by Evelyn Waugh
Apart from the two churches, the most prominent building was a tall, square house of stone, with a thatched roof and a single row of windows set high up under the eaves; it was here that we were led. A small crowd had collected round the door, which was covered with a double curtain of heavy sackcloth. The windows also were heavily screened, so that we stepped from the brilliant sunshine into a gloom which was at first completely baffling. One of the priests raised the door-curtain a little to show us our way. A single lofty room constituted the entire house; the walls were of undisguised stone and rubble, no ceiling covered the rafters and thatch. Preparations had clearly been made for us; carpets had been spread on the earthen floor, and in the centre stood two low stools covered with rugs; twelve priests stood ranged against the wall, the head of the monastery in their centre; between them and our seats stood a table covered with a shawl; the only other furniture was a cupboard in the far corner, roughly built of irregularly-stained white wood, the doors secured with a staple and padlock. We sat down and our chauffeur-interpreter stood beside us jauntily twirling his cap. When we were settled, the head of the monastery, who apparently also bore the title of abuna, brought our letter of introduction out of his pocket and, for the first time, opened it. He read it first to himself and then aloud to the company, who scratched their beards, nodded, and grunted. Then he addressed us, asking us what we wanted. Professor W. explained that we had heard from afar of the sanctity of the place and the wisdom and piety of the monks, and that we had come to do reverence at their shrine, pay our duty and respects to them, and take away some account of the glories of the monastery of which all the world stood in awe. This pretty speech was condensed by our chauffeur into three or four harsh vocables, and greeted with further nods and grunts from the assembly.
One of them then asked whether we were Mohammedans. It seemed sad that this question was necessary after all Professor W.’s protestations. We assured him that we were not. Another asked where we had come from. Addis Ababa? They asked about the coronation, and Professor W. began a graphic outline of the liturgical significance of the ceremony. I do not think, however, that our chauffeur was at very great pains to translate this faithfully. The response, anyway, was a general outburst of chuckling, and from then onwards, for about ten minutes, he took the burden of conversation from our shoulders and speedily established relations of the utmost geniality. Presently he began shaking hands with them all and explained that they would like us to do the same, a social duty which Professor W. decorated with many graceful genuflexions and reverences.
The professor then asked whether we might visit the library of which the world stood in awe. Why, certainly; there it was in the corner. The abuna produced a small key from his pocket and directed one of the priests to open the cupboard. They brought out five or six bundles wrapped in silk shawls, and, placing them with great care on the table, drew back the door-curtain to admit a shaft of white light. The abuna lifted the corners of the shawl on the topmost bundle and revealed two pieces of board clumsily hinged together in the form of a diptych. Professor W. kissed them eagerly; they were then opened, revealing two coloured lithographs, apparently cut from a religious almanac printed in Germany some time towards the end of the last century, representing the Crucifixion and the Assumption, pasted on to the inner surfaces of the wood. The professor was clearly a little taken aback. ‘Dear, dear, how remarkably ugly they are,’ he remarked as he bent down to kiss them.
The other bundles contained manuscripts of the Gospels, lives of the saints, and missals, written in Ghiz and brightly illuminated. The painting was of the same kind as the frescoes, reduced to miniature. Sometimes faces and figures had been cut out of prints and stuck into the page with a discomposing effect on their highly stylized surroundings. They told us with great pride that the artist had been employed at Addis Ababa on some work for the late Empress. Professor W. asked whether there were not some older manuscripts we might see, but they affected not to understand. No doubt there were still reserves hidden from us.
It was then suggested that we should visit the sacred spring. Professor W. and I set out with a guide up the hillside. It was a stiff climb; the sun was still strong and the stones all radiated a fierce heat. ‘I think, perhaps, we ought to take off our hats,’ said the professor; ‘we are on very holy ground.’
I removed my topee and exposed myself to sunstroke, trusting in divine protection; but, just as he spoke, it so happened that our guide stopped on the path and accommodated himself in a way which made me think that his reverence for the spot was far from fanatical.
