Chapter 20: A Greasy but Glorious Transaction

ARRIVING one Saturday night on horseback at the poverty-stricken little mediaeval town of Santa Cruz, once the capital of the far interior State of Goyaz, I found circumstances rather adverse. It was the eve of the great Romish Feast of the Holy Ghost, with its accompanying orgy of drunkenness and vice of every description, universal in South America on these occasions. The people had prepared for it with the usual period of “fasting,” or abstinence from meat, which in those regions is little used or appreciated. They may drink rum, smoke, gamble, dance, etc.; but to eat meat is a mortal sin — unless, of course, they can afford five shillings to purchase an indulgence, and then the “mortal sin” disappears Undeterred by this, and by the news that a priest was coming on the morrow to open the festivities with High Mass, I applied to the local authorities for permission to hold a meeting the following evening in an old ramshackle barn dignified by the name of Town Hall.
There was a little demurring at first on the part of the Intendente (Mayor), but a casual remark on my part that I was English at once removed all hesitation, and my request was gladly granted, with offers to have the place put in order for the occasion; for our countrymen have played a great and unforgettable part in the history of this land.
I fixed my meeting for six o’clock, and found that the priest had also chosen that hour for his spectacular performance. During the day the town was canvassed with tracts, and everybody was invited to the Gospel meeting.
The Town Hall is the only two-storied building in the place, and the inhabitants seem rather proud of it. It serves a double purpose. The ground floor is the town prison, its entrance being through a trap door in the center of the room above, in which our meeting was to be held (i.e., the Town Hall). Before six the place was literally packed with men — no women or children. The attention was rapt and appreciative; and at the end of the meeting a second one was held to satisfy the crowd of men on the staircase and below who had been unable to gain admission.
That night not a single man was present at the High Mass except the priest and the sacristan!
I felt so encouraged by my reception that I resolved to remain at this place, at least for some time. The meetings were continued nightly, and within two months about forty men and women bore public testimony to their faith in the Lord Jesus Christ as only Savior for time and eternity.
Resolving to take full advantage of my opportunities, I frequently rode off to visit the surrounding the district, dropping a few Scriptures in my saddle bags.
One day I drew up at a farmhouse, where I had great difficulty in making my presence known. Eventually a woman appeared at a half-opened door, and peering at me in a suspicious way, inquired my “Senhora,” I began, “I have here a very excellent beefs, the Life of our Lord Jesus Christ —.”
“Don’t want it,” she interrupted, and would have closed the door if I had not casually interposed my foot.
“But you don’t know what it is,” I rejoined. “It is worth more than all your farm.”
“Don’t want it,” she repeated in a decided tone for she evidently surmised me to be the terrible Protestante who had appeared at Santa Cruz, and she had accepted the priest’s story as to my person and the books I circulated.
I endeavored to overcome her prejudice and to interest her in the book, but quite in vain; and finally she exclaimed: “You are losing your time, senhor. My husband is out, and so I have no money in the house to buy your book.”
“Not at all, madam,” I replied; “money is no object. Give me a few liters of corn for my horse and you may keep the book.”
“Haven’t any corn,” was the curt reply.
“Never mind that, madam; a couple of liters of fejiao (black beans) will do,” I suggested, for knew that beans to a Brazilian are what potatoes are to the Irishman — always at hand.
“Haven’t any beans,” was the astonishing reply.
“Is that so? — then perhaps a cheese? What? ―­no cheese? Well, then, give me a sugar brick only and the book is yours.”
“Haven’t any,” was the surly answer, and the case looked hopeless.
Why not give the book? some may say. We have found such to be a very bad policy. “Livro dado, e livro desprezado” (A book given is a book despised) is a trite saying among colporteurs; and so we never give, except in cases of real poverty. If they only pay a few pence for the book it will ensure its not being readily delivered up to the priest for the next bonfire of Bibles. This, however, does not apply to Gospels, which are very largely given away and attract less enmity.
I was about to turn away is disappointment when, through the half-open door, I caught sight of a dark, unwholesome-looking mass, hanging up near the rafters. It was the usual smoked pork fat for culinary purposes.
“Stay!” I exclaimed. “Give me half a kilo of that fat and I’ll leave you this wonderful book.”
With an ill-looking expression on her face the woman picked up a knife, cut off a piece of the greasy stuff, wrapped it up in a banana leaf, and in a very hesitating way received the book in exchange. I rode on quite content with the transaction, and not till some time after did I hear what followed.
In great disgust the woman flung the book in a corner. Shortly after her husband returned, and all at once related how that impertinent Protestante had compelled her to buy one of those accursed books, and had walked off with half a kilo of her pig’s fat.
“There’s the book!” she exclaimed; “have a look at it, and then throw it in the fire — the safest place;” and went out of the room.
Very gingerly the man picked up the book. When he ventured to open it, a verse in the Epistle to the caught and held his attention. When his wife returned, nearly an hour later, she was surprised and, alarmed to find her husband immersed in the book, and she endeavored to get it away from him.
“No, wife,” he cried; “you don’t burn this book. Why, it is just the kind of book I have long desired to possess. Just listen to this.” And he read her a passage. There was something in what he read that appealed to her, too; so down she sat, and they turned to the first page and began to read through the book.
In the course of a few weeks they had read that Testament through several times, and one day I received a note from the man, whose name was Bellarmino, asking me to pay them a visit, As I rode out a few days later I reflected on some of the difficulties that awaited me. I remembered the saints and superstitious relics I had noticed on the walls, and I recalled the big rum still in the backyard. It will be difficult work, thought I, to make quite clear to them that these things must go — especially the latter, an expensive article which he could not conscientiously sell or give away.
On my arrival I was received with smiles by Farmer Bellarmino and his wife. The first thing I noted with surprise was that the objectionable saints had gone, and they told me that they had destroyed the lot — images, crucifixes, and all. The rum still and the rolls of tobacco had gone too.
Most astonishing, thought I; where can they have learned all this?
Then we had a long talk together about the Gospel, and the most attentive and appreciative listener was the wife.
How wonderfully they understood the Divine plan of Salvation! There seemed little I needed to explain which they had not already discovered from that New Testament.
Then I suggested prayer, and the wife was the first to kneel and to pray (with a little assistance), the husband and one of the children following her example.
Here was a transformed family, a transformed farm, and, by their example and effort since, a transformed district, through the power of the Word of God — the Living Word which “endureth Forever.”