Abundance: A Novel of Marie Antoinette (P.S.) (35 page)

Count Esterhazy, my favorite of the four, for he loves me most, tells me that the whole court and half Paris is laughing, and what if the King should come down with measles—would he have four ladies to nurse and amuse him? Toward such barbs I present the tough skin of a rhinoceros. I could not have survived the onslaught of obscene pamphlets continually circulated about me had I not learned to ignore all but what I myself know to be the truth. The King hires spies to try to find the origin of such horrid printing, but I know he cannot stem the tide, for all his fury and indignation.

T
ONIGHT, THE
K
ING
stands under my window—deemed a safe distance by the doctors—and speaks with me and tells me how much he misses me and how our little one is faring. Thriving, he says, though now she has only her wet nurse’s milk.
My God! How I long to nurse her!
In her letters, my mother reminds me endlessly that I thrived on nothing but the milk of Joseph Weber’s mother. Milk is milk, she claims. My breasts are aching hard with unused milk. She fears that nursing makes another conception for me less likely, but I doubt the science of such a belief.

It is God’s will to make me fertile or not, in his own time, just as He warms the earth and makes her fertile when He would have her so. Nor do I look superstitiously to the stars for guidance; the things of this earth and the goodness of trees and flowers and grasses where I myself can walk bring joy to my spirit. The gardens of this earth speak to me of paradise and give me hope. Why should I send my imagination questing for answers about the ways of the universe?

“I plan to have a hamlet built close by, such as peasants and humble folk inhabit,” I tell the King. Dressed in dulcet tones, my words drop down to him, waiting below among the new-planted rosebushes.
My breasts feel as though they will burst.

“What do you envision?” he asks.

“There will be a mill where wheat is ground into flour, and a millpond where folk can fish, and I will have cottage gardens and rustic cottages.”

“How do you see the cottages? Small?”

“Quite small. And appearing to be old—painted with cracks in their plaster and with thatched roofs so that they will blend with nature. The cottages to be constructed of beams and plaster, with casement windows, and houses for doves. With spiral wooden staircases to open balconies, with clematis twining up their pillars. I have seen such a village at Chantilly, looking as though it has spent such time with nature, though human work has weathered, mellowed, and blended the village with the trees.”

“The stars are winking at us.”

“I do not look up, when I can look down into the face of my dear and generous husband.”

Swayed by my tenderness, he shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Perhaps you’ll need a lighthouse in your hamlet,” the King whimsically remarks, “lest anyone be lost at sea?”

“At sea?”

“I imagine your pond expansive enough to suggest a miniature sea.”

For that good thought, I throw down a bouquet of spring lilacs to my husband and bid him bury his nose therein.

Almost I look forward to the time when he shall plow me again. Suddenly a gurgle of laughter falls from my lips. When yet I lived at home and I was sent a portrait of the Dauphin at his plow—was that what was meant? That he would someday plow my body, be my husbandman who brings forth abundance from the fields he tills?

“I shall dress as a shepherdess,” I say. I am glad that the dusky night masks my spotted face.

“And I as a shepherd.”

I blow him a kiss.

“Surely I strive always to be a good shepherd to my people,” he says, and I hear the goodness in his voice. “They bear such heavy burdens. If only the nobles would join me in bidding the farmers and laborers to rely on us, for succor. But the nobles are outraged at the thought of paying equitable taxes.”

I feel his distress for the people, but I cannot think of any advice to offer. For myself, I wish to live more simply—not only because it suits me but also for the sake of the people. My
Hameau
will celebrate life as the peasants live it. I twist the diamond bracelet around my wrist. “Nevermore,” I say, “give me gifts of diamonds. I will not have such jewels when they could buy a ship for our navy or bread for the hungry.”

And yet I know the hamlet will be very expensive to construct. Earth will have to be moved, and a stream diverted. Still this embellishment of the land does not seem sinful in the way the embellishment of my wrist or my throat with diamonds would be. Its reality will embody and celebrate the ideal of simplicity. I wish that the Princes of the Blood had the noble heart of my husband, but it is only their titles that bray their nobility. I wish that he could be surrounded by men like Axel von Fersen.

“The burdens press heavily on the shoulders of the peasants,” the King adds sadly, “when I would give them peace and prosperity.”

On 11 October 1780,
I write to my most dear Mother.

