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, BurlingtonGardens, the house in which Sheridan died in 1814. He was one of themost noticeable members of the Reform Club, though he seemed always toavoid attracting attention; an enigmatical personage, about whom littlewas known, except that he was a polished man of the world. People saidthat he resembled Byron--at least that his head was Byronic; but he wasa bearded, tranquil Byron, who might live on a thousand years withoutgrowing old.
Certainly an Englishman, it was more doubtful whether Phileas Fogg wasa Londoner. He was never seen on 'Change, nor at the Bank, nor in thecounting-rooms of the "City"; no ships ever came into London docks ofwhich he was the owner; he had no public employment; he had never beenentered at any of the Inns of Court, either at the Temple, or Lincoln'sInn, or Gray's Inn; nor had his voice ever resounded in the Court ofChancery, or in the Exchequer, or the Queen's Bench, or theEcclesiastical Courts. He certainly was not a manufacturer; nor was hea merchant or a gentleman farmer. His name was strange to thescientific and learned societies, and he never was known to take partin the sage deliberations of the Royal Institution or the LondonInstitution, the Artisan's Association, or the Institution of Arts andSciences. He belonged, in fact, to none of the numerous societieswhich swarm in the English capital, from the Harmonic to that of theEntomologists, founded mainly for the purpose of abolishing perniciousinsects.
Phileas Fogg was a member of the Reform, and that was all.
The way in which he got admission to this exclusive club was simpleenough.
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 couldnot imagine how he had made his fortune, and Mr. Fogg was the lastperson to whom to apply for the information. He was not lavish, nor,on the contrary, avaricious; for, whenever he knew that money wasneeded for a noble, useful, or benevolent purpose, he supplied itquietly and sometimes anonymously. He was, in short, the leastcommunicative of men. He talked very little, and seemed all the moremysterious for his taciturn manner. His daily habits were quite opento observation; but whatever he did was so exactly the same thing thathe had always done before, that the wits of the curious were fairlypuzzled.
Had he travelled? It was likely, for no one seemed to know the worldmore familiarly; there was no spot so secluded that he did not appearto have an intimate acquaintance with it. He often corrected, with afew clear words, the thousand conjectures advanced by members of theclub as to lost and unheard-of travellers, pointing out the trueprobabilities, and seeming as if gifted with a sort of second sight, sooften did events justify his predictions. He must have travelledeverywhere, at least in the spirit.
It was at least certain that Phileas Fogg had not absented himself fromLondon for many years. Those who were honoured by a betteracquaintance with him than the rest, declared that nobody could pretendto have ever seen him anywhere else. His sole pastimes were readingthe papers and playing whist. He often won at this game, which, as asilent one, harmonised with his nature; but his winnings never wentinto his purse, being reserved as a fund for his charities. Mr. Foggplayed, not to win, but for the sake of playing. The game was in hiseyes 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 mayhappen to the most honest people; either relatives or near friends,which is certainly more unusual. He lived alone in his house inSaville Row, whither none penetrated. A single domestic sufficed toserve him. He breakfasted and dined at the club, at hoursmathematically fixed, in the same room, at the same table, never takinghis meals with other members, much less bringing a guest with him; andwent home at exactly midnight, only to retire at once to bed. He neverused the cosy chambers which the Reform provides for its favouredmembers. 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 walkit was with a regular step in the entrance hall with its mosaicflooring, or in the circular gallery with its dome supported by twentyred porphyry Ionic columns, and illumined by blue painted windows.When he breakfasted or dined all the resources of the club--itskitchens and pantries, its buttery and dairy--aided to crowd his tablewith their most succulent stores; he was served by the gravest waiters,in dress coats, and shoes with swan-skin soles, who proffered theviands in special porcelain, and on the finest linen; club decanters,of a lost mould, contained his sherry, his port, and hiscinnamon-spiced claret; while his beverages were refreshingly cooledwith ice, brought at great cost from the American lakes.
If to live in this style is to be eccentric, it must be confessed thatthere is something good in eccentricity.
The mansion in Saville Row, though not sumptuous, was exceedinglycomfortable. The habits of its occupant were such as to demand butlittle from the sole domestic, but Phileas Fogg required him to bealmost superhumanly prompt and regular. On this very 2nd of October hehad dismissed James Forster, because that luckless youth had broughthim shaving-water at eighty-four degrees Fahrenheit instead ofeighty-six; and he was awaiting his successor, who was due at the housebetween eleven and half-past.
Phileas Fogg was seated squarely in his armchair, his feet closetogether like those of a grenadier on parade, his hands resting on hisknees, his body straight, his head erect; he was steadily watching acomplicated 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 repairto the Reform.
A rap at this moment sounded on the door of the cosy apartment wherePhileas 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 isJohn?"
"Jean, if monsieur pleases," replied the newcomer, "Jean Passepartout,a surname which has clung to me because I have a natural aptness forgoing out of one business into another. I believe I'm honest,monsieur, but, to be outspoken, I've had several trades. I've been anitinerant 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 ofgymnastics, so as to make better use of my talents; and then I was asergeant fireman at Paris, and assisted at many a big fire. But Iquitted France five years ago, and, wishing to taste the sweets ofdomestic life, took service as a valet here in England. Finding myselfout of place, and hearing that Monsieur Phileas Fogg was the most exactand settled gentleman in the United Kingdom, I have come to monsieur inthe hope of living with him a tranquil life, and forgetting even thename of Passepartout."
"Passepartout suits me," responded Mr. Fogg. "You are well recommendedto 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 anenormous 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 theerror. 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 headwith an automatic motion, and went off without a word.
Passepartout heard the street door shut once; it was his new mastergoing out. He heard it shut again; it was his predecessor, JamesForster, departing in his turn. Passepartout remained alone in thehouse in Saville Row.