In its sense of honor and general moral attitude, the Western protagonist-couple yarn is chivalric. No matter how wronged the hero may feel in quest of his rightful royal or noble status (and what qualifies Calaf ‘s quest as “rightful?” That’s a given—his identity as a prince without portfolio, son of the disenthroned, exiled Tartar king), he must conduct himself toward both highborn lady and foe according to knightly rules of courtship and combat. Updated and brought down to street level, this code became the common understanding of courtship among well-brought-up young adults, according to which the woman controlled the situation via the power of consent, which she could withhold until her suitor had proved himself worthy according to her own standard of worthiness and/or that of the reigning local social code, often embodied in her father. The woman, presumed to be in tighter control of her impulses than the man, was expected to resist, no matter how strongly attracted, until the set conditions were met. All of this holds together so long as the man in question plays by the rules—does not resort to sexual force with his lady, or to dishonorable tactics against rivals for her hand. If such a rival happens to find a spot on your lady’s dance card for the evening, you’re not allowed to trip him up on the ballroom floor. This democratized understanding of intersexual propriety, along with the chafing restrictions and proscriptions it imposed, hung in there pretty well until the later years of the 20th Century. I’m not sure how it’s faring in the 21st.

According to the original code of noble conduct (“noble” usually connoting both the hero’s rank in the patriarchal hierarchy and the indicated character traits—the two were implicitly conflated), the hero must, in addition to passing any and all courtship trials, continue to protect the safety and purity of women in general, wherever he finds them in peril. In nearly all recountings of the narrative, the female protagonist is allied with our hero from the start, and the couple wage underdog warfare against powerful rivals of either sex and against the injustices of the social structure that impede their alliance. But in Turandot there are no external rivals for either partner. How do the circumstances play out when the couple’s highborn lady herself “presents” as the rival, the adamantine foe, and the force that must be overcome is the part of herself that will not concede? That is the conundrum posed by Turandot, and since we are removed to the fantasy of an Asian “time of fables,” we are far beyond the distressed high-school girl who repels all advances though she “really wants it,” or the haughty heiress who treats our hero with contempt while subconsciously realizing that “he’s the one”—who dominates while hoping to submit. Instead there is the merciless Princess who presides over serial executions of bewitched noble swains; who holds onto her channeling of her distant ancestress Lo-u-ling (a too-perfect tale) as cover for her fear; and has at the same time set as her trial three riddles which—though concededly not a snap under mortal pressure—are not real stumpers. They are meant to be solved, by the correct contestant.