In which Phileas Fogg pays a phenomenal price for a means of transport

The train had left at the scheduled time. It was carrying a fair number of passengers, including some officers, civil servants and traders in opium and indigo who were travelling to the eastern part of the subcontinent on business.

Passepartout was in the same carriage as his master. A third traveller had taken his seat in the opposite corner.

It was Brigadier-General Sir Francis Cromarty, one of Mr Fogg’s whist partners during the crossing from Suez to Bombay, who was rejoining his troops stationed near Benares.

Sir Francis Cromarty was a tall, fair-haired man aged about fifty who had distinguished himself in action during the last sepoy revolt and could justifiably be considered a native. He had lived in India since his youth and had made only occasional visits to the country of his birth. He was a well-educated man, who would have been pleased to give information about the customs, history and administration of India, if Phileas Fogg had been the sort who would have asked for it. But the English gentleman asked nothing. He was not travelling, he was tracing a circle. He was matter in orbit around the globe, following the laws of physics. At this moment in time he was working out in his head the number of hours spent since leaving London, and he would have rubbed his hands had it been in his nature to make an unnecessary movement.

Sir Francis Cromarty was perfectly aware of the eccentricity of his travelling companion, even though he had only had time to study him while playing cards, between two rubbers. He was quite justified, therefore, in wondering whether a human heart did lie beneath this cold exterior, whether Phileas Fogg had any conception of the beauty of nature or any moral aspirations. There had to be some doubt about that. Of all the odd sorts the brigadier-general had met, none of them could stand comparison with this product of the exact sciences.

Phileas Fogg had made no effort to conceal from Sir Francis Cromarty his plan of travelling around the world, nor how he intended to carry it out. The brigadier-general considered this bet to be just another example of pointless eccentricity, inevitably lacking in the principle of transire benefaciendo1 that should guide the actions of all reasonable people. At the rate this odd gentleman was going, he was likely to pass through life without doing anything positive, either for himself or for others.

One hour after leaving Bombay, the train had crossed the island of Salsette over a series of viaducts and was speeding along the mainland. At Kalyan station it left behind to its right the branch line that went down via Khandala and Poona to the south-east of India and reached Panwell station. At this point it entered the extensive mountain range of the Western Ghats, a formation of trap rock and basalt, whose highest summits are densely wooded.

From time to time Sir Francis Cromarty and Phileas Fogg exchanged a few words, and at one point the brigadier-general attempted to revive the flagging conversation:

‘A few years ago, Mr Fogg, you would have suffered a delay at this stage that would probably have jeopardized your whole journey.’

‘And why is that, Sir Francis?’

‘Because the railway stopped at the foot of these mountains and they had to be crossed in a palanquin or by pony as far as Khandala station on the other side of the mountains.’

‘This delay would not have disrupted in the least the organization of my timetable,’ replied Mr Fogg. ‘I have been careful to take into account the possibility of encountering certain obstacles.’

‘Nevertheless, Mr Fogg,’ continued the brigadier-general, ‘you could have had a serious problem on your hands with the business involving this man of yours.’

Passepartout, whose feet were tangled up in his travel rug, was fast asleep, oblivious of the fact that they were talking about him.

‘The British government takes a very serious view, and rightly so, of this kind of offence,’ Sir Francis Cromarty went on. ‘It is particularly anxious to respect the religious practices of India and if your servant had been caught –’

‘Well, if he’d been caught, Sir Francis,’ replied Mr Fogg, ‘he would have been convicted, he would have served his sentence and then would have returned quietly to Europe. I fail to see how this business could have delayed his master!’

With that the conversation came to an end. During the night the train crossed the Ghats, went through Nasik and the following day, 21 October, sped across the relatively flat landscape of Khandesh. The countryside was well cultivated and dotted with small towns, in which the towers of temples replaced the steeples of European churches. Numerous small rivers, most of them tributaries or sub-tributaries of the Godavari, irrigated this fertile land.

When he awoke, Passepartout saw to his amazement that he was crossing the Indian subcontinent in a train belonging to the Great Peninsular Railway. He couldn’t believe it. And yet it really was true. The locomotive, driven by an English engineman and fuelled by English coal, poured out its smoke over plantations of cotton, coffee, nutmeg, cloves and red pepper. The steam spiralled up over clumps of palm trees, between which could be seen picturesque bungalows, a few viharas or monasteries, now in ruins, and some wonderful temples decorated with the inexhaustible richness of detail of Indian architecture. Then there were huge expanses of land stretching as far as the eye could see, jungles teeming with snakes and tigers frightened by the rushing of the train, and finally forests that the route of the railway had sliced through but were still the haunt of elephants, which looked on thoughtfully as the convoy swept breathlessly by.

