Prove Yourself
Most people want to be seduced. If they resist your efforts, it is probably because you have not gone far enough to allay their
doubts—about your motives, the depth of your feelings, and so on. One well-timed action that shows how far you are willing to go to win them over will dispel their doubts. Do not worry about looking foolish or making a mistake—any kind of deed that is self- sacrificing and for your targets’ sake will so overwhelm their emotions, they won’t notice anything else. Never appear discouraged by people’s resistance, or complain. Instead, meet the challenge by doing something extreme or chivalrous. Conversely,
spur others to prove themselves by making yourself hard to reach, unattainable, worth fighting over.
Love is a species of warfare. Slack troopers, go
elsewhere! \ It takes more than cowards to guard \ These standards. Night- duty in winter, long-route marches, every \ Hardship, all forms of suffering:
these await \ The recruit who expects a soft option. You’ll often be out in \ Cloudbursts, and bivouac on the bare \ Ground. Is lasting \ Love your
ambition? Then put away all pride. \ The simple,
straightforward way in may be denied you, \ Doors bolted, shut in your face- \ So be ready to slip down from the roof through a lightwell, \ Or sneak in by an upper-floor window. She’ll be glad \ To
know you’re risking your neck, and for her sake:
that will offer \ Any mistress sure proof of your love.
—OVID, THE ART OF LOVE, TRANSLATED BY PETER GREEN
The man says: “. . . A fruit picked from one’s own orchard ought to taste sweeter than one obtained from a stranger’s tree, and what has been attained by greater effort is cherished more dearly than what is gained with little trouble. As the proverb says: ‘Prizes great cannot be won unless some
heavy labor’s done.’ ” • The woman says: “If no
great prizes can be won unless some heavy labor’s done, you must suffer the exhaustion of many toils to be able to attain the favors you seek, since what you ask for is a greater prize. ” • The man says: “I give you all the thanks that I can express for so
sagely promising me your love when I have performed great toils. God forbid that I or any other could win the love of so worthy a woman without first attaining it by many labors. ”
—ANDREAS CAPELLANUS ON LOVE, TRANSLATED BY P.G. WALSH
Seductive Evidence
Anyone can talk big, say lofty things about their feelings, insist on how much they care for us, and also for all oppressed peoples in the far reaches of the planet. But if they never behave in a way that will back up their words, we begin to doubt their sincerity—perhaps we are dealing with a charlatan, or a hypocrite or a coward. Flattery and fine words can only go so far. A time will eventually arrive when you will have to show your victim some evidence, to match your words with deeds.
This kind of evidence has two functions. First, it allays any lingering doubts about you. Second, an action that reveals some positive quality in
you is immensely seductive in and of itself. Brave or selfless deeds create a
powerful and positive emotional reaction. Don’t worry, your deeds do not
have to be so brave and selfless that you lose everything in the process. The appearance alone of nobility will often suffice. In fact, in a world where
people overanalyze and talk too much, any kind of action has a bracing, seductive effect.
It is normal in the course of a seduction to encounter resistance. The
more obstacles you overcome, of course, the greater the pleasure that awaits you, but many a seduction fails because the seducer does not correctly read the resistances of the target. More often than not, you give up too easily.
First, understand a primary law of seduction: resistance is a sign that the other person’s emotions are engaged in the process. The only person you cannot seduce is somebody distant and cold. Resistance is emotional, and can be transformed into its opposite, much as, in jujitsu, the physical
resistance of an opponent can be used to make him fall. If people resist you because they don’t trust you, an apparently selfless deed, showing how far you are willing to go to prove yourself, is a powerful remedy. If they resist because they are virtuous, or because they are loyal to someone else, all the better—virtue and repressed desire are easily overcome by action. As the great seductress Natalie Barney once wrote, “Most virtue is a demand for greater seduction.”
There are two ways to prove yourself. First, the spontaneous action: a situation arises in which the target needs help, a problem needs solving, or, simply, he or she needs a favor. You cannot foresee these situations, but you must be ready for them, for they can spring up at any time. Impress the target by going further than really necessary—sacrificing more money,
more time, more effort than they had expected. Your target will often use these moments, or even manufacture them, as a kind of test: will you
retreat? Or will you rise to the occasion? You cannot hesitate or flinch, even for a moment, or all is lost. If necessary, make the deed seem to have cost you more than it has, never with words, but indirectly—exhausted looks,
reports spread through a third party, whatever it takes.
