The perennial Harriette Wilson.

Monday, 17 July, Year 9 d.Tr. | Author: Mircea Popescu

Harriette Wilson was an ugly whore enjo kosai about the sad, ugly town of London in the early days of the 19th century. That this was at all possible simply puts in perspective the inferior situation of the Anglotards of the period, but truth be told that god forsaken island was always a long way behind the world, boisterous pretense to the contrary as put forth by the inhabitants notwithstanding. There are perhaps worse fates than being stuck in London, be it the year 2017, 1817, 1517 or 117 -- yet the mind chafes at the exercise of divining what they might actually be.

Other than sucking ass at her chosen profession (which, notably, she never comprehends or ever regards in professional terms -- but rather goes through life like duck through water, expecting that since she's here the heavens owe her a debt of comfort or somesuch), and other than not actually being a thing at all, this early Deepthroati produces a coupla timelessii quotes.

On her encounter with a better man :

Away winged Wellington's Mercury, as an old woman wings it at sixty, and most punctual to my appointment, at three on the following day, Wellington made his appearance. He bowed first, then said:

"How do you do?" Then thanked me for having given him permission to call on me; and then wanted to take hold of my hand.

"Really," said I, withdrawing my hand, "for such a renowned hero, you have very little to say for yourself."

"Beautiful creature!" uttered Wellington, "where is Lorne?"

"Good gracious!" said I, out of all patience at his stupidity; "what come you here for, duke?"

"Beautiful eye, yours!" explained Wellington.

"Aye man! they are greater conquerors than ever Wellington shall be; but, to be serious, I understood you came here to try to make yourself agreeable?"

"What child! do you think that I have nothing better to do than to make speeches to please ladies?" said Wellington.

"Après avoir dépeuplé la terre vous devez faire tout pour la repeupler," I replied.

"You should see me where I shine," Wellington observed, laughing.

"Where's that, in Gods name?"

"In a field of battle," answered the hero.

"Battez vous, donc, et qu'un autre me fasse la cour!" said I.

Okay ? What else is any nameless bureaucrat imagining his "regulations" toothed au pair and equally with my long reaching rifles but Harriette Wilson redivivusiii ? Her imagined (if entirely absent) court on the level and as good as any other, entirely as relevant as the general staff of a victorious army, why not ? What is denied idle fancy ? She also imagines three weeks spent with a dozen books for the first and last time at the ripe age of nineteen sufficient education, and will reference the vicar of somewhere-or-other until you fall over.

Then, on encountering entirely adequate treatment, the one thing Harriettes of all times and places most loudly withdraw from, and the louder as the more adequate it is to them :

About ten o'clock in the evening, when Miss Hawkes had retired to rest, and I was sitting alone with my book, Fred Lamb was announced to me. I desired William to say that it was rather too late, and that I was shortly going to bed.

He returned to inform me that Mr. Lamb knew I never went to bed before midnight, and therefore begged I would permit him to chat with me for half an hour, so, feeling puzzled how to excuse myself, he was desired to walk upstairs.

He talked to me for more than an hour, of Argyle, Lord Ponsonby, and his own former affection for me. He then became a little more practical than I liked, first taking hold of my hand, and next kissing me by force. I resisted all his attempts with mild firmness. At last he grew desperate, and proceeded to very rough, I may say, brutal violence, against my fixed determination. I was never very strong; but love gave me almost supernatural powers to repel him; and I contrived to pull his hair with such violence, that some of it was really dragged out by the roots.

Fred Lamb was not of a mild or patient temper. In a moment of disappointment and fury at the pain I must have inflicted on him, though it was certainly done only in self-defence, he placed his hand on my throat, saying, while he nearly stopped my breath, and occasioned me almost the pangs of suffocation, that I should not hurt him another instant. He spoke this in a smothered voice, and I did in truth believe that my last moments had arrived. Another instant would have decided the business; but he, thank God, relinquished his grasp at my throat. He is however mistaken if he believes I have ever forgotten the agony of that moment. He arose from the sofa. His rage, I fancy, being converted into shame and fear of what I might tell the world, or, perhaps, he was really shocked at the violence which he had been guilty of. It may easily be imagined that once free from so frightful a grasper of throats, I was not long in obtaining my room upstairs and double-locking my door. Fred Lamb did not attempt to speak to, much less detain me, and in a very few minutes afterwards I heard him leave the house.

"Thank God!" I ejaculated, from the very bottom of my heart; and I began to breathe more freely although I was some time before I recovered my fright.

Fred Lamb was a man of the world, and the next day he no doubt said to himself "this is a bad story, both for my vanity and my character: for I have been very brutal. The best way now will be for me to tell it first to all her friends"; and he accordingly went about making light of the story, as though he had not any reason to be ashamed.

"Do you know," said he, to several of my acquaintances, who afterwards repeated it, "do you know that Harriette is so in love with John Ponsonby, that she was cruel even to me last night! I tried force too; but she resisted me like a little tiger, and pulled my hair!"

