Marie Antoinette: Princess of Versailles, Austria - France, 1769

by Kathryn Lasky

  Then we sat by the side of the fountain’s pool and looked up at the stars. Mama knows so much. She pointed out several constellations, and she tried to explain to me how ships can navigate by tracking their movement against that of the stars. But I could not understand it. It seemed like very complicated mathematics. I have been taught very little of mathematics. I wondered why Mama knows so much about such things and I so little. Then she said, “Well, that was so refreshing that I think I am ready for more work! Bissy, bring the red lacquer box to my chamber and I shall read a few of those papers before I retire. Good night, Antonia. Good night, Theresa.” And she lumbered off in the moonlight. Her immense shadow stretched clear across the terrace. And I thought I heard her muttering to herself that rude rhyme about Freddy. You know the one:

  Bend over, Freddy of Prussia

  Let the Empress take aim

  Your butt will fly to Russia

  Your brains to sunny Spain

  I wonder if Mama is planning another war. I hope not. At least not before my wedding.

  July 28, 1769

  I was called to the Gloriette for a meeting with Mama this morning. Usually when I come I stand throughout the meeting, as do all of Mama’s subjects, but this time she ordered a chair fetched for me and placed it on the other side of the desk. No one except my brother Joseph, who now rules with Mama as Emperor, ever sits opposite the Empress in her offices. This is most unusual. But it suddenly struck me why. Last night Mama and I had waded together, splashed with bare calves and dripping nightrails in the fountain. It was fun and very frivolous. This is Mama’s way of saying that my position is changing. That perhaps we can do such antics very privately here at Schönbrunn but that — yes, I saw it in the way in which she fixed me in the glint of her eye. That said it all — We are rulers, Antonia. Majesty is required. And then she really did say it in so many words.

  “Antonia, when you go to France, you shall no longer be known as Antonia but as Marie Antoinette. Antonia is the name of a girl. Marie Antoinette is the name of a Queen.”

  P.S. I do not think Mama regrets wading in the fountain pool. Mama is not built for regret. It is not part of her. I think she just wants me to understand the difference between this kind of behavior, which must be kept private, and the conduct of a Queen, which is for the public.

  August 1, 1769

  We received new dispatches today concerning dining etiquette and protocol. And I am beginning to wonder if there can be any time for a private life at Versailles. It seems that it is customary for the French Royal Family to take their evening supper in public several days of the week and that people are admitted to the galleries above the dining salon so they might look down and watch the King, his daughters, and his grandchildren dine! There can be up to one thousand people watching. I think this might be upsetting to my digestion. I turned to Schnitzel, who was with me in my chamber, and said, “Dear Schnitzy, how would you feel about having to eat in front of all those people?” He actually barked. I took it as “I wouldn’t like it.”

  August 2, 1769

  Titi came to me very concerned today. She said that Mama has instructed her to call me Marie Antoinette and she finds it very uncomfortable. She said it is like a shoe that doesn’t fit. So I asked, doesn’t fit you or me? And she said, “Neither one of us.” It is much too long a name for such a short person, she said. So I told her to call me Antonia in private and use Marie Antoinette only when the Empress is present. “But what about Tony?” she asked, for she often calls me Tony. I assured her she could still do that in private. I might have added that I hope she does indeed call me that in private, for it is almost as if I can see my private world disappearing, simply melting away, and what shall be left? And who shall be left? Will I recognize this Marie Antoinette, Dauphine, wife of Louis Auguste Bourbon, future Queen of France? Who is she?

  August 3, 1769

  Mama has decided to give a grand ball after our return to Vienna. We go back to the Hofburg Palace in September, and she says it will take a month to prepare for the ball. She has sent a dispatch to the Court of Versailles to see if the modiste Madam Rose Bertin could create a wonderful gown for me.

  August 4, 1769

  I shall say it outright. I dread the end of summer. This is perhaps the last time I shall ever be at Schönbrunn. Every time we do something, I think this is one of the last times I might do this — the last time we shall all picnic together, the last time I shall race my horse through the woodlands.

  August 27, 1769

  It has been more than three weeks since I have written. You see, dear diary, we put on a play and my toe became infected from all the dancing I did in it. The infection crept up my foot and my ankle, and my leg began to swell. Indeed, if I thought Mama’s calf looked like a ham that night when we were wading, my calf looked like a bigger one. I was beset with fever and even became delirious. I have been bled countless times, and every poultice known in the Empire has been applied to my poor toe. Every day comes an endless stream of Court physicians and apothecaries with new remedies. Well, finally something worked, and the infection began to recede and the swelling went down. As soon as Mama knew I would live, she gave me a scolding such as I have never had. It made the mud-splattering of earlier this summer pale by comparison! She said that we must keep all this a big secret. If the French Court knew that I had been sick, or as she said, so careless, they would break the betrothal contract. She told me how I’ve put myself, the Empire, and France in mortal danger. Once more I could feel The Monster’s breath at my back. I finally had to close my eyes and pretend I was too weak to listen to any more. But to think, all this because of a little blister on my toe. Mama finally took leave. As soon as I heard the door slam, I whispered to myself, “It was still worth it.” I didn’t at that time realize that Elizabeth was in the room. She came over to my bed and grasped my hand, and for the first time since she contracted the smallpox, Elizabeth raised her veil. Her lovely violet eyes were bleary with tears. She looked straight into my eyes and said, “It would not have been worth it if you had died, sister.” Then she smiled that brilliant smile and I drew her poor pockmarked face to mine and kissed her all over her dead pitted cheeks.

