On a dark night in June 1804, in a city that was never her home, Maria Amalia lay dying. The woman they once called “la Mata,” the madwoman, had been reduced to a frail figure who could barely rise from her bed. Her left hand had been paralyzed since spring. She was fifty-eight years old, far from the small Italian duchy where she had spent thirty-three years of her life, far from the forests of Sala where she had once ridden freely, far from everything she had loved and lost.

In her hands she held a rosary and a small cross, brought with her from Parma—the land she had never wanted to go to as a young woman, and which had become the only home she ever knew. She had been born on February 26, 1746, in Vienna, the daughter of Empress Maria Theresa and Emperor Francis I. She was an archduchess of Austria, a daughter of the most powerful ruling house in Europe. But being the emperor’s daughter meant her life was never truly her own.

Others decided whom she would marry. In the end, though, it was in Parma that she began to live her own life. They called her “la Mata”—the madwoman. In the end, she lost her sister, her homeland, and two of her children.

This is her story. When Maria Amalia was young, she did something remarkable for a princess of her station: she fell in love. The object of her affection was Prince Karl August of Palatinate-Zweibrücken, a man of minor German nobility. But Maria Theresa had already chosen someone else for her daughter: Ferdinand of Bourbon, the young Duke of Parma and Piacenza.

Maria Amalia resisted this decision. She protested, she refused to accept the marriage. But her mother insisted. Maria Amalia was twenty-three years old; Ferdinand was only eighteen.

On June 27, 1769, their wedding was celebrated in Vienna. The groom was the only one absent. The marriage was conducted by proxy—Ferdinand was not even present. A few weeks later, Maria Amalia was forced to leave Vienna, her family, her previous life, and even the man she had once loved.

Her destination was Parma. On August 24, she arrived at her new home. The young duchess was received with joyful celebrations. On the surface, her new life began in splendor.

But the marriage got off to a difficult start. It is said that Ferdinand was unable to consummate the marriage for three months. Even his grandfather, King Louis XV of France, tried to advise the young duke by letter. For Maria Amalia, this was the beginning of a life full of contradictions.

In public, she was the famous duchess. Inside the palace, she lived with a man she did not love. They could hardly have been more different. Ferdinand was reserved and devout, while Maria Amalia was moody, proud, and impulsive.

Until then, others had decided her fate. But in Parma, Maria Amalia wanted to decide for herself how to live. And that is where the problems began. In Parma, Maria Amalia began to take control of her own life.

She did not take the strict court rules seriously. She adored music, festivals, and spectacles—but above all, she adored hunting. She also paid little attention to the formal distance expected in dealings with others. She maintained an unusually friendly relationship with the servants and even with members of the ducal guard.

This provoked outrage in the courts of Europe. In Parma, however, she won broad sympathy. She was generous to the poor. It is said that during a smallpox epidemic, she personally visited the sick, despite the risk of infection.

At some point, she earned a striking nickname: “la Mata,” the madwoman. Maria Amalia particularly enjoyed spending time at the Palazzo di Paganza. While Ferdinand often resided in Colorno, she could ride and hunt there. There she felt at ease, there she thrived, and there she found what she had long missed: freedom.

But Maria Amalia went further. She wanted a say in how Parma was governed. In doing so, she collided with the powerful minister Guillaume du Tillot. When Ferdinand lost his support in France, Maria Amalia seized the opportunity.

In September 1771, du Tillot was suspended and lost his position. Maria Amalia had won. But what happened in Parma did not go unnoticed in Vienna. Maria Theresa received reports about her daughter—her spending, her behavior, her interference in matters of government.

In 1772, the empress responded. She sent twenty-three officers to her daughter in Parma. Their task was to keep an eye on her. Maria Amalia was to spend more time with Ferdinand.

She was to live a more frugal life, to respect the ministers, and above all: to stay out of government affairs. Maria Amalia was twenty-six years old. She was a duchess, and her mother was still trying to control her, to dictate how she should live. But Vienna was far away.

Maria Amalia did not submit. There was a small prayer book. Even before the birth of her first child, Maria Amalia had given it to her unborn son. In 1772, Ludwig was born.

Maria Amalia became a mother. She later supervised his upbringing with great attention. Her children mattered to her. Ludwig, in particular, remained close to her.

Her relationship with her mother, however, remained difficult. Maria Amalia defied Maria Theresa, and yet her mother’s recognition was not unimportant to her. In 1778, she had portraits painted of her four eldest children. On a table in the painting lies a letter dedicated to Maria Theresa, the children’s grandmother.

