“A Prancing Horse” (“La Rallegrata”)

Translated by Sarah Barrett

How to cite this work:

Pirandello, Luigi. “A Prancing Horse” (“La Rallegrata”), tr. Sarah Barrett. In Stories for a Year, eds. Lisa Sarti and Michael Subialka, Digital Edition, www.pirandellointranslation.org, 2023.

“A Prancing Horse” (“La Rallegrata”) was first published in the monthly illustrated section of the daily newspaper Corriere della Sera on October 26, 1913 and was later included in the volume of selected tales The Trap (La trappola), printed by the Milanese editor Treves in 1915. In 1922, the story became the title story of the third Collection A Prancing Horse (La rallegrata), in Stories for a Year (Novelle per un anno).

The story’s title was actually a source of some controversy, as it also could be taken as an allusion to female sexuality. Although the plot clearly focuses on horses and the typical prancing walk that characterizes their excitement, Alberto Albertini, a literary critic and once director of the Corriere della Sera, reportedly worried that it could be interpreted as a subtle reference to a woman’s “loose” behavior. He thus asked Pirandello to change the story’s title before publication. Pirandello, however, insisted that “prancing” is an action normally attributed to horses and closely associated with equine behavior in the collective imagination, and the story ultimately retained its original title.

In fact, the protagonists in the story are the horses, and not the human characters who appear occasionally almost in the margins, so to speak. This makes the tale an interesting example of Pirandello’s tendency to foreground animals and their experience in a way that takes them seriously as sentient beings. The story is replete with highly specific equine vocabulary, and it likewise uses an unusual form of punctuation to mark the (imaginary) direct discourse of its horse protagonists. In addition, the absence of geographical description and other background details that usually appear in Pirandello’s narratives shifts the full force of the author’s focus to the animals’ feelings and their struggles to interpret human behavior and its perceived extravagance. As a result, by the end of the story it is clear that the animals are being used to provide a commentary on the nature of human social relations and human nature. Nero and Fofo, two regimental horses who are now employed in other tasks, provide the point of view that is tracked throughout the story, which follows their naive misinterpretations of the meaning of the tasks they are assigned. Thinking that they are tasked with transporting valuable goods, they fail to understand that they are actually working in the service of funeral processions. However, when the horses are assigned to the funeral procession of a princess who Nero used to “work for,” the horses come to a new kind of recognition. Excited at recognizing the palace of his former owner, he starts prancing uncontrollably in excitement. This breach of etiquette becomes an opportunity for Pirandello to reflect on the human rituals around death and our experience of it, recast through the uncomprehending view of the animals that serve as part of this ritual behavior. This story can be seen as sharing narrative and structural elements with other, later “animal” tales, such as “The Lord of the Ship” (“Il Signore della Nave,” 1916), “The Cat, the Goldfinch, and the Stars” (“Il gatto, il cardellino e le stelle,” 1917), “The Luck to be a Horse” (“Fortuna d’esser cavallo,” 1935). Its peculiarity, however, consists in the relationship between the two horses and their ability to talk out their feelings. In the other tales, Pirandello chose to imitate the example of classic fables where animals think and have emotions but are not actually expressing them verbally. As talking, outspoken animals, Fofo and Nero consciously provide their own point of view and bluntly share their puzzlement over the bizarre behavior and rituals of human beings.

The Editors

As soon as the stable-master had gone on his way, swearing more than usual, Fofo turned to Nero, his newly arrived companion at the food trough, and sighed:

So that’s what’s happening! Saddlecloths, pompoms, plumes. You’ve made a good start, my friend. Today’s a first-class event.[1]

Nero turned his head away. He didn’t snort, for he was a well-trained horse. But he didn’t feel like putting his trust in that Fofo.

He, Nero, came from a princely stable, one where you could see yourself reflected on the walls, where every stall was equipped with a beechwood manger, little bells of brass, stall partitions lined with padded leather, and where the rails at the front of the stall were each crowned by a shining brass knob.

Mm!