 

I have been more than a bit worried during the last three weeks because my daughter has had pain and fever, at the eruption of several new teeth. You will be proud that even though she experienced considerable pain and suffering, she showed always sweetness and patience. I am touched to the quick by her courage. Because of my dear mother and my dear daughter, who bears her name, I feel inspired to the marrow of my bones to always take courage, no matter what life may bring to me.

I am at Trianon while the King has gone to Compiègne to hunt, which he enjoys so much. Here these gardens which I love are, as they say, being put to bed as the winter season approaches. With the loss of flowers and foliage, I am glad that the windows give views of the small but most charming structures in every direction. Architecture and statuary know no limits of the seasons in their ability to inspire pleasure.

Now I sit at my small
secrétaire,
positioned so that I face out the window, and I see the beautiful circular Temple of Love, built on a small island and linked to the shore by darling bridges over the moat. A mat of autumnal golden leaves floats slowly in the water, which reflects a white cloud or two. Within the colonnade of the domed temple is the marble statue of a slender, youthful Cupid fashioning his bow from the club of Hercules.

I have always loved that passage of Scripture in which pruning hooks are made from spears and out of the implements of aggression come the tools that represent love, harvest, and abundance. How I wish all wars might end, and the brave men who fight for liberty might return safely to those who love them, and I pray for them all, as I am sure my dear mother the Empress does also. Always, when I look out at beauty such as still waters, golden leaves, and azure skies, and all but worship it, I think of my most dear mother, the Empress of my affection.

Perhaps you have heard of the painter Elisabeth Vigée-Lebrun, who, like our beloved Gluck, has risen in the world entirely by her own artistic talent and her bright and natural sociability. She is my favorite painter, but I have modified my manner of dress since she last painted me. Now I prefer muslin to satin or silk. I think that perhaps Madame Lebrun has not only the aesthetic resources but also the amiability to produce a new portrait of me that would please my dear mother, the Empress, so that when you view my likeness, you will feel the essence of my presence. You used to scold me for the elaborate artificiality of my dress and hair, but now you will find that fashions in France have modulated. I am still much in fashion, but now I influence dress and decor. The new styles are much more comfortable and economical as well.

It gives me much pleasure to look through the windows at the combinations of nature and art wherein my Trianon and I are nestled. I like to imagine that my dear Mother, free from the worries of state, sits beside me.

May I beg permission to borrow Cupid’s wings, then to fly over all the distance between us, thence to kiss my dear Mama most lovingly, with all my soul?

 

O
N
3 N
OVEMBER
1780, the Empress takes time to think of me and to write to me.

 

Because it was your birthday, I spent yesterday more in France than in Austria. I pictured you being greeted by your friends and sitting down to enjoy a delightful dinner or an amusing entertainment. Memory allowed me to revisit, as well, so many shared happy times, now gone forever. Still, memory is a great consolation to the old, as is the thought of new young life, such as that of your so very sweet little girl. And because you assure me that your relation with the King is good, I think of the future and of what will surely be the consequences of that good marital relation. To think that you will soon produce an heir to the throne of France, one that unites the blood of Bourbon and Hapsburg houses, as you were sent to France to accomplish for the peace of the world, is the greatest consolation I can imagine. At my age I need assistance with my work and consolation for my spirit because one after the other those of my own generation are inevitably lost to me, and I am quite overcome.

Because I have a good deal of pain from rheumatism in the arm and hand that hold the pen, I myself am writing to you with less control. Though the letters I am forming may be shaky in appearance, and I feel that now I must end, take note not of their form but only of their message, which unwaveringly assures you of all my love.

 

Thus ends our correspondence.

So I read again my last letter from my mother, the Empress of Austria, dated 3 November 1780.

I can scarcely see her crooked letters through the blur of tears, but this page I hold in my hand is my last link to her. It was the side of her own right hand that rested on this page as she wrote, pausing to have the strength to continue, regripping the quill with her fingertips from time to time. Would that I could cover her hand with my kisses and wet it with my tears so that she would know my love. When the news came, I thought that my face would explode with sorrow.

It is now December. My mother died 29 November 1780.

I take a deep breath, trying to empower myself to step forward through my life. I cannot imagine the future in which no letters from her will come. These ten years I have been in France, she has been my guide, the prop to my soul. She has taught me to pray, and I will not forget her lessons.

T
O MY BROTHER
, Joseph II, 10 December 1780:

 

Though I struggle with every breath not to drench this page, I am crushed by the misfortune of our loss, and I cannot stop crying. Oh, my brother, my last link to my Austrian homeland, my friend! Our mother who watched over us is gone. Take care to watch over yourself—For me, I cannot see to write. You will surely not forget we are friends, allies, as she wished us ever to be.

