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 miserably1 furnished; and in this wretched abode2 poverty and polygamy had wrecked3 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, careworn4, 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 utterly5 blighted6 her existence. It seemed to me hardly possible that so great a change should have been wrought7 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 pang8 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 blessing9 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 disposition10 she was, however, just the same;[269] 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 ware11, 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 possessed12, 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 entirely13 destitute14 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[270] 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 Bishop15 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, situated16 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 evading17 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 Providence18 had in store for her ere her earthly course had run. With a faithful and devoted19 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[271] 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 misery20, 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 orphan21. 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 pretext22 of learning the business. Now it so happened that we each conceived a liking23 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 peculiar24 expression of melancholy25 sadness dwelling26 upon her features, which gave her a painfully interesting appearance. I never before, or since, met with a young girl who habitually27 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[272] 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 miserable29 doctrine30, 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 fanatics31 that Mormonism has ever known, one of the wildest advocates of the “Celestial Order of Marriage,” perfectly32 loathing33 the system; and yet, poor girl, believing it firmly, and believing too that she could not obtain salvation34 unless she entered into it. How I pitied and loved that poor girl!—and yet what strength or consolation35 could I offer her, being myself as painfully situated as she was? Our mutual36 sorrow united us still more painfully in loving companionship. I had rarely met among the Mormon girls with one so thoughtful and[273] 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 tempt28 her appetite which an invalid37 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 joyous38 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 procuring39 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 inquisitively40 scrutinizing41 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 privately42.” 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,”[274] 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 interfere43 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 interfering44, I will not say another word, for I should very much dislike to be considered meddlesome46. 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 prophesied47 great things of you, but I was a little afraid when I saw your opposition48 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 motive49, all along.”
[275]
“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 meddle45 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 slippers50, 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.[276] 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 apparently51 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 outright52 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 kindly53 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 positively54 refused to do, although it would have been dangerous for me not to acquiesce55 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.
[277]
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 trifling56 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 determined57 that it was my duty to find out what that mystery was.
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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evading
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| 逃避( evade的现在分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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dwelling
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habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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fanatics
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| 狂热者，入迷者( fanatic的名词复数 ) | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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procuring
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的现在分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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inquisitively
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| 过分好奇地； 好问地 | |
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scrutinizing
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的现在分词 ) | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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45
meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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meddlesome
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| adj.爱管闲事的 | |
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prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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50
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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51
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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52
outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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acquiesce
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| vi.默许，顺从，同意 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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