Send Mixed Signals

Once people are aware of your presence, and perhaps vaguely intrigued, you need to stir their interest before it settles on someone else. What is obvious and striking may attract their attention at first, but that attention is often short-lived; in the long run, ambiguity is much more potent. Most of us are much too obvious —instead, be

hard to figure out. Send mixed signals: both tough and tender, both spiritual and earthy, both innocent and cunning. A mix of qualities suggests depth, which fascinates even as it confuses. An elusive,

enigmatic aura will make people want to know more, drawing them into your circle. Create such a power by hinting at something

contradictory within you.

Reichardt had seen Juliette at another ball,

protesting coyly that she would not dance, and then, after a while, throwing off her heavy evening gown, to reveal a light dress underneath. On all sides, there were murmurs and whisperings about her coquetry and affectation. As ever, she wore

white satin, cut very low in the back, revealing her charming shoulders. The men implored her to

dance for them. To soft music she floated into

the room in her diaphanous Greek robe. Her head was bound with a muslin fichu. She bowed timidly to the audience, and then, spinning round lightly, she shook a transparent scarf with her fingertips, so that in turns it billowed into the semblance of a drapery, a veil, a cloud. All this with a strange

blend of precision and languor. She used her eyes in a subtle fascinating way—“she danced with her eyes.” The women thought that all that serpentine undulating of the body, all that nonchalant

rhythmic nodding of the head, were sensuous; the men were wafted into a realm of unearthly bliss.

Juliette was an ange fatal, and much more

dangerous for looking like an angel! The music grew fainter. Suddenly, by a deft trick, Juliette’s chestnut hair was loosened and fell in clouds

around her. A little out of breath, she disappeared into her dimly lit boudoir. And there the crowd followed her and beheld her reclining on her daybed in a loose tea-gown, looking fashionably pale, like Gérard’s Psyche, while her maids cooled her brow with toilet water.

—MARGARET TROUNCER, MADAME RÉCAMIER

Good and Bad

In 1806, when Prussia and France were at war, Auguste, the handsome twenty-four-year-old prince of Prussia and nephew of Frederick the Great, was captured by Napoleon. Instead of locking him up, Napoleon allowed him to wander around French territory, keeping a close watch on him through spies. The prince was devoted to pleasure, and spent his time moving from town to town, seducing young girls. In 1807 he decided to visit the Château de Coppet, in Switzerland, where lived the great French writer Madame de Staël.

Auguste was greeted by his hostess with as much ceremony as she could muster. After she had introduced him to her other guests, they all retired to a drawing room, where they talked of Napoleon’s war in Spain, the current

Paris fashions, and so on. Suddenly the door opened and another guest entered, a woman who had somehow stayed in her room during the hubbub of the prince’s entrance. It was the thirty-year-old Madame Récamier,

Madame de Staël’s closest friend. She introduced herself to the prince, then quickly retired to her bedroom.

Auguste had known that Madame Récamier was at the château. In fact he had heard many stories about this infamous woman, who, in the years after the French Revolution, was considered the most beautiful in France. Men had gone wild over her, particularly at balls when she would take off her evening wrap, revealing the diaphanous white dresses that she had made famous, and dance with such abandon. The painters Gérard and David had immortalized her face and fashions, and even her feet, considered the most beautiful anyone had ever seen; and she had broken the heart of Lucien Bonaparte, the Emperor Napoleon’s brother. Auguste liked his girls younger than Madame Récamier, and he had come to the château to rest. But those

few moments in which she had stolen the scene with her sudden entrance caught him off guard: she was as beautiful as people had said, but more striking than her beauty was that look of hers that seemed so sweet, indeed heavenly, with a hint of sadness in the eyes. The other guests continued their conversations, but Auguste could only think of Madame Récamier.

Over dinner that evening, he watched her. She did not talk much, and kept her eyes downward, but once or twice she looked up—directly at the prince. After dinner the guests assembled in the gallery, and a harp was brought in. To the prince’s delight, Madame Récamier began to play, singing a love song. And now, suddenly, she changed: there was a roguish look in her eye as she glanced at him. The angelic voice, the glances, the energy animating her face, sent his mind reeling. He was confused. When the same thing happened the next night, the prince decided to extend his stay at the château.

