The Hidden Diary of Marie Antoinette (16 page)

Barrels of strong local cider and aqvavit were broached and the heady liquor flowed abundantly. The bride, a hefty blond peasant girl of sixteen, filled my glass again and again. We ate caviar and drank red wine, and every few minutes, it seemed, the crowd started to whistle and clap and would not stop until the bride and groom kissed. Kissing here in Sweden is loud, with lots of lip-smacking.

Sometime in the middle of the night a peasant drove us back to Fredenholm in his wooden cart that smelled of hay and manure. Axel held me in his arms while the cart bumped its way along the rough track. I leaned against him, swooning from the wine and cider, tired from the dancing, in love with the world. I thought, this is the happiest night of my life.

July 16, 1780

Two days ago we started out to return to Drottningholm. I was very sad to leave. We rode to a town, then went southward by coach, through mile after mile of deep forest. The weather turned very cold, on and off it rained. Twice the coach had to be driven onto a large ferry to cross a lake.

Toward the end of the day the coach broke an axle and we had to walk in the rain to the only shelter near by, which was a small tavern with a cracked sloping roof and walls that leaned inward at an odd angle. I felt sorry for the poor horses that had to stand patiently in the hard rain with their heads bowed while the repairs were made.

Axel and I sat at a low scratched table by the fire and ordered wine and bread and cheese.

We drank our wine, waiting for the coachman to come through the door to tell us that the broken axle was mended.

But an hour went by, and then two, and he did not come. The rain continued to beat down on the roof of the tavern, and an old man came in, wet and bedraggled and walking with the aid of a stick. He was blind, his sightless eyes were turned upward toward the ceiling. He felt his way to the fire and spread out his hands toward its heat.

“Here, old father, drink this and warm yourself.” The tavern keeper guided the visitor to a table near us and set down a tankard in front of him.

“There are a French lady and gentleman here to keep you company,” he added. “See that you guard your language.”

“A fine French lady and gentleman,” the old man said, speaking French for our benefit. “Well then, God bless them. I have done them a service in my time. I fought for the old French king, the old Louis, at Fontenoy and Raucoux, and I won for him too. That was not how I went blind, though. No, I lost my eyes in prison. In a fight. Haven’t seen a soul in thirty-seven years. Now, what would you like to hear, my lady and gentleman? A French battle song? A dirge? I have the second sight, even though I lost my eyes. My second sight tells me, it ought to be a dirge.”

I shuddered at his words. No, not another death!

Axel gave the man some coins and he drank his beer and wandered off. Eventually our coach driver came to say that the axle was repaired and we went on.

July 17, 1780

Last night a thunderstorm broke and we could not get to the estate where Axel had arranged for us to stay. So we took shelter in a peasant house and were shown what hospitality the family could offer.

A thin, bent old woman welcomed us, her eyes shining and
her gums nearly toothless. Her drab skirt was worn and patched and a rag covered her sparse gray hair. She motioned us toward the immense stove, where some twenty people lay on sleeping platforms. From several cradles in one corner of the room came the wails of infants.

I stepped into the large, warm room and gasped, the smells were so strong. Smells of fish, cabbage, garbage, tobacco and open sewer drains like the ones at Versailles. And smells of bodies long unwashed dressed in dirty clothes.

A crowd of faces stared at us as we made our way to a table where the old woman served us cabbage soupwith fish heads floating in it and a loaf of coarse black bread. The eyes of the dead fish staring upat me, the grease on the surface of the soup, made my stomach turn. Out of politeness I ate several spoonfuls of the soup and a morsel of the bread. Axel, I noticed, ate heartily, as if he were dining at King Gustavus’s table.

As I did my best to eat I could not help looking over at the people lying on their sleeping platforms. They were wide awake—our arrival had apparently awakened them—and they kept their eyes on our food, watching every spoonful and every chunk of bread. Their faces were thin, and they all had the same vacant look, even the children. Several of the men drank from a metal cup that they passed from hand to hand. The reek of alcohol was in the air, along with the smell of burning wood and human waste. While I watched, large black cockroaches crawled over the threadbare blankets and across the floor at my feet.

