MISSIONARY WORK—TEACHING POLYGAMY.
I now entered upon a new phase of my missionary life; the Elders assured
me that it was my duty to teach polygamy to the women of Switzerland.
Hitherto, although I had suffered much from poverty and privation, my
work as a missionary had been very pleasant. I believed with my whole
heart all that I taught, and my best wishes for the people around me were
that they might become altogether such as I was, except in my sufferings.
Now, however, all this was changed. It was no longer salvation through
faith in Christ, or repentance, or baptism; it was no longer love and
peace for this world, and the promise of everlasting joy in the world to
come, that I was called upon to teach. My task hitherto had been a labour
of love; now it was to be a weary work of pain. How could I teach the
sisters, the affection of whose guileless hearts I had won to myself—how
could I teach them that which my own heart abhorred, a doctrine which I
hated with my whole soul!
How I strove against my rebellious nature! how I battled with myself!
That God had sent the Revelation I never questioned, and all rebellion
to His will I knew must be sinful. I had no thought of evading the
responsibility; my heart must be subdued. It might be subdued; it might
be crushed and broken; but I could never again, I felt, be truly happy.
I tried to reason with myself, and to persuade myself that it was I who
was to blame and not the Revelation. If the Lord required me to submit,
it must be for some good purpose; and I must not refuse the cross
that He called upon me to bear. Sometimes for a few moments something
would attract my attention and divert my thoughts; but the terrible
reality—polygamy, refused to be ignored, and I felt all the more bitterly
afterwards. I never was happy, for life had lost its charm to me. Ere I
slept at night one dreadful thought was haunting my pillow—it disturbed
my very dreams; and when I awoke in the morning, it was with a feverish
apprehension of coming evil hanging over me. All through the long, weary
day it haunted my footsteps like a spectre; and like a fearful blight
that had fallen upon me, it seemed to be withering my soul. One thought
was ever present in my mind—that thought, polygamy!
It can be no wonder that I lost all interest in life, and that I should
almost wish to die rather than live that life of degradation which I
dreaded would be mine. But death flies from those who woo her; the
wretched, the weary, the hopeless, they find her not. I felt that there
was no rest for me. My only comfort was in my children; no revelation, I
felt, could change their relationship to me. But over my little daughter
Clara I mourned, for I thought if this revelation were acted upon by
the Saints, as doubtless it would be, she would some day be called upon
to suffer as I did. How little did I then, however, anticipate in what
way my fears would be realized! My Clara became the daughter-in-law of
Brigham Young, having married his eldest son, Joseph A. Young.
I am afraid at that time I was somewhat of a trial to my husband, for
my heart was not yet quite subdued. I grew impatient at the wrong which
I felt had been done to me, and I often said bitter things against the
Prophet of the Lord and all his sex, including my husband, who was then,
and for years after, a devoted Mormon, and was quite horrified at what
I said. He often told me that I was a great hindrance to him, and that
it was impossible for any one who lived with me to enjoy the Spirit of
God—and I was afraid that he only spoke the truth.
Then I repented, and sought to chasten myself; and I fasted and prayed,
and asked forgiveness of God and my husband. But even when most subdued
I was as unhappy as ever, and some one was sure to say something which
reminded me of my trouble; and whenever the elders came to the house they
were sure to discuss the one painful topic. Then my indignant feelings
all came back again, and I felt the spirit of rebellion stirring within
me. I could not help it, for I felt that woman’s nature itself was
insulted by the degrading doctrine, and any mention of it excited my
anger.
My husband and the Elders had anticipated that I would not readily
submit, and they bore with me as patiently as they could, losing no
opportunity of strengthening me in the faith, ever keeping before me the
obligation that rested upon me in particular to explain the doctrine
to the Swiss sisters. They knew very well that nothing tends more to
confirm the faith of the wavering than setting them to teach others.
Brigham Young has always acted on this principle, and whenever any of the
brethren have evinced signs of doubt or disaffection they have been at
once despatched on a mission. Their efforts to convert others established
their own faith.
