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  • Maria Theresa’s EnlightenmentThe Habsburgs, Generational Challenge, and Religious Indifference

A recurring debate in enlightenment studies is the relationship between ideas and socio-political change. In his 1972 essay on the European enlightenment, Franco Venturi argues for research methods that ground the enlightenment, as a movement, in particular historical contexts with the goal of illuminating what it all “meant.”1 Scholars like Venturi investigate enlightenment coalescence, namely the ideas and the historical realities that cohered the increasingly self-aware cadre of writers, philosophers, statesmen, and others around particular notions of tolerance, reason, progress, and individual or national edification. By contrast, the cri de coeur of anti-enlightenment—of those who perceived their world to be under attack—emphasized the manifold dangers and terrible consequences of these new ideas. The struggle over whether to perceive intellectual ferment as hopeful evidence of progress and renewal or a threat to the stability of all that was good in the world played out not only among writers but also within influential households. In eighteenth-century royal families, intergenerational struggles could be and sometimes were grafted to the new language of the enlightenment, thereby setting up new locations for enlightenment ideas and for the passionate pushback against them.2

The eighteenth-century Habsburgs had their fair share of drama between couples, as well as among parents and children. The conflicts in Habsburg [End Page 69] relationships reveal the ways in which familial struggles shaped and were in turn shaped by political and intellectual change. Empress Maria Theresa, who embraced an ideology of both beneficent government and fecundity, has a mixed reputation. While her sons Joseph and Leopold are invariably styled as enlightened monarchs, or at least as enlightened absolutists, historians have at times placed Maria Theresa on both sides—sometimes portraying her as a conservative and, at other times, as an (accidental) enlightenment reformer. Both views have ample evidence to support them. Maria Theresa rejected ideas that she thought posed a threat to power, patrimony, and salvation. She pursued reform for the good of the state, but she viewed some of the intellectual challenges of the eighteenth century—religious toleration and new social principles among them—as fundamentally corrosive of individual and social morality. At times, she loathed and feared the “acrid ferment of enlightenment” and defended her intolerance of religious plurality, but she did so out of the deepest of religious and political convictions that evinced her love of her people and dynasty.3

Maria Theresa’s impact on the Austrian state was profound, but, with a few exceptions, she resisted using the grand canvass of the Habsburg realm as a political laboratory of the enlightenment. In the last decade of her life, her desire to address the miseries of the Habsburg peasantry, and her repugnance for and dread of warfare were tied to her disquiet over her own (and others’) salvation. In the first years of her reign, however, war had been the only way to protect her patrimony and have a chance to regain the territory of which she had been robbed. But, by the late 1760s, after the enormous cost of the Seven Years’ War and herself a widow, she began to see in war only the potential for loss (both territorial and human). She perceived her legacy partly as the dynasty itself, in both personal and political terms. It was within the family that she sought to shape political identities and control ideas, and it was within the context of imperial mothering that she expressed a religiously-informed political worldview that was, at the same time, a throwback to baroque culture and vibrantly new. She understood that a renewed Habsburg realm, which included the Austrian Netherlands, Central Europe, and the Italian peninsula, could influence events and people to create a more just world, but it should not be a secular world. In her mind, the empire would not thrive if it was unmoored from its critical anchors in dynastic power and Catholic hegemony, and she lamented the new statecraft of rulers like Frederick II who drew energy from secular enlightenment principles.

It is worth reflecting on the intersection between the personal and the political in the relationships of an imperial mother and her marriageable children. We can find in Maria Theresa’s marriage strategies, marriage essays, and correspondence with her family a hint of her broader political and [End Page 70] religious understanding within the intellectual variability of the eighteenth century. While there has been a significant amount of scholarship on Joseph, Leopold, and particularly Marie Antoinette, less attention has been paid to Maria Theresa’s other children. An examination of Maria Theresa’s relationship with her daughters in the Italian states provides a fuller picture of the Empress’s concepts of state, gender, religion, and enlightenment.

