Don Camillo and his Flock

by Giovanni Guareschi

  “Lord,” he implored through clenched teeth, “give me more gas! And you, you filthy machine, let’s see if you have any real guts in you!” The racer seemed to leap ahead, passing all the rest, including Peppone, who didn’t have Don Camillo’s Lord to give him more gas!

  * * *

  Don Camillo could not remember the details of his arrival. They told him that he charged in with a child in his arms, took the hospital doorman by the neck, thrust a door open with one shoulder and threatened to strangle a doctor. The “flying squad” went home leaving Peppone’s boy in the hospital to recover. That same night Don Camillo returned to the village blowing his horns full blast and covered with glorious mud.

  Horses of a Different Color

  THEY CALLED HIM Romagnolo, simply because he came from the province of Romagna. He had come to the village years ago, but he was still romagnolo to the core. And to explain what this means I must tell you that this man had the nickname of “Civil-and-with-the-band”. In the course of a political rally, the platform under him gave way and he started to fall to the ground. Upon which he called out with alacrity: “Civil, and with the band!” to signify that he wanted a civil burial, and not a church one, with the band playing the Hymn of Garibaldi in slow tempo for a funeral march. When they start a new town in Romagna, they first throw up a monument to Garibaldi and then build a church because theres no fun in a civil funeral unless it spites the parish priest.

  The whole history of the province is concerned with spite of this kind.

  Now Romagnolo was a man with the gift of gab and one who spoke with the big words that can be read in revolutionary papers. The fact that there was no more king had knocked the props from under his pet subject for an argument, so he had to concentrate his heavy artillery upon the clergy. He finished every speech with the sentence:

  “When I die, I want a civil funeral and the band playing.”

  Don Camillo was acquainted with the whole story, but had never paid it any attention. And so one day Romagnolo buttonholed him in order to say:

  “For your information, remember that after having steered clear of you my whole life long, I intend to steer clear of you when I’m dead, I don’t want any priest at my funeral.”

  “Very well,” said Don Camillo calmly. “Only you’re barking up the wrong tree. You ought to go to the veterinary. I look after Christian souls, not animals.”

  Romagnolo started to make a speech.

  “When that Pope of yours…”

  “Don’t bother anyone so far away. Let’s stick to present company. I’ll have to pray God to grant you a long life so that you’ll have plenty of time to think better of it.”

  When Romagnolo celebrated his ninetieth birthday the whole village turned out for the festivities, including Don Camillo, who walked up to him with a smile and said: “Congratulations!”

  Romagnolo shot him a resentful look and shouted:

  “You’d better pray to your God again. Some day or other He’ll have to let me die. And then it will be my turn to laugh.”

  The strange business of the horses took place in the following year.

  * * *

  The business of the horses took place in a village on the other side of the river.

  A seventy-four year old Red had died, and they held a civil funeral with red flags, red carnations, red kerchiefs, and in short red everything. The coffin was placed on the hearse carriage, the band began to play the song “Red Flag,” in funereal tempo, and the horses started forward with their heads hanging low as they always did on such occasions. Behind them came the procession, with red flags flying. But when they reached the church, the horses came to a stop and no one could make them budge. Several men pulled them by their bridles and others pushed the hearse from behind, but the horses stood their ground. When someone took a whip and began to beat them over the back, the horses reared up and then fell onto their knees. Finally they were set on their feet and walked along for a short distance, but when they got to the cemetery they reared up again and started to go backward.

  The old man himself hadn’t refused to have a religious funeral, the newspapers explained; his sons had imposed their ideas upon him. The story travelled all over the countryside, and anyone who wanted to test the truth of it had only to cross the river to hear it first-hand. Whenever a little knot of people gathered to discuss it, Romagnolo would descend upon them, shouting: “Middle Ages. That’s stuff for the Middle Ages!”

  And he went on to say that there was nothing miraculous about it; there was a perfectly rational explanation. For years immemorial the horses had stopped in front of the church, and so they had followed their usual habit this time as well. People were impressed by this version of the story and went to Don Camillo about it.

  “What do you say?”

  Don Camillo threw out his arms.

  “Divine Providence knows no limits, and may well choose the humblest flower or tree or stone to teach a lesson to men. The sad part of it is that men pay so little attention to those of their fellows whose job it is to explain God’s word, and choose rather to heed the example given them by a horse or a dog.”

  Many people were disappointed with this way of speaking and some of Don Camillo’s most important parishioners brought their complaints to the rectory.

  “Father, this thing has created quite a sensation. Instead of dismissing it so lightly, you ought to interpret it and bring out its moral teaching.”

  “I can’t say anything more than what I said before,” answered Don Camillo. “When God decided to give men the Ten Commandments he did it, not through a horse, but through a man. Do you think that God is so badly off as to call upon horses? You know the facts; let each one of you take from them what lesson he may. If you don’t like what I have said, go to the bishop and tell him to put a horse in my place.”

  Meanwhile Romagnolo was sputtering with rage, because people shrugged their shoulders at his explanation.

  “That’s all very well,” they said, “there’s nothing extraordinary or miraculous involved, but…”

  So it was that Romagnolo buttonholed Don Camillo again.

