25 April 1921 – 1 May 1921

I ought to say something of Lytton. I have seen him oftener these last days than for a whole year perhaps. We have talked about his book and my book. This particular conversation took place in Verreys: gilt feathers: mirrors: blue walls and Lytton and I taking our tea and brioche in a corner. We must have sat well over an hour. “And I woke last night and wondered where to place you,” I said. “There’s St. Simon and La Bruyère.” “Oh God,” he groaned. “And Macaulay,” I added. “Yes, Macaulay,” he said. “A little better than Macaulay.” But not his man, I insisted. “More civilisation of course. And then you’ve only written short books.” “I’m going to do George IV next,” he said. “Well, but your place,” I insisted. “And yours?” he asked. “I’m the ‘ablest of living women novelists,’” I said. “So the British Weekly says.” “You influence me,” he said. And he said he could always recognise my writing though I wrote so many different styles. “Which is the result of hard work,” I insisted. And then we discussed histories; Gibbon; a kind of Henry James, I volunteered. “Oh dear no—not in the least,” he said. “He has a point of view and sticks to it,” I said. “And so do you. I wobble.” But what is Gibbon? “Oh, he’s there all right,” Lytton said. “Forster says he’s an Imp. But he hadn’t many views. He believed in ‘virtue’ perhaps.” “A beautiful word,” I said. “But just read how the hordes of barbarians devastated the City. It’s marvellous. True, he was queer about the early Christions—didn’t see anything in them at all. But read him. I’m going to next October. And I’m going to Florence, and I shall be very lonely in the evenings.” “The French have influenced you more than the English, I suppose,” I said. “Yes. I have their definiteness. I’m formed.” “I compared you with Carlyle the other day,” I said. “I read the Reminiscences. Well, they’re the chatter of an old toothless gravedigger compared with you; only then he has phrases.” “Ah yes, he has them,” said Lytton. “But I read him to Norton and James the other day and they shouted—they wouldn’t have it.” “I’m a little anxious though about ‘mass.’” “That’s my danger, is it?” “Yes. You may cut too fine,” I said. “But it’s a magnificent subject—George IV—and what fun, setting to work on it.” “And your novel?” “Oh, I put in my hand and rummage in the bran pie.” “That’s what’s so wonderful. And it’s all different.” “Yes, I’m 20 people.” “But one sees the whole from the outside. The worst of George IV is that no one mentions the facts I want. History must be written all over again. It’s all morality—” “And battles,” I added. And then we walked through the streets together, for I had to buy coffee.