I do not refer to my actual birth, mercifully
hidden in the silk folds of memory, but to my birth as a citizen of
citoyenne, they would say.
Having shed all my clothing, I stand in a room on an island in the middle of
the Rhine River
--naked. My bare feet occupy for this moment a spot considered to be
neutral between beloved Austria
and France. The sky blue silk of
my discarded skirt wreathes my ankles, and I fancy I am standing barefooted in
a puddle of pretty water.
My chest is as flat as a shield, marked only by two
pink rosebuds of nipples. I refuse to be afraid. In the months since I became
fourteen, I've watched these pleasant rosebuds becoming a bit plump and pinker.
Now the fingers and hands of my attendants are stretching toward my neck to
remove a smooth circlet of Austrian pearls.
I try to picture the French boy, whom I have never
seen, extending large hands toward me, beckoning. What is he doing this very
moment, deep in the heart of France
? At fifteen, a year older than myself, he must be tall and strong.
There must be other words than
think of--to describe him, to help me imagine and embody his reality.
My mother, Empress of Austria, has told me how to anticipate
the meeting of our bodies and all the events of my life to come; I am always in
her prayers. Every month I will write to her and she to me, and our private
letters will travel by our own couriers between France
and Austria. When I
try to picture my future husband, Louis Auguste, standing in the forests of
France with hands and arms outstretched to
me, I can only envision my most dear mother, dressed in black, sitting behind
me like a dark wedge at her desk; she awaits the courier bearing a white rectangular
packet, the envelope that represents me.
After I am married at Versailles
, when Louis Auguste and I are alone in bed, certain events will follow.
We will copulate through the door at the bottom of my body; next, I become
pregnant. Nine months after my marriage I give birth to a baby. There will be
many witnesses when my body, then age fifteen, opens to produce a future king.
Years from then, after my husband has died, this baby will be the seventeenth
Louis, King of France. This is
what I know.
While my ladies flutter like bright butterflies
around me, I glance at
my naked body, a slender worm. Louis Auguste and I must be much the same, as
all humans are really much the same, except for the difference of sex. We all
have two legs--mine are slender--supporting a torso; two arms sprout on either
side of a bodily cabinet, which contains the guts and bladder in the lower
compartment and the heaving lungs and heart in the upper section. In between,
for women, is the chamber called the womb. From the trunk, a neck rises up like
a small lookout tower whose finial is the head.
Mine is a graceful body--made strong by dancing and
riding--and of a milky porcelain color. Recently a few curly threads
emerged from the triangle between my legs. Squeezing my thighs
together, I try to shelter this delicate garden because my new hair
seems frail and flimsy.
The French word for him, the prince who will become
my husband and king, is Dauphin, and the French word for me, who will be his bride, is the same, but with a small letter e, curled like a snail in its flinty house, at the end of the word: Dauphine. I have many French words to learn.
My darling Austrian ladies sail around me in their
bright silk dresses--cerise, and emerald, deep
blue-with-yellow-stripes; their throats and sleeves bedecked with
frothy, drooping lace. Like dancers, they bend and swoop to gather the
garments I've shed; other ladies, standing patiently, hold my new
French clothing folded across their forearms, cloth of gold and filmy
The foregoing is excerpted from Abundance, A Novel of Marie Antoinette by Sena Naslund. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission from HarperCollins Publishers, 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022
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