Jules Verne · a new plain-English translation from the original language
No one is unaware that India—this great inverted triangle whose base is to the north and whose point is to the south—comprises an area of fourteen hundred thousand square miles, over which is unevenly spread a population of one hundred and eighty million inhabitants. The British government exercises a real dominion over a certain part of this immense country. It maintains a governor general at Calcutta, governors at Madras, Bombay, and Bengal, and a lieutenant governor at Agra.
But British India proper counts only an area of seven hundred thousand square miles, with a population of a hundred to a hundred and ten million inhabitants. That is enough to say that a considerable part of the territory still escapes the Queen's authority; and indeed, among certain rajahs of the interior, fierce and terrible, Hindu independence is still absolute.
From 1756—when the first English establishment was founded on the site now occupied by the city of Madras—down to that year in which the great sepoy insurrection broke out, the famous East India Company was all-powerful. It gradually annexed the various provinces, bought from the rajahs for annuities that it paid little or not at all; it appointed its governor general and all its civil and military employees; but now it exists no longer, and the English possessions in India come directly under the Crown.
And so the appearance, the customs, the ethnographic divisions of the peninsula tend to change with each passing day. In the old days one traveled there by every ancient means of transport—on foot, on horseback, by cart, by wheelbarrow, by palanquin, on a man's back, by coach, and so on. Now steamboats ply the Indus and the Ganges at high speed, and a railway that crosses the whole width of India, branching out along its route, puts Bombay only three days from Calcutta.
The route of this railway does not follow a straight line across India. The distance as the crow flies is only a thousand to eleven hundred miles, and trains at no more than a moderate speed would not take three days to cover it; but this distance is increased by a third, at least, by the arc the railway describes as it climbs up to Allahabad in the north of the peninsula.
Here, in short, is the rough outline of the Great Indian Peninsular Railway. Leaving the island of Bombay, it crosses Salsette, leaps onto the mainland opposite Tannah, clears the range of the Western Ghats, runs northeast as far as Burhampour, threads across the roughly independent territory of Bundelkund, climbs up to Allahabad, bends toward the east, meets the Ganges at Benares, veers away from it slightly, and, coming back down to the southeast through Burdwan and the French town of Chandernagor, makes its terminus at Calcutta.
It was at half past four in the afternoon that the Mongolia's passengers had disembarked at Bombay, and the Calcutta train left at eight o'clock sharp.
So Mr. Fogg took leave of his partners, left the steamer, gave his servant the details of a few purchases to make, expressly instructed him to be at the station before eight o'clock, and, with his steady stride that beat the second like the pendulum of an astronomical clock, he made his way to the passport office.
Thus, of the wonders of Bombay, he thought of seeing none—neither the town hall, nor the magnificent library, nor the forts, nor the docks, nor the cotton market, nor the bazaars, nor the mosques, nor the synagogues, nor the Armenian churches, nor the splendid pagoda of Malabar Hill, adorned with two polygonal towers. He would gaze upon neither the masterpieces of Elephanta, nor its mysterious rock-cut chambers, hidden to the southeast of the roadstead, nor the Kanheri caves on Salsette Island, those admirable remnants of Buddhist architecture!
No! Nothing. On leaving the passport office, Phileas Fogg went quietly to the station, and there he had dinner served to him. Among other dishes, the head waiter felt bound to recommend to him a certain fricassee of "local rabbit," which he praised to the skies.
Phileas Fogg accepted the fricassee and tasted it conscientiously; but, in spite of its spiced sauce, he found it detestable.
He rang for the head waiter.
"Sir," he said, looking him straight in the eye, "is this rabbit?
—Yes, my lord," the rogue answered brazenly, "jungle rabbit.
—And this rabbit didn't meow when it was killed?
—Meow! Oh, my lord! A rabbit! I swear to you—
—Head waiter," Mr. Fogg went on coldly, "don't swear, and remember this: in the old days, in India, cats were regarded as sacred animals. Those were the good times.
—For the cats, my lord?
—And perhaps for the travelers too!"
This observation made, Mr. Fogg calmly went on with his dinner.
A few moments after Mr. Fogg, the agent Fix had also come off the Mongolia and hurried to the head of the Bombay police. He made known his standing as a detective, the mission he was charged with, his position with regard to the presumed perpetrator of the theft. Had a warrant of arrest come from London?... Nothing had come. And indeed the warrant, having left after Fogg, could not yet have arrived.
