XIX
AN INDOOR SPORT
This is a sad world, mates, with too little sunshine in it, so far be it from me to abridge, abate or curtail any innocent pleasure. But it does seem to me that there are certain diversions that should be indulged in only in the privacy of home. One of these is the family spat. Apparently a large number of men and women get married for the sole purpose of providing themselves with a sparring partner, with whom they can put on the gloves at a moment’s notice with, or without, the slightest provocation. Life has no dull moments for them, because they are always saying something that draws blood, or framing a retort that will cut to the quick, and the excitement of a battle to the death is perpetually thrilling their nerves.
Without doubt, it is a merry and adventurous existence for the doughty domestic warriors who enjoy that kind of thing! I would not be cruel enough to deny them the cheery pastime of going to the mat over every trivial difference of opinion. But I do contend that conjugal quarrels are an indoor sport that should be pursued only when the participants have sought the seclusion that the cabin grants, as they used to say in “Pinafore,” and when all the shades have been pulled down and the keyholes stuffed with cotton.
Possibly the lack of an audience might take off a little of the edge of the bout for the battling husband and spouse; but, oh, how immeasurably it would add to the comfort and happiness of those of us who are the innocent bystanders and who are forced to look on, sick with horror, at these encounters! In all good truth I know of no other situation so miserable and so embarrassing as to be called upon to referee a fight between a married couple. Their quarrel is, to begin with, a matter with which we have no concern; one in which we do not desire to meddle; one in which we ardently wish to take neither side. It makes us feel as if we were cowards to keep silent while a man hurls deadly insults at his wife, and we writhe in vicarious shame while a woman vituperates her husband.
We have the sense of having assisted in an indecent orgy when a husband and wife strip every rag of reserve away from their relationship and fling open the doors of their skeleton closets, and rattle their bones in public. Nor are we consoled by the knowledge that the people who make public exhibitions of their tempers must enjoy doing so or else they would not do it. Yet we all number among our friends, husbands and wives, otherwise estimable and charming individuals, who always stage their fights in the most conspicuous place they can find, and who seem to prefer an audience to privacy. When you meet them for an evening’s diversion they are having a preliminary set-to. Perhaps the husband has come home late from the office, or has forgotten to mail a letter, or possibly the wife has kept her husband waiting while she did her hair over the second time. During the selection of the dinner they get warmed up to the work and put in some punches with real steam behind them. They clinch, and bite, and gouge over the selection of a play, and they reach for each other’s vital spots and get in dirty jabs at the supper dance that follows the play.
Doubtless the fighters are enjoying themselves, but a pleasant time is not being had by all. The abashed onlookers know not what to do. They do not know whether to rush in and make it a free-for-all fight or to try to mediate between the warring couple, or whether to pretend to have been suddenly stricken deaf, dumb and blind. And they wind up by feeling outraged that they should have been placed in such a mortifying position, and wishing heartily that husbands and wives would keep their quarrels for home consumption, and not inflict them on their friends.
The same strictures apply to the woman who henpecks her husband. That also is one of the quiet home joys that should be strictly confined to the domestic circle. I raise no voice of protest against the woman who has wit and strength and determination enough to oust her husband out of his position as head of the house and assume it herself. It is a matter between the husband and wife, and if he hasn’t enough spunk to fight for his rights he deserves to lose them. But why cannot the bossy women be content with exercising their tyranny quietly and unobtrusively? Why do they insist upon rattling the chains by which they lead their husbands until they call public attention to them?
Think of the women you know who always say “MY house.” “MY car.” “MY children.” Who always walk ahead of their husbands and point out a seat, and say, “John, sit there,” and who always tell John where to get on and where to get off! And think how all the rest of us are embarrassed for poor John! Believe me, dirty linen should be washed at home, and family quarrels staged there. That is one of the main things for which homes are designed.