Part 11 (1/2)
ENTERING PARIS, 8 JUNE 1773.
The year 1773 has been marked by many small moments of private sadness; I am seventeen in November and still a virgin. I have lived in France for three years, and still the King has not given permission to the Dauphin for our official entry to Paris. Because the King is more unpopular with the people as every day pa.s.ses, the Dauphin has confided, the King does not want to send us to Paris till we are older. Were it not impertinent, I would remind them both that to me the people have shown nothing but love. In Strasbourg, flowers were strewn in my path, and the fountains flowed with wine.
On this rainy spring day, I walk from window to window in the great long Hall of Mirrors and look out mournfully at the gardens. Their stiff elegance seems like a mockery of life. The trees, small and large, have been so closely clipped that their branches and leaves never stir in the breezes. Life? I am seventeen! Where is life to be found?
I feel locked in at Versailles. Visits to the other chateaux are but duplications of life here, though with different palaces and grounds. All of them are grand, in varying degrees, and all of them are isolated by a surrounding countryside of forest, fields, meadows. At Marly, I looked down at the lovely Seine river and thought of how, at no very great distance, it was flowing through Paris. I pictured graceful bridges, with people crossing freely back and forth in the most fas.h.i.+onable spring clothes.
The Danube, which I have not seen for three years-it too will be thawed now and flowing gracefully through Vienna. Here at Versailles, I watch the gray raindrops dimple the surfaces of the water parterres. The rec.u.mbent figure of Neptune, holding his trident, rules over the tiniest of ripples that move over the surface of the water in the slight breeze.
”Neptune has always been one of my favorite statues,” a voice says behind me. It is the King.
I curtsy. ”On a rainy day, the Hall of Mirrors is a lovely place for a stroll, Your Majesty.”
”I like it best when you call me Papa-Roi,” he replies. ”Because of the rain, the hall is almost empty of the usual supplicants from Paris. And the court is enjoying afternoon gambling.” With his hands clasped behind him, the King stands majestically beside me and regards the gray day.
”When it rained, the Empress always liked a small fire,” I say, ”even in summer. She said rain made her want to write letters to those she loved who were far away.” His golden brocade sleeve stirs beside me, and he brings his hands together, over his stomach. With his fingertips, he twists a ruby ring on his other hand.
”Tell me, Toinette, if you were a mermaid and you were to ask Father Neptune for a wish, what would it be?”
When I turn to look at him, I see the King's eyes are luminous with knowing. He is fond of me. No matter how tardy the Dauphin is in responding to my charms, the King will never send me back to Austria.
”I would say, if I had permission, I would swim down the river Seine, I would come to a fair city, the fairest in your watery kingdom. May I and my husband visit Paris?”
”Granted,” the King replies. ”Now you must smile at me and dispel the gloom that should never visit the fairest brow I know.”
ELEVEN-THIRTY in the morning of a brilliantly sunny day, the trumpets blast a fanfare, three cannon fire salutations-from the Invalides, the Hotel de Ville, and the Bastille-and the Dauphin and I arrive at the gates of Paris. For the hour and a half that it has taken to drive by carriage from Versailles to Paris, we have seen nothing but the road and then the city streets lined with happy people, waving their hats and flags and tossing flowers at our windows as we pa.s.s. We have waved in return, and I am reminded of my entry into France, at the town of Strasbourg, but this arrival is twice as glorious, for I am with my husband.
Here is the governor of the city presenting its symbolic silver keys on a silk pillow, and the lieutenant of police, and the chief of the merchants of the city, and the market women, dressed in their best, presenting trays of fruits and flowers. After I take a bouquet of daisies and hand it to my lady-in-waiting, I cradle two pears in the palms of my hands, and the Dauphin holds aloft a long cuc.u.mber to be placed in the carriage, the rest to be distributed among our retinue.
The fishwives are full of glee at the Dauphin's cuc.u.mber. ”Make us a child!” they shout. They c.o.c.k their arms at the elbow, thrust their fists and sinewy arms up into the air and call ”Give it to her; she's a pretty woman.” Both the Dauphin and I laugh heartily, for they mean no harm.
”When yours is like this, Monseigneur,” they shout, pumping their forearms, ”you will give us a tribe of heirs.”
