Her Lover (Belle de Seigneur)

by Albert Cohen

  'All right, don't. But tell me the other tactics. Pretend you're telling a man.'

  'A man,' he said, suddenly wonder-struck. 'Of course! You are a young cousin of mine, very handsome, who has come to ask how to bamboozle some dim girl. Call him Nathan. Men's talk! Lovely idea! Let's make a start. Where was I?'

  'Cruelty.'

  'Ah yes, cruelty. I understand you, Nathan, I do. You love her and you want her to love you, and you can't very well decide to love a dog instead just because a dog deserves your love more than she does. You've no choice: seduce her. Use your technique, do your horrible worst, sell your soul. Force yourself to be clever and cruel and she will love you a thousand times more than if you were a good little Deume. If you want to be loved with passion, pay the squalid price, stir the dung-heap where love's marvels grow.

  'But have a care, Nathan. Don't come on too strong at the start, before the guinea-pig is properly infatuated. Your hold over her is still flimsy, and anything too obviously callous would put her off. They still have a modicum of common sense at the beginning. So use tact. Keep a sense of proportion. Just let her feel that you have a potential for being cruel. You can make her sense your capacity for cruelty by saying something nice and then staring at her a shade too insistently, or you can flash the famous Cruel Smile or use sharp little ironies or be mildly rude, for instance by telling her that she has a shiny nose. She will be furious but deep down she'll like it. It's a sordid business: you have to repel in order to attract! Alternatively, look impassive all of a sudden, behave as though your mind were on other things or feign deafness. Not answering a question she has asked by pretending to be thinking about something else will unseat but not displease her. It's a metaphorical slap in the face, a hint of cruelties to come, a foot in the sexual door, an assertion of masculine detachment. Moreover, by showing a lack of interest, you will strengthen her determination to attract your attention, to lure and please you. It will also serve to impress on her an obscure sense of respect. She'll say to herself, no, not say, she'll vaguely feel that you're in the habit of not paying too much attention to all those women who throw themselves at you, and that will increase your appeal. He has exquisite manners, she will think, but he could turn nasty if he wanted to. And this she will relish. Don't blame me: I'm not to blame for the way they are. The attraction of cruelty is squalid, for it is the egg of power. Whoever is cruel is sexually potent, capable of making others suffer but also, so says the innermost self, of giving joy. A lord who exudes the merest whiff of brimstone attracts them, and a dangerous smile makes them feel deliciously flustered. They adore men with a satanic cut to their jib. To them, the devil himself is enticing. Cruelty has a terrible glamour.

  'And so, as the seduction begins to unfold, be prudent, take it step by step. But once she's hooked, you can set to work with a will. After the first act of what is curiously called love, it will even be advisable, provided everything has gone off well and been enthusiastically received by the poor, whimpering creature, advisable to tell her openly that you are going to make her suffer. While the sweat is still wet on her and her arms hold you tight, she'll tell you she doesn't mind, that any pain you cause her will still be a form of happiness to her. "As long as you love me," she murmurs, looking at you with candid eyes. They all have the courage to put up with suffering, especially before they've actually tasted any.

  'When it gets to where passion rules her every moment, be openly, masterfully cruel. But don't overdo it. Keep a firm grip on things. Salt is an excellent condiment, but too much spoils the broth; So be heartless and gentle in turns, and don't forget the frolics, for frolics are compulsory. Recipe for a passion cocktail: be the enemy she loves, and sprinkle occasionally with barbarities so that she remains on a permanent amorous footing, feels permanently anxious, is always wondering what dreadful thing is going to happen next, is constantly tormented by jealousy, always longing, hoping that things will be patched up, and savouring each unexpected little act of tenderness. To sum up: don't let her get bored. Anyway, making up always adds spice to the frolicking. When you've been especially cool or beastly to her, just smile and she'll be so softened up that she'll melt with gratitude and rush off to tell her best friend all sorts of marvellous things about you and say that deep down you're really good and kind. Give women a callous man and they'll always manage to say that deep down he's really a very warm human being. They reward him for being cruel by fixing a crown of goodness on his head.