Fix was left greatly disconcerted. He tried to obtain from the director an order of arrest against Mr. Fogg. The director refused. The matter concerned the metropolitan administration, and that body alone could lawfully issue a warrant. This strictness of principle, this rigorous observance of legality, is perfectly understandable given English ways, which, in matters of individual liberty, admit no arbitrary action.
Fix did not press the point and understood that he would have to resign himself to waiting for his warrant. But he resolved not to lose sight of his impenetrable rogue for the whole time the man remained in Bombay. He had no doubt that Phileas Fogg would stay there, and, as we know, that was Passepartout's conviction too—which would give the warrant of arrest time to arrive.
But since the last orders his master had given him on leaving the Mongolia, Passepartout had understood well enough that it would be with Bombay as it had been with Suez and Paris, that the journey would not end here, that it would continue at least to Calcutta, and perhaps beyond. And he began to wonder whether this bet of Mr. Fogg's wasn't entirely serious, and whether fate wasn't dragging him—who wanted to live in peace—into going around the world in eighty days!
Meanwhile, and after acquiring a few shirts and socks, he wandered through the streets of Bombay. There was a great throng of common folk, and, amid Europeans of every nationality, Persians in pointed caps, Bunhyas in round turbans, Sindhis in square caps, Armenians in long robes, Parsis in black miters. It happened to be a festival being celebrated by these Parsis, or Guebres, direct descendants of the followers of Zoroaster, who are the most industrious, the most civilized, the most intelligent, the most austere of the Hindus—the race to which the wealthy native merchants of Bombay now belong. That day they were celebrating a kind of religious carnival, with processions and entertainments in which appeared dancing girls dressed in rose-colored gauze brocaded with gold and silver, who, to the sound of viols and the din of tom-toms, danced marvelously, and, moreover, with perfect decency.
Whether Passepartout watched these curious ceremonies, whether his eyes and ears opened inordinately wide to see and hear, whether his look, his whole face was that of the greenest booby imaginable—there is no need to dwell on it here.
Unfortunately for him and for his master, whose journey he came near to compromising, his curiosity drew him farther than was proper.
In fact, after catching a glimpse of that Parsi carnival, Passepartout was heading toward the station when, passing before the admirable pagoda of Malabar Hill, he had the unlucky idea of visiting its interior.
He was unaware of two things: first, that entry into certain Hindu pagodas is strictly forbidden to Christians, and second, that the believers themselves may not enter without having left their shoes at the door. It should be noted here that, out of sound policy, the English government, respecting—and requiring respect for, down to its most trivial details—the religion of the country, severely punishes anyone who violates its practices.
Passepartout, having gone in there without a thought of harm, like a mere tourist, was admiring, inside Malabar Hill, that dazzling tinsel of Brahmin ornamentation, when suddenly he was thrown down onto the sacred flagstones. Three priests, their eyes full of fury, hurled themselves upon him, tore off his shoes and socks, and set about raining blows on him, letting out savage cries.
The Frenchman, vigorous and agile, sprang up at once. With a punch and a kick, he knocked over two of his adversaries, badly hampered in their long robes, and, darting from the pagoda with every ounce of speed in his legs, he soon outdistanced the third Hindu, who had thrown himself on his trail, rousing the crowd.
At five to eight, only a few minutes before the train's departure, hatless, barefoot, having lost in the scuffle the parcel containing his purchases, Passepartout reached the railway station.
Fix was there, on the boarding platform. Having followed Mr. Fogg to the station, he had understood that this rogue was about to leave Bombay. He at once resolved to accompany him to Calcutta and farther if need be. Passepartout did not see Fix, who kept to the shadows, but Fix overheard the account of his adventures, which Passepartout related in a few words to his master.
"I hope this won't happen to you again," Phileas Fogg replied simply, taking his seat in one of the train's carriages.
The poor fellow, barefoot and thoroughly crestfallen, followed his master without a word.
Fix was about to get into a separate carriage when a thought held him back and abruptly changed his plan to leave.
"No, I'm staying," he said to himself. "An offense committed on Indian soil... I've got my man."
At that moment, the locomotive let out a vigorous whistle, and the train vanished into the night.