Abundance, A Novel of Marie Antionette

by Sena Jeter Naslund

  Clear and fresh, their speeches of welcome ring out in the spring air. At the end, I speak a few words of thanks and of appreciation for the beauty of the city and of the celebration. My words carry for some distance into the crowd, and then I see people turning around to tell those behind them what I have said, and those, in turn, turn around and tell the people behind them, so that like a ripple the content of my sentences is conveyed outward, as far as my eye can see.

  DO SO MUCH GOOD to the French people that they can say that I have sent them an angel, my mother, through her maternal tears, bade me. I have begun. Already, with much naturalness—for it is also my own desire—I have loved them.

  With the nobility, I feel somewhat less at ease. Though entertained quite regally at the episcopal palace of the Cardinal Louis Constantin de Rohan, uncle to the young prince who dared to compare me to a bunch of cherries within my hearing, I am shocked by the lavishness of this family. They use the resources of the church as though its income were their own. In the morning I find myself more exhausted than refreshed by their tireless conversation about the importance of the de Rohan family, but I ask to hear Mass before continuing my travels. Prince Starhemberg armed me against their pretensions by whispering to me privately that Prince Louis, the nephew who is in his thirties, has already established a reputation for profligacy.

  At the door of the great cathedral of Strasbourg, I am greeted not by the cardinal but by his nephew preening in his purple clerical robes as the coadjutor of the diocese. He is an ambitious young man. I hope he never inherits his uncle’s position as cardinal. Although he makes a flowing speech to welcome me, I do not believe in his sincerity. I can tell he knows that I doubt him, for he ends his address by complimenting my mother, believing that I cannot fail to be won over by his praise of her: “You will become for the French the living image of the beloved Empress, admired by all of Europe for many years and whose reputation will continue to be venerated forever. Because of you, the spirit of Maria Theresa of Austria will become united with that of the Bourbons of France.”

  I bow my head with gracious gravity, but the gesture is calculated to hide the incredulity that must be registered on my face. Once inside the cathedral, I can barely see my way in the dim light. The prince takes my hand to guide me toward the altar to receive the sacraments. I can feel the jeweled rings on his soft fingers. It is the hand of hypocrisy and immorality, and I feel besmirched by it.

  Nonetheless, before entering again the coach that is to bear me away, I experience a reluctance to leave this most hospitable town of Strasbourg. As I mount the step into the coach, upholstered this time in blue, my smile is steady; my heart quakes and trembles only a little. When I have seated myself, I close my eyes and burrow my nose into a pink bouquet of tiny early roses. I kiss the tiny faces of the roses.

  We begin to move. The whip crackles in the air to make the horses step more smartly. Last fall, when I was still only thirteen, I shed tears for a rose beside my bed that had died in the night. In the morning, the pretty thing had turned from pink to tan, and its head drooped down on its stem as though it were embarrassed by its mortality. I sympathize with the fragility of flowers.

  Sometimes I prefer to have about me flowers fashioned by thread, like these embroidered into the blue velvet upholstering the coach. And I love morning glories carved in marble mantels or sunflowers cast in metal, or blue iris represented in paint by skillful human fingers. The flowers of artifice are safe in all their prettiness.

  The lovely lives of real flowers are short.

  INSIDE THE BLUE COACH

  We set off again on a journey that I am told will continue many days before we arrive at our destination. I am to meet my husband in the forest near Compiègne, deep within France, but still a day’s ride from the Court of Versailles. Then I shall be presented for the first time, in my person, to His Majesty Louis XV, and his grandson, the Dauphin, said to be quiet and awkward, but fair-haired like myself and very pleasing in his portrait.

  Because it showed him plowing, the first portrait of my Dauphin was rejected by the Empress. I, however, was charmed by the image of a king, like a farmer, at his plow. Perhaps he was only playing at plowing. I myself quite love to pretend, for it is the very best kind of diverting play. And pretending is so portable. One can pretend anywhere.

