by Juliet Grey
I had never seen my mother look so pale.
EIGHT
The Really Hard Work Begins
AUTUMN 1768
My summer nights at Schönbrunn were consumed by cavagnole, sitting at card tables opposite countless Viennese courtiers playing round after round of the wretched game until my eyes were dry with sleeplessness. The hardest part was the arithmetic, for the player who placed the winning bet would receive sixty-four times his stake from the banker. I had to learn how to multiply countless combinations of currency, taking into account that the numbers on a cavagnole board ranged from one to seventy. However, even after paying the winners, it was really the banker who stood to reap the largest sum at the end of the evening, for he got to keep all of the losing bets. Yet the long nights were worth the effort; I was making Maman proud with my newfound skills. The empress of Austria was a woman who applauded those who took risks and I was proving myself quite the little gambler, bold in my bids when it counted and reticent at all the right moments.
By autumn we were back at the dreary, massive Hofburg, and because the bald spots near my hairline had finally grown in to Maman’s satisfaction, she deemed it the proper time to engage the prominent hairdresser we had all heard so much about. The duchesse de Gramont, sister to the duc de Choiseul, had dispatched her own friseur, Sieur (short for “monsieur,” they told me) Larsenneur. According to the duchesse, “Larsenneur dresses the best heads in France,” a recommendation that was sure to please my mother. If it broke her heart to concur, even tacitly, with King Louis’s view that the Austrian empire was incapable of supplying the necessary talent to prepare me for my new role, it was her private sorrow. My marriage was the greatest diplomatic alliance of her reign. For such grand stakes, she would try, however much it stuck in her throat, to swallow her pride.
Sieur Larsenneur arrived in Vienna with a massive number of leatherbound wooden trunks, identifiable in the grandest way. Even the Hapsburgs did not have their initials engraved on silver plaques affixed to the lids of their baggage! And for a man who did nothing but dress hair day after day, the monsieur had such a serious demeanor that I found him slightly absurd—as if coiffures were the most important things in all the world. Through the gauzy haze of retrospect, I suppose my little reddish-blond head was of international proportions!
Equally striking was Sieur Larsenneur’s fancy for elaborate perruques. His hair was always hidden beneath a curled and powdered wig and he was most fastidious about maintaining them. Each perruque conjured a distinctive personality and I entertained myself by imagining that he gave them names and, in the privacy of his narrow and unadorned room, would converse with them as though they were his companions.
On the appointed day, Maman summoned me to one of the Hofburg’s smaller but no less grand salons. So many chambers in the palace resembled each other, in their ivory-colored paneling accented with gilded moldings and heavy crimson draperies, that someone could easily become disoriented wandering amid the labyrinthine residence. As I entered the room my eyes widened in surprise, for it seemed as though every courtier in Vienna was present, wishing to see how this famed friseur would transform my curls into an elegant style befitting the dauphine of France.
Attired in a satin suit the color of oysters with a finely embroidered waistcoat, the hairdresser was announced to the assembled throng in a voice so stentorian one might have imagined him to be the most important man in Vienna. And that brisk November morning, I suppose he was. After making a low court bow to each of us, Sieur Larsenneur assured Maman that when he was finished with me, I would be the envy of every young girl in Europe. With an astonishingly haughty manner for a tradesman, the friseur informed us, “In Paris I am called Le Chevalier des Cheveux—the Cavalier of Hair—for I rescue the distressed tresses of damsels.”
So puffed up was he with his own conceit that I nearly burst out laughing in front of the whole court; but feeling the sharp rebuke of my mother’s gaze upon me, I tried to stifle my giggles behind my hand. When a chuckle erupted nonetheless, I had to bite the inside of my lower lip in order to regain my composure.
Maman instructed me to sit upon a low upholstered stool that would afford Sieur Larsenneur the best view of my head from all sides. After circling me a few times, he requested Maman’s permission to touch the archduchess’s person. No sooner did my mother assent than Sieur Larsenneur removed the lilac-colored ribbon and tortoiseshell pins that held my hair in place, allowing my locks to tumble down my back. A tingle coursed along my spine as he ran his hands through my hair to determine its weight and texture. In a single moment my hopes became rosier: perhaps the Frenchman could indeed work miracles.
