TRIALS—THE SECOND WIFE CHOSEN—SHADOWS OF LIFE.
It is a custom among the Mormon married men—those at least who make any
pretensions to doing what is right, and who wish to spare the feelings of
their wives as much as the degrading system will allow—to make it appear
as if the second wife were chosen by the first, and they go through the
form of consulting with her as to who shall be selected. The husband
will mention the names of several eligible young ladies, among whom is
sure to be the one upon whom he has already set his affections. If the
wife should try to make herself agreeable by suggesting one or another
of these young ladies, some objection is sure to be raised. One is too
thoughtless; the relations of another are not quite so agreeable as
they might be; and the temper of a third is said to be not very good.
In this way, one after another is taken off the list, until only one
remains—the bright particular star of whom all along the husband has been
thinking—and if the wife should make any objections to _this_ one, the
husband, of course, has a ready answer. In most cases her extreme youth
is an excuse for everything; she will have plenty of time to learn, and
will be the more ready to be taught.
When once they have obtained the reluctant consent of their wives, it
is astonishing how bright and cheerful these Mormon husbands become.
Notwithstanding all that they have said to the contrary, it is evident
that Polygamy is no trial to _their_ faith. They say that it is as great
a cross to them as it is to their wives, but somehow or other they take
very kindly to it.
It was soon settled who should be the honoured maiden to whom my husband
should pay his addresses. Her name was Belinda, and she was the daughter
of the Apostle Parley P. Pratt. I of course was not expected to ask any
questions or evince any curiosity respecting the girl or my husband’s
relations towards her. I had given my consent, I had acted my part, or
at least all the part that was expected of me; I had fulfilled my duty
as a Mormon first wife when I agreed to another wife being taken; and,
henceforth, all that transpired was—so the Elders would have said—no
business of mine.
My husband’s intended certainly was very young—almost too young for a
bride she would have been considered in any other community—and I must in
fairness allow that she was very handsome. It is of the utmost importance
that a Mormon girl should marry young. Women everywhere are never anxious
to grow old, but among the Mormons age is especially dreaded by the
women; for when years have robbed them of their personal attractions, in
most cases they lose all hold upon their husbands’ affections, and find
themselves obliged to give place to prettier and more youthful rivals.
A woman’s position in the world to come, as I have before mentioned,
depends, so the Elders say, very much upon the number of children she
has borne in this; it is, therefore, a consideration of the very first
importance that she should marry as early in life as possible, and
this obligation is never for a moment overlooked by the refined and
pure-minded Mormon men.
And now began the “painful task” of wooing the young lady. My husband
told me that it was “a very painful duty,” and as an obedient wife I
felt bound to believe him. It was, of course, no pleasure to him to pay
his addresses to an interesting young girl; it was no anxiety to be with
her which made him hasten away to the damsel’s house of an evening. Oh,
dear, no! it was pure principle, love for the kingdom of God, and “a
very _painful_ task!” He seemed, however, to bear it remarkably well,
and manifested a zeal which was perfectly astonishing to me, considering
the circumstances. In fact, I felt it my duty to restrain him a little
for the sake of his health, for he seemed so anxious to perform his
“task” properly that he could scarcely spare time to take his meals;
but, regardless of his own feelings, he did not pay much attention to my
suggestions.
But, deeply as I sympathized with my husband, there were times when I
felt that mine was indeed no imaginary sorrow, and that nothing could
lull the storm that had gathered in my breast. The affliction which
I had so long dreaded was now right at my door, and the most painful
feelings agitated my mind. Sometimes I shut myself up in my own room
and tried to reason with myself; then I would kneel, and pray, and weep
with passionate emotion; and again I would pace the floor, my heart
overflowing with anger and indignation. I never, at that time, knew
what it was to be happy, for I felt that I was a burden and hindrance
to my husband, and I longed to die. I had loved him so devotedly that I
could not even now cast him from my heart, and, though I felt bitterly my
position, I believed that he would not willingly wound me, and that he
was acting from the purest of motives. But it was all in vain. I could
not change my nature, and my heart would rebel.
