South Wind(Fiscle Part-3), Norman Douglas [most important books of all time .TXT] 📗

Dye. He Took No

Chances. He Never Threatened; He Performed. Everybody Knew That. Signor

Malipizzo Did Not Like The Prospect Of Losing His Lucrative Job. Still

Less Did He Fancy The Notion Of Receiving A Charge Of Buck-Shot In His

Liver,  One Evening From Behind A Wall. That Was Don Giustino's Cheerful

Way With People Who Annoyed Him. Those Infernal Clericals; Their

Sanguinary,  Out-Of-Date Methods! Papacy And Camorra--Interconvertible

Terms--Who Could Plumb Their Depths? The Masons Were Different. They

Fought For The Enlightenment Of A People Deluded By Priestly Snares And

Intimidated By The Threats Of Assassins. Don Giustino. Holy Mother Of

God! What Would To-Morrow Bring?

 

Thinking Thus,  The Judge Eyed His Victuals Resentfully. His Appetite

Was Gone--He Was Beginning To Feel Sick. Suddenly He Pushed His Plate

Away From Him And Hobbled Out Of The Room,  Even Forgetting To Finish

His Wine. He Limped Across The Broiling Market-Place To Give The

Necessary Orders To His Faithful And Experienced Clerk Who,  Having

Likewise Got Wind Of That Telegram,  Was Not Unprepared For Some Change

Of Mind On The Part Of His Chief.

 

"The Young Idiot Must Come Up For Trial To-Morrow,  If The Assassin

Arrives."

 

"A Sound Suggestion," The Grey-Haired One Replied. "It Will Take The

Wind Out Of His Sails. It Will Prove--"

 

"Of Course It Will. And Now,  Don Carlo,  Go And Take Your Little Nap. I

Will Stay Here,  To Put My Papers In Order. May Your Dreams Be Happy."

 

The Judge Was Dowered With Extreme Irascibility Of Temper,  Due To His

Chronic Valetudinarian Condition. He,  Too--Within The Limits Of

Propriety--Was Not Going To Take Things Lying Down. So Much Was Certain.

At First He Was Too Agitated To Be Able To Collect His Thoughts.

Gradually,  As He Moved About Those Rooms,  Calmness And Confidence

Returned. He Was Alone. It Was Very Warm And Quiet Here,  Amid These

Scenes Of His Many Little Triumphs. The Look Of The Archives,  The

Familiar Smell Of The Place,  Was Reassuring. He Began To Feel At Ease

Once More. Ideas Came To Him.

 

He Signed Warrants For The Arrest Of The Messiah,  Krasnojabkin And Some

Fifteen Others Of Those Who Had Escaped His Wrath On The Previous

Occasion. They Would Be Under Lock And Key Within Two Hours. Don

Giustino Would Never Interfere On Behalf Of These Aliens. Nor Would Any

One Else. An Inspiration! It Would Proclaim His Zeal For The Public

Order--His Official Independence Of Mind.

 

And--Yes. There Was One Other Little Thing.

 

He Hobbled To Where The Various Pieces Justificatives Were Lying In

Their Sealed Envelopes. He Took Up The Receptacle Containing The Gold

Talisman Which Had Been Sequestrated From The Priest's Nephew,  And

Broke It Open. It Could Always Be Sealed Up Again. The Coin,  Attached

To Its String,  Fell Out; It Was An Old-Fashioned Medal--Spanish,

Apparently. He Fingered It Awhile. Then,  Opening The Packet Which Held

Muhlen's Gold,  He Carefully Examined The Contents. Five Or Six Of These

Coins Were Of The Same Kind. French Napoleons. That Was Lucky. Any

Stick Was Good Enough To Beat A Dog With. This Was A Particularly Good

Stick. He Bored A Hole Through One Of The Napoleons And Placed It On

The Culprit's String,  After Removing The Original Talisman,  Which He

Bestowed In His Own Pocket. That Done,  He Sealed Up The Two Parcels

Again,  Conscientiously.

 

"There!" He Said. "He Laughs Best Who Laughs Last. Don Giustino Is A

Clever Man. But The Devil Himself Could Not Prove The Prisoner

Innocent,  In The Face Of Evidence Like This. Down With The Pope!"

 

Never Had He Felt So Enlightened,  So Gloriously Freemasonish.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 35

The Commendatore Giustino Morena--Familiarly Known As Don Giustino Or,

By His Enemies,  As "The Assassin"--Was A Southerner By Birth,  A City

Product. From Low Surroundings He Had Risen To Be A Prominent Member Of

The Chamber Of Deputies And One Of The Most Impressive Figures In The

Country.

