OUR MISSION IN SWITZERLAND—MUTTERINGS OF THE COMING STORM.
Very soon after this we were notified that the Apostle Snow was on his
way to Switzerland, and that we might shortly expect him.
This to me was joyful news, for he had relieved me of my trouble once
before, and I almost looked upon him as my good angel. He came, and
remained with us a few days; and before he left he instructed Mr.
Stenhouse to repair to England, to raise funds to aid the mission. He
also gave me a few pounds to procure what I needed for an event which I
expected shortly to take place. This kindness on his part brought to my
mind such a sense of relief, and so renewed my energy, that I felt ready
for my missionary labours again.
When my second child was about two months old I went to Lausanne to
reside, while my husband was absent in England. Apartments were engaged
for me at the house of a gentleman who had recently been baptized. I was
made very comfortable there, and for the first time since my husband was
sent on a mission, I experienced a feeling of repose, so that I now had
some hopes of regaining mental and physical strength. No provision had
been made by the Saints for my support; but even without that, I thought,
living among those who were themselves happy, and one with us in the
faith, I should myself find more tranquillity of mind.
Madame and Monsieur Balif, in whose house I resided, were persons of good
social position. The husband was one of nature’s gentlemen, and as good
a man as I ever knew. He received the Mormonism taught by Mr. Stenhouse
with all his heart, and never seemed weary of showing his gratitude
by his good deeds. Madame Balif did not at once join the church, and
probably never would have done so but for the love which she bore to her
husband. She was not, however, hostile to the new faith, as some other
wives were, and she did all that she could to render pleasant my stay
with them, and tried to make me forget what I had suffered in Geneva.
Madame Balif was a high-spirited, impulsive woman, and devotedly attached
to her husband; I never saw a woman more so. She impressed me as being
one of the happiest of wives; he one of the best of husbands. After I
had lived in the house a few weeks, she was baptized; but she never was
satisfied with Mormonism. Poor, dear lady! How often have I bitterly
regretted that I was instrumental in leading her into the Mormon Church,
in which, as (years later, in Utah) she told me, she endured such cruel
humiliation and martyrdom. I knew well indeed then what all that meant.
While I lived with them, it was agreed that I should pay for my
apartments monthly; but after I had paid for the first month, Monsieur
Balif told me that I should do so no more. And knowing that he meant it
as an expression of kindness and gratitude on his part, I felt relieved
of all anxiety on that account. All that I had, even then, for the
support of myself and my two little ones was about five francs ($1) a
week; but my wants were few, for I had taught myself to require nothing
but what was absolutely necessary to keep me alive.
During Mr. Stenhouse’s absence, the meetings were held in my parlour;
and as the brethren who had joined the church had not previously been
religious men, though they were persons of the best moral character,
they were very diffident about conducting the meetings, and for a time
could not think of praying before others. It devolved upon me—of sheer
necessity, for I disliked prominence as much as they did—to lead the
singing, to pray, to preach—in fact, to do everything. Had I not done so,
they would have sat looking at each other, for they were all too timid to
speak. I encouraged them in every way to try, and finally we got along
very well. A “good spirit” prevailed; and we were like a little band of
brothers and sisters.
The only person, now, who gave me any anxiety was Madame Balif, who was
very weak in the faith. Her doubts and fears troubled me much, for I
had conceived a very great regard for her. I feared that with a heart
so proud and rebellious as hers, she would never get salvation, and I
trembled for her happiness. How slight a hold the new faith had taken of
her mind, I was forcibly reminded by an incident which was at the time a
great trial to me.
My little daughter fell sick of intermittent fever, and I dared not call
in a physician; it would not do for me, a missionary’s wife, to show lack
of faith. Such was our zeal in those days. But now, as I once before
stated, even the most orthodox Mormons, including Brigham Young, do not
think of relying upon God and the ordinances of the church, as they used
to in former years, but call in the best physician they can get.
