TAKING A SECOND WIFE:—THE EXPERIENCE OF THE FIRST.
I did not presume to ask my husband what it was that he had to talk about
with Carrie’s friend, but I instinctively felt what it might be, and I
was so much troubled in mind that I thought I would never go to see her
again.
By that time I had learned, as every Mormon wife does learn, never to ask
questions. The wife of a Saint never dares to ask her husband whither he
is going or when he will return. She is not expected to know or care what
business her husband may have on hand when he leaves home in the evening,
after making a most elaborate toilet, with frequent admiration of himself
in the mirror. If the poor wife feels that she _must_ say something, to
give vent to her overwrought feelings, she simply asks in a conscious,
guilty way, when he will be home again; wishing too often in her secret
heart that he might say—Never. Her duty is to be silent and unobservant;
and though some poor women have, when their outraged feelings were
overcharged, inadvertently betrayed curiosity respecting the movements
of the absent ones, they have soon been sternly taught their duty, and
those loving husbands have given them good cause to repent of their
inquisitiveness.
And who can blame these disconsolate, lonely women, if thus they feel?
Their religion alone is to blame. It has been the destruction of that
sweet confidence which should exist between husband and wife, and it has
divided hearts and interests which should inseparably have been for ever
one. This, slowly but no less painfully, I was beginning to understand.
However earnestly I might try to combat the idea, my life was wretched
with the one continual fear of what I might see or hear of my husband.
I tried to drive away such thoughts, and I called to mind all the acts
of kindness and devotion which he had shown to those whose love my heart
held dear. Sometimes, arguing with myself, I said: “No, _my_ husband
will not deceive _me_; no matter what other men may do or be with their
wives, _my_ husband will be frank and true with me.”
So I thought then; but I was destined to realize in my own experience how
utterly impossible it is for any man, no matter how honest and truthful
he may naturally be, to practise Polygamy without becoming a hypocrite;
and the more he loves his wife the greater hypocrite he will become,
trying to deceive her with the foolish notion that half his cruelty is
done in attempting to “spare her feelings.”
My husband thought that he was acting kindly to me when he said nothing
of all that transpired between him and Carrie; but when I saw the visit
of Carrie’s lady-friend so frequently repeated, I began to suspect the
truth, and was much troubled. I was, however, too proud to question him
on the subject, at the risk of getting an evasive answer, and it was
evident that the two persons most intimately interested in the matter
intended that I should be kept in the dark. I saw through all this, and
it did not tend either to restore my peace of mind or to make me more
pleasant in my intercourse with Carrie or my husband. In their conduct I
could see nothing but deception, however good their intention might be,
and I felt that they were treating me as a child. The thought was very
painful to me, and it was only with a great effort that I suppressed it.
These painful feelings, of course, had a marked effect upon my daily
life. I grew weary, and my health failed, I became thin, and my features
were marked with care and anxiety. When people came to see me, I said
little to them, and their very presence I felt irksome. Mechanically
I went through the daily routine of duty, but my heart was in nothing
that I did. I dared not even trust myself to speak to any one, for fear
of becoming the subject of conversation and attracting the attention of
the authorities, which was not at all desirable, for the position of
a “rebellious woman” in those days was anything but pleasant. I stood
alone. Upon my husband I looked with suspicion; my children were too
young to understand me; Carrie—whom I had taken to my heart, to whom I
had confided my sorrows, whose own welfare had been so dear to me—had, as
I thought, turned against me, like an adder, and there was no one in whom
I could trust. It seemed to me too cruel for Carrie to treat me so, and
yet I could not doubt that she was acting unfaithfully towards me.
Surrounded by my children, living under the same roof with my husband,
my heart was, nevertheless, filled with a sense of utter loneliness
and desolation. There was no one in whom I could confide, to whom I
might tell my sorrows, and from whose counsel or strength I might derive
comfort. I dared not even go and lay my griefs before God, for I had
been led to believe that all my suffering was caused by an arbitrary
decree which He willed to be enforced. How false a notion of that loving
heavenly Father whose tender care is so manifestly shown in His gentle
dealings with the weakest of His creatures!