  “Father, you’re just the man I wanted to see. What is the official interpretation of the horse story?”

  “Barking up the wrong tree, as usual,” Don Camillo replied with a smile. “Horses aren’t my line. You ought to go to the veterinary.”

  Romagnolo made a long speech to explain the horses’ behavior, and at the end Don Camillo simply threw out his arms.

  “I can see that the thing has made quite an impression upon you. If it has caused you to stop and think, then I say thank God for it.”

  Romagnolo raised a threatening, skinny finger.

  “I can tell you one thing,” he said, “and that is, the horses won’t stop when my coffin passes by!”

  Don Camillo went to talk to Christ on the altar.

  “Lord, the foolish things he says are not meant to hurt You; they’re just barbs directed at me. When he comes up for Judgment, remember that he hails from Romagna. The trouble is that he’s over ninety, and anyone could knock him over with a feather. If he were in his prime, it would be a different matter. I’d get after him.”

  “Don Camillo, the system of teaching Christian charity by knocking people over the head is one that doesn’t appeal to me,” Christ answered severely.

  “I don’t approve of it myself,” said Don Camillo humbly. “But the fact is that often the ideas people have in their heads aren’t so bad; it’s just that they’re in bad order. And sometimes a good shaking-up will cause them to fall into place.”

  * * *

  Romagnolo went to Peppone’s office and declared with no preamble: “Take this piece of legal paper, call two of your jumping-jacks to bear witness, and write down what I say.”

  He threw the piece of paper on the mayor’s desk and sat down.

  “Put the date on top and write clearly: I, the undersigned Libero Martelli, ninety-one years old, by profession a free-
thinker, in full possession of all my faculties, desire that upon my death all my property and possessions be transferred to this township for the purpose of buying a motor hearse to take the place of the present horse-drawn vehicle…”

  Peppone stopped writing.

  “Well?” said Romagnolo. “Do you want me to leave all my worldly goods to the priest?”

  “I accept, of course,” Peppone stuttered. “But how are we to buy a motor hearse so soon? It would cost at least a million and a half liras, and we…”

  “I have two millions in the bank. Just go ahead and buy it, and I’ll pay.”

  Romagnolo came out of the town hall glowing with satisfaction and for the first time in his life went deliberately to the church square.

  “Everything’s settled, Father!” he shouted. “When I go by in my coffin, the horses won’t stop. I’ve taken care of priests and horses alike.”

  * * *

  Romagnolo got too excited and drank more than was good for him. Not that wine did him in, after having been good for him all his life long. Water was his downfall. Coming home one night, full to the gills with wine, he was so overpoweringly sleepy that he lay down in a ditch. At over ninety years of age, spending the night in a puddle of water isn’t exactly healthy. Romagnolo caught pneumonia and died. But before closing his eyes he summoned Peppone.

  “Is everything agreed?” he asked him.

  “Yes. Your wishes will be faithfully observed.”

  Romagnolo was the motor hearse’s first customer. And the whole village turned out to see its inauguration. The band struck up, and the hearse moved slowly and steadily along. But in front of the church it came to a sudden stop. The driver wriggled the gear lever frantically, but all in vain. He looked under the hood, but found the spark plugs, carburetor and points all in perfect order and the tank full of gasoline. The church door was closed, but Don Camillo was looking through a crack. He saw men milling about the hearse, and the hearse standing, obviously stuck, among them. The band had stopped playing and the bystanders had fallen into an astonished silence. The minutes dragged by, until Don Camillo ran to the sacristy and pulled the bell rope.

  “God have mercy on you,” he panted; “God have mercy on you…”

  And the bells tolled out in the silent air. People shook themselves and the driver shifted the gear. The motor started and the motor hearse pulled away. No one could follow it any longer, because the driver put it into second and then into third gear, and it disappeared in a cloud of dust in the direction of the cemetery.

  Blue Sunday

  OLD MAN GROLINI turned up at the rectory to show Don Camillo a letter. Under the watchful eye of his dog, Thunder, Don Camillo was greasing cartridges for his shotgun. Even before he read the letter he threw a questioning look at Grolini.

  “The usual thing,” Grolini sputtered. “That little wretch is in hot water again.”

  The headmaster of young Grolini’s boarding-school was thoroughly dissatisfied with him and wanted his father to do something about it.

  “You’d better go in my place,” Grolini said. “If I go, I’m likely to hit him over the head. When you see him, Father, tell him that if he doesn’t behave I’ll kick him out of the house.”

  Don Camillo shook his head.

  “That would be even more stupid than hitting him over the head,” he muttered. “How can anyone kick a boy out of the house when he’s only eleven years old?”

  “If I can’t kick him out of the house, then I’ll send him to the reformatory,” shouted Grolini. “I don’t want to see him again!”

  Seeing that the father was not to be appeased, Don Camillo finally said: “I’ll go talk to him Sunday afternoon…”

  “Then I authorize you to kick him about the school grounds,” Grolini shouted. “The worse you treat him the better pleased I’ll be.”