The young prince was now addicted to those amazing new carriages––the ones that (pardon!) stink, and also belch smoke out at the back and move on their own.[2] It wasn’t enough that already he had risked breaking his neck three times in these contraptions. Immediately after the elderly princess had suffered a paralysing stroke (God bless her, she had refused to hear a word about these devilish inventions), he had made haste to get rid both of Nero and Corbino, the only horses remaining in the stable, who drew the sedate landau belonging to the princess.[3]

Poor Corbino! Who knew where he had ended up, after so many years of honourable service?

Kind old Giuseppe, the coachman, had promised them that he would intercede on their behalf when he, with the other faithful elderly servants, went to kiss the hand of the princess, now confined for ever to a wheelchair.

Alas! When the kind-hearted old man had returned shortly afterwards, each horse had immediately sensed from the way in which he stroked their necks and flanks that all hope was lost: their fate had been decided. They were to be sold.

And so it proved...

Nero did not yet realize where it was he had ended up. It was not a bad place, not really. Of course, it was not the princess’s stable, but it was a good stable. There were more than twenty horses, all dark-coloured and all quite long in the tooth, but with an impressive presence, and a grave and dignified bearing. Indeed, they were a little too grave!

Nero did not think that these other horses knew the type of duties for which they had been recruited. It seemed to him, indeed, that they were all still trying to work it out, without however getting to the truth of the matter. From time to time the slow swishing of their luxuriant tails and the scrape of their hooves on the cobbles proclaimed that these were horses lost in thought.

Only Fofo was sure, as sure as he could be, that he understood everything.

What a vulgar and presumptuous beast!

A rough, hollow-flanked regimental horse, he had been rejected after three years of service. The reason, according to him, was that he’d bucked off a light cavalryman, some bumpkin from the Abruzzo. Fofo never stopped talking about it.

Nero, his heart still grieving for his old friend, couldn’t bear Fofo. Least of all Fofo’s insinuating manner, and his continual insults directed towards the other horses in the stable.

Dear God, how he talked.

Not one of the twenty horses was worth anything; this one was like this; that one was like that.

Just look at that tail over there, I beg you––tail? Is that how to swish a tail? What a steed, eh?

That one’s a doctor’s horse, I tell you.

And just look over there, at that fine Calabrian carthorse[4]––see how gracefully his pig’s ears flop down. What a fine forelock! And a beautiful chin too! Another steed, don’t you think?’

Every so often one dreams of being once more a stallion, and of that mare over there, three stalls over––you see her? With the head of an old jade, her shoulders sagging and her belly down to the floor. Is that a mare? It’s a cow, I tell you, And you should see her go through her paces! It looks as if her hooves are scorched when they touch the ground. Also, there’s a certain froth, my friend. Naturally, because her mouth is young. She must still be growing her adult teeth, don’t you think?[5]

In vain did Nero do his utmost to show that he did not want to listen to Fofo. The latter persisted.

Just to annoy him.

Do you know where we are? We’re in a dispatch office. There are all kinds of dispatch offices. This one is said to specialize in funeral processions.

Do you know what a funeral procession is? It means you have to pull a black carriage, strangely shaped––high, with four columns which seem to support the sky. All tricked out with fringes and decorations and gilt. In other words, a fine, large, de luxe carriage. But it’s all wasted, I’m telling you. All wasted, because you’ll see that no one ever climbs up into the carriage.

Just the coachman, very serious, sitting on a coach box.

We go very slowly, always at a walking pace. No danger of you sweating or of getting rubbed down when you return to the stable. And no danger that the coachman will use the whip or urge you on in some other way!

Slowly––slowly––slowly.

Wherever you’re going, you always arrive on time.

And that carriage over there¬––I realized this immediately––must be the object of special veneration for the men.

As I said, no one has a burning desire to climb up into this coach; as soon as they see it draw up outside a house, people linger to gaze, some with gloomy, fearful expressions. Some gather round with lighted candles; and then, as soon as we begin to move, many of them follow the carriage, without saying a word.

And often, there’s a band in front of us. A band, my dear fellow, playing music which is enough to make your bowels drop out onto the ground.

Listen––you have the bad habit of snorting and tossing your head. Believe me, you need to get rid of those habits. If you snort at nothing, imagine what it will be like when you hear that music!