  August 30, 1769

  I am still quite weak from my time in bed. And I find myself increasingly nervous about my future. There has yet to be any letter from Louis Auguste himself or any picture. Maybe if I could see his face it would ease my worries. I might know that I am heading toward a friend. The word husband to me does not have much meaning, really. Husband, wife — they seem like words Mama thinks up to secure her alliances.

  When Caroline went to marry the King of Naples, I felt so alone, so abandoned, but it was after she left that I became closer to Elizabeth. I have made a true friend of my sister. But I shall in some months have to leave her. It seems like too much of life is saying good-bye. It would be so much easier if I thought there was the chance of a true friend waiting for me in France.

  September 3, 1769

  I am so stupid. I complain that Louis Auguste has never written me, but then again, have I written him? No. It is true that my portrait was sent but that is not the same thing. I am going to write Louis Auguste a letter. I am so much better at letter writing than I was a year ago before I started keeping you, dear diary. I am going to start working on it now. It might take me a few days. And of course tomorrow we leave, as the Court returns to Vienna.

  September 9, 1769

  Hofburg Palace, Vienna

  So much confusion. I hardly had any time to try writing my letter. But here is my first attempt — actually it is my second. I am going to copy it out here for practice.

  My Dear Louis Auguste,

  It is with great warmth that I write you. I am so pleased to be coming to France to become your wife, the Dauphine. I hope that I shall be a wonderful wife to you as well as a wonderful friend. I hope that we shall have many good times together. I am told you love
to hunt. Well, I love to ride. I can ride astride or sidesaddle, whichever you think is most fitting. I like to play cards. I like to dance. I am not much of a reader, but I am trying to encourage the reading habit in myself, as I feel it is valuable. I love planning and giving plays. It is something that I would enjoy at Versailles.

  I hope that you will find the time to write me and tell me some of the things that you enjoy. If you enjoy something that I know not about, I shall attempt to learn it. I want to share everything with you and we shall through this become great companions.

  Faithfully yours,

  September 10, 1769

  I sent off the letter today through the regular dispatch that goes to Versailles once every ten days. I like thinking about my little letter traveling across the Empire to the border of France, through rutted roads, into valleys, across rivers.

  September 11, 1769

  I am furious! I feel like a fool. For an entire day I had been thinking about my small letter to Louis Auguste traveling across the Empire to France. Well, guess where it went? To Mama. She called me in this morning to discuss the Grand Ball for October. The new poupée has arrived for my gown. First she let me look at it and get all excited and then, so very casually, she said, “Oh, my dear, and here is the letter you wrote to Louis Auguste. It has my corrections. So if you will recopy it, we shall send it in the next dispatch to Versailles.” I was stunned as she handed me the letter. My mouth dropped. She looked at me and said, “Marie Antoinette, that is a most unattractive position for your jaw to be hanging in. Please shut it.” I began to shut my mouth and managed to gasp, “Mama . . . ,” but she cut me off. “I must say, Marie Antoinette, that your handwriting has improved greatly and your spelling is perfect. You have made great strides with Abbé de Vermond.” I took the letter and ran out of the room. Here it is in my diary. I have pasted it in.

  To his Royal Highness Louis Auguste, Dauphin

  I have wished for a long time to show Your Highness and His Majesty your grandfather my great regard and feelings. I am so pleased with the prospect of our impending marriage and the great alliance for peace it promises to bring to both our countries. It is with utmost sincerity that I can say that I shall honor our marriage with the greatest respect and affection.

  I look forward to the day when we can kneel beside each other and take our vows. Please convey to His Majesty your grandfather my most cordial wishes. You are both in my prayers constantly. I remain your very affectionate servant,

  Maria Antonia Josepha Johanna, Archduchess

  I do not know whether I have the heart to rewrite this letter. It is not me who speaks here. It is all Mama. Pure Mama. And if that is not enough, she gave me a whole sheaf of paper explaining her changes. I would at least have thought she would be pleased that I had signed the letter Marie Antoinette after her instructions that everyone here should begin calling me that, but no. Here is what she wrote. “You must sign yourself by your full Christian name. You are not Marie Antoinette yet! And we want to remind them constantly whom they are marrying and the implications of this marriage.”

  I want to reply to her, “Yes, Mama. I am not a person. I am not even yet a woman. I am a girl who also happens to be an empire. Empires do not have feelings. Empires do not have interests or hobbies like riding or dancing. Empires don’t go wading. Empires don’t make friends, just alliances.”

