Now the transition from firecrackers to grenades is easily made and things did seem to be getting out of hand when, one fine morning, Don Camillo received an urgent summons to the city because the Bishop wished to speak to him.
T he Bishop was old and bent and in order to look Don Camillo in the face he had to raise his head considerably. “Don Camillo,” he said, “you are not well. You need to spend a few months in a beautiful mountain village. Yes, yes; the parish priest at Puntarossa died recently, and so we can kill two birds with one stone: you will be able to reorganize the parish for me and at the same time you will regain your health. Then you will come back as fresh as a rose. Don Pietro, a young man who will make no trouble, will substitute for you. Are you pleased, Don Camillo?”
“No, Excellency; but I shall leave as soon as Your Excellency wishes.”
“Good,” replied the Bishop. “Your discipline is the more commendable as you accept without discussion my
instructions to do something that is against your personal inclinations.”
“Excellency, wouldn’t you be displeased if the people of my parish said that I ran away because I was afraid?”
“No,” replied the old man, smiling. “Nobody on this earth could ever think that Don Camillo was afraid. Go with God,
Don Camillo, and leave benches alone; they never constitute a Christian argument.”
T he news spread quickly in the village after Peppone announced it in person at a special meeting. “Don Camillo is going,” he proclaimed. “Transferred to some Godforsaken mountain village. He is leaving tomorrow afternoon at three o'clock.”
“Hurrah!” shouted the entire meeting, “and may he croak when he gets there . . .” “All things considered, it’s the best way out,” said Peppone. “He was beginning to think he was the King and the Pope
rolled into one. If he had stayed here we would have had to put him in his place. This saves us the trouble.”
“And we will let him slink away like a whipped cur,” howled Brusco. “Make the village understand that anyone who is
caught on the church square at three o'clock will hear from the Party.”
The time came for Don Camillo to say good-by to Christ above the altar. “I wish I could take You with me,” sighed Don Camillo.
“I will go with you just the same,” replied Christ.
“Don’t worry.”
“Have I really done anything bad enough to deserve being sent away?” asked Don Camillo.
“Yes.”
“Then everyone is against me,” sighed Don Camillo.
“Everyone,” replied Christ. “Even Don Camillo himself disapproves of what you have done.”
“That is true enough,” Don Camillo acknowledged. “I could hit myself.”
“Keep your hands quiet, Don Camillo, and a pleasant journey to you.”
In a city, fear can affect fifty per cent of the people, but in a village the percentage is doubled. The roads were deserted. Don Camillo climbed into the train and as he watched his church tower disappear behind a clump of trees he felt very low indeed. “Not even a dog remembered me,” he sighed. “It is clear that I have failed in my duties and it is also clear that I am a bad egg.”
T he train was a local that stopped at every station and therefore it stopped at Boschetto which consisted of five houses about four miles away from Don Camillo’s own village. Suddenly, Don Camillo found his compartment invaded, he was hustled to the window and saw a crowd of people clapping their hands and throwing flowers.
“Peppone’s men had said that if anyone in the village showed up to see you off it meant trouble,” the farmer from
Stradalunga explained. “And so to avoid trouble we all came on here to say good-by.”
D on Camillo was completely dazed and felt a humming in his ears; when the train moved off the entire compartment was filled with flowers, bottles, bundles and parcels of all sizes, while poultry with their legs tied together clucked and protested from the baggage racks overhead.
But there was still a thorn in his heart. “And the others? They must really hate me to have done such a thing. It wasn’t even enough for them to get me sent away!”
Fifteen minutes later the train stopped at Boscoplanche. There Don Camillo heard his name called and going to the window he found Mayor Peppone and his entire gang. Mayor Peppone made the following speech:
“Before you leave it seems to us proper to bring you the greetings of the people and good wishes for a rapid recovery,
the which will enable a speedy return to your spiritual mission.”
Then, as the train began to move, Peppone took off his hat with a sweeping gesture and Don Camillo also removed his hat and remained standing at the window with it poised in the air like a statue of the Resorgimento.
The church at Puntarossa sat on the top of the mountain and looked like a picture postcard. When Don Camillo reached it, he inhaled the pine-scented air deeply and exclaimed with satisfaction:
“A rest up here will certainly do me good, the which will enable a speedy return to my spiritual mission.”
Return to the Fold
T he Priest who was sent to substitute in the parish during Don Camillo’s political convalescence was young and delicate. He knew his business and he spoke courteously, using lovely polished phrases that seemed to be newly minted. Naturally even though he knew that he was only in a temporary position, this young priest established some small innovations in the church just as any man will if he is to be tolerably at his ease in strange surroundings.
O n the first Sunday following the new priest’s arrival, the congregation noticed two important novelties: the great candlestick that held the paschal candle which always stood on the second step at the Gospel side of the altar, had been shifted to the Epistle side and placed in front of a small picture of a saint — a picture which had not been there before.
Out of curiosity and respect for the new priest, the entire village was present, with Peppone and his henchmen in the front pews.
“Look,” muttered Brusco to Peppone with a chuckle, pointing out the candlestick, “changes!”
