Mr. Phileas Fogg[1] lived in 1872, at No. 7, Saville Row[2]. He was one of the most noticeable members of the Reform Club[3]. Certainly an Englishman, it was more doubtful whether Phileas Fogg was a Londoner[4]. He was never seen on Change[5], nor at the Bank, nor in the “City”; no ships ever came into London docks of which he was the owner; he had no public employment; nor had his voice ever resounded in the Court of Chancery[6]. 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. He belonged, in fact, to none of the numerous societies in the English capital. Phileas Fogg was a member of the Reform, and that was all.
Was Phileas Fogg rich? Undoubtedly. But those who knew him best could not imagine how he had made his fortune[7], and Mr. Fogg was the last person to whom to apply for this information. He was not lavish, nor avaricious; for, whenever he knew that money was needed for a noble, useful, or benevolent purpose, he supplied it quietly and sometimes anonymously. He talked very little. His daily habits were quite open to observation.
Had he travelled? It was likely, for no one seemed to know the world more familiarly. He must have traveled everywhere, at least in the spirit[8].
His sole pastimes were reading the papers and playing whist. He often won, which 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[9] playing. The game was in his eyes a contest, a struggle with a difficulty.
Phileas Fogg was not known to have either wife or children. He lived alone in his house in Saville Row. He breakfasted and dined at the club, at hours mathematically fixed, in the same room, at the same table, never taking his meals[10] with other members, and went home at exactly midnight, only to retire at once to bed. He passed ten hours out of the twenty-four in Saville Row. His mansion was exceedingly comfortable, and to achieve this, Phileas Fogg required his servant to be almost superhumanly prompt and regular. On this very 2nd of October he had dismissed James Forster[11], because that luckless youth had brought him shaving-water at eighty-four degrees Fahrenheit[12] instead of eighty-six[13], 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, 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. A rap sounded on the door and James Forster, the dismissed servant, appeared, along with a stranger.
“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[14]. I believe I’m honest, monsieur, but I’ve had several trades. I’ve been an itinerant singer[15], a circus-rider[16], when I used to dance on a rope. Then I got to be a professor of gymnastics; and then I was a sergeant fireman[17] at Paris. But I quitted France five years ago, and took service as a valet here in England.”
“Passepartout,” 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.
“Your watch is too slow,” said Mr. Fogg.
“Pardon me, monsieur, it is impossible—”
“Four minutes 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.”
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 remained alone in the house in Saville Row.
“Oh,” muttered Passepartout, “I’ve seen people at Madame Tussaud’s[18] as lively as my new master!” Madame Tussaud’s “people,” let it be said, are of wax, and are much visited in London.
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. Calm and phlegmatic, with a clear eye, Mr. Fogg seemed a perfect type of that English composure. 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 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. He lived alone, and, so to speak, outside of every social relation.
