by Diana Mosley
Quite apart from anything else, all this would have been a positive drawback for her in England. Not since Queen Elizabeth I, with a dress for every day of the year, many of them embroidered with gems, has there been a queen who was the glass of fashion. The English possibly prefer a royal family dressed in gumboots and head scarves, with sparkling bejewelled tulle for great occasions. The Duchess never wore gumboots. She was a femme d’intérieur. When she and the Duke went to London at the invitation of the Queen to attend the unveiling of a plaque to Queen Mary and she was photographed with the royal family, the Duchess in her Paris clothes looked like the denizen of another planet, among the flowery toques and pastel overcoats.
She could hardly have been more unlike an English country lady. She did not care for games with the exception of poker and bridge, let alone for sport, fishing, shooting or hunting. She liked flowers but not gardening. Agriculture passed her by.30” Her only exercise was dancing, or a short stroll with the pugs. She paid great attention to her appearance with constant hairdressing, massage and other beauty aids. She was not much of a reader, except of newspapers and magazines. The biographies and history books, of which we heard in the early days of her marriage at La Croë, had long since been abandoned, and novels and whodunits filled sleepless hours at night. Fortunately she did not care for music; the Duke would have suffered if she had. She preferred little pastiche ‘furniture pictures’ to great art. In most of these ways she resembled former queens far more than she did the English or Scotch aristocracy, which down the ages has been so fond of sport while at the same time collecting the very best French furniture and art from all over Europe.
The Duchess liked company, amusing conversation, parties, and a very little excellent food and wine. She liked what was new, particularly new fashions as long as they were in the classic tradition and she admired perfection in workmanship. If she saw china or glass that she thought pretty at a Palm Beach picnic she ordered crates to go to the Mill, so that guests were sometimes surprised to be given a noble ancient claret in thick green glasses or to eat with tin knives and forks with bamboo handles, just for a change. She liked to feel up-to-date, à la page. ‘I’m sure you’ve never heard of Liberace,’ she said once accusingly to the author, when Liberace and his candelabra and his sparkling suit had had a lot of publicity. What she meant was: ‘You don’t read the popular papers.’ Another time she said: ‘You’re lucky. The Dook* and I have no children, but your sons bring young people to your house.’ She liked the idea of ‘young people.’
An American friend of hers is on record as having said: ‘The trouble with Wallis is she’s never done anything but keep house.’ If this means she never composed a symphony or painted a masterpiece, it is of course true. A perfect dinner and brilliant talk in a delightful setting is as ephemeral as an unrecorded song, but it can nevertheless be a minor work of art, just as dressmaking can be. She kept house supremely well, her own appearance was supremely elegant; she was ‘a wonderful wife to the Duke’, in the words of the second Lord Monckton, son of the Windsors’ great friend Walter. He adds: ‘The one thing I remember about the Duchess is the extraordinary gift she had, so pleasing to men, in that she quickly found out what one’s interests were, and they were immediately hers for the next ten minutes. I always found her charming, kind.’25 This was not an act. She really was interested by people, their point of view, their work, their ambitions and likes and dislikes.
Why were her parties such a success? Delicious food and wine and comfort go a long way, but not the whole way. The Duchess was an excellent hostess, none of her guests felt left out, she encouraged talk. (Cole Porter said it was like a good rally at tennis with her, she always returned the ball.) She invited clever men of various nationalities but principally French, American and English, journalists, politicians, writers, doctors; and beautiful chic women. The Duke remained, as he had always been, a fascinator. She noticed in a second if someone was boring him and moved everyone round. Ignoring protocol, she put English guests near him so that they could talk about friends from the past.
The Duke and the Duchess each kept half an eye on the other, she to be sure all was well, he because she was the only person he was really interested in. One day when he had half heard something she said he called down the table: ‘Darling! Did I hear you say Queen Mary?’ ‘Yes. But it wasn’t your Queen Mary. We’re talking about Bloody Mary,’ was the reply.
On one occasion at the Mill the table was decorated with hundreds of yellow pansies. A guest said to the Duke: ‘Oh, Sir, I’d no idea you were so fond of pansies.’ She was rewarded by an icy stare, it was the sort of joke he disliked.
