They all swore, and shook hands on it. It’s not that way in the city, but in the Po valley, when a man gives his word it is considered binding. And so Don Camillo went to bed with his mind at rest. To spend sixty thousand liras for a couple of days would be utter folly, and Peppone’s plans were doomed from the start. It wasn’t really the season for a carnival, anyhow; the bulk of the dancers would come from other villages near by. Without the usual contributions from the storekeepers on the square and faced with the prospect of digging up sixty thousand liras in cash, Peppone would have to surrender.
Peppone knew nothing of the trouble which Don Camillo was brewing for him, and the next day he sent Smilzo out on a reconnoitring mission.
“Go and see about renting some land. Remember that you are fortunate enough to be dealing with eight separate owners. If any one of them asks too much money, you can afford to pass him by in favour of one of the seven others. Don’t worry about their doing you in. Rich people don’t know how to organize such a thing as joint action. Their only wish is to rub up against one another. So remember that I don’t want to spend more than twelve thousand liras, to be paid when the carnival is over.”
Smilzo went bravely off, and when the first landowner he approached asked for sixty thousand liras cash, he laughed in his face. He laughed again when the second made the same demand. But the third aroused no more than a faint smile, and the fourth wiped that off his face. When he had finished making the rounds, Smilzo came gloomily back to where he had started.
“Chief,” he began, “two hours ago you said that rich people were too stupid to organize a joint action.”
“Well, what of it?” asked Peppone.
“You’re dead wrong, Chief. This time they’ve all banded together and none of them will rent his land for less than sixty thousand liras, paid in advance.”
Peppone began to describe in a loud voice that sink of iniquity which was the soul of Don Camillo. He concluded his tirade by saying:
“Comrades, there are two alternatives before us: either to concede the clericals’ victory, or to squeeze out sixty thousand liras. Choose! But think first which course is the more expensive in the long run.”
“Chief, we haven’t really an idea of the market prices,” Brusco observed.
“But you have an Ideal, for which you are willing to die, haven’t you?” Peppone shouted.
Brusco wanted to answer that pledging one’s life to an Ideal and promising to pay sixty thousand liras are two quite different things. Especially when the liras have to be put down on the spot, for a man who pledges his life to an Ideal isn’t compelled to die in advance for it. But he did not say any of these things, and so it was decided that a clerical victory would cost more grief than the outlay of sixty thousand liras. Because none of the Committee had brought any money, Peppone was the one to fork out.
Don Camillo took it hard when he learned that Peppone had put down sixty thousand liras in cash for the rent of a field to the left of the Molinetto road, just outside the village. He hadn’t anticipated any such blow. And when he read posted announcements of the carnival, he took it even harder. The posters made extravagant promises: prizes for the best single dancers, the best-matched and most ill-assorted couples, and the presence of two orchestras, together with well-known popular singers.
“They’re getting up something tremendous,” his informants told Don Camillo. “It’s advertised in the villages for miles around, with a special appeal to their Party groups. Yes, it’s become a political football, an act of resistance to clerical interference.”
Don Camillo lost his head. Wasn’t the whole fault his? Hadn’t he asked for trouble? If he hadn’t intervened, the carnival tents would have been pitched on the square; Peppone and his gang would have organized the usual uninspired celebration.
Yes, Don Camillo lost his head. Whenever this happened the consequences were disastrous, for the devil’s tail began to swish with anticipation. After having foamed impotently at the mouth with anger, one whole day long, Don Camillo called his most reliable follower, Gigi Lollini.
“Gigi,” Don Camillo said to the young man, “have you seen what those damned souls are up to now?”
“Yes, Father, I have.”
“Gigi, we’ve got to make it fail. You must form a committee and set up another carnival, just across the way. If the Reds have two orchestras, then hire three; if they have three contests, stage half a dozen. You have a head start, because while Peppone’s had to advance sixty thousand liras, you’ll get the land for next to nothing. Go to Cerelli, whose place is just opposite the one rented by Peppone. Only don’t let on that I’m in any way concerned. A parish priest can’t sponsor a forty-eight-hour dance marathon.”
Lollini was a violent anti-Red and undertook the assignment with enthusiasm. He scuttled away and went first to rent some of Cerelli’s land. Soon he came back to the rectory.
“Father, that old skinflint wants sixty thousand liras. I asked the other six, and they told me that they had all promised to accept no less. After imposing these terms on Peppone, they feel they must stick to their guns. The main thing is that they don’t want trouble…. I found some fellows to go into partnership with me, but they refuse to spend more than fifteen thousand liras, and I haven’t any cash to advance myself.”
Yes, the devil’s tail was swishing ominously. Don Camillo paced up and down the rectory hall and then said:
“I can get my motorcycle later on. Here are the sixty-five thousand liras I’ve been saving up; I’ll give you all but five of them.”
“Don’t worry, Father, you’ll get them all back. We have a programme that will put the Reds to shame, and we’ll give it plenty of publicity….”
The next day the village was filled with posters announcing “The Carnival of the Century”, put on by the “Good Fun Company”. Afternoon and evening dancing were to appropriately honour the feast of Saint Michael.
