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
foreigners 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.
[Illustration: THE KHAN KHALIL, CAIRO]
‘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, Mustâpha, 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 I 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 Tussûn.
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 Irish 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 through 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
of 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 possible 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 take 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 also 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.
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 steeped 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.