Authors: Kathryn Lasky
December 21, 1769
Herr Francke says that my drawing has improved my riding. I am doing Piaffe “perfectly,” in his words. The horse does not move one bit forward but merely prances or trots in place as he is supposed to do. It seems that drawing the picture has fixed the image in my mind of the horse’s feet, and this in some mysterious way makes me sit correctly and give just the right commands at the right pace to the horse.
December 26, 1769
Lulu took part in our Christmas celebration, and although I was very happy, it was something of a shock to see her. Her dress hung on her like the clothes of a scarecrow in the fields we pass on our way to Schönbrunn. Her face seemed all hollows and perhaps worst of all she could not walk without a cane. It was as if she had become an old lady overnight. She had shrunk, and although the hairdresser had fixed many plaits and switches of hair to her head, I could see that beneath them, even her skull seemed smaller, as if its bones rattled beneath the shell of false hair. I think she had overpainted her cheeks in an effort to look like her old self. But there was this new self instead, a self that I almost did not recognize. However, she sat through the St. Nicholas Day feast and then stayed for the entire tableau of our Gospel of St. Luke nativity, and she clapped her hands very merrily when Schnitzy came out wagging his tail and scurried up to the manger to lick the doll who was the baby Jesus.
We all ate too much Christmas torte. It is the best and the most beautiful torte I have ever seen here in the palace. The pastry chef made it specially with me in mind for it was a scene from the Riding Hall. A dozen horses made from marzipan performed atop a wonderful chocolate cake. The pastry chef really outdid himself, and Mama called him out from the kitchens and we applauded and then ate more! And of course, we had already eaten goose and sauerbraten — Mama must always have sauerbraten on a feast table no matter what — and steamed cabbage and dumplings filled with cheese. She loves dumplings above all. There were the usual twelve courses for the Twelve Nights of the Christmas festival season. We shall give our performance once again on Epiphany, or Twelfth Night, the last night before the last day of the twelve. And Cook shall make yet another cake. How he can make a more beautiful one I shall never know!
January 1, 1770
We gave our New Year’s gifts this morning. I must admit that I had hoped a letter might come from Louis Auguste. What a perfect gift that would have been. Or even better, perhaps a portrait. I try to imagine what he might look like but I cannot.
I do believe that Titi got the most wonderful gift of all. It is a kind of miniature theater but with moveable parts that illustrate scenes from the Old Testament. Our favorite of course is the Flood and Noah’s ark, but most powerful is Moses coming down from the mountain with the Ten Commandments. That is certainly Mama’s favorite. She rolls the crank to bring Moses down so often that Titi and I joked that he shall become tired and throw away the Commandments. Mama scowled and called us
anser inscius
, which means “ignorant gosling” in Latin. This is her favorite term for silly, small girl children. Or sometimes she calls us
ridiculus mus
, Latin for “ridiculous mouse.”
Just when we were having so much fun playing with this, I was called away, as the French ambassador, Durfort, had arrived. I really did not want to take the time to see him, but then I decided maybe he would like to see the little mechanical theater. “So,” I said, “come with me and I shall show you something that you have perhaps never seen!” I took him directly to the nursery room where Titi plays. I think he was enchanted by the little theater.
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 skipped 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?”