Around the World in 80 Days (English)

Around the World in 80 Days

Le Tour du monde en 80 jours

(English)

Author: Jules Verne

Translator: George M. Towle

Translator/Editor: Nik Marcel 2014

English translated from French.

Copyright © 2018 Nik Marcel

All rights reserved.

A Bilingual (Dual-Language) Project

2Language Books

Around the World in 80 Days

Chapter 1

In the year of 1872, the house bearing the number 7, in Saville-row, Burlington Gardens — the house in which Sheridan died in 1814 — was inhabited by Phileas Fogg, esquire, one of the most eccentric and notable members of the Reform-Club of London, although he seemed to make an effort to not do anything that might attract attention.

Though undoubtedly English, Phileas Fogg was perhaps not a Londoner.

No one had ever seen him at the Stock Exchange, nor at the Bank, and nor in the commercial offices of the city.

Neither the bay nor the docks of London had ever received a ship having Phileas Fogg as an owner.

This gentleman was not on any board of directors.

Phileas Fogg was a member of the Reform club, and that was all.

He spoke as little as possible, and seemed far more mysterious because he was so silent.

Had he travelled? It was likely, for no one possessed more knowledge than he did about the map of the world; there was no place so secluded that he could not at least appear to have a special knowledge about it.

He was a man who must have travelled all over — in spirit at least.

Nevertheless, it was certain that, since many years, Phileas Fogg had not left London.

Those who had the honour of knowing him a little more than the rest attested that — if not on the direct path travelled each day to go from his house to the club — nobody could pretend to have ever seen him anywhere else.

His sole pastimes were reading the papers and playing whist.

Phileas Fogg was not known to have either wife or children — which can happen to the most honest people. Neither was he known to have family or friends — which, in truth, is certainly more rare.

He lived alone in his house in Saville-row, where no person ever infiltrated.

As to its interior, it has always remained unanswered. A single domestic was sufficient to serve him.

On this very day, the 2nd of October, Phileas Fogg had given notice to James Forster — the young man was rendered culpable for having brought him shaving water at eighty-four degrees Fahrenheit instead of eighty-six — and he was awaiting his successor, who was to present himself between eleven and half-past.

At eleven-thirty sharp, Mr. Fogg would, according to his daily habit, leave the house, and set off to the Reform-Club.

At this moment, a rap sounded on the door of the small room where Phileas Fogg was sitting.

James Forster, the dismissed servant, appeared.

“The new servant,” he said.

A young man of around thirty years in age came forward and bowed.

“You are French, and your name is John?” asked Phileas Fogg.

“Jean, if monsieur pleases,” replied the newcomer, “Jean Passepartout, a surname which has clung to me because I have a natural aptitude for taking to different occupations.

I believe I am an honest man, monsieur, but, to be frank, I have had several trades.

I have been an itinerant singer; a horseman in a circus — performing aerobatics like Leotard, and dancing on a rope like Blondin;

then I became a professor of gymnastics, so as to make better use of my talents; and most recently, I was a fireman sergeant in Paris.

I have, on my résumé, the most remarkable fires.

But it has been five years since I quit France, and, wanting to get a taste of domestic life, I became a (male) servant here in England.

Now, finding myself without residence, and upon learning that Monsieur Phileas Fogg was the most exact and the most settled gentleman in the United Kingdom, I have presented myself at your place in the hope of living a tranquil life, and forgetting even the name of Passepartout.”

“Passepartout suits me,” responded Mr. Fogg. “You come well recommended to me; I have had good reports about you. You know my conditions?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Good! What time is it?”

“Twenty-two minutes after eleven,” replied Passepartout, drawing an enormous silver watch from the depths of his pocket.

“You are too slow,” said Mr Fogg.

“Pardon me, monsieur, but that is impossible.”

“You are slow by four minutes. No matter; it is enough to note the difference. So, from this moment, twenty-nine minutes after eleven in the morning, this Wednesday, October 2nd, 1872, you are in my service.”

That said, Phileas Fogg got up, took his hat in his left hand, put it on his head with an automatic motion, and disappeared without adding a word.

Passepartout heard the door to the street shut one time — it was his new master departing. He heard it shut again — it was his predecessor, James Forster, who was in his turn leaving.

Passepartout remained alone in the house in Saville-row.

“Faith,” muttered Passepartout, a little stunned at first, “I have seen folk at Madame Tussaud’s as lively as my new master!”

