The Potiphar Papers by George William Curtis

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THE POTIPHAR PAPERS

BY

GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS

[Illustration: ILLUSTRATED BY A. HOPPIN]

"Imagination fondly stoops to trace
The parlor splendors of that festive place."

_Goldsmith's Deserted Village._

"Manners are what vex or soothe, corrupt or purify, exalt or debase,
barbarise or refine us, by a constant, steady, uniform, insensible
operation, like that of the air we breathe in."

_Burke's First Letter on a Regicide Peace._

"And I do seriously approve of that saying of yours, 'that you would
rather be a civil, well-governed, well-grounded, temperate, poor angler,
than a drunken lord.' But I hope there is none such."

_Walton's Angler._

"'Mon petit faquin de philosophe,' dit le Chevalier de Grammont,
'tu fais ici le Caton de Normandie.'"

"'Est-ce que je mens?' poursuivit Saint-Evremond."

_Memoires de Grammont._

PREFATORY LETTER TO REV. CREAM CHEESE.

REV. AND DEAR SIR:

It is surely unnecessary to call the attention of so astute an
observer, and so austere a critic, as yourself, to the fact that the
title of the leading essay in this little volume (of which, permit me
to say, you are so essential an ornament) is marked as a quotation;
and a quotation, as you will very well remember, from the lips of our
friend, Mrs, Potiphar, herself.

Therefore, Rev. Sir, your judgment, which, you must allow me to say,
is no less impartial than your experience is profound, will suggest to
you that the subject of that essay (of the points of which the
succeeding sketches are but elaborations) is the aspect of what is
currently termed "our best society"--whether with reason or not, is
beside the purpose.

Your pastoral charity, I am convinced, will persuade you to direct the
attention of your parishioners to this fact, and to assure them, that,
when you prepared your timely treatise upon the progress of purple
chasubles among the Feejee islanders, you were not justly amenable to
the charge of omitting all notice of the cultivation of artificial
flowers by the Grim Tartars. The latter are, I believe, a very
estimable people, but they were not the subjects of your
consideration.

To those in your parish, and elsewhere, who have thought fit to
suppose that Mrs. Potiphar is Mrs. Somebody-else,--what can we say?
conscious as we are, that they who have once known that lady could
never confound her with another.

But for those who have actually supposed you, yourself, Reverend Sir,
to be, not somebody else, but nobody, (!) we can only smile
compassionately, and express the hope that a broader experience may
give them greater wisdom.

In taking leave of you, Sir, I know that I express the warmest wish of
a large, a very large parish (might almost say, diocese) that you may
long survive. For your parish is fully, and, as I think, most
correctly persuaded, that while there is a Cream Cheese, there will
always be a Mrs. Potiphar.

With all proper regard,

I am,

Reverend and Dear Sir,

Your very obedient,

humble servant,

THE EDITOR.

NEW YORK, _December_, 1853.

I.

"OUR BEST SOCIETY."

If gilt were only gold, or sugar-candy common sense, what a fine thing
our society would be! If to lavish money upon _objets de vertu_,
to wear the most costly dresses, and always to have them cut in the
height of the fashion; to build houses thirty feet broad, as if they
were palaces; to furnish them with all the luxurious devices of
Parisian genius; to give superb banquets; at which your guests laugh,
and which make you miserable; to drive a fine carriage and ape the
European liveries, and crests, and coats-of-arms; to resent the
friendly advances of your baker's wife, and the lady of your butcher,
(you being yourself a cobbler's daughter); to talk much of the "old
families" and of your aristocratic foreign friends; to despise labour;
to prate of "good society;" to travesty and parody, in every
conceivable way, a society which we know only in books and by the
superficial observation of foreign travel, which arises out of a
social organization entirely unknown to us, and which is opposed to
our fundamental and essential principles; if all this were fine, what
a prodigiously fine society would ours be!

This occurred to us upon lately receiving a card of invitation to a
brilliant ball. We were quietly ruminating over our evening fire, with
Disraeli's Wellington speech, "all tears," in our hands, with the
account of a great man's burial, and a little man's triumph across the
channel. So many great men gone, we mused, and such great crises
impending! This democratic movement in Europe; Kossuth--and Mazzini
waiting for the moment to give the word; the Russian bear watchfully
sucking his paws; the Napoleonic empire redivivus; Cuba, and
annexation, and slavery; California and Australia, and the consequent
considerations of political economy; dear me! exclaimed we, putting on
a fresh hodful of coal, we must look a little into the state of
parties.

