F B P B.
He lived alone in his house in Saville Row, whither none
penetrated. A single domestic suced to serve him. He
breakfasted and dined at the club, at hours mathematically
xed, 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 sleep-
ing or making his toilet. When he chose to take a walk it
was with a regular step in the entrance hall with its mosaic
ooring, 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 but-
tery 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 proered
the viands in special porcelain, and on the nest 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 con-
fessed that there is something good in eccentricity.
e mansion in Saville Row, though not sumptuous,
was exceedingly comfortable. e habits of its occupant
were such as to demand but little from the sole domestic,
but Phileas Fogg required him to be almost superhumanly
A W D
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 Fahren-
heit 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 For-
ster, the dismissed servant, appeared.
‘e 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 outspo-
ken, 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. en I got to be a professor of gym-
nastics, so as to make better use of my talents; and then I
was a sergeant reman at Paris, and assisted at many a big
F B P B.
re. But I quitted France ve 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 gen-
tleman 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 aer eleven,’ returned Passepar-
tout, 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 aer eleven, a.m., this Wednesday, 2nd October,
you are in my service.’
Phileas Fogg got up, took his hat in his le hand, put it
on his head with an automatic motion, and went o with-
out a word.
Passepartout heard the street door shut once; it was his
new master going out. He heard it shut again; it was his pre-
decessor, James Forster, departing in his turn. Passepartout
remained alone in the house in Saville Row.
A W D
CHAPTER II
IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT
IS CONVINCED THAT
HE HAS AT LAST
FOUND HIS IDEAL
‘F
aith,’ muttered Passepartout, somewhat urried, ‘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 ne, handsome features, and
a tall, well-shaped gure; his hair and whiskers were light,
his forehead compact and unwrinkled, his face rather pale,
his teeth magnicent. His countenance possessed in the
highest degree what physiognomists call ‘repose in action,’
a quality of those who act rather than talk. Calm and phleg-
F B P B.
matic, with a clear eye, Mr. Fogg seemed a perfect type of
that English composure which Angelica Kaumann has so
skilfully represented on canvas. Seen in the various phases
of his daily life, he gave the idea of being perfectly well-bal-
anced, as exactly regulated as a Leroy chronometer. Phileas
Fogg was, indeed, exactitude personied, and this was be-
trayed even in the expression of his very hands and feet; for
in men, as well as in animals, the limbs themselves are ex-
pressive 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 mo-
tions. He never took one step too many, and always went
to his destination by the shortest cut; he made no superu-
ous 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 ser-
vice as a valet, he had in vain searched for a master aer 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 trie protruding, so-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,
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his gure 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 eigh-
teen 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 na-
ture would agree with Mr. Fogg. It was impossible to tell
whether the new servant would turn out as absolutely me-
thodical 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 nd 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, aer passing his nights
in the Haymarket taverns, was too oen brought home in
the morning on policemen’s shoulders. Passepartout, desir-
ous of respecting the gentleman whom he served, ventured
a mild remonstrance on such conduct; which, being ill-re-
ceived, 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
aer. He presented himself, and was accepted, as has been
seen.
F B P B.
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
suced 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 satised with it.
Electric bells and speaking-tubes aorded 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. ‘at’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 le the
house for the Reform Club—all the details of service, the
tea and toast at twenty-three minutes past eight, the shav-
ing-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 re-
tired.
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 ap-
A W D
plied 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. ere 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 lit-
erature and the other of law and politics, were at his service.
A moderate-sized safe stood in his bedroom, constructed
so as to defy re 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, ‘is is just what I wanted! Ah, we shall
get on together, Mr. Fogg and I! What a domestic and regu-
lar gentleman! A real machine; well, I don’t mind serving a
machine.’
F B P B.
CHAPTER III
IN WHICH A
CONVERSATION
TAKES PLACE WHICH
SEEMS LIKELY TO COST
PHILEAS FOGG DEAR
P
hileas Fogg, having shut the door of his house at half-
past eleven, and having put his right foot before his le
ve hundred and seventy-ve times, and his le foot be-
fore his right ve hundred and seventy-six times, reached
the Reform Club, an imposing edice 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 habit-
ual table, the cover of which had already been laid for him.
His breakfast consisted of a side-dish, a broiled sh with
Reading sauce, a scarlet slice of roast beef garnished with
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mushrooms, a rhubarb and gooseberry tart, and a morsel of
Cheshire cheese, the whole being washed down with several
cups of tea, for which the Reform is famous. He rose at thir-
teen minutes to one, and directed his steps towards the large
hall, a sumptuous apartment adorned with lavishly-framed
paintings. A unkey handed him an uncut Times, which
he proceeded to cut with a skill which betrayed familiarity
with this delicate operation. e perusal of this paper ab-
sorbed Phileas Fogg until a quarter before four, whilst the
Standard, his next task, occupied him till the dinner hour.
Dinner passed as breakfast had done, and Mr. Fogg re-ap-
peared in the reading-room and sat down to the Pall Mall at
twenty minutes before six. Half an hour later several mem-
bers of the Reform came in and drew up to the replace,
where a coal re was steadily burning. ey were Mr. Fogg’s
usual partners at whist: Andrew Stuart, an engineer; John
Sullivan and Samuel Fallentin, bankers; omas Flanagan,
a brewer; and Gauthier Ralph, one of the Directors of the
Bank of England— all rich and highly respectable person-
ages, even in a club which comprises the princes of English
trade and nance.
‘Well, Ralph,’ said omas Flanagan, ‘what about that
robbery?’
‘Oh,’ replied Stuart, ‘the Bank will lose the money.’
‘On the contrary,’ broke in Ralph, ‘I hope we may put our
hands on the robber. Skilful detectives have been sent to all
the principal ports of America and the Continent, and he’ll
be a clever fellow if he slips through their ngers.’
‘But have you got the robber’s description?’ asked Stuart.
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