Abundance: A Novel of Marie Antoinette (P.S.) (22 page)

Unlike the Italian operas
of Piccinni, in Gluck’s operas the lifelike human
emotions
as manifested in the events are of the most importance. To Piccinni, the story is but the framework for presenting vocal acrobatics. In the old style, the human story ceases altogether, while musical technique is displayed. One loses the sense of dramatic tension and continuity in order to focus merely on the voice box of the singer or the high jeté achieved by the legs of the dancer. Gluck is persuaded that it is for the sake of the poetry, the strong and subtle feelings conveyed by the words of the narrative, that the music of the opera should exist. The music should support but not supplant the story.

As we are seated, we are giddy with gaiety, and I project an air of confidence as we chat among ourselves. Twinkling with jewels, the Dauphin looks splendid. I see the Piccinni devotées ready to hiss and boo my Gluck, but not their leader, Madame du Barry, though she may be behind a grille. It was reported to me that she spied on a rehearsal of
Iphigénie
in just this manner.

As I look out over the gathering audience, I think how difficult it is for an audience to accept innovation. They have come with certain expectations based on prior experience; they are too lazy to make the effort to revise their views and to enter into the spirit of new ideas. Gluck’s music has already been compared to the yowling of ten thousand cats and dogs.

But the good Rousseau, renowned as a music critic as well as being the author of the fabulously popular novel
Julie, ou la Nouvelle Héloïse,
took it upon himself to attend a rehearsal, and Rousseau found Gluck’s music to be expressive of genuine emotion—indeed, he thought Gluck’s music to be humanly powerful and sensitive. I cannot understand the King’s hatred of Rousseau.

It lies to me to be expressive of my approval at the earliest possible moment of the performance. Wishing to please me, surely the audience will follow my lead. I take a moment to catch the eyes of my friends, of the Dauphin’s brothers and their wives, and also the Duchesse de Chartres and the Duchesse de Bourbon. The eye of the Princesse de Lamballe is already damp with sympathy, and she smiles encouragingly at me.
Yes, much is at stake,
the expression on her face conveys.
I feel both your joy and your fear on this occasion.
My eyes moisten with gratitude.

Of all of us, the Princesse de Lamballe is the most lovely. Though her throat is brilliant with the diamonds her father-in-law has given her, she herself has forgotten them. She is merely herself, no matter how richly dressed. The blond sheen of her hair, visible through the light powder, complements the pastel hues of her dress. She is a young woman who has what she wants: the admiration of all for her virtue and beauty.

If the Comtesse du Barry were here, her languid, sensual appeal would not be able to compete with the perfect poise of the Princesse de Lamballe. Suddenly, the princess blows me an affectionate kiss off the tips of her fingers. Immediately there is a sigh from the hall, and I am reminded again how closely we are watched. Where I look, the audience looks. What I choose to see, so do they. A number of those whom I know, seeing the princess’s gesture of respectful affection, also blow kisses toward me, off their fingertips.

I smile and nod at all, and they squirm with delight, the planes of their dresses reflecting the light in small flashes of various colors throughout the hall. The hum of conversation, the odor of perfume fill the room. Members of the orchestra tweak their instruments into tune—the fifths of the strings, the breathy run of a flute.

I wonder what my dear Gluck is feeling now. He is a thorough professional. I do not believe that he doubts himself or his genius in any way, and yet, even the most seasoned professional experiences, at times, what we all call butterflies.

I
N A FLASH OF DIAMONDS
, Madame du Barry takes her seat, quite at the last moment. Partly because she is despised and blamed for the excesses of the court and for the miserable financial condition of France, the King’s popularity is so low that he dare not appear in Paris. Last night in the unlit Hall of Mirrors, the King pretended to choose not to come, but the King would be hissed if he appeared here. How is it possible to fall so low in the esteem of people who have a natural propensity to love their monarchs? The du Barry still has her supporters, enough so that she does not hesitate to be in public. Perhaps she comes at the last minute as a precaution.

