spontaneity, and all events occur according to plan, which is
understood as the narrative progresses. Nothing is more deliberate than the
slow unfolding of Dracula’s true nature, the very fact that he is a vampire,
and his relationship to characters like Renfield and to events like the wreck
of the Demeter. Stoker’s construction
of his vampire’s story cloaks Dracula in shadow and secrets. Jean Marigny
argues that, in order to achieve suspense, Stoker bases his narrative strategy
on secrecy. That vampires are real, and that Dracula is a vampire, is intentionally kept a secret by Stoker from the
reader in order to achieve a serious, suspenseful, and planned aesthetic.
Stoker’s secret-keeping begins early with
Jonathan’s journey to Transylvania , the first
section of the novel. Carol Senf concurs with the idea that “Stoker is careful to reveal the truth about
Dracula slowly” (31) and I emphasize her use of the word “careful” to highlight
Stoker’s intentionality with regards to the unfolding of the plot. Jonathan
transcribes events and conversations from his time spent at Dracula’s castle in
his journal, committing Dracula’s strange behavior to print. But Dracula
maintains facades and excuses for his behavior. For example, Jonathan is led to
believe that Dracula keeps servants, but he catches Dracula cooking and
cleaning for his guest in secret.
The longer the skeptical solicitor remains
a guest/prisoner at Dracula’s castle, the more secretive, mysterious, and
terrifying Dracula becomes. Dracula transforms from a quaint foreign
businessman into a monster who makes enigmatic and threatening comments (“Take
care how you cut yourself. It is more dangerous than you think in this
country”), kidnaps children for three women, or “devils of the Pit,” to prey
upon, and climbs facedown the castle wall wearing Jonathan’s own clothes
(Stoker 31, 55). Senf points out that “it takes Harker, who—like most of the
other characters in the novel—is a rationalist and a skeptic, some time to
realize the truth about Dracula” (31). Though Jonathan questions his own
sanity, he never suggests that Dracula is a vampire, despite all that he has
witnessed. After all, why would Jonathan assume that Dracula is a vampire when,
as Senf reminds us, Stoker “doesn’t reveal his character’s supernatural
abilities until the novel is well established” (58)? Stoker deliberately builds suspense without
divulging the secret.
Stoker also employs carefully chosen words
to underscore Dracula’s serious and
secretive aesthetic. Van Helsing—more than
once—informs Seward that Lucy’s condition is “no jest,” but a matter of “life
and death.” Seward observes that Van Helsing is “very serious” (Stoker 107). When
Mina and Jonathan are reunited in Budapest, Jonathan “very solemnly” and in
“deadly earnest” asks Mina to take his journal from his time at Dracula’s
castle, which contains “the secret,” and keep it from him, though he prefaces
his request with the claim that “there should be no secret” between husband and
wife (99).[3]
Like Van Helsing, Jonathan and Mina refer to the pursuit of Dracula as a
“solemn” and “stern duty” (100).
Van Helsing does not mention the existence
of vampires until the middle of the narrative, directly before Arthur stakes
Lucy. To the frustration of Seward, Van Helsing keeps the truth of Lucy’s
“illness” a secret from his former student. After his first examination of
Lucy, Van Helsing refuses to “give [Seward] any further clue,” cloaking his
suspicions in cryptic metaphors, explaining that he will “later […] unfold to
[Seward]” the secret at a time he will choose (Stoker 107, 111). Van Helsing’s
use of the word “unfold” parallels Stoker’s narrative strategy: all secrets
will unfold for the reader at a point in the narrative chosen by Stoker.
Throughout the ordeal with Lucy, Van Helsing continues to assure Seward,
Arthur, and Quincey that the truth will be made known to them, that they “shall
know and understand it all in good time; but it will be later,” and that “there
are things that [they] know not, but that [they] shall know” (137, 149).
