The Bull

by H.H. Munro (SAKI)

　　

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Tom Yorkfield had always regarded his half-brother, Laurence, with a lazyinstinct of dislike, toned down, as years went on, to a tolerant feelingof indifference. There was nothing very tangible to dislike him for; hewas just a blood-relation, with whom Tom had no single taste or interestin common, and with whom, at the same time, he had had no occasion forquarrel. Laurence had left the farm early in life, and had lived for afew years on a small sum of money left him by his mother; he had taken uppainting as a profession, and was reported to be doing fairly well at it,well enough, at any rate, to keep body and soul together. He specialisedin painting animals, and he was successful in finding a certain number ofpeople to buy his pictures. Tom felt a comforting sense of assuredsuperiority in contrasting his position with that of his half-brother;Laurence was an artist-chap, just that and nothing more, though you mightmake it sound more important by calling an animal painter; Tom was afarmer, not in a very big way, it was true, but the Helsery farm had beenin the family for some generations, and it had a good reputation for thestock raised on it. Tom had done his best, with the little capital athis command, to maintain and improve the standard of his small herd ofcattle, and in Clover Fairy he had bred a bull which was something ratherbetter than any that his immediate neighbours could show. It would nothave made a sensation in the judging-ring at an important cattle show,but it was as vigorous, shapely, and healthy a young animal as any smallpractical farmer could wish to possess. At the King's Head on marketdays Clover Fairy was very highly spoken of, and Yorkfield used todeclare that he would not part with him for a hundred pounds; a hundredpounds is a lot of money in the small farming line, and probably anythingover eighty would have tempted him.It was with some especial pleasure that Tom took advantage of one ofLaurence's rare visits to the farm to lead him down to the enclosurewhere Clover Fairy kept solitary state--the grass widower of a grazingharem. Tom felt some of his old dislike for his half-brother reviving;the artist was becoming more languid in his manner, more unsuitablyturned-out in attire, and he seemed inclined to impart a slightlypatronising tone to his conversation. He took no heed of a flourishingpotato crop, but waxed enthusiastic over a clump of yellow-flowering weedthat stood in a corner by a gateway, which was rather galling to theowner of a really very well weeded farm; again, when he might have beenduly complimentary about a group of fat, black-faced lambs, that simplycried aloud for admiration, he became eloquent over the foliage tints ofan oak copse on the hill opposite. But now he was being taken to inspectthe crowning pride and glory of Helsery; however grudging he might be inhis praises, however backward and niggardly with his congratulations, hewould have to see and acknowledge the many excellences of thatredoubtable animal. Some weeks ago, while on a business journey toTaunton, Tom had been invited by his half-brother to visit a studio inthat town, where Laurence was exhibiting one of his pictures, a largecanvas representing a bull standing knee-deep in some marshy ground; ithad been good of its kind, no doubt, and Laurence had seemed inordinatelypleased with it; "the best thing I've done yet," he had said over andover again, and Tom had generously agreed that it was fairly life-like.Now, the man of pigments was going to be shown a real picture, a livingmodel of strength and comeliness, a thing to feast the eyes on, a picturethat exhibited new pose and action with every shifting minute, instead ofstanding glued into one unvarying attitude between the four walls of aframe. Tom unfastened a stout wooden door and led the way into a straw-bedded yard."Is he quiet?" asked the artist, as a young bull with a curly red coatcame inquiringly towards them."He's playful at times," said Tom, leaving his half-brother to wonderwhether the bull's ideas of play were of the catch-as-catch-can order.Laurence made one or two perfunctory comments on the animal's appearanceand asked a question or so as to his age and such-like details; then hecoolly turned the talk into another channel."Do you remember the picture I showed you at Taunton?" he asked."Yes," grunted Tom; "a white-faced bull standing in some slush. Don'tadmire those Herefords much myself; bulky-looking brutes, don't seem tohave much life in them. Daresay they're easier to paint that way; now,this young beggar is on the move all the time, aren't you, Fairy?""I've sold that picture," said Laurence, with considerable complacency inhis voice."Have you?" said