“That suits me fine; that will do!” said Passepartout to himself.

“This suits me! This is my calling! We shall get on together perfectly, Mr. Fogg and me! What a domestic and regular gentleman! A veritable machine! Well, I do not mind serving a machine.”

Phileas Fogg, having shut the door of his house at half-past eleven, and having put his right foot before his left five hundred and seventy-five times, and his left foot before his right five hundred and seventy-six times, reached the Reform Club, an imposing edifice in Pall Mall, which could not have cost less than three million to build.

Half an hour later, various members of the Reform club made their entrance, and approached the fireplace, where burned a coal fire.

They were Mr. Fogg’s usual partners — like him, they were mad keen players at whist: Andrew Stuart, an engineer; John Sullivan and Samuel Fallentin, bankers; Thomas Flanagan, a brewer; and Gauthier Ralph, one of the Directors of the Bank of England — all rich and highly respectable persons, even in a club that comprises the luminaries of industry and finance.

“Well, Ralph,” demanded Thomas Flanagan, “what about that robbery?”

“Oh, well,” replied Stuart, “the Bank will lose the money.”

“On the contrary,” broke in Ralph, “I hope we can get our hands on the robber. Detectives — very able folk — have been sent to America and Europe: to all the principal ports where one can embark and disembark; and it will be difficult for this fellow to avoid them.”

“But have you got the robber’s description?” asked Stuart.

“In the first place, he is no robber at all,” replied Ralph, seriously.

“What! He is not a thief; this individual who makes off with fifty-five thousand pounds in bank-notes?”

“No,” responded Ralph.

“Perhaps he is an industrialist then?” inquired Sullivan.

“The Morning-Chronicle says that he is a gentleman.”

It was none other than Phileas Fogg who made this remark, his head emerging from behind the mass of newspapers around him. At the same time, he bowed to his friends, who in turn acknowledged his salute.

“I maintain,” said Stuart, “that the chances are in favour of the thief, who is undoubtedly a shrewd fellow!”

“Come on!” returned Ralph. “There is not a single country in which he can take refuge.”

“For example!”

“Where could he go, then?”

“Oh, I don’t know that,” responded Stuart, “but, after all, the world is big enough.”

“It was once,” said Phileas Fogg, in a low tone.

“Cut, sir,” he added, handing the cards to Thomas Flanagan.

The discussion was suspended during the hand. But Andrew Stuart soon resumed, saying:

“What do you mean by ‘once’? Has the world grown smaller, by chance?”

“Without doubt,” replied Ralph. “I agree with Mr Fogg. The world has grown smaller, since a person can now go round it ten times more quickly than a hundred years ago. And with the case that concerns us, it will render the search that much faster.”

“And it will make the thief’s flight easier!”

“Your turn to play, Mr Stuart!” said Phileas Fogg.

“I must confess, Ralph,” he responded, “that you have found a quaint way to say that the world has grown smaller! So, because one can now go round it in three months…”

“In just eighty days,” interrupted Phileas Fogg.

“Indeed, gentlemen,” added John Sullivan; “eighty days, since the section between Rothal and Allahabad was opened on the ‘Great Indian Peninsula Railway’; and here is the estimate made by the Morning Chronicle:

From London to Suez via Mont Cenis and Brindisi, by rail and steamboats 7 days

From Suez to Bombay, by steamer 13

From Bombay to Calcutta, by rail 3

From Calcutta to Hong Kong, by steamer 13

From Hong Kong to Yokohama (Japan), by steamer 6

From Yokohama to San Francisco, by steamer 22

From San Francisco to New York, by rail 7

From New York to London, by steamer and rail 9

Total: 80 days.

“Yes, in eighty days!” exclaimed Stuart, who, through inattention, cut a trump card. “But that doesn’t take into account bad weather, contrary winds, shipwrecks, derailments, and so on.”

“All included,” responded Phileas Fogg, continuing to play — though the discussion was no longer about whist.

“Even if the Hindus or Indians pull up the rails!” cried Stuart. “Suppose they stop the trains, pillage the luggage-vans, and scalp the travellers!”

“All included,” Fogg calmly retorted; who, as he threw down the cards, added, “Two trumps.”

Stuart, whose turn it was to deal, gathered up the cards, saying, “Theoretically, you are right, Mr Fogg, but in practice…”

“Practically also, Mr Stuart.”

