Sincerely, your mother, Maria Theresa,
Empress of the Holy Roman Empire
So there it is. That is why Caroline’s letters, which hardly ever come, sound so unlike her when they do come! Both of us, Caroline in Naples and I here in Vienna, are spied on constantly. I am so angry with Mama for this, I hope I do not have to see her for at least a week. I do not know how I could ever hide my anger. I realize that there is probably no one I can trust. Not even Lulu, for Lulu’s life depends on pleasing Mama. Of course, Titi did not know what was wrong with me and I couldn’t exactly tell her. So I had to hold back my tears and go on playing dolls with her as if nothing had happened.
Titi found some little tiny bauble in the bottom of the trunk and fashioned a necklace from it for the doll she was playing with. She then powdered her hair and tinted it blue. “Look, Auntie. It’s you. The most beautiful lady in the Empire. It’s you, the Queen of France. C’est magnifique!” Titi exclaimed and I laughed gaily at her French and said how clever she was, and then suddenly in the midst of my laughter, I had this odd thought and tears spilled out. Titi kept asking what was wrong and I kept saying, “Nothing, nothing at all.” But my thought was, of course I must be magnificent, for when one is either on display or being spied upon it will not do to look dingy. I must sparkle. I must always sparkle whether I laugh or cry. I must dazzle and then no one will see the real me. I shall just be this bright and shining thing. Oh, Diary, I am so thankful that I have you. But now I think that I must start hiding you, even though you have a key, for yes, there are spies all around.
March 4, 1769
Nearly a week without seeing Mama. She has been in constant meetings with the Duc de Choiseul and the other French ambassador, the Marquis Durfort. Every day I don’t see Mama is good, for it gives me more strength for the time when I will see her. I am still very angry but I think I can hide it better. And if there is one thing I do not want to do, it is to cry in front of Mama.
Even though I don’t see Mama, there are messages and notes from her every day. One came just this morning telling me that she has instructed Abbé de Vermond in his French history lessons with me to familiarize me with the names of all the French colonels and the colors of their regiments. This is very much like Mama. They say that in 1756, when The Monster marched into Saxony and war broke out once again between our Empire and the Prussians, Mama personally checked many of the supplies being sent to the soldiers at the front line. She insisted that one lot of blankets be exchanged for another, for they were too thin to keep the dear brave soldiers warm, and she even pawned many of her jewels in order to better equip the soldiers at the front.
March 5, 1769
Another message from Mama today instructing me that I should devote even more time to the study of the reign of Louis XIV, who ruled France in the early part of this century and of whom I am a descendant.
March 6, 1769
Oh dear, Mama wants to see me today. I am so nervous. I know she is going to quiz me on Louis XIV and the colors of the regiments.
March 7, 1769
No quiz at all. Mama was in the best of moods. A portrait painter has been sent from France to paint me with the intention of taking back my likeness to King Louis and the Dauphin. Mama is beside herself. She was practically dancing around Kaunitz, tweaking his beard, her eyes glittering. “We are coming closer, closer, Mein Prince,” she kept saying. “And you, my little bijou (bijou means “jewel” in French), we must have Larseneur work on your hair. The hairline is coming back. Look, Kaunitz.” And she brought me over to the prince and had him examine my forehead. “And how is the dancing going with Noverre?” she asked next.
“Mama, I am to be still in the portrait and not dancing or even walking,” I said. And everyone laughed very heartily, Mama the heartiest of all. Then she pinched my cheek and called me her little Leibenkügel, which means “sweet cake,” and do you know, this is the only time I ever remember Mama using such tenderness with me. Then she said, “You see, Gentlemen,” for not only was Kaunitz there but Mama’s ambassador to Versailles, Count Mercy d’Argenteau, as well. “You see, Gentlemen,” she said, “she has wit, this one. She will be a match for any of those women in the Court of Versailles.” But there was something in the way Mama said “those women” that made a chill run through me. It was as if she did not respect them or felt they were bad in some way, and if this be true, why is Mama sending me there? I wanted to ask her but I was frightened.
March 10, 1769
The French painter arrived today. His name is Monsieur Ducreux and he is a specialist with pastels. He actually has been instructed to paint not only my portrait but others in my family as well. When Mama heard this, her eyes narrowed, but then she said in German, so I trust Ducreux did not understand, that she knew what the French were doing. “Very crafty. They do not want this to look too obvious, too definitive in terms of the progress of the engagement. I see what that old fox Louis is doing. Don’t count your chickens before they hatch! Ah ha! Well, when he sees my little chick, he shall not be able to resist her for his grandson.”
I hope that Monsieur Ducreux did not understand. For as the “little chick” who does understand German, I, for one, found it most discomforting.
