Don Camillo and his Flock

by Giovanni Guareschi

  “Perhaps, Lord, men’s reliance upon the magic of numbers is just a desperate attempt to justify their existence as thinking beings.” He remained uneasily silent for a minute and then went on, “Lord, are ideas finite? Are there no new ideas or have men thought up everything there is to be thought?”

  “Don Camillo, what do you mean by ideas?”

  “As a poor country priest, all I can say is that ideas are lamps shining through the night of human ignorance and lighting up some new aspect of the greatness of the Creator.”

  Christ smiled.

  “Poor country priest,” He said, “you’re not so far from right. Once a hundred men were shut into an enormous dark room, each one of them with an unlit lamp. One of them managed to light his lamp, and so they all could see one another and get to know one another. As the rest lit their lamps, more and more of the objects around them came into view, until finally everything in the room stood out as good and beautiful. Now, follow me closely, Don Camillo, there were a hundred lamps, only one idea yet it took the light of all the lamps to reveal the details of everything in the room. Every flame was one hundredth part of one great idea, one great light, the idea of the existence and majesty of the Creator, it was as if a man had broken a statuette into a hundred pieces and given one piece to each of a hundred men. The hundred men groped for one another and tried to fit the fragments together, making thousands of misshapen figures until at last they joined them properly. I repeat, Don Camillo, that every man lit his own lamp and the light of the hundred lamps together was Truth and Revelation. This should have satisfied them. But each man thought that the beauty of the objects he saw around him was due to the light of his own lamp, which had brought them out of the darkness. Some men stopped to worship their own lamps, and others wandered off in various directions, until the great light was broken up into a hundred flames, each one of which could illuminate only a fraction of the truth. And so you see, Don Camillo, that the hundred lamps must come together again in order to find the true light. Today men wander mistrustfully about, each one in the light of his own lamp, with an area of melancholy darkness all around him, clinging to the slightest detail of whatever object he can illuminate by himself. And so I say that ideas do not exist; there is only one Idea, one Truth with a hundred facets. Ideas are neither finite nor finished, because there is only this one and eternal Idea. But men must join their fellows again like those in the enormous room.”

  Don Camillo threw out his arms.

  “There’s no going back,” he sighed. “Today men use the oil of their lamps to grease their filthy machines and machine guns.”

  Christ smiled.

  “In the Kingdom of Heaven,” He said, “oil is so bountiful it runs in rivers.”

  * * *

  In the rectory Don Camillo found Brusco waiting.

  Brusco was Peppone’s right-hand man, a big fellow who opened his mouth only when he had something important to say. He spat out an average of no more than ten or fifteen words a day.

  “Somebody must be dead. Who is it?” Don Camillo asked him.

  “Nobody. But I’m in trouble.”

  “Did you kill somebody by mistake?”

  “No, it’s on account of my son.”

  “Which one? Falchetto?”

  “No, none of the eight that are here at home. The one that’s been in Sicily all these years.”

  Don Camillo remembered that in 1938 one of Brusco’s sisters, who had married a man with land holdings in Sicily, had come to visit him. Before going home she had lined up Brusco’s nine children.

  “Can I have one?” she asked him.

  “Take whichever one you like best.”

  “I’ll take the least dirty of the lot.”

  And her choice felt upon Cecotto, who happened to have just washed his face. He was about eight years old and somehow different from the rest.

  “Let’s be quite frank if we want to stay friends,” said Brusco’s sister. “I’ll take him and bring him up and you’ll never see him again.”

  Brusco’s wife had just died, and to be relieved of responsibility for one of his nine children was a blessing from Heaven. He nodded assent and only when his sister was at the door did he tug at her sleeve and say:

  “Do you mind taking Falchetto instead?”

  “I wouldn’t have him even as a gift,” she answered, as if she had paid hard cash for Cecotto.

  * * *

  Don Camillo remembered the whole story.

  “Well then?” he asked.

