After his accession the new king’s popularity remained considerable with the general public. King Edward at first believed that his affection for Mrs Simpson could be part and parcel of the new era over which he wished to preside. He was determined to be a monarch of his time, in tune with current thinking and fashion – the antithesis of his father, and no doubt a breath of fresh air for his subjects. He took it for granted that his own phenomenal popularity would carry on and would embrace his wife. He believed that the British people would regard his love-match with a non-royal as a refreshing contrast to the stuffiness of the pre-war years, a milestone in the development of a populist, approachable monarchy. That his wife was American would also be a significant factor in uniting the two most influential countries in the English-speaking world. Anyone who stood in the way of this was simply a reactionary, and the king was confident that public opinion would be on his side.
But the tide of rumour about his private life was rising and it gradually started to dawn on him that he was not going to get his way about marrying Wallis, or at least not without a struggle. It appeared the British populace would not, after all, respond well to a sovereign who was so innovative and modern. He had of course expected opposition from the old guard of Palace advisers, and had had no qualms about getting rid of them, but it seemed that he had underestimated the natural conservatism of the peoples of his empire, and tried their sympathy with too many rapid and radical changes. They might after all, it seemed, prefer a king who was more like his father. If that were so, one of his brothers could take his place. Like the black sheep in any family, he somewhat resented the fact that his brothers were more worthy and conventional. Bertie, with his straightforward private life and his delightful family, would make a highly suitable king if he could somehow be coaxed into developing a more appealing public manner. George, Duke of Kent, was the most handsome of the brothers, and his wife, Princess Marina of Greece, was one of Europe’s most beautiful women.
Despite the fact that his entire life had been spent preparing him for the position he now held, Edward clearly saw it as something that could be handed around within the family, and viewed himself as merely one of the possible candidates. Of these, the Duke of Kent was not suited to kingship by temperament, and neither was the other brother, the Duke of Gloucester. Bertie was, in any case, second in line to the throne. He would be summoned, when the moment came, by fate and by default. Thankfully for history it would prove to be a most happy choice.
Edward’s only really memorable acts as king were the visits he made to industrial areas blighted by unemployment, and ironically these have proved an enduring – if spurious – symbol of his reign. At the derelict Dowlais iron and steel works in South Wales, he made a speech. ‘These works’, he said, ‘brought all these people here. Something must be done to get them at work again.’ He was also quoted as having said: ‘Something must be done to help the situation in South Wales, and I will do all I can to assist you.’ In its shortened version, ‘Something must be done’ became a sort of battle-cry. Long before the ‘soundbite’ – the short, pithy quote that could be fitted conveniently into newspaper or television reports – officially arrived, Edward’s single sentence had become his most memorable saying. At the time it got him into trouble with the prime minister, Stanley Baldwin, for it represented a publicly expressed political opinion of a sort the monarch is not allowed to hold. It would create something of a legend around Edward VIII, suggesting to multitudes that he was concerned about the plight of the unemployed, to the extent that decades later a socialist who knew nothing of recent British history, upon hearing Edward’s name, asked: ‘Wasn’t he the good one?’ What sympathy he had felt was, however, secondary to his main preoccupation: himself. A month after making this famous statement, Edward abdicated. Whatever needed to be done, he would not be around to contribute to it. He showed no further interest in the matter. One observer, Godfrey Dawson, said that outside the context of his public tours, the king showed no concern at all for the social distress of his subjects. His somewhat fleeting interest in industrial welfare was prompted solely by the desire to stem the growth of bolshevism.
His marriage plans did not proceed until November 1936, when Mrs Simpson’s divorce from her second husband became final. It was in that month that the press baron Lord Beaverbrook was invited to dinner to meet her, and realized that this was not simply a passing affair. She was being seen more and more in public in London, adorned with what looked like the entire contents of a jeweller’s shop window. The circle of those who knew, who heard rumours, who realized the danger the monarchy was now in, grew larger. In the House of Commons there was sarcasm and open speculation. It seemed incredible, to the millions who had cheered Edward in the streets and heard him speak on radio, who had shaken his hand on his tours of the empire and who had belonged to the charitable organizations he had set up, that he would desert his post. After all the popularity he had built up, would he seriously opt instead for an empty and uncertain future simply in order to marry a foreign adventuress? The looming crisis was a combination of tragedy and farce.
In the middle of November Prime Minister Baldwin was summoned by Edward to the Palace, and knew in advance what the topic of discussion would be. He answered the king’s initial query by confirming that the notion of a divorced woman becoming queen would cause a constitutional crisis. Edward then informed him, succinctly: ‘I intend to marry Mrs Simpson as soon as she is free to marry.’ He added that, if this proved unacceptable to the cabinet and the public, he was – as he put it – ‘prepared to go’. This was naturally devastating news to Baldwin, who in spite of all indications to the contrary had cherished a hope that the king would come to his senses when he saw that his intention caused such general concern. There was no question of this, however. Edward’s relationship with Mrs Simpson had scaled new heights of obsession. He was like a small boy who calls the bluff of the grown-ups in an attempt to get what he wants. His innate stubbornness had set in, along with a sort of persecution complex. If he could defy the Establishment – the cabal of old courtiers and churchmen that was intent on bullying him – he could get his way, and would perhaps win even greater esteem in the eyes of his subjects as a man of principle, not dogged by hypocrisy and humbug but willing to put everything at risk for what he believed was right. He saw himself as a martyr.