  When the Empress and I first saw the portrait of the Dauphin, his ambassador also presented me a diamond brooch, which I promptly pinned to my dress, just outside my heart, to show my willingness to be wed with Louis Auguste. I said, “Already he is close to my heart,” and my mother was surprised and most pleased with the appropriateness of my comment, which we both knew would be repeated when the ambassador returned to the Court of Versailles.

  As this coach sways and rocks forward, I ask my companions about the pleasures of the Dauphin, and they say he likes to pick locks and to fashion new locks. And he likes to hunt. I myself love to ride.

  When Charlotte left Vienna for her wedding trip, she stopped the coach to leap out and embrace me and to cry over me because she was leaving. At home, when one of us got sick, so would the other, to keep her company. In our portraits, one can scarcely tell Charlotte and me apart, though people say I am a little prettier. I don’t think so, nor do I want to be. She is my darling, and my mother says I may still write to her, but our letters should be channeled through Vienna.

  When I was married at home, ceremonially, in a gown of glittering silver that spread behind me like a wing, my brother, the graceful Ferdinand, substituted for Louis Auguste and represented the groom. I represented myself. At the altar in the Church of the Augustine Friars, when I knelt with Ferdinand, most seriously, I hoped he would wink, or at least smile. A little round of gold slid down the knuckles of my finger. I rolled the ring over and over like a tiny wheel on the axle of my finger.

  In the old days, custom required that witnesses watch as the bride and proxy groom climbed into bed together. And then! Then! Yes, he was required to cock his knee and place it between her thighs! I would have laughed out loud to have brother Ferdinand nudge his knee against me, but this charade is not required in modern times. It is comforting to think that sometimes ridiculous practices are abandoned, but by what means? Perhaps there is a gradual erosion. I know that water can wear away a stone.

  My mother has schooled me about the marriage art, and I know well what organ is represented by a knee between the thighs of a bride. But I cannot imagine what that organ resembles. Certainly not a knee, even a small one, or I would have noticed such a shape in men’s trousers. My mother said, His part will become like a finger—somewhat enlarged, surprisingly firm, straight and rigid.

  All depends on the wife, on her being willing, sweet, and amusing. The Empress herself has instructed me.

  WHAT OF THE LIGHT?

  This carriage takes me farther and farther from home. When on the island in the Rhine, I threw myself into the arms of the Comtesse de Noailles, the result was only a lecture on etiquette.

  I feel only sorrow that I have failed to please. Sorrow—and not resentment—for my mother says that resentment is the most readily visible of all the sinful emotions, but sorrow can enhance one’s sweetness and appeal. Resentment, the Empress says, is like a snake that nests in the bosom, and it can turn and strike her who harbors it.

  Outside the carriage window, beyond the veil of dust rising up from our wheels, the countryside is full of fields of green-growing grain. I too would like to stretch and feel green. In the fields, I see a million Marie Antoinettes spread around me, like loyal subjects basking and stretching in the golden sun. When we roll into the shadowy forest again, the dark green leaves reflect spots and glances of brightness as though coated here and there with silver.

  Is light more silvery or gold?

  THE MAP TO MARRIAGE

  Behind us, in a long and jointed tail, are dozens of carriages, all part of the procession to Versailles. I’m sorry that they must breathe our dust. I sigh. Sometimes, as we go
round a curve, I see the lead horses, their great flanks and flowing manes and tails. Because they are changed frequently, I have no favorites, but I especially enjoy a large, dappled gray pulling us forward with his easy strength. For countless hours at home, I could study Clara the dangerous rhinoceros or watch Hilda the innocent hippopotamus lolling in our menagerie that our father populated with the most exotic animals from distant continents.

  To see a creature so rare as slick, wet Hilda makes the whole scalp crinkle with pleasure, as though the brain is about to sneeze. To best give delight, my dear Papa used to tell me, one forgets who she is and simply floats and shines, like Hilda in her element.

  Inside, this blue box is always the same, and I can scarcely enjoy the nobility of the trees for Madame de Noailles’s droning away like a musette, or as we would say in German, like a Dudelsack. It makes me miserable to think that she is my most honored lady-in-waiting and yet so ordinary, so tedious. Yes, she is a Dudelsack. I doubt if she has any talents to enliven her soul.

