Mr. Phileas Fogg[1] was an Englishman and lived in London. He was a noticeable member of the Reform Club[2]. He did not go to the Change[3], nor to the Bank, nor to the “City”. He did not have ships at London docks; he had no public employment; his voice did not resound in the Court of Chancery[4]. He certainly was not a manufacturer; he wasn’t a merchant or a farmer. His name was strange to the scientific and learned societies. He did not belong to 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 could not imagine how he made his fortune[5]. Mr. Fogg was not lavish, nor, on the contrary, avaricious. If 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.
Did he travel? It was likely, for no one knew the world more familiarly. He liked to read the papers and play whist. He often won at this game, which harmonised with his nature. But his winnings never went into his purse. They were reserved as a fund for his charities. Mr. Fogg played, not to win, but to play. The game was in his eyes a contest, a struggle with a difficulty.
Phileas Fogg had no wife or children. He lived alone in his house in Saville Row. He breakfasted and dined at the club, at fixed hours, in the same room, at the same table. He never took his meals with[6] other members. He went home at exactly midnight, only to retire at once to bed. He passed ten hours out of the twenty-four in Saville Row. The mansion in Saville Row was exceedingly comfortable. Phileas Fogg required his servant to be very prompt and regular. On the 2nd of October he dismissed James Forster[7], because that luckless youth brought him shaving-water at eighty-four degrees Fahrenheit[8] instead of eighty-six[9]. He was awaiting his successor, who was due at the house between eleven and half-past.
Phileas Fogg sat squarely in his armchair, his feet close together, his hands 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 of the cosy apartment where Phileas Fogg sat. James Forster, the dismissed servant, appeared.
“The new servant,” said he.
A young man advanced and bowed[10]. He was about thirty years old.
“You are a Frenchman, I think,” asked Phileas Fogg, “and your name is John?”
“Jean, if monsieur pleases,” replied the newcomer, “Jean Passepartout[11]. I had several trades. I was an itinerant singer[12], a circus-rider[13], when I danced on a rope. Then I was a professor of gymnastics; and then I was a sergeant fireman[14] at Paris. But I quitted France five years ago, and took service as a valet here in England.”
“Passepartout,” responded Mr. Fogg, “I heard a good report of you. You know my conditions?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Good! What time is it?”
“Twenty-two minutes after eleven,” returned Passepartout. He drew 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 saw people at Madame Tussaud’s[15] as lively as my new master!” (Madame Tussaud’s “people” are of wax).
Mr. Fogg was a perfect Englishman. He was so exact that he was never in a hurry, was always ready, and was economical. He always went to his destination by the short cut; he made no superfluous gestures, and was never moved or agitated. He was the most deliberate person in the world. He lived alone, and outside of every social relation.
As for Passepartout, he was a true Parisian of Paris[16]. He abandoned[17] his own country for England, took service as a valet. Passepartout was an honest fellow, with a pleasant face, soft-mannered and serviceable, with a good round head. 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.
Passepartout heard that Mr. Phileas Fogg was looking for a servant. He was sure that this was the place for him. He presented himself, and was accepted.
At half-past eleven, then, Passepartout found himself alone[18] in the house in Saville Row. He began its inspection[19] without delay. The clean, well-arranged, solemn mansion pleased him. It seemed to him like a snail’s shell, lighted and warmed by gas. He suddenly observed a card – 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.
