Beware the Aftereffects
Danger follows in the aftermath of a successful seduction. After emotions have reached a pitch, they often swing in the opposite
direction—toward lassitude, distrust, disappointment. Beware of the long, drawn-out goodbye; insecure, the victim will cling and claw, and both sides will suffer. If you are to part, make the sacrifice swift and sudden. If necessary, deliberately break the spell you have
created. If you are to stay in a relationship, beware a flagging of energy, a creeping familiarity that will spoil the fantasy. If the game
is to go on, a second seduction is required. Never let the other person take you for granted—use absence, create pain and conflict, to keep the seduced on tenterhooks.
Disenchantment
Seduction is a kind of spell, an enchantment. When you seduce, you are not quite your normal self; your presence is heightened, you are playing more than one role, you are strategically concealing your tics and insecurities.
You have deliberately created mystery and suspense to make the victim experience a real-life drama. Under your spell, the seduced gets to feel transported away from the world of work and responsibility.
You will keep this going for as long as you want or can, heightening the tension, stirring the emotions, until the time finally comes to complete the seduction. After that, disenchantment almost inevitably sets in. The release of tension is followed by a letdown—of excitement, of energy—that can even materialize as a kind of disgust directed at you by your victim, even though what is happening is really a natural emotional course. It is as if a
drug were wearing off, allowing the target to see you as you are—and being disappointed by the flaws that are inevitably there. On your side, you too
have probably tended to idealize your targets somewhat, and once your
desire is satisfied, you may see them as weak. (After all, they have given in to you.) You too may feel disappointed. Even in the best of circumstances, you are dealing now with the reality rather than the fantasy, and the flames will slowly die down—unless you start up a second seduction.
You may think that if the victim is to be sacrificed, none of this matters. But sometimes your effort to break off the relationship will inadvertently revive the spell for the other person, causing him or her to cling to you tenaciously No, in either direction—sacrifice, or the integration of the two
of you into a couple—you must take disenchantment into account. There is an art to the post-seduction as well.
Master the following tactics to avoid undesired aftereffects.
In a word, woe to the woman of too monotonous a temperament; her monotony satiates and disgusts.
She is always the same statue, with her a man is always right. She is so good, so gentle, that she
takes away from people the privilege of quarreling with her, and this is often such a great pleasure!
Put in her place a vivacious woman, capricious, decided, to a certain limit, however, and things
assume a different aspect. The lover will find in the same person the pleasure of variety. Temper is the salt, the quality which prevents it from becoming stale. Restlessness, jealousy, quarrels, making
friends again, spitefulness, all are the food of love.
Enchanting variety? … Too constant a peace is
productive of a deadly ennui. Uniformity kills love, for as soon as the spirit of method mingles in an
affair of the heart, the passion disappears, languor supervenes, weariness begins to wear, and disgust ends the chapter.
—NINON DE L’ENCLOS. LIFE, LETTERS AND EPICUREAN PHILOSOPHY OF NINON DE
L’ENCLOS
Fight against inertia. The sense that you are trying less hard is often enough to disenchant your victims. Reflecting back on what you did during the seduction, they will see you as manipulative: you wanted something then, and so you worked at it, but now you are taking them for granted. After the first seduction is over, then, show that it isn’t really over—that you want to keep proving yourself, focusing your attention on them, luring them. That is often enough to keep them enchanted. Fight the tendency to let things settle into comfort and routine. Stir the pot, even if that means a return to inflicting pain and pulling back. Never rely on your physical charms; even beauty loses its appeal with repeated exposure. Only strategy and effort will fight off inertia.
Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale \ Her
infinite variety: other women cloy \ The appetites they feed; but she makes hungry \ Where most she satisfies.
