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; he had never been
entered at any of the Inns of
Court, either at the Temple,
or Lincoln's Inn, or Gray's Inn;
nor had his voice ever resounded
in the Court of Chancery, or
in the Exchequer, or the Queen's
Bench, or the Ecclesiastical
Courts. 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, and he
never was known to take part
in the sage deliberations of
the Royal Institution or the
London Institution, the Artisan's
Association, or the Institution
of Arts and Sciences. He belonged,
in fact, to none of the numerous
societies which swarm in the
English capital, from the Harmonic
to that of the Entomologists,
founded mainly for the purpose
of abolishing pernicious 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? Undoubtedly.
But those who knew him best could
not imagine how he had made his
fortune, and Mr. Fogg was the
last person to whom to apply
for the information. He was not
lavish, nor, on the contrary,
avaricious; for, whenever he
knew that money was needed for
a noble, useful, or benevolent
purpose, he supplied it quietly
and sometimes anonymously. 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 quite open
to observation; but whatever
he did was so exactly the same
thing that he had always done
before, that the wits of the
curious were fairly puzzled.
Had he travelled? It was likely,
for no one seemed to know the
world more familiarly; there
was no spot so secluded that
he did not appear to have an
intimate acquaintance with 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,
pointing out the true probabilities,
and seeming as if gifted with
a sort of second sight, so often
did events justify his predictions.
He must have travelled everywhere,
at least in the spirit.
It was at least certain that
Phileas Fogg had not 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 game, which,
as a silent one, 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 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 was not known
to have either wife or children,
which may happen to the most
honest people; either relatives
or near friends, which is certainly
more unusual. 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, 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 sleeping
or making his toilet. When he
chose to take a walk it was with
a regular step in the entrance
hall with its mosaic flooring,
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 buttery
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 proffered the viands in special
porcelain, and on the finest
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 confessed
that there is something good
in eccentricity.
The mansion in Saville Row,
though not sumptuous, was exceedingly
comfortable. The habits of its
occupant were such as to demand
but little from the sole domestic,
but Phileas Fogg required him
to be almost superhumanly 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 Fahrenheit
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 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
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 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 got to be a professor
of gymnastics, so as to make
better use of my talents; and
then I was a sergeant fireman
at Paris, and assisted at many
a big fire. But I quitted France
five 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 gentleman
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 after eleven," returned
Passepartout, 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 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 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.
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