Don Camillo was so pleased that he didn’t have breath enough even to answer: “Yes, sir!”
* * *
The young man had a genuine passion for painting, and the agreeable surroundings plus three square meals a day fired him to tremendous enthusiasm. When he had finished his widely admired picture of the arcade on the church square, he set off to explore the surrounding country and to find a model for the Madonna. He didn’t want to paint a conventional figure, but to spiritualize a genuine face, which he hoped to discover in the vicinity of the village. During the first week he patched up the decorations in the main body of the church and restored an oil painting over the choir stalls. But he was restless and dissatisfied because he had not yet found his model. By the end of the second week the replastered chapel wall was ready for him to work on, but he was unable to begin. He had looked at hundreds of women in and around the village without finding a single face that interested him. Don Camillo became aware that something was wrong. The young man seemed listless and often came back in the evening without a single sketch in his notebook.
“Don’t you care for this country any longer?” he asked. “There are all sorts of beauty you haven’t yet discovered.”
“Only one kind of beauty interests me just now,” the artist complained. “And that I can’t seem to find.”
The next day the young man mounted his bicycle, making this resolution: “If I don’t find what I’m after today, then I’m going home.” He rode at random, stopping in farmyards to ask for a glass of water or some other trifle and looking into the face of every woman he saw along the way. But he was only confirmed in his disappointment. At noon he found himself in the settlement of La Rocca, a small place not far from the village, and rather than communicate his chagrin to Don Camillo he stopped for a bite to eat at the Pheasant Tavern. The big, low-ceilinged room with prints of characters from Verdi’s Otello on the walls was completely deserted. An old woman appeared and he asked her for bread, sausage, and a bottle of wine. A few moments later, when a hand deposited this simple fare on the dark table before him he raised his eyes and was startled almost out of his skin. Here was the inspiration for which he had been searching. The inspiration was about twenty-five years old and carried herself with the nonchalance of eighteen. But what captured the artist’s fancy was the girl’s face, and he stared at it, hardly daring to believe it was true.
“What’s the matter?” the girl asked. “Have I done something to annoy you?”
“Please forgive me…” he stammered.
She went away but returned a little later to sit down over some sewing at the door. At once the young man took a pad and pencil and began to sketch her. She felt his eyes upon her and broke in upon his work with a question:
“May I ask what you’re doing?”
“If you don’t mind, I’m drawing you.”
“What for?”
“Because I’m a painter and take an interest in everything beautiful.”
She gave him a pitying smile, shrugged her shoulders and went on with her work. After an hour she got up and went to look over the young man’s shoulder.
“Do I really look like that?” she asked him, laughing.
“This is just a preliminary sketch. If you’ll allow me, I’ll come back to finish tomorrow. Meanwhile, how much do I owe you for lunch?”
“You can pay when you come back.”
As soon as the artist got back to the rectory he shut himself up in his room to work. The next day he worked until noon, when he went out, locking the door behind him.
“I’ve got it, Father!” he exclaimed as he rode away.
When he reached the Pheasant he found things just as they had been the day before: bread, sausage, wine and his inspiration sitting at the door. This time, after he had worked for a couple of hours, the girl showed more satisfaction with what he had accomplished.
“It will be better yet if I can come back tomorrow,” he sighed.
He came back for the two next afternoons and then no more, for he had reached another stage of his work. For three whole days he remained in his room and then, in agreement with the mason, started in on the chapel. No one could see what he was doing, because a board partition had been thrown up to protect him from the public view and he alone had the key to the door leading through it. Don Camillo was consumed with curiosity, but he contained himself and did no more than ask every evening:
“How’s it going?”
“You’ll soon see,” said the young man excitedly.
Finally the great day came. The young man put a cloth over the fresco and tore down the boarding. Don Camillo rushed to the rail and waited, with his heart pounding. Then the young man took a pole and lifted the cloth off his “Madonna of the River”. It was a most impressive painting, and Don Camillo stared at it with his mouth hanging open. Then all of a sudden something caught at his heart and perspiration broke out on his forehead.
“Celestina!” he shouted.
“Who’s Celestina?” the young man asked.
“The daughter of the tavern-keeper at La Rocca.”
“Yes,” said the young man calmly. “She’s a girl I found at the Pheasant Tavern.”
Don Camillo took hold of a ladder, carried it over to the far end of the chapel, climbed up and draped the cloth over the fresco. The young man couldn’t imagine what was wrong.
“Father, are you out of your head?” he asked him, but Don Camillo only ran back to the rectory, with the young man at his heels.
“Sacrilege!” he panted, once he had reached his own study. “Celestina from the Pheasant Tavern. You mean you don’t know about Celestina? She’s the most ardent Communist anywhere around and to present her face as that of the Madonna is like painting Jesus Christ in the likeness of Stalin.”
“Father,” said the artist, recovering some of his calm. “I was inspired not by her political beliefs but by her beauty. She has a lovely face, and that was given her by God, not by the Party.”
