Abundance: A Novel of Marie Antoinette (P.S.) by Sena Jeter Naslund
Authors: Sena Jeter Naslund
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the string that had been dipped in the pus of a sick person to be laid inside my flesh. We do not understand how this practice protects, any more than we understand why bleeding helps to heal, but we trust what experience has taught us of their efficacy.
The stillness with which I lie straight and quiet in this bed offers protection from all my fears. But in the morning, I will twirl through the rooms of my life.
I N THE MORNING , I discover that my husband, who is not yet my husband, dropped his game bag just inside the door. The blood from the birds has seeped through the canvas bag onto the carpet, and of course the meat has spoiled.
T IME P ASSES
Hours, days, weeks, even months have passed.
Phrases from my mother’s letters haunt me. She writes that I have no duty but to please and obey my husband; she tells me that I must submit to him in all matters; she reminds me that the only true happiness to be obtained in this world is that of a happy marriage, and she reminds me of her own success in this matter—a success that gives her the freedom to advise me. For the success of the marriage, she lays all responsibility on “the wife, on her being willing, sweet, and amusing.”
And always, always, she wants me to read more, to read books of religious devotion and of history, to discuss them with the Abbé Vermond, who has come to France from Austria to serve as my tutor and spiritual advisor, to send her lists of what I read, to annotate those lists. She wants to know of every illness and of the visits of Générale Krottendorf.
I write her that, since I have arrived in France, the Générale has failed to visit for four months, but I add that I am not missing my monthly for any desirable reason. She will know that the marriage remains unconsummated.
My body is so disappointed in its marriage that it retreats from womanhood. The red tides cease. I lose weight. I slip backward in time toward girlhood instead of progressing toward maturity.
F OR ALL HIS ASCETIC appearance, the Abbé Vermond has sparkling blue eyes, and his gaunt cheeks are creased with vertical lines because he smiles so often. I like his hooked nose, his shoulders slightly bent from poring over his books. And he is kind. As best he can, he ministers to both my spirit and my mind, yet I am not an apt pupil, but one too easily distracted. When I confess to him, he offers tender reassurance and promises that his little lectures will be brief. Just as I should rely on Count Mercy for advice on matters of state and politics, I must rely on the Abbé Vermond for more personal counsel.
The next day, over my lesson books, he speaks to me even more reassuringly.
“Your memory is excellent,” he says approvingly. “You have excellent habits in listening. You listen quietly and forget nothing of what is said.”
I tell him that I wish that I could pay more attention to the voices that come from the pages of books. “But I cannot. I struggle too hard to make sense of what is printed, while merely listening to real speaking makes a greater imprint on my mind.”
“You are a musician, dear Dauphine. Spoken words are more like music.”
“I will continue to try.”
“Allow me to observe,” he continues, “that you have an excellent influence on the Dauphin. Now he displays much more goodwill, and he is of a more agreeable nature than anyone thought him to possess. It is the influence of your sweetness.”
In his desire to encourage me, he reaches forward and pats me on the knee.
B UT THE D AUPHIN comes to my bed only rarely. I express my joy at his company. He smiles. He says, he is tired tonight and would I hum a tune to him. With his head on the pillow, he looks at me with kind eyes, and his body becomes peaceful. He sleeps.
One night, he says to me, “You are so beautiful. Even your voice conveys your unique charm.”
But he does not reach for me.
I smile. My eyelids lower. “I am so happy that I
The stillness with which I lie straight and quiet in this bed offers protection from all my fears. But in the morning, I will twirl through the rooms of my life.
I N THE MORNING , I discover that my husband, who is not yet my husband, dropped his game bag just inside the door. The blood from the birds has seeped through the canvas bag onto the carpet, and of course the meat has spoiled.
T IME P ASSES
Hours, days, weeks, even months have passed.
Phrases from my mother’s letters haunt me. She writes that I have no duty but to please and obey my husband; she tells me that I must submit to him in all matters; she reminds me that the only true happiness to be obtained in this world is that of a happy marriage, and she reminds me of her own success in this matter—a success that gives her the freedom to advise me. For the success of the marriage, she lays all responsibility on “the wife, on her being willing, sweet, and amusing.”
And always, always, she wants me to read more, to read books of religious devotion and of history, to discuss them with the Abbé Vermond, who has come to France from Austria to serve as my tutor and spiritual advisor, to send her lists of what I read, to annotate those lists. She wants to know of every illness and of the visits of Générale Krottendorf.
I write her that, since I have arrived in France, the Générale has failed to visit for four months, but I add that I am not missing my monthly for any desirable reason. She will know that the marriage remains unconsummated.
My body is so disappointed in its marriage that it retreats from womanhood. The red tides cease. I lose weight. I slip backward in time toward girlhood instead of progressing toward maturity.
F OR ALL HIS ASCETIC appearance, the Abbé Vermond has sparkling blue eyes, and his gaunt cheeks are creased with vertical lines because he smiles so often. I like his hooked nose, his shoulders slightly bent from poring over his books. And he is kind. As best he can, he ministers to both my spirit and my mind, yet I am not an apt pupil, but one too easily distracted. When I confess to him, he offers tender reassurance and promises that his little lectures will be brief. Just as I should rely on Count Mercy for advice on matters of state and politics, I must rely on the Abbé Vermond for more personal counsel.
The next day, over my lesson books, he speaks to me even more reassuringly.
“Your memory is excellent,” he says approvingly. “You have excellent habits in listening. You listen quietly and forget nothing of what is said.”
I tell him that I wish that I could pay more attention to the voices that come from the pages of books. “But I cannot. I struggle too hard to make sense of what is printed, while merely listening to real speaking makes a greater imprint on my mind.”
“You are a musician, dear Dauphine. Spoken words are more like music.”
“I will continue to try.”
“Allow me to observe,” he continues, “that you have an excellent influence on the Dauphin. Now he displays much more goodwill, and he is of a more agreeable nature than anyone thought him to possess. It is the influence of your sweetness.”
In his desire to encourage me, he reaches forward and pats me on the knee.
B UT THE D AUPHIN comes to my bed only rarely. I express my joy at his company. He smiles. He says, he is tired tonight and would I hum a tune to him. With his head on the pillow, he looks at me with kind eyes, and his body becomes peaceful. He sleeps.
One night, he says to me, “You are so beautiful. Even your voice conveys your unique charm.”
But he does not reach for me.
I smile. My eyelids lower. “I am so happy that I
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