When the time comes, Van
Helsing reveals the truth, that there are “such beings as vampires” and that
Dracula is among the Un-Dead (Stoker 209). Marigny observes that when “Van Helsing finally tells the truth about
vampires, there is a drastic change in the novel.” For Marigny, Van Helsing’s
revelation initiates the reader, and the act of keeping secrets is dropped:
“[the reader] is told everything about what is happening as if Stoker had
decided to renounce his narrative strategy.” Though the act of keeping secrets
from the reader may be dropped by Stoker, I argue that Stoker does not
renounce his narrative strategy, and that Van Helsing’s revelation serves as
Stoker’s deliberate unfolding of the narrative. Van Helsing’s revelation and
the formation of the group of vampire hunters is not a place where the
narrative falls apart; rather, it is the center, or the place containing the
delineation of vampire rules.
The center controls and confines the
structure of Dracula. The narrative
does not fall apart here. Play is grounded because the revelation of vampire
existence means the conscious initiation of the rules. Play is allowed, but it
is limited in that the characters must follow the rules as outlined. In fact,
the rules have been followed all along, though the characters might not have
realized it. James Twitchell claims that in Dracula,
“all the pieces are used and all the pieces fit” (134), and Van Helsing’s
delineation of the vampire rules reveals to the reader exactly how all these
seemingly disparate narrative pieces fit perfectly together.
Van Helsing enumerates vampires’ strengths.
Vampires are immortal. Dracula is “so strong in person as twenty men.” He can,
“within limitations,” appear and disappear at will (Stoker 209). He can take
the forms of certain animals, such as wolves and bats, and he can command these
and other animals, including owls, foxes, and rats. Dracula can also control
the elements, though he is limited; for example, Dracula can create mist, but
the mist can’t disperse far beyond his own body.
Dracula, it seems, is nearly invincible,
but his power has limits because he too is subject to the rules of the game.
Vampires must drink the blood of the living to survive. Dracula “cannot
flourish without this diet; he eat not as others” (Stoker 211). Vampires cast
no shadows and their images are not reflected in mirrors. Vampires cannot enter
a human home without first being invited in, though, as Van Helsing points out,
“afterwards he can come as he please” (211). Vampires are afflicted by certain
items, such as garlic, crucifixes, and other holy objects.
Finally, Van Helsing claims that perhaps
the most important limitation is that Dracula’s “power ceases, as does that of
all evil things, at the coming of the day” (Stoker 211). This does not mean
that Dracula’s movements are restricted during the day, as popular
interpretation assumes. The Harkers observe Dracula out in the park during the
middle of the day, and Dracula is comfortable moving about during the daylight.
This limitation is important for the hunters; with Dracula’s power diminished
during the daylight hours, the hunters have twice as much time to find and kill
him.
Van Helsing emphasizes the strict and
reverent following of the rules. Following the rules of the game is the only
way to destroy vampires, who can only meet “true death” when a stake is driven
through the heart, followed by the cutting off of the head (Stoker 212).
Dracula and Van Helsing mutually engage in the vampire rules, providing the
narrative with organization and stability. But more importantly, the rules
provide the promise of an end: an end to Dracula and an end of the text. Only in
following the rules can the hunters kill Dracula and put an end to the
narrative.
Gothic stories of the nineteenth century
often claimed to be true accounts of strange events. In constructing a
narrative composed of diary and journal entries, letters, telegrams, and
newspaper clippings from different narrative perspectives, Stoker emulates
Gothic conventions. These disparate texts are then placed in chronological
order to achieve a particular effect: the characters narrate events as they
happen. In his prefatory comments, Stoker assures his reader that “[h]ow these
papers have been placed in sequence will be made manifest in the reading of
them” (5). David Skal and Nina Auerbach call this effect “temporal immediacy,”
a “familiar device in English fiction” (5 n.1). The audience senses that the
events happen contemporaneously and is kept in the dark about events that occur
outside of the character’s experiences.