 

As A Child He Was Apprenticed To A Cobbler. There,  Bending Over His

Work On The Pavement Outside The Shop-Door,  His Blue Eyes And Curly

Fair Hair,  His Rosy Cheeks,  His Winning Smile,  His Precocious Retorts,

Attracted The Most Favourable Comment From The Passers-By And Secured

Him An Unfailing Supply Of Chocolates And Cigarettes. People Liked Him

So Much That He Quickly Learned Not Only How To Mend Shoes But A Good

Many Other Things Which They Were Anxious To Teach Him. His Grown-Up

Friends Vied With One Another For A Place In His Affections And A

Certain Scandalous Affair With Knives,  Which Somehow Or Other Got Into

The Daily Press Where It Had No Business To Be,  Put The Seal On His

Reputation In The Quarter.

 

"That Boy Will Go Far!" The Old Men And Women Used To Say. "Only Look

At His Blue Eyes. Blessed The Mother That Bore Him,  Whoever She

Was"--For Nobody Even Pretended To Know.

 

They Were Right; As Old Folks Are Apt To Be. The Victor In The

Disreputable Affray Happened To Be A Gentleman Of Middle Age,  A

Distinguished Ornament Of The Black Hand. No Happier Fate Could Have

Been Devised For Giustino Than To Live Under The Patronage Of Such An

Individual. He Took Charge Of The Little Fellow,  And Was Not Slow In

Discovering That His Protege Possessed Not Only A Muscular Framework

And Ready Wit,  But The Malice,  The Concentrated Ruthlessness And

Rapacity Of Fifty Devils Rolled Into One. Something Could Be Made Out

Of That Boy,  He Concluded; The Society,  Always Ready To Adopt Promising

Neophytes On The Recommendation Of A Qualified Practitioner Like

Himself,  Would Doubtless Enrol Him In Due Course. Meanwhile He

Instructed Him,  By Precept And Example,  How To Be Religious In The

Manner Most Pleasing To The Madonna. He Narrated The Lives Of The

Saints,  Forced Him To Attend Mass And Confess Himself To One Of The

Society's Trusted Priests And Taught Him,  Above All Things,  To Hate The

Government Because It Oppressed The Pope And The Poor. One Day He Said:

 

"You Must Now Attend Evening Classes. I Think You Will Do Well At Our

School Of The Holy Cross. Your Outfit Is Exceptional. Among Other

Things You Have The Great Advantage That The First And Second Fingers

Of Both Your Hands Are Of Equal Length. That Augurs Well! God Has

Favoured You,  For Many Lads Have To Lengthen The First One

Artificially,  Which Is Apt To Weaken The Joints."

 

The Master And Director Drew Good Salaries From The Numerous Pupils At

This Institution. Everything Useful To Young Boys Was Taught Here Save

Only Religion. Seeing That All The Scholars Were Drawn From Families

Distinguished For Their Piety And Adherence To The Pope,  The Director

Considered A Religious Training To Be Superfluous--His Pupils Learnt

These Things On Their Mothers' Knees. Giustino Soon Acquired The

Jargon; He Passed His Examination In Fifteen Articles,  In Secrecy,

Swiftness Of Foot And Nimbleness Of Hand. The Latter Was Taught On A

Clothed Wooden Figure Out Of Whose Pockets The Students Were Obliged To

Extract Handkerchiefs,  Gold Watches And Jewelry With Such Dexterity

That Not One Of The Little Bells,  Which Dangled From Its Hat,  Gave

Forth The Slightest Sound; That Stage Passed,  The Art Was Practised On

The Person Of The Director Himself Who,  Walking Through The Streets As

An Ordinary Citizen,  Was Supposed To Have His Pockets Picked In The

Approved Professional Manner. Those Who Failed To Come Up To The

Standard Were Thrashed Savagely Three Or Four Times; If They Still

Failed,  They Were Sent Back To Their Parents With A Polite

Recommendation That They Should Be Taught Some Other Trade. Giustino

Was Seldom Punished. On The Contrary,  The Director Was So Enamoured Of

His Progress And Blue Eyes That He Entered Him As A Fox Long Before The

Regular Three Years' Course Was Up,  And Offered To Tattoo The Symbol Of

Proficiency,  A Cross,  On The Back Of His Right Hand.

