“There’s no God in this, and no politics either,” said Peppone, puffing like a trolley car on the Mulino Nuovo hill. “This is a patriotic matter. I’m here in my capacity of citizen mayor and you in your capacity of citizen priest.”
Don Camillo spread out his arms in welcome.
“Speak, citizen mayor! The citizen priest is all ears.”
Peppone stood in front of the table where Don Camillo was sitting, while his followers silently lined up behind him with their legs wide apart and their arms crossed over their chests.
“The Nemesis of History…” Peppone began, somewhat to Don Camillo’s alarm, “… and not only the Nemesis of History but the Nemesis of Geography as well, and if that isn’t enough…”
“I think it is enough,” said Don Camillo, feeling reassured by the addition of Geography. “Just tell me what it’s all about.”
Peppone turned toward his followers with an indignant and ironical smile.
“They claim independence and home rule,” he said, “and yet they don’t know what’s going on a mere fifty yards away.”
“They’re still living in the egotistical Middle Ages,” said Smilzo unctuously. “Cicero pro domo sua and let the people eat cake!”
Don Camillo looked up at him.
“Are they teaching you Latin now?” he asked.
“Why not?” Smilzo retorted. “Do you think you have a monopoly on culture?”
But Peppone interrupted this exchange.
“They’re a hunch of unpatriotic scoundrels who want to usurp the sacred rights of the people by setting up an utterly unfounded claim to independence. I’m speaking of those wretched citizens of Fontanile, who want to secede from our township and set up a village administration of their own. We must nip their attempt in the bud by a manifesto outlining from A to Z the historical and geographical Nemesis which makes this town their capital city and their miserable village a mere suburb or dependency…”
The discovery of what Peppone meant by “historical and geographical Nemesis” was not completely reassuring after all. Don Camillo knew his river valley and was aware of the fact that when two of its communities started to bicker, even on the basis of such a big word as “nemesis,” it was no laughing matter. Between these two in particular there was considerable unfinished business. And for some time the inhabitants of Fontanile had had this home-rule bug in their bonnets. They had struck the first blow in 1902, when three or four groups of four houses each had put together the money to erect a public building, complete with arcade, sweeping stairway, clock tower and coat-of-arms over the door. This was to be the town hall. Then there was such an internal row about it that the police were called in and several citizens went to jail. That was as far as they got then. But the building remained and it was never put to any other use. They tried again in 1920, just after the First World War, but with no more success. And this was a third attempt. Don Camillo proceeded to feel his way cautiously.
“Have you tried talking to them about it?” he asked.
“Me talk to them?” shouted Peppone. “The only language I can make them understand is the Tommy gun.”
“It doesn’t seem as if negotiations would get very far on that basis,” observed Don Camillo.
Peppone couldn’t have been any angrier if his status had been lowered to that of a feudal serf.
“We’ll act in strictly democratic fashion,” he said with painful deliberation. “We’ll draw up a statement explaining the historical and geographical Nemesis, and if they’re too dense to understand it…”
Here Peppone paused, and Bigio, who was the best balanced of the gang, put in somberly: “If they don’t understand, we’ll start pushing them around.”
When the slow-going Bigio spoke in these terms, it meant that things were close to the boiling point. Don Camillo tried another tack.
“If they want to secede, why not let them do it? What do you care?”
“It doesn’t matter to me personally,” shouted Peppone, “but it’s an attack on the sovereignty of the people. This is the seat of the township. If we lose Fontanile and some of the territory beyond La Rocchetta, what’s left? What sort of a whistle stop would this be? Are you by any chance unpatriotic too?”
Don Camillo sighed.
“Why turn it into a tragedy? Fontanile has never been allowed to set itself up as an independent village, has it? Why should the authorities allow it to do so now? There’s no change in the situation.”
Peppone brought his fist down on the table.
“That’s what you say!” he shouted ironically. “There’s a political factor involved. Our Party is entrenched in the town hall and over at Fontanile they’re all reactionaries. So the national government would be glad to see some of our land and our people fall under a different administration!”
Don Camillo looked at him hard.
“You’re the citizen mayor and in politics up to your ears so you ought to know. As a mere citizen priest, I’m in the dark.”
Smilzo came forward and pointed an accusing finger at him. “You hireling of the Americans!” he said cuttingly.
Don Camillo shrugged his shoulders.
“Well what are we going to do?” he asked Peppone.
“The first thing is to draw up a manifesto embodying our historical, geographical and economic arguments.”
“And where am I to find them?” asked Don Camillo.
“That’s up to you. Didn’t they teach you anything at the seminary except how to make propaganda for America?… After that we’ll see. If they drop their plan, all right; if they don’t, we’ll send them an intimatum to the effect that either they drop it or else … or else the will of the people shall decide!”
“God’s will, you mean,” Don Camillo corrected him.
“God doesn’t come into this, we’ve said that already,” replied Peppone. “But I’ll take care of the intimatum, anyhow.”
