The Hidden Diary of Marie Antoinette (4 page)

We embrace and cry, and I tell her I will always be thinking of her and will write often.

“Oh, Antonia, I am so afraid! What if he hates me and rejects me?”

It was unlike Carlotta to show weakness. I felt sorry for her.

“He cannot reject you, you are Archduchess Caroline of Austria. Your birth is higher than his.”

“But he may not find me pleasing. I may—offend his eyes.”

I did not know how to answer that. Carlotta and I both knew that she was short and very plump, with features that could not be called anything but plain.

“If he has any sense he will value you for your shrewdness and strong will. Together you will make healthy children.”

She blanched. “I hope so.”

I was allowed to ride in the coach that escorted Carlotta for five miles along the road that led south toward the mountains dividing the Hapsburg lands from Piedmont. When we reached the point where the family coach had to turn back, I got out and went over to embrace Carlotta one last time.

“Be happy, dearest sister. Write me long letters. Tell me everything.”

She clung to me, then forced herself to get back into the coach. We stood and watched, waving, as the horses picked up speed and took her from us.

I will be waiting for her first letter.

November 19, 1769

With mother’s help and Sophie’s I have at last ordered my trousseau. I am to have forty-seven ball gowns in silk and embroidered brocade, and an equal number of afternoon dresses. Twenty court gowns are being prepared, with more to be made for me once I arrive in my new home. French fashions change so rapidly that there is a danger my entire trousseau will be completely out of style by next spring.

The cruel French dentist, who talks ceaselessly while he torments me, says that only certain colors are acceptable each season in Versailles, so that if my gowns are in the wrong colors I will seem unstylish.

“It is for the dauphine to set the style, not mimic it!” I told him, speaking with some difficulty as he had his fingers in my mouth at the time.

“Spoken like a Frenchwoman!” he answered with some spirit, amused at me. “Perhaps there is hope for you, little archduchess.”

January 14, 1770

General Krottendorf is here. Now I can be married. The dauphin sent me a gift. I opened it when I was alone, thinking it would be a love token of some kind. It was a gold filigree box of dried mushrooms.

February 20, 1770

Poor Carlotta is miserable. She wrote me a long letter, full of homesickness, about how much she missed me and all the family.

She says Ferdinand is cold to her, and her relatives hate her and think she is haughty and superior. She has no one to speak German to, not even a priest. The entire court condemns her because she is not yet pregnant. On that subject she writes guardedly, probably she fears that her letters will be read by spies. Yet it is clear from what she writes that her wedding night was horrifying, and she hates being married almost as much as she hates being away from Vienna.

At least the Bay of Naples is beautiful, she says, and it is
sunny and warm there all winter long. She has a lovely place to be wretched in.

February 25, 1770

Finally I have learned about what happens between husband and wife when they are in bed together.

My brother Joseph came to me and said that he heard I had been asking the servants about what to expect on my wedding night.

“Asking such things of servants is not proper,” he said. “On matters of sex you must speak only to your husband or your relatives, your doctor or your priest.”

“But priests know nothing of sex. It is forbidden to them.”

“If only that were true,” Joseph said ruefully, raising his eyebrows in disapproval. “But don’t let us become distracted. Here is what you need to know. It is all about the sword and the scabbard.”

He touched the elaborate gold handle of the ceremonial sword he wore at his waist and slowly drew it from the long thin leather scabbard that held it.

“You see how perfectly the sword fits in its scabbard, how easily it can be put in and drawn out?” He illustrated his point by taking the sword out completely and then replacing it, several times.

“Now, men and women are made just like that. Men have swords and women have scabbards. They fit perfectly—well, usually they do.”

“The very first time the sword is put into its scabbard there is a slight hindrance, and a little blood. But that is soon over, and the entire operation goes smoothly.”

He smiled with satisfaction at his own cleverness in expounding the mystery of sex with such dispatch.

“Oh, and there is much pleasure to be had from the entire experience,” he added. “And babies are made.”

