On the morning of the sixth of September, Francis sent for the commander of the National Guard, and after expressing his thanks for their loyal support, repeated the comforting assurance that the troops had received strict orders to protect the capital. He had prepared a list of those of his court whom he wished to accompany him to Gaeta; but when the time came to leave, the royal master of the horse, Count Michaëlo Imperiale, was the only member of the royal household present. The King was so touched by his devotion that he presented him on the spot with the Grand Cross of the Order of San Fernando.
About four o’clock in the afternoon the ministers repaired in a body to the palace to take leave of their sovereign, whose hand they were to kiss for the last time under his own roof. Francis tried hard to control himself, speaking kindly to all, and tenderly embracing his two most devoted friends, Torella and Spinelli. But the number present was pitifully small. Those who had received the most favor at the hands of their sovereigns were as usual the first to desert them. Nor were there any special manifestations of regret and sympathy among the populace at the departure of the King and Queen, which was regarded merely as a measure for assuring the safety of the city, while Garibaldi’s approach was anticipated with mingled hope and fear.
About half-past six Francis and Maria Sophia left the palace on foot, he in uniform as usual, she in an ordinary travelling dress and large straw hat trimmed with flowers. Accompanied by several ladies and gentlemen of the court, they walked through the palace gardens and down the long flight of steps that led to the arsenal, the Queen leaning on her husband’s arm, gay and cheerful as ever in spite of the ominous cloud that shadowed their departure. Below them lay the Gulf of Naples, smooth and bright as silver; but in the distance the bare, sombre peak of Vesuvius rose like a menace amid the smiling beauty of nature. The firemen of the ship in which the royal party was to embark had had to be kept on board by force, and some advised the King to place himself under the protection of some foreign flag, or to escape from the city secretly. Undecided, as usual, Francis knew neither what he could do, nor what he ought to do; but the captain of the vessel, who was thoroughly loyal, finally persuaded him to go on board, urging that it would be beneath the King’s dignity to flee from his capital like a criminal.
Only one Italian vessel accompanied the King, but with it were two Spanish warships carrying the Austrian, Prussian, and Spanish ambassadors. The journey was most depressing. It had been decided upon so suddenly that no one thought of taking such ordinary things as food or even the few necessaries that would have made them comfortable. It was a wonderfully beautiful night, and the Queen sat on deck until ten o’clock, when it grew cold. Worn out with the fatigues and excitement of the last twenty-four hours, she went into the little deck cabin and lay down on a sofa. The King did not go to bed at all. Except for a few words now and then with the Captain, he spent the night silently pacing up and down the deck, watching the shores of Naples gradually fade from view, and thinking, who knows what?
About two o’clock he asked whether the Queen had retired, and when told she was still asleep in the little cabin he went in and stood for a long time gazing down at her. Then removing his own cloak he gently spread it over her to protect her from the chill of the night air, and returned to his silent watch. Early the next morning they entered the harbor of Gaeta, and were met at the landing by Maria Theresa and her children with Father Borelli, her confessor. Francis had consulted this priest some months before as to the advisability of granting his subjects a more liberal form of government, and Father Borelli had merely echoed the views of the deceased King, declaring that such a course would only hasten a revolution, and warning him against it.
“I believe you are right,” Francis answered, “but fear it will be impossible for me to follow your advice.”
“Then Your Majesty may perhaps remember this day as the last on which I shall kiss the hand of a King of Naples,” returned the priest.
This conversation now recurred to them both, as Borelli came forward to greet the King, kissing his hand again and again with tears in his eyes.
“Father,” said Francis, with a melancholy smile, “do you remember what you said to me on St. John’s Day at Portici?”
“Ah, Your Majesty,” replied Borelli, “even though you should no longer be a King on earth, you may yet become a saint in heaven.”
* * * * * * * *
Francis and Maria Sophia had no sooner left the capital than a deputation was sent out to welcome the liberator, while the former minister of foreign affairs prepared an address to Garibaldi, declaring that Naples was waiting with impatience to greet him as the deliverer of Italy, and lay the fate of the kingdom in his hands. They did not have long to wait. The popular hero hastened his advance, and arrived so quickly that there was barely time to prepare for his reception. There was little sleep that night in Naples, and the first rays of the morning sun found the whole city astir. The principal thoroughfares were thronged with men, most of them armed, for fear of a reactionary movement. Windows, balconies, even the roofs of houses were crowded with spectators. Everything conspired to surround Garibaldi and his men with a halo of romance. Their picturesque garb, rapid conquests, and fiery proclamations appealed to the imagination of the hot-blooded southerners and roused them to wildest enthusiasm. Guards had been placed at all the exits of the railway station, where a large number of prominent citizens had assembled to welcome the hero. Presently a bell was heard, and a train drew in. A great shout arose; but it was found to contain only a band of foreign mercenaries who had recently joined the victorious party. At noon another bell sounded, and Garibaldi’s approach was signalled. The train stopped. Thousands of voices joined in the shout of “Long live Garibaldi!” as two men in red shirts appeared. They were embraced with such vehemence by the excited Neapolitans that one of them, who was taken for Garibaldi, barely escaped alive. The great man himself had gone out by another door, however, and when this was discovered there was a general stampede to find him. This time they were successful.
