Oh, and one more thing about Leopold and marriage: prepare yourself for both farce and tragedy when it comes to the actual wedding. MT had the idea of letting it happen not in Vienna, but in Innsbruck, capital of Tyrolia. This was because it had meaning for the House of Lorraine (Franz Stefan's granddad had been in exile there when Louis XIV had invaded and temporarily occupied Lorraine, and his father had been born there before everyone returned to Lorraine) and for her and Franz (they'd spent part of their honeymoon there). So, romantic, right?
Except that Leopold got a stomach flu and couldn't get rid of it all the way from Vienna to Innsbruck. He spent his wedding literally trying not to shit himself. Everyone disliked the commissioned opera (not by Mozart, don't worry). It started to rain, which drenched the fireworks. It was hell.
And then, once the wedding day was finally over (Imperial weddings took eons), the news arrived that Joseph's first father-in-law, Isabella's father the Duke of Parma, had died. Cue necessity for the Imperial family to get their mourning suits out. So much for the farce part, but it gets worse.
Still the same week, it's now Sunday, everyone prays for Isabella's late Dad at mass. Franz Stefan isn't feeling so well. He couldn't sleep the previous night. MT suggests a bi tof blood letting since she's worried. He declines and says to get one with the (still related to the week long Leopold wedding festivities) shows; he watches a comedy by Goldoni and a Ballet by Gluck, and is on the way upstairs together with Joseph and some courtiers when he has a stroke. Joseph catches him in time and prevents him from falling; they get him on a servant's bed in the antechamber and call doctors and priests. But he's dead not even ten minutes later.
Now bear in mind that for us, a quick death is something enviable. For a Catholic monarch in the 18th century, it's horrible. It means they haven't had time to confess, get shriven, face their maker. This is not a good death. It means purgatory, and might mean hell. Which is why MT, who has heard exclamations and much uproar, naturally is on her way to her husband but kept away from him on Joseph's orders. By no means is she to know Franzl had a stroke and died unprepared. She's lied to that he's just feeling bad again, the doctors are taking care of it. Joseph tells her (some of) the truth later, after he's pressured the priest to say there were some signs of life left when he arrived so he could provide the last unction for Franz Stephan and FS died shriven. So by the time MT gets told by Joseph that her husband is gone, and she can see him, he's been dead for hours.
And MT never, ever, gets over it. Even ten years later, she writes to a confidant: "I spend the years, the months, the weeks, the days in the same stupor, the same bitterness as with the first day, and often I am glad the days that pass are over so I'm one day closer to my ending. (...) I know myself no more, for I live like an animal, without a soul and reason. I forget things. I get up at five, I go to bed late, and I'm not doing anything that truly counts. I do not even think."
These quotes are from a letter written in French to a former lady in waiting. After her death, people found handwritten notes in her prayer book, these in German and with excentric spelling (no capital letters) and a litany of numbers: "emperor franciscus my husband has lived 56 years eight months ten days, has died on August 18th 1765 on half bast ten in the evenig. Has lived 680 months, 2958 weeks, 20778 days, 496992 hours. My happy marriage lasted 29 years, six months, six days, and at the same hour I gave him my hand, also on a Sunday, he was taken from me. In sum 29 years, 335 months, 1540 weeks, 10781 days, 258744 hours."
(This, like Joseph's letter about his daughter, breaks my heart.)
Re: The Ballad of Isabella and Maria Christina
Except that Leopold got a stomach flu and couldn't get rid of it all the way from Vienna to Innsbruck. He spent his wedding literally trying not to shit himself. Everyone disliked the commissioned opera (not by Mozart, don't worry). It started to rain, which drenched the fireworks. It was hell.
And then, once the wedding day was finally over (Imperial weddings took eons), the news arrived that Joseph's first father-in-law, Isabella's father the Duke of Parma, had died. Cue necessity for the Imperial family to get their mourning suits out. So much for the farce part, but it gets worse.
Still the same week, it's now Sunday, everyone prays for Isabella's late Dad at mass. Franz Stefan isn't feeling so well. He couldn't sleep the previous night. MT suggests a bi tof blood letting since she's worried. He declines and says to get one with the (still related to the week long Leopold wedding festivities) shows; he watches a comedy by Goldoni and a Ballet by Gluck, and is on the way upstairs together with Joseph and some courtiers when he has a stroke. Joseph catches him in time and prevents him from falling; they get him on a servant's bed in the antechamber and call doctors and priests. But he's dead not even ten minutes later.
Now bear in mind that for us, a quick death is something enviable. For a Catholic monarch in the 18th century, it's horrible. It means they haven't had time to confess, get shriven, face their maker. This is not a good death. It means purgatory, and might mean hell. Which is why MT, who has heard exclamations and much uproar, naturally is on her way to her husband but kept away from him on Joseph's orders. By no means is she to know Franzl had a stroke and died unprepared. She's lied to that he's just feeling bad again, the doctors are taking care of it. Joseph tells her (some of) the truth later, after he's pressured the priest to say there were some signs of life left when he arrived so he could provide the last unction for Franz Stephan and FS died shriven. So by the time MT gets told by Joseph that her husband is gone, and she can see him, he's been dead for hours.
And MT never, ever, gets over it. Even ten years later, she writes to a confidant: "I spend the years, the months, the weeks, the days in the same stupor, the same bitterness as with the first day, and often I am glad the days that pass are over so I'm one day closer to my ending. (...) I know myself no more, for I live like an animal, without a soul and reason. I forget things. I get up at five, I go to bed late, and I'm not doing anything that truly counts. I do not even think."
These quotes are from a letter written in French to a former lady in waiting. After her death, people found handwritten notes in her prayer book, these in German and with excentric spelling (no capital letters) and a litany of numbers: "emperor franciscus my husband has lived 56 years eight months ten days, has died on August 18th 1765 on half bast ten in the evenig. Has lived 680 months, 2958 weeks, 20778 days, 496992 hours. My happy marriage lasted 29 years, six months, six days, and at the same hour I gave him my hand, also on a Sunday, he was taken from me. In sum 29 years, 335 months, 1540 weeks, 10781 days, 258744 hours."
(This, like Joseph's letter about his daughter, breaks my heart.)