The Duchess Of Windsor (77 page)
Read The Duchess Of Windsor Online
Authors: Greg King
Metz encountered the same difficulties in Paris as she had in New York. “I would try to ring, but not be put through to Her Royal Highness. Georges would say, with seeming great sadness, ‘It is better that you don’t see Her Royal Highness, and it is better that you remember her as she was.‘” Nevertheless, Metz, on her visits to Paris, would ring the villa and arrange to meet Georges and his wife, Ophelia. She always found the house sadly quiet. The old butler and his wife might ask her to join them in the pantry for tea but absolutely refused to let her slip up the staircase to see the Duchess. “Georges apologized to me, but said he was under orders, and that he might lose his job if he let me see Her Royal Highness.”
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The veil of secrecy about life in the Windsor villa, and the Duchess herself, drew higher and higher. In April 1978, Maître Suzanne Blum fired Schutz, and Wallis’s friends temporarily found their access to her much easier.
Janine Metz managed to reach the Duchess, and Wallis quickly asked her to come around for dinner. Just before they were to sit down, Wallis looked around the room in desperation. “Oh,” she said, “the Duke is so late. He must have been detained somewhere, but it is strange not to have him call.” She soon forgot this momentary lapse and embarked on a somewhat confused conversation. “She seemed to forget what she said two minutes after she had said it,” Metz recalls sadly.
At the end of their evening, a maid appeared to help escort Wallis to her bedroom and assist her, but the Duchess turned around and said, “You can go. Madame Metz will take care of me.” Janine Metz helped Wallis undress and change into her lingerie, then attended to her evening toilette, cleaning her face with lotion and brushing out her long hair. “Her skin was pink and fresh, and she was truly at peace,” Metz recalls. She helped Wallis into bed and found that she was “like a feather, there was nothing much left of her.” They spoke for several minutes. Finally, Wallis took Madame Metz’s hand in hers and said, “You know, Janine, you are the only one I trust totally. Please stay with me.” Madame Metz switched off the lights and sat in the darkened room, watching as the Duchess quickly fell asleep. After several hours, however, she had to leave and crept out of the room. “To this day,” she says, “I feel very remorseful that I simply didn’t stay the whole night.”
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On February 23, 1979, Wallis was back in the American Hospital for the removal of an intestinal blockage. Three months later, a bacterial infection forced her return. The situation turned out to be much more serious than first expected, and Dr. Thin was forced to keep the Duchess under hospital care for four months. On September 14, she was finally released. News reporters, camped out at the hospital entrance, caught her exit: a rather sad, frail old woman, a shawl draped around her bent shoulders, her step slow and uncertain. When she saw their cameras, Wallis stopped for a moment, smiled, and raised her hand in an unsteady wave before entering her car. This was the last glimpse the public would ever have of the Duchess of Windsor.
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Last Years
T
WO YEARS AFTER
the Duke of Windsor’s death in 1974, Frances Donaldson’s much-anticipated biography
Edward VIII
was published to great critical acclaim. However, Maître Suzanne Blum, the Duchess’s French lawyer, was greatly upset with the result; she was angry that although Donaldson had begun the book during the Duke’s lifetime, she had apparently made no attempt to consult either David or Wallis. The Windsors‘ friends were, for the most part, also neglected, and as a result, Donaldson had relied heavily on English sources. Not surprisingly, this biography thus tended to reflect the views of the Royal Family and the court.
WO YEARS AFTER
the Duke of Windsor’s death in 1974, Frances Donaldson’s much-anticipated biography
Edward VIII
was published to great critical acclaim. However, Maître Suzanne Blum, the Duchess’s French lawyer, was greatly upset with the result; she was angry that although Donaldson had begun the book during the Duke’s lifetime, she had apparently made no attempt to consult either David or Wallis. The Windsors‘ friends were, for the most part, also neglected, and as a result, Donaldson had relied heavily on English sources. Not surprisingly, this biography thus tended to reflect the views of the Royal Family and the court.
Blum claimed that “it would take a 400 page book” to answer the inaccuracies she alleged in Donaldson’s biography.
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The situation did not improve a few years later when, in May 1978, Verity Lambert, director of drama at Thames TV, approached Blum and informed her that Simon Raven would be writing a television script based on Donaldson’s book. Blum immediately tried to intervene; if she could not halt production, she insisted that she have full script approval. Thames TV, however, was unwilling to comply with her demands, and the series,
Edward and Mrs. Simpson
, duly aired to large audiences that fall in England, with Cynthia Harris as Wallis, Edward Fox as Edward, and Dame Peggy Ashcroft as Queen Mary. According to Verity Lambert, Maître Blum’s very public objections only created more interest in the series. “We could never have bought such publicity,” he declared.