  After Grolini had gone, Don Camillo turned the letter over and over in his hands. The matter troubled him, because he had been the one to advise Grolini to encourage the boy in his studies and send him away to school. Grolini was a rich man. He tilled the soil, but the soil was his own. It was fertile soil, to boot, and he had livestock in his stable and as many tractors and other agricultural machines as he could desire. Giacomino, his youngest son, was a quick-witted fellow, who had always done well at school, and his father was attracted by the idea of having a university graduate in the family. Not to mention his wife, who gave herself very great airs. So it was that as soon as Giacomino had finished elementary school he was bundled off to the city. Don Camillo had filled out his application papers and escorted him there in person. Giacomino was one of the mildest and best boys Don Camillo had ever known. He had been an acolyte for years and never got himself into the least trouble. So now the priest could not understand why he had turned out so badly.

  * * *

  When Sunday came, Don Camillo appeared at the boarding-school at the visitors’ hour. When the headmaster heard the name of Grolini he held his head in his hands. Don Camillo threw out his arms in a gesture of hopelessness.

  “I’m amazed,” he said with mortification. “I always knew him to be a good, obedient boy. I can’t understand why he should be so wild.”

  “ ‘Wild’ isn’t exactly the word for it,” the headmaster put in. “His conduct doesn’t give us any worry. But we’re more concerned about him than about the worst boys in the school.”

  He took an envelope out of his desk drawer and drew forth a sheet of paper.

  “Look at this composition,” he said.

  Don Camillo found himself looking at a clean paper, bearing on it in neat writing: Giacomo Grolini. Class 1B. Theme: My favorite book. Exposition.

  Turning the page, he came upon a perfect blank.

  “There you are,” said the headmaster, holding out the entire envelope to him. “All his class work follows the same pattern. He neatly puts down the theme subject or problem, then sits back with folded arms and waits for the time to go by. When he’s asked a question, he makes no answer. First we thought he must be a perfect idiot. But we’ve watched him and listened to him talk to his companions, and we find he isn’t an idiot at all. Quite the contrary.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” said Don Camillo. “I’ll take him to some quiet place outside, and if necessary, I’ll give him a proper dressing-down.”

  The headmaster looked at Don Camillo’s big hands.

  “If you can’t bring him around that way, I’m afraid there’s nothing more to do,” he mumbled. “He has no right to leave the premises after the way he’s behaved, but I’ll give him permission to stay out with you until five o’clock.”

  When Giacomino arrived on the scene a few minutes later, Don Camillo did not even recognize him. Quite aside from his school uniform and closely clipped hair, there was something entirely new in his manner.

  “Have no fear,” Don Camillo said to the headmaster, “I’ll work on him.”

  They walked in silence through the empty streets, typical of a tedious Sunday afternoon, and beside the bulky priest, Giacomino looked smaller and skinnier than ever. When they had reached the outskirts, Don Camillo looked around for a place where they could talk freely. He turned onto a thoroughfare leading out into the country and then fifty yards later onto a dirt road running along a canal. The sun was shining, and although the trees were bare, the landscape was pleasant to the eye. Finally Don Camillo sat down on a tree trunk. He had in mind the speech he intended to make to the boy, and it was ferocious enough to make an elephant quiver. Giacomino stood in front of him and suddenly said:

  “May I have a run?”

  “A run?” said Don Camillo severely. “Can’t you run during recreation at school?”

  “Yes, but not very far,” the boy answered. “There’s always a wall in the way.”

  Don Camillo looked at the boy’s pale face and clipped hair.

  “Have your run, then,” he said, “and then come here. I want to talk to you.”

  Giacomino was off like a bolt
of lightning, and Don Camillo saw him cross the field, duck under a fence and run parallel to it under some bare grapevines. A few minutes later he came back, with his eyes and cheeks glowing.

  “Rest a minute and then we’ll talk,” mumbled Don Camillo.

  The boy sat down, but a minute later he jumped to his feet and ran over to an elm near by. He climbed it like a squirrel and made for a vine among its top branches. He explored among the red leaves and then came down with something in his hand.

  “Grapes!” he exclaimed to Don Camillo, showing him a cluster that had survived the Fall picking. He proceeded to eat the grapes one by one and when he had finished he sat down beside the trunk.

  “May I throw a stone?” he asked.

  Don Camillo continued to lie low. “Go ahead and amuse yourself,” he was thinking, “and we’ll talk business later.”

  The boy rose, picked up a stone, brushed the dirt off it and threw it with all his strength. Don Camillo had a feeling that the stone had flown behind the clouds, never to return. A cold wind had blown up, and Don Camillo began to think they had better repair to some quiet café, where he wouldn’t have to shout in order to make the boy hear him. As they walked away, Giacomino asked permission to run ahead and found another cluster of grapes left from the Fall.

  “That’s just a small part of what there must have been on the vine!” he murmured as he ate them. “At home now, they must have hung up the grapes to dry…”

  “Never mind about the grapes,” Don Camillo mumbled.

  The outskirts of the city were squalid and melancholy. As they walked along they met a man selling roast chestnuts and peanuts. Giacomino opened his eyes wide.