The Hidden Diary of Marie Antoinette

by Carolly Erickson

  Louis gave Gustavus a medal making him a Knight of the Golden Lily, and I gave him some beautiful Sèvres vases and tapestries from the Gobelins works.

  He thanked us for our hospitality and then took us completely by surprise. “I would like to invite your majesties to visit me, at my court. To help me in the creation of my Swedish Versailles.”

  “Perhaps one day we shall,” said Louis curtly.

  “Oh, sire, you misunderstand me. I would like you to come very soon. This summer.”

  “Impossible,” said Louis. “I am needed here.”

  “You need not stay longer than a few weeks.”

  “It takes a few weeks just to get to your faroff country. No! I cannot.”

  My thoughts were whirling. Sweden. Axel. Time with Axel.

  King Gustavus looked over at me, then back at Louis. “How regrettable that your majesty cannot be spared. But perhaps your gracious queen could make the journey? I would so greatly value her advice in the decoration of my new palace. She has such exquisite taste.”

  I smiled. “And I would love to visit your beautiful country.”

  I could tell that Louis was quite taken aback by this turn of events. His mouth worked nervously, and he narrowed his small eyes. All was quiet in the room while he pondered his decision. I dared not look at Axel.

  Finally Louis blurted out his answer.

  “Yes! Yes, she shall go—but only for a month or two. She must be back before the weather gets cold.”

  But the weather is always cold in Sweden, I wanted to say, then checked myself.

  “Your highness is most generous,” King Gustavus said, and then addressed me.

  “We will do our best to make you feel at home in Sweden, my dear.” He kissed my hand, bowed to Louis who nodded back, and then took his leave. One by one the members of the king’s entourage kissed my outstretched hand—last of all Axel, who as he straightened up, smiled at me and winked.

  SEVEN

  June 20, 1780

  Here it is, the middle of the night by my clock only outside my window the sky is light. Not the bright light of noon, but light enough to read by. What a remarkable place this is. And what remarkable changes it is making in me!

  I have been here at the palace of Drottningholm in Sweden for nearly three weeks. Each day I consult with the chief palace architects and decorators on the repairs and renovations being done. King Gustavus asks for my advice constantly, on a great variety of matters, not only the design of the palace but such things as how the royal dining table is set at Versailles and how many courses are served when the public is admitted to watch King Louis dine. In my small traveling party I brought along engineers, carpenters and gardeners. They have answered hundreds of Gustavus’s queries about palace drainage and the repair of outdoor fountains, the usefulness of sunflowers in keeping mosquitoes away and methods of thatching and repairing roofs.

  In all my life, no one has ever turned to me so constantly for advice and help. And I am finding that I like it very much! Louis relies on me a good deal, of course, but his pleas for help are only now and then. Long intervals pass between his spasms of panic. And what Louis needs, I cannot really provide. I cannot stiffen his backbone or shore up his confidence in himself.

  I can only provide the support of my presence and my concern, both of which hearten him until the next wave of fear strikes.

  I must try to sleep, but it is hard, even with the curtains closed against the brightness of the midnight sun.

  June 27, 1780

  Every afternoon this week Gustavus has called together a group of officials or learned men to talk over important issues. He has invited me to be present. Axel is there to help in the discussions and also to learn, as Gustavus expects him to become his principal adviser one day. The men speak in French for my benefit, but it is a strange sort of French, and I cannot always understand them, especially when their speech is hurried. Axel has taught me a few words and phrases in Swedish, so that I can count to ten and name the days of the week and say “Please” and “Thank you” and “I’m very glad to meet you.”

  I don’t understand why this is happening. Why all these deepmatters are being aired in my presence. Gustavus says he wants to know, what do the French do? What do the French think? And he looks to me for those answers. I point out that I am not French but Austrian. He says that I am French by marriage.

  I think Gustavus wants to impress me as much as consult me on French ways and attitudes. Axel says I am right to think this.

