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Around the World in Eighty Days
Chapter 1. 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 which he was the owner.
He had no public employment and had never been entered at any of the Inns of Court, the Temple, Lincoln's Inn, or Gray's Inn.
Nor had his voice ever resounded in the Court of Chancery, the Exchequer, the Queen's Bench, or the Ecclesiastical Courts.
He certainly wasn't a manufacturer, nor was he a merchant or a gentleman farmer.
His name was strange to the scientific and learned societies.
He was never known to take part in discussions at Royal Institution, London Institution, Artisan's Association or Institution of Arts and Sciences.
He belonged to none of the many societies in the English capital, from the Harmonic to that of the Entomologists.
They were mainly formed to get rid of harmful 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? No doubt, he had much money and lived without need.
Those who knew him best could not imagine how he had made his fortune, and Mr. Fogg was the last to ask.
He was not wasteful, nor, on the other hand, greedy.
Whenever he knew money was needed for good, useful, or kind purpose, he gave it quietly and sometimes without saying his name.
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 easy to see.
But whatever he did was always exactly the same, so the curious people were fairly puzzled.
Had he travelled? It seemed so, for he knew many foreign places well.
It was likely, for no one seemed to know the world better.
There was no spot so hidden that he did not seem to have deep knowledge of 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.
He pointed out the true probabilities and seemed gifted with a sort of second sight, for events so often justified his predictions.
He must have travelled everywhere, at least in the spirit.
It was at least certain that Phileas Fogg hadn't 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 quiet game, which matched his nature.
His winnings did not go into his purse but were kept 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 wasn't known to have a wife or children, this can happen, but having no relatives or friends is rarer.
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.
He ate in the same room at the same table and never took his meals with other members.
He never brought 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, he moved with a regular step in the entrance hall, which had mosaic flooring.
He also walked in the circular gallery, its dome supported by twenty red porphyry Ionic columns and illumined by blue painted windows.
When he ate, the club's kitchens, pantries, buttery and dairy filled his table with their best food.
He was served by the gravest waiters in dress coats and swan-skin shoes, who offered dishes on special porcelain and linen.
Club bottles of an old style held his sherry, his port, and his cinnamon claret.
His drinks were 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's something good in eccentricity.
The mansion in Saville Row, though not sumptuous, was exceedingly comfortable.
His habits needed little from the one servant, but Phileas Fogg wanted him to be nearly on time and steady.
On this 2nd of October he dismissed James Forster, because the youth brought shaving-water at eighty-four degrees Fahrenheit instead of eighty-six.
He was awaiting his successor, who was due at the house between eleven and half-past.
Phileas Fogg sat straight in his armchair with his feet close together like those of a grenadier on parade.
His hands rested on his knees, his body was straight, and his head was erect.
He steadily watched 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're a Frenchman, I believe," asked Phileas Fogg, "and your name is John?"
Jean, if monsieur pleases, replied the newcomer, Jean Passepartout, a surname that stays with me because I move from one job to 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 became a teacher of gymnastics to use my skills better."
"After that I was a sergeant fireman in Paris and helped at many large fires".
But I quitted France five years ago, and, wishing to taste the sweets of domestic life, took service as a valet here in England.
Out of work and heard Monsieur Phileas Fogg was the most exact and settled gentleman in United Kingdom, I came to monsieur.
I hope to live with him a tranquil life.
I even hope to forget the name of Passepartout.
"Passepartout suits me," responded Mr. Fogg.
"You're 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're too slow," said Mr. Fogg.
"Pardon me, monsieur, it's impossible, "
"You're 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're in my service."
Phileas Fogg got up, took his hat in his left hand, put it on, and left 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.