. Claudius, the step-grandson of the great Roman emperor Augustus, was

considered something of an imbecile as a young man, and was treated badly

by almost everyone in his family. His nephew Caligula, who became em-

peror in A.D. 37, made it a sport to torture him, making him run around

the palace at top speed as penance for his stupidity, having soiled sandals

tied to his hands at supper, and so on. As Claudius grew older, he seemed

to become even more slow-witted, and while all of his relatives lived under

the constant threat of assassination, he was left alone. So it came as a great

surprise to everyone, including Claudius himself, that when, in A.D. 41, a

cabal of soldiers assassinated Caligula, they also proclaimed Claudius em-

peror. Having no desire to rule, he delegated most of the governing to

confidantes (a group of freed slaves) and spent his time doing what he loved

best: eating, drinking, gambling, and whoring.

Claudius's wife, Valeria Messalina, was one of the most beautiful

women in Rome. Although he seemed fond of her, Claudius paid her no

attention, and she started to have affairs. At first she was discreet, but over

the years, provoked by her husband's neglect, she became more and more

debauched. She had a room built for her in the palace where she enter-

tained scores of men, doing her best to imitate the most notorious prostitute in Rome, whose name was written on the door. Any man who refused

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her advances was put to death. Almost everyone in Rome knew about these frolics, but Claudius said nothing; he seemed oblivious.

So great was Messalina's passion for her favorite lover, Gaius Silius, that she decided to marry him, although both of them were married already. While Claudius was away, they held a wedding ceremony, authorized by a marriage contract that Claudius himself had been tricked into signing. Af-ter the ceremony, Gaius moved into the palace. Now the shock and disgust of the whole city finally forced Claudius into action, and he ordered the execution of Gaius and of Messalina's other lovers—but not of Messalina herself. Nevertheless, a gang of soldiers, inflamed by the scandal, hunted her down and stabbed her to death. When this was reported to the em-peror, he merely ordered more wine and continued his meal. Several nights later, to the amazement of his slaves, he asked why the empress was not joining him for dinner.

Nothing is more infuriating than being paid no attention. In the process of seduction, you may have to pull back at times, subjecting your target to moments of doubt. But prolonged inattention will not only break the se-ductive spell, it can create hatred. Claudius was an extreme of this behavior. His insensitivity was created by necessity: in acting like an imbecile, he hid his ambition and protected himself among dangerous competitors. But the insensitivity became second nature. Claudius grew slovenly, and no longer noticed what was going on around him. His inattentiveness had a profound effect on his wife: How, she wondered, can a man, especially a physically unappealing man like Claudius, not notice me, or care about my affairs with other men? But nothing she did seemed to matter to him.

Claudius marks the extreme, but the spectrum of inattention is wide. A lot of people pay too little attention to the details, the signals another per-son gives. Their senses are dulled by work, by hardship, by self-absorption. We often see this turning off the seductive charge between two people, no-tably between couples who have been together for years. Carried further, it will stir angry, bitter feelings. Often, the one who has been cheated on by a partner started the dynamic by patterns of inattention.

2. In 1639, a French army besieged and took possession of the Italian city of Turin. Two French officers, the Chevalier (later Count) de Grammont and his friend Matta, decided to turn their attention to the city's beautiful women. The wives of some of Turin's most illustrious men were more than susceptible—their husbands were busy, and kept mistresses of their own. The wives' only requirement was that the suitor play by the rules of gallantry.

The chevalier and Matta were quick to find partners, the chevalier choosing the beautiful Mademoiselle de Saint-Germain, who was soon to be betrothed, and Matta offering his services to an older and more experi-enced woman, Madame de Senantes. The chevalier took to wearing green, Matta blue, these being their ladies' favorite colors. On the second day of their courtships the couples visited a palace outside the city. The chevalier was all charm, making Mademoiselle de Saint-Germain laugh uproariously at his witticisms, but Matta did not fare so well; he had no patience for this gallantry business, and when he and Madame de Senantes took a stroll, he squeezed her hand and boldly declared his affections. The lady of course was aghast, and when they got back to Turin she left without looking at him. Unaware that he had offended her, Matta imagined that she was over-come with emotion, and felt rather pleased with himself. But the Chevalier de Grammont, wondering why the pair had parted, visited Madame de Senantes and asked her how it went. She told him the truth—Matta had dispensed with the formalities and was ready to bed her. The chevalier laughed and thought to himself how differently he would manage affairs if he were the one wooing the lovely Madame.