Among the Swiss we had never spoken on polygamy or any kindred subject,
and we were therefore spared the humiliation which the British Elders
experienced in having to retract their own teachings. Nevertheless,
Mr. Stenhouse and the other Elders felt great anxiety as to how the
new doctrine would be received. My husband did not at once openly tell
them that such a Revelation had been sent from Zion; but whenever an
opportunity presented he took them aside singly, and spoke to them
about the ancient patriarchs who practised polygamy; and so great was
his influence with the converts that he soon won them over to the
new teaching, and made them feel that they would not be justified
in rejecting the Revelation. Many of the Swiss Saints before their
conversion had been more Socialists than Christians, and they probably
thought that this change in the marriage institution was a sign of
advancing intellectual supremacy; but their wives were very far from
sharing these opinions with them.
After many days and nights of prayer and fasting I prepared myself for
my work. To a certain extent I had brought my own self under control—or
I thought I had; and I almost felt anxious to begin, so that I might get
over the painful scenes which I fully anticipated. It was agreed that
Madame Balif, of whom I have already spoken as being rather sceptical
when my child recovered from her critical condition, should be the first
to whom the intelligence should be imparted, for it was thought that if
she accepted this Revelation without much difficulty, the other sisters
would be more easily won over. She was a well educated and intelligent
woman, and had seen a good deal of the world. She had met her husband
while travelling in Russia, had married him, and they had returned to
their native land. She was in every respect a lady, but she was a spoilt
child, and had her whims; and she possessed a great influence over the
minds of the other sisters. On this account it was that she was selected
as the victim to whom should be first imparted the mysteries of the
Revelation, for it was thought that whatever reception she might give to
polygamy, her views would greatly influence the conduct of the rest.
As I before mentioned, Madame Balif and her husband were models of
affection to one another, and it seemed to me quite a sin that I should
introduce into such a household a doctrine which could only produce
disunion and misery. I had, however, schooled my heart to what I thought
was my duty, and I strove to smother the rebellion rising within me. But,
after all, it seemed to me hardly fair that I should be selected for this
painful task. These husbands had not courage enough, or were ashamed, to
tell their own wives about this wonderful Revelation; and so I, a weak
woman, hating in my heart the doctrine as much as a woman could hate—_I_
was chosen to introduce this pleasant subject, and to persuade those I
loved to their own ruin. I had had it all fully explained to me, and I
thoroughly understood the _beauties_ of the system in the sight of the
elders, and what they considered the strong points in the Revelation;—but
it is miserable work to try to convince others of a thing that you
yourself detest.
One day, quite unexpectedly to her, they had told Madame Balif that a new
Revelation had been sent from Zion, and that I would explain it to her;
then Monsieur Balif left the house, and remained absent until the wife
whom he so devotedly loved should have heard this new thing.
Madame Balif came down stairs singing, in her usual gay spirits, little
expecting what she was going to hear; and when she came to me I felt so
unfitted for my task that I dared not look her straight in the face,
although she was my dearest friend, and I had such an affection for her.
I stood there, pale and trembling, and she thought that I was not well. I
was not indeed well; I was sick at heart. Never before had the face of a
friend been so unwelcome.
She asked me what it was that I had to tell her; and when I hesitatingly
denied having wanted to speak to her at all, she said she knew there must
be something, as her husband had told her so.
I hesitated still; but at last found courage, and told her all. It was a
cruel task to impose upon me. Day after day I had observed her and her
husband, I had noticed their deep affection; had seen her watching at the
window for his return; and he would come with a little offering of choice
fruit or flowers; and I thought no woman could be happier than Madame
Balif. And now for me to so cruelly awaken them from their dream of bliss!
She sat and listened eagerly as I told my story; and when at length
she began to understand what was meant by it, she thought that I must
be playing some unseasonable joke upon her, and showed as much in her
countenance. But when she saw that I really was in earnest, she sprang
up, and cried out, “Oh, my God! what a beastly religion! How dared your
husband and you come to us Swiss with such a religion as that?” My eyes
sank before her as she turned on me with mingled rage and disgust, as if
she would wither me with her contemptuous looks. I felt as humbled as if
I myself had been the author of the Revelation.
