The Untamed Shrew

On a sunny August day more than 24 years ago, a young man of Cremona named Francesco Ghizzoni fell in love. The girl was a 16-year-old blonde with blue eyes, an infectious laugh, and a good figure. Francesco, who at 25 already owned a small cafe, a house and some land, made an instant decision: "This girl will be my wife."

He discovered that her name was Angela Mondini and that she too lived in Cremona, across the Po River from his cafe. Plunging wholeheartedly into the timeless rituals of Lombard courtship, Francesco promenaded beneath her window, cultivated her friends and relatives, encountered her "by chance" when she went strolling. Angela played her part by being good, like a signorina should. When they met, she would say politely, "Buon-giorno, Signor Ghizzoni" and coolly ignore his urgings to "call me Francesco." He asked for a date, and Angela refused. He sent her gifts. Angela returned them.

The Blinders. Francesco shifted his assault to her parents, aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents. "I'm well off," he said. "I have a good character. Angela will be happy with me." Sadly, Angela's relatives reported: "She isn't interested. She doesn't like you." But Francesco wore the blinders of true love. Meeting Angela on the street, he would say imploringly, "I'm still waiting for an answer. When will you marry me?" At first, she ignored him; then she snapped: "Stupid! Imbecile!" To her friends she said: "I admit he's a good catch for some girl, but why does he pick on me? He's not my type."

For years, Francesco appeared nightly under her window, plaintively calling her name. He spent daylight hours in a nearby cafe, waiting for a glimpse of her. He followed her to the movies and sat behind her. His friends became worried that desperate Francesco might do something foolish, and begged Angela to accept him. "I'll marry whom I like," she said.

The war that ravaged Italy scarcely ruffled the courtship. When the bridge over the Po was destroyed by bombers, Francesco bought a boat and rowed across to continue his vigil. Once Angela stuffed her purse with stones, and when Francesco yearningly approached her, she hit him on the head with one. The next day, he was back, begging her forgiveness.

Had Enough. Angela turned to the police, who warned him to let her alone. In 1947, a judge gave him a three-month suspended sentence on a charge of being a public nuisance. He was arrested again and carted off to a psychiatric examination, but the doctors could find nothing more than the disorders of love. Francesco went back to following his beloved, crying after her, "Darling wife, sweet love, my soul!" When Angela answered "Imbecile!" he would say worriedly, "Have I offended you? I didn't mean to."

An Italian magazine, Oggi, picked up the story of Francesco's 24 years of forlorn wooing, and sudden notoriety succeeded where all the years of defeat had not. Last week Francesco, 49, wrote a letter to the editor confessing that at long last "I have given up, because with women one cannot win." As for Angela, now a spinster of 40, she could not care less. "He didn't appeal to me when he was younger," she said, "and he appeals to me even less now." When told that Francesco had named her his heir, Angela showed a tougher fiber than even the most famous of Italian shrews, Katharina of Padua. Snapped Angela: "I want no part of him, alive or dead."

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