Abundance, A Novel of Marie Antionette

by Sena Jeter Naslund

  Because I asked her with my direct questions, the Princess was forced to admit that you are failing to take good care of yourself, even in the matter of keeping your teeth clean. Your teeth are a major aspect of making a good impression, and you will recall that before you left Austria, we spent much time with them in straightening wires, something that became necessary expressly because you suddenly became, by the Grace of God and the untimely deaths of others, in line to marry the throne of France. Finding that you could neither read nor write in any language, we immediately set out to correct that situation as well. When you left Austria, your appearance was entirely presentable, even charming, though that is due more to your manner than your natural endowments.

  Teeth are a key point in the pantheon of beauty, and even more so is your figure, which the Princess reported under my insistent questions she found to be worse than ever. Madame, my dear daughter for whom I pray every day, must recall that you are now developing your shape. If you send me your measurement, I will have proper corsets made here for you. I believe those made in Paris are too stiff. I will send new corsets by courier…And the princess reports you are badly dressed, sometimes your clothes are awry, as though you have been romping in an unseemly fashion, and because all eyes are upon you, I have also received other news that your waist is misshapen and that your right shoulder is out of alignment.

  Now that you are fifteen, your body will change rapidly. You must always show the Dauphin good cheer. More caresses, my dear, more caresses!

  You have blessed my life. For fifteen years, my dear daughter has given me nothing but satisfaction. Mercy writes to me that on the morning of my birthday, you celebrated the day on your knees, in prayer, and I am deeply affected by your charming thought and good action which was the very best way to celebrate my birthday and the way that can only please me most. I was surprised that in your letters you yourself did not mention this sweet remembrance of me. I kiss you with all maternal tenderness and bless you, my dear daughter.

  Mercy’s reports always praise you and say that you have every attribute of docility and sweetness which will make all people love you, especially the King and the Dauphin, who so much enjoys your company. You must always follow Mercy’s advice, all of which is entirely for your own good, as is that of your faithful mother. But you must follow the advice of your new royal family, that is, of your virtuous aunts a little less closely and never express anything but neutrality to Mme. du Barry, certainly nothing negative. The royal French family do not appear to advantage in public; they do not know how to have fun in a proper way; their manners have done nothing but drive the King away and speed him down the path of straying because he does not find them entertaining or amusing, and therefore he must look for amusement elsewhere.

  Do not withdraw from holding court but invite the great world in. You must set the tone at Versailles, and so far you have succeeded to perfection. Remember that God has given you so many graces, special sweetness, and docility that you can play your role in a way that is sure to please. Always greet the King with enthusiasm and a willingness to oblige any line of conversation or diversion in which he appears interested. Do not be influenced by the approval of Mesdames in unpleasantness toward or negligence of those whom the King favors and certainly it is not your place to try to influence or mold His Royal Highness, from whom all favors and blessings flow. You must follow your own heart in its kind and pleasing impulses toward any person who is so fortunate as to be in your presence.

  I am very eager to have before me a new painting of you, carefully dressed in appropriate court attire, not in a negligee or dressed as a man, but appearing as one who occupies the place that you do occupy. I kiss you.

  You know that I am always

  your faithful Mother

  HUNTING AT COMPIÈGNE

  The King, the Dauphin, and I make merry as our coach rolls through the deep forest, full of game. The postilion shouts that a stag is jumping across the road ahead, and we all stick our heads out the left window to watch him crashing through the brush of the woods to escape. His tail is held high, like a stiff flag, and his dainty heels flick up at us.

  Then we realize that our heads are lined up, one above the other, the King on top, and under him the Dauphin, and then me, and we all giggle at ourselves, and the Dauphin seems happy and relaxed, and the King looks at me most fondly.

  “Madame la Dauphine,” he says, “must assure me again that she is in no danger riding to the hounds, for how should I ever face the Empress your mother if a mishap were to befall so rare and precious a person as yourself?”

  How his dark eyes gleam! How comfortably he speaks! The phrases glide from his mouth like arabesques from the brush of a skilled painter.

