High society in an elevated style

IF it didn’t make him sound like an old brick building or a theatrical repertory company, Louis Auchincloss could well be described as an American institution. The author of more than 60 books of fiction and nonfiction and the recipient of the National Medal of Arts, he was designated a “Living Landmark” by the New York Landmarks Conservancy in 2000.

In his new book, “The Friend of Women and Other Stories,” Auchincloss restricts his settings to Yale University and the more opulent enclaves of Manhattan, Long Island and Washington, D.C. There he probes the secret loves and hypocrisies of his characters as they struggle against social constraints. Letitia Bernard in the title story is an heiress to millions, a “prominent member of ‘our crowd’ ”; Rosina Hudson in “The Omelette and the Egg” is old New York, “indeed, none were older -- she descended from the hardy captain of the Half Moon.” But his characters and storytelling transcend the limits of geography and Dun & Bradstreet ratings.

In “The Friend of Women,” a prim English teacher at a posh girls’ school reflects on his relationship with three favorite students over several years. Hubert began as their mentor in the late 1930s but gradually assumed the roles of counselor and father confessor. The tone of his reminiscence reflects a life spent primarily with the Bronte sisters, Charles Dickens and William Makepeace Thackeray, rather than living companions. Auchincloss doesn’t indulge in labored pastiches of 19th century prose but uses an occasional turn of phrase to reveal his character’s academic smugness.

When he tells Cora King, the daughter of a celebrated society hostess, that she should carefully reconsider her decision to marry the brooding heir to a Pittsburgh steel fortune, she snaps, “Oh, Hubert, can’t you stop being Thackeray for a minute?” Dismissing his prissy objections that marrying a wealthy man to solve her personal problems is “a wicked thing,” she reminds him, “This is the twentieth century we’re in.” He replies, “I needn’t choose to be in it. Wicked is a fine old term to remember. There’s something virile in it, as opposed to lame excuses like compulsive or obsessive or driven.”

As they grow up, the young women cease to listen to his advice, and his meddling in their lives causes a scoundrel’s suicide. But Hubert’s faith in his own virtue remains unshakable. With consummate self-satisfaction, he reflects that he deserves the title he adopted, “l’ami des femmes,” “taken from the play of Dumas fils.”

Kate Rand, the narrator of “The Omelette and the Egg,” turns her back on years of respectable restraint and, at her friend Rosina’s urging, becomes a writer. Her first novel, a roman a clef based on a scandalous trial involving his law firm, costs her husband his position. But she scoops to conquer, earning more than enough to compensate for his loss. When her rebellious teenage daughter complains, “You bought your literary fame at the cost of Dad’s happiness.... You walked over his stricken body to grab your laurels,” Kate rejects her self-righteous pose. “[A]t least I have the honesty to make no excuses. I’d do the same thing again if I had it to do over. And like it or not, my dear, there’s a good bit of me in you.”

Conversely, in “Call of the Wild,” a character argues that the worst thing a person can do is change, because it upsets everyone around him. When Harry Phelps, who has always been “something of a bore, however harmless and amiable a one,” approaches an old prep school friend about handling his divorce, the attorney is appalled. What scandalizes him is not the idea of adultery but that Phelps, of all people, committed it. Surprised at the intensity of his reaction to the news, the narrator reflects, “That a libertine continues to be a libertine is acceptable; what is troublesome is when he turns into a saint. Likewise, a dull, disciplined husband who has been certified as utterly harmless and dependable must not evolve into a rake. Harry was unforgivable and unforgiven.”

The elegance of Auchincloss’ prose is rare in contemporary fiction: His sentences are wrought with such care and polish, they seem almost faceted. He never indulges in posturing or self-conscious erudition, but writes with a genuine mastery of and appreciation for the English language.

Charles Solomon is the author of many books, including “Enchanted Drawings: The History of Animation.”