  “I haven’t seen him for twelve years,” said Brusco, “but he’s always written to me, and now he says he’s coming home for a visit.”

  Don Camillo looked at him hard.

  “Brusco, has the Five-year Plan gone to your head? Is it such a misfortune to see your son? Are you Reds ashamed of your own children?”

  “No, I’m not ashamed even of Falchetto, who’s one of the biggest cowards I’ve ever known. It’s my fault, not his, if he’s turned out the way he has. This is an entirely different matter. In Sicily they’re all reactionaries of one kind or another: barons, landowners, priests and so on. Of course, a son’s a son, no matter what he does. But if he comes here I’ll fall into disgrace with the Party. I should have let the Party know about the whole situation…”

  Don Camillo could hold himself back no longer.

  “Come on and let the cat out of the bag!” he exclaimed. “What has the poor fellow done?”

  Brusco lowered his head.

  “They sent him to school…” he muttered.

  “Well, you’re not ashamed of him for that, are you?”

  “No, but he’s studying for the priesthood.”

  Don Camillo couldn’t help laughing.

  “So your son’s a priest! That’s a good one! A priest!”

  “Pretty nearly one…. But take it easy, will you?”

  Don Camillo had never heard Brusco speak in just this tone of voice. He waited to hear more.

  “If he comes here, and Peppone catches on, he’ll kill me. And since the boy’s a priest, or nearly, I don’t want him to know that I’m on the other side. You priests understand one another. And if you can’t fix things up, I’m done for. He’s arriving at eight o’clock tomorrow.”

  “All right. Let me sleep on it.”

  Brusco had never thanked anyone in his life.

  “I’ll make it up to you,” he muttered. And he added, from the door: “I have the worst luck! With all the reactionaries there are around, why did I have to have a priest for a son?”

  Don Camillo was not in the least discomfited.

  “With all the rogues there are available, why did a poor priest have to be cursed with a Communist father?”

  Brusco shook his head.

  “Everyone has his own troubles,” he said with a bitter sigh.

  Shotgun Wedding

  WHENEVER Don Camillo saw old man Rocchi come to the church or the rectory he grumbled to himself: “Here’s the commissar.” For old man Rocchi was the leader of the watchdogs who appoint themselves in every parish to scrutinize the conduct of the priest, in church and out of it, and to write letters of protest to the bishop when they find it shocking or even improper. Of course the old man never missed a single service, and since he and his family occupied one of the front pews he followed everything Don Camillo said and did, and would turn to say to his wife in the middle of Mass: “He skipped something,” or: “Today he’s not got his wits about him,” or: “Don Camillo isn’t what he used to be.” And he would go to the rectory afterwards to comment upon the sermon and give Don Camillo some sound advice.

  Don Camillo wasn’t the type to worry about such things, but it was a bother to feel old Rocchi’s eyes constantly upon him, and whenever he had to blow his nose in the middle of Mass he raised his eyes to Christ on the cross above the altar and silently prayed: “Lord help me blow my nose in a manner that will not cause a scandal!” For Rocchi was a great stickler for form. More than once he had remarked
: “When the priest at Treville has to blow his nose in the middle of Mass, nobody knows it, but this one sounds like a trumpet calling to the Last Judgment.”

  That is the kind of a man Rocchi was, and if such men exist in the world it must mean that they have a place to fill in it. He had three sons and one daughter, Paolina, who was the most virtuous and most beautiful girl in the village. And it was Paulina that startled Don Camillo almost out of his wits one day in the confessional.

  * * *

  “I can’t grant you absolution before you do what you are supposed to,” he told her.

  “I know,” said the girl.

