ACT IV.

Great Hall of the Emperor. [The same as Act II, Scene 2.]

ACT FIRST

_Outside a city gate, at Pekin._

_Above the gate, in a row, severed heads of young men are impaled on stakes. On the wall, at one side, more heads of older men, with grizzled locks, stare down: among them, conspicuous, one with a white beard._

_It is early morning; the sun just rising._

_The gate is closed._

_From behind is heard barbaric martial music._

_Outside, from the right, drums roll, and Chinese soldiers enter, accompanied by a few beggars and peasants._

_Pausing before the gate, they sound a trumpet._

_The gate is opened and they pass within, followed by all, except two beggars, a young man and a middle aged._

_The gate remains open._

_The middle-aged beggar points upward at the head with the white beard._

_The younger starts, and prostrates himself beneath it with a deep cry._

_Outside, on the left, a twanging of stringed instruments sounds faint but merry. It draws nearer, and quickly the players come running on—five tattered, motley vagabonds in masks: Scaramouche, Harlequin, Punchinello, Pantaloon and Capocomico._

_The last, leading them with his baton, stops in the gateway, before which Harlequin executes a ballet-step dance, while Scaramouche, Pantaloon, and Punchinello play accompaniment on guitar, mandolin and zither._

_Breaking off, Punchinello begins to improvise an imitation of Harlequin’s dance, but being beaten over his hump with a thwacking stick by Harlequin, retreats with grotesque pantomime._

_At their merriment, the younger beggar, rising, draws away with the elder, making a tragic gesture toward the white-bearded head on the wall._

_Perceiving them, Capocomico silences the musicians and approaches the younger beggar curiously._

_Stepping between them, the older beggar salaams and asks alms._

_Laughing, Capocomico turns his empty pouch wrong-side-out and bows obsequiously, extending his own palm._

_The other Maskers do likewise, sticking out their tongues._

_Shrinking from them, the younger beggar draws the older away with him, and goes off, left._

CAPOCOMICO

[_Waving them adieu_]

Mohammed, Confucius, Buddha, befriend you!—

[_Turning to his troupe_]

Behold, my cronies, beggars—beggars Bow down to us! Lo, they take us for lordlings! Ha, what did I tell you? Our tables are turning: In China henceforward we shall be emperors.

SCARAMOUCHE

By the carcase of Charlemagne, I’m dog-aweary Of twanging these gutstrings for breakfast.

PANTALOON

And us, too, Of dancing from Venice to Pekin, for sixpence.— My slippers need soling.

PUNCHINELLO

My poor hump is hollow!

CAPO.

Our journey is ended! Nimble Sir Harlequin,

[_Bowing to each_]

My lord Pantaloon, signore Punchinello, Magnificent Scaramouche—enter your Kingdom!

SCARAMOUCHE

Enter it!—Now, by the eye-balls of Argus Where is this same kingdom, Signore Capocomico? My kingdom is Breakfast: Show me the gateway!

CAPO.

[_Pointing_]

Behold it before you! Within there, the table Of Fortune is spread for us, served by her handmaids— Miming Romance, seductive Adventure, Amorous Magic—improvised Comedy, And all the love-charming, blood-thirsting Enchantments Our prosy old workaday world has lost wind of.

SCARAMOUCHE

Ha, beard of Balshazzar! that warms me a bellyful! ’Twas all for the likes of such merry contraptions We were kicked out of Europe.

CAPO.

Precisely, my bully-boy! What would you?—At home, half the world is dyspeptic With pills of reformers and critics and realists. Fun for its own sake?—Pho, it’s old-fashioned! Art with a mask on?—Unnaturalistic, They warn you, and scowl, and wag their sad periwigs.— So _we_—the unmatched, immortal, Olympian Maskers of Antic,—we, troop of the tragical, Symbolical, comical, melodramatical _Commedia dell’ Arte_—we, once who by thousands Enchanted to laughter the children of Europe— Behold us now, packed out of town by the critics To wander the world, hobble-heel, tatter-elbowed, Abegging our way—four vagabond-players, And one master director—me, Capocomico!

PUNCHINELLO

But why did you fetch us to China?

CAPO.

Because, my Punchinello, in China there are no technicians To measure our noses and label them false ones, Or question our subplots and call them fictitious. Here in China the world lies a-dream, like a Thousand Years Ago, and the place of our dreams is eternal. Here in China Romance still goes masquing serenely With dragons, magicians, clowns, villains and heroes, So that five motley fellows like us may resume our Old tradetricks, and follow our noses to fortune!— For a taste point your own, Punch, up there at the gate-stone!

