Around the World in 80 Days 9781438446790, 1438446799

Table of contents :
Jules Verne: Around the World in 80 Days
Contents
Translator's Preface
Chapter 1: In which Phileas Fogg and Passepartout mutually accept each other as master and manservant
Chapter 2: Where Passepartout is convinced he has found perfection at last
Chapter 3: Where a conversation takes place that could cost Phileas Fogg a fortune
Chapter 4: In which Phileas Fogg astounds his manservant Passepartout
Chapter 5: In which a new share shows up on the London stock market
Chapter 6: In which Fix the investigator is understandably impatient
Chapter 7: Which demonstrates once again that passports are no help in police work
Chapter 8: In which Passepartout says a bit more than maybe he ought to
Chapter 9: Where the Red Sea and the Indian Ocean cooperate with Phileas Fogg's objectives
Chapter 10: Where Passepartout gets off easy with just the loss of his shoes
Chapter 11: Where Phileas Fogg buys a fabulously expensive form of transportation
Chapter 12: Where Phileas Fogg and his companions venture through the forests of India and what comes of it
Chapter 13: In which Passepartout proves once again that luck and pluck are partners
Chapter 14: In which Phileas Fogg goes down the whole wonderful valley of the Ganges without even thinking to look at it
Chapter 15: Where the bag of banknotes gets lighter by another couple thousand pounds
Chapter 16: Where Fix plays dumb when he hears certain things
Chapter 17: Which deals with this and that during the crossing from Singapore to Hong Kong
Chapter 18: In which Phileas Fogg, Passepartout, and Fix go about their separate business
Chapter 19: Where Passepartout grows extremely concerned for his master and what comes of it
Chapter 20: In which Fix makes direct contact with Phileas Fogg
Chapter 21: Where the Tankadère’s skipper is in real danger of losing his £200 bonus
Chapter 22: Where Passepartout finds that even halfway around the world, it’s wise to have a little money in your pocket
Chapter 23: In which Passepartout’s nose gets outlandishly long
Chapter 24: During which they cross the whole Pacific Ocean
Chapter 25: Which gives a brief glimpse of San Francisco at election time
Chapter 26: In which we ride an express train on the Pacific Railroad
Chapter 27: During which Passepartout takes a course in Mormon history at a speed of twenty miles per hour
Chapter 28: In which Passepartout can’t get anybody to use his head
Chapter 29: Which will describe assorted incidents that are met with only on Union railroads
Chapter 30: In which Phileas Fogg simply does what’s right
Chapter 31: Where Inspector Fix behaves in Phileas Fogg’s best interests
Chapter 32: In which Phileas Fogg grapples with misfortune
Chapter 33: In which Phileas Fogg rises to the occasion
Chapter 34: Which gives Passepartout the chance to crack an outrageous but possibly original joke
Chapter 35: In which Passepartout doesn’t need to be told twice to do what his master says
Chapter 36: Where shares in Phileas Fogg are back at a premium on the stock market
Chapter 37: Which demonstrates that Phileas Fogg didn’t gain a thing by going around the world—other than happiness
Textual Notes
Recommended Reading

Citation preview

Praise for Amazing Journeys “. . . a unique and impressive red, white, and blue-collar collection of refreshing translations of Verne that gives new life to some of the old storyteller’s most famous tales.” —Science Fiction Studies   “. . . this new version emphasizes the wit, theatricality, and brilliance captured by the writer in these remarkable tales. Here is a classic series of adventures that, in spite of technological advances, will still enthrall the reader, and should be part of every young person’s library.” —San Francisco Book Review

AROUN D THE WORLD IN 8 DAYS

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AROUN D THE WORLD IN 8 DAYS

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Jules Verne

Translated by

Frederick Paul Walter With 59 illustrations from the 1873 French edition

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excelsior editions an imprint of state university of new york press

The illustrations are by Alphonse de Neuville (1835–1885) and Léon Benett (1839–1917) as engraved by Henri-Théophile Hildibrand (1824–1897), Adolphe-François Pannemaker (1822–1900) and others. They first appeared in the octavo edition of Le Tour du monde en quatre-vingts jours published by J. Hetzel et Cie. on September 25, 1873. Published by S tat e U n i v e r s i t y o f N e w Y o r k P r e ss Albany © 2013 State University of New York Translation and critical materials © 2010 by Frederick Paul Walter All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission. No part of this book may be stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means including electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. For information, contact State University of New York Press www.sunypress.edu Excelsior Editions is an imprint of State University of New York Press Production and book design, Laurie D. Searl Marketing, Fran Keneston

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Verne, Jules, 1828–1905.   [Tour du monde en quatre-vingts jours. English]  Around the world in 80 days / [Jules Verne ; translated by Paul Frederick Walter]. — Excelsior editions.    p. cm.  Includes bibliographical references.  ISBN 978-1-4384-4679-0 (hardcover : alk. paper)  ISBN 978-1-4384-4678-3 (pbk. : alk. paper)   1. Voyages around the world—Fiction. I. Title.   PQ2469.T7E5 2013  843'.8—dc23

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Contents

Translator’s Preface vii   1. In which Phileas Fogg and Passepartout mutually accept each other as master and manservant 1   2. Where Passepartout is convinced he has found perfection at last 6   3. Where a conversation takes place that could cost Phileas Fogg a fortune 9   4. In which Phileas Fogg astounds his manservant Passepartout 16   5. In which a new share shows up on the London stock market 20   6. In which Fix the investigator is understandably impatient 24   7. Which demonstrates once again that passports are no help in police work 29   8. In which Passepartout says a bit more than maybe he ought to 32   9. Where the Red Sea and the Indian Ocean cooperate with Phileas Fogg’s objectives 36 10. Where Passepartout gets off easy with just the loss of his shoes 42 11. Where Phileas Fogg buys a fabulously expensive form of transportation 48 12. Where Phileas Fogg and his companions venture through the forests of India and what comes of it 56 13. In which Passepartout proves once again that luck and pluck are partners 63 14. In which Phileas Fogg goes down the whole wonderful valley of the Ganges without even thinking to look at it 70



15. Where the bag of banknotes gets lighter by another couple thousand pounds 16. Where Fix plays dumb when he hears certain things 17. Which deals with this and that during the crossing from Singapore to Hong Kong 18. In which Phileas Fogg, Passepartout, and Fix go about their separate business 19. Where Passepartout grows extremely concerned for his master and what comes of it 20. In which Fix makes direct contact with Phileas Fogg

21. Where the Tankadère’s skipper is in real danger of losing his £200 bonus 22. Where Passepartout finds that even halfway around the world, it’s wise to have a little money in your pocket 23. In which Passepartout’s nose gets outlandishly long 24. During which they cross the whole Pacific Ocean 25. Which gives a brief glimpse of San Francisco at election time 26. In which we ride an express train on the Pacific Railroad 27. During which Passepartout takes a course in Mormon history at a speed of twenty miles per hour 28. In which Passepartout can’t get anybody to use his head 29. Which will describe assorted incidents that are met with only on Union railroads 30. In which Phileas Fogg simply does what’s right 31. Where Inspector Fix behaves in Phileas Fogg’s best interests 32. In which Phileas Fogg grapples with misfortune 33. In which Phileas Fogg rises to the occasion 34. Which gives Passepartout the chance to crack an outrageous but possibly original joke 35. In which Passepartout doesn’t need to be told twice to do what his master says 36. Where shares in Phileas Fogg are back at a premium on the stock market 37. Which demonstrates that Phileas Fogg didn’t gain a thing by going around the world—other than happiness

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112 120 126 134 139 146 152 158 165 174 181 187 191 200 203 208 212

Textual Notes

216

Recommended Reading

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Translator’s Preface

A witty mixture of manhunt, love story, social satire, and race against the clock, Around the World in 80 Days is the entertainment gem in Verne’s output. The novel has a futuristic concept, or at least did for its time: circumnavigating the earth in a record-breaking eighty days or less. It’s a feat that America’s Nellie Bly actually pulled off just seven years later. How so? Because, in contrast to other favorite novels of his, here Verne plays fair and doesn’t concoct any fictitious contrivances or contraptions: from schooners to steam locomotives, his tale uses only established forms of transportation; even the book’s single far-fetched vehicle, a sail-powered sled, turns out after investigation to be nothing new—the Dutch had been riding on them for years. Free of high-tech encumbrances, Verne’s plot is arguably his best built. It moves with speed and economy, plus he has a matchless knack for spotting which parts of his material have the liveliest dramatic potential: an elephant ride through a murderous cult of East Indians . . . facing a rampaging storm in an undersized sailboat . . . the slapstick antics of a Japanese acrobatic troupe . . . and a rollicking wild west sequence that takes up a good fifth of the book and comes complete with mob violence, high-noon shootout, and train holdup. In this last instance, too, Verne writes of places he hadn’t actually visited, yet he has a sharp eye for the most telling details in his sources, and his descriptions are convincing even to readers (such as myself ) who are personally familiar with the territory. He knows what to keep and what to dump. Right off, for example, he skips Europe and heads straight for exotic Egypt. Similarly he crosses the entire Pacific (a third of his journey) in a single chapter, the eastern U.S. in a single paragraph. Other storytelling shortcuts are downright clever: when he supplies an expository flashback in Chapter 7 to indicate the ground just covered, it’s a few lines scribbled in an itinerary. Finally, at the climax of this marvelously managed yarn, everything goes hopelessly wrong—till Verne springs one of literature’s choice surprise endings.

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The story’s linchpin is its leading man Phileas Fogg, the ultimate Britisher with stiff upper lip. Yet Fogg goes far beyond the stereotype: commentators have likened him to the author’s father, hidebound attorney Pierre Verne, said to have lived a life of clockwork rigidity. Fogg is just as machinelike, in fact is continually described as a chronometer, an appliance, a robot, an icy emotional vacuum. Yet the bottled-up pressures get to him and he sometimes gives in to knee-jerk impulses: he tries to leap onto a burning pyre, engages in a narcissistic duel to the death, aims to single-handedly save his valet Passepartout from Sioux warriors, and, of course, pigheadedly makes the multimillion-dollar bet in Chapter 3 that causes all the trouble. He’s a portrait of psychic imbalance—but curable. As for the manhunt subplot, it’s driven by relentless Inspector Fix of Scotland Yard— that’s “fix” as in fixation or idée fixe. Finally, sketched with delicacy and restraint, there’s an unexpectedly charming love story. En route Fogg rescues the voluptuous East Indian widow Aouda, who turns out to be surprisingly emancipated and an egalitarian partner for Fogg—she’s not only a good looker, she’s a good shot, a good card player, and even, it’s hinted, good in bed. Social satire? Verne is full of sly wonderment at England’s colonizing virtuosity. Halfway around the globe in Hong Kong, the rubbernecking Passepartout finds he’s “pretty much still in Bombay, Calcutta, or Singapore. It’s as if a trail of English towns runs all around the globe.” Does this mean Fogg winds up in exactly the same place when he gets back to Britain? Actually it doesn’t . . . as you’ll see. My translation is based on the Livre de Poche red-cover reissue of the French original, double-checked against the many available online texts as well as early Hetzel and Hachette editions. FREDERICK PAUL WALTER Albuquerque, New Mexico

viii / translator’s preface

Jules Verne (1828–1905)

1. 

In which Phileas Fogg and Passepartout mutually accept each other as master and manservant

I

n the year 1872 the house at 7 Savile Row in Burlington Gardens—the house where Sheridan died in 1816—was the residence of Phileas Fogg, Esq., one of the most distinctive and noteworthy members of the Reform Club in London, though he seemed to shrink from doing anything that might attract attention. One of England’s greatest orators had been replaced, then, by this Phileas Fogg, a mystifying individual nobody knew anything about, except that he was quite well bred and one of the finest gentlemen in English high society. He was said to resemble Byron—though he didn’t have a clubfoot, at least his profile was Byronic—but a Byron with mustache and side-whiskers, an unemotional Byron who could have lived to a thousand without showing his age. Though definitely English, Phileas Fogg may not have been a Londoner. You never saw him at the stock exchange, the Bank of England, or any of the financial establishments in the business district. London’s docks and shipyards had never berthed a vessel owned by Phileas Fogg. The gentleman wasn’t listed on any board of directors. His name never rang out in any college of lawyers, not the Temple, Lincoln’s Inn, or Gray’s Inn. He’d never pleaded a case in the Courts of Chancery, Queen’s Bench, or Exchequer, nor in the Ecclesiastical Court. He wasn’t a manufacturer, wholesaler, shopkeeper, or farmer. He didn’t belong to the Royal Institution of Great Britain, the London Institution, the Artisan Society, the Russell Institution, the Western Literary Institution, the Law Society, or the Combined Society for the Arts and Sciences, which is under the direct patronage of Her Gracious Majesty. In short, he hadn’t joined any of the many societies that teem in England’s capital, from the Harmonic Union to the Entomological Society, which had been formed chiefly for the purpose of exterminating pesky insects. Phileas Fogg was a member of the Reform Club and nothing more. To anybody who might be amazed that such a secretive gentleman could be a member of this respectable association, we’ll reply that he got in on the recommendation of Baring

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Phileas Fogg.

Brothers & Co., the famous bank where he had an unlimited line of credit. Ergo he enjoyed a definite “status,” since his checking account always showed a positive balance and drafts ordinarily went through on sight. Was this Phileas Fogg a wealthy man? Indisputably. But even the best informed couldn’t say how he’d made his fortune, and Mr. Fogg was the last person they were inclined to approach for enlightenment. In any case he neither squandered his money nor hoarded it, because whenever funds were needed to support some noble, beneficial, or generous cause, he provided them quietly and even anonymously.

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In a nutshell, nobody could be less sociable than this gentleman. He said as little as possible and his silence made him seem even more secretive. Even so, he lived his life in plain view, but since he always did the same things with mathematical predictability, people’s imaginations were restless and on the lookout for something more. Had he traveled extensively? Very likely, because nobody knew the map of the world better than he. No place was so remote that he didn’t seem to have detailed knowledge of it. Sometimes—though in a few quick, clear words—he would correct the thousands of comments that flew around his club regarding some lost or missing explorer; he would pinpoint the most likely eventualities, and so frequently were his words borne out by future developments, he seemed almost clairvoyant. He must have been a man who had traveled everywhere, at least in his head. All the same it was clear that Phileas Fogg hadn’t been away from London in a good while. There were some who had the honor of knowing him a bit better than the rest of the world, and they swore that except for the direct route he traveled each day from his home to his club, nobody could ever claim they’d seen him anywhere else. His only pastimes were reading the newspapers and playing whist. This quiet game was well suited to his nature and he often won at it; however his winnings never went into his billfold but made up a sizeable part of his charitable contributions. Even so, we must note that Mr. Fogg clearly didn’t play to win but for the pleasure of playing. He saw the game as a contest, a battle against a difficulty, but a battle that didn’t involve moving around, shifting ground, or getting tuckered out, and this agreed with his personality. As far as anybody knew, Phileas Fogg had neither wife nor children (which can happen to the most decent fellows), neither relatives nor friends (which is actually much rarer). Phileas Fogg lived alone in his house on Savile Row and nobody visited him. His home life never came into the picture. A single manservant was enough for his needs. He ate lunch and dinner at his club on a schedule that had been worked out with a chronometer, and he did so in the same dining room, at the same table, never entertaining colleagues, never inviting strangers to join him, and he went home to bed at the stroke of midnight without ever using the comfortable quarters the Reform Club puts at the disposal of select members. He spent just ten hours out of every twenty-four at his residence, either in sleeping or in getting groomed and dressed for the day ahead. Anytime he went for a stroll, it was with a steady step over the parquet floor of the club’s lobby or down its circular hallway, which was topped by a dome that had blue-tinted windows and rested on twenty Ionic columns of red porphyry. When he ate lunch or dinner, the club’s kitchens, larder, pantry, fish market, and dairy furnished his table with their sumptuous stores; the club’s waiters—solemn individuals dressed in black and shod in slippers with padded soles—served his food on exclusive china and marvelous saxony table linen; the club’s goblets came from a lost line of glass molds and held his sherry, his port, and his claret, which had been seasoned with cinnamon, maidenhair, and cassia; finally the club’s ice—imported at major expense from America’s lakes—kept his drinks satisfactorily chilled. If this lifestyle can be called eccentric, you must admit that eccentricity has something going for it!

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Though his home on Savile Row wasn’t ostentatious, it still rated as tremendously comfortable. In addition, since its tenant’s habits never varied, its upkeep made fewer demands. Even so, Phileas Fogg required his single manservant to be exceptionally punctual and reliable. On this very day, October 2, Phileas Fogg had just given the boot to James Forster (the fellow had been found guilty of heating his master’s shaving water to 84° Fahrenheit instead of 86°) and was waiting for his replacement, who was supposed to show up between 11:00 and 11:30. Sitting dead center in his armchair, two feet together like a soldier on dress parade, palms resting on knees, body erect, head held high, Phileas Fogg watched the hand moving on his wall clock—a complicated mechanism that marked the hour, minute, second, day, date, month, and year. When 11:30 chimed, Mr. Fogg was to leave home and make his way to the Reform Club in line with his daily schedule, Just then somebody knocked on the door to the little parlor where Phileas Fogg was waiting. His ex-employee James Forster appeared. “The new manservant,” he said. A fellow of about thirty came in and bowed. “You’re from France,” Phileas Fogg asked him, “and your name is John?” “Jean, with all due respect, sir,” the newcomer replied, “but my nickname is ‘Jean Passepartout.’1 I’ve lived up to it with my knack for handling tight situations, so the label has stuck. I think I’m a decent fellow, sir, but to be honest with you, I’ve been a jack-of-all-trades. I’ve worked as a wandering minstrel, a horseman in a circus, a trapeze artist like Léotard, and a tightrope walker like Blondin; after that, to make more profitable use of my talents, I became a gymnastics teacher and finally a sergeant in the Paris Fire Department. I’ve got some really notable blazes on my résumé. But I left France five years ago, wanted a taste of domestic bliss, and today earn my living in England as a personal valet. Now then, being out of work and hearing that Mr. Phileas Fogg was the most orderly and retiring gentleman in the United Kingdom, I’ve arrived on his doorstep in hopes of living a serene existence and forgetting the very name of Passepartout  .  .  .” “I’m comfortable calling you Passepartout,” the gentleman replied. “You come recommended. I’ve received good reports on you. You know my requirements?” “Yes, sir.” “Fine. What time do you have?” “It’s 11:22,” Passepartout replied, tugging an enormous silver watch from the depths of his vest pocket. “You’re slow,” Mr. Fogg said. “Pardon me, sir, but that isn’t possible.” “You’re four minutes slow. Let it be. I’ve noted the discrepancy, enough said. Therefore, as of 11:29 this Wednesday morning, October 2, 1872, you’re now in my employ.” 1. Translator’s note. French: “passkey.” The literal meaning of passepartout is “gets through anything.”

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“

Jean Passepartout.

With that Phileas Fogg got up, took his hat in his left hand, put it on his head with a robotlike motion, and vanished without another word. Passepartout heard the front door give a slam—it was his new master leaving; then a second slam—it was his predecessor James Forster going off in his turn. They’d left Passepartout alone in the house on Savile Row.

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2.  Where Passepartout is convinced he has found perfection at last

“

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e Gods,” Passepartout said to himself, a bit flabbergasted at first. “I’ve seen folks at Madame Tussaud’s with as much feeling in them as my new master!” It’s appropriate to mention at this point that the “folks at Madame Tussaud’s” are wax figures, a major tourist attraction in London; the only thing they lack is the gift of speech. During the few seconds in which he’d just caught a glimpse of Phileas Fogg, Passepartout had given his future master a quick but careful inspection. A man who might have been forty, his employer had fine aristocratic features, a tall figure not spoiled by a slight tummy, blond hair and side-whiskers, smooth brow and temples without a wrinkle in sight, pale rather than ruddy features, and magnificent teeth. To a supreme degree he seemed to have what physiognomists, those analysts of facial character, call “strength in repose,” a virtue typical of folks who value deeds more than words. With his stoic calm, clear eye, and unblinking alertness, he was an ideal example of those ultra composed Englishmen you come across so often in the United Kingdom, people whose slightly pedantic outlooks the portrait painter Angelica Kauffmann has captured so wonderfully with her brush. Seen in the various activities of his daily life, this gentleman gave the impression of being fully counterbalanced, meticulously aligned, as faultless as a chronometer manufactured by a master watchmaker like Leroy or Earnshaw. In essence Phileas Fogg was the soul of precision, which was clearly visible in “the language of his hands and feet,” because with both men and animals, the body parts themselves are instruments that can convey states of mind. Phileas Fogg was one of those mathematically correct people who are never in a rush, always prepared, economical in their every step and movement. He never took a stride too many and always went by the shortest route. He didn’t stare off into space. He didn’t indulge in unnecessary actions. Nobody ever saw him excited or agitated. He was the least hurried person on earth, yet he always arrived on the dot. Even so, you can appreciate why he lived a solitary existence, an existence free of all social intercourse, as it were. He

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knew that friction was a part of life, and since friction is time-consuming, he never rubbed anybody the wrong way. As for Jean, dubbed Passepartout, he was a thoroughgoing Parisian who had moved to England five years earlier, had worked in London as a personal valet, and had searched in vain for a master to whom he could pledge his allegiance. Passepartout wasn’t like Frontin, Mascarille, or other stage servants in the popular French farces—high-handed, brazen-faced, wry-eyed rascals who shrug their shoulders and turn up their noses. Not at all. Passepartout was a gallant fellow with friendly features and rather full lips that were always game for a nibble or a kiss—a kindly, helpful person with one of those pleasant round noggins you like to see on a good friend’s shoulders. He had blue eyes, lively coloring, a face chubby enough for him to see his own cheekbones, a broad chest, a strapping build, vigorous muscles, and that Herculean strength he’d developed so marvelously during his athletic youth. His brown hair was a little unruly. Though the sculptors of antiquity knew eighteen different ways of arranging Minerva’s tresses, Passepartout knew only one way of dealing with his own: three swipes with a big-tooth comb and his grooming was done. The most basic caution keeps us from saying whether a fellow with such an exuberant personality could get along with a man like Phileas Fogg. Would Passepartout be that stringently correct manservant his master required? The only way to find out was to put him to work. After a pretty unstable youth, as you know, he longed for peace and quiet. Hearing high praise for the methodical English and for the proverbial reserve of their gentlemen, he came to England to seek his fortune. But so far the fates had been against him. He hadn’t been able to put down roots anywhere. He’d worked in ten homes. In all of them his employers had been wayward and temperamental, chasing after women or chasing off on joyrides, neither of which was acceptable to Passepartout these days. Young Lord Longsferry, a Member of Parliament and his latest master, spent his nights in Haymarket “oyster bars” and all too often came home slung over a policeman’s shoulders. First and foremost Passepartout wanted a master he could respect, so he ventured a few polite comments; when these were poorly received, he quit. At this point he heard that Phileas Fogg, Esq., was looking for a manservant. He investigated the gentleman. An individual who led an orderly life, didn’t sleep out, didn’t travel, and never went away, not even for a day, would suit him down to the ground. He showed up and was hired under the circumstances you’re acquainted with. Eleven-thirty having chimed, Passepartout was alone in the house on Savile Row. He started to inspect it at once. He went over it from the cellar to the attic. It was a neat, clean, simple, straitlaced home laid out for easy upkeep, and it pleased him. It reminded him of a snail shell, but a high-class shell with both gaslight and a gas furnace, because carbureted hydrogen took care of all its heating and lighting needs. Passepartout had no difficulty finding the third-floor bedroom intended for him. It suited him perfectly. Electric bells and speaking tubes put him in contact with the rooms on the second and first floors. An electric clock stood on his mantel, synchronized with the clock in Phileas Fogg’s bedroom, and the two timepieces ticked the same second at the same instant.

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“This,” Passepartout said to himself, “is just what the doctor ordered!” In his bedroom he also noted a memo tacked above the clock. It was a schedule of his daily responsibilities. Running from 8:00 in the morning, the official time for Phileas Fogg to get up, till 11:30 when he left home to go eat lunch at the Reform Club, this schedule covered his manservant’s duties in full detail—tea and toast at 8:23, shaving water at 9:37, hair care at 9:40, etc. Then, from 11:30 in the morning till midnight when the systematic gentleman went to bed, everything else was listed, anticipated, and spelled out. Passepartout took delight in studying this schedule and learning its different entries by heart. As for his employer’s wardrobe, it was meticulously hung and wondrously thorough. Each vest, dress coat, and pair of trousers bore a serial number, which had been copied into a ledger that recorded their comings and goings and showed the date, depending on the season, when each piece of clothing was to be worn in its turn. Same protocol for shoes. All in all this house on Savile Row—which must have been a haven of chaos in the days of the notoriously loose-living Sheridan—was furnished in a comfortable style that suggested substantial means. No library and no books, though—Mr. Fogg wouldn’t have had any use for them, since the Reform Club put two libraries at his disposal, one devoted to literature, the other to politics and the law. In his bedroom was a medium-sized safe, built to be both fireproof and theft-proof. There weren’t any weapons in the house, no implements for hunting game or waging war. Only the most peaceful intentions were in evidence. After he’d given the dwelling a detailed inspection, Passepartout rubbed his hands, his broad face beaming, and he said over and over in delight: “It’s a perfect fit! It’s right down my alley! We’ll get along famously, Mr. Fogg and I! He’s a homebody, an orderly man! A real piece of machinery! Well, it won’t pain me to have a domestic appliance for a master!”

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3.  Where a conversation takes place that could cost Phileas Fogg a fortune

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eaving his house on Savile Row at 11:30, Phileas Fogg put his right foot in front of his left 575 times, and his left foot in front of his right 576 times, before he arrived at the Reform Club, a huge edifice that stood on Pall Mall and cost the equivalent of at least $600,000 to build. At once Phileas Fogg made his way to the dining room, whose nine windows opened onto a lovely garden where the trees were already turning an autumnal gold. He sat down at his usual table, now laid and waiting for him. His lunch featured an appetizer of boiled fish sharply seasoned with a first-rate Reading Sauce, roast beef done rare and trimmed with mushroom pieces, a pastry with rhubarb and green gooseberry filling, and a wedge of Cheshire cheese—all of it washed down with a couple cups of excellent tea brewed from leaves picked exclusively for the Reform Club’s pantry. At 12:47 the gentleman got to his feet and headed for the main lounge, a lavish chamber adorned with opulently framed paintings. There an attendant gave him a brand-new copy of the Times, and Phileas Fogg handled the demanding task of unfolding and cutting it with a sure touch that revealed long experience at this tricky operation. Reading this newspaper kept Phileas Fogg busy till 3:45, and doing likewise with the Evening Standard—which was next on the bill—took him till dinnertime. This meal proceeded along the same lines as lunch, except for the addition of a “Royal British Sauce.” At 5:40 the gentleman reappeared in the main lounge and knuckled down to reading the Morning Chronicle. Half an hour later various members of the Reform Club came in and drew near the hearth, where a coal fire was blazing. They were Mr. Phileas Fogg’s regular partners at cards, men as addicted to playing whist as he was: Andrew Stuart the engineer, the bankers John Sullivan and Samuel Fallentin, Thomas Flanagan the brewer, and Walter Ralph, one of the Bank of England’s directors—individuals of unusual wealth and influence, even in this club whose membership included the biggest names in industry and finance.

around the world in 80 days / 9

Map of Phileas Fogg’s journey.

“Well, Ralph,” Thomas Flanagan asked, “what’s going on with that business of the robbery?” “Well,” Andrew Stuart replied, “the bank has seen the last of its money.” “On the contrary,” Walter Ralph said, “I’m hopeful we’ll lay our hands on the fellow who perpetrated the robbery. Our best qualified police inspectors have been dispatched to America and Europe, to all the major outbound and inbound ports, and it’ll be hard for this gentleman to slip past them.” “But do they have the robber’s physical description?” Andrew Stuart asked. “First of all he isn’t a robber,” Walter Ralph replied in all seriousness. “Excuse me? This party filches £55,000 in banknotes and he isn’t a robber?”2 “Not by trade,” Walter Ralph replied. “So is he a businessman?” John Sullivan said. “The Morning Chronicle is positive he’s a gentleman.” 2. Translator’s note. £55,000 was equivalent at the time to over $250,000 in U.S. currency; in today’s dollars its purchasing power would be roughly comparable to $5,000,000.

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The individual who gave this answer was none other than Phileas Fogg, whose head emerged at this point from the waves of newspapers heaped around him. At the same instant Phileas Fogg nodded in greeting to his colleagues, and they nodded back. The event under discussion, which the various newspapers in the United Kingdom were hotly debating, had taken place three days earlier on September 29. A stack of banknotes, totaling the enormous sum of £55,000, had been stolen from the head teller’s counter at the Bank of England. To anybody who was amazed that such a robbery could have occurred so easily, the deputy governor Walter Ralph confined himself to replying that when it happened, the teller was busy recording a deposit of three shillings sixpence, and nobody can keep an eye on everything. But it’s appropriate to point something out at this juncture, something that makes the event more understandable: the Bank of England, that praiseworthy establishment, seems tremendously squeamish about questioning the public’s honesty. It hasn’t any guards, any retired military, any grilled windows. Gold, silver, and paper money are right out in the open, at the mercy of the first comer, as it were. The bank can’t bring itself to doubt the respectability of any passerby. One of our foremost students of English behavior describes an instance of this very thing: in one of the bank’s rooms where he was waiting one day, his interest was caught by a gold ingot that weighed seven or eight pounds and lay right out on the teller’s counter; wanting a closer look, he picked the ingot up, inspected it, passed it to his neighbor, the latter gave it to somebody else, and in this manner the ingot went from hand to hand all the way to the far end of a dark corridor; it only came back to where it belonged half an hour later, and the teller hadn’t looked up even once. But on September 29 things didn’t quite work out this way. The stack of banknotes didn’t come back, and when the magnificent clock that loomed over “Deposits and Withdrawals” chimed the hour of five and close of business, the Bank of England was obliged to reflect that missing £55,000 in the profit and loss account. Once the fact of the robbery had been properly established, droves of investigators— “masters of detection” handpicked from the best in the business—were dispatched to the major ports in Liverpool, Glasgow, Le Havre, Suez, Brindisi, New York, etc.; they were promised a reward of £2,000 ($10,000) for a successful capture, plus 5% of the total amount recovered. While waiting for the details sure to come from an official inquiry that instantly got under way, these police inspectors had the task of scrupulously monitoring all arriving and departing travelers. Now then, exactly as the Morning Chronicle said, there were grounds for presuming that the fellow who perpetrated the robbery wasn’t a member of England’s criminal classes. During that day of September 29, staff had noted a well-dressed, well-mannered, refined-looking gentleman pacing back and forth in the cash payments room that was the setting of the robbery. The official inquiry had made it possible to generate a pretty accurate description of this gentleman, a description that was forwarded at once to every detective in the United Kingdom and on the continent. So a few positive thinkers—Walter Ralph among them—felt justified in hoping that the robber wouldn’t get away with it.

around the world in 80 days / 11

“Fine! I’ll bet you £4,000!”

As the reader can imagine, this event was the talk of the town in London and all England. Multitudes joined the debate, arguing for and against the likelihood of Scotland Yard’s cracking the case. It won’t amaze you, then, to hear that the same issue was being discussed at the Reform Club, and all the more intensely because its membership included one of the bank’s deputy governors. The honorable Walter Ralph refused to harbor any doubts about the investigation’s outcome, figuring that the reward on offer was sure to significantly sharpen the wits and zeal of the investigators. But his colleague Andrew Stuart was far from sharing this confident outlook. So these gentlemen kept on arguing after they sat down at a card table for their evening whist; Stuart and Flanagan were partners and faced each other, likewise Fallentin

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and Phileas Fogg. During play the participants didn’t talk, but their interrupted conversation would resume in high style at the finish of a rubber.3 “The odds are in the robber’s favor, I tell you,” Andrew Stuart said. “Because he’s got to be a smooth operator!” “Come now!” Ralph replied. “There isn’t a single country left where he can hide out.” “By thunder!” “Where would you have him go?” “That isn’t my strong suit,” Andrew Stuart answered. “But after all, the earth is a pretty huge place.” “It used to be,” Phileas Fogg said under his breath. “Sir, will you cut?” he added, handing the cards to Thomas Flanagan. The argument hung fire during the next rubber. But Andrew Stuart was soon back at it, saying: “You muttered ‘it used to be.’ Has the earth gotten smaller by any chance?” “Without a doubt,” Walter Ralph responded. “I’m on Mr. Fogg’s side. The world is smaller, because we can now travel around it ten times faster than a hundred years ago. And in the present instance, this is the thing that will speed up the whole investigation.” “And the thing that will also help the robber get away!” “You lead, Mr. Stuart,” Phileas Fogg said. But the skeptical Stuart wasn’t convinced, and when the round was over: “I must admit, Mr. Ralph,” he went on, “that you’ve come up with an amusing way of showing that the earth has gotten smaller! Therefore, just because we can now go around it in three months—” “In only eighty days,” Phileas Fogg said. “That’s a fact, gentlemen,” John Sullivan added. “In eighty days, since the Great Indian Peninsular Railway has opened a section of track between Rothal and Allahabad in northern India.” And he showed them the timetable that the Morning Chronicle had worked out: From London to Suez via Mt. Cenis and Brindisi, by railway and ocean liner   7 days

From Suez to Bombay, by ocean liner

13 "

From Calcutta to Hong Kong (China), by ocean liner

13 "

From Yokohama to San Francisco, by ocean liner

22 "

From Bombay to Calcutta, by railway   3 " From Hong Kong to Yokohama (Japan), by ocean liner   6 " From San Francisco to New York, by railroad   7 "

From New York to London, by ocean liner and railway   9 " ______

Total

3. Translator’s note. Best of three games.

around the world in 80 days / 13

80 days

“Yes, in eighty days!” Andrew Stuart exclaimed, not paying attention and trumping a sure winner. “But that doesn’t include foul weather, contrary winds, shipwrecks, jumping the tracks, etc.” “All included,” Phileas Fogg replied, pressing on with the game, because this time the argument was taking over from the whist. “Even if some Hindus or Red Indians pull up the rails?” Andrew Stuart snapped. “Even if they hold up the train, loot the baggage car, and scalp the passengers?” “All included,” Phileas Fogg replied, throwing down his hand. “The highest two trumps,” he added. It was Andrew Stuart’s turn to deal and he gathered up the cards, saying: “In theory you’re right, Mr. Fogg, but in practice—” “In practice as well, Mr. Stuart.” “I would like to see you try.” “It’s up to you. Let’s set out together.” “Heaven help me!” Stuart exclaimed. “But I would bet you a good £4,000 that it’s impossible to carry out such a journey on these terms. “On the contrary, it’s perfectly possible,” Mr. Fogg replied. “Fine, then do it!” “Go around the world in eighty days?” “Yes.” “Glad to.” “When?” “Right now.” “This is insanity!” Andrew Stuart exclaimed, beginning to feel annoyed at the persistence of his fellow cardplayer. “Look here, let’s get on with the game!” “Then start over,” Phileas Fogg replied. “That was a misdeal.” Andrew Stuart feverishly picked the cards back up; then he suddenly put them on the table: “All right, Mr. Fogg, fine,” he said. “Fine! I’ll bet you £4,000!” “My dear Stuart,” Fallentin said. “Calm down, don’t be so serious!” “When I make a bet,” Andrew Stuart replied, “I’m always serious.” “Done!” Mr. Fogg said. Then, turning to his colleagues: “I have £20,000 in my account at Baring Brothers & Co., and I would be willing to stake it—” “Twenty thousand pounds!” John Sullivan shrieked. “£20,000 you could lose because of one unexpected delay?” “Nothing is ever unexpected,” Phileas Fogg merely replied. “But Mr. Fogg, this period of eighty days is only the figure for the minimum time possible!” “Well-managed minimums are always enough.” “But to keep from exceeding this one, you would have to hop with mathematical exactitude from the railways to the ocean liners, then from the ocean liners back to the railways!”

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“I’ll hop with mathematical exactitude.” “You’ve got to be joking!” “No true Englishman ever jokes about something as serious as a bet,” Phileas Fogg replied. “I’ll bet £20,000 against all comers that I can go around the world in eighty days or less, hence in 1,920 hours, or 115,200 minutes. Do you accept?” “We accept,” replied Messrs. Stuart, Fallentin, Sullivan, Flanagan, and Ralph after putting their heads together. “Fine,” Mr. Fogg said. “The boat train leaves for Dover at 8:45. I’ll take it.” “This very evening?” Stuart asked. “This very evening,” Phileas Fogg replied. Then, after studying a pocket calendar, he added, “Since today is Wednesday, October 2, I’m due back in London, in this same lounge at the Reform Club, by 8:45 on Saturday evening, December 21; failing that, gentlemen, the £20,000 currently in my personal account at Baring Brothers & Co. will be yours by right and possession. Here’s a check for that same amount.”4 The six co-participants drew up a written statement of the bet and signed it on the spot. Phileas Fogg was as cool as ever. Clearly he hadn’t made this bet to increase his income and he’d limited the amount to £20,000—half of his fortune—because he anticipated that he might need to spend the other half in seeing this difficult, if not unachievable, scheme through to completion. As for his opponents, they themselves seemed on edge, not from the amount of money they’d put up, but because they were feeling some qualms about a wager along these lines. Seven o’clock chimed at this point. The others offered to break off their whist playing so that Mr. Fogg could go prepare for his departure. “I’m always prepared!” that unemotional gentleman replied, then dealt the cards: “Diamonds are trumps,” he said. “You lead, Mr. Stuart.”

4. Translator’s note. £20,000 was equivalent at the time to about $100,000 in U.S. currency; in today’s dollars its purchasing power would be roughly comparable to $2,000,000.

around the world in 80 days / 15

4.  In which Phileas Fogg astounds his manservant Passepartout

A

t 7:25 Phileas Fogg took leave of his distinguished colleagues and headed home from the Reform Club, having won twenty guineas at whist.5 At 7:50 he opened his front door and went inside his house. Having conscientiously studied his schedule, Passepartout was pretty startled to find Mr. Fogg guilty of incorrectness and showing up at this abnormal hour. According to the memo, the tenant at 7 Savile Row wasn’t due back till the stroke of midnight. Right away Phileas Fogg went up to his bedroom, then he called: “Passepartout.” Passepartout didn’t reply. This call couldn’t be meant for him. It wasn’t time. “Passepartout,” Mr. Fogg said again, still without raising his voice. Passepartout put in an appearance. “That’s twice I’ve called you,” Mr. Fogg said. “But it isn’t midnight,” Passepartout replied, watch in hand. “I know,” Phileas Fogg went on, “and I’m not reprimanding you. We’re leaving for Dover and Calais in ten minutes.” A sort of pained look spread over the Frenchman’s round face. Obviously he was losing his hearing. “You’re going somewhere, master?” he asked. “Yes,” Phileas Fogg replied. “We’re traveling around the world.” Passepartout gaped outrageously, eyelids and eyebrows raised, arms flung wide, body collapsing, giving every sign of someone who’s amazed to the point of befuddlement.

5. Translator’s note. A guinea is one pound one shilling, so twenty were equivalent at the time to about $100 in U.S. currency; in today’s dollars its purchasing power would be comparable to about $2,000.

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“Around the world?” he mumbled. “In eighty days,” Mr. Fogg replied. “So we haven’t a moment to lose.” “But what about packing our trunks?” Passepartout said, his head unconsciously swaying from right to left. “There won’t be any trunks. Just my overnight bag. Put two woolen shirts inside and three pairs of socks. The same for you. We’ll buy what we need on the way. Fetch down my raincoat and travel blanket. Take some sturdy shoes. Even so, we won’t do much walking. Go.” Passepartout wanted to reply. He couldn’t. He left Mr. Fogg’s bedroom, went up to his own, fell into a chair, and used an expression that was fairly popular back where he came from: “Well, if this doesn’t take the cake! And all I wanted was peace and quiet . . . !” And moving like a machine, he prepared for his departure. Around the world in eighty days! Was he dealing with a madman? No. . . . Was it a joke? They were off to Dover—fine. To Calais—so be it. And yet it wouldn’t be too awfully aggravating, because five years had gone by since the gallant fellow had set foot in his native land. Maybe they would even go to Paris, and ye gods, what fun it would be to see that great metropolis again. But a gentleman so thrifty with his footsteps was certain to come to a halt at that point. . . . Yes, definitely, though it was true nevertheless that he was leaving and running off, this gentleman who had been such a homebody till then! By eight o’clock Passepartout had packed the humble bag that held his own wardrobe and his master’s; then, still uneasy in his mind, he carefully shut his bedroom door and rejoined Mr. Fogg. Mr. Fogg was ready. Tucked under his arm was Bradshaw’s Continental Railway, Steam Transit & General Guide, which would provide him with all the particulars his journey needed. He took the bag from Passepartout’s hands, opened it, and slid into it a substantial stack of those handsome banknotes that are honored in every country. “You haven’t forgotten anything?” he asked. “Nothing, sir.” “My raincoat and travel blanket?” “Right here.” “Fine, carry this bag.” Mr. Fogg handed the bag back to Passepartout. “And be careful with it,” he added. “It has £20,000 inside.” The bag nearly slipped out of Passepartout’s hands, as if the £20,000 had been solid gold and weighed accordingly. Then master and manservant went down to the street, double locking the front door behind them. A cabstand was at the end of Savile Row. Phileas Fogg and his manservant climbed into a carriage and drove swiftly to Charing Cross Station, the last stop on one of the branch lines of the Southeastern Railway. At 8:20 their cab pulled up at the gate of the terminal. Passepartout jumped to the ground. His master followed suit, paying off the cabbie.

around the world in 80 days / 17

A poor beggar woman.

Standing barefoot in the mud was a poor beggar woman who held a child by the hand, wore a shabby hat with a pitiful drooping feather, and had a tattered shawl over her rags; just then she came up to Mr. Fogg and asked for alms. Mr. Fogg reached into his pocket, took out the twenty guineas he’d recently won at whist, and handed them to the beggar woman:

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“There you are, my good lady,” he said. “Pleased to meet you!” Then on he went. Passepartout felt a little moisture in the vicinity of his pupils. His master had gone up a notch in his esteem. He and Mr. Fogg immediately entered the main waiting room at the terminal. There Phileas Fogg instructed Passepartout to buy two first-class tickets to Paris. Then, turning around, he spotted his five colleagues from the Reform Club. “Gentlemen, I’m on my way,” he said. “And when I come back, you’ll be able to double-check my itinerary against the different visa stamps on the passport I’m carrying for that purpose.” “Oh, that isn’t necessary, Mr. Fogg,” Walter Ralph replied diplomatically. “We’ll rely on your word as a gentleman.” “My procedure is best,” Mr. Fogg said. “You won’t forget when you’re due back . . . ?” Andrew Stuart pointed out. “In eighty days,” Mr. Fogg replied. “By 8:45 on Saturday evening, December 21. Good-bye till then, gentlemen.” At 8:40 Phileas Fogg and his manservant took their seats in the same compartment. At 8:45 a whistle blew and the train moved out. It was a black night. A light rain fell. Propped in his corner, Phileas Fogg didn’t say a word. Still in a daze, Passepartout hugged the bag of banknotes in a machinelike grip. But before the train had gone past Sydenham, Passepartout let out a genuine howl of despair! “What is it?” Mr. Fogg asked. “It’s . . . it’s that . . . I was in such a hurry . . . I was so bothered . . . that I forgot . . .” “Forgot what?” “To turn off the gas jet in my bedroom!” “Well, my lad,” Mr. Fogg replied coolly, “it will burn at your own expense.”

around the world in 80 days / 19

5.  In which a new share shows up on the London stock market

A

s he left London, Phileas Fogg surely had no inkling of the huge uproar his departure was about to cause. First the news of his bet flew around the Reform Club, generating real excitement among the members of that respectable fellowship. Next, thanks to various reporters, this excitement went from the club to the newspapers, then from the newspapers to the populace of London and the entire United Kingdom. This “going-around-the-world business” gave rise to comments, arguments, and analyses that were as eager and impassioned as if they concerned a new set of Alabama Claims.6 Some sided with Phileas Fogg, while others—and they soon formed a substantial majority—took stands against him. However it might look on paper or the drawing board, to actually go around the world in this minimum time, with the means of transportation currently available, was insane, simply impossible! The Times, Evening Standard, Morning Chronicle, Evening Star, and twenty other newspapers of great renown came out against Mr. Fogg. Only the Daily Telegraph backed him to any extent. Phileas Fogg was largely regarded as a maniac, a madman, and his colleagues at the Reform Club were denounced for going along with this bet, whose initiator clearly suffered from softening of the brain. Articles appeared on the matter that were both well reasoned and tremendously impassioned. As you know, the English are interested in anything having to do with geography. Accordingly there wasn’t a reader in the land, of any economic class, who didn’t gobble up the columns of print devoted to the Phileas Fogg affair. 6. Translator’s note. During the American Civil War, the UK violated its neutrality and built the warship Alabama for the confederacy. The U.S. government took England to international arbitration and claimed damages.

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There wasn’t a reader in the land . . .

