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‘Aha, grandmother,’ he said, ‘I see you too are sending presents to Palestine.’

The grandmother took snuff uneasily. ‘Yes, it is going to the Land of Israel,’ she said.

As the artist lifted his eyes from the two amorphous heaps on the floor–Yossel and his bundle–he became aware of a blank in the familiar interior.

‘Why, where is the spinning-wheel?’ he cried.

‘I have given it to the widow Rubenstein–I shall spin no more.’

‘And I thought of painting you as a spinster!’ he murmured dolefully. Then a white patch in the darkened wood over the mantelpiece caught his eye. ‘Why, your marriage certificate is gone too!’

‘Yes, I have taken it down.’

‘To give to the widow Rubenstein?’

‘What an idea!’ said his grandmother seriously. ‘It is in the bundle.’

‘You are sending it away to Palestine?’

The grandmother fumbled with her spectacles, and removing them with trembling fingers blinked downwards at the bundle. Yossel snatched up his crutches, and propped himself manfully upon them.

‘Your grandmother goes with me,’ he explained decisively.

‘What!’ the artist gasped.

The grandmother’s eyes met his unflinchingly; they had drawn fire from Yossel’s. ‘And why should I not go to Palestine too?’ she said.

‘But you are so old!’

‘The more reason I should make haste if I am to be luckier than Moses our Master.’ She readjusted her spectacles firmly.

‘But the journey is so hard.’

‘Yossel has wisdom; he will find the way while alive as easily as others will roll thither after death.’

‘You’ll be dead before you get there,’ said the artist brutally.

‘Ah, no! God will not let me die before I touch the holy soil!’

‘You, too, want to die in Palestine?’ cried the amazed artist.

‘And where else shall a daughter of Israel desire to die? Ah, I forgot–your mother was an Epicurean with godless tresses; she did not bring you up in the true love of our land. But every day for seventy years and more have I prayed the prayer that my eyes should behold the return of the Divine Glory to Zion. That mercy I no longer expect in my own days, inasmuch as the Sultan hardens his heart and will not give us back our land, not though Moses our Master appears to him every night, and beats him with his rod. But at least my eyes shall behold the land of Israel.’

‘Amen!’ said Yossel, still propped assertively on his crutches. The grandson turned upon the interrupter. ‘But you can’t take her with you?’

‘Why not?’ said Yossel calmly.

Schneemann found himself expatiating upon the responsibility of looking after such an old woman; it seemed too absurd to talk of the scandal. That was left for the grandmother to emphasize.

‘Would you have me arrive alone in Palestine?’ she interposed impatiently. ‘Think of the talk it would make in Jerusalem! And should I even be permitted to land? They say the Sultan’s soldiers stand at the landing-place like the angels at the gates of Paradise with swords that turn every way. But Yossel is cunning in the customs of the heathen; he will explain to the soldiers that he is an Austrian subject, and that I am his Frau.’

‘What! Pass you off as his Frau!’

‘Who speaks of passing off? He could say I was his sister, as Abraham our Father said of Sarah. But that was a sin in the sight of Heaven, and therefore as our sages explain—-‘

‘It is simpler to be married,’ Yossel interrupted.

‘Married!’ echoed the artist angrily.

‘The witnesses are coming to my lodging this afternoon,’ Yossel continued calmly. ‘Dovidel and Yitzkoly from the Beth Hamedrash.’

‘They think they are only coming to a farewell glass of brandy,’ chuckled the grandmother. ‘But they will find themselves at a secret wedding.’

‘And to-morrow we shall depart publicly for Trieste,’ Yossel wound up calmly.

‘But this is too absurd!’ the artist broke in. ‘I forbid this marriage!’

A violent expression of amazement overspread the ancient dame’s face, and the tone of the far-away years came into her voice. ‘Silence, Vroomkely, or I’ll smack your face. Do you forget you are talking to your grandmother?’