“And does my Serge believe this?” she cried.
I assured her that he did believe it, and she paced the room, to and
fro, as if she would go crazy; my heart ached for her. She gave way to
a perfect storm of rage, and then sobbed and cried like a child who had
lost its mother. I was silent, for I knew how she must feel, and I felt
that she would be relieved by tears. I had gone through the trial all
alone, without one word from a woman’s heart that could reach my own.
And I tried to comfort her. I remembered how I had felt myself, and I
believed that thus it was now with her. In an instant, when I first
realized that polygamy had anything to do with me, just as I have heard
it said of dying men, all my past life rushed to my remembrance, and
every word or deed of love therein, stood out in brightest reality.
Thus I doubted not it was with my friend. Every tender word which her
husband had ever uttered; every loving deed he had ever done, came to her
recollection with a ten-fold dearness as she realized the horrors which
awaited her in the future.
How little did we either of us imagine the story she would afterwards
tell me in Utah!
I tried to soothe her, and she threw her arms passionately round me, and
pressed me to her throbbing heart, and wept again. She thought of her
husband and her little girls. But with all her fears she dreamed not
how miserable was the life before her in poverty and polygamy. She was
herself handsome in form and fair in feature; and, in the full enjoyment
of all that could be desired in her sphere of life, she was as happy as a
youthful wife could be. She pictured to herself a time—not now, her Serge
loved her too truly _now_—when her husband might cast his eyes upon some
blooming damsel, younger than she was _then_, and might begin to take a
nearer interest in polygamy. She pictured him bestowing on the youthful
beauty the love and tenderness which he had always bestowed on _her_; how
his affections would die out towards her; how her heart would be desolate
and alone!
I took her hand in mine and spoke very gently to her; and when she was
calmer, I talked to her more freely. We found now, as we tried to look
our common enemy in the face, how strong a hold Mormonism had taken of
us; and it is in this that persons unacquainted with the Saints have so
greatly misjudged the women of Utah; they know how small a hold such a
religion—now they look upon Mormonism and polygamy as identical—would
have upon them; and they forget how all-absorbing was our faith in
Mormonism _without_ polygamy. We confided not wisely, but too well.
Had polygamy been an invention of our husbands, or a system which they
capriciously adopted, we might have been grieved, but we should have
known how to act, for we were in a Christian country, where women had
rights as well as men; it was our own hearts which were traitors to us.
We had been taught to regard Abraham and Jacob, and David and Solomon as
types of holiness, as men who were fit objects for imitation; and now it
was proved to us, from Scripture, that these men were polygamists, and
yet were blessed by God; and we were called upon to follow their example.
Thus we tried to crush out the remembrance of our own womanhood. Had
we but followed the light of reason which God had given for our guide,
we should have trampled in the dust that vile burlesque upon the holy
religion of Jesus called a “Revelation upon Celestial Marriage.” As it
was, the religious teachings which we had received, both before and after
we embraced Mormonism, alike combined to blind us to the truth.
In this state of mind we knelt, and prayed for the Lord to increase our
faith in that very doctrine which in our hearts we cursed and hated; and
on our knees we wept again; and natural feelings of repugnance mingled
with an earnest struggle to submit to the will of God. Madame Balif had
not so much faith in Mormonism as I had, and she had consequently less
to trouble her in that respect; but she loved her husband, and she knew
that he was determined to go to Zion as soon as he could; and then not
only would all the luxuries of a happy home be sacrificed, but all her
anticipations of the future were overshadowed by a terrible apprehension.
Thus we were equally troubled, though I had to endure most, as the task
of teaching fell upon me. I did at last manage to persuade her not to
offer any active opposition to the Revelation, but I could not satisfy
her that all was right. She even went so far as to promise to try to
overcome her own feelings, for if it was really true she did not wish
to be found fighting against the Lord. She had, however, hardly ceased
speaking when the thought of her little daughters crossed her mind, and
once more she paced the room like an enraged tigress, declaring angrily
that “no vile polygamist should ever possess either of her sweet girls.”
I had felt like this for my own darling Clara.
I had now a companion in misery, some one who could sympathize with me.
