On the appointed day, the women were borne into the Forbidden City in a procession of sedan chairs carried by court eunuchs in dazzling uniforms. The women themselves, not to be outdone, wore the latest Western fashions—tight corsets, long velvet dresses with leg-of-mutton sleeves, billowing petticoats, tall plumed hats. The residents of the Forbidden City looked at their clothes in amazement, and particularly at the way their dresses displayed their prominent bosoms. The wives felt sure they had impressed their hosts. At the Audience Hall they were greeted by princes and princesses, as well as lower royalty. The Chinese women were wearing magnificent Manchu costumes with the traditional high, jewel-encrusted black headdresses; they were arranged in a hierarchical order reflected in the color of their dresses, an astounding rainbow of color.

The wives were served tea in the most delicate porcelain cups, then were escorted into the presence of the empress dowager. The sight took their breath away. The empress was seated on the Dragon Throne, which was studded with jewels. She wore heavily brocaded robes, a magnificent headdress bearing diamonds, pearls, and jade, and an enormous necklace of perfectly matched pearls. She was a tiny woman, but on the throne, in that dress, she seemed a giant. She smiled at the ladies with much warmth and sincerity. To their relief, seated below her on a smaller throne was her nephew the emperor. He looked pale, but he greeted them enthusiastically and seemed in good spirits. Maybe he was indeed simply ill.

The empress shook the hand of each of the women. As she did so, an attendant eunuch handed her a large gold ring set with a large pearl, which she slipped onto each woman’s hand. After this introduction, the wives were escorted into another room, where they again took tea, and then were led into a banqueting hall, where the empress now sat on a chair of yellow satin—yellow being the imperial color. She spoke to them for a while; she had a beautiful voice. (It was said that her voice could literally charm birds out of trees.) At the end of the conversation, she took the hand of each woman again, and with much emotion, told them, “One family—all one family.” The women then saw a performance in the imperial theater. Finally the empress received them one last time. She apologized for the performance they had just seen, which was certainly inferior to what they were used to in the West. There was one more round of tea, and this time, as the wife of the American ambassador reported it, the empress “stepped forward and tipped each cup of tea to her own lips and took a sip, then lifted the cup on the other side, to our lips, and said again, ‘One family—all one family.’ ” The women were given more gifts, then were escorted back to their sedan chairs and borne out of the Forbidden City.

The women relayed to their husbands their earnest belief that they had all been wrong about the empress. The American ambassador’s wife reported, “She was bright and happy and her face glowed with good will. There was no trace of cruelty to be seen. . . . Her actions were full of freedom and warmth. . . . [We left] full of admiration for her majesty and hopes for China.” The husbands reported back to their governments: the emperor was fine, and the empress could be trusted.

The empress dowager loathed Westerners, whom she considered barbarians. She disliked the ambassadors’ wives, with their ugly fashions and simpering ways. The banquet was a show, a seduction, to appease the Western powers, which had been threatening invasion if the emperor had been killed. The goal of the seduction was simple: dazzle the wives with color, spectacle, theater. The empress applied all her expertise to the task, and she was a genius for detail. She had designed the spectacles in a rising order—the uniformed eunuchs first, then the Manchu ladies in their headdresses, and finally the empress herself. It was pure theater, and it was overwhelming. Then the empress brought the spectacle down a notch, humanizing it with gifts, warm greetings, the reassuring presence of the emperor, teas, and entertainments, which were in no way inferior to anything in the West. She ended the banquet on another high note—the little drama with the sharing of the teacups, followed by even more magnificent gifts. The women’s heads were spinning when they left. In truth they had never seen such exotic splendor—and they never understood how carefully its details had been orchestrated by the empress. Charmed by the spectacle, they transferred their happy feelings to the empress and gave her their approval—all that she required.

The key to distracting people (seduction is distraction) is to fill their eyes and ears with details, little rituals, colorful objects. Detail is what makes things seem real and substantial. A thoughtful gift won’t seem to have an ulterior motive. A ritual full of charming little actions is so enjoyable to watch. Jewelry, handsome furnishings, touches of color in clothing, dazzle the eye. It is a childish weakness of ours: we prefer to focus on the pleasant little details rather than on the larger picture. The more senses you appeal to, the more mesmerizing the effect. The objects you use in your seduction (gifts, clothes, etc.) speak their own language, and it is a powerful one. Never ignore a detail or leave one to chance. Orchestrate them into a spectacle and no one will notice how manipulative you are being.