  July 1, 1780

  I miss my little Mousseline but it is better that she is not here. She is delicate and the weather here is very changeable. I receive news of her every two or three days and Chambertin writes with news of Louis. Louis himself has only written me three letters, all very brief. In the last one he included a vial of syrup of poppy, to help me sleep during the long light nights. I don’t know why he sent it, unless he thinks Sweden is such a backward place that the apothecaries have no syrup of poppy. But that is nonsense. The shops here are well stocked with all sorts of medicinal remedies, as well as beautiful furs and carvings and warm knitted jackets and hats and mittens.

  July 4, 1780

  King Gustavus is to be occupied with the Riksdag, the Swedish Parliament, in the coming days and Axel has invited me to his estate, Fredenholm, which means the Place of Peace.

  July 6, 1780

  We arrived here yesterday after a long journey through deep woods and across snowy fields. Even though it is July, it snows here and there are areas where the snow never melts, from one year to the next.

  The countryside is very beautiful, so untouched and with so few people living here. Vast forests of fir and pine, many small blue lakes, larks and finches swooping and diving in the air. The purity and freshness of the air overwhelm me. I keep filling my lungs with it. I cannot get enough.

  Axel’s estate is really a large working farm, six hundred acres, and he rents out the fields to ten families who have been here since the 1500s. They were serfs at one time but his grandfather freed them and now they are tenant farmers, though they still look on Axel as an overlord and come to him to solve their problems and settle their disputes.

  I decided not to bring any servants with me so I dress myself and arrange my own hair very simply. What a relief, not to have to endure the tedious hours-long toilette and all the time in front of the mirror with my hairdresser André. I feel more myself, more alive.

  July 7, 1780

  I awoke this morning to the sound of an axe chopping wood and when I went to the window I saw Axel hard at work, the sleeves of his linen shirt rolled up above his elbows, quartering logs. While I watched he methodically finished chopping the pile he had in front of him and brought them into the house where he soon had a warm fire going in the immense tiled stove, black with soot. The house is small enough that one stove warms it all, while providing hot water and a hot oven for cooking our food. We breakfasted on fresh bread and reindeer cheese and fish caught last night in the lake, plus a mound of sweet cloudberries from the bushes beside the door.

  This afternoon we packed a basket with food and went walking in the hills. It is hard to say how long we walked because the light did not change. By the time Axel looked at his watch it was past six o’clock and we spread out our blanket in a dry spot overlooking a lake and sat down.

  “So, my little angel,” he said as we ate, “how do you like it here?”

  “It is very beautiful, and very peaceful. And above all, very simple. That I like best.”

  He nodded. “So simple it is bleak. But there is something here, some pristine quality, that draws me back again and again. I have been spending my summers here ever since I was a boy. I love the solitude, the serenity. I have cousins living near by, and my sister the schoolteacher runs the school in the village. She does a lot of good there.”

  “As do you.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. I follow in my father’s footsteps. He was a soldier, a diplomat,
and a statesman. I will never reach his eminence.”

  We were silent for awhile, watching a flock of geese land in the lake. It was a sight I had never seen before, hundreds of black, gray and white birds, all identical, landing in the water and floating as if in formation, honking harshly and pecking at each other.

  “It’s good for me here,” Axel said after a time. “It renews me. All the outdoor work and fresh air. While I’m in Fredenholm I don’t regret yesterday and I don’t anticipate tomorrow. I live in today, and revel in it.”

  “Maybe that’s why my father retired here in his old age. For the enjoyment of each day. He was very ill, at the end, dying of pthisick. He could hardly eat anything and had a terrible cough. Yet he liked to sit out among the trees, in the summer weather, with his big wolfhound at his feet. He was at peace.”

  Axel laid his head in my lap and I stroked his fair hair. He had never talked to me so intimately before, of his family. I had often talked to him of maman and my brothers and sisters, especially Joseph and Carlotta.

  One name hung in the air between us, as yet unspoken: Louis. We didn’t mention him, but I knew he was in our thoughts as, hand in hand, we made our way back along the hill path in a worsening drizzle toward the warmth and shelter of Fredenholm.

