The summer of 1867 found the royal exiles at Albano, a charming country resort on the Appian Way, about fifteen miles from Rome. They had not been there long when the Asiatic cholera broke out with a violence unprecedented in the history of that terrible plague. The victims daily were numbered by hundreds. Not a family in the city was spared.
The first victim in the Bourbon family was the young Prince Gennarino, a bright little boy of eight years. At the first symptoms of the malady he asked for his confessor, and confessed with such compunction of heart that the good priest was moved to tears. He begged earnestly that he might receive Holy Communion; “for,” said the little fellow, “I want to die like a man.” Though he was so young, his request was granted. His First Communion was his Viaticum, and “like a man” the young Bourbon passed to another life. But death had singled out a more illustrious victim in the person of Maria Theresa, the Queen-Mother. Her whole life having been one of preparation, her death was that of the just. And here we would willingly stop to admire the character of that noble Christian mother, and worthy descendant of the great Maria Theresa of Austria; but we are restrained from doing so by the reflection that we cannot pay a more worthy or glowing tribute to her memory, than by sketching the life and character of her saintly daughter Maria Immacolata. To a heart so sensitive, so appreciative and affectionate, as was that of Immacolata, the death of a mother was a great blow, and it was a long time before she could be comforted. King Francis now became the natural protector of the orphans, and took them to his own residence in the Farnese Palace, in Rome. The habit of study had already been formed in the children by their saintly mother, and so they applied themselves with renewed vigor to the acquisition of knowledge. Maria Immacolata was gifted with talents of the highest order. Besides speaking her own language with captivating sweetness she spoke French and German fluently, and the facility with which she could pass from one language to another was surprising. Drawing was her passion, and her sketches in oil and water colors gave evidence of no inconsiderable genius. Wherever she went, she brought her drawing materials with her, and amused herself by sketching landscapes, palaces, villas, and the like. She was equally skilled in portraits, and the last production of her pencil, a beautiful picture of the Immaculate Heart, has been very much admired. Literature was another source of pleasure to her. Though she had a lofty appreciation of the beauties of the Italian language, and was passionately fond of reading, she was never known to indulge in light and promiscuous literature. While applying herself to the cultivation of her mind, she did not forget the more modest accomplishments which become her sex; and there are several beggars in Rome this day who will show, with no small pride, the coarse stockings which were knitted for them by the tiny hands of Maria Immacolata of Bourbon. But these and many other accomplishments were but as the gold which encircles a diamond of rare value and purity. Her richest treasure was her humility and modesty. Her conversation, though entertaining and lively, was modest; her deportment, though easy and graceful, equally so. The sweetness of her disposition was especially noticeable in her treatment of domestics.
In the October of 1867 the Eternal City was thrown into a state of excitement and trepidation by the news that Garibaldi, with his horde of desperadoes, was on the march for Rome. The little army of the Pope prepared to make a gallant defence, and a number of chivalrous Roman youths of the best families offered themselves to swell the ranks of the Papal legions. Francis II. and his two brothers were among the first to rush to the defence of the country—the only country which was now left them. Their two orphan sisters, Maria Pia and Maria Immacolata, were consequently left alone in the Farnese Palace. They did not remain long unprotected, for the Holy Father sent for the two princesses, and had them brought into the Vatican, where the magnificent apartment of the Countess Mathilde had been prepared for them. Here they remained until after the battle of Mentana, and the Papal troops returned in triumph to the city. While the children were in the Vatican, they assisted every morning at the Pope’s Mass, and received Holy Communion daily from his hands. Every day, when he went to take his usual walk through the galleries and corridors of the palace, he sent for the orphans, and by his sweet and consoling conversation made them forget the anxiety which tortured them about their brothers. During those days—the happiest of her life—Maria Pia conceived a veneration and love for the Holy Father which she cherished ever afterwards, and which, we may here remark, was characteristic of her mother, Maria Theresa. When the storm had blown over, the orphans returned to the Farnese Palace, and resumed their usually quiet and retired life. It did not last long. This time it was not the Garibaldian hordes that marched upon the city, but the well-disciplined troops of a king who called himself “the dutiful son of Pius IX.” To be brief, the year 1870 was one of woe to the Romans, but to none was it more sorrowful than to the poor persecuted Bourbons. Once more they were forced to fly, and in their flight the noble family was obliged to divide itself. Some of them fled into Bavaria, some to France, while Maria Immacolata went with her sister, now Duchess of Parma, into the Tyrol, and afterwards to Cannes, on the confines of France. She was accompanied by her governess Maria Laserre, her faithful friend and comforter in every trial.
