Createspace, $26.99, ISBN 978-1986174411
Horror, 2018 (Reissue)
Before Dracula charmed readers with his Transylvanian flair, before Louis de Pointe du Lac brooded his way into literary fame, and long, long before Edward Cullen sparkled his way into tween hearts, there was Varney the Vampire.
Yes, folks, he’s real—no, not a pun, but a bona fide 19th-century Penny Dreadful series. And while this 700-page monstrosity (yes, it doubles as a vampire bat-repellant) may not be the crown jewel of Gothic literature, it certainly stakes its claim as one of the most ridiculous.
Varney the Vampire, or The Feast of Blood, began life as a serialized Penny Dreadful, the Victorian-era equivalent of a soap opera only with fangs. These were tales churned out in installments, often anonymously, with one goal: to keep readers hooked—and keep their pennies flowing. Written by (probably) James Malcolm Rymer, the chapters drip with melodrama, cliffhangers, and the occasional plotline that seems suspiciously cobbled together from leftover ideas.
And the author? Well, their identity is hotly contested, but let’s stick with Mr Rymer for simplicity. After all, James Malcolm Rymer sounds far more fitting for the author of a vampire saga than Anonymous, even if Anonymous is less culpable for the crimes against literature herein.
Predating Bram Stoker’s Dracula by nearly 50 years, this magnus opus introduces Sir Frances Varney, a brooding, morally conflicted vampire who, frankly, is less a bloodthirsty monster and more a prototype for Anne Rice’s beautifully tormented undead. Immune to many of the weaknesses that hampered Dracula (crosses, garlic, and sparkling skin), Varney instead relies on his wits and angst to survive.
His melodrama rivals that of any modern young adult vampire. One could argue he’s indirectly responsible for Twilight. For this alone, Varney deserves a spot in the literary hall of shame.
Since Penny Dreadfuls were written to be long rather than good, Varney the Vampire oscillates between absurd entertainment and unbearable padding. Each chapter ends on a dramatic cliffhanger—“Will Varney bite the maiden? Or brood dramatically until next week?”—but between the moments of giddy ridiculousness are endless stretches of repetition and filler. It’s as if the author occasionally put his quill down and thought, “Let’s drag this scene out for another six pages!”
As for Varney’s eventual fate, without spoiling it, let’s just say it’s the sort of over-the-top ending that would make even the most dedicated telenovela writers blush.
Should you read Varney the Vampire? Well, that depends. Are you:
- A horror genre completionist who needs to tick off every OG vampire?
- A scholar who finds profound meaning in overly verbose prose?
- A masochist with a strong constitution for meandering plotlines?
If you answered “yes” to any of these, Varney might be for you. If not, you’re better off with Anne Rice or even a modern vampire Netflix binge.
Yet, for all its flaws—and oh, there are many—we owe Varney the Vampire some grudging respect. It paved the way for Dracula, Lestat, and every tortured bloodsucker in between. So, here’s to James Malcolm Rymer—or whoever had the dubious honor of penning this melodramatic marathon. Raise your goblet (of blood or wine, your choice) to the original undead antihero who bit off more than he could chew.
