THE CHILDHOOD OF MARIE ANTOINETTE

On All Souls Day, November 2, 1755, a formidable earthquake covered Lisbon with ruins. At Vienna there was born, on the same day, a child destined to the most tragic fate, a princess who, having like the Christ her palms and her Golgotha, was to sum up in her own person all the joys and all the anguish, all the triumphs and all the sorrows, of woman.

This existence, doomed to catastrophes which surpass the most memorable examples of ancient fatality, began in that calm which heralds the storm. The Empress Maria Theresa, a woman of both heart and genius, was equally admirable as a sovereign, wife, and mother. As simple as majestic, she needed not the prestige of etiquette to inspire veneration. A few days before Marie Antoinette was born, the Duke de Tarouka had laid a wager with the Empress that she would give birth to a son. When he lost his bet, he caused a kneeling figure to be modelled in porcelain, which was presenting to the Sovereign some tablets on which were engraven four verses in Italian from the poet Metastasio, which may be thus translated: “I have lost. The august daughter has condemned me to pay. But it is true that if she resembles you, all the world will be the gainer.”

Maria Theresa began betimes to give Marie Antoinette the most serious instructions. She showed her the shroud she had woven for herself with her own imperial hands, and taking her down into the vaults where their ancestors were sleeping: “It is to me,” she said, “that people now address the homage of which they were once the object; I shall be forgotten like them.” When they were out driving, the Empress and her husband gave the right of way to the most humble vehicles, and quietly took their places in the line. According to an expression of Goethe, the imperial household was only a great German citizen’s family. Maria Theresa walked out with her daughters like a private person; she visited familiarly at the castles of the Counts Palfy, and those of the Esterhazy and de Kinsky princes. She gave an equally benevolent reception to a noble or a commoner, a diplomat or an artist; she made little Marie Antoinette play with little Mozart.

The young Archduchess grew up beneath this mild and salutary influence. Her father, the Emperor Francis, may have felt for her an even greater tenderness than for his other children. In 1765 he went to Innsprück, where he was to be present at the marriage of the Archduke Leopold with a Spanish Infanta. After his journey had begun, he stopped his carriage at a short distance from Schönbrun: “Go back, and find the Archduchess Marie Antoinette,” said he to a member of his suite; “I must see her again.” The little Princess arrived. Her father wept as he embraced her. He invoked God’s blessing on her, and even then had to make a violent effort before he could leave her. He was never to see her again. A few days later he died at Innsprück, from a sudden attack of apoplexy. Marie Antoinette remembered all her life the last look her father had bent upon her. Was not this gaze, so full of tenderness and anxiety, a presentiment? One day, Maria Theresa questioned the thaumaturgist Gassner concerning the fate of the young Princess. “Will my Antoinette be happy?” she asked him. Gassner turned pale and was silent. Urged by the Empress to reply, “Madame,” said he sadly, “there are crosses for all shoulders.”

But let us dispel gloomy images of the future. The most brilliant destiny is in preparation for the little Archduchess. It is she who is to unite the Hapsburghs to the Bourbons; she who is to be Queen of France. Maria Theresa likes to cherish this beautiful dream. In 1766 an influential Parisian woman, whose salon had become celebrated throughout Europe, Madame Geoffrin, goes to Poland to visit Stanislas Poniatowski. She stops in Vienna, where she meets a reception of which she is very proud. “I think I must be dreaming,” she writes to M. Bautin, Receiver-General of Finances, June 12, 1766; “I am as well known here as in the rue Saint Honoré, and for the last fortnight my journey has caused an incredible commotion.” Speaking of Marie Antoinette in the same letter, Madame Geoffrin adds: “The Empress has recommended me to write to France that I have seen this little one, and that I find her beautiful.”

Madame Geoffrin took the Princess on her lap. “Here,” said she, “is a little girl that I would very much like to take with me.”—“Take her, take her!” gaily replied the Empress, who was thinking of Versailles and the Dauphin. From that time Maria Theresa sought to form the future Dauphiness to the likeness of the court of France. Language, literature, novels, history, fashions, theatrical pieces, books, almanacs, engravings, everything that surrounded the young Archduchess, was French.

As M. Feuillet de Conches has said in the eloquent preface to his collection, “the wind of France breathed through the beautiful fair tresses of Marie Antoinette.” She danced with Noverre, declaimed with Sainville, recited Racine’s tragedies and La Fontaine’s fables with Dufresne. A famous hairdresser, Larsonneur, was brought from Paris, and with him milliners and dressmakers for the service of the young Princess. Her true adornment was her natural grace. As has been said by Madame the Countess Armaillé, in a charming study which she calls _La Mère et la Fille_, “certain female faces seem to have no brilliancy except when surrounded by the animation of festivities; others harmonize with the freshness of nature, the gentle poesy of solitary country places. It was this kind of beauty that Marie Antoinette possessed. Her supple and slender figure, the grace and lightness of her bearing, recalled the heroines of German legends. Undine was not more charming when, rising from the bosom of the waves, she wandered for a time among mortal beings. Her blue eyes, whose limpid tint was compared to that of the waters of the Danube, were both soft and sparkling. Her mouth, rosy and smiling, seemed to receive an added grace from a little dimple in her chin. Her hair, of an ashy blond, drawn back in accordance with the fashion of the day, left visible her pure, haughty forehead and her well-defined and graceful neck. Everything in her breathed distinction, kindness, candor.” Though no longer a child, she was not yet a woman. She had that blending of intelligence and ignorance, wit and simplicity, which has such grace and charm. Already a shade of melancholy sometimes overspread that pure and radiant visage, which was lighted up by so sweet a smile. “Poor women!” has said a young girl, Mademoiselle Rosa Ferrucci, whose touching story has been related by the Abbé Perreyve, “poor women! we are weaker than the leaves that the first breeze tears off and scatters, and childhood is scarcely over when our heart, which knows only how to love and suffer, is rent by a thousand, contrary thoughts, joyful and sorrowful.”