We carry out our duty slowly, it’s true; but solemn composure is required. No snorting, no pitching your head about. It’s more than enough that they allow you to swish your tail, just a little.

Once more I must remind you that the carriage we draw is the object of great respect. You will see that, as we pass by, every man takes his hat off.

Do you know how I realized that this is a kind of dispatch service? This is how.

About two years ago, I was standing, with one of our covered carriages, in front of the high railings which mark our regular destination.

You will see it, that stretch of high railings! Beyond it there are many dark, pointed trees, stretching into the distance in two never-ending rows. Sometimes, on one side or the other, beautiful green fields stretch out. So much delicious grass, also wasted––because heaven help us if we ever get our lips near it as we pass.

Well. I was standing there, stock still, when a poor old companion of mine pulled up alongside. Like me, he had been a regimental horse, but he had fallen on hard times: now he had to pull along an iron-wheeled cart, you know, one of those long, low contraptions with no springs.

He said:

“Can you see me? Ah, Fofo, I can bear this no longer.”

“What work are you doing?” I asked him.

He replied,

“All day I move boxes from a dispatch office to the customs house.”

“Boxes?” I said. “What boxes?”

“Heavy ones!” he said. “Full of things to be sent somewhere else.”

For me, this came as a revelation.

Because, I must tell you, we too carry a particular kind of box––a very long kind of box. They put it very, very carefully (everything very, very carefully, all the time) into the back of our carriage; and while this operation is going on, the people standing around bare their heads and look on in stunned amazement. Who knows why? But if we too are in the business of moving boxes, it must also be a kind of dispatch service, don’t you think?

What the devil does that box contain? Oof, it’s heavy, you wouldn’t believe. Luckily, we only have to transport one at a time.

It must be stuff being dispatched, no doubt––but what kind of stuff, I couldn’t tell you. It must be very valuable, because the dispatch takes place with much pomp and ceremony.

Usually (but not always), at a certain point we stop outside an imposing building––perhaps it’s the customs office which deals with our dispatches. From the entrance gate, certain men come forward, dressed in black tunics with long white shirts over the top (I suppose these must be the customs officers). The box is removed from the carriage; everyone takes their hats off again; and the officials make a sign that the box may proceed.

All this precious cargo that we’re dispatching––well, I haven’t yet been able to work out where it’s going. But I console myself by thinking that the men don’t seem to know where it’s going either.

To tell you the truth, the magnificence of the box and the solemn nature of the ceremony might make one suppose that these men must know something about what they are transporting. But instead they seem uncertain and dismayed. And my long experience of these matters allows me to conclude as follows: that men do many things, my friend, without in the least knowing why they are doing them.

As Fofo, that morning, had worked out from the copious cursing of the stable-master: saddlecloths, pompoms, and plumes. A team of four. Truly, this was to be first-class.

Have you seen? What did I tell you?

Nero found himself harnessed with Fofo as the second pair of horses, linked with the swingletree bar at the front of the carriage.[6] Fofo, naturally, began again with his endless irritating explanations.

But Nero himself was irritated that morning––by the arrogant behavior of the stable-master, who always harnessed Fofo and Nero as the back pair of horses, rather than attaching them to the transverse pole at the front.

What an asshole! I mean, these two in front of us are just to keep up appearances. Pull a carriage? They couldn’t pull the skin off a rice pudding. We are the ones doing the pulling. We’re going so slowly. Today they’re just going for a nice little walk, all dressed up, to stretch their legs. And just look at the beasts who’ve been favored over me. Do you recognize them?

They were the two dark-colored horses which Fofo had called a doctor’s horse and a Calabrian carthorse.

