HOW MARRIAGES ARE MADE IN UTAH—A NEW WIFE FOUND FOR MY HUSBAND.
Not long after this, I was enabled to visit my Swiss friend, Madame
Bailiff. Ever since her husband had called upon me in Salt Lake City, I
had watched anxiously for an opportunity of seeing her, for I felt much
interested in learning how time had passed with her since we parted in
Geneva.
I found her in a little log-cabin of two rooms, with bare walls, bare
floor, and miserably furnished; and in this wretched abode poverty and
polygamy had wrecked the life of my poor friend, whom I had known under
such different circumstances. Here, together with their five children,
lived also the second wife, with _her_ two children. It was with
difficulty that I could recognize in the poor, careworn, broken-spirited,
and ill-clad woman who stood before me, the once gay, light-hearted,
happy, and elegantly-dressed lady whom I had known in Switzerland.
Mormonism had in her case utterly blighted her existence. It seemed to me
hardly possible that so great a change should have been wrought in her in
such a few years as had elapsed since last I saw her. What suffering she
must have endured, I thought, what mental agony, what physical pain, to
write those wrinkled lines of care upon her once handsome face; and, ah!
what a pang I felt at the remembrance that I myself had been instrumental
in leading her into Mormonism and Polygamy. Self-reproach I did not feel,
but sorrow I did. I had thought to lead her into the way of holiness and
heavenly peace by winning her to the religion of the Saints, but that
which I in my enthusiasm had believed would be the greatest blessing
which one poor mortal could communicate to another, had turned to a
curse, and, instead of the happy wife and mother which she once had been,
she had become a victim to that faith which in its very existence is an
insult to womanhood.
In temper and disposition she was, however, just the same; her
affectionate nature was unchanged. No doubt she read in my features
the painful surprise which I experienced in witnessing her altered
circumstances; but she met me with not a single word of reproach for my
being the cause of her leaving her own dear country. I should not have
blamed her had she hated me, though she knew, of course, that I had
wronged her innocently.
She told me of the difficulties which they had had to contend with after
their arrival in Utah, and how they had been compelled to part with
almost everything they had, in order to provide bread for their children.
When they left London, they took with them several handsome carpets,
china, glass, and a large quantity of silver ware, besides bedding and
clothing of every description; for they were well-to-do in the world, and
had quite enough for themselves, after they had liberally assisted the
poorer Saints to emigrate. Upon their arrival in Utah, the husband—good
man that he was—was willing to come down to the level of his brethren
and go to farming among them. A brother who knew him in his own country,
and imagined, I suppose, that he could afford to lose, sold him a farm
that he himself had become disgusted with, though, of course, he did not
say so; and when my inexperienced friend, Monsieur Bailiff, found that
nothing could be done with it, he supposed that the land was good enough,
but that he himself was not competent to work it. No one ventured to hint
that he had been cheated, as it was one of the Church authorities who
had sold him the land. After spending upon it all that he possessed, he
was finally compelled to abandon it. They were now very much straitened
in circumstances, and my poor friend told me that she had frequently
been compelled—as they were entirely destitute of money—to take a silver
spoon or fork to the butcher’s market to trade with, and there they drove
a hard bargain with her, and she obtained next to nothing in exchange
for her silver. Her crystal and plate now grace the table of a certain
rich man in Utah. Every article they possessed went in this way at a
most ruinous sacrifice, until nothing remained; and then the husband was
forced to engage in manual labour, while the poor wife employed herself
in whatever feminine work she could obtain; they receiving in return just
what people chose to pay them. In the midst of their troubles the husband
was “counselled” to take another wife.
“But why did he not refuse to do so?” I asked.
“If you had been here during the Reformation, you would not ask me such
a question as that. Sister Stenhouse, you ought to thank God that you
were not here then. There were shocking things done at that time, and
the men were all crazy about marrying. They married every woman who was
single, and even little girls who had scarcely reached their teens; it
was a time of terror, and no one dared to rebel.”
