It is a custom among the Mormon married men—those at least who make any pretensions1 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 eligible2 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 kindly3 to it.
It was soon settled who should be the honoured maiden4 to whom my husband should pay his addresses. Her name was Belinda, and she was the daughter of the Apostle Parley5 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[286] 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 transpired6 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 dreaded8 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 remarkably9 well, and manifested a zeal10 which was perfectly11 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 lull12 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 agitated13 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 passionate14 emotion; and again I would pace the floor, my heart overflowing15 with anger and indignation. I never, at[287] that time, knew what it was to be happy, for I felt that I was a burden and hindrance16 to my husband, and I longed to die. I had loved him so devotedly17 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 acting18 from the purest of motives19. 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 annoyances20 and indignities21 to which I was forced to submit—trials which might appear too trifling22 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 schooling23 her heart to submission24, 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 aggravating25 details were added to make her, if possible, more miserable26?
A woman can nerve herself to endure almost anything, and outwardly she may conceal27 her feelings, but there are limits beyond which endurance is not possible. A chance meeting with the girl who has superseded28 her in her husband’s love,—or worse still, should she chance to surprise the affectionate couple tête-á-tête,—is sufficient to dispel29 all her good resolutions and to destroy that tranquillity30 of mind which she finds it so difficult to preserve. She becomes sick at heart, nervous, and entirely31 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 postponed32. I thought that the[288] 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 rumours33 that I had heard of his attachment34 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.”
[289]
“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 melancholy35 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 spoke36 as if it fatigued37 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 dread7 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[290] 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 salvation38, and if I were to die without being sealed to some man I could not possibly enter the celestial39 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 eternity40, 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 exertion41 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,[291] 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 contemplated43 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 confession44 that she loved her husband; that he had fully42 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 jealousy45 were utterly46 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 subdue47 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 regained48 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[292] 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 deceptive49. 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 conversed50 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 meddlesome51 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 soothe52 her dying moments, and to make her feel less lonely; and thus the morning passed away. In the afternoon she was silent and apparently53 unconscious, and before another day dawned she had passed away to her rest.
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1
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)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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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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parley
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| n.谈判 | |
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6
transpired
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| （事实，秘密等）被人知道( transpire的过去式和过去分词 )； 泄露； 显露； 发生 | |
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7
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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8
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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9
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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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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12
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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13
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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14
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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15
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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16
hindrance
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| n.妨碍，障碍 | |
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devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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18
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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20
annoyances
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| n.恼怒( annoyance的名词复数 )；烦恼；打扰；使人烦恼的事 | |
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21
indignities
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| n.侮辱，轻蔑( indignity的名词复数 ) | |
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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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23
schooling
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| n.教育；正规学校教育 | |
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submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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aggravating
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| adj.恼人的，讨厌的 | |
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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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27
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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28
superseded
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| [医]被代替的，废弃的 | |
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dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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30
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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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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32
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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33
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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35
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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36
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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37
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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38
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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41
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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42
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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43
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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44
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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45
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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46
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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47
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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48
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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49
deceptive
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| adj.骗人的，造成假象的，靠不住的 | |
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50
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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51
meddlesome
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| adj.爱管闲事的 | |
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52
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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53
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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