Even had my husband detested the doctrine as I did, he could not have
comforted me as a woman and a mother could. My poor friend could feel as
I felt, and her sympathy was very dear to me; misery loves companionship;
we were sisters in affliction. Not only so, Madame Balif declared that
this painful task should not rest on me alone; she would help me in
speaking to the sisters. Thus we helped each other in the time of our
trouble.
It must have been about this time that I received another letter from
Mary Burton. The postmark is quite indistinct, but a week or two one way
or the other does not signify much. In her usual quick and impulsive way,
she gave me _her_ views of the “beauties” of polygamy, and perhaps the
reader would like to hear what she said.
“ ... I am very miserable, Sister Stenhouse, and furiously
indignant. I little thought when I last wrote to you that I
should have such news to tell; but I suppose you know it all
without my saying a word. How we all felt when we first learned
that polygamy was true, no words of mine can describe; we
hardly dared look one another in the face. Let me tell you how
it was.
“One night, quite late, Elder Shrewsbury came round in a hurry,
and asked to see me. I went down into the parlour to meet him,
and Mrs. Elsworth came down also, and remained until he went
away. Elder Shrewsbury looked very strange that night, just
like a man who had been doing something wrong and was ashamed
of it.
“He excused himself for coming so late, but he said he had
only just received some important news, and could not rest
until he had seen us. He had been round at the Conference
house, and had there seen a good many of the Elders. They
were all talking earnestly upon the same subject, for that
day they had received, not only letters from the apostle at
Liverpool, but also copies of the _Millennial Star_, with the
Revelation in it, which I suppose you have seen. Of course it
was impossible for them to doubt any longer, but most of them
felt it was a cruel blow. Elder Shrewsbury said they looked at
one another, but did not dare to speak. Nearly all of them
had been anxiously trying to get rid of the false scandal, as
they supposed the accusation of polygamy to be; and in public
in their sermons, and in private to all the weak brethren, they
had over and over again solemnly declared that polygamy was
unheard of among the Saints, that it was a Gentile lie; and
they had proved from the Bible, and from the Book of Mormon,
that a doctrine so sinful could never be believed or practised
by God’s people.
“Now all this would be thrown in their teeth. Those who
hated Mormonism would revile them for it, and, worse still,
the Saints themselves would despise and doubt them for the
falsehoods which many of them had innocently told. Who could
tell where all this would end? When they were found to have
been deceived in a matter like polygamy, about which it was so
easy to arrive at facts and certainty, who would trust them
concerning other doctrines, which depended upon their veracity
and testimony alone?
“Then, too, there was worse to be said about the American
elders and apostles. Who could believe that Orson Pratt or
Lorenzo Snow knew nothing of polygamy? And yet they denied it
in the most solemn way. And, oh, Sister Stenhouse, think of the
Apostle Taylor calling God to witness his truth when he proved
from the Book of Covenants that there was no such thing as
polygamy: and all the while he had himself _five_ wives in Salt
Lake City!
“Elder Shrewsbury told us all this, but he spoke slowly and
disjointedly, like a man whose mind is troubled. He said he
hardly knew what he was doing. Then he gave Mrs. Elsworth
a copy of the _Star_, and he asked me, too, to read the
Revelation carefully before I condemned it.
“‘If the Revelation, as you call it, allows polygamy,’ I
exclaimed, ‘I hate and despise it, and you, and Mormonism, and
all!’ I was quite in a fury, and I _did_ feel as if I hated him
then.
“He did not answer me; he seemed too cut up to utter a word;
but I did not pity him. I felt that men who would write such a
revelation as that for their own wicked purposes deserved all
the hatred which the cruellest heart could muster up; they were
loathesome to any pure-minded woman. As he was about to leave
he said mournfully, ‘Sister Mary, I know you have good cause
for anger; but be just. I have been just as much deceived as
ever you have been. It has unsettled all my faith; even our
best and most tried missionaries are shrinking from it. Do not
blame me for what I have not done. I never deceived you about
it.’
“I did not answer him; and after a few moments he said, ‘Mary,
I want to speak to you _alone_ about these things. Can I see
you, to-morrow evening, if I call?’
