THE FESTIVAL OF THE ‘HASANEYN’ AND THE STORY OF THE PRINCESS ZOHRA

THE promise I had made to my acquaintances in the Khan Khalil, to come again, was soon fulfilled. This great bazaar attracts me most when the season in the modern quarters of Cairo is over or not begun. I have painted so many of its shops and corners, that I and my faithful servant must be as familiar to the stall-holders as they are to us.

An opportunity occurred to see it by night, for, except on the great festival of the ‘Hasaneyn,’ the gates of the Khan are closed before the evening prayer.

The mosque of Hoseyn stands opposite the east entrance, and it is the one most used by the shopkeepers of these bazaars.

It is a spacious building, but of little interest from an architectural point of view. Its great popularity is one cause of this, for money could always be found to restore it, and unhappily a great wave of enthusiasm for the shrine of the martyred sons of Ali obtained during a late period of debased Saracenic architecture, during which the mosque was almost entirely rebuilt.

Before the Napoleonic invasion of Egypt no Christian or Jew dared pass down the street in which it stands, and even at the present day, when foreigners32 may visit the other mosques of Cairo, while the services are not being held, the actual shrine where the head of Hoseyn lies may only be entered by the faithful.

On the night in question it was possible to see as much as I wanted, as the doors stood wide open, and the interior was lighted with thousands of lamps. The whole street was roofed over with particoloured tent-cloth, which caught the light of the torches of the dervishes who filed in at the central doorway.

The noise of the cymbals, drums, and hautboys of the musicians mingled with the babel of voices which came from the mosque. Many inside were performing the zikr, and others were marching round and reciting the Fáthah, or a form of blessing on the prophet.

Every house was profusely decorated with flags, lamps, and festoons of coloured glass globes. The cafés were overflowing with customers, and high benches on the pavements outside were all occupied with listeners to the professional story-tellers who related the deeds of Hasan and Hoseyn.

It seemed strange to hear the names of these two brothers from the lips of so many orthodox Moslems, for at a previous festival in their honour, which I witnessed, only such as were under police protection dared shout ‘Hasan, Hoseyn.’ It was when the heretic Sheeas, mostly Persians, paraded the streets of Cairo—a gruesome sight it was—but at present we will confine ourselves to the doings of the orthodox Sunnees, to which sect the bulk of the Egyptians belong.
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THE KHAN KHALIL, CAIRO
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33 ‘Though those dogs of Sheeas,’ an Egyptian will tell you, ‘almost make gods of Hoseyn and also of his father Ali, is that a reason why we should fail to honour his birthday? Was he not, after all, a grandson of the Prophet?’ It is fortunate, however, that both sects do not keep the festival on the same day, or it would be more than the police could do to prevent them coming to blows.

How different the Khan looked, lighted up as it then was by hundreds of lamps in and around the shops! In places brilliantly coloured tent-cloths stretched across the lanes, and on every mastaba the store-keeper was entertaining his friends. The dark intervals were the shops kept by Christians or Jews, which were carefully shuttered up for the night.

The silk merchant, Mustapha, and his opposite neighbour Seleem were both here, and I was not sorry to accept the former’s kindly invitation to sit down. Being unused to smoking the nargeeleh or the almost obsolete shibook which were offered me, he procured some cigarettes and clapped his hands to summon the boy from the coffee-stall. He regretted that the mooled of the Hasaneyn was not now as in former days, when hardly a shop in the whole Khan was not lighted up like as his and Seleem’s. ‘Jews, Nazarenes, Parsees, and what not else, were invading the stalls held by the faithful,’ he said, pointing to the shutters of those unenlightened people.

‘Allahu! Allahu!’ from the street outside was clearly heard during the pauses in the conversation.

‘Was it possible now for a Nazarene to enter the mosque and see the tomb where Hoseyn’s head lay buried?’ I asked, and also showed him the ticket I34 had, allowing me to paint in the mosques of Cairo. He read the instructions, and pointed out a line which made an exception for that particular shrine as well as for two others. The talk then drifted to an instance when one of my countrymen, disguised as a Moslem, was accidentally discovered near the tomb while the mooled was being held; of how he was nearly killed by the infuriated mob and saved by the intervention of the princess Zohra.

The story is so full of dramatic interest that, instead of giving the garbled versions which obtain in the bazaars, I will try to tell it as Max Eyth tells it in ‘Hinter Pflug und Schraubstock.’ Eyth was in Egypt during the lifetime of the princess and heard all the details from a former member of her household.

Zohra was the youngest living daughter of Mohammed Ali, Egypt’s first viceroy. She was the idol of her father and partook of his character more than did any of her numerous brothers and sisters. Her childhood was spent in the same hareem as that of her nephew Abbas, who was the same age as herself. Self-willed children as they both were, quarrels were of frequent occurrence. When Abbas would taunt her that she was only a little girl, she would remind him that she was the great Ali’s daughter, whereas he was only the son of her brother Tuss?n. Words ending in blows one day, Abbas was packed off to a school and a governess was found for the young princess.

Wishing to have her taught both English and French, they engaged the services of a young Irish35 lady, a Miss O’Donald, who had been brought up in Paris and spoke French as well as her own language.