The idea that two distinct elements are combined in Mona Lisa’s smile is one that has struck several critics. They accordingly find in the beautiful

Florentine’s expression the most perfect

representation of the contrasts that dominate the erotic life of women; the contrast between reserve and seduction, and between the most devoted

tenderness and a sensuality that is ruthlessly

demanding— consuming men as if they were alien beings.

—SIGMUND FREUD, LEONARDO DA VINCI AND A MEMORY OF HIS CHILDHOOD,

TRANSLATED BY ALAN TYSON

[Oscar Wilde’s] hands were fat and flabby; his handshake lacked grip, and at a first encounter one recoiled from its plushy limpness, but this aversion was soon overcome when he began to

talk, for his genuine kindliness and desire to please made one forget what was unpleasant in his physical appearance and contact, gave charm to

his manners, and grace to his precision of speech. The first sight of him affected people in various ways. Some could hardly restrain their laughter,

others felt hostile, a few were afflicted with the “creeps,” many were conscious of being uneasy, but except for a small minority who could never

recover from the first sensation of distaste and so kept out of his way, both sexes found him

irresistible, and to the young men of his time, says

W. B. Yeats, he was like a triumphant and audacious figure from another age.

—HESKETH PEARSON, OSCAR WILDE: HIS LIFE AND WTT

In the days that followed, the prince and Madame Récamier took walks together, rowed out on the lake, and attended dances, where he finally held her in his arms. They would talk late into the night. But nothing grew clear to him: she would seem so spiritual, so noble, and then there would be a touch of the hand, a sudden flirtatious remark. After two weeks at the château, the most eligible bachelor in Europe forgot all his libertine habits and proposed marriage to Madame Récamier. He would convert to

Catholicism, her religion, and she would divorce her much older husband. (She had told him her marriage had never been consummated and so the Catholic church could annul it.) She would then come to live with him in Prussia. Madame promised to do as he wished. The prince hurried off to

Prussia to seek the approval of his family, and Madame returned to Paris to secure the required annulment. Auguste flooded her with love letters, and waited. Time passed; he felt he was going mad. Then, finally, a letter: she had changed her mind.

Some months later, Madame Récamier sent Auguste a gift: Gérard’s

famous painting of her reclining on a sofa. The prince spent hours in front of it, trying to pierce the mystery behind her gaze. He had joined the company of her conquests—of men like the writer Benjamin Constant, who said of her, “She was my last love. For the rest of my life I was like a tree struck by lightning.”

Interpretation. Madame Récamier’s list of conquests became only more impressive as she grew older: there was Prince Metternich, the Duke of Wellington, the writers Constant and Chateaubriand. For all of these men she was an obsession, which only increased in intensity when they were away from her. The source of her power was twofold. First, she had an

angelic face, which drew men to her. It appealed to paternal instincts, charming with its innocence. But then there was a second quality peeking through, in the flirtatious looks, the wild dancing, the sudden gaiety—all these caught men off guard. Clearly there was more to her than they had

thought, an intriguing complexity. When alone, they would find themselves pondering these contradictions, as if a poison were coursing through their blood. Madame Récamier was an enigma, a problem that had to be solved.

Whatever it was that you wanted, whether a coquettish she-devil or an unattainable goddess, she could seem to be. She surely encouraged this

illusion by keeping her men at a certain distance, so they could never figure her out. And she was the queen of the calculated effect, like her surprise

entrance at the Château de Coppet, which made her the center of attention, if only for a few seconds.

Once upon a time there was a magnet, and in its close neighborhood lived some steel filings. One

day two or three little filings felt a sudden desire to go and visit the magnet, and they began to talk of what a pleasant thing it would be to do. Other

filings nearby overheard their conversation, and they, too, became infected with the same desire. Still others joined them, till at last all the filings began to discuss the matter, and more and more

their vague desire grew into an impulse. “Why not go today?” said one of them; but others were of opinion that it would be better to wait until

tomorrow. Meanwhile, without their having noticed it, they had been involuntarily moving

nearer to the magnet, which lay there quite still, apparently taking no heed of them. And so they

went on discussing, all the time insensibly drawing nearer to their neighbor; and the more they talked, the more they felt the impulse growing stronger, till the more impatient ones declared that they would go that day, whatever the rest did. Some were

heard to say that it was their duty to visit the magnet, and they ought to have gone long ago. And, while they talked, they moved always nearer and nearer, without realizing that they had moved. Then, at last, the impatient ones prevailed, and, with one irresistible impulse, the whole body cried out, “There is no use waiting. We will go today. We will go now. We will go at once. ” And then in one unanimous mass they swept along, and in another moment were clinging fast to the magnet on every side. Then the magnet smiled—for the steel filings had no doubt at all but that they were paying that visit of their own free will.

