I’m going to try something a little different with the afternoon fiction this week. Instead of posting stories from LDS magazines, I’ll post anti-Mormon stories from national magazines and newspapers. It will be a little weird, I’m sure, and if you don’t like it please let me know; I will not be offended, and we won’t do this again beyond this week.

On the other hand, I think it could be enlightening to see how we were perceived by the wider world, and how distortions such as this shaped our public image. This is what missionaries faced everywhere. This is what made women hesitate to listen to missionaries. This is why the courage of those who joined the Church should be remembered and honored.

From Lippincott’s Magazine, January 1900 –

The Third Wife: A Mormon Episode

By Mrs. J.K. Hudson

A quarter of a century ago Salt Lake City was vaguely known to the people of the United States as the capital of the Mormons. It was then, as now, the political and religious centre of the Church of Latter Day Saints. Tourists on the Union Pacific Railroad tarried there briefly, and brought back tales of the substantial and flourishing condition of the little city, of its wonderful Temple and the Lion House, of its tree-lined streets withe the mountain water running at the roots. But nothing was heard of the faithful and laborious people who tilled the fertile soil of Utah and contributed to the growth of the city and paid tithing to the church hierarchy. Very little, inf act, was known of the inner life of the Mormons except to the few interested students of social economics and a coterie of politicians whose dealings were a sealed book to the general public. Before the opening of the railroad visitors to the Mormons were almost unknown, and the customs of this peculiar people during the long régime in which polygamy was openly preached are unknown to this day to the vast majority.

A journey through the great Northwest country brought me one day long ago to Salt Lake City, and the first thing that overwhelmed me upon being set down in the midst of the Mormons was my ignorance concerning this isolated people. To be sure, I had read and re-read the story of the journey over the plains, for it has always been as fascinating the Crusades. But here was the very haven towards which those pilgrims strove; out there, beyond the blue hills, the very ground over which men and women toiled on their knees, with nothing to sustain them at the last but the martyr spirit. Before, it had all been far away. With all its courage and its sacrifices, that toilsome march had never seemed a part of American history. Suddenly it had become one of the awful realities. More than that, here were the very walls behind which lived the “plural” wife of polygamy. Within a hand’s reach were the houses wherein these women breathed and had a real being. “Can they smile?’ “Do they ever cease from weeping?’ “Can they endure?” were involuntary self-questionings. Women passed along the street, tidily dressed, apparently happy, evidently at home; but these could not be plural wives, I said. They must be maids and widows, all. Perhaps the wives were kept indoors, after the manner of the Orient. I did not know. But a real longing grew upon me to see these women; to touch the hand of one, as that of a sister; to look into her face and search there for the hidden motive of {96} her life. A short stay in the city revealed the fact that there was very little intercourse between the Mormon population and the Gentile citizens, and a stranger found small opportunity to come near to the faithful of the church. There was no open avenue, and I was seriously contemplating the hopelessness of my ambition when one day a woman, whom I had several times observed on the street, came towards me from the direction of the Tabernacle. That she was a woman of importance was apparent at a glance. She was better dressed than the average woman one met in Salt Lake City streets,—that is, with more innate taste. Her face was serene and calm, as if contentment lay behind it, if not great joy. her step was firm and confident, as if she knew her ground and trusted it, and when, on a sudden impulse, I accosted her, her manner was graciousness itself. She was a woman in middle life, and had a good mother look. The embarrassment of the occasion did not extend to her. She comprehended my wish instantly, and after a few moments’ conversation invited me to walk with her towards her home. She kindly explained that she hesitated to speak freely of Mormon life, because there had been so much misrepresentation on the part of persons who came and superficially studied them for a day or a week. “It is not for myself,” she said, “but for my people and the church that I have learned to be reserved with strangers. It is not my nature, for to talk with the earnest seeker after truth is my delight, as you must know, since I am a missionary of the Lord.”

During a walk of several blocks we were drawn nearer to each other, and when we reached her home she invited me to come in. I was only too happy to accept the evidently sincere invitation.