  “My mother the Empress wants me to be in the company of Your Majesty and to bring you delight with my presence, even in the hunt, though it is I and not Your Highness who finds the most pleasure in our conviviality.” Ah, my utterance too rises in a curl and finishes in a graceful swoop. As long as it is speaking and not reading aloud, my words dance instead of trudge, and I take pleasure in the rhythm of a sentence. Even writing is easier for me than reading because the pen only follows the sound of my voice in my mind.

  The Dauphin only smiles at me; he cannot yet untie his tongue in the presence of his grandfather.

  I chatter on. “Did Your Majesty know that last night, Monsieur le Dauphin and I held our own little ball in our rooms, just for the family, and by that I mean, our gaiety included mainly our brothers, the Comte de Provence and the Comte d’Artois?”

  “Ah, you are a court of young people—and that is most appropriate. It pleases me to see you as friends.”

  “In everything the Dauphine does,” my husband says, without shyness, “she acts with perfect grace.”

  The King reaches over and claps the Dauphin on the shoulder.

  As I danced with the Comte d’Artois last night, my ladies reported to me that the Dauphin made just that exact comment as he watched. I knew that with only a little nudging here in the coach, he would remember, speak gallantly of me, and please the King.

  Now it is for me to speak, as I always try to do, truly and from my heart while using the expressions appropriate to my station: “When the Dauphin smiles on me, I feel that I can fly.”

  “But not dangerously high,” the King says. “You have not ridden this forest before, and you must take care.”

  “Papa-Roi, please tell me if in any way I give you anxiety, for that is not my intent. I want you to rejoice in all that I do. Give me but a glance, and I will slow my horse till he drops to his knees and crawls.”

  A postilion sounds a horn, and I see the now familiar facade of the Château de Compiègne appearing beyond the trees. Impulsively, I extend my hand to the Dauphin.

  “This place will always make my heart beat fast,” I say to him, “because it is here that we first saw each other.”

  “I love these woods like no other,” he replies. “Here is the best hunting.”

  “Here, in this moment,” the King amends, “is the person of the fairest princess not only in France but in all of Christendom.”

  “For my presence in France I always thank the minister Choiseul,” I say, too quickly, for a shadow passes over the King’s face. I know that Madame du Barry and her faction do not appreciate Choiseul. I smile brightly into Papa-Roi’s clouded face. “I hope that soon I will dance not only with the King’s grandsons,” I add, “but also have the honor of accompanying the person to whom I most owe my happiness and most admire.” I glance down submissively.

  The shadow passes. The horn sounds triumphantly; the carriage horses’ hooves clatter on the cobblestones of the courtyard, and the coach slows: we have arrived.

  With merry eyes, I speak again to the King. “I hope that Your Majesty and the Dauphin do not mind that I ride astride?”

  The King laughs. “Astride, my little princess? Astride and in command? Ride as you will. As you’re accustomed to, in safety.
”

  “In green pants.”

  The Dauphin surprises us by remarking that nature most often dresses in green. He adds, “Doubtlessly, that color, like everything else, will become you.”

  WHEN I DRESS for the hunt, I take some time before the mirror, adjusting the tilt of my hat. It must be just so: this accessory must make me look a bit different than usual so that I allure the Dauphin in a new way and add another charming impression for the King’s mental portrait gallery. The tilt of the brim should be a bit daring, but one that emphasizes innocent youth. It must seem unplanned and spontaneous, for the King loves spontaneity, but a little more centered and balanced—there!—for too much spontaneity frightens the Dauphin.

  It is my riding the Dauphin will admire, more than my hat. My lady offers me long black trousers to wear, but I say that none are necessary under my men’s pants, cut to fit. She reminds me that Madame de Pompadour rode in long undertrousers and a skirt. To check her impertinence, I only smile and do not deign to speak.