“But the black soul behind it came straight from the Devil!” shouted Don Camillo. “You don’t appreciate the gravity of the sacrilege you’ve committed. If I didn’t realize that you were completely innocent about it, I’d send you packing.”
“I have nothing on my conscience,” said the artist. “I gave the Madonna the most beautiful face I could find.”
“But the portrait doesn’t reflect your good intentions, it represents a damned soul! Can’t you see the sacrilege involved? The only fitting title to the fresco is ‘The Excommunicated Madonna’!”
The young man was in terrible distress.
“I put everything I had in me into bringing out the spiritual qualities of that face….”
“How do you expect to spiritualize the face of such a wanton creature? Why, when she opens her mouth, teamsters blush at the words that come out of it! No one can wish a face like that upon the Madonna.”
The artist went to throw himself on his bed and did not come down to supper. About ten o’clock Don Camillo went up to see him.
“Well, are you awake now to the sacrilege you have committed? I hope that a second look at your sketches has revealed to you the essential vulgarity of that face. You’re a young man and she’s a provocative girl. She spoke to your senses, and your artistic discrimination went by the board.”
“Father, you’re misjudging and insulting me.”
“Just let’s look at your sketches together.”
“I’ve torn them all up.”
“Then let’s have another look at the chapel.”
They went down to the empty church and Don Camillo took the pole to pull down the cloth covering the fresco.
“Look at it calmly and tell me if I’m not right.”
The artist turned two powerful lights on the painting and shook his head.
“I’m sorry, Father,” he said, “but there’s nothing wanton or vulgar in that face.”
Don Camillo stared at it again, scowling. The expression of the Madonna of th
e River was calm and serene and her eyes were pure and clear.
“Incredible!” exclaimed the priest angrily. “I don’t know how you managed to get anything spiritual out of that creature.”
“Then you admit that my picture has a spiritual and not a vulgar quality about it.”
“Yes, but Celestina hasn’t. And anyone looking at it can’t help saying: ‘There’s Celestina playing the part of the Madonna.’”
“Well, don’t take it so tragically, Father. Tomorrow I can destroy it and start all over.”
“We’ll decide that tomorrow,” said Don Camillo. “As a painting it’s stupendous, and it’s a crime to wipe it off the wall….”
Indeed, this Madonna of the River was one of the most stunning things Don Camillo had ever seen. But how could he tolerate Celestina in the guise of our Lady? The next day he called five or six of his most trusted parishioners together, unveiled the fresco before them and asked for their honest opinion. Without exception they exclaimed:
“Marvellous!” and then a second later: “But that’s Celestina from the Pheasant Tavern!”
Don Camillo told them of the painter’s misadventure and concluded:
“There’s only one thing to do: wipe the whole thing out!”
“Too bad, because it’s a masterpiece. Of course, it wouldn’t do for our Madonna to have an excommunicated Communist’s face….”
Don Camillo begged the members of this little group not to say a word, and as a result the story spread like wildfire.
People began to pour into the church, but the fresco was draped with a cloth and the entrance to the chapel barred. The news travelled outside the village and that evening, when Don Camillo was closing up the church, he detected in the shadows the malicious face of Celestina in person.
“What do you want?” he asked gruffly.
“I want to see that idiot of a painter,” she told him, and just then the idiot came upon the scene.
“Aside from the fact that you ate four meals at the Tavern without paying for them,” Celestina said to him threateningly, “I’d like to know who gave you permission to misuse my face!”
The young man looked at her in amazement: here indeed was the face of which Don Camillo had spoken. He wondered how in the world he had seen anything spiritual in it. He started to make a hesitant reply, but she overrode him:
“You fool!” she exclaimed.
“Let’s have less noise, my girl,” Don Camillo interrupted. “We’re in church, not in your father’s tavern.”
“You have no right to exploit my face and pin it on to a Madonna,” the girl insisted.
“No one’s exploited you,” said Don Camillo. “What are you driving at, anyhow?”
“People have seen a Madonna with my face!” Celestina shouted. “Deny it if you can!”
“Impossible!” said Don Camillo. “But since it’s true that some people see a slight resemblance, the fresco is going to be scraped away and done over.”
“I want to see it!” Celestina shouted. “And I want to be present when you take my face out of it!”
Don Camillo looked at her ugly expression and thought of the gentle countenance of the Madonna of the River.
“It isn’t your face,” he said. “Come and see for yourself.” The girl walked quickly to the chapel and came to a halt in front of the rail. Don Camillo took the pole and removed the cloth cover. Then he looked at Celestina. As she stood motionless, staring up at the picture, something extraordinary happened. Her face relaxed while her eyes lost their malice and became gentler and more serene. The vulgarity disappeared, and gradually she seemed to take on the expression of the painting. The artist gripped Don Camillo’s arm.
“That’s how I saw her!” he exclaimed.