A journalist they both liked was Kenneth Harris, who did an interview with them for English television. If any proof were needed that the Duke was not forgotten in Britain this appearance on television provided it. Instead of the usual audience of three or four million for Kenneth Harris’ interviews with world celebrities, the night he was shown with the Windsors there were twelve million. The Duke was a popular figure in the land of his birth and his devotees seized this opportunity of getting to know the woman he loved.
Parish fashion among the toques: The Duchess of Windsor watches the Duke kissing the Queen Mother at the unveiling of a plaque to his Mother, Queen Mary.
The Duchess in 1959.
The theory that the Windsors were ‘bitter’ is quite simply untrue. During the very first years the Duke felt frustrated and he was probably bitter about his war job. But after the war a period of great happiness began for them. Just as it would be hard to find two elderly people who loved each other and suited each other as well as they, so it would be difficult to exaggerate their contentment. If they laughed about the ‘establishment’ (a word they liked using) it was in the kindest possible way, though with evident gusto. The Duke was thankful that it did not fall to his lot to preside over the unprecedented decline in British prestige, power and prosperity. He was well aware that he could have done nothing to halt it, but the pulling down of Union Jacks all over the world would not have come easily to him.
During the last twenty or twenty-five years of the Duke’s life there was never any question of going back to England except for a short visit now and again, and this suited the Duchess. There was not only the old contentious question of her title, but also the enormous taxes they would have to pay. The French never taxed them. His mother and his favourite brother, the Duke of Kent, were no more, and a young generation had taken over; what was past was done.
Another bar was the fact that they could not have taken their pugs to and fro, as they always did to America. They hated leaving the pugs. One day a large, strange-looking mongrel followed the Duchess back when she had been in the Bois with her dogs; she adopted him, and he was as much loved as the others.
Whenever the Duke and Duchess, or the Duke alone, visited London Walter Monckton was always on the platform as the train came in, most faithful of friends. During the war he had given up the Bar and gone into politics; he several times held high office. He and his second wife Biddy were frequent guests at the Mill and in Paris, they brought all the political gossip from London.
A friend of the Windsors, the witty journalist Hervé Mille, was once asked by the Duchess to try to get the recipe of a delicious chaud froid de poulet that she had enjoyed while staying at Mouton with the Philippe de Rothschilds. He did his best, and when they all dined together at the Windsors’ he saw Baron Philippe de Rothschild take a sealed envelope out of his pocket and give it to the Duchess. Delighted she opened it and read the following from Mme de Rothschild:
When the Duke arrived in London, he was always met by Lord Monckton: (above) the Duke acknowledging cheers from the crowd; (below) Monckton with the Duke and Duchess
Madame,
I am infinitely sensible of the honour done me by your royal highness’ interest in having the receipt of my chaud froid. Nevertheless, great as is my respectful devotion, I cannot go as far as to cut off my arm. Yet without
my hand, the receipt is useless, even to the most eminent chef.
Both the Duchess and Pauline de Rothschild were American born, but after many years in France they had acquired a certain attitude towards the high importance of recipes, dishes, wines. Great laughter greeted this firm refusal.
Hervé Mille speaks of the ‘rapid, brilliant sallies’ of the Duchess,26 which were appreciated by her French friends. A rather hard brilliance is often associated with her, but she had a sentimental side. Walter Lees took a choir of carol singers to the house in the Bois for a surprise one Christmas Eve; she wrote to him: ‘I can’t begin to tell you how touched the Duke and I were with the Christmas carols you brought to us—I had tears in my eyes at times.’ During the private showing of his documentary film A King’s Story Jack Le Vien sat where he could see the Duke and Duchess, and a few tears fell.
Notes
25 In a letter to the author.
26 In conversation with the author.
* The Duchess pronounced duke the American way, and so, towards the end of his life, did the Duke himself.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Old Age
Ungebeten und ungewarnt nimmt sie uns in den Kreislauf ihres Tanzes auf, und treibt sich mit uns fort, bis wir ermüdet sind und ihrem Arme entfallen.
