Turandot: The Chinese Sphinx. Friedrich von Schiller
to soften,
Has often sternly threatened – coaxed as often;
Used prayers for such a monarch infra dig—
But all in vain; she's headstrong as a pig.
At length she said she'd make a compromise,
The Khan consented – (he's not over-wise!)
His artful daughter wheedled him to swear,
By great Fo-hi, that she should never wear
The hateful Hymeneal yoke, unless
Some suitor for her hand should rightly guess
Three difficult conundrums by herself composed:
But if the man who for her hand proposed
Should fail to solve her problems – then his pate
Should be struck off, and grace the city-gate.
Why, what a tigress must this Princess be!
I never heard such cruelty – Bless me!
Already kings and princes by the dozen
She's managed by her subtlety to cozen;
For she's so clever that she always diddles
The keenest wits by her confounding riddles.
As wife, decidedly I should decline her,
She's made of dragon-pattern stony China.
What fools her suitors are, their hearts to fix on
So termagant and bloodthirsty a vixen!
So fascinating is she, none withstand her,
All men for her do nothing but philander.
Behold on yonder gate the ghastly row
Of livid heads set up in dismal show.
All these belonged to men who dared to hope
With Turandot in subtlety to cope.
To-day a prince is led to execution,
Who failed to give her riddles due solution.
That is the reason of the noise you hear,
Pray go not to the town.
What should I fear?
The bloody spectacle your nerves might shake;
The severed head is fastened to a stake.
(Gong sounds within the city watts.)
But hark! yon tantan's loud infernal dinning,
Tells that the tragedy is now beginning.
A monster like this princess should be strangled,
Her body by wild horses torn and mangled.
To all she is not cruelly inclined,
'Tis Man she hates; to women she's most kind.
Within her royal hareem serves my wife,
And with her mistress leads a happy life.
The only fault of Turandot is pride, —
Her many virtues cannot be denied.
Who comes this way?
'Tis Ishmael, the friend
Of him who just has met his tragic end.
Enter ISHMAEL, weeping.
His life is o'er! Ah, would the cruel knife
Had struck my worthless self, and spared his life.
Bear up, good friend, I pity you sincerely,
Your master for his love has paid too dearly.
Why did you not dissuade him from the trial —
My prayers he met with kind, but firm denial.
His dying words still echo in mine ear —
"Good friend," he said, "to die I do not fear;
My life's a blank if without her I live.
Speed to my father, – beg him to forgive
His hapless son, who staked his life on one
Whose face is fair, whose heart is cold as stone.
Shew him this portrait: (takes a miniature from hisbreast) when its charms he views,
My frenzied love, my rashness he'll excuse."
This said, he clasped the portrait to his breast,
Fond kisses on its icy beauty pressed;
Then bent his head, and closed his eyes,
The death blow fell, and sent him to the skies.
(Dashes the portrait to the ground.)
Away, thou false deceit! thou cause of woe,
Th' original I'd trample even so.
To dust I'd grind her tiger heart; – her soul,
I'd send to Eblis' region dark and foul! (Exit.)
Are you convinced?
I'm perfectly amazed.
How can a painted semblance thus have crazed
So sensible a prince? (Stoops to pick it up.)
For heaven's sake,
Avoid that picture as you would a snake.
KALAF (smiling).
No harm will happen, dear old tutor, sure
From picking up a picture from the floor.
No woman yet has caused my heart to throb, —
Shall painted lines my soul of freedom rob?
(Barak endeavours to prevent Kalaffrom beholdingthe miniature; Kalaf puts him aside, and gazeson it for some time in silence.)
Ye gods! an angel's face. Oh ecstacy!
Now, there; he's caught. I knew how it would be!
Beneath this beaming smile, these lustrous eyes,
There cannot lurk a cruel heart of ice.
I tell you she's the wickedest of creatures;
Oh, gaze not on the Syren's fatal features,
More baneful than the Gorgon head, Medusa.
Hush, hush, I will not hear you thus abuse her,
I never saw a face and form diviner;
Her's is not mortal clay, but porcelain China,
Some magic power, some demon, I know not,
Enchains my soul to beauteous Turandot.
(Gazes enraptured on the miniature.)
These eyes to meet, these rosy lips to kiss,
Who would not hazard all to win such bliss?
My senses reel, my veins are