In which Phileas Fogg travels the whole length of the wonderful valley of the Ganges without thinking it worth a look

The bold rescue plan had come off. An hour later Passepartout was still revelling in his success. Sir Francis Cromarty had shaken the intrepid fellow’s hand. His master had said to him ‘well done’, which, coming from the gentleman in question, was the equivalent of the highest praise, to which Passepartout had replied that all the credit lay with his master. All that he had done was to have a ‘daft’ idea and he was still amused by the thought that for a few moments he, Passepartout, the former gymnast and ex-fireman, had been this charming lady’s widower, an elderly embalmed rajah.

As for the young Indian lady, she had not been aware of what had happened. Wrapped in travel rugs, she was resting in one of the baskets.

Meanwhile the elephant, under the expert guidance of the Parsee, was advancing rapidly through the forest, where it was still dark. An hour after leaving the temple of Pillagi the elephant began to cross an immense plain. At seven o’clock they made a halt. The young woman was still completely prostrate. The guide gave her a few drops of water and brandy to drink, but her drugged state would last some time longer.

Sir Francis Cromarty, who was well aware of the effects of inhaling the hashish fumes, had no worries on her score.

However, if the young Indian woman’s recovery was not in doubt, her safety was, in the brigadier-general’s mind, quite another matter. He was not afraid to say to Mr Fogg that if she remained in India she would inevitably fall into the hands of her would-be executioners. These fanatics were to be found over the whole of the subcontinent, and it was certain that despite the best efforts of the British police they would succeed in recapturing their victim, whether it be in Madras, Bombay or Calcutta. To back up his argument Sir Francis quoted a similar recent case. In his opinion the young woman would only really be safe once she had left India.

Phileas Fogg replied that he would take account of these remarks and would then make up his mind accordingly.

At about ten o’clock the guide announced that they had arrived at the station in Allahabad. This was where the railway line picked up again and from where trains took less than a day and a night to cover the distance between Allahabad and Calcutta.

Phileas Fogg should therefore arrive in time to catch a steamer that didn’t leave for Hong Kong until midday the following day, 25 October.

They installed the young woman in a waiting-room at the station. Passepartout was given the task of going out to buy her various items of clothing, a dress, a shawl, furs, etc., whatever he could find. His master set no limit on how much he could spend.

Passepartout left immediately and went all around the town. Allahabad is the city of God, one of the holiest cities in India, because it is built where two sacred rivers meet, the Ganges and the Jumna, whose waters attract pilgrims from the whole subcontinent. In addition, it is well known that, according to the legends of the Ramayana, the Ganges has its source in the heavens from where, thanks to Brahma, it comes down to this earth.

As he made his purchases it didn’t take Passepartout long to see the whole of the town, which in the past had been defended by a magnificent fort that is now a state prison. There were no longer any businesses or industries in what had previously been an important commercial and industrial centre. Passepartout searched in vain for a department store as if he was in Oxford Street, but he had to go to a second-hand shop run by a pernickety old Jew to find the items he needed, a tartan dress, a large cloak and a magnificent fur coat made out of otter’s skin, which he had no hesitation in paying £75 for. Then he returned in triumph to the station.

Mrs Aouda was beginning to come round. The effect of the drug administered by the priests of Pillagi was gradually wearing off, and her beautiful eyes were recovering all their gentle Indian charm.

Celebrating the beauty of the queen of Ahmadnagar, the poet-king Yusuf Adil wrote as follows:

Her glistening hair, carefully parted, frames the gently flowing outline of her delicate white cheeks that gleam with a smooth sheen. Her eyebrows, dark as ebony, have the shape and strength of the bow of Kama, the god of love, and beneath her silky long eyelashes, in the dark pupils of her large clear eyes, there shimmer, as in the sacred lakes of the Himalayas, the purest reflections of celestial light. Her delicate, perfect white teeth shine out between smiling lips, like dewdrops in the half-closed cups of a pomegranate flower. Her dainty, perfectly shaped ears, her rose-red hands, her tiny feet, rounded and delicate like lotus buds, sparkle like the finest Ceylon pearls and the most dazzling Golconda diamonds. Her slender, supple waist, which a single hand could enclasp, sets off the elegant curve of her back and the fulsomeness of her bosom, in which the flowering of youth spreads forth its most perfect treasures, and, beneath the silken folds of her garments, she seems as if crafted in pure silver by the divine hand of Viswakarma, the sculptor of the gods.

Putting aside these rhetorical flourishes, it is enough to say that Mrs Aouda, the widow of the rajah of Bundelkhand, was a charming woman, in the full European sense of the word. She spoke perfect English and the guide had certainly not been exaggerating when he said that this young Parsee woman had been transformed by her education.

Meanwhile the train was about to leave Allahabad station. The Parsee was waiting. Mr Fogg paid him his wages at the agreed rate, and not a penny extra. Passepartout was surprised at this because he realized how much his master owed to the guide’s devotion to duty. After all the Parsee had willingly risked his life in the Pillagi business, and if he was later caught by the Hindus, he was unlikely to escape their vengeance.

There remained the question of Kiouni. What was to be done with an elephant that had cost so much?

But Phileas Fogg had already made up his mind about this matter.

‘Parsee,’ he said to the guide, ‘you have been helpful and devoted. I have paid for your help but not for your devotion. Would you like this elephant? If so, he is yours.’

The guide’s eyes lit up.

‘Your honour is giving me a fortune!’ he exclaimed.

‘Take it, guide,’ replied Mr Fogg, ‘but even then I shall still be in your debt.’

‘Well done!’ exclaimed Passepartout. ‘Take it, my friend! Kiouni is a trusty and courageous animal!’