  October 11, 1769

  I have not written for a month. No heart. I am still feeling most dismal. But the Grand Ball approaches and Elizabeth has spoken sharply to me. So it is for Elizabeth that I am trying to make a good show of things. Almost every day Mama asked me when I was going to rewrite the letter. But I was sullen and often just shrugged my shoulders. Mama has no patience with sulking children. So what did Mama do in this case? She ignored me and wrote the letter herself and signed my name. This of course made me even madder. But now Elizabeth says I must get over it and get on with my life. So I am trying to look cheerful today when I go for the fitting of my gown for the ball. It is beautiful. Made of cloth of silver with teardrop pearls hanging in cascades along the flounces. I have already had many sessions with the hairdresser. He is designing something very special for the ball. It will involve at least two full switches and a dozen braids. Seamstresses are working on the silk flowers for my hair.

  October 14, 1769

  It has been a month since Mama wrote the letter supposedly from me to the Dauphin, but still no picture has arrived. I do not understand. Abbé de Vermond assures me that the Dauphin is, in his words, of a “pleasing countenance.” I am wondering what that really means. I think if he were handsome, I mean outright handsome, Abbé de Vermond would say. I do not really know any grown men or young men, whom I would say are outright handsome. Wait! Johan, the underkeeper of the menagerie at Schönbrunn, I think is outright handsome. However, perhaps not, for how can one really be that handsome if he is of low birth? I would think that impossible. It is an interesting question.

  October 17, 1769

  The Grand Ball is four days away. A large French delegation is expected. Do not expect me to write until after the ball. There is too much to be done between hairstyling and last fittings, and there is an entire new folio of etiquette from Versailles that Mama wants me to read over with her. Then there are extra sessions with Father Confessor. (Yes, can you believe it, Diary? Prayers are being said now, not exactly for the Grand Ball, but just for things in general.) At least three times a day my presence is demanded in Mama’s apartments, or if not that, a note comes from her with some tidbit of advice.

  Still no portrait from the Dauphin.

  October 23, 1769

  How good it feels to get back to you, dear diary. I believe in truth that you shall be my last refuge, my last bit of privacy on earth. I sit at my dressing table to write. Tonight was the Grand Ball. I have dismissed my chambermaids before getting undressed. I shall do it by myself. I need to be alone.

  There were over four thousand people there. Although they stood back respectfully, I could sense this pressing toward me. They wanted to see the next Dauphine, the future Queen of France. Every single eye in the Grand Ballroom was fastened on me. I have never been very good in mathematics, but I think that is many thousands, for if there are four thousand people and each person has two eyes, I suppose one just multiplies. So that must mean eight thousand eyes.

  It was so strange. I felt as if my clothing, my very skin, were being peeled from my bones. I started to tremble at first, but then some odd force seemed to grow within me and I was able to walk through the guests. It was almost as if magically I knew what to say, although I really knew few of the people personally. But words just came to me — a comment about a lady’s fan, a remark about the glorious weather, a word here, a word there — not of course too many. One should never be overly familiar, as Mama always says. I quickly grew accustomed to this role of mine. I heard more than once the word majestic whispered as I floated by. Yes, I did float. Noverre’s lessons are now forever embedded into my very feet.

  I look up now into the oval mirror and see barely a trace of the mud-splattered girl tearing through the woodland on her horse, or the barefoot girl wading at Schönbrunn. She is dissolving into the fountain’s mists. I have become what Mama set out for me to be. Majestic. A Dauphine and eventually a Queen. Perhaps I am majestic because I am nothing else. I lean forward to peer more closely at my image in my mirror. It is difficult. The wig weighs five pounds, and the gown itself is made of twenty-two yards of silk and has eight pounds of pearls. Yet I float. I am light. I am Mama’s dream. Dreams weigh nothing.

  October 24, 1769

  Mama sent a message that I was to have breakfast with her. This is very rare, for Mama usually signs papers and meets with ministers during her breakfast. She is so deft with her writing that she can eat and write and never drop a speck of porridge on the papers.

  She is most pleased with my deportment at the ball. She beam
ed all through breakfast. I have learned my lessons well, she exclaimed. And now that she realizes how well, and what a quick learner I am, she has ordered that I have even more lessons!

  This, of course, sounds like nonsense to an ordinary person, but it is typical of Mama. She pushes and pushes and pushes. I do not know how there will be enough hours in the days for all that she plans for me to do. But she insists as the wedding is barely six months away. Abbé de Vermond is to increase by one hour the time devoted to French civilization and history. Lulu is to increase by two hours my etiquette lessons. Presently I only have gambling instruction once a week, but Mama thinks twice is needed to show me the finer points of the game cavagnole, for she has found out that this is the favorite of Sophie, Victoire, and Adelaide, King Louis XV’s daughters.

  The best part is that I am to go to the Spanish Riding School every day. Mama wants me to learn the French way of sitting in the saddle from the riding master. Not sidesaddle. It is just a manner of riding astride where the weight is farther back. This I shall love. But goodness knows when I shall have time to write in your pages, dear diary.