Abundance. Part 20

Its t.i.tle is "Les Nouvelles de la Cour." The drawing depicts a sad Queen. Between every stanza, the words repeat the question "Can the King do it? Can't the King do it?"

His face is scarlet with shame. My eyes fill with tears and mirror his shame, but we continue to read what has been written about the novelties of the court. The most pure and innocent Princesse de Lamballe is maligned: the verses suggest that with her little fingers she has done the work of the King. My mother, the Empress of Austria, is blasphemed as one who does not care who fathers the successor to the throne, as long as the deed of impregnation is finally done. I cannot look at my husband.

The King rips the pamphlet to shreds and throws the pieces into the basin of water that surrounds Enceladus. In his gleaming misery, we both see the mirror of our own. Who dares to throw us down and trample on our dignity?

Suddenly the King says, "I will pay your debts for you, Toinette. You and your Rose will construe whatever fashion pleases your fancy."

"My mother hopes my brother, the Emperor, will travel here. She thinks he has advice for us, that he will help us."

"Yes, of course he must come." The King smiles at me. He is glad to think of something other than obscene libelles. There is a graciousness in my husband's forehead when he releases tensions. Smiling, he tries to make my moment a happy one.

"When Joseph comes, I want the entertainments to be lavish beyond anything he has ever had mounted in Austria." My gaze roams over the clenched body of the statue, follows the spout of water rising into the air from the t.i.tan's tortured mouth into the beautiful blue of the sky. "During his visit, my brother must never be bored."

MADAME, MY MOST DEAR MOTHER.

My joy is not complete, but progress has been made. The King is less lazy. One night he knocked at the door-so to speak. The next, he opened it a crack. I praised him to the skies, with the most endearing phrases. He wept for joy, and I wept with him.

Last night, he has been two-thirds of a husband to me. He says that he does not think the dreaded operation on his member, which we have only just begun to talk about, will be necessary, and I heartily agree, as I do with all his judgments concerning the marital bed, for I believe that all my restraint will pay off in the future. I know he wants to be fully man and fully king. I sympathize, and I myself do not know entirely what is best to do, but my little Polignac tells me that I can think of our state as consummated, or almost consummated if not complete.

Unfortunately, the King confides that his body is experiencing a drought, and the fluids are not emitted even when he is asleep. I continue to hope and to pray, and I am sure my dear Mama joins me in this.

MADAME, MY VERY DEAR DAUGHTER.

I write from Vienna, on the second day of the New Year, 1777. This year you will be twenty-two. You have been in France and married some seven years. In a month, the Emperor will arrive at Versailles. How I wish that I could join my son in his visit to our beloved Queen of France.

I know that you will speak to him with the trust and love he deserves to receive. Loving friendship between the houses of the sovereigns of Europe is the only means by which we can ensure the happiness of our States, our families, and the peace of Europe.

Speak to your brother about your connubial state with frankness. I know he will be discreet and will be capable of giving good advice. Seeking his help is of the utmost importance to you.

DAWN.

My friend the Comte de Neville has recommended I become acquainted with Marmontel's Histoire des Incas, so that I might have some idea of the customs of the New World. There, life is actually conducted much as Rousseau has described it should be, in his philosophy. People behave in a simple, natural way. They are in tune with nature; they worship nature, which I do not find at all incompatible with the love of G.o.d, who created all that is. Those people have their own version of Genesis, of how G.o.d made light and set the great ball of light we call the sun into the heavens.

Like the Incas, the Princesse de Lamballe and I, chaperoned by the Comtesse de Noailles, other friends, and our bodyguards, will venture forth to a remote area of the estate where no building is to be seen. Made comfortable with cushions and cloths to spread on the ground, with natural snacks of fruit and cheese, berries, nuts, and milk, we will behold the dawn.