We entered through a pretty little portico a house of two low stories. Turning to the left in a narrow hall, she said, “These are my private apartments. My husband is away from home at present; we shall be undisturbed. Take this easy-chair here by the window, where the breeze from the mountains will fan you, and tell me what it is that you and the great outside world want to know concerning us. I am perhaps as curious as yourself. I would like to learn in what esteem we are held, and what it is in us that interests you most.”

Involuntarily, while the woman spoke, I gazed about the room. Nothing she said impressed me except her remark upon entering, “These are my private apartments.” After that I should not have been surprised to see mysterious cabinets, and instruments of torture, instead of a well-kept living-room, with a Madonna on the wall and a vase of roses on a writing-table.

“Can it be that you are a plural wife?’ I stammered, almost in a whisper. It was all that I could say.

At the blunt question she drew a mantle of reserve about her for a moment, and I sincerely regretted the impulse that had forced me to {97} destroy so rare an opportunity. But directly the little cloud was dissipated by her pleasant voice as she said, “Certainly. Does that surprise you so greatly? There are many plural marriages among us, and I think that my knowledge of the world warrants me in saying that quite as large a proportion of us are happy as you will find in any city where monog[a]my is the custom and the law. My sister in the Lord and I are both workers in Zion. We live in the same house, as you see, though not together. And when one of us is out laboring in the Lord’s vineyard the other is usually here. My husband is an elder in the church, and a busy man who needs many helping hands. I am glad to minister to him and to the church. Indeed, I came here as a missionary who had long labored in other fields, but my husband’s eloquent preaching of the word of the new faith converted me, and I returned with him to take up the work here.”

“Are you the first wife?” I asked heartlessly.

“No, I am the second,” she responded cheerfully, “but we stand on an equality, and are both greatly interested in the church.”

I could not but observe that she spoke of her life as devoted to the church, and that the domestic element seemed entirely lacking. I thought to myself that I had chanced upon the anomalous instance. It was possible that a woman who was a zealot in religion, no longer young, and with no family attachments, could be moderately happy with a husband who sympathized with her aspirations, even though he had another wife of the same character. I was trying hard to be just. But there was the woman’s intelligent, kindly face, looking so like a mother’s. There was the Madonna on the wall and the flowers. She was but a woman, after all. I must probe further.

“And you have no family outside of—this?” I said hesitatingly.

“Oh, yes. I have a daughter,” she answered, and then I saw the full glory of the mother-look come into her face. I had not the heart to put another question. The only one that came to my mind was too cruel, but her quick intuition divined it, and she looked up, saying, “She will never marry. She has fully decided to be a missionary teacher. But there are a great many homes in the city wherein there is but one wife and where there will never be more. Clarisse is young, not yet seventeen, and in school. Her father died when she was a little child. We lived in the States then, and I had never met my present husband, and knew nothing of the Saints. Clarisse is one of the Lord’s chosen people, and when she is out of school will devote her life to the church. There is a great deal that a woman can do as a teacher and a missionary to the outlying districts and new stakes of Zion. It is just the life I would wish for her, and she is wholly in sympathy with this plan for her future usefulness and happiness. My husband realizes that, as she is my daughter, it is quite appropriate {98} that I should direct the course of her life, and heartily approves of my ideas.”

The long course of reasoning and argument that her mind had gone through in the formulation of this plan, and the leading up to the decision that her daughter should not marry, was transparent enough to a listener. But the woman had pondered it so long and repeated it so often that she had come to believe in it herself, and she showed no sign of a suspicion that she was building out of her own great love a frail guard that might some day be blown away by a breath.

What is it, I wondered, that makes this woman, this wife, this mother, defend plural marriage? She fears it for her daughter, even though she may not acknowledge it to herself. There is a reason; there must be.

