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CHAPTER ONE In Which Phileas Fogg and Passepartout Accept Each Other, the One as Master and the Other as Servant
In the year 1872, No. 7 Savile Row, Burlington Gardens[1] ‑ the house where Sheridan[2] died in 1814 ‑ was occupied by Phileas Fogg,[3] Esq. This gentleman was one of the most remarkable, and indeed most remarked upon, members of the Reform Club,[4] although he seemed to go out of his way to do nothing that might attract any attention. One of the greatest public speakers to honour his country had thus been replaced by the aforesaid Phileas Fogg. The latter was an enigmatic figure about whom nothing was known, except that he was a thorough gentleman and one of the most handsome figures in the whole of high society. He was said to look like Byron[5]: his head at least, for his feet were beyond reproach ‑ but a mustachioed and bewhiskered Byron, an impassive Byron, one who might have lived for a thousand years without ever growing old. Although clearly British, Mr Fogg might not have been a Londoner. He had never been spotted in the Stock Exchange, the Bank, or the City. The basins and docks of London had never berthed a ship for an owner called Phileas Fogg. This gentleman was not on any board of directors. His name had never rung out in a barristers' chambers, whether at the Temple, Lincoln's Inn, or Gray's Inn. He had never pleaded in the Courts of Chancery, Queen's Bench, or Exchequer, nor in an Ecclesiastical Court.[6] He was not engaged in industry, business, commerce, or agriculture. He did not belong to the Royal Institution of Great Britain, the London Institution, the Artizan Society, the Russell Institution, the Western Literary Institution, the Law Society, nor even that Society for the Combined Arts and Sciences[7] which enjoys the direct patronage of Her Gracious Majesty. In sum, he was not a member of any of the associations that breed so prolifically in the capital of the United Kingdom, from the Harmonic Union[8] to the Entomological Society, founded chiefly with the aim of exterminating harmful insects.[9] Phileas Fogg belonged to the Reform Club ‑ and that was all. Should anyone express surprise that such a mysterious gentleman be numbered amongst the members of that distinguished society,[10] it can be pointed out here that he was accepted on the recommendation of Messrs Baring Brothers,[11] with whom he had an unlimited overdraft facility. Hence a certain 'profile', for his cheques were always paid on sight and his account remained invariably in the black. Was this Phileas Fogg well off? Without any doubt. But how he had made his fortune, even the best informed could not say. And Mr Fogg was the last person one would have approached to find out. In any case, while in no way extravagant, he was not tight‑fisted either. Whenever support was needed for some noble, useful, or generous cause, he would provide it, noiselessly and even anonymously. In short, the least communicative of men. He spoke as little as possible, and so seemed all the more difficult to fathom.[12] His life was transparent, but what he did was always so mathematically the same, that one's imagination, disturbed, tried to look beyond. Had he travelled? Probably, because no one possessed the map of the world as he did. Nowhere was so remote that he didn't seem to have some inside knowledge of it. Sometimes he would rectify, briefly and clearly, the thousand ideas about temporarily or permanently lost travellers that spread through the clubs. He would demonstrate the most likely outcome; and he had seemed gifted with second sight, so often had the facts in the end borne out what he had said. He was a man who must have been everywhere ‑ in his imagination at the very least. What seemed certain, all the same, was that Mr Fogg had not been away from London for some years. Those who had the honour of knowing him a little better than most attested that, apart from the shortest route he took each day from his house to the Club, nobody could claim ever to have seen him anywhere else. His only pastimes were reading the newspapers and playing whist. It fitted his nature entirely that he often won at this silent game. His winnings, however, never stayed in his wallet, but formed instead a major part of his contributions to charity. In any case it should be pointed out that Mr Fogg clearly played for playing's sake, not so as to win. Whist was for him a challenge, a struggle against a difficulty, but one that required no action, no travel, and no fatigue ‑ and so perfectly suited his character. As far as anyone knew, Phileas Fogg had neither wife nor children ‑ which can happen to the most respectable ‑ nor friends nor relatives ‑ admittedly much rarer. Phileas Fogg lived alone in his house on Savile Row, and no one visited. Nobody ever knew what went on inside. A single servant attended to all his needs. He took lunch and dinner at the Club at chronometrically set times, always at the same place in the same room, never inviting his colleagues, never sharing his table with anyone else.[13] He never used those comfortable rooms that the Reform Club likes to place at the disposal of its members, but always went home and retired straight to bed on the stroke of midnight. He spent ten out of every twenty‑four hours at home, whether sleeping or dressing and preparing to going out. If he went for a walk, it was invariably at a regular pace around the entrance‑hall with its carefully laid‑out parquet, or else along the circular gallery which is lit by its round cupola with blue glass and supported by twenty Ionic columns of red porphyry.[14] If he lunched or dined, the succulent dishes on his table were supplied by the kitchens, pantry, larder, fish store, or dairy of the Club. It was the servants of the self‑same Club, serious figures in dress-coats and shoes soled with thick felt, who served him using special china on an admirable Saxony table‑cloth. It was the Club crystal, from long‑lost moulds, that accommodated his sherry, port, or claret, spiced with maidenhair, cinnamon sticks, and ground cassia bark. And it was Club ice, brought over at huge expense from the Great Lakes, that maintained his wine at a satisfactorily cool temperature.[15] If to live in such conditions is to be an eccentric, then it has to be admitted that eccentricity has its good points! Although not palatial, the house on Savile Row was remarkable for its level of comfort. Because of the regular habits of its occupant, the service was far from onerous. Nevertheless, Phileas Fogg demanded an extraordinary punctuality and reliability from his one servant. That very day, 2 October, he had given notice to James Forster: the fellow had made the mistake of bringing in his shaving-water at a temperature of 84°F, rather than the statutory 86. Mr Fogg was even now expecting his successor, due to report between eleven and half past. Phileas Fogg sat squarely in his armchair, both feet together like a soldier on parade, hands firmly on knees, body erect, and head held high. He was watching the hand moving on the clock: a complicated apparatus that showed the hours, minutes, seconds, days, dates, and years. In keeping with his daily habit, Mr Fogg was due to go to the Reform Club on the stroke of 11.30. A knock came on the door of the morning-room where Phileas Fogg was waiting. James Forster, the sacked servant, appeared. 'The new valet,' he announced. A man of about thirty came in and bowed. 'You are French and called John?' 'Jean, if sir pleases ‑ Jean Passepartout,[16] a nickname that has stuck with me and was first applied due to my natural ability to get out of scrapes. I consider myself an honest fellow, sir, but if truth be told I have had several occupations. I used to be a wandering singer and a circus rider; I was a trapeze artist like Léotard[17] and a tightrope walker like Blondin;[18] then I became a gymnastics instructor in order to make greater use of my skills; and lastly I was a sergeant in the Paris Fire Brigade. I have some remarkable fires in my C.V. But I left France five years ago: wishing to try family life, I became a personal manservant in England. Then, finding myself without a job, I heard that Mr Phileas Fogg was the most particular and stay‑at‑home man in the whole of the United Kingdom. I presented myself at sir's house in the hope of being able to live in peace and quiet and forget the very name of Passepartout . . .' 'Passepartout suits me very well. You have been recommended to me ‑ I have excellent references on your account. Are you aware of my terms?' 'Yes, sir.' 'Very well, then. What time do you make it?' 'Eleven twenty‑two,' replied Passepartout, pulling an enormous silver watch from the depths of his waistcoat pocket. 'Your watch is slow.' 'Pardon me, sir, but that's impossible.' 'You're four minutes slow. It is of no consequence. What matters is to note the difference. So, starting from this moment, 11.29 a.m. on Wednesday, 2 October 1872, you are in my employ.' Whereupon Phileas Fogg got up, took his hat in his left hand, placed it on his head with the action of an automaton, and vanished without uttering another word. Passepartout heard the front door shut once: that was his new master going out; then a second time: his predecessor James Forster leaving in turn. He stood alone in the house on Savile Row.
