The Shoulders of Atlas
A Novel
By
Mary E. Wilkins Freeman
Author of
"By the Light of the Soul" "The Debtor"
"Jerome" "A New England Nun" etc.
New York and London
Harper & Brothers Publishers
MCMVIII
Copyright, 1908, by the New York Herald Co.
All rights reserved.
Published June, 1908.
Chapter I
Henry Whitman was walking home from the shop in the Aprilafternoon. The spring was very early that year. The meadows werequite green, and in the damp hollows the green assumed a violettinge—sometimes from violets themselves, sometimes from theshadows. The trees already showed shadows as of a multitude of birdwings; the peach-trees stood aloof in rosy nimbuses, and thecherry-trees were faintly a-flutter with white through an intensegloss of gold-green.
Henry realized all the glory of it, but it filled him with arenewal of the sad and bitter resentment, which was his usual mood,instead of joy. He was past middle-age. He worked in a shoe-shop.He had worked in a shoe-shop since he was a young man. There wasnothing else in store for him until he was turned out because ofold age. Then the future looked like a lurid sunset of misery. Heearned reasonably good wages for a man of his years, but priceswere so high that he was not able to save a cent. There had beenunusual expenses during the past ten years, too. His wife Sylviahad not been well, and once he himself had been laid up six weekswith rheumatism. The doctor charged two dollars for every visit,and the bill was not quite settled yet.
Then the little house which had come to him from his father,encumbered with a mortgage as is usual, had all at once seemed toneed repairs at every point. The roof had leaked like a sieve, twowindows had been blown in, the paint had turned a gray-black, thegutters had been out of order. He had not quite settled the billfor these repairs. He realized it always as an actual physicalincubus upon his slender, bowed shoulders. He came of a race whowere impatient of debt, and who regarded with proud disdain allgratuitous benefits from their fellow-men. Henry always walked along route from the shop in order to avoid passing the houses ofthe doctor and the carpenter whom he owed.
Once he had saved a little money; that was twenty-odd yearsbefore; but he had invested it foolishly, and lost every cent. Thattransaction he regarded with hatred, both of himself and of thepeople who had advised him to risk and lose his hard-earneddollars. The small sum which he had lost had come to assumecolossal proportions in his mind. He used, in his bitterestmoments, to reckon up on a scrap of paper what it might haveamounted to, if it had been put out at interest, by this time. Healways came out a rich man, by his calculations, if it had not beenfor that unwise investment. He often told his wife Sylvia that theymight have been rich people if it had not been for that; that hewould not have been tied to a shoe-shop, nor she have been obligedto work so hard.
Sylvia took a boarder—the high-school principal, HoraceAllen—and she also made jellies and cakes, and baked breadfor those in East Westland who could afford to pay for such insteadof doing the work themselves. She was a delicate woman, and Henryknew that she worked beyond her strength, and the knowledge filledhim with impotent fury. Since the union had come into play he didnot have to work so many hours in the shop, and he got the samepay, but he worked as hard, because he himself cultivated his bitof land. He raised vegetables for the table. He also made the placegay with flowers to please Sylvia and himself. He had a stuntedthirst for beauty.
In the winter he found plenty to do in the extra hours. He sawedwood in his