Over the next few days Matta continued to misread the signs. He did not pay a visit to Madame de Senantes's husband, as custom required. He did not wear her colors. When the two went riding together, he went chas-ing after hares, as if they were the more interesting prey, and when he took snuff he failed to offer her some. Meanwhile he continued to make his overforward advances. Finally Madame had had enough, and complained to him directly. Matta apologized; he had not realized his errors. Moved by his apology, the lady was more than ready to resume the courtship—but a few days later, after a few trifling stabs at wooing, Matta once again assumed that she was ready for bed. To his dismay, she refused him as before. "I do not think that [women] can be mightily offended," Matta told the cheva-lier, "if one sometimes leaves off trifling, to come to the point." But Madame de Senantes would have nothing more to do with him, and the Chevalier de Grammont, seeing an opportunity he could not pass by, took advantage of her displeasure by secretly courting her properly, and eventu-ally winning the favors that Matta had tried to force.

There is nothing more anti-seductive than feeling that someone has assumed that you are theirs, that you cannot possibly resist them. The slightest ap-pearance of this kind of conceit is deadly to seduction; you must prove yourself, take your time, win your target's heart. Perhaps you fear that he or she will be offended by a slower pace, or will lose interest. It is more likely, however, that your fear reflects your own insecurity, and insecurity is always anti-seductive. In truth, the longer you take, the more you show the depth of your interest, and the deeper the spell you create.

In a world of few formalities and ceremony, seduction is one of the few remnants from the past that retains the ancient patterns. It is a ritual, and its rites must be observed. Haste reveals not the depth of your feelings but the degree of your self-absorption. It may be possible sometimes to hurry someone into love, but you will only be repaid by the lack of pleasure this kind of love affords. If you are naturally impetuous, do what you can to disguise it. Strangely enough, the effort you spend on holding yourself back may be read by your target as deeply seductive.

3. In Paris in the 1730s lived a young man named Meilcour, who was just of an age to have his first affair. His mother's friend Madame de Lursay, a widow of around forty, was beautiful and charming, but had a reputation for being untouchable; as a boy, Meilcour had been infatuated with her, but never expected his love would be returned. So it was with great surprise and excitement that he realized that now that he was old enough, Madame de Lursay's tender looks seemed to indicate a more than motherly interest in him.

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For two months Meilcour trembled in de Lursay's presence. He was afraid of her, and did not know what to do. One evening they were dis-cussing a recent play. How well one character had declared his love to a woman, Madame remarked. Noting Meilcour's obvious discomfort, she went on, "If I am not mistaken, a declaration can only seem such an em-barrassing matter because you yourself have one to make." Madame de Lursay knew full well that she was the source of the young man's awkward-ness, but she was a tease; you must tell me, she said, with whom you are in love. Finally Meilcour confessed: it was indeed Madame whom he desired. His mother's friend advised him to not think of her that way, but she also sighed, and gave him a long and languid look. Her words said one thing, her eyes another—perhaps she was not as untouchable as he had thought. As the evening ended, though, Madame de Lursay said she doubted his feelings would last, and she left young Meilcour troubled that she had said nothing about reciprocating his love.

Over the next few days, Meilcour repeatedly asked de Lursay to declare her love for him, and she repeatedly refused. Eventually the young man de-cided his cause was hopeless, and gave up; but a few nights later, at a soiree at her house, her dress seemed more enticing than usual, and her looks at him stirred his blood. He returned them, and followed her around, while she took care to keep a bit of distance, lest others sense what was happen-ing. Yet she also managed to arrange that he could stay without arousing suspicion when the other visitors left.