“I would really like to see you do it.”

“It depends on you. Shall we go together?”

“May heaven preserve me!” cried Stuart. “But I would wager four thousand pounds that such a journey, made under these conditions, is impossible.”

“Quite possible, on the contrary,” responded Mr Fogg.

“Well, make it, then!”

“The journey round the world in eighty days?”

“Yes.”

“I should like nothing better than to do it.”

“When?”

“Right away.”

“It is a folly!” cried Stuart, who was beginning to be annoyed at the persistency of his friend. “Come, let’s get on with the game.”

“Deal over again, then,” said Phileas Fogg. “There’s a false deal.”

“Well yes, Mr Fogg,” he said, “it shall be so: I will wager the four thousand on it.”

“My dear Stuart,” said Fallentin, “calm yourself down. It is only a joke.”

“When I say I will wager,” replied Stuart, “it is always serious.”

“So be it,” said Mr Fogg; and, turning to the others, he continued: “I have a deposit of twenty thousand at Baring’s which I will willingly risk upon it...”

“Twenty thousand pounds!” cried Sullivan. “Twenty thousand pounds, which you would lose by a single unexpected delay!”

“The unforeseen does not exist,” Phileas Fogg replied simply.

“But, Mr Fogg, the period of eighty days is only the estimate of the least possible time.”

“A well-used minimum suffices for everything.”

“But, in order not to exceed it, you must jump mathematically from the trains upon the steamers, and from the steamers upon the trains again.”

“I will jump… mathematically.”

“This is a joke!”

“A true Englishman doesn’t joke when it comes to such a serious thing as a wager,” replied Phileas Fogg, solemnly.

“I will bet twenty thousand pounds against anyone who wishes, that I will make the tour of the world in eighty days or less; in nineteen hundred and twenty hours, or a hundred and fifteen thousand two hundred minutes. Do you accept?”

“We accept,” replied Stuart, Fallentin, Sullivan, Flanagan, and Ralph, after consulting each other.

“Good,” said Mr Fogg. “The train for Dover leaves at eight forty-five. I will be taking it.”

“This very evening?” asked Stuart.

“This very evening,” replied Phileas Fogg. Then, in consulting a pocket calendar, he added, “As today is Wednesday, the 2nd of October, I shall be due in London, in this very room of the Reform Club, on Saturday the 21st of December, at eight forty-five in the evening; or else the twenty thousand pounds now deposited in my name at Baring’s will belong to you, in fact and by right, gentlemen. Here is a cheque for the amount.”

The offer was made to Mr Fogg to suspend whist so that he might make his preparations for departure.

“I am always ready,” was the gentleman’s tranquil response, and dealing out the cards: “Diamonds are trumps,” he said. “It is your turn to play, Mr Stuart.”…

…“Passepartout!”

“Passepartout!” repeated Mr Fogg, without raising his voice.

“It is the second time I have called you,” observed his master.

“But it is not midnight,” responded Passepartout, his watch in his hand.

“I know it,” replied Phileas Fogg, “and I don’t blame you. We depart in ten minutes for Dover and Calais.”

“Monsieur is going somewhere?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied Phileas Fogg. “We are going round the world.”

“Round the world!” he muttered.

“In eighty days,” responded Mr Fogg. “So we haven’t a moment to lose.”

“But the trunks?” gasped Passepartout, who was unconsciously swaying his head from right to left.

“No trunks; an overnight bag only; inside, two woollen shirts and three pairs of socks for me. The same for you. We will buy our clothes on the way. Bring down my mackintosh and travelling-cloak. Get some stout shoes; though we will do little to no walking. Make haste!”

“Ah, well,” he said to himself, “that is great, that is: me who wanted to remain quiet!”…

…“You have forgotten nothing?” he asked.

“Nothing, monsieur.”

“My mackintosh and my cloak?”

“Here they are.”

“Good! Take this bag;” handing it to Passepartout.

“Take good care of it,” he added. “There are twenty thousand pounds in it.”

The bag nearly dropped from Passepartout’s hand, as if the twenty thousand pounds were in gold, and weighed a lot.

Master and servant then descended, and the door to the street was double-locked.

A cab rank was at the end of Saville Row.

Phileas Fogg and his servant jumped into a cab, which drove rapidly to Charing Cross station.

At twenty minutes past eight, the cab stopped in front of the railway station.

