Rebellious I felt, indeed, as I paced the room after I had thrown the Revelation on the ground: I almost felt as if I should lose my reason. A woman in the time of trouble always looks to some one in whom she can confide; but to whom could I turn for one kind or cheering word? who would comfort me? I had neither relation nor friend to whom I could speak of this trial; there was no one who could understand me. I could not turn to my husband in this sorrow, and I dared not even kneel to my God to implore His aid. It was He, they said, who had declared this Revelation was His will; how then could I turn to Him? No; my heart sank within me; henceforth there was to be no hope, no peace, for me!
There was a knock at my chamber door, and my husband came in. He knew how acutely I must feel, and he came to comfort me. I was almost choked with emotion and tears, but he threw his arms round me tenderly, and spoke to me as if I had been a child that needed consolation. He tried to persuade me that God as a loving Father could never have intended the pain or misery of His children, and that when we came to understand the doctrine better, we should find that all would be well. He spoke also of his own unchanging attachment; and appealed to me whether I thought he could ever love me less, or place his affections on another.
I tried to believe, and when I felt a little better I went with him to the breakfast-room, where the others were waiting for us.
We were not a very entertaining party that morning. The Elders present of course knew what had kept me in my room, and their attempt at cheerfulness was not very successful. My husband was in sympathy with me, and I have no doubt that I looked sad enough. There was only one person present who did not appreciate the situation—Monsieur Petitpierre, the Protestant minister—and they handed the Revelation to him. Mr. Stenhouse and the other Elders had some misgivings as to how he would receive it, and they were afraid it might disgust him with Mormonism. But the old gentleman stood the test bravely; and I saw then, as I have seen since, that men can be easily satisfied that the Revelation on Polygamy, or any other revelation, is divine, if they desire, it to be so.
Here was old Monsieur Petitpierre, a man of more than threescore years, and childless. To him the example of Abraham and Solomon appeared most instructive—an example which might be followed with advantage. His wife, like Sarah of old, had never been called by a mother’s name; and now, although thus far he had no idea who might act the part of a second Hagar, there seemed a fair chance that a little Ishmael might perpetuate the race of Petitpierres on earth, if only the Revelation was acted upon by the faithful.
“It ought to be prayerfully thought of,” he said.
Prayerfully thought of! Poor, silly old man! Before then I had respect for his years and learning; but now—what could I think of a man who talked such nonsense? Had the Revelation told him that the wife of his youth, now tottering in step, and with hair silvered by age, was commanded to take two or a dozen young husbands—I wondered whether he would have added with such satisfaction “It ought to be prayerfully thought of!”
From that day I learned to regard polygamy as an essential part of the Mormon faith, and such for many years the world has considered it; but when I first joined the church, such an innovation would have appeared to the European Saints beyond the wildest fancies of a dream.