“M-m-m,” mumbled Peppone irritably. And he remained irritable until the priest came down to the altar rail to preach.
A t that point Peppone had had enough and just as the priest was about to begin, he left his companions, marched up to the candlestick, grasped it firmly, carried it past the altar and placed it in its old position on the second step to the left. Then he returned to his seat in the front row and with knees wide apart and arms folded stared arrogantly straight into the eyes of the young priest.
“Well done!” murmured the entire congregation, not excepting Peppone’s political opponents.
The young priest, who had stood open-mouthed watching Peppone’s behavior, changed color, stammered somehow through a brief sermon and returned to the altar to complete his Mass.
When he left the church, he found Peppone and his men waiting. The church square was crowded with silent and surly people.
“Listen here, Don . . . Don whatever your name is,” said Peppone in an aggressive voice. “Who is this new person whose picture you have hung on the pillar to the right of the altar?”
“Saint Rita of Cascia,” stammered the little priest.
“Then let me tell you that this village has no use for Saint Rita of Cascia or of anywhere else. Everything had better be left as it was before.”
“I think I am entitled . . .” the young man began, but Peppone cut him short.
“Ah, so that’s how you take it? Well, then let me speak clearly: this village has no use for a priest like you.”
The young priest gasped. “I cannot see that I have done anything . . .”
“I'll tell you what you’ve done. You have committed an illegal action. You have attempted to change an order that the permanent priest of the parish established in accordance with the will of the people.”
“Hurrah!” shouted the crowd, including the reactio
naries.
The little priest attempted a smile. “If that is all that’s wrong, everything will be put back exactly as it was before. Isn’t that the solution?”
“No!” thundered Peppone, flinging his hat behind him and putting his enormous fists on his hips.
“And may I ask why?”
Peppone had reached the end of his supply of diplomacy. “Well,” he said, “if you really want to know, it is not a solution because if I give you a sock on the jaw I would send you flying at least fifteen yards, while if it were the regular incumbent he wouldn’t move so much as an inch!”
Peppone didn’t go on to explain that if he hit Don Camillo once, the latter would hit him half a dozen times in return. He left it at that but his meaning was clear to all, with the exception of the little priest who merely stared at him in amazement.
“But excuse me,” he murmured, “Why should you want to hit me?”
Peppone lost patience. “Who in the world wants to hit you? There you go, running down the left-wing parties! I used a figure of speech merely to explain our views. I’m not wasting time hitting a peanut of a priest like you!”
On hearing himself called “a peanut of a priest,” the young man drew himself up to his full five feet four inches, his face grew purple and the veins in his neck swelled.
“You may call me a peanut,” he cried in a shrill voice, “but I was sent here by ecclesiastical authority and here I shall remain until ecclesiastical authority sees fit to remove me. In this church you have no authority at all! Saint Rita will stay where she is and as for the candlestick, watch what I am going to do!”
He went into the church, grasped the candlestick firmly and after a considerable struggle succeeded in moving it to the Epistle side of the altar in front of the new picture.
“There!” he said triumphantly.
“Very well!” replied Peppone from the church door. Then he turned to the crowd in the church square and shouted: “The people will have something to say about this! To the Town Hall, all of you, and we will make a demonstration of protest.”
“Hurrah!” howled the crowd.
Peppone elbowed his way to the front so that he could lead the people, and they followed him yelling and brandishing sticks. When they reached the Town Hall, the yells increased in volume and Peppone yelled also, raising his fist and shaking it at the balcony of the Council Chamber.
“Peppone,” shouted Brusco in his ear, “are you crazy? Stop yelling! Have you forgotten that you yourself are the Mayor!”
“Hell. . .” exclaimed Peppone. “When these accursed swine make me lose my head, I don’t remember anything!” He ran upstairs and out onto the balcony where he was cheered by the crowd, including the reactionaries.
“Comrades, citizens,” shouted Peppone. “We will not suffer this oppression that offends our dignity as free men! We shall remain within the bounds of the law so long as may be possible, but we are going to get justice even if we must resort to gun-fire! In the meantime I propose that a committee of my selection accompany me to the ecclesiastical authorities and impose in a democratic manner the desires of the people!”
“Hurrah!” yelled the crowd, completely indifferent to logic or syntax. “Long live our Mayor Peppone!”
When Peppone and his committee stood before the Bishop, the Mayor had some trouble finding his voice, but at last he got going. “Excellency,” he said, “that priest you have sent us is not worthy of the traditions of the leading parish of the district.”
The little bent-over Bishop raised his head in order to see the top of Peppone. “Tell me now: what has he been doing?”
Peppone waved his arms. “For the love of God! Doing? He hasn’t done anything serious . . . In fact, he hasn’t done anything at all . . . The trouble is that . . . Oh well, he’s only half a man . . . you know what I mean, a priestling; when that guy is all dressed up, your Eminence must excuse me, but he looks like a coat-hanger loaded with three overcoats and a cloak!”
The old Bishop nodded his head gravely.
