“The Little Black Goat” (“Il capretto nero”)

Translated by Ellen McRae

How to cite this work:

Pirandello, Luigi. “The Little Black Goat” (“Il capretto nero”), tr. Ellen McRae. In Stories for a Year, eds. Lisa Sarti and Michael Subialka, Digital Edition, www.pirandellointranslation.org, 2023.

“The Little Black Goat” (“Il capretto nero”) was first published in the daily newspaper Corriere della Sera on December 31, 1913, and later included in the miscellany collection Un cavallo nella luna (A Horse in the Moon, 1918). The story became part of Donna Mimma, the ninth Collection of Stories for a Year, in 1925.

In this humorous short story Pirandello builds his plot around the ironic juxtaposition of two cultures, English and Italian, to further explore the pessimistic paradox entailed in the never-ending tension between life and form. A major concern in Pirandello’s poetics, this opposition is addressed here through a humorous situation involving a little goat, which prompts reflection on the volatile nature of identity and our perception of it. After Miss Holloway, a temperamental young English lady, visits Sicily and falls in love with a cute baby goat, she puts her foot down and demands that the animal be shipped to her overseas. But problems arise once the goat reaches England and time has passed, as the animal has now become an ugly, hairy beast. The young lady no longer recognizes it as the goat she so desired. Humor thus becomes a lens to reveal the true nature of identity as a relative construct of the mind. Pirandello addressed similar notions in numerous subsequent dramatic and fictional works, with the most prominent instance being his last novel, Uno, nessuno e centomila (One, No One, and One Hundred Thousand), published in 1926 after a gestation of more than 15 years. At the core of this novel stands the same tension we see in “The Little Black Goat,” the clash between human belief in some form of fixed identity and the disconcerting evidence suggesting the relativity of truth.

In 1930, during the period when the playwright was actively seeking to turn his works into Hollywood movies, Pirandello apparently signed a highly advertised contract with Paramount to film an adaptation of his most seminal play Six Characters in Search of an Author (Sei personaggi in cerca d’autore, 1921/1925). This was supposed to be filmed together with four of his short stories, one of which was meant to be “The Little Black Goat.” That film, however, was never realized.

The Editors

There is no question that Mr. Charles Trockley is right. In fact, I’m even willing to admit that Mr. Charles Trockley can never be wrong, because he and being right are one and the same. Mr. Charles Trockley’s every move, his every look, his every word are so firm and precise, so deliberate and sure, that anyone, without fail, must recognize that it is impossible for Mr. Charles Trockley, whatever the case may be, whatever the question put to him or circumstance that befalls him, to be wrong.

To give an example, he and I were born in the same year, the same month, and almost the same day—he in England and I in Sicily. Today, the fifteenth of June, he is turning forty-eight; I will turn forty-eight on the twenty-eighth. So then, how old will we be, he on the fifteenth and I on the twenty-eighth of June next year? Mr. Trockley does not lose his bearings. He does not hesitate for a second. With steadfast conviction, he declares that on the fifteenth and twenty-eighth of June next year, he and I will be one year older, in other words, forty-nine.

Could anyone prove Mr. Charles Trockley wrong?

Time does not pass equally for everyone. I could experience more deterioration in a single day—in a single hour even—than he would in ten years spent in his strict discipline of wellbeing. Owing to the deplorable disorder of my spirit, I could live more than an entire life this year. So in these forty-eight years, my body, weaker and far less cared for than his, has worn out certainly as much as Mr. Trockley’s body will wear out in seventy. In fact, even though his hair is completely silver, he still doesn’t have the slightest wrinkle on his cooked shrimp face, and he can still practice fencing every morning with youthful agility.

And why does this matter? For Mr. Charles Trockley, all these observations, both the abstract and the factual, serve no practical purpose and are far removed from reason. Reason tells Mr. Charles Trockley that he and I, when all is said and done, on the fifteenth and twenty-eighth of June next year will be one year older, in other words, forty-nine.

That being said, listen to what recently happened to Mr. Charles Trockley and try, if you can, to prove him wrong.

Last April, following the usual itinerary outlined by the Baedeker guide for a trip to Italy, Miss Ethel Holloway, the very young and very vibrant daughter of a very wealthy, very distinguished English peer, Sir W. H. Holloway, came to Agrigento, in Sicily,[1] to visit the magnificent remains of the ancient Doric city.[2] Enthralled by the charming, sloping terrain, all covered that month in white almond blossoms thanks to the warm breath of the African sea, she decided to stay for more than a day at the grand Hôtel des Temples, which stands in a very pleasant setting in the open countryside outside of the steep, miserable little city that Agrigento is today.[3]

For twenty-two years, Mr. Charles Trockley has been the English vice consul in Agrigento, and for twenty-two years, every day at dusk he has walked with his nimble, measured stride from the city high on the hill to the ruins of the Akragantine temples,[4] standing lofty and majestic on the rugged ridge that interrupts the slope of the neighboring hill—the Akrean hill, on which once stood, resplendent with marble, the ancient city lauded by Pindar as the most beautiful of mortal cities.[5]

