Latest / Science Fiction Books / 02 - Around The World in Eighty Days - Jules Verne
Transcript
- Chapter two, in which Passepartout is convinced that he has at last found his ideal faith. Muttered, Passepartout somewhat flurried, I've seen people at Madame Tussord'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 mister 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 inaction, a quality of those who act rather than talk. Calm and phlegmatic, with a clear eye, mister Fogg seemed a perfect type of that English composer which Angelica Kaufman has so skillfully represented on canvas. Seeing 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 pass Partout, 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. Pass Partout was by no means one of those pert dunces depicted by Moliere, 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 minervous stresses, Passepartout was familiar with, but one of dressing his own. Three strokes of a large toothcomb completed his toilette. It would be rash to predict how Passepartout's lively nature would agree with mister 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. Pass Partiu 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 master's invariably whimsical and irregular, constantly running about the country or on the lookout for adventure. His last master, young Lord Longferry, member of Parliament, after passing his knights 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 mister Phileas Fogg was looking for a servant, and that his life was one of unbroken regularity, that he neither traveled nor stayed from home over night, 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 Savile Row. He begun 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 suffice for both these purposes. When Passepartout reached the second story, 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 mister Fogg's ben chamber, both beating the same second at the same instant. That's good, that'll do, said Passepartoud to himself. He suddenly observed, hung over the clock a card, which, upon inspection, proved to be a program of the daily routine of the house. It comprised all that was required of the servant from eight in the morning, exactly at which our 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. Mister 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 Sava, which must have been a very temple of disorder and unrest under the illustrious but dissipated Sheridan, was coziness, comfort, and method idealized. There was no study, nor were there books, which would have been quite useless to mister 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. Mister Fogg, and I what stick and regular gentleman, A real machine? Well, I don't mind serving a machine. End of chapter