One day, [Saint-Preuil] pleaded more than usual that [Madame de la Maisonfort] grant him the
ultimate favors a woman could offer, and he went
beyond just words in his pleading. Madame, saying he had gone way too far, ordered him to never ever appear before her again. He left her
room. Only an hour later, the lady was taking her customary walk along one of those beautiful
canals at Bagnolet, when Saint-Preuil leapt out
from behind a hedge, totally naked, and standing before his mistress in this state, he cried out, “For
the last time, Madame— Goodbye!” Thereupon, he threw himself into the canal, head first. The lady, terrified by such a sight, began to cry and to run in the direction of her house, where upon arriving,
she fainted. As soon as she could speak, she ordered that someone go and see what had
happened to Saint-Preuil, who in truth had not stayed very long in the canal, and having quickly put his clothes back on, hurried to Paris where he hid himself for several days. Meanwhile, the rumor spread that he had died. Madame de la Maisonfort was deeply moved by the extreme measures he had adopted to prove his sentiments. This act of his
appeared to her to be a sign of an extraordinary love; and having perhaps noticed some charms in his naked presence that she had not seen fully clothed, she deeply regretted her cruelty, and
publicly stated her feeling of loss. Word of this reached Saint-Preuil, and he immediately
resurrected himself, and did not lose time in taking advantage of such a favorable feeling in his
mistress.
—COUNT BUSSY-RABUTIN, HISTOIRESA A MOUREL USES DES GAULES
The second way to prove yourself is the brave deed that you plan and
execute in advance, on your own and at the right moment—preferably some
way into the seduction, when any doubts the victim still has about you are more dangerous than earlier on. Choose a dramatic, difficult action that
reveals the painful time and effort involved. Danger can be extremely seductive. Cleverly lead your victim into a crisis, a moment of danger, or indirectly put them in an uncomfortable position, and you can play the rescuer, the gallant knight. The powerful feelings and emotions this elicits can easily be redirected into love.
Some Examples
- In France in the 1640s, Marion de l’Orme was the courtesan men lusted after the most. Renowned for her beauty, she had been the mistress of Cardinal Richelieu, among other notable political and military figures. To win her bed was a sign of achievement.
For weeks the rake Count Grammont had wooed de l’Orme, and finally she had given him an appointment for a particular evening. The count prepared himself for a delightful encounter, but on the day of the appointment he received a letter from her in which she expressed, in polite and tender terms, her terrible regrets—she had the most awful headache, and would have to stay in bed that evening. Their appointment would have to be postponed. The count felt certain he was being pushed to the side for someone else, for de l’Orme was as capricious as she was beautiful.
Grammont did not hesitate. At nightfall he rode to the Marais, where de l’Orme lived, and scouted the area. In a square near her home he spotted a man approaching on foot. Recognizing the Due de Brissac, he immediately knew that this man was to supplant him in the courtesan’s bed. Brissac seemed unhappy to see the count, and so Grammont approached him hurriedly and said, “Brissac, my friend, you must do me a service of the greatest importance: I have an appointment, for the first time, with a girl who lives near this place; and as this visit is only to concert measures, I shall make but a very short stay. Be so kind as to lend me your cloak, and walk my horse a little, until I return; but above all, do not go far from this
place.” Without waiting for an answer, Grammont took the duke’s cloak and handed him the bridle of his horse. Looking back, he saw that Brissac was
watching him, so he pretended to enter a house, slipped out through the back, circled around, and reached de l’Orme’s house without being seen.
To become a lady’s vassal . . . the troubadour was expected to pass through four stages, i.e.: aspirant, supplicant, postulant, and lover. When he had attained the last stage of amorous initiation he
made a vow of fidelity and this homage was sealed by a kiss. In this idealistic form of courtly love reserved for the aristocratic elite of chivalry, the phenomenon of love was considered to be a state of grace, while the initiation that followed, and the final sealing of the pact—or equivalent of the
knightly accolade—were linked with the rest of a nobleman’s training and valorous exploits. The
hallmarks of a true lover and of a perfect knight were almost identical. The lover was bound to
serve and obey his lady as a knight served his lord. In both cases the pledge was of a sacred nature.