PUNCHINELLO

[_Staring up at the heads_]

What pretty young princes!—But where are the rest of them?

SCARAMOUCHE

By Saladin! They’ve plenty of room for their breakfast!

PANTALOON

It makes me light-headed to look at them.

CAPO.

Comrades, Consider, I ask you, where else but in China May an audience view so romantic a prologue? These gentlemen open the comedy: Yonder Behold, in the sunrise, they flaunt their grim Secret For us to unravel:—Who are they? What means it That here, on a gateway of Pekin, these gory Oracular heads stare downward in silence? And yonder—those others? Who’s he in the white beard?— Love, jealousy, murder—what is their mystery? By the ghost of old Gozzi, now what are we good for Unless we untangle their shadowy intrigues!— Follow _me_, then, my playboys! Before the next sunrise Your pouches shall burst with the gold of their Secret.— Follow me!—Yonder heads are our mascots to fortune!

[_Striking their instruments and running through the gate, they all disappear within. As their tinklings die away, the two beggars reënter, from the left_]

THE YOUNGER BEGGAR

[_Prostrating himself again before the white bearded head, rises with up-lifted arms_]

Father!—O slaughtered King of Astrakhan, Timur, my father!—

THE OLDER BEGGAR

[_Furtively_]

Calaf! Have more care; There may be ears to listen.

CALAF

[_Distractedly_]

Let them hear!— Oh, he has held me, Barak, on his knee, And as a little boy I clutched that beard With playful fingers: golden brown it was In those days, and the first bright silver hair When I had found and plucked it out—, his eyes— Oh, those poor staring eyes!—they laughed with light, And with those mummied lips,—red, then, as wine— He kissed my cheek, and his warm, happy tears Wet my own face, childish with wonder.—Ah, My father!

BARAK

Hush! The soldiers of Altoum Surround us here.

CALAF

Altoum! damned emperor Of China—I will be avenged on him Who killed my father, and destroyed our kingdom!

BARAK

And what are you to be avenged on him?— A beggar.

CALAF

I am prince of Astrakhan!

BARAK

No longer; he is dead. Remember, prince, How you were drowned a year ago. That night Altoum destroyed your capitol in war, You leaped in flight into the river Yen And perished there.—Do not forget.

CALAF

Forget? Forget that night? That night I died indeed, And rose from out the river’s chilly death Into strange paradise: A garden, walled With roses round: A moon, that zoned with pearl A spirit there: a lady, garbed in gold And her more golden smile! Wrapt in disguise— A beggar’s cloak, which you had hid me in, The river’s ooze still staining me with slime— On me—_me_, outcast and destroyed, she smiled, And tossed for alms the white rose from her hair!—

[_Taking from his bosom a withered rose, he looks on it rapturously_]

My deathless rose!

BARAK

The rose of Turandot Is dangerous as her smile.

CALAF

Ah, were it not That Turandot is daughter of Altoum, I would have been avenged before to-day.— But he who killed my father—is her father, And she is more than life or death, and mightier Even than a father dead and unavenged: She is love.

BARAK

Ah, desperate boy, you nurse this love On worse than poison. Calaf, hark to me. Have I not served you and your royal father Faithfully?

CALAF

More than faithfully: lovingly.

BARAK

Then by my love of you, I beg you, boy, Crush your mad love for Turandot, which must Lead only to your death, and hasten with me Far from your enemy’s city.

CALAF

My enemy’s?

BARAK

Altoum, if he should find you living, would Spike your head—yonder. Ah, be wise, my prince! Root out this rashness. Throw that rose away. See, it is withered—dead. So let your love be!

CALAF

[_Smiling_]

Only a lover rightly loves the rose! Withered, you tell me?—dead? How dull is the sense Which does not feel the soul! For me, Barak, This flower still blooms, and round it all the air Is sweet with spirit-perfume, even to swooning.

BARAK

[_Rising_]

Then it is vain.—My middle age has lost Its smell for magic. Well, then, I must be Content to play the beggar with my prince.

CALAF

Yes, it is vain. For, still I’ll wear her rose, And, in this beggar’s cloak she smiled upon, Still haunt her perilous city.—I have heard This morning she shall pass this eastern gate Coming from the palace.—So, my old dear friend, Wait with me here, for I can only live By feeding on the glimpses of her face.

BARAK

Come, then, this way and beg, for folk are coming.