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA
Cry hurrah, and hurrah again, for a splendid triumph—\ The quarry I sought has fallen into my toils. \ Why hurry, young man? Your ship’s still in
mid-passage, \ And the harbor I seek is far away. \ Through my verses, it’s true, you may have
acquired a mistress, \ But that’s not enough. If my art \ Caught her, my art must keep her. To guard a conquest’s \ As tricky as making it. There was luck in the chase, \ But this task will call for skill. If
ever I needed support from \ Venus and Son, and Erato—the Muse \ Erotic by name—it’s now, for my too-ambitious project \ To relate some
techniques that might restrain \ That fickle young globetrotter, Love. \ To be loved you must show
yourself lovable—\ Something good looks alone \ Can never achieve. You may be handsome as
Homer’s Nireus, \ Or young Hylas, snatched by those bad \ Naiads; but all the same, to avoid a surprise desertion \ And keep your girl, it’s best you have gifts of mind \ In addition to physical charms. Beauty’s fragile, the passing \ Years diminish its substance, eat it away. \ Violets and bell-mouthed lilies do not bloom for ever, \ Hard
thorns are all that’s left of the blown rose.\ So with you, my handsome youth: soon wrinkles will
furrow\ Your body; soon, too soon, your hair turn gray. \ Then build an enduring mind, add that to your beauty: \ It alone will last till the flames \
Consume you. Keep your wits sharp, explore the liberal \ Arts, win mastery over Greek \ As well as Latin. Ulysses was eloquent, not handsome—\ Yet he filled sea-goddesses’ hearts \ With aching passion. \ Nothing works on a mood like tactful
tolerance: harshness \ Provokes hatred, makes nasty rows. \ We detest the hawk and the wolf,
those natural hunters, \ Always preying on timid flocks; \ But the gentle swallow goes safe from man’s snares, we fashion \ Little turreted houses for doves. \ Keep clear of all quarrels, sharp- tongued recriminations—\ Love’s sensitive, needs to be fed \ With gentle words. Leave nagging to
wives and husbands, \ Let them, if they want, think it a natural law, \ A permanent state of feud. Wives thrive on wrangling, \ That’s their dowry. A
mistress should always hear \ What she wants to
be told. \ Use tender blandishments, language
that caresses \ The ear, make her glad you came.
—OVID, THE ART OF LOVE, TRANSLATED BY PETER GREEN
Maintain mystery. Familiarity is the death of seduction. If the target knows everything about you, the relationship gains a level of comfort but loses the elements of fantasy and anxiety. Without anxiety and a touch of fear, the
erotic tension is dissolved. Remember: reality is not seductive. Keep some dark corners in your character, flout expectations, use absences to fragment the clinging, possessive pull that allows familiarity to creep in. Maintain
some mystery or be taken for granted. You will have only yourself to blame for what follows.
Maintain lightness. Seduction is a game, not a matter of life and death.
There will be a tendency in the “post” phase to take things more seriously and personally, and to whine about behavior that does not please you. Fight this as much as possible, for it will create exactly the effect you do not want. You cannot control the other person by nagging and complaining; it will make them defensive, exacerbating the problem. You will have more control if you maintain the proper spirit. Your playfulness, the little ruses you employ to please and delight them, your indulgence of their faults, will make your victims compliant and easy to handle. Never try to change your victims; instead, induce them to follow your lead.
Avoid the slow burnout. Often, one person becomes disenchanted but lacks the courage to make the break. Instead, he or she withdraws inside. As an absence, this psychological step back may inadvertently reignite the other person’s desire, and a frustrating cycle begins of pursuit and retreat.
Everything unravels, slowly. Once you feel disenchanted and know it is over, end it quickly, without apology. That would only insult the other person. A quick separation is often easier to get over—it is as if you had a problem being faithful, as opposed to your feeling that the seduced was no longer being desirable. Once you are truly disenchanted, there is no going
back, so don’t hang on out of false pity. It is more compassionate to make a clean break. If that seems inappropriate or too ugly, then deliberately disenchant the victim with anti-seductive behavior.
Examples of Sacrifice and Integration
- In the 1770s, the handsome Chevalier de Belleroche began an affair with an older woman, the Marquise de Merteuil. He saw a lot of her, but soon
she began to pick quarrels with him. Entranced by her unpredictable moods, he worked hard to please her, showering her with attention and tenderness. Eventually the quarreling stopped, and as the days went by, de Belleroche felt confident that Merteuil loved him—until one day, when he came to visit, and found that she was not at home. Her footman greeted him at the door, and said he would take the chevalier to a secret house of Merteuil’s
outside Paris. There the marquise was waiting for him, in a renewed mood of coquettishness: she acted as if this were their first tryst. The chevalier had never seen her so ardent. He left at daybreak more in love than ever, but a few days later they quarreled again. The marquise seemed cold after that, and he saw her flirt with another man at a party. He felt horribly jealous, but as before, his solution was to become more attentive and loving. This, he thought, was the way to appease a difficult woman.
In Paris the band played a concert at the Palais Chaleux. They played the first half, and then there was an hour interval— intermission, we call it— during which there was a fabulous buffet on a
great long table laden with delicious foods and cognac, champagne, wine and that rarity in Paris
… Scotch. The people, aristocrats and servants, some on their hands and knees, were busily
searching for something on the floor. A duchess, who was one of the hostesses, had lost one of her larger diamonds. The duchess finally got bored
seeing people looking all over the floor for the
ring. She looked around haughtily, then took Duke by the arm, saying, “It doesn’t mean anything. I can always get diamonds, but how often can I get a man like Duke Ellington?” • She disappeared with Duke. The band started the second half by themselves, and eventually Duke smilingly
reappeared to finish the concert.
