Around the World in Eighty Days

by Jules Verne

Contents

• Chapter I. In Which Phileas Fogg and Passepartout Accept Each Other, the One as Master, the Other as Man
• Chapter II. In Which Passepartout Is Convinced That He Has at Last Found His Ideal
• Chapter III. In Which a Conversation Takes Place Which Seems Likely to Cost Phileas Fogg Dear
• Chapter IV. In Which Phileas Fogg Astounds Passepartout, His Servant
• Chapter V. In Which a New Kind of Money, Unknown to Rich Men, Appears on the Stock Exchange
• Chapter VI. In Which Fix, the Detective, Shows a Very Natural Impatience
• Chapter VII. Which Once More Shows That Passports Are Useless Tools for Detectives
• Chapter VIII. In Which Passepartout Talks a Little More, Perhaps, Than Is Wise
• Chapter IX. In Which the Red Sea and the Indian Ocean Work in Phileas Fogg's Favor
• Chapter X. In Which Passepartout Is Only Too Glad to Get Off With Just the Loss of His Shoes
• Chapter XI. In Which Phileas Fogg Buys a Strange Way to Travel for an Amazing Price
• Chapter XII. In Which Phileas Fogg and His Companions Cross the Indian Forests, and What Happens
• Chapter XIII. In Which Passepartout Gets New Proof That Fortune Favors the Brave
• Chapter XIV. In Which Phileas Fogg Travels the Whole Length of the Beautiful Ganges Valley Without Ever Thinking to Look at It
• Chapter XV. In Which the Bag of Banknotes Loses Some Thousands of Pounds More
• Chapter XVI. In Which Fix Does Not Seem to Understand at All What Is Said to Him
• Chapter XVII. Showing What Happened on the Trip From Singapore to Hong Kong
• Chapter XVIII. In Which Phileas Fogg, Passepartout, and Fix Each Go About Their Own Business
• Chapter XIX. In Which Passepartout Takes Too Great an Interest in His Master, and What Comes of It
• Chapter XX. In Which Fix Comes Face to Face With Phileas Fogg
• Chapter XXI. In Which the Captain of the "Tankadere" Risks Losing a Reward of Two Hundred Pounds
• Chapter XXII. In Which Passepartout Finds Out That, Even on the Other Side of the World, It Is Handy to Have Some Money in One's Pocket
• Chapter XXIII. In Which Passepartout's Nose Becomes Ridiculously Long
• Chapter XXIV. During Which Mr. Fogg and His Party Cross the Pacific Ocean
• Chapter XXV. In Which We Get a Small Glimpse of San Francisco
• Chapter XXVI. In Which Phileas Fogg and His Party Travel by the Pacific Railroad
• Chapter XXVII. In Which Passepartout Learns, at a Speed of Twenty Miles an Hour, All About Mormon History
• Chapter XXVIII. In Which Passepartout Cannot Get Anyone to Listen to Reason
• Chapter XXIX. In Which Certain Events Are Told That Only Happen on American Railroads
• Chapter XXX. In Which Phileas Fogg Simply Does His Duty
• Chapter XXXI. In Which Fix, the Detective, Greatly Helps Phileas Fogg's Cause
• Chapter XXXII. In Which Phileas Fogg Fights Directly Against Bad Luck
• Chapter XXXIII. In Which Phileas Fogg Proves He Is Equal to the Challenge
• Chapter XXXIV. In Which Phileas Fogg at Last Reaches London
• Chapter XXXV. In Which Phileas Fogg Does Not Have to Repeat His Orders to Passepartout Twice
• Chapter XXXVI. In Which Phileas Fogg's Name Is Once More Highly Valued on the Stock Exchange
• Chapter XXXVII. In Which It Is Shown That Phileas Fogg Gained Nothing From His Trip Around the World, Except Perhaps Happiness

Chapter I.

In Which Phileas Fogg and Passepartout Accept Each Other, the One as Master, the Other as Man

In 1872, Mr. Phileas Fogg lived at No. 7, Saville Row, in London. This was the same house where a famous writer named Sheridan had died back in 1814. Fogg was one of the most noticeable members of the Reform Club, even though he always seemed to avoid attention. He was a mysterious person, and people knew little about him—only that he was a polished, well-mannered gentleman. Some said he looked like the poet Byron, at least in the shape of his head. But he was a calm, bearded version of Byron, the kind of person who could live a thousand years without seeming to grow old.

He was definitely English, but no one was quite sure if he was truly a Londoner. He was never seen at the stock exchange, the bank, or any business office in the city. He didn't own any ships that came into London's docks. He held no government job. He had never studied law at any of the law schools. His voice had never been heard in any courtroom. He clearly wasn't a factory owner, a merchant, or a farmer. Scientists and scholars didn't know his name either, and he never attended meetings of any learned science clubs. In fact, he belonged to none of the many clubs and societies found all over London—from music clubs to bug-collecting clubs.

Phileas Fogg belonged only to the Reform Club. That was all.

Getting into this exclusive club had been simple enough for him. He was recommended by a well-known banking family, the Barings, with whom he kept an account. His checks were always paid right away, since his account was full of money.