—NINA EPTON, LOVE AND THE FRENCH
Grammont knocked at the door, and a servant, mistaking him for the duke, let him in. He headed straight for the lady’s chamber, where he found her lying on a couch, in a sheer gown. He threw off Brissac’s cloak and she gasped in fright. “What is the matter, my fair one?” he asked. “Your headache, to all appearance, is gone?” She seemed put out, exclaimed she still had the headache, and insisted that he leave. It was up to her, she said, to make or break appointments. “Madam,” Grammont said calmly, “I know what perplexes you: you are afraid lest Brissac should meet me here; but you may make yourself easy on that account.” He then opened the window and revealed Brissac out in the square, dutifully walking back and forth with a horse, like a common stable boy. He looked ridiculous; de l’Orme burst out laughing, threw her arms around the count, and exclaimed, “My dear Chevalier, I can hold out no longer; you are too amiable and too
eccentric not to be pardoned.” He told her the whole story, and she promised that the duke could exercise horses all night, but she would not let him in. They made an appointment for the following evening. Outside, the count returned the cloak, apologized for taking so long, and thanked the duke. Brissac was most gracious, even holding Grammont’s horse for him to mount, and waving goodbye as he rode off.
Interpretation. Count Grammont knew that most would-be seducers give up too easily, mistaking capriciousness or apparent coolness as a sign of a
genuine lack of interest. In fact it can mean many things: perhaps the person is testing you, wondering if you are really serious. Prickly behavior is exactly this kind of test—if you give up at the first sign of difficulty, you obviously do not want them that much. Or it could be that they themselves are uncertain about you, or are trying to choose between you and someone else. In any event, it is absurd to give up. One incontrovertible demonstration of how far you are willing to go will overwhelm all doubts.
It will also defeat your rivals, since most people are timid, worried about making fools of themselves, and so rarely risk anything.
When dealing with difficult or resistant targets, it is usually best to improvise, the way Grammont did. If your action seems sudden and a surprise, it will make them more emotional, loosen them up. A little roundabout accumulation of information—a little spying—is always a good idea. Most important is the spirit in which you enact your proof. If you are lighthearted and playful, if you make the target laugh, proving yourself and amusing them at the same time, it won’t matter if you mess up, or if they
see you have employed a little trickery. They will give in to the pleasant mood you have created. Notice that the count never whined or grew angry or defensive. All he had to do was pull back the curtain and reveal the duke walking his horse, melting de l’Orme’s resistance with laughter. In one well-executed act, he showed what he would do for a night of her favors.
In one of the goodly towns of the kingdom of
France there dwelt a nobleman of good birth, who attended the schools that he might learn how
virtue and honor are to be acquired among virtuous men. But although he was so accomplished that at the age of seventeen or
eighteen years he was, as it were, both precept and example to others, Love failed not to add his lesson to the rest; and, that he might be the better harkened to and received, concealed himself in the face and the eyes of the fairest lady in the whole
country round, who had come to the city in order to advance a suit-at-law. But before Love sought to vanquish the gentleman by means of this lady’s
beauty, he had first won her heart by letting her
see the perfections of this young lord; for in good looks, grace, sense and excellence of speech he was surpassed by none. • You, who know what
speedy way is made by the fire of love when once it fastens on the heart and fancy, will readily imagine that between two subjects so perfect as these it
knew little pause until it had them at its will, and had so filled them with its clear light, that thought, wish, and speech were all aflame with it. Youth, begetting fear in the young lord, led him to urge
his suit with all the gentleness imaginable; but she, being conquered by love, had no need of force to win her. Nevertheless, shame, which tarries with
ladies as long as it can, for some time restrained
her from declaring her mind. But at last the heart’s fortress, which is honor’s abode, was shattered in such sort that the poor lady consented to that which she had never been minded to refuse. •In
order, however, to make trial of her lover’s patience, constancy, and love, she granted him what he sought on a very hard condition, assuring him that if he fulfilled it she would love him
perfectly forever; whereas, if he failed in it, he would certainly never win her as long as he lived.
