Bloomsbury's Outsider (29 page)

Bunny was himself a relatively kind critic. If he had to review a badly written book, he would always find something if not to praise, then at least to encourage as a source for potential improvement (though he found it difficult to be kind in his review of Jessie Conrad's demeaning memoir of her husband). Bunny's columns reveal his extensive reading and wide knowledge. As his son Richard commented, ‘His journalism was, like his after-dinner conversation, unhurried'.
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Although he had his favourite types of book, especially those on country matters, he could write a scholarly article on almost any subject. He delighted in dictionaries of every kind, and was not averse to checking their accuracy, on one occasion berating a French–English dictionary for not adequately acknowledging the distinctions between ‘
les scaroles et les endives
'.
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As a reviewer, he was loyal to his friends – Virginia Woolf, H.E. Bates, H.G. Wells, E.M. Forster, Leslie Hotson, D.H. Lawrence, T.E. Lawrence and Geoffrey Keynes – were all reviewed more than once. But Bunny did not, by any means, prioritise his own coterie of writers, nor did he refrain from teasing, if it suited. He used Arthur Ransome's
Coot Club
as a vehicle for a double-tease, questioning the higher morality of Ransome's children, and asking whether in his next book one of them could steal the novelist Hugh Walpole's clothes while he bathed in Derwentwater.

He reviewed all sorts of writers and all types of book and could not resist the occasional foray into something highly technical, including a volume on aviation which (joking at his own expense) he declared ‘all the more exciting for being a record of
facts provided with pages of tabulated statistics'.
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While this particular book may not have been to every reader's taste, it was this sheer variety which made Bunny's page so exciting. He was never predictable in his choice of books. Bunny's innovation was to weave a brilliantly crafted and discursive essay around the book or books he had chosen. Sometimes he would launch straight into the review, at others the book in question seemed no more than a hook on which to hang a scholarly disquisition or discursive cogitation. Occasionally there were no books at all, but a lively reverie on an apparently trivial subject.

In mid-January 1933 Bunny and Ray moved into the Endsleigh Street flat. Richard had returned to school and William would attend a local school. They had also invited Dorothy Edwards to lodge rent free in the attic, in the hope that away from her mother, she would be able to write. Now resident in London for five or more days each week, Bunny threw himself into the clubbable existence he had hitherto enjoyed on a more limited scale. He had licence to do so, as the convivial lunch was an important aspect of his role as literary editor. Although he and Ray sometimes dined with friends or family, Bunny was always on the go, and he often spent both day and evening away from Endsleigh Street. He could join Edward and his cronies for lunch at the Commercio; go to the theatre or cinema with Duncan; dine with Edward and Nellie at Pond Place; nip down to The Cearne to see Constance or pop over to Ham Spray for a weekend with newlyweds Frances and Ralph Partridge who had made it their home. Ray was sometimes included (although unlike Bunny, she was not a witness at her sister Frances's marriage on 2 March) but the largely masculine world of journalism was Bunny's exclusive territory.

As a distinguished literary figure, Bunny needed a portrait photograph for publicity purposes. On 3 April he made an appointment with Barbara Ker-Seymer, a talented, professional photographer who had a studio above Asprey's, the jewellers on Bond Street. The resulting photograph reveals a highly-groomed version of Bunny, in a good three-piece suit, handkerchief in breast pocket, hair marshalled into place, a cigar drooping loosely between his fingers. This was the London Bunny, professional, clubbable, celebrated. Another contemporary photograph, shows Bunny at Hilton, in shirt-sleeves and braces, hair wavy and tousled, skin bronzed, muscles flexed digging out a swimming pool. This was the country Bunny, the man who could not resist the lure of the outdoors, who enjoyed strenuous physical exercise and liked to feel the wind in his hair and the sun on his skin. Would he be able to relinquish this version of himself? Would he tire of London living? Would he need the diversion of a regular change of terrain? Would he be able to forgo the opportunity to escape from one world to another? It was not only journalism which unnerved him, but the prospect of the changes in lifestyle which a full-time London job entailed.

