Chapter 4
I do not understand the discrepancies I have seen.
France, the epitome of fashion, seems vastly inferior to England.
The fields lack the polish of British hedges.
The villages are impoverished, the houses grim, lacking even glass windows.
England, in the brevity of my experience, appeared opulent, and France, now I see it, only squalid.
The British industrialize while the French indulge.
In London, the streets are also full of people, but their dress, their gait, every appearance indicates business, whereas in Paris, from the gaiety of dress and the places they frequent, I judge pleasure to be the business of life.
Abigail
Four months in France had not prepared Abigail for what she was about to experience. Fine dinners with Mr. Franklin and his French associates or Mr. Jefferson and his friends had not prepared her. Running the household in Auteuil had not prepared her.
She was a minister’s daughter from Massachusetts. What did she know of the French court at the Palace of Versailles? She had no jewels to showcase, no great accomplishments to display, and she could only manage passable conversation with those who spoke English well enough to tolerate her company.
Yet here Abigail Adams stood, poised in finery beyond anything she had ever worn at home—though the undergarments of her attire were uncomfortably constricting—attempting to glide gracefully along an interminably long hall that was almost entirely comprised of windows and mirrors.
Exquisite artwork was displayed as well but considering everything in this place—or palace, rather—glistened with gold and light, the art itself was a trifle lost in the luster.
“Three hundred and fifty-seven,” John murmured beside her, the tension in his frame practically rippling into her own from her hand on his arm.
“What?” she whispered sharply as she leaned closer.
He cleared his throat. “There are three hundred and fifty-seven mirrors in this room. Franklin told me.”
Abigail choked at the exorbitant number, at the very idea of how much such a thing must have cost. “First of all, this is not a room. It is an entire wing.”
John muffled a cough of a laugh by clamping his lips together.
“Secondly,” she went on, “who needs such an extensive number of reflective surfaces? Are the French of such beauty that it must be so admired? Or are they so vain that they must become Narcissus himself?”
“Abigail,” John warned, even as his mouth curved.
Her husband, her dearest friend, adored her biting remarks and wit, and their reunion at the end of last summer had not lessened his admiration for this particular talent of hers. Rather, he seemed to almost preen in it.
Who was she to continue the deprivation he had suffered while separated from her?
“Third,” Abigail continued, smirking in the way that she had seen fine French ladies do from the very moment she arrived, “I see no reason for an exceptional number of mirrors to be in the same space as an exceptional number of windows if the gatherings of court happen when daylight does not illuminate the space appropriately. It is a waste of resources, in my opinion.”
“Well, Abigail, should we ever find ourselves in a position to decorate a space like this one, I will defer to your taste and judgment on the resources of mirrors and windows,” John replied in a low, amused tone.
She only hummed in acknowledgment.
Their life in France these last four months had proven to be unlike anything Abigail had ever known.
Their house in Auteuil was grander than any place she had ever stayed in before, and she was expected to be mistress of it.
Servants seemed to appear from every nook and cranny.
She was barely allowed to lift her own teacup with the number of tasks they each were assigned.
It was a ridiculous way to live, but she had absolutely no say in the matter.
Or in any matters.
And then there was the trouble with the salary Congress had granted John, which was supposed to enable them to run a household as well as accomplish John’s tasks as an ambassador.
Yet the servants had to be paid, the house kept up, and somehow, they were also supposed to be seen at events and host their own as well.
It was simply not possible, though they were financially moderate.
They spent no evenings abroad, rarely attended spectacles, hosted few suppers, and avoided every possible unnecessary expense, and still they had to mind every single dollar as carefully as they had during the war.
John was supposed to convince the French that relationships with the newly formed America would be to their mutual benefit?
With what? Good intentions and frugality?
Absolutely ridiculous.
Abigail might not know how to live like a wealthy woman of standing or ever grow accustomed to a life of luxury, but it was nice to have others tend to the tasks she found unpleasant or menial.
