IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT IS ONLY TOO GLAD TO GET OFF WITH THE LOSS OF HIS
Everybody knows that the great reversed triangle of land, with its base
in the north and its apex in the south, which is called India, embraces
fourteen hundred thousand square miles, upon which is spread unequally
a population of one hundred and eighty millions of souls. The British
Crown exercises a real and despotic dominion over the larger portion of
this vast country, and has a governor-general stationed at Calcutta,
governors at Madras, Bombay, and in Bengal, and a lieutenant-governor
But British India, properly so called, only embraces seven hundred
thousand square miles, and a population of from one hundred to one
hundred and ten millions of inhabitants. A considerable portion of
India is still free from British authority; and there are certain
ferocious rajahs in the interior who are absolutely independent. The
celebrated East India Company was all-powerful from 1756, when the
English first gained a foothold on the spot where now stands the city
of Madras, down to the time of the great Sepoy insurrection. It
gradually annexed province after province, purchasing them of the
native chiefs, whom it seldom paid, and appointed the governor-general
and his subordinates, civil and military. But the East India Company
has now passed away, leaving the British possessions in India directly
under the control of the Crown. The aspect of the country, as well as
the manners and distinctions of race, is daily changing.
Formerly one was obliged to travel in India by the old cumbrous methods
of going on foot or on horseback, in palanquins or unwieldy coaches;
now fast steamboats ply on the Indus and the Ganges, and a great
railway, with branch lines joining the main line at many points on its
route, traverses the peninsula from Bombay to Calcutta in three days.
This railway does not run in a direct line across India. The distance
between Bombay and Calcutta, as the bird flies, is only from one
thousand to eleven hundred miles; but the deflections of the road
increase this distance by more than a third.
The general route of the Great Indian Peninsula Railway is as follows:
Leaving Bombay, it passes through Salcette, crossing to the continent
opposite Tannah, goes over the chain of the Western Ghauts, runs thence
north-east as far as Burhampoor, skirts the nearly independent
territory of Bundelcund, ascends to Allahabad, turns thence eastwardly,
meeting the Ganges at Benares, then departs from the river a little,
and, descending south-eastward by Burdivan and the French town of
Chandernagor, has its terminus at Calcutta.
The passengers of the Mongolia went ashore at half-past four p.m.; at
exactly eight the train would start for Calcutta.
Mr. Fogg, after bidding good-bye to his whist partners, left the
steamer, gave his servant several errands to do, urged it upon him to
be at the station promptly at eight, and, with his regular step, which
beat to the second, like an astronomical clock, directed his steps to
the passport office. As for the wonders of Bombay—its famous city
hall, its splendid library, its forts and docks, its bazaars, mosques,
synagogues, its Armenian churches, and the noble pagoda on Malabar
Hill, with its two polygonal towers—he cared not a straw to see them.
He would not deign to examine even the masterpieces of Elephanta, or
the mysterious hypogea, concealed south-east from the docks, or those
fine remains of Buddhist architecture, the Kanherian grottoes of the
island of Salcette.
Having transacted his business at the passport office, Phileas Fogg
repaired quietly to the railway station, where he ordered dinner.
Among the dishes served up to him, the landlord especially recommended
a certain giblet of "native rabbit," on which he prided himself.
Mr. Fogg accordingly tasted the dish, but, despite its spiced sauce,
found it far from palatable. He rang for the landlord, and, on his
appearance, said, fixing his clear eyes upon him, "Is this rabbit, sir?"
"Yes, my lord," the rogue boldly replied, "rabbit from the jungles."
"And this rabbit did not mew when he was killed?"
"Mew, my lord! What, a rabbit mew! I swear to you—"
"Be so good, landlord, as not to swear, but remember this: cats were
formerly considered, in India, as sacred animals. That was a good
"For the cats, my lord?"
"Perhaps for the travellers as well!"