Versailles appeared to Marie Antoinette in a brilliant background. The Abbé de Vermond, a French ecclesiastic who had been her preceptor since 1768, told her wonderful things about this dazzling abode where she was to shine with so great a splendor. But the affectionate soul of the Princess was afflicted by the thought that she must leave her cherished mother, her beloved family, the honest Viennese, who were so devoted to their sovereigns. Nowadays, when sovereigns give their daughters in marriage, they have almost the certainty of seeing them again. But it was not so then. Separations were eternal. One can understand what Maria Theresa suffered when she reflected: Soon this beloved daughter of whom I am so proud will depart forever. Soon I must give her a last blessing, a last embrace. Like many mothers, the Empress was afflicted by an event she had most ardently desired. The union, so favorable to the Austrian policy, was decided on. Marie Antoinette was to become the Dauphiness of France. The nearer the moment of departure came, the more the Empress was affected. She took her daughter on her lap, embraced her, made her sleep in her own room. Clinging to the treasure she was about to lose, she would have liked to arrest the march of time. Marie Antoinette was not less sad and anxious. January 21, 1770, she received the nuptial ring sent her by the Dauphin, and just twenty-three years later to a day.... But no, we will not think yet of the final catastrophes.

The Marquis de Durfort repaired to the palace on April 16, and in the name of the Most Christian King officially demanded the Archduchess for the Dauphin. On the 17th, the Princess renounced her rights to the Austrian succession. On the 18th, the fêtes began at Vienna and were prolonged until the 21st, the day set for the departure of the Archduchess. The 19th, she was married by proxy. The Dauphin was represented by the Archduke Maximilian. The signing of the imperial register took place at the palace of the Burg. It is said that Marie Antoinette’s hand trembled when she took the pen. The Dauphin having expressed a wish that the Archduchess herself should signify her consent to the marriage, Marie Antoinette had written to him: “I thank you for the expressions so full of benevolence which you employ towards me; I am profoundly touched and honored by them, and I feel that such goodness on your part imposes obligations on me. The examples and lessons of my glorious and tender mother have taught me to accomplish all my duties, and, with the help of God, I hope by every effort to render myself worthy of the new destiny created for me. You have kindly asked that my consent to your choice should accompany that of the Empress-queen; you say you need to receive me from myself also. I may answer, since she authorizes me to do so, that I have received my mother’s orders with as much pleasure as respect. You will find in me a faithful and devoted wife, having no other thought than that of putting into practice the means of pleasing you and meriting your attachment.”

The city of Vienna is gay and sorrowful at once. Shouts of joy mingle with tears. A three-days retreat, ended by the reception of communion, is followed by a visit to the tombs of the emperors. The Archduchess kneels down and invokes the souls of her ancestors. At last it is time to depart. The 21st of April is here. Adieu patriarchal residence of the Burg! Farewell ye shades of Schönbrun. Adieu blue, limpid lakes of Laxenbourg! Adieu good Viennese who weep for the young exile! Ah! whether she be a peasant or an empress, the mother who for the last time beholds her daughter’s face and hears her voice, follows her with her eyes and confides her to Providence; then, seeking her, but finding her no more, she returns alone to her chamber, closes the door and falls upon her knees; the mother who has felt the anguish of that heartrending torture, separation, will comprehend what passed in the heart of Maria Theresa. This departure of Marie Antoinette reminds me of a once popular but now forgotten chanson, the distant echo of which affects me at this moment, doubtless because my mother sang it to me when I was a child:—

“Ici commence ton voyage. Si tu n’allais pas revenir!... Ta pauvre mère est sans courage Pour te quitter, pour te bénir. Travaille bien, fais ta prière. La prière donne du cœur, Et quelquefois pense à ta mère, Cela te portera bonheur. Adieu, ma fille, adieu! À la grâce de Dieu!...

“Elle s’en va, douce exilée, Gagner son pain sous d’autres cieux; Longtemps encore, dans la vallée, Sa mère la suivit des yeux, Puis, lorsque sa douleur amère N’eut plus sa fille pour témoin, Elle pleura, la pauvre mère, L’enfant qui lui disait de loin: Adieu, ma mère, adieu! À la grâce de Dieu.”[41]

Weber says in his Memoirs: “One cannot easily shake off the superstition of presentiments, when one has seen the farewells of Marie Antoinette to her family, her servants, and her country. Men and women yielded to the same expressions of grief. No one returned home until after losing sight of the last courier who followed her, and then only to lament in the privacy of the family a common loss.” The die was cast! Departing never to return, the young girl of fourteen was urged by fatality toward the abyss.