“‘I wish you would not call me Mary any more, Elder
Shrewsbury,’ I said; ‘it is too familiar _now_. We have been
far too friendly; but, thank God, I have found out in time, and
know how to act.’ He went away looking most miserable. Then I
went to my own room, and tried to think the matter out. If I
were married, as you are, Sister Stenhouse, and if my husband
believed in the Revelation, I think I should go crazy. As it
was, I felt it terribly. You know, dear, I told you that I
_liked_ Elder Shrewsbury very well, but nothing more. Well,
that was very true _then_, but now I know that it was not all
the truth. I take care that he shall never know what I think of
him, but I know that he is not the same to me as other people.
I do not think I love him; no, I’m sure I don’t _now_; but I
do feel a great deal of interest in him. That night, however,
I felt very mad at him. That he had been deceived, I knew, and
also that he must have felt sorry for having deceived me; and,
if he cares for me, he must have felt uneasy for what I might
say or do, now the doctrine was proclaimed.
“Well, the more I thought of it, the more angry I became, and
I couldn’t sleep all night. The next morning I wrote a little
note to Elder Shrewsbury, saying that after all that had
happened I had fully resolved not to see him again. Many of my
friends, I said, were married, and could not help themselves,
but I both could and would. The Mormon sisters I should ever
pity and love; but as for the Mormon men, I would never have
anything to do with one of them as long as I lived. I did not
want to be unkind to him personally, but I really could not
trust any one now.
“Then I showed this note to Mrs. Elsworth, and asked her to
give it to Elder Shrewsbury that night when he came.
“He came, of course, and he came again and again; but I would
not see him; and I did not even go to the meetings for fear of
coming across him there. He had long talks with Mrs. Elsworth,
and tried to get her to interfere, and at last he sent me a
long letter, entreating me not to refuse him. I was cooler now;
and when Mrs. Elsworth said I ought at least to see him, even
if I dismissed him then, I agreed to do so, and the next night
he came.
“He was very humble that night. You know what torrents of
eloquence he pours forth about anything that interests him,
and how earnest he is. But then all his eloquence had fled. He
hesitated and blundered, until I really quite pitied him. He
came and sat by me, and would have taken my hand, but I would
not let him. He did not tell me that he loved me, but he spoke
as if I were conscious of the fact; and you know, of course, I
couldn’t help feeling that he cared for me, whether he spoke
about it or not. He assured me over and over again that though
he had often heard the scandal, as I had done, he did not for
a moment believe it; he said that he should _never_ himself
act up to the Revelation; that if he loved, it should be an
undivided and all-absorbing love; that he would rather have
less glory in eternity, with _one_ whom he could idolize, than
obey the Revelation on Polygamy, and obtain a higher position.
“All this time he hardly once looked at me, but when I did
see his eyes, they seemed very sorrowful and very earnest. I
confess to you that what he said made me feel very differently
for him. For a man of his ability and talents, who has such an
influence, and wins so much respect from every one he meets, to
be sitting there all bashful, like a naughty child, before a
young girl like me, and all because he loved me, made me feel
for him a pity which was very near to love.
“I told him that I had quite resolved, now that polygamy was
acknowledged, never to see him again, except as I might see
the other elders at meeting. I said I believed I was still a
good Mormon, as Mormons used to be; but I would never receive
polygamy, or be more than an ordinary friend to any one who did
believe it.
“After that I only saw him at the meeting. And, oh dear! you
should see what meetings we have now! Half the people don’t
attend, and everything is so cold and lifeless. Some of our
most earnest elders never come; and it is said among the
brethren that polygamy will produce the greatest apostasy which
the church has ever seen. Every one seems ashamed of it.
“And now, dear, I have written you a terrible long letter, but
you must please forgive me, for I have no one to whom I can
open my heart except to you. Kiss the babies, please, for me;
and write soon to your most affectionately loving,
“MARY BURTON.”
Poor girl! I said, as I folded up her letter; but it is better for her
to suffer a little now, than for her to have been married first, as I
was, and then, when too late to go back, to have polygamy announced as an
article of faith.