__THS

,I—FOJ/t‘

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIII IL

 

 

 

 

 

 

I LIBRARY
I Michigan Shh
Unlurslty

 

 

 

This is to certify that the

thesis entitled

THE PERSECUTION OF THE PHILISTINES:

THE AUTHORITY OF W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM
presented by

Rosemary Erickson Pierce

has been accepted towards fulfillment
of the requirements for

 

the M.A. degree in English

WIN... A {M

Major professor

 

Date—iehWO

0-7639 MS U is an Affirmative Action/Equal Opportunity Institution

 

—

PLACE IN RETURN BOX to removofthls checkout from your record.
TO AVOID FINES return on or batons date duo.

DATE DUE DATE DUE DATE DUE

__......_._._...._I IL__

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

MSU Is An Affirmative Action/Equal Opportunity Institmion
em“:

THE PERSECUTION OF THE PHILISTINES:
THE AUTHORITY OF W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM

BY

Rosemary Erickson Pierce

A THESIS

Submitted to
Michigan State University
in partial fulfillment of the requirements
for the degree of

MASTER OF ARTS

Department of English

1990

ABSTRACT

THE PERSECUTION OF THE PHILISTINES:
THE AUTHORITY OF W} SOMERSET MAUGHAM

By

Rosemary Erickson Pierce

Somerset Maugham's preoccupations have often been
disparaged as philistine: yet Maugham is rarely consulted
as an expert on philistinism or, more precisely, philis-
tine disparaging as a stereotype of persecution. After
tracing the gathering force of the term philistine as an
accusation in the nineteenth century, and the charge of
philistinism brought against Maugham throughout his
career, this thesis reevaluates Maugham by emphasizing his
understanding of philistine disparaging as a system of
accusation. Texts used are Qahes_an§_51g, Qfi_flgman
Bondage, and Ing_narrgg_ggzner, and René Girard's Mensgnge
WW-

Dedicated to

Steven Nelson Pierce

iii

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My first thanks must go to Rob Scott, who recommended
Maugham's work to me, and thanks also to Paul Schellinger,
who "went through a Maugham phase."

I am grateful to Professor Victor Paananen, who
contributed significantly to my decision to do graduate
work in English.

I sincerely appreciate the time given to this project
by Professor M. Teresa Tavormina, to whose insights and
suggestions I have not done justice.

Professor William Johnsen, as my thesis advisor, gave
many hours to this project. Without his assistance, this

thesis could not have been written.

iv

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Page
Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1
Maugham's Critics . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6
Maugham and the Philistines . . . . . . . . . . . . 18
Looking Forward . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65
Notes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73

works Cited 0 O O O O I O O O O O O O O O I O I O O 7 8

INTRODUCTION

In Eifi2_H9rKe_2f_Bnglish_Literatnre_fle_£guld_Qo
Without, the reader of Somerset Maugham novels learns that
the best that can be said of Ihg_nggn_gn§
Sixpence and, for that matter, of Maugham’s
entire oeuvre, is that it is admirable middle-
brow stuff, ideally geared to the demands of the
stockbroker who likes to parade his literacy but
has no taste for literature. (127)
Those who scorn Maugham and his "cynical pot-boiling"
(125) would probably find this assessment of his work
amusing; for those who value Maugham’s work, however, it
is an extremely annoying categorization. It is annoying
not because it is valid, but because it echoes the charge
so often found in Maugham criticism: Maugham is a
philistine, he writes for the philistines, and only a
philistine would appreciate his work. This charge is a
particularly insidious one, for what literary person would
want to align himself with that stockbroker? Call Maugham
a philistine or label yourself one--that is the simple
choice such criticism offers.
But what does it mean to be called a philistine?

What is a philistine? And having reached some kind of

answer to that question, how can we put our understanding
of this slander to use? Might it not illuminate Maugham’s
work and help us understand his critical reception?

Philistine conjures up images of blasts from Matthew
Arnold, of Victorian respectability, of the bourgeois.
Turning to the QED, however, one learns that originally
the name referred to the people who lived along the
southern coast of Palestine. That is straightforward
enough to avoid confusion about who these people are, even
if there are strong negative connotations arising from the
philistines' unhappy relations with the Israelites. From
the end of the sixteenth century, when the word turned
into a general purpose term for one’s enemies, the philis-
tine became increasingly difficult to define. Your enemy,
after all, may not be the same as mine.

The word’s meaning began to approach our sense of it
through a nineteenth-century borrowing from German.
anilistg; was what German students called those not
attending a university, and the Victorians gleefully
borrowed it for those "deficient in liberal culture and
enlightenment, whose interests are chiefly bounded by
material and commonplace things" (932 2, 2153). The term
is a very useful one, for the difficulty of judging
someone by these slippery criteria makes defense against
an accusation of philistinism virtually impossible. As

the 939 notes, the word is "often applied contemptuously

by connoisseurs of any particular art or department of
learning to one who has no knowledge or appreciation of
it; [it is] sometimes a mere term of dislike for those
whom the speaker considers 'bourgeois'” (2, 2153). Notice
the multiplication of "tests" for philistinism implied by
this ever broadening definition: it becomes ever easier to
say that someone has failed your particular philistine
litmus test and has therefore been proven ”guilty."
Philistine is clearly a very handy label to keep about,
ready for use.
Turning to Matthew Arnold, the high priest of the
philistine despisers, one finds that
philistine gives the notion of something
particularly stiff-necked and perverse in the
resistance to light and its children; and
therein it specially suits our middle class, who
not only do not pursue sweetness and light, but
who even prefer to them that sort of machinery
of business, chapels, tea-meetings, and
addresses from Mr. Murphy, which makes up the
dismal and illiberal life on which I have so
often touched. (206)
Arnold links business activities and personal interests,
and he evidently does so in order to set up an opposi-

tional relationship between the "dismal and illiberal

life” of the philistines and the life of those who "pursue
sweetness and light." Between the confusion caused by the
first trick and the vague language used in the second,
however, he clarifies our definition of the philistine
very little. (After all, how does one devote one's life
to pursuing sweetness and light? What is required by such
a calling?) This kind of defining, while it may not clear
the matter up, does intensify it; it adds a sense of
urgency to the search for a definition. There is a sense
of indignation evident in Arnold's words, almost as if the
philistines had offended some moral or religious prin-
ciple. The reader senses the horror of being "stiff-
necked and perverse in the resistance to light and its
children" and winces to think of actually prejgxzing that
"sort of machinery of business," etc., to cultural

pursuits.

There are several essential observations that can be
made about the term philistine, observations which can
bring us closer to a clearer definition and, at the same
time, to an improved understanding of how the word
functions. A necessary prerequisite to understanding "the
philistine" is recognizing that the word does more than
denote a particular social and economic class of person.
Hidden beneath the surface is a whole accusational system.

The idea of the philistine and its multitudinous

connotations became so firmly entrenched in our literary
culture that it seemed a black and white matter of us
against them, with the philistine always filling the role
of "them.” Recent critical and cultural theory has
allowed us to see that "philistinism" is a cultural term
open to debate, but withdrawing the accusation is easier
than eliminating its effects on Maugham's work. Those who
have achieved sophistication in critical theory are still
able to overlook or condemn Maugham as a philistine:
understanding the phenomenon in the largest sense does not

preclude (ab)using it in specific cases like Maugham's.1

HAUGHAH'S CRITICS

Maugham's novels ought to be required reading not
only as reparation for the damage done him as an accused
"philistine,"2 but also because his work rewards attention
paid to it; for not only is philistinism a subject on
which he provides a lot of insight in his literary works,
his fate as a writer also reveals a great deal about the
workings of philistine disparagement as a system of
accusation. To approach a more complete definition of the
philistine, one can look at Maugham criticism, for much of
the criticism relies on the terminology of anti-
philistinism. Those who wish to denigrate Maugham often
do so by accusing him of being a philistine: those who
wish to support Maugham often fall back on defenses
against these charges of philistinism.

His passionately condemnatory critics are what first
focused my attention seriously on Maugham. If Maugham is
"an author whose works brought fame and riches but never
respect and honor" (Higdon 710), why do critics spend so
much time and energy beating Maugham down? It is easy to
think of twentieth-century writers whose works have sold

well and made lots of money; it is even fairly simple to

name members of that group who have claimed literary
status, yet literary critics are not writing articles
berating these writers. Maugham's case is clearly more
complicated than this.

One indication of the intensity of the anti-Maugham
critics is the way negative remarks about Maugham creep in
where no remarks about Maugham's work are necessary.
Margaret Drabble, in her review of Ted Morgan's 1980
biography of Maugham, could not resist the temptation to
take pot shots at Maugham while criticizing Morgan's work:
"like Maugham, Mr. Morgan is no stylist: he writes
inelegantly, relays apocryphal jokes, quotes gossip as
though it were fact, is immensely repetitive and loves to
explain the obvious" (l, 24). David Higdon similarly
indulges in gratuitous Maugham bashing in his review of
Morgan's book: "the biography consists of surfaces with
little depth beneath them. In other words, it resembles a
Maugham novel” (709). Neither of these reviews made any
positive reference to Maugham's work, and Higdon suggests
that what makes Maugham worthy of a biography is not his
writing, but the fact that he is "perhaps one of our best
representatives of the Edwardian compromises" (709).

Any survey of the criticism of Maugham's work, even
if only intended to reconfirm its hostility, must situate
the sheer repetition of class-bound complaints. Maugham

criticism is remarkably consistent, and thus looking at

only a selection of work3 forces the reader of Maugham to
conclude that what is "wrong" with Maugham is that he is a
philistine. Consider, for example, the language that
21ft24flgrk§ uses to discuss Maugham. He "lacks intellec-
tual imagination" (126): he ”can observe, but he cannot
create" (126). What is most telling here is the class-
bound name calling: Maugham "has a window dresser's idea
of elegance, and a shop assistant's concept of romance.
When he writes of Tahiti his language is that of a travel
agent" (127), and "at his best he was a good reporter"
(126). Window dresser, shop assistant, travel agent,
reporter--deliver the authors of £1fi;y_flggh§ from the
philistines!4
There is also a noticeable financial element in

Maugham criticism. Before "popular writer” and "serious
writer" came to be viewed as two mutually exclusive
categories, it reflected well on a writer to sell a lot of
books.5 In the twentieth century, however, selling well
has become suspect. When Graham Greene laments that
Maugham "his been misled . . . by his own [financial]
success" (201), we sense that Maugham is being mildly
chastised. It is an unfortunate time for literature,
Greene suggests when he says that

Writers belonging to a less easily appreciated

school than the anecdotal, who depend for their

market on the intellectual magazine, are lucky
if they can earn twenty pounds by a short story,
while the writer who fits the taste of the
popular magazine may well earn ten times that
sum. It is seldom that financial worry is a
condition for the best work. (201-02)
This opposition is familiar to us--the intellectual and
the popular. We are to believe that the "intellectual"
writer, who is poorly paid, deserves our sympathy and
admiration for struggling on in spite of financial
difficulty: it is considered a given that this "intel-
lectual" writing is valuable. 0n the other hand, the work
of the "writer who fits the taste of the popular magazine"
is "easily appreciated" so we mark ourselves as common if
we appreciate it too.6
Perhaps the best known piece of Maugham criticism is
Edmund Wilson's "The Apotheosis of Somerset Maugham."
This piece, first printed in 1946, blasts Maugham from
beginning to end, and in some important ways it has become
the standard for anti-Maugham criticism. In it a reader
can discern the seeds of the casual condemnations tossed
off by sources as diverse as Margaret Drabble and fifty
Work§--in a sense, Wilson made it fashionable to pan
Maugham. He certainly helped set the terms for subsequent
debate.

