Emily Capettini
A Letter Concerning the Fire Damage Done to the Front Parlor, on the Twenty-Fifth of June, 1891, to the Famous Detective, Esq. To Be Left Until Called For
My Dear Sir,
You see, but you do not observe.
Observe: when you came to my house to take something of mine, disguised as a clergyman, you hired actors to fight around my carriage. You did not ask to be invited in, though I would have let you, but rather decided you would and worried only for your own charade. What does one care if a punch thrown becomes too real? You knew I was an actress, an adventuress, a prima donna. I make no secrets of my trade. Yet, you have never studied stage combat, do not know a dull saber is the same weight in your hand as one that can slice you open. You may know what it means to maintain a scene, but not how to watch your audience even more closely than they watch you. You have not had a harness strapped so tightly you can hardly draw breath for an aria, had your feet pulled from the ground by someone else’s will. These are scenes maintained on a stage and therefore, below your high-born scrutiny.
Observe: even my portrait is damning, turns the most secure of men into children told to fetch something from a dark cellar. Sends a king running to steal back a photograph he gave to me. You think I court such power, secret it away because it is in my nature as The Woman, the woman by which you will measure other women, as if we can all be expected to summit Aoraki, kneel at the temple of Athena, lift Gentileschi’s Samson e Delilah from its frame. Is not my ex-lover’s betrothed with her soul of delicacy, my mirrored twin? She wields her purity like a king’s will, puts men at her mercy, the same as I.
Observe: you had my life written on a small card, kept me collected away. My birth, a list of appearances, my residence—facts collected like a magpie, and enough to trick the Famous Detective into thinking it was enough. A card may carry only the highlights, gathered from the newspaper, and I am not fool enough to think the acting has finished when I leave the stage.
Observe: I saw you, Famous Detective, when you thought you had gotten away. You think I only observed you on the street, in my house, do not know I followed after the cry of fire and smoke curling through my parlor.
I know you. I know the E string on your violin will snap the next time you pluck it in thought. I know the doctor is infrequent in his visits. I know the new Mrs. Watson grows ill, the white in her cheeks curling like steam. I know the lock on the back door needs replacing, a window on the stairwell sticks in damp.
Observe: I know you, Famous Detective, and I knew you would not come for me at night. A gentlemen detective, a crackle of a streetlamp in pea soup fog; propriety cuffs you, bullies you to call on me in the morning, after I’ve had my breakfast. Brushed soot smoke from my skirts.
I suppose you expected to find me waiting for you in my parlor, expecting your card. I suppose my role of lady was convincing, but I’ve slipped this costume, packed it away in my trunk. I leave a photograph, should you care to remember this role, and I remain,
Most sincerely yours,
Irene Adler
My Dear Sir,
You see, but you do not observe.
Observe: when you came to my house to take something of mine, disguised as a clergyman, you hired actors to fight around my carriage. You did not ask to be invited in, though I would have let you, but rather decided you would and worried only for your own charade. What does one care if a punch thrown becomes too real? You knew I was an actress, an adventuress, a prima donna. I make no secrets of my trade. Yet, you have never studied stage combat, do not know a dull saber is the same weight in your hand as one that can slice you open. You may know what it means to maintain a scene, but not how to watch your audience even more closely than they watch you. You have not had a harness strapped so tightly you can hardly draw breath for an aria, had your feet pulled from the ground by someone else’s will. These are scenes maintained on a stage and therefore, below your high-born scrutiny.
Observe: even my portrait is damning, turns the most secure of men into children told to fetch something from a dark cellar. Sends a king running to steal back a photograph he gave to me. You think I court such power, secret it away because it is in my nature as The Woman, the woman by which you will measure other women, as if we can all be expected to summit Aoraki, kneel at the temple of Athena, lift Gentileschi’s Samson e Delilah from its frame. Is not my ex-lover’s betrothed with her soul of delicacy, my mirrored twin? She wields her purity like a king’s will, puts men at her mercy, the same as I.
Observe: you had my life written on a small card, kept me collected away. My birth, a list of appearances, my residence—facts collected like a magpie, and enough to trick the Famous Detective into thinking it was enough. A card may carry only the highlights, gathered from the newspaper, and I am not fool enough to think the acting has finished when I leave the stage.
Observe: I saw you, Famous Detective, when you thought you had gotten away. You think I only observed you on the street, in my house, do not know I followed after the cry of fire and smoke curling through my parlor.
I know you. I know the E string on your violin will snap the next time you pluck it in thought. I know the doctor is infrequent in his visits. I know the new Mrs. Watson grows ill, the white in her cheeks curling like steam. I know the lock on the back door needs replacing, a window on the stairwell sticks in damp.
Observe: I know you, Famous Detective, and I knew you would not come for me at night. A gentlemen detective, a crackle of a streetlamp in pea soup fog; propriety cuffs you, bullies you to call on me in the morning, after I’ve had my breakfast. Brushed soot smoke from my skirts.
I suppose you expected to find me waiting for you in my parlor, expecting your card. I suppose my role of lady was convincing, but I’ve slipped this costume, packed it away in my trunk. I leave a photograph, should you care to remember this role, and I remain,
Most sincerely yours,
Irene Adler
Emily Capettini is the author of Thistle (2015), which won Omnidawn's Fabulist Fiction Chapbook Contest. Originally from Batavia, IL, she is now Assistant Professor of English at Indiana State University and Assistant Editor with Sundress Publications. Natalie Dormer's Irene Adler is her favorite.