Maria Theresa’s marriage strategy unfolded primarily in the 1750s in the context of the diplomatic revolution that saw the French, Spanish, and Austrian Catholic monarchs of Europe united in dissatisfaction about the political and religious status quo. Whatever their many confrontations and differences, by the middle of the century, the Bourbons and Habsburgs were united in what they saw as the problematic power of the British and the Prussians, the similarly unwelcome secular reach of the papacy and the Jesuits, and the potential of the Italian states to right the territorial balance sheet among the dynasties. For Maria Theresa, the loss of Silesia was not the only unacceptable outcome in the War of the Austrian Succession. Although her writings suggest that she did not have a particular affinity for southern living during her brief sojourn in Tuscany, she had, according to M.S. Anderson, a sentimental attachment to her Italian possessions. The territorial losses that Maria Theresa sustained in Italy in 1743 were not more palatable by the end of the war, but war weariness and economic problems in the late 1740s forced Maria Theresa to make the concessions over her Italian territories that she had long resisted.4 This did not, however, mean that she dismissed the possibility of exercising more influence or once again increasing the Habsburg presence on the peninsula, nor that she was reconciled to any of her losses. She deeply resented what she perceived as British treachery in the peace negotiations that had lost her Parma, and, although her erstwhile British allies believed she turned to Italy only as a last resort, Maria Theresa continued to focus on all that was stolen from her.5

If war was unsuccessful, marriage held out the hope that these territorial prospects might still yield gains. Maria Theresa saw the advantageous marriage of her children as a way to reclaim Naples, which had been lost in the midst of her father’s frantic efforts to secure her position in the 1730s, and which she had failed to take by force of arms or persuasion in the 1740s.6 Maria Theresa’s attitude toward the Italian states was shaped by the political expediencies of the diplomatic revolution and by the desire to fold parts of the Italian peninsula into the Habsburg imperial project, thereby extending the reach of the dynasty beyond Lombardy. She continued to have a strong sense of entitlement regarding the importance of the Habsburg presence on the peninsula: it was central to her understanding of her patrimony. Her concerns about Lombardy and the hope of increased Habsburg influence [End Page 71] in Italy served to drive a wedge between Maria Theresa and the papacy. Reform, rethinking alliances, and marriage strategy became various ways to address her profound dissatisfaction with the current state of peace and to prepare for new conflict.

Maria Theresa was joined in bitter disappointment at mid-century by the Spanish, the Sardinians, and, ironically, even the French. In 1751, the Neapolitan ambassador in Vienna presented the possibility of a double marriage contract that would link her son Joseph with Charles VII’s eldest daughter, and Charles’s son with one of Maria Theresa’s daughters. By the middle of the 1750s, Maria Theresa also considered a potential third marital contract between Naples and the imperial dynasty.7 The connection with the Bourbons via Naples was Maria Theresa’s attempt to achieve “complete security, at least on one side” and to put together the military and financial building blocks of an alliance necessary to engage the Prussians once more.8 By the late 1750s and 1760s, Maria Theresa’s marriage strategy was therefore shaped by the desire to use the power of formal connections hammered out between states, but even more so, the informal ties of sentiment at various courts to propel continued support for alliance and war to increase the Habsburg presence on the Italian peninsula. She was motivated by dreams of territorial redress in Italy and continued bitterness over the Prussian control in Silesia, and she was willing to use whatever means she had at her disposal to keep soldiers in the field. Her military required French assistance, and Maria Theresa hoped that French support and the broader connection to the Bourbon family compact could be maintained through royal marriage. The stakes involved not only the possibility of regaining Silesia but also the potential rethinking of the borders of the empire and the possibility of territorial expansion without war. Marriage contracts encouraged these hopes, and her increased, explicit distaste for war as a tool of politics in the 1760s and 1770s made marriage even more important. In her plans, she replicated what Habsburgs and other ruling families had long pursued, namely political connections and control through family ties.

But the Italian peninsula was not a blank canvas, neither, of course, from the perspective of the Italians nor from the perspective of the Habsburg children placed there through marriage or appointment, and who subsequently failed at various moments to see family interests in the same way as their mother in Vienna. If Maria Theresa’s marriage strategy was intended to solidify the Austrian-Bourbon alliance and shape events in the peninsula, its success was dependent on more than money and military maneuvers, and it required the personal commitment of her children. The dangers of relying on them in this way became painfully clear. Maria Theresa’s efforts were often frustrated when the personalities, political choices, and, in some [End Page 72] cases, outright rebellion of her children undermined her vision of Habsburg power. Maria Theresa sought at times to stem the tide of undesired change; however, a new generation of rulers (including, at times, her own children) had been raised to see power, religion, and statecraft in different terms and was unwilling to heed her warnings.

