An Englishwoman in Utah: The Story of a Life's Experience in Mormonism

by Mrs. T. B. H. Stenhouse

A woman can nerve herself to endure almost anything, and outwardly she may conceal her feelings, but there are limits beyond which endurance is not possible. A chance meeting with the girl who has superseded her in her husband’s love,—or worse still, should she chance to surprise the affectionate couple tête-á-tête,—is sufficient to dispel all her good resolutions and to destroy that tranquillity of mind which she finds it so difficult to preserve. She becomes sick at heart, nervous, and entirely 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 postponed. I thought that the 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 rumours that I had heard of his attachment 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.”

“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 melancholy 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 spoke as if it fatigued 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.