"Be it so," thought I, and I never told the story, till now. In fact, I was a good deal afraid of Fred Lamb at that time, and could not but feel provoked at the idea of a young man going about the world, always laughing, and showing off the character of a fine, good-tempered, open-hearted, easy, generous, sailor-like fellow, and who yet could take me from a rich man, to leave me starving at Somers-town as he had done, without once making me the offer of a single shilling, and then return to me, as though all this selfishness had secured him a right over my person, to persecute me with brutal force and lay hold of my throat, so as to put me in fear of my life, because I was not his humble slave any day in any week he happened to return from the Continent: and I am sure Mr. Frederick Lamb cannot assert that, on the day I believed he meant to have been my last, he had ever given me one single guinea or the value of a guinea.

He is now an ambassador, and just as well off as ambassadors usually are; yet, in my present poverty, I have vainly attempted to get a hundred pounds out of him. He has occasionally indeed sent me ten or five pounds; but not without much pressing, and he has not yet paid my expenses to Hull and back.

She was almost raped, don't you know! How could a common whore be possibly the joint and indistinct property of anyone momentarily interested, and what indeed of the more recent Harriettes running amok about ?

The true and proper girlfriend of the remarkable The Right Honorable The Lord Brougham and Vaux PC QC FRS, patron saint of all nigger pantsuits (who bribed her in order he might avoid having his name associated with her spew -- a bribe eagerly accepted then, as hence) is in fact quite as perennial as he is, their bizarre, unsubstantiable delusions of relevancy and entitlement going, hand in hand, down that endless road always winding down into the underworld. For centuries have they walked that downstair, and for centuries more will they persevere walking it, while crumbs from your table can still be hadiv to feed their gargle.

In orasu-n care ploua de cinci ori pe saptamina,
Doua jucarii stricate, un batrin si o batrina,
Merg tinindu-se de mina.

———
  1. Recall Linda Susan Boreman-Damiano, the undistinguishably looking broad who traded all she could for attention as a young ugly woman, and then grown old and growing upset at having derived altogether too little in unearned rents from the entire affair moved on to trying to attention whore out of the perceived injustice of it all ? She was raped don't you know! Because she's run a straw poll among her three best friends / undistinguishable nonentities, and the ad hoc focus group returned "rape" as the most-likely-to-entertain subject of interest. So she's been raped. What, problem ? []
  2. Timelessness is an important theme within the work itself -- the impudent wretch keeps coming back to how she's not including dates, but studiously omits to mention why. The why is however quite plainly obvious -- she imagines that eliding dates may transform ancient and thereby consumed anecdotes into interesting fare. Perhaps if she doesn't say so and so happened twenty years ago the stupid reader may form the impression it happened just last week ? Perhaps if she doesn't mention the ambassador was eleven months old when he fell on his face, we might imagine he did so yesterday ?

    This transparent sort of naive ploy -- that visibly passes for the highest of the black arts in the small, narrow skull of a sad creature endowed with immense ambitions and altogether no gifts or talents whatsoever -- is not hers alone, by the way, but shared with every Harriette that ever hence and no doubt ever before befouled the public space with her unwelcomly continued existence. []

  3. It would be rediviva were this an actual language ? []
  4. Mind your charity, young man, for freely given bread can just as well go to feed the devil as the needy. []
Category: Zsilnic
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2 Responses

  1. "Apropos, for here must end all sentiment between us, so, to talk of something else, Mr. Colman accuses you of having cut him dead in the Park yesterday when he bowed to you."

    "What a vulgar fellow!" Argyle remarked.

    "Why vulgar?"

    "It is a vulgar idea, and one which certainly never occurred to me; not because I happen to be Duke of Argyle; for a private gentleman's rank in society is the same as mine; therefore what right have I to cut him? or what right would any duke have to cut a private gentleman? If a man does not return my bow I take it for granted he is absent, or not in the humour, or thinking of something else. Tell Mr. Colman he is an ass, my dear pretty——"

    "Argyle!" interrupted I, "no more dear prettys, if you please. I have left off being pretty; but thank God I am heartwhole, and propose remaining so to the end of my natural life. Nevertheless, whatever the cause may be, I am truly sorry to see you so changed, and so melancholy."

    Bullseye.

  2. Mircea Popescu`s avatar
    2
    Mircea Popescu 
    Wednesday, 19 July 2017

    Isn't it great to have at one's disposal figmentous copies of extant items, which then to make move and act according to one's own broken mental pathe! And to pretend they are the very thing so named! And so the Duke of Argyle may fork, and Bitcoin may bow to random "allied" scum, and everything may fit in the dismal space between the curls without much effort or exertion required of those very curls except for all the reverie work they love to do and live to do anyway!

    I think one should move to New York to be a writer if they're serious about the world, their life and everything. Definitely.

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