The old woman who had greeted us and brought us food was busying herself making a bed for us. She brought several long benches over by the stove and laid planks of wood across them. On top of the planks she laid a very old, very dirty featherbed and piles of rags.

I soon had my fill of the food, and realized, to my horror, that I needed to relieve myself. But there was no privacy. The others, I could not help but notice, made full use of the reeking
chamber pots beneath the sleeping platforms, in full view of everyone in the room.

“Madame,” I said to our hostess in my very crude Swedish, “is there somewhere I might—” I pointed to one of the chamber pots.

She nodded her understanding and, reaching for my hand, she led me outside. It was still raining very hard, and we splashed through mud as she guided me toward a barn. She took me to an empty horse stall with straw on the earthen floor, and pointed. Then she left me.

I realized that she was being respectful—and kind. This was the very best she had to offer. Solitude, and relative cleanliness. The stable, with its rich scent of manure and animal breath, smelled much better than the house. But it was extremely cold. I soon did what I had to do and returned to the warmth of the stove-heated room.

In my absence a fight had broken out. The people had climbed down from their perches and were squabbling over the remains of my food. One man was hitting a woman and shouting drunkenly at her. I saw a boy with a snarling, feral face pick up a yellow cat and hurl it against the brick wall. In the midst of the melee an old woman stood, head bent, reciting a prayer. I could understand two phrases, which she seemed to repeat again and again.

“The wrath of the lord is come upon us! Preserve us from the wrath of the lord!”

Shocked, I watched the squalid scene, desperate to intervene yet helpless. I felt tears running down my face. The one thing I could do, I did. When the injured yellow cat came staggering toward me, I picked it up and held it close to my chest. I felt it claw me but I ignored the sharpness of its claws, determined to protect it.

Axel was hurriedly thanking the old woman for her hospitality and giving her a handful of coins, which she examined
so closely that she did not see us go. Snatching up one of the ragged blankets from the makeshift bed that was to have been ours, Axel draped it over me and the cat and led me outside into the rain.

I was too numb to speak or think. I let him take me along the muddy road, reassuring me that we would surely come to another shelter before long. It was still raining, though not as hard as before, and after we had walked for half a mile or so we came to a deserted old farmhouse and spent the night there, curled up together on the wooden floor, wet and cold, with the cat huddled against us for warmth.

July 20, 1780

My precious time with Axel is almost at an end. In two days I must return to France, having stayed away longer than I thought I would. I miss Mousseline very much. When we arrived at Drottningholm there were five letters waiting for me, telling me that Mousseline has begun to say “give me” and “no” and “do it” and to say the name of her little pug dog which I named after my dear old Mufti.

Chambertin writes to say that Louis has been fretful without me. Twice he locked himself in his workshop with a basket of pastries and refused to come out for several days. No one could persuade him. The ministers were mortified because important talks were under way concerning the American War and the king’s presence at dinners and receptions for the ambassadors was essential. Chambertin says only I could have made Louis do his duty. When I am there he is less timid and rebellious and much more willing to do what is required of him.

King Gustavus took Axel and me through the palace rooms he is renovating, so that I could see the final outcome of my suggestions. The artisans have been very busy and the results
of their work are very fine indeed. Gustavus favors Roman and Greek design with fluted columns and Pompeian friezes and mosaics made of shards of glass. One room I helped to plan was nearly finished, and the effect was very striking. Deep blue walls, white Doric columns, carved white plasterwork in an antique pattern of flowers and fruit. There will be deep blue carpets to match and a ceiling painted by an Italian artist from Verona. He arrives next week but I will already be gone and won’t be able to meet him.

While walking through the immense, expensively decorated rooms one thought nagged at me more and more. Why should a king live on such a lavish scale while his people spend their lives with many families packed into one dirty, stinking room with bare walls and a leaking ceiling? My few hours spent among the peasants have affected me deeply. Even as I walked amid the tranquil splendor of King Gustavus’s palace I could not rid my mind of the images of the dark rooms I had seen, the hungry faces, the squabbling and brutality I had witnessed at first hand.