—DON GEORGE, SWEET MAN: THE REAL DUKE ELLINGTON
Now Merteuil had to spend a few weeks at her country home to handle some business there. She invited de Belleroche to join her for an extended stay, and he happily agreed, remembering the new life an earlier stay there had brought to their affair. Once again she surprised him: her affection and
desire to please him were rejuvenated. This time, though, he did not have to leave the next morning. Days went by, and she refused to entertain any guests. The world would not intrude on them. And this time there was no
coldness or quarreling, only good cheer and love. Yet now de Belleroche began to grow a little tired of the marquise. He thought of Paris and the balls he was missing; a week later he cut short his stay on some business
pretext and hurried back to the city. Somehow the marquise did not seem so charming anymore.
Interpretation, The Marquise de Merteuil, a character in Choderlos de Laclos’s novel Dangerous Liaisons, is a practiced seductress who never lets her affairs drag on too long. De Belleroche is young and handsome but that is all. As her interest in him wanes, she decides to bring him to the secret
house to try to inject some novelty into the affair. This works for a while, but it isn’t enough. The chevalier must be gotten rid of. She tries coldness, anger (hoping to start a fight), even a show of interest in another man. All this only intensifies his attachment. She can’t just leave him—he might
become vengeful, or try even harder to win her back. The solution: she deliberately breaks the spell by overwhelming him with attention.
Abandoning the pattern of alternating warmth with coldness, she acts
hopelessly in love. Alone with her day after day, with no space to fantasize, he no longer sees her as enchanting and breaks off the affair. This was her goal all along.
If a break with the victim is too messy or difficult (or you lack the nerve), then do the next best thing: deliberately break the spell that ties him or her to you. Aloofness or anger will only stir the other person’s insecurity, producing a clinging horror. Instead, try suffocating them with love and attention: be clinging and possessive yourself, moon over the lover’s every action and character trait, create the sense that this monotonous affection will go on forever. No more mystery, no more coquetry, no more retreats— just endless love. Few can endure such a threat. A few weeks of it and they will be gone.
I do know, however, that men become bigger- hearted and better lovers once they get the suspicion that their mistresses care less about them. When a man believes himself to be the one and only lover in a woman’s life, he’ll whistle and go his way. • I ought to know; I have followed this profession for the last twenty years. If you want me to, I will tell you what happened to me a few years ago. • At that time I had a steady lover, a certain Demophantos, a usurer living near Poikile. He had never given me more than five drachmas and he
pretended to be my man. But his love was only superficial, Chrysis. He never sighed, he never shed tears for me and he never spent the night waiting at my door. One day he came to see me, knocked at my door, but I did not open it. You see, I had the painter, Callides, in my room; Callides had given me ten drachmas. Demophantos swore and beat his fists on the door and left cursing me.
Several days passed without my sending for him; Callides was still in my house. Thereupon
Demophantos, who was already quite excited, went
wild. He broke open my door, wept, pulled me about, threatened to kill me, tore my tunic, and did everything, in fact, that a jealous man would do, and finally presented me with six thousand drachmas. In consideration of this sum, I was his
for a period of eight months. His wife used to say that I had bewitched him with some powder. That bewitching powder, to be sure, was jealousy. That is why, Chrysis, I advise you to act likewise with Gorgias.
—LUCIAN, DIALOGUES OFTHE COURTESANS, TRANSLATED BY A.L.H.
- King Charles II of England was a devoted libertine. He kept a stable of lovers: there was always a favorite mistress from the aristocracy, and
countless other less important women. He craved variety. One evening in 1668, the king spent an evening at the theater, where he conceived a sudden desire for a young actress called Nell Gwyn. She was pretty and innocent looking (only eighteen at the time), with a girlish glow in her cheeks, but
the lines she recited onstage were so impudent and saucy. Deeply excited, the king decided he had to have her. After the performance he took her out for a night of drinking and merriment, then led her to his royal bed.
Nell was the daughter of a fishmonger, and had begun by selling oranges in the theater. She rose to the status of actress by sleeping with writers and other theater men. She had no shame about this. (When a footman of hers got into a fight with someone who said he worked for a whore, she broke it up by saying, “I am a whore. Find something better to fight about.”) Nell’s humor and sass amused the king greatly, but she was low-born, and an actress, and he could hardly make her a favorite. After several nights with “pretty, witty Nell,” he returned to his principal mistress, Louise Keroualle, a well-born Frenchwoman.
