“Lord,” he said, “the rich reproach me for championing the poor, the poor accuse me of conniving with the rich; the whites call me black, the blacks call me white; to the reactionaries I’m a subversive, and to the radicals I’m an obstacle to progress; and as for the Reds, they won’t listen to me at all. Am I truly the most ineffective of God’s ministers?”
Christ sighed and then answered:
“Don Camillo, you’re a skilled hunter and fisherman, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Lord.”
“You hunt with a gun and fish with a hook and line, don’t you?”
“Yes, Lord.”
“Then if one day you were to see fish flying through the sky and birds slithering under water, would you still fish with a hook and line and hunt with a gun?”
“No, Lord, I’d fish with a gun and hunt with a hook and line.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Don Camillo! Because you’d fail completely in both endeavours.”
“Lord, I don’t understand.”
“Many do not understand, Don Camillo, because they look at mere words instead of realities.”
Don Camillo collected only enough money to repair the roof of the abandoned church, and it was with a heavy heart that he reported to the Bishopric.
“Never mind, Don Camillo,” said Monsignor Contini. “Divine Providence will take care of the rest.”
And indeed, after Don Camillo had finished patching the roof, money came from the city for the rest of the repairs. As soon as the work was all done he went to give the good news to Monsignor Contini.
“Then next Sunday you can celebrate the first regular mass at the renovated church,” the Monsignor told him.
Don Camillo’s face lit up with joy.
“Monsignore, does that mean you’re going to leave me in charge?”
“No, Don Camillo, that would make too heavy a load for you to handle. The new curate is to join you tomorrow. But for a while you’ll officiate at the ‘Bridge’ church, while he takes your place in the village. After that, you’ll take turns for a while, before settling upon a definitive division of labour.”
“I don’t see the reason for so many changes, Monsignore.”
“That’s not hard to understand. I know the mentality of your village people. They have a mistrustful and hostile attitude towards anything new. The faithful from the outskirts would be quite capable of making the arduous trip to the centre of the village rather than go to a mass celebrated by a new priest. But if you are there for the first few Sundays, they’ll surely come. Then, when they’ve fallen into the habit of going to the renovated church, they’ll continue to do so after your assistant has taken it over. The Bishop wants you to follow this procedure.”
“May I speak to His Grace?” asked Don Camillo, humbly bowing his head.
“His Grace is very ill. He must have complete rest.”
“I’d only like to wish him well.”
“He can’t talk to anyone. Even listening tires him. The doctor’s orders are that he is not to talk or listen or read. Yes, the good man is seriously ill.”
Don Camillo sighed.
“Where is the Bishop’s room?” asked Don Camillo. “As I go out, I’d like to look up at his window.”
“It’s on the third floor, but the window gives on to the courtyard, so that no noise can disturb him. I’ll try to find a propitious moment for conveying your good wishes to him.”
“Thank you, Monsignore,” said Don Camillo, bowing his head.
“When the new curate arrives, I trust you’ll give him a hearty welcome and tell him about the local political situation. He’s an extremely capable young man, and up-to-the-minute on social problems.”
“Yes, Monsignore.”
Don Camillo went slowly down the majestic stairs. When he reached the empty front hall he paused for a moment to look into the courtyard, surrounded by arcades, like those of a convent or monastery. The entrance to the courtyard was just across from the front door, and Don Camillo pushed it open and went in. The courtyard garden was untidy, filled with snow, and surrounded by high walls. Don Camillo raised his eyes to look at the long row of windows on the third floor. Which one, he wondered, belonged to the old Bishop? Behind the blackened trunk of a withered tree, he waited for some sign of life from the third floor. But nothing moved, and after lingering for sometime, he went away, with his feet soaked from the snow and a chill in his heart.
The New Curate
AT nine o’clock the sky abandoned its ambiguous and threatening air; the clouds were brushed away and the sun’s honest face started beaming. After the unseasonably stormy weather which had prevailed all through the spring, Don Camillo at last found cause to rejoice as he hoed his garden. But his joy was short-lived, for the bell-ringer’s mother came to disturb him.
“Father, the young curate has come,” she announced. Don Camillo was prepared for the shock and took it with apparent nonchalance.
“Bring him along, then,” he said, still intent upon his hoeing.
The old woman looked perplexed.
“I just showed him into the hall,” she muttered.
“Well, since I’m not in the hall, but out in the garden, show him out here.”
The old woman went away and a few minutes later the young priest was standing at Don Camillo’s side.
“Good day, Father,” he said.
Don Camillo straightened up, and the young priest added:
“I’m Don Gildo.”
“Very happy to see you, I’m sure,” said Don Camillo, giving him a handshake powerful enough to strangle a boa constrictor.
The young priest paled, but he had been instructed in sports and sportsmanship, and so he managed to smile.
“I have a letter from the Bishop’s secretary,” he said, holding out a large envelope.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll look at it right away,” said Don Camillo, taking the letter out of the envelope. After he had finished reading it, he added: “I told the Bishop’s secretary that I was still able to carry on. But since it is the Bishop’s will to relieve me of part of my burden, then there’s nothing I can do but bid you a hearty welcome.”