[_They draw toward the gate. Barak, starting fearfully, drags Calaf away left_]

Great heaven—the emperor!

CALAF

The emperor! Wait, Barak. Stop!—No further.

[_On the edge of the scene, they crouch by the wall, like beggars. Through the gate enter Altoum amid Chinese courtiers, accompanied by Capocomico and followed by the other Maskers_]

ALTOUM

[_To Capocomico_]

An instant is enough For inspiration, and you have inspired Fresh hopes in me.

CAPO.

That is my specialty, Your majesty.

ALTOUM

Yet it is strangely sudden:— You and your motley troop spring in my path Like gorgeous mushrooms from exotic soils, And tempt me by your brilliance and surprise To taste your newness.—Well, I am desperate: Old remedies have lost their tonic; home Physicians have proved quacks. I know them all You—I know not. Therefore I will accept Your services.

CAPO.

We are practitioners In every specialty, my liege. If we Fail to perform our utmost promise—well,

[_Pointing to the gate_]

Our heads are decorative; they will adorn Your majesty’s collection.

ALTOUM

Nay, not mine. Those grizzled heads of warriors on the wall Are mine: the trophies of my victories. But those above the gate—those youthful brows Of tragic lovers, hapless in their love— Those are my daughter’s.

BARAK

[_To Calaf_]

Do you hear, my prince? His daughter’s! Oh, take heed!

CAPO.

Your majesty Allures me. Is your daughter—

ALTOUM

Hush! Come closer.

[_He leads Capocomico away from the curtain, right. Calaf follows furtively, heedless of Barak’s gestures_]

My daughter is my cause of desperation. In all but her I have been fortunate: In peace, most prosperous; in war, my worst Of rivals, Timur, king of Astrakhan—

[_Pointing at the wall_]

Yonder you see his head! None of his house Survives to avenge him, for his only son Perished by drowning.

CALAF

[_To Barak, who implores him to draw back_]

God! if I remain, I’ll kill him.

BARAK

[_Drawing him away_]

Come!

[_They go within the gate_]

CAPO.

Was this long since, my liege?

ALTOUM

This day one year ago.—Some months I kept Old Timur caged before I bleached him there.— And strangely it was on that very night I conquered Astrakhan the change began.

CAPO.

The change—my liege!—what change?

ALTOUM

In Turandot, My daughter. Always till that time her mind Was tender-mannered as her face is fair. Till then, there was no creature living whom She would have harmed, even with a thought of pain— Least of all those who loved her. But that night, Groping by moonlight from her rose garden Into my war tent, half distractedly She forced from me a promise—

CAPO.

What to do?

ALTOUM

To make this edict: For a year and a day, All royal suitors of her hand in marriage Must answer first three riddles put by her: To him who answers right she shall be wed; But all who answer wrong shall straightway die And their dissevered heads be spiked in scorn High on the city’s gate.

CAPO.

[_Looking at the gate_]

So those are they Who answered wrong!

ALTOUM

None yet has answered right.

CAPO.

But why, my liege—

ALTOUM

Why did I give consent To publish the mad edict? This is why: I worship Turandot. There is no whim Of hers I would not grant to make her happy,— But ah!—how can I make her so?

CAPO.

Is she Unhappy, then, in her success?

ALTOUM

At times She weeps to hear the headsman’s gong, but when Her lovers cry to her for pity, straight Her eyes grow cold with sudden cruelty And give the sign for death.

CAPO.

Have you no clue For this?

ALTOUM

[_Distractedly_]

No clue? Gods of my ancestors, Have I not sought a thousand counsels, all In vain!—A gentle girl, a dove of maidens, Sudden transformed to be a thing of talons— A harpy-tigress! Clue? What clue have I For murder in the bosom of a dove?—

CAPO.

Softly, my liege. That is my specialty.

ALTOUM

So I have heard from specialists before; Yet now I feel new hope. If you shall find This clue—whether it be some hidden, strange Indisposition, or some secret reason Concealed by her—and _if you find the cure_,— To you, and to these motley friends of yours, I will bequeath power and provinces And wealth unbounded. But—pay heed, Sir Capo! If you shall _fail_ to find this cause and cure, By holy Confucius, I will _doom_ you all To tortures and slow death. So to perform Your task, I grant one day—until the hour Of noon to-morrow. Are you satisfied To undertake the task? If not, begone!

CAPO.

Your majesty, I am most itching pleased To undertake it—on conditions.

ALTOUM

What?

CAPO.