When they were finally alone, she made him sit beside her on the sofa. He could barely speak; the silence was uncomfortable. To get him talking she raised the same old subject: his youth would make his love for her a passing fancy. Instead of denying it he looked dejected, and continued to keep a polite distance, so that she finally exclaimed, with obvious irony, "If it were known that you were here with my consent, that I had voluntarily arranged it with you... what might not people say? And yet how wrong they would be, for no one could be more respectful than you are." Goaded into action, Meilcour grabbed her hand and looked her in the eye. She blushed and told him he should go, but the way she arranged herself on the sofa and looked back at him suggested he should do the opposite. Yet Meil-cour still hesitated: she had told him to go, and if he disobeyed she might cause a scene, and might never forgive him; he would have made a fool of himself, and everyone, including his mother, would hear of it. He soon got up, apologizing for his momentary boldness. Her astonished and somewhat cold look meant he had indeed gone too far, he imagined, and he said goodbye and left.

Meilcour and Madame de Lursay appear in the novel The Wayward Head and Heart, written in 1738 by Crébillon fils, who based his characters on libertines he knew in the France of the time. For Crébillon fils, seduction is all about signs—about being able to send them and read them. This is not

because sexuality is repressed and requires speaking in code. It is rather be-cause wordless communication (through clothes, gestures, actions) is the most pleasurable, exciting, and seductive form of language.

In Crébillon fils's novel, Madame de Lursay is an ingenious seductress who finds it exciting to initiate young men. But even she cannot overcome the youthful stupidity of Meilcour, who is incapable of reading her signs because he is absorbed in his own thoughts. Later in the story, she does manage to educate him, but in real life there are many who cannot be educated. They are too literal and insensitive to the details that contain seductive power. They do not so much repel as irritate and infuriate you by their constant misinterpretations, always viewing life from behind the screen of their ego and unable to see things as they really are. Meilcour is so caught up in himself he cannot see that Madame is expecting him to make the bold move to which she will have to succumb. His hesitation shows that he is thinking of himself, not of her; that he is worrying about how he will look, not feeling overwhelmed by her charms. Nothing could be more anti-seductive. Recognize such types, and if they are past the young age that would give them an excuse, do not entangle yourself in their awkwardness—they will infect you with doubt.

4. In the Heian court of late-tenth-century Japan, the young nobleman Kaoru, purported son of the great seducer Genji himself, had had nothing but misfortune in love. He had become infatuated with a young princess, Oigimi, who lived in a dilapidated home in the countryside, her father having fallen on hard times. Then one day he had an encounter with Oigimi's sister, Nakanokimi, that convinced him she was the one he actu-ally loved. Confused, he returned to court, and did not visit the sisters for some time. Then their father died, followed shortly thereafter by Oigimi herself.

Now Kaoru realized his mistake: he had loved Oigimi all along, and she had died out of despair that he did not care for her. He would never meet her like again; she was all he could think about. When Nakanokimi, her fa-ther and sister dead, came to live at court, Kaoru had the house where Oigimi and her family had lived turned into a shrine.

One day, Nakanokimi, seeing the melancholy into which Kaoru had fallen, told him that there was a third sister, Ukifune, who resembled his beloved Oigimi and lived hidden away in the countryside. Kaoru came to life—perhaps he had a chance to redeem himself, to change the past. But how could he meet this woman? There came a time when he visited the shrine to pay his respects to the departed Oigimi, and heard that the myste-rious Ukifune was there as well. Agitated and excited, he managed to catch a glimpse of her through the crack in a door. The sight of her took his breath away: although she was a plain-looking country girl, in Kaoru's eyes she was the living incarnation of Oigimi. Her voice, meanwhile, was like

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the voice of Nakanokimi, whom he had loved as well. Tears welled up in his eyes.

A few months later Kaoru managed to find the house in the mountains where Ukifune lived. He visited her there, and she did not disappoint. "I once had a glimpse of you through a crack in a door," he told her, and "you have been very much on my mind ever since." Then he picked her up in his arms and carried her to a waiting carriage. He was taking her back to the shrine, and the journey there brought back to him the image of Oigimi; again his eyes clouded with tears. Looking at Ukifune, he silently compared her to Oigimi—her clothes were less nice but she had beautiful hair.