CHAPTER TWO Where Passepartout Is Convinced That He Has Finally Found His Idealtc \l1 "CHAPTER TWOWhere Passepartout Is Convinced That He Has Finally Found His Ideal
'I do believe', he said, a little dazed at first, 'that I have bumped into blokes at Madame Tussaud's[19] with as much life in them as my new boss!' It is germane to say here that the 'blokes' at Madame Tussaud's are waxworks in London, which, lacking only the power of speech, attract large numbers of sightseers. During the short time of his interview, Passepartout had been quickly but carefully examining his future master. He was about forty years old, with a fine and noble face, tall, and none the worse for a slight tendency to stoutness. He had fair hair and sideboards, a smooth forehead with no sign of wrinkles at the temples, a complexion that was pale rather than florid, and splendid teeth. This man seemed to possess to an exceptional degree what the physiognomists call 'repose in action', a quality of all those who produce more light than heat. Calm, phlegmatic, with clear eyes and a steady gaze, he was a consummate example of those self‑possessed people encountered quite frequently in Britain ‑ Angelica Kauffmann[20] has painted them to perfection, captured in somewhat academic positions. In the different phases of his existence, this gentleman gave the impression of being perfectly balanced in all his parts, weighted and poised, as flawless as a chronometer by Leroy or Earnshaw.[21] The truth was that Phileas Fogg was precision personified. This could easily be seen in the 'expression of his feet and hands', for in man, just like the animals, the members are veritable organs that express the passions.[22] Phileas Fogg was one of those mathematically precise people, never in a hurry[23] but always prepared, economical with his steps and movements. He never took a pace too far, and invariably found the shortest path. He never wasted glances on the ceiling. He allowed himself no unnecessary gestures. Nobody had ever seen him aroused or troubled. He was the least rushed man in the world, but always came on time. In fairness, it should be pointed out that Mr Fogg lived alone and therefore free from all social contact. He knew that in life you can't avoid rubbing against people ‑ and since rubbing slows you down, he rubbed himself up against no one.[24] As for Jean, known as Passepartout, he was a real Parisian from Paris.[25] But he had been working as a gentleman's gentleman in London for five years, while looking, in vain, for a master he could become attached to. Passepartout was not one of those Frontins or Mascarilles[26] with shoulders shrugged and noses in the air, self‑assured and steely eyed, who are nothing but impudent rascals. No, Passepartout was an honest fellow, with a pleasant physiognomy and slightly sticking‑out lips always ready to taste or kiss. A gentle being, ever prepared to help, he was endowed with one of those good round heads that you like to see on a friend's shoulders. He had blue eyes, a ruddy complexion, and a face that was fat enough to see its own cheeks. He possessed a broad chest, a large frame, vigorous muscles, and a herculean strength that the activities of his youth had admirably developed. His brown hair was a little unruly. If the Classical sculptors knew eighteen ways of arranging Minerva's tresses,[27] Passepartout knew only one for his: three broad‑toothed comb‑strokes and he was ready. Elementary caution does not permit to say whether this fellow's expansive character would fit in with Phileas Fogg's. Would Passepartout be the thoroughly punctual servant his master required? The only way to know was to try him out.[28] Having spent, as has been said, a wandering youth, Passepartout was now looking for a peaceful existence. Having heard much good spoken about British methodism [29] and the proverbial reserve of the gentlemen, he had come to seek his fortune in England. But up till now, fate had not been kind to him. He had never been able to put roots down anywhere. He had worked his way through ten houses. In each he had found an unruly or a changeable character ‑ running after girls or foreign parts ‑ and such a life no longer appealed to him.[30] His last master, young Lord Longsferry, MP, habitually spent the night in the Oyster Rooms of Haymarket,[31] coming back home only too often draped over policemen's shoulders. Wishing above all to be able to look up to his master, Passepartout had risked a few respectful observations, but these, unfortunately, had not been received at all well; so he left. At this point, he had learned that Phileas Fogg, Esq., was looking for a manservant. He made enquiries about this personage. A character whose life was so regular, who never spent a night out, who didn't travel, who never went away even for a day, could only suit him. He presented himself and was accepted in the manner that the reader already knows. Eleven‑thirty having struck, Passepartout found himself alone in the house on Savile Row. He immediately began an inspection, systematically working his way up from the cellar to the attic. The house was clean, well ordered, austere, puritanical, in sum designed for service; and it pleased him. The impression it made was of a fine snail's shell, but a shell lit and heated by gas, since carburetted hydrogen proved quite sufficient for all its needs. Passepartout found his bedroom on the second floor without difficulty. It met with his satisfaction. An electric bell and speaking‑tubes communicated with the mezzanine and first‑floor apartments. On the mantelpiece an electric clock kept perfect time with the clock in Phileas Fogg's bedroom, the two devices striking the second simultaneously.[32] 'This is a piece of all right, suits me down to the ground, down to the ground!' he said to himself. He spotted a card displayed above the clock in his room. It was the schedule of his daily duties. From eight in the morning, the regulation time when Phileas Fogg got up, till half‑past eleven, when he left for his lunch at the Reform Club, it specified all the details of the service he was to provide: the tea and toast at 8.23, the water for shaving at 9.37, the hairdressing at twenty to ten, etc. Then from 11.30 a.m. until twelve midnight, when the methodical gentleman went to bed, everything was noted, planned, regulated. Passepartout took great pleasure in contemplating this schedule and committing its various entries to memory. As for Monsieur's wardrobe, it was well organized and perfectly comprehensive. Each pair of trousers, waistcoat, or jacket bore an order number. This number was marked on a register of incoming and outgoing items, showing the date on which each garment was to be worn, depending on the time of the year. Likewise for the shoes. In sum, the house on Savile Row ‑ surely a temple to disorder in the days of the illustrious but dissipated Sheridan ‑ constituted a well‑appointed abode showing that its inhabitant was very comfortably off. There was no library and no books ‑ of no use to Mr Fogg as the Reform Club put two libraries at his disposal, one devoted to literature, and the other to law and politics.[33] In the bedroom stood a safe of average size, built to withstand both fire and theft. No arms were to be found in the house, neither hunting gear nor weapons of war. Everything pointed to the most pacific of habits. Having examined the residence in detail, Passepartout rubbed his hands together. His broad face beamed, and he exclaimed cheerfully: 'To the ground. Just what I need. We'll get on famously, Mr Fogg and me. A home‑loving and regular man. A genuine piece of machinery. Well, I shan't mind serving a machine!'
