Passepartout Believes He Has Finally Found His Ideal

“Faith,” muttered Passepartout, somewhat flurried, “I’ve seen people at Madame Tussaud’s as lively as my new master!”

“Good grief,” muttered Passepartout, a little flustered, “I’ve seen people at Madame Tussaud’s who were 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.

Madame Tussaud’s “people,” it should be said, are made of wax and attract many visitors in London. Speech is all they lack to be 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.

During his brief interview with Mr. Fogg, Passepartout had been watching him closely. Mr. Fogg appeared to be about forty, with handsome features and a tall, well-shaped figure. His hair and whiskers were light, his forehead was compact and unwrinkled, and his face was rather pale. His teeth were magnificent. His face showed, to the highest degree, what physiognomists call “repose in action.” This quality belongs to people who act rather than talk. Calm and composed, with clear eyes, Mr. Fogg seemed a perfect example of English composure. It was the kind of composure Angelica Kauffmann had so skillfully captured in her paintings. At every point in his daily life, he seemed perfectly balanced and as precisely regulated as a Leroy chronometer. Phileas Fogg was exactness personified, and even his hands and feet revealed it. For in people, as in animals, the limbs themselves express 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 was so precise that he was never in a hurry. He was always ready and wasted neither steps nor movements. He never took an extra step and always took the shortest route to his destination. He made no unnecessary gestures and was never seen to be upset or agitated. He was the most deliberate person in the world, yet he always arrived 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.

He lived alone and, so to speak, had no social ties. He knew that friction had to be taken into account in this world, and that friction slows things down. So he never rubbed against anyone.

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.

Passepartout was a true Parisian through and through. Since leaving his own country for England to work as a valet, he had searched in vain for a master to his liking. He was nothing like the cheeky fools Molière portrayed, with their bold stares and noses in the air. He was an honest fellow with a pleasant face, slightly protruding lips, gentle manners, and a helpful nature. He had a good round head, the kind you like to see on a friend’s shoulders. His eyes were blue, his complexion rosy, and his figure well-built and almost plump. He was muscular, and the exercise he had done in his youth had fully developed his physical strength. His brown hair was somewhat untidy. The ancient sculptors are said to have known eighteen ways to arrange Minerva’s hair, but Passepartout knew only one way to arrange his own. Three strokes of a wide-toothed comb finished the job.

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.

It would be rash to predict how Passepartout’s lively nature would get along with Mr. Fogg. No one could tell whether the new servant would be as utterly methodical as his master required. Only experience could answer that question. Passepartout had wandered from place to place in his early years, and now longed for peace and rest. But so far he had failed to find them, although he had already served in ten English households. He could not settle in any of them. To his dismay, his masters were always unpredictable and irregular, constantly traveling around the country or looking for adventure. His last master was young Lord Longferry, a Member of Parliament. After spending his nights in the Haymarket taverns, Lord Longferry was all too often carried home by policemen in the morning. Passepartout wanted to respect the gentleman he served, so he ventured a mild objection to Lord Longferry’s behavior. The objection was poorly received, so Passepartout left. Then Passepartout heard that Mr. Phileas Fogg was looking for a servant. He also heard that Mr. Fogg’s life followed an unbroken routine. He never traveled or spent a night away from home. Passepartout felt sure that this was the position he had been looking for. He applied and, as we have seen, was accepted.

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.

At eleven thirty, Passepartout found himself alone in the house on Saville Row. He began inspecting it at once, searching from the cellar to the attic. The house was clean, orderly, and solemn, and it pleased him. It seemed to him like a snail’s shell, lit and heated by gas, which served both purposes well enough. When Passepartout reached the second floor, he immediately recognized the room he was to live in. He was very pleased with it. Electric bells and speaking tubes allowed him to communicate with the lower floors. On the mantel stood an electric clock, exactly like the one in Mr. Fogg’s bedroom. Both clocks ticked at precisely the same instant. “That’s good, that’ll do,” Passepartout said 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.

He suddenly noticed a card hanging above the clock. On closer inspection, he saw that it was a schedule of the house’s daily routine. It listed everything required of the servant from eight in the morning, exactly when Phileas Fogg got up, until half past eleven, when he left for the Reform Club. It included every detail of service: tea and toast at 8:23, shaving water at 9:37, and dressing at 9:40. Everything to be done from 11:30 a.m. until midnight, when the methodical gentleman went to bed, was also planned and regulated.

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.

Mr. Fogg had plenty of clothes, all in excellent taste. Each pair of trousers, coat, and vest had a number showing when it should be laid out for him to wear. The number indicated the time of year and the season. His shoes were organized in the same way. Under the famous but self-indulgent Sheridan, the house in Saville Row must have been a temple of disorder and unrest. Now it was the ideal of coziness, comfort, and order. There was no study and no books, which would have been useless to Mr. Fogg. At the Reform, he had access to two libraries, one for general literature and the other for law and politics. A medium-sized safe stood in his bedroom, built to resist both fire and burglars. But Passepartout found no firearms or hunting weapons anywhere. Everything pointed to the most calm and peaceful 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.”

After examining the house from top to bottom, he rubbed his hands and smiled broadly. He said happily, “This is just what I wanted! Ah, Mr. Fogg and I will get along well! What a home-loving and orderly gentleman! A real machine. Well, I don’t mind serving a machine.”