Tom; "glad to hear it, I'm sure. Hope you're pleasedwith what you've got for it.""I got three hundred pounds for it," said Laurence.Tom turned towards him with a slowly rising flush of anger in his face.Three hundred pounds! Under the most favourable market conditions thathe could imagine his prized Clover Fairy would hardly fetch a hundred,yet here was a piece of varnished canvas, painted by his half-brother,selling for three times that sum. It was a cruel insult that went homewith all the more force because it emphasised the triumph of thepatronising, self-satisfied Laurence. The young farmer had meant to puthis relative just a little out of conceit with himself by displaying thejewel of his possessions, and now the tables were turned, and his valuedbeast was made to look cheap and insignificant beside the price paid fora mere picture. It was so monstrously unjust; the painting would neverbe anything more than a dexterous piece of counterfeit life, while CloverFairy was the real thing, a monarch in his little world, a personality inthe countryside. After he was dead, even, he would still be something ofa personality; his descendants would graze in those valley meadows andhillside pastures, they would fill stall and byre and milking-shed, theirgood red coats would speckle the landscape and crowd the market-place;men would note a promising heifer or a well-proportioned steer, and say:"Ah, that one comes of good old Clover Fairy's stock." All that time thepicture would be hanging, lifeless and unchanging, beneath its dust andvarnish, a chattel that ceased to mean anything if you chose to turn itwith its back to the wall. These thoughts chased themselves angrilythrough Tom Yorkfield's mind, but he could not put them into words. Whenhe gave tongue to his feelings he put matters bluntly and harshly."Some soft-witted fools may like to throw away three hundred pounds on abit of paintwork; can't say as I envy them their taste. I'd rather havethe real thing than a picture of it."He nodded towards the young bull, that was alternately staring at themwith nose held high and lowering its horns with a half-playful,half-impatient shake of the head.Laurence laughed a laugh of irritating, indulgent amusement."I don't think the purchaser of my bit of paintwork, as you call it, needworry about having thrown his money away. As I get to be better knownand recognised my pictures will go up in value. That particular one willprobably fetch four hundred in a sale-room five or six years hence;pictures aren't a bad investment if you know enough to pick out the workof the right men. Now you can't say your precious bull is going to getmore valuable the longer you keep him; he'll have his little day, andthen, if you go on keeping him, he'll come down at last to a fewshillingsworth of hoofs and hide, just at a time, perhaps, when my bullis being bought for a big sum for some important picture gallery."It was too much. The united force of truth and slander and insult putover heavy a strain on Tom Yorkfield's powers of restraint. In his righthand he held a useful oak cudgel, with his left he made a grab at theloose collar of Laurence's canary-coloured silk shirt. Laurence was nota fighting man; the fear of physical violence threw him off his balanceas completely as overmastering indignation had thrown Tom off his, andthus it came to pass that Clover Fairy was regaled with the unprecedentedsight of a human being scudding and squawking across the enclosure, likethe hen that would persist in trying to establish a nesting-place in themanger. In another crowded happy moment the bull was trying to jerkLaurence over his left shoulder, to prod him in the ribs while still inthe air, and to kneel on him when he reached the ground. It was only thevigorous intervention of Tom that induced him to relinquish the last itemof his programme.Tom devotedly and ungrudgingly nursed his half brother to a completerecovery from his injuries, which consisted of nothing more serious thana dislocated shoulder, a broken rib or two, and a little nervousprostration. After all, there was no further occasion for rancour in theyoung farmer's mind; Laurence's bull might sell for three hundred, or forsix hundred, and be admired by thousands in some big picture gallery, butit would never toss a man over one shoulder and catch him a jab in theribs before he had fallen on the other side. That was Clover Fairy'snoteworthy achievement, which could never be taken away from him.Laurence continues to be popular as an animal artist, but his subjectsare always kittens or fawns or lambkins--never bulls.

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The Bull was featured as TheShort Story of the Day on Sun, Jan 01, 2012

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