Sin City Hours With Henry James Or, Ambassadors Without Cause

19 Sep

It was after Natasha and I landed in Las Vegas and we were in the opulent lobby of the Wynn Hotel that I felt Henry James’ presence. He wasn’t there voluntarily. I’d channelled him. Sin City side of Encore building and skyThe Wynn is one of the more luxurious of Vegas resorts. Why did I channel James then and there? Because he was a PERFECT date for the occasion. An amused and wise observer of people who behave badly/stupidly/weakly in the face of wealth and power, a perfect gentleman himself  (never married, in the closet), and one of my favorite writers. A good dresser who never drank too much.

“Kirsten Wasson, why have you channelled me?”

“Henry. I’ve always loved you. And you need to see Vegas.”

“What is Vegas?”

“It’s a country where  Christopher Newman would naively feel at home,  Daisy Miller would love and  die,  Maggie Verver would see the terrible meaning of the beautiful, over-priced  golden bowl, and Lambert Strether would go along for the ride. (Sort of.)”

Henry looked a little tattered and worse for wear. He was pale, his collar was askew, and eyebrows excessively bushy. “I already wrote about all that.”

Henry_James_by_Sargent_1913

“But Henry,” I smoothed his lapel, “This is  Sin City!!  There’s a fake Paris, fake Venice! You’ve just gotta see it. AND you will find the particular narrative–one which involves subtle pretense, blurred moral lines, and a kind of threesome–to be just your cup of tea. Or in this case, your Blackberry Cosmopolitan.”

Henry sighed and gazed out the window at the six different swimming pools in one direction, at the gold phallic Trump tower in the other.

 

Sin City trump tower

“Look, HJ,” I was getting testy.”You OWE me. Do you have ANY idea how many times I taught The American to Freshman?”

“It didn’t pass muster with your students?”

“Let’s just say that not every eighteen-year old gets your irony, your devotion to ambivalence and ambiguity, your fascination with class bias, not to mention the obsessive attention to interior design details.”

Henry James glared at me; I shouldn’t have said that. “I mean… they did like it eventually, that’s my point. Without me there would be hundreds of young people who didn’t come to grasp what happens to Newman in Paris, not to mention why, years after you published The American,  you changed the last few lines–which revises drastically how we see Newman and his fate.”

“Oh.  Well, alright then. Sounds like you did some good. Where’s our room?”

SUCCESS OF MY LIFE, DEAR READER!

We followed Natasha who, although she has not read James,  knows how to behave like one  of his beautiful, forthright heroines with a secret– in any set of circumstances.

Sin City with Henry James NIcolle walking

“HJ,” I said, “Here’s the lowdown. This is clandestine trip. We have to be discreet.”

I then realized I was talking to the person whose face appears in the dictionary under discreet.

“You didn’t channel Oscar Wilde.” He rolled his eyes and then noticed the casino.

Sin City casino

“What on earth?” He adjusted his monocle.
“Those are slot machines, and then there’s poker and craps further back. Gambling.”

“I know what gambling is, Madame K. My grandfather was a drinker and gambler and it almost ruined my father’s life.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot.”

We were both embarrassed when we got to the room (which happened to be paid for by a man we’ll call Sergei):

 

sin city bedroom

 

I’d asked for twin beds. Henry excused himself to the bathroom, and I called the front desk and asked for another room. Then we went to the pool.

Sin City with Henry James my knees at pool

There is nothing I love more than a blazing hot day and an almost empty pool and beach chair. Not something HJ enjoys.

But he does like a cabana.

Sin City 208 Cabana

I got this particular one for him because of 208. That was my address on Pennsylvania Avenue for 18 years. Henry hid inside happily, observing, writing. He was thrilled there were crows in Vegas.

Sin City With crow in bush

Later we walked around and found St. Mark’s place:

sin city  St Mark's placeIt wasn’t exactly the place he’d written about:sin city art of shavingI quoted HJ to HJ  (Italian Hours): “Piazza San Marco is the most ornamented corner…as you sit in your gondola, the footways that in certain parts edge the canals assume to the eye of importance of a stage, and the Venetian figures strike you as members of an endless dramatic troupe.” Exactly. Especially in Vegas Piazza San Marco, where it’s all a facade, and the water is chlorinated and two feet deep.