It was said by the ancients that the Akragantines ate every day as if they were to die the next day and built their houses as if they would never die. They eat little now, for great is the misery in the city and the countryside, and after numerous wars, seven fires and just as many raids, no trace remains of the houses of the ancient city. Standing in their place is a grove of almond and Saracen olive trees,[6] aptly called the Bosco della Cìvita.[7] And the leafy, ash-colored olive trees advance in a row [8] up to the columns of the majestic Temples and seem to be praying for peace for those abandoned slopes. The Akragas River, which Pindar glorified as abundant with animal herds, flows under the ridge, when it can. A few small herds of goats, however, cross the stony riverbed. They clamber up the rocky embankment and come to lie down and graze on the meager pasture in the solemn shade of the still intact ancient Temple of Concordia. The lazy goatherd, beastly and sluggish like an Arab, also lies down on the steep steps of the pronaos and draws some plaintive sounds from his reed flute.[9]

Mr. Charles Trockley has always considered this invasion of the temple by the goats an appalling desecration, and he has made innumerable formal complaints about it to the custodians of the monuments, without ever obtaining a response other than a smile of philosophical indulgence and a shrug of the shoulders. Literally trembling with indignation, Mr. Charles Trockley has moaned to me about these smiles and shrugs of the shoulder on the occasional times that I have accompanied him on his daily walk. It often happens that in the Temple of Concordia, or in the one farther up, the Temple of Hera Lacinia,[10] or in the other one commonly called the Temple of the Giants,[11] Mr. Trockley encounters groups of his compatriots who have come to visit the ruins. And he points out to all of them, with that indignation that time and habit have not yet assuaged or subdued in the least, the desecration by those recumbent, grazing goats in the shade of the columns. But, to tell the truth, not all the English visitors share Mr. Trockley’s indignation. Indeed, to many of them, the repose of those goats in the Temples, left on their own now amid the great abandonment of the countryside, seems to have a certain poetry. Much to Mr. Trockley’s outrage, more than one goes so far as to exhibit great delight and admiration at the sight.

Exhibiting the most delight and admiration of all last April was the very young and very vibrant Miss Ethel Holloway. In fact, when the indignant vice consul was giving her some invaluable archeological information, which neither the Baedeker nor any other guide had yet acknowledged, Miss Ethel Holloway committed the indelicacy of suddenly turning her back on him to run after a pretty little black goat. Born just a few days before, it was leaping about, hither and thither, among the reposing goats as if many tiny bugs of light were dancing in the air around it. And then, it suddenly appeared shocked by its bold, haphazard leaping, since every slight sound, every breath of air, every little shadow, in the—to it—still uncertain spectacle of life, made it tremble all over with shyness.

I was with Mr. Trockley that day, and while I found great pleasure in the joy of that young lady, so suddenly enamored by the little black goat that she wanted to buy it at any cost, it also pained me greatly to see how much it made poor Mr. Charles Trockley suffer.

“Buy the little goat?”

“Yes, yes! Buy it right now! Right now!”

And like that dear little black creature, the young Miss was trembling all over, perhaps not imagining, even remotely, that she could not have caused greater vexation to Mr. Trockley, who had fiercely despised those beasts for so long.

Mr. Trockley tried in vain to dissuade her—to make her consider all the problems that would arise from that purchase. In the end, out of respect for her father, he had to surrender and approach the savage goatherd in order to negotiate the purchase of the little black goat.

After paying the money for the purchase, Miss Ethel Holloway told Mr. Trockley that she would entrust her little goat to the manager of the Hôtel del Temples, and that later, as soon as she had returned to London, she would telegraph for the dear little creature to be delivered to her, all expenses paid, as soon as possible. She then returned to the hotel in her carriage, with the little goat bleating and squirming in her arms.

I watched as the black carriage drove off toward the sun, which was setting among a stupendous array of magnificent clouds, all shining on the sparkling sea beneath it like a vast mirror of gold, and the vision of that delicate, passionate fair-haired young woman, infused in the nimbus of dazzling light, seemed almost like a dream. Then I realized that being able, despite being so far from her homeland and her usual surroundings and the things she loved, to suddenly conceive such a profound desire, such a deep affection for a little black goat, meant she must not have even an iota of that solid reasoning that, with much gravity, governed the actions, thoughts, steps, and words of Mr. Charles Trockley.

So what, then, did little Miss Ethel Holloway have in place of reason?

Nothing but foolishness, Mr. Charles Trockley declared with such a barely contained rage that it was almost pitiful in a man like him, who is always so self-restrained.

The reason for his rage lies in the events that followed the purchase of that little black goat.

Miss Ethel Holloway left Agrigento the following day. From Sicily she was to move on to Greece, from Greece to Egypt, and from Egypt to India.

Miraculously, when she arrived safe and sound in London at the end of November, after about eight months and the many adventures that she most certainly experienced on such a long voyage, she still remembered the little black goat she had bought one day long ago among the ruins of the Akragantine temples in Sicily.

