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 Financial Bet, Unknown to Investors, Appears on the Stock Exchange
CHAPTER VI. In Which Fix, the Detective, Shows a Very Natural Impatience
CHAPTER VII. Which Once More Shows How Useless Passports Are as Tools for 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 Favorable 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 Strange Means of Travel at a Huge Price
CHAPTER XII. In Which Phileas Fogg and His Companions Venture Across the Indian Forests, and What Follows
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 to Look at It
CHAPTER XV. In Which the Bag of Banknotes Loses Some Thousands of Pounds More
CHAPTER XVI. In Which Fix Seems Not to Understand in the Least 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 His 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 Master of the Tankadere Runs Great Risk of Losing a Reward of Two Hundred Pounds
CHAPTER XXII. In Which Passepartout Finds Out That, Even on the Far Side of the World, It Is Convenient 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 Party Cross the Pacific Ocean
CHAPTER XXV. In Which a Brief Glimpse Is Had of San Francisco
CHAPTER XXVI. In Which Phileas Fogg and Party Travel by the Pacific Railroad
CHAPTER XXVII. In Which Passepartout Undergoes, at a Speed of Twenty Miles an Hour, a Crash Course in Mormon History
CHAPTER XXVIII. In Which Passepartout Does Not Succeed in Making Anybody 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, Considerably Helps Phileas Fogg's Interests
CHAPTER XXXII. In Which Phileas Fogg Engages in a Direct Struggle with Bad Luck
CHAPTER XXXIII. In Which Phileas Fogg Shows Himself Equal to the Occasion
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, Unless It Was 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 same house where the playwright Sheridan had died in 1814. Fogg was one of the most noticeable members of the Reform Club, even though he always seemed to avoid attracting attention. He was a mysterious figure about whom little was known, except that he was a polished, sophisticated gentleman. People said he resembled the poet Byron—at least his head did—but he was a calm, bearded version of Byron who looked as though he might live a thousand years without aging.

He was certainly English, though it was less certain that Phileas Fogg was actually a Londoner. He was never seen at the Stock Exchange, the Bank, or in the business offices of the city's financial district; no ships that sailed into London's docks belonged to him; he held no government position; he had never trained as a lawyer at any of London's legal societies; 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. Scientific and scholarly organizations had never heard his name, and he never took part in the serious discussions held by London's various academic and professional societies. In short, he belonged to none of the countless clubs and associations that filled the English capital, from music societies to groups dedicated to studying insects.

Phileas Fogg belonged only to the Reform Club, and nothing else.

Getting accepted into this exclusive club had been simple enough for him. He was recommended by the Baring banking family, with whom he kept an open line of credit. His checks were always paid immediately from his account, which was constantly well-funded.

Was Phileas Fogg wealthy? Without question. But even those who knew him best couldn't say how he had made his fortune—and Mr. Fogg was the last person anyone would think to ask. He wasn't wasteful with money, but he wasn't stingy either; whenever he learned that money was needed for a good or charitable cause, he quietly supplied it, sometimes without revealing his identity. In short, he was about as private a person as one could find. He spoke very little, and his silence only added to the air of mystery around him. People could observe his daily routine easily enough, but he did everything so exactly the same way, day after day, that even the most curious observers were left puzzled.

Had he traveled? It seemed likely, since no one seemed to know the world better than he did. There was no place so remote that he didn't seem to know something about it. He often corrected—using just a few clear words—the countless theories members of the club proposed about lost or mysterious travelers, pointing out what was actually probable. He seemed to have a kind of special insight, since events so often proved him right. He must have traveled everywhere, at least in his imagination.

What was certain was that Phileas Fogg had not left London for many years. Those who knew him a little better than most swore that no one had ever seen him anywhere else. His only hobbies were reading the newspapers and playing whist, a card game. He often won, and since whist is a quiet game, it suited his personality well; but his winnings never went into his own pocket—he set them aside for his charitable giving. Mr. Fogg played not to win, but simply for the sake of playing. To him, the game was a contest, a struggle against a challenge—yet a calm, endless struggle that matched his temperament perfectly.

As far as anyone knew, Phileas Fogg had no wife or children—which can happen to even the most respectable people—nor any relatives or close friends, which is certainly more unusual. He lived alone in his house on Saville Row, where no one else ever went. A single servant was enough to take care of his needs. He ate breakfast and dinner at the club, at precisely fixed times, always in the same room, at the same table. He never ate with other members, and certainly never brought a guest along. He returned home at exactly midnight and went straight to bed. He never used the comfortable private rooms the Reform Club offered to its favored members. Out of every twenty-four hours, he spent ten at his house on Saville Row—either sleeping or getting dressed. When he wanted to take a walk, he paced with a steady, measured step through the club's entrance hall with its mosaic floor, or through the circular gallery with its dome held up by twenty red stone columns and lit by blue-painted windows. At breakfast or dinner, the club's kitchens, pantries, and storerooms supplied his table with only the finest food; solemn waiters in formal coats and soft-soled shoes served him from special china, on the finest linen tablecloths. Rare old decanters held his sherry, port, and spiced claret, while his drinks were kept refreshingly cold with ice imported at great expense from American lakes.

If living this way makes someone eccentric, then there must be something good in eccentricity.

The house on Saville Row wasn't lavish, but it was extremely comfortable. Fogg's habits demanded little from his single servant, but he required that servant to be almost impossibly punctual and precise. In fact, on this very second of October, he had just fired his servant James Forster, because the unlucky young man had brought him shaving water at eighty-four degrees Fahrenheit instead of the required eighty-six. Fogg was now waiting for his replacement, who was due to arrive at the house sometime between eleven and half-past eleven.

Phileas Fogg sat squarely in his armchair, feet pressed together like a soldier standing at attention, hands resting on his knees, back straight, head held high. He was watching a complicated clock that displayed the hour, minute, second, day, month, and year. At exactly half-past eleven, following his daily custom, Mr. Fogg would leave Saville Row and head to the Reform Club.

Just then, a knock sounded at the door of the comfortable room where Phileas Fogg sat, and James Forster—the servant who had just been dismissed—appeared.

"The new servant," he announced.

A young man of about thirty stepped forward and bowed.

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

"Jean, if it pleases monsieur," the newcomer replied. "Jean Passepartout—a nickname that's stuck with me because I have a natural talent for moving from one job to the next. I believe I'm honest, monsieur, but to be frank, I've had several careers. I've been a traveling singer, a circus performer—back when I could tumble like the acrobat Leotard and walk a tightrope like Blondin. Then I became a gymnastics instructor, to make better use of my skills, and after that I served as a firefighter in Paris, where I helped fight many major fires. But I left France five years ago, and, wanting to experience a settled home life, I took work as a valet here in England. Now that I'm out of a job, and having heard that Monsieur Phileas Fogg is the most exact and steady gentleman in the United Kingdom, I've come to see if I might find a quiet life with him—and finally leave the name Passepartout behind."

"Passepartout will do 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 past eleven," answered Passepartout, pulling an enormous silver watch from deep within his pocket.

"You're behind," said Mr. Fogg.

"Forgive me, monsieur, but that's impossible—"

"You're four minutes slow. Never mind; it's worth mentioning the mistake, at least. From this moment on—twenty-nine minutes past eleven,