Sin City GondolaHe and I did not rent a gondola; we went shopping.

sin city Barneys and Michael KorsIt was I who noticed first that  “Just” looked like “Lust,” but Henry was only a beat behind. While we shopped, I explained that I was a paid companion on this trip. Natasha’s friend Sergei, desiring the pleasure of her company but being occupied by by certain familial obligations  concerning his son Chad had offered me the beautiful position of accompanying Natasha, providing a dining companion during Sergei’s paternal occupations and assuring that there was a buffering presence between son, lover, and the man himself.

“That sentence is a little convoluted, Kirsten.”

“Pot. Calling. Kettle. Black. DUDE!”

I don’t need to tell you that HJ did not respond to my pointed remark. Or to being called “Dude.” Time to buy our hero a cocktail.

sin city cocktails

After a few sips of the sweet and sour concoction, my author seemed to relax, and from his bar stool he looked around us. Out one window was a topological view, a slice of Sin City.
Sin City view of pool from above

And out the other, this, whatever this is: sin city outdoors flower light “May I have have another cocktail?” asked Henry. He’d sucked his first down in seconds flat. Natasha and Sergei were having dinner together that evening, so the night was ours!

Henry James is a master of the unsaid. So I guessed what he was thinking and it had to do with:  vulgarity, the spoils of American new money, the degradation of human ethics, and probably Gilbert Osmand–the nefarious character in Portrait of A Lady (played by John Malkovich in the film.)

“I rather like Vegas,” he smiled slyly. “But really, Madame K, what are you doing here?”

“I told you, I’m Natasha’s paid companion. So she has someone to chill with, when not with Sergai. When Sergai is busy with his son.”

His eyes closed. “You said a threesome, but it’s really a couple and an extra. As in Wings of the Dove, or Portrait of A Lady, The Ambassadors, Daisy Miller, even Turn of the Screw in a sense–those twisted little children and the twisted little governess–outside, looking in.”

“Henry James, are you calling me a twisted little governess?” (I have to admit I wished he were. That would be the second SUCCESS OF MY LIFE.)

A few cocktails later….

Sin City drinks at Andrea'sThe sun had set and the fake waterfall was glowing.

SIn City water fall at nightAnd then Henry said, “You’re not the governess. You’re Maisie. You were from the beginning. Observing the adults. The watchful child.”

He was referring to What Maisie Knew, his novel about a little girl observing her parents marriage crack into a thousand shards of passion and mistake.

“I’d rather be the twisted governess.”

“I know,” said Henry fingering his cravat. “But you’re not. You tend to be in the middle of  things, but only barely involved,  teetering on a chimera of balance, until said  balance loses its ballast.”

This was not a Vegas  conversation.

“So…what are you, Henry? Freud before Freud?” It was time for this conversation to end.

“Well I’m not Christopher Newman, Madame K. I’ve been around the block a few times.”

“Oh Henry, put me to bed.”

He led me to my room, made me brush my teeth, helped me into my pjs, and kissed me on the forehead.

“Good Night Kirsten Wasson.”  He walked to the door. “There is nothing wrong with being an observer or outsider. Just take good notes.” And then he was gone.

I slept like the dead. In the morning I got up early to go find Henry James–at the cabana. But it was empty. I went to the front desk and asked if he’d checked out. There was no record of a Mr. James having stayed at in the Wynn.  I went back to the pool. Empty, so early in the day.

Sin City Empty pool closed umbrellas

I knew he’d been there, with me. We had been ambassadors together, both knowing on not knowing the subtext, both gleaning  and not the meaning of the confusing maze that is human passion, mistake, resignation, and moral/emotional/spiritual balance. At the end of The Ambassadors, Maria Gostrey speaks to the outsider/ambassador Lambert Strether, admitting that certain of his perceptions are accurate.  “It isn’t so much your being ‘right’–it’s your your horrible sharp eye that makes you so.” I lay down on a damp, chilly chaise.  Ah, the “horrible sharp” eye. Taking it all in, taking notes.

Sin City Crow on beach chairAlone at the pool, just a few crows flapping and cawing like some inarticulate moral compass. This was delicious, the way it is delicious to ready about an alienated character in a Henry James novel.

(Thank you, Dear Sergei, for a wonderful trip to the land of Vegas. And thank you, Dear HJ, for the company, insight, and for tucking me into bed. What happens in Vegas…)

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14 Responses to “Sin City Hours With Henry James Or, Ambassadors Without Cause”

  1. carol le seure September 20, 2014 at 3:13 pm #

    There is nobody better than James. Nobody. And you have brought the wordy, convoluted wordsmith back to life.
    A few months ago I had this almost visceral longing to read The Best in the Jungle again but couldn’t find it. But Amazon and Next Day Delivery saved me. The day it came, I sat at my kitchen table all afternoon and into the evening reading my treasure. Nothing finer than jumping into the sub-textural sub-text of Henry James.
    Nice job.

