Joseph dropped his eyes and his wife shivered in sudden terror.
“Husband of mine, in the name of Christ Jesus,” she moaned, twining her arms around his neck, “such a thing as this has never come between us!”
“And am I to blame for it? Why are you moaning and wailing here?” Joseph shouted as he pushed her away so roughly that she staggered.
There was no need to notice it, for Joseph in reality had not struck his wife. Old Nešněra might not have noticed it ordinarily, for he never meddled in their affairs. But to-day, Apolena was on his side and the deed offered a welcome opportunity for him to rebuke his son.
“So my son Joseph beats his wife because she takes the part of her father-in-law?” he shrieked. “Did you ever see me raise my hand against your mother?”
The young master feeling that in this instance a wrong was being done to him, for he had not even thought of striking his wife, jumped up, seized his cap, and rushed out of the room. Out in the yard, he paused, lifted his cap, and ran his hand over his brow as if wiping away the perspiration and then, spitting in disgust, walked out towards the highway.
In domestic quarrels, the sole consolation and refuge of the one who forsakes the battlefield is the tavern. And so Nešněra, too, directed his steps to the inn to drown the entire ugly occurrence in beer.