Keroualle was a clever seductress. She played hard to get, and made it clear she would not give the king her virginity until he had promised her a title. It was the kind of chase Charles enjoyed, and he made her the Duchess
of Portsmouth. But soon her greed and difficultness began to wear on his nerves. To divert himself, he turned back to Nell. Whenever he visited her, he was royally entertained with food, drink, and her great good humor. The king was bored or melancholy? She took him drinking or gambling, or out to the country, where she taught him to fish. She always had a pleasant
surprise up her sleeve. What he loved most of all was her wit, the way she mocked the pretentious Keroualle. The duchess had the habit of going into mourning whenever a nobleman of another country died, as if he were a relation. Nell, too, would show up at the palace on these occasions dressed in black, and would sorrowfully say that she was mourning for the “Cham of Tartary” or the “Boog of Oronooko”—grand relatives of her own. To her face, she called the duchess “Squintabella” and the “Weeping Willow,”
because of her simpering manners and melancholic airs. Soon the king was spending more time with Nell than with the duchess. By the time Keroualle fell out of favor, Nell had in essence become the king’s favorite, which she remained until his death, in 1685.
Interpretation. Nell Gwyn was ambitious. She wanted power and fame, but in the seventeenth century the only way a woman could get those things
was through a man—and who better than the king? But to get involved with Charles was a dangerous game. A man like him, easily bored and in need of variety, would use her for a fling, then find someone else.
Nell’s strategy for the problem was simple: she let the king have his other girls, and never complained. Every time he saw her, though, she made sure he was entertained and diverted. She filled his senses with pleasure, acting as if his position had nothing to do with her love for him. Variety in women could wear on the nerves, tiring a busy king. They all made so many demands. If one woman could provide the same variety (and Nell, as an actress, knew how to play different roles), she had a big advantage. Nell
never asked for money, so Charles plied her with wealth. She never asked to be the favorite—how could she? She was a commoner—but he elevated her to the position.
Many of your targets will be like kings and queens, particularly those who are easily bored. Once the seduction is over they will not only have
trouble idealizing you, they may also turn to another man or woman whose unfamiliarity seems exciting and poetic. Needing other people to divert them, they often satisfy this need through variety. Do not play into the
hands of these bored royals by complaining, becoming self-pitying, or demanding privileges. That would only further their natural disenchantment once the seduction is over. Instead, make them see that you are not the person they thought you were. Make it a delightful game to play new roles, to surprise them, to be an endless source of entertainment. It is almost
impossible to resist a person who provides pleasure with no strings attached. When they are with you, keep the spirit light and playful. Play up the parts of your character they find delightful, but never let them feel they know you too well. In the end you will control the dynamic, and a haughty king or queen will become your abject slave.
- When the great jazz composer Duke Ellington came to town, he and his band were always a big attraction, but especially so for the ladies of the area. They came to hear his music, of course, but once there they were mesmerized by “the Duke” himself. Onstage, Ellington was relaxed and elegant, and seemed to be having such a good time. His face was very handsome, and his bedroom eyes were infamous. (He slept very little, and his eyes had permanent pouches under them.) After the performance, some woman would inevitably invite him to her table, another would sneak into his dressing room, yet another would approach him on his way out. Duke made a point of being accessible, and when he kissed a woman’s hand, his eyes and hers would meet for a moment. Sometimes she would signal an interest in him, and his glance in return would say he was more than ready. Sometimes his eyes were the first to speak; few women could resist that look, even the most happily married.
With the night’s music still ringing in her ears, the woman would show up at Ellington’s hotel room. He would be dressed in a stylish suit—he loved good clothes—and the room would be full of flowers; there would be a piano in the corner. He would play some music. His playing, and his elegant, nonchalant manner, would come across to the woman as pure theater, a pleasant continuation of the performance she had just witnessed. And when it was over, and Ellington had to leave town, he would give her a thoughtful gift. He would make it seem that the only thing taking him away from her was his touring. A few weeks later, the woman might hear a new
Ellington song on the radio, with lyrics suggesting that she had inspired it. If ever he passed through the area again, she would find a way to be there, and Ellington would often renew the affair, if only for a night.
“A wife is someone on whom one gazes all one’s life; yet it is just as well if she be not beautiful”— so spake Jinta of the Gion. This may be the flippant saying of a go-between, but it is not to be dismissed too lightly Besides, it is with beautiful
women as with beautiful views: if one is forever looking at them, one soon tires of their charm. This I can judge from my own experience. One year I went to Matsushima, and, though at first I was moved by the beauty of the place and clapped my
hands with admiration, saying to myself, “Oh, if
only I could bring some poet here to show him this great wonder!”—yet, after I had been gazing at
the scene from morning until night, the myriad
islands began to smell unpleasantly of seaweed, the waves that beat on Matsuyama Point became obstreperous; before I knew it I had let all the
cherry blossoms at Shiogama scatter; in the morning I overslept and missed the dawn snow on Mount Kinka; nor was I much impressed by the evening moon at Nagané or Oshima; and in the end I picked up a few white and black pebbles on the cove and became engrossed in a game of Six Musashi with some children.