CHAPTER THREE Where a Conversation Starts That May Cost Phileas Fogg Deartc \l1 "CHAPTER THREEWhere a Conversation Starts That May Cost Phileas Fogg Dear Phileas Fogg had left his house on Savile Row at half‑past eleven and placed his right foot 575 times in front of his left and his left foot 576 times in front of his right. He had thus reached the Reform Club, a vast edifice in Pall Mall that cost no less than ,120,000 to build.[34] Mr Fogg immediately made his way to the dining-room, whose nine windows opened out on to a fine garden with trees already turned to gold by the autumn. There he sat at his usual table with the service laid out ready for him. Lunch consisted of an hors d'œuvre of steamed fish in a Reading Sauce of the highest quality, scarlet roast beef with mushrooms, rhubarb‑and‑gooseberry tart, and some Cheshire cheese [35] ‑ all washed down with a few cups of that excellent tea specially grown for the Reform Club. At 12.47, the gentleman got up and moved into the vast drawing room, a sumptuous area adorned with paintings in elaborate frames. There a servant gave him an uncut copy of The Times,[36] which Phileas Fogg managed to unfold and cut with a proficiency indicating great experience of that exacting operation. Reading this newspaper occupied Phileas Fogg until 3.45, and the Standard [37] ‑ which came next ‑ until dinner. This meal took place in the same way as luncheon, but with the addition of Royal British Sauce. At twenty minutes to six the gentleman returned to the huge drawing room and absorbed himself in the Morning Chronicle. Half an hour later, various members of the Reform Club made their entrance and headed for the hearth, where a good coal fire was burning. These were the usual partners of Mr Phileas Fogg, like him fanatical whist players: the engineer Andrew Stuart, the bankers John Sullivan and Samuel Fallentin, the brewer Thomas Flanagan, and Gauthier Ralph,[38] one of the governors of the Bank of England ‑ figures of considerable wealth and respectability, even in this club composed of the leading lights of industry and finance. 'Well, Ralph,' asked Thomas Flanagan, 'what's the latest news on this theft business?' 'Well', answered Andrew Stuart, 'the Bank won't see its money again.' 'I am confident, on the contrary,' intervened Gauthier Ralph, 'that we will soon be able to lay our hands on the thief. Very smart police inspectors have been sent to America, the Continent, and all the main ports of entry and exit, so that this gentleman will have quite a job escaping them.' 'But do we have the thief's description?' asked Andrew Stuart. 'First of all, he's not a thief,' Ralph replied quite seriously. 'What, not a thief, this individual who's made off with ,55,000 worth of banknotes?'[39] 'No,' answered Gauthier Ralph. 'So he's a manufacturer, is he?' enquired John Sullivan. 'The Morning Chronicle assures us that he is a gentleman.' The person making this remark was none other than Phileas Fogg, whose head now emerged from the sea of paper piled up around him. At the same time Mr Fogg greeted his colleagues, who returned the compliment. The case in question ‑ which the various newspapers were heatedly discussing ‑ had taken place three days previously, on 29 September. A wad of notes amounting to the enormous sum of ,55,000 had been taken from the desk of the Chief Cashier of the Bank of England. To those surprised that such a theft could be carried out so easily, Assistant Governor Gauthier Ralph merely replied that the Cashier was at that time occupied recording a receipt of 3s. 6d., and that one cannot keep one's eyes on everything. It is important to note ‑ and this makes the matter slightly easier to fathom ‑ that that remarkable establishment, the Bank of England, seems to possess the utmost regard for the public's dignity. No guards, no retired soldiers, no grills. The gold, the silver, and the notes are left lying about, at the mercy, as it were, of the first passer‑by. It would be unthinkable to cast doubt on the honesty of a member of the public. One of the acutest observers of British society even recounts the following incident: he was in a room in the Bank one day, and felt the wish to examine more closely a gold bar weighing about seven or eight pounds, lying on the cashier's desk. He took the ingot, examined it, then passed it on to his neighbour, who handed it on to someone else, with the result that it went from hand to hand to the end of a dark corridor, then half an hour later returned to its normal place ‑ without the cashier even looking up.[40] But on 29 September, things didn't happen quite like that. The wad of banknotes never came back, and when the magnificent clock dominating the 'drawing‑office' announced that it was five o'clock and that the offices were closing, the Bank of England had no choice but to pass ,55,000 through its account of profits and losses. Once the theft had been properly recorded, 'detectives'[41] chosen from among the best policemen were sent to the main ports of Liverpool, Glasgow, Le Havre, Suez, Brindisi, New York, etc. They had been promised a reward of ,2,000 plus 5 per cent of the sum recovered. While waiting for the information that the promptly initiated enquiries would clearly produce, the job of the inspectors was to carefully observe everyone entering and leaving the country. Now, as the Morning Chronicle had pointed out, there was in fact very good reason to believe that the thief did not belong to any of the known criminal gangs of England. During that same day of 29 September, a well‑dressed gentleman with good manners and a distinguished bearing had been noticed walking to and fro in the cash room where the theft took place. The enquiries had allowed a relatively accurate description of the gentleman to be produced, and it had been immediately sent to every detective in the United Kingdom and Europe. Some optimistic souls, Gauthier Ralph amongst them, believed consequently that the thief would find it difficult to escape. As one can imagine, this case was in the news in London and everywhere else. People discussed it and took impassioned positions for or against the Metropolitan Police being successful. The reader will not therefore be surprised to learn that the members of the Reform Club also debated the question, all the more so since one of the Bank's Assistant Governors was amongst their number. The esteemed Gauthier Ralph did not doubt the success of the enquiries, believing that the reward on offer would ensure that the police showed due zeal and intelligence. But his colleague Andrew Stuart was far from sharing his confidence. Accordingly the discussion continued at the whist table, with Stuart partnering Flanagan and Fallentin, Phileas Fogg. During the game the players did not speak, but between the rubbers the conversation carried on all the more heatedly. 