Garibaldi’s entry into Naples was as brilliant and spectacular as the rightful sovereign’s departure had been quiet and unnoticed. A huge national flag had been unfurled, bearing the arms of the house of Savoy, with the white horse of Naples and the lion of Venice; and Garibaldi kissed this with tears rolling down his cheeks, declaring, “Soon we shall all be united brethren!” while many of the spectators also wept. He and a few of his companions then entered the open carriages that were waiting to convey him to the city. Eight thousand of the royal troops had been left in the citadel and a few outposts to maintain order; but they had received no orders to resist the revolutionists, and even had such been the case, it is doubtful if they would have obeyed, so carried away were they by the tide of popular enthusiasm, as, amid deafening cheers, the waving of hundreds of tri-colored banners and showers of blossoms from every window, Garibaldi entered in triumph the gayly decorated city, while even the skies seemed to share the joy of the people and smile upon the liberator of “La Bella Napoli.”
He refused to occupy the royal palace which had been so lately vacated by the sovereigns, but drove on to a smaller one, generally used for the accommodation of foreign princes, where he took up his quarters. Vast crowds surged about the building, shouting for the Dictator, till at length one of the revolutionists appeared on a balcony, then another, and finally the hero himself. Again a storm of cheers broke forth, and, unable to make himself heard above the uproar, he leaned over the iron railing and gazed down at the throng below. His usually ruddy face was pale with emotion, and wore a look of sadness curiously in contrast to the feverish joy of his admirers; but there was a gleam in his eye that betrayed the fires that glowed within. He lifted his hand to command silence, then began in tones so clear and distinct that not a syllable escaped the ear:
“Neapolitans! This is a solemn and memorable day. After long years of oppression under the yoke of tyranny, you are to-day a free people. I thank you in the name of all Italy. You have completed a great work, not only for your countrymen but for all mankind, whose rights you have upheld. Long live freedom! the dearer to Italy, since she, of all nations, has suffered the most. Long live Italy!”
The shout was taken up by thousands of throats and, their “Viva Italia!” could have been heard from one end of the city to the other.
That afternoon Garibaldi visited the cathedral and was greeted with even greater enthusiasm than in the morning. At night every house was illuminated, and a torch-light procession paraded through the principal streets, which were filled with excited throngs rushing about, every man with a flag in one hand and a sword or a knife in the other, shouting and embracing one another for joy. Garibaldi was the idol of the hour, and Naples was his completely.
But here and there were still a few who remained loyal to the reigning family and were anxious as to their fate. Francis, in his haste, had neglected to remove his private fortune of eleven million ducats—the dowry Queen Maria Christina had brought with her from Sardinia—from the Bank of Naples where it was kept. When Garibaldi learned this he sent for the man to whom the receipt had been entrusted, an officer of the royal household named Rispoli, and forced him to give up the document, which, afterward, he handed over to the new government.
Poor Rispoli, who was devoted to his master, was so overcome at being deprived of his trust that he was stricken with apoplexy and died the following day.
It is probable that Francis at the time of his departure from Naples had no definite ideas as to how far he should offer resistance to the course of events. His friends urged him to wait quietly till the first wave of enthusiasm had passed, hoping he might then return to the throne as a member of an Italian confederation. From Gaeta he went with his brothers to Capua, where their presence did much to restore unity among the royal troops and revive their sinking courage, and where he was speedily joined by all who had anything to gain by adhering to the Bourbon cause or were too deeply compromised to venture to remain in Naples under the new regime. A much more valuable addition to the King’s forces, however, was a large number of volunteers from southern Germany, who had hastened to the aid of their fair countrywoman, and to whose valor it was largely owing that they were able to hold out so long.