When Oigimi was alive, she and Kaoru had played the koto together, so once at the shrine he had kotos brought out. Ukifune did not play as well as Oigimi had, and her manners were less refined. Not to worry—he would give her lessons, change her into a lady. But then, as he had done with Oigimi, Kaoru returned to court, leaving Ukifune languishing at the shrine. Some time passed before he visited her again; she had improved, was more beautiful than before, but he could not stop thinking of Oigimi. Once again he left her, promising to bring her to court, but more weeks passed, and finally he received the news that Ukifune had disappeared, last seen heading toward a river. She had most likely committed suicide.

At the funeral ceremony for Ukifune, Kaoru was wracked with guilt:

why had he not come for her earlier? She deserved a better fate.

Kaoru and the others appear in the eleventh-century Japanese novel The Tale of Genji, by the noblewoman Murasaki Shikibu. The characters are based on people the author knew, but Kaoru's type appears in every culture and period: these are men and women who seem to be searching for an ideal partner. The one they have is never quite right; at first glance a person excites them, but they soon see faults, and when a new person crosses their path, he or she looks better and the first person is forgotten. These types often try to work on the imperfect mortal who has excited them, to im-prove them culturally and morally. But this proves extremely unsatisfactory for both parties.

The truth about this type is not that they are searching for an ideal but that they are hopelessly unhappy with themselves. You may mistake their dissatisfaction for a perfectionist's high standards, but in point of fact nothing will really satisfy them, for their unhappiness is deep-rooted. You can recognize them by their past, which will be littered with short-lived, stormy romances. Also, they will tend to compare you to others, and to try to remake you. You may not realize at first what you have gotten into, but people like this will eventually prove hopelessly anti-seductive because they cannot see your individual qualities. Cut the romance off before it happens. These types are closet sadists and will torture you with their unreachable goals.

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5. In 1762, in the city of Turin, Italy, Giovanni Giacomo Casanova made the acquaintance of one Count A.B., a Milanese gentleman who seemed to like him enormously. The count had fallen on hard times and Casanova lent him some money. In gratitude, the count invited Casanova to stay with him and his wife in Milan. His wife, he said, was from Barcelona, and was admired far and wide for her beauty. He showed Casanova her letters, which had an intriguing wit; Casanova imagined her as a prize worth se-ducing. He went to Milan.

Arriving at the house of Count A.B., Casanova found that the Spanish lady was certainly beautiful, but that she was also quiet and serious. Some-thing about her bothered him. As he was unpacking his clothes, the count-ess saw a stunning red dress, trimmed with sable, among his belongings. It was a gift, Casanova explained, for any Milanese lady who won his heart.

The following evening at dinner, the countess was suddenly more friendly, teasing and bantering with Casanova. She described the dress as a bribe—he would use it to persuade a woman to give in to him. On the contrary, said Casanova, he only gave gifts afterward, as tokens of his appre-ciation. That evening, in a carriage on the way back from the opera, she asked him if a wealthy friend of hers could buy the dress, and when he said no, she was clearly vexed. Sensing her game, Casanova offered to give her the sable dress if she was kind to him. This only made her angry, and they quarreled.

Finally Casanova had had enough of the countess's moods: he sold the dress for 15,000 francs to her wealthy friend, who in turn gave it to her, as she had planned all along. But to prove his lack of interest in money, Casanova told the countess he would give her the 15,000 francs, no strings attached. "You are a very bad man," she said, "but you can stay, you amuse me." She resumed her coquettish manner, but Casanova was not fooled. "It is not my fault, madame, if your charms have so little power over me," he told her. "Here are 15,000 francs to console you." He laid the money on a table and walked out, leaving the countess fuming and vowing revenge.

When Casanova first met the Spanish lady, two things about her repelled him. First, her pride: rather than engaging in the give-and-take of seduc-tion, she demanded a man's subjugation. Pride can reflect self-assurance, signaling that you will not abase yourself before others. Just as often, though, it stems from an inferiority complex, which demands that others abase themselves before you. Seduction requires an openness to the other person, a willingness to bend and adapt. Excessive pride, without anything to justify it, is highly anti-seductive.