The Princesse de Lamballe is happy that I have chosen her, and not the d.u.c.h.esse de Polignac, to accompany me. I am not sure my Yolande would like this sort of excursion. Almost I wish I could go entirely by myself. When I hunt, sometimes I cause my mount to run so fast that for a few brief moments I am alone among the mighty trees of the forest. Often I would have liked to sit alone on the gra.s.s, very quietly, and be still, just to think, and to tell myself about the shades of green to be seen in the leaves and gra.s.ses and moss, and what birds I see fly by. Sometimes I considered sitting directly on the gra.s.s itself-though I have never done so-without benefit of cushion, or I consider the possibility of sitting on a clean, smooth rock, with my feet washed by an icy stream, though actually I do not like cold water. I would do it for only a moment, if I did it, and then wrap my feet in a warm towel.

This night, when we shall greet the dawn, we start out at three in the morning without ever having gone to bed. This way I avoid the tedious ritual of my official lever, of being clothed in glacial ceremony. Because I want to experience the darkness, we set forth while the sky is still inky. Louis has granted permission for this excursion on the basis that his sleep will not be truncated in any way. It is the princess who takes my hand, and I think for a moment what a good friend she is, one who never says no to my ideas about how we shall amuse ourselves, though she has no suggestions herself.

"Thank you, dear friend," I say, "for agreeing to sit outside with me and wait for the sun."

"I think we already know all there is to know about sitting inside," she responds cheerfully.

"As is my duty as well as my pleasure," the Comtesse de Noailles adds, "I must make sure everyone sits at a proper distance from Your Majesty, even in the wilderness, with myself beside you, ready to serve in whatever way you wish."

"I would like the sky to be pink at dawn," I say to her. "Would you arrange that?" I am teasing her, of course. She always overestimates and overstates her abilities. Sunrise has its own protocol, and the Comtesse de Noailles has no power in its realm.

If the sunrise party is a great success, I shall have Leonard weave ribbons of the proper hues into my tresses and create a sunrise in my hair. Aurora, the word comes to me, a beautiful word. Suddenly my feet are racing over the gra.s.s, and my slippers are wet with dew.

On a whim I order the servants to douse the torches, and now we move in true darkness. For a moment I am blinded by blackness. I hear the rustle of the gra.s.s and the call of an owl, a sound I have not heard once all the years I have lived in France. My feet would like to hesitate, but I do not allow them to be cowardly. I feel a pebble under the sole of my slipper, and a wiry briar pulls at my skirt, but I do not pause. Holding the hand of my friend, we sail like twin ships over undulations in the land, places where a small slope rises up or drops down. Because Nature is not always symmetrical, the terrain delightfully surprises us. Rapid walking in the dark is an adventure for the feet. I raise my hand for silence, so that all may hear the sound of our slippered feet moving through gra.s.s. We become mysterious as a flock of ghosts. At the crest of a long gra.s.sy slope, I stop.

"Here we pitch our tents," I exclaim.

The cloths and cushions-sleek satins in shades of pink, gray, and silver-are spread. I inquire which direction is east. Like the Incas on that distant continent, we settle ourselves and face east to wait for the appearance of the sun.

"And what happened," Provence poses the question, "when Apollo allowed an inexperienced driver to hold the reins of the chariot that brings the sun?"

I am not altogether pleased that he refers us to Greek cla.s.sicism, when I am in the mood for Incas and Rousseau.

Artois interprets the import of his brother's question. "He is speaking in political riddles, my dears. He refers to our ill.u.s.trious ancestor, Louis XIV, the Sun King." When no one comments, Artois adds, "And those who have held the reins of state after him."

Together, they are questioning the fitness of my husband, their brother, to rule, and I know it well, but I decline the riposte. Louis does not need my defense against his aspiring brothers. I've seen my own brothers playfully banter and jostle for position, like young ponies.

Just now a golden plank of pale sunlight appears at the bottom of the sky. I will allow nothing to mar the glory of the moment. With perfect composure, I reply, "When Apollo allowed an inexperienced driver to ferry the sun across the sky, he lost control of the steeds of state; the sun collided with the earth and a great fire followed. The earth was scorched and burnt."

Frankness settles the question.