The arsenal and other stores in Naples had fallen into the hands of the enemy; but after Francis had collected and organized his troops beyond the Volturno, he found himself with fifty thousand well provisioned and equipped men at his command. Fired now for the first time with true martial spirit, he determined to cut his way through Garibaldi’s forces to Naples, where, he was assured by secret agents, the fickle populace would welcome him back with open arms. On the first of October, at daybreak, accordingly, the attack was begun; but the royal troops were defeated and driven back across the Volturno, the gates of Capua being thrown open at five o’clock that afternoon to admit the fugitives.
Victor Emanuel had already determined to take a hand in affairs, although Naples had voted unanimously for the annexation of the Two Sicilies to an “Italia una,” and was by this time well on his way thither to assist in the reorganization of this new portion of his domains. The news of his approach spread terror and despair among the King’s forces; but Francis and his generals decided to await the enemy in a strong position on the further bank of the Garigliano, where on the twenty-eighth of October they were fortunate enough to repel an attack. But the advantage was a brief one. Capua soon had to be abandoned and, led by Victor Emanuel himself, the Piedmontese crossed the Garigliano, forcing the Neapolitans to retire within the shelter of Gaeta.
This town, often called from its location the Gibraltar of Italy, is one of the most strongly fortified places on the peninsula, and has played a prominent part in the wars of southern Italy. The Bay of Gaeta not only compares well with the gulf of Naples in beauty, but as a harbor is even better adapted to commerce, being both larger and deeper. The town is situated some sixteen miles from Naples, ten from Capua, three from the boundaries of what were then the Papal States, and seventeen from Rome; forming with San Germano and Capua a trio of defences capable of offering a long and stout resistance.
Gaeta at this time had a population of about fifteen thousand. It was a gay and picturesque little town, irregularly but not unattractively built, with well-paved if somewhat steep and narrow streets. Tradition points to a neighboring grove as the spot where Cicero was murdered by Antony’s orders; and between the citadel and the shore are some ruins called by the people the tower of Roland, where a friend of the Emperor Augustus was buried. The town and the citadel are situated on two rocky heights, separated by a steep cleft, the greater part of the town occupying the southernmost of these, while on the northern and much the larger one, rises the citadel with its fortifications. Both are practically inaccessible from the sea, while the west side of the neck of land, that connects the mainland with the outer point, also falls away steeply. Small villages line the shore; and still farther to the south, where the coast recedes so deeply that the bay lies between it and Gaeta, is the town of Mola, where the Piedmontese established their headquarters. It would seem that Victor Emanuel’s generals, made over-confident by the easy victories they had met with thus far in the Kingdom of Naples, scarcely looked for any serious resistance here.
But supported by a French fleet which protected the coast, by the presence of a well equipped and disciplined army, and above all by his heroic wife, Francis had at length determined to hold out in spite of everything. In the citadel, besides the King and Queen, were Maria Theresa with her five sons and four daughters, the youngest of whom was not yet three years old; the King’s two uncles, the Prince of Capua and the Count of Trapani; a few faithful friends who had followed their sovereign, and all the diplomatic corps, with the exception of the English and French ambassadors, who had received explicit orders from their Governments to remain in Naples to report what was passing there. All communication between Francis and the Emperor Napoleon, therefore, had to be carried on through the French admiral.
In spite of their recent experiences, the royal family did not seem to realize at first the seriousness of the situation. Gaeta had a garrison of twenty-one thousand men, and the citadel was well supplied with ammunition, while provisions for the army could easily be obtained from the Papal States, through the ports of Terracina and Civita Vecchia. The Count of Trapani was in nominal command, but the real leader of the defence was General Bosco. At the time of his surrender to Garibaldi in Sicily, this able officer had sworn not to take up arms for six months; but this period had now elapsed, and his return inspired the royal family with hope and confidence.
On the thirteenth of November, 1860, the bombardment of Gaeta was begun by the Piedmontese, whose fire was vigorously returned from the citadel. A week later the dowager Queen retired to Rome with her younger children, and on the same day the diplomats took their departure, all except the Spanish ambassador, Bermudez de Castro, who was a personal friend of the King. Even the Archbishop of Gaeta deserted the sinking ship, though his place should have been now, more than ever, with his flock. Francis tried to persuade Maria Sophia to leave him, and go to her home in Bavaria while it was yet possible, but she absolutely refused. More closely drawn to her husband in this time of danger than ever before, she announced her firm intention of remaining with him to the last, even though abandoned by all the world.
