Around the World in 80 Days

Chapter XII

IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG AND HIS COM­PAN­IONS VEN­TURE ACROSS THE IN­DI­AN FORESTS, AND WHAT EN­SUED

In or­der to short­en the jour­ney, the guide passed to the left of the line where the rail­way was still in pro­cess of be­ing built. This line, ow­ing to the capri­cious turn­ings of the Vin­dhia Moun­tains, did not pur­sue a straight course. The Parsee, who was quite fa­mil­iar with the roads and paths in the dis­trict, de­clared that they would gain twen­ty miles by strik­ing di­rect­ly through the for­est.

Phileas Fogg and Sir Fran­cis Cro­mar­ty, plunged to the neck in the pe­cu­liar how­dahs pro­vid­ed for them, were hor­ri­bly jos­tled by the swift trot­ting of the ele­phant, spurred on as he was by the skil­ful Parsee; but they en­dured the dis­com­fort with true British phlegm, talk­ing lit­tle, and scarce­ly able to catch a glimpse of each oth­er. As for Passep­artout, who was mount­ed on the beast's back, and re­ceived the di­rect force of each con­cus­sion as he trod along, he was very care­ful, in ac­cor­dance with his mas­ter's ad­vice, to keep his tongue from be­tween his teeth, as it would oth­er­wise have been bit­ten off short. The wor­thy fel­low bounced from the ele­phant's neck to his rump, and vault­ed like a clown on a spring-​board; yet he laughed in the midst of his bounc­ing, and from time to time took a piece of sug­ar out of his pock­et, and in­sert­ed it in Kiouni's trunk, who re­ceived it with­out in the least slack­en­ing his reg­ular trot.

Af­ter two hours the guide stopped the ele­phant, and gave him an hour for rest, dur­ing which Kiouni, af­ter quench­ing his thirst at a neigh­bour­ing spring, set to de­vour­ing the branch­es and shrubs round about him. Nei­ther Sir Fran­cis nor Mr. Fogg re­gret­ted the de­lay, and both de­scend­ed with a feel­ing of re­lief. “Why, he's made of iron!” ex­claimed the gen­er­al, gaz­ing ad­mir­ing­ly on Kiouni.

“Of forged iron,” replied Passep­artout, as he set about prepar­ing a hasty break­fast.

At noon the Parsee gave the sig­nal of de­par­ture. The coun­try soon pre­sent­ed a very sav­age as­pect. Copses of dates and dwarf-​palms suc­ceed­ed the dense forests; then vast, dry plains, dot­ted with scanty shrubs, and sown with great blocks of syen­ite. All this por­tion of Bun­del­cund, which is lit­tle fre­quent­ed by trav­ellers, is in­hab­it­ed by a fa­nat­ical pop­ula­tion, hard­ened in the most hor­ri­ble prac­tices of the Hin­doo faith. The En­glish have not been able to se­cure com­plete do­min­ion over this ter­ri­to­ry, which is sub­ject­ed to the in­flu­ence of ra­jahs, whom it is al­most im­pos­si­ble to reach in their in­ac­ces­si­ble moun­tain fast­ness­es. The trav­ellers sev­er­al times saw bands of fe­ro­cious In­di­ans, who, when they per­ceived the ele­phant strid­ing across-​coun­try, made an­gry and threat­en­ing mo­tions. The Parsee avoid­ed them as much as pos­si­ble. Few an­imals were ob­served on the route; even the mon­keys hur­ried from their path with con­tor­tions and gri­maces which con­vulsed Passep­artout with laugh­ter.

In the midst of his gai­ety, how­ev­er, one thought trou­bled the wor­thy ser­vant. What would Mr. Fogg do with the ele­phant when he got to Al­la­habad? Would he car­ry him on with him? Im­pos­si­ble! The cost of trans­port­ing him would make him ru­inous­ly ex­pen­sive. Would he sell him, or set him free? The es­timable beast cer­tain­ly de­served some con­sid­er­ation. Should Mr. Fogg choose to make him, Passep­artout, a present of Kiouni, he would be very much em­bar­rassed; and these thoughts did not cease wor­ry­ing him for a long time.

The prin­ci­pal chain of the Vin­dhias was crossed by eight in the evening, and an­oth­er halt was made on the north­ern slope, in a ru­ined bun­ga­low. They had gone near­ly twen­ty-​five miles that day, and an equal dis­tance still sep­arat­ed them from the sta­tion of Al­la­habad.

The night was cold. The Parsee lit a fire in the bun­ga­low with a few dry branch­es, and the warmth was very grate­ful, pro­vi­sions pur­chased at Khol­by suf­ficed for sup­per, and the trav­ellers ate ravenous­ly. The con­ver­sa­tion, be­gin­ning with a few dis­con­nect­ed phras­es, soon gave place to loud and steady snores. The guide watched Kiouni, who slept stand­ing, bol­ster­ing him­self against the trunk of a large tree. Noth­ing oc­curred dur­ing the night to dis­turb the slum­ber­ers, al­though oc­ca­sion­al growls front pan­thers and chat­ter­ings of mon­keys broke the si­lence; the more formidable beasts made no cries or hos­tile demon­stra­tion against the oc­cu­pants of the bun­ga­low. Sir Fran­cis slept heav­ily, like an hon­est sol­dier over­come with fa­tigue. Passep­artout was wrapped in un­easy dreams of the bounc­ing of the day be­fore. As for Mr. Fogg, he slum­bered as peace­ful­ly as if he had been in his serene man­sion in Sav­ille Row.