  The landscape seems to my eye more French at every turn of the wheels of this blue upholstered coach. The carriage wheels will roll down many days, with stops along the way, before I meet the Dauphin and the King. It is the King above all others whom I must please (but my husband, Monsieur le Dauphin, as well, of course), so says my mother, for the King has the right to send me back if he chooses.

  As we jiggle along, I draw from a soft red morocco case all tooled with gold a map of the entire route from Schönbrunn to the heart of France. I carefully spread the map across my lap and study those places marked for me to note. I am to meet the King and his grandson, my husband, at a place where a far end of this very road crosses a river, at the Bridge of Berne, in the forest of Compiègne where the King and the Dauphin like to hunt.

  I put my right finger on the map to keep my real place and my left finger on the Bridge of Berne, far ahead. I practice moving my right finger along the road drawn on the map till the right finger meets the left one. It appears that such a distance can be traversed and such a meeting can occur.

  But will they love me?

  THE NUNNERY

  On our journey, we stop to visit Madame Louise, a nun, and the youngest of the Dauphin’s aunts; the other three aunts (all daughters of Louis XV, all unmarried) await me. But Madame Louise, like myself, has herself changed her name—to become Sister Thérèse Augustine. She too has been born anew, but as a nun living in a Carmelite convent.

  I like her face, framed with starched linen of the whitest white. She has kind eyes.

  But I feel sorry for her locked away from the world. I speak to her of our journey, of the beauty of the chestnut trees in bloom and how the creamy panicles stand among the leaves like candelabra. I wonder if she ever considers her life to be a mistake.

  When I am about to leave the convent, escorted by Count Starhemberg, Sister Thérèse suddenly draws me back to her. She smooths my cheek with her holy hand and then whispers in my ear, “You are the most perfect princess as to face and figure.” She bends her face yet more closely to me, and I hear her wetting her lips with her tongue.

  “You have an air,” she breathes into my ear so softly that her words are like a pleasant dream, “all at once, of possessing grandeur, modesty, and sweetness.”

  In a swirl of black, she turns and floats down the crimson corridor. Those words, more precious than any diamond brooch, I pin to the inside of my heart.

  Inside the coach again, I vow, by the heavenly blue of the curtains that surround me, to try to be worthy of her terms: grandeur, which I owe my origins, my own royal blood, the gift of the Hapsburg dynasty, six hundred years old; modesty, which I owe my gender, as the descendant of Eve and as a mere human child of God; sweetness, which I owe to myself, because it is my true nature.

  Surely her three sisters, those aunts of the Dauphin who remain in the world and live at the Court of Versailles, will guide and love me. With new dedication to obedience, I remember my mother’s instruction to spend much time with Madame Adelaide, Madame Victoire, and Madame Sophie. These princesses, the Empress said, possess many virtues and talents; you are fortunate to have them; I hope you will behave so as to deserve their friendship.

  My mother also wrote the King a letter about me, already anticipating that I shall make many errors. Her intentions are excellent, but given her age, I pray you to exercise indulgence for any careless mistake.

  But I shall make no mistakes.

  IN THE FOREST OF COMPIÈGNE

  The horns of our entourage have sounded, and through the forest of Compiègne come the answering calls of France. I hear them again! They are present someplace in this wood. We rush forward, and so must they be rushing forward under the trees. Again and again the horns call to one another. Louder and louder as we grow closer, and it seems my heart is sitting on my tongue thumping away like a drum. I love to feel my beating heart, the excitement—the life of life! But oh, in what golden voices the trumpets speak!

  Their royal coach, the first coach—all magnificence—containing I am told the King of France, his grandson, and his three aunts rushes into view! Behind them follow a great spectacle of colors, coaches, the guards, the light horsemen, musketeers, all with drums, trumpets, timbale, and oboes with their nasal bleat.

  Suddenly we stop. We have arrived.

  A long, ceremonial carpet is stretched over the forest floor from their carriage to ours. At my coach door stands the Duc de Choiseul, who has arranged my marriage, and will be presented to me by Prince Starhemberg, whose honest eyes I have failed to appreciate adequately, despite the length of our journey together.

