Around the World in Eighty Days by Jules Verne, Extract

In which Phileas Fogg and Passepartout agree their relationship, that of master and servant

In the year 1872, the house at number 7 Savile Row, Burlington Gardens – the house in which Sheridan died in 1814 – was lived in by Phileas Fogg, Esq., one of the oddest and most striking members of the Reform Club, even though he seemed determined to avoid doing anything that might draw attention to himself.

And so one of the nation's most brilliant parliamentary speakers had been replaced by the enigmatic figure of Phileas Fogg, about whom nothing was known except that he was the most courteous of men and one of the most handsome gentlemen in English high society.

People compared him to Byron – because of his good looks, certainly not because of a limp – but a Byron with a moustache and whiskers, an impassive-looking Byron, who could have lived for a thousand years without showing the signs of age.

Though he was undoubtedly English, Phileas Fogg was not necessarily a Londoner. He had never been seen at the Stock Exchange or the Bank of England, or in any of the financial institutions of the City. No dock or basin in London had ever handled a ship whose owner was called Phileas Fogg. The gentleman in question did not figure on any list of board of directors. His name had never echoed through an Inn of Court, either the Temple, Lincoln's Inn or Gray's Inn. He had never pleaded in the Court of Chancery, nor on the Queen's Bench, nor in the Court of Exchequer, nor in the Ecclesiastical Court. 'He was neither a factory owner, nor a businessman, nor a merchant, nor a landowner. He was not a member of the Royal Institution, nor of the London Institution, nor of the Artisan Club, nor of the Russell Institution, nor of the Literary Society of the West of England, nor of the Law Society, nor of the Combined Society for the Arts and Sciences, which enjoys the direct patronage of her Gracious Majesty. He belonged to none of those numerous societies that proliferate in the English capital, from the Harmonic Society down to the Entomological Society, whose main purpose is the destruction of harmful insects.

Phileas Fogg was a member of the Reform Club, and that was it.

Anyone who may be surprised that a gentleman so shrouded in mystery should belong to this honourable association should realize that he had been admitted on the recommendation of Messrs Baring Brothers, with whom he had an account. His financial standing was such that his cheques went through immediately and his current account was always in credit.

Was Phileas Fogg a wealthy man? There could be no doubt about that. But even the best-informed people were unable to say where his wealth came from, and Mr Fogg was the last person they would have dared to ask directly. In any case, he was careful about money without being mean, since whenever a noble, useful or generous cause was short of funds, he made up the amount required without making a fuss, without even giving his name.

In a word, he was the most uncommunicative of gentlemen. He talked as little as possible and this silence served only to increase his aura of mystery. Though he lived his life quite openly, he carried out his activities with such mathematical precision that it fuelled other people's imagination.

Was he well travelled? Quite probably, since he had a better knowledge than anyone else of world geography. There wasn't a single out-of-the way place that he didn't seem to know in detail. Sometimes, by a brief but precise intervention, he corrected idle club speculation about travellers who had disappeared or got lost. He offered the most likely explanation of what had happened to them, and his words often seemed to be inspired by a second sight, since they were always borne out by events. Here was someone who must have travelled a lot – in his head, at any rate.

What was beyond doubt, however, was that Phileas Fogg had not been outside London for many years. Those who had the privilege of knowing him better than most could confirm that the only sightings of him were as he walked each day from his house straight to his club. His only pastimes were reading the newspapers and playing whist. He often won when he played this silent game that was so well suited to his temperament, but his winnings never went into his own pocket. They made up instead a large part of what he gave to charity. It should also be noted that it was obvious that Mr Fogg played for enjoyment and not to win. The game of whist was for him a combat, a struggle against difficulty, but a struggle that did not require him to go anywhere or travel around or tire himself out, and all that suited his temperament.

