Ferdinand II of Bourbon is generally remembered as an authoritarian sovereign, determined and tireless in his promotion of innovation, both in the political and technological spheres. A significant example of this was the construction of the Naples–Portici railway, inaugurated in 1839 as the first railway line on the Italian peninsula, reflecting a clear determination to modernise the State.
Less well known, yet equally noteworthy, was his simple lifestyle and his desire to maintain direct contact with the people. He enjoyed appearing among his subjects without excessive formalities, establishing an immediate rapport that helped strengthen his popularity and his image as a sovereign who was present and actively involved in the life of his people.
According to Harold Acton in The Last Bourbons of Naples, in October 1852 Ferdinand II began the major military manoeuvres in Calabria, personally carrying out an inspection tour. On that occasion, he refused to stay in private residences, despite the well-known hospitality of the local aristocracy, preferring far more modest accommodation:
“When he could not stay with the local Intendant, Ferdinand would ask for hospitality at some religious institution and would often seem to take a perverse delight in stopping at places ill-prepared to receive him, perhaps because this allowed him to catch a glimpse of lives so different from his own.”
The Sovereign slept only a few hours each night and soon resumed his activities, seemingly driven by inexhaustible energy. His days began with public and private audiences, during which he swiftly granted favours, financial assistance and acts of clemency.
It is said that on one occasion he insisted on travelling to Mongiana, against everyone’s advice, undertaking a route considered impassable. “You know that I may break, but I shall never bend,” he is said to have declared. The journey, however, proved problematic: the carriage became stuck in the sand of a river, and when the King ordered the postilion to spur on the horses, they bolted, kicking violently and causing further damage to the vehicle.
Ferdinand was thus forced to abandon the journey and spend the night in Pizzo. Although accommodation befitting his rank had been arranged, he preferred to stay in a small convent near the Church of San Francesco di Paola. The meal was served on simple tables in a poorly lit corridor, as there was no refectory. Many members of his entourage had to sleep on mattresses laid directly on the floor, exposed to strong draughts.
Acton recounts:
“The following day the party resumed its journey in lighter carriages; the King had taken his place in a small phaeton, with his son beside him and his valet Galizia behind. At noon, when Ferdinand asked what had been brought for breakfast, Galizia produced two chickens; but, alas, he had forgotten the bread. ‘Never mind,’ said the monarch, and sent an officer to fetch two army ration loaves. The bread arrived, but the King, noticing that the young Prince was eating only the chicken, asked: ‘Ciccí, aren’t you eating your bread?’ The boy complained that it was hard and mouldy. ‘Eat it, and you’ll always have it! The soldiers eat it, and they are better than we are.’
[…] At Bagnara, the King insisted on stopping at the only inn. When the innkeeper’s wife offered him the finest sheets she possessed, he protested: ‘These are not the sheets you give to all your guests. No, no, I want ordinary linen; you must treat me like everyone else.’ Once the sheets had been changed, he remarked: ‘This is more to my liking; these are the happiest days of my life.’ As late as 1860, the innkeeper proudly showed travellers the humble room in which the King had slept.”