Don Camillo motioned to him to be silent. A few moments later Celestina said in a low voice:
“How beautiful!” She could not take her eyes off the picture, and finally she turned to say to Don Camillo: “Please don’t destroy it! Or at least, not too soon.” And to his surprise she knelt down in front of the Madonna of the River and made the sign of the cross.
When Don Camillo was left alone in the church, he covered the fresco and then went to talk to the Crucified Christ over the main altar.
“Lord, what’s going on?” he asked anxiously.
“Painting’s not my business,” answered Christ with a smile.
The next morning the young artist rode off on his bicycle to La Rocca. The tavern was empty, as usual, and Celestina sat, leaning over her sewing, at the door.
“I came to pay what I owe you,” said the young man.
She raised her head, and he felt better because she had the gentle and serene expression of the painting on her face.
“You’re a real artist!” she sighed. “That Madonna is a beauty. It would be a shame to take her away.”
“I quite agree. I put my heart and soul into her, but people say an excommunicated Madonna won’t do.”
“I’m not excommunicated any longer,” said Celestina with a smile. “I fixed that up this morning.” And she proceeded to explain what steps she had taken.
Then she took advantage of the young man’s surprise to ask whether it was his wife that kept his clothes so well mended and in such good order. He said that it wasn’t, because he lived all alone and had no one to look after him. She observed with a sigh, that after a certain age, living alone was a tedious affair, even when a girl had any number of suitors. The time came when the thing to do was to settle down and have a family. He agreed on this point, but said that he had barely enough money to support himself. That, said Celestina, was because he lived in the city, where things were twice as expensive. If he were to move to the country, life would be much simpler, especially if he found a girl with a little house of her own and a parcel of land that only needed further development. He started to say something else, but just then the clock rang out noon. The hours have a way of flying when one engages in a conversation of this kind. Celestina went to fetch the usual bread, sausage, and wine, and when he had finished eating he asked her:
“How much do I owe you?”
“You can pay tomorrow,” she answered.
* * *
The Madonna of the River remained concealed for about a month longer. But on the day when the artist and Celestina were married, with all possible splendour, including organ music, Don Camillo drew the curtain and threw on the lights in the chapel. He was slightly worried about what people might say about the Madonna’s resemblance to Celestina. But their only comment was:
“Celestina must wish she were equally beautiful! But she doesn’t really look like Her at all!”
The Procession
DON CAMILLO waited patiently for things to come to a head, and although he waited a long time, it was not in vain. One morning the man he was expecting turned up at the rectory.
“Is there any change in the programme, Father,” he asked, “or is it just the same as other years?”
“Just the same,” said Don Camillo, “except for one detail: no music in the procession.”
This “one detail” made Tofini, leader of the local band, suffer considerable distress.
“No music?” he stammered. “Why not?”
“Orders from higher up,” said Don Camillo, throwing out his arms helplessly.
Still Tofini couldn’t believe it.
“Do you mean there’s to be no more band-playing in any parades?”
“No,” said Don Camillo, with icy calm. “It means that there’s no more room in my procession for your band.”
Tofini’s collection of brasses was known as the “Verdi Band,” but it was no great shakes from a musical point of view. However, it was no worse than other bands in that part of the country and no one had ever dreamed of looking elsewhere for the musical accompaniment to a religious or patriotic display.
“If we suited you in previous years and now you don’t want us any more, what’s the matter?” asked the dismayed Tofini. �
�Have we lost our art?”
“That’s something you never had. But you know the reason perfectly well.”
“Father, I don’t know a thing!”
“Then ask around until you find out who played the International in the village square two months ago?”
“We did,” answered Tofini, “but I don’t see anything wrong in that.”
“I do, though.”
“But you know us, Father. You know we don’t go in for politics. We play for anyone that hires us. Two months ago the mayor asked us to play in the square and we put on a programme of marches and operatic airs. Then people called for the International, the mayor said to play it, and we obliged.”
“And if you’d been asked for the Fascist anthem, Giovinezza or the Royal March, would you have played them too?”
“No. They’re forbidden by law. But the International isn’t forbidden.”
“It’s forbidden by the Church,” said Don Camillo. “If you respect the laws of the State and not those of the church, you may be a good citizen, but you’re a very bad Christian. As a good citizen, you can go on playing in the square. But as a bad Christian, you can’t play in a Church procession.”
“Father, that’s no way to reason. Everyone has his own way of making a living. And if everyone that works for the Communists were a bad Christian, where would we be now? Printers couldn’t put out Communist papers, chemists couldn’t sell medicine to Party members…. When a man pursues his regular trade, politics and religion don’t come into it. A doctor takes care of anyone that’s sick, regardless of his party. And when we make music for money, we’re simply dealing in the only commodity we have to sell. The Overture to William Tell and the International are all the same to us. The notes may be in different order, but they’re still the same old A B C.”
Don Camillo’s Dilemma Page 11