'I maintain', said Stuart, 'that the odds are in favour of the thief, who is clearly an experienced operator.' 'Come on!' answered Ralph. 'There's not a single country left he can hide in.' 'Really?' 'And where do you think he might go, then?' 'I can't say,' replied Stuart. 'But after all, the world is big enough.' 'It used to be,' Fogg said quietly.[42] 'Will you cut,' he added, presenting the cards to Flanagan. The discussion was interrupted by the play. But soon Andrew Stuart said: 'What d'you mean, Aused to be@? Has the Earth suddenly got smaller by some chance?' 'Unquestionably it has,' responded Ralph. 'I share Mr Fogg's view. The Earth has shrunk because it can be covered ten times as quickly now as a hundred years ago. And in the case we are discussing, this will make the search faster.' 'And the thief's escape easier!' 'Your turn to play, Mr Stuart,' observed Fogg. But the doubting Stuart was not convinced, and once the game was over: 'You must admit, Ralph, that you have a funny way of saying the Earth has shrunk! Because you can now go round it in three months . . .' 'Eighty days,' interjected Fogg. 'Yes indeed, good sirs,' confirmed Sullivan. 'Eighty days, now they've opened the section of the Great Indian Peninsular Railway from Rothal to Allahabad. This is the calculation done by the Morning Chronicle:[43] London to Suez via the Mont Cenis Tunnel[44] and Brindisi, by railway and steamship......................................................................................... 7 days Suez to Bombay, by steamship................................................................. 13 " Bombay to Calcutta, by railway................................................................. 3 " Calcutta to Hong Kong (China), by steamship............................................ 13 " Hong Kong to Yokohama, by steamship.................................................... 6 " Yokohama to San Francisco, by steamship............................................... 22 " San Francisco to New York, by railroad..................................................... 7 " New York to London, by steamship and railway......................................... 9 " ______ Total............................................................................... 80 days
'Possibly 80 days!'* exclaimed Stuart, trumping a winner in his excitement. 'But not allowing for unfavourable weather, headwinds, shipwrecks, derailments, etc.' 'All included,' said Fogg, continuing to play ‑ for the discussion was no longer respecting the whist. 'Even if the Indians and Red Indians tear up the rails?' cried Stuart. 'Even if they stop the trains, plunder the carriages, and scalp the passengers?' 'All included,' repeated Phileas Fogg, laying down his hand. 'Two winning trumps.' Andrew Stuart picked up the hands and started shuffling. 'In theory you may be right, but in practice . . .' 'In practice too, Mr Stuart.' 'Well I should like to see you do it.' 'Your choice. Let's go together.' 'Heaven forbid!' exclaimed Stuart. 'But I would gladly wager ,4,000 that such a journey, carried out under the conditions specified, is simply not possible.' 'On the contrary, perfectly possible,' replied Fogg. 'Well do it, then!' 'Go round the world in 80 days?' 'Yes!' 'All right then.' 'Starting when?' 'Starting now.' 'It's pure madness!' cried Andrew Stuart, beginning to get annoyed by his partner's obstinacy. 'Let's get on with the game!' 'Please reshuffle, then,' said Phileas Fogg, 'because there's been a misdeal.' Andrew Stuart picked up the cards with a shaking hand; then, suddenly laying them back down again: 'Very well, Mr Fogg. I'll bet you ,4,000.' 'My dear Stuart,' said Fallentin, 'steady on. You can't be serious.' 'When I say I'll bet,' answered Stuart, 'it is always serious.' 'Very well!' said Mr Fogg, and turned to his colleagues: 'I have ,20,000 in my account at Baring Brothers. I'll be glad to venture this sum.' 'Twenty thousand!' cried Sullivan. 'Twenty thousand pounds that you could lose through an unforeseen mishap!' 'The unforeseen does not exist.' 'But, Mr Fogg, this period of 80 days is merely the minimum it can be done in!' 'A properly used minimum is enough for anything.' 'But in order to do it, you'll have to mathematically jump from trains into steamships and from steamships on to trains!' 'I'll jump mathematically.' 'You must be joking!' 'An Englishman never jokes about anything as important as a bet. I hereby wager ,20,000 with anyone who wishes that I will carry out the tour of the world in 80 days or less, i.e. in 1,920 hours or 115,200 minutes. Will you accept?' 'We accept,' replied Messrs Stuart, Fallentin, Sullivan, Flanagan, and Ralph after a brief discussion. 'Good. The boat‑train leaves at 8.45. I'll be on it.' 'This very evening?' enquired Stuart. 'This very evening,' answered Phileas Fogg. Then, consulting a pocket diary, 'Since today is Wednesday, 2 October, I must be back in London, in this drawing-room of the Reform Club, at 8.45 p.m. on Saturday, 21 December, failing which the ,20,000 presently deposited in my account at Baring Brothers will belong to you de facto and de jure. Here is a cheque for that amount, gentlemen.' The wager was witnessed and signed there and then by all six interested parties. Phileas Fogg had remained cool. He had certainly not bet in order to win, and he had pledged only ,20,000 ‑ half his fortune ‑ because he planned to spend the other half on this difficult, not to say impossible, undertaking. As for his adversaries, they seemed a little upset, not because of the amount at stake, but because they felt unhappy at fighting with such one‑sided odds. Seven o'clock struck. Mr Fogg was asked if he wanted to stop playing so as to make preparations for his departure. 'I'm always ready,' replied the impassive gentleman as he dealt. 'Diamonds are trumps,' he said. 'Your lead, I believe, Mr Stuart.'
