Chapter I
IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG
AND PASSEPARTOUT
ACCEPT EACH OTHER, THE
ONE AS MASTER, THE
OTHER AS MAN
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
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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
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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
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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
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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.
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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
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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.'
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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.
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Chapter II
IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT
IS CONVINCED THAT HE HAS
AT LAST FOUND HIS IDEAL
'Faith,' muttered Passepartout, somewhat flurried, 'I've
seen people at Madame Tussaud's as lively as my new
master!'
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
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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
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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
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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.
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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-
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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.'
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Chapter III
IN WHICH A
CONVERSATION TAKES
PLACE WHICH SEEMS LIKELY
TO COST PHILEAS FOGG
DEAR
Phileas Fogg, having shut the door of his house at half-
past eleven, and having put his right foot before his left
five hundred and seventy-five times, and his left foot
before his right five hundred and seventy-six times,
reached the Reform Club, an imposing edifice in Pall
Mall, which could not have cost less than three millions.
He repaired at once to the dining-room, the nine
windows of which open upon a tasteful garden, where the
trees were already gilded with an autumn colouring; and
took his place at the habitual table, the cover of which had
already been laid for him. His breakfast consisted of a side-
dish, a broiled fish with Reading sauce, a scarlet slice of
roast beef garnished with mushrooms, a rhubarb and
gooseberry tart, and a morsel of Cheshire cheese, the
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