One evening at Pond Place, Bunny and Edward were joined by Sean O'Faolain, the publisher's reader Rupert Hart-Davis and publisher Jamie (Hamish) Hamilton. The conversation was generally about literature, but Bunny and Jamie, ‘quietly Philistine in a corner', discovered a mutual interest in flying.
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A German Klemm aeroplane was on the market and Bunny and Jamie decided to buy it. In May 1933 it was duly purchased for £180 (c £6,650 today). They believed it to be second-hand, but
eventually discovered they were the latest in a long series of owners.

Jamie was taken aback on first sight of the plane, as he was accustomed to something more solid looking. Instead he was confronted with ‘a brown low-winged monoplane, apparently made entirely of wood, with enormous wings, a naked engine sticking out in front, ridiculously small propeller and wheels, and a dash-board covered with German words'.
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He thought it resembled a broody hen, and could not believe it was safe. They named it ‘Pocahontas'. Bunny told Constance about his ‘mad purchase', reassuring her that it was safe because it was slow.

Jamie was impressed when Bunny made his first cross-country flight, landing in a field near Hilton Hall. The journey was only fifteen miles along a main road, but Jamie declared it worthy of Bleriot. On one flight Bunny heard the terrible sound of the engine cutting out and, though he landed safely, his legs shook badly afterwards. This experience did not deter him from flying over to visit friends for lunch, where he found eager audiences at both ends of the journey.

In August he flew to Ham Spray, completing the hundred mile trip from Cambridge in one-and-a-quarter hours. There he swam in the pool, had lunch with Frances and Ralph and stayed for tea, before flying to Tilton, near Charleston, the home of Maynard Keynes and Lydia Lopokova. As he passed over the farms where he had laboured during the war, he melodramatically reflected that the outcast of 1917 was now ‘floating over them in his own aeroplane'.
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Swooping down to land, Bunny caused Roger Fry, driving along with Duncan beside him, to
crash into a gatepost. Fourteen-year-old Angelica Bell rushed towards Bunny, throwing her arms around him, enthusiastically kissing him on the lips. Bunny looked every part the dashing aviator in sheepskin bomber-jacket, leather flying gauntlets, a close-fitting leather helmet and aviation goggles. He occasionally took Ray up, but flying was largely a solitary activity, albeit for social ends. It was another means of keeping Ray and family separate from Bloomsbury.

In the months since his portrait photograph in April, Bunny and Barbara-Ker-Seymer's acquaintanceship had taken a significant turn. So much so, that in September Bunny declared love. Barbara, or ‘Bar' as she was known, came from a wealthy family, although her father had gambled away his fortune. She had studied at both the Chelsea College of Art and the Slade, and at this stage in her career was a pioneering avant-garde photographer. Bar was attractive, short-haired with a rather boyish flat-chested figure, and renowned for her sharp-tongue. ‘Though she was in some ways diffident and lacking in self-confidence, no-one would have guessed it from her offhand manner.'
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That summer of 1933 she was involved in a love affair with Goronwy Rees, at the time a leader writer with the
Manchester Guardian
. She also enjoyed a short love affair with Ralph Partridge that year.

Bunny was happy to take things casually and was anyway preoccupied with concern for Frankie Birrell, who had been operated on to remove a brain tumour. Bunny also worried about the Nonesuch Press, as by July 1933 it was in debt to the bank. In November, Francis Meynell negotiated a merger with Desmond Harmsworth Ltd, a private press. Unfortunately this
led to the dismissal of Mrs Stephens, and it was Bunny, disgusted at her treatment, who obtained her a position as secretary to Maynard Keynes, though he regretted the waste of her knowledge and experience in publishing. Thereafter Bunny continued to attend board meetings, but his role in the business was much reduced.