“Why!” she said in astonishment in answer to my further questions, “it has been shown to us that a woman must believe in plural marriage. And yet I recall now that I have been told that this is the hardest of all things for those outside of the true church to understand. To us it is the plainest and the most sacred of all teachings. We are taught that woman was created to minister unto man. That is her part in life. Beyond and above that she is favored by the Great Father in being made Christ-like, in that she can and must bear a cross. In that way shall she enter into the kingdom of heaven. the greater the burden of her cross in this world, the greater will be her reward and her glory in the world to come. You know that many of the holy men of the Scriptures, whose example our husbands are taught to emulate, had more than one wife. Solomon practiced polygamy and was at the same time a great and goodman, and through him and others we have the lesson that has been again given to us by revelation. ‘The celestial order of marriage’ is a command of God laid upon men, and they must obey. There is no appeal for women, for their part is to submit. Indeed, submission is he keynote of the Mormon doctrine, and it is the great harmonizing influence of our religion. No Mormon ever rebels against the decrees of the prophets and the church head, and no woman ever rebels against the wishes of her husband. on the other hand, the revelation makes it plain that in regard to plural marriage the first wife must give her consent; in fact, she usually chooses a companion for her husband when he is counselled to take another wife. I suppose it is not generally known or believed outside of Utah that polygamy is hedged about by all these safeguards, but it is true. There are really several persons who must give their sanction to all plural marriages. First, Brigham Young receives a revelation that the marriage is desirable. The first wife’s permission must then be obtained, the parents must consent, and the woman herself must be won. So, you see, it is a matter of conviction, {99} not compulsion. When a woman is wedded it is her duty to devote herself to her husband and to the upbuilding of the faith; to bear children, that she may increase the faithful on earth, and add to her own glory and that of her husband in heaven. But that is the part of a good wife in every religion.”

The woman had by this time unconsciously assumed the voice of exhortation, and she looked beyond me into the unknown. She talked on for several minutes, and I sat and listened with deep interest, but also in amazement at the specious reasoning. When she ceased and turned to me again I said, “To what, then, do you refer as her heavy cross, if she is living the life God has marked out for her and her reward is to be so great in the hereafter?”

Hesitating a moment, and then lifting her eyes slowly to mine, she said in a subdued and impressive voice, “Can you think of any greater cross than sharing the love of your husband with another woman?”

I almost recoiled, as if from a blow. She noticed it and said, “Ah, you Gentile women have little idea of the holy sacrifices that are made by the women of our church.”

It was the woman who spoke now. The exhorter was no longer there, and the inspiration of the moment had passed. But no gleam of the inconsistency of it all was to be seen in her face.

We sat silent for a moment, I having no comment to make on her statements that I could put into words, and she wondering, doubtless, as to the impression her plea had made upon my mind, when our attention was attracted by the sound of footsteps outside. She looked up in surprise, and instantly rose to her feet. She had been sitting so that she looked towards the little portico, and I with my back to it. She did not step forward at once, but stood perfectly still, and I thought I saw her face blanch slightly. In a moment she said, “They are elders of the church,” and stepped to the door to admit them.

Three men were ushered into the room. One was tall and of strong, well-marked features and dignified presence. The other two were stout and florid and rather nervous in manner, brothers apparently.

Without waiting for a formal introduction, one of these motioned inconsequently towards me and said, “Is she of the Lord’s people?”

The woman offered them chairs with a slight inclination of the head, that might have been taken either for answer or for an invitation to be seated.

Was she afraid? I could not tell. The men paid no attention to the invitation for the moment and ignored my presence. They had come upon urgent and important business, they announced, and would state it at once. it was their duty to bear a message to her, one that specially concerned her. {100}

“Yes,” said the tall and solemn elder, “it is indeed nothing less than a revelation received by the head of the church last night. It concerns both you and your daughter.”

“My daughter,” gasped the woman, in scarcely audible tones, and I saw one hand grasp the back of a chair convulsively.

“Your daughter, who has now grown to womanhood,” continued the elder, “and owes her allegiance to the church.”

“What is the revelation?” the woman forced her drawn lips to ask.

“Through the grace of the all-wise Father it has been revealed to His Disciple, Brigham Young, that your daughter, Clarisse, should become the third wife of Elder W—, here present with us.”

An awful silence ensued, and then a convulsive movement in the woman’s throat, as if her voice refused to utter a sound, attracted the attention of all, and the men bowed their heads that they might not see.

Presently she spoke in a new and strange voice these words: “Perhaps in the fullness of time even I, her mother, may come to see the wisdom of this counsel. God helping me, I will try. If you will kindly leave me now—”

But her sentence was not finished when the bridegroom-elect spoke for himself, saying, “The marriage will take place to-morrow. The prophet of the Lord has revealed that in this instance it is the better way to carry out the revelation at once. He reasoned, no doubt correctly, that there could be no objection on the part of clarisse’s mother, who is one of the chosen in the vineyard. And I presume there will be none whatever on the part of the girl herself. I have looked upon her with favor for some time, and my wife has selected her for a companion.”

