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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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Go on to chapter two, "A Baptism," on this page. Scroll down please.
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| | | | Chapter Two - A Baptism
ONE DAY Don Camillo, perched high on a ladder, was busily polishing St. Joseph's halo. Unexpectedly a man and two women, one of whom was Peppone's wife, came into the church. Don Camillo turned around to ask what they wanted.
"There is something here to be baptized," replied the man, and one of the women held up a bundle containing a baby.
"Whose is it?" inquired Don Camillo, coming down from his ladder.
"Mine," replied Peppone's wife.
"And your husband's?" persisted Don Camillo.
"Well, naturally! Who else would be the father? You, maybe?" retorted Peppone's wife indignantly.
"No need to be offended," observed Don Camillo on his way to the sacristy. "I've been told often enough that your party approves of free love."
As he passed before the high altar Don Camillo knelt down and gave a discreet wink in the direction of Christ "Did you hear that one?" he murmured with a happy grin. "One in the eye for the Godless ones!"
"Don't talk rubbish, Don Camillo," replied Christ irritably. "If they had no God why should they come here to get their child baptized? If Peppone's wife had boxed your ears it would have served you right."
"If Peppone's wife had boxed my ears I should have taken the three of them by the scruff of their necks and . . ."
"And what?" Christ asked severely.
"Oh, nothing; just a figure of speech," Don Camillo hastened to assure Him, rising to his feet.
"Don Camillo, watch your step," Christ said sternly.
Duly vested, Don Camillo approached the baptismal 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 Don Camillo calmly, replacing the cover on the font.
The priest's hands were as big as shovels and the three left the church without protest. But as Don Camillo tried to slip into the sacristy he was stopped by the voice of Christ. "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 must bear in mind that baptism is a very sacred matter. Baptism is . . ."
"Don Camillo," Christ interrupted him, "are you trying to teach me the nature of baptism? Didn't I invent it? I tell you that you have been guilty of gross presumption, because if that child were to die at this moment it would be your fault if it failed to attain Paradise!"
"Lord, let us not be melodramatic! Why in the name of Heaven should it die? It's as pink and white as a rose!"
"That doesn't mean a thing!" Christ pointed out. "What if a tile should fall on its head or it suddenly had convulsions? It was your duty to baptize it."
Don Camillo raised his hands in protest. "But, Lord, think it over. If it were certain that the child would go to Hell, then we might stretch a point. But since he might easily manage to slip into Heaven, in spite of his father, how can You ask me to risk anyone getting in there with a name like Lenin? I'm thinking of the reputation of Heaven."
"The reputation of Heaven is my business," shouted Christ 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 be a nuisance to them when they grow up."
"Very well," replied Don Camillo. "I am always wrong. I'll see what I can do."
Just then someone came into the church. It was Peppone, alone, with the baby in his arms. He closed the church door behind him and bolted it. "I'm not leaving this church," he said, "until my son has been baptized with the name that I have chosen."
"Look at that," whispered Don Camillo, smiling as he turned to Christ. "Now do You see what these people are? One is filled with the holiest intentions, and this is how they treat you."
"Put yourself in his place," Christ replied. "One may not approve of 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!" repeated Peppone. After laying the bundle containing the baby upon a bench he took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and came toward the priest threateningly.
"Lord," implored Don Camillo. "I ask You! If You think one of Your priests should give way to the threats of a layman, then I must obey. But if I do and tomorrow they bring me a calf and compel me to baptize it, You must not complain. You know very well how dangerous it is to create precedents."
"All right, but in this case you must 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 with that accursed name."
"Don Camillo," stuttered Peppone, "don't forget that my stomach has never recovered from that bullet I stopped in the mountains. If you hit low I go after you with a bench."
"Don't worry, Peppone; I can deal with you entirely in the upper stories," Don Camillo assured him, landing a quick one above his ear.
They were both burly men and their blows whistled through the air.
After twenty minutes of speechless and furious combat, Don Camillo distinctly heard a voice behind him.
