Memoirs of the Duchess of Windsor — Part Two

— Part Two —

The next morning I went to visit my mother, afraid to reveal to her what my heart concealed: my mother, and all the members of my family, looked upon divorce as a dreadful thing that other people did... But I found no way around telling her the truth; she stared at me in bewilderment, then shouted in my face: Wallis... you cannot be serious in what you are saying... divorce is the most dreadful thing a creature can do... But my mother treated me with logic, and so she shifted from scolding to argument and persuasion; she took my hand and said: I married two men, and neither of them was in any way better than the other... The success of a marriage depends on the woman's understanding... But my mother's advice did not enter my ears... Finally she suggested that I speak to my Aunt Bessie about the matter — and Bessie surpassed her in prejudice against divorce; nor was her position any better. She said: This is something that must not enter your mind... Try again to go back to your husband... or leave him for a while and then return to him... After a long lecture she settled on this phrase: Montague women do not divorce their men... She too advised me to consult Uncle Sol — perhaps he could pluck the idea out of my head... His position was no different from my aunt's and my mother's... He looked at me in astonishment and muttered: No... I will not believe that you would bring this disgrace upon the Warfield family... And his lectures only made me more stubborn in my opinion...

Win was not so stupid as to miss what was going through my head; our relations improved for a time, then returned to what they had been... When I told him my idea, he turned to me with tenderness and said: Wallis... if you change your mind, I am always yours...

Thereupon I moved into my mother's house, and in February 1922 Win was transferred with the American fleet to the Far East. He kept writing to me from Hong Kong, telling me about friends we knew, about China, about the loneliness he was enduring and how he missed flying, the work he loved... As for me, I was alone, for I felt true loneliness and emptiness... I could not manage to forget the times we had spent together, the things we had done, and the road we had traveled side by side... Our separation was temporary, and I could go back if I wished...

Here Corinne Mustin came back into my life... She wrote to me of the death of her husband, Henry, the previous summer, and asked me to go with her to Paris... I nearly flew for sheer joy, but the one obstacle was money... for the sum Win was paying me was not enough for such extravagance... There was nothing for it, then, but to ask Uncle Sol... despite his attitude toward me... I learned that he was staying at the Plaza Hotel in New York, so I went straight to him. And there I discovered a corner I had never known in the life of my reserved uncle... The reception room was crowded with pictures of actresses, signed with their autographs... and most of them were among the most beautiful women in the world... The idea took me by surprise, and I could not believe that Uncle Sol was their owner!... In short, I told him of my intention to visit Paris, and he launched into a sermon on the moral corruption of the French capital; my answer was that moral corruption can be found in any of God's wide cities. My uncle did not reply, but handed me a fistful of money which, after I had climbed into the car, I discovered to be five hundred dollars...

Corinne and I sailed in January 1924 on a small American ship, and we put up at a modest hotel on the Rue Pierre Charron... Fortunately we were not alone, for Corinne remembered a friend who held the post of military attaché at the American embassy... He invited us to dinner, accompanied by the embassy secretary — both of them bachelors... So it was a fortunate beginning, and through the two friends we came to know many companions... When Corinne went back to America, I stayed on in Paris with my women friends... And Win kept up his letters to me from the other end of the world... The curious thing is that during this period I spent most of my time with women who were divorced, or on the verge of divorce; and so I saw for myself that divorce is a failure, however one may try to cover it over and draw veils across it... When Win wrote inviting me to return to him, my friend Ethel was going home aboard the France... and a new idea occurred to me... Perhaps our relations would succeed in the East after they had failed in the West!

In June 1924 I returned to Washington with my mother; she could scarcely believe that I would go back to life with Win... The greatest motive that drove me to return was my feeling of his love, which I never lost for a moment during the period of estrangement... When he received me on the deck of the ship, he looked at me tenderly and said: I have not taken a drink since I learned you were coming back to me... Two weeks passed over us as though we were living our honeymoon all over again; my self-confidence returned. Then one evening we were invited to dine at the house of a friend of his, but Win did not come home at the usual hour, and I was forced to send a word of apology declining the invitation... He did not return until after midnight... Then his absences began to lengthen, without excuse or reason... When he traveled to Canton on a mission, it was expected that I would follow him. But I was stricken with a kidney ailment, and my fever rose... I still remember how Win dropped every responsibility and devoted his time to nursing me... When I recovered I returned to Hong Kong with my hopes renewed, but our situation went back to what it had been before... The monster of jealousy stirred in his breast, and he began accusing me of forming attachments with the officials; suspicion drove him to open all my letters; and more than that, he began frequenting the dance halls and night clubs, and took to drinking even before breakfast. Then I knew for certain that our marriage had been wrecked, and the winds had scattered its wreckage to nothing... So I stood up boldly to announce to him the end of the road, and the failure of the second attempt... He agreed with indifference... I traveled to Shanghai and stayed at a hotel much frequented by sailors' wives; one of them invited me one day to go to Peking, and I agreed in spite of the distance... During this period I had come to accept any proposal with a yes and a thank-you... I put up at the Grand Hotel de Pékin, meaning to stay two weeks to buy Chinese silks and fine Chinese furnishings... But something happened that was not in the reckoning... For just when every power seemed leagued against me, I met at the hotel Katherine Moore Bigelow and her husband Herman Rogers, and she invited me to leave the hotel and live with her... In a quiet corner the couple had chosen a residence that was the very symbol of refined taste, and they provided every means for my comfort and the calm of my nerves...