As we put down the coal-scuttle there was a knock at the door. We
said, "come in," and in came a neat Alhambra-watered envelope,
containing the announcement that the queen of fashion was "at home"
that evening week. Later in the evening came a friend to smoke a
cigar. The card was lying upon the table, and he read it with
eagerness. "You'll go, of course," said he, "for you will meet all
the 'best society.'"

Shall we, truly? Shall we really see the "best society of the city,"
the picked flower of its genius, character, and beauty? What makes the
"best society" of men and women? The noblest specimens of each, of
course. The men who mould the time, who refresh our faith in heroism
and virtue, who make Plato and Zeno, and Shakespeare, and all
Shakespeare's gentlemen, possible, again. The women, whose beauty, and
sweetness, and dignity, and high accomplishment, and grace, make us
understand the Greek Mythology, and weaken our desire to have some
glimpse of the most famous women of history. The "best society" is
that in which the virtues are most shining, which is the most
charitable, forgiving, long-suffering, modest, and innocent. The
"best society" is, in its very name, that in which there is the least
hypocrisy and insincerity of all kinds, which recoils from, and
blasts, artificiality, which is anxious to be all that it is possible
to be, and which sternly reprobates all shallow pretence, all
coxcombry and foppery, and insists upon simplicity as the infallible
characteristic of true worth. That is the "best society," which
comprises the best men and women.

Had we recently arrived from the moon, we might, upon hearing that we
were to meet the "best society," have fancied that we were about to
enjoy an opportunity not to be overvalued. But unfortunately we were
not so freshly arrived. We had received other cards, and had perfected
our toilette many times, to meet this same society, so magnificently
described, and had found it the least "best" of all. Who compose it?
Whom shall we meet if we go to this ball? We shall meet three classes
of persons: first, those who are rich, and who have all that money can
buy; second, those who belong to what are technically called "the good
old families," because some ancestor was a man of mark in the state or
country, or was very rich, and has kept the fortune in the family; and
thirdly, a swarm of youths who can dance dexterously, and who are
invited for that purpose. Now these are all arbitrary and factitious
distinctions upon which to found so profound a social difference as
that which exists in American, or, at least, in New York
society. First, as a general rule, the rich men of every community who
make their own money are not the most generally intelligent and
cultivated. They have a shrewd talent which secures a fortune, and
which keeps them closely at the work of amassing from their youngest
years until they are old. They are sturdy men of simple tastes
often. Sometimes, though rarely, very generous, but necessarily with
an altogether false and exaggerated idea of the importance of
money. They are rather rough, unsympathetic, and, perhaps, selfish
class, who, themselves, despise purple and fine linen, and still
prefer a cot-bed and a bare room, although they may be worth
millions. But they are married to scheming, or ambitious, or
disappointed women, whose life is a prolonged pageant, and they are
dragged hither and thither in it, are bled of their golden blood, and
forced into a position they do not covet and which they despise. Then
there are the inheritors of wealth. How many of them inherit the
valiant genius and hard frugality which built up their fortunes; how
many acknowledge the stern and heavy responsibility of their
opportunities; how many refuse to dream their lives away in a Sybarite
luxury; how many are smitten with the lofty ambition of achieving an
enduring name by works of a permanent value; how many do not dwindle
into dainty dilettanti, and dilute their manhood with factitious
sentimentality instead of a hearty human sympathy; how many are not
satisfied with having the fastest horses and the "crackest" carriages,
and an unlimited wardrobe, and a weak affectation and puerile
imitation of foreign life?

[Illustration]