Early on a few daring souls—chiefly female—were all for him, especially when the Illustrated London News borrowed a photograph on file in the Reform Club’s records and published his portrait. “Hear, hear,” some gentlemen also dared to say. “After all, why not?

around the world in 80 days / 21

Stranger things have happened!” These were mainly the Daily Telegraph’s readers. But soon even this newspaper noticeably started to back off. In essence a lengthy article appeared in the October 7th bulletin from the Royal Geographical Society. It dealt with the issue from every viewpoint and clearly established the insanity of the undertaking. According to this article, the traveler had everything going against him, both human obstacles and natural obstacles. To pull off this scheme, he needed to figure on a miraculous matching up of departure and arrival times, but there wasn’t and couldn’t be any such matchup. When push comes to shove, you can depend on trains in Europe arriving on schedule, since the distances they cover are comparatively short; but when they take three days to cross India and seven days to cross the United States, can you bank on the pieces of such a puzzle punctually fitting together? Engines conk out, jump the tracks, have collisions, face foul weather, run into snowdrifts—and wasn’t Phileas Fogg up against all these things? Then, traveling by ocean liner, wouldn’t he be at the mercy of winter blasts and fogs? In the international shipping world, was it so rare for even topof-the-line vessels to face delays of two or three days? Now then, just one delay was all it would take to snap his chain of connections beyond repair. If Phileas Fogg missed the departure of a single ocean liner, even by a few hours, he would have to wait for the next liner, and by the same token his journey would be hopelessly jeopardized. This article made a big noise. Nearly all the newspapers reprinted it, and Phileas Fogg’s stock fell significantly. During the days right after the gentleman’s departure, the “risk factor” in his endeavor inspired some major bookmaking transactions. As you know, the English betting world has loftier, more discerning standards than the rest of the gambling world. Betting is in the English national character. Accordingly, not only did various members of the Reform Club place considerable bets for or against Phileas Fogg, but the general public climbed on the bandwagon. The name Phileas Fogg was entered in a sort of studbook as if he were a race horse. He was also converted into shares and immediately quoted on the London stock market. “Phileas Foggs” were bought and sold at face value or at a premium and they did tremendous business. But five days after his departure, after that article in the Geographical Society’s bulletin, there was a rush to sell. Phileas Foggs declined. They were offered in quantity. First in batches of five, then ten, and ultimately no less than twenty, fifty, or a hundred! He had just one supporter left. This was elderly, paralyzed Lord Albemarle. Stuck in his armchair, this distinguished nobleman would have given his whole fortune and ten years of his life to go around the world! He bet £5,000 ($25,000) that Phileas Fogg would succeed. And anytime somebody spelled out the scheme’s foolishness and pointlessness for him, he was content to reply: “If the thing can be done, it would be good for an Englishman to do it first!” Now then, that’s where matters stood and supporters of Phileas Fogg were growing scarcer and scarcer; everybody sided against him, and with good reason; acceptable odds were at least 150 or 200 to 1, when, thanks to a totally unexpected incident a week after his departure, the bottom dropped out of things completely.

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In essence, at nine o’clock in the evening on that day, Scotland Yard’s commissioner of police received a telegram that ran like this: Police Commissioner Rowan Central Administration, Scotland Yard London Am tailing bank robber, one Phileas Fogg. Send arrest warrant immediately to Bombay, British India. Detective Inspector Fix Suez. This wire had an immediate impact. The respectable gentleman vanished and in his place stood the man who stole the banknotes. His photograph was on file at the Reform Club along with those of all his colleagues, and the authorities examined it. Feature for feature it duplicated the physical description furnished by the official inquiry. People remembered Phileas Fogg’s secretive lifestyle, his solitary habits, his sudden departure, and it seemed obvious that this individual, using the excuse of an around-the-world trip based on an insane bet, had the sole aim of outfoxing investigators from the English police force.

around the world in 80 days / 23

6.  In which Fix the investigator is understandably impatient

T

he wire concerning this Phileas Fogg fellow had been fired off under the following circumstances. On Wednesday, October 9, at eleven o’clock in the morning, folks were waiting in Suez for the ocean liner Mongolia of the Peninsular & Oriental Steam Navigation Co., an iron-hulled, propeller-driven steamer that featured an upper deck, weighed nearly 3,100 tons, and was on the books as having 500-horsepower engines. The Mongolia did a regular run from Brindisi to Bombay by way of the Suez Canal. It was one of the company’s fastest racers and always exceeded the scheduled speeds, which were 10 miles per hour from Brindisi to Suez and 9.53 miles per hour from Suez to Bombay. While waiting for the Mongolia to arrive, two men strolled along the pier through the crowds of locals and foreigners pouring into this town—recently a village but with a considerable future ahead, since, thanks to the tremendous efforts of France’s Mr. de Lesseps, the canal was now open for business. One of these two men ran the consulate that the United Kingdom had set up in Suez; in spite of dire prophecies by the British government and grim predictions from Stephenson the engineer, this official saw English ships go through the canal every day, which took only half as long as the old England-to-India route around the Cape of Good Hope. The other, a skinny little man, had rather crafty, twitchy features and kept knitting his brow in a conspicuous way. Behind his long lashes gleamed a keen pair of eyes, but he could dim their luster at will. Just then he was showing distinct signs of impatience, pacing back and forth, unable to hold still. The man’s name was Fix and he was one of those “masters of detection,” one of those investigators from the English police force who had been dispatched to various ports after that robbery committed at the Bank of England. With the greatest care this man Fix was to keep an eye on every traveler going by way of Suez, and if one of them seemed suspicious, to “stay on his tail” till a warrant for his arrest had arrived.

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The police inspector.

Sure enough, two days earlier Scotland Yard’s commissioner of police had sent Fix a physical description of the man who supposedly perpetrated the robbery. It gave particulars about that well-dressed, refined-looking individual whom bank staff had noticed in the cash payments room. His successful capture would earn a substantial reward, and this obviously had strong appeal for the detective, who was waiting for the Mongolia’s arrival with an impatience you can easily appreciate.

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“And you’re sure, Mr. Consul,” he asked for the tenth time, “that this boat can’t be much longer?” “No, Mr. Fix,” the consul replied. “It was sighted yesterday off Port Said, and a hundred miles of canal are nothing for such a speedy vessel. I’ll mention again that the Mongolia has always earned that £25 bonus the government offers whenever a ship runs twenty-four hours ahead of schedule.” “This ocean liner comes straight here from Brindisi?” Fix asked. “Right from Brindisi, where it picked up the mail for India, and it left Brinidisi Saturday at five o’clock in the afternoon. So be patient, it’ll arrive before much longer. But if your man’s aboard the Mongolia, I honestly don’t see how you’ll be able to identify him from the description you’ve got.” “Mr. Consul,” Fix replied, “we scent these fellows rather than identify them. You need to have a nose for it, and this nose is like a special organ that combines hearing, seeing, and smelling. I’ve arrested more than one of these gentlemen in my day, and if my robber’s on board, I assure you he won’t slip through my fingers.” “I hope not, Mr. Fix, because there’s a major robbery involved here.” “A magnificent robbery!” the investigator replied excitedly. “£55,000! We don’t get a bonanza like this very often! Our master burglars have turned into petty thieves! Escape artists like John Sheppard are a dying breed! Today’s crooks get hung for stealing a couple shillings!” “Mr. Fix,” the consul replied, “with an attitude like yours, I sincerely hope you succeed; but I’ll mention again that I’m afraid it’ll be difficult in your present circumstances. Based on the description you’ve got, surely you realize this robber looks exactly like a respectable man.” “Mr. Consul,” the police inspector replied dogmatically, “accomplished robbers always look like respectable fellows. As you can easily appreciate, people with faces like scalawags have no choice but to stay honest or be arrested. Those with respectable features are the ones you especially need to see through. Hard work, I admit, but it isn’t just a job—it’s an art.” As you can see, the aforesaid Mr. Fix had his fair share of vanity. Meanwhile the pier gradually got busier. Seamen of various nationalities, tradespeople, brokers, porters, and rustics were pouring in. Obviously it was nearly time for the ocean liner to arrive. The sky was pretty clear, but the wind blew from the east and the air was chilly. In the pale sunlight a few minarets stood out above the town. A jetty to the south, 1¼ miles long, reached like an arm to the offshore mooring of Suez. Wheeling around on the surface of the Red Sea were several fishing and coastal vessels, a few of them built along the stylish lines of an old-time galley. Out of professional habit Fix gave every passerby the once-over as he moved through these working-class crowds. By then it was 10:30. “And that ocean liner still hasn’t arrived!” he exclaimed when he heard the harbor clock striking. “It can’t be far off,” the consul responded. “How long will it lay over in Suez?” Fix asked.

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One of them . . . energetically repulsed the rustics.

“Four hours. Long enough to take on coal. It needs to replenish its fuel supply, because it has to cover 1,310 miles from Suez to Aden at the lower end of the Red Sea.” “And does this boat go straight from Suez to Bombay?” Fix asked. “Straight there, without any cargo stops.” “Well then,” Fix said, “if the robber took this route and this boat, he must have a plan to jump ship in Suez, then go by some other way to the Dutch or French possessions in Asia. He must be well aware there’s no safety for him in India, since it’s English territory.”

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“Unless he’s a very clever man,” the consul replied. “As you know, an English criminal is always better off hiding in London than in foreign parts.” While the investigator gave this idea some thought, the consul headed back to his office, which was located a short distance away. Left on his own, filled with nervous impatience, the police inspector had a peculiar hunch that his robber was destined to be aboard the Mongolia—and in actuality, if the rogue had left England bound for the New World, he was sure to choose the route through India, which was less closely watched, or harder to watch, than the Atlantic route. Fix wasn’t lost in thought for long. Sharp toots from a whistle announced the ocean liner’s arrival. The whole mob of porters and rustics rushed down to the pier, a wild dash that left a few traces on the limbs and attire of waiting passengers. Ten or so dinghies shoved off from the bank and headed out to wait for the Mongolia. Soon you could see the Mongolia’s gigantic hull moving along between the banks of the canal, and as eleven o’clock was striking, the steamer dropped anchor at the offshore mooring, steam from its exhaust pipes making a huge racket. There were a fair number of passengers on board. A few of them stayed on the upper deck to view the picturesque panorama of the town; but most of them went ashore in the dinghies that had pulled alongside the Mongolia. Fix scrupulously examined every person who set foot on land. Just then one of them came toward him, energetically repulsed the rustics who closed in with offers of assistance, and very courteously asked if the detective could point to the office of the English consulate. At the same time this passenger held out a passport, no doubt wanting to get a British visa stamp. Fix automatically took the passport and read the description in it with one quick glance. He all but jumped out of his skin. The paperwork trembled in his hand. The description set forth in the passport was identical to the one he’d gotten from Scotland Yard’s commissioner of police. “This passport isn’t yours?” he said to the passenger. “No,” the latter replied, “it’s my master’s passport.” “And where’s your master?” “He’s staying on board.” “But,” the investigator went on, “he needs to show up in person at the office of the consulate, to establish his identity.” “What! Is that necessary?” “Essential.” “And where’s this office?” “There, on that side of the square,” the inspector replied, pointing to the consul’s quarters some 200 steps away. “Then I’ll go get my master, but he won’t take kindly to being bothered this way.” On that note the passenger nodded to Fix and went back aboard the steamer.

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7.  Which demonstrates once again that passports are no help in police work

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he inspector went back down the pier and quickly headed over to the consul’s office. At his urgent request he was instantly ushered into that functionary’s presence. “Mr. Consul,” he told him without any further preamble, “I have solid grounds for believing our fellow’s traveling aboard the Mongolia.” And Fix described what had gone on between the manservant and himself regarding the passport. “Well, Mr. Fix,” the consul replied, “It wouldn’t pain me to see the rascal’s face. But if he’s the man you assume, maybe he won’t show up at my office. Robbers don’t like to leave trails behind them—and besides, the formality of showing your passport isn’t required anymore.” “Mr. Consul,” the investigator replied, “if he’s the clever man we think he is, he’ll come!” “To get a visa stamp on his passport?” “Right. Passports are good only for inconveniencing respectable folks and helping rascals get away. This one will be all in order, I assure you, but I sincerely hope you won’t stamp it.” “And why not?” the consul replied. “If his passport’s in order, I haven’t any right to deny him his visa stamp.” “But Mr. Consul, I’ve got to keep this man here till I receive a warrant for his arrest from London.” “Aha! That, Mr. Fix, is your concern,” the consul replied. “But as for me, I can’t—” The consul didn’t finish his sentence. Right then there was a knock on his study door and the office boy ushered two strangers in, one of them the very manservant who had just conversed with the detective. The master had indeed come along with his valet. The master held out his passport, requesting with Spartan brevity that the consul kindly add his visa stamp. The latter took the passport and read it carefully, while Fix watched from a corner of the study, devouring the stranger with his eyes.

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When the consul was finished reading: “You’re Phileas Fogg, Esq.?” he asked. “Yes, sir,” the gentleman replied. “And this fellow’s your manservant?” “Yes. A Frenchman known as Passepartout.” “You’ve come from London?” “Yes.” “And you’re going where?” “To Bombay.” “Very good, sir. You’re aware that this formality of visa stamps isn’t necessary, that we aren’t required to show our passports anymore?” “I’m aware of it, sir,” Phileas Fogg replied, “but I want your visa stamp as proof that I’ve traveled by way of Suez.” “As you wish, sir.” And after signing and dating the passport, the consul stamped it with his seal. Mr. Fogg paid the certification fee, nodded coolly, and left with his manservant at his heels. “Well?” the inspector asked. “Well,” the consul answered, “he looks like a perfectly respectable man!” “Even if he does,” Fix replied, “that isn’t the issue. Don’t you see, Mr. Consul, that this stoic gentleman resembles, feature for feature, the robber whose description I’ve received?” “I grant you, but as you’re aware, every description . . .” “I’m going to get to the bottom of this,” Fix responded. “The manservant strikes me as easier to puzzle out than his master. Furthermore he’s a Frenchman, so he won’t be able to keep his mouth shut. See you later, Mr. Consul.” With that the investigator left to start looking for Passepartout. Meanwhile, after leaving the quarters of the consulate, Mr. Fogg headed toward the pier. There he gave a few instructions to his manservant; next, climbing into a dinghy, he went back aboard the Mongolia and reentered his cabin. Then he picked up his notebook, which contained the following remarks: Left London, Wednesday, October 2, at 8:45 in the evening.

Arrived in Paris, Thursday, October 3, at 7:20 in the morning. Left Paris, Thursday at 8:40 in the morning.

Arrived in Turin by way of Mt. Cenis, Friday, October 4, at 6:35 in the morning. Left Turin, Friday, at 7:20 in the morning.

Arrived in Brindisi, Saturday, October 5, at 4:00 in the afternoon. Sailed on the Mongolia, Saturday, at 5:00 in the afternoon.

Arrived in Suez, Wednesday, October 9, at 11:00 in the morning. Total hours spent: 158½, hence 6½ days.

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Mr. Fogg had recorded these dates in an itinerary organized into columns, which indicated (from October 2 to December 21) the month, date, day, scheduled arrival, and actual arrival at each major stop, Paris, Brindisi, Suez, Bombay, Calcutta, Singapore, Hong Kong, Yokohama, San Francisco, New York, Liverpool, and London; he was able to compute the time gained or lost on each leg of his journey. Consequently this systematic itinerary kept track of everything, and Mr. Fogg always knew whether he was behind or ahead of schedule. So when he recorded his arrival in Suez on that day of Wednesday, October 9, it matched the scheduled arrival and amounted to neither a gain nor a loss. Then he had his lunch brought up to his cabin. As for looking over the town, he never even gave it a thought, since he belonged to that race of Englishmen who see the countries they cross only through the eyes of their servants.

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8.  In which Passepartout says a bit more than maybe he ought to

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n a few seconds Fix had rejoined Passepartout on the pier, where he was sauntering along like a tourist, not feeling that he, at least, had to refrain from looking things over. “Well, my friend,” Fix said, buttonholing him, “did you get that visa stamp on your passport?” “Oh, it’s you, sir,” the Frenchman replied. “Much obliged. We’re fine, everything’s in order.” “And you’re touring the country?” “Yes, but we’re going so fast, I seem to be traveling in a dream. And as for this place, it’s Suez?” “It’s Suez.” “In Egypt?” “In Egypt, correct.” “And in Africa?” “In Africa.” “In Africa!” Passepartout echoed. “I can’t believe it! Just think, sir—I imagined we wouldn’t go any farther than Paris and I revisited that famed metropolis from only 7:20 to 8:40 in the morning, between the Northern and Lyons railway terminals, through a cab window, and while it was raining cats and dogs! I was so disappointed! I would have loved to see the Père Lachaise Cemetery again and the Champs Élysées Circus!” “So you’re in quite a rush?” the police inspector asked. “I’m not, but my master is. Speaking of which, I need to buy some socks and shirts! We left without any luggage, just an overnight bag.” “I’ll take you to a bazaar where you’ll find everything you need.” “Really, sir,” Passepartout replied, “you’re very kind . . . !” And the two went off together. Passepartout talked nonstop.

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“My watch? This watch that has been in my family?”

“Above all,” he said, “I must be very careful not to miss the boat!” “You’ve got time,” Fix replied. “It’s barely noon.” Passepartout tugged out his big watch. “Noon!” he said. “Come on! It’s 9:52!” “Your watch is slow,” Fix replied.

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“My watch? This watch that has been in my family, that has been handed down from my great-grandfather? After a whole year it isn’t off even five minutes. It’s an authentic chronometer!” “I see what the problem is,” Fix replied. “You’re still on London time, which is, um, two hours behind Suez. You should make a point of resetting your watch at noon in each country.” “Me tamper with my watch?” Passepartout exclaimed. “Never!” “Well then, it won’t agree with the sun.” “Too bad for the sun, sir! It’ll be the party at fault!” And the gallant fellow put his watch back in his vest pocket with a haughty flourish. A few seconds later Fix said to him: “So you left London in a hurry?” “I’ll say! Last Wednesday at eight o’clock in the evening, completely contrary to his daily habits, Mr. Fogg came back from his club, and forty-five minutes later we left home.” “But where’s your master off to?” “He’s just following his nose! He’s going around the world!” “Around the world?” Fix exclaimed. “Yes, in eighty days! On a bet, he says, but between ourselves I don’t buy it. It’s against all common sense. There’s something else going on.” “Ah, so he’s eccentric, this Mr. Fogg?” “That’s what I gather.” “He’s a wealthy man, then?” “Apparently, and he’s carrying a goodly sum along with him in brand-new banknotes! And he isn’t pinching pennies on the way! Get this—he promised a magnificent bonus to the Mongolia’s head mechanic if we reach Bombay well ahead of schedule!” “And have you known your master a long while?” “Me?” Passepartout answered. “I started working for him the same day we left.” The reader can easily imagine the effect these answers had to have on the police inspector, whose brain was already in a tizzy. The gentleman’s hasty departure from London soon after the robbery, the large sum he carried with him, his hurry to reach these distant lands, and his excuse of an eccentric bet all inevitably corroborated what Fix had been thinking. He kept the Frenchman talking and became convinced that the fellow didn’t know a thing about his master, that the latter lived a solitary life in London, that he was said to be wealthy though the source of his fortune wasn’t known, that he was an impregnably secretive man, etc. But at the same time, Fix could see for certain that Phileas Fogg wasn’t getting off in Suez, that he was actually going on to Bombay. “Is Bombay far?” Passepartout asked. “Pretty far,” the investigator replied. “It’ll take you about ten more days by sea.” “And just where is Bombay?” “In India.” “Part of Asia?”

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“Of course.” “Holy smoke! I have a confession to make . . . there’s just one thing that has me worried . . . it’s my gas jet!” “Gas jet?” “In my bedroom—I forgot to turn it off and it’s burning at my expense. Now then, I’ve calculated I’ll be out two shillings every twenty-four hours, exactly sixpence more than I make, and you can understand that the longer our journey goes on . . .” Did Fix really understand this gaseous matter? It didn’t seem likely. He’d stopped listening and was reaching a decision. He and the Frenchman had arrived at the bazaar. Fix left his companion to his shopping, advised him to not be late for the Mongolia’s departure, and returned with great speed to the office of the consulate. Now that he was sure he was right, Fix had fully recovered his composure. “Sir,” he told the consul, “there’s no longer any doubt in my mind. I’ve got my man. He’s giving out that he’s an eccentric who’s trying to go around the world in eighty days.” “Then he’s a trickster,” the consul replied, “and after he totally outfoxes the police in both the New World and the Old, he’s figuring on going back to London!” “We’ll see about that,” Fix replied. “But could you be mistaken?” the consul asked yet again. “I’m not mistaken.” “Then why was this robber so bent on getting a visa stamp to prove he’d traveled by way of Suez?” “Why?” the detective responded. “I haven’t the faintest idea, Mr. Consul, but hear me out.” And in a few words, he reported the highlights of his conversation with the suspect Fogg’s manservant. “In essence,” the consul said, “appearances are dead against this man. And what are you going to do?” “Fire off a telegram to London, ask that an arrest warrant be sent immediately to Bombay, set sail on the Mongolia, tail my robber to India, and there on English soil politely pull alongside him, warrant in one hand, other hand on his shoulder.” Coolly uttering these words, the investigator took his leave of the consul and proceeded to the telegraph office. There he fired off to Scotland Yard’s police commissioner the wire you’re acquainted with. Carrying his little travel bag, flush with funds, Fix climbed aboard the Mongolia fifteen minutes later, and that high-speed liner was soon going full steam ahead over the waters of the Red Sea.

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9.  Where the Red Sea and the Indian Ocean cooperate with Phileas Fogg’s objectives

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he distance between Suez and Aden is 1,310 miles on the button, and the company’s specifications give ocean liners a travel time of 138 hours. Energetically pushing its furnaces, the Mongolia was making such good progress that it promised to arrive ahead of schedule. Most of the passengers had come on board in Brindisi and were almost exclusively bound for India. Some were proceeding to Bombay, others to Calcutta—but by way of Bombay, because, now that a railroad runs across India’s entire peninsula, it’s no longer necessary to double the tip of Ceylon. Included in the Mongolia’s passengers were various civil functionaries and military officers of every rank. Among the latter were some who belonged to the British Army proper, others who commanded the native Sepoy troops, all of them highly paid, even these days after the government had taken over the rights and responsibilities of the old East India Company: second lieutenants earn the equivalent of $1,400 per year, brigadiers $12,000, generals $20,000.7 So folks lived high on the hog aboard the Mongolia;8 mixed in with this gathering of functionaries were a few young Englishmen who had millions in their pockets and were off to set up colonial trading posts. The “purser” was the company’s confidential representative as well as the captain’s equal on board, and he did things in grand style. At morning breakfast, 2:00 lunch, 5:30 dinner, and 8:00 supper, the ship’s tables groaned under platters

7. Civil functionaries are paid even higher salaries. Mere aides on the bottom rung of the hierarchy make the equivalent of $2,400 per year, magistrates $12,000, presiding court judges $50,000, governors $60,000, and the governor-general over $120,000. (Author’s note) 8. Translator’s note. To find out how high, multiply these salaries by twenty; this will give their approximate purchasing power in today’s dollars.

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of cold cuts and desserts provided by the liner’s meat locker and pantries. Female passengers—there were a few—changed their gowns and makeup twice a day. Folks played music and even danced when the sea was amenable. But the Red Sea is very flighty and often thoroughly out of sorts, as is true of all long narrow channels. When the wind blew from either the Asian or African coasts, it caught the Mongolia at an angle and the long, spindle-shaped, propeller-driven vessel rolled frightfully. Then the ladies vanished, the pianos fell still, the singing and dancing broke off instantly. Yet despite the wind and waves, the ocean liner, driven by its mighty engines, made uninterrupted headway toward the Strait of Bab el Mandeb. What was Phileas Fogg doing all this time? Wouldn’t you expect him to be constantly worried and nervous, concerned about the wind’s shifting and impeding the ship’s progress, about wildly surging billows that threatened to damage the engines, about, in short, very possible form of breakdown that could force the Mongolia to put into some port and jeopardize his journey? Not at all, or at the very least, the gentleman didn’t let on that he was considering these possibilities. He was the same unemotional man, the same unflappable member of the Reform Club whom no incident or accident could surprise. He showed no more feeling than the ship’s chronometers. You rarely saw him on deck. He didn’t bother to take the briefest look at this Red Sea that was so rich in memories, this stage for the earliest dramas in human history. He didn’t come up and scout out the interesting towns that were scattered along its shores, their picturesque shapes sometimes silhouetted against the horizon. He didn’t even ponder the dangers of this Arabic body of water, which such ancient historians as Strabo, Arrian, Artemidorus, and Idrisi always spoke of with horror, and over which oldtime navigators ventured only after blessing their voyages with sacrifices to appease the gods. So what was this eccentric individual up to while he was confined aboard the Mongolia? First of all he ate his four meals per day, without the ship’s rolling and pitching ever throwing his marvelously coordinated mechanism out of gear. Then he played whist. That’s right! He’d turned up some card partners who were as zealous as he was: a tax collector making his way to his post in Goa, a preacher named Reverend Decimus Smith who was heading back to Bombay, and a brigadier general in the British Army who was rejoining his unit in Benares. These three passengers shared Mr. Fogg’s passion for whist and they played for hours on end, just as closemouthed as he was. As for Passepartout, he was immune to seasickness. He occupied a cabin in the bow and likewise ate all his meals conscientiously. It definitely needs to be said that when their journey proceeded under conditions such as these, it didn’t upset him anymore. He could accept it. Well fed, well housed, he saw the sights and meanwhile told himself that the whole pipedream would come to an end in Bombay. On October 10, the day after leaving Suez, he climbed on deck and was pleasantly surprised to bump into that obliging individual he’d spoken to when he went ashore in Egypt. “If I’m not mistaken, sir,” he said, buttonholing the man with his cheeriest smile, “aren’t you the fellow who was kind enough to act as my guide in Suez?”

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The ship called at Steamer Point.

“So I am,” the detective replied. “And I remember you! You’re the manservant of that eccentric Englishman . . .” “That’s right, Mr.—” “Fix.” “Mr. Fix,” Passepartout replied. “I’m delighted to find you on board. So where are you headed?” “Why, the same place you are—Bombay.” “All the better! Have you made this voyage before?” “Several times,” Fix replied. “I’m a representative of the Peninsular & Oriental Co.” “Then you’re familiar with India?” “Why . . . yes . . . ,” Fix replied, not wanting to overdo it.

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Passepartout . . . was out sauntering around.

“Is India an interesting place?” “Quite interesting! Mosques, minarets, temples, beggar monks, pagodas, tigers, snakes, and dancing girls! But you’ll have time to see the country, I hope?” “I hope so too, Mr. Fix. As you’re well aware, it isn’t acceptable for a man of sound mind to spend his life hopping from ocean liners to railways and from railways back to ocean liners, all with some excuse of going around the world in eighty days! No, these acrobatics will come to a full stop in Bombay, count on it.” “And is he doing all right, your Mr. Fogg?” Fix asked in his most off hand tone. “Perfectly all right, Mr. Fix. And the same goes for me. I eat like an underfed ogre. It’s this salt air.” “And yet I never see your master on deck.”

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“Never. He isn’t the inquisitive type.” “You know, Mr. Passepartout, this so-called journey in eighty days could well be a cover for some secret mission . . . a diplomatic mission, for instance!” “Ye gods, Mr. Fix, I swear I don’t know a thing about it, and when all’s said and done, I wouldn’t pay even half a crown to find out.” After this encounter Passepartout and Fix often chatted together. The police inspector kept up his friendship with the manservant of this Fogg fellow. It might come in handy on occasion. Consequently he often stood the Frenchman a couple rounds of whiskey or pale ale in the Mongolia’s taproom—the gallant lad cheerfully accepted them, returned the compliment so as not to be outdone, and all the while found this Mr. Fix a gentleman and a scholar. In the meantime the ocean liner made rapid headway. On the 13th it raised Mocha, which came in sight with its girdle of ruined walls, a few leafy date trees standing out above them. Huge coffee plantations were thriving in the distant mountains. Passepartout found this famous town delightful to contemplate, and he even felt that with those circular walls and that broken-down fort shaped like a handle, it looked like an enormous coffee cup. The following night the Mongolia cleared the Strait of Bab el Mandeb, an Arabic name that translates as “Gate of Tears,” and the next day, the 14th, the ship called at Steamer Point, northwest of the offshore mooring of Aden. Which was where it would take on fuel. When it’s this far away from any mining district, feeding an ocean liner’s furnace is a serious and important concern. The Peninsular Co. thinks nothing of incurring an annual expense of £800,000 (about $4,000,000) at this activity. In fact the company found it essential to set up fueling stations in several ports, and in these far-off seas coal went for $18 per ton. The Mongolia still had 1,650 miles to go before reaching Bombay and it had a fourhour layover in Steamer Point for the purpose of filling up its coal bunkers. But this delay couldn’t do the slightest harm to Phileas Fogg’s schedule. He was expecting it. Besides, instead of reaching Aden merely by the morning of October 15, the Mongolia had arrived there the evening of the 14th. Which was a gain of fifteen hours. Mr. Fogg and his manservant went ashore. The gentleman wanted a visa stamp on his passport. Fix followed them without their noticing. Finished with the formality of the visa stamp, Phileas Fogg went back on board to resume his interrupted card game. With regard to Passepartout, as usual he was out sauntering around, mixing with that populace of Somalis, Banyans, Parsis, Jews, Arabs, and Europeans who constitute the 25,000 occupants of Aden. He marveled at the fortifications that make this town the Gibraltar of the Indian Ocean, as well as the magnificent water tanks that English engineers were working on again, 2,000 years after the engineers under King Solomon. “It’s all so interesting!” Passepartout told himself, coming back on board. “Traveling isn’t as pointless as I thought, if you’re open to seeing new things.” At six o’clock in the evening, the Mongolia’s propeller blades churned the waters of Aden’s offshore mooring, and soon the ship was racing across the Indian Ocean. It had been allotted 168 hours for the run from Aden to Bombay. What’s more, the Indian Ocean

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itself was cooperative. There was a steady wind out of the northwest. Sail power could come to the aid of steam power. With this increased support, the ship rolled less. Female passengers freshened up and reappeared on deck. The singing and dancing started again. Their voyage was proceeding under optimum conditions. Passepartout was delighted with the genial companion fortune had found for him in the person of Mr. Fix. Toward noontime on Sunday, October 20, they raised the coast of India. Two hours later the harbor pilot climbed aboard the Mongolia. Hills ran across the far reaches of the horizon, pleasingly outlined against the background of the sky. Soon the rows of palm trees shielding the town stood out clearly. The ocean liner cruised through the offshore mooring set up between Colaba, Salsette, Butcher, and Elephanta islands, and at 4:30 it pulled alongside a Bombay pier. Right then Phileas Fogg was finishing his thirty-third rubber of the day, and thanks to a daring move, he and his partner won all thirteen tricks, concluding this fine crossing with a marvelous grand slam. The Mongolia wasn’t due to arrive in Bombay till October 22. Now then, its actual arrival time was the 20th. So this amounted to a gain of two days since he’d left London, and Phileas Fogg methodically recorded the fact in the plus column of his itinerary

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10.  Where Passepartout gets off easy with just the loss of his shoes

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s everybody is aware, India, that big upside-down triangle with its base to the north and its point to the south, covers a surface area of 1,400,000 square miles, which are occupied by an unevenly distributed population of 180,000,000 people. The British government exercises realistic control over certain parts of this immense country. It maintains a governor-general in Calcutta, governors in Madras, Bombay, and Bengal, plus a lieutenant governor in Agra. But British India proper has a surface area of only 700,000 square miles, which are occupied by a population of 100,000,000 to 110,000,000 people. Let’s just say that a significant part of this country is still outside the queen’s authority; and inland there are some dreadfully savage regions that remain completely independent, where rajas are the true rulers. From 1756 (when the English founded their first settlement on the site where the town of Madras stands today) down to the year when the great Sepoy Rebellion broke out, the famous East India Company was all-powerful. Little by little it took over various provinces, acquiring them from the rajas in exchange for yearly payments that it seldom if ever made; it appointed its own governor-general and all his civil and military underlings; but today it’s a thing of the past, and England’s possessions in India answer directly to the crown. Accordingly the peninsula’s appearance, customs, and ethnographic distinctions are subject to change on a daily basis. Formerly you traveled the country using all the oldfashioned forms of transportation—on foot, on horseback, in a cart, in a wheelbarrow, in a covered litter, riding piggyback, by carriage, etc. Today high-speed steamboats ply the Indus and Ganges rivers, and a railway crosses the entire width of India with branch lines as it goes, so Bombay is only three days from Calcutta. The roadbed of this railway doesn’t go straight across India. This distance is only 1,000 to 1,100 miles as the crow flies, and a train running at just average speed would cover it in under three days; but the railway sweeps in a loop up to Allahabad in the northern part of the peninsula, which therefore increases the distance by at least a third.

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Dancing girls in Bombay.

Here, in a nutshell, are the high spots along the roadbed of the Great Indian Peninsular Railway. Leaving the island of Bombay, the line crosses Salsette, vaults over to the mainland opposite Thane, clears the Western Ghats mountain chain, runs northeast as far as Burhanpur, plows through the all-but-independent territory of Bundelkhand, goes up to Allahabad, adjusts its direction eastward, meets the Ganges by Benares, veers away a little,

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heads back down to the southeast past Burdwan and the French town of Chandernagore, then reaches the end of the line in Calcutta. The Mongolia’s passengers went ashore in Bombay at 4:30 in the afternoon, and the train for Calcutta was scheduled to pull out at eight o’clock on the dot. Mr. Fogg took leave of his card partners, got off the ocean liner, gave his manservant a few shopping instructions, expressly advised him to be at the railway terminal before eight o’clock, and headed to the passport office, his steady step ticking the seconds like the pendulum of an astronomical clock. Hence he wasn’t planning to see any of Bombay’s wonders—not its city hall, magnificent library, forts, docks, cotton market, bazaars, mosques, synagogues, Armenian churches, or the splendid pagoda on Malabar Hill adorned with its two polygon-shaped towers. He wouldn’t be contemplating the masterpieces of sculpture on Elephanta Island, or its secret catacombs hidden to the southeast of the offshore mooring, or the Kanheri Caves on Salsette Island, those marvelous remnants of Buddhist architecture. No, none of it was for him! After leaving the passport office, Phileas Fogg serenely made his way to the railway terminal and there he sat down for dinner. Among other dishes, the headwaiter earnestly advised him to try the “wild rabbit in white wine,” telling him it was superb. Phileas Fogg ordered the rabbit and sampled it conscientiously; but despite its highly spiced sauce, he found it abominable. He rang for the headwaiter. “Sir,” he said, looking intently at the man, “is this really rabbit?” “Yes, milord,” the ruffian replied brazenly. “Jungle rabbit.” “And this rabbit didn’t meow when you killed it?” “Meow? Oh, milord! A rabbit? I swear to you—” “Don’t swear, Mr. Headwaiter, and remember this one thing,” Mr. Fogg continued coolly. “Cats used to be considered sacred animals in India. Those were good times.” “For cats, milord?” “And maybe for travelers as well!” Having passed along this comment, Mr. Fogg serenely went on with his dinner. A few seconds after Mr. Fogg had gone ashore, Fix the investigator likewise left the Mongolia and raced over to the headquarters of Bombay’s chief of police. He introduced himself in his capacity as detective, revealed the assignment he’d been given, and disclosed where he stood with regard to the supposed perpetrator of the robbery. Had they received an arrest warrant from London . . . ? They hadn’t received a thing. And in actuality, since the warrant left after Mr. Fogg did, it couldn’t have arrived as yet. Fix was thoroughly flustered. He asked the police chief for authorization to arrest this Fogg fellow. The chief refused. The case was a Scotland Yard matter, and only they could legally issue a warrant. This insistence on sticking to principles, on strictly adhering to the letter of the law, is perfectly in keeping with English tradition, which won’t tolerate anything arbitrary where personal freedoms are concerned.

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Fix backed off, realizing he had no choice but to wait for his warrant. However he was determined to not lose sight of the inscrutable rascal as long as the latter remained in Bombay. He didn’t doubt that Phileas Fogg would stay in town for a while (and as you know, this was also Passepartout’s conviction), which would give the arrest warrant time to show up. But after he’d received his master’s latest instructions while getting off the Mongolia, Passepartout clearly saw that Bombay would be the same as Suez and Paris, that the journey wouldn’t end here, that it would continue on at least as far as Calcutta and maybe farther. And he started to wonder if this bet of Mr. Fogg’s wasn’t in dead earnest, and if fate wasn’t leading him—he, who wanted a life of peace and quiet—to actually go around the world in eighty days! Meanwhile, after buying some shirts and socks, he strolled through the streets of Bombay. Hordes of working people were converging on them, including Europeans of all nationalities, Persians with pointy hats, Bunhyas with round turbans, Sindhis with square hats, Armenians in long robes, and Parsis with black miters. It so happened that these Parsis, or Ghebers, were celebrating a feast day; their sect is directly descended from Zoroaster’s disciples, is the most industrious, civilized, intelligent, and ascetic of the Hindu races, and includes the wealthiest merchants currently living in Bombay. On this occasion they were celebrating a sort of religious carnival complete with processions and entertainments; the latter featured dancing girls dressed in pink gauze trimmed with gold and silver, who danced marvelously, yet with perfect decency, to the strumming of viols and the thumping of tom-toms. As for whether Passepartout watched these unusual ceremonies, whether his eyes and ears saw and heard by opening as wide as they could, and whether his attitude and facial expression were those of the greenest nincompoop imaginable, these are things you can take for granted. Unfortunately for him and his master, he ran the risk of jeopardizing their journey by indulging his curiosity to unacceptable lengths. In essence, after he’d gotten a glimpse of this Parsi carnival, Passepartout was heading to the railway terminal, when he crossed in front of the wonderful pagoda on Malabar Hill and had the ill-fated idea of looking inside. He was unaware of two things: first of all, going into certain Hindu pagodas is strictly forbidden to Christians; and beyond that, even true believers can’t enter without leaving their shoes at the door. We should note here that it’s the sound policy of the English government to respect the country’s religion, to enforce respect for the most miniscule details of its practices, and to severely punish anybody who violates them. Going in, meaning no harm, acting like any ordinary tourist, Passepartout stood inside the Malabar Hill temple and was marveling at the dazzling frippery of its Brahman decorations, when three priests suddenly toppled him onto its sacred flagstones. Their faces ablaze with fury, they jumped on him, tore off his shoes and socks, then started to pummel him while shrieking fiercely.

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He toppled two of them.

Agile and energetic, the Frenchman was back up in an instant. His opponents were seriously hampered by their long robes, and he toppled two of them with a smack of the fist and a kick of the foot, shot out of that pagoda as fast as his legs would move, and soon outstripped the third Hindu, who was hot on his heels and trying to set the crowd on him.

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At 7:55, just a few minutes before the train’s departure, Passepartout arrived at the railway terminal, without his hat, in his bare feet, his package of purchases left behind during the scuffle. Fix was there on the boarding platform. Having followed this Fogg fellow to the terminal, he realized the rascal was about to leave Bombay. He instantly decided to go along with him to Calcutta, and farther if need be. Passepartout didn’t see Fix, who was lurking in the shadows, but Fix heard Passepartout give his master a quick description of his adventures. “I hope this won’t happen again,” Phileas Fogg merely replied, taking a seat in one of the passenger cars on the train. Barefoot and thoroughly discomfited, the poor fellow followed his master without saying a word. Fix was about to climb into a different passenger car, when an idea suddenly held him back and changed his travel plans. “No, I’m staying,” he said to himself. “They broke the law on East Indian soil  .  .  .  I’ve got my man.” Just then the locomotive let out a mighty whistle and the train vanished into the night.

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11.  Where Phileas Fogg buys a fabulously expensive form of transportation

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he train left at the scheduled time. It carried a number of travelers, a few officers, some civil functionaries, and some traders in opium and indigo whose business called them to the eastern part of the peninsula. Passepartout occupied the same compartment as his master. A third traveler sat in the corner facing them. This was Brigadier General Sir Francis Cromarty, who was one of Mr. Fogg’s card partners during the crossing from Suez to Bombay and who was rejoining his troops quartered near Benares. Sir Francis Cromarty was a large, blond, fiftyish individual who had served with much distinction during the last Sepoy revolt and truly deserved to be called a native. He’d lived in India since his youth and made only rare appearances in his homeland. He was an educated man who gladly would have supplied information on the customs, history, and makeup of this Hindu country, if Phileas Fogg had been the sort to ask for it. But the gentleman didn’t ask for a thing. He wasn’t on a journey, he was going in a circle. He was, in all seriousness, a heavenly body following its orbit around the planet earth in line with the laws of rational mechanics. Just then he was mentally recalculating the time that had gone by since he’d left London, and if it had been in his nature to make a needless gesture, he would have rubbed his hands. His traveling companion’s eccentricity wasn’t lost on Sir Francis Cromarty, though he’d studied the man only with cards in hand and in between rubbers. So he had good reason to wonder whether a human heart was throbbing under that chilly exterior, whether Phileas Fogg had a soul with any feeling for natural beauty or ethical ideals. He had his doubts. Of all the eccentrics the brigadier general had come across, none of them could compare to this exemplar of the exact sciences. Phileas Fogg hadn’t hidden from Sir Francis Cromarty his plan to travel around the world, nor the conditions under which he was proceeding. The brigadier general saw this bet

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as simply a form of eccentricity that served no useful purpose and was inevitably lacking in any measure of transire benefaciendo,9 an ambition that ought to guide all reasonable human beings. The way this peculiar gentleman was behaving, he obviously would go though life “without doing a thing,” either for himself or anybody else. An hour after leaving Bombay, the train had crossed the viaducts, traveled through Salsette Island, and shot over to the mainland. At the station in Kalyan, a branch line on the right heads down to southeast India through Khandala and Pune, but they passed it by and went on to the station in Panvel. At this juncture their train tackled the many offshoots of the Western Ghats mountain chain, whose base is a combination of traprock and basalt and whose loftiest peaks are covered with dense woods. Now and then Sir Francis Cromarty and Phileas Fogg exchanged a few words, and at this point, reviving a conversation that often languished, the brigadier general said: “In this locality a few years ago, Mr. Fogg, you would have experienced a delay that very likely would have jeopardized your itinerary.” “How so, Sir Francis?” “Because the train tracks stopped at the base of these mountains, and to cross over to the station in Khandala on the opposite slope, you had to ride a pony or travel in a covered litter.” “Such a delay wouldn’t at all have upset the timing of my schedule,” Mr. Fogg replied. “I never proceed without expecting that certain obstacles may arise.” “But Mr. Fogg,” the brigadier general went on, “you’re in danger of having a very nasty problem on your hands from this fellow’s adventure.” Feet wrapped in his travel blanket, Passepartout was sound asleep and had no idea people were talking about him. “With that kind of infraction,” Sir Francis Cromarty continued, “the English government is tremendously strict and with good reason. More than anything it insists on respect for the Hindu religious customs, and if your manservant had been caught . . .” “Then he would have been caught, Sir Francis,” Mr. Fogg replied. “He would have been found guilty, he would have served his sentence, and afterward he would have gone quietly back to Europe. I fail to see how such a business could delay his employer.” And on that note the conversation languished again. During the night the train cleared the Western Ghats mountain range, went past Nashik, and the next day, October 21, shot through the comparatively flat country that makes up the territory of Khandesh. Sizeable villages are scattered across this well-cultivated land, above which minarets and pagodas stand in for the church steeples of Europe. This fertile region is irrigated by many small watercourses, most of them branches or subbranches of the Godavari River When he woke up, Passepartout looked out and couldn’t believe he was going through this Hindu countryside in a train belonging to the Great Indian Peninsular Railway. It seemed inconceivable to him. And yet nothing could be closer to the truth! Driven by

9. Translator’s note. Latin: “doing good in one’s lifetime.”

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Its steam curled in spirals.

the hands of an English engineer and stoked with English coal, the locomotive blew its smoke over farms of cotton plants, coffee plants, nutmeg trees, clove trees, and red pepper bushes. Its steam curled in spirals around clumps of palm trees, and in between them you saw picturesque bungalows, a few deserted monasteries of the sort known as viharis, and some wondrous temples enhanced with the endless embellishments of India’s architecture. Then immense expanses of terrain took shape as far as the eye could see, jungles with no shortage of snakes or tigers that shied away from the shrieking train, and ultimately the line’s roadbed cut through some forests that were still haunted by elephants, which watched with thoughtful eyes as the whole disorderly procession went by.

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That morning, beyond the station in Malegaon, our travelers crossed the deadly territory where so much blood has been spilled by followers of the goddess Kali. Not far away Ellora reared up with its marvelous pagodas, nor was famed Aurangabad far away, base of operations for the fierce Emperor Aurangzeb, now a mere county seat in one of the freestanding provinces in the Nizam of Hyderabad’s realm. This region had been under the sway of Feringhea, king of stranglers and leader of the Thuggee cult. That close-knit, elusive band of assassins paid homage to the goddess of death by strangling victims of all ages without ever shedding their blood, and there was a time when you couldn’t dig up the ground anywhere in this locality without finding a corpse. The English government has succeeded in preventing a significant percentage of these murders, but the frightful band is still in existence, still in operation. By 12:30 the train had stopped at the station in Burhanpur, and there Passepartout paid an arm and a leg to acquire a pair of Turkish slippers, which were adorned with imitation pearls and which his feet clearly felt proud to wear. The passengers ate a quick lunch and left again for the train station in Asirgarh, after momentarily hugging the banks of the Tapi, a small river that goes and empties into the Gulf of Khambhat near Surat. This is as good a time as any to reveal a few of the thoughts taking up space in Passepartout’s brain. Till his arrival in Bombay, he’d believed—and couldn’t help believing—that things would end there. But now that they were going full steam ahead across India, a shift took place in his mental processes. His old self galloped back to the fore. He dusted off the fanciful tendencies of his youth, he took his master’s plans seriously, he believed the bet was in earnest—and therefore so was this trip around the world and the need to not exceed its time limit. In fact he was already worried about possible delays, about accidents that could occur on the way. He felt as if he had a personal stake in this wager and shuddered at the thought that he could have jeopardized it by his unforgivable rubbernecking the day before. Accordingly, being far less stoic than Mr. Fogg, he was a much bigger worrywart. He counted and recounted the days that had gone by, cussed out the train when it stopped, accused it of dawdling, and since his master hadn’t promised the engine driver a bonus, criticized Mr. Fogg in petto.10 The gallant lad didn’t realize that what was possible on an ocean liner was no longer so on a railroad train, which has to run on schedule. Toward evening they tackled the gorges of the Satpura mountain range, which separates the territories of Khandesh and Bundelkhand. The next day, October 22, when Sir Francis Cromarty asked him the hour, Passepartout checked his watch and answered three o’clock in the morning. But in reality, since this notorious watch was still set to Greenwich time and that meridian lay about seventy-seven degrees to the west, it would have to be—and indeed was—four hours slow. So the brigadier general corrected the time Passepartout had given him, then followed up with the same comment the latter had already heard from Fix’s lips. Sir Francis tried 10. Translator’s note. Italian: “in his heart of hearts.”

