“Don Camillo, watch your step,” said the Lord sternly.
Duly vested, Don Camillo approached the font. “What do you wish to name this child?” he asked Peppone’s wife.
“Lenin Libero Antonio,” she replied.
“Then go and get him baptized in Russia,” said Camillo calmly, replacing the cover on the font.
The priest’s hands were as large as shovels and the three left the church without protest. But as Don Camillo was attempting to slip into the sacristy he was arrested by the voice of the Lord.
“Don Camillo, you have done a very wicked thing. Go at once and bring those people back and baptize their child.”
“But Lord,” protested Don Camillo, “You really bear in mind that baptism is not a jest. Baptism is a sacred matter. Baptism is . . .”
“Don Camillo,” the Lord interrupted him, “Are attempting to teach me the nature of baptism? Did I not invent it? I tell you that you have been guilty of gross presumption, because, suppose that child were to die at this moment, it would be your fault if it failed to attain Paradise!”
“Lord, do not let us be melodramatic,” retorted Don Camillo. “Why in the name of Heaven should it die? It’s as pink and white as a rose!”
“Which means exactly nothing!” the Lord admonished him. “What if a tile should fall on its head or it should suddenly have convulsions? It was your duty to baptize it.”
Don Camillo raised protesting arms: “But Lord, just think it over. If it were certain that the child would go to Hell, we might stretch a point; but seeing that despite being the son of that nasty piece of work he might very easily manage to slip into Paradise, how can You ask me to risk anyone going there with such a name as Lenin? I'm thinking of the reputation of Paradise.”
“The reputation of Paradise is my business,” the Lord shouted angrily. “What matters to me is that a man should be a decent fellow and I care less than nothing whether his name be Lenin or Button. At the very most, you should have pointed out to those people that saddling children with fantastic names may involve them in annoyances when they grow up.”
“Very well,” replied Don Camillo. “I am always in the wrong. I must see what I can do about it.”
Just at that moment someone came into the church. It was Peppone, alone, with the baby in his arms. He closed the church door and bolted it.
“I do not leave this church,” he said, “until my son been baptized with the name that I have chosen.”
“Look at that,” whispered Don Camillo, smiling as he turned towards the Lord. “Now do You see what these people are? One is filled with the holiest intentions this is how they treat you.”
“Put yourself in his place,” replied the Lord. “One may not approve his attitude, but one can understand it.”
Don Camillo shook his head.
“I have already said that I do not leave this place unless you baptize my son as I demand!” repeated Peppone. Whereupon, laying the bundle containing the baby upon a bench, he took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and advanced threateningly.
“Lord,” implored Don Camillo. “I ask You! If You think it just that one of your priests should give way to the threats of a layman, then I must obey. But in that event, if tomorrow they should bring me a calf compel me to baptize it You must not complain. You know very well how dangerous it is to create precedents.”
“All right,” replied the Lord, “but in this case you try to make him understand. . . .”
“And if he hits me?”
“Then you must accept it. You must endure and suffer as I did.”
Don Camillo turned to his visitor. “Very well, Peppone,” he said. “The baby will leave the church baptized, but not by that accursed name.”
“Don Camillo,” stuttered Peppone, “don’t forget that my stomach has never recovered from the bullet that I stopped in the mountains. If you hit low, I shall go for you with a bench.”
“Don’t worry, Peppone. I can deal with you entirely in the upper storeys,” Don Camillo assured him, landing him a neat one above the ear.
They were both burly men with muscles of steel, and their blows fairly whistled through the air. After twenty minutes of silent and furious combat, Don Camillo distinctly heard a voice behind him. “Now, Don Camillo! The point of the jaw!” It came from the Lord above the altar. Don Camillo struck hard and Peppone crashed to the ground.
He remained where he lay for some ten minutes; then he sat up, got to his feet, rubbed his jaw, shook himself, put on his jacket, and reknotted his red handkerchief. Then he picked up the baby. Fully vested, Don Camillo was waiting for him, steady as a rock, beside the font. Peppone approached him slowly.
