Equally marked were the points of resemblance between Marie Antoinette and Maria Sophia. Both were gay, childish, and impulsive, with remarkable personal courage and a frankness that was as attractive as it was dangerous; both were too beautiful not to excite envy, and too full of high spirits not to cause offence. The Wittelsbach Princess, however, had qualities the Dauphiness lacked—perfect honesty and the robust health and splendid vitality brought from her Bavarian Alps. She was a finished horsewoman, a good shot, a tireless walker, and devoted to out-of-door recreations of all sorts. Her husband, on the other hand, was grave, silent, and melancholy. Sports had no attraction for him. He never hunted, and in spite of his hussar uniform the Neapolitans declare that he was never known to mount a horse. One point, however, they shared in common—indifference to luxury and love of simplicity.
At the time of her marriage the Crown Princess could scarcely speak a word of Italian. Francis’s knowledge of French was very limited, and of German he was entirely ignorant, so that unrestrained communication between the young couple was difficult at first. The education of the Duke of Calabria had done little to prepare him for the lofty position that awaited him. His stepmother, who completely spoiled her own children, neglected him shamefully in some ways and was unnecessarily harsh in others. Overshadowed by his cleverer stepbrothers, who despised him, and conscious of his own mental and physical deficiencies, the poor boy had become morbidly shy and reserved. Yet he had many good qualities. He never forgot the smallest service shown him, and was invariably kind and courteous even to the humblest. Many tales are told of his sympathy with the poor and suffering, and even as a child he would part with his dearest treasure to help any one in distress. But his appearance was so unprepossessing as to be almost unpleasant; and the consciousness of this made him appear at his worst with his wife, whose beauty and vivacity so enthralled him that he became dumb at her approach and would often hide behind the door when she entered the room, to avoid speaking to her.
The Neapolitan court was a contrast in more ways than one to the home Maria Sophia had left, and for which she yearned so longingly. Barely eighteen years old, overflowing with health and spirits, she found herself surrounded by an atmosphere of false humility, deceit, and religious hypocrisy; and although her natural light-heartedness helped her through many troubles and disappointments in the new life, yet she could never forget that she was a stranger in a strange land, alone and almost friendless. Fond as her father-in-law was of her, he was too ill to be able to do anything toward making her life pleasant, and the little princesses, while outwardly civil, were stiff and unsympathetic. With her brothers-in-law she was on a somewhat better footing, for they were charmed with the zest with which she entered into their sports; but the Queen from the very first had treated her with the most marked unfriendliness, correcting her constantly, as if she had been a schoolgirl, and regarding her most innocent diversions with suspicion. She even refused to allow her to ride, as she had been used to do at home; and the young Duchess sorely missed her favorite occupation.
Maria Theresa was a woman of strong will and had been accustomed to obedience from her family as well as her subjects. She had selected her most trusted lady-in-waiting to attend her stepson’s wife, hoping that Nina Rizzo, who was devoted to her mistress, would teach the Crown Princess to bow to her will as every one else did. But in this she was mistaken, for though Maria Sophia liked Nina, she remained deaf to all her exhortations on the subject, firmly determined to preserve her independence at all costs.
Meanwhile the King grew steadily worse, and the cloud over the palace darkened. The young princes tried to relieve the gloom and pass away the time by walks about the town, running races in the palace courtyard, and playing tricks on the gentlemen of the court, pastimes in which they were frequently joined by Maria Sophia. One day she went down to the shore and, with the help of an old boatman, succeeded in catching a whole basketful of fish which she bore home in triumph and had cooked for the royal table. Another time she promised her brothers-in-law to make them some Bavarian pancakes. A portable grate was secured and placed over a charcoal fire, and the Princess set to work. But no frying-pan or ladle was to be had. At this moment the mayor of Bari made his appearance, in gold-laced coat and knee breeches, to pay his respects at court. Maria Sophia was no longer in a quandary. In her own lively way she begged the official to go down into the market-place and get her the needed utensils. The obliging mayor hastened to do her bidding, and soon returned with the desired articles; but the result of the Princess’s culinary labors was most unsatisfactory after all, for the pancakes proved uneatable. Large holes were burned in the tablecloth and napkins, and amid shouts of laughter Maria Sophia abandoned any further attempts to shine as a cook in Italy. The mayor carried the frying-pan and ladle home with him as souvenirs of the merry scene, and they are still preserved as relics in his family.
Amid the general sadness that prevailed, however, these lively outbreaks became less and less frequent, and the young Duchess hailed with joy the news that the court was to move to Caserta. Nina Rizzo had often told her of the beauties of that place, and she eagerly looked forward to their departure as an hour of deliverance. The journey was long deferred, however, as the King’s sufferings were so acute he would not allow himself to be moved. A monk at length succeeded in persuading the sick man to consent, and he was carried on a mattress to a steam frigate which was to convey him from Bari to Portici in order to avoid any stop at Naples. From Portici to Caserta the five hours’ journey caused the unfortunate sovereign such torture that the Archbishop of Naples ordered continuous prayers to be offered for him in all the churches. Once amid these new surroundings—the lofty halls and salons of the palace, the enchanting park and gardens—Maria Sophia’s spirits rose, and she felt almost happy again. But it was not for long. Between the Queen’s animosity and her husband’s weakness, she soon relapsed into her old loneliness and helplessness. Almost her only diversion now was her family of parrots. She had ten, and her laughter over the ludicrous results of their attempts to speak German was the sole evidence that her natural gayety was not entirely suppressed and crushed.
Meanwhile the Queen’s supposed treasonable designs were freely discussed throughout the kingdom. It was said that on the King’s death she intended to seize the double crown for her own son, and that many of the police officials were ready to support her plans; also that the Crown Prince was forcibly excluded from his father’s sick-room. There was no truth in this latter report, however; for although Francis had indeed been carefully kept from taking any part in affairs of state hitherto, now at the eleventh hour, Ferdinand insisted upon having his son with him constantly, and giving him instructions for future guidance; these the Crown Prince copied on a sheet of paper and used frequently to consult after he became King. On the tenth of April Ferdinand made his last will and testament, leaving equal portions of his property to each of his children, with a large share to his wife, and a twelfth part to be divided among religious institutions.
In spite of the statements already published in regard to the amount and distribution of his estate, Ferdinand was popularly believed to own enormous sums in private, mainly derived from confiscation of the property of political criminals. His fortune was said to amount to three hundred million ducats. As a matter of fact, however, the King’s actual property was scarcely more than seven million ducats, although he owned a great number of jewels and other valuables.
On the twelfth of April Ferdinand received the last sacrament; but he lived on for more than a month. The superstitious Neapolitans expected his death to occur on the fifteenth of May, the anniversary of the riots there in 1848, of which the King had taken advantage for his shameful persecution of his subjects; but it was not till the twenty-second of May that his sufferings were finally ended. A frightful storm broke out during the hour of his death and this was looked upon by many as a bad omen for the new reign.