I was much troubled about my little girl, for she was evidently failing
fast. She had been “administered to” by one of the native elders, who
had anointed her with oil, and prayed over her; but yet she did not get
better. Madame Balif, in the midst of my affliction, taunted me about the
child not recovering, and asked where was the power of God, of which I
had talked so much: “Now,” she said “if you could get that child healed,
it would be some proof to my mind that the power you speak of is still
in the church.” I felt ashamed that I had not exercised more faith. I
was certain that the gift of healing _was_ in the church, and I believed
it was my own fault that the child was not even now well. In my zeal I
replied rather warmly, “My child _will_ be healed, and you shall see
it.” But I had no sooner uttered these words than I began to fear I had
promised too much.
I determined, however, that nothing on my part should be left undone. I
sent for Governor Stoudeman, our new convert, as he was the president of
the branch and an elder. I told him that this child _must_ be healed by
the power of God. We had not witnessed any manifestation of the healing
power among the Saints in Switzerland up to that time; and I earnestly
desired that now for the first time this gift might be proved among us,
for the sake of the church as well as for my own. So I told the governor
that it was his duty, as well as mine, to fast and pray that the Lord
might grant us this blessing, that it might be a testimony that it was
His work and that we were His servants.
He became as enthusiastic as I was myself, and we fasted and prayed for
nearly two days. At the end of that time he came to see me, and by the
bedside we knelt and prayed; and he laid his hands upon the child, and
blessed her in the name of the Lord.
That night the child was very low; and though I strove to show my faith,
I dreaded that she would have her usual attack of fever about midnight.
After the departure of the elder, Madame Balif came into the room, and
said, “Your child is very ill; if your God cannot help her, why do not
you send for a physician?” This appeared to me so profane, and such an
insult to my God and my faith, that I replied indignantly, “Madame, she
_will_ and _shall_ be healed this very night; for I know that power is in
the church. The reason why the child was not healed before is, because I
have not been earnest enough in seeking the Lord.”
When I was left alone I sat down by the bedside, trembling lest I had
been too rash in declaring that the child would be healed that same
night. Much and fondly as I loved my little treasure, I confess that I
suffered more at the thought of God’s name suffering reproach than I
did from fear of my darling’s death; and I tried earnestly to banish my
doubts, with the remembrance that all things are possible to them that
believe.
Kneeling there in the dark and lonesome midnight, I poured out my soul
fervently to God, beseeching Him, for His kingdom’s sake, and for the
glory of His great name, to answer, and not to suffer my unworthiness to
stand in the way. I watched hour after hour beside my darling’s bed, and
the child slept on peacefully, without any symptoms of returning fever;
and, oh! how anxiously I waited for her awaking.
At last, worn out with fatigue and watching, I laid myself down on the
bed beside her, and soon fell asleep; and when I awoke it was daylight,
and my little one was peacefully sleeping on still—the fever had left
her. No tongue could tell the gratitude which filled my heart; I could
only weep tears of joy, and sing aloud my praise to God.
Madame Balif entered the room early in the morning to see what kind of
a night we had passed. Then I drew her to the bedside, and told her how
tranquilly the child had slept all night, and showed her how much better
she looked, and asked her if she did not see in all this the providence
of God. But she simply said, “Ah, well! I suppose the disease had run its
course.” This grieved me, for I had trusted that such a direct answer
to my prayers would have helped to increase her faith in our religion;
but Mormonism had not touched her heart; and I believe it is much more
the devotion of the heart than it is the mental acquiescence in doctrine
which gives us the power to hope, and endure, and believe.
When, by-and-by, my little Clara awoke, she was evidently very much
better, and not only free from the fever, but bright and cheerful, like
her former self; and she never relapsed. In the course of a week she was
running about as well as ever, and the Saints were greatly confirmed in
their faith.