I turned to Axel. “Those people we ate with, the day it rained so hard,” I said, “what can be done for them? They are so poor—”

To my surprise, Axel only laughed. “Those were rich peasants. They had a large house, animals, food. You should see how the poor ones live.”

King Gustavus was curious about our exchange and Axel explained to him that we had been forced to take shelter with some farmers.

“You have never before seen how peasants live, I think,” the king said to me.

“Only from a carriage window.”

“Life is very harsh for those born with so little.”

“Is there no way of improving their lives then?”

“King Gustavus has improved their lives,” Axel said loyally.

“He has abolished torture. No one is put to death any more for crimes they have committed. He has reformed the state finances. Taxes are lower, and the peasants now are able, if they can afford it, to buy their lands and own them as free men.”

“Yet there is so much misery, even so!”

We walked on, through the Malachite Dining Room, its walls covered in panels of the brilliant green gemstone, and into the Crystal Salon, where dozens of glittering chandeliers sparkled in the sunlight and threw reflections on the gilded walls.

Axel seemed thoughtful. At last he shrugged. “I love and admire the peasants, and have lived among them, from time to time, all my life. But they are like children. They wander through life ignorant and weak, unable to rise above their station. Unable to accomplish anything but hard labor. For most of the men, drink is their only consolation. For the women, it is religion.”

“Come now, Axel. You are too pessimistic. The countryside is changing, even here. Farming methods are improving. Crop yields are increasing. People are eating better and living longer. If only nature cooperates, giving good harvests, there will be much progress in our lifetimes. More health of bodies and minds. Meanwhile, my dear,” Gustavus said to me, “you may donate your pearl earrings to the poor.”

I felt my earlobes. I was indeed wearing pearl earrings, though not my most elaborate ones.

“Only you mustn’t do that,” said Axel, “because if you do, they will murder each other to get the pearls. It only causes harm, you see, to cast pearls before swine.”

I didn’t argue with Axel or the king. But I have promised myself that when I return to Versailles I will arrange to send some money to the Swedish peasants. And I will double the amount of bread Abbé Vermond distributes at the palace gates.

November 27, 1780

My dearest, dearest, most beloved maman is dead.

December 13, 1780

I can hardly write anything, I am so wretched. I look in the mirror and see someone I don’t recognize. A woman with a pinched face and gray cheeks and sad sad eyes. Will I ever eat again? Will I ever be able to think, and move, and take delight in anything?

I sit day after day in my darkened rooms, black velvet curtains covering the windows, unable to do anything but weep and read my Bible and light candles for maman’s soul. Poor Mousseline cries. She doesn’t understand the change in me.

Abbé Vermond comes to pray with me but I am beyond all consolation. I read and reread the letters from Joseph and Anna, telling me of maman’s last days. She had wanted to die for a long time. In the final week of her life she sewed her own shroud, of white silk embroidered with the imperial emblem.

If only, instead of preparing for her funeral, she had written me one last letter! If only she had praised me for doing my best in a difficult life! How I would cherish that proof of her love and approval.

December 25, 1780

It is a sad Christmas day. The palace is still in mourning for the great empress and our usual celebrations have been subdued. We go to mass daily and I light a candle for maman and repeat my prayers with Abbé Vermond, who has been very faithful to me during my grieving.

Sometimes I simply feel nothing. I am empty of all feeling. It is terrible.

January 4, 1781

I try to busy myself with a project I began before maman’s death. I decided I would do more than talk about the misery of the peasants. I would sell my most valuable possession, the great yellow diamond called the Hapsburg Sun, and have the money distributed to the poorest of them. I have ordered the diamond brought up from the palace vaults where my jewels are kept.

In the past few days I have been haunted by the memory of the blind old soldier Axel and I met in the tavern in Sweden. He wanted to sing us a song, and said something like, “It should be a funeral dirge.” Did he have a premonition about maman’s death? How could he have known?