My Gluck walks onto the stage. We begin! From the opening measures, the music of the overture has both sparkle and pathos; it forecasts the rapturous melodies and rhythms that we shall enjoy for the next five hours. People are still settling their clothing and looking about to see who else is present and what they are wearing. If they would but listen, the music would delight them. To my fury, though my face reveals nothing, I note that Madame du Barry makes a point of yawning several times during the overture. She scarcely uses even the edge of her fan to cover her gaping mouth. People have admired the evenness of her teeth. She fidgets with the diamonds at her throat. With a bit of satisfaction, I remember my crushing reply when she tried to bribe my friendship by offering to have the King give me diamonds of outrageous expense. “I have quite enough diamonds,” I replied.

But now comes the opening recitative of King Agamemnon, passionately addressing the goddess Diana, who wears a moon on her head and appears in a shimmer of light. Like a true father, Agamemnon begs the goddess to relent in her demand that he sacrifice his own daughter, the beloved Iphigénie, so that the wind may rise and the ships may sail to meet the enemy. The king’s heart is wrenched by what he refers to as “the most dreadful of all sacrifices,” and immediately I am seized by the agony of his position.

How can this goddess, the “shining author of moonlight,” not be moved by the plea of a parent? Who has not felt wrenched between the love of family and the love of country? My hands spring into applause. The people follow me! The entire hall resounds to the sound of our approval and pleasure in the marriage of Racine's words and Gluck's music.

Racine, as much as Gluck, deserves this appreciation. But I understand immediately the success of Gluck’s innovation:
yes
, the music magnifies and intensifies the poetry of the language, without overwhelming it. This music has not been created to serve the egotism of the performers while they display mere technique and virtuosic ornamentation.

As the performance progresses, whenever I applaud, or whenever I show that I am moved, the audience allows itself to feel the same emotions and expresses them with vigor. Even the du Barry understands that she must join in, or risk being whispered about as an enemy.

Tomorrow I shall ask Leonard to place in my hair an embellishment shaped like a moon, and perhaps some black ribbons, for this story must end tragically.

During intermission, I try in vain to train my opera glasses on the expression of Rousseau, who has been seated in the stalls below. I would like to see if his face is animated with pleasure, but his head is bowed, and he is writing copious notes on a pad of paper. No one dares approach him or interrupt his writing, so I cannot deduce his disposition. To Gluck, during intermission, I send a footman to express our total triumph. As they come to congratulate me, my friends are jubilant.

After intermission, the tragedy builds. All of my attention is absorbed by the drama, though I know how it must end. Only once the face of the du Barry catches my notice. She is speaking to her little black page, Zamore. Her features are fond, maternal. Like myself, she lives without tasting the sweetness of motherhood.

A
T THE END OF THE OPERA
, the ovation is tumultuous. A friend brings a statement from the connoisseur Rousseau. The great music critic congratulates me for having introduced so successfully a work of originality that heralds a new approach to the concept of what opera can be. I glow with his words. My Gluck will be appreciated!

As Dauphine, I can enrich lives.

Stiff from over
five hours at the Opera—our triumph—we are exercising our legs, though it is just after midnight, with an impromptu promenade through the state rooms of the château. (The Dauphin announced that he was ready for sleep and has already retired.) I feel too flush with victory to consider sleeping. My party is composed of ten of our friends as we turn the northwest corner of the château, into the War room, the antechamber on this end to the great Hall of Mirrors.

An apparition appears to us all. I am astonished by her presence.

“It is the Maid of Orléans,” I exclaim, for once again her head and shoulders are covered by a tan hood and cape, such as I have seen depicted in paintings of Jeanne d’Arc.

Quickly I look at her feet to see if I recognize the rather mannish boots that I have seen at least twice before—first on the night of my wedding, secondly, when the Dauphin and I together found her behind the curtain.

“Don’t frighten her,” the Princesse de Lamballe remarks. “I know her. She sews for my gifted couturière, Rose Bertin.”

“She made the shroud for my baby,” the Duchesse de Chartres says.