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to make the Frenchman understand that he needed to reset his watch at each new meridian, that he was always traveling eastward—in other words, toward the sun—and that the days were shorter to the tune of four minutes for each degree he went over. It was no use. Whether or not the pigheaded fellow got the brigadier general’s point, he refused to move his watch forward, and it kept faultless London time. But this was an innocent quirk that did nobody any harm. At eight o’clock in the morning and fifteen miles shy of the station in Rothal, the train came to a stop in the middle of a wide glade that was bordered by a few bungalows and crew shacks. Outside, walking down the line of passenger cars, the train conductor kept saying: “Travelers get off here!” Phileas Fogg looked at Sir Francis Cromarty, who seemed quite puzzled at their stopping in the heart of a forest of tamarind and khajour trees. No less surprised, Passepartout scooted down the rails and came back almost immediately, exclaiming: “Sir, there are no more tracks!” “What do you mean?” Sir Francis Cromarty asked. “I mean the train won’t be continuing on!” The brigadier general climbed down immediately from their passenger car. Phileas Fogg followed suit, taking his time. Both of them spoke to the conductor: “Where are we?” Sir Francis Cromarty asked. “By the hamlet of Kholby,” the conductor replied. “Is this a scheduled stop?” “Certainly. The railway isn’t finished.” “Excuse me? It isn’t finished?” “No. Fifty miles of track still need to be laid between this point and Allahabad, where the rails resume.” “But the newspapers announced that the railroad was open all the way through!” “What do you want, general? The newspapers were mistaken.” “And yet you issue tickets from Bombay to Calcutta!” Sir Francis Cromarty went on, starting to get hot under the collar. “Certainly,” the conductor replied, “but our passengers are well aware they need to find transportation from Kholby to Allahabad.” Sir Francis Cromarty was furious. Passepartout gladly would have trounced the conductor, who actually couldn’t do a thing. He didn’t dare look at his master. “Sir Francis,” Mr. Fogg merely said, “if you’re amenable, we’ll inquire into some way of getting to Allahabad.” “But Mr. Fogg, won’t this delay be absolutely detrimental to your best interests?” “No, Sir Francis, I expected as much.” “What! You knew the rails wouldn’t—” “By no means, but I knew that sooner or later some sort of obstacle would spring up in my path. Now then, we’re in no jeopardy at all. I have a gain of two days that I

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They stood in the presence of a creature that was only half tamed.

can sacrifice. There’s a steamer that leaves Calcutta for Hong Kong at noon on the 25th. Today is the 22nd, and we’ll reach Calcutta in time.” There was no comeback to a reply made with such utter confidence. It was only too true that work on the railway had stopped at this point. Newspapers are like certain watches that have a quirky habit of running fast, and the press had gotten

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ahead of itself when it announced the line was finished. Most of the passengers knew that the rails gave out here, so they climbed down from the train and laid hold of every kind of vehicle the village had—four-wheeled buggies of the type called a palki gharri, carts pulled by a breed of humpbacked ox known as a zebu, coaches that looked like traveling pagodas, covered litters, ponies, etc. Accordingly Mr. Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty scoured the whole village, but they came back without finding a thing. “I’ll go on foot,” Phileas Fogg said. Joining his master at this point, Passepartout reacted with a pained look as he regarded his magnificently inappropriate Turkish slippers. Luckily he’d also been out searching and he said a little hesitantly: “Sir, I think I’ve found a means of transportation.” “What?” “An elephant! An elephant that belongs to an East Indian living a hundred steps away.” “Let’s see this elephant,” Mr. Fogg replied. Five minutes later Phileas Fogg, Sir Francis Cromarty, and Passepartout arrived at a hut that was next to a pen encircled by a high stockade. In the hut was the East Indian and in the pen an elephant. At their request the East Indian let Mr. Fogg and his two companions into the pen. There they stood in the presence of a creature that was only half tamed, because its owner wasn’t rearing it as a beast of burden but as a combat animal. With this goal in mind, he’d started changing the mammal’s naturally docile personality so as to lead it gradually into that enraged condition known as musth in the Hindu language, and this called for feeding it sugar and butter over a three-month period. This treatment might not seem conducive to such a result, but elephant breeders have employed it with success all the same. Luckily for Mr. Fogg, the elephant in question had barely started on this diet and there were no symptoms of musth as yet. Like all of its relatives, Kiouni—that was the beast’s name—could move at a brisk clip for long stretches, and since no other forms of transportation were left, Phileas Fogg decided to use this one. But elephants are expensive in India, where they’re starting to grow scarce. Only the males are suitable for circus events and they’re in tremendous demand. Once these animals are tame and in captivity, they seldom reproduce, so you can lay hold of one only by hunting it. Accordingly they’re the subject of tremendous attention, and when Mr. Fogg asked the East Indian if he would hire out his elephant, the East Indian flatly refused. Fogg persisted, offering to pay the exorbitant hourly rate of £10 ($50) for the beast. Again refused. £20? Also refused. £40? Still refused. Passepartout jumped at each new bid. But the East Indian wouldn’t give in to temptation. This was first-rate money nevertheless. Assuming the elephant took fifteen hours to do the trip to Allahabad, it would earn its owner £600 ($3,000). Without getting riled in any way, Phileas Fogg then proposed to buy the beast from the East Indian, making him an initial offer of £1,000 ($5,000).

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The East Indian wasn’t willing to sell! Maybe the ruffian smelled a magnificent deal in the offing. Sir Francis Cromarty took Mr. Fogg aside and urged him to think about it before going any farther. Phileas Fogg answered his companion that he wasn’t in the habit of acting without thinking, that he was ultimately dealing with a bet of £20,000, that this elephant was essential to him, and that he would have this elephant if he had to pay twenty times what the beast was worth. Mr. Fogg went back up to the East Indian, whose little eyes gleamed greedily and clearly revealed that with him it was all a matter of price. Phileas Fogg made consecutive offers of £1,200, then £1,500, then £1,800, and finally £2,000 ($10,000).11 Passepartout, ordinarily quite ruddy, had turned white with emotion. At £2,000 the East Indian gave in. “That,” Passepartout exclaimed, “is a record price for elephant meat, I swear by my slippers!” The transaction completed, all that remained was to find a guide. This was easier. A young Parsi with shrewd features offered his assistance. Mr. Fogg agreed and promised to pay him generously, which could only sharpen his shrewdness. The elephant was led out and equipped without delay. As a mahout, or elephant driver, the Parsi knew his job thoroughly. He covered the elephant’s back with a kind of drop cloth and down each of its flanks rigged a sort of big side pouch that wasn’t terribly comfortable. Phileas Fogg paid the East Indian with banknotes extracted from the notorious overnight bag. Passepartout felt as if they were literally being yanked out of his innards. Then Mr. Fogg offered to give Sir Francis Cromarty a lift to the station in Allahabad. The brigadier general accepted. One more traveler wouldn’t be any strain for the gigantic animal. They bought provisions in Kholby. Sir Francis Cromarty got into one of the big side pouches, Phileas Fogg into the other. Passepartout straddled the drop cloth right between his master and the brigadier general. The Parsi took up his perch on the elephant’s neck, and at nine o’clock the animal exited the village, plunging by the shortest path into the dense forest of fan palms.

11. Translator’s note. This is comparable to about $200,000 in today’s dollars.

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12.  Where Phileas Fogg and his companions venture through the forests of India and what comes of it

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o shorten the distance they had to travel, their guide left the roadbed that was still under construction well to his right. Hindered by the many erratic offshoots of the Vindhya Mountains, this roadbed couldn’t go by the quickest route, which it was in Phileas Fogg’s best interests to take. Well acquainted with the region’s highways and byways, the Parsi claimed that twenty miles could be saved by cutting through the forest, and they figured he knew best. Sunk up to the neck in the big side pouches, Phileas Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty got a thorough jostling as the elephant strode stiffly forward, its driver prodding it along at a brisk clip. But they endured the experience with true British stoicism—and furthermore seldom said a word, since they could barely see each other. As for Passepartout, he was stationed on the creature’s back and fully exposed to every bump and thump; he was ultracareful to heed his master’s advice and not put his tongue between his teeth, because he would have chomped it clean off. Alternately shooting back and forth between the elephant’s neck and rump, the gallant fellow did gymnastic tricks like a clown on a springboard. But he joked and laughed in the midst of his belly flops, occasionally taking a lump of sugar out of his bag for Kiouni’s trunk to grab, the clever animal not breaking its steady stride for a second. After a two-hour run, their guide pulled the elephant over and gave it a rest hour. Once it had slaked its thirst at a nearby pond, the animal dined on branches and shrubs. Sir Francis Cromarty raised no objections to this time-out. He was black and blue. Mr. Fogg seemed as fit as if he’d just gotten up. “Why, he must be made of iron!” the brigadier general said, looking at him in wonderment. “Wrought iron,” Passepartout replied, busy fixing them a nominal lunch. At noon their guide gave the signal to start off. The countryside soon looked much more like a wilderness area. The big forests gave way to thickets of tamarind trees and

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He joked and laughed in the midst of his belly flops.

dwarf palms, then to wide arid plains garnished with sparse shrubs and scattered with huge chunks of igneous rock known as syenite. This whole part of upper Bundelkhand is rarely visited by travelers and is occupied by religious zealots who are at home with the most dreadful practices of the Hindu religion. The English haven’t been able to establish any reliable sway over this territory, still under the influence of rajas who are hard to get at in their unreachable hideouts in the Vindhya Mountains.

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Several times they spotted fierce-looking gangs of East Indians, who shook their fists as they watched the swift quadruped going past. However the Parsi avoided them as much as possible, regarding them as nasty folks to run into. They saw few animals that day, just some monkeys that ran off with a thousand scowls and contortions that amused Passepartout no end. One thought in the midst of a good many troubled this individual. What would Mr. Fogg do with the elephant after he’d arrived at the station in Allahabad? Take it along? Impossible! The transportation costs on top of the acquisition costs would turn the animal into a fiscal catastrophe. Sell it or set it free? The worthy beast definitely deserved some consideration. If Mr. Fogg happened to make a gift of the creature to Passepartout himself, the latter would be totally at a loss. And this was a worry that wouldn’t let him be. By eight o’clock in the evening, the travelers had crossed the chief range of the Vindhya Mountains, and they stayed overnight in a tumbledown bungalow at the foot of the northerly slope. That workday they’d covered a distance of about twenty-five miles, and they had just as many to go before reaching the train station in Allahabad. It was a chilly night. Inside the bungalow the Parsi lit a fire of dry branches, and its warmth was much appreciated. The provisions they’d bought in Kholby supplied their supper. The travelers ate like men who were dog tired and aching all over. Their conversation began with a few broken sentences and soon ended with much noisy snoring. The guide kept watch next to Kiouni, who leaned against a huge tree trunk and slept standing up. The night was uneventful. A few growling cheetahs and panthers sometimes broke the silence, along with some screeching, snickering monkeys. But the carnivores confined themselves to making noises rather than hostile advances toward the bungalow’s guests. Sir Francis Cromarty slept like a log, a gallant soldier thoroughly done in. Passepartout’s slumber was troubled, his dreams revisiting his somersaults of the day before. As for Mr. Fogg, his rest was as peaceful as if he were back in his tranquil home on Savile Row. At six o’clock in the morning, they took to the trail again. Their guide hoped to reach the station in Allahabad that same evening. In this way Mr. Fogg would lose only part of the forty-eight hours he’d saved since his journey started. They went down the last gradients of the Vindhya Mountains. Kiouni was speeding along again. Toward noontime their guide gave a wide berth to the village of Kalinjar, located on the Ken River, a subbranch of the Ganges. He always avoided population centers, feeling safer in the lonely wilderness areas that represent the outer reaches of this major river basin. The train station in Allahabad was less than twelve miles to the northeast. They stopped under a clump of banana trees, whose fruit they greatly appreciated—as tourists say, it’s as wholesome as bread and “as yummy as custard.” At two o’clock the guide took cover in a dense forest he would travel through for a distance of several miles. He preferred the protection of a wooded area. At all events he hadn’t run into anything troublesome so far, and it looked like the whole journey would prove uneventful, when their elephant pulled up short, showing signs of uneasiness. By then it was four o’clock.

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“What’s going on?” Sir Francis Cromarty asked, sticking his head out of his big side pouch. “I don’t know, general,” the Parsi replied, cocking an ear to a confused undercurrent of sound that was coming through the heavy branches. The undercurrent grew clearer a few seconds later. Though it was still quite far away, you would have sworn it was a choir of human voices and brass percussion instruments. Passepartout was all eyes and ears. Mr. Fogg waited patiently without saying a word. The Parsi jumped to the ground, tied the elephant to a tree, and plunged into the deepest part of the thicket. He came back a few minutes later, saying: “A procession of Brahmans is heading this way. If possible, we mustn’t let them see us.” Advising the travelers to not set foot on the ground, their guide untied the elephant and led the beast into a grove. As for himself, if they had to make a run for it, he was all set to straddle his steed in a hurry. But they were completely concealed by the dense foliage, and he figured the band of worshippers would go by without spotting them. The dissonant racket of the voices and instruments drew nearer. It was a mixture of toneless singing with the sound of drums and cymbals. Soon the front of the procession appeared beneath the trees, some fifty steps away from the place where Mr. Fogg and his companions were stationed. Through the branches they could easily make out the strange participants in this religious ceremony. Moving forward at the head of the line were the priests, wearing miters on their heads and dressed in long embroidered robes. They were surrounded by men, women, and children who gave voice to a sort of dismal chant punctuated at regular intervals by the thumping of tom-toms and cymbals. Behind them, on a wide-wheeled wagon whose spokes and rims were sculpted to portray intertwining snakes, a hideous statue came into view, pulled along by two pairs of richly arrayed zebus. This statue had four arms; its body was colored dark red, it wore a wild-eyed expression, its hair was tangled, its tongue was hanging out, and its lips were tinted with reddish-brown dye from the henna plant and betel nut. Around its throat was a necklace of human skulls, and a belt of severed hands hung down its sides. It stood upright on the fallen carcass of a decapitated giant. Sir Francis Cromarty recognized this statue. “The goddess Kali,” he muttered. “The goddess of love and death.” “Death I’ll grant you, but love never!” Passepartout said. “What a nasty old harridan!” The Parsi motioned him to keep still. Around the statue a band of old beggar monks were all aquiver, darting and writhing, smeared with streaks of ocher, covered with cross-shaped cuts from which their blood trickled drop by drop—stupefied maniacs who still dash under the wheels of the Car of Juggernaut, a wagon carrying the statue of Krishna during major Hindu ceremonies. Behind them, in all the sumptuousness of their eastern attire, a couple Brahmans were dragging along a woman who could barely stand up. This woman was young and as white as a European. Her head, throat, shoulders, ears, arms, hands, and toes were loaded down with jewels, necklaces, bracelets, clasps, and rings. Under a light muslin wrap, a tunic with gold brocade outlined the curves of her figure.

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“The unfortunate woman didn’t seem to be putting up any resistance.”

Behind this young woman—and in sharp visual contrast—came guards armed with bare sabers stuck under their belts and with long pistols of Damascus steel; they carried a human corpse on a covered litter. It was the body of an old man dressed in the luxurious garments of a raja, wearing, as he had in life, a turban embroidered with pearls, a robe woven of silk and gold, a diamond-studded cashmere belt, and the magnificent weapons of an East Indian aristocrat.

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Then, at the end of the parade, there came musicians and a rear guard of religious zealots, whose shouts sometimes drowned out the deafening clamor from the instruments. Sir Francis Cromarty looked unusually distressed as he watched all this pageantry, then he turned to the guide: “A suttee!” he said. The Parsi signaled yes and put a finger to his lips. The long procession slowly unwound beneath the trees and soon its rear rows vanished into the forest depths. Little by little the singing died out. There were still a few outbursts of far-off shouting, then finally all the hubbub gave way to utter silence. Phileas Fogg heard the word Sir Francis Cromarty had used, and as soon as the procession was gone: “What’s a suttee?” he asked. “A suttee, Mr. Fogg, is a human sacrifice,” the brigadier general replied, “though the sacrifice is voluntary. That woman you just saw will be burned tomorrow at the crack of dawn.” “Oh, the scum!” exclaimed Passepartout, who couldn’t help crying out in righteous anger. “What about that corpse?” Mr. Fogg asked. “That was her aristocratic husband,” their guide answered, “one of the independent rajas of Bundelkhand.” “Excuse me?” Phileas Fogg went on, his voice not revealing the slightest emotion. “These barbaric practices still endure in India and the English haven’t been able to stamp them out?” “In most of India these sacrificial rites don’t take place anymore,” Sir Francis Cromarty replied, “but we haven’t any influence over these wilderness areas and least of all over this territory of Bundelkhand. This whole northerly backside of the Vindhya Mountains is the scene of continual looting and bloodshed.” “The poor creature,” Passepartout muttered. “To be burned alive!” “Yes, burned,” the brigadier general continued. “And if not, you can’t believe the wretched state her relatives would reduce her to. They would shave her head, feed her just a few handfuls of rice, and cast her out—she would be regarded as an unclean thing and would die in some corner like a mangy dog. Accordingly it’s the prospect of such a ghastly existence, far more than any love or religious zeal, that often leads these poor creatures to forfeit their lives. Sometimes, however, the sacrifice is genuinely voluntary, and the government must forcefully intervene to prevent it. Thus, a few years ago when I lived in Bombay, a young widow went and asked the governor for permission to be burned along with her husband’s body. The governor refused, as you can well imagine. Then the widow left town, took refuge in the realm of an independent raja, and there went through with her sacrificial rites.” As the brigadier general told this story, their guide shook his head, then when the story was over: “This sacrifice taking place at dawn tomorrow,” he said, “isn’t voluntary.” “How do you know that?”

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“It’s a situation everybody in Bundelkhand knows about,” the guide answered. “But the unfortunate woman didn’t seem to be putting up any resistance,” Sir Francis Cromarty pointed out. “That’s because they’ve drugged her on hashish and opium smoke.” “But where are they leading her?” “To the Pillaji pagoda two miles away from here. She’ll spend the night there, waiting till it’s time for the sacrificial rites.” “And these rites will take place . . . ?” “Tomorrow at daybreak.” After this reply their guide led the elephant out of the dense grove, then hoisted himself onto the animal’s neck. He was just about to give the particular whistle that would get the beast moving, when Mr. Fogg stopped him and turned to Sir Francis Cromarty: “What if we rescue this woman?” he said. “Rescue this woman, Mr. Fogg!” the brigadier general exclaimed. “I’m still twelve hours ahead of schedule. I can devote them to that.” “Say!” Sir Francis Cromarty put in. “You’re a man with a heart after all!” “On occasion,” Phileas Fogg merely replied. “When I have time.”

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13.  In which Passepartout proves once again that luck and pluck are partners

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heir objective was bold, rife with difficulties, maybe unattainable. Mr. Fogg was about to risk his life, or at the very least his freedom, and in the process the successful outcome of his plans—but he didn’t hesitate. What’s more, he had a determined ally in Sir Francis Cromarty. As for Passepartout, he was all set and at their disposal. His master’s idea thrilled him. He sensed a heart and soul under that icy exterior. He was starting to grow fond of Phileas Fogg. Which left the guide. Whose side would he take in the business? Wouldn’t he favor the Hindus? At the very least, if they couldn’t get his assistance, they needed to make sure he would stay neutral. Sir Francis Cromarty asked him this question straight out. “General,” their guide answered, “I’m a Parsi and that woman’s a Parsi. I’m at your service.” “Well said, guide!” Mr. Fogg responded. “But just be aware that if we’re captured,” the Parsi went on, “we’ll run the risk not only of losing our lives but of being horribly tortured. So keep that in mind.” “I will,” Mr. Fogg replied. “I think we need to wait till nighttime before we take action, yes?” “I think so too,” their guide answered. Then the gallant Hindu gave them some particulars on the victim. She was an East Indian lady renowned for her beauty, a member of the Parsi race, and the daughter of wealthy merchants in Bombay. In that town she’d received a comprehensive English education, and from her behavior and upbringing you would have sworn she was a European. Her name was Aouda. Left an orphan, she was forced to marry an elderly raja in Bundelkhand. She became a widow three months later. Knowing the fate waiting for her, she tried to escape it, was

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The raja’s guards kept watch at the doors.

recaptured at once, and the raja’s family (who would profit from her death) consigned her to this torment from which no escape seemed possible. This account could only reinforce the generous decision that Mr. Fogg and his companions had made. They agreed that their guide should steer the elephant toward the Pillaji pagoda, getting as close to it as he could.

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Half an hour later they halted in a thicket 500 steps away from the pagoda, which was out of sight; but the howls of the zealots were clearly audible. Then they discussed ways of reaching the victim. Their guide was acquainted with the Pillaji pagoda, where he maintained that the young woman was being held prisoner. Could they go in one its doorways while the whole band were deep in their drugged slumber, or would it be necessary to cut a hole in one of the walls? This could be determined only at the proper time and place. But one thing was for sure—they had to carry out their kidnapping scheme that very night, not the next day while the victim was being led to the slaughter. At that point she would be beyond all human aid. Mr. Fogg and his companions waited for nightfall. Around six o’clock in the evening, as soon as it got dark, they decided to scout out the vicinity of the pagoda. By then the last yells of the beggar monks had died out. As was their custom, these East Indians must have been sinking into that intensely drugged state brought on by bhang—liquid opium mixed with a dose of hashish—and maybe it would be possible to sneak between them into the temple. Leading Mr. Fogg, Sir Francis Cromarty, and Passepartout, the Parsi moved forward through the forest without making a sound. After ten minutes of crawling beneath the branches, they reached the bank of a small river, and in the glow of the resin burning on top of some iron torches, they saw a pile of stacked lumber. Built with precious sandalwood and already steeped in scented oil, this was the funeral pyre. On its upper part lay the raja’s embalmed body, which was to be burned at the same time as his widow. The pagoda stood a hundred steps away from the pyre, its minarets cutting through the shadows of the treetops. “Come on!” their guide said in a low voice. And with still greater caution, his companions behind him, he slipped quietly through the tall grass. The silence was further broken only by the murmuring of the wind in the branches. Soon their guide stopped at the edge of a glade. A couple of resin torches lit up the area. The ground was littered with groups of heavily drugged sleepers. You would have sworn it was a battlefield covered with corpses. Men, women, and children all were jumbled together. A few of these sots still let out a cough here and there. Inside the mass of trees, the Pillaji temple loomed dimly in the background. But in the smoky torchlight, much to the guide’s disappointment, the raja’s guards kept watch at the doors, on patrol with bare sabers. You could assume that the priests inside were keeping watch as well. The Parsi didn’t go any farther. Realizing it would be impossible to storm their way into the temple, he ordered his companions to beat a retreat. Phileas Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty also understood that they couldn’t try anything on this side of the pagoda. They stopped and conversed, keeping their voices low. “Let’s wait,” the brigadier general said. “It isn’t eight o’clock yet, and it’s possible the guards will also drop off to sleep.” “It is indeed possible,” the Parsi replied.

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So Phileas Fogg and his companions stretched out at the foot of a tree and waited. How long those hours seemed! Occasionally their guide left them and went to the edge of the wood for a look. The raja’s guards still kept watch in the torchlight, and a hazy glow filtered through the pagoda’s windows. In this fashion they waited till midnight. There was no change in their circumstances. The building exterior was still under surveillance. The guards clearly couldn’t be relied on to doze off. In all likelihood they hadn’t shared in the bhang’s drugging effects. So the rescuers needed to change tactics and get inside by cutting an opening in one of the pagoda walls. It remained to be seen whether the priests were keeping watch beside their victim with as much care as the soldiers at the temple door. After one last conference their guide said he was set to go. Mr. Fogg, Sir Francis, and Passepartout followed him. They took a longish roundabout route, aiming to come at the pagoda from the sanctuary side. About thirty minutes past midnight, they arrived at the foot of the back wall without running into a soul. Nobody was standing guard on that side—though, to tell the truth, it didn’t have a single door or window. It was a gloomy night. By then the moon was in her last quarter and barely clearing the horizon, which was cluttered with heavy clouds. The height of the trees made it even darker. But it wasn’t enough to reach the foot of the wall: they still needed to cut an opening in it. To carry out this operation, Phileas Fogg and his companions had nothing more than their pocketknives to work with. Luckily the temple walls consisted of a mixture of wood and brick that wouldn’t be hard to get through. Once the first brick had been removed, the rest would come out easily. They got down to business, keeping as quiet as possible. Toiling side by side, the Parsi and Passepartout pried loose the bricks, working to create an opening two feet wide. They were making progress when they heard a yell inside the temple, which was answered almost immediately by other yells outside the building. Passepartout and the guide stopped what they were doing. Had their efforts been detected? Had an alarm been given? The most ordinary good sense decreed that they back off, which they did at the same instant as Phileas Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty. They crouched once more under the cover of the trees, waiting for the alert (if it was one) to run its course, ready to get back to work when it did. But—a grievous setback—guards appeared on the sanctuary side of the pagoda, where they stood on watch to keep anybody from coming near. It would be hard to describe the disappointment these four men felt when they had to break off their work. If they couldn’t reach the victim, how could they rescue her? Sir Francis Cromarty gnawed his knuckles. Passepartout was hopping mad, and the guide had a hard time restraining him. As for Fogg the Unemotional, he waited and kept his feelings to himself. “So all we can do is leave?” the brigadier general asked in a low voice. “All we can do is leave,” their guide answered. “Wait,” Fogg said. “My only requirement is to be in Allahabad before noon tomorrow.”

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A yell of fear went up from the onlookers.

“But what can you hope to accomplish?” Sir Francis Cromarty responded. “It’ll be daylight in a few hours and—” “We may get a chance at the crowning moment that we don’t have right now.” The brigadier general wished he could read what was in Phileas Fogg’s eyes. What did this icy Englishman expect to do? At the moment of torment, did he intend to rush up to the young woman and openly snatch her from her executioners?

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This was insanity, and how could anybody think the man was as insane as that? Nevertheless Sir Francis Cromarty agreed to stay around for the outcome of this fearful drama. Even so, the guide didn’t leave his companions in their hiding place but led them toward the front part of the glade. There, sheltered by a clump of trees, they could keep an eye on the groups of sleepers. Meanwhile, perched on the bottom branches of a tree, Passepartout was chewing on an idea that initially had flashed through his mind, then had ended up putting down roots in his brain. At the outset he’d told himself, “It’s sheer insanity!” Now, however, he kept saying, “But after all, why not? It’s a chance, maybe the only one we’ll get, and with junkies like these . . .” In any event Passepartout didn’t formulate his thoughts past this point but instantly slid with snakelike suppleness along the tree’s lower branches, whose tips were bending toward the ground. The hours went by, and soon a few lighter tints announced that dawn was near. But it was still extremely dark. The moment had come. A mass resurrection seemed to take place in that slumbering crowd. The groups stirred. Thumps of the tom-tom echoed again. The singing and shouting broke out once more. It was time for the poor woman to die. In fact the pagoda doors were opening. A brighter light escaped from inside. Mr. Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty could see the victim, brightly illuminated, two priests dragging her outdoors. From some crowning instinct for self-preservation, the unfortunate woman actually seemed to have shaken off her drugged stupor and was trying to break away from her executioners. Sir Francis Cromarty’s heart gave a leap and he grabbed Phileas Fogg’s hand in a reflex action, then felt an open clasp knife in that hand. Just then the crowd started off. The young woman had sunk back into that torpor brought on by hashish smoke. She went among the beggar monks, who escorted her with their pious howling. Mingling with the crowd at the rear of the line, Phileas Fogg and his companions followed her. Two minutes later they reached the riverbank, then stopped less than fifty steps from the funeral pyre on which the raja’s body rested. In the semidarkness they saw the victim lying completely inert beside her husband’s corpse. Then a torch materialized; steeped in oil, the lumber instantly caught on fire. Just then Sir Francis Cromarty and the guide grabbed hold of Phileas Fogg, who was lunging toward the pyre in a temporary fit of insane generosity . . .  But Phileas Fogg had already thrown them off when the picture abruptly changed. A yell of fear went up from the onlookers. The whole crowd fell to the ground, terrified. Could it be that the old raja wasn’t dead? They suddenly saw him rise up like a phantom, lift the young woman in his arms, and step down from the pyre amid swirls of smoke that made him look like a ghost!

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Guards, priests, and beggar monks were instantly filled with fear and lay there face to the ground, not daring to raise their eyes and witness such a prodigious event! Muscular arms carried the motionless victim away as if she didn’t weigh a thing. Mr. Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty were still on their feet. The Parsi had bowed his head, and surely Passepartout was no less astonished . . . ! Thus the resurrected raja arrived in the vicinity of the place where Mr. Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty were waiting, and in a curt voice he said: “Let’s get out of here!” It was Passepartout himself who had stolen up to the pyre in the midst of the dense smoke! It was Passepartout who had taken advantage of the intense darkness still prevailing and had snatched the young woman from the jaws of death! It was Passepartout who had played his role with luck and pluck, making his getaway in the midst of that wholesale panic! A second later all four men had vanished into the woods, and the elephant carried them off at a brisk clip. Then came shouts, hubbub, and a bullet that actually left a hole in Phileas Fogg’s hat, informing them that the Hindus had seen through the trick. In essence the old raja’s body was now visible on the burning pyre. Recovering from their fear, the priests realized that his widow had just been kidnapped. At once they rushed into the forest. The guards followed suit. There was a burst of gunfire, but the abductors fled swiftly and in a few seconds were out of range of both bullets and arrows.

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14.  In which Phileas Fogg goes down the whole wonderful valley of the Ganges without even thinking to look at it

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heir bold kidnapping scheme had worked. An hour later Passepartout was still chuckling over his success. Sir Francis Cromarty had wrung the stalwart fellow’s hand. His master’s comment had been “Good job,” which, from that gentleman’s lips, amounted to high praise. Passepartout replied that his master deserved all the glory in the business. As for him, he’d only “come up with a crazy idea,” and he chuckled to think that for a few seconds he, Passepartout, former gymnast and ex-sergeant in the fire department, had been an old embalmed raja and the late spouse of a delightful woman! As for the young East Indian, she hadn’t been conscious during those goings-on. Wrapped in travel blankets, she was resting in one of the big side pouches. Meanwhile, steered with tremendous assurance by the Parsi, the elephant was making rapid headway through the still-dark forest. An hour after leaving the Pillaji pagoda, the beast shot across an immense plain. At seven o’clock they called a halt. The young woman was still in a state of total collapse. The guide made her drink a few sips of brandy and water, but those crippling narcotics would keep her in their power for a while longer. Sir Francis Cromarty was acquainted with the drugged state induced by breathing hashish smoke and he wasn’t at all worried on her behalf. But if the recovery of this young East Indian wasn’t a concern in the brigadier general’s mind, he felt less confident about her future prospects. Without hesitation he told Phileas Fogg that if Lady Aouda stayed in India, she inevitably would fall back into the hands of her executioners. Those maniacs lived all over the peninsula, and despite the English police, they would surely be able to recapture their victim, whether in Madras, Bombay, or Calcutta. And to back up what he said, Sir Francis Cromarty cited a similar case that had happened recently. In his opinion the young woman wouldn’t be genuinely safe till she’d left India. Phileas Fogg replied that he would take these comments into consideration and do what he could.

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Near ten o’clock the guide announced their arrival at the station in Allahabad. There the interrupted railway tracks would resume, and trains covered the distance between Allahabad and Calcutta in less than twenty-four hours. So Phileas Fogg would certainly arrive in time to catch an ocean liner that wasn’t leaving for Hong Kong till noon the next day, October 25. They put the young woman in a room at the railway terminal. Passepartout had the job of going shopping for her, of tracking down various bathroom articles, a frock, shawl, furs, etc., whatever he could find. His master approved him for an unlimited line of credit. Passepartout left at once and raced through the local streets. Allahabad, meaning “City of God,” is one of the most revered towns in India, due to its being built at the meeting place of two sacred rivers, the Ganges and Yamuna, whose waters draw pilgrims from all over the peninsula. What’s more, according to well-known legends in the epic poem The Ramayana, the headwaters of the Ganges are in heaven, from where, thanks to Brahma the Creator, they flow down to the earth. In the process of making his purchases, Passepartout soon toured the town, a community formerly protected by a magnificent fortress that’s now a national penitentiary. There isn’t any business or industry left in this city, formerly so industrious and businesslike. Operating as if he were on Regent St. and only a couple steps from Farmer & Co., Passepartout looked in vain for a fashionable shop, but he found the items he needed only in a secondhand store owned by a finicky old Jew, from whom he bought a plaid frock, a bulky cloak, and a magnificent otterskin fur coat for which he didn’t hesitate to pay £75 ($375). Then he returned in triumph to the railway terminal. Lady Aouda showed signs of coming to. The narcotics that the Pillaji priests had forced on her were wearing off little by little, and her lovely eyes regained all their East Indian softness. When the poetic monarch Yusuf Adil Shah lauds the attractions of the Queen of Ahmednagar, this is how he puts it: Neatly parted down the middle, her glossy hair frames the pleasing contours of her delicate white cheeks, buffed to glistening freshness. Her ebony eyebrows have the shape and impact of the longbow belonging to Kama the god of love, and under her long silken lashes, the purest gleams of starlight swim in the dark pupils of her large limpid eyes as if in the holy lakes of the Himalayas. She has small, white, even teeth that glitter between her smiling lips like dewdrops in the half-closed heart of a pomegranate flower. Her dainty, symmetrically molded ears, her rosy-fingered hands, and her sweet little toes curling like lotus buds all sparkle with the brilliance of Ceylon’s finest pearls and Golconda’s choicest diamonds. A single hand can clasp her supple waist, whose slimness enhances the comely curves of her rounded loins and the luxuriance of her bosom, flaunting young womanhood’s most flawless treasures, and under her tunic’s silken folds, she seems to have been modeled from white silver by the divine hands of the eternal sculptor Viswakarma. But without laying it on any thicker, let’s just say that Lady Aouda, widow of a Bundelkhand raja, had womanly attractions in the fullest European sense of the term. She

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Passepartout petted the beast.

spoke absolutely flawless English, and their guide hadn’t exaggerated when he claimed that this young Parsi woman had been transformed by her upbringing. Meanwhile their train was about to leave the station in Allahabad. The Parsi was waiting. Mr. Fogg paid him according to the wage scale they’d agreed upon and didn’t

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spend a farthing more. This rather surprised Passepartout, who knew how much his master owed to the guide’s dedication. In essence the Parsi had willingly risked his life during that Pillaji business, and if those Hindus caught up with him later on, he would have a hard time eluding their vengeance. Which left the additional matter of Kiouni. What were they to do with such an expensive elephant? But Phileas Fogg had already made up his mind on the issue. “Parsi,” he told the guide, “you’ve been helpful and dedicated. I’ve paid for your help but not your dedication. Do you want this elephant? If so, it’s yours.” The guide’s eyes lit up. “Your worship is giving me a fortune!” he exclaimed. “Take it, guide,” Mr. Fogg replied, “and I’ll still be in your debt.” “Good show!” Passepartout exclaimed. “Take Kiouni, my friend. This is a gallant and courageous animal!” And going over to the beast, he offered it a few lumps of sugar, saying: “Here, Kiouni, here!” The elephant let out a couple grunts of pleasure. Then, grabbing Passepartout around the waist with its trunk, it lifted him as high as its head. Not the least bit afraid, Passepartout petted the beast affectionately, then Kiouni put him gently back on the ground, and the good fellow offered his handshake in exchange for the good animal’s trunk shake. A few seconds later Phileas Fogg, Sir Francis Cromarty, and Passepartout took their places in a comfortable passenger car, let Lady Aouda have the best seat, and shot off full steam ahead for Benares. No more than eighty miles separated that town from Allahabad, and the train covered them in two hours. During this trip the young woman came to fully and completely; the bhang’s numbing fumes had worn off. How amazed she must have felt to find herself on a train, in a passenger compartment, wearing European garments, and surrounded by travelers who were perfect strangers! Right off her companions lavished their attentions on her, pepping her up with a few drops of liquor; then the brigadier general told her the whole story. He laid stress on Phileas Fogg’s dedication, his instant willingness to gamble his life in order to rescue her, and the outcome of the venture thanks to Passepartout’s daring brainstorm. Mr. Fogg let him speak without adding a word. Thoroughly embarrassed, Passepartout kept saying, “It was nothing!” Lady Aouda heartily thanked her rescuers, but with tears rather than words. Her lovely eyes conveyed her gratitude more eloquently than her lips. Then pictures from the suttee flashed through her mind again, and when she looked out at that land of India where so many dangers still waited for her, she couldn’t help shuddering in terror. Phileas Fogg realized what Lady Aouda was thinking, and to reassure her, he offered—though with icy formality—to take her to Hong Kong, where she could stay till the business had blown over.

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Hindu groups of both sexes . . .

Lady Aouda gratefully accepted the offer. Sure enough, she had a relative living in Hong Kong, a Parsi like herself and one of the chief merchants in that town, which is thoroughly English though it sits on a headland off the coast of China. By 12:30 the train had halted at the station in Benares. Brahman legends assert that this town stands on the site of ancient Kashi, which used to stay suspended in midair between

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zenith and nadir like Mohammed’s coffin. But in these more practical times, Benares (which students of the East dub the Athens of India) keeps its feet prosaically on the ground, and for a second Passepartout glimpsed its houses of brick and its huts of woven twigs and weeds, which gave it an utterly desolate appearance without any local color. This was Sir Francis Cromarty’s stop. The troops he was rejoining were camped a few miles north of town. So the brigadier general said farewell to Phileas Fogg, wishing him all possible success and expressing the desire that he travel that way again but in a less eccentric and more economical fashion. Mr. Fogg gave his companion’s fingers a light squeeze. Lady Aouda’s courtesies were more affectionate. Never would she forget what she owed Sir Francis Cromarty. As for Passepartout, the brigadier general honored him with an all-out handshake. Deeply touched, the Frenchman wondered where and when he could ever repay the fellow. Then they parted company. After leaving Benares, the railway went along a portion of the Ganges valley. Through the passenger car windows, the varied countryside of Bihar came into view under reasonably clear skies, then its mountains covered with vegetation, its fields of barley, corn, and wheat, its streams and ponds populated by greenish alligators, its nicely kept-up villages, and its still-lush forests. A few elephants and some big humpbacked zebus had come to bathe in the waters of the sacred river, and despite the lateness of the season and a temperature that was already chilly, Hindu groups of both sexes were also piously performing their holy ablutions. Relentless foes of Buddhism, these fervent folks were staunch members of the Brahman religion, whose beliefs are embodied by three individuals: Visnu the sun god, Siva the divine personification of natural forces, and Brahma the supreme master of priests and lawmakers. But from what viewpoint were Brahma, Siva, and Visnu to regard today’s “anglicized” India, as some steamboat went snorting by, troubling the sacred waters of the Ganges, scaring off the gulls that flew over its surface, the turtles that congregated on its banks, and the worshippers spread out along its shores! The whole panorama unreeled in a flash, and a pale cloud of steam often hid its details. Our travelers could barely glimpse the fort in Chunar that’s twenty miles southeast of Benares and a former stronghold for the rajas of Bihar, or Ghazipur with its major rosewater factories and Lord Cornwallis’s tomb standing on the left bank of the Ganges, or the fortified town of Buxar, or the leading commercial and industrial city of Patna where India’s opium traffic is headquartered, or the town of Munger that isn’t just European but as English as Manchester or Birmingham, being renowned for its iron foundries, its manufacturers of cutlery and side arms, and its tall chimneys that soil Brahma’s heavens with dark smoke—it gives this land of dreams a real black eye. Then night fell, and tigers, bears, and wolves howled and fled in front of the locomotive, while the train shot along at full speed and they saw nothing more of Bengal’s wonders, not Golconda, dilapidated Gour, Murshidabad the former capital city, Barddhaman, Hugli, nor Chandernagore—the French quarter in this land of India, where Passepartout would have been proud to see his country’s flag fluttering overhead! Finally, at seven o’clock in the morning, they reached Calcutta. The ocean liner bound for Hong Kong wouldn’t weigh anchor till noon. So Phileas Fogg had five hours in front of him.

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According to his itinerary, the gentleman was due to arrive in India’s capital on October 25, twenty-three days after leaving London, and he arrived there right on the scheduled day. Thus he was neither late nor early. Unfortunately those two days he’d gained between London and Bombay had been lost (and you know why) while crossing India’s peninsula—but presumably Phileas Fogg had no regrets.

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15.  Where the bag of banknotes gets lighter by another couple thousand pounds

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he train came to a halt in the railway terminal. Passepartout was the first one down from their passenger car, followed by Mr. Fogg who helped his young companion step onto the platform. Phileas Fogg meant to take Lady Aouda straight over to the Hong Kong ocean liner, to see that she got comfortably situated; he wasn’t about to leave her while she was in this country that held such perils for her. Just as Mr. Fogg was exiting the terminal, a policeman came up to him and said: “You’re Mr. Phileas Fogg?” “I am.” “And this fellow’s your manservant?” the policeman added, indicating Passepartout. “Yes.” “Would both of you kindly follow me.” Mr. Fogg gave no sign that he felt any surprise whatever. This officer represented the law, and for every Englishman the law is sacred. Passepartout behaved like a typical Frenchman and tried to argue, but the policeman nudged him with his billy club, and Phileas Fogg motioned him to obey. “This young woman can come with us?” Mr. Fogg asked. “She can come,” the policeman answered. The policeman led Mr. Fogg, Lady Aouda, and Passepartout over to a palki gharri, a sort of four-wheeled, four-seated buggy hitched to two horses. Off they went. Nobody said a word during the drive, which took about twenty minutes. First the buggy went through “blacktown,” whose narrow streets ran between rows of hovels teeming with a municipal population dressed in filthy rags; then the vehicle crossed the European district, which was brightened up by brick homes, shaded by coconut palms, and garnished with flagpoles—and where, despite the morning hour, stylish riders and magnificent carriages were already out and about.

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The palki gharri stopped in front of a plain-looking residence, which wasn’t intended, however, to be anybody’s living quarters. The policeman unloaded his captives (to give them their correct title), led them into a cell with barred windows, and told them: “You’ll appear before Judge Obadiah at 8:30.” Then he backed out and shut the door. “Good grief! We’re being held prisoner!” Passepartout exclaimed, collapsing onto a chair. At once Lady Aouda turned and spoke to Mr. Fogg, her voice vainly trying to conceal her emotions: “Sir, you must leave me! They’ve hunted you down on my account! Because you rescued me!” Phileas Fogg was content to answer that such a thing wasn’t possible. Hunted down over that business of the suttee? Out of the question! How would the plaintiffs dare show their faces? There must be some mistake. Mr. Fogg added that he wouldn’t leave the young woman under any circumstances—he was going to take her to Hong Kong. “But the boat’s sailing at noon!” Passepartout pointed out. “By noon we’ll be on board,” the unemotional gentleman merely replied. This was such plain speaking, Passepartout couldn’t help telling himself: “Of course! No doubt about it! By noon we’ll be on board!” But he felt far from confident. At 8:30 the cell door opened. The policeman reappeared and ushered his captives into a nearby assembly hall. It was a hall for public hearings, and a largish audience of Europeans and locals already filled the courtroom. Mr. Fogg, Lady Aouda, and Passepartout took their seats in a pew facing the bench, which was the territory of the magistrate and court clerk. Judge Obadiah entered almost immediately, followed by the court clerk. The magistrate was a fat man who looked perfectly round. He unhooked a wig that had been hanging on a nail and briskly put it on his head. “First case,” he said. Then, raising his hand to his head: “Here now, this isn’t my wig!” “You’re right, Mr. Obadiah,” the clerk responded. “It’s mine.” “My dear Mr. Oysterpuff, how do you expect a judge to hand down a just sentence when he’s wearing a clerk’s wig?” They swapped wigs. Passepartout was boiling with impatience during these preliminaries, because the hands on the big courtroom clock seemed to be moving dreadfully fast. “First case,” Judge Obadiah repeated at this point. “Phileas Fogg?” said Oysterpuff the clerk. “I’m here,” Mr. Fogg answered. “Passepartout?” “Present!” Passepartout replied. “Good, the accused are in court,” Judge Obadiah said. “For two days we’ve been looking for you on every train from Bombay.”

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“My shoes!” yelped Passepartout.

“But what are we accused of ?” Passepartout exclaimed impatiently. “You’ll find out,” the judge replied. “Sir,” Mr. Fogg said at this juncture, “I’m an English citizen and I have a right—” “Have you been inconsiderately treated?” Mr. Obadiah asked. “Not at all.” “Fine. Bring in the plaintiffs.”

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A door opened at the judge’s command and the bailiff ushered in three Hindu priests. “It’s them all right!” Passepartout muttered. “Those are the rogues who tried to burn our young lady!” The priests stood in front of the judge, and the court clerk read aloud a charge of sacrilege drawn up against one Phileas Fogg and his manservant, who were accused of desecrating a place held sacred by the Brahman religion. “You’ve heard the indictment?” the judge asked Phileas Fogg. “Yes, sir,” Mr. Fogg replied, checking his watch. “And I plead guilty.” “Oh? You plead guilty?” “I plead guilty, and I’m waiting for these priests to plead guilty in their turn to what they were attempting at the Pillaji pagoda.” The three priests looked at each other. They didn’t seem to understand a word the accused had said. “It was as plain as day!” Passepartout shouted impulsively. “They were going to burn a human victim in front of the Pillaji pagoda!” Further astonishment from the priests and utter surprise from Judge Obadiah. “What victim?” he asked. “Burn who? Right in the city of Bombay?” “Bombay?” Passepartout exclaimed. “Certainly. This isn’t about the Pillaji pagoda but the pagoda on Malabar Hill in Bombay.” “And as proof of guilt, here are the blasphemer’s shoes,” the court clerk added, slapping two pieces of footwear down on his desk. “My shoes!” yelped Passepartout, who was stupendously surprised and couldn’t help blurting out these words. The reader can guess how much confusion filled the minds of both master and manservant. They’d forgotten about the incident at the pagoda in Bombay, and it was this very thing that had landed them in front of the Calcutta magistrate. In essence Fix the investigator had recognized all the benefits he could reap from that ill-fated business. Putting off his departure for twelve hours, he’d given the priests on Malabar Hill a word of advice; well aware that the English government takes a very dim view of this type of illegality, he’d promised the three men they would be awarded considerable personal damages; then he sent them in hot pursuit of the desecrator by the next train. But due to the time Phileas Fogg had taken to rescue the young widow, Fix and the Hindus arrived in Calcutta ahead of the Englishman and his manservant, whom the judiciary had been alerted by telegram to arrest as they climbed down from their train. As you might guess, Fix was disappointed to learn that Phileas Fogg hadn’t yet arrived in India’s capital. He was forced to believe his robber had stopped off at one of the stations on the Peninsular Railway and was taking refuge in the northerly provinces. For twentyfour hours Fix kept watch on the railway terminal in a state of mortal anxiety. That very morning, then, how gleeful he felt when he saw his man climb down from a passenger car—along with, it’s true, a young woman whose presence the investigator couldn’t explain.