And the condition was this: she would be willing to talk with him, both being in bed together, clad in
their linen only, but he was to ask nothing more from her than words and kisses. · He, thinking
there was no joy to be compared to that which she promised him, agreed to the proposal, and that evening the promise was kept; in such wise that,
despite all the caresses she bestowed on him and
the temptations that beset him, he would not break his oath. And albeit his torment seemed to him no less than that of Purgatory, yet was his love so
great and his hope so strong, sure as he felt of the ceaseless continuance of the love he had thus
painfully won, that he preserved his patience and rose from beside her without having done anything contrary to her expressed wish. · The lady was, I think, more astonished than pleased by such virtue; and giving no heed to the honor, patience, and faithfulness her lover had shown in the keeping of his oath, she forthwith suspected that
his love was not so great as she had thought, or else that he had found her less pleasing than he had expected. • She therefore resolved, before
keeping her promise, to make a further trial of the love he bore her; and to this end she begged him to talk to a girl in her service, who was younger than herself and very beautiful, bidding him make love
speeches to her, so that those who saw him come so often to the house might think that it was for the sake of this damsel and not of herself. The young
lord, feeling sure that his own love was returned in equal measure, was wholly obedient to her commands, and for love of her compelled himself to make love to the girl; and she, finding him so
handsome and well-spoken, believed his lies more than other truth, and loved him as much as though
she herself were greatly loved by him. • The mistress finding that matters were thus well
advanced, albeit the young lord did not cease to claim her promise, granted him permission to
come and see her at one hour after midnight, saying that after having so fully tested the love and obedience he had shown towards her, it was but just that he should be rewarded for his long patience. Of the lover’s joy on hearing this you need have no doubt, and he failed not to arrive at
the appointed time. · But the lady, still wishing to try the strength of his love, had said to her beautiful damsel—“I am well aware of the love a
certain nobleman bears to you, and I think you are no less in love with him; and I feel so much pity for you both, that I have resolved to afford you time and place that you may converse together at your ease. ” • The damsel was so enchanted that she could not conceal her longings, but answered that she would not fail to be present. · In obedience,
therefore, to her mistress’s counsel and command, she undressed herself and lay down on a handsome bed, in a room the door of which the lady left half open, whilst within she set a light so that the maiden’s beauty might be clearly seen. Then she herself pretended to go away, but hid herself near to the bed so carefully that she could not be seen. · Her poor lover, thinking to find her according to
her promise, failed not to enter the room as softly as he could, at the appointed hour; and after he had shut the door and put off his garments and fur shoes, he got into the bed, where he looked to find what he desired. But no sooner did he put out his arms to embrace her whom he believed to be his mistress, than the poor girl, believing him entirely her own, had her arms round his neck, speaking to
him the while in such loving words and with so beautiful a countenance, that there is not a hermit so holy but he would have forgotten his beads for love of her. • But when the gentleman recognized her with both eye and ear, and found he was not
with her for whose sake he had so greatly suffered, the love that had made him get so quickly into the bed, made him rise from it still more quickly. And in anger equally with mistress and damsel, he said
—“Neither your folly nor the malice of her who put you there can make me other than I am. But do you try to be an honest woman, for you shall never lose that good name through me.” • So saying he rushed out of the room in the greatest wrath imaginable, and it was long before he returned to see his mistress. However love, which is never without hope, assured him that the greater and
more manifest his constancy was proved to be by all these trials, the longer and more delightful would be his bliss. • The lady, who had seen and heard all that passed, was so delighted and amazed at beholding the depth and constancy of
his love, that she was impatient to see him again in order to ask his forgiveness for the sorrow that she had caused him to endure. And as soon as she could meet with him, she failed not to address him in such excellent and pleasant words, that he not
only forgot all his troubles but even deemed them very fortunate, seeing that their issue was to the
glory of his constancy and the perfect assurance of his love, the fruit of which he enjoyed from that
time as fully as he could desire.
—QUEEN MARGARET OF NAVARRE, THE HEPTAMERON QUOTED IN THE VICE ANTHOLOGY, EDITED BY RICHARD DAVENPORT-HINES
- Pauline Bonaparte, the sister of Napoleon, had so many affairs with different men over the years that doctors were afraid for her health. She could not stay with one man for more than a few weeks; novelty was her only pleasure. After Napoleon married her off to Prince Camillo Borghese, in 1803, her affairs only multiplied. And so, when she met the dashing Major Jules de Canouville, in 1810, everyone assumed the affair would last no longer than the others. Of course the major was a decorated soldier, well educated, an accomplished dancer, and one of the most handsome men in
the army. But Pauline, thirty years old at the time, had had affairs with dozens of men who could have matched that resume.
