Madame Bertin has sent the poupées for the spring fashions. It is hard to believe that spring will ever come. For now we have so much snow. And when spring does come I shall be in France, gliding down the marble corridors of Versailles as I have been taught to walk. Perhaps I shall be wearing the dress of the little doll that sits in front of me now. She wears a gown of Binche lace. It is lighter than regular lace and is sprinkled with a snowflake design. I like the idea of snowflakes in spring — in fabric, that is, not in the air.
January 7, 1770
Cook did indeed outdo himself. The Twelfth Night cake was not one but several and all replicas of various parts of Versailles! There was the Hall of Mirrors with mirrors made from melted sugar silver. There was the Ambassadors Staircase with a huge flight of chocolate stairs leading up to a sugar replica of the fountain in which two Greek gods frolicked. The walls were so tasty, for they were made from pistachio paste. My favorites, though, were the outdoor parts, the gardens. There was the Orangery with little orange trees hung with sugared drops the shape of oranges. And then my very favorite, the Groves, in which the trees had foliage made from spun burnt caramel, so it looked as if it were an autumn day, and the lake known as the Baths of Apollo was made of crème anglaise with a waterfall of Royal Frosting pouring into it. I think Mama is considering having a medal made to give to the pastry chef in recognition of his skills.
January 8, 1770
Lulu is ailing once more. I think the Christmas festivities were too much for her. She is back in bed and very weak. Mama sends both of her personal physicians to tend her. Meanwhile every day more dispatches come from Versailles filled with letters concerning the wedding.
January 12, 1770
I was sent for by Mama today and I found her scowling and very cross, snapping at a minister: “What do you mean, Marie Antoinette’s name does not come first, not even on the proxy document?” How ridiculous! She was so caught up in the details of the last dispatch from Versailles that she forgot I was there and simply stormed out of the room.
What do I really care whose name comes first? Why should it matter, this sort of etiquette, when Louis Auguste has yet to acknowledge my presence on earth? Still no reply to my letter. I try not to think about it.
January 14, 1770
Every day I hear of a new spat with Versailles. All of it concerning etiquette and protocol and conduct and all those rituals that are part of a great wedding. It is a wonder that any royal person ever gets married. Here is a list of the arguments over the last few days:
1) Whose name should come first on the marriage contract — Mama’s, the Empress of Austria (who is giving me away), or Louis, the King of France, who is grandfather of the bridegroom?
2) Who should accompany me to France? (No one of course would ever ask whom I might want.)
3) How many Knights, Ladies-in-Waiting, doctors, secretaries, and laundresses should accompany me?
4) What order should the Austrian and the French nobles who accompany me ride in?
5) What kinds of and how many carriages? Apparently, King Louis has ordered two magnificent traveling carriages built, but who other than myself should ride in them is of great argument at the moment, and I can hardly ride in two at once.
All this seems so utterly stupid and all I really want is a letter or portrait from Louis Auguste. Of course, they never bother me with any of these questions. The only thing I am asked my opinion on are the fashion dolls. Do I want this dress or that dress made from this or that fabric and in what color? The French use fine cloth and have very imaginative names for their fashion colors. Another poupée now sits on my bureau by the window. She wears a cambric dress in a soft, fragile white. There is a gray I am particularly fond of called Flea’s Head and then a bright green called, of all things, Lovesick Frog. I jest not.
January 19, 1770
Do you remember the poupée that I mentioned that stood on my bureau? Well, the oddest thing happened. I woke up this morning and found that she had fallen off the bureau and crashed onto the floor. Her porcelain head smashed into tiny pieces and one arm hung loose on its string from the tiny socket in her shoulder. A wind must have blown in through the loose shutter near the bureau and knocked her down. Poor dear! She looked so terrible, all broken and mangled. It gave me an odd shiver. I think I won’t order that dress in the Binche lace.
January 20, 1770
I cannot believe this is happening now. Titi is deathly ill. It is not the smallpox but a very terrible pneumonia. I am thankful it is not the pox, for if it were, they would not let me near her. At least I can go to her chamber and hold her hand. My brother Joseph is there constantly. He is beside himself, for Titi is the image of his dearly beloved first wife, Isabella. She is all he has left of Isabella. I pray to God that she does not die. Dear God, do not take this dear child who has been as much a companion to me as any, despite our age difference.
January 23, 1770
Our dear Titi left us this morning. I feel frozen. It is as if I cannot cry. My tears are as locked as ice in the stream. I look out and I see a frozen world, for it is so bitter that the fountains hang with beards of ice, and the windows are fringed with needles of icicles, and something in me has frozen.
Later: I went to Titi’s nursery playroom and looked at the wonderful mechanical theater. I cranked the spindles around until her favorite Old Testament scene came onto the small stage — the ark with the animals entering two by two. I pray that my darling Titi shall be as lovingly cared for by our God as Noah cared for these animals. I have left instructions that the theater scene should never be changed.
