Produced by Alex Kirstukas
Transcriber's Note: _Round the World in Eighty Days_ (London:
Routledge, 1878) was the third English translation of Jules Verne's
_Le tour du monde en quatre-vingts jours_ to be published. It has
since been greatly overshadowed by the 1873 version by George
Makepeace Towle (available on Project Gutenberg as EText-No. 103).
This text version of Frith's translation was transcribed from a Google
Books scan of an 1879 edition published in London by George Routledge
and Sons. The text and images used were generously made available by
the Internet Archive. All of Frith's deviations from Verne's text
have been retained, including such unusual spellings as "Passe-partout"
for "Passepartout" and "Maudiboy" for "Mandiboy," but obvious
typographical errors have been corrected.
ROUND THE WORLD IN EIGHTY DAYS
By Jules Verne
Translated by Henry Frith
CHAPTER I.
In which Phileas Fogg and Passe-partout accept, relatively, the
positions of Master and Servant.
In the year of grace One thousand eight hundred and seventy-two, the
house in which Sheridan died in 1816--viz. No. 7, Saville Row,
Burlington Gardens--was occupied by Phileas Fogg, Esq., one of the
most eccentric members of the Reform Club, though it always appeared
as if he were very anxious to avoid remark. Phileas had succeeded to
the house of one of England's greatest orators, but, unlike his
predecessor, no one knew anything of Fogg, who was impenetrable,
though a brave man and moving in the best society. Some people
declared that he resembled Byron--merely in appearance, for he was
irreproachable in tone--but still a Byron with whiskers and moustache:
an impassible Byron, who might live a thousand years and not get old.
A thorough Briton was Phileas Fogg, though perhaps not a Londoner. He
was never seen on the Stock Exchange, nor at the Bank of England, nor
at any of the great City houses. No vessel with a cargo consigned to
Phileas Fogg ever entered the port of London. He held no Government
appointment. He had never been entered at any of the Inns of Court. He
had never pleaded at the Chancery Bar, the Queen's Bench, the
Exchequer, or the Ecclesiastical Courts. He was not a merchant, a
manufacturer, a farmer, nor a man of business of any kind. He was not
in the habit of frequenting the Royal Institution or any other of the
learned societies of the metropolis. He was simply a member of the
"Reform," and that was all!
If anyone ever inquired how it was that he had become a member of the
club, the questioner was informed that he had been put up by the
Barings, with whom he kept his account, which always showed a good
balance, and from which his cheques were regularly and promptly
honoured.
Was Phileas Fogg a rich man? Unquestionably. But in what manner he had
made his money even the best-informed gossips could not tell, and Mr.
Fogg was the very last person from whom one would seek to obtain
information on the subject. He was never prodigal in expenditure, but
never stingy; and whenever his contribution towards some good or
useful object was required he gave cheerfully, and in many cases
anonymously.
In short, he was one of the most uncommunicative of men. He talked
little, and his habitual taciturnity added to the mystery surrounding
him. Nevertheless, his life was simple and open enough, but he
regulated all his actions with a mathematical exactness which, to the
imagination of the quidnuncs, was in itself suspicious.
Had he ever travelled? It was very probable, for no one was better
informed in the science of geography. There was apparently no
out-of-the-way place concerning which he had not some exclusive
information. Occasionally, in a few sentences, he would clear away the
thousand-and-one rumours which circulated in the club concerning some
lost or some nearly-forgotten traveller; he would point out the true
probabilities; and it really appeared as if he were gifted with second
sight, so correctly were his anticipations justified by succeeding
events. He was a man who must have been everywhere--in spirit at
least.
One thing at any rate was certain, viz. that he had not been absent
from London for many a year. Those with whom he was on a more intimate
footing used to declare that no one had ever seen him anywhere else
but on his way to or from his club. His only amusement was a game of
whist, varied by the perusal of the daily papers. At whist, which was
a game peculiarly fitted to such a taciturn disposition as his, he was
habitually a winner; but his gains always were expended in charitable
objects. Besides, it was evident to everyone that Mr. Fogg played for
the game, not for the sake of winning money. It was a trial of skill
with him, a combat; but a fight unaccompanied by fatigue, and one
entailing no great exertion, and thus suiting him "down to the
ground!"