—OSCAR WILDE, AS QUOTED BY RICHARD LE GALLIENNE IN HESKETH PEARSON,

OSCAR WILDE: HIS LIFE AND WIT

The seductive process involves filling someone’s mind with your image.

Your innocence, or your beauty, or your flirtatiousness can attract their attention but not their obsession; they will soon move on to the next striking image. To deepen their interest, you must hint at a complexity that cannot

be grasped in a week or two. You are an elusive mystery, an irresistible lure, promising great pleasure if only it can be possessed. Once they begin to

fantasize about you, they are on the brink of the slippery slope of seduction, and will not be able to stop themselves from sliding down.

Artificial and Natural

The big Broadway hit of 1881 was Gilbert and Sullivan’s operetta Patience, a satire on the bohemian world of aesthetes and dandies that had become so fashionable in London. To cash in on this vogue, the operetta’s promoters decided to invite one of England’s most infamous aesthetes to America for a lecture tour: Oscar Wilde. Only twenty-seven at the time, Wilde was more

famous for his public persona than for his small body of work. The American promoters were confident that their public would be fascinated by this man, whom they imagined as always walking around with a flower in his hand, but they did not expect it to last; he would do a few lectures, then the novelty would wear off, and they would ship him home. The money was good and Wilde accepted. On his arrival in New York, a

customs man asked him whether he had anything to declare: “I have nothing to declare,” he replied, “except my genius.”

The invitations poured in—New York society was curious to meet this oddity. Women found Wilde enchanting, but the newspapers were less kind; The New York Times called him an “aesthetic sham.” Then, a week after his arrival, he gave his first lecture. The hall was packed; more than a thousand people came, many of them just to see what he looked like. They were not disappointed. Wilde did not carry a flower, and was taller than they had expected, but he had long flowing hair and wore a green velvet suit and cravat, as well as knee breeches and silk stockings. Many in the audience

were put off; as they looked up at him from their seats, the combination of

his large size and pretty attire were rather repulsive. Some people openly laughed, others could not hide their unease. They expected to hate the man. Then he began to speak.

The subject was the “English Renaissance,” the “art for art’s sake” movement in late-nineteenth-century England. Wilde’s voice proved hypnotic; he spoke in a kind of meter, mannered and artificial, and few really understood what he was saying, but the speech was so witty, and it flowed. His appearance was certainly strange, but overall, no New Yorker had ever seen or heard such an intriguing man, and the lecture was a huge success. Even the newspapers warmed up to it. In Boston a few weeks later, some sixty Harvard boys had prepared an ambush: they would make fun of this effeminate poet by dressing in knee breeches, carrying flowers, and applauding far too loudly at his entrance. Wilde was not the least bit flustered. The audience laughed hysterically at his improvised comments, and when the boys heckled him he kept his dignity, betraying no anger at all. Once again, the contrast between his manner and his physical

appearance made him seem rather extraordinary. Many were deeply impressed, and Wilde was well on his way to becoming a sensation.

Now that the bohort [impromptu joust] was over and the knights were dispersing and each making his way to where his thoughts inclined him, it chanced that Rivalin was heading for where lovely Blancheflor was sitting. Seeing this, he galloped up to her and looking her in the eyes saluted her most pleasantly. • “God save you, lovely woman!”

• “Thank you,” said the girl, and continued very bashfully, “may God Almighty, who makes all

  hearts glad, gladden your heart and mind! And my grateful thanks to you!— yet not forgetting a bone I have to pick with you. ” • “Ah, sweet woman, what have I done?” was courteous Rivalin’s reply.