On our way we passed a place where overhanging cliffs formed a shallow cave. Water oozed and dripped all round, and the path was soft and slippery. It is here that the bodies of the faithful are brought; they lay all about, some in packing cases, others in hollow tree-trunks, battened down with planks, piled and tumbled on top of each other without order; many were partly submerged in falls of damp earth, a few of these rough coffins had broken apart, revealing their contents. There were similar heaps, we were told, on other parts of the hillside.
We had a fine view of the valley; our guide pointed out a group of buildings on the far side. ‘That is the convent for the women,’ he explained. ‘You see it is quite untrue that we live together. The houses are entirely separate. We do not cross the valley to them, and they do not cross to us. Never. It is all a lie.’ He wanted to make this point quite clear.
At last we reached the spring, which fell in a pretty cascade to join the river far below at the bottom of the valley. Most of the water, however, had been tapped, and was conveyed in two iron pipes to bathing-places near the monastery. We climbed down again to see them. One, built especially for Menelik, was a little brick house with a corrugated iron roof. The old Empress had frequently come here, and since her death it had not been used. We peered through the window and saw a plain kitchen-chair. There was a rusty spout in the ceiling from which a trickle of water fell on the brick floor and drained away through the waste-pipe in one corner. The other bath was for public use. The pipe was fitted with a double spout, directing two streams of water on to either side of a brick wall. One side was for men and the other for women, and a three-sided screen was built round each. The floor was made of cement. A boy was in there at the time of our visit, swilling himself down with as much puffing and spluttering as if he were under any purely secular shower-bath.
As we turned back, our Armenian and a monk met us with a message from the abuna – should they kill a goat, a sheep, or a calf for our dinner? We explained that we had full provision for our food. All we required was shelter for the night and water to wash in. The Armenian explained that it was usual to accept something. We suggested some eggs, but were told that they had none. They urged a goat very strongly. Meat is a rare luxury in the monastery, and they were, no doubt, eager to take the opportunity of our visit for a feast. The professor’s vegetarian scruples, however, were unconquerable. At last they suggested honey, which he accepted readily. The question of our accommodation was then discussed. There was a hut or a tent. The Armenian warned us that if we slept in the hut we should certainly contract some repulsive disease, and if in the tent, we might be killed by hyenas. He had already made up his own mind, he said, to sleep in the car. We returned to the monastery, and the abuna led us in person to see the hut. It was some time before the key could be found; when the door was at last wrenched open, an emaciated she-goat ran out. The interior was windowless and foetid. It appeared to have been used as a kind of lumber-room; heaps of old rags and broken furniture encumbered the floor. A swarm of bees buzzed in the roof. It was not quite ready, the abuna explained; he had not expected guests. It could, of course, be prepared, or would we think it inhospitable if he offered us the tent? We declared that the tent would be wholly satisfactory, and so, with evident relief, the abuna gave instructions for its erection. It was now nearly sunset. A spot of ground was chosen near the house where we had been received, and a very decent bell-
tent pitched. (It was the property of the old Empress, we learned. She had often slept there on her visits to the spring.) The floor was covered with hay and the hay with rugs. A little boat-shaped oil-lamp was hung from the tent-pole; our rugs, provisions, and bottles were brought in and laid on one side. We were then invited to enter. We sat down cross-legged and the abuna sat beside us. He looked enormous in the tiny light; the shadow from his great turban seemed to fill the whole tent. The chauffeur squatted opposite us. The abuna smiled with the greatest geniality and expressed his best wishes for our comfort; we thanked him heartily. Conversation lapsed and we all three sat smiling rather vacantly. Presently the flap was lifted and a monk came in wearing a heavy brown burnous and carrying an antiquated rifle. He bowed to us and retired. He was a guard, the abuna explained, who would sleep outside across our door. Another smiling pause. At last supper arrived; first a basket containing half-a-dozen great rounds of native bread, a tough, clammy substance closely resembling crêpe rubber in appearance; then two earthenware jugs, one of water, the other of talla – a kind of thin, bitter beer, then two horns of honey, but not of honey as it is understood at Thame; this was the product of wild bees, scraped straight from the tree; it was a greyish colour, full of bits of stick and mud, bird dung, dead bees, and grubs. Everything was first carried to the abuna for his approval, then to us. We expressed our delight with nods and more extravagant smiles. The food was laid before us and the bearers retired. At this moment the Armenian shamelessly deserted us, saying that he must go and see after his boy.