Our carriage winds its way through the streets of the city, sometimes beside the Seine river, where hundreds, no thousands of people have gathered to see us pa.s.s and to smile and wave at us. The size of the city, the enthusiasm of the populace make our hearts swell with joy. Triumphal arches have been erected at intervals, but my heart leaps highest to see the twin towers of the Cathedrale de Notre-Dame rising from the midst of the Seine on the ile de la Cite. I saw an engraving of them when I was only a girl, in Vienna, and someone explained that they were left square, the intended spires never having been erected. Now, not tiny ink lines but the monumental edifice itself rises above the trees.
We pa.s.s over the Pont Neuf, that ancient bridge with the stone statue of good Henri IV, and into the throng of people ma.s.sed in front of the high arched doors. I raise my eyes to the long outward-extended bodies of the high gargoyles mounted near the top of the cathedrale. When I speak lightly of demons, I think of nothing so sinister as these medieval realities, but now we are walking rapidly past the throngs of cheering people, and my ears are ringing with their glad greetings. A carpet has been spread for our feet, lest the paving stones bruise our heels.
Inside the enormous Notre-Dame de Paris, a solemn Ma.s.s begins. The aroma of the incense, the sight of the slow smoke rising and coiling ever higher, fills me with reverence. As the Ma.s.s is celebrated and we hear the solemn Latin words, I thank G.o.d in French and in German that he has made me acceptable to the people of my new country and for the joy all of us share in meeting on this day. Surely the little boy sopranos are not mortal children, but angels selected for the purity of their voices.
When we emerge past the carved saints that flank the door, the people are still there, and they call out their blessings. The Dauphin squeezes my elbow affectionately, extravagantly pleased with the acclaim and joyful goodwill expressed on every side. At one point, he whispers in my ear, ”The future, the future! All this bodes well for our future.”
Never has the sun shone with more cheerful radiance than on this June day! Both the Dauphin and I are dressed in gleaming white satin. We move like mirrors reflecting the light from our clothing onto the faces of the people. This is what it means to be loved and to love in return.
Slowly we progress by carriage to the palace of the Tuileries-where sometimes kings have dwelt-and therein to a lavish dinner. While the Dauphin eats with his usual good appet.i.te, I can only savor a tidbit of meat here, and a few nuts there, some spoonfuls of soup. ”How your eyes are glowing,” the Dauphin whispers to me, and we agree to appear before the people yet again, on the terrace.
To my amazement, the greatest throng of people of all has had time to a.s.semble in this one place while we dined. A mighty roar of love is lifted as soon as we appear-”Mon Dieu, how many of them there are!” I exclaim-and I cannot help but smile and wave, and then the second roar is even greater in their joy at our acknowledgment. Our civic hosts crowd about us, and the governor of Paris says that he hopes my husband will not take it amiss that two hundred thousand people are ecstatically in love with me.
”How could I blame them?” he replies with graceful aplomb. ”They would be remiss if they did not fall in love with my wife.”
To be yet closer to the people, we decide to go down from the terrace into the gardens of the Tuileries, and when we step forward, the people swarm past the barriers of the police toward us. ”Let no one be harmed-no one,” both the Dauphin and I say simultaneously to the chief of police who pa.s.ses the order to his lieutenants.
For almost an hour we stand smiling and nodding, moving neither forward nor backward, but when we are both weary and take a single step back toward the stairs, and the police loudly but pleasantly shout that it is our will to depart, the crowd opens its ranks with utmost courtesy and alacrity. As we retreat inside the Tuileries, still we wave and smile, though my face is tired with smiling. My heart is brimful of a medley of feelings: love, happiness, triumph, and not at all the least of my emotions-grat.i.tude to the innumerable citizens of Paris.
RIDING BACK to Versailles, neither the Dauphin nor I can speak. We are exhausted, but our spirits and memories are suffused with grat.i.tude-we both speak of it, over and over-for the love the people have shown us. Their roars of love become the universe. Our attendants are amazed at the magnitude of our triumph and full of awe.
Along the route, many people have waited throughout the day and into the night, hoping to see our return, and occasionally we open the curtain at the window and smile and wave again, but we are too tired to continue our acknowledgments for more than a few minutes at a time. The Dauphin and I hold hands and nestle against each other.
