The Journal of Marie-Antoinette The secret thoughts, hopes and dreams of a princess.

Three years ago today our sister Johanna died of smallpox, when she was not much older than I am now. I caught smallpox at the same time but was very fortunate and recovered with only a few small scars on my shoulders. I cannot remember very much about it now other than a dreadful headache when it first began and a terrible feeling of thirst and light headedness when it was all over. The intervening days passed in a blur of unbearable hotness, pain and restless opiated sleep.

Mama ordered that Johanna’s full length portrait by Herr Mytens be brought down into the candlelit mirrored reception room with its huge mirrors and green and gold paneled walls so that we could all think about her in silence and pray for her soul. The portrait looked very unlike the jolly, plump little Johanna that I (barely) remember and shows her looking very stiff and sombre indeed in a gown of pink silk with diamonds in her hair and around her throat. It scared me a little to see her thus and I closed my eyes and tried to remember her as she had really been rather than the little painted doll with powdered hair and far away eyes on the canvas.

My sister Josepha started to cry and admitted to me later on that she is terrified of dying of smallpox like Johanna did as she suffered a great deal.

‘I can still hear her screams,’ she said with a terrible look on her face.

It is the tradition here in Austria that if a girl wishes to know her future she should cut an apple in half on the eve of St Thomas’ day and then count the pips inside. I have always been too young to join in but tonight Amalia and Josepha decided that I should be allowed to take part in the secret ritual.

Carolina and I wrapped ourselves up in thick woolen shawls and pushed our feet into soft, fur slippers before sneaking down the cold corridors to Amalia’s warm, rose scented room where her trio of little Pugs lay fast asleep and snoring on pink velvet upholstered dog beds in front of the stove. Her maid Drusilla ceremoniously placed a bowl of apples and a gold handled knife on to a table that had been pulled into the centre of the room and we took it in turns to carefully select a fruit and then slice into it.

Amalia went bravely first, cutting her apple neatly and counting the pips inside. ‘Five.’ She looked at her maid, who we all respected as a person of authority when it came to such arcane matters as fortune telling. ‘I think I cut one as well.’

Drusilla peered at the apple. ‘An odd number means you have a disappointment coming, Archduchess, and the cut seed means you will have a troubled marriage and end a widow.’

‘Charming.’ Amalia laughed and bit into a slice of apple. ‘Well, so long as I am rich, who cares?’

‘Me next.’ Josepha stepped up and blushed as she selected an apple and cut into it. ‘Oh, I seem to have cut across all of the pips!’ She looked at Drusilla. ‘Does that mean I will be very unhappy indeed?’

Drusilla took the apple and sighed as she looked at it. ‘We all have a cross to bear, Archduchess.’

Josepha shrugged and tried to laugh. ‘Oh well, serves me right for not being very handy with a knife.’ She handed it shakily on to Carolina. ‘Your turn now, little one.’

Carolina closed her eyes and picked the first apple that found its way into her fumbling hand. ‘Oh look, six seeds! That means that I am going to marry soon doesn’t it? They are very large seeds; does that mean that he will be handsome?’

We all burst out laughing. ‘Oh, Carolina! You should be so lucky!’ Amalia said, giving Carolina a hug. ‘You should have realised by now that there are no handsome princes left in Europe and that the Catholic ones are always the most hideous of all.’

‘If any handsome princes ever existed outside fairy stories,’ Josepha chimed in with a grimace. ‘Poor us.’

Carolina handed the knife to me and I copied her, closing my eyes as I put my hand into the porcelain bowl and felt amongst the cool, smooth, fragrant apples before finally closing my grasp around one of them. I opened my eyes then solemnly cut into the soft flesh and pulled the two halves apart. ‘One, two, three, four and oh, I cut some of them!’ I looked at Drusilla. ‘What does it mean?’ I held out the apple.