It would be impossible for me to tell the thousand annoyances and
indignities to which I was forced to submit—trials which might appear too
trifling even to name, but which to a wife, under such circumstances,
were crosses which she found it hard enough to bear. My husband knew
nothing of these things, and, had he done so, it is more than probable
that he would have considered it weakness in me to be troubled about
matters of such small consequence—little actions and foolish words which
he would have said I ought to have treated with contempt. It was easy
to say that, but not so easy to do. Let any wife picture to herself
how she would feel, if, after schooling her heart to submission, after
realizing that she was no longer to be first and dearest in her husband’s
affections, she were to be constantly hearing the friends and relations
of the young girl to whom her husband was engaged, boasting of his
devotion to her, and openly expressing their belief that he had never
loved before! How would any wife be pleased if, whenever her husband’s
intended received a valuable present from him, she were particularly
informed of the fact, and a thousand little aggravating details were
added to make her, if possible, more miserable?
A woman can nerve herself to endure almost anything, and outwardly she
may conceal her feelings, but there are limits beyond which endurance
is not possible. A chance meeting with the girl who has superseded her
in her husband’s love,—or worse still, should she chance to surprise
the affectionate couple _tête-á-tête_,—is sufficient to dispel all her
good resolutions and to destroy that tranquillity of mind which she
finds it so difficult to preserve. She becomes sick at heart, nervous,
and entirely unfitted for her duties. I have frequently heard Mormon
women say that, notwithstanding their husbands had been for many years
polygamists, they could never see the other wives without a feeling of
anger and indignation arising in their hearts. I know that in my own case
I never became reconciled to the system.
My husband was called away to the Eastern States upon business, and his
marriage was postponed. I thought that the present would be a good time
to show her some little attentions, which I believed it was my duty to
do. The idea of coming in contact with her was certainly not at all
pleasant; but I felt that it was only right for me to act in a friendly
manner towards her, however painful it might be. She was the cause of
much sorrow to me, but I could not blame her, for she had been born and
brought up in the system, and, of course, supposed it true.
Belinda was a very nice girl, and, under other circumstances, I believe
I should have liked her very much. I looked upon her as little more than
a child, and my husband has frequently told me that he also regarded her
in that light; but to me it was of small consequence that he thought of
her as a child, so long as he acted towards her as a woman. Now that
he was away from home, there was no danger that she would meet him,
so I invited her in a friendly way to call upon me. She came, and I
had one or two other ladies present, for I was not like my husband in
that particular—_I_ had no anxiety to be alone with her. My effort to
cultivate a friendly feeling towards her was not very successful. There
was a coldness and restraint on both sides which we could not overcome,
and I felt not a little relief when the evening was over. Subsequently I
renewed the attempt, but to no purpose; her very presence in my house,
and among my children, seemed in itself an insult to me.
During my husband’s absence my poor friend Carrie Grant had been daily
growing worse in health. I had once asked my husband if there was any
truth in the rumours that I had heard of his attachment to her, but he
had assured me that there was no foundation for them.
Poor Carrie! Hers was a short and unhappy life; even her little dream of
love was overclouded by disappointment. She was now constantly confined
to her room, and whenever it was possible I used to call upon her, and
attempted to make her feel more happy and cheerful. She used to ask me to
talk with her about Mormonism. “You know,” she said, “that I have never
known any other religion, and I believe that this is right, though it
does not make me happy. My father loved Mormonism so much that I feel it
_must_ be right; the fault is in my own evil nature, that does not bend
to the will of Heaven.”
One day she said to me: “I am getting worse, Sister Stenhouse, and I am
glad of it, for I shall die. I am of no good here—there is nothing for me
to do; if I lived, I should only cause trouble; it is better as it is.”