As Tamakazura’s protector, Genji was able to see her face, and she was indeed beautiful. He fell in love with her. What a shame, he thought, to give this lovely creature away to another man. One night, overwhelmed by her charms, he held her hand and told her how much she resembled her mother, whom he once had loved. She trembled—not with excitement, however, but with fear, for although he was not her father, he was supposed to be her protector, not a suitor. Her attendants were away and it was a beautiful night. Genji silently threw off his perfumed robe and pulled her down beside him. She began to cry, and to resist. Always a gentleman, Genji told her that he would respect her wishes, he would always care for her, and she had nothing to fear. He then politely excused himself.

Several days later Genji was helping Tamakazura with her correspondence when he read a love letter from his younger brother, Prince Hotaru, who numbered among her suitors. In the letter, Hotaru berated Tamakazura for not letting him get physically close enough to talk to her and tell her his feelings. Tamakazura had not replied; unused to the manners of the court, she had felt shy and intimidated. As if to help her, Genji got one of his servants to write to Hotaru in her name. The letter, written on beautiful perfumed paper, warmly invited the prince to visit her.

Hotaru appeared at the appointed hour. He smelled a beguiling incense, mysterious and seductive. (Mixed into this scent was Genji’s own perfume.) The prince felt a wave of excitement. Approaching the screen behind which Tamakazura sat, he confessed his love for her. Without making a sound, she retreated to another screen, farther away. Suddenly there was a flash of light, as if a torch had flared up, and Hotaru saw her profile behind the screen: she was more beautiful than he had imagined. Two things delighted the prince: the sudden, mysterious flash of light, and the brief glimpse of his beloved. Now he was truly in love.

Hotaru began to court her assiduously. Meanwhile, feeling reassured that Genji was no longer chasing her, Tamakazura saw her protector more often. And now she could not help noticing little details: Genji’s robes seemed to glow, in pleasing and vibrant colors, as if dyed by unworldly hands. Hotaru’s robes seemed drab by comparison. And the perfumes burned into Genji’s garments, how intoxicating they were. No one else bore such a scent. Hotaru’s letters were polite and well written, but the letters Genji sent her were on magnificent paper, perfumed and dyed, and they quoted lines of poetry, always surprising yet always appropriate for the occasion. Genji also grew and gathered flowers—wild carnations, for instance—that he gave as gifts and that seemed to symbolize his unique charm.

One evening Genji proposed to teach Tamakazura how to play the koto. She was delighted. She loved to read romance novels, and whenever Genji played the koto, she felt as if she were transported into one of her books. No one played the instrument better than Genji; she would be honored to learn from him. Now he saw her often, and the method of his lessons was simple: she would choose a song for him to play, and then would try to imitate him. After they played, they would lie down side by side, their heads resting on the koto, staring up at the moon. Genji would have torches set up in the garden, giving the view the softest glow.

The more Tamakazura saw of the court—of Prince Hotaru, the other suitors, the emperor himself—the more she realized that none could compare to Genji. He was supposed to be her protector, yes, that was still true, but was it such a sin to fall in love with him? Confused, she found herself giving in to the caresses and kisses that he began to surprise her with, now that she was too weak to resist.

In his seduction of Tamakazura, Genji’s strategy was simple: he would make her realize indirectly how charming and irresistible he was by surrounding her with unspoken details. He also brought her in contact with his brother; comparison with this drab, stiff figure would make Genji’s superiority clear. The night Hotaru first visited her, Genji set everything up, as if to support Hotaru’s seducing—the mysterious scent, then the flash of light by the screen. (The light came from a novel effect: earlier in the evening, Genji had collected hundreds of fireflies in a cloth bag. At the proper moment he let them all go at once.) But when Tamakazura saw Genji encouraging Hotaru’s pursuit of her, her defenses against her protector relaxed, allowing her senses to be filled by this master of seductive effects. Genji orchestrated every possible detail—the scented paper, the colored robes, the lights in the garden, the wild carnations, the apt poetry, the koto lessons which induced an irresistible feeling of harmony. Tamakazura found herself dragged into a sensual whirlpool. Bypassing the shyness and mistrust that words or actions would only have worsened, Genji surrounded his ward with objects, sights, sounds, and scents that symbolized the pleasure of his company far more than his actual physical presence would have—in fact his presence could only have been threatening. He knew that a young girl’s senses are her most vulnerable point.

The key to Genji’s masterful orchestration of detail was his attention to the target of his seduction. Like Genji, you must attune your own senses to your targets, watching them carefully, adapting to their moods. You sense when they are defensive and retreat. You also sense when they are giving in, and move forward. In between, the details you set up—gifts, entertainments, the clothes you wear, the flowers you choose—are aimed precisely at their tastes and predilections. Genji knew he was dealing with a young girl who loved romantic novels; his wild flowers, koto playing, and poetry brought their world to life for her. Attend to your targets’ every move and desire, and reveal your attentiveness in the details and objects you surround them with, filling their senses with the mood you need to inspire. They can argue with your words, but not with the effect you have on their senses.