• “You have annoyed me through a friend of mine, the best I ever had. ” • “Good heavens,” thought he, “what does this mean? What have I done to

displease her? What does she say I have done?” and he imagined that unwittingly he must have

injured a kinsman of hers some time at their

knightly sports and that was why she was vexed with him. But no, the friend she referred to was her heart, in which he made her suffer: that was the friend she spoke of. But he knew nothing of that. • “Lovely woman,” he said with all his accustomed charm, ”I do not want you to be angry with me or bear me any ill will. So, if what you tell me is true, pronounce sentence on me yourself: I will do

whatever you command. ” • “I do not hate you overmuch for what has happened,” was the sweet girl’s answer, “nor do I love you for it. But to see what a mends you will make for the wrong you

have done me, I shall test you another time. ” • And so he bowed as if to go, and she, lovely girl, sighed at him most secretly and said with tender feeling: • ”Ah, dear friend, God bless you!“ From this time on the thoughts of each ran on the other. • Rivalin turned away, pondering many things. He

pondered from many sides why Blancheflor should be vexed, and what lay behind it all. He considered her greeting, her words; he examined her sigh

minutely, her farewell, he whole behavior. . . But

since he was uncertain of her motive—whethershe had acted from enmity or love—he wavered in

perplexity. He wavered in his thoughts now here, now there. At one moment he was off in one

direction, then suddenly in another, till he had so ensnared himself in the toils of his own desire that he was powerless to escape . . .• His entanglement had placed him in a quandary, for he did not know whether she wished him well or ill; he could not

make out whether she loved or hated him. No hope or despair did he consider which did not forbid

him either to advance or retreat—hope and despair led him to and fro in unresolved

dissension. Hope spoke to him of love, despair of hatred. Because of this discord he could yield his firm belief neither to hatred nor yet to love. Thus

his feelings drifted in an unsure haven—hope bore him on, despair away. He found no constancy in either; they agreed neither one way or another.

When despair came and told him that his

Blancheflor was his enemy he faltered and sought to escape: but at once came hope, bringing him

her love, and a fond aspiration, and so perforce he remained. In the face of such discord he did not

know where to turn: nowhere could he go forward.

The more he strove to flee, the more firmly love forced him back. The harder he struggled to escape, love drew him back more firmly.

—GOTTFRIED VON STRASSBURG, TRISTAN, TRANSLATED BY A.T. HATTO

The short lecture tour turned into a cross-country affair. In San Francisco, this visiting lecturer on art and aesthetics proved able to drink everyone under the table and play poker, which made him the hit of the season. On

his way back from the West Coast, Wilde was to make stops in Colorado, and was warned that if the pretty-boy poet dared to show up in the mining town of Leadville, he would be hung from the highest tree. It was an invitation Wilde could not refuse. Arriving in Leadville, he ignored the

hecklers and nasty looks; he toured the mines, drank and played cards, then lectured on Botticelli and Cellini in the saloons. Like everyone else, the

miners fell under his spell, even naming a mine after him. One cowboy was heard to say, “That fellow is some art guy, but he can drink any of us under the table and afterwards carry us home two at a time.”

Interpretation. In a fable he improvised at dinner once, Oscar Wilde talked about some steel filings that had a sudden desire to visit a nearby magnet. As they talked to each other about this, they found themselves moving closer to the magnet without realizing how or why. Finally they were swept in one mass to the magnet’s side. “Then the magnet smiled—for the steel

filings had no doubt at all but that they were paying that visit of their own free will.” Such was the effect that Wilde himself had on everyone around him.

Wilde’s attractiveness was more than just a by-product of his character, it was quite calculated. An adorer of paradox, he consciously played up his own weirdness and ambiguity, the contrast between his mannered

appearance and his witty, effortless performance. Naturally warm and spontaneous, he constructed an image that ran counter to his nature. People were repelled, confused, intrigued, and finally drawn to this man who seemed impossible to figure out.

Paradox is seductive because it plays with meaning. We are secretly oppressed by the rationality in our lives, where everything is meant to mean something; seduction, by contrast, thrives on ambiguity, on mixed signals, on anything that eludes interpretation. Most people are painfully obvious. If their character is showy, we may be momentarily attracted, but the attraction wears off; there is no depth, no contrary motion, to pull us in. The key to both attracting and holding attention is to radiate mystery. And no

one is naturally mysterious, at least not for long; mystery is something you have to work at, a ploy on your part, and something that must be used early on in the seduction. Let one part of your character show, so everyone

notices it. (In the example of Wilde, this was the mannered affectation conveyed by his clothes and poses.) But also send out a mixed signal—

some sign that you are not what you seem, a paradox. Do not worry if this underquality is a negative one, like danger, cruelty, or amorality; people will be drawn to the enigma anyway, and pure goodness is rarely seductive.