10

One of the key points of Wilson's article is that an
appreciation for Maugham's work marks a decline in
literary standards: appreciate Maugham, Wilson warns, and
mark yourself a part of this lamentable decline. Maugham,
Wilson asserts, is on a level completely different (lower)
from that of "real” writers like Joyce, James, and Yeats.
Furthermore, Wilson claims, Maugham recognizes this fact
and resents it even while he does not understand what it
is that makes these ”real" writers great:

We get the impression of a malcontent eye cocked
up from the brackish waters of the ggsmgpglitan
magazine, and a peevish and insistent grumbling.
There is something going on, on the higher
ground, that halfway compels his respect, but he
does not quite understand what it is, and in any
case he can never get up there. (324)
The message here is not subtle, but just in case we missed
it, Wilson spells it out for us one more time: Maugham is
for our time "what Bulwer-Lytton was for Dickens's: a
half-trashy novelist, who writes badly, but is patronized
by half-serious readers, who do not care much about
writing" (326). Wilson's description of Maugham's readers
as philistines (his remarks bring to mind our stockbroker
friend in Eifty_flgrk§) sets up the choice mentioned
earlier: malign Maugham or share in his guilt. In other

words, you must join Wilson's group of those who prove

11

themselves not to be philistines by condemning the
philistine among them or you inescapably mark yourself as
a new target. Claiming that you value Maugham's work but
are no; a philistine has little effect: since philistine
is never used in a complimentary manner, no one is likely
to describe himself as one, and assertions of "innocence"
are therefore automatically suspect. In any case, you
have been forced into defending yourself on the terms that
Wilson has laid out. Once the issue of philistinism has
been raised, you must use its terminology whether you
choose to agree or disagree with the accuser.

Wilson, like most of the Maugham bashers who follow
him, reverts to name calling. He constructs an extended
metaphor of Maugham as schoolboy, through which he
denigrates Maugham for poor grammar, cliches, banal
language, and unrhythmic prose (319-21). Not only is
Maugham a schoolboy, but he is not an especially competent
one: his handling of "a promising subject" suggests "one
of the less brilliant contributions to a prep-school
magazine" (321). Maugham does, however, have some
advantages over our mythical schoolboy. He has

more knowledge of the world than a schoolboy
would have been likely to acquire, but that
schoolboy, grown-up and much travelled, having

somehow been diverted from his normal career of

12

law, medicine, diplomacy or parliament, might
have produced such a novel as Then_and_flgw [the
particular occasion for this review]: did, in
fact produce it. (322-23)
This, I feel, is the heart of Wilson’s dislike for
Maugham: he is a member of the bourgeoisie, he comes from
a family of lawyers, he has medical training. Maugham's
class precludes his being a "real" writer. Instead of
trying to write, Maugham should be practicing law or
medicine. Wilson does offer some consolation, however: if
one defines things carefully it is almost possible to make
Maugham disappear: Maugham "is not, in the sense of
{having the metier,’ really a writer at all" (319).

What is most discouraging about this attack on
Maugham is the lack of foundation for these conclusions.
Because there are so many tests for philistinism, and
because the meaning is so extended, a critic may fault
Maugham for philistinism on scant grounds. At the time he
wrote this review Edmund Wilson had read very little by
Maugham. He says that he swore to read Then_anfi_figw
completely "if only in order to be able to say that I had
read a book of Maugham's through" (320), and he admits
that he had not read any of Maugham's short stories. If
he has not read a complete novel or a single short story,
how is it that he has ”never been able to convince myself

that [Maugham] was anything but second rate" (319)?

13

Critics are far more careful than this with other writers:
it is hard, for example, to imagine a critic dismissing
Dickens having read only bits and pieces of A_th1§;ma§
Carol and ngyig_ggppgzfi1g1§. In fact, the rule seems
inverted for Maugham criticism: it is better to have up;
read than to bag; read his work. Wilson is proud of
having not read Maugham, and he seems to present this
weakness as one of his credentials: he wins agreement

from his readers by suggesting that ’of course he does not

read Maugham.’

There have, of course, been critics who found
praiseworthy qualities in Maugham's work. Theodore
Dreiser’s review of Maugham's work was occasioned by the
publication of Q£_flgman_figng§gg, so it precedes Edmund
Wilson's review by over thirty years. Even in 1915,
however, there were condemnatory reviewers and critics.
Dreiser mentions his "surprise to find that the English
reviews were almost uniformly contemptuous and critical"
(203), and he scans some of the adverse American criti-
cism, the standard hyperbolic fare, which he sums up as
"too trite" (203). Dreiser nonetheless asserts the
novel’s value firmly: "Despite these dissonant voices it
is still a book of the utmost import" (203): it is "a
novel or biography or autobiography or social transcript

of the utmost importance" (202).

14

Dreiser heaps praise on Qf_flnnan_flgndage much as

other critics heap scorn upon it. It is a near perfect
piece of fiction: ”In viewing it one finds nothing to
criticise or to regret. The thing sings, it has color.

It has rapture. You wonder at the loving patient care
which has evolved it" (202). Dreiser says that Maugham's
descriptions are very apt, whether of the life of English
clerks or of the particular characters who populate the
novel. The novel contains "material . . . for many novels
and indeed several philosophies, and even a religion or
stoic hope" (202), and it is throughout "a gorgeous weave,
as interesting and valuable at the beginning as at the
end" (202). The language Dreiser uses to describe the
novel indicates the unreserved nature of his approval.
After Dreiser dismisses the anti-philistine criticisms of
the book with ”too trite," he ignores them and writes
about Maugham and Qf_fluman_fign§age on his own terms. And
what does he see in it once he is not distracted by the
philistine disparagers?

For Dreiser, not only is Qfi_fluman_ngngagg a great
book, but Maugham is a great writer. In fact, Dreiser
twice calls him a genius, and he compares this novel to
works in other art forms--it is like a symphony by
Beethoven or a portrait by Rembrandt. Maugham has

suffered, and he has "an immense capacity for

15

understanding and pity” (203). What is particularly
noteworthy for Dreiser is Maugham's honesty: ”no
situation, however crude or embarrassing, has been
shirked” (203). The result of this honesty is not
sensational or immoral, but 'unmoral' (202). This, to my
mind, is one of Maugham’s most valuable characteristics,
one that few other writers share. Me neither advocates
the establishment morality nor does he impose an
alternative anti-establishment morality on his readers.
This, however, leaves him open to misinterpretation and
condemnation by bgth points of view.

Twenty years later, Graham Greene’s mixed comments on
Maugham echoed some of Dreiser’s praises. In particular,
he made explicit Dreiser's praise of Maugham's honesty and
expanded on that theme. For Greene, honesty is Maugham’s
most noteworthy attribute, and he sees it coloring many
aspects of Maugham's work, from his subject matter to his
writing style. He emphasizes the often-overlooked value
of honesty when he refers to "Maugham’s honest unenthusi-
astic mind. I do not mean pedantic or unimaginative.
Honesty is a form of sensitivity" (198). Maugham's style
is informed by this honesty as well: Greene discusses
Maugham's "hard-won style at its best, clear, colloquial,
honest" (203), and he says that the "quality of honest
experience . . . gives his style such vividness” (198).

This plain honesty that Greene praises seems to be another

 

16

way of talking about the unmoral nature of Maugham's work.
"The characteristic most evident" in Maugham's best work,
Greene tells us, ”is honesty" (197). Boiling Maugham down
to his essence, Greene finds honesty, and this seems
fitting praise. If Greene remembers it as an "unhappy
honesty" (205) because it lacks Christian spirituality,

that need not negate our positive view of it.

Before looking at what Maugham has to say about the
philistine and our culture's use of the word, I would like
to consider what this survey of important Maugham
criticism has added to our definition. Looking at the
elements of this criticism, we can see more clearly what
"philistine” means in a literary context. From the
negative criticism we can see that a philistine who writes
comes from the middle classes and might more appropriately
be pursuing a career in law or something similar. Because
he comes from the middle classes, he writes for them (the
stockbrokers, those who read half-seriously): because he
writes for them, he writes badly (inelegantly, repeti-
tively, ungrammatically, banally, unrhythmically, super-
ficially, and with lots of cliches and a very heavy hand).
His middle-class past is continually getting in his way by
causing him to see things through the eyes of a shop

assistant rather than those of an artist. He lacks

17

creativity and imagination: he does not really have the
calling of a writer: and he cannot even grasp what it is
that serious writers do. Because his work is so philis-
tine, however, he sells a great many books and enjoys
considerable financial success.

This portrait fits quite well with our intuitive
sense of the philistine. The positive commentary by
Dreiser and Greene, however, shows us other ways in which
this portrait might be delineated. The "philistine" as a
writer is a keen observer and a frank writer. These
attributes allow him to create accurate and enduring
social/cultural records. Because the literary philistine
is unmoral, the reader is not forced to take any
particular stand but is free to enjoy the text and the
cultural commentary. Finally, his prose is "clear,
colloquial, honest" (Greene 203) prose written in a vivid
style, and this makes his work eminently readable.7

If it is legitimate to label a writer philistine on
the strength of the negative portrait sketched out above,
surely it ought to be equally legitimate to call him a
philistine based on the positive one as well. Before we
can do this, however, we need to adjust our perception of
what a philistine is: in order to see the need to make
that adjustment, we need to understand how the word
philistine has turned into a whole system of accusation.

Maugham's novels can help us see what is going on.

MAUGHAM AND THE PHILISTINES

The original title of Rene Girard's peggit,_pg§1;gL
W18 W.
and the difference between the two titles seems to me an
important one, for the French title simultaneously
suggests what is wrong with Maugham criticism and what is
right about Maugham’s work: the Romantic preconceptions of
the critics lead them to brand his work philistine, but
that work nonetheless rewards with special insight the
reader who can loosen the grip of those preconceptions and
read Maugham as he should be read. Maugham's work can go
a long way in explaining our thriving accusational system
of philistine disparagement, but he can do this only if we
can rescue him from the claustrophobic grip of the
Romantic readings we usually give him. This is not easy.
As Girard explains, "Nous portons en nous une hiérarchie
du superficiel et du profond, de l’essentiel et de
l'accessoire, que nous appliquons instinctivement a
l'oeuvre romanesque. Cette hierarchie, d’inspiration
<<romantique>>, <<individualiste>> et <<prométhéenne>>
nous cache certains aspects essentiels de la creation

artistique" (M323 308). This, I believe, is relevant for

18

19

Maugham studies, for once we can read Maugham without
letting such instinctive judgments get in the way, we are
amply rewarded.

Another immediate difficulty many readers encounter
in reading Maugham is his strong presence as narrator.
This strong presence is often perceived as a failing:
‘21:;y_flgzk§, to cite just one example, says that Maugham's
characters in one novel "are the same extensions of his
own personality who litter the pages of his other novels"
(126-27). However, as Anthony Burgess points out

the personality of the novelist is important to
us--the personality as revealed in his work and
not in his private life. . . . The author is
present with us on every page, sometimes, as
with Somerset Maugham, as an idealised portrait
ranking as a character--rational, tolerant,
travelled--though more often as the man whose
heavy breathing we can hear as he puts his words
together. (18)
Once we accept that all authors are "with us on every
page," Maugham's "crime" becomes insignificant. He simply
makes little pretense of being removed from the novel, of
"seeking the anonymity of the divine creator" (18) in
Burgess's terms. So what can we learn from his novelistic
voice, his "rational, tolerant, travelled" voice? Among

other things, we can learn a great deal about how

20

philistine disparagement functions, how it has become

systematized.