One morning, not long after this, Madame Balif brought me a letter which,
as it bore the English postmark, she supposed came from my husband. The
writing, however, was strange to me; and dreading that some terrible
thing might have happened, I tore it open. There, at the bottom of the
last page—for the letter was very long—in neat, clear characters, was the
signature of my fairy friend, as I called her, Mary Burton. I read the
letter through with the deepest interest. It was addressed “To darling
Sister Stenhouse,” and was overflowing with affection. Used as I was to
all her endearing ways, I could almost fancy that while I read I heard
her speaking the words. After a great outpouring of love, she said,—
“Since you went, I have grown quite an old woman. You used
to call me ‘Little fairy,’ but, Sister Stenhouse, I am much
bigger now. I am now a good deal over seventeen, and people say
that I am getting to be quite a woman. I might tell you some
other pretty things that are said about me, but I’m afraid you
would say it was all vanity of vanities. If you stay away much
longer, you won’t recognize me when we meet again.
“And now I want to tell you something that interests you as
much as me. I have not been able to discover anything more
with certainty about those hateful things of which I told you,
although the word Polygamy seems to me to become every day much
more familiar in people’s conversation. Elder Shrewsbury tells
me that there is not a word of truth in it; and he has had a
good deal of conversation upon that subject with the apostles
who are here, and also with a man named Curtis E. Bolton—an
Elder from the Salt Lake; and they all positively declare that
it is a foul slander upon the Saints of the Most High. So you
see that all our unhappiness was for naught. Our Saviour said
we should be blessed when all men spoke evil of us falsely for
His name’s take; and the wicked scandal which has been raised
against our religion has had a tendency to strengthen my faith,
which you know was rather wavering.
“And yet do you know, Sister Stenhouse, that even while I am
writing to you in this strain, I am weak enough to allow doubts
and fears to creep into my heart when I think of the conduct of
some of the American brethren.
“They appear to me, for married men, to act _so very_
imprudently; and to call their conduct ‘imprudent’ is really
treating it with the greatest leniency, for I have often been
quite shocked at the way in which some of the brethren and
sisters acted. But I will tell you a little about it, and you
shall judge for yourself.
“When I found out, as I had long suspected, that dear papa was
going to marry again, I at once resolved that I would no longer
be a burden to him, but would find some employment, and support
myself. I was induced to do this, partly because as you know,
step-mothers and daughters do not always love each other quite
as much as they might. So I communicated my wishes to papa,
and told him that I had been introduced to a very nice lady,
who had a large dressmaking establishment at the west end of
London. She is a member of the Church, and has always been
very highly spoken of. I told him that she employed a number
of highly respectable young girls, and that four, at least, of
them were members of the Church, and that, in consideration
of my lonely situation, and at the earnest request of Elder
Shrewsbury, she was willing to take me into her house, to board
and lodge me, and teach me the business thoroughly, if my
father would pay her a premium of fifty pounds.
“This papa readily agreed to do, as I expected he would, for
he is so taken up with my step-mamma that is to be; and beside
which he has, I know, been unfortunate lately in some railway
speculations, and has lost a great deal of money, and therefore
wishes to economize. In this way I went to London, and became a
member of Mrs. Elsworth’s family—and here I am still.
“Now you have been in London, Sister Stenhouse, and must
remember ‘the office’ in Jewin Street—the head-quarters where
all the elders congregate, and where the American elders board,
and church business is managed. Well, the very first week I was
at Mrs. Elsworth’s I noticed that the four young sisters who
were working there were constantly talking of Jewin Street,
and the dear American brethren who were stopping there. One of
them in particular was always talking about dear Elder Snow;
and another girl whispered to me that she went to Jewin Street
every evening, and frequently remained there to tea with him,
and went afterwards to the theatre with him, or to a meeting,
as the case might be; and the young lady added, ‘She does make
such a fuss over him, toying with him, and brushing and combing
his hair. I know that she does it, for I have been there with
her, and have seen her do it; and he appears to enjoy it quite
as much as she does; and I believe, if Polygamy was true he
would marry her.’
“‘But,’ I said, ‘it is not true, and therefore it is very wrong
for her to act in that way, for he is a married man.’
“‘Oh, but you know,’ she answered, ‘that we are all brothers
and sisters, and the brethren tell us that those little
attentions make them feel that they are not so far from home,
and they are thus enabled to perform their mission better; and
if that is so, it is the duty of the young sisters to encourage
them. These _little attentions_ cost nothing, and I’m sure it’s
quite a pleasure to me.’