That morning, beyond the station at Malegaon, the travellers went through the forbidding area that was so often the scene of bloody crimes committed by the votaries of the goddess Kali. Not far away they could see Ellora and its wonderful temples and also the famous city of Aurungabad, once the fearsome Aurungzeb’s capital city but now merely an administrative town in one of the isolated provinces of the Nizam of Hyderabad’s dominions. This was the area that used to be controlled by Feringheea, the chief of the Thugs, the king of the Stranglers.4 These assassins, who had banded together in an organization that lay beyond the reach of the law, strangled their victims, whatever their age, in honour of the goddess of death without ever shedding blood, and there was a time when it was impossible to dig below the surface of the soil without finding a dead body. The British government has, it is true, succeeded in reducing the number of murders, but this terrifying organization still exists and continues to operate.

At half past midday the train stopped in the station at Burhanpur and Passepartout was able to buy, though at considerable expense, a pair of oriental slippers decorated with imitation pearls, which he put on with no attempt to disguise his vanity.

The travellers had a quick lunch and set off again for Assurghur station after following for a short time the course of the Tapti, a small river that enters the Gulf of Kambay near Surat.

It is worth explaining at this point the thoughts that were going through Passepartout’s mind. Up until his arrival in Bombay, he had believed quite reasonably that that was as far as things would go. But now, since he had been speeding across India, he had undergone a change of mind. His natural instincts had returned with a vengeance. He rediscovered all the fanciful ideas of his younger days; he took his master’s plans seriously; he believed that the bet was for real, as were the journey around the world and the maximum number of days that they mustn’t exceed. Already even he was worrying about possible delays and accidents that might occur on the way. He felt caught up in this bet and trembled at the thought that he might have jeopardized it the previous day by the unforgivable way he had wandered off sightseeing. Therefore, being much less phlegmatic than Mr Fogg, he was much more anxious. He counted over and over the days that had gone, cursing the train every time it halted, accusing it of being too slow, and inwardly criticizing Mr Fogg, for not having offered the driver a reward. The dear fellow did not realize that what was possible on a steamboat was not possible on a railway where the speed is regulated.

Towards the evening the train entered the passes through the Satpura Hills, which separate the territory of Khandesh from that of Bundelkhand.

The next day, 22 October, in reply to a question from Sir Francis Cromarty, Passepartout had looked at his watch and answered that it was three o’clock in the morning. And, it is true, this famous watch, still set to the Greenwich meridian, which was almost seventy-seven degrees to the west, should have been, and in fact was, four hours slow.

Sir Francis therefore corrected the time Passepartout had given him and made the same comment to him as Fix had done. He tried to explain to him that he should set his watch according to each new meridian and that as he was going eastwards, that is towards the sun, the days became shorter by four minutes with each degree passed. It was futile. Whether the stubborn fellow understood or not the brigadier-general’s remark, he solemnly refused to put his watch forward, leaving it permanently on London time. In any case, it was an innocent fixation, which couldn’t harm anyone.

At eight o’clock in the morning and fifteen miles from the station at Rothal, the train stopped in the middle of a vast clearing, around which were a few bungalows and workers’ huts. The guard of the train went along the carriages saying, ‘Passengers should alight here.’

Phileas Fogg looked at Sir Francis Cromarty, who seemed puzzled by this stop in the middle of a forest of tamarisks and cajuput trees.

Passepartout was no less surprised and rushed out along the track, but came back almost immediately, shouting, ‘Sir, the railway’s come to an end.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Sir Francis Cromarty.

‘I mean, the train can’t go any further!’

The brigadier-general immediately got out of the carriage. Phileas Fogg followed him but in no hurry. Both of them turned to the guard.

‘Where are we?’ said Sir Francis Cromarty.

‘In the hamlet of Kholby,’ replied the guard.

‘Are we stopping here?’

‘I assume so. The railway line isn’t finished.’

‘What? It isn’t finished?’

‘No. There’s still a section of about fifty miles to complete between here and Allahabad, where the line continues.’

‘But the newspapers said the railway had been completed!’

‘What can I say, sir? The newspapers are wrong.’

‘And yet you still make out the tickets from Bombay to Calcutta?’ continued Sir Francis, who was beginning to get angry.

‘Certainly,’ replied the guard, ‘but passengers are fully aware that they need to find another means of transport from Kholby to Allahabad.’

Sir Francis Cromarty was furious. Passepartout would have cheerfully assaulted the guard, though it really wasn’t his fault. He didn’t dare look at his master.

‘Sir Francis,’ Mr Fogg said simply, ‘we shall, if you agree, decide upon a way of getting to Allahabad.’

‘Mr Fogg, this is a delay that is extremely prejudicial to your interests, is it not?’

‘No, Sir Francis. This had been taken into account.’

