WHEN THE NEWS ABOUT JOSEPH’S BROTHERS reached Pharaoh, he was pleased. Usually he would flick away any thought of filthy barbarian shepherds crossing the border into the Black Land. But Zaphnath-paneakh had been a savior to him and to all his people, and there was nothing Pharaoh wouldn’t do to please him. He had heaped him with wealth and honors, given him a brilliant jewel of a wife, and followed his advice as if Zaphnath-paneakh were a god descended from the heaven of heavens.
So when he heard the news that the brothers had come and that Zaphnath-paneakh had invited them and their father and their families to live in Goshen, Pharaoh immediately gave his consent. He was happy to see his viceroy reunited with the people he loved, barbarians though they were, and if Zaphnath-paneakh’s nose was able to endure their stink, more power to him. The rumor was that he had even wept in his brothers’ arms—an astonishing image that Pharaoh could hardly believe, since Zaphnath-paneakh was legendary for his sangfroid, even in circumstances of high tension. People said that he had spoken to the barbarians in their own tongue, a series of barks and snorts that, if one forced oneself to imagine a human voice speaking, sounded like a consumptive clearing his throat. Undoubtedly this was an act of mercy on Zaphnath-paneakh’s part, since he could easily have spared himself by calling on an interpreter. He was known for his exquisite manners, which put everyone at ease no matter what their social position might be, and he would shift his tone only in his dealings with the rich and powerful, though even with them his harshness took the form of elegant phrases that were as lethal as daggers.
Well, let the family come. Let them be happy together. How many of them could there be?