He was also more than half-resigned to giving up the throne. He did not, in any case, like the job, and would only have been willing to carry it out on his own terms. Despite a lifetime of seeing his predecessors go through the endless routines of official duty, it came as a shock to him to find how unyielding the protocol that surrounded him was. He was visibly impatient with it all, but realized that even as sovereign he could not actually dictate how the Court should be run. He was up against a crushing weight of precedent, established practice, and officials whose own authority and conservatism were insurmountable. In addition Parliament was, to some extent, in a position to tell him what to do. He was not free to make more than minor adjustments. His father might have gone, but his mother remained; a highly influential presence and a formidable personality, she was an important counterweight to the new king’s modernizing instincts. He knew, of course, that Queen Mary would not accept Mrs Simpson. Nevertheless if she were his wife (and his mother’s sovereign!) time and pragmatism might well soften the old queen’s view. He would not know what the reaction of others would be until the deed was done. He also believed – wrongly, it so happens – that the Archbishop of Canterbury, Cosmo Gordon Lang, was plotting against him, stoking the fires of public outrage. Edward fixed on this well-meaning man as the personification of the reactionary, fustian British Establishment.
There was still the possibility of compromise. He could marry Wallis, but morganatically. She would not become queen, and any children born to her would have no place in the succession. Neither Edward nor Mrs Simpson warmed to the idea that she was – as she herself put it – fit for bed but not fo
r throne. He was hypersensitive to any slight on his intended wife, and here was a resounding one. His friends suggested he bide his time. He could not marry until the summer of 1937, because her divorce from Simpson would not become final until April of that year and he was due to be crowned in May. Could he not wait until he had settled in as sovereign and built further popularity with his people – earn their further trust and respect – before he took the plunge matrimonially? In the meantime it was thought advisable that she should stay out of public view, and perhaps travel extensively abroad for a year or so. It was of course hoped by even some of the king’s closest intimates that he might forget her – or find some new distraction – in that time. Edward would not hear of this. He could not be parted from her even for a matter of weeks, let alone any longer period, and neither would he allow her to be shut away. He would not, he told Baldwin, consider being crowned ‘without Wallis by my side’.
The countries of the Commonwealth were as horrified by his conduct as were the members of his own government – and this indicates that there was no ‘plot’ within the British Establishment to force his hand. The disquiet his behaviour caused was shared among all the countries of which he was sovereign. The Dominion governments made it clear to Baldwin that they did not wish to see the king married to Mrs Simpson and remaining on the throne. To them a morganatic marriage was simply not to be countenanced. Abdication would at least solve one problem. The king always based his hopes of remaining on appealing to his people over the heads of politicians, but there would never be enough public support for his actions to enable the public to defy their elected or appointed leaders. The ‘King’s Party’ – a notion that his supporters hoped would come to his rescue – was simply not numerous or powerful enough to make any difference. Though backed by a few influential politicians, most notably the then-powerless Winston Churchill, the king was becoming increasingly isolated. While posterity knows that there was not sufficient support for him, contemporaries could only wait and see how divisive the issue would prove to be.
The crisis broke at the beginning of December. The self-censorship of the press had ended, because of an innocent sermon preached by the Bishop of Bradford, Dr Alfred Blunt, who referred to the new king’s need for God’s grace. Though innocuous enough, the sermon was perceived as a direct reference to Edward’s personal life, and reports on it opened the subject to public discussion.
Mrs Simpson decided that she would best serve the king by disappearing from view, as had been hoped she would. She left England and sat out the crisis in the south of France. As the furore increased, she issued a statement – from the villa in Cannes where she was staying – that reiterated an offer she had already made, by telephone, to Edward. She would give him up. She wished to ‘withdraw from a situation that was both unhappy and untenable’. It was generous, but the moment had gone. In terms of public relations, the damage was already done. The king, in any case, would not hear of any climbdown. ‘But it’s too late!’ he told her, brightly.
Once the decision was made, he naturally felt relief. The past weeks and months had been grim for everyone, but the stress had been as great for the king as for his prime minister. Now he had got the one thing he wanted, he felt a sense of personal calm that was obvious to all around him. When he held a dinner party at Fort Belvedere, he was in noticeably good spirits. None of his guests shared this euphoria. Baldwin was there. So were his brothers. All of them were deeply saddened by the turn that events had taken. The Duke of York – known by his family as Bertie – horror-struck at the notion of having to take Edward’s place, marvelled at his brother’s bonhomie and charisma. The king was once again the man who had charmed an empire and whose nature had promised so much. ‘Look at him,’ said Bertie to George Monckton, the king’s solicitor, ‘we simply cannot let him go!’