  'And so, as long as you want her to go on loving you with all her heart and with all her soul, you must tread carefully and always take particular care to turn up late for trysts and meetings, just to keep her on hot bricks. Or now and then, when she's waiting for you, all set to go, meticulously primped and preened and not daring to move in case she spoils the effect, you should phone at the last moment and say you've been prevented from coming, though you're dying to see her. Or better still, don't phone and don't go. Touch of the lash: she'll be utterly miserable. What was the point of washing her hair, setting it and having it turn out so well since her blue-eyed, cruel-eyed boy has not come? What was the point of the new dress which suits her so well? The poor little thing cries and, because she is alone, blows her nose like a trumpet, and wipes it again and again on a stack of little hankies, and dabs at her eyes, which are swollen with tears, and puts her thinking cap on and invents a new explanation with each handkerchief she soaks. Why hasn't he come? Is he ill? Doesn't he love me as much? Is he with that woman? Oh, she's so clever: she knows how to get round him! Of course, she can afford to buy expensive tailor-made clothes! That's it! He must be with her! But only yesterday he was telling me . .. Oh, it's not fair! After all the sacrifices I've made for him! Et cetera, et cetera, and the rest of the usual cardio-lyrical litany. And next day she's sobbing on your shoulder and saying: "Cruel, cruel darling, I cried all night long. Oh, never leave me, I can't live without you." And there you have the squalid lengths to which she forces you to go if you want her to love you truly, madly!

  'But, Nathan, when you see her clinging to you damp-eyed and crumpled, have a care not to allow your natural generosity of heart to get the better of you. Never abandon the little acts of cruelty which quicken passion and keep it burnished bright. She will complain, but she will love you. Should you make the unfortunate error of ceasing to be a brute, she won't hold it against you exactly but she will begin to love you less. First, because you'll have lost a part of your attractiveness. Second, because she'll be as bored with you as she would be with a husband. Whereas with a brute to love she's never bored, she observes him closely for signs of calmer waters, makes herself pretty to earn his approval, looks at him with imploring eyes, and hopes he'll be nice to her tomorrow. To put it in a nutshell, she suffers, and she finds suffering interesting.

  'And so it comes to pass. Next day, he behaves exquisitely and she is in paradise, and there she basks, relishing every moment, in a state of bliss where the pale flowers of boredom never grow, because at every moment she fears that paradise might suddenly vanish. This way her life is varied and storm-tossed. Squalls, cyclones, sudden lulls, rainbows. See to it that she has intervals of happiness, but even more moments of suffering. That's how to manufacture a love that is sacred.

  'The appalling thing, Nathan, is that this same sacred love, bought at such sordid cost, is the wonder of the world. But it means signing a pact with the devil, for he who would be sacredly loved shall lose his soul. They have made me pretend to be cruel, and for that I shall never forgive them! But what choice did I have? I needed them, so beautiful in sleep, needed the way they smell of fresh-baked bread when they sleep, needed their adorable, effeminately masculine gestures, needed their modesty which seamlessly becomes wondrous compliance in the dusky shadows of the night, for they are surprised or frightened by nothing which is done in the service of love. Needed the look in her eyes when I arrive and she waits, heart-stoppingly standing at her door beneath the roses. Oh night! Oh joy! Oh the wonder of her kiss upon
my hand! (He kissed his hand, stared at the woman who watched him, and smiled in his soul's fullness.) And again and most of all, oh manna dropped by angels, needed the inspired tenderness of which they give freely only when they love truly, madly — and they love truly, madly only men who are callous. Ergo, use cruelty to buy passion and passion to buy tenderness!'