—IHARA SAIKAKU, THE LIFE OF AN AMOROUS WOMAN, TRANSLATED BY IVAN
MORRIS TRANSLATED BY IVAN MORRIS
Men despise women who love too much and unwisely.
-LUCIAN, DIALOGUES OF THE COURTESANS, TRANSLATED BY A.L.H.
I shall endeavor briefly to outline to you how a
love when gained can be deepened. They say it can be increased in particular by making it an
infrequent and difficult business for lovers to set eyes on each other, for the greater the difficulty of offering and receiving shared consolations, the
greater become the desire for, and feeling of, love. Love also grows if one of the lovers shows anger to the other, for a lover is at once sorely afraid that a partner’s wrath when roused may harden
indefinitely. Love again experiences increase when genuine jealousy preoccupies one of the lovers, for jealousy is called the nurturer of love. In fact even if the lover is oppressed not by genuine jealousy but by base suspicion, love always increases
because of it, and becomes more powerful by its own strength.
—ANDREAS CAPELLANUS ON LOVE, TRANSLATED BY P.G. WALSH
Sometime in the 1940s, two young women from Alabama came to Chicago to attend a debutante ball. Ellington and his band were the entertainment. He was the women’s favorite musician, and after the show, they asked him for an autograph. He was so charming and engaging that one of the girls found herself asking what hotel he was staying at. He told them, with a big grin. The girls switched hotels, and later that day they
called up Ellington and invited him to their room for a drink. He accepted. They wore beautiful negligées that they had just bought. When Ellington arrived, he acted completely naturally, as if the warm greeting they gave him were completely usual. The three of them ended up in the bedroom, when one of the young women had an idea: her mother adored Ellington.
She had to call her now and put Ellington on the phone. Not at all put out by the suggestion, Ellington played along. For several minutes he talked to the mother on the telephone, lavishing her with compliments on the charming daughter she had raised, and telling her not to worry—he was taking good care of the girl. The daughter got back on the phone and said, “We’re fine because we’re with Mr. Ellington and he’s such a perfect
gentleman.” As soon as she hung up, the three of them resumed the
naughtiness they had started. To the two girls, it later seemed an innocent but unforgettable night of pleasure.
Sometimes several of these far-flung mistresses would show up at the same concert. Ellington would go up and kiss each of them four times (a habit of his designed for just this dilemma). And each of the ladies would assume she was the one with whom the kisses really mattered.
Interpretation. Duke Ellington had two passions: music and women. The two were interrelated. His endless affairs were a constant inspiration for his music; he also treated them as if they were theater, a work of art in themselves. When it came time to separate, he always managed it with a theatrical touch. A clever remark and a gift would make it seem that for him the affair was hardly over. Song lyrics referring to their night together would keep up the aesthetic atmosphere long after he had left town. No wonder women kept coming back for more. This was not a sexual affair, a tawdry one-nighter, but a heightened moment in the woman’s life. And his carefree attitude made it impossible to feel guilty; thoughts of one’s mother or husband would not spoil the illusion. Ellington was never defensive or
apologetic about his appetite for women; it was his nature and never the fault of the woman that he was unfaithful. And if he could not help his desires, how could she hold him responsible? It was impossible to hold a grudge against such a man or complain about his behavior.
You’ve seen the fire that smolders \ Down to nothing, grows a crown of pale ash \ Over its hidden embers (yet a sprinkling of sulphur \ Will
suffice to rekindle the flame)?\ So with the heart. It
grows torpid from lack of worry, \ Needs a sharp
stimulus to elicit love. \ Get her anxious about you, reheat her tepid passions, \ Tell her your guilty
secrets, watch her blanch. \ Thrice fortunate that man, lucky past calculation, \ Who can make some poor injured girl \ Torture herself over him, lose voice, go pale, pass out when \ The unwelcome
news reaches her. Ah, may I \ Be the one whose
hair she tears out in her fury, the one whose \ Soft cheeks she rips with her nails, \ Whom she sees,
eyes glaring, through a rain of tears; without whom, \ Try as she will, she cannot live! \ How long (you may ask) should you leave her lamenting her wrong? A little \ While only, lest rage gather
strength \ Through procrastination. By then you should have her sobbing \ All over your chest, your arms tight around her neck. \ You want peace?
Give her kisses, make love to the girl while she’s crying—\ That’s the only way to melt her angry mood.
