Farewell, My Queen

of a generous fire and listened to the satisfying sound of the logs crackling between the andirons, we lamented the Emperor’s latest plans, which, pacific though they were, did not detract from the already colossal list of his crimes. Some say that he proposes to live for a month every summer in the château of Versailles, though he finds it small and misshapen, “a horrible aberration,” and an aberration, what’s more, that costs him a fortune to keep up. He has decided to stay there occasionally, after he had the impudence to declare: “The Revolution destroyed so much; why did it not demolish the château of Versailles?” But other reports would have it that Napoléon plans to cut down the bosquets, take away the statues, and replace it all with monuments commemorating his victories . . . We had another serving of cake—absolutely delicious—and pursued our lamentations . . . Monuments to his victories . . . It is not enough for him to contemplate marriage with Queen Marie-Antoinette’s great-niece Marie-Louise, the Austrian woman, as he so elegantly calls her, he must needs take over the château as well. And put his N everywhere. This man, who cannot tell the difference between hunting with hounds and hunting rabbits, has commanded that all Louis XVI’s hunting guns be engraved with his initial. “You cannot hunt stags when you are hounding kings,” as the prince de Ligne mockingly observes . . . In the event that he fails to get the Tsar’s sister, I wonder whether Vienna will tolerate such an abomination, whether Metternich will hand the poor archduchess over to her country’s oppressor. In all this hellish warfare, with its threat of armed gangs and looting, its reduction of rape and murder to commonplace events, Napoléon’s pretensions to legitimacy are very nearly the thing I find most offensive. I say very nearly, for what really offends me, what saddens and distresses me, is something that is not to be found in our professions of indignation, nor does it bear the stamp of those choruses of loathing in which we habitually join. No, the thing that appalls me derives rather from what we do not say, from our hypocritical acceptance of the rule that Louis XVI and Marie-Antoinette are never to be mentioned. The prohibition applies in Vienna, indeed at all foreign courts, but the place where it is most strictly observed is certainly here, in Vienna. To pronounce these forbidden names in defiance of the interdict produces fearful embarrassment. If it involves Louis XVI, the social blunder, though serious, can be overcome. But to name Marie-Antoinette is an unforgivable lapse. Her memory is suppressed more viciously in her own home, family, and city than anywhere else. For this, this second death, Napoléon cannot be held accountable. If anything, the reverse is true . . . And we, with our noisy jeremiads, contribute to the work of obliteration. Noisy? I much overstate the case. I only wish we were still capable of making noise.
Around the fire, earlier today, our chairs so close together that we were almost elbow to elbow, we were saying how wretched it is to survive in the midst of ruins. “If you survive, it means you’re alive,” said one of my friends, but she uttered these words so inaudibly that it was hard to put much faith in them . . . Though the afternoon had barely ended, darkness was falling. It was time for my guests to make their way home. And just then, a group of schoolchildren came into the courtyard to sing. Their voices were extraordinarily clear, rising up with the same strength and joy that they put into their running, their ice-skating . . .
Alone once more, I opened my last present. It was wrapped in so many layers of paper that at first I thought there was nothing else, just colored papers laid one on top of the other. But when I came to the little silver box, it opened up to reveal a marvel. I had been offered a miracle in the form of a gift: a pendant set in enamel, on which was painted in miniature an eye of blue—blazing blue, almost turquoise, of gemlike brilliance, the pupil as though bedewed with the merest hint of moistness. I closed the palm of my hand over the treasure and let the blue of her eyes bring back the Queen’s entire face, her face as I knew it . . .
This ban on names is one of the pacts binding our society of survivors, and when I am with others I respect the pact. But when I am alone with myself, why should I be afraid of words or of the ghosts they summon up or of the unknown with which they sometimes bring us face-to-face? True, in my case the ghosts fill the entire stage, during my waking life as they do in my dreams, whether these be changing or recurrent. Thus, for example, what I call my “Dream of the Grand Stairway.” It has variations—in particular, sometimes the faces are farther away than other times—but for the most part, it’s always the same dream: stationed at intervals on broad steps, stand various members of the Royal Court. Their magnificent apparel has a still quality that hampers movement. Some are leaning on canes, others not. There are no groups. Each individual is isolated, set slightly apart from the next. All, however, are outlined with perfect clarity. They stand there, on the rim of nothing. “The Dream of the Grand Stairway” haunts me. I feel as though the people in the dream—mute, invisible, never very far away—are waiting for me, as though they are my truth, whereas the handful of survivors with whom I associate are merely illusions. Under their scrutiny I become uncomfortable. I seek distractions: embroidery work, writing letters, reading newspapers, books, every sort of publication in French that comes my way, but they will not loosen their viselike