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This is a whole chapter OF ?
#1 - 19th Sep 2002 16:29:00
Member
Total Posts: 77
Last Online: 19th Sep 2002 20:49:00
Registered: 15th May 2004 00:00:00
Mr. Phileas Fogg lived, in 1872, at No.7, Saville Row, Burlington
Gardens. He was one of the most noticeable members of the Reform
Club, though he seemed always to avoid attracting attention. This
Phileas Fogg was a puzzling gentleman, about whom little was
known, except that he was a polished man of the world. People
said that he resembled the poet Byron - at least that his head
was Byronic; but he was a bearded, peaceful Byron, who might live
on a thousand years without growing old.
Certainly Phileas Fogg was an Englishman, but it was more
doubtful whether he 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 he ever pleaded 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.
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 checks 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 go for the information. He was not
lavish, nor, on the contrary, avaricious; for, whenever be 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 traveled? 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
travelers, 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 traveled everywhere, at least in
the spirit.
It was at least certain that Phileas Fogg had not been away from
London for many years. Those who were honored 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 quiet one, harmonized 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; neither relatives nor near
friends, which is certainly more unusual. He lived alone in his
house in Saville Row, where none ever entered. A single servant
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. He went home at exactly midnight, only to retire
at once to bed. He never used the cosy chambers which the Reform
provides for its favored 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 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 foods. He was served by the
gravest waiters, in dress coats, and shoes with swan-skin soles,
who presented 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 servant, 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 eleven.
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 go 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 left 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, the 2nd of 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.
Gardens. He was one of the most noticeable members of the Reform
Club, though he seemed always to avoid attracting attention. This
Phileas Fogg was a puzzling gentleman, about whom little was
known, except that he was a polished man of the world. People
said that he resembled the poet Byron - at least that his head
was Byronic; but he was a bearded, peaceful Byron, who might live
on a thousand years without growing old.
Certainly Phileas Fogg was an Englishman, but it was more
doubtful whether he 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 he ever pleaded 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.
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 checks 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 go for the information. He was not
lavish, nor, on the contrary, avaricious; for, whenever be 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 traveled? 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
travelers, 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 traveled everywhere, at least in
the spirit.
It was at least certain that Phileas Fogg had not been away from
London for many years. Those who were honored 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 quiet one, harmonized 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; neither relatives nor near
friends, which is certainly more unusual. He lived alone in his
house in Saville Row, where none ever entered. A single servant
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. He went home at exactly midnight, only to retire
at once to bed. He never used the cosy chambers which the Reform
provides for its favored 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 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 foods. He was served by the
gravest waiters, in dress coats, and shoes with swan-skin soles,
who presented 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 servant, 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 eleven.
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 go 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 left 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, the 2nd of 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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