But the cold climate of the mountains was too severe for Immacolata. She was a frail, delicate flower, and under the rough, inclement blasts of a northern winter she began to wilt away. What with her weak health and her strong affection for the Holy Father, she began to pine for Rome, her country, as she called it. All this passed within her own bosom. For the rest, she was patient, resigned, and more forgiving than ever towards those who were the cause of her exile, first from the land of her birth, and afterwards from Rome, to which her heart clung most lovingly. A soul so closely united to God as was hers, soon found the wherewithal to comfort her, and it was with a smile of heavenly joy in her countenance that she brightened up and said to her maid, “Ah! well, there is one consolation left me: the poor I have always with me.” From her infancy she had been noted for her charities. What little she possessed in childhood she gave to the poor joyfully. When she grew up and received a monthly allowance from her mother for ordinary expenses, she gave with such a liberal hand that her allowance used to be exhausted long before the end of the month came. The Queen-Mother had become so accustomed to the charitable prodigalities of her daughter that she used to say when she would hear a modest knock at her door, about the 20th of each month, “Here comes my little prodigal daughter; but, God bless her! she has not wasted her substance.” When the Queen died, and Maria Immacolata came into her inheritance, her charity was more a profusion than a giving; and it was remarked that no one knew anything of her charities. The gospel directed her to give in secret, and the Holy Spirit assured her that the “Father who seeth in secret” would reward her. It was her chief delight, when she went out to take a walk, to gather the young people around her, and ask them the catechism, and teach them how to pray; and in order to stimulate them to study the catechism thoroughly, she would give them rosaries, medals, and pictures, which she had sent to her at regular intervals from Rome. Whenever she met any one who was on the way to the Eternal City, she could not restrain her tears, as she thought of the happiness which was denied to herself; and, she would often remark, “It is so cold here, that not only the body, but the soul too shivers for that warmth which can only be felt near the Vicar of Christ.”
About this time she became acquainted with Henry Bourbon, Count of Bardi, son of Charles III. of Parma, and nephew of the Count of Chambord. Her sister, Maria Pia, had already been married to Robert, Duke of Parma, and the nuptial blessing was pronounced by the Holy Father, in the year 1869. As her sister’s marriage was one of Christian love, not of political or worldly interest, contracted under the influence of religion, and not to keep up the “equilibrium of relationship,” as the saying is in Europe, so was the marriage of Immacolata with the Count of Bardi. Among other motives in favor of accepting his hand in marriage she was wont to adduce this one, that the fact of his having been educated in the college of the Jesuits at Feldkirch was an assurance to her that her marriage would be a happy one. As she had prepared herself for the reception of her First Communion, so by recollection and spiritual exercises did she dispose herself for the Sacrament of Matrimony, and on the 27th of November, 1873, she became the Countess of Bardi. The marriage was a modest celebration throughout. The domestics of the family and the poor of the city were the only merrymakers. As for the young spouses, they were destined only to drink the cup of tribulation. The lily of Bourbon was fast drooping, the color was fading from her cheeks, and the unnatural brilliancy of her eyes told, more clearly than words could, that Immacolata was not destined to live much longer. No one knew this better than herself. Still she was resolved to do her duty, as if she had long years before her. She began by studying the character of her husband. Prior to all, however, she had marked out for herself a simple line of conduct, which she couched in the two words, “affectionate submission.” In the heaven-given light of this resolution, she loved him, and by its influence and the discharge of all those kind and endearing offices which are the noble prerogatives of the gentler sex, she won his confidence, and strengthened his affection, as with a wall of granite. Having acquired a thorough knowledge of his character, she anticipated every desire of his, and executed his every wish with such readiness that he was afterwards known to say that he could not decide whose wish she accomplished, his or her own. In this way she obtained great influence over him, but she only exercised it in the things of God. Wherever she knelt down to pray, there he knelt at her side. When she was gone to her rest, he was heard to say of her, “She took me by the hand, and led me to God.”
