A disaster brought about by a combination of mere trivialities

While not necessarily as extreme a case of rise and fall as is usually featured in these august pages (i.e. no one dies dramatically. Well, everyone dies, but you know what I mean), who can help but be moved by the sad tale of a man whose life was marred by a combination of mere trivialities - trivial obstinancies, trivial attitudes, trivial rages, and that most trivial of infirmities, pride? My source for this tale is the ever-calm and clear-eyed PEOPLE Magazine from 14 March, 1962.

According to an article by Anthony Praga, marriage for Edward Bulwer, first Lord Lytton, was a disaster that destroyed his homelife, broke his heart and all but ruined his career. Apart from that, of course, it was a real hoot. .

Apparently, while the young Ed may have had intellect and yearning above his years his heart was in no way superior to them. He first fell madly in love while still a young'un. He later said of his paramour: we believed, with our whole hearts and souls that we were born for each other and that nothing could ever separate us..

Wrong! She promptly married someone else before inconveniently dropping off the perch.

He was plunged into deep melancholy, which was not helped any by him receiving a bizarre letter from beyond the grave in which she asked him to visit her final resting place.  However, Ed soon brightened and had a brief and fruitless adventure with a gypsy girl whose name he never bothered to learn but will be remembered by posterity as "Mimy".

Now. "Mimy" sounds kinda fun. He crossed her palm with silver (no that's not a euphemism for anything saucy) and she told his fortune (nor is that). She wasted no time in proposing a gypsy marriage. It was to be for five years only, and was to be sealed by the breaking together of a piece of burnt earth. Sounds eminently sensible to me.

Alas, however, in the midst of his not unnatural hesitations, the young men about the camp became jealous and threatening so Bulwer was forced to leave.

Ed then filled in some time by enjoying a boyish and superficial intrigue with the notorious Lady Caroline Lamb and embarking on a project for marrying a French girl of illustrious name and attractive fortune, both dalliances to no avail. No, instead, the next important personal event in his life was the calamity of his marriage, with its private and public humiliations.

He met Rosina Wheeler at a party to which (ominously) he had been accompanied by his mother. Rosina had had a romantic and unhappy childhood, having been at once the offspring and victim of an absurd boy and girl marriage. Apparently, she was determined to take from life all that it could give her of happiness, and with that determination there was mingled a slight coarseness of fibre that might, in those nineteenth century times, just pass for unconventionality. Ed, on the other hand, had been educated at private schools and in circumstances that encouraged him to behave as though he was the centre of the cosmos.

Marriage was soon discussed but Ed's Mother would not hear of it. The young lovers' passion was at fever-heat and fanned by a wind that never fails to inflame desire - the wind of parental opposition. They were on again and off again and then Rosina got sick and, somewhat mysteriously, they became something more than an unofficially engaged couple.

That which led to the end followed fast. Bulwer and Rosina married and Bulwer's mother behaved like a fool. She cut off his money. She chose, when she could do no good, to do harm. Her act may count as the first great destructive triviality in this tragedy of triviality.

Then, in what appears to be a familiar story, Ed began to live furiously beyond his means, and he and Rosina began to get on each others' nerves. Majorly. Meanwhile, in the background sat Mrs Bulwer-Lytton in stony folly. 

Things went from bad to worse. Rosina sent Ed an insulting letter, accusing him of infidelity. In a fit of righteous indignation, Ed filed for divorce. There was one catch in all of this, however. Rosina actually had grounds for her accusation although she did not know it. She sent Ed an abject apology.

Ed, gracious as ever, considered relenting, but Rosina launched a fresh tirade, this time based on an unfortunate misunderstanding. She had found two teacups on a tray and her husband's dressing gown on a chair. She assumed it was a woman's cloak. Ed explained that it was his dressing gown and the teacup belonged to his friend Fred. Nothing at all suspicious about that, then. So they split.

But troubles were not over yet. For thereafter, bitter hatred possessed Rosina, a hatred that stopped at no public disgrace in its hunger for revenge. She libelled her husband in books and in the Press, and she pursued him to political meetings and denounced him openly. Her hatred became a true mania and excessive drinking increased her derangement, until at last, poor and forgotten, she died. But she outlived her husband. All because of one lousy teacup.

Ed, on the other hand became a peer, baron, Colonial Secretary and author of The Last Days of Pompeii. But all of his triumphs were embittered by the poison of a dead passion that rose out of its grave in a new and dreadful shape of hatred.

So, the moral of this grubby little tale? Next time a gyspy offers you a burned piece of earth, grab it. Grab it with both hands.

 

Comments

[Elizabeth]

Alright, now I have a new plan for your future. You should write a book of histories of the pitifully ridiculous. This is such an awful story, and it just amused me no end. Really. You know, you have a boatload of talent and a very dry, backhanded way of saying things. Just something to think about.....

Anyway, have a great week off.

[Elizabeth]

P.S. - When most writers try to be funny, they push it too hard and it feels forced. Your wit has a bemused quality to it and also a willingness to get sidetracked by the interesting detail - e.g. "the visible-from-outer-space stakes (if such stakes do, indeed, exist...") - which make it feel more natural.

Will stop now. Clearly been doing editing too long. All I'm saying is, I'd read "A Series of Unfortunate Histories" by 1000 Shades of Twilight!

[a thousand shades of twilight]

Ah, Elizabeth thanks, as ever, for your feedback and encouragement! That is actually an inspired plan and I should just bloody do it, shouldn't I?
I enjoy writing these little miserable stories - most of the work is already done by the writers of the original article and their hysterical tone!! :)

[a thousand shades of twilight]

PS Your feeback made me feel very chuffed - especially coming from a writer such as yourself! :)And I'm thrilled to hear you pick up on the bemused quality - it's a word I often use to describe my father's humour - it's a bit of a family trait!
I am having a nice week off (much thrifting all over Adelaide!!).I always feel that I start to become my 'real' self while on holiday!