by Paul Merton
‘Just imagine the sins you’ve committed in those twenty-eight years, with all those ideas filling your head.’
‘Yes, well, quite a few,’ sighed Peppone.
‘For example?’
‘For example, two months ago I hit you with a stick.’
‘That is serious,’ replied Don Camillo. ‘By offending a minister of God you have offended God.’
‘I regretted it afterwards,’ Peppone exclaimed. ‘I didn’t beat you as a minister of God though, but as a political opponent. It was a moment of weakness.’
‘Apart from this – and belonging to that diabolical Party of yours – do you have other serious sins to confess?’
Peppone spilled the beans.
All told, it wasn’t much, and Don Camillo absolved him with ten Our Fathers and ten Hail Marys. Then while Peppone was kneeling at the altar rail to say his penance, Don Camillo went to kneel beneath the Crucifix.
‘Jesus,’ he said, ‘forgive me, but I am going to beat him to a pulp.’
‘Do not even dream of it,’ answered Jesus. ‘I have forgiven him, and so must you. Deep down he is a good man.’
‘Don’t trust the Reds, Jesus. They lure you in just so they can take advantage of you. Take a good look at him. Can’t you see what a villainous mug he’s got?’
‘It is a face like any other. Don Camillo, you have let your heart be poisoned.’
‘Jesus, if I have ever served you, grant me one thing: let me at least break that big candle over his back. Dear Jesus, what is one candle?’
‘No,’ replied Jesus. ‘Your hands are made to bless, not to strike.’
Don Camillo sighed. He bowed and went through the little gate, turned towards the altar to make the sign of the cross again, and so found himself right behind Peppone who was kneeling there, deep in his prayers.
‘Perfect,’ groaned Don Camillo putting his hands together and looking at Jesus. ‘My hands are made for blessing, but my feet aren’t!’
‘That is also true,’ said Jesus from the high altar. ‘But I am warning you, Don Camillo, just one!’
The kick flew like lightning and Peppone took it without batting an eye.
Then he stood up and sighed with relief: ‘I’ve been waiting ten minutes for that,’ he said. ‘I feel better now.’
‘Me too,’ exclaimed Don Camillo, whose heart felt light and pure as the clear blue sky.
Jesus said nothing, but you could tell he was happy too.
THE BAPTISM
Giovanni Guareschi
Giovanni Guareschi (1908–1968) was an Italian journalist, cartoonist and humourist whose most famous creation is the priest Don Camillo. Guareschi trained as a lawyer but found his vocation when he sent some cartoons to the satirical magazine Bartoldo. Later, he founded his own magazine, Candido, and wrote 347 stories set in the “small world” of rural Italy after the war, featuring Don Camillo – a stalwart Italian priest – and his nemesis Peppone – the hot-headed communist mayor.
Out of the blue one day a man and two women came into the church. One of the women was the wife of Peppone, leader of the Reds.
Don Camillo, who was up a ladder polishing St Joseph’s halo with Brasso, looked down and asked them what they wanted.
‘This here needs baptising,’ replied the man. And one of the women showed him a bundle with a baby inside.
‘Whose is it?’ asked Don Camillo, coming down.
‘Mine,’ said Peppone’s wife.
‘With your husband?’ enquired Don Camillo.
‘I should think so!’ retorted Peppone’s wife angrily. ‘Who else would I have it with?’
‘There’s no need to get angry,’ observed Don Camillo as he headed for the sacristy. ‘I know a thing or two, and they say free love’s all the rage in your Party.’
Passing the altar, Don Camillo bowed and winked at the crucified Christ.
‘Did you hear that?’ he chuckled. ‘I slipped one to the Party of the Godless!’
‘That is rubbish, Don Camillo,’ replied Jesus in annoyance. ‘If they were godless, they would not come here to have their children baptised. If Peppone’s wife had slapped your face it would have been no more than you deserved.’
‘If Peppone’s wife had hit me I’d have grabbed all three of them by the neck and…’
‘And?’ asked Jesus sternly.
‘Nothing, just a figure of speech,’ said Don Camillo hurriedly as he stood up.
‘Take care, Don Camillo,’ Jesus warned.