A few days after the affair began, the imperial dentist arrived chez Pauline. A toothache had been causing her sleepless nights, and the dentist saw he would have to pull out the bad tooth right then and there. No
painkillers were used at the time, and as the man began to take out his
various instruments, Pauline grew terrified. Despite the pain of the tooth, she changed her mind and refused to have it pulled.
Major Canouville was lounging on a couch in a silken robe. Taking all
this in, he tried to encourage her to have it done: “A moment or two of pain and it’s over forever. . . A child could go through with it and not utter a
sound.” “I’d like to see you do it,” she said. Canouville got up, went over to the dentist, chose a tooth in the back of his own mouth, and ordered that it be pulled. A perfectly good tooth was extracted, and Canouville barely batted an eyelash. After this, not only did Pauline let the dentist do his job,
her opinion of Canouville changed: no man had ever done anything like this for her before.
The affair had been going to last but a few weeks; now it stretched on.
Napoleon was not pleased. Pauline was a married woman; short affairs were allowed, but a deep attachment was embarrassing. He sent Canouville to Spain, to deliver a message to a general there. The mission would take weeks, and in the meantime Pauline would find someone else.
Canouville, though, was not your average lover. Riding day and night, without stopping to eat or sleep, he arrived in Salamanca within a few days. There he found that he could proceed no farther, since communications had been cut off, and so, without waiting for further orders, he rode back to Paris, without an escort, through enemy territory. He could meet with
Pauline only briefly; Napoleon sent him right back to Spain. It was months
before he was finally allowed to return, but when he did, Pauline immediately resumed her affair with him—an unheard-of act of loyalty on her part. This time Napoleon sent Canouville to Germany and finally to Russia, where he died bravely in battle in 1812. He was the only lover
Pauline ever waited for, and the only one she ever mourned.
Interpretation. In seduction, the time often comes when the target has begun to fall for you, but suddenly pulls back. Your motives have begun to seem
dubious—perhaps all you are after is sexual favors, or power, or money. Most people are insecure and doubts like these can ruin the seductive illusion. In the case of Pauline Bonaparte, she was quite accustomed to using men for pleasure, and she knew perfectly well that she was being used in turn. She was totally cynical. But people often use cynicism to cover up insecurity Pauline’s secret anxiety was that none of her lovers had ever really loved her—that all of them to a man had really just wanted sex or political favors from her. When Canouville showed, through concrete actions, the sacrifices he would make for her—his tooth, his career, his life
—he transformed a deeply selfish woman into a devoted lover. Not that her response was completely unselfish: his deeds were a boost to her vanity. If she could inspire these actions from him, she must be worth it. But if he
was going to appeal to the noble side of her nature, she had to rise to that level as well, and prove herself by remaining loyal to him.
Making your deed as dashing and chivalrous as possible will elevate the seduction to a new level, stir up deep emotions, and conceal any ulterior motives you may have. The sacrifices you are making must be visible; talking about them, or explaining what they have cost you, will seem like
bragging. Lose sleep, fall ill, lose valuable time, put your career on the line, spend more money than you can afford. You can exaggerate all this for effect, but don’t get caught boasting about it or feeling sorry for yourself:
cause yourself pain and let them see it. Since almost everyone else in the world seems to have an angle, your noble and selfless deed will be irresistible.
- Throughout the 1890s and into the early twentieth century, Gabriele D’Annunzio was considered one of Italy’s premier novelists and playwrights. Yet many Italians could not stand the man. His writing was florid, and in person he seemed full of himself, overdramatic—riding horses naked on the beach, pretending to be a Renaissance man, and more of the kind. His novels were often about war, and about the glory of facing and defeating death—an entertaining subject for someone who had never actually done so. And so, at the start of World War I, no one was surprised that D’Annunzio led the call for Italy to side with the Allies and enter the fray. Everywhere you turned, there he was, giving a speech in favor of war
—a campaign that succeeded in 1915, when Italy finally declared war on Germany and Austria. D’Annunzio’s role so far had been completely predictable. But what did surprise the Italian public was what this fifty-two- year-old man did next: he joined the army. He had never served in the military, boats made him seasick, but he could not be dissuaded. Eventually the authorities gave him a post in a cavalry division, hoping to keep him out of combat.
