SINEAD McCOOLE's biography of Hazel, Lady Lavery last year drew attention to an aspect of political history frequently overlooked by male historians and which might be called the Pompadour Factor. Taking its name from Louis XV's mistress, this allows for the possibility of oblique, but very real, influence being exerted by certain women, who officially seem to be no more than attractive socialites. Given the increased opportunities now available to a woman for a public role in politics, the notion of future Madame de Pompadours seems unlikely, although successive scandals in Britain's Tory Party suggest enduring fear of such a possibility.
Still, as Christine Sutherland's new book demonstrates, in much of Europe until the middle of this century the only way in which an intelligent woman could hope for an involvement in politics was behind the scenes. That was certainly the case with Princess Marthe Bibesco, a largely forgotten name today but widely known as a writer for many decades before her death in 1973. Her first two books were awarded prizes by the Academic Francaise and her work received ecstatic notices from Gide, Claudel and Proust. The last of these, ever the snob, wrote one of his gushing letters to Marthe Bibesco after her publishing debut, announcing "You are not only a splendid writer, Princess, but a sculptor of words, a musician, a purveyor of scents, a poet.
Aside from her title, there were various other reasons why she should have caught the attention of so many men. She came from Romania which, although it had close contacts with France and was ruled by a German, was still regarded as extremely exotic at the turn of the century. At the time when she started to appear in print, it was considered highly unusual for a princess to write at all, let alone well (so there is no change on that front in the intervening years) but perhaps most advantageously of all, Marthe Bibesco was one of the most beautiful women of her generation. It was an irresistible combination - and, accordingly, few men could resist her appeal, although curiously her husband, Prince George Bibesco, remained largely indifferent.
As a writer, she specialised in rather lush prose, her subjects being either Romania or other parts of eastern Europe, or else profiles of the well known people with whom she mixed; she managed, for example, to spin two books out of her acquaintance with Proust. The Princess's most enduringly interesting work is a collection of correspondence with the Abbe Mugnier, another extraordinary figure from the period who managed to become close friends with every wealthy Parisian socialite while remaining an impecunious cleric.
However, much more interesting than Marthe Bibesco's books is her influence over politicians and other powerful figures. Her father and two of her uncles were ministers in successive Romanian governments, so from childhood she was used to the company of decision makers. Although conservative in her own politics, for several years she had an affair with Henry de Jouvenal, left wing editor of the French daily Le Matin and husband of Colette. Stranger still, she inspired passionate devotion from both the Crown Prince of the German Empire and the head of the British Labour party, Ramsay MacDonald, with whom she often stayed at Chequers while he was Prime Minister and who wrote what can only be called love letters to her at least once a week in his latter years. "You of the fairy swanland, who lives in my dreams ..." was just one of MacDonald's effusions, leaving the reader faintly queasy and wishing that the recipient had followed his request and destroyed the letters.
How great was her influence over MacDonald, and generations of other European politicians with whom she was intimate, remains, unknown. Unfortunately, Christine Sutherland seems unconcerned with investigating Marthe Bibesco's political role, preferring to concentrate on her social and literary life. This latter day Pompadour would benefit from another biography in the mould of Sinead McCoole's book.