As we grow older our senses get dulled. We no longer notice as much, for we are constantly hurrying to get things done, to move on to the next task. In seduction, you are always trying to bring the target back to the golden moments of childhood. A child is less rational, more easily deceived. A child is also more attuned to the pleasures of the senses. So when your targets are with you, you must never give them the feeling they normally get in the real world, where we are all rushed, ruthless, out for ourselves. You need to deliberately slow things down, and return them to the simpler times of their youth. The details that you orchestrate—colors, gifts, little ceremonies—are aimed at their senses, at the childish delight we take in the immediate charms of the natural world. Their senses filled with delightful things, they grow less capable of reason and rationality. Pay attention to detail and you will find yourself assuming a slower pace; your targets will not focus on what you might be after (sexual favors, power, etc.) because you seem so considerate, so attentive. In the childish realm of the senses in which you envelop them, they get a clear sense that you are involving them in something distinct from the real world—an essential ingredient of seduction. Remember: the more you get people to focus on the little things, the less they will notice your larger direction. The seduction will assume the slow, hypnotic pace of a ritual, in which the details have a heightened importance and the moments are full of ceremony.

In eighth-century China, Emperor Ming Huang caught a glimpse of a beautiful young woman, combing her hair beside an imperial pool. Her name was Yang Kuei-fei, and even though she was the concubine of the emperor’s son, he had to have her for himself. Since he was emperor, nobody could stop him. The emperor was a practical man—he had many concubines, and they all had their charms, but he had never lost his head over a woman. Yang Kuei-fei, though, was different. Her body exuded the most wonderful fragrance. She wore gowns made of the sheerest silk gauze, each embroidered with different flowers, depending on the season. In walking she seemed to float, her tiny steps invisible beneath her gown. She danced to perfection, wrote songs in his honor that she sang magnificently, had a way of looking at him that made his blood boil with desire. She quickly became his favorite.

Yang Kuei-fei drove the emperor to distraction. He built palaces for her, spent all his time with her, satisfied her every whim. Before long his kingdom was bankrupt and ruined. Yang Kuei-fei was an artful seductress who had a devastating effect on all of the men who crossed her path. There were so many ways her presence charmed—the scents, the voice, the movements, the witty conversation, the artful glances, the embroidered gowns. These pleasurable details turned a mighty king into a distracted baby.

Since time immemorial, women have known that within the most apparently self-possessed man is an animal whom they can lead by filling his senses with the proper physical lures. The key is to attack on as many fronts as possible. Do not ignore your voice, your gestures, your walk, your clothes, your glances. Some of the most alluring women in history have so distracted their victims with sensual detail that the men fail to notice it is all an illusion.

From the 1940s on into the early 1960s, Pamela Churchill Harriman had a series of affairs with some of the most prominent and wealthy men in the world—Averill Harriman (whom years later she married), Gianni Agnelli (heir to the Fiat fortune), Baron Elie de Rothschild. What attracted these men, and kept them in thrall, was not her beauty or her lineage or her vivacious personality, but her extraordinary attention to detail. It began with her attentive look as she listened to your every word, soaking up your tastes. Once she found her way into your home, she would fill it with your favorite flowers, get your chef to cook that dish you had tasted only in the finest restaurants. You mentioned an artist you liked? A few days later that artist would be attending one of your parties. She found the perfect antiques for you, dressed in the way that most pleased or excited you, and she did this without your saying a word—she spied, gathered information from third parties, overheard you talking to someone else. Harriman’s attention to detail had an intoxicating effect on all the men in her life. It had something in common with the pampering of a mother, there to bring order and comfort into their lives, attending to their needs. Life is harsh and competitive. Attending to detail in a way that is soothing to the other person makes them dependent upon you. The key is probing their needs in a way that is not too obvious, so that when you make precisely the right gesture, it seems uncanny, as if you had read their mind. This is another way of returning your targets to childhood, when all of their needs were met.

In the eyes of women all over the world, Rudolph Valentino reigned as the Great Lover through much of the 1920s. The qualities behind his appeal certainly included his handsome, almost pretty face, his dancing skills, the strangely exciting streak of cruelty in his manner. But his perhaps most endearing trait was his time-consuming approach to courtship. His films would show him seducing a woman slowly, with careful details—sending her flowers (choosing the variety to match the mood he wanted to induce), taking her hand, lighting her cigarette, escorting her to romantic places, leading her on the dance floor. These were silent movies, and his audiences never got to hear him speak—it was all in his gestures. Men came to hate him, for their wives and girlfriends now expected the slow, careful Valentino treatment.