“‘Then _you_ go to Jewin Street?’ I asked.
“‘Yes,’ she said, ‘sometimes, but not very often, for _my_
elder calls here frequently, as he is acquainted with Mrs.
Elsworth; and then I take my work up into the parlour
sometimes, and have a long talk with him. Mrs. Elsworth does
not like it, I know, but she does not care to oppose the
elders;—in fact, her husband will not allow any such thing—he
has dared her to do so. After all, she is very silly, for we
ought to love each other and be free and friendly. My elder—I
call him _my_ elder, you know, simply because I like him better
than the others—calls Mrs. Elsworth ‘Gentilish,’ and says
she’ll get over it when she goes to Zion. But she says she
won’t. She is awfully jealous of her husband and a certain Miss
Caroline somebody, though she doesn’t care for him.’
“‘But what difference can it make to him?’ I asked her. ‘He has
a wife, and ought not to pay attention to any other woman.’
“‘Ah, you silly child,’ she said, ‘it is only brotherly love,
after all, and men often have wives who do not make them happy,
and that makes them seek the society of the young sisters, for
those who are far from home are lonely. My own elder’s wife is
here in London, but he isn’t much with her. He spends nearly
all his time in Jewin Street; he is a travelling Elder, and
when he is going anywhere to preach he always calls for me,
as he does not like going alone, he is such a genial soul. If
Polygamy were true, I’d promise to marry him when we reached
the Valley.’
“Then I asked why his wife didn’t go with him; and she said,
‘Oh, poor man! he has no pleasure in _her_ society. She is
always moping and unhappy. You know, some women are naturally
so. I do all I can to make him feel well, for it must be awful
to be married to a woman who is always sad.’
“I asked her _why_ his wife should be so unhappy; and she said,
‘He tells me that she has got it into her head that somehow or
other Polygamy is practised in Zion; and I’m sure I, for one,
wish it was so, for then we could marry whoever we pleased.’
“‘Oh, for shame!’ I said. ‘I’m sure I’d never go there, if I
thought so.’
“Then I asked her whether she did not think it was wrong for
her to encourage the attentions of _her_ elder; and she said,
‘He wishes it just as much as I do; and his wife had better
behave herself, or I’ll marry him whether Polygamy exists or
not in Zion; and he does not know, though we both suspect,
that there _is_ something in the rumours which we have heard.’
Then I told her I thought it was very wicked to encourage the
visits of that man; for I believe that if he paid a little more
attention to his wife she would be less unhappy—for I suppose
she knew of his attentions to her.
“She said the wife knew nothing about it; that he was obliged
to be out late at night, preaching, or at Jewin Street—which I
knew meant flirting with the sisters and going to the theatre;
and I fancy he does more of that than preaching. But she seemed
to think it was all the wife’s fault, and blamed her. I asked
her if she would like to be treated so, if she were an Elder’s
wife, and had to work as hard and endure as much as all the
Missionaries’ wives do. But she said she never could be in
such a position, and told me that I was not a good Mormon or I
would not set myself up as the accuser of the brethren. But I
ask you, Sister Stenhouse, if that is the Mormonism which the
elders used to teach us?
“And now I have told you all our long talk together, and so you
can judge for yourself what a change has taken place since you
left.
“The same day, after dinner, Brother Snow called, in company
with two other elders, to see Mrs. Elsworth, and to ask her and
the girls to a tea-party the next day. Mrs. Elsworth declined;
but one young lady would go with Brother Snow, and Miss
Caroline went with another elder; and my light-hearted friend
waited till _her_ Elder came also to ask _her_. After that,
came Elder Shrewsbury, and I, of course, was to go with him.
“With all my faith, I am very much troubled about these things.
They are not right, I think. Why, scarcely a day passes but
some of these elders, who appear to have very little to do,
call here, and send for one or two of these young sisters, and
detain them from their work, much to the annoyance of poor Mrs.
Elsworth, who, I believe, will apostatize over it eventually.