On the day after their marriage the young spouses set out on a journey to Egypt. The voyage was long and ill-suited to her delicate constitution; but she went cheerfully, thinking not of herself, but only how she might please her consort. During the forty days they were sailing up the Nile, she lay prostrate with a malignant fever, which, together with the ravages of consumption, reduced her almost to the last extremity. It was hoped that she would rally during their voyage in Upper Egypt, but in vain. When they arrived there, she became weaker and weaker, until, finally, the most they hoped for was that she might live until their return to France. Setting sail from Cairo, they arrived at Marseilles in the March of 1874, where she rallied at the sight of her sister, Maria Pia, and her beloved governess, Maria Laserre, who had come to meet her. In a consultation of her physicians, it was resolved to bring her to Cauterets, a little village in the Upper Pyrenees, and celebrated for its sulphur baths. Maria Immacolata was delighted with the proposal, not because she hoped for any relief from the waters of Cauterets, but because in their journey thither they would pass Lourdes, to which she had long yearned to make a pilgrimage.
Accordingly, they set out for Cauterets, stopping at Lourdes on the way. The weary invalid’s heart throbbed with joy as she knelt for the first time in the holy grotto. For two whole hours she remained absorbed in silent prayer, giving no other sign of life than the long and affectionate gaze which she fixed upon the image of Our Lady. During their stay at Lourdes, she visited the grotto twice every day, and at each visit she prayed long and fervently. Twice she insisted on being immersed in the water, notwithstanding it was exceedingly cold. On being asked what she prayed for, she replied, “That God’s will be done.” The waters of Cauterets gave her no relief. The disease had taken deep root in her system, and was rapidly advancing to a fatal termination. An eminent physician was called from the city of Pau, who gave it as his opinion that it was useless to hope for her recovery. She might live for fifteen days more, and possibly might linger on for a month. The young count thought no longer of the great loss he was about to suffer, but only how he might make the remaining days of her short life as quiet and devoid of pain as possible. It was resolved to bring her to Pau, the principal city of the Lower Pyrenees, where she would receive better attendance, and, above all, have the consolations of her religion. As they carried her on a species of litter from the hotel to the carriage, she said to her husband, “Not long ago I could move about with ease; afterwards they carried me in an arm-chair; now it is a litter; the next will be a bier.” Her sufferings on the road between Lourdes and Pau were very great, but she bore them cheerfully, and only prayed that they would let her die in Pau. After their arrival in that city, she rallied a little, and her husband tried to raise her hopes by saying that she would recover. “Do not be deceived, dear Henry,” she said; “before another month passes away I shall be gone. Bring me a confessor.” One of the Jesuit fathers came immediately, and her first prayer was that they would erect an altar in her room at which Mass might be said on the following day. Meanwhile, she prepared to make a general confession of her whole life, and begged every one in the house to pray for her. Her first care was to fulfil a number of promises which she had made to the Madonna, and calling her husband to her bedside, she begged of him to make them good. Her jewels, wedding-dress, and crown had already been promised to Our Lady of Issoudun. After her death, the Duke of Parma and the Duchess, her sister, repaired to that sanctuary and made the offering. She had also vowed a silver heart to Our Lady of Einsiedeln, and a set of vestments to Our Lady of Lourdes. She had begun to embroider the chasuble herself, but was obliged from sheer weakness to lay it aside. She begged her sister to finish it, and carry it in her name to the holy grotto. In addition to these, she had also vowed to have two hundred Masses celebrated for the suffering souls in purgatory. Opening her purse to fulfil this promise, she found it empty. Indeed, that was its normal condition, and it was said of her that a heavy purse never wore a hole in her pocket. She asked her husband, with child-like simplicity, to give her six hundred francs, and having received them, ordered the sum to be distributed among the churches in the city according to her intention. On the following day, the 20th of August, she confessed and received Holy Communion with edifying fervor. Her only desire now was to remain quiet, that she might commune with God and prepare for her final departure. On the day mentioned, she was visited by Margherita, the wife of Don Carlos. But the dying princess turned her eyes lovingly on the visitor and said, “Pardon me, Margherita, but I must be alone with God.” The Princess Maria Pia and her governess remained by her bedside constantly, and prayed aloud with her. When her confessor entered the room she would say to him, “Must I live many days longer? Pray God not to tarry.” Then she would chide herself for a want of resignation, and say, “As thou wilt!”