The jour­ney was re­sumed at six in the morn­ing; the guide hoped to reach Al­la­habad by evening. In that case, Mr. Fogg would on­ly lose a part of the forty-​eight hours saved since the be­gin­ning of the tour. Kiouni, re­sum­ing his rapid gait, soon de­scend­ed the low­er spurs of the Vin­dhias, and to­wards noon they passed by the vil­lage of Kallenger, on the Cani, one of the branch­es of the Ganges. The guide avoid­ed in­hab­it­ed places, think­ing it safer to keep the open coun­try, which lies along the first de­pres­sions of the basin of the great riv­er. Al­la­habad was now on­ly twelve miles to the north-​east. They stopped un­der a clump of ba­nanas, the fruit of which, as healthy as bread and as suc­cu­lent as cream, was am­ply par­tak­en of and ap­pre­ci­at­ed.

At two o'clock the guide en­tered a thick for­est which ex­tend­ed sev­er­al miles; he pre­ferred to trav­el un­der cov­er of the woods. They had not as yet had any un­pleas­ant en­coun­ters, and the jour­ney seemed on the point of be­ing suc­cess­ful­ly ac­com­plished, when the ele­phant, be­com­ing rest­less, sud­den­ly stopped.

It was then four o'clock.

“What's the mat­ter?” asked Sir Fran­cis, putting out his head.

“I don't know, of­fi­cer,” replied the Parsee, lis­ten­ing at­ten­tive­ly to a con­fused mur­mur which came through the thick branch­es.

The mur­mur soon be­came more dis­tinct; it now seemed like a dis­tant con­cert of hu­man voic­es ac­com­pa­nied by brass in­stru­ments. Passep­artout was all eyes and ears. Mr. Fogg pa­tient­ly wait­ed with­out a word. The Parsee jumped to the ground, fas­tened the ele­phant to a tree, and plunged in­to the thick­et. He soon re­turned, say­ing:

“A pro­ces­sion of Brah­mins is com­ing this way. We must pre­vent their see­ing us, if pos­si­ble.”

The guide un­loosed the ele­phant and led him in­to a thick­et, at the same time ask­ing the trav­ellers not to stir. He held him­self ready to be­stride the an­imal at a mo­ment's no­tice, should flight be­come nec­es­sary; but he ev­ident­ly thought that the pro­ces­sion of the faith­ful would pass with­out per­ceiv­ing them amid the thick fo­liage, in which they were whol­ly con­cealed.

The dis­cor­dant tones of the voic­es and in­stru­ments drew near­er, and now dron­ing songs min­gled with the sound of the tam­bourines and cym­bals. The head of the pro­ces­sion soon ap­peared be­neath the trees, a hun­dred paces away; and the strange fig­ures who per­formed the re­li­gious cer­emo­ny were eas­ily dis­tin­guished through the branch­es. First came the priests, with mitres on their heads, and clothed in long lace robes. They were sur­round­ed by men, wom­en, and chil­dren, who sang a kind of lugubri­ous psalm, in­ter­rupt­ed at reg­ular in­ter­vals by the tam­bourines and cym­bals; while be­hind them was drawn a car with large wheels, the spokes of which rep­re­sent­ed ser­pents en­twined with each oth­er. Up­on the car, which was drawn by four rich­ly ca­parisoned ze­bus, stood a hideous stat­ue with four arms, the body coloured a dull red, with hag­gard eyes, di­shev­elled hair, pro­trud­ing tongue, and lips tint­ed with be­tel. It stood up­right up­on the fig­ure of a pros­trate and head­less gi­ant.

Sir Fran­cis, recog­nis­ing the stat­ue, whis­pered, “The god­dess Kali; the god­dess of love and death.”

“Of death, per­haps,” mut­tered back Passep­artout, “but of love--that ug­ly old hag? Nev­er!”

The Parsee made a mo­tion to keep si­lence.

A group of old fakirs were ca­per­ing and mak­ing a wild ado round the stat­ue; these were striped with ochre, and cov­ered with cuts whence their blood is­sued drop by drop--stupid fa­nat­ics, who, in the great In­di­an cer­emonies, still throw them­selves un­der the wheels of Jug­ger­naut. Some Brah­mins, clad in all the sump­tu­ous­ness of Ori­en­tal ap­par­el, and lead­ing a wom­an who fal­tered at ev­ery step, fol­lowed. This wom­an was young, and as fair as a Eu­ro­pean. Her head and neck, shoul­ders, ears, arms, hands, and toes were load­ed down with jew­els and gems with bracelets, ear­rings, and rings; while a tu­nic bor­dered with gold, and cov­ered with a light muslin robe, be­trayed the out­line of her form.

