Giovanni Guareschi still lives at Parma, near the River Po, where he was born in 1909. His parents wished him to be a naval engineer; consequently he studied law, made a name as a sign-board painter, and, among other jobs, gave mandolin lessons. His father had a heavy black moustache under his nose: Giovanni grew one just like it. He still has it and is proud of it. He is not bald, has written eight books, and is five feet ten inches tall. “I also have a brother,” Guareschi says, adding “but I prefer not to discuss him. And I have a motorcycle with four cylinders, an automobile with six cylinders, and a wife and two children.”
As a young man he drew cartoons for Bartoldo. When the war came he was arrested by the political police for howling in the streets all one night. In 1943 he was captured by the Germans at Alessandria and adopted the slogan: “I will not die even if they kill me.” Back in Italy after the war he became editor-in-chief of Candido at Milan. He has also scripted a film, People Like This.
Four of the Don Camillo books are being published at the same time in Penguins, and details will be found at the end of the book.
PENGUIN BOOKS
1800
DON CAMILLO AND THE DEVIL
GIOVANNI GUARESCHI
GIOVANNI GUARESCHI
Don Camillo and the Devil
Penguin Books Ltd, Harmondsworth, Middlesex
AUSTRALIA: Penguin Books Pty Ltd, 762 Whitehorse Road,
Mitcham, Victoria
* * *
First published in Great Britain by Gollancz 1957
Published in Penguin Books 1962
* * *
Made and printed in Great Britain
by Richard Clay & Company, Ltd. Bungay. Suffolk
Set in Monotype Baskerville
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way or trade, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise disposed of without the publisher’s consent, in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.
Contents
Operation Saint Babila
Peppone’s Pilgrimage
The New Look
The Case of the Disappearing Dog
Victims of War
Stranded in the Stratosphere
The Rains Came
Made in U.S.S.R.
Inflation in the Po Valley
The Devil Swishes His Tail
Ring out the Old, Ring in the New
The New Curate
The Champion
The Carburettor
The Closed Gate
Lullaby
Togo the Bull
A Poacher’s Penance
An Exchange of Courtesies
A Speech to Go Down in History
The War of the Carnations
Operation Saint Babila
SAINT BABILA was perpetually in Don Camillo’s way, but Don Camillo didn’t know how in the world to get rid of him. On that far-away day when he first came to take over the parish he found Saint Babila in the sacristy, and there he left him. Every now and then he moved him from one corner to another, but Saint Babila continued to be cumbersome, because he was in the form of a life-size terracotta statue, six feet tall and heavy as lead.
In the beginning the statue must have been properly robed and vested, with artistically painted face and hands, but the passage of time had caused all the ornamentation to fall to pieces, leaving the terracotta crude and bare. If it hadn’t been for the worn inscription ‘Saint Babila, B—’ (for Bishop) on the base, no one would have thought there was anything holy about it. Several generations of acolytes had chosen to use it as a coat-rack, and as a result the head and shoulders looked as if they had been thoroughly sandpapered. From the waist down it might have been modelled with a shovel, and from the waist up brushed with a chicken feather.
For years, then, Saint Babila had been a nuisance to Don Camillo. Any number of times he had thought of getting rid of him, but even though it is made of identical material, a saint’s statue is not the same thing as a chipped kitchen pot. You can’t take a hammer and smash it, or simply toss it into the dustbin. And even if banished to the cellar or woodshed it remains just as cumbersome as before. Don Camillo had in mind at one point to haul it all the way to the barn, but he was afraid that the loft floor would collapse under its weight. If only it had been made out of bronze, he could have melted it down and recast it as a bell. But how can a sacred image, sculptured in terracotta, be destroyed without profanity? One day, however, Don Camillo did find the answer, and he hurried at once to the sacristy to talk it over with Saint Babila.
The saint stood in one corner, his worn head and shoulders emerging from a crude vestment whose folds, moulded by some rustic potter, made it look as if it were a piece of corrugated sheet-iron.
“I have it!” said Don Camillo. “And it’s for your good as well as mine.” Then, removing the incense-pot censer which an irreverent acolyte had hung round the saint’s neck, he continued: “This is no place for you. Here there’s no telling who may lay dirty hands upon you and fail to show the respect that is your due. I’m going to take you to a refuge where no one can touch you and you can abide in safety for ever and for ever. No, I’m not going to bury you underground, either. Underground means death, and running water is life-giving….”
Don Camillo fancied he detected a grimace on the saint’s worn face, and he protested impatiently:
“What about the ‘Christ of the Deep Sea’ near Portofino? Wasn’t his statue purposely lowered into the ocean bottom? You’ve no reason to make trouble!…”
Saint Babila made no trouble, and that very night Don Camillo proceeded to carry out his plan. It required an immense physical effort, because the statue weighed over three hundred pounds. Finally, however, without being seen by a single soul, he succeeded in removing it from the sacristy and loading it on to a wagon. A few minutes later, with his overcoat pulled up to his hat-brim, he got into the driver’s seat and drove towards the river. The night seemed particularly propitious to an Operation Saint Babila. It was freezing cold and the countryside was deserted.