We are all stunned by this information.

“I am sorry that such a sad reminder of your loss should occur tonight,” I say to the duchesse. After the success of Gluck’s opera, in the midst of my friends, I am not pleased to be accosted by this intruder. She seems an emissary of darkness.

“The beauty of the little garment was my only consolation,” the du chesse replies. With that she leans forward and embraces the little seamstress. “Let me thank you, Marie Jeanne, for your stitchery. For your design.”

“You know my name,” the maid replies in a soft, alto voice.

Did not Madame Etiquette tell me, long ago, that the du Barry was named
Marie Jeanne
?

“Yes,” the Duchesse de Chartres continues, “for I inquired of Mademoiselle Bertin. I asked her to give you my gratitude—and a painted fan as well.”

Despite my initial annoyance, suddenly I am much moved to learn that the work of this unknown person, a peasant perhaps, could have helped the duchesse so much in a moment of grief.

I ask the girl, “And do you call this midnight upon myself or some other member of my company?”

“I have the gift to console,” the strange girl confesses.

“Then you are an emissary from heaven,” I reply. A fear like quicksilver runs through my veins. “Who among us is in need of consolation?”

“Where is the Dauphin?”

“He has retired.” I feel a new wave of petulance. Who is she to inquire of the whereabouts of the Dauphin?

“Then I offer
you
my condolences.”

“But no one has died,” I reply. “Pray, Marie Jeanne,” I murmur, “I share both of your names as part of my own extended name, though I am called Toinette.” Suddenly it seems ludicrous to me—this telling of my familiar name to a stranger, a seamstress. “Would you tell us, Marie Jeanne, something more of your mission?” I speak as softly and as coaxingly as I can to her, and I reach out my fingertips to touch the back of her hand. “My friends are distressed.”

“Valet!” the Comte de Provence orders in a harsh tone. “Conduct this interloper to the gate.”

Though I know she should, indeed, be escorted out, I raise my hand to delay her removal, in the hope that she will speak first.

“The end of an era approaches,” she says simply and turns. She is willing to make her exit.

One of the little guard spaniels, yapping furiously, runs toward her ankle. I fear he is going to bite, but suddenly the valet kneels and intercepts the little brown and white animal. Then the valet turns his body, and as he holds the dog against his chest, he looks directly up into my eyes, like a supplicant. I recognize him: he served the château as a postilion, and it was his father who was gored by a stag.

“Yes, gracious Madame la Dauphine,” he says. “You do recognize me. And she is my sister, who lives in Paris now to work.”

Aghast, I ask, “And is the stipend I send your family not enough to allow your sister to remain at home with your mother?”

“You have provided with utmost generosity. We are grateful beyond anything you can imagine.” The young man’s eyes are a deep, liquid brown. He is very comely, more so than his sister. “My sister wants independence, to provide for herself in a way that uses her extraordinary talent with the needle and her ideas of fashion.”

“You both may go now,” I say. It is on the tip of my tongue to tell them to go “in peace,” as a priest might, but I restrain myself. “Perhaps it is best,” I say to Marie Jeanne in a sweet but serious tone, “that you do not come here again.” I have not spoken harshly.

She lowers her eyelids, and the expression of her face changes, as though she is sad for me. She pushes the hood off, exposing the back of her head, and follows her brother, who places the spaniel back on the floor. The dog trots along behind them, as though he were now their pet. Her hair is cropped short, to the nape of her neck, as is the hair of Jeanne d’Arc, who dressed as a boy to come to aid the French in throwing off the yoke of foreign tyranny.

I wish that Marie Jeanne had continued to appear only to myself, or to myself and the Dauphin. She could have been something like a secret self to me—a companion.

W
HEN
I
ENTER
my chamber, I am surprised and pleased to find my husband there. Disturbed by my entry, the Dauphin suddenly sits up in our bed. “Iphigénie is offered as a sacrifice to please the goddess,” he announces.

Then he falls back into the pillow and continues to sleep.