It was now about six months since Carrie left my house, and I was under
the impression that all that time certain well-intentioned sisters had
been doing all they could to bring about a marriage between her and
my husband. Her health, however, was so bad that sometimes for weeks
together she did not leave her room. At the time, of course, I knew
nothing of this, but I afterwards heard of it. When I called upon her,
which I did when I found that she was too ill to come to see me, I
thought she was greatly changed in her manner; but when I thought of
her lonely position, my heart warmed towards her, and I forgot all my
suspicions. Certainly, I wanted to ask her one plain question relative
to my husband, but my pride would not allow me to speak to her on that
subject unless she first mentioned it to me. One day I thought that
she was about to make a confession. Talking indifferently of ordinary
matters, she suddenly said, “I am surprised you ever wished to see me;”
but when I asked her why, expecting that she would now explain what had
so long troubled me, she answered evasively, and nothing more was said.
With Carrie’s absence from our house the rumours about her which had
troubled me so much somewhat subsided. Nothing could silence the secret
apprehension which continually held my soul in dread; but the fear of
my young friend’s influence once removed, I was comparatively at peace.
It was, however, but the lull before the storm. I soon learned that in
losing Carrie I did not lose Polygamy, and from about that time I can
date my husband’s desire to sustain his brethren in the performance of
their duty, and his wish to act as they did, especially in reference
to the “Celestial Order of Heaven.” Just at that time the “Morrill
Bill” for the suppression of Polygamy was presented to Congress, and
all true Mormons were made to feel that it was their duty to stand by
their leader; and though, in itself, they might see nothing desirable in
Polygamy, yet, if they had not already multiplied wives, it was their
duty to do so without any delay.
Ever watchful as I was, I noticed little changes in my husband, which
under ordinary circumstances would have escaped my observation. By this
time one all-absorbing idea had taken possession of my mind, and my
husband’s thoughts, I believe, were turned in the same direction—only our
wishes did not exactly coincide. Polygamy was the thought common to both,
but upon its desirability we entertained dissimilar views.
A man with Polygamy upon his mind was then a creature which I did not
understand, and which I had not fully studied. Some years later, when
I had a little more experience in Mormonism, I discovered several
never-failing signs by which one might know when a man wished to take
another wife. He would suddenly “awaken to a sense of his duties;”
he would have serious misgivings as to whether the Lord would pardon
his neglect in not living up to his privileges; he would become very
religious, and would attend to his meetings—his “testimony meetings,”
singing meetings, and all sorts of other “meetings,” which seemed just
then to be very numerous, and in various other ways he would show his
anxiety to live up to his religion. He would thus be frequently absent
from home, which, of course, “he deeply regrets,” as “he loves so dearly
the society of his wife and children.” The wife, perhaps, poor simple
soul! thinks that he is becoming unusually loving and affectionate, for
he used not, at one time, to express much sorrow at leaving her alone
for a few hours; and she thinks how happy she ought to feel that such a
change has come over her husband, although, to be sure, he was always as
good as most of the other Mormon men.
My husband was a good and consistent Mormon, and very much like the rest
of his brethren in these matters; and the brethren, knowing themselves
how he felt, sympathized with him, and urged him on, and, by every
means in their power, aided him in his noble attempts to carry out “the
commands of God!”
One evening, when he came home, he seemed pre-occupied, as if some matter
of importance were troubling his mind. This set me thinking, too. I saw
that he wanted to say something to me, and I waited patiently. “I am
going to the ball,” he presently remarked, “and I am going alone, for
Brother Brigham wishes me to meet him there.” I knew at once what was
passing in his mind, and dared not question him. He went and saw Brigham.
What passed between them I do not know; but, when my husband returned, he
intimated to me that it had been arranged that he should take another
wife.
The idea that some day another wife would be added to our household was
ever present in my mind, but, somehow, when the fact was placed before me
in so many unmistakable words, my heart sank within me, and I shrank from
the realization that _our_ home was at last to be desecrated by the foul
presence of Polygamy.
Almost fainting, now that the truth came home to me in all its startling
reality, I asked my husband when he proposed to take his second wife.
“Immediately,” he replied; “that is to say, as soon as I can.”
We were silent for some time. My mind was troubled. Had I been able to
consider the whole affair as an outrage upon humanity in general, and
an insult to my sex in particular, I should have replied with scorn and
defiance. Had I implicitly believed in the divinity of the Revelation, I
should have bowed my head in meek submission. But I did neither of these.
The feelings of my heart naturally led me to hate with a most perfect
hatred the very mention of the word Polygamy, while at the same time I
still believed, or tried to make myself believe, that the Revelation
was from God, and must therefore be obeyed. Such was the strange and
contradictory position in which I was placed.
“Are you not satisfied that it is right for me to take another wife?” my
husband asked.