“If it all goes so well, why is Carlotta miserable?” I showed Joseph our sister’s letter. He read it, then shrugged.

“You must keep in mind, Antonia, that Carlotta is ugly, and very disagreeable. No doubt Ferdinand dislikes her. I was afraid this would happen when we arranged the match. Josepha would have been much more to his taste—to any man’s taste. When a husband dislikes his wife the sword is not strong and firm but limp and weak. It cannot be put into the scabbard.”

“And will Prince Louis like me, do you think?”

“I have no doubt that he will. Any man would.”

I asked my brother about the gold box Prince Louis sent me with its puzzling contents of dried mushrooms.

“Maybe it’s an aphrodisiac,” he said, half to himself.

“What’s that?”

“Never mind. You can ask the prince when you see him. It won’t be long now.”

March 5, 1770

Goose-Droppings. That is the color of my new gown for the welcoming supper we are giving for the French from Versailles.

It is the latest fashion craze at the French court, I am told, to wear gowns in the colors of animal droppings. Imagine! One of last season’s colors was Squashed Toad.

March 14, 1770

All Vienna is decorated with torches and colored lanterns. Lit candles make the windows gleam, and there are fireworks at
night and music and dancing. Night and day the palace kitchens are busy with baking and roasting, pastry-making and stewing. Chickens, lambs, pigs and geese turn on dozens of spits over high-banked fires, and the air is full of the rich scent of cooked meat.

There are banquets nearly every night and during the day I am brought before the judges and notaries to sign the documents that are turning me from a subject of my mother into a subject of my future husband’s grandfather, the king of the French, King Louis XV.

Six months ago I barely knew the name of the King of France. Today, thanks to my studies with Abbé Vermond, I can recite the lineage of King Louis going back three hundred years and the significant events of his ancestors’ reigns.

I know the names of most of the French provinces and can locate them on a map of France that hangs on the wall beside my bed. I can tell the story of Jeanne d’Arc, of the saintly King Louis IX and the cynical King Henry IV, who said “Paris is worth a mass,” and became a Catholic though he was a Protestant before. I know that the River Seine runs through Paris and that the great cathedral in the city is called Notre Dame, Our Lady.

Soon I will see it all for myself.

March 21, 1770

Eric has sent me a gift, a little dog. I call her Mufti. She is so small she fits inside my sleeve.

April 1, 1770

Tonight was my wedding. Instead of a groom I had my brother Ferdinand who stood beside me in the candlelit
church and recited the vows that Prince Louis will recite when I get to France.

All the court was present at the ceremony, which was very beautiful and solemn. Mother took me down the aisle, limping on her sore leg which has been hurting her since Christmas but happy nonetheless. I had a beautiful silver gown and wore a long lace veil sent from one of Prince Louis’s aunts. It was to have been her wedding veil but she never married. I wonder why.

Mother says I can take Lysander and Mufti to France with me. April 6, 1770

This afternoon I had a sad visit with mother who summoned me to talk to her about my new life in France.

She rose from her desk, smiling, and kissed me when I came into her private study. As usual her desk was piled with papers. Her old yellow cat slept between two of the piles, on a length of soft wool she keeps there for his comfort.

I was suddenly overcome with sorrow, and could not help crying. I embraced mother and smelled her rosewater scent.

“Oh, maman, I can’t bear to leave you! How I will miss you. Now I know how Carlotta felt when she left, why she cried herself to sleep so many nights.”

Mother led me to the wide bow window and we sat together looking out at the garden. The earliest roses were just beginning to bloom, red and pink and yellow, and the fruit trees were almost in full leaf.

“I know what you are feeling, Antonia,” mother said at length. “When I married I had to leave behind much that was familiar. It was a step into the unknown.”

She reached for my hand and held it in her lap as she talked, occasionally patting it absentmindedly. It was unlike
her to do this, and I knew it meant that she was allowing herself to show how much she loved me. It was only because I was leaving that she unbent this way, I was sure. Usually she stayed strong, and affectionately detached.