Passepartout jumped to the ground. His master paid the driver and followed him.

At that moment, a poor beggar-woman, holding a child by the hand, barefoot in the mud, wearing a tattered hat on which hung a dismal feather, with a tattered shawl over her rags, approached Mr Fogg and asked him for alms.

Mr. Fogg took out the twenty guineas he had just won at whist, and handed them to the beggar, saying, “Here, my good woman. I am glad that I met you;” and passed on.

Mr. Fogg and he immediately entered the great hall of the station.

There Phileas Fogg gave Passepartout the order to purchase two first-class tickets for Paris.

Then, turning around, he saw his five friends from the Reform Club.

“Well, gentlemen, I am off,” he said, “and the various visas affixed to the passport — that I will be carrying for this purpose — will permit you to verify my itinerary.”

“Oh, Mr Fogg,” said Ralph politely, “that would be quite unnecessary. We will take your word, as a gentleman of honour!”

“It is better like this,” said Mr Fogg.

“You do not forget when you are due back?” asked Stuart.

“In eighty days,” responded Mr Fogg, “on Saturday the 21st of December, 1872, at eight forty-five in the evening. Good-bye, gentlemen.”…

…Just as the train was passing through Sydenham, Passepartout suddenly uttered a cry of despair.

“What is the matter?” asked Mr Fogg.

“It is… that… in my hurry… my excitement… I have forgotten…”

“What?”

“To turn off the gas in my room!”

“Very well, young man,” replied Mr Fogg, coolly; “it will burn at your expense.”…

…Awaiting the arrival of the Mongolia were two men, who were promenading up and down the wharves, among the crowd of locals and strangers who were sojourning at this town: once a village, and now, thanks to the great work of Mr Lesseps, assured of a promising future.

Of these two men, one was the British consul based in Suez.

The other was a small thin man, with a nervous, intelligent face, which made his eyebrows twitch with a remarkable persistence.

He was just now manifesting unmistakable signs of impatience, pacing up and down, and unable to stand still.

This man was called Fix, and he was one of the ‘detectives’ or police agents, who had been sent to the various ports, after the robbery committed at the Bank of England.

“So you say, consul,” he asked for the twentieth time, “that this steamer is never late?”

“No, Mr Fix,” replied the consul. “She was reported to be off Port Saïd yesterday, and the one hundred and sixty kilometres of the canal is if no account for such a craft.

I repeat to you that the Mongolia has always gained the daily reward of twenty-five pounds that the government affords for being ahead of the scheduled time.”

“Does the steamer come directly from Brindisi?” inquired Fix.

“Directly from Brindisi; where she takes on the Indian mail, and she left Brindisi on Saturday at five in the afternoon. Thus, have patience, Mr Fix; she will not be late.

But really, I don’t see how, from the description you have received, you will be able to recognise your man, even if he is on board the Mongolia.”

“My dear consul,” responded Fix, “these gentlemen, a man rather feels rather than recognises them. You must have a certain talent for sensing them, and this feel for it is like a sixth sense, which combines hearing, seeing, and smelling.

I have arrested more than one of these gentlemen in my time, and, if my thief is on board, I say to you that he will not slip through my fingers.”

“I hope so, Mr Fix, for it was a major robbery.”

“A magnificent robbery,” responded the enthusiastic agent. “Fifty-five thousand pounds! We don’t often have such windfalls. Thieves are becoming so petty nowadays!”

“Mr Fix,” responded the consul, “you speak in such a way that I really wish you succeed; but, I repeat, in the circumstances you find yourself, I fear that it will be far from easy.

You well know that with the description you have received, this thief looks distinctly like an honest man.”

“Consul,” remarked the police inspector dogmatically, “great robbers always resemble honest folks. You understand full well that those who have the face of a rascal have only one course to take, and that is to remain honest, otherwise they would be arrested.

The honest faces, these are the ones we must see through. Difficult work, I do agree, and is more like an art than a profession.”

“But it will not come, this steamer!” he exclaimed, in hearing the port clock ring out.

“She can’t be far off now,” replied the consul.

“How long will she remain at Suez?” demanded Fix.

“Four hours; long enough to get in her coal. It is thirteen hundred and ten miles from Suez to Aden, at the other end of the Red Sea, and she has to take in a fresh supply of coal.”

“And does the boat go directly from Suez to Bombay?” inquired Fix.

