A posy of Eleonoras – or how a portrait led to a LOT of reading!

If I hear the word mantua, I think of a garment that originally was some sort of female version of a male banyan – i.e. relax robe – successively became more and more complex, developing into the imposing 18^th century robe à la française before further developing into dresses like the one below, worn by Swedish queen Sofia Magdalena on her wedding day.

What I don’t think of when I hear mantua is a city—but yup, Mantua is a city—although I would usually refer to it as Mantova.

Why all this stuff about mantua/Mantua. Well, dear peeps, today we’re going to visit Mantua, if somewhat briefly. Why? Because today’s protagonists both came from Mantua. They were also both called Eleonora Gonzaga, they were both princesses of Mantua and both would become Holy Roman Empresses. Talk about keeping it in the family, hey?

Anyway: the reason for my interest in these two ladies is this portrait:

Only very rich parents had their babies immortalised in oils. And you had to be very, very rich to have Peter Paul Rubens doing the painting, so clearly the Duke of Mantua was not short of cash. In the above portrait Eleonora the elder is about two. She looks rather serious, doesn’t she? She was also of rather illustrious heritage, so illustrious in fact that Ferdinand II, Holy Emperor, stood as one of her godparents. Would cause a bit of an issue later on, that.

Eleonora Sr’s mother was Eleonora d’Medici, sister to the future queen of France, Maria d’Medici (She’s the grandmother of Louis XIV) One could say our baby Eleonora was born right into the most powerful European circles, and to ensure this young princess was adequately raised to her role as future consort (groom as yet undecided) she was educated by her paternal aunt, Margherita Gonzaga, Dowager Duchess of Ferrara and Modena. This rather impressive lady had retired to live in a nunnery—albeit she did not become a nun—so our young Eleonora grew up in a religious surrounding while also taught multiple languages, history and music. A rather well-rounded young woman, our Eleonora.

While Eleonora was being educated, daddy Vicenzo, Duke of Modena and Montferrat, was looking for a suitable husband for this his youngest daughter. A first contract fell through due to complicated pre-contract issues involving the groom’s family. A second proposal was refused as the groom expected a significant dowry—in land. And then Duke Vincenzo died in 1612, leaving his fourteen-year-old daughter as yet unclaimed.

Years passed. The Gonzaga family was busy with other things, principally a conflict with the Duke of Savoy who made claims on Montferrat. All a tad complicated: Savoy’s daughter had been married to Eleonora’s oldest brother and when he died, without male heirs, Eleonora’s next brother claimed the duchies, but the Duke of Savoy insisted on Montferrat being his—well, his daughter’s. Whatever the case, years passed before these matters were sorted, and there was our Eleonora, tapping her foot and wondering when someone would get round to finding her a hubby. Or maybe she was quietly thrilled at being allowed to continue pursuing her devout interests and her education.

However: in 1621, the Holy Roman Emperor himself, Ferdinand II, was in need of a new wife. Twenty years Eleonora’s senior, he’d been widowed some five years earlier, leaving him with four surviving children, the eldest of whom was thirteen or so. Ferdinand had a lot going on in 1621, what with the relatively recent Bohemian revolt in 1618 that had spiralled into a Protestant revolt that even managed to lay siege to Vienna for a while. Originally, Ferdinand II seems to have been willing to confirm the rights of the Bohemian Protestants, but he was rather miffed when they refused to choose him as king, electing Fredrick V of the Palatinate instead. Frederick and his English wife are known as the Winter King and Queen of Bohemia—their reign lasted a year or so—and were soon forced to flee for their lives from the Emperor’s armies.

In June of 1621, twenty-seven Bohemian Protestant leaders were executed in Prague. More than 450 Bohemian noblemen were attainted and exiled. The Bohemian population was forcibly converted to Catholicism, indicating Ferdinand II had lost his somewhat tolerant approach. Having concluded with all this—albeit he grumbled because he felt the trials had been too few, he’d have liked to see more executed, more exiled—in July of 1621 he sent envoys to Mantua to negotiate for Eleonora’s hand in marriage, having first arranged for a special dispensation as they were related within the prohibited degree, also spiritually, as he’d stood as her godfather twenty-three years earlier.

Eleonora became Ferdinand’s wife through a proxy marriage in November of 1621. In February of 1622, they were married “for real” in Innsbruck.

Their marriage seems to have been a happy one, even if it was to remain childless. Given that Ferdinand had sired many children with his first wife, one could conclude this was due to Eleonora. Alternatively, their union was not all that carnal—after all, Ferdinand II had his hands full with the Thirty Years’ War, with violently oppressing the Protestants within his empire (tens of thousands fled to avoid forced conversion)

When it came to religion, Eleonora was as hard-core as her hubby, a keen supporter of the Counter-Reformation. She founded monasteries and convents, she funded the construction of chapels and churches. She also made Vienna something of a magnet for music lovers, welcoming musicians from all over (assuming they were Catholics, I assume) to visit. There was opera, there was ballet. There was also a lot of hunting,  a pastime both Eleonora and Ferdinand enjoyed. She also spent a lot of time with her step-children who seem to have liked her.

