LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF POLYGAMY—MARRIAGE AND BAPTISM FOR THE DEAD.
My life was now one continued series of deceptions, as was also that of
my husband, and we began habitually to wear the mask when in each other’s
presence.
It may have been wrong, perhaps, but I confess that for my husband’s
intended bride I felt such a detestation that I could not endure her
presence, although I knew that she was not to blame. I believed that I
should not have felt it so much if she had been a little older; but to
have a mere child placed on a level with me, and to be compelled to treat
her with all the respect due to a wife, was so terribly humiliating to me
that at times I thought that I could not endure it another day. She, of
course, expected to be treated with all the consideration which is proper
to a wife, and to be consulted in everything by my husband, as a wife
should be. She was not, however, competent to undertake any household
duties or wifely cares, and was herself an additional responsibility to
me. Young and inexperienced as she was, she had everything to learn; but,
at the same time, she stood so much upon her dignity that it was anything
but a pleasant task to teach her. It of course devolved upon me to
instruct her in everything, and I found it anything but a congenial task.
I soon began to look upon her simply as a boarder, and expected nothing
more from her than I should if she had really been such.
She took very kindly to this position, and would spend her days in her
own room, reading and otherwise amusing herself, and of course was always
pleasant and well-dressed to receive her husband. But this did not suit
_me_. In fact I do not know what would have suited me at that time, for
I was disposed to be displeased with everything. And yet a visitor to
our house would, I have no doubt, have, said, “How very pleasantly those
two wives get along together!” This has been said of scores of women in
Utah by casual observers—Gentiles, who thought they “understood” the
system. How little do they know the aching void and the bitter hatred
which exists in the hearts of those wives—the detestation which they have
of one another! How little can they know, when everything is so carefully
hidden, even from their husbands! It is a shameful thing that women,
faithful wives and mothers, should be placed in such a position.
How many times during the day have I been compelled to leave everything
and rush to my chamber, and there on my bended knees supplicate for
strength to endure, thinking all the time that, in ordaining this
Revelation, God had given us a burden greater than we could bear!
Then in the evening, when we were assembled together in our cosy parlour,
as we were wont to be, all traces that remained of the terrible struggle
which I had endured were a sad countenance and perhaps the deepening
lines upon my brow, which contrasted unpleasantly with the bright and
cheerful face of the young wife, and made my husband feel that I was
getting very sour in my disposition, as indeed was probably the case.
Things and actions, which at another time I should have considered
too trifling to notice, had now a painful significance to me. On one
occasion, not long after the wedding, my husband asked me to take a walk
with him, and I consented. Among the Mormons it is a custom to take
their wives out together very frequently. Their object, I presume, is
to display the “jewels” in their crowns before the eyes of their less
fortunate brethren. I had resolved that I would never submit to this;
if my husband would not take me out alone, I would stay at home. On the
occasion I mention, when I came out of my room ready dressed, I found
him and his wife, Belinda, waiting and chatting pleasantly together,
and looking unutterable love at each other—at least, so I thought—and I
felt greatly insulted and annoyed, and told them I did not wish to go.
I carefully avoided showing any outbursts of temper before the young
lady, which I thought would be undignified, for I desired at least that
she should respect me, though I did not want her love. If I had expected
that they would urge me to accompany them, I should have been greatly
mistaken, for my refusal appeared to be just what they wanted. They
tripped off together as light-hearted and happy as children, while I
remained rooted to the spot, tearing my pocket-handkerchief to pieces,
and wishing I could do the same with them.
I used sometimes to wonder whether it would be the same in the Mormon
heaven, where this Celestial Order of Marriage is expected to be carried
out in all its fullness, and I felt troubled for myself. These dreadful
feelings would, I believed, be the ruin of my soul, and I thought it
was impossible for me to obtain salvation until I had entirely subdued
them—and that I had not power yet to do. I had, however, so concealed
what I felt, that my husband believed that I was becoming used to this
new life.
Day after day my rebellious soul was agitated by the same troubled
feelings. There was no rest for me—nothing upon which I could stay my
mind. My husband was painfully aware that there was a coldness and
restraint existing between his young wife and myself, and I know that he
was grieved by it, for he had tried in every way to create a friendly
feeling between us. I felt, however, that it was utterly impossible that
I could ever be affectionate towards his other wife, much as I might
strive. I would do my duty, but I could not love her, or, in fact, him
either for that matter, when he was associated with her. I regret to be
obliged to confess such a truth; but from that time, and as long as I
remained in Mormonism, the sentiment that was uppermost in my mind was
an utter detestation of the whole system. I despised myself for being
the abject slave that I was. Why could I not have the moral courage to
set everything at defiance—Revelation and all—and free myself from the
bondage that enthralled me?
I know this day scores of women in Utah who think and feel exactly as I
did then, who suffer wrongs against which their hearts daily and hourly
rebel, but who, like me, dread to cast aside the yoke of the oppressor.