 

The Patron,  While Proud Of His Young Friend,  Did Not Intend To Spoil

His Chances In After Life By An Indelible Bodily Mark Of This Kind

However Honourably Attained. He Had Other Designs For Him. To Pass The

Next Year Or Two,  He Made Arrangements For Giustino,  Now Grown Lean And

Wolfish,  To Be Officially Received Into The Black Hand. As Probationer

He Was The Delight Of His Superiors; He Went Through The Various Tests

With Phenomenal Rapidity And Gave Abundant Proofs Of Manliness. At The

Age Of Sixteen He Had Already Killed Three Men--One Of Them Being A

Policeman Who Was Suspected Of Infidelity Towards The Society. It Was

Then That The Protector,  Who Was No Fool,  Spoke To Him A Second Time,

Saying:

 

"As You Know,  My Son,  I Can Neither Read Nor Write. Those Were Not

Considered Respectable Accomplishments,  In My Day,  For A Lad Of Spirit

Or A Man Of Honour. Devil's Work! But We Live In An Effeminate Age.

Virtue Is At A Discount. The Wise Man,  While Observing These Things

With Regret,  Adapts Himself To Them. He Marches With The Times. They

Call Us Reactionaries. It Depends Upon Boys Like You To Show The World

What Reactionaries Are Good For. The Whole Town Has Already Learnt To

Respect Your Manly Instincts. You Must Now Go Further And Learn To Read

And Write. You Will Then Enter The University. There You Will Study Law

And Politics. You Will Then Enter Parliament. There You Will Represent

Our Cause. The Means--The Money? Trust The Society! Only Be A Credit To

Your Friends,  Defend The Poor,  And Never Forget To Say Your Prayers.

Then The Good God Will Reward Your Efforts."

 

This Is Precisely What The Good God Did. Within A Short Space Of Time

The Young Deputy Had Made A Name For Himself; He Was Recognized As One

Of The Few Representatives Of The Black Hand Whose Word Could Be

Implicitly Relied Upon. He Had A Share In Everything; Commissions And

Percentages Poured In Upon Him. After Making An Example Of Half A Dozen

Tiresome Persons By Having Them Quietly Stabbed Or Shot--Nothing Was

Ever Proved Against Him Though Everybody Knew It Was His Work--He

Experienced No Further Opposition In His Political Career. Morena Never

Threatens,  They Say; He Performs. A Safe Man! From A Timorous Liberal

Government,  His Avowed Enemies,  He Extorted The Title Of Commendatore;

Not Because He Attached Any Value To Such Outward Distinctions But

Because,  Like A True Camorrista,  He Never Lost An Opportunity Of

Showing That He Could Do What He Pleased With Everybody,  Government

Included. It Was An Open Secret That The Next Vacant Portfolio Of

Justice Would Be At His Disposal. All This Of Course Was Years And

Years Ago.

 

To These Arts Of Statecraft He Added A Quite Unusual Legal Acumen And

Forensic Ability. For The Last Fifteen Years He Had Been In Receipt Of

Large Annual Retaining Fees From The Principal Commercial Firms Of The

Country; That Of One Shipping Company Alone Amounted To Fifty Thousand

Francs. They Found It Worth Their While Since,  Without Doing A Stroke

Of Work For Them,  He Gave His Tacit Support To Their Most Nefarious

Undertakings. A Useful Man! As A Lawyer In Private Cases His Reputation

Was Tremendous. Judges And Juries Had Been Known To Faint With Emotion

At His Dramatic Gestures,  His Fiery Eloquence. He Could Pull Anybody

Out Of A Scrape. Wherever He Spoke The Court Was Crowded To Listen To

His Impassioned Arguments,  To Look Upon The Cold Fire Of His Blue Eyes,

His Carefully Adjusted Dress,  His Fair Hair Turning To Grey,  His Smooth

Face Which He Kept Shaven For No Other Reason--So He Used To

Declare--Than Because He Reverenced The Fashions Of The Old Papal

Regime. "Just Like An Englishman," People Said.

 

He Had Lately Put On Flesh; It Inspired Confidence. Moreover,  He Never

Married; That Also Was Something Out Of The Common--It Pointed To

Independence,  To Lack Of Ordinary Human Frailties. In Short,  He Was So

Perfect A Compound Of Vice And Intelligence That Even His Dearest

Friends Could Not Put Their Finger On The Exact Spot Where The One

Began And The Other Ended. And The Whole Of This Unique Mixture Was

Placed At The Disposal Of The Vatican. Don Giustino Was The Implacable

Enemy Of Modernism,  A Living Disproof Of The Vulgar Assertion That

Freemasonry Is The Sole Key To Success In Modern Italy.