The primary rule for use of the word philistine is
that the (acc)user never means anything good by it. In 9;
Hgman_figndage, Maugham has presented us with a stereotypi-
cal philistine in the character of Watson. Maugham
reflects the exclusively negative meaning for philistine
when he says that "while [Philip] looked upon Watson as a
Philistine he could not help admiring him" (162), for it
is clear from this that to admire a philistine is an
awkward surprise, a reaction that ought to be resisted.
When Maugham describes the "philistine" Watson, the
reader instinctively sympathizes with Maugham and Philip.
As soon as we learn that Watson is "’a son of Watson,
Crag, and Thompson--you know--the brewers'" (158) he is
marked a philistine, and Maugham does not disappoint our
expectation. Watson is wealthy, sharply dressed, and very
self-confident, the antithesis of Philip. Upon meeting
him, Philip is
somewhat overpowered by the young gentleman's
condescension. At Blackstable they had always
looked upon brewing with civil contempt, the
Vicar made little jokes about the beerage, and

it was a surprising experience for Philip to

21

discover that Watson was such an important and

magnificent fellow. (159)
We are implicated in this labelling of Watson, for we, the
readers, would no doubt join in the laughter at those
"little jokes about the beerage." Watson is further
marked by being unable to appreciate Philip's hard-won
cultural achievements, and he, like their boss in the
accounting office, talks too much about his own status as
a gentleman: "Philip was overwhelmed by so much gentleman-
liness: in East Anglia they knew who were gentlemen and
who weren't but the gentlemen didn't talk about it" (160).
Who can help but see Watson as a philistine? We grant
superiority to the East Anglian system of gentlemanliness
almost instinctively, and those who fly in the face of its
rules are philistines.

Because we have become so habituated to philistine
disparaging, the absence of any positive implications may
seem obvious and unobjectionable. This absence is not
altogether surprising, because we despise the philistine
and our hate transforms him, our enemy:

"La haine . . . ecrit chaque jour pour nous de la
vie de nos ennemis le roman le plus faux. Elle
leur suppose, au lieu d'un mediocre bonheur
humain, traversé de peines communes qui
viendraient remuer en nous de douces sympathies,

une joie insolente qui s’offre irritante pour

22

notre rage. Elle transfigure autant que le

désir et comme lui nous assoiffe de sang

humain.” (Proust in M313 46-47)
This image of writing "le roman le plus faux” is an
especially pertinent one for readers of Maugham, since
"readers" like Edmund Wilson have, in a sense, IEEIILIED
Maugham's work in order to cast him out as a philistine.
It is essential that we ignore those rewritings and read
Maugham ourselves to find the truths in what he wrote. As
Girard points out, we must see the philistine in black and
white terms: he is not allowed to have any good qualities
because our hate will not allow this. Unsurprising does
not, however, mean just, and beneath the surface of our
picture of a philistine rest many worthwhile attributes.

Maugham gives us characters who are to be considered

philistines, but even as he shows us that judgment on them
he is careful to reveal that those we consider philistine
often behave far better than we are prepared to admit.
That consummate philistine Watson has, after all, some
very redeeming qualities. New to London, hampered by
shyness and his physical handicap, Philip is very lonely.
Watson is unpretentious and kind hearted enough to invite
Philip out, even though Watson has plenty of friends (male
and female) to spend his time with. That their friendship
does not develop very far is more a reflection on Philip

than it is on Watson: Watson has gone out of his way to be

23

friendly, and Philip is too reserved and offended by
Watson’s lack of ”culture" to meet him halfway.

We see this phenomenon again when Philip's concern
for Cronshaw's health elicits a scornful reaction:
Cronshaw gives Philip "the quizzical look with which he
reproved the admonitions of common sense" (404) and looks
at him "in the way which had formerly had the power of
making him feel incredibly narrow" (404). Cronshaw
undervalues, as we might, the accused philistine's concern
for him. Philip's concern is genuine, and it goes far
beyond a polite inquiry: he takes on the burden of sharing

his own lodgings with the dying Cronshaw.

The exclusively negative implications of being a
philistine can also be seen in the way philistines are
often defined in opposition to things which we value.
Because "1e snobisme commence a l’egalité . . . [et] les
distinctions réelles et concretes de ces classes n'ont
rien a voir avec les distinctions abstraites du snobisme"
(£313 75), we have to define ourselves by eegepliehing
differences to take the place of the real differences that
have been lost. In Girard’s historical model, these
differences have been lost through the processes of
Western democratization which have levelled classes
formerly anchored in birth-connected status. In order to

establish these differences, the qualities of the

24

philistine must be seen as having no connection to those
which we possess: they must in fact represent the oppo-
sites of ours. Since the philistine is "bad" he is
credited with the contrary of each of our cherished "good"
qualities. Accordingly, Matthew Arnold described philis-
tinism as a contrast to "sweetness and light," and the
philistine is held to be actively against all things cul-
tural, unappreciative of them, or just plain ignorant
about them.

This philistine opposition to cultural pursuits is
one of our most basic pieces of dogma about philistinism.
Equally basic is our belief in the financial ruthlessness
of the philistine: we understand that the philistine is a
materialist who will do whatever he can to make more money
so that he may spend it on displays of wealth. While
Maugham’s work reflects that side of the issue, he also
reveals the financial maneuverings of those who disparage
the philistines. The sense of moral superiority that
accompanies philistine despising allows the despiser to
feel simultaneously free of financial responsibility and
assured of the accused philistine's responsibility to take
care of him. In The_Ne;;eg_QQ;ner, Dr. Saunders, who
seems particularly knowledgeable about philistine
disparaging, understands how this works:

[Idealists] were apt to look down upon those who

were occupied with practical matters but not

25

averse from profiting by their industry. Like
the lilies of the field they neither toiled nor
spun, but took it as a right that others should
perform for them these menial offices. (116)
George Frith is one of these "lilies of the field."
Educated to be a schoolteacher, he ended up on a remote
island after a long period of drifting from one job to
another, finally marrying into the Swan family and its
plantation. His father-in-law is scornful of Frith
because of his inability to keep a job or to get anything
constructive done, but Frith considers himself above such
complaints. He feels that it is "absurd to hurl such
charges at a man who had spent twenty years in the study
of the highly metaphysical thought of the Hindus and in
whom in all probability dwelt the spirit of a celebrated
Portuguese poet" (3; 129). This is surely no more absurd
than the rationales of other philistine scorners, but
Maugham has made it seem so by changing the perspective.
We see Frith through the eyes of a detached (Maugham-like)
observer and not through his own, which makes an enormous
difference to our perception of him. Perhaps more
importantly, though, Maugham has substituted for cultural
pursuits to which we grant legitimacy--like painting or
writing philosophy--some we do not. This substitution

makes Frith seem merely ridiculous.

26

This particular lily of the field is also not an
appealing character because he has managed to survive only
because his wife "’ran the estate and looked after things
and made both ends meet'" (139). She accepts the
superiority of his value system, even though she can do so
only at her own expense: she was pleased to "'think of
Frith sitting in his den with his books, reading and
writing and making notes. She thought him a genius. She
thought everything she did for him was only his due’"
(139). Her agreement with this hierarchy of values does
not make us respect Frith more: instead, it suggests that
Frith probably treated her as if everything she did was
"only his due."

Upjohn's funeral plans (in Qflfl), discussed more fully
below, are another example of this phenomenon. He never
considers making a financial contribution, but he still
feels assured of his right to belittle Philip's arrange-
ments and to offer improbable suggestions. He is enamored
of his plan for a grand funeral and seems to find nothing
odd in half-expecting Philip to pay for its implementa-
tion. Cronshaw also exhibits this same kind of financial
presumptuousness. While he is grateful for what Philip's
money is providing him with, he still reserves the right
to belittle Philip's philistinism on intellectual grounds.

He complains to Upjohn of Philip's behavior and he gently

27

mocks Philip's sense of responsibility, but he allows
Philip to house and feed him.

Edward Driffield is another Maugham character who
allows the philistines to serve him, although his
situation is more complex than the others. He does not
denigrate the philistines as Frith, Upjohn, and Cronshaw
do, but he does seem to take pleasure in needling them,
and he certainly manipulates them effectively. When
Ashenden is a child, Driffield arranges for their brass-
rubbing outing by playing on the philistine elements in
the vicar's personality: he lets Mrs. Barton Trafford
forward his career without reciprocating with the sense of
obligation to her she expects (he even marries someone
else surreptitiously): and he benefits in many ways from
his judicious handling of his second wife's philistinism.
Even though Amy Driffield seems a bit officious, the
reader should not overlook the fact that she does devote a
great deal of time to taking excellent care of old
Driffield. The benefits that she receives are consid-
erable, but they do not negate what she does for
Driffield. He gains the benefits of philistinism while
leaving himself in a morally superior position: she
receives the scorn of Ashenden and the reader while he
profits from her labors but escapes the scorn.

Through these lilies of the field, Maugham shows us

that profiting from the philistine's resources--

28

intellectual, physical, emotional, and especially
financial--does not make the philistine disparager lose
any of his sense of superiority. As it is hardly credible
that these people are unaware of what they gain from the
philistines, it seems that they are not above basic
financial planning: they merely approach their financial
ends by means more surreptitious than those employed by

the philistine.

Part of Maugham's development of the oppositionally
defined philistine (that is, the philistine who is
identified by what he does neg do, believe, understand)
takes place in the context of Driffield’s work, and this
context will get us closer to the character of the
philistine in literature. Driffield's novels, Ashenden
tells us, are anti-philistine. This necessarily implies
that they are literary: ”to admire Ine_§gp_efi_L1fie became
a mark of aesthetic acumen: to be shocked by it was to
confess yourself a philistine" (157). Associated with the
literary, and therefore in opposition to the philistine,
are several features of Driffield’s work: "though his
books sold but little, and one or two were banned by the
libraries, it was very much a mark of culture to admire
him. He was thought boldly realistic. He was a very good
stick to beat the Philistines with" (93). By describing

29

Driffield's work in anti-philistine terms, Maugham has
given us an implicit sketch of the philistine: to see what
a literary philistine is, we need only invert the
description of Driffield's work. By doing so we learn
that the literary philistine's books fail to meet
legitimate aesthetic standards, sell very well, are the
ultimate in respectability (and thus are appropriate for
conscientious lending libraries), and are not "boldly
realistic."

Q§£§§_AEQ_Al§ contains a fully drawn picture of the
author who would produce books such as these. The
novelist and multipurpose writer Alroy Kear is the epitome
of the literary philistine. Kear, we are told, approaches
literature pragmatically rather than artistically: in
fact, to borrow Edmund Wilson's phrase, one could say that
Rear "is not, in the sense of 'having the metier,’ really
a writer at all" (319). Kear has achieved success by
giving the public what it wants: he is a "popular" writer
with little substance. Notably, much of what critics say
about Maugham echoes what Ashenden says about Kear.
Maugham's narrator even begins to sound like Edmund
Wilson, sixteen years before Wilson wrote his review of
Maugham’s Ihen_eng_ueg, as when Ashenden says of Rear:
”though I have finished few of his novels, I have begun a

good many" (18).

