Around the World in 80 Days by Jules Verne (top novels to read TXT) 📖

Chapter XIV

IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG DESCENDS THE WHOLE LENGTH OF THE BEAUTIFUL

VALLEY OF THE GANGES WITHOUT EVER THINKING OF SEEING IT

 

The rash exploit had been accomplished; and for an hour

Passepartout laughed gaily at his success. Sir Francis pressed

the worthy fellow’s hand, and his master said, “Well done!” which,

from him, was high commendation; to which Passepartout replied

that all the credit of the affair belonged to Mr. Fogg. As for him,

he had only been struck with a “queer” idea; and he laughed

to think that for a few moments he, Passepartout, the ex-gymnast,

ex-sergeant fireman, had been the spouse of a charming woman,

a venerable, embalmed rajah! As for the young Indian woman,

she had been unconscious throughout of what was passing, and now,

wrapped up in a travelling-blanket, was reposing in one of the howdahs.

 

The elephant, thanks to the skilful guidance of the Parsee,

was advancing rapidly through the still darksome forest, and,

an hour after leaving the pagoda, had crossed a vast plain.

They made a halt at seven o’clock, the young woman being still

in a state of complete prostration. The guide made her drink a little

brandy and water, but the drowsiness which stupefied her could not

yet be shaken off. Sir Francis, who was familiar with the effects

of the intoxication produced by the fumes of hemp, reassured his

companions on her account. But he was more disturbed at the

prospect of her future fate. He told Phileas Fogg that,

should Aouda remain in India, she would inevitably fall again

into the hands of her executioners. These fanatics were scattered

throughout the county, and would, despite the English police,

recover their victim at Madras, Bombay, or Calcutta. She would

only be safe by quitting India for ever.

 

Phileas Fogg replied that he would reflect upon the matter.

 

The station at Allahabad was reached about ten o’clock, and,

the interrupted line of railway being resumed, would enable them

to reach Calcutta in less than twenty-four hours. Phileas Fogg

would thus be able to arrive in time to take the steamer which

left Calcutta the next day, October 25th, at noon, for Hong Kong.

 

The young woman was placed in one of the waiting-rooms of the station,

whilst Passepartout was charged with purchasing for her various articles

of toilet, a dress, shawl, and some furs; for which his master gave him

unlimited credit. Passepartout started off forthwith, and found himself

in the streets of Allahabad, that is, the City of God, one of the most

venerated in India, being built at the junction of the two sacred rivers,

Ganges and Jumna, the waters of which attract pilgrims from every part

of the peninsula. The Ganges, according to the legends of the Ramayana,

rises in heaven, whence, owing to Brahma’s agency, it descends to the earth.

 

Passepartout made it a point, as he made his purchases, to take

a good look at the city. It was formerly defended by a noble fort,

which has since become a state prison; its commerce has dwindled away,

and Passepartout in vain looked about him for such a bazaar as he used

to frequent in Regent Street. At last he came upon an elderly,

crusty Jew, who sold second-hand articles, and from whom he purchased

a dress of Scotch stuff, a large mantle, and a fine otter-skin pelisse,

for which he did not hesitate to pay seventy-five pounds. He then

returned triumphantly to the station.

 

The influence to which the priests of Pillaji had subjected Aouda

began gradually to yield, and she became more herself,

so that her fine eyes resumed all their soft Indian expression.

 

When the poet-king, Ucaf Uddaul, celebrates the charms

of the queen of Ahmehnagara, he speaks thus:

 

“Her shining tresses, divided in two parts, encircle the harmonious

contour of her white and delicate cheeks, brilliant in their glow

and freshness. Her ebony brows have the form and charm of the bow of Kama,

the god of love, and beneath her long silken lashes the purest reflections

and a celestial light swim, as in the sacred lakes of Himalaya,

in the black pupils of her great clear eyes. Her teeth, fine,

equal, and white, glitter between her smiling lips like dewdrops

in a passion-flower’s half-enveloped breast. Her delicately formed ears,

her vermilion hands, her little feet, curved and tender as the lotus-bud,

glitter with the brilliancy of the loveliest pearls of Ceylon,

the most dazzling diamonds of Golconda. Her narrow and supple waist,

which a hand may clasp around, sets forth the outline of her rounded

figure and the beauty of her bosom, where youth in its flower displays

the wealth of its treasures; and beneath the silken folds of her tunic

she seems to have been modelled in pure silver by the godlike hand

of Vicvarcarma, the immortal sculptor.”

 

It is enough to say, without applying this poetical rhapsody to Aouda,

that she was a charming woman, in all the European acceptation of the phrase.

She spoke English with great purity, and the guide had not exaggerated

in saying that the young Parsee had been transformed by her bringing up.

 

The train was about to start from Allahabad, and Mr. Fogg

proceeded to pay the guide the price agreed upon for his service,

and not a farthing more; which astonished Passepartout,

who remembered all that his master owed to the guide’s devotion.

He had, indeed, risked his life in the adventure at Pillaji, and,

if he should be caught afterwards by the Indians, he would with

difficulty escape their vengeance. Kiouni, also, must be disposed of.