Don Camillo spent half the night putting together a manifesto of the reasons why Fontanile should not set itself up as an independent village. The hardest part was to reconcile the conflicting points of view and not to tread on anybody’s toes. Finally the manifesto was sent to the printer and then a group of young men went to paste it up at Fontanile.
* * *
At noon the next day a box was delivered to Peppone at the town hall. It contained one of the posters that had been pasted up at Fontanile the night before, and rolled up inside was something extremely unpleasant. Peppone wrapped it up again and hurried over to the rectory, where he unfolded it in front of Don Camillo.
“Here is the answer from Fontanile,” he said.
“Very well,” said Don Camillo. “I wrote the statement, so that’s meant for me. Leave it here and don’t think about it anymore.”
Peppone shook his head. He folded it up again and started to go silently away. But at the door he turned around.
“Citizen priest,” he said, “you’ll soon have plenty of work to do.”
Don Camillo was so taken aback that he could find nothing to answer. Peppone’s words had transfixed him with fear.
“Lord,” he said to Christ at the altar. “Haven’t war and politics put enough hate into these men’s hearts?”
“Unfortunately they can always find room for more,” Christ sighed.
War of Secession
MESSENGERS were coming and going at the town hall all day long, and Don Camillo could not make out what those devils were up to, especially as everybody claimed not to know. But toward nine o’clock in the evening, when he was preparing to go to bed, someone knocked at the shutter of the window on the Church square. It was Smilzo, who said at once: “You’ve got to come to the town hall immediately. Hurry up, because the people have no time to wait upon the convenience of the clergy.”
Smilzo was even more peremptory than usual. He felt that he could be so quite safely with the grating of the window between Don Camillo and himself, and furthermore his tone of voice made it plain that he believed t
hat he was entrusted with an unusually important mission.
“What do you mean by the people?” Don Camillo asked him. “People like yourself?”
“I didn’t come here for a political discussion. If you’re afraid to come out of your lair, that’s another matter.”
Don Camillo threw on his coat and picked up an umbrella, because just for a change it was raining.
“May I be told what’s going on?” he asked along the way.
“It’s not something that can be discussed on the street,” said Smilzo. “That’s just as if I were to ask you about the latest secret instructions sent you by the Pope.”
“Leave the Pope alone,” said Don Camillo, “or I’ll break this umbrella over your head. The Pope has nothing to do with it.”
“Whether he does or doesn’t is something that we shall see about later, come the revolution,” said Smilzo. “But never mind about that just now. You’ll see what’s going on when we reach the Town Hall.”
Before they arrived a sentry halted them.
“Give the password,” said a voice.
“Venezia,” said Smilzo.
“Milano,” came the reply.
Once they were by, Don Camillo asked what was the meaning of all this nonsense, but Smilzo said that it wasn’t nonsense at all.
“It’s war,” he maintained.
When they walked into the council room, Don Camillo was very much surprised. The place was full of people, and not people to be dismissed as unimportant, either. All the notables of the village were there, representing all shades of political opinion, with nobody missing. There was a sepulchral silence, and evidently they were waiting for Don Camillo, for when he came in, they made way before him. Then Peppone stood up and gave an explanation.
“Father,” he said, “at this tragic time, when our country is in danger, you see here before you our most representative citizens, without distinction of party; farmers, workers, landowners, and shopkeepers, all joined in one faith. The attempt of an irresponsible group to trespass on our sacred rights must be defeated at any cost whatsoever … and so far I believe we all agree.”
“Good,” was the crowd’s unanimous reply.
“In order to do away with any suspicion of party intrigue, the representatives of every faction have decided to choose someone who shall impartially pass upon every decision made by the Committee for Public Safety for the defense of the village. By a secret ballot you were elected, and so, overcoming our political differences, we call upon you to be a member of the Committee in the role of neutral observer.”
“I accept,” said Don Camillo, looking around him, and the crowd applauded him loudly.
“We welcome your help. Here, then, is the situation. The people of Fontanile have answered our statement, duly approved by the representative of the Vatican here present, in an insulting and anti-democratic manner. In short, they have defied their capital city.”
An angry murmur arose from the audience.
“Yes!” shouted Peppone. “On historical, geographical, and economic grounds we may call our village the spiritual capital of the whole township, a capital one and indivisible forever?”
“Well spoken!” called the crowd.
Peppone had now swung into high gear and was going full speed ahead.
“Strengthened by this gathering’s lofty spirit of concord and comprehension we say that we will not tolerate the ‘home-rulers’ of Fontanile, in their attempt to secede from our township and set up a village administration of their own. We suggest sending them an intimatum to say: Either drop the idea or we’ll make you drop it. Because democracy is all very well, but when you’re dealing with a bunch of people like those at Fontanile…”
Peppone was so swollen with rage that he looked even bigger and stronger than usual and his audience stared at him in fascination. Unfortunately, with the word “Fontanile” his vocabulary suddenly gave out and he could not find another word to say. He was standing on a two-inch-thick telephone book, and he seized upon this and slowly twisted it in his hands until it was torn in two. In the river valley an argument of this kind is invariably decisive. The assembly let out a yell of enthusiasm, and when Peppone threw the two parts of the book on the table before him, crying: “And this is our intimatum!” the applause threatened to bring down the ceiling. When quiet once more prevailed, Peppone turned to Don Camillo.
