Chapter 9

CALAF. _The foregoing._

(_Enter_ CALAF, _escorted by the_ DOCTOR. _He kneels, and rests his hand on his forehead._)

ALTOUM.

Arise, thou young and madly daring man!

(CALAF _rises, makes an obeisance, and stands with noble bearing between the two thrones, facing the spectators._ ALTOUM _scans him carefully_. _Aside._)

How handsome the youth is! Compassion moves My breast.

(_Aloud._) Unhappy man, what is thy name? What King calls himself father unto thee?

CALAF (_at first somewhat confused, then with a noble bow_).

Sire, let me beg a boon: that for the nonce My name be covered up with dark.

ALTOUM.

How now!

You woo the Emperor's daughter, and withhold Your name?

CALAF (_with pride_).

I am of royal blood. If Heaven Decree my death, there will be time left then To make my name and country known to you.

(_With another bow._)

Vouchsafe me silence for the present, Sire.

ALTOUM (_aside_).

What noble speech and port! (_Aloud._) But if perchance You solve the riddles, and then prove to be Of mean extraction, how shall the edict...

CALAF (_interrupting him quickly_).

Sire, The edict serves not save for sons of Kings. If I by help of Heaven should solve the riddles, And then were found to be of base extraction, Let my head pay for it. My body give To dogs and carrion crows upon the fields. There is one man in Pekin knows my name, And he will bear me witness.

(_With an obeisance to the_ EMPEROR.)

Therefore I Entreat you in your mercy once again, Still let my name be covered up with dark.

ALTOUM.

So be it then! It is your pleasing speech And noble bearing make me grant the boon. Oh that you now would grant the Emperor The boon he begs for from his very throne, Beseeching you: Go back, my son, go back! Desist from this adventure, and go back!

PANTALONE.

We can't get him any farther, your Majesty.

ALTOUM.

The nations are already nursing wrath Against me for the reckless oath I swore. Do not thou also force me to shed tears Over thy corpse. Oh, force me not to hate This daughter of my loins more than I do Already; force me not to hate myself Who brought her into the world, more than I do. Proud, vain, and pitiless, and cruel, source Is she of torment to me till I die.

CALAF.

Sire, but I cannot think that you have cause To fill your heart with torment and unrest. If in your daughter there is cruelty, It is not from her father that it came. If guilt you have, it can be only this: That you have given the world such peerless beauty As draws all men to her. I thank you, Sire, For your great goodness! I have but one thought, To win your Turandot or live no more. All that I ask is death or Turandot.

PANTALONE.

H'm, my dearest Royal Highness, I presume you vouchsafed to behold the severed heads on the city wall. Eh? Heaven knows what pleasure there can be in having oneself stuck like a pig, so that afterwards the whole town is full of tears and blowing of noses, Heaven knows. I can tell you beforehand, the Princess will nail you three riddles together that it would take Old Moore himself seven years to take to pieces, Heaven knows. We two sit here, year in, year out, and the learned doctors, too, sit here in judgment, judging who guesses well and who guesses ill, and we've had a bit of practice and we can "read print, Heaven knows--and yet we can't make head or tail of our most wise Princess's riddles. These are not riddles like those in Saturday's _Daily Telegraph_, such as:

"Puts his head between his feet, And rolls him in a ball complete,"

or:

"Four already, I'll be bound, This is one when it is found."

No, these are confounded new-fangled puzzles with man-traps in 'em and patent springs. And if she didn't write the solutions beforehand on slips of paper and pop 'em into sealed envelopes and hand 'em in to the doctors, why even they wouldn't know whether they were standing on their head or their feet, Heaven knows. You go back home, my dearest Royal Highness. It really would be a pity, such a fine young fellow as you are. Do as I advise you, Heaven knows. If you don't I wouldn't give as much for your head as I would for a turnip radish. No use, no use.

(PANTALONE _to his place._)

CALAF.

You talk and lose your breath, old gentleman, What I demand is death or Turandot.

TARTAGLIA.

Turandot.... Turandot.... What a damned stupid ass the dear fellow is! You just listen to me, my dear boy! This is not a question of drawing lots with blades of straw for a cup of coffee or an iced chocolate. Get that into your head; do be quick and get that into your head, please. It is a question here of keeping or losing your head. That is the only argument I will bring forward to reduce you to reason. This one argument _should_ suffice. Your head is in danger, do you understand? Your head. His beloved Majesty in his own most gracious person begs and implores you not, to lose your head. His Imperial Majesty has in his own most gracious person sacrificed one hundred horses to the Sun, one hundred dogs to High Heaven, and one hundred cats to the Moon, to induce them to restore your lost wits--and you, you sweet little sugar-plum you, you actually refuse. Why, even if there were no other fish in the sea except Princess Turandot, your intentions would still amount to capital folly. You must give me credit, my dearest Prince, for talking so frankly, because I wish you well. Have you, may I ask, at any time carefully considered what it means to be shortened by a head? I can hardly believe you have.

CALAF.

You talk too much and lose your breath, dear sir. Death is what I demand or Turandot.

ALTOUM.

Death have then, and with death my own despair.

(_To the_ DOCTORS.)

Go, one of you, and bid the Princess come. And tell her a fresh sacrifice awaits.

(_Exit_ DOCTOR _behind_ EMPEROR, _front of stage_.)

CALAF (_aside_).

Ye heavenly powers, help me, and lend me strength And self-possession, lest the sight of her Confuse me: for my mind already sways, My heart pants, and my lips are quivering.

(_To the assembly._)

Illustrious Divan, most reverend Doctors, My answers' judges, judges soon to me Over my life and death, oh, pardon now My rash adventure, be not pitiless To one disquieted and blind with love, Who, heedless of the place and of the hour, Forces the closed arms of his sullen fate.