Part 1

# The adventures of Harlequin ### By Bickley, Francis

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Transcriber’s note:

Italic text is indicated with _underscores_, bold text with =equals=. Small/mixed capitals have been replaced with ALL CAPITALS.

A half-title and publisher’s note have been discarded.

Evident typographical and punctuation errors have been corrected silently.

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THE ADVENTURES OF HARLEQUIN

BY

FRANCIS BICKLEY

WITH DECORATIONS BY

JOHN AUSTEN

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1923 SELWYN & BLOUNT LTD YORK BLDS ADELPHI LONDON

_The Whitefriars Press Ltd., London and Tonbridge. Made and Printed in Great Britain._

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_Contents_

_How Harlequin Came to be Born_ 11

_Why Harlequin Ran Away from Home_ 15

_Harlequin Meets Scaramouche_ 20

_At Burattino’s Inn_ 25

_The Lady Isabella’s Entertainment_ 33

_How Harlequin First Saw Columbine_ 40

_Harlequin Visits the Doctor_ 44

_Violetta Sets her Wits to Work_ 49

_Violetta Plots and Columbine Wonders_ 54

_Harlequin’s Opportunity_ 63

_Pierrot Sings to Columbine_ 69

_Captain Spavente Makes Mischief_ 75

_Columbine’s Punishment and Harlequin’s New Plan_ 80

_How Harlequin took Service with Lelio_ 87

_Harlequin Sees Columbine Once More_ 92

_Pantaloon’s Dinner Party_ 99

_Concerning Lelio and Pantaloon_ 106

_The Married Life of Harlequin and Columbine_ 115

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_How Harlequin Came to be Born_

At Bergamo, between the Alps and the Lombard Plain, there was once a fruit-seller. He was a prosperous man, for all the nobility and gentry of the town bought their fruit from him; and he was a portly, comfortable man, rosy as one of his own ripe apples. This, some folk said, was because he had never married.

But one day he noticed a girl, a mere slip of a girl, but very pretty, with black hair and laughing black eyes, who stood looking at the fruit in his shop.

“What would you like, miss?” he asked.

“Nothing, thank you, sir,” said the girl. “I only want to look. They are so lovely.”

“Oh! very well,” said the fruit-seller. “There is no charge for looking.”

Presently the girl went away, with what sounded like a little sigh of regret.

Next day she came again, and the fruit-seller, who had a kind heart and thought that perhaps the girl was too poor to buy anything, gave her an orange and an apple. But instead of eating them, she carried them away with her, holding one in each hand and gazing at them lovingly.

That night the fruit-seller could not sleep for thinking of the girl. Nor could he the next.

“This is nonsense,” he said; but still he lay awake.

“I wonder what is the matter with me?” he said.

For answer there appeared against the darkness a vision of the girl’s pretty little face, with its great black eyes and lips like the most delicious sort of cherries.

The fruit-seller did not believe in wasting time.

“You seem to be very fond of fruit,” he said, when the girl arrived as usual on the following morning.

“I am,” she answered. “I love them better than anything in the world.”

“But only to look at? Don’t you ever eat them?”

“No,” she said. “They are too beautiful.”

“Then what do you live on?”

“Honey, mostly,” said the girl.

“I am not surprised to hear it,” said the fruit-seller gallantly.

“I like ortolans, too,” said the girl.

“Oh!” said the fruit-seller. Ortolans were very expensive.

But the girl was very pretty indeed; and if ortolans cost money, the fruit-seller had money and to spare.

“How would you like all these fruit for your very own?” he asked.

Now it was the girl’s turn to say “Oh!” Her eyes grew bigger than ever.

“I mean,” the fruit-seller went on, “how would you like to come and look after this shop? In short, and not to beat about the bush, how would you like to marry me?”

“I should like it very much indeed,” said the girl, who was a simple soul and always said just what she meant.

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So married they were; and neither of them regretted it. The fruit-seller, whom his neighbours had regarded as a confirmed old bachelor, proved to be the most devoted of husbands, and gave his wife as many ortolans as she could possibly eat; while she was the merriest and most charming of wives imaginable. She was always laughing and dancing--especially dancing. One of the first things which the fruit-seller had noticed about her was how lightly she walked, and now that she was happy she hardly walked at all--she flitted.

