Spring 1954 • Vol. XVI No. 2 FictionApril 1, 1954 |

The Feast of St. Eustace

Tom Claiborne had promised his wife to rise early the morning of the fête. But he had not slept well the night before. He was still at breakfast on the terrace when Vera came around the corner of the house leading the bull. Claiborne had been reading the newspaper and until he looked up and saw his wife and the bull standing at the end of the terrace he had not known how bright the morning was. He fixed his eyes on his wife. She was already dressed for what she called her "morning's work" in a faded blouse and dungarees. Straws, glistening with moisture, adhered to the soles of her canvas sneakers; she had been working in the bull's stall long enough to get up a sweat. The sweat made the short, dark hairs about her forehead curl a little. The bull stood behind her on legs that might have been carved from solid mahogany, moving his jaws a little from side to side, staring past them both out of eyes the color of old port. His hair, red as henna, broke into curls, too, and rippled eve

Already have an account? Login

Join KR for even more to read.

Register for a free account to read five free pieces a month from our current issue and digital archive.
Register for Free and Read This Piece

Or become a subscriber today and get complete, immediate access to our digital archives at every subscription level.

Read More


Your free registration with Kenyon review incudes access to exclusive content, early access to program registration, and more.


With your support, we’ll continue 
to cultivate talent and publish extraordinary literature from diverse voices around the world.