The morning of the last day before the celebration Smilzo and Lollini came to blows over trifles. Soon after noon a truck arrived with material for the Reds’ carnival, and two hours later, while it was still being erected, came the material for Don Camillo’s, just across the way. At two-thirty, the rival gangs met in the middle of the road and beat each other up enthusiastically. By evening, both carnivals were nearly ready, but it looked as if the next day were going to be the saddest Michaelmas the village had ever known.
“Lord!” said Don Camillo to the crucified Christ on the main altar, “if you don’t step in, tomorrow is going to be ugly for all of us. Everything in this crazy village revolves round politics, even an immoral but non-political ball. Because of the rivalry between the two groups which have organized the dances, it’s likely that the Celebration will end in a free-for-all fight. Unfortunately, a minister of your church is mixed up in it, because he ill-advisedly supported one group against the other. He had good intentions, Lord…”
“Don Camillo!” the Lord interrupted, “you know what’s paved with good intentions. And since when does the end justify the means?”
“Lord,” whispered Don Camillo, “unless it’s a lie circulated by God’s enemies, You Yourself once drove the money-changers from the temple. Of course, I don’t say that beating people up is a sin, but after all…”
“Don Camillo, how do you dare criticize your own God?”
“I’m not sacrilegious, Lord, but I do say that when one of God’s creatures has an ailing tooth, then even if the dentist hurts him by pulling it out…”
“Don Camillo,” Christ said gravely: “Why do you walk in the tortuous path of sophistry?”
“Because I’ve got off the right track, Lord, and I wish someone would put me straight, with a swift kick, if need be!”
Slowly Don Camillo raised his head to look at Christ’s face, but his eyes remained on the feet, nailed to the Cross.
It was a terrible night for Don Camillo. He woke up at four o’clock and ran to the window. It was raining, raining buckets and torren
ts. And as the hours went by, it continued to rain. It rained all day, and by midnight the floor-boards of the two carnivals were floating in mud. It rained all of three days more, and amid the downpour both carnivals were dismantled and shipped away. Then, when God willed it, out came the sun, and Don Camillo ran into Peppone.
“Father,” Peppone said bitterly, “your manoeuvres cost me sixty thousand liras out of my own pocket.”
“They cost me the same,” sighed Don Camillo.
“That makes me feel better,” said Peppone.
“Then we’re even,” put in the priest.
“But on Michaelmas of next year…” Peppone began, threateningly.
“You mean, if it isn’t raining…”
“I forgot that you clericals are in on God’s little secrets,” Peppone shouted angrily. “But it won’t go on like this forever. There’ll be a day of reckoning!”
“That is, if it doesn’t rain, Mr Mayor!”
“We’ll fight with umbrellas,” Peppone said solemnly, as if he were speaking for history.
And in order not to spoil the effect, Don Camillo said nothing more.
Ring out the Old, Ring in the New
DON CAMILLO was called to the Bishopric, but since the old Bishop was ill Monsignor Contini received him.
“Tell me all about the ‘Bridge’ church.”
This was the last question Don Camillo had expected and for a moment he was so taken aback that he could not open his mouth.
“The ‘Bridge’ church? Forgive me, Monsignore, but I don’t know what you mean.”
“It’s not so hard to grasp. There’s a building within the boundaries of your parish known as the ‘Bridge’ church, isn’t there?”
“Yes, Monsignore.”
“Well then, tell me all about it.”
Don Camillo gathered his thoughts together and then told the brief story.
“The so-called ‘Bridge’ church was until fifty years ago in an independent parish in the Pioppetta section. Then, as the village grew, the Pioppetta parish was integrated with ours. But the ‘Bridge’ church remained officially open, by virtue of a yearly mass celebrated on St Michael’s day.”
Monsignor Contini shook his head.
“According to what I’m told, there’s something more to say. The faithful who live out that way would be happy if mass were said there every Sunday. Isn’t it so?”
“Undoubtedly, Monsignore. The Pioppetta section is quite far out, and the road leading to the centre of the village is in miserable condition. To come in every Sunday is a real hardship, especially for the old people.”
“Then everything we have been told is true. We are distressed only that you shouldn’t have been the one to inform us.”
“But, Monsignore, no one from the Pioppetta section has ever said anything to me.”
“Very well. But when you’ve noticed a number of people from there failing to turn up at Sunday mass, especially during the winter, you might have thought to report the situation. In any case, now that, it has been reported, we shall see that something is done about it. Every Sunday and holy day of obligation mass shall be said at the ‘Bridge’ church.”
Don Camillo bowed his head.
“With God’s help, I shall carry out the Bishop’s orders.”
“With God’s help and the help of the young priest we are going to send to assist you. We aren’t asking you to make an unreasonable effort.”
Don Camillo’s mouth fell open.
“But, I really don’t need…” he stammered.
“Don Camillo,” Monsignor Contini interrupted him, “we know your good will. But for all of us the years are going by. You’re getting to be, well, shall we say, a mature man….”
“I?” exclaimed Don Camillo, throwing out his chest. “I can still carry a three-hundred weight sack of wheat up to a second storey!”
“I don’t doubt it! But your job is not weight-lifting, and muscles are not the prime requisites.”