CHAPTER FOUR
In Which Phileas Fogg Flabbergasts His Servant Passepartout
tc \l1 "CHAPTER FOURIn Which Phileas Fogg Flabbergasts His Servant PassepartoutAt 7.25 Phileas Fogg, having won a good twenty guineas, said goodbye to his honourable colleagues and left the Reform Club. At 7.50 he opened his front door and went in. Passepartout, who had meticulously studied the schedule, was a little surprised to see Mr Fogg displaying irregularity, by appearing at this most unusual time. According to the card, the tenant of Savile Row was not due back until the stroke of midnight. Phileas Fogg first went up to his room, and then called: 'Passepartout.' The manservant didn't reply. The call couldn't possibly be addressed to him. It wasn't the right time. 'Passepartout,' repeated Mr Fogg, not raising his voice. The manservant appeared. 'I had to call you twice.' 'But it's not midnight yet,' answered Passepartout, watch in hand. 'I know,' said Phileas Fogg, 'and I'm not finding fault. We're leaving for Calais in ten minutes.'[45] An experimental sort of grimace appeared on the Frenchman's round face. He couldn't have heard properly. 'Is sir travelling?' 'He is,' replied Phileas Fogg. 'We're going around the world.' Passepartout, his eyes wide‑staring, his eyebrows completely raised, his arms hanging loose, his whole body sagging, showed all the signs of an astonishment verging on stupefaction. 'Around the world?' he murmured. 'In 80 days,' was Mr Fogg's rejoinder. 'There is not a moment to lose.' 'But what about the trunks?' said Passepartout, unconsciously rocking his head from side to side.[46] 'No trunks. Just an overnight bag. Two woollen shirts and three pairs of stockings. The same for you. We'll buy things on the way. You will bring down my mackintosh and travelling rug. Wear stout shoes. Although we'll be doing little or no walking. Off you go now.'[47] Passepartout tried to reply. He couldn't. He left Mr Fogg's room, went up to his own, collapsed on to a chair, and uttered a slightly colloquial phrase from his native land: 'Well,' he said, 'I'll be blowed. And me who was looking for the quiet life!' And, mechanically, he got ready to leave. Around the world in 80 days! Was he dealing with a madman? Unlikely . . . Was it possibly a joke? They were going to Dover, okay. Calais: won't say no. After all, that had to be nice, as he hadn't set foot on his native soil for five years. Perhaps they would even go to Paris: he would certainly be glad to see the great capital again. But a gentleman so careful with his movements would clearly stop there. . . . Yes, that had to be it. But he was going to travel all the same, this gentleman, so stay‑at‑home until now! By eight o'clock, Passepartout had prepared a modest bag containing his own and his master's wardrobes. Then, his mind still troubled, he left the room, carefully closed the door, and went to find Mr Fogg. Mr Fogg was ready. He was carrying under his arm Bradshaw's Continental Railway, Steam Transit and General Guide, which would provide him with all the information he needed for his travels. He took the bag from Passepartout, opened it, and dropped in a thick wad of those fine banknotes that are tender in all countries. 'You haven't forgotten anything?' 'No, sir.' 'My mackintosh and rug?' 'They're here.' 'Good, take this.' Mr Fogg handed over the bag. 'And take care; there's ,20,000 inside.' The bag almost fell from Passepartout's hands, as if the ,20,000 had been in solid gold. Master and servant went downstairs and double‑locked the front door. There was a cab‑stand at the end of Savile Row. Phileas Fogg and his servant got into a cab which headed quickly for Charing Cross Station, one of the termini of the South‑Eastern Railway.[48] At 8.20 the cab drew up at the station entrance. Passepartout got out. His master followed and paid the driver. At this moment, a poor beggar‑woman holding a child by the hand, barefoot in the mud, a shawl in rags over her torn clothing, and wearing a ragged hat from which drooped a single bedraggled plume, came up to Mr Fogg and asked for charity. Mr Fogg got out the twenty guineas[49] he had just won at the whist table and gave them to the beggar. 'Take this, my good woman,' he said. 'I'm glad I met you.' And then he continued on his way. Passepartout felt a damp sensation in his eyes. His master had taken a step forward in his heart. The two men entered the concourse. Phileas Fogg instructed Passepartout to buy two first‑class tickets for Paris. Then, turning round, he noticed his five colleagues from the Reform Club. 'Gentlemen,' he said, 'I am leaving. The various visas stamped on the passport I am taking for this express purpose will allow you to verify my journey when I come back.' 'Oh, Mr Fogg!' replied Gauthier Ralph politely. 'There is no need. We shall count on your word as a gentleman.' 'Better all the same.' 'You haven't forgotten when you need to be back?' enquired Andrew Stuart. 'In 80 days,' answered Mr Fogg. 'On Saturday, 21 December 1872, at 8.45 p.m. Till we meet again, gentlemen.' At 8.40 Phileas Fogg and his servant sat down in the same compartment. At 8.45 a whistle sounded and the train pulled off. It was a dark night, with a drizzle falling. Phileas Fogg, sitting back in his corner, did not speak. Passepartout, still in a state of shock, was mechanically hugging the bag containing the banknotes. But the train had not got past Sydenham,[50] before Passepartout produced a real cry of despair! 'What's the matter?' asked Mr Fogg. 'The matter . . . in my hurry . . . thinking about other things . . . I forgot . . .' 'What?' '. . . to turn off the gas in my bedroom!' 'Well, my boy,' said Mr Fogg coldly, 'it's burning at your expense!'
