I have already discussed the character of this unhappy woman in _Post
Mortem_. To the psychology that I there enunciated I have nothing to add;
and I still believe that if she had not been for so long an old maid,
if she had not been neglected by Philip II, or if she had been married,
as she probably would have preferred, to Charles V, England would not
have had occasion to call her “Bloody Mary.” She but supplies another
instance, if one were needed, that religion and sex[7] are not far apart.
For details as to her physical health I am indebted to the _British
Medical Journal_ for 1910, where there appeared that noteworthy series
of articles on Royal Deathbeds which has been so useful to historically
minded doctors.
As a child she was always sickly, though as she grew up she had to
undergo the rigid mental discipline that Henry enforced on all his
children. Being a very learned man himself, he naturally tried to imbue
them with his own hunger for knowledge; and all three rivalled their
father in intellectual endeavour.
With better fortune, better health, and perhaps we might say with a less
exacting father, Mary might have been as great as he. Instead her really
great parts turned her into the road of tyranny and persecution, and
“Bloody Mary” she will remain for all time.
The “storms of puberty” that had shattered the frail barque of Edward VI,
and brought his latent spirochætes to the surface, beat hard upon Mary’s
body, and left her an embittered and sickly woman, with an intellect
below her station, and a conscience above it. But what she mistook for
the love of God—religion—was probably a love more fleshly; the desire
of the moth for the star, as Shelley puts it poetically. Indeed, it is
difficult to describe this primitive instinct in language that shall not
be poetical; the great brain of man has idealised love until it is the
emotion furthest from prose that humanity is capable of suffering; and
that which is originally common to man and the brutes becomes the noblest
feeling of the human brain; transcendental. And when again sublimated it
may lead to the fiercest of injustices, to the most savage of religious
persecutions. To that goal it led Mary Tudor, the most unhappy woman in
English history.
As a girl she suffered from menstrual troubles that caused her great
pain; her normal menstruation was often scanty; and this has been
attributed to overstudy. To this day we find that any overstrain, or
even a sudden change of climate, may cause amenorrhœa in a young woman;
many of our English girl-immigrants, having left the depths of an
English summer for the mildness of a Sydney winter, suddenly terrify
their friends by becoming amenorrhœic, often to their unfounded mental
distress. Later on she suffered from what she called her “old guest,”
of which the chief symptom was amenorrhœa. The probability is that
soon after her marriage with Philip she really did become pregnant,
and miscarried. The disappointment weighed heavily on her mind. Was it
possible that she, who was so earnest, virtuous and religious, should
be affected by the same curse as the wives of her father? She became
cachectic—that is to say, her complexion assumed the ashy hue of a
person dying of cancer; and her abdomen swelled as though she were again
pregnant. Sir Spencer Wells in 1877 hazarded the guess that she probably
suffered from “ovarian dropsy,” an old-fashioned term for what we should
now call “parovarian cyst,” a tumour that takes its origin from a little
body adjacent to the ovary, and, being distended with fluid, causes
enormous swelling of the abdomen. It is the one abdominal tumour which,
if tapped, may possibly not return, and the patient may be cured with no
further ado.
For years before she died she had suffered from very bad health; she was
never well, and could never attend to her work properly, owing to the
terrible headaches that afflicted her; these were possibly due to her bad
eyesight. With these also went palpitation of the heart. She never became
old, for she died at forty-two; and most likely the proverb was as true
with her as it still is with every young person—“If you feel your heart,
it is not your heart; it is something else, generally your stomach.”
It is quite true that she, like Charles V, felt the loss of Calais
desperately; her exact words to her ladies-in-waiting were, “When I am
opened you will find Calais lying on my heart.” Probably the fluttering
at her heart put the idea into her head; and equally probably that
fluttering ultimately came from her pelvic distress, which in turn would
doubtless cause indigestion. We often see similar cases to-day.
Her father had compelled her to sign a statement that his marriage
with Catherine of Aragon had been “by God’s law and man’s incestuous
and unlawful”; thereby forcing her to declare herself a bastard. The
parliament of her brother Edward VI passed an Act of Uniformity that
enjoined services in English and did not permit of the Mass. To Mary,
as a devout Roman Catholic, this appeared to be a form of persecution.
She therefore appealed to her cousin the Emperor who intervened on her
behalf, as he had tried to intervene on behalf of her mother during the
divorce. But this time he was more successful, for he threatened England
with war unless Mary’s freedom of worship was restored to her, and her
right of hearing Mass in her own chapel after the old canons. It is easy
to see that the great Tudor dictator was dead and that only a sick woman
sat on his throne. But Mary seems to have had no approximately impartial
adviser. Throughout her reign she had no one to help her but the Emperor,
who, great as he was, could not be called impartial in those dreadful
times.
She was by no means personally cruel; she was lenient to political
prisoners and restored out of her own privy purse some of the monasteries
which her father had robbed. When her tumour—if it was a tumour—returned,
in 1557, she drew up a will in expectation of the dangers of childbirth.
She added a codicil to this in October, 1558, which showed that she had
abandoned all hope of children. Her husband had not returned to her after
he had gone to Belgium to see Charles V abdicate, and the elderly wife at
last saw that no child of hers was to govern England.
In 1558 she suffered from what was then called “the new burning ague,”
which is now thought to have been the influenza; in that year it was
raging in England, killing thousands of people.
She died suddenly in November, 1558, in full possession of her mind,
while she was hearing Mass in her own private chamber, a right that she
had won after such bitter struggles. Although no post-mortem examination
was held, it is generally thought that she died of an ovarian tumour,
though that is not likely to be correct, because an ovarian tumour would
not cause sudden death. Nor is there any record of any sickness that
would cause a heart disease that might kill her suddenly, unless perhaps
the influenza may have weakened her heart. I rather fancy that my own
guess is correct as given in _Post Mortem_ that she died of “degeneration
of heart and arteries,” not necessarily but probably syphilitic and
inherited from her father.
Any doctor looking at the portrait of her wizened, lined, and prematurely
aged face would probably say, “That woman must have been a hereditary
syphilitic,” especially if he knew the history of Henry VIII. I am
surprised to see that in the actual record of her life there appears to
be none of the usual symptoms of hereditary syphilis beyond the general
ill-health that was hers all her days, poor creature. Doubtless the
illness in her father was working itself out by the time that she was
born.
But she was very short-sighted; and possibly, as Sir Clifford Allbutt
points out, this may have been due to “interstitial keratitis,” an
affection of the cornea of the eye which is almost confined to hereditary
syphilitics. So that in Mary also we see the effects of the “tragedy
of the Tudors.” I am certain that that wizened face must come from
hereditary syphilis, because one of the first patients I ever had looked
extraordinarily like Mary Tudor, and the swellings on her arms for
which she consulted me melted rapidly under the influence of mercury.
Her photograph lies in my desk to this day as a perfect illustration of
delayed hereditary syphilis.