‘Your Highness will be married soon but will face many sorrows before becoming a widow,’ the other girl intoned after looking at my apple. I couldn’t help but shiver at her words, even though I knew that it was all complete nonsense and silly peasant superstition.

Carolina gave me a hug. ‘Do not worry, Antonia, it won’t come true,’ she whispered into my ear. ‘Your husband will be handsome and rich and kind and you will have many children and grow fat, contented and old together.’

I hope that she is right.

Such fun today when we were visited after dinner by actors dressed up as Saint Nikolaus and the Krampus, which are evil goblins who punish naughty children for their misdeeds during the year. Maximilian was chased around the room by the Krampus, who were trying to smack his behind with a birch rod, to the amusement of all the court. Mama’s dogs were wildly excited by this and also joined in the chase so that the huge, candlelit reception room was filled with the sound of laughter, menacing cackles and furious barking. I could not help but think how much Papa would have enjoyed it.

Carolina and I half expected to be singled out by the Krampus as well, but instead we were given special biscuits and presents by Saint Nikolaus and praised for our good behaviour. Clearly, no one has yet worked out who has been playing tricks on Countess Brandeis.

Today we lit the first candle on our special Adventkranz, which is a wreath of holly with four tall red candles attached, each representing the four Sundays in Advent. Amalia played the harpsichord and we all sang carols while ignoring the Advent fast and munching on special gingerbread biscuits and our favourite vanillekipferl, heavily dusted with sugar.

Afterwards I wrote a letter to the holy Christkindl, telling him all of my wishes for the coming year. I asked that none of my sisters leave to be married and also for a white pony for myself.

It is my tenth birthday. Mama has taken to calculating how long we have all been on this earth and informed me this morning that I have now been alive for five hundred and twenty two weeks which is three thousand, six hundred and fifty four days or eighty seven thousand and six hundred and ninety six hours. It does not seem like such a long time really does it?

Christina is victorious and the wedding is to be held next April at Schönbrunn.

Amalia was physically sick when she heard the news.

The whole palace is in uproar. Christina has informed Mama that she is madly in love with Prince Albert of Saxony, who is the youngest son of the King of Poland and who has lived in Vienna for several years now. It isn’t a bad match really as his mother is an Austrian archduchess and one of Mama’s cousins, also one of his sisters is the Maria Josepha who is married to the Dauphin of France and another one is Queen of Spain and mother to Maria Luisa who married Leopold last year. It seems though that Papa had intended Christina for one of his French nephews, the Duc de Chablais and Mama is loath to go against his wishes in this matter. Papa’s last wish, being of course, sacrosanct as far as Mama is concerned.

The prince has asked Mama’s permission to address our sister and Christina has publicly announced that she fully intends to accept him. It seems like a fait accompli (see, I have some French after all) but we are all in shock that she should have the courage to choose her own husband. It is entirely unheard of for an Austrian archduchess to do such a thing and we are all desperate to know what is to happen to them both.

‘I hope Mama refuses to let her marry him,’ Carolina muttered to me last night when we were supposed to be saying our bedtime prayers in the chilly Hofburg chapel with its ornate golden statues and gloomy paintings of martyred saints, who gaze down upon us with dark, sad eyes. ‘It will totally go to Christina’s head if she gets her own way and I do not think that I can bear to see it.’ She winced and shifted her knees as the hard white marble floor of the chapel can get very cold at this time of year.

‘But it is all so romantic,’ I whispered back, my eyes still tightly closed in case the Countess happened to glance over at us. ‘Also, if Christina is allowed to choose her own husband then maybe that means that we will be able to as well.’

Carolina was surprised into giving a loud laugh, that echoed alarmingly in the vaulted chapel. ‘You idiot. Haven’t you realised by now that Christina is Mama’s special favourite and that even if she is allowed to marry her boring prince, it doesn’t make a jot of difference to our own prospects.’ She stands up and crosses herself, feigning a coughing fit to disguise her laughter. ‘Only Christina will be allowed to choose for herself while we are all sent away to marry men that we have never even seen before.’