Don Gildo bowed politely.
“Thank you, Don Camillo. I am at your service.”
“Those are kind words; I have something for you to do at once.”
He went over to the cherry-tree, took down a hoe that was hanging from one of the branches, and put it into the young priests hands.
“Two of us can finish the job more than twice as quickly as one,” he observed.
The young priest stared first at the hoe and then at Don Camillo.
“To tell the truth,” he stammered, “I’ve no experience of instruments of this kind.”
“That doesn’t matter. Stand beside me and do exactly what I do.”
The young priest flushed with annoyance. He was sensitive, and besides, he had his dignity.
“Father,” he said, “I have come to look after souls, not gardens.”
“Of course,” said Don Camillo calmly. “But if we are to have fresh fruit and vegetables on our humble table, then the garden must receive some looking after.”
He went on hoeing, while the young man continued to stand helplessly beside him.
“Well,” said Don Camillo at last, “you mean you really won’t help this poor, feeble old man?”
“It’s not that I don’t want to help you,” the other protested. “But the fact is that I came here as a priest.”
“The first requisite of the priesthood is humility,” said Don Camillo.
The young priest clenched his teeth and started, somewhat ferociously, to lay about him with the hoe.
“Don Gildo,” observed Don Camillo mildly, “if I have offended you, take out your resentment on me rather than on this innocent ground.”
The young man made an effort to wield the hoe more gently. It took two hours to finish the work. When the two priests, splattered with mud up to their knees, came b
ack to the rectory, it was eleven o’clock.
“We’ve just time to do another little job,” said Don Camillo, leading the way to the shed, where there were some elm logs to be sawed.
Not before noon did Don Camillo call a halt. The young man had stored up so much bile in the last three hours that he had no inclination to touch his food. After a single spoonful of soup, he pushed the bowl away.
“Don’t worry if you seem to have lost your appetite,” Don Camillo told him. “It’s the change of air.”
Don Camillo had a tremendous appetite himself, and after he had cleaned up two big howls of vegetable soup with salt pork, he resumed the conversation.
“How do you like the place?” he asked.
“I’ve hardly had a glimpse of it,” the young man replied.
“It’s a village just like any other,” Don Camillo told him, “with good people and bad. The only difficulty is in telling which is which. As far as politics goes, the Reds are very strong. And the trouble is they seem to be getting stronger. I’ve tried everything possible, but things continue to worsen.”
“It’s all a question of method,” the young man assured him.
“Have you a new method better than the old?” Don Camillo asked curiously.
“I don’t mean to make any comparison, and I don’t pretend to have found a sure cure. But I do say that we must approach the question from a fresh point of view, or at least without the blinkers which have prevented us from seeing social realities. Why are the Communists so successful among the lower classes? Because they say to them: ‘Come with us if you want to be better off; we take away from the rich and give to the poor. The priests promise you pie in the sky, but we invite you to cut yourselves a slice here on earth.’”
Don Camillo threw out his arms.
“Quite so, Don Gildo, but we can’t embrace the materialistic point of view.”
“That isn’t necessary. We must cease creating the impression that we defend the status quo. We must speak of rights as well as duties. Of course, if everyone did his duty, he would automatically respect his neighbour’s rights. But we have to assert the rights of the poor in order to compel the rich to do their duty. That way, Communism will cease to have any meaning.”
Don Camillo nodded gravely.
“Very true, in other words, we should compete with the Communists on their own ground, even to the point of breaking the law of the land.”
“Exactly. When the law of the land upholds privilege and permits poverty, then it is contrary to justice and hence to divine law.”
Don Camillo threw open his arms.
“My dear Don Gildo, I can follow your train of thought, but I’m too old to adapt myself to it. I haven’t the mental agility any longer. You’ll have to forgive me.”
Because the curate’s mental agility was youthfully intact he poured out a stream of big words, expressive of concepts that were startlingly new. He was aware, moreover, of having a definite mission.
“Father, we know where we’re going, and we shall surely attain our goal. You’ve done a remarkable job, under truly difficult circumstances, and it’s high time you had someone to help you. And I don’t mean only to help you hoe your garden or saw wood.”
“Forgive me,” said Don Camillo humbly. “I had no idea how widely read and excellently trained you were.”
The curate had scored a conspicuous triumph. That very afternoon he began making his own contacts in the village and laying plans for future action.
Three days later Don Camillo said to his new assistant:
“You came at just the right moment. I need a complete rest. If it isn’t too much for you, I wish you’d take my place entirely for a while. The weather has got me down. I need warmth and dry air, and for months it’s done nothing but rain.”
This suited the curate perfectly. He answered enthusiastically that Don Camillo should have no worry at all, for he would shoulder everything, gladly. And so Don Camillo went into retirement. He went no farther than the second floor of the rectory, whose two large looms looked out, one over the garden and the other over the sports field. The bell-ringer’s old mother brought him his food, and he stayed there, in complete seclusion. In one room he had his bed and in the other a small field altar where he said mass every day, all alone, but very close to God. He had brought up a box of books and spent a great part of the time reading. After two weeks had gone by the old woman broke her habitual silence and said:
“Don Camillo, as soon as you feel up to it, come back downstairs. The new curate is making plenty of trouble.”