When they reached the river, Don Camillo persuaded the horse to go all the way down to the water’s edge, where with the help of two long boards he pushed the statue on to a rowing-boat. Then, having loosened the rope by which the boat was tied up, he took the oar and rowed towards midstream. He had a very clear idea of where he was going. The river, at this point, was so wide that it seemed like the sea and had a particularly deep bottom. This was to be the resting-place of Saint Babila.
At the last minute the saint abandoned his docile behaviour and made so much trouble that Don Camillo nearly fell overboard. But eventually the statue resigned itself to making the plunge and disappeared into the river.
When he got back home Don Camillo put the horse in the stable and before going to bed went to pay his respects to the Christ over the main altar.
“Lord,” he said, “thank you for not letting Saint Babila drag me into the water. I have reason to be happy tonight, because Saint Babila is settled per omnia saecula saeculorum, and that means for ever and ever.”
“Amen,” murmured Christ with a smile. “But remember, Don Camillo, that in human events there are no absolutes.”
Operation Saint Babila had taken place between eleven-thirty and one-forty-five of a freezing November night, without a single soul to see. Don Camillo had conducted it with extreme prudence and had no cause for worry. But since in human events there are no absolutes, it happened that at one-forty-seven of the same night Comrade Peppone, the Communist mayor of the village, was awakened by a pole knocking against the shutters of his bedroom window. He got up and cautiously opened the shutters, to find that one of his Party henchme
n, Smilzo, was standing below, at the far end of the pole, trembling with cold and excitement.
“Chief,” he shouted, “something very serious has happened.”
Peppone went downstairs to open the door. As soon as Smilzo was in the house he exclaimed:
“A sacrilege!”
“A sacrilege?” echoed Peppone. “Who’s guilty of a sacrilege?”
“The priest!” shouted Smilzo.
Peppone took hold of Smilzo’s ragged jacket and shook him violently.
“Smilzo, you must have been drinking.”
“Not I, Chief. The priest has committed a sacrilege, I tell you! I saw him with my own eyes and followed him the whole way. Do you remember the dusty statue of Saint Babila that stood in one corner of the sacristy?”
Peppone did remember. “Saint Babila, B—” (for Blessed Virgin, he imagined), he must have read those words a thousand times on the base of the statue, which had most often been seen serving as a rack for coats and vestments.
“Well, I saw that statue, I tell you. He put it on a wagon and took it down to the river, then he transferred it to a boat and threw it into the water. I didn’t see him actually throw it but I heard the splash, and when the boat came back there was no more statue. That’s a sacrilege, Chief!”
This was quite obviously true. Otherwise Don Camillo would not have feared the light of day. If he had done it all alone, in the dead of night, then there must have been something reprehensible about it.
This was the period of “peaceful co-existence”, when the Reds changed their line and passed themselves off as quiet folk, with a genuine respect for other people and especially for other people’s religion. Peppone wasted no time. He got dressed and went with Smilzo to check up on what had taken place. Peeping through the sacristy window he saw that the statue had disappeared. Then he found the imprint of the horseshoes and the track left by the wagon-wheels, all leading down to the river. On the shore there was a still more important piece of evidence. While Don Camillo was transferring the statue to the boat, a fragment had been chipped off and now lay there, bearing witness to the truth of Smilzo’s story. With all these elements in hand, Peppone sent Smilzo to gather his henchmen together. At eleven o’clock the next morning the village was plastered with posters carrying the following message:
Citizens:
Under cover of darkness a sacrilegious hand profaned the Lord’s House and stole the sacred image of the Virgin Saint Babila. In order to abolish its veneration and to uproot even its memory from the hearts of the faithful, this same sacred image was then, most nefariously, thrown into the river.
Before this ignoble deed the local section of the Communist Party cannot but lay aside its political enmity towards the clerical intriguers. Along with all good Christians we deplore this loss and intend to organize a searching party, whose mission is to restore Saint Babila to the place of honour which she held before.
Giuseppe Bottazzi
Everyone that read these words hastened to the church, and since the whole village read them the church was soon overcrowded and Don Camillo was in serious trouble. People wanted to know how, when, and why, and he couldn’t very well answer: “There was no theft and no sacrilege. I am the one that threw the statue into the river.” Suddenly now that the statue was gone, all the villagers, including those who were completely unaware of its existence, declared that it was the church’s most treasured possession. Words could not express the resentment they harboured against the thief.
When Don Camillo could stand no more, he threw out his arms in a gesture of despair and fled to the rectory, where he took to his bed with a raging fever.
“Poor Don Camillo!” said his parishioners. “He’s overcome by sorrow.”