The three of us were left alone, smiling over our food in the half darkness.
In the corner lay our hamper packed with Irene’s European delicacies. We clearly could not approach them until our host left us. Gradually the frightful truth became evident that he was proposing to dine with us. I tore off a little rag of bread and attempted to eat it. ‘This is a very difficult situation,’ said the professor; ‘I think, perhaps, it would be well to simulate ill-health,’ and, holding his hands to his forehead, he began to rock gently from side to side, emitting painfully subdued moans. It was admirably done; the abuna watched him with the greatest concern; presently the professor held his stomach and retched a little; then he lay on his back, breathing heavily with closed eyes; then he sat up on his elbow and explained in eloquent dumb show that he wished to rest. The abuna understood perfectly, and, with every gesture of sympathy, rose to his feet and left us.
In five minutes, when I had opened a tinned grouse and a bottle of lager and the professor was happily mumbling a handful of ripe olives, the Armenian returned. With a comprehensive wink, he picked up the jug of native beer, threw back his head, and, without pausing to breathe, drank a quart or two. He then spread out two rounds of bread, emptied a large quantity of honey into each of them, wrapped them together, and put them in his pocket. ‘Moi, je puis manger comme abyssin,’ he remarked cheerfully, winked at the grouse, wished us good night, and left us.
‘Now at last,’ said the Professor, producing a tin of Keating’s powder, ‘I feel in the heart of Ethiopia.’ He sprinkled the rugs and blankets, wrapped his head in a pale grey scarf, and prepared to settle down for the night. We had had a tiring day, and after smoking a pipe I decided to follow his example. The lamp was flickering and smoking badly and threatened at any moment to burn through its own string and set us on fire. I blew it out, and was just becoming drowsy when the abuna returned, carrying a lantern, to see whether the professor felt any better. We all smiled inarticulately for some time, and the professor pointed to the half-empty beer-jug and the horns of honey as proof of his recovery. The abuna noted them with evident satisfaction, and then his eye, travelling round the tent, was attracted by the Keating’s powder which lay like thick dust over the floor and bedding. He called in the guard and rather crossly pointed out this evidence of neglect. The man hastily produced a broom and brushed out the tent. Then, when everything was again in order, and after many bows, smiles, and blessings, he left us to sleep.
But I, at any rate, slept very little. It was a deadly cold night and a bitter wind sprang up, sweeping the valley and driving under the tent and through our thin blankets, while outside the door the guard coughed and grunted. I was out before dawn and watched the monastery waking into life. There seemed very little order. The monks emerged from the huts in ones and twos and pottered off to work in the fields and woods. A certain number of them went down to the church, where the professor and I followed them. They sat about outside until a priest appeared with the keys; then a service began, apparently quite at haphazard. Two or three would start intoning some kind of psalm or litany, and others seemed to join in as they thought fit; two or three were reading aloud from large manuscripts supported on folding rests; others leant on their praying-sticks or squatted in corners muttering. Now and then one would stop on his way to work, kiss the door on the inner wall, and pass on. The frescoes of the inner sanctuary were hung with green curtains; one of the priests pointed to them and explained in dumb show that they would be drawn for our inspection later in the day.
We returned to our tent for breakfast. Beer and anchovies seemed rather discouraging after our chilly night, but there was no alternative except tinned loganberries and foie gras. The guard came in, finished the beer, and ate some bread and honey. He showed great interest in our belongings, fingering everything in turn – the tin-opener, electric torch, a pocket-knife, a pair of hairbrushes. I let him play with the sword-stick I happened to have brought with me; he in exchange showed me his rifle and bandolier. About half the cartridges were empty shells; the weapon was in very poor condition. It could not possibly have been used with any accuracy, and probably not with safety. I asked whether he had ever killed anything with it; he shook his head, and produced a large, rather blunt dagger, which he stabbed into the earth.