  July 9, 1780

  I am learning all the names of the mushrooms. Also which ones we dare not eat. There are so many different kinds, chanterelles and Nun’s Cap, gray Stink Horn and the poisonous Jack-my-lantern that glows in the dark only it is never dark so how can we tell?

  Every day that I spend here I am feeling better, happier and more relaxed.

  July 11, 1780

  One of Axel’s tenants got married yesterday and we went to the wedding. I asked to borrow a red skirt and white shirt of the kind the peasant women wear and the clothes were brought to me, along with a pair of soft felt boots and a garland of roses to carry.

  We joined the hundreds of guests that had come from surrounding villages. Two bands played lively music and we danced with all the others, doing our best to follow the steps, stumbling and laughing. The women sang in a style I had never heard before, making an eerie sound like cats fighting. It was all very raucous and joyous.

  I felt so free. No one had any idea who I was, only that I was a foreign noblewoman who was a friend or relative of Axel’s. That I might be a queen must have been the farthest thing from any of their thoughts. When I moved into the center of the circle of dancers and took my turn dancing a solo (which, I admit, had more steps of the quadrille than of a country dance), they all clapped and cheered.

  What a time I had! Twirling in my borrowed red skirt, my borrowed boots clomping on the rough stones and tough meadow grass, my hair free of restraints and tossing in the pure summer air. And Axel nearby, clapping, dancing, smiling his approval of me.

  Barrels of strong local cider and aqvavit were broached and the heady liquor flowed abundantly. The bride, a hefty blond peasant girl of sixteen, filled my glass again and again. We ate caviar and drank red wine, and every few minutes, it seemed, the crowd started to whistle and clap and would not stop until the bride and groom kissed. Kissing here in Sweden is loud, with lots of lip-smacking.

  Sometime in the middle of the night a peasant drove us back to Fredenholm in his wooden cart that smelled of hay and manure. Axel held me in his arms while the cart bumped its way along the rough track. I leaned against him, swooning from the wine and cider, tired from the dancing, in love with the world. I thought, this is the happiest night of my life.

  July 16, 1780

  Two days ago we started out to return to Drottningholm. I was very sad to leave. We rode to a town, then went southward by coach, through mile after mile of deep forest. The weather turned very cold, on and off it rained. Twice the coach had to be driven onto a large ferry to cross a lake.

  Toward the end of the day the coach broke an axle and we had to walk in the rain to the only shelter near by, which was a small tavern with a cracked sloping roof and walls that leaned inward at an odd angle. I felt sorry for the poor horses that had to stand patiently in the hard rain with their heads bowed while the repairs were made.

  Axel and I sat at a low scratched table by the fire and ordered wine and bread and cheese.

  We drank our wine, waiting for the coachman to come through the door to tell us that the broken axle was mended.

  But an hour went by, and then two, and he did not come. The rain continued to beat down on the roof of the tavern, and an old man came in, wet and bedraggled and walking with the aid of a stick. He was blind, his sightless eyes were turned upward toward the ceiling. He felt his way to the fire and spread out his hands toward its heat.

  “Here, old father, drink this and warm yourself.” The tavern keeper guided the visitor to a table near us and set down a tankard in front of him.

  “There are a French lady and gentleman here to keep you company,” he added. “See that you guard your language.”

  “A fine French lady and gentleman,” the old man said, speaking French for our benefit. “Well then, God bless them. I have done them a service in my time. I fought for the old French king, the old Louis, at Fontenoy and Raucoux, and I won for him too. That was not how I went blind, though. No, I lost my eyes in prison. In a fight. Haven’t seen a soul in thirty-seven years. Now, what would you like to hear, my lady and gentleman? A French battle song? A dirge? I have the second sight, even though I lost my eyes. My second sight tells me, it ought to be a dirge.”

  I shuddered at his words. No, not another death!

