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Mr. Know All
W. Somerset Maugham
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 portholes 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 f
ound Mr Kelada’s luggage
already below. I did not like the look of
it;
there
were
too
many
labels
on
the
suit-
cases,
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 slicking 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
like
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,
clean-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 fell 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
appearance
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 it 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
nourished
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 case, 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 th
ought 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
haled
man
in
the
ship.
We
called
him
Mr
Know-All,
even
to
his
face.
He
took
it
as
a
compliment. But it was at mealtimes
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