Corilla was alone. Uneasy, full of stormy thoughts, she impetuously
walked back and forth, occasionally uttering single passionate
exclamations, then again thoughtfully staring at vacancy before her. She
was a full-blooded, warm Italian woman, that will neither love nor hate
with the whole soul, and nourishes both feelings in her bosom with equal
strength and with equal warmth. But, in her, hatred exhaled as quickly
as love; it was to her only the champagne-foam of life, which she sipped
for the purpose of a slight intoxication--as in her intoxication only
did she feel herself a poetess, and in a condition for improvisation.
“I must at any rate be in love,” said she, “else I should lose my poetic
fame. With cool blood and a tranquil mind there is no improvising and
poetizing. With me all must be stirring and flaming, every nerve of my
being must glow and tremble, the blood must flash like fire through my
veins, and the most glowing wishes and ardent longings, be it love or
be it hate, must be stirring within me in order to poetize successfully.
And this cannot be comprehended by delicate and discreet people; this
low Roman populace even venture to call me a coquette, only because I
constantly need a new glow, and because I constantly seek new emotions
and new inspirations for my muse.”
Love, then, for the improvisatrice Corilla, was nothing more than a
strong wine with which she refreshed and strengthened her fatigued
poetic powers for renewed exertions; it was in a manner the tow which
she threw upon the expiring fire of her fantasy, to make it flash up in
clear and bright flames.
It was only in this way that she loved Carlo, and wept for him, except
that in this case her love had been of a longer duration, because it
was _he_ who gave up and left _her_! That was what made her hatred so
glowing, that was what made her seek the life of the woman for whom
Carlo had deserted her.
“This is a new situation,” said she, “which I am called to live through
and to feel. But a poetess must have experienced all feelings, or
she could not describe them. For my part, I do not believe in the
revelations of genius--I believe only in experiences. One can describe
only what one has felt and experienced. Whoever may attempt to describe
the flavor of an orange, must first have tasted it!”
That this attempt to murder Natalie had failed, was to her a matter of
little moment. She had experienced the emotion of it, and just the
same would it have been a matter of indifference to her had the dagger
pierced Natalie’s breast--she was sufficiently a child of the South to
consider a murder as only a venial sin, for which the priest could grant
absolution.
There was only one thing which exclusively occupied Corilla, following
and tormenting her day and night, and that was her poetic fame. She
desired that her name should stand high in the world, glorified by all
Europe, and for this purpose she desired above all things to be crowned
as a poetess in the capitol of the holy city; for this fame she would
willingly have given many years of her life.
That was the aim of all her efforts, and how much would she not have
borne, ventured, and suffered for its attainment! How many intrigues
were planned, how much cunning and dissimulation, flattery, and
hypocrisy, had been employed for that purpose, and all, all as yet in
vain!
Therefore it was that Corilla now wept, and with occasional outbreaks of
passionate exclamations violently paced her room. Her cheeks glowed, her
eyes flashed--she was very beautiful in this state of excitement.
That she must have acknowledged to herself as her glance accidentally
encountered her own face in the glass.
With a smile of satisfaction she remained standing before the mirror,
and almost angrily she said:
“Ah, why am I now alone, why does no one see me in my beautiful glow? My
face might now produce some effect, and gain me friends! Why, then, am I
now alone?”
But it seems that Corilla had only to express a wish in order to see
it suddenly fulfilled; for the door was at that moment opened, and a
servant announced Count Alexis Orloff.
Corilla smiled with delight, and let that smile remain upon her lips,
as she very well knew it was becoming to her, and that she had conquered
many hearts with it; but secretly her heart throbbed with fear, and
timidly she asked herself, “What can that Russian count want of me?”
But with a cheerful face she advanced to receive him; she seemed not to
remark that a dark cloud lay upon his brow, and that his features bore
an almost threatening expression.
“He is a barbarian,” thought she, “and barbarians must be treated
differently from other men. I must flatter this lion, in order to fetter
him!”
“It is a serious matter that brings me to you, signora,” said Alexis,
gloomily.
“A serious matter?” she cheerfully asked. “Ah, then I pity you, count.