Then he went up to the beast and gave him a few lumps of sugar, saying:

‘Here, Kiouni. Here.’

The elephant gave out a few grunts of satisfaction. Then he took Passepartout by the waist and, wrapping his trunk around him, lifted him as high as his head. Passepartout showed no sign of fear and stroked the animal, which put him gently back on the ground. So, having received from the faithful Kiouni an elephant handshake, the dear fellow returned the compliment by taking the animal by the trunk and giving him a hearty human one.

A few minutes later Phileas Fogg, Sir Francis Cromarty and Passepartout were installed in a comfortable carriage, in which Mrs Aouda had the best seat, and were speeding towards Benares.

It is only eighty miles at the outside between the latter and Allahabad and it took just two hours to cover them.

During the journey the young woman came round completely. The effects of the hashish fumes had fully worn off.

It is easy to imagine her surprise at finding herself on a railway, in this compartment, wearing European clothes and surrounded by travellers who were total strangers!

First of all her companions showed her every care and attention and revived her with a few drops of spirits. Then the brigadier-general recounted what had befallen her. He stressed the devotion of Phileas Fogg, how he had not hesitated to put his own life at risk to rescue her, and the final outcome of the adventure, thanks to Passepartout’s bold stroke.

Mr Fogg added nothing to the account. Passepartout looked very embarrassed and kept saying, ‘It was nothing.’

Mrs Aouda thanked her rescuers profusely, by her tears more than by her words. More than her lips it was her beautiful eyes that expressed her gratitude. Then, as her thoughts returned to the scene of the suttee and as she looked out again on the land of India, where so many dangers still awaited her, she suddenly shuddered with fear.

Phileas Fogg realized what was going through Mrs Aouda’s mind and to reassure her he offered, albeit without showing any sign of emotion, to accompany her to Hong Kong, where she would stay until this whole business died down.

Mrs Aouda gratefully accepted the offer. It was in Hong Kong in fact that one of her relatives lived, a Parsee like her, and one of the most important merchants in this city, which is thoroughly English, even though it is off the coast of China.

At half past midday, the train stopped in the station at Benares. Hindu legend has it that the present city stands on the site of the ancient Kasi, which was formerly suspended in space between the zenith and the nadir, like Mohammed’s tomb. But in these more prosaic times Benares, the Athens of India according to orientalists, had come back down to earth with a jolt, and for a moment Passepartout was able to glimpse its brick houses and its wattle huts, which give it an absolutely desolate appearance, devoid of all local colour.

This is where Sir Francis Cromarty was due to end his journey. The troops he was returning to were encamped a few miles to the north of the town. The brigadier-general therefore said his farewells to Phileas Fogg, wished him every success, and expressed the hope that he would continue his journey in a less eccentric but more profitable way. Mr Fogg lightly shook his companion’s hand. Mrs Aouda’s leave-taking showed far more affection. She would never forget what she owed Sir Francis Cromarty. As for Passepartout, he was given the honour of a real handshake by the brigadier-general. Visibly moved, he wondered where and when and how he might be able to be of service to him. Then they went their separate ways.

After Benares the railway went through part of the valley of the Ganges. When the weather was clear they could see, out of the windows of the carriage, the varied landscape of Bihar, then green-clad mountains, fields of barley, maize and wheat, rivers and pools infested with greenish alligators, well-kept villages and luxuriant forests. Some elephants and zebus with big humps went down to bathe in the waters of the sacred river, as did, despite the late time of year and the already low temperature, groups of Hindus of both sexes, who were ritually purifying themselves. These believers, sworn enemies of Buddhism, are faithful followers of the religion of Brahma, who is incarnated in three forms: Vishnu, the sun-god, Shiva, the divine personification of the forces of nature, and Brahma, the supreme ruler of priests and law-givers. But what could Brahma, Shiva and Vishnu be thinking of the now ‘Britannicized’ India that they looked on from above as a steamboat shrilly chugged past, disturbing the holy waters of the Ganges and scaring away the gulls that flew over its surface, the tortoises swarming along the riverbank and the faithful lying along its shores!

This whole panorama went past in a flash, and often its details were hidden by a cloud of smoke. The travellers scarcely managed a glimpse of the fort at Chunar, twenty miles southwest of Benares, the former stronghold of the rajahs of Bihar, Ghazipur and its large rosewater factories, the tomb of Lord Cornwallis, erected on the left bank of the Ganges, the fortified town of Buxar, the large manufacturing and trading centre of Patna, with the largest opium market in India, and Monghyr, a town that is not merely European but as English as Manchester or Birmingham, famous for its iron foundries, its hardware and arms factories, and whose tall chimneys belch out black smoke into Brahma’s heavens – an affront to this idyllic landscape.

Then night came, and amid the howling of the tigers, bears and wolves that fled from the locomotive, the train went along at full speed, and nothing more could be seen of the beauties of Bengal, such as Golconda, the ruins of Gour, Murshidabad, its former capital, Burdwan, Hoogli or Chandernagore, a French outpost on Indian soil, over which Passepartout would have been proud to see the flag of his native land flying.

Finally at seven o’clock in the morning they reached Calcutta. The steamer bound for Hong Kong was not due to sail until midday. Phileas Fogg therefore had five hours in front of him.

According to his travel plan the gentleman had been due to arrive in the Indian capital on 25 October, twenty-three days after leaving London, and he had arrived on the appointed day. So he was neither behind nor ahead of schedule. Unfortunately the two days he had gained between London and Bombay had been lost, as has been seen, during the crossing of the Indian subcontinent. However, it can be safely assumed that Phileas Fogg did not regret them.