At that time, in respect to pecuniary matters, we were very comfortably
off. Almost immediately after our arrival in Utah, Mr. Stenhouse had
found employment on the staff of the _Deseret News_. Before long he
obtained the appointment of postmaster for Salt Lake City, and before his
marriage with Miss Pratt he had started the _Telegraph_, the first daily
paper that was ever published in Utah. From the beginning it had been
remarkably successful; for Brigham had counselled the people to sustain
it, knowing very well that he himself would in return be supported by
my husband. Brigham had no more devoted follower than Mr. Stenhouse was
then, for the scales had not yet fallen from his eyes, and he believed
the Prophet was really what he claimed to be—a faithful servant of God.
True, we had frequently talked together of his very mean actions; but
my too generous, or perhaps too credulous, husband had attributed all
that to the weakness of his human nature, and would not believe that
it affected his priesthood. He therefore sustained him strongly and
consistently before the public; not for gain, for he had given too many
instances of his devotion to be suspected of that; but I may say from
pure attachment, for I know too well that at that time he was almost
ready to lay down his life for the sake of his religion.
The _Telegraph_ soon became the leading journal in Utah, and in a little
while we were surrounded by every comfort and luxury which at that time
could be procured in Salt Lake City. No family in the Territory was
better provided for than was ours, not excepting Brigham Young’s. I had
always believed that if my husband were left alone, untrammelled by the
Church, to make his own way, he would do so successfully. In this I was
not mistaken. We now owned a fine dwelling-house, a valuable city lot and
house, where the paper was printed, and also another very desirable lot,
near to Brigham Young’s residence. This last lot was my own; it was very
beautifully situated, and we expended on it upwards of three thousand
dollars. Everything that my husband undertook at that time seemed to
prosper—not excepting his love affairs.
Just then a great deal was whispered privately about certain murders
which had been committed, all knowledge of which was strenuously denied
by the authorities. When any case was so notorious that it could not
possibly be altogether hushed up, we were told that the murdered persons
were dangerous people, and had been killed in self-defence by those whom
they in the first instance had attacked.
My husband, like hundreds of others, was never in the confidence of the
Church authorities in these matters. He believed firmly in the divine
mission of Joseph Smith, and shut his eyes to the actions of Brigham
Young, thinking that he alone would be responsible to the Lord for his
misdeeds. When I drew his attention to the inconsistency of Brigham’s
conduct, as on more than one occasion I did, he said we had enough to
do to look at home and see that we ourselves did what was right. This,
of course, was true; but I thought, nevertheless, that a little more
consistency on Brigham’s part would not be amiss.
My talkative friend called one day to speak of a very serious subject.
“I have come, Sister Stenhouse,” she said, “to talk to you about a matter
of great importance, but I don’t want to offend you, and you must
promise beforehand to forgive me.”
I readily promised, and she added: “I thought I should find you very
unhappy, Sister Stenhouse, about poor dear Carrie Grant, and I think if
you are so you deserve it, but I don’t like you to be miserable, and so I
came to comfort you.”
“But, Sister Ann,” I said, “I don’t want to be comforted in the way you
seem to mean. I have been very sad indeed at losing Carrie; but you know
I did everything I could for her, poor girl, and I have nothing to blame
myself for.”
“Nothing to blame yourself for?” she exclaimed. “Why, Sister Stenhouse,
you have everything to blame yourself for. If poor Carrie has less glory,
it is all your fault.”
“How so?” I said.
“Why,” she answered, “if you had not held back and expressed your
dislike, Carrie would have married your husband, and would most likely
have been alive now. She would have had _her_ family, and would have
added to your husband’s glory; while now, although she is your husband’s
wife, she has no children, and, of course, must have less glory in the
Kingdom.”
“Well, Sister Ann,” I said, “I never thought of it in that light. I
loved Carrie very much, and I tried to make her love me. It was not
until almost the last that I knew of her love for my husband; but if I
had known before, I am sure my own heart would have rebelled against my
husband taking another wife. I did, however, ask him to marry her, and
after she was dead I was married to him for her.”
“That’s all very well, Sister Stenhouse,” she replied, “but for all that
I think you have committed a great wrong against that poor orphan girl.
You ought to be thankful that at last you were able to repair a little
of the mischief which you did. I don’t want to vex you, but I am really
sorry that you had such an antipathy to your husband having Carrie.
However, I suppose, now he has really got another wife, you are not so
much set against Polygamy. You must find it quite a blessing to have Miss
Pratt—I beg pardon, I mean Mrs. Stenhouse number two—with you now.”
I did not answer her, for I had my own opinion about the matter. She went
on without hesitation: “Well, you must not be vexed with me, dear; I say
it all for your good, you know; but I do wish you felt a little more as I
do about these matters. Why, do you know, I have been trying to show my
faith and zeal in every possible way ever since we came to Utah. It was
only last week I was baptized for Queen Anne.”
“Queen Anne!” I exclaimed. “What can you possibly mean?”