“But do you,” he asked very graciously, “find out the merits of priests with a tape measure and a weighing machine?”
“No, Excellency,” replied Peppone. “We aren’t savages! But all the same, how shall I put it — even the eye needs some satisfaction, and in matters of religion it’s the same as with a doctor, there’s a lot to be said for personal appearance and moral impressions!”
The old Bishop sighed. “Yes, yes, I understand perfectly. But all the same, my dear children, you had a parish priest who looked like a tower and you yourselves came and asked me to remove him!”
Peppone wrinkled his forehead. “Excellency,” he explained solemnly, “it was a question of a casus belli, an affair sui generis as they say. That man was a multiple offense in the way he exasperated us by his provocative and dictatorial poses.”
“I know, I know,” said the Bishop. “You told me all about it when you were here before, my son, and as you see, I removed him because I fully understood that I had to deal with an unworthy man . . .”
“One moment, if you will excuse me,” Smilzo interrupted. “We never said he was an unworthy man!”
“Well, well; if not an unworthy man,” continued the Bishop, “at any rate an unworthy priest inasmuch as . . .”
“I beg your pardon,” Peppone interrupted, “we never suggested that as a priest he failed in his duty. We only spoke of his serious defects, of his very serious faults as a man.”
“Exactly,” agreed the old Bishop. “And since the man and the priest are inseparable, and a man such as Don Camillo represents a danger to his neighbors, we are at this very moment considering making his present appointment a permanent one. We will leave him where he is, among the goats at Puntarossa. Yes, we will leave him there, since it has not yet been decided whether he is to be allowed to continue in his functions or whether we shall suspend him a divinis. We will wait and see.”
Peppone turned to his committee and there was a moment’s consultation, then he turned again to the Bishop.
“Excellency,” he said in a low voice, and he was sweating and looked pale, as though he found difficulty in speaking audibly. “If the ecclesiastical authority has its own reasons for doing such a thing, of course that is its own affair. Nevertheless, it is my duty to warn your Excellency that until our regular parish priest returns to us, not a soul will enter the church.”
The Bishop raised his hands. “But, my sons,” he exclaimed, “do you realize the gravity of what you are saying? This is coercion!”
“No, Excellency,” Peppone explained, “our decision is simply a question of availing ourselves of democratic liberty. Because we are the only persons qualified to judge whether a priest suits us or not, since we have had to put up with him for nearly twenty years.”
“Vox populi vox Dei,” sighed the old Bishop. “God’s will be done. You can have him back. But don’t come whining to me later on about his arrogance.”
Peppone laughed. “Excellency! Big bruisers like Don Camillo don’t really break any bones. We came here before as a political and social precaution, to make sure that Redskin here didn’t lose his head and throw a bomb at him.”
“Redskin yourself!” retorted the indignant Smilzo whose face Don Camillo had dyed red and whose head had come in contact with Don Camillo’s bench. “I never meant to throw any bombs. I simply threw a firecracker in front of his house to let him know that I couldn’t be knocked on the head even by the reverend parish priest in person.”
“Ah. Then it was you, my son, who threw the firecracker,” said the Bishop mildly.
“Well, Excellency,” mumbled Smilzo, “you know how it is. When you’ve been hit on the head with a bench, you may go too far to get even.”
“I understand perfectly,” replied the Bishop, who was old and knew how to take people in the right way.
* * *
Don Camillo returned ten days later.
“How are you?” asked Peppone, meeting him
just as he was leaving the station. “Did you have a pleasant holiday?”
“Well, it was a bit dreary up there. Luckily I took a deck of cards with me and worked off my restlessness playing solitaire,” replied Don Camillo. He pulled the cards from his pocket.
“But now I don’t need them any more,” he said. And delicately, with a smile, he tore the deck in two as though it were a slice of bread.
“We are getting old, Mr. Mayor,” sighed Don Camillo.
“To hell with you and those who sent you back here!” muttered Peppone, turning away.
Don Camillo had a lot to tell Christ. Then at the end of their chat, he asked with an air of indifference: “What kind of a fellow was my substitute?”
“A nice lad, cultured and with a sweet nature. When someone did him a good turn, he didn’t bait him by tearing up a pack of cards under his nose.”
“Lord!” exclaimed Don Camillo, raising his hands. “There are people who have to be thanked that way. I'll bet You that Peppone is saying to his gang right now: ‘And he tore the whole pack across, zip, the misbegotten son of an ape!’ And he is enjoying saying it! Do you want to bet?”
“No,” replied Christ with a sigh, “because that is exactly what Peppone is saying at this moment.”
The Defeat
The fight with no holds barred that had been going on for nearly a year was won by Don Camillo, who managed to complete his Recreation Center while Peppone’s People’s Palace still lacked all its looks.
The Recreation Center was a very up-to-date affair: a hall for social gatherings, dramatic performances, lectures and such activities, a library with a reading and writing room, and a covered area for physical training and winter games. There was a magnificent gymnasium, a track, a swimming pool, and a children’s playground with swings. Most of the equipment was as yet in an embryonic stage, but the important thing was to have made a start.
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