Chương Chương 2 · IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT IS CONVINCED THAT HE HAS AT LAST FOUND HIS IDEAL

. IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT IS CONVINCED THAT HE HAS AT LAST FOUND HIS IDEAL

“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 story he recognised 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 idealised. 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 scrutinised 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.”