CHAPTER 1: IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG AND PASSEPARTOUT ACCEPT EACH OTHER, THE ONE AS MASTER, THE OTHER AS MAN AROUND THE WORLD IN 80 DAYS
Mr. Phileas Fogg lived, in 1872, at No. 7,
Saville Row, Burlington Gardens, the house in which Sheridan died in 1814. He
was one of the most noticeable members of the Reform Club, though he seemed
always to avoid attracting attention; an enigmatical personage, about whom
little was known, except that he was a polished man of the world. People said
that he resembled Byron—at least that his head was Byronic; but he was a
bearded, tranquil Byron, who might live on a thousand years without growing old.
Certainly an Englishman, it was more
doubtful whether Phileas Fogg was a Londoner. He was never seen on 'Change, nor
at the Bank, nor in the counting-rooms of the "City"; no ships ever
came into London docks of which he was the owner; he had no public employment;
he had never been entered at any of the Inns of Court, either at the Temple, or
Lincoln's Inn, or Gray's Inn; nor had his voice ever resounded in the Court of
Chancery, or in the Exchequer, or the Queen's Bench, or the Ecclesiastical
Courts. He certainly was not a manufacturer; nor was he a merchant or a
gentleman farmer. His name was strange to the scientific and learned societies,
and he never was known to take part in the sage deliberations of the Royal
Institution or the London Institution, the Artisan's Association, or the
Institution of Arts and Sciences. He belonged, in fact, to none of the numerous
societies which swarm in the English capital, from the Harmonic to that of the
Entomologists, founded mainly for the purpose of abolishing pernicious insects.
Phileas Fogg was a member of the Reform,
and that was all.
The way in which he got admission to this
exclusive club was simple enough.
He was recommended by the Barings, with
whom he had an open credit. His cheques were regularly paid at sight from his
account current, which was always flush.
Was
Phileas Fogg rich? Undoubtedly. But those who knew him best could not imagine
how he had made his fortune, and Mr. Fogg was the last person to whom to apply
for the information. He was not lavish, nor, on the contrary, avaricious; for,
whenever he knew that money was needed for a noble, useful, or benevolent
purpose, he supplied it quietly and sometimes anonymously. He was, in short,
the least communicative of men. He talked very little, and seemed all the more
mysterious for his taciturn manner. His daily habits were quite open to
observation; but whatever he did was so exactly the same thing that he had
always done before, that the wits of the curious were fairly puzzled.
Had
he travelled? It was likely, for no one seemed to know the world more familiarly;
there was no spot so secluded that he did not appear to have an intimate
acquaintance with it. He often corrected, with a few clear words, the thousand
conjectures advanced by members of the club as to lost and unheard-of
travellers, pointing out the true probabilities, and seeming as if gifted with
a sort of second sight, so often did events justify his predictions. He must
have travelled everywhere, at least in the spirit.
It was at least certain that Phileas Fogg
had not absented himself from London for many years. Those who were honoured by
a better acquaintance with him than the rest, declared that nobody could
pretend to have ever seen him anywhere else. His sole pastimes were reading the
papers and playing whist. He often won at this game, which, as a silent one,
harmonised with his nature; but his winnings never went into his purse, being
reserved as a fund for his charities. Mr. Fogg played, not to win, but for the
sake of playing. The game was in his eyes a contest, a struggle with a difficulty,
yet a motionless, unwearying struggle, congenial to his tastes.
Phileas Fogg was not known to have either
wife or children, which may happen to the most honest people; either relatives
or near friends, which is certainly more unusual. He lived alone in his house
in Saville Row, whither none penetrated. A single domestic sufficed to serve
him. He breakfasted and dined at the club, at hours mathematically fixed, in
the same room, at the same table, never taking his meals with other members,
much less bringing a guest with him; and went home at exactly midnight, only to
retire at once to bed. He never used the cosy chambers which the Reform
provides for its favoured members. He passed ten hours out of the twenty-four
in Saville Row, either in sleeping or making his toilet. When he chose to take
a walk it was with a regular step in the entrance hall with its mosaic
flooring, or in the circular gallery with its dome supported by twenty red
porphyry Ionic columns, and illumined by blue painted windows. When he
breakfasted or dined all the resources of the club—its kitchens and pantries,
its buttery and dairy—aided to crowd his table with their most succulent
stores; he was served by the gravest waiters, in dress coats, and shoes with
swan-skin soles, who proffered the viands in special porcelain, and on the
finest linen; club decanters, of a lost mould, contained his sherry, his port,
and his cinnamon-spiced claret; while his beverages were refreshingly cooled
with ice, brought at great cost from the American lakes.
If to live in this style is to be
eccentric, it must be confessed that there is something good in eccentricity.
The mansion in Saville Row, though not
sumptuous, was exceedingly comfortable. The habits of its occupant were such as
to demand but little from the sole domestic, but Phileas Fogg required him to
be almost superhumanly prompt and regular. On this very 2nd of October he had
dismissed James Forster, because that luckless youth had brought him
shaving-water at eighty-four degrees Fahrenheit instead of eighty-six; and he
was awaiting his successor, who was due at the house between eleven and
half-past.
Phileas Fogg was seated squarely in his
armchair, his feet close together like those of a grenadier on parade, his
hands resting on his knees, his body straight, his head erect; he was steadily
watching a complicated clock which indicated the hours, the minutes, the
seconds, the days, the months, and the years. At exactly half-past eleven Mr.
Fogg would, according to his daily habit, quit Saville Row, and repair to the
Reform.
A rap at this moment sounded on the door
of the cosy apartment where Phileas Fogg was seated, and James Forster, the
dismissed servant, appeared.
"The new servant," said he.
A young man of thirty advanced and bowed.
"You are a Frenchman, I
believe," asked Phileas Fogg, "and your name is John?"
"Jean,
if monsieur pleases," replied the newcomer, "Jean Passepartout, a
surname which has clung to me because I have a natural aptness for going out of
one business into another. I believe I'm honest, monsieur, but, to be
outspoken, I've had several trades. I've been an itinerant singer, a
circus-rider, when I used to vault like Leotard, and dance on a rope like
Blondin. Then I got to be a professor of gymnastics, so as to make better use
of my talents; and then I was a sergeant fireman at Paris, and assisted at many
a big fire. But I quitted France five years ago, and, wishing to taste the
sweets of domestic life, took service as a valet here in England. Finding
myself out of place, and hearing that Monsieur Phileas Fogg was the most exact
and settled gentleman in the United Kingdom, I have come to monsieur in the
hope of living with him a tranquil life, and forgetting even the name of
Passepartout."
"Passepartout
suits me," responded Mr. Fogg. "You are well recommended to me; I
hear a good report of you. You know my conditions?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Good! What time is it?"
"Twenty-two minutes after
eleven," returned Passepartout, drawing an enormous silver watch from the
depths of his pocket.
"You are too slow," said Mr.
Fogg.
"Pardon me, monsieur, it is
impossible—"
"You are four minutes too slow. No
matter; it's enough to mention the error. Now from this moment, twenty-nine
minutes after eleven, a.m., this Wednesday, 2nd October, you are in my
service."
Phileas Fogg got up, took his hat in his
left hand, put it on his head with an automatic motion, and went off without a
word.
Passepartout heard the street door shut
once; it was his new master going out. He heard it shut again; it was his
predecessor, James Forster, departing in his turn. Passepartout remained alone
in the house in Saville Row.
to be continued...
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