January 25, 1770
Two days without Titi. I don’t know how I shall ever get used to it. Every day for I do not know how long Titi and I always had our hot chocolate together in the morning. Every time the first snowflake fell, Titi would come running to me. “Will there be enough for sledding, Tony? Can we get Grandmama to bring it in from the high country?” What shall I do without my little Titi? I felt she was like a lovely shadow following me around the palaces, throughout my days, in and out of my classrooms for dancing or music. She was a reminder of all the best things of when I was a child, before this strange time of my betrothal. She made me hope that I could somehow always have a part of me that was young and could sled and play tricks and, yes, be stubborn and bossy and it would do no harm because after all we were just children and not wives or rulers.
Did I mention that I think even Schnitzy realizes that something has happened to Titi? He scampered off into Titi’s playroom this morning and seemed to be searching for her. Then he climbed into my lap, whining and whimpering. There was something almost human about his little moans.
Mama came in just a few minutes ago with a pouch of papers from Versailles to tell me I must meet with her and her ambassador Count Mercy over some important matters concerning the wedding, and I muttered to no one in particular, “It is not fair.” She thought I spoke of having to meet with her and Count Mercy and began to lecture me as to my duties and responsibilities. And I interrupted her and said, “No, Mama, I speak of Titi’s death. It is not fair.” And Mama said, “Nonsense. She was but a child. If a child lives until twelve, it is a miracle. If she dies between twelve and marriage and having children, then it is unfair.” I realized then that Mama and I have entirely different views of childhood. Mama thinks that children are not precious because their deaths are so common. They are the disposable part of humanity. And I think just the reverse. Because children are rare, they must be and are the most precious things on earth, because they remind us of the incompleteness of life and are anything but disposable. We shall not have even a mourning period for Titi. It is not the Austrian custom, as Mama says, to “carry on” about children.
February 7, 1770
I don’t feel like writing today. It snowed hard. Snowy days make me miss Titi all the more.
February 10, 1770
I skipp
ed my riding lesson today. Received a severe note from Mama telling me to stop “carrying on” about Titi. I was so mad I drew an ugly picture of Mama with a beard and mustache.
February 11, 1770
I tore up a picture of Mama, then went to Father Confessor and told him what I had done. He gave me one rosary to recite. I thought he would at least direct me toward the carvings of the Stations of the Cross and make me say a prayer at one or two.
February 20, 1770
I went to visit Lulu today. She asked me how things were going in regard to the wedding. I think she was really asking if I had heard from Louis Auguste, but I did not wish to tell her the truth about that. So instead I told her about all the bickering between the two Courts. She just sighed and said in her weak voice, “The French are an odd lot.” I didn’t know what to say back. It was a comment impossible to respond to. I wanted to say, “Then why am I being sent there? Why must I learn all these stupid rules and ways to play cards, walk, eat, and talk? Why are you sending me to this strange country where even my future husband seems not to care a whit for me and will not take the time to write?”
And as all these very angry thoughts were running through my head, Lulu said, “You know, my dear, they want to take it off?”
I must not have been concentrating because I was caught unawares. “What off?” I said. “What are you talking about?” Then Lulu’s face turned dreadfully dark and her eyes seemed to swim behind seas of tears. “You don’t know, Antonia? They didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?” I asked. And I was suddenly filled with a terrible fear. Then she told me herself. Her leg is diseased. The Court surgeons want to cut it off. I gasped. If they cut it off, they feel, they can save her life. But she is frightened of the pain. They could give her only so much wine and strong spirits to make her senseless, but she would still feel the knives.
I could scarcely breathe as Lulu told me this story. This was so unimaginable to me. It was as if some terrible enemy grew within her own body. I always thought of enemies on the outside like Frederick of Prussia, The Monster. This thing that grows in dear Lulu’s leg . . . Oh, I cannot bear to think of it any longer. What would I do? Would I ever be brave enough for the pain, and if I were could I bear the thought of being so mutilated?
February 23, 1770
Lulu died last night. They did not tell me until this morning. But I knew. A few minutes after midnight Schnitzel, who sleeps at the foot of my bed, began whining in his sleep. It woke me up. Everything was black. The last candles had guttered out, but one single shaft of moonlight pierced through the shutters and fell like a shard of ice on my floor. Something drew me to the window. I crawled out of my bed barefoot and ran across the cold wood. I looked out. The moon hung in the sky like a little scrap of fingernail. It was too little moon to cast so much light. Just a sliver, but in that moment I knew somehow that Lulu had passed from this earth. “Godspeed!” I whispered. And I could almost see her dancing through the night, her lovely legs all well and perhaps doing a Scottish reel right up into the stars. Oh yes, I shall imagine her prancing across the back of the Great Bear constellation, gliding up to the Swan and the Archer and all the starry figures of this winter night. If there is music in heaven, Lulu will find it and the angels will play better once she is there.
