The only warm place was in bed; and sometimes I would pretend to be asleep when she stood over me, pulling the clothes from my face, and it was all I could do to stop myself wincing from the icy draught.
With cold fingers she would move the hair out of my eyes, and she would kiss me very tenderly so that I almost forgot I was pretending to be asleep and would want to jump up and throw my aims about her neck.
Only now can I understand how anxious she was for me. I believe I became her favourite daughter not only because I had been my father’s, but because I was small, naive, impossible to educate, and . vulnerable. I realised later that she was continually asking herself what would become of me. I thank God that she did not live long enough to find out.
I could not always pretend to be asleep, and there were long dialogues, or rather monologues, in which I was instructed what I must do. I remember one of them.
“Don’t be too curious. This is a matter on which I am very concerned for you. Avoid familiarities with subordinates. “
“Yes, Mamma. “
“Monsieur and Madame de Noailles have been chosen by the King of France to be your guardians. You will always ask them if you are in any doubt as to what you should do. Insist that they warn you of what you should know. And don’t be ashamed to ask for advice. “
“No, Mamma. “
“Do nothing without consulting those in authority first. ” I found my thoughts straying. Monsieur and Madame de Noailles. What were they like? I started building up incongruous images in my mind which would make me want to smile. My mother saw the smile and was half exasperated, half tender. She took me in her arms and held me against her.
“Oh, my darling child, what will become of you? ” It would all be so different there, she said. There was a vast difference between the French and the Austrians. The French believed that everyone who was not French was a barbarian.
“You must be as a Frenchwoman, for you will be a Frenchwoman. You will be the Dauphine of Prance and in time Queen. But do not show eagerness for that. The King would detect it and naturally be displeased.”
She said nothing about the Dauphin who was to be my husband, so I did not think of him either. It was all the King, the Due de Choiseui, the Marquis de Durfort, Prince Starhem burg and the Comte de Mercy-Argenteau all those important men who had taken their minds from state affairs to think about Me. But then I had become a matter of state the most important they had ever had to deal with. It was so incongruous that I wanted to laugh at it.
At the beginning of every month,” said my mother, ” I shall send a messenger to Paris. In the meantime you can prepare your letters so that they can be given to the messengers and brought to me at once.
Destroy my letters. This will enable me to write to you more frankly.”
I nodded earnestly. It seemed so very exciting like one of the games
Ferdinand and Max used to like to play. I saw myself receiving my mother’s letters, reading them and hiding them in some secret place until I could bum them.
“Antoinette, you are not attending I’ My mother sighed. It was a reproach I constantly heard.
“Say nothing about domestic affairs here.”
I nodded again. No! I must not tell them how Caroline had cried, how she had declared the King of Naples to be ugly; what Maria Amalia had said about the boy she had, been sent out to marry; how Joseph had hated his second wife and how his first had loved Maria Christina. I must forget all that. ‘a “Speak of your family with truth and moderation.” H Should I speak of these matters if I were asked? I was pondering this but my mother went on: “Always say your prayers on rising and say them on your knees. Read from a spiritual book every day. Hear Mass every day and with-l draw for meditation when you are able.”
“Yes, Mamma.” I was determined to try to do all she said.
“Do not read any book or pamphlet without the consent of your confessor. Don’t listen to gossip, and don’t favour anyone.”
One had one’s friends, of course. I could not help liking some people better than others and when I liked them I wanted to give them things.
It went on endlessly. You must do this. You must not do that. And I shivered as I listened, for although the weather f was improving as we came nearer to April it was still cold in the bedroom.
“You must learn how to refuse favours—that is very important. Always answer gracefully if you have to refuse something. But most of all never be ashamed to ask for advice.”
“No, Mamma.”
Then I would escape perhaps to the Abbe Vermond for my lesson, which was not so bad, or to the hairdresser, who pulled my hair, or to my dancing lesson, which was sheer joy. There was an understanding between Monsieur Noverre and me that we would forget the time; we would be surprised when a servant came to tell us that Monsieur l”Abbe was waiting for me, or the hairdresser, or that I must be ready for my interview with Prince von Kaunitz in ten minutes’ time.
“We were absorbed in the lesson,” he would say, as though by referring to that delightful exercise as a lesson he excused us.
You are fond of dancing, my child,” my mother said in the cold bedroom.
“Yes, Mamma.”
And Monsieur Noverre tells me you make excellent progress. Ah, if only you were as well advanced in all your studies. ” I would show her a new step and she would smile and say I did it prettily.
“Dancing is after all a necessary accomplishment. But do not forget that we are not here for our own pleasure. Pleasures are given by God as a relief.”
A relief? A relief from what? Here was another suggestion that life was a tragedy. I started thinking about poor Caroline but my mother brought me out of my reverie with:
“Do nothing contrary to the customs of France, and never quote what is done here.”
“No, Mamma.”
“And never imply that we do something better in Vienna than they do in France. Never suggest that anything we do here should be imitated there. Nothing can exasperate more. You must learn to admire everything French.”
I knew I should never remember all the things I was to do and not to do. I should trust to my luck, to my ability to smile my way out of my mistakes.
During those two months I was sleeping in my mother’s bedroom she was in a state of tension because she feared there might be no marriage at all. She and Kaunitz were constantly closeted together and the Marquis de Durfort was always coming to see them.
This was a respite for me because I was spared those lectures which had become a part of my life in the draughty state bedroom. It was all a matter of who should take precedence over whom—whether my mother’s and brother’s names or that of the King of France should be first on the documents. Kaunitz was calm but anxious.
“The whole question of a marriage could be dropped,” he told my mother.
“It’s ridiculous that so much should hang on such insignificant details.” They were arguing about the formal ceremony of handing me over. Should it take place on French or Austrian soil? One or the other had to be chosen. The French said it must be on French;
The Austrians said it must be Austrian. My mother sometimes told me snatches of these matters.
“Because it is good for you to know.”
So much prestige was involved. It was a matter of the greatest importance how many servants I took with me and how many of these should accompany me into France. There came a time when I was certain there would be no marriage and I was not sure whether I was pleased or sorry. I should be disappointed if all the attention stopped, but on the other hand I thought it would be comforting to stay at home until I was twenty-three as Maria Amalia had. ? I have often, during the last months, thought of those i wrangles and wondered how different my life would have been if the statesmen had failed to come to an agreement.
But fate decided differently and at last agreement was reached.
The Marquis de Durfort returned to France to receive instructions from his master; there were hasty reconstructions to enlarge the French Embassy because there must be fifteen hundred guests and it would be a breach of etiquette to leave one out. Etiquette! That was a word I heard repeatedly.