It is difficult to speak with me of serious matters!”
“You rather do them!” said Alexis, carelessly throwing himself upon a
divan. “You would not play with such serious things as, for instance,
a dagger, and therefore you hurl it from you, altogether indifferent
whether you thereby quite accidentally pierce the heart of another.”
“I do not understand you, count,” said Corilla, without embarrassment,
but at the same time she looked at him with such a charming and enticing
expression, that Alexis involuntarily smiled.
“I will make myself intelligible to you,” said he, in a milder tone.
“You must understand, that I know you, Corilla. That assassin who
followed the Princess Tartaroff at the festival of Cardinal Bernis, was
employed by you, Signora Maddalena Morelli Fernandez, called Corilla!”
“And what if it were true, Signor Alexis Orloff, called the handsome
Northern Hercules?” asked she, roguishly imitating his grave
seriousness. “If it were really true, what further?”
Alexis looked in her face with an expression of astonishment. “You are
wonderfully bold!” said he.
“None but slaves are without courage!” responded she. “Freedom is the
mother of boldness!”
“You do not, then, deny the hiring of that bravo?”
“I only deny your right to inquire,” said she.
“I have a right to it,” he responded with vehemence. “This Princess
Tartaroff is a subject of the Empress of Russia, my mistress, who
watches over and protects all her subjects with maternal tenderness.”
“That good, tender empress!” exclaimed Corilla, with an ambiguous
smile. “But in order properly to watch and preserve all her children and
subjects, she should keep them in her own country. Take this Princess
Tartaroff with you to Russia, and then she will be safe from our Italian
daggers. Take her with you; that will be the best way!”
“You, then, very heartily hate this poor little princess?” asked Alexis,
laughing.
“Yes,” said she, after a short reflection, “I hate her. And would you
know why, signor? Not for her beauty, not for her youth, but for her
talents! And she has great talents! Ah, there was a time when I hated
her, although I knew her not. But now, now it is different. I now not
only hate, but fear her! For she can rival me, not only in love, but in
fame! Ah, you should have seen her on that evening! She was like a swan
to look at, and her song was like the dying strains of the swan. And
all shouted applause, and all the women wept; indeed, I myself wept,
not from emotion, but with rage, with bitterness, for they had
forgotten me--forgotten, for this new poetess; they overwhelmed her with
flatteries, leaving me alone and unnoticed! And yet you ask me if I hate
her!”
Quite involuntarily had she suffered herself to be carried away by
her own vehemence, her inward glowing rage. With secret pleasure Count
Orloff read in her features that this was no comedy which she thus
improvised, but was truth and reality.
“If you so think and feel,” said he, “then we may soon understand
each other, signora. A real hatred is of as much value as a real love;
indeed, often of much greater. One can more safely confide in hatred,
as it is more enduring. I will therefore confide in you, signora, if you
will swear to me to betray no word of what I shall tell you.”
“I swear it!” was Corilla’s response.
“Listen, then! This Princess Tartaroff is an imposter; no princely blood
flows in her veins, and if she gives herself out to be a princess, it
is because she therewith connects plans of high-treason. More I need not
say to you, except that my illustrious empress has charged me to bring
this fraudulent princess to her at St. Petersburg, that she may there
receive her punishment! This I have sworn to do, and must redeem my
promise to transport her from here, without exciting attention, and
without subjecting her to any personal injury. Do you now comprehend why
I come?”
“I comprehend,” said Corilla. “An empress would avenge herself, and
therefore a poor poetess must forego her own little private revenge!
But how, if I should not believe a word of this long story; if I
should consider it a fable invented by you to assure the safety of your
princess?”
“That you may be compelled to believe it, listen further to me.”
And Alexis Orloff spoke long and zealously to her, affording her a
glance into his most secret intrigues, into his finely-matured plans,
while Corilla followed him with intense expectation and warmly-glowing
cheeks.
“I comprehend it all, all!” said she, when Alexis had finally ended;
“it is a deep and at the same time an infernal plan--a plan which must
excite the envy and respect of Satan himself!”
“And yourself?” laughingly asked Alexis.
