Royalty in Exile
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.
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.
* * * * * * * *
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.
* * * * * * * *
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.