Europe had held but a poor opinion of Francis the Second during his short reign. His weakness and cowardice had been openly criticised; while in Naples itself he had been variously nicknamed “Bombino,” “Franciscillo,” and “Il Re Imbecile.” But in misfortune all his better qualities came to the surface. At Gaeta, no longer distracted by conflicting counsels, he became firmer and more manly, while his readiness to sacrifice all personal feeling to what he believed to be his duty, and his generosity toward those who should have been his foes, could not but command respect. For example, two Piedmontese merchantmen took refuge in the harbor of Gaeta one terribly stormy night; but instead of seizing them and their cargoes, as would have been his right, he permitted them to leave the bay the next morning, unmolested. He was constantly visiting the outworks, inspecting the work, and doing his best to keep up the courage of his men, in which he was bravely assisted by his two elder half-brothers; but the Queen surpassed them all in courage, scorning every danger and discomfort and looking death calmly in the face. Every day and often at night she visited the hospitals, carrying food, medicines, and fruit, doing all she could to relieve the sufferers, and shrinking from no wound, however terrible. Once during the illness of one of the Sisters of Mercy, Maria Sophia took her place as nurse, and though shells were falling so thick about the hospital tent that her life was in constant danger, she refused to leave her post. The soldiers were always rejoiced to see her and would follow her about with their eyes in the most adoring way. They gloried in their beautiful, spirited young Queen, dashing about on her horse from one to another of the hastily improvised hospitals that were set up on the different batteries.
The Piedmontese noticed that at the sound of a certain bell there always seemed to be some commotion in the citadel of the besieged city, and curious to know the meaning of it, some officers in one of the nearest outposts fixed their field-glasses on the fortress at that particular time. Much to their surprise they discovered a young woman in the Calabrian costume, moving about among the guns and encouraging the artillerymen, quite regardless of the storm of shells that was falling about her. It was Maria Sophia, making her daily visit to the so-called “Queen’s Battery” to watch the firing from there, and a striking picture she made in her long cloak and Calabrian hat, gay and smiling as ever, glorying apparently in danger, and careless of her own fate.
It had been agreed that a black flag should be hoisted while the Queen was making her rounds among the wounded, and the sign was at first respected by the enemy, but Maria Sophia herself paid no attention to it as she rode calmly about her business even in those fortifications exposed to the heaviest fire. One day a bomb fell so close to her feet that she would certainly have been torn to pieces had not an officer seized her in his arms and swung her behind a projecting wall. Another day, while standing in one of the window embrasures in the citadel, talking with the Spanish ambassador, a shell burst so near that the window panes were shattered and the Queen’s face was cut by the flying glass. But she only laughed, saying, “It is unkind of the enemy to leave me nowhere in peace. They have just driven me from one place, and now will not let me stay here, either.”
“Ah, but you have had your wish granted, madame,” replied the Ambassador, “you wanted to see a ball as close as possible.”
“Yes, and I also wished for a slight wound,” added the Queen gayly.
* * * * * * * *
From Gaeta Francis had issued another proclamation to his subjects, protesting against the new order of things, and avowing his good faith toward them and the constitution he had granted them, in spite of all that had happened; but though widely distributed, it was powerless to stem the current of events. As we have seen, the King had lost many opportunities of securing an advantage at the beginning of the war. By retreating to Gaeta he was placed in the curious position, for a commander, of having cut himself off from two-thirds of his army. He had given orders for the majority of these to slip away across the Roman borders, hoping they might be reassembled later, to form the nucleus for an uprising in the Abruzzo Mountains. Reports, however, of the terrible treatment received by prisoners at the hands of the Piedmontese so alarmed the soldiers that they made no attempt to escape till it was too late, and the few that did reach Roman territory were promptly disarmed. The French fleet, lying in the Bay of Gaeta, had proved of inestimable value in protecting the city from attack by sea. The friendly attitude of the Admiral also made it possible for the King’s friends to furnish him with provisions, while the supply ships carried many of the Neapolitan troops away from Gaeta, landing them at Civita Vecchia and Terracina. In this way the garrison was reduced to fifteen thousand men; but even so, the food supply soon began to fall short.
As early as the twenty-second of November, a journalist wrote in his diary that provisions of all kinds had doubled in price, and the situation grew worse and worse as time went on. Rice, beans, even bread, were almost impossible to obtain, and macaroni and potatoes were sold for thrice their usual value. Fish and meat were to be had only by the officers in small quantities and of the poorest quality. Then an epidemic of typhus fever broke out, which soon filled every bed in the hospitals. The King and Queen did all in their power to obtain nourishing food for the sick and wounded, sending fish and other delicacies procured for their own table to the Sisters of Mercy to be distributed in the hospitals.