  This is the sort of thing that happens in every village, and in order to understand it one really has to have lived in one of the low houses in the broad valley and to have seen the moon rise like a great red ball over the bank of the river. There is no visible movement in the valley and a stranger may have the idea that nothing ever happens along the deserted river banks, that nothing could happen in the red and blue houses. Yet more things happen there than up in the mountains or in the big city. For the blazing summer sun gets into people’s veins, and that big red moon is utterly unlike the pale satellite they see in other places; it blazes just like the sun, inflaming the imaginations of the living and the bones of the dead. Even in winter, when the valley is filled with cold and fog, the heat stored up during the summer is so great that people’s imaginations aren’t cooled off sufficiently to see things as they actually are. That is why every now and then a shotgun peeps out of a thicket or a girl does something she oughtn’t do.

  Paolina went home, and when the family had finished saying the evening rosary she stepped up to her father.

  “Father, I must have a talk with you,” she said.

  The others went their various ways and Paolina and her father were left beside the fire.

  “What’s it all about?” asked the old man suspiciously.

  “It’s time to think about my getting married.”

  “Don’t you bother your head about that. When the time comes, we’ll find the right sort of fellow.”

  “The time has already come, Father, and I’ve found him.”

  The old man opened his eyes wide.

  “Go straight to bed, and don’t let me hear you talk of such things again!” he ordered.

  “Very well,” said the girl, “but you’ll hear other people talking about them.”

  “Have you given some cause for scandal?” asked the horrified father.

  “No, but the scandal will come out. It’s not something that can be concealed.”

  Rocchi took hold of the first thing that came to hand, which happened to be a broken broomstick. The girl crouched in a corner, hiding her head, and received a rain of blows upon her back. Luckily the broomstick broke again and her father quieted down.

  “If you’re so unlucky as to be still alive get up,” he told her. “Does anyone know about it?”

  “He knows…” murmured the girl, causing the old man to lose his head again and start to beat her with a stick taken from a bundle of faggots by the fire. “And so does Don Camillo,” she added. “He wouldn’t grant me absolution.” Again the old man took it out on her. Finally she got in another word: “If you kill me, it will be an even worse scandal,” she said, and that calmed him.

  “Who’s the man?” he asked.

  “Falchetto,” she answered.

  She would have produced less of an effect if she had named Beelzebub in person. Falchetto was the nickname of Gigi Bariga, one of the most stalwart of Peppone’s henchmen. He was the intellectual member of the gang, the one who wrote speeches, organized rallies and explained the Party directives. Because he understood more than the others, he was the unholiest of them all. The girl had taken so much punishment by now that the old man pushed her onto a couch and sat down beside her.

  “You’ve beaten me enough,” she said. “If you touch me again, I’ll call for help and tell everybody. I have to protect the life of my child.”

  At eleven o’clock that night the old man gave in to his fatigue.

  “I can’t kill you, and in the state you’re in, you can’t very well enter a convent,” he said. “Marry, then, and be damned, both of you.”

  * * *

  When Falchetto saw the effects of Paolina’s beating his jaw dropped.

  “We must get married,” she said, “or this will be the death of me.”

  “Of course!” said Falchetto. “That’s what I’ve been asking you all along. Right away, if you give the word, Paolina.”

  It was no use thinking of marriage at quarter to one in the morning, but words exchanged at the garden gate, before the fields covered with snow, had a certain value and significance.

  “Have you told your father everything?” Falchetto asked.

  She did not answer, and Falchetto realized that it was a stupid question.

  “I’ll take my Tommy gun and shoot up your entire family,” he exclaimed. “I’ll…”

  “There’s no need to shoot. All we have to do is go get the priest’s permission.”

  Falchetto stepped back.

  “You know I can’t do that,” he said. “Just think of my position. We can go to the mayor.”

  The girl pulled her shawl around her.

  “No, never,” she said. “I don’t care about what may happen. Either we are married like Christians or else I’ll never see you again.”

  “Paolina!…” Falchetto implored her, but she had already slipped through the gate in the opposite direction from that which she had so often taken before.

  * * *

  Paolina stayed in bed for two days, and on the third day her father came up to her room.

  “You saw him the other evening,” he said. “I happen to know.”