That drove every thought of Win out of my head. But a voice never ceased pursuing me at every moment: my life was without a goal, and it could not go on wasting time here and there... And so, after sharing the couple's life through the autumn, the winter, and the spring, I returned at the beginning of summer to Japan, and was stricken aboard the ship with a fever that defeated the doctor's continuous efforts; he declared in the end that a surgical operation was unavoidable... And harder still was staying in a strange city where I knew not a soul... Win learned of my illness, came to Chicago, and then accompanied me to Washington — and after that I never glimpsed his face again... When I regained my strength I began working for the divorce; a lawyer friend advised me to go to Virginia, where I could obtain a divorce after residing there for at least a year... I settled in Warrenton, in a small hotel, and my life was a period of quiet and reading... I read poetry, and the works of Sinclair Lewis, Somerset Maugham, and Will Durant; and from time to time I would take the train to Washington to see my mother and a few friends, or to New York to do my shopping...

The friends closest to me in Washington were the Raffrays, and I came to know their friends, among them Ernest Simpson and his wife... Ernest was born in New York of English parents, a graduate of Harvard University; his father had left him free to choose between American and English nationality, and he chose the latter. His wife was American, and I understood from her that their marital relations were coming apart, and that Ernest compensated for the home by devoting himself to society and to his friends... He was reserved in his appearance, but quick-witted and elegantly dressed; he danced well, and loved the theater and reading... I studied all this closely and attentively, watching covertly this out-of-the-ordinary personality... He was soon captivated by me, and my fascination with him was no less; and Mary Raffray would often invite him to her table when she knew I was going to visit her, so we would meet in conversation over the meal or around the bridge table... As the days passed we grew ever closer to each other, and felt an ever greater harmony of inclinations and tastes. And I kept persuading myself not to become entangled in a romantic attachment before I had finished everything with Win...

I was at the threshold of thirty, and began thinking of finding some kind of work, but I did not have the intellectual capacity sufficient for that. It happened, as I was returning from New York, that aboard the boat there was a friend from Baltimore who began telling me about a fortune-teller who worked miracles; I was a realist and the idea did not appeal to me, but my friend assured me of the pleasure of the experience — listening for half an hour to talk of my future and my life... No sooner had my friend left me than I sent to summon the skillful fortune-teller, at ten dollars a sitting... The words she strung into my ears have faded away, all but a few. She predicted that I would yet marry twice in my life. One of the marriages would be ordinary, and would soon vanish from my mind; then another marriage, between the ages of forty and fifty, into which a mighty power would enter, and which would raise a tremendous stir... I asked her about that power, and she did not answer, but she reassured me that I would become a famous woman... I asked her again whether that power would be the result of some work of my own, and she said no, adding: There is not a single occupation in the course of your life... You will live a simple life; you will marry, then divorce, and pass through difficult nervous states... And that power has to do with a man...

I did not believe her at the time, and I went back to my former life — my short outings, my many books, and my loneliness whistling in my ears like the whistling of the abyss... Ernest Simpson decided to divorce his wife within a short time; then he came offering me marriage, once the two of us were free; and when I looked into myself I found that I loved him for several qualities...

Meanwhile my mother had married Charles Gordon in Washington, and though she was fifty-six years old, she showed the gaiety of a young bride.

Then an unexpected letter came to me from Aunt Bessie, inviting me to accompany her to Europe... That was in midsummer 1927, when we left New York; and we spent a happy time, which my aunt enlivened with her gaiety, her vitality, and her independence... As we were planning our return I was startled by the news of Uncle Sol's death... I had become in his eyes the stray sheep, and he had not been in touch with me since my last visit to him... When I went back to attend the funeral, my soul was wrapped in a somber black sheet, like the closed future I could not know; and it appeared that my uncle's will had not deprived me of some share of his inheritance... Then, at the end of the summer, I obtained the divorce paper from Win. Ernest Simpson had gone to England to head his family's business there, and from there he wrote asking me again to marry him; and my answer this time was yes, without any hesitation. I sent it from the Côte d'Azur in France, where Katherine Rogers and her husband had invited me to spend the winter season...

In May 1928 I traveled to London, where Ernest had prepared everything for the marriage — the car, the chauffeur, and the villa — and on July 21 of that year we were married. My wedding dress was yellow, with a blue coat over it, both brought to me by a famous dressmaker in Paris... We held no celebration for our wedding; even the people who witnessed it could be counted on the fingers of one hand... But the happy honeymoon we spent in France made us forget all that, and with Ernest I felt a security and a stability I had not known since my childhood...