Dracula’s epistolary enclosure relates to secrecy
as a narrative strategy. While the reader hears directly from Van Helsing once
in the novel, his ideas are usually narrated by other characters. When Van
Helsing keeps secrets from Seward-as-narrator, secrets are kept from the
audience. We can’t know that Dracula is a vampire because we are not privy to
his or Van Helsing’s thoughts. I have explained that Stoker deliberately chose
to structure his novel thus, and I argue that Dracula’s planned, enclosed form leaves little space for
spontaneity or subversion, or the type of play that occurs when there is no
center. Play within the structure is limited and happens in accordance with the
vampire rules. When we realize that the center, or the rules, controls the
structure, we can see how all narrative events are related, and the revelation
of the secrets allows us to see the sense in the structure’s organization.
The epistolary text that includes multiple
narrative voices reveals how the pieces fit together; the seemingly disjointed
narrative provides evidence of the rules being followed. The rules structure the
narrative in that the events would not make sense without the revelation.
Marigny suggests that “the narrative framework of Dracula is meant to
confuse and puzzle the reader,” and that much of the information, events, and
characters in the documents comprising the text of Dracula “have no link whatsoever with the main plot”; the lack of
an omniscient narrator leaves the reader unable to understand connections
between events and characters. Certainly, the reader does not at first see how Jonathan’s sojourn in
Transylvania affects the events that immediately follow it: Mina’s letters,
Lucy’s engagement, the presence of Mr. Swales, the Demeter, the wolves, Renfield’s behavior, and Lucy’s mysterious
illness. But Stoker clearly intends all these events to connect to Dracula.
Stoker reveals how the characters have
already gained knowledge of the rules through interactions with vampires. Mina,
Lucy, and Quincey see Dracula in the form of a bat. Berserker the wolf’s
midnight rampage and the rats that swarm upon the men in Carfax Abbey evince
Dracula’s ability to control animals. We understand that the events on board
the Demeter were orchestrated by
Dracula, and that Dracula drinks Lucy’s blood, causing her “illness.” Mina,
Jonathan, and Lucy all experience vampires controlling mists, and Jonathan
observes Dracula abstain from food and drink, a quirk that is later clarified
by Van Helsing. Even Seward begins to note connections, especially those
between Renfield and Dracula: “As it is, I am darkly suspicious. All [Renfield’s]
outbreaks were in some way linked with the proximity of the Count” (Stoker
200). While I think Marigny’s claim that elements of Dracula “have no link whatsoever with the main plot” is misleading,
I acknowledge that Stoker intends those un-clarified connections that “confuse
and puzzle the reader” to force the reader to make those connections along with
the characters. “Temporal immediacy” aligns the reader with the characters: all
must discover the meaning of the vampire rules as the events that evince the
rules occur.
Among Dracula’s
contributions to the vampire myth are the rules that limit vampires and
hunters. Neither the characters’ strict adherence to the vampire rules or the
tight structure of the text of Dracula,
in which all narrative events are planned down to the smallest detail, allow
for subversion of the serious vampire aesthetic. Despite Van Helsing’s comical
speaking patterns, Dracula presents
nothing humorous in playing the vampire game. Dracula’s vampire act is
dramatic, almost theatrical, yet not quite comical. The pursuit of the vampire
is deadly serious, which we understand when we read about the hopes and fears
of people whom the “editor” of the texts purports to really exist. Dracula is
serious because he is real. The proof is in the documents.
A novel that is meant to be read as a
unified whole written by a single author with a clear plan and the promise of
an end, Dracula draws to a close with
the death of the vampire. The epistolary form is enclosed, confined, and the
revelation of the rules via the narrative structure proves that only by
following the rules, in playing the vampire game, can Dracula be killed. Play
in Dracula is regulated play, or
“play constituted on the basis of […] a reassuring certitude” (Derrida 279). The
reader is reassured that following the rules guarantees an end.
Play as Subversion in Varney
Varney
the Vampire; or, the Feast of Blood is a seemingly endless text. Not only does the story
span 868 double-column pages (Roberts 1), but this popular serial ran for two
years (Auerbach 27). Called “penny dreadfuls,” chapbooks like Varney covered sensational topics
“considered too gruesome for serious literature,” were issued weekly, and cost
a penny each (Fonseca 388). Varney’s
237 chapters appeared from 1845 to 1847 for a total of 109 issues. That Varney ran for two years attests to its
popularity since penny dreadfuls, like contemporary television programs, were
subject to cancelation if popularity declined. Penny dreadful readers valued
sensational stories, and Varney’s endless exploits were so popular that his
story was published in book format in 1847 (Herr 16).