All the same, she was very useful in the shop. The fruit-seller had been used to set out his fruit anyhow, often leaving them in the ugly, battered baskets in which he had bought them. But his wife changed all that. She had notions of her own about window-dressing, and her husband, though he could not see that the way the fruit were arranged made any difference to their taste, let her do what she would. So she devised wonderful contrasts of golden orange and purple grape, and piled the apples into glowing pyramids. The shop became one of the sights of Bergamo, and people came from far and near to see it. The fruit-seller’s business doubled, and he had to admit that his wife was not only a very delightful companion, but a very good business woman to boot.

In due course a son was born to this happy couple. He had his mother’s eyes; laughed instead of crying when he was born; and hardly ever stopped laughing afterwards. He danced before he could walk, though it would not be very easy to describe how he did it. He was called Harlequin.

The fruit-seller was immensely proud of this son of his, and his mother worshipped him.

“When he is old enough,” she said, “I shall make him a suit of all the colours of the fruit in the shop. For if it had not been for the fruit there would have been no Harlequin.”

So when the time came for Harlequin to be breeched, she made him a wonderful suit of diamond-shaped pieces of cloth, red and purple, green and orange; and Harlequin was the smartest little boy in Bergamo.

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_Why Harlequin Ran Away from Home_

Harlequin was a very imp of mischief. Whatever naughtiness was afoot, he must take his part in it, and he soon became the ringleader among boys who were, many of them, twice his age and size. He showed a diabolical ingenuity in devising tricks to play upon the good folk of Bergamo. Incredibly active and fleet of foot, no policeman could hope to catch him, and no bird’s nest was safe from him: he went up church towers like a steeplejack. In his coloured suit he pirouetted joyfully about the town like a bright butterfly, working havoc wherever he went.

His mother laughed at his doings, and even his father, though he scolded him, could not at first help rather admiring him for them. “I was just such a young rascal at his age,” he would say; though it was difficult to believe that the stout fruit-seller had ever looked anything like his quicksilver son.

But when the boy’s devilries began to affect his trade, he took a more serious view of the matter. Harlequin liked nothing better than to sit in the window above the shop and pelt the customers with cherry-stones or even rotten oranges. Naturally the customers were annoyed, and some of them began to buy their fruit at the new shop over the way.

This made the fruit-seller very angry, and he decided that he must teach his son a lesson. So he went to the carpenter’s and bought a lath, or wand, of white wood, long and thin and flexible. And Harlequin, dancing into the shop, whistling and gay as usual, unexpectedly received his first thrashing.

His mother cried; which surprised Harlequin. It was not she who was being whipped. That himself should cry, which he did most lustily, was no wonder; for his father’s arm was strong, and those pretty clothes of his fitted him very tightly.

Still, he did not mend his ways. He lived for fun; and the fun which he got out of life was, he decided, well worth an occasional whipping. And, in spite of his mother’s tears, he was whipped pretty often.

As Harlequin grew older he discovered new kinds of mischief. By the time he was fifteen he was well known in all the taverns of Bergamo. He diced and played cards, kissed the girls, and was, altogether, as wild a youth as could be found in Lombardy.

“The gallows will be the end of him,” said his father.

“Oh, don’t say so!” cried his mother.

“Well, it is not my fault, my dear,” her husband replied. “I am sure I have done my best to bring him up properly, and I was always sober enough myself. I can’t imagine where he gets his wicked ways from.”

And the fruit-seller looked severely at his wife, for he could not help thinking that her merry disposition--and she was still as merry as ever when she was not worrying about Harlequin--was in some degree responsible for their son’s levity.

“Of one thing I am quite certain,” the fruit-seller concluded, “and that is that he will never be any use to me in the shop. Heaven only knows what is to become of him.”

His wife sighed. What was to become of her precious, scapegrace Harlequin? It certainly was a problem.

Harlequin himself solved the problem for them, quite suddenly.

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One day there was a procession in Bergamo, a very magnificent affair. All the dignitaries of the town took part in it: among them the fruit-seller, who was now a person of great importance--and looked it, as he rode proudly on his white horse, in his fur-trimmed cloak of black velvet, with his gold chain about his shoulders.

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The cavalcade was approaching the cathedral, and everything seemed to be going as it should. But suddenly there was a flash and a bang; then another; then a regular fusillade. For a moment people thought that some enemy, the French perhaps, had taken advantage of the holiday to make an attack on the town. The horses reared, threw their riders, and dashed into the crowd. Women screamed, men shouted, and all was confusion.

