Jules Renard meets TLT’s lazy bull while out fly-fishing

The Bull

The angler with the fly rod walks lightly along the banks of the Yonne, making his green fly dance upon the water.

He gathers his green flies from the trunks of poplar trees, polished smooth by the rubbing of the cattle.

He casts his line with a sharp flick and a sense of authority. He imagines that each new fishing spot is better than the last, the best one, but soon leaves, steps over a stile, and crosses from one meadow into another.

Suddenly, as he passes through a great field scorched by the sun, he stops.

Over there, among the peaceful, reclining cows, a bull has just heaved itself up slow and steady.

It is a famous bull, and its size amazes passers-by on the road. One admires it from afar, and—if it hasn’t already—it could easily toss a man skyward, like an arrow shot from the bow of its horns. Gentler than a lamb when it wishes, it can, in an instant, turn furious; once it takes hold, no one knows what may happen.

The fisherman observes it quietly.

“If I run,” he thinks, “the bull will be on me before I reach the gate. If, unable to swim, I plunge into the river, I’ll drown. If I play dead on the ground, they say the bull will sniff me and move on. But can I be sure? And if it turns away, what then! Better to feign indifference.”

So the fisherman with the fly rod keeps fishing as if the bull were not there, hoping to deceive it.

The nape of his neck burns under his straw hat.
His feet ache to run, but he forces himself to tread the grass slowly. It is an act of heroism to drag his green fly along the water. From time to time, he glances back toward the poplars.

At last he reaches the stile at the hedge, from where—with one last effort of his trembling limbs—he can leap from the field, safe and sound.

But really, who urges him on?

The bull pays him no attention and stays among the cows.

It had stood up only to move a little, out of weariness, the way one stretches.

It turns its curly head to the evening wind.
It bellows at intervals, its eyes half-closed.
It moans with languor as it listens to its own lowing.