The Potiphar Papers

by George William Curtis

Darling Caroline—I don’t care much—but did he ever have anything to do with a Scarlet Woman?

After he said that about artificial flowers, I ordered from Martelle the sweetest sprig of immortelle he had in his shop, and sent it anonymously on St. Valentine’s day. Of course I didn’t wish to do anything secret from my husband, that might make people talk, so I wrote—“Rev. Cream Cheese; from his grateful Skim-milk.” I marked the last words, and hope he understood that I meant to express my thanks for his advice about the pale-blue cover. You don’t think it was too romantice, do you, dear?

You can imagine how pleasantly Lent is passing since I see so much of him: and then it is so appropriate to Lent to be intimate with a minister. He goes with me to church a great deal; for Mr. Potiphar, of course, has no time for that, except on Sundays; and it is really delightful to see such piety. He makes the responses in the most musical manner; and when he kneels upon entering the pew, he is the admiration of the whole church. He buries his face entirely in a cloud of cambric pocket-handkerchief, with his initial embroidered at the corner; and his hair is beautifully parted down behind, which is very fortunate, as otherwise it would look so badly, when only half his head showed. I feel so good when I sit by his side; and when the Doctor (as Mr. P. says) “blows up” those terrible sinners in Babylon and the other Bible towns, I always find the Rev. Cream’s eyes fixed upon me, with so much sweet sadness, that I am very, very sorry for the naughty people the Doctor talks about. Why did they do so, do you suppose, dear Caroline? How thankful we ought to be that we live now with so many churches, and such fine ones, and with such gentlemanly ministers as Mr. Cheese. And how nicely it’s arranged that, after dancing and dining for two or three months constantly, during which, of course, we can only go to church Sundays, there comes a time for stopping, when we’re tired out, and for going to church every day, and (as Mr. P. says) “striking a balance;” and thinking about being good, and all those things. We don’t lose a great deal, you know. It makes a variety, and we all see each other, just the same, only we don’t dance. I do think it would be better if we took our lorgnettes with us, however, for it was only last Wednesday, at nine o’clock prayers, that I saw Sheena Silke across the church in their little pew at the corner, and I am sure that she had a new bonnet on; and yet, though I looked at it all the time trying to find out, prayers were fairly over before I discovered whether it was really new, or only that old white one made over with a few new flowers. Now, if I had had my glass, I could have told in a moment, and shouldn’t have been obliged to lose all the prayers.

But, as I was saying, those poor old people in Babylon and Nineveh! only think, if they had had the privileges of prayers for six or seven weeks in Lent, and regular preaching the rest of the year, except, of course, in the summer—(by the by, I wonder if they all had some kind of Saratoga or Newport to go to?—I mean to ask Mr. Cheese)—they might have been good, and all have been happy. It’s quite awful to hear how eloquent and earnest the Doctor is when he preaches against Babylon. Mr. P. says he likes to have him “pitch into those old sinners; it does ‘em so much good;” and then he looks quite fierce. Mr. Cheese is going to read me a sermon he has written upon the maidenhood of Lot’s wife. He says that he quotes a great deal of poetry in it, and that I must dam up the fount of my tears when he reads it. It was an odd expression for a minister, wasn’t it? and I was obliged to say, “Mr. Cheese, you forget yourself.” He replied, “Dear Mrs. Potiphar, I will explain;” and he did so; so that I admired him more than ever.

Dearest Caroline,—if you should only like him! He asked one day about you; and when I told him what a dear, good girl you are, he said: “And her father has worldly possessions, has he not?”

I answered, yes; that your father was very rich. Then he sighed, and said that he could never marry an heiress unless he clearly saw it to be his duty. Isn’t it a beautiful resignation?

I had no idea of saying so much about him, but you know it’s proper, when writing a letter in Lent, to talk about religious matters. And, I must confess, there is something comfortable in having to do with such things. Don’t you feel better, when you’ve been dancing all the week, and dining, and going to the opera, and flirting and flying around, to go to church on Sundays? I do. It seems, somehow, as if we ought to go. But I do wish Mrs. Croesus would sit somewhere else than just in front of us, for her new bonnets and her splendid collars and capes makes me quite miserable: and then she puts me out of conceit of my things by talking about Lawson, or somebody, as I told you in the beginning.

Mr. Potiphar has sent out for the new carpets. I had only two spoiled at my ball, you know, and that was very little. One always expects to sacrifice at least two carpets upon occasion of seeing one’s friends. That handsome one in the supper room was entirely ruined. Would you believe that Mr. P. when he went downstairs the next morning, found our Fred and his cousin hoeing it with their little toes? It was entirely matted with preserves and things, and the boys said that they were scraping it clean for breakfast. The other spoiled carpet was in the gentlemen’s dressing-room where the punch-bowl was. Young Gauche Boosey, a very gentlemanly fellow, you know, ran up after polking, and was so confused with the light and heat that he went quite unsteadily, and as he was trying to fill a glass with the silver ladle (which is rather heavy), he somehow leaned too hard upon the table, and down went the whole thing, table, bowl, punch, and Boosey, and ended my poor carpet. I was sorry for that, and also for the bowl, which was a very handsome one, imported from China by my father’s partner—a wedding gift to me—and for the table, a delicate rosewood stand, which was a work table of my sister Lucy’s—whom you never knew, and who died long and long ago. However, I was amply repaid by Boosey’s drollery afterward. He is a very witty young man, and when he got up from the floor, saturated with punch (his clothes I mean), he looked down at the carpet and said:

“Well, I’ve given that such a punch it will want some lemon-aid to recover.”

I suppose he had some idea about lemon acid taking out spots.