n the early 1880s, members of Roman high society began to talk of a young journalist who had arrived on the scene, a certain Gabriele D'An-nunzio. This was strange in itself, for Italian royalty had only the deepest contempt for anyone outside their circle, and a newspaper society reporter was almost as low as you could go. Indeed well-born men paid D'Annun-zio little attention. He had no money and few connections, coming from a strictly middle-class background. Besides, to them he was downright ugly—short and stocky, with a dark, splotchy complexion and bulging eyes. The men thought him so unappealing they gladly let him mingle with their wives and daughters, certain that their women would be safe with this gar-goyle and happy to get this gossip hunter off their hands. No, it was not the men who talked of D'Annunzio; it was their wives.

Introduced to D'Annunzio by their husbands, these duchesses and mar chionesses would find themselves entertaining this strange-looking man,and when he was alone with them, his manner would suddenly change. Within minutes these ladies would be spellbound. First, he had the most magnificent voice they had ever heard—soft and low, each syllable articu-

lated, with a flowing rhythm and inflection that was almost musical. One

woman compared it to the ringing of church bells in the distance. Others

said his voice had a "hypnotic" effect. The words that voice spoke were in-

teresting as well—alliterative phrases, charming locutions, poetic images,

and a way of offering praise that could melt a woman's heart. D'Annunzio

had mastered the art of flattery. He seemed to know each woman's weak-

ness: one he would call a goddess of nature, another an incomparable artist

in the making, another a romantic figure out of a novel. A woman's heart

would flutter as he described the effect she had on him. Everything was

suggestive, hinting at sex or romance. That night she would ponder his

words, recalling little in particular that he had said, because he never said

anything concrete, but rather the feeling it had given her. The next day she would receive from him a poem that seemed to have been written specifically for her. (In fact he wrote dozens of very similar poems, slightly

tailoring each one for its intended victim.)

A few years after D'Annunzio began work as a society reporter, he mar-

ried the daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Gallese. Shortly thereafter,

with the unshakeable support of society ladies, he began publishing novels

and books of poetry. The number of his conquests was remarkable, and

also the quality—not only marchionesses would fall at his feet, but great

artists, such as the actress Eleanor Duse, who helped him become a re-

spected dramatist and literary celebrity. The dancer Isadora Duncan, an-

other who eventually fell under his spell, explained his magic: "Perhaps the

most remarkable lover of our time is Gabriele D'Annunzio. And this

notwithstanding that he is small, bald, and, except when his face lights up

with enthusiasm, ugly But when he speaks to a woman he likes, his face is

transfigured, so that he suddenly becomes Apollo.... His effect on women

is remarkable. The lady he is talking to suddenly feels that her very soul and

being are lifted."

At the outbreak of World War I, the fifty-two-year-old D'Annunzio

joined the army. Although he had no military experience, he had a flair for

the dramatic and a burning desire to prove his bravery. He learned to fly

and led dangerous but highly effective missions. By the end of the war, he

was Italy's most decorated hero. His exploits made him a beloved national

figure, and after the war, crowds would gather outside his hotel wherever in

Italy he went. He would address them from a balcony, discussing politics,

railing against the current Italian government. A witness of one of these

speeches, the American writer Walter Starkie, was initially disappointed at

the appearance of the famous D'Annunzio on a balcony in Venice; he was short, and looked grotesque. "Little by little, however, I began to sink under the fascination of the voice, which penetrated into my consciousness....

Never a hurried, jerky gesture.... He played upon the emotions of the crowd as a supreme violinist does upon a Stradivarius. The eyes of the thousands were fixed upon him as though hypnotized by his power." Once again, it was the sound of the voice and the poetic connotations of the words that seduced the masses. Arguing that modern Italy should reclaim the greatness of the Roman Empire, D'Annunzio would craft slogans for the audience to repeat, or would ask emotionally loaded questions for them to answer. He flattered the crowd, made them feel they were part of some drama. Everything was vague and suggestive.

The issue of the day was the ownership of the city of Fiume, just across the border in neighboring Yugoslavia. Many Italians believed that Italy's re-ward for siding with the Allies in the recent war should be the annexation of Fiume. D'Annunzio championed this cause, and because of his status as a war hero the army was ready to side with him, although the government opposed any action. In September of 1919, with soldiers rallying around him, D'Annunzio led his infamous march on Fiume. When an Italian gen-eral stopped him along the way, and threatened to shoot him, D'Annunzio opened his coat to show his medals, and said in his magnetic voice, "If you must kill me, fire first on this!" The general stood there stunned, then broke into tears. He joined up with D'Annunzio.

When D'Annunzio entered Fiume, he was greeted as a liberator. The next day he was declared leader of the Free State of Fiume. Soon he was giving daily speeches from a balcony overlooking the town's main square, holding tens of thousands of people spellbound without benefit of loud-speakers. He initiated all kinds of celebrations and rituals harking back to the Roman Empire. The citizens of Fiume began to imitate him, particu-larly his sexual exploits; the city became like a giant bordello. His popu-larity was so high that the Italian government feared a march on Rome, which at that point, had D'Annunzio decided to do it—and he had the support of a large part of the military—might actually have succeeded; D'Annunzio could have beaten Mussolini to the punch and changed the course of history. (He was not a Fascist, but a kind of aesthetic socialist.) He decided to stay in Fiume, however, and ruled there for sixteen months before the Italian government finally bombed him out of the city.

Seduction is a psychological process that transcends gender, except in a few key areas where each gender has its own weakness. The male is traditionally vulnerable to the visual. The Siren who can concoct the right physical ap-pearance will seduce in large numbers. For women the weakness is lan-guage and words: as was written by one of D'Annunzio's victims, the French actress Simone, "How can one explain his conquests except by his extraordinary verbal power, and the musical timbre of his voice, put to the service of exceptional eloquence? For my sex is susceptible to words, be-witched by them, longing to be dominated by them."

The Rake is as promiscuous with words as he is with women. He chooses words for their ability to suggest, insinuate, hypnotize, elevate, infeet. The words of the Rake are the equivalent of the bodily adornment of the Siren: a powerful sensual distraction, a narcotic. The Rake's use of lan-guage is demonic because it is designed not to communicate or convey in-formation but to persuade, flatter, stir emotional turmoil, much as the serpent in the Garden of Eden used words to lead Eve into temptation.

The example of D'Annunzio reveals the link between the erotic Rake, who seduces women, and the political Rake, who seduces the masses. Both depend on words. Adapt the character of the Rake and you will find that the use of words as a subtle poison has infinite applications. Remember: it is the form that matters, not the content. The less your targets focus on what you say, and the more on how it makes them feel, the more seductive your effect. Give your words a lofty, spiritual, literary flavor the better to in-sinuate desire in your unwitting victims.

But what is this force, then, by which Don Juan seduces?

It is desire, the energy of sensuous desire. He desires in

every woman the whole of womanhood. The reaction to this gigantic passion beautifies and develops the one desired, who flushes in enhanced beauty by his reflection. As the enthusiast's fire with seductive splendor illumines even those who stand in a casual relation to him, so Don Juan transfigures in a far deeper sense every girl.

—SØREN KIERKEGAARD, EITHER/OR