  My hand shakes as I balance my body, so richly clad, in the open door and gather my skirts about me. Prince Starhemberg’s face is all seriousness (perhaps he is sad our journey is almost ended and now he must hand me over). I must not fling myself into the arms of anyone; I must preserve my poise and dignity.

  To Choiseul, whose smooth face is proud and pleased, I promptly speak my gratitude: “I shall never forget that you are responsible for my happiness!” My speech is not planned, but there it is: the exact truth of my heart emanating from my lips.

  “And your presence is the cause of the happiness of France,” he replies, and I smile at his pretty compliment.

  At the other end of the carpet, the King steps from his carriage, and others, but my gaze is all for him, said to be not only the most powerful but also the most handsome man in Europe and surely he is (how can he be sixty years of age?), with large but piercing eyes of passionate blackness and a large majestic nose. His eye is pleased with my face and figure. He likes me.

  Now I fly to him, fling myself upon my knees before him, my brother in royalty, my dear grandfather, who will be my papa, the King. Confused by his greatness, I cannot move, but quickly he takes me in his arms, raising me up and kissing me again and again on both cheeks. I can scarcely contain my joy at his fatherly proximity and the strong sincerity of his welcome. Modestly, I look down, but I have seen his eyes, his approval! To think, it is my own self, arrived, that he holds between his hands. I am encompassed by and have my being within the circle of his arms. With kindness that touches me to the quick, he calls me his dear daughter.

  In the forest, he stands as natural as any tree but gloriously majestic.

  Because I can scarcely embrace this moment as real, my spirit soars aloft and looks down on us from above; from up there I view throngs of people and carriages, banners and musical instruments—tiny, all of us—dabs of bright colors intermingled throughout the green of a woodsy tableau.

  The skin of the King is brushing my own cheek. It is I myself standing in the forest, and his kind kisses are claiming me as daughter, as Dauphine, and the hope of his kingdom for its future peace and prosperity. The honor and joy of this meeting! The distinction of his person and yet his friendliness!

  And here beside the King stands my future, the Dauphin. He is shy and clumsy. I see the truth of that characterization at once. The li
ds of his eyes are heavy, and he seems drugged with sleep. He lacks the courage to enter this moment; but, never mind, I give him the trust of my uplifted face—for he is quite tall—and in a moment he is reassured. He leans forward and kisses me on both cheeks. His lips are large but tender and careful. He straightens up and is all awkwardness again.

  He can find no words to say to me. His eyes lift to the forest: how he wishes he were there in reckless pursuit; yes, hunting is his passion, as I have been told.

  These woods must be full of game, I murmur and see the surprise in his eyes. I have no fear. I shall win his heart by proving that I would be his friend, and to him, above all others, I wish that my presence will bring pleasure. I am for him.

  Next are introduced the three graces, the daughters of the King and the aunts of the Dauphin, who also stand beside the carriage. Madame Adelaide, they say, is a devotee of music, as I myself have always been, but she is not graceful, and I am surprised at the heaviness of her body. (Louis Auguste, too, is much heavier than his miniature suggested; his eyebrows are fiercely hairy and dark, and his countenance suggests nothing of the liveliness in the King’s dark and luminous eyes.)

  Madame Victoire, even more musical and one who plays the harp, as I do, might well have been pretty once, but I look at her and recall that her father’s nickname for her is “Sow.” Already the King calls me fairy and Flora. As his gaze passes quickly over these ladies to settle upon me, I realize the great advantage of possessing a light and graceful form: in it lies power.

  Lastly is presented Madame Sophie, who carries her head tilted to one side and looks frightened, as though she might like to run away. To her, I give the reassurance of my most gracious smile: from me, she has nothing to fear. It is unkind that she was nicknamed “Grub” in her childhood, according to my sister Christine. My aunts look at me and think of me, I fear, as Austrian, foreign, but my mother has told me to rely on their guidance, and I shall nestle against them, as harmless as thistledown.