menu_book Chapter 28

CHAPTER XXVIII. WHAT WOMEN SUFFER IN POLYGAMY. THE STORY OF MARY BERTON. One bright summer morning, about six months after our arrival in Salt Lake City, I was sitting in the workroom, busy with my girls, when a light tab 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 reunion 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 manner that the change was most remarkable. 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 terrible 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 to trouble you 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 to 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, 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 intermedleeth 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 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 him that it was his duty to take another wife, and they would say that no promise made to me before our marriage is 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 anything to you or your husband, dear? Certainly they did, Mary.

We have heard it daily and hourly, and my husband is constantly being counseled 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 would never 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 the 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 husbands and their 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 that 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. That 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 spoiled 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 cruelest 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 was 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 fowly, 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, where there is nothing in hell so hateful, so vile, so detestable. It is a 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 talk it, perhaps, it's dangerous, I know, but I may think it.

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 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 seems altered. It quite pains me sometimes to see it. Do you feel any happier now?

Do you feel 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 it is 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.

I took her in then to get some refreshments, and I asked her to stay for the day. She said that she had a message which someone had left for Elder Shrewsbury, that she would go and leave it, as it was of some importance, and that she would come back again. In about an hour she returned, and somehow, although I had intended to talk of quite another subject, we got back to our common grievance again.

I do not wonder at this, for it was the perpetual theme of all our thoughts. Queen Mary, of unpleasant memory, is said to have fretted over the loss of the town of Calais, until she believed that after her death that name would be found written upon her heart. And I really do think, were such a thing possible, the word polygamy would be found indelibly engraved upon the heart of many a wretched wife in Utah. Mary gave me a great deal of information, in that she was quite herself as I knew her in bygone 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 woman 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 extracted 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 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 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 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, 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 husband's way, and it is said that the priesthood did not wait for the Lord to destroy, but carried out the law themselves.

My dear Mary, we really must not talk in this way, I said, it's quite wicked. My husband would never forgive me if he knew what we have been talking about. He says that all these stories are untrue, and that they are all exaggerations or fabrications of the apostates who wish to bring scandal on our religion. I do not wish to shake your faith, Sister Stenhouse, but my own is pretty well gone, she replied.

Of course, I never speak to my husband about these things, nor do I dare to talk to anyone else, but I feel it quite a relief to see you, and to be able to say what I think, for I know I can confide in you, 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 mockery for their husbands to ask it. They will 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 gave her consent. This is what is meant by the liberty of the Gospel, I suppose, about which Brother Brigham talks so much, but everyone knows perfectly well that this is all a farce, and that he would take other wives all the same,

however stoutly the first wife might refuse. She would only make herself miserable even if she got off as well as that. The idea really is that in polygamy there are four who must give their consent. Brother Brigham must first receive a revelation from the Lord, stating that he approves of the proposed marriage. Then the first wife's permission must be obtained,

then the consent of her parents, and last of all the girl herself is to be asked. This all sounds very fair, she continued, but in practice it is quite otherwise. 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 not make 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 much at first, which was quite natural, but when the other two were brought home she seemed quite to clean 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 have stifled all my love, and I am sorry to say that sometimes I almost hate everyone around me, including my husband. Now and then the old longing for someone to love, for someone 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 here 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. I know you think me very wicked, but there don't be shocked, dear,

I'm not so very bad after all. Thus saying, she kissed me, laughed with the ghost of her former Mary ways when I first knew her, and said good night. I watched her till she was lost in the darkness,

and then I closed the door, saying to myself with a sigh, oh me, can this be the Mary that once I knew? End of chapter 28