seduction is an art

What is seduction? The question prompted me to think about the ingredients, the scenery, the colours, the scents. Of course the time: the right time to experience in its fullness that special moment. So, the best time of the day is sunset, if it is beautiful, all gold and reds, the purple and pink of the clouds, the light of our star sinking, the French say the “green ray”, on the edge of the world, this is by far the right moment. 

The actors are just two, she and he, with equal rights, and if they are lucky, same intentions. The best scenery may well be a small garden, with grown low trees, and if it is early in the year, crocuses and maybe a flowering camellia. Hence the scent of flowers, mixing with her perfume, and also the aroma of coffee drifting out of the kitchen. The sound is important, a little Vivaldi in the background. 

She is of course beautiful, and knows what she wants, and at this point it is needless to speculate. Is she alive, or does she comes from his past, or, perhaps the reverse, he’s the one who comes back from a former life she wants to transform, to rebuild. For all are cases of seduction, using the means of the moment, the power of the instant.

Elixir of seduction

They talk, in low melodious voices, as if they were elves. She’s in control, in a calm, flirting way, he wishes to extend the time, even stop the clock. She says to him the words that guarantee his surrender, but at once she knows she will too. He brings two glasses from the kitchen, and some ice.

On the small table, facing the garden already sinking in obscurity, is the bottle she brought, his favourite scotch, the blend he says, is the best ever. He tasted it first at the Samuel Palmer, in the old village, on one of their walks. She remembers, their closeness, another instant of seduction. She pours for him and herself, she takes ice, he doesn’t, she kisses him on the lips, their eyes locked, deep into their souls.

“You won’t object with me staying tonight, I hope,” she teases him, “Your place is like an island this evening, surrounded by those clouds…” He smiles and hold her in his arms, she feels the tension, his strength through the cotton shirt. “Cheers!” He says holding her now, lifting her to kiss her again. The sky is getting darker, the colours are fading. They can hear an owl at the back of the small wood. He drinks slowly, savouring the flavour, inhaling her scent and the cool night air.

“I have been reading about Louis XIV’s mistresses. They were a real influence on him, on matters like war and peace.” He says, and they talk about that unique period, between the end of the Thirty Years War  – 1648 – and the Revolution – 1789. She’s historian, and knows much more about it than him, but he reads a lot, and has learnt from her. “Perhaps the French seventeenth century is still my favourite, Molière, Racine, Bossuet, La Dame aux Camellias,” he says smiling.

Deep into the night

The magic moment has arrived. They finish their drinks. She takes his hand. Indoors he lits a side lamp. The light shines on Samuel Palmer’s painting of a Shoreham Garden. “I’d love to visit his house there,” she says. “We could enquire on our next walk there” he replies, leading her upstairs. She opens the window on the night and the garden. The owl has gone home. The sky is clear. “We might have some light frost tonight,” she says. “Not with me, sweet angel…”

Picture: Samuel Palmer, Garden in Shoreham