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The situation did not improve a few years later when, in May 1978, Verity Lambert, director of drama at Thames TV, approached Blum and informed her that Simon Raven would be writing a television script based on Donaldson’s book. Blum immediately tried to intervene; if she could not halt production, she insisted that she have full script approval. Thames TV, however, was unwilling to comply with her demands, and the series,
Edward and Mrs. Simpson
, duly aired to large audiences that fall in England, with Cynthia Harris as Wallis, Edward Fox as Edward, and Dame Peggy Ashcroft as Queen Mary. According to Verity Lambert, Maître Blum’s very public objections only created more interest in the series. “We could never have bought such publicity,” he declared.
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Blum, however, was not finished. On November 20, 1978—after two episodes of the series had already aired on British TV—she released a press statement which declared that the series was “largely and essentially a fable based on an incorrect or distorted interpretation of the facts.” To Blum, every hour included a “wave of calumnies.” To counter these alleged inaccuracies, she announced that a famous—but unnamed—French historian would soon publish the couples’ private papers and letters.
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“People,” Blum declared, “will be amazed to discover how seriously they have been fooled. Mrs. Simpson, the Duchess of Windsor, has been portrayed as a cheap adventuress, determined to get hold of the Duke of Windsor, determined to marry the King and destroy the King. The reverse is true. She was the reluctant partner. What has particularly distressed her—and myself—has been the allegation that she was Edward’s mistress. This was quite untrue. The King did not want a mistress, and if he had, no doubt he would not have abdicated. He wanted a wife and the support of this one woman for the rest of his life.”
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The enormous publicity over the Thames TV series was the first time most people heard of Maître Suzanne Blum. As much as the Duchess of Windsor herself, Blum remains a figure of great controversy: Was she a loyal and dedicated servant to the Duchess in her failing years, devoted to preserving both Wallis’s life and her memory; or was she something far more sinister—a malevolent force in the Duchess’s life, separating her from her few remaining friends, instructing that Wallis be kept alive by any means necessary, and presiding over the questionable dispersal of the Windsor estate?
Suzanne Blumel had been born in 1898, in the tiny provincial French village of Niort. She was an unusual young woman, gifted, headstrong, and determined to overcome any prejudices attached both to her sex and to her Jewish heritage. Exceptionally intelligent, she graduated from the University of Poitiers in 1921; that same year, she married lawyer Paul Weill, who later worked as the Paris representative of the London firm of Allen and Overy, the Duke of Windsor’s solicitors.
At the outbreak of the Second World War, she had fled occupied Paris and studied law at Columbia University in New York City. In her exile, she spent much of her time and energy trying to win the release of former French premier Léon Blum, a great friend of her brother’s who had been imprisoned for alleged treachery in the fall of the Third Republic. At the end of the war, she and her husband returned to France, where, having legally changed her name to Suzanne Blum, she took on the formal legal title of maître, or master, and began her illustrious career. Her list of famous clients included Rita Hayworth, Charlie Chaplin, Jack Warner, Darryl F. Zanuck, and Walt Disney. When her first husband died, Blum was married to Gen. Georges Spillmann, a distinguished soldier and noted Arabic scholar.
Blum, according to one reporter, was “a woman of incisive manner and sharp brains. Diminutive, she still dominates by her presence. Her face is unlined, her complexion excellent and her features bear evidence of her once having been a considerable beauty—and she manages to look elegant, even in her lawyer’s robes.”
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In 1979, Blum asked Michael Bloch to write several books on the Duke and Duchess of Windsor. His view of the lawyer, whom he considered a dose friend, is entirely favorable: “The Maitre was an extraordinary personality, who throughout her long career had taken the causes of her clients to heart, and she felt strongly that the Windsors had been mistreated and maligned and that it was her duty to protect their interests and reputation staunchly. She was a chivalrous woman of great ability and it was easy to understand why the Duchess so valued her.”
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The formidable quality was not imagined; whether she was challenging British television or suing reporters and photographers for invasion of the Duchess’s privacy, few who came into contact with Maitre Blum were left with any doubt as to her strength of will. Many of those who knew the Duchess well have nothing but praise for Blum. According to Dr. Jean Thin, she has been made into “a grotesque character” by writers. “I got on perfectly well with Madame Blum.”
