Meanwhile the Schleswig-Holstein affair had become a burning question in Germany. King Frederick the Seventh of Denmark had died, and in the latter part of November news was received in Munich of Prussia’s protest against his successor, the Duke of Augustenburg. Public feeling ran high, and the issue of events was anxiously awaited. Under these circumstances the people of Bavaria felt the need of their sovereign’s presence among them and King Max was obliged to leave Rome. Although so much improved in health that his physicians held out hope of a permanent cure, he was still too ill to travel. He suffered a relapse soon after reaching home, and died three months later, deeply mourned both by his subjects and his family.
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In the Autumn of 1867 an epidemic of cholera broke out in Italy. The dowager Queen insisted on remaining in her Albanian villa, though all her children had hastily left the country. Deserted by her family and her court, the widow of Ferdinand the Second fell a victim to the scourge. Even the servants had fled, and the only person with her at her death was an old Neapolitan nobleman who had been a friend of her husband’s. Although Maria Theresa’s star had long since set, he remained faithful to the last, tending and caring for her while she lay ill, and accompanying her body—the only mourner—to its last resting-place in the neighboring churchyard.
The relations between Francis and Maria Sophia had never been actually unpleasant; but after the death of the Queen dowager, they became more attached to each other. Together they made frequent visits to their various relatives or entertained them in Rome during the Winters. The Empress Elizabeth especially was a frequent visitor. These two sisters, as unlike in character as in their circumstances, had never lost any of their sisterly affection for each other. Maria Sophia was with the Empress in Hungary when her youngest daughter, Marie Valerie, was born in 1868, and had shared her joy in that happy event. With it, however, was a feeling of sadness for herself, childless and, in a way, homeless. Children of her own would have given life a new aspect to her, and she felt she would have been a different woman. But it was not her way to indulge in vain regrets. She had long been indifferent toward the world; her only interest now was in her dogs and horses, and she would spend whole days in the saddle, riding the wildest and most ungovernable animals. Once, on one of these rides, she met with an accident, from the effects of which she was long in recovering, and her husband’s quiet devotion during this time furnished a proof of his affection for her that drew them still closer together.
Maria Sophia’s joy was boundless when, on Christmas Eve, 1869, after ten years of married life, she gave birth to a daughter in Rome. Four days later, the little princess was christened, Pius the Ninth, who performed the ceremony himself, acting as godfather, and the Empress Elizabeth as godmother. She received the names Maria Christina Louisa Pia, for her two grandmothers and the Holy Father. But the happiness of the ex-King and Queen was destined to be of short duration, for their only child lived but three months. She died in the following March, and was buried in Rome.
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The withdrawal of the French troops from Rome in 1870 to take part in the war against Germany, put an end to the temporal power of the Popes. Pius the Ninth was forced to relinquish the Quirinal to the same bold conqueror who had deprived Francis and Maria Sophia of their kingdom, and thereafter they had no permanent residence in Rome. As long as the Duke and Duchess Max lived, they spent the summers in Bavaria, travelling about from place to place during the Winter. The greater part of Francis the Second’s property, some twenty million lire, had been confiscated by the new Italian Government, which offered to refund it on condition of his formally renouncing all rights to the crown he had already lost; but this he refused to do. “A man does not sell his honor,” was his unfailing reply. Eventually he was paid back his mother’s dowry; but the immense sum that King Ferdinand had settled on his eldest son at the time of his marriage to Maria Sophia was appropriated by Victor Emanuel, as were the contents of the royal palace. Many of the paintings and works of art are still shown at “Capo di Monte” in Naples, to the indignation of many of the sovereigns of Europe.
Although the climate of Rome had never agreed with Maria Sophia, both she and her husband often declared that they had never really known the terrors of exile till they were forced to leave Italy. Francis never quite gave up hope that some turn of events would pave the way for his return to his own and his father’s throne; but the heroine of Gaeta never looked backward. The pomp and show of royalty had never appealed to her, and she indulged in no vain regrets.
The lives of the Wittelsbach sisters had proved a source of grief and anxiety to their parents. Hélène, left a widow in 1867, after ten years of unhappy married life, had managed the vast estates of the Thurn and Taxis family with great ability during the minority of her eldest son, Maximilian. This prince, a most promising youth, died in 1885, at the early age of twenty-three, and the blow almost cost his despairing mother her reason, while the following year, Count Ludwig of Trani drowned himself in one of the Swiss lakes.
