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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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