  He juggled with a damascene-bladed dagger, a gift from Michael, put it down on the table next to the roses, looked at the young woman, and felt a surge of pity. Bursting now with youth and vigour and sumptuously twin-prowed, yet soon to lie unmoving under the earth, never more to share the joys of springtime, the first blooms of the year and the clamour of the birds in the trees, never more to know joy as she lies stiff and solitary in her stifling coffin, her airless coffin made of wood, of wood which was already a fact of existence, which was ready and existing somewhere. 'My poor doomed darling,' he murmured. He opened a drawer, took out a pretty little plush teddy-bear with spurred boots on its feet, a sombrero on its head and a winning, wistful expression on its face. He held it out to her. She declined with a nod and added a faint 'No thanks.'

  'Pity,' he said, 'it was kindly meant. Tactic number six: vulnerability. You must of course, Nathan, be virile and cruel. But if you want to be loved to perfection you must also bring out her maternal side. Beneath your bullish exterior she must be made to discover a hint of weakness. Beneath the brashness of the man, they ask nothing better than to discover a little boy. A trace of human frailty from time to time — but it shouldn't be overdone — will please them immensely and melt their hearts. So be nine parts gorilla to one part orphan and you'll have them eating out of your hand.

  'Seventh tactic: primordial contempt. This must be signalled from the outset but never articulated in words. They are extremely touchy about matters of vocabulary, especially in the early days. But when scorn is expressed in certain inflections of the voice or a special breed of smile, they sense its presence at once: they like it, it disturbs them. Deep inside them, a voice says that this man scorns because he is used to being loved, accustomed to holding women cheap. In short, a master before whom all women are as skittles. "Me too!" cries the voice inside them, "I want to be a skittle!" I shall get that dog to love me tomorrow. We'll go out together every day. He'll be so happy to be out walking with me, trotting on ahead but stopping all the time and turning round to see where I've got to, to be quite sure that the treasure I represent is still there, and suddenly he'll come running back and jump up at me with front paws outstretched, and he'll dirty me all over in the nicest possible way. What woman would do as much?

  'Tactic number eight: consideration and compliments. If their unconscious relishes contempt, their conscious mind demands consideration. This tactic is important, especially at the start. Later on, it can be dropped. But during the process of seduction she will adore being raised on high by a man who scorns all other women, and will exult in the knowledge that she alone has found favour in his sight. So to your underlying contempt you should add a veneer of admiration which you will express in words so that she thinks: "Here at last is a man who understands me!" For they love being understood, though they have no very clear idea of what this means. Question her when, so noble and so wistful, she comes out with the famous line about having a husband who does not understand her. Try to find out what she means by being understood, and you will be appalled by the messiness of the answer.

  'So, to begin with, pay her effusive compliments. Don't be afraid of laying it on thick; They'll believe anything. Appealing to their vanity is a sure way of getting them on the hook. Are they vain? Of course they are, but more important they are also very unsure of themselves. They have a bottomless need to be reassured, because each morning they look in their mirror and discover endless blemishes: hair that's dull and too dry, unwelcome dandruff, enlarged pores, ugly toenails, especially the little one, which is crooked, the little piggy with the runty nail on the end of it. So you see what sterling service you can render by putting them up there on a pedestal! Very unsure of themselves. Hence their chronic hunger for new dresses, which make them feel new and newly desirable. Oh, those absurdly long, painted nails, their silly plucked eyebrows, the slavish way they follow the laws of fashion. Tell them the fashion this year is for skirts with a large hole in the seat and they just can't wait to get into a skirt which bares their backside to the breeze. Compliment her on everything, even the ridiculous disaster of a hat she insists on wearing which sits on her head like a permanent judgement. To her, compliments are as rich in oxygen as a new dress: she inhales them and regains her bloom. So renew her faith in herself and she won't be able to live without you, even if you don't succeed in subduing her completely at your first meeting. She'll think of you each morning when she wakes. She'll repeat the nice things you said as she fiddles with her fleece, an activity which seems to stimulate her power of concentration. Incidentally, you mustn't be afraid of a touch of smut now and again. It brings down the barriers. Once she knows that you know she has a secret fleece, which you can perfectly well imagine to be blonde or auburn or dark, her defences will start to crumble.