Goethe, ‘Natur.’
‘THEY ARE NOT long, the days of wine and roses …’ For the Windsors, as for everyone else, they came to an end. One by one their friends died. The Duchess fought old age and illness every inch of the way, with characteristic determination and courage. In 1964 the Duke was operated on for a ‘ballooning artery’ by Dr de Bakey in Houston, Texas; who put a length of plastic inside him; he made a complete recovery. Dr and Mrs de Bakey became friends of the Windsors and were guests at the Mill whenever they went to France. Then the Duke was operated on for detached retina by Mr James Hudson at the London Clinic. Their general practitioner from New York, Dr Antenucci, flew over to be with the Windsors and was present at the operation. Mr Hudson was ‘absolutely enchanted with the Duchess and her devotion during the Duke’s time in hospital.’27 She had a room next to his in the Clinic, sat with him all day and read the newspapers to him. When they were at Claridge’s awaiting the operation Bruce Ogilvy went to see them, for the last time, and the Queen visited her uncle in hospital.
The Duke could now no longer work in his garden. When he had lumbago and could not stoop, the Duchess got him a wooden milking stool on which he sat to weed the borders, but now his sight was impaired. They put the Mill up for sale; it was essential to economize somewhere, but he missed the place. They asked too high a price and once, when a deal was almost completed, the whole thing was discussed in the gossip columns of an English newspaper and the purchaser withdrew. The sale hung fire.
One evening the Windsors were dining in Paris with Princess Caetani; the Duke was playing gin rummy. He had become quite silent and his neighbour reminded him: ‘Sir, it’s your turn.’ At that moment the Duke, who seemed to be fast asleep, fell slowly off his chair. He was lifted onto a sofa, where after a few moments he recovered consciousness, saying: ‘Where is my cigar’?’ A fellow-guest has described the tender solicitude shown by the Duchess and also her remarkable presence of mind when everyone else was inclined to panic. She opened her bag and found the doctor’s telephone number, and made someone alert the American Hospital and her own house, saying she might be arriving with the Duke within a few minutes. In the event he quite recovered and they were able to go home.
The Duchess and the Duke with Mr John Utter, the Duke’s private secretary, after the Duke’s operation for detached retina in 1965 at the London Clinic.
The Duchess as godmother to the son of Henry and Linda Mortimer in 1969. Linda is the daughter of Major ‘Fruity’ Metcalfe.
Cora Caetani’s maid, pale with emotion, stood at the bottom of the stairs when the Duke appeared, leaning on the Duchess’ arm. Thinking she was a Spaniard he told her, in Spanish, how much he loved Spain. But she said she was Portuguese. ‘Marvellous country,’ said the Duke, unperturbed. ‘I must say he was a model of pluck, dignity and courtesy,’ says a witness of the scene.
Early in 1972 the Duke’s old friend Lord Sefton was ill and the Duchess wrote a note of sympathy to ‘Dearest Foxie’, Lady Sefton. ‘We are not well. I have a flood of nerves and the Duke is having X-ray for his throat,’ she said. Later, the Duke had had thirty deep X-ray treatments and they had done him good, but she added ‘I too from worry have a painful time with my old friend the ulcer,’ and ‘There is nothing to he said for growing old.’ The only cheerful thing was that Grace Dudley had been to see them, ‘great rush and full of pep.’
The Duchess wished they had put all the money they spent on the Mill into a house in the South of France where the climate was better. The Duke ‘was far from well, the cold and damp of Paris did not help, and there could be no question of travelling to America. The Duchess never smoked, but the Duke had smoked all his life, cigarettes, pipes, cigars. Even now that he had cancer of the throat he lit a cigar after dinner. He never gave in to illness and insisted on coming down if there were people dining, almost to the very end. It cheered him to see friends, and he was as interested as ever in what was going on in the world. His voice was sometimes a whisper and sometimes quite loud and harsh, it seemed as if it must hurt him to talk, but he refused to give up.
When the Queen visited the Windsors in May 1972 the Duke was too ill to come downstairs to receive her. She sat with him in his room; she must have realized he was dying. A photograph was taken of the Queen, Prince Philip, Prince Charles and the Duchess on the steps of the house.