“Exactly what I say, Sister Stenhouse; I was baptized for Queen Anne, and
if you like I’ll tell you all about it. It is only just what every one
else has been doing, only they were baptized for other people. I don’t
think you’ve ever thought much of this, and so I’ll explain myself. You
see, Sister Stenhouse, the Elders teach us that the whole world is lying
in darkness and sin, and has been so ever since the apostolic gifts were
lost ages ago. Now there is no salvation outside the Church, and you may
remember that Christ Himself went and preached to the miserable souls in
Paradise.”
“In Paradise?” I said, “why I thought that was a happy place.”
“Oh, no, Sister Stenhouse,” she said, “not very happy. The souls of those
who have not heard the gospel, and have not been baptized, go there, and
it’s a sort of prison for them until they are brought out again through
the kindness of some believer. The thief on the cross went there, and
Christ went there and preached to the spirits in prison; and when the
Elders die, they go on mission to Paradise and preach to them also. All
your people and my people, our fathers, and mothers, and grandfathers,
and so on, right up to the apostolic times, are waiting in Paradise with
millions and millions of souls to be released and be admitted into the
Celestial Kingdom. All the good brethren and sisters have been doing
their best to get out their relations and friends, and I know many of
them who have sent over to England and have spent large sums of money in
tracing their pedigrees and genealogies, in order to find out the right
names and to be baptized as proxies for the dead who owned those names.
I have been baptized for a good many of my own relations, and I mean to
be baptized for scores more; and many of the brethren, too, have been
married as proxies for their own friends, and for distinguished people
besides, so that they might be admitted into the Celestial Kingdom, and
raise up patriarchal families of their own. The poor souls, if they were
released from Paradise by a proxy baptism, could not, of course, have
been married in heaven, as there is no giving in marriage there; so some
one was married for them as proxy to some one else, and now they can
begin to establish their own celestial kingdoms.”
“And have you been proxy in this way, Sister Ann?” I asked.
“No, and yes,” she replied; “I haven’t yet been proxy in marriage for
any one, but I was proxy in baptism. When we were children, I remember we
used to have some rhymes about Queen Anne, and, as it was my own name,
I always thought a great deal of her. It seemed to me that it would be
very nice, and at the same time very charitable, if I were to help her
out of Paradise. It quite struck my fancy, for it was no small thing to
have a real queen thankful to you for so much. So I went and was baptized
for her, and now she is out of Paradise and has entered the Celestial
Kingdom. But that isn’t all. There was my old friend, George Wilford,
who heard all about the matter, for I see him frequently, and he at once
said that he would be baptized for Prince George of Denmark, Queen Anne’s
husband, and he means to do so; and after that we’ll be married by proxy
for them here on earth, and then they’ll both be happy.”
“Why, Sister Ann, what a droll idea!” I said.
“Sister Stenhouse,” she replied, quite seriously, “it’s very wrong of you
to talk so. Some of the best Saints have stood proxy in this way. There
was one lady who stood proxy for the Empress Josephine, and her son stood
for Napoleon, and some one else for Washington. Queen Elizabeth, too, has
been baptized by proxy. And now Napoleon and Washington are both Mormon
Elders, and I suppose some one will be married for Queen Elizabeth, and
she’ll enter into Polygamy. Do you know, Sister Stenhouse, there was one
brother who, out of pure kindness, said he would be baptized for the
thief on the cross, for he supposed that no one else would take pity on
him, and a sister who was present said she would be baptized for his
wife, if Brother Brigham thought he ever had one. I’ve been persuading my
Henry to be baptized for Henry the Eighth, for I’m sure he needed baptism
for the remission of sins; and he—I mean _my_ Henry—has promised me to do
so; but he says that he means to ask Brother Brigham first before he is
married for him—if ever he is—as King Henry was almost a polygamist in
his way, and my husband thinks there is not much need to be married for
him at all.”
“I can’t help being amused,” I said. “Of course I have often heard of
being baptized for the dead, and I know the Elders say that St. Paul
spoke of it in one of his epistles, but I never thought of it in _that_
light; I always thought we should have to wait till the Temple was
finished.”
“That’s true, Sister Stenhouse,” she replied; “all the marriages of all
the Saints—of every one, in fact, on the face of the earth—ought to be
solemnized in the Temple here in Salt Lake City, and every one ought to
receive their Endowments in it; but as it is not yet finished, the Lord
permits us to be married, and everything else, in the Endowment House.
But you know yourself that there’s a record kept, and that, when the
Temple is finished, the ceremony will be all gone through with again.
I’ve heard it said that many of the Elders and their wives will live
there, and that day and night perpetually the ceremonies will be going
on. You ought to be baptized, however, _now_ for as many relations as you
can think of.”
“I think I shall wait, Sister Ann,” I said, “until I can find a Queen
Fanny, and then I’ll be baptized for her.”
She did not like me saying this, for she evidently thought I was jesting.
I was not jesting, however, but I felt greatly amused, for this peculiar
doctrine of the Saints had never struck me in such an odd light before.
Sister Ann was shocked at the way in which I viewed her strange stories,
but “I’ll come again in the course of a day or two, Sister Stenhouse,”
she said, “and put you all straight.”