Don Camillo put on his vestments and went up to the font.
‘What do you want to call him?’ asked Don Camillo.
‘Lenin Libero Antonio,’ replied Peppone’s wife.
‘Then go and have him baptised in Russia,’ said Don Camillo, calmly replacing the cover on the font.
Don Camillo had hands as big as shovels, and the man and the two women left without a word. The priest then tried to sneak off to the sacristy, but a voice stopped him short.
‘Don Camillo, you have done a terrible thing! Go and call those people back and baptise the child!’
‘Jesus,’ replied Don Camillo, ‘baptism is no laughing matter. It is a sacrament. Baptism…’
‘Don Camillo!’ Jesus interrupted him. ‘Are you seriously trying to teach me about baptism? I am the one who invented it! Now listen. You are behaving like an arrogant bully. Just suppose that baby were to die this moment, you’d be to blame if it was denied admission to Paradise!’
‘Let’s not over-dramatise the situation,’ retorted Don Camillo. ‘Why should the baby die? He’s got ruddy cheeks like roses!’
‘That has nothing to do with it,’ Jesus countered. ‘A roof tile could fall on his head; he could have an apoplectic fit. You must baptise him.’
Don Camillo flung wide his arms.
‘Dear Lord, think about it for a moment. None of this would matter if we knew the child was definitely destined for Hell. But even though his parents are a bad lot, he could, if baptised, end up in Heaven. Now tell me this: how can I allow people called Lenin to join you in Heaven? I’m doing this for the good name of Heaven.’
‘Leave the good name of Heaven to me,’ cried Jesus in irritation. ‘All I care about is that the child becomes an honest man. It does not matter to me if he is called Lenin or Coco the Clown. All you are entitled to do is point out to the parents that giving eccentric names to children can often cause them trouble, sometimes big trouble.’
‘All right,’ replied Don Camillo. ‘It’s always me who is wrong. We’ll try and sort it out.’
Just then someone was heard entering the church. It was Peppone, alone but for the baby in his arms. He bolted the door behind him.
‘I’m not leaving here,’ he said, ‘until my son is baptised with the name I want.’
‘Well?’ whispered Don Camillo to Jesus with a smile. ‘You see now what these people are like? One can have nothing but the loftiest intentions, and look how they react.’
‘Put yourself in his shoes,’ replied Jesus. ‘Peppone’s way of life is not something for you to approve or disapprove, but to understand.’
Don Camillo shook his head.
‘I said I’m not leaving until you baptise my son the way I want,’ repeated Peppone, putting the bundle with the baby onto a pew. Then he took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and came menacingly towards Don Camillo.
‘Jesus,’ implored Don Camillo, ‘I appeal to you. If you think it right that one of your priests should assent to the threats of private individuals, then I will defer. But in that case, don’t complain when they came back tomorrow with a calf they want baptised. You know as well as I do, precedents are dangerous…’
‘Well,’ said Jesus, ‘in this case you must try to make him understand…’
‘And if he attacks me?’
‘Accept it, Don Camillo. Bear it. Suffer as I did.’
So Don Camillo turned around. ‘All right, Peppone,’ he said. ‘The baby will leave here baptised, but not with that
damnable name.’
‘Don Camillo,’ muttered Peppone, ‘remember I’ve got a delicate stomach ever since I took that bullet in the mountains. No low blows, or I’ll give you a good going over with a pew.’
‘Don’t worry, Peppone, I’ll address myself only to your upper storey,’ replied Don Camillo, landing a punch by Peppone’s ear.
They were a pair of bruisers with arms of iron and their blows whistled through the air. After twenty minutes of furious, silent combat, Don Camillo heard a voice at his shoulder: ‘Now, Don Camillo! Get him on the jaw!’
It came from above the altar. Don Camillo aimed a blow at the jaw, and Peppone fell to the ground.
He stayed sprawled out there for ten minutes, then he got up, massaged his chin, dusted himself off, put his jacket back on, retied his red kerchief, and picked up the baby.
Don Camillo, by then in his vestments, was waiting for him, solid as granite, beside the font.
‘What shall we call him?’ asked Don Camillo.