No one had ever credited Phileas Fogg with wife or child, which even
the most scrupulously honest people may possess; nor even had he any
near relatives or intimate friends, who are more rare in this world.
He lived alone in his house in Saville Row, and no one called upon
him, or at any rate entered there. One servant sufficed for him. He
took all his meals at his club, but he never shared a table with any
of his acquaintance, nor did he ever invite a stranger to dinner. He
only returned home to sleep at midnight precisely, for he never
occupied any one of the comfortable bedrooms provided by the "Reform"
for its members. Ten hours of the four-and-twenty he passed at home,
partly sleeping, partly dressing or undressing. If he walked, it was
in the entrance-hall with its mosaic pavement, or in the circular
gallery beneath the dome, which was supported by twenty Ionic columns.
Here he would pace with measured step. When he dined or breakfasted,
all the resources of the club were taxed to supply his table with the
daintiest fare; he was waited upon by the gravest black-coated
servants, who stepped softly as they ministered to his wants upon a
special porcelain service and upon the most expensive damask. His wine
was contained in decanters of a now unobtainable mould, while his
sherry was iced to the most excellent point of refrigeration of the
Wenham Lake.
If existence under such circumstances be a proof of eccentricity, it
must be confessed that something may be said in favour of it.
The house in Saville Row, without being luxurious, was extremely
comfortable. Besides, in accordance with the habits of the tenant, the
service was reduced to a minimum. But Phileas Fogg exacted the most
rigid punctuality on the part of his sole domestic--something
supernatural in fact. On this very day, the 2nd of October, Fogg had
given James Forster notice to leave, because the fellow had actually
brought up his master's shaving-water at a temperature of eighty-four
instead of eighty-six degrees Fahrenheit; and Phileas was now looking
out for a successor, who was expected between eleven and half-past.
Phileas Fogg was seated in his arm-chair, his feet close together at
the position of "attention;" his hands were resting on his knees, his
body was drawn up; with head erect he was watching the clock, which,
by a complexity of mechanism, told the hours, minutes, seconds, the
days of the week, and the month and year. As this clock chimed
half-past eleven, Mr. Fogg, according to custom, would leave the house
and walk down to his club.
Just then a knock was heard at the door of the room, and James
Forster, the outgoing servant, appeared and announced, "The new young
man" for the place.
A young fellow of about thirty entered and bowed.
"You are a Frenchman, and your name is John, eh?" inquired Phileas
Fogg.
"Jean, sir, if you have no objection," replied the newcomer. "Jean
Passe-partout, a surname which clings to me because I have a weakness
for change. I believe I am honest, sir; but to speak plainly, I have
tried a good many things. I have been an itinerant singer; a rider in
a circus, where I used to do the trapeze like Leotard and walk the
tight-rope like Blondin; then I became a professor of gymnastics; and,
finally, in order to make myself useful, I became a fireman in Paris,
and bear on my back to this day the scars of several bad burns. But it
is five years since I left France, and wishing to enjoy a taste of
domestic life I became a valet in England. Just now being out of a
situation, and having heard that you, sir, were the most punctual and
regular gentleman in the United Kingdom, I have come here in the hope
that I shall be able to live a quiet life and forget my name of
Jack-of-all-trades--Passe-partout!"
"Passe-partout suits me," replied Mr. Fogg. "I have heard a very good
character of you, and you have been well recommended. You are aware of
my conditions of service?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very well. What o'clock do you make it?"
"Twenty-two minutes past eleven," replied the valet, as he consulted
an enormous silver watch.
"You are too slow," said Mr. Fogg.
"Excuse me, sir, that is impossible!"
"You are four minutes too slow. Never mind, it is enough to note the
error. Now from this moment, twenty-nine minutes past eleven o'clock
in the forenoon upon this 2nd of October, 1872, you are in my
service!"
As he spoke, Phileas Fogg rose from his chair, took up his hat, put it
on his head as an automaton might have done, and left the room without
another word.
Passe-partout heard the street-door shut; it was his new master who
had gone out. Shortly afterwards he heard it shut again--that was his
predecessor, James Forster, departing in his turn.
Passe-partout was then left alone in the house in Saville Row.