The question of Varney’s authorship remains unanswered. Recent criticism favors
James Malcolm Rymer over Thomas Peckett Prest as the author of Varney. According to Michael Sims,
scholars originally believed that Prest, author of the penny dreadful A String of Pearls,[4]
composed Varney, but now attribute
authorship to Rymer (168). Nina Auerbach and Curt Herr support the Rymer
theory, excluding the possibility of Prest’s contribution. Roberts asserts that
“many different writers probably had their hands in the writing to meet
publication deadlines” (3), and Tony Fonseca concurs, claiming that Rymer and
Prest, both “prolific writers of weekly chapbooks, often working for the
publisher Edward Lloyd of Salisbury Square in London” collaborated on Varney (388). Senf suggests that Varney could have been written by either
by Rymer or Prest (42), and James Twitchell observes that the work “seems the
result of composite authorship” (123), though he appears to favor Rymer as
author. Judging from discrepancies in the text, Varney exhibits the work of more than one hand.
The production of penny stories differed
from the writing of novels, and it stands to reason that Varney had multiple authors. The confusion concerning Rymer and
Prest is understandable, according to Sims, because both writers worked for
Edward Lloyd’s “thriller factory” (168). Penny dreadful writers produced
stories, as Senf points out, “at breakneck speed for an unsophisticated
literary audience that was apparently more interested in fast pace and
galloping suspense than in coherence or subtle character development” (42).
Twitchell attributes Varney’s
“oxymoronic nature” to “composition and audience” (123). Varney is structurally incoherent and inconsistent, especially as
it concerns Varney’s origins as a vampire and the following of vampire rules.
Not only was Varney possibly written
by two people, but also “episodically and in a hurry” (Twitchell 123), with
little attention paid to details.
Varney lacks cohesion, an author, and as we shall
see, rules, all of which contribute to the loss of center that causes the
structure to disintegrate. This decentering promotes unregulated play and
subversion of the vampire character/narrative archetype, which I will first
examine in the context of secrets. Loss of center allows for secrets to be kept
at the same time that all secrets are known.
The authors of each text reveal their
vampires’ secrets differently. Stoker does not initially reveal the existence
of vampires. But Rymer explicitly informs the reader at the end of chapter one
that Flora Bannerworth has indeed fallen prey to a vampire: “The girl has swooned, and the vampyre is at
his hideous repast!” (38). This announcement instantly dispels any notion
of secrecy. Some characters, like Flora’s brother Henry, Dr. Chillingworth, and
Flora’s fiancé Charles Holland, question whether or not a vampire is
responsible for the attack. But for Flora, Robert Marchdale, and George
Bannerworth, there is never a doubt that a vampire attacked the fair Flora. In
fact, it is such an accepted idea that, once the servants catch wind of it,
news of a vampire attack is disseminated across the country.
The question becomes, who is the vampire? The Bannerworths’ cadaverous new neighbor Sir
Francis Varney becomes the primary suspect when the author reveals that he
resembles a portrait of a deceased ancestor in Flora’s chamber. It takes little
to convince Henry, Charles, and Charles’ uncle Admiral Bell that Varney is the
vampire who attacked Flora. At first it appears that the plot disallows
secrets. The main characters and the readers know that Varney is a vampire.
Varney knows he is a vampire and that the Bannerworths suspect, but when Varney
is confronted about being a vampire, he denies it. Varney’s humorous attempts
at avoiding a discovery already so obvious undermine the carefully planned
secrets and serious aesthetic of Dracula.
Henry, Marchdale, and Charles attempt to
keep their suspicions secret from Varney under the auspices of propriety.