‘What? You knew that the line –’

‘Not at all, but I did know that some obstacle or other would crop up sooner or later on my route. In fact, nothing is in jeopardy. I have two days spare that I can use. There’s a steamer that leaves Calcutta for Hong Kong on the 25th at midday. Today is only the 22nd and we shall get to Calcutta on time.’

There was nothing that could be said in reply to such a categorical statement.

It was only too true that the building of the railway had stopped at this point. Newspapers are like certain watches that insist on being fast, and they had prematurely announced the completion of the line. Most of the passengers knew that the line was not finished and when they got out of the train they had taken possession of every type of vehicle available in this small town, four-wheeled palki-gharis, carts pulled by zebus, a sort of buffalo with a hump, carriages that looked like mobile temples, palanquins, ponies, etc. The result was that Mr Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty, after scouring the whole town, returned empty-handed.

‘I shall go on foot,’ said Phileas Fogg.

Passepartout, who at this point met up with his master, winced knowingly as he looked down at his magnificent but impractical slippers. Very fortunately he had also been casting around for a solution and he said rather hesitantly, ‘Sir, I think I’ve found a means of transport.’

‘What sort?’

‘An elephant! An elephant belonging to an Indian who lives only a hundred yards from here.’

‘Let’s go and see the elephant,’ replied Mr Fogg.

Five minutes later Phileas Fogg, Sir Francis Cromarty and Passepartout arrived at a hut adjoining an enclosure surrounded by a high fence. In the hut was an Indian and in the enclosure an elephant. As requested, the Indian let Mr Fogg and his two companions into the enclosure.

There they came upon an animal that was half tamed, which his master was rearing not as a beast of burden but for combat. With this aim in mind he had begun to change the animal’s naturally gentle temperament, in order to arouse him gradually to a state of excitement and frenzy, which the Indians call ‘musth’, and to do this he fed him for three months with sugar and butter. This treatment may seem inappropriate for the intended result, but it was none the less employed successfully by elephant trainers. Very fortunately for Mr Fogg, the elephant in question had only just been put on to this diet and had not yet reached a state of ‘musth’.

Kiouni – this was the animal’s name – was capable, like all members of its species, of walking long distances at considerable speed, and in the absence of another means of transport Phileas Fogg decided to use him.

Elephants are, however, expensive in India, as they are becoming rare. The males, the only ones that can be used in circus acts, are highly sought after. These animals rarely reproduce in captivity, with the result that they can only be obtained by being captured in the wild. They are therefore looked after with great care, and when Mr Fogg asked the Indian if he could hire his elephant, the Indian refused categorically.

Fogg persisted and offered too high a price for the beast, £10 per hour. No. £20? No again. £40? Still no. Passepartout was more and more horrified as the price offered went up, but the Indian would not give in.

It was a considerable amount of money, though. Assuming that it would take fifteen hours for the animal to get to Allahabad, that was £600 that it would make for its owner.

Without betraying the least sign of emotion, Phileas Fogg then made the Indian a proposal to buy his beast, offering him first of all £1,000.

The Indian didn’t want to sell. Perhaps the cunning fellow had sensed he could make a very good deal.

Sir Francis Cromarty took Mr Fogg aside and urged him to think carefully before going any further. Phileas Fogg replied to his companion that it was not in his habit to act without careful thought, that what was at stake was a bet of £20,000, that this elephant was vital for him, and that, even if he had to pay twenty times its value, he would have the animal.

Mr Fogg went back to the Indian, whose little eyes had lit up with greed, proof that for him all that mattered was the price. Phileas Fogg offered successively £1,200, then £1,500, then £1,800 and finally £2,000. Passepartout, who had such a ruddy complexion normally, was white as a sheet.

At £2,000 the Indian gave in.

‘Bless my slippers!’ exclaimed Passepartout. ‘That’s an expensive price for a piece of elephant meat.’

The deal was done and all that was left was to find a guide. This proved easier. A young, intelligent-looking Parsee offered his services. Mr Fogg agreed and promised him a considerable sum of money in return, a sure way of stimulating his intelligence even further.

The elephant was led in and got ready without delay. The Parsee knew the job of mahout, or elephant driver, inside out. He covered the elephant’s back with a sort of saddle-cloth and set up, one on each side of the animal’s flanks, two rather uncomfortable-looking baskets.

Phileas Fogg paid the Indian in banknotes, which came out of his famous bag. It really looked as if they were being surgically removed from Passepartout’s insides! Then Mr Fogg offered to take Sir Francis to the station at Allahabad. The brigadiergeneral accepted. One extra traveller would not make any difference for this enormous animal.

They purchased provisions at Kholby. Sir Francis Cromarty took up his place in one of the baskets and Phileas Fogg in the other. Passepartout sat astride the saddle-cloth between his master and the brigadier-general. The Parsee perched himself on the elephant’s neck and at nine o’clock the animal left the small town and, taking the shortest route, plunged straight into the dense forest of fan palms.