Turandot

He'll perhaps contrive your handsome friend shan't die.

(Exeunt into the cottage.)

END OF ACT I.

ACT II.

SCENE.-Grand saloon of the Divan. L. Doors leading to the

Emperor's apartment. R. Doors leading to TURANDOT'S Hareem.

Black slaves discovered, engaged in setting the saloon in order;

TRUFFALDIN majestically directing them.

TRUF.

Come, look alive! His Majesty's Divan

Will soon assemble. Now, look sharp, my man!

A carpet for this throne; here sits her Highness;

Bring brooms, and sweep up all this horrid dry mess.

(Enter BRIGHELLA, looking around wonderingly.)

BRIG.

I say, Truffaldin, what's this grand array?

The high Divan again-twice in one day?

TRUF. (without minding him).

Eight seats here for the doctors!

They're all muffs,

But look imposing in their brocade stuffs.

BRIG.

Truffaldin, do you hear? What is the matter?

TRUF.

How dare you make such a confounded clatter?

You stupid, don't you know the whole Divan

Are called to meet as quickly as they can?

Another suitor for my mistress' heart

Is anxious from his silly head to part.

BRIG.

For shame! Three hours ago one victim fell.

TRUF.

This new pretender seems a precious swell.

His curly poll will grace the hangman's pole,

A charming barber's block, upon my soul!

'Twill cut a figure in our 'Rotten Row;'

I think that jest is witty-Ho, ho, ho!

BRIG.

Your soul in blackness with your visage vies-

You grin whene'er a fellow-creature dies.

TRUF.

You jackanapes! None of your paltry spite;

My heart's not black,-your liver 'tis that's white;

So hold your jaw. Why should I grieve to see

That men for love such arrant fools can be?

The more the merrier; for on each day,

Our Princess 'scapes a husband's dreaded sway;

She gives us all a good jollification,

Besides munificent gratification.

BRIG.

How barbarous.

TRUF.

Now, don't you be so silly.

Her suitors are not dragged here willy-nilly;

They know the journey here their heads may cost 'em,

But 'tis no loss; for they've already lost 'em.

Perhaps that's why the riddles they can't guess,

And always fall into a hideous mess.

I'm sure my charming mistress is most lenient

To have devised a method so convenient

To rid herself, and China, of such geese;

Much harder tasks,-to fetch the golden fleece-

Or singing water-or the talking bird-

Were formerly exacted, as I've heard.

My lovely Highness is not so inhuman,

She only tests her sweethearts' fine acumen;

And if she must submit to husband's rule,

At least she'll not be governed by a fool.

(March music is heard.)

BRIG.

The royal trumpets sound. Hark, don't you hear 'em.

TRUF.

I'll run t'escort my Princess from her hareem.

Be off! and guard the palace portals,

Let none pass thro' but Mandarin-born mortals.