Western ladies had hitherto been little seen in Egyptian hareems; the Mohammedan ladies disapproved of the greater liberty enjoyed by the newcomer and soon grew jealous of the great influence the governess held over her pupil.

As Zohra grew older, Miss O’Donald became more of a companion than a teacher, and she remained in the viceroy’s service for eight years. Abbas had in the meantime left his school and had a hareem of his own in his grandfather’s palace. He never forgave Zohra for having been the cause of his banishment, and awaited his time to wreak his vengeance.

Mohammed Ali had not yet found a husband for his daughter; he aspired to marrying her to a Sultan or to a son of the Khalif himself. It therefore happened that at the age of sixteen Zohra still remained single.

It was at a festival of the Hasaneyn that she met her fate. Accompanied by Miss O’Donald and two of the eunuchs, she went to visit the tomb of Hoseyn, for women at all times, says the narrator, are more attracted to the shrines of heroes than to even that of the Prophet himself. The mosque was so crowded with people that the dervishes could hardly find room in which to perform the zikr.

The eunuchs managed to force a way through the crowd so as to allow the princess to approach the tomb, and while she was saying her prayers at the shrine of the hero, she was disturbed by an uproar which arose not far off. Shouts of ‘a Christian’ resounded through36 the building. Sticks were raised and knives unsheathed by an infuriated mob, who surrounded a tall, fair-haired man who, with his back to the wall, was hitting out right and left to keep his assailants at bay. His turban had fallen off, and his fair and unshaven head showed only too clearly that he was not a Moslem.

‘It’s my brother,’ called out the governess, and appealed to those near her to go to his rescue. Zohra, who had now reached her side, first saw the blood-stained and handsome face of the young Irishman, and uttering a piercing scream, she ordered the assailants to desist. Seeing from her attendants that she belonged to the viceregal household, there was a slight pause, and those near her made way for her to reach the one they had been attacking. She took the young man by the hand and led him, through the murmuring crowd, into the street.

As they disappeared, loud cries of ‘Allahu! Allahu!’ resounded throughout the mosque. The princess threw her arms in the air and victoriously repeated the cry: ‘Allahu! Allahu!’—Such was their first meeting.

Two young mamelukes of the household of Abbas also happened to have witnessed the scene, and repeated every detail of it to their master. The narrator goes on to say that ‘Abbas was silent, like a serpent who coils itself in readiness for a spring.’

Spies were sent forth to find out who this man in truth might be. His name was O’Donald, and there was no doubt that he was the governess’s brother. He had first come to Egypt in 1840, when, after the siege of37 Beirut, Napier’s troops lay outside Alexandria. Fortune had then forsaken Mohammed Ali. He could not prevent his enemies from drinking Nile water as much as they pleased, and as the Arabs say: ‘He who has drunk Nile water will sooner or later return to the Nile.’

After the British troops had quitted Egypt, O’Donald resigned his commission and returned to Alexandria, where he had got a situation as manager to the overland route from that port to Suez. His sister had doubtless described his pupil to him, and had also entertained the princess with tales of his gallant deeds while serving in the army. Business matters had taken him to Cairo at the time of this festival, and his love of adventure had led to his disguising himself and entering a mosque forbidden to all save the believers.

Zohra, whose affections had so far been disengaged, was all too ready to fall in love with this handsome Irishman, whose praises she had so often heard from the lips of his sister. Beholding him for the first time bravely repelling the attack of the infuriated mob, he personified in her imagination the heroism of those who first spread the Mohammedan faith. To use the words of the narrator: ‘She was taken as in a whirlwind. Love consumed her as a fire. She wept through the whole of that hot night. She implored one of her sisters to help her to meet her lover, and on her refusal she bit her in the cheek.’

Miss O’Donald was alarmed at the state of her pupil and also for the safety of her brother. She wrote and warned him to keep away from Cairo, and if possible38 to get away from Egypt. Unfortunately the eyes of the young princess confirmed the glowing descriptions of her beauty which his sister had given, and the young Irishman seems to have been consumed with the same fire as that of his lady-love. Instead of keeping away from Cairo, he contrived to get his company to give him a post in that city.

On the third night of Bairam, when rich and poor, old and young, repair to the cemeteries to pray at the graves of their belongings, the young lovers seized on this opportunity to see each other once more. Zohra went with the women of her hareem to that great wilderness of tombs on the south-eastern outskirts of the city. She was not slow in recognising her lover in the apparently devout Moslem who came to pray at the tomb where she sat. The wailing of the women and the howling of the dervishes, performing the zikr, were a sufficient noise to prevent the words the two interchanged from being heard by Zohra’s attendants, and before they parted a future means of meeting had been arranged.

‘I believe,’ goes on the story-teller, ‘that she loved him as the heroes of our faith in the olden times loved the beautiful women whom Allah had given them as a foretaste of Paradise. He also must have loved her as one bereft of his senses, for he must have known that he moved amidst naked daggers or even worse.’