For this one day _I_ must be emperor, In place of you, and these my motley friends— Prime-ministers.

ALTOUM

My star!—What then, Sir?

CAPO.

Then, My liege, I most devoutly stake my head And theirs, with these our masks thereto pertaining, Not merely to ascertain the cause and cure Of your fair daughter’s malady, but also— For this, my liege, is my _true_ specialty!— I undertake to see her happily Plight in a perfect marriage of romance.

ALTOUM

Great Buddha! Now, this quickens my stale blood— To meet one man of live audacity! Ha! bid me abdicate—usurp my throne— A one day’s emperor!—Good; be it so. Agreed:—But on your head the consequences!

CAPO.

May the consequences let my head be on!— Where shall I find your daughter?

[_A deep bell sounds within the walls. Calaf reënters with Barak_]

ALTOUM

Hark! the gong!

CAPO.

What gong?

ALTOUM

The gong of death: the execution. Another hapless lover has guessed wrong The fateful riddles. Now the headsman holds His head, and Turandot is coming here In state, to impale the gory token—yonder.

BARAK

[_To Calaf_]

You hear!—You hear?

CALAF

O happy lover, whom The dearest of women honors so in death!

BARAK

Madness!

ALTOUM

[_To Capocomico_]

By heaven, I am impatient of Such slaughter. See you stop it.

CAPO.

[_Nodding loftily_]

We shall bear In mind your supplication, Sir.—Meanwhile My crown!

[_He extends his hand for Altoum’s crown. Altoum, startled, smiles, takes it off and hands it to him_]

ALTOUM

Gods of my ancestors!

CAPO.

[_Putting on the crown_]

And now Present to us our court!

ALTOUM

[_Bows, laughing_]

Well said, my liege!

[_Turning to the Chinese courtiers, he beckons them_]

Doctors and ministers of the royal Divan! Witness our will:—Until to-morrow noon We abdicate our throne, and in our place Appoint, with all our high prerogatives, Our friend and servant—Capocomico. Salute your emperor!

CAPO.

[_Nodding affably_]

Emperor, _pro tem_!

THE CHINESE COURTIERS

[_With murmurs of astonishment, prostrate themselves before Capocomico_]

Salaam!

CAPO.

Not at all. Delighted! We will now Present our friend and servant—Scaramouche, Prime-Minister!

[_The courtiers salaam before Scaramouche, who puts his hand on his heart and blows them a kiss from his drawn sword-point_]

And next, Sir Harlequin, Prime-Minister!

[_The courtiers repeat. Harlequin replies with a ballet-curtsy_]

His lordship, Pantaloon, Prime-Minister!

[_The courtiers repeat. Pantaloon shuffles nervously_]

And Signore Punchinello, Prime-Minister!

[_The courtiers repeat. Punchinello, tapping his nose, bows sagely. The four Maskers assume toploftical airs and gather about Capocomico_]

And now, Prime-Minister, are your four heads All dumb? Your emperor awaits advice.

SCARAMOUCHE

By the belly of Baal, your majesty, I move We all adjourn to breakfast.

PANTALOON

[_Quickly_]

Second the motion!

PUNCHINELLO

Hear! hear! Applause!

[_Harlequin dances to the gate_]

CAPO.

[_Correctively_]

No applause in court! The motion Rests on the table—

[_To Scaramouche_]

with your breakfast.—Now More pressing matters urge: Our imperial Daughter—Princess of Pekin—comes.

ALTOUM

[_Gasping_]

Your daughter!

CAPO.

Daughter, _pro tem_!—

[_To all_]

The princess Turandot: Salute her!

[_To the intermittent toll of the deep gong, soldiers enter with procession to slow, martial music. Amongst them, with regalia, a Headsman bears on a pike the head of a young man, which he places beside the others over the gate._

_Finally, accompanied by female slaves, comes Turandot, dressed like her followers in garb of gloomy splendor._

_In the crowd Calaf gazes at her passionately. With him is Barak._

_The Chinese courtiers prostrate themselves._

_The Maskers bow in European fashion_]

THE CHINESE COURTIERS AND CROWD

Turandot! Salaam!

CAPO.

[_Speaks familiarly to the emperor_]

Altoum, Present to us our newly adopted daughter!

ALTOUM

Turandot, heaven to-day has interposed To grant your prayers. Listen!

TURANDOT

[_Looking with wonder at Capocomico and the Maskers_]

I am listening, Sire.

ALTOUM

’Tis your strange prayer never to marry. Well, Henceforth I vow no more to oppose your whim. One year has passed and one day yet remains Of my rash law that dooms your lovers to death.

