Chapter 8

(_To the strains of music enter from the left the Imperial Guards, thereupon the eight doctors, behind them_ PANTALONE, TARTAGLIA, _finally_ ALTOUM, _at whose entrance all prostrate themselves, touching the floor with their brows_. ALTOUM _seats himself on his throne_. PANTALONE _and_ TARTAGLIA _stand near him_. _The doctors sink on to their cushions. The music ceases._)

ALTOUM.

How long, ye faithful, shall this torture last? Scarcely have we with seeming reverence Mourned the poor Prince of Samarkand, mine eyes Have scarcely dried their tears, but a new victim, New sorrow comes. O cruel daughter, born To be a curse to me! But what avails To curse the day when by the highest God I swore that edict! For I cannot break My oath; I cannot touch my daughter's heart; I cannot frighten those who come to woo. Which man of you can tell me what to do?

PANTALONE.

My dearest Majesty, some other Counsellor must advise you in this case. In my home in Venice, Heaven knows, I never heard of such laws. In my home there are never any edicts of that sort. In my home princes don't fall in love with a medallion, and then, out of sheer love for the original, go hawking their heads about. In my home in Venice there never was a girl who refused a man when he offered, like this Princess Turandot here. Heaven knows, in my home such things don't happen even in dreams! Before I had the ill-luck to have to run away from Venice, and before I had the unmerited good fortune to be appointed your Majesty's Prime Minister, I had never heard anything about China, except that you had to be careful not to smash it; and Heaven knows it kind of knocks me on the head that in this part of the world there should be such obsolete customs and such obsolete oaths and such obsolete males and females as there are here in your country, Heaven knows. And if I were to tell the story in my home in Venice, they would say: "Shut up, you bounder! Tell that to the marines!" They'd laugh in my face, I tell you, Heaven knows!

(_Goes to his place._)

ALTOUM.

(_To_ TARTAGLIA.) Have you already seen the new arrival?

TARTAGLIA.

I have, your Majesty. We have given him the suite reserved for foreign princes. He has a remarkably good presence, a nice face, charming manners, and a good accent. I never saw a nicer prince in all my life. I am positively in love with him, and my heart goes pit-a-pat when I think that he is at this moment on his way to have his head chopped off, just like a silly sheep; such a handsome prince, such a charming prince, such a boy of a prince....

ALTOUM.

O sorrow!

(_To_ PANTALONE.) Are the sacrifices made By which we send up prayers to Providence To teach this most unhappy man to solve Our cruel daughter's riddles? Though I scarce Can hope....

PANTALONE.

As far as the sacrifices are concerned, Heaven knows, your Majesty may be quite easy on that point. There has been no economy with regard to the sacrifices, your Majesty. I have ordered sacrifices to be made to High Heaven of one hundred dogs, sacrifice of one hundred horses to the Sun, and of one hundred cats to the Moon. (_Aside._) I, for my own part, Heaven knows, expect nothing from this Imperial butchery except sausages and meat-pies.

TARTAGLIA.

(_Aside._) It would have been far better to slaughter that cat of a Princess. Then everything would be in order. That would be the best way to end all this spitting and scratching.

ALTOUM.

Let the new-comer be conducted hither!

(_Exit one of the_ DOCTORS.)

I will endeavour to dissuade him. You, My reverend doctors, help in this, and you, My faithful ministers and counsellors, If, haply, grief should paralyse my tongue.

PANTALONE.

We've done our best in that direction often enough already, your Majesty, and we're getting about sick of it, Heaven knows. We shall talk at him till our throats are sore, and then he'll go and get his windpipe cut like a turkey.

TARTAGLIA.

Listen here, Pantalone. If my observations can be relied on, this young Prince has gifts of the very highest order, and a degree of ingenuity which is positively penetrating. I do not quite give up all hope.

PANTALONE.

Rot, my dear fellow, rot! You think he's going, to guess that snake's riddles. Rot! Stuff and nonsense! Humbug! Get out! He's done for.