“Les cheveux, les cheveux,” the friseur muttered to himself as he rubbed a lock of my hair between his slender fingers. “The hair, the hair.” Keenly observing Sieur Larsenneur’s furrowed brow and murmuring lips, the courtiers leaned forward onto their toes and rocked back on their heels as one body, with the same sort of fascination they might have displayed were they witnessing the spectacular feats of a lion tamer. Baron Neny, florid and corpulent and prone to pronouncements that, to his immense delight, invariably proved correct, maintained a commentary on the hairdresser’s every movement, from brushing out my long hair, to teasing it off my forehead and drawing it tightly back until I thought he was about to pull my scalp off, to—finally—plaiting the length into a queue that began at the nape of my neck and hung down my back like the tail of a piglet. Then, with a grand flourish the friseur draped a large white cloth about my body, pinning it shut. He opened a pot of pomade scented with attar of roses to mask the pungent smell of the bear grease, scooped a bit into his palm, and rubbed his hands together before smoothing them over my new coiffure. “Almost, madame l’archiduchesse. Almost!” he breathed, his hands fluttering in anticipation of the completion of his masterpiece. “We are now to put on the finishing touches!”
From his monogrammed leather satchel Sieur Larsenneur withdrew a device that resembled a bellows and puffed a very light dusting of powder onto my hair—not even enough to conceal the shade of blond beneath it.
“Ach! Zehr gut; zehr schön,” Baron Neny intoned pompously. “Very good. Very pretty. It is such a simple style—deceptively so. And so decent; so elegant.” A roomful of courtiers nodded their heads in immediate agreement.
The drape was removed and a gilded hand mirror was placed in my lap. The moment of truth had arrived. Despite what a chamber of sycophants thought, aware that they had been witnessing the handiwork of the man believed to be the finest friseur in Europe, I wondered if my head looked as painful as it felt after all that tugging. I stole a quick glance at my reflection and promptly dropped my hand into my lap again. I would be expected to smile. I would be expected to love it.
But I didn’t love it. What was the point of “fixing” my disproportionately high forehead if the hairdresser’s remedy was to yank my hair back, more tightly than any gray band of wool had ever done? My forehead resembled a convex slab of marble. And the high, severely close coiffure made me look old—significantly more so than my thirteen years. I hated it. While the courtiers cooed and crowed like a flock of plump, perfumed squab, I blinked back the stinging tears that had begun to form behind my eyelids. I would not cry. Archduchesses of Austria never cry—no, never—at least, not in public. My hands raised reflexively to loosen the coiffure and relieve some of the tightness that made my scalp feel like a snare drum, but everyone was ogling me, eyes wide, smiles broad. They loved it. And although it was my head, I was not expected to have an opinion about what had been done to it, or—more to the point—an opinion that contradicted that of the empress of Austria. And it appeared that the empress of Austria was quite pleased with the results. Maman even smiled (though she didn’t part her lips) and permitted Sieur Larsenneur to kiss her hand.
Baron Neny was delighted as well. Speaking for the assembly of courtiers and diplomats he declared that my new hairstyle was so lovely, so à la mode, that “before
long all the young women of Vienna will be demanding une coiffure à la dauphine.”
Well, I thought, if they do, they are foolishly following a hideous fashion. All they will get for their slavish mimicry is a dreadful headache. When I was given leave to return to my apartments I appraised my appearance in a standing cheval glass, and releasing the fury that had been simmering since I’d first beheld my new and improved hairstyle, I slid my fingers under the tight coiffure, tugging at the roots to soften the style and relieve the pressure from my aching scalp.