Was Phileas Fogg rich? Without a doubt. But even the people who knew him best had no idea how he had made his fortune. And Mr. Fogg was the last person anyone could ask about it. He wasn't a big spender, but he also wasn't stingy. Whenever he learned that money was needed for something good or kind, he gave it quietly, and sometimes without anyone even knowing it came from him. In short, he was a man of very few words. He rarely spoke, which only made him seem more mysterious. People could easily watch what he did every day, but he did the exact same things, in the exact same way, every single day—so no one could figure him out, no matter how hard they tried.

Had he traveled the world? It seemed likely, because no one seemed to know more about the world than he did. There didn't seem to be any faraway place he wasn't familiar with. He often corrected the wild guesses other club members made about missing travelers, using just a few clear words to point out the truth. It was almost like he could see into the future, because things so often turned out exactly as he said they would. He must have traveled everywhere—at least in his mind.

Still, everyone knew for certain that Phileas Fogg had not left London in many years. Those who knew him a little better than most said that no one had ever seen him anywhere else. His only hobbies were reading the newspaper and playing a card game called whist. He often won at this quiet game, which suited his quiet personality. But he never kept his winnings—he saved them to give away to charity. Mr. Fogg didn't play to win; he played simply for the challenge of playing. To him, the game was like a puzzle, a calm and patient struggle that matched his personality perfectly.

As far as anyone knew, Phileas Fogg had no wife, no children, and no close friends or family—which is unusual, even for an honest man like him. He lived alone in his house on Saville Row, and no one ever went inside. He needed only one servant to take care of him. He ate breakfast and dinner at the club, at the exact same times every day, at the exact same table, in the exact same room. He never ate with other members, and he certainly never brought a guest. He always went home at exactly midnight and went straight to bed. He never used the cozy private rooms that the Reform Club offered to special members. Out of every 24 hours, he spent ten of them at his house on Saville Row—either sleeping or getting dressed. When he wanted to take a walk, he would walk with steady steps through the club's fancy entrance hall with its tiled floor, or through the round gallery with its domed ceiling held up by tall red columns and lit by blue stained-glass windows. Whenever he ate breakfast or dinner, the club's kitchens supplied the finest food and drink to fill his table. Serious waiters in formal coats served him fancy dishes on beautiful china and fine tablecloths. His drinks were poured from rare, expensive decanters, and his beverages were cooled with ice brought all the way from lakes in America.

If living this way makes someone "eccentric," or unusual, then we must admit that being eccentric isn't always a bad thing.

His house on Saville Row wasn't fancy, but it was very comfortable. Because of his exact daily habits, his one servant didn't have much work to do. But Phileas Fogg expected that servant to be almost perfectly prompt and precise. In fact, on this very day—October 2nd—he had fired his servant, James Forster, because the young man had brought his shaving water at 84 degrees Fahrenheit instead of the required 86 degrees. Now Mr. Fogg was waiting for a new servant, who was supposed to arrive sometime between eleven and eleven-thirty.

Phileas Fogg sat straight in his armchair, his feet together like a soldier standing at attention, his hands resting on his knees, his back straight, and his head held high. He watched a complicated clock that showed the hours, minutes, seconds, days, months, and years. At exactly eleven-thirty, as he did every day, Mr. Fogg would leave Saville Row and head to the Reform Club.

Just then, there was a knock at the door of the cozy room where Phileas Fogg sat, and James Forster, the servant who had just been fired, walked in.

"The new servant," he said.

A young man about thirty years old stepped forward and bowed.

"You're French, I believe," said Phileas Fogg, "and your name is John?"

"Jean, if you please, sir," replied the young man. "Jean Passepartout—a nickname that stuck with me because I have a knack for jumping from one job to another. I believe I'm honest, sir, but to be truthful, I've had many different jobs. I've been a traveling singer, a circus performer who could do tricks like a famous tightrope walker, and even a gymnastics teacher to make good use of my skills. After that, I became a firefighter in Paris and helped put out many big fires. But I left France five years ago. Wanting to enjoy a quiet, steady life, I took a job as a servant here in England. When I lost that job, I heard that Monsieur Phileas Fogg was the most exact and orderly gentleman in the whole United Kingdom. So I came here hoping to live a peaceful life with him—and maybe even forget the name Passepartout."

"Passepartout will do just fine," Mr. Fogg replied. "You come highly recommended, and I've heard good things about you. Do you understand my rules?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. What time is it?"

"Eleven twenty-two," answered Passepartout, pulling a big silver watch out of his pocket.

"Your watch is too slow," said Mr. Fogg.

"Excuse me, sir, but that's impossible—"

"You're four minutes behind. It doesn't matter, but I wanted to point it out. From this moment on—eleven twenty-nine, on this Wednesday, October 2nd—you are working for me."

Phileas Fogg stood up, picked up his hat with his left hand, placed it on his head in one smooth motion, and left without another word.

Passepartout heard the front door close once—that was his new master leaving. Then he heard it close again—that was James Forster, the old servant, leaving as well. Passepartout was now alone in the house on Saville Row.

Chapter II.

In Which Passepartout Is