The siege of Gaeta lasted from the thirteenth of November, 1860, to the thirteenth of February, 1861, a space of three months. With the new year it was pushed with redoubled vigor. Both town and citadel were exposed to incessant fire, and the noise was so deafening that people had to scream to make themselves heard. Not a single building remained intact. Many lives were lost by exploding shells or falling houses, and the whole place presented a scene of utter destruction. The Piedmontese have been accused of sparing neither church nor hospital, and the sick and wounded, as well as their nurses, were exposed to the same dangers as the rest of the inhabitants. The Red Cross Society was not in existence at that time; but the terrible experiences of the wounded in the wars of northern Italy the preceding year led to the formation of that association three years later.
The enemy’s fire now began to be directed chiefly against the citadel where the royal family were known to reside, and the officers begged the King and Queen to move to a place of greater safety. One of the casemates of an adjoining battery was accordingly prepared for their occupancy, and here in this small damp vault they lived for the remainder of the siege, with the princes, the few members of the court who had remained loyal, and some of the officers. The casemate was divided by thin wooden partitions into a number of small chambers, each containing a bed, one chair, and a small table. The narrow passage connecting these cells was always crowded with people waiting to speak to the officers and servants who had long since laid aside all badges of royal service.
A low door led to the square chamber occupied by the Queen, which was furnished in addition with a couch and aprie-dieu; a small recess adjoining having been made into a dressing-room. As a protection against shells or flying missiles, a heavy oak beam had been placed diagonally across the tiny window overlooking the street; a precaution which made the room so dark a light had to be kept burning day and night. The little air that penetrated to the cell was thick with smoke and tainted with foul odors, while the ceaseless thunder of cannon directly above must have made it a far from pleasant place of residence. Yet from this gloomy vault Maria Sophia wrote her parents not to worry about her, for under the circumstances she was doing very well. She bore all these dangers and hardships with the same cheerful courage she had shown from the first, tending the wounded, inspiring the soldiers by her presence among them in the smoke of battle—the soul, in short, of the defence, and a splendid example of bravery and fortitude. Through the efforts of the French admiral, a ten days’ truce was arranged, and the Neapolitans hastened to take advantage of it to procure a supply of provisions from Terracina and to strengthen their batteries, while the officers tried to encourage the garrison by reports of speedy assistance from without. On the sixteenth of January the sound of guns was heard again; but this time it was not those of the besieging army, but of the French fleet which had not yet left the harbor, although the Emperor Napoleon had notified Francis that it would be impossible for him to continue the neutrality he had hitherto maintained. Decorated from deck to mast-head with flags, the foreign squadron was saluting the King in honor of his twenty-fifth birthday, the last he was ever to spend within the boundaries of his kingdom.
Three days later the truce was declared at an end, and in the beleaguered city all eyes were fixed anxiously upon the fleet. Although there were rumors in the air of its departure, the people still hoped they might be false as so many others had proved. About two o’clock, however, smoke was seen rising from one of the vessels, and it was soon evident that the whole squadron was getting up steam. One after another lifted anchor and began to move; and an hour later the huge flagship,La Bretagne, glided majestically past the lighthouse on the outermost point of the harbor, leaving the last of the Italian Bourbons to his fate. With the French fleet, vanished the last hope of rescue; and from this time until the end of the siege, nearly a month later, Gaeta was completely cut off from the rest of the world, and surrounded on all sides by the enemy. With the increase of famine and sickness the situation grew daily worse. Help from without could no longer be looked for, and rumors of treachery began to be heard among the troops. The barracks were damp, the hospitals overflowing, and they were tired of a struggle that could have but one end. The King and his brothers worked bravely to keep up the courage of the garrison, and the Queen was untiring in her efforts to relieve the sick and suffering; but even they had lost hope.
All correspondence between Napoleon and King Francis had ceased on the twelfth of December, but about the middle of January a vessel arrived from France bringing a confidential letter from the Empress Eugénie to Maria Sophia. In it she declared frankly and without circumlocution that it would be as well to abandon the defence of Gaeta which had cost so many lives, since it would be quite useless to look for aid from any European power—the latter sentence underlined.
This left no room for misunderstanding. At last the King realized that his cause was lost—that all his wife’s splendid energy and the loyalty of his troops had been wasted in a hopeless struggle. On the twenty-seventh of January he received a letter from Napoleon informing him that the French corvette,La Movette, had been prepared for the accommodation of Their Majesties in case of the surrender of Gaeta, and would remain in the Bay of Naples awaiting their orders. The town was now only a smoking heap of ruins. The explosion of powder magazines had caused even greater destruction than the enemy’s guns, and the casemate in which the royal family had taken refuge might be destroyed at any moment should the siege be continued. The garrison was reduced to twelve thousand men with over twelve hundred in the various hospitals, most of them victims of the epidemic of typhus which had proved so fatal. Among those who had succumbed already to the disease were four of the King’s generals and the priest, Father Borelli, who had remained in Gaeta to minister to the sick and wounded.