As soon as she arrived, as arranged, she wrote to Mr. Charles Trockley to regain possession of it.

Every year, in the middle of June, the Hôtel des Temples closes; it then reopens at the beginning of November. On his departure in the middle of June, the manager, to whom Miss Ethel Holloway had entrusted the little goat, entrusted it in turn to the custodian of the hotel, but without any instructions, thus demonstrating that he was more than a little annoyed about the trouble that the creature had given him and continued to give. The custodian waited day by day for the vice consul, Mr. Trockley, to come and get the little goat to ship it to England, as the manager had told him he would. Then, when no one turned up, he thought it best, in order to be rid of it, to place it in the care of the same goatherd who had sold it to the young lady, promising that the goat would be a gift if she, as seemed to be the case, was no longer interested in having it or, if the vice consul came and asked for it, that he would be compensated for its safekeeping and grazing.

When Miss Ethel Holloway’s letter arrived from London after about eight months, the manager of the Hôtel des Temples as well as the custodian and the goatherd found themselves in a sea of confusion—the first for having entrusted the little goat to the custodian, the custodian for having entrusted it to the goatherd, and the last for having in turn given it to another goatherd to take care of with the same promises made to him by the custodian. Of this second goatherd, there was no further trace. The search for him lasted more than a month. At last, one fine day, Mr. Charles Trockley was presented at the vice consulate’s office in Agrigento with a hideous horned, smelly beast, its ragged, faded rust-colored coat completely encrusted with dung and mud. With raspy, tremulous bleating, its head lowered in a threatening manner, it seemed to be asking what was wanted of it, reduced by fate to that state, in a place so unlike its usual surroundings.

Well then, Mr. Charles Trockley, as usual, was not alarmed in the least by such an apparition. He didn’t falter for even a moment. He worked out the time that had elapsed, from the beginning of April to the end of December, and concluded that it was well within reason that the pretty little black goat from then could be this disgusting beast standing here today. And without the slightest hesitation, he replied to the young lady that he would immediately send it from Porto Empedocle with the next English merchant steamer returning to England. He hung a tag with Miss Ethel Holloway’s address on the collar of the horrid beast and ordered that it be transported to the docks. Here, he himself, seriously jeopardizing his dignity, pulled the obstinate beast behind him on a rope along the pier, followed by a horde of street urchins. He loaded it on the departing steamer, and returned to Agrigento, absolutely sure that he had scrupulously fulfilled the responsibility he had assumed, not so much for the sake of the deplorably frivolous Miss Ethel Holloway as out of the respect due to her father.

Yesterday, Mr. Charles Trockley came to visit me at home in such a state of spirit and body that I immediately rushed to support him and have him sit down, while calling for a glass of water, so great was my concern.

“For the love of God, Mr. Trockley, what has happened to you?”

Not yet able to speak, Mr. Trockley drew a letter from his pocket and handed it to me.

It was from Sir H. W. Holloway, peer of England, and it contained a torrent of bold impertinencies against Mr. Trockley for the affront that he had dared to make to his daughter Miss Ethel by sending her that dreadful filthy beast.

This was the gratitude for all the trouble that poor Mr. Trockley had gone to.

So what then did the most foolish Miss Ethel Holloway expect? Did she expect, after some eleven months since the purchase, that same little black goat who had leapt about, so tiny and glossy, trembling with shyness among the columns of the ancient Greek Temple in Sicily, to arrive in London? Is it possible? Mr. Charles Trockley could not come to terms with it.

Upon seeing him in that state, I tried to comfort him the best I could, acknowledging with him that, truly, Miss Ethel Holloway must be not only extremely capricious but also irrational beyond belief.

“Stupid! Stupid! Stupid girl!”

“Better to say unreasonable, dear Mr. Trockley, my friend. But you see,” (I ventured to add timidly) “after leaving last April with the pretty image of that little black goat in her eyes and her soul, she could not, let us be fair, serenely accept (being unreasoning as she obviously is) the evidence of reason that you, Mr. Trockley, suddenly placed before her with that monstrous goat that you sent her.”

“So then?” Mr. Trockley asked me, sitting up straight and eyeing me with hostility. “What should I have done then, in your opinion?”

“I wouldn’t want, Mr. Trockley,” I hastened to reply, ill at ease, “I wouldn’t want you to think me unreasonable, like the young lady from your far-off country, but if I were you, Mr. Trockley, do you know what I would have done? I would have either replied to Miss Ethel Holloway that the pretty little black goat had died out of longing for her kisses and caresses or bought another glossy little black goat, similar in every way to the one she bought last April, and sent it to her, utterly confident that it would never have occurred to Miss Ethel Holloway that her little goat could not possibly have remained as it was for eleven months. As you can see, in this way I continue to acknowledge that Miss Ethel Holloway is the most unreasonable creature on earth and that, as always, reason lies entirely on your side, my dear friend, Mr. Trockley.”