“Oh, I,” said she--“I belong, perhaps, to the family of devils, and
therefore take pleasure in aiding you! You need a negotiator who has a
wide conscience and an eloquent tongue! I can furnish you with such
a one. Ah, that will make a droll story. Said you not that the singer
Carlo watched this golden treasure like a dragon? Well, it shall be his
brother who shall contend with this dragon. His own brother--will not
that be pleasant, count?”
“And are you sure of him?” asked Count Orloff. “How if his brother
should win him from us?”
“Have no anxiety; this Carlo Ribas is so virtuous that he hates no one
so much as his brother Joseph, merely because he passed some years in
the galleys for forgery. He is now free, and has secretly come here.
As he was aware that I knew his brother, he came to beg me for my
countenance and support. I will send him to you.”
“And you will also not forget my request, that you will in all societies
speak of the great love which the Empress Catharine cherishes for her
near relation, the Princess Tartaroff?”
“I will not forget it. In your hands, count, I lay my revenge--you will
free me from this rival?”
“That will I,” said he, with an inhuman laugh. “And when the work is
completed, and you have faithfully stood by me, then, signora, you
may be sure of the gratitude of the empress. Catharine is the exalted
protectress of the muses, and in the fulness of her grace she will not
forget the poetess Corilla. You may expect an imperial reward.”
“And I shall gratefully receive it,” said Corilla, with a smile. “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!
Money has already founded many a reputation, but not always has fame
attracted money to itself! I shall be rich as well as famous!”
“That you already are!” exclaimed the Cardinal Francesco Albani, who
unremarked had just entered the room.
“I am not,” said she, with vehemence, “for they refuse me the prize of
fame! Have you been with the pope, your eminence, and what did he say?”
“I come directly from him.”
“Well, and what says he?”
“What he always says to me--no!”
Corilla stamped her feet violently, and her eyes flashed lightnings.
“How beautiful you are now!” tenderly remarked the cardinal, throwing an
arm around her.
She rudely thrust him back. “Touch me not,” said she, “you do not
deserve my love. You are a weakling, as all men are. You can only coo
like a pigeon, but when it comes to action, then sinks your arm, and
you are powerless. Ah, the woman whom you profess to love begs of you a
trifling service, the performance of which is of the highest importance
to her, the greatest favor, and you will not fulfil her request while
yet swearing you love her! Go! you are a cold-hearted man, and wholly
undeserving of Corilla’s love!”
“But,” despairingly exclaimed the cardinal, “you require of me a service
that it is not in my power to perform. Ask something else, Corilla--ask
a human life, and you shall have it! But I cannot give what is not mine.
You demand a laurel-crown, which only the pope has the power to bestow,
and he has sworn that you shall not have it so long as he lives!”
“Will he, then, live eternally?” cried Corilla, beside herself with
rage.
The cardinal gave her an astonished and interrogating glance. But his
features suddenly assumed a wild and malicious expression, and violently
grasping Corilla’s hand, he murmured:
“You are right! ‘Will he, then, live forever?’ Bah! even popes are
mortal men. And if we should choose for his successor a man better
disposed toward you then--Corilla,” said the cardinal, interrupting
himself, and in spite of her resistance pressing her to his
bosom--“Corilla, swear once more to me that you will be mine, and only
mine, as soon as I procure your coronation in the capitol! Swear it once
more!”
She gave him such a sweet, enticing, and voluptuous smile that the
cardinal trembled with desire and joy.
“When you in the capitol adorn Corilla with the laurel-crown, then
will she willingly lay her myrtle crown at your feet,” said she, with a
charming expression of maiden modesty.
The cardinal again pressed her passionately to his bosom.
“You shall have the laurel-crown, and your myrtle crown is mine!”
he excitedly exclaimed. “You will soon see whether Francesco is a
cold-hearted man! Farewell, Corilla!”
And with a hasty salute he left the room. The astonished Corilla
dismissed him with a smile.
“If it is to succeed at all, it can be only through him,” said she.
“Poor Francesco, he will bring me a full laurel-crown! And what can I
give him in return? An exfoliated myrtle crown, that is all! No heart
with it!”