“Monsignore, I’ve always carried out my priestly mission…”
“I’m sure of that Don Camillo. But we can’t expect you to go beyond the call of duty. We shall send you a bright, enthusiastic young fellow, who’ll relieve you of some of the drudgery of parish work. The rectory is big enough to lodge him, and the generosity of Divine Providence is unfailing, so that you’ll have no trouble in putting him up.”
“I shall obey orders, as faithfully as ever.”
“As almost ever,” his superior corrected him. “We know Don Camillo and esteem him at his just worth, but in all truth we can’t say that he is an example of perfect discipline. Don Camillo is an honest, diligent priest, but he has a bit of temperament … or am I mistaken?”
“No, Monsignore. I admit to my weaknesses.”
“Let’s forget about them,” said Monsignor Contini. “When you go back to the village, put the ‘Bridge’ church in order, so that it can be turned to full-time use as soon as possible.”
“Monsignore,” said Don Camillo, throwing out his arms. “When it was a matter of saying only one mass a year, I brought the necessary supplies with me. But what are we to do now? The church is an empty shell.”
“There are people in your village who are not only well off, but who have means far beyond their needs. You must make the rounds of all those who are in a position to give. Tell them that by contributing to this little church they will warm their ailing Bishop’s heart.”
These words particularly caught Don Camillo’s attention.
“Is he so very ill, Monsignore?”
“Yes, but there’s no reason to be alarmed or to spread the alarm, it’s nothing you can put your finger on, but simply the effect of old age. What His Grace needs above all is complete rest and peace of mind. We must not allow him to worry.”
“He needn’t worry about the little church under my jurisdiction!” exclaimed Don Camillo. “All that he wishes shall be done. Even if I have to use brute force…”
“Come, come, Don Camillo!…”
“That’s just a manner of speaking.”
The ‘Bridge’ church was in a sorry state. The walls were sturdy enough, but the ceiling looked like a sieve; the plaster was in tatters, the floor uneven, and the pews cracked or cracking. Even a minimum amount of repairs called for a considerable sum of money, and the collection of such a sum called, in turn, for what seemed like an infinity of patient endeavour. When Don Camillo had drawn up an estimate of the costs, he drew a deep breath as well. “I’ll do everything I can, and Divine Providence will look after the rest,” he concluded.
His campaign got off to a lame start, when he knocked first at the door of Filotti, the richest landowner in the vicinity. Don Camillo spoke of the old Bishop and of the pleasure it would give him to hear that the little ‘Bridge’ church was back in use. But Filotti shook his head.
“Father, when you’ve asked for money for the poor or for the Orphan Asylum, I’ve always been happy to contribute. But this time I don’t feel like giving. The village church is quite sufficient. And, frankly, I don’t see why, at this point, I should help to finance propaganda directed against my own class.”
“Come now!” exclaimed Don Camillo. “Have I ever supported propaganda against landowners?”
“Father, I’m not speaking of you personally. I refer simply to what I read in your newspapers and the speeches made by your senators and deputies to parliament.”
“The Church has neither senators nor deputies!” Don Camillo protested.
“That isn’t the way you sounded around election time,” said Filotti calmly.
Don Camillo’s second stop was at the house of Valerti, who listened quietly to all he had to say and then likewise shook his head.
“Why should I give you money?” he asked. “It would mean that those of us whom you call ‘neo-Fascists’ would be blasted from two pulpits instead of one.”
Without seeking to defend himself, Don Camillo continued his rounds, but his third visit was no more for
tunate than the other two, for Signora Meghini hardly waited for him to end his plea before she started violently shaking her head.
“Father, if you’re looking for money with which to open a second church, go to the Republicans. Don’t forget that you refused Absolution to all of us who voted for the Monarchist Party.”
Don Camillo went next to Moretti, a landowner of pronounced clerical tendencies. Moretti listened piously to all he had to say, and answered with a sigh:
“Since you speak of the Bishop, I can’t say no. But mind you, it’s only for his sake.”
“Very good,” said Don Camillo, “but why must you tell me that only the good Bishop inspires you? Have I failed to please you in some way?”
“Not you personally,” said Moretti, shaking his head. “But generally speaking, I can’t approve of combating Communism by attacking the upper class.”
Don Camillo pocketed Moretti’s contribution and went to knock at still another door. Perini opened it in person and gave him ill-humoured attention.
“There’s not much I can do, Father,” he said. “My family just manages to get along, from day to day. Here’s my mite, but let’s hope that the new priest is up-to-date.”
“Up-to-date?” exclaimed Don Camillo. “What do you mean?”
“It’s time people got it into their heads that the world is turning definitely to the Left. We militant Catholics insist upon a social programme, and until the clergy catches up with us, Communism will continue to gain ground. And Communism’s no joke, Don Camillo. Don’t go imagining that all Communists are like Peppone!”
Don Camillo said that he imagined nothing of the sort, and went to knock at the next door. He made a hundred or more visits, and everywhere he received a reply like one of those quoted above. After several days of going from place to place he unburdened himself to the crucified Christ on the main altar.
Don Camillo and the Devil Page 8