Because Varney is impeccably polite, the men assume he is a gentleman and
hesitate to accuse him of vampiric activity. When Henry decides to confront
Varney, Marchdale reminds him that “it is scarcely civil to tell Sir Francis to
his face, that he resembles a vampyre” (Rymer 88). The men recognize that
calling a gentleman a vampire is ridiculous. Varney seems “at his ease” among
his neighbors, and Charles finds it an insurmountable difficulty to approach “a
well-bred, gentlemanly man, and saying, ‘Sir, we believe you to be a vampyre’”
(101). In fact, Charles is so obsessed with observing the rules of polite
society that he is almost paralyzed with indecision:
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. (102)
Though Flora is positive that Varney is the vampire,
the men fear insulting a gentleman, a fear that produces scenes of (perhaps)
unintentional hilarity.
I attribute what is perhaps Varney’s greatest
kept secret, his resemblance to Marmaduke Bannerworth’s portrait, to authorial
oversight. The vampire resembles the portrait hanging in Flora’s room, and
Henry is shocked when he meets Sir Francis and recognizes that “the expression
of the features -- all were alike” (Rymer 87). Charles stops short of divulging
the secret of the portrait when Varney later visits the Bannerworths, but
Varney insists that Charles tell all. When Charles admits that Varney resembles
the portrait, Varney, always polite, acts as though this fact is
inconsequential: “Now I reflect a moment, Mr. Henry Bannerworth did
incidentally mention something of the sort. It’s a most singular coincidence”
(101). Varney maintains that any similarity between his person and that of the
portrait is coincidental. We never learn the secret of the resemblance, perhaps
because the author forgot to tie up that loose end.
In Varney,
secrets cannot remain secrets, and yet secrets abound. Once Dracula’s secret is
known, he drops all friendly pretensions. But though it is quite clear to the
men that he is a vampire, they face difficulty in breaking the secret to
Varney, who maintains a friendly and polite facade. The ambiguity of the
vampire rules allows Varney to act as a friend and subvert the traditional
vampire/human relationship. The secret that Varney is a vampire is known, but
tension exists because ambiguity exists.
The authors force the readers to question
whether or not we truly know what we think to be self-evident. Despite our
original certainty that Varney is a vampire, Donna Heiland argues that “[o]ne
of the most astonishing things about Varney is that for a considerable portion
of the novel, readers cannot be sure whether or not he is really a vampire”
(109). The authors establish Varney as a vampire in the second volume, but for
much of the novel, his identity is ambiguous. For example, Varney insists that
he never drank Flora’s blood, though chapter one clearly depicts that event.
Varney exhibits feats of superhuman strength, but is wounded by bullets. The
reader might question if Varney’s status as a vampire is ever fully resolved.
If Varney is a vampire, then we assume
he’ll play by the rules. Varney explicitly obeys two rules: revival by
moonlight and drinking human blood. Like Dracula, Varney subsists on the blood
of young female virgins, possesses fangs and superhuman strength, and uses
hypnotic powers. Charles claims that Varney’s “preternatural powers” are “of
more avail to him” at midnight than at any other time (Rymer 133), a phenomenon
also present in Dracula. The authors
of Varney reiterate that vampires are
killed with a stake through the heart, though fire is also a suggested method
for dispatching a vampire. Finally, as Flora points out, “those who in life
have been bled by a vampyre, become themselves vampyres” (49). As in Dracula, women’s “contamination” by
vampires motivates much of the action of Varney’s
first volume.
Unlike Dracula, Varney does not fear
Christian iconography or garlic, nor can he transform himself. He must appear
as he is to the Bannerworths. He can’t rely on supernatural trickery; instead,
he must resort to “human” methods in order to deceive, a drastic departure from
the mysterious aesthetic of Dracula.
Dracula uses humans in his business transactions, but his terrorizing of the
band of heroes is utterly supernatural. It is Varney’s affectation of not only
human qualities, but also vampire qualities that subverts traditional vampire
lore. For example, Varney is not killed or weakened by the sunlight, but goes out
of his way to avoid exposure. Henry first meets Varney in a “sick room” devoid
of light, and Varney subsequently appears to the Bannerworths when the sun is
obscured by clouds. This avoidance is irrelevant; it is for show. Varney
affects vampiric attributes to the point of hyperbole. And though Varney is
injured numerous times, he is never killed by the Bannerworths or the angry mob
that hunts him. The moonlight revives him time and time again, to the delight
of audiences and to the frustration of Varney himself, who wishes for death.