“See what a long letter I have written to you! I am afraid it
will tire you. I often long to have you here, that I might come
to you and tell you all my troubles. But perhaps after all I
am wrong, and ought to see things in a different light. Have
not the Elders and Apostles positively denied that Polygamy or
any other sin was practised in Utah, or formed any part of the
Mormon religion? and we know that these men of God would not
deceive us.
“Be sure, dear, to write a nice long letter to me _very soon_;
and, with fondest love, remember your own
“MARY BURTON.”
I read this letter carefully through, and I sat down and thought of
dear Mary Burton, and felt deeply sorry that she should be placed in a
situation surrounded by so many temptations. To myself the letter brought
a sad confirmation of all my fears. There was something painful in the
thought. Had Polygamy been openly avowed as a Mormon doctrine, I should
never have joined the Church. But now, what could I do?
After three months’ absence, Mr. Stenhouse was to return home, and I went
to Geneva to meet him, feeling very happy when I saw him once again.
Numbers of persons, both in Geneva and Lausanne had been converted while
he was away, and were waiting for him to baptize them—among them was
a retired Protestant minister, Monsieur Petitpierre, of whom I have
something yet to mention. We began at last to rejoice in our success, and
to be thankful that the Lord had answered our prayers.
I was now more than ever anxious about Polygamy. From much thinking on
that subject, it had become the haunting spectre of my existence, and
I dreaded what every day might bring forth. The news which my husband
brought with him by no means reassured me. He told me that he had heard
in England from the American Elders that there was a general expectation
among the Saints in Utah that at the October Conference in Salt Lake
City, Brigham Young would publish to the world that Polygamy was a
doctrine of the Mormon Church.
After all the prevarications and denials then of the Apostles and
Elders, Polygamy among the Saints was really a fact. As the truth
became clearer to my mind, I thought I should lose my senses. The very
foundations of my faith were shaken, and not only did I feel a personal
repugnance to the unholy doctrine, but I began to realize that the men
to whom I had listened with such profound respect, and had regarded as
the representatives of God, had been guilty of the most deliberate and
unblushing falsehood; and I began to ask myself whether, if they could
do this in order to carry out their purpose in one particular, they
might not be guilty of deception upon other points? _Who_ could I trust
now? For ten years the Mormon Prophets and Apostles had been living in
Polygamy at home, while abroad they vehemently denied it, and spoke of
it as a deadly sin. This was a painful awakening to me; we had all of us
been betrayed. I lost confidence in man, and almost began to question
within myself whether I could even trust in God.
There was no argument between Mr. Stenhouse and myself. It would have
been worse than useless, for it was not his doing, and he assured me that
he had as great a repugnance to the doctrine as I had. He had at first
only hinted that it _might_ eventually be acknowledged by the leaders of
the Church; but it was a matter of too deeply a personal character for me
to keep silence, and I did not rest until he had told me all. He had not
seen the revelation, but the information which he had received was beyond
a question; and singularly enough Elder Margetts, the London Elder of
whose flirtation in Southampton I have already spoken, was at that time
on a visit to Switzerland, and confirmed all that my husband had said.
Thus the very man who, two years before, first excited my suspicions, now
confirmed my fears, and openly stated as a fact that which he then was
ashamed almost to suggest.
Elder Margetts had been in Utah from the time I saw him in England, and
was now on a mission to Italy. He knew, therefore, very well what was
said and done among the Saints in Zion. I, and those like me, whose faith
was not too strong, were spoken of as “babes” to whom milk only must
be given; and in this way any deception necessary to quiet our tender
consciences was allowable; but Elder Margetts was one of the “strong
men,” to whom meat was necessary—in other words, they were initiated into
all the mysteries of the faith.
My husband enjoined me not to speak of what I had heard, and I felt very
little inclination to do so—my heart was too full. The pleasant dreams
and hopes of life were ended now to me. What could I look forward too?
Henceforth the stern realities of a lonely and weary existence were all
the future that should be mine.
Still, the “Revelation” sanctioning a change in the doctrines and
practice of the church, was not yet published; and until polygamy was
openly avowed I felt that the doom of my happiness was not yet sealed;
and like many another heart-broken woman, I hoped against hope.