"Now, Don Camillo! A left to the jaw!" It came from Christ above the altar. Don Camillo struck hard and Peppone crashed to the ground.
He remained there for about ten minutes; then he sat up, got to his feet, rubbed his jaw, shook himself, put on his jacket and re-knotted his red handkerchief. Then he picked up the baby. Fully vested, Don Camillo was waiting, steady as a rock, beside the font. Peppone approached him slowly.
"What are we going 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. "After all, the Camillo will cancel out Lenin any day."
"Amen," muttered Peppone, still massaging his jaw.
When all was done and Don Camillo passed before the altar, Christ smiled and remarked: "Don Camillo, I have to admit that in politics you are my master."
"And in boxing," replied Don Camillo with perfect gravity, carelessly fingering a large lump on his forehead.
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Go on to chapter three, "On the Trail," on this page. Scroll down please.
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| | | | Chapter Three - On the Trail
DON CAMILLO HAD let himself go a bit in the course of a little sermon. He had made some rather pointed allusions to "certain people," and so on the following evening when he seized the ropes of the church bells all hell broke loose. Some damned soul had tied firecrackers to the clappers of the bells. No harm done of course, but there was a din of explosions shattering enough to give the ringer heart failure.
Don Camillo said nothing. He celebrated the evening service in perfect composure before a crowded congregation. Peppone was in the front row, and every countenance was a picture of fervor. It was enough to infuriate a saint, but Don Camillo was no novice in self-control and his audience went home disappointed.
As soon as the big doors of the church were closed, Don Camillo snatched up an overcoat and on his way out made a hasty genuflection before the altar.
"Don Camillo," said Christ, "put it down."
"I don't understand," protested Don Camillo.
"Put it down!"
Don Camillo drew a heavy stick out from under 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."
Don Camillo threw up his hands and went to bed with a temperature. But on the following evening when Peppone's wife came to the rectory, he leaped to his feet as though a firecracker had gone off under his chair.
"Don Camillo," began the woman, who was obviously upset. 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 devil who tried to support Peppone. They have driven him out of the village!"
Don Camillo counted to ten and lit a cigar. "Well, what of it, comrade? Why should you bother about it?"
The woman started to shout. "I'm bothering because they came to tell Peppone, and he 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 husband is done for!"
Don Camillo laughed unpleasantly. "Which will teach him to tie firecrackers to my bells. I shall be pleased to watch him die in jail! You get out of my house!"
Ten minutes later, Don Camillo, with his skirts tucked up almost to his neck, was pedaling like a lunatic along the road to Castellino on a racing bike that belonged to the son of his assistant.
There was a splendid moon and when he was within a few miles of Castellino, Don Camillo saw by its light a man sitting on the wall of the little bridge that spans the river. He slowed down, since it is always best to be prudent when one travels by night, and stopped some ten yards from the bridge, holding in his hand a small object that he happened to have had in his pocket.
"Have you seen a big man go by on a bicycle in the direction of Castellino?" he asked.
"No, Don Camillo," replied the other quietly.
Don Camillo drew nearer. "Have you already been to Castellino?"
"No. I thought it over. It wasn't worthwhile. 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?" snickered 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 rectory and went to report to Christ.
"Everything went according to Your commandments."
"Well done, Don Camillo; but would you mind telling me who commanded you to grab 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 seemed to find the sight of a priest on a racing bike distasteful, so I thought it only kind to stop him from seeing it any longer."
"I understand. Has he got back yet?"
"He'll be here soon. It struck me that in his 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 Christ with perfect gravity.
Just before dawn Peppone appeared at the door of the rectory. 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 smiled. "A Tommy gun? And what is that?"
As he turned from the door Peppone said, "I have made one mistake in my life. I tied firecrackers to your bells. It should have been half a ton of dynamite."
"Errare humanum est," remarked Don Camillo.
Go on to chapter four, Night School on this website.
Or go to the second book, "Don Camillo and his Flock"
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