The following day Sieur Larsenneur worked his magic—Maman’s word for it—and dressed my hair once again in the severe manner that the court had uniformly found so becoming. Was this how Monsieur Ducreux was to paint me? And what would Louis of France think when he saw my portrait? Assuredly His Most Christian Majesty would not believe that I was on the cusp of thirteen. The longer I gazed at my reflection the more I convinced myself that I sooner resembled an ancient hag of twenty-five!
But Sieur Larsenneur had been deemed such a genius that Maman awarded him a place within my retinue. It was a significant honor, and one he could scarcely refuse, even though devoting himself entirely to my tonsorial needs would mean the loss of his Parisian clientele. When the time came, he would be expected to pack up his boar-bristle hairbrushes, bellows, and curling papers and tongs and travel to France with my entourage to remain at Versailles as coiffeur to the dauphine. I envisioned many tugs of war with the “Chevalier des Cheveux,” for not a quarter of an hour after he finished dressing my hair, I had once again worked my fingers through it to reduce the severity of my hairline.
By now, the braces had finally come off, too. My teeth resembled a row of little pearls and I could not help admiring the result by stealing frequent glances at myself in the mirror and rolling my tongue over my smooth and even smile. I had nearly forgotten how wonderful food could taste without a mouthful of metal. And no more prying bits of spätzle out of the contraption with my fingernail! Maman was relieved to have done with the messy business of renovating my outward appearance, but she still regarded my insides as a work in progress. Thus my improvement continued apace, even as the dancing figures in her grand mechanical clock presented ninety-six reminders a day of the amount of time lost to us forever.
One evening after the completion of my daily lessons—harp instruction from Herr Gluck; dancing with Monsieur Noverre; and (under the strict tutelage of the Countess von Lerchenfeld) a dreadfully boring recitation of French grammar made all the more tedious by a nasty head cold and threats of a vile-smelling mustard plaster—I received a summons from Maman. I was to attend her in one of my favorite rooms in the entire palace, a colorful, nearly circular salon dominated by fantastical murals that the painter Johann Bergl had created for her just two years earlier. The dull walls had been transformed into an imaginative fairyland: Swans, egrets, and other winged creatures mingled with woodland animals in vibrant landscapes dominated by fantasy castles and follies, amid pools and skies of purest cerulean blue—a hue that made my heart soar just to look at it. What a treat for the eyes after chamber upon chamber of crimson, cream, and gold.
At the center of the exotic salon stood several wooden crates embossed in burnt cork with the fleur-de-lis of France. Around its circumference stood twice as many gloved footmen awaiting the empress’s command to pry them open.
“This is all for you, Antonia,” said Maman, gesturing expansively at the array of boxes.
“For me?” I echoed stupidly, my eyes widening. “What’s in them?”
Maman smiled complacently, a cat who had found a sunny alcove in which to nap. “Let us open them, shall we?” Her words alone were enough to cue the servants, who pried open the crates with iron bars.
“Dolls!” I exclaimed with delight. Nestled amid layers of straw and cotton-wool were dozens of wooden figures with painted faces and miniature horsehair wigs, each garbed in a sumptuously crafted gown. Six crates contained but a single figure apiece, much taller and more elaborate than the other dolls, perhaps three-quarters of my own (admittedly diminutive) size, with inset eyes and mohair wigs. Their gowns—satins, silks, brocades, and figured damasks, and even the heaviest and most costly textiles of all, cloth of silver and cloth of gold—were the color of moonlight and pearls, festooned and furbelowed with the most exquisite dentelle: lace from Chantilly, Alençon, and Le Puy.
“How I would love to wear gowns like this every day,” I murmured, cradling one of the smaller dolls as if she were a newborn.
Maman regarded me with an expression that, were it a pinprick on a map, lay somewhere between amusement and hauteur. “And so you shall, little one.” She gestured proudly at the delicate contents of the crates. “These are fashion dolls—poupées de la mode. And the tall ones are the ‘grandes pandores.’ Each of the grandes pandores is wearing a wedding gown; we shall inspect every gown, its color and embellishments, and determine which would be the most suitable for your marriage to the dauphin.”