Francis hesitated no longer, but sent a message to the Piedmontese commander-in-chief requesting an armistice to arrange articles of capitulation. The terms were as follows: the garrison should retain their military honors, but remain prisoners until the surrender of Messina and the citadel Del Tronto. When this had taken place, both officers and men were to receive full pay with the choice of entering the Piedmontese army or returning to their homes, all who were honorably discharged to be pensioned. The King and Queen, with the rest of the royal family, were to be permitted to embark on the French vessel which had been placed at their disposal, with as many persons as they wished to take with them in their suite.
The capitulation was signed on the thirteenth of February, and the next morning at eight o’clockLa Movetteentered the Bay of Gaeta. The troops were already drawn up in long lines, extending from the casemate occupied by the King and Queen to the landing; their tattered clothes and wasted forms bearing witness to these last terrible months. Misfortune had formed a close bond between the survivors of the siege, and as the soldiers presented arms to their sovereigns for the last time, their cheeks were wet with tears.
An eyewitness of the departure of Francis the Second and Maria Sophia from Gaeta has described the touching scene. The King was in uniform, with sword and spurs, the Queen wearing the round Calabrian hat shown in the photograph taken of her at that time. The deposed monarch was deadly pale, and as gaunt as any of his soldiers. “As for the Queen,” declared this observer, “I could not see how she looked, my eyes were so blinded with tears.”
The people had gathered in crowds, every face showing traces of the suffering they had undergone; but all seemed to forget their own troubles in the misfortunes of their sovereigns. When the King and Queen appeared, their emotion burst all bounds. Many wept aloud as they pressed forward to kiss the hand of the Queen with far greater warmth and enthusiasm than was shown by the people of Bari when they greeted her arrival as a bride on the shores of Italy, two years before. Only two short years, and yet how much had been crowded into them! And how different that day from this!
Francis had already issued a parting proclamation to his troops, thanking them in touching terms for their devotion to him and to the honor of the army; and asLa Movette, flying the banner of the Bourbons, glided slowly out of the harbor, a unanimous and deafening shout of “Evviva il Re!” was their last farewell to the exiled sovereign. The French on the corvette welcomed their guests with royal honors, the officers in full uniform and the sailors lined up on deck to receive them. With the King and Queen were the Counts of Trani and Caserta and three of the Neapolitan generals. During the journey from Gaeta to Terracina, Francis and his brothers showed the greatest calmness, conversing cheerfully with their suite, and the French officers could not refrain from expressing their admiration at the King’s dignified acceptance of his fate. Maria Sophia had remained alone on the after deck, leaning over the railing, her eyes fixed on the cliffs of Gaeta. The smiling landscape seemed an irony of her mood. A gloomy sky would have been more suited to the thoughts that filled her bosom. She remembered with what noble aims she had come to this new land, what fine resolutions to share in all works for promoting the welfare of the people over whom she had been called to rule—and what had been the result? Even her labors at Gaeta had been in vain.
AsLa Movettepassed the battery “Santa Maria,” a royal salute was fired, and soon after the corvette rounded the point and Gaeta was lost to sight. The crew hauled down the Bourbon lilies and hoisted the French tri-color—Maria Sophia was no longer a Queen. She turned away with a chill at her heart. The deck was empty and a cold wind had suddenly arisen, banishing the warmth of the sunshine and sending a shiver through her from head to foot.
The news of the fall of Gaeta was hailed with joy by the fickle Neapolitans, who seized the occasion as a welcome excuse for more parades and festivities, with dancing and singing from morning till night. The day after the departure of Francis and Maria Sophia, the garrison evacuated the town. Officers and soldiers laid down their arms before the walls of the citadel, and the fortifications were occupied by the Piedmontese. Soon after, the citadel Del Tronto opened its gates to Victor Emanuel’s troops, and with the surrender of Messina on the first of March, the Bourbon lilies disappeared from southern Italy.
On the fifteenth of February, the exiles landed at Terracina, heavy at heart, and were escorted by a company of French dragoons to Rome, where they took up their residence in the Palazzo Farnese as guests of Pope Pius the Ninth. Maria Sophia was not a devout Catholic like her husband. She had not wished to go to Rome, and found no comfort in the Holy Father’s friendship. The dowager Queen was also living in Rome with her children, and the close companionship into which the exiles were thus forced by circumstances did not tend to improve the relations between the ex-Queen and her mother-in-law.
