Chapter 1

_One of the city gates of Pekin. Over the gate, planted on iron poles, a row of severed heads with shaven crowns and Turkish tufts._

TIME: _Shortly after sunrise._ _When the curtain rises the gate is closed._ _From within the roll of drums and military commands._

BRIGELLA.

(_Behind the scenes._) Halt! Present arms!

TRUFFALDINO.

(_Behind the scenes._) Halt! Slope swords!

Open the gate! At ease! Quick march!

(_The gate is thrown open._ TRUFFALDINO, _leading the eunuchs_; _then, between_ PANTALONE _and_ TARTAGLIA, _the_ PRINCE OF SAMARKAND; _behind them, at the head of his pages,_ BRIGELLA. _The whole procession halts in front of the gate, they all draw up in one line, and gaze upwards at the bloody heads._)

PANTALONE.

(_Stepping in front of the footlights._)

My name is Pantalone, and I am a native of Venice. At the moment I am the Prime Minister of the Chinese Empire. Eh, what d'ye say? What I'_m_ doing here in Pekin? H'm. (_Puts his hand in front of his mouth._) Venice got too hot for me. An ind-indelicate affair. My wife of course, you guess my meaning. (_To the_ PRINCE.) This, your Royal Highness, is the place you have heard so much of. Have a good look at it, _please_. Make yourself _quite_ at home. Yes, quite right, up there, _please_! (_To_ TARTAGLIA.)

I say, my dear Lord Chancellor. Be so good as to show his Royal Highness the elevated position he will occupy in the near future. You have the information, I presume.

(TARTAGLIA _turns towards the_ PRINCE, PANTALONE _pulls his sleeve_.)

Don't forget, my dear Lord Chancellor.

TARTAGLIA.

(_Stepping in front of the footlights._) My name is Tat-Tra-Tartaglia (_stammers_). From Naples. My mother always maintained that she was the daughter of a Spanish grandee, but I fear she was a fisherman's daughter from Po-Po-Pozzuoli. My father, on the other hand (_stops short and looks round_)----

(PANTALONE _makes signs to him_.)

PANTALONE.

Better not.

TARTAGLIA.

Better not! That old scarecrow there makes out that nobody ever knew who my father was. He is a... li-li-liar. Excuse me, one moment, ladies and gentlemen. (_To the_ PRINCE.) That head up there on the right, which I beg your Royal Highness graciously to observe, is the head of the valiant Prince of Hyrcania. A valiant prince, a sweet prince. But silly, silly. There's quite a nice open space next to him for you, a fine, sunny situation with a pleasant prospect. How would that do, eh? Company to your liking? All of 'em in the Almanach de Gotha.

PANTALONE.

(_To_ BRIGELLA.) Send the executioner up with the pole. We'll let this charming young Prince select his own point of vantage.

BRIGELLA.

(_To the headsman._) What are you hanging about here for, you hangman, you? Up on the wall with you, by Hikey Mo! Up on the wall or I'll wallop you.

PANTALONE.

Halt! 'Sh! Don't forget!

BRIGELLA.

(_Stepping in front of the footlights._) I'm Brigella, begging your pardon. One of the old honest family of the Brigellas. As you can hear by the way I talk, I was born in Ferrara. There are lying rogues, drat 'em, as say as how you can tell any one that comes from Ferrara by his knavish face. Concerning my own person, though I says it as shouldn't, I've a heart of gold. Not half. Talking about gold now, you'll be wondering, sure enough, what brought _me_ from Ferrara to Pekin. Well, now, it was a purse of gold, God bless ye! It was a little matter of two hundred florins that belonged to my employer, the celebrated Dr. Gratiano...

PANTALONE.

(_Pulls his sleeve._) Better not!

BRIGELLA.

And now with this heart of gold of mine blest if I ain't got to conduct this broth of a boy, bless his honest face! to the block, by command of my mistress, the high and mighty Turandot ...the cru'l Turandot. (_Sobs._)

TRUFFALDINO

(_Pushing_ BRIGELLA _aside._) That's enough. Get out of that. A regular rogue. Standing there and talking about florins.... H'm! Regular rogue.

(PANTALONE _pulls his sleeve_.)

Ah! quite so. I am Truffaldino, by your leave. Truffaldino from the Giudeccao Quite so. (_Turning towards_ BRIGELLA.) Regular rogue. It is monstrous that the dirtiest rascals should always get on best. I have not myself always had the best of luck in these parts... Would you believe it, my voice used to be a very fine, deep baritone. But now... (_Sings falsetto_):

I am not young; I am not old; I live, yet have no life! Ask him who hath suffered woes untold From some volcanic strife Of passionate years, if he remember, Tombed in the grave of life's December, Its vanished golden June.

What do you say about my voice? Lady-like? Well, yes, you see I've spent so much of my time in the society of ladies that I'm afraid my voice has assimilated the quality of theirs. (_Sighs deeply._) Oh, yes. Not that there is any lack of good nourishment. Oh, no. Nor of liquid refreshment. Oh, no. Nor of refined and entertaining company. Oh, no. Nor could any one suggest that I am not in high favour. Oh, no. I have been appointed Chief... Inspector... Oh, no, no, Chief... Manager... Oh, no, no, no... Chief Administrator... Quite so! Chief Administrator of the Harem of her Imperial Highness the Princess Turandot. A position of distinction, a--

(PANTALONE _pulls his sleeve, and drags him away_.)

PANTALONE.

Confound you, sir!... (_To the hangman, who has appeared on the wall._) Another inch or so to the right. Halt! a fine place that.

TARTAGLIA.

Too far to the right, my dear colleague. Much too far to the right. There's a fine place quite near there between the young Maharajah of Timbuctoo and the Crown Prince of Beluchistan. (_To the headsman._) Just a shade farther--to the left, that's it, you've got it--straight up, straight up. Halt!

PANTALONE.

That will never do, my dear Lord Chancellor. That will never do. Really, we _can't_ have three moustaches together. Back to the right--to the right. The Prince of Hyrcania is clean-shaven. His Royal Highness, the dear fellow, will have quite a martial appearance next to him. That's it, right in the middle. A little bit more to the front. Right you are. Halt! (_To the Prince._) I do hope your Royal Highness is delighted with the situation we have been at such pains to select for you. Commanding position, don't you think? Eh? Very well, then, that's all right. Drive it in fast. Down with you. Quick--march! And now, your Royal Highness, my dear old fellow, may we request the honour of your company back to town? We shall proceed, according to instructions, past the harem of our illustrious Princess to the place of execution. But you won't need to make-a, long stay _there_, you'll be back here again very shortly. Let me take this opportunity of introducing to you one of our most capable, one of our busiest officials, with whom you will soon come into closer contact. A very charming man--(_whispers to him_). You'll find him sharp though, he has a cutting manner. ...But don't look so cut up, your Royal Highness; keep your pecker up. Come now, love hasn't treated you so badly after all; it brings most men to the altar and then to the halter-- you'll keep your head out of that noose anyhow. And your flame, your idolized, lovely Turandot, will perhaps do you the honour of appearing on the grated balcony. I tell you this in case you should by any chance desire to cast her one of your languishing glances, your Royal Highness, my dear old chappie. You silly fool you... Forward, march!... Forward, I tell you, march, and be damned to you! Right about turn, forward march!

(_Music. Exeunt all, in the same order as they came, towards the interior of the city. Enter CALAF, from the left, on a pony. He dismounts, and looks round about him in a dazed and dreamy manner._)