3O

Maugham, however, moves beyond the place his critics
are content to rest and shows us how this philistine
labelling works. As the narrator portrays him, Rear is
always aware of what is current, and he makes a concerted
effort to follow the trends, both literary and extra-
literary. Rear "published his first novel at the period
when men of letters, to show their virility, drank beer
and played cricket, and for some years there was seldom a
literary eleven in which his name did not figure" (12).
When cricket goes out, those who remain cricketers ”find
difficulty in placing their articles" (13) but Hear has
”ceased playing cricket a good many years ago, and he has
developed a fine taste for claret" (13). He moved on at
the right time, and because this judicious switch from
cricket to claret helped his literary career, it seems
unadmirable to us. What motivates Kear, however, is no
different than what motivates those still playing cricket
and those who never took it up at all: Kear is simply
playing smarter than the competition, proving his
masculinity and furthering his career at the same time.

Kear is an excellent guest, just the sort of author
hostesses desired for their tea parties, and he joined all
the right clubs. He has "a pretty gift for after-dinner
speaking" (13) which further enhances his value. He can
sense who is "in" as well as he can tell what is "in," and

since Ashenden's reputation had been experiencing a

31

downturn, he had not seen Rear for some time before Kear's
proposal about the Driffield biography.

The great success of his literary career comes in
part from these astute decisions--he is not an extra-
ordinarily gifted writer, but he is well aware of the
political rules governing literature. He is careful and
conscientious: ”Roy was very modest about his first novel.
It was short, neatly written, and, as is everything he has
produced since, in perfect taste. He sent it with a
pleasant letter to all the leading writers of the day, and
in this he told each one how greatly he admired his works"
(13), etc., etc. He maintained the same attitude for his
second novel: "he took great pains with it and he profited
by the advice his elders in the craft had given him" (14).
This novel repeated his initial success, but not to such a
degree that it alienated his supporters. Instead, "it
confirmed them in their suspicions that he would never set
the Thames on fire" (14), and so they were happy to
continue helping him out, confident that he posed no
threat to them. Kear, however, played the game so well
that he rose above many of his benefactors. As the
narrator tells us, "I know some who smile bitterly now
when they reflect on the mistake they made" (14). Rear
has not done anything disgraceful--any beginning writer

would be grateful for whatever help others were willing to

32

provide. If anything, the sincerity of their "help" is
more suspect than the sincerity of Kear's intentions, for
they clearly intended to assist him only within some
decidedly circumscribed limits.

Hear is an excellent self-evaluator: he knows what
his strengths are and he maximizes them. Furthermore, he
knows his place in literature and does not aspire to
Wilson’s "higher ground": ”'I know I'm not a great
novelist,’ he will tell you. 'When I compare myself with
the giants I simply don't exist. . . . I do my best. I do
work. I never let anything slipshod get past me. I think
I can tell a good story and I can create characters that
ring true’" (14). After all is said and done, he knows he
has achieved a success that no one can take away from him:
"'after all, the proof of the pudding is in the eating:
Ih§_E¥§_Q£_§h2_E§§§l§ sold thirty-five thousand in England
and eighty thousand in America, and for the serial rights
of my next book I’ve got the biggest terms I've ever had
yet'" (14).

Maugham shares more of what he knows about this
particular system of accusation by making us a part of
it. Our narrator accuses Rear of philistinism, and we
immediately chime in. But what exactly is it that makes
us despise Hear and dismiss him as a novelist? Looking
back over what we are told about him, and thinking rather

than accusing, it becomes evident that we despise him

33

because he is just like us. All of his transgressions
are ones that we too are guilty of, and some represent
accomplishments many of us have not yet achieved (like
benefiting from good advice). So why are we so scornful?
I suspect that our scorn springs from resentment: if we
wrote novels, we are secretly convinced, they would be
nothing less than brilliant. Alroy Hear (and Somerset
Maugham?) achieved more success with lesser talents than
we have, we grumble to ourselves. Maugham’s reflection of
this accusatory system, because he lays it out for us to
examine, demonstrates its inherent unreasonableness.

Why should we expect writers to be different from us,
to be above the concerns that constitute our lives, to be
antisocial and completely unconcerned about others’
opinions? How can we expect them to do the impossible?
The simple fact of publication makes indifference an
impossible demand. As Girard points out, "cette
dialectique de l’appel qui se nie en tant qu’appel se
retrouve dans la littérature contemporaine. Ecrire, et
surtout publier un ouvrage c’est en appeler au public,
c’est rompre, par un geste unilateral, 1a relation
d’indifférence entre 801 et les Autres" (£313 263). Those
writers who meet with our instinctive philistine-despising
standards, then, have set themselves the unusual (not to

mention impossible) task of trying to sell us something

34

while maintaining that they are uninterested in our
purchase: as Girard puts it, "on ecrit pour prouver au
lecteur qu’on se moque de ses suffrages' (M313 264).
Maugham gives us an example of this paradox in
Cronshaw: he never published his poetry, but once death is
approaching, he decides to do it. After all, he believes,
there is "something fine in keeping to himself these
treasures of beauty all his life and giving them to the
world disdainfully when, he and the world parting company,
he had no further use for them" (933 406). And yet what
finally brings him to England to arrange the publication
is the publisher’s offer of "ten pounds in advance of
royalties" (407), royalties which will exist only if the
buying public likes Cronshaw’s work. In his enthusiasm,
Cronshaw puffs up thinking of his money being "’in advance
of royalties, mind you . . . Milton only got ten pounds
down’" (407). His disdain for the world has fled in the

face of an opportunity to sell his work to it.

Maugham also gives us a writer who is a self-
professed anti-philistine, 933’s Leonard Upjohn, and his
interactions with the philistines tell us even more about
philistine disparaging. Upjohn is part of an interesting
triangular relationship (Cronshaw and Philip constituting
the rest of the triangle) that revolves around the

philistine-despising system. In this triangle, Upjohn’s

35

position is clear--he loudly and repeatedly accuses Philip
of philistinism. He romanticizes Cronshaw as a great,
dying poet: he deplores Philip’s practicality, especially
when money is an issue. Philip’s position seems to be a
moderate one: he sees its limitations, but believes that
it is essentially an honorable one. He recognizes that
Upjohn considers him a philistine, but he does not agree
with that assessment, something which does not, however,
prevent him from judging others to be philistines.
Cronshaw presides over this situation, apparently
recognizing and accepting both Philip’s and Upjohn’s
attitudes. His views on philistinism are, however, at
least as complex as Philip’s. He realizes that Philip has
changed his life for the better: he knows that Upjohn will
"’do nothing more for [him] than write a pretty article
about [him] after [his] death’" (414-15). This awareness
notwithstanding, he complains incessantly about Philip to
Upjohn, and when the situation reaches a breaking point,
he simply laughs the matter off. It is not made clear
whether he views Philip as a philistine, for when Philip
renewed their friendship in London by sending a note to
Cronshaw, he replied that he would be very glad to see
Philip. His reply read, ”I am a stranger in a strange
city and I am buffeted by the philistines" (403), a

statement which would seem to confer upon Philip the same

36

high moral position Cronshaw has staked out for himself.
When they do meet, however, Cronshaw behaves as if Philip
were a philistine, mocking Philip’s concern for his health
and living accommodations.

In any case, when Philip and Cronshaw do get together
in London, Cronshaw is preparing his manuscript for
publication, as arranged by Upjohn. Cronshaw is dying
from cirrhosis of the liver, and his financial situation
has forced him into miserable lodgings in Soho. Philip,
as mentioned previously, moves Cronshaw in with him.
Upjohn visits Cronshaw at Philip’s two or three times a
week, and Philip becomes the main target for his insistent
philistine disparaging. He belittles what Philip has
provided for Cronshaw on the grounds of its philistinism:
"’I wish you had left him in Soho. There was a touch of
romance in that sordid attic. I could bear it if it were
Wapping or Shoreditch, but the respectability of Kenning-
ton! What a place for a poet to die!’" (413). Upjohn is
so resolutely anti-philistine that he evidently believes
it is better for Cronshaw to starve in a sordid but
romantic attic than to live fairly comfortably in a
philistine stronghold. Sordid but romantic is not, of
course, a standard by which he chooses to live his own
life.

The philistine/anti-philistine conflict between

Philip and Upjohn reaches a climax after Cronshaw dies and

37

a funeral must be arranged. As Cronshaw has no relatives
to take care of this, Philip goes to an undertaker to make
some arrangements himself. Because he is a student, he
has virtually no extra money, but he wants Cronshaw to
have some sort of funeral. Once Upjohn hears that Philip
has arranged for a funeral, he voices grandiose plans:
”I hope you’ve spared no expense. I should like
the hearse to be followed by a long string of
empty coaches, and I should like the horses to
wear tall nodding plumes, and there should be a
vast number of mutes with long streamers on
their hats. I like the thought of all those
empty coaches." (418)
When Philip points out that without financial assistance
his limited means oblige him to make moderate arrange-
ments, Upjohn responds with this suggestion: "’ But, my
dear fellow, in that case, why didn’t you get him a
pauper’s funeral? There would have been something poetic
in that. You have an unerring instinct for mediocrity’"
(418). Philip has chosen a middle course, and this allows
Upjohn to fault him twice--once for not choosing the high
extreme and again for not choosing the low extreme.
Romanticism requires sublimity, and scornfully rejects all
middle ground. Thus, the middle position has some pecu-
liar disadvantages to it, as Maugham not only shows in his

work but also demonstrates through his fate with the

38

critics. By refusing to buy into either the establishment
morality or the anti-establishment, intellectual "moral-
ity," he sets himself up for abuse from all quarters.

An interesting feature of the disagreement over the
funeral is that Upjohn exhibits acute concern for appear-
ances. He does not feel that the funeral is inconsequent
and that Philip is a philistine because he is concerned
with such vulgar trappings: rather, the basis for his
complaint is that Philip’s arrangements do not make a
proper showing. The funeral that Philip has chosen and
paid for is worthy only of contempt because it will not
look good enough, good being either showy or romantic,
depending on which of Upjohn’s plans is providing the
contrast. Upjohn’s scorn for the philistines does not
preclude him from exhibiting the same concern for appear-
ances he despises them for having: the standards applied
may be different, but the essential concern for appear-
ances is the same.

On the way home from the funeral, our philistine-
despising poet begins to plan the article he will write
about Cronshaw, and his planning reflects a practicality
even a philistine would admire. In fact, he demonstrates
a more determined practicality than that which he earlier
had mocked Philip for possessing. He speculates on the
most sensible timing for publication: "’It’s rather lucky

the poems haven’t come out yet. I think we’d better hold

39

them back a bit and I’ll write a preface’" (419). He is
concerned about ”whittling away" his copy, so he decides
that it would make more (practical) sense to write an
article for a review which he can later reprint as a
preface to Cronshaw’s book. In no way will Upjohn,
suddenly very businesslike, waste any time or compromise
any dramatic value by doing an article and preface on
Cronshaw in an inefficient manner.