“But they are all so magnificent,” I breathed, my voice hushed and reverential. Did Maman see in them what I did? Not so much in the robes themselves, but in the grandes pandores. The dolls’ eyes ranged from cobalt to cornflower and from hazel to leaf green, their hair color every shade of blond from flaxen to strawberry to ash. It seemed as though each was one of my sisters come back to comfort me during the next stage of this great trial. There they were: Marianne and Christina, Amalia and Johanna, Josepha and Charlotte.
“Antonia!” The sharp rap of Maman’s fan against the ormolu table disrupted my childish reverie.
“Do I have to choose one of the wedding gowns now? They are all so beautiful.” How could I disappoint my wooden sisters? It would be like picking a favorite among them, and although my real favorite had always been Charlotte, the companion of my girlhood, frankly I liked “her” dress least of all.
“You may choose two of them,” said Maman, striking an odd balance between imperious and indulgent. “In one of them you will approach the altar in the chapel at Versailles; the other will be your gown for the proxy marriage.”
“Proxy marriage.” I parroted her words. I’d all but forgotten there would be a ceremony in our chapel, followed by a no less elaborate feast. Royal brides were first wed in their native kingdom; by the time they set foot in their husband’s lands, in the eyes of the Church—although the rite was always repeated in the groom’s country—they were already man and wife.
“Your brother Ferdinand will take the dauphin’s part.”
Oh, dear. I grimaced. Ferdinand had also stood in for his Neapolitan namesake at Charlotte’s proxy ceremony. That day, he had been unable to misbehave. He was terrified of Charlotte; she’d freeze him with one stare and he knew he could expect retaliation. My relationship with my next oldest brother was somewhat different. How often had he hidden a tadpole in my shoe just to hear me squeal? Or switched my milled soap for bootblack? What sort of boyish prank might he be tempted to play when I was his “bride”?
“Four hundred thousand livres” (Maman nearly choked as she mentioned the sum) “has bought you an enviable trousseau, every thread of it from France. All the satin and furbelows in Europe will make you look like a dauphine, but you still lack the proper temperament, not to mention education.” A heavy sigh escaped her lips as she brought a jeweled hand to her breast. “I have no one to blame for it but myself. Sometimes I despair whether you will ever become ready to wed.”
She had said it again. I was a disappointment to her. True, I could dance, I could glide as well (so Monsieur Noverre assured me) as any duchesse at Versailles, I could play the harp like an angel (danke schön, Herr Gluck), and I was a confident and charming hostess during endless rounds of cavagnole. My forehead was no longer offensive to French eyes and my teeth were now as straight as God surely intended, had He not had so much to contend with on the day of my creation. My right shoulder no longer appeared higher than the left, owing to the most unforgiving of stays. But until my hea
d was stuffed with knowledge and my bodice stuffed with flesh, I was as useful as a loaf of bread not yet risen; a malformed lump.
I meekly lowered my head and bobbed a shallow curtsy. “Yes, Maman.”
“The Countess von Lerchenfeld is not equipped to finish you,” my mother continued, her voice tinged with resignation. “Moreover, she is not French.” She paused and brought her steepled fingers to her chin, reflecting. Only the most astute of observers would have noticed the woeful state of her nails, bitten to the quick with worry. The woman who could not stomach imperfection in others was herself a flawed being, although she would never admit to it. If there were ever another war, it was imperative that Austria and France remain, or become, allies. Maman had nobly fallen on the sword of her failure to fully transform me, but when all was said and done, success really rested within me. Would I ever be up to the mark?
Maman regarded me for such a long time and with such remarkable stillness that I began to shift in my shoes, rocking back and forth on my heels. “You are excused, Antonia.”
And that was it. I curtsied to her again, for it was really the empress of Austria who had banished me from her sight.
My cheeks were damasked with shame. For the past several months my entire reason for breathing was to wed the dauphin of France and bring additional honor and glory to the Hapsburgs. But my sister Charlotte’s unhappy letters from Naples were all the proof I needed to recognize that being married was not the equivalent of being fortunate. Not if you were the bride.
Naples, November 13, 1768