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At once he sent a policeman after the fellow, and that’s how Mr. Fogg, Passepartout, and the widow of a Bundelkhand raja were brought before Judge Obadiah. And if Passepartout hadn’t been so caught up in his own affairs, he would have spotted the detective off in a corner of the courtroom, watching the proceedings with an interest you can easily appreciate—because in Calcutta just as in Bombay and Suez, he still didn’t have his arrest warrant! Meanwhile Judge Obadiah had noted the admission escaping from Passepartout’s lips, though the Frenchman would have given all his worldly possessions to take back those hasty words. “You don’t dispute the facts?” the judge said. “We don’t dispute them,” Mr. Fogg replied coolly. “Insofar,” the judge resumed, “insofar as the English legal system aims to give strict and equal protection to all religions practiced by India’s peoples, and as this Passepartout person has admitted breaking the law by blasphemously setting foot on the floor slabs of the Malabar Hill pagoda in Bombay on the day of October 20, the aforesaid Passepartout stands convicted, and I sentence him to two weeks in jail and a fine of £300.” “Three hundred pounds!” Passepartout shrieked, this fine being the one thing that had genuinely gotten through to him. “Silence in the court!” the bailiff put in, barking the words. “And,” Judge Obadiah added, “insofar as there’s no material proof that the manservant and master weren’t in collusion, and as the master in any case is to be held responsible for the deeds and activities of an employee in his pay, the court detains the aforesaid Phileas Fogg and sentences him to one week in jail and a fine of £150. The clerk may call the next case!” Off in his corner Fix felt indescribable pleasure. Phileas Fogg detained for a week in Calcutta—that gave the warrant for his arrest more than enough time to arrive. Passepartout was dumbfounded. This sentence spelled financial ruin for his master. A £20,000 bet lost, and all because he was a hopeless rubbernecker and had gone into that damned pagoda! Phileas Fogg didn’t even frown, his self-control as perfect as if the sentence had nothing to do with him. But just as the clerk called the next case, he stood up and said: “I’ll post bail.” “That’s your prerogative,” the judge replied. Fix felt a chill go down his spine, but he recovered his confidence when he heard the judge say that “insofar as Phileas Fogg and his manservant have the status of foreigners,” the bail set for each of them would be the enormous sum of £1,000 ($5,000). If they didn’t serve their sentences, Mr. Fogg would be out £2,000. “I’ll pay it,” the gentleman said. Then he took a pack of banknotes from the bag Passepartout was carrying and put it on the clerk’s desk. “This sum will be refunded to you after you’ve done your jail time,” the judge said. “Meanwhile you’re released on bail.”

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“Come along,” Phileas Fogg said to his manservant. “But at least I should get my shoes back!” Passepartout yelled, shaking his fist. They gave him back his shoes. “Here’s a pricey pair!” he mumbled. “Over £1,000 per shoe! Not to mention that they pinch my toes!” Thoroughly humbled, Passepartout followed Mr. Fogg, who had offered the young woman his arm. Fix was still hoping his robber wouldn’t be willing to leave that sum of £2,000 behind and would do his week in jail. So he took off on Fogg’s heels. Mr. Fogg caught a cab and immediately climbed into it along with Lady Aouda and Passepartout. Fix ran after the buggy, which soon pulled up at one of the town piers. In the offshore mooring half a mile out, the Rangoon lay at anchor, the blue flag at its masthead indicating it was ready to sail. Eleven o’clock sounded. Mr. Fogg was an hour early. Fix watched him climb down from the buggy and set out in a dinghy with Lady Aouda and his manservant. The detective stamped his foot on the ground. “The filthy beggar!” he exclaimed. “He’s leaving! He’s saying good-bye to £2,000! Oh, he’s a big-spending robber all right! I’ll tail him to the ends of the earth if I have to; but at the rate he’s going, he’ll run through all the money he stole!” The police inspector had good grounds for believing this. In fact, during the course of his journey since leaving London, Phileas Fogg had already squandered over £5,000 ($25,000) on travel expenses, bonuses, buying an elephant, posting bail, and paying fines, so the amount that could be recovered was shrinking by the day—and likewise the percentage that would go to the detectives who recovered it.

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16.  Where Fix plays dumb when he hears certain things

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he Rangoon was one of the ocean liners that the Peninsular & Oriental Co. used on its run through the seas of China and Japan; it was an iron-hulled, propeller-driven steamer with a gross burden of 1,950 tons and it was on the books as having 400-horsepower engines. It matched the Mongolia in speed but not in comfort. Accordingly Lady Aouda wasn’t as well situated as Phileas Fogg would have liked. Even so, they were faced with a crossing of only 3,500 miles, hence lasting eleven to twelve days, and it turned out that the young woman wasn’t a demanding passenger. During the first days of that crossing, Lady Aouda got better acquainted with Phileas Fogg. At every opportunity she expressed how deeply grateful she was to him. The stoic gentleman listened to her—or at least appeared to—with the iciest calm, no inflection or gesture revealing that he felt the tiniest emotion. He saw to it that the young woman had everything she could want. He visited her on a regular schedule, if not to chat at least to listen. He showed her every courtesy that the strictest good manners could require, but with the grace and spontaneity of a robot whose actions had been preprogrammed for the purpose. Lady Aouda wasn’t too sure what to think, but Passepartout gave her a quick briefing on his master’s personal eccentricities. He informed her of the wager that was taking the gentleman around the world. Lady Aouda had smiled at this; but after all, she did owe him her life, and her rescuer had nothing to lose by being seen through the eyes of her gratitude. Lady Aouda corroborated the account their Hindu guide had given of her affecting life story. She did indeed belong to the race that ranks as the upper class among these native races. Several Parsi traders in the East Indies had made huge fortunes in the cotton business. One of them, Sir Jamsetji Jijibhai, had been given a peerage by the English government, and Lady Aouda was related to this wealthy individual, now living in Bombay. In fact it was one of Lord Jijibhai’s cousins, the honorable Jijih, whom she banked on rejoining in Hong Kong. Would she receive assistance and protection at his hands? She couldn’t say.

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She expressed how deeply grateful she was to him.

To which Mr. Fogg responded that she wasn’t to worry, that everything would work out mathematically. This was his watchword. Did the young woman understand what he meant by that horrid adverb? Who knows. She kept her large eyes on Mr. Fogg’s the whole time, her large eyes as limpid as “the holy lakes of the Himalayas.” But Fogg the Incurable, as much a stuffed shirt as ever, apparently wasn’t the sort to dive into such a lake.

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The first stage of the Rangoon’s crossing took place under excellent conditions. The weather was easy to work with. Seamen call that immense bay “the Bengal lap,” and this part of it fully cooperated with the ocean liner’s efforts. The Rangoon soon raised the Andaman Islands, whose chief member, Great Andaman, features a picturesque mountain named Saddle Peak, which stands 2,400 feet high and can be spotted by far-off navigators. Its extensive coastline lay fairly near. The Papuan savages on this island didn’t put in an appearance. They sit on the bottom rung of the human ladder, but it isn’t true that they’re cannibals. The panoramic layout of these islands was superb. Immense forests of fan palms, areca palms, bamboo, nutmeg, teakwood, gigantic mimosas, and tree ferns covered the foreground of this landscape, and to the rear the stylish silhouettes of mountains stood out. Along the coastline swarmed thousands of those precious swifts whose edible nests furnish a soup that’s much in demand throughout the Celestial Empire. But the Rangoon soon went past all the different sights on view in the Andaman Islands, then steamed swiftly toward the Strait of Malacca, which would give it access to the seas of China. As for Inspector Fix, it was his ill-omened lot to be dragged along on this journey to circumnavigate the globe—so what was he up to during this crossing? Before exiting Calcutta, he’d left instructions that once the warrant finally arrived, it should be forwarded to him in Hong Kong; then, without being spotted by Passepartout, he’d managed to get aboard the Rangoon, where he hoped to lie low till the ocean liner had reached its destination. The fact is, he would have had trouble explaining why he was on board without arousing Passepartout’s suspicions, since the fellow was sure to think he’d remained in Bombay. But a perfectly logical chain of events led him to renew his acquaintance with the good Frenchman. How? You’ll see. All the police inspector’s hopes and dreams now focused on a single part of the globe, Hong Kong, because the ocean liner’s layover in Singapore would be too brief for him to accomplish anything in that town. Therefore he had to place the robber under arrest in Hong Kong, or the robber would steal away, so to speak, for good. In essence Hong Kong was still English territory, but it was the last he would encounter on the route they were taking. Beyond it China, Japan, and America offered this Fogg fellow a refuge that was almost completely secure. Obviously the warrant for his arrest was close behind, and if it finally caught up with Fix in Hong Kong, the detective would arrest Fogg and leave him in the hands of the local police. No problem. But beyond Hong Kong a mere warrant for his arrest wouldn’t be enough. A writ of extradition would be required. Ergo all sorts of delays, postponements, and roadblocks that the rogue would take advantage of to get away once and for all. If the process broke down in Hong Kong, it would be quite difficult, if not impossible, to resume operations with any chance of success. “Therefore,” Fix told himself over and over during the long hours he spent in his cabin, “therefore I’ll arrest my man if the warrant’s in Hong Kong; but if it isn’t, this time I’ve got to delay his departure at any cost! I botched it in Bombay, I botched it in Calcutta! If I miss my chance in Hong Kong, my reputation’s done for! Whatever it takes, I’ve got to pull this off. But what delaying tactics should I use with this damned Fogg, if it comes down to that?”

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If all else failed, Fix was quite determined to make a clean breast of it to Passepartout and let him know what sort of master he was serving, since they clearly weren’t in collusion. Enlightened by this revelation, Passepartout was sure to be afraid for his own skin and undoubtedly would come over to Fix’s side. But this was a risky measure in the final analysis, one to be used only if nothing else worked. One word from Passepartout to his master would be enough to ruin things irreparably. So the police inspector felt thoroughly baffled, but new vistas opened up in his mind when he found Lady Aouda aboard the Rangoon in Phileas Fogg’s company. Who was this woman? What convergence of circumstances had made her Fogg’s companion? Obviously they’d met somewhere between Bombay and Calcutta. But on what part of the peninsula? Was it by chance that Phileas Fogg and this young woman were now traveling together? Or, on the contrary, had the gentleman undertaken this journey across India with the aim of renewing his acquaintance with the lady’s attractions? Because she did have attractions! Fix had gotten a good look at them during the court session in the hall for public hearings in Calcutta. As you can appreciate, one aspect of the matter inevitably puzzled the investigator. He wondered if the business didn’t have the makings of a felony kidnapping. Yes, this had to be the case! The idea took root in Fix’s brain and he saw all the benefits he could reap from such a state of things. Whether the young woman was married or not, it added up to kidnapping, and in Hong Kong it would be possible to land her abductor in such hot water, no amount of money could get him out of it. But he didn’t dare wait till the Rangoon reached Hong Kong. This Fogg had an abominable habit of hopping from one boat to another, and he could be long gone before procedures even got under way. So the main thing was to warn the English authorities and notify them of the Rangoon’s movements before it arrived and unloaded its passengers. Now then, nothing could be simpler: the ocean liner called at Singapore, and telegraph lines connected Singapore to the China coast. Even so, just to play it safe, Fix decided to question Passepartout before taking any action. He knew it wouldn’t be very hard to get the fellow talking, and he concluded it was time to come out of hiding and quit traveling incognito. Now then, he didn’t have a moment to lose. It was October 30, and the very next day the Rangoon would put into Singapore. Consequently Fix left his cabin that day, climbed on deck, and intended to “make the first contact” by running into Passepartout while playacting the most tremendous surprise. Passepartout was strolling in the bow, when the inspector rushed up to him, exclaiming: “What! You’re on the Rangoon?” “Mr. Fix? You’re on board too?” Passepartout responded, utterly amazed to recognize his traveling companion from the Mongolia. “What’s going on? I leave you in Bombay and I find you again on the way to Hong Kong? Does this mean you’re traveling around the world as well?” “No, no,” Fix replied. “I plan to stop over in Hong Kong—for a few days at least.”

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“Ah,” Passepartout said, then looked startled for a second. “But why haven’t I seen you on board since we left Calcutta?” “Ye gods, I’ve been so ill . . . a touch of seasickness . . . I stayed in bed inside my cabin. The Bay of Bengal doesn’t agree with me as much as the Indian Ocean. And how’s your master, Mr. Phileas Fogg?” “In perfect health and smack on his itinerary! Not a day late! Oh, here’s something you don’t know, Mr. Fix—we also have a young lady with us.” “A young lady?” the investigator replied, acting as if he didn’t understand a word his conversation partner was trying to say. But Passepartout soon brought him up to date on the whole story. He described the incident at the Bombay pagoda, buying an elephant at a cost of £2,000, the business of the suttee, kidnapping Aouda, the sentence passed by the Calcutta court, being released on bail. Though Fix was familiar with the incidents in this last bit, he behaved as if it was all news to him, and Passepartout couldn’t resist the pleasure of narrating his adventures to somebody who listened with such interest. “But ultimately,” Fix asked, “doesn’t your master plan to take this young woman to Europe?” “Not at all, Mr. Fix! We’re simply going to leave her in the care of one of her relatives, a wealthy merchant in Hong Kong.” That’s no help, Fix thought, hiding his disappointment. “How about a glass of gin, Mr. Passepartout?” “Gladly, Mr. Fix. We’ve just met again aboard the Rangoon, so the least we can do is drink to the occasion!”

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17.  Which deals with this and that during the crossing from Singapore to Hong Kong

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rom that day forward Passepartout and the detective often bumped into each other, but the investigator was tremendously on guard around his companion and didn’t try to get him talking. Only once or twice did he glimpse Mr. Fogg, who gladly stayed in the Rangoon’s main lounge and either kept Lady Aouda company or played whist in line with his set routine. As for Passepartout, he gave very serious thought to the strange happenstance that Fix, once again, was going the same way as his master. And in all honesty it was more than surprising. This very friendly and certainly very courteous gentleman whom they’d first met in Suez, who had sailed on the Mongolia, who had gotten off in Bombay where he said he would stop over, who had turned up again on the Rangoon bound for Hong Kong, who, in a nutshell, was following Mr. Fogg’s itinerary step by step—this individual deserved close consideration. It was a coincidence that was more than peculiar. What was this Fix person playing at? Passepartout was ready to bet his Turkish slippers—he’d packed them with loving care—that Fix would leave Hong Kong the same time they did, and most likely on the same ocean liner. Passepartout could have worn his thinking cap for a whole century without ever guessing what assignment the investigator had been given. Never would he have imagined that Phileas Fogg was being “tailed” around the planet earth as a robbery suspect. But since it’s human nature to seek explanations for everything, here’s how Passepartout, in a sudden flash of inspiration, made sense of Fix’s ongoing presence—and actually his scenario was quite plausible. In essence he believed that Fix was and could only have been a hireling in the pay of Mr. Fogg’s colleagues at the Reform Club, who had sent him on the gentleman’s heels to verify that this journey around the world was legitimately taking place and following the agreed-upon itinerary. “It’s obvious!” the good fellow told himself over and over, quite proud of his astuteness. “He’s a spy those gentlemen have hired to dog our footsteps! How shameful of them! Mr.

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Only once or twice did he glimpse Mr. Fogg.

Fogg’s so upright, so honorable! Spied on by a hireling—oh, you’ll pay dearly for this, you gentlemen of the Reform Club!” Though delighted with his discovery, Passepartout decided to say nothing about it to his master, afraid the latter would be rightly offended by this distrust on the part of his opponents. But he solemnly swore he would tease Fix when the chance came up, dropping sly hints without giving himself away.

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Wednesday afternoon, October 30, the Rangoon entered the Strait of Malacca, which lends its name to the southern end of the Malay Peninsula and separates it from the shores of Sumatra. As for the latter, its main island was hidden from the passengers’ view by islets featuring very steep, very picturesque mountains. At four o’clock the next morning, the Rangoon put into Singapore to replenish its coal supply; it had finished its crossing half a day ahead of schedule. Phileas Fogg recorded this gain in the plus column and on this occasion went ashore along with Lady Aouda, who had expressed a desire to roam around for a few hours. Finding Mr. Fogg’s every move suspicious, Fix followed him while keeping out of sight. As for Passepartout, he did his usual shopping, laughing at Fix’s machinations in petto. The island of Singapore is neither large nor imposing in appearance. It suffers from a shortage of geological contours—mountains, in other words. Even so, the place is attractive in its low-profile way. It’s like a park with lovely paths cutting through it. Hitched to stylish horses imported from Australia, a smart rig carried Lady Aouda and Phileas Fogg through clumps of palm trees with sparkling foliage, then myrtles whose cloves consisted of partly open flower buds. Pepper bushes were standing in for the prickly hedges of Europe’s countrysides; sago palms and big ferns with superb fronds added visual variety to this tropical landscape; the air was steeped in the pungent scent of nutmeg trees with lacquered foliage. Watchful, scowling mobs of monkeys were plentiful in the trees, and tigers were a possibility in the jungles. To anybody who’s amazed to hear that these dreadful carnivores haven’t been totally eliminated from this comparatively tiny island, we’ll answer that they keep coming into Malacca by swimming across the strait. After a two-hour drive around the countryside, Lady Aouda and her companion— who gave it a glance but saw nothing—reentered the town, a huge cluster of flat, bulky dwellings surrounded by delightful gardens full of pineapples, mangosteens, and all sorts of world-class fruit. By ten o’clock they were back on the ocean liner, never suspecting they’d been followed by the police inspector, who had likewise needed to incur the cost of a carriage. Passepartout was waiting for them on the Rangoon’s deck. The gallant lad had bought a couple dozen mangosteens: they’re the size of your average apple, their rinds are dark brown outside and bright red inside, their white innards melt in your mouth, and true gourmets find them an unparalleled delight. Passepartout was overjoyed to offer them to Lady Aouda, who thanked him with great courtesy. By eleven o’clock the Rangoon had a full load of coal under its belt and loosed its moorings; a few hours later its passengers lost sight of Malacca’s lofty mountains, whose forests shelter the world’s handsomest tigers. About 1,300 miles lie between Singapore and the island of Hong Kong, a small English possession that’s separate from mainland China. It was in Phileas Fogg’s best interests to cover this distance in no more than six days, allowing him to catch the boat due to leave Hong Kong on November 5 for Yokohama, one of Japan’s chief ports. The Rangoon was fully booked. A large number of passengers had come on board in Singapore—Hindus, Ceylonese, Chinese, Malays, and Portuguese, most of them down in second class.

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They’d had fair weather till then, but this changed when the moon entered her last quarter. The sea was running high. At times the wind rose to a stiff breeze, but luckily it blew out of the southeast quadrant and aided the steamer’s efforts. The captain spread sail whenever it was feasible. Rigged like a brig, the Rangoon often navigated under its foresail and two topsails, and the combined action of wind and steam gave it still greater speed. Coping in this way with the choppy and sometimes very trying waves, they skirted the Vietnamese coastlines of Annam and Cochin China. But the Rangoon was more at fault than the sea, and its passengers—most of whom got sick—should have blamed the ocean liner itself for the trying time they had. In essence Peninsular Co. ships on this run through the seas of China have a serious design defect. The ratio of their depth to their draft with full cargo has been poorly calculated, and as a result they put up only the weakest resistance to a heavy sea. Their enclosed, watertight volume is insufficient. They get “swamped,” as sailors say, and due to this structural inadequacy, it takes only a few waves over the deck to affect their speed. Consequently these ships are quite inferior—at least in design, if not in their engines and steam generators—to such examples from the French imperial shipping line as the Empress and the Cambodia. According to the calculations of engineers, the latter can take on their full weight in water before foundering, whereas Peninsular Co. boats—the Golconda, the Korea, and the Rangoon too—couldn’t take on a sixth of their weight without going to the bottom. So their procedure in foul weather was to exercise the greatest caution. Sometimes the vessel had to lie to at half steam. The loss of time didn’t seem to bother Phileas Fogg in the slightest, but it angered Passepartout tremendously. After denouncing the captain, the head mechanic, and the shipping line, he damned the entire travel industry to you-knowwhere. Maybe that gas jet burning at his own expense in the house on Savile Row also bulked large in his impatient thinking. “So it’s quite urgent for you to reach Hong Kong?” the detective asked him one day. “Terrifically urgent!” Passepartout replied. “You think Mr. Fogg’s in a hurry to catch the ocean liner to Yokohama?” “An awful hurry.” “So these days you believe in this strange journey around the world?” “Absolutely. How about you, Mr. Fix?” “Me? Not a word of it.” “You’re such a cutup!” Passepartout replied, tipping him a wink. At this comment the investigator fell to brooding. Being branded this way bothered him, yet he couldn’t say exactly why. Had the Frenchman guessed what he was up to? He wasn’t sure what to think. But he alone knew he was there in his capacity as detective—how could Passepartout have found out his secret? And yet when Passepartout spoke to him that way, he clearly had some ulterior motive. It happened that the gallant lad went even farther on another occasion, because it was just too much for him. He couldn’t hold his tongue. “Look here, Mr. Fix,” he asked his companion in a sly tone, “once we get to Hong Kong, will we have to bid you a tearful good-bye?” “Well,” Fix answered in some confusion, “I don’t know . . . maybe I . . .”

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Even so, the place is attractive in its low-profile way.

“Ah!” Passepartout said. “If only you could come with us, how overjoyed I would be! Look here, a representative of the Peninsular Co. can’t quit while he’s ahead! You were going just to Bombay and you’ll be in China any minute now! America isn’t far off, and it’s only a short hop from America to Europe!”

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Fix looked closely at his conversation partner, who wore the world’s sweetest expression, and decided to laugh along with him. But the latter was going great guns and asked Fix if his job “paid pretty well.” “Yes, and no,” Fix replied with a straight face. “You have to take the good with the bad. But you can easily understand that I don’t travel at my own expense.” “Oh, I’m quite sure you don’t!” Passepartout exclaimed, laughing even more heartily. When their conversation ended, Fix went back into his cabin and mulled things over. Obviously the fellow was on to him. Somehow or other the Frenchman had spotted that he was there in his capacity as detective. But had he tipped off his master? What role was the manservant playing in all this? Were the two in collusion or not? If Fix’s cover had been blown, did that mean it was all over? The investigator spent a few arduous hours on the issue, sometimes fearing everything was lost, sometimes hoping Fogg was in the dark on things, ultimately unable to make up his mind. Even so, his brain calmed down again and he decided to be frank with Passepartout. If the desired circumstances didn’t turn up for arresting Fogg in Hong Kong, and if Fogg this time made moves to leave English territory for good, he, Fix, would tell Passepartout everything. Either the manservant was in collusion with his master—and the latter knew everything, meaning that the business was in irreparable jeopardy—or the manservant had nothing to do with the robbery and it would be in his best interests to part company with the robber. So that was the situation relative to these two men, while Phileas Fogg hovered above them with majestic unconcern. He was systematically orbiting the earth, never worrying his head over the asteroids that revolved around him. And yet there was—as astronomers put it—a “disturbing body” nearby that ought to have caused some irregularities in the gentleman’s very core. But not so! Lady Aouda’s attractions had no such impact, much to Passepartout’s surprise, and if there were any irregularities, they would have been harder to calculate than the ones on Uranus that led to the discovery of Neptune. Yes, this was a source of daily amazement to Passepartout, who read in the young woman’s eyes so much gratitude toward his master! No doubt about it, Phileas Fogg’s heart was capable of heroic deeds but not amorous ones—he was a fighter, not a lover! As for any trepidation that this chancy trip might have aroused in him, there wasn’t a sign of such a thing. But Passepartout himself lived in continual agony. One day he was leaning over the engine room guardrail and keeping an eye on the powerful machinery (which sometimes acted up), when the bow pitched sharply downward and the propeller flailed around above the waves. Then steam burst out of the valves, and this made the good fellow hit the roof. “The valves aren’t fully charged!” he howled. “We aren’t budging! This is an English ship all over! Oh, if only it was an American boat—maybe we would blow up, but at least we would move faster!”

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18.  In which Phileas Fogg, Passepartout, and Fix go about their separate business

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he weather was pretty foul during the last days of the crossing. The wind increased tremendously. It blew steadily out of the northwest quadrant, impeding the ocean liner’s progress. The Rangoon was far from stable and rolled considerably, so the passengers had every right to take offense at those revoltingly long waves the wind stirred up in midocean. During the daytime on November 3 and 4, they had something of a storm. Gusts of wind gave the sea a furious thrashing. The Rangoon had to lie to for half a day, holding steady while its propeller did just ten revolutions per minute in order to cut through the waves at an angle. All the sails had been taken in, yet the rigging was still under great strain and whistled during the blasts. As the reader can imagine, the ocean liner went significantly slower, and the prognosis was that it would arrive in Hong Kong twenty hours behind schedule, later still if the storm didn’t die down. The sea seemed to be deliberately opposing him, yet Phileas Fogg took in the whole furious sight with his usual lack of emotion. His brow didn’t cloud over for a second, and yet a twenty-hour delay could jeopardize his journey and make him miss the ocean liner leaving for Yokohama. But the man hadn’t a nerve in his body and seemed neither impatient nor annoyed. It was as if this storm were actually listed on his schedule and he’d been expecting it. When Lady Aouda discussed this setback with her companion, she found him as calm as ever. Fix himself didn’t see things from the same viewpoint. Quite to the contrary. This storm delighted him. His pleasure would have been downright boundless had the Rangoon been forced to turn tail and flee from the turmoil. All these delays were fine with him, because they would force this Fogg fellow to stay in Hong Kong for a few days. The sky itself with its blasts and gusts was finally on his side. He was ill quite a bit, but it didn’t make any difference! He paid no attention to his queasiness; though his body was wracked with seasickness, his mental pleasure was so great that it kept him diverted.

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As for Passepartout, the reader can guess how much barefaced fury he felt during this trying time. Everything had gone so well till this point! Land and sea seemed dedicated to his master. Steamers and railways obeyed him. Wind and steam joined hands to speed his journey. Did this mean the hour of adversity had finally tolled? Life became impossible for Passepartout, as if that £20,000 bet had to be paid out of his own pocket. The storm aggravated him, the blasts threw him into a rage, and he would gladly have given the naughty sea a good whipping, like Xerxes with the Dardanelles. Poor fellow! Fix was careful to hide his personal pleasure from the Frenchman, which was just as well because if Passepartout had sensed Fix’s inner happiness, Fix would have been in for a nasty quarter of an hour. Passepartout stayed on the Rangoon’s deck the whole time the gusts persisted. He was incapable of remaining below; he clambered up into the masts; he amazed the crew, lending everybody a hand, as spry as a monkey. He pestered the captain, officers, and sailors with a hundred questions, and they couldn’t help chuckling at the sight of such a flustered fellow. Passepartout desperately wanted to know how long the storm would last. So they referred him to the ship’s barometer, which showed no inclination to rise again. Passepartout gave the barometer a shaking, but though he piled both physical and verbal abuse on it, he couldn’t do a thing with that shiftless instrument. Finally the turmoil abated. The state of the sea underwent a change during the daytime on November 4. The wind veered two points to the south and turned helpful again. As the weather calmed down, so did Passepartout. The crew were able to let out both the topsails and lower sails, and the Rangoon got back on course wonderfully fast. But there was no way to make up all the time they’d lost. It just couldn’t be helped, and they didn’t raise land till five o’clock in the morning on the 6th. Phileas Fogg’s itinerary had the ocean liner arriving on the 5th. Now then, since it wasn’t till the 6th that the ship did arrive, he was twenty-four hours late and would inevitably miss the vessel leaving for Yokohama. At six o’clock the harbor pilot climbed aboard the Rangoon and took his place on the bridge, ready to steer the ship through the narrows to the port of Hong Kong. Passepartout had a terminal craving to question the man and ask him if the ocean liner to Yokohama had left Hong Kong. But he didn’t have the nerve, preferring to hang onto a little hope till the last second. He shared his worries with Fix, and the sly dog tried to console him by saying that all Mr. Fogg had to do was take the next boat. Which sent Passepartout into conniptions. But if Passepartout didn’t dare question the harbor pilot, Mr. Fogg checked his Bradshaw, then serenely asked the aforesaid pilot if he knew when a boat would be leaving Hong Kong for Yokohama. “Tomorrow on the morning tide,” the pilot replied. “Ah,” Mr. Fogg put in, showing no surprise. Passepartout was on hand and would have gladly hugged the pilot, whereas Fix would have liked to wring his neck. “What’s the steamer’s name?” Mr. Fogg asked. “The Carnatic,” the pilot replied.

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He amazed the crew, lending everybody a hand.

“Wasn’t it scheduled to leave yesterday?” “Yes, sir. But they had to repair one of the boilers, so they put its departure off till tomorrow.” “Thank you,” Mr. Fogg replied. Then, with his machinelike tread, he went back down to the Rangoon’s lounge.

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As for Passepartout, he grabbed the pilot’s hand and squeezed it energetically, saying: “Pilot, you’re quite a man!” Doubtless the pilot never found out how his remarks had earned this outburst of enthusiasm. Hearing the toot of a whistle, he went back up on the bridge and steered the ocean liner through the flotilla of junks, Tanka houseboats, fishing vessels, and ships of every description that clog the Hong Kong sluiceways. The Rangoon docked at one o’clock, and its passengers went ashore. In this instance, you must admit, chance had been exceptionally helpful to Phileas Fogg. If the Carnatic hadn’t needed to repair its boilers, its departure date would have been November 5 and passengers bound for Japan would have needed to wait a week for the next ocean liner to leave. True, Mr. Fogg had been delayed twenty-four hours, but this delay wouldn’t have any dire effect on the rest of his journey. In actuality the steamer that did the Pacific crossing from Yokohama to San Francisco connected directly with the ocean liner from Hong Kong, so it couldn’t depart till the latter had arrived. Obviously they would reach Yokohama twenty-four hours late, but this time would be easily made up during the twenty-two days it takes to cross the Pacific. So, thirty-five days after leaving London, Phileas Fogg was within twenty-four hours of where his schedule said he ought to be. The Carnatic was due to leave at five o’clock the next morning. Mr. Fogg had sixteen hours ahead of him for taking care of business, in other words, matters pertaining to Lady Aouda. Getting off the boat, he offered the young woman his arm and led her to a covered litter. He asked the carriers to recommend lodgings, and they suggested the Club Hotel. With Passepartout following, the covered litter got under way and reached its destination twenty minutes later. Phileas Fogg booked a suite for the young woman and saw to it that she had everything she could want. Then he told Lady Aouda he would immediately set about searching Hong Kong for the relative in whose care he was to leave her. At the same time he instructed Passepartout to stay at the hotel till his return, so the young woman wouldn’t be left by herself. The gentleman took a cab to the stock exchange. There they were sure to know about such an individual as the honorable Jijih, who ranked among the wealthiest businesspeople in the city. The broker whom Mr. Fogg approached did indeed know about the Parsi merchant. But the latter had left town two years earlier and didn’t live in China anymore. Having made his fortune, he’d taken up residence in Europe (in Holland, it was thought), which was understandable because he’d cultivated many acquaintances in those parts during his business career. Phileas Fogg went back to the Club Hotel. At once he asked Lady Aouda’s permission to meet with her, then informed her without any further preamble that the honorable Jijih no longer resided in Hong Kong and most likely was living in Holland. Lady Aouda didn’t reply to this at first. She mopped her brow and stood in thought for a few seconds. Then, in her gentle voice:

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“What should I do, Mr. Fogg?” she said. “It’s very simple,” the gentleman replied. “Come along to Europe.” “But I can’t take advantage of your—” “You aren’t, and your presence won’t interfere with my schedule in any way . . . Passepartout!” “Sir?” Passepartout replied. “Go to the Carnatic and book three cabins.” Since the young woman was so gracious to him, Passepartout was delighted to continue traveling in her company and he immediately set out from the Club Hotel.

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19.  Where Passepartout grows extremely concerned for his master and what comes of it

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ong Kong is just an islet that the Treaty of Nanking made an English possession after the First Opium War ended in 1842. In a few years Great Britain’s colonizing genius had created a major town here and set up a port, Victoria Harbor. This island is located at the mouth of the Pearl River, and only sixty miles separate it from the Portuguese city of Macao, which sprang up on the opposite bank. Inevitably Hong Kong was bound to defeat Macao in any trade war, and today the English town handles most of China’s shipping. Docks, hospitals, wharves, warehouses, a Gothic cathedral, a “government building,” and paved streets all make Hong Kong look like some mercantile city in the county of Kent or Surrey, a city that had burrowed through the planet earth and had come out more or less on the opposite side in this part of China. Hands in his pockets, Passepartout made his way toward Victoria Harbor, looking at the covered litters, the wind-powered wheelbarrows still popular in the Celestial Empire, and all the hordes of Chinese, Japanese, and Europeans crowded together in the streets. As he went along, the good fellow found he was pretty much still in Bombay, Calcutta, or Singapore. It’s as if a trail of English towns runs all around the globe. Passepartout reached Victoria Harbor. There, at the mouth of the Pearl River, the waves were swarming with ships of all nations, English, French, American, and Dutch, warships and merchantmen, longboats from Japan or China, junks, sampans, Tanka houseboats, and even floating bordellos that looked like so many flower gardens drifting on the waters. Strolling around, Passepartout noticed that a number of locals, all of them quite elderly, were dressed in yellow. After going into a Chinese barbershop to get a China-style shave, he learned from the Figaro of the place (who spoke pretty good English) that all these elders were at least eighty years old, that at this age they’d earned the privilege of sporting the color yellow—which is the empire’s official color. Passepartout couldn’t quite put his finger on why he found this last fact thoroughly amusing.

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Passepartout noticed . . . a number of locals.

Shave out of the way, he proceeded to the Carnatic’s loading dock and there he spotted Fix strolling to and fro, which didn’t surprise the Frenchman in the slightest. But the police inspector’s face revealed signs of deep disappointment. “Good,” Passepartout said to himself, “things aren’t going well for the gentlemen of the Reform Club!” And he pulled alongside Fix with his merriest smile, paying no attention to the frustration in his companion’s face.

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Now then, the investigator had good reason to rail against the hellish luck dogging him. The warrant hadn’t come! Obviously that warrant was close on his heels, but it couldn’t catch up with him unless he stayed in town for a few days. Now then, Hong Kong was the last English territory on this Fogg fellow’s route, so he would escape for good unless Fix managed to detain him here. “Well, Mr. Fix, have you decided to come along with us to America?” Passepartout asked. “Yes,” Fix answered through clenched teeth. “You don’t say!” Passepartout exclaimed, bursting into hearty laughter. “I was positive you couldn’t bring yourself to part with us! Come on, let’s go get you a place on board!” And the two of them went into the overseas travel office and secured cabins for four people. But the clerk pointed out that the Carnatic’s repairs were finished and the ocean liner would leave at eight o’clock that same evening, not the next morning as originally announced. “Very good!” Passepartout responded. “That’ll suit my master just fine. I’ll go warn him.” At this point Fix came to a drastic decision. He decided to tell Passepartout everything. It seemed to be the only way he had of detaining Phileas Fogg in Hong Kong for a few days. Leaving the travel office, Fix offered to take his companion to a tavern for a bit of refreshment. Passepartout had the time. He accepted Fix’s invitation. A tavern on the pier was open for business. It looked promising. The two men went inside. It was a huge, nicely decorated den, and a folding bed adorned with cushions stretched across the far end. A number of sleeping people had been stowed on this bed. In the main part of the den, thirty or so customers sat at little wickerwork tables. Some were emptying pints of ale, porter, or other English beers, some jugs of gin, brandy, or similar alcoholic spirits. However the majority were smoking long pipes of red clay in which were packed little globules of opium mixed with rose oil. Every so often an enfeebled smoker would slide under his table, then the staff of the establishment would grab him by the head and feet, carry him, and put him next to a crony on the folding bed. Thus about twenty of the sots had been stowed side by side, in the last stages of debilitation. Fix and Passepartout realized they’d gone into one of those smoking parlors haunted by the dazed, wasted, crackbrained wretches who consume that deadly drug called opium, and every year mercenary England sells them $52,000,000 worth of this narcotic! What sorry millions these are—they’re the front money for one of human nature’s deadliest vices. China’s government has tried hard to rectify this abuse with the harshest laws, but to no avail. Opium use has spread from the wealthy classes, who at first kept it strictly to themselves, down to the lower classes, and there’s no end to the damage it can do. People smoke opium at all times and places in the Middle Empire. Both men and women are in the thrall of this dismal addiction, and once they’re hooked on inhaling the drug, they can’t abstain from it without experiencing horrible stomach cramps. Heavy users can smoke up to eight pipes per day, but they’ll die within five years. Now then, looking for a bit of refreshment, Fix and Passepartout had gone into one of the many smoking parlors of this type that proliferate right in Hong Kong. Passepartout

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didn’t have any money with him, but he gladly accepted his companion’s “invite,” figuring to return the compliment at some future time and place. They ordered two bottles of port, which the Frenchman did full justice to, while Fix exercised more restraint and kept a close eye on his companion. They chatted about this and that, especially about the splendid idea Fix had of sailing on the Carnatic. And pertinent to this, Passepartout recalled that the steamer would be leaving a few hours earlier and got up, once the bottles were empty, to go warn his master. Fix held him back. “One second,” he said. “What’s up, Mr. Fix?” “I have some serious concerns to talk over with you.” “Serious concerns!” Passepartout exclaimed, emptying the last few drops of wine at the bottom of his glass. “Well, let’s talk ’em over tomorrow. I haven’t got time right now.” “Wait,” Fix replied. “It’s about your master!” When he heard this, Passepartout looked closely at his conversation partner. The expression on Fix’s face struck him as odd. He sat down again. “So what have you got to tell me?” he asked. Fix rested his hand on his companion’s arm and lowered his voice: “You’ve guessed who I am?” he asked the Frenchman. “Of course!” Passepartout said with a grin. “Then I’m going to confess everything to you—” “Now that I know it already, old chum? Well, if that doesn’t beat all! Never mind, keep talking. But before you do, let me tell you that those gentlemen have gone to a needless expense!” “Needless!” Fix said. “That’s easy for you to say! Anybody can see you don’t know how huge the amount is!” “Certainly I do,” Passepartout replied. “It’s £20,000!” “It’s £55,000! ” Fix went on, clutching the Frenchman’s hand. “What!” Passepartout exclaimed. “How would Mr. Fogg dare  .  .  .  ? £55,000  .  .  .  ? All right,” he added as he got up again, “that’s another reason for not wasting one more second.” “Fifty-five thousand pounds!” Fix continued, ordering a decanter of brandy and making Passepartout sit back down. “And if I pull this off, I’ll earn a £2,000 reward. Would you like £500 of that for agreeing to help me?” “Help you?” Passepartout exclaimed, his eyes popping out of his head. “Yes, help me detain that Fogg fellow in Hong Kong for a few days!” “Huh?” Passepartout put in. “What in the world are you saying? Excuse me? Those gentlemen aren’t content just with doubting my master’s good faith and having him followed, they’re even trying to throw obstacles in his way? How shameful of them!” “Drat the fellow! What do you mean?” Fix asked. “I mean this is out-and-out cheating. They might as well lay hold of Mr. Fogg and take the money right out of his pocket!” “Ah, that’s just what we figure it will come to.”

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“Listen,” Fix said in a curt voice.

“Then it’s a trap!” Passepartout shouted, gathering steam under the influence of the brandy Fix kept pouring and he kept absentmindedly drinking. “It’s an honest-to-goodness trap! Some gentlemen and colleagues they are!” Fix was starting to not get it. “Colleagues!” Passepartout snarled. “Members of the Reform Club! You listen here, Mr. Fix—my master’s a respectable man, and when he makes a bet, he aims to win it in good faith!”

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“Why, who do you think I am, then?” Fix asked, looking Passepartout in the eye. “That’s easy! A hireling in the pay of members of the Reform Club—you’ve been assigned to double-check my master’s itinerary, and the whole thing’s utterly disgraceful! And so, even though I guessed your mission a while back, I’ve been very careful to not pass it along to Mr. Fogg.” “He knows nothing?” Fix asked instantly. “Nothing,” Passepartout replied, emptying his glass one more time. The police inspector mopped his brow. He hesitated before continuing the conversation. What should he do? Passepartout’s mistake seemed genuine, but it made Fix’s plans more complicated. Obviously this fellow was speaking in all sincerity and wasn’t in collusion with his master—which was what the investigator had been afraid of. “All right,” he said to himself, “since they aren’t in collusion, he’ll help me.” For a second time the detective came to a decision. Besides, he couldn’t delay any longer. He needed to keep Fogg in Hong Kong at any cost. “Listen,” Fix said in a curt voice, “listen closely to me. I’m not what you think—in other words, I’m not a hireling in the pay of members of the Reform Club . . .” “Phooey!” Passepartout said, looking at him with a scornful expression. “I’m a Scotland Yard police inspector working on a case . . .” “You . . . a police inspector . . . ?” “Yes, and I can prove it,” Fix went on. “Here’s my authorization.” And taking a piece of paper out of his wallet, the investigator showed his companion an authorization signed by the chief of police at central headquarters. Dumbfounded, Passepartout looked at Fix and couldn’t get out a single word. “The bet this Fogg fellow made,” Fix went on, “was just an excuse and it fooled both you and his colleagues at the Reform Club, because he had a vested interest in making you his unwitting accomplices.” “But why . . . ?” Passepartout exclaimed. “Hear me out. Just this fall, on September 29, a robbery to the tune of £55,000 took place at the Bank of England, and they were able to put together a physical description of the individual involved. Now then, here’s that description, and it jibes feature for feature with this Fogg fellow.” “Oh come on!” Passepartout exclaimed, banging the table with his beefy fist. “My master’s the most respectable man alive!” “How would you know?” Fix responded. “You’re barely even acquainted with him! He hired you the same day he left town, and he hurried off on a lunatic excuse, without packing any trunks, and carrying a huge amount in banknotes! And you dare insist he’s a respectable man?” “Yes! Yes!” the poor fellow repeated automatically. “Then do you want to be arrested as his accomplice?” Passepartout held his head in both hands. He wasn’t himself anymore. He didn’t dare look at the police inspector. Phileas Fogg a robber? He, Lady Aouda’s rescuer, that gallant,

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generous man? And yet appearances were against him! Passepartout tried to fight off the suspicions that were creeping into his mind. He refused to believe his master was guilty. “Anyhow what do you want from me?” he said to the police investigator, restraining himself with a crowning effort. “This,” Fix replied. “I’ve tailed that Fogg fellow till now, but I still haven’t received the warrant for his arrest that I requested from London. So you’ve got to help me detain him in Hong Kong—” “Me? But I—” “You’ll share in that £2,000 reward the Bank of England has promised!” “Never!” Passepartout replied, trying to get up but falling back down, feeling his strength of mind and body leaving him at the same moment. “Mr. Fix,” he said, stumbling over his words, “even if everything you’ve told me is true  .  .  .  if my master turns out to be the robber you’re looking for .  .  .  which I dispute  .  .  .  I was . . . I am in his employ . . . I’ve seen how decent and generous he is . . . I won’t betray him . . . never . . . not for all the gold on earth. We don’t sell folks down the river back where I come from!” “You refuse?” “I refuse.” “Let’s just pretend it never happened,” Fix replied. “How about another drink?” “Yes . . . another drink!” Passepartout was getting tipsier and tipsier. Realizing the fellow had to be separated from his master at any cost, Fix decided to finish him off. On the table were a couple of pipes filled with opium. Fix slid one of them into Passepartout’s hand; the Frenchman took it, lifted it to his lips, lit it, inhaled a few draws, then sank down in his seat, his head sagging under the narcotic’s influence. “Finally,” Fix said, seeing Passepartout now wiped out. “That Fogg fellow won’t be warned in time about the Carnatic’s early departure, and if he does go anywhere, at least he’ll go without this damned Frenchman!” Then he paid his tab and left.

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20.  In which Fix makes direct contact with Phileas Fogg

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uring the foregoing drama, which had the makings, maybe, of seriously jeopardizing his future, Mr. Fogg was strolling with Lady Aouda through the streets of this English town. After Lady Aouda had accepted his offer to take her to Europe, he needed to think about every detail that might pertain to such a long journey. It was all very well for an Englishman like himself to go around the world carrying just an overnight bag, but a woman couldn’t undertake such a trip on these terms. Ergo their need to buy the clothing and articles essential for such a journey. Mr. Fogg handled this task with characteristic calm, so when the young widow felt embarrassed by all his kindness and apologized or objected, he would always reply: “It’s in my journey’s best interests and my schedule allows it.” Their purchases made, Mr. Fogg and the young woman reentered their hotel and dined on a fixed-price meal that was sumptuously served. Then, feeling a bit tired, Lady Aouda went back up to her suite after an “English-style handshake” with her unflappable rescuer. As for that respectable gentleman, the whole evening he kept busy reading the Times and the Illustrated London News. If he’d been the sort whom something could surprise, he would have felt this emotion when he didn’t see his manservant appear at bedtime. But since he believed the ocean liner to Yokohama wasn’t leaving Hong Kong till the next morning, he gave the matter no further thought. But when Mr. Fogg rang for him the next morning, Passepartout didn’t come. There’s no telling what the distinguished gentleman thought when he heard that his manservant hadn’t returned to the hotel. Mr. Fogg was content to pick up his overnight bag, alert Lady Aouda, and send for a covered litter. By then it was eight o’clock, and the Carnatic was scheduled to take advantage of the high tide and exit through the narrows at 9:30. When a covered litter arrived at the hotel entrance, Mr. Fogg and Lady Aouda climbed into the cozy vehicle, and their baggage came after them in a wheelbarrow.

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“Looking for a boat, your worship?”