Perhaps it was an attempt to rebuild a bridge to Vienna. But they did not have much time. In 1780, Maria Theresa died. A real reconciliation never happened.

Maria Amalia remained close, however, to her two younger sisters, Maria Carolina and Marie Antoinette. The three women lived in different European courts. Letters, portraits, and gifts kept them connected. Then the French Revolution broke out, and the danger became immediate.

In Paris lived Maria Amalia’s youngest sister, Marie Antoinette. In 1791, she tried to flee with Louis XVI, but the attempt failed. From Parma, Maria Amalia could only watch what was happening. In a surviving letter, she thanked the Swedish King Gustav III for his help to the French royal family.

At the same time, she criticized Louis XVI for not acting decisively enough. Then came 1793. In January, Louis XVI was executed. Her sister, Marie Antoinette, was still alive.

Maria Amalia feared for her sister and hoped for a happy ending for her. Nine months later, that hope was also destroyed. On October 16, 1793, Marie Antoinette was executed. Maria Amalia’s younger sister was dead.

Accounts say Maria Amalia fainted upon hearing the news. We do not know if this is true, but what is certain is that her sister’s death shook her deeply. For years, letters had been the link between them; now they were cut off. The revolution had taken the life of Maria Amalia’s sister, and a few years later, the revolution reached Parma.

In 1796, Napoleon marched with his army into Italy. Maria Amalia and Ferdinand tried to keep Parma out of the war, but in vain. French troops entered, and Maria Amalia and Ferdinand were placed under surveillance in the palace of Colorno. Once, Maria Amalia had ridden through the forests of Sala, where she found her freedom.

Now she was under watch in her own palace, and once again, others controlled her life. The rebel had become a prisoner. She wrote to Vienna, begging her nephew, the emperor, for help. She waited, but no help came.

In one of her letters, she described her situation herself: she felt like a prisoner in a cage she had built herself. After Napoleon’s victory at Marengo in 1800, Parma finally fell under French control. On October 9, 1802, Ferdinand died—the man Maria Amalia had never chosen for herself. Their marriage had begun with difficulty.

They were often apart, and yet thirty-three years had passed between them: children, quarrels, and a shared life in Parma. On his deathbed, Ferdinand entrusted the government to his wife once more—but only for thirteen days. Then it was all over. Maria Amalia had to leave.

She was fifty-six years old, and they forced her out of Parma. After Ferdinand’s funeral, Maria Amalia departed with her daughters and a few servants. Behind her lay the places where her children had grown up, and her husband’s grave. A touching phrase is attributed to Maria Amalia about this farewell: she left her little duchy with the same sadness with which she had arrived in it.

This idea almost exactly describes her fate. After leaving Parma, Maria Amalia wished to return to Vienna, the city where her life had begun. But she could not return there either. Her nephew, Emperor Francis II, did not allow her to settle permanently in Vienna.

After a stay in Venice, Maria Amalia continued her journey. In December 1802, she arrived in Prague—another foreign city. But Maria Amalia did not isolate herself. She supported the needy and donated to charitable institutions.

In early 1803, she traveled to Dresden. Her eldest daughter, Carolina, lived there. It was their last meeting. Maria Amalia had already lost several of her children at an early age.

But now, within a few months, she lost two of her adult children. In 1803, her son Ludwig died of an epileptic seizure. He was only thirty years old. Ludwig—the son to whom Maria Amalia had given a small prayer book even before his birth.

Now she had to bury her son. Only a few months later came the next news: the death of Carolina. The daughter Maria Amalia had visited only the previous year died in March 1804, after the birth of her eighth child. She was thirty-three years old.

Within a few months, Maria Amalia lost two of her children. Marie Antoinette had died. Ferdinand had died. She had lost Parma.

And now Ludwig and Carolina as well. Then Maria Amalia’s own strength began to fail. By the spring of 1804, her left hand was paralyzed. Soon she could barely get out of bed.

Once she had ridden through the forests of Sala on horseback; now she could no longer stand. Her two sisters, Maria Elisabeth and Maria Carolina, set out for Prague, but they arrived too late. On the night of June 18, 1804, Maria Amalia died at the age of fifty-eight. She was buried in a simple brown dress, with a rosary in one hand and a cross in the other.

She had brought it with her from Parma—the land she had never wanted to go to in her youth. She lived there for thirty-three years. Her children were born there. There she hunted, celebrated, and rebelled against the rules.

Then she was forced to leave. Now Maria Amalia lay dead far from Parma, but something of her lost homeland remained with her, and she held on to it until the very last moment.