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And the Countess of Romanones says: “She was a marvelous woman, very badly treated by writers and other people. She protected the Duchess and never resisted my attempts to see the Duchess.”
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And the Countess of Romanones says: “She was a marvelous woman, very badly treated by writers and other people. She protected the Duchess and never resisted my attempts to see the Duchess.”
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Others, however, found her less pleasant. Mrs. Linda Mortimer dealt with Blum on several occasions, trying to win permission to visit the Duchess. “I think she was a perfectly dreadful woman,” she says. She recalls that during the few times she was allowed to visit the Windsor Villa, many valuable objects—the Duchess’s collection of gold boxes, pieces of Fabergé, important paintings, and even the wedding present from Linda’s parents to the Windsors—were missing. Because Blum was firmly in control of the villa, Mortimer has little doubt that she was responsible for the disposal of the items.
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In fact, as Michael Bloch has confirmed, Blum found such sales a financial necessity. Although the Duchess’s estate was substantial, there was not much in the way of liquid assets, and the medical expenses for Wallis’s care as well as the maintenance of the villa and its staff required currency which could not otherwise be obtained.
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In fact, as Michael Bloch has confirmed, Blum found such sales a financial necessity. Although the Duchess’s estate was substantial, there was not much in the way of liquid assets, and the medical expenses for Wallis’s care as well as the maintenance of the villa and its staff required currency which could not otherwise be obtained.
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More than one writer has commented on the similarities between the Duchess of Windsor and her French lawyer: Both were strong women, of independent spirit, who have been largely overshadowed by negative publicity. In truth, Blum appears to have been genuinely devoted to the Windsors, especially the Duchess. “She was very forceful,” admits Michael Bloch, “and perhaps became a little too adamant in her protection, but she was only doing what she thought to be the proper thing.”
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Unfortunately, many of the painful incidents involving friends of the Duchess being denied visits seem to have come about at the hands of Johanna Schutz rather than Blum. For a time after Schutz’s firing, the lawyer did indeed allow the Duchess’s friends to visit; Wallis’s illness in 1979, however, effectively put an end to these occasions, as Dr. Thin advised Blum that it was unwise to excite the Duchess in any way.
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Unfortunately, many of the painful incidents involving friends of the Duchess being denied visits seem to have come about at the hands of Johanna Schutz rather than Blum. For a time after Schutz’s firing, the lawyer did indeed allow the Duchess’s friends to visit; Wallis’s illness in 1979, however, effectively put an end to these occasions, as Dr. Thin advised Blum that it was unwise to excite the Duchess in any way.
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By 1980, Wallis had deteriorated to a pitiable state. Shortly after the Duke’s death, she had spoken with the Countess of Romanones, reminding her that her own aunt Bessie had lived to be a hundred years old. “Do you suppose I’ll live that long, Aline?” she asked sadly. “I hope not.”
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Now, midway through her ninth decade of life, she found herself scarcely able to move. Circulatory problems meant she could no longer use her hands or feet, and she had to be carried through the house. She was still awakened each morning, bathed, and dressed by the nurse on duty; her long hair was carefully combed out and styled into a bun at the rear of her head. Once the most celebrated hostess of her age, Wallis—who had planned and presided over elegant dinner parties—was now spoon-fed by her nurse.
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She spent most of her days in a wheelchair, alone. Occasionally, she might ask the nurse to take her to the window and open it so that she could hear the birds singing in the garden beyond.
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Now, midway through her ninth decade of life, she found herself scarcely able to move. Circulatory problems meant she could no longer use her hands or feet, and she had to be carried through the house. She was still awakened each morning, bathed, and dressed by the nurse on duty; her long hair was carefully combed out and styled into a bun at the rear of her head. Once the most celebrated hostess of her age, Wallis—who had planned and presided over elegant dinner parties—was now spoon-fed by her nurse.
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She spent most of her days in a wheelchair, alone. Occasionally, she might ask the nurse to take her to the window and open it so that she could hear the birds singing in the garden beyond.
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Although her periods of lucidity were fewer now, she had not completely lost her sense of reason. “She was not in a coma,” recalls Dr. Thin, “and had moments of awareness which to anyone of her vitality and love of life must have been unendurable.”
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Once, as a little girl, she had been terrified of being left alone, abandoned to the dark night; now she was condemned to this twilight existence, carefully nursed and provided with the best medical care. Having expressed her dread of living to an old age, Wallis now endured the tragic, inescapable fate that she was powerless to prevent.