It was no difficult task for one whose heart was detached from the things of this world to make a will, and that of the Princess Immacolata of Bourbon did not give her much anxiety. Still, she observed the legal formalities, and showed such clearness and precision in her dictation to the notary as surprised all present. With the exception of that part of the will which affects her natural heirs, the rest is but one long series of donations for religious purposes—foreign missions, religious houses, orphanages, and the like. She was not content with making a handsome provision for each of her domestics, but even made appropriations for their relatives. The poor are called in the will “my dearest heirs,” and to these, she left the sum of 20,000 francs in gold, the distribution of which she entrusted to her governess, Maria Laserre, begging her especially not to forget the poor families she knew in Rome, and elsewhere, during her wanderings. In short, after disposing of the enormous sum of 107,000 francs in gold, to be bestowed in Christian charity, this generous soul concludes her will in these terms: “I intend, moreover, that what remains, over and above, of my capital be all expended in purchasing sacred vessels and vestments for poor churches.” This last provision has already passed into effect, to our personal knowledge. Among the many charitable institutions which Rome possesses there is one whose members devote themselves especially to making vestments and procuring sacred vessels for poor churches. We know of one, composed of some eminent French ladies, who make it their duty to provide for the poor churches of Italy; only a short time ago, they exhibited a splendid assortment of vestments and church furniture, mostly all purchased on the strength of the donation of Maria Immacolata of Bourbon.
And now, having removed every earthly care from her mind, Maria Immacolata disposed herself to receive the Sacrament of Extreme Unction. She begged her confessor to read aloud from some ascetic work, that her soul might be drawn more closely to God. When he had read for awhile, she said, “Now I am ready,” and in the presence of her brother the Count of Bari, her sister the Duchess of Parma, the Princess Margherita, wife of Don Carlos, and her beloved governess, she received the last sacrament. It was then that her confessor informed her that the following day, August 23d, was the Feast of the Immaculate Heart of Mary, whereat she besought all present to pray that she might obtain the singular favor from God of dying on that day and of receiving the Holy Eucharist once more; and with the holy simplicity and fervor of her childhood, she recited aloud the following prayer: “Most Holy Virgin, I resign myself to suffer still more for your honor, and the glory of your divine Son. O my Mother! you who have permitted your daughter to bear your own sweet name of Immacolata, obtain for me the grace to receive once more the most Sacred Body of your divine Son, and to die on the Feast of your Immaculate Heart.” Both favors were granted. On the following day, Mass was celebrated in her room, and she received her Lord for the last time. Her husband also, her brother Count of Bari, the Duke and Duchess of Parma, the Princess Margherita, and all her maids and domestics, communicated. It was a touching scene that transpired after Mass, when the whole household gathered around the bed of the dying princess, and asked her blessing. A smile of angelic delight mantled her face, and, as she said herself, her soul seemed to be inundated with consolation. She no longer felt the oppression and pain which had tortured her an hour previous. Her sister Maria Pia, desirous of having a precious remembrance in after-life, held her own photograph to her lips, that she might imprint a kiss upon it. When she had kissed it, she asked for a pen, and wrote upon the card, in a trembling hand, “Living or dead, I shall always be near thee. Thy own Maria Immacolata”; and on the photograph which her governess presented to her, she wrote, “In heaven and on earth I shall never have but one heart with you. Your little Mistress.”
Calling every one of her domestics to the bedside, she gave each a souvenir of herself, accompanied with a few words of wise counsel. Turning then to the princes her brothers, her sister, and her brother-in-law, she besought them to live together in harmony, and to love one another for her sake. She then asked for her jewels, and choosing a ring, she put it on the finger of Margherita of Spain; another precious ring she put on the finger of her sister, and a third upon that of her governess. While doing this, she asked them to pray that she might be pardoned for the vanity of wearing those ornaments. She asked pardon three successive times of her maid, Maria Grazia, for all the annoyance she had ever given her, and taking another ring from her own finger, she held it out saying, “This is for your sister Francesca in Naples, of whom I ask pardon from afar.” But the Duchess of Parma had still one favor to ask—a blessing for her four little children in the Castle of Wartegg, in Switzerland. The dying sister answered, “Yes, I will pray for them in heaven,” and pronouncing the name of each she kissed the Crucifix and blessed them. The apostolic Benediction of His Holiness had already been sent to her, and now a second arrived, and with it the plenary indulgence in the hour of death. This was followed by a despatch from the Comte de Chambord which said, “We are in great affliction, and are praying.” While all this was passing, her eyes rested upon the form of her husband, who knelt by her side. But recollecting herself, she said, “My Madonna for Mademoiselle”—meaning her governess. “Now,” said she, “I have naught to give away but my soul, and that I give to God.” Turning to her young husband, she said, “Henry! O my Henry! I leave thee, to go where I am called by that God who made us companions for a few short months on earth; but I leave thee in good hands”; and holding in her right hand the crucifix and her rosary, and inclining her head towards a statue of the Blessed Virgin, as if saluting her, and recommending to her care him who knelt there in sorrow, she died.