“Directly, without break.”

“Good!” said Fix. “If the robber has taken this route and this boat, disembarking at Suez will no doubt factor in his plan, the goal being to reach the Dutch or French colonies in Asia by some other route. He ought to know that he would not be safe in India, which is English soil.”

“Unless he is not a particularly shrewd chap,” responded the consul. “You full well know that an English criminal is always better concealed in London than he would be abroad.”

…An intense whistle announced the arrival of the steamer…

“Is this your passport?” he said to the passenger.

“No,” the other responded, “it is my master’s passport.”

“And your master is…”

“He stayed on board.”

“But,” replied the agent, “he must present himself in person at the consulate, so as to establish his identity.”

“What! Is that necessary?”

“Quite indispensable.”

“And where is the consulate?”

“There, on the corner of the square,” replied the inspector, pointing to a house some two hundred paces away.

“Well then, I will go and fetch my master, who won’t be much pleased, however, to be disturbed.”

With that, the passenger bowed to Fix, and returned to the steamer.

The detective passed down the quay, and rapidly made his way to the consul’s office.

“Consul,” he said, without any other preamble, “I have strong reasons for believing that our man has made passage on board the Mongolia.”

And Fix narrated what had just passed between the servant and him concerning the passport.

“Well, Mr Fix,” replied the consul, “I shall not be sorry to see the rascal’s face; but perhaps he won’t present himself at my office; that is, if he is the person you suppose him to be.

A robber doesn’t quite like to leave traces of his flight behind him; and, besides, he is not obliged to have his passport stamped.”

“Consul,” responded the agent, “if he is as shrewd a man as I think he is, he will come!”

“To get a visa in his passport?”

“Yes. Passports are only good for annoying honest folks, and aiding in the flight of rogues. I assure you it will be quite the thing for him to do; but I hope you will not visa the passport.”

“Why not? If the passport is genuine, I have no right to refuse the visa.”

“Still, Consul, I must keep this man here until I can get an arrest warrant from London.”

“Ah, that, Mr Fix, is your affair,” responded the Consul, “but as for me, I cannot…”

The consul did not finish his sentence. At that moment, there was a knock at the door, and the clerk introduced two foreigners, one being the very servant who had met the detective.

It was, in effect, master and servant. The master presented his passport.

When the consul had finished reading it:

“You are Mr Phileas Fogg?” he asked.

“I am, sir,” responded the gentleman.

“And this man is your servant?”

“Yes he is: a Frenchman, named Passepartout.”

“You come from London?”

“Yes.”

“And you are going to…”

“To Bombay.”

“Very good, sir. You know that this formality of a visa is quite useless, and that we no longer require a passport to be presented?”

“I know it, sir,” replied Phileas Fogg; “but I wish to prove my passage to Suez by your visa.”

“Very well, sir.”

The consul proceeded to sign and date the passport, and then added his official seal.

Mr Fogg paid the customary fee, and after having bowed coldly, he exited, followed by his servant.

“Well?” queried the inspector.

“Well,” replied the consul, “he has the air of a perfectly honest man!”

“Possibly,” responded Fix, “but that is not the matter at hand. Do you think, consul, that this phlegmatic gentleman resembles, feature by feature, the robber whose description I have received?”

“I concede that; but then, you know, all descriptions…”

“I will make certain of it,” interrupted Fix. “The servant seems to me less mysterious than the master. Besides, he is a Frenchman, and cannot refrain from talking. See you in a little while, consul.”

That said, the agent started off in search of Passepartout.

Meanwhile, Mr Fogg, after leaving the consulate, headed to the quay. There, he gave some orders to his servant; then he climbed into a dinghy, returned to the Mongolia, and went back to his cabin. He took up his note-book, which contained the following notes:

“Departed London, Wednesday, October 2nd, at 8.45 p.m.

Arrived in Paris, Thursday, October 3rd, at 7.20 a.m.

Left Paris, Thursday, at 8.40 a.m.

Reached Turin by Mont Cenis, Friday, October 4th, at 6.35 a.m.

Left Turin, Friday, at 7.20 a.m.

Arrived at Brindisi, Saturday, October 5th, at 4 p.m.

Embarked on the Mongolia, Saturday, at 5 p.m.

Reached Suez, Wednesday, October 9th, at 11 a.m.

Total of hours spent, 158 1/2; or, in days, six days and a half.”

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