  I wonder what Madame du Barry wears in the hunt—probably something wanton, but everyone says she is inferior to Madame de Pompadour, whose position as the Favorite of the King she now fills. She must fasten the great bundle of her golden hair in a low snood at the nape of her neck. Though the King is thoroughly beguiled by the du Barry, I think his attention can yet be engaged in a modest and proper way that my mother would not only approve but applaud. I know his sometimes flirtatious manner with me is partly to instruct the Dauphin in how he should charm.

  AH, I LOVE the way the hounds’ tails lash about in eagerness above their backs in a hundred random motions, and how some of the hounds, mouths open and panting, seem to look up at us on horseback and smile. All around me, the horses’ rounded haunches—like great hearts—a shape I love—jostle and gleam, while their large eyes glance wild and rolling. My horse is beautifully schooled and does everything at my slightest touch.

  There is no need to modulate happiness and excitement here, and I understand better why the Dauphin loves this sport. His eyes have lost their sleepy cast, and like the horses, he looks about already in an excess of eagerness, though he does not look at me. More than two dozen of us are ready to be off!

  When the King inquires if my seat is a comfortable one and my mount satisfactory, I reply, “As though we were born to ride together this day.” The lace at my throat tickles my chin. “I thank Your Majesty who has mated me so well.” Wishing I could tear away the irritating lace, I glance down at my well-behaved hands. The ring on my little finger is enhanced by the way my small hand lightly holds the rein. I must pull on my gloves. Now, I too am more than ready to ride to the hounds.

  The Dauphin guides his mount closer. “Have no fear that you will outride the path,” he tells me. “You could ride all day and not come to the end, here in Compiègne.”

  “I want to jump,” I say.

  “Then follow me,” the King replies. He raises his hand, the horn sounds, and our horses spring into a gallop.

  Behind a sea of hounds, we keep to the road a bit, the thud of hooves like muted thunder, the trees flying by on both sides, till we come beside an open field, one picked over for stones. The King leads us into the field, and I see a wide but shallow ditch lies ahead. I trust my mount to rise, and, glory! rising beside me is the Dauphin, and together we arc through the air, land safely to his cry of happiness as he urges his horse to take the lead.

  Racing as much as hunting, we traverse the cleared field in a wink, and at the boundary of trees, the Dauphin and the King turn us all—we are like a swoop of birds, but various in our brightness, all choosing to change direction at the same moment—back toward the road.

  Already the thighs of my green pants are drenched to a darker hue, and with one hand, I loosen the top clasp of my jacket. I am singing, no, yelling with happiness, and urging my horse faster for a moment, then easing off, responsibly, for my urging surprises him. I do not know who rides beside me, a blur of blue, and I do not care.

  The horn sounds the signal that we are in pursuit of a stag, though I cannot see him. Alas, my bunch of riders slow, as though to prolong the chase. Those in the lead leave my group behind.

  “Yonder rides your husband,” the young Comte d’Artois points with his crop, and I see the Dauphin in his tricorn hat at the very lead, riding in a frenzy. My heart sounds the rhythm of romance, the rapid pitty-pat in imitation of hooves. Others have spoken of such excitation, but I have never before felt it. How easily the heart speeds after the manliness of a masterful rider.

  But I would be master too! With a single whack, my good mount jumps ahead of Artois’s and I gallop straight into the blinding dust to join my husband. My horse tosses his head and takes an adjustment on the bit, for he needs something more of freedom to navigate through these crowded, dusty shapes. Our brilliantly colored clothes are covered with dust of road and field, and I listen more intently to help me judge who is near and who approaches rapidly from behind. My horse listens too, and he is expert in all of this, and I know that the King has provided brilliantly for me in my mount, and I bless his care of my fate.

  Far from my mother, that dark shape in a distant place, I am setting the pace for myself on this sunny road, and I dig my heels into the horse’s flanks. His stride both lengthens and quickens, but we come close to trampling a limping dog, tail clamped between his legs, who thought he could cross before us. The horse is unhappy; I slow to win again his approval and trust, and I vow not to indulge myself in heedless speed again. Bending closer to the curve of his thick neck, I exalt that I wear no corset! Nor shall I—no matter what she sends from Austria!