And there was no possibility of her managing her hair or her dress alone when she was expected to adhere to the standards in French society.
She did not possess the skill, and the voluminous stylings of fabrics and pinnings required more than one set of hands.
The strangest thing of all was the lack of any actual activity in her day. Or in any sort of day for ladies of a certain station in France.
Which, apparently, she now was.
Station. What a ridiculous, outdated system.
She had never been so grateful for her life in America as she was now.
There were certainly those who had more money than others, and some who lived in unfortunate circumstances, but she had never seen the sort of divisions between those extremes as she did here in France.
The wealthy were extravagantly wealthy, the poor were shockingly poor, and those in between seemed to make the most noise of all.
Such a contentious bunch, the French.
Still, Abigail and John managed to host small gatherings at their home every week or so, mostly Americans who came to Paris, but also the occasional foreign minister or French gentleman.
They really had no choice if they wished to make a favorable impression as the official representatives from America.
But in Abigail’s estimation, the business of life in France was pleasure, from the throne to the footstool. Pleasure in dress, in food, in style. Pleasure however it could be attained, no matter the cost.
“It would appear, Abigail,” John murmured, “that the abundance of mirrors is required for the line of ambassadors preparing to preen.”
She gave her husband a curious look. “Is it?”
His steady arm never wavered in her hold as he gestured faintly forward.
Distracted by her thoughts of France and the ornate décor of the room, Abigail had missed the inordinately long line ahead of them filled with both couples and men without companions.
After all, not all wives traveled with their ambassador husbands, let alone had the chance to be presented at a foreign court.
At least everyone was dressed to the same frivolous extent as Abigail and John were, if not more so. Her exhausting efforts with the maids had not been in vain.
Praise be.
As she watched the people ahead of them, she noticed that John was correct: Each person seemed to be stealing glances at their own reflections and adjusting something or other about their appearance. Tilting a cravat. Adjusting a hairpin. Straightening posture. Lifting a chin.
Always something.
“Perhaps it is not only France that holds narcissists,” Abigail murmured in amusement.
John chortled softly. “Come, come, my dear, not all reflections speak to vanity. It could be insecurity. It could be nerves. It could be nothing more than curiosity.”
“Curiosity?” she repeated, letting disbelief shine through. “What can be so curious about viewing the same likeness one must bear with every single day of one’s life? Is it so altered by setting and apparel?”
“Why, yes, Abigail, sometimes it is.” John smiled at her in his usual teasing way, their banter and repartee a treasured habit between them.
“Tell me now that the quantity of these reflective surfaces and the inclination that our fellow creatures have in viewing themselves does not stir something within you to also gaze upon yourself. Some urge to do just as they are and see if the image in your mind matches the image in your eyes.”
Abigail gave him a practiced scoff, unwilling to admit that her husband was—unfortunately—correct. She did want to examine her reflection, and the abundance of reflective surfaces drew the eye with a Herculean pull. But the difference was that Abigail had more self-control than that.
She had seen herself before leaving the house, and that was sufficient. No need for dramatic indulgences just to match the company.
Their progress toward the royals at the front of the line was steady, no doubt due to the minimal small talk between visitors. It would seem that King Louis XVI and Queen Marie Antoinette had mastered the art of managing conversations on this level and with this many people.
That increased their value in Abigail’s eyes, for certain. Or their worth, perhaps. Value in France appeared to be a fickle thing.
Scanning the panorama of finery on display, Abigail found herself torn between two directions of thought. “Is it strange that I find all of this pageantry rather impressive and yet still am equally disgusted by the constant pomp and veneration of monarchs?”
“Strange, perhaps, but no less accurate,” John agreed in a low tone as their pilgrimage toward the king and queen continued.
“We, of all people, know full well that the monarchs of the world are only human and not divine, but that is not the prevailing thought of those who are still ruled by them. And seeing mere mortals so elevated and adorned cannot help but be impressive.”