Valentino had a feminine streak; it was said that he wooed a woman the way another woman would. But femininity need not figure in this approach to seduction. In the early 1770s, Prince Gregory Potemkin began an affair with Empress Catherine the Great of Russia that was to last many years. Potemkin was a manly man, and not at all handsome. But he managed to win the empress’s heart by the many little things he did, and continued to do long after the affair had begun. He spoiled her with wonderful gifts, never tired of writing her long letters, arranged for all kinds of entertainments for her, composed songs to her beauty. Yet he would appear before her barefoot, hair uncombed, clothes wrinkled. There was no kind of fussiness in his attention, which, however, did make it clear he would go to the ends of the earth for her. A woman’s senses are more refined than a man’s; to a woman, Yang Kuei-fei’s overt sensual appeal would seem too hurried and direct. What that means, though, is that all the man really has to do is take it slowly, making seduction a ritual full of all kinds of little things he has to do for his target. If he takes his time, he will have her eating out of his hand.

Everything in seduction is a sign, and nothing more so than clothes. It is not that you have to dress interestingly, elegantly, or provocatively, but that you have to dress for your target—have to appeal to your target’s tastes. When Cleopatra was seducing Mark Antony, her dress was not brazenly sexual; she dressed as a Greek goddess, knowing his weakness for such fantasy figures. Madame de Pompadour, the mistress of King Louis XV, knew the king’s weakness, his chronic boredom; she constantly wore different clothes, changing not only their color but their style, supplying the king with a constant feast for his eyes. Pamela Harriman was subdued in the fashions she wore, befitting her role as a high-society geisha and reflecting the sober tastes of the men she seduced. Contrast works well here: at work or at home, you might dress nonchalantly—Marilyn Monroe, for example, wore jeans and a T-shirt at home—but when you are with the target you wear something elaborate, as if you were putting on a costume. Your Cinderella transformation will stir excitement, and the feeling that you have done something just for the person you are with. Whenever your attention is individualized (you would not dress like that for anyone else), it is infinitely more seductive.

In the 1870s, Queen Victoria found herself wooed by Benjamin Disraeli, her own prime minister. Disraeli’s words were flattering and his manner insinuating; he also sent her flowers, valentines, gifts—but not just any flowers or gifts, the kind that most men would send. The flowers were primroses, symbols of their simple yet beautiful friendship. From then on, whenever Victoria saw a primrose she thought of Disraeli. Or he would write on a valentine that he, “no longer in the sunset, but the twilight of his existence, must encounter a life of anxiety and toil; but this, too, has its romance, when he remembers that he labors for the most gracious of beings!” Or he might send her a little box, with no inscription, but with a heart transfixed by an arrow on one side and the word “Fideliter,” or “Faithfully,” on the other. Victoria fell in love with Disraeli.

A gift has immense seductive power, but the object itself is less important than the gesture, and the subtle thought or emotion that it communicates. Perhaps the choice relates to something from the target’s past, or symbolizes something between you, or merely represents the lengths you will go to to please. It was not the money Disraeli spent that impressed Victoria, but the time he took to find the appropriate thing or make the appropriate gesture. Expensive gifts have no sentiment attached; they may temporarily excite their recipient but they are quickly forgotten, as a child forgets a new toy. The object that reflects its giver’s attentiveness has a lingering sentimental power, which resurfaces every time its owner sees it.

In 1919, the Italian writer and war hero Gabriele D’Annunzio managed to put together a band of followers and take over the town of Fiume, on the Adriatic coast (now part of Slovenia). They established their own government there, which lasted for over a year. D’Annunzio initiated a series of public spectacles that were to be immensely influential on politicians elsewhere. He would address the public from a balcony overlooking the town’s main square, which would be full of colorful banners, flags, pagan religious symbols, and, at night, torches. The speeches would be followed by processions. Although D’Annunzio was not at all a Fascist, what he did in Fiume crucially affected Benito Mussolini, who borrowed his Roman salutes, his use of symbols, his mode of public address. Spectacles like these have been used since then by governments everywhere, even democratic ones. Their overall impression may be grand, but it is the orchestrated details that make them work—the number of senses they appeal to, the variety of emotions they stir. You are aiming to distract people, and nothing is more distracting than a wealth of detail—fireworks, flags, music, uniforms, marching soldiers, the feel of the crowd packed together. It becomes difficult to think straight, particularly if the symbols and details stir up patriotic emotions.

Finally, words are important in seduction, and have a great deal of power to confuse, distract, and boost the vanity of the target. But what is most seductive in the long run is what you do not say, what you communicate indirectly. Words come easily, and people distrust them. Anyone can say the right words; and once they are said, nothing is binding, and they may even be forgotten altogether. The gesture, the thoughtful gift, the little details seem much more real and substantial. They are also much more charming than lofty words about love, precisely because they speak for themselves and let the seduced read into them more than is there. Never tell someone what you are feeling; let them guess it in your looks and gestures. That is the more convincing language.