Ultimately the article comes out, and it is a
complete triumph: "Leonard Upjohn had never written
anything better. It was a miracle of grace, charm, and
pity. . . . He was thenceforth a critic to be reckoned
with. He had seemed before a little aloof: but there was
a warm humanity about this article which was infinitely
attractive" (420). The article, a mix of half truths,
poetic pronouncements, and aspersions on Philip, was
written so astutely that it virtually wiped out Cronshaw’s
little book. Upjohn printed the best of Cronshaw’s poetry
in the article, so when the book of poetry finally came
out, ”much of its point was gone” (420). It takes a very
clever "poet" to pull off this amazing feat: Upjohn drew
upon and praised Cronshaw’s work in such a way that it
forwarded his own reputation considerably while doing
little good, even some actual damage, to Cronshaw. In his

article, Upjohn describes his own ”efforts to transport

40

the poet to some cottage embowered with honeysuckle amid a
flowering orchard" (419), and this and other similar half
truths (or outright falsehoods, depending upon the
reader’s charitability) serve the purpose of making Upjohn
seem very noble. In contrast to this nobility is the
picture Upjohn gives of Philip and the good but misguided
intentions that prompted Philip to move Cronshaw into such
a philistine neighborhood: “it reminded Leonard Upjohn of
Christ among the Pharisees, and the analogy gave him
opportunity for an exquisite passage" (419). Appropri-
ately, Upjohn reserves the final word for "the middle-
class, ordinary, prosaic funeral of him who should have
been buried like a prince or like a pauper. It was the
crown-buffet, the final victory of Philistia over art,
beauty and immaterial things" (420).

It would be very difficult to deny that Upjohn is, at
the very least, a hypocrite. What is so striking about
his hypocrisy is that Maugham has shown it to be a special
brand, that of the philistine disparager. One of the
commonly accepted pieces of dogma about the philistines is
that they are hypocritical: Arnold’s philistines talked a
lot about helping the poor, for example, when all they
really wanted were more people to attend their church
meetings and opportunities for self-congratulation.
Maugham reveals that whatever the verdict on the

philistines, those who are not philistines exhibit their

41

own kind of hypocrisy. we have already seen this in their
willingness to benefit from the philistine’s resources,
but Leonard Upjohn raises it to new heights.

Upjohn never strays from his affirmations of anti-
philistinism: but as he voices those affirmations, he
simultaneously furthers his own interests at the expense
of others. His interest in Cronshaw, for example, has
little to do with a love of art. Upjohn is a literary
critic, one who first made his reputation by plagiarizing,
through uncredited translation, work done by French
critics. He has attained by these means a reputation for
originality, and he sees his bringing out of Cronshaw,
this great but heretofore undiscovered poet, as the
opportunity to really cement that reputation. What he
thinks of Cronshaw’s poetry we do not know: we do know
that it gives him a chance for advancement, prestige, and
financial reward. We can see that he speaks on one level
while operating on another. His anti-philistine, pro-art
stance is, in the simplest terms, a coverup: Maugham
exposes Leonard Upjohn as a representative of what he

claims to despise. He is a philistine in disguise.

This phenomenon is a natural consequence of the way
in which philistine disparaging has become systematically
accusational. The undervaluing of £11 philistine attri-

butes makes it extremely undesirable to be considered a

42

philistine while at the same time, the automatic credibil-
ity and subjective terms of the accusation make it a
difficult one to discredit. The combination of these two
facts makes everyone afraid of his own "philistinism.”
The individual must find ways to hide its presence in
himself from both Other and Self. As Girard explains,
this self-conscious sense of isolation and inferiority is
the inescapable result of the principle ”derriere toutes
les doctrines occidentales qui se succedent depuis deux ou
trois siecles. . . : Dieu est mort, c’est a 1’homme de
prendre sa place" (3313 62). The promise is that we have
become gods: the problem is that
tous les individus découvrent dans la solitude
de leur conscience que la promesse est
mensongere mais personne n’est pas capable
d’universaliser cette experience. La promesse
reste vraie pour les Autres. Chacun se croit
seul exclus de 1’héritage divin et s’efforce de
cacher cette malédiction. . . . En un bref
instant de lumiere le sujet voit 1e mensonge
universel et 11 ne peut plus croire a sa durée:
il lui semble que les hommes vont s’embrasser en
pleurant. Mais cet espoir est vain et l’etre
meme qu’il souleve redoute bientot d’avoir livré

aux Autres son horrible secret. Il redoute

43

encore plus de se l’etre livré a lui-meme. (3323
63)
Maugham reveals what this "false promise" does to our
understanding of philistinism: it turns it into a system
of accusation. The individual feels obligated to hide the
traces of philistinism he finds in himself, and so he must
refute for others the accusation he makes, consciously or
unconsciously, of himself. He can refute this through his
idealistic facade (the covert philistine) or he can draw
attention away from his own philistinism by pointing out
its presence in others (the accusing philistine).
Dr. Saunders (HQ) understands the covert philistine,
and he checks underneath the appearance of the self-
professed idealist to see if he might be such a philis-
tine. Fred Blake expresses unadulterated admiration for
Erik Christessen and his enthusiasm for great literature,
but Saunders is more cautious:
he wondered idly if Erik was a good business
man. He was not very fond of idealists. It was
difficult for them in this workaday world to
reconcile their prefessions with the exigencies
of life, and it was disconcerting how often they
managed to combine exalted notions with a keen
eye to the main chance. (116)

It would seem that the philistine is far better suited for

life in our "workaday world," but we, the culturally

44

proud, resist that knowledge. It is that resistance to
being just part of the masses which has resulted in our
philistine-disparaging system, for we become unanimous in
our attempts to be different: "La societe moderne n’est
plus qu’une imitation negative et l’effort pour sortir des
chemins battus fait invinciblement retomber tout le monde
dans l’orniere' (3333 105).

Those who choose to deny their own philistinism by
means more active than the covert philistine’s silently
above-it-all posture fall into the rut of philistine
disparaging. There they have plenty of company, for the
phenomenon of the philistine masquerading as a philistine
despiser, what I call the accusational philistine, is a
fairly common one. Just as we despise Alroy Rear for
being like us, so the accusational philistine scorns other
philistines and makes sure he is quick and loud with his
accusations of philistinism. He is afraid he will be
spotted, and he believes that the best defense is a good
offense. Leonard Upjohn, with his self-serving discourses
on the errors of the philistine’s ways, is a representa-
tive model of this form of refutation. What Girard says
about the Proustian snob is equally applicable to an
accusational philistine like Upjohn:

L’indignation qu’excite en nous le snob est donc
toujours la mesure de notre propre snobisme.

. . . [Le snob] est douloureusement sensible aux

45

moindres manifestations de snobisme. . . .

Entre l’indignation et la culpabilité i1 y a un
rapport de nécessité. Et la penetration la plus
aigué est au service de cette indignation. Seul
le snob connait vraiment le snob puisqu’il Luise
son désir, c’est-a-dire l’esence meme de son
etre. . . . On se comprend entre snobs au
premier coup d’oeil et on se hait presque aussi
vite. (m 78)

Knowing about the philistine and his disparagers is
no guarantee that one will not accuse others of philistin-
ism: indeed, Girard suggests that the more one knows about
philistinism the more likely one is to make accusations.
Saunders, one of Maugham’s most knowledgeable characters,
provides an example of this. When Fred describes Sydney’s
literary set--"’they’d talk a lot of tosh about books and
then, before you knew where you were, they’d be wanting to
pop into bed with you’"--Saunders says, "’the Philistine
dots his i’s and crosses his t’s with a definiteness that
is unbecoming, and when he sees a nail he hits it on the
head’" (3; 114). In spite of his awareness of the com-
plexities of identifying people as philistines, Saunders
proves willing to use the label himself, casually label-
ling Sydney’s literary set.

Philip, often a target for philistine disparagers

such as Leonard Upjohn, Hayward, and his fellow would-be

46

artists in Paris, shows himself similarly willing to
accuse others of philistinism. When he is a young man,
before he begins to understand the complexities of calling
someone a philistine, we see him accuse Watson and the
Americans he meets in Paris, among others, of philistin-
ism. Even after he has learned not to accept such accusa-
tions at face value and has felt how humiliating they are
to the recipient, he continues to think of others as
philistines. When he goes to the British Museum to view
the groups from the Parthenon, for example, he finds that
he cannot enjoy them because the philistines are viewing
them too:
There were too many people, provincials with
foolish faces, foreigners poring over guide-
books: their hideousness besmirched the
everlasting masterpieces, their restlessness
troubled the gods’ immortal repose. . . . their
features were distorted with paltry desires, and
you felt they were strange to any ideas of
beauty. They had furtive eyes and weak chins.
There was no wickedness in them, but only
pettiness and vulgarity. (Q33 521)
We can see that understanding the "philistine" is not
enough to prevent use of it as an accusation. We already
know what it is we despise the philistines for: it is what

we are secretly afraid of finding in ourselves. "Les deux

47

cymbales qui font le plus de bruit sont pourtant celles
qui se recouvrent le plus exactement' (M333 128), Girard
says, and this is true of the philistine disparagers. The
differences between the accused and the accuser, like the
differences between those the snob pursues and those he
scorns, represent a "chose fugitive, insaisissable et
presque imperceptible si l’on n’est pas snob [or philis-
tine] soi-meme” (M323 92). If refinements of our defini—
tion are inadequate means for exploding the myth of "the
other guy" as philistine, what can end the accusations?
Understanding how the system functions can begin to do so.
Once we recognize the quantity of baggage carried by the
label "philistine," we are ready for the next step. fine;
a philistine is (is not) becomes almost irrelevant: fine;
heppene when the accusation is made represents the essen-
tial concern.

Maugham contributes significantly to our understand-
ing of the system’s functioning by turning it inside out
and showing us what philistine disparagement looks like
from the other side, that of the accused rather than that
of the accuser. What does it look like from the accused
literary philistine’s end of the accusation? This is not
a vantage point often represented in literature, for the
precise reason that the institution of "literature" is one
of the main forces behind the philistine-disparaging

accusational system.8

48

To provide us with this unusual perspective, Maugham
describes a writer’s evening with an old friend, a pre-
success friend, and in that description we discover the
accusation of philistinism coming directly at us, as we
are addressed in the second person by the narrator.
Maugham’s characterization of his "you" as a successful
but philistine writer forces his readers to identify, at
least for a time, with the role of the accused rather than
that of the accuser. As Maugham explains:

Of course it is grand to talk of the good old
days when you shared a crust of bread in a
garret together, but it is a little disconcert-
ing when you reflect how near to a garret is the
room you are sitting in. You don’t feel at ease
when your friend tells you that his books don’t
sell and that he can’t place his short stories:
the managers won’t even read his plays, and when
he compares them with some of the stuff that’s
put on (here he fixes you with an accusing eye)
it really does seem a bit hard. ‘You are embar-
rassed and you look way. You exaggerate the
failures you have had in order that he may
realize that life has its hardships for you too.
You refer to your work in the most disparaging

way you can and are a trifle taken aback to find

49

that your host’s opinion of it is the same as
yours. You speak of the fickleness of the
public so that he may comfort himself by
thinking that your popularity cannot last. (955
15-16)
Since his work remains unappreciated by the buying public
and the literary hierarchy alike while yours enjoys
considerable success with both, he feels justified in
nailing you (the reader) to the wall: your commercial
success proves that you are a philistine. The nature of
the philistine-disparaging accusational system requires
that you go along with his rude behavior. You become
self-effacing, even self-disparaging: you have chimed in
with the system at your own expense. Your friend sees no
reason to consider possible flaws in his own work because
he is commercially unsuccessful: this same lack of public
success allows him to discuss frankly the flaws in your
work. He offers comments as gifts, comments that on any
other subject would be considered unthinkable by both
parties. He tells you, for example, that he hasn’t read
your latest book, but he remembers being disappointed in
its predecessor. Really, he says, your first book was
your best: ”’you’ll never do anything so good as that,’ he
says heartily, and you feel that your whole career has
been a long decadence from that one happy hit. ’I always

think you’ve never geiEe fulfilled the promise you showed

50

then’" (16). Intolerable rudeness finally disintegrates
into a complete breakdown of sense: when your friend sees
the nice car your literary success has paid for, he “looks
at it with tolerant superiority" (16). Is there any good
reason for which he should feel superior?