The youngest daughter of the ducal pair, Sophie Charlotte, had been first betrothed to Ludwig the Second of Bavaria; but the King jilted his cousin in the most heartless fashion, and she afterward married Ferdinand d’Alençon, an uncle of Louis Philippe of France. Banished from France with the rest of the house of Orleans, the Duke and Duchess spent their time travelling from place to place, and Sophie was sickly and discontented, a victim to fits of melancholia. By his death on the fourteenth of November, 1888, good Duke Max was spared the tragedy of Mayerling, where his favorite grandson and the hope of the Austrian Empire, Rudolf of Hapsburg, met with a violent and mysterious death three months later. On the twenty-fourth of January, 1890, the Duchess Ludovica was seized with an attack of influenza at her palace in Munich, which developed into pneumonia. The physicians at once pronounced her condition serious on account of her advanced age, and the absent daughters were telegraphed for. Sophie was already in Munich, as were the three sons. The next afternoon the Duchess grew so much worse that the sacrament was administered; but in spite of the evident approach of death the indomitable old lady refused to go to bed. She insisted upon remaining in the reclining chair which she had occupied from the beginning of her illness, and where she soon sank into unconsciousness, passing away quietly at four o’clock in the morning, surrounded by children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, at the age of eighty-three. The death of the Duchess Ludovica was an irreparable loss to her family. They had leaned on her in joy as in sorrow, and as long as she lived she had held them together, widely scattered as they were, with a firm and loving hand. Her children’s troubles and pleasures had been her own, and their devotion, her joy and reward.
After the funeral of the Duchess Ludovica, Maria Sophia returned to Paris, where the ex-King of Naples had bought a residence some years before, and where they were living very quietly, seeing no one but old friends or relatives. Her grief at her mother’s loss was deep and sincere, and for a time she was inconsolable. For her it meant the severing of all the old ties and associations; and henceforth she rarely visited the home of her childhood.
A few months later Hélène of Thurn and Taxis died after a long and painful illness, at the age of fifty-eight. The Empress Elizabeth had hastened to her and was with her when she died, but none of the three younger sisters were able to be present.
In the Autumn of 1894 the ex-King of Naples went to the baths at Arco in the Tyrol for his health, while his wife remained in Paris. Francis had suffered for several years with an incurable complaint, and it was reported that his illness had recently taken a serious turn; but this had been denied. Death came sooner than any one expected, however, to the unfortunate monarch, for he expired on the twenty-seventh of December—alone, as he had lived. Maria Sophia started at once for Arco on the news of his illness, but arrived too late to find him alive.
Not a flag was lowered in the kingdom of his fathers to mark the death of Francis the Second of Naples, nor was his body even allowed to rest in the land he had loved. In all his vicissitudes, the long years of exile, and the hours of loneliness and pain, Italy had been ever in his heart. Through all his wanderings he had been haunted by memories of the blue skies and sunny gardens of his childhood days. His love for his native land extended even beyond the grave, for in his will he bequeathed a million lire to charitable institutions in Naples and Palermo.
Duke Karl Theodor and his wife, with several other members of Maria Theresa’s family, hastened at once to Arco to comfort Maria Sophia and be present at the ex-King’s funeral. It took place on the third of January, 1895, and was attended by a large number of royalties and other distinguished personages.
In the bright Winter sunshine the body of Francis the Second was borne to the cathedral where it was to be laid to rest. The narrow streets were thronged with black-garbed men and women, and bells were tolled in all the churches, while the trumpets of the two battalions of Austrian Jägers sent by the Emperor Francis Joseph, to pay the last honors to the deceased sovereign, sounded a farewell. At the door of the church the procession was met by the ex-Queen with her sisters, Mathilde and Sophie, with several of her sisters-in-law, and other noble ladies who formed the band of mourners. The services lasted five hours, and were conducted by the Archbishop of Trent; but at last all was ended, the dim cathedral was left silent and empty, and only the sound of tolling bells echoed mournfully through the wintry air.
The life of Francis the Second of Naples was one of renunciation. Little sympathy or affection fell to his lot. He was arbitrary where he should have been yielding, and yielding where he should have been firm; yet during his short reign he was one of the most conspicuous figures in European politics, and he had carried a kingdom with him in his downfall. He was a good man and a good Christian, and, in spite of his shortcomings, a real hero; for while his heart was bleeding, he bore his sorrows in silence and hid his sufferings from the world.
* * * * * * * *
Although Maria Sophia had never really loved her husband, a close and sincere friendship had grown up between them, and she truly mourned his death. After the funeral she returned with her brother and his wife to Munich, where for a time she occupied her old residence, the Schloss Biederstein; but now that she was alone the thought of living there was unbearable to her.
FRANCIS SECONDin his sixtieth year
FRANCIS SECONDin his sixtieth year
The claims of the ex-King to the throne of Naples passed at his death to Alfonzo, Count of Caserta; and while Francis had left his wife a large sum of money, the bulk of his fortune had been bequeathed to this brother whose marriage had been blessed with ten children. The residence in Paris occupied by the royal pair had been included in this; and as Maria Sophia wished to be free to live her own life, she bought an estate at Neuilly-sur-Seine, where she lives quite alone the greater part of the year. She rarely goes to Bavaria, but spends a few weeks each winter at Arco. It was her intention originally to have her husband’s body removed to her family burial-place in Tegernsee; but the last King of Naples still sleeps before the high altar in the cathedral of the little Tyrolean town. This quiet spot has grown dear to the ex-Queen, and she mixes freely and pleasantly with the people who go there for the baths. She is still a distinguished woman,—distinguished in the best sense of the word,—with much of that charm that is like a reflection of the past. Most of her time, however, she devotes to the real passion of her life, her farm, where she raises thoroughbred dogs and horses. Maria Sophia is not a recluse; but she lives in a world of her own, and cares for animals more than for people. In former days her sisters used often to visit her at Neuilly, the Duchess d’Alençon then living in Paris, and the Empress Elizabeth and Countess of Trani frequently stopping there on their journeys.