This is not to suggest that she did not care about her children or that she saw them simply as pawns in a political game. During her last decades, she was often distraught at the political and social burdens that the dynastic demands had placed on her progeny. The burden of power, the responsibility of children to parents (and children to the state), the moral imperative of religious practices, the weight of personal experience, and profound affection complicated the relationships Maria Theresa had with her children. Undoubtedly, she had more affection for some and was saddened (or enraged) by the behavior of others, but she was as quick to declare her love as she was to criticize them when they failed to meet her expectations. Certainly few of them escaped the cloud of her recurring disappointment. As Maria Theresa embarked on her fourth decade in power, she was deeply anxious about what she believed to be her children’s encroaching secularism. Their lack of commitment to religious ritual, reported to the Empress through her many servants and agents abroad, highlighted for her the dangers of a new world that embraced inquiry rather than certainty.

Maria Theresa’s criticism of the potential effects of enlightened rule was most explicit in her relationship with her two oldest sons.9 For example, Peter Leopold was originally betrothed to Maria Beatrice d’Este, a union that held the potential for a large, relatively unified territory extending from Lombardy and under Habsburg-Lorraine control. However, the diplomatic fracas during the negotiations for his elder brother Joseph’s Parma marriage, combined with the death of Leopold’s other brother Charles in 1761, disrupted Habsburg expectations. Maria Theresa consequently agreed to marry Leopold to Maria Luisa of Spain and invest him in Tuscany as a secondogeniture, which she acknowledged would never be held directly by any Austrian sovereign. Tuscany became, from Maria Theresa’s perspective, quasi sovereign, and her hopes of tying its interests to her own depended on cultivating the relationship she had with Leopold. Maria Theresa often held up Leopold as a model for his younger brothers and sisters, but his relationship with Vienna was not always easy, and his position meant his enlightened policies in Tuscany were relatively shielded from maternal interference.

Naples and Parma required different tactics from the Empress’ perspective. Both had long been targets of Habsburg interest and had endured significant political upheavals through shifting ruling houses and contested local politics. [End Page 73] Naples, a “juridically independent kingdom,” had been ruled by the Austrians during Maria Theresa’s youth but conquered by Charles of Bourbon in the 1730s.10 Marriage would, in theory, give Maria Theresa what war in the 1740s had denied her, namely the return of Naples to Austria, if in an indirect form. In the context of marriage negotiations, Spain established its second son in Naples and contracted to never absorb the territory under direct Spanish control, just as the Austrians had done in Tuscany. Maria Theresa held steadfast to the Naples connection even when the players changed after the tragic deaths of her daughters. Thea Leitner notes that the first two girls, Johanna and Josepha, escaped their fate in death, but the third, Maria Carolina, had to bear it to the bitter end.11 The death of Josepha right before her wedding to King Ferdinand of Naples left her younger sister very little time to prepare to take her sister’s place. Carolina, often in trouble with Maria Theresa for her behavior, was wretched at the prospect of a marriage connection that seemed cursed. She hoped her mother would reconsider the match, but Maria Theresa vehemently denied Carolina’s desire to postpone (or reject) the Neapolitan nuptials.

Parma too had both personal and dynastic significance. Austrian control in Parma had come in the flurry of international disagreements during the Polish war of succession and had been lost in the subsequent conflict over Maria Theresa’s succession. Maria Theresa continued to claim the title of Duchess of Parma, Piacenza, and Guastalla, despite the loss of the duchies in the 1740s. Parma was so important to her because its geographical position would help ensure the success of her plan to secure the Austrian position on the Italian peninsula. Again, marriage was the primary tool by which Maria Theresa hoped to acquire it. The initial connection was forged by Joseph’s first, tragically short, marriage to Isabella of Parma. However, by the 1760s, the Parma connection was complicated by religious politics, and the duchy became a focal point for the Bourbons’ increasingly explicit articulation of state sovereign authority over the church. The Jesuits were expelled from the Duchy in February 1768 to which the Vatican responded by excommunicating Duke Ferdinand. The struggle between the Bourbons and the Jesuits was connected to enlightenment politicking in Italy and Spain, but Maria Theresa long resisted moving in any way against either the papacy or the Jesuit order. The connection with the Bourbons encouraged Maria Theresa to see the interdiction in Parma as the beginning of the papal counter-attack against sovereign political authority, but she did not base her response on new or enlightenment principles, and she was troubled by the political machinations of the Italian states.12

If resistance to Jesuit or papal power or the perceived threat to secular political authority were problematic, Maria Theresa primarily sought to [End Page 74] sidestep these issues in Parma. She requested and received a dispensation from the newly installed pope, Clement XIV, to allow her daughter Maria Amalia to marry the excommunicated Duke.13 Maria Theresa hoped that the marriage would be the means to make more tangible, if indirect, claims to the title that she continued to make.14 Moreover, from Maria Theresa’s perspective, her daughter Amalia’s marriage, like Carolina’s, was an opportunity to counterbalance the Bourbon presence in Italy, while remaining true to the alliances Vienna had formed with the Spanish and French courts.15 If, that is, Amalia herself remained in the Habsburg orbit.