As far as was known, Phileas Fogg didn't have a wife or children – something that can happen to the most respectable of people – but he had no relatives or friends either, which is less common. Phileas Fogg lived alone in his house in Savile Row, and never let in visitors. The inside of his house was never mentioned. A single manservant was enough for his needs. He took lunch and dinner at the club like clockwork, always in the same dining-room and at the same table. He never entertained his fellow members at table, never invited guests, and went back home only to sleep, at exactly midnight, without ever making use of one of the comfortable bedrooms that the Reform Club makes available to its members. Out of every twenty-four hours he spent ten in his home, either sleeping or getting himself ready. When he went for a walk, it was always at a carefully measured pace and in the club's entrance hall, with its inlaid wooden floor, or in the round gallery, above which rose a blue stained-glass dome supported by twenty Ionian columns in red porphyry. When he had lunch or dinner, it was the club's kitchens, larder and pantry, its fish store and dairy, that supplied his table from their delicious reserves. It was the club's servants, solemn-looking figures dressed in black uniforms and wearing soft-soled shoes, who served the meal in special china and on the finest table linen. It was the club's cut glass, made to a one-off design, that held his sherry, his port or his claret served with cinnamon and herbs. It was also the club's ice, brought at great expense from the lakes of North America, that kept his drinks chilled to just the right temperature.

If this is what it means to be an eccentric, then it must be admitted that eccentricity has something to be said for it!

The house in Savile Row, without being luxurious, could be considered extremely comfortable. In any case, because the habits of its occupant never varied, serving him was a simple matter. However, Phileas Fogg required his only servant to be extremely punctual and reliable. On that particular day, 2 October, Phileas Fogg had dismissed James Forster, as the fellow had committed the crime of bringing him his water for shaving at a temperature of eighty-four degrees Fahrenheit, instead of eighty-six, and he was waiting for his replacement, who was due to arrive between eleven o'clock and half past eleven.

Phileas Fogg, firmly ensconced in his armchair, with his feet close together like those of a soldier on parade, with his hands on his knees, his back straight and his head raised, was watching the hands of the clock move forward. It was a complicated piece of machinery that showed the hour, the minute, the day, the month and the year. On the stroke of half past eleven Mr Fogg was due, according to his daily routine, to leave the house and go to the Reform Club.

Just at that moment there was a knock on the door of the small drawing-room in which Phileas Fogg was sitting. James Forster, the manservant who had just been dismissed, appeared.

'The new servant,' he said.

A man aged about thirty presented himself and bowed.

'You are French and your name is John?' Phileas Fogg asked him.

'Jean, if you please, sir,' replied the new arrival. 'Jean Passepartout, a nickname that has stuck and that I earned by my natural ability to get myself out of tricky situations. I consider myself to be a decent fellow, sir, but, to be quite honest with you, I've had several different jobs. I was a travelling singer, a horse-rider in a circus, a trapeze artist and a tightrope walker. Then I became a gymnastics instructor in order to put my talents to more practical use, and most recently I was a fireman in Paris. I've even been on the scene of some famous fires in my time. But five years ago I left France and, since then, because I wanted to live with a family, I've been a manservant in England. However, when I found myself without a position and when I learnt that Mr Phileas Fogg was the most precise and most stay-at-home person in the United Kingdom, I came to sir's house in the hope of being able to lead a quiet life and put behind me everything associated with Passepartout, even the name.'

'Passepartout suits me,' replied the gentleman. 'You have been recommended to me. I have good reports of you. Do you know my terms?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Good. What time do you make it?'

'Eleven twenty-two,' replied Passepartout, as he took out from the depths of his waistcoat pocket an enormous silver watch.

'Your watch is slow,' said Mr Fogg.

'Forgive me, sir, but that is impossible.'

'Your watch is four minutes slow. It's not important. All that matters is to note the difference in time. So from this moment onwards, eleven twenty-six on the morning of 2 October 1872, you are working for me.'

With that, Phileas Fogg got to his feet, took his hat in his left hand, put it on his head with the precision of clockwork and disappeared without saying another word.

Passepartout heard the front door close a first time: it was his master going out. Then it closed a second time: it was his predecessor, James Forster, leaving in turn.

Passepartout was now alone in the house in Savile Row.

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