“I have never yet really doubted that the Revelation was from God,” I
replied, “for I cannot believe that any man would be so blasphemous
and wicked as to set forth such a revelation in God’s name, unless he
received it as he said he did. If it is from God, of course you are
right to obey it; but if I were to consult my own feelings I would never
consent to live in Polygamy. I would rather risk salvation, and tell the
Lord that He had placed upon me a burden heavier that I was able to bear,
and that I regarded Him as a hard taskmaster. But when the salvation of
my husband and children, to say nothing of my own, is at stake, my wishes
and happiness go for nothing, and I can only consent.”
From that moment I felt like a condemned criminal for whom there was not
a shadow of hope or a chance of escape. Could I possibly have looked
upon the sacred obligations of marriage as lightly as Mormonism taught
me to regard them, I believe I should have broken every tie and risked
the consequences. But I had vowed to be faithful unto death, and if
this second marriage was for my husband’s welfare, and for the salvation
of us and of our children, I resolved to make the effort to subdue my
rebellious heart, or die in the attempt. For the first time in my life,
I thanked God that I was not a man, and that the salvation of my family
did not depend upon me; for if fifty revelations had commanded it, I
could not have taken the responsibility of withering one loving, trusting
heart. I felt that if such laws were given to us, our woman’s nature
ought to have been adapted to them, so that submission to them might be
as much a pleasure to us as it was to the men, and that we might at least
feel that we were justly dealt with.
Not long after this, my husband brought me a message from Eliza R.
Snow. She wanted me to take tea with her, and he urged me to accept
the invitation. I did not want to go, for I knew too well her object
in sending for me. She had been talking with my husband about me, I
felt sure, and that was how she came to send the message by him. I
went, however, and, as I anticipated, she wanted to talk with me about
Polygamy, and to try to convince me that it was for our best interests
that my husband should take another wife, and that it was quite time he
did so.
I told her that he was not yet in a position to do so. “We have quite
a family,” I said, “and I think he should at least be allowed to wait
until he has accumulated a little before he embarrasses himself with new
responsibilities.”
“And where would the kingdom of God be,” she asked, “if we had all talked
in this way? Let your husband take more wives, and let them help him, and
you will feel blessed in keeping the commands of God.”
“There would be no good in my husband taking another wife,” I said,
“while I feel as I do now. To be acceptable to the Lord, a sacrifice
should be made willingly and in a proper spirit, and I do not think that
under present circumstances it is proper for him to do this thing.”
“Let him be the judge of that,” she replied; “do not seek to control him;
he alone is responsible, and therefore let him do as he thinks best.”
“But,” I said, “he himself does not want another wife yet.” But I spoke
with hesitation, for my heart misgave me.
“You are mistaken,” she answered; “your husband is a very good man, and
desires to live his religion, and it is a great grief to him to know that
you feel as you do, and you really must try to overcome your opposition.
If you had a loaf of bread to make, and you made it, and it was
pronounced good, do you think it would be of the slightest consequence
what feelings agitated your mind while you were making it, so long as
it was well made? So it is with the Lord. He does not care with what
feelings you give your husband another wife, so long as you do so.”
This was a miserable attempt at reasoning, to say nothing of its falsity;
and notwithstanding all she said, I still felt that no blessing would
ever attend an unwilling sacrifice, and I told her so. She spoke to me
very kindly, however, and tried to encourage me, and suggested that
Carrie would be a very proper person for my husband to marry. I had now
no longer any doubt in my mind that it had been all “arranged,” and that
opposition on my part would be all in vain. I was indignant at this, for
I believed that, as the Revelation itself said, I—the first wife—ought
first to have been consulted. This, however, I subsequently found was as
false as the system itself.
I returned home, pondering over what had been said to me, with a feeling
of intense weariness oppressing my heart. I did not know what to think.
It appeared to me that every one had determined that Carrie should be my
husband’s second wife; and I now believed, with my talkative friend, that
Brigham Young had certainly intended it from the beginning. I felt that
I would rather that he should marry almost any one else than her; for I
felt certain that I should hate any woman whom he might marry, no matter
how much I might have loved her before.
But my mind was soon relieved of its trouble respecting poor Carrie;
for, as I before mentioned, her failing health forbade all thoughts of
marriage, and my husband, after a short time, never spoke to me about
her. The real cause of my distress, however, was by no means removed; it
was determined, without appeal, that my husband should, notwithstanding
any impediment to the contrary, take another wife, whoever that chosen
one might be. My apprehensions, therefore, were not removed; they were
only turned in another direction.