‘Mimi,’ I whisper to myself. Of course.

Winter is fast approaching and so the court have moved to the Hofburg, which is Mama’s Winter palace in the very centre of Vienna. Everyone complains a great deal about having to move here, as it is so large and old fashioned and isn’t as pretty or comfortable as Schönbrunn although it is certainly very warm thanks to the large wood burning stoves in every room. I am fond of the Hofburg though, as I was born here and the move here in the Autumn always signifies that it is almost my birthday and that I am another year older.

I am currently sitting at the little walnut wood escritoire in my pink and white paneled bedchamber. I am supposed to be working at my French but it is so very dull that it is making my head ache. I try very hard but the pages of my book are covered with crossings out and splodges of ink, where I have made mistakes and tried to correct them. I do not think that I will ever be very good at French although the Countess has said that with more practice I might do very well at it. When Mama asks to see my work, the Countess often resorts to writing the exercises out in pencil and then making me write over the top in ink so that it looks like I have done the work myself. I do not think that Mama will be deceived by this for very long.

The Hofburg is much noisier than Schönbrunn and right now I can hear Amalia and Josepha having a music lesson with Herr Gluck in their rooms further down the narrow, gloomy corridor which is lined with pencil drawings by Joseph and Leopold of scenes from Greek mythology. They are both singing and occasionally pausing to giggle over some private joke. Amalia has a cold and you can tell from her rasping singing that she has a sore throat as well. I can also hear my brothers Max and Ferdinand laughing as they plays with their dogs in their rooms downstairs and if I listen very carefully indeed I can hear the constant low rumble and hum of the thousands of Hofburg servants going about their daily business as they fetch and carry, light fires and open doors. It is the constant and reassuring background noise to our existence; the first thing I hear in the morning and the last thing I hear at night. If it were ever to stop then I would think that the world itself had ceased to exist as well. From outside my window I can hear the every day sounds of Vienna – the constant clatter and rumble of carriages rolling in and out of the cobbled courtyard and in the distance the sound of a hundred thousand voices laughing, singing, shouting and enjoying life, while the church bells ring out into the crisp, fresh air and all the while the slate blue Danube flows quickly past.

It is now over two months since my Papa died and things have changed a great deal here. Mama still wears nothing but black and is very serious and severe on the rare occasions that we see her. She still spends a lot of time alone in her rooms but is appearing more and more often in public. I overheard some of the court ladies whispering that Mama had considered abdicating the throne and entering a convent when Papa died but that the thought of Ferdinand, Carolina, Max and I prevented her as we are all too young to be without any parents at all.

Joseph is now emperor, which makes poor Josephina the empress, not that it makes any difference while Mama is still alive for everyone knows that she is the real ruler here. Josephina always looks faintly embarrassed when she is in company with Mama and gives way to her at all times, which is only right but she doesn’t manage to do so gracefully so that Mama always looks cross when she is there and Joseph gets a tight lipped, impatient expression on his face when once again she doesn’t step back quickly enough as we walk into dinner to let Mama go past first. I do not think he likes Josephina very much and there have been no pregnancies yet even though they have been married for almost a year now.

Joseph’s little girl Theresia, his daughter by Isabella, is here with us of course. She is three now and is loved and petted by us all for she is so very pretty and looks just like her poor Mama with wide dark blue eyes and fair, curling hair. Josephina is very kind to her as well but this does nothing to soften Joseph’s dislike and he always looks like he would prefer her not to touch his daughter and would like to snatch Theresia away when she makes her sit beside her. It is all very sad.

It still doesn’t feel real and I can’t just can’t accept that I will never see my Papa again. Not in this world anyway. It happened quite suddenly apparently, as he was leaving the Opera House in Innsbruck. He had been perfectly happy and healthy all evening; enjoying the music, laughing with Mama and teasing Leopold and his ugly new bride who were sitting in the box beside them. He had complained of a pain in his side when they left but no one thought anything of it and he himself dismissed it as indigestion after a particularly lavish dinner earlier that evening. ‘It is too hot to eat partridge,’ he joked with Leopold as he said goodnight. It was only when he was in his carriage that he had given a loud cry and then collapsed into Joseph’s arms, dying almost instantly.