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Once, as a little girl, she had been terrified of being left alone, abandoned to the dark night; now she was condemned to this twilight existence, carefully nursed and provided with the best medical care. Having expressed her dread of living to an old age, Wallis now endured the tragic, inescapable fate that she was powerless to prevent.
Throughout, the Duchess’s friends continued to phone the villa and beg to be allowed to visit. Inevitably, however, Georges would sadly report that the Duchess was unwell and unable to receive callers. He kept her friends at bay by order of Blum. “Maître Blum,” says Dr. Thin, “knew better than to expose her friend the Duchess in her decline, to the curiosity of visitors who had no other motivation than gossip. Maître Blum knew how the Duchess was keen of preserving her ‘look,’ and how much she would have hated to be exposed unwillingly when she was no more her real self. I believe that, especially at the end of her life, the Duchess preferred being protected from unwanted visits. Maître Blum protected the Duchess, and as long as the Duchess expressed her feelings, she relied gratefully on Maître Blum‘s protection.”
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Thin himself had warned that visits were not advisable. “The sudden increase of the Duchess’s blood pressure after being exposed to emotional stress was a fact that became more and more threatening,” Thin says. “Some visitors caused these variations more than others.”
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Wallis’s friends, however, were not so easily put off. Diana, Lady Mosley; Madame Janine Metz; Princess Ghislaine de Polignac; Aline, Countess of Romanones; and Mrs. Linda Mortimer all repeatedly phoned the villa, begging to be connected with the Duchess, only to be told that she was unwell.
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Eventually, however, Blum relented and allowed the Countess of Romanones to pay several visits. “I rather suspect,” says Linda Mortimer, “that Maitre Blum let Aline visit in an attempt to placate the rest of us.”
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Wallis’s friends, however, were not so easily put off. Diana, Lady Mosley; Madame Janine Metz; Princess Ghislaine de Polignac; Aline, Countess of Romanones; and Mrs. Linda Mortimer all repeatedly phoned the villa, begging to be connected with the Duchess, only to be told that she was unwell.
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Eventually, however, Blum relented and allowed the Countess of Romanones to pay several visits. “I rather suspect,” says Linda Mortimer, “that Maitre Blum let Aline visit in an attempt to placate the rest of us.”
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It had been several years since Aline Romanones had visited Wallis in Paris; the first thing the Countess noticed was the overwhelming silence of the villa. Previously, the yapping of the dogs had echoed through the rooms; now the pugs had all gone. She found Wallis sitting in a wheelchair in the boudoir, dressed in a vividly embroidered blue silk brocade dressing gown, clear-eyed and coherent. Her hair had been arranged, makeup applied to her features, and she wore a favorite sapphire necklace to match the color of the dressing gown.
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A few months later, the Countess returned to the villa. She was shocked by Wallis’s appearance. Her hair, which had formerly been dyed and set, was now completely white; unbound, it fell around her shoulders. She wore no makeup and no jewels. “Who are you, my dear?” Wallis asked when she entered the room. The Duchess turned her head toward the window. “Look at the way the sun is lighting the trees,” she said softly. “You can see so many different colors. Tell David to come in. He wouldn’t want to miss this.”
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Wallis’s decline from this point on was rapid. By the time the Countess next visited, the Duchess had gone completely blind. She lay in her bed, her long white hair now brushed into a neat ponytail. The Countess thought her skin looked “surprisingly fresh.” She held out her hand in greeting, but Wallis could not see it, nor could she communicate with her friend.
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Janine Metz was one of the last of these women to visit the Duchess. Through sheer determination and repeated telephone calls and letters, she won permission to come within the carefully guarded doors of the villa. Wallis lay in bed. “She was like a little bird,” Metz recalls, “all shrivelled up. I came up very close to the bed, bent down, and kissed her. She seemed to have no idea who I was, or even that I was in the room.” Metz leaned over her, reached out and took one of Wallis’s hands in hers, and whispered, “I am Janine. I am here with you.” She pressed the Duchess’s hand, and Wallis pressed back, her only way of communicating.
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By the beginning of 1984, Wallis was completely paralyzed. Her inability to swallow meant that the daily feedings by the nurses had stopped, replaced with an intravaneous drip which would sustain the Duchess for the last two years of her life. Dr. Thin regularly visited the villa to examine the Duchess. Daily, the nurses changed her drip, cleaned and washed Wallis, swabbed her gums, ears, and nose, massaged her arms and legs, and turned her to prevent bedsores. Contrary to some reports, Thin says, “her colour remained normal. She was not cyanosed, nor sun-tanned, nor pigmented by Addison’s disease.”
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