This is an unusual vantage point Maugham has given
us: representations of the philistine-disparaging system
from the perspective of the accused are rare. It does
more for the reader’s sense of superiority, his assurance
of knowing more than the characters know, to give por-
traits sympathetic to the accuser rather than to the
accused. In a way, our literary sensibilities work
against portraits of the accused, for our awareness of our
own interests makes the figure accused of philistinism too
close to be comfortable: "nous devinons quels phenomenes
de contagion littéraire et sociale ont opéré sur lui.

Nous voyons bien guels supports, toujours insuffisants, i1
se cherche dans l’histoire, l’esthétique et al poésie"
(M313 81).

Through the rare window that Maugham gives us, the
philistine disparager looks quite a bit different. He is
not noble, but petty and ill-mannered. It is he, not the
philistine, who behaves disrespectfully and uncompassion-
ately toward his friends. The philistine is the one put-

upon, not the accuser. Above all, this vantage point that

 

51

Maugham has given us shows the essential unregegngpleneee,
the iEIAIIQDALILY of the whole procedure. That the
substance of the accusation is remarkably thin becomes
clear, as does the pressing need to question it.

No doubt those who dislike Maugham and support the
philistine-disparaging system would like to dismiss this
reversed-direction portrayal on the grounds that Maugham
himself is a philistine, and so of course he makes the
philistine disparager look bad. This would be an
unfortunate error, for Maugham has matured beyond his
readers in his understanding of philistinism, and
therefore he can (and does) show the attractive egg the
negative aspects of both positions. He has been actively
involved in the system, and his participation is what
allows him to tell us more than we already know: ”1e
romancier qui revele 1e désir triangulaire ne peut pas
etre snob mais il faut qu’il l’ait été. Il faut qu’il ait
desire et qu’il ne desire plus" (M323 222). The novelist,
like Maugham, who reveals the machinations of philistine
disparaging appears to his critics to be searching in
irrelevant places for truths that only the "intellectual"
writers can uncover. He is, however, looking in the
places precisely most relevant for modern culture, and if
we are wiling to listen, we can learn a great deal from

him:

52

En s’interrogeant sur le snobisme 1e romancier
s’interroge, a sa facon, sur les ressorts caches
de la mécanique sociale. Mais les savants
haussent les epaules. La question est trop
frivole pour eux. Si on les presse de répondre
ils se déroberont. Ils pretendront que le
romancier s’interesse au snobisme pour des
raisons impures. Il est lui-meme un snob.
Disons plutot qu’il l’était. C’est un fait:
mais la question demeure. Qu’est-ce que le
snobisme? (M323 222)
This is a question that must be answered, in some way, by
someone. While the scholars and savants are shrugging
their shoulders at its frivolity, Maugham is pressing an
answer upon us. We have already seen through his work
much of what constitutes philistinism: further examination
reveals more fully how philistine disparaging functions as
a system of accusation. Referring to the participants in
these instances of philistine bashing as the accused and
the accuser may seem overly dramatic, but these are in
fact very apt names. Part of their appropriateness stems
from the complete incivility, even violence, on the part
of the accusers, something which I have already commented
on. Maugham does not want us to forget this: he knows it
is an essential part of the confrontation, and so it is an

element in all the philistine accusations he shows us.

53

While Philip is in Germany, he is anxious to learn as
much as he can, and part of his education is listening to
his friends discuss various topics. When Hayward and
Weeks first venture into the subject of Greek tragedy,
Hayward feels that his authority as the recipient of a
pass degree from Cambridge entitles him to instruct the
American. Once he has finished lecturing, however, Weeks
"tore to pieces all that Hayward had said: with elaborate
civility he displayed the superficiality of his attain-
ments" (933 110). It turns out that Weeks is a scholar,
that he has taught Greek literature at Harvard. This, of
course, brands Weeks a philistine in Hayward’s eyes, and
he feels no compunction about very rudely dismissing Weeks
and all his learning: ”’I might have known it. Of course
you read Greek like a schoolmaster,’ he said. ’I read it
like a poet.’" (110). Hayward did not know what he was
talking about, and his readings of Greek had been proven
inaccurate. Hayward is undaunted: what does that matter?
After all, Weeks is only a philistine. As Hayward
explains to Philip, "the man’s a pedant. He has no real
feeling for beauty. Accuracy is the virtue of clerks.
It’s the spirit of the Greeks that we aim at" (110).
Hayward finishes off his case against Weeks like this:
"’Damned Yankee!’ That settled it. It was the perfect

answer to an argument which had seemed unanswerable"

54

(111). How can one counter against a “perfect answer"
such as this? There is never an adequate response to name
calling: there is no answer Weeks could make that would
cut Hayward down to his proper size. The mere fact that
name calling is such an often seen feature in philistine
belittling suggests that the accused/accuser terminology
is appropriate, for name calling reflects all the accusa-
tory impulses we try to hide.
Hayward maintains this snide attitude toward Weeks,
making remarks like
”I didn’t expect you to understand me. . . . you
can only adopt the critical attitude. Emerson
and all that sort of thing. But what is criti-
cism? Criticism is purely destructive: anyone
can destroy, but not everyone can build up. You
are a pedant, my dear fellow. The important
thing is to construct: I am constructive: I am a
poet." (112-13)
Maugham characters who say ”I am a poet" are always rather
offensive, and no small part of their offensiveness is
their self-righteous rudeness to those they perceive to be
philistines.
Cronshaw exhibits this same tendency of incivility to
friends during Philip’s Paris stay when he tells Philip,
"’you’re a tradesman, you want to invest life in consols

so that it shall bring you a safe three per cent. I’m a

55

spendthrift, I run through my capital. I shall spend my
last penny with my last heartbeat’" (245). It is, of
course, that "tradesman” Philip who takes in the desti-
tute, dying Cronshaw later in the book. Even at that
time, as when he makes the tradesman accusation, Cronshaw
has a sense of moral superiority: he knows he is no
philistine.

Because of their marked sense of moral superiority,
philistine disparagers feel no need to observe the common-
place social rules of civility when they are dealing with
a philistine. At times it seems as if they feel it is
incumbent upon them to be rude, that they are doing a
service to society when they behave abominably to philis-
tines. The pervasive rudeness of the philistine despiser
is often an automatic response, as Upjohn’s knee-jerk
references to Philip’s "middle-class mind" demonstrate.
Financial matters are especially contentious, and a mere
mention of them is enough to bring on some manifestation
of rudeness. Upjohn is again a representative example:
"whenever there was any question of money, Leonard Upjohn
assumed a slightly disdainful expression. His sensitive
temperament was offended by the reference" (414).

The self-righteous rudeness of the accusers, combined
with the serious implications of the accusation, requires
either silence or defensiveness from the accused. The

accused recognizes that he is under attack, and so if he

56

responds at all, he responds defensively. The defensive-
ness of the accused’s reaction is exacerbated by the ill-
defined terms of the attack which make it impossible to
say anything adequate in one’s defense. When Hayward
calls Weeks a “’damned Yankee’” (111), this is an accusa-
tion of philistinism, something Weeks would recognize if
he were there to hear the insult. When he tried to pin
down Philip and Hayward on the definition of a gentleman
(in Maugham’s work, the opposite of a philistine), he
understands that ”’we may take it that only Englishmen are
gentlemen’" (113), a statement even the anxious-to-please
Philip dares not contradict. No matter that Weeks has
superior intelligence, education, and social skills, he is
an American and a philistine,9 and therefore dismissible.
Faced with these accusations, Weeks chooses silence: he
will ignore them, for he knows there is no way to make a
dent on the complacency of the attacker.

We can only guess at Weeks’ thoughts while he ignores
the accusations: we are told what Philip’s are. When
Cronshaw belittles Philip for his financial conservatism
in the "tradesman" accusation, Philip recognizes the
nature of the attack implicit in this, and he is frus-
trated by his inability to assail the unassailable: ”the
metaphor irritated Philip, because it assumed for the
speaker a romantic attitude and cast a slur upon the

position which Philip instinctively felt had more to say

 

57

for it than he could think of at the moment” (245).
Through Philip, Maugham conveys perfectly the predicament
shared by everyone accused of philistinism: he knows his
position is far more honorable than the accuser admits,
but he also knows there are no words which would convince
the accuser of that.

The narrator of gekee_gn§_31e gives us a demonstra-
tion of the flustered defensiveness which is the accused’s
only alternative to silence. The young Ashenden, used to
Academy portraits, makes a horrible blunder when he first
sees Lionel Hillier’s portrait of Rosie: he asks Hillier
when it will be finished. Upon being told that it already
is finished, he blushes in embarrassment. He senses the
unspoken accusation of philistinism and concurs in that
judgment: "’It’s awfully like,’ was all that then I could
lamely say’" (134). When Hillier makes the accusation
explicit, Ashenden becomes even more flustered: "’It’s not
chocolate-boxy enough for you,’ said Hillier. ’I think
it’s awfully good,’ I answered quickly, defending myself"
(134). Nothing he can say will save the face he has lost
by branding himself a philistine (and in an artist’s
studio, no less) and anything he does say will only make
his situation worse. This is in fact what happens, for
when he tries to compliment Hillier on the portrait by

asking if he intends to send it to the Academy, the

 

58

response is a horrified "’Good God, no!" (134): Ashenden
has only dug the pit deeper.

Someone accused of philistinism, then, has two
choices: he can ignore the accusation or he can flounder
about defensively. Having a choice only between these two
ineffectual courses of action is a result of the foolproof
nature of the accusational system, and the accuser’s sense
of superiority is confirmed by the accused regardless of
which option he chooses. Silence implies agreement, at
the very least that the accused has nothing to say in his
own defense, while the awkwardness caused by defensiveness
completely undermines everything the accuser says. The

accused cannot win: the accuser cannot lose.

The philistine despisers share, as a direct result of
being against this common enemy, the philistine, a sense
of camaraderie. In this, they are like the residents of
Proust’s Combray, who "se sentent solidaires et fraternels
lorsgu’ils découvrent ce qui les oppose aux étrangers"
(M323 198). Each individual feels this clubby atmosphere,
although sometimes those who include themselves in the
club would not be had at any price by the other "members,"
as Maugham shows in The_Me;:eg_ge:ner. When Captain
Nichols and Dr. Saunders meet Erik Christessen, he is very
pleased to see them for, as he explains, ”it’s always a

pleasure to me to meet English gentlemen" (96). The

 

59

extremely disreputable Nichols is hardly Saunders’ idea of
a gentleman, but Nichols nonetheless feels a kinship
between them: "’intelligent chap, that. Knew we was
gentlemen at once’" (96). Saunders suspects irony, but
Nichols is perfectly serious. Nichols lives with the
assumption that this class of men (the gentlemen, the non-
philistines) exists and, furthermore, that its members can
recognize each other: more to the point, he believes that
he, Saunders, and Christessen all belong to it.

