hysterics…. So she should be the laughing-stock of her friends! So she should be ashamed to look anybody in the face for the rest of her life! Oh, oh, oh what had she done to deserve it?
Schmulowitz said that later on, please God, he would give her pearls, and diamonds, and rubies, and anything she fancied. In the meantime, why spend money on rings when there was a living to make?
“Rubies! How comes, rubies! Who wears rubies? You’re in England now! And sapphires—oh, how they’ll laugh!”
Yisroel Schmulowitz, who was already beginning to hate thesight of her, and who still had a little spirit left in him, said “Give me back the ring and finish!”
Then she wept heartbrokenly until she had a clever idea. She went to her father and said: “You’re giving me five hundred pounds. Now look—a diamond is as good as money. Buy me a ring, now, for a hundred pounds.”
Mr. Moss, her father, said: “Was fur meshuggass is dis? Fur a hündred pfund a diamant? Ich, soll a——”
“I won’t marry him without,” she said.
At this, Mr. Moss, who had been gathering himself for a devastating charge, pulled himself back on his haunches and became thoughtful. Then he said: “Nu, nu vell, a diamant is already wie gelt”—and he took her to Black Lion Yard, where she chose a diamond ring that cost £92, which he gave to Schmulowitz, who later at a little engagement party took it out of a square, velveteen-lined box, and put it on the third finger of Millie’s left hand. Healths were drunk. Everyone admired the ring. Lily bit her lips with envy, and Millie was as happy as she could be. Schmulowitz was proud to be associated with such fine people, but he was unaccountably miserable. He admired the brilliants set in the ring, but he would have looked with greater pleasure upon the cracked sapphire that he had bought with his own money. He gave it to Millie, but she did not like to be seen wearing it. Who wore sapphires? Diamonds were the thing.
This was the beginning of the end of Yisroel Schmulowitz. He had sacrificed his father’s name, and let himself be called “Small”. To his first name, Yisroel, he clung with desperate stubbornness. Millie reddened her eyes a dozen times with weeping , begging him to call himself Rollo. But he held out until, at last, Millie went to Nathan, the Photographer, a clever man, and (she never forgave him for this) asked him to reason with her fiancé. Nathan, the Photographer (she never stopped hating him), went and wrestled with Yisroel Small. He said:
“Now look here. When in Rome, you’ve got to do as Rome does. Honest, this is England.”
“What’s the metter, what?”
“Nothing. But what do you want to be pig-headed for? What do you want to call yourself Yisroel for? Think, and you’ll see! Yisroel!” the photographer laughed. “You’re going to get married. Am I right?”
There was an alarming pause, which Nathan, the Photographer ,did not fail to note, before Yisroel Small said: “So?”
“Listen. English people can’t pronounce, they can’t say all these names. When you’re in Rome, do as Rome does——”
“—I’m not in Rome.”
“That’s just it. You’re in England. When in England, do as England does.”
“What’s the metter from mein name, what?”
“It’s foreign. You’re going into business.”
“Is already in the King’s pelace a person called Battenburg. I put new heels yesterday on a proper gentleman from the Russian Ambassy—Protopopoff. Protopopoff!”
“Now look here. This is England.”
“England, Schmengland—what’s the metter with mein name?”
“There’s a prejudice against Joosh people. Yisroel! Every body ’ll laugh.”
“Let ’em laugh!”
“Now look. Yisroel is only another word for Israel.”
“So?”
“Israel is a name like any other name. Israel, Rollo—what’s the difference?”
“All right then, Yisroel, Israel—let it be Israel!”
“No, wait a minute—‘Israel’ only makes
Schmulowitz said that later on, please God, he would give her pearls, and diamonds, and rubies, and anything she fancied. In the meantime, why spend money on rings when there was a living to make?
“Rubies! How comes, rubies! Who wears rubies? You’re in England now! And sapphires—oh, how they’ll laugh!”
Yisroel Schmulowitz, who was already beginning to hate thesight of her, and who still had a little spirit left in him, said “Give me back the ring and finish!”
Then she wept heartbrokenly until she had a clever idea. She went to her father and said: “You’re giving me five hundred pounds. Now look—a diamond is as good as money. Buy me a ring, now, for a hundred pounds.”
Mr. Moss, her father, said: “Was fur meshuggass is dis? Fur a hündred pfund a diamant? Ich, soll a——”
“I won’t marry him without,” she said.
At this, Mr. Moss, who had been gathering himself for a devastating charge, pulled himself back on his haunches and became thoughtful. Then he said: “Nu, nu vell, a diamant is already wie gelt”—and he took her to Black Lion Yard, where she chose a diamond ring that cost £92, which he gave to Schmulowitz, who later at a little engagement party took it out of a square, velveteen-lined box, and put it on the third finger of Millie’s left hand. Healths were drunk. Everyone admired the ring. Lily bit her lips with envy, and Millie was as happy as she could be. Schmulowitz was proud to be associated with such fine people, but he was unaccountably miserable. He admired the brilliants set in the ring, but he would have looked with greater pleasure upon the cracked sapphire that he had bought with his own money. He gave it to Millie, but she did not like to be seen wearing it. Who wore sapphires? Diamonds were the thing.
This was the beginning of the end of Yisroel Schmulowitz. He had sacrificed his father’s name, and let himself be called “Small”. To his first name, Yisroel, he clung with desperate stubbornness. Millie reddened her eyes a dozen times with weeping , begging him to call himself Rollo. But he held out until, at last, Millie went to Nathan, the Photographer, a clever man, and (she never forgave him for this) asked him to reason with her fiancé. Nathan, the Photographer (she never stopped hating him), went and wrestled with Yisroel Small. He said:
“Now look here. When in Rome, you’ve got to do as Rome does. Honest, this is England.”
“What’s the metter, what?”
“Nothing. But what do you want to be pig-headed for? What do you want to call yourself Yisroel for? Think, and you’ll see! Yisroel!” the photographer laughed. “You’re going to get married. Am I right?”
There was an alarming pause, which Nathan, the Photographer ,did not fail to note, before Yisroel Small said: “So?”
“Listen. English people can’t pronounce, they can’t say all these names. When you’re in Rome, do as Rome does——”
“—I’m not in Rome.”
“That’s just it. You’re in England. When in England, do as England does.”
“What’s the metter from mein name, what?”
“It’s foreign. You’re going into business.”
“Is already in the King’s pelace a person called Battenburg. I put new heels yesterday on a proper gentleman from the Russian Ambassy—Protopopoff. Protopopoff!”
“Now look here. This is England.”
“England, Schmengland—what’s the metter with mein name?”
“There’s a prejudice against Joosh people. Yisroel! Every body ’ll laugh.”
“Let ’em laugh!”
“Now look. Yisroel is only another word for Israel.”
“So?”
“Israel is a name like any other name. Israel, Rollo—what’s the difference?”
“All right then, Yisroel, Israel—let it be Israel!”
“No, wait a minute—‘Israel’ only makes
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