She then told me that her husband had been, as one might say, compelled
to marry a young Swiss girl whom they had brought out to Utah with them
as a domestic. This girl had been a very faithful servant, and Madame
Bailiff had become very much attached to her. During the Reformation the
Bishop visited them, and “counselled” Monsieur Bailiff to take a second
wife. The girl was also “counselled” to marry, and when she said that she
did not know of any one to whom she would like to be married, the Bishop
told her that he himself would find a suitable man.
“My husband told me what the Bishop had urged him to do,” said Madame
Bailiff, “and we talked the matter over in a practical way. We knew that
the girl would be forced to marry somebody, and that then she would have
to leave us, which would put us to the very greatest inconvenience, for,
situated as we were, we could hardly get on without her assistance. At
the same time, he also would be compelled to obey counsel, and we came
to the conclusion that as there was no way of evading the difficulty
altogether, it would be better for him to marry the girl than to bring a
stranger into the house. So he asked her, and she accepted him, and they
were married. She is a good girl, and tries to do her best, but it is a
great trial to me, and one which I trust you may never be called upon to
bear. My husband is as kind and gentle a man as ever lived, and he has
done all he could to keep me from feeling unhappy; had it been otherwise,
I dare not think what I should have done—I believe I should have gone mad
or died. In our household arrangements, of course it made very little
difference, but it was inexpressibly painful to me, and though I suppose
I shall remain a Mormon till the day of my death, I have learned to hate
Mormonism.”
Poor Madame Bailiff! Hers was a life of privation and sorrow of late
years. Happy as woman could be in her youthful days, she little dreamed
what Providence had in store for her ere her earthly course had run. With
a faithful and devoted husband; with a charming little family growing
up around her; with all that could make life fair and beautiful. But
that accursed thing—Polygamy—came and poisoned all her happiness, and
blighted all her hopes; and when, but a few months ago, worn out and
weary of life, she left behind her all her sorrows and all her misery, I
could not weep that she had gone to a better land beyond the veil, but
I thanked God that at last, poor soul, her days of trial were for ever
over, and she had entered into her eternal rest.
One day Brother Brigham sent me word that he wished to see me.
I went to him, and he told me that he wanted me to become acquainted
with a certain young girl in whom he took a great interest. She was the
daughter, by his first wife, of Jedediah M. Grant, the famous Apostle of
the “Reformation”—her name was Carrie, and she was now an orphan. Brother
Brigham wished me to have her with me every day, for she was not “feeling
well,” he said, and he thought I might do her some good. This “not
feeling well” I afterwards discovered meant that she was almost ready to
apostatize. If she desired it, I was to teach her my business; not that
she needed to follow any profession, for, as President Young explained,
she had a good home; but her mind needed occupation, and he did not care
how she employed her time, so long as she was with me every day and could
be made to “feel well.”
I listened to all that Brother Brigham said, and accepted the trust in
good faith—not only to please him, but because the girl was an orphan,
and my heart went out towards her even before I had seen her.
Before I returned home I called at the house where Carrie was stopping,
and arranged that she should come every day to see me, under pretext of
learning the business. Now it so happened that we each conceived a liking
to the other the very first moment we met; we made friends together at
once, and she wanted to begin coming to me the very next day. She was
a sweet-looking and intelligent girl, fair, but fragile, and with a
peculiar expression of melancholy sadness dwelling upon her features,
which gave her a painfully interesting appearance. I never before, or
since, met with a young girl who habitually looked so unhappy; and I
thought that perhaps physical weakness might be the cause, for it was
evident that in constitution she was extremely delicate—I almost feared
consumptive.