AT THE CHTEAU, as soon as I alight from the carriage, Count Mercy tenderly congratulates me and tells me that every soul who saw me is under an enchantment. Messengers have brought the news ahead of our arrival.
Quite privately he whispers that the popularity shown us is in inverse proportion to the esteem held for the aging King, whose life of debauchery has appalled everyone.
”Your youth, beauty, and innocence promise a new age,” he explains. Count Mercy has barely time to instruct me. ”Here at the chateau, express your delight at your Parisian welcome with your usual gracious tact.”
When we are brought to the King, I say with humility, ”Sire, Your Majesty must be very greatly loved by the Parisians, for they have feted us well.”
MADAME, MY DEAR MOTHER.
Mercy gave me your precious letter the day before yesterday, and yesterday a second letter so that I feel doubly connected to my dear mama.
Now I hope that my letter will serve, in its turn, as a conduit for joy flowing to you in Vienna. Last Tuesday, the people of Paris gave to me a fete that I shall never forget no matter how long I am to live. It was our official entry to the city, and every conceivable honor was heaped upon us. But it was not the honors bestowed by dignitaries that most moved me. What has touched me to the quick of my being is the love and eagerness bestowed on us by the poor people of France. Although they are burdened with taxes of a very heavy sort, they were in a transport of joy-merely to behold their future monarchs. Mercy tells me that everyone cried out about my beauty and charm and how they delight in our youth and innocence. In us, they see the rebirth of hope for the future of the country. I felt it most keenly and will work hard, as will the Dauphin, to alleviate the suffering of the people.
When we came out onto an open terrace, after dinner, and stayed there for a half hour, I cannot describe to even you, my dear mama, the intensity of delight and love which they manifested again and again. When I kissed my hand to them, or smiled, or waved my handkerchief to them, they went mad with joy. When we have so much and they so little, and yet they give us trust and love, I know that no experience can be more precious. I will never forget that they have given me this gift. I felt and do feel and will always feel profound grat.i.tude. Were I to live a hundred years, I would not forget the outpouring of love given to us when we made our official entry to the city of Paris.
The King rejoices with us. Two days after our entry, the King freed 320 persons imprisoned for debt. The King made good on the debt which was owed to the wet nurses who had been paid to breast feed the children of the debtors. I am much moved that the King wants the helpless babes to be nourished in this way and for those who provide such nutrition to be honored.
I am glad to know that Mercy has told you he is pleased with the way I understand affairs of state. Really, it is my heart I count on for understanding, rather than my head, but Mercy has told me my first spontaneous response to persons and their words is something to trust, and not to be second-guessed. Even more than my intuitions, I trust the advice of Mercy, for I believe that it really is your advice that I follow when I follow his. I smiled to read your description that he thinks in a French way but as a good German. I believe that we have in his perspective the best of two worlds!
Now that we have made our official entry into Paris, the King says we may go as often as we like. Monsieur le Dauphin and I intend to see the shows at the Opera, the Comedie-Francaise, and the Comedie-Italienne every week, and we are to be greeted with just as much pomp and rejoicing as though it were the Monarch himself approaching, that is, with the welcoming roars of the cannon at the Invalides and the Bastille fortress. Now my life is much happier because the people of Paris have opened their hearts to me. If you had heard the mighty roar of the Bastille cannon, you would have exclaimed, ”What punctuation!”
THE LAND OF FANTASY: A SNOWY NIGHT, 30 JANUARY 1774.
Snow has been falling all night, and the Dauphin, who loves me so much, like a protective brother, has wondered aloud several times if we should travel to Paris tonight for the Opera Ball. I tell my husband that in the snow, Paris will appear like a Land of Fantasy.
”You have been happier these last six months,” he says to me.
”Since Paris...,” I begin. ”Ecstasy. Perpetual ecstasy. I did not know life could be so amusing, so inexhaustibly entertaining.” I am in a grand mood.
The Comte de Provence, who loves me (or anyone but himself) not at all but who can sometimes be amusing, insists that we must not hesitate to pile on our furs and climb aboard the sleigh waiting just beyond the stairs of the Marble Courtyard. He and his wife have come no closer together in the bedroom than have the Dauphin and I.