Look at that Calabrian clodhopper! Lucky you, to have him in front of you. You’ll see, my friend, that he’s got more than just a pig’s ears, and for that you have to thank the stable-master, who favors him and gives him double rations. Everyone needs a bit of luck in this world. Don’t start snorting—have you started already? Keep your head still! Eh, if you go on like that, my dear friend, pulling at the bridle, you’ll make your mouth bleed, I’m telling you. Today it’s the speeches. What joy, you’ll see! One speech, two speeches, three speeches... I’ve been through a first-class ceremony with five speeches. Enough to drive you mad. Standing still for three hours, wrapped up in all this frippery which makes it hard to breathe––your legs aching, your tail tied down, your ears confined by the straps of the bridle. And the pleasure of the flies biting you under your tail! What are the speeches? —Well, I don’t understand much, to tell the truth. These first-class dispatches must be very complicated. And perhaps, along with the speeches, there are digressions. One’s not enough, so they do two; two are not enough, so they do three. Sometimes they get as far as five, like I said. I’ve found myself in that situation, my friend, and it made me want to kick stones, right and left, and then roll on the ground like a mad thing. Perhaps today it will be the same. What a grand occasion! Have you seen the coachman, all dressed up? And the family, and the torch-bearers. Hey, are you skittish?[7]

I don’t understand what you mean.[8]

Come on, do you get flustered easily? Because you’ll see that, pretty soon, they’ll put lighted candles right under your nose... Calm down, wow... calm down! What’s wrong with you? You see? That’s the first pull on the bit. Are you hurt? Well, you’ll have plenty of that to put up with today, I promise you. But what are you doing? Have you gone mad? Don’t stretch out your neck like that! (Good boy, sweetie, are you swimming? Playing rock, paper, scissors?) Stay still... Oh, really? There goes another pull on the reins. Hey, I’m talking to you! Careful! The bit’s hurting my mouth too! But he’s gone mad! Dear God, he’s really mad! Snorting, baring his teeth, neighing, turning circles––what’s got into him? Look at him prancing around! He’s mad, he’s quite mad––capering about when he’s supposed to be pulling a first-class coach!

It really did seem as though Nero had gone mad––he snorted, neighed, struck the ground with his hooves, trembled all over. In furious haste, members of the family had to jump down from the carriage to restrain the horse in front of the palazzo where the coach was to come to a halt, in front of a large crowd of tall, thin men in long robes, wearing high-crowned hats.

“What’s happening?” everyone shouted. “Oh, look, one of the horses drawing the funeral carriage is rearing up.” And in great confusion everyone gathered around the carriage, curious, amazed, scandalized. The family members could not restrain Nero. The coachman had stood up and was pulling furiously at the reins. In vain. Nero continued to stamp, to neigh; bathed in sweat, he turned his head towards the great doorway of the palazzo.

He calmed down only when an elderly liveried servitor appeared from the doorway. Pushing aside the family members, this man took the bridle, and suddenly, recognizing the horse, began to cry out with tears in his eyes:

“But it’s Nero! It’s Nero! Oh, poor horse, of course he’s behaving like this! He is the signora’s horse––the horse belonging to the poor princess herself! He’s recognized the palazzo, he can smell his old stable! Poor Nero, poor Nero... there, there... it’s me, you see? It’s me, it’s your old Giuseppe. Stay calm, that’s right... Poor Nero, you’re the one who has to carry her, do you see? Your old mistress. This is your duty, poor Nero, which you can still remember. She will be content to be carried by you for the last time.”

He then turned to the coachman, who, maddened by the poor impression given by the undertakers in front of all these dignitaries, had begun to pull furiously at the reins, threatening lashes with his whip. Giuseppe shouted to him:

“That’s enough! Stop that! I’ve got his reins. He’s as gentle as a lamb. Go and sit back on your coachbox. I will lead him the rest of the way. We’ll go together, eh, Nero? To take our lady on her journey. Very gently, as we used to, eh? And you, poor old Nero, you will stay calm, so that you do no harm to her. You still remember her. They have already laid her in her casket; now they are taking her away.”

At this point, Fofo, who had been listening in astonishment from the other side of the swingleboard, asked:

It’s your owner, in the casket?

Nero aimed a sideways kick at him.

But Fofo was too absorbed by the new revelation to take this badly.

Ah, so, we... , he began to say to himself, Ah, so, we... yes, yes, that’s what I meant to say... This old man is weeping; I’ve seen many men weeping on other occasions... and many in great distress... and this soft music. I understand, now I understand everything. This is why we do our work so gently! It’s only when men are weeping that we horses can step lightly and go forward refreshed...

And he himself was tempted to prance too.