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 Investment, Unknown to Wealthy Businessmen, 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 to Detectives
• CHAPTER VIII. In Which Passepartout Talks Rather More, Perhaps, Than Is Wise
• CHAPTER IX. In Which the Red Sea and the Indian Ocean Prove Helpful to Phileas Fogg's Plans
• CHAPTER X. In Which Passepartout Is Only Too Glad to Get Off with the Loss of His Shoes
• CHAPTER XI. In Which Phileas Fogg Secures a Curious Ride at an Enormous Price
• CHAPTER XII. In Which Phileas Fogg and His Companions Venture Across the Indian Forests, and What Happens
• CHAPTER XIII. In Which Passepartout Receives 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 of Looking at It
• CHAPTER XV. In Which the Bag of Banknotes Loses Several Thousand 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 Voyage 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" Runs a Great Risk of Losing a Reward of Two Hundred Pounds
• CHAPTER XXII. In Which Passepartout Discovers That, Even on the Opposite Side of the World, It's Handy to Have Some Money in One's Pocket
• CHAPTER XXIII. In Which Passepartout's Nose Becomes Outrageously Long
• CHAPTER XXIV. During Which Mr. Fogg and His Companions Cross the Pacific Ocean
• CHAPTER XXV. In Which a Brief Glimpse Is Had of San Francisco
• CHAPTER XXVI. In Which Phileas Fogg and His Companions Travel by the Pacific Railroad
• CHAPTER XXVII. In Which Passepartout Gets a Lesson in Mormon History at a Speed of Twenty Miles an Hour
• CHAPTER XXVIII. In Which Passepartout Cannot Get Anyone to Listen to Reason
• CHAPTER XXIX. In Which Certain Events Are Told That Could 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 Engages in a Direct Struggle with Bad Luck
• CHAPTER XXXIII. In Which Phileas Fogg Proves Himself 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, Burlington Gardens—the very house where a man 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 be trying to avoid attention. He was a mysterious figure. Almost nothing was known about him, except that he was clearly a polished, well-traveled gentleman. People said he looked a bit like the poet Byron—at least his head did—but he was a calmer, bearded version, the kind of Byron who might live a thousand years without ever seeming to age.

He was certainly English, but it was less certain that he was truly a Londoner. He was never seen at the Stock Exchange, the Bank, or anywhere in the business district known as the "City." No ships in London's docks belonged to him. He had no government job. He had never studied law at any of the famous legal schools, and his voice had never been heard in any court of law. He clearly wasn't a factory owner, a merchant, or a gentleman farmer. Scientists and scholars didn't know his name either—he never showed up at any of the learned societies or associations that filled London, from music clubs to groups devoted to studying insects. In fact, he belonged to none of the many clubs and societies that London was famous for.

Phileas Fogg belonged only to the Reform Club, and that was all.

How he had gotten into this very exclusive club was simple enough to explain: he had been recommended by the Barings, a famous banking family, with whom he kept an account. His checks were always paid immediately, because his account always had plenty of money in it.

Was Phileas Fogg rich? Without a doubt. But even those who knew him best had no idea how he had made his fortune, and Mr. Fogg was the last person anyone could ask. He wasn't a big spender, but he wasn't stingy either. Whenever he learned that money was needed for something good, useful, or charitable, he quietly gave it—sometimes without even revealing his name. In short, he was a man of very few words. He rarely spoke, and his silence only made him seem more mysterious. People could easily observe his daily habits, but he did everything so exactly the same way, every single day, that 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 the globe better than he did. There didn't seem to be any place so remote that he wasn't familiar with it. He often corrected the wild guesses that other club members made about missing or mysterious travelers, calmly pointing out what was actually likely to be true. He seemed to have a kind of built-in sense for these things, since events so often proved him right. He must have traveled everywhere—at least in his mind, if not always in person.

What was certain was that Phileas Fogg had not left London for many years. Even those who knew him fairly well claimed that no one had ever seen him anywhere else. His only hobbies were reading the newspaper and playing whist, a card game. He often won at it, which suited him well, since it was a quiet game that matched his personality. But he never kept his winnings—he always set them aside for charity. Mr. Fogg didn't play to win; he played simply for the sake of playing. To him, the game was like a puzzle or a challenge, a calm and patient struggle that fit his character perfectly.

As far as anyone knew, Phileas Fogg had no wife, no children, no close relatives, and no close friends—which was even more unusual than having no family. He lived alone in his house on Saville Row, and no one knew what it was like inside. A single servant took care of all his needs. He ate breakfast and dinner at the club at exact, unchanging times, always in the same room, at the same table—never eating with other members, and never bringing a guest. Every night, he returned home at precisely midnight and went straight to bed. He never used the comfortable private rooms that the Reform Club offered to its important members. He spent ten hours of every day at his house on Saville Row, either sleeping or getting dressed. If he wanted to take a walk, he did it at a steady, measured pace—either in the club's entrance hall, with its tiled floor, or in the round gallery with its dome held up by twenty red stone columns and lit by blue windows. Whenever he ate breakfast or dinner, the club's kitchens, pantries, and dairy provided their very best food to fill his table. He was served by the most serious, dignified waiters, dressed in formal coats and soft-soled shoes, who brought his food on fine porcelain dishes set upon the finest linens. His sherry, port, and spiced claret were poured from rare old decanters that belonged only to the club, and his drinks were cooled with ice shipped, at great expense, all the way from the lakes of America.

If living this way makes someone "eccentric," or unusual, then it must be admitted that there's something rather admirable about that kind of eccentricity.

The house on Saville Row wasn't fancy, but it was extremely comfortable. Fogg's habits didn't require much from his one servant, but he did expect that servant to be almost perfectly punctual and precise. In fact, on this very day, October 2nd, he had fired his previous servant, James Forster, because the poor young man had brought him shaving water that was eighty-four degrees Fahrenheit instead of the required eighty-six. Now Fogg was waiting for his replacement, who was expected to arrive sometime between eleven and half-past eleven.

Phileas Fogg sat squarely in his armchair, his feet pressed together like a soldier standing at attention, his hands resting on his knees, his back straight, and his head held high. He was watching a complicated clock that displayed the hours, minutes, seconds, days, months, and even years. At exactly half-past eleven, as he did every single 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 announced.

A young man of about thirty stepped forward and bowed.

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

"Jean, if it pleases monsieur," the newcomer replied. "Jean Passepartout—a nickname that has stuck with me because I have a natural talent for moving from one job to the next. I believe I'm an honest man, monsieur, but I'll be honest with you—I've had many different jobs. I've been a traveling singer, a circus performer (I used to do acrobatics and tightrope walking), and later a gymnastics instructor, so I could put my skills to better use. After that, I became a firefighter in Paris and helped fight many big fires. But I left France five years ago, hoping to enjoy a quieter, more settled life, and I became a servant here in England. Now that I find myself out of work, and having heard that Monsieur Phileas Fogg is the most precise and orderly gentleman in the whole United Kingdom, I have come to ask if I might live a peaceful life in his service—and maybe even forget the name Passepartout altogether."

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

"Yes, monsieur."

"Good. What time is it?"

"Twenty-two minutes