Italy had little experience in war, and its military was somewhat chaotic.
The generals somehow lost track of D’Annunzio—who, in any case, had decided to leave his cavalry division and form units of his own. (He was an artist, after all, and could not be subjected to army discipline.) Calling himself Commandante, he overcame his habitual seasickness and directed a series of daring raids, leading groups of motorboats in the middle of the night into Austrian harbors and firing torpedoes at anchored ships. He also learned how to fly, and began to lead dangerous sorties. In August of 1915, he flew over the city of Trieste, then in enemy hands, and dropped Italian
flags and thousands of pamphlets containing a message of hope, written in his inimitable style: “The end of your martyrdom is at hand! The dawn of your joy is imminent. From the heights of heaven, on the wings of Italy, I throw you this pledge, this message from my heart.” He flew at altitudes unheard of at the time, and through thick enemy fire. The Austrians put a price on his head.
On a mission in 1916, D’Annunzio fell against his machine gun, permanently injuring one eye and seriously damaging the other. Told his flying days were over, he convalesced in his home in Venice. At the time,
the most beautiful and fashionable woman in Italy was generally considered
to be the Countess Morosini, former mistress of the German Kaiser. Her palace was on the Grand Canal, opposite the home of D’Annunzio. Now she found herself besieged by letters and poems from the writer-soldier, mixing details of his flying exploits with declarations of his love. In the middle of air raids on Venice, he would cross the canal, barely able to see out of one eye, to deliver his latest poem. D’Annunzio was much beneath Morosini’s station, a mere writer, but his willingness to brave anything on her behalf won her over. The fact that his reckless behavior could get him killed any day only hastened the seduction.
D’Annunzio ignored the doctors’ advice and returned to flying, leading even more daring raids than before. By the end of the war, he was Italy’s most decorated hero. Now, wherever in the nation he appeared, the public filled the piazzas to hear his speeches. After the war, he led a march on Fiume, on the Adriatic coast. In the negotiations to settle the war, Italians believed they should have been awarded this city, but the Allies had not agreed. D’Annunzio’s forces took over the city and the poet became a leader, ruling Fiume for more than a year as an autonomous republic. By then, everyone had forgotten about his less-than-glorious past as a decadent writer. Now he could do no wrong.
Interpretation. The appeal of seduction is that of being separated from our normal routines, experiencing the thrill of the unknown. Death is the
ultimate unknown. In periods of chaos, confusion, and death—the plagues that swept Europe in the Middle Ages, the Terror of the French Revolution, the air raids on London during World War II—people often let go of their usual caution and do things they never would otherwise. They experience a kind of delirium. There is something immensely seductive about danger, about heading into the unknown. Show that you have a reckless streak and a daring nature, that you lack the usual fear of death, and you are instantly fascinating to the bulk of humanity.
What you are proving in this instance is not how you feel toward another person but something about yourself: you are willing to go out on a limb.
You are not just another talker and braggart. It is a recipe for instant charisma. Any political figure—Churchill, de Gaulle, Kennedy—who has
proven himself on the battlefield has an unmatchable appeal. Many had thought of D’Annunzio as a foppish womanizer; his experience in the war gave him a heroic sheen, a Napoleonic aura. In fact he had always been an effective seducer, but now he was even more devilishly appealing. You do not necessarily have to risk death, but putting yourself in its vicinity will give you a seductive charge. (It is often best to do this some way into the seduction, making it come as a pleasant surprise.) You are willing to enter the unknown. No one is more seductive than the person who has had a
brush with death. People will be drawn to you; perhaps they are hoping that some of your adventurous spirit will rub off on them.
- According to one version of the Arthurian legend, the great knight Sir Lancelot once caught a glimpse of Queen Guinevere, King Arthur’s wife, and that glimpse was enough—he fell madly in love. And so when word reached him that Queen Guinevere had been kidnapped by an evil knight, Lancelot did not hesitate—he forgot his other chivalrous tasks and hurried in pursuit. His horse collapsed from the chase, so he continued on foot. Finally it seemed that he was close, but he was exhausted and could go no farther. A horse-driven cart passed by; the cart was filled with loathsome- looking men shackled together. In those days it was the tradition to place criminals—murderers, traitors, cowards, thieves—in such a cart, which then passed through every street in town so that people could see it. Once you had ridden in the cart, you lost all feudal rights for the rest of your life. The cart was such a dreadful symbol that seeing an empty one made you shiver and give the sign of the cross. Even so, Sir Lancelot accosted the cart’s driver, a dwarf: “In the name of God, tell me if you’ve seen my lady the queen pass by this way?” “If you want to get into this cart I’m driving,” said the dwarf, “by tomorrow you’ll know what has become of the queen.” Then he drove the cart onward. Lancelot hesitated for but two of the horse’s steps, then ran after it and climbed in.