  It is fortunate that I ride at less than breakneck speed, for ahead the group has stopped. It is all men ahead, and some have dismounted. The first of my sex to arrive, I slow my horse to a trot and then a walk and guide him into the woods where the stag fled.

  In a grove stand the King and the Dauphin. They have removed their hats, and so all the men’s hats with their plumes hang in their hands. Ready with the knife, the hunt master lifts the head of the living stag by an antler to expose the throat. I look away, to scalloped tops of the leafy trees, where the green is interspersed with blue. Still, I hear the gurgle in the animal’s throat. I do not look that way again but guide my horse back toward the group waiting in the road who did not bother to witness the climax. The cutting of an animal’s throat is an obscene event.

  I feel alone. I lean forward, and with the palm of my hand I pat and stroke the wet neck of my mount. He is noble, I tell him. The horse is indifferent to my caress. The pace of my heart is slowing, and I am glad and take satisfaction in this fact, and in everything.

  Before we return to the château, ten more stags are taken.

  As is his habit, tonight my husband will list them all in his journal, so as not to forget.

  After such reckless excitement, all nature takes on definition—a stem of lolling blackberries growing beside the path, and the slender thorns beside the berries—they seem to embody a certain significant puissance. When I notice the hoof of my horse step close to a clump of violets with their heart-shaped leaves, the sweetness of their small purple petals have such surprising poignancy that tears start to my eyes. The violets seem to be lifting little faces toward me, and I am ridiculously glad that my mount did not tread upon them. Thus does the hunt heighten the senses and make the world more particular and real.

  Already I lust after another day of hunting.

  AFTER THE HUNT

  Because there is no proper bath at Compiègne, my ladies bring tubs and porcelain bowls to bathe away the sweat and dust. I look with disgust at the limp rag of lace that I wore at my throat. Tossed on a dressing table, it resembles wilted lettuce, and I resolve to have a more enduring froth at my throat for future hunts, something more regal—a cascade of gold lace.

  In one bathing bowl float several disks of orange to scent the water. I recall a crate of oranges boxed up from l’Orangerie at Versailles be
ing lifted onto a wagon, no doubt for this purpose. Impulsively, I pluck a floating orange slice from the clean water, break its rind with my thumbnail, straighten it so that the fruit presents itself toward me in triangular tongues, and gnaw the juicelets to the quick. For my refreshment, immediately I am presented with a mound of grapes on a plate, but I ignore them and lean my nose over the white bowl with the floating wheels of orange.

  “Please send for the perfumer for the hunt tomorrow,” I say. “This aroma lacks complexity.” But I cannot say what I want to smell. Something of lilac, perhaps, with the power of lily. Always I crave attar of rose, and yet none quite fulfills the need.

  When I lift my face from the water, something in me feels older and more cynical than when I first mounted my horse today. Without reserve, I have given myself to excitement. I look at the ring on my little finger again. After I looked at it while sitting in my saddle, when I glanced up, I saw that the King’s eye had followed my gaze, and he too stared at my hands. Later, after hard riding, I recall the image of my ungloved hand rubbing the sweat-wet hair on my horse’s thick chestnut neck. I wanted the horse to feel my bare hand. Now my ladies follow all my movements and my mood, even this moment of reverie. I take off my ring to bathe my hands among the disks of sliced orange. My hands are tired, and I spread and stretch my fingers in the water.

  WHEN WE HAVE gathered together for the hunt supper, my fatigue makes me feel nervous. Drinking their glasses of wine, the others relax and shed their fatigue with the imbibing. Though I am tempted to join them, I remember my promise to my mother, and I know that in this she is right. I will never drink wine. Draw your gaiety from your own heart, she told me. Be chaste in this matter and you will never regret the pure clarity of your mind. Purple-skinned grapes sit in a tall silver compote before me, along with sugared peaches and candied oranges. I take a large grape and crunch through its simple skin with my back teeth. The pulp is good on my tongue, and I position the little seeds at the tip of my tongue and remove them with the perfect grace of a single forefinger, tucking the seeds into the palm of my hand till I choose the moment to discard them.