CHAPTER FIVE In Which a New Stock Appears on the London Exchange
tc \l1 "CHAPTER FIVEIn Which a New Stock Appears on the London ExchangeWhen he left London, Phileas Fogg probably had no idea of the sensation his departure was going to produce. But the news of the wager spread through the Reform Club and generated considerable excitement amongst the members of that august circle. Then, from the Club this agitation passed to the newspaper reporters, and from the papers to readers in London and the whole of the United Kingdom.[51] This question of the Journey Round the World was commented on, discussed, and analysed with as much passion and ardour as a new Alabama Claim.[52] Some people supported Phileas Fogg; others ‑ who soon formed a significant majority ‑ came out against. A trip around the world, to be carried out by a deadline using the existing means of transport and not in theory nor on paper was not only impossible, it was crazy! The Times, the Standard, the Evening Star, the Morning Chronicle, and twenty other large‑circulation newspapers declared themselves against Mr Fogg. Only the Daily Telegraph supported him to a certain extent. Phileas Fogg was generally dismissed as a maniac or a lunatic, and his colleagues in the Reform Club suffered criticism for accepting this bet which showed that the person involved had undergone a decline in his mental faculties. Articles appeared on the question that were extremely passionate but totally logical. Everyone knows the interest the British take in anything to do with geography. Accordingly there was not a single reader, of whatever social class, who did not devour the column‑inches devoted to the Phileas Fogg case. In the early days, a smattering of bold spirits backed him ‑ mainly women ‑ especially when the Illustrated London News[53] published a likeness based on his photograph in the Reform Club files. Some gentlemen even went so far as to say, 'Well, well! But after all, why not? We've seen stranger things than that!' These were generally readers of the Daily Telegraph. But it soon became clear that even this newspaper's support was beginning to crumble. The reason was that a long article had appeared in the 7 October issue of the Proceedings of the Royal Geographic Society.[54] It considered the question from every point of view, and proved that the enterprise was clear madness. According to this article, everything was against the traveller, both man‑made and natural. To complete the expedition, there had to be a miraculous concordance of departure and arrival times, a concordance which did not exist and which could never exist. In most cases involving trains in Europe, one can count on arrivals at fixed times, for the distances involved were relatively short; but when one needs three days to cross India or seven for the United States, could one found the axioms of a theory on any punctuality? And what about breakdowns, derailments, collisions, bad weather, and snowdrifts ‑ wasn't everything against Phileas Fogg? On the steamships would he not be at the mercy of the winter squalls and fogs? Was it so rare for even the fastest intercontinental liners to be two or three days late? But it only needed one delay, just one, for the chain of communication to be irreparably broken. If Phileas Fogg missed the departure of a single steamship even by a few hours, he would have to wait for the next ship, and his journey would be ruined once and for all. This article caused a sensation. It was reprinted in almost all of the newspapers, and Phileas Fogg stocks went into free fall. During the first few days after the gentleman's departure, considerable sums had been wagered on the chances of his enterprise. Everyone knows that those who bet in England are cleverer and subtler than those who merely gamble. Betting is in the blood. Accordingly, not only did the various members of the Reform Club place considerable sums for and against Phileas Fogg, but the general public also took part in the proceedings. Phileas Fogg was registered like a racehorse, in a sort of 'studbook'. He was listed on the Stock Exchange, and a price was immediately quoted on the London market. 'Phileas Fogg' was asked for and offered as both a share and an option, with tremendous business being carried out. But five days after his departure, and following the article in the Geographical Society's Proceedings, the amount on offer began to increase significantly. Phileas Fogg shot down. He was sold hand over fist. People accepted 5 to 1, then 10 to 1, and in the end he was taken only at 20 to 1, 50 to 1, and finally 100 to 1. Only one supporter remained. This was old Lord Albermale, who was paralysed.[55] The noble lord, confined to his chair, would have given his fortune to be able to do the trip around the world even taking ten years! He bet ,5,000 on Phileas Fogg. Whenever people proved to him how useless the idea was, how idiotic even, he would merely reply, 'If the thing can be done at all, it is fitting that an Englishman should be the first to do it!' Things had reached this point, with Phileas Fogg's supporters getting rarer and rarer and everybody turning against him, not without reason. He could not be bought at less than 150 to 1, then 200 to 1 ‑ when, exactly a week after his departure, a completely unexpected incident meant he wasn't taken at all. At 9 p.m. on that day, the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police received the following telegram:
To: Rowan, Commissioner, Scotland Yard, London. Tailing bank‑robber Phileas Fogg. Send arrest warrant soonest Bombay (British India). Fix, Detective Inspector, Suez.
The effect of the telegram was considerable. The honourable gentleman vanished and his place was taken by the thief of the banknotes. His photograph, available at the Reform Club with those of all his colleagues, was duly studied. Every single feature in it appeared identical to those of the description produced by the enquiries. People remembered how mysterious Phileas Fogg's existence had been, his seclusion and his sudden departure; and it became evident that this character, inventing a journey around the world and maintaining the pretence with a senseless wager, had had no other aim than to throw the British police off the scent.
