WHAT WOMEN SUFFER IN POLYGAMY:—THE STORY OF MARY BURTON.
One bright summer morning, about six months after our arrival in Salt
Lake City, I was sitting in the work-room, busy with my girls, when a
light tap was heard at the door, and the next instant a lady entered,
and, coming straight up to me, was about to kiss me.
I started back a step, held out my hand, looked her full in the face,
and in a moment we were in each other’s arms. It was my old friend, Mary
Burton!
I could with difficulty find words to express my astonishment when I
recognized her, so greatly was she changed in every respect. From the
very first, whenever we met after a long separation, I had noticed a more
than ordinary alteration in her appearance. But it must be remembered
that at the time of our first re-union she had grown out of childhood
into womanhood; when I met her again in New York, she had passed through
the most interesting phase of a woman’s life—she had forsaken maidenhood
for matrimony; and now I met her once more after she had endured those
horrors on the Plains—of which the reader has already heard—and she
had entered into a life of sorrow worse than any she had known before.
No wonder, then, that now, as upon previous occasions, I noticed quite
a startling change in her appearance. Her dress was of the coarsest
and plainest kind, but neat, as was everything she touched; yet not so
carefully arranged as in the old time in England. She used formerly
to have a way of adjusting a dress or a bonnet so that it set her off
ten times better than it would a girl who had not naturally the same
taste; but now, although, as I said, her clothes, if coarse, were neat,
she evidently had not taken any pains to set herself off to the best
advantage; and in a woman what a story did that simple fact tell! But it
was in her features and manners that the change was most remarkable.
In looking at her face you would have been puzzled to say in what the
alteration consisted. Her cheeks were thinner and sadly pale, but that
was not the cause of her appearing as she did. Had she been older, I
verily believe the anguish she had passed through would have blanched
her hair and left upon her brow deep marks of thought and suffering. As
it was, however, though no one feature in particular was very greatly
altered, the whole expression of her face was that of one whose heart was
utterly crushed and broken; and when her eyes met mine, I could hardly
refrain from tears as I saw the mournful look of subdued pain, which told
in them the terrific conflict which her heart had endured.
I took her to my own room—poor girl, how my heart bled for her!—and
again and again I held her in my arms and tried to comfort her, for she
was very weary; and at last she wept. I was glad to see that passionate
flood of tears, for I knew it would relieve her, and in that I was not
mistaken. She threw her arms round my neck, and, kissing me repeatedly,
sobbed out, “Don’t blame me, Sister Stenhouse; don’t blame me very much;
I cannot help it.”
“There, there, Mary,” I said; “be calm and you will soon be better. You
must tell me all your troubles, and I will do all I can to help and
comfort you.”
“There is no help, Sister Stenhouse, no comfort for me; I’m past all
that,” she answered.
“Don’t say that, Mary,” I said; “I know that you have passed through a
terrible amount of suffering, and have had much trouble in every way; but
your husband is still alive, is he not?—and there may be many years of
happiness before you.”
“It is the thought of him that makes me so wretched,” she said; “oh! I
could have borne death a thousand times rather than this. I would gladly
have seen him die rather than see him changed as he is now. You do not
know, Sister Stenhouse, how my whole soul was wrapped up in that man, how
I almost worshipped him. When we suffered so much together on the Plains,
I felt happy in comparison with what I feel now. I remember that terrible
night when I believed he was dying—I remember the anguish that I felt;
but, oh! I knew then that he loved me and that his heart was all my own.
Had I lost him, if I could myself have lived, I should have felt that he
had never loved another beside me; I should have known that we would meet
together again in heaven and be happy in each other’s love. After all we
went through together, I loved him more and more; we seemed to live with
one life; we had the same thoughts, and hopes, and pleasures; I leaned
upon him, and I loved him—ah, so fondly! and, Sister Stenhouse, I know he
loved me then. We were getting over the effects of our sufferings on the
Plains, and I was gaining strength and was looking forward to the time
when my child should be born. It was then that they came and taught him
that devil’s doctrine and led him away from me. Oh dear! I cannot bear
it, Sister Stenhouse, I cannot bear it; it will drive me mad!”
She buried her face in her hands, and sobbed again.
“Mary, dear,” I said, “don’t talk like that; he cannot have ceased to
love you, I am sure; he used to almost worship you, dear.”
“It is because I know that he did once, that drives me crazy. You do not
know what I feel, and what I have to bear!”
I did not utter a word; my own sorrows were hidden in my own heart. The
heart knoweth its bitterness, and a stranger intermeddleth not in the
matter. “You have been through the Endowments?” she asked. “So have I.
We went through, Sister Stenhouse, about three months after we came to
Utah, and never since then have I known a moment’s peace. I do not know
what they said to my husband, but, whatever it was, it produced a great
effect upon his mind, and changed him altogether; he has been an altered
man from that very time. I have no doubt that they told them that it was
his duty to take another wife, and they would say that no promise made
to me before our marriage was binding if it comes in opposition to our
religion. You know how devoted he is, how firm his faith is. Why, I do
believe that he would obey counsel even if it broke his heart, and cost
him his life. Did they say nothing to you or your husband, dear?”
“Certainly they did, Mary; we have heard it daily and hourly, and my
husband is constantly being counselled about it. I am wretched, Mary, you
know I must be; I feel just as you do, but how can we help ourselves?”
“No, we cannot help ourselves, there is no hope,” she said; “but it is
a cruel wrong. You know well enough how determined I was never to marry
a man who would take another wife. When I thought that Elder Shrewsbury
might be influenced by his religion, I made him go to the Apostle and get
counsel, and then he solemnly vowed to me that he never would enter into
polygamy without my consent; which, of course, was the same as saying
that he never would do so at all. Until we went through our Endowments,
he never even hinted at such a thing. But they spoke to him then; and one
day, after he had been having a long consultation with the Bishop, he
came and spoke to me. He was not unkind in the least. In fact he seemed
to be as much pained at all mention of the subject as I was. He said that
the Bishop had been urging him to live up to his privileges, and had
explained to him how great a loss in the celestial world it would be,
both to him and to me, if he did not take more wives. He was told that
now while he was young was the time, and that I would soon get over any
pain that I might suffer. Yes, they actually said so. Fancy tearing out
the very affections of one’s heart, and blasting every hope and happiness
in life, and then saying that I should soon ‘get used to it!’ I tell
you, Sister Stenhouse, a true woman never can ‘get used’ to this hideous
system. If the hearts of some are dead and cold, it is a curse to them
and a curse to their husband and children; and if a wife seems careless
or callous, as the case may be, it is because love for her husband has
first died out in her heart. She feels no jealousy because she has no
love; but if a woman has but a spark of love for her husband, she will
hate with a deadly hatred any other woman whom that husband loves.”
“But what did Elder Shrewsbury say when they told him to enter into
polygamy?” I inquired.
“At first he told them it was utterly impossible,” she replied, “and he
mentioned his promise to me, and said we were very happy together, and
that he wished for nothing more. But they knew his weakness, and that he
would do anything for his religion, and they urged him on that point.
It was even a sin against me they said, for if he had no more than one
wife he could never exalt me in the celestial kingdom; that I ought to be
treated like a child—a very dear, but spoilt child; and if I refused what
was for my own and my husband’s benefit and everlasting welfare, he ought
to act up to what he knew was right, and leave the consequences with the
Lord, who would order all things for the best. My husband told me all
this very sadly at first, but I could see that it had an effect upon his
mind. They saw it, too, and did not let the subject drop. Every day they
spoke to him of it, and at last he gave way—for _my_ sake, he said! This
was the cruellest wrong of all. Then one day he told me very firmly and
very coldly, as if he had steeled his heart to do so, that he had made up
his mind to take another wife.”
“What!” I exclaimed, “after the solemn oath he swore never to do such a
thing? Why, I could not have believed it of Elder Shrewsbury!”
“I reminded him of his promise,” she said, “but he told me that the
Revelation justified him in breaking it; that it said in the second
clause that ‘All covenants, contracts, and oaths not sealed by him who
is appointed on earth to hold this power in the last days are of no
force after the resurrection;’ that for this cause we had been married
again for eternity, and that now he was free from his oath. I knelt down
before him, and I wept and prayed as if for life itself; I entreated him,
if no more, to wait and put off all thoughts of another marriage for a
few months, until he had time to consider the matter carefully. He had
already thoroughly thought it over, he said, and could not go back now,
for the Bishop had chosen a wife for him, and had arranged everything.
He even told me who it was—a young girl named Wilbur, about fourteen
years of age—a mere child. I prayed him if he would be so wicked as to
perjure himself and wrong me so foully, at least not to add to his sin by
injuring a poor innocent child. He was very indignant with me for that,
said that he was doing the child the greatest good he possibly could by
marrying her; that he was ensuring her salvation as well as mine; and
that he expected to receive the blessing of God.”
“Mary,” I said, “this system is a fearful curse.”
“Curse!” she exclaimed, “curse is a heavenly word to apply to such a
system. Why there is nothing in hell so hateful, so vile, so detestable.
It is blight and ruin to everything that is fair and good. I never pass a
day but I curse with the bitterest hatred the men who devised it. Women
_can_ hate bitterly when they choose; but I hate _them_ more than ever
woman hated before.”
“Hush! hush, dear!” I said; “you mustn’t talk so, Mary!”
“I mustn’t say it perhaps—it’s dangerous, I know; but I may think so.
There is not a true-hearted woman in Utah who does not feel as I do this
day. Do you think that when they have ruined all our hopes for time
and for eternity we shall love them still? Here, but for this wretched
system, I should have been a happy wife and mother, and now see what I
am—husband, child, all lost—all lost!”
“Is the child dead, Mary?” I asked very gently, for I feared to pain her.
“Yes, dear,” she replied, “in fact, I believe it never lived—the one I
was thinking of. I was ill, very ill indeed, after what my husband had
told me. They thought I should die, and I think he was sorry, for he
became very kind and tender to me, but that only made me feel worse. Then
my child was born, but I never saw it, for I was unconscious for more
than a week after, and then they told me that it was not alive, but my
husband would never speak to me about it. As I grew better, his cold,
stern manner returned, and then at last he married that girl Wilbur,
and since then he has married two more, for he is doing very well in
business. I think that all his love for me has gone. At first he thought
of marrying again because it was a religious principle; and as it was
the time of the Reformation he did not dare to refuse; but now his heart
is grown hard and cold. You see a change in me, Sister Stenhouse, but I
think you’d see a greater change in him. I know, of course, that I used
to look at him with the eyes of love, and of course did not see him as
other people did; but that is not the only change—it isn’t in his face
alone; his whole nature is altered. It quite pains me sometimes to see
him.”
“Do you feel any happier now—any calmer, Mary?”
“Yes,” she said, “yes, and no. I do not love him as I used to; how could
I? But when I look into my heart I find, if I tell you the truth, that a
little love _does_ remain there. If only I could _quite_ cease to love
him I think I should be happy; but when I pet and play with my little
girl—for we have had one child since that dreadful time—some of my love
for him comes back again, and I sit down and have a good cry. Sometimes
that isn’t enough to calm me, and I shut the door and walk up and down
the room and swear. There! don’t look so horrified, Sister Stenhouse,
I cannot help it; if I did not give way to my feelings now and then I
should die outright; and sometimes I break a few things, but he never
knows it, and it does me good. We came into the city yesterday on a
visit, and we shall stay for a few days. He brought me, I believe, as a
matter of form; but I found out where you lived, and I came to see you.
You never answered my letter, and I did not know whether you had left New
York yet. I really _am_ glad to see you, Sister Stenhouse. And is it true
that Brother Stenhouse has not taken another wife yet?”
“Not yet,” I said; “but, as I told you, he has been spoken to about it,
and I cannot tell what he may do. As you say, Mary, the Mormon women have
not much to make them happy.”
Mary gave me a great deal of information. In that she was quite herself,
as I knew her in by-gone days. Nothing escaped her observation. She sat
down with me and told me all her troubles, and I need hardly say how
deeply I sympathized with her. So I tried to comfort her, and spoke about
her child, but even respecting that poor little thing she felt no hope.
“Why, when it grows up,” she said, “it will be as miserable as I am—I can
see no prospect of happiness in the future for it.” We agreed that the
only way whereby we might prevent our children from experiencing sorrow
and misery similar to our own was to teach them from the very first that
Polygamy was the natural and proper, as well as the revealed order of
marriage; in fact to “bring them up” in the system. What a miserable
resource was this for a mother who loved her children!
“One thing, Mary,” I said, referring to her own personal experience
in Polygamy; “one thing I do not quite understand. _You_, of course,
had made your husband specially promise, before you married him, that
he would never take another wife, and he was therefore bound, as a
man, by every moral obligation, not to do so. But other women have
not been situated as you were, and they have exacted no promises from
their husbands. Yet it always seemed to me that your doing so was quite
superfluous, for you must be aware, Mary, that the Revelation says that,
before a man can take a second wife, he must have the full consent of
the first. The elders in Europe used to make a great deal of that point,
as you may remember, for they said that this provision took from the
Revelation any harshness or injustice which it might otherwise appear to
show. I know many women who submitted on this account, for they argued
that, if their permission was necessary, they could always, by refusing,
save themselves from any further trouble. Now if that was so, how came
_your_ husband to take another wife against your will? I say _your_
husband, because I should have no difficulty in many other cases. I
have been repeatedly told that husbands never troubled themselves about
the Revelation when they wanted another wife, unless it was to silence
the first wife with it, if she rebelled. But I always regarded Elder
Shrewsbury as a conscientious man, and I firmly believed that he would
never willingly give you a moment’s pain. When he made that promise to
you, he had the Revelation before him, and had also the Apostle to go
to if he needed the ‘Word of the Lord.’ He was therefore bound by that
promise, notwithstanding anything that the Revelation might say to the
contrary; and even had he made no promise, the Revelation was on your
side. We are told that every woman must first give her consent.”
“That is all very true, Sister Stenhouse,” she said, “to a certain
extent. The theory is as you say, but you have not heard the whole.
I know the Revelation pretty nearly by heart, and so I can tell you
exactly what it does say. The first wife is said to hold the keys of this
power, by which is meant that she can refuse. But then it goes on to say
that when her husband has taught her the law of the Priesthood—that is
Polygamy—‘_she shall believe or she shall be destroyed_, saith the Lord
your God, for I will destroy her.’ You see there is no loophole of escape
for the woman. Her husband is to teach her the law, and she _shall_
believe; and if she does not—and of course people have no power to make
themselves believe what they please—she is to be destroyed, and God will
destroy her! Do you know, Sister Stenhouse, there are stories whispered
here of women who _did_ refuse, and who stood in their husbands’ way;
and it is said that the Priesthood did not wait for the Lord to destroy,
but carried out the law themselves. But we have wandered sadly from your
question. You were talking about the first wife giving her consent?”
“Yes,” I said, “and you were about to tell me whether it was really and
practically necessary in every instance. You have been here longer, and
have seen more, than I have.”
“The wife’s consent is by no means necessary, Sister Stenhouse. It may
be asked sometimes as a mere matter of form, and, of course, in the
Endowment House, when she gives the other wives to her husband, she may
be said to give her consent to his marrying them. It is nothing but a
piece of folly to talk about women having the power to withhold their
consent, and it is simply an insult and a mockery for their husbands to
ask it; they well know before they ask that their wives dare not refuse
to give it. But it enables them to boast to the Gentiles that they do not
take other wives until their first wife gives her consent. This is what
is meant by ‘the liberty of the Gospel,’ I suppose, about which Brother
Brigham talks so much. But every one knows perfectly well that this is
all a farce. Without President Young’s consent there can be no marriage
at all; but if it is the will of Brigham, the refusal of the first wife,
and the parents, and the girl herself do not for a moment signify.”
“But did your husband, Mary, act in this way?”
“Well, not quite. He told me that, if I refused, it would make not the
slightest difference; and as I believed him, I, of course, went, and did
not make a scene. It would have only made matters worse. Some of the
older sisters came round and talked me over, and explained and insisted,
and ‘laboured’ with me as they called it, until I hardly knew what to
think or do; my mind was quite unsettled. Eliza R. Snow is quite great
at that sort of work. When my husband took his other two wives, he did
not consult me at all, but simply told me that on a certain day I must go
with him to the Endowment House. We went, and he married two sisters on
the same day, but it did not do him much good. They are handsome girls,
but have very bad tempers, and we often have a very unpleasant time. The
second wife, poor child! suffered most when he married the other two.
She did not seem to like me very well at first, which was quite natural;
but, when the other two were brought home, she seemed quite to cling to
me, and I have, strange to say, taken quite a fancy to her. In all our
disputes she always sides with me, and in return I always stand up for
her, as a matter of course. I am getting used to this wretched life; I
try to stifle my love; and I am sorry to say that sometimes I almost hate
every one around me, including my husband. Now and then the old longing
for some one to love, for some one to confide in, comes over me. I felt
like that this morning when I came here, and that is what made me act so
badly.”
“Say nothing of that, Mary,” I replied. “I wish you would stay with me
while you are in the city.”
“No,” she said, “we shall be here for a day or two, but I do not think
my husband would like me to stay here altogether. He knows that you are
aware of his attachment to me once, and his promises in the old times,
and very likely he would be a little ashamed to meet you. He’ll make
business an excuse, and in fact he is busy all the day. So I’ll come
round alone as much as I can, and we’ll have a good talk again.”
I saw her to the door, and then she turned and said, “I’ll come again and
see you, Sister Stenhouse, before we leave the city.”
Thus saying, she kissed me, laughed with the ghost of her former merry
ways when I first knew her, and said good-bye. I watched her till she was
lost to sight, and then I closed the door, saying to myself, with a sigh,
“Ah, me! can this be the Mary that I once knew?”