A story: One day a group of Egyptian high-society ladies gathered at the Potiphar residence. The lady of the house, in true hospitable fashion, served citrus fruits and set out knives to peel them. Suddenly in walked Joseph. And so moved and bedazzled were the ladies, they went into a state of shock . . . and cut their hands to the bone. This is what I must endure day after day, hour after hour, breathlessly moaned Madame Potiphar.

Was Joseph aware of his effect on the opposite sex? Probably. He dressed like a dandy, combed his hair according to the latest style and carefully developed a gait meant to attract attention. He obviously wished to please.

One does not provoke a woman unless one wants to. One does not love a woman—or a man—against one’s will. Every relationship is a two-way affair. Joseph knew when to desist from his flirtatious and amorous maneuvers, Madame Potiphar did not; she was determined to seduce him. The Midrash tells us how: The garments she wore in the morning, she did not wear midday, and those she wore midday, she hung away come evening. And yet, in spite of this non-stop fashion show, Joseph resisted.

Did he really? Yes, that at least is sure. But from what moment on? Here opinions vary. Certain texts say: from the very beginning to the end he never knew temptation; a Tzaddik like him is above passion and lust. But then there are sources that admit to an awakening of desire on his part; they suggest that he may have let himself be carried away somewhat, perhaps even quite far, but that the Tzaddik in him intervened in time to save him.

Scripture says that Joseph had come to “carry out his duty” in the empty house. What duty? There are two versions. Rav says that the reference is to his customary domestic tasks. Shmuel is skeptical, he says no, the work in question was of a different, more private nature. One passage in the Midrash describes Joseph and Potiphar’s wife in bed, naked. But then what happened? At the critical moment Joseph thought of his father and that brought him back to reality. He jumped out of bed and ran.

Another text claims that at first the beautiful and loving lady tried to discuss the matter, professing her readiness to do anything if only Joseph would give in. Here is part of their dialogue. Joseph: No, I cannot, I will not.—She: But why not?—He: I am afraid.—She: Afraid? Of what? —Joseph: Of your husband.—She: That’s nothing to worry about. I’ll simply kill him.—Joseph (in a cold sweat): No! What are you trying to do to me? Turn me not only into a rake but an assassin as well?

This rather bizarre and amusing scene obviously troubled our Midrashic narrators. It seems too unbelievable, one has the feeling the text must be incomplete, that somehow it conceals something unpleasant. Joseph could not have been as innocent as they would like us to believe. Or as virtuous. Let us listen to a conversation between a matrona and Rabbi Yossi. This sophisticated and witty woman was incredulous: How could a boy bekol khomo, in the midst of puberty, his blood afire, conceivably have surmounted his desire, his instincts, especially when faced with an experienced, passionate and stubborn woman such as Madame Potiphar? The matrona was too cognizant of human weakness not to have doubts. And Rabbi Yossi, embarrassed, found nothing better to fall back on than . . . faith, the irrefutable argument. He trusted in the veracity of Scripture. The Bible does not mislead us, he told the matrona; it conceals nothing, distorts nothing; it reveals all the misdeeds of all our greatest men. It tells of Yehuda’s mistakes; why then would it lie about Joseph? If he had indeed succumbed to passion, the Torah would have said so.