“Carrie,” I said, “you must not talk like that. You are still very young,
and probably will live for many years, and you do not know what future
may lie before you.”
“Do not blame me too much,” she replied, “for I am not the only unhappy
girl in the city. I know many girls who are very miserable. Married women
think that they are the only ones who suffer, while we girls know that
nowhere upon the face of the earth can be found such an unhappy set as we
are. Why did Brigham Young keep me from going to my friends in the East?
I should have been happier then; I should have felt better. But now I
want to die, and I am weary waiting for death.”
In this melancholy mood I found her one day, when she appeared
particularly sad. She had been ill then about ten months; but her loving
blue eyes were just as bright as ever, and I could see very little change
in her, except that she was not able now to leave her couch without
assistance, and she spoke as if it fatigued her very much. It was quite
impossible to arouse her from the state of melancholy into which she had
fallen, and it seemed to me that she could not last long. I offered to
take her to my house, and said I would nurse her there and take care of
her; but she said she was very kindly treated by her father’s family, and
did not wish to change. She seemed to cling to me as if she could not
bear that I should leave her, and she told me she had something on her
mind that troubled her; she wanted to have a long talk with me about it,
but not that day, she said.
As the end was fast approaching, she one day said: “I want to tell you
now, Sister Stenhouse, what I spoke of before, if you are willing to
listen and will not be angry with anything I say. Remember, I am dying,
or I never would speak to you as I am going to.”
I told her of my great love for her, and that nothing that she could say
would change that love.
“You do not know what I want to ask you, or you would not say so,” she
replied; “and I so dread to lose your love that I am afraid to tell you
what is in my mind. But you know that I am dying, and you will not be
very hard with me.”
She was then silent for some time, as if too much fatigued to continue
the conversation. “No, I cannot tell you to-day,” she said at last; “I
want you to love me one day longer.”
I urged her not to doubt that my love towards her could never change,
and told her that it was better for her to speak at once and relieve her
mind. She took my hand, and looked long and tenderly at me, and then she
said: “I will tell you all; and if your love can stand that test, then
indeed you _do_ love me.”
I encouraged her, and she began: “Would you hate me if I told you that I
loved your husband?”
“No,” I replied, “I would not hate you, Carrie.” I said no more, for it
seemed to me that it would be wrong of me to tell her of my suspicions,
and all that I had suffered at the thought that my husband had conceived
an affection for her.
“Can you possibly answer me as calmly as that?” she said. “I thought that
the very mention of such a thing would almost kill you, for I saw how
much you loved your husband, and, ah! how I have suffered at the thought
of telling you! But that is not all I wanted to say, or I need never have
spoken to you at all. I wanted to ask you to do me one last kindness,
and then I think I shall die happy. You know that we have been taught
that Polygamy is absolutely necessary to salvation, and if I were to die
without being sealed to some man I could not possibly enter the celestial
kingdom. My friends wished me to be sealed to one of the authorities of
the Church, but I cannot bear the idea of being sealed to a man whom I do
not love. I love your husband, and I want you to promise that I shall be
sealed to him. If I had thought that I should recover, I never would have
let you know this, for I would not live to give you sorrow. But, when I
am gone, will you kneel by your husband’s side in the Endowment House,
and be married to him for me? Will it pain you much to do that for me,
Sister Stenhouse?”
I felt so strangely as I listened to all this, that I could not utter a
single word, and she continued: “We shall then be together in eternity,
and I am happy at the thought of that, for I think I love you even
better than I love him. And then I believe we shall have overcome all
our earthly feelings and shall be prepared to live that celestial law,
and perhaps we may prefer it, for no doubt we shall know no unhappiness
there.”
The exertion of talking seemed to be too much for her, and she remained
silent for some time. I felt ashamed that I had allowed my feelings to
influence me at such a moment, for while she had been speaking I had
allowed my thoughts to travel back over the past year; and now that she
admitted her love for my husband, very many circumstances came painfully
to my recollection and confirmed all that she said. I resolved, however,
not to question her, but to allow her to tell me just what she pleased.