—OVID, THE ART OF LOVE, TRANSLATED BY PETER GREEN
Ellington was an Aesthetic Rake, a type whose obsession with women can only be satisfied by endless variety. A normal man’s tomcatting will eventually land him in hot water, but the Aesthetic Rake rarely stirs up ugly emotions. After he seduces a woman, there is neither an integration nor a sacrifice. He keeps them hanging and hoping. The spell is not broken the next day, because the Aesthetic Rake makes the separation a pleasant, even elegant experience. The spell Ellington cast on a woman never went away.
The lesson is simple: keep the moments after the seduction and the separation in the same key as before, heightened, aesthetic, and pleasant. If you do not act guilty for your feckless behavior, it is hard for the other person to feel angry or resentful. Seduction is a lighthearted game, in which you invest all of your energy in the moment. The separation should be
lighthearted and stylish as well: it is work, travel, some dreaded responsibility that calls you away. Create a memorable experience and then move on, and your victim will most likely remember the delightful seduction, not the separation. You will have made no enemies, and will
have a lifelong harem of lovers to whom you can always return when you feel so inclined.
- In 1899, twenty-year-old Baroness Frieda von Richthofen married an Englishman named Ernest Weekley, a professor at the University of Nottingham, and soon settled into the role of the professor’s wife. Weekley treated her well, but she grew bored with their quiet life and his tepid love- making. On trips home to Germany she had a few love affairs, but this wasn’t what she wanted either, and so she returned to being faithful and caring for their three children.
One day in 1912, a former student of Weekley’s, David Herbert Lawrence, paid a visit to the couple’s house. A struggling writer, Lawrence wanted the professor’s professional advice. He was not home yet so Frieda entertained him. She had never met such an intense young man. He talked of his impoverished youth, his inability to understand women. And he listened attentively to her own complaints. He even scolded her for the bad tea she had made him—somehow, even though she was a baroness, this excited her.
Lawrence returned for later visits, but now to see Frieda, not Weekley.
One day he confessed to her that he had fallen deeply in love with her. She admitted to similar feelings, and proposed they find a trysting spot. Instead Lawrence had a proposal of his own: Leave your husband tomorrow—leave him for me. What about the children? Frieda asked. If the children are more important than our love, Lawrence replied, then stay with them. But if you don’t run away with me within a few days, you will never see me again. To Frieda the choice was horrific. She did not care at all about her husband, but the children were what she lived for. Even so, a few days later, she succumbed to Lawrence’s proposal. How could she resist a man who was willing to ask for so much, to take such a gamble? If she refused she would always wonder, for such a man only passes once through your life.
The couple left England and headed for Germany. Frieda would mention sometimes how much she missed her children, but Lawrence had no
patience with her: You are free to go back to them at any moment, he would say, but if you stay, don’t look back. He took her on an arduous mountaineering trip in the Alps. A baroness, she had never experienced such hardship, but Lawrence was firm: if two people are in love, why should comfort matter?
In 1914, Frieda and Lawrence were married, but over the following years the same pattern repeated. He would scold her for her laziness, the nostalgia for her children, her abysmal housekeeping. He would take her on trips around the world, on very little money, never letting her settle down, although it was her fondest wish. They fought and fought. Once in New Mexico, in front of friends, he yelled at her, “Take that dirty cigarette out of your mouth! And stop sticking out that fat belly of yours!” “You’d better stop that talk or I’ll tell about your things,” she yelled back. (She had learned to give him a taste of his own medicine.) They both went outside.
Their friends watched, worried it might turn violent. They disappeared from sight only to reappear moments later, arm in arm, laughing and mooning over one another. That was the most disconcerting thing about the Lawrences: married for years, they often behaved like infatuated newlyweds.
Interpretation. When Lawrence first met Frieda, he could sense right away what her weakness was: she felt trapped, in a stultifying relationship and a pampered life. Her husband, like so many husbands, was kind, but never paid enough attention to her. She craved drama and adventure, but was too lazy to get it on her own: Drama and adventure were just what Lawrence would provide. Instead of feeling trapped, she had the freedom to leave him at any moment. Instead of ignoring her, he criticized her constantly—at least he was paying attention, never taking her for granted. Instead of comfort and boredom, he gave her adventure and romance. The fights he picked with ritualistic frequency also ensured nonstop drama and the space for a powerful reconciliation. He inspired a touch of fear in her, which kept
her off balance, never quite sure of him. As a result, the relationship never grew stale. It kept renewing itself.