‘Camillo Libero Antonio,’ muttered Peppone.
Don Camillo shook his head.
‘No, let’s call him Libero Camillo Lenin,’ he said. ‘Yes, Lenin too. His sort cannot get up to mischief when he’s got a Camillo as his neighbour.’
‘Amen,’ muttered Peppone, feeling his jaw.
When it was all done and Don Camillo was passing the altar, Jesus said smiling, ‘Don Camillo, I have to admit it, you’re better at politics than I am.’
‘And at trading punches too,’ answered Don Camillo loftily, putting a nonchalant finger to a big lump on his forehead.
THE PROCLAMATION
Giovanni Guareschi
Giovanni Guareschi (1908–1968) was an Italian journalist, cartoonist and humourist whose most famous creation is the priest Don Camillo. Guareschi trained as a lawyer but found his vocation when he sent some cartoons to the satirical magazine Bartoldo. Later, he founded his own magazine, Candido, and wrote 347 stories set in the “small world” of rural Italy after the war, featuring Don Camillo – a stalwart Italian priest – and his nemesis Peppone – the hot-headed communist mayor.
Late one evening, old Barchini turned up at the presbytery. He was the village stationer, but being also the proud owner of two cases of type and a foot-operated press from 1870, he had added the word ‘Printer’ above his shop. There must have been something big to report because he stayed in Don Camillo’s study for quite a while.
When Barchini had gone, Don Camillo ran to share the information with Jesus above the altar.
‘Important news!’ he exclaimed. ‘The enemy is going to publish an announcement tomorrow. Barchini’s printing it and he’s brought me a proof copy.’
Don Camillo pulled a freshly printed sheet of paper from his pocket and read it aloud:
FIRST AND LAST WARNING
Again yesterday evening a cowardly anonimus hand wrote an ofensive insult on our news buletin bord. That hand had better keep a lookout, because if the good for nothing it belongs to, who takes advantage of the shadows to preform acts of provocation, doesn’t stop he will regret it when its too late to make amends.
All patients has it’s limits.
Branch Secretary
Giuseppe Bottazzi
Don Camillo gave a mocking laugh.
‘What do you think of this? Quite a work of art isn’t it? Just imagine the fun people will have tomorrow when these manifestoes go up. What’s Peppone playing at, making such proclamations? It’s enough to make you crack a rib laughing!’
Jesus made no reply, and Don Camillo stared in astonishment.
‘Didn’t you catch the style? Do you want me to read it again?’
‘I heard you the first time,’ said Jesus. ‘People express themselves as best they can. It is hardly fair to expect someone who left school at the age of nine to cope with the subtleties of style.’
‘Lord!’ exclaimed Don Camillo, with his arms outspread. ‘How can you speak of subtlety in the same breath as this verbal hotchpotch!’
‘Don Camillo, the lowest tactic you can employ in a debate is to latch onto your opponent’s spelling mistakes and bad grammar. What counts in a debate is the argument. You would do better to question his threatening tone.’
Don Camillo put the sheet of paper back into his pocket.
‘Of course,’ he mumbled. ‘The really reprehensible thing is the threatening tone of the statement. But what can you expect from people like that? Violence is all they understand.’
‘And yet,’ observed Jesus, ‘for all his exuberance, Peppone doesn’t have the air of someone who is just a troublemaker.’
Don Camillo shrugged. ‘It’s like pouring good wine into a rotten barrel. When somebody gets himself into a certain kind of company and adopts the sacrilegious thinking of the rabble, he ends up fit for nothing.’
But Jesus did not seem convinced.
‘I would say that in Peppone’s case, you should look beyond appearances if you want to find out where the truth really lies. Is Peppone being mischievous or has he been provoked into this? Which do you think it is?’
Once again Don Camillo spread his arms. Who could possibly tell?
‘All we need to know is what caused the offence,’ insisted Jesus. ‘He talks about an insult that someone wrote on his news bulletin yesterday evening. So, yesterday evening, when you went to the tobacconist, you didn’t by any chance go past the notice board? Try and remember.’
‘Well, yes I did go past it,’ Don Camillo freely admitted.
‘Good. And did you happen to stop for just a moment to read the bulletins?’
