Volume Two—Chapter Five.

Termination of Winter.

In due process of time, spite of the denunciations of the fanatic priesthood, the silver and beef of the foreigners attracted the denizens of the adjacent villages, and we acquired a respectable retinue, such as an Abyssinian deems indispensable on all excursions abroad. A house better adequate to our wants had been purchased, and the bargain duly concluded according to the custom of the country by an oath on the life of the despot; but this was shortly annulled through the officious interference of the governor of the town, and it was not until the eleventh hour, when rain had begun to abate, that the Master of the Horse was prevailed upon to rent his newly-erected domicile. A fat ox having been slaughtered to drive out the Devil, it was handed over to the domestics, and wading through the blood which flowed over the threshold, we entered upon the premises in due form, and having hoisted the union Jack over the new Residency, we quaffed with the burly landlord several horns of old hydromel for good luck. “Have you a better house than this in your country?” he inquired exultingly: “I rather suspect not.”

Ayto Melkoo, the Baldarás, or King’s Master of the Horse, has under his charge the royal stud, saddles, and accoutrements, as also the workers in leather—is equerry in waiting, and conservator of pastures and meadows pertaining to the crown. He is moreover the greatest gourmand in the kingdom, and condescending to honour the denounced Christians with his company at the house-warming, did ample justice to the novel viands that were placed before him. He even submitted to the innovation of a silver fork, and politely partook of a salad, notwithstanding his firm conviction that the undressed vegetable would cause a return of ailments to which he had been a martyr in youth. The circulation of water for the ablution of fingers caused no little diversion on the removal of the cloth; but the marasquino which followed was unhesitatingly pronounced to be a nectar fit for princes alone. “Were but the Negoos aware with what good things the board of you English is spread,” he exclaimed, smacking his lips after the last glass, “His Majesty would come and dine with you as often as you chose to invite him.”

“But let me give you a lesson in politeness,” added the old man, when, in reply to his abrupt intimation of intended departure, he was wished a “safe entrance to his house,” in accordance with Abyssinian etiquette—“You should have said ‘stay.’” “Such is not the fashion of the countries across the water,” was Graham’s reply: “every man is permitted to withdraw as he lists, and be happy in his own way.”

“Ay, ay,” returned the guest; “but then if you had pressed me to tarry, I would at all events have stopped with you until the moon rose. Do you see?”

The fast of the Assumption having meanwhile terminated, the king announced his intention of removing to Angollála, his favourite place of residence; and thither, in defiance of excessively heavy rain, he set out on the day appointed by the household priests. “My children,” said His Majesty at parting, “ye have travelled far on my account, and have no kinsman saving myself. My people are bad people, and I am sorry thereat. They bring me daily all manner of reports regarding yourselves and your evil intentions. The rumours have doubtless reached your ears, but ye must not suppose that Sáhela Selássie believes one of them. Ye are my friends, and I will deal with you accordingly. I will that ye come shortly to Debra Berhán and witness the great annual review at the feast of Máskal. Ayto Wolda Hana shall conduct you.”

But the important functionary thus selected was of all others arrayed in the most open hostility, and, unlike the majority of his avaricious colleagues, his enmity had been proof against overtures and advances. “I am a lone man,” he invariably replied, “and have neither wife nor child. Grey hairs have come out on me. I am the son of sixty years. I want nothing in this world but the favour of the king.” To judge from appearances, the pinnacle of his loyal ambition had already been attained. Governor of Ankóber, and president of the mádi beit, or kitchen, wherein are prepared hydromel, pepper soup, and sour beer—comptroller of all the royal porters and of the household slaves, who are the hewers of wood and the carriers of water, who grind, bake, express oil, and manufacture candles—receiver-general into the imperial magazines of all tribute in cotton, grain, thread, sheep, and poultry—and charged with the superintendence, the erection, and the repair of all public buildings throughout the realm, as well as with the arrangement of the interior economy of the capital—Ayto Wolda Hana can have little left to desire; and so conscientiously does he acquit himself of these manifold onerous duties, that it is affirmed his royal master could scarcely exist without him.

A visible diminution in the male population of Ankóber follows the departure of the monarch to either of his more distant places of residence. During his absence the administration of affairs devolves chiefly upon Ayto Kidána Wold, who may be termed the viceroy. In charge of the secret police and magisterial department, he adjusts all private differences, watches over the public safety, and besides ministering daily to the wants of all consigned to him, gives annually three great entertainments at the expense of the crown. He has been honoured with the hand of Wo?zoro Askuala Work, sister to the queen-dowager, and as the receipt of the promised invitation to Debra Berhán required an intimation of intended departure, it afforded me a long sought opportunity of making the acquaintance of this stately dame. Seated in the utmost of Abyssinian pomp, and surrounded by a goodly train of slaves, pages, and handmaidens, she received us with the greatest affability, and in the temporary absence of her lord, expressed the highest gratification at the attention of our visit, although unable to accept the presents that I offered, from an apprehension of the royal displeasure.

But conversation during a morning call is here little more than a string of the most earnest and pathetic inquiries respecting one’s own health, and that of one’s wife, relatives, and children. Even two old crones, who are obviously tottering on the very brink of the grave, and who are afflicted with every pain and with every sorrow entailed by the fall of our first parents, never meet in the street without indulging in a string of good wishes which are reiterated so long as their breath will permit. “How are you? How do ye do? How have you passed your time? Are you well? Are you very well? Are you quite well? Are you perfectly well? Are you not well?”—are questions which serve as the prelude to a thousand other interrogatories; and at each response the Deity must be invoked as to the unadulterated happiness and perfect felicity that has been unremittingly experienced since the last meeting.

Should the encounter take place twenty or even a hundred times during one and the same day, a repetition of the ceremony is enforced, and for each progressive stage of morning, noon, evening, and night, there exists a distinct set of phrases, which, from the never-ending repetition, are grating and wearisome. Passengers stand in the lane, denude their shoulders, and roar out salutations intended for the inmates of huts some hundred yards from the hedge. The slumberer is started from sleep by the dinning “How do ye do?” from some gentleman passing ere the day has dawned to his country residence; and from morning until even-tide, one’s ears are assailed by a most harassing tissue of polite inquiries from every individual of whatever rank, who may think proper to pass himself off as an acquaintance.