  Axel gave the man some coins and he drank his beer and wandered off. Eventually our coach driver came to say that the axle was repaired and we went on.

  July 17, 1780

  Last night a thunderstorm broke and we could not get to the estate where Axel had arranged for us to stay. So we took shelter in a peasant house and were shown what hospitality the family could offer.

  A thin, bent old woman welcomed us, her eyes shining and her gums nearly toothless. Her drab skirt was worn and patched and a rag covered her sparse gray hair. She motioned us toward the immense stove, where some twenty people lay on sleeping platforms. From several cradles in one corner of the room came the wails of infants.

  I stepped into the large, warm room and gasped, the smells were so strong. Smells of fish, cabbage, garbage, tobacco and open sewer drains like the ones at Versailles. And smells of bodies long unwashed dressed in dirty clothes.

  A crowd of faces stared at us as we made our way to a table where the old woman served us cabbage soupwith fish heads floating in it and a loaf of coarse black bread. The eyes of the dead fish staring upat me, the grease on the surface of the soup, made my stomach turn. Out of politeness I ate several spoonfuls of the soup and a morsel of the bread. Axel, I noticed, ate heartily, as if he were dining at King Gustavus’s table.

  As I did my best to eat I could not help looking over at the people lying on their sleeping platforms. They were wide awake—our arrival had apparently awakened them—and they kept their eyes on our food, watching every spoonful and every chunk of bread. Their faces were thin, and they all had the same vacant look, even the children. Several of the men drank from a metal cup that they passed from hand to hand. The reek of alcohol was in the air, along with the smell of burning wood and human waste. While I watched, large black cockroaches crawled over the threadbare blankets and across the floor at my feet.

  The old woman who had greeted us and brought us food was busying herself making a bed for us. She brought several long benches over by the stove and laid planks of wood across them. On top of the planks she laid a very old, very dirty featherbed and piles of rags.

  I soon had my fill of the food, and realized, to my horror, that I needed to relieve myself. But there was no privacy. The others, I could not help but notice, made full use of the reeking chamber pots beneath the sleeping platforms, in full view of everyone in the room.

  “Madame,” I said to our hostess in my very crude S
wedish, “is there somewhere I might—” I pointed to one of the chamber pots.

  She nodded her understanding and, reaching for my hand, she led me outside. It was still raining very hard, and we splashed through mud as she guided me toward a barn. She took me to an empty horse stall with straw on the earthen floor, and pointed. Then she left me.

  I realized that she was being respectful—and kind. This was the very best she had to offer. Solitude, and relative cleanliness. The stable, with its rich scent of manure and animal breath, smelled much better than the house. But it was extremely cold. I soon did what I had to do and returned to the warmth of the stove-heated room.

  In my absence a fight had broken out. The people had climbed down from their perches and were squabbling over the remains of my food. One man was hitting a woman and shouting drunkenly at her. I saw a boy with a snarling, feral face pick up a yellow cat and hurl it against the brick wall. In the midst of the melee an old woman stood, head bent, reciting a prayer. I could understand two phrases, which she seemed to repeat again and again.

  “The wrath of the lord is come upon us! Preserve us from the wrath of the lord!”

  Shocked, I watched the squalid scene, desperate to intervene yet helpless. I felt tears running down my face. The one thing I could do, I did. When the injured yellow cat came staggering toward me, I picked it up and held it close to my chest. I felt it claw me but I ignored the sharpness of its claws, determined to protect it.

  Axel was hurriedly thanking the old woman for her hospitality and giving her a handful of coins, which she examined so closely that she did not see us go. Snatching up one of the ragged blankets from the makeshift bed that was to have been ours, Axel draped it over me and the cat and led me outside into the rain.

  I was too numb to speak or think. I let him take me along the muddy road, reassuring me that we would surely come to another shelter before long. It was still raining, though not as hard as before, and after we had walked for half a mile or so we came to a deserted old farmhouse and spent the night there, curled up together on the wooden floor, wet and cold, with the cat huddled against us for warmth.