After which Mr. Fogg quietly continued his dinner. Fix had gone on
shore shortly after Mr. Fogg, and his first destination was the
headquarters of the Bombay police. He made himself known as a London
detective, told his business at Bombay, and the position of affairs
relative to the supposed robber, and nervously asked if a warrant had
arrived from London. It had not reached the office; indeed, there had
not yet been time for it to arrive. Fix was sorely disappointed, and
tried to obtain an order of arrest from the director of the Bombay
police. This the director refused, as the matter concerned the London
office, which alone could legally deliver the warrant. Fix did not
insist, and was fain to resign himself to await the arrival of the
important document; but he was determined not to lose sight of the
mysterious rogue as long as he stayed in Bombay. He did not doubt for
a moment, any more than Passepartout, that Phileas Fogg would remain
there, at least until it was time for the warrant to arrive.
Passepartout, however, had no sooner heard his master's orders on
leaving the Mongolia than he saw at once that they were to leave Bombay
as they had done Suez and Paris, and that the journey would be extended
at least as far as Calcutta, and perhaps beyond that place. He began
to ask himself if this bet that Mr. Fogg talked about was not really in
good earnest, and whether his fate was not in truth forcing him,
despite his love of repose, around the world in eighty days!
Having purchased the usual quota of shirts and shoes, he took a
leisurely promenade about the streets, where crowds of people of many
nationalities—Europeans, Persians with pointed caps, Banyas with round
turbans, Sindes with square bonnets, Parsees with black mitres, and
long-robed Armenians—were collected. It happened to be the day of a
Parsee festival. These descendants of the sect of Zoroaster—the most
thrifty, civilised, intelligent, and austere of the East Indians, among
whom are counted the richest native merchants of Bombay—were
celebrating a sort of religious carnival, with processions and shows,
in the midst of which Indian dancing-girls, clothed in rose-coloured
gauze, looped up with gold and silver, danced airily, but with perfect
modesty, to the sound of viols and the clanging of tambourines. It is
needless to say that Passepartout watched these curious ceremonies with
staring eyes and gaping mouth, and that his countenance was that of the
greenest booby imaginable.
Unhappily for his master, as well as himself, his curiosity drew him
unconsciously farther off than he intended to go. At last, having seen
the Parsee carnival wind away in the distance, he was turning his steps
towards the station, when he happened to espy the splendid pagoda on
Malabar Hill, and was seized with an irresistible desire to see its
interior. He was quite ignorant that it is forbidden to Christians to
enter certain Indian temples, and that even the faithful must not go in
without first leaving their shoes outside the door. It may be said
here that the wise policy of the British Government severely punishes a
disregard of the practices of the native religions.
Passepartout, however, thinking no harm, went in like a simple tourist,
and was soon lost in admiration of the splendid Brahmin ornamentation
which everywhere met his eyes, when of a sudden he found himself
sprawling on the sacred flagging. He looked up to behold three enraged
priests, who forthwith fell upon him; tore off his shoes, and began to
beat him with loud, savage exclamations. The agile Frenchman was soon
upon his feet again, and lost no time in knocking down two of his
long-gowned adversaries with his fists and a vigorous application of
his toes; then, rushing out of the pagoda as fast as his legs could
carry him, he soon escaped the third priest by mingling with the crowd
in the streets.
At five minutes before eight, Passepartout, hatless, shoeless, and
having in the squabble lost his package of shirts and shoes, rushed
breathlessly into the station.
Fix, who had followed Mr. Fogg to the station, and saw that he was
really going to leave Bombay, was there, upon the platform. He had
resolved to follow the supposed robber to Calcutta, and farther, if
necessary. Passepartout did not observe the detective, who stood in an
obscure corner; but Fix heard him relate his adventures in a few words
to Mr. Fogg.
"I hope that this will not happen again," said Phileas Fogg coldly, as
he got into the train. Poor Passepartout, quite crestfallen, followed
his master without a word. Fix was on the point of entering another
carriage, when an idea struck him which induced him to alter his plan.
"No, I'll stay," muttered he. "An offence has been committed on Indian
soil. I've got my man."
Just then the locomotive gave a sharp screech, and the train passed out
into the darkness of the night.