So I knelt down by her side and whispered into her ear a solemn promise
that I would do all that she desired. Poor girl! how I felt for her!
When I had given her this pledge, she appeared much relieved and told me
freely all that had passed between my husband and herself, and she said
she had left my house simply because she could not endure to cause me any
sorrow. I told her of my husband’s contemplated marriage with Belinda
Pratt, and she appeared a good deal troubled at it. “Let me be second,”
she said, “for then I shall feel that I am nearer to you, and I want you
always to think that, when you die, if I have the power, I shall be the
first to meet you and take you by the hand.”
Thus we talked together for a long time, and it was with painful interest
that I listened to what she said. It was a singular interview—a wife
receiving from a young girl the confession that she loved her husband;
that he had fully returned her affection, and had even talked with her
about marriage; the girl requesting the wife to be married for her to her
own husband; and the wife, full of tender love towards the girl, freely
giving her a promise that she would do so. In my sorrow at parting from
her, and the great affection that I felt towards her, all feelings of
jealousy were utterly forgotten. Before I left I said: “Carrie, whether
you live or die, you shall be married to my husband, if he ever enters
into Polygamy; and I say this although I do not doubt that he will do so,
and at the same time I think that you will live.”
I really believed that she might recover; for now this burden was off
her mind, I thought she would have strength to subdue her sickness, and
at first it seemed as if this would really be the case. The next day she
appeared so much better that her friends all became hopeful, and when I
told her that I had written to my husband and had told him, that since he
had made up his mind to go into Polygamy, I wished him to marry her, she
appeared so happy, and showed her joy in so many innocent ways, that I
could not be angry.
“How do you think he will feel,” she said, “when he gets your letter? Do
I look pretty well to-day? And do you think that if I continue to get
better I shall have regained my looks before he comes home?”
“Oh,” I said, humouring her, “you will look quite pretty by the time he
returns; I shall be really jealous of you.”
In an instant the thought of how much all mention of her in connexion
with my husband must be painful to me, occurred to her mind, and she
begged me to forgive her for her carelessness. “No,” said she, “I will
try never to give you pain, and you must always love me.”
For some days this improvement in her appearance continued, and I thought
and hoped that we should soon have her round again. I really wished her
to live now, for if it was absolutely necessary that Mr. Stenhouse _must_
practise Polygamy, I would prefer that, rather than any other woman, he
should marry her, for I felt that she would understand me as no one else
could.
Thus, after all, I really had selected a second wife for my husband!
But the change in poor Carrie’s looks was altogether deceptive. News came
to me one morning that she was very much worse, and I hastened to see
her. As I entered the room, her eyes brightened, and she said: “I am glad
that you have come, Sister Stenhouse, for I feel that I am going soon.”
Then, after a pause, she added, holding up her hands—“Do you know what
that means?” The fingernails were turning blue.
“That means death,” she said; “and it is better so.”
After this we conversed together for some time upon various topics of
special interest to her in the position in which she then was, and
presently she said, as if asking a question, “You will keep your promise,
I know.”
“Carrie,” I answered, “if there is anything that I can say or do that
will make you feel more certain that I will keep my promise, if I live to
do so, tell me, and I will do it.”
“I am afraid,” she said, “that, after all, he never loved me. He pitied
my lonely situation and was so kind and good to me, that I learned to
love him, and those meddlesome sisters tried to get him to marry me, but
I would not be false to you. Then we both thought it was best not to tell
you, as it would make you grieve, although it never could take place.
Even now, had I not known that I was dying, I never would have told you.
But you will not love me less when you think of me after I am gone?”
I told her that my affection for her would never change, and I talked
with her, and tried to soothe her dying moments, and to make her feel
less lonely; and thus the morning passed away. In the afternoon she was
silent and apparently unconscious, and before another day dawned she had
passed away to her rest.