  “So do I.”

  “Well, then?”

  “Nothing doing. He won’t have a Christian wedding. And I say a Christian wedding or nothing at all.”

  The other man shouted and stamped his feet. Then he left his daughter, threw his overcoat over his shoulders and went out. And a few minutes later Don Camillo had a difficult problem before him.

  “Father, you already know the story,” said Rocchi.

  “I do. Children need looking after. It’s a parent’s job to give them some moral principles.”

  Rocchi was properly put in his place, and he would gladly have strangled Don Camillo.

  “I’ve consented to the marriage, but the rascal won’t have anything to do with the Church.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.”

  “I’ve come to ask you this: is it more scandalous for a girl in my daughter’s condition to marry outside the Church or not to marry at all?”

  Don Camillo shook his head.

  “This isn’t a question of scandal. It’s a question of good or evil. We must consider the unborn child.”

  “All I care about is to get them married and let them be damned!” said Rocchi.

  “Then why do you ask for my advice? If all you care about is to get them married, let them marry as they please.”

  “But she says if she can’t have a church wedding she’ll have none at all,” groaned the unhappy father.

  Don Camillo smiled.

  “You ought to be proud of your daughter. Two wrongs don’t make a right. I say she has a head on her shoulders and you ought to be proud of her.”

  “I’ll have to kill her, that’s all,” Rocchi shouted as he left the rectory.

  “You don’t expect me to argue the girl out of a church wedding, do you?” Don Camillo shouted back after him.

  * * *

  During the night Paolina heard a hail of pebbles against her window and finally her resistance was overcome and she went down. Falchetto was waiting, and when she saw his face she burst into tears.

  “I’ve left the Party,” he told her. “Tomorrow they’ll get out an announcement of my expulsion. Peppone wanted me to write it myself.”

  The girl went closer to him.
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  “Did he beat you up?” she asked.

  “I thought he’d never stop,” Falchetto admitted. “When are we going to get married?”

  “Right away, if you give the word,” she said. And her impulse was just as foolish as his, because it was almost one o’clock in the morning and poor Falchetto had one eye as black as a lump of coal.

  “I’ll talk to the priest about it tomorrow,” he said. “But I won’t go near the town hall. I don’t want to see Peppone.”

  He touched his black eye and Paolina put a hand on his shoulder.

  “We’ll go to the mayor, too,” she said. ‘I’ll be there to stick up for you.”

  * * *

  Paolina went early the next morning to Don Camillo.

  “You can grant me absolution,” she told him. “I didn’t do any of the things I confessed to you. My only sin is to have told you a big lie.”

  Don Camillo was puzzled, but she quickly explained.

  “If I hadn’t made up that story, my father would never have let me marry Falchetto.”

  Don Camillo shook his head.

  “Don’t tell him the truth at this point,” he advised her, secretly thinking that old man Rocchi had it coming to him.

  “No. I won’t tell him, not even after we’re married,” said the girl. “He beat me just as hard as if what I told him had been true.”

  “That’s what I say,” chimed in Don Camillo. “Such a beating shouldn’t be given in vain.”

  As he passed by the altar, Christ frowned down at him.

  “Lord,” said Don Camillo, “whosoever shall exalt himself shall be humbled and he that shall humble himself shall be exalted.”

  “Don Camillo,” said Christ, “for some time now you’ve been skating on thin ice.”

  “With God’s help no ice is too thin,” said Don Camillo. “This wedding will be worth a dozen of the usual kind.”

  And so it was.

  Seeds of Hate

  PEPPONE popped up in front of Don Camillo without any warning, followed by Smilzo, Bigio, Brusco, and Lungo. It looked like revenge or intimidation, and Don Camillo’s first thought was of Falchetto, who had left the Party to marry Rocchi’s daughter. “They’re furious because they imagine I had something to do with it,” he said to himself. But the gang wasn’t thinking of Falchetto at all.