I had a sudden suspicion that something unfortunate was about to occur, but I could think of nothing to say
*
According
to the all-knowing Wikipedia, “Mr. Know-All” first appeared in the September
1924 Good Housekeeping.
“Mr.
Know-All” can be found in the 65 Short Stories
collection.
A very
interesting Maugham blog can be found here
A
school quiz on the story can be found here. Some challenging questions!
The
film version, from Trio, can be found here.
The
subject of this story, I think, is the narrator’s snobbery and Jew-hatred
colliding with the supreme ego of Max Kelada.
Kelada is described as a hook-nosed Levantine, and as somehow pretending
to be British because he carries a British passport.
Kelada
rises to the occasion, overcoming his own self-regard to render aid to a
lady. At the supreme moment, even our
narrator senses a great issue is in the balance. “I had a sudden suspicion that
something unfortunate was about to occur, but I could think of nothing to say.”
MR
KNOW-ALL
♦
I was
prepared to dislike Max Kelada even before I knew him. The war had just finished
and the passenger traffic in the ocean-going liners was heavy. Accommodation
was very hard to get and you had to put up with whatever the agents chose to
offer you. You could not hope for a cabin to yourself and I was thankful to be
given one in which there were only two berths. But when I was told the name of
my companion my heart sank. It suggested closed port-holes and the night air
rigidly excluded. It was bad enough to share a cabin for fourteen days with
anyone (I was going from San Francisco to Yokohama), but I should have looked
upon it with less dismay if my fellow-passenger’s name had been Smith or Brown.
When I
went on board I found Mr Kelada’s luggage already below. I did not like the
look of it; there were too many labels on the suitcases, and the wardrobe trunk
was too big. He had unpacked his toilet things, and I observed that he was a
patron of the excellent Monsieur Coty; for I saw on the washing-stand his
scent, his hair-wash, and his brilliantine. Mr Kelada’s brushes, ebony with his
monogram in gold, would have been all the better for a scrub. I did not at all
like Mr Kelada. I made my way into the smoking-room. I called for a pack of
cards and began to play patience. I had scarcely started before a man came up
to me and asked me if he was right in thinking my name was so-and-so.
‘I am Mr
Kelada,’ he added, with a smile that showed a row of flashing teeth, and sat
down.
‘Oh, yes,
we’re sharing a cabin, I think.’
‘Bit of
luck, I call it. You never know who you’re going to be put in with. I was jolly
glad when I heard you were English. I’m all for us English sticking together
when we’re abroad, if you understand what I mean.’
I
blinked.
‘Are you
English?’ I asked, perhaps tactlessly.
‘Rather.
You don’t think I look an American, do you? British to the backbone, that’s
what I am.’
To prove
it, Mr Kelada took out of his pocket a passport and airily waved it under my
nose.
King
George has many strange subjects. Mr Kelada was short and of a sturdy build,
dean-shaven and dark-skinned, with a fleshy, hooked nose and very large,
lustrous and liquid eyes. His long black hair was sleek and curly. He spoke
with a fluency in which there was nothing English and his gestures were
exuberant. I felt pretty sure that a closer inspection of that British passport
would have betrayed the fact that Mr Kelada was born under a bluer sky than is
generally seen in England.
‘What
will you have?’ he asked me.
I looked
at him doubtfully. Prohibition was in force and to all appearances the ship was
bone-dry. When I am not thirsty I do not know which I dislike more, ginger-ale
or lemon-squash. But Mr Kelada flashed an oriental smile at me.
‘Whisky
and soda or a dry Martini, you have only to say the word.’
From each
of his hip-pockets he fished a flask and laid them on the table before me. I
chose the Martini, and calling the steward he ordered a tumbler of ice and a
couple of glasses.
‘A very
good cocktail,’ I said.
Well,
there are plenty more where that came from, and if you’ve got any friends on
board, you tell them you’ve got a pal who’s got all the liquor in the world.’
Mr Kelada
was chatty. He talked of New York and of San Francisco. He discussed plays,
pictures, and politics. He was patriotic. The Union Jack is an impressive piece
of drapery, but when it is flourished by a gentleman from Alexandria or Beirut,
I cannot but feel that it loses somewhat in dignity. Mr Kelada was familiar. I
do not wish to put on airs, but I cannot help feeling that it is seemly in a
total stranger to put mister before my name when he addresses me. Mr Kelada,
doubtless to set me at my ease, used no such formality. I did not like Mr
Kelada. I had put aside the cards when he sat down, but now, thinking that for
this first occasion our conversation had lasted long enough, I went on with my
game.