March 11, 1769
Monsieur Ducreux did understand! I was mortified. But he was so kind. He said, “Do not blush, Archduchess, or I shall not have enough crimson left for your dress. Fear nothing, you are the loveliest creature I have ever painted. You are so young, so fresh.” He shooed Monsieur Larseneur away when he came in with a basket of hairpieces and a tub of powder. “Non! Non! None of that. Would you powder the blossoms of the cherry tree? Would you tint the muguets that spring from the earth after the last snows of winter? Are you crazy?” Then he entertained me with delightful stories of how wonderful the woods around Versailles are and the lovely riding, especially in the spring when the wild bulbs first start to emerge and the millions of snowdrops pop from the earth. Oh, it sounds heavenly. I really like Monsieur Ducreux very much. He seems so artistic in every way. He paints as well with words as he does with his brush.
April 5, 1769
So sorry, dear diary, that I haven’t written but I have been so ill these past three weeks. Everyone came down with the chest catarrh, including Mama. Now she has us all on a strict regimen in which we are required to drink donkey’s milk at least once a day. She says donkey’s, or ass’s, milk is much better than cow’s milk when one has a phlegmy chest congestion. She suggested this, not the doctor. Mama says that if she were not the Empress she would be a doctor! She says this all the time, even in front of Herr Doktor Kreinetz. He is used to it. He just smiles. I don’t think there is anything that Mama thinks she could not do. How often I hear her sigh and say if she only had the time — meaning if she were not the Empress of the Holy Roman Empire. I shall make a list of the things Mama says she would be if she were not Empress:
doctor
opera singer
horse trainer
apothecary
gunnery sergeant
She actually said that is what she would have liked to be in 1756 when The Monster invaded Saxony and she was examining the axle system of a new gun carriage. If she were not Empress, she told the troops, she would love to “wheel this gun about and blow the behind off The Monster!” This endeared her to the soldiers and gave rise to a very rude rhyme shouted by them in the battlefield:
Bend over, Freddy of Prussia
Let the Empress take aim
Your butt will fly to Russia
Your brains to sunny Spain
My mother!
April 6, 1769
I am back posing for Monsieur Ducreux. I was too sick for the last weeks so he just worked on the dress part of the painting and the background. It shall be finished in another week, he thinks, and then be sent off to France. I hope they like me. I hope the Dauphin thinks I am pretty. I tried very hard to ha
ve a sweet expression and a kind look in my eye. While Ducreux paints, I think of ways that I might make the Dauphin happy. I think of little jokes and rhymes I can share with him. I wonder if I would ever have enough nerve to tell him the soldiers’ rhyme about Mama. It is so funny but I think I would blush too much. I mean, I cannot imagine ever saying the word butt to the man who will be my husband. Oh my goodness, I turn red right here in the privacy of my chamber even thinking about it.
April 17, 1769
Have not written much lately. Between celebrating Easter and all the confusion of getting ready to move the Court to Schönbrunn there has hardly been a minute. Even my lessons with Abbé de Vermond and Dance Master Noverre have ceased for now. The Abbé marvels at my progress and then gives a wink and says, “I think your little friend has helped.” By “little friend” he means you, dear diary, and that is exactly what you have been to me these past several months. What a blessing it was the first day the Abbé brought you into my apartments and handed you to me. You are the one with a lock, but you have allowed me to unlock my heart and my deepest thoughts.
My portrait is on its way to France, to the Court of Versailles. I tremble every time I think of it. What will he, the Dauphin, think of me? What if I am not pretty enough? What if my eyes appear dull or harsh to him? I thought the portrait a good likeness, but how is one to judge her own face? I mean, I know not what Louis Auguste looks like. He might be the most handsome young man on earth. He might look like a god from Mount Olympus. And the women of the French Court are supposed to rival Aphrodite. Yes, that is what they said about King Louis’s last “good friend,” Madame Marquise de Pompadour. I might look like just a poor Viennese church mouse.
Oh dear, I am so nervous. I just pray to God every night that the Dauphin won’t be disappointed, but if an official marriage proposal does not come within the next month, I shall be frantic with worry. And what will Mama do? I suppose she will make me an Abbess as she did my oldest sister, Anna, who lives in a convent in Prague. Mama also made Elizabeth an Abbess of a convent in Innsbruck. They do not have to live there. They just visit occasionally. This, however, is what happens to Archduchesses for whom no husbands can be found.
April 25, 1769
Schönbrunn Palace
We are here at last. Is there anything with more tumult and confusion than when the Court moves? We all must go to bed for the better part of the next day once we get here, except for Mama, of course, who met with some ministers. In all, there are more than one thousand people in our retinue when we go to Schönbrunn. The Empress’s carriage alone is accompanied by twenty-three others to carry her Ladies-in-Waiting, the maids, the Master of the Plate, meaning her coin and silver, the Master of the Palace Linen, the apothecary. Then there are four kitchen coaches specially designed to carry various utensils and foodstuffs, in addition to the usual courtiers, trumpeters, pages, postilions, and guards on horseback. Oh yes, and a special coach for Father Confessor and the chaplain and then eighteen other coaches with our baggage and other provisions, including two for musical instruments.
