The Memoirs of the Duchess of Windsor — Third Installment

I spent three weeks of the honeymoon with Ernest Simpson in France, and we returned at the beginning of summer to London, staying in a small hotel until we could find a residence. I found a furnished house with the help of Maud, Ernest's sister. Like all English houses it was crammed with furnishings, the necessary and the unnecessary alike — but I began to love our new home as time went by. I had a servant, a cook, a chauffeur, and a lady's maid; that was luxury, to be sure — but who was expected to come to this house?

I knew no one in London except Ernest's sister, and she was infinitely kind to me and understanding of my state of mind; for this reason she let no occasion or dinner given at her home pass without inviting me to attend — her aim being to introduce me to the greatest possible number of her friends. Yet none of this eased my feeling that I was a foreign American who had come to force herself upon a London society she did not expect to understand or to be understood by. How many times I ran into difficulties in conversation because of my American accent — and I will not mention the stares of the shopkeepers, and their astonishment when I asked for some article that was known to them by another name. And the difficulty of language faded away entirely beside the resounding titles, which worked like magic upon the British, while they were strange, and remote from an American girl's understanding. I still remember the advice one of Maud's friends gave me: she said it was necessary that I mention a few grand titles in my talk in front of my maid, so as to win her respect. Curiosity led me to study London society, and I found no better means than reading the newspapers; the corner that spoke of the parties and the events at the royal palace caught my eye in particular, and I was arrested by the titles that the editor set before the names of

the members of the royal family. It astounded me to see an entire nation following the comings and goings of a single family; even Ernest himself, who had lived years in the United States, showed intense interest in it. If he spoke of what Her Majesty the Queen or the King had said at a gathering or a charity function, he would mention it with reverence and awe. If Queen Mary changed her coat, that was enough to renew women's fashions. As for King George, he was a model of elegance. Besides all this, I marveled at the Londoners' passion for talking about the royal family; before I ever met the Prince of Wales, I had formed a clear picture of him from talk around the bridge table or at a tea party.

One of the problems I encountered was my frankness, and then my gaiety, for I differed from the Englishwoman, who does not say everything she thinks and does not show her feelings — she even perfects her smiles. In drawing-room conversation I never heard a colloquial word; if I once forgot myself and agreed to something with the word "okay," the glances were leveled at me as at one who had done something scandalous. I came to think that Maud's friends waited in wonderment for whatever this strange woman might utter — and that was enough to make me withdraw into myself in the days that followed. Maud tried to help me adopt the ways customary in the society around me, moved to it by her love for her brother; but she only made me cling to my former habits, to the point of excess.

My loneliness grew, and my spirits sank, with the coming of the winter of 1928 — the bitterest winter of my life. A wave of ice swept over London, and a thick sheet of fog wrapped the city until even the inhabitants' features changed. Added to that was the illness of King George V, who was fighting death in Buckingham Palace. The Prince of Wales returned from East Africa, where he had been on a hunting trip — returned with all speed — and it was as though the entire capital lived on the doctors' daily bulletins. On a rainy day, I was in my car near St. James's Palace when I caught sight of the guards presenting arms, and then I saw a black automobile coming out into St. James's Street. As it passed our car, I glimpsed a young face, staring straight ahead, on which intense concern was visible. I looked at the driver of the car, and he said: "Madam — that is the Prince of Wales, on his way to see his father at the palace, no doubt."

My second husband differed from the first as night differs from day. His nature was calm and temperate; he was earnest in his work, preferring early bed to late hours, and the grandest evening he spent was at the house of some friend. He rose at seven in the morning, left for the city at nine, and came home at seven in the evening. In short, he was a businessman and nothing more. But he loved classical literature, the theater, dancing, and music. Our life was ordinary, somewhat monotonous; my anxiety left me, and I began to feel that I was a citizen despite being a stranger.

My mother was still living with her husband, and Aunt Bessie; and one day I was surprised by her arrival to visit me. She looked thin and pale, and when I entered her room she cried out at me: "Wallis — why turn away from me... to die?" When she rose the next day, she had lost half her sight; yet she remained cheerful for all that, especially in my presence. In this condition she met Ernest for the first time, and he seemed to please her — and that is what led her to entrust to him her only daughter... or "the powder keg," as she nicknamed me.

A week later Ernest went away on business, and I stayed with my mother. One day she asked me: are you lonely? I answered that I felt lonely at times; and she counseled me never to fear solitude — it teaches us how to think. I understood from the doctor that my mother would remain in this condition for three years... or more. This news was saddening for me. My mother had, all these days, been close to me; however we were parted and however far apart, I sought her out in my times of failure, anxiety, and distraction, and she would raise me up and come to my aid — and here I was, watching her pass away before my eyes...

In the days that followed, Ernest told me of the program he was drawing up for the summer season. He wanted me to see the country outside London, so that we might spend the weekends in the outskirts. The idea pleased me and kindled a spark in me, for I was eager for everything new.

And so the summer of 1929 passed with strange swiftness. The experiences profited me greatly, and drew me closer to Ernest, so that I shared his thoughts more and my happiness increased. In the autumn of that year came the news I had been expecting: my mother's illness had grown worse. Ernest was absorbed in his work, so I traveled to her alone; and three days after my arrival, my mother departed this life, not knowing that I was at her side.

It is part of mankind's good fortune that grief, however harsh, does not last; a person always keeps the memory of the happy times and casts unhappiness aside.