Nevertheless the Abdication Bill was debated in the House of Commons: 403 Members voted for it, 5 voted against. The resulting document – the Instrument of Abdication – was signed by Edward at Fort Belvedere on 11 December. His brother Bertie instantly became king.
There was still a great deal of legal haggling to be got through regarding the ownership of property and the financial settlement that Edward would receive. The new king had effectively to buy Balmoral from the old one, as well as his other houses. Once this process had been put in hand (in the end Edward was to receive considerably less than he had expected), he was willing to depart. He wanted to join Mrs Simpson without delay. On the evening of 11 December he sat before a microphone at Windsor Castle and addressed, through the wireless, the subjects from whom he was now parting:
‘I have found it impossible to carry the heavy burden of responsibility and to discharge my duties as king as I would wish to do without the help and support of the woman I love. I now quit altogether public affairs, and I lay down my burden.’
His voice was stiff, formal, strained, and carried the distinctive twang and the Wodehousian drawl (‘. . . as I-eeeeee would wish to doooo’) that had become familiar throughout the world. It was a curious, Anglo-American accent that was unique to him – no one else even within his family talked like this – and was described as ‘part Mayfair, part Long Island, part Dickensian cockney’. He had developed it, when young, to make sure he did not sound like his parents. This was to be the last time for decades that the public would hear it.
No longer king, he was introduced to the radio audience as ‘Edward Windsor’. He would henceforth take the title Duke of Windsor. His wife would be the duchess. He would be a Royal Highness, she would emphatically not be. His brother, now King George VI, decided that Edward should be a Royal Duke because, if he were not, he would be eligible to sit in Parliament.
The new king at once began the attempt to redeem the monarchy. He had already said to his father’s old doctor, Lord Dawson: ‘If the worst happens and I have to take over, you can be assured that I will do my best to clear up the inevitable mess, if the whole fabric does not crumble under the shock and strain of it all.’
From our later perspective, King Edward VIII’s faults are obvious. Of course at the time less was known about his private life, and among his contemporaries he still enjoyed immense popularity. He was, in fact, much more well liked than his shy and diffident younger brother. As a charismatic ex-king he simply could not be allowed to remain in Britain, distracting public attention – and loyalty – from the man who was embarking upon the difficult task of replacing him. The cabinet agreed that he must be firmly advised to go abroad, at least until the new king had got into his stride. Edward left the day after his abdication, travelling to Austria and then to France.
He left behind him something of a mess. Throughout the empire, stamps and coins and banknotes had been produced bearing his image. Now all of them would have to be destroyed, together with the dyes from which they had been made. The process of minting and printing would have to start again from the beginning for his successor. Only in Britain had stamps bearing Edward’s likeness appeared – in his other territories there had not been time to issue them – and these can still be bought from dealers. The Royal Mint melted down virtually all his coinage, and only a few of the new threepenny pieces escaped, to become a treasured find for collectors, as is the 1936 Maundy money. It was not only these government agencies that suffered such immense waste of time and effort, however. Hundreds of private firms had been manufacturing souvenirs for the coronation, and now they too had to cut their losses. One familiar image of the year 1936 is a photograph of workmen in the Staffordshire potteries smashing thousands of commemorative mugs. Despite this setback, there was widespread relief among those who knew the king. One of those who had seen the worse side of his nature, the playwright Noël Coward, commented that statues of Mrs Simpson should be erected in towns all over Britain for the service she had done the nation in saving it from Edward VIII.
The abdication is now familiar to all students of British history, and we take it for granted. It is worth remembering, howev
er, that nothing like it had ever happened before. Edward’s departure represented the first time in eleven hundred years that a sovereign had voluntarily abandoned the throne. This happened, moreover, in the midst of an era (the thirties were to be dubbed ‘the devil’s decade’) that was characterized by political extremism and atrocious violence. Had the British been a more volatile people, had there not been a more suitable successor to Edward instantly to hand, there could well have been chaos and anarchy, and even an end to the monarchy itself. This was, without doubt, the institution’s worst moment in the twentieth century. It was a graver crisis by far than that which followed the death of Princess Diana in 1997. It was said at the time of the latter event that had the recently elected Labour prime minister not thrown the weight of his influence behind the queen, the royal family would have been abolished in the mood of public and political hostility that prevailed. Though this is a wild exaggeration, it is certainly the case that the atmosphere after Edward’s abdication was strained and volatile. It has been estimated that, had the House of Commons voted on the continuation of the monarchy at that time, at least a hundred MPs would have been against it. For the royal family, Edward’s betrayal of his heritage was a personal as well as a national disaster. Even a generation later – because several of those most closely affected were so long-lived – the repercussions of the event were still felt throughout the family.
A Brief History of the House of Windsor Page 11