Saunders shares Nichols’ assumptions, but he makes
distinctions which differ from those of Nichols. When he
meets Frith, he is pleased by his education and his
manner. He identifies Frith specifically as a gentleman,
and he enjoys that same feeling of camaraderie which
Nichols earlier felt with him and Christessen. Saunders,
however, excludes Nichols from the group: Frith "certainly
did not belong to the same class as old Swan and Captain
Nichols" (123). These differences indicate the falseness
of the unity: like Proust’s Verdurin salon, this unity is
"une simple facade" (M323 206). What unity there is comes
from hatred and fear, which is a "fausse unite qui
dissimule la duplicité et la multiplicité" (206) and not a
true camaraderie. The kinship the philistine despisers
feel is not real, and thus we see dramatically varying

views of who is in (and therefore out) of the group.

 

60

The appropriateness of the accused/accuser
terminology is further borne out by the fact that the
philistine is not allowed to offer any criticisms of
anyone, no matter how accurate or insightful they may be.
Thus it is that Philip does not mind Hayward’s belittling
of Weeks because Weeks is a philistine (and an American),
but he loses his temper when Weeks makes some disparaging
observations about Hayward. Philip insists to Weeks that
Hayward is a poet, but Weeks’ judgments are far more
astute than this: he points out to Philip that Hayward is
in fact immature and irresponsible. Hayward is twenty-
five years old and ”’does nothing but stay in pensions and
write poetry’" (108), Weeks observes to Philip, prompting
Philip to exclaim "’you don’t know him’" (108).

This same phenomenon shapes the disagreement over
Upjohn’s contribution to the formalities: the laurel
wreath. He brings this wreath to Philip’s apartment
before the funeral: "He was pleased with the idea of
crowning the dead poet with this: and attempted, notwith-
standing Philip’s disapproving silence, to fix it on the
bald head: but the wreath fitted grotesquely. It looked
like the brim of a hat worn by a low comedian in a music-
hall" (933 418). Not to be deterred, Upjohn decides to
put it over Cronshaw’s heart instead. When Philip points
out that Upjohn has in fact put it on Cronshaw’s stomach,

Upjohn smiles and dismisses Philip with, "’only a poet

 

61

knows where lies a poet’s heart’” (418). Those who belong
to the philistine-bashing camp are willing to fly in the
face of virtually any fact because they have artistic/
poetic souls and ”no one knows what’s in nature and what
isn’t! The world sees nature through the eyes of the
artist" (Q33 186). In the laurel wreath scene, Maugham
gives us an example of the ridiculous results this can
have: it is hard not to laugh imagining a laurel wreath
on the stomach of the scrawny, pathetic Cronshaw, and
Upjohn’s talk about poets’ hearts only heightens the
ridiculousness.

Accusations of philistinism have a curious way of
drawing in bystanders. Those who witness the accusations,
like the accused himself, often chime in right on cue: at
the very least they appear to concur with silence.

Philip, who protested against Weeks’ insightful criticisms
of Hayward, "listened complacently to the abuse of a man
who had gone out of his way to be kind to him" (933 108)
when Hayward faults Weeks for everything from his moral
values to the pants he wears. This results from the
desire to be "right," as Maugham reveals when Philip takes
Hayward to the art galleries in Paris. Under these
circumstances, the two switch roles: "like most people who
cultivate an interest in the arts, Hayward was extremely

anxious to be right. He was dogmatic with those who did

 

62

not venture to assert themselves, but with the self-

assertive he was very modest" (219).

Perhaps the most significant implication of this is
that anyone can provoke unanimity by making an accusation
of philistinism. Philip’s Paris art friends make con-
certed efforts to be unique, and they often disagree
violently with each other. In spite of their ”original-
ity," the subject of the Great Victorians (the ultimate
stereotypical philistines) can by itself bring about
unanimity:

they threw themselves upon [the subject] with
gusto. They were unanimous for once. They
elaborated. Someone proposed a vast bonfire
made out of the works of the Forty Academicians
into which the Great Victorians might be hurled.
(9113 186-87)
Unanimity provided by an accusation of philistinism is
important in Maugham’s novels: it is a crucial element in
his literary career. His critics are unanimous because
someone had the great idea of calling Maugham a philistine
who is writing for the middlebrow.

There is, however, an important corollary to this: if
unanimity is provoked by an accusation, what happens if no
accusation is made? The simplest answer, which is almost

always the correct one, is that there can be no unanimity.

63

It seems to me that this is the true problem Maugham
causes his critics: they operate under the assumption that
all writing is interested, is ideologically motivated, and
when faced with text which treats all sides of an issue
fairly, they are thrown into confusion. Maugham has in
fact produced some neutral text: in Girard’s terms,
Maugham he§_heen a philistine but is one no longer.
Maugham can show us both sides of the philistine-
disparaging accusation system, and he does so. This does
not mean, of course, that there are no moments in his work
which reflect philistinism: his transcendence is not a
constant presence. Girard recognizes that Cervantes,
Stendhal, Proust, and Dostoyevski sometimes reflect and
sometimes reveal triangular desire: the simple fact that
they reveal at all makes them special sources of
knowledge. So too with Maugham: he provides a unique
educational opportunity, and the absence of a completely
consistent transcendence should not be allowed to function
as an excuse to ignore the insights that are present in
his work. When Maugham’s work lacks a vested interest in
the system on its own terms, it throws his critics into
confusion and they respond by provoking their own kind of
unanimity through an accusation of philistinism.

Those who can get beyond the critics and their stone-

throwing unanimity, however, can learn a great deal about

 

64

our thriving philistine-disparaging accusational system.
Those readers who can do this, like Theodore Dreiser, can
see what is really in Maugham’s work instead of what some
critic, proud of not knowing Maugham’s work, 5325 is in
Maugham’s work. This is why Maugham ought to be in
university classrooms: students will not carry the same
baggage their instructors do, and because they are unaware
of what Edmund Wilson said about Maugham, they will not be
automatically forced into agreement with him. English
professors rarely (if ever) present the texts they are
teaching as "middlebrow," and given the same opportunity
canonized texts receive, Maugham’s work would prove its
worth. On its own, it produces no unanimity: this might
be initially uncomfortable for the instructor who chooses
to teach it,10 but it would certainly be beneficial for

the students and fair to Maugham’s work.

LOOKING FORWARD

My interest in Maugham, as I explained in the
introduction to this work, began in anger: the novels
themselves have since dispelled that anger. This is
indicative of Maugham’s uniquely valuable perspective, for
as Girard demonstrates, the novelist who successfully
reveals rather than merely reflecting his subject has been
there himself but ie_;neze_ne_19ngez. Maugham has been an
active participant in the philistine-disparaging accusa-
tional system: he has also been angry. Indeed, these are
closely related: as Girard points out, our degree of
indignation indicates our level of culpability. What this
means for potential readers of Maugham is that he knows
more than we do. We need to stop trying to demonstrate
Maugham’s philistinism and start trying to learn from him
about the accusational system that has grown up around the
”philistine.” This is the kind of learning Girard writes
about in the introduction for T2_Denble_nusiness_fieund:

our relationship with the works of mimetic
revelation cannot be defined as ’critical’ in
the usual sense. We have more to learn from

them than they have to learn from us. . . . we

65

66

should try to divest ourselves of our misconcep-
tions in order to reach the superior perspective
they embody. (x-xi)
It is clear from this that Maugham’s readers (and non-
readers) need to make the necessary adjustments, that it
is pointless to belittle Maugham when he knows more than
we do.

Philistinism and the philistine-accusing system
provide one way to make a much-needed reevaluation of
Maugham’s work. It is a way with a future, for it gets
at the heart of the problems surrounding Maugham while
suggesting how much readers miss if they slight Maugham
based on his reputation. It is, however, only one way,
and if it is to be explored further or if others are to be
opened to inquiry, we need to get beyond Edmund Wilson and
his epithet of ”half-trashy." We must convince ourselves
that a high sales figure does not automatically preclude
literary or cultural value. The warning of Anthony
Burgess that "it is unwise to disparage the well-made
popular" (74) would be well heeded. For the literary
snob, "well-made popular” is as much an oxymoron as
"literary philistine,” but Maugham shows us that neither
phrase can accurately be called an oxymoron.

While every kind of literary study has its pitfalls,

even the limited scope of this project has shown me that

67

any academic (student or faculty) who wishes to do work on
Maugham has to avoid more than the usual number. There is
a lot of brush to be cleared away before the real work can
begin. A great deal of the brush comes from the bushes of
academic pretentiousness. Arrogance is a very real prob-
lem for authors and scholars alike: as Girard notes, "la
tentation de l’orgueil est eternelle mais elle devient
irresistible a l’époque moderne car elle est orchestrée et
amplifiée de facon inouie" (M323 62).

Furthermore, we need to be prepared to look closely
at philistines, snobs, and other non-Romantic types: we
must avoid the impatient shoulder shrugging of the schol-
ars and savants, and we have to ”dépasser l’irritation que
nous cause le snobisme" (M323 81). In order to do this,
we must first recognize the validity and appropriateness
of Maugham’s "researches." The philistine and the gentle-
man are not charming (or not so charming) Edwardian anach-
ronisms, but the areas of study most relevant for our
society. What might appear to be their frivolity should
not lead us astray: it is an interesting paradox that
"seuls les médiocres et les genies osent écrire: <<La
marquise est sortie a cinq heures.>> Le simple talent
recule devant cette platitude humiliante ou cette supreme

audace” (M323 230). Let no one say that Maugham belongs

68

to the mediocre faction until he has read Maugham

carefully.

In W. Girard

pits the novelists of mimetic revelation squarely against
the Romantic preconceptions of most readers and critics.
This opposition is a very insightful one, and it helps us
appreciate Maugham’s accomplishments. Maugham makes us
realize that philistine disparaging has turned into a
whole system of accusation, and he reflects and reveals
its machinations. As he does so, he undermines much of
the Romantic value we associate with the anti-philistine
position. What he does, in essence, is reveal the
complexities and dispel the romanticism of philistine
disparaging.

Those who cherish their romantic motivations for
philistine bashing should be cowed by Maugham’s portrait
of Leonard Upjohn, as well as by Maugham’s consistent
exposure of the ludicrousness of the (supposedly superior)
idealistic point of view. As the art master, Monsieur
Foinet, observes to Philip:

"I have nothing but contempt for the people who
despise money. They are hypocrites or fools.

. . . Without an adequate income half the
possibilities of life are shut off. . . . You

will hear people say that poverty is the best

69

spur to the artist. They have never felt the
iron of it in their flesh. They do not know how
mean it makes you. It exposes you to endless
humiliation, it cuts your wings, it eats into
your soul like a cancer." (933 248)
Poverty is not romantic, it is degrading. Maugham’s
message is clear: not only are such Romantic staples as
the beauty of the starving artist inaccurate and
reprehensible, but these myths are only put about by
people who lack any direct knowledge of their subject.