CHAPTER SIX In Which Detective Fix Shows a Highly Justifiable Impatiencetc \l1 "CHAPTER SIXIn Which Detective Fix Shows a Highly Justifiable Impatience
The telegram concerning Mr Phileas Fogg had been sent under the following circumstances. On that Wednesday, 9 October, the liner Mongolia was due to arrive at Suez at eleven in the morning. She belonged to the Peninsular and Oriental Steamship Company and was a screw‑driven iron steamer with a spar-deck, of 2,800 tons burden and 500 hp. The Mongolia plied regularly between Brindisi and Bombay via the Suez Canal.[56] She was one of P. & O.'s quickest ships, and had always exceeded the regulation speed, ten knots between Brindisi and Suez and 9.53 knots between Suez and Bombay. While waiting for the Mongolia's arrival, two men were strolling along the quayside. They formed part of the crowd of natives and foreigners who are at present streaming into this town, formerly little more than a village, but now guaranteed a great future, thanks to the magnificent work of M. de Lesseps.[57] Of the two men, one was the Consul of the United Kingdom in Suez. Despite the unfortunate predictions of the British Government and the sinister forecasts of the engineer Stephenson,[58] every day this official saw British ships going through the Canal, cutting the distance from Britain to the Indies via the Cape of Good Hope by half. The other was a thin little man with a fairly intelligent face, quick nervous movements, and constantly‑knit eyebrows. Through his long lashes shone very bright eyes, which, however, he was able to mask at will. At this particular moment he was showing signs of impatience, pacing up and down, unable to stay in one place for long. This man was called Fix,[59] and he was one of the 'detectives', or roving British policemen, who had been sent to the various ports after the theft at the Bank of England. Fix was to keep the sharpest look-out on all travellers on the Suez route, and, if one of them aroused his suspicion, to shadow him until he received a warrant for his arrest. Exactly two days previously, Fix had received the description of the suspected thief from the Commissioner of Scotland Yard. This was the distinguished, well‑dressed character who had been observed in the cash room of the Bank. The detective, very excited by the substantial reward promised in the case of success, was therefore waiting for the arrival of the Mongolia with understandable impatience. 'And you say', he asked the Consul for the tenth time, 'that the boat will soon be here?' 'Yes, Mr Fix. She was reported yesterday off Port Said, and it will not take long for such a fast ship to cover the 100 miles of the Canal. I repeat that the Mongolia has always earned the bonus of ,25 awarded by the Government for any ship that passes through the Canal 24 hours ahead of schedule.' 'So this ship has come straight from Brindisi then?' 'From Brindisi, where she picked up the mail for the Indies. She left at 5 p.m. on Saturday. So please be patient, she can't be long now. But with the description you've got, I really can't see how you'll be able to spot your man, even if he is on board the Mongolia.' 'People of that sort, you scent rather than recognize. Flair is everything. It's like a sixth sense: a combination of hearing, sight, and smell. I've arrested more than one of these gentlemen in my time, and provided that my thief is indeed on board, I can guarantee you that he will not slip through my fingers.' 'I hope so, for it was a big theft.' 'A magnificent theft!' the policeman replied with gusto. 'Fifty‑five thousand pounds! Such windfalls don't turn up very often! Thieves are getting parsimonious! The breed of Sheppard[60] is dying out! People go and get themselves hanged these days for a few shillings!' 'Mr Fix, you are speaking with such ardour that I sincerely wish you every success. But I repeat, I fear that your task may be difficult in the present circumstances. Do you realize that according to the description you've got, this thief looks exactly like an honest man?' 'With all due respect,' dogmatically answered the police inspector, 'great thieves always resemble honest men. It's obvious that those with wicked faces have no choice, they have to go straight, or else they would soon get themselves arrested. Honest faces are the ones you've got to take a special look at. A tough job, I must admit, and no longer a matter of experience, but a veritable art.' One can see that the aforesaid Fix did not underestimate his own abilities. Meanwhile the wharf was gradually becoming busier. Sailors of different nationalities, shopkeepers, brokers, porters, and fellahs were arriving in large numbers. The steamship was clearly due in soon. The weather was quite fine, but the air felt cold, with an easterly wind. A few minarets stood silhouetted above the town by the light of a pale sun. To the south, a jetty more than a mile long stretched out like an arm into the Suez shipping lanes. On the surface of the Red Sea several fishing and coastal vessels, some retaining the elegant form of the ancient galleys, were undulating in the wind. While wandering amongst the motley crowd, Fix stared briefly at each of the passers‑by, out of professional habit. It was half-past ten. 'But when is this ship going to arrive!' he cried on hearing the port clock strike. 'She can't be far off now,' replied the Consul. 'How long will she put in at Suez?' asked Fix. 'Four hours, the time to coal. The distance from Suez to Aden, at the other end of the Red Sea, is 1,310 nautical miles, and the boat needs to take on fuel supplies.' 'And from Suez, she goes directly to Bombay?' 'Directly, without unloading.' 'Well then,' said Fix, 'if the thief has taken this route and this boat, he must be planning to get off at Suez, so as to take a different route to the Dutch or French colonies in Asia. He must know full well that he will not be safe in India, which is British.' 'Unless he's a very cunning customer indeed,' answered the Consul. 'As you know, a British criminal is always better hidden in London than abroad.' This observation gave the policeman food for thought, and the Consul went back to his offices close by. The inspector remained alone, full of nervous impatience. He had a funny feeling that his thief simply had to be on board the Mongolia. If the rascal had left Britain hoping to get to the New World, the route via the Indies, less carefully watched than the Atlantic, or at least less easily watched, surely had to be his first choice. Fix did not spend long in his thoughts. Loud whistle blasts announced the arrival of the steamer. A whole horde of porters and fellahs headed for the quayside in a mad rush that was a little worrying for the passengers' limbs and clothing. A dozen boats put out from shore and headed off to meet the ship. Soon the gigantic hull of the Mongolia came into sight, gliding along between the banks of the Canal. Eleven o'clock was striking when the steamer dropped anchor in the road while steam burst noisily out of her escape pipes. There were quite a few passengers on board. Some remained on the spar-deck admiring the picturesque view of the town; but most got into the boats which had come alongside to meet the Mongolia. Fix examined everyone landing with the utmost care. At this moment, one of the passengers came up to him, having vigorously pushed away the fellahs assailing him with offers of service. He asked very politely if Fix could possibly tell him where to find the British Consulate. At the same time he held out a passport where he undoubtedly wished to have a British visa stamped. Fix instinctively took the passport, and quickly read the description. He barely managed to control an involuntary movement. The document trembled in his hands. The description in the passport was identical to the one received from the Commissioner of Scotland Yard. 'This isn't your own passport?' 'It's my master's.' 'And his whereabouts?' 'He's still on board.' 'He will need to go to the Consulate in person to establish his identity.' 'What, is that really necessary?' 'Indispensable.' 'And where are these offices?' 'On the corner of the square,' replied the inspector, pointing to a building about two hundred yards away. 'All right then, I'll go and get my master. But he won't be very pleased at being disturbed.' Whereupon, raising his hat to Fix, he went back on board the steamer.
