Around the World in 80 Days by Jules Verne (best story books to read .txt) 📕

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 northeast. 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 tomorrow 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 tomorrow 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—”

 

“Tomorrow, 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!”