[105] Wraxall’s Posthumous Memoirs, vol. i.
Queen Matilda’s end was tragically sudden—so sudden as to call forth the wildest rumours of foul play. A report was current in Celle that the Queen was poisoned at the instigation of her deadly enemy, Juliana Maria, acting through the agency of a negro, named Mephisto, who was cook at the castle. It was said that he first gave a poisoned cup of chocolate to a young page in the Queen’s household, and seeing that it worked with fatal effect, he poisoned the Queen in the same way. The death of the Queen at the moment when their plans were nearing fruition doubtless seemed suspicious to her Danish adherents who spread this report, which was firmly believed by the common people in Copenhagen and Celle. But the evidence of her physicians,[106] who sent a detailed account of the Queen’s last illness and death to George III., leaves no doubt that she died from natural causes.
[106] Leyser, a physician of Celle, and Zimmermann, a physician of Hanover.
Like all the children of Frederick Prince of Wales (except Augusta of Brunswick and possibly George III.), Matilda was not of a strong constitution. The climate of Denmark never agreed with her, and the awful experiences she had gone through at Copenhagen shattered her health. She was naturally of a plethoric habit of body, and though in Denmark she had kept this tendency in check by continual exercise, such as riding, walking and dancing—harmless amusements which her enemies urged as offences against her—in her five months’ imprisonment at Kronborg she could take no exercise at all, and afterwards at Celle she voluntarily gave up riding and dancing lest she should call forth unkindly comment. The result was she became exceedingly stout—in so young a woman much too stout for health. She had always lived an active life, and the forced inaction to which she was condemned at Celle was very bad for her, and the dulness and monotony weighed on her spirits. Moreover, during the last few months, she had been leading a life of suppressed excitement; the thought of her possible restoration continually agitated her, and one day she would be greatly elated, and another day correspondingly depressed. All this told upon her strength, and rendered her the more susceptible to illness, should any come her way.
In the spring of 1775 (in fact, while Wraxall was there) an epidemic called indifferently “military fever” or “the purples” had spread to a great extent in Celle, and there were many deaths. Queen Matilda was accustomed to walk freely about the town, and she therefore may have exposed herself to infection; but she does not seem to have taken any harm from the epidemic until after the death of her page. This boy, who died on May 5, was a great favourite with the Queen; she felt his death very much, and insisted on going to see him when he was lying dead in one of the rooms of the castle. Her ladies tried to dissuade her, but she would go, and either then, or at some other time, she caught the infection. On coming back from the page’s room she learned that the little girl, Sophie von Benningsen, whom she had adopted, was also down with the fever. The Queen, very much depressed, went for a walk in the French garden, and when she came back she was so tired that she could scarcely mount the steps of the castle. She dined as usual with her court, but ate scarcely anything, and after dinner felt too unwell to play cards and withdrew to her chamber.
The next morning, after a bad night, she complained of a sore throat and chill. Her physician, Dr. Leyser, was called in, and compelled her to remain in bed. Towards evening her condition showed a slight improvement, but the next day symptoms so alarming appeared that Leyser sent for Dr. Zimmermann, a celebrated physician at Hanover. The Queen seemed to have a presentiment of death, for she said to Leyser: “You have twice helped me through a dangerous illness since October, but this time I shall die.” The doctors affected a cheerfulness which they were far from feeling, for the Queen’s condition grew worse every hour, and the fever became very violent. Prayers were offered for her in the churches; she was deeply touched when her women told her that the whole of Celle was praying for her, and even the Jewish community had offered up supplications on her behalf.
The dying Queen was eager to avail herself of the consolations of religion; Pastor Lehzen, her chaplain, prayed by her bedside, and read, at her request, her favourite hymns and some verses from the Bible. She went towards death without fear, indeed she seemed to welcome it. Her sufferings were agonising, but through them all she manifested a marvellous patience and fortitude. The Queen kept her senses to the last, and almost with her dying breath expressed her forgiveness of her enemies. Her last thought was of others; she inquired after the little girl, Sophie, and when the doctor told her that the child was out of danger, she whispered: “Then I die soothed,” and fell quietly asleep. In this sleep she died. The good pastor, who was praying by the Queen’s bedside when her spirit fled, thus described the end: “I never witnessed so easy a passing; death seemed to lose all its terrors. The words of Holy Writ: ‘O Death, where is thy sting?’ were literally true in her case. She fell asleep like a tired wayfarer.”
Queen Matilda died on the evening of May 11, 1775, at ten minutes past eleven, at the age of twenty-three years and nine months.
This “Queen of Tears” was married at fifteen; she died at twenty-three. What unhappiness, what tragedy, what pathos were crowded in those brief eight years! If she erred, she suffered greatly—imprisonment, exile, the loss of her children, her crown, her honour—surely it was enough! To those who are inclined to judge her harshly, the thought of her youth and her sorrows will surely stay their judgment. We would fain leave them to plead for her, without entering again on the oft-debated question of how far she erred in her great love for the man who showed himself altogether unworthy of the sacrifices she made for him. But her indiscreet champions have unwittingly done her memory more harm than good by claiming for her, throughout her troubled life at the Danish court, what she never claimed—absolute innocence in thought, word and deed. They rest their contention on evidence which we would gladly accept if we could. But alas! it does not bear the test of critical investigation.