That Varney breaks more rules than he
follows raises questions. Marchdale explains that vampires abstain from food
and drink, and at first glance, it appears as though Varney complies. When
Henry offers Varney refreshments, he refuses, claiming to be “under a strict
regimen,” and that the “simplest diet alone” suffices (Rymer 89). Henry
concludes that Varney refuses in accordance with vampire rules. Varney pretends
to drink a glass of wine, which provokes a confrontation between Charles and
himself concerning his refusal to drink. Varney feigns offense under the guise
of propriety, but jokes that if Flora were present, he “could then drink on,
on, on” (105). Twitchell observes that “[i]n one chapter we are told that
[Varney] cannot eat meat; then a few pages later he is seen having a steak
dinner” (123). Fonseca concludes that “Varney eats and drinks like a normal
human when he wishes to conceal his true self” (390), but I question Fonseca’s
claim. Varney eats, drinks, and acts like a human when it suits him, not
necessarily to conceal his “true self,” which is supposedly his vampire self.
Unlike Dracula, Varney’s identity is fluid. Despite the characters’ early
conclusion that Varney is a vampire, his adherence to vampire rules is
ambiguous, leading the audience to question his true identity as vampire.
Varney mimics and rejects the vampire
rules. Where Dracula plays by the rules, Varney plays against the rules,
subverting the serious vampire image. Dracula never admits to being a vampire.
To entertain the idea, especially when trying to hide his identity, would
dispel mystery. Dracula only makes enigmatic statements that allude to his
vampiric nature (“My revenge is just begun! I spread it over centuries, and
time is on my side. […] you and others shall yet be mine, my creatures, to do
my bidding and to be my jackals when I want to feed”) (Stoker 267). Stoker does
not transgress his narrative strategy by allowing Dracula to explicitly
identify himself.
Varney mocks the notion of secrecy when he
plays with the Bannerworths’ suspicions. When Charles presents the portrait to
him, Varney admits a likeness, and points out that if he stands next to it, one
would “be more struck with the likeness than before.” Charles presses him, pointing
out the similarity between the vampire and the portrait. Varney banally replies
“perhaps, then, that accounts for [Flora] thinking that I am the vampyre,
because I bear a strong resemblance to the portrait,” to which Charles remarks,
“I should not be surprised,” relaying the suspicions of the household. But
Varney refuses to be defeated. He laughs and exclaims, “If ever I go to a
masquerade again, I shall certainly assume the character of a vampyre” (Rymer
103). In a final push to reveal Varney’s secret, Charles insists that Varney’s
costume would likely confirm that he is a vampire. Varney simply applauds
Charles’ “enthusiasm.” Charles recognizes that in the game of wits, he has
lost: “This was, Charles thought, the very height and acme of impudence, and
yet what could he do? What could he say? He was foiled by the downright
coolness of Varney” (103). Varney pushes secrecy to the limits and comes out
the victor in the game of wits.
Varney’s vampire rules are less clear than those
delineated in Dracula; consequently,
the structure loses ground, center, and organization. When the authors of Varney abandon the vampire rules, they
allow structural cohesion to disintegrate and open up space for unregulated
play. But Varney is more than the
mistakes committed by the authors under pressure to complete a work for a
demanding audience or a slapstick comedy that conforms to the tastes of the
audience. Varney’s silliness serves a serious purpose; his story challenges and
subverts the tropes of traditional vampire narratives in both structure and
strategy, paving the way for innovations in future vampire narratives. Though
many critics claim there is no evidence to suggest that Stoker was directly
influenced by Varney, the texts
exhibit undeniable similarities. Perhaps the most interesting example is that
the authors of both texts purport to be merely the recorders of true events.
And though both vampires could really exist, Varney is perhaps a more
frightening villain than Dracula because there is no grounding, no clear lines
drawn between vampire and human.