“What am I to name him?” asked Don Camillo.
“Camillo Libero Antonio,” muttered Peppone.
Don Camillo shook his head. “No; we will name him Libero Camillo Lenin,” he said. “Yes, Lenin. When you have a Camillo around, such folk as he are quite helpless.”
“Amen,” muttered Peppone, gently prodding his jaw.
When all was done and Don Camillo passed before the altar the Lord smiled and remarked: “Don Camillo, I am bound to admit that in politics you are my master.”
“And also in fisticuffs,” replied Don Camillo with perfect gravity, carelessly fingering a large lump on his forehead.
On The Trail
Don Camillo had let himself go a bit in the course of a little sermon with a local background, allowing himself some rather pointed allusions to 'certain people', and it was thus that on the following evening, when he seized the ropes of the church bells — the bell-ringer having been called away on some pretext — all hell broke out. Some damned soul had tied crackers to the clappers of the bells. No harm done, of course, but there was a shattering din of explosions, enough to give the ringer heart failure.
Don Camillo had not said a word. He had celebrated the evening service in perfect composure, before a crowded congregation from which not one was absent, with Peppone in the front row and every countenance a picture of fervour. It was enough to infuriate a saint, but Don Camillo was no novice in self-control and his audience had gone home disappointed.
As soon as the big doors were closed, Don Camillo snatched up an overcoat and on his way out went to make a hasty genuflection before the altar.
“Don Camillo,” said the Lord, “put it down.”
“I don’t understand,” protested Don Camillo.
“Put it down!”
Don Camillo drew a heavy stick from beneath his coat and laid it in front of the altar.
“Not a pleasant sight, Don Camillo.”
“But, Lord! It isn’t even oak; it’s only poplar, light and supple . . .” Don Camillo pleaded.
“Go to bed, Don Camillo, and forget about Peppone.”
D on Camillo had raised his arms and had gone to bed with a temperature. And so when on the following evening Peppone’s wife made her appearance at the presbytery, he leaped to his feet as though a cracker had gone off under his chair.
“Don Camillo,” began the woman, who was visibly greatly agitated. But Don Camillo interrupted her. “Get out of my sight, sacrilegious creature!”
“Don Camillo, never mind about that foolishness. At Castellino there is that poor wretch who tried to do in Peppone! They have turned him out!”
Don Camillo lighted a cigar. “Well, what about it, comrade? I didn’t make the amnesty. And in any case, why should you bother about it?”
The woman started to shout. “I’m bothering because they came to tell Peppone, and Peppone has gone rushing off to Castellino like a lunatic. And he has taken his tommy-gun with him!”
“I see; then you have got concealed arms, have you?”
“Don Camillo, never mind about politics! Can’t you understand that Peppone is out to kill? Unless you help me, my man is done for!”
Don Camillo laughed unpleasantly. “Which will teach him to tie crackers to the clappers of my bells. I shall be pleased to watch him die in gaol!
You get out of my house!”
Ten minutes later, Don Camillo, with his skirts tucked up almost to his neck, was pedalling like a lunatic along the road to Castellino astride a racing bicycle belonging to the son of his sacristan.
T here was a splendid moon and when he was about four miles from Castellino Don Camillo saw by its light a man sitting on the low parapet of the little bridge that spans the Fossone. He slowed down, since it is always best to be prudent when one travels by night, and halted some ten yards from the bridge, holding in his hand a small object that he happened to have discovered in his pocket.
“My lad,” he inquired, “have you seen a big man go by on a bicycle in the direction of Castellino?”
“No, Don Camillo,” replied the other quietly.
Don Camillo drew nearer. “Have you already been to Castellino?” he asked.
“No. I thought it over. It wasn’t worth while. Was it my fool of a wife who put you to this trouble?”
“Trouble? Nothing of the kind . . . a little constitutional!” “Have you any idea what a priest looks like on a racing bicycle?” sniggered Peppone.