“Will the neutral observer give us the benefit of his opinion?”
Don Camillo got up and said calmly but in a loud voice: “My opinion is that you’re all crazy.”
His words were like an icy wind, and a heavy silence fell over the gathering.
“You’ve lost all sense of reality and proportion,” Don Camillo continued. “It’s as if you were building a skyscraper on a six-inch foundation, with the result that the whole thing will topple down on you. It isn’t a question of sending ultimatums or tearing telephone books in two. We must use our heads, and if we do so it is clear that there’s no use even discussing the matter until the authorities give Fontanile permission to secede.”
“But we’re the authorities,” shouted Peppone. “This is a matter for our concern.”
Looking at the assembly, Don Camillo saw old man Rocchi rise from his seat in the front row.
“We agree, Father,” said Rocchi, “that we should act calmly and not dramatize the situation. But if we wait for the authorities to give their permission, then our protest will be a revolt against the government. We must, in orderly fashion, of course, prevent Fontanile from putting in any request for home rule. I think the mayor is wrong to speak of using force, but the substance of what he says is right.”
“Good!” came voices from the assembly. “The mayor has the right idea, even if we belong to different political parties. Politics doesn’t come into this at all; it’s the welfare of the village that’s at stake. And let’s be frank. We know what sort of people they are in Fontanile, and this is something we can’t stand for.”
Peppone shot a triumphant glance at Don Camillo and Don Camillo threw out his arms in dismay.
“It’s a sad fact,” he said, “but people seem to agree only when it comes to doing something very foolish. But before carrying things too far, the two parties to the dispute must have a discussion. We must send a committee over to Fontanile.”
“Of course,” said Rocchi, and all the others nodded assent.
Peppone had no more telephone books to which he could give a “twister,” but he took something out of the drawer of the table. This was the famous and insulting answer from Fontanile.
“How can you ‘discuss’ anything with people like these?” he asked.
At that the crowd became very restless.
“Even an intimatum would be too good for the likes of them,” said farmer Sacchini, shaking his big stick. “This is the only language they can understand.”
Don Camillo felt himself entirely alone.
“It’s no use my asking God to illuminate your minds,” he cried, “because it’s plain you haven’t any. But I say that you simply can’t do any of these things you propose.”
“Who’ll stop us?” asked Peppone.
“I will,” said Don Camillo. He went resolutely to the door and then turned around while he put up his umbrella. “I’m going straight to the police sergeant,” he said. “That may change your plans.”
“You spy!” Peppone shouted, pointing an accusing finger at him from the platform. The crowd formed a wall between Don Camillo and Peppone, and the priest had no alternative but to go straight to the police station.
* * *
The forces of the law, consisting of the sergeant and four men, were put on watch, half at Fontanile and half in the “capital city.” The sergeant, since he could not be split in two, rode on his bicycle to reënforce first one squad and then the other. Three days went by and nothing happened.
“It’s clear that they’ve thought better of it,” the sergeant said to Don Camillo. “They seem to have calmed do
wn.”
“Here’s hoping God gave them minds and then illuminated them,” Don Camillo replied without much conviction.
But on the afternoon of the fourth day an ugly incident took place at a big farm known as Case Nuove. A group of unemployed farm laborers swarmed over the place in bicycles saying that they must be given work. Among other things, their claim was a stupid one, for it had rained for ten days in succession and the only work anyone could do in the fields was to walk a couple of yards and then sink up to the hips in mud. Obviously it was a trouble-making political maneuver. But for fear the farmer or some of his family might pull out a shotgun, the sergeant had to despatch his men to the spot. Toward evening Don Camillo went to look the situation over. The farm had been cleared of intruders, and these were wandering about in small groups not far away.
“If we leave, they’ll be back in five minutes and start more trouble,” said the sergeant. “Night is coming, and that’s a tricky time where something like this is concerned.”
Don Camillo ran into one of the groups on his way home and recognized among it the tailor from Molinetto.
“Have you changed your trade?” the priest asked him, “and turned into an unemployed farm laborer?”
“If people weren’t so inquisitive, it would be a very fine thing,” grumbled the tailor.
A little farther on Don Camillo met the old postman riding a bicycle, with a tool-box slung around his shoulder, which served him for his supplementary job as linesman for the telephone and telegraph systems. The priest was surprised to see him out so late, but the old man explained:
“I’m having a look around. The storm must have brought down a wire somewhere. Neither the telephone nor the telegraph is working.”
Instead of going back to the rectory, Don Camillo went to Brelli’s house. He wrote a hurried note and gave it to the youngest boy to deliver.
“Take your motorcycle and get this to the parish priest at Villetta as fast as you can. It’s a matter of life and death.”
Don Camillo and his Flock Page 14