In times of trouble we naturally turn to our kin for sympathy, and Maria Sophia was seized with desperate longing for her mother and her Bavarian home. Early in April, therefore, she set out for Possenhofen, accompanied by General Bosco. The two years she had spent in Naples had been far from happy. She returned a queen without a crown, deprived of all save honor. But the familiar scenes and faces, and above all the comfort of pouring out her heart to the strong, noble mother, who had suffered so much herself, restored her courage, and she soon became her cheerful, lively self once more, her eyes sparkling with animation, full of spirit and energy.
The young Queen’s heroic behavior during the defence of Gaeta had taken Europe by storm. Her praises were on every tongue, and the beauty, the courage, the warm-heartedness of the “Heroine of Gaeta” were lauded in prose and verse. She was deluged with tokens of admiration and sympathy, among which were a gold laurel wreath from the princesses of Germany and a sword of honor from the women of Paris. The dowager Queen, Maria Theresa, had not yet given up hope that she and her children might return to Naples. Since Francis the Second had proved himself incapable of maintaining his place on Ferdinand’s throne, she was more determined than ever that her own eldest son should occupy it; and in order to prevent any opposition on the part of the Wittelsbach and Hapsburg families, she succeeded in arranging a marriage between the Count of Trani and Maria Sophia’s sister Mathilde soon after the arrival of the exiles in Rome, neither of the young people’s wishes in the matter having been consulted in the least. Maria Sophia returned to Rome after a month’s stay with her parents, and in May the bridegroom went to Munich to meet his unknown bride. This prince was far more attractive than his stepbrother in outward appearance, having a frank, winning manner and the utmost propriety of behavior. The wedding was put off for a month, that the young people might become better acquainted, the Count accompanying the ducal family to Possenhofen, where he occupied a neighboring villa on Starnberg Lake.
On the sixth of June, 1861, the ceremony took place in the ducal palace at Munich, and the next morning the newly married pair set out on their wedding journey, escorted as far as Zürich by the bride’s parents and sisters. At Marseilles a Spanish warship was waiting to convey them to Civita Vecchia, where they were warmly welcomed by the ex-King and Queen of Naples, who accompanied them back to Rome.
Immediately after the fall of Gaeta, Francis had despatched a letter to the Emperor Napoleon, thanking him for the friendly interest he had shown and expressing his appreciation of the courteous treatment he and his wife had received from the officers ofLa Movette. As yet the exiled sovereign scarcely knew how his position was regarded by the European powers; Victor Emanuel had already assumed the title of King of Italy, and this moved Francis to issue a circular urging them to discountenance any pretensions on the part of the King of Sardinia.
It is doubtful whether he had at first any idea of continuing the struggle, but he had no sooner arrived in Rome than he became the centre of a counter revolution planned by the Legitimist and Papist party, the object of which was to make Naples again an absolute monarchy, this being regarded as the surest safeguard of the Pope’s temporal power in Rome. The dowager Queen contributed a large share of her property to aid this undertaking, and Francis himself gave all he could spare of the little he had been able to retain of his private fortune. But all in vain. The attempt was unsuccessful and the Bourbon cause in Italy hopelessly lost.
Maria Sophia took no part in these efforts to recover the lost crown. She had no confidence in her husband’s ability and strongly disapproved of her mother-in-law’s intrigues. As Queen of the Two Sicilies she had boldly put aside everything that interfered with her personal liberty; but under these changed conditions and the protection of the papal power she had no longer the right to assert her independence or resent the elder woman’s jealous opposition. The monotony and inactivity to which she was doomed in Rome were torture to her energetic spirit, and she became nervous and irritable. By way of retaliation and diversion she resorted to all sorts of tricks and foolish pranks, which enraged her mother-in-law and were little becoming a queen on whom the eyes of Europe had been so recently fixed with admiration and respect.
But this unnatural life had much more serious results also. Meeting, as she constantly did, men far more clever and attractive than the ex-King of Naples, it was not strange that the latter should have suffered in comparison, although, had he shown his love for her in the early days of their married life, she might still have preferred him to others. Her husband’s apparent coldness, however, had chilled the warmth of her impulsive nature and turned her affections back upon herself. With such a temperament and capacity for love, these pent-up emotions could not fail to find an outlet sooner or later. A Belgian officer won her heart; and Maria Sophia, full of life and ardor, forgot her dignity as Queen, remembering only that she was young, a woman desperately craving affection, alone in a dull, joyless court, where the life was intolerable to her.