Now the sky shows bands of rose and lavender, and the entire east begins to pinken. The radiance and majesty of it all! No one speaks, but I hear even the guardian of etiquette, Madame de Noailles, sigh in wistful appreciation of the quiet spectacle in the sky. A single stray cloud floats past, and its puffy edges are outlined in gleaming gold and silver.

"How wondrous it is!" I exclaim. "How truly beautiful!" I cannot stop myself from repeating those words over and over, while everyone else sits in reverent silence, their familiar faces flushed rosy in the light of G.o.d.

I take the princess's hand again, squeeze till I feel the bones within her soft flesh, and whisper, "At the last moment of my life, I shall remember this dawn."

THE DAYS THAT Pa.s.s after our witnessing of the rising of the sun have a new tranquillity about them. Less than a week has pa.s.sed, and I am inspecting my gardens near Trianon when the King appears. He is in full court regalia, and I am surprised at what a discordant note this finery strikes beside the simple loveliness of flowers. The King asks me to walk with him to the Belvedere. As we walk along he thumps the satin leg of his breeches with a rolled-up pamphlet of some sort. I tell him of some of the flowers to be planted: narcissus, hyacinth, myrtle, laurel, and how the surrounding gardens will remind my guests of some of the paintings from mythology inside the Trianon of mortals being transformed into certain flowers. The King murmurs a bit to show that he is listening, but he is abstracted and troubled.

We stop at the edge of the water to look across its bright surface toward the grotto.

"People say those groups of statuary are the most beautiful ones at Versailles," the King says. He points at the figures of t.i.tans bathing the horses of Apollo, after their day's work of pulling the chariot of the sun across the sky. "It's carved from a single block of Carrara marble," he remarks. Another statue depicts Apollo's repose among the sea nymphs of Neptune.

"I suppose," my husband continues, "that in some part of Greece, one can actually see the sun both rise from the waters in the east and sink into the sea on the west. I would like to see the wonder of that someday."

I recall my own lovely moment of watching the sun rise, but I say nothing. Suddenly I realize the King is trembling with anger.

"Look at this," he says, and he unrolls the pamphlet held in his fist.

Its t.i.tle is "Le Lever d'Aurore." Something has been published about my watching the rising of the dawn. Suddenly I am cold with fear.

"It was a beautiful moment," I say.

"I am sure it was. Without the slightest impropriety."

"The Comtesse de Noailles was at my side every moment. It could not have been more decorous. Our brothers joked a bit. But the beauty of the dawn was an inspiring event, as Rousseau-"

"We are looking now at statuary," the King interrupted, "of transcendent beauty, of utmost purity and power-the n.o.ble horses, the lovely maidens. Yet how easy it would be for some rude villain to besmirch them with handfuls of mud." He fills his lungs with a huge breath, and I know he would breathe fire, if he could. "I promise that whoever wrote this pamphlet shall find that a cell in the Bastille awaits him. He has the effrontery to address you, yourself."

"What does he say I have done?"

"He describes a drunken orgy that lasted till the sun rose."

"I was surrounded with witnesses, my family, the court, bodyguards! How could anyone imagine any such thing even to be possible?"

"He claims that you escaped surveillance by crawling away into the bushes."

"I intend to greet this libel with complete indifference," I announce, and then I burst into tears.

The King gently positions my head on his royal chest. I feel I have placed my cheek against the flank of a volcano.

Finally, I lift my head and say with composure, "We will not speak of such calumny at Trianon. Because of the generosity of Your Majesty, this idyllic spot is mine to be transformed into paradise. I wish Trianon and its gardens to be the place where nothing can ever vex me or trouble my tranquillity. Look how brightly the sun shines! Here the flowers will always bloom, and these small trees will grow tall as cathedral spires and just as magnificent, for the future queens of France to enjoy." For a moment I think of the lovely pearls that Anne of Austria bequeathed to the queens of France, and I think with pride that my gift will bring with it just as much pleasure, or more.

