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 arid 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."
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