And who are these of our secondly, these "old families"? The spirit of
our time and of our country knows no such thing, but the habitue of
society hears constantly of "a good family." It means simply, the
collective mass of children, grandchildren, nephews, nieces, and
descendants of some man who deserved well of his country, and whom his
country honors. But sad is the heritage of a great name! The son of
Burke will inevitably be measured by Burke. The niece of Pope must
show some superiority to other women (so to speak), or her equality is
inferiority. The feeling of men attributes some magical charm to
blood, and we look to see the daughter of Helen as fair as her mother,
and the son of Shakespeare musical as his sire. If they are not so, if
they are merely names, and common persons--if there is no Burke, nor
Shakespeare, nor Washington, nor Bacon, in their words, or actions, or
lives, then we must pity them, and pass gently on, not upbraiding
them, but regretting that it is one of the laws of greatness that it
dwindles all things in its vicinity, which would otherwise show large
enough. Nay, in our regard for the great man, we may even admit to a
compassionate honor, as pensioners upon our charity, those who bear
and transmit his name. But if these heirs should presume upon that
fame, and claim any precedence of living men and women because their
dead grandfather was a hero,--they must be shown the door directly. We
should dread to be born a Percy, or a Colonna, or a Bonaparte. We
should not like to be the second Duke of Wellington, nor Charles
Dickens, jr. It is a terrible thing one would say, to a mind of
honorable feeling, to be pointed out as somebody's son, or uncle, or
granddaughter, as if the excellence were all derived. It must be a
little humiliating to reflect that if your great uncle had not been
somebody, you would be nobody,--that in fact, you are only a name, and
that, if you should consent to change it for the sake of a fortune, as
is sometimes done, you would cease to be any thing but a rich man. "My
father was President, or Governor of the State," some pompous man may
say. But, by Jupiter! king of gods and men, what are _you?_ is the
instinctive response. Do you not see, our pompous friend, that you are
only pointing your own unimportance? If your father was Governor of
the State, what right have you to use that fact only to fatten your
self-conceit? Take care, good care; for whether you say it by your
lips or by your life that withering response awaits you,--"then what
are _you?_" If your ancestor was great, you are under bonds to
greatness. If you are small, make haste to learn it betimes, and,
thanking Heaven that your name has been made illustrious, retire into
a corner and keep it, at least, untarnished.

Our thirdly, is a class made by sundry French tailors, bootmakers,
dancing-masters, and Mr. Brown. They are a corps-de-ballet, for the
use of private entertainments. They are fostered by society for the
use of young debutantes, and hardier damsels, who have dared two or
three years of the "tight" polka. They are cultivated for their heels,
not their heads. Their life begins at ten o'clock in the evening, and
lasts until four in the morning. They go home and sleep until nine;
then they reel, sleepy, to counting-houses and offices, and doze on
desks until dinner-time. Or, unable to do that, they are actively at
work all day, and their cheeks grow pale, and their lips thin, and
their eyes bloodshot and hollow, and they drag themselves home at
evening to catch a nap until the ball begins, or to dine and smoke at
their club, and be very manly with punches and coarse stories; and
then to rush into hot and glittering rooms and seize very decollete
girls closely around the waist, and dash with them around an area of
stretched linen, saying in the panting pauses, "How very hot it is!"
"How very pretty Miss Podge looks!" "What a good redowa!" "Are you
going to Mrs. Potiphar's?"

Is this the assembled flower of manhood and womanhood, called "best
society," and to see which is so envied a privilege? If such are the
elements, can we be long in arriving at the present state, and
necessary future condition of parties?

"Vanity Fair," is peculiarly a picture of modern society. It aims at
English follies, but its mark is universal, as the madness is. It is
called a satire, but after much diligent reading, we cannot discover
the satire. A state of society not at all superior to that of "Vanity
Fair" is not unknown to our experience; and, unless truth-telling be
satire; unless the most tragically real portraiture be satire; unless
scalding tears of sorrow, and the bitter regret of a manly mind over
the miserable spectacle of artificiality, wasted powers, misdirected
energies, and lost opportunities, be satirical; we do not find satire
in that sad story. The reader closes it with a grief beyond tears. It
leaves a vague apprehension in the mind, as if we should suspect the
air to be poisoned. It suggests the terrible thought of the
enfeebling of moral power, and the deterioration of noble character,
as a necessary consequence of contact with "society." Every man looks
suddenly and sharply around him, and accosts himself and his
neighbors, to ascertain if they are all parties to this
corruption. Sentimental youths and maidens, upon velvet sofas, or in
calf-bound libraries, resolve that it is an insult to human
nature--are sure that their velvet and calf-bound friends are not like
the dramatis personae of "Vanity Fair," and that the drama is
therefore hideous and unreal. They should remember, what they
uniformly and universally forget, that we are not invited, upon the
rising of the curtain to behold a cosmorama, or picture of the world,
but a representation of that part of it called Vanity Fair. What its
just limits are-how far its poisonous purlieus reach--how much of the
world's air is tainted by it, is a question which every thoughtful man
will ask himself, with a shudder, and look sadly around, to answer. If
the sentimental objectors rally again to the charge, and declare that,
if we wish to improve the world, its virtuous ambition must be piqued
and stimulated by making the shining heights of "the ideal" more
radiant; we reply, that none shall surpass us in honoring the men
whose creations of beauty inspire and instruct mankind. But if they
benefit the world, it is no less true that a vivid apprehension of the
depths into which we are sunken or may sink, nerves the soul's courage
quite as much as the alluring mirage of the happy heights we may
attain. "To hold the mirror up to Nature," is still the most potent
method of shaming sin and strengthening virtue.

