Harlequin Meets Scaramouche
Harlequin walked on through the darkness. The cool night breeze made him feel very cheerful. He whistled and skipped, and every now and then turned a somersault. Presently the moon rose, and it seemed to Harlequin that she was smiling at him. He took this for a good omen, for he knew that the moon could exercise what influence she would upon the lives of men, and it was by no means improbable that he might need a friend ere long. He bowed to her respectfully, and then, since he was not at all respectful by nature, blew her an airy kiss.
“She can take which greeting she prefers,” he said to himself.
The moon winked, and Harlequin, judging her by the girls he had known in Bergamo, guessed that it was his second salutation which she liked best.
He was not really very much worried by the idea of pursuit. In the first place, it was quite likely that the Bergamese, including his father, would be too glad to think that they had seen the last of him to try to get him back again, even for the pleasure of hanging him. In the second, he knew that he could show any pursuer, afoot or mounted, a clean pair of heels. He threw up his heels at the very idea and turned another somersault.
About dawn, he was set upon by a couple of footpads. But they were heavy country fellows, and they could not even touch the agile Harlequin, who flew round and round them like a ring of flame. He had only his light wand against their bludgeons, but he made it whirl and flash so in the dawning light that they thought it was a sword of the finest steel. He flicked one man on the cheek, who ran away screaming that he was dead. The other he caught across the ankles, and the fellow fell on his hands and knees and crawled off as fast as he could. So sure was he that both his feet were gone that he did not try to get up until he had crawled for more than a mile.
He must have looked very silly when he discovered his mistake, but Harlequin was not there to see him. He had gone on his own way, extremely pleased with his exploit, munching one of his father’s apples and whistling a merry tune whenever his mouth was empty enough.
At the first town he came to he bought a black mask.
“Just in case my father should catch me up,” he said. “Besides, there are lots of situations in which a mask is useful; and if I don’t sooner or later find myself in one of them my name is not Harlequin.”
Having eaten a sausage and drunk a flagon of wine, he set out once more on his journey. Nor had he gone very far before he heard, coming from round a bend of the road ahead of him, the sound of such infectious music that his feet were fairly caught up into the tune, so that when he came into sight of the player he was waltzing and pirouetting like a goat stung by a tarantula.
The player, who was sitting by the roadside, laid down his instrument, which was a mandoline hung with gay ribbons, and stared at Harlequin. He was a round-faced, roguish-looking fellow, dressed all in black, except for a white frill round his neck, and wearing a black cap rakishly on one side.
“Who in the name of Bacchus may you be?” he asked.
Harlequin was too out of breath to think of a lie, so he told the truth.
“You swear by a very admirable god,” he added.
“None better,” the other replied.
“And now—name for name, sir,” cried Harlequin.
“That is but fair,” said the musician, rising to his feet, and making a ceremonious bow. “I am Scaramouche, at your service. You may have heard of me.”
“I am afraid not,” said Harlequin.
“Indeed?” said Scaramouche, looking surprised. “Where, if I may ask, do you hail from?”
“From Bergamo.”
“Ah!” said Scaramouche contemptuously; “a poor, inconsiderable town, where art has never been cherished. You may have noticed,” he went on, “that I am something of a performer on the mandoline.”
“Indeed, yes,” said Harlequin. “Such playing I never heard before.”
Scaramouche smiled.
“Thank you,” he said. “I see that, although a Bergamese, you are a person of unusual discernment. But I can very honestly return your compliment. In all my wanderings, and I have visited the most famous cities of Italy, I have never met a dancer who was your equal.”
“Really?” said Harlequin, delighted.
“Never one who could hold a candle to you,” cried Scaramouche. “We are a pair well met. Together, we should conquer the world.”
“I should like that,” said Harlequin.
“Then listen to me,” said Scaramouche. “But, by the way, you have not told me whither you are journeying.”
“Nowhere in particular,” Harlequin replied. “I go where adventure calls.”
“Then you could not travel in better company than mine,” laughed Scaramouche. “For, by Bacchus!—whom we must duly honour at the earliest opportunity—I have never yet found adventure far from where I was.”
“But your plan, sir?”
“It is simple enough. You must know that I am a musician not only by nature, but by profession. My mandoline is my means of livelihood.”
“Then you should be a rich man,” said Harlequin.
“Thank you,” said Scaramouche. “You certainly have a very pretty way of putting things. As you say, I should be a rich man, a very rich man indeed; nay, the richest man in the world. For art is the greatest gift in the world, and music is the greatest of the arts, and, I think I may say it without vanity, I am the greatest musician in Italy, and therefore, of course, in the world. So you see ...”
“Quite,” said Harlequin, who knew nothing about art and was impatient to learn Scaramouche’s plan.
“But, alas!” Scaramouche went on, “there are so few people who can appreciate music for its own sake. Wherever I play, whether in the humblest tavern or the most magnificent palace—and I am equally at home in either—it is the same thing. ‘You play beautifully, Scaramouche,’ they say, ‘but what a pity you do not sing or dance as well! It would be so much more amusing.’ But, unfortunately, I sing like a frog and dance like an elephant. Perhaps you can sing, Harlequin?”
“Not very well,” said Harlequin.
“What one cannot do very well, is not worth doing at all,” replied Scaramouche sententiously. “But your dancing is certainly worth doing. With me to play and you to dance, we shall earn not twice, but ten times as much as I could earn alone. It will be gold instead of silver, silver instead of coppers, and we shall make our fortunes. But maybe you are rich already?”
“On the contrary,” said Harlequin, “when I have paid for my next meal, I shall hardly have a penny in my pocket.”
“Good!” said Scaramouche. “You will dance all the better if your supper depends on it. Are you ready to start?”
“To make my fortune? With all my heart. But where are you going to begin?”
“In Venice,” said Scaramouche. “Venice is the place where fortunes are made. Why, the merchants there are richer than princes anywhere else. Have you never been there?”
“Until last night I had never been outside Bergamo,” Harlequin replied.
“You don’t say so?” said Scaramouche. “Well, I will not ask you why you have left it now. I observe you wear a mask.”
“There is a reason for that,” said Harlequin, feeling rather a fine fellow.
“Quite so. And far be it from one gentleman to ask another why he chooses to go disguised. As a matter of fact,” Scaramouche added, “your mask will not come amiss to our work. A touch of mystery always appeals—especially to the women. You like women, Harlequin?”
“Why, yes,” said Harlequin, thinking of certain pretty lips in Bergamo.
“I did myself once,” said Scaramouche, “but nowadays I find them too much trouble. A flagon of wine is more to my taste. Give me comfort and a flagon of wine, and I want nothing more—until the flagon is empty. But you are young. You will like Venice.”
“Then Venice be it,” said Harlequin.