|
IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG AND PASSEPARTOUT ACCEPT EACH OTHER,
THE ONE AS MASTER, THE OTHER AS MAN
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.
|