‘The
three on the four,’ said Mr Kelada.
There is
nothing more exasperating when you are playing patience than to be told where
to put the card you have turned up before you have had a chance to look for
yourself
‘It’s
coming out, it’s coming out,’ he cried. ‘The ten on the knave.’ With rage and
hatred in my heart I finished. Then he seized the pack. Do you like card
tricks?’
‘No, I
hate card tricks,’ I answered.
‘Well,
I’ll just show you this one.’
He showed
me three. Then I said I would go down to the dining-room and get my seat at
table.
‘Oh,
that’s all right,’ he said. ‘I’ve already taken a seat for you. I thought that
as we were in the same state-room we might just as well sit at the same table.’
I did not like Mr Kelada.
I not
only shared a cabin with him and ate three meals a day at the same table, but I
could not walk round the deck without his joining me. It was impossible to snub
him. It never occurred to him that he was not wanted.
He was
certain that you were as glad to see him as he was to see you. In your own
house you might have kicked him downstairs and slammed the door in his face
without the suspicion dawning on him that he was not a welcome visitor. He was
a good mixer, and in three days knew everyone on board. He ran everything. He
managed the sweeps, conducted the auctions, collected money for prizes at the
sports, got up quoit and golf matches, organized the concert, and arranged the
fancy-dress ball. He was everywhere and always. He was certainly the best-hated
man in the ship. We called him Mr Know-All, even to his face. He took it as a
compliment. But it was at meal times that he was most intolerable. For the
better part of an hour then he had us at his mercy. He was hearty, jovial,
loquacious and argumentative. He knew everything better than anybody else, and
it was an affront to his overweening vanity that you should disagree with him.
He would not drop a subject, however unimportant, till he had brought you round
to his way of thinking. The possibility that he could be mistaken never
occurred to him. He was the chap who knew. We sat at the doctor’s table. Mr
Kelada would certainly have had it all his own way, for the doctor was lazy and
I was frigidly indifferent, except for a man called Ramsay who sat there also.
He was as dogmatic as Mr Kelada and resented bitterly the Levantine’s
cocksureness. The discussions they had were acrimonious and interminable.
Ramsay
was in the American Consular Service, and was stationed at Kobe. He was a great
heavy fellow from the Middle West, with loose fat under a tight skin, and he
bulged out of his ready-made clothes. He was on his way back to resume his
post, having been on a flying visit to New York to fetch his wife, who had been
spending a year at home. Mrs Ramsay was a very pretty little thing, with
pleasant manners and a sense of humour. The Consular Service is ill paid, and
she was dressed always very simply; but she knew how to wear her clothes. She
achieved an effect of quiet distinction. I should not have paid any particular
attention to her but that she possessed a quality that may be common enough in
women, but nowadays is not obvious in their demeanour. You could not look at
her without being struck by her modesty. It shone in her like a flower on a
coat.
One evening
at dinner the conversation by chance drifted to the subject of pearls. There
had been in the papers a good deal of talk about the culture pearls which the
cunning Japanese were making, and the doctor remarked that they must inevitably
diminish the value of real ones. They were very good already; they would soon
be perfect. Mr Kelada, as was his habit, rushed the new topic. He told us all
that was to be known about pearls. I do not believe Ramsay knew anything about
them at all, but he could not resist the opportunity to have a fling at the
Levantine, and in five minutes we were in the middle of a heated argument. I
had seen Mr Kelada vehement and voluble before, but never so voluble and
vehement as now At last something that Ramsay said stung him, for he thumped
the table and shouted:
‘Well, I
ought to know what I am talking about. I’m going to Japan just to look into
this Japanese pearl business. I’m in the trade and there’s not a man in it who
won’t tell you that what I say about pearls goes. I know all the best pearls in
the world, and what I don’t know about pearls isn’t worth knowing.’
Here was
news for us, for Mr Kelada, with all his loquacity, had never told anyone what
his business was. We only knew vaguely that he was going to Japan on some commercial
errand. He looked round the table triumphantly.