Ferdinand died in 1637. His eldest son, Ferdinand III, was elected new emperor, and Eleonora retired to one of the convents she’d previously built. As the new emperor already had a wife, Maria Anna of Spain, Eleonora could retire from public life ASAP.

Her financial affairs were settled—she had to return much of the jewellery she’d received at her wedding to the royal treasury—and Eleonora seems to have continued corresponding regularly with her kin in Mantua. She was instrumental in arranging advantageous marriages for her Mantua kin, like when Duke Charles II of Mantua wed Archduchess  Isabella Clara. And in 1650, Duke Charles asked for her help in negotiating a union between his sister, Eleonora Jr, and the Holy Roman Emperor.

“Hang on,” some of you may say, “Wasn’t Ferdinand III already married?”

He most certainly was. But his first wife, Maria Anna of Spain, died in 1646. A year of contantly fleeing the Swedish army or the plague combined with a sixth pregnancy resulted in Maria Anna sickening and dying, as did the baby. Two years later, Ferdinand married a seventeen-year-old named Maria Leopoldine. She became pregnant more or less immediately, but was too die in childbed, presenting her husband with a son.

So, in 1650, the emperor definitely (?) needed a new wife, which was when his step-mother suggested he take a peek at her much younger and rather pretty namesake.

I give you Eleonora Gonzaga II, born in 1630, so approximately twenty-two years Ferdinand III’s junior. By all accounts, Ferdinand III was very happy with this his third wife. She accompanied him on his travels, shared his intellectual interests, loved music and dancing and was a cheerful, energetic character who soon had the entire Imperial family eating out of her hand. Her step-children all loved her—the future Leopold I was to consider her one of his most trusted and capable advisors. She gave Ferdinand four children of whom two died young—as did Ferdinand himself, passing in 1657 not quite fifty years old.

Eleonora was quite distressed. Even more so when her little son died some days later. Plus, a few years earlier, she’d lost her staunchest supporter in the Imperial court: her great aunt and namesake. So here she was, not even thirty and already a widow.

Not only was Eleonora young and potentially fecund. She was also immensely popular with her subjects, which may be why her brother-in-law, Leopold Wilhelm, tried to woo her, hoping that by marrying her he’d have a chance to be elected emperor.

“Elected?”

Ah, yes: formally, the Holy Roman Emperor was an elected office, whereby the seven electors (representatives of various German principalities) would vote for a candidate. So while Eleonoar’s young step-son, Leopold I, was the direct heir of Ferdinand III, another candidate could be elected instead. Especially if said candidate was also a Hapsburg and, in this case, a full-grown man rather than a youth.

Eleonora said “no, thank you.” She probably patted Leopold Wilhelm on the arm. “Besides, is this really what you want to do? Don’t you prefer spending time with me discussing art and music?” Leopold Wilhelm agreed that he did. “So let us both support dear, dear Leopold,” Eleonora suggested. Leopold Wilhelm retracted his candidature, Leopold became emperor and everyone lived happily ever after.

Well, maybe not Leopold’s first wife, Margarita Teresa of Spain who wed him at fifteen and died seven years later. One of those horribly incestuous marriages the Hapsburgs indulged in, Margarita’s mother, Mariana, being Leopold’s sister, while her father,Philip IV, was her mother’s uncle. Little Margarita seems not to have been overly affected by all this inbreeding, but it is probably for the best that of the four children she gave Leopold, only a daughter survived. Margarita died while pregnant for the seventh time…

Actually, Leopold’s second wife wasn’t all that happy either—it is hard to marry a man who mourned his Margarita. But Leopold had no choice: he needed a male heir. Despite his yearning for his first wife, Leopold and Claudia Felicitas had a good marriage—but short. She died three years later having given him two short-lived daughters.

Yet again, Leopold had to marry ASAP. As the only surviving make Hapsburg in the direct line (bar the unhappy Charles II in Spain) he had a duty to sire sons. This time, he married a young woman called…. Taa-daa!… Eleonora. More precisely, Eleonora Magdalene of Neuburg.

His step-mother was thrilled—she’d advocated young Eleonora Magdalene after Margarita died, not because of a common name, but because she believed her young namesake had all the qualities a good empress needed, principally a strong, unwavering Catholic faith and an excellent education. This our third Eleonora excelled at finance, at politics, at statesmanship—in between giving her husband ten—ten!—children, among which were two future emperors.

But long before Leopold gave up breath, thereby passing the staff to his son, his beloved stepmother, Eleonora Gonzaga II passed. Her last years were years of substantial turmoil, what with the plague epidemic afflicting Vienna in 1679, followed by the Turkish War that ended with the Battle of Vienna in 1683. Vienna survived, as did the Hapsburgs—and the Dowager Empress Eleopnora. But some years later, in 1686, Eleonora died, mourned by the man she loved like her own son.

I feel it is time to bring this rambling post to a halt—one Eleonora led to another Eleonora, passed to a third Eleonora. And all this because I found that rather engaging portrait of a little girl and just had to find out more about her!