Half an hour later the travelers stepped down onto the loading dock, where Mr. Fogg learned that the Carnatic had left the night before. Mr. Fogg had expected to find the ocean liner and his manservant at one go, now he was reduced to doing without both of them. But no sign of disappointment appeared on his face, and when Lady Aouda gave him a worried look, he was content to reply:

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“Just an incident, my lady, nothing more.” An individual had been watching him closely and walked up to him at this point. It was Inspector Fix, who bowed and said to him: “Sir, weren’t you a passenger like myself on the ship that came in yesterday, the Rangoon? ” “Yes, sir,” replied Mr. Fogg coolly. “But I haven’t had the honor . . .” “Pardon the intrusion, but I was expecting to find your manservant here.” “Sir, do you know where he is?” the young woman asked instantly. “What!” Fix replied, faking surprise. “Isn’t he with you?” “No,” Lady Aouda answered. “We haven’t seen him since yesterday. Could he have gone off on the Carnatic without us?” “Without you, ma’am?” the investigator responded. “Excuse me for asking, but were you planning to leave on that ocean liner?” “Yes, sir.” “I was too, ma’am, and you can see how distressed I feel. The Carnatic finished its repairs and left Hong Kong twelve hours earlier without warning anybody, so now we’ll have to wait a week for the next departure!” As he said these words “a week,” Fix felt his heart jump for joy. A week! Fogg detained in Hong Kong for a whole week! The warrant for his arrest would have time to arrive. The law’s representative had finally gotten a lucky break. We’ll let the reader decide what a staggering jolt Fix received when he heard Mr. Fogg say in his calm voice: “But it seems to me there are other vessels besides the Carnatic in the port of Hong Kong.” And Mr. Fogg offered Lady Aouda his arm, then headed dockside to look for an outbound ship. Dumbfounded, Fix followed him. You would have sworn there was a wire connecting the two. Yet luck seemed to have truly deserted this man it had served so well till then. For three hours Phileas Fogg scoured the harbor in all directions, determined, if need be, to charter a craft to take him to Yokohama; but all he saw were ships loading or unloading and therefore not able to set sail. Fix got his hopes up again. But Mr. Fogg wasn’t perturbed and intended to keep looking if he had to go all the way to Macao, when a seaman pulled alongside him in the outer harbor. “Looking for a boat, your worship?” the seaman said to him, doffing his cap. “Have you a boat ready to set out?” Mr. Fogg asked. “Yes, your worship, pilot boat no. 43, the best in the whole flotilla.” “Is it fast?” “Somewhere between eight and nine miles per hour. Want to see it?” “I do.” “You’ll be pleased, your worship. This is for a pleasure cruise?” “No. For an ocean voyage.” “An ocean voyage?”

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“Would you agree to take me to Yokohama?” At these words the seaman stood with his arms dangling, his eyes wide open. “Are you being humorous, your worship?” he said. “No. I missed the Carnatic’s departure and I need to be in Yokohama no later than the 14th, in order to catch the ocean liner to San Francisco.” “I’m sorry,” the pilot replied, “but that isn’t possible.” “I’ll offer you £100 per day, plus a bonus of £200 if I arrive in time.” “You’re serious?” the pilot asked. “Quite serious,” Mr. Fogg answered. The pilot went off by himself. He looked at the sea, his desire to earn an enormous sum obviously at war with his fear of venturing such a great distance. Fix was in mortal agony. Meanwhile Mr. Fogg turned back to Lady Aouda. “You won’t be afraid, my lady?” he asked her. “Not with you, Mr. Fogg,” the young woman replied. Twisting his cap in his hands, the pilot approached the gentleman once more. “Well, pilot?” Mr. Fogg said. “Well, your worship,” the pilot replied, “on such a long trip at this time of year, I couldn’t risk myself, you, or my men in a boat that weighs only twenty-two tons. Besides, we wouldn’t arrive in time, because it’s 1,650 miles from Hong Kong to Yokohama.” “Only 1,600,” Mr. Fogg said. “It amounts to the same thing.” Fix took a good deep breath. “But,” the pilot added, “maybe there’s a different way to handle this.” Fix stopped breathing. “What way?” Phileas Fogg asked. “Go to Nagasaki at the southern tip of Japan, which is 1,100 miles from Hong Kong, or just to Shanghai, which is 800 miles. In the second of these runs, we won’t stay far from the China coast, which will be a real benefit, especially because we’ll have northbound currents.” “Pilot,” Phileas Fogg replied, “to catch the American mail boat, I need to reach Yokohama, not Shanghai or Nagasaki.” “But why?” the pilot responded. “The ocean liner to San Francisco doesn’t start out from Yokohama. It calls at Yokohama and Nagasaki, but its port of origin is Shanghai.” “You’re positive of what you’re saying?” “Positive.” “And when does the liner leave Shanghai?” “On the 11th at seven o’clock in the evening. So we have four days still to go. Four days adds up to ninety-six hours, and if we average eight miles per hour, if our luck holds up, if the wind stays in the southeast, and if the sea’s calm, we can polish off those 800 miles between here and Shanghai.” “And you can leave—”

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“I’m sorry there’s nothing better to offer you.”

“In an hour. Enough time to buy provisions and hoist the sails.” “We have a deal. Are you the boat’s skipper?” “Yes—John Bunsby, skipper of the Tankadère.” “Would you like a down payment?” “If you would be so kind, your worship.”

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“Here’s £200 on account.” Turning to Fix, Phileas Fogg added “Sir, if you would like to take advantage of this opportunity . . .” “Sir, I was going to ask you that favor myself,” Fix answered, making a quick decision. “Fine. We’ll board in half an hour.” “But what about your poor servant . . .” Lady Aouda said, tremendously worried by Passepartout’s absence. “I’ll do everything I can for him,” Phileas Fogg replied. And while the high-strung, keyed-up, teeth-gnashing Fix made his way to the pilot boat, the other two headed over to the Hong Kong police station. There Phileas Fogg left Passepartout’s description along with enough money to get him back home. After they’d gone through the same formalities at the French consulate, and after they’d dropped by the hotel to pick up their baggage, the covered litter took the travelers back to the outer harbor. Three o’clock sounded. Its crew on board and provisions stowed, pilot boat no. 43 was ready to set sail. At twenty-two tons the Tankadère was an attractive little schooner, its bow quite trim, its handling very easy, its lines well tapered. You would have sworn it was a racing yacht. Its copperwork gleamed, its ironwork had been galvanized, and its deck was as white as ivory, showing that skipper John Bunsby went all out to keep his vessel in tiptop condition. Its two masts had a slight rearward lean. It carried a spanker sail, foresail, forestaysail, jibs, and gaff topsails, plus it could rig a temporary mast in case of a tailwind. It was sure to make marvelous time, and in fact it had already won several prizes in the “pilot boat matchups.” The Tankadère’s crew consisted of skipper John Bunsby and four deckhands. They were able-bodied seamen who ventured out to look for arriving ships in all weather; they knew these seas wonderfully well. John Bunsby was a man of about forty-five, energetic, heavily sunburned, keen-eyed, strong-featured, completely self-assured, and a thorough professional; he would have inspired confidence in the most timid heart. Phileas Fogg and Lady Aouda went on board. Fix was there already. They took the schooner’s aft hatchway down into a square room with berths inset in the walls above a circular couch. A swinging lamp lit a table in the middle. It was small but shipshape. “I’m sorry there’s nothing better to offer you,” Mr. Fogg told Fix, who nodded without answering. The police inspector felt almost ashamed to take advantage of Mr. Fogg’s kindness in this way. He’s definitely a very courteous rascal, he thought, but a rascal all the same! At 3:10 they hoisted sail. The Union Jack was flapping from the schooner’s gaff. The passengers sat out on deck. Mr. Fogg and Lady Aouda took one last look at the pier to see if Passepartout was in sight. Fix was feeling a bit apprehensive, because he’d treated that unfortunate man disgracefully, and chance might have led the fellow to this very place—then an exchange would have broken out where the detective wouldn’t have had the upper hand. But the Frenchman didn’t appear, and no doubt that debilitating narcotic still had him in its grip. Skipper John Bunsby finally reached the open sea, where the Tankadère caught the wind in its spanker sail, foresail, and jibs, then went bounding over the waves.

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21.  Where the Tankadère’s skipper is in real danger of losing his £200 bonus

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avigating 800 miles in a 22-ton vessel was a venturesome expedition all right, above all at that time of year. The seas of China are rough as a rule and prone to dreadful squalls, chiefly during the equinoxes, plus it was the beginning of November to boot. Since he was being paid by the day, obviously it would have been more profitable for the pilot to take his passengers all the way to Yokohama. But he would have been extremely unwise to attempt such a crossing under these conditions, and it was already a feat of derring-do, if not foolhardiness, to go as far up as Shanghai. But John Bunsby had confidence in his Tankadère, which rose to the waves like a seagull, and maybe he was in the right. During the evening hours of that day, the Tankadère navigated through Hong Kong’s eccentric narrows and acquitted itself admirably in every circumstance, whether sailing close into the wind or running ahead of it. “Pilot,” Phileas Fogg said as the schooner stood into the open sea, “I don’t need to advise you to put on all possible speed.” “You can depend on it, your worship,” John Bunsby replied. “In fact we’re carrying every sail the wind will let us carry. The gaff topsails won’t add anything and will just put the boat out of kilter by hurting its speed.” “It’s your profession, pilot, not mine. I leave it to you.” Body erect, legs apart, as steady as a seaman, Phileas Fogg looked at the surging billows without flinching. Full of emotion, the young woman sat in the stern and contemplated that ocean she was braving in this frail boat; the waves were already grower darker in the twilight. White sails unfurled above her head, carrying her off into space like great wings. Lifted by the wind, the schooner seemed to be flying through the air. Night fell. The moon was entering her first quarter and her inadequate rays would soon fade into the mists on the horizon. Clouds driven from the east were already overrunning part of the sky.

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The pilot had put on his running lights—an indispensable precaution in ultra busy seas near landing places. Collisions between ships aren’t infrequent in these waters, and at the speed it was zipping along, the schooner would have cracked open from the slightest impact. Fix sat brooding in the craft’s bow. He was keeping to himself, knowing Fogg wasn’t talkative by nature. Besides, he hated speaking to this man whose help he’d accepted. Accordingly he was thinking about the future. He felt sure this Fogg fellow wouldn’t stop over in Yokohama but would immediately take the ocean liner to San Francisco, aiming to reach those wide-open spaces in America that guaranteed him safety and impunity. Phileas Fogg’s plan struck him as the height of simplicity. Instead of sailing straight from England to the United States like an ordinary rascal, this Fogg had gone on a grand tour covering three-quarters of the globe, to be more certain of reaching that American continent where he could serenely squander the bank’s money after outfoxing the police. But what was Fix to do once he was in Union territory? Forget about the fellow? No, a hundred times no! Till he’d gotten a writ of extradition, he would stay on Fogg’s heels. This was his responsibility and he would see it through to the finish. In any case he’d had one piece of good luck: Passepartout wasn’t with his master anymore, and since Fix had confided in the Frenchman, it was crucial that employer and employee never got back together. As for Phileas Fogg, he spent no less time thinking about his manservant, who had vanished in such an odd fashion. After he’d given the matter full consideration, it didn’t strike him as impossible that the poor lad, due to some misunderstanding, had gone off on the Carnatic at the last moment. Which was Lady Aouda’s view as well, and she keenly missed that good servant whom she owed so much. So there was a possibility they would track him down in Yokohama, and it would be easy to find out whether the Carnatic had transported him there. Near ten o’clock the breeze started to pick up. Maybe it would have been wise to take in a reef, but their pilot carefully examined the state of the sky, then left his sails as is. Besides, the Tankadère carried its canvas wonderfully, having a sizeable draft of water, and they were all set to haul in fast if a squall came up. At midnight Phileas Fogg and Lady Aouda went below to their cabin. Fix was there already and lay on one of the berths. As for the pilot and his men, they stayed on deck all night. By sunrise the next day, November 8, the schooner had done over a hundred miles. They often heaved the log, and it showed they were averaging eight to nine miles per hour. Every sail bellying out, the Tankadère had the breeze at its back and in these circumstances was going at top speed. If the wind and weather conditions held up, the odds were in their favor. That whole workday the Tankadère didn’t stray noticeably far from the coast, where currents were more helpful. The shore lay no more than five miles off their port quarter and its jagged outlines were occasionally visible through rifts in the haze. The wind came off the land, so the sea wasn’t as rough thereabouts—a lucky state of affairs for the schooner, because vessels of small tonnage are especially vulnerable in a swell, which can interrupt their headway and “stop ’em dead” as sailors put it.

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Full of emotion, the young woman sat in the stern.

Toward noontime the breeze died down a little and blew from the southeast. The pilot let out the gaff topsails; but two hours later he had to take them in because the wind picked up again. Fortunately Mr. Fogg and the young woman weren’t prone to seasickness and hungrily ate the biscuits and canned foods on board. They invited Fix to share their meal, and he had to accept, well aware that bellies need ballast as much as boats do—but it troubled

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him! To travel at Fogg’s expense, to eat the food the man was paying for: this struck Fix as somehow a bit underhanded. He did eat, however—just a snack, it’s true—but it counted as eating all the same. Nevertheless, once their meal was over, he felt he had to take this Fogg fellow aside, and he said to him: “Sir . . .” This “sir” scalded his lips, and he had to exercise self-restraint to keep from grabbing this “sir” by the collar! “Sir, it was very kind of you to give me a lift on your boat. But though I haven’t the means to travel in the style you do, I intend to pay my fair share—” “Sir,” Mr. Fogg replied, “don’t give it a thought.” “But really, I—” “No, sir,” Fogg repeated in a tone that brooked no opposition. “This goes under general expenses!” Feeling suffocated, Fix gave a nod, went and stretched out in the schooner’s bow, and didn’t say another word that day. Meanwhile they were speeding along. John Bunsby had high hopes. Several times he told Mr. Fogg they would reach Shanghai within the desired time. Mr. Fogg merely replied that he expected as much. And so the whole crew of the little schooner went at it with a will. The £200 bonus was an enticement for these gallant fellows. Accordingly there wasn’t a single line that hadn’t been painstakingly tightened! There wasn’t a single sail that hadn’t been firmly stretched! There wasn’t a single swerve that could be blamed on the helmsman! They wouldn’t have run the vessel with more discipline in a Royal Yacht Club regatta. That evening the pilot worked out from the log that they’d gone a distance of 220 miles from Hong Kong, and Phileas Fogg could look forward to having no delays to record in his schedule when he reached Yokohama. Hence the first major setback he’d experienced since leaving London most likely wouldn’t be detrimental to him. That night, during the early morning hours, the Tankadère headed right into Taiwan Strait, which separates the big island of Taiwan from the China coast, then cut the Tropic of Cancer. The sea was very troublesome in this strait, which was full of eddies caused by countercurrents. The schooner was under a lot of strain. The choppy billows demolished its momentum. They had quite a hard time standing upright on deck. The wind picked up again at daybreak. In the sky it looked like a squall was brewing. In addition their barometer announced that atmospheric changes were imminent: the instrument’s behavior was erratic all day, the mercury in it fluctuating unpredictably. What’s more, you could see the ocean to the southeast rearing up in long swells that “smacked of a storm.” The evening before, the sun had set in a red haze, surrounded by a sea that sparkled with phosphorescent glimmers. For a good while their pilot studied the sky’s nasty appearance, muttering unintelligible things between his teeth. At one point, finding himself next to his passenger: “Can I be honest with you, your worship?” he said in a low voice. “Completely,” Phileas Fogg replied.

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“Well then, we’re in for a squall.” “Will it come from the north or south?” Mr. Fogg merely asked. “From the south. Take a look. We’ve got a typhoon in the works!” “I’m all in favor of typhoons from the south,” Mr. Fogg replied. “They’ll drive us in the right direction.” “If those are your feelings,” the pilot remarked, “I’ll leave it at that!” John Bunsby’s hunch was correct. During the warmer seasons, as a well-known meteorologist put it, typhoons fizzle out in bright showers of fiery electricity; but when they’re unleashed during the winter equinox, there’s a danger they’ll be vicious. The pilot took precautions ahead of time. He rolled and tied every sail on the schooner and lowered the yards to the deck. The topmasts came down. The bowsprit was retracted. They carefully battened the hatches. After that not one drop of water could get inside the craft’s hull. To keep the schooner stern to the wind, they hoisted a single triangular sail—a storm jib made of heavy canvas—to act as a forestaysail. And they waited. John Bunsby encouraged his passengers to go below to their cabin; but since they would be confined in a cramped area, would have almost no air, and would be jolted around by the swell, this wasn’t something with great appeal. Neither Mr. Fogg, nor Lady Aouda, nor even Fix would agree to leave the deck. Around eight o’clock gusts of air and rain swept down on the vessel. With nothing more than its little scrap of canvas, the Tankadère was borne like a feather on these winds, which words can’t describe when they blow up into a storm. If you compared their speed to four times that of a locomotive shooting along at full throttle, it would still be less than the truth. All day long the boat raced northward in this fashion, carried by the monstrous billows, luckily keeping up the same speed they did. Twenty times it was nearly overtopped by one of those mountains of water rearing up astern; but a shrewd twitch of the rudder by their pilot would stave off disaster. Sometimes the passengers were drenched in spray, but they took it philosophically. No doubt Fix moaned and groaned, but our dauntless Aouda kept her eyes on her companion, could only marvel at his composure, and proved worthy of him by braving the turmoil at his side. As for Phileas Fogg himself, he acted as if this typhoon were simply an item on his schedule. Till then the Tankadère had been on a continuous northerly course; but toward evening, as they might have feared, the wind shifted through three quadrants and blew from the northwest. Now catching the waves sideways, the schooner shook appallingly. The sea battered it with an intensity that was bound to terrorize anybody who didn’t know how securely a vessel’s parts are all put together. At nightfall the storm grew in strength. When he saw darkness coming on—and the turmoil increasing along with it—John Bunsby felt deeply concerned. He wondered if it wasn’t time to head for shore, so he conferred with his crew. After this staff conference John Bunsby went up to Mr. Fogg and told him: “I think, your worship, it would be best if we made for one of the harbors along the coast.”

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The Tankadère was borne like a feather.

“I think so too,” Phileas Fogg replied “Oh?” the pilot put in. “Which?” “I know of only one,” Mr. Fogg answered serenely. “And it’s . . . ?” “Shanghai.”

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For a few seconds at first, the pilot wasn’t sure what to make of this reply, or the stubbornness and determination underlying it. Then he exclaimed: “Of course, your worship! You’re right! On to Shanghai!” And the Tankadère kept to its unflappable northbound heading. They had a truly dreadful night! It was a miracle the little schooner didn’t capsize. Twice they lost control, and everything would have been swept overboard had the lashings given way. It was a shattering experience for Lady Aouda, but she didn’t utter a single complaint. More than once Mr. Fogg had to rush up and protect her from the ferocity of the billows. Daylight reappeared. The storm was still being unleashed with tremendous fury. Even so, the wind dropped back to the southeast. Which was a positive change, and the Tankadère resumed its course over the raging sea, whose billows collided with the ones caused by that new wind now blowing. Ergo this pileup of counter swells, which would have pulverized a vessel less sturdily built. When the mists broke apart, you could view the coastline from time to time, but there wasn’t a ship in sight. Only the Tankadère had stayed at sea. By noontime there were a few signs of a lull, and they were more clearly apparent as the sun sank toward the horizon. Due to its very ferocity, the storm hadn’t lasted long. Our passengers could grab a quick bite and a little rest after their shattering experience. They had a comparatively peaceful night. Their pilot close reefed his sails again. The boat’s speed was considerable. At sunrise the next morning, the 11th, they raised the Japan coast, and John Bunsby could report that they were barely a hundred miles from Shanghai. A hundred miles and only one day left to do them in! If Mr. Fogg didn’t want to miss the ocean liner setting out for Yokohama, he needed to arrive in Shanghai that same evening. He’d lost several hours during the storm, otherwise he would have been barely thirty miles from port by then. The breeze slackened noticeably, but luckily the sea subsided along with it. The schooner ran under full canvas. It carried everything it had, gaff topsails, staysails, and false jib included, and the sea foamed beneath its stempost. By noontime the Tankadère lay no more than forty-five miles from Shanghai. It still had six hours left in which to reach port before the ocean liner set out for Yokohama. The suspense on board was tremendous. They intended to make it at any cost. You could sense everybody’s heart pounding with impatience—Phileas Fogg’s excepted, of course. The little schooner had to maintain an average speed of nine miles per hour, yet the wind kept dying down! It was an intermittent breeze that blew off the land in erratic puffs. The instant they wafted by, the sea smoothed out again. Yet the current was so helpful, their boat so light, its sails so tall, their fabric so delicate and so adept at catching the fickle breezes, by six o’clock John Bunsby figured he wasn’t more than ten miles from the Shanghai River, the town itself being located a good twelve miles above the river’s mouth.

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By seven o’clock they were still three miles from Shanghai. A fearsome swearword escaped from their pilot’s lips. . . . Clearly the £200 bonus was about to elude him. He looked at Mr. Fogg. Mr. Fogg was his unemotional self, and yet his whole fortune was at stake just then . . .  Just then, too, an object appeared at the far edge of the water: it was long, black, shaped like a post, and crowned by a plume of smoke. It was a ship’s funnel—the American ocean liner was leaving at the scheduled time. “Curse it all!” John Bunsby howled at the helm, desperately flinging the wheel back around. “Signal them!” Phileas Fogg merely said. Mounted in the Tankadère’s bow was a little bronze cannon. It was used for sending signals in foggy weather. They loaded the cannon to the muzzle, but just as the pilot was holding a hot coal to its vent: “Fly your flag at half mast,” Mr. Fogg said. They brought the flag to mid pole. This served as a distress signal, and they could only hope the American ocean liner would see it, momentarily change direction, and attend to the pilot boat. “Fire!” Mr. Fogg said. And the little bronze cannon gave a boom that shattered the air.

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22.  Where Passepartout finds that even halfway around the world, it’s wise to have a little money in your pocket

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eaving Hong Kong at 6:30 in the evening on November 7, the Carnatic headed for the shores of Japan with all steam on. It carried a full load of goods and passengers. Two cabins in the stern remained unoccupied. They were the ones that had been booked on behalf of Mr. Phileas Fogg. The next morning crewmen in the bow watched with some surprise as a tottering, bleary-eyed, tousle-headed passenger emerged from the second-class hatchway, staggered over to where a spare mast was lying, and sat down on it. This passenger was none other than Passepartout. Here’s what had transpired. A few seconds after Fix had left the smoking parlor, two of its staff members had lifted Passepartout, now sound asleep, and laid him on the bed earmarked for opium users. But three hours later, hounded by an intense fixation even in his nightmares, Passepartout woke up and fought off the crippling effects of the narcotic. The thought of a responsibility he hadn’t fulfilled aroused him from his numbness. Driven by a sort of relentless, irresistible instinct, he left that bed of sots, lurched forward, leaned against the walls, fell down, got back up, and went out of the smoking parlor, wailing as if in a dream, “The Carnatic! The Carnatic! ” The ocean liner had steam up nearby, all set to leave. Passepartout had only a few steps to go. He dashed down the slip, climbed the gangway, and fell unconscious in the bow just as the Carnatic loosed its moorings. A couple of sailors, fellows used to such goings-on, took the poor lad down to a second-class cabin, and when Passepartout awoke the next morning, the shores of China were 150 miles behind him. Which is how Passepartout wound up that morning on the Carnatic’s deck, where he’d come to inhale lungfuls of the fresh sea breeze. The clean air brought him around. He tried to gather his wits about him and was having a hard time of it. But finally he remembered what had gone on the day before, Fix’s confiding in him, the smoking parlor, etc.

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“Obviously I got stinking drunk!” he said to himself. “What’ll Mr. Fogg say? Anyhow I didn’t miss the boat, and that’s the main thing.” Then, thinking about Fix: “After what that man proposed to me,” he said to himself, “I hope he’s out of our lives for good and won’t dare follow us on the Carnatic. A police inspector—a detective on my master’s heels—blaming him for that robbery committed at the Bank of England! Come off it! Mr. Fogg’s no more a robber than I’m a paid political assassin!” Should Passepartout reveal these things to his master? Would it be appropriate to tell him the role Fix was playing in the business? Before informing him that a Scotland Yard investigator had been tailing him around the world, wouldn’t it be best to wait till they’d arrived in London where they could laugh about it? Yes, surely. In any event it was food for thought. His more immediate need was to rejoin Mr. Fogg and beg forgiveness for his unspeakable conduct. So Passepartout stood up. The sea was rough and the ocean liner rolling a great deal. The good fellow was still unsteady on his feet, but somehow he made it to the ship’s stern. He didn’t see anybody on deck resembling his master or Lady Aouda. “Fine,” he put in. “At this hour Lady Aouda’s still in bed. As for Mr. Fogg, it’s his standard procedure to find somebody up for a game of whist . . .” With that Passepartout went below to the lounge. Mr. Fogg wasn’t there. Passepartout had only one option: ask the purser which cabin belonged to Mr. Fogg. The purser answered him that he didn’t know of any passenger with that name. “Excuse me,” Passepartout said, not giving up. “The gentleman I’m talking about is tall, calm, not very sociable, and there’s a young lady with him—” “We haven’t a single young lady on this ship,” the purser replied. “Anyhow here’s the passenger list. You can check it yourself.” Passepartout checked the list . . . it didn’t include his master’s name. He stood in a daze. Then a thought crossed his mind. “Oh drat!” he exclaimed. “This is the Carnatic, isn’t it?” “It is,” the purser replied. “On the way to Yokohama?” “Positively.” For a second Passepartout was afraid he’d gotten on the wrong ship! However, though he himself had boarded the Carnatic, his master very definitely hadn’t. Passepartout collapsed into an easy chair. This was a lightning bolt from the blue. And suddenly the truth dawned on him. He remembered that the Carnatic’s departure time had been moved forward, that he was supposed to warn his master, and that he hadn’t done so! Consequently it was his own fault that Mr. Fogg and Lady Aouda had missed the ship’s departure! Yes, it was his own fault, but even more the fault of that villain who had gotten him drunk—to keep him away from his master so the latter could be detained in Hong Kong! He finally saw through the police inspector’s scheme. And now Mr. Fogg faced unavoidable financial ruin, had lost his bet, had been arrested, had maybe been clapped in jail . . . !

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Passepartout went back into the Japanese side of town.

Passepartout tore his hair at the thought. Oh, if he ever got his hands on Fix, he would settle that man’s account in full! After this initial moment of desperation, Passepartout finally regained his composure and examined his circumstances. They weren’t exactly enviable. He was a Frenchman on his way to Japan. He would arrive there for sure, but how would he depart? His pockets were empty. Not one shilling, not one penny! Even so, his transportation and his meals on board

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were already paid for. Therefore he had five or six days ahead of him and during that time he could come to a decision. As for what he ate and drank during this crossing, words fail us. He ate enough for himself, his master, and Lady Aouda put together. His destination was Japan, but he ate as if it was a barren wasteland without a single edible commodity. On the 13th the Carnatic entered the harbor of Yokohama on the morning tide. This stop is a major anchorage in the Pacific, a port of call for all steamers doing mail and passenger runs between North America, China, Japan, and the islands of Malaysia. Yokohama is located right on Tokyo Bay and a short distance from this immense town, which is the Japanese empire’s second capital, the former home of the sho¯gun back when that civil ruler existed, and the competitor of Kyoto—that great city where the mikado lives, the ecclesiastic ruler descended from the gods. Amid a large number of ships hailing from all nations, the Carnatic drew up alongside a Yokohama pier near the port jetties and customhouses. This land belonging to the Children of the Rising Sun is quite an unusual place, but Passepartout set foot on it without any enthusiasm. Having nothing better to do, he let fortune be his guide and wandered at random through the city streets. It was a thoroughly European town that Passepartout stood in at first—the low fronts of its houses were adorned with porches spreading above stylish colonnades, and its streets, squares, docks, and warehouses covered the whole area in between Treaty Point and the river. Here, just as in Hong Kong and Calcutta, people of all races were milling around helter-skelter, American, English, Chinese, and Dutch, traders ready to buy or sell anything—and the Frenchman felt as out of place in their midst as if he’d been dropped off in the land of the Hottentots. Passepartout did have one option: to pay his respects at the French or English consulates that had been set up in Yokohama; but his tale was so intimately bound up with his master’s that he hated having to tell it, so he didn’t want to take this step till he’d exhausted every other alternative. Therefore, after going through the European side of town and not having any luck, he headed for the Japanese side, determined, if need be, to push on to Tokyo. Named after a sea goddess revered on the neighboring isles, this native sector of Yokohama is called Benten. There you can view marvelous walkways lined with firs and cedars, the sacred portals of an alien school of architecture, bridges hidden among bamboos and reeds, temples taking shelter beneath the mournful cover of immense century-old cedars, monasteries housing the static existences of Buddhist monks and followers of Confucius, endless streets where you could harvest crops of rosy-cheeked, pink-skinned children, little folks straight out of the pictures on the folding screens hereabouts; they were playing in the midst of short-legged poodles and yellowish, bobtailed cats that looked very lazy and cuddly. The streets were full of commotion, people continually going to and fro: processions of Buddhist monks went by, monotonously tapping their tambourines, then customs officials or police officers known as yakounines who sported lacquer-coated pointy hats and two sabers in their belts, soldiers packing percussion firearms and dressed in blue cotton cloth with white stripes, the mikado’s men at arms encased in their silk doublets and their metal

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tunics and coats of mail, plus a number of other military men of every rank—because the soldier’s profession is as honored in Japan as it’s sneered at in China. Then came holy men begging alms, pilgrims in long robes, and regular citizens with glossy hair as black as ebony, heads squat, upper torsos long, legs slender, stature on the small side, coloring from dark copper hues to plain white—but never yellow like the Chinese, from whom they fundamentally differ. The area was full of buggies, covered litters, horses, carriers, windpowered wheelbarrows, litters with lacquered sides known as norimons, plush sedan chairs called kagos, and honest-to-goodness stretchers made of bamboo; among these you could see, finally, a few women walking around, taking tiny steps on tiny feet that were shod in canvas slippers, straw sandals, or delicately carved wooden pumps; with their slanted eyes, flat chests, and teeth blackened in the fashion of the time, they weren’t exactly pretty, but they wore their national costume with style: the kimono, a sort of dressing gown with a silk sash across it and a wide belt expanding at the rear into a flamboyant knot—which, these days, the females of Japan seem to have lent to the females of Paris. Passepartout strolled for a few hours in the midst of this motley crowd, looking all the while at the interesting and richly filled shops, the bazaars crammed with every kind of showy Japanese metalwork, the made-over restaurants that were decked with streamers and flags and were now out of bounds for him, and the teahouses where you drink cupfuls of that fragrant hot water along with a liquor brewed from fermenting rice that’s called sake, and those cozy smoking parlors where folks smoke a really choice tobacco instead of opium, whose use is almost unheard-of in Japan. Then Passepartout ended up out in the country in the midst of immense rice paddies. There, among the flowers giving off their final colors and scents, brilliant camellias were in bloom, no longer growing on bushes but on trees, and inside bamboo pens were cherry, plum, and apple trees that the locals nurture for their blossoms rather than their fruits, which were protected from the beaks of sparrows, pigeons, ravens, and other voracious winged creatures by scowling scarecrows that squealed on their revolving bases. Every majestic cedar harbored a huge eagle in its branches; every weeping willow spread its foliage over a heron perched gloomily on one leg; on all sides, finally, there were rooks, ducks, hawks, wild geese, and a large number of those cranes that the Japanese treat like royalty and regard as symbols of long life and happiness. Wandering around in this way, Passepartout spotted some violets among the weeds: “Good,” he said, “there’s my supper!”12 But when he sniffed them, he found they no longer had any scent. Just my luck, he thought. To be sure, he’d had the foresight to eat the heartiest breakfast he could before leaving the Carnatic; but the good fellow had been strolling around all day and his belly felt pretty hollow. He did notice that lamb, goat, and pork all were absent from the local butcher

12. Translator’s note. Violets are a garnish or foodstuff in many cultures.

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shops, and since he knew it was a sacrilege to slay cattle, which are reserved exclusively for plowing purposes, he had to conclude that butcher’s meat was scarce in Japan. He wasn’t mistaken; but in place of such meat, his belly was quite amenable to a haunch of deer or wild boar, some partridge or quail, poultry or fish—which, along with the output from their rice paddies, are about the only things Japanese people eat. But he had to shrug off his bad luck and postpone his foraging for food till the following day. Night fell. Passepartout went back into the Japanese side of town and he roamed the streets in the midst of their multicolored lanterns, watching companies of street performers do their acclaimed acrobatics and open-air stargazers draw crowds around their spyglasses. Then he saw the docks again, spangled with flickering lights from fishermen who were luring fish with resin torches. At last the streets emptied out. Once the crowds were gone, the yakounines started their rounds. In their magnificent costumes and surrounded by their retinues, these officials looked like government emissaries on parade, and every time Passepartout bumped into one of these splendiferous patrols, he cracked the same joke: “Would you look at that! The whole Japanese diplomatic corps is heading back to Europe!”

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23.  In which Passepartout’s nose gets outlandishly long

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avenous, done in, Passepartout told himself the next morning that he had to get some food at any cost, and the sooner the better. He did have the option of selling his watch, but he would have starved to death first. It was now or never—nature had given the gallant fellow a voice that was loud if not mellifluous, so it was time to put it to use. He knew a few French and English ditties and decided to give them a try. No doubt about it, the Japanese had to be music lovers, since they did everything to the sound of cymbals, tom-toms, and drums, so they couldn’t fail to appreciate the virtuoso artistry of a European performer. But maybe it was a bit early for putting on a concert, and if a singer wakes his fans up at an ungodly hour, his payment might not come in the form of money bearing the mikado’s likeness. So Passepartout decided to wait a little while; but as he moseyed along, it occurred to him that he looked too well dressed for a wandering minstrel, and he came up with the idea of exchanging his clothes for some cast-off things more in keeping with his vocation. Besides, such an exchange was bound to leave him with money left over, which he could immediately put to work in appeasing his hunger pangs. This decision made, all he had to do was carry it out. It was only after a long search that Passepartout discovered a local secondhand dealer and made his desires known. The dealer was delighted with Passepartout’s European getup, and the Frenchman soon left outfitted in some old Japanese robes and topped by a sort of ribbed turban that had faded from exposure to the elements. But to make up the difference, a few small silver coins were jingling in his pocket. Fine, he thought, I’ll just imagine it’s carnival season! After “going Japanese” in this manner, Passepartout’s first priority was to enter a teahouse of humble appearance; there his breakfast consisted of some leftover poultry scraps

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Passepartout . . . left outfitted in some old Japanese robes.

and a few handfuls of rice, which he ate like a man for whom dinner was a problem he would worry about later. “Now,” he said to himself after he’d eaten heartily, “I’ve got to keep my wits about me. I no longer have the option of selling these cast-off clothes for something even more Japanese. So I need to find the quickest possible way of leaving this Land of the Rising Sun and putting these painful memories behind me!”

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Then it dawned on Passepartout to inspect the ocean liners ready to leave for America. He figured he could get hired in the capacity of a cook or waiter, asking only for his transportation and meals as pay. Once he was in San Francisco, he would look into sorting things out. The main thing was to cross those 4,700 miles of Pacific Ocean lying between Japan and the New World. Passepartout wasn’t the type to sit on a good idea, so he headed toward the port of Yokohama. However, though his plan had seemed quite simple when he first came up with it, his idea struck him as more and more impractical the closer he came to the docks. Wouldn’t an American ocean liner already have the cooks and waiters it needed? And how could he inspire any confidence the way he was dressed? What references could he furnish? What letters of recommendation could he whip out? As he was brooding along these lines, his eyes fell on an immense signboard that a clownlike person was carrying through Yokohama’s streets. The signboard was in English and this is how it read: THE HONORABLE WILLIAM BATULCAR’S

COMPANY OF JAPANESE ACROBATS ______ FINAL PERFORMANCES before they go off to the United States of America OF THE

LONG NOSES — LONG NOSES WITH THE PERSONAL BLESSING OF THE GOD TENGU

Major Attraction! “The United States of America!” Passepartout exclaimed. “Just what the doctor ordered . . . !” He followed the signboard carrier and on his heels soon reentered the Japanese side of town. Fifteen minutes later he halted in front of a huge hut crowned by several bouquets of streamers; in garish colors and without any attempt at perspective drawing, its outside walls portrayed a whole team of jugglers. This was the honorable Mr. Batulcar’s place of business—he was an American promoter in the style of P. T. Barnum, the director of a company of tumblers, jugglers, clowns, acrobats, gymnasts, and balancing acts who, according to the signboard, were giving their final performances before leaving the Empire of the Rising Sun for the states of the Union.

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The whole monument collapsed like a house of cards.

Passepartout went under the colonnade in front of the hut and asked for Mr. Batulcar. Mr. Batulcar appeared in person. “What is it?” he said to Passepartout, whom he mistook at first for a local. “Would you be in need of a servant?” Passepartout asked. “A servant!” exclaimed this second Barnum, stroking the heavy gray beard that flourished under his chin. “I’ve already got two who are obedient and loyal, who have never quit on

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me, who work for nothing so long as I feed them . . . and here they are,” he added, holding up his two beefy arms, furrowed with veins as thick as the strings on a bass fiddle. “So there isn’t a thing I can do for you?” “Not a thing.” “Blast, it would have suited me just fine to go overseas with you!” “Drat the fellow!” said the honorable Mr. Batulcar. “If you’re Japanese, I’m a monkey’s uncle! Why are you wearing that getup?” “Folks wear what they can afford.” “That’s true. You’re French, right?” “Yes, a thoroughgoing Parisian.” “So you must be good at sneering and smirking?” “Oh ye gods,” Passepartout replied, aggravated at seeing his nationality inspire this question. “It’s true, we Frenchmen are good at sneering and smirking—but no more than you Americans!” “Granted. All right, if I don’t take you on as a servant, I can take you on as a clown. Here’s how it is, my hearty. In France they headline funny men from other countries, and in other countries funny men from France.” “Aha!” “Are you strong as well?” “Especially after I get up from the table.” “And you can sing?” “Yes,” answered Passepartout, who had participated in a couple street concerts in the old days. “But could you sing standing on your head, with a top spinning on the sole of your left foot, and a saber balanced on the sole of your right foot?” “Of course!” Passepartout replied, remembering his youthful stints as a gymnast. “That’s all we ask, you understand?” responded the honorable Mr. Batulcar. They completed the hiring process hic et nunc.13 Passepartout had finally landed a job. He’d been hired as an all-purpose performer in this famous company of Japanese acrobats. It wasn’t anything to brag about, but before the week was up, he would be on his way to San Francisco. Announced with much fanfare by the honorable Mr. Batulcar, the performance was to start at three o’clock, and soon the fearsome instruments of a Japanese orchestra—drums and tom-toms—were thundering away by the entrance. As you can appreciate, Passepartout wasn’t able to rehearse any solo turns but had to be ready to contribute his sturdy shoulders to the main gymnastic feat, a “human edifice” executed by the Long Noses of the god Tengu.14 After a whole series of gymnastic stunts, this “major attraction” was to close the performance.

13. Translator’s note. Latin: “then and there.”

14. Translator’s note. Mischievous spirit in Japanese folklore.

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Passepartout followed them, on his back a set of wings.

Even before three o’clock spectators were overrunning the huge hut. Europeans and locals, Chinese and Japanese, men, women, and children all were rushing to get seats on the cramped benches and in the boxes facing the stage. The musicians came back inside and the full orchestra of gongs, tom-toms, ratchets, flutes, tambourines, and bass drums went furiously to work. The performance was a typical display of acrobatics. But it does need to be acknowledged that the Japanese are the world’s best when it comes to feats of balance. In one stunt

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the performer used a fan and little pieces of paper to create a dainty vista of butterflies and flowers. In another, the performer paid a verbal compliment to the audience by swiftly scribbling a sequence of bluish words in the air—with the fragrant smoke from his pipe. A different performer juggled some lighted candles, consecutively blowing them out as they passed in front of his lips and then relighting them one from the other, all without interrupting his world-class juggling for a single second. Still another performer did the most mind-boggling tricks with spinning tops; in his hands these droning gadgets whirled so constantly, they seemed to have lives of their own; they ran along the stems of pipes, along the edges of sabers, along steel wires—virtual strands of hair stretched from one side of the stage to the other; they went around the rims of big crystal vases, they scaled bamboo ladders, and as they scattered off in all directions, they droned in different keys, which in combination created the oddest kinds of harmonic effects. Then jugglers used them to juggle with, and the tops would spin around in midair; the performers batted the tops with wooden rackets as if they were shuttlecocks, yet they kept on spinning; the jugglers stuffed the tops in their pockets and pulled them back out, still spinning away—till the moment when the performers released springs inside the tops and made them burst into sprays of fireworks! There’s no need for these pages to describe the prodigious stunts performed by the acrobats and gymnasts in the company. They performed their feats on ladders, poles, balls, barrels, etc., executing them with noteworthy precision. But the Long Noses were the performance’s main draw—a wondrous balancing act that’s still unknown in Europe. These Long Noses make up a unique guild that enjoys the personal blessing of the god Tengu. Dressed like medieval heralds, they sported glittering sets of wings on their shoulders. But their most individual characteristic was the long nose adorning each of their faces, and especially the uses these organs were put to. These noses were nothing less than pieces of bamboo five, six, and ten feet in length, some straight, others curved, these smooth, those warty. Now then, it was on these securely attached appendages that their whole balancing act took place. About a dozen of these followers of the god Tengu lay on their backs, then their comrades came and romped on their noses, bouncing and flitting from this one to that one, executing the most unbelievable shenanigans on these protuberances, which were as erect as lightning rods. As a climax, they’d specifically promised the public they would do a human pyramid, during which some fifty Long Noses were to depict the “Car of Juggernaut,” the wagon that carries Krishna’s statue during Hindu ceremonies. But instead of forming this pyramid by using their shoulders as points of purchase, the honorable Mr. Batulcar had his showmen make do with their noses. Now then, one of the gymnasts who formed the base of the wagon had left the company, and since this task needed nothing more than muscles and good reflexes, Passepartout had been picked to replace him. To be sure, the fine lad was consumed with self-pity when (dismal reminder of his youth) he put on his medieval costume adorned with its multicolored wings, then had a six-foot nose fastened to his face. But still and all, this nose was his meal ticket and he accepted his lot.

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Passepartout went onstage and fell into line next to those of his colleagues who were to make up the base of the Car of Juggernaut. They all lay down on the ground, erect noses reaching skyward. A second layer of acrobats took up positions on these long appendages, a third tier above these, then a fourth; and on these noses that made contact only with their tips, a human monument soon rose nearly to the playhouse cornice. Now then, just as the applause was increasing and the instruments of the orchestra were cutting loose even more thunderously, the pyramid gave a shudder, tipped off balance, one of the noses forming its base took French leave, and the whole monument collapsed like a house of cards . . .  The fault lay with Passepartout, who had abandoned his post, cleared the footlights without the help of his wings, clambered up the right side of the gallery, and fallen at the feet of a spectator, hollering: “Oh master, master!” “It’s you?” “It’s me.” “Very well, my lad, in that case we have an ocean liner to catch . . . !” Lady Aouda had come along, and she rushed with Mr. Fogg and Passepartout down the corridors leading out of the hut. But once outside, they found the honorable Mr. Batulcar, who was furious, claimed he’d been injured, and demanded restitution for “the damage done.” Phileas Fogg tossed a handful of banknotes at him and quelled his fury. And at 6:30, just as it was about to leave, Mr. Fogg and Lady Aouda set foot on the American ocean liner; Passepartout followed them, on his back a set of wings, on his front that six-foot nose he still hadn’t managed to snatch from his face!

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24.  During which they cross the whole Pacific Ocean

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ou can gather what had taken place within view of Shanghai. The ocean liner to Yokohama had picked up the signals sent by the Tankadère. Seeing its flag at half mast, the steamship’s captain headed over to the little schooner. A few seconds later, settling his transportation expenses with John Bunsby as agreed, Phileas Fogg put £550 ($2,750) into the skipper’s pocket. Then the distinguished gentleman, Lady Aouda, and Fix climbed aboard the steamer, which set out at once for Nagasaki and Yokohama. Arriving on the morning of November 14, right at the scheduled time, Phileas Fogg left Fix to his own devices and made his way aboard the Carnatic; there he learned, much to Lady Aouda’s delight (and maybe his own, though he didn’t let anything show), that the Frenchman Passepartout had indeed arrived in Yokohama the day before. Since he was to leave again for San Francisco that same evening, Phileas Fogg immediately set about looking for his manservant. He inquired without success at the French and English consulates, and after scouring Yokohama’s streets to no avail, he despaired of finding Passepartout again; then chance—or maybe some sort of hunch—led him inside the honorable Mr. Batulcar’s hut. To be sure, he never would have recognized his employee in that freakish herald’s costume; but as the latter was lying supine, he spotted his master in the gallery. He couldn’t help twitching his nose. Ergo the loss of balance and all that followed. This is what Passepartout learned right from the lips of Lady Aouda, who then described to him how they’d made the crossing from Hong Kong to Shanghai, along with a certain Mr. Fix, on the schooner Tankadère. Passepartout didn’t bat an eye when Fix’s name came up. He felt it still wasn’t time to tell his master what had taken place between himself and the police inspector. Accordingly, in the tale Passepartout told of his adventures, he took all the blame and simply begged forgiveness for getting drugged on opium in a Hong Kong smoking parlor.