I implore you: Love me. Kiss me.

 

Out the window, I see the broad terraces, an empty world blanketed in December snow, and where is a coverlet for my heart?

Here is my friend,
my Yolande, come to stand quietly beside me. She waits. I look up at her and know she sees the red misery in my face from crying. She smiles at me encouragingly. Yes, she has in her hands a little tray bearing the potion that often calms me when my spirits soar too high or plunge too deep.

Gratefully, I take the chalice of orange-flower water; she empties a fresh spoonful of sugar into the liquid and swirls it round.

Through the glass, I feel warmth, for she has had my orange water potion heated to counteract the chill of the weather.

Yolande asks if I would like the curtain loosened from its loop so as to shield me from the bleak view of the frozen courtyard, but I shake my head. “No, dear friend,” I say, and again she smiles at me, and her eyes glow with love. “I must see things as they really are.”

She is looking very well, already quite slender after the birth of her new son. I inquire of his health.

“It has been nine years since the births of Aglaië and Armand,” I remark. “But I see you have not forgotten how to mother.”

“Nor shall I ever. Here, let me put my shawl around your shoulders.”

It is a gorgeous piece woven of wool and gleaming silk, the rich reds and golds of last fall intermingle—a fantasia representing her soul. I gave her this token of my affection.

Impulsively, I reach up and take her hand. While I drink the orange-flavored warmth she, ever patient, joins me in gazing out the window.

“It will soon be spring,” she murmurs.

“Nothing perturbs you,” I reply. “Not the coldest blasts of calumny.”

“And why should it, when the Queen has chosen me as her friend and confidante?”

Always, she is direct in her speech and goes to the heart of every attitude.

“And did it not infuriate you, when last fall, certain pamphlets claimed that I, the Queen, was the
father
of your child?” I give her a wan smile.

“The King himself visited me and the babe in my private home in Paris. Why should I fear gossip when the King so marks me with his favor? No one else has received such a mark of distinction.”

“The King appreciates how you give yourself to me.”

“In truth, it is the two of you who make my life so complete.”

I release her hand, for I hear her baby boy crying just beyond the door. I know she must want to go to him and take him from the arms of his nurse. “Go,” I whisper, and I feel a small, real smile curve the corners of my mouth. With her halo of dark curls, her face is lovely to regard.

No sooner do I give her this gentle command than my husband brings us some white chocolate candies from molds shaped like sheep. They are coated with sugar crystals.

“I have a box for you as well,” he says to Yolande, “but I believe you prefer the jellied fruits to the chocolate bonbons.”

“Your Majesty remembers everything,” she replies.

“You have come to us when we very much needed comforting, my dear countess,” he says and warmly takes her hand in his for a moment. Her baby whimpers again.

Yolande turns from us. Perhaps God will give me a son this time. I listen to the crying of the boy baby in the room beyond and memorize the sounds of his tiny male voice.

People at court say that Yolande’s lover, the Comte de Vaudreuil, is the father of her child. Protected, she cares nothing for such gossip. Certainly she feels no shame but inhabits her life as she lives it, her head held high. She has charmed even the King, who does not much like women, myself excepted. Because he is devoted to me and to our duty as King and Queen, I have no fear that the King would take her or any other woman as a mistress.

I resolve that I will prevail upon my husband to give my friend a new title by summer: Duchesse de Polignac.

Perhaps I live a lucky life, fortunate in my husband and in my friends. At twenty-five, I am still young. If I am no longer a daughter to any living woman, then I must pour myself into being a mother. And should I bear a son, I fulfill not only my mother’s ardent desire but also the hopes of my husband and of France.

I
DREAM I AM
at Schönbrunn, tucked in among the skirts of my sister and the ladies of our court, and I am watching the little Mozart—
Wunder-kind
—from across the room. As he performs his marvels at the keyboard, he sometimes swings his heels, which dangle high above the carpet. His notes swirl and swoop like the arabesques beneath his dangling feet. When the keys are draped, still he touches each one with perfect accuracy.

Then comes the moment of daring. After the harpsichord notes have fallen like an amazing silver shower from his small fingers, the little Mozart slides from the bench and runs as though winged across the room to throw himself into my mother’s imperial lap. I have become Mozart and I kiss her big on her naked cheek and demand, “Now do you love me?”

She kisses him—Mozart again—as though he might have been her own dear child.