"It will be your refuge," the King a.s.sures. "No one will come here except by your invitation." The Pet.i.t Trianon is just enough removed from the Chateau de Versailles to give it a good measure of privacy.

"And I will have a small theater built nearby, may I not? And when I and my family tire of the beauties of nature, we will go onstage, and pretend with one another, and inhabit a world of artifice."

THIS FANTASY of my own pet.i.t theatre to be newly constructed within a very easy walk of a thoroughly renovated Pet.i.t Trianon buoys up my spirits when we return to court. Then one of my ladies confides to me that Prince Louis de Rohan has taken care to spread both near and far the news of the libelous pamphlet "Le Lever d'Aurore." Recalled to France, that noxious Rohan weed may prove more troublesome to me than he was in Vienna. I thoroughly hate him, though I cross myself and ask forgiveness for the sentiment. But that he would help to besmirch my sunrise party. It was not only an innocent but a genuinely spiritual event in my life!

A VISIT BY THE QUEEN'S BROTHER, JOSEPH II, EMPEROR OF AUSTRIA

My brother comes incognito, known only as "Count Falkenstein." They say he travels in gray with none of his medals on his chest, and he rides in an open carriage, without fanfare or entourage. They say he intends to sleep in a humble inn on the skin of a wolf.

Because Count Mercy is in bed with hemorrhoids, I meet my brother almost alone and without the interference of protocol. When his carriage arrives, he is guided straight to me, up a private stair. Alone with my brother, I am taken into his strong arms and held close for the longest of embraces, which seems only a moment but surely partakes of the completeness of eternity. For a long time, we are silent in our embrace, for no words are adequate to express the profundity of our mutual emotion. Near the end of our moment, I begin to sense how lonely he is for embraces, since the loss for the second time of a wife.

Finally he steps back, still holding my hand, savoring my presence from top to toe, and tells me I am so pretty that were I not his sister, he would surely want to marry me.

We talk for two hours, and the Emperor is utterly responsive to all my lively chatter. He smiles and laughs with complete sympathy and wonderful familiarity. There is no ceremony between us. When I tell him my anxieties and struggles, his face becomes the mirror of my distress.

When I take my brother, the Emperor of Austria, to meet my husband, the King of France, for love of me, they embrace each other with perfect cordiality. I cannot help weeping with joy, for this is the fulfillment of my mother's dream and the reason for which I was sent here.

To my amazement, my husband speaks in a direct, confident way to my brother, as he would to a true friend. All shyness aside, my husband enjoys himself with my brother. Our days are spent in gay conviviality, and the Emperor meets my aunts and my friends as well.

BEFORE OUR VERY PRIVATE dinner at the Pet.i.t Trianon, Joseph delights in and admires each of the six rooms of Trianon, and he remarks on how the decorations complement the views in all directions from the large windows, and how the house, with all its elegance, is really a celebration of all that is beautiful in nature. His favorite room is the large reception room, and he exclaims with joy on seeing my harp there, standing at the ready, and a pianoforte. Lifting my hand to feel my fingertips, he says fondly, "I can feel your calluses, which means that you have kept up your practice."

"Our Gluck made a similar observation. My music always transports me to Vienna," I continue, "and the happy times we had there when we practiced all the arts as children." Of course my brother was already a man when I was a child, but I can see that my words evoke happy scenes in his memory of when he was younger.

While we stand on the rosy carpet woven with plumy golden arabesques, I feel almost that it is a magic carpet. Perhaps it will rise and take us to tour the world, if we can but engage the charm! My brother asks me to explain the metamorphosis in each of the paintings above the doors, so I point and speak of Narcissus changing into a flower that now bears his name, and Adonis changing into an Anemone, and Clytia becoming a sunflower, and then Hyacinthus.

When we retire to the dining room, he admires the four paintings of the seasons, especially the scenes of fishing and of the wheat harvest, and the painting over the door of Flora.

"Often I identify with her," I remark.

"Because of your love of flowers," he replies. His smile is so like sunshine, that I wish I, too, could turn into a flower and bask and grow under the influence of his radiance. In the presence of my beloved brother, I feel taken care of and understood.

