Novel Notes by Jerome K. Jerome


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Page 3

I felt hurt at the implied sneer. I pointed out to her that there
already existed a numerous body of specially-trained men employed to do
nothing else but make disagreeable observations upon authors and their
works--a duty that, so far as I could judge, they seemed capable of
performing without any amateur assistance whatever. And I hinted that,
by his own fireside, a literary man looked to breathe a more sympathetic
atmosphere.

Ethelbertha replied that of course I knew what she meant. She said that
she was not thinking of me, and that Jephson was, no doubt, sensible
enough (Jephson is engaged), but she did not see the object of bringing
half the parish into it. (Nobody suggested bringing "half the parish"
into it. Ethelbertha will talk so wildly.) To suppose that Brown and
MacShaughnassy could be of any use whatever, she considered absurd. What
could a couple of raw bachelors know about life and human nature? As
regarded MacShaughnassy in particular, she was of opinion that if we only
wanted out of him all that _he_ knew, and could keep him to the subject,
we ought to be able to get that into about a page.

My wife's present estimate of MacShaughnassy's knowledge is the result of
reaction. The first time she ever saw him, she and he got on wonderfully
well together; and when I returned to the drawing-room, after seeing him
down to the gate, her first words were, "What a wonderful man that Mr.
MacShaughnassy is. He seems to know so much about everything."

That describes MacShaughnassy exactly. He does seem to know a tremendous
lot. He is possessed of more information than any man I ever came
across. Occasionally, it is correct information; but, speaking broadly,
it is remarkable for its marvellous unreliability. Where he gets it from
is a secret that nobody has ever yet been able to fathom.

Ethelbertha was very young when we started housekeeping. (Our first
butcher very nearly lost her custom, I remember, once and for ever by
calling her "Missie," and giving her a message to take back to her
mother. She arrived home in tears. She said that perhaps she wasn't fit
to be anybody's wife, but she did not see why she should be told so by
the tradespeople.) She was naturally somewhat inexperienced in domestic
affairs, and, feeling this keenly, was grateful to any one who would give
her useful hints and advice. When MacShaughnassy came along he seemed,
in her eyes, a sort of glorified Mrs. Beeton. He knew everything wanted
to be known inside a house, from the scientific method of peeling a
potato to the cure of spasms in cats, and Ethelbertha would sit at his
feet, figuratively speaking, and gain enough information in one evening
to make the house unlivable in for a month.

He told her how fires ought to be laid. He said that the way fires were
usually laid in this country was contrary to all the laws of nature, and
he showed her how the thing was done in Crim Tartary, or some such place,
where the science of laying fires is alone properly understood. He
proved to her that an immense saving in time and labour, to say nothing
of coals, could be effected by the adoption of the Crim Tartary system;
and he taught it to her then and there, and she went straight downstairs
and explained it to the girl.

Amenda, our then "general," was an extremely stolid young person, and, in
some respects, a model servant. She never argued. She never seemed to
have any notions of her own whatever. She accepted our ideas without
comment, and carried them out with such pedantic precision and such
evident absence of all feeling of responsibility concerning the result as
to surround our home legislation with quite a military atmosphere.

On the present occasion she stood quietly by while the MacShaughnassy
method of fire-laying was expounded to her. When Ethelbertha had
finished she simply said:--

"You want me to lay the fires like that?"

"Yes, Amenda, we'll always have the fires laid like that in future, if
you please."

"All right, mum," replied Amenda, with perfect unconcern, and there the
matter ended, for that evening.

On coming downstairs the next morning we found the breakfast table spread
very nicely, but there was no breakfast. We waited. Ten minutes went
by--a quarter of an hour--twenty minutes. Then Ethelbertha rang the
bell. In response Amenda presented herself, calm and respectful.

"Do you know that the proper time for breakfast is half-past eight,
Amenda?"

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