Meanwhile at Endsleigh Street, Bunny and Ray were finding Dorothy Edwards a strain. Dorothy had always been poor, and although Bunny and Ray were not rich, they could afford wine and decent food. Gradually Dorothy came to resent them, feeling they represented the bourgeoisie, able to enjoy luxuries. Bunny began to be irritated by her frenzied typing, and found her proximity almost intolerable, ‘disliking quite irrationally the traces which she left of her presence, particularly in the bathroom'.
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Finding it difficult to write, Dorothy turned her resentment onto her hosts. As the summer progressed she was more often resentful than friendly. In October, desperate to escape, Bunny and Ray decided to go north. Dorothy then wrote to Bunny, apologising for being disagreeable. ‘You came to my rescue', she said, ‘when I was feeling as though I was looking over the edge of the world.'
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To his surprise, Bunny enjoyed his work at the
New Statesman
. He always liked embarking on new schemes and his guaranteed salary was a bonus. But eleven months into the job, Bunny made a silly error. On 11 November he published a short piece of work by a fourteen-year-old girl. It began ‘Dinner was ready', and resulted in a deluge of indignant Letters to The Editor. ‘The
paragraph headed “A Dinner” is an impudent piece of plagiarism', wrote (Mrs) Margaret Chapman
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; ‘Is it not strange that Miss Jacqueline Stiven and Mrs Virginia Woolf should have sat down to a dinner identical in composition', asked another piqued reader.
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Henry G. Strauss of Chelsea demanded ‘Why is the extract from Virginia Woolf's “A Room of One's Own” […] signed “Jacqueline Stiven (aetat 14)”?'
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Bunny had well and truly shot himself in the foot. Of all writers, he should have recognised Virginia's Woolf's work, particularly as only a few weeks previously he had written in eloquent and fulsome praise of
Flush
, a review which contained an affectionate tribute to Virginia's friendship with Lytton Strachey. It ended with Bunny quoting the final lines, where the spaniel dies. Recognising the similarity of Virginia's death-scene to Lytton's rendition of Queen Victoria's death, Bunny concluded that Flush was: ‘The first animal to become an Eminent Victorian.'
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Virginia wrote to thank him for his generous review, adding ‘what a good critic you are'.
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She was less impressed when she discovered his blunder although she wasn't particularly bothered. Bunny rushed round to Tavistock Square to apologise and in the
New Statesman
referred to making ‘a proper fool of myself', explaining that the passage had been sent to him ‘in good faith
by a lady who mistook a piece of school dictation for an original composition'. In mitigation he said that although he was disappointed not to have discovered a young Jane Austen he nevertheless consoled himself with the reflection that he spotted Virginia Woolf's literary merit. He suggested that some other ‘fiendish little girl' might want to try to catch him out with a passage from
Lady into Fox
, ‘But it is so easy to have me on toast that it is hardly worth the trouble'.
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Having returned to Hilton for Christmas 1933, it was there in January that Bunny received the news that Dorothy Edwards had been hit by a train and killed. She had gone to Wales in December, telling Bunny and Ray that she was leaving the London flat and would not return. Bunny thought she seemed strained and she was evidently struggling with her writing. The inquest announced the usual verdict of “Suicide during temporary insanity”. Dorothy left a note stating: ‘I am killing myself because I have never sincerely loved any human being all my life. I have accepted kindness and friendship, and even love, without gratitude and given nothing in return.'
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These sentiments chillingly echoed those she had expressed to Bunny on at least two occasions.

Although shocked to learn of Dorothy's suicide, Bunny thought it somehow characteristic. Strangely, he and Ray had been discussing her only the day before, when Bunny told Ray he feared Dorothy was mad. Somehow the Press heard of Bunny's friendship with Dorothy, and a Sunday Express reporter drove as far as nearby St Ives on the way to see Bunny, but had the presence of mind to telephone before turning up on the
doorstep. “I'm sorry to butt in on your privacy” he started, only to receive Bunny's terse: “You won't”.
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Bunny consoled himself that in one of their last conversations he had told Dorothy how much he believed in her genius as a writer.

Later that January he had such a horrible row with Ray that he felt compelled to note it in his pocket diary. Despite their living together in London, and despite their weekends at Hilton, they had drifted apart. Bunny still kept his friends to himself. Although they entertained at Hilton, Ray was not satisfied with these crumbs from the table. In London she was lonely. This was largely because Bunny now had a semi-regular mid-week engagement to spend the evening, and inevitably part of the night, with Barbara Ker-Seymer, at her flat on the King's Road.

‘The extremes among animals who over-specialise, like the sabre-toothed tiger, tend to die out while the present still holds a place for that gentlemanly compromise, the domestic cat, which can lap up its cream or go off and support itself by hunting in the woods wherever it likes.'
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