[_He points to the new head upon the wall_]

For that one day, to celebrate my vow And do you pleasure, I have appointed these Princes of Faraway, to usher in Our new régime. Sir Capocomico Is now your emperor; these are your court To make a festa of the law’s last day.— After to-morrow you are free forever.

TURANDOT

Sire, are you jesting?

CAPO.

Signorina, all We dream or do is jesting, and ourselves The butts of the jester. We are antics all. To advertise it is my specialty. Therefore, if we be kings or deuces hangs On how the clever jester cuts his pack. This cut I’m king, and

[_Pointing to the Maskers_]

red is trumps, not black. So doff your mourning, daughter.

TURANDOT

If I am dreaming, Or you are jesting, this is the pleasantest jest My heart has dreamed in all one doleful year. Princes of Faraway, I welcome you. This bloody sport of spikèd lovers’ heads— I’m tired of playing it. Those heartless fools That sought to wed a princess ’gainst her will— Look how they read my riddle on the air! Love is a slippery necklace.—Bring me laughter, My one day’s Sire, and I will bow me low And kiss your garment.

CAPO.

Go and change your own, then, To match our motley.

TURANDOT

I will go—and laugh In going.

[_To her slaves_]

Come!

[_Turandot starts to return within the gate. Pushing through the crowd, Calaf prostrates himself before her, with a passionate cry_]

CALAF

Alms!—alms for hearts That beg!

[_Reaching toward her, Calaf holds up the withered rose._

_Gazing, Turandot pauses an instant, moves past, but, looking back, staggers, trembling_]

TURANDOT

Ah me!

[_Swaying, she swoons in the arms of her slave, Zelima_]

ZELIMA

My lady!

CAPO.

[_Rushing toward her, with Altoum_]

Quick! She’s falling!

ALTOUM

Turandot!—Kill the beggar.

TURANDOT

[_Faintly, recovering_]

No, ’tis nothing.

[_To Capocomico_]

Here, give him this.

CAPO.

[_Taking it, astounded_]

Your ring?

TURANDOT

A token, Sire.— A token of our new régime: to all My people—blessing, and to beggars—love.

[_She goes out_]

ALTOUM

[_Going with her_]

Attend her well, Zelima.

[_All follow after, and at a gesture from Capocomico, pass out. Near the gate the Maskers pause and wait for Capocomico, who returns to Calaf_]

CAPO.

Fellow, rise!

[_Calaf staggers to his feet_]

Your most high princess graciously bestows This alms—a ring, in token of her love To all the world.

[_Taking it, Calaf falls again to the ground. Barak comes to him._

_Capocomico watches, and beckons, twinkling, to the Maskers_]

Now heaven witness this:— He also swoons. My playboys, catch your cue. Who said Romance is buried? Here is China Where princesses and beggars swoon to meet!—

[_Surreptitiously, he takes from Calaf’s side a wallet. Then beckons the Maskers._]

Prime-Minister, follow your emperor!

[_He departs with the Maskers_]

BARAK

[_With solicitude_]

Calaf—my prince!

[_He raises him to a sitting posture_]

CALAF

[_Dazedly_]

Her ring!

BARAK

We must be gone gone— Danger surrounds us here.

CALAF

[_Rising_]

_Her_ ring for token! But ah!—he said “to all the world.”

BARAK

Be quick!

CALAF

[_With suddenness_]

I will. This instant I will follow her.

BARAK

Follow her!—what, to death?

CALAF

Death or delight, Either or both, for death itself were joy For her sake.

BARAK

Do you wear that ring in hope? A beggar?

CALAF

No, she gave it as an alms, “To all the world.” The princess of the world Would never stoop in love to wed with less Than royal blood.—There is no hope for me, A beggar.

BARAK

How, then—?

CALAF

I will go as prince— As Calaf, prince of Astrakhan, I’ll go To guess her riddles—like those others.

BARAK

No! That would be doubly death. Your head is forfeit If you are even found.

CALAF

Few know me here, or none, In Pekin; yet though every dog should know me I’ll do it.—Here, keep safe this beggar’s cloak: I love it for her sake. This ring and rose Guard as your life. Come now; help me remove This stain and straggled beard. Then wait for me, Till I have won my love—or perish there!

[_Pointing to the heads on the gate, he rushes into the city._]

BARAK

[_Following him_]

Lord of mad lovers, save him!

_Curtain._

ACT SECOND