  'Ninth tactic, which is related to number seven: sexuality by suggestion. When you meet her for the first time, you must ensure that she senses in you the male of the species confronting the female. One useful tip: commit violations of her person, but of a minor sort so that she has no grounds for complaining. In any case, since no breach of propriety has taken place, she won't dislike it. For instance, into the gap between two respectful sentences you could let slip, sort of casually, a "dear" or similar, for which you would apologize at once. Best of all, look her straight in the eye with a hint of scorn, a trace of condescension, and a suggestion of desire, indifference and callousness: they make an effective mix and come cheap. To wit: the odious heavy-lidded glance, the proprietary stare, the calm, ironic look which is faintly amused and disrespectful though what you say is perfectly civil, a look of veiled familiarity. Then her unconscious cries out: "Hosanna! Here is Don Juan in the flesh! He does not respect me! He knows how to treat a girl! Hallelujah, I feel the most delicious commotion and cannot resist him!" You see all the contradictions? He's strong but vulnerable, disdainful but admiring, deferential but also strongly sexual. And each tactic makes its opposite shine more brightly and increases its attraction.

  'And hear this too, Nathan. Do not be afraid to stare at her breasts. If you say nothing, all is well. She will guess that you desire her and will not be offended. Only words offend. Inwardly, as you face her discussing some respectable topic of conversation, silently sing to her the song of your desire.

  'Let the song be in your eyes, the song of her breasts. Oh breasts so terrible, breasts so near, twin glories of womankind, double peaks of plenty, unknown and disquieting, seen from afar but unexplored as yet by hand of man, near yet forbidden, cruelly revealed because revealed too little and too much, angel domes, sweet pillows plumped with disconcerting power, crop ripe for picking, twin wonders of torment, young and proud, one on the right, one on the left, oh your twin trials, oh fruits proffered by a willing sister, oh juice-heavy fruits hanging within a hand's reach.

  'So shall say your eyes, Nathan. For pity's sake, bare them, your eyes will say, uncover them, for she shows them yet shows them not, conceals without concealment, and this she does deliberately. Oh cruel tease who breathes too deep and as she breathes they rise, prosper and are perfect, oh cursed woman of my heart! Oh why does she not let them go free, for you want to live a little before you die, why does she not release them and offer them and their nipples to you, sublimely risen and emancipated, so that you may touch and know their weight and their benison. Please, your eyes will say, make her peel back the cloth which cloaks yet not quite hides them as they loom mightily armed and presumptuous. Let her unveil them, show them to you now, show them frankly and honestly. Begone, O ye coversome raiments which tempt and forbid and drive a man mad with desire! Enough, be done with this sorry charade! The trees and th
e lake which you see yonder will still be there when Death's pale rider sweeps you up in his arms, bears you away for ever towards the damp kingdom where breath is stopped. Quickly now, those lips, your eyes will say, cover her with your touch, cover her with your body and know her, live and gloriously die in her while you die too on those lips.

  'You are alone in the world, Nathan, without kindred spirits, and she is yours by right in her noble, sunlit youth! Oh the flatness of her belly, the delicious hollow above her navel: exquisite, I swear! So beautiful, so feminine! Golden her youth, concave her belly, luscious her legs, her long, silky legs! Oh potency of woman! Oh firm thighs beneath her insufferable dress which again she pulls down modestly, or rather obsessively, oh rampant hips, oh agonizing roundness, oh sweet haven of her lap, oh her long curved lashes, oh soon her languid capitulation! Oh yes my love, so your eyes will tell her, oh yes! I desire you and am no more than my desire, which reaches out for you and for your secret, the secret beneath your dress, which exists beneath your dress.

  'That is what your eyes will tell her, and more besides, while you talk civilly of Bach. And if you dance with her, do not be afraid to render a silent homage to her beauty. Nor are they offended as long as the words you speak remain respectful. So says Michael. In any case, the most modest of them always manage not to be aware of what has passed between you. And when you stop dancing, get back to Bach.'