If it is integration you are after, seduction must never stop. Otherwise boredom will creep in. And the best way to keep the process going is often to inject intermittent drama. This can be painful—opening old wounds, stirring up jealousy, withdrawing a little. (Do not confuse this behavior with nagging or carping criticism—this pain is strategic, designed to break up rigid patterns.) On the other hand it can also be pleasant: think about proving yourself all over again, paying attention to nice little details, creating new temptations. In fact you should mix the two aspects, for too much pain or pleasure will not prove seductive. You are not repeating the first seduction, for the target has already surrendered. You are simply supplying little jolts, little wake-up calls that show two things: you have not stopped trying, and they cannot take you for granted. The little jolt will stir up the old poison, stoke the embers, bring you temporarily back to the beginning, when your involvement had a most pleasant freshness and tension.
Remember: comfort and security are the death of seduction. A shared journey with a little bit of hardship will do more to create a deep bond than will expensive gifts and luxuries. The young are right to not care about comfort in matters of love, and when you return to that sentiment, a youthful spark will reignite.
- In 1652, the famous French courtesan Ninon de l’Enclos met and fell in love with the Marquis de Villarceaux. Ninon was a libertine; philosophy
and pleasure were more important to her than love. But the marquis inspired new sensations: he was so bold, so impetuous, that for once in her life she let herself lose a little control. The marquis was possessive, a trait she normally abhorred. But in him it seemed natural, almost charming: he simply could not help himself. And so Ninon accepted his conditions: there were to be no other men in her life. For her part she told him that she would accept no money or gifts from him. This was to be about love, nothing else.
She rented a house opposite his in Paris, and they saw each other daily.
One afternoon the marquis suddenly burst in and accused her of having
another lover. His suspicions were unfounded, his accusations absurd, and she told him so. This did not satisfy him, and he stormed out. The next day Ninon received news that he had fallen quite ill. She was deeply concerned. As a desperate recourse, a sign of her love and submission, she decided to cut off her beautiful long hair, for which she was famous, and send it to him. The gesture worked, the marquis recovered, and they resumed their affair still more passionately. Friends and former lovers complained of her sudden transformation into the devoted woman, but she did not care—she was happy.
Now Ninon suggested that they go away together. The marquis, a married man, could not take her to his château, but a friend offered his own in the country as a refuge for the lovers. Weeks became months, and their little stay turned into a prolonged honeymoon. Slowly, though, Ninon had the feeling that something was wrong: the marquis was acting more like a husband. Although he was as passionate as before, he seemed so confident, as if he had certain rights and privileges that no other man could expect.
The possessiveness that once had charmed her began to seem oppressive.
Nor did he stimulate her mind. She could get other men, and equally handsome ones, to satisfy her physically without all that jealousy.
Once this realization set in, Ninon wasted no time. She told the marquis that she was returning to Paris, and that it was over for good. He begged and pleaded his case with much emotion—how could she be so heartless? Although moved, Ninon was firm. Explanations would only make it worse.
She returned to Paris and resumed the life of a courtesan. Her abrupt
departure apparently shook up the marquis, but apparently not too badly, for a few months later word reached her that he had fallen in love with another woman.
Interpretation. A woman often spends months pondering the subtle changes in her lover’s behavior. She might complain or grow angry; she might even blame herself. Under the weight of her complaints, the man may change for a while, but an ugly dynamic and endless misunderstandings will ensue.
What is the point of all of this? Once you are disenchanted it is really too late. Ninon could have tried to figure out what had disenchanted her—the
good looks that now bored her, the lack of mental stimulation, the feeling of being taken for granted. But why waste time figuring it out? The spell was broken, so she moved on. She did not bother to explain, to worry about de Villarceaux’s feelings, to make it all soft and easy for him. She simply left. The person who seems so considerate of the other, who tries to mend things or make excuses, is really just timid. Being kind in such matters can be rather cruel. The marquis was able to blame everything on his mistress’s heartless, fickle nature. His vanity and pride intact, he could easily move on to another affair and put her behind him.
Not only does the long, lingering death of a relationship cause your partner needless pain, it will have long-term consequences for you as well, making you more skittish in the future, and weighing you down with guilt. Never feel guilty, even if you were both the seducer and the one who now feels disenchanted. It is not your fault. Nothing can last forever. You have
created pleasure for your victims, stirring them out of their rut. If you make a clean quick break, in the long run they will appreciate it. The more you apologize, the more you insult their pride, stirring up negative feelings that will reverberate for years. Spare them the disingenuous explanations that only complicate matters. The victim should be sacrificed, not tortured.
- After fifteen years under the rule of Napoleon Bonaparte, the French were exhausted. Too many wars, too much drama. When Napoleon was defeated in 1814, and was imprisoned on the island of Elba, the French
were more than ready for peace and quiet. The Bourbons—the royal family deposed by the revolution of 1789—returned to power. The king was Louis XVIII; he was fat, boring, and pompous, but at least there would be peace.