Wherever the cart went, townspeople heckled it. They were most curious about the knight among the passengers. What was his crime? How will he be put to death—flayed? Drowned? Burned upon a fire of thorns? Finally
the dwarf let him get out, without a word as to the whereabouts of the
queen. To make matters worse, no one now would go near or talk to Lancelot, for he had been in the cart. He kept on chasing the queen, and all along the way he was cursed at, spat upon, challenged by other knights. He had disgraced knighthood by riding in the cart. But no one could stop him or slow him down, and finally he discovered that the queen’s kidnapper was the wicked Meleagant. He caught up with Meleagant and the two fought a duel. Still weak from the chase, Lancelot seemed to be near defeat, but when word reached him that the queen was watching the battle, he recovered his strength and was on the verge of killing Meleagant when a
truce was called. Guinevere was handed over to him.
Lancelot could hardly contain his joy at the thought of finally being in his lady’s presence. But to his shock, she seemed angry, and would not look at her rescuer. She told Meleagant’s father, “Sire, in truth he has wasted his efforts. I shall always deny that I feel any gratitude toward him.” Lancelot was mortified but he did not complain. Much later, after undergoing
innumerable further trials, she finally relented and they became lovers. One day he asked her: when she had been abducted by Meleagant, had she heard the story of the cart, and how he had disgraced knighthood? Was that why
she had treated him so coldly that day? The queen replied, “By delaying for two steps you showed your unwillingness to climb into it. That, to tell the truth, is why I didn’t wish to see you or speak with you.”
Interpretation. The opportunity to do your selfless deed often comes upon you suddenly You have to show your worth in an instant, right there on the spot. It could be a rescue situation, a gift you could make or a favor you could do, a sudden request to drop everything and come to their aid. What matters most is not whether you act rashly, make a mistake, and do something foolish, but that you seem to act on their behalf without thought for yourself or the consequences.
At moments like these, hesitation, even for a few seconds, can ruin all the hard work of your seduction, revealing you as self-absorbed, unchivalrous, and cowardly. This, at any rate, is the moral of Chrétien de Troyes’s twelfth- century version of the story of Lancelot. Remember: not only what you do matters, but how you do it. If you are naturally self-absorbed, learn to
disguise it. React as spontaneously as possible, exaggerating the effect by seeming flustered, overexcited, even foolish—love has driven you to that point. If you have to jump into the cart for Guinevere’s sake, make sure she sees that you do it without the slightest hesitation.
- In Rome sometime around 1531, word spread of a sensational young woman named Tullia d’Aragona. By the standards of the period, Tullia was not a classic beauty; she was tall and thin, at a time when the plump and
voluptuous woman was considered the ideal. And she lacked the cloying, giggling manner of most young girls who wanted masculine attention. No, her quality was nobler. Her Latin was perfect, she could discuss the latest literature, she played the lute and sang. In other words, she was a novelty, and since that was all most men were looking for, they began to visit her in great numbers. She had a lover, a diplomat, and the thought that one man had won her physical favors drove them all mad. Her male visitors began to compete for her attention, writing poems in her honor, vying to become her favorite. None of them succeeded, but they kept on trying.
A soldier lays siege to cities, a lover to girls’ houses, \ The one assaults city gates, the other front doors. \ Love, like war, is a toss-up. The
defeated can recover, \ While some you might think invincible collapse; \ So if you’ve got love written off as an easy option \ You’d better think twice.
Love calls \ For guts and initiative. Great Achilles sulks for Briseis—\ Quick, Trojans, smash through the Argive wall! \ Hector went into battle from
Andromache’s embraces \ Helmeted by his wife.
