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Updated: May 29, 2025
Listen, Albani; it seems that we must be mutually useful to each other; I need your voice to become pope, and you need mine to become a favored lover. Very well, give me your voice, and in return, I promise you a laurel-crown for Signora Corilla, and eight thousand scudi for yourself!" "Ah, you would haggle!" contemptuously exclaimed Albani. "You would be a very niggardly vicegerent of God!
The following stray couplet would seem to have been intended for his description of Corilla: "A crayon Cupid, redd'ning into shape, Betrays her talents to design and scrape." The Epilogue, which I am about to give, though apparently finished, has not, as far as I can learn, yet appeared in print, nor am I at all aware for what occasion it was intended.
See, see how she makes herself a path through the crowd ah, it is too sultry for her here in the hall, she approaches the garden door, she slips out. Ah, give me your hand, Corilla. Yet a few moments and the fairest woman on earth is mine!"
He took me to see Corilla, the celebrated poetess. She received me with great politeness, and was kind enough to improvise on several subjects which I suggested. I was enchanted, not so much with her grace and beauty, as by her wit and perfect elocution. How sweet a language sounds when it is spoken well and the expressions are well chosen.
Who knows but that this will give her more pleasure than the sparkling brilliants!" In that, however, the handsome Count Orloff was mistaken. The poetess Corilla therein resembled to a hair the prima-donnas and heroines of the stage of the present day.
Those flower-strewed steps led up to an altar, upon the centre of which, between wreaths of flowers, shot up two dark-red flames. Against that altar leaned, exalted and august as a Grecian priestess, the improvisatrice Corilla.
Corilla read in the expression of his face that he was in earnest with his threat, and as if her inspiration lent wings to her words, she spoke on as in a storm of inward agitation, and with words of fire she decided that modern Rome was the happiest, as she had the holy father of Christendom, her pope, and his cardinals!
I am entirely isolated, and of what use is a solitary paradise?" Corilla had kept her word. She had sent to Alexis Orloff, Carlo's brother, Joseph Ribas, the galley-slave, and with a malicious smile she had said to the latter, "You will avenge me on your treacherous brother?" Count Orloff warmly welcomed Corilla's protege.
That signified: "In two hours she will be dead." "Good! you shall be satisfied with me," had been Corilla's answer. The door was again closed. Corilla turned smiling to Carlo, her former rancor seemed to have vanished; she was in high spirits. "Carlo," said she, "how good you are not to leave me! Let us now begin. I feel myself glowing with inspiration.
"A poetess is always poor and in want of assistance. The muses lavish upon their votaries all joys but those of wealth." "Ah!" exclaimed Corilla, when the count had left her, "I shall in the end obtain all I desire. I shall not only be crowned with fame, but blessed with wealth, which is a blessing almost equal to that of fame!
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