‘Not to read them, definitely not: more a quick squint. Was that wrong?’
‘Not in the least, Don Camillo. You need to keep in touch with what your flock is saying and writing and, if possible, thinking. I was only trying to find out if you noticed anything strange written on the board while you were there.’
Don Camillo shook his head.
‘I can assure you that when I stopped there, I didn’t see anything strange written on the notice board.’
Jesus thought for a while.
‘And when you left, Don Camillo, did you see anything out of the ordinary written there?’
Don Camillo concentrated.
‘Ah, yes,’ he said at last. ‘Thinking back, I have a feeling that as I left I did see something scribbled in red crayon on one of the bulletins. Oh! Please excuse me, I think I hear somebody in the presbytery.’
Don Camillo bowed hastily and made to slip away, but the voice from above the altar stopped him.
‘Don Camillo!’
Don Camillo came slowly back and stopped sulkily in front of the altar.
‘Well?’ asked Jesus sternly.
‘Well, yes,’ mumbled Don Camillo. ‘It may be that... I did happen to write “Peppone is an ass”… But if you’d read that bulletin, I’m sure you’d have…’
‘Don Camillo, you seem to know nothing about your own actions, and yet you claim to know what the Son of God would do?’
‘Forgive me. I’ve been foolish, I realise that. But now Peppone’s being foolish too, sending out posters with threats, and so we’re quits.’
‘You are nothing of the kind!’ exclaimed Jesus. ‘You called Peppone an ass yesterday evening, and tomorrow the whole village will be doing the same. Just think of the people who will pour in from all directions to laugh at the howlers committed by local boss Peppone, of whom everyone is scared to death! And it is all your fault. Does that look good to you?’
Don Camillo plucked up the courage to say, ‘You’re right, but from the wider political point of view…’
Jesus cut him off. ‘I care not at all about the wider political point of view! From the point of view of Christian charity, giving people an excuse to laugh at a man for no better reason than that he left school at the age of nine is a complete disgrace. And you, Don Camillo, are the cause of it!’
‘Tell me, Lord,’ sighed Don Camillo. ‘What can I do?’
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br /> ‘Well it was not I who wrote “Peppone’s an ass”! It is the sinner who must do the penance. See to it, Don Camillo!’
Don Camillo retreated to his study and started to walk up and down the room, imagining that he could hear people stopping in front of Peppone’s proclamation to laugh. ‘Idiots!’ he exclaimed in fury.
He turned to the small statue of the Virgin Mary.
‘Mother of God,’ he prayed, ‘help me.’
‘This is strictly my Son’s concern,’ whispered the little Madonna. ‘I cannot become involved.’
‘Put in a good word for me.’
‘I will try.’
And all of a sudden, in came Peppone.
‘Listen,’ he said. ‘This has got nothing to do with politics. This is about a Christian who finds himself in trouble and comes to ask a priest for his advice. I’m sure…’
‘I know my duty. Who have you killed?’
‘I don’t kill people, Don Camillo,’ replied Peppone. ‘But if someone treads on my corns, my fists are bound to blaze into action.’
‘And how is little Libero Camillo Lenin?’ inquired Don Camillo slyly. And Peppone, remembering the pounding he’d been given on the day of the baptism, shrugged his shoulders.
‘You know how it is,’ he grumbled. ‘Fist fights go both ways. You win some, you lose some. But never mind that, this is a different matter. In short, the fact is that in the village there’s a good-for-nothing lowdown coward, a Judas with poison fangs who, every time we pin up a bulletin on our board with my signature as Secretary, thinks it’s amusing to write “Peppone’s an ass” on it!’
‘Is that all?’ exclaimed Don Camillo. ‘Not exactly a tragedy.’
‘I’d like to know what you’d say if for twelve days on the trot you found someone writing “Don Camillo’s an ass” on the order of service.’
Don Camillo said the comparison didn’t stand up at all. A Church notice board was one thing, the news bulletin board of a political party quite another. It is one thing to call God’s priest an ass, quite another so to discredit the leader of a bunch of rampaging lunatics.
Finally, he asked, ‘Don’t you have any idea who it might be?’