Not only does Maugham dispel the Romanticism attached
to philistine disparaging, he also reveals the complexi-
ties of that accusational system. It is simpler for us as
readers if everything is black and white, and indeed,
Romantic critics demand that we see novelistic heroes in
black and white terms: we hate them totally or we admire
them completely. These critics transform the heroes that
meet their criteria into ”martyrs de ces Autres dont on ne
nous laisse jamais ignorer, bien entendu, qu’ils sont tous
uniformément intolerables” (M323 148). The truth is
surely more complex than this, and in Maugham’s novels, it
is. He shows readers what is admirable in those who are
accused philistines, and he lays bare the hypocrisy of the
accusers. Matters touching on the philistines and their

disparagers tend to be very clear cut (the guys in the

70

white hats and those in the black), but Maugham’s novels
indicate the subtleties other writers and critics often do
not. He dees not allow the philistine disparagers to feel
self-righteous because they have accused someone else of
philistinism: they may claim to be better than the
accused, but they really are not. Girard makes this same
observation in the context of the nobility in an egalitar-
ian culture: 'c’est parce qu’il a cesse d’etre distinct
que l’aristocrate cherche a se distinguer. Et il

y réussit parfaitement mais i1 n’est pas plus noble pour

autant" (M323 128).

So where does all of this leave us? First, we should
realize what we do when we accuse someone of philistinism:
once we understand that, we might be, speaking optimis-
tically, far less likely to make the accusation. More
specifically, we should recognize both the inadvisability
and the inaccuracy of accusing Maugham of philistinism.
Such an accusation is inadvisable in general terms: it is
also an inappropriate charge to level at Maugham. After
all, he has been where we are now: he knows more than we
do. As a novelist, he is serenely above such accusations
on our part--"le romancier se reconnait coupable du péché
dont il accuse son médiateur" (M323 298)--and such accusa-
tions are scarcely relevant and appropriate for Maugham as

a literary figure.

71

As far as Maugham’s work is concerned, once we have
left behind the irrelevant concern over his philistinism,
we should come to his work prepared to value it, learn
from it, and enjoy it. His accomplishment ought not to be
overlooked, or dismissed by analogies with schoolboys and
hacks. "Honesty is a form of sensitivity” (198), Graham
Greene reminded his readers, and that is the kind of
insight which we need to appreciate Maugham’s work. Even
more than that, we should keep in mind Theodore Dreiser’s
remark about Qfi_flgmen_3engege: "despite these dissonant
voices it is still a book of the utmost import" (203).

We can also learn from Maugham’s work, even if this
requires abandoning the Romantic preconceptions about
literature which are near and dear to us. If we have to
adjust the critical terms a bit, it is worth it: we risk
losing more by holding fast to our terminology and
ignoring Maugham than we do by taking a chance with the
terms in order to look intelligently at him and other
writers who are slighted now. The novels ought to set the
terms for the theory rather than the reverse. As Girard
makes clear, "we must elaborate a language more faithful
to the intuitions of the authors themselves” (333 x).

Finally, we ought to enjoy Maugham’s work. While
academics have been slighting his novels, other readers

have been enjoying them: in the first half of this decade

72

alone, for example, the Penguin paperback edition of Q:
3gmen_3engege was reprinted seven times. Maugham’s work
has enjoyed both popularity and longevity, and surely
there are good reasons for that.

What Maugham says about the outpatient clinic at the
hospital indicates the view of life that is conveyed in
his novels, and it seems to me a fairly accurate charac-
terization of the novels themselves. The final sentences
suggest the neutrality and matter-of-factness (what
Dreiser called Maugham’s ”unmoral" stance) that, in part,
prompt his critics to hurl at him unanimity-provoking
accusations. That neutrality (along with his criticisms
of snobbism in literary circles, of course) is, ironi-
cally, what makes him controversial: it is also what in
my mind makes him enjoyable to read:

But on the whole the impression was neither of
tragedy nor of comedy. There was no describing
it. It was manifold and various: there were
tears and laughter, happiness and woe: it was
tedious and interesting and indifferent: it was
as you saw it. . . . There was neither good nor

bad there. There were just facts. It was life.

(Qfifi 402)

Notes

1 Indeed, in some important respects, critical theory
has created a new breed of "philistine." These new phil-
istines are those who do not understand en; theory--each
particular theory, therefore, can create its own group of
philistines.

2 While this may seem an odd form of "justice," it
makes sense because accusations of philistinism have
ensured that potential readers of Maugham don’t in fact
read his work. In addition to this, they dismiss him as
being "philistine" without having read him and thereby
perpetuate the cycle, discouraging more potential readers.

3 Because the English and American criticism of
Maugham’s work ie consistent (numbingly so), I chose some
representative pieces to provide a critical orientation
rather than trying to scan the body of criticism. The
reviews by Wilson and Dreiser are "classics" of Maugham
criticism, and much of the more recent work done includes
references to one or both of these reviews. The other
selections were made on the bases of their representative
nature and general availability. While the French and the

Japanese work on Maugham has apparently been far more

73

74

favorable than the English and American, I was unable to
obtain the French work for this project and the Japanese
is inaccessible (to me).

4 This message, which is here delivered implicitly
about Maugham’s work, is put forth in general terms in the
introduction. In the opening section, their "Address to
the Reader," the authors of 311;y_fle;3§ proudly declare
that they are attacking philistinism: ”To perpetuate the
received opinions about English literature is to force our
children into philistinism, even when philistinism is
against their natural bent, and at the same time to cheat
our great writers of even the posthumous justice which is
usually, and by tradition, the best that our society is
prepared to offer them" (vii-viii).

5 The relationship of the American Transcendentalists
and Romantics to the literary marketplace demonstrates the
gradual shift I have in mind here. Thoreau, Emerson,
Hawthorne, and Melville all wanted to sell their books to
the public, either to influence their fellow citizens
through their writings or simply to make a living as a
writer. They concerned themselves with the tastes of the
marketplace and the nuts and bolts of publishing--even
Thoreau wanted his work to appear in cheap editions for
mass circulation. None of these writers achieved popular
success, however, and their attitudes toward the buying

public gradually became hostile and scornful. Melville’s

75

review of Hawthorne’s HQ§§£§_IIQE_QD_91§;HAEEQ advocated

the idea that Hawthorne’s work was ”too deserving of
popularity to be popular,” and in that statement we see
the now-familiar idea that the buying public cannot
discern "good" literature and that therefore popular
success is an indication of having sold out one’s artistic
principles to make a buck. What I would like to stress
is the complexity of the Transcendentalist and Romantic
attitudes towards popularity: they ganged to achieve
popular success, but when that did not happen, they
posited the notion that "real" literature never achieves
popularity: as Melville wrote, "failure is the true test
of greatness." For a much fuller discussion of this
issue, see Michael Gilmore’s AmeIieen_3emgngieiem_eng_§3e
W-

6 This is how accusations of philistinism function so
effectively: a defense of a work or a writer labelled
philistine inescapably labels the defender a philistine as
well. This is especially problematic in the classroom,
for it places an almost insurmountable burden on the
student who sees value in work considered "philistine" by
the English Department and its faculty: the student who
defends the work or writer accused as "philistine" draws
that same accusation on him/herself.

7 Of course, Dreiser is someone who has his own style

critics, and his praise might not be considered sufficient

76

refutation of the complaints about Maugham’s style.
However, I think there is a way to explain how it is that
one faction can see qualities like banality, inelegance,
and superficiality, while the other sees writing that is
clear, honest, and colloquial. The intentional difficulty
of the Modern is lacking in Maugham, and this strikes
critics in such radically different ways because while one
group expects to encounter it and sees its absence as a
fault, the other group does not require it and thus is not
bothered by its absence.

8 After all, if the term "literature" is to have any
real meaning, if it is to stand for something special, it
must somehow set itself off from gene; kinds of writing.
What better category to use as an example of what "litera-
ture" is not than "philistine" writings?

9 The strong connection between Americans and philis-
tines almost goes without saying: after the connection
between the Victorian middle classes and philistinism,
there is no more obvious pairing. Philistinism is usually
implied in literary treatments of Americans, particularly
by British writers, and the words are often linked explic-
itly: as Michael Cohen remarks in his article on American
bashing, "American plain style has [in Wodehouse] a short
range of feelings from a certain diffidence about learning

and the arts to a definite Philistinism" (320). This

77

connection could be examined at some length, but it is not
all that relevant for a study of Somerset Maugham. What I
would like to point out, though, is the self-satisfaction
that comes from philistine bashing and American bashing,
because it is that very self-satisfaction that usually
prevents portrayals (like some of Maugham’s) which are
sympathetic to the accused rather than the accuser. As
Cohen remarks in the context of Kingsley Amis, “when
anything horrible or foolish is to be depicted, letting it
be depicted by an American will give just the requisite
dash of chauvinist self-satisfaction to the writer and
reader, if the reader happens to be English" (321).
Bashing philistines makes the basher feel smug: that is
why balanced presentations like Maugham’s are so rare and
so valuable.

10 Because Maugham’s work does not provoke unanimity
on its own, there might be those who would eheeee not to
teach it. Such a choice is certainly defensible: the

automatic, unthinking omission of his work is not.

Works Cited

Arnold, Matthew. gnl;n;e_gn§_3ng;ehy. Selections in The

W. Ed. Gordon 8. Height-
New York: Viking, 1972. 190-210.

Brophy, Brigid, Michael Levey, and Charles Osborne. 313:2
MW.
London: Rapp and Carroll, 1967.

Burgess . Anthony. W
1232. New York: Summit, 1984.

Cohen, Michael. "The Sport of American-Bashing in Modern
English Authors." figegiee_in_;3e_neye1 20.3 (1988):
316-22.

Drabble, Margaret. Rev. of Megghem, by Ted Morgan. Meg
22;3_Iimee_3egfi_3e21eg 9 March 1980: 1+.

Dreiser, Theodore. "As a Realist Sees It." Rev. of 3:

W. by W- Somerset Maugham Wis
25 December 1915: 202-04.

Gilmore. Michael T. W
pleee. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1985.

Girard. Rene. MW. Trans.
Yvonne Freccero. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP, 1965.

78

79

---- Eeneenge_remantisne_et_xerite_remanesgne- Paris:

Bernard Grasset, 1961.

---. Te_39331e_3geineee_3egng. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins
UP, 1978.

Greene, Graham. ”Notes on Somerset Maugham." Qelleeeeg
Eeeeye. London: Bodley Head, 1969. 197-205.

Higdon, David Leon. Rev. of Maugham, by Ted Morgan.
Mgfie:n_£1§§193_§§3§iefi 26.4 (1980): 708-10.

Maugham, William Somerset. Qekee_en§_31e. 1930.
Middlesex, Eng.: Penguin, 1948.

---. 13e_ne;;eg_gezne1. 1932. Middlesex: Penguin, 1963.

---. Qf_figmen_3engege. 1915. Middlesex: Penguin, 1963.
Morgan, Ted. Meggnem. New York: Simon and Schuster,

1980.

,Qzfierg_33g11e3_nie;iene;y (Compact Ed.). Oxford: Oxford
UP, 1971. 2 vols.

Wilson, Edmund. "The Apotheosis of Somerset Maugham."

June 8. 1946- ReV- and rpto in classiss_and_§2mmer:
eiele. New York: Farrar Straus, 1950. 319-26.

 

 

MICHIGAN STATE UNIV. LIBRARIES
IllII“WI”UNIIIIWIIIIIIHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIHHIIIIIWIIHI
31293007875226