Paradox with him was only truth standing on its head to attract attention.

—RICHARD LE GALLIENNE, ON HIS FRIEND OSCAR WILDE

Keys to Seduction

Nothing can proceed in seduction unless you can attract and hold your victim’s attention, your physical presence becoming a haunting mental presence. It is actually quite easy to create that first stir—an alluring style of dress, a suggestive glance, something extreme about you. But what

happens next? Our minds are barraged with images—not just from media but from the disorder of daily life. And many of these images are quite striking. You become just one more thing screaming for attention; your

attractiveness will pass unless you spark the more enduring kind of spell that makes people think of you in your absence. That means engaging their imaginations, making them think there is more to you than what they see. Once they start embellishing your image with their fantasies, they are hooked.

This must, however, be done early on, before your targets know too much and their impressions of you are set. It should occur the moment they lay

eyes on you. By sending mixed signals in that first encounter, you create a little surprise, a little tension: you seem to be one thing (innocent, brash, intellectual, witty), but you also throw them a glimpse of something else

(devilish, shy, spontaneous, sad). Keep things subtle: if the second quality is too strong, you will seem schizophrenic. But make them wonder why you might be shy or sad underneath your brash intellectual wit, and you will

have their attention. Give them an ambiguity that lets them see what they want to see, capture their imagination with little voyeuristic glimpses into your dark soul.

The Greek philosopher Socrates was one of history’s greatest seducers;

the young men who followed him as students were not just fascinated by his ideas, they fell in love with him. One such youth was Alcibiades, the

notorious playboy who became a powerful political figure near the end of

the fifth century B.C. In Plato’s Symposium, Alcibiades describes Socrates’s seductive powers by comparing him to the little figures of Silenus that were made back then. In Greek myth, Silenus was quite ugly, but also a wise prophet. Accordingly the statues of Silenus were hollow, and when you took them apart, you would find little figures of gods inside them—the inner truth and beauty under the unappealing exterior. And so, for Alcibiades, it

was the same with Socrates, who was so ugly as to be repellent but whose face radiated inner beauty and contentment. The effect was confusing and attractive. Antiquity’s other great seducer, Cleopatra, also sent out mixed signals: by all accounts physically alluring, in voice, face, body, and manner, she also had a brilliantly active mind, which for many writers of the time made her seem somewhat masculine in spirit. These contrary

qualities gave her complexity, and complexity gave her power.

To capture and hold attention, you need to show attributes that go against your physical appearance, creating depth and mystery. If you have a sweet face and an innocent air, let out hints of something dark, even vaguely cruel in your character. It is not advertised in your words, but in your manner.

The actor Errol Flynn had a boyishly angelic face and a slight air of sadness. Beneath this outward appearance, however, women could sense an underlying cruelty, a criminal streak, an exciting kind of dangerousness.

This play of contrary qualities attracted obsessive interest. The female equivalent is the type epitomized by Marilyn Monroe; she had the face and voice of a little girl, but something sexual and naughty emanated powerfully from her as well. Madame Récamier did it all with her eyes—

the gaze of an angel, suddenly interrupted by something sensual and flirtatious.

Playing with gender roles is a kind of intriguing paradox that has a long history in seduction. The greatest Don Juans have had a touch of prettiness and femininity, and the most attractive courtesans have had a masculine streak. The strategy, though, is only powerful when the underquality is merely hinted at; if the mix is too obvious or striking it will seem bizarre or even threatening. The great seventeenth-century French courtesan Ninon de l’Enclos was decidedly feminine in appearance, yet everyone who met her was struck by a touch of aggressiveness and independence in her—but just a touch. The late nineteenth-century Italian novelist Gabriele d’Annunzio was certainly masculine in his approaches, but there was a gentleness, a consideration, mixed in, and an interest in feminine finery. The

combinations can be juggled every which way: Oscar Wilde was quite

feminine in appearance and manner, but the underlying suggestion that he was actually quite masculine drew both men and women to him.