If "Vanity Fair" is a satire, what novel of society is not? Are
"Vivian Grey," and "Pelham," and the long catalogue of books
illustrating English, or the host of Balzacs, Sands, Sues, and Dumas,
that paint French society, any less satires? Nay, if you should catch
any dandy in Broadway, or in Pall-Mall, or upon the Boulevards, this
very morning, and write a coldly true history of his life and actions,
his doings and undoings, would it not be the most scathing and
tremendous satire?--if by satire you mean the consuming melancholy of
the conviction, that the life of that pendant to a moustache, is an
insult to the possible life of a man?

We have read of a hypocrisy so thorough, that it was surprised you
should think it hypocritical; and we have bitterly thought of the
saying, when hearing one mother say of another mother's child, that
she had "made a good match," because the girl was betrothed to a
stupid boy whose father was rich. The remark was the key of our
social feeling.

Let us look at it a little, and, first of all, let the reader consider
the criticism, and not the critic. We may like very well, in our
individual capacity, to partake of the delicacies prepared by our
hostess's _chef_, we may not be adverse to _pate_, and myriad _objets
de gout_, and if you caught us in a corner at the next ball, putting
away a fair share of _dinde aux truffes_, we know you would have at us,
in a tone of great moral indignation, and wish to know why we sneaked
into great houses, eating good suppers, and drinking choice wines,
and then went away with an indigestion, to write dyspeptic disgusts
at society.

We might reply that it is necessary to know something of a subject
before writing about it, and that if a man wished to describe the
habits of South Sea Islanders, it is useless to go to Greenland; we
might also confess a partiality for _pate_, and a tenderness for
_truffes_, and acknowledge that, considering our single absence
would not put down extravagant, pompous parties, we were not strong
enough to let the morsels drop into unappreciating mouths; or we might
say, that if a man invited us to see his new house, it would not be
ungracious nor insulting to his hospitality, to point out whatever
weak parts we might detect in it, nor to declare our candid
conviction, that it was built upon wrong principles and could not
stand. He might believe us if we had been in the house, but he
certainly would not, if we had never seen it. Nor would it be a very
wise reply upon his part, that we might build a better if we didn't
like that. We are not fond of David's pictures, but we certainly could
never paint half so well; nor of Pope's poetry, but posterity will
never hear of our verses. Criticism is not construction, it is
observation. If we could surpass in its own way every thing which
displeased us, we should make short work of it, and instead of showing
what fatal blemishes deform our present society, we should present a
specimen of perfection, directly.

[Illustration]

We went to the brilliant ball. There was too much of everything. Too
much light, and eating, and drinking, and dancing, and flirting, and
dressing, and feigning, and smirking, and much too many people. Good
taste insists first upon fitness. But why had Mrs. Potiphar given this
ball? We inquired industriously, and learned it was because she did
not give one last year. Is it then essential to do this thing
biennially? inquired we with some trepidation. "Certainly," was the
bland reply, "or society will forget you." Everybody was unhappy at
Mrs. Potiphar's, save a few girls and boys, who danced violently all
the evening. Those who did not dance walked up and down the rooms as
well as they could, squeezing by non-dancing ladies, causing them to
swear in their hearts as the brusque broadcloth carried away the light
outworks of gauze and gossamer. The dowagers, ranged in solid
phalanx, occupied all the chairs and sofas against the wall, and
fanned themselves until supper-time, looking at each other's diamonds,
and criticising the toilettes of the younger ladies, each narrowly
watching her peculiar Polly Jane, that she did not betray too much
interest in any man who was not of a certain fortune. It is the cold,
vulgar truth, madam, nor are we in the slightest degree
exaggerating. Elderly gentlemen, twisting single gloves in a very
wretched manner, came up and bowed to the dowagers, and smirked, and
said it was a pleasant party, and a handsome house, and then clutched
their hands behind them, and walked miserably away, looking as affable
as possible. And the dowagers made a little fun of the elderly
gentlemen, among themselves, as they walked away.

