Madame Tussaud's
"people," let it be said, are of wax, and are much visited in London;
speech is all that is wanting to make them human.
During his brief
interview with Mr. Fogg, Passepartout had been carefully observing him. He
appeared to be a man about forty years of age, with fine, handsome features,
and a tall, well-shaped figure; his hair and whiskers were light, his forehead
compact and unwrinkled, his face rather pale, his teeth magnificent. His
countenance possessed in the highest degree what physiognomists call
"repose in action," a quality of those who act rather than talk. Calm
and phlegmatic, with a clear eye, Mr. Fogg seemed a perfect type of that
English composure which Angelica Kauffmann has so skilfully represented on
canvas. Seen in the various phases of his daily life, he gave the idea of being
perfectly well-balanced, as exactly regulated as a Leroy chronometer. Phileas Fogg
was, indeed, exactitude personified, and this was betrayed even in the
expression of his very hands and feet; for in men, as well as in animals, the
limbs themselves are expressive of the passions.
He was so exact that he
was never in a hurry, was always ready, and was economical alike of his steps
and his motions. He never took one step too many, and always went to his
destination by the shortest cut; he made no superfluous gestures, and was never
seen to be moved or agitated. He was the most deliberate person in the world,
yet always reached his destination at the exact moment.
He lived alone, and, so
to speak, outside of every social relation; and as he knew that in this world
account must be taken of friction, and that friction retards, he never rubbed
against anybody.
As for Passepartout, he
was a true Parisian of Paris. Since he had abandoned his own country for
England, taking service as a valet, he had in vain searched for a master after
his own heart. Passepartout was by no means one of those pert dunces depicted
by Moliere with a bold gaze and a nose held high in the air; he was an honest
fellow, with a pleasant face, lips a trifle protruding, soft-mannered and
serviceable, with a good round head, such as one likes to see on the shoulders
of a friend. His eyes were blue, his complexion rubicund, his figure almost
portly and well-built, his body muscular, and his physical powers fully
developed by the exercises of his younger days. His brown hair was somewhat
tumbled; for, while the ancient sculptors are said to have known eighteen
methods of arranging Minerva's tresses, Passepartout was familiar with but one
of dressing his own: three strokes of a large-tooth comb completed his toilet.
It would be rash to
predict how Passepartout's lively nature would agree with Mr. Fogg. It was
impossible to tell whether the new servant would turn out as absolutely
methodical as his master required; experience alone could solve the question.
Passepartout had been a sort of vagrant in his early years, and now yearned for
repose; but so far he had failed to find it, though he had already served in
ten English houses. But he could not take root in any of these; with chagrin,
he found his masters invariably whimsical and irregular, constantly running
about the country, or on the look-out for adventure. His last master, young
Lord Longferry, Member of Parliament, after passing his nights in the Haymarket
taverns, was too often brought home in the morning on policemen's shoulders.
Passepartout, desirous of respecting the gentleman whom he served, ventured a
mild remonstrance on such conduct; which, being ill-received, he took his
leave. Hearing that Mr. Phileas Fogg was looking for a servant, and that his
life was one of unbroken regularity, that he neither travelled nor stayed from
home overnight, he felt sure that this would be the place he was after. He
presented himself, and was accepted, as has been seen.
At half-past eleven,
then, Passepartout found himself alone in the house in Saville Row. He begun
its inspection without delay, scouring it from cellar to garret. So clean,
well-arranged, solemn a mansion pleased him; it seemed to him like a snail's
shell, lighted and warmed by gas, which sufficed for both these purposes. When
Passepartout reached the second story he recognised at once the room which he
was to inhabit, and he was well satisfied with it. Electric bells and
speaking-tubes afforded communication with the lower stories; while on the
mantel stood an electric clock, precisely like that in Mr. Fogg's bedchamber, both
beating the same second at the same instant. "That's good, that'll
do," said Passepartout to himself.
He suddenly observed,
hung over the clock, a card which, upon inspection, proved to be a programme of
the daily routine of the house. It comprised all that was required of the
servant, from eight in the morning, exactly at which hour Phileas Fogg rose,
till half-past eleven, when he left the house for the Reform Club—all the
details of service, the tea and toast at twenty-three minutes past eight, the shaving-water
at thirty-seven minutes past nine, and the toilet at twenty minutes before ten.
Everything was regulated and foreseen that was to be done from half-past eleven
a.m. till midnight, the hour at which the methodical gentleman retired.
Mr. Fogg's wardrobe was
amply supplied and in the best taste. Each pair of trousers, coat, and vest
bore a number, indicating the time of year and season at which they were in
turn to be laid out for wearing; and the same system was applied to the
master's shoes. In short, the house in Saville Row, which must have been a very
temple of disorder and unrest under the illustrious but dissipated Sheridan,
was cosiness, comfort, and method idealised. There was no study, nor were there
books, which would have been quite useless to Mr. Fogg; for at the Reform two
libraries, one of general literature and the other of law and politics, were at
his service. A moderate-sized safe stood in his bedroom, constructed so as to
defy fire as well as burglars; but Passepartout found neither arms nor hunting
weapons anywhere; everything betrayed the most tranquil and peaceable habits.
Having scrutinised the
house from top to bottom, he rubbed his hands, a broad smile overspread his
features, and he said joyfully, "This is just what I wanted! Ah, we shall
get on together, Mr. Fogg and I! What a domestic and regular gentleman! A real
machine; well, I don't mind serving a machine."
to be continued...
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