"I, like Flora, was taken from my mother's world into another, stranger realm."

"But the King is far from being Hades," my brother answers with a smile. What honest eyes he has!

"Indeed," I reply, and then say frankly, "Certainly, as you know, he does not ravish me."

"In this case, restraint is far from kindness. I am here to help you both on that score."

He has written to me that when he travels he always eats the cuisine of the place-that this habit helps him to better understand the const.i.tution of the people among whom he moves. Now he relishes the hearty French stews, replete with six meats simmered in mushrooms and truffles, the roasted ducks, the fatted goose pate, but I am too excited to do any more than sip a thin consomme of chicken stock and carrots. As he eats, we speak of our family, especially our dear mother, for whom he has sacrificed so much.

When I take him for a garden walk after dining, he lectures me.

He dislikes my rouge and tells me I could easily look just like a Fury if I put the color under my eyes and nose, as well as on my cheeks. With the rather roughened tip of his finger, he traces the s.p.a.ce between my mouth and nose to show me just where I could add more rouge. He stops to thrust his nose against a rose, then tells me that my friends are unsuitable, that they are frivolous and know nothing. He tells me I must treat the King with more tenderness and warmth, that in his presence I appear to be not merely indifferent but cold, bored, and even repelled. He snaps off the head of an orange marigold beside the garden path and presents it to me. My brother loathes my gambling and the expense of my jewelry and gowns. Trailing my hand behind my back, I secretly drop the marigold into the pebbles. Throughout the Emperor's scolding, I adore him and bask in his familial affection.

I agree with him at almost every turn and promise to reform on all counts. I turn the conversation to the menagerie at home, and he speaks fondly of the visit of Clara, the rhinoceros, but he has no memory of Hilda the hippopotamus and tells me sternly that I must have imagined her. He speaks with admiration of the elephants we keep at Versailles, male and female, and suggests they be brought together in marriage.

He promises again to have a frank talk with my husband.

OVER THE COURSE of his visit, my brother informs me that the King is not without ideas, that he is an honest man, but weak and indecisive. He tells me that my intentions and instincts are good, that he is most pleased to find me to be both a decent and virtuous person, but I must trust my own heart-he sounds a bit like Rousseau-and not be a slave to the habits and conventions of others based on their own selfishness. All of this he writes down so that I may read his words over and over, after he is gone back to Austria, and I readily promise to do so, and really I do think that I can do more to make the King happy, and I feel more warmth toward him.

My brother chastens me because he loves me and cares about the welfare of France.

Only when Joseph criticizes my Yolande do I refuse to acquiesce. Standing beside my chair, he says she lacks substance and is of easy virtue. When I speak of her adorable children, Armand and Aglaie, he waves their existence aside and criticizes me for expenditures that have gone toward the comfort of her family. He does not know that I paid all of my favorite friend's debts-some 400,000 livres-or provided her daughter's dowry of 800,000 livres, but he has heard of many other expenditures, the commission for her son-in-law plus an income, a pension for her father, the appointment of Yolande's permissive husband as postmaster-general, which everyone knows to be one of the most lucrative appointments in France. As my brother walks to the window, he rages that the Polignac family is costing France a million livres a year, and he quotes Count Mercy that my largesse to my friends is almost unparalleled: "Never before, in so brief a period of time, has royal favor ever brought such enormous financial benefits to a single family!"

Far from arousing shame, the idea causes me to smile a bit, that I have used so much power for the happiness of my friend. My brother catches the upturn of the corners of my mouth and rages on. "You may call your favorite friend an angel, but those downcast, modest eyelids conceal her shrewdness. Not Madame de Maintenon, not even the Pompadour have been such a drain on the royal treasury!" This idea is delivered as we stand in the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles, and for a moment, he is distracted with the grand and sweeping view out the window. I believe that he is admiring the sheer size of the Grand Ca.n.a.l and the little boats that sit so picturesquely on its waters.