Chapter Chapter 12 · IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG AND HIS COMPANIONS VENTURE ACROSS THE INDIAN

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 from 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.”