On the night previous to the ‘Yóm Gebr el-Bahr,’ which signifies ‘the Breaking of the River’ (and when the dam is cut to enable the Nile to replenish the canal which used to flow through Cairo), great festivities take39 place. Tents are erected on each bank of the canal and also on the edge of the island of Rodah, which faces the canal’s entrance. The river is crowded with boats lit up with numerous lanterns; fireworks are let off and guns are fired; yet they fail to drown the noise of the musical instruments and the eternal refrain of the singers. Cairo makes a night of it.

From the farther side of the island of Rodah our princess stepped on to her dahabieh which was moored at the river edge of the palace gardens. She was accompanied by the hareem, and she gave orders to let the barge drift down the river and to drop the anchor where the crowd of boats was not so great.

The ladies of the hareem, including Miss O’Donald, remained on the deck, from whence they obtained a good view of the fireworks and of the festivities taking place on the Nile. Zohra retired to her cabin, and might by the light of her candle have been seen by many of the folks outside, were these not too much occupied in merry-making. The candle was moved to and fro for a few seconds and then extinguished.

From the shadow of a clump of trees overhanging the edge of the river an English-built skiff issued into the main stream, then shot along the side of the dahabieh and came to a standstill. The lovers had met once again.

Skilfully as this had been managed, it had not been unobserved by Miss O’Donald, who, in a fever of anxiety, paced up and down the deck. The skiff could be seen by the lights of some boats which had drifted that far down the stream. The governess also40 suspected that Abbas had spies amongst the women of the hareem; but she dared not breathe a word of warning to her brother below for fear of attracting attention.

Not only had he been seen, but from a neighbouring cabin an assignation had been overheard and in due time reported to Abbas. They were to meet the following night in the garden of the palace at Rodah. Zohra felt sure of the silence of the eunuchs and also of her female attendants; she had not, however, bribed some of the crew as highly as Abbas had done.

O’Donald, the next night, fastened his boat under the trees which project over the garden wall and picked his way along the edge of the river to the steps at the Nile entrance. He found the gates unlocked, and walked in. Instead of his lady-love four armed mamelukes issued from the shrubbery and rushed to attack him. The Irishman dropped two with his revolver, and the other two turned and bolted.

Abbas was awaiting events at the garden door of the hareem, which he had locked from outside. When he heard the firing and the howls of his mamelukes, he felt sure that events had not turned out quite as he had intended. Miserable creature as he was, Abbas was no coward, and his agents having failed him, he rushed down himself to attack the enemy.

A kick on his shin sent him sprawling into a flower-bed, and O’Donald made off to his skiff. He had, however, recognised whom it was that he had knocked over. But before he could take safety in flight he felt bound to send a warning to Zohra and also to get his sister away.

41 The story-teller goes on to say: ‘In such moments one’s reasoning becomes confused. Allah alone can help one. But why should Allah stretch forth a helping hand to the unbeliever whose audacious conduct well merited punishment?’

A French Jewess, known as Madame Ricochette, resided in Cairo at that time. She used to visit all the principal hareems to trade in Paris jewellery and bonbons. O’Donald went to see her early on the following morning, and with promises and flattery induced her to take a note to the princess and to bring back an answer. He was to meet Zohra in the garden for the last time, his sister was to come away with him in his boat, and they were to leave Cairo at once.

They never saw each other alive again. He was shot on the threshold of the hareem in Zohra’s garden. Abbas had intercepted the letters and had apprised Mohammed Ali of the affair. Six Arnauts—good, dependable shots—were sent and were placed behind some bushes which the ill-fated man would pass on the way to his love. Six bullets ended his earthly career.

Abbas was a clever organiser. A mule was kept in readiness to carry the body away, and two of the Arnauts placed it on the beast while the others remained with the prince. The hareem door was thrown open and, as Zohra approached, Abbas laughingly welcomed her to her lover.

‘Such women,’ goes on the narrator, ‘do not go off in a faint, as do yours in the West. She flew, as one possessed, to the corpse of her beloved, and steeped42 her hands in his blood. She had to be dragged away and carried back to the hareem. When she had recovered from her stupefaction, she ordered two servants to see Miss O’Donald off to Alexandria, where friends would see her safely on board the first home-going steamer; the princess also provided her handsomely with the means to get back to her country.’

Worse is still to follow. The devil in Abbas had become more potent than ever. He had the body of the Irishman taken to Shubra and buried in an outlying field—upright, with the head below and the feet sticking out of the ground. Then spoke Abbas: ‘Allah, do thou with him as thou wilt; but the dogs shall devour the feet which kicked me.’

The field was guarded during a week; no one dared enter by day, and at night the jackals and dogs did their work. There in that field, to this day, stands with head downwards a footless corpse!

The O’Donalds, we are told, had no influential relations to get this matter investigated, and the English company to which O’Donald belonged knew more than enough to keep them silent. The young Irishman had placed his life in the balance with his love and had lost.

‘Alláhu! Alláhu! Alláh, láh, láh, láh,’ came the ever-increasing cries from the mosque outside the Khan. The dervishes were working themselves up into a state of frenzy; and had my permit to work in the mosques not made an exception of the Hasaneyn, it would have taken a bolder man than myself to have entered then. I bade my kindly host good night and found my way back to the European quarter.