It was Joseph who rode all the way back from Innsbruck in the heat and dust to tell us the terrible news. He took each of us in his arms as we wept together and told us that we had lost the best father the world has ever known.  He looked dazed and entirely disbelieving and had black smudges under his eyes and a darkly stubbled chin. He is emperor now, of course, but seems to care nothing at all about this.

‘I would gladly trade it all just to have Papa back with us again,’ he said over and over. ‘He died in my arms.’ He looked down at his hands and we saw that he was crying again. ‘He died in my arms.’

Mama is distraught of course. She came home with Papa’s body but immediately locked herself away alone in her own rooms, shutting all of the heavy brocade curtains to keep out the light and admitting no one. We did not see her until his funeral, which was very grand and solemn and took place at the Kapuzinergruft (Imperial Crypt) in the Capuchins’ church next to the Hofburg. We were all there, weeping loudly and dressed in black with black veils covering our pale faces. When the big black carriage bearing Papa’s body reached the wooden gates of the Kapuzinergruft, the court herald knocked on the door and one of the Capuchin monks of the monastery came out to ask ‘who demands entry?’ The herald replied with Papa’s name and a list of all of his titles (this took quite some time) to which the monk responded with ‘I don’t know this person’ upon which the whole charade would be repeated again only with shorter titles being used this time and with the monk saying once again ‘I do not know this person’. The herald then knocked for a third and final time and upon being asked ‘who demands entry’ replied simply with ‘Franz Stefan, a sinful, mortal human being’, at which point the gates swung open and Papa’s carriage disappeared inside. It was very sad and incredibly humbling.

Mama came to visit Carolina and I a few days later in our schoolroom and we were both astonished by how different she looked – she looked many decades older, almost like an old woman in fact, and was dressed from head to toe in thick, unrelenting and miserable black and not her usual bright and glimmering silks, brocades and velvets. She had also cut off all of her thick, blonde hair, which Papa had loved so much and instead sported grizzled, short curls underneath a stiff and uncompromising black linen cap.

‘You have lost the best Papa ever,’ she said to us, echoing Joseph’s words. ‘I can hardly believe that he is gone.’ Her eyes were red rimmed from weeping and we saw that still more tears were trembling on the edge of her long lashes. ‘He loved you both very much and is still watching over you from Heaven. I hope that you will both strive to make him proud and to be worthy of him.’ Even now there had to be a note of censure. She started sobbing and pulled a large black kerchief out of her expansive bosom.

‘Yes, Mama,’ we chorused, curtseying deeply and swallowing down our own sobs, as there is a selfishness to Mama’s grief that made us instinctively know that any signs of our own misery must be kept well hidden. ‘We will do our best to be worthy of him,’ Carolina added, surreptitiously wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

Mama nodded solemnly and then turned to me, taking my hand in her plump white one. ‘I heard that he asked to see you again before he left,’ she said, her voice cracking with emotion. ‘I think that he loved you best out of all our children.’ It sounded almost like an accusation and I stared dumbly at her, not knowing what to say. ‘You are so very like your dear Papa, Maria Antonia,’ she whispered after a long silence. ‘You must work harder than ever to be worthy of him.’ For a brief second she touched my cheek with her hand and then she stood up and was gone, releasing a cloud of lavender, thyme and rosemary perfume from her heavy black taffeta skirts as she moved. She smelt just like Papa and I realised that she must have been using his cologne in an attempt to remain close to him.

Carolina and I burst into tears when she had gone; the sight of Mama’s suffering and the still lingering scent of Papa’s cologne was just too much for us.

Papa is dead.

It cannot be true.

No.