A potent variation on this theme is the blending of physical heat and emotional coldness. Dandies like Beau Brummel and Andy Warhol combine

striking physical appearances with a kind of coldness of manner, a distance from everything and everyone. They are both enticing and elusive, and

people spend lifetimes chasing after such men, trying to shatter their unattainability. (The power of apparently unattainable people is devilishly seductive; we want to be the one to break them down.) They also wrap

themselves in ambiguity and mystery, either talking very little or talking only of surface matters, hinting at a depth of character you can never reach. When Marlene Dietrich entered a room, or arrived at a party, all eyes inevitably turned to her. First there were her startling clothes, chosen to

make heads turn. Then there was her air of nonchalant indifference. Men, and women too, became obsessed with her, thinking of her long after other memories of the evening had faded. Remember: that first impression, that entrance, is critical. To show too much desire for attention is to signal insecurity, and will often drive people away; play it too cold and disinterested, on the other hand, and no one will bother coming near. The trick is to combine the two attitudes at the same moment. It is the essence of coquetry.

Perhaps you have a reputation for a particular quality, which immediately comes to mind when people see you. You will better hold their attention by suggesting that behind this reputation some other quality lies lurking. No

one had a darker, more sinful reputation than Lord Byron. What drove women wild was that behind his somewhat cold and disdainful exterior, they could sense that he was actually quite romantic, even spiritual. Byron played this up with his melancholic airs and occasional kind deed.

Transfixed and confused, many women thought that they could be the one to lead him back to goodness, to make him a faithful lover. Once a woman entertained such a thought, she was completely under his spell. It is not difficult to create such a seductive effect. Should you be known as eminently rational, say, hint at something irrational. Johannes, the narrator in Kierkegaard’s The Seducer’s Diary, first treats the young Cordelia with businesslike politeness, as his reputation would lead her to expect. Yet she

very soon overhears him making remarks that hint at a wild, poetic streak in his character; and she is excited and intrigued.

These principles have applications far beyond sexual seduction. To hold the attention of a broad public, to seduce them into thinking about you, you need to mix your signals. Display too much of one quality—even if it is a

noble one, like knowledge or efficiency—and people will feel that you lack humanity. We are all complex and ambiguous, full of contradictory impulses; if you show only one side, even if it is your good side, you will wear on people’s nerves. They will suspect you are a hypocrite. Mahatma Gandhi, a saintly figure, openly confessed to feelings of anger and vengefulness. John E Kennedy, the most seductive American public figure of modern times, was a walking paradox: an East Coast aristocrat with a

love of the common man, an obviously masculine man—a war hero—with a vulnerability you could sense underneath, an intellectual who loved popular culture. People were drawn to Kennedy like the steel filings in Wilde’s fable. A bright surface may have a decorative charm, but what

draws your eye into a painting is a depth of field, an inexpressible ambiguity, a surreal complexity.

Symbol: The Theater Curtain. Onstage, the curtain’s heavy deep-red folds attract your eye with their hypnotic surface. But what really

fascinates and draws you in is what you think might be happening behind the curtain—the light peeking through, the suggestion of a secret, something about to happen. You feel the thrill of a voyeur about to watch a performance.

Reversal

The complexity you signal to other people will only affect them properly if they have the capacity to enjoy a mystery. Some people like things simple, and lack the patience to pursue a person who confuses them. They prefer to be dazzled and overwhelmed. The great Belle Epoque courtesan known as La Belle Otero would work a complex magic on artists and political figures who fell for her, but in dealing with the more uncomplicated, sensual male she would astound them with spectacle and beauty. When meeting a woman for the first time, Casanova might dress in the most fantastic outfit, with

jewels and brilliant colors to dazzle the eye; he would use the target’s reaction to gauge whether or not she would demand a more complicated seduction. Some of his victims, particularly young girls, needed no more

than the glittering and spellbinding appearance, which was really what they wanted, and the seduction would stay on that level.

Everything depends on your target: do not bother creating depth for

people who are insensitive to it, or who may even be put off or disturbed by it. You can recognize such types by their preference for the simpler

pleasures in life, their lack of patience for a more nuanced story. With them, keep it simple.