Bedient had started to speak of the picture, but she bade him wait…. As they rode along a country road, they came to an old ruin of a farm-house, surrounded by huge barns, some new, and all in good repair. A little beyond was a calf tied to a post. It was lying down, its legs still being largely experimental—a pitifully new calf, shapeless and forlorn.
The mother was nowhere around. Sick in some far meadow, perhaps, sick of making milk for men.
"That's a veal calf," Beth said.
The note in her voice called his eyes. Something which the sight suggested was hateful to her. Bedient dismounted and led his chestnut mare up to the little thing, which stared, tranced in hope and fear. The mare dropped her muzzle benignantly. She understood and became self-conscious and uncomfortable. One of a group of children near the farmhouse behind them called:
"Show off! Show off!"
"They sell its rightful food," Beth said, "and feed the poor little thing on cheaper stuff until it hardens for the butcher. Men are so big with their business."
"There are veal calves tied to so many posts on the world's highway,"
Bedient said slowly.
"When I was younger," Beth went on, "and used to read about the men who had done great creative things, I often found that they had to keep away from men and crowds, lest they perish from much pitying, dissipate their forces in wide, aimless outpourings of pity, which men and the systems of men called from them. Then—this was long ago—I used to think this a silly affectation, but I have come to understand."
"Of course, you would come to understand," Bedient said.
"Men who do great things are much alone," she continued. "They become sensitive to sights and sounds and odors—they are so alive, even physically. The downtown man puts on an armor. He must, or could not stay. The world seethes with agony—for him who can see."