April 27, 1769
It is so lovely to be at Schönbrunn. Everything is so much easier here. We are allowed picnics every day. We go just with Hans and Lulu. None of Mama’s Ladies-in-Waiting are required. However, I invited the Abbé to our first one yesterday and Titi talked Elizabeth into coming. Elizabeth wears white veils at Schönbrunn to cover her face instead of the dark ones that she wears in Vienna. I think she likes the sun to shine through and warm her. I was watching her today as she sat on the tapestry in Lark Meadow. That is what we call one of our favorite places for picnics because there are so many larks. She has a perfect figure and perfect posture. Through the veil I could see her profile. It is far more beautiful than mine. Her face is exquisite. They say that we Habsburgs have a slightly protruding lower lip. It is true, except for Elizabeth. And her eyes are the color of violets. A lark began to sing and she took my hand and said, “Listen, Antonia! Listen!” Then she tapped out the rhythm of the lark’s song on my palm. I looked at her and through her veil I could see that she was smiling. She looked happy in a way that I have never seen anyone look happy in my life.
April 29, 1769
Another picnic today and horseback riding. Mama did not go with us so I rode astride and not sidesaddle. Mama, who has always ridden astride herself, suddenly says that I should not. I think this is something the French have suggested. It is ridiculous and one’s balance is so much better astride. I went with Ferdinand and Hans and Lulu (she rode sidesaddle of course) and my brother Max, who is just a year younger. Max is a fantastic rider. We like to race.
May 5, 1769
Mama is furious with me. I think I have never seen her so angry. Max and I went riding again today and raced through a sparse woods that we love and then out the other side where there is a creek. Well, this year the water was much higher in the creek than we expected and my petticoats were soon drenched, and I was splattered with mud from head to toe. When we came back into the courtyard, Mama was standing there with a delegation of gentlemen. I could see from their dress that they were from the Court of Versailles, for their livery was gold and pale blue, the same colors as your cover, dear diary. I got this awful sinking feeling. For a moment I thought maybe no one would recognize me since I was so mud-splattered and, of course, astride on the horse.
I was bade approach and I did and slipped out of the saddle. Mama looked like a stone statue. I curtsied, and a blob of mud fell from my neck. “Antonia,” Mama said, “you of course remember Ambassador Durfort and his councilors.” I was mortified. “I think you had best excuse yourself and bathe,” she said, her voice like ice.
Oh, dear Lord, have I ruined everything? How shall I ever make this up to Mama? I feel terrible. There is a note from Mama that I am to come to her apartments tomorrow morning.
May 6, 1769
Well, I have seen Mama. It was worse than I could have imagined in ways that I had never imagined. Mama did not scream or rant — and she has been known to do that before. No, she was still and silent. She just glared. She did not say a word for a full four minutes, I think, and she had dismissed her Ladies-in-Waiting and her guard! I have never known her to do this. Indeed, I had never in my life been alone with Mama until that moment. It felt very odd. After she dismissed them, she just continued to stare. And the minutes stretched on and on. Then she made two small gestures, but she made sure I was noticing. She twisted her wedding ring on her left third finger, and then she twisted the diamond ring of the Holy Roman Empire on the finger next to it. With these two small gestures I knew that I had failed in the most sacred tasks that had been put to me. I had endangered my marriage prospects and endangered the Empire. It was almost as if in these few seconds I could feel the hot breath of The Monster on all our backs. Then Mama said, “Get out!” and the words scalded the air.
May 7, 1769
I went to Father Confessor today. I wanted him to give me more rosaries to say than he did. I was hoping he would make me dress in scratchy wool and eat no meat, just porridge with no sugar for a week. But he didn’t. I must seek my own penance, I guess.
May 10, 1769
I have read the book of meditations Mama gave me for my last birthday. I have skipped two picnics. I have sat in the chapel for nearly ten hours over the past two days, and I refuse to eat meat.
May 11, 1769
Elizabeth came to my apartments today. She brought a plate of meat and a bowl of strong broth and a glass of ass’s milk. When I saw the ass’s milk, I knew Mama had to have had a hand in this.
Elizabeth behind those veils sees and understands more than anyone in the Court. She spoke softly. Her words stirred the veil like a summer breeze. “You want to wear a scratchy gown. You want a whip to beat yourself like the monks. You want only bread and water, and in that way you feel you can make it up to Mama. But Mama is so clever. She realizes that by saying nothing and giving you no penance
this is the worst punishment of all. She is saying that there is no way you can make this up. And besides, she would never let you scratch your lovely skin with coarse material or not eat meat for fear the bloom will go out of your cheeks and then . . .”
And then I added, “I would be too ugly for the Dauphin.” The veil moved slowly up and down as Elizabeth nodded her head. “I understand,” I said.
Then she surprised me. For she said, “You don’t understand everything, Antonia.” I asked her what she meant. Then Elizabeth said the most astonishing thing. So I am writing every word down here as best as I can remember. “Mama has the power to punish you in this manner only insofar as you let her. Mama is skillful at filling people’s minds and bending their will to hers. But do not let her punish you in this way. What you did, yes, it was wrong. But it was not a sin, mortal or venial. She told Father Confessor not to give you many rosaries or severe penance because she knew she could do better. But Father Confessor would not have in any case. Father Confessor knows what is God’s domain and he knows what is Austria’s. You have sinned only against . . .”
Marie Antoinette: Princess of Versailles, Austria - France, 1769 Page 3