    Liked by 1 person

    • kwasson2012 September 20, 2014 at 3:56 pm #

      Thank you for reading, Carol! Nothing finer than an afternoon and evening with James, I agree!!!

      Like

      • maw14747 September 21, 2014 at 6:58 pm #

        Especially if he tucks you in bed after too many Blackberry somethings with a chaste kiss on the forehead and lets you, like him, sleep like the dead. But not forever.

        I’ve never found Vegas all that interesting (indeed, have never been closer than Reno). But having Henry James and Madame K together there makes it seem like it might be worthwhile.

        So glad that what happens in Vegas doesn’t always stay in Vegas. Other people should know about Maisie and the Ambassadors and, yes, the Beast in the Jungle, and how they are, and are not, in Vegas.

        Thank you, Carol Le Seure, for making these and other such great works live for me and for generations.

        Thank you, Madame K, for that, too, and for making them live again in the blogosphere even if it’s with a view over the gold, phallic Trump Tower.

        Love, the twisted Governess

        Liked by 1 person

  2. kwasson2012 September 21, 2014 at 9:45 pm #

    Thanks for reading Governess. Your golden arm got me every time!

    Like

  3. robinbot September 22, 2014 at 9:11 pm #

    Kirsten, thanks for a great lesson on how to make a questionable trip or experience come alive in a whole new plane. Okay, so that’s not what you intended to have people take from this. But for me this was magical. Cheers!

    Liked by 1 person

    • kwasson2012 September 22, 2014 at 9:18 pm #

      Yes, channeling an author friend makes for a different kind of experience. (Choose wisely.)

      Like

  4. Marc September 23, 2014 at 9:37 pm #

    “The good American writers are Henry James, Stephen Crane, and Mark Twain.” I’ve been to Vegas several times, appreciate it for what it is but have never liked it (although the neon museum is pretty cool). Kirsten you managed to find a way to make it somehow palatable introducing a bit of depth where there is none. Fine, its been decades but I will now have to revisit The American. Thanks.

    Liked by 1 person

  5. kwasson2012 September 23, 2014 at 9:48 pm #

    Thank you, Marc! I must make it to the neon museum next time!!! I’ll channel Twain then; he’d dig it more than James.

    Like

  6. Dylan Brody September 27, 2014 at 8:02 am #

    This is fantastic. And it makes me want to go back and re-examine Henry James to find out what I was missing when I became disenchanted in my youth. Also, I’m forwarding the piece to my Dad who is (or at least was at one time) very big on Henry James.

    I am quite certain that the golden bowl in Vegas is merely plated, but priced as if it were solid. The clerk is under strict orders to wait until the customer has departed with her purchase before bringing another out from the back room to put on display.

    Like

    • kwasson2012 September 27, 2014 at 4:47 pm #

      Hell yes! I believe your reading of the Vegas golden bowl–not to be confused with Cafe Gratitude’s Vegan golden bowl (quinoa) is accurate. It used to be that the bowl actually was made of actual solid gold and there used to be more clothing worn then and fewer gambling addicts and everyone was a bit less desperate. There were, of course “less fights” then as well. Thank you, Dylan Brody.

      Like

  7. Ernest Metzger September 29, 2014 at 7:11 pm #

    Really enjoyed that Kirsten (I’m a James lover too).

    Like

    • kwasson2012 September 29, 2014 at 7:15 pm #

      What a delight to hear from you, Ernest! Thanks!

      Like

  8. elainemansfield October 31, 2014 at 2:55 pm #

    Look what delight I found when I went through my file of “later” emails–the ones I neglected the last six weeks. What a guy, Kirsten. And what a sense of humor. I’m glad you took notes.

    I love what Jung calls “Active Imagination.” You don’t need instruction. I’m spending most of my hours the last month preparing for a meetup with little TED. TEDx that is, but he’s big to me. He has a square jaw, piercing blue eyes, and he works out. He expects me to work out, too. And practice, rehearse, refine, and practice more. I’ll wear my red shoes for our date on Nov. 8, and I’m already taking notes.

    Like

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