In Varney,
characters keep and divulge secrets simultaneously. There are rules, but the
rules are not always binding. Varney’s narrative strategy and structure
directly create the possibility of a deferred ending. If the rules for
dispatching Varney do not hold, then there is no guarantee that Varney can ever
be killed. Since Varney was a popular
serial, the readers had no guarantee of an ending; like a contemporary
television program, Varney had the
potential to be endless.
The End?
All authors have a purpose in writing. I
argue here that, though Varney may at
first seem planned, any overarching plan for the plot resembling that of Dracula quickly falls apart, especially
when the narrative devolves into series of hijinks following one pattern:
Varney, disguised as a nobleman, tries to marry a wealthy girl; Varney is
discovered to be a vampire, usually by Admiral Bell; and Varney is chased off
by an angry mob. I specify Stoker’s narrative structure as deliberate, not to
suggest that Varney’s authors had no
purpose in writing, but to highlight how quickly the tightness of Varney’s plot unravels. The multiplicity
of the authors contributes to the disintegration of a tightly controlled plot.
Varney lacks the cohesive structure and unified
plot of Dracula. Herr argues that
“[o]ne of the major flaws in Varney
scholarship has been the fact that many critics mistakenly hold Rymer’s serial
to the same standards they would apply to a novel,” which he claims is “a great
disservice to [. . .] its contribution to vampire literature” (17). I agree
with Herr’s statement, and further suggest that Varney’s inconsistent structure is not a detriment to the story or
its contribution to vampire literature. Since Varney adheres loosely, if at all, to the vampire rules, keeping a
tight and defined structure like that of Dracula
is irrelevant, and unregulated play is a possibility. The ending of Varney, a serial, is meant to be
deferred, which creates opportunities for the unregulated play engaged in by
Varney. Varney isn’t limited by rules; his long life span gives the audience
the chance to know him in a human way, to know his human limits and sympathize
with his unending plight in the way we are able to with contemporary vampire
characters.
The characters in Dracula and Varney play
the vampire game, but they play differently. Dracula engages in the game, and
both he and Van Helsing are obsessive, almost puritanical, followers of the
rules. Varney doesn’t take the game seriously—he plays with the concept of the
serious game—and follows rules when it suits him. The structure of each text
mirrors the way the characters play. Dracula plays a game that adheres closely
to established conventions, traditional vampire rules and the epistolary gothic
novel form, while Varney is inconsistent, too close to the human characters,
and the text is serialized and self-referential. Varney creates a series of deferred endings, and Dracula makes no allowance for deferral;
its epistolary structure contains the promise of ending, a tactic a serialized
novel can’t structurally accomplish. It isn’t that the texts either do or do
not allow play, or that one story is more “legitimate” than another, but that
the structure of each text leads to radically different tellings of the vampire
myth.
But in the end, we perhaps should question
Stoker’s ability to ground his text. Twitchell suggests that Dracula is almost undecipherable, that
the text “seems to depend on its very inexplicableness, its non-sensibleness,
to generate a kind of tension that is unrelieved and ultimately unexplained”
(133). Perhaps Dracula is not as tidy
as is first suggested. The men of Dracula
break social and professional norms (and even human laws) in their pursuit of
the Count, but the men of Varney seem
obsessed with observing social rules. And despite the tight epistolary
enclosure that limits play, Auerbach and Skal note several inconsistencies and
slips in Stoker’s chronology. Does Stoker lose ground, or as Derrida suggests,
was there never a center to begin with?
The turn is located in the vampires’
deaths. At the end of Varney’s exhausting journey, more than one hundred years
of life, as well as two years running in the press, he finds he can’t abide his
miserable existence any longer. Varney, weary, does what no mortal can
accomplish; he kills himself in accordance with his text’s rules for
dispatching a vampire, with fire.[5]
Varney’s suicide ends his vampire life, the serial, and the legacy of Varney the Vampire, a text that is only
just beginning to really surface in contemporary criticism of vampire
narratives. Despite all the seemingly deferred endings, Varney (and Varney) ends. Varney’s willingness to end his own life
exhibits his nonchalance regarding the vampire game. The vampire of literature
is a character driven by self-preservation. Dracula maintains clear goals
throughout his novel; his actions can all be ascribed to his desire to preserve
himself. Dracula is driven to live, and he will continue on at all costs.