Then, in February of 1815, news reached France of Napoleon’s dramatic escape from Elba, with seven small ships and a thousand men. He could head for America, start all over, but instead he was just crazy enough to land at Cannes. What was he thinking? A thousand men against all the
armies of France? He set off toward Grenoble with his ragtag army. One at least had to admire his courage, his insatiable love of glory and of France.
Then, too, the French peasantry were spellbound at the sight of their former emperor. This man, after all, had redistributed a great deal of land to
them, which the new king was trying to take back. They swooned at the sight of his famous eagle standards, revivals of symbols from the revolution. They left their fields and joined his march. Outside Grenoble, the first of the troops that the king sent to stop Napoleon caught up with him. Napoleon dismounted and walked on foot toward them. “Soldiers of the Fifth Army Corps!” he cried out. “Don’t you know me? If there is one
among you who wishes to kill his emperor, let him come forward and do so. Here I am!.” He threw open his gray cloak, inviting them to take aim. There was a moment of silence, and then, from all sides, cries rang out of “Vive
l’Empereur!” In one stroke, Napoleon’s army had doubled in size.
The march continued. More soldiers, remembering the glory he had given them, changed sides. The city of Lyons fell without a battle. Generals with larger armies were dispatched to stop him, but the sight of Napoleon at the head of his troops was an overwhelmingly emotional experience for them, and they switched allegiance. King Louis fled France, abdicating in
the process. On March 20, Napoleon reentered Paris and returned to the palace he had left only thirteen months before—all without having had to fire a single shot.
The peasantry and the soldiers had embraced Napoleon, but Parisians
were less enthusiastic, particularly those who had served in his government. They feared the storms he would bring. Napoleon ruled the country for one hundred days, until the allies and his enemies from within defeated him.
This time he was shipped off to the remote island of St. Helena, where he was to die.
Interpretation. Napoleon always thought of France, and his army, as a target to be wooed and seduced. As General de Ségur wrote of Napoleon: “In
moments of sublime power, he no longer commands like a man, but seduces like a woman.” In the case of his escape from Elba, he planned a bold, surprising gesture that would titillate a bored nation. He began his return to France among the people who would be most receptive to him: the peasantry who had revered him. He revived the symbols—the revolutionary colors, the eagle standards—that would stir up the old sentiments. He placed himself at the head of his army, daring his former soldiers to fire on
him. The march on Paris that brought him back to power was pure theater, calculated for emotional effect every step of the way. What a contrast this former amour presented to the dolt of a king who now ruled them.
Napoleon’s second seduction of France was not a classical seduction, following the usual steps, but a re-seduction. It was built on old emotions and revived an old love. Once you have seduced a person (or a nation) there is almost always a lull, a slight letdown, which sometimes leads to a separation; it is surprisingly easy, though, to re-seduce the same target. The old feelings never go away, they lie dormant, and in a flash you can take your target by surprise.
It is a rare pleasure to be able to relive the past, and one’s youth—to feel the old emotions. Like Napoleon, add a dramatic flair to your re-seduction: revive the old images, the symbols, the expressions that will stir memory. Like the French, your targets will tend to forget the ugliness of the separation and will remember only the good things. You should make this second seduction bold and quick, giving your targets no time to reflect or wonder. Like Napoleon, play on the contrast to their current lover, making his or her behavior seem timid and stodgy by comparison.
Not everyone will be receptive to a re-seduction, and some moments will be inappropriate. When Napoleon came back from Elba, the Parisians were too sophisticated for him, and could see right through him. Unlike the
peasants of the South, they already knew him well; and his reentry came too soon, they were too worn out by him. If you want to re-seduce someone,
choose one who does not know you so well, whose memories of you are cleaner, who is less suspicious by nature, and who is dissatisfied with present circumstances. Also, you might want to let some time pass. Time will restore your luster and make your faults fade away. Never see a separation or sacrifice as final. With a little drama and planning, a victim can be retaken in no time.
Symbol: Embers, the remains of the fire on the morning after. Left to themselves, the embers will slowly die out. Do not leave the fire to chance and to the elements. To put it out, douse it, suffocate it, give it nothing to feed on. To bring it back to life, fan it, stoke it, until it
blazes anew. Only your constant attention and vigilance will keep it burning.
Reversal
To keep a person enchanted, you will have to re-seduce them constantly But you can allow a little familiarity to creep in. The target wants to feel that he or she is getting to know you. Too much mystery will create doubt. It will also be tiring for you, who will have to sustain it. The point is not to remain completely unfamiliar but rather, on occasion, to jolt victims out of their complacency, surprising them as you surprised them in the past. Do
this right and they will have the delightful feeling that they are constantly getting to know more about you—but never too much.
