《Around the World In 80 Days》 CHAPTER2
by Jules Verne
`Faith,' muttered Passepartout, somewhat flurried, `I've seen people
at Madame Tussaud's as lively as my new master!'
Madame Tussaud's `people,' let it be said, are of wax, and are much
visited in London; speech is all that is wanting to make them human.
During his brief interview with Mr Fogg, Passepartout had been carefully
observing him. He appeared to be a man about forty years of age, with
fine, handsome features, and a tall, well - shaped figure; his hair
and whiskers were light, his forehead compact and unwrinkled, his face
rather pale, his teeth magnificent. His countenance possessed in the
highest degree what physiognomists call `repose in action,' a quality
of those who act rather than talk. Calm and phlegmatic, with a clear
eye, Mr Fogg seemed a perfect type of that English composure which Angelica
Kauffmann has so skilfully represented on canvas. Seen in the various
phases of his daily life, he gave the idea of being perfectly well-balanced,
as exactly regulated as a Leroy chronometer. Phileas Fogg was, indeed,
exactitude personified, and this was betrayed even in the expression
of his very hands and feet; for in men, as well as in animals, the limbs
themselves are expressive of the passions.
He was so exact that he was never in a hurry, was always ready, and
was economical alike of his steps and his motions. He never took one
step too many, and always went to his destination by the shortest cut;
he made no superfluous gestures, and was never seen to be moved or agitated.
He was the most deliberate person in the world, yet always reached his
destination at the exact moment.
He lived alone, and so to speak, outside of every social relation;
and as he knew that in this world account must be taken of friction,
and that friction retards, he never rubbed against anybody.
As for Passepartout, he was a true Parisian of Paris. Since he had
abandoned his own country for England, taking service as a valet, he
had in vain searched for a master after his own heart. Passepartout
was by no means one of those pert dunces depicted by Molière, with a
bold gaze and a nose held high in the air; he was an honest fellow,
with a pleasant face, lips a trifle protruding, soft - mannered and
serviceable, with a good round head, such as one likes to see on the
shoulders of a friend. His eyes were blue, his complexion rubicund,
his figure almost portly and well - built, his body muscular, and his
physical powers fully developed by the exercises of his younger days.
His brown hair was somewhat tumbled; for while the ancient sculptors
are said to have known eighteen methods of arranging Minerva's tresses,
Passepartout was familiar with but one of dressing his own: three strokes
of a large - tooth comb completed his toilet.
It would be rash to predict how Passepartout's lively nature would
agree with Mr Fogg. It was impossible to tell whether the new servant
would turn out as absolutely methodical as his master required; experience
alone could solve the question. Passepartout had been a sort of vagrant
in his early years, and now yearned for repose; but so far he had failed
to find it, though he had already served in ten English houses. But
he could not take root in any of these; with chagrin he found his masters
invariably whimsical and irregular, constantly running about the country,
or on the look-out for adventure. His last master, young Lord Longferry,
Member of Parliament, after passing his nights in the Haymarket taverns,
was too often brought home in the morning on policemen's shoulders.
Passepartout, desirous of respecting the gentleman whom he served, ventured
a mild remonstrance on such conduct; which being ill-received, he took
his leave. Hearing that Mr Phileas Fogg was looking for a servant, and
that his life was one of unbroken regularity, that he neither travelled
nor stayed from home overnight, he felt sure that this would be the
place he was after. He presented himself, and was accepted, as has been
seen.
At half-past eleven, then, Passepartout found himself alone in the
house in Saville Row. He began its inspection without delay, scouring
it from cellar to garret. So clean, well-arranged, solemn a mansion
pleased him; it seemed to him like a snail's shell, lighted and warmed
by gas, which sufficed for both these purposes. When Passepartout reached
the second storey he recognized at once the room which he was to inhabit,
and he was well satisfied with it. Electric bells and speaking tubes
afforded communication with the lower stories; while on the mantel stood
an electric clock, precisely like that in Mr Fogg's bedchamber, both
beating the same second at the same instant. `That's good, that'll do,'
said Passepartout to himself.
He suddenly observed, hung over the clock, a card which, upon inspection,
proved to be a programme of the daily routine of the house. It comprised
all that was required of the servant, from eight in the morning, exactly
at which hour Phileas Fogg rose, till half-past eleven, when he left
the house for the Reform Club, - all the details of service, the tea
and toast at twenty-three minutes past eight, the shaving-water at thirty-seven
minutes past nine, and the toilet at twenty minutes before ten. Everything
was regulated and foreseen that was to be done from half-past eleven
a.m. till midnight, the hour at which the methodical gentleman retired.
Mr Fogg's wardrobe was amply supplied and in the best taste. Each pair
of trousers, coat, and vest bore a number, indicating the time of year
and season at which they were in turn to be laid out for wearing; and
the same system was applied to the master's shoes. In short, the house
in Saville Row, which must have been a very temple of disorder and unrest
under the illustrious but dissipated Sheridan, was cosiness, comfort,
and method idealized. There was no study, nor were there books, which
would have been quite useless to Mr Fogg; for at the Reform two libraries,
one of general literature and the other of law and politics, were at
his service. A moderate sized safe stood in his bedroom, constructed
so as to defy fire as well as burglars; but Passepartout found neither
arms nor hunting weapons anywhere; everything betrayed the most tranquil
and peaceable habits.
Having scrutinized the house from top to bottom, he rubbed his hands,
a broad smile overspread his features, and he said joyfully, `This is
just what I wanted! Ah, we shall get on together, Mr Fogg and I! What
a domestic and regular gentleman! A real machine; well, I don't mind
serving a machine.'
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