Mr Phileas Fogg lived, in 1872, at No. 7,Saville Row, Burlington G
ardens, 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 emp
loyment; 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 namnds 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 elieve I'm honest,
monsieur, but, to be outspoken, I've had several trades.
I've been an itinerant singer, a circus - rider, lavish,
nor, on the contra(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
mostad 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 abs
ented 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, 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, 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 inalk 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 eedingly
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 ctober 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.