February 24, 1770
Mama has declared a two-week mourning period for Lulu. The period is to end right before the winter ball, but I am excused from going to it. For this I am grateful. Mama keeps saying we must carry on, even though I do know that she is quite sad, for she cared greatly for Lulu. But right or wrong I have a place in my heart for both these dear souls I have lost within the space of a month and I shall not simply carry on, but carry their memories with me until I am in my own grave.
March 1, 1770
It has been just one week since Lulu died, but Mama has already picked her replacement. Countess Krautzinger was waiting for me in my apartments when I returned from my riding lesson. I must say I think Mama could have given me a little warning. It is a shock to come back and find someone sitting in one’s favorite chair by the fire directing one’s chambermaid to “move quickly and fetch more tea and call for more kindling, and do find the claret bottle. What, there is no claret in the Archduchess’s apartments?”
“I like not the claret.” Those were my first words to the Countess. And the next words I had no need to say. They were silently spoken. How dare you come into my apartments and sit in my chair and order about my chambermaid and demand claret? Something amazing happened to me. I felt myself grow several inches in the space of seconds. The timbre of my voice changed. I know my eyes turned ice blue. I became in those fleeting seconds a Queen. And the Countess knew it as well. She immediately leapt from the chair and curtsied. “I am to be your new governess–Grand Mistress, My Lady,” she whispered. And I replied, “It seems that I am not the only one who shall be learning.” Brunhilda, my daytime chambermaid, nearly dropped the plate she was carrying. I quickly dismissed the Countess and then sat down and wrote in my finest hand a note to Mama.
My dear Majesty,
I was alarmed to find in my apartments this afternoon the Countess Krautzinger. She had made free with my quarters, sitting in my favorite chair and commanding my chambermaid in a manner that was most offensive. I regret that you did not see fit to inform me that the Countess would succeed my beloved Lulu, but I am even more disturbed that you would deem her to be an adequate Grand Mistress, considering her arrogance and complete lack of sensibility. I think that I shall not learn much from her, and she stands to learn a great deal more from me.
Most respectfully, your daughter
March 2, 1770
I received today the most astounding note from Mama. I paste it here in my diary.
Daughter, Bravo!
You have excelled in the most important lesson I have put to you thus far; indeed, you have exceeded my expectations. Kraut is a fraud and a hypocrite. You have seen right through her and so quickly. Her arrogance is her shield for a weak character. But study her, for there will be many like her at Versailles. I have arranged for you to take card-playing and gambling lessons from her. She will not tell you how she cheats but it will soon become apparent. You shall then be able to detect these behaviors in others and ban them from your gaming table. Do you not find her wart most interesting?
Most sincerely, your affectionate mother, Maria Theresa of Habsburg, Empress of the Holy Roman Empire, wife of your beloved late father, Emperor Francis of Lorraine
Postscript: Your hand has improved immensely and your spelling is flawless!
March 4, 1770
I do not know how I ever missed the wart on the Countess’s nose. (I think of her now as Countess Sauer Kraut.) I must have been so upset by her behavior the first time I met with her that I completely lost sight of it. But there it is — large, red, and with a small hair growing out of it. It seems to have a life of its own, especially when we play cards. I think it twitches when she gets a good hand. It is most distracting, so I don’t imagine I shall soon figure out how she cheats at cards. Of course she has been letting me win, I think. No real money is being played for, however. Perhaps I shall suggest we raise the stakes and then I’ll try to concentrate on her tricks.
March 8, 1770
I suggested raising the stakes two days ago. The Countess continued to let me win until today, and today she won in a most large manner. Mama would be shocked if she knew how much money I lost. But I plan to continue, for I am sure I shall find out her tricky ways. I have told Elizabeth what Mama said and how I think the Countess now begins to cheat. Elizabeth has agreed to play, too, and to back me with more money if I need it. She is intrigued. Elizabeth has always enjoyed word games and puzzles. Thus she is fascinated and challenged by this.
March 12, 1770
Neither Elizabeth nor I can figure out how Sauer Kraut does it. She is devilishly clever. She lets us
win just enough to keep us going so as not to be bored. Elizabeth has figured out the pattern. We are allowed to win a few hands at the start. Then she takes over in a streak of wins. Then if our interest flags, she lets us win again. Our interest really does not flag but Elizabeth and I decided to feign it so we could test to see if this indeed was the pattern. But then today Abbé de Vermond joined, and he put a gold piece on the table right off. You should have seen Sauer Kraut’s eyes glitter! Needless to say, Countess Sauer Kraut broke her pattern and won the first hand.
March 17, 1770
My life these days seems to be spent either at the gaming table or the riding school. I must admit that I am getting sick of cards. Neither Elizabeth nor I can figure out how Sauer Kraut does it. When we sit at the gaming table it all seems lies and deceit. I have even begun to suspect that Abbé de Vermond might on occasion cheat when he plays with us. That perhaps is the worst part of this — one starts to suspect everyone. The air is so still, the apartments seem stuffy. The dust motes circulate in a slow minuet in stale shafts of sunlight. But in the riding school it is an entirely different world. The air is nippy. The chandeliers sparkle. The horses are so true.