Collected Works (Vol. I)

160 THE MOTHER’S TRAGEDY CORA, O Ulric, Ulric ! bear with me awhile ! Speak no more words—each syllable strikes here, [Hand to heart. A cloud of winged scorpions, that rage In mine own deepest self; for there I know Tame harpies that had ceased to torture , me; And this more ghastly brood renews their sting, Adding a triple poison! O my soul Is torn with pangs more horrible than hell, Scorching the very marrow of my bones, Corrupting me—corrupting me, I say— O God! is any safety at Thy feet? Be silent, O be silent for awhile, And I will shrivel up thy wretched ears, Give thee to curse the hour that saw thee first, To curse thy parents and thine own young head. May God forbid that thou should rail on Him! Leave me a little to my torment yet, That I may quell the host of devil forms That eat my soul up, many torturing, And one—ah ! one accursed beyond all—- Soothing! O heart of Jesus, bleed with mine ! [Kneels towards East. See, see! I seek Thee on maternal knees ! Conceive Her pangs that bore Thee, when her shame Devoured Her, with no memory of love— As mine, as mine! O bitter memories ! [4 pause. ULRIC. Tell me, dear friend ! anxiety and love Are like to kill me. Tell me in three words. Cora (slowly and deliberately). I am a dancer and a prostitute ! ULRIC smzles contemptuously. Why trick me with so pitiful a lie? Were you the vilest woman on the earth, Mere scum of filth shed off the city’s dregs— Were you the meanest and most treacher- ous-— Were you the sordid soul that most con- trasts With your true, noble, and unselfish self— Were you the synthesis of all I hate, In mind and body leprous and deformed— Did every word and gesture fill my soul With hatred and its parody, disgust— It touches not my question! This one fact O’ermasters all eccentric circumstance : I love you—you, and not your attributes ! CORA. Great noble soul! I hate myself the more That I must wound you further with the truth. A double prong this poisoned poniard Snaps in our hearts. I kept the secret long. Your breath, that burns upon me, wraps me round With whirling passion, pierces through my veins With its unhallowed fire, constrains, com- pels, Drags out the corpse of twenty years ago From the untrusty coffin of my mind, To poison, to corrupt, to strike you there Blind with its horror. ULRICc. Leave these bitter words ! They torture me with terrible suspense, And you with fear. I see by these dread looks, Tedious prologues, that there is a truth You are afraid to speak.