Fourteen Friends, by James Lees-Milne, John Murray, 240pp, £19.99 in UK
JAMES LEES-MILNE's is not a well-known name in this country, and even in his native England he enjoys only a modest reputation.
Whatever status he does possess derives primarily from his association with the National Trust; he was closely involved with the organisation for many years from the mid-1930s onwards and, more than any other single individual, was probably responsible for shaping the Trust into its present form.
But he has always had terrific flair as a writer. The recently republished Lees-Milne diaries from the war years (much of which he spent driving across the country inspecting a succession of decaying country houses) reveal an exceptional ability at pinning down character and situation with very few words. And his autobiography, Another Self is one of the most charming and funny memoirs of Lees-Milne's generation.
This latest book is certainly not without its delights but suggests that, as one would expect of a very elderly man, he is now getting tired. Given that Lees-Milne's lifetime's work has been the rescue and preservation of structures in danger of being otherwise lost, it's not too surprising he should be equally anxious to salvage the reputation of friends. Such, it would seem, is the principal purpose of this work, achieved with varying degrees of success.
If James Lees-Milne does not always achieve his intention, sometimes this is simply because the subject in question does not deserve and cannot survive too close scrutiny.
This is particularly true of Everard Radcliffe, wilful owner of a beautiful estate who after promising to leave everything to the National Trust suddenly sold up and moved to Switzerland; and Richard Stewart-Jones, like Lees-Milne a passionate preservationist, who died young. Both portrayals are little more than sketches, yet even so they seem too long.
Of the other people considered, authorial loyalty frequently leads to claims being made which cannot really be sustained. The verse of Vita Sackville-West, for example, is much lauded (and quoted) but despite his best efforts, he fails by the close of his tribute to convince that "we are arrogant and stupid to ignore her poetry".
Similarly, the literary reputation of Sacheverell Sitwell, like that of his siblings, is now in terminal decline and no amount of pleading on the part of Mr Lees-Milne will transform his friend into other than a historical curiosity.
Indeed, of all the people considered, only Robert Byron, author of The Road to Oxiana and precursor of the Bruce Chatwin school of travel writing, looks likely to have his work still much admired by future generations.
Byron's books and letters to his mother (to whom he was as devoted as Flaubert to his) as much as his pugnacious personality continue to hold attention, and whenever his biography is finally written, Lees-Milne will be a valuable source of information.
Otherwise, the person who is of most interest in Fourteen Friends, as in all his other writings, is the author himself. Part of Lees-Milne's appeal is that he could never be stigmatised as a show-off, preferring to adopt a deprecatory tone whenever referring to his own character and exploits.
He is inclined to portray himself as ill-educated and awkward, constantly surprised that anyone should notice him in company. Yet if a list were to be compiled of his friends and acquaintances, it would be so substantial in length and impressive in content as to discredit any idea of Lees-Milne as some inept figure.
Whatever about his achievements with the National Trust, he cannot hope for the same success with his friends because the world in which they existed has long-since disappeared.
Part of Lees-Milne's appeal as a diarist is that he is one of the last- surviving members of an English society in which almost every member was familiar with the others. They went to the same handful of schools and universities, enjoyed the same interests, married into the same families. While it is thanks to the efforts of organisations such as the National Trust that their, homes still survive, the people themselves are now irretrievably lost.