Meanwhile the proponents of the “peaceful coexistence” line had gone into action, and the next morning they were hot on the trail, down by the river. From a motor-boat, where he cut the figure of an admiral, Peppone directed dredging operations. In the area pointed out by Smilzo not a single inch of the river bottom was left untouched. And when the workers came back to the shore for lunch, Peppone announced:
“If we’re unsuccessful we’ll call upon the union of deep-sea divers. Saint Babila shall be found; we have sworn it before God and the people.”
This fine phrase made the round of the entire village. Meanwhile, after lunch, the dredging was resumed, and soon the search centred about the deepest part of the river. All of a sudden a cry passed from mouth to mouth on the shore:
“They’re getting hot!”
And half an hour later there was a loud explosion of joy:
“Saint Babila is found!”
Don Camillo was still nursing his fever and trying to keep his mind off his troubles when they were quite forcibly called to his attention. A crowd of excited men and women burst into his room shouting:
“Father, they’ve fished up the statue!”
“Father, they’re forming a procession on the bank of the river!”
“Father, the procession is on its way, bringing the statue home!”
“The whole village is marching, and a lot more people from the country around!”
“Father, you’ll simply have to get up and receive them!”
The procession was indeed drawing near. When Don Camillo sat up in bed and looked out of the window he could see a multitude of people winding their way along and singing: “Look down on the people, Thou Blessed One”, to the music of the local brass band. There was nothing to do but get dressed and go downstairs. He threw open the church door and stood there, waiting for Saint Babila.
They had put the statue on a litter, borne on the shoulders of the eight liveliest devils of Peppone’s gang, with Peppone himself and his closest cronies preceding it. Behind the litter came the brass band, followed by some two or three thousand people. Those of the villagers who had stayed at home scattered flowers from their windows.
When the head of the procession reached the church square and the litter-bearers were in front of the door, Peppone signalled to them to lay their burden gently down. The winding line broke up and rushed forward. When the crowd had gathered round him Peppone turned to Don Camillo and said in a thundering voice:
“Father, the people’s callous but honest hands have brought you back the venerable image of their protectress, Saint Babila, stolen by some sacrilegious criminal but washed and purified in the waters of our country’s mightiest river!”
Don Camillo wished for his eyes to be transformed into loaded machine-guns but all he could do was bow his head as if to say: “Thank you, Mr Mayor. May the heavens open and strike you dead!”
After this a group of true believers took the place of Peppone’s henchmen and Saint Babila was carried triumphantly into the church. Naturally the statue could not be banished to the sacristy. The image of Saint Lucius, patron of dairy-farmers, was moved out of one of the chapels in order to give it an honoured place.
An hour later, when peace and quiet were restored, the wife of Bigio came to the church to have her latest offspring baptized. The baby was a girl, and if she hadn’t been the offspring of a rascally infidel, she might have been called pretty.
“What do you want to call her?” asked Don Camillo between clenched teeth.
“Babila,” the mother answered defiantly.
“That won’t do,” said Don Camillo.
“And why not?” said the mother with a sarcastic laugh. “Just because our Party fished the saint out of the river?”
“No,” said Don Camillo glumly. “Because Babila is a man’s name.”
The woman shook her head and turned to look at the saint. On the base was printed: “Saint Babila, B—”
“Saint Babila, Blessed, I suppose,” she said, laughing again.
“No,” said Don Camillo, “that B is for ‘Bishop’.”
The mother, the godparents, and their friends looked at one another disappointedly.
“A bishop!” the mother muttered ill-humouredly. “We mi
ght as well have left him at the bottom of the river!”
“Very well, then,” said Don Camillo, grinding his teeth; “what’s to be the name?”
The little group wore a puzzled air.
“Palmira, like our leader, Palmiro Togliatti,” one suggested.
“Marilyn,” said the godmother, who was a passionate reader of film magazines.
And Marilyn it was.
Peppone’s Pilgrimage
SELDOM had there been such a miserable autumn; when it didn’t rain cats and dogs, it drizzled. If, by virtue of some miracle, the sun peeped out in the morning, by afternoon there was a fog thick enough to be cut with a knife and even wetter than water. The ground was damp and rotted, and the peasants were at their wit’s end because they saw no prospect of sowing the wheat. Mules and oxen sank up to their bellies in the lush grass, and tractor wheels could only spin idly, becoming more and more heavily weighed down with mud. No one but a madman would have ventured out if he didn’t have to, that is, no one but a madman or a hunter, because a hunter is only a madman who hasn’t been shut up in an institution.
On this mid-November afternoon a hunter was walking, or rather ploughing his way, along the canal. He wore high rubber boots, and every now and then he had to stop and wipe them, because the mud stuck to them and pulled him down. He hadn’t yet fired a single shot and it seemed unlikely that he would fire one, but he continued to trudge along, accompanied by a totally unenthusiastic dog. At a certain point the dog was so disgusted that he turned round and started for home.
“Thunder!”
The dog stopped, looked round at his master, and trotted further away.
“Thunder! Come here!”
The hunter’s voice was charged with anger, and the dog finally went to him, growling.
“As long as I’m here, you’ve got to stick by me,” he said, as the dog came near.
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