Don Camillo came and sat beside him on his wall. “My son, you must be prepared to see all kinds of things in this world.”
* * *
Less than an hour later, Don Camillo was back at the presbytery and went to make his report to the Lord.
“All went well according to Your instructions.”
“Well done, Don Camillo, but would you mind telling me who it was that instructed you to take him by the feet and tumble him into the ditch?”
Don Camillo raised his arms. “To tell you the truth, I can’t remember exactly. As a matter of fact, he appeared to dislike the sight of a priest on a racing bicycle; so it seemed only kind to prevent him from seeing it any longer.”
“I understand. Has he got back yet?”
“He'll be here soon. Seeing him fall into the ditch, it struck me that as he would be coming home in a rather damp condition he might find the bicycle in his way, so I thought it best to bring it along with me.”
“Very kind of you, I’m sure, Don Camillo,” said the Lord with perfect gravity.
Peppone appeared just before dawn at the door of the presbytery. He was soaked to the skin, and Don Camillo asked if it was raining.
“Fog,” replied Peppone with chattering teeth. “May I have my bicycle?”
“Why, of course. There it is.”
“Are you sure there wasn’t a tommy-gun tied to it?”
Don Camillo raised his arms with a smile. “A tommy-gun? And what may that be?”
“I,” said Peppone as he turned from the door, “have made one mistake in my life. I tied crackers to the clappers of your bells. It should have been half a ton of dynamite.”
“Errare humanum est,” remarked Don Camillo.
Evening School
In the empty church by the faint light of the two altar candles, Don Camillo was chatting with Christ about the outcome of the local elections.
“I don’t presume to criticize Your actions,” he wound up, “but I would never have let Peppone become Mayor, with a
Council in which only two people really know how to read and write properly.”
“Culture is not important, Don Camillo,” replied Christ with a smile. “What counts are ideas. Eloquent speeches get nowhere unless there are practical ideas at the back of them. Before judging, suppose we put them to the test.”
“ Fair enough,” conceded Don Camillo. “I really said what I did because if the lawyer’s party had come out on top, I had assurances that the bell tower of the church would be repaired. Now if it falls down, the people will have the compensation of watching the construction of a magnificent People’s Palace for dancing, sale of alcoholic liquors, gambling and a theater.”
“And a jail for venomous reptiles like Don Camillo,” added Christ.
Don Camillo lowered his head. “Lord, You misjudge me,” he said. “You know how much a cigar means to me? Well, look: this is my last cigar, and look what I am doing with it.”
He pulled a cigar out of his pocket and crumbled it in his enormous hand.
“ Well done,” said Christ. “Well done, Don Camillo. I accept your penance. Nevertheless I should like to see you throw away the crumbs, because you would be quite capable of putting them in your pocket and smoking them in your pipe later.”
“ But we are in church,” protested Don Camillo. “Never mind that, Don Camillo. Throw the tobacco into that corner.” Don Camillo obeyed while Christ looked on with approval, and just then a knocking was heard at the little door of the sacristy and Peppone came in.
“Good evening, Mr. Mayor,” said Don Camillo with deference.
“ Listen,” said Peppone. “If a Christian were in doubt about something that he had done and came to tell you about it, and if you found that he had made some mistakes, would you point them out to him or would you simply leave him in ignorance?”
Don Camillo protested indignantly. “How can you dare to doubt the honesty of a priest? His primary duty is to point out clearly all the penitent sinner’s mistakes.”
“Very well, then,” exclaimed Peppone. “Are you quite ready to hear my confession?”
“I’m ready.”
Peppone pulled a large sheet of paper out of his pocket and began to read: “Citizens, at the moment when we are bailing the victorious affirmation of our party . . .”
Don Camillo interrupted him with a gesture and went to kneel before the altar. “Lord,” he murmured, “I am no longer responsible for my actions.”
“But I am,” said Christ promptly. “Peppone has outsmarted you and you must play fair, and do your duty.”