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Mr. Fogg listened coolly to this account without replying; then he gave his manservant enough of a salary advance that the latter could obtain more presentable clothing aboard ship. And an hour hadn’t gone by, in fact, before the good fellow had cut off his nose, clipped his wings, and left nothing on his person to identify him as a follower of the god Tengu. Christened the General Grant, the ocean liner making the crossing from Yokohama to San Francisco belonged to the Pacific Mail Steam Co. A huge paddle-wheel steamer with a burden of 2,750 tons, it was well fitted out and gifted with great speed. An enormous beam consecutively rose and fell above the deck; at one end a piston rod went back and forth, at the other end a tie rod converted the rectilinear motion into a circular motion and transmitted it right to the axle of the paddle wheels. The General Grant was rigged like a three-masted schooner and had a huge expanse of canvas that could lend forceful assistance to its steam power. If it did its usual twelve miles per hour, the ocean liner would be able to cross the Pacific in twenty-one days or less. So Phileas Fogg had grounds for thinking he would make it to San Francisco by December 2, New York by the 11th, and London by the 20th—thus getting a few hours’ jump on that drop-dead date of December 21. There were a fair number of passengers aboard the steamer: Englishmen, lots of Americans, enough coolies heading to America to make up an honest-to-goodness migration, and some East Indian army officers who were spending their leave going around the world. Nautically speaking, the crossing was uneventful. Braced by its wide paddle wheels and buttressed by its mighty sails, the ocean liner rolled very little. The Pacific Ocean largely lived up to its peace-loving name. Mr. Fogg was as calm and unsociable as ever. His young companion felt more and more attached to this man by ties other than those of gratitude. His reserved and yet deeply generous personality affected her more than she knew, and almost without realizing it, she gave in to the types of feelings that apparently hadn’t any influence on the mystifying Mr. Fogg. What’s more, Lady Aouda took a prodigious interest in the gentleman’s plans. She worried about the various difficulties that could jeopardize his journey’s success. Often she chatted with Passepartout, who could read between the lines of Lady Aouda’s heart. These days the gallant fellow’s attitude toward his master was close to blind faith; he never ran out of praise for Phileas Fogg’s integrity, generosity, and dedication; then he reassured Lady Aouda about the journey’s outcome, saying again and again that the hardest part was over, that the fantastic countries of China and Japan were behind them, that they were on their way back to civilization, and finally that a train from San Francisco to New York and a transatlantic liner from New York to London would surely be all they needed to finish this impossible world tour within the time frame agreed upon. Nine days after leaving Yokohama, Phileas Fogg had traveled exactly halfway around the planet earth. In essence, on November 23 the General Grant crossed the 180th meridian, the spot in the southern hemisphere that lies directly opposite London. True, Mr. Fogg had used up fifty-two of the eighty days at his disposal, so there were only twenty-eight left to

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work with. But it should be noted that though the gentleman had reached his halfway point “meridian-wise,” he’d actually completed over two-thirds of his total trip. What detours he’d been forced to make in reality—London to Aden, Aden to Bombay, Calcutta to Hong Kong, Hong Kong to Yokohama! If he’d stayed on the 50th parallel (that of London) and traveled around it, the distance would only have been about 12,000 miles; but since he lay at the mercy of his means of transportation, Phileas Fogg would be forced to travel 26,000 miles, out of which he’d done about 17,500 by this date of November 23. But now he had a straight run ahead of him, and Fix was no longer around to pile on the obstacles! On November 23 something else happened that filled Passepartout with much glee. You’ll recall that the pigheaded fellow had stubbornly kept his notorious family watch on London time, insisting that the clocks were wrong in all the countries he’d gone through. Now then, though he hadn’t moved his watch either forward or backward, that day he found it agreeing with the ship’s chronometers. Passepartout’s triumph was unalloyed. He dearly wished he knew what Fix would have said if the detective had been there! “That rascal told me a bunch of tales about the sun, the moon, and the meridians!” Passepartout said over and over. “Hah! If we listened to folks like him, timekeeping would be in a fine state! I was pretty sure the sun would decide to go by my watch sooner or later . . . !” Passepartout was unaware of one thing: if his watch dial had been divided into twenty-four hours like Italian clocks, he wouldn’t have felt so triumphant, because when it was nine o’clock in the morning on board, the hands on his instrument would have said nine o’clock in the evening, in other words, twenty-one hours past midnight—exactly equal to the time difference between London and the 180th meridian. Fix may have been able to explain this effect as a simple matter of physics, but it’s doubtful that Passepartout would have been able to understand him, let alone agree with him. And in any case, if, by all that’s fantastic, the police inspector had suddenly showed up on board right then, the justly aggrieved Passepartout very likely would have tackled him on quite a different topic and in quite another fashion. Now then, where was Fix at this juncture . . . ? Sure enough, Fix was aboard the General Grant. In essence, once he’d arrived in Yokohama, the investigator left Mr. Fogg, figuring to rejoin him later in the day, and immediately proceeded to the English consulate. There he finally found the warrant that had been in hot pursuit since Bombay and was already forty days old—a warrant that had been forwarded to him from Hong Kong aboard the same Carnatic he was thought to be traveling on. The reader can imagine how disappointed the detective felt! His warrant was now useless! This Fogg fellow had gone outside English territory! To arrest him now, a writ of extradition would be required! “So be it!” Fix told himself, getting over his initial fury. “Here my warrant’s no good anymore, but back in England it’ll be fine. It definitely looks like the rogue thinks he has

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outfoxed the police and is returning to his own country. Good. I’ll follow him home. As for the money, I hope to God there’s something left over! The fellow has already gone through more than £5,000 in fares, bonuses, fines, bail, an elephant, and all kinds of expenses along the way. Oh well, the bank has plenty!” His mind made up, he boarded the General Grant at once. He was on deck when Mr. Fogg and Lady Aouda arrived. To his tremendous surprise, he recognized Passepartout in his herald garb. Fix instantly hid in his cabin to keep from having to do any explaining, which would have jeopardized everything—and due to the number of passengers, he figured the Frenchman would never notice him; then, that very day, he came face to face with his enemy in the bow of the ship. Without a word of explanation, Passepartout was at Fix’s throat in a single bound, and much to the delight of some nearby Americans (who instantly put their money on him), he gave the unfortunate inspector a superb drubbing that demonstrated the towering superiority of French boxing to English boxing. When Passepartout was done, he felt calmer as if a load was off his chest. Fix was in pretty poor condition when he got to his feet; he faced his opponent and coolly said to him: “Are you through?” “For right now, yes.” “Then let’s go talk.” “I have nothing to—” “It’s in your master’s best interests.” As if Fix’s composure had some sort of power over him, Passepartout followed the police inspector and they sat down together in the steamer’s bow. “You’ve given me a walloping,” Fix said. “Fine. Now hear me out. Till this point I’ve been Mr. Fogg’s opponent, but starting today I’m on his side.” “So,” Passepartout exclaimed, “you finally think he’s a respectable man?” “No,” Fix replied coolly, “I still think he’s a rascal . . . hush, be quiet and let me speak! As long as Mr. Fogg was in English territory, it was in my best interests to detain him till I’d received a warrant for his arrest. I did everything I could to make that happen. I sent those priests after him from Bombay, I got you drunk in Hong Kong, I separated you from your master, I made him miss the ocean liner to Yokohama . . .” Passepartout listened, fists clenched. “Now,” Fix went on, “it seems Mr. Fogg is heading back to England? So be it, I’ll keep following him. But from this day forward, I’ll work as carefully and zealously to clear obstacles out of his way as I’ve worked till now to pile ’em on. As you can see, I’ve changed sides, and I’ve changed because it’s in my best interests to do so. I would add that your interests are the same as mine, because only in England will you find out whether you’re in the employ of a criminal or a respectable man!” Passepartout had listened very intently to Fix and felt convinced Fix was speaking in complete good faith. “Are we friends?” Fix asked.

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“Friends, no,” Passepartout answered. “Allies, yes—but subject to reappraisal, because if I see the tiniest sign of villainy, I’ll wring your neck.” “Agreed,” the police inspector said calmly. Eleven days later, on December 3, the General Grant entered the bay beyond Golden Gate Strait and arrived in San Francisco. Mr. Fogg still hadn’t gained or lost a single day.

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25.  Which gives a brief glimpse of San Francisco at election time

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t was seven o’clock in the morning when Phileas Fogg, Lady Aouda, and Passepartout set foot on the American continent—assuming you can give this name to the floating wharf that was their landing place. Rising and falling with the tide, these wharves make it easier to load and unload vessels. The slips were arrayed with clippers of all dimensions, steamers of all nations, and those triple-decker steamboats that run up and down the Sacramento River and its tributaries. In addition the slips were piled high with the output of an international trade that reaches as far as Mexico, Peru, Chile, Brazil, Europe, Asia, and every island in the Pacific Ocean. In his glee at finally stepping onto American soil, Passepartout felt he just had to go ashore by executing an aerial somersault in his best manner. But when he landed on the wharf ’s worm-eaten planks, he nearly went right through them. Thoroughly flustered by this way of “setting foot” on a new continent, the good fellow let out a fearsome yell that flushed endless flocks of cormorants and pelicans, the regular residents of these moving wharves. The instant he was ashore, Mr. Fogg inquired about the next train for New York. It left at six o’clock that evening. Consequently Mr. Fogg had a full workday to spend in this California metropolis. He hailed a buggy for Lady Aouda and himself. Passepartout climbed up by the coachman, and for a fare of three dollars, the vehicle headed toward the International Hotel. Looking down from on high, Passepartout examined this great American town with much interest: wide streets, neat lines of low houses, churches and chapels in AngloSaxon Gothic, immense docks, palatial warehouses made of wood or brick; in the streets were countless buggies, horse buses, and “cable cars,” and on the packed sidewalks not only Americans and Europeans but also Chinese and Indians—adding up, all in all, to a population of over 200,000 people. Passepartout felt some surprise at what he saw. He thought this was still the legendary city of 1849, a town of bandits, pyromaniacs, and murderers who had hurried there in quest

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He nearly went right through them.

of nuggets, an immense Capernaum full of outcasts who gambled with gold dust, revolver in one hand, knife in the other. But that “golden age” was gone. San Francisco was the very image of a big business town. Watchmen were on duty in the lofty tower of its city hall, which looked down on that whole picture of streets and avenues intersecting at right angles, on the greenery-covered squares flourishing among them, and finally on Chinatown, looking as if it had been imported from the Celestial Empire in a toy chest. No more sombreros,

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no more red shirts from the days of placer mining, no more feathered Indian headdresses, just silk top hats and black frock coats worn by a large number of gentlemen consumed with hyperactivity. Certain streets, among others Montgomery St. (the equivalent of Regent St. in London, the Boulevard des Italiens in Paris, and Broadway in New York), were lined with splendid stores whose display windows featured items from all over the world. When Passepartout arrived at the International Hotel, it didn’t seem to him that he’d ever left England. An immense barroom took up the hotel’s ground floor, a sort of free-of-charge cafeteria that was open to all passersby. Beef jerky, oyster soup, crackers, and Cheshire cheese were on offer without the consumer needing to undo his purse strings. All he had to pay for were his drinks (ale, port, or sherry), should his inclinations run to liquid refreshment. This struck Passepartout as “so American.” The hotel had a cozy restaurant. Mr. Fogg and Lady Aouda took up residence at a table where they were served large portions on Lilliputian plates by the handsomest ebony Negroes. Lady Aouda at his side, Phileas Fogg left the hotel after breakfast and made his way to the English consul’s office so as to get a visa stamp on his passport. Out on the sidewalk he found his manservant, who asked him if it wouldn’t be wise to buy a couple dozen Enfield rifles or Colt revolvers before riding on the Pacific Railroad. Passepartout had heard about Sioux and Pawnee Indians holding up trains like regular Spanish bandits. Mr. Fogg replied that this was an unnecessary precaution but left him at liberty to do as he saw fit. Then he headed off to the offices of the consulate. Phileas Fogg hadn’t gone 200 steps, when, by “an amazing coincidence,” he met up with Fix. The inspector acted tremendously surprised. Excuse me? He and Mr. Fogg had crossed the Pacific together and hadn’t bumped into each other on board? In any event Fix could only feel honored to reconnect with this gentleman whom he owed so much, and since business concerns were calling him back to Europe, he would be overjoyed to continue his journey in such pleasant company. Mr. Fogg replied that the honor was all his, and Fix—who didn’t want to let the man out of his sight—requested that they tour this unusual town of San Francisco together. His wish was granted. So Lady Aouda, Phileas Fogg, and Fix sauntered through the streets. Soon they were on Montgomery St., where the masses were milling around in enormous numbers. There were endless crowds on the sidewalks, in the middle of the road, on the cable car tracks, in the way of the carriages and horse buses forever going by, on the doorsteps of shops, in the windows of all the houses, and even up on the roofs. Signboard carriers were moving around in the midst of the throngs. Flags and streamers fluttered in the wind. Shouts were erupting on every side. “Hooray for Kamerfield!” “Hooray for Mandiboy!” It was a political rally. At least that’s what Fix thought, and he conveyed this belief to Mr. Fogg, adding:

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“Sir, maybe it would be best to not get mixed up with this mob. We might be on the receiving end of a nasty punch or two.” “True,” Phileas Fogg replied. “And a smack of the fist, even in politics, is still a smack of the fist!” Fix smiled dutifully when he heard this comment, and in order to see without getting caught up in the ruckus, he, Lady Aouda, and Phileas Fogg stood on the top landing of some stairs leading to a terrace located above Montgomery St. Straight across the way from them, between a coal merchant’s loading dock and the warehouse of an oil broker, a big open-air office had been set up, and the various streams of people seemed to be converging on it. And now what was behind this rally? What was the occasion for it? Phileas Fogg had absolutely no idea. Was it for the purpose of nominating some high-ranking military or civil functionary, some state governor or congressional member? Given the extraordinary excitement you saw gripping the town, this was a reasonable guess. Just then a mass movement took place in the crowd. Every hand was in the air. Some were tightly closed, seeming to shoot swiftly up and down to the accompaniment of shouts—an energetic way, no doubt, of casting a vote. The horde surged, eddied, and ebbed. Flags waved, disappeared for a second, and reappeared in shreds. The undulations of this human tide spread as far as the stairs, while all those bare heads formed whitecaps on the surface, like a sea suddenly churned up by a squall. The black hats had visibly decreased in number, most of the remainder having a squashed look about them. “It’s obviously a rally,” Fix said, “and there must be an overpowering reason for it. I wouldn’t be amazed if it was still about the Alabama Claims, even though they’ve been settled.” “Maybe,” Mr. Fogg merely replied. “In any event,” Fix continued, “we’ve got two challengers squaring off here, the honorable Mr. Kamerfield and the honorable Mr. Mandiboy.” Lady Aouda, on Phileas Fogg’s arm, was looking in surprise at this tumultuous drama, and Fix was about to ask one of his neighbors the reason for this widespread exuberance, when the crowd movements grew more emphatic. The hoorays were increasingly embellished with boos. Flagpoles turned into aggressive weapons. Every hand had become a fist. Fierce blows were exchanged from the tops of stalled buggies and horse buses stopped in their tracks. All sorts of things served as projectiles. Boots and shoes swept through the air along quite extended flight paths, and a couple of revolvers actually seemed to be adding their all-American punctuation to the crowd’s shouting. The mob drew nearer to the stairs, ebbing over the bottom steps. Clearly one of the parties was being driven back, but the average spectator couldn’t tell whether it was Mandiboy or Kamerfield who had the upper hand. “I think we would be wise to beat a retreat,” Fix said, intent on “his man” not getting any hard knocks or being given a hard time. “If all this has to do with England and they recognize us and start a ruckus, we’ll be in real jeopardy!” “An English citizen . . .” Phileas Fogg responded. But the gentleman couldn’t finish his sentence. Fearful outcries came from behind him on that terrace at the head of the stairs. Voices yelled, “Hooray! Three cheers for

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The self-sacrificing Fix.

Mandiboy!” It was a brigade of voters coming to the rescue, carrying out a flank attack against Kamerfield’s supporters. Mr. Fogg, Lady Aouda, and Fix were caught in the crossfire. It was too late to escape. Armed with lead-weighted sticks and blackjacks, this torrent of humanity was an irresistible force. While protecting the young woman, Phileas Fogg and Fix were horribly butted around. As stoic as ever, Mr. Fogg tried to defend himself with those innate weapons nature has

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put at the end of every Englishman’s arms, but it was no use. A huge strapping fellow with a red beard and broad shoulders, apparently the ringleader, swung his fearsome fist at Mr. Fogg, and he would have done that gentleman major damage if the self-sacrificing Fix hadn’t taken the punch instead. Instantly an enormous lump started spreading under the detective’s silk top hat, now transformed into a lowly pillbox. “Yankee!” Mr. Fogg said, casting a look of deep scorn at his opponent. “Englishman!” the other replied. “We’ll meet again!” “Whenever you like. What’s your name?” “Phileas Fogg. Yours?” “Colonel Stamp W. Proctor.” With that the tide went back out. Toppled off his feet, Fix got up again with his clothing torn but without any traumatic contusions. His traveler’s overcoat had been divided into two unequal parts, and his pants looked like those britches it’s the custom for some Indians to wear only after they’ve first removed the seat. But Lady Aouda had come though unscathed, so only Fix, due to that smack of the fist, had been hard hit. “Thank you,” Mr. Fogg told the inspector, once they were out of the crowd. “It was nothing,” Fix replied. “But come on!” “Where to?” “To a shop selling ready-made clothes.” Such a visit was timely indeed. Fix’s and Phileas Fogg’s garments were in tatters, as if these two gentlemen had personally battled on behalf of the honorable Messrs. Kamerfield and Mandiboy. An hour later they sported socially acceptable suits and top hats. Then they went back to the International Hotel. There Passepartout was waiting for his master, equipped with half a dozen centralfire, six-shot knife pistols. When he noticed Fix in Mr. Fogg’s company, his brow darkened. But Lady Aouda gave him a brief account of what had happened, and Passepartout calmed down again. Obviously Fix wasn’t their enemy anymore, he was an ally. He’d kept his word. Dinner over, they summoned a carriage, which was to take the travelers and their luggage to the railroad terminal. Just as he was climbing into the buggy, Mr. Fogg said to Fix: “Have you seen anything further of that Colonel Proctor?” “No,” Fix replied. “I’ll come back to America and find him,” Phileas Fogg said coolly. “It wouldn’t be proper for an English citizen to overlook that kind of treatment.” The inspector smiled and didn’t reply. But as you can see, Mr. Fogg belonged to that race of Englishmen who don’t tolerate dueling in their homeland but are willing to uphold their honor by fighting in foreign parts. At 5:45 the travelers reached the terminal and found the train ready to leave. Just as Mr. Fogg was about to board it, he caught sight of an attendant and went up to him:

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“My friend,” he said to the man, “wasn’t there some civil unrest in San Francisco today?” “We had a rally, sir,” the attendant replied. “But I believe I noted a certain agitation in the streets.” “It was simply a political rally having to do with an election.” “The election, no doubt, of a top government official?” Mr. Fogg asked. “No, sir. Justice of the peace.” With that Phileas Fogg climbed into a passenger car and the train took off full steam ahead.

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26.  In which we ride an express train on the Pacific Railroad

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cean to ocean,” as Americans say, and these three words will do as an overall description of the “great trunk line” that crosses the United States of America at its widest point. But in reality the “Pacific Railroad” is divided into two different parts: the “Central Pacific” between San Francisco and Ogden, and the “Union Pacific” between Ogden and Omaha. There you can make connections with five different railroad lines that put Omaha in frequent contact with New York. So New York and San Francisco are currently joined together by an unbroken metal ribbon that measures no less than 3,786 miles long. Between Omaha and the Pacific Ocean, the railroad goes through a region still frequented by Indians and wild animals—a huge stretch of territory that Mormons started colonizing around 1845, after they’d been driven out of Illinois. Formerly it required six months to go from New York to San Francisco, even under optimum conditions. Now it takes seven days. Despite the opposition of delegations from the South, who wanted a more southerly route, it was decreed in 1862 that the roadbed for the tracks would run between the 41st and 42nd parallels. President Lincoln, of such sorrowful memory, personally decided that the town of Omaha in the state of Nebraska would be the point of departure for the new rail system. Work got under way at once, proceeding with that American energy that has no room for red tape and pencil pushers. The crew’s speed didn’t detract in any way from the project’s expert execution. They moved forward across the prairie at the rate of 1½ miles of track per day. Rolling down the rails laid the day before, a locomotive brought the next day’s rails, then rode over them as soon as they were in place. As the Pacific Railroad goes along, it shoots out several branch lines into the states of Iowa, Kansas, Colorado, and Oregon. Leaving Omaha, it skirts the left bank of the Platte River as far as the mouth of its northern arm, follows its southern arm, crosses the territories of Laramie and the Wasatch Mountains, winds around Great Salt Lake, reaches

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The sheets were white.

the Mormon metropolis of Salt Lake City, plunges into Tooele Valley, skirts the American desert regions, Cedar and Humboldt peaks, the Humboldt River, and the Sierra Nevadas, then goes back down to the Pacific by way of Sacramento—without the slope of its roadbed exceeding 112 feet to the mile, not even while crossing the Rocky Mountains.

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This was the long thoroughfare that trains took seven days to travel, which would allow the honorable Phileas Fogg—or so he hoped—to catch the ocean liner from New York to Liverpool on the 11th. The passenger car housing Phileas Fogg was a sort of long bus that rested on two sets of four-wheeled trucks, their turning radius able to handle sharp curves. Its interior didn’t have any compartments: just rows of double seats on each side and at a right angle to the center aisle, which led to the powder rooms and other amenities available in each car. From front to back the cars were connected to each other by crossovers, so passengers could move all the way through the train and avail themselves of its lounge car, observation car, dining car, and club car. The only thing missing was a theater car. But they’ll get around to it one of these days. By means of these crossovers, newspaper and book peddlers continually moved back and forth hawking their wares, nor was there any shortage of business for vendors of food, drink, and cigars. The travelers had left Oakland Station at six o’clock in the evening. It was already nighttime—a chilly, gloomy nighttime with an overcast sky whose clouds were threatening to opt for snow. The train didn’t go very fast. Including stops, it didn’t travel over twenty miles per hour, a speed that should, however, allow it to cross the United States on schedule. There wasn’t much chitchat in the car. Besides, its passengers were on the verge of falling asleep. Passepartout took a seat next to the police inspector but didn’t talk to him. After recent developments their relationship had significantly cooled. No more closeness, no more chumminess. Fix’s behavior hadn’t changed in any way, but Passepartout by contrast stayed strictly on his guard, all set to strangle his former friend at the slightest suspicion. An hour after the train left, it started snowing—luckily it was a lightweight snow that wouldn’t slow the train down. All you could see through the windows was an immense blanket of white, smoke from the locomotive spreading over it in curls that had a grayish cast. At eight o’clock a “porter” came into the car and announced to the travelers that it was bedtime. Their car was a “sleeper” and in a couple minutes it had been transformed into a dormitory. Seat backs reclined, neatly tucked berths unfolded in the cleverest fashion, makeshift cabins appeared in a few seconds, and soon there was a cozy bed at every traveler’s disposal, plus heavy curtains that offered protection from peeping toms. The sheets were white, the pillows soft. All that remained was to lie down and fall asleep—which everybody did, their cabins as cozy as if they were on an ocean liner—while the train charged full steam ahead across the state of California. In the stretch of countryside that extends from San Francisco to Sacramento, the terrain isn’t very rugged. Going by the name “Central Pacific,” this section of the railroad originally took Sacramento as its starting point, then headed eastward to meet up with the tracks coming from Omaha. From San Francisco to California’s capital, the line ran directly northeast while skirting the American River, which empties into San Pablo Bay. It took six hours to cover the 120 miles that lay between these two major cities, and toward midnight, while they were enjoying their first hours of sleep, the travelers went through Sacramento. So they didn’t see any part of this good-sized town, the lawmaking headquarters for the

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state of California—not its handsome loading docks, wide streets, splendid hotels, squares, or houses of worship. Leaving Sacramento behind and exiting the stations in Junction, Rocklin, Auburn, and Colfax, the train tackled the Sierra Nevada range. By seven o’clock in the morning, it had pulled out of the station in Cisco. An hour later the dormitory became an ordinary passenger car again, and through its windows the travelers could get a glimpse of the picturesque panoramas in this mountain region. The roadbed under their train humored the Sierra’s eccentricities, here clinging to the mountainside, there hanging over a precipice, dodging sharp corners by taking daredevil curves, shooting into narrow ravines you would have sworn had no way out. Gleaming like a church vessel, sporting a silver-plated bell, its big headlight giving off a lurid glow, its “cowcatcher” sticking out like a ship’s ram, the locomotive blended its whistling and roaring with the sounds of mountain torrents and waterfalls, its smoke writhing through the dark branches of the fir trees. There were no bridges on this route, and tunnels were few to none. The railroad tracks worked their way around each mountainside, never looking for straight lines or shortcuts from one point to another, never violating nature. Near nine o’clock the train entered the state of Nevada by way of Carson Valley, its direction still to the northeast. At noon it left Reno, where its passengers had twenty minutes for lunch. From this point forward the iron rails hugged the Humboldt River, following its bed and heading northward for a few miles. Then they adjusted their bearings eastward and weren’t to leave this stream till they’d gone past its headwaters in the East Humboldt Mountains, almost at the far edge of the state of Nevada. After lunch Mr. Fogg, Lady Aouda, and their companions got situated in the passenger car again. From their comfortable seats Phileas Fogg, the young woman, Fix, and Passepartout watched the varied countryside going by under their eyes—wide prairies, mountains outlined on the horizon, “creeks” of foamy water tumbling along. Sometimes huddling in the distance, big herds of bison looked like moving embankments. These endless armies of ruminants often throw an invincible roadblock in the way of trains. Travelers have seen thousands of these beasts take several hours to march in close formation across the railroad tracks. So a locomotive has no choice but to stop and wait till the line is clear again. Which is exactly what happened on this occasion. Around three o’clock in the afternoon, a bison herd 10,000 to 12,000 strong blocked the railroad tracks. After slowing down, the engine tried using its “ram” to carry out a flank attack against this immense column of animals, but it had to halt in the face of this impregnable mass. As the travelers watched, these ruminants—which Americans wrongly call buffaloes— ambled serenely along, occasionally bellowing in a fearsome manner. They grew to bigger sizes than bulls in Europe, they had stubby legs and tails, their withers bulged into a muscular hump, their horns were set well apart at the base, their heads, necks, and shoulders were covered with a long furry mane. Trying to halt such a migration was unthinkable. When bison have made up their minds to go a particular way, nothing can stop them or change their direction. They’re a torrent of living flesh that no embankment could hold back.

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A bison herd . . . blocked the railroad tracks.

Out on the crossovers sprinklings of passengers looked at this unusual sight. But Phileas Fogg, surely the passenger in the biggest hurry of all, stayed in his seat and waited philosophically till it suited the buffaloes to get out of his way. Passepartout was furious over the delay caused by these clusters of animals. He wished he could fire his whole arsenal of revolvers at them.

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“What a country!” he exclaimed. “Ordinary steers stop trains, parade on by, hold up traffic, and take their own sweet time! By God, I would sure like to know if Mr. Fogg expected this setback in his schedule! And our engineer hasn’t the nerve to drive his train through this beastly blockade!” The engine driver had no inclination to remove the obstacle, and this was a sensible policy. No doubt he could crush the first buffaloes he attacked with the ram on his locomotive; but as powerful as it was, his engine would soon grind to a halt, inevitably jump the tracks, and leave the whole train in distress. So it was best to wait patiently, then make up for lost time afterward by increasing the train’s speed. It took a good three hours for the bison to troop by, and it was nightfall before the line was clear again. By then the last ranks of the herd were crossing over the tracks, while the first were vanishing below the southern horizon. So it was 8:00 when the train cleared the gorges of the East Humboldt Mountains, and 9:30 when it entered Utah territory, the district around Great Salt Lake, that unusual country where Mormons live.

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27.  During which Passepartout takes a course in Mormon history at a speed of twenty miles per hour During the night of December 5–6, the train ran in a southeasterly direction for about fifty miles; then it headed just as far back toward the northeast, drawing nearer to Great Salt Lake. Around nine o’clock in the morning, Passepartout went for a breath of fresh air on the crossovers. It was cold out, the skies were gray, but it had stopped snowing. Magnified by the haze, the sun’s disk looked like an enormous gold coin, and Passepartout was busy working out its value in pounds sterling, when he was distracted from this educational task by the appearance of a rather strange individual. This individual, who had boarded the train at the station in Elko, was a man of great height with a very dark complexion, black mustache, black socks, black silk top hat, black vest, black pants, white tie, and dogskin gloves. You could tell he was a preacher. Going from one end of the train to the other, he used sealing wax to stick a handwritten notice on the door of each car. Passepartout walked up to one of these notices and read that from eleven to twelve o’clock, a distinguished “elder,” the Mormon missionary William Hitch, would make good use of his presence aboard train no. 48 by delivering a lecture on Mormonism in car no. 117—and he invited all gentlemen to hear him who desired instruction in the religious mysteries of the “Latter-day Saints.” “I’ll definitely go,” Passepartout said to himself. He didn’t know a thing about Mormonism except that the practice of polygamy is the basis of Mormon society. The news spread swiftly through the train, which was carrying about a hundred passengers. Out of this number no more than thirty took the bait and came to the lecture, grabbing seats in car no. 117 at eleven o’clock. Passepartout was visible in the front row of the faithful. Neither his master nor Fix felt moved to attend. At the appointed time Elder William Hitch stood up, and as if somebody had been arguing with him beforehand, he exclaimed in a rather angry voice:

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“And you, my faithful one . . .”

“I’m telling you—Joe Smith is a martyr, his brother Hyrum is a martyr, and now that the Union government is persecuting the prophets, they’ll make Brigham Young a martyr too! Who would dare dispute this?” Nobody felt like arguing with the missionary, whose emotionalism contrasted with his normally placid features. But no doubt his bad temper was explained by the fact that

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Mormonism was currently facing hard times. And it was true that the United States government had recently gone to some trouble to quell these unregulated fanatics. The Union put Brigham Young in jail on charges of sedition and polygamy, then took over Utah and made it subject to U.S. laws. Since that time the prophet’s disciples had stepped up their efforts, and while waiting till they could take action, they were offering verbal resistance to congress’s demands. Even on the railroad, as you can see, Elder William Hitch was trying to make converts to their cause. And livening up his account with explosive inflections and vehement gestures, he then described the history of Mormonism from biblical times . . . how a Mormon prophet from the tribe of Joseph in Israel made the annals of the new religion public and left them to his son Moroni; how this precious text, written in the Egyptian alphabet, came out many centuries later in a translation by Joseph Smith Jr. from the state of Vermont, a farmer who revealed in 1825 that he was a mystical prophet; how, in sum, a heavenly messenger appeared to him in a forest of light and delivered the annals to him from the Lord. . . .  Not much interested in the missionary’s backward-looking account, a few listeners left the car just then; but William Hitch went on to describe . . . how Smith Jr. joined up with his father, two brothers, and a few disciples to found the religion of the Latter-day Saints—a religion practiced not only in America but in England, Scandinavia, and Germany, numbering among the faithful both manual laborers and many educated professionals; how a colony took form in Ohio; how they built a temple at a cost of $200,000, and a town sprang up in Kirkland; how Smith became a daring banker and got from a humble exhibitor of mummies a sheet of papyrus that contained an account in the handwriting of Abraham and other famous Egyptians. . . . The narrative was getting a bit longwinded, the ranks of listeners kept thinning, and no more than twenty people were left in the audience. But these defections didn’t trouble the elder, who described in detail . . . the way in which Joe Smith went broke in 1837; the way in which his bankrupt stockholders coated him with tar and rolled him in feathers; the way in which he turned up a few years later, more honorable and honored than ever—he headed a flourishing community of at least 3,000 disciples in Independence, Missouri, then was hounded by the hatred of gentiles and had to flee into the American wild west. . . .  Ten listeners yet remained, among them our good Passepartout, still all ears. In this fashion he learned . . . how, after being persecuted for quite a while, Smith reappeared in Illinois and in 1839 on the banks of the Mississippi founded a town called Nauvoo, meaning “beautiful place,” whose population grew to 25,000 souls; how Smith became mayor, chief justice, and top governing official; how in 1843 he announced his candidacy for president of the United States, and finally how he was lured into a trap in Carthage, was thrown in jail, and was assassinated by a gang of masked men. . . .  By this point Passepartout was totally alone in the car; the elder looked him in the eye, mesmerized him with his words, and reminded him that two years after Smith’s assassination, his successor, the exalted prophet Brigham Young, left Nauvoo and went to

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take up residence on the shores of Great Salt Lake—and there in that wonderful territory, in the midst of that fertile country, in the path of people migrating across Utah on their way to California, the new colony enjoyed an enormous growth spurt due to the Mormon belief in polygamy. . . .  “And that’s why congress is taking out its envy on us!” William Hitch added. “That’s why Union soldiers are setting foot in Utah! And thanks to a total miscarriage of justice, that’s why our leader, the prophet Brigham Young, has been put in jail! Will they take us by force? Never! Driven out of Vermont, driven out of Illinois, driven out of Ohio, driven out of Missouri, driven out of Utah, we’ll still find some independent territory where we’ll pitch our tents. . . . And you, my faithful one,” the elder added, looking at his sole listener with wrathful eyes, “will you pitch yours in the shade of our flag?” “No way,” Passepartout replied staunchly, then fled in his turn and left the maniac all by himself, a voice crying in the wilderness. But during that lecture the train had made rapid headway and at about 12:30 it reached the northwest tip of Great Salt Lake. From there you can take in the vista of this inland sea over a wide perimeter, a body of water that’s also known as “America’s Dead Sea” and has its own Jordan River emptying into it. This wonderful lake is framed by handsome, rugged boulders on broad foundations that are caked with white salt; it’s a superb sheet of water that used to cover a more considerable expanse—but as time went by, its banks rose little by little, shrinking its surface area while increasing its depth. Located 3,800 feet above sea level, Great Salt Lake is about seventy miles in length and thirty-five in width. Quite different from the asphalt-filled Dead Sea (which lies in a depression 1,200 feet below sea level), its salt content is considerable, and the solid matter its water holds in solution makes up a quarter of its weight. Its specific gravity is 1.170, as against 1.000 for distilled water. Accordingly fish can’t survive in this lake. Those carried in by the Jordan, Weber, and other creeks soon perish; but it’s not true that the water’s density is so great that people can’t swim in it. The countryside around the lake was marvelously cultivated, because Mormons know how to work the land: six months later you would see a region of ranches and corrals for farm animals, fields of wheat, corn, and sorghum, fruited plains, hedges of wild rose, sprays of acacia and spurge on every side; but just then the ground was hidden by a thin layer of light, powdery snow. Around two o’clock our travelers stepped down at the station in Ogden. The train wasn’t due to leave again till six o’clock, so Mr. Fogg, Lady Aouda, and their two companions had time to visit the City of the Saints15 by way of the short branch line peeling off from the station in Ogden. Two hours were all they needed for touring this thoroughly American town, which, as such, was cut from the same bolt as every Union town: it had the long chilly lines of a huge chessboard, with “glum, dreary right angles,” to borrow Victor Hugo’s phrase. When he designed the City of the Saints, its founder couldn’t get

15. Translator’s note. Salt Lake City.

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This wonderful lake . . .

away from that need for symmetry characteristic of Anglo-Saxons. In this unusual country whose citizens are definitely not as lofty as their institutions, people do everything “fair and square,” towns, houses, and even bad decisions. By three o’clock, then, the travelers were strolling down the streets of this city, which had sprung up between the banks of the Jordan River and the rolling foothills of the

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Wasatch Mountains. They noted few or no churches, but tourist attractions included the prophet’s home, the courthouse, and the armory; then they saw houses of bluish brick that boasted porches and balconies, had gardens surrounding them, and were flanked by acacia, palm, and carob trees. Built in 1853, a wall of clay and pebbles girdled the town. On its main street, where folks go to market, there stood a few hotels adorned with awnings, Salt Lake House among others. The city didn’t seem very populous to Mr. Fogg and his companions. Its streets were almost empty—except, however, on the side of town by the Mormon Temple, which they reached only after going through several neighborhoods surrounded by stockades. Women were pretty plentiful, which is explained by the unusual composition of Mormon households. Nevertheless you mustn’t assume that all Mormons are polygamous. They’re free to choose, but it’s worth noting that Utah’s female citizens are the ones especially intent on getting married—because, according to the religion of the land, the heaven promised to Mormons doesn’t allow single persons of the feminine gender to share in its blessings. These poor creatures didn’t seem either comfortable or content. A few of them—the wealthiest, no doubt—had on a black silk jacket open at the waist, then over it an ultra demure hood or shawl. The others wore only calico print dresses. As for Passepartout, in his capacity as confirmed bachelor, he looked with definite trepidation at these Mormon women who had to be jointly responsible for the happiness of just one Mormon male. In his commonsense way he especially pitied the husband. It struck him as dreadful to have to guide so many ladies at one time through life’s complications, leading them in a body to their Mormon paradise—and all with the prospect of their spending eternity in the company of the glorious Smith, who had to be the high spot of that delectable locale. No doubt about it, the Frenchman didn’t feel called to any such thing, and he found—though maybe he was kidding himself—that the female citizens of Salt Lake City were shooting some slightly disturbing looks at his person. Luckily he didn’t have to stay long in the City of the Saints. A few minutes shy of four o’clock, the travelers were back at the terminal and getting seated in their passenger cars again. They heard a whistle blow; but just as the locomotive’s driving wheels gained traction on the rails and started to put the train in speedy motion, shouts of “Wait! Wait!” rang out. Moving trains don’t wait for anybody. The gentleman doing the shouting was obviously some tardy Mormon. He was out of breath from running. Luckily for him the terminal didn’t have any gates or barriers. So he dashed down the tracks, leaped onto the boarding steps at the end of the train, and fell exhausted into one of the seats in the car. Passepartout had been watching these athletic goings-on with some interest, went to take a look at the latecomer, and was deeply intrigued to learn that this Utah citizen had run away as the result of a marital squabble. When the Mormon got his wind back, Passepartout politely ventured to ask him how many wives he had to take care of—from the way he’d just skedaddled, presumably there were at least twenty. “One, sir,” the Mormon answered, raising his arms to high heaven. “One, and she’s enough!”

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28.  In which Passepartout can’t get anybody to use his head

L

eaving Great Salt Lake and the station in Ogden, the train headed northward for an hour up to the Weber River, having covered around 900 miles since San Francisco. From this point on it went east again through the rugged rocks of the Wasatch Mountains. It was in this section of territory—which lies between those mountains and the Rocky Mountains proper—that the American engineers came up against the severest difficulties. For this stretch of track, accordingly, the Union government increased its subsidy to $48,000 per mile, whereas it had paid only $16,000 on the plains; but as we’ve stated, the engineers didn’t violate nature but made shrewd compromises with her, going around difficulties instead of through them—and in order to reach the Great Basin east of the Sierra Nevadas, they cut only a single tunnel, just 1,400 feet long, over this whole stretch of railroad. Right at Great Salt Lake, the roadbed reaches its highest elevation to that point. From then on its outline sweeps in a very protracted curve, gravitating toward Bitter Creek Valley so as to head back up to the Continental Divide, which separates the waters flowing to the Atlantic from those heading to the Pacific. Streams were plentiful in this mountainous district. You had to ride over little bridges to reach the far sides of Muddy Creek, the Green River, and others. The closer they got to their destination, the more impatient Passepartout became. But Fix also wanted to put this trying region behind him. He was afraid of delays, in dread of accidents, and in a bigger hurry than Phileas Fogg himself to set foot on English soil! At ten o’clock that night, the train stopped at the station by Fort Bridger, pulled out almost immediately, ten miles farther on entered the state of Wyoming—once part of Dakota territory—and went along the entire length of Bitter Creek Valley, a trough for some of the waters that form Colorado’s hydrographic network. The next day, December 7, they stopped for fifteen minutes at the station in Green River. They’d had a pretty heavy snowfall during the night, but a rainfall got into the mix and the half-melted snow couldn’t hinder the train’s progress. Even so, the foul weather

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didn’t give Passepartout a moment’s peace, because the wheels on the cars might well get bogged down in some snowdrift, which would definitely put their journey in jeopardy. “Honestly, what was he thinking!” the lad said to himself. “My master just had to travel in the wintertime! Couldn’t he have waited for warm weather and improved his odds?” But right then, while the good fellow was worrying about the state of the sky and the drop in temperature, Lady Aouda was feeling deeper fears for an entirely different reason. In essence, while waiting for the train to leave again, a few passengers had stepped down from their car and were strolling along the boarding platform outside the terminal in Green River. Now then, as the young woman was looking out the window, she recognized one of them as Colonel Stamp W. Proctor, that American who had behaved so abusively toward Phileas Fogg during the rally in San Francisco. Lady Aouda shrank back, to keep from being seen. This state of affairs concerned the young woman deeply. She’d grown attached to the gentleman, who, as icy as he seemed, revealed every day how totally dedicated he was to her. No doubt she didn’t fully grasp the depth of feeling that her rescuer had inspired in her, so she still identified this feeling as gratitude—but without her realizing, it had become more than that. Accordingly she felt her heart constrict when she recognized that abusive individual, because sooner or later Mr. Fogg would demand satisfaction from him for his actions. Obviously it was sheer chance that had put Colonel Proctor on this train, but there he was nevertheless, and at any cost they had to keep Phileas Fogg from catching sight of his opponent. Once the train was back under way, Mr. Fogg dozed off, and Lady Aouda took advantage of this fact to bring Fix and Passepartout up to date on the situation. “That Proctor’s on the train?” Fix snapped. “Well, ma’am, you can rest assured—before he deals with this Fogg fel . . . uh, with Mr. Fogg . . . he’ll have me to deal with! I believe I’m still the injured party who has suffered the most in this whole business!” “And furthermore,” Passepartout added, “I’ll show him who’s boss, colonel or no colonel.” “Mr. Fix,” Lady Aouda went on, “Mr. Fogg would never let anybody else avenge him. He’s the sort who would come back to America and track down his offender, just as he said. If he caught sight of Colonel Proctor, we wouldn’t be able to prevent a confrontation, which could have grievous consequences. So he mustn’t ever see this man.” “You’re right, ma’am,” Fix replied. “A confrontation could spoil everything. Win or lose, Mr. Fogg would be delayed, and—” “—and that would play into the hands of the gentlemen at the Reform Club,” Passepartout added. “We’ll reach New York in four days! All right, if my master doesn’t leave his passenger car during these next four days, then there’s a chance he won’t come face to face with that blasted American, may God strike him dead! Now then, we’ve got to keep him from . . .” Their conversation hung fire. Mr. Fogg was awake again and watching the scenery through the snow-specked window. But later on, without his master or Lady Aouda overhearing, Passepartout said to the police inspector: “Would you really strike a blow for him?”

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“I would do anything to bring him back to Europe alive!” Fix merely replied, his tone indicating that his will was implacable. Passepartout felt a shiver run over his body, but his belief in his master didn’t weaken. And now, was there some way or other that they could tie Mr. Fogg down to this location and keep him from ever running into the colonel? Normally the gentleman wasn’t very restless or inquisitive, so it shouldn’t be too hard. In any event the police inspector felt he’d hit on a way, because a few seconds later he said to Phileas Fogg: “The time certainly goes by slowly on these long train trips.” “True,” the gentleman replied, “but it does go by.” “Aboard all those ocean liners,” the inspector continued, “weren’t you in the habit of playing whist?” “Yes,” Phileas Fogg replied, “but here that would be hard to do. I don’t have any cards or partners.” “Oh, we’ll easily find a pack of cards to buy. They sell everything on American passenger cars. As for partners, if the lady by any chance . . .” “Of course, sir,” the young woman was quick to reply. “I know how to play whist. It was part of my English upbringing.” “And I too,” Fix went on, “have some claim to playing a decent game. Now then, with the three of us and a dummy . . .” “As you wish, sir,” Phileas Fogg replied, delighted to resume his favorite pastime—even aboard a railroad train. They sent Passepartout to look for the porter, and he soon came back with two full decks, scorecards, chips, and a felt-topped card table. They weren’t missing a thing. The game got under way. Lady Aouda was more than adequate as a whist player and even earned a few compliments from the stringent Phileas Fogg. As for the inspector, he was nothing less than world class and quite worthy of going toe to toe with the gentleman. “Now we’ve got him,” Passepartout said to himself. “He won’t budge from here!” By eleven o’clock that morning, the train had made it to the Continental Divide, which parcels out the water going to the two oceans. They were on Bridger Peak at an elevation of 7,524 English feet above sea level, one of the highest points reached by the roadbed’s layout on its route through the Rocky Mountains. About 200 miles later our travelers finally arrived on those long plains that stretch as far as the Atlantic and that nature has made so handy for the purpose of putting down railroad tracks. The first streams—branches or subbranches of the North Platte River—were already taking shape on the slopes that led to the Atlantic basin. The whole horizon to the north and east was covered by the immense semicircular curtain that makes up the northerly portion of the Rocky Mountains, Laramie Peak towering above. Between this curving line and the train tracks stretched wide, well-irrigated plains. To the railroad’s right the lower gradients of that mountainous mass rose in stages, sweeping south to the headwaters of the Arkansas River, one of the Missouri’s major tributaries. At 12:30 the travelers caught a momentary glimpse of Fort Halleck, which is in charge of this region. A few more hours and their trip across the Rocky Mountains would

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The bridge collapsed for good, plunging with a crash.

be over with. So they had grounds for hoping no accidents would distinguish their train ride through this trying territory. It had stopped snowing. The weather turned cold and dry. Frightened away by the locomotive, large birds flew off into the distance. No wildcats, bears, or wolves were visible on the plain. It was a vast barren wilderness.

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After a nice cozy lunch served right in their car, Mr. Fogg and his partners had just resumed their endless whist playing, when they heard a loud shriek of the whistle. The train came to a stop. Passepartout poked his head out the door but didn’t see anything to account for their stopping. No station was in sight. For a second Lady Aouda and Fix were afraid Mr. Fogg would take a notion to step down beside the tracks. But the gentleman was content to tell his manservant: “Go see what the trouble is.” Passepartout dashed out of the car. Some forty passengers had already left their seats, among them Colonel Stamp W. Proctor. Their train had halted in front of a signal light that had turned red, barring the way. The engineer and conductor had stepped down and were arguing pretty noisily with a trackwalker who had been sent to head off the train by the stationmaster in Medicine Bow, their next stop. Passengers were coming up and taking part in the argument—among others the aforementioned Colonel Proctor with his loud voice and bossy manner. Passepartout joined the group and listened to the trackwalker, who was saying: “No, there isn’t any way you can get across! The bridge to Medicine Bow is in shaky condition and it can’t handle the weight of a train!” The bridge in question was a suspension bridge built across some rapids a mile from the locality where the train had come to a halt. According to the trackwalker, several of its cables had snapped, it was on the verge of collapse, and it was impossibly dangerous to travel over. In claiming they couldn’t get across, the trackwalker wasn’t exaggerating one iota. And don’t forget that Americans are usually happy-go-lucky—anytime they’re inclined to turn cautious, you would be insane not to do likewise. Not daring to go alert his master, Passepartout listened with clenched teeth, as still as a statue. “Oh drat!” Colonel Proctor exclaimed. “Are we supposed to just stand here and grow roots in the snow?” “Colonel,” the conductor replied, “we’ve wired the station in Omaha and asked for a train, but it isn’t likely to reach Medicine Bow for another six hours.” “Six hours!” Passepartout blurted out. “That’s right,” the conductor replied. “Besides, it’ll take us that long to get to the station on foot.” “On foot?” exclaimed all the passengers. “So how far is this station?” one of them asked the conductor. “It’s twelve miles to get to the other side of the river.” “Twelve miles in this snow?” Stamp W. Proctor howled. The colonel cut loose with a barrage of cusswords, castigating both the company and the conductor, and Passepartout was almost furious enough to echo his sentiments. This time they were up against a tangible obstacle that his master’s entire supply of banknotes couldn’t clear away.