The second quality that disgusted Casanova was the countess's greed: her coquettish little games were designed only to get the dress—she had no interest in romance. For Casanova, seduction was a lighthearted game that people played for their mutual amusement. In his scheme of things, it was fine if a woman wanted money and gifts as well; he could understand that desire, and he was a generous man. But he also felt that this was a desire a

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woman should disguise—she should create the impression that what she was after was pleasure. The person who is obviously angling for money or other material reward can only repel. If that is your intention, if you are looking for something other than pleasure—for money, for power—never show it. The suspicion of an ulterior motive is anti-seductive. Never let anything break the illusion.

6. In 1868, Queen Victoria of England hosted her first private meeting with the country's new prime minister, William Gladstone. She had met him before, and knew his reputation as a moral absolutist, but this was to be a ceremony, an exchange of pleasantries. Gladstone, however, had no pa-tience for such things. At that first meeting he explained to the queen his theory of royalty: the queen, he believed, had to play an exemplary role in England—a role she had lately failed to live up to, for she was overly private.

This lecture set a bad tone for the future, and things only got worse: soon Victoria was receiving letters from Gladstone, addressing the subject in even greater depth. Half of them she never bothered to read, and soon she was doing everything she could to avoid contact with the leader of her government; if she had to see him, she made the meeting as brief as possi-ble. To that end, she never allowed him to sit down in her presence, hoping that a man his age would soon tire and leave. For once he got going on a subject dear to his heart, he did not notice your look of disinterest or the tears in your eyes from yawning. His memoranda on even the simplest of issues would have to be translated into plain English for her by a member of her staff. Worst of all, Gladstone argued with her, and his arguments had a way of making her feel stupid. She soon learned to nod her head and ap-pear to agree with whatever abstract point he was trying to make. In a let-ter to her secretary, referring to herself in the third person, she wrote, "She always felt in [Gladstone's] manner an overbearing obstinacy and imperi-ousness... which she never experienced from anyone else, and which she found most disagreeable." Over the years, these feelings hardened into an unwaning hatred.

As the head of the Liberal Party, Gladstone had a nemesis, Benjamin Disraeli, the head of the Conservative Party. He considered Disraeli amoral, a devilish Jew. At one session of Parliament, Gladstone tore into his rival, scoring point after point as he described where his opponents policies would lead. Growing angry as he spoke (as usually happened when he talked of Disraeli), he pounded the speaker's table with such force that pens and papers went flying. Through all of this Disraeli seemed half-asleep. When Gladstone had finished, he opened his eyes, rose to his feet, and calmly walked up to the table. "The right honorable gentleman," he said, "has spoken with much passion, much eloquence, and much—ahem— violence." Then, after a drawn-out pause, he continued, "But the damage can be repaired"—and he proceeded to gather up everything that had fallen

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from the table and put them back in place. The speech that followed was all the more masterful for its calm and ironic contrast to Gladstone's. The members of Parliament were spellbound, and all of them agreed he had won the day.

If Disraeli was the consummate social seducer and charmer, Gladstone was the Anti-Seducer. Of course he had supporters, mostly among the more puritanical elements of society—he twice defeated Disraeli in a general election. But he found it hard to broaden his appeal beyond the circle of believers. Women in particular found him insufferable. Of course they had no vote at the time, so they were little political liability; but Gladstone had no patience for a feminine point of view. A woman, he felt, had to learn to see things as a man did, and it was his purpose in life to educate those he felt were irrational or abandoned by God.

It did not take long for Gladstone to wear on anyone's nerves. That is the nature of people who are convinced of some truth, but have no pa-tience for a different perspective or for dealing with someone else's psy-chology. These types are bullies, and in the short term they often get their way, particularly among the less aggressive. But they stir up a lot of resent-ment and unspoken antipathy, which eventually trips them up. People see through their righteous moral stance, which is most often a cover for a power play—morality is a form of power. A seducer never seeks to per-suade directly, never parades his or her morality, never lectures or imposes. Everything is subtle, psychological, and indirect.

Symbol: The Crab. In a harsh world, the crab survives by its hardened shell, by the threat of its pincers, and by burrowing into the sand. No one dares get too close. But the Crab cannot surprise its enemy and has little mobility. Its defensive strength is its supreme limitation.