“But, Lord,” persisted Don Camillo, “You realize, don’t You, that You are making me work for the Party?”
“You are working in the interests of grammar, syntax and spelling, none of which is either diabolical or sectarian.”
Don Camillo put on his glasses, grasped a pencil, and set to work correcting the speech that Peppone was to make the following day. Peppone read it through intently.
“ Good,” he approved. “There is only one thing that I do not understand. Where I had said: ‘It is our intention to extend the schools and to rebuild the bridge over the Fossalto’ you have substituted: ‘It is our intention to extend the schools, repair the church tower and rebuild the bridge over the Fossalto.’ Why is that?”
“Merely a question of syntax,” explained Don Camillo gravely.
“Blessed are those who have studied Latin and who are able to understand niceties of language,” sighed Peppone. “And so,” he added, “we are to lose even the hope that the tower may collapse on your head!”
Don Camillo raised his arms. “We must all bow before the will of God!”
A fter seeing Peppone to the door, Don Camillo came to say good night to Christ. “Well done, Don Camillo,” said Christ with a smile. “I was unfair to you and I am sorry you destroyed your last cigar. It was a penance that you did not deserve. Nevertheless, we may as well be frank about it: Peppone was a skunk not to offer you even a cigar, after all the trouble you took!”
“Oh, all right,” sighed Don Camillo, fishing a cigar from his pocket and preparing to crush it in his big hand.
“No, Don Camillo,” smiled Christ. “Go and smoke it in peace. You have earned it.”
“But . . .”
“No, Don Camillo; you didn’t exactly steal it. Peppone had two cigars in his pocket. Peppone is a Communist. He believes in sharing things. By skillfully relieving him of one cigar, you only took your fair share.” “You always know best,” exclaimed Don Camillo.
Out of Bounds
D on Camillo used to go back and measure the famous crack in the church tower, and every morning his inspection met with the same result: the crack got no wider but neither did it get smaller. Finally he lost his temper, and the day came when he sent the sacristan to the Town Hall.
“Go and tell the Mayor
to come at once and look at this damage. Explain that the matter is serious.”
The sacristan went and returned.
“Peppone says that he will take your word for it that it is a serious matter. He also said that if you really want to show him the crack, you had better take the tower to him in his office. He will be there until five o'clock.”
Don Camillo didn’t bat an eye; all he said was, “If Peppone or any member of his gang has the courage to turn up at Mass tomorrow morning, I'll fix them. But they know it and probably not one of them will come.”
T he next morning there was not a sign of a “red” in church, but five minutes before Mass was due to begin the sound of marching was heard outside the church. In perfect formation all the “reds,” not only those of the village but also those of the neighboring cells, including the cobbler, Bile, who had a wooden leg and Roldo dei Prati who was shivering with fever, came marching proudly toward the church led by Peppone. They took their places in the church, sitting in a solid phalanx with faces as ferocious as Russian generals.
D on Camillo finished his sermon on the parable of the good Samaritan, with a brief plea to the faithful. “As you all know, a most dangerous crack is threatening the church tower. I therefore appeal to you, my dear brethren, to come to the assistance of the house of God. In using the term ‘brethren,’ I am addressing those who came here with a desire to draw near to God, and not certain people who come only in order to parade their militarism. To such as these, it can matter nothing should the tower fall to the ground.”
T he Mass over, Don Camillo settled himself at a table near the door, and the congregation filed past him. Each one, after making the expected donation, joined the crowd in the little square in front of the church to watch developments. And last of all came Peppone, followed by his battalion in perfect formation. They drew to a defiant halt before the table.
Peppone stepped forward proudly.
“ From this tower, in the past, the bells have hailed the dawn of freedom and from it, tomorrow, they shall welcome the glorious dawn of the proletarian revolution,” Peppone said to Don Camillo, as he laid on the table three large red handkerchiefs full of money.
Giovanni Guareschi Page 2