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The Little World of Don Camillo
by Giovanni Guareschi
The little world of Don Camillo is to be found somewhere in the valley of the Po River. It is almost any village on that stretch of plain in Northern Italy. There, between the Po and the Apennines, the climate is always the same. The landscape never changes and, in country like this, you can stop along any road for a moment and look at a farmhouse sitting in the midst of maize and hemp—and immediately a story is born.
Why do I tell you this instead of getting on with my story? Because I want you to understand that, in the Little World between the river and the mountains, many things can happen that cannot happen anywhere else. Here, the deep, eternal breathing of the river freshens the air, for both the living and the dead, and even the dogs, have souls. If you keep this in mind, you will easily come to know the village priest, Don Camillo, and his adversary Peppone, the Communist Mayor. You will not be surprised that Christ watches the goings-on from a big cross in the village church and not infrequently talks, and that one man beats the other over the head, but fairly—that is, without hatred—and that in the end the two enemies find they agree about essentials...
And one final word of explanation before I begin my story. If there is a priest anywhere who feels offended by my treatment of Don Camillo, he is welcome to break the biggest candle available over my head. And if there is a Communist who feels offended by Peppone, he is welcome to break a hammer and sickle on my back. But if there is anyone who is offended by the conversations of Christ, I can't help it; for the one who speaks in this story is not Christ but my Christ—that is, the voice of my conscience.
Chapter One - A Confession
DON CAMILLO had come into the world with a constitutional preference for calling a spade a spade. His parishioners remembered the time he found out about a local scandal involving young girls of the village with some landowners well along in years. On the Sunday following his discovery, Don Camillo had begun a simple, rather mild sermon, when he spotted one of the offenders in the front pew. Taking just enough time out to throw a cloth over the crucifix at the main altar so that Christ might not hear what was going to follow, he turned on the congregation with clenched fists and finished the sermon in a voice so loud and with words so strong that the roof of the little church trembled.
Naturally, when the time of the elections drew near, Don Camillo was very explicit in his allusions to the local leftists. What happened was not surprising, therefore: one fine evening as the priest was on his way home, a fellow muffled in a cloak sprang out of a hedge and, taking advantage of the fact that Don Camillo was handicapped by a bicycle with a basket of eggs on the handlebars, dealt the priest a mean blow with a heavy stick and then disappeared, as if the earth had swallowed him.
Don Camillo kept his own council. He continued to the rectory and, after putting the eggs in a safe place, went into the church to talk things over with Christ, as he always did in moments of perplexity.
"What should I do?" asked Don Camillo.
"Anoint your back with a little oil beaten up in water and hold your tongue," Christ answered from the main altar. "We must forgive those who offend us."
"Very true, Lord, but here we are discussing blows, not offenses."
"And what do you mean by that? Surely, Don Camillo, you don't mean that the injuries done to the body are more painful than those to the soul?"
"I see your point, Lord. But You should bear in mind that an attack on me, Your priest, is also an offense against You. I am really more concerned for You than for myself."
"And wasn't I a greater minister of God than you are? And didn't I forgive those who nailed me to the Cross?"
"There's no use arguing with You!" Don Camillo exclaimed. "You are always right. May Your will be done. I will forgive, but don't forget that if these ruffians, encouraged by my silence, crack my skull open, it will be Your responsibility. I could quote You several passages from the Old Testament . . ."
"Don Camillo, do you propose to teach me the Old Testament! As for this business, I assume full responsibility. And just between ourselves, that little beating this evening did you some good. It may teach you to let politics alone in My house."
Don Camillo forgave in his heart, but one thing stuck in his mind and needled him—curiosity as to the identity of his assailant.
Time passed. Then, late one evening as he was sitting in the confessional, Don Camillo recognized through the grille the face of Peppone, the leader of the extreme left.
That Peppone should come to confession at all was a sensational event, and Don Camillo was duly gratified.
"God be with you, brother; with you who, more than others, needs his Holy blessing. When did you make your last confession?"
"In 1918," replied Peppone.
"In all those years you must have committed a lot of sins with your head so crammed with crazy ideas . . ."
"Quite a few, I'm afraid," sighed Peppone.
"For example?"
"For example, two months ago I gave you a beating."
"That is very serious," replied Don Camillo, "since, by assaulting one of God's priests, you have offended God Himself."
"Oh, but I have repented," Peppone exclaimed. "And anyway it was not as God's priest that I beat you up but as my political adversary. Anyhow I did it in a moment of weakness."
"Besides this and your activities in that devilish party, have you any other sins to confess?"
Peppone spilled them out, but all in all Don Camillo found nothing very serious and let him off with twenty Our Fathers and twenty Hail Marys. While Peppone was at the altar rail saying his penance, Don Camillo went and knelt before the crucifix.
"Lord," he said, "forgive me but I'm going to beat him up for You."
"You'll do nothing of the kind," replied Christ. "I have forgiven him and you must do the same. After all, he's not such a bad soul."
"Lord, you can't trust a red! They live by lies. Just look at that face—Barabbas incarnate!"
"One face is the same as another. It's your heart, Don Camillo, that is venomous!"
"Lord, if I have been a worthy servant to You, grant me one small favor. Let me at least hit him with this candle. After all, Lord, what is a candle?"
"No," replied Christ. "Your hands were made for blessing."
Don Camillo sighed wearily. He genuflected and left the altar. As he turned to make a final sign of the cross, he found himself exactly behind Peppone, who still knelt at the altar rail and appeared absorbed in prayer.
"Lord," groaned Don Camillo, clasping his hands and looking up at the crucifix, "my hands were made for blessing, but not my feet."
"There's something in that," replied Christ, "but, I warn you, just one."
The kick landed like a thunderbolt. Peppone didn't bat an eye. After a minute he got up and sighed.
"I've been expecting that for the past ten minutes," he remarked casually. "I feel better now."
"So do I," exclaimed Don Camillo whose heart was now as light and serene as a May morning.
Christ said nothing at all, but it was easy enough to see that He too was pleased.
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