Turandot, Princess of China Part 1

Turandot, Princess of China.

by Karl Gustav Vollmoller.

NOTE

The very affecting history of the cruel Princess Turandot and the handsome Prince Calaf may be read in those Persian tales which are known by the name of _The Thousand and One Nights._

Twice already has the story gone over the boards: in 1762 in Venice as "Turandotte," one of the _fiabe_ of Count Carlo Gozzi; in 1804 in Weimar, as Friedrich Schiller's "Turandot." Both versions lived their pa.s.sing hour, and died to the stage.

The present dramatisation of the ancient fable--a modest attempt to cast good metal anew--closely follows the Italian of the sardonic n.o.bleman whose bones have been mouldering by the blue lagoons for over a hundred years.

KARL VOLLMOELLER.

THE FIRST ACT

SCENE I

_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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 n.o.body 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 s.p.a.ce 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, G.o.d bless ye! It was a little matter of two hundred florins that belonged to my employer, the celebrated Dr. Gratiano...

PANTALONE.