Presently the chauffeur came to assure us that he had spent a very comfortable night and felt fairly confident that he would be able to extricate the car from its position on the path, where it blocked all approach to the monastery and was causing a good deal of trouble to the herdsmen in charge of the community’s cattle. We told him to remain at hand to act as interpreter, and soon a priest came to conduct us to the churches. There were two of these; the main building, where we had already been, and a small shrine, containing a cross which had fallen from heaven. The professor thought this might be a piece of the true cross brought there from Alexandria after the Arab invasion, and displayed great veneration; we were not allowed to see it, but as a special concession we were shown the shawl in which it was wrapped.
In the main church we paid a fee of seven dollars to have the frescoes unveiled. They had lately been repainted in brilliant colours and the priest was justly proud of the renovation. On one wall were portraits of Ras Kassa, Menelik, and the late Empress. It was clear that these heads had been copied from photographs, with the curious result that they stood out solidly, in carefully articulated light and shade and great fidelity of detail, against a composition of purely conventional pre-Renaissance design. Another wall was filled with rider saints. The professor made a plan of it and took down their names. We were then shown some brass processional crosses and some illuminated missals, none of any great antiquity. It was, in fact, a curious feature of Debra Lebanos that, although the community had been the centre of Abyssinian spiritual life since the conversion of the country, and had been settled on this spot for several centuries, they seem to have preserved no single object from the past. It may be that their treasures have all been pillaged in the continual invasions and disorders of Abyssinian history, or that they have been sold from time to time in moments of financial need, or perhaps simply that they did not choose to show them to strangers.
One thing, however, we did see of the greatest interest. That was the sanctuary. We might not, of course, enter it, but the priest drew back the curtain for us and allowed a short glimpse of the dark interior. In the centre stood the tabor, which is both altar-stone and tabern
acle, a wooden cupboard built like a miniature church in three tiers, square at the base, from which rose an octagonal story surmounted by a circular dome. Round the tabor, in deep dust – for the sanctuary is rarely, if ever, swept out – lay an astonishing confusion of litter. There was not time to take in everything but, in the brief inspection, I noticed a wicker chair, some heaps of clothes, two or three umbrellas, a suitcase of imitation leather, some newspapers, and a teapot and slop-pail of enamelled tin.
It was about ten o’clock when we left the church; there was a Mass at one o’clock, which we were both anxious to attend, which would not be over until half past two or three. We were thus undecided about our movements. We might spend another night there and start back early next day for Addis Ababa; we might go and see Fiche, Kassa’s capital fifteen miles away, and spend a night in the car there, or we might start immediately after Mass and try to get to Addis that night. The chauffeur favoured the last plan and was hopeful of his ability, now that he knew the way, of doing the journey in five or six hours. We had not provisions to last us in any comfort for two days, and I was reluctant to fall back on Abyssinian food. Together we persuaded the professor to attempt the journey; if the worst came to the worst we could spend the night on the plain; a prospect to which the chauffeur added romance with gloomy stories of wild beasts and brigands. As the sun mounted, it became intensely hot. We lay in the tent smoking and dozing until the abuna came to conduct us to Mass.
I will not attempt any description of the ritual; the liturgy was quite unintelligible to me, and, oddly enough, to the professor also. No doubt the canon of the Mass would have been in part familiar, but this was said in the sanctuary behind closed doors. We stood in the outer ambulatory. A carpet was placed for us to stand on and we were given praying-sticks, with the aid of which we stood throughout the two hours of service. There were twenty or thirty monks round us and some women and babies from the tukals. Communion was administered to the babies, but to no one else. Many of the monks were crippled or deformed in some way; presumably they were pilgrims who had originally come to the spring in the hope of a cure, and had become absorbed into the life of the place. There seemed to be very little system of testing vocations in the community. The priests and deacons wore long, white-and-gold cloaks and turbans, and had bare feet. Now and then they emerged from the sanctuary, and once they walked round in procession. The singing was monotonous and more or less continuous, accompanied by a drum and sistrums. For anyone accustomed to the western rite it was difficult to think of this as a Christian service, for it bore that secret and confused character associated with the non-Christian sects of the East.