Then came the younger non-dancing men--a class of the community who
wear black cravats and waistcoats, and thrust their thumbs and
forefingers in their waistcoat pockets, and are called "talking men."
Some of them are literary, and affect the philosopher; have, perhaps,
written a book or two, and are a small species of lion to very young
ladies. Some are of the _blase_ kind; men who affect the
extremest elegance, and are reputed "so aristocratic," and who care
for nothing in particular, but wish they had not been born gentlemen,
in which case they might have escaped ennui. These gentlemen stand
with hat in hand, and coats and trowsers most unexceptionable. They
are the "so gentlemanly" persons of whom one hears a great deal, but
which seems to mean nothing but cleanliness. Vivian Grey and Pelham
are the models of their ambition, and they succeed in being
Pendennis. They enjoy the reputation of being "very clever," and "very
talented fellows," "smart chaps," etc., but they refrain from proving
what is so generously conceded. They are often men of a certain
cultivation. They have travelled, many of them,--spending a year or
two in Paris, and a month or two in the rest of Europe. Consequently
they endure society at home, with a smile, and a shrug, and a graceful
superciliousness, which is very engaging. They are perfectly at home,
and they rather despise Young America, which, in the next room, is
diligently earning its invitation. They prefer to hover about the
ladies who did not come out this season, but are a little used to the
world, with whom they are upon most friendly terms, and who criticise
together very freely all the great events in the great world of
fashion.

These elegant Pendennises we saw at Mrs. Potiphar's, but not without a
sadness which can hardly be explained. They had been boys once, all of
them, fresh and frank-hearted, and full of a noble ambition. They had
read and pondered the histories of great men; how they resolved, and
struggled, and achieved. In the pure portraiture of genius, they had
loved and honored noble women, and each young heart was sworn to truth
and the service of beauty. Those feelings were chivalric and
fair. Those boyish instincts clung to whatever was lovely, and
rejected the specious snare, however graceful and elegant. They
sailed, new knights, upon that old and endless crusade against
hypocrisy and the devil, and they were lost in the luxury of Corinth,
nor longer seek the difficult shores beyond. A present smile was worth
a future laurel. The ease of the moment was worth immortal
tranquillity. They renounced the stern worship of the unknown God, and
acknowledged the deities of Athens. But the seal of their shame is
their own smile at their early dreams, and the high hopes of their
boyhood, their sneering infidelity of simplicity, their skepticism of
motives and of men. Youths, whose younger years were fervid with the
resolution to strike and win, to deserve, at least, a gentle
remembrance, if not a dazzling fame, are content to eat, and drink,
and sleep well; to go to the opera and all the balls; to be known as
"gentlemanly," and "aristocratic," and "dangerous," and "elegant;" to
cherish a luxurious and enervating indolence, and to "succeed," upon
the cheap reputation of having been "fast" in Paris. The end of such
men is evident enough from the beginning. They are snuffed out by a
"great match," and become an appendage to a rich woman; or they
dwindle off into old roues, men of the world in sad earnest, and not
with elegant affectation, _blase_; and as they began Arthur
Pendennises, so they end the Major. But, believe it, that old fossil
heart is wrung sometimes by a mortal pang, as it remembers those
squandered opportunities and that lost life.

From these groups we passed into the dancing-room. We have seen
dancing in other countries, and dressing. We have certainly never seen
gentlemen dance so easily, gracefully and well as the American. But
the _style_ of dancing, in its whirl, its rush, its fury, is only
equalled by that of the masked balls at the French Opera, and the
balls at the _Salle Valentino_, the _Jardin Mabille_, the
_Chateau Rouge_, and other favorite resorts of Parisian Grisettes
and Lorettes. We saw a few young men looking upon the dance very
soberly, and, upon inquiry, learned that they were engaged to certain
ladies of the corps-de-ballet. Nor did we wonder that the spectacle of
a young woman whirling in a _decollete_ state, and in the embrace
of a warm youth, around a heated room, induced a little sobriety upon
her lover's face, if not a sadness in his heart. Amusement,
recreation, enjoyment! There are no more beautiful things. But this
proceeding falls under another head. We watch the various toilettes of
these bounding belles. They were rich and tasteful. But a man at our
elbow, of experience and shrewd observation, said, with a sneer, for
which we called him to account, "I observe that American ladies are so
rich in charms that they are not at all chary of them. It is certainly
generous to us miserable blackcoats. But, do you know, it strikes me
as a generosity of display that must necessarily leave the donor
poorer in maidenly feeling." We thought ourselves cynical, but this
was intolerable; and in a very crisp manner we demanded an apology.

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