that by the time I was married to the dauphin, they would have discovered something more exciting to occupy their evenings. Couldn’t I simply practice being a good hostess instead? Maman, who was perfectly aware that I could never sit still for more than two minutes together, was beside herself with anxiety. It was imperative that I master the rules of cavagnole, and play round after round with avidity and skill. My sighs were heavy and unsubtle. With an alacrity that defied description I looked forward to my dancing instruction.
I had conjured the image of a dainty gentleman with a nasal voice and mincing gait, who wore far too much hair pomade and scent. In my imagination, Monsieur Noverre was as slender and graceful as a water reed and never left his apartment without the full maquillage worn by the courtiers at Versailles: a veneer of white lead cream meticulously applied over his entire face, a bit of kohl rimming the eyes, a bright circle of rouge on the apple of each cheek, and a dab of it at the center of his lips to form a cupid’s bow.
But Monsieur Noverre was not at all what I expected. In the flesh he seemed far more English, or even German, than French; in fact, he didn’t look like a ballet master at all. I struggled to mask my embarrassed relief at finding him to be a genial gentleman with a sturdy figure, a pointed nose, and powdered hair tied in a neat queue, his intelligent face barren of all cosmetics, and hisperson devoid of any cloying fragrance. No wonder Maman was so pleased with him. Our court was less formal than France when it came to matters of dress, except on state occasions. Believing that one’s appearance was more attractive as God made it, my mother disdained heavy makeup and rarely even wore rouge. If we wanted our color to be high and to convey the impression of robust health, she had taught us to pinch our cheeks until they stung. And with the exception of holidays, gala days, and formal presentations, we went about attired as any other aristocratic family.
Although Monsieur Noverre had traveled the world and spoke several languages, Maman had instructed him to address me in French in order to improve my proficiency. According to her directives, our dancing lessons would always begin with the minuet because I was already familiar with the intricate steps and was confident in my footwork. Practicing a dance I had mastered as a child would give me the courage to tackle the quadrille and the gavotte.
I soon came to admire Monsieur Noverre and his amusing habit of keeping time by tapping his high heel against the floor and conducting the chamber musicians with the handle of his lorgnette as I danced from one end of the Rosenzimmer to the other. It was the only element of my comprehensive education in which I demonstrated a considerable aptitude, yet Monsieur Noverre still found room for improvement. Natural grace was not enough. Technique was imperative. The future queen of France would have to be
une danseuse nonpareille
—without equal in the entire kingdom. Certainly I would be complimented in public as the best dancer in France, but Monsieur Noverre was preparing me to garner those accolades on merit. It was up to him to make sure that there would be no cause for derision behind my back.
The ballet master maintained an incessant chatter as I practiced my steps. “And,
oui
, the head is held just so.
Parfait!
” he would exclaim. “But your carriage, your deportment, is up-up-up—shoulders down and back, chin up, very graceful,
oui
? Perfect.
Oup! Non-non-non
, don’t forget the
port de bras
—the arms rounded, more grace,
oui
? No pointing the elbows; you do not wish to injure someone. Everything must be curved, from the tilt of the head to the way you hold your wrist.” Monsieur Noverre crossed the floor to partner me. “And when you promenade forward, eyes face front with the shoulders down and the chest open, as if to show off your beautiful jewels. Imagine that you are
I had conjured the image of a dainty gentleman with a nasal voice and mincing gait, who wore far too much hair pomade and scent. In my imagination, Monsieur Noverre was as slender and graceful as a water reed and never left his apartment without the full maquillage worn by the courtiers at Versailles: a veneer of white lead cream meticulously applied over his entire face, a bit of kohl rimming the eyes, a bright circle of rouge on the apple of each cheek, and a dab of it at the center of his lips to form a cupid’s bow.
But Monsieur Noverre was not at all what I expected. In the flesh he seemed far more English, or even German, than French; in fact, he didn’t look like a ballet master at all. I struggled to mask my embarrassed relief at finding him to be a genial gentleman with a sturdy figure, a pointed nose, and powdered hair tied in a neat queue, his intelligent face barren of all cosmetics, and hisperson devoid of any cloying fragrance. No wonder Maman was so pleased with him. Our court was less formal than France when it came to matters of dress, except on state occasions. Believing that one’s appearance was more attractive as God made it, my mother disdained heavy makeup and rarely even wore rouge. If we wanted our color to be high and to convey the impression of robust health, she had taught us to pinch our cheeks until they stung. And with the exception of holidays, gala days, and formal presentations, we went about attired as any other aristocratic family.
Although Monsieur Noverre had traveled the world and spoke several languages, Maman had instructed him to address me in French in order to improve my proficiency. According to her directives, our dancing lessons would always begin with the minuet because I was already familiar with the intricate steps and was confident in my footwork. Practicing a dance I had mastered as a child would give me the courage to tackle the quadrille and the gavotte.
I soon came to admire Monsieur Noverre and his amusing habit of keeping time by tapping his high heel against the floor and conducting the chamber musicians with the handle of his lorgnette as I danced from one end of the Rosenzimmer to the other. It was the only element of my comprehensive education in which I demonstrated a considerable aptitude, yet Monsieur Noverre still found room for improvement. Natural grace was not enough. Technique was imperative. The future queen of France would have to be
une danseuse nonpareille
—without equal in the entire kingdom. Certainly I would be complimented in public as the best dancer in France, but Monsieur Noverre was preparing me to garner those accolades on merit. It was up to him to make sure that there would be no cause for derision behind my back.
The ballet master maintained an incessant chatter as I practiced my steps. “And,
oui
, the head is held just so.
Parfait!
” he would exclaim. “But your carriage, your deportment, is up-up-up—shoulders down and back, chin up, very graceful,
oui
? Perfect.
Oup! Non-non-non
, don’t forget the
port de bras
—the arms rounded, more grace,
oui
? No pointing the elbows; you do not wish to injure someone. Everything must be curved, from the tilt of the head to the way you hold your wrist.” Monsieur Noverre crossed the floor to partner me. “And when you promenade forward, eyes face front with the shoulders down and the chest open, as if to show off your beautiful jewels. Imagine that you are
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