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Otherwise there was universal dismay among the passengers, who, on top of the delay, saw that they would need to trek through some fifteen miles of snow-covered plain. Accordingly there was such a hullabaloo, such shouting and yelling, it definitely would have attracted Phileas Fogg’s attention if the gentleman hadn’t been so wrapped up in his card playing. Meanwhile Passepartout realized it was essential to alert him and was disconsolately heading back to their passenger car, when the engineer—a certified Yankee named Forster— raised his voice and said: “Gentlemen, maybe there is a way of getting across.” “Over the bridge?” a passenger responded. “Over the bridge.” “With our train?” the colonel asked. “With our train.” Passepartout came to a stop and hungrily took in the engine driver’s words. “But the bridge is on the verge of collapse!” the conductor reminded them. “Makes no difference,” Forster replied. “If I drive the train at top speed, I think we’ll have a chance or two of getting across.” “Holy blazes!” Passepartout put in. But a number of passengers immediately felt this was an alluring proposition. Colonel Proctor was especially tickled with it. That hothead found the idea quite feasible. He even recalled some design engineers who thought they could cross “bridgeless” rivers by inventing rigid trains, propelling them at full speed, etc. And ultimately everybody in the discussion sided with the engine driver. “We’ve got fifty chances out of a hundred of getting across,” one of them said. “Sixty,” said another. “Eighty . . . ninety out of a hundred!” Passepartout was dumbfounded; though he was open to anything that might get them across the Medicine Bow River, this suggestion struck him as “a little too American.” Besides, he thought, there’s a much simpler way, and it hasn’t even occurred to these people . . . ! “Sir,” he told one of the passengers, “this method the driver is proposing seems a bit risky to me, but—” “We’ve got eighty chances out of a hundred!” the passenger replied, turning his back on him. “Yes, I know,” Passepartout responded, facing another gentleman, “but if you simply think about it—” “We don’t need to do any thinking!” the American interrupted, shrugging his shoulders. “The driver says we’ll get across!” “Certainly we’ll get across,” Passepartout went on, “but maybe it would be wiser—” “What! Wiser?” Colonel Proctor hollered, giving a jump when he chanced to hear this word. “We’ll be going at high speed, I tell you! Don’t you get it? At high speed!”

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“I know . . . I get it,” Passepartout echoed, nobody letting him finish a sentence. “But if it wouldn’t be wiser, since that word offends you, at least it would be more realistic—” “Huh . . . who . . . why? What’s all this hooey about realistic?” exclaimed everybody around him. The poor fellow didn’t know where to turn anymore. “Does this mean you’re scared?” Colonel Proctor asked him. “Scared? Me?” Passepartout snorted. “Fine, so be it! I’ll show these people that a Frenchman can be just as American as they are!” “All aboard! All aboard!” the conductor called. “Yes, all aboard!” Passepartout echoed. “All aboard! And right this instant! But I still think it would be more realistic to have us passengers walk over the bridge first, then drive the train across afterward . . . !” But nobody heard this sage remark, and nobody would have agreed with it anyway. The passengers got reinstated in their respective cars. Passepartout took his seat again, not saying a word about what had gone on. The whist players were all caught up in their game. The locomotive whistled energetically. The engine driver reversed steam and backed the train up for nearly a mile—like a long jumper who wants to get a good running start. Then, with a second shriek of the whistle, he started to move forward again: he let out the throttle; soon they were going frightfully fast; all you could hear was one long wail coming from the locomotive; the pistons were chugging away at twenty strokes per second; the axles of the wheels were giving off smoke from their grease boxes. They were speeding along at a hundred miles per hour, and it felt like the whole train was lifting off the rails, so to speak. They were going so fast, they were almost weightless. And they got across! It took place like lightning. Nobody even saw the bridge. The train vaulted, you might say, from one bank to the other, and the driver couldn’t bring his out-of-control engine to a stop till it had gone five miles past the station. But the train had barely cleared the stream when the bridge collapsed for good, plunging with a crash into the rapids of the Medicine Bow River.

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29.  Which will describe assorted incidents that are met with only on Union railroads

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hat same evening the train proceeded on its way unhindered, going beyond Fort Saunders, clearing Cheyenne Pass, and arriving at Evans Pass. At this locality the railroad reached the highest point on its run, namely 8,091 feet above sea level. Nothing remained except for the travelers to head down to the Atlantic over the endless plains nature had leveled off for them. There the “great trunk line” sprouted a branch line to Denver, the chief town in Colorado. This area is rich in gold and silver mines, and more than 50,000 people have already made it their home. By this point they’d come 1,382 miles from San Francisco over a period of three days and three nights. According to official forecasts, four more days and nights were all it would take to reach New York. So Phileas Fogg was keeping within his prescribed time frame. During the night they passed Camp Walbach on their left. Lodgepole Creek ran parallel to the tracks along the straightedge boundary line shared by the states of Wyoming and Colorado. At eleven o’clock they entered Nebraska, after passing close to Sedgwick and right by Julesburg, which sits on the southern arm of the Platte River. This was the place where the grand opening took place on October 23, 1867, of the Union Pacific Railroad, General G. M. Dodge, chief engineer. There two powerful locomotives had pulled up, and coupled to them were nine passenger cars carrying guests, including Mr. Thomas C. Durant, the company’s vice-president; there cheers rang out; there Sioux and Pawnee warriors staged a miniature Indian battle; there fireworks exploded in the sky; there, finally, a portable printing press published the first issue of the trade journal Railway Pioneer. That’s how they celebrated the grand opening of this great railroad, the instrument of progress and civilization, built across the wilderness and destined to link together towns and cities that didn’t even exist yet. More potent than Amphion’s magic lyre in Greek myth, the whistle of a locomotive would soon bid them rise up on American soil.

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The railroad reached the highest point on its run.

They left Fort McPherson to the rear at eight o’clock in the morning. 357 miles separated this spot from Omaha. Staying on the left bank, the iron rails went along the unpredictable windings of the Platte River’s southern arm. At nine o’clock they arrived in the major town of North Platte, built between the great watercourse’s two branches—which come together around it to form a single thoroughfare, a substantial tributary whose waters merge with those of the Missouri a little above Omaha.

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They cleared the 101st meridian. Mr. Fogg and his partners were back at their card playing. None of them had any complaints about the length of the trip, not even the dummy. Fix had started off by winning a few guineas, which he was now in the process of losing, but his passion for the game seemed as great as Mr. Fogg’s. That morning luck was distinctly on the latter’s side. Trumps and honors just poured from his hands. At one point he’d planned a daring move and was about to play spades, when a voice came from behind his seat, saying: “If it was up to me, I would play diamonds.” Mr. Fogg, Lady Aouda, and Fix raised their heads. Colonel Proctor was standing beside them. Stamp W. Proctor and Phileas Fogg recognized each other at once. “Oh, so it’s you, Mr. Englishman!” the colonel snarled. “You’re the one who wants to play spades!” “And who does so,” Phileas Fogg coolly replied, throwing down a ten of that suit. “Well, I feel it should be diamonds,” Colonel Proctor countered in an angry voice. And he made a move to grab the card just played, adding: “You don’t know the first thing about this game.” “Maybe there’s another I’ll be more skillful at,” Phileas Fogg said, getting to his feet. “Just go ahead and try, son of John Bull,” the abusive fellow remarked. Lady Aouda turned pale. All the blood drained from her heart. She clutched Phileas Fogg by the arm, but he gently shook her off. Passepartout was ready to tear into the American, who was looking at his opponent with the most offensive expression. But Fix got up, went over to Colonel Proctor, and told him: “You forget, sir, that you have me to deal with—you not only insulted me, you struck me!” “I beg your pardon, Mr. Fix,” Phileas Fogg said, “but this is strictly my affair. By claiming I was wrong to play spades, the colonel has insulted me yet again and he’ll give me satisfaction.” “Anytime you like, anywhere you like, and with any weapon you like!” the American said. Lady Aouda tried in vain to hold Mr. Fogg back. The inspector attempted without success to revive his own quarrel with the fellow. Passepartout wanted to heave the colonel out the door, but a signal from his master stopped him. Phileas Fogg left the car, and the American followed him onto the crossover. “Sir,” Mr. Fogg told his opponent, “I’m in a great hurry to get back to Europe, and any delay whatever will be highly detrimental to my best interests.” “Well now, and what’s that got to do with me?” Colonel Proctor responded. “Sir,” Mr. Fogg went on with great courtesy, “after our meeting in San Francisco, I’d planned to come back to America and find you, as soon as I’d finished the business calling me to the Old World.” “Really.” “Will you give me an appointment for six months from now?” “Why not six years?”

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“If it was up to me, I would play diamonds.”

“I’m asking for six months,” Mr. Fogg replied, “and I’ll keep our appointment to the second.” “All you’re trying to do is wriggle out of it!” Stamp W. Proctor exclaimed. “It’s now or never!” “So be it,” Mr. Fogg replied. “Are you going to New York?” “No.” “To Chicago?”

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Sioux warriors were overrunning the cars.

“No.” “To Omaha?” “Why would you care. Have you heard of Plum Creek?” “No,” Mr. Fogg answered. “It’s the next station. The train will be there in an hour. It’ll stop over for ten minutes. In ten minutes we can trade a few revolver shots.” “Done,” Mr. Fogg replied. “I’ll get off at Plum Creek.”

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“And I have a feeling you’ll stay off,” the American added with consummate cheek. “We’ll see,” Mr. Fogg replied. And he went back into his car, as cool as ever. There the gentleman set about reassuring Lady Aouda, telling her that braggarts were never to be feared. Then he asked Fix to act as his second in the duel about to take place. Fix couldn’t refuse, and Phileas Fogg serenely resumed his interrupted card game, playing spades without a worry in the world. At eleven o’clock the locomotive’s whistle announced they were nearing the station in Plum Creek. With Fix right behind, Mr. Fogg stood up and proceeded out onto the crossover. Passepartout went with him, carrying a pair of revolvers. Lady Aouda stayed in the car, as pale as death. Just then the door of the other passenger car opened, and Colonel Proctor likewise appeared on the crossover; behind him was his own second, a Yankee of the same stripe. But the instant that the two opponents were about to step down beside the tracks, the conductor ran over and called to them: “You mustn’t step down, gentlemen!” “And why not?” the colonel demanded. “We’re twenty minutes late and the train’s going right on.” “But I need to fight a duel with this gentleman.” “Sorry,” the official replied, “but we’re leaving again immediately. There’s the bell ringing now!” The bell was indeed ringing, and the train got back under way. “My sincerest regrets, gentlemen,” the conductor said. “Under any other circumstances I could have cooperated with you. But after all, since you don’t have time to fight your duel here, what’s to keep you from fighting as we go?” “Maybe that wouldn’t suit the gentleman’s fancy,” the colonel said with a taunting expression. “It suits me perfectly,” Phileas Fogg replied. Well, Passepartout thought, were definitely in America. And our train conductor’s a gentleman of the old school! And with that he fell in behind his master. Led by the conductor, the two opponents and their seconds went from one car to another till they reached the rear of the train. Only a dozen or so passengers occupied the last car. The conductor inquired if they would be kind enough to momentarily free up the area for two gentlemen who had an affair of honor to settle. No need to ask! Why, the passengers were more than happy to be helpful to the two gentlemen and they withdrew onto the crossovers. This car was some fifty feet long and lent itself quite nicely to the business at hand. The two opponents could go after each other in the aisle between the seats and blast away at their leisure. No duel had ever been more easily arranged. Mr. Fogg and Colonel Proctor went into the car, each armed with a pair of six-guns. Their seconds stayed outside and closed the door on them. At the first shriek of the locomotive’s whistle, they were to open

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He hung on with one hand.

fire. . . . Then, after two minutes had gone by, all that remained of the two gentlemen would be removed from the car. Honestly, nothing could be simpler. It was so very simple, Fix and Passepartout felt their hearts pounding fit to burst. So they were waiting for the agreed-upon shriek of the whistle, when wild yells suddenly rang out. There were gunshots along with them, but not from the passenger car

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earmarked for the duelists. On the contrary, these gunshots came from up and down the whole train. You could hear terrified screams from the passengers inside. Gripping their revolvers, Colonel Proctor and Mr. Fogg instantly left their car and rushed toward the front, where the shots and shouts were ringing out with greater intensity. They discovered that the train was under attack by a band of Sioux warriors. This wasn’t the first attempt by these bold Indians, who already had more than one train holdup to their credit. As usual with them, they didn’t wait till the train had come to a halt; to the tune of a hundred or so, they’d dashed onto the boarding steps and clambered into the cars the way a circus clown leaps on a galloping horse. These Sioux carried rifles. Ergo those shots—which the travelers, armed nearly to a man, were answering with revolver fire. Right off the Indians had scrambled aboard the engine. A couple cracks of the cudgel left the driver and stoker half stunned. A Sioux chieftain tried to stop the train but didn’t know how to operate the throttle lever; instead of shutting off the steam, he opened the valve all the way, and the out-of-control locomotive raced ahead with appalling speed. Meanwhile other Sioux warriors were overrunning the cars, racing like angry monkeys along the roofs, staving in doors, and fighting the travelers at close quarters. They broke into the baggage car and looted it, throwing luggage alongside the tracks. The yells and gunshots didn’t let up. But the passengers defended themselves courageously. They barricaded some of the cars and took on all comers in these virtual traveling fortresses, which were flying along at a speed of a hundred miles per hour. From the onset of the attack, Lady Aouda was the picture of courage. Revolver in hand, she defended herself heroically, firing through the shattered windows at any savage who got close to her. Some twenty Sioux, mortally wounded, had fallen alongside the tracks, and when some of them slid off the crossovers onto the rails, they were crushed like worms by the wheels of the passenger cars. Grievously injured by bullets or cudgels, several travelers lay across the seats. But this couldn’t go on. The battle had already been raging for ten minutes—it was sure to end with the Sioux having the upper hand if the train didn’t come to a stop. In essence the station by Fort Kearney was barely two miles away. It was an American army outpost, but once they went beyond this outpost, the Sioux would take over the train between Fort Kearney and the next station. The conductor was fighting at Mr. Fogg’s side when a bullet toppled him. As he fell, the man exclaimed: “If we don’t stop the train within the next five minutes, we’re done for!” “We’ll stop it!” Phileas Fogg said, all set to dash out of the car. “Wait, sir,” Passepartout called to him. “That’s my department!” Phileas Fogg had no time to stop the courageous fellow, who opened a door without the Indians spotting him and managed to slide beneath the car. And then, while the battle continued, as bullets crisscrossed above his head, he tapped into his jester’s suppleness and agility, squirming along underneath the passenger cars, clinging to chains, helping himself to

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brake levers and sections of framework, crawling from one car to another with marvelous skill, and in this fashion reaching the front of the train. Nobody spotted him, nobody could spot him. There, between the baggage car and the tender, he hung on with one hand and unhooked the safety chains with the other; but the couplers were tugging against each other, and he would never have succeeded in pulling the pin from the link if the engine hadn’t given a lurch, made the pin pop out, and unhitched the train from its locomotive, which took off with a fresh burst of speed while the cars fell farther and farther behind. Carried along by its own momentum, the train kept rolling for another few minutes, but they threw on the brakes inside the cars, and the whole procession finally came to a halt less than a hundred steps from the station in Kearney. There, drawn by the gunfire, soldiers from the fort promptly rushed over; the Sioux weren’t expecting them and the whole band skedaddled before the train had come to a full stop. But when the travelers took a head count on the boarding platform at the station, they realized that several people were missing from roll call, among others the courageous Frenchman whose dedication had just saved their lives.

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30.  In which Phileas Fogg simply does what’s right

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hree passengers had vanished, Passepartout included. Had they been slain during the struggle? Had the Sioux warriors taken them prisoner? Nobody could say as yet. It emerged that a fair number of people had been injured, though none fatally. Among the more grievously wounded was Colonel Proctor, who had fought bravely but had been toppled by a bullet to the groin. They transferred him to the terminal along with other travelers whose condition called for immediate attention. Lady Aouda was safe. Though Phileas Fogg hadn’t spared himself, he didn’t have a scratch. Fix had been injured in the arm, an injury of no consequence. But Passepartout was missing, and tears streamed from the young woman’s eyes. Meanwhile all the travelers had gotten off the train. The wheels on the passenger cars were smeared with blood. Shapeless scraps of flesh hung from their hubs and spokes. Long red trails stood out over the white plains as far as the eye could see. By then the last of those Indians had vanished into the south, in the direction of the Republican River. Mr. Fogg stood motionless, arms folded. He had a serious decision to make. Lady Aouda waited at his side and looked at him without saying a word. . . . He knew what that look meant. If his servant had been taken prisoner, should he risk everything in order to snatch him from the clutches of those Indians . . . ? He merely said to Lady Aouda, “I’ll find him whether he’s dead or alive.” “Oh, sir . . . Oh, Mr. Fogg!” the young woman exclaimed, grasping her companion’s hands and covering them with tears. “Alive,” Mr. Fogg added, “if we don’t waste another minute.” With this decision Phileas Fogg made a sweeping self-sacrifice. He’d just decreed his financial ruin. A single day’s delay would cause him to miss the ocean liner from New York. He would inevitably lose his bet. But foremost in his mind was the thought “I must do what’s right,” and he didn’t hesitate.

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The captain in charge of Fort Kearney was at hand. His soldiers—about a hundred strong—stayed on the defensive in case the Sioux should launch a direct attack against the terminal. “Sir,” Mr. Fogg told the captain, “three passengers have vanished.” “Dead?” the captain asked. “Dead or taken prisoner,” Phileas Fogg replied. “That’s the uncertainty we need to clear up. Is it your intention to hunt down those Sioux?” “That’s a serious matter, sir,” the captain said. “Those Indians could escape to the other side of the Arkansas River! This fort is under my command, and I can’t just leave it.” “Sir,” Phileas Fogg went on, “the lives of three men are at stake.” “No doubt . . . but to rescue three men, can I risk the lives of fifty?” “I don’t know if you can, sir, but it’s the right thing to do.” “Sir,” the captain replied, “I don’t need anybody here to lecture me on what’s right.” “So be it,” Phileas Fogg said icily. “I’ll go alone!” “You, sir?” Fix exclaimed, coming up. “You want to go out there alone and hunt down those Indians?” “How can I let that poor fellow perish when all the rest of us owe him our lives? I’m going after him.” “Fine, but you aren’t going alone!” the captain exclaimed, affected in spite of himself. “Not a gallant fellow like you . . . ! I need thirty volunteers!” he added, turning to his soldiers. The entire company stepped forward in unison. The captain had only to pick and choose among these gallant men. He singled out thirty soldiers and an old sergeant to head them up. “Thank you, captain!” Mr. Fogg said. “Will you allow me to come with you?” Fix asked the gentleman. “Sir, you may do what you like,” Phileas Fogg answered him. “But if you want to be of benefit to me, you’ll stay here with Lady Aouda. In case some misfortune should befall me . . .” Suddenly the police inspector’s face turned white. Part company with the man he’d followed step by step with such persistence? Let him venture out into the wilderness like this? Fix looked closely at the gentleman, and for whatever reason, regardless of his qualms, despite the struggle raging inside him, he lowered his eyes in the face of that calm, candid look. “I’ll stay behind,” he said. A few seconds later Mr. Fogg squeezed the young woman’s hand; then, after giving her his precious overnight bag, he left with the sergeant and his little band. But before setting out, he told the soldiers: “My friends, if we rescue the prisoners, there’s £1,000 in it for you!” By then it was a few minutes past noon. Lady Aouda withdrew into a room at the terminal and waited there alone, thinking about Phileas Fogg, his across-the-board generosity, his serene courage. Mr. Fogg had sacrificed his fortune and now he was gambling his life—without any hesitation at all,

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An enormous shadow was slowly coming on.

without any grandstanding, and because it was the right thing to do. In her eyes Phileas Fogg was a hero. As for Inspector Fix, his thoughts were running along different lines and he couldn’t control his agitation. He strolled feverishly around the boarding platform outside the terminal. Momentarily subdued, his old self reemerged. Once Fogg had left, Fix realized how foolish

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it was to let him go off. What! He’d just followed the man around the world, then agreed to part company with him? His true nature took over again, and he covered himself with reproaches, accusations, and reprimands, as if he were the police commissioner at Scotland Yard dressing down one of his investigators for being a flagrant simpleton. I’ve been a dunce, he thought. That Frenchman will have told him who I am! He’s gone and he’s not coming back! Where will I be able to recapture him now? And how could I let him pull the wool over my eyes like that—I, Fix, with a warrant for his arrest right in my pocket! No doubt about it, I’m a total idiot!” Which is how the police inspector reasoned it out, while the hours went by too slowly for his liking. He wasn’t sure what to do. Sometimes he had an urge to tell Lady Aouda everything. But he knew how the young woman would react. What options did he have? He was tempted to stride across those long white plains and hunt that Fogg fellow down! It shouldn’t be impossible to find the man again. Footprints still stood out against the snow . . . ! But a fresh layer soon wiped out every trace. Then Fix grew despondent. He had an overwhelming urge to throw in the towel. Then, sure enough, a chance came up for him to leave the station in Kearney and continue this journey, which had been so full of disappointment. In essence, around two o’clock in the afternoon and while huge snowflakes were falling, you could hear a whistle blowing at great length to the east. An enormous shadow was slowly coming on, preceded by a lurid glow and considerably magnified by the fog, which gave it a phantasmagoric appearance. Even so, no train coming from the east was expected as yet. They’d sent a wire asking for help, but it couldn’t have arrived as quickly as this, and the train from Omaha to San Francisco wasn’t due till the next day. But soon they understood. Traveling at half steam, emitting loud shrieks of the whistle, this was the locomotive that had come uncoupled from its train and continued on its way with such terrifying speed, carrying off the unconscious stoker and engineer. It had raced along the rails for several miles; then, running short of fuel, its fires burned low; its steam pressure slackened, it gradually slowed down, and an hour later the engine finally ground to a halt twenty miles beyond the station in Kearney. Neither the engineer nor the stoker had been fatally injured; after fairly protracted blackouts, they came to again. By then the engine was stationary. Seeing the wilderness around him, the locomotive on its own, the passenger cars no longer to the rear, the engineer realized what had happened. He couldn’t imagine how the locomotive had come uncoupled from its train, but there was no question in his mind that the train they’d left behind was in distress. The engineer didn’t hesitate to do what was necessary. To continue on his way toward Omaha would be sensible; to go back to the train, which the Indians were maybe still looting, would be dangerous . . . but it didn’t matter! He fed the boiler’s furnace with shovelfuls of coal and wood, the fire sprang to life again, the pressure rose once more, and the engine backed into the station in Kearney around two o’clock in the afternoon. Folks had heard it whistling in the fog as it came closer.

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The travelers were extremely pleased to see the locomotive at the head of the train. They would be able to resume this journey that had been so unfortunately interrupted. When the engine arrived, Lady Aouda went outside the terminal and spoke to the conductor: “You’re leaving right away?” she asked him. “This second, ma’am.” “But what about those people taken prisoner . . . our unfortunate companions . . .” “I can’t change our schedule,” the conductor replied. “We’re three hours late already.” “And when will another train come through from San Francisco?” “Tomorrow evening, ma’am.” “Tomorrow evening! But that will be too late! You need to wait—” “It isn’t possible,” the conductor answered. “If you’re coming with us, climb aboard.” “I’m not coming,” the young woman responded. Fix overheard this conversation. A few seconds earlier, when he’d had no means of travel whatever, he was determined to leave Kearney; now that the train was here and ready to get going, all he had to do was take his seat in the car—but an irresistible force glued him to the ground. His feet were itching to leave the boarding platform, yet they couldn’t tear themselves away. Once again he was at war with himself. The thought of failure left him choking with anger. He would struggle on to the very end. Meanwhile the travelers and a few injured parties in serious condition—Colonel Procter among others—were seated again in the passenger cars. You could hear the supercharged boiler throbbing away and the steam escaping from its valves. The engineer blew the whistle, then the train moved out and soon vanished, its white smoke mingling with the snow flurries. Inspector Fix stayed behind. A couple hours went by. The weather was thoroughly foul, the cold quite brisk. Fix sat on a bench in the terminal and didn’t move. You would have sworn he’d fallen asleep. Every other second Lady Aouda left the room that had been put at her disposal. Despite the gusts outside, she would go to the end of the boarding platform, hoping to see through the snowstorm, trying to pierce the fog that shrank the horizon around her, listening for any sound she could hear. There wasn’t a thing. Then, chilled to the bone, she went back inside, only to go out again a few moments later—always to no avail. Evening drew on. The little detachment of soldiers hadn’t returned. Where were they just then? Did they manage to catch up with the Indians? Had they engaged the enemy, or were they lost in the fog and aimlessly wandering around? The captain in command of Fort Kearney felt very anxious, though he tried not to let any of his anxiety show. Night fell, the snow let up a little, but the cold grew increasingly bitter. Even the bravest eyes wouldn’t have peered into that dark vastness without some trepidation. Utter silence reigned over those plains. Not a soaring bird or stalking beast troubled the deathless calm. That whole night Lady Aouda wandered around the edge of the prairie, her mind full of grim forebodings, her heart bursting with anguish. Her imagination ran away with her and she envisioned a thousand dangers. She suffered indescribably during those long hours.

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The Frenchman had decked three of them with his bare fists.

Fix wasn’t asleep either, though he hadn’t moved and was still in the same place. At one point some fellow came up and actually spoke to him, but the investigator put him off, answering his words with a gesture that meant no. And that’s how their night went. At dawn the sun’s half-faded disk rose above the fogbound horizon. But you could see as far as two miles away. Phileas Fogg and the

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detachment of soldiers had headed southward. . . . The south looked utterly deserted. By then it was seven o’clock in the morning. Tremendously concerned, the captain wasn’t sure how to proceed. Should he send a second detachment to rescue the first? Should he sacrifice additional men with such a slim chance of saving the ones he’d previously sacrificed? But he didn’t hesitate for long; motioning one of his lieutenants over, he directed the man to lead a scouting expedition to the south—and then gunshots rang out. Was it a signal? His soldiers dashed outside the fort and spotted a little band of men half a mile away, coming back in good order. Mr. Fogg was walking out in front, and near him were Passepartout and the other two passengers, snatched from the clutches of those Sioux warriors. The battle had taken place ten miles south of Kearney. A few seconds before the detachment had arrived, Passepartout and his two companions were already fighting with their captors, and the Frenchman had decked three of them with his bare fists, when his master and the soldiers rushed to their assistance. All of them, rescuers and rescued, were greeted with shouts of glee. While Phileas Fogg doled out the bonus he’d promised the soldiers, Passepartout kept telling himself, and with good reason: “No getting around it, I’m certainly costing my master a bundle!” Fix looked at Mr. Fogg without saying a word, and it would have been hard to analyze the conflicting emotions he felt at this point. As for Lady Aouda, she took the gentleman’s hand and squeezed it between hers, also unable to say a word! But as soon as Passepartout had arrived, he looked for the train outside the terminal. He figured it would be waiting there, all set to take off for Omaha, and he hoped they could still make up the time they’d lost. “What happened to the train?” he exclaimed. “It left,” Fix replied. “And when does the next train come through?” Phileas Fogg asked. “Not till this evening.” “Oh,” the unemotional gentleman merely replied.

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31.  Where Inspector Fix behaves in Phileas Fogg’s best interests

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hileas Fogg was running twenty hours behind schedule. As the unintentional reason for his being so behindhand, Passepartout was in despair. No doubt about it, he’d financially ruined his master! Just then the inspector went up to Mr. Fogg and looked him right in

the eye: “Really and truly, sir,” he asked the gentleman, “are you pressed for time?” “Really and truly,” Phileas Fogg answered. “I want to be clear on this,” Fix went on. “Isn’t it in your best interests to reach New York by the 11th, before nine o’clock in the evening, the departure time of the ocean liner to Liverpool?” “It’s in my very best interests.” “And if your journey hadn’t been interrupted by that Indian attack, you would be arriving in New York on the morning of the 11th?” “Yes, with a jump of twelve hours on the liner’s departure.” “Fine. So you’re twenty hours behind. Twenty minus twelve leaves eight. You need to make up eight hours. Would you like to give it a try?” “On foot?” Mr. Fogg asked. “No, by sled,” Fix replied. “A sled with sails. A fellow here tells me he has this form of transportation for hire.” It was the fellow who had spoken to the police inspector during the night, whose offer Fix had turned down. Phileas Fogg didn’t answer Fix; but Fix pointed out the fellow in question, who was strolling around in front of the terminal, and the gentleman walked up to him. A second later Mr. Fogg and this American, whose name was Mudge, went inside a shack built at the foot of Fort Kearney.

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The travelers huddled against each other.

There Mr. Fogg ran his eyes over a pretty unusual vehicle, a sort of framework on which five or six people could take a seat; it was mounted on two long beams, which, in front, curved slightly upward like the runners on a sled. On the forward third of the framework stood a very tall mast with an immense spanker sail fastened to it. Securely supported by metal shrouds, this mast held an iron stay that was used for upping a jib of huge dimensions. To the rear a sort of oarlike rudder let you steer the contraption.

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As you can see, this sled had been rigged like a sloop. During the winter, when the trains are snowbound, these vehicles can travel at tremendous speed over the frozen plains between stations. What’s more, they carry a prodigious spread of sail, even more sail than is feasible for racing cutters, which are vulnerable to tipping over; when these sleds run ahead of the wind, they glide across the surface of the prairies at a speed equal, if not superior, to an express train’s. In a few seconds Mr. Fogg had made a deal with the skipper of this dry-land boat. There was a good wind. A stiff breeze blew out of the west. The snow had hardened, and Mudge promised that within a few hours he would have Mr. Fogg at the station in Omaha. At that location there were frequent trains and many railroad lines going to Chicago and New York. It would be possible for them to get back on schedule. So they had nothing to lose by taking the risk. Mr. Fogg didn’t want to expose Lady Aouda to the torments of traveling in the open air, because their speed would make the cold even more unbearable, so he proposed to leave her in Passepartout’s care at the station in Kearney. The good fellow would be responsible for taking the young woman back to Europe by a better route and under more reasonable conditions. Lady Aouda refused to part company with Mr. Fogg, and Passepartout was overjoyed at her decision. In essence he wasn’t about to leave his master for anything in the world, not with Fix coming along. As for what the police inspector was thinking at this juncture, it would be hard to say. Did he still consider Phileas Fogg a highly accomplished villain, a rascal who believed that by going all around the world, he was sure to be perfectly safe in England? Or had his return shaken the investigator’s convictions? It was indeed possible that Fix had changed his views with respect to Phileas Fogg. But the detective wasn’t any less determined to do his job; he was the most impatient of all, working to get them back to England as quickly as he could. By eight o’clock the sled was set to go. The travelers—or passengers, we’re tempted to say—took their seats on it and wrapped themselves tightly in their travel blankets. The skipper hoisted his vehicle’s two immense sails, and it shot across the hardened snow at a speed of forty miles per hour, driven by the wind. Staying on a straight course (or going in a beeline, as Americans put it), the distance between Fort Kearney and Omaha is 200 miles at the most. If the wind held up, they could cover this distance in five hours. If their journey was uneventful, the sled should reach Omaha by one o’clock in the afternoon. What a trip! The travelers huddled against each other and couldn’t say a thing. Intensified by their speed, the cold would have cut them off midword. The sled glided as lightly over the surface of the plains as a longboat over the surface of the waters—but without any swell. Whenever the breeze skimmed the earth, their sails seemed to lift the sled off the ground as if they were immense, wide-spreading wings. Mudge was at the tiller, keeping them on a straight course, twitching his oarlike rudder to correct any swerve the contraption felt inclined to make. They were running under full canvas. The jib was in

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place and no longer covered by the spanker sail. Their skipper upped a topmast and spread his gaff topsail to the wind, adding its propulsive force to that of the other sails. Though you couldn’t estimate the sled’s speed with mathematical certainty, it had to be going at least forty miles per hour. “If we don’t bust anything,” Mudge said, “we’ll make it!” And it was in Mudge’s best interests to make it within the time frame agreed upon, because Mr. Fogg had followed his standard procedure and enticed the man with a hefty bonus. Their sled was cutting straight across a prairie as flat as the sea. You would have sworn it was an immense frozen pond. The railroad service for this stretch of country went from the southwest up to the northwest by way of Grand Island, the major Nebraska town of Columbus, Schuyler, Fremont, then Omaha. For the entire run it went along the right bank of the Platte River. The iron rails swept in a longbow-shaped curve, but the sled took a shortcut down the bowstring. The Platte River makes a little jog before Fremont, but its surface was frozen over and Mudge had no fear of being stopped by it. The route, then, was completely clear of obstacles, and Phileas Fogg was in dread of just two things happening: a vehicular breakdown or shifts and lulls in the wind. But the breeze didn’t let up. On the contrary. It blew hard enough to bend the mast, which still stayed firmly in place thanks to its iron shrouds. Like the strings on a musical instrument, those strands of metal kept making sounds, as if a violin bow were setting them in vibration. The sled raced along in the midst of plaintive, strangely intense chords. “Those strings are playing fifths and octaves,” Mr. Fogg said. And these were the only words he spoke during this trip. Carefully bundled up in protective furs and travel blankets, Lady Aouda stayed as far out of the cold’s reach as she could. As for Passepartout, he inhaled that biting air, his face as red as the sun’s disk when it sets in a fog. Thanks to that core of unflappable optimism inside him, he had his hopes up again. Instead of reaching New York in the morning, they would reach it in the evening, but there was still a chance they would arrive before the ocean liner left for Liverpool. Passepartout even had a strong urge to shake hands with his ally Fix. He remembered that it was the inspector himself who had gotten them this sail-powered sled, thereby supplying their only way of making it to Omaha in a timely manner. But some sort of hunch, Lord knows what, still made him keep his guard up. In any event there was one thing Passepartout would always remember: the sacrifice Mr. Fogg had unhesitatingly made in order to snatch him from the clutches of those Sioux warriors. In doing so Mr. Fogg had risked both his life and his fortune . . . no, his servant would never forget this! While all the travelers were deep in their different thoughts, the sled flew over that immense carpet of snow. If it went across a couple creeks, branches or subbranches of the Little Blue River, nobody noticed. Fields and streams were invisible beneath that uniform whiteness. The plains were completely empty. Lying between the Union Pacific Railroad and the branch line designed to connect Kearney with St. Joseph, Missouri, this prairie looked

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Prairie wolves ran races with the sled.

like a big desert island. No villages, stations, or even forts. Now and then you saw some scowling tree go past like lightning, its white skeleton writhing in the breeze. Sometimes flocks of wild birds took off in unison. Sometimes, too, large numbers of prairie wolves ran races with the sled, lean and ravenous, driven by fierce cravings. On those occasions Passepartout would watch with revolver in hand, all set to fire away at the closest ones. If

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some accident had brought the sled to a halt, our travelers would have been attacked by those ferocious predators and in the gravest danger. But the sled held its own, promptly took the lead, and soon left the whole howling pack of them to the rear. At noon Mudge recognized from certain signs that he’d gone over the frozen bed of the Platte River. He didn’t say anything, but he already felt sure he would reach the station in Omaha before he’d traveled another twenty miles. And as a matter of fact, it was barely one o’clock when their skillful guide left the tiller and rushed to the ropes that hoisted his sails; he hauled them in at one go while the sled shot along under its own irresistible momentum, covering an additional half a mile with sails stowed. Finally it came to a stop, and Mudge pointed to a clump of snow-white roofs, saying: “We’ve arrived!” Arrived! Truly arrived at that station, which, thanks to its many trains, is in daily contact with the eastern United States! Passepartout and Fix jumped to the ground and shook their limbs awake. They helped Mr. Fogg and the young woman down from the sled. Phileas Fogg generously squared accounts with Mudge, Passepartout shook the man’s hand as if he were an old friend, then they all rushed off to the Omaha terminal. This major Nebraska city marks the end of the line for the Pacific Railroad proper, which puts the Mississippi basin in contact with the earth’s biggest ocean. Going from Omaha to Chicago, a line named the “Chicago & Rock Island Railroad” runs straight east and has fifty stations along its route. An express train was all set to leave. Phileas Fogg and his companions had just enough time to hurry aboard a passenger car. They saw nothing of Omaha, but Passepartout admitted to himself that he hadn’t any grounds for complaint, because this wasn’t about sightseeing. Their train headed into the state of Iowa at tremendous speed, going through Council Bluffs, Des Moines, and Iowa City. During the night it crossed the Mississippi by way of Davenport and entered Illinois by way of Rock Island. The next day, the 10th, it reached Chicago at four o’clock in the afternoon; the city had already risen from its ashes and stood more proudly than ever on the lovely shores of Lake Michigan.16 Nine hundred miles separated Chicago from New York. There was no shortage of trains out of Chicago. Mr. Fogg went straight from one to another. A peppy locomotive on the “Pittsburgh, Fort Wayne & Chicago Railroad” left at top speed, as if appreciating that the honorable gentleman hadn’t a moment to lose. It shot like lightning through Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey, going past new towns with old-sounding names, a few of which had streets and trolley cars but no houses as yet. Finally the Hudson River came in sight, and on December 11 at 11:15 in the evening, the train drew to a halt in the terminal on the right bank of the river, in front of the very pier reserved for steamers on the Cunard line, also known as the “British & North American Royal Mail Steam Packet Co.” The China, bound for Liverpool, had left forty-five minutes earlier. 16. Translator’s note. The Great Chicago Fire took place just fourteen months earlier.

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32.  In which Phileas Fogg grapples with misfortune

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hen the China left, it apparently took Phileas Fogg’s last hopes along with it. In essence none of the other ocean liners doing direct runs from America to Europe were a help to the gentleman’s plans, not the ships in the French transatlantic fleet, the vessels on the White Star Line, the steamers of the Inman Co., the ones belonging to the Hamburg Line, nor any others. In point of fact the Pereire of the French transatlantic firm—whose marvelous boats match the speed and surpass the comfort of those on every other line bar none—wasn’t to leave till the day after next on December 14. And what’s more, like the vessels on the Hamburg Line, it didn’t do a direct run to Liverpool or London but to Le Havre, so all of Phileas Fogg’s last-minute efforts would be canceled out by the additional time it would take to cross from Le Havre to Southampton. As for the Inman Co.’s liners (one of which, the City of Paris, would put to sea the following day), they were unthinkable. These vessels are specifically geared to migrant travel, their engines are underpowered, they navigate as much by sail as by steam, and their speed is nothing to write home about. The time they would take to cross from New York to England was more than Mr. Fogg had left for winning his bet. All this became perfectly clear to the gentleman when he checked his Bradshaw, which gave him the transatlantic navigational schedules for every day of the year. Passepartout was devastated. Missing their ocean liner by forty-five minutes had totally done him in. It was entirely his own fault—instead of helping Mr. Fogg, he’d continually thrown obstacles in his master’s path! And when he reviewed all the incidents of their journey in his mind, when he tallied up the amounts the gentleman had spent solely on his behalf and would have to write off, when he thought about that enormous bet, adding it to the considerable expenses of this now-futile journey and seeing Mr. Fogg in absolute financial ruin, he called himself every name in the book.

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But Mr. Fogg didn’t criticize him in any way and as he left that pier reserved for transatlantic ocean liners, these were the only words he said: “We’ll look into this tomorrow. Come along.” Mr. Fogg, Lady Aouda, Fix, and Passepartout took the Jersey City ferryboat across the Hudson River, then climbed into a cab that drove them to the St. Nicholas Hotel on Broadway. It had rooms available, they booked them, and the night went by—quickly for Phileas Fogg, who dozed off and slept perfectly, but very slowly for Lady Aouda and her companions, whose worries kept them awake. The next day was December 12. From 7:00 in the morning on the 12th to 8:45 in the evening on the 21st, there were nine days, thirteen hours, and forty-five minutes to go. Consequently, if Phileas Fogg had departed the evening before on the China, one of the Cunard line’s fastest racers, he would have reached Liverpool, then London, within the desired time frame! Mr. Fogg left the hotel on his own—after instructing his manservant to wait for him and alert Lady Aouda to be ready at a second’s notice. Mr. Fogg proceeded to the banks of the Hudson, where he carefully searched for outbound ships among those tied up along the pier or anchored in midriver. Several vessels flew their departure pennants and were getting ready to put to sea on the morning tide, because, in this immense and marvelous port of New York, there isn’t a day when a hundred ships aren’t making their way to every corner of the world; but most of them were sailboats and wouldn’t suit Phileas Fogg’s purposes. It seemed like the gentleman’s latest endeavor was doomed to failure, when he spotted a smartly designed, propeller-driven merchantman in front of the Battery; it rode at anchor no more than 600 feet out, releasing huge swirls of smoke from its funnel, which meant it was getting ready to set sail. Phileas Fogg hailed a dinghy, got into it, and after a few strokes of the oar reached the boarding ladder of the Henrietta, an iron-hulled steamer whose topside was made entirely of wood. The Henrietta’s captain was on board. Phileas Fogg climbed on deck and asked for him. The captain showed up at once. He was a fellow of fifty, a species of old sea wolf, a sourpuss who wasn’t going to be easy. Bulging eyes, skin like oxidized copper, red hair, powerful neck—nothing in his appearance suggested an individual with good manners. “Captain?” Mr. Fogg asked. “That’s me.” “I’m Phileas Fogg from London.” “And I’m Andrew Speedy from Cardiff.” “You’re setting out . . . ?” “In one hour.” “You’re laden for . . . ?” “Bordeaux.” “And what’s your cargo?”

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“Gizzard stones. No freight. I’m sailing in ballast.” “Have you any passengers?” “No passengers. Never take passengers. Just goods that get underfoot and argue with you.” “Your ship makes good time?” “Eleven to twelve knots. The Henrietta’s well known.” “Will you take me to Liverpool, myself and three others?” “Liverpool? Why not China?” “I’m asking about Liverpool.” “No!” “No?” “No. I’m bound for Bordeaux and I’m going to Bordeaux.” “Regardless of how much I’ll pay?” “Regardless of how much you’ll pay.” The captain said this in a tone that shut down the discussion. “But what about the Henrietta’s owners . . .” Phileas Fogg resumed. “I’m its owner,” the captain replied. “This ship belongs to me.” “I’ll charter it from you.” “No.” “I’ll buy it from you.” “No.” Phileas Fogg didn’t bat an eye. But the situation was serious. New York wasn’t working out the way Hong Kong had, and the captain of the Henrietta wasn’t like the skipper of the Tankadère. Till now the gentleman’s money had gotten the best of every obstacle. This time money didn’t do the trick. Even so, he had to find some way of crossing the Atlantic by boat . . . unless he crossed it by balloon, which would have been terrifically risky, not to mention impossible. It seemed, however, that Phileas Fogg had come up with an idea, because he said to the captain: “All right, may I sail with you to Bordeaux?” “No, not even if you paid me $200!” “I’ll give you $2,000.” “Per person?” “Per person.” “And you’re four in all?” “Four.” Captain Speedy started to scratch his forehead, like a man bent on stripping the skin off. $8,000 in his pocket without changing course! He had a clear-cut hostility to passengers of every kind, but if he set his feelings aside, he would be richly rewarded for his trouble. Besides, passengers at $2,000 a pop aren’t just passengers, they’re valuable merchandise. “I’m sailing at nine o’clock,” Captain Speedy merely said. “And if you and your party are here . . .”

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“We’ll be on board by nine o’clock,” Mr. Fogg merely said back to him. It was 8:30. With the calmness that never left him under any circumstances, the gentleman went ashore from the Henrietta, climbed into a buggy, proceeded to the St. Nicholas Hotel, then brought back Lady Aouda, Passepartout, and even the inseparable Fix, whose way he graciously offered to pay. All four were on board by the time the Henrietta set sail. When Passepartout learned what this latest crossing was going to cost, he let out a sort of drawn-out “Oh!” that ran all the way down the chromatic scale. As for Inspector Fix, he told himself that the Bank of England definitely wasn’t going to get through this business unscathed. In essence, assuming this Fogg fellow didn’t toss a few extra handfuls overboard, more than £7,000 ($35,000) would be missing from that bag of banknotes when they got back home!

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33.  In which Phileas Fogg rises to the occasion

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n hour later the steamer Henrietta went past the lightship that marks the entrance to the Hudson River, doubled the spit of Sandy Hook, and put to sea. During the day it skirted Long Island, gave a wide berth to the lighthouse on Fire Island, and ran swiftly eastward. At noon the next day, December 13, a man climbed onto the bridge to get a position fix. Naturally you would think this man was Captain Speedy, yes? Not even close. It was Phileas Fogg, Esq. As for Captain Speedy, he was safely under lock and key in his cabin where he was letting out loud howls, which suggested that his anger, though perfectly excusable, was at the point of a conniption fit. What had happened was quite simple. Phileas Fogg wanted to go to Liverpool, the captain wouldn’t take him there. So Phileas Fogg had agreed to travel to Bordeaux; then, during the thirty hours he’d been on board, he’d put his banknotes to such productive use, the whole crew of sailors and stokers—a rather shifty-eyed crew on baddish terms with the captain—were now in his back pocket. And that’s why Phileas Fogg was in command instead of Captain Speedy, why the captain was locked up in his cabin, and in short why the Henrietta was heading for Liverpool. Only it was quite clear, after seeing Mr. Fogg in operation, that Mr. Fogg had been a seaman. Still, it remained to be seen how the venture would play out. Nevertheless Lady Aouda couldn’t stop worrying, though she said nothing. Fix, for his part, was appalled at first. As for Passepartout, he found the whole thing simply enchanting. “Eleven to twelve knots,” Captain Speedy had said. And this actually was the average speed the Henrietta kept up. If, then—and plenty of “ifs” still remained—if, then, the sea didn’t get too rough, if the wind didn’t shift to the east, if the craft didn’t experience any mechanical breakdowns or its engine any accidents, the Henrietta could cover those 3,000 miles from New York to

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“Pirate!” Andrew Speedy shouted.