“Trouble? He seems like a very quiet young man.”
“Quiet? He’s not a priest, he’s a permanent political rally. Lots of people are staying away from church.”
“Don’t let yourself be disturbed. New days, new ways. They’ll get used to him in the long run.”
But the new ways really weren’t going over, and a few days later the bell-ringer’s mother made a new report, which epitomized the whole situation.
“Father, do you know what Peppone said yesterday? He said that as soon as Don Gildo succeeded in emptying the church completely, he’d take him on as group chaplain.”
After another interval of a few days, she informed Don Camillo of the answer Filotti had given to somebody who asked why he hadn’t been seen at mass lately. “I’d rather go and listen to the harangues Peppone gives in the People’s Palace. He’s not nearly so insulting.”
Don Camillo held his counsel as long as he could. But after forty days he knelt down impatiently in front of the crucifix on the camp altar and said:
“Lord, I bowed humbly to the Bishop’s will. I withdrew in order to give Don Gildo complete freedom. You know, Lord, how much I’ve suffered all this time. Forgive me if I go downstairs, take Don Gildo by the scruff of his neck and dispatch him back to the city.”
It was eight o’clock in the morning, and because Don Camillo wanted to look his best when he finally put in an appearance he decided to shave. Throwing open the shutters, he discovered that it was a radiantly beautiful day. He paused to take in the peace of the sunlit scene. But a minute later he heard a loud noise. He drew back, but continued to look out at the boys of the ‘Invincible’ soccer team as they ran nimbly on to the field and started at once on a practice game. Forgetting his beard, he watched them play, but to his sorrow they were far below standard and continually fumbled the ball.
“If they play that way against Peppone’s team, they’ll take a terrible beating,” he reflected.
Just then Don Gildo ran out on to the field and stopped the game in order to confabulate with the players.
“So he’s going to ruin my team as well as everything else,” roared Don Camillo. “If he doesn’t decamp, I’ll smash him into small pieces!”
But the curate seemed to have no intention of vacating the centre of the field. At a certain point he took over the captain’s place and with the ball between his feet, embarked upon a breathtaking display. Don Camillo cast prudence to the winds and flew, rather than walked, down the stain. When he reached the field he took Don Gildo by the collar and hauled him into the rectory.
“Take off your cassock, put on a jersey and a pair of heavy shoes, and go on with your coaching!”
“How can I?” the curate stammered.
“Wear long trousers, a mask, and a fake moustache, if you insist, but go ahead and play! You’ve got to lick that team into shape.”
“But my mission, Father…”
“Your mission is to secure a victory of our team over the Reds. That will be a knock-out blow.”
The ‘Invincibles’ shattered the Red ‘Dynamos’ and made mincemeat out of them. They celebrated madly, while Peppone and his team were in the dumps. That evening Don Camillo gave a banquet in honour of the curate. After it was over he said:
“From now on, forget about your social programme and concentrate on the soccer team. I’ll look after the Communist menace!”
The Champion
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br /> RENZO was the sort of fellow that for twenty-five years had jumped on to his racing cycle every morning and ridden all the way to the city to buy the daily Sport Gazzette. Of course, he could have bought it on the village square a little later in the day, but that wouldn’t have given him the same joy. To pedal fifteen miles to the city and back was his only regular occupation. The rest of the time he was ready to accept any odd job he could get, as long as it allowed him time to buy his paper and read the section concerned with cycling.
Renzo wasn’t touched in the head and he wasn’t a loafer or a drinker. Cycling was his only interest, and he knew everything there was to know about it. Because he devoured not only the cycling section of the Sport Gazzette, but every single piece of printed matter on the subject of bicycles and bicycle races that he could lay his hands on. Renzo was forty years old, and during all the twenty-five years that he had been under the sway of this ruling passion people considered him of no account whatsoever.
Then, all of a sudden, thanks to the Marshall Plan for aid to western intellectuals, the television quiz game was imported from the U.S.A. and Renzo’s life took a new turn. When he heard that one of the programmes was to feature a cycling expert, he hurried to glue his eyes on the screen at the Molinetto tavern. And when the master of ceremonies opened the sealed envelope and began to read out the cycling questions, Renzo came up with every one of the answers. The first evening, the tavern habitués took a mild interest in what he was saying; the second week, when he continued to say the right thing, their interest grew. Then, the third week, when the questions got really tough and the expert was shut into a cabin, Renzo’s quick thinking caused quite a sensation. The final week, the expert fell down badly on the three decisive questions, but Renzo knew better than he, and the tavern habitués were visibly impressed.
“Why, he could be in the big money!” they exclaimed. This wasn’t the end of the story. Another amateur expert was called on to the programme and walked away with the maximum prize. And the Communist mayor of Reggello, where he came from, organized a big reception, with a brass band and speeches, and hailed him as a man who had brought honour and distinction to his native town.
Don Camillo and the Devil Page 9