Harlequin flung his last cracker into an old woman’s market basket, paused a moment to laugh as she scuttled away as though the devil himself were after her, and then slipped up a deserted side street.

He was pleased with the success of his plot, but he was not sure that it had not been too successful. Of course, every one would guess who had been the author of it, and, if any one were seriously hurt, he would certainly be called to account. For the first time in his life he felt frightened.

“I very much doubt whether the air of Bergamo will be good for my health for some time to come,” he said to himself as he hurried back to the shop, which he knew he would find empty; for his mother was in a window in the great square, watching the procession. He filled his pockets with fruit and with the contents of the till. Also he took that long, flexible wand, of the virtue of which, as a weapon of attack, he had had such painful experience. He could not help shivering as he made it whistle through the air.

Until nightfall he hid in an empty stable on the outskirts of the town, where he and his friends had often gone to play their devilries. As soon as it was dark enough he took the road.

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_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?”

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“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.

_At Burattino’s Inn_

So Venice it was; and Harlequin not only liked Venice, as Scaramouche had predicted, but found it a most astonishing city. Having never before been outside Bergamo, he had, of course, never seen the sea. And here was a town actually built on the sea; where the houses had their feet in the water and people went about their business in boats.

Scaramouche took him to an inn kept by a certain Burattino, where he had often stayed before.

“Burattino is a bit of an old rascal,” he told Harlequin, “but his beds are soft and he keeps a good table. We could not do better than make our headquarters with him. Also,” he added, “he has a very pretty daughter.”

It was by this daughter of Burattino’s, whose name was Violetta, that the travellers were welcomed.

Scaramouche kissed her.

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“Well, my dear,” he said, “it is nice to see you again. How do you find yourself?”

“Blooming,” said the girl. And she looked it, with her plump, ruddy cheeks and her sparkling eyes.

“This is my young friend Harlequin,” said Scaramouche. “He is a famous dancer.”

“How do you do, sir?” said Violetta, and offered Harlequin her lips, which he was not slow in saluting.

“I like your kisses better than Scaramouche’s,” she said. “He kisses like an uncle. There is something of the lover in your way.”

“Naturally,” said Harlequin.

Violetta made him a merry curtsy.

“Neither of you seems to be wasting much time,” said Scaramouche.

“Play us a tune, Scaramouche,” said Violetta. “I want to see Harlequin dance.”

So Scaramouche played, and Harlequin danced, and presently the girl joined in.

“You dance beautifully,” Harlequin told her, when they had stopped.

“Nonsense,” retorted Violetta. “Wait till you see Columbine. She is worthy to dance even with you.”

“Who is Columbine?” Harlequin asked.

But before Violetta could tell him, her father, who had been awakened from his afternoon nap by Scaramouche’s music, came bustling out of the inn. An enormous fellow was Burattino, round as a wine-cask and as red and hearty as the wine of Burgundy.

“I guessed it was you, Scaramouche,” he cried.

“That was easy guessing,” said Scaramouche. “You heard me playing.”

“But I cannot guess who this young man may be, who seems on such excellent terms with my flibbertigibbet of a daughter.”

Scaramouche introduced Harlequin to Burattino, and then they all went indoors.

“We want two of your best beds, Burattino,” said Scaramouche.

“For as long as you like, my dear Scaramouche,” said the innkeeper; for he knew that with Scaramouche there to make music his parlour would always be full. When he learned of Harlequin’s wonderful dancing he grew more cordial than ever, and hastened to set before his guests the choicest of his cates and wine.

At present there was only one person besides themselves in the parlour; but that was a very magnificent person indeed. He was a tall, gaunt man, dressed in a gorgeous military uniform, with a great sword at his side and an enormous pair of moustachios which he twirled continually. He did not look at all pleased to see the newcomers, and glared at them fiercely from under eyebrows which were fit companions to his moustachios. Scaramouche, who had met him before, bowed to him, as Harlequin thought, in rather a mocking manner. The soldier nodded curtly.

“Who is that?” whispered Harlequin.

“That,” replied Scaramouche, “is the most illustrious Captain Spavente. _What_ he is, I have no doubt you will find out for yourself before long. Anyway, I am far too hungry to tell you about him now.”

He fell to work upon his dinner, and Harlequin followed his example.