Liverpool in the nine days left between December 12 and December 21. It’s true, however, that once the gentleman had arrived, this Henrietta business tacked onto the Bank of England business could land him in deeper waters than he might like. During their first days out, they navigated under first-rate conditions. The sea wasn’t too taxing; the wind seemed to be holding steady from the northeast; the Henrietta spread its canvas and tooled along under its trysails like a real transatlantic liner.

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Passepartout was delighted. His master’s latest exploit—whose consequences he didn’t want to think about—filled him with enthusiasm. Never had the crew seen a cheerier, sprightlier fellow. He formed a thousand friendships with the sailors and amazed them with his acrobatic feats. He showered them with the highest compliments and the tastiest drinks. In his eyes they operated like true gentlemen and the stokers stoked like real heroes. He was so sociable, his good mood rubbed off on everybody. He’d forgotten the past, its hazards and hardships. The ultimate objective was close within reach and he thought of nothing else, sometimes bubbling over with impatience as if he’d been heated up in the Henrietta’s boilers. Often, too, the fine fellow hung around Fix; he watched the man with eyes that “spoke volumes,” but he didn’t talk to him, because there was no friendliness left between the two old chums. But Fix, we should mention, didn’t know what to make of it all. The Henrietta taken over, its crew bought off, this Fogg fellow operating like an accomplished seaman—the whole combination of events left him in a daze. He wasn’t sure what to think anymore! But after all, a gentleman who started out stealing £55,000 could easily end up stealing a steamboat. And with Fogg at the helm, Fix was naturally inclined to think that the Henrietta wouldn’t head for Liverpool at all but to some corner of the world where the robber— now turned pirate—could serenely take refuge! This was a supremely plausible theory, you have to admit, and the detective was very seriously starting to regret that he’d ever gotten involved in the business. As for Captain Speedy, he kept howling away in his cabin; Passepartout was responsible for bringing the fellow his food, but as strong as the Frenchman was, he did so with only the greatest caution. Mr. Fogg, for his part, didn’t look as if he even suspected there was a captain on board. On the 13th they went past the tail end of the Grand Banks of Newfoundland. These are rough waterways. They feature frequent fogs and alarming squalls, especially during the winter. The ship’s barometer, which had abruptly fallen the night before, forecast an atmospheric change on the way. The temperature did indeed alter during the night, the cold becoming more brisk, the wind simultaneously shifting to the southeast. This was a setback. To keep from veering off course, Mr. Fogg had to furl his sails and clap on more steam. Nevertheless the ship slowed down owing to the state of the sea, whose long billows were dashing against the stempost. The vessel made vicious pitching movements at the expense of its speed. Little by little the breeze turned into a hurricane, and already they could foresee a situation where the Henrietta wouldn’t be able to face into the waves anymore. Now then, if they were forced to turn tail, that meant coping with the unknown and all its nasty risks. As the skies grew darker, so did Passepartout’s face, and for two days the good fellow lived in mortal agony. But Phileas Fogg was a bold seaman, knew how to sail head-on into the billows, and kept to his course without even resorting to half steam. When the Henrietta couldn’t rise to the waves, it cut across them—the sea swept over its whole deck, but the craft got through. Sometimes, when mountains of water raised its stern above the waves, its propeller came into view and churned the air with flailing blades, yet the ship still made steady headway.

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Even so, the wind didn’t pick up as much as they might have feared. It wasn’t one of those hurricanes that go past at a speed of ninety miles per hour. It stayed in the category of a stiff breeze, but unfortunately it insisted on blowing out of the southeast quadrant and wouldn’t let them spread sail. And yet, as you’ll see, giving the steam some assistance would have been quite beneficial! December 16 was the seventy-fifth day that had gone by since they’d left London. All in all the Henrietta still hadn’t been alarmingly delayed. Its crossing was almost half over, and the roughest waterways were behind them. During the summer their success would have been assured. During the winter they were at the mercy of foul weather. Passepartout didn’t say anything. Deep down he was hopeful, and if the wind gave out, at least they had steam to depend on. Now then, that day the head mechanic climbed on deck, met with Mr. Fogg, and had a pretty animated conversation with him. Without knowing why—some hunch, no doubt—Passepartout felt a vague anxiety. He would have given his right ear to learn with his left one what the two men were saying. However he managed to catch a few words, among others these spoken by his master: “You’re positive that’s the case?” “Positive, sir,” the mechanic answered. “Don’t forget, we’ve kept all our furnaces fired up since we left. We have enough coal to get from New York to Bordeaux at half steam, but we don’t have enough to get from New York to Liverpool at full steam!” “I’ll think on it,” Mr. Fogg replied. Passepartout understood. He was gripped with mortal anxiety. Their coal was about to run out! “Well, if my master squeaks through this time,” he said to himself, “he’s a superman for sure!” And when he bumped into Fix, he couldn’t resist bringing him up to date on things. “So,” the investigator answered him through clenched teeth, “you actually think we’re going to Liverpool?” “Certainly.” “Nitwit,” the inspector replied, shrugging his shoulders and walking away. Passepartout was about to raise a sharp objection to this label, yet he couldn’t figure out what was really on the man’s mind; but he told himself that the unlucky Fix must feel very disappointed, very down on himself, after ineptly following a false scent all around the world—so he withheld judgment. And what would Phileas Fogg’s decision be at this point? It was hard to imagine. Even so, the stoic gentleman did seem to have made one, because that same evening he summoned the head mechanic and told him: “Keep stoking your fires and stay on course till we’ve used up all our fuel.” A few seconds later the Henrietta spewed torrents of smoke out of its funnel. So the ship forged ahead under full steam; but two days later on the 18th, the mechanic reported that their coal would run out during the day, just as he’d predicted.

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The crew went at it with unbelievable zeal.

“Don’t let your fires die down,” Mr. Fogg responded. “On the contrary. Keep your valves charged.” Toward noon that day, after Phileas Fogg took his sights and plotted the ship’s position, he summoned Passepartout and directed him to go get Captain Speedy. He might as well have ordered him to let a tiger out of its cage, and as the gallant lad went below the afterdeck, he said to himself: “He’ll be positively raving!”

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True enough, amid much yelling and cussing, a bomb arrived on the afterdeck a few minutes later. This bomb was Captain Speedy. Clearly he was about to explode. “Where are we?” was the first sentence out of his mouth. The good man was choking with rage and if he’d been even slightly apoplectic, he would have been a goner for sure. “Where are we?” he said again, his face purple. “Seven hundred and seventy miles, or 300 geographic leagues, from Liverpool,” Mr. Fogg replied with unruffled calm. “Pirate!” Andrew Speedy shouted. “Sir, I’ve summoned you to—” “Corsair!” “—to ask you,” Mr. Fogg went on, “to sell me your ship.” “Not only no, but hell no!” “It’s just that I’m going to have to burn it.” “Burn my ship?” “Yes, the topside at least, because we’re running out of fuel.” “Burn my ship? Captain Speedy shrieked, barely able to get the syllables out. “A ship worth $50,000?” “Here’s $60,000,” Phileas Fogg replied, offering the captain a stack of banknotes. This had a prodigious effect on Andrew Speedy. No true American can remain unmoved at the sight of $60,000.17 The captain forgot his anger, his incarceration, and all his grievances against his passenger in one second. His ship was twenty years old. This could be a golden opportunity . . . ! The bomb had already lost its ability to explode. Mr. Fogg had removed the fuse. “And the iron hull stays with me?” the captain said in a significantly sweeter tone. “The iron hull and the engine, sir. Have we a deal?” “Deal!” And Andrew Speedy grabbed the stack of banknotes, counted it, and stowed it deep in his pocket. Passepartout had turned white during this episode. As for Fix, he was on the verge of a stroke. After already spending nearly £20,000, this Fogg fellow was leaving the hull and engine with the seller, in other words, the bulk of what the ship was worth! True, the amount taken during the bank robbery came to £55,000, but still . . . ! After Andrew Speedy had pocketed his money: “Sir,” Mr. Fogg told him, “don’t let any of this surprise you. You see, I’ll lose £20,000 if I’m not back in London by 8:45 in the evening on December 21. Now then, I missed the ocean liner from New York, and since you refused to take me to Liverpool . . .” “And by all the fiends in hell, I did right,” Andrew Speedy exclaimed, “because I ended up at least $40,000 richer!” Then he added more sedately: “You know something, Captain, uh—” 17. Translator’s note. Roughly comparable to $1,200,000 in today’s dollars.

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“I arrest you in the name of the Queen!”

“Fogg.” “Captain Fogg, fine. You know something, you’ve got a bit of Yankee blood in you.” And after he’d paid Phileas Fogg his idea of a high compliment, he was heading off when his passenger said to him: “This ship now belongs to me?”

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“That’s right, from the keel to the mastheads—but just the timber, mind you.” “Fine. Have them demolish the inside furnishings and use every piece to stoke the fires.” You can imagine how much dry wood they had to feed the furnaces in order to keep the steam pressure high enough. That day the afterdeck, cabins, deckhouses, accommodations, and bottom deck all had to go. The next day, December 19, they burned the masting along with the spare poles and yards. They cut the masts down, chopping them into logs with swipes of the ax. The crew went at it with unbelievable zeal. Passepartout hacked, hewed, sawed, and did the work of ten men. It was a demolition orgy. The next day, the 20th, the railings, bulwarks, topside, and most of the deck slid down the ship’s gullet. The Henrietta had been scraped so flat, it was practically a pontoon boat. That day, however, they raised the coast of Ireland and the lighthouse on Fastnet Rock. Even so, by ten o’clock that night, the ship was still only abreast of Queenstown. Phileas Fogg had barely twenty-four hours left in which to reach London! Now then, even going full steam ahead, the Henrietta would need that much time just to get to Liverpool. And the daring gentleman was finally about to run out of steam! “I really feel sorry for you, sir,” Captain Speedy told him, now interested in his plans. “Everything’s against you! We’re still only level with Queenstown.” “Ah,” Mr. Fogg put in. “That’s Queenstown, that city where we see those lights?” “Right.” “Can we enter the harbor?” “Not for another three hours. Only at high tide.” “We’ll wait,” Phileas Fogg replied serenely. Though his expression was unreadable, he was going to try, with one crowning brainwave, to overcome his bad luck yet again! In essence Queenstown is a port on the coast of Ireland where transatlantic liners from the United States drop off their mailbags as they go by. Express trains are always ready and waiting to carry the mail to Dublin. It goes from Dublin to Liverpool by highspeed steamers—thus gaining twelve hours on the fastest liners in the overseas travel firms. If the postal service from America could pick up twelve hours, Phileas Fogg presumed he could pick them up as well. Instead of arriving in Liverpool the next evening aboard the Henrietta, he would be there by noon and consequently would have time to reach London before 8:45 in the evening. Near one o’clock in the morning, the Henrietta entered the port of Queenstown at peak tide; after getting a hearty handshake from Captain Speedy, Phileas Fogg left him on the skinned carcass of his ship, still worth half of its selling price! The passengers went ashore at once. Just then Fix had a fierce impulse to arrest this Fogg fellow. Yet he didn’t do so. Why not? What inner conflict was he coping with? Had he come to his senses with regard to Mr. Fogg? Had he finally realized he was mistaken? Nevertheless the detective didn’t let his man go. Along with Mr. Fogg, Lady Aouda, and Passepartout (who no longer took the time to breathe), Fix boarded the train from Queenstown at 1:30 in the morning, arrived in Dublin at daybreak, and instantly set out on one of those steamers that are authentic steel rockets, nothing but engines—they sneer at the

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very idea of rising to the waves and always cut right through them. At 11:40 on December 21, Phileas Fogg finally stepped down onto a Liverpool pier. He was no more than six hours from London. But just then Fix came up, put his hand on the gentleman’s shoulder, and held out his warrant: “Would you be Mr. Phileas Fogg?” he said. “Yes, sir.” “Then I arrest you in the name of the Queen!”

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34.  Which gives Passepartout the chance to crack an outrageous but possibly original joke

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hileas Fogg was in jail. They’d locked him up at the customhouse station in Liverpool, where he was to spend the night while waiting to be transferred to London. At the moment of his arrest, Passepartout had made a lunge at the detective. Some policemen restrained him. Horrified at this shocking event, Lady Aouda didn’t know or understand a thing about it. Passepartout explained the situation to her. Mr. Fogg, that decent and courageous gentleman to whom she owed her life, was under arrest as a robber. The young woman indignantly objected to this allegation, and tears streamed from her eyes when she saw that she couldn’t do anything—or even attempt anything—to rescue her rescuer. As for Fix, he’d arrested the gentleman because his job required him to, whether the fellow was guilty or not. That was for the courts to decide. But then a thought occurred to Passepartout, the dreadful thought that he was the definite cause of all this misfortune! Honestly, why had he hidden this danger from Mr. Fogg? When Fix revealed the assignment that he’d been given, that he was there in his capacity as police inspector, why had Passepartout chosen to not warn his master? If the latter had been alerted, he undoubtedly would have given Fix proofs of his innocence; he would have shown the detective his mistake; in any event his master wouldn’t have incurred the burden and expense of taking Fix along, that ill-omened investigator whose top priority was to arrest him as soon as they set foot on United Kingdom soil. When the poor lad thought about his mistakes and misjudgments, he was gripped with overpowering remorse. He wept, he was a sight to behold. He wanted to dash his brains out! Despite the cold, he and Lady Aouda waited under the customhouse colonnade. Neither of them wanted to leave the place. They wanted to see Mr. Fogg one more time. As for that gentleman, he was financially ruined, ruined good and proper just as he was about to achieve his goal. This arrest doomed him beyond recall. Reaching Liverpool

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at 11:40 in the morning on December 21, he had till 8:45 that night to show up at the Reform Club, hence he had nine hours and fifteen minutes left—and he needed only six to reach London. Just then anybody entering the customhouse station would have found Mr. Fogg seated on a wooden bench, motionless, unruffled, not at all angry. You couldn’t tell whether he’d accepted his fate, but this final blow hadn’t managed to arouse him, at least outwardly. Was a fit of rage secretly building inside him, rage all the more dreadful because it was pent-up, because it would explode with irresistible power at the last minute? Who knows. But Phileas Fogg sat there, calm, waiting . . . for what? Did he have a vestige of hope left? Though his jail door was closed and locked, did he still dream of succeeding? Be that as it may, Mr. Fogg carefully placed his watch on the table and eyed its moving hands. Not a word escaped from his lips, but there was an odd intensity in his look. In any case he was in a dreadful position, and for anybody who couldn’t read his thoughts, it might be summed up like this: If innocent, Phileas Fogg was financially ruined. If guilty, he was laid by the heels. So did he have any notions of saving himself ? Did he consider looking over this station to see if it offered any feasible way out? Did he hope to escape? You might be tempted to think so, because at one point he walked around the room. But the door was securely locked and the window adorned with iron bars. He sat down again and out of his wallet took the itinerary for his journey. One line of it held these words: Liverpool, Saturday, December 21. He added to it: 11:40 in the morning, 80th day. Then he waited. The hour of one chimed on the customhouse clock. Mr. Fogg noted that his watch was running two minutes faster than the clock. Then it chimed the hour of two! If he climbed aboard an express train right then, he could still reach London and the Reform Club before 8:45 that evening. His forehead wrinkled slightly . . .  At 2:33 there was a racket outside, the hubbub of opening doors. You could hear Passepartout’s voice, then Fix’s voice. Phileas Fogg’s eyes lit up for a second. The station door opened and he saw Lady Aouda, Passepartout, and Fix, who rushed over to him. Fix was out of breath, his hair in disarray . . . he couldn’t talk! “Sir,” he stammered, “sir . . . just found out . . . forgive me . . . the real robber was arrested three days ago . . . by an unfortunate irony you resembled him . . . you’re . . . free to go . . . !” Phileas Fogg was free! He went to the detective. He looked him straight in the eye, and with the only swift movement he’d ever made or ever would make in his life, he drew in both his arms, then with robotlike precision he slugged the unlucky inspector with both fists.

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“Good punch!” Passepartout exclaimed, then like a true Frenchman he couldn’t help cracking an outrageous joke. “By God,” he added, “that’s what I call striking while the irony is hot!” Down on the floor, Fix didn’t say a word. He had it coming. But Mr. Fogg, Lady Aouda, and Passepartout instantly left the customhouse. They hurried into a cab and a few minutes later arrived at the Liverpool railway terminal. Phileas Fogg asked if there was an express train ready to leave for London . . . It was 2:40. . . . The express train had left thirty-five minutes earlier. Phileas Fogg then chartered a special train. There were several high-speed locomotives with steam up; but the timetables wouldn’t let a special train leave the terminal before three o’clock. At three o’clock, along with the young woman and his loyal servant, Phileas Fogg took off in the direction of London, after saying a few words to the engineer about a certain bonus to be earned They needed to cover the distance between Liverpool and London in 5½ hours— something that’s perfectly feasible when the line is clear all the way. But there were unavoidable delays, and when the gentleman arrived at the terminal in London, every clock in town said 8:50. After journeying completely around the world, Phileas Fogg had arrived five minutes late . . . ! He’d lost.

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35.  In which Passepartout doesn’t need to be told twice to do what his master says

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he next day the residents of Savile Row would have been quite startled if you’d informed them that Mr. Fogg was reinstated in his living quarters. From the outside nothing looked any different. In fact, after he’d left the terminal, Phileas Fogg gave Passepartout instructions to buy a few supplies, then he reentered his home. The gentleman had reacted to a crushing blow with his usual lack of emotion. Financially ruined! And thanks to the mistakes of that inept police inspector! After making that long trip without setting a foot wrong, after toppling a thousand obstacles, braving a thousand perils, and still finding time to do some good as he went, he’d sunk in sight of shore due to a shocking event he couldn’t have foreseen and was helpless to avert: it was dreadful! Out of the considerable sum he’d taken along on his departure, only a piddling residue was left. All that remained of his fortune was the £20,000 in his account at Baring Brothers & Co., and he owed this £20,000 to his colleagues at the Reform Club. Even if he’d won the bet, he surely wouldn’t have come out ahead after incurring so many expenses, and in all likelihood he wasn’t trying to come out ahead (being one of those men who make bets as a point of honor), but losing the bet meant his total financial ruin. Given this fact, the gentleman reached a decision. He knew there was only one thing left for him to do. Lady Aouda had been assigned a bedroom in the house on Savile Row. The young woman was in despair. From certain words Mr. Fogg let drop, she realized he was planning a fatal move. In essence, as you know, these English monomaniacs will sometimes go to the most deplorable lengths in the throes of their fixations. Accordingly, and without seeming to, Passepartout kept a close watch on his master. But first the good fellow had gone up to his bedroom and turned off the gas jet he’d left burning for eighty days. After finding a bill from the gas company in the mailbox, he felt it was high time he put a stop to the charges he was running up.

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The night went by. Mr. Fogg had gone to bed, but was he asleep? As for Lady Aouda, she couldn’t rest for one second. Passepartout, for his part, waited like a watchdog outside his master’s door. The next day Mr. Fogg summoned him and instructed him in a few crisp words to see about Lady Aouda’s breakfast. As for himself, he would be content with a cup of tea and a slice of toast. He hoped that Lady Aouda would kindly excuse him from joining her for breakfast and dinner, because he would be devoting all his time to putting his affairs in order. He wouldn’t be coming downstairs. Only in the evening would he ask Lady Aouda’s permission to converse with her for a few seconds. Being in receipt of his schedule for the day, all Passepartout had to do was adhere to it. He looked at his master, who still showed no signs of emotion, and couldn’t bring himself to leave the room. His heart was heavy and his conscience stricken with remorse, because he blamed himself more than ever for this irreparable disaster. Yes, if he’d warned Mr. Fogg, if he’d revealed Inspector Fix’s plans to him, Mr. Fogg definitely wouldn’t have dragged Inspector Fix as far as Liverpool, and then . . .  Passepartout couldn’t hold back any longer. “Master!” he exclaimed. “Mr. Fogg! Why aren’t you cursing me? It’s all my fault that—” “I blame nobody,” Phileas Fogg replied in the calmest tone. “You may go.” Passepartout left the room, went to find the young woman, and made his master’s wishes known to her. “Ma’am,” he added, “I can’t do a thing with him on my own, not a thing! I have no influence over the way my master thinks. But maybe you . . .” “What influence would I have?” Lady Aouda responded. “Nothing sways Mr. Fogg. Has he ever grasped that my gratitude to him is at flood point? Has he ever read the depths of my heart . . . ? My friend, we mustn’t leave him by himself, not for a single second. You say he has expressed a wish to speak with me this evening?” “Yes, ma’am. No doubt it’s about safeguarding your status in England.” “We’ll see,” the young woman replied, still deeply thoughtful. Thus, during that whole Sunday the dwelling on Savile Row seemed vacant, and for the first time since he’d made it his home, Phileas Fogg didn’t go to his club when the clock tower at the Houses of Parliament struck 11:30. And why would the gentleman show up at the Reform Club? His colleagues weren’t waiting there anymore. At 8:45 the night before, on that drop-dead date of Saturday, December 21, Phileas Fogg hadn’t appeared in the Reform Club’s lounge, so he’d lost the bet. It wasn’t necessary for him to even go to his bankers and fetch that sum of £20,000. His opponents had his signed check in their hands; all it took was a simple ledger entry at Baring Brothers & Co. and the £20,000 would be posted to their credit. Consequently Mr. Fogg had no need to go out and didn’t. He stayed in his bedroom and put his affairs in order. Passepartout never stopped going up and down the stairs of that house on Savile Row. The hours inched by for the poor fellow. He listened at his master’s bedroom door and did so without feeling he was the least bit out of line. He peeped through the keyhole and believed he had a right to! Passepartout was afraid of a

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Finding a bill from the gas company in the mailbox . . .

catastrophe any second. Sometimes he thought about Fix, but a shift had taken place in his thinking. He no longer bore the police inspector any ill will. Like everybody Fix had been mistaken about Phileas Fogg, had only been doing his job in tailing and arresting the gentleman, whereas he himself. . . . This thought overwhelmed him, and he called himself the lowliest wretch on earth.

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When Passepartout finally felt too unhappy to stay alone, he knocked on Lady Aouda’s door, went into her room, sat in a corner without saying a word, and studied the young woman, who still looked thoughtful. At about 7:30 that evening, Mr. Fogg asked Lady Aouda if he could visit with her; a few seconds later he and the young woman were alone in her room. Phileas Fogg sat down, taking a chair near the fireplace in front of Lady Aouda. His features gave no clue to his feelings. The Fogg who had come back was identical to the Fogg who had gone away. Same calmness, same lack of emotion. He kept silent for five minutes. Then, looking up at Lady Aouda: “My lady,” he said, “will you forgive me for bringing you to England?” “Forgive you, Mr. Fogg?” Lady Aouda responded, trying to slow the pounding of her heart. “Please let me finish,” Mr. Fogg went on. “When your country had become so perilous for you and I decided to take you far away from it, I was a wealthy man and expected to put part of my fortune at your disposal. You would have enjoyed a life of freedom and happiness. Today my finances are in ruins.” “I know, Mr. Fogg,” the young woman answered, “and I ask this of you in my turn: will you forgive me for coming with you and—who knows—maybe contributing to your financial ruin by delaying you?” “My lady, you couldn’t stay in India, and your safety wasn’t guaranteed till you were so far away, those fanatics couldn’t recapture you.” “Therefore, Mr. Fogg,” Lady Aouda continued, “you weren’t content with snatching me from the jaws of a horrible death, you felt obliged to guarantee my status elsewhere?” “Yes, my lady,” Fogg replied, “but developments have turned against me. Even so, I ask your leave to put the little I still have at your disposal.” “But what about you, Mr. Fogg? What will happen to you?” Lady Aouda asked. “Me, my lady?” the gentleman replied calmly. “I won’t be needing a thing.” “But what kind of future, sir, do you see ahead of you?” “One that befits me,” Mr. Fogg answered. “In any case,” Lady Aouda went on, “a man like you will never live in poverty. Your friends—” “I have no friends, my lady.” “Your relatives—” “I no longer have relatives.” “Then I feel sorry for you, Mr. Fogg, because it’s a sad thing to be all alone. What! Not one heart to whom you can pour out your troubles? Yet even poverty, they say, is bearable for two.” “So they say, my lady.” “Mr. Fogg,” Lady Aouda said, standing and holding her hand out to the gentleman, “would you like both a relative and a friend? Would you like me to be your wife?” At this Mr. Fogg stood in his turn. His eyes seemed to have a new glint, his lips seemed to quiver. Lady Aouda gazed at him. The sincerity, honesty, fortitude, and affection

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in the lovely gaze of this noble woman—daring everything to rescue the one to whom she owed everything—amazed him at first, then touched him to the core. He closed his eyes for a second, as if to keep that gaze from reaching still deeper.  .  .  . When he opened them again: “I love you!” he merely said. “Yes, by all that’s most sacred in this world, I truly love you, and I’m yours completely!” “Oh!” Lady Aouda exclaimed, putting a hand to her heart. They rang for Passepartout. He arrived at once. Mr. Fogg still had his hand in Lady Aouda’s hand. Passepartout got the picture, and his broad face shone like the noonday sun in the tropics. Mr. Fogg asked him if it was too late to go notify Reverend Samuel Wilson at St. Marylebone Parish Church. Passepartout smiled his finest smile. “Never too late,” he said. It was just 8:05. “You’re looking at Monday tomorrow?” he said. “Monday tomorrow?” Mr. Fogg asked, turning to the young woman. “Monday tomorrow!” Lady Aouda replied. Passepartout took off at top speed.

… the good fellow had gone up to his bedroom and turned off the gas jet he’d left burning for eighty days.

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36.  Where shares in Phileas Fogg are back at a premium on the stock market

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t’s time to speak here of how public opinion shifted in the United Kingdom when folks learned that the real bank robber—one James Strand—had been arrested in Edinburgh on December 17. Three days earlier Phileas Fogg was a criminal with the police in hot pursuit, now he was the most respectable of gentlemen, mathematically carrying out his eccentric journey around the world. What an impact it had, what a noise it made in the newspapers! Everybody who had bet on him to win or lose in this business—which they’d already forgotten about—magically reemerged from the woodwork. Every transaction became valid again. Every commitment was reconfirmed, and we should mention that new bets were being placed with vigor. The name Phileas Fogg was back at a premium on the stock market. The gentleman’s five colleagues at the Reform Club spent these three days in some agitation. This Phileas Fogg they’d forgotten about was back in view! Where was he just then? On December 17, the day James Strand was arrested, Phileas Fogg had been gone seventy-six days—and not a word of news from him! Had he lost his life? Had he given up the struggle, or was he still following his agreed-upon itinerary? And at 8:45 on Saturday evening, December 21, would he appear, like the patron saint of punctuality, in the doorway of the Reform Club’s lounge? We won’t attempt to portray the anxiety in which the whole English social world lived during these three days. They fired off telegrams to America and Asia, trying to get news of Phileas Fogg! From morning till evening they kept the house on Savile Row under surveillance . . . nothing. The police didn’t even know what had happened to the ill-fated Inspector Fix, who had hared off on such a false scent. Which didn’t keep people from laying new bets on a grander scale. Phileas Fogg was like a racehorse reaching the final turn. They didn’t quote him at a hundred to one anymore, but at twenty, then ten, then five, and paralyzed old Lord Albemarle, who had bet on him to win, got even odds.

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That Saturday evening, accordingly, throngs of people were on Pall Mall and in the nearby streets. You would have sworn an immense mob of stockbrokers had taken up permanent residence on the steps of the Reform Club. There were traffic jams. People were discussing, arguing, and calling out quotes on “Phileas Foggs” as if they were treasury bonds. Crowd control turned into a major police issue, and the closer it got to the time Phileas Fogg was to arrive, the more unbelievably excited everybody became. That evening the gentleman’s five colleagues had been gathered in the main lounge of the Reform Club since eight o’clock. All of them waited anxiously—the two bankers John Sullivan and Samuel Fallentin, Andrew Stuart the engineer, Walter Ralph, one of the Bank of England’s directors, and Thomas Flanagan the brewer. Just as the clock in the main lounge pointed to 8:25, Andrew Stuart stood up and said: “Gentlemen, in twenty minutes Mr. Fogg will have gone beyond the time frame we’ve agreed upon.” “When did the last train arrive from Liverpool?” Thomas Flanagan asked. “At 7:23,” Walter Ralph replied, “and the next train won’t arrive till ten minutes past midnight.” “Very well, gentlemen,” Andrew Stuart resumed, “if Phileas Fogg had arrived on that 7:23 train, he would already be here. So we can consider this bet as good as won.” “Hold on, let’s not jump to conclusions,” Samuel Fallentin replied. “As you’re aware, our colleague is a world-class eccentric. He’s well known for being punctual in everything he does. He never arrives too early or too late, and I wouldn’t be entirely surprised if he showed up here at the last minute.” “Speaking for myself,” Andrew Stuart said, as high-strung as ever, “I wouldn’t believe it if I did see him.” “Exactly,” Thomas Flanagan went on. “Mr. Fogg’s whole plan was loony. As punctual as he is, he can’t keep inevitable delays from happening, and a delay of just two or three days would be enough to jeopardize his journey.” “You’ll note, too,” John Sullivan added, “that we haven’t gotten any news from our colleague, even though there are plenty of telegraph lines on his itinerary.” “He has lost, gentleman,” Andrew Stuart continued, “he has lost a hundred times over! As you’re also aware, the China was the only ocean liner from New York he could have taken to reach Liverpool in a timely manner—and it arrived yesterday. Now then, here’s the passenger list published by the Shipping Gazette, and it doesn’t include the name Phileas Fogg. Even if we assume he’s had the greatest possible luck, our colleague can barely have reached America! I estimate he’ll turn up at least twenty days later than the date we’ve agreed upon, and old Lord Albemarle will be out £5,000 to boot!” “That’s obvious,” Walter Ralph replied, “and tomorrow all we’ll have to do is take Mr. Fogg’s check to Baring Brothers & Co.” At this point the clock in the lounge said 8:40. “Five minutes to go,” Andrew Stuart said. The five colleagues looked at each other. You would have sworn their heartbeats were suddenly going a little faster—after all, these were high stakes even for serious gamblers!

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“Here I am, gentlemen,” he said.

But they weren’t letting their feelings show, because, at Samuel Fallentin’s suggestion, they sat down to play cards. “My share in this bet is £4,000,” Andrew Stuart said, taking his seat at the table, “and I wouldn’t part with it for a pound less!” The clock hands pointed to 8:42 at this juncture.

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The players picked up the cards, but every instant their eyes squinted at the clock. As safe as they felt, you could tell that they found these minutes the longest they’d ever lived through! “It’s 8:43,” Thomas Flanagan said, cutting the deck Walter Ralph handed him. Then there was a moment of silence. The club’s huge lounge fell still. But outside you could hear the hullabaloo the crowd was making, the occasional high-pitched yells rising above it. The clock’s pendulum beat the seconds with mathematical steadiness. They reached the ear every sixtieth of a minute, and each cardplayer counted them. “It’s 8:44!” John Sullivan said, his voice unintentionally giving his feelings away. Just one more minute and they would win the bet. Andrew Stuart and his colleagues didn’t play any longer. They ignored the cards! They counted the seconds! At the 40th second, nothing. At the 50th, still nothing! At the 55th you heard something like a rumbling sound outside, applause, hoorays, and even cusswords, swelling into one continuous roll of thunder. The cardplayers stood up. At the 57th second the lounge door opened, and the pendulum hadn’t beat the 60th second when Phileas Fogg appeared, followed by a delirious crowd that had forced its way into the club, and in his calm voice: “Here I am, gentlemen,” he said.

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37.  Which demonstrates that Phileas Fogg didn’t gain a thing by going around the world— other than happiness

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hat’s right. None other than Phileas Fogg. You’ll recall that at 8:05 in the evening—about twenty-three hours after our travelers had arrived in London—Passepartout’s master had ordered him to notify Reverend Samuel Wilson about a certain marriage that was to be finalized the very next day. Passepartout left in high delight. He made his way at a quick pace to Reverend Samuel Wilson’s residence and learned that the clergyman hadn’t returned home yet. Naturally Passepartout waited—waited, in fact, a good twenty minutes at least. To make a long story short, it was 8:35 when he left the preacher’s home. But what a state he was in! Hair in disarray, hatless, running as folks had never seen anybody run in human memory, toppling passersby, rushing like a whirlwind down the sidewalk! In three minutes he was back at the house on Savile Row, where he collapsed breathlessly in Mr. Fogg’s bedroom. He couldn’t talk. “What is it?” Mr. Fogg asked. “Master . . . !” Passepartout stammered. “Marriage . . . impossible . . . !” “Impossible?” “Impossible . . . tomorrow anyway.” “Why?” “Because tomorrow . . . is Sunday!” “Monday,” Mr. Fogg replied. “No . . . today’s . . . Saturday.” “Saturday? Impossible!” “It is! It is! It is!” Passepartout shrieked. “You’re off by one day! We arrived twentyfour hours ahead of time . . . but you’ve got only ten minutes left . . . !” Passepartout grabbed his master by the collar and dragged him away with irresistible power!

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Rushing like a whirlwind down the sidewalk . . .

Abducted in this fashion, given no time to think things over, Phileas Fogg left his room, left his house, leaped into a cab, promised the cabbie £100, and reached the Reform Club after running over two dogs and sideswiping five buggies. The clock pointed to 8:45 when he appeared in the main lounge . . .  Phileas Fogg had gone around the world in eighty days . . . !

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Phileas Fogg had won his £20,000 bet! And now, how could a man so stringent, so meticulous, have made this mistake of one day? How could he have believed he’d gotten back to London on Saturday evening, December 21, when it was only Friday, December 20, just seventy-nine days after he’d left? Here’s the reason for this mistake. It’s quite simple. Phileas Fogg had, “unbeknownst to him,” gained a day on his itinerary—which happened solely because he’d gone around the world by traveling eastward; whereas he would have lost a day if he’d gone the opposite way, hence westward. In essence, as he was traveling eastward Phileas Fogg faced the sun—and as a result the days grew shorter for him at the rate of four minutes for each degree he crossed in this direction. Now then, there are 360 degrees on the earth’s circumference, and when these 360 degrees are multiplied by four minutes, the total is exactly twenty-four hours—in other words, that day he’d unconsciously gained. Putting it a different way, as Phileas Fogg traveled eastward, he saw the noonday sun eighty times, while his colleagues staying in London saw it just seventy-nine times. This is why the latter were waiting for him in the Reform Club’s lounge that very day, since it wasn’t Sunday as Mr. Fogg believed, but Saturday. And because Passepartout’s notorious watch always kept London time, it would have verified this fact—if it had indicated the days along with the hours and minutes! Therefore Phileas Fogg had won £20,000. But since he’d spent about £19,000 on the road, the pecuniary outcome was only so-so. All the same, as we’ve said, the eccentric gentleman hadn’t made this bet to increase his income but to prove a point. And what’s more, he split up the leftover £1,000 between the good Passepartout and the hapless Fix, against whom he was incapable of bearing any ill will. Only in the former case, to keep things even-steven, he deducted the cost of those 1,920 hours of gas that his servant had mistakenly run up. As stoic and unemotional as ever, Mr. Fogg said to Lady Aouda that same evening: “Is our marriage still suitable to you, my lady?” “Mr. Fogg,” Lady Aouda replied, “I’m the one who should ask you that question. You were financially ruined, but now you’re wealthy . . .” “Excuse me, my lady, this fortune belongs to you. If you hadn’t conceived the idea of our marrying, my manservant wouldn’t have gone to Reverend Samuel Wilson’s home, I wouldn’t have learned about my mistake, and . . .” “Darling Mr. Fogg . . .” the young woman said. “Darling Aouda . . .” Phileas Fogg responded. It scarcely needs mentioning that they were married forty-eight hours later; proud, radiant, dazzling, Passepartout gave the bride away. Hadn’t he rescued her and didn’t he deserve this honor? But the next day at the crack of dawn, Passepartout knocked noisily on his master’s door. The door opened and the unemotional gentleman appeared. “What’s wrong, Passepartout?” “Wrong, sir? Just that I’ve found out this very second . . .”

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“Found out what?” “That we could have gone around the world in only seventy-eight days.” “By not traveling through India, no doubt,” Mr. Fogg replied. “But if I hadn’t traveled through India, I wouldn’t have rescued Lady Aouda, she wouldn’t have become my wife, and . . .” Mr. Fogg quietly shut the door. Hence Phileas Fogg had won his bet. He’d journeyed completely around the world in eighty days! To do so he’d used every form of transportation—ocean liners, railways, buggies, yachts, merchantmen, sleds, and elephants. In the course of things, the eccentric gentleman had displayed his wondrous virtues of composure and punctuality. But what now? What had he gained from this gadding about? What had he brought back from this journey? Not a thing, you say? So be it, not a thing—other than a delightful woman, who, as inconceivable as it might seem, made him the happiest man alive! In all honesty isn’t this more than enough reason to go around the world?

around the world in 80 days / 215

Textual Notes

Around the World in 80 Days was first published as Le Tour du monde en quatre-vingts jours in the Temps, November–December 1872. The translation converts metric and centigrade figures to U.S. equivalents; it also converts Victorian pounds sterling to American dollars at the rough rate of £1 = $5.00. The text makes the following adjustments where French editions appear to contain production errors or other problematic details. Page: Item:

Note:

1

7 Savile Row

Consistently spelled “Saville” in the French.



died in 1816

1814 in the French.

9

Walter Ralph

For Gallic readers French texts give a variant form of his first name: Gauthier.

10

£55,000

For Gallic readers French texts give the currency conversion in parentheses: 1,375,000 francs.

14

£4,000

For Gallic readers French texts give the currency conversion in parentheses: 100,000 francs.



his fellow card- player

French texts give “his partner.” But Fogg is Fallentin’s partner, not Stuart’s.



£20,000

For Gallic readers French texts give the currency conversion in parentheses: 500,000 francs.

216 / textual notes

22

£5,000 ($25,000)

French texts give the equivalent of $20,000.

70

late spouse

Widower in French texts.



Lady Aouda

Consistently “Mrs. Aouda” in French texts. But in English usage this honorific isn’t attached to a stand-alone first name.

78

Mr. Oysterpuff

Spelled “Oysterpuf ” in French texts.

81

a fine of £300

For Gallic readers French texts give the currency conversion in parentheses: 7,500 francs.

90

November 5 for Yokohama

French texts give November 6, conflicting with the departure date repeatedly given in Ch. 18.

102

£500 of that

For Gallic readers French texts give the currency conversion in parentheses: 12,500 francs.

104

on September 29

French texts give September 28, conflicting with the robbery date repeatedly given in Ch. 3.

109

£100 per day

For Gallic readers French texts give the currency conversion in parentheses: 2,500 francs.

124

kimono

Oddly, French texts give “kirimon,” one of the Japanese imperial crests.

134 Hong Kong to Shanghai

French texts give “Hong Kong to Yokohama.”



French texts give “Yokohama smoking parlor.”

Hong Kong smoking parlor

136 Calcutta to Hong Kong, Hong Kong to Yokohama

French texts give “Calcutta to Singapore, Singapore to Yokohama.”

150

church vessel

Reliquary in the French.

155

asphalt-filled Dead Sea

French texts give “Lake Asphaltite.”

textual notes / 217

158

1,400 feet long



ten miles farther on French texts give twenty miles, though today’s Fort Bridger is already in Wyoming, not far from this Oregon Trail outpost. The MS at the Bibliothèque municipale de Nantes gives ten, closer to the truth.

165 General G. M. Dodge

14,000 feet in French texts, clearly a slip. (In 1870, according to Van Nostrand’s Eclectic Engineering Magazine, the total length of tunneling over both the Union and Central Pacific was 8,005 feet.)

Misspelled J. M. Dodge in French texts.

189

I’ll give you $2,000 For Gallic readers French texts provide the currency conversion in parentheses: 10,000 francs.

197

$50,000 . . .  $60,000

For Gallic readers French texts provide the respective currency conversions in parentheses: 250,000 francs and 300,000 francs.

202

striking while the irony is hot

In French texts the joke takes the form of a pun, unfortunately not translatable: poings d’Angleterre (English fisticuffs) versus its soundalike point d’Angleterre (English needlepoint).

209

since eight o’clock

French texts give nine o’clock.

212 about twenty-three hours

Twenty-five in the French.

218 / textual notes

Recommended Reading

OTHER BOOKS BY VERNE IN MODERN TRANSLATIONS Adventures of Captain Hatteras, The. 2005. Translated by William Butcher. New York: Oxford. Conquest of the North Pole four decades before Peary.

Amazing Journies: Five visionary classics. 2010. Translated by Frederick Paul Walter. Albany: State University of New York.

New translations of old favorites: Journey to the Center of the Earth, From the Earth to the Moon, Circling the Moon, 20,000 Leagues Under the Seas, and Around the World in 80 Days.

Begum’s millions, The. 2005. Translated by Stanford L. Luce. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan. Grimly prophetic tale of German armament building and military aggression.

Fantasy of Dr. Ox, A. 2003. Translated by Andrew Brown. London: Hesperus. Comic SF novella featuring behavior modification of an entire town.

Fur country, The. 1987. Translated by Edward Baxter. Toronto: NC Press. Scientific thriller where a polar expedition goes badly astray.

Golden volcano, The. 2008. Translated by Edward Baxter. Lincoln: University of Nebraska. Adventure tale set in the Yukon during the gold rush era.

Green ray, The. 2009. Translated by Karen Loukes. Edinburgh: Luath. Highland romance inspired by Verne’s own travels in the Hebrides.

Invasion of the sea. 2001. Translated by Edward Baxter. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan. Techno thriller about creating an inland sea in the Sahara desert.

Kip brothers, The. 2007. Translated by Stanford L. Luce. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan. Scientific crime thriller about murder in the South Seas.

recommended reading / 219

Lighthouse at the end of the world. 2007. Translated by William Butcher. Lincoln: University of Nebraska. Duel to the death on the lowermost crags of South America.

Meteor hunt, The. 2006. Translated by Frederick Paul Walter and Walter James Miller. Lincoln: University of Nebraska. Comic SF tale in which U.S. astronomers feud over a shooting star.

Mighty Orinoco, The. 2002. Translated by Stanford L. Luce. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan. Jungle adventure thriller about searching for the Orinoco’s headwaters.

Mysterious island, The. 2001. Translated by Jordan Stump. New York: Modern Library. Masterful desert-island yarn complete with do-it-yourself science.

Paris in the twentieth century. 1996. Translated by Richard Howard. New York: Random. “Long lost” character novel featuring future developments in the City of Light.

Secret of Wilhelm Storitz, The. 2011. Translated by Peter Schulman. Lincoln: U. of Nebraska. One-of-a-kind urban fantasy that juggles science and horror.

Sphinx of the ice realm, The. 2012. Translated by Frederick Paul Walter. Albany: State University of New York. Poe-inspired journey across the bottom of the world.

Underground city, The. 2005. Translated by Sarah Crozier. Edinburgh: Luath. Spooky, mystical thriller set in a Scottish coalmine; aka The Black Indies.

NOTABLE MODERN BOOKS ABOUT VERNE Butcher, William. 2006. Jules Verne: The definitive biography. New York: Thunder’s Mouth.

Gorgeously written and full of valuable new detail, though no biography can be literally “definitive” till more is known about Verne’s love life.

Chesneaux, Jean. 1972. The political and social ideas of Jules Verne. Translated by Thomas Wikely. London: Thames and Hudson. Near-classic investigation of an important side of Verne little known to Americans.

Evans, Arthur B. 1988. Jules Verne rediscovered: Didacticism and the scientific novel. New York: Greenwood. Lively exploration of educational strategies and gimmicks in Verne’s fiction.

Jules-Verne, Jean. 1976. Jules Verne: A biography. Translated and adapted by Roger Greaves. New York: Taplinger. Indispensable biography by Verne’s grandson.

Lottman, Herbert R. 1996. Jules Verne: An exploratory biography. New York: St. Martins. Another controversial modern biography, but tightly researched and highly readable.

Taves, Brian, and Stephen Michaluk, Jr. 1996. The Jules Verne encyclopedia. Lanham, MD: Scarecrow. Miscellany that’s fun to browse; invaluable for its listings and descriptions of early English editions.

220 / recommended reading

JULES VERNE Verne was born in 1828 into a French lawyering family in the Atlantic coastal city of Nantes. Though his father sent him off to a Paris law school, young Jules had been writing on the side since his early teens, and his pet topics were the theater, travel, and science. Predictably enough, his legal studies led nowhere, and after getting married Verne took a day job with a stock brokerage, in his off hours penning scripts for farces and musical comedies while also publishing short stories and novelettes of scientific exploration and adventure. His big breakthrough came when he combined his theatrical knack with his scientific bent and in 1863 published an African adventure yarn, Five Weeks in a Balloon. After that and till his death in 1905, Jules Verne remained one of the planet’s best-loved and best-selling novelists, publishing over sixty books. Several Verne thrillers are household names, other imaginative favorites by him include The Meteor Hunt, The Mysterious Island, Invasion of the Sea, The Underground City, and The Adventures of Captain Hatteras. Verne ranks among the five mosttranslated authors in history, along with Mark Twain and the Bible.

FREDERICK PAUL WALTER Scriptwriter, broadcaster, librarian, and amateur paleontologist, Walter is the translator of the first complete English translation of Verne’s The Sphinx of the Ice Realm, published in 2012 by SUNY Press. He is likewise the translator of SUNY’s bestselling omnibus of Verne favorites, Amazing Journeys: Five Visionary Classics. In addition Walter has produced many media programs, articles, reviews, and papers on Verne, also collaborating on translations of The Meteor Hunt and The Mighty Orinoco plus a special edition of 20,000 Leagues for the U.S. Naval Institute in Annapolis. Walter served as Vice President of the North American Jules Verne Society from 2000 to 2008. He lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

221