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THE EDUCATION OF A DAUGHTER. - The Works of Voltaire, Vol. X The Dramatic Works Part 1 (Zaire, Caesar, The Prodigal, Prefaces) and Part II (The Lisbon Earthquake and Other Poems).

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THE EDUCATION OF A DAUGHTER. - Voltaire, The Works of Voltaire, Vol. X The Dramatic Works Part 1 (Zaire, Caesar, The Prodigal, Prefaces) and Part II (The Lisbon Earthquake and Other Poems). [1901]

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From The Works of Voltaire, A Contemporary Version, (New York: E.R. DuMont, 1901), A Critique and Biography by John Morley, notes by Tobias Smollett, trans. William F. Fleming. Vol. X The Dramatic Works Part 1 (Zaire, Caesar, The Prodigal, Prefaces) and Part II (The Lisbon Earthquake and Other Poems).

Author: Voltaire
Translator: William F. Fleming
Notes: Tobias Smollett

Part of: The Works of Voltaire. A Contemporary Version, in 21 vols.

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THE EDUCATION OF A DAUGHTER.

Winter still lasts, my friends, and my greatest delight
Is by telling long stories to amuse you at night.
Let us talk of dame Gertrude, I ne’er yet knew a prude
With charms more attractive or more various endued;
Though thirty-six years had passed over her head,
The graces and loves were not yet from her fled.
Though grave in behavior, she was ne’er seen to frown,
Her eyes had much lustre, yet she ever looked down;
Her breast white as snow was with gauze covered o’er,
Through which curious eyes could its beauties explore.
A few touches of art, and a little red lead,
Gave a delicate glow to her natural red:
Her person neglecting more brightly she shone,
Her dress struck the eye by its neatness alone.
On her toilet a Bible was always displayed,
And near Massillon was a pot of paint laid;
The devotions for Lent she still read o’er and o’er,
But what made zeal in her respected the more,
Was that she in woman excused each rash action,
For Gertrude the devout was no friend of detraction.
This dame had one daughter alone, seventeen
Was her age; a more bright beauty never was seen;
Of this lovely creature Isabel was the name,
More fair than her mother, but her beauty the same.
They appeared like Minerva and like Venus the fair,
To breed up her daughter was Gertrude’s chief care.
Like a flower newly blown she her child kept a stranger
To this wicked world’s contagion and danger.
Cards, public diversions, and gay conversation
To each innocent soul direful baits of temptation,
The true snares of Satan which the saints ever fly,
Were pleasures which Gertrude’s house ne’er durst come nigh.
Gertrude had a chapel whereto to repair,
When minded to heaven to put up a prayer;
There her leisure she oft passed in good meditations,
And her soul breathed to heaven in ejaculations.
Resplendent with richest of furniture shone
This retreat, to the eye of the public unknown:
A pair of stairs where the profane ne’er durst tread,
To the garden and from it into the street led.
You all know that in summer the sun’s scorching ray
Makes night oft more agreeable far than the day;
By the moon’s silver light then the heavens are o’erspread,
And girls take no pleasure to slumber in bed.
Isabel, whilst with pleasing pain throbbed her soft breast,
(As girls at seventeen can’t be always at rest)
Passed the night under shelter of some cooling shade,
Yet scarce ever thought for what use it was made
Unmoved she saw nature, and never admired,
But rose, went and came, just as caprice inspired;
No object impression could make on her mind,
She knew not how to think, yet to think was inclined.
At the chapel she chanced to hear one day some stir,
That moment she felt curiosity’s spur;
No suspicion she had which could justly raise fear,
Yet trembling and with hesitation drew near;
One foot putting forward, on the stairs she ascended,
One hand she held back, and the other extended;
With eye fixed, outstretched neck, and heart throbbing fast,
Herself she exerted to hear all that passed.
The first thing she hears is the voice of soft anguish,
Words half interrupted, sighs of lovers that languish.
“My mother’s oppressed by some pain or some care,”
Cried she, “in her troubles I should have my share.”
Approaching she heard these soft words, “Dear Andrew,
For the bliss of my life I’m indebted to you.”
Isabella this hearing took heart, and she cried:
“My mother is well, I should be satisfied.”
At length Isabella retires to her bed,
But for sighing can’t sleep, strange things run in her head:
Bliss Andrew bestows, but how, by what art?
’Tis sure a rare talent happiness to impart.
Thus she argued the case by herself all the night,
And impatiently wished the return of the light.
Isabel the next morning showed some inquietude,
Her concern was quickly perceived by Gertrude.
To Isabel silence proved a task too severe,
To ask prying questions she could not forbear.
“Who’s this Andrew,” said she, “madam, who’s said to know
The way upon woman true bliss to bestow?”
Gertrude started, as justly it might be supposed
That all was discovered, yet herself she composed:
Then with perfect assurance to her daughter replied,
“O’er every family a saint should preside;
I’ve made choice of St. Andrew, to him I’m devoted,
By him is my temporal welfare promoted:
I invoke him in secret, his assistance implore,
He often appears to me whilst I adore;
There does not one saint in all Paradise dwell,
Who in holiness can my St. Andrew excel.”
A well-shaped young man whom we Denis shall name,
Soon of fair Isabella enamored became.
From Isabel Denis most kind treatment found,
And their loves with enjoyment were frequently crowned.
Gertrude to every stir in her turn giving ear,
Chanced the anthems sung by Isabella to hear.
And the prayers which she made whilst she Denis caressed,
In ecstasy straining him to her soft breast.
Surprising our lovers, Gertrude was enraged:
Her passion the daughter by this answer assuaged:
“Dear mother, excuse me, for patron I claim
St. Denis, as your saint St. Andrew you name.”
Gertrude then grown wiser greater happiness knew,
Retaining her lover, she to saints bade adieu,
She dropped the vain project of deceiving mankind:
They’re not to be cheated, for Envy’s not blind;
With piercing eye Envy will see through your mask;
To conjecture is easy, to feign a hard task;
To live free is a blessing, but all pleasures are faint
To the wretch who lives under perpetual constraint.
The fair Isabel lived no longer retired,
In charms she increased, by the town was admired.
Those pleasures which Gertrude had excluded before,
She agreed as companions of love to restore:
There the most polite people in joy passed their days,
Naught is found in good company undeserving of praise.