The portraits of these four sisters plainly show their differences of character. Mathilde of Trani is the picture of discontent and disillusionment; Elizabeth is the mourner; Sophie d’Alençon is resigned and weary of the world, while Maria, unlike all the others, looks bravely out at life, despite her years.
She accepted the decrees of fate with courage and fortitude, and bore her troubles more philosophically than her sisters, therefore she has kept her cheerfulness and serenity, and much of her former beauty. She is always active, for she still feels young. But her solitary life and her preference for the society of animals to people, show that the life of this gayest and soundest of the Wittelsbach sisters has also been a tragedy.
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Three years after the death of the ex-King of Naples, another terrible misfortune occurred in the family. On the fourth of May, 1897, the French capital was the scene of a most frightful catastrophe. The ladies of the French aristocracy were holding a bazaar for charity, in a building which had been roughly and carelessly constructed, and lined with booths in which many prominent society women sold wares donated for the purpose. A kinematograph had also been installed to add to the entertainment. In the middle of the afternoon, when the crowd was greatest, a lamp attached to this suddenly burst, and in an instant the whole building was in flames. The exits were insufficient and hard to find, and scores of people perished.
Among the most prominent of the workers was Sophie, Duchess d’Alençon, who was a devout Catholic and had devoted the latter years of her life almost entirely to charity. Witnesses of the scene of horror who escaped with their lives have told of the Duchess’s heroism in attempting to save others, forgetful of her own danger. One lady tried to carry her out by force; but she broke away, and dashing back into the flames, took her place in her own booth again, calmly assisting in getting the young girls into a place of safety.
All that night it was hoped that she, too, had succeeded in making her escape. But the next day a wedding ring, bearing the name of Ferdinand d’Alençon, was found in the ruins and all hope of finding her alive was abandoned. Her body, burned beyond all recognition, was afterward identified by a dentist who had supplied her with some false teeth shortly before. Maria Sophia was in Neuilly at the time of the accident, and her appearance with the Duke d’Alençon, at the requiem mass held in memory of the dead in the Church of St. Philippe de Rule, was her last public appearance in the world. When the Empress Elizabeth, who fell by the hand of an assassin on the shore of Lake Geneva a year later, was laid away in the vault of the Capucins at Vienna, Maria Sophia was unable to be present. Only in spirit could she bid farewell to this favorite sister, under whose cold and reserved exterior had beaten a warm and loving heart.
* * * * * * * *
Many years have passed since the Rose of Starnberg Lake was planted at the foot of Vesuvius, many since Francis the Second’s tottering throne collapsed, burying the hopes of a lifetime. But time has treated Maria Sophia gently. If she has wept bitter tears, the world has seen no trace of them. Her smile is still that of the beautiful young Queen of Naples, and she has kept that youth of the heart that never fades. But what her thoughts are as she goes about among her pets, no one knows. Does she still see Gaeta at times behind its dark, receding cliffs? Perhaps, for it was there that she displayed for the first and only time the gifts with which Providence had endowed her, and the supreme moments of life one does not forget.
The romance of Maria Sophia’s life ended at Gaeta: forced from the world’s stage with all the splendid promise of her youth unfulfilled, she has never since taken part in the affairs of men. Yet she is not morbid or unhappy. She looks back upon her life without bitterness, and if her heart has longings, it is not for her vanished crown and sceptre.
The struggle for Italian unity has given place to other and newer events in the world’s history. The Queen of Naples has hidden her royal honors under the modest title of Duchess of Castro. When she dies, an almost forgotten episode will be revived and the “Heroine of Gaeta” recalled to the memory of men; but only the gray-haired soldiers who knew and served under the young Queen will remember how gay and brilliant she was, will see her again in all her fresh young beauty.
Maria Sophia was a heroine but for a day; but time has no power to touch her memory. Clothed in the radiance of perpetual youth, she stands a glowing figure in the annals of history.
[1]The nickname of King Bomba was given to Ferdinand after the bombardment of Messina in Sicily, but also referred to the huge, unwieldy figure that he acquired, especially in the later years of his life.
[1]The nickname of King Bomba was given to Ferdinand after the bombardment of Messina in Sicily, but also referred to the huge, unwieldy figure that he acquired, especially in the later years of his life.
The following is a chronological statement of the principal events connected with this narrative:
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LIFE STORIES FOR YOUNG PEOPLE
Translated from the German byGEORGE P. UPTON
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