The guards who fol­lowed the young wom­an pre­sent­ed a vi­olent con­trast to her, armed as they were with naked sabres hung at their waists, and long dam­ascened pis­tols, and bear­ing a corpse on a palan­quin. It was the body of an old man, gor­geous­ly ar­rayed in the ha­bil­iments of a ra­jah, wear­ing, as in life, a tur­ban em­broi­dered with pearls, a robe of tis­sue of silk and gold, a scarf of cash­mere sewed with di­amonds, and the mag­nif­icent weapons of a Hin­doo prince. Next came the mu­si­cians and a rear­guard of ca­per­ing fakirs, whose cries some­times drowned the noise of the in­stru­ments; these closed the pro­ces­sion.

Sir Fran­cis watched the pro­ces­sion with a sad coun­te­nance, and, turn­ing to the guide, said, “A sut­tee.”

The Parsee nod­ded, and put his fin­ger to his lips. The pro­ces­sion slow­ly wound un­der the trees, and soon its last ranks dis­ap­peared in the depths of the wood. The songs grad­ual­ly died away; oc­ca­sion­al­ly cries were heard in the dis­tance, un­til at last all was si­lence again.

Phileas Fogg had heard what Sir Fran­cis said, and, as soon as the pro­ces­sion had dis­ap­peared, asked: “What is a sut­tee?”

“A sut­tee,” re­turned the gen­er­al, “is a hu­man sac­ri­fice, but a vol­un­tary one. The wom­an you have just seen will be burned to-​mor­row at the dawn of day.”

“Oh, the scoundrels!” cried Passep­artout, who could not re­press his in­dig­na­tion.

“And the corpse?” asked Mr. Fogg.

“Is that of the prince, her hus­band,” said the guide; “an in­de­pen­dent ra­jah of Bun­del­cund.”

“Is it pos­si­ble,” re­sumed Phileas Fogg, his voice be­tray­ing not the least emo­tion, “that these bar­barous cus­toms still ex­ist in In­dia, and that the En­glish have been un­able to put a stop to them?”

“These sac­ri­fices do not oc­cur in the larg­er por­tion of In­dia,” replied Sir Fran­cis; “but we have no pow­er over these sav­age ter­ri­to­ries, and es­pe­cial­ly here in Bun­del­cund. The whole dis­trict north of the Vin­dhias is the the­atre of in­ces­sant mur­ders and pil­lage.”

“The poor wretch!” ex­claimed Passep­artout, “to be burned alive!”

“Yes,” re­turned Sir Fran­cis, “burned alive. And, if she were not, you can­not con­ceive what treat­ment she would be obliged to sub­mit to from her rel­atives. They would shave off her hair, feed her on a scanty al­lowance of rice, treat her with con­tempt; she would be looked up­on as an un­clean crea­ture, and would die in some cor­ner, like a scurvy dog. The prospect of so fright­ful an ex­is­tence drives these poor crea­tures to the sac­ri­fice much more than love or re­li­gious fa­nati­cism. Some­times, how­ev­er, the sac­ri­fice is re­al­ly vol­un­tary, and it re­quires the ac­tive in­ter­fer­ence of the Gov­ern­ment to pre­vent it. Sev­er­al years ago, when I was liv­ing at Bom­bay, a young wid­ow asked per­mis­sion of the gov­er­nor to be burned along with her hus­band's body; but, as you may imag­ine, he re­fused. The wom­an left the town, took refuge with an in­de­pen­dent ra­jah, and there car­ried out her self-​de­vot­ed pur­pose.”

While Sir Fran­cis was speak­ing, the guide shook his head sev­er­al times, and now said: “The sac­ri­fice which will take place to-​mor­row at dawn is not a vol­un­tary one.”

“How do you know?”

“Ev­ery­body knows about this af­fair in Bun­del­cund.”

“But the wretched crea­ture did not seem to be mak­ing any re­sis­tance,” ob­served Sir Fran­cis.

“That was be­cause they had in­tox­icat­ed her with fumes of hemp and opi­um.”

“But where are they tak­ing her?”

“To the pago­da of Pil­la­ji, two miles from here; she will pass the night there.”

“And the sac­ri­fice will take place--”

“To-​mor­row, at the first light of dawn.”

The guide now led the ele­phant out of the thick­et, and leaped up­on his neck. Just at the mo­ment that he was about to urge Kiouni for­ward with a pe­cu­liar whis­tle, Mr. Fogg stopped him, and, turn­ing to Sir Fran­cis Cro­mar­ty, said, “Sup­pose we save this wom­an.”

“Save the wom­an, Mr. Fogg!”

“I have yet twelve hours to spare; I can de­vote them to that.”

“Why, you are a man of heart!”

“Some­times,” replied Phileas Fogg, qui­et­ly; “when I have the time.”