\Agamemnon himself, the Supremo, was struck into raptures \At the sight of Cassandra’s tumbled hair;
\ Even Mars was caught on the job, felt the blacksmith’s meshes—\ Heaven’s best scandal in years. Then take \ My own case. I was idle, born to leisure en deshabille, \ Mind softened by lazy
scribbling in the shade. \ But love for a pretty girl soon drove the sluggard \ To action, made him join up. \ And just look at me now—fighting fit, dead keen on night exercises: \ If you want a cure for slackness, fall in love!
—OVID, THE AMORES, TRANSLATED BY PETER GREEN
Of course there were some who were offended by her, stating publicly that she was no more than a high-class whore. They repeated the rumor
(perhaps true) that she had made older men dance while she played the lute, and if their dancing pleased her, they could hold her in their arms. To Tullia’s faithful followers, all of noble birth, this was slander. They wrote a document that was distributed far and wide: “Our honored mistress, the well-born and honorable lady Tullia d’Aragona, doth surpass all ladies of
the past, present, or future by her dazzling qualities. Anyone who
refuses to conform to this statement is hereby charged to enter the lists with one of the undersigned knights, who will convince him in the customary manner.”
Tullia left Rome in 1535, going first to Venice, where the poet Tasso became her lover, and eventually to Ferrara, which was then perhaps the most civilized court in Italy. And what a sensation she caused there. Her
voice, her singing, even her poems were praised far and wide. She opened a literary academy devoted to ideas of freethinking. She called herself a muse and, as in Rome, a group of young men collected around her. They would
follow her around the city, carving her name in trees, writing sonnets in her honor, and singing them to anyone who would listen.
One young nobleman was driven to distraction by this cult of adoration: it seemed that everyone loved Tullia but no one received her love in return. Determined to steal her away and marry her, this young man tricked her into allowing him to visit her at night. He proclaimed his undying devotion, showered her with jewels and presents, and asked for her hand. She refused. He pulled out a knife, she still refused, and so he stabbed himself. He lived, but now Tullia’s reputation was even greater than before: not even money could buy her favors, or so it seemed. As the years went by and her beauty
faded, some poet or intellectual would always come to her defense and protect her. Few of them ever pondered the reality: that Tullia was indeed a courtesan, one of the most popular and well paid in the profession.
Interpretation. All of us have defects of some sort. Some of these we are born with, and cannot help. Tullia had many such defects. Physically she was not the Renaissance ideal. Also, her mother had been a courtesan, and
she was illegitimate. Yet the men who fell under her spell did not care. They were too distracted by her image—the image of an elevated woman, a woman you would have to fight over to win. Her pose came straight out of
the Middle Ages, the days of knights and troubadours. Then, a woman, most often married, was able to control the power dynamic between the sexes by withholding her favors until the knight somehow proved his worth and the sincerity of his sentiments. He could be sent on a quest, or made to live among lepers, or compete in a possibly fatal joust for her honor. And this he had to do without complaint. Although the days of the troubadour are long gone, the pattern remains: a man actually loves to be able to prove himself, to be challenged, to compete, to undergo tests and trials and emerge victorious. He has a masochistic streak; a part of him loves pain. And strangely enough, the more a woman asks for, the worthier she seems. A woman who is easy to get cannot be worth much.
Make people compete for your attention, make them prove themselves in some way, and you will find them rising to the challenge. The heat of seduction is raised by such challenges—show me that you really love me.
When one person (of either sex) rises to the occasion, often the other person is now expected to do the same, and the seduction heightens. By making
people prove themselves, too, you raise your value and cover up your defects. Your targets are too busy trying to prove themselves to notice your blemishes and faults.
Symbol: The Tournament. On the field, with its bright pennants and caparisoned horses, the lady looks on as knights fight for her hand. She has heard them declare love on bended knee, their endless songs and pretty promises. They are all good at such things. But then the trumpet sounds and the combat begins. In the tournament there can
be no faking or hesitation. The knight she chooses must have blood on his face, and a few broken limbs.
Reversal
When trying to prove that you are worthy of your target, remember that every target sees things differently A show of physical prowess will not impress someone who does not value physical prowess; it will just show that you are after attention, flaunting yourself. Seducers must adapt their
way of proving themselves to the doubts and weaknesses of the seduced. For some, fine words are better proofs than daredevil deeds, particularly if they are written down. With these people show your sentiments in a letter— a different kind of physical proof, and one with more poetic appeal than
some showy bit of action. Know your target well, and aim your seductive evidence at the source of their doubts or resistance.