Dracula plays the vampire game because playing is the only way to ensure his
survival. But Varney has no such goals or desires. Varney’s suicide is clear
evidence of his perspective on vampire self-preservation. He plays the game for
as long as it is fun for him. When the game ceases to amuse him, he finds
himself willing to die.
Varney has a definitive ending, both narratively
and in publishing, but because of its final failure to adhere to its own rules,
Dracula’s (the vampire and the story)
ending is continuously deferred. Throughout the text of Dracula, Van Helsing insists on following the rules of the vampire
game with much ritual and strictness. The slaying of Lucy is drawn out and
precise. Dracula’s death is perhaps a letdown for readers as it spans all of
one page at the end of the novel. Dracula is not killed according to Van
Helsing’s rules, but is struck down haphazardly and quickly by Jonathan and
Quincey. The characters abandon the rules at the last moment, and some suggest
the idea that Dracula did not really die in the end because his death was not
performed according to ritual. Stoker has perhaps created the ultimate deferred
ending because Dracula’s ending has spawned many literary and film sequels to
his story—a fate with which I think Dracula would have been pleased.
Works Cited
Auerbach,
Nina. Our Vampires, Ourselves.
Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995. Print.
Derrida,
Jacques. “Structure, Sign, and Play in the Discourse of the Human Sciences.” Writing and Difference. Trans. Alan
Bass. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1978. 278-293. Print.
Fonseca,
Tony. “Varney the Vampire.” Encyclopedia
of the Vampire: the Living Dead in Myth, Legend, and Popular Culture. Ed.
S.T. Joshi. Santa Barbara, CA: Greenwood, 2011. 388-90. Print.
Heiland,
Donna. Gothic & Gender: An
Introduction. Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing, 2004. Print.
Herr,
Curt. Introduction. Varney the Vampire;
or, the Feast of Blood. By James Malcolm Rymer. Crestline, CA: Zittaw
Press, 2008. 9-27. Print.
Marigny,
Jean. “Secrecy as Strategy in Dracula.”
Journal of Dracula Studies 2 (2000):
n.p. Web. 3 Mar 2012.
Roberts,
Bette B. “Varney, the Vampire; or rather, Varney, the Victim.” Gothic 2 (1987): 1–5. Print.
Rymer,
James Malcolm. Varney the Vampire; or,
the Feast of Blood. Ed. Curt Herr. Crestline,
CA:
Zittaw Press, 2008. Print.
Senf,
Carol. The Vampire in Nineteenth-Century
English Literature. Bowling Green: Popular
Press, 1988. Print.
Sims,
Michael, ed. “James Malcolm Rymer (1814-1844).” Dracula’s Guest: A Connoisseur’s Collection of Victorian Vampire
Stories. New York: Walker, 2010. Print.
Stoker,
Bram. Dracula: A Norton Critical Edition.
Ed. Nina Auerbach and David J. Skal. New
York:
Norton, 1997. Print.
Twitchell,
James B. The Living Dead: A Study of the
Vampire in Romantic Literature. Durham: Duke, 1981. Print.
[1] Bram Stoker, Dracula: A Norton Critical Edition, eds.
Nina Auerbach and David J. Skal, (New York: Norton, 1997), 186.
[2]I exclude consideration of
John Polidori’s tale The Vampyre
since Lord Ruthven’s status as vampire, at least in terms of “vampire rules,”
is less clear than that of Sir Francis Varney and Count Dracula.
[3]But of course, as many critics
have pointed out, Jonathan and the others continue to keep secrets from Mina
throughout the remainder of the narrative.
[4] A String of Pearls features the infamous demon barber of Fleet
Street, Sweeney Todd.
[5] Technically, Varney uses lava
from a volcano.
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