When silence fell again it was like a pall that would crush the life out of the inmates of that stifling room. I felt that I was shrinking within myself to get away from it. I could not leave the dreadful scene. I was spell-bound by the fear that any motion on my part might make it harder for the woman. her hand on the chair-back had grown blue and her form rigid. She could not speak again, and dared not trust herself to try. The tense moments seemed like hours, and I longed to throw my arms about her and support her. The entire company was as if it had lost the power of speech and motion; but at last the spell was broken by another step at the outer door. The three men bowed themselves out with one accord, in silence still. The woman held herself erect and looked after them with wide, dazed eyes.

In the hall the elders greeted the happy, smiling daughter, just home from school, and blessed her. One held her hand longer than the others, and gazed so fondly upon her that I saw a bright blush mount to her fair young cheek. {101}

The woman still stood, but her eyes were closed when I looked at the scene in the hall and then at her.

Clarisse closed the hall-door as she bad the elders a final good-by and hastened in, calling, “Mother, dear where are you?”

The scene that met her eyes was enough to make her happy young heart stand still, and she uttered a cry that rang in my ears for months. her mother lay on the floor as one dead. The instant the outer door closed upon the departing elders she sank to the floor unconscious. The girls prang to her side and embraced her with endearing cries and moans that were heart-rending. Seeing a stranger beside her mother, for I was by this time chafing her cold hands and trying to revive her, the girl turned fiercely tome and demanded to know what had happened, naturally concluding that I was the cause of the trouble. I bade her bring some water at once, and together we bathed the white face and chafed the nerveless limbs until a long-drawn breath gave token of life. Then we tenderly lifted the mother to a touch and covered her with warm rugs, all the time watching the flickering eyelids. Soon they opened, and the weak arms raised with a mighty effort of will to enfold the daughter. I stood with bowed head, but as quickly as the mother’s eyes were lifted to mine I said, “Shall I remain? Can I help you?”

“No, no,” she said faintly; “it would only be harder. Farewell.”

And so I left them,—mother and daughter, heart to heart.

This little story might well end here, with no further intrusion upon the holy sorrow, but for truth’s sake the sequel must be set down, albeit with a shrinking pen. The next day, from my hotel window, I saw in a short procession the forms of two women being supported as they moved along the street. It was much more like a funeral than a wedding procession. I was not able to follow, of course, for no Gentile could look upon the sacrifice. But this is what took place in the Endowment House, where marriage was celebrated. In the centre of a plain room there was a circular table, or altar, heavily draped, and surrounded by a low, cushioned rest. Seated near this altar, in a luxurious chair, with his feet on the cushions, was Brigham Young. Around the altar knelt three persons: Clarisse, transformed in a night from a happy, beautiful girl into a pale, trembling, frightened child, clad in the uncouth white robes of the church; the bridegroom, also in white robes and a white cap that further accentuated his ruddy face, and his wife.

Ranged along the wall in a solemn row sat the brother of the bridegroom, his mother, his daughter, and the mother of the bride. Clarisse’s mother was but the ghost of herself of yesterday; then strong and erect and content; now trembling in her chair as if she {102} would again fall tot he floor, her appealing eyes unheeded, for her daughter had been placed os that she could not see her mother.

Almost as quickly as the company was seated—no time being permitted for scenes, that were disliked by the head of the church—the voice of Brigham Young rang out loud and confident. Addressing the first wife he said: “Are you willing to give this woman to your husband to be his lawful wife for time and for all eternity? If you are you will signify it by placing her right hand within the left hand of your husband.”

The broken, wretched wife reached across the altar, and lifting the delicate hand of the girl with her own work-stiffened fingers laid it in the broad outstretched palm of her husband. Thus was the plural marriage consecrated and the holy institution of Christian wedlock desecrated—in Christian America.

Long afterwards I knew that I had witnessed one of the tragedies in what was known among the Mormons as the Reformation, and among the Gentiles as the Reign of Terror.