‘They’ll
never be able to get a culture pearl that an expert like me can’t tell with
half an eye.’ He pointed to a chain that Mrs Ramsay wore. ‘You take my word for
it, Mrs Ramsay, that chain you’re wearing will never be worth a cent less than
it is now’
Mrs
Ramsay in her modest way flushed a little and slipped the chain inside her
dress. Ramsay leaned forward. He gave us all a look and a smile flickered in
his eyes.
‘That’s a
pretty chain of Mrs Ramsay’s, isn’t it?’
‘I
noticed it at once,’ answered Mr Kelada. ‘Gee, I said to myself, those are
pearls all right.’
‘I didn’t
buy it myself, of course. I’d be interested to know how much you think it
cost.’
‘Oh, in
the trade somewhere round fifteen thousand dollars. But if it was bought on
Fifth Avenue I shouldn’t be surprised to hear that anything up to thirty
thousand was paid for it.’
Ramsay
smiled grimly.
‘You’ll
be surprised to hear that Mrs Ramsay bought that string at a department store
the day before we left New York, for eighteen dollars.’ Mr Kelada flushed.
‘Rot It’s
not only real, but it’s as fine a string for its size as I’ve ever seen.’ Will
you bet on it? I’ll bet you a hundred dollars it’s imitation.’
‘Done.’
‘Oh,
Elmer, you can’t bet on a certainty,’ said Mrs Ramsay.
She had a
little smile on her lips and her tone was gently deprecating.
‘Can’t I?
If I get a chance of easy money like that I should be all sorts of a fool not
to take it.’
‘But how
can it be proved?’ she continued. ‘It’s only my word against Mr Kelada’s.’
let me
look at the chain, and if it’s imitation I’ll tell you quickly enough. I can
afford to lose a hundred dollars,’ said Mr Kelada.
‘Take it
off, dear. Let the gentleman look at it as much as he wants.’ Mrs Ramsay
hesitated a moment. She put her hands to the clasp.
‘I can’t
undo it,’ she said. ‘Mr Kelada will just have to take my word for it.’
I had a
sudden suspicion that something unfortunate was about to occur, but I could
think of nothing to say.
Ramsay jumped
up.
‘I’ll
undo it.’
He handed
the chain to Mr Kelada. The Levantine took a magnifying glass from his pocket
and closely examined it. A smile of triumph spread over his smooth and swarthy
face. He handed back the chain. He was about to speak. Suddenly he caught sight
of Mrs Ramsay’s face. It was so white that she looked as though she were about
to faint. She was staring at him with wide and terrified eyes. They held a
desperate appeal; it was so clear that I wondered why her husband did not see
it.
Mr Kelada
stopped with his mouth open. He flushed deeply. You could almost see the effort
he was making over himself
‘I was
mistaken,’ he said.’ It’s a very good imitation, but of course as soon as I
looked through my glass I saw that it wasn’t real. I think eighteen dollars is
just about as much as the damned thing’s worth.’
He took
out his pocket-book and from it a hundred-dollar note. He handed it to Ramsay
without a word.
‘Perhaps
that’ll teach you not to be so cocksure another time, my young friend,’ said
Ramsay as he took the note.
I noticed
that Mr Kelada’s hands were trembling.
The story
spread over the ship as stories do, and he had to put up with a good deal of
chaff that evening. It was a fine joke that Mr Know-All had been caught out.
But Mrs Ramsay retired to her state-room with a headache.
Next
morning I got up and began to shave. Mr Kelada lay on his bed smoking a
cigarette. Suddenly there was a small scraping sound and I saw a letter pushed
under the door. I opened the door and looked out. There was nobody there. I
picked up the letter and saw that it was addressed to Max Kelada. The name was
written in block letters. I handed it to him.
‘Who’s
this from?’ He opened it. ‘Oh!’
He took
out of the envelope, not a letter, but a hundred-dollar note. He looked at me
and again he reddened. He tore the envelope into little bits and gave them to
me.
‘Do you
mind just throwing them out of the port-hole?’
I did as
he asked, and then I looked at him with a smile.
‘No one
likes being made to look a perfect damned fool,’ he said. ‘Were the pearls
real?’
‘If I had
a pretty little wife I shouldn’t let her spend a year in New York while I
stayed at Kobe,’ said he.
At that
moment I did not entirely dislike Mr Kelada. He reached out for his pocket-book
and carefully put in it the hundred-dollar note.
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