“You must remember three things, my dearest child. Go to mass regularly, always do as the French do, no matter how outlandish their customs seem, and make no decisions without asking advice.”

“Whose advice, maman? Prince Louis’s?”

Her mouth turned down and for a moment a troubled look came into her eyes.

“The prince is still young, as you are. He is not yet—seasoned. Ask the Duc de Choiseul, or Count Mercy, or one of the Austrians. Kaunitz will give you some names of those he trusts at the French court before you leave.”

“Oh and be careful whom you speak to in confidence, among the servants. Many are paid informants.”

“I will speak only to Sophie.”

Mother sighed and patted my hand.

“You will overcome any obstacles you encounter, Antonia. You have a good heart, and stout Hapsburg courage. Never forget who you are and whose blood runs in your veins. Be proud. And try, for all our sakes, to be prudent.”

“I will, maman. Truly I will.”

After I left mother I went out for a walk, to take a last look at things I have loved. I went out into the pasture beyond the dairy and smelled the scent of the rich loamy earth. I visited the old riding school and said a prayer for the soul of Josepha, trying in vain not to picture her as she lay, grotesque in her pain, on her deathbed. I looked under the eaves for the nests of starlings and heard the tiny cries of the baby birds. It made me very sad to realize I would not be there to watch them grow and see them fledge as I always had before.

Now it is I who am the fledgling.

April 23, 1770

I can hardly write, the coach is shaking so violently back and forth.

We are in the third day of our long journey. I miss my family. I have Sophie with me, and Mufti, and Eric, who as Lysander’s groom was included in my traveling party. When I lean out the window of the coach I can see him, at the far end of the long procession of coaches and wagons, riding with the other stable servants. Every time I hug Mufti I think of Eric—though I am trying now to think of Prince Louis, since I am married to him and will be with him before long.

Last night we stayed with the monks of Himmelsgau Abbey, a place too small for all of us. Most of the servants had to sleep under wagons and tents in the courtyard, and it rained, and everyone was uncomfortable. The abbot was very unfriendly to the French dignitaries and they took offense. We were given very little to eat and I am hungry.

April 30, 1770

We have been traveling for ten days and it is very tiring. At night I fall into bed, my muscles aching from the constant jolting of the coach along the rough roads. Sometimes we
have to get out and walk, as the roads are so muddy our coach cannot take the extra weight of passengers without becoming bogged down.

We broke an axle two days ago and had to wait for several hours while it was repaired.

The countryside through which we are journeying is very beautiful, with good dark rich farmland and stands of fine trees. The farmers are ploughing and sowing new seed. They stop to watch us pass, staring in wonderment at the painted coaches and servants in their blue velvet livery—dirtied by the rain and mud, but elegant nonetheless.

We are still in German-speaking lands but the villagers here speak differently and I have trouble understanding them. We are almost in France now.

May 15, 1770

It is evening now, and I am here in the chateau of Compiègne. I have an hour to myself. I must set down what happened yesterday while it is still fresh in my mind, because it was all so strange. So very different from what I had expected.

Yesterday I met Louis.

My traveling party arrived at the edge of a great forest. It was late in the afternoon, and we had been on the road since early morning. As usual I was sore and bruised from the punishing rocking and heaving of the coach.

We stopped at a bridge and I could see that there were a number of coaches and riders already there, waiting for us. I got out of the coach and one of the French officials approached me, making a low bow.

“Madame, I am to take you to the prince.”

“Just as I am? So bedraggled from riding all day?”

“He prefers to meet you informally. He dislikes ceremony.”

I remembered what my mother had said, do as the French do, no matter how odd—or did she say outrageous? Tucking Mufti into the sleeve of my gown, where she customarily rode when I went out, I went with my escort over the bridge and into the forest, leaving behind the others, who were watching us while pretending not to.

All around us was silence and dimness. The immense old oaks and chestnuts spread their branches to make a canopy over our heads, while at our feet spread new green shoots and the first spring flowers. I was charmed, it was like something out of a storybook.