In fact, married unwillingly in July 1769 to a man five years her junior, Amalia subsequently became the poster child for maternal influence gone awry. Both Amalia and Carolina (as well as Marie Antoinette) are interesting tests of the power or limits of royal marriage connections in an age of political reform and revolution. The formal connections on paper in the marriage negotiations worked, but the political connections forged through marriage could only be truly of use to Maria Theresa if the children remained loyal to Austrian interests and influence. Riding roughshod over the feelings of children in matters of matrimony sometimes complicated what were already challenging familial relationships. Maria Theresa’s hopes that these marriages might form a new core of Habsburg authority foundered additionally on political and social realities that were partly, though not entirely, of her daughters’ making. Maria Theresa recognized the dangers herself, seeing the imbalance in the abilities of Carolina and Amalia vis-à-vis their husbands: these men were massively outmatched by the political abilities of their wives.

The empress desired to shape her children’s spiritual, intellectual, and political identities and practices for their own good as well as to serve the interests of the Austrian state. Though her ability to do so from a significant distance was stymied, her instructions remain a clear expression of her conclusions about the shifts in politics and religious practices that she found deeply disturbing. In her marriage instructions to her daughters, Maria Theresa repeatedly described the happiness of marriage and the well-being of the state as mutually constitutive. She advised them to succumb to the men they married, regardless of the husbands’ objective qualities or lack thereof, and to find a way to bind themselves in sympathy to their spouses. The empress warned that it was critical that they not show their husbands that they knew themselves to be superior. She also urged them to leave their husbands alone as little as possible so they had a greater chance of becoming indispensable confidants. She persisted in seeing the potential for social and political instability in the gap of indifference that could open up between king and queen or duke and duchess—a gap that was created by absence.16 [End Page 75]

Maria Theresa’s instructions did not encompass the possibility of mutual loathing and/or repulsion, and she assumed that practicing self-restraint and mimicking affection were adequate stand-ins for real sentiment and would yield the same political and emotional benefits. When Carolina wrote home after her marriage, “I freely admit that I would rather die than to have to experience again what I have lived through,” Maria Theresa replied that every beginning was difficult and that if things were not to Carolina’s liking, either it was up to her to embrace or to shift her husband’s inclinations and habits.17 The epistolary treatises that Maria Theresa offered to her daughters were, in fact, exemplary statements of a method of exerting female power behind the throne, but the success of her advice largely depended on their commitment to self-abnegation. The best hope of influencing king, duke, and court lay in her daughters becoming socially and psychologically irreplaceable to their husbands. She argued that the disgust, awkwardness, or boredom that they experienced by being omnipresent in the beginning would be a small price to pay for the tranquility they would enjoy the rest of their lives as powerful confidantes who, she implied, exercised influence over their husbands.18 Maria Theresa’s marriage advice explicitly rejected any notion of a new place for women in marriage. Her arguments consistently made clear that her daughters should not seek a usurpation of the power and position of their spouses. The self-restraint, control, and manipulation that she recommended were supposed to be the tools at their disposal, and they were to intervene in politics only when they were asked or if they could be useful. Even the clause in Carolina’s marriage contract that gave her the right to enter the council was a wedge that she could use only conditionally after her essential connection to the kingdom had been forged by providing a male heir.

While both daughters were embittered by the marriage choices Maria Theresa made for them, the empress insisted that happiness in marriage, in power, and in one’s soul were all bound together. She worried constantly that a secular, tolerant world would bring ruin on multiple levels. As she described to Carolina, “[w]ithout religion, there is no morality, and without morality there is neither happiness nor tranquility in any state, least of all in marriage ….”19 The emphasis on religious practices that Maria Theresa hammered home in her correspondence was the other part of her marriage strategy; namely, her hope that her children’s modeling of good Catholicism in their married lives would stand against the broader trends of secularization that she saw everywhere. She believed that the pious behavior of royals engendered similar behavior in others and that it ensured sovereign authority as well as marital happiness and salvation. Maria Theresa was anxious that her married children’s religious sensibilities had been infected by the skepticism and indifference that she saw prevalent in so many of her contemporaries’ [End Page 76] lives. In her correspondence, Maria Theresa emphasized that they needed to pray sincerely, submit to God’s will, engage fervently in church services, and to be thoughtful during sermons; in essence, they should commit to her vision of what a Catholic prince had to do in order to survive and thrive. Her frustration inevitably increased when she confronted her inability to bend the children to this vision once they had left her immediate control.

