Auchincloss is that he does not providenfor them an order of inquiry whichnsimulates the rigors of the scientificnmethod. Serious Critics, of course,nhave to justify their own existence in anpredominantly scientific age and in anuniversity atmosphere which heavilynfavors the latest and most ponderous ofnpedantries (whatever they may be), asnin, for example, the current ascendancynof the so-called deconstructionists.nWe have much too hastily forgotten,nto our own extreme disadvantage, thencommonsense dictum issued somenyears ago by T.S. Eliot in which hensuggested that the soundest criticalnmethod is simply to be very intelligent.nThe evidence to the contrary, however,npresumes that the Serious Criticnhas to be densely difficult in order tonsimulate any intelligence at all.nThe real difficulty is that LouisnAuchincloss is a reasonable novelist.nThis statement is based on the observationnthat very few contemporary novelistsnare in any way remarkably reasonable.nLouis Auchincloss is not only annintelligent novelist (Strike one!) but henis also a social registrite (Strike two!)nand a Wall Street lawyer (Strike three!)nin the bargain. He is, in short, justnabout everything that celebrity booknreviewers — or, as Core Vidal callsnthem, the book-chatters—fancy least.nTo them, in fact, Auchincloss is thenenemy.nBut in his charming memoir, AnWriter’s Capital (University of MinnesotanPress, 1979), Auchincloss is fullynaware of his critical dilEculties as annovelist. His background, he readilynadmits, “was quite enough for half thenpeople at any one party to cross me offnFor Immediate ServicenChroniclesnNEW SUBSCRIBERSnTOLL FREE NUMBERn1-800-435-0715n26 / CHRONICLESnILLINOIS RESIDENTSn1-800-892-0753nas a duckbill platypus not to be takennseriously.” If you substitute SeriousnCritics for Auchincloss’ “half the peoplenat any one party,” you will havenseized upon the prevailing attitudenwhich continues to ignore, if not treatnwith contempt, one of our finest novelistsnof manners and morals. Thenterm itself, “novelist of manners,” isngenerally used by the Serious Critics asna category for dismissal. But quality innabundance is not easy to dismiss.nWith some 28 volumes of novelsnand short stories to his credit, includingnsuch outstanding titles as ThenHouse of Five Talents (1960) and ThenRector of Justin (1964), Auchincloss’nmost recent work is the novel HonorablenMen, which centers on onenCharles “Chip” Benedict. A WorldnWar II hero in the Normandy landing,nBenedict returns to civilian life to becomenchairman of the board of thenBenedict Glass Company, founded bynhis grandfather. Laudatory articlesnabout him are published in both Fortunenand Forbes, and his success isnthereby granted the official recognitionnof corporate America. There are thenusual domestic problems, meaning ofncourse marital difficulties with hisnwife, Alida (the name echoing that ofnAuchincloss’ real wife, Adele); but thenburden of the novel is strictiy a man’snbusiness during the Vietnam era. Benedictnhas taken a sabbatical from hisnlaw practice to serve as special assistantnto the Secretary of State. Benedict’snjob is to prove the feasibility, if not thenmorality, of U.S. involvement innSoutheast Asia. He suffers a crisis ofnconscience and quits the department.nIn this particular work, in manynways a microcosm of the Auchinclossnoeuvre, it is only mildly perplexing tonwonder just how much personal funnthe author is having with his hero’snname and the tide of the book itself—nthat is, Benedict (Arnold), of course,nand Shakespeare’s “So are they all, allnhonorable men” from ]ulius Caesar.nAlso, “Chip” (off the old block) seemsnequally obvious, with “block” signifyingnEstablishment, etc. Nevertheless,nthe Auchincloss shelf of novels is anconsiderable achievement in a traditionnthat can claim Henry James andnEdith Wharton as its precursors. It isnno coincidence that Auchincloss hasnwritten outstanding studies of both authors.nnnLouis Auchincloss is not only one ofnour finest chroniclers of manners andnmorals, or what’s left of them, but henalso has applied to these beleaguerednentities a high degree of professionalnintegrity while, at the same time, focusingnon the usually despised world ofnBig Business itself As Core Vidal hasnsaid, in an unusual display of rationality,nreviewing Auchincloss’ The Partnersn(1974): “Of all our novelists,nAuchincloss is the only one who tellsnus how our rulers behave in theirnbanks and board rooms, their law officesnand their clubs. Yet such is thenvastness of our society and the remotenessnof academics and book-chattersnfrom actual power that those whonshould be most in this writer’s debtnhave no idea what a useful service henrenders us by revealing and, in somenways, betraying his class. Almost alonenamong our writers, Auchincloss is ablento show in a convincing way men atnwork.”nIn any case, the first importantnnovel of business in American fictionnwas probably William Dean Howells’nThe Rise of Silas Lapham (1885), butnHowells was unfortunate in choosingnfor his prototype a figure of the crudelynself-made man who would shortly becomenextinct in the increasingly sophisticatednand complex world ofnmodern industry. And yet, clearly,nAuchincloss continues to share withnHowells the problem of how to survivenas a moral human being in any milieunwhich deals essentially with the spiritnand nature, so often ruthless, ofnhuman competition. For the novelistnAuchincloss, this was the world asnseen through the eyes of a successfulnattorney among the well-off and evennthe very powerful, who, for all that,nremains nonetheless human and vulnerable.nI remembered these things when Insat with my brother, two old parties,non a late summer day and mournednthe passing of an age. But we still havensomething left of that age in the novelsnof a very decent and responsible mannnamed Louis Auchincloss. I wantednespecially to say this because, in readingnhim, it helps to have lived in hisntime and to have shared such values ofnhis — and our—generation as nownseem sadly on the wane. Meanwhile,nof course, the Serious Critics will haventaken little note of all this.n