What should be done with the elephant, which had been so dearly purchased?

Phileas Fogg had already determined this question.

 

“Parsee,” said he to the guide, “you have been serviceable and devoted.

I have paid for your service, but not for your devotion. Would you like

to have this elephant? He is yours.”

 

The guide’s eyes glistened.

 

“Your honour is giving me a fortune!” cried he.

 

“Take him, guide,” returned Mr. Fogg, “and I shall still be your debtor.”

 

“Good!” exclaimed Passepartout. “Take him, friend. Kiouni is a brave

and faithful beast.” And, going up to the elephant, he gave him several

lumps of sugar, saying, “Here, Kiouni, here, here.”

 

The elephant grunted out his satisfaction, and, clasping Passepartout

around the waist with his trunk, lifted him as high as his head.

Passepartout, not in the least alarmed, caressed the animal,

which replaced him gently on the ground.

 

Soon after, Phileas Fogg, Sir Francis Cromarty, and Passepartout,

installed in a carriage with Aouda, who had the best seat,

were whirling at full speed towards Benares. It was a run of eighty miles,

and was accomplished in two hours. During the journey, the young woman

fully recovered her senses. What was her astonishment to find herself

in this carriage, on the railway, dressed in European habiliments,

and with travellers who were quite strangers to her! Her companions

first set about fully reviving her with a little liquor,

and then Sir Francis narrated to her what had passed,

dwelling upon the courage with which Phileas Fogg

had not hesitated to risk his life to save her, and recounting

the happy sequel of the venture, the result of Passepartout’s rash idea.

Mr. Fogg said nothing; while Passepartout, abashed, kept repeating that

“it wasn’t worth telling.”

 

Aouda pathetically thanked her deliverers, rather with tears

than words; her fine eyes interpreted her gratitude better

than her lips. Then, as her thoughts strayed back to the scene

of the sacrifice, and recalled the dangers which still menaced her,

she shuddered with terror.

 

Phileas Fogg understood what was passing in Aouda’s mind, and offered,

in order to reassure her, to escort her to Hong Kong, where she might remain

safely until the affair was hushed up—an offer which she eagerly

and gratefully accepted. She had, it seems, a Parsee relation,

who was one of the principal merchants of Hong Kong, which is wholly

an English city, though on an island on the Chinese coast.

 

At half-past twelve the train stopped at Benares. The Brahmin legends

assert that this city is built on the site of the ancient Casi, which,

like Mahomet’s tomb, was once suspended between heaven and earth;

though the Benares of to-day, which the Orientalists call the Athens of India,

stands quite unpoetically on the solid earth, Passepartout caught glimpses

of its brick houses and clay huts, giving an aspect of desolation to the place,

as the train entered it.

 

Benares was Sir Francis Cromarty’s destination, the troops he

was rejoining being encamped some miles northward of the city.

He bade adieu to Phileas Fogg, wishing him all success,

and expressing the hope that he would come that way again

in a less original but more profitable fashion. Mr. Fogg lightly

pressed him by the hand. The parting of Aouda, who did not forget

what she owed to Sir Francis, betrayed more warmth; and, as for

Passepartout, he received a hearty shake of the hand from the

gallant general.

 

The railway, on leaving Benares, passed for a while along the

valley of the Ganges. Through the windows of their carriage

the travellers had glimpses of the diversified landscape of Behar,

with its mountains clothed in verdure, its fields of barley,

wheat, and corn, its jungles peopled with green alligators,

its neat villages, and its still thickly-leaved forests.

Elephants were bathing in the waters of the sacred river,

and groups of Indians, despite the advanced season and chilly air,

were performing solemnly their pious ablutions. These were

fervent Brahmins, the bitterest foes of Buddhism, their deities

being Vishnu, the solar god, Shiva, the divine impersonation of

natural forces, and Brahma, the supreme ruler of priests and legislators.

What would these divinities think of India, anglicised as it is to-day,

with steamers whistling and scudding along the Ganges, frightening the gulls

which float upon its surface, the turtles swarming along its banks,

and the faithful dwelling upon its borders?

 

The panorama passed before their eyes like a flash, save when

the steam concealed it fitfully from the view; the travellers

could scarcely discern the fort of Chupenie, twenty miles

south-westward from Benares, the ancient stronghold of the rajahs

of Behar; or Ghazipur and its famous rose-water factories; or the

tomb of Lord Cornwallis, rising on the left bank of the Ganges;

the fortified town of Buxar, or Patna, a large manufacturing and

trading-place, where is held the principal opium market of India;

or Monghir, a more than European town, for it is as English as

Manchester or Birmingham, with its iron foundries, edgetool factories,

and high chimneys puffing clouds of black smoke heavenward.

 

Night came on; the train passed on at full speed, in the midst

of the roaring of the tigers, bears, and wolves which fled before

the locomotive; and the marvels of Bengal, Golconda ruined Gour,

Murshedabad, the ancient capital, Burdwan, Hugly, and the French

town of Chandernagor, where Passepartout would have been proud to see

his country’s