CHAPTER SEVEN Which Shows Once More the Uselessness of Passports as a Means of Controltc \l1 "CHAPTER SEVENWhich Shows Once More the Uselessness of Passports as a Means of Control
The inspector went back down to the quayside and headed quickly for the British Consulate. He was so insistent that he was immediately ushered into the Consul's office. 'Sir,' he said coming straight to the point, 'I have strong reasons for believing that our man is on board the Mongolia.' And Fix recounted what had happened between him and the servant concerning the passport. 'Well, Mr Fix,' answered the Consul, 'I would be interested to see the thief's face. But I doubt whether he'll come to my office if he's the person you think he is. Thieves aren't generally very keen to leave trace of their movements behind them, and in any case passports are no longer required.' 'Sir, if he is as cunning a man as we think, he'll come!' 'To have his passport stamped?' 'Yes. Passports never serve any other purpose than to annoy honest citizens and help criminals escape. I assure you that his will be in order, but I hope very much that you will not agree to stamp it . . .' 'And why ever not? If his passport is in order,' replied the Consul, 'I have no right to refuse to stamp it.' 'Nevertheless, sir, I need to retain this man here until I get an arrest warrant from London.' 'Ah that, Mr Fix, is your problem! As far as I'm concerned, I cannot . . .' The Consul didn't finish his sentence. At that moment, a knock came on the door, and the clerk brought in two strangers, one of them the very servant the detective had spoken to. With him was his master, who presented his passport, laconically asking the Consul to kindly put his visa in it. The Consul took the passport and examined it conscientiously, while from a corner of the office Fix observed, or rather devoured, the stranger. When the Consul had finished, he asked: 'Are you Mr Phileas Fogg?' 'I am.' 'And this man is your servant?' 'He is. A Frenchman called Passepartout.' 'Have you just arrived from London?' 'Yes.' 'Heading for . . . ?' 'Bombay.' 'Very good, sir. You know that stamping serves no purpose and that we no longer require the presentation of passports?' 'I do,' answered Phileas Fogg; 'but I wish to use your stamp to prove I have passed through Suez.' 'Very well, sir.' And the Consul signed, dated, and stamped the passport. Mr Fogg paid, coolly raised his hat, and left the office followed by his servant. 'We‑ell?' asked the inspector. 'Well, he seems perfectly honest!' 'Maybe,' replied Fix, 'but that is hardly the point. Did you not find, sir, that this phlegmatic gentleman is the spitting image of the thief whose description I have?' 'Quite possibly, but as you know, all descriptions . . .' 'I want to be sure. The servant seems less enigmatic than the master. He's French as well, so he won't be able to keep his mouth shut. Till we meet again, sir.' And the detective went out in search of Passepartout. Meanwhile Mr Fogg had left the Consulate buildings and headed back to the quayside. There he gave his servant some orders, got into a boat, returned to the Mongolia, and retired to his cabin. He picked up his notebook, containing the following notes:
Left London, Wednesday, 2 October, 8.45 p.m. Arrived in Paris, Thursday, 3 October, 7.20 a.m. Left Paris, Thursday, 8.40 a.m. Arrived in Turin, via Mont Cenis, Friday, 4 October, 6.35 a.m. Left Turin, Friday, 7.20 a.m. Arrived in Brindisi, Saturday, 5 October, 4 p.m. Took the Mongolia, Saturday, 5 p.m. Arrived at Suez, Wednesday, 9 October, 11 a.m. Total time spent: 1582 hrs, or 62 days.
Mr Fogg wrote these dates down in a schedule divided into columns that ran from 2 October to 21 December. It indicated the month, date, and day for the expected and actual arrival times at each principal point:[61] Paris, Brindisi, Suez, Bombay, Calcutta, Singapore, Hong Kong, Yokohama, San Francisco, New York, Liverpool, and London. This allowed him to calculate how much he had saved or lost at each stage of his journey. His highly methodical travel‑plan thus included everything, and Mr Fogg always knew if he was ahead or behind. Accordingly, he noted his arrival in Suez as Wednesday, 9 October. Coinciding with the scheduled arrival time, this constituted neither gain nor loss. Then he took lunch in his cabin. As for seeing the town, he did not even think of it, being of that breed of Britons who have their servants do their sightseeing for them.
CHAPTER EIGHT In Which Passepartout Speaks Perhaps a Little More Freely Than He Shouldtc \l1 "CHAPTER EIGHTIn Which Passepartout Speaks Perhaps a Little More Freely Than He Should
Fix had quickly caught up with Passepartout on the quayside, who was strolling and looking about him, since he personally did not feel obliged to see nothing. 'Well, my friend,' said Fix. 'Is your passport now stamped?' 'Oh! It's you, sir,' answered the Frenchman. 'Much obliged. Our papers are perfectly in order.' 'And are you seeing the sights?' 'Yes, but we're doing everything so quickly that I seem to be travelling in a dream. We're in Suez, it would appear?' 'In Suez.' 'Which is in Egypt?' 'In Egypt, yes.' 'And in Africa?' 'And in Africa.' 'In Africa!' repeated Passepartout. 'I simply can't believe it. Just think, sir: I couldn't see myself going any further than Paris. I visited that wonderful city from 7.20 to 8.40 a.m., between the Gare du Nord and the Gare de Lyon. It was through the windows of a hackney cab and in the pouring rain! Such a shame. I would dearly have loved to see the Père‑Lachaise Cemetery and the Champs‑Elysées Circus[62] again!' 'So you're in a bit of hurry, are you?' 'I'm not, but my master is. Come to mention it, I must buy some socks and shirts. We left with no luggage, only an overnight bag.' 'I'll take you to a bazaar where you'll get everything you need.' 'Sir, you really are too kind!' And the two of them set off. Passepartout was still talking. 'One thing, I must make sure I don't miss the boat.' 'You've got plenty of time, it's not twelve o'clock yet.' Passepartout fished out his enormous watch. 'Twelve? Come on, it's only 9.52!' 'Your watch must be slow.' 'It can't be. My watch is a family heirloom, it belonged to my great‑grandfather. It never loses more than five minutes a year. It's a genuine chronometer!' 'I know what's happened. You've stayed on London time, which is about two hours behind Suez. You need to remember to adjust your watch in each new country.' 'Me touch my watch? Not a chance!' 'Well it just won't agree with the sun then.' 'So much the worse for the sun, sir! The sun will be wrong!' And the honest fellow put his watch back in its fob with a proud gesture. A few moments later, Fix continued: 'So you left London in a real hurry?' 'I should say so! Last Wednesday, Mr Fogg came back from the club at eight in the evening, a thing he never does ‑ and we left three‑quarters of an hour later.' 'But where's he going then?' 'Straight in front of him! He's going round the world.' 'Around the world!' 'Yes, in 80 days! A bet, says he. But just between the two of us, I don't believe a word of it. It wouldn't make sense. There must be something else in it.' 'Ah, so he's an eccentric, is he, this Mr Fogg?' 'So it would seem.' 'And wealthy?' 'Obviously. He's taken a nice little packet with him, in crisp new notes. And he doesn't mind spending it, either. Why, he's promised the chief engineer of the Mongolia a handsome reward if we get to Bombay ahead of time!' 'And have you known your master for long?' 'For long? I entered his service on the day we left.' One can easily imagine the effect these replies produced on the already ov |