Less than a year after the heroic defence of Gaeta it was said that the ex-Queen of Naples was suffering from a disease of the lungs, and much alarm was felt for her health. Early in the Summer she left Rome, accompanied by the Count and Countess of Trani, and went to Possenhofen, where the family was once more reunited. Fate had not dealt kindly with the Wittelsbach sisters. It was no secret that the Empress of Austria’s happiness was wrecked and her health deranged, and Hélène of Thurn and Taxis had fared little better. Elizabeth’s marriage to Francis Joseph had crushed her ambitious hopes, and the disappointment had embittered her whole life, although it had made no difference in the affectionate relations between the sisters, Hélène having left her own home to accompany the invalid Empress to Madeira. Mathilde of Trani had been married only a year; but the temperaments of the Count and Countess were totally unsuited to each other. The young couple had no permanent place of residence, no prospects for the future, and the present was full of difficulties.
It was generally known that the climate and life in Rome had seriously affected the health of the ex-Queen of Naples; but a mother’s sharp eyes soon discovered that there was a deeper source of trouble. This daughter, who had inherited all her father’s brilliancy and charm, was especially dear to the Duchess Ludovica, and as she had always shared her child’s joys, she now comforted her in her hour of despair. Early in August Maria Sophia left Possenhofen for a sojourn at the baths of Soden, which it was hoped would benefit her health, and after a visit to her eldest sister at Taxis, returned to Bavaria with her mother and the Empress Elizabeth. Francis still loved his wife deeply, in spite of the blow his faith in her had received, and both he and her own family tried to persuade her to return to him; but her health was still so poor she had little wish to expose herself again to the climate of Rome. In October she retired to an Ursuline convent at Augsburg, much against the wishes of her family, who feared it would appear to the world like a permanent separation from her husband. They begged her at least to come to Munich and live; but the quiet convent life suited Maria and she refused to leave her peaceful retreat.
Next to the Duchess Ludovica, her most frequent visitor at Augsburg was Queen Marie of Bavaria, who had always been her closest friend, and it was she who finally persuaded her cousin to exchange the convent for a residence in Munich. In January, 1863, Maria Sophia moved to the Schloss Biederstein, situated close to the English gardens and one of the most beautiful spots in the Bavarian capital. Again and again the ex-King of Naples made offers of reconciliation, and at length his patience and devotion touched his wife’s heart. Possibly, also, her eyes were gradually opened to the silent martyrdom he, on his own part, had endured so long and which she at the time had little understood or appreciated. It was not until two or three months later, however, that she finally decided to return to Italy. On the thirteenth of April she arrived once more in Rome, where she was warmly welcomed by her husband and all the friends of the exiled family, after an absence of nearly a year.
Of all the sovereigns of Europe, Maximilian of Baden had been the most loyal champion of King Francis’s cause. Neither Garibaldi’s triumphant progress, nor Victor Emanuel’s victories, nor the unanimous shouts of six million people for “Italia una” could reconcile him to the new state of affairs. He had been ill for a long time, and in the Autumn of 1863 his physicians recommended a sojourn in the south. So strong was his feeling, however, against the new ruler of Italy, that rather than pass through any part of his dominions, he travelled by way of Switzerland to Marseilles, and there boarded a vessel that would land him in papal territory.
The voyage was terribly rough and the King suffered so acutely with seasickness that it brought on an attack of his old complaint. Fearful of the consequences of continuing the voyage, his physician declared he must be taken ashore at all costs; but the sea was too high to permit of the vessel’s landing, so the suffering monarch had to be lowered into an open boat on a mattress and rowed ashore by two sailors. Fortunately, they succeeded in reaching land safely near San Stefano, where they were met by the French consul, and King Max, more dead than alive, was cared for so attentively that he was able to continue his journey to Civita Vecchia by carriage the next morning, arriving in Rome the following day. Here he took up his residence in the Villa Mattei, and his health began to improve at once.
Maria Sophia was overjoyed to see her cousin again. She herself was far from well, and had been urged by her physicians to leave Rome; but Max, to whom she was devoted, begged her to remain, and she yielded to his wishes. In December, however, her condition became so alarming that Francis was forced to leave with her at once for Venice, a change of air being absolutely necessary if her life was to be preserved. The ex-King realized at last that it was out of the question for his wife to live in Rome, and henceforth they spent only the winter months there. In the purer air of Venice she soon began to gain strength and was able once more to enjoy her favorite recreations. The relations between Maria Sophia and her husband had much improved, and while he had no sympathy with her tastes, nor was able to join her in her rides, he no longer opposed her in the indulgence of them.