Maria Theresa’s religious strictures were matched by her dismissal of the value of new thinking. Writing to her son Ferdinand, newly married and acting as her representative in Lombardy, she celebrated his being a good Christian, father, husband, and son. She emphasized that only these achievements were essential for happiness and that “all of the titles that are fashionable at this time—heroes, the savant, the philosophe—are invented only for pride, to cover weakness, because … they want to seem like something.”20 The loss of religion, which Maria Theresa feared in her own family and condemned in society at large, was, she thought, the result of a century gone awry, and she worried about the malicious consequences that would follow this erosion of religious commitment and moral purity. In her correspondence with family and friends, she made it clear that she believed the loss of deep religious sentiment struck at the heart of what held Austrian, indeed European, society together. From the most intimate social connections to the relations among states, she was embittered in her last years by how irreligious and dishonorable the world appeared. Military aggression, the loss of royal prestige, graft, theft, and scandal were all the result of “misery and too little religion.”21

Maria Theresa had reason to worry about her children’s positions. The rumors and official reports that came north to Vienna, particularly regarding the reputations and political activities of Carolina, Amalia, and Ferdinand, frequently angered their mother; she had cautioned them repeatedly about the social and political dangers of poor judgment and what she perceived to be reprehensible behavior. Both Carolina and Amalia, unimpressed by their spouses, carved out spectacular spheres of political power independent of their mother and husbands. Amalia’s complete rejection of her mother’s advice, deep resentment at the marriage, and subsequent political career (or tragedy, as her mother termed it) led to a complete break between the two. In May 1772, as Maria Theresa described to her son Ferdinand her distress at what she termed Amalia’s “excesses,” she told him that all correspondence between the family and Amalia was prohibited. She bemoaned her own suffering at watching her daughter run, as she thought, headlong into disaster, with no chance to help her.22 What constituted disaster for Maria Theresa included not only the loss of Amalia’s soul but also the connections that alliance and marriage had built. With Amalia, Maria Theresa’s personal [End Page 77] and political interests collided. Despite the many ways the two were alike, mother and daughter clashed over far more than just marriage. As much as Maria Theresa wanted to see Habsburg influence flourish in the Italian states, Amalia (and Carolina’s) positions gave them not the right to rule, but only the duty to serve the men God had placed in power. For her daughters to engage aggressively and openly in a political sphere for which they were not intended was for Maria Theresa an unnatural subversion of God’s will. This was, in essence, one of her most profound grievances with Amalia in particular. Her daughters ought not, in fact, to model their behavior on their mother because Maria Theresa’s claim to power was quite different. She held a scepter in her own hand by God’s grace, a position quite different than the consort status her marriage policies had created for her daughters.23

Unhappy royal (or commoner) marriages and poor personality matches were not new historical phenomena, but the eighteenth-century celebration of the power of family and marital sentiment reveals the way that concepts of marriage were in flux. Maria Theresa famously grieved when she contemplated her daughter Josepha’s expectations of happiness in Naples. She recognized all the advantages the connection would bring but admitted that her “mother’s heart is utterly disturbed. I see poor Josepha as a sacrifice of politics.”24 That she wrote in these terms is startling, but she continued to insist that it was possible to shape happiness through an act of individual will. Here, too, religious and political experience was critical. Maria Theresa continued to see intellectual, social, and cultural departures as perilous rather than liberating, condemning in the process an “enlightened century” that failed by “pushing everything to excess.”25 Informality, irreverence, disrespect, and sarcastic wit were threats to civilization and constituted further evidence that the century’s alarming innovations corroded the values that she held most dear.

Maria Theresa’s fears for the future did not end with her children. The pervasive sense of having lost control of what she believed to be the true Christian center of the Habsburg world, in terms of both her children’s beliefs and habits, and the creeping secularism that characterized public and intellectual life in the latter decades of the century, informed her impassioned recommendations for her grandchildren as well. She recognized the dangers of a new political and intellectual culture from the Catholic perspective, but part of her still hoped the trend could be reversed if the next generation would reinvigorate and internalize Catholic practices of prayer and piety.26 One cannot help but wonder whether she would have been inclined to offer a wretched “I told you so” if she had lived to see her other daughter’s experience in Paris. [End Page 78]

Rita Krueger

Rita Krueger is Associate Professor of History at Temple University. She is the author of Czech, German, and Noble: Status and National Identity in Habsburg Bohemia (2009), and she co-edited, with Ivo Cerman and Susan Reynolds, The Enlightenment in Bohemia: Religion, Morality, and Multiculturalism (2011). Her current project is a biography of Empress Maria Theresa. She will be a Faculty Fellow at the Center for the Humanities at Temple University during 2016–2017.

NOTES

1. Franco Venturi, Italy and the Enlightenment: Studies in a Cosmopolitan Century (New York Univ. Press, 1972), 1–3.

2. Based on Venturi, the theme of a generational Enlightenment was raised by Rebecca Messbarger at the 2015 ASECS conference.

3. Venturi, Italy and the Enlightenment, 7.

4. M.S. Anderson, The War of the Austrian Succession, 1740–1748 (New York: Longman, 1995), 98.

5. Thea Leitner, Habsburgs Verkaufte Töchter (Munich: Piper, 2009), 189.

6. Anderson, Austrian Succession, 196.

7. Johann Joseph Khevenhüller-Metsch, Aus der Zeit Maria Theresias. Tagebuch des Fürsten Johann Joseph Khevenhüller-Metsch, 7 vols. (Vienna: Holzhausen, 1911), 4: fn 36, 201.

8. Franz Herre, Maria Theresia: Die große Habsburgerin (Munich: Piper, 2004), 273.

9. There is insufficient space here to describe the complicated relationship between Joseph and his mother. For a detailed account, see Derek Beales, Joseph II. In the Shadow of Maria Theresa, 1741–1780 (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1987).

10. John Robertson, “The Enlightenment Above National Context: Political Economy in Eighteenth-Century Scotland and Naples,” The Historical Journal, 40 (1997): 674.

11. Leitner, Habsburgs Verkaufte Töchter, 189.

12. H.M. Scott, “Religion and Realpolitik: The Duc de Choiseul, the Bourbon Family Compact, and the Attack on the Society of Jesus, 1758–1775,” The International History Review 25 (2003): 56.

13. F.A.J. Szabo, Kaunitz and Enlightened Absolutism, 1753–1780 (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1994), 233.

14. Herre, Maria Theresia, 326.

15. Arsenio Frugoni, ed. Maria Teresa d’Austria: Consigli Matrimoniali all Figlie Sovrane (Florence: Felice le Monnier, 1947), 118.

16. See Arsenio Frugoni, ed. Maria Teresa d’Austria: Consigli Matrimoniali all Figlie Sovrane (Florence: Felice le Monnier, 1947) and the volumes of letters Briefe der Kaiserin Maria Theresia an Ihre Kinder und Freunde, ed. Alfred von Arneth, 4 vols. (Vienna: Braumüller, 1881).

17. Herre, Maria Theresia, 324.

18. See, for example, vol. 3 of Alfred von Arneth, ed. Briefe der Kaiserin Maria Theresia an Ihre Kinder und Freunde, 4 vols. (Vienna: Braumüller, 1881).

19. Maria Theresa to Caroline, from Briefe der Kaiserin Maria Theresia an ihre Kinder ind Freunde, vol. 3, ed. Alfred von Arneth (Vienna: Braumüller, 1881), 36. The letter to Caroline is undated, but the volume editor places it as early 1768.

20. To Ferdinand, Alfred von Arneth, ed. Briefe der Kaiserin Maria Theresia an Ihre Kinder und Freunde, 4 vols. (Vienna: Braumüller, 1881), 1:102. [End Page 79]

21. To Ferdinand, Arneth, Briefe, 1:159.

22. To Ferdinand, Arneth, Briefe, 1: 122.

23. Herre, Maria Theresia, 324–325.

24. Leitner, Habsburgs Verkaufte Töchter, 190.

25. To Maria Beatrice, Arneth, Briefe, 3: 280.

26. To Maria Beatrice, Arneth, Briefe, 3: 360. [End Page 80]

Additional Information

ISSN
1938-6133
Print ISSN
0360-2370
Pages
69-80
Launched on MUSE
2017-01-21
Open Access
No
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