Beauty of Naples—Figures of Its History—St. Januarius—Murat, King of Naples—Achievements as King—The Carbonari—England’s Promises—Napoleonic Diplomacy—Rise of the Bourbons—Alliance with Austria—Murat’s Indecision—Distrust of the Allies—Murat’s Statesmanship—Talleyrand’s Diplomacy—Naples, the Gay—Conspiracy in the Palace—The Escape from Elba—Ideal Government—War Against Murat—Advance of the Austrians—Murat Driven to Naples—Interview with His Wife—Last Instructions to His Ministers—Escape.
The fairest and, in some respects, the wickedest spot on the face of the earth is that wonder city, that broods by the “tideless, dolorous, midland sea,” Vesuvius, smoking like some monstrous chimney of hell behind her, the deep blue, translucent glory of the sea like a drift of Our Blessed Lady’s mantle before.
Travelling round that bay and on around the point towards Calabria, hardly a dreamy mile goes by that some of the history of thousands of years ago does not present itself.
It has been the home of saints and of scholars; of soldiers a few, of statesmen a-many, of some of the most beautiful characters that ever walked the earth, and of some of the very worst that ever polluted the world with their presence. At the top of the list stands St. Januarius, Bishop of Benevento, who with six of his companions came to Naples during the ninth persecution to comfort and strengthen the Faithful, and who being seized with his companions was taken to Pozzuoli, and there flung to the wild beasts; who, when they refused to harm him, was plunged into a blazing furnace, out of which he came intact, and was thereafter beheaded; but who stands at the bottom, I should be afraid to say. At this point there is an “embarras de richesses!”
Of all the landmarks of history with which the Kingdom of Naples is dotted none, perhaps, is more rich in Romance or more imbued with the spirit of Tragedy than a certain straggling, half-ruined castle near the little village of Pizzo, upon the coast of Calabria.
A round tower, grey and sullen with age, faces the sea; in the wall of it is set a small, heavily barred window, through which one of the very few comparatively good Kings of Naples looked his last upon a world which had seen him rise from a peasant to a monarch.
There is neither space nor need to recapitulate here the life of Murat. Italy, Russia, Germany, Austria, Egypt had felt the tread of his all-shattering squadrons, whose onset no horse or foot of continental Europe had ever been able to withstand. The Dictator of Europe had given him his sister for a wife. Naples had been proud to own him for her King. Glory, wealth, splendour had been his, and he could have kept them—I think it is safe to say that he could have kept them—had he been able to stand firm. But he had not the strength, even when he joined the Coalition in 1814. While he was still fighting Eugène, he could not resist the temptation to intrigue with the Viceroy, who of course instantly saw to it that the Allies were notified of the fact. In those stormy days nobody trusted his neighbour, nor did any one blame his neighbour particularly for trying to keep his political balance in any way that he could; so that Murat’s—inconsistency, let us call it—was not held against him afterwards. The Bourbons were not popular, either, and Ferdinand, that perfect product of the hapless, helpless race, was generally detested. It must be said for the Bourbons that their sins are, as a rule, of the negative sort, and cruelty is not one of them. Ferdinand, however, besides being a spineless king, was a brute and a coward, which again are not Bourbon traits.
Joachim Murat’s position was always a difficult one, to be sure. Although King of Naples, he was in Napoleon’s time only a king at his imperial brother-in-law’s pleasure, and regarded by the latter as little more than a proconsul, elevated to a throne in order to carry out his master’s wishes. At the same time he was conscientious enough to attempt the task of being a real king—and a good one. He loved the “flair” of kingship, but he did recognise some of his responsibilities towards his subjects and continued, while Napoleon’s back was turned, to govern fairly well. The Neapolitans loved show and noise and ceremony, and they liked the handsome, dashing, open-handed cavalryman. The country was rich, too. In those days, even if the peasants lived like cattle, at least they had plenty to eat and drink, and even now those times are spoken of as a bankrupt speaks of the fat years behind him.
“Era una schiuma d’oro” (It was a froth of gold), said one old man to me, some years ago, “before this government of robbers took possession of it!”