The Duke died on 28 May 1972, within a month of his seventy-eighth birthday. With each news bulletin the BBC broadcast his Abdication speech; it made the same impact as it had thirty-five years before. His body was flown to England in a RAF plane; the Duchess followed two days later in one of the Queen’s aeroplanes. She was accompanied by Lady Soames, Grace Lady Dudley, Dr Antenucci and Mr John Utter, the Duke’s private secretary. She no longer feared flying, she felt her life was over.
The visit of Queen Elizabeth II, the Duke of Edinburgh and Prince Charles to the Windsors’ Paris home in May 1972. The Duke was too ill to receive his family.
The widowed Duchess with the Queen Mother after the Duke’s funeral at St George’s Chapel, Windsor.
The Duchess watching the return of the procession from Trooping the Colour, ‘her face the very image of grief.’ During the ceremony, the pipers played ‘The Flowers of the Forest’ as a lament for the Duke.
Her friend Hubert de Givenchy had given her some mourning dresses and his tailors made her a black coat in a single night, a feat unparalleled in the annals of haute couture. The Queen invited her to stay at Buckingham Palace, and Grace Dudley looked after the Duchess. While she was there the ceremony of Trooping the Colour took place. The Queen wore a black arm-band on her uniform and pipers played ‘The Flowers of the Forest’, a lament for the Duke. The Duchess looked out of the window at the Palace, her face the very image of grief.
The lying-in-state was in St George’s Chapel, Windsor, and the night before the funeral Prince Charles drove the Duchess down after the crowds had gone. Perhaps it was a surprise to the authorities that there were crowds, perhaps they believed the Duke had been forgotten. After all, it was more than thirty-five years since the Abdication. Sixty thousand people made the journey to Windsor to pay their respects to the King who had reigned for eleven months so long ago, to the Prince of Wales who had been and would always remain a folk legend.
He was buried near Queen Victoria and Prince Albert by the family Mausoleum at Frogmore. After the funeral the Duchess flew back to France and the photograph of this tiny figure in black going up the steps of the aeroplane alone seemed for many people to underline the terrible loneliness that would now begin for her. To get back to the empty house; never more to be greeted by the Duke’s call: ‘Darling, darling, I’m here!’ He had cherished, adored an
d protected her for nearly four decades with his extraordinary devotion. There can hardly ever have been a widow with quite so much to miss.
The Duchess had no relations but many friends, and her friends tried to help. After the first shock of grief she saw them often, but she was often tired and depressed, unhappy and lonely. After a time, to escape from this, she began going out too much; but it made her worse. ‘Try to learn to say no,’ her doctor told her.
In the spring of 1974 she went to America, sailing on the southern route in the SS Raffaello, but she soon came back to France, saying she was ‘homesick.’ She looked upon France as home, and often said: ‘France has been very good to us.’ That summer the Duchess flew to England in one of the Queen’s aeroplanes, visited the Duke’s grave, and went home the same day.
The Duchess returning to France alone after the funeral of the Duke, 5 June 1972.
A dinner party given by the Duchess in Paris in 1975. The author right hand corner (back to camera).
Her servants were devoted to her, and there she had great good fortune. The perfect French butler, Georges, and his wife Ofélia, were real friends and they were the lynchpin of the household. The excellent cook stayed on, until the time came when only invalid food was required. When he was asked why, he said it was because he learned so much from the Duchess. The loyalty of her household after the Duke’s death was admirable.
Her own illness began with a broken leg; she got over this fairly quickly, but on 13 November 1975 she had a haemorrhage, and from then on was never quite well again. At times she seemed to be on the point of recovery, but it always eluded her, and her many friends could do little to help. Her lawyer, the clever and devoted Maître Suzanne Blum, looked after her interests eagle-eyed. Once, when the Duchess was carried downstairs to her chaise longue on the terrace a photographer with a long-distance lens got a picture of her which was published in various newspapers and on French television. Maître Blum sued on her behalf, and each paper was obliged to pay more than £8,000 damages. It was an invasion of privacy, a serious matter in France.