The first day we spent together she told me that her parents had been
among the pioneers to Utah, that her only sister had died on the Plains,
and that she had lost her mother soon after they had arrived in Salt Lake
City. As the only remaining child of her mother, she had been a great
pet with her father, but he too had died about four years previous to
the time of which I speak, and she had never been happy since. “I often
long to die,” she said, “that I might join my mother and father; no one
loves me here, and I have nothing to live for.” Her father had married
four wives after her mother’s death, and they were all very kind to her,
but she did not feel that she had a home. She told me that about six
months before she came to me she had started to go east, to her mother’s
friends, for they had frequently written to her, urging her to come to
them, and that when she was about two weeks’ journey from Salt Lake City,
Brigham Young sent after her, and she was brought back. “But,” she said,
“I shall never be happy here, Sister Stenhouse, I know I never shall; and
why should they not let me leave and go to my relatives?”
I knew very well that it was of no use for her to try to get away, for
we had no railroad then, and escape was almost impossible. I therefore
tried to make her more cheerful, and told her that a girl as young as
she was—for she was scarcely seventeen—had much to live for. But her
unhappiness had become almost a settled melancholy, and she seemed to be
interested in nothing. Besides which, the task I attempted was all the
more difficult as I was not at all happy myself.
One day the conversation happened to turn upon Polygamy, and in a moment
I saw that all her trouble arose from that miserable doctrine, and from
that alone. We had not exchanged many words upon the subject when she
exclaimed: “Oh, how I hate Polygamy! God forgive me; but I cannot help
it, Sister Stenhouse! I do hate it; and yet I believe that it is true.”
Poor child! I understood her too well, for her position was exactly mine.
From that moment we were fast friends.
Here was the child of one of the greatest fanatics that Mormonism has
ever known, one of the wildest advocates of the “Celestial Order of
Marriage,” perfectly loathing the system; and yet, poor girl, believing
it firmly, and believing too that she could not obtain salvation unless
she entered into it. How I pitied and loved that poor girl!—and yet what
strength or consolation could I offer her, being myself as painfully
situated as she was? Our mutual sorrow united us still more painfully
in loving companionship. I had rarely met among the Mormon girls with
one so thoughtful and observing, so kind and gentle. She had not been
with me many weeks before she had entwined herself so completely round
my heart that I was lonely when she stayed away, and I tried to keep her
with me altogether. I tried in every way to make her feel at home when
at my house; and noticing her delicate health, and thinking that she did
not always get those little things to tempt her appetite which an invalid
should always have, I found out many trifles which I believed would
please her, and always tried to get them for her. She seemed to think
much of these little attentions, and I have always believed that she
loved me very dearly.
Some of my neighbours began to whisper pretty plainly to me that Brother
Brigham had an object in view in asking me to interest myself in Carrie’s
welfare. They told me they believed that my husband, if he had not
already been counselled to marry her, would be before long. Knowing, as
I did, Carrie’s aversion to Polygamy, these suggestions did not trouble
me very much; but I begged my informants not to speak of the matter in my
young friend’s presence, as it would only disturb and annoy her. I was
the more anxious on this point as her health had by that time began very
perceptibly to improve, and sometimes she seemed to be almost joyous and
light-hearted. Sometimes she would sew, and sometimes she read or played
with the children, of whom she was very fond, and I always allowed her to
do just as she pleased.
One day my talkative friend called to see me. She had not been near the
house for several months, and I think, at her last visit, she must have
taken offence at my telling her that I thought she had not acted wisely
in procuring wives for her husband. She had, however, now an object in
coming which I soon discovered.
She was shown in, and as soon as she was fairly seated, I observed that,
while talking to me, she was inquisitively scrutinizing Carrie’s face, as
if trying to discover her character or read her thoughts. Suddenly—she
did everything impulsively—she interrupted the conversation, saying:
“Sister Stenhouse, I want to speak to you privately.” I asked her to come
with me into the next room, and she did so, but before I had time to
close the door, she exclaimed: “Allow me to congratulate you; you have
done very wisely!”
“Congratulate me upon what?” I asked.
“Upon the excellent choice you have made for your husband,” she replied;
“I knew very well you would ponder over my good counsel and seek another
wife for Brother Stenhouse, and I am certain that my example and my faith
and prayers have helped you, for I have asked the Lord to strengthen you
to do just what you are doing.”
“Doing!” I said, “what am I doing? I really don’t understand what you
mean.”
“Oh, nonsense!” she exclaimed; “but I understand, if you don’t. You wish
to keep it a secret, I suppose, until the happy event takes place. And
you are quite right in that, for there are so many busybodies here, and
they do interfere so much in their neighbours’ affairs that it isn’t
pleasant. But of course you needn’t fear _me_—_I_ shouldn’t think of
breathing one single word of the matter, unless you wished me to do so.”
“I am really at a loss to know what you mean,” I said, very much annoyed
with her.
“Oh,” she said, “if you think that I am interfering, I will not say
another word, for I should very much dislike to be considered meddlesome.
But you know, my dear Sister Stenhouse, the great interest I have always
felt concerning you; from the very first when I knew you in England I
always prophesied great things of you, but I was a little afraid when I
saw your opposition to Polygamy, and I cannot tell how happy I felt when
I heard yesterday that you had found a wife—and a good wife too—for your
husband.”
“I find a wife for my husband!” I exclaimed. “That I never would. I
dislike Polygamy far too much to do so. No; if he ever wants another
wife, I shall never help him to find her; he’ll have to get her himself.”
“Who is that young girl, then, that I saw just now?” she asked; “is that
not Miss Grant?”
I replied that it was.
“Well,” said she, “I was told that you had asked her to marry your
husband.”
“There is no truth in the report,” I said; “I am sure that she has never
thought of such a thing, nor have I, nor has my husband; and I would not
have such a thing spoken of for the world.”
“Well,” she replied, “I am really quite disappointed. You have a splendid
opportunity, and I do believe that that was what Brother Brigham meant
when he asked me to see after her. In fact, I was told that it was his
only motive, all along.”
“Then Brother Brigham will soon find out his mistake, I can assure you,”
I answered, “for I never will ask her; and, moreover, if I thought for
a moment that she would ever wish such a thing, much as I love her, I
should then hate her.”
“My dear Sister,” she said, “how do you expect ever to get salvation? I
suppose you think that is none of my business, and that I should leave
you in the hands of the Lord. But before I go, let me ask you to see
Eliza Snow as soon as you have an opportunity. She will build you up, and
do you a world of good.”
I told her I needed no “building up;” all I wanted was that my husband
and myself should be left alone, and that people should not meddle with
our affairs.
After she had gone, her conversation troubled me a great deal. What did
it all mean? Had the busybodies been trying to bring about an alliance
between my husband and Carrie? Had Brigham Young been working all along
to this end? However it might be, I resolved that, at least, Carrie
should know nothing of the matter from me.
One morning, the Apostle Heber C. Kimball called in his carriage. It was
very early, being only about seven o’clock. Mr. Stenhouse went out to
see him, but in his blunt way he said: “I do not want you, I want Sister
Fanny to take a ride with me.” My husband brought him into the house and
he told me he wanted to have a talk with me. “You must not fix up,” he
said, “or I won’t ride with you. Come along in your wrapper and slippers,
and just put on your sun-bonnet.”
I told him that I never went out in a sun-bonnet. “Well, then, do it for
the first time,” he said.
I suggested that I had had no breakfast, and asked him if he would wait
and have some with us.
“No,” said he; “I have plenty of wives around this town, and we will
find breakfast somewhere.” So I started just as I was, and he told the
driver—who, I think, was one of his own sons—to call round and see “the
folks”—meaning his wives. Then, turning to me, he said: “You never looked
prettier, Sister Fanny; you ought always to wear a sun-bonnet, but you
like dress a great deal too much—you will keep your husband poor, and
then how will he be able to carry out the commands of God? Did you ever
think of that? Then, again, you dress your children too much; it must
take pretty well all your time to make their clothes; and see what it
must cost. Now, I’m going to give you some good advice. Do what my folks
do. I tell them to make a linsey dress for each of the children in the
spring, and let them wear it all the summer; and then, when the winter
comes, it will be so full of grease and dirt that it will be sure to keep
them warm. Now I’m sure you won’t consent to do that with your children,
so it is good counsel thrown away.” I knew well enough that Brother Heber
was only jesting, for apparently he provided very well for his family,
although he allowed them no luxuries. He went on to say: “But that
isn’t what I wanted to speak to you about; I had something else to say.
When is your husband going to marry Miss Grant? That girl has got to be
looked after by some good man and woman, and I think that you and Brother
Stenhouse will do first-class. What do you think?”
“I should not like my husband to marry her,” I said.
“And why not, Sister Fanny?” he asked.
“Because I myself love her,” I replied.
“Why, that is the very reason why he ought to do it the sooner,” he said,
“and you would continue to love her, and love her all the better too,
when she belonged to your husband, and when you saw how much he loved
her.” He laughed outright as he said this, and told me not to look so
solemn. “Why,” he said, “it’s the finest thing in the world to develope
love in the women; a man never gets so much attention in his life as when
he has got several wives all trying their best to please him.”
“That may be,” I said; “but who is to pay attention to their wives?”
“Things have been all upside down in the world, Sister Fanny,” he
answered, “and the Priesthood is going to set them all in order. It is
the women’s place to minister to the men, and the men, in return, will
save them in the Kingdom, if they are good girls.”
By this time we had driven round several of his fields in the lower part
of the city, and at last we stopped at the house of one of his wives. She
very kindly prepared breakfast for us; after which we called to see two
or three other wives, and then returned home. On the way back he tried to
get me to promise that I would persuade my husband to marry Miss Grant.
This I positively refused to do, although it would have been dangerous
for me not to acquiesce had it not been that Brother Heber was attached
to me and allowed me to say what I liked against Polygamy, laughing at me
and telling me to “hold on” when I became too much in earnest.
This constant reference to Carrie began to trouble me seriously,
although, so far, I had not yet spoken about it either to her or to my
husband, and did not intend to do it. I felt sure that Carrie, poor
child, was perfectly innocent; she had refused to go to several parties
with us, and had otherwise declined to accompany my husband, and I
believed that I had no cause for uneasiness.
Thus time passed, and more than a year flew by, and Carrie still remained
with me. Lately I thought that her manner was changed, and that she was
a good deal altered. I noticed that she was shy when in the presence of
my husband, and that she rather avoided him. For a long time I had not
suspected that anything was wrong between them, and the knowledge that
Carrie was troubled, and that my husband was the cause, came upon me
suddenly. She began by staying away for several days at a time, and at
last she told me that she was going away for a while to visit a friend
in the country. She looked so unhappy that I felt sure that all was not
right, and begged her not to go, but she would not listen to me. It was
necessary for her to go, she stated, and would say no more. She bade
me good-bye, and for two months I heard nothing of her, supposing that
she was in the country, and then I was surprised to learn that she was
visiting with a friend in another part of the city, and that she was
very ill indeed. I immediately went to call upon her, and she was very
much pleased to see me, and then I discovered that she had not been in
the country at all, but had been there in the city with her friend. I
could not at the time understand her conduct; but as she, in common
with most other delicate people, was rather capricious, I allowed it to
pass without any comment. She told me that as soon as she felt a little
better she would come and see me; but she never came, and I was somewhat
offended at her supposed neglect, and thought that before I visited her
again I would wait and see whether she first came up to our house.
All this time, a friend of Carrie’s was in the habit of looking in very
frequently